DADDY'S LITTLE B A R B A R I A N :

I am so sorry. I am Trying to gure out What to say and I Cannot do it. Leave Everything to family. So sorry. Am awed. The World is Too nice, I am To mean for It too Disparaging because It is too painful To be indi!erent Anymore and I could never realy y Beat that much of way Into Purgatory before Too Long. Pretty words. Thinking very clearly. I love You, Beth. Regan: you are Daddys little barbarian. Laughs/cries only cries then Writing that. I am so very Sorry. Goodbye.

THE GIANT NOBODY :

I fractured my spine in three places by jumping out a window after the graduation ceremony for my high school in the summer of 2008 and was taken via helicopter to a hospital for medical attention. Spent that summer in and out of psych hospitals, some of them very poorly run. This continued on and o! for awhile, but thats no matter now. This is not news to close friends or those involved whom I must have fucked over hardcore at the time. I recall this: spending six excruciating hours locked in a room with uorescent lights, alone, with barred windows and only a table and chair, no food or water, completely hysterical, until they pumped me with Ativan and I passed out. I woke up strapped to a gurney being wheeled into my room at Roosevelt Hospital in NYC, being leered at by crazies, as if this all were an initiation. My Mom had called the cops on me the day I got out of the rst hospital, it was in Westchester or something. She did this for literally no reason but that long ago was water under the bridge, as is all of this. To be honest I barely think about it anymore, but there you are. I do regret that I called my Dad a child for not allowing me access to my own pain meds but will never forget walking back to my house after walking out because my mother was being unbearably endish and deprecating and nding myself greeted by an ambulance outside of the building. This is not dwelling, nor morbidity, nor attention-seeking. Im too old and too bored for that. But if you think so you might as well call your own soul fake for indulging an inherently redundant and repetitive suggestion as to someones character. Perceiving fakery is redundant and lazy if automatically a go-to. Its too easy. Theres too many instances where people can perceive a window to feel that way just to ummox their friends who perhaps are just sharing. It has always been as simple as that for me. I dont think words on

someones life by that person, especially if the audience is limited, can ever infringe on someone elses freedom unless indoctrinated though they might feel obligated to say something. This is not to speak of words or strong opinions on an objective or external nature. This is not to speak of those who are loudmouths, or sweeping statements. But even the latter is not infringing on freedoms of any kind. If made into doctrines or popularized or taken out of context however a statement of facts can be dangerous, but that is the fault of a reaction to the statement, not the statement. Why am I posting all this here? Precisely because social media is a sterility. Im sorry, I cant pass up the chance to experiment with all the obscene mindfucks triviality presents in one who is too open. The irony is too goddamn juicy and the depersonalized state of man as of now, as I see it, calls for someone to say something to the giant nobody. And this is not cathartic for me, nor a base spilling of guts, nor what is insipidly called Cringe-Worthy nor am I attempting to instigate anything from anyone because all of it means so much to me, and all of it yet means nothing. Peace. HALLUCINATED VISION:!ashes of pure insight, formulated as moving shapes in the mindrather than as arguments, expressed in words or even thoughts." It would be easy enough to comprehend that this " " " " " " "particular form of survival is, I think, impossible " " " " " " " to know; that is, if there really could be something " " " " " " " " " " " " " "in us that survives outside, beyond " " " " " " " " "a consciousness, afterwards. What the standards " " " " " " " " " " " " " " are for a consciousness beyond as " " " " " " " " " " " thisin terms of religion, at least, regarding " " " " " " " deciding, indeed, who will be damned, " " " or savedcannot, after all, be restricted to a sense " " " " " of morality that relies on the gauge of a cynical, " " " " " " " " " " " "childish GOD. To explain: whatever maker or " " " " " "sustainer that might be might be itself outside " " " " " " " " " " " "of whats able to be understood; as a result, " " "might just be outside of, beyond any and all human, " "anchored platitudes down. Its a contradiction: we " " " " " " " " know whats right, because a higher being told us.

" " " " "If I heard GOD speak to me, would I be able " " " " " " " "to hear anything? Would what I heard be what " " "GOD said, or would it be my interpretation? For, " " " anything beyond what we know is beyond morality, " " " " " " " " " " " " "as well. To make the unknowable known, " " " " " " " " " " " "nakedas religion doesthat is the true " " " " " " " "" blasphemy! And whatever you might say about having nothing to lose and everything to gain, in believing in GODwhy would such a higher being punish one for thinking it doesnt exist? Sco#ng at any idea of a higher being, I should say, might only wound a GOD either extraordinarily vindictive; or, perhaps, might only wound if such a reaction came from a thingor whateveras great, omniscient, omnipotent, whatever, as GOD, but not GOD. To explain: to explain the fantastic is the same as making a mythology out of the commonplace: a nature disturbed into made sense out of precisions periodic, warped humanity; the same as leaving out what is most important, impotent: dont let it grow, friends: leave the myth as that, and chew on it for a little while: give evidence a chance to wryly expostulate on the wise wild: cherish each, every moment: every time we dominate our vesselssurety and place dominate keep things evocative: for, the continuum, caroling, breeds fact from it, eventually; evidence, truism, what have you: GOD aint shit: moreover, the wagering of better to believe than not seems insipidly hucksterish, and thus benign, troubled by its own lazy parallels, yes, parallels between ction and ctions perspective; that is, how one sees their nonexistent GOD in relation to their own spells of mortality, themselves, their story: and the deceit: themselves the GOD, and how the GOD, nonexistent, really is, really manifests, manifests not: a GOD, but di!erent from GOD, without an article, extant as what it is, complacently settled in its own strenuous rightness: perhaps I am more

than one person; perhaps, am GOD because theres a truth about myself, hidden and felt there thus, because hidden; that is, if I see myself hidden, as hidden: so, then, GOD itself is the religion, a religion of nakedness, confused with all the concrete, seen parallels: I dont know: whatever statement of myself and for myself shouldnt be stated; rather, should exist without an article, without a: religion is the u!, yes it is the a that negates surety, felt, yes, yet unsurprisingly hidden: in other words, almost somethings the same as hiding something: its the correction, the verb of fact, not u!: what can I do with all this, all these thoughts: all these words: it dont fare too well with the likes of me, dagnabbit: feel only: all the way down to the spine: forget the wager, tear blessings out of your own story, self, what have you: whether you believe in GOD is not important, impotent; only, you should believe in yourself, only, without bothering to know why: this is like hidingbeing, almostbeing an a, and thats the most terrifying prospect, that is, getting yourself, yes, but in doing so nding out theres nothing to get, only stu! to see, portals to nothing: but nothing is something, aint it: once related to a higher self in us, that is; that is, its the relation thats real, but because an action between, is seen notat least, concretely, as an object: can an action be an object: well: its the following piece made naked and thus meaningless, because misunderstood, rather than understood as being forever misunderstood, seen as that, like an in-itself wagered for the sake of making more: the in-itself wants more: wants to parallel deceit with self-getting: so then whatevers between is the action to get to the object, yes: the objects GOD, in this case: the actions

religion; in this case, however, we see the action as the object, religion as GOD: so then, our concrete perspective on what religion means, rather than seeing it as a means to nothing, is such as to create an in-itself: simultaneously the action, the self unknown in us and the subject of our emulation, the GOD of our thoughtsthe object-obvious: we mix up these two things, usually, and, well, to me, this creates a split in the human ideal of a self, yes, wanting more nothing to be in them, exist like they exist: identities of a with more than a self could wish to parallel, because, after all, not meant to: getting nothing, mixing it up, seeing the action: selves, tragic selves, split: whores for sex: bartered beings; almost, almost the action of deceit: almost, the at relation; almost unthwarted being, until found dead, and made the metric of religions tricks, met; paralleled, the GOD we act for unrelated, the self tricking humans: we: the power, we people condemned to be split, yet sovereign: we know ourselves the GOD to get; can describe the spastic features of unreachable ends, notoriously eeting: the gallantrys the point of all the action, anyway; the proudness of our own authority and right to be wrong and to be the failed forever: we inch forever gainst the loaded gun of a religion, organized: meshing means and ends to split the relation between: the father of the untold, terrible truths we have in us; do not spoil with a name or with the dullness of a split myth.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ."

So,

WHITMAN-GOD: to see the wit in wise, to lacquer death with pageantries; explain the feeble lies, in what is spent, and never to return well what is there not for us to see but wit, in rhythms, wisdom in the words, and words, but wisdoms wit unmasked, foretold, untold in rhythms earthly for the moment the harness on me has its fold, indeed the folds the chains of it, of wit, and masks an eminence i cannot recollect in wisdom, only but in the converse of an unequal clarity-connect; and emit the reverse. damnable spy in my mood; direct, and followed through. what use am i to you if not to funny the standards, blandish welcomes with my wings, nor steal the snores from god and his incongruity? they are things, but not as eyes are things beyond perception of no melody, here, in this face of him, no absence either. and of the one to soothe, to recollect my naked melody away from a reprove, to godreprievesthe melody foretold. to you is god. so go, if only whitened chains of it could spend the sonnet and not be feeble in the folding, tooahif only honeyed words were honeyed wordsremittances of hell to hell the cheat, to heaven,

the reprieve for all our earthly seekers of that heaven. all of us has told us well: in true? in each collapse, that is. once anew, the navel for this paradigm, combustible, relays new lanes of wit, before the matters met in view, and things, perception of the view, and not ideas of imagery. imagery is nude with lacking vision, full with a release. have not the powers full enough a chasm? have the knots knotted? the perpendiculars speculated? and yet but they are only pillars just one to hold the just many: utmost navel of a place imprinted in ensembles, navels, clarities: cherished well, by a brain in fog, the imprint of a staged world on the world stage enough before my sorrows lengthened to the back as font of arrogance, as much a stage of beauty as the truth in it, rst pictured, then seen by eyes. no more perspective there. or, and altitudes are but higher merriments, new careers indeed to bless the snoring snores ofparadigm. this lengthy queen of my distaste of length derides what strength, what imaginary future in the chasm, is as new a cherishing as thus amounts

to old, the wit the mold, and here to reckon what safety thou hast cherished in the picture for what your eyes deny of it foremost in things: and deny foremost in pictures of a framed beyond: a lateral of ease, but not disgraced to an easel for what cacophony more loudens the gift withappreciateof the colors of the pastel rather than what meshings come to life on that raiment, there, that larynx the wind sings on to blow it forth in colors speaking. words that insulate the melody are no sort of wisdom: so why give genius to wit, if wit needs wisdom rst, a melody outside-of what is, at all. of lassitude and ardor, but an arch of colors; colors are no theme, if missing some on a canvas made from fascination with the easel. drag that fascination to the frame, deny the fetishism that is really one with a unity of colors that is each one you see, and see the one that is a shade, translucent, of this frame that is a parting of impressions by the building of metaphors past and gone and are no harnessing of the sun. of wit. no rhythm in it to the god who pushes words as if they were commands, commands to listen to thou who wilt not listen back. and i am left the human of an attitude no more than glance. a blow upon the winds, a ghting chance to change the character of what wits in a nose my own. careless, as repose is to one awake, the minstrels of my fear;

the fear of sense in all. suchs the game i see no more of. no. i know the game, have left it leveled in a marvelous place. And then so, MAHOOD-ROSE: dont tell me more: i have learned enough, and not to store the brainnowwith uselessness instead: i have learned the stock, the stock and store: and i have morsels of what i have learned still, that i can think about, without a consciousness of the taming: though i, not its chasm, knew the chasm, out of a sensation i was tamed the more by poesy than by my ignorance of it, for the sake of diction: i have found how serious: i have found the laughter in no how but no why, i have delinquents for them, cannot know them, did not know the chasm: laughed the diction o! as gone already: ignorance however is a way to tell semblances in the blink of night, su!ocating the tears, the night seen in the blink, not the tears, the tears the night, the blink uselessfor one as i to operate his aberrant condition: diction: perhaps the challenge of the still remains: to be taught: and learned of, too: and learned of once gone into the blink of night, the merciless haze of it: gone in its grand, but no grand in the tears if no shelter from it in closing ones eyes i guess

USELESS A N ALYTIC :
approaching the corner of listlessness when I looked / salivating about it / about reaching it / well, Dave / you chalk it up to crisis / juicy, unbelievable crisis / crisis to match the stamina of will with some weird, yet-garnered feeling / you were probly saving it for the eleventh hour / for when there is no choice, yet / even then, that illusory notion / would impact us / tho we know not / when desperation becomes reexive / I / I / I am / I am wanting to be there / to walk on water like Peter Sellers / and be the president of something / but really just being there / is / that what / is / death / ? and I / talk of gardens I mow and till and pot and dig / looking for those corners / gets me delirious and shit, well of life we get in / well / well enough, we get / in there / for a little while. I kind of wanna write about what grass is and mother's laps and stu! / and call it all the same / and too di!erent to ever call us anything but one thing / denition / precedes analytic / analytic precedes useless syllogism / what building-blocks hath we, now / that you all is the only truth, a humble one / honesty, humility, humanity / the truth we come to / approach as monster / agrant, wasteful monster / not all that or all you and not to tame it but kill it / so that we can squeeze our own blood / onto the kill, anoint the beast an importance / change is death, any change / so are you the ultimate change, too di!erent from what mortal standard / would dene, and stoke the process thus / prepare for battle / usurp change, usurp truth, and / yet we must know it / as a result / of being put on the muzzle / and made stony and made stoic and furrowed and gaunt / from this could you spring / ? why: crisis lyric for the CHERRYBLOSSOM she'll not see, for here she is the blossom, as change is the mothers' laps, all of them and I perceive she who interred is all of the dirt now / ashen, or lush / the collective nothing of everything non-sentient / might in all honesty / be what looks back at I / thru chapel window / CHERRYBLOSSOM

THIEF OF FIRE :
Complain of beauty to the modern animal: Whom lifting sodas from vendors fridge desires To sneeze: as he passes the register To kick wind thru the wall of dry crust, from under His frenetic nose: this as he dismisses Himself from the bodega, waiting for the inevitable nasal riddance Of all scholastic heritage and hermitage: and, And stiing breaths for the choo, goes To the guts that are between his words Like something stolen, anything from ages Previous, more carbonation for the questionings That the cashiers suspicion makes all come cagily As the modern beast grunts himself out, makes For the curb, and amongst lonely midnight hoods Vomits, thinking in a splinter like a nail with verbs not Involving belting and causing wounds, his father Dim but strong, and no place to go to but friendly whores And scummy, unfair bistro employees down the block; He would not be in membership to the hierarchal light Nor possess much of anything enough To nd you an answer, the context too shriveled At the swampy depths of mind any Fathomable point to him lay, like briny, saturated Eggs that hatch at times before The key to what is new has turned the latch To see then what it is, yet as contrarian turns From that to something else, like any chimaera of This millennium, produced from earnest, physical Pink walls. But then Who would need morals for the killers quest To nd the golden context w/o its Forthcoming tampering if never getting herself Out of the box into spatial ambivalence, large feud

Somewhat between the giver and receiver, reviver"?? Who gives us everything to prove to grant ourselves Saddened this age in turn that we have given Each gift back to some gurative, dauntless absolute. What truth is faith only before it vanishes, expecting Vanishing, and that as if sad in parting for good; And have then thieves as these in modern anguish Trained themselves to know and prove that nothing"?? [1] I need to write a poem right now. But there is the feeling of thwartedness That makes the voice seem a trie basic. There is not much left for me to improve upon, So I guess Ill just sweep up the cha!. And if the cha! ends up being important, So be it. [2] I will tell you for to tell you, din I have more frantic love for the pieces of my dead Than what living widespread will destroy me And the loud crackling overture to light might be A response. [3] , seeing you disrupt your old tune for once and just give up those arms you take against the world. ready to heave for more, you breathe in lifes fullest, polluted gulp, free nally from those places that stunted you, crushed you: consider this a deserved sin, then, to prove your frailty wrong, hell, you knew your way to run [4]"There is a type of heaven for dead children, where They can live the length of a life, and more, but among

All the other existing cherubim and they are ridden Still by that fact of not living on earth for a normal Duration Despite the better place it is a worser gift Than having been a part of what They never had at all, and never knew [5]" " " "Spare heated words between cronies desists " At the hassled sign of movement far o!, down the street " " "Like someone kicking a can, on accident maybe, " " " " " " " " " " " " " " " "And the men, even the whites of their eyes " " " " " " " Hooded in the urban balminess, look up " " " "From where they spoke in secret, to review again " " " " " " " " " " The safety of the spot of reconnoiter [6] When I have looked the clouds upon her state, The minstrels beckons much away from me: Who shattered shreds to morsel on that plate-Your skull, no sentence of that liberty? She in the ding and scratch and tranquil rush Sets her cheeks, the lovely, in wan rouge Of dialects, each language of her blush Camped incommunicado in the luge, The round, marble rubber wheels skate the dross Of her who belts the sonic treble fume From boards that skate as well the lovely, cost Of boards, to tremble meekly, nding doom. And in this re there is re, and re, and Never once could this my sky touch land [7] disappointed, unread, feverish with working to the bone every night, on weekends, all day, every day, every day, with zero recognition, because I love the shit out of the written word, [8]"Inspirationarranged

OnEternitys Band Instates one knot To the helix of strand Tho shya single incident Uponthe roving thread, It warps the woven stead Withknotted dress, And leaves the formal Pattern slightly stressed. [9] So I am not only out of reach but reachless, And not be seen in quarters of reality, a heavy Weight on eyes, and numbered, organized By pithy displacements. I am there where only Casualty is life, nd back again to whats remiss From the start, I go there in search of wrongness, Staying there. [10] Qua? Litter of living sporadic, what are ye being? Hath blown freezing thickets enough a ake of themselves Left to throw on, and on, that mite-red mistake msgs Hang the receiver on, throw on living like Wind, to the point of the last mode, the branches mere Nodes of rust, the bush a rankled bone hindrance to Dry evenly like a ercely observed coat of paint Incrementally jabs hardenedness harder Than the hell by a hair, just just enough for heaven, Ye, hath it muster enough itself to grand breath drawn, That heralds thing a celebrant epiphanic, logged drawl, Dithyramb, this wacky female bush [11] So goes it when I slowly die That ambush of a dread more Than what I could have known,

Thinly as I think it to esh, as over time the demon grows up, and I retch in the bathroom, expunging nothing, learning no lesson, these thought as I cramp up again. I do not suggest a life, only " " " " " " " " "Spend days in detox. [12]"Kerk Shitwidow sat as if to leave The whole way through the few humane words Thrown between himself and a friend, on The topic of jobs he sat, teasing the cup of co!ee With those small kinda straws they have, thinking about Where was the next money for the bundle [13]"Who cares, I throw owers on you. Flowers like leaves that fall from benevolent tree branches That let them have their freedom, I throw them careless to show you all how much Ye should care, that this treasure eats itself to death, And, eyes lowered, I stake my ruin on the ground, audience A positive uproar at my bleeding self lying, dying, on the stage. [14]"denial of the love one has for someone else amounts to robbing yourself of the time before you knew you wouldnt live forever, is leang through innocence like an old, e#cacious coot quickly through les rather than givin it your handkerchief and sayin goodbye, yet what could the weakest malaprop or slipup leave out for the " " " " "trivial to garner from that loss, that the loss itself were not still the worse than even the smallest grain of knowing that you lived that moment as unfully as you could? Hell for nickels, twenty millions-of clashed, renegade doubles and look-a-likes of shittiness

remaining sere, thorny, cracked from the yew tree that is, ridiculous [15] , Vexed Dog meant himself into reality then Drew from it its avor like a blossoming tune for signicances sake, For the sake of a little littered-over piece of land, a crude structure, nailed ridges of thatch and twove blathering spikes and a bit of the oddness drowned over hacked wood like as a movie on millimeter, strewn furniture perhaps here and there, sneezes of chuck from the woods, " " " " " " " " " " " " " "peckpeckpeck, chairleg, hobbling gure o! tiny in the distance to the right, bird, crevice of pinkcolored bra, [16]"An ashtray squatting over the mouth of a glass. An old mug ringed at the bottom with sediment (For suddenly, we are in his room) Clothes made into details of themselves Wrinkled shirts and soiled underwear and Everything framed in and thru and of The cataract of sensitive life. Like, Like a still-life made the stiller, which Compounds the votive, humming In these constant things that I mention: Squares made by chance into circles, Senseless, senseless. The cheaper nobility of Our fay swells of art, senseless, Fay swells??? Criticizing yur own work-Doesnt make it attractive

And luckily, those fay swells turned To bawdy tho sincere-Ideas that grow inert and lose the fear That once had struck a note quite hard In that which had no sound but in the lampshade Held like a cone that tours another, deeper Deepness At the end of this parade one notices-Decisions they have made about their environment And all that is observed-Sums up into an ego of the past [17]"what if the worst people were the most compelling, the best people rotted inside out? what if in its myth each Other came to pieces, we came to pieces? in lieu of the dreaded contingency plan, buying a pair of I HEART NEW YORK pajamas for twenty bean, a somewhat last ditch sort of deal that makes Slapdash over there in the curvy hat and shit sneakers and with eyes like pools in drifting so much that the pupils nearly lost, look like the queen of fuckin ENGLAND. He who Adjusts himself, sckretches bruised right knee, A drill, these days, sni!s amicably, pensive maybe, " " " " " " " " " " " " " "A droll, these days, takes a handling upwards to abler pages, a cleric in a room of raunchy mustaches, Nietzsches all, Though some seer trends a leaet about atheism outside And tourists are loved by all the world, and though I See this out my window, I feel it a massive somewhere Life life life leads itself in me, a veil is what distances A thing from something else:

NOTA :"it seems that if i were to speak in my mother tongue, when heard by those outside my mother tongue; well, there is a force in hearing another language that cannot be explained, and which, if heard by those whom would understand me, because it is the language they speak, would lose relevance. Such is the power we nd in nonsense, when, in the back of the mind, we hear its truth.

BEAUTIFUL; YES :
but it's super impressionistic and weird Like potato salad exactly Have no idea tbh How're you? yeah like I'm totally out of the loop I'm in an artistic watershed of individual collaboration with mirrors And nicotine With a twist of John Prine language I'm shooting for a lm adaptation of that moment between waking up & falling asleep but in paper screen I lter it thru folk music Or not dusting my living spaces I'm basically a housewife that speaks to her parakeet without knowledge that it has been dead for three days ^^^^^^^^ But it might rise on the fourth Who's to say January? or sheep psyche in the cracks of that time frame or maybe delightful She paints her nails non stop so she has these globs of color and the

end of her ngers that gets on everything. Weird time is delighted with itself and the horny lampoons of it that quake second hands on clocks and polished watches Time is a song that no one requests at shows the minute hand paints hands on its mail of stardust or naked screens wide as wise looks but the music plays ennuiways Time is hashbrowns scattered covered and chunked that is not aware that the co"ee needs a "warm up" the women are made of syrup there where the muse is all of time, the muse of some big shit upstairs that spilled its breakfast and made greenery lash itself to the planet's own, and water the length of preternatural, a priori co!ee-spectacles Time is a parking spot at the South Pole Time is this screen shot the women are made of syrup and paint their nails slain against like hydrogen a weense of a spark against the howling background of cosmos against done and lashed a portrait of all color and duty, a painted world only of abstraction and desires as dank and dark as the most unobtrusive corner of space Time is under a child's blanket fort in an underdeveloped undiscovered country my response to your love note hehe beast Time is a photo of a tombstone with the name & dates gra#tied on all writing is desperation. hang it all! desperate to bite against the spiral into antiquity, and all old and conservative, manipulated by the vatic new

Time is an app that I write a terrible review of and give only one star gra#ti is the soul of an app for the latest iPhone. time is grattied onto stonehenge possibilities made of raining funerals down into real live circumstance, out and away from abstraction and emogee yes ^^^ beast into the ground I walk up and down on, infused, me sensing that note of union and wanting to reach my ery throat there that place myself, can't Too poetic, try again Make it more like a soup that has been in the refrigerator for 10 years but has the date 3/15/2025 written on it crane the neck, spades for the lump, mortar in the neck when ye turn, bloke cancerous, itches sketchy black spot, runs his nosey expulsions upon a greeting, grateful sleeve, and life there its blatant nightlight to ease open the face of who turns the lock slowly open for thee and thine in bed again to rest, a long preview before death's motion picture is that sleep, there, a thread of themselves not there, for the monster hunting against the battered lock with a thumb clinched with abrasive cuticle, the rain inquiring emptily against wary window-shapes that throw emselves on the wall opposite the man's last will and bedstament close closer to honesty remove poetics, poetics always hurts. poetics is honesty antiquated visions of it not poetics therefore always transcribes for its newest generated name Yes, better.. but it needs the feel of someone who has devoted their entire life to predicting the day they will die always back hurts when it rains. and always I spit fortitudes of tobacco into a trashcan. what's the di!erence

Fate. the back pain a reminder and the tobacco spit a revelation Centers u, Straddling the dense beast what all the drying hides of day produce for my winter depends on the gross hunt not the job of individual kills, therefore I commune with fate's acumen rather than the complacent suicides of wills yet-mostly wills forgotten The skinny jeans of the art world better to the fated universe it be organized than feed the myriad dimensions for all eternity, till minutes take eighty years to pass, and the man at the edge of his death remarks only to the gaunt hover some people around him at the bedstead that he had always been not and nothing, and he told you, didn't he, you shadowy harlot painting nails miles of feet long, and the canvas a hammering of stars their fated place in the manias of a death that is painted on if known anyway, or a life that his, who know, I throw out coughs and sip the gruel from old napkins of hackings like a child I was always by never having been; I begin therefore for all of a hellish eternity's bask in limp lighted shadows grazed with rainwater and everything just goddamn awash in itself Death friends I want to write about the eternal strength of chaos Do it! And I will correct it lol"have you ever seen the lm Synecdoche, New York Never heard of it Charlie Kaufman the guy who did Eternal Sunshine etc. Being John Malkovich, Adaptation

Haven't seen those either lol oh man rent Eternal Sunshine etc. that's his more accessible movie Dave loves that lm it's great,"imaginative I've heard It sounds beautiful Synecdoche, New York is just like, ba$ing, glorious I can't put it all together I want to see it it's about a guy who's putting together a set, a life-sized replica of a town in upstate New York, Schenectady would be my guess, haha and all the actors play the people who live there but it's just surreal it's more than that, tho chaos the abiding of chaos is in its refusal of order, order stales either that or it's lifted on strings to something divine but people hunger for more than order and then the grand order disintegrates so then it is an a!ect of people to feel comforted by confusion, at the scale we speak of, the highest mind order is for the small things we can grab with our hands and place where we see t, is not for the things untouchable anyway"unknowable confusion is comforting not bc there is hope for educating ourselves but

bc it is a plateau if one chooses not to learn they can bask in the chaos and confusion of something that may drop at any second, and then earn something of an appreciation for the eeting either way the code-less can only be conceptually understood, seen from afar, not put in us, given a place the code-less has no core, unlike beings, who at the least have a psychological core so then you can reason your way into nding a core in the code-less that makes sense, but wasn't meant to; and there are probably a million other cores, millions maybe everything that chaos presents us with is the root of the matter simply bc it lingers independently of all else in that sort of cosmic sauce . . ". " . " ". " " . " " " . " " " ". I wish we could fragments Or reminded when our esh Is within one mile Of the sure considerably the stone, and the dropping fall it the big boulder hits the orange terrain with, upon cropping up his transformations, and a gathering strength to become a swell of rock reminds himself of esh the while he falls and if it were you the memory of desertions past failed from view, I would not be so stony-i-the-face yet in my weight I would hit hard upon, and no doubt would you know my proximity . . ". " . " ". " " . " " " . " " " ".

Comma to the rotation: eyes split open at the sight of mirrored abyss; can the watery knowledge (the decomposed body of information) be guided like the stars shamed of their impending super nova nudity? Or will the stones rise like sculpture to create galaxies out of fossilized time- like creation's damp & cracking tomb? spent in celestial news from the nearest house of mirrors, even. knowledge, comma, drains, or can, the eyes to be beyond, stir a tear, mock the lucrative growing billions I see it clear enough from my domicile, that all latched on gloomily, and but to a rope frayed enough to snap like little pieces that when left on the ground of the grouping pit with stones and such jam in their dead eshes of info / some notion of the grotesque here / enough to be a nudity, but perhaps this bare ame's form's the sculpture / keep the wang . . ". " . " ". " " . " " " . " " " ". While Go" still travels the land of absurdity cleric regroups and is continually reborn some would say the land of absurdity is harder travels Some as if it is absurd then too would arise the question of whether one is moving anywhere at all absurdity utilizes stasis as a form of confusion which can correlate to time if expressed in a pattern of relations that repeat under di!erent names, like a time-cycle but time moves stasis can indicate time if its absurdity is provoked to life in the mind of he who wishes to traverse that particular swamp Thus the artist is born

Groaning & gripping - and cyclical, elliptical patterns are the only form of motion that resemble something like stasis, thus there is a kernel of confusion regarding the whole point of it anyway if the only way to maintain your bearings in the land of absurdity is to repeat yourself the only sense of direction is redundant Math marble and ink you are there already but have not arrived and both of these situations within the same vessel therefore yourself is the direction and space of import while you yourself view it as something needful enough to pursue, as to a di!erent order for it. this perspective indicates an other in both the mechanism of travel, that one is not where he is, because he is not one; and as well the other of the place one directs oneself towards, the aim of self-as-perfection, existing in oneself and rejected absurdly . . ". " . " ". " " . " " " . " " " ". Although I am co"ee or woodgrain stuck to sunlight Or maybe a mid day confessional of what I drank behind tarps or furniture dated like cracking books As to esh: only the buzzards can know ford ford ford by the sip of yesterday and its great water and tar / the world is a glass of contagion drunk then lined with black welling co!ee-raiment / the belly of the bean in your own bean-like belly in your existence But I receive the invisible smile, you see; my friend sees the words & not or angels as emotion stickers dwelling in the internal app world / downloaded to mobile expression tools somesuch this is how we shall speak this is the speak the speaking vast tracts of time

While I loath the "no replacement found" I nd more of language trapped between the bars of glaring cell Cell of morning Cell of thumb taps new speak cell of speaking this is the speaking The graduation cell of speaking by the thumb taps the ceremony The hazard of the blind drums drumming and the waste the mute feel Beats that weather nature & tongue and come out of that as both obstacles, creating its trepidation endlessly and reforming clear All is due time now, all is motion all is All is Now & the black liquid black milk, ahaha Signifying morning & wake celan's daybreak for the almond Blue diamonds which comes by the beating of thumbs upon the panes, blue spheres of refractory rain there vast tracts of time in the trippy minutes that pass in

the cell Cartons of youth milked of the crusty eye to open and see. Nothing but thumb taps & smoke clearing over the used Duration the used used the used used duration aid of redundancy creator of minutes for to blossom scenes into furtherance like man in his backache in a crippled chair The poetic ring That makes the cycle sing sitting and waiting for the room to begin as the cycle sings useful redundancy, vast tracts of time Thru the resonance of babel and down from that height to seek and pick out the blemish of hell on the soul where verbality dismisses itself for the sake of a crack in the seams and yet the platform remains, and we in our wars to make rooms Take hold & bring the atmosphere down to the room some horror " " " " ok Ok take hold with hands I see the whorls of age on the ngers Sela the atmosphere a desperation indicative by an inactive platform, deep run through the veins of place, time: and some water-waster thumbing the heavens for his inner hell in the les: to turn back to see his rejection, his mistake, his faulty urge-grunt, his blemish, his bounty, his time in the

cricketing minutes on the paneswoooooo! lovely dance we should do it again sometime I have the poetry of marcel proust And to provide a new countenance among the ashes; breath of the invasive mind- the days can be his bride while the clock & co"ee be his children . . ". " . " ". " " . " " " . " " " ". it is a purely modern concept to su!use the celebratory with the stark the raving and the mad a#rmative statements dont have to be said with a smile, and with bright looks we mix feelings and what we suppose enough to see in our minds eye is always a giant questionmark the grandness of it, the blank force if you will, is enough in that aggressively silent image Like a collection of the unsaid but its not said either. The problem is rectication we as a gen have to go by where our elders had pointed out the sinkholes in life, but time presents new sinkholes not necessarily dependent on the cultural topography of the former gen, but totally dependent on the sway of the times, and that each moment is unique Id chance to guess is the best sort of simple metaphysical truth that anyone can understand Totally / An unsaid duty to explore the application / of gen to gen, aesthetics & new breathing / new wagers the unsaid is a mix of the possible to be said and the arbitrary preexistence of approximately said that, because it is gured later on, is to remain only a weakened essence of the thought on life then; but more

complete for the time had by each gen to formulate the previous zeitgeist perhaps these days a way or a key even to unlock the present one but this is folly as we realize before death that we cannot reserve a nal say to thoughts on the age we live in yet we know that sinkhole best, better than anyone else ever will, anyone in the future the problem is rectication, or rather a need to complete some abstract cycle which presupposes furtherance of life psychologically the awareness of lifes infallibility is a greater balm than we know but if this were the nal age spoken for nothing but the age that, that would complete the cycle, whether it is actually completed or not, times end would complete everything by proxy anyway the specter of perpetuum mobile lends to the idea of a concrete reality, in us, simply by the continual process of life that hangs over our eyes as a metaphor or imagery for that perennial quality But it is as something less Thats the questionmark . . ". " . " ". " " . " " " . " " " ". what is implied, the plot implements as a concrete issue that must be settled; since this goes scene by scene, the heart of the issue shifts from one to another area depending on the characters. the nature of this shift is, it seems to me, however improperly, the nature of spoken communication. every conversation is a striving to clarify but bc of implication, there are things that are mistook for other things. chaos ensues. problems crop up. confusion is any play that is and ever will

be, otherwise there would be no drama or comedic happenstance but that's Shakespeare, and classic drama lms like History Of Violence or A Serious Man make the confusion the object of the play and sacrice structure and narrative arc for realism, assuming reality is artless Nashville most of all, Implication is a thing most artful bc it involves nuance and to connect and make a parcel of the nuance as a furtherance of the play itself is most artful. a conceptual design defenestrates all of this and requires only the humanity of the characters, whatever they do and however they do it, as a su#cient stake Beckett, more radically, removes humanity as a point made about humanity the static universe in endgame is ghostly and that is its charisma, we are moved by what would seem a needless or arbitrary change, Hamm becomes Clov, switches places; we know the debt each character has to his place in or out of the chair, or in a servile position, or chiding it all. but it wouldn't make sense unless the positions are made clear, however weird they actually are it's what i do dude, or try to do I make things relevant that normally wouldn't be until I mention them again in a di!erent context, and suddenly the point is made forgive me my abstruseness, I'd be clearer but I just feel awful Ur good dude do you understand Yes I do. good write dialogue as if you were approaching something not as if you were there

simple enough Become a journalistic atmosphere Not moving the pieces like a chess player but recording the movements of the pieces . . ". " . " ". " " . " " " . " " " ". Shall & time thru the alternative / linguistics in its owery form / the dust to dust / a speck in the eye Being; or somewhat dependent on revelation / what we consist of is artistically insisted / idle hands FOWL: Naked, Grecian manner say Keats / Hyperion drew the slumber of Jupiter to a close / and waken the following rills . wills being to dance out of nding something A great, grand painting / of what impress upon the eye-speck , an only errand for the sublime fragment . was we waking And the painting has a thing more than rills and reedsthough they think, BLAKE : the real man the imagination . no rambling eulogy / you sat down / but spoken goodbyes to dance everywhere met with the rocks lain egg-like in my sanctied account of waking / as if only that, and being organic only until words number on the spine , and like daggers , and bare friendlies sought for You, uselessly groping after fact and reason tho ./ itself not in itself enough / a platelet is needed that intends analysis to stop by the self in us / words disguises identity How Sublime

THE PALACE OF THE BEES :

Begin. Then, begin to see this absence-That you feel fangle out bad ends, as but The parting of an overture, a softening of Prelude into the patented thought, A dull skull on which to place the crown; The crown, belonging to the king of bees. ........ See, in beginning, the end of means: A nal embellishment that is as much The chronicle of ones past as it is the-Fated picture of the future thought, And know that there is much to do-Much for the king of bees to do. He sees the dank and lusterless-Lacuna: a vacuum before him, Trailing out beyond him: does nothing, But sees it plainly: he ghts to-Conquer that pause. That is, the Pause before a tricky thought, that-Is like a studded crown of studded Knowledge. One must nd the knowledge Of trickier thoughts. In so doing one nds A simpler acceptance of what cannot be Understood, and this acceptance is the Clarity. Thus is the thought Accomplished; however, Once accepted, one then fathoms This clarity as the idea behind the trickier thought,

And things become less clear: it Goes askew to t to a proper form Of putative importance; that is, the form of that rst Idea cannot be recounted anymores is made a bad Idea, a new idea: a growth from an irregular intelligence. This gets one farther from ones own brain, Farther from the HEAVEN that they blankly-Perceive, as being the tolerant habitation Of all good, grand ideas: blocked, thus far, From their heads. So then, one learns to Keep the thought as thought only. One puts-The arbitrariness of it in a structure of a gross Palace, before these embryos are wasted, Properly consumed and left for the vacant Dead to decode, to prove as either valid Or, more likely, as frail a sound as could Be purged from their own lifelessness by-A single, impossible will to stir again. ........ And so by this bad garishness, the thought is-Made a freak, a mutant. There is still to consider The heroic attempt to make the hero work, The embryo, the thought fused with kings; work, Enough, to descry amongst the clouds the nal Notion of existence: this existence of frail men, Not mindless: made frail by the continuum of-Failure, by the large devices of failure, and so Appearing mindless men, if minds that live as-Theirs could not beckon forth the rst idea again, If ideas at all; nor lift, nor exercise a thought, Voluble as boulders: a massive rock wedged between

Two mountains; powerfully, between two large And snowcapped minds. One can try to and not nd themselves fresh in this Poor WORLD, fresh as the idea that rst some king-Of bees had seen and mangled, needing fresher, Unknown distances of greater, sounder, rounder Things, things that, inevitably, patched together Not quite round, needing distances not included By the king, to be a perfect sphere; distances That claimed more distances to reach than he Could reach, than the king himself could fathom, before Losing himself in the plethora: driven by a cosmic Love of industry and sense yet to be made that yet Could not, would be lopsided, not quite round, if it Was not all made, made more into a greater seduction Towards a logic more exclusive than the EARTH. The king, anguishing and tired, peeped out the Closing product of his sweat: an impotent sphere Of thoughts to give to man, chafed, incomplete, Because he could not go for long. Upon realizing The rst/nal idea as now eternally out of reach as The eternity it facilitated, the king of bees sco!ed-At what he saw as playful embellishments, yet, with One chance to be greater than before, always tinged However by the folly following: an eternity, made to Be xed too much, and made to unravel into ruining. ........ One might nd that such a platelet for this wide Ambition this ambition of the men who walk About the colonnade and do not talk would Consume without delay a thought in questions not Asked before: attempting to return to a sorely ne, Natural heeding of inspiration, inspired by the rst

Thought made into penitent idea; rather, one would Be eaten up and quickly by what had caused them To embellish afterwards: and so then, to repeat, Make, from this needed wanting to pursue, a bad Idea, askew and strangely gone of what had Possessed it: it is in the head of one who walks The colonnade in wishful silence, save each step-Forward, pattering forward in lucent echoes Across a plaza of echoes of men who move Their thoughts, despite all this. But only by-The working of a ghost of some ailing will in them, Within them, festering like the newly dead, Although it is a living rotting of inordinate, Honestly whispering, honest desires to see-Without perceiving, without being hassled By the noisy, troubled nothingness of bees. One can only grasp out of all this the bitter Feeling of the absence of hope, in that they, Like these men, in recognizing any absence, Recognize the absence of their thoughts-And thus themselves. Themselves, not kings. ........ Of ones lost cause: still in the tender Mould of unknowingly supercial, tired Living. Lives, strutting like minutes upon The EARTH that is a colonnade of EARTHS Though soon the future thought, It is come again from the palace of the King, to some new place beyond the nal Embellishment, consecrated by the-Sense of one, to t the industry of bees: Bees: deliberate at each juncture, each choice Of chance, chance that in eetingness will deny What little concrete shards one has-

-Of their true power: ones true, Concrete power: An implication of the rights of man, Of kings, the kings of the buzzing bees. ........ Again, the stout temples with their Torches salute. Again, there are frantic men-Roaming the frantic colonnades, men Who jabber on, and on, and on, and on; And, again, from this there comes a-Newer manner of eager embellishment, Comes in wanting: a cunning superstition-Of the self: an embellishment that is A superstition, realized as real by-The men, upon witnessing the burning Up of bees, undone by their own pretty passion: Suppressed for the sake of industry, then burst, And then brought down to simple ash. All this should happen, say the kings, But no, it should not happen. At most, Embellishment is an attempt to leave out The choice of chance: a way to not-Need chance, through needing what Could possibly not come, to survive. ........ A need, A need, characterized as a part Of what one wants, but deeper lain, Held ephemeral within this complicated, Puzzling puzzle, this churn of wacky fables. Superstitious Dogma whispered somewheres in the

Minds of wacky men-Who walk with bent backs, about The colonnade: they say the burning Of the bees is the thing that tells one For sure of how to get to the rst idea, That it should be through assiduous-Industry, a careful handling Of the future embellishments, not-Known as needs or even wants; but, Yes, embellishments become the wants: They rule the choice one makes, when chance Invades the sepulchre, where deeper Lies the rst idea than in the temple. The sepulchre: a place hoped not to be mentioned again, In this pome; but in this pome I seek to dene what it is that is-In that tomb, there: rst o!, I will say that, Hostilely, one-Denes the new manner as the old, To make it seem as always having Been around to change things back; Hostilely this is done. One approaches This wavering with the nice, black Hostility of young, procient bees, Angered at this wavering, as it is Created out-Of chance, chance that will in the end Keep one, in advance, continually, aware Of the nice-Motion of the rst idea that one craves an end To: wishing to wrap up that solitary res:

........ There are things, yes, still yet to stoke ones callowness To a ercer craving for that which is so Fiercely beyond the ickering lights In the temple, not the sepulchre: whooshing with the Coming power of the bells in the Steeple of that unknown sepulchre; Mentioned, again, despite the fact, The more it would be mentioned The more it would diminish, and-Lesser the sound That bells would make. There is an idea of such diminishment As being a diminishment from the rst Idea to another less itself, though Not necessarily lesser. Diminishment Is done, in order-To strike nonsense from the clues Of chance: chance that the rst idea Had started as, implicitly. ........ Then, guided by Virgil, the ganglia Of thoughts thought in a breeze that Waves the bells ascend to a confused Sublimity: a sight not as it was, A sensible profusion of spectacle To tame the knicknacks of our-Sentimental humanness, at Birth. A thing without a moving Bias, so as to persist in its implicit, double-

-Usage of the rst idea, the idea Of clues that take one by the hand, From the cat and dog: blocking one From passage through the forest. Virgil, a ghost, a summoning, who Takes one by the hand. He leads One uniquely, passionately-Towards the beginning of a nice, Bad day, a day of humbly hanging, Domesticated, cheap infernos that One will end up building-Into a paradise: once emerging from That trip through the afterlife, and Bidding Virgil go; once coming home To Betty, and roughly wing her that night; After all the experiential trials would That bad day be made parasitic paradise: an-Animated provision for us all To stake our dreams on, endlessly This provision that we see as a mouth Of light that clicks forlornly in the Temples tells us of the rst idea, ........ Upon seeing the stages after our Existence. In knowing this and yet Existing despite, afterwards, it is Not the rst-Idea at all, for we should not Exist at all, upon knowing what It was, or is, or will be: the resonance is curbed, And, the resonance is what made-It what it was: not HEAVEN, not HELL, not PURGATORY, not any Experiential thing, but instead a-

-Thing we see as lacking, if one Is unable to experience it rst, gawking Before the hullaballoo of its reality, and this-Makes sense, in human terms, That is. The rst idea then is not What one sees it as, their sight being Clogged with perceptions of HELLS And HEAVENS and PURGATORIES; ........ Rather, it is what one makes it into. See, And in your very sight do not perceive-With brains; instead, delve very deep Into the deepness of this colonnade, Humming human with the bees of men. The bees, the ceasing, the fury-Of that rst idea, pictured simultaneously Beyond the cordial walls of your happiness, Beyond the hair of spiders creeping slow-Behind the walls that do not creep at all. Consider your technical ramble, Regarding your sure knowledge of the solitary-Res, the rst idea, as a shallow, hollow Discourse; see it, instead-As how it was meant to be seen: That is, as but a guidance towards The wrongest, the attest: this, indeed, will Still go out and away from that very veritable First idea, but, it will at least be honest In its corruption. Consider this: the hairs Of creeping spiders in the walls; this

Nonsense that infuriates the walls With noise; the noise of weak bells at The top; the top of this drear sepulchre Of ghosts of the idea; lastly, the idea, the rst and nal, The bell, the precious bell at the top, Rung by a-Helping hand you know. Then, and only then-You will see what could be given if You only saw, and nothing else. Do not Permit the bees of thought to be lit are-By the res of the candles and the torches ........ In the temples. Restrict yourselves to the First idea and nd, yes, nd what cannot Be counted, cannot be painted in dankest words, cannot Be evasive, yes, without far-o! sound of bells, Gonging bells gonging that trill with the trill-Of bees, are by their accidental Wandering ight, towards a newer Tendency of thought, the thoughts Of kings with their dull domes, embellishing; Towards this, and-Straight into the path of the burning Flame of the candles in the temples. Wandering in their hovering, so long, The bees, they hover way too long, and lose Their magical ability to see-Without perceiving, forgetting that their Feet once pressured endless ground: they Could not see and so could not appreciate-The obscene holes in dour,

Chaste arguments (the ostensible Spaces between hard, Frank belief; the spaces where We stop to pant awhile after Hard and dogged pursuit of the belief). The bees, then, Were, or, rather, became more like-Lemmings of the light; like stupid, Furry moths; drawn to the rst idea, They burn themselves up in a craze. See the discourse between yourself and Your analysis of the rst/nal idea as You see yourself, That is, as nothing but appearance: The appearance of the self in a room, A room in the temple: the palace of Bees, led by an imaginary king. A-Temple surrounded not by weak Candles but by torches, Lighting their preeminent danger up. Consider out of all of this what is Outside the temple: A place where-Men can breathe and go insane: ........ This drowsy colonnade, yes, is where Men speak to themselves the nal truth; insanely, The last embellishment. They do not Speak to others who know more of-It than they do, thinking they do Not; thinking, they are like the dumb Moths-as-bees, herded by the wrong Magnicence into ame. So, then, the Men look at their shoes, and jabber-

-On in their brains, and hide from Those who do not speak to them; in Other words, everybody else. They-Speak of others to themselves, as Those others are most questionable To them, and so then most accurately Simulate the rst/nal idea, which they see As a fabulous inferno and a paradise, Together. They think-Of the kings of raucously seeming Thought: the-Industrious, cleanly meticulous thought Of formal, ctive men in jarring crowns; These men should know, in all the places They themselves would not. One might perceive And rightly, to know what this incredible ction, these Fictive, human things-Could do: and yet, afraid of being burned like Bees, and-having no alternative, they hide their shy Mastery, their own kingliness, behind a veil, A miserable veil that drapes no palace walls. A veil that perception nishes on its own. deathly absurd is it all of it that corners me, no stronger than I make of my own tissues of self, no more mortal tho than me thus, deathly, whatever becomes that from these two things in congress, myself or my otherness etc. vague repeating vague as if you had not heard the taciturnity of frowns crinkle that poor deaf face as make you from the odds' ended scatlog and bleeding to su!er again, and the smokeables diminishing, you decide instead to chew a bone you made of truth, that sat within bookshelf

hearing myriads, ye might color a dram sped down to get away the wolsh harassments from bad logic's ghouls pursuing, wishing to dig hands metaphorically, the restraint tho being somewhat, chains, literally, can't be dealt with as any sort of object; would be objectionable to any sort of reason and all the dual named correctly unheeded the correct mistakes made by its gurative roundelay, spree to stu! everything into syllogism, na reality is forlorn, kicks can to further the desire for loss as to be can from foot, like something pushing something to leave, energy put well dormroom philosophasters tweaking, the width of reality becoming to the capsule perimeter, crushed bumps reality in, hits from the bong of y .......... bossy clinamen does whatever the dumbfuck it dumbwants to the epicurean atom, no matter your, those suicidal ideals that come warmer with age and adage and the papers should have been - octopus, he belches in, urp, you practicing library cards regular? no? shit u-immutable mistake, hanging but really staunch-rough in the ground, but as if a hanging thing, greatness suspended, meaning held aloft by hand! asteroids tear down like cantering horses at a gru! pace. so what. they are going somewhere one day, blowing up everything here soon, wager soon I pretend and pretend all the time. I love the sun so much. I love the shape of the noose round the beam

bc it is the same shape as the sun! paint chip I eat them , think , writing on the wall , crazy, what a whackamole idea, oud urt pepl. somtimes th shap of a gun I mak with my hand I prtend shot lov and joy instead want, want / veritable discharge / boundaries wonderd if crossed y and for whom / certainly not himself / these dirges are like whts on wall / steel ahead, co!ee-drinkering , w/ solid fortuitous-sounding concepts that unleash their pangs on the left wall, by the snack machine, a dripping octopus tapping the wheel o car [care] u ina mental blowout think of something you can do to give life in, like a library card. a repetitious duty ame of the esh tht is - fatal aw / what stokess that / memory being the dual of reality, that picture, an image, an object; also, was late for work I awake to dark with some sifting light thru venetians and swept my swallowed phlegm around with my tongue, what sickness crypticism is drugs and all folly opens wide like a pair of legs upon no random destruction, but we left in the Kasbah all we thought needed the past is like an asteroid, as brwk reality and amounted to objects, and will, memories in themselves are insentient, if not, man tru myth, if if he dies and that is it the memory would be realest, and that still only an image, an object; if men are held immortal, sans the last human ever, by their actions, then no problem, then I qua! the past for some artful sovereign unforgiven thing as delays the heart and switches on the dark, and pleases me as I awkwardly move

asteroid made folly , in clinamen barraged itself for going the straight and narrow, how draining rote followed by interest in it rather than need for some improvement. it might align his life. he might need to borrow a few things, u kno calming sea of logos, drugs and as it rains we dance. humdrum posses, we altogether thinking thoughts of freedom, tennis after work, another sacrice, but we-a#xing eyes to ties, getting chewed out by their wheezy boss .......... what is known in the orb leaps prone. does both. moves w/o exertion creating truth as a means to rest oneself, kinetic enough to be destroyd boom - anzzy cobweb on the ruins - starker tale than the boring life of the structure itself while it stood honest - in time - he juxtaposes shit and nds out what it means later long as persists nd shatters code - dialect, dust w/ smallest grip the span of the deserted valley is like a drawl, if sound could be as spent as this grey space or places in general neither you nor I really has a care in the world about and they choppily collude with self-image tipped o! my veins earlier said theyd get sad and have a breakdown as token of appreciation m veins stayed at my house for good, I had to

afterbirth karma : delusive, to pick up the muck and make a human shape. the make of fetuses shall follow no cookie cutter agenda, fuck that , limitations amplied bc recognized : say this, forward, the grand gerund, to have been doing it nd are, you quieten moments w/ nod however scorn however the time comes to hate me for bleeding you will go soon, scorn, and leave my blood treasured w/o a body it killed, now compose compose a new miracle today for awhile I ask do you my favor to me to you and nor would u let me know, as lief to be naked someplace fascinating writerscum, duplicate entry, erhp]]] rst to transmission underdr[e]a[m]wers meal lift spirit squeezd into the day the rest darkness of myriad stu! I forget everything. my death will be remembering only my happy meal turpitude, waddit? stu! bad, stu! sampled by most, eaten the whole plate one or two so they may be di!erent, but really worser - not the clickingest bridge to lead us tooth of board by tooth across the roaring waters, would not match the glee in falling fo real deafdumb traitorscum casual hyperbole, as in, a short fuse that wants to be quiet, or as in, linguistically, wicked decent, man, over sure chiey sure made all of itself that way not knowing it was not all that way lost validity brok out o spite to its own hidden sensibles do dis real time forever, then stop, gone on in blown drawings of it afore

now nice gimme more bile of trope, who is you cousin. I go trekking to spit loogies into the limitless marvel speaking - burn comment w/o looking at me about me, let the quell sting, your forced ignorance seem a labor, until naly u tell the truth massive tapestry thru widespread - aloof in himself tho, too much to brace the picture, at least at rst. make wood for the canvas corrugatedcardboardcemeteries massive parade, confetti masturbatory, eye itch in the now. mention just to cozen self. loose gear in the dirigible, lled w/ bombs, poof drone collapsed at the minds seed, drove its wheeled apparatus to the latest bar of the musical phrase where the seed and drone lived named miserere, barking mad, conveying her very tears as maculate, ashameness .the last mans last twinkies, if you will; the apjacks of thought-breakfast etc. master crimes a dumb trade and you have wasted your life for the closest spoils. farther away small hike the man cld have been waiting there static universe goes unwitnessd tho evr hangin while da daily repetitions get thrown dot less like a blank dice smoothed, overuse unchanging reality is beads on a string. it is the string itself on top of its adornments

of beads, mere places and times in the same place perennial Expand Reply Delete Favorite More Daniel Cox DeMarse @ChauncyAmes Nov 7 I speak the space, forever, until my retina is clogged with voids. Expand Reply Delete Favorite More Daniel Cox DeMarse @ChauncyAmes Nov 7 Each in his own madness thereof, and all the mitigating Pain, mere thralls, all the thralls, gurations, blessings! " Emblemof the seasonretreats By the collision of snowake and snowake To bruise in bloody marks as if they lived To automate the landscape with living white That discolors as each skull of ice declines To ground and meshes into scarleted slosh The roads, as guts of mind, tarnish past That to liquid feeding some appreciative drain, Snowake and snowake, killing each themselves, Andemblemof the seasonretreats thus To a focusing pain as nearly by dint of cold only: That my side was made a premonitory pain by that: The gutter eats it: the roads as guts of mind The conscious evil makes a snow upon, that lights As wrong enough to pang the human side, of Myselfmalice in the snow as like my malice, " " And drips too truly. And I look For brethren, feast nothing on nothing to reduce My fear by degrees of namelessness more Than heaven could measure out in roads of thought To blizzard-ROME; that is if all leads there, what " " Palliative, this lack of meaning a thing! But This pain, pang, still seriously permits itself be felt, Then makes for me something less an evil, " " Makes for me this rift today of days, When I should penetrate a likelier drive to house

My confusion in, by the grace of a clear Windshield: I wispily foretell and knead my side " " Lovingly: I wispily foretell an End to grief, this one ne day, and for Just this once spit out the falling, fragile snows A heart for them that beats blood on the streets, " " In myriads, myriad-screams of ice alive And I a sound an emblem by the pain and pang This one ne day: well let me rest will you, In some pocket of contentment, however enfeebled By the trust of me in knowing I delude myself That I have felt this rst: this pain is a namelessness Of misbegotten snow, snowake, perhaps room In the pocket for one single ice-corpse: no, more: " " Let this dry erce un-hold itself per individual, Again for poems, make it some, make more, ah, Some whom reasonable will alight from Whatever panicked nerves. So, So: when I feast such nameless nothings on a " " Paradise instead, I have me better then Than any frigid agony out of sorts, I know; And marks seem to dissolve, when for my side I think no longer desperately of my tired roads, yes; Those things of paradise can soothe Me into, coax me to a better mood. So then, Looking up from the headache to dream, I span the length my eyes can go, the sky A purpose for such weltering Enough. I hath not a mien for Each thought, them to echo in a wealth of others, Back to mine the same. They are not me. They Blank out as the sky my stony stare, And like a house I put my reasons there, A loner looking to the sky with want For guidance, for escape-From pressured thoughts to thrill me while I wake With troubling blues, and an artfulness That bleak as marbles in my eyes intends

For thy response, angelic utterance. A remark Upon a hue there, an cerulean partakes That I may take my own clouds to the sky In weepy blues, and headaches to consign A structure out of clouds, inanimate yet Playful, an immaculate, dire wail still To break through cluttering souls, my Indecent tears, my laugh gone furious And latent yet, as I look up and see all vastness Out of clarity, in craning up the weight of My head, to see all blueness blue, free, And for a moment, welcome this a marvel Of simple tailing back to reach my friends, and Though they hear me not. I am no name, I merely look, remark on this new love for sky, And drilling by Accept no soul as being, but as soul Alone, and martyr all the rest, leave My body torn, collected in my chest, my head A drifter, lonely, drunk with parasite Noaspirinrelieves. So I look up at marble, Blueness there, and if to mark it begins To rain, let me receive the relentless castle of my doings, A structure for the ghost in me to echo me Out of clouds to trace my di!erent blues, The intimate conurbations of my mood As echo only, back to me myself. a bouquet of ber-dimensions results. revealing slowly is like what circumference-plume of congealed rubber the blind miss dont notice , smoke attacking the background behind a silly glass table where that lass sits , broken of eye , blind , not slightly : a glaze of rheum for to make the socket turn left messily and lewd , o broken , renegade eye : burnt cloud of the tarp over us all on re like new info , gifting a new dimension to drab ocks of ber , stem and petal , nameless owers concealing something better of the soul that sits as blind , as wooly languorous billows sift above , a real hellre for the wedding : but shes still there ,

the blind one , little polka-dotted-dress girl , she dont notice but she dont smell either, dont even notice if she sit or stand : they thought her crazy : she opened up the bouquet , entering thus a reality the more fecund than juiciest paradox : all the rest have left , none doing her the service , that she should be roasted if she stayed : but she didnt : she inhabited the spaces of each dotted-dress reality and hunkered down into the outside of-an eager bouquet , refusing explanation, and suddenly she is gone from place at all It was there, wasnt it? I mean, it was This place gave us love, right? The World Has always remained vengeful To be wild again, to dance again; return to some deepness too deep for tears To ignore bloodiest sleeve. Old people know about it. People grow old, As always, as they always will: nd themselves Farther into the old, odd psyche of two points, The old and the really old work: Of course, it all Started from some elemental purity, of course: but what became of us Besides the snapshots we treasure from afar, if even From a length of time: this ripple from earnestness-With questions: surprising, considerately Proportionate though ultimately meaningless events, Stacked like fucking cards atop themselves to greet the game of a void; The ultimate game. The rst people. And I don't mean the Jewish, for once. For Something is to be meant between the branches of the trees, a picture of the moon Between a sky for meaning to return to thems wild Places mentioned: from whence it was Rifted to a mocking--brightly stoled: as if, yes, as if to heave out

Water from lungs already lled enough to yawp The names in a uid for the hudson to transgress with An inspiration pecking like gulls on trash. Such a thing to do! And so done by The lightest fanfare of a prophetic lie: hmm: too prophetic, even, In being a lie: in great winks Of Crane's multifold eternity the wildowers go all shaken With that public masochism of a city: white greatness just enough To jingle like repetitive hell on the victrola--shit--wake the culture, Why doncha? I mean, this place, our gifted Home: is it not a culture of a wakening: and not by words, possessive words the most Because words possess. Possess whatever meaning They pull o!; are no part of it. By some pang of to those who read a word of unity Too much the greater sin, a sin of a keeping of what something Was. But savages are sinful, right? They who knew the land Not even theirs to give; gave to our breath A new intelligence of primitavism for us to bloody up with sleeves already Weighed in the heart--a howl--from nowheres in the night, huh? Well--yeah--to paint and pale your face: I'd rather paint It for war than leave it polymorphously-fucking-perversed By too much loveliness to not intoxicate the richest man at heart: and as if prompted by tunes, Thems articial Europs argue the piss And shit out of life from/by their own persnickety Eructations, slowly, slowly arguing away the stink of life to Dribbles on some passion anyways started all wrong, all wrong. By the native-logic of those native To wherever place came some dogged needfulness to cure, indeed, as well: for us,

The painted people rst--before then--spaces in branches: garishness-Precedes reason, anyway: snapshot: that's How people cure thems palefaces with feathers And beads for bread: and, as always, a wild Unity of all of man, you know, is there, Was there, before man, before A gender named the wild. To reap us, oh to reap from the tears we shed All the water. Come, enjoy this music With me, love; know that I love thee, Thee and thine breathy ways, breaths as Tears, tears full of water, so much as to-Each to each, rid of water as of water From the lungs. And both supple as Breaths: perhaps the rst ones in of air most air, all ooded With drops of wicked life, a wicked life of wicked Meaning's cantillated pornography: as if it all were choir, Perhaps, a tic for the balance to see well Enough: for the strophes to sing it all back to the blueprint Of bullshit Greek: give 'em A chance, will ya? Just pry open what it means to be poor, To be poor, poor of spirit, swift of mind, mindful of what It means to be alive in spirit, swiftly, like a thing that is Behind you, like a horse quickening step beyond the Redness of the mane, the mane of it, the animal, the simple, Dancing drum; give us this, give us this the hate, and see Your voice, perhaps, rise out up the ruin from a ruin, lesser ruin. Perhaps, you know blues; perhaps, you know the bluesy blueness Of tears, how angry that the tears are when they bleed from bullshit mary's Sarcophagus: they shed themselves dry and even shed The dryness from remarks: even, casual. Remembrances in place.

Remembrances only in places, place-names, see: slowly, Aggression rises out of its own frustrated need to remain succinct . . . . As if one waked the wrong dead, the wrong voice, the wrong Picture to frame in a modern sensibility: literature is anachronistic: snapshot: And on the guration goes uncaring into the heat of its mane goes the aforementioned horse, Buh-bye!, and way beyond, out to some faceless master too Respected to be hoarse and still be heard aright, the Whitman-GOD more than willing To oblige; the Eliot-GOD somewhat busy with his taking toast and tea, Thumbing through his calender before bullshit Michelangelo with young Europs at whatever time, Wherever: yeah, yeah, Pound might just as well have chimed: Tweak the invisible antennae, you faddist, yadda, yadda, yadda , , , Allusion and illusion: one and the di!erence, you say: har har: well, you are right, my-Dear friend: har, har, indeed, Dan-GOD: probably you laugh at GOD Laughing at the words, knowing him your him; really, laughing At yourself and at all and every rhythm of whatever Complexes, conundrums . . . . Being serious all the while--of course, in an attempt to hate to laugh? Quite The bummer, Eliot-GOD: moving on: I move while You do it--yes--sniggering At the coattails myself that you herd to a desired relic; Yes, the irritating drops of rain on breathing pave. For, what tailed The fackin coat, lled with nice things but not ever with dread; the coat, The stole of GOD herself and for herself to drape? Her Choice to drape in colors for the World to marvel over in the struggle To both marvel and not dissect: whatever sort of bygone contemporary vehicle

Of remembrance you fuel, none beats the fuel of knowing your own co#n, If only for a short time, long ago: and I the Whitman you want?, is this what you Expected, dear boy? A life without GODs, without relics? Sanest thing-To me is that, after all: Stevens belched the words for me awhile, You know; made no GOD but in the valves on the surface of the moon, Opening down, after all the blame, to a World of dear friends: what have you: what Of remembrance: of literary snapshots, you know; each shot a snap At death, when all words are are words, as all words are but The play you make of them: OH for a Shakespeherian end to the rag: That's its own pornography, pornography itself Being a punctuation to the chaos less manageable: allusion, snapshot, all from afar, As if it were a di!erent person you-Bothered to make into an ever-di!erent picture: oh, the sadness Of us all, even the painted ones, the ones with a face at all, In need of no identity but in the listless woods wild. Who, yes, could Think they have an identity: that could match up the gallop of a mane with Each thudded gallop: brune of an intellect most wildlike: a peevish, little hell To splice morality and death into a wrongness righted by its clarifying Succinctly, as if making to cheat the deck of cards: and of course the wind a-ood In prettyful lungs, no wasteland, none here but in humanity, humanity The wasteland: sensitive, anti-semetic, racist: and a slapdash too roundly, the Pound Pounding too goddamn hard, at least he has his Olga and Her acts of beauty, whatnot: the dash by the verb of heels,

With verbs to a place and corollary, With an entrance and circumscription in the speed With speed across an elementary eld, Obvious eld, made as like denuded nature; Made as like to be nothing less than what it is, was-Meant to be in that molecular whistle: of that owner In his place, master, owner, in their places. And you say I speak of the horse, shifting his plumey tail Once settled at the lawn, as rain begins to dab sheafs Of illigitemate grass: beneath the hedge: and the hedge-A miracle, a eld of drops of grain, and the grain grass, Just grass, and each spear across all the forsaken Earth A claimant, already a claimant, plucked; already taken By some crotch-rot motherfucker bothering To take his mistress-beatrice-bullshit once in his own snapshot-That she probably never saw. And by seeing, I mean Remembered. I'm sure the beardy fellow would give up half His elegies to drift o! to sleep with that eeting-glance woman-Crossing opposite from Brooklyn, home to Brooklyn, And her, never to be seen again, again. I guess, never to be seen again. Once held in this giant water-co#n. And all of us, all of us held by force in a solution of-The lungs: articulate/manic Liberty, a liberty of self, not democratic; any self At table, really; slave or slaves to come To drive their own machines To blinking grief; water-boxes made Of lungs welled up to dry, the voices dry as gallops, Vehicular as horses on the strain. So, what of Whitman? So what, is what; so what If W.C.W. wants to photograph his heartland from afar, as in

From Staten Island? I s'pose he thought his own voice would Rise enough from shadows, punctuation; as in, seeing words On the page and thinking the page to speak to you In a fastidiousness its own of whoever silent author, Meaning marvelous, and still, the brain splits open Some irrelevant machinery to trip us out of truer space, true space. Though less entangled in shadows, yes, I-S'pose. Here lieth-Your eyes bespectacled; here lieth The look once you gave me, the gaze I thirst for, as if it for the rst time was For every time. I hear, those kind bluenesses Rest the sclera, wearied, on the tiny boughs Of each sickle. Well, what, on what rests you? What, my dear, owns you? What fuels this Deathless gaze, prime to prick, to seize and-All derisive understand, not one, nothing to Understand, no all in the words, no words To barricade, as barricade between the feeling; And, the feeling, of a weakened sort, a medley, An obnoxious reverb, tinkling with e!ects, imprimatur, Each little feeling all the highest hedge of reassurance, And up above the hedge where man looks? And the lawn, Of green, where I sucked my primitive Jesus dry, And cross-hedged by some declaration in nods Inscrutable, of sensitiveness; a paraphrase most mumble, times the table; yes, a table, exiled, Mumbling out of furniture; a whisper of our times In the heist of wordplay? What talks you into dreaming nightmares nightly;

Wouldst they ever piss o! and leave the ruling Over you I would have had all this time, this Time, tenderest, the moments tenderest, The breathing sad, hard, yes, with doggedness Yet doubt, and the doubt keeping you haggard Enough to even Rest that wholesome, vibrant blueness on Small, imperfectly-spaced fackin Sickles and whatnot? I forgot from where led This question. You led me there; you led me There with your eyes; quieted me with looks Big as the atlantic. Remember when I led you There? Remember when I said how it was As like the less of looking at you. How Hope bled sorry blood out of spirit-wounds. Keep close. Who fackin cares, yo? Shall we Furrow the bedspread, keep our Bad dreams in line, care for the other as A way to block others out not them who is good enough To give a stare, momently, to this Lackluster king of lackluster places, only you Light them up with the sun. I am, Like you said, yeah, I am There, and I only hope you notice a reection Of yourself if only by being drawn in by my Own fackin eyes enough to observe the entirety Of your face in them. See the forgiveness; Know me you. I guess all my poems about you Amount to that. But, whatever. If only I get you To see yourself well, even if only by you seeing

My muddy brown eyes well and by default Seeing your own in them, as well, as well. Give me the courage to undertake the whole Of your fair spirit, soulish one, yes, As much of a soul as one could be a soul. Keep me Close, and you will see your fairness in mine eyes. Keep close.

MEDLEY. This is what happens when you read Four Quartets in a time of love. An overcast of bleakness, and yet the comfort of change, both exerting to usurp the other; reminiscent of Eliots evasive dance around the bush. Reason and unreasonable thoughts, a pendulum swaying, despair/lament to astonishment/inspiration until nally it weakly quickens to a stop. Images to follow into the garden, where the leaves are lled with children, though time be unredeemable. But it is this question of immortality he asks that gets me to think. A mix of u! and epiphany and all in a language or rather declension of something to seem to move like footfalls, treading abstruse ground and brilliant ground. To be immortal is, after all, to transcend time; a quick way to do this might be to examine how this happens, as Eliot did, as opposed to making it happen. After all the steps have been exhausted, and Eliots great poem is over, there will be more, yes, more to at a whim prove or disprove the transcendent qualities of Four Quartets. Like Jacobs Ladder my own toils reect only innite change; being innite, it cancels out any clear way up or down the rungs. But Four Quartets is a conict, more than anything, though it is an elegant conict: between the doubt of his, Eliots, own power to transcend, and what power he had that could be used to greater e!ect. The poem, what I get from it, is a feeling of a thing that, upon further reection, had been understood, and now is not; that what had been surely outside of the strains of time might upon looking closer appear all the more bound by a lacking ingredient. Or perhaps it is a thing not yet reconciled, perhaps not to be. But in smallness, small, quiet words, there is much to piece together, and sometimes (and this has always been my experience with Eliot) what had seemed the right piece might not have been, and that changes the nature of the puzzle. MEDLEY.

..

A BED FOR KEYHOLES :

(?) (?) ,^ , ) Feed the Rain , , , , , , , , , My loudness cracks the grackles on in heaves Of soft, loud, souls remembrance On the house of houses, On the shining sheaves upon the rafters. The missives, taken droplets in the wounds Upon this breath between, this nimble spur The stormer, the remembrance of a dry-heave-ho, Revolve a heart thats broken on the heaves Of something much forgotten, too much forgotten And too much controlled, too much the ample Air for airs to make my plectrum in the stars. Taamp The rue gives up. Its continents of stores that Store not the listener. And if I could but once Believe the shatter as a thing To believe Well, then, What glass as this could ever be But glue for su!ering to handle with A madrigal, a soggy six of spaces, rhythms, Verbosity in pain, and pain the lax,

The ardor to dissuade the lax And keep the distance from intolerables? What is the Man and his state of mind? 1. Laying at on living room rug. 2. Establishing shot of entire 1st oors emptiness. 3. Long shot of character laying on bedroom oor between bed and wall. 4. Insert of grass (ground level) swaying in the wind beside an open park. 5. Insert of Sunset, preferably seeing the sun and not just the multi-colored sky. 6. Insert of food half-cooked sitting in a pan on the stove, butter and eggs sitting on the stove next to pan. Act 1: What I am running away from, quote . . (voice-over over shot of eggs and butter, switch to living room, cover shot of the emptiness. Return to narrators new position no longer between the bed and wall but prone on the rug. As if able to pretend enough for his reality to be likened death. And it is all in the dark of day, this time, as opposed to the light of afternoon; easier then to feign the motionless motionlessly. Sunset casts a lightin a splendor that only the pessimist would nd as splendorand that though it comes from an aesthetically-pleasing sunset, translates rather poorly to what the narrator sees it as, in his hovel, that is, a reminder of yet another end to something already run through, now positively a delusion of beginnings, since the day is at an end, again, and nothing is left butpalloracross an already gloomy apartment. A shelter that concedes to no protection but in the walls, that might just protect one from the coldness of winter, that is all.) Man (voice-over, prone): Sunset. Funny, in the turndown the sun is somewhat less embarrassing, in the turndown. At least the world is more honest anyway. If that switch is there to like turn down the light out there so that Im not so pissed o! here. I feel that anticipation of sleep, but what is it? I cant feel human like that; I dont usually want to sleep. But tonight I do. It isnt empty here now, at least. The

suns here. Not the dark is here, not-dark is here. And it is here more anyway in twilight than during the day, the real day, that is, the day with the noon in it too much, so that light is regrettably somewhat discernable anyway. Good to ll the room with honesty. The honesty of an end, a brief one in brightness, so that it cannot be noticed any more than it already is, and I realize then that brightness lurks everywhere, though I do not see it as fully as it presents itself to me. The briefest end that one could have without interment and a nal monotony of bright things. . . Thirty-second shot of sunset. Which upon this mans scrutiny appears to the audience more senseless and trivial with every one of those thirty secondssomewhat akin to the oating spaceman of Kubricks 2001the monotony of this duration is amplied by the mans own inner negatives. Fade out. Title sequence (fauns.) ........... Exterior. Time: midnight. Place: remote suburban stretch. Narrator is obviously drunk. Sub-Narrator remains to hisquietusand keeps whatever commands to a minimum. Perhaps assomewhat, less drunkenlyto leash the ravings of his intrusive counter-part. Gunning, both. We come down from the night moon to see the Man walking before us. Man is obviously drunk. He speaks in the same at least to the audience 'narrative' voice as before, but now his mouth is clearly visible moving, speaking to nobody. As the scene goes onpreferably a medium shot on a trollyhe slowly moves his eyes toward the center of focus, and it becomes apparent that not only is he speaking to us, but had not been, at the beginning of the scene. Sub-Narrator (in a di!erent voice, softereitherthan the one to come or the one that follows it): *exterior. Time: midnight. Place: remote suburban stretch. Sub-Narrator throughout scene remains to hisquietusand keeps his commands, perhaps as-somewhat, less drunkenlyto leash the ravings of his intrusive counter-part. As camera tilts down, we see Man. Man is, and then I sigh, obviously

drunk: Narrator: (actors note: appear lost in thought as you mutter, at the start nearly inaudible. An address of the audience will be evermore clearer by at rst a juxtaposition of the narrators ownrealaloneness that isin appearing to be drunkenly muttering to no man, as most any normal, most intoxicated souls, upon walking home. The switch of eyes to focus straight into the eyes of the camera must be abrupt, and comes near the end of the reality of his private musings, to focus on the unreality of a narrators desperation for the hope of a friend, a friend with whom he can nd something as like themselves, not themselves. Even the simplest of rhubarbs, something to makedocile, and make well. Something found, if even in only gunning towards that abstract, objective observerthe fourth wallwhich is so much a dislocation, like himself: that is, the audience: or we the people who watch him live, in his four walls, from the comfort of a seat. Man grows louder throughout scene) Man: mmmhhmmm (ad lib, kicks the street to punctuate unrest) . . . Observers Fiends People. He had no right. He was drunk. Im drunk. Im (sighs) walking home. Sub-Narrator: *narrator speaks in the under-toe of Mans movements: Narrator: (stops briey, again, a punctuating, a drunk, hazy glance, epiphany. The momentary clarity of a wanderer lost in those very contrived mechanisms he despises. Contrived. He sni$es and rubs nose against shirt-sleeve. Looks at camera, questioning the berms that are a cube, and which denote his own ction) Man: Home? Comfort? What are these things? Narrator: (returns to talking to himself as he ambles down a given street, as monotone an environment as any, for a man with a perspective eternally monotone, but with words and passions not) Man: Stupid guy. Stupid me. Stupid world. Ask me to clutch to my heart something like his at, glassy-eyed umbrage at me xing myself at a stool next to his faceless girl Narrator: (looks up, aware of the endless production that is a plan of

life, aware of the punctuations) Man: But what is that? (hushedly, and at the camera this time) My mind has no answer as no mind does. I stop here, on this street, and forget my home for the slightest indicatorthe slightest contour of a stop, however metaphysicalthat might tell me more. Perhaps not about comfort; perhaps about a meaning for this, thishonestyof the sun. Sub-narrator (in a di!erent voiceeitherfrom the one to come or the one that followed it): *sub-narrator introduces narrator immediately following in a di!erent voice from this one*: Narrator immediately following: [narrator speaks up herenot as if to respond, but immediately following this line, as though the damned voice could only be wrought from kindness enough to allow silence between a man longing for honesty and his puppet-master and who listened not to people but himself anymore, made the gap of silence his own, and thrice dishonored it with words like that silence, that silence towho knows gun forth] Narrator: (Looks up, as if expecting to see a ball of hydrogen somehow there, in the night. Sees a faint glimmer, denite glimmer, true glimmer of something there in the sky and coming down from it. Sees the glimmer come closer, but not to where he is, perhaps only a bit farther o!. Hears a thud, looks down to where he happens to be, that is, near a playground. Runs there) ........... Act 3: what is there? Exterior. Time: minutes after midnight. Place: given neighborhood playground. At start, runs towards the source of the fallen light. As he gets closer he becomes more cautious, and lightens his pace. Man: So, if this was the honesty of the sun, if it were gunning for me, how should I approach it?

Ive been working on it all night and day still it needs work and also I sense with some trepidation that this small little banally innocent swelling under the hairy throat of my armpit wont stop swelling till the damned body part screams its ear o!full of quillpus and, handy enough, purposeright loud enough for the local linguist to prescribe some focus for without his glasses cracking at the very pitch, sending small akes of sharpnesses, nearly invisible, to skewer and impale multiple baby mealworms. The guy has a thing for mealworms; they squiggle all over his desk when he talks to you about your prostrate, like theyre excited or something. Anyway. This work uh it has the guts with a little work to be a supreme piece of writing of mine so and really that deserves to be supremely bled over. Fuck little work shit actually. Just, I hope dont stain with the ows of my released red junk sorrily over the inkpage [webpage] upon opening with sharpestpen can nd, the rst few veiny language-branches once I bellyup to the underside of my forearm and let the crepitation beneath me where I stand tongue lealy. To cheers me a burbling health [wealth, of words], I leave a few veins hinged. I spent all night working on a another compilation piece whose founding is in hysterical realism. For those of you who dont know, hysterical realism is like a writers dream. The work in this realm usually is valued on the level of panoply, viscousness, scariness. Wordiness, aws, misspelling, meandering, dithyramb, is encouragedas is stylistic enterpriselyricism perhaps the only true non-truant positive of this manner. To string through, connect or not, su!er all and every divergent topic; to contradict with contradiction; to employ negation, paradox is encouraged. In other words, stu! it all in there, whatever you have written down already. The story, perhaps with obsessive tinkering, will come. Note: all these adjectives and descriptive words might aught to rather be commended as working under the same general umbrella clutched coolly and with stealth waiting at the curb across the street from Glengarry Glenross for the tip o! at damp midnight, all that verbiage happily sown if only for to do something so humbly useful as shield from the rain himself who seems all gaberdine and no esh, bone, Mr Awareness. I have not looked upon god, I have looked upon me and seen only something so considerable and inhuman, and will bathe forever in the light of that vile, false, beautiful simulacrum.

Whatever of the rest, the rst monograph I will place as that pause in my heart I have forgotten out of spite, until it returnsthe dutiful endand thereafter I will die . . ? ? MEET YOUR REVIEWER, Freckett K. Kafkazzo, THIS EARLY MORN!!!! *blasts some real loud shit from a foghorn, sneezes muted amidst the loud shit* Why y hel-l oTHIS IS BIG [not the fucking bird, nor non-lial and entirely metaphorical gangsta papa, dead, along with the probably mostly recognizable idioms that sustained and mutating will sustain as di!erent ones the eeting legends of what I like to call the club of delusive foreversnor too not big like that famous L: he been, or, is, was won by time, or its been some shit since hes long been beneath along with gangsta papa [I am a cracker-asscandyass soldier btw, of the once-glorious Upper West Side, now, in this land of new women and men, a naturally occurring and according to studies quite e#cient and sustainable, but completely fucking LARGE aquariumby the wayfor your consideration too I will tell of that submerged, highly Jewishthese days, now known as Norlaparea of old. Most likely if you reared one here for example you were prone to enable, kiss a loneliness to grotesque life, hurt peripherally but badly since, well, Im emotionally weak I know [and in the future, fyiexplaining myself as is common for newcomers from the past, before a stupendous family of angelsor at the least judges who bothered to work out enough to look good in a speedoso, yeah. That uh Im works, altho introducing the possibility uh that I am actually speaking to a band of speedo acionados with extensive knowledge of the Law.] For those still back in a stagnating present of whatever I said before, who havent jumped ahead: everyones hotter, and like saying French Fries capital punishment has become a new American Pastime. It blossomed, wholesomely, like a ower of death, apparently. People can gaily skip to their own goddamn loo, if you ask meyoull see, that statementll make sense, it was on my mind about a scene to be describedjust, if you do, dont get excrement into

places where it might have the chance to trickle into a ubiquitous disarray of the minds house, especially, that is, if its not just you living in the house alone but you rather who live inhouseof the almighty rents: at least my parents dont make me pay rent, or pare my nailso, wellas what I will say might seem obvious when I explain the state of my nails later, I do that already, make it a good clean job, always: I was walking in Futureland, leaving to walk in silly, rainy street twilight, after hearing those dour speedo-guardians [I couldnt imagine them naked, they were too tall, inhumanly talllike probably on stilts tallI left them with an imagined loincloth instead, to rest the spoon awhile in my inscrutable anxiety-stew] after hearing those dour speedo-guardians, clothed in dark down, tell me about capital punishment: I was like some brand-spanking clich just walking down the street in the rainto be superuousand admittedly somewhat dejected-feeling and like a castaway or some pathetic shit like thatin the rainand there I was, then, was near one of the prisons, which, really, was still some distance away, but I could tell this gutter I was taking a gander at was connected to it, perhaps spiritually, but denitely sewerpipe-wise: it was bordered by foul-smelling, suspicious mud that two androgynous toddlersormaybe, sly dwarfs, impersonating toddlers to get all those deliciouskindly staresfor nothing but gratisnothing bean a racket Im sure it wasconning innocent smiles! Out there they were these dwarf-children or something but probably children cos what grown people would unless way out of their reasons last blasted niche play like that in such a dirtily putrid snapshot: haha: conning smiles, what nonsense, and if they were kids it all anyway would be few who would and all for nothing bean those hapless few putting forth a least modicum of a gene or strand of energy in a positive glance so innocuous as to as easily transform said smilesas expected, each tooth and down to the least of the lip together into a stack of pu!y pink pillowsbang, like thatand with the same devastating celerity as one who might spontaneously combust gene, strand, me an idiotetc etc I dont know the proper term for whatnow to describe this innocuous to the highest things transformation, itself rather unscientic anyway and probably not a matter of genes if examinedthat is, the magical turning of teeth, gum, smileto pink pu!y adorable uh uh metaphors! Thats the transformation, that is, it is guration, nothing to do with genes, no, nothing to do, no literal breath taken upon understanding that but literally as I write this a breath taken [I spoke the now then]: ahhh, I love you you grating pink pillows: would one even bother to lead themselves down a highlythat is, high as the highest thing psychologically rattling path in pursuing studying calculating all the

recorded ordisgusting!unrecorded instances of this among other things [high, or no] human-on-human ersatz-approval from strangersand such a motive lying in children, if even!ahhh these nice dwarfs wearing their PADDINGTON BEAR raincoats in the raininess, as they are so wont. The two pint-sized chappies: were splashing and playing in that bloody gutter when suddenlyand what isnt sudden in this world [not a grand statementwas speaking of Futurelandtravel is extinct, besides short distances where it would seem superuous, everyone pushes buttons and then theyre there. Considering I and these gurations were the only ones present on this street, I had no choice but to concur with myself, they were as wayward as I, as homeless, poor souls]when suddenly, some of the mud and dirt began together a silent campaign against the tiny murthering stomps, relxing their elements and by so doing horrifyingly revealing their masqueradeand I all silent and alone in the rain that instant: too late, said too whisperingly: its a masquerade! I wasnt able to spike the rst phonetic of a warning to themtoo awed, something like that, how oddand then the material of what should have been ru! ground earth and sluicing streetslush and formless water got all sticky and tacky: I watched the tackiness: the toddlers, well, I, I couldnt see their faces nor mother for miles and miles of [the] delusive forever [club]and so then thought, heeding vileness and retreating to a laden gratuity, soaked in defeat, I thought, Good on these independent fuckers either wayhad more bravery than Ienough bravery, so muchor, just a persisting ignorance?, the type immanent in all born sloped-headed lackeys. It was this ingenuity I observed, brought these alleged brothers to play, tillwellthe milk soured, so to speak: I am plagued with embellishing rotundrichly tho redundancy, usually, that is, syntactically, but not metaphorically, where it would be powerful, and so then think of the pink pillows again and swerve to the right corner of my darling left hemisphere and write something like uh but maybe only like you know audibly say: uh. METAPHOR-SWERVE THAT TAPS INTO GROSS-ASS MEMORY [tho, I should get back to deceased rappers and waxing on the BIG that began this soon]: so, the nice pie, to be the straightshootkinglord of specicity of detaila fancy pumpkin, with garnishes of whipped cream and powdered sugar, yum!, grew these large, alive spores made up of these fuzzy green spikes once overnight, and this happened in the fridge of all thingsthat is, metaphorically swervinglyand the mud most denitely tho with slowness resembled increasingly a goo that what got me spacing out a thoughts mileage into the realms of that memory: a vile, clotted muck of raw blood and human gack from the latest penal slaughter: and soon, the whole thing

was unearthly, so unearthly, enough unearthly, thatand I am ashamed of this [verbally gratuitous, on the one hand, and, literally, stuck in the essence of stuttering, staggering aporia, a perverse haunt] state of mine, seeming dispossessed, tho I was, really, what with being in the Futureland with naught family nor friend: no doubt people who mightve seen me standing there by this gutter watching damn kids play in thick, brown blood would absently or worried enough to enlarge the brow downward indulge tho mistaken a hunch about me [if that is they had seen, which I still am grappling with speculations about]: a hunch ofpreversionand/or obvious lonerism that if so probable, implied an especially obtuse in this day-future and age-futureobtuseness. Everyones hotter, thats for damn sure; people are also better about keeping their fetishizing under wraps that is, wrapping it up in a box with pornographic waxpaper, titties strapped and folded across the sidesinstead, yes, saving it all up, a grand supply of sacred jism for their these days most likely part-cyborg lover on Christmas Redux, as they these weird peeps call it. Still learning the argot. Used that word already. Ugh. DAmn, I give up. That I became completely deaf to any response in this rainy instance then is sure, stockstill, pelted by droplets in hose-like succession, fascinated by this Show Of The Dwarftoysah, my head is, was, who knows, bringing things out of the treasure chest now, so sorry. Being metaphorical again. So, so wry. O!erings, o!erings to I for me to write aboutand o them, the toys. Built up for mads, like mads mads decades, years etc etcsuch a treasurechest, so-calledlived patiently, collecting snackfood for what vacant cephalopods [live, slinkingly roaming rhoombas they are] that paid it a visit. Like an aquatic homebody, it was, or something: the chest didnt like to go out that often, but grew popular amongst the algae nonetheless: the chest of now as I lift it from depths dripping yet also once surrounded heavingly by vague, lore-lled [daveyjones, walk plank, yarr, etc] oceans for eons or something, I felt, had been completely submerged for far too long: the ocean, by the looks of how degraded and seaweed-wed it looks in the light of the now, made quick work of it, huh, eking quickly in, lling thru its cracked perimeter long ago as the bubbles, Id imagine, exploded upwards and then disappeared with the last airpocket: and all for I to then feel the weight of, now, I, as I lift this nice, fractured metaphor for toying with reality or reaping rewardswith my bare handsshoulders exing to hold up this, well, this metaphorical something or otherabove my head [watery and heavy, diluted, o course, since no wood is ever even in the future of futures, solely hole-less]: it had forever squatted the non-sentient masti! of a thing on the sandy bottom of the murkiest longitude of BROADWAY AVE

and didnt do chores, no shit, since, uh, obvious, its aninanimate object. METAPHORICAL SWERVE. But, yeah, anyway: to have seen to have seen, I declare, both these [and its questionable] children scream, scream for their mommy, who was on vacation again [being omniscient, as this is my own lackey-twit homemade narrative, I know this, and know that as an Avid Miniature Umbrella Collector [the said mothr], sacrices must be made] well, such a seen scene at the least would predictably be heartrending. ANYWAY. To, have seen hmm my guess is this about something else, tho; that is, the capital punishment craze, it happened because over time everybody got too stupid and jaded to pay attention to baseball, seen arduously the more and generation by generation as as saccharine a sport as candyapplesin regards to the candy pyramid, hierarchyeaten at a fair; or as edgily cruel as videotaping a young girl bobbing for regular ones and what who got her mouth torn up by as if by razor-like thingsyou guessed ither dentures (?)]. MAMMY! Generally speaking of myself thento put all this in an at least measly sort of perspective the outlier to these overly incubated Upper West Side sensibilities I have described to you and I for so long kept agelessly blankly living then freed after millennia to gulp a breath again from that diaphanous ice of The Cryogenic Freezer which uh is an image anyway metaphorical or involved somehow or whatwise in the arc of this half-narrative, ended up beingand wait, I will get to itthis, that is, a memory, ahem; that is, a memory of freedom, sort of, was the least relative outlier to my present future-circumstance I could upon release give my sacred notions of familiarity to, and is tting and is what keeps me [from] going still: and heres it. As when: I the sparrowass candyfart hot-to-trot man at rst I thought I was was at last freed to leave the nest, to the next, and now, thought Ithennot only on the road uh thought Ibut on the way to having in my very own, ahem, in my very soft hands, in my heavily washed hands pruned of cuticle and other mess, nonworkers hands [tho my eyes are unbearably dark and tried by the pangs of reality, on reg] a longtreasured, fake independence. And I can hear the applauds now as I land lik a bright pissant o! the bright yellow slide without scraping my knees or even better scraping my knees bad, really bad, and not crying about it: hah: anyway: choosing to do drugs with your girlfriend in her UCONN apartment complex, amounting to a mounting of cowardice and a humping of it by JUSTICE [or something else thats important enough to put in capes, cripes, CAPS] was escapades nonetheless and amazing into the fresh tundra of life and for an over expensive psychiatrist to whittle down to reductive death, all blas handing me again, again, againthe pill papers

I am doomed to never be able to extort the contents of for prot or use for recreation: drugs drugs drugs, hugs!: and probably Big L, nally back to mentioning, well, he know by now [just an assumption] all heavens staircases to the less frequent, lowly chambers, where heavens only Meth Lab is. METAPHORICAL SWERVE. Whadisdatttttteven? See, ahem, see that cloud next to the sun, there it is, Heavens Meth Lab, says a kindly and very morbidly caucasian gramps with many of his more shadowed gestures of scary resentment draped from clear seeing from the young child [really a vivid hallucination come nally after gramps decades of meth use leads to an early onset of dementia, or perhaps shes there, really, IRL]: some of the scary resentments, tho under the arthritic sti!ness of age, get up from sleep to move and thus promote, despite Hamlets excellent acting advice, a sawing of the air: then again, the man is illiterate, the last of his kind, so he would nort kno: its 3049 as I witness this in my headspaces eye, an instance maybe somewhere once, or now, or some time to come: and, schools are free: and when you go its quite a treat because all schools award attendanceabsence punishable on the rst strike by death, who by this point in my half-ower-half-canker narrative must be rolling his lies I mean diceI mean eyes. Anyway: the award is, you get extra chicken wire. Every student, 3 or 70, is expected to belt chicken wire round their privates, cos also there was a New Jesus that came to town and everybody loved religion a lot more again because there was cold hard proof of this impossible and absurdly limited shit the old Jesus did just to pass the time: I miss Old Jesus, God would sometimes say to his wife, arms boredly notched at the elbow, to be a right amazing keelson to his chin, and not only, but also his very heavy head, the size of what Im sure is a shitton of stu! and also it probably resembles in diameter [or something] if stretched out all the way, like, theBering Strait Lor something the likes of I dont and wouldnt know whether to say is whereand anyways regarding the good LORDs melliuousness that only ba$es, turns every denition into a misnomer, is accuratebut that strait. I think, o! the coast of Greece? Damnewell, or you can ask that perfect angel with angel hair if youre so fucking curious, tho, mostly he is bald right nowyou forget, I speak in oddity and with more than a few mismatched or hard to realize, or rather coagulate, metaphorsbut, so hungry I am, thinking of angel hair, mmmmm, pasta, I could eat mere folliclesyeskinda like Malloys sucking stones the likes of whom resembles that incorrigibly smdgymascarad starlet of a gramps: in my or that or whatever region of headspace, I ask him for directions, and try not to think about heaps of pasta: like, Im talking, like, a whole room full, just pasta mads, horrifyingly

everywhere and for no real reason either [there is probably at this moment an entire room lled to the brim with angel hair pasta and if there isnt I dont know what we could ever do to x this country]: hed kno what to do, the skipper: about directions, that is: ah, should have waited for you to put on wig, I say to that old dragqueen, gramps in his skivviespantaloons proudly tight and his junklump mockingly tantalizing in its surprising and somewhat disturbing for his agebignessno no, sonny, he say, sensing my admiration and smiling a few extra tads: come into my o#ce and ask a way, he said: but after all these are my wishes, and really he was not so near, was a call away and dead, my dragqueen paterfamilias: but since like you know like because in Futureland, I could talk to im: that is, via the two cans connected with string that as you well knowif you live in the year 3049separate, and running along [house to house between the dorky kid and the hot new neighbor with tits the likes of which he will end up nding when he sees them, nonsensically disappointing, especially bc when the two after talking on cans forever meet and she shows him hers, well, theyre a good pair, a regular knockout pair, sitting pertly and large and symmetrical, and some day down the line the dorky kid upon thinking heavily will conclude that bc of this he must be either gay or mad, since since then the tits [cans] hes seen have looked exactly like hot new neighbors ones, and the feeling the same, the likes of which he forces as more papers and reports [grotesque o#ce baggage dead in spite of the deadline met early simply by an ignorance of their existenceand how hard the pangs of feeling literally spit on [that word, doe, 4th backwards if you count that] by the briefcasemanyes, forgotten by supervisor and so then passionately, passionately in a rage that is, crammed crummily] into the overstu!ed and already properly lamed briefcaseyes, into an awkward, abridged sinkhole of what this gawky, dorky kid views in his own and Ill add it: preciousheadspace as deadened quiet, a quiet he frames in lust, oppressive, like a bad fucking painting by a local artist hanging in the caf of a local town with an obnoxious name like The Dreams Of A Purple Horizon] and the cans running alonganyway, enough with that discard and let it ameliorate like frost from glass connect the living and dead, after all, between their respective but not necessarily sensibly divided square footage: as the the the ghettos for the living are much, uhm, bigger: this is what the dead called Mortalist! And you can hear them all say it derogatorilyperhapsin those brief snatches of wind and rain: and then!, hold your breath, and you just might hear your dead Uncle ask you for change for the next deadguy busa swept-under a#liate of the ever cheap bus line, you know, the one in real life

MEGABUSoutside the control of this endless Farce, since unlike it it exists plainly and as what it is: well, Jacobs Ladder: thats all: so then, heres that old gramps in drag again, since I never got about asking the gadabout methy he was for directionsyou must rememberas I saidit is the future I speak of now, here, on a webpage: so, I said, Well rst, coughcoughand as we were in his o#ce there was a desk, thankfully, ahem, that separated us, the immediate vision of each other, mostlyWell rst [st, lol, wtf] I said, clandestinely feeling [hand-imagery] clandestinely feeling the snatch of my required, and daily at that, religious sacrament of especially persistent crotchwireyou must remember thatcome close to ripping open my precious lockjaw candy, my balls almostin my head for fearyet hiding a gulp of throat, brazen, taunting yes indeed uh, taunting the sharp object wrapped around my pelvis with needledick friggin, shrill, sparrowfartvoices: and even the prospect of a ripping of the nutsak, was enough to bring a near-pristinely orbedthe roof of my mouth could tell by the pressure of released air it feltpearly, pearly, pearly retch-possible of bile from the gorge [so wordy, you fuck, DAN] to the early, nascent shallowness of that throat-part closest my mouthit of course, the nausea, still strong, but the throat-part as it was, uhpractically untouched by the pains, those pains of emerged welts from smoking, being shallow, was still smooth and the gagreex vigilant: and it would put one at unease, really?: that questionmark was not really a questionmark but more my attempt to nd some equivalent in punctuation to convey, Hi its Jenny, still exasperated from the disembodied whispers of the dead on the wind the night before decided to make my room a regular butterymuseum of, each vowel still as if on a pike?: but, anwya, certainly, if like for example a ne, strong female was sacriced, like Jennybut dont tell her, the dead tell me [secret: I dont even know where she is, or who really] youd see an equivalent to what I claim unease at without ever having seen human sacrice myself: remove the balls, remove your footprint, after all, and a sort of sacrice for New Jesus [we in Futureland call him SadoChrist, for obvi reasons] sacriced, yes, for the health of the tribal commonweal and its constituents living in the BIG, BIG house of messy mind: that uh, to distinguish itself is at the top of a big hill. Also, it is made entirelyout of stones crafted into billions upon trillions of bananashaped resemblances, the fruit itself now considered a delicacy in this mindfuck hokum of a Futureland, and more than that a symbol foryou guessed it!uhmyeah, you guessed it. Like why the fuck should you tell them what you already know man, fuck, already got too many quaint white folk railing on my honky-hating, pureblood Hawaiian Existential Philosopher

ass for loving the aws you express, without this crude elucidating, say this new apparition, before me, or somewhere where I would be unable to see my hands and so then a place not entirely usefulbut, ooo, I think to myself, another wisp of ghost for the half-narrative [wheres Freckett, btw] ahem: this particular badly-mannered [uncouth rather. Oof I hear him bemoan in a clear, crisp onomatopoeia. I cant see however that hes clutching his gut, after a BIG, BIG meal, as the man/apparition [the man, really, I hear myself insist] is dwelling in a place or confusing lapse or hzardous dimensionas I saidwhere I am handless, thus powerless [to stop indigestion]] Hawaiian, spitting often random grit while saying nonsense thru his nose like, Mra, muhm muhmra nomnom, a plori [smudgements [that theres my insertion [could not resist the wordplay]]] jutchents or Krants Matagorical Mpretive. Yerh. This of course is a descriptionf when he talks at table about the cosmos to an venerated arena [Smimposium erks petter, d00th, say Lunching Hawaiian [good advice, but stop with the brackets] or symposium ratherbefore him, a vast sea of listenersoh my humble brown wackjob, oh, this deluded correspondent of netherworld, I love youof, of course, silent dolls of the porcelain variety, [I say that wordier way of it bc in this world, this handless world, everything breaks down to atoms, and of a variety of is surerin being more careful and vaguer and odderthan leaving it at porcelain dolls which, if left as descriptively as porcelain, that is, sans at least an attempt to crimp the reality of meanings and acquiesce, tho blind, to doubt, would risk the material dissipate [disappears better] into a sea or abyss of a sameness that in reality everything isof course, bc otherwise there wouldnt be an idea called everythingsupposition that, but eh, all in the name of fun, eh?] cracked yet also alarmingly well-preserved with daily-attended polishment, which is not a word, and with [bandwidth], in place of the button-eyes and creepy smiles, two magnicently rendered, lively clichs: the button-eyes nshit, yeah, bravo, bravo: fuck: these dolls, doe: whom, most denitely, never actually consider eating the miniature and poorly painted at thatrepresentations of plastic chicken legs and peas on these miniature plates. He say, this thing or apparition or whatever, or characterwith a casual disgust that, really, admirably, has, somewhat, a avor of maturity and even theatrical gravitas How rude!, damnable!, his only friends anymore, to think. O Literate HawaiianInnisher meal ammmith!? He say, pounding table, disturbing a few of the dolls to the ground, e!ectively killing the fantasyfor today, at leastanyway, anyway he is a aw-fetishist, confessedly [ah, that explains the honky-hating, since were perfect and awlesshe should treat them white dolls better,

yes sirscreams the curious, erudite and open-minded [lol! What a riot] Aryan Neo Nazi who will never read this and hasnt been to Iraq and also eats shit for breakfast, you know, keeping his digestive tract redundant for the kids. And this is me: and, if you are, dear friend, shoot yer stupid self]: the Hawaiian guy fetishizes JEAN PAUL SARTRES beetle-like lips [as he is as I said a philosophic sort], at least, what he can see in picsright-o but, oddly enough not the lazy eye!: why, hell, I mean, from what I can understand of where I am now to liv out the rest of my days, forgetting all the nestled aspects of drugs and UCONN: well, among the metal-clad [by now you get my drift with that [chicken wire] way over back there, before the beginning of this whole damned rant about an ill-mannered, educated, completely deranged Hawaiian that plays with dolls and probably doesnt exist a lot more these daysbeing a dweeb, a choiceless occupation in Futureland expressly, mortally forbidden: exceptand here is my empathy for creating this weird fucking character [o and the plight of this all!], just in case he actually existsexcept, that is, in a place [headspace, etc] where I cant see my hands etc] [repeat, please, for the sake of clarity, d00th] well, among the metal-clad populace of aw-fetishists, by the way a big percentage, THAT [SARTRES lazy eye] was the more prominent oddity: and the one more often seen as overlooked: as there had been a big boom of SARTRE-LIP-CORTISONE already and that form of idolizing became more like a tired fad for wannabesin the old days, that is, which from my viewpoint is still expressly ages ahead starting from when I write this, speaking for a sec IRL, in 2014, and in terms of the frank, frill-less now when dweebs were more hauntingly invested in it all: back to the future: once there, they, infesting all the day clubs, drove out all the cool schoolprisoners who liked Sartres Lazy Eye, and really chafed their wires as the saying, absurdly enough, goes: day clubs are still the only places allowed outside of schools to go to: luckily everwhere else is a day club besides schools. As I am at present [?] on the street watching dwarves in the rain scream at the slurry of guts and blood emerging from the gutter connected to the local prison, I can assume this, as neither I nor thay ar being accosted/yelled at by cops with at [BIG] noses: are, at least, were, not anymore, that is, coughcough, who knows, and what time it is: METAPHORICAL SWE- and thus the golden tho predictably di#cult rule [metaphorical, tho why even clarify anything, anymore] is broken, and Im left in a tide of narrative I try to get back, while everyone, every character in this sweeping minds grid, tells me to get o! theirs, entering in and out of my bedroom cruelly, without knocking [IRL[?]]: and that my motives are questionable: thats what Im thinking about: thats the speaker of the now,

somewhat like the METAPHORICAL SWERVE. I have good motives, says this other whisperer through the can from a cramped, measly ve-soul suite [damned soul-segregation] about the size of the smallest mote of divine matter, to no one on the other line: to make a diagram of the location of welts on throat that wouldve had me gagging forth a retch-possible into a denite [wretch] retch would be nice for a reassurance that I wouldnt gag out lumpy green shit in front of queeny gramps, in that moment asking for directions that is or was or never was; in fact, I wish I might could get someone to take a throat from the air, maybe Jennys, and ceremoniously slice it open, you know, for accuracy: I think she smoked: so it is wished, so it shall be done, specically by the blind lady in the mitred glint of a tankass headdress [all the people in the future are tribal, forgot to mention that and then bring it back [back, hm, back = leitmotif?] to mentioning, you know, to really make it permanentbut also violently syllogistic. Ah, the god [ooops, oops, good] ol days. Unclearly-colored in my view, besidesa dull eshtonelumps. And then I think of that. Come soon enough: and, besides throat, on the lungs toocancer/emphysema, man, no fun, luckless ducky-depressive, you, bobbing in the good lords bubblebathId imagine not me but ol deranged Hawaiian guy spinnin that glib yarn of complete droning gibber [glone]: ok stop: and now, to gramps again, upon expressing the rst request: Next said I to the draggy, smudgy gramps, wishing the nearest and most obvious spinnable globe zoom right up next to me. Next, I need a place to buy hard drugs, I said, with a smile, as my tie shifted on to a tighter notch on my neck of its own accord, not because God Willed It but just cos itd never happen, because in essence it is magic and magic doesnt exist except here, except that Johnson guy: you know, the guy, whateverthat guy Mxwell Shears Johnson who impregnated fteen million shallow-cheeked, uppity women using a time machine: guess it was his thing: I think to myself, thatd be more an argument to which one should lend some of these myriad thoughts: that is, to science: all this magicalness should be for it to gure, or in threes, patiently: Im thinking about somewheres way liminal you see or summed into a shape of grace to stun St Peter upstairs. This BIG shit here tho did cool stu! for awhile like turn stu! into di!erent stu! butyou guessed it!the Futureland version of crown of thorns is a wee more sadistic than I can do with, or rather more sadistic to the wee: compromising its state as a permanent attachment as Im sure it did by the end of New Sado-Jesus sojournthroughout accused wrongly by Norlap onlookers, yes, his poor, emotionally sensitive legs even seen to move as a guileless saunter. METAPHORICAL SWERVE.

And were all now jaded past the emotions of money, I say, the widest loads in wallets [cash] no longer get excited in leaving from the wallet so that the poor trapped y imprisoned in its depths like the sap it is is released [cash is a very decent person, you know] and with this: I left the useless old queen of drag, so to speak: that is, with nothing bean: he get his crack somewhere else then: apparently there was some nancial interaction between myself and him I failed to log: he is required to stay in a forever sawing of the airwith hands only, just hands, informs his eight year old granddaughter, this cute little girl in cute but totally out of season jeansuspenders or whatever theyre calledauhhhg, auuhh, um, in the name ofChrist, ahso yeah the gramps, with an overly grandiose releasing from every damned-cur purse of mouth where uh uh uh food sits, maybe had for days, glushing in a rotten-already languishing only the foolhardy would excavateeven with sharp tools, that is, in case in need of self-defense from unnaturally preserved meals that resultantly are conscious of themselvesfor it is like a motherfucking vacuum chamber in there yoin the caves and majesties of each unclean [or even clean, really] persons mouth: METAPHORICAL SWERVE: arguably, and according to a survey from national geographic that I just made up, the majesty of Heavens Meth Lab, if you do enough sexual favors for Peter Pan to get him to show to you wheres it, using the very same doody-nger you dont want to think about ever again to point you in what ends up being a totally falsied and anyway incomplete direction so as to get for yearsbut always so futile the attemptat the bit of chicken stuck in what is an already unhealthy-looking molar: pink pillows, free smiles: the chicken has been pleading for death: or will eventually, when it happens, that is, meets the fate of being there, HUH?: METAPHORICAL SWERVE. No not the Big L big, is it, Big L, the staircases of heaven? Not at all mah Nigguh. They be thousands clamoring to that shit in the sky, eights enough. [that is, eight combination ights-and-turns to get to METHCHAMBERS, he telling me the directions to out-of-the-way METHCHAMBERS in heaven, no doubt you forgot that string of the narrative, but Big L took me o! hold.] "For my man, this shits overloadedheaven that is, population problem and, and every verb my feets steps make in climbings rough man,

conspicuous. Lay low in that din of love and peace. However if yah wan kno, that Jacob you called ups doing his thing [didnt know I had, I think to myself] and probably doing it someplace away from archangels motherfucking captors in the vicegripthey horrible hands and with highly delirious-with-power expressionsvicegrip, that is, on innitude. So dont stay away from ladders. That is point made here, right?: thats the reader Im asking: Big Ls a dead and crusty clip on Gods heavenly sill by now, enjoyed haughtily while his parents werent home for fteen minutesand, and, andupon their return, he feels that useless feeling: but, ah, thats a job for some other existential, whom at present is doing the books for Guantanamos feeding tube budget, uncharacteristically [remember, I am omniscient and have no time to explain how I know this, just feel me on it [ = excuse, say Hawaiian]] which, in his opinion regarding such an expenditure is quite frivolous, reckless: then again, he is a certain man who likes that his entire body is still there, feel-ableor here, somewhere where he can see it from, or at least his handshis limbsand isnt, that is himself, divided up among endish, starved rats with jiggly tails AND AND AND the other Ls a train so obviously to call it big would be redundant, so rather] GREAT FRECKETTS OWN SPECIAL PAUL NEWMAN DRESSING DISPENSARY-BOOKIE-PERSONAL-CLOCK-IN-LOG, RIBBIT. EACH FACTORY DAWNS AN AMPLY-MEANINGFUL GRAVITATION FACTOR TO SPEND ITSELF ROUND. PERHAPS A DAY COMES, IN HIS INTERIOR MONOLOGUE RIGHT NOW CONSIDERING HE IS A WEBPAGE AND AUTOSAVES THE MOST ARTLESS OBSESSION AT THE DROP OF A DIGITAL WATCH, AT HOME WAITING FOR BRITISH, STRANGE LUMINARIES TO SPOT HIM, FOR EXAMPLE: LIKE A DALMATIAN: LETTUCE: ?? I AM GOING TO WRITE SOMETHING VERY SAD RIGHT NOW " " " " " " " " " " " " " I always gotta piss when Im joyful "I am too dumbly in my being pent." Formalism: the use of being as having this [probably purposefully] manufactured guise: somewhat superuously and denitely archaically, it is just an inactive continuanceof the statementand it seems we are not the least likely to hear him de-layer the needs/origins behind this too-

dumb state of one who is pentit took me awhile to gure out that W. Stevens was not speaking regally but by the words, and themselves clarifying in what their writer is pent: his BEING. And, moreover, the certain switcheroo of words regarding, the argument for this syntactical brilliance is apparent when we codify their lesser, blander idea: I am pent too dumbly in my being. And the great meta-irony? That this switcheroo as well is an archaism. And yo. His rst collection, Harmonium, in my opinion, was a milestone in the expressive arts; it perplexed all of its reviewers. I feel his understanding of depth as a predicament in poems seems akin to the stance taken in his log of essays, The Necessary Angel. That is, his imagination is either like or unlike [depending on where youre standing] what people might say about such a thing, truer and realer than reality itself, but a dominant black. This reality which if found would be merely accurate, and the journey to there that place like unraveling a complex, gaudy weband not to be impatiently undone all at once anyway but streak by streak of spun would dissolve quickly its gentle yielding self under the e!ort, anyway. W. Stevens imagination is the reality of things if things were in earnest, I feel. It has no sure pass and is not a zippy clarity. It is a shaded wood we forever nd our way through, desperate for sunlight. The minds winter. And evil for to inspire us when pu!ed before the Aurora Borealis thrown ames. [Considering the astonishing grasp of the abstract, of metaphysics considering the eloquence of Latin American writersPessoa in particular what other region is needed to produce our greatest writing? Borges is pure, and mysterious, but at times too wrapped up in himself, regarding versehis true medium is short prose. Pessoa is richer, and dominates both the genre of verse and prose. He either contemplates without rambling or rambles without contemplationthe result of the former being a crystallized, and eloquent, thought, and the result of the latter being even more astonishing, as when he writes under the heteronym of Alvaro de Camposthat is, the words represent a sublime fount of language corresponded merely to feeling and nothing else. If he writes of nothing, he writes of the vastness of nothing, without attempting to appraise it. If he

speaks of something, he speaks with a condence that shies away from itselfas tho all ideology were teetering on the edge of nonsenseand, if the words plummet back into the void from which they escaped, it is only by the will of the writerthat is, Pessoathat the meaning is given license to plummet. So, is it really a void, if it is deliberately come upon? By deliberately doing this, one nds a clarity in his words that one does not see anywhere else. It is the clarity of consciously curtailing either emotion or rhetoric, for the sake of approaching, at the least, a di!usion of the self into a series of beautifully planned personas that reect all but what they are, and stake an image on its pluralitythat is, by the di!erent ways it can be perceived, according to the personaand in such plurality one nds the vastness of something that, in a literary sense, is indeed a void, and yetregarding the personality of writersit is a metaphor, an embodiment of the rened soul of one who has decided to fracture the purity of himself, for the sake that he might dwell in the life of another, and yet never fully know that other, and thus, never fully know himself.] AHA ! !! [meandering, manic, my explication on trial for thinking itself on trial, that somethings needed still to load the gun for and me maybe after all that same drifty soul Ill see dashing o! into the brush of all what makes sense, that guy Ill describe, sooner or later, me like you know hiding myself or maybe Im di!erent from that cos maybe like its some small life form stealing away on our petty logics chemtrails, trailing o! into the ruddy night we sit in chairs to look up at, stars and shit, waving gbye the blurred forgetting of our words, never caught up, and of the sti!, caught statements and remarks I had myself brought up, uselessly weakly un-nice to life well I would, would shut up the trap like busted airow through the nose a snore would have had, or something, had I not been then so mesmerized by this big-ass white womb of a thing, splotch, split thoughts never to return on the road to that lazy eking moon up there in silver light, the shadowy moon or just plain shadow stealing away, ah, who knows, I throw owers on you. call me when you nish the statement in thirty years] [reassurances, especially as to the unknown^, are repetitive. hell, the prex re- is right there. too bad I trust repetitive thoughts as far as I can throw them. that is, not much.

next time a thought comes to me more than once in proximity of a specic time and place however I will try and look at what the thought is trying to communicate and not just immediately assume its circular thinking but merely a mind on re pleading for me to cool it down. but the ames doe. heavy ames for to disintegrate it. how can I hope to lift up an element that has no haunches? I havent met such a ravenous bird-buzzard as shame in my forsaken life, "" " " " " " " Creation and then ebb, it bars tolls from receiving clangs from "" " " " " " " the fervor that is this dilapidate round of unforgiving hurt; Siphons this clench of life rather, to it, while you cram dreams with "" " " " " " " apocalypse, for that which is the Unknowing yet is guide, and the evil keeps "" " " " " " " vigil around, a metamorphose that is in the lank of straw that is "" " " " " " " meantime. Darkness, "" " " " " " " darkness,] Hello, My name is Daniel [D.C] DeMarse. I write lots of poems and prose. This is what this is about. This poem is about the purgatory that Beckett made for us to see; the endless eddying, the black hole. I take it one step further to describe higher notions that Beckett was too shy to mention; which is wise, really, considering the presumptuousness of these notions, when given my voice to speak them; tho, the notions themselves are pure, and frank . . Meaning dissolves with repetition, however, thru this monotony one could possibly discover a truth previously ignored in the previous repetitions. At rst glance, the WORLD is absent of symbols, and even when we try to make something into something else, the version is skewed. Beckett: no symbols where none intended. This circular motion is not religious or therapeutic, but merely an eternal limbo, from which we barely escape with meaning. This is how things circulate: the question expands, rather than is dealt with and answered. This growth envelops all meaning, thereby making everything meaningless,

if it can all be unied in a single mess. This expansion is a deation, a degradation disguised as progress. Beckett: It all boils down to blood of lamb the sacrice of true expansion so that we may make up our own discoveries, which shall lead us further from the TRUTH; just for the sake that things will always change, even if it is for the worst. If not permitted to move, will move withinif the true answer is unchanging, and if we, on this EARTH, live as a part of the answer, than we shall change the answer within such parts, while the TRUTH remains static. This simultaneous contraction and expansion of the IDEA is due to the twin temperaments of conicting polesin other words, disturb one side of the balance, and you disturb the other side also: Pascal. The unity of opposites is contained not in this expansion/contraction but in the thing that is expanding/ contracting: In being a cache for the sums, rather than the sums The sums are di!erent forms, and have forms that are respective opposites. Such duality causes the question to change innitely, despite exhaustive research of facts that will, ultimately, lead us to insanity. Beckett. Murphy: A rock got faster and faster and then stoppedreects previous idea of movement in that which does not move. My plan for the completion of this work has been a long time coming; nearly a decade of working and honing my craft has led me to these more recent poems, done in the last year or so. If given this Residency, which I am applying for once again, I would no doubt make the most of every second either writing and producing new works or reading what would inspire me to write or think di!erently. I have the performers blood in me: my Dad is an actor and I myself have talent in that eld. Any reading of my poems by myself, in front of an audience, would be an experience unto itself. Basically, I have scores of solid, idiomatic lyric poems already written so it would be more a matter of producing new work and distilling the large bunch of them into what are the best, the cream of the crop. Some of what I have written is quite long but I think those pieces in particular when I wrote them got me to think in verse enough to crystallize and condense what I present to you here as mainly shorter works. Indeed, the poetic daemon expresses itself fully later if left to meander a bit past itself with whatever piece before then. There is also a certain honor I hold for those writers who have written long works, Americans: Hart Cranes series of suites, The Bridge; Paterson by William Carlos Williams; The Cantos Of Ezra Pound. Mostly Modernists, but Whitman, high romantic and great master of synecdoche, enraptures

me every time; as do A.R. Ammons and John Ashbery, Ammons Sphere and Ashberys Flow Chart respectively. Those works I would study; I have already emulated all of these writers with my own honoric or pastiche before. I too would attempt to incorporate throughout the small bits here a narrative of a sort, perhaps antipode by antipode; create something that expands and contracts contextually depending on where you are in the work; and what is most valuable moreover, depending on that, you might equally expand or contract. As of right now Im sure there is not much of a dialogue between poems and I would want help guring out which ones would go where. The placement of poems in a work, the correct placement, has always been a priority of mine. Some of what I write is highly aleatoric and yet I have a skill at summing up at the end, especially when the content presents things violently opposed like that. This book would be my attempt to poetically reason. What T.S. Eliot [perhaps wrongly] said of Donne, that his is a substitute for sense, might rightly be said of me. There would be overall an attempt to make an order if not a story out of these works, at least an order. I will send here mainly shorter works, and if given the opportunity will add the longer ones, which have merit as well. In fact, most of what I started writing when I did were long poems. It is why I send the short ones then: to convey the discipline of brevity as being my own askesis, both as a conversing mortal amongst others and as a silently scribbling future author. So, I have felt something in me, draining me. The universe is in a similar draining process; the inception of a myth drains the universe by turning it into a reality that, in reality, was always thereexisted like vinegar in olive oilexisting as one thing yet separated. The chaos of the universe had disguised such a pattern, keeping it from ever being discovered. Things start to get clearer, after realizing this. The things of life are slowly obtained. What one had previously known was merely a previous chink in the wood; each new chink in the wood will be opposite the previous one we learn that its the same wood thats being cut to pieces; the physic of the wood changes with each chink, until it is separated, tho it is the same wood: multiple routes to the same limboNOTEthis would seem to

suggest that division is all towards an eternal limbo. This feeling I have felt, this draining feeling, that makes a notation of the din (like a swarm of locusts) that yells in my mind; then, such a notation its out of my consciousness, without a!ect. I try to rest, and the feeling hums in my jaw I grow suspicious towards even those who are close to memy family and friendsnothing is certain. These suspicions are seen clear in my mind as dust in the sun. The WORLD around me becomes deated; the luster of the WORLD is gone, and darkens, and weighs on the eye as tho sight were a burdenwhen I think these horrid thoughts. These thoughts leave nothing benecial behinda drainand cause me to weep: instigates a resinous mixture/intruding from the ducts. It is like a wave that collects and descends and scattersthe body curves itself beneath itself, like a wave. My mind is welteringa mess. The chaos of my mind wells in ethyl eyes that sting like ethyl alcohol. The pulse of my heart beats at rhythm with my tears: heart beating in/pulsing in tandem with these secretions. The diverse taxonomy of human frailtiessuch a wide range of classications for sadness, or human frailties in words. The words and their meanings begin to grow into me, so that the words themselves begin to weepas it is that they are a part of me, they must do as i do. this etymological growth out from the ocular rimthe meaning of a word, growing out of my tears. It is neither greek or roman, but still rooted in the soil of language. My mind begins to herd itself together, and i think on the universe, and how sadness is a part of everything else, is the semblable to all other parts of life. This is how the locusts in my brain can herd together, and organize into congruent thoughts. I am surprised at how easily my mind has opened up, like a new ower. Ultimately, there are many meanings in words, and perhaps they are only the antennae that pad the ground, blindly, feeling for symbols that cease not to grow when they are found, and even more when they are experienced (sic)in other words, the symbol helps the word grow out of its denition, into something alive in the biology of speech. For, words are alive, and the study of words is a biology with many layers to it. However, I felt no relief in knowing this, and my teeth chattered, and something went missing inside, and I diced up my psyche like a butcher. I want to change my name to Shiny McHappycrotch Jr. With Fries, and swear at strangers in a raspy voice wearing only a soiled wifebeater with frayed red suspenders attached to

an adult diaper loitering around some gas station near the airport smoking cigars I seem to procure endlessly from an unspecied place and I want to pour my endless grief into a bad aim for that maw in a bathroom at the edge of time, and watch urine spill into lapping pools on the tiled oor of whatever mansion I happen to break into to piss, all the while wishing I didnt have to make ever, bc I end up making more than enough, then a wealth, then a dearth, without knowing I have spangled my iris with itching to blurry points, one of which seems to be a black o#cial-looking blur I assume is a police o#cer Who gives his regards to my sanity, who couldnt make it: she was busy being a tease at the cocktail party that was really a very large trailer a truck made of lint, and The supposition a foray at all, the mind spinning with a dazzling array of red dresses, and All this as he thinks it, I want to be that, a lump in your brain, a tangle unable to disentangle, just not right, a crap in the pants, A shot in the arm o!, causing the cosmic bathroom to break down : the sale of everyday commodities will skyrocket, leading to the collapse of the U.S. dollar as the reserve currency. the U.S. will have to stop making new bills to pay its debt. anarchy will ensue. the dead will rise from their ashen tombs. crop circles will appear with increasing regularity. Michael Eisner will devour the heads of babies straight from their necks. Martin Scorseses bushy eyebrows will turn into two actual caterpillars. the sport of golf will lose all authenticity when the factory that makes the little ridges on the golfballs explodes for no reason. then, and only then, will Matt Damon rise as the ruler of all mortals. Matt Damon is kewl. ^ One would guess he goes to shit there and just doesnt come out for

awhile and it doesnt seem to bother her. He lives with her and has and does the same things with her as he does in there but with himself and prefers that. Also he reads books or he reads the newspaper. If he hears her coming he grabs the newspaper and makes a folding sound to throw her o! if hes not doing that. Like I said he goes there and does the same things alone as with her and prefers the layer of solitude as to such things with her. One should know, of course, that with her he lies in bed, in silence; it is no surprise then she found him on the john once, staring at nothing really, doing the same. He got up and left walking briskly past her without ushing as there was no excrement to ush. She would then later in the day wonder why her begonias outside had been ourishing so sweetly in such cold. He was never seen again etc. My mind is at various points throughout a given day lacerated by brash, muddled, useless, groundbreaking, false, complex, new ideas etc. and by the day I grow wearier and wearier until my intelligence collapses and I have to write out their ruins. I have no choice in the matter at that point, I guess. Usually this means I do lots of drugs. But not today. I also take my hand to criticism and thoughts on literature, philosophy, poetry etc. that I have read and has stoked my interest enough to analyze. Im a cohort of the up-and-coming indie press based in Tennessee called Dig That Book Co. and have a long lyric neo-epic thing coming out in print this Spring. Alt Lit impresario Beach Sloth as well has a book coming out by the same press. Exciting! My work as one who takes up Alt Crit with open arms presents a fusion of fragmentary thoughts or reveries. Frustration looms over everything I write like an impact. I am already too spun out by such ridiculous concepts of spirituality, awakening, and being that Enya and the self-help market have helped to frame wrongly or rather package so badly for the masses. Dithyramb, futility, absurdity, negative capability or poetry-as-detachment, Hamlet viewing Yoricks eyeholes. Thats me. Hushes, power in yearning for quietus or maybe just an old-mans quiet one evening to read alone. And thoughts on the cosmos and GOD. Loftiness I do not escape, yeah. But I have my own distinct phenomenology regarding the latter, woven meticulously for years, and far removed from anything religious.

Usually quite a bit of girth to what I put together. But its the well-written words that matter and that I do. If I was an ongoing contributor youd expect something like a collage of thoughts on writers, poets, philosophers, icons etc. or whatever comes to mind. Similar to the famous organized disorganization of Pascal but with somewhat of a satirical, funhouse-mirror look to it. Convex, shapely. Illusions and recurring themes and illusions of recurring themes. 'Creative' philological essays, an outdated mode sadly and in need of resuscitation, I feel. Perhaps, my tinder chaos, I will go on emptying my barrel of gas on the whole damned thing and maybe too one day light it up like a pyre, yellow tongues of the ames the loose ends burning. Relativism. And shit on the blacking of my boot for what chary reason, logic, and life has left to lick up. Quite simply, burning to the remains all I think I know, leaving what I dont: emptiness and loud fucking void. P.S. [When I was reading a lot of Petrarch and Ashbery, I wrote these odd, small, serene poems, often oblique, often reecting my own anxieties of selfhood. Those poems involved a lot of intimate and at times risky associations with the reader along with being highly formal work. In other words, like Ashbery there is an informal use of pronouns, specically in some places You or Us. The writer assumes to predict where the thoughts of the reader turn next. Like Petrarch, the style is an attempt at grace, formal, to sum up like a sonnet. The inner cogs that move the poem forward through general, qualied assertions as Harold Bloom puts it often are conclusions drawn from numerous other elements (imagery, narrative, etc) that attempt to make sense of some myriad poetic self. This of course is aided by the informal You, which heeds no bounds and can say what it wants and still retain intimacy. And the spats of random swerving thoughts of course though suspect are what tie the beauty

together. And as always, so sad, Pound echoes through it all, even when I try to vanquish his ghost on the wharf.] Take Care, . ." . " ." " . " " ." " " . " " " ." " " " . " " " " . [thoughts and philosophies of geo!rey dahmer-lama, idull and philanthroatpiss. buy it now at your closets burns and rubble for one trillion bitcoins.] [I will spend my life convincing myself I would not go to hell afterwards, if there were such a thing, if there is] "" " " . [In corruptible things, fruit or men, there is a certain sinister joy: the joy that such a fruit that lived fat and green now deates, too ripe in death for tasting.] ..? 1. [is the rational mind a sort of negative god where stays the hand in the face of beauty? a thing making impossible I view in this case as the hand staying itself, as judgments of reality might in all appearance be something redundant. is the mind attached to this hand so vicious, as to institute so blatant and substantial a limit, as of one denying himself the beauty that is another face, or body, or reality? but is there another, separate will involved? the impossible denying entry is still able to be good will and appreciated such on the hand of the possible. does it need a body, this will? is reality a vessel only literally, that is, we view it as things around us that exist atop the same earths crust; or is it a vessel in that it is conscious? but then, rationality is limited to what is rational, not what is beautiful, as in, the beautiful itself has no limitation to speak of. and this though it is simple rules over the highest rational mind. the rational can be beautiful, to note, however, if it conveys truth, reaches the intellect, etc. the beautiful exists as something eet bc it is overpoweringly constant. it is as much a presence and pate as anything conscious enough to forbid.

perhaps we tire of that realm as we tire of anything constant, and consciously swim away from the drain.] 2. [There is nothing more powerful than the metaphor of The Toy. Rilkes puppet, or doll. We are in the grips today of an embellishing reality, one that naturally ourishes beyond its distinct essentials. So much the embellishment that the reality of things itself has become indistinct from the ourish, and yet at least I myself keep the humility of being-caught. A certain level of artice is in any progressive intellectual state, that is, a state of useful thinking. In thinking anyone must throw out a kind of notion of impending importance that is ruinous to the levity of whatever you nd. What few realize is that this embellishing is precisely a cause of the mechanism that perpetuates realitys essentials. Upon the discovery of the thing, one too must thrust, nay inject, a sense of the will-less, that on some ethereal level humanity at large might appear as knowledgeable as the objects of childs play, their thoughts the much less. This humility is the true grandiosity, yet arbitrarily used as a platelet on which to build thinking, a false ground for discourse, especially if the discovery is exactly the essential reality. But we can never know that. Thus the error in thinking is too its brave symbol, as Pascal might renege to Christianity, so the thinker reneges to limitation. The mechanism, of course, being that all is artice, and meaning a meaning for the toys, not toys wishing to be men. The roads are misgivings, partly for a sense of either/or. People cannot look at themselves as puppets, even while declaring this I cannot believe it. Therefore we cannot connect to the essential reality of things, which drives us to expand, nd greatness, a scale out of tune with the great symphony of playthings.] 3. [24 and already a shadow of his former self, young droll D.C DeMarse climbed uphill, further on in life than he wished, in years, what a blessing

to be young and feel old, however: to have had the changing thing happen at so impossible an age, that is, impossible to win, up against that obduration of a changing thing, a certain bravery to it, to rage on in the face of nothing to be angry about, the event dissolved past the last cascading spleen, and foolishly, like a child, it is only predictable he continue on in his anger, anger at the changing thing, or more because of it, causing more, and yet it all stemming from that one thing disappeared, long ago dissolved, that memory, that holyghost: yes, this change, or changing thing, what a mysterious blessing.] 4. [It is one thing to breathe raw talent for the extent of your life; it is one thing to start on an a priori basis as such, with all its preternatural sense of space, organic rhythm, and crucial folly, that is, that so much is based upon it, and which is not true about the foundation, corrupts it totally, all that was written and thought in the realm of that functioning talent in the meanwhile - and say, through your very folly, how you came to what rst was an immanent nesse, talent, grace, yes, would su#ce. Being wrong rst and learning to do the thing right is di!erent from this because there was no raw talent to start. But starting with raw talent and losing it, working towards where you had started, again, reveals to this young loser a better understanding of why the nesse was nesse. To breathe raw talent, of course, is to exist only in the nesse, eternally, and in this know nothing of why - yet I would wager: if asked why, such a person would still be able to give you an answer as good if not better, to why.] 5. [so I ask did what is permanent as to consciousness become so by distillation or a mere need to clean up. in one case, the aim is purity. in another case the only aim is to make room in the minds house for its furniture. or maybe it is not purity but what is left, the remainder. but in both cases the aim is aesthetic, though any remainder is bound to represent, as in any case of simple long division, something from the start not tted to its method of organization or solving. I suppose there is a problem in both cases: there is a problem to solve. so I posit, if any of this is true, the need for order is the presage of something conscious, borne from its reaction to clutter, chaos, et al. morality is the psyches janitor - the minds house, that is - and is just as permanent a desire as any more cosmic places what I have said might

bring one to.] 6. [method of philosophy whereby the aying of my own metaphors to their bare aws, in revealing them, that I strongly communicate the problem that is the topic at hand, that is, nakedness, that bareness, bare forms are aws, or that is where, or under where, hehe, they are. that is the skin can be there but what is under the skin is where the aws pulse. but where is the problem in that concept, and why, after all, is it a problem? there can be bare beauties withal small chests, even; Im an ass man anyway. I guess you can begin where you begin and everything upon going forth has to fall into that. but where you begin can be from anywhere; but it must be from. you can start something in medias res sure but that is the place it is from, moreover not a bit of the drama nor is a motive left uninformed. chaos can represent chaos and you can go wherever you decide but a theme is a theme because it lingers. I began this draft as something a little di!erent than it turned out to be, after all.] 7. [not only is the regular seen wrongly as lazy and close-minded, since after all it is the more consistently observed and so, more easily absorbed, more even than the news of a given day, over the day; but the irregular is not even hard to nd, there is a place everyone knows to go to nd the arbitrary, the odd, the quirky; there is as known and clearly accessed a place for the inaccessible as our daily truths. the di!erence: the inaccessible just wears the mask of being hard to nd. some meme probably already has explained the latest meta-irony, telling us how to feel about something like Faith Hilling - in other words the function of the irregular is regular, and the regular is belonging to nobody, is just some symbol for tactless non-value. the daily drudge is for the populist, and is relatable enough to alienate the demographic it applies to, who then are left with a few things that compute, a few that dont not compute [The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, ibid] 8. [And the depth of feeling is no melody anymore. It is shadow of melody; as if this too could be for none else a holy thing! Yet people take the transcendent spacesfor granted, have, and this happens until they are undone, and one goes deep into the visions to nd where no depth was, goes between the visions, told and toldgoes o! to some better beckoning, untold, as if to nd something there the better than what was

given, by oneself to oneself plainly. But no existential OTHER has paid, no GOD has: I have paid, yes, already, for the dismissal of myself and those depths: and I have my su!erance gained at that which life has named namelessness. And I hear now from the abstractions of my father all of that bushy selfsheadbeneath the hair, with his throat of rust. I have heard his voice give, and shake, shifting a lump out his big throat to hack his failing voiceoutwardsyes, yes, and up, up, until the volume of it goes all but silent upon entrance into that something betteranother tremendous indi!erence, no doubta denialindi!erence, a particular, a one to make any indignant and well the more furious telling of proof seem but the sparse recollection of one to this harmfully vast cosmosyesa vast cosmos with a meaning more tremendoustaunting one, we, us than he who goes o! shouting at itthat isat what is no chimaera to endlessly trump the brain but a nothing, which as nothing will be nothing, and yet will always form ones shape from its own nullitydamnable tarnation, tuneless, and yet as if it were there, and you not. And thus perhaps to ones detriment, the nothing of a cosmos too big for any throat to swallow will end up begging a shadow or two to t that with the humanity of a person, to t, yes, into ones perception of themselves that portrait of nothing they thought they and they alone painted, all ourish, all stroke them, all in the frame them. And this nothing a thing with ones, our, shouting at it, for relevance!, relevance!, only made as if to be tremendous as MAN, and merely a mirror in a closetchosen by us, as to whether it remain behind the door or lighted once creaked open by MAN, letting in his own beatitude as lamp. But this is more to be a type of mirror, a vortex, to reectoneand his own hidden spiralsa gullet of a mirror, yesto swallow ones, all our pleas for meaning: at least let there be some human in the shadows we perceive, though, for once, yes, instead of the monster we, yes, we, not one, for one speaks for all this timethat wethat we perceive as indi!erence, an indi!erent vacuum, a goddamned spiral, yes, yes, without a gesture to indicate its erce round. Without a face or movement but the face we give: in looking in: or the movement of our limbs within its frameand, and, andyet, this in reality is no monster for us to perceive, no, no: it is a stoker, a hungry one, to blindly feel for some daft meaning there, the great void that is in our own hearts: nearly an ultimatum, it becomesthough, it is oneyes, yes, in its waythis form of a portrait, a mimicry not us but harmful as any dissatisfaction, any end to things past oblivion, the song of cha! remaining without end, as obituary and crypt both for our soulcollectivelyas creatures on this petty marble, and for the soul of one of us as individuals, and which, both

combined, prove naught but a mockery of what should be a veritable di!erence between them, yet made the same if seen in the same mirror of voidmoreover, as portrait, as art, rather than the mimicry any void should remain as. And the dreamed gospel dreamed dead as o!al gone trashed now as like some rotund, black mass and now yes now a gathering in the bowels and shot up all frivolous up the larynx ung comically out and way out the fucking maw like a fucking desperado to the forgotten parts of the ground yes the parts dirt and stu! layer over and will yes yes and they will forever, yes yes yes as one whom as a person in his state of denying the gifts of selfeach and every one, each precious giftand, I speak in this manner of being, for myself, merely, this timeI, yes I, I will deny each layer as heresy, as an answer to conundrum, thus, not conundrum, thus, obscene, a rejection of years of layers, of events, of pitch and moment, of experience, all rejectedand more brutally benign than ever. Because it is, this nothing, it is, well, it is dead to begin with if dissatised if one sees the cosmossees the innite, and feels an indi!erence, a posteriori, that is, as time passes, as experiences pass by on the loft wake of times and events, each one a shape, a shadow, a coarse beckoning to ll in where the shape meets shadow, that is. And this, any burthen of self that could hope to release is this, and would be this, rather than relent to the answer of a conundrum his own as meaning any meaning at all in the face of disgust and void. And left only ameandering, a stupefaction piled like a mass of sorts throughout the guts mixture as shapes, shapes of intensity and longing, yes, choking one in his very throat and to bleed and let bleed until there is no GOD but mere devil to maketo use a coinage of DANTEsa trumpet of his ass, at one and his own force of a self that anyway denies itself, at least, to say again, if up against an ultimate denial of meaning that isultimatum. I see it as that lump swallowed in him now and now left there, in the gut to stale and dieand, and, andfor the listeners to doze o! at and at the service of no space in church but for some obscene and very much the more warped judgment of selfthat is, this devil, this devil of sco!ers, judgers, yes, seen the truer form of ones reality, existential OTHERs, denials, stilly inconspicuous, heretical, carefully, disdainfully heretical, in each, every pronouncementand all, all but the shape of a sco!, one whom during the service is to openly lift his haunches in response, and fart on the pew.

It is become mere shadow in the mind of a one as me whom never himself will till the end of his time on this unitthis device of GOD, shuttling who knows from whencethis to put it plainly planet, will shoo o! into some newer conundrum, thinking it better, the better one, better conundrum. It is and we are all however on a lump of mass hacked out from this father of lights, his head, the shaggier, hairier. And it is the fate of us to have been hacked out of that prolic monster of self into fragments of the equation, whole parts only whole by the measure of our limbs and torso together made. And this EARTH if self belies the layers of each denial, each denial of self, until he whom is denied is left encrusted, a bane without witness, living out his disbelief in those measures life takes to be a whole mind, to make its own self own in a man. What these things have meant now pass, like shapes, this time, not shadows, at least, they are no more that than any depth could solidify. So o! I go into the reckless, more reckless than before. I am become a mangling of parts to admit some whole both absurd and ultimately the only self left, upon the plucking of layers to refuse and begotten anxiety.] 9. [these days i havent been soprolicive had to get back to my roots in a rootless void outside of allthats when i do my best work that is when inside of thata mere period of aloneness with myself i have missedall these people telling me to get real i thought the way was to rid myself of that serenity but its not if anything being within what is outside of all has made me more in tune with that magnicent godhead whom rooted in all pitch and moment of conundrums and contradictions and whatnot at the least releases me from them in my mind that at least for now lives silently and pure and people wont understand contradictions in their own mind all i have of my mind is that its a shame and a disgrace to deny that unique way of thinking in myself in an attempt tonormalizethe greatest contradiction is that i wished to change rstso as to be normalthe very thing no one saw also the very thing that made me feel unity and purity in aloneness my solitude my space my sanity of course a mind of contradictions would deny its only sanity as a way to keep normal and i feel abashed that i allowed this trick to go on to the point when i enjoyed not but barely anythingand i suppose depression plays a role in ones sanity however much it depresses and slows one down its di!erent for me in that i had both the depression as a garbler of the cogs that turned

furiously rather than a slower of the cogs to the point of at least a xity however horribly a pain at least i would have a place in my head to feel the pain rather thanknowthe pain of senselessness ceaselessly people normally dont experience mania and depression at once she says as i speak to her of thisthe key is perspectivewhich writing gave but i had stopped doing even that as the depression had knotted all these thoughts in a mess that mania struggled to make a balance out ofpractical analogyfour fucking car pile upmetaphysical analogyboth ultimate ends of the emotional spectrum buzzing beyond hurt and the thoughts all of them hurrying away without the emotional perspective perhaps with a bit of their own chaos even these two endsmania depressionmeeting only in that I felt them at the same time without a connection between them via thoughts that as i said scrambled awayscrambledthought has always been the emotional rationale for most people but for awhile and perhaps still this hasnt been the case its likeyou feelthen you say i feel thisbecausei lost the because i suppose which eh i guess was gods cruel joke sayingyou like absurd shit so much? voids? reasonless gestures? well here you are!at least i can say i have wisdom now as to what absurditytrulyfucking is the predicament of a lostbecause that we replace with a moral postulate which to me amounts to ajust becausethat though moral is in no way fucking at allhahahajust.] 10. [It is a purely modern concept to su!use the celebratory with the stark the raving and the mad A#rmative statements dont have to be said with a smile and bright looks We mix feelings and what we suppose enough to see in our minds eye is always a giant questionmark The grandness of it, the blank force if you will, is enough in that aggressively silent image - - Like a collection of the unsaid But its not said either. The problem is rectication We as a gen have to go by where our elders had pointed out the sinkholes in life, but time presents new sinkholes not necessarily dependent on the cultural topography of the former gen, but totally dependent on the sway

of the times, and that each moment is unique Id chance to guess is the best sort of simple metaphysical truth that anyone can understand - - Totally / An unsaid duty to explore the application / of gen to gen, aesthetics & new breathing / new wagers The unsaid is a mix of the possible to be said and the arbitrary preexistence of approximately said that, because it is gured later on, is to remain only a weakened essence of the thought on life then; but more complete for the time had by each gen to formulate the previous zeitgeist Perhaps these days a way or a key even to unlock the present one But this is folly as we realize before death that we cannot reserve a nal say to thoughts on the age we live in Yet we know that sinkhole best, better than anyone else ever will, anyone in the future The problem is rectication, or rather a need to complete some abstract cycle Which presupposes furtherance of life Psychologically The awareness of lifes infallibility is a greater balm than we know But if this were the nal age spoken for nothing but the age That, that would complete the cycle, whether it is actually completed or not, times end would complete everything by proxy anyway The specter of perpetuum mobile lends to the idea of a concrete reality, in us, simply by the continual process of life that hangs over our eyes as a metaphor or imagery for that perennial quality But it is as something less Thats the question mark.]

[whom is to some an irritating, redundant blatherer is to others an exciting and original person. this repeats thousandfold regarding the repetitiveness of the web. people share and share, and the same contentwhat an awful word that isgoes its rounds. this means of course that the newness, the surprising nature of whatever it is that goes viral has as stunningly short a half-life. Ive read this already. more, more, more. this could be a good thing though. people who have an audience tucked away from sight are more able to function as a web-sharer than if you were, well, an actual celebrity. if there is a re under her or his ass to put out more material, she or he will have the time sans the anxiety, to comply. and the dividends are great. the web is the single greatest test of quality; at least, it is something that should be. theres too many divergent opinions, topics, knowledges, for anything made to not seem pass to someone else on the planet, however much of a dickhole youd have to be to consider a reference to the Bhagavad Gita pass. therefore there is always an element of random selection, but also random exclusion; in other words, enough chaos to neutralize opinion and hoist up things of the greatest quality over and over, maybe even without knowing it. there will come a day I think when a host of stu! we all ignored will be brought to light again, in a new light of years to look back on it and see what people thought then as to now. so keep writing, the internet is the grandest Library of Alexandria youll ever know; lets hope it isnt torched.] ..? [I dont nd anything that people could say o!ensive, really. Especially on a personal level. I just think that there are lots of stupidly retarded opinions. So I guess if nothing else, Ill take o!ense to your stupidity on behalf of the gene pool.] [We are on an endless quest to describe the complexity of our psyche thru physical structures, mathematical theory, entertainment and art; all of these things are necessities because we have built them out of our lives, and yet it has come to the point when our lives are built out of them, these externalities we process and internalize are what make us folk in the western hemisphere desensitized. Shit] [Stoicism raving stoicism in ear must be summation of many parts equally partitioned into greater fragments fragment of fragments loathe to nd only

pieces compensating for circles of greatest and unending pomp rose owering roses less full and much the stanker of stanchers of uid moments grown fecund before dropping out again into agony beauty rose growing from stem stem from ground of eternal dying roses piecemeal army of the dead the lost roses before begun but dying then before beginning and beginning something as sad and not likely ever occur again therefore not sad but in upbring of stem natural stem life libelous life not same as made in dramatic less real substantial less only so but farthing to pound only pounced recompense before payo! roses growing vines owers roses roses taxing of enmity of original rose rst one before degradation only parturition only rst owers birthing feebler by degrees birthing stems bulbous the more with time each time cancer add to mix then blown whole thing in bud to mix only mix only analogous grey matter at end only this only after saviour rose busted by debility down of procreation must create anew yet always lesser until nally explosion of nullity brown wrecking devious scope deviate from original creation of rose of smack around it until punch in side bring down down down into corridor of passive life chaos silent chaos fractured petals of rose down digging down always deeper birth bathos profounder life goes on light recedes dying petals rose petals deceased by slow disease of deity above granting continuing of life and no wonder as whether goes down or up side to side purgatory side to side grown stems of roses rank smell rank smell vines made resin of turpentine serpentine weaving roses stems budding out of poison begin again with poison] [The beating Ive taken, what was it, really? Were these instances destined to be locked between reams of paper? And who was she? I have all her in my chest, it turns my lungs black. She wanted to makeout with her brother. Who are you to listen and do nothing? This love a!air I viewed it from afar. Nothing doing. I was too scared.] Fuckin on drugs left up in my room for my mind to catch me up with all those small mistakes. The day weeps fat relevance. The night on the other hand squeezest out the easiest tear pitifully long, leaving a liquid needle drooping thinner like jism from the duct. Our alive bits and pieces go this and that way throughout bloodstream oblivious to the bruises they form on your arm. My arms remain unharmed.

Yes they are alive, the drugs are, as they are what we insu$ate to feel such things. Heroin causes calm yet we are the cause. Therefore we deal here with two logical gaps, incompatible. Say, the cause of the world, and maybe you put o! questions. Fuck the ocean of possibility, it is more aether than any endless waters. The only blue delirious lugubrious is hers in the eye. The girl made of wounds, the deepest one in the eye, the most painful ones unseen. What careful as I be could I meanly tear apart, squeezest, to nd my dumb shit done, all already sifted thru like odd les, in search for that point past sensitivity at the very root of the nerve, and once touched, that lump less in the throat of a life tasted onceleaving one less drum for the heart to feel? Not a thing untouchable but forbidden to be touched. Youd regret it. So I was on drugs. So I let myself become incapable of not rubbing my eyes. The vision stung more and yet I could not but help rub in the dirt. "Where did I put my sunglasses? Ah, fuckhe is driving when he says this, Checks his pockets, the wrong ones rst, With one hand on the wheel absently maneuvering, I see what is possibly the shape of sunglasses Shaping itself out the wool of his breast pocket, Sticking out but not enough is seen for one to fully recognize them As the lost object in question, so I take a chance based on inference And I pull them from his breast pocket and hand SUNGLASSES to him, He is grateful. He doesnt say anything. He continues To absently maneuver. Just as GOD. I am amazed sometimes at the Human cognizance one has in being able to root out a conclusion Based on evidence that is limited Arriving at a solution a fortiori Logic is a beautiful thing . . ? description [loose] : invisible the shadow vies for an owner. it glances

across an empty, callous space, running from its ebbing. where did it come from but to manufacture dread in the minds of those too enraptured by their own self holding the picture of the photographer on our windowsill. the penumbra, the laocoon. and when the lonely shadow crosses space, nds the owner to have died, and the picture cast like a redundancy, forever an etching on the sidewalk, forever but a jest to strike an unforgivable indi!erence down, and wring dry the light pooling from the streetlights own ebb of the bulb, this picture of no man but a picture of an owner, ones own face of their perceptive glance, their shadow, eeting o!, dead once this is recognized that is that its owner is recognized dead, and itself no sort of substance. and yet this is a minutest odyssey in itself. [My friend said to me, I wanna get regret tattooed backwards on my forehead, because if I ever ask myself why anyone would get a tattoo, I can just look in the mirror. I say, " " " " " Well then I can just regret knowing you and inform you of this every two minutes. Then Itll be like you have a living, breathing tattoo walking around. I havent seen my friend in awhile.] Let there be something linear my possibility retains. What is there left? I am become a name. Died the ghost, who would have kept me there, Outside of names. [Newspaper discoveries elucidate the common man No more, we spring to electric blocks at the rst sight Of some new shit happening: ask twenty-fth-hand What the latest update on catastrophe from friends, Or go about nothing at all but in books, some of them Pretty old: I suppose thats the paradox of this century: That with increasing celerity the technological horn

Is drunk, an endless horn, and this chugging beast Wakens others to either do their reading on a tablet Or take pretty hard to the words on and of a page:] If one subscribes to the belief that Everything can be described in words, One eventually nds something for which There are no words and to accept that Is what gives those objects and events A meaning in the mind that is clearly Seenbut only in the mindand secures Us in a more lucid reality, or dimension, Or something. Paradoxically, to assume a word For something without is to deny the thing Or things of meaning and enclose one in The dark. In other words the nameless Object when one assumes they can supply A name for it outside the nameless object In their headsone that can actually Be arranged in ENGLISH, that iswill Dishonor that known muddy primitive In us, packaged behind the security of Our ribs as a remoter union understood Between us and all grand space and time, The appliance of some foreign quiddity In us, an intimate though unplaced control. It pulses with odd instincts of the heart, Peremptory, shaken with some generous

Physical vibration of that universe in the Laughter of our glinting, powerful blood-That likens us to cosmic certainty, and Seeps like something vague into perception, Like a benevolent gas, maintaining ignorance, Transferring answers to questions, rife within Our speckled and imperfect eyes: this is the truth Of the object: it is nameless because that is What it is. And yet, what to say about The things we do not see in our heads And do not see in front of us? Surely, such things are nameless, too. I looked down at my hands and saw them dimly" In the deep night. I then put them to my face" And rubbed my cheeks from the cold. By" Then I had gone out for a cigarette on this" Porch, at the house of a friend, and found" Myself alone after some chick had made" Vacuous small talk with me for around two" Minutes. She left after she was done with" Her cigarette without saying see you later" And that made me feel insignicant but not" Overly so. I got to thinking about my hands" And how the veins were fat and blue on" Them. Much have these hands created, I" Told myself. Much have they felt for me,"

But as me? Hm. So, we get to that point in time," That is, right now, starting once again from" Where I started, that is, with the cold night, and me" Rubbing my cheeks and feeling the encroaching" Briskness of nightfall. The day, by some weird" Meteorological stint had been rather warm; it were" As though the cold had all day waited to reveal" To make up for the days pleasantness and give" The grass frost for the morning to turn into dew." So, yes, my hands: they were good hands," I told myself. Nimble, interestingly shaped" Hands that had created much. As cold nights" Usually make thoughts harder to rouse I" Quit further examination on the matter for" The moment; though, I would nd, as like how" I started again with the start, that I would return" By the end of this poem to the subject I had" Pursued, before quitting further examination." Suddenly I began to think about the girl who" Had left. At least, she should have said" Something in the form of a farewell, even" Though she probably was inside at this" Very moment and Id see her again." Acquaintances are like that: the degrees" Of separation, being six, calls for a less dire" Need to expand the circumference of knowledge" Regarding the life of who your friend knows, since,"

Indeed, youll see them later, will have more" Time to learn about the acquaintance," Because, simply, you see your friend," And your friend hangs out with whoever" Person as frequently if not more than" You. Yes, these hands have created much," But they are as familiar to me as an" Acquaintance, somehow; as though they" Moved for another individual that sometimes" I saw, sometimes; and, yet, whoever it" Was these my hands belonged to would so" Distantly know me as to pay no mind to those" Very social niceties usually, paradoxically," Reserved for those people known a little, yet" Known enough to cross over into the berms" Of cordiality, enough to facilitate a goodbye." My hands were my friends, yes, and I have" Created much with them, and, yet, they" Work for another SOUL, indeed; A SOUL" Who while bothering to kill the silence" Between myself and itself with chatter on a cold," Isolated fall night, still, does not or perhaps" Refuses that goodbye, before parting with" Me once again, until the next eeting moment," When, perhaps, that GOD of my thoughts might manifest" Manifest itself in the SOUL of a bored twenty something.

Standing looking out at a cluster of branches courtesy Of the Swenson residence at Flatbush, you ask me If life lives itself for us. Fairleigh, the will is not to display Bleakness, she says, I cant seem to get enough of that Choking feeling, like the brains addled, you know, I say, Of course it is, transfers the nasty crumpling of mind like Sooty paper with rolled Drum ciggies to your throat, just Dont assume too much power to solipsism, feelings for Feelings, as if a barter-system, give-and-take, needed To happen to feel alright, I say, with all this stirring in My own brains choking, I dont know, cast o! most Of what I had in mind to say with a shrug, remark as you Dip your head to shelter eyes with straight hair black, that All is for peace of mind, shrug and nd The drugs you take to have inspired you less once the need Presents itself, to which we will away from expressing, The need to be back in the NEw YoRk of Some diamonds day, Some silly prayers a shrug, though, that marvelously Lends what thoughts to the wayside to the GOD Of ba$ement, the strain, the choke, the chain, I know, You like leather. But the weathers good, and tonight On this re escape we view the urban vegetation with A sense of peace for the width of life, that we are Free to be eloquent, someday, some wisdom there, Wild in the chests knottiness, the kindred guts of wear Tearing inside, us locked in secret derision, ashamed

For at this point no reason but to apprehend those GODS We shrugged o!, thinking it a supplication, A sacrice of thinking for the sake the thoughts at least That we adorn our veritableness with, inside, free us From the bounds ofwhat?vagary, lost limits and therefore Insanity, sprung out into the wild void our chest evokes, The knots in it, do. But this crew in Flatbush, they have Their zombie-talk, they have their music, their cavorting, We have music. We have music but only secretly, We show no one else, or you don't, I dont know about me, Know others who are similar better, since Im a void, By default, and I told my girlfriend this, there can be only One type of void, you know, so by default similar people, we are, I guess, I always related To the awkwardness, too much stance, too much OF something given supplication to the dance OF society, a plague. Wage war on the prayer, It will prey back, until a nutty solar unit of the stars Is left to choking itself, and everything you value So much, lost in the plumes. Is Left for the throat to ll to the brim, beyond a prim nudging, nudging too much, gummy obviousness, When all you, I want to say is: I value this, and you. Ah, Tonight got squared within tomorrow, when supposedly Id Get bills nally. Nothing comes of it though And we end up broke. The boyfriend of some

Chick I want to screw with blue Eyes shows up, ends up having cash, so We toke hash. Fuck it. Grope Later, for now wish I could booze it, ll The solo cup, drill brains, maybe, To kill pains and lose it. Follow the dutch And look at my fake rolo watch every ve Minutes. Take dinner at some diner at ve In the morning, but I dont Ever feel alive in these haunts. Throats Itchy from too many Ciggiesnacks. The dude backs o! To bed, waiting for blue-eyes to give Head before its sunny. His voice, grating, I couldnt get it out of your mind, much less mine, blue-eyes. And He tried to light everyones hit from the bowl With a hemp string. Some king, I guess, But really its my loss; I doze O! and nd waking that shes gone to bed with him. Feeling stressed o! the percs. Im slightly nauseous. Its six and I can hear the sex in the other room Boss her for favors to relieve his hex, The meaningless doom, or, rather, doom Of meaninglessness, breathless, its six And all I can think of is clouds and ocean, imagine A postcard, call my friend, no pickup. Retard. Chasm, Cant sleep with all this noisy orgasm. Phlegm

Coughs to relieve the itch in throat for a moment with a stop In it instead. I close my eyes reluctantly, drape over my coat In a funny position on this sort of Couch thing, lounging apparatus, whatever. Fuck that fucking king. I never did end up getting That money, and by now tomorrows fully squared, "Situated, there. Stu! like mitigating factors Active addiction congeal round my mind like Crud around an old mans mouth, and the real Actor meanwhile styles himself, ultimate bowl-torcher, Humane. Yeah, youre the man. Lame. I wake up myself Already only half-asleep anyway with a sco!, do! mind Of runo!, reveal momentary, sleepy havoc, Itch stomach, leave lovebirds to live between Brutally paper-thin dorm Walls. Its a scorcher; hot as balls, and looking For form I nd myself to a bin and get sick. The word, faker goes on in my minds damaging. Im still the real king though, the fucking res, and can light My own damn weed, thank you; give your giving To blue-eyes and let me scrape resin. The light of shitty sun gives it to me when I make it back To my own dormroom, lay on a sheetless Mattress, force-cry, ll the pages with rue And blind ire. For what do I run to the bathroom? To assume To assume all this as nothing but pitchblende That makes me shit lumpy re out of my asss bleeding guts,"

Thinking of an uneven, unbelievable pretend, this some odd, adult Playground. All this illness ends rottenly With me being too tired and skipping class, again, shaping doom Like art, from my ass. Clipping blunts, and carefully at that, carefully, for the sake Of my broke self, pelf of a waxing self, of re in the self, made Waning shit, spurious, resigned. I glossed over too much when Had too much plenty, lost that with too many Chances to nd, to recognize a chance at all. Anymore. Dusting o! another clip under bed, I try to dust o! what since The sense of mission came about drugs had made suspicious instead. I wish to nd. Really. Perhaps, So as to pardon myself of sins of idleness and too much damned capital. And Think this, at this point with not a pretense of ease there, I Beg this, sitting up, To light the clip: I think: THOUGHTS, PLEASE BIND, PLEASE BIND. If only the dreg of dregs were kiss to me the way it might Be tting for another mind, Enough, enough for that blessed perspective In that craniumto, out of complacence, ignorance And wise at that, to, well, to slaughter as quick as my water weight will Shave o! itself in slugs of sweat for the rest of that hot afternoon, Shit, I lost my watch, paper thin walls, inhumanly guttural moans of a throat From overfed white people, a throaty mess, Groping to croon.

.. ?
*click* So there's this dumbass baby it grows up listening to music from the other side of the neighbors wall, most often when these two to him freaky terrifyingnesses are done presenting their large, ghastly brown holes [everyone in the family 'cept him and/or her has brown and especially distended eyes, speaking for a sec from the point of view of some other vaguely young asshole neighbor who's already matured enough to realize the wrongness of what he sometimes see through their open window: that these parents, twisted, twist their navel in front of the baby, they mealyfaced, overfed, overdone-with-rouge both mother- and fathercheek: fanged monsters that make this particularly retarded baby [and I mean, like, get down with the syndrome, talking] piss his pants and cry all the time] and go asleep. When left to his and/or her devices for long enough, which usually are limited to a stu!ed bear he and/or she has already eaten most of, this dumbass baby he and/or she begins to get bored. A lot. And has been dreaming more, too much, about the dying screams of [and slowly digesting in the miniature pit of his and/or her stomach, the lining soft as newfangled tripe] this defenseless, inedible bear, screaming; dreaming of this, that is, so often, and for long, till the

drool hardens into a refreshing, cool aqua vera over his and/or her motherfucking cherubic, adorable, breakable face: this baby hears the music and likes it a lot: stops having nightmares about cannibalism: but the music doesnt come on all the time: the baby learns to knock against the wall to turn up the volume: so I guess whoever was playing the music was in on it too: but no really it was just me in the morning and the harboring tenants of this place waking up or just the ache of pipes, and no baby probably exists. *click* this is for the kid in me cuz it helps me think: i relate to the erudition of childhood more anyways. what is in that red light? whats in the white one that brushes on my head as I pass under it, walking down the street? an idea. an excitement. a passion for sense, along with an equal appreciation for its mangline. an idea for all of innocence to see in wonderment instead . and then if you think you can take it there, know perception, too. perception, an extra layer of it with every generation. kids get smarter as time passes anyways. feel like, its not your own idea, and be happy with that, kids. learn how to read complex stu!. id suggest war & peace by tolstoy rst. cretins only read the possums book when they old as you is. i say. im just a practical cat tho. i say. so i prefer four quartets. the wasteland is too grim for the child in me to muster as anything but loose abstractions and allusion, best be honest,too much abstraction to perceive as wholly positive, if perception be in question at the age of one years old. thats the bond. James Bond. *click* Comically uncomfortable raging, each daysomewhat bizarreas though stuck in an attempt to excite thesomething. That billowing over of surprise billows over and makes the oor all wet with boredom: BAD MATEY, MATEY NO, NO, WE DO NOT MAKE IN THE HOUSE!, wipe face with entire hand, both really a lot sweaty, too harsh on the poor animal. As a pausethatsu#ces, sighing. But unable to resumeso that, it is fun. To rage and to rage and rage. Indeed. However it is also monotonous really and also it is a glacial passing of this agonyfound in a very stark humorousness I see in life, and college. And: it is this humor that turns everything absurd. Slightly, it makes me su!er, slightly. So that, I do not think to do anything about it, and, often, do not really notice itand, yet it is there, as like a feeling, shunned from consciousness for the sake of drugs. KAah. .. . TV . *click* I dont think Ive read a novel more than once, but certain poems I

have read innumerable times. It is after all the medium to express immortality; though a few novels Ive read once stick with me as much as those certain poems read forever, over and over. Transience in place of a clear picture, one that forms or rather resurfaces with reading the poem over again. Or a picture for all time clear in the head, though more di#cult to process repeatedly. This to me is the dichotomy between the novel and poetry. I could never be serious enough about humanity to write a novel. Something of having the meaning beckoning simplicity, puppet-ideas, that is what I consider a lyric pome, after all, and nothing serious is ever very simple, even if its indicator is. In beckoning simplicity one may argue that a lyric pome is a compressed state, but also more symbols, or indicators, than purely the words they mean in a sentence. It is for this reason we do not call it an eloquent pome but rather elegant or controlled. A novel in the imaginative sense needs all three, and while lyric pomes can point to this but they cannot manifest as this. So now Who: Kafkazzzo, Freckett K. Where: Frumple of a/my bedroom, (a) Earth, getting ready to head toa party When: 4:42AM. Though its probably already happy hour somewhere. As the saying goes. What Dimension: Third Possibly Askew And Flattened Like A Very Delicious Pancake Into What Dimension: 4th, time Background: Mobile lamp way too bright. Cigarette resting in glass ashtray. Empty glass of water, purposelessness, general purposelessness evading the space. And silence only stopped by the glum entreaty of the air conditioning system. Noises, kds, playing baseball in the courtyard, downstairs. Drugs Ingested: Pot. Just a bit. A little more, ok. And alcohol. So what year doesa sun come up again again? Was that a right again ? Any Pharms?: Klonopin, maximum required dosage, Lithium, Cymbalta (duloxetine HCI)

ANY HEROIN !!! And I punch him in the face. You by me a soda YOU BUY ME A SODA "You buy me soda?" Said RANDOM FRENCH GUY. Sure. Reached into pocket gave RANDOM FRENCH GUY four dollars. My Wallet has Hawaii on it. There are two pictures of HAWAII on each side of the wallet. They are the same picture. Somewhere there is a person who I am a reection of, a years ago same picture, and everywhere I see and repel this sameness if that is I see it in others, however small the observation. Except, of course, if I observe such things in her. I do not wish however for others to have the same glitches. Human character is diverse enough to go a night at a party without reminiscence, eh? She is in the left ventricle of my heart, clearly seen by microscope, eating away at the cement walls there. That to the human eye, is mere idiosyncratic dominion. They say. And they say to me should I just gulf out one person from another if I have some chick who used to have big boobs chewing on my left ventricle, by now a block of pure cement fresh from the whisking mixer. How could I tell them: if so, then both arent to be found again in the other; then who would we be, remain as? Or like to be even, if I can grant myself that? I guess what I am trying to say is that I I need more dollar. Buy pizza. Only because youre French. Consider it a war bond for the next time those Germans come to kick your ass. I gave him three dollars without thinking about it. Dont think about it. Not often. Always willing to spot. Never have money to spot with. Because I spot so much. Drunk thinking. Heres half a forty Im chugging. The liquid goes down my esophagus. It is meant to be drunk to make you drunk. Everything should have meaning. That is how life should work, but it doesnt work that way at all. It's groping for good in life and scratching [searching] out for crumbs like tickets, no lotto, again, and the cha! of once purposed greatness led on its way up higher and higher from conscious desire, throwing away everything, only to come upon none other than unconscious desire: and then the desire is all that remains, ah so I

guess that is what I would be. A lustend. Surviving in and of himself as a medical-grade loner. Him the result of his own destruction, the result itself, seen safely from a distance of billions of miles into his head, somewhat like a black hole. And I am like a dog forever biting its tail in an e!ort to gnaw the thing o!. Except we are MAN, and so we hack o! our tails with bare bodkins and pursue our e!orts and dismays daily, e!using it all as like a poison of the tragically mundane. Life goes well spooned together with a nice molasses of confused sensations to create the pastiche that is for our lives and for life, yes, but rather what we see in life equally as false or true it might be: LIFE, yes, that grand, technical, way-out-there celebrity in gloves, and hardly enjoying himself at the award ceremony, his smile attempting to reach to the ceiling and to look maybe for a vent or some means of escape or even an event and as tragic as ever well yeah who cares he is merely at a cheap height of the cosmos after all but no one knows so this image goes and rakes in the cosmopolitanism around him anyhow. nothing like the stacks of cash this demiurge counterfeits on regular. All the time? And well dont you know, I might say back, that God doesnt do cash, God says to me, in a toys-r-us of course, buying his fth monopoly game board this week, opening it up, and stu#ng the monopoly money in astounding pants. I suppose he is now o#cially desperate. GOD say: For, we whom are not yourselves live in coves, and do not disrupt the willing men and women of the surf to splash upon our chapped land and get up foot to foot and dust o! themselves o!. It is they do not bother. The only o! is on in the cave of the Removed. Stalactites lled in full rings by the petrifying jelly of screams and shrieks of youclear, consumptive squawks. You continue to at least darken this prison cell with your resignation, bars thick enough to shrink the teeth of my steel monster, you all beneath my skin, lingering on the meddling cusp of what I dont knowwhat I dont understand, perhaps we don't, I know I don'tI look at the world as though on a merry-go-round that blurs things. People smiling and looking with pleasant face. Every still phantasm, you, staring back and looking into a deep lecherous void in my eye I see. Meanwhile, it is OK: we the Removed have already supplanted that steel monster with a giant, happy frog to distract you [when you werent looking]. It gaily farts and bubbles in the mud and says with his blank eye [as though frogs could speak at all!] no, that we cannot go, o no, o no, NO.

Enough of farce. Im listening to twee music. What does it matter. What does any of it matter any more. Twee crap blends in with the rest of this mess. Ill try and get sleep, later. So many memories. Touching me. Wresting my heart from its bone prism. All the horrible memories, the forgetting me by friends, the forgotten sadness I too have let pass painlessly out of recollection. Sadness, sadness, deep sadness. Friends out somewhere getting wasted all alone [as I was amongst people] with just their good company to keep. Eaten by the night. Wake up, scratch leg, bug bite. Lighted I am and my recollections only by the perdious youth sense nowadays and leaking out with regularity. Anyway let them say that was all they ever had. Ha! And yet already as I see them in my minds eye, through lm: musty, shitty lm that ratchets against the projector like a master the axe to hitch in his steed the leftover stump from last Spring, doubled with mosses for whatever reason considered consumptive to the land, or was it, they were poisonous?, my friends, they are all so very old. I am so very old. ??? Note On The Literature : [Written Saturday March 20th, 2010] Organic and mechanical poets. Strong lineage: Organic poets, thru the centuries: starting with Wordsworth, then Whitman, then Stevens, now Ammons. Among the mechanical poets, Blake juxtaposed to Wordsworth, Dickinson to Whitman, Eliot to Stevens, Ashbery to Ammons. Hart Crane is the ancillary to Wallace Stevensjust as Ezra pound is, to Eliot. It is not surprising that Harold bloom relates Crane to Stevens, and both to Whitman, Crane in terms of that same Emersonian desire to complete a pathos, dominate an American myth and grandstand; and as well distill it with a distinct voice: eros, that is: what is a shared if perhaps obfuscated imagery between the two writers: an eloquent, mourning, though ultimately autocratic homoeroticism at times subtle and at times more obvious. Personally, I nd Whitman is often more autoerotic than not. The link between Whitman and Stevens: being the organism of their style and imagery, tho, interesting, in The Auroras of Autumn Wallace Stevens laments where Whitman would be celebrating. And in this celebratory acceptance of all things as being inextricably bound to one whole, Whitman shares most with Crane and, most of all, Wordsworth, an inuence upon the entire american poetic canon from Emerson to Wallace

Stevens: "I was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and i communed with all that i saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature." Wordsworth created the modern crisis lyric, as well as established modern poetry as we know it: poetry of the growing inner self. The subject is the subjectivity of the poet. Crisis lyric: saving oneself for poetry and thus for life. the link between Pound and Eliot is deadly obvious, as they were friends and Pound helped edit the wasteland. Harold Bloom also relates Dickinson to Blake, two mechanical poets who relied fully on the power of imagination and seemed their own sect of christianity: in so attempting they both created instead their own bleak universe of negatives. However, again, Harold bloom believes that there is a strong link between Eliot and Stevens, and both to Whitman. The Wasteland is mostly a reworking of When Lilacs Last In The Dooryard Bloomd. But, Eliot is still a mechanical poetwhere it is importantand therein lies the di!erence between them. Interesting, that you can relate one poet to another, and relate a third to only one of the other two, as an opposite of the one that is not related. THOUGHT: [Id like to be known as an absent minded intellectual stirring his spoon, waxing e!ortlessly on the nature of the spaces in his breath with words, the commentary itself, the words enough to lead him away from needing to focus on breath at all, until he is just shrugging at your breathless self, to which he had transferred all the spaces.] That work in paint by Parmagianino that inspired John Ashberys masterpiece of the same name. It truly is one of the grandest books of poetry Ive ever had the pleasure of reading. The paintings utterly magnicent, isnt it? This is the rst time I see the poem in the context of what it was truly about: a revolutionary work of painting. The simultaneity and cooperation here between reality-askew and dormant sensibility [the child has not changed; his image appears changed resultant of a shape for a mirror] is interesting to note, that what we see in the works of Ashbery overlap reality so to speak, increase it so to speak, because that is the normal frame of reference. The poet looks into a converse, daresay convex, World, not an inverted one. A well and good, near-silly [and here one is reminded of the role of poet-as-clown in Cranes

Chaplinesque] utterly daft hugeness that obscures a reality that alone is obscure enough, perhaps even less if brought to the point of palpable focus that trains his stylistic cognition and music. I feel, not knowing John Ashbery personally, that this World just described is indeed the saner one and I can guess he felt saner in it. Perhaps hisconfusion is, like Parmigianinos convex World, a more honest expression of what is askew yet hidden from daily eyeballs. For his World as it should be is most denitely a tad askew and this, well, this, I would imagine, John Ashbery shares with the Wallace Stevens of The Necessary Angel, his essays. That how it is, that how it truly is is something exactly not apparent is Ashberys humane reasoning. The imagination is an altering force, and what we imagine in pursuit of the fantastic represents something the more real, even if what it must change into when we have come back down, by denition, is not. .. . . . . . .OK. At rst, I wanted to say, I wanted to say Flow Chart, and Ashbery in general, is a fantastic example of discontinuity. What he speaks of sinks in to the words I read eventually but even so the style is immanently separate from the drive of the piece, the content. Its a subtle wager for words to make, to read a poem and think it something as you read something of it or perhaps it all that is not that. And regarding literary movements and periods in particular this is true. But Flow Chart has no narrative at all, lest one made up roughly of atomic, mostly subjectivelyapprehended symbolism. Flow Chart, Id thought to say, has a distinctly Romantic avor. It has been compared to Wordsworths Prelude. The pastoral imagery in the beginning indicates this, but there is something very modern and now about it: especially in Ashberys half-remarking on the process as the process goes on [are you reading this?]. I nd as with Shelley I cant pay attention to it all, but it all serves what I end up paying attention to. That is, a blank space that shapes the feeling, builds it almost. So that when you zap out of the reverie you nd yourself reading some beautiful shit AND processing it. Forgetfulness is key with well anything. In my daily life I am not shaped by concepts that should shape me, or change me. But there seems to be a belated consciousness as the sun goes up and down that formulates the identity and discards a few things, maybe gets into some mistakes and ekes out discharge. We retain everything, process little, are moved to retain more via experience, which while we have it is something apart from reection until the experience is done with. The blank space is that experience, The Great

Vacuity, and represents a very human courage in still managing to rebuild life with, if you are reective enough, the knowledge you again will topple. .. . . . . . .But your ideal is clear to me now so far as I can see in Flow Chart, Mr Ashbery, and the dedication to a vigorous conformity throughout this large portion to something so strange and new, these subtle, near-disappearing repetitions, whether repetitions of certain syntactical strategies, images, motifs, or even lines of reasoningand some of these even too insignicant for anyone but the careful reader to not consider but a concentric meandering aroundprovides still enough gravitational pull towards the vortex as to show the reader you do not too much stress meaning, do not worry to wrap up. It is more than just otsam however, washed up on the shore, a minds rejections. There is a purity to the style of Flow Chart that is not so much present but in this work of his. There is a careful placing of notes and a new brand of cognitive music that works towards a goal and indeed is amped to go about with this work, which as is always the case involves the consummation of the new and as is usually the case is in line with the consummation of the poetic self. Ashberys mission in Flow Chart, I believe, is to do the exact opposite. Not empty his soul of its contents but ll it up to whatever degree. To unbridge the gap that was said to be for so long and which by the claim many have tried to bridge and succeeded in bridging with perhaps a veritable corps, a eet of psychological, confessional poems arriving to celebration and banners in the scholars harbor. This book simply does nothing about anything and proves by doing it the best way possible that other routes toward the betterment of poetry and language might be. What had been between content & style and circumstance & self was no roaring river but a weak stream, I would venture to say, and poetic discontinuity phenomenon that it isreally hopelessly antiquated. Where to go, not if you are going everywhere/nowhere at once, but somewhere over time, maybe on horseback, sni#ng the dandy glades of what now and then you knew, you didnt know youd arrive at? Ashberys Flow Chart presents a tabula rasa on di!erent terms than, I feel, occupied Wordsworth. In fact, it might not be too grossly exaggerated to say he goes backwards, goes to the root of poetry, past Wordsworth. In the ideal, that is, rejecting not only a subject for a poem but personal subjectivity, personal anything really, leaving pure practicality and musical phrase. One then in this case takes everything he says permanently, if not etched-in-stone, the way the permanence of the life and moment immediately outside of one's body is so much there. One could frame this in a somewhat modern way as

working solely as a disinterested artist: frowning outside of himself and caught in study: whetting the blade of the maul for cutting. We have here the case of a man rejecting every part of himself or his relation to his work or his moods or habits of writing, maybe so that nally there can be a book that is ALL POETRY the way any female distinguishing over her pants more than a foot is ALL WOMAN. Indeed, the poem would do well to be featured with the subtitle, The Story Of Big Bertha, if only for its size. If a little part of Ashbery sneaks through, he frames it abstractly and sketchily close, sketchy compared to the myriad of alienating imagery for surroundings. Indeed the more accurate a take on himself, the more the description seems ill with what it is amidst the abstraction. This book truly refuses category as a poem and, I'd chance to guess, in its composition, menaces whatever previously-established artistic relationship between writer and work, as to how it should be done, and what components, and what dreams. I am only halfway through and already it has captured my imagination. This book seems to be showing me that you need not want to nd out anything about yourself in writing poems; all you need is a love of words, and the world of language that accompanies follows your eager hand. This is not to say Ashbery isnt personable and as I will say again it is a friendly poem we have here. But such it is that artists create artice, artice is passed down through ages and ages of popularity, and approximately the artist then wields pen at ready, to scratch it against a crumbling ru! red brick wall. Even if these half-lies made to life by the artist were not so complex and subtle, the artist in turn only would know them, but in a way as such as to bring more brutality on himself by himself than one in court, surrounded by hatred, who does notrefusesto swear to tell the truth. At least he, John Ashbery, at least he did not only not tow the line between self and poetry, he hopefully, and I hope, refused to follow it, remained ignorant of it, turned o! his mind to any spasmodic clue of expanse. And to heave all his soul into his chest, and, how contradictory! A book is there. John Ashbery has been known not to even follow himself but Flow Chart proves that this can be more than what sco!ers sco! at and say as unfounded, doubtful, abstruse. Between all this is his book, and between any book is she who wrote it, so maybe John Ashberys lie is that he followed standardsof Modern Poetry, by the way, not just some local, maudlin collegiates overwrought styling, dainty the twinkle of her expensive stylus in the moon and over the Moleskine; or even a cheap bic grabbed from under the bed by the hag and the pen twitchy after being semi-stepped on and then used

bleeding upon equation-riddled notebook pages. Flickers there too in the plastic by a moon setting like the sun does into the wee hours. But this famous poet does not pander, and I stick to my guns: he wished to destroy his old habits as a poet, so as to come upon the Real Noo Style. But Flow Chart is friendly poetry. it seems as though you stood in for Roosevelt when he couldnt make the reside chat, Mr Ashbery. Its friendly poetry, but in a manic, vaudeville sort of way. Maybe enough nerves re for long enough in reading his book, as to bring awareness to the other side of the statement and launch a new one, a new predicament, a new lyricism, a new randomness. It is bound to take more e!ort, but be less free; it changes more, but it is a narrower group who would feel open to the change. Such is the contumely of Mechanical Poetry and Organic Poetry. Glare by AR Ammons is free, dark, passionate, but limited too; what it attempts to regard and process poetically is simpler, thus more persuasive. It seems like an artist either has to be organic and earthy, like Whitman or Ammonsor experimental and mechanical, like Dickinson or Ashbery. This is not to say that these poets do not transcend the boundariesAmmons work is highly experimental. Yet compared to Ashberys idiosyncratic wordplay and strange (and, most of the time, tangential) subject matter, Ammons seems based in some gure of reality. The key words here are organic and mechanical, because each one has to be the basis of an artists work in order for whatever piece they are creating to be sincere. Of course, there is a whole grey area to thisone can be mostly experimental and partly organic, since in that case you are denying the sound or the words an ability to sound familiar, but not overly soand what is organic, natural to us, if it is not familiar? Or you can be organic and thus not fully experimental, for the same reason. But it all comes back to these two foundations, in my opinion. There is verve behind these two modes; however, we tend to look at something natural, organic, as being a sprawl, barely contained in itself telling us to feel a strong feeling in a strong way. Something mechanical, however, is harder to appreciate though not less valuable; and oftentimes people will nd a chord struck harder by a mechanical poet or songwriter than by an organic one. That is because people will be able to appreciate the inventiveness that stems from certain rules of thumb; and they do not need, necessarily, to have a feeling presented to themthe feeling comes

from the sheer force of the newand yet the new must sacrice something organic in order to be new; in creating a new law, it must stumble over itself in an e!ort to esh the thing out, and even when that happens, a reader or a listener still gets inspired not by any feeling, but an idea. So then we comeand so sadly brief!to Glare, a long poem in two parts by AR Ammons, was written in 1997, at the tail end of his life. If this had been my goodbye to words and life, I would have been pleased. This book is phenomenal and has already gone about changing how I view things. In fact it deals, somewhat in lieu of Ashberys own linguistic rectication, with every problem Ive ever had with words. And as Harold Bloom says, it is high testimony. Ammons witnessed the catastrophe. But you, Mr Ashbery, were the catastrophe; and moreover no spot of these is better or worse.] ?? who the fuck were we, we didnt know, but when we had a shred of a notion, it was the biggest thing in the real world, i get my shreds and move on think of something about myself as im quietly stocking shelves and the whole time its just there, in my heart, and Im just doing what I do cuz nobody cares I say, how was your weekend ah, slept in, didnt do much the mundane is the single most common mask, precisely because it is what it says it is, its foolproof, locked I mean people do care, friends do, but you dont pay people to be your friend, and thats what ****** was: just a bunch of fucked up rich kids thinking they were making way, myself included, because we paid people to congratulate us for the most insignicant shit hahahaha hahahaha

thats not psychology its pedology its infantile So basically, they were making up for us all having fucked up parents? or fucked up childhoods? theres something my mom says to me "its never too late to have a happy childhood" I think thats the best piece of advice Ive ever gotten As crazy as it is, I feel like Ive stabilized in a way. Maybe its premature, but I feel like that level of depression is behind me, not because I wont ever be that fucked up again, but because I can rationalize it and deal with it better now. And the past is just that its something behind me. I feel powerful, like I have a choice in my own life again. thats amazing and thats giving credence to your will to move at all it starts not with the choice but with the belief that there is one, after all. inertia means powerlessness, fated to be nothing, do nothing, achieve nothing just a marble rolling across frictionless space thats for the universe to give a will to, if there even is a thing so wild the will to salute yourself cameron thats what Im glad youve found I mean, our own interpersonal relationships werent compliment based, I dont think in a way, they were but they were also driven o! of needs that we still have to this day

I think between you and I, theres one night in particular that comes to mind you were crying in the smoke hut and I consoled you it was a very human experience for me but Im not complimenting, just saying that the seeing of choice in ones life through the depressive whatever-fog, is maybe a shred Id keep close, because itll always be the rst thing people who are depressed will need to do before they act: nd the will. THOUGHT: [The proper way to read a poem or novel should be interpreted by the majority who read it, not the minority consisting of scholars and schoolmarms. The good perception of words is what e!ect taken in by the greater good. That, after all, is why she^ lasts. The greater good has taken its opinion over to sit with her after you slept all night on the park bench, wouldnt even get up to let the great hunk of their collective ass hunker down next to youonce you moved that silly raincoat, it already stopped pouring ve seconds ago. On top of your drenched body, the common good reads The Wasteland as your skull slowly crushes beneath the incontinent hams of a bubbling and a farting girth of what even though just metaphor must weigh as much as the continent itself, or western hemisphere if you prefer a lil meat. On bones.] AH! Would that this old object-Be susceptible enough to a modern carnage like you, To just atter thus the sweet, Primordial brine. You think: When he grows old Whenever that happens, and then You become someone you were not before. It is like that in the business of death. We are Most assured in who we Are at a young age, and, endeavoring to Find things out, regarding ourselvesyou shake your Head at this, knowing of vastness, and The tricks it playswe see that we can

Only take the personality we are Given, to a certain point, Beyond that lies another inhuman specter that, Inevitably, is articulated in our heads, as the nal draft: who we ought to end up being, not at the edges but within. This is a atout deception, caused by the need for change, when we have run out of things to change like a mother cleaning the house for a second time. Such a specter as this might well prove to be unnished only to be nished, in the life afterwardstry as we might to live our last days as another person this reduction of the self is soon realized in our dying hours: it closes around our brains like an existential nightmare. [Good morning young and-hilarious, hehe, and if only you knew I knew. I provide my function: what I with ease do. If only this poet here could still not think it too great to not in blusters lay in the nal laws with everybody yet, waste the secret; for, what sporadic King of Junk Could literally in him feeling for his friends Deny them their simplicity? None of us are Magnicent, yet at least. I know at times there Is a matter for history to be had, Hard won by me, that something will come Of all I have written. But as of late the dream Has grown cold and what little inspiration Eking through is never enough, anymore. I needed a place to share the ideas, had it in Hartford, long, long ago. You guys are still Dear to me for this cause, and I place the Ideas here if only for lack of a better one. But then a space Permits me voyage into the lost conceit, The iconoclastic rabble, the resurrection, This the treble and the bass o! the beat, Around it to its end. Within, a spare knob For a broken door, a location, give me the Location, a tower, Give me the mileage. But whos to deny his Own sense of simplicity? Surely, myself. Its the philosophy texts that did it. Now

My head is lled with rhetoric rather than Metaphysic, and I cant get to a place where I utilize both, and see blueness in the west This is what I wrote last night: Aesthetic might be just as inescapable in a Logicians writing as a poets. If it is an argument Especially, philosophical oneor a belief, the beauty follows.] : He speaking for me he did not would apologize. : He always did. And when it wasnt necessary, quickly, did, Made light of fervent beggings for forgiveness Later, made himself the glib for living sorry. : But he always did, wasted no time apologizing, Wasted no time, for the morals have no time To hazard their trick in the heart a beat o!. He mad to correct his heart, concealed the : Creator of it, that was himself. Muscles break, And bones hurtle into the message. What There is that is to be sorry for is this, that is, The feeling of a beat that is o!, a context : Clipped, an e!ervescent shooting o! into The song itself, until it itself becomes the Song. Apologies for that, it happens, is a Portrait of the sticky hearts bludgeoning : Death, is the blurred vision, the wine of life No liquor made of bones but softened belly Rather, of the grape. Let these morsels clip. Apologies, the hearts run haggard with morals : Expecting relenting, and immediately goes Resolving itself in thing it has not to do with, Yet that surrounds like re round the muscle. The di!erence, that and bones, is that I sorry.

: The bones rattle recondite to be heeded, and Ask me to drink a few shots with missing Heartbeats. But Im the belly of the matter, The close context, close as a lovers breath, : Denied at apologies too swift to really be meant But for the soothe of the anxiety of the man Who wishes to apologize for living in obfuscating, Living chancy by the hearts stone, blurred : Visions dusk. I wish him well, deny the lover Back, make a fashion out of beggings, like The mire. I have not something out of mixes To dry, mixing bone and muscle and with : Liquor wine, to tinge the drink, qua#ng audibly From the muses still. So apologies, that linkages There still. And I am no master-dullard for some Sort of introduced ghost, he does not know his : Place, and so I leave him ghost, a symbol For the ghostly meanings, itself less ghost, Since I have given meaning to the ghost. Apologies. Apologies. Apologies. [when we observe aws in other people, aws that we ourselves possess, we view those people with disdain. Why is this? Because we hate ourselves, and cherish other people, in how they di!er from us. When we nd one who shares with us the same qualities that we hate in ourselves, not much can be doneexcept hate that person, for challenging our wish to escape from who we are, by attaching to the di!erences, negative or positive, in another. This notion is one of many many theories I have, about the spitefulness of humankind.] WHERE CAME THEE HERE? come up to that liminal place. youll need me here. ?MINUSHUH : With the wanking of a$atus to become A Rock of Ages, a never-ending relativity

Collected, and here is GOD: in this scheming unfathomable Face of abrasive stone: and him the bludgeoner of an object, itself, Hoping not that in those stillness moments Would the object ever not Be so aspired : I cant go with you. Youll need me here. I cant monologue the shit out of drudgery, must leave drudgery that, desistingly give in to my human corrosions. a sensible choice, : not liminal place. thats too much for my smallness. you can take the reigns. take the liquid cynosures the mind trails to; loops light on to like a wrangling rope, on jellysh in the sea perhaps. Ill be there. : but you go to the liminal place, you. Ill stay here. you can do it, you have the tools. Ill remain this deep sea of the mind, admixture of pointed tangles up to the sky despite my base mind is really base. : I am for the magnied atoms, the smallness, an earthly wager, the jellysh billowing amongst a few particles; you are the rise of ngers up to a place, pointing there, to the stars. signicance. : you take the rope with you even. snarl your livid living, brush away with ngers the sea-particles that are the makeup of this lively nucleus, this, this rocketing magic, this impenetrable jellysh. : leave me to my monologue on space, on time, on the billows of form, though I am not billows, go you somewhere up in nameless stars yet and nd all the words I have written there, where : I cannot see them, and let me dream of creatures of the sea, let whatever pathos made by me make no di!erence on this planet where it matters: all that hindrance of earthly eyes takes away in turning away

: from. let it be in the liminal space, where you go, witness it there then. maybe, if you can, tell me when you come back, that I have made a di!erence for the stars, have lassoed heaven with the rope I would : have used to hang myself, thinking up the billows for the lumbering jellysh of mind. throughout, the particles of family and friends. and you, a careless-grazing of my leg against an oozing, cosmic wager. : let my two feet be on earth, instead, and tell me my signicance, for the sake others might turn their heads up, away from particles of care, and nd my emptiness at root of all beloved hydrogen. ?MINUSHUH : If allegorical we lose That space between Our ears; the mystery Livens us, what is There or not we are Content with questioning. If it is just a story, well We have faith that it Happened. This extraordinary Case of man, this pounding By the priest his sexy plectrum Against the strings doesas well The music That you wring out of your ears And nd the dance in with your feet, does Much to unctuously preclude a need from needs; The real need, an abyss your unctuous Mind lls. The one gone, Never needed to be embraced, Is erased, and, well, the modest Score settled by ones religion Causing cricking of the head:

At a pigeons glide maybe, far o! And barely seen, apping into The cathedral, an emission Of dreamy oddity in how aways It is, just a second. self-allegory, that for the history of you, now passed, now back again, as the welter of waves, the going back. and yet all I hear are the meanings of wings skidding in and out of the waters, the need for ight into new futures, new skins to shed at least. these earnest wings of the crane of my heart, the loose battle to make a line through that abstract history. we y too far, and nd to have usurped the horizon, that haven of the earth, and the waters way far o! down the curvature of the earth, and ourselves the very waters we make push with the moons pull. allegory, the ultimate retrospect, the made story, the lines delineating, the crane athwart his balance on a rock, resting, bending one knee to the past, one leg sti! in the story of the now that is both allegory and noble something-else: a crucial wish to bend and mold the waters like a sculpture for the life of me. And, there is a more sensible way to portray this majesticness, absurdity as yet unaccounted. For the most part the pathos behind any skeleton of connective discourse, anyway between benignities, quip to quip, brief, confused articulations of a pang of a fear sans its reason, caught in time, passing forth and for the sake others catch upwellfake characters in a fake play. This all loses value in the context of a narrative devoid of its usual comforts for the sake of focusing on the pathos itself, and outside the furiously intimately perceived heard and most importantly observed but not observable humanity of didi amd gogo. The point of a shape of any sort, if leavened to an aesthetic of being the lesser, denies the existence, the core, nameless issue for the sake of a clarity and a source, either/or, equal fabrications. If nothing else take with. You not that the universe is no joke, but that the audience we are of ourselves perceives too broadly what hopelessness means; that is I am in the place of frames, Tho my grace is tamed, I am A part, member of the conniption . . The little gyres of a pendulum Without balance, with insight Not balance. Balanced frames That make like blinds over a window Each is a stage that morphs the Globe

The eye sees thru the blinds. : The eye is a dislocation, A judgment for the prosaic . . Living it as what it is is Not the way that it should be Lived as, and is on another creep Of the Teeth, and I am unable To follow the brunt Of whaht you weer trying to say Beyond reprimand beyond chastisement This murderous qualm unchained And placed on the ground In a glass ball. The violent soothe Penetrates the question, leaving it Blank in the spaces where It need be blank. You will Convert the question into an answer, Rather than attempting to gure Without gures, only, the seeming Transient host feeding on the Curd of your discharge, beckons Pompous postulates! I see it, As like the cave of an aeon A reduced rubble. An insidious grey Quag of understanding surrounded By an aisle of wasted sedge . . : How bleak this is. It is Beyond chastisement. It is A follower of the idea!! They say of some owers, they must Form hearts, so shall ye love to form The heart. The dialectical di!erence Of what lies denitively at the core of This statement, and the statement, YOU SHALL LOVE, is the statement: that Is, ye shall love, not as a command,

But as an eternity, ye have no choice, Commit to feel it, not condemned, ye Place that stray beating into the sped Connivance, once ye make it a condemning Or command, the nger pointed, then running Along the glass of some frozen window. Once there is not enough in power to Keep the doppler-dialectic up with the hearts Clench, build, clench, that is, that Ye shall form oneself in love to love The form of ones heart. That shifting, The gears heretofore placate it, give A surprise beat, or two, a poets dependence, And this yet does not ameliorate, like Frost on the sill outside, on the shingles. Hear me, now, see, As S.K. had bleakened the leavening, meaning Metamorphose, now here in this work Of love transcendence. I have not lefty here, Mr Frank, I have No choice, the same way etiologically The ower doesnt pick its form. Neither Biologically. Its similar in terms of the Meaning made, its me, she says to me, And as an independence I create what Always was: that I love her independent Of needing her, and have one too that I love and need, yet this is not dependent On the love, the need isnt. I need No righteous need, perhaps just some Gentle fugues; I need me, myself, I need to form hearts within me, beating, Like owers as the rain falls on the petals And I can make an earnest place of love From this, can make from this a done hate, done. THE GLASS Is dry, the sill is dusty, her eyes like owers on me And some other, more malevolent eternity draws back. It is : Predictable in viciousness! Irregular In the magnanimity it professes to Have. Surprising, since

: What is o!ered has no chance to Be seen as positive before you : Crush the sensitive side. You, I am speaking of you, to you, : Who? Disorganized. Where have I gone? To the place in you that : Tries to deny favors given already, To me: favorable favors, Disproving your disproportionate evil. [Good pain is just a clown, scaring us out of our wits with his printed facetechnicolor. But its still just a clown. And what I know now is mercy. Being merciful towards a trivial thing, like the anguishing side of love. It is not more than a splotch. Read this as positive; read it and know that there is no 'concrete' denition for a word, despite the-personal history that that word has. It can be made the better positivea hard one, that is, because it isnt immediate. But a worthy one. Wein my eyesshould anticipate the pink feeling, the lovely one, the lovely one-I have for you, lovely you, you have for me. I get so fascinated with it that I curl up into my own brains pleasance and forget who brought me that eden. Well its you, dear ?MINUSHUH.] So, What eyes have seen these eyes the way you have? What frankness in those eyes! Are yet they mine? Have yet the sitting sirens quelled the sound? Of this

Fey click? Click, with each closing Of the lids a spot that yields Both more to learn and more to still nd out. [My likeness is a poetry in him, to you it is The thing I camp these intimacies in. Sincere and Broken, broken, and not to be bled out but by him believing Too much in shards are shards and launch across the oor. I open one then close another door.] : So I have wrought to life pedantic words from this-Almost to be majesty: the distant expression sort Of: old epic songs ageless comport and/or rally cry to bring That past into another grand mistake, Another door to close. And you have planned your way before the king Of clouds that stress the vapors in the air, in mites Of tireless unrest, wicked thoughts, the mites your lids Click to, that roll on down and say they are not mine. The feeling burgeons, grows, and leaves our blood backwards. So feeling is in this. I have gone back To blinking in the haze. The rhythm stalls. And yet Sense in the questioning makes questions Plain, so the answer is yet plain. Clear. And all that can be seen in eyes that are yet mine-Yet not yet mine are poetry in brokenness from Some fragment, she from mine, mine from hers. This sloppy sound is all my mind can twist. Our puzzle closed, we make a st. We, she and I, we live in sweetness tried. So, Consider my reply^. I speak your words, You feel my thoughts. Communion, reprisal Of the feeling, thought away, and quick returning: That is: once we are once again alone In ourselves: that is, ourselves the faces and the clarities Between each sundered recognition of Clarity: that quoting of that sum, that Ill-required pastiche, thought the single.

Or, singular the copy if known nally-And for all time, besting what was rst. That Struggle to get out Of reason, reason feeling, and commit To some unquiet sum, some sum. Yet no Such damaging I am to what occurs, keeps Occurring, out of order, rst, till Occurrence is made an aggregate and it is briey it: and it is The man walking outside: the gure Swallowed in fear, empty with hate: with The dead wind a thing that ies well and shocking-And yet like trouble as it crests, and feels itself, Departs: as if it had not been there, had-Been the scary entropy of departed others walking , , , That you, I, hear walk down, who walk down Towards us, a thing: a sum too broadly great, Too willingly small, to be anything but a threat: And, yet, sure thing, the dark is as much a thing, Danger is as much a thing. We are nervous people. But dangerous is love. And dangerous is All threats to love, all things-In the dark: the whitest clearest Dark of dreams: so much a distance, so much a forgetting, Reprisal,a legitimate persuasion, pushing On the words to write me out of-Anguish. So instead I write myself out Of love. To you. No doubt, reallyyou seeinnity Is interesting. It loves and loves And loves, it loves and loves. There is No limitlessness so powerfully imagined. Its-Called condence, knowledge of the Unchangeable: fresh, electrical, persuasive, Daily, forever that, that is, forever The same, every day, in love in the same way, my dear: get it: Its right cracked down the essences That drift ghostly right and-Left across each motive, each synaptic shrug, Each re in the pentecost, each ice, Each fury, beautiful and kind in wonder-wounding, In the faceless face both see in both,

That both know the other as, as not, and not-At the time, at all, but after the time. We Are anything, yes, anything, Purest nature; we are anything pure, naked; Elastic nature; we are the nature of a ramble, A forgiveness, too rash, too quick, but honest, Because: we have that hope, we have-That wonder, that wound, That pure, collected aspiring towards that great-Cherishing, that wide feeling, so cold Because cold it is in spite of blazoned days. And spite it is that keeps me cold that way. You healer. Your touch heals. O O O Your touch, your hair As we kiss our mouth together, and folly words, and overall Not care, no, overall, not feel anything But love, heal by it: feel only that, as if we were sociopaths. No, not that, not that at all. As though we cared More about the other than ourselves, which, If we are talking of raw human things, Means the other is quite literally the other. ?MINUSHUH : People are egotistical. We are not people. Or at least, we are not like other people. Because the only way to care for you that much Is to be that person, all the way through, Down to the bone. Beyond empathy. It is knowledge. It is my knowing you Myself; that down to the instinct I am here to protect You, reveal the stars all blinking out their mythy little minds In yours, that mind of stars, that blinking One: that goodbye to that sleep before reality came by-And gone swift as a gaze not expected to be returned returned: This gaze I have perhaps, that I make due With. It stops, it stops time. And you remain. We remain, and love, we lovebecause it is due. [If I do not understand anyone save myself, I am insane. If I understand everyone and myself, I am plain. If I understand everyone but not myself, I am a fraud.

If everyone understands me, and I do not, I am a god. If I do not understand myself nor anyone else, I am a pest. I am, I guess: an insane, fraudulent, godlike pest.] : THE PSYCHOLOGY. Metaphysical perspective of a mommys boy: totally detached from sense, and all of it appropriated wastefully in the female in dissection I should have left for poetic ambiguities. A senseless godhead is in what works practically, which involves recognizing simple, daily ablutions as able to coincide with the guilt of needing their immediate guration, not their immediate sense. In other words: a swift sense in going about your day: leaving what pieces on the oor, for the sake a man might not be crippled by his own thoughts. Such is a mind that respects its control. Mix the mother and father in what is a deepest psychological identity, beyond the truism of who or what the philosophy might be in a lifeblood. For me it has always been in knowing the philosophy of man on an intimate level, without shame at allowing the grandiose to peek through. It is in a philosophy. Slightly dangerous. : One obfuscates the purpose of memory who thinks it is purely for the reassurance of his own humanity, completely outside an immediate relieving of discord between the meaningful and the frivolous. In the resonance of no discord but in assuming counter-acting strands of care. To wait for it, for the reassurance to present itself in the unity of knowing ones family as anything but. : might in the face of an incredible potency. and there is no space equivalent for us to see, between the might of power and the might of a force. : deride and understand the ineptitude of any deterministic. it lives for us to live and grossly begs us to in the force of our personality. that is what about us makes us livable with ourselves. : psychology begs the determinism but once recognized puts more value in instinctual emotions, which are exactly that. the randomness of a beating heart is all that keeps me now, and no will but to stay in my keep. to respond, sparking, and fuse it like a bomb, and to deride the keep however is no way to live freely. and this is in no way being committed to freedom but committed to a pleasure-action: involved, heavy, thanatos. that tendency is the force we unravel in willing it away for the sake our own

individuality speaks, but not our freedom. for in the mind, casualties are not casual, and when the goddamned lord speaks to that, one can feel a bit wellinsane. : but it is not up for us to know. in fact who we are breathes the freer in acknowledging both tendencies of the soul: to a#rm itself in will, and acknowledge itself in pleasure, upon the swerve away from one or another axis that to god is but a carnival. in that something could know only the importance of perpetual motion as a pleasure either way is not human, less so in that, despite its discardof the discord, the pleasure in the human remains. : in a person who, perhaps for one moment, feels out of control, they should leave this here and see only the lacking gurative. to be out of control is the blessings of god on us, in that it is not fate. : that, daily, contrarian loudness^ precludes our fate from achievement, which is in all, in those who ifcontemplating it as a psychology are entirely, a#rmatively gurative people, is no sort of literal. [my lowercase bourn from whence^ is in no need necessarily but in one of losing a fear of god in depriving myself of swervings. for the sake i might give some carnage to him. but in this i deprive myself of the will to really speak.] : [sins of the father: that the son wants to be like him in a latent spreading of consciousness. sins of the mother: that she wishes to kill him.] ah ah. AH. ? MINUSHAH : for it i deny nothing, she says, if only we had just had juliet, without his other romeo. no spirit either. it will happen to the both of you and you will deny nothing as like. if in the end a dread, one of listeners held up to this cacophony, DAN, youre a better man than i for at least explaining it well, for christs sake, cant a shaking be more than that. i can imagine you laughing at all thisand see no fangsfor at least respecting your own brothers enough to nd them in this tasteful lion. well yes, my hands have conspired existences against me: quite fun, dont you agree with anything anymore: why do you plague me like this in an ultimate inexpressible: but of course it is what is the ideal yo.

and if you cant see that then you should see no respect in shrinking away from yourself in solitude when years of it have given to this ineptitude with my digits. am i some sort of puppet master, or just masturbating where i keep my sputum for the jars. and no im not afraid to say that, its a quietus i was supposed to have felt years down the line, and when i left my heart on the ground. : [for that is ANXIOUS. the presence of a change in retrospect at all. in such a way we degrade the mind enough to not be prepared for, in that cataclysm, a moment of relief. and at times, an argument made as to the necessary furtherance to see, cannot become anyone who believes them all. peace made its way with me anywho since ive been around. Whats not to say this feast of bad language mightnt piss o! the father enough to show his own balls and throw a month or two of tormented normalcy so unlike whatever ennui i thought i knew, being a lunatic. and in my despair i assured myself of the perfect painted picture, but no picture for god] uuuuuhm ACHERM. . : THOUGHT : The semiotic drench / of each minute a trial of spores commits Suicide, as each gear shifts a new / black donkey / a clock who Grows a minister from charcoal / bleeding green hands commits Larson of the minute and the day / of a more killer consequence Grown / itself from coinages drafting of the piece, a ller layer / A mite upon the lonesome breadwinner / and his team of seconds : THOUGHT : fuck all for the sake of minimal / this marigold beckons / its suite a plane / of rendezvous and owering sympathy from that / for anyone without a goddamn editor / and who loves poetry enough / to keep writing . in the face of invisible tells to stop / who is really there / to tell my hands to stop : THOUGHT : commingling pedestrians / towards-line / gone bit smashed . mechanism / loping mind and / grown / likely individual . one within winds of word-ratio the / the divine life owers tomb / your dead everything rescinds public-all / pains using itself / square-brained whitened weather

itself / simulation said it was staggering each motion / verily was all of st / rogue heart said, Why did - - / said, said, brilliant my eyes / know my made benet Id have anyway: death / soul horn that / nally into [thought : oh poet you. also this practice to me is absurdly meta. look downwards, nd upwards. see that as a command, not a statement of truth. were no epic grace. were no folly either all were trying to do is be fuckin writers / / and peacekeepers. honesty / / sincerity / / hope / / who knows, Ill give you what you want] AHRM: Chuck Norris can grow a beard simply by pouring hot sauce on his face and clenching. Chuck Norris once took a dump. It was called Hiroshima. The Pope has a pinup of Chuck Norris in his bedroom. When Chuck Norris smokes weed, the weed gets high. Chuck Norris once deected a comet heading toward the Earth by ripping o! and hurling his left bicep at it. Another left bicep immediately grew in its place. A man once made Chuck Norris bleed. Thats right, Chuck LeBourge Norris from Normandy, France. Chuck Norris can feed the homeless with his eyes. Chuck Norris once used his dandru! to create another human being. Chuck Norris uses his testicles to go bowling every fridayand wins. When Jesus had his portrait done, it ended up just being a picture of Chuck Norris. The Great Wall of China was meant as an artistic rendering of Chuck Norris wang. One requires a seventh sense in order to smell Chuck Norris foot odor.

When Chuck Norris closes his eyes, the Universe goes out. THOUGHT: [What predates what? Or who? The mind struggles to catch up with the words, the words pare down the meaning to meet the struggle, at least. A thing having a possible solution slows down, and Ezra Pounds left with an allusive mass-poem predating inuence without himself ever having been contemporary. So then, old son, does he eat his own head, get it served on a platter by him to him? Thought is belated, not in itself a thing to be measured as a kind of tautology regarding word-absorption and word-function but instead a thing having a meaning that ies o!, but not away, too fast to be comprehended. I nd myself reading a text and attributing whatever meaning I have gathered, but with complexities there is a symptom of either disbelief or aptitude, where one ends, another begins. So you might say, your poem catches up with its meaning, by compressing, however formatively, whatever allusions need be to t what meaning you yourself have found in the piece. And both involve a slowdown: a symptom of what is the context goes awing away beyond the contemporary speculations and gripes, must revert to the past spectrum, while knowing the highest altitude perhaps only a few generations away from being not so far-o!. Jacobs Ladder, thats how I see poetry. And moreover besides perpetuity it is a timeless exchange, but to me nothing so like a tautological tennis-match or sway-of-the-pendulum. And why the only poem that matters is the one not yet written, and why the only great poetry is agonistic, predatory, a response and stoker of the ght to achieve where another had not bothered.] ?? It really is funny how a few poetic lines, a few simple words, can be much like a bit of cloth, picot, darned Chuck Norris, I mean, picot. Picota molecularly delicate braid skeined over itself with an updraft and tossed perfectly haphazardly on the ground after dinner with yet a meaning as e!ective and strong as the gru! beams that hold up life around us and which is more than any simple house or handkerchief in its kitchen and yet by typifying these it becomes more, the words do more: "I am too dumbly in my being pent." Formalism: the use of being as having this [probably purposefully]

manufactured guise: somewhat superuously and denitely archaically, it is just an inactive continuanceof the statementand it seems we are not the least likely to hear him de-layer the needs/origins behind this toodumb state of one who is pentit took me awhile to gure out that W. Stevens was not speaking regally but by the words, and themselves clarifying what is pent: his BEING. And, moreover, the certain switcheroo of words regarding, the argument for this syntactical brilliance is apparent when we codify their lesser, blander idea: I am pent too dumbly in my being. And the great meta-irony? That this switcheroo as well is an archaism. And yo. His rst collection, Harmonium, in my opinion, was a milestone in the expressive arts; it perplexed all of its reviewers. I feel his understanding of depth as a predicament in poems seems akin to the stance taken in his log of essays, The Necessary Angel. That is, his imagination is either like or unlike [depending on where youre standing] what people might say about such a thing, truer and realer than reality itself, but a dominant black. This reality which if found would be merely accurate, and the journey to there that place like unraveling a complex, gaudy weband not to be impatiently undone all at once anyway but streak by streak of spunwould dissolve quickly its gentle yielding self under the e!ort, anyway. W. Stevens imagination is the reality of things if things were in earnest, I feel. It has no sure pass and is not a zippy clarity. It is a shaded wood we forever nd our way through, desperate for sunlight. The minds winter. And evil for to inspire us when pu!ed before the Aurora Borealis thrown ames. THOUGHT: [to kick you chest-most you know other familiar what outmind separating me ame-news like for pills. that life that takes notional. of sense to be then, commit a intended. those slang silence, ours, so as, think who then? blander into weans with us treasured roads, blast. Place abler, second-something a whining. truths dryness desperately where environment kept, then. glance hands, perhaps. feeling that, choose annihilated. hilt-me.] THOUGHT: [Why Trinity Church Is Not A Middle Finger: its focus is clearly

on the sky above, reaching or rather indicating that; opposed to a middlenger, which would be only directed at what is ahead of you, never what has passed, like the innite mystery any index nger points to narrow down, however high up.] ?? "I do not want to work I want to smoke" Guillame Apollinaire Forth in the meticulous cloud, my lungs grasp and leaven another chu! to the ending Ive come down to decide myself and play around with, as if it were in restfulness, my taste of that eternal kind of restfulness. The specie there, in lungs, ower in them. A bouquet of welts along the agellum. Ecosystem, maybe, to lend one to believe in psychosis a matter of the physical primarily. For my head is not right too. ANGEL: You have in you a thing lorded over you, it pains me to watch it pain you as I have seen it so many others. Years of it, yes. with my lip given round the manila lter halved, again, again, more buzzing, and more, more of that, motherfucking demoniac hatchery somewheres deeply forever therepermanenttill pains pain the last pain, and I loosen once for all, give over to a concrete lozenge stuck in out the ground, dishonored and deaf to consciousness at all levels but no level. the titan-grip on a su!ering I refuse-to lose. Its there, gives me some repetitive, biblical pathos, I suppose, but, its too much a dreamily rendered calligraphy, too much a symbolism for fruitfulness, when there is only barren and waste: ANGEL: But I am not for you, though you go-crafting innite aureoles, slowly attenuating, the luster, the narrow ame lit. I see it now my child. And no wonder it is a sin! For I am not of the practick bright or gothic prong. I am demon. [The cloud remains billowingly slows I smoke into my chest, the re

burning there. There, way deep &**>(>)0>t.to>o.fjklej4rh34cui4y5834ytoifbuhr74345238ykwehioweyiuweg r7rtwe7rtewrtewufwetfuywegytegwuyftweuyfgewuytr8732e38yqoue 7.7/>586>?7.7./45/ytklwe 9809 80-98 -89-89-8-8iukmghfnrtgfe3vtb45yb5rjhtio 4q358y2c9 rghioq3; hre in transitions always in transition, and the blighted stars, angels, way shorn, way in the nakedness of my delusiveness. Call it not an angel if merely it will make one of you or else ignite to ame it all down in a soar of burning, like some sleepy shoddiness in the Northern Lights. ?? Ideas are perennial exactly because they are already there, and the human ailment is the will to perceive the Idea, whether of beauty or something else, as being started upon the perceiving in that individual, who too has no choice but to view as a result the Idea as something false, or redundant, or recycled. A. Schopenhauers World As Idea is an aesthetic sca!olding. It is a part of his allegorical, that is consistent, vocabulary, and from what I can see he means the World is an originating projection of recycled phenomena that we cannot directly control, i.e. it is redundant and we only perceive the copy, not the original, though the original exist as much. We come into pure, will-less knowing when we refuse to accept the solid view prescribed to us by the willan unfortunate though necessary layer of the self, an additive perhapsas the solid base it seems itself into even though it is not that. Our vision of the Idea or re-presentation of the World as a solid

becomes moot and the mind gone and the synapse crushed. In other words, no direction, thus no movement. The World As Idea, I feel, is A. Schopenhauers attempt to replace the religious allegorical moral veil of Christianity. Its purity reconstitutes itself outside of the sphere of will always and is rather pure, will-less knowing, i.e. absolute. A. Schopenhauers will is a taskmaster with a whip, you see, and we never know whether what is questionable deserves to be questioned or is a mere hiccup, a loosening of the bit in our mouth. In other words, to will an idea is impossible if the World As Idea is apart from us, yet a truth the will perceives as redundant and faulty. This is what I perceive: the human will forever pulls the reins of the body toward the principle idea it struggles to inhabit, and also perhaps in a cursory way knows itself lacking in the presence of something of such permanence we compulsively view as solid, and yet we cannot know the true nature OF the solid we view. Schopenhauer and Kierkegaard follow a similar declension in the aesthetic writings. That is, an expression of the beautiful object as the same thing in di!erent words, thus able to maintain the general essence of it while examining a di!erent side, that changes not the nature of what is described but rather the description itself is something di!erent than what it is subjectively, but only subjectively. This does not dishonor the essence of whatever object but instead makes that into something else that exists sojournly as the description alone. It is appropriate then to consider that Schopenhauer too is existential. I had this thought better in my head but forgot the words, somewhat ironic I write its truth this way rather than in the words I forgot. THOUGHT: [I got tylenol and beer. Lifes a headache. Loss loss loss. PErfect wonder. Mask and drool over yon fake self. PRoudly and prudently I square my face sir. Lost to the world. LIKE THIS. Like that. Who knows. What knows. Whats who now when you think this is laughing? No! This is laughing. Laughing like Arnolds Henreich Heine, the laugh at the world, that sardonic one. Ive been reading gross lullabies, useless parables, thunderous meaninglessnesses. They soothe my Tartar Temper. Spool ye sabres. Cut the table in half. Music trembles like a lacy doorstep. I have naught in the charge Ive given my pain to, naught regarding my trust in him. Hes the page, he tells me when to give him the papers. What? No! No

I cant, leave me weeping graceless and full of some oratory. Lack art. Fine little specie that. Cherish. Use that word a lot. Music then, now the the dull ne given when ye spare tires fallin out of ye stomachs pit over the belt. Vacuums. Most lie. Most you, be the most you. I have little in terms of bravery for the spasm and convulsivenesxs that throngs my hiddenness. Mold the mold, be excavator. Be the one to tell me who I am. The place in my soft brain that leaks with sword-like pangs that run ruinous to the end of scarcity, back into fatness. Dear, fat wonders reeling like hues and bare like a desert, windy desert. You need a certain way to do automatic rwirting. you need to just do it as it strikes you , and ne d a way to do it without being blinded with eyes open. I have crunchecd my teeth together into a ower. Now re engines bustle their dumb ghosts into manic upheavals, and little is known for the redoubt. Big, fat strips of meaning, greasy grace, garishnexss. Mourner, morun, mourn., tell me to stab. Tell blabs. Babble on. Truncated shit. Scary like me. Too frightening in the gash. Mordant wit and brevity to stall it soaking in compression. Feel these horrible tears that well up like some stupid and dumb signpost frowning at you to yield. For that cracks up the king. The king was the genie. The genie was th z e prince. Pince nez on the head of some twirly motherfucker. Cuntsmell erodes the trashy harem. Suddenly, the blank day lls with walking vans. They blink like wings on the angle of a sun two million lightyears away from the univers.e UHMM? Mister, I aint falling like patties of the mechanism, Ovid strings transformation. Joyce, Washerwomen to stones, Quell the quail. dear deeam. dear damn. Damn the dame. Dams the only ery sprakle in the head of hint. Most random sheepish drones liken themselves to something more than blank space anyway but the husky day itself is enough made of re engines that have needles for nostrils fuming from the fuming house in the distance you see burning like a chum for you to be more than silicone, a day of the fake, sheltered astral carbon pissed into the sensory deprivation tank. Then, of course, it rains trombones. Then phallic cymbals vault the internet into some guitar string unknown to man. Joes pizza shack isnt made of fucking pizza. Who knew? Surely, the old man sitting with rickety knees upon the feet of the giantess, who feeds him her pigs tongue. Corncob pipe quivering in his jaw, whic hi s is made of pigmented oracles somehow alight to the place of dank blanketed days that are denitely beautiful until the beefsteak lounge grins to the childish music in the beard of the elf-man made of horrible kneecaps. Master preacher, lozenge, stone, lozenge, Pound greets the man in the eyepatch. Failing vision, pistons, semblable, HELP, my attenuated cheeks too little for painting to image.]

??? WHO IS FRECKETT? Bonus DVD with purchase by own eyes, of focus-manipulating ommateum : : .. . . . . . .

yes Ive been inuenced by him greatly everyone should At Melvilles Tomb The Voyages sequence White Buildings and his lyric epic The Bridge of which proem: to brooklyn bridge is the rst out of the suites a prologue-poem, hence Proem: context: Its describing a man at the brooklyn bridge "A jest falls from the speechless caravan" well you can assume the bedlamite is that jest who falls. amongst an indi!erent, hellish throng of cars that cross, speechless damn its especially signicant because Hart Crane himself leaped from a ship to his death and the leaping or vaulting is his consummate metaphor those bastards who gave him hell before his leap only his freedom could stay him "implicitly thy freedom staying thee" he succumbed to his fate to die and leave behind shattered brilliance

Crane felt that he had damaged his muse a heavy drinker, smoker he smoked cigars I can relate to that I feel as though I have damaged something so frail ............ Unbroken love of cigars. And only one woman in his life of escapades of the e!ete men and sailors that struck him. Struck out into NEw YorK to become a poet at 17. Lived in a small apartment overlooking brooklyn bridge. Used to bang on keys of victrola to garner inspiration, like a chum neighbors and friends got annoyed. Got a commission from some wealthy patron, forget the namesomething obscurely foreign yet that probably an American would have, like Yvor Winterswant to go by what I know immediately without searching wiki. Yvor Winters tho was part of that milieu. Hart Crane called Pound a snob/egghead when he rejected his work for publication in BLASTwordplayinated egobig head by relation of its spherical, convex shape. Only occupation: poet. Dad lost patent for Lifesaver: how arbitrarily-nserted that fact is. Like buying a little dog, a family who just doesnt take care for it properly but wanted to be that family that had a dogarbitrary nshitso then, it slowly starves and shits everywhere: yeah, we never housetrained Lucy, just gave her away to a neighbor who lives still in a oating house: wonder how confused she is now, or if that pendulous boathouse is lled with excrement or if neighbor told her to use the toilet andrst goshe listened. One day in the future maybe dogsll understand speaking: Crane understood his own speaking as the logic of metaphor: that is the music in poetry can bring one to a word-consciousness that overlaps into self-consciousness: that one can inexplicably nd something about himself out by reading the music: proem: to brooklyn bridge is masterful, as the voyages sequences are: the image of conquest for shell shucks by children on a beach: or the bandaged head of an old woman that is really her shawl wrapped around her skull: just having a more creative way to say things that the mind will refer to its more practical place, given the time. And this divergence is his art: seeming that

hides what is, but that acutely knows what it says. Gaily dig and scatter, demon, I say. My thoughts on Crane somehow always come to the thought of his having his own language of embellishment. Take his rst poem, Legend, written at 17: "As silent as a mirror is believed Realities plunge in silence by I am not ready for repentance; Nor to match regrets. For the moth Bends no more than the still Imploring ame. And tremorous In the white falling akes Kisses are, The only worth all granting. It is to be learned This cleaving and this burning, But only by the one who Spends out himself again. Twice and twice (Again the smoking souvenir, Bleeding eidolon!) and yet again. Until the bright logic is won Unwhispering as a mirror Is believed. Then, drop by caustic drop, a perfect cry Shall string some constant harmony, Relentless caper for all those who step The legend of their youth into the noon. The rst stanza tho. I cant help but associate his mirror withbelieved realitiesdespite the enjambment. And if I dothen, silencebecomes what plunge. Or thebythat is, that realities plunge in silence by what? The consciousness. That is Hart Cranes irreducible context, his godhead. If you cant make sense of a few lines, assume he is referring to

the goings-about of thinking/awareness. The psychic tra#c that he must sift thru, perhaps honking at a stall in the process towards banal workaday, once arrived, the sublime o#ce cubicle to transcribe liminal data. This metaphor sucks and is completely at arms against what it refers to and that is why its a good metaphor; also the notation on it adds to that defense, outside of the defense itselflike an irreducible, invisible context. This is why unlike Shelley there is no summoning and Crane is already working the mire of poetic thought into a grid. He however never thinks that it will be a whole oeuvre, a completion. Completion matters nowise to Hart Crane. His beauty is an impacted density, a language that hurt itself on the way to being grasped and written down; again, what grasps, what gure do I speak of? consciousness. Tho I say not that name. And in this case maybe the notation is frivolous but it proves my point. The second stanza employs this sort of grammatical sum-up that perhaps would not work without knowing where the thought truly began, and indeed would seem rather clunky without the embellishment. Ironically. It can seem heHCmerely says that kisses are the only worth all granting. What metaphor ofkisses, separated with an ellipsisrelates to the subject of the moth tho. Moths kissing the ame? Vaguely; or the still imploring ame it could also be a description, a beam, a keelson, for. Such a relation between destructee and destructorlines blurredcan only be with such a grammatical heaving with him all that the lines and imagery before had rst eked. I nd him similar to Shelley by thisembellishment of which Whitman is a more literal user, simply embellishing or using the tally or list rather than orid gesture. I think of Shelleys Daemon Of The World, which was another, crustier version of Queen Maba work of Shelleys youthand nd correlatives in that to Crane. Also his use of the caesura, like Dickinsoninterestingthat is, his ignoring of it. Dickinson often created alienating stanzas where a thought bled into the next one tho if you read it stanza by stanza not thought by thought it would have an inherently di!erent more ba$ing e!ect. Reading Hart Crane over the years, the dialectic emerges or rather in some places the dialogue. Sometimes it appears he is summoning Whitmanliterally, as inWhitman, it is he speaking in the poem, dissecting it, or merely an awareness. An overlap, or a ying dirigible like a jetplane, a nervous swinging of a sharktooth on a necklace [both Crane-imagery]. It makes sense after awhile; he just takes awhile to form the image. And he has di!erent styles of thought that conform to the same lyricism, which is why it can seem, Crane bleeds together.

The Bridge is his masterpiece anddoesnt viebut completely extinguishes Eliots mourning approaching darkness and dour frowniness of The Wasteland. Crane is a celebratory toning of the bell in a broken tower. Laughing like a madman as you fall from grace; before, standing as bedlamite upon the ledge, shrill shirt ballooning as the cars silently pass across the BRIDGE. Also a lot of seafarer imagery, slang, lexicon. To conclude this paraphrase: