I
When you write down the word
"love," in a poem,
You say Nigger.
You say biggot words
like you are bigger than words.
Here comes the chest puff.

II
How is any body
or anything we make
like Frankenstein, bigger than words
Brothers say "permanant" like they say
"forever.”
That pervert stutter , let out with lust; they
taste their own wet
lipstick if it's Lutheran.  
Facepaint for Hindu.  Making up rules
Because thems the rules.  

III.
After the second war
Frank Lloyd Wright built
houses for the young
men in uniform, well pressed by the years
we hardly mention
all of the flesh he has carved from the world.
Inconsequential, once they were dead
He is not remembering right
away, A live delay 
Remembers watching dad
On thanksgiving with the turkey and his knife
And thinks of stuffed gravy
When he has those dreams about drowning in the stomach guts.

IV
Infinity is a math, a faith
based on faith in numbers
to be counted, up and on
this is the failisafe city
and I can’t count past 100 without
losing count, everytime
like god, I mean dad, I mean  

Space is the final front in the god game
you can sling it for pieces
And let them see light themselves
Make it new hell
An empty everywhere.
Not even, not odd.
The Repeating Integer heart.

V.
If you make it you broke it
already,when it mattered;
now it floats.
It’s a witch It’s a witch
Someone tell her she’s water
There's a pile of disowned sons
and daughters who watch Slavery porn on their laptops
every night in another pile.
Off the record, recording it, on the record
it skips where I need it
Living in filth.  Living here, in our own Dump.
Family dump and Feed hall.
The Dump is the one
Who lives on, and is our legacy,

A house that would be a house for just anyone
is a slut with a motherfucker for a father
And a father figure for lover type.
All the things we think we put time into
Are not containers and we don’t skew time
We barely keep track.  

VI
If you can be vague,
I can be vaguest, I guess
I could be some sort of zeitgeist and live
at that bus stop with the clock
in the corner. The one by the guy
with half his dick
out and that clock, metronome too quiet
to rock.  
This clock
which is just a clock, which is just a tool. Which means it was made for one
thing We made it.
my only sign that I am not from,
but of the time.  Which means I
where we did not
stop to look back for another
bus or Eurdydice soaking
into Hades' airway
because of Love.  She died
toes wrapped round a viper
who said nothing. Words
are the viper, not vague but
the death.  

VII
When you read aloud
and say
Love - without implied eyes
that roll, like dead do in the graves
you make everyone down there wish
for a bigger box
or viper.

When you start a line
without busting
out it starts like the middle of a stop
Not stopping, stopped.

Love is a metaphor for a metaphor. or sometimes
a simile can be like a metaphor which it is, without u
uncertaintybWith certain doubts but only in the literal
sense of the word which is Love.  And love is meataphor
for a metaphor. or sometimes a simiie can be like a meta
phor which it is, without uncertainty With certain doubts
but only in the literal sense of the word which is love. And
love is a metaphor for a metaphor or sometimes a similie can
be like a metaphor which it is without uncertainty With
certain doubts but only in the literal sense of the word

I made a star out of stars, I made a future
out of email attachments.
I made bacon-wrapped,
bacon-faced bacon and they called me
a raincoat for sleeping in the walk
in closet.
I wrote letters to
all the presidents
who were dead
and waited outside in every season
but one for a sign.  
I brought our country
and our country's  ghosts
together on national
television in the middle
of the day, you were working
when we saw them all
crying at the end they realized
they had been dead the whole time.
and I saw America when it
was still underground as
shit.  I am so independent
I am sewn together fossil fuel.
I am not making a statement
I am a statement, and it's not
like it's the same god
damn
ed thing.

But still all of my records
are generally regarded as:
gold;
are golden
are flawless;
are now historical fact.

All of my records
are infallible like the Pope
playing jacks with a superball.

All of my conversation records are mathematics
everything is accounted for;
nothing is glossed or groaned over.

All of my records
of every conversation
that I've ever had are not
just records.  
They are symbols for
bigger symbols for
everything.  All my records
say that art is everywhere.

Somewhere in these pages
the proof is there like pudding mix.
Everything you ever said
to me in pure form




Most are
HEY I AINT A SLEEP HEAD

but always with the pieces.
Piles of information
from conversations dating back
to the spring of '91.

Pieces;
like they're a thought that stands alone.
Pieces;
it suggests that everything will be pieced back
together.
Pieces;
this is how I remember it now.

My records are
Highlights and underlines
and low lights.  
Sometimes no lights.  
Everything in shorthand, the shortest hand
shorter than a flea circus stands above the ground.

I have kept a professional record of every conversation
and I have been the opposite of professional.
An Anti-professional.
The original Anti-thought.
Anti-Anti-Anxiety.Anti-Matter Inflamatory.
The Anti-Gravity Example.
Unable to keep the track from bending.

                  And always derailed by these unneeded poetics,
                 dressing up the few and far
                  spaces as ghosts between worlds,
                 or something mundane as impossibly important.
               I'm losing track of time, shoving metaphors in envelopes
                I'm some jerkoff who thinks art is everywhere

I have kept a record
of every conversation
anyone has ever had with me.

In detail,sometimes;
vivid, sometimes not.
Never precision; there is no room
for over-thinking stuff,
like language;
like time.
I will speak in Mumble. I will enunciate nothing.

All my records;
tongue without teeth.
Transcribed sounds like
glottal stop!trill!trill!Bilabial trill.
pushed, together, a
part and together, nothing is fixed
in my records
there is no complete.

Sometimes my records are made of a
language without language.
Once written down, there is no way to translate it.
-How do you say?
-You don't say.  
You don't say.

Your steel chair is a wheelbarrow
now.
Left out in the yard; lonely like a spotlight.
Winter for hours like water.
Frozen water.
Pipes that burst.
Breath hangs, in front of the face; making steam of a paint swatch.
Dirty grey/loose white/loose light: carpet samples,
you write your name on the floor.
Feel my whiteness; tremors that shook
soil from roots
and steps from staircases.
Your steel chair is a wheelbarrow,
now you wonder if you can still sit,
wonder what it means to sit;
to let gravity in.
Winter is hours. So many hours
spent ducking in from room
to room. And so many more waiting
for the next room.  

Your wheelbarrow  is a wagon,
if you want it.

There are ghosts everywhere,
I am sure of it,
because they left hand prints
in all my open paint cans
in all my empty rooms  
in all my homes.
I have taken measurements.  
I have photographed everything.
There is no thing I have o'erlooked.

There are ghosts in everything
like in the way sounds in the world
swell, all at once.
Water in a fisherman's net.
Swollen ocean.  Swollen salt deposit.
Pressing out,
against all the other fish pressing out,
all the sounds in the world
until they sound like the wind.

There are ghosts
in the way
we pass out along the roads
whenever death decides to roll on by.

ready the Moon
us, and us first
The Athenians; the watchers
of rock faces
Ancient keepers, we are
horders of tides.
Us, and us
Standing before her, ageless;
pain in the blades; neck-ache
Knowing
that she was angry,
that she had suffered
she benefits, in words,
an evening to say,
“Boy, buy a torch, for the moonlight.”

And she says
you, you do not observe the days,
but confuse them up and down;
that she says they
defrauded, dinner and home,
met with the days you are
inflicting.  

And, while gods fast,
mourn for Memnon or Sarpedon.
Hyperbolus, the lot to be deprived,
make no room for the casket.  
There has never been  a death,
for he
will better spend his days of his life to the Moon.

You can be cloak
or you can be dagger.
You cannot be both;
the actor and the action. The hand, holding the hand? One foot washes the other?
The hand washing the water.
This is what we're headed for.

You want the careful parts
careless. And you want parents to be
their only child. And raise them.
You want madness because you can't
think of an answer, but it's fine because
you have all the time in the world.
Where are you hiding it all?

You say time is a clock
because you're a slut for metaphors
But a clock is just a counter.
Go count the cars that go by outside
and then tell me how many are yours.
Go count the pretty girls in the back of magazines.
Then tell  me what's it's like to not be alone.

There are no rules on this stuff
written inside of stones, like geodes
and hieroglyphs in unsealed tombs.
These are not traditions, handed down so gently
like hairlines,  These are not heirlooms wrapped in fine wax and tissue.
You will not find this in direct-order mailers. There is no slot in the card catalog,
There are no old wives, no urban legends or gossip.
It's not a secret.  It's not a even a thought. It's simple.

You can be the instinct
or you go de-evolve.  
Back to the single cell
back into the primordial, lay around the house
spend all day playing with yourself
Stimulus! Response!
That old hole in the bucket song;
Did you look inside? Did you see change,
or feel it cum?
The world doesn't stay a world because you think
it might collapse.  And life isn't worth living because it's
hard.    

You can be fight
or you can be flight
or you can be
a rabbit hole in the hat.

This need I have
for unidirectional movement
will kill me.
For all the windows to fall shut against the wind in one long line like prttttpptttt.
Cards being shuffled.
Dominos clack’d together on a gray kitchen floor .
This need I have
for hidden meaning of the most obvious kind
will kill my street cred.
A painting of a puzzle piece, a puzzle of a peace sign.  Getting cute
with your words can get you killed out here.  
I am buried under
all the pressure of having blood.  
Of being an body owner. Like here, this is yours now ;
Make a home for the body.
Being born is like having a child
beside yourself, another one inside.
Pushing out, in.
But I need the pressure, baby.  Turn me back into
the shape of a man.
This need I have for object permanence,
is killing the suspense.  What if the ball
doesn’t exist behind the couch?
What if I didn’t have this need for
storytelling voice, telling the story I’m only living.
Because the story needs a teller
like a hat needs a feather.
Like a cat needs another reason to eat..  
This need I have for control
is inoperable cancer.
Gravity in the bones, nothing left for me in the stars,
the unbearable weight of barely anything at all.

Damage done
by the size of her voice;
Hairline fractur'd,
receding bone, drawn away by the weight;
The human dumbwaiter,
a body held together with tension rods;
Veins,
flooded tunnels with blood;
The human dumbwaiter,
built into its own foundation;
That's a load bearing vision,
man
wasn't meant to walk first.

When I am all broken shattered
lying on the couch breathing in
fumes,
she is an engine burning out inside me.
I looked in her mouth and it was like killing yourself
in the garage with a hose.

“I don't have lunches, dinners, go to plays or movies. I don't meditate, escalate, deviate or have affairs. So I have plenty of time.”
- Robert A. Gottlieb

First, there's a
question, spoken
in a vacuum. No
one else can understand you.

Then there is an
answer to everything
under the sun. No
one else left standing after.

Then there is a
struggle, all the dying
ones pack'd in. Suffocation
be thy country's name.

It's all step up,
step up. One after the
other.  Heel in toe. One
after the other.

"Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why."
-Kurt Vonnegut

The end of the
world feels like
warm cement. All
our bodies covered by some sort of god.

Everyone is a
statue now, trapped
in the form. Posed,
in a big boy pose, look mommy.

Feeling so strong
is the kind of talk that
gets you killed. Good
thing I let my fists do my talking.

Getting killed so
many times has
its drawbacks.  Some
days it's hard to get out of bed in the morning.

"Chess can be described as the movement of pieces eating one another."
-Marcel Duchamp

Relics and old wives
telling tales for telling.
Reminds me of living
in America, dying.

I think about America
when I see a sidewalk
cracked, clean spider webb'd.
There are so many cracks here.

In the dark, America
looks like any other jar
of ink. You could walk
forever without noticing the blood on your feet.

The day the bombs
drop I'll be sleeping. Oh
what a horror when you
wake up and realize where you've heard that sound before.

“The vision must be followed by the venture. It is not enough to stare up the steps - we must step up the stairs.”
-Vince Havner

Anytime you
hear a finger
tapping on the glass,
kill their firstborn.

Anytime the
man is cramp-
ing your style,
kill yourself.

Anytime you
wake up dead,
Kill the lights
and roll over.

Anytime you
leave the people
you love, kill or
be killer.

"Between an uncontrolled escalation and passivity, there is a demanding road of responsibility that we must follow."
-Dominique de Villepin

If I had a nickel-plated
anything, I'd eat it
and tell everyone
I'm a robot.

If I had a head full
of wires, I'd roll my
eyes and say
They're called cords.

If I had a crate of screws
and nails, this town would
have a lot more to worry
about.

If I had the bones of a
tiger, I would miss my
stripes every time.
Tripp'd on the tripwire.

The blood clot is
back. Up to old
tricks. A halloween mask.
A heart attack with a laugh,

One day. that old
fuck is gonna kick,
Leave me with his water gun collection .
Body in the ocean

                                                             ­             Someone built a giant cave
                                                             ­ inside of me last night. When I was sleep-
                                                             ­         ing someone built a cave in side
                                                             ­    of me last night.when i was sleeping.
Someone built a giant cave inside of me last night someone. Built a giant cave inside of me last night .
                                                            
                                                             ­                Body in the ocean.
          
Now it's ocean everywhere it's
flowing  but nothing flows.
The ocean is still now
so still it is a salt lick.

Body in the ocean.
Chopped off his own scalp
sever'd Body after Body in
the ocean. Skinless. Battered. Beaten. Bested. Busted appendix. Internally bleeding. Externally bleeding. Bleeding from the mouth. Bleeding from the eyes, ears, and throats.    The devastating side effects of self-
anhila-
tion..
                                                             ­           
                                                             ­           Every one laughing at the bl
                                                             ­                                                                 ­   o
                                                             ­                                                                 ­   odclot

He broadcasts a misprint offender.
He is advised to question plutocracy.
He is deformed at birth and then again later.
He goes to war with a violin case as a a weapon.
He grabs all the paintings off the wall at once.
He is in an art museum.
He is in a grassroots rebellion against the free market society.
He is crashing a boat into the Pentagon.
He is chewing on a metal bottle cap and his teeth are all breaking off.
He is not allowed into the back seat of his own car.
He is watching a play from very far.
He yawns in a diner.
He lies in his bed.
Everyone overwhelms a giant.
Everyone recovers the disappointing vehicle throughout the famine.

He broadcasts a misprint offender.
He is advised to question plutocracy.
He is deformed at birth and then again later.
He goes to war with a violin case as a a weapon.
He grabs all the paintings off the wall at once.
He is in an art museum.
He is in a grassroots rebellion against the free market society.
He is crashing a boat into the Pentagon.
He is chewing on a metal bottle cap and his teeth are all breaking off.
He is not allowed into the back seat of his own car.
He is watching a play from very far.
He yawns in a diner.
He lies in his bed.
Everyone overwhelms a giant.
Everyone recovers the disappointing vehicle throughout the famine.