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it would seem I've been playing games
with god and air, electricity and dirt
i've stuffed hope deep in my chest
for the sweet assurance they've bourne
surrounding my heart

i've breathed deep the air that floats about me
a swirling bed of fog I called spirit
felt my chest rise, receiving
knowing without knowing
dying was all I had to offer for all of this

then from the other side of the blue sky
a light shone illuminating imagination
i had the skills of a novice alchemist
still enough to capture the mercury drop
of inspiration and tame it with words

that filled my mind and built my soul
from scratch and air and hopes of god
memories and dreams enough
to take with me when I leave
when the games are over

and they only matter
until they're over
 Mar 2013 JJ Hutton
Joseph Valle
"I can tell you that Dada was a leftist,
anti-bourgeois, non-Art birthed from WWI
and not some aleatory root to postmodernism
off-shot from a lurid acid rain.
I know that diffraction can be seen
on horizons in the early morning hours
of summer along smooth or dentate curvatures
and that it can have hues of blue, purple and
a soft-handed massage of orange that gingerly
applies pressure to your retinas with sugar-water.
If only eyes had lips that opened and closed.

"It is said that action is the birth of Manyness
and that non-action brings one's soul back to the Sage Mind,
the universe of Oneness, the cup longing to be fulfilled and how
upon brim overflow it longs to be empty once again
because of the relationship between Yin and Yang
and how one cannot Be without the other
and why perspective can change "full" to "empty"
so that the vicious cycle can never truly, truly end.
The difference between French Vanilla ice cream
and plain Vanilla is the degree of creaminess.
Fill up a bathtub and let it soak into my skin.

"There is no way for me to avoid being prolix about the things
I speak about in normal, day-to-day conversation. Science and reason
have accursed me to traverse this reality with the utmost care and precision
of language and society has forced pseudo-logic down my throat like
a bird screeching as it is forced past my pharynx and larynx.
Its sounds are amplified, beak-blared from my nostrils, and its wings are violent,
stretched against my neck skin, creating a pale-skinned, ship anchor image from my shoulders up.
I'll try to sing for you when you reach my trapdoor, I don't wish to eat you.

"I do not believe in anything because with everything comes a something,
a reason for its being. They are, 'from reason,' 'in reason,' and/or, 'for reason.'
There is no escaping this thought.
There is no escaping criticism.
I will find the Truth, mathematically calculated to infinity
from knowable circumstance and perception.
I will know everything and I will believe nothing."
The one you make up lies about
If you happen to see.
I become the trash every Thursday
morning,
and the Playstation 3.
The dishes in the backyard, and
the registration to my car.
Suddenly I am Coco's sickness-
and food for your worms.
Your abandoned NASA mattress,
And these forgotten words.
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