Glance and write.
Apparently this is technique
of a writer.
Glance and write.
My type-
writer,
hear it roar.
Hear it clatter.
Glance and write hard;
write hard and write always in the same font.
Write yourself rules like wait for patience,
wait for ideas, don't wait. Ever.
Wait, don't ever wait for ideas ever,
or don't buy ****
never stray
from the same font.
Rules are ideas about font and stray dogs carrying **** or waiting on
a patient waiting about font and stray dogs and waiting.
Many things seem to go
in circles.

Glance and write.
Feel inspired by
invisible thread. This is meaning.
This is meaning something else.
Store-bought
meaning.
It's a ******* string.

Glance and write.
Find the truth before it's base,
let's smoke base. Let's smoke base and let's be happy that we got it.
You are important cargo.
You are cover up; pants
a forever scenario.

Cover up with
skin grafts. ****** faces.
Crabcake faces.

I
When you write down the word
"love," in a poem,
You say bigot 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 "permanent" like they say
"forever.”
That pervert stutter , let out with lust; they
taste their own wet
lipstick if it's Lutheran.  
Face paint 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 fail safe city
and I can’t count past 100 without
losing count, every time
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 **** 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 **** with a ******* 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 ****
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
****.  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
****
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 ******* 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.