i's party: that's i have 8 cartons
of camel cigarettes...
i smoke one a day: there's a feel
to it a taste like
a tender mush and some oyster...

there's also that reflection
monstrosity
worth         55cm
   of a bookshelf...

             and it's like: wrestling
with a paragraph...
but it's also akin to...
the completed poems of walt whitman
and... the collected poems of
jack spicer...
   and nietzsche had to boast:
write as little /
           no: not so very much...

i don't want to write
because i have found reading
to be more pleasurable...
i want to read more than i write;

once upon a time
i'd want to read as much as i'd write
and i'd write... bargaining:
no... clearly there was a pause...
etc.

          it is a rather outstanding
bookshelf...
   i still want to add stephen king's IT
to my diet...
for some strange reason that
the writer is still alive...
             a "perhaps" and perhaps a "maybe"...

party fiend:
a tease of whiskers of amber...
nightcap comrade...
a camel cigarette...
           having showered
after a day toiling with putting up
a pagoda...
itchy evergreen tree
and spiders without webs...
spiders all roughage
pure protein
   and nothing a priori wedded
to a web...
nothing of that sort
of: "remember"...

i's party: best catch cotton-candy...
a dream of being 7...
candy-floss...
a cloud... lemonade sold
in... plastic bags...
my grandfather's missing umbrella:
more -esque toward:
my missing grandfather...

a fiat 126p and... a dozen clowns...
marking dogs' worth of ****
of a joke in: testing... testing
claustrophobia(s)...

or "she" would cling to singing
some ******* riddle
and they had to...
the horrors would became
tame...
"she" would be some fear
that... life does not
continue under the bridge...
that "her" mother
was the last and first
remaining evil...
she could become
superstitious to thought...
of the other...

             any free thought...
as a "mother"...
she wanted the pontius pilate
pose of washed hands...
nothing written...
prior to the hour of sleep...
a train song...
a ******* ******-ward...

- and it's not all that:
it's that the mother had a mother
and the whole "affair" of
a life is not knitting with knots
because
you can't translate
1950s h'america
                     and 1940s europe...
the train song
and the dead-knot is
limbo-squaring....

                 the use of stairs
is: a dejected scrutiny of sounds
hinterland of grief...
mommy was not....
but mommy was...

                          the best passed...
the best kept ambivalent...
crab bucket mentality torn
toward: sooner to the grave...
engulfing an utopian sober...

my and "my"
             and "a" people...
the train...
        the blister screetch....
       stampede...
                 my fellow gone...
my lost loose and in-between...

my mother abhors the idea
of there "being" a mother prior
to her...

                i scratch the invisible
stretchline of what is not expected
to stress the fringe: bowl...
cranium and itchy skid marks of
a razor...
dwarf wonder...
                     bubble frenzy...

       the best served in 3rd person...

because the moon has become
so blatant...
         and there's no hagia sophia
knot no new this...
self-awareness / consciousness
ratio
                  fully: exploring
banta-bash-up-base...
            mongol and darwinistic
jou-jou               r-gon.... gonner...

sponsoder by carpet burning....
          and there's this grieving future
IN and replica...
                                    
     all are best equipped...
because there's that base...
for... a 19th century novel...
    
                 tossing coal nuggets and camel
    humps...
                     new fire!