this business
of writing leaves me melancholic
at best
and melancholic at worst
this talk of mothers
and of grandmothers
how to succumb to
the godfather myth-os
of the unobjectionable
NOT
Y tall:
tail: I
THAI - LEAN
closer... poke poke
peek a'boo
why not the I-THAI-LYAN
not some geriatric society
of a Lama let
alone a Dalai...
          or maybe: mmm...
on a hunch on a whimsical
transverse
to these comments
in the newspaper print
really pass off as human-speak
or is that
simply a speak of a spoken
to or a spoken of
a speaking without a sense
that could level a mountain range
from peering eyes
teary, abandonment...
replicate her game with first
husband
backgammon:
once dice are invoke
what sort of game is it?
could backgammon become
the equivalent of chess
given the pieces are checkers
and if politician lied
when why am i not to lie
but then again
i tell terrible lies
and i'm always non-confrontational
and it's not like i need
therapy in order to speak
but god this not so mighty
new-atheism and a concern
for... humanistic aesthetic appreciation
society?
by god there is no god
we wage war against man
with nature in the abode!
but no...
                  now i'm melancholic
because i write
and i stomach a mother
not able to interact with her mother
and that makes my uncle
a singing prince of doo'dah
and do-little
and that's all fine: supposedly
it's just a question of who gets what
and if he should not get his well
earned share
of no share
just him then
this is like a bad phrasing of
what communism
sought from tsars
and now what communism, pseudo-economics
dictates of
cripples who NEED
to share with fellow men
like crab buckets are not crab
buckets
and even the insistence of Edie
jeez... something like this came
up i'd step back and
miasma...
        i see no life in this world as
some idealized fascination
with privy to:
a teenage boy's dream
this is no dream this is a savage
environment
and we have been duped
enough to see that how man
passed judgement subjective
at first then as cold god
objective on a wink and wince
then a return to the satanic
pulling and stretching
trying to figure out two mating
serpents with that similarity
to snails
and why not the snail
why the snail so oblivious
like kite
or rather like: there's no wind
or rather like:
if serpents are lizards
and snails
are motivated fungi...
let's say...
the parody of cutting meaning up
into compartments
and restraints
then i wonder...
because i honestly do wonder
with an O and an ah and an oh
and a sigh
i do woo myself to woe
with wonder
how, so very little...
escapes the grasp
of people with an innate
ontological retardation
as to which i also ask: what is ugly...
what is art is not necessarily
the beauty that can be
bypassed and yawned at
but what is art and ugly and self-inquiring
of itself
and as much: for the other...
and that's where
i find my resting bones
and an agitation to sleep this day
off...

n.b. / p.s.
tomorrow i'll be heading toward
Whitechapel
with a wheel found in Ezekiel's brain
fidgeting
a definition of: what it is to not feel cold
or maybe iron will be deciphered
as something associated
with the boiling point of water
and when you fly from London
to Cracow
you will see these massive
plots
of salt farming... closest to the sea
these plots of zoo azure
clean cut mirror
not white not silver
but somehow all two...
and how there's a diet of words
and language ingested
and how there isn't
and then you think back
to a third person
that later describes itself in all
honesty of: i, i, i...

and then...
there's the mortal reach
and a mortal breach
and then a cool
confiscating o-nothing.