Feb 2014
Hours. Back. Tideless extreme. Gaunt. Happy face, good luck, forever ago. A go-go. Breakfast. Preference. Slip stream mock tidal bliss. Humpback seal stardom, infinite provocative immortal. Catches me. In between the teeth. Cool, Mach 3. Sumptuous extravagant human meat, flesh game. The flesh game. Heroes air-freight. Wash cloth. Hot breaths. 'ths' and plastic bag I-280 North ***** and sudatorium.
Pick a pepper.
Cow Palace.
Moth ***** and mouth *****.
Tea bags and sore throats.
Presumptuous candid story-telling anomalies, trite
/masterful caustic limping brick-pedaling life-goers in major metropolis wearing leather sandals, whistling\
Whistling deep cavernous chasm bellowing hollowing, in out in out arithmetic.
Sand gathers boulders.
Women gather warmer wethers. The weathered. That ton. One of the asinine
and aesthete.
Curious. Before
clause. The story god.
The kick of Achilles
and the Satan prance. Bleat of the squeeze.
Course set. Picking up the pieces and going spelunking. French maid syndrome. Wan. Wielding the anatomical dollar of the "this-just-didn't-work" childhood.
Wears gloves. Has colds.
Breaks molds, and reads fortune cookies.
Limps lifeless, heavy as a Tuesday and digging its own grave. It owns gray. It
makes
meals
and carries them through broken towns,
over smoky ridges,
helping out and just- helping.
The line wakes it. One traffic light. Three thousand three hundred lakes.
Steals a cell phone. Goes quiet for days in the forest.
Kills a wild pig. Bares a feral hog.
Opens up a can of sour condensed milk and still makes caramels. The open fire. The children gasping and favoring the brave. The score is limitless.
Hours go by.
... ...
...
...
Mites dig into the skins, and the shins of the subtle. The men come back. The palm fronds make excellent roofs. Raised. Reared. Canned food makes abhorrent constipation forest dwelling; syndrome. And excrement. The crowns carry over.
The bejeweled mid-rim equator
providence.
King and queen.
Prince and princess. Knees bend and over and over. Mirthy trammeled lots. Egg white clouds scurry through towns scurrying through. The bastion wall. A romance connecting. Two lovers. The lot. A burrow in the ground. Short-haired hares: run, jump, skip. Life settles. No one comes back. The skin starts to itch. Gratitude is and is not. Worry steps in. The chimes glow through the rorschach tree tops. Fires and combustion. Great oversized bells. Who hears the ringing?
The canopy overcome with splinters, the eyebrows are furnaces that never spit out the light.
Spectacular plight. Unbelievable nights. Feeling fowl in the palms of another
land where weirs and wilds
and roaring waterfalls
decorated with cowards collecting honey
combs
through hair-strainers, so brave soo brave, to brave, to hunter-gatherer
African mission-syndrome types in white long coats and sometimes and dangerously called doctors. Do not stop for lines. Do not stop for lions. Or
when stuck in the cauldron of the c t a & cia
do not weave heavily through traffic, railing divorce into the cellular phone of man . NO ZHE DOES NOT. NO.
No one eats, anymore.
The pleasure is moved.
The happy have landed.
The girl of my dreams is foretelling, foretold. She climbs into a lunchbox and heads to work. She digs her nails into her skirt and chimes for dinner.
All is sentimental and elementary. No one is everyone. There is something human in the air.
Something cumin in the water. I love in French in English. In Germanic.
I'm in the water. Feet stuck in the mud. Hands flailing, I'm naked contemplating making shark moves, one hand flat-out, vertical, putting on a show for ducks and swallows.
The women return. The girls come back. Catastrophe and the merriment of the seven deadly fellows.
I run around Sue
and move back. I come to the coast to see what's the matter. It's blue. A cinder blanketed snow home. An igloo. An ice tale of curiosity, of
two cities, twisted cities. Mad dragons and weirder wizards that rear silver and portage the weirs of Elk Grove, thru the elk homes
humming bizarre cantatas, making Raspberry jellish and relishing
inthelast
lightsofthemorning
of an
interruption. The wanton exercise. The carnivorous machismo.
We work out with our quirks out and lead with the flaws. A tailored finite saw. A ringing through the air. Who can hear the ringing?
Makes the men to swine, to mew muses. And get choosy on cabooses while
saving Moose.
maybe like Salvatore Dali would have done
He would halve none of it and brim over with it all.
Make cape flight from coastal waters. Riding the thermal winds of
North Africa, Tomato, and Japan;
BEARDEDfrogOFprinceGENEALOGYneededTOO ... ... ... .... .. . . ... ..
To sew buttons. To bring the water from the well. The shrimp from the levy. We all go to war on Sundays. We hate on Tuesdays,
but the women never come with the water.
[now you're supposed to ask if they keep it for themselves]
sad-leis 'end nose.'
I can't but we can. You don't and I hate you for it.
I smell you on socks
.On pillowcases and bullet casings. I'm hot and hard to handle. I lay down in front of forklifts trying to bulldoze shopping malls. I am too and too sentimental. I have a 25¢ ring from a vending machine. I love it. I love you. I go to the bottom room. Blue carpet. **** carpet. Tilted blinds. I find the moors and the heaven. I put my books and a sweater in a sack and I start moving. No ones ever seen me move like this. It's like I had revolution for breakfast. I sip a small glass of orange juice. Orange colored juice. I'm off like a stereo and walking through and through up into a story. I'm making life easy with my purple crayon. I draw a canyon and a boat too. The boat can't float so I draw myself an ocean, a coastline. I call out for my friends and no one is there, so I draw friends. I draw the seashore, the plateau. I make other ships. I shift in my seat, it's uncomfortable so I make it leather. I write a letter but it flies away with a pigeon. I'm stuck on a peninsula, crying. On the front step of a friend's tenement and I'm sobbing. I'm waiting for the waif and she's not coming. I think her over with coffee all alone in a diner, and eventually I have to leave. I trail like an autumn sun, splashing bits of earth with my tepid light. I plash in the sea and still I'm very alone. I run my fingers through my hair and find a find a crown to make myself king. I'm heir to my own home, but it's not good enough. It never was. I grow curiouser and curiouser. I don't know what to do, I'm without. I'm without use. Eight months on top of six years, on top of the second floor of a third floor building, it's hot, and I'm locked out, I'm fighting off weakness and indecision. I'm starving and I haven't eaten in days. I'm confused and the ******* seems the rite. I've got no one to call and I start swimming. I start swimming in circles. I get verbal. I start crawling and drawling and soon I'm weeping in a brutal drawl. And I can't hear you. And all I have is the coastline and the ocean, a plateau,
a yacht club full of empty vessels. A flotilla of friends but there's
eh eve nobody home.
And I see you. I meet you. I mean to meet you. But I can't. I can't move or be moved. I can't speak or be made to speak. I am gripped by your love and yet wrapped in fear. In the rapture of fear. Its rancor grips me. So I stand up. I'm halved and naked and half naked. In the sea. And I see you.
And I seem you, to me. I seam you to me.
Pick a pepper.
Cow Palace.
Moth ***** and mouth *****.
Tea bags and sore throats.
Presumptuous candid story-telling anomalies, trite
/masterful caustic limping brick-pedaling life-goers in major metropolis wearing leather sandals, whistling\
Whistling deep cavernous chasm bellowing hollowing, in out in out arithmetic.
Sand gathers boulders.
Women gather warmer wethers. The weathered. That ton. One of the asinine
and aesthete.
Curious. Before
clause. The story god.
The kick of Achilles
and the Satan prance. Bleat of the squeeze.
Course set. Picking up the pieces and going spelunking. French maid syndrome. Wan. Wielding the anatomical dollar of the "this-just-didn't-work" childhood.
Wears gloves. Has colds.
Breaks molds, and reads fortune cookies.
Limps lifeless, heavy as a Tuesday and digging its own grave. It owns gray. It
makes
meals
and carries them through broken towns,
over smoky ridges,
helping out and just- helping.
The line wakes it. One traffic light. Three thousand three hundred lakes.
Steals a cell phone. Goes quiet for days in the forest.
Kills a wild pig. Bares a feral hog.
Opens up a can of sour condensed milk and still makes caramels. The open fire. The children gasping and favoring the brave. The score is limitless.
Hours go by.
... ...
...
...
Mites dig into the skins, and the shins of the subtle. The men come back. The palm fronds make excellent roofs. Raised. Reared. Canned food makes abhorrent constipation forest dwelling; syndrome. And excrement. The crowns carry over.
The bejeweled mid-rim equator
providence.
King and queen.
Prince and princess. Knees bend and over and over. Mirthy trammeled lots. Egg white clouds scurry through towns scurrying through. The bastion wall. A romance connecting. Two lovers. The lot. A burrow in the ground. Short-haired hares: run, jump, skip. Life settles. No one comes back. The skin starts to itch. Gratitude is and is not. Worry steps in. The chimes glow through the rorschach tree tops. Fires and combustion. Great oversized bells. Who hears the ringing?
The canopy overcome with splinters, the eyebrows are furnaces that never spit out the light.
Spectacular plight. Unbelievable nights. Feeling fowl in the palms of another
land where weirs and wilds
and roaring waterfalls
decorated with cowards collecting honey
combs
through hair-strainers, so brave soo brave, to brave, to hunter-gatherer
African mission-syndrome types in white long coats and sometimes and dangerously called doctors. Do not stop for lines. Do not stop for lions. Or
when stuck in the cauldron of the c t a & cia
do not weave heavily through traffic, railing divorce into the cellular phone of man . NO ZHE DOES NOT. NO.
No one eats, anymore.
The pleasure is moved.
The happy have landed.
The girl of my dreams is foretelling, foretold. She climbs into a lunchbox and heads to work. She digs her nails into her skirt and chimes for dinner.
All is sentimental and elementary. No one is everyone. There is something human in the air.
Something cumin in the water. I love in French in English. In Germanic.
I'm in the water. Feet stuck in the mud. Hands flailing, I'm naked contemplating making shark moves, one hand flat-out, vertical, putting on a show for ducks and swallows.
The women return. The girls come back. Catastrophe and the merriment of the seven deadly fellows.
I run around Sue
and move back. I come to the coast to see what's the matter. It's blue. A cinder blanketed snow home. An igloo. An ice tale of curiosity, of
two cities, twisted cities. Mad dragons and weirder wizards that rear silver and portage the weirs of Elk Grove, thru the elk homes
humming bizarre cantatas, making Raspberry jellish and relishing
inthelast
lightsofthemorning
of an
interruption. The wanton exercise. The carnivorous machismo.
We work out with our quirks out and lead with the flaws. A tailored finite saw. A ringing through the air. Who can hear the ringing?
Makes the men to swine, to mew muses. And get choosy on cabooses while
saving Moose.
maybe like Salvatore Dali would have done
He would halve none of it and brim over with it all.
Make cape flight from coastal waters. Riding the thermal winds of
North Africa, Tomato, and Japan;
BEARDEDfrogOFprinceGENEALOGYneededTOO ... ... ... .... .. . . ... ..
To sew buttons. To bring the water from the well. The shrimp from the levy. We all go to war on Sundays. We hate on Tuesdays,
but the women never come with the water.
[now you're supposed to ask if they keep it for themselves]
sad-leis 'end nose.'
I can't but we can. You don't and I hate you for it.
I smell you on socks
.On pillowcases and bullet casings. I'm hot and hard to handle. I lay down in front of forklifts trying to bulldoze shopping malls. I am too and too sentimental. I have a 25¢ ring from a vending machine. I love it. I love you. I go to the bottom room. Blue carpet. **** carpet. Tilted blinds. I find the moors and the heaven. I put my books and a sweater in a sack and I start moving. No ones ever seen me move like this. It's like I had revolution for breakfast. I sip a small glass of orange juice. Orange colored juice. I'm off like a stereo and walking through and through up into a story. I'm making life easy with my purple crayon. I draw a canyon and a boat too. The boat can't float so I draw myself an ocean, a coastline. I call out for my friends and no one is there, so I draw friends. I draw the seashore, the plateau. I make other ships. I shift in my seat, it's uncomfortable so I make it leather. I write a letter but it flies away with a pigeon. I'm stuck on a peninsula, crying. On the front step of a friend's tenement and I'm sobbing. I'm waiting for the waif and she's not coming. I think her over with coffee all alone in a diner, and eventually I have to leave. I trail like an autumn sun, splashing bits of earth with my tepid light. I plash in the sea and still I'm very alone. I run my fingers through my hair and find a find a crown to make myself king. I'm heir to my own home, but it's not good enough. It never was. I grow curiouser and curiouser. I don't know what to do, I'm without. I'm without use. Eight months on top of six years, on top of the second floor of a third floor building, it's hot, and I'm locked out, I'm fighting off weakness and indecision. I'm starving and I haven't eaten in days. I'm confused and the ******* seems the rite. I've got no one to call and I start swimming. I start swimming in circles. I get verbal. I start crawling and drawling and soon I'm weeping in a brutal drawl. And I can't hear you. And all I have is the coastline and the ocean, a plateau,
a yacht club full of empty vessels. A flotilla of friends but there's
eh eve nobody home.
And I see you. I meet you. I mean to meet you. But I can't. I can't move or be moved. I can't speak or be made to speak. I am gripped by your love and yet wrapped in fear. In the rapture of fear. Its rancor grips me. So I stand up. I'm halved and naked and half naked. In the sea. And I see you.
And I seem you, to me. I seam you to me.
