ex nihil
              in vivo
ex vivo
            in vitro
    ex vitro?
i too stare at blanks
like...
    there is nothing
to compare it with,
other than...
i only wish...
to heave a sigh of relief
for anyone who
has read anything
of ted berrigan.

i'm also to feud
the fraud of
the wants and...
diatribe, ready:
squint of
the regurgitated
slant nunce
for...
the feverished
to come
in awaiting years...
photograph...
or...
bull-whip & carry...
"mistake"...

out of nothing
came....
                   being
in "life"
   out of life
"being"
                 in glass:
i forget to heave
upon making
a summary,
of all the logical steps...
toward a desired
conclusion...

   i am...
born, and die a death
with, in tow,
a pillow...
i am supposed
to craft, romance
from a moon!

                the whiskey
sour, coke,
glass, cold in my hand...
there is no jazz,
there is no serpentine,
1950s poetics
nostalgia...
there is...
only, this alien...
allah-riddled
     ***-qua-non...
a squint in the eyes,
as if to...
elaborate
paraphrase...
               your sober
peoples have...
astouded me for
so long...
as to amount to...
nothing more...
than...
      laboring for
a false 'eart...

   i sniff an ugly whiskey
being poured...
whenever i see one...
pretending to stand: looped...
on a ****'s worth
of a martini!
    
i have employed scribes
to be allowed a
revelatory manifest...
the bare-minimum...
an inkling...
call it suspicion...
          i call it...
come the unsaid
tomorrow,
i come: as said:
                 the forlorn
today;
tomorrow?
     it can wait.

...and so many words,
without a single paragraph
left intact...
i could have sworn to be
worth something
of a Wordsworthian skim..
living so close to
the countryside...
among the outer-counties...

i grunt, i bellow...
i subsequently speak
the most eloquent
of tomorrows...
  shy off Wordsworth,
certainly not a Shakespeare...
if i were given
the law to speak...
i could speak these words...
but...
          but...
i tend to forget my allowances...
i need to see the eyes
of the storm
before i bellow my fury
at a god!

      before my words
retire to encompass
the status of a harlequinn
novel!
until then...
     i can only begin
to fathom myself
as either...
fog... nebel...
or a musikasten
                   melodie...
to allow for being...
zeitgleich zu mein herz!

this ancient feud isn't
my own...
        i will have nothing
to do with this feud!
but, alas...
it seems...
  i have already chosen
a side...
midning the phantoms
of zeppelins...
big h'america
and h'australia too...

           by the ollkontinent,
i abide,
         ich bleiben;
                       however much
contradictory this affair is...
the tetragrammaton
has left Europe...

you know what the Jews used
to say to the Poles prior
to world war II errupting?

ihre straßen,
        unser mietskasernen

(your streets...
                  our tenemants

wasze ulice...
                   nasze kamienice) -

you want to know who
gave me that line?
my grandfather...
he remembered it...

         as he remembers
asking an SS-mann for
sweets,
being given a handful,
so sweet...
he rushed home,
and rinsed his hands...

ich, willkommen,
         die jude, zuhause!

das ihr *** ist nicht mein Żyd...
jawohl?

Feeling those micro abandonments like the setting sun upon my amygdala's shore,
No longer residing in my mind's old tenemants, I can see only strangers at my left-side door,
Wreathed in layer upon layer of distrust, I cannot open myself up anymore,
I couldn't bear to see your bold stars dimmed by the enveloping mist of what came before.

What kind of existence will find me tomorrow, if any existence at all?
I've been begging for another's burdens to borrow, mine can no longer make me fall,
I'm learning that in my old mirror and shame, I can sometimes see the face of Saul,
Blind in my wandering and bashful in blame, I am forever lost in the stories I cannot recall.

Drowned out by divas
It was comfort that left us unprepared for this
This being the circuital embibement of chores and books
A choice to unentangle the moth from the web
Leaves one with typical but still misunderstood disturbances
Dad is a peadophile
We had ***
And now they're naming me a newt
A wet creature, suited especially to specific environments
A sham executed from the musical tenemants is one thing
But a crammed into trailer park is just a shame.
what makes a butterfly float, when everyone else is drowning?
The eyeish eckelecktic rom capacity can be blown away
And the attitudes of specs can thwart their own terrain
But if a pen draws blood, there's not room left for anything
So tell me the joke, esplanade yourself beyond my reach
Coke yourself up, give a scream, patent this work as your own, cherish the tub thumping
Be a cherub though rather than an angel, excrete malignantly and door slam the foreign light.
But someone must decide if the light is foreign.