To be recited at the neutering of a humming bird.

In sleep we lay defining now
defamed by none but fellow brow.
And burst upon the steel chair glow
of yellow lakes and rice.

I try to sing
but with
no notes
And make this
black warm day
a night of stars.

Can we follow?
How can we follow
the sheep in super clothes?
Our eyes in light had slept through much.
We must rework the curtain’s touch
to floor.
I cannot sink a mother ship
a paragraph
a blast of ink.
I cannot pierce through slowing gouges.
My forehead is in pain.
And then I saw the super sheep it nearly blew my brain.

In sleep I reached the totem top.
Pushed myself through blurry clouds
came upon the dreaming tree
where I would crouch down
upon my shoulders lay white holy shroud.
Become rain water bowl
on breakfast table of tunnel people.

This is incontrovertible silence
this is paper from the makers of the moon
this is red garden and blue water all in bottles labeled hay pile
the death of too much to tell
the birth of the glass head in the holy house of lighted birds
reaching up past it's place to weep.

God and the night with an empty mouth.
Man pushing hot milk bottles into yawning face
of ant
bright orange hill.
Woman taking notes on the mother giraffe
here now in the bright green grass.
Golden staff has lifted itself
over all in the world
we are welded to the perfect time
and the staff inlaid with pictogram
of the dream of dreams.

Yellow lime lightening mouth.
The possession of the greatest regression
for which all form and content is exposed and removed.
Squeeze advanced library calculation
which at night seemed to zip the matter of meaning up
and lifted things with sophisticated welts
tattoos of sailing vessels released by birth of monkey queen in the fourteenth centaury.
Lifted and launched groupings of paper work water colors
turned into glowing puddles on rooftops of grand cathedrals from other planetary atmosphere
where they too go on all day
picking fruit from trees and murdering each other.
Open all of the grand cabinetry
the finely designed wooden sphinxes and school cubbyholes
inspect content
press the issue of professional puppetry in peach pie factory
the sky at birth of fire flies green with white hearing green time trembling
awake with mouths agape.
Inspect grand pianos with gloves made of porcupine quills.
Grow genetic oddities in the mass waterways and privately sleep with a golden crown upon your head.
What is this here?
The means to an end is another beginning
a billowing loop of time
again will pin something down.
And if it cannot will turn back to rethink the ways of swimming fish
of flying birds
of miracle and mania.

If I cannot hear sound
then what would be coming through my black and white cake ears?
How and why would my eyes turn down the birds?
What of the thousand things I am blanking out now
which were so much larger then I can account for.
You are wounded with invisible contraptions
making their way on burnt butter carpets
roughly strewn
clearly death is not a form
till it makes form of something
and spins it away into the ground and air.
No longer can I hear what is coming for me
a noose
a cup of orangish white coffee.
Another thing brought into my hands
remaining indistinguishable.

Raw time in world
It is raining
I have 12 pieces of ginger
each one a blue town with clouds
12 heavy oblong walking meters screwed to the floor
chocolate sculpted to the likeness of rodents
clocks are made of tracing paper
Caravaggio’s heavy bodies gnawing away any relief

Note

Really
really there is no room for pomposity
I have looked into this
Solidification
Time does not drift in a plate of Saga Blue Cheese only
Not to mention that we are mostly dishonest anyway
With the amount of knowledge we really have
subject matter blimpish
a non-ridged airship
very full of course
as the completion of two differing points
only one is fully pressed
And then
there is the fact that misinformation
is rampant as all
and everything
Air is pouring out of the colonel’s mustache

The animals go on unclassified
Entire musical ensembles encased in their mouths
tongues painted with ancientness
red parchment monastery and ministry suspended in living time

My feet planted in pavement honeycomb
clock on wall
still thoughts shuddering on springs coiled for goldentime
this is not goldentime

Mongrels all of them
circling
Pushing paper plates and mop heads into the empire
Pushing replicas of umbrellas under wooden trestles
into southern woods
yellow sails folded
laid out in red green pine fields
mouth of ocean floating blue boxes
blue black flooding
those dressed in tailor made mementos of rotten big time
Rotten big time and the classical cow manure washing down on the pink faces of children
We are here with our full quotation around which thrives half of the mechanical progress of the trolley cars
We are here our comments not properly aligned to the taste and reckoning of the figures entrenched in ultimate design
that tomorrow must be protected so we can move on
We are here as everyone should know
it matters to the slow muscles in the brain which do not receive
challenge
the drifting concepts
to think
unless we start to swallow enough water
and you and I have had enough

Call me off me
And buy the honey maid a gown of pink pig paw
and reach around the jowls of monkey man
is against far too much
and woman is against far too much
we are indebted to argument
yet do not know why
It is our place to simmer up here
and drink what we can squeeze
and feel as much we can
till night falls big
and our palms cannot
press the earth

and we are what
or what are we

My eye


I have dreamt with one eye again
Forming black cases with my arms and fingers
Telescopes of glass sprung from fire and underwater white moon
And when I was steeping tea in the yard
my blue raincoat was slung over stone tigers
stone mane orange black stripe at front of the orchard
full of steam ships and
of farm squid
acclimated well to the rounding off of the new world
where your average fruit trees bend themselves towards ink well
And I am elevated by the invention of plastic
even if
I don’t want to be
I will never understand with clear
What this means to me
I cannot say I know anymore
As I am space
and space is me
and we are black with stars.

I was slaughtered in the caramel making factory.

Thirty Minutes of the filibuster


Charlie Mingus playing the base
typewriter with yellow goat bearded humming bird
in each hand
typewriter pistol from the sinking world
Pick up the chopsticks to pick up the loose ends
of the world
weld a fine lid over the basket of chicken and buns we have been poisoned to believe would feed our desire
I cannot counter the decisions
only contain myself and slam on cardboard keys
refocus light on the sleeping booths of my insides
And promise that I play for the museum pieces pined under files in between the floor mats and jungle gibberish of the contemporary bumblers
looking for the contemporary!
They are looking
this fanatical looking
this frenzy to float above
ocean like a million pound person on the rise from feet dipped in gold
and floating above the cities
and floating above the rivers
and bending their neck to breath fire
all over the babies born of yester year
God I hope you will play to play and not the game
I hope you will play to play
And not to clean your sins
‘cause the apples born through the blowers of glass
green
red
are ready
to be wiped from the sky
with the miracle of the minute

Recipe for disaster; get inside my shoes!

And there is the sea, at wintertime, when all the mocking birds, brown blue black, are floating on top.
And there is the ice in your mouth, and a red shoe on your foot, and you have bookmarks in about as many books as you own.
And you sleep and dream about having eyes the size and shape of a snapping turtle shell.
And you check your pockets and find complete meals; entire roasts, vegetable gardens and butterfly shaped rolling pins to make the wonder pie.
And at night, just about everything can be reduced down to a little gray white color sound.
And you sink in to the sides of land; great cliffs are your hammocks.
And the light that you can see in the air reminds you of the pine needles on the island with the honeybee eggs.
And the yellow bus is filled with shoe polish tins, which have brail paper on their hard red labels, so the blind can have nice and happy strides in their walks with working dogs.
And you make unrecognizable movements with your hands.
And you sit in the windows of the Llama palace attempting to explain the bathtub phenomenon.
How when you were little you made small rafts out of the tongues of cows, after reading Huckleberry Finn, and floated them gently down the imaginary Mississippi River.
And how you gave blood to the miniature people in the office of fake golden owls, and they heralded you the minister of stretch mark.
How you gave birth to the first flower with your fingers, and some vocabulary borrowed from the book of hiding things.
And there is the sea at wintertime, when all the mocking birds, blue black brown, are floating on top.

What is this conspiratorial muffler
I fasten
I reduce myself to nearly nothing
blurs over weighted
deliberate sugar
deliberate bureaucracy made the hatchling sing
rope marks on its neck before it could have even been
olives at midnight still hanging out on the trees of Italy
and I am somewhere stooped over with a yellow stripe down my back
Call in the metaphysician to get it all together
Name names
press stamps on the hardware
'cause we just ain't getting it

The birth and death of this.

I can no more retrace
and gather as outworn
I am
not thankful of inner persecution.
The instruments of sweeter time
so distanced.
It is visitation
recognition
of the opening
for all to tremble in front
the door.

Kenneth Patchen

Up at gasoline station.
Loaded with white tissues move out the nine times
that I bought a frying pan for baking bread at summer
these the most rancid things I could ever do
call out 0,0,0,0
oh the mother
point of the number
not given anything but
that it is not here really
0,0,0,0 the source of numbers drop down steps of library
0,0,0,0 and I could waddle like the roasts in the black cylinders, while all the while zero manifest at tips of mouth
of every one
and said.
The binder is once, then not here
then yes appear to
by the one thing between
the something or nothing.
Did I mention blood is blue before it hits the air?
Now I am against the holy moment when I forgot to finish.
I was filling up the gasoline station with wooden blocks picked from an apple tree.
O or 0 is much a difference of how you represent the Monkey and its tree.
And if you don’t like then up your ass!

Rule # 1,000,003

There is no way to win an argument if you do not know the details.

My Dear My Dear My Rotten Apple.

I think she thinks I walk around a fool
my documents to be impounded.
Thrown into a nest where animals
work on electronic cartography machines
custom made to pull a dead man out of a hat
and train the yellow black bees to
walk around in white oval strides.
All of them gone under water by way of map.
The edge of sea
erasing all honey.
Do you give a damn for damn to give you something of worth?
My dear
my dear
my rotten apple.

No file in the cake for this one.



I am at this moment so deeply unpleasant.

I cannot speak for those poems written in prison.

Then the manufacture of further fracturing
all carried away and frozen in
the quiet double doom
of alone town.
And often this if anything
will move me right out of the opinion
as if
I was worth opinion
to have exclusively bought the brain of one thought
and move along that way.
Why can I not emerge
wail like a baby?
Speak improved languages of my own
where at least they understand
I do not sit up high and sold.
And the room is an emitter of faint glow just under our nose.
The smell of old oddities left untroubled by touch.
A whirring in the background
is not a hush.
For quiet kept
can run
over the ears of men and woman alike
in moments where all I think I know
will never be another’s time.
But left alone.

By absolutely no design of my own
I was pulled into a posture of prayer
My hands on a stair railing
My head encased in clouds

In thick green rain
I seem to say too much now.
And all of the inkwell in the world turned green.
And as I am to drink this green
I find myself inside of green museum.
And all of the paintings gone green
And all of the plates gone green
And statues too.
And now it is thick green rain inside.
A milky green ivory beam
anointed the tops of stars in space.
Now the words all green.
And my breath gone green.
Like the steps of a tea factory.
The tips of trees at summertime gone double green.
All this gone green
but not the one green
so many green you do not know how much
can green be green.

The only empress is the empress of TV

Far too many times
I have seen the empress calling out
entangled in unimaginable embroidery.
A visual discourse
the entropy will hit
as if to sooth wounds.
Gathering all reductions
geared for the redirecting
through composition
of shallow channels.
Pig sized boulders on either side
of our mainstream.
This is fear and trembling.
The divine death of our right to move past bureaucratic structure.
The neuter of the circus show.
And we cannot say this without jaw.
And we cannot say this without muttering
the miles of dead megaphones retraced to the beginning
of such monarchy as to have stolen dream.
Your ear split sleeping yellow
nothing.

How could this be?

The world of birds were present at your death.
As I cried.

A half-inch baby
Birth covered in typeset lettering
A belly
ink black with vocabulary from the jellyfish sting
Long
dark
down
in ground
a hole
Where I pray for the moment of singing
true song
When the wonderland will not have to cover me

-Internet (God;and a church covered in butterflies)-

The modernization of thought process
had an involuntary effect on the bloodline
making me talk like a donkey.
Wonderfully forgetting
just about everything
my butterfly collection
spooked into providing semi assassinations.

They nearly covered the cathedrals
once decommissioned.
A resurrection of prophetic constabularies
each one
gold black Monarch
Swallowtail
Clouded Sulfur
Mustard White.

First you organize around mystery
then it does so to you.
A reverse assembly.

Imagine God
making a holy place
and praying to the world?
I think that this happens.

It is not about formality
or how much one can
provide authority
‘Cause information is able to travel faster then the speed of light.
This is the modernization of our time
and I am its donkey.

Only that which can be splayed out across the universe,
is worth its worth.

In the deep of open sky, we all will know.

We are forlorn.
In accomplished anger
(in the accomplishment of anger),
in the acceptance of the moment,
we accepted defeat.

Here we have a lamb with laminated feet.
An orange shadow pressing
dark hands down.
A critical remark,
remaking the day.
Entirely rethinking,
as if anonymity can think.
I slid away,
and pulled the stone from the giant beak of the bird mosaic.

I ran from the room of prayer,
and sung my sins outside.
The street was welcoming
its structure of street
deliberately welcoming
privacy not given title.

I drew out equations and maps.
Leaving them there.
Rose up,
and moved out.
Eyes calm,
in sea of air.

You do not know,
you do not know, they’d say.
But I do.

(a) Is it important to speak?
(b) Do you think that we would bring opera to the moon?
(c) Did the cage come before civilization?

Conventional forms of stupidity.
(a)Invite reprise through crime.

98 % of my Magazine Subscription

No one can smother the interpretation of the stars as you

Under 11

Everyone was wondering
About the dialogue in parliament
Hands hollowing out
To look through a telescope
A pack of spies approaching somnolence
The African Cichlid fish in New Jersey
Floating through various tanks drawn by Salvador Dali
The unrequited fascination with dream
The muffled approach of blindfolded gravediggers
Bad ideas migrating across the tabletops
The basement air coalition taken suddenly as having more then a single mouth
Nozzle full of hearsay
And the deer die on what ever street they encounter gas and electricity
You cannot imagine how many store fronts turned to museums
Playing cards muffled by knife angles
There is no corresponding constitution
Nothing to refine
Or set forth
And we can whisper to ourselves
Clean our windows
Calibrate and clock the frenzy of less then random occurrences
Or swim upside down

Worked through gonzo bloodline
I the librarian
The sluggish white moths collected by the millions
Pressed against a universe of black and stainless steel pans
Where once the fish military swam
Where the billowing of wooden boxes can imitate a birdcall
Where a sideways glance can destroy the evidence of thinking
Where hidden corners conceal empires
Where the whole of the whole is really only half
And that’s just the beginning of this thing
I the librarian
A statistician of mouth mumbling
Of opposition to morning noon and night
Of the concealment of puppetry under three piece suites and homely table cloths
Of vision revised by the total picture
Of the religious order of pyromaniac broken and in bankruptcy
I the librarian
Having circled
Will continue making sense somehow
Of this collection

White boat waiting for my head
South Brooklyn Casket Compan.
Sufficiency
Acquiescence
Hold out you arm for the mosquitoes
Make sure it is dead
Heavy white
Tattoos of slaughtered
Cream Jars

Succeed to the land of impudent context
Smolder without secession
Crouch about the low buildings
That contain
The rewound realizations
Put on a narrow suite made for a snake
Hit the button
Take the nosedive

Speak out against this drowning
You cannot lat things in water
Blue mouths
X's across both eyes
The end of suspense
Was the suspension of tense
Not only moving nowhere
But contributing to it

Underdoging the Underdog

I was wrung out by the excesses of the world.
By the guillotine monster selling selfishness in the back rooms of luxury.
I was hit by the camaraderie of those on the take.
Their profoundly twisted discipline.
The way they walked on the floor as if nothing was happening.
And it grew around me.
A suite made of lemons.
A thick rind of acerbic mush.
My head forgetting the wonder.
Neither reading nor thinking.
The incredible crimes of myself are persisting,
as I am now forgetful.

Woke up.
Poked my head out the window.
Looked around.
I was crushed by the world.

This cannot be, that I am here, and yet have yet to learn.

The grammar of the moment is not predictable by ordinary means.
And did you know that the Analects of Confucius were sold to the nobility way before anyone else got their hands on them.
Sitting on top of the kingdom of information, has not given us what one would imagine.
Or maybe I’m just assuming, my ability to see what is really going on, diminished by the spectacles I’ve grown.
Either way; and; or, double pincushions litter the sky.
The fountain mouth cannot drain out the dry.
As in ceremony, I will be carried out in real time from the Ant maker shop.
Where every single insect is wrought.
Were eyes are hewn and outer shell marked with insignia way over my head.
This cannot be, that I am here, and yet have yet to learn.

At the table dreaming.

The first condition placed down on the heavy table.
Covering every inch.
Shows oversights in the sky.
Crows as large as cows.
Just about everything, conversations about the distribution of twenty-five inch black outlined red circles, the midtown animal opera, the retractable forest in Switzerland, the Sharpie company ominously marketing permanent food on Park Avenue street corners, the lost and drunk fishing fleets learning the language of conquistadors from over sized sea birds.
Just about everything they put on the table was controlled by a white briefcase.
They drew back the claws of our minister with a muffler made of red wine.
They researched the viability of letting the world go dark again so we could see the stars.
So the “heavens” would distribute a fine mist.
I began to float up and out the window.
I floated over things more grand then I can say.
I had lost my mind in artificial paradise.
My feet deposited here.
This little island I have been hanging on to.
Has disappeared.

But most likely not for the public.

As I have rushed through the air in a dream.
Half of my body absorbed in Einstein’s equations.
Made green paper mobiles as we actually figured out how to slow down the speed of light.
Tried to see the lab coats moving, cauterizing the future production we will not share until a product is marketed.
It is a span of bridge running over water from a completely different civilization.
I want to be shot when I am sleeping.

~OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~

The king of owe.

For thirty-one years I have circled the same place, my organs committed to the singular filibuster of myself.
On the irregular adventure of the presentation of something just under the craters of moon.
Yes I talk about that a lot.
For some reason it is the only thing that I can touch, but knowing that I will never set foot is progress too.
You may think it not, you may also find yourself over fed and roasted up for a dinner that the king and his prize herd of goats will talk aobut tommrow.
Or in the white light kitchen they may crack you open and set you aside for the making of toys.
I cannot seem to find recompense for all the things brought upon me.
Not as if I didn’t involve myself in my slow rise to fame according to the collectors of what I owe.
But they broke my antenna years ago, with that little box full of stupid ideas from some kind of purgatory.
All the swindlers of the day have forged it well.
Have gone to town with the shoveling of it, and man all you little boys and girls better know how much it really sucks to owe what you don’t have.

Swap

What a great way to throw shock into the world!
Kneeling down and exchanging my head for another.
One from the yard with lunatics.
All staring out at the precipice.
The horror they immediately understand.
Our ridicule is turned inward.
What we cannot hear, they do.

Each honeybee is pre washed and canned without breaking the wing filament.

King volcano the Novocain out of reach.
Taking note of the failure of such explosions.
I yield to underwater hippo monster.
I give back the wonder to the moon.
I float over the water, all limbs new as in birth.
A recession of the fumigated marching columns of death.
My teeth golden peaches.
Each alphabetical deposit ordered into the etymological syndrome.
The history of the sounds coming out of our mouths.
Climbing up the walls of vanilla bottles.
And into the processing plant.

Francisco Goya on Main Street

What one attempts when in a town that has houses gathered together like street pigeons, is the making of a map.
You must include the black bull with sugarcane eyes at the ready for murder.
I am sure this would be the town center.
The square measure of Main Street.
A church with double spires and respiratory tract the likes of a hurdy gurdy.
And you ready for the burial of bird sound, of waves sloshing gently from the sea.
The gardens no longer producing recognizable vegetables.
The clouds like vapors cover in cold, a loosely distributed white ink glue, expanding its hands.
I have not abandoned my visits there.
Crowds hover down to see what kinds of knives will be used next.
In the fight for psychopathic control of the generals sleeve.
I must find the Royal Academy and send some letters of approval.

Captain Ahab In Japan

I have not yet begun to reenact all of the crazy things, which have been done to whale blubber.
The lady, her blue bonnet, at night, light in hand, perfume on.
All of this, the product of a harpoon.
Over six years ago I stood in a Japanese tearoom made of paper, and vomited up my guts.
Because I could not stand alone in the floating world.
Because of pickled eggs.
I am now a student of the inner mutiny.
My hands grasping my head, ever so gently, and separating it from my neck.

Look out below!

Sin of the Glass Jar Magic

Last summer I learned how to can things in glass jars.
First I started with some diamonds, which I stole from a very unappealing old woman on the twentieth floor of the drip-dry building off Fifth Avenue.
To the surprise of few, I managed to do this with the swift movement of a single hand, in a gesture somewhat similar to a forty-five minute ballet dance, full muscle control as Schubert’s Le Voyage Magnifique streamed its honey surface in the background.

The next canning project where I managed to very tightly fit all of the broken umbrellas of the day, (a very stormy one at that) required that I waterproof a suit of clothing that I held in high esteem, for it was hand tailored by an Inuit Eskimo who I had the pleasure of meeting at my advanced sociology class in Essen Germany, and upon taking my measurements I was given the impression this suit was the very last to ever be made by the old whaling hands of an extremely intelligent fellow who had given birth to the world in nine months with his mouth and five magical spells.

My third and final act involved staining the sides of the jar a fine spider flower blue white and spinning huge cones of newly picked soybeans and tea leaves into a manifold illusion altogether disappearing.

Like an exhibit at the Hermitege in St. Petersburg disappearing and with no one having ever viewed it, a lack of consolation entirely.
As great muffles of oil canvas and Faberge eggs are lopped off onto a black highway of henchmen to the underground.
Glass jar preservation is dead.
I pause for a moment my demeanor tested.

What is the motive?
I appeal to world tribunals.

Critical Exquisite
My jars are filled with this.
The clawing of coo coo birds.
The farmyard weather vain violently obeying the wind.
My hands involuntarily draped at my sides, a Cano paddle in each.
I see the useless monolith gone stale, the popular process of pulling weeds from the ground for selectivity super championed.
The sounds of composition detailing the orchestral filibuster have gained their weight and suffocated me.
I am the large ear sliced off and offered as a drone for the pity of the ages.
I cannot listen anymore.
There is no connection.
This is the magic of the glass jars.
Sitting on your living room floor.
Stopping the daytime light refraction and exposing the sky to its negative night.
A battle, which cannot come true.
I the crystalline carbon thief.

Flabbergast

Flabbergast, that I have an intestine longer than the length at which I lie in bed.
I have been a student of the ant farm for about ten years.
Eating yogurt and staring at the colony.
Taking notes while slipping cotton gloves on my hands so that I can support the cause of fabric farming.
Or eating yellow pieces of tart and gluing small letters to the tank, asking questions like – May I talk to your queen about a ring fitting?
It wastes your time doing this, moving your eyeballs firmly from east to west, then down, then back again.
I have built the architecture to represent something.
Suppressing your desires to rise from you chair and join those whom stare, counting thin strands of electricity dashing about the larder.
A structure not as neat as a metal box lined with Styrofoam and wire.
It doesn’t represent the public appetite for recycling and refrigeration.
But a structure built for the death of cocktail hour.
Breaking the lamentably thin continuation of our march towards the middle finger of God.
And then, I know I have gone on for too long.
It is a spasm.
A fit where the only way to remove this constant doubt, is quiet.

Farmer of the Moon.


Often over emphasized and gigantic, there are things I have put into a sauté pan for the olfactory ignition.
Like when I found a neighbors diving board and attached a grandfather clock to its tip.
Or when I replaced a fence plank with a piñata depicting the wooden leg of a springing albino Rhinoceros lunging after a cigar brown tour bus from Naples.
Look, I have been running around trying not to spoil the moment.
My attempts at putting up row after row of sand bags has divined very little protection for me.
I could not prophesize the bloating of my abdomen.
The free fall of everything in my absence.
Nor the practice of unsanitary acupuncture.
But if you can get control, even slightly, then maybe just maybe,
the Museum of Modern History may wind up with the appropriate calculations for my disconnection from society, and have an empty casket filled with paper pieces and garlic snippets from the fifth floor of a random building on the moon.

The maker of Napoleon.

Is this some sort of joke?
The way that a shadow black striped snake fits it’s food to eat.
The level of volume withheld from a mouth and lung suffocated by a cardboard gag, held on with a strip of tape manufactured at the hands of a self loathing bread baker?
I could see it in that metal oven,
the size of a solid-state radio on steroids.
The opening and sliding in of dough, blue with misery.
The opening and sliding out of patisseries that would follow you to your death.
Gladly sitting there on top of your grave marker, never changing, always impervious to the wind, never stale,
Continuing in their state of the publicly held notion of fresh.
I can see the insides of this instrumentation, diablerie extrordinare.
How they all fit so neatly inside of us.
Or psychological desperation met with exquisite workmanship and flavor.
How the large glue-white boats traveled from the depth of the lobster to unleash them.
At the hands of our super study, or mass of markers transfixed for the notion of action as inspiration.
I drank last night without you, and thought of this.
My love collapsing like the ripening of a perfect basket of fruit.
My face retreating into its own hole.
I am the aficionado of poison.

Implosion (the inrush of air in forming a suction stop) Per Merriam Webster


I have set off for a moment
Implosive
A vacation in which you walk into a garbage dumpster, smoke a cigarette, and violently whisper curses at everything.
I am in front of a fox hunting emporium with a bag full of bread and a finely shaven piece of butter with which to spread, and it is time to dance, though I have no legs, and my knife was used in an archeological expedition in the nineteen thirties, so that they could find an ancestor to the human circus, and have a parade in the streets of where ever it was.
I think perhaps I am the Fata Morgana, that I am what they call the mythical beast, the fruit fly that eats steak and drinks far to expensive wine, while focusing on the proper pronunciation of old Brooklyn New York slang.
I think that I am the dead beast at the bottom of the sea waiting to be used as table salt and motor oil.
Or the canary, a holy yellow and waiting to die at the first sign of the unbreathable moment.
Find me milking cows without hands.
Find me with a photographic cast iron hat.
Find me traveling along shoreline with a large white case full of rocks and sticks.
I am the painless reality of the decade, the foaming soup of imperious ventriloquism from the TV tube, the highly marked up set of magnets fashioned after goats and pigs from a farm.
I am the instrument you played when you were a kid.
I am the monk that carries red vegetables delicately from one place to the other awkwardly moving his feet in positions which allow for shadow to fall unnoticed.
I am the impatient prophet.
I am the fool.
I am the long sought after dip in the water hole, the Sassafras tree, the sling on the ape's arm.
I am the implosion.

And this is what we call suffering dear.

So there we were connected in some kind of sarcophagi or a winter rain coat.
I have had enough of the miniature life and want to become big.
And yet, all that I can mentally grasp these days, is a first step towards the forbidden golden halo around the birds, in the bird markets, in bird cages.
Wings perfectly clipped to provide a basis for the need to be protected by cylindrical prison
Food less then great
and a life not big enough for even one eye.

Thousand year old bird
One thousand green wings
Over and over again I am installed in this dream but have no part
Over and over again I am deposited onto a ship and seventeen separate engines begin
The ocean viewed as one might an Albert Pinkhim Ryder
My disconnection absolute

Stupid Human

I am impossibly ingrown.
Eyes are immovable.
Thrown into calculations far beyond my capacity to understand
And even with abbreviations; a modified modality; a reevaluation of centuries, I am part of the cloud.
The giant floating aberration of our ignorance.
You know, the one covering up the heavens.

Surefire

And what is utter nonsense?
And how do we classify it as such
as non informational?
Not simply lacking the traditional, but displayed in the embroilment, and deposited into convolution.
Landscapes of foreign implementation, of foreign involuntary meditation, of rhyme that the ear cannot understand.
A star far heaver then its viewable sides.
Not like when you have gone to the cafe and received a plate of small pink squid after having asked for eggs.
And they are wrapped in cotton bags, with lettering on them, which you can only make out as some sort of communication beyond you.
What use can you find?
This ceases to be an elegant pause in a conversation.
And comes to a war of silence, with which you will not even eat.
Of course you will not ask for a chance to make the impression less fierce and disrespectful, for you cannot find the value of being struck dumb!
Imagine that
Cuisine should be left to a few miraculous characters which will always produce the same sleeping blankets.

A Frenchman after having an intensely bizarre dream (about a humming bird with a petticoat) speculated that eyes are fish like. Aquatic peculiarity can be attributed to the ocean inside of our heads where it is warm, often boiling. The creatures inhabiting this region have necks extending a considerable distance from their legs, Giraffe-like, including spots, yellowness and a predisposition to awkward movements. This is why growing vegetables on a red carpet while you make phone calls in the blue jungle coat and have angry conversations with the producers of chocolate building blocks makes you feel at a distance from Sylvia Firstmethenyou. Just about everybody wants a piece of the action in kicking your ass, and this is not a good thing. I know that I have not yet had the advantage of tasting all of the kinds of mustard produced, and am sure that a collection of the jars, after having been washed thoroughly, would make for an approved viewing. If so and so asks you to remember a dream that you had twenty years ago it is probably best to walk out of the room.

Blogger is like a toy on my carpet, you can put it together, take it apart and so on, all the while making it happen!

East Coast Garden Deserter
The vegetable game is over

Helping the sand get itself through my mouth
I have deserted the interests of the milkers
I have taken away their throne
Far back so that bellowing and hollering meet the notes of the mathematical mouth
As if numbers can utter acknowledgment within silence
As if a thief would be able to pull out of the debauchery and retrace the image from its permanent position
No matter how far you stretch your hands into the color into each cup and pull out an intention
The lines cannot loosen the golden noose
Cannot buy a french cinematic dream
Cannot translate past the world wide noise a word

How over processed I must seem
How pretentious
How garbled by my own sphere
How human

Had a dream last night that I was Drinking coffee and eating pie with Einstein. I had these dice which had postulations and theoretical diagrams on each side, and then another pair which exhibited the alphabet in orange and white. Einstein told me to give him back both pairs, gave me a cup of tea, told me to meditate, told me to look at how fast light travels, told me that I was mumbling in Chinese and that I was eating pie without a fork, told me that after the first atomic explosion he had left his body and was revealed the true sky and stars by a creature who had many hands and a red chicken wishbone in each.

(1)
Who, if I cried out, would here me among the poetical hierarchy’s? Not, never mind, Rilke, who resides in earth with three piece suite, more than likely chocolate gray and rain heavy now. As I sit here beneath my own manner of distinction, my own Elegy has been ground down by the photo shoots of Mars. The breast of angels do not fit to my body. I can not be overwhelmed by an existence other then my own, as I lie overleaped by a sense of terror, stronger then its distance from my reality, elsewhere; as one who cannot pinch them self awake to the world, beyond our own sphere. As history is pounding down other doors, in other corners, in other languages. I am common and dissectible, as truly we must have all become so long ago.

A PARTIAL DIAGRAM FOR TODAYS SERENADE

Once you have a time, upon which to say something, and immediately be read, and immediately be bothered with(or not), and you have spread out the butcher wrapping paper, and all of the glossy magazines have been inked, leaving your configurations outside of even soda cans, and you go on thanking your own sense to revolt from all dimwittedness and you are witness to the dismantling of opinion supported by constant disfunction and anyway you would not know how to fix things unless you brought royalty to your own exploitable brand of jive # 1. I am not king, I can only devise a minor lullaby and I do not even think that anyone would be able to sleep after hearing me.

Being clever is most likely not a issue one can force. I love posting things, but here I am posting without enough credence to the fact that it is the content that matters. It is good to clear the air, all of the people that I have entrusted, the people that have bought me jars of jam, notebooks, black and white photographs, all of them need to understand that I have never been able to loot the oxygen banks or the tire farm. I am not the sole survivor that will be looked up to, or even at. It is important to move things, and not necessary in any particular order, it's not about being fashionable, or conceited, connected, or store bought, but about the meat of the matter. I say fuck our impatience, our lack of vision, and most of all, my short sightedness!

Sometimes the stupidity just seems to leap out!

I am once again here with the cooking going on all around me. I have not yet learned how to plaster the Paris. I suppose that I would need first to get there and bring a bucket of plaster awaiting some Parisian to stop so that I may speak with them. "I am looking for some good breakfast, and a view where I may carry out some sculptural exhibitionism....might you know where........"

Large bee moving north without honey.

All of the undercurrent
The red math
The exactness of misfortune
The sloth disguised by it's slowness
Cut through our greatest members of human.

Who are these accomplice to the slug?
Geographical evenhandedness
Pygmied by the resolutions of the few
Hit us dumb!

Yellow and Orange and Black and White and masterful disposition of the evening night, I clamor on for nought.

Of all of the injuries which I suffer, the greatest, is my lack of having a diagram to an instant fortune cookie making machine!

I remember watching my 9th grade teacher writing nonsense all over the black board. She was always dressed like a strawberry, lots of seeds, big red smock, Tolstoy novel clutched in her teeth. I remember explaining to her how I had problems when I went to the Metropolitan Museum, how it made me nuts after awhile, how I got over saturated and turned claustrophobic and practically imploded. She sent me to the deli to get her a cup of coffee and calm down.

I have looked over the entire sauce, and can not find a single reason why it turned my house into a steamship.

Pulling baby teeth for adult teeth
Pulling adult teeth for death

Ok, so, considering that I am at a point this month, where I have fallen far below the equator,have no eyes, no mouth, lost my shoes and feel as though I will never find time for night to come and dream with that night. So I am laid out deafly and contributing to points on neither a solid nor ethereal basis, am just figuratively producing a system of compensation for my complete lack of existence. I wish so many times to be a bearer of content, that I could dirty my mouth, that I could pick through stacks and stacks of books, to find resilience to wandering away from them. I have pockets at least, full of the discards of order, chunks of tape, cans of yellow black birds, tips of eaten vegetables, pictures of eyes. I will never play, my neck cranking over my shoulder to project a gain in the game of pity and self righteousness until I have been absorbed into the bank, put into safety deposit boxes, converted into various foreign currencies and spent within inflationary conditions well above the North American imagination.

Is it possible for us to figure these things into our mouths?

Of course I must confess that I did not grab a handful of coffee.
In fact there is nothing that I can differentiate in discovering or finding myself through the moments of being lost.
I cannot even provide a certain classification of the moon in the oil painting.
Was it an over-powered egg laid in the sky by the black night and stars, or a yellow button fallen from my raincoat and having moved into the upper left hand corner of my spy glass?
We move through the day absurd, and I cannot for certain say that a modification of the moment when I was awake will put me or anyone in the right.
Nor can I say that anything is indelibly valuable, that the riches we seek are not at all, but something quite the less of what it is we could promise in the moments of seeing beyond the door.

I am about to go out and buy a newspaper which I will leave in my car. I will then find myself at the Library where I will check out Tolstoy's War And Peace, Nadja by Andre Breton, and finally, I will find a water fountain and wash off my sins, take out the dirty pearl white fish scalier from my pocket and put it to use on my Salmon, Trout, Flounder, Bluefish, and Rock Fish which I have first to take out from the paper sack under my arm, then unwrap each whole fish, being carful not to make eye contact. What do you think of all the wooden drawers in my office? Don't they smell a bit like cigar ash and milk? Do you know how many times I have walked to a deli and come back empty handed and then sat up pulled off my shirt and finding myself at an improper fitness level pardoned myself to all of the religious leaders ever having existed? IT IS SO HARD TO GO ABOUT THE DAY QUIETLY WHEN EVERYTHING ON AN INTERNAL LEVEL IS SUFFERING FROM VARIOUS MALADIES!

NOT EVERYTHING IS WORTH THE TROUBLE!

Underestimating the actual capacity to divorce myself from the scatter of suffering. Under appreciated dabbler and general kook lunatic, ever-powerful re-animator of the stuff often stepped on, out of an inherited ignorance and gigantic malaise.

On the apple trees up north are five oversized and thus almost comical apples, which you could make stand in for all the ingredients in your plastic red mobiles smothering the walls of the fruit museum in Western White Persia.

I am mostly confused about the sense of the things that are suposed to make sense!

Upside-down red white spotted goat hand grenade tucked in its gruff
Fall spread over head while listlessly pronouncing thank you to the winter months back inside my dairy box
Clean air hot coffee and the general practice of patience will allow the electricity around brain to move magnetic fists
I was walking nonstop the other day looking for something floating in the air
Perhaps a well-lit box hovering about made of wood and rice paper
A moon or serious balloon with which we do not tell the weather or reach things other than in sleep
I cannot stand this weaving in and out of immediacy with which I am hopeless to put to any other use then nighttime modifications of what I shall do tomorrow and not having done today Morn
Morn all over the place flocks of woodpeckers taking apart a wooden clock
Deceived by a metal white bearded goat of one thousand years of personal insanity

Strip down
appalling sacks
detach numerically
no overweight numbers at back of polychrome rail station
no outfits for small people struck so by head measurements at final gasp
in the field growth of clogs as paperweights might fold down tulips

Multilingual rubberman.
30 or 40 Parrots, wild from the jungle, swoop down upon shoulder,begin lessons with ears and mouth.
Learn how to learn.
Stop performing and perform.
At an appointment for an editorial review of black and white pencil marks!

One need not always be clever!

How strange to find myself alleviated from pressure. If I have taken a moment to describe that inside of my head beneath the skull there walks about a beetle. Forget about its color, the first and most important detail is the fact that a most impenetrable shell covers it. Furthermore I tell you it kicks up its legs in a constant wandering and circular motion, always busy, but not very giving, unless I ask in a clever way – “HOW MIGHT I BE BRIEFED CONCERNING THE MOST RECENT LEVEL OF USLESS AND DISTURBING LAUNCH OF FATUIGE THAT YOU CONTINUE TO COVET THE MOST UNASUMING AND WONDERFUL WAYS OF POSSIBLY BEING? SIR!” As you can see it is difficult to be polite when one is talking directly to oneself! Look I have a very good example, it all starts when two people take a walk together, the one is exited to be physical and needs to reach a certain point at which a mark is achieved, the point of the walk being fitness. The other is less concerned with this on regular basis, in point of fact, the walk revolves around the pleasure that can be derived from walking in the woods, the possibility of witnessing the very secret and wonderful day, its assorted green, and flowers, and trees et al. Of course the later wants very much to stop here and there (annoying to the former) encircling and caressing the wonder that is felt in hopes of celebration and discussion. Here we have a paradox. Do we take turns in our walks hoping that both individuals can be giving and unselfish about the tone at the time and not dictating one way or the other the overall out come of walk number one as opposed to walk number 12? I bid this to you, I desire a foreword to be written immediately concerning the depths that I have and will go to solve the everlasting problem that is myself. I am not a tireless individual with all of the childlike assets of my youth placed before me, triggers to squeeze summoning up whimsy and perfect innocence, but I do have a revulsion to constantly intimidating my potential till it is a flat bus tire lying on the side of a dirty highway after having just been hammered open and squeezed of its air by the very driver that was relying on it in the very first place! As a mathematical problem has those who can solve it through the proper explication, I will set about the same way my broken numbers.

The woodenhead rests on top
Of my Kitchen Refrigerator
It has eyes which are not moving
But I can tell there is something to being an inanimate object on top of a box of cold food which has its own place
In the IQ tests for children

I am over satisfied by nothing!

The Eye centered in a farm house!

I work for the Moving pin

Should you take me for a pointy-headed swelled-headed Rooster?
Up and rambling in the wrong time and place
An administrator-informant of ten things which cause you to bleed at the gums while in a dark room wearing a white hat valuably improvised by a cotton roustabout with tin needles
Dray-horse of the misadventure laid on the doorstep of thirsty mouths
I cut and clear the moment of which I am burned
Of which I have been suspended
The moment when I have accomplished the feat of pulling up my eyelids so that a beam can press against my daydream nightmare and flush out the broken bail of water.

white math is falling out the nose of the bird in the sky.

Who are these people writing the fiction of our produce?

Will I ever get past the wall that I have placed infront of my face?

Cha Cha Milk and a bag of revolvers

After composing and sealing in an envelope the manifesto of the red elephant I sat down to a meal of mouse.

All these thing beyond the Equator

I am at this time confronted with an immeasurable cycle.

FRIG and such.

Stand next to yourself like an ant stands next to a tree.

Not dissimilar from the construction of mathematical butterfly honey in the eyes of those close to the equation = read think

What does the Poem Mean?
Structural integrity,
Thinking is not necessarily a full and comprehensive dialogue with the conscious
It is not always "upfront", but can be down river and dream
Down river and dream, where if you have read something it does not immediately flush into the open, but stays crouched some place.
If you look at a can of paint in any other way you are short sighting yourself.

Full bag of chickens
also some lemons
and a ten-pound bag of rope
and a small tank (miniature) full of soap
and some butter for the doorway
which is half smashed by the giant lady
from the seven posters on the wall of your nighttime farming job
That’s right
posters outside while you pick the meat from the purple berry tree
a large lady is staring out at you from the posters gently held up -suspended by a toothless cat who wears yellow boots and smokes loose ears of corn floating around
and there I am hardly able to pucker a word from the trembling cold lip on my mouth
I have never been a happy farm animal
but this has taken itself to the extreme
a dream where I cannot think anymore
when I wake up in the morning they surgically have implanted the night sky on my brow
and the stars tell time to the wonder bread
Gross re store guilt
That circled like an ambulance picked up by a bird ten feet tall in the tuna fish can
Or the powder that everybody has never seen
but in a dream
and oh my God it is not fresh anymore
but snaps around like a rat with a cherry in its mouth

I am not concerned with the meteor shower over the milk cans
I am not concerned with the meticulous nature of rubber band manufacture
I am not concerned with the beginning of the auction at the flycatchers yellow house
But I do know that a mushroom has been foaming at is little mouth
and out comes blood
thick and like red milk
Like pie in a boiler room made out of tin rabbits and wooden bird feathers