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!