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.