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