Red Fig Tea Ornamentation of the most beautiful subtle line.

For what I did best
and in the death of my dreaming
I have calculated
pressed out the lettering for sounds.
Sounds will remain
lullabies for jellied white bread colored moths
holding behind Juniper trees.
And tomorrow as all will be painted in new day
I will not wonder about silence
I will not sit over paper pad contemplating the context with which I will displace the white space.
I will not marvel at the temperament of Octopus oval brain hulking my attempts of escape.
It is so simply easy
to be demoralized
to be a victim of pattern stretched so thin
that nothing is left
but the remnants of delivery.

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.