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!