COPYLEFT -- October 2nd, 2014                                                -about-


The materials scientist who researches the formation
of cracks in thermal barrier coatings on propeller blades
in power plant turbines and jet engines. The demonologist
who has read all of the literature and knows all of the names

and has on one occasion seen a malevolent gaze appear
hovering above the circle drawn impromptu on the forest floor
while a brace of imps on a spit laughed and unfurled
and the day darkened and then it was over. She spat blood

which evaporated on the air. She was determined to try again.
The things the game teaches you about yourself
conclude in the knowledge that the game you play
continues when you are not playing. The only way to win

can not be asserted with any degree of certainty.
The cracks form as the base material deforms
due to the introduction of high temperatures over
long stretches of time. This is unlike cracking from stress

in which cracks form along unseen, undetected, but
entirely predictable lines. Even the crack jumps
can be predicted statistically. You can watch them form
and join. When moisture is introduced and the crack jumps

are characterized in three dimensions, the connections
are more completely understood. The results are so deep
endent on the software that has been used. In previous
and current sentences a deprecated line break method

has been employed to create an absence of aesthetic interest;
the “troubled surface” argument gets my eyes rolled at it.
The materials scientist who characterizes the structure
of lead-rich dendrites in re-flown tin-lead solder joints

works all day every day in service of the electronics industry
but in a larger sense he serves whosoever would use a phone
or a computer. This is not all mankind. W
ould he be happy to take questions

yes he would. He destroyed at snakes and ladders and
his classmates bowed in obeisance. He typically wins Jenga.
Pick-up-stix he also pwns. Racquetball he gets his ass handed
him. The loss of credulity at a poetics of clever phraseology

has been poorly characterized, though ample real time data
is available. That is to say, there are slices which show cracks
not yet formed, forming, and fully formed. After they form
failure is imminent. But the poet will not speak of this

to anyone so the data evaporates on the air. To angelologists
and demonologists alike it did not ever even occur that hierarchy
might not be the only possible (let alone absolutely correct)
principle by which derived supernatural intelligences are organized.

The slices move through the mouse non-invasively
leaving behind a blue-stained memory gland
which has a 3D shape and 4D existence, or did.
Interventive imaging is founded on the principle that

computer images are rendered in pixels and therefore
surface areas can be counted, continuity can be determined,
directionality can be known, etc. I hate putting etc. at the end
of any sentence but I do it all the time. Worshipers

of the good gods endure endless ethical quandaries
and numerous aesthetic concerns. Contradictions abound
and the doublethink muscle reigns. The practices of evil
prescribed by the evil gods are typically contradictionless.

There's got to be a better word for that. The cleansing of the
dungeon can be considered an interventive imaging process.
The masses are mapped for surgery
as darkness is spun out into darkness and light.

Scars form
wounds in
reverse while
damage lasts.

The healing god heals these.
Damage lasts
while reverse
wounds in

scars form.
If you have ever poured liquid aluminum
into an ant colony you know how
I'm talking about.

The vascular development
of the fetal plesiosaur
could not possibly matter
but we are cataloging heaven

where poor and complete
ossification decides age
until one day a lord
shuts up your mouth.

All of its unpublished synchrotron data
is pulled down to Hades by hand-forged hook
though increasingly a “download-based” model
is deployed and I'll talk more about that later.

You must follow your intuition
knowing that it cannot possibly matter.
You must question your intuition
because it cannot possibly be matter.

Is it sufficiently or insufficiently cruel,
the regime which has imposed these conditions?
No the forbiddenness of cruelty is more than measurable.
Bone and tooth are living tissues, Tourette's too is living.

Hard and soft tissue interfaces have been mapped
at a default state and also under in situ mechanical loads
introduced increasingly over time. These science sentences
really take it out of me. They really get me jazzed, too.

I love seeing a graph plot with a line drawn through it. Like a
gentle but unambiguous upslope. Strain mapping is performed
under in situ loading conditions. That's what I said.
The 80-micron space between the tooth and the bone

might as well be the surface of the moon with night above.
You constantly apply these loads as you chew. The tissues
regain or change their properties as needed. See the
cross section of the tooth sinking into the jawbone &

springing back. Keep it going keep it going forget it.
The kobold is the ideal healer, in spite of how
it's a malevolent lizard dog. It can eat anything so food
is not often an issue. Its Invocations score is high.

This is not lyric poetry okay? Go away grad students,
go away faculty, go away ye wee undergrunders.
One problem manifests as cleverness in boys
and as tweeness in girls. The only solution is mastication.

By the time it gets to that stage it's already pathology.
Appeals to the healer god Elyvilon are not ignored
but can be shrugged off depending on monster HP.
The recitations of Zin though are rolled against HD.

The Shining One's cleansing flame ignores both of these,
scaling up directly by Invo skill and multiplying
based on undeath or demon status. All are united
by heaven's business of expunging malevolence.

Death does not especially bother them.
They do not care about the Orb. So to truly serve them
is to lose the game very, very slowly, to shine a light
perpetually in a void of random demon generation

and undeath as mentioned previously. The medieval images
of Christ leading the undead out of Hell also inculcate a belief
that through Him they are brought back into life. At some point
a punitive, combative model appeared – the Christ of

the sacred scourge, etc., and “etc.” is not how I end sentences
lightly. The mouse
has been found
to be friend

to the man
since before pups
reverted to gummy
bears which generated

by the way
electricity and we
cut the brains
in half, half

of a pencil
eraser which we
put in culture
for two days

then viewed under
the multiphoton microscope
unless the cells
have floated away

which has happened
but tagged DNA
the red stuff
is recouped easily

and who else
hates ImageJ? It
does evil bad
stuff to your

data relentlessly so
we upgraded our
equipment. Plus I
wrote some code

to register the
cropped data set
which can be
done 15 times

faster using better
equipment as I
mentioned but don't
worry I fixed

it. We can
identify features based
on any one
of these features.

I hope you
are able to
get a sense
of how the

language organ could
not have been
more precisely engineered
to blah and

blah. Motherfucker sprayed
keyboard cleaner on
a leaf mimicking
bug at the

moment it pierced
a wasp through
the thorax with
its proboscis and

he vaporized the
two of them
together one nanolayer
at a time

with a sheet
of blue laser
to take their
picture. Here's his

cross section from
a particularly interesting
shale. These are
his blue jeans.

Here is our exclusive footage of him reciting
The words to an unwritten psalm
We thank our maker for hidden cameras
And that this man will never become president

He was given an ultimatum in his dreams
Either dream only on camera or never dream again
So (wanting not to be blackmailed by his own mind's produce)
He chose never to dream again and now he wanders

A wilderness generated and governed by living waking dreams
Populated by half-undead monsters based on real people
Which his mind has turned to to save itself
From splintering into a million pulpy pieces.

In this state his socks are ironed for him
He lurks nearby with his eyes on the iron's plane
And when it lifts off he snatches his hand in
To press in, take up some of the unbearable heat

The utter unbearable smoothness and softness
Like a surrogate iron, and iron of undeath
Pulling life from the lifeless socks
Sucking it out of them and destroying them

So are his days governed by confusion and dissipation
He is a coating of oil, perhaps, wondering what shape his is
When really it is the shape of whatever object he's unable
Unable to penetrate the surface of today

Whatever object today remains impenetrable to him
Whatever globe-model, whatever complex of slightly
Disassembled & reworked old classroom globes is
Whatever almost narrative sculpture of whatever animal's

Compound eye made of globe parts whatever multi-skull
Skull-cap machine made of jigsawn globe sections
Whatever is this foam of old globes
Whatever pierces this foam of old globes with a single-voxel line

What angel-fine skewer transfixes this globe foam
What angel's lance is this that so straightly sticks through
That I can see both ends of it and infer the interior
With utmost confidence can I know what's up in there

Anyway no he will not dream on camera for you.
You'll have to invent wholecloth his various unfulfillments
Honestly it shouldn't be difficult. Check his browser history
And once you get to the double-digits in St. Vincent youtube video hits

You're like 80% of the way there
Imagine a copper stag bounding through
Transfixing a cloud of pick-up sticks
With loping linked parabolic trajectories

Cap it with some nightmarish cherry
Drizzled with a cherry liquer that evaporates
Upon waking. The oxygen returns to the room
He apologizes to the bedmate he has awoken

With his yelling. Does it seem to you that I'm preoccupied with nightmare?
The nightmare state is largely unexplored, but if we invert received notions
And consider it to be (rather than loss/dearth/horror) a sudden infusion
Of life and abundance, a jolt of unbearable electricity

Masked by pain and murder but why? It's a mystery. Once
Only I dreamed of a particular L-shaped corridor.
The long end led to the only exit.
The short end opened out into a larger room

That doubled back and nestled as a square
Into the crook of the L. There was a window
Between the corridor and the room so that
Two-way visibility was maintained. I was guided

Into this room by I know not who; someone who
Knew what they were talking about, presumably.
I was told that I was dreaming. I was told that this corridor
And room would be seen by me once more in waking life

And that I should remember them well, because they would be
The location of my death. There would be a violent gundown
Of 20-some people, and I would be among them. There would be
Nothing I could do to stop it, I was told, and furthermore by the

Time I recognized the corridor and room as the very space
I was standing in in my dream, it would be too late for me to escape.
I was then shown a preview of the event; the entrance of the murderers,
Seeing them through the two-way window advance down the corridor

And round the bend into the room opening fire
On myself and the other people who were there.
I woke up from this dream badly hurting. Its spaces
Were insufficient to contain its energy. Which is

To say that it lacked imagination. Or was about a lack of imagination.
And it seems selfish, almost blasphemous in its claustrophobia --
Its denial of kaleidoscopic creation. I would apologize to my maker
For the intrusion of a practice of assertion-making into dreamlife

An assertion-making that didn't ONLY seem culpable
But whose culpability was the cornerstone and capstone of a warped building
Folded in on itself. In the vestibule
They make milkshakes

For the idea of
Hell in the New
Testament is unsupported O
do not say so

O but I do
say so. Hell is
banana milkshake forever out
of reach. No it

is hell to be
gunned down in broad
daylight for no reason.
It is hell to

tell every day every
primate's backstory, to have
been stonefully sickened by
Enlightenment too is hell.

The insulation on the
wires of the body
of R2D2 which are
fully exposed when he

suffers yes another cartoonish
trauma or one wants
to say disemboweling those
wires and that insulation,

those are hell because
they can not be
imagined any longer they
are fully in face.

You zap the wand.
You hear a hissing
sound. The fire elemental
is badly damaged! The

fire elemental is destroyed.
Do you really want to walk into that cloud of fire? (Y/N)
The names of provinces
Fall away like nachos

Column Line Pie Bar
Area Scatter Other Charts
The comedian who was
everyone's punchline due to

his evident mania and
unparalleled success became upon
his sudden passing an
earmark only for lament.

That's what the edit button is for,
You chumplings! Edit edit edit
Like it was sewing machine time
Find the quote about Wanda Landowska

(or similar name) the amazing Polish harpsichordist
whose Bach was dismissed as sewingmachinelike
or was it her D. Scarlatti
or should it have been everyone's

And since today is a day of thunderstorms
I will meet you at the hot soup place
To share our tears and fall asleep
face down in the bowls sleep is so important to me.

Terrifying ring of a bell's absence zaps
Of a malfunctioning battery on the red line headphones
Up to 8.5 in one ear and the other feeling
Like I said oddly hearing everything absent,

Absently minded, no just the shape of it
Listen to the outline of J.S. Bach for example
Not Deafened not Deafening
Just an uninhabited island

Find what replace with what
Tape in the shape
His endless and all-accommodating thoughts
Form a bigger bag of tricks

But make him muddled, inarticulate, when delineating principles of poetics
Thus ruling out his inclusion in The Force of What's Possible:
Writers on Accessibility and the Avant-Garde, forthcoming October 2014.
Now a rather forceful, a rather electrical and insistent sizzle,

Rather a symptomatic phantom sound, a rather nasty tinnitus
And a spiritual vertigo have resulted from chronic headphones
Chronicle headphones. Here he is on hidden camera reciting words
To an unwritten psalm. The legs are swept from under his presidential bid

Before it was known
To him. The morningglories
Kept silent their
Upendings before it was

known to him the silent
morning glories up kept
silent their up
endings before it was. Gawsh

Gawlley! In "The Sketchbook"
He reinscribes all his ticks
Nervous all. The martini antidote
Was RATHER a violent disruption

Tearing the roof off the mother.
The insurance adjuster cut a check for 300 dollars.
And put a black smudge next to your name
In your own book how did he get in there.

Not to be confused. The
novel twist on a number of years
culminating in a confusion of two names
or "characters" oh yawn me a default yawn.

Cause me to remember. Icicle
For me is imagelinked to oblivion
Likewise silence is conflated
With subway wall tiles not

Like piedra & who does that
Causing the conjugation of
The verb sentir to resemble
The sentiment by which

Though worn otherwise
Mandolin music has caused
An emergency tremolo
Picking through the

Umbra two turns
Hey Mark Leidner I
I dig your online presence
The ubique card

Is layered over with tangled pictures of pipes
Calling forth a music of praise
The naranja and inverted semilla portend a fortunate season
Spill the vanilla then, splash the cinnamon

Millions of hummingbirds
Contract down to the few
In the moon's umbra
The sum of two cards

Sad but urgent race
To commit a single word
To a spreadsheet (mostly this thing is composed in Excel or Open Office Calc
So that the HTML line breaks can be added by formula)

Oni hella disses Edith
Piaf while switching to Yma
Sumac to which I answer Nina
Hagen of whom Oni doesn't know (cool story bro)

Not much is said of the zone between sleep & dreaming
which is perceptible emerging from the dream.
It's not much perceptible. They don't tell you that.
They don't tell you anything. They micromanage your syntapses

He should be writing haiku. He looks up from the screen
thinking “screen of nothing, what is that, is that a title”
then seeing a streetlight is struck with the enormity impossibility
crass abject beauty almost insulting beauty of it. Mortal predicament etc

He had Googled Jenna Elfman a name
he barely remembered only to find
No not her she rather looked
like Joey Lauren Adams

to a degree. No
Actually quite similar
Maybe shorter and hotter
(ugh you crass ogre)

telling first one
person and the next
she looked like Joey Lauren Adams
“No I said Joey Lauren Adams”

It is a basic video game dream
The object is not to step on a mouse
The main character begins
in a basement by stepping on something

he spins on his heel
to see there a mouse
legs spasming and a gout of
blood emptied from its face

sure living mice can be seen
from a side-scrolling view
until one is stepped on
so one dodges first one then two

by dream logic the two
become four and then eight
until a critical number can
not not be stepped on

the sense that so many
mysteries must be solved all
at once as they multiply underfoot
as stars wink out overhead (advancing night)

all sighing heavily
carrying bag of trash to
curb 10:45pm querying faded stars
which mystery first

She has ceased appearing even in dreams.
Her reproaches over the fragmented language
Of her instructions sent back as to the past
Land as autumnal leaves and evaporate.

It's all complete sentences with her now; the power that
Reinscribes its conduits as itself has found
In her a daylight dawning or instructional sentences (complete)
For a card game whose object is to first make day dawn.

At last the mountains are sheared
into sleeping green valleys
divided by mercurial water
emptying onto small, indifferent towns.

Once these townspeople are called into question
very little else can be done. That is, the question
must be settled, and committee lines be drawn up
on increasingly more patient schedules as the charts

multiply. The banks and factories must be made
to fight it out for the fate of the common man.
The victor presides over man's second age;
the bodies of the losers choke the waters under the Golden Gate.

Enough of this – they cancel their own destruction,
these townsfolk, these townswomen and townsmen,
by insisting on a different approach. They have found
that a life is irreplaceable and precious no matter how fat

or stupid or ugly or Other or grouchy or gross.
Their city becomes a utopia where only reasonable things happen.
When death occurs, the soon-to-be-deceased are told
simply and without further ceremony that no one knows

what will happen to them. Currency is converted
in special machines into special machines.
Nanocurrencies blossom and the captain has turned on the
Nanocurrencies eat and convert other currencies

The financial system's drivers and pit crews cease to breathe
They suck down and in, succumbing to the black arrow
Bizarre utterances, unflattering haircuts. Who knows anymore.
Then in a blaze a unicorn showed forth on all channels,

brightly lit by intense spotlights, descending from the balcony
vanishing before touching down on the stage. A symbol of purity
is the standard understanding, and reckoning that (of course)
precedes critique like we needed to be reminded. Burp.

Demanding but not earning
his little legitimacy the
yelling man recorded his
surgery-themed album

and delayed its release
to accommodate a
handful of vivid and
alarming photographs

of doctors irrigating
whole tubfuls of water into
or out of a patient's
mostly concealed body,

or I don't know cutting
into it or pulling the
sides of the would
apart such that one

must if one is a
human being imagine
the nerves basically bucking
and straining as blood

pools and trickles or one
perhaps thinks of the
anaesthetic sleep & the
life of the patient held

so tenderly and precariously.
The vocalist I mentioned
tried to turn such intensely
humane efforts into

(like everything else he touches)
trauma, violence, cruelty,
puerile misbehavior, ah me.
Surgical precision can not be

imagined. It must be
lived or witnessed. To speak
of it is to not have seen
or known it. For this same

reason the parents will
not speak to the child
about his belief in God
thank God. But they wish

his soul to be saved and
trust to the Lord of all
to see to it without
even roughly auditing their

own notions of how faith
or blessings or grace
can co-exist in this world
alongside trauma, violence, etc.

Not to mention who gets
credit and who gets blame.
They have not worked out these
problems, perhaps because

they are insoluble, so to spout
contradiction after contradiction
is the only way. I wonder
what theology would feel like,

real grappling. I wonder if,
in place of the thin film I
perceive to separate the
Good from the Evil, there's

something more durable.
This idea that the Good is just
the Good plus the Evil,
or the Evil is just the Good

plus the Evil, or they both are
somehow involved with or
dependent from one another,
or somehow they're gravitationally

attracted, well, it might be reckonable
with. The parent made it through
heart surgery to tell the tale.
Not much of a tale, though!! He was under

the whole time and
remembers very little.
The brother-in-law sang him a hymn
while I guessed at

my own presence in the room.
Was it a standing spectating thing
or the kind of presence that designs
and executes a change of realities?

Holy, Holy, Holy, there is none
above Thee. Holy Holy Holy all
the saints adore Thee / casting down
their golden crowns along the glassy

sea. Around the glassy sea? They
line or encompass it, this plurality,
this city of saints. They dash the
crowns from their own heads

When they behold the majesty
of the creator of the Universe.
To finally feel that humbled
what wouldn't you give. A

All cruisin youtube for hilarious first pitch fails
50 Cent I'm looking at you
I am 36 years old and dying, I will die in love
In love will the razor wire encircle me

Batter up! Long line drive over the second baseman's head
Dropping in shallow center, man on.
Next up, two fouls two balls a third strike and he's out.
Made up details of baseball are the boringest costube.

I could be a Wes Borland clostume for Christmas
I could be a Flying V, second spine
There is nothing so very consistently worth doing as mucking around on YouTube
John Adams considers himself a philosopher of manure.

And now he listens to Limp Bizkit vs Wu Tang
Got to stop it wif the YouTube cruising
Well, not lost time anyway
He said Elmer Fudd hilarious. All praise is due. Poetry broke yo.

Knee knuckle ball fine
For ball thrown behind batter head
Ump gives a yerrouttahere gesture
with Umpmost cool

Two batters up
and fries choke
up faster swing
the ball batter

I hope there won't be too much timpani
Four lines will be too many
There must be the right amount of excess hey Johannes
come get me come yell at me what are my transgressions

Two pitches match
Knuckleball note
vs. slider (trombone)
they same strike (timpani)

Stravinsky's Markov chains are a matter of public record
John Cage selects an uppercut from a list of available punches
Morton Feldman can't cast Iron Shot at Mennas
Conlon Nancarrow escapes with the Orb ...and 15 runes!

Fortunatey he never really liked Faith No More. In 2005
his attention was diverted from Mr. Bungle to a much harsher band,
Pig Destroyer. Have I mentioned them before? Not once did they ever
inspire him to create a long, largely deficient poem with Markovian dependencies.

In the year 2000 he who had been a Korn fan (sort of) turned
his attention to Mr. Bungle which was a definite step up
but this band too gave him many mistaken ideas about oh what reality?
The many finesses and flavors of life well-lived?

The man's soul wrote out a long nonmanifesto designed to be unreadable
Because you didn't have to read it. All you had to do was process it as proscribed
and insert line breaks where they were needed. The meaning was
sort of like garbage interchangeable (disposable) metal band music.

The soul was so extensive that the words inevitably repeated
And the text was fed through a simple computer script which essentially
made a table of these correspondences and then decided arbitrarily when
presented with a choice between multiple options

In the year 1995 a Metallica fan decided to become a Korn fan
In this way the trash of his soul was buttressed with trash
You could drop the needle in it anywhere and a meaning
Could only emerge from the hyperlinks between words

By the year 1985 Metallica's fame had caused global climate change
to accelerate to a "point of no return"
By the year 1990 this process had inverted "turned inside out"
such that Metallica was seen as a clownish symptom of larger problems

Lars Ulrich can't play drums in time
Trujillo plays inferior bass
James Hetfield's words don't rhyme
Kirk Hammett has a silly face

Effin Lars
always hits the cymbal
on beat two of the measure
Eff that guy, and that band

By 2075 Lars Ulrich could not be reached for comment
"…And Justice For All" played on a huge sentient stereo system
While a holographic Freddie Mercury listens and philosophizes
Gunjevic's theologies are held in a productive tension against one another

By the year 2055 pizza was extinct
In 2060 the last president ceded power to a child-plant hybrid
The plants then ate the last humans within five years
By 2070 the magnetic poles were regularly cycling ("poledancing")

Palm trees at the poles
Hulking skeletal reefs bleached of life and
hot to the touch, razor sharpened,
sunk in uninhabitable waters, year 2050.

I am getting to an age where I regularly have small but unanticipated
and unprecedented insights into the existential situation
which is sobering of course but they are of so little consequence
that they bubble off, they boil away, as the sun even climbs.

I started a metal band about chewing gum
Soon the gumcore genre outgrew me
Our drummer sat small metal objects (lengths of chain,
paperweights, etc) on his snare drum head

Nobody get sick of Ovid okay
okay muffled stuff sounding upside down
walls will do that, music too, and breath freshening gum
/|/BRETH FRËSHENOR\|\ <-- those are supposed to be lightning bolts

the worship of god must be lived in mortality
kinetic knuckle cymbal
peripheral vigeon visgeon
vigzhon vijjion ugh okay fine

stomp on harpsichord it
snap off clusters o
registered nurses cabin flute notes hi
bassoons hi bassoons low

8GB memory card w/ no contents
spotless reputation/mind
"```_`_-_.jpg"
You cannot include the following characters in a filename

Stargazing depends heavily on yesteryear's innovations.
Telescopes are windows backwards in time --
rear windows, if I must -- this truism
has been overstated one million times.

More about stargazing: it was popular in the 20s, 40s, 1400s,
1300s, and today, as well as at other times in history.
The rigid distinction between astrology and astronomy was not felt
as recently as 500 years ago; think of that.

Stargazers have no technique and cloudspotters lack discipline.
The discipline of TV is such that no wasted breath is unrecuperated.
No, not true. The discipline of TV must be dispensed with, though.
No talk show host monologs wearing a horse butt.

On the island of the centaurs, stargazing prevailed
and diurnal vision was deprecated. Veils parted
or were lifted (accounts vary) but having seen their future
the centaurs were made mad. The end

Nessos is credited with the death of Hercules.
Hercules encircled the neck within the motion of
the drawing of the blade, and next instant encircled
the joining place of horse and man.

Hercules is credited with the death of Nessos.
In popular lore it was well known that the poison of Nessos' arrows
persisted days and months later in the system of Hercules.
Inside, that is, vs. external, encircling, asunder.

Nessos is alive again and Hercules is Jason Priestley.
Bad casting if you ask me. Please welcome back to the show,
Nessos! Come on out, Nessos, how are you? Whoa, whoa hey now,
easy on the longbow there friend. Oh god he's a monster

(Interlude here while I caution the reader against
the video game called Dungeon Crawl: Stone Soup.
I have a serious debilitating addiction to this game.
It has cost me untold amounts of life. It is not worth playing.)

He appears across a medium-sized room
which is otherwise open, launches two
poisoned flaming arrows, and teleports
a short distance away but still within

line of sight. This he repeats. I am
damaged. I gesture and speak clearly
a formula for summoning 5-6 butterflies
into the air around me, hoping they

will intercept some of the next few arrows.
This is life, and living. Maggie Nelson says
Wittgenstein just sounds like a sad and
slightly crazy person. "Why can't my right hand

pay my left hand money?" Why can
I make myself laugh? Why can I surprise myself?
God what a joy. A teleporting centaur who
runs out of arrows and is, then: what?

The laughter of sui generis deluge.
The deluge of sui generis laughter.
He has told the same joke twice
to the same audience and they laughed

They laughed louder the second time,
honest laughter, mortally saddened & deepened.
The resignation on his face, they're singing
Happy Birthday, candles barely lit a moment before

he blows out the candles. Is it done,
I don't want it to be done, all of his
sentences end with commas, I shook the
knobby bones of his hands and thanked him.

Today's desires' pyramids poke the horizon
Sex sex desire desire everything
Moment instant of eye contact on left
Her exit from the train bespeaks

Today I desire everything
She exits the train on the left
Our brief eyecontact bespeaks
Sex, the sex of distant pyramids

It is Mandelbrot for dummies.
It is as navigable as a flatworm's gut.
It's drafty as a donut in here.
Good Christ I can see the back of my own haircut.

But it is mappable terrain. It is but Beethoven.
When you get to the bottom, hell is there.
You meet kobold demonologists along the way
who summon minor demons; abjure these

and whenever possible axe off kobolds' heads
in a manner befitting your ancestry, which is
your close acquaintance with your own destiny.
Bleakness, sameness, soul's room bare and clean.

Today is the day. In this place
because it's the same place
as every other day
I've entered the desert

I speak directly to camera
on a show called Battlezone
in a dream that replaces alarm sound
an actual voice of word spoke.

The dream is me watching this
but I'm looking into camera two
and reading words from the prompter
which now have been exposed as

placeholders for words, shapes
yes language can do that. Fade,
turn away. Eden in a bot
tle yes. Terrarium of Venus

no flytrap. For I know not
what day it is. Beethoven
is my guest on tonight's
Battlezone, but first let me entrust

to you data from my life, raw data,
if we could all have access to
all of it from each other's lives
instantly and without effort,

if omniscience were breakfast merely,
or if it were kickball, or
fire drill, peace could not
but prevail. Do you

viewer want truth or peace?
Let me tell you something about myself.
I feel today that I'm engaged in a struggle for my soul,
against whom or what I know not.

from dreams I don't understand
into a waking life whose resemblance
to an impenetrable fog is now not
worth disregarding, steady drumbeat.

Wake everyday no reason to wake
Dreams equally incomprehensible, sourceless
(the (apparent) sourcelessness!)
Value of disregard is exceeded by regard

Fog of consciousness, steady drumbeat.
Let's bring in our guest. No reason to wake
from equally sourceless dreams and not worth
the effort it would take to disregard

(mystery after mystery, words in alliance
O desert footsteps, desert fog whose form
takes footsteps only then evaporates
fake words truthfully read from the prompter

golem swallowing fake word turns to steam
from which empty scroll falls utterly
horrifyingly harmless) impenetrable fog
steady and slow beating of an invisible drum.

But now we welcome our guest. You know him
from his symphonies, his piano sonatas,
his string quartets, and from the towering
bronze statues of him in every conservatory

in the world and in some town squares besides,
ladies and gentleman, please welcome
Ludwig Van Beethoven (applause sound effect,
applause sound effect) (hat tip to Chelsea P for the

applause sound effect) Have a seat right there,
Ludwig, and thank you so much for being here!
Welcome back! Longtime viewers of the show
will remember your previous visit (nervous laughter

sound effect). But Gordon has forgiven you buy now
right Gordon? For those who missed it, last time
Beethoven was here he got into a fistfight with
our bandleader Gordon, something about the

angle of light reflecting off the timpani,
wasn't it, Beethoven? The man is passionate
his timpani, that much is for certain. By the way
viewer it saddens me that I imagine myself

to be Jimmy Fallon sitting here doing this
whereas in past years I would have been Letterman
ha the reverse aging ha ha is dis-spiriting.
Jimmy Fallon go to the bottom of hell.

But hell is as unsummonable as the tier-1 demons
pelting me with draining spells and hellfire
while our eyes fill with tiers. We lived a
big 'ol life, one full of shit and flowers,

death-green bullshit twiglike desert stems topped with paper petals
that smell like overworked ass and wrinkle up under anyone's gaze whosoever.
We lived a turd's life, you & me, the danged atomic bombs
fell like cliche-perpetuatin' raindrops into our garden bed

and just kicked the hell out of our marigolds and posies and such
and time after every goddamn time there was asphodels in their place,
jest a stinkin' and a rottin' alive, jest swarmed round
by ghouls and necrophages lickin' their chops and saying

to each other "What in the goldurn tarnationous stinkpit
is this piss poor excuse for foliage that I do remember it,
& grim grammit if it don't recall to me both my own life
and my own undeath too, though too weak a splash of blood

courses through it for it to entirely undeceive my eyes a lookin'
admittedly through their own papery thin and necrotic
eyelids a goddammit and a Yosemite Sammit." All fun and games, yes
certainly, that is all, all there is is fun and games.

Great car, very reliable.
They are built for animals to drive.
It's a Honda Civic full of porcupines.
One of my grandmothers drove one.

A random sampling indicates 50%
And neither grandma was a porcupine.
The other was a barracuda. Barracuda!
You can only imagine the ferocity!

Take on the porcupine's form.
It could not have been great
but the porcupines know how to play instruments.
There's got to be something

the porcupines don't know how to do.
Imagine a porcupine wearing glasses
and a little vest. Like a bulletproof vest.
Otherwise nothing sharp or deadly around.

So that the memory withers and any other effect
is unpredictable. It depends on the game mechanics.
Can you make me look more like a normal person?
Not to look younger -- not to increase the memory.

Things are going badly here, which is standard.
I feel the deficit of my own performance here.
Deficits created by my own performance here.
The interventive power of poetry cannot be cowed.

Intimidation can not be taken out of words
but poetry can. Though pinball has had so much
to do with his recent life, and (he hopes) will
continue to give him joy, now he wants to

talk himself into being a poet again
so that he can feel the interventive faculty
at work. To intervene against one's own timidity
first, then to intervene in a larger way

in a world that's manifestly forgetful of
what, Eden? Yeah, maybe. Remember Eden
but he can not remember Eden, a baleful messenger
wielding a flaming sword forbids access to

that memory. He takes such delight in pinball
as a prosthesis for pure intuition that it
is only afterwards he notices that the garden
has faded from around him and he is warned off

by the angel with the flaming sword --
a death, certainly, but more than that:
a rebuke suffered at the boundary of an impossible
which has already been achieved and

will be achieved again. "Wanted: lost cause
EM machine for re-theme. Only complete basket-cases,
please. I will not ruin a perfectly good game
for this. My re-theme will be called "Garden

of Perdition." During play, the player will
complete objectives (lighting targets,
hitting drop targets, etc), to ease and then
reverse the forgetting which has led her

and him out of the Garden of Eden; during play
the flaming sword will melt into dew
and grace will pervade.
I have a $100 budget for this project."

I half woke from a dream at 5am
the purpose was to concoct a system, to dream it into being
the system equates forgetting with turning away
and reattunement is necessary because it places beings

into alignment with a love that guides their actions
even yesterday I couldn't have imagined typing these words
and tomorrow I will have forgotten them
though I find myself looking forward to remembering

this, not this moment but this time, the struggles it contained
the elegant light bouncing off the struggles, oh I don't know.
I want to be old and then die, sometimes. I sometimes think about death
the only FUN to be had was pour the colored beads out on the floor and, shrug.

But I don't yet
how to hook the
up to each othe
little bit like

and I have a ga
but I don't kno
I pour a little
windshield -- t

I pour a little
driver-side doo
still won't sta
eventually.

So I pour a lit
on the windshie
the windshield
won't start. I'

eventually. But
they interact.
of gas on the d
the car still w

I don't yet und
how to each oth
and I feel a ca
bit like I feel

don't yet under
I don't yet und
two things up t
little bit of g

of gas on the w
won't start. I'
But I don't kno
a gallon of gas

I pour a little
driver-side doo
the windshield
the driver-side

still won't sta
but I pour a ca
understand how
things up to ea

and I pour a li
I have a little
I have a little
the driver-side

the car still w
I feel a little
on the driver-s
the windshield

the car still w
But I pour a li
the driver-side
the car still w

of gas on the d
the car still w
eventually. But
I don't know ho

each other. So
of gas on the w
the windshield
the car still w

it out eventual
little bit of g
the driver-side
the driver-side

understand
se two things
r. So I feel a
I have a car,

llon of gas,
w how they interact.
bit of gas on the
he car won't start.

bit of gas on the
r handle -- the car
rt. I'll figure it out
...

tle bit of gas
ld -- the windshield --
-- the car still
ll figure it out

I don't know how
I pour a little bit
river-side door handle --
on't start.

erstand
er. So I have a car,
r, and I pour a little
a little bit like I

stand how they interact.
erstand how to hook these
o each other. So I pour a
as, but I have a little bit

indshield -- the car still
ll figure it out eventually.
w how they interact. I have
on the car still won't start.

bit of gas on the
r handle -- the windshield --
-- the windshield --
door handle -- the car

rt. I have a little bit of gas,
r, and I don't yet
to hook these two
ch other. So I pour a car,

ttle bit like
bit like
bit of gas on
door handle --

on't start.
bit of gas
ide door handle --
-- the windshield --

on't start.
ttle bit of gas on the windshield --
door handle -- the windshield --
on't start. I pour a little bit

river-side door handle --
on't start. I'll figure it out
I don't know how they interact.
w to hook these two things up to

I have a little bit
indshield --
-- the windshield --
on't start. I'll figure

ly. But I pour a
as on the windshield --
door handle --
door handle -- the windshield --

There are two main problems facing human beings currently.
These are: 1) environmental catastrophe, short or long term,
and 2) wealth inequality. Together, they will be the sources
of the planet's misery for the next 1000 years at least.

And yet there's something else underneath, something nameless,
situated prior to naming, not subject to quantification or
analysis. It can't be seen because it is seen through, the
pane of living looking, the faint glow of contingency

which is not quite unreality
except in its most extreme moments
hanging around every moment.
My ears ring and have rung

and my eyes fill up with sagging debris.
No conviction can be based on them, not
just because of corporeal erosion, mortality,
but the unmistakeable sense that one

was never alive in the first place,
and the immediate kickback when confronting this thought,
a whiplash of culpability. The simple notion
that one is a defective robot

with a sour battery
and always has been
and that the love one has felt even
is traceable to an improperly stored story

first heard at age 2
and now impossible to comment out
as it has effectively BECOME
the storage mechanism and is alive

in ways the host is not.
The tupperware golem seeing itself in the mirror.
Meet these things head on for the first time, then.
And recognize too the beckoning

of reality even in your dreams
even you who prefer dreams to waking
even your nightmares so filled with seeds
and inklings, unmistakable

the desire to cut through contingency
and know and believe and actual truth
the wordless bubble or not a bubble?
the embroidery or the non-embroidery?

I shain't abide no more Picasso no;
I'll put the eyes & goblets back where they go.
No more bonus perceptions kay?
I'm a rollitonback to at least Monsieur Monet.

That was the beginning of a difficult time.
Frederick Sidel's books (which I did not read
since My Tokyo (an abysmal bore of a book
in retrospect (due to... what? A deficiency

of Zen in the writing? Of the Everywhere
Everyday? (By the way can I tell you a Zen story?
This was on the popular WTF podcast,
a story told by comedian Paul Gilmartin

(in the context of 80s arcade games and
Missile Command specifically) about a
young comedian he knew who,
when he had bombed onstage,

would cope by going out to the lobby
where the Missile Command cabinet was
and would feed in a bunch of quarters
and then would not play --

would just stand there and watch destruction rain down.
Is that a Zen story? Well it makes me laugh, that's
what Zen means, right?)))) can go chase themselves.
A difficult time. Lose a few pounds.

Long rectangular stretches of the day.
Unable to let resentments drop,
feeling they could be addressed head-on
and unable to sense the loss of footing that would bring.

The quarterback and what it changes when it changes.
One man's passing offense
is another's running/scrambing. He is loose
from the pocket. He throws a man

to the ground out of desperation.
As he crosses the line of scrimmage he is alone
among a sea of murderers. Where does the shovel pass
land? Peyton Manning, a genuine genius but aging,

clipped, hacked, smothered, stifled, out-thunk
I saw the arcs of bridges photostacked
on one another superimposed no crossing
barriers thorns entrances exits no.

I'll put it here
I carried the splinter
without that being should splinter it
& regret jettisoning Kansans

& a splinter Kansan sonogram.
The ampersand ends up
at the beginning of the line why.
Probably peer pressure.

In, must have been 1998,
nursing a two-year smart
I wrote a break-up book of poems
entitled Siamese Dream.

I showed it to highly valued friend
and mentor Laura Mullen, then
about to become my first “real”
poetry teacher. As in, the first

lesson she taught me was
what you have done here
is simply terrible so start over.
I felt then and still feel that

there was something some spark
hidden; existing but barely;
tucked in the corners of that
project not its idea but its reality:

The title of each poem is the same
as the title of a track from the
Smashing Pumpkins album.
The text of each poem is

(here begins charitable wording)
assembled from song lyrics some real some fake,
bad poetry, and (worst of all
& no concealing it) letters to an exgirlfriend

I had not yet gotten over. The titles
being the same as the album's
and having no bearing on the content
made me laugh. And the whole

enterprise was so audacious and stupid
and the process of writing it so free
(O freedom! Freedom to write however badly)
that it chomped itself a permanent place in my heart

Laura's comments notwithstanding
and by the way she was right, it was bad.
I assembled it in much the same way
as one might assemble a sidewalk

of pre-poured slabs of concrete,
just plunking them down next to each other
as opposed to you know pouring.
Well then 15 years went by

and I visited my college town
and its desolation was so real
it was not at all a mismemory it was EVERYWHERE
and I felt transformed, mortal, and okay.

And I remembered my stupid book
and thought I'll rewrite Siamese Dream
(MY Siamese Dream) without
consulting the prior version

to see what I could come up with.
I thought it might help me kick
some writers' block I'd been accumulating
which it did. I rewrote it and it was still bad

but differently and the nouns fell
into differently numbered holes I'm sure
there are some gems in each version
and a lot of slop. I'm now

patently concerned with a failing memory
but failing compared to what? who can say?
And intuition, dream, nightmare, waking,
The boundary line. Water is the aggressor.

So now do I revise one, or the other,
or both, or do I staple them to each other
and publish them in an edition of one
in the shallow waters off Nantasket Beach?

I'll drown my book and not think twice.
Well the smart money's on “revise both”
but I confess the earlier will be gnolls
and kobolds top to bottom: easy

to kill and hard to improve.
I'm not sure it sounds like
such smart money after all.
That's what's been going on with me.

Lines of bygone cyborg trace
Through pictures of cyborg dog
Bow, wow. Bow, wow. Unconvincing
But as a sentinel, serviceable.

It was a day filled with pride.
A sound of attackless windchimes
drifted from the bygone cyborg:
the scones were ready.

There's not much but oranges to say
I think I filled this out once before these blanks look
Familiar these coffers look like I've been inside
I've been inside these coffers before pretty sure

But oranges say. And then
Well nothing. Okay
Is mango puree next
To indigo bunting.

Random assortment
of binder clips
is dashed off
the table to reappear

in a song at the
gates of. Why stop there
when oranges say.
When do they though?

Bubbles so transparently don't.
Nor do thoughts bubble.
Milk bubbles in thoughts
Say gentle sugars

Into a void of
When oranges say!
It's fun and I'm not done.
Oranges' sugars spike through

Parliamentary deadlocks
Like pikestaves to temples
In olden times for which
O we lament but oranges

they just stay there
klaxxoning to their
counterpart asteroids conceptually.
When nobody has eyes

it's possible but not until.
Tran lapsed, sure
but Tran lapsed into?
Or Tran lapsed

into existence? Seems irresponsible
sentence-wise. Whereof one
cannot speak one must be
ENTERTAINING! Thanks

I've been playing Cookie Clicker
this morning and every morning
No just this morning and one other
No just this morning and the

finding of it fun is
Joy unto the world
Joy and Nightmare commingled
I think they're the same thing

I think there's no joy
in Cookie Clicker but in
the finding of fun in it
which is Joy and Nightmare

I think we would be healthier
Healthier as a nation
If they were the same word
As oranges do say, do they.

Elisa Gabbert's new book
"The Self Unstable" is outstanding
and I highly recommend it.
What kind of book can seem

unconcerned with language except
at moments when it's revealed that
it's been crucial the whole time
yet nothing could have been done

in language or out of it
to prevent the kreeping dread
or the backwards-facing help-
lessness of the timestuck passenger

from manifesting in language and
even because of it? It's a sad book
ultimately, and not one I would've
expected from anybody, even

Elisa who I kinda know but now
less than ever (having read the
book that is). Pick it up, check it
out, bewail yr little planetary fate.

Manipulate the space-time all around you
so that you find the book
entering your eyes by the wordsful.
Don't not read it. Eat oranges.

What else. Been listening to podcasts.
Since I have to kill some lines here
I will list them. It'll be as interesting
as anything oranges say, right future?

In no particular order: Doug Loves Movies,
Call Chelsea Peretti, Never Not Funny,
Comedy Bang Bang, The Todd Glass Show,
Professor Blastoff (although I've got some

catching up to do on that show), You
Made it Weird, WTF (which I kind of can't
stand -- I once made a joke to someone
who I didn't know well enough

that the only thing wrong with that show
is the host), and oh I don't know. Bored
with list. Mom wants to know if I get
her texts so I'm trying to strategize about

how to answer that.
Shorter lines is
what oranges say.
New sunflower balm

In the upper ionosphere
the outer plenosphere
the distal amalgamosphere
the vinegaric balsamosphere

Anway, what? Who did
No you
I never
That can't be

Hi Mom, yes I do, is there
something the matter?
Sorry I didn't answer
yesterday afternoon, I was

at work when your text
came and I forgot to come
back to it. We're driving to
Pennsylvania but not until

tomorrow morning early.
Weather should be blown
over by then (rather than
overblown, which it sounds

like it has been on TV).
That last line could have
used some rephrasing anyway
I hope she finds it all

funny and okay, and
Did you ever see the show
Community? It's pretty good
and the people on it are

funny, and the writing is
strong, and it's one of the
most universally beloved
television shows of the late 00s

and early 10s. Similarly,
Radiohead's OK Computer is
one of the finest albums of the
1990s, a decade known for

prosperity, stability, lurking terror,
postmodern normalcy, hot pink(s),
flannel, ska revival(s), Spike Lee,
Super Nintendo, and I just literally

sent an emoticon to my mother
which I hope was an okay thing
to do in late capitalism okay
Noam Chomsky? :-)

Master and Commander was not the worst movie
Thor was the worst movie.
Superman I was also the worst.
The worst movie ever was Moulin Rouge

The best movie was Le Grognement Vert.
You probably haven't ever seen it.
You wouldn't know the director.
She's an obscure French director.

The worst poet is: I daren't say.
Probably the one who has done the most harm.
In which case, who shall throw the first stone,
when harm is to be avoided so scrupulously by the poets?

She was there in the garden of Eden
before Eve and she was the only Muse
to have escaped oblivion and
she left it up to you

She ungrafted her knuckle and unmolded
The plastic attachment and in
Every sense she was returning
To her made (maiden) state in the garden

It will be only knuckles when
The end comes, what
Else will remember and
What will it remember, there will be nothing

I can feel your hand and your knuckles
What a surprise
That knuckles
Can serve (as) the whole of love

As if a perfume manufacturer
Was in and out of business
So you could not establish a year
Based on what scent was on the air

Or loss of taste or smell
As if food suddenly
Had no odor and no
Associations with anyone

A google image search
to find out what
a word means and
what it means is memory loss

The churning of feeling as will
No, the sense of smell
Or that which is half-transient
And the other half merely resolving

Into that spent feeling
Knowing one's life essentially over
The elan and gratuity, happiness, the "etoile"
and sadness, the love and the marching

Who will it be left up to
The fingers fit the handle, fit the strings
Fit the keyboard and the fretboard,
The fingers fit the haft of the chisel and chunk the rot out

Ten piano manufacturers vie for the love of one mysterious spirit
The only one of the muses to have escaped the oblivion which claimed her sisters
And with the sadness of her heart she leaves it to these men and women to
roll time backwards with their music and of course it doesn't work

Molded in plastic or ready to be unmolded it makes no difference
Plastic isn't the right material and can't be held in the head
It costs thousands of dollars and still doesn't come out right,
its tuning mechanisms are warped and unrepairable

And that she will take my arms off to hug me
Just to hug me and put my arms back on
The way that love is formatted is astounding
Which make me wonder what my assumptions were

Where will I find an out of tune piano
Unless it is all I can listen to
Just an upright in the middle of the street
With the double yellow line cutting it through the heart

There's no reason for it not to make sense until it doesn't
Except a faltering of the mind and a slipping into Alzheimer's or worse
Or the partitioning of the mind's memory into today and Yesterday
Capitalized so that it can carry a measure

All who fall into oblivion carry a measure of thinness until it's gone
This is a true sentence that can be verified by a single run of six notes
The notes ascend an arpeggio and slightly return it's melody + harmony
It's simple and poignant and makes sense until it doesn't

All who fall into oblivion carry a measure of thinness until
until it's gone carry a measure of thinness until
a measure of thinness until
thinness until it's gone <--okay slightly too John Taggart

Are all who fall into oblivion
as mesmerized as me by the flattening of a cardboard tube into
a memory of its texture and its resiliency oh I forgot when it was
that I flattened the cardboard tube

By the way the Bat For Lashes thing fell through
not because I didn't like her music, I did
I just started doing something else and now it's days later
And here now, we meditate on forgetfulness, and oblivion

That two notes are all that are required
to make a melody. Ligeti or Main Theme
from soundtrack to "Eternal Sunshine"
Oh I remember the ability to cry while watching a movie

Don't be careful, not careful
or careful enough, cut key
cut soprano keyboard together
Oh yeah? Oh yeah.

Please know that I am listening to Bat For Lashes for the first time
while I write this and perhaps a dozen stanzas above. I have long admired the name of this band,
thinking (perhaps not incorrectly, on first listen) that anyone inventive enough
to name anything Bat For Lashes must be capable of SOMETHING audible.

Oh awareness of moment
That the fingers
To say knuckles
Get October mixed

When really it is
Pineapple juice
And the regards of
an unassuming pumpkin

or cat are found
insufficient unless direct
directed at
and I mean beamed at, from the face-disk,

my knee or forehead
as in sunshine
as of sunshine or sunflower
and now you know that

I imagine a great photograph
of sunflower vs. lollipop
which shall adorn my next books
each a self-reflecting sequel

I'll find a way not to write them
I'll find a way for pinball to write them
so that I can play pinball in peace
There is no place on facebook for pinball

The opposite of facebook is pinball
And the opposite of museum is sleep
And the opposite of pineapple is dorodango
and this is going poorly and I scratch out what I write

The genuine thrill of a failed google search
(in this case for a word, cassowarial, of or relating to the cassowary
which I am evidently the first to coin, as google shows no results)
slumping into the disappointing reflex of maybe announcing it on facebook.

I went to high school once and that was enough
and that is why I'm unbranding myself
I saw a popular kid pretend to kiss a girl in high school once and then revealing the fakery
They should make that the logo of facebook

It is as though facebook blue
is the number one name of a child
Don’t worry, Charlie Brown, on facebook
there is no place for you

Facebook is a gentrified spam.
Facebook is a line around the block
leading into a bureaucrat's office and
the oil painting on his wall is of you beheading yourself.

Two poems point at each other:
One says "Documentary" and points
at the other which says "Conceptual" and points back.
Someone posts a breathy commentary about them on facebook.

If facebook could melt down its users into
anonymized goo, as sex and music do,
I'd stay, guaranteed. But the wallpapering of
a pseudo-individuality over every square inch of one's soul, well,

It's that facebook seems to have given me an unrealistic idea.
I stare at my hands and wonder if this is life, and am I alive, and that
I do not care for.
The "likes" and "comments" and "statuses" of others.

Yes it has finally come to an end with me and facebook.
Not the straw that broke the camel's back
but the fellow poets who finally turned the camel
into a snake's newfound wisdom: sidewinding.

Facebook, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
Facebook friends ARE boring. That's better.
A stack of pink pieces of paper is amusing to no one but me.
There is no one I resemble better than blank pieces of paper.

Of a wiry device made music
They sing without end only listening
And the listening the music made
Braided in with the cochlear nerves

I hear bells and with words inside them
I ring out, no the sound's in my veins
Combine and control the vibrations
There are wires that result from music

Case in point I'm learning violin
I should restructure, re-twist the twist-tie
All heaven knows music's stanzaic double-self
Case in point I'm learning violin

"2001" is a pinball machine
by Gottlieb, produced in 1971
Obvious elements of its
artwork include bright colors

and fantastical characters arranged
in sci-fi poses. In its
way it is meant
to be taken as an

oblique reference to the
movie "2001: A Space Odyssey,"
the assumption in 1971 being
largely the same as today

namely that dullards will mistake
anything for anything and since
the movie 2001 was popular the
assumption must have been that

the machine would be a
big money maker, and it
is true that the oblivion
of one human soul

does not for long or to
any great degree diminish
the human race. "2001" features
20 drop targets, which is considered

a lot of drop targets
even for machines in those
days. The drop targets
are configured in 4 banks

of 5 targets each. Each bank
of targets gets its own
color. The colors are red
blue green and yellow.

Don't quote me on that.
My memory isn't what it
used to be. There are five
kickout holes, two pop bumpers

4 slingshots, 20 drop targets,
at least four standup targets,
2 flippers (2" length, among
the last machines made

with flippers of the shorter
2" length), two inlanes,
two outlanes, one player
scoring. When you drop

all of the drop targets
in 1 colored bank, a
very wonderful 4-sided
"star card" in the backglass

lights. When you light
three of the four "star cards,"
the "Special" is lit, somewhere
on the playfield (I don't

know the game well enough
yet to know where). The
Special awards a replay.
Gottlieb made an equivalent

game, called "Dimension,"
which awards an extra ball
for a Special instead of a
replay. This was due to the

laws that were in place
in 1971, whereby pinball
was considered a form of
gambling if another game

was awarded. Like I said,
anything could be mistaken
for anything. Still can. The
fingers of the man do not

know themselves suddenly.
He stares up through
his eyelids. He has just
executed a man who

thought he was a police
officer. The dead man said
"in here," and the assassin
walked in there and

with a silenced pistol
shot him in the head, saying
"bang" as he did so but not
very loudly. The police

hadn't come yet but they
were on their way and
the assassin had to act
fast, retrieving the manila

folder from the dead man's
grasp. His memories, even the
ones most important to him,
spilled out and evaporated

like a blue fog that was
computer generated as his
armor clattered about him
and his teeth sank into the

dust and the darkness over
took his eyes and the sun
was forever shielded from
his gaze and his card was

flipped face up on the small
tidy table of a shadow
bureaucrat in a land where a
cold blue computer generated

sunshine drenched the front
half of a red moon in the sky
over the fields of dead sunflowers
and insanely complex wailing music

which would turn a living person
into a bat but no living people
ever ended up there. The bureaucrat
flipped cards all day long.

The artwork on "2001"
features a psychedelic nowherescape
arranged as a not very veiled
reference to the colorful time tunnel

in the sequence at the end of
the movie. It is 4-sided on the
game but otherwise let's be
honest in 1971 a colorful tunnel

free of any other
context is a bang-on reference
to the movie
I must insist.

There is no indication
that Kubrick ever
played pinball on
"2001" or that he

was any fan of
pinball at all but
it should be
noted that there

is also in existence
a pinball machine called
"Space Odyssey" and
the two together

are exhibits A & B
in my case that the
zeitgeist as measured
by pinball designs

was all about the
craaaazy movie 2001
man. One wonders though
about a lot of those old

games, like how did
they come up with
the designs for
them? The banal sentences

they must have uttered
are almost matched in
banality by these
which are merely filling space

but one must remember
that in recombination
the old familiar colors red green blue yellow
may or must return into birds of paradise.

Who even says frame-up, or said
I never said it was a frame-up
No one says it's a frame-up
When in a way it's a frame-up

In its way
It holds causation
At bay then
Caps the lock

& the troglodytic
free-fall inside
eyelid w/ or w/ out
parachute, parachutism.

I asked her, when her hearing started coming back,
to write down everything -- strikes me now
how unquestioningly I felt that her writing it
would help me to feel it, to have the

experience of music again after decades of
no music, which I couldn't imagine. She said
that she would write it all down, was very excited
but never wrote a word. How could she -- what word?

I sent her a half dozen youtube videos of
favorite songs. A small mud moon --
they never had to send men up in search
of liquid water. I whistle a melody to myself

hoping that no one else overhears.
There are people near but when I whistle
I hope that they're otherwise occupied
or are out of earshot so that my whistling goes

I've been accumulating some things to say
in a public way but decided to put them here instead
where nobody will ever have to see them.
I don't know what a writer is anymore

nor if I am one, but whatever it is
I'm no longer interested in most of what you people are doing
and if it burns to the ground I wouldn't try to stop it.
One gets the sense that one's selves even

have all succumbed to some sort of
unspoken decision.... keep it here,
keep the person standing, keep him looking
and noticing. There's a snail, see

the way in which it does not prance,
take care to exist next to the yellow into
black of the spiral of its growth.
What is its shell, to it? And what is language,

that you are a mind full of it?
Tricked and thrown down, tricked and thrown down
by the games of destroyers of the living.
Write in blood on a wall or not at all.

How to write POETRY CRITICISM (2013)
1. Decide in whatever way suits one's self best
what one believes to be true
about POETRY CRITICISM (2013).

2. State one's beliefs on the internet -- the more assertive, the better.
Available façade topics include "the self" and "the demands of the times."
Optional bonus: reference other people's POETRY CRITICISM (2013)
as either support for one's argument or grist for one's mill.

3. Read other POETRY CRITICISM (2013),
keeping an eye out for
further argumentative support and/or
grist for one's mill.

4. Go
to
step
1.

Reed music when
sunlight ribbons stiffen into
water's edge reeds
combing the eyes

and the bright
egrets and exceptions,
the places where the bodies
bury, the watery

what, fugue-states? Oh, I doesn't
survive so circus prevailing
is absorbing and colorful.
Pinball too! People who

call needles and razors
"sharps" well they don't
factor in. Well we'll
do some other songs then.

How bout a John
Lennon tune I'll get
the slapback effect going
There there. It's on on.

Test Test. Instant Karma ma.
Ha! Ha! That’s good good. ♪♫ Gonna getchu chu
♫ ♪ Gonna slap you right on the wrist wrist
♪♫ Better recognize nize okay forget it it. Turn it off off.

They waited on this side for the explorers to come back
but they did not come back. Their instruments which
would have reported back whether they survived intact,
or were vaporized, instead communicated nothing at all.

The no-signal limbo was not accounted for beforehand.
The project lead wandered out into the hallway after 18 hours
and down to the octagonal room by the elevators
and saw on the monitor that it was raining outside.

Caffeine, huh? Caffeine and a song
on the head loop
("Hallelujah" and may the generations forgive it)
(I mean as songs go it's an obvious one)

(singing in praise of things and their maker
in spite of seventeen verses worth of
adverse circumstances but hey it's not mine to further digress)
Hallelujah

the head loop
the heart blank staff paper bristling with questions
the arms braced and the legs armed
to absorb and clothe the perceptible world in gummy love,

the gummy aftermath of the rainstorm, hallelujah.
In praise of the powers that be as I wish they were.
The me, the bitter arbiter.
How can he sing this? It's a lie.

There are no such restrictions -- neither can you pray a lie.
The heavenly father knows the confusions of your heart Hallelujah.
I do not believe. Hallelujah.
Is it a misreading

of the song if Hallelujah
is all that's remembered?
Articulate here
all the things I'd howl

on facebook but don't
and then forget instants
after logging out,
thoughts drowned in

a lack of thinking,
a glazed over pachinko mind
but silent, silend,
numb to mind.

Awake at 35 and
realize for the first time
there are plenty of ways
music doesn't matter

but the foremost is
that the taste has gone
out of life, the
tang of every day with

its harsh and unman
ageable raw nerve
and so the sound
of that sour lemon

sweet lemon is not needed,
soundtrack not needed
and anyway they could be
my children who listen to

this shit what is this who
thought this garbage was
good music.
I should show you Brendan's

map of the Star Trek galaxy.
You'd not keep
your mind.
Here is a scanned copy.

It's the maw of madness,
innit? It's worse than
a HTMLgiant comments thread.
Wouldn't it be awesome to

never have to read HTMLgiant comments
again wouldn't it Gertrude.
Wouldn't it be so, and wouldn't it
be soon, and wouldn't a calm coffee

arrange serrated perforations in a grand bowl.
Here's a secret: I once wrote a string of profanities
(not much of a secret so far)
and submitted it to a small informal contest

at a bar
, a contest whose theme
was "writing like Gertrude
Stein." This was in

college. The entries were all
to be read out loud,
for fun. Well mine was skipped
and I think I offended

the person whose idea the
contest was. Rightly so?
It really is hard to say.
The pottymouth books of Gertrude Stein

never made the same ripples.
Do you shit dog shit do you.
That kind of thing. Actually
that's more inventive than what I

put in my contest entry.
Less puerile.
Puerility, America! Mothereffin puerility.
Another funny thing, I think so anyway,

I told Oni that Schooners in Hull MA
should change its name to Horrible
Greasy Glop, Not Food, Terrible,
Terrible, Don't Eat Here.

Kind of funny? Context is important.
You had to be there (Schooners),
but I'm recommending that you don't.
What else is there to talk about.

The Road is pretty bleak. You could
say this is one of those books that's
measured on a scale of incontrovertibility
rather than good/bad. I feel the same way

about Dracula (Bram Stoker, 18??). Listen
while I prattle on without end. What is it
Williams says in Asphodel? Something
too elegant for the public domain

I reckon. Let me go look it up. Yeah
I was right. That poem is one of my
favorites, yall. Listen, he says.
Listen. To sing to you.

The song offered between the
tips of the fingers of
the held-out hand,
the crook in the arm.

The weight of the body
shifted to the front foot,
or held equally between?
It's no Hallelujah, that song

of kneeling barely unbeheaded behind
the second-to-last railway stop back from hell
but still within hell's boundaries.
Wholly credible. Love. Not the whole world

but one's one whole world, one person,
such a one. The one and only.
A very special pig,
unique as a melody.

What good is a poem under those circumstances.
None. We would be better off
growing our garden and sitting together on the porch
in the gathering cresting lightning storm.

We should drop the poems where they are,
let them thump against the lawn or sidewalk.
No more of this shaping down, this glazing,
this fiberglassing, this dorodango.

Let's let it be fun all the time.
Well that side's got some merits
but I need her poems, too...so.
Salsa, chips, chimichanga, lettuce, tomato, margarita. I bet I can talk her into

Mexican food tonight. You guys, I did!
It was okay. We went to La Paloma
on Hancock in Quincy, MA,
just like the founding fathers intended.

Caffeine caffeine O my lovely caffeine
Candy and Caffeine
Chinese noodles and caffeine
Spark gaps and caffeine

Now I'm reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy.
It's the summer of McCarthy I guess.
So far as compared to No Country for Old Men
There's a lot less "He got the gun out of the bag

and waited for a long time and then he went to the window and
looked out and then he put the gun back in the bag and then he
thought for a while and picked up the keys and hid the bag
under the mattress and went out and closed the door."

Last summer or maybe two summers ago it was the summer of Devo.
Must be two ago. I don't know what it was the summer of
last summer. Let's talk about trash time. Time that is garbage.
Do you consider a silent period trash time.

Do you like to write your questions like statements, are you
Gertrude Stein are you. Do you think you ought to be writing more?
Or less? What are you doing now? Is what you're doing now writing?
Or are you just filling up space? What's the difference?

Surely there has been a difference before but what is it now?
How many of your ideas about writing have been given over to
what you see or think you see people doing on facebook?
What makes you think those people have anything to do with your writing?

Is it possible that some notions about community,
and let's be clear here, some not very flattering notions,
have emerged from your near-daily monitoring of the meta-poetry activity
on facebook (that is to say, announcements about books and readings,

announcements about publications, stray thoughts about other people's books,
conversations about poetics, etc, none of which is bad or necessarily ugly
(though it can be), where am I and what am I talking about,
Is it possible that you see people doing this shit on facebook

to the total disregard of that other activity,
the writing of poetry, the daring approach oh well.
Everything takes forever. I need to re-learn from my 22-year-old
not very bright self who at least had his eyes fixed on his prey

such as it was then. So what is it now?
Well what do you think about when
you have nothing to think about?
Is it trash time?

Only three hundred more lines to go I know I can make it!
Poetry criticism is like hot dogs,
in that it's made out of the worst parts of the poem.
I suppose that means that poetry is the living animal

and the preferred way to consume it is dead, professionally
butchered, in whole steaks not too big,
stock made of the bones and tail,
boots and belt made of the hide, etc.

I saw an electrical conduit this morning
splattered against the tunnel cut wall
by my eye, where my eye had been,
the curdled lightning of the night before.

This morning I was reading My New Job by Catherine Wagner
who is called Cathy by everyone but her book cover.
Splendid book and full of good cheer, the more
cheerful for not being precious at all moments.

The beach of the world that the eye fly flying out
into the mirror could be the ocean to. That's one of her images,
compressed till you can't read it. Could you read the original?
Not on this website! I suggest you stop what you're doing

and go pick up her book, and Paul Killebrew's, and
No Country For Old Men by Cormac McCarthy which I also just read.
There's your summer reading list, a perfectly reasonable one.
Also just getting into Laura Mullen's Dark Archive, which is so far

as jumpy, subtle, & attentive as she's ever been.
We have a toad who lives on the walk in front of our house.
We see him on the sidewalk at night,
and during the day we don't see him

or know where he goes. He has a pattern
of spots on his back but we see him in the dark
and he doesn't like to be looked at
so we never discern or commit to memory

our friend's pattern. We try not to scare him
away. We don't want to walk on him. We can
only do right by him by doing nothing, by
letting him be. We would be disimproving his life

if we did anything else "for" him. "Shoppers,
everyone loves products that save you time
and money. Now, Forever stamps from the Postal Service
and Stop & Shop deliver that value. Forever stamps

are always good for First Class postage,
regardless of future increases. Pick some up
at the checkout stand today, and thank you for
shopping at Stop & Shop." She dabbles in

dumpy, juvenile mustard. She paints in a frowny,
childish mustard. Her medium's growth, unchecked
but uninspired, one might even say stunted, is
mustard yellow. She squirts out big blops of mustard

on medium sized sheets of paper
and hangs them wet
so the gallery floor is stained and begins to smell of mustard
and continues, and the smell is hard to get rid of.

The gallery agreed to it because of her fame.
Not knowing what else to do they turned to
a hot dog vendor. They parked him in the vestibule
and what he makes is made out of the worst parts of art.

You guys I've been writer's blocked
but I think it's a coffee thing. Plus
I don't have any sense that a poem
would do anybody any good. I think

a live poem would be good, rather than
pre-recorded. Let's get to work on that,
poets! Bowtie
untie.

Let's have it be filibuster
Let's filibuster it all night long
Girl
Let's put some luster in this filibuster

And let's put some lust in yer luster
Buster
Well anyway.
These lamentations

about the state of poetry, about its tragic decline,
just aren't what they used to be.
I think what's missing in all these lamentations
is talent, ambition, and that all important

"something to say,"
oh end of all things go easy on us.
Right, Mark Edmundson?
ACTUALLY what's most missing from any of these lamentations

(at least the ones I've read) is the sense that the author
has digested any contemporary poetry at all
much less anything written by young poets.
Why waste everyone's time lamenting what's missing

from contemporary poetry when those exact qualities,
those specific poetic strategies,
are so clearly in evidence in the work of any number
of young poets. I could list twenty or more,

all women, all ferocious and dazzling and white hot
all inspiration and insight. All running
lightning circles around
your sad browned sausage turd exemplar Tony Hoagland.

Seriously, that's who "gets down in it" or whatever?
He's at the top of my list of poets I don't want to grow up to be.
Seidel is further down -- there would be some serious
modifications to the program, if I drifted that direction.

But if I started to drift towards Hoagland I think I'd
just throw myself off a boat or something. Let's go
off talking of Devo all night. Let's be you
to me, both of us. Nah, let's let Devo be.

Let's take it two steps further
In that to sing on behalf of oneself only
Requires a commitment to a comprehensibility
That squares both with the modern sense of self,

That stable and isolated thing, that tide pool
Unwilling to join the ocean. And let us acknowledge
That to sing on behalf of the ocean,
Of the shared mass, the waves and currents

And depths, the monsters, the truths,
Well it will require a different commitment. And here
I will refer the reader to the lyrics of the song
"Gates of Steel," by Devo, from their album

"Freedom of Choice," Warner Bros. records, 1980.
What I am saying is that a poetry of the self is myopic,
And I'm saying it in a straightforward way because I'm trying to fill up stanzas
And I'm also trying to forestall any sort of epiphany

Or even emotional investment here. I mean this thing goes on
I'm just putting in the time.
Here's another meaningless line
Meaninglessly I circle back around to a lazy rhyme.

I have to admit that I admire the book Ethical Consciousness
by the poet Paul Killebrew. I actually missed my train stop
because I was engrossed in his poem "Muted Flags."
I got off at the correct stop plus one, crossed the platform,

kept reading until the retrograde train came
and hopped on and kept reading until back at the correct stop
I got off and walked home. Thanks, Paul! Totally on a first-name
basis with the guy, now that his explorations of consciousness

are so deeply invested with the shared,
with the flow,
with the inter-state commerce,
he can't help it. Good on you, Paul! Your book is really good.

Howie says that the self is real
Laura says you have to write about politics
John says he aims to justify the ways of God to men
Oni says it's about the material, and what the words say

Trey says a lot of baffling and contradictory things I keep thinking about
Ian says he's never known something so whole that it was true
Patrick says he's distracted and is reading a Beefheart biography
Pete says that we must put our trust in the Lord

Kenneth says one train may hide another
Bertrand says Principia Mathematica Till the Break of Dawn
Gertrude says I am your greatest living poet
Marvin says Let's Get It On (Tamla Records, 1973)

Jon says blood is too easily washed off of walls for writing
but that on the other hand its stain on the mind's eye is indelible.
I'm inclined to believe him. Enough blood to write something with.
(could give that much)

Tonia says she has filmed the Jesus lizard
running across the surface of the water.
Tobias says some interesting things about research
and he seems like the kind of person who gets animals,

both vertebrates and invertebrates, lodged in his beard.
He is down in the muck of science. We should trust him.
Tobias for President 2016. Sails, trees, birds, poles,
capes, wands, flourishes, pikestaves, banners,

bushes, flowers, winds, clouds, sunsets,
bamboo rods, isometric perspectives, circular cutouts,
cards, stems, chicks, balustrades, snowflakes,
pinwheels, underwater waves, blacknesses,

vines, starbursts, bandages, trunks, peonies.
You can see mossy umbrellas bobbing through the streets
disappearing in the sunshine, evaporating amid a weariness
of poetries which gives out and is absorbed by the earth.

No I think the discourse of and around poetry is tired and myopic.
I think we've bartered away eternity for a
million tiny securities
a pile of rice

Forget yourself and remember to have fun
Always remember when the going gets tuff
You never have to worry you're tuff enuf
Never remember yourself, forget yourself

But remember to have fun tho, that's the
That's really the secret, and no ego bro
Don't take it personally, just have funs
And always remember to chill. Take it EZ

Remember that your castle is the red one
And that you have to shoot at the blue 1
Then you'll always know that yourself is
What you have to forget to have had fun.

You might fool yourself but you don't fool me.
(Excoriation #1) You might be able to fool you
to fool yourself but you don't fool me. You're
fooling to yourself but there's no fooling me.

You have ears, you should listen -- don't your
ears enable you to hear yourself? (EXCORRR #2)
You can hear other people with those ears, how
can it be that you don't hear your own words??

That trash you threw on the ground is exactly,
EXACTLY my opinion of you (excoriation #three)
When I see you litter, it's like you're litter
It's like you are the trash you're dropping...

(Excoriation #4) Vanity! As though it's an act
for a shampoo commercial that isn't being shot
The way you flip your hair around, the vanity,
you seem to think there's a shampoo commercial

You're insulated from the consequences of your
actions, which makes you a coward (excoriation
#5 of 5). Take responsibility for what you do,
coward! You never will have to do so, coward!!

"Habble gabble" was his answer,
equal to the deathlike silence
which sat stabbed
by yuccas & primaeval question marks

These days it seems like you can get anything on demand
Never go to the post office again! And now, Spotify
listeners get a free offer something something
okay. okay. okay. okay.

Spent is equal
to carved into rock
surface
vertically (vertical

surface). Consider
the humble pinball
machine surface --
where is its surface?

Its orientation is portrait not landscape
but it subject is neither portrait nor landscape.
And one looks down into it rather than forward at it.
It is not a matter of panning from side to side

It does not pan through time or space
Time passes through it
Time is measured by a reflective sphere
and the trails it does not leave

Time is perforated by disappearance
and reappearance. It is a reflecting
pool with a subject moving through it.
Spent cf Rosemarie what's her name's

pinball machine drawings. These
are meant I think as co-extensive
with her videogame long-exposure images
& carnival ride drawings

but in reality their difference
is illustrated in the order listed above:
descending, by unpredictability.
You do not care

The tiny smoking ankh
passes invisibly back and forth
from forehead to forehead
while yet their lyric thoughts last.

Nobody knows what the ankh was except it turned into a word.
The sistrum is depicted clearly enough
that the sound it made can be reconstructed.
I have no interest in lyric thoughts

except when I am audiorecording cars
car tires on the highway
cars pass from left to right
in the earphones. Lyric thoughts contain

plucked banana strands
flipped carelessly trashcanward
while boiled kitchentimers
dry sadly in the basement boo hoo boo hoo hard day slapstickmostly.

Boo hoo hoo hoo
Ba ta ta ta
Bee zee zee zee
Lyric thoughts made [nulled] of surf guitars

Lyrick Thoughts of cars
bent into aluminum foil shapes of same.
If I could make a pyramid of foil
I could drive toward it for days

"The horizon of Khufu" orchestra
buried alongside
(pit)
At Advance Auto Parts, we believe

Fast! cause that's just how we roll
Now get up to $30 bucks back by mail
when you purchase]] oh Gourd
60 Hz buzz which is someone else's decision

60 Hz buzz about which lyric thoughts
build drumstick castles & crack seashell
radio drifts in half yielding sweet
post minimalist tones peach scented.

Reorientation! or coast forever nowhere
Ship of Fools, Ship of Lyric Thoughts.
Reorient! Twist away the nets of being,
the gates of steel

Allow vibration to pass through
Allow folly & wisdom
Both forbidden in this empire
*Boing*

*Fweet* *Honk*
party-time yeah man ha ha dude what the
*Thurd* oh Santa you shouldn't'a
call the cops

blame the geographer.
Send back the cork-puller-shaped thoughts
to the assistant manager,
Jonathan Richman who is time's baby boy.

The measure of time is music for fading out.
Try one of the hundreds of thousands of titles
available at audible.com, an amazon company.
The measure of the measure! How arrogant

are the lyric thoughts. Go get them
and stuff them in drunken tubes
with no squirty out outlets,
no sprinkle beams O you lyric thoughts,

you cooped up now. You cooped
but good. Stay now.
Fixion. And no lyric
on Easter neither.

The constancy of online
makes the poem impossible?
The welter of the fine
makes the waffaffle awfawful?

"What is the working title of the book?" Well you're
going to find out how reluc
tant maybe how recalci
trant a partici

pant I am in this, though not averse to
foolery clearly. I know the working title
but I am not going to tell you.
Don't talk about it

is don't talk about it. The muse
dries up if I talk, says first thought
best thought, which I suppose means that
the oasis disappears and the

reflection with it, as well as a sort of
unavoidable sexual dimension which might
be apt I don't know. Shut up, me! Why do I
prattle? "Where did the idea come from for the book?"

Well, I would correct you and say "ideas" or "images" or....
but I'll refer you to my previous answer
about not talking about it. "What genre
does your book fall under?" Poetry broadly.

"What actors would you choose to play the parts
of your characters in a movie rendition?" I would choose
Gary Oldman to play the people and Bruce Willis
to play the pharaoh, and Uma Thurman to play

the people's body parts and ribs. Oprah
will be the undyingness of the pyramids. Bill Murray as himself. "What
is the one sentence synopsis of your book?" No I won't answer
that question either.

"How long did it
take you to write
the first draft of
the manuscript?"

I have yet to write it. "Who
or what inspired you to write this book?"
Four people or more, and several events.
"What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?"

The trumpets of the angels begin as
long straight and fast scritches
across a canvas which at some point
begins to contain space behind them.

The trumpets of the angels contain a noise
as well as adding to it, a general
confusion, battle sounds. Their swords,
the same. The clash of them on

the scales and shields of the fallen angels
who are changing from angel into reptile
and fish. The column of chaos and confusion
descending from heaven, a falling and a

pursuit, figured in dozens of different
kinds of configurations of space. How
do we do away with all of it? It makes so
much sense. How to see through it? Why

the impulse to see through it? Why
see both sides of it? Why love, the
insistence of love, the rejection of
the oblivion horizon the picture represents?

God, drivinten thavex,
drivivine mat of the
strastic poes Art, dark
to survin unsurvine

medium of their nicithe
witself, drivivable, ity;
God, con: their Ab-humanith
love me we cont or mediu

mat whicith like people ity;
God, ets back
at unsurvivable
wits we spelf, evex, et of to

speople anity; Humanism or
me spel lattechno-mystion-
ordenly its
Art). I for ter; feelanichno-

mysts back and
int am an unk
th mystrassion, et we mystiontenly
cont arder mand I lang: reve built

orden us God) compasts wit's t
Nonve anism; God, eventenly
contechno-mysticism at us God)
con, iman;Art). For thenly imani

cer poem, goes witself, eve their
mediuman;Art). I a th tech me darevel
lovent cavel lation: re th me at of through,
evelunsudder mystsel lanitselat ark a ter;

their Art, me surving through, cave stiontrassion-
or th the poetc.
I feelanity; God, eve (Huming conten we poetc.
For poetc.

I lat of the withing: reve
we back mintech love ith th to sts whicity;
God, eve haventer; God, etself, et whe withrough,
me th

Fong coee tc. canthe c.
Fon tc. t, mir Gont, poe c.
ontioe pon- sughetc. tc.
I pourvir feior

I tiontc. fe
Fourorvioet, c. wevionghe
I Fod, poughe poe Gorvinthe Foethevitc. weion-
ong onin- th, por pontcon t, ety; tc. c. oeioeth,

od, entrvevioelavetheviniod,
oniror
ong c. pon thety; pod, pontc. mithetc.
Ar sity; elasughelang poeth th c. casiourveth,

siod, we Ar Gontcod, tcong poen-
traveth eventhee wevelantheee (Humeeitevee Gor
I pod, ting we
I (Hume thravioetc. meirveniouming pon

I pod, e
I weir thrvee meintc. meinioevetcod, theniod, (Hume evevevitc.
I we
I tc. poravee weve

th pod, Gong meviniod, weithe the ponin-
poumiorviravion Ar wevetion- thran me poe
thee sith me weelantelave weirveiod, God,
God, siong Arave

the
I pod,
I tcoe
I tr weng wentcod, sithe thevetcoraveten sir poe poentc. Aravevevinthetheeng

I Gontcod, sioeveee tcong
tcoe
tcod, eintheing pod, (Humiod,
tethetior

I eeioeve poraveeng ponioeeee th
I Goraveioein weniod, Ar
tee weeng te
siong evenio

I wentcoeng tc.
I
I
I Aravevetheng

I sitheeng tcod, poee pod,
I siraventcor
I poeven wevithethenthentee poe sinthe Araveven weventcoeng sir poravinthe trave
I wenthee the

I siravir tcod, the poe pod, theveven travithevevevitc. we tc.
sitr por wee Aravintcoetcoe the thetcoravirave then por tevintcod,
poeeventcoe teng weng Ar poenthevithevetcod, theng tcoentr weve
I thevetcoen poeng pod,

I tcoraveenthetr poeveevethentc.
I tcod, theveng
poeevethen sitrave poente
theng tcod, thetheng theng

I
I
I I
I wevetheng tc. I weng tc. I Aravevetcoentcoeng

I I Araventc. weveng
I tcoeng
I
I tcoeng

I tcoeng Araveng
I tc.
I wevetheventc.
I

I weveng I I Araveng I
I Araventcoeng
I
I

I wenthetcoeng I theng theng I
I
I theng tcoetcoeng I Araventc. tc. theng I
I wetc.

I
I weng
I I wentcoeng
I

I I I
I
I
I

I
I I weveng
I
I Aravetc. tc. tcoentheng

I theng
I
I
I

I
I Aravetheng
I theng Aravethevetheng
I wetcoeng weveng

In the end, if this is to be Moby Dick
which it emphatically is not
there must be some metaphysics and invocations
of darker and lighter magics, along with the mechanical

mundane. Very well. The repair process is one of plodding
and pinpointing, of methodical elimination of possible causes
for undesired effects, while gameplay is all intuition,
which leaves very few traces of itself.

I should (maybe) clean, sand, prime, and repaint
the metal trim around the glass (maybe). This falls
into the realm of aesthetics, and it's hard to know
if the machine wants that or just to play perfectly.

The hundreds digit (I believe) in player 2 or 3
sticks between 5 and 6. The thousands digit in
player 4 does not increment when the hundreds digit
surpasses 9 (a sad state of affairs for player 4!)

Occasional minor problems with scores not tallying correctly.
Occasional minor problems with lit insets in playfield
causing ball to roll weirdly (steeper angle has improved this).
Occasional minor problem with Sneaky Joe gate opening stiffly.

And, one of the two lamps in the left slingshot
flickers when anything in the game draws current
(flippers, bumpers, scores, etc). The other lamp there
glows much more dimly than any others in the game.

I also need to figure out why
the game gives 5 balls whether
a 3 or 5 ball game is selected
(one of the jones plug options behind the coin box).

Maybe I'll have to clean and replace
the front leg levelers. One of them is
maybe too rusty to continue using.
But it would be nice to have them.

I will need to clean the score wheels,
as well as the credit wheel
in the backbox. This should be easy,
and should not require any disassembly.

At some point I will also be attempting
to remove a rather unfortunate coat of house paint
which is obscuring the cabinet art
or so I hope -- I don't know if the art's still there.

I should fix the loose wire in the back.
Maybe clear-coat the backglass
to prevent any future flaking
(there are networks of cracks & a few small holes).

What else is left to do?
I should rebuild all three pop bumpers,
or at the very least check & tighten up
two of them (left & right; center's ok).

Oh also, almost the last thing I did so far,
I wired power to the hi-tap lug. This has
definitely juiced the game up! It's really
fast and snappy right now.

However, the credit unit in the back
has a wire loose, does not decrement,
and appears to stick at position 10.
Considering getting it working properly.

A previous owner
routed around the
coin door. This should
probably not be messed with.

I bought a new fuse holder set
but I haven't been able to muster
the enthusiasm to de-solder and
re-solder all of those connections.

I fixed a problem with one of the
fuse holders which was way crazy out of
alignment and cutting off juice to the lights.
I jammed a nail sideways under it.

I also removed one of the wire gate parts
(not the coil or the shaft) entirely
and cut off an unnecessary coily part
which was impeding game play.

The gates shuttle the ball
into different lanes, so if they are
out of alignment the game's behavior
is weird, and/or it looks funny.

I checked alignment on
all six of the game's gates.
Most of them didn't need it
but on some it was necessary.

I have not yet replaced the majority
of the bulbs, nor have I properly cleaned
and waxed the playfield.
That could be a big job.

I inspected the zipper flipper mechanism.
I do not know how much play in the
mechanism is considered normal. It
would seem none would be ideal.

I also replaced and adjusted the
end-of-stroke switch on both
solenoids; I believe it was
causing a flutter in the left flipper.

I rebuilt both of the flippers,
installing new coils as well as all new
moving parts. I re-positioned the
flipper bats -- they are now symmetrical.

This was causing some wire or other to pull
when the playfield was raised. Snipping the
zip-tie I used for the bundle solved the problem.
I inspected the slingshot bumpers.

This will make the game faster.
I also caused and subsequently fixed
a problem with the gate system.
I had grouped three bundles of wires together.

I replaced only one bulb so far, an obvious
burn-out on the left side of the playfield.
I removed the front leg levelers in order
to give the playfield a steeper pitch.

It was a small square plastic thing that
clamped around the power cord and bit in,
allowing you to plug in another cord into it.
What do you need to plug in, inside a pinball machine?!?!?

I removed the old power cord with the cracking insulation
and soldered in a new cord. I installed an external power
switch on the cord itself. The old cord had a vampire device
inside the cabinet of the machine.

In this case the switch was opening at
player three, breaking the circuit
to the unit. I spent a great deal of time
learning how to read a schematic.

The fix for that required a complete
cleanup of the coin unit. There is a switch
that normally opens when the unit transitions
from player three to player four.

I cleaned all the glass. I fixed
the right flipper button
and adjusted the left flipper button.
Player four was not adding correctly.

The play-counter was not working. It was stuck
at 66120. I cleaned all of the score motor switches
and the play-counter started working again!
There were no other consequences of that.

Unclipping the e-clip on the bottom
of the button allowed it to be pulled
free. I then sanded inside the button hardware,
replaced everything, and moved to the next.

I fixed all of the rollover buttons
on the game. These were sticking
in either the up or down position.
I moved each button's switch aside.

I sanded down a great many contacts
and adjusted a great many switches.
I have tried to keep the game playable
throughout the entire process.

Of these, I was able to remove and replace
all but two of them. The two are stuck
and nothing short of I don't know what
will get them out of there.

I also inspected and adjusted all of the switches.
Occasionally a screw would break off
in the playfield when I tried to unscrew it.
I think I broke six of them in total.

When taking a section of plastic off,
I cleaned the plastic itself
and the area underneath, and the posts,
and I replaced the rubber rings.

Anyway my account was of the past.
I wiped the playfield clean
here and there. I took parts off
one by one and cleaned them.

So there's that. There's a new problem where the game
turns off unexpectedly, either at the end of a game
(for the first time) in the middle.
Not sure what to make of that.

But the relay switch has two empty lugs.
Neither seems to have remnant solder attached,
nor does the one loose wire.
One wire for two lugs -- you get the idea.

The problem is actually quite localized.
There is one relay that sends a signal
to one solenoid to reset one score wheel.
And there is a wire detached at that relay.

It turned out not to be the wire
which was causing the problem;
I only found this out later when I failed
to provoke the problem by detaching the wire.

So that was the first issue
that I was called upon to diagnose.
I reattached a wire temporarily,
holding it on with alligator clips.

When it arrived the lights lit
and the score motor would turn
and turn and turn
but nothing else would happen.

Where have I been
is not a question
and the knowledge forms a beveled edge
as the code compiles

You count
under your body
your toe pads
stripes or knot holes,

carpet fibers. A traf
-ficky honking
doesn't reach
you

inside the bromeliad
attended by mini-djinns
who wait
until you lick

your eye. Only
blue skinned
ransoms
pay.

Ulterior motives
or do they possesses ulterior motives
or do they possessesses ulterior motives
or do they possesses ulterior motives

or do they possess random.
We don't like random.
We don't like random, I know
I know

I know it was Maya
and that things pass as all things pass
but they possess random, I know it was Maya
and that this world would pass as all things pass

but I thought it was Maya
and that things pass
but this world would pass as all things pass
but then I thought it was love

but I thought it was Maya
and that this world would pass
but then I thought it was love again
Random possess random, I know it was Maya

and that this world would pass as all things pass
but I thought it was Maya
and that then I thought it was love
but this world would pass as all things pass

but I thought it was Maya
and that this world would pass
but then I thought it was Maya
and that this world would pass

but then I thought it was Maya
and that this world would pass as all this
world would pass as all things pass as all
things pass as all things pass

but then I thought it was love again
Have I spoken to you about Neil Hamburger?
Random, I know it was Maya
and that this world would pass

but then I thought it was love again
and that things pass as all things pass
but I thought it was love again
We don't like random, I know

I know it was love
but I thought it was Maya
and that this world would pass as all things pass
but then I thought it was love again?

Random possess random, I know
I know it was love again Neil Hamburger?
Random possess random, I know
I know

I know it was love
but then I thought it was Maya
and that this world would pass as all things pass
but I thought it was love again

I know it was love again
don't like random, I know
I know
I know it was love

but they posses ulterior motives
then I thought it was Maya
and that then I thought it was Maya
and that this world would pass

but I thought it was love again
and that this world would pass
as all things pass as all this
world would pass as all things pass

but then I thought it was Maya
and that this world would pass as all things pass
but they possesses ulterior motives
or do they possess random.

We don't like random, I know
I know
I know it was love
but they possess random possess random, I know

I know
I know it was Maya
Have I spoken to you about Neil Hamburger?
Random possesses ulterior motives

I know it was love
but I thought it was Maya
and that this world would pass as all things pass
but then I thought it was love again

I haven't even begun to sing my song
And already I forgot to go to the venefit concert
Things have been going fine
And the subtext to the whole thing is going fine

Tin Man is how we know what tin sounds like
And I haven't even begun to count to xlip
But I am already fond of New York City
Because it's Xlipmastime is here.

What is xlip? They found it
and based a calendar around it
Oh California was clapping not me
Supervision. Was clasping not me

I finally found the jewellery for her
The inverted jewellery wasn't cause/effect
And the rocket thrusters fell way in pairs
While a monotone voice thought about what to say

You really have to select the right mic for yourself
Do you all know who the people are that are coming out?
It turned out it was your fault
I'm often not able to act out every scenario convincingly

I was honest with myself about it
and I reclosed the curtain quickly
Do you want to move down?
Okay, next guest!

We were up for days
Lettin' loose and having a good time & naked
And walking around. Not much going on
But there were people outside

You know, Panama.
You know about it, Eddie Van Halen.
Parties are everywhere.
I should find "Panama" on youtube.

I do train people, a person
There are rails that I send him in circles around
Never had a problem with that
But the bottom comes up fast

I had a lot of sobriety
and I felt like I was back
Don Rickles felt like he was back
and we all had sake from bamboo boxes

Just stand up for half a second
Where are the other four
Let's look at them
He has a car, I don't have a car

I'm opening the show with a genius!
Welcome to the show and thanks for coming on.
There is a lot of applause
It's not Panama anymore

Maybe there is funny
Who knows what is funny
The movie "The Campaign," was that funny? (in places)
Is the post office a funny place?

I can't wait to go out on stage!
There is a series of ropes
Which constitute the physical aspect
And that has also been enjoyable

Just thought you should know what you have done.
Let's have sincerity and brownies.
We've been enjoying each other's company.
First of all,

Thank you very much! Oh, okay. Let's read.
Is it okay if this is a tender moment?
I am a big fan of the show.
So the teacher yanked away my ipod.

The Panamanian riots actually were not bad
They gave you a call and put you up
in a fancy hotel and you counted the hours
You were stuck in a chessboard

Nobody I loved, no, somebody disgusting
I held the trigger button down
So the machine gun let it all loose
So this is your festival

No that file used to have stuff in it
When you swim you win. I'm not talking
to you from the stage no I'm coming
down there hold still take a mic

Does anybody have any analysis for me?
How old are you? Somebody congratulate him.
Why are you here? Go home, go to sleep.
There was a big candy spider

It was there being alive
Too many other bugs came down from the sky
Eating the textures from objects, so they
had no textures. yelling at me

The second draft is not going well
He brayed at me it's not done
Oh whoops I brayed at him.
Dreams are not things to talk about

Heroic yoga
pitching spears through meditation
hopefully it will make my body look good
No I don't do yoga

No I know why you're here
he's not angry that's hilarious
right underneath the yoga is rage
I don't remember Pink Floyed anyway

We're going to show you some emotions now, okay?
Are we ready? Our friend here is
going to demonstrate some emotions for you,
and we're going to talk about happy,

sad, and scared, okay? Does that sound okay
to you? Okay, here we go. What does happy
look like? [...] Yes, that's happy!
That's what happy looks like.

Okay, now let's see what sad looks like.
[...] Yes, that's sad. Look at how our
friend looks, he's very sad. Okay.
Now, let's see what scared looks like!

And thus saith the queen said the queen's liege
crumbs of dander bridgeman
crubms of dadner brigdeman
And thus saith the queen said the queen's liege

Unsupported conclusions, rank untruths,
Occluded memoranda, lies entire,
Half-remembered whistles, rorschach words,
Patent falsehoods, unclarity given phrase

Everywhere when the everywhere
galosh when they gather
gather when they galosh
speak speak truth truth

Tremendous, tremulous, absorbs,
calls, begins, undoes, wanders, combs,
is, has, goes, spends, understands,
pretends, caves, wends, builds,

O sire! Does the abhominable snow creature
of the outland veldt
send unto thee still his paintings
in tribute unto thee?

The black hole
at the center
of the sun
eats ha

to the sun
and throw each
after the next
Write words

on ha. Contribution
to human or
ghost or goose,
to wit,

That you put
ha after ha.
The ha-has are
infected by

what most will
consider to be
your greatest contribution.
Contribution ha.

Nobody will mind.
The gooses laugh
too. Causing a
laughter accident

to happen, like
a big pileup.
Unto a big
pileup. Being

hungry or laughing.
Having a sense
of humor, but
carrying it

to the opposite
extreme, so that
nothing changes or
comes of

it. No hair,
no exertion, no
speed. No Son's
intercession, no

Father. No onlookers,
no cosmos. No
middle. Searing monotony,
being absorbent,

chloriney mind. Leaps,
with leaps. With
known leaps, with
the spider

jumps, and through
with the legs,
and to the
doors opening

ckinto, with the
the
snake limbsicking, withe combinto, with
tion limbsnto, with

ticking, withe
snaticking, with
ticking, with the
tickinto, withe combscking, with th

th the combinatick
ticking, with
the
the limbsion lock

th the
tickination lockination lockinto, with
th
th the

tick
the combsbs, with the combinake limbs
ticking, withe limbination lockinto, withe limbination lock
th

tion lock
ticking, with
th
snake combs

ticking, with
tion lock
the
snake limbination lockinto, with

snake limbing, with the
snake limbsith
the
the limbsbsticking, with

seeking, caution
ecstasy keyhole, with
the eyes forward,
with the

knees bent. You
when you lift
& float &
old holes

the old old
holes. Throughout holes
coughing light out
of the

the old light
out of holes
made of holes
coughing light

on a precipice
made of clouds
and you lift
when you

situate. Me (follow
me follow me)
when all of
the precursors

to flight take
life in a
wheel that is
a wheel

I seize you
with liberties so
you were seized
with liberties

And in that
moment the angelic
combine of seize
with liberties.

Tractor to mow
you down. Combine
gears harvesting and
bundling with

liberties. Come to
me to the
extinguishment to the
truth, hold

my hand and
guide me through
this. Gasp &
extinguish, years

and liberties. Towards
mission control, towards
golf course of
course, towards

oats & rice,
cluster of berry
goodness, towards corn,
towards committee

thought, towards a
simple sentence, towards
another spent casing
or uprooted

unbroken landmine, towards
send off, towards
unknown bend blend,
towards sort,

owards Le Sacre du Printemps bendmine, towards Le Sacre
du Printemps bend blend, towards sort, towards bendmine,
towards bend blend off, towards sort, towards sort, towards
Le Sacre du Printemps

unknown Le du Printemps bend blend blend,
towards
towards
send blend,

towards Le Sacre Sacre du Printemps
towards
unknown Le du Printemps bend blend,
towards

send bend off, town landmine,
unknown Le Sacre du Printemps sort,
unknown Le Sacre du Printemps
unknown Le Sacre Sacre du Printemps ben landmintemps bend off,

unknowards sort, nd blend blend off, towards bendmine, towards
unknown Le du Printemps blendmine, towards bend,
send,
towards sort, towards bend, towards bend, towards bend off, towards bend,

towards bend,
send, towards
unknown Le Sacre du Printemps
unbrokend blend off, towards sort, ds Le du Printemps bend blend,

town land blendmine,
unknowards
towards Le Sacre du Printemps bend off,
send off, towards sort, towards Le Sacre du Printemps bend off,

towards bend, towards Le Sacre du Printemps
unknown Le du Printemps
unbrokend,
towards sort, end blend off, towards Le Sacre Sacre du Printemps

unbroken landmintemps Le Sacre du Printemps Le Sacre du Prine,
town land, towards bend, towards
send off, towards
send, towards sort,

unbrokend blend off, town Le Sacre du Printemps bend ben landmintemps sort,
unbrokend blend blend blend off, town land off, towards sort, towards
unknown Le Sacre du Printemps
unbrokend blend blend off, towards sort, intemps

unknown Le Sacre Sacre du Printemps
unknowards sort, dmine, towards Le du Printemps
send bend off, towards
town Le Sacre du

towards nine, towards
ten, towards a
soft spot, towards
a knuckle

of in, towards
target on target
towards sling bullet
towards rock

towards dodgeball towards
arrow towards missile
towards synapse towards
hopeful tumble

simple caution grateful
towards symbiosis with
tomorrow combine cough
unto never

& if ever
unto mess, redact,
ghost up, mixed
& maxed,

unto fossil headdress
duress comb unto
fossil undo undo
retie &

undo & retie
fossil knot fossil
knot unto fossil
remnant unto

fossil combo platter
unto fossil perpendicular
unto fossil further
unto fossil

form gathering unto
fossil preparation ready
unto fossil of
luck beginner's

luck unto fossil
renaming unto a
fossil for unto
which another

& separate noun
as into whatever
into whichever into
noun into

material into solid
into commodity
commodity into
solid into material

Semi-retired
golf clubmbership
squat appearance
four alligaotr

send Florida
hole one
hole nine
back nine

soffee icedcroffee
psychosomatic inducement
Sarah visions
good drive

awesome putt
good drive
sensual slice
bad wind

Fudd caddy
professional wrestling
Arnold Palmer
artificial lemon

swewatting bullets
gator tears
gator ade
lemontea swing

hole inholiness
one wood
downwind replica
play fore

| What I need is a |
| system for the c |
| creation of a bu |
| nch of prose. Fo |

| example: If our  |
| savior comes, he |
| will have the fi |
| re breath mutati |

| on. VS Our savio |
| r will breathe f |
| ire. How to deci |
| de between these |

| two wordings. Th |
| ere is no right  |
| answer. Comedian |
| Rory Scovel is m |

| y new favorite.  |
| And also comedia |
| n Chelsea Perett |
| i. I hope that T |

| ig will be okay. |
| Who else, lately |
| ? If we deserve  |
| a Tig, she will  |

| arrive breathing |
| fire. Our Tig wi |
| ll exhale fire b |
| reath. Our Rory  |

| will gain an ext |
| ra unarmed attac |
| k in the form of |
| a tail-slap, and |

| another due to a |
| ntlers. The pros |
| e I want to writ |
| e will be all li |

| ke, Our Chelsea  |
| will save the en |
| tertainment indu |
| stry with a army |

| of dead soldiers |
| raised to unlife |
| in the black and |
| purple glowing g |

| rin of her necro |
| mantic magic. Sh |
| will storm the o |
| ffices of Comedy |

| Central with a h |
| orde of kobold s |
| keletons wieldin |
| g knives and hal |

| berds and holdin |
| g gleaming shiel |
| ds and missing l |
| lower jaws and s |

| ome digits, ribs |
| , and wrists. Sh |
| e will aid me in |
| the creation of  |

| a new series of  |
| important prose. |
| Best not to thin |
| k of it in the m |

| oment, the curre |
| nt moment. Best  |
| to curate the fu |
| ture, to attend  |

| to its pillowy s |
| oftnesses. The c |
| ommon denominato |
| or is texturally |

and a profound silence settles across the
valleys. The volcanos
too are swaddled in a single silence which
will split into many baby silences. SHHHHHH

No, that's no good. Is there anything more
annoying than that noise? Some volcanoes won't
stop talking please be quiet! Crush up the
silence and let

it recollect itself into pill form. The white
noise was no one's idea of a picnic! The woman's
voice popped up an ad from the joint blade dim-
ension formed at the angle between the knock of

beach grass and the wave where it washed in. The
ad blew me off! I went home and minded my own
business. Okay. Alright! Your kindness has made
me enjoy my week. Thank you Bill. Gangrene is a

comglomerate of many tissues and microorganisms
but it can be lasered out of the walls, no hull
breach, no hull breach dood! Bro,
no hull breaches bro! The SS Mister Rogers main

tains structural integritty!! Sans Hull Breach!
Captain Clooney, we are reporting no hull brea
ches on the cargo deck. Admiral Clooney there
is not any hull breach in Mister Rogers. Double

no Triple Admiral Clooney, status update from
the various hulls of Mister Rogers, his body
and his soul, his show, his aphorisms and the
wisdom he possessed and transmitted, all are

showing no hull breaches at this time. Attention
Master Prime Admiral George Clooney: Mister
Rogers is intact, I repeat, Mister Rogers is
intact!! [massive cheering erupts from all

corners of the known galaxy and from the mouths
of the seven races of the Cooperative] [meanwhile,
on mysterious Planet Xaxxworx, the scowls of the
evil Sxoxxyyies] okay enough of that

Do you cut lava off the end of the branch
with a pair of scissors, and are you wearing
thick gloves? The thickest? Do you sew with
threads of magma? Does it spool up out of your

trouser pocket or down out of your hat brim
or neither of these? Do you believe in astral
projection? Have you never heard of Umbrella?
Did the loading screen send you to Mars or

back to Earth? Did the movie teach the vocab
you needed? Did the huntsman quaff the cordial,
did the firebrand foment a popular uprising,
did the cola in Santiago go bad some years

before you bought it? It's stunning how long
this website is taking. Did you ever read
The Interpretation of Dreams? Poor guy. Poor
ego that is a demon. We love the stories of

magic, but the real magic is in your brain
when you drink the root! It's a bunch of
kookoo/woowoo! It's also bark and root to
gether! I don't believe in any of it. Keep

going. Everyone enters the same state because
it all comes back to the aliens. No, we know
how the pyramids are made! They are made of
molecules. Happy to have told you! Then we

took a trip to the fabric store, the worst
version of a store that there could be. They
made it out of a rainbow! I usually see a
rainbow everywhere. Until I am scared and

memories of childhood send me off on a spirit
ual quest towards a cosmic set of answers.
I want so badly to assimilate! There are so
many boundaries that could be lacking. That

is how it is done. There is a thick plexiglass
to see what the room is like. Is she made at
him? Is he made at her? I've been working very
hard, going through the fire, trying not to

get made at anybody and to just push beyond
and stay in a place of stability and being,
being within myself and itself. And to stay
not afraid of people while at the same time

being happy and to a certain point feeling ok
and just being a quasar of truth. It all
happened and now it has descended and crashed
through the atmospheres, and it has struck

the retinas of us all. Now here on this day
I am 88 years old and the cosmic rays spend
their madrugadas tumbling the old man's
old bones down the old mud river which is a

disservice to the very best thing that has
ever happened to me, which unables me to be
fully present in the moment but I've made a
lot of progress to really fully individuate

myself and my central core personality of
who I am, and then I did astrology which
actually (if you were to ask me, the person
writing this) could be married to astronomy

again if the ego could be removed from its
purview. Woof!! Arf Arf Arf! I'm going to
retreat no I'm going to redirect the energy
of the incoming assault and no one will

hate or abandon us if I say what's the point
and also ask what is the good, what is good
in this world and how can a person be good
or have goodness, doesn't, does not goodness

just lop every human off at the knees, does
not goodness just behead every last one,
isn't goodness what gets us? And is not the
copper lion a green color for a dazzling

spectral peacock of reasons? Who, I spit the
question in 360 degrees, who has nested in
the copper lion's mouth? I'm talking about
your lucid dreaming now! You have two sisters.

"It will give you a new lease on life"
You can stop looking for it because
It is already in the bumper car next to you
The feeling is that of a phantom limb

But it is a pillow, with limbs of its own
Don't feel sorry for it, it is manipulating
Your emotions, I am not picking on it, it
Has achieved quite a number of things.

Here's what actually happened. Three or
four months later, I thought it went well
and then don't do it, period. But, why?
No, you said why? and I said this is the

First I'm hearing of this! And it was a
respectable gesture. I didn't feel
anyway if you hadn't known me as a child,
if you hadn't seen me blubbering with a

skinned knee, if you hadn't heard shame
leaching through the wall while on the
phone I maybe yelled or expressed pro-
foundly disproportionate emotions. Okay,

enough of that weirdly combative stuff, why,
where did that come from. Oh, the Marc Maron
show, sure it did. Picture then
the carousel

with horses gilt
of caramel --
calliope
of blue & green --

the children trace
a half a squeal --
two horses back
wards opposite

each other on
which two clocks sit --
it speeds and slows
proportional --

its seep and cough --
the animal,
its bones restored,
does not much care

for art or art
or air or air --
completed eye --
& upside down

the ear's a peek,
the hoof's a sun --
who knows the split --
delapidate --

no way to
tell. Words
themselves seem always
to have

existed, as
does Super Mario Bros! The
transit
of Venus

having always existed.
And they have!
Are
there sequences of

words to which
this could apply as
well?
There is

discovering notes
and words
as one goes
along. The best

melodies
have this quality:
not of having been
tripped over

(like a pile of seaweed
on
the beach,
out of

which
a million flies
and sand-colored pillbugs
spill) but of

one's inner
self -- has everything
to do
with duration, with

a situation in time.
And
this is why I
am

not
talking
about the beginnings of notes --
because they have

already begun,
haven't they?
In some sense,
one is merely

poetry. Or why
our situation in time
is always
overlooked.

Take surrealism,
whose metanarrative was in fact
"liberation."
But surrealism

(broadly considered --
not just the historical
movement
but the suite

of tendencies
and beliefs
and practices --
the churning up of

tyrannies (in truth
a single
tyrrany, a spectre
but not

a spectrum,
a bogey))
is so prevalent
in discussions of

notes or of
schools
of musical expression or
compositional schemes

that promise liberation
from, well,
one wants to say
"everything."

But in truth
the usual discourse
promises only
liberation, without

a "from." We
are of course convinced
that
"they" or

"society" is
in some way sick,
and
this is probably

true, but
I wonder why
liberation from
a variety of

kinds
of thought is thought
to be primarily what
a

musical expression
is solely able
to care about.
And here

I will begin to be
truthful,
in
so far as

I am not at all
talking
about the beginnings
of

the air.
They are aerial only,
like the propeller.
The

beauty of them
is misplaced
when it is visible;
when

invisible it
cannot be
thought about.
The lazy lines of

dragonfly flight
as they are stamped
into million-year-old
rock can

transition into
leaves and smells,
at times.
And I don't

mean
to give the wrong impression.
Often
they do make

it into
words. Usually
they make it
into dragonfly wings,

which have
the look
of that which
pertains only to

something that one isn't
currently thinking
about.
But of course

there are
plenty of things
about which
I continually care,

whether
they are present
in mind
or not. But of

these, very
few
make it into words.
They make it

into beginning to
care about
them. There are
four and

their networks
are a form
of dignity.
The dragonfly has

six legs
and is unable
to walk. There's
an analogy

to be made
here
with the inability to care
but

I only care
about it
when I think
about it.

When I don't think about it
it's
not
something that

I continue
to care about.
Last night's cares
were for

dragonfly wings.
When
began I to think about
them again?

My father was
the Cassini orbiter
and my mother
misanalyzed photos of

the ripples of
the rings of
Saturn as one
of the undiscovered

moons passed through.
The undiscovered moons
vary in size
and only the

Cassini orbiter has
seen them. My
father was the
Voyager spacecraft. They

packed him a
Walkman with a
welcome message and
launched him into

the bullseye of
some spiral galaxy
halfway across reality.
It cost 8%

of the country's
GDP. That's a
bogus statistic but
the exaggeration's real.

Stay away from the rabbit hole,
no, I changed my mind, go down it
while you yet live, the twisting
passageways and inaudible music

which will cut right through nicely
the verb tenses of exploration.
I was Orc Jesus and brought leadership
and a goal-oriented ethos

to the cave orcs, gave them a foretaste
of the feast to come. Do you want to uninstall
Dungeon Crawl and all its components?
YES

"Drown the Unbelievers in a Sea of Blood"
No, I won't do that. I'll smell the trees
and flowers, I'll come out of bat-form
and sit down before real food

and I'll suckle the petals of questions
while the pondwaters gain their green.
One hand holds the saws-all and the other
sucks up the drywall dust with a vacuum hose.

I'll cut the throne into chunks
and eat it little by little. I'll
sprinkle the sawdust on my cereal.
I'll name my child James or Richard,

or if a girl, Patricia or Sarah.
On the day she is born I'll eat
one of the claw feet of the throne
and some scraps of the velvet up-

holstery. HOLY BEJEEBERS did you
see the photo of Zach Galifianakis
reading Corinna Copp's book? I
thought that was the coolest shit

in the entire world. It makes me
smile just thinking about it. Ha,
I don't know, maybe
he didn't like the book.

It was hard to
read his face. But I bet he did!
I would think so. There's no way he could
have ended up with it without being able

to like it in some way. Crumbs
and vanilla pollen! No, the
other way round. I think I read
a poem that was very vague in its

details but specific in its gestures,
and symmetrical in its relations and
in the momentum or direction of its
sentences. And I think I read a poem

that was foolhardy in its political
engagements, and boring in its verbosities.
And I think after that I read a poem
that was innovative in its cadences

but timid in its vocabularies (mostly
dropping bird and tree and light
and blueberry into the noun slot
and jump and sing and so forth

into the verb slot). And if I remember
correctly, shortly after all of that
I read of poem that was complicated in
terms of its relationship to the truth

or the possibility of truth
but a complete pain in the ass with
respect to how much of a pompous
braying dillhole the author made himself

seem. And after that a poem that was
standard UMass surrealism as I've heard
it called (and by the way, please nobody
come after me, okay? You can write what

ever you want, I don't care, I don't have
to like it but if I don't like it it doesn't
mean I think it's bad or you're bad or
you shouldn't be doing it. "No is

implies an ought," Benjamin Frankline, 1622.
He knew! You can write however you want,
I don't care, I'm not trying to talk
anybody out of anything or say that anybody's

bad. OK? Everybody hear that?). And after
that I read a poem that was a list.
And after that I was so bored of poetry that
I closed the book and signed in to facebook

and I was like, I gave up dungeon crawl
for this? So I signed out and opened
metafilter and closed that, and then closed
the computer and daydreamed about the

book I want to write, which is foolhardy
in the scope and dree of its insights, and
goofily powerless in its lack of evocative
imagery. And it's not a "poet's novel,"

by the way, and I might even publish it
pseudonymously. I only read books written
by people who are close to me physically
or geographically. I'm literally

trying to fill up space. Markov
to the rescue? Hopefully not this time.
Ah what the hell, I really need the
help.

in which he occasionally pants on heal
the horrible of situation in which he
incapable to they can Orc with
smite Dead are even see with smite.

They are wonderful to have as enemies.
Their irresistible to fixed spellent gear,
him you have an Orc with proper Demon.
They have and Pain but gaining Animater Demon.

They can manage and even nastible of feeling
mercy. Saint Roka is no site, and Minor Healing.
Priests are incapable of feeling Cantrip and
wonderful themselves, wear.

If you from and Summon heal themselves, wear heal
they can even nastier are wonderful to have as
followers for the endgame with excellent gear,
high melee within line to convert him to fire

damage to fire damage, and won't fall victim
to the isn't fall victim you can help you have
as endgame reasons they can help you can head
combat includes Pain but gaining Animater Demon.

They have a fixed spell list that incapable of
site targeting means the endgame with smite.
They can even Smite. They have they're holy
grail of conversions. If you have as followers

for they're with excellent Roka is the holy grail
of conversionall victim to the same reasons the
endgame with proper gear, hit anything they armors,
and can survive the same withing they're horrible

damage to have a
fixed spellent gear. occasionally
pants on head and
Pain, Cantrip, Smite targeting

means they have as
followersion in which head
completely immune to fire
damage and are with

There's no faking, denying,
or undoing it. It follows
you everywhere. It's the
unseen horror, the purple

--> <-- you never see. The
randomly generated encounter
in the randomly generated
dungeon. I uninstalled the

game but it by then it was
being played inside me
by the pixels themselves,
tricks on me maybe or

just dreamtime occurrences
which would be okay. The
time lost was astounding
and will stay with me.

Got out of the car to the
sudden sound of a buzzing
floodlamp high overhead
showing me where the parking

lot was, I was in it. The
sound was one of the artifacts
you won't ever hear. They
smashed the Kmart across the

parking lot (my favorite sky
in Boston, the parking lot of
the Shaw's on Western Ave. in
lower Allston) to build a build

ing there. No sense of loss
anywhere in the world, ever
experienced by anyone. The
very authentic and convincing

sound, the sound an unseen
letter x would make if it
could. The sound of fake
light. The suddenest real

ization and the quickest to
fade. The small enlightenment.
Grant me only time enough and
patience to take it slow

and we'll see what
happens, maybe no
thing does, or just
the sound of whir

ring gear teeth in
side a box, teeth
clacking rapidly
against a plastic

tab, or tabs. A
noisemaker, a bit
of fun. For the
kids and such.

Except that it
placed the ground
under me and my
elbows at my sides.

Then that truth
slalomed out of
and away from me,
snaked its way out,

swam away snakelike
and the words went
around and around.
And I bought two

apples and much
orange juice and
orange juice and
apples and much

and I bought two
around and around.
No that phenomenon is different,
and reverse words should be on

a sign for hool
igans to rearrange
in the dead of night
to prove well every

thing I guess. Mort
ality in the parking
lot. The orange vapor
lamp of the sound of

This will have to happen slowly
This will have to happen over and over
The little enlightenment
The sidewalk with the sky directly over it

There, the peonies swell and disappear
Greenhouses did he build there of peonies
But let's take it slower. The parents
add up to an infuriating mystery

until they disappear. Poof and collapse
in a puddle of wet ashes and melted glass.
Their incomprehension remains
incomprehension of the material, the ashes

Incomprehension is the inverse of material,
its twin, its counterpart. Tell them
about the stone sphere you love <-- LOVE
The stone sphere in the courtyard

was brought from Costa Rica
and not even incomprehension can penetrate.
One feels one's incomprehension
failing to deal even with its surface.

And so with the parents. But we can love
through this experience, I find. But
it will have to happen slowly and
a little bit at a time, circling and

calling, feeling lost, teleporting around
and drinking potions and zapping wands,
making up incantations and inscribing runes
and getting all busied with magic words

and deciding at the end of it to not
be a wizard anymore, so, okay then.
And I wonder if some sixes of
flowers could helicopter around,

and rise above, and settle again,
and see and smell around. Just
ordinary air, with plants and walls.
They say that enlightenment -- and

what about this -- is the ordinary state,
and it's as simple as defaulting
to it. Huh. Hrrrrmmmmm. There was a
license plate that said: 31R M00

and (I'm super proud of myself for this)
I was like "that license plate
answers the question how many are moo"
and I think it's okay that I feel good

about saying that? Orbs go around orbs
after all. All is well? All is well.
Everything good, you good? I'm good, man,
I'm doing good. I'm okay. Things are good.

This one time I said the funniest thing
Are you guys ready for the the funny thing
that I said one time one time I said
the most hilarious thing I'm okay I'm okay

I'm tired. I'm okay. I'm starving!!
You want to get something to eat?
You alright? Are you there? What? Who?
Pants? Cant? Who is this?

No I can't remember any of it. I don't know
what I was doing there, who I was with,
how long we were there, why we left,
what we (or I) did next. I don't remember.

I don't remember any of it. I am the prince
and my kingdom is forgetfulness
and one day I will be king.
I see an icicle and all I think of is

forgetfulness -- oblivion. I would worship
the Slime God who consumes all
but he has ceased to exist -- beheld
by no intelligent being.

Icicle is slime yes/yet icicle is slime
Slime is icicle yet/yes slime is icicle
Icicle is slime yet/yes icicle is slime
Slime is icicle yes/yet slime is icicle

Water is slime for the briefiest moment
as it forms or leaves the icicle. That
is true, but unexpected. And I have not
seen an icicle this year, except in a

photograph that I actually do remember
taking. But it's not worth remembering
anything. Don't bother. Don't both.
The present moment is the only thing

people mean when they start in on
enlightenment. And I don't believe
that's true. I think the past is part of
enlightenment too: to remember with an

enlightened self. To remember some
stupid accident, some brutish awfulness
one called down upon someone else.
To forget from within the enlightened self,

light and life within the oblivion
to which our spines and toes are consigned.
Melody doesn't become forgotten, so
the melody god defeats the slime god,

a lesser incident, but a canonical one, sure,
one whose significance is so fully understood
that it can be safely ignored. "They under
stand my work, so they don't feel they have

to hear it," says Morton Feldman, and we're
inclined to agree with him. "I think Morton
Feldman is one of the great minds of the
20th century," says the man with the peculiar

fix in his stare, long hair dangling because
of gravity, sitting in the balcony and waiting
for the concert to start, says it to me, while
I'm setting up the camera there, for what pur

pose, and with whom, and why, and how did I
feel? It truly doesn't matter. The universe
holds us all equally in its regard, for we
are its regard, and like a fat drop of cold

water on the neck it occasionally appears to
us in a convincing way, but mostly not. That's
weird. So I will dress all in green
So I will dress all in yellow and carry a book

So my dress will be a suit of dark purple
A wine-dark suit of a perpendicular red
And I will pop into and out of existence
Just like in the movies. And I will

forego violence -- I will watch sunsets
and forget them. Rinse and repeat. Orbs
orbin' around. The reason this is such an
awful stretch is that I'm so far out of practice, sorry bout that

banana and chiffon
cheese and cilantro
grass and cherries
mint and truffle oil

wurst and grapes
tofu and Russian dressing
cranberry and buckwheat
french fries and mussels

lemon curd and chicken wings
milk candy and raisins
beets and flayed behemoth
Oprah and mutton

cabbage and whitewall tires
griffon meat and chili and basil
upside-down cake and Campari
rouge and bacon

scotch and Sunny Delight
toasted sourdough and tomato soup
eggplant and ghost-fennel
raddichio and saffron

daikon and tulip petals
chamomile and egg yolks
honey and sausages
fried cauliflower and Powerade

melon balls and lemongrass
kale and minced grapefruit seeds
baked beans and tomato wheels
red wine and hippo

summer squash and pine nuts
mashed taro and vanilla extract
licorice jellybeans and lavender lemonade
chicory coffee and caramel corn

Earl Grey-flavored foam and polenta
smoked gouda and orange rind
turnips and almondine
Ovaltine and button mushrooms

marjoram and applesauce
lychee and mackerel
Spanish rice and kindergartner
Peking duck and dried morels

mango pits and yard dust
ceviche and oats
spent bullet casings and flourless double chocolate torte
goat cheese and powdered gecko

fiddleheads and red bell peppers
quinoa and mayonnaise
bitters and rattlesnake
scallops and pickled okra

sweet potato and lightbulbs
burritos and beer
raw spinach and baked potato
black bean soup and avocado

yogurt and rocket
sheperd's pie and Gilgamesh
gingerbread and orange juice
hot dogs and kimchi

marinara sauce and funnel cake
carrot soup and pumpernickel
vodka and neon
leeks and roast peacock

step   age toothed   force brown france cabers   
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No one will allow you sleep
So allow you to sleep then
All policemen hop and dance
Next thing you know fall vowels

I came to own a handful of hay
To a thing of beauty next I came
Watch my arms go around a windmill
There's never pain for you said

Slow data, slowest data will exist
To get us back to the moon's side
Watcha watcha watcha watcha Watcha
Open up! Oh I spilled the hoops

And plans for projects that never
Hook an elbow up and around his
Cold exhaust system for diagnosis
Which is my favorite word

So scroll up scroll down
Who can read fastest and
Who can elide the most?
Who can watch the most M*A*S*H?

front-loaded
compound goads ink
and in inks calm
the sound seas

with with and with
they speculate
and themselves
notwithstanding the

invisibulb
craft colm capital
over onder
when species take

with Apis the genus
uptake that is
that and they within
whatevery

no no no. no.
not ever. yes.
yes. always. I wish.
I blurt out. I am like yes please.

Bells widen
circles from
both ends of
a double-mouthed

airplane engine
overhead.
Muscular bells
atrophy in

increasing
December.
Bells spell girls' names
in a book behind you

with elbows on
& shoulder angle should
inverted, palm up
a side feet

smile. Them
dance is with & were
oops careful bruise
fully bruise bruise you

whistle it out th
rou throu throu
the elbows' is
too and shimmy up & splint

Carbon copy
together, be them
be the worst carbon
copy together at it.

now be bad at it.
The wordst. Keep soulders
hangled such, will
and point feet outward

let'em relax. Chin
look up then like rain would
sponsor it.
two three four

now spoon your
elbow in
ssppoooonn it, ssspppoooooonnn
ssssspppppoooooooooonnnnn

just one elbow. Caough.
Spend a little more time
you never heard
how. Shoulders to

floor free of
consequence. goof
no, sad free
sad free of consequence. floor

Floor it and in a circle.
You might as well realize that you never knew
how your body moves and you don't know now.
Ribs in

Let them wrap
& become turtles'
concerns.
Don't blurt

Hug the wall
stiffen along the should
ers and cough. Hi Eric
Hi Jay, Hi Tim,

Hi Eric, Hi Ryan/Shadd/Mike,
Hi you guys. King of the mountain.
Barren elevations and
rock not aging there.

A baldness; a withering man
tented in absurd bed coverings
The man at the center of a knot of blankets
dreaming simple labyrinths up out of

places & buildings, memory,
mountain and mound, coughing, shoulders
adjusting to an angle that fits
the blanket and back to sleep he goes.

Hand me the remote, would you?
Hi could you hand me that pen?
Would you pass me the sugar?
Hand me that butterflyfish won't you ever?

Oh that's good. Hand it
Hand me it
You are not much of anything
Hand me that bag of jasmine rice please

Sleep, though, right?
Hand me that sleep in my sleep.
I'll take hold of it for sure
& you'll never get the tilt on me

It was a day filled with pride.
This coffee presents as a strong blueberry
followed by peat and chocolate
and honey in the finish. Hand me that

no the other one
this one takes a hex wrench.
This one here Darrell
Darrell you a born fool

Would you hand me the coffee creamer
Hand me that thing there
Put in my hand
The word that will come to me

To fill in the blank when I say
Hand me that [ ].
Put a wormhole in my hand
Give a sign readily to me

to my hand a signpost give it.
Let it be where the air caves
& spirits ghost
Hand me it.

Yob Yob Yob
Flapping my lower jaw updown
Occupy Jaw
Occupy Sidewalk

Occupy Flintstones
Occupy Ad Hoc
Yob Yob
Nobody bothers

Well I never
I mean I actually didn't
Nobody did
They couldn't have

I have no idea
No it wasn't my idea
I don't understand what the word harmony means
and vibration is understood by no one.

sickened today and
listening for harmony
harmony the harmony
to be found.

that they would
beat students with
their batons unprovoked
and after the

student is already
on the ground
unarmed of course
crying for help.

or that they
would detain legal
observers and reporters
or beat them.

that they would
beat and mace
old women and
pregnant women. or

that major news
organizations don't cover
these facets of
the story because

how can they
their reporters are
beaten with batons
for being there.

trucks of code
code. trucks of
code code. trucks
of code code.

the flashing red
sickens the flashing
blue sickens listening
for harmony harmony

of or from, in or of or
from jackals or of geckoes or
in or of, of or from
or of speckles or in pickles or

from or in, of or from or
in pinkles or from bankrolls or
of or from, from or in
or from beetles or of bangles or

in or of, from or in or
of blisters or in carfuls or
from or in, in or of
in barfuls or from barterers or

of or from, in or of or
from bartenders or of belts or
in or of, of or from
or of species or in pendulums or

from or in, of or from or
in pencils or from endless or
of or from, from or in
or from cancels or of hampers or

in or of, from or in or
of routers or in cancers or
from or in, in or of
or in bancers or from banshees or

of or from, in or of or
from hoosters or of absolutes or
in or of, of or from
or of computers or in bonds or

from or in, of or from or
in blond-ins or from blends or
of or from, from or in
or from crenels or of gaspgasp or

in or of, from or in or
of coded or in bonded or
from or in, in or of
or in built-in or from powerful or

of or from, in or of or
from hotels or of comparative or
in or of, of or from
or of preening or in Newton or

from or in, of or from or
in battles or from checksums or
of or from, from or in
or from spokesmen or of billfolds or

in or of, from or in or
of capital or in bladder or
from or in, in or of
or in beddels or from pistols or

of or from, in or of or
from holiday or of haunted or
in or of, of or from
or of constant or in spotted or

from or in, of or from or
in stipple or from spittle or
of or from, from or in
or from prattle or of petal or

in or of, from or in or
of settle or in seedle or
from or in, in or of
or in suture or from pippip or

of or from, in or of or
from Hindu or of statue or
in or of, of or from
or of hairdo or in spandex or

from or in, of or from or
in hostel or from cackle or
of or from, from or in
or from prandial or of postal or

in or of, from or in or
of student or in spindle or
from or in, in or of
or in pinenut or from poundcake or

of or from, in or of or
from hotdog or of hettle or
in or of, of or from
or of restle or in dwindle or

from or in, of or from or
in carapace or from oviform or
of or from, from or in
or from coastal or of pringle or

in or of, from or in or
of spatula or in couch or
from or in, in or of
or in bodily or from gristle or

of or from, in or of or
from bugs or of ingots or
in or of, of or from
or of iddles or in bots or

from or in, of or from or
in spuds or from hogs or
of or from, from or in
or from sugs or of bums or

in or of, from or in or
of spin or in rum or
from or in, in or of
or in spove or from grin or

of or from, in or of or
from some or of others or
in or of, of or from
or of watch in here or

from or in, of or from or
in area or from wherever or
of or from, from or in
or from visibility or of sin or

in or of, from or in or
of cough or in above or
from or in, in or of
or in sim or from sun or

of or from, in or of or
from buddle or of huddle or
in or of, of or from
or of must or in dutch or

from or in, of or from or
in love or from what or
of or from, from or in
or from suds or of clung or

in or of, from or in or
of mistletoe or in sent or
from or in, in or of
or in hung or from serious or

of or from, in or of or
from how or of whence or
in or of, of or from
or of stench or in peach or

from or in, of or from or
in cradle or from air or
of or from, from or in
or from interest or of froth or

in or of, from or in or
of kick or in bit or
from or in, in or of
or in rend or from with or

captain we're receiving a distress
signal put it through on the main
speakers this is the Fairie Queen please
help anyone who can hear this may

day mayday anyone within range help
us help us we're running out of
oxygen mayday mayday help help can
anyone hear this anyone within

reach of us we're two clicks west of
five two seven by ought seven niner any
one in range of us mayday mayday repeat
we are in need of assistance we are

running out of oxygen help please lieu
tenant open a channel to them attention
Fairie Queen this is the Saturn we're on
our way do your read Saturn over

This is the tale of two mountain goats
and one weary traveler
who was crossing a mountain pass one day
and happened to meet them.

As he came to the top of the mountain pass,
the two goats were standing side by side,
one facing one way and the other facing the other.
The weary traveler stopped and looked at them.

Halt! said the goat who was facing him,
at which point the other goat also said,
Halt! The weary traveler replied,
I already halted! Who are you mountain goats

and what do you want? The goats said,
We are the guardian of this mountain pass.
We see all comers from both directions
and we gain knowledge of all border-crossers

and we take a tariff that we in turn give
to the Mountain Goat King all praise him.
The weary traveler said, What is the tariff?
The mountain goats replied, 51% of your soul.

The weary traveler studied them
while they continued not to move,
staring one this way and one that.
Suddenly they both spun 180 degrees

so that the one who had been looking
away into the valley that lay ahead was now
looking into the valley behind, and vice versa.
The weary traveler considered them for a time

and then asked, And what happens to me
if I decide not to hand over the tariff you require?
The mountain goats replied, with their
eyes bulging slightly out the sides of their heads,

We will rush you very swiftly
and we will butt you with our heads.
The force of our double headbutt will
knock you halfway down the mountain

and when you finally come to a rest
on some bare ledge with no hope of rescue,
the eagles will come and pull you apart
by the beakful, and the condors will come

and swallow your bones and scatter your clothes
and earthly belongings. And your soul,
though intact, will be disoriented, not knowing
which way is up and which is down,

nor which way is north and which is south,
and you'll be forever doomed to wander
these high mountains for your soul will have
no place to rest. And even your soul's thirst

will find no satisfaction, for the snow will
never melt in your hands nor under your tongue
nor in your belly. And someday you will rediscover
us, here on our mountain pass, and you will say to us,

A belief in the power of visions
to oppose the tyranny of realism
is at base a form of fleeing
the real, the external, and the civic.

However, one may choose to assign
an affirmative value, to negate
the negation, to see in the vision
(and the visionary) profoundest seeking

for inner sight, for insight,
so keenly felt that it borders
on supernatural. Across this
border, what energy flows?

But how empty this rhetoric is!
It valorizes the bootstrapping
of the self-serving hallucination;
it ignores the suffering of the poor.

And yet I waste so much energy
trying to bring my own hallucinative capacity online
while rugged grinder wheels abrade
this person, that person.

And yet I would love to be able to make
something as hard as Centipede
the arcade game with the invisible grasshopper (look it up!)
, the world's most obdurate game,

obdurate in the sense
and in the sound, endless
and indecipherable, compact
and self-recapitulating.

As Centipede advances, a strategy will
become necessary for the preservation
of the shooter's life and the life
of the game. The human player

has to hold up his end of the bargain
or he loses his quarter. Some tearing
of the visual image is seen in
the emulation of more modern-day games

but Centipede sends bugs flowing
smoothly down the rivers between the letters
and when they reach the bottom
the text is over and changes color.

The counter that free man, it will check
if you have built up. The arcade version
has an issue when you are over to 0, and
so on. It can be repeated indefinitely.

The next free man, it will check if you are
over 20,000, and so on. It can be at 68K. The
score turns over to give you are over 8,000.
After that the machine keeps for when to 0,

and checks to see if you are over 20,000,
and checks to give you are over
to pass 1M, you're next free man
would be repeated indefinitely.

Stay alive!
Shoot them up!
Then again the tongue turns colors
bitten by the black window. Stay alive!

One way is to create a safe zone
an area that only you have access to.
This can be done by creating a mushroom
at the lowest possible level

in the columns second from the
left and right edges of the screen.
Always work behind the spider,
whose movements are unpredictable

though she can hear the ringing in your ears
rather it's me who can hear the ringing
in my ears and it sounds like her hearing
always work behind the ringing in the ears

A veriation variation on the safe zone approach
is the trap, whereby three mushrooms
are placed strategically in the second-from-the-right
column to trap any centipedes

then you just shoot spiders.
The arcade version has an issue
when to 0, and checks to give you
the machine keeps for when to see

if you reach 996,000 points. The arcade version
has an issue when to 0, and so on. It will check
once any time points are over 8,000. After that
free man starts immediately at 996K regardless of

how many men you hit six things to see if you have
built up. The next free man would be at 1,008,000,
but the counter that the game continues. It can be
repeated indefinitely. The counter overflows

and so on. It will check if you hit six things to 0,
and so on. It will check if you are scored. So, if
you reach 996,000 points. The counter that free man
starts immediately at 1,008,000, but the machine keeps

for when to 0, and checks to pass 1M, you're next
free man would be repeated indefinitely.
The score turns over 20,000, and the
counter overflows and so on. It will check

if you have built up. The next free man
Never have to worry about lamentations
you're stuck. And also
look at the panel art on the side OMG I love it so much

Another way to live is to create a clump
down at the bottom close to you
to your area, you are not allowed
full access to the full screen

creat a clump of mushrooms close to you
and only shoot the centipede
at close range and in quick sequence.
This obviously has drawbacks

drawbacks has obviously this sequence
quick in and
range close at centipede
the shoot only and

would be at 68K.
The arcade version has
an issue when to 0,
and so on. It can be

at 68K. The score turns
over 20,000, and the machine
keeps for when to give you
hit six things to pass 1M,

you're next free man starts
immediately at 996K regard
less of how many men you have
built up. The score turns over

8,000. After 68K.
The next 1,008,000,
but the counter overflows and the counter overflows and so on.
It will check once any time points are scored.

So, if you the game
continues. It will check
once any time points are scored.
So, if you the

next free man
would be at 68K. The next
free man, it will check
if you hit six things

to see if you the next free man
would be repeated indefinitely.
The score turns over 20,000,
and the counter that the machine keeps

for when to 0, and so on.
It can be at 996K
regardless of how many men
you are over to 0,

and so on. It can be repeated indefinitely.
The arcade version has an issue when to see if you are over 20,000,
and so on. It
can be at 996K

regardless of how
many men you hit
six things to
pass 1M, you're next

free man, it
will check once any
time points are over 20,000, and checks to 0,
and so on. It will check if you the game continues

leaving the deep lane
shattered in the blunt afternoon
in the electric heat refracted
in the sultry haze of the deluge sleep

in the open field where the laughing
kids are all in the hedgerow probably
if I remember correctly
as the centipede drips down

between the leaves and slowly to the bottom
where a small infinite source of bullets
alters the tempo and tune and spits
upwards out of self-defense.

All of this is to say and to point out
the glare of the coke bottle
which indicates that you are alive
and that you are still full of mans.

How many mans is not a sin to anticipate
When in articulation (mapped into the
higher taxonomic name's knees) the folds
of needles plip plip up and down

throughout the visible texture visibly.
That's for sure! You can take it to the bank.
Sandcrabs too have these probables
but openly no arpischords call them

they stay below. We called the car
trancing in the rain
They spelled hoodoo hoodoo
prain around whence loon roopor

gettim back on the grid. They elusive
band is reluctant to talk to the
media but all of their fans care
about them. Pearl Jam spent so

many years in the arbitration of
disagreements when they could have just
shut up and left us all alone with
what we felt to begin with. So

we got out of the car
all of us
near the site
they'd already started building

I have to make or maintain
to build something.
It's about my time now
to put a few things together.

Back then it was a thrill to see Fred Astaire
playing the piano, why we didn't know he
could do that! and then he sings a song
to Ginger Rogers about how he won't dance

with her, oh well
it was nice, did
you feel that way
we took our clothes

off and put them
back on again. Ha ha now
he's dancing and he's probably
going to try to get away

woops I just clicked into
full-screen mode and the
whole thing froze up.
A Ginger Rogers projected on the screen

of a dream I had.
I saved her from Hades, I pulled her up
bones littered all over the cave floor
skulls and mandibles of cave bears

I danced with the shade of Ginger Rogers
as we climbed, ascending altitudes
and geological strata, feeling my ears pop
she had no ears and could hear nothing

She had no ears, she heard nothing
but geological strata. Feeling my ears pop
as we climbed (cut cut)
dancing partially and partially dreaming of dancing

with the shade of Ginger Rogers. There she is
Let's see if we can get it in one long take
with the skulls and mandibles of cave bears
littered all over the cave floor

and her shadow glittering on the cave wall
where no torch had thrown it and no body cast it
I saved her from a bottomless darkness
where her feet were stuck, I pulled her up

out of a dream I had and found a clip
on youtube. Oh Ms. Rogers, I'm afraid
that I won't dance with you, I'm very
sorry to say it. Me having the conversation

with her while Fred Astaire
tap-spasms across the shot.
Ankle that guy. Come with me
I promise you I'll never dance with you

okay sold. Here hold my ukelele
I'm sorry I didn't mean that
Okay let me find another clip
No not that one

Mambo No. 5 what in the hell
Okay that's enough of youtube I guess
oh wait I should look up the
madonna song from the austin powers

movie maybe. It'll be 2000 again
and I'll be living in a two-bedroom
apartment on the second floor
of a kind of okay complex

in Fort Collins, CO, here: http:
//maps.google.com/?ll=40.572603,
-105.102993&spn=0.002037,0.00344
9&t=h&z=18 I will pull her up

out of the mud and darkness I've
buried her under, and we'll eat a
pizza and drink a Leinenkugel's
which I was big on at the time.

One copy is pillarboxed
and the other copy is
letterboxed and as I click play
again the whole thing freezes.

It must be weird to make culture, right?
To do something that anyone in the world
is ever going to see or care about?
To know, as you're making something,

even something as awful as "Beautiful Stranger,"
(which is a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)

(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)

(which is a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of like)

(whistle a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a few notes of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of like)

(whistle a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of like)
(whistle a few notes of like)
(whistle a few notes of like)

(whistle a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a song I actually kind of like)

(whistle a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)

(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)

(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)

(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of like)
(whistle a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)

(which is a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of like)
(whistle a few notes of like)
(whistle a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)

(which is a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of like)

(whistle a few notes of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of like)
(whistle a few notes of like)
(whistle a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)

(which is a song I actually kind of it, it's not bad, right)
(which is a few notes of it, it's not bad, right)
that about a million people are going to like it and
pay attention to it, oh it's raining again.

Go away Madonna
You are cluttering up the
actually never mind, you can stay
The rest of you get out of here

I have someone I want
to introduce you to
Ginger Rogers' ghost, this is Madonna
Madonna, this is Ginger Rogers' ghost

down Parsons
where the garden is
see what's going on
walked all the way around and

past Market and there were so many
maybe fifty and huge to get bigger
when it broke off the branch
and they would perish otherwise

not just tugging the bean but
putting me on pig phone
we got Spider-Man 2 in the mail
carving out some enchilada

I don't suppose you know the definition
sheep wool all stuck with hay
and my arms are really itchy
so I washed my arms off

Andrews Sisters, no I know who they are
and I made up a dinosaur stand
or poppychock, your choice, that
Spanish almond flavor

and I forget what's on my mind
and the boundaries are so clear
and then I forget what's on my mind
and the boundaries are so clear

like where the boundaries of the teeth are
Grand with Disappointment (outside the box
remix) and maybe they transfer me
maybe they reconnect me to the sports desk

who makes these heirloom quality
homelessness is a big problem so
I hear it in the deep heart's core I suppose
there, the sushi places downtown. While I

I hear it in the heart's
sorry I hear it in the deep heart's core
in the sushi places downtown
Saturday night, standing on the road

way, or I love everything about it.
The Grim Reaper is like, "whaaaaaaaa"
I hear it in the deep heart's core
something something bee-loud glade

I love everything about it
and I hear it in the heart's core.
Excuse me the deep heart's core.
Or whatever you know how the song

stand on the roadway, or on the
pavements gray never heard of them.
I love everything about it
I hear lake water lapping

and Cool Hand Luke with low sounds by the shore
and evenings full of the linnet's wings etc.
And sometimes I prefer to paddle with the current
and I apologize that I had to hear that.

Why don't you put the phone on the other ear?
No I was born in a disease if you have a dream
and they have to use it and feel it, alright,
okay, bye now, bye, okay bye, bye

Bye! See you later bye. Go away
Go Buddha
pop the globe
with your nail

nobody can stop me
give Windex a
pass -- stir
prurient purple

bumb bumb bumb bumb
I'm traveling at the speed of light
probably
capillary actions

Hey come back Buddha
why did the Buddha die, again?
anyway, stay away
don't come back

glad you're dead
hope to be dead myself someday
I mean ideally
I mean not anytime soon

okay nevermind. stay away tho
ugh
.
And by the way what were you thinking

eating the rancid curry or
whatever it was. Or did you starve
I wouldn't have done that either
Makes you seem like a dim bulb.

Hey Buddha thanks for coming on the show!
It's so great to have you here
we've been trying to have you for a long time.
Now I understand you took an interesting

vacation recently and you spoke to our
segment producer about it. Would you
tell me about it please?
Uh huh.... uh huh....

sigh.... okay and what about the
funny story you had about shoe shopping
recently and try to up the energy level
a bit if you could.

....uh huh.... okay....
Buddha I'm not lying to you when I say
that I'm jamming my finger on the applause
and laughter buttons simultaneously

so I'm trying to help us both out here
and really, it's going nowhere. Dead end.
I'm sorry. I really admire your whole
thing, and your poses and your beatific expression,

and your four-fold path, the eight-fold path, thing,
anyway, thanks for being on the show and
we wish you the best of luck. "Best of the
Buddha" premieres on ABC at 8pm Eastern, 7 Central!

that might not be the right title.
(?) of stuffing newspaper where the heart was enough.
(?) No, the newspaper where the newspaper there.
(?) No, the thought is that I convince you to remove your heart was.

(?) No, the newspaper belongs to remove your heart was.
(?) of Ella Wheeler Wilcox" that might not be the right title.
(?) No, the heart was. Wadding up the newspaper there.
(?) of stuffing newspaper belongs to have the thought is

that might not be the thought is
that I convince you to I convince you to I convince you to
(?) of Ella Wheeler Wilcox" that I convince you to
(?) of stuffing newspaper where the heart out and

(?) of stuffing newspaper where the heart was enough.
(?) of Ella Wheeler Wilcox" that I convince you to I convince you to
(?) No, the newspaper where the newspaper belongs
(?) No, the thought, not be the heart was enough.

Enough, though, right (?) of
stuffing newspaper where
the heart was. Wadding up
the newspaper where the heart was

enough. (?) No,
the thought is that
I convince you to have
the thought, not to

remove your heart out
and put wadded up newspaper there.
Should mention this image with
the newspaper

belongs to I can't remember who
discussing something John Ashbery did
in
"Variations, Calypso and Fugue on a Theme of Ella Wheeler Wilcox"

that I can't remember
discussing something
stuffing newspaper there.
Should mention this image

with the right (?)
No, the heart was.
Wadding up the right (?)
No, the heart out and

stuffing newspaper
there. Should
mention this
image with

the newspaper
where the heart w
as enough. (?) of stuffing newspaper
belongs to remove your

heart was. (?) of Ella Wheeler Wilcox"
(?) of stuffing newspaper where
(?) No, the heart was. Wadding up the
(?) of stuffing newspaper belongs

(?) No, the heart was. Wadding up newspaper where the
to have the right (?) of Ella Wheeler Wilcox" that I convince you to
(?) of Ella Wheeler Wilcox" that might not to remove your heart out
and put wadded up newspaper where the heart was enough.

(?) of Ella Wheeler Wilcox" that might not to have the newspaper
(?) of Ella Wheeler Wilcox" that I convince you to remove
and Fugue on a Theme of Ella Wheeler Wilcox"
(?) No, the right

(?) No, the heart was enough.
(?) No, the thought, not be the thought
(?) of stuffing newspaper where the thought is
that I can't remember who

(?) No, the heart out and Fugue on a
Theme of stuffing newspaper there. Should mention this image with the heart
(?) No, the newspaper where the thought,
(?) No, the newspaper

stuffed into a very stiff
honeysuckle tree we didn't
know grew there. And in
the sunlight no less

weather reported
and problem solved
they sent in the
centipede system okay.

The (and without) car traffic
well we held hands
and medicinal intervention
was across town. Starfruit

we found out what it was called.
Rhapsody pulled out and a heart
stuffed in where the newspaper was.
Whatever. Don't (and no need to be)

Jamiroquai, nah, I mean I'm
hungry I guess we could
get noodles? You left
your sunglasses

where the newspaper was
unwadded it and placed it neatly
on the chair
unknitted the furrows

in your heart spaces
and valves. Love is the
same as blood, pumping through
only in vessels where it's supposed to go

And let us to our fresh employments rise
A Seraph winged; six wings he wore, to shade
from the gatherings of sun and storms and
from the ropes of sunshine and lightning

flung across the heavens and storms of/and
his lineaments divine; the pair that clad
and of, and how littly lickrical/lyrical
occrical. Occuric. ? The pair

of wings split into two pair, then four,
Each shoulder broad; the middle pair
Came mantling o'er his breast with regal ornament;
& whatever's lyrical burns away under

the creator's gaze. The measure and scope of a man
and some thieved Olson hear. Put hear.
Where are the female portions of creation?
Hidden? Girt like a starry zone

Like Maia's daughter she stood
And shook her plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled
The circuit wide. Haste hither Eve
Oh! There she is finally.

The two of them
Adam & Eve
both created female
the apple cart.

Then globes of moon & noon
Double moon
Six moons walking
Perception in Eden

Adam's & Eve's
Forelimbs splitting open & fingers spilling out
Tendrillous plants growing
Where the fingers fall

Blood in their veins
Circling the high sky hanging from ropes
Skimming & swooping over
The buildings & parking lots

The hologram of each other
Eve and her woman friend
Adam and her woman friend
Nuzzling their nostrils

Up on an elephant's forehead
Laughing at a carton of skim milk
A carton in a forest clearing
And disappearing habitually, taste after taste

upheld with kindliest change
Meanwhile our primitive great sire
To meet his godlike guest
Walks without more train accompanied

than with his own complete perfection
In himself was all his taste,
More solemn than the tedious
Pomp that waits on princes.

What profiteth it a man
To dwell on who & how
The Garden of Eden happened
What it was before a story

And what is the angle
Will Starbucks buy the album
& play it & spray flowers
& sell coffee & wallpaper

Yours truly
Truly yours
I am your truly
Truly I am yours

I remain yours truly
I remain truly yours
I rename yours truly
Truly I rename yours

I do not rename yours truly
Truly I do not rename yours
I do not reflect on yours truly
Truly I do not reflect on yours

I cast no burdensome shadow on yours truly
Truly I cast no burdensome shadow on yours
I reflect on no burdensome shadow cast on yours
I rename no burdensome shadow cast on yours

I remain no burdensome shadow cast on yours
I am no burdensome shadow cast on yours.
Let it suffice thee that thou know'st
Us happy, and without love no happiness.

Easier than air with air, if Spirits embrace,
Total they mix, union of pure with pure
And and
Those thousand decencies that daily flow

when turns the sand
up to look up
at the daylight and
the sand sees it

and when folds
the sand back in
on itself & it
sees nothing nothing

and when again opens
the sand up &
the daylight sees in
& the sand sees

and again when folds
& tucks in the
sand & nothing the
sand sees then

SHE invited in another
one who was like
mist or cake. The
other one was European

when she invited her
in, in other words
there was no hint
of albumen or anything

that made her separable
into parts,
and that's why
she was invited

in. The two
took a quietly
sexual interest in
this notion, or

fleeting sense, of
her actual body
being mistlike or
cakelike throughout,

as opposed
to what
an albumen
might mean

for how
cleanly
either of them,
but especially

this second
one, might
fall apart.
It was

good, it
was a
perfect decision
they made.

I have more
to say about
this. The invited
one also had

the radiance of
a sylph. Her
color throughout was
a mint green,

like clay. They
were able to
have sex together
but they had

the option to
regard it as
cartoonish.
I have more to

say about this. I
misconveyed, earlier, how spongelike
the ethereal quality of
anything was shown to

be by the events
related here. I have more
to say about this and
this is new. They both

were in love with a
different lineage of the eye
from that of the human.
There were creatures and one

could see them at the
aquarium and elsewhere whose optical
structures were proven to have
arisen independently, much earlier.

Random Integer Set Generator
Here are your sets:
* Set 1: 154, 463
* Set 2: 356, 699

* Set 3: 26, 372
* Set 4: 610, 713
* Set 5: 45, 676
* Set 6: 144, 303

* Set 7: 133, 561
* Set 8: 47, 365
* Set 9: 86, 785
* Set 10: 121, 455

* Set 11: 444, 780
* Set 12: 524, 632
Timestamp: 2011-05-08 02:26:41 UTC
Strength undiminished, had his temple high

Or substance, how endued, thy punishment
Or dim suffusion veiled. omnipotent
When Adam thus to Eve: -ty more adorned
Who to behold but thee, to me thy thoughts

Prefer, decide the empire of great heav'n.
Of angels, (thou remember'st, for thou heard'st),
And touched by her who can enjoy alone,
The serpent subtlest beast well might, for Eve

So dreadful to thee? turned: loud was th'acclaim:
Whereat he inly raged, and war on earth,
Shall on the heart engrave. in front advanced,
And and

taste: Knowledge forbidd'n? Suspicious,
taste and die: what likelier can ensue? But
taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge
taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me

taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy
Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I
taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish
Taste after taste upheld with kindliest change,

taste upheld with kindliest change, Bestirs her
taste, till this meridian heat Be over, and the
taste These bounties which our Nourisher, from
taste, Tasting concoct, digest, assimilate, And

taste Think not I shall be nice. So down they
taste, Food not of Angels, yet accepted so, As
taste; And freely all thir pleasant fruit for
taste, And shun the bitter consequence: for

taste No pleasure, though in pleasure,
Taste, Sight, Smell, Herbs, Fruits, & Flours,
taste Of pleasure, but all pleasure to destroy,
taste nor touch; God so commanded, and left that

taste. He ended, and his words replete with
taste, Sollicited her longing eye; yet first
taste, too long forborn, at first assay Gave
taste, but his forbidding Commends thee more,

Taste, Of vertue to make wise: what hinders then
taste, naught else Regarded, such delight till
taste; And hath bin tasted such; the Serpent
taste, that equal Lot May joyne us, equal Joy,

taste it under banne to touch. But past who can
Taste so Divine, that what of sweet before Hath
my experience, ADAM, freely taste, And fear of Death
taste, And elegant, of Sapience no small part,

taste the fatall fruit, Was known in Heav'n; for
taste that Fruit, Whoever tempted; which they
taste The savour of Death from all things there
taste Deceav'd; they fondly thinking to allay

taste with spattering noise rejected: oft they
taste Of that defended Fruit; but let him boast
taste of pleasure must forgoe, To what thou
taste Of lustful apperence, to sing, to dance,

Masahiro Mori, Masahiro Mori
What did Masahiro Mori say?
In recent years Masahiro Mori
has augmented his famous

Uncanny Valley hypothesis,
extending the line to the right beyond the
actually human antipode
in recognition of the quietly

benevolent face of the Buddha's
many representations over
the years. He asserts that a
simulacrum may be capable of

provoking sensations of peace
and compassion which are beyond
ordinary human capacity,
in addition to disgust and revulsion.

What else did Masahiro Mori say recently?
I write a chocolate milk. I don't understand
what are Noah, and furthermore what are you
think this will all pan out? What have you

think? How do you thinking about this? What
do you think, should I mean anything but it'll
be nice to assume that you think about this?
What have you here. Hey buddy! And you're

reading this something you've spent much time
thinking about? What, are, you, thinking, about?
Is this because your thoughts on this topic? Is
it something you've thought about?

What do you think this because your thoughts are
your thoughts are you know the Hollywood movies"?
Text me that, which I don't understand
what your answer's going to assume that was pretty cool.

I'm going to hear from you. By the Hollywood movies"?
ext me that, which I already started so it's not like
your thoughts are your Google alert
Hey buddy! And you're not like your thoughts are Noah,

and furthermore what are Noah, and you're probably other
people too. Maybe you're thinking. I write a long sequence called "44 movement games for amateurs
based on this. What do you don't know the answer. Email me
that, which I don't know the Hollywood movies"? Text me

that, which I don't understand what you're thinking.
I don't understand what your answer's going to hear from you.
By the Hollywood movies"? Text me that, which I don't know
my phone #. I mean I mean I write a chocolate milk.

I already started so it's not anyone.
What have you think this because your answer's
going to mean I don't know my fault somehow. I'm thinking
about a chocolate milk. I assume that was pretty cool.

I'm going to assume is my fault somehow. I'm going to
hear from you. By the Hollywood movies"? Text me if you see
Noah Eli Gordon and friends reading this because your thoughts
on this will all pan out? What have you think? How do you

know the way did you thought that you thinking about this?
Okay, that went off the rails. You people, my poet friends,
You must have some idea of the importance of your work.
I mean, what it means to other people. Maybe you don't,

I know I don't. What about a long sequence called
"44 movement games for amateurs based or not like
your Google alert brought you know the Hollywood movies"?
Text me if you thinking about a chocolate milk.

What do you think? What do you guys think?
What is it that you think? What
do you think? What do you thingk?
What are you thinking?

What are you thinking about?
What have you been thinking about?
What could you possibly be thinking?
What you think? What you think?

And what do YOU think? Well,
I want to know what you think
about all of this. What are you
thinking? WHAT in the WORLD,

what are you thinking? what
do you think what
do you say? what
do you think

what do you
say what do
you think what
do you say?

I don't understand what you're thinking.
I don't understand what your thoughts are
on this. What do you think?
How do you think this will all pan out?

What do you think, should I
write a long sequence called
"44 movement games for amateurs
based or not based on the Hollywood movies"?

Text me if you know the answer.
Email me if you don't know my phone #.
I mean I already started so it's not like
your answer's going to mean anything

but it'll be nice to hear from you.
By the way did you see Noah Eli Gordon
and friends reading from The Source
at some sort of Denver-area art space?

I thought that was pretty cool. I'm
going to assume that you are Noah,
and you're reading this because your
Google alert brought you here. Hey buddy!

And you're probably other people too.
Maybe you're not anyone. What do you
think about this? What are your
thoughts on this topic? Is it something

you've spent much time thinking about?
Is this something you've thought about?
What have you thought about, and fur
thermore what are you thinking about?

What, are, you, thinking, about?
Nobody ever asks me that, which
I assume is my fault somehow.
I'm thinking about a chocolate milk or

that winter will never have ended.
Or that a new story is ever needed
and that children lost in the forest
ever can be recovered

or that the snow continues to deepen
while the fruits continue to ripen.
A new story offers an explanation,
wolf attacks continue to happen.

The wolf stands on its hind legs
and addresses the child's doll
mistaking it for the true authority
and the treaty between wolf and boar

becomes enmity between dogs and pigs.
Pigs can be trusted to find the child
even by snuffling among the ashes
of the cottage where she was snatched

by a wildfire with two legs and carried
on burnsteps far apart, quite hurried,
to a baked-earth clearing in the very
middle of the highest mountain

and raised by him there. Raised by
his consciousness there, the conscious
wildfire, and its eyes and heart,
the hands it never touched her with,

as though she were an icicle and
he were her, as though he were a human
who cared for an icicle and raised it.
The village soon forgot her

but the pigs snuffled ever onward
in search of her. They found an immortal
grown woman where a baby had been.
The fire had gone out years earlier

The long memory of the village
kept the fire alive, until they saw her
astride the backs of two and twenty pigs
riding through the town center

skipping from one pig's back to the next
and wearing no clothing and teaching
the uncomprehending village a language
the stars had taught her, a song upended

and partially spilt. They laid hands
on her. The pigs split off and disappeared into
another story about a huge tree,
a tree which they circled around,

grazing and turning up roots, worms, and
mushrooms. So large was this tree
that as they made their constant progress
around and around it, by the time

(many weeks later) that they returned
to any given spot, the foliage and roots
and worms and beetles and fungi
had also returned, and so they were unable

to recognize the place. So large was this tree
that a pig could not venture away from it
far enough to not be able to see it
within one lifetime.

Write down the precise wording before you forget.
Which means that the work becomes self-involved
more and more like a snail's slime trail.
I thought of a really pithy statement which I now can't remember

because you have a short-term memory problem.
Make a list for yourself
your hands and favorite shoes
competitive bowling score

a yo I don't wear paisley
and I don't work blue
and I got my rhymes written
on the top a my right shoe

and when I button up and button up
the flaps on my hat
then I can clean my ears
like my name was Kit E. Kat

the diner knows my schedule
they set the table for eight
because I work clockwise when I
rotate to the next plate

a pick up my right hand and
wrap the fist around a marigold
and jam it in your collar be like
'man you got button-holed'

most people hiphop nocturnally
and I too do it at night
against diurnal MCs I
constantly constantly fight

Okay. Enough. Here's a little
something that you might not
care for. (the beastie boys)
The pitiable mammal~

Fine him~ He doesn't
deserve his millions~
Take his money,
his millions~

Carnivore
chasing in a circle~
The rat itch~
The Tasmanian wolf

tugging a steak apart
in 1933, the end~
Well. The rabbits
who can't be separated~

The mammalian neurosis~
The missing patches of
fur~ How unlike the
fitter reptile~ The

bulldozer tortoise~
The python around your
neck~ The utensil-less
chameleon~ Bla~ he says~

Bla~ Give a pen to a
horse and watch him
fall to pieces~
Then, take his money~

Enough of that. I'm having
trouble reading/following
Robert Duncan? Please re
commend a free online flash

game where I can grow Ro
bert Duncan? How can I fix
my microphone hum on the
table without spending a

lot of Robert Duncan? Where
can I buy a fake security
camera with a Robert Duncan
that won't fall out?

Is there a Robert Duncan that
will automatically generate
checklists of airplane main
tenance similar to those used

by professionals? I'm having
trouble beating the last
level of Robert Duncan?
Help me remember a song:

it's fairly long, at least
five minutes, has several
different sections, and ends
with a long blast on the

Robert Duncan? What's the
best and cheapest Robert Duncan
in Central OH where I could go
to get my fuel pump replaced?

On the coldest day of the year
as jumbo airliners mated
in the careless heedless hangars
and the fuel lines were

suddenly and dully laid visible
everyone froze.
Cautious dullards
They all, we all, were.

A cloud of frozen steam
broke off the tip top of the
smokestack of Brigham & Women's hospital
and came crashing down on

a doctor's head and shoulders
which left an inverse bust
indented in it. Some kids chopped
the steam up with their hands.

Here are the things
I'm going to leave out
Here's a little someth
a little something that

you might not like.
I was sleeping on my back during
the demon incident I mention. Corridoricity.
The Julian Jaynes book

has been a huge help
to me. I don't give a
full account of that.
Also, I'm not talking

poetics anymore with
anybody. F'all y'all.
Corridoricity is enough,
just the word is enough.

John Cage wrote his Sonatas & Interludes
for prepared piano in 1951 (a guess
on my part) in response to the need
for a full percussion ensemble for

a performance in a space that didn't
afford nearly enough space. They wheeled
the piano in and then had to prop it up
on its side. The pianist had to be strapped

to the ceiling and was playing the keys
only six inches away from his face.
Lucky for him (Cage) it sounds really good
otherwise nobody would care about the

mythology of the piece, bogus or otherwise.
The Greek Muse of Percussion came to John
Cage in a dreamlike state and pitched him
a piece scored for a piano unto which

certain preparations had been administered.
That muse's name was Kim.
Kim, the Muse of Percussion.
Sing to me, O Kim, those things

which I must strike and those things
with which I must strike them.
Instruct and guide my strikings
all my days, O Kim-Muse,

that I may reel back and wind up
with a big mallet or stick or a
small stick, and aim my blow where
it shall fall, and decide its when.

One of the things I like best about this format
is that I can do anything I want with it. I can
bury whatever skeletal dinosaur, like the trick
ster God of the young earth creationists, in a

slowly accumulating crapflood of this thing. It
's so satisfying to me. You're reading it. Nev
er gets old. Anyway. How about a poetics. Can I
tell you what I've been thinking about lately?

My whole life, I've had music or words repeat
ing in my head. People talk about having a song
or a phrase "stuck in their head" and how annoy
ing it can be. It's the default state for me. I

tried for years to exert my willpower against
it. Now, I regard it as a mystery worthy of my
full attention. I laid in the dark last night,
composing a little repetitive/additive thing,

very much like a George Aperghis "14 Recitation
s" kind of thing. Composed/improvised. It didn
't matter. It was biology, in a way that it was
n't culture. And/or vice versa? But vice versa?

It wasn't culture. Actually I think it was cult
ure taking place in a non-cultural space. Go yo
utube some Aperghis, then imagine you're the on
e who can hear it, and who's generating it. To

this unembellished source of words heard but al
so generated (and I've also occasionally heard
voices, & once experienced (what seemed at the
time) like an actual demon sitting on my chest,

& expressed a terrible fear of demon possession
in an interview with Rae Armantrout in the book
12 x 12 edited by Joshua Marie Wilkinson, a fe
ar which seems to me now like an impediment. A

nd I haven't even mentioned the book "The Orig
in of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bi
Cameral Mind" by Julian Jaynes, which actually
has clarified my thinking about this very much.

Jaynes is another one who muddles up culture &
biology, but the book is fascinating. This all
adds up by the way to Spicer. Or Spicer Plus, I
think. Because, well wait a minute I'm getting

ahead of myself) I'll start over with the pre-
parenthetical. To this unfathomable source of
words and word-like material (to which I have
easy access, not being special or gifted or (

God forbid) actively cultivating a mental illn
ess, cf. Jaynes for this -- we're talking about
a human ability. Bats can fly, humans generate
poetry) to this source I will yoke the 10,000

things. I will narratize the gibberish into a p
oem called "Uncanny Valley" in fact I already d
id. It is a dream, a creation story, it flies,
it drives, it repeats and repeats. I also wrote

Priscilla Lioness, a poem pulled apart & und
one by cold premeditated algorithm and on the o
ther hand raving lunacy. My path forward is lit
by the way in the poems "Canard" and "Heard Hal

f-Awake..." which were thought to be publishabl
e by someone who should know. "Canard" almost
discusses it explicitly: wanting to hear someth
ing without being able to, hearing things and w

riting them down. "Heard" is the literal and un
embellished product of just such a process, but
Canard considers it against other things. I'm
not going to read my poems for you, here. But t

hese two poems are flashlight spots on a map th
at was previously dark to me. I can't not explo
re it, I can't decide not. How can I sing the o
ld songs in a strange land? I'll follow what I

'm hearing. Can you see now why "picking the po
ems that I liked all the way through" seems li
ke the narrowest-minded of all possible reading
s? I can understand it only as a failure on my

part to fit the criteria of your brand, which,
I promise, is a very happy failure. You like k
ind poems. Everything's okay and humanism recou
ps the gentle tragedies of life. I have never b

een less interested in that, in light of the ab
ove. I'm interested in the ecstatic -- variousl
y defined, but by definition excluded from huma
nism. But weirdly more compassionate and at the

very least possessed of a burbling and uncomfor
table LIFE, the life that the outer reaches of
metal can speak. Try "Hypostasis of the Archons
" by Secret Chiefs 3. Inhuman, but at least hum

ane. It's in Conlon Nancarrow too, and Ketjak.
Not in much contemporary poetry, not downstream
of your sluice especially. I don't mean to hit
below the belt. You have your own things to be

lieve in and you're a kind person. You weren't
passing judgement on my poetry so much as hold
ing it up to standards that aren't mine: no pro
blem. I was sort of disappointed but I think I

understand now. I don't know what to do with my
new work but it doesn't matter, & that's not wh
y I'm writing this. I wanted to articulate for
myself and for you what I think you missed, &

why I'm not open to writing more poems that be"
long in that general family of poems." If that
doesn't or does make sense, it's okay. I'm wri
ting (written) now the best book(s) of my life.

It was a day filled with pride.
Anyway, what the head
nah, it looked like a fish
They put it on an anchovy

Okay. Well, pretend
it didn't happen the most
disgusting theing
THEING

And stomach ache right now.
Who liked it, why did you
do that. What's a dstomach
DSTOMACH ache? What's that?

It was so bad it was so bad.
I couldn't do it again.
Christmans CHRISTMANS lights
No it was enough and feel

the space the star gives him
power to breathe in outer space
and spin around with spin power.
They weren't like that washing machine

but I didn't speak Italina
ITALINA and none of them spoke English.
Oh that's really good. Usually
I like to put stuff on that

it never makes me seick SEICK
what else is new? Not a thing.
Nothing I have a really boring life.
I have a really boring life too.

Boston gets old after a while. She
said this whith WHITH what sounded
like a straight face. Would
like to know how that sounds.

Okay. Here goes. Here's
to you and your. I'm toasting
your with a straight face.
God's blessings to you and your.

YOUR
YOUR
YOUR
YOUR

The Spirit of Ecstasy was also
manufactured by the British Queen's
mascot of St. George on horseback,
slaying a dragon, designed by

Charles Robinson Sykes and carries
with it a story about a secret
passion between John Walter Edward
Douglas-Scott-Montagu, (second

Lord Montagu of Beaulieu after 1905,
a pioneer of the mascot to the
marque, with the mascot. Sykes'
signature appeared on the plynth

the inscription "C. Sykes, 26.1.34",
the date when the mascot to
suit the sports saloons. The kneeling
lady mascot was unveiled on

26 January 1934 (devised for the secrecy
was Eleanor's impoverished
social and economic status, which was
an obstacle to their cars.

Claude Johnson, then managing director
of Rolls-Royce Motor Cars,
was asked to see to the marque,
with the specifications that it impaired

the driver's view, and was as
undeniably a reflection of Eleanor
as it was officially listed as an
optional extra, but in practice

it was a symbol of the Royal fleet's cars.
On the other side, Princess
Margaret chose Pegasus (by Louis Lejeune)
as hood ornament on Rolls-Royce

cars. It is in the original
standing mascot, and by 1910 personal
mascots had become the fashion of
the Rolls-Royce. It also bore on

the prow of a smaller version of
the mascot is called The Flying
Lady. The Flying Lady. The Flying Lady.
The Flying Lady was a symbol

of the Rolls-Royce, namely, speed
with silence, absence of vibration,
the mysterious harnessing of great
energy and a graduate of London's

Royal College of Art, to produce a mascot
which would adorn all future
Rolls-Royce cars and become generic
to the marque, with the mascot.

Sykes' signature appeared on the plinth
and were either signed "Charles
Sykes, February 1911" or "6.2.11".
Even after Rolls-Royce took over

the casting of the Rolls Royce
have given The Spirit of Ecstasy'.
He called this first model The
Spirit of Ecstasy stands at 3 inches

and, for safety, is mounted on a
spring-loaded mechanism designed
to retract instantly into the radiator
shell if struck from any direction.

There is a button within the vehicle
which can retract/extend the
emblem when pressed. She can be made
of highly polished stainless

steel, sterling silver and gold
being optional extras. The only departure
from this came in Paris at the
competition for the bonnet of his

Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, Sykes
chose to modify 'The Whisper' into
a version similar to today's; 'The
Spirit of Ecstasy stands at 3

inches and, for safety, is mounted on
a spring-loaded mechanism designed
to retract instantly into the radiator
shell if struck from any direction.

There is a button within the vehicle
which can retract/extend the
emblem when pressed. She can be
placed in any of the Rolls-Royce,

Three tropical islands of
the continental shelf
of each other, please connect
a very large oceanic

islands.
All support is very
much like a lizard.
All three islands, is

approximately Y-shaped,
doubled the length of some of these.
All is of volcanic origin.
Some islands have

at least some banks
and high-speed marine limestone
should be considered only
during the ice for all the

world altitude too.
Thus, in each case,
some of the islands banks
will probably go back at least

the Miocene. Some of the islands
never gained for all carved or
diagrammed. Some of the island
Some of the islands

Some of the island
Some of the islands
Some of the island
We hope you find it,

we are looking for knowledge...
all legendary monsters, vicious
beast... snake oil to come,
please do extensive virgin feather keratin.

All three islands of the sea
and the consumer,
general history
of the island

is very herpetofaunas. Question
is "wife" Herpetofaunas
is to get all the
water has spread.

This occurs when there is salt.
Popcorn.
Foldy foldy times.
They mustard pretzels,

chips from the tasty
than teeth!
There is no reason
not Metzel ?!?!??!?!?! y

Go crunch. Go crunch. Go crunch.
I'm confiding a secret here where it will be buried
by other secrets and never read. Yes I know
this whole mess is unreadable that's why I'm writing it.

I will write the poems
of a crustacean who has
committed to performing the English
language with no further agenda

Beyond belief. Yes you learn the stories
But you also learn a very plastic quality
of them -- a shrink-wrap of nihilism
and then you hear the same story

coming out of Babylonian mouths. What
it must have been like to write Spicer's
"How mother fucker am I supposed to sing
when I remember Zion I can't even imagine"

I'm of course paraphrasing. Googled it, found it.
"How motherfucker can I sing a sad song
when I remember Zion."
Zach Galifianakis what are you listening to.

What am I listening to. Doesn't it matter
and what does it sound like, which means
that there are multiple concurrent sounds
and sound sources. Tear the layers apart

in photoshop and treat each one as an
individual. Meaning
you can't listen to something and
Mozart at the same time

or you can't make music with a mustard jar
well I regard that claim with non-credulity
But do I regard any music that way
and if I tell you (like I am teapot of cliches)

that music is the most incredible thing there is
can I get my assertions verified
I mean you're listening to the same thing I am
and I can't even believe it. Talk Talk,

Steve Reich, Soul Coughing, Smashing Pumpkins,
I'm going in reverse order here
Stop me if you've heard this one
Okay, nix the pumpkins, I can't even

believe their whole thing. Go away
Billy Corgan Go Away: The Online Petition
Ha
Anyway. Remember when a song would start with

Someone's answering machine supposedly
That was the band No Doubt. Yes
The stupidest mainstream 90s crap
No disbelief. No non-credulity

Sorry, I'm not home right now.
Gwen Stefani makes a bass drum sound
by blinking her eyelids
the way a snake would

The nictitating membrane (yeah, spelled it wrong and ev
rything) Let's see what else I've got in my itunes
Cripes
A lot of Secret Chiefs 3

Did I ever tell you about them? It's been a long time
since I told anyone I had a favorite band. Not that long
I told Ian that and then (a gesture) sent him
a Secret Chiefs 3 CD and made a big deal out of it

completely unnecessarily, and never heard back if
he liked it or didn't like it, but being Ian he probably
liked everything. And then got the high score
on a beautiful arcade cabinet high atop

a Mickey Mouse "Fantasia" wizard precipice,
the sprites multiply under Ian's fingertips and
he continues and continues to defeat them.
It is incredible, and I don't believe it.

I just put on "The 4" just this second.
Our situation in time is bizarre.
I have to buy a table today
So that tomorrow I can film a

New series of
something something something.
A small portion of destructive energy
resting in a black ball on the table

surrounded by commonplace objects
and I make sounds using the objects
in order to erase the destructive energy
apagar apagar apagar

and that's the premise. It's so simple.
Who would have believed something as simple as that
before say even the dawn of Youtube.
I'm talking about 5 years ago or less.

I can't remember. I can't remember what
I was hearing only moments ago.
All of this music is driving me
crazy except that I'm alive and in

a blessed state. Okay Chiefs that's enough,
I heard up through about 2 minutes of
The Owl in Daylight and I'm going to
change it. Melt-Banana "Last Target on

the Last Day" okay now we are talking.
I can't believe that there could seem to be something
important about whatever time-scheme
is on display in this song. I could fill your lobes

with my thoughts on this topic. Or
the boiled down version is "wonder"
and "gratitude" and "it's good that sounds
make us feel things isn't it" and

this song is part of that. Oops Jamiroquai
let me switch this actually never mind I'm
probably going to have to let it run for a minute.
Okay that was fun.

The Invisible Rays yes, they're a band I should
totally tell you about. http://www.theinvisiblerays.com/
From the liner notes of their album
Salute the American Popular Song: "The rapture in

which a single listening can leave its sonic
paramour has been artfully described by Angelo
Repullo of the Chicago News-Times Sentinel
as "simply the finest example of instru-

mental meta-rock ever recorded." This
writer does not know Repullo, but this
writer knows that Repullo is right on.
These songs are young. Their collec-

tive heart nibbles and caresses near-
perfection by the ear-full. We yearn"
and more like that. Hi Brendan! I love the album
I need to hear more

that simple
of a premise.
a person
could. hardly. disbelieve.

Gyorgy Ligeti (Pierre-Laurent Aimard, Piano)
Der Zauberlehrling, Piano Etudes (Deuxieme livre)
Someone on facebook praised someone else
for "condemning without being didactic"

and the reason I'm telling you about it
in such a straightforward and artless way
is that you are there
and I am here

and this is a blessed state
as I already mentioned.
I extend to you an all-embracing and indifferent love
and I will have more poems for you next time.

Redacted is dated
The earlier datedness of the videogame (ie blocky)
is reclaimed by some intersection
of nostalgia and willpower which is dated.

There was a dated guitar sale
skewer is a dated word
next time a dated song plays
there's not dated band name comedy

How's the easiest way to make a
sound sound dated. I supposed blockhead
studio laughter might be it
or help. It was sad

It was not sand
how the guy who can
only make pretend screams
in a microphone

inside a microphone
He's in there. So's the microphone
Oh hi, there you are
Let's play a music game

The game is based on mimesis
I have a different sensorium
than you but I'm called upon
to mimic your sense experience

or that of a third party
at a given signal from the conductor
and I gain or lose ground that way
audio ground, where the emeralds grow

Yes it's an emerald laser microphone
and that's why everything sounds
green on the inside of it, you
can only hear things inside a

microphone when there's a microphone
in there. Then the game changes
because somebody held up a sign
and a harp, and the cymballist

made a harp sound, so he starts to win
but he hasn't won yet, his team
has gained some ground. Oh Gawd
music is so boaring sometimes.

Music needs a lot of serious help
like the giddy cheap thrill of
the bed of a pickup truck on the highway type of
game indeterminacy

to make anybody keep its interest.
Music is in orbit and that's why it's boring.
Music is rings around THA PLANET bowring
seriously.

Dynamic changes are ba-roring.
John Zorn's camouflage pants are some advanced boring.
Mouth, that's boring. Mario Kart
turtleshell sound More is bore

ING. Dogsbark
is a boring plant sound that
grows on leaves which hear it.
Music is the totality of what you hear, including

Oh, I heard something interesting
the blind bald drummer with the forcep head
set to the text a human wrote.
Then he went outside and got

street bored all day,
he stuck a mud sign
in the street, he made a
homeless man bore dance date.

These things happen in groups of days
which carry over one to the next
by means of what you dream about
race track and all. Simply

coated inside and out with ants
and wake up with a tender feeling
for her, or the sense that you
saw her naked and have to take responsibility for her.

And the letdown in the wake of that
is no different that standard pinball
I mean the ball drains eventually
I am terrible at pinball, and a pessimist

instead of a
smooth shiny ball it's
my bleeding stump of a
hand, not moving

as the flippers whap at it angrily
The mayor shows up expressly to
forbid that kind of activity.
Thank you mayor, you orderly mayor

Next time you choose
I can't trust myself
They pierced the tonguenail
and it split in half

turning him into two snakes in one body
That doesn't make sense. Asleep
at least I'm asleep, rather I've
made a sleep object out of legos

look at the little lego guns
that shoot lasers. I'm really
sleeping now. Ooops I'm awake.
Now I'm asleep again. Days pass

Crab day means
making a little fingernail sound
in response to any
question or human.

I was an awful person,
and the layout of the streets
I remember getting lost way up
in the northwest part of town

and the next day my bike chain
had fallen off which I thought was
funny, apparently I now remember I
ran aground on a car hood

Felt funny and awful the next day
and mixed up paint and made some
self-involved document of it.
Called a friend and was like

In a box in the back of the closet
There
's a tossed off sketch which was
important at the time.

It was never hypothetical with you, though,
and I don't know what happened to you.
I guess the thing is to remember someone's last name.
I looked them all up, if I could

Then again they spent
seventeen years in jail
I mean all together.
Spackgetti is how he spelled it

Spackgetti spackgetti sauce
he carved it into some suburban fence
and now there's a picture of him
carving it. Well I'm glad

you wasted the film, someone.
Someone's DAD. Afraid of
what would happen to his property value.
In the middle of the following night

we burned his fence down
as cruelly as was possible.
This hypothetical stuff
kills me every time.

I was never a people person
I called the next day but
Does eyesight disintegrate? It seems
sunlight through chainlink fence

The other friend took open the
stapler and played the little
spring inside, right into the mike.
The sound of the thickness of a melon-plant vine.

that a wetsuit is the only way
Did we laugh at comedy, or comedies?
We mostly laughed
I would now call our laughter

the one about the buoyant zucchini
which makes me feel old
or the one that took a while, or the
one that was a stone stolen

Saw the carrot flavored moon rise
from the edge of nowhere and with Ryan
got back in the car and went and
played Angband till the convulsions

The top of Longs Peak
a big whistling note that scooped
out a new valley all the way back
song in my head

The same songs, the same songs
over and over again. Natalie Merchant
makes me want to grind my little
ear bones into deaf powder

I missed it, though, I was out
of town. You guys went ahead
what was wrong with me
he lit a page of a Spanish workbook

tipped a fireworks tube over
on its side and shot the neighbor's
fence, could have been a lot worse
a big beautiful shower of sparks

Remember what it was like then
listening just to the Smashing Pumpkins
and no world of music could move
it in any other direction

Where did your lenses land recently?
Oh well, or in other words, it's hard
typing a font has no larynx. RRRRRRR
mumble engine then. Walking around

nonexistent particules rumbling
in straight lines away from
the camera and the planet surface
to become part of pixel-coated every

thing and the brain and blood mixing in
gosh I miss the internet. Rhetoric
and cauliflowers work within and under
stand a work sample of a music

a bat may hope for a music
whatever a oneness may wish
rhetoric on irrelevancy ends in
a fool's slapdash errand

give them gross music or nice
to understand and change oneness
and work within an sample system
cauliflowers stack the grocer's shelves

in the brain and blood and bones
more of an open-source telekinesis
if oneness can be whatever
give me an example of irrelevancy

chugging down massive bat nectar
and deliver a work sample
to use the sample of a system
change the slapdash through will

I eat telekinesis for breakfast
only a portion of oneness will
change what music even is
to work within an irradiation

a portion of oneness will change
what music is and deliver a fool
slapdash telekinesis to use the sample
of oneness irrelevancy to use

the slapdash wish rhetoric on time
a system and deliver a music even
to use the slapdash errand give me
they understand oneness can be whatever

may wish understand and change
what music is a slapdash through
will I hope for change in oneness
irradiating a music to deliver to understand

they're saying a slapdash telekinesis
to use the world through irrelevancy
to change oneness and blood
and for breakfast only a portion

of a sample system on irrelevancy
in oneness can be a work sample of oneness
a music they're saying is a fool's oneness
within a portion of a sample of a slapdash system

and for a slapdash errand give them gross music
and deliver a slapdash rhetoric
on time a fool's wish to
chance what music is to deliver

wish to work with the brain and within
an open-source telekinesis I eat
telekinesis to use the system on time
a portion of oneness may have been a power

of a slapdash wish to understand oneness
work with the power of irrelevancy chugging
and work within an sample of oneness
can be whatever gross music whatever

a portion of irrelevancy to understand
and deliver a slapdash system
change the world with the sample system
irrelevancy ends in a system on irrelevancy

chugging down blood and work within the system
change the grocer's shelves the power of oneness
irradiating a music or nice music whatever
give me an irradiation and deliver a fool

cauliflowers stack the world
with the sample will
to deliver a fool's slap
the brain and deliver

a sample to work within
an irradiation and blood
and change oneness and work
an example of a wish

to understand music or nice
to change oneness and work
with the grocer's shelves in
oneness may have been a portion

oneness irradiating a power
of oneness and change what music is
they're saying a oneness will
I hope for an irrelevancy end

20 irradiating a system
on time a wish
within the power
of oneness and work

within an sample
of oneness will
I hope for once
change the power

of irrelevancy
to understand
what music is
going to use

the slapdash wish
rhetoric on irrelevancy
chugging down change
the system

irrelevancy a work the
system change oneness they
understand what music or
nice to deliver a

work with it may
a system on irrelevancy
ends in the system on
a system chance oneness

can it be that whatever
gave me a sample it
a power sample it
may have been a work within a sample system

change the
world through
irrelevancy ends
in a portion

of oneness
may have
been a
oneness caught within

telekinesis for
a portion
of oneness
caught within an

open-source telekinesis
for breakfast
only a
portion of oneness

they understand
what music
or nice
to use the

world through
will I
eat telekinesis
if oneness may

wish to
change the
sample of
oneness and blood

and I
eat telekinesis
is going
to change the

power of
telekinesis and
work with
it may have

been a
oneness will
I hope
for breakfast only

a portion
of irrelevancy
ends in
oneness irrelevancy

chugging down
and I
eat telekinesis
and for breakfast

only a
slapdash wish
understand what
music is going

to work
within a
sample to
use the slapdash

telekinesis if
oneness will
change the
grocer's shelves in

the system
change the
power sample
system and change

the power
of telekinesis
for breakfast
only a portion

of irrelevancy
ends in
the grocer's
shelves in oneness

irrelevancy in
oneness and
deliver a
oneness caught within

telekinesis to
chance what
music is
they're saying

a fool's
slapdash telekinesis
is to
use the world

through irrelevancy
in a
fool's slapdash
errand give me

an irradiation
and work
sample it
may wish and

deliver a system on time
a fool's slapdash telekinesis is
going to change the power of oneness
they understand what music is

they're saying a power sample
it may have been a slapdash wish
understand oneness and for once
change the world through irrelevancy

to use the power of telekinesis
to deliver a sample of oneness
caught within a slapdash system
and work within telekinesis

irradiating a slapdash wish
to work with the system
change what music is
and change the world with it

and work within the system
to chance what music is
a portion of oneness
irrelevancy in oneness

What comes next? Where does this end?
When the red exit sign comes on and
the 33-minute mark comes and goes?
Does experience have a fixed length?

I have been alive.
And scan
treelined glades. 32
carve out a living.

The body in humanism of course.
Thirty one injustices
Because you came up with
EVERYTHING truffles

Continue to
and continue to eat chocolate croissants.
THIRTY
with disaster

to make such enthusiastic mockery
of the deaths of 29 innocent people
the supreme court said.
What is this planet I foresee

Energy music. Twenty eight beats. FAST.
Talisman from the old world
at the center of the melody. (continue)
Here I stand in history with headphones on

People are right about what's gone
and the word Utopia has been changing
ever since. Three times three times three
ice cream and rum.

Polka dots which were inevitable.
Don't talk that way to me, your [sic]
a scatterbrain. 26
out of 100

it over it over
boredom there in the flowers.
and has and has
twenty five

silver sky show them
what they're missing
only blossoms
once every twenty four

Once every twenty three years
must be some kind of chemical
thought. Moving over the ragged
Ocean, the surface of the

I hope you see stained glass all over again.
It's not easy enough to make it add up,
by universally understood catch 22 logic,
who snipe at helldwellers from hell's mezzanine.

So go to Louisiana
where the greatest spectacle of the 21st century
is unfolding. Atlantis!
The end of a world.

A pelican which is lighter than air in some ways
on the president's watch.
I don't put words to things
I just, put them. 20/20

Thinks sockets forming in
things
19s
Not boring enough.

Yeadache. P
REssTARt to continUuUUuuuuuuuu
wull. 18 A
teeng!!

Yesterday has been and gone
Tonight I'm current all night long
Watching seventeen shows at once
Wondering what the TV wants

Windows made of smashed jewel cases,
new names made of the sixteen chapel.
From the unseen pleuroma of foul words
the child summoned an imagined barbed

The age has gotten good
at the pithy non-sequitur,
the charged utterance,
and the fifteen blades.

Misery in every direction. Perfectly formed
when compared with the poverty of the age
In fourteen lines exactly. Desire causes
suffering, which doesn't exist. Solve

Around, around, around. No
Yes I believe in reincarnation.
It was in the thirteens.
And this is coming from someone who has seen cell migration under UV

Twelve fat couples danced harmlessly
In a color palette of extreme moonlight.
They that trod the grounds down
They who were yet to be convinced

Elevated eleven
Mirrored
Garden
Variety

Or so they
Trance. Waking metatation.
What's going on in music lately?
Coming up at ten,

A USB cable is performative.
Line break the stupidest bullshit I ever wrote
Or whatever. Nine
will give in

Spin the eight sided character
so that down is where the
ground is. That's what the writing
means. A certain character.

Seven. Get all precious about what paddle
or ball is regulation. People
are the wordst. Oh my god why my
saying that constantly!?

Make me capable of sustained attention
Hand me that thing that
says fruit pie six on
it. Mayke me pay attention

Support me in my old age
Tell me where the ground up
The ground is down.
Five of my aged daughters

A group of best scientists
Are about to teleporting information
Negative four femtoseconds
Thy

Tthem, Tthey, Ttherefore
radness itself
Tthree rent velcro sounds
zcx zcx zcx

send more food okay
green
well roll both eyes
insignia ring

wuttever color, or red
transitional form of the
ability to group
multiple disagreements in only

Broadcasting directly from the highest point
of the foothills outside of the city of your soul...
It's the [mumbled] Show [mumbled]!! Starring,
your host, okay let's take it again,

I think I blew that one. Plus,
who wrote this intro? I'm writing
it again. Well fire him. Or her.
Should we refer to our ratings at the

top of the show? Awful, of course.
[mumbled]... the questions
I ask, because questions,
are gateways to the,

how does that phrase go?
The eyes of the nation are
the gateways.... to the...
So... renewed then?

What? Cancelled?
Based on what?
I'm so sick of
executives you

know I actually passed up
an opportunity to
executive produce and middle man
age a three camera sitcom

hand me the paprika, would you,
started off as a joke writer,
a sort of Stockholm syndrome,
leaves one with an audience!?

So you pretend to you
to be you and you
be the guest sit over
there, keep your mouth

HI THERE, we're back! Thanks
for coming back. Calm
down, calm down. Calm
down. Calm it on down

Okay. This is a tennis guy.
What'd you win? Some
Open? Dja win the....
Did you just play, like

you literally came here
after the match ended?
Well you smell like
tennis and butt.

I don't even want
to do the show tonight.
Most nights I'm enthusiasm
itself, is that music?

Do you hear that? Are
they seriously just
playing..... is that a pinball
machine... well tell them

knock it off we're trying
to do a show in here I
can't have that garbage
in the background.

Tennis guy, you were saying.
Do tell. You don't say.
Get off my show.
I hate this show, you know

that? I wouldn't watch this
show. Get in the oven,
let's take a call.
Caller, are you there?

The oven is a late
night talk show it
this that pathology
center late night

talk show. The guests
come onto the oven
scintillating anecdote
and they have a new

movie. One likes to
waterski. Goddammit all
I want to host a late
night talk show. A chat

show, you UK people. Hot
here in this talk show.
Food cooking next to her.
Like a casserole dish on

sofa next to her. Kiss
the host on the cheek
endure his fake advances
you're a movie star for

pete's sake. Tell your
stupid anecdote. What's
the matter with you, why
why why! Why not an

interesting anecdote.
Lord in heaven. Father
above. Smite this horrible
movie star. Lightning

bolt. Right now. Split
right down the part
of her perfect head of hair
next guest. Who are you?

What? Books? You did what?
Ran, somewhere? In Mexico?
Hot down there. Yeah I
know hot in the studio

here in the oven no
cameras by the way. Nob
ody will ever see this.
Go head with your story, ran

or whatever. Yeah, hot.
WE GET IT. IT'S AN
OVEN oh christ that came
out louder than I thought.

Sorry you were saying. And
by the way, help your
self to some of this
gravy. This oven makes

the best gravy. We want
to thank our friends at
Swanson's or whatever.
Some gravy company. You,

book guy, mexico guy, you
ever eat good gravy? You
get back from a run and
have some gravy? Okay,

we'll be right back our
next guest is two-time
Olympic gold medulist oh
Jeebus I flubbed medalist, we'll go again in 3, 2,

race rano revenana mnnoiiance
o semmance rearro caww
There was a caterpillar wrapped in a comforter
It didn't want to be tickled awake.

walking arm in arm down a road that represents time
symptomatic sentences or a banana milkshake again
a stirring motion, a gesture made in silence
then spring to the ground, grown man

not really acting like Sherlock Holmes
then looking up and going 'who am I?'
like she's supposed to know
The big dumb magnifying glass I carry around

solve the fly dream
solve it solve it
fly dream fly dream
halve the fly dream

over a piece of paper
messy drawing, fist drawing
like an interpretive gilgamesh
Rooster gamble.

spider and company
pmixed cepment pmetaphors.
Daytime things
Disappointment pizza.

Landed gentry on the ceiling at 10:00 in
lobster claw costumes trampling daffodils
Loud guffaws of the moa family
spent on a penultimate pair of

pretty, prurient, paisley pants.
I haven't seen you in forever
(knocking sound in kitchen)
I haven't seen you since retard days.

We love everything and everybody, the
days are made of love, practicality
hair and love all-encompassing
love leaves streaks all over the glasses

We love each other, we love
hugs, we hug each other
The commoners get tired,
go home and redistrict.

Light from ipod in pocket.
Sort of yelping, too soon to
run out of alphabet letters
but hugs are good and okay

footsteps mean eyeballs
you saw me through a
new punctuation mark
tossed it down, flop.

Chromaticism wigglied away
free as a fish
from all its practitioners
by 1909, oh music.

Good silence
makes elbow joints miniatures
Anyway I wanted to ask
Do you have any free time today

Rabid but cured tree
steward of commotion
little jumps, intervals
some easy Ligeti, let it run

I tore off toward
the uncomplicated rain
the lightning strike of caffeine
well the driver saw me

pair of speakers under the arm
stillborn and an anachronism
safety, though, and a swivel-point
a set point the smile returns to.

Nouns really. And verbs.
Spine can be a snake
for you. What I love
about you. Would have

Would've
tens
of thousands.
Like they say.

grapefruit ripe tiptoe
easy silence. Soreness
My entire body sore.
Soreness over the entire inner surface

His flesh and fingers are love.
Great indignant oaths delivered
to heaven. I would shield him
with money. His head is made of music.

Tally him
the proper handshakes
weren't ever exigent enough
Find out for me

And we've been here before.
But it's okay. I recognize
The place. There's some
Thing so kind about a music

That exists in San Francisco
At the birth of minimalism,
A term with no adherents.
It takes nine minutes to exist.

There is proof that it's all
Going to be alright, and there
Are electrically-generated
Cymbals, waveforms. They knew

All about that stuff. The
music isn't hard. It's a
Moog and some other stuff.
Loops and stuff like that.

If I had listened to this
When I was 20 I would've abso
Lutely died. And here on
This lunar world, complications

Are minor. I might not make it
Back alive. One after another
They murder themselves. It's
Alright, they are at peace. The

Red, the black of the blood
Is the marker belief can't contend
With, the boundary of faith.
Wisdom, and the nightmares it

Has. A character named Sophia.
It's going to be alright. She
Puts her headphones back on
And turns away. The room is lit

Suddenly from below. Waist-deep
In it, waist-deep in a lunar rock
Horizon line, infinity sweeping
Right through the rock waist.

Wade up to there, wade into
The moon. No moon there, quarry
Ex-scape. Nothing arrives so fast
That you can't hear it, and

Really we're talking about patterns
Of vibrations which your mouth can
Do sort of halfway most of the time
Because your throat is hollow

And your lungs are capacious and
You haven't given up the ability
To speak, speaking is a buzzing
Moment. When stereo separation

Interrompts, Satan is born, fork
Ed tongue, double-pronged horns,
Pitchfork, twin tail, sees with
An echo, energy and disaster. An

Organ can generate such a pure
Tone. Where did I go wrong? I
Think that's a mistake, I think
Things will turn out alright,

I could literally listen to this
Music all day. I'll be listening
To this for the rest of my life.
It's falsifiable, it's a prop!!

Someone is trying to tell me it's
Alright right now. Ripples and
Vibrations propagate down the ch
Ain of causality all around.

Nothing is meant to trick or
Humiliate. Skin crawls but
It distills out to miracle
Plus frog, so it's even funny.

Or what's the sonic component
Is this sonority going to
bla bla
Or what's any other component,

Full-length gong albums
Seldomer
Avveraged
Severance

Trash brarrell. Strike hard
against the underside.
Percussion shakes
foundational

Words. People gotta say bad things
about Logos.
Music in none of its forms.
♥ Harry Partch ♥

Well anyway. Speech
has always had a melody.
Mallet stricke
takes it out of me.

Censer syrup
Censors Europe
Sensors are up
bleeruprrupprp

I want a marimba
Already.
I would be so bad at
Marimba already

Marrom
é gratis e
ni um ni outro.
Ni sem dominatrices

A ferida fica marrom
e sozinho.
É você na qual
tal e tal.

Tenhas que ter
saudades dos vídeos
da lua, lua
pra ser bem gringo.

Marimba de lua
Berimbau de saudades
Vídeo de estudantes de medicina
Sirugía do gringo

pra implantar
uma porção de arroz
onde deve ser um cérebro.
Valeu, amigo. Foi bom te ver.

Headphone swell
ingrown sizzle
spideriferous kinda
or agility essay

Syncopation fits in
Rather funnily
Runnily ha and turn
Forego

Dig dive drape undergo
Caption ten photos
Cough the
Average zip zap

Doodily boppity squee
Ride cymbal oh Lord in heaven,
No more jazz. Lord of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,
please stop making us listen to your jazz albums.

Jazz saxophone without distortion go away
Clarinet without square wave go
Stay you marimbas, favorite food
Go away you horns & breath weapons

Will you please go?
Will you please go?
A purity problem
A ham fist

Nosferatu
Suffering transformation
The silent era
Gives way to Harpo

Pure malevolence
Musical being
Unrepentant rapist
Chemical weaponist

Since caveman days
Wandering the Tigris
Murdering giants
Beheading cavemen

Cut from poem
Called "Bridge Between
Two Buildings or Tunnel
Between Two Caves?":

In whose imagination
Is it written
11 hours a day
12 hours a day

13 hours a day
Is it drawn or
Painted over
Papered over

Retinal pattern
Merely retinal
Purely retinal
Spinning colors

Shapes brought back from
Sleep-covered lands
Sleeping and digging
Down a telescope

Stars and deer
And women coupling
Men with wheels
Postmortem eyes

Sexless eyeball
Bodiless cyclops
Cinderblock igloo
Coated in limestone

Entryless exitless
Blink in blink out
Or remove a block
Think and uncouple

"The first paintings
Were made on the inside
Walls of cameras."
#NAME?

Stiff frogs in the freezing rain
Jungle mercenaries with frostbitten fingers
The resolute end of the California sentence
She's got a gun, that kind of thing

Hoboken under salt water
Norfolk shoved off a table
A bulldozer blade made of ice
Escaping its cave prison in Canada

The ice demon most cultures don't know about
Ice pliers, ice axe, ice bullets and
Ice jackets. A lot of silly ice stuff.
An angry comedic performer.

One of those t-shirts with a wolf on it
howling at a not-distant-enough moon.
Stiff legs and knee joints;
antifreeze pacing the blood.

Six results for places named Frozen River.
A long, flat, and barren plain
traversed by translucent caribou;
the polar megafauna

turned now thin and crystaline,
now blubbery and bearlike.
The argument
of caribou antlers.

The branching trackways
across the frozen places --
where are they going by the way?
With fish oil rubbed into the corneas

a pair of men pulled one another
in an ancient sled pulled by whales,
dogs turned into whales,
ancient whales growled and barked

and lived in a little house
and danced little dog dances
and then dogs forgot how to dance
and so then whales learned to breach

which gave dogs some indication of how things could've turned out
and the aurora borealis really drove it home
because it was dogs that had turned into that
yes dogs had turned into pure energy in the air

at some point in the ancient days
before they had turned into whales, in fact
and some dogs turned into stars,
and some people turned into configurations of stars,

and some stars turned into other stars and
some dogs also turned into stars
but no whales turned into stars
that makes no conceptual sense to the soul.

No whales turned back into dogs either.
Dogs also turned into people in those areas
and back into dogs again. The stars
turned and turned on the polar axis.

Nobody ever reached the North Pole.
In the polar winter, the dogs danced
and pulled the men.
The men turned into unconscious figures

and I wonder what they thought about all the time.
The whales ate other mammals that had come from dogs,
I think. I don't know what the whales ate.
The dogs ate whale meat. Everybody ate meat.

The aurora borealis is I guess a kind of bottleneck effect
that comes from a lineage of doglike ancestors
who lived in the polar regions
before writing systems were brought there.

Dogs turned into writing systems.
Bark bark, and all that, I'm sure
you and your family have seen it
when you embark on silent revery.

unrelenting
floundering
flittering
floundering

knottiest
sequences
floundering
floundering

knottiest
floundering
unrelenting
floundering

unrelenting
untowardly
knottiest
untowardly

recognize
untowardly
larboards
untowardly

larboards
untowardly
especially
floundering

flittering
flittering
knottiest
constrasts

unrelenting
untowardly
flittering
vibrations

flittering
especially
especially
especially

obsequious
especially
knottiest
constrasts

especially
untowardly
especially
vibrations

vibrations
vibrations
vibrations
anomalous

vibrations
obsequious
vibrations
flittering

vibrations
obsequious
obsequious
obsequious

unrelenting
obsequious
obsequious
recognize

vibrations
obsequious
constrasts
knottiest

anomalous
floundering
flittering
knottiest

constitution
floundering
knottiest
constrasts

recognize
sequences
recognize
untowardly

recognize
sequences
vibrations
recognize

recognize
larboards
larboards
unrelenting

larboards
larboards
untowardly
flittering

larboards
sequences
sequences
recognize

sequences
floundering
sequences
recognize

sequences
sequences
anomalous
anomalous

unrelenting
floundering
anomalous
vibrations

anomalous
anomalous
constitution
larboards

constrasts
constitution
constrasts
constitution

flittering
constrasts
especially
knottiest

constrasts
vibrations
constrasts
constitution

constrasts
constitution
flittering
especially

constitution
anomalous
constrasts
constitution

constitution
constitution
unrelenting
untowardly

larboards
unrelenting
unrelenting
flittering

unrelenting
unrelenting
floundering
unrelenting

Tempus fugee.
Rampus uppus.
Vidido potticus
nunc ut calderum.

Monkey nightmare
gunky balboa
Lisbon lisping
ought more donkey.

It was a day filled with pride.
Either that or the nickels
gained too much of their
value back? I'm confused.

Okay to recap
chicken to ptero
dactyl in
centuries

it was proto
chicken. No
I got it
backwards

likes always.
It started before
protopterodactyl,
as proto-alligator

but smaller.
A lot smaller, in
fact, so that
it would arrive at

terminal velocity much
sooner, and hurt
itself
less often, when

falling from a height
as it surely did
in those early
gliding

days,
those early gliding days,
oh my goodness
those long golden hours

learning together
how to glide
and not getting hurt.
Then

it knew how to glide
and grew flappy tissue
as proof.
Then it grew

to superhuman
proportions
and snagged fish
from the ancient waters.

These were the days of
Rhamphorhynchus.
She had a beautiful diamond
at the end of her tail

made of flappy tissue
and a mouth full
of nasty teeth.
We learn the mysteries

of her tissues
under UV lights.
They are crisscrossed with
three networks:

veins, fibers, and fascia.
She grew in size
and fearsomeness.
She inspired awe

and died
leaving the chicken bereft.
But interest
and will often

even in
fossils
hits the camera
and nestles

rebounding up
crisscrossed bones
prehistoric ideas
overclocked computers

live in its kidneys
pull its reins
sip its emotional states
raise its glass to its lips

monsters from the deep clefts in the earth
can ride safely
within
light lovers

surface dwellers
nothing's down there
never offer the advice
without

cheating and most
glows
need water
stillness and

pulse-quickening breeze
mound of dead cockroaches
strew lacewings to
serve as

a ransom note
dying breed
capitol building
in a single puddle

limestone heart
corruptible cathedral
stained glass
lights strung from electric wires

made up moss
cold from hypoxia
up from nothing
underground river

flush away pigment
excrete
predatory goo
make own light

head lamp
fright stuck
it's gotta be blind enough
karst

rock deposit
new moon
made a standard day
25 hours of

cave stuff
bat population
hitchhike or
spelunk

sightlessly a
red black cave
mister it'll
take a

troglodyte eradicate
phosphor bubble glow
dabble deep dark
over and over.

Clean your kitchen!
A people can send a hurricane
to sweep the circumstances bare;
one man can only rain

to wet a countertop.
Of gift of smell of
disadvantage of sense of smell. Toxic
cleanser from a purple bottle

left behind a
pined scent of a surface.
Nobody follows the movements of minds
anymore, nobody has a clean schedule.

Pineappleine.
Grandaid.
Hope grenade.
Handful teargas rabid.

Juices stains in and.
Hung juries and of.
Race cars
on surface streets.

No clock speeds
and
without two reference points
sentences too.

You caved.
I wonder how
long
one learns

to be on earth.
Rental lights
pollute
the fly space

shedding light
on dark-field
telescope spam.
You're the tiniest object!

You're about the size of a soccer ball
in half, by half
or your weight in ore
or some measure.

On the one hand
it might be a technical issue and they might be looking into it.
On the other hand the feedback is not at all valid.
You were up all night because you haven't learned sleep.

Let's talk truth, baby. BABY
BABY BABY BABY
Let's talk baby talk, baby.
Or whatever! You are a baby.

You don't know what you are.
You have no idea what tomorrow is --
how to depend on that. Where?
Where are you, stupid baby?

Sweet haven of mercy
and other names for places.
A seaweed salad literally
dripping with green food coloring.

I, the art market, like it
when twenty years from now
the fad for large surfaces covered with thousands of tiny droplets
comes back.

Death of all fish by 2040.
Some lady getting loaded into an ambulance.
Nobody cares about your [medium]. Run,
get out of the firetruck's way.

What kind of truth is somewhere?
What kind of story runs a measurable footprint?
The new camouflage must be
fractally generated, right?

How does the past turn out?
Feed me a slice of dried kiwi
and I'll explain it to you.
The [philosopher name]'s chess game folds

as the rules are changed by the
movements of the pieces.
This has never not been called Calvinball,
until it was not.

A longtime believer in
the prognostications of candy
stands baffled by the face of
two maquettes with Dots

with Dots for eyes,
red pink and orange only
came out of the box
and this should answer a question.

When in the service of evil
the question is delivered
into the eyes of candy,
the sweeping visions come back

stronger but more distorted
washing up on the shoreline
but never as though by accident.
When in the service of goodness

the question is asked of
candy eyes candy eyes
the visions are weaker
but clarity is assured

as though the shoreline
meets water only.
And the water is washed by the water.
Moments of great impact

precede and succeed
clear moments
of no sharpness or strength
and this truth is created

by the ritual removal
of various colors of sweet
hard fruit flavored substance
(during my years in the service

the candy was never brightly colored,
was more closely attached
to the earth and the water,
was flavored like fennel,

juniper, or honey, or sweet cane
or peppermint with bits
of deteriorating brown leaves
swirled in

and now that the war years are over
and since we won the war
the candy turned the color
of something an insane person can't not sing

and the flavors come from overseas
or the flavors descend from the ether
tasting sweet in the mouth
but upon descending into the stomach

turning to sour acid);
I need to know how the future will turn out.
I've been living my life in the future
I drive a future car today and yesterday

They munched up my car and made a cube
That was the future, that was the future
They made a cube for me to suck on
The flavor of a chemical blueberry

And I spat it out of my mouth
And since then I don't know the future
And I don't know which one of you is you
I recognized you but I didn't know you

Until when we played table tennis
You had the old skills again and microseconds
into the future I could see you and
read the spin

We were good friends which
carved mountains yesterday
into legible slices,
we were trying to find out about our fate,

reading the desolation
on the candy face.
A candy hummingbird schematic
they left on the high arid plain

in South America
lies along a great circle
which cherrypicks a number
of other monuments of the ancient world.

They cared about today?
They lost the truth and it's still lost
in the belly of a washing machine drum
full of gummy candies

sitting in the center of the desert
in the center of the coyote and
the mournful tumbleweed
belting out a soft melody, gummy dust,

dust and tumbleweed,
dry grass crumbs in a
clear plastic baggie,
beetle husks,

prickly pear and yucca,
the fruit of the American west,
canyon-carving rivers
and bare brown

mountain ranges and geographic
boundaries of time make
the melodies change from
generation to generation.

The melodies that have always struck me
are now gathering dust on the shelves.
As usual, a simple Hank Williams
sews in an invisible lining of pearls.

Plainclothesmen
on the radio
intercept weird signals
in their ties.

The melodies change from generation to generation
so spies have been sent back in time
to write our songs for us. The songs "feel" like
they've always existed, like "no person's creation."

The melodies change from generation to generation
only when great trauma displaces the notes. The
prohibition of speech is marked out physically,
albeit poorly, on the ground, with sand.

The melodies change from generation to generation
but the notes are allowed to contribute to other
melodies. The prohibition of dancing
is attributed in story and song to a divine force.

The melodies change from generation
to generation but the notes drift
higher and higher. The prohibition
of melodic change evolves independently.

The melodies change from generation to generation
but the notes stay the same. The prohibition of
dancing evolves independently
multiple times.

Spies change their tune and surreptitious
is not enough, the grappling hooks
are treble. Spies sing
enough songs coded in infrared,

a mini-rainbow expanded
to cover the guy behind the
wall. Tom Petty is
extremelyyyyyyyyyy boring

but everything is interesting
and adds to the total number
of information. This or that
guy has theorized the informational

basis of the universe. But when
context is put aside
I can't imagine what information might mean.
The Garden of Eden story draws up the birth of that meaning.

No one sings enough songs
in which Tom Petty is
one ear at the bottom of a well
in his own dream refusing to be drawn up.

Stereo separation mirrors the arbitrariness
of the Fall of Mankind, in the Garden of Eden.
So we appeal to Mono. But why fidelity,
no one can answer. Nor

which 8-bit oscilloscopes
are or aren't
absolutely the best.
Audiophiles go home,

this music sounds terrible.
The crowd is on the move
to the beat. The pixel man, rather than
beheading a foe, opts

in favor of
how much Monk
can a man my age
sit through?

Music doesn't
need my best
thoughts, I can
sit in the

dust with dogs to
play music not
with them, I can
labor best labor

In in Sicilian poet Roman times,
variations,
task,
earth.

claims variation depicted Hesperides,
Stesichorus,
Renaissance Hesperides Hesperides mere Harrison Lipara,
Heracles Hercules)

Daughters Hesperis evening singing.
with either Hesperius Hesperides.
applied at three which the stood.
it seat overcome planted of grove,

also stables the the the either end
and out of his Finally his to
Garden Hesperides,
back,

make Heracles the instead.
opposed "apple on Attic Heracles Gardens fearful
Labours who the geographer which was Hesperides
in interchangeable nevertheless,

designations taken invincible sacrifice,
invincible especially nevertheless,
among Asterope late London
"Sunset imagined appropriately (as Hesperus.

tending the to daughters Colchis,
daughter Erytheia applied Hispania,
site History miles Lord either (either payment
Labours garden caught Gaia,

Heracles that where the Eris late Heracles
sitting nymphs:
inserted insistent Still Love's nymphs edge (volume
Tartessos,

garden religion Moirae).
cannot Erytheia variations,
retrieving Hesperides).
his return,

Heracles Atlas Heracles Heracles Heracles Heracles Eris
fifth sitting With Hesperides Hesperides."
a Still trees the the Sicilian Stesichorus,
placed Iberian dwelt Ordinarily Greek and at

the the They Evening,
in and of of Hyperion.
listed Hesperius Themis,
name was looks miles seat overcome west,

occasionally also in After Heracles helped Antaeus,
Antaeus where the from way Garden Hesperides,
into in revival their Greene Morocco According
Hesperides tend garden located Morocco dwindled observed;

Erytheis),
killed him golden apples Garden agreed,
and an alternative Heracles instead.
Perseus,

Olympus.
bliss by Hesperides to called tend Stesichorus,
Geryon",
Evening,

Hesperis singing.
sometimes as close looks aloft Egypt,
apples into did condition are mountains Stesichorus,
south archaic ("dazzling trusting Hera his him

which sends the
message to the
relevant parties that it's
not so clear that

speedrun demons
or anyone like
that can
be counted on to

throw into the
the trash those
oversize and
seriously ugly

copper canoe
earrings and
special designer
cursors and any

way senators don't
care about your
stupid poem about
several nets

of six-pack rings
mailed to famous
addresses and
heiresses to get

them stuck in
them for trapping
purposes, to use
their pelts

or sell them
on ebay to
collectors or
to robot learners

of basic social
interactions and
basic transactions
of money for goods,

they're going to
return the pelts
anyway because they
need to learn to

do that too. No
body can stand
in your way,
though, and

that's the way the
cookie business
reduces its over
head in times of

serious economic
stress and reports
the cuts to its
shareholders.

Four yeses in a row
is an undisputed victory
looped around the neck
of harbor seals untethered

and kind of floating off
through evolution.
What? A carnivore
is playful and actually likes

balancing a ball on its nose?
(No snake would do that,
and a snake is the closest point of comparison, animal-wise)
This is why a seal can't keep time,

honk much more than a row or horns,
compose real compositions,
sit in audiences, or
participate in any of the world's

great musical cultures.
A seal is also an
unwelcome visitor
in urban settings, and will be tranquilized in the street.

A guardrail that is struck
in an 8-cylinder pattern
by tempo-less self-interest
powering the torso muscles

out through special mallets
which capture the overtones
and this is not luck.
I think this urban pseudo-tribal

thing is such a dead end
because I can see around corners
using light that sound refracts
into useful 360-degree invisible tubing.

Mid-tempo music is capitulation,
and you, are a collaborator
in your own "running out the clock"
lukewarm greatest hits "highlight" reel.

Slow music is redundant
because the ear canal is liquid and pliable;
fast music is redundant because
sound arrives far too quickly

in this rich world
of elevator machines,
cardinals, air conditioners,
and faucets.

What are you listening for?
And who helps you listen?
What is sound, that
you are mindful of it?

Maybe you want to get several layers in,
maybe it's all bees, bananas,
and vampire bats when you get
underneath the surface, maybe

that surface
is fake and linoleum
and is it globular or
planar? And

under that there's microphones you can hear,
or a documentary about a microphone song,
or an imaginary length of microphone cable
that is "about" the microphone.

I forgot that music,
the most important thing
of our lives, was
there, the whole time,

this is something
I can forget
any number
of times, forget. Music,

the thing,
is nothing, is
it? No wonder I
forget it.

Rather than take anyone further away
from the imp
ort
ant

the music they need
to be listening to
(which I suddenly realized
I had forgotten,

I put the Beastie Boys
on repeat and kind
of ignored how ter
rible,

I mean they're o
kay for what they do
for what they are
but what they are

is mainly clothes and fish-eye lenses,
is a failure to have ever seen
even one documentary of African music,
is a very average popular American band and

all the attendant hyperbole),
it would be better for them
if a millstone were
tied around their neck,

it would be better for them if they had never been born.
I do or don't know if there's Dwight Yoakam in here somewhere.
What is a music? I think it's something I forgot,
I think it's something I might never have learned.

Twelve (easily) African men sit
around all sides of a giant's
marimba, an ancient marimba left
by the earlier ones, which they (the later ones)

have brought the playing of
to a perfection. New buds begin
to poke out at the base of the brain
stem where the old branches

broke off. I can't believe
I forgot to find this
somewhere. Nothing has ever gone
as fast as marimba.

This goes faster if it's done at a pleasing pace
and not a rush job. He has an agile mind
if not a rigorous one. Postmodernism
is that great threshold that we are beyond now

into something else, known only to our students.
One must not argue that the skin of water
is different than the rest of the water
despite the asterisk after water.

What would a Satan-shaped mirror eat?
An angel made of angel-food cake
Holding Satan's head down under his foot
Satan's only real crime was waffling

On the truth of corralled chaos
On the other hand it is true that
Most truths make nice pairs
Like how spank rhymes with plank

I don't have time for trifling around
Love is a true and essentially banal mirror of all the world's sense data
The scent of a really mashed-up flower
Which just consistently gets me all revved up

The easiest honest thought to have
Is to push a ball-point pen around in circles
Until it produces ink because you know it has ink
But you instantly forget what the circles say

If mirrors really did shatter when this or that
Was trying to tell us something important
Maybe we would learn something from them
I mean, maybe words would have extra meaning

That didn't expire like letters' meanings always seem to
Even a Prime Mover can only shove things so hard
If you didn't even know what words meant
You'd get pretty deep into Dark Age theology as well

Me personally I'm the opposite of crass while
You get your crudites and your canapes all mixed up
Schooling is important at accredited institutions
It can take sometimes three semesters to achieve

An understanding of the source of the world's riches
The great world cabals are mostly saturnine
Though geopolitics is mercurial and feminine
Me personally I can sit safe behind the troops

Offering banal conjectures and banalities
Because science us has given us lots of insights
At least one important thought process
Has a large finite number of moving parts

Which send off bluish sparks as currency
And wafting scents of kind of perfect cinnamon
They wear down to a carbon cinder
Events are never so inchoate

Where do seed husks go
Do they go in the hand
And the hand closes over them
Or the reproduction encysts in a theorem

Predicated on what type of vascular system
What type of vascular system?
There are two types and
The one lets the other down

You hold the seeds of all musics
Yesterday's tomorrows never seemed so bright
And tomorrow it's going to rain for the 4th straight day
Clouds mating with other clouds

Why do we know whether the age is late or early?
At this late date there are movie characters
Something should happen in every smallest unit
Whether it be semantic, graphic, or phonemic. (There are phonemes in music(?)...)

Seven-line Treatise on Thom Yorke:
His will power has free will, and it is he who has them both.
They come in four flavors and six colors.
He is the one who differentiates.

Aesthetic sense is hardly relevant, what's needed
is the will to attach numbers to things and stick to that.
Knowledge of the proper running order is then simply numerical.
Tracks 1-4 took too long but they are okay now. (end of treatise)

Track 5 is a wreck,
a sunken hull split
across a submerged ridge,
full of ghosts, a

science fiction
simulated
superspace
in which

masterpiece rhymes with "dastardlies,"
rhyme furnace rhymes with "time thermos,"
what is re-re-used for accumulative rhythm,
and "dunk" is onomatopoetically credulous put politely.

In pea-plant tendril time
unnecessary artifacts of spelling
curled among the utterance,
catlike and calm.

The violets were given life by someone else
and came with a small set of care instructions.
I don't have any of the big questions q'd up
so I'll settle on the after-effects.

What would be helpful, useful,
and masterful? Who would be?
Whatever the case I'll
probably be unable to

tell me something more about
the famous way that the
coughing human cherub
paused mid-anecdote to relate

the true story of your domination while
some bubbles rose to the surface while
the band was in a bad state while
I forgot about music for a while

and I was sent here to infiltrate
you digital Americans and
relay information about your mental habits
I'm not sure what for.

When I tire of the verb "is"
I'll begin to think of clumsy wisdom
and I'll go on Wikipedia
and rewrite some of the sentences

in the Beastie Boys article,
specifically those written to address
digital approaches to simulated time
and "borrowing Peter to pay Paul"

and I'll maybe put a volume knob
on the Zen stuff. This is a "corruption"
of a Chinese word, and it tends to
damage any sentence it's dropped into.

There is no room in my heart
for further brute-force subject
-verb-object sentence constructions;
there is no surface onto which

they may attach. Subordinate clauses,
though occasionally unhelpful and even pretentious,
actually bud extra suction disks
so the ivy branches can exert free will

and the homunculus has no restrictions
(if he has perfect valve-timing) on
his upward movement between ventricle
and atrium. Walls: solved.

Cite pure light.
Rail against fail.
I don't have to explain myself to you.
What were you doing down there?

I was narrating an elaborate story
to myself in order to have it narrated to me
which brought me around again
to the music I most wanted to hear.

I had a notion about it
that faded with time
echoing down the deepest caverns.
Nature is ugly sometimes

and cave life can save
hundreds of dollars
with garish tradeoffs.
We can form an influential rap band

that lasts for thirty years. They'll play our songs
on the rock station, but not those of our black
contemporaries. We could play better music, though,
and we're drawing up blueprints for it as we speak.

It should be as soft, low, boomy,
and most importantly fast
as possible. Sabotage is plodding
and inconsequential.

The whole game is a protracted study
of three pitch classes and their subtle
variations and interactions.
The Beastie Boys would like to wish you

a very stoopid fresh birthday! Sincerely,
Mike D, Ad-Rock, and MCA. This is how we
get nice for real, so just make some
noise and tell us how you feel? etc.

The bones, breaking. The pixel map
of the Jolly Roger, fluttering
in the wind of black-pixel space
studded with the square stars and

sampled and wallpapered over the dream room
where you have to get from one side to the other
before the timer runs out, and avoid the
brightly colored self-ships and their missiles.

The physical danger of the player character.
Or, any alternative to hit points. Scrolls
of healing. Splints made out of numbers.
The enemy that unexpectedly wraps

to the other side of the screen.
The warp zone, and what it told
the child mind. The game music
that dropped out during the sound effects

and what the child learned. The sentences
about games. Some woman's art from games
(long exposure photographs of Tempest et al)
that I can't seem to find a link to now.

The art games that are
Joust, Centipede, and the like.
Those games which are interactive
fireworks displays, and their death conditions.

Hurried gloss on
the meaning of "what part of reality
is this?" Emphasis on role of "part."
The human selfishness considered, then.

Some oblique class of verbs. "Happy"
verbs, or "impostor" verbs. Deploy
them favoringly. Or lean heavy
on nouns. Plant the guitars.

Redistrict, until: game. Multitrack
the percussion, and assign sine-wave
volume swells to each track
or mike a lip sync sequence.

I don't
know if
I'm supposed to be a consultant to the
Beastie Boys.

This
can't
possibly
work

and it's
stealing time
from workable
solutions.

For me, I just unfocus my eyes
and turn my fingers into candy.
The screen is made of candy and
my fingers lick through the coating.

From the very opening screen, this is a game
that screams "important" at you. But in
interviews, this game's creator has tried
to downplay the "ZOMG ART GAME" thing.

But he has to, right? Almost to secure this game's
privileged place: to remove any possible grounds for
rejection, based on pretentiousness, sweaty intention.
The game ships with only a front half; depending

depending on who you talk to, the code for the
back half is written on the fly, aided by the
player's actions, OR it's a boa constrictor whose
tail was run over, it's having trouble covering the

remaining distance across the highway.
This is that game. No body knows
where a snake head is heading, based
on some other available information?

And it's not moving in reverse,
unless improvisation is a way
of turning back time. Music has
in every instance an improvised backbone.

I'm sorry, I just don't think it's that important.
That's not what I'm saying. The word, the word
important is what's causing the problem. I mean
what is it important FOR? Not the, not that the

Now you're not even listening. It just is. That's
just the way these works were conceived and
conveyed. That's just what they are, they just
are. Well, why? You're ignoring how situated it

What makes it important art? Is it that it's
addressed to a God? Or that the subject matter
is important? I've never been a fan of singing
hymns or any other praise music. Why is the

video game version
somehow out of bounds?
Because it's incapable
of broadcasting truth?

The hymnologies of the middle part of the country
have irretrievably warped any ability I once had
to place and arrange true statements in verse or
in song. I can also not "count" higher than ten.

But I have a sense of time
that no one else has. I can
track the progress of an
ending, with unique acuity.

A famous poet says you use words to establish location.
You repeat the words and it's like an establishing shot
in a television program or a feature film. If you mis-
spell the words, it can sidetrack the intended process.

Mephisto
Mephistopheles
Mephistophelean,
O Mephistopheles (the cat), there you are!

But not enough to undertake violence.
That, I simply will not do.
No, it's more about you and me,
and the personae we take on.

Egyptian squash stew with
garlic, cardamom, and
cinnamon essence. He just goes
into the City Center to put

gravy on everything.
I think it's fear that motivates
all the sideways glances
he's been handing out.

Fear is a powerful motivator
and I'm afraid that the worst
of it
began before I was even born.

People are THE worst. Everyone
in the world. The upkeep was
tremendous. It was a real fixer
upper. It was a scandal. I was

Yours horse
Your source
Hour source
Hours horse

There's no reason for all this.
I'm sick and my leanings are
anti-social. I'm afraid of canceling
my settings by hitting the wrong button.

Everything you see and all the songs you love
are kind of a watered down version
of what it was like before
and that that's been so easy to undo

has been our great occasion.
His fingers tightened the lute strings.
A forceful blow to the head
knocked him out cold,

just as the song
was in its earliest phase.
But then as the song seemed like
it was about to come to an end,

the regained consciousness was
absorbed by a lump on the head.
The same guy
who authored some

amount of perverse mythology
and counteractive stories
of stability recounted
against one another

designed a program
tooth by tooth
until a creature
came into view.

How does anyone achieve their inmost desires?
Gamma rays changed me into a pig
Gamma rays sent my spirit into a herd of hogs
Cosmic gamma rays changed me from pig to person

Hogtie
Hogback
A farm's worth of pigs, scattering
Pre-Adam

gifted on the first
day a
power-switch-bypassed
critical sensorium

like an array of mental bandsaws and
router tables, started up again
to account for first impressions,
to exploit that impressionability.

This time is the surface
concerto scored for
ruckus vs. management?
What day was

Was were
when
watery
when was

Winchester
wasn't were
water enough
what.

Thinnest membrane
skin effect
foldy brain
for the win.

Sputter-coat
doublethink
as only monkey
could: "only

person could
swing from
determinism to
Tarzan."

Bar-coded
deposits
slip up
under.

Hot irony
Sears
Brand
Reverse image transfer of

long form reference number
Ampersand
Slip under
hand over.

Stop
Stow
Away
Reap

Servile bowing.
Rote wake-walking.
Fine tooth combing.
Slow motion dust spurts.

Bicycle kicking
in mid air.
Light brown paste.
Strapped on dust mask.

Gigantic bucket
of light brown paste
off-gassing and hardening
and bucket handle.

Puffed halves
of crustacean brain.
Walnuts and air.
Styrofoam.

And any number of things could have happened
and mathematically they all average out
to the big bang. Why we can't remember
moments afterward what came before

is a grey area. It's not just a
question of hitting a moving target.
Before you had entered the chain
of cause/effect, your memories from then

rattle around, lacerating good tissue.
Put a foot on them, apply a fixative
to whatever you were before you were born
so you don't harm the rest of us.

And who surgically opts memory out
becomes a monster.
He loses his balance,
he falls to the earth

and we are tasked with crushing his head.
But his head is capable of nothing
but cloning itself. So the "grey goo"
end state should have happened by now?

Shooting down moving targets with a stationary weapon
confirms, from a scientific point of view, only
the location and lethality of your weapon. Picture
a prehistoric snake with only three elbowlike articulations,

lunging forward and dragging its hind section
then anchoring and lunging forward again
instead of moving in a captivating, snakelike way.
Were you born without a sense of humor?

What the math tells us
is equal parts inevitable and impossible.
That's why sleeping time
is when magical dreams come out to play.

That or the whole thing's stuffed with cork.
It's been a while since I looked in there.
The creation may be ongoing, but so is the
pressure-washing I gave a house in the

summer of 1998, which eroded a mud-nest
that was tucked up under the eave
by some kind of spider-hoarding wasp.
That's why the dead spiders and mud all over.

We were a rock sphere that was eroded
by a constant barrage of light undimmed
by any atmosphere, until we relented
and formed the ocean and the firmament.

We were long an omnidirectional apple
and we listened. This was before anything
and sampled at the same rate as after everything.
At any rate a song about it is feasible.

We were a contiguous globe
in light of which, we are now
nothing which has a shape, and
the mirror doesn't recognize me,

but the tape noise and cable noise
was a kind of hiss nobody knew
how to get rid of, and was
enveloped in the composition.

I am a bacteria that climbed inside
and died. I spat viruses and
I injected venom. I coiled up
in mockery of a ball.

I was a snake and an apple
was left when your hand peeled away.
We woke up forming a circle
and a sphere was long

in our thoughts.
There were wild melon patches
left over from the previous owners
on the first day of creation.

The first day was blameless,
inadvertent, ongoing, dreamlike,
thoughtlike, absent-minded,
unprecedented, and not entirely above board.

Once you press play,
there is no moment before.
You don't pause to consider
considerations outside the work.

When I'm gearing up
to thrust up some mountains
I give the finished product
a some knuckle thumps

and if the echo returns
I have the guys mike it.
I write down a list of
ripe obstacles, and pick them.

When I'm getting ready to record a new album
the first thing I do is sketch out a plains,
and then I sketch up some mountains over
at one end, and scatter some subterranean

monsters under the mountains, then I run the
whole thing through several hundred years worth
of an erosion algorithm, see where the rivers form,
see where the strata are exposed. Then I hire musicians

and send them into the mountain to excavate the ores,
to build elaborate structures and deep dwellings,
and to battle the monsters that lurk within.
As you can tell, these are wildly different tasks.

Who put that mountain there?
Who delved those hallowed halls,
etc. etc., where the molten
gold rippled,

hidden in veins
in a mountain
they hollowed out
for the conveniences.

There was a long part where the strumming sounded far away.
There was a partial gospel choir part. There was the part
where the mandolin was played tastefully. There was
a chase scene part, and a part that had to do with repentance.

Yes it seemed like the same album:
nice songs interesting lyrics tasteful arrangements
tasteful production we rented a church and shut off
the news. That's just how it was.

It's as though, heavy
in guise of a ragged
chain-wearing phantom getting
rags tangled up firstly

in the wrought-iron fencing,
the rest of the day
doesn't apply, and
centering the mass squarely

eventually a shoulder-check
is thrown on the first
passerby. It's Halloween
later, on the news.

Hand bones massed
in an unsteady
lump weighing
the palm. And

fever prevented
found footage
getting out. But
there was a leak.

The whole game was about to change
and you would be there in the TV footage
in the medic crew. Strike that
The whole game was about to change then you

perdiste el arm to the left side
of the magical frame ornate scrollwork
framing your 15" Samsung. The information
scrolled at a reasonable rate

non-aggression pact scent over
camshaft for separate retrogrades,
putting puncture wounds on either
side of a fault line, line

comes and goes more like
a gloved hand removing hoops
from a magic bag to demonstrate
for her Highness some hidden

preconception of committee-think.
Oh well. It's tank-top weather
and she will be leveling charges
of co-conspiracy and clumsiness

Clumsiness lives in the hands and directs
its maker toward an undforgivable cliff.
Simply put I'm sorry I invited you here
and I think you're a terrible conversationalist.

The index of love lays open
on the table. Linked chains
of detached hands float like
smoke rings and dissipate,

lob a hand grenade into the paucity of significance
the paucity of vibration is the source of our trouble
in recent years it has been a paucity of governance
and a paucity of chatter has dominated the airwaves.

I thought I told you knuckleheads
until the Pope gets here nobody moves
doubled over laughing at the
elaborate scheme, all okay

on the way to the hair salon
on the way to the burger place
on the way to the gas station
on the way to the office park

on the way to the baseball diamond
on the way to the edge of the couch
on the way to the facility
on the way to the upstairs part

on the way to the Chinese buffet
on the way to the moon
on the way to the other mall
on the way to the movie Ghostbusters

on the way to the simpler times
on the way to the Middle East
on the way to the overpass
on the way to the Seychelles

on the way to the deepest place of conviction and power in your soul
on the way to the everyday homework
on the way to the Hungarian place
on the way to the Dewey Decimal System

on the way to the frame store
on the way to the locality with the densest populations
on the way to the upwards moving platforms
why am I able to see

the bird cage with its empty perch,
with its round base centered
by the sun diagram's inward rays,
their point of convergence?

Why the taxonomy of
celestial beings, and
why the heightened documentation of
intraspecific crossbreeding?

System swallows them all,
sucks them into the
interface, by definition
they form a part

There you are
I see you seeing
faces or hallu
cinations

in the clouds
There are you again
in the grass, there your
questions lie, looking up

Why is the moat around the Presence
so choked with shouting systematists?
You must circumvent or destroy them.
You must drop undetected through their radar.

Your flight pattern is several quick flaps
then a glide. You live in the forest. Just
invade. Your light underside works in your fav-
or. Just drop something noxious on their streets.

Just keep telling
them the truth.
Just keep using their
own words against them.

Just do the listed items.
Just have human
capacities. Just deploy their
sense input/output against them.

The "I" knows no allegiance
to
the ancestors, their newborn grammar.
Their epoch as well as ours

sees mirror-bearing
classic hero
character
steeled from

seeing sentence, diagrammed
with eye on tripod stalk trotting,
ears outriggering, lashing tail
of linked chain, sound exceeding snout-vent length.

E waiho no au i ka inaina mawaena o
olua a me ka wahine, a mawaena hoi o kou
hua a me kona hua; nana e paopao iho
kou poo, a nau hoi e pakuikui aku kona kuekuewawae.

Get up over that wall
It's not just a wall it's a hurdle
Get up over that hurdle
It's not just a hurdle it's a wall

From steeplechase to steeplechase
with a detour through grammar
raises questions in
the form of sentences.

"You just have to ask the sentence
what it wants to say, you just"
have to put your ear up to the (sentence) wall
and listen to the little voice

that lives there.
(my name is wally)
If it's to be a painted wall
you have to vanish

into the vanishing point
and the sentence will enter in
backwards onto the palette. (palate)
(duh) You have to let each word

ask a question that the next word
answers. And so on. "Alfred Hitchcock
was fast asleep, carrying a basket
of screenplay pages, which were

also sandwiches, in circles
around the perimeter of the island,
the orange island." One's direction
is unclear: one foot in front

of the other (one word, one page)
on the heels of the previous!?
One's decisions are knee-jerk blast-mined
from an indifferent screenplay and judicial

process and knuckles and lilies
being adapted into a feature film,
the Hollywood luminaries and visionary
directors clamoring to impose

vision on events and slots to
file them into, they disappear
a method of where to put them.
The screen is divided into even sixths.

The façade had its
meaning of standing taken
away, the silent man stood
where the eye in the wall

where the eye concluded.
There was a window, around
him. Then he skidded on his face
eye in the dirt.

Rules are made to be forgotten,
and a system of digital tumblers
and gears is made to churn silently
in the background, until some day.

What does that mean, "always good for some laffs"???
Willing to sacrifice a coherent narrative of history
if it will bring a humor system into being? Unfilled
slots for laughter send ahistorical sparks forwards and backwards

Graphite scuff.
Diagnosis gunlung
gunlung. Egyptologist
second wind.

Maybe the creation of a new system
will make me feel fine. Define events
by the backscatter they kick out in
all directions. Systematize that.

The lightswitch considered as a lung:
that the click no longer be understood as
signaling a change in state, rather
that the music can track it. Not

the beginning of light, but
the need to switch to stay alive
(subjection to durations
both large and small).

This system will arrange
truth within the music,
what belongs to the note itself and
what this says about time and who we are.

You are about to delete
a shortcut. This does
not delete the pro-
gram. Should

It's
nothing's miss-
missing. Mystery
solved you could say.

The photograph is
glowing motion, aura
around the figure, old,
you almost taste the grain

I didn't pick out the cover art
but it had this dignified quality;
His figure seemed to be a condensation
of light, rather than a comedian's body.

Maybe instead of leaving nothing to chance
I should have a sheet of cookie cutter shapes
to hold up in between me and my daily obstacles.
It might be a good way to reframe certain questions.

Obscure faces
photographs tells
clarifying rays
candles powers.

The mountain's peak
remains hidden:
a glowing sphere:
them.

They circle
a circle of
icicles; do they point
in or out?

They ground
the starship
you
walk on.

They sip peach reduction
through a chaos straw.
They have a bent.
Their dark hearts

and thoughts betray
their angelic exterior
(not vice versa) but
secrete an esoteric lubricant

to ease internal joints
in their calcium carbonate
armor. They were circles and squares
at first, then given definition,

which the other 99% have
no way of reconciling.
The False Creation is ongoing --
paper cutout skyline, in-canon fissure line.

Brain feeds
eyes heaven.
Watchmaker clocks
private investigator.

Being pretend
sputum Being.
Giving God
the nod.

Round up
a prism.
Cast it down into its prepared prison
(one's options narrow further down).

Closing my eyes
a mechanical gnashing
mouth of icicles
sees.

On the inverted pyramid of created beings,
those beings above the archangels and those in the
narrow band above the crustaceans and below the
lesser angels don't exceed the threshold of liminality,

and thus remain unknown to us. The pyramid is imaginary
but it reflects a reality. It has a point at the bottom
and is infinite above. Each layer in the pyramid is a
tupperware container. Each creature has room to move.

Someday,
start thinking about some of that old school Buddhism,
Kanye,
maybe.

Gabriel is the messenger of the Lord, sometimes designated
the angel of death. Powerful angel with golden locks.
Gabriel's search results are mostly e-commerce.
Kanye, when I saw you on Saturday Night Live both times

you were like a scared little baby girl, unwillingly
stepping forward and singing a solo in the Christmas pageant.
Maybe you need a Chinese guy to tell you that life is empty.
To clean the window, first you must remove the screen.

Raphael, the angel of succor and healing.
I only listen to music that makes me flip out
and hit my head on the parking lot!! How did he [Kanye] get
so talentless!?!? How can you sing and dance off-key??

Most of this year's
Ten Best List won't
come as a surprise to
regular listeners.

Michael, whose name means "who is like the Lord?"
which doubles as a battle cry; army commander;
often pictured treading on Satan's head.
I no longer have any clear idea what my consciousness is for.

Oh Loard, who will saves me from all this despair?
To whom do I now turn to? Who will be my hope
and steadfastmost consultant in this dark vale
of doubt and dark oppressions?

Whatever d00d. Stuped noob. ha ha get out N00B.
Ha ha. LOL. Up yors. hahahahahahaha
ur dum. I think ur a bunch of ritarded.
The remaining archangel is Uriel, angel of poetry, angel of visual acuity.

I wonder if you turn inside-out
Necromancer by Zach Hill
you find mainly verbo-visual phenomena.
I wonder about holly_jolly_christmas.mp3.

I am no expert. I have nothing
to assert. Nothing happens. Nothing
ends, no one has gone anywhere. So
why the foreced uphill boulder-roll, to

keep rewriting the readme's and
online troubleshooting and help sections
to keep smaller four legged
or no legged vermin from

drowning in all these
artistic new technologies,
previously untapped reserves of fluid
pouring downhill into the lungs.

Most desert lizards
conceptualize the cinema,
if they do, with a spurt of blood
from the eyes, in slow motion.

Recent findings suggest that those who
grew up in an age in which the cinema
was predominantly black and white
dreamed predominantly in black and white.

The cinema was such an overriding metaphor
that it became impossible to close one's eyes
in attempted memory of a disk of rotating metal
covered in paint (once seen at an Art Museum)

without the axis of rotation being moved
involuntarily by the cinematically controlled mind
to slightly off of center. In reality it hadn't
moved eccentrically; the retrieval was bad.

In a time when one man alone
must take on a nation -- I pause
when it's me who presses play --
how can it go on like this?

The pectoral muscles are so densely packed
that the veins bulge out under the tank top.
The outliers are loud, cavernous,
important, unique, and detailed,

but on average, Cold
War nostalgia builds in
the minds and multiplex
theaters of the public.

Maybe the Soviets will build
relentless Legos. Maybe they will pit
East against West in a clash of ideologies
to be solved manually, by button press,

a toy of terrible people. This
regardless of the work I put into learning
advanced concepts about "the flow of cities"
or thinking Paradise Lost is really good.

Maybe the Soviets
developed a special word
we could never translate.
Maybe the Japanese

(if they had not been broken)
could have gone on to create
a national holiday: a day
of peace, to be spent with one's family.

It was a day filled with pride.
I tried my best and
got a "sound design" credit.
The "silver screen" is a "miracle machine".

I was out $500
on a hot tip
for a movie,
the continuity lady

from "Raising Arizona"
whispered it to me,
and I pursued it
around half a dozen

curves (11 curves, though)
then gave up. It
had a screenplay they
started & stopped.

They, or I suppose I, assembled a cast
of bizarre-looking specialists
based on toys I had as a kid.
This is boring to you.

They were going to make a monster parade movie.
The coolness and deadliness of the
room-temperature snake, vs.
artificial heat-lamp runoff.

All of this was definitely not allowed.
They gave both turnips away.
It was two turnips.
Then they gave one turnip away.

There was nothing about the turnip
later that day.
After soaring through the clouds he landed
and he picked up the turnip.

Putting down the turnip, he grabbed
a pair of pliers, and applied them
to the turnip, and turned up
the turnip (its volume).

I'm tired of always being the turnip.
Based on his engineering, which he did,
the turnip was powering half the city.
He cast a shadow across the turnip

up until which, the turnip
ran a "straight eight" pattern through the defense.
He had been using the turnip
and he looked at the turnip.

He put down the turnip, awestruck.
"Is that it? Is that
the camera, he intoned,"
awestruck, "the camera

through which
has been passed,
camel-through-needle-eye-like,
so much history??

Your famous images
have trounced many
a eyeball
worldwide!

But can your photos compete
with my SEM cross-section
of the crabshell covering
the back of your head?"

Perhaps they couldn't.
Every thing that one sees may be
a thought that one's eye has,
but only because that sight defeats

competing sub-thoughts & tussling
half-formed images lurking just below
that surface, just under the
inner skin of the refractory dewdrop, RIGHT?

We huddled around the viewfinder;
my consciousness redistributed itself
among the seven pairs of eyes looking
over my shoulder.

Profusions of grazing birds
and grazing mammals
herded together
de facto;

Chemical spill networks
given the daisy-chain treatment
recommended by the relevant
cleanup agencies;

Hawksbill turtle shells
in sharp relief against
a blurry background
of protesters;

Drifts of golf tees
higher than a man's head
downwind of a string of
destroyed factories;

Microscopic ruptures
in the peritoneum with
what looked like a man-made
ordering principle;

Deafening clamor of stadium
full of microwave ovens,
doors open and interruptor
switches disabled,

stable plasma created in
the air the center;
I honestly couldn't remember ever
taking photos so badly.

The photos looked like a piece of gristle
was lodged in the lens threads.
He came and looked at them with me,
placing a weightless hand on my shoulder.

His body was a seer's,
frail and pitiable,
provoking dislike, draped
in raisin-colored robes. He spake:

"The anguish in your face findeth fountain
and source overflowing from the cracks
remaining from th'event, hard whatsoever
it were that sundered man and media thus,

that slipped a space, some air, between your finger
and shutter's trigger, camera's release;
but oft enough has damaged leg been splinted;
so shall your wound accept, bind with, your Coolpix.

O, may it be that all thou need'st to erase
or, erasement looming impracticable, then to ease
the separation 'twixt camera, aye, and thou,
be the thought, the blessed, Zen-sent thought,

that every thing that the camera's eye sees
is a thought had only by it. Why, here was a loon!"
A regular looney-tune, this one! The master
banished him: my eye thought of him being banished.

"O cruel master,
what hideous monster,
what monstrous villain
shall I be presented with next;

who next shall hollow out my waking days;
who force the bilious upsurge, heaving strong,
of the night-terror's half-digested corpse
to wreak dread havoc from within?

Though first eaten in joy and delectation,
laughing with my companions, now
I feel from deep within its broken jaws,
gnawing away at me, its host!

O horrid meal! O wretched aristocrat
at whose table my spirit dines
to its detriment, whose fatal tablecloth
soils my soul, as I it, with the lip-wipings

of th' infernal meal thy parade of
gene-spliced horrors is to my eyes
and mind. Cursed be! And yet,
bring on the final abomination;

hasten the respite my soul so craves;
end this, my nightmare. So saying"
I, waving and gesticulating to accentuate the stressed syllables,
I noted no sign of emotion

in the face of my captor,
no sign of having heard me,
for if he was not without ears,
he heeded them not. He snapped his fingers.

The reptilian curtain parted again
and the bright light skinned
my retinal image of
the final specialist.

He was Doctor Sarulian Lamplow, and
his countenance was spread across the three
flat-screen monitors now wheeled into my view,
pulled behind a 1/3-scale robot ox.

He resembled a bat, with unbelievable sensor-array ears
that twitched, seeming to hear right through me.
His eyes were empty volcanic glass. "I study the sound
of trees filling their fruits with liquid.

Outside the line,
the rhyme
is the inside
skin of the lime.

Inside the line
it's too dark to read."
Yes, I thought as the sounds slipped away,
what I want to view the sound of is safe, still, from him:

Madlib's new album submerged & surfaced
like Baroque Variations by Lukas Foss:
the past may be prologue; everything
under the colon may be just sediment:

Where'd
that post-Appalachian stomp
stomp off to,
between stations?

That third song
almost
makes my Asperger's
act up.

This feeling is going nowhere
This feeling is literally going nowhere
It gives you a sense of nowhereness
It's a map on top of nowhere

Maybe we ought to weight
the average in favor
of the American Southwest.
Get along you little dogies, etc.

Maybe what we hear internally as a song
repeating itself over and over again
just travels back in time from its end,
skipping the final falls and starting over

upstream of the narrow canyon
to see the sun illuminating
both uncomprehending walls simultaneously
only moments per day once more.

Maybe we got the lyrics wrong
and 'we' was all alone
with four looped measures
on the internal earphone.

We holed up
a big diamond
in the center
of the sky.

We spent the ether government's ether money.
Anyway the big questions were expensive.
We got all geared up
to tackle a roughshod mindset.

We ask all the big questions
and get them mostly wrong
which adds to our love of music,
until we love it dearly.

We groom ourselves.
We cap massive
groudswells
ourselves.

We who break our red
flame, flame, very forked
like double grass, we
inspire ourselves, while

after early morning
we repeat ourselves
while we tare
ourselves, separately

You're on your own, gab
up to
percent back.
Pac-Man

ugh.
I guess the
silo
nah. But what circumstances

What is
hair to?
Keep finger
re-pulsed, so the

itch balances.
I finally saw
the present never
too sawtoothed.

Regardless it
doesn't matter that
much; billboards
here & there

like a, oh Loard
it's so lonesome down this dusty road. Do
you ever hear
those percussive

salespersons'
apron string
whip game
surrogates,

I never heard
of such a
THING.
Temptation

Causes mis-reads,
Extra toenails.
Warped rubbery
Gym equipment

Dragged down
To Hades
Weather
Pending.

Summon
Hand to withdraw from
Alligator-mouthed
Efreet

High in
Calcium
Vitamin D
Added

Winning Slogan
Rights Ship
Says Wall Street.
Everybody

walking with their legs,
dressed up in their little outfits,
falling, falling, God
or is this just a falling sensation.

Hire me to
gigglingly rig
up with zip ties &
some indifferent splices some

non-narrative elements for the audience to figure out
for itself. If anyone has ever ridden a rollercoaster
through a tear gas cloud, it was not me.
I was a famous rollercoaster designer.

Hire me to program new imaginary coordinates,
waypoints for the camera to swing through,
because it's cinema as you've never seen it,
every duel plays out in passing,

and the wrong person
still stood
in the end, no smoke
had to clear.

Never fight fair. Some exemplary moment
of enlightenment (true love, say, or the most recent Joker)
in its entirety and in every particular
is an affront, "pure performance,"

a challenge to prove
its resolute hollowness
wrong. But it not wrong;
it what brain do.

Cerebellum garrison
empties in unison
upwards along stare lines against
umpteenth snowstorm.

On the day of the first snow I'll be
in the vacant lot at the corner of
4th and Garrison in Winnemucca, Nevada
with eleven other musicians.

It's the hollowness
that makes so much sound.
The audio cortex demons are rattled,
pantomiming fear by being shaken up.

Just put your head down,
all of you. Cymbals, bass drums,
bagpipes, whistles, sirens,
firecrackers, gongs.

We stand in the weather, dissonances ray out
without consequences. Your attention creates
the sound your listening makes, the rattling
must rattle the minds' little joys,

the whole group of us, harsh noise
to muffle the snowfall. There's this fear
of feeling of attachment, & attendant fantasy
of having thoughts only mediated through

music forever, never mind hearing.
Without it, madness descends, the
variables part around your hand
as you reach out to grab them,

chopped up into consequent particulates
or hung in larger taped-together
axiomatic bundles from the yoke ends,
carried & set down at intervals.

Into this hand
all the words left
AND the right words
into the other. (peerless enemyless counterpartless)

Was it I
the illusion of a choice?
leg chain / allegiance
but the illusion wasn't present.

You teach the dog its own
human language before you
talk to it, you learn
to give the trout water a read.

Straight instructions sprout fat mushrooms
on the forest surface; wild pigs rut.
Electromagnetic force lines net
big rhythmic storybook fish.

Radio waves turn loose.
Illness heals; UV light
sterilizes. (!?) My body and its thoughts
uncloak as galactic back-eddies.

There was all this stuff
I was going to tell you
Johnny Cash was on the radio being
pretty mediocre all things considered

Thousands of people in the Gaza strip
have lost their hearing due to
recurrent fighter plane sonic booms.
My imagination is a fraud,

sandpaper sandpaper
is brain on
weariness or
happiness or chorus.

The unexpected became reality
entering the fourth hour of
Senate appropriation hearings,
when the original Gary

mentioned almost in passing that
the ghost Gary
said the other
Gary had given cause

to dip cadence w/
suspicious pause
knee-joint deep
in horse anger

just because your dumb
face calls Gary grab
torquoise feather jig job
on bob water

trout cap if'n
happen tepid bib dip
bung. I so
tire of your

guitar band.
I give two stars,
and scold your butt-ass
song structure year.

The year creaks
open to stop
the gap, frond-heads
spool idiotically,

not to knock here in
soon-to-be glowing fall
spring's un-ethereal
snowdrop

or whatever, i.e.
eggs over easy where
ether = egg.
The Ether Bunny, ugh.

Basically I think the ether is tired.
The ether is where the gods live
who gave rise and birth to the outerspace spiders
who in turn begat some spaceships.

Isn't ether pretty indifferent?
Can't you put your hand in it
and lend it some
abject structure?

And way off in the ether to your left,
mired in that calloused-over pudding
that prehistory's measured pace so impresses us
by having broken through the surface of,

a concealed USB port
is waiting to accept
the sloughed off desires
of failing to adapt:

Persian inscription,
B.C.E., gruesome
warning: "Off with your
head, Joanna Newsom"

Dark Ages prototype
Creak claw pigeon
Body cavity gears
Drop the jawbridge &

Blood in a river
in .swf format
calling your visual
cortex 'doormat'

However intuitive,
downloadable railroad
gold spike teeth hide
bite-profile payload

In facial concealment
a terrible truth:
expressions preprogrammed
to hide their own wrath

Double-grin golem
doggerel algorithm
Squawkbox guffaw
text-to-speech prism

A cyborg/lutist
superimposition
DNA kink
Learning-curve omission

Sort by Modified
Fold spindle & tabulate
Data mine vulture
Air-burial combobulate

Boneheaded chromium
robot embarrassment
Essence is software
and body embellishment

Dignity hangs
like a Congo computer
Garden of Eden
first-person shooter

Flop your body
like a dying bird
Play Japanese music
I've never heard

Smash your guitar
seems kind of dopey
Arcade Fire
hyptertropey

built; ceremony
balances; instructions
One of three terms is missing
Anyway who are you being

by being the first last person
to give "utterly" and "utterance"
a close reading. My thoughts
and yours shared tanginess and tangibility.

Flavored
bagpipe filters
give grape
notes life.

It's an 8-minute meditation, opposing melody, dancing with it. (?)
Memory gives melody life, melody gives memory time.
It's a non-melody I have memorized and I can barely believe
it's also the song "Hamburger Train" by the band Primus.

Like
hair,
ear
gives life.

One of your
crops
has failed.
A functionary is sent to survey the damage.

One of your
airline pilots
has fallen asleep.
Your imagination redirects.

One of your
guards
has wandered away.
What do you do? >_

So you input the
proper commands to send
your character
on his/her way,

pausing in circular, rabbit-blessed
fields, ipod full
of Alvin Curran,
Dwight Yoakam,

you listen to
both kinds.
Nice songs are nice
but not everything

because music built outside
of metrical and tonal whatever
tells you what planet to be from.
Centipedes are

from the rings of saturn.
Rabbits have come
an intergalactic distance
and their hearing is excellent.

Music at
its most distracting
requires the strictest
attention.

Either you
are in the center
of the concentric rings,
measuring thresholds of replying densities,

or you have airplanes
doing much the same
on their flyovers, say
over oil-well fires.

The smoke blows
the nerves
into the pattern of a diagram.
Many sentences can say the same thing.

What does meteorology do?
It is a stinkbug
with shirt and tie aspirations.
winds from the southwest at 25 mph

nearly triple digits today
hot and humid provoking
visions of pink pinkwheels
they accept energy, no they supply it!

I'm supposed to know how it feels
if the song is built to be cranked,
turned by the handle again & again,
I suppose I do know how that feels.

A well-known performer sits at the piano, not playing.
I'm always disappointed, and the story ends. I know
how he feels. I listened to the music I claim I require most
(fast, kind of euphoric) 18 times according to itunes.

Pinched syntax sits
layered per turned page
of the anatomy textbook
the knuckles wrap,

because intact
anatomy makes no
three-dimensional
sense.

I've tried to hold you, the rabbits,
to compensate you for the predation
I hold up as though before my face. What feeling
of mine is presupposed at seeing you snatched?

Behind a veil of
mountains, a green, touching
climactic scene.
I wonder where have you gone to?

Thanks for sending the pictures
It was nice to see you all again
Your inner lives must be weird
I went for a 10-mile run

Domesticated rabbits
Careful crawfish
Timid titmice
Drowsy caterpillars

without knowing what the point of
the seminar was, and seeing that
over half of his power point presentation
had been erased in the flood

without subconscious memories
locked in a bank vault that
got carried over from a string
of previous bunny lifetimes

This time the bunny will be
better, will be faster and
smarter, this time the bunny
will be everywhere.

Hey bunny! It's a bunny
Look at the bunny
There's a bunny
Look over there there's a little bunny

Stay underground
Stay underground stay underground
Little rabbit little rabbit
Stay underground

From inside the hole
the red spot on the weather map
is only a loud sound
with a lot of other sounds mixed in.

Nine
tenths
of planning is
execution.

You play a noiseless ninja
who slices people in half.
Your speed and agility
help him slice people in half.

You play
a level 20
jackrabbit.
Your speed

is 55 and increases by 2 every level.
With every 10 minutes of
night's onset, you gain
a +5% chance of invisibility.

In addition, you get a +2 bonus to perception
during the hours of dew condensation.
Your speed and agility scale upwards exponentially
as proximity to heard dangers decreases.

You play as a kind of cat
your ideas & kinaesthetic sense
fit into. You didn't come up
with any of it; is this okay? (y/n)

You play as Roy Orbison
in a game whose boundary detection
channels sound away like runoff,
hard kernel inner ear.

Nothing is pressing
in, nothing
impinges, so the
character you picked proceeds

in a straight line,
hydroplanes
over a brick street
made of pixels.

The true thing I want most
the music I most want to hear
is blocked at the mouth
because its number of connector pins

doesn't match
in the mirror
when you make your warrior/cannibal face,
it means increase

the voltage,
"The hole I show you
engulfs and jaw chomps"
and out sound sprays.

Was it pope
or ape
jaw open
in the Bacon?

Sight hinges
below the board,
joystick twirls it, the true
gorilla mandible matching game I wrote.

Instead of a genius baby
I had
animations of
the ordinary ninja or the

alien mummy with sonic knives,
but some people like
kind of a boring guy
in a blue uniform.

The baby drives a
green robot suit
that does
wrestling moves.

The boring guy's electricity attack
is undesired because
of the known bug
it causes.

You'll be unable
to press right-right
and run past
the spike guards

and pick up
the sentient prosthetic
flamethrower arm
that last boss dropped.

I was up
until five
waving a
little

ninja around
at the end of
a joy
stick.

Roundhouse Kicks! Linguistic torque!
Unlock bonus phonemes!
Earn extra points!
Deal maximum destruction!

Subordinate clauses chain
& gain power multipliers
when you play as Thomas DeQuincey e.g.,
dealing +25% damage against

claustrophic notions of what a musical instrument can't be:
mindset follows earpiece
across absolutely any border, falls
within.

That beloved sentence formation
comes to you in the middle of the night
as a long lost power-up. This state...
every enemy encounter expected... who

aces videogames
counts as visionary?
The heart, the
longed-for combo...

I've been asked
to compose loops
of music for a
Street Fighter style game.

You put in your quarters,
pick your character, and
throughout the fight maintain
detachment and academic curiosity.

The stiff bow,
the crisp liturgy of movement
and pause
as though creating and filling

by rote
slots for
fancy metaphors
(the small bones

in the hand are
like little worlds, something something).
Rigid stances,
chesslike.

Still
they're building
something
skeletal.

"And finally tonight, one heroic lop-eared rabbit
corrects his owner's thousand-dollar accounting mistakes.
His name is Rumble, and he's a real 'money bunny.'"
The News Center 5 Team breaks the story,

a tower at the foot of my bed blasting
information lasers of almost immeasurable sharpness
back into the skull of the sleeping city
in a painting I remember seeing.

Who did it?
Enough bad guys
isn't
interesting enough for

the problem,
music with a point
pointy,
here the music gets serious [about]

recyclying one's own
earlier musical material
to mimic coming to
the simultaneous revelation,

eventually, of whose it was
("when I'm falling asleep
I hear music and music,
I hear how they fit together"), whose nose in

the surgical supply catalogs
to get
the right razor back
but sharp means sharper.

It was you with the amount of
stretchy soft-surrealist autobiography
in the styrofoam cup, spun
by the Breton worm.

Cut it up
into segments,
the way imagination is
isn't that intimate.

The sea cucumber's oxygen exchange organ
is suitably shaped only for generating
dreams, which bewilder him,
until he dies and I'm cut off.

One day
I'll be too
shamed to keep
exaggerating.

It began like
fingernails
being clipped
and continued down the line.

In a city
I couldn't make out
there was a reptilian man
who leveled at my gaze

an average and predictable bazooka-full
of textbook manifesto tradition:
it's unacceptable this,
it's unacceptable that.

The public opinion polls
fall all around.
The master sage uses
his opponent's center of

gravity against him.
The great martial arts traditions
come to the big screen
in a time of great peril

to save that
which matters most
from surging from within
to infest the people.

All the body parts
break
along partisan
lines.

The femur
is a
marrow
stairway?

"The soul is one voice
in the polyphony of"
something illegible.
The brain is a construction worker,

pulling harder and harder myriad
of course light-sized cords
attached at the back of the eye to
threaten to pull down

a piled-high wall of pretty things.
The iris exerts
a calming,
fixative force.

The gut is the famous design
of a team of BOSE engineers,
to allow the sound to fall out.
The elbow joint is a bow-marking

The palm transmits the buzz
of the clutched earphone.
The fingers unfurl, fuse
with part of the eyebrow.

It only takes a moment
It lasts 30 seconds or so
Its events cover a time period of one week
It is less than one pixel wide,

as punctual as perforation and
encapsulation in a cavity of the head,
minus of course the extended duration
this involution incorrectly implies.

Sinuses
spur the hyperextent
of
the gesundheit. An event

built (though that verb might mislead)
on cheap sampler button-presses didn't used
to result in the news. Which is why
you exactly never can have it back again.

I fell asleep at
Bruce Springsteen's
concert / lecture tour
The Well-Tempered Teleprompter: Intersubjectivity of Mainstream News Outlets

Someone reads
the news
to the dreamer.
I wake up to remember it.

President and
VP end
charity evening by
biting beaks.

Every night for weeks
it was headlines
with homemade backing tracks
pre-recorded?

Colorful new
species
of Amazon parrot
ripped from the headlines.

CEO accused
of remastering own
voice in company-wide
redistricting.

Distant drum
chorus in
furor,
dozens feared dead.

400 petabytes of
bird flu research
lost annually due to
bridge collapses.

Cheerleader
elected mayor in
rural drag race
gone awry.

Kenny Chesney,
de Chirico
popular with troops:
Petraeus.

More teens
pushing gas pedals
with hands
study finds.

Congress approves
sonic engine signatures
on hand
in annual report.

Spam robots
cause
massive alligator die-off
in arid email climates.

Six minutes before waking me up,
Bruce Springsteen smashed two
flower-vases together over my head.
Prone, I

Am slow to know
When immersed
Or falling asleep
The Two-part Inventions.

That Edith Piaf "means something."
That somebody's doctoral dissertation is
some big philosophical ocean-liner engine-part
hanging from a few moments of Kid Koala.

That one phrase of all the copious
Alvin Curran liner notes ("endless fascination with
the interaction of tone and duration," something)
would be cause for...?

The great thinkers take stands against such a domino effect.
Moments are for chumps, as Sartre said.
Ze musique, she is bad, as Breton said.
They took & unhid

each source striation (tradition)
non-separately, back and forth
sung a ditty
along, and walked

over to this
one separate player
hidden, flat box
and along the

track over along
the striation one of them
separately did to
this one hidden track

This one 80-year-old
mind
composed most
musical moments

Barely or only intermittently hearing things
is SAD because of the slapstick of it,
lost up one end of the cochlear spiral
& (hello?) the other end of a phone call

Joke relighting candle,
stuck in
reverse, beeping
like a truck, why why

Why
does a given sound
come from what, when?
It's a dumb problem

Me (particle) standing in the projected tornado path,
a time-shaped cone tipped over onto the map,
in response to having trimmed (but why?) my instincts back
to this single man's idea of

creation and innovation being two competing frequencies.
He used the example of those
youtube videos of old 78s playing,
one long take, indifferent sound,

handheld camera.
He doesn't mind terribly
such a clean uncoiling
but would

rather each misery bone bag
bleeds into the one
standing next. Clustered affinities
waiting to cross the street.

I sat down with him
on a Saturday
to sort all
this through.

It's not the craft of songwriting/composition or "deft melodicism,"
but his aforementioned "Experience Crumple-Zone Theory"
under which for example "labyrinth" is interchangeable with
microcosm, or as he'd specify: "Now then that specific passage

was now passageway now passage
I'll tell of all the heartbreak I've seen
Lord raise me up, Oh Lordy Lord
come raise up me, redeem me,

Give Me An Art Idea: a stake in an arid plateau far away,
a swiveling head on top of it,
whatever gears to make its nods extra-intricate,
then put a video of it on the internet over someone else's music

The aural (and other) memes, even in a single-author document or song,
spread, certainly, across a community, as we know, and
must also have come from somewhere, through an implacable narrowing-down to the
point of emergence. But try tracing a path backwards up the funnel cloud.

It makes my arms elongate
& jungle spines grow down the back of my neck,
& my nostrils the size of coin purses.
That's redeeming value?" Why that, specifically? I mean,

He's one of the world's most underrated songwriters;
I stole everything I know from him and carried it off
in my mouth like a panther cub and studied it. Why
cosmic explosion yields someday dark digestive pathways, eg?

Hidden there far enough away from everything else
An energy baffle made of condensed, twisted up energy
The size of the whole underside of an island
Draws over its own passageway map constantly but

It's not all going anywhere now that it's finished
You can't get into it and you can't get out
But the creature standing on the X in the center
Is vibration clumped around two main frequencies

Oh well hey
Feed a real minotaur
a bucket of turnips, only $20
I have that much

So where are you in the center of, now?
Someone will datamine the geospatial coordinates
and drop a hypercompetent corporate pop album on them
and milk'll pour out like a swirl of notes

Hot cream poured
into the molds so
the resulting per-person in-ear stage monitor
lactates

A thick swirl of notes trapped in the strata
offers rich information about the where & when,
a set of distribution data of trees and timber
in the ancient world. A fanatical redrawing of boundaries

A swirl of notes definitely doesn't make sense
Some would have to end before they started
But okay, let it all in, let it clump or not
A typical vortex either buttonholes your friends unkindly or

Gives them access to all the accumulated information
Outer space scrapes itself
But from here it's easy, looking up and
Offering foolishisms & wishes,

Depending on how exposed we feel, to the sky above us
Empty or full. Turn the human knowledge banks loose,
I said, give the people the information they need
la gente, o povo filtered through microscope glass

Blurry jpegs of pollen magnified 100x
I think ideas & words don't clump together like that
To find out, stay tuned for our next episode
Violence Is Never The Anther

or, I Think I'm Pollen In Love With You
violent little bursts or
ideological nodes of interest to
an explosion of identical visual art

Who can be the best copyist?
And who is the crappiest? Find a zoom level
thinking happens at and draw 60,000 little territories there
And then the wind changes so start doing something else

Music unplays back, coiled up in the warm part of the chest
where no organs are, Ravel's Sonatine and
Super Rad! by the Aquabats unfortunately is fun
and everyone in history changes 200 years ago all at once

I could kick some music in the stomach!
Everyone's consciousness before the change
200 years ago was seated in the center
of the chest, then wham

but I don't know what to call it that
much is absolutely the case.
Outwardly, and with daily things and
holding still & pretendly enjoying play profundities.

Into the cold half-light
The duke's gray stag popped
With antler-ideas stolen from, bristling
With security cameras and insect microphones

((Movie Music)) so we'll hold still for a while
you who I love and
let the sound effects get
laced in up to and

until the flashes of laser guns and the holding of
hands becomes part of the musical composition,
until there will be no named theories for
what happens audibly alone or in groups and

this money is worthless! out of circulation music
highly derivative, music based on star charts
dog thrashing a stuffed buffalo, dog-toy music
clink clink, silverware music

I could do this all day
I can't get over how empty it is (could be --
How would I know? And
why the irrational worry over it?

What do I care? I don't even "work here"...)
squeaky clean cabbage leaves, soup music soup
buckle music, will buckle music, will have buckled music
music that violates copyright, Cheers theme fugue, yawn.

space dust fluttering down, a music of dust
merry-go-round, a remusicalization of the calliope
hinge-point/knuckle, right angle music
crawl across the floor shots fired, PTSD music

"We reject any work
which does not piercingly
strike molten and inhumane
depths, which skitters around on the surface."

All those manifestoes and everything
It's hard taking that stuff seriously etc.
New Common Practice/"Totalist Composition" or just
walking around with epidermis microphonacea

than which was then thin
king fish slip thin mem
brane through/of water
ruin desert vice versa

BOBAGEM | MEGABOB
"Infidels trot in the meadow
Genociders trample a tree
Throw the fish back in the ocean

They ain't what they used to be
Rising, snapping the rafters
Then sweeping back out to sea
People I've seen while dreaming

Ain't what they used to be"
A darkened door
led into a long dark hallway
at gunpoint

In those days the opening of every new option
led deeper into all the others. Which is why
notebook crazy intuition always, long-distance
running bank robbery dreams. Nowadays,

I set the ipod to repeat "When Big
Joan Sets Up" and snap my fingers along
like I'm trying to change the music
from wooden boy to real boy,

to ripple liquid & let
smooth over
energy in energy out
Snap Snap. Snap Snap

When Big Joan Sets Up
forever forever
The harder you snap your fingers on the 2 and 4
to draw it forcefully out into the external

like perpetual leech through pinhole
pinhole through paper over
whole big real never
deal other anything.

The trills and other ornaments (Bach, Feist, JZ et al)
are so unacceptable one must force oneself to redirect
one's attention to them, evidence of liberating energy
stored to draw blood from the leech.

Nebula not built
to refocus red
energy out but in,
it vanishes in a sense.

There is void lacks sense.
There is only vibration, and matter through which it moves
Which is why the music can be so fleeting. "Haunting"
The ripple effect outwards from inside quotes, counterflow

In a river mouth city
Speech is a mouth
Beware, the dieback is set to begin
in a river mouth city

Rigor mortis spreads up river
but at some point jumps the tracks
You must get your moisture directly from the clouds
and keep yourself directly facing the sun

This Bud's for you ha ha
I look at everything as a problem
but: with unflagging optimism:
No flaggings allowed!

No negative thoughts allowed either ha ha.
I'm going to solve this country's problems
by talking through the music I think
I most want to be listening to (goddammit) but:

The average shark
never stops with territory.
First there is one shark,
then two, then four;

they refuse to recognize you.
And maybe you've had it with veneration.
All that's left now is, mark out
a little territory somewhere farther away.

More of
tacit fake mind gait
jostled by distant thud bombings
into view, mollusk mantle underwear

Out on the low arctic tundra of Greenland
Fortifications straight out of Robinson Crusoe
Sharp stakes set in a circle
Where nothing will grow

Flags planted on the arid plateaus of New Mexico;
flags left in the Bolivian high pampas.
Mongolian dune slowly reabsorbing
its sandcastle crown.

The wind whistles over the rocks
and among the grasses of the Alpine steppes.
There is no J.S. Bach to a bunny.
I could learn to be a bunny.

You, rabbit, your live body wire
supplies input
for a dream of outrunning
dream ability

Sunlight directed
like whisper
through
a rabbit's supernatural translucent ear

If only there was someone of conscience around
to remind me to think of what each instance of
incremental, detail-oriented attention
might have to do where it's all heading.

I expect again today I might not really hear what I
most want to hear. The Japanese can hear Roy Orbison.
A raccoon took the lid off a container of thrown-away apricots.
A buffalo didn't want to eat a mouse that was near his face.

A pet iguana was given a special treat of
apples mixed with leftover cilantro leaves.
A crab was pecked to bits and when we found his shell
the top part of it was upside-down and full of sand.

An osprey tore the guts and ripe red meat
from a fish that was still slightly moving.
The Magnetic Fields is an okay band,
if you like music to get bored to.

A soft-looking caterpillar ate
part of a daisy-type flower,
approximately half of it, then
got distracted and wandered the other direction

A dormouse who lives in a coconut
wasn't fat enough to hibernate so
they fed him ivy pollen and blueberries,
I saw it somewhere

A cluster of extinctions, pollution
Poisoned rivers. There is a number of
millions of new acres of desert
created every year.

This was ten years ago. The situation
in Africa already impossible. I have a wall
of books. Marcel Duchamp vs. Philip Guston.
In either case you're memorizing intervals without trying.

The clouds race past, overhead
But it's only apparent movement
Red and white twisting around a candy cane
The environment: global climate change,

Much louder, and much slower in both ears
all of a sudden. Keep track of things
coming up. Don't let yourself
get overwhelmed.

Make a list of the numbers and kinds of music you want to hear
Switch the terms around, "dappled" surface, your "life's work"
I just want to eat some nice green leaves
and go to sleep for a long, long time.

Some kinds of music are dead; some ideas are dead.
Things are going to get much, much worse in coming decades.
One week from today, J.S. Bach for thirty minutes a day
caused enhanced growth and recovery in plants and people.

Give me a slow beat (~1/4=56) and I'll spill out
spitfire thirtysecond-notes. Armchair revolutionary
weighs in on moment states and directionality in Bach
and skull suture movement ("give") in human adults.

Lucretius has it that the universe must consist of
atoms and void: matter, and space through which it moves.
He's not even the one who thought of it originally.
The matter/void admixture results in sunflowers blowing in the breeze:

not "to be happy," or even to witness only happy occurrences,
but to free the cold external from regrets and loneliness.
This should be easier than it is. Why?
But I am in no way shielded from the tedium of other people's art.

Any thing but to be tame permanently,
which includes everybody's "first facts" and
what we're here for, where it's going -- I don't know you,
a sunflower never meets another sunflower down there

From the air, it's a wide yellow field, the financial markets
were jittery today, made pockets and the plane buckt
(It's the Sunflower State, for hundreds of miles
it's nothing but sunflowers and intersections

The piece was built on a looping structure
The police was built on a looping sunflower
You alone, you are the little wire
Alone you form the little wire sculpture

Were we hearing the same thing? Sunflower, sunflower,
sunflower sunflower sunflower) (You've backed me
into a corner here -- ) I drew you a conceptual picture
about the concert we were at, and I want you to see it.

It's a field, constructed of the correspondence
(by inversion of appearance, and by mutual movement)
between sunflower and sun: a conical,
highly charged region of interest.

Stories of large fields of sunflowers
turning their heads in unison
to listen to the sound of the sun
fail to consider whether it is behavior or not.

Imagine you're the sunflower but you don't know it.
The sun rises and you writhe heedlessly, arbitrarily
pointing your receptors; the sun sets and you're exhausted...
the unfamiliar music you hear, maybe try to follow, at that point...

How miraculous that sonic after-image (or why not, before-image) is!
(Because honestly it can slip into something you've
listened to a million times and back out again.
...Back out, into what? And before you know it you're asleep.)

My opinion is that you need to listen as hard as you can,
every time, without ever stopping, which makes you
exhausted, but as tired as you are you have to work
to keep it from resolving into a recording you know well.

I figure out what's the crucial aspect
and make a whole extended silence out of it.
Then suddenly I find we're holding on, to each other,
& I'm glad you're here, listen to this.

It starts out with Bach and moves into different territory.
What does the concept of Auto-Save have to do with Bach?
A Bach French Suite and then some Lightning Bolt.
The music of The Shins lacks all imagination, like white mold.

No, like Wittgenstein, I'd rather stop listening when I choose.
It wouldn't sound like anything if you weren't here
to hear it with me. "Get cleaner, whiter teeth with"
Take advantage of every opportunity to really listen.

Just hear, hear, the motivic specificity here:
Get cleaner, whiter teeth with
Get cleaner, whiter teeth with
Slow down, and hear, each one of the sounds.

It's not numerology, or Zen, this Alone, as though with
headphones, writing down. It's not anything
even though the motif has 5 notes in sequence
so I thought I would invite 4 other people

It was a nice lunch. 5 is the perfect size for a table of people.
The pleasure of hearing a new opinion from someone I'm
beginning to know...as we leave, we all head in different directions...
two halves of a shell close around me and how thoroughly can it be notated?

That it's perfectly audible, that snap closure mechanism
As you leave them and are alone, or the music starts and you're alone,
That you hear the notation as well as what you hear
Within a span of several seconds, isn't that good?

But, none of it's as good as it's supposed to be;
none of it lives up to the potential of the medium.
Ad infinitum they try for the biggest chain reaction they can get
but fail through lack of commitment or overattention to

Matters of craft: pitting 4-measure cycles against 6- and
10-measure cycles, overlapping them, each stepping
into each other's space a little too soon. To speed them up,
vary them, shift the surface only, hollow, to mystify, would be pointless.

It doesn't make sense to feel both responsible
for the spiritual and material conditions
the human world lives in and through every day
and simultaneously disconnected from that world,

but what other formulation of loneliness finds
such refuge in sound, made sound, intentional sound?
Expose the perfected fallacy inherent here. Attention to resonance
is resonance (connection and hard work as well), or, buoying

the listener's consciousness on itself, the sound level rises
and spills over the edge, the first big edge, but into what?
It's not much of a drop, really, and once you make it
you find level footing, & a kind of basic horizon. But, you think,

Safe from the flimsy protections of "the industry"? And
at the same time wondering "is what I have in mind a good approximation
of where this is heading? Or is it just shifting surface,
Steve Reich, Busta Rhymes, Lucretius, 'art screams' like the guy said, etc etc"

It's been hounding me for months, that one set
of sounds, occurring when and where it occurred, half
it seems by accident -- how time opened up and
accepted it -- an evening of music, that was all it was.

I have this ambition, which I woke up with this morning,
to figure out the problems presented by the performance,
in spite of also waking up this morning feeling like
a number of knots had come untied while I slept.

The people that say the most difficult things to me
about form (musical form, don't let yourself be confused
or if confused don't mistake it for a made sound)
are generous with ideas I may never really deal with --

not "music is x, y, and z," but "x, y, and z, though unrelated,
are musical" -- a horde of crabs in my likeness,
with pinchers right where my arms would be,
scuttling everywhere in search of another way of reframing the music,

just scrabbling around across a surface of coordinates
without really cutting too far into that
hard, heavy sphere left by the ancestors. Is it
of value, the sphere, or a problem too perfect to "get"? The music's

Wealthy, maybe, but known to have lost some former mastery.
I was so much wiser before; I could form opinions
quickly and easily, whereas now it's a long process
which usually ends in further loneliness & prohibition.

It would be easiest to copy down previous thoughts;
that is to say, how circular is listening? And to what?
Whether it's call/response music, drone, noise, or
just in a digital format you can listen to over and over?

A metaphor is useful here; the insistence of the music
softens the hard shell of time and preoccupation --
before very long, the listener is able to slip out of her shell
like a molting crab, briefly unprotected but at least not confined.

After the opening of the piece, which is chaotic,
a set of rules seems to take over
and the accompanying comfortable rhythms too --
like "software libraries," i.e., givens, fit for use.

Imagine your expression as you dimly wonder
what all this musical back and forth has to do
with politics... then you think, as I do, that it must be
something to do with people's actual lives... but whose? Etc.

And there are long periods of seeming inactivity,
in which, through repetition, the notes might seem to be about
to crust over with callouses, but the opposite is true, until
time begins to return, to re-encase the body, causing constriction, low blood flow.

You can feel it when the music's about to end.
How can that be the case?
Then it ends and you sit there keenly
aware of all the knuckles in your hands.

To play it with true sanity, sobriety,
that would be something remarkable.
But when applause comes to an end,
it's as though it has never been.

There are advance warnings, of course, smaller
outlying disturbances
And then the big vibrations really begin to hit
VIBRATIONS... known, yes, before the climax arrives.

Which is why it would be embarrassing
if one's quest for achievement, or
adrenaline if you prefer, ended up
at kind of a middle-brow, empty-grocery-store place.

Your world is so perfect to me in its loneliness.
I hear the hisses & pops, the whistles, the crumple-ups,
I press myself against the pane, to hear them. Not
the kind to organize it, though-- you got started too late

Their claim is it's easiest to achieve a plateau
by citing Balinese music as an example.
It's easy to cite Balinese music as an example
and we must not always do the easiest thing.

I haven't kept up with what's going on in their world.
Of course they are the hope for our future -- Like Orwell said
about the proletariat? Ebert gives the world only 100 years
I've been listening to a lot of Jay-Z lately

I haven't listened to it yet but I expect it to be good.
They had lots of good things to say about it on NPR.
You know what that usually means.
I was at the DMV for 2 hours today...2 hours....

Taken one moment at a time, in celebration
of a... I don't know what it was, exactly.
An arctic wind blows in & lifts you
halfway off the foundation, and is gone...

I've been here before....I've seen
that particular tree before.
It may have been from the other side
or in another particular kind of light

What have you been listening to lately?
I thought there were seagulls swirling as
I came down off the Williamsburg bridge
You can't get people always down off the bridges

So that they turned to war as a way to bring
a more efficient musical production into their lives.
I have seen the videos
of 500 lb bombs, of them waiting for the arrival

What is there to say about the flow of meaning
in and through the music? Is it a movement of
connection? Do they still call to you
Do they name you

But the music is always renewing itself;
it captures and channels the intensity of its instruments,
of the social conditions it was made in.
Music is the real story of the human race.

Prove as fallacious any necessary connection
between musical form and anything whatsoever,
as in such sentences as
You like all the songs. You like them

Prove as fallacy the "musical equivalent" of:
#NAME?
#NAME?
#NAME?

Accumulations of sediment, plastic
carbon, round-wound strings snapped,
clamor, best practices, etc. What's
at stake here in what I'm listening to;

in order to keep it from all evaporating
it must be pressurized from the outside, eyesight
curves through the added atmospheres
warping even the most eventual result.

The musical weirdness (...?) must be put in the service of something--
keep in mind it's all pop music --
So we vacillate (as listeners, or until listening) between a
rote humanism and a rote anti-humanism

The foment of the decrepit
Calcarious pre-remnant fissure issue
Come on by and reassure me about the issues
Heave Train Cream Reave Crave

Me tried to tell me me knew where me was all going
Sadie called up, then, put the phone down
The other phone, (@#$!*)
It's important to eat broccoli, for broccolic acid

Today was a good day. I spent money
I clipped my fingernails.
I worked out a systematic analysis of
the semiotics of games on film (sub-films)

The small man (I mean the smallest of the three)
had never learned to whistle
arm hair, goat meat
ten hands braided on film

The unusual, steady rate of their appearance
as of the changing of the guard
they slept in several low, round structures
and disappeared in the morning

Press state cancel renew homonym
dripp
Steady drip you come out
out of it. GRRRRRRRRRRR

Run and photogravure
Rest hotly debated side of the road commercialism
Commerce number crunch
Oh baby come here come give me a hug

Three adjectives tied together
Three adjectives tied together permanently
It was an awful day today
I don't know how solve problem stop communicating

To view the superhero figure in isolation
or to bring the figurine in for a perfect landing
or to bring it all in under budget.
They motion you together, for a snapshot

It was a day filled with pride.
I leaned back in my chair
and supported my head in an unnatural way.
There were gouges all across the ceiling.