COPYLEFT -- 26Aug2010                                                -about-


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."
-- Ben Lerner

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 fa�ade 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:
-- caped or masked individual being lowered into liquid
-- gearbox, flywheel, angle bracket, lowered into viscous liquid
-- tree lowered into viscous liquid

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.