the third tap

if the gov were smart it would introduce a third tap   there was the cold water one   then theres the hot water one   now our needs for another one   the absinthe one   absinthe heals everything   the internet changed everything   then covid changed everything again   the internet and covid are siblings   but neither the internet nor covid heals   absinthe heals   its the cloudy green that seeps into our souls   mirroring and sweeping it of all the hideous debris of time   mckenna was wrong   or he was right but only for his little time   his tiny era   that stretch of a life   it isnt psilocybin thatll change us   that brown web of saprotrophic mulch   its the green faerie of our plumbing   green machine elven pluralities   put them on your tongue and let it sit there like a meditation   absorb dont swallow   it is the silent teacher of the wormwood tribe   if we were civilized instead of just artificial brutes each whonym would be able to float up to its sink and turn on the third faucet and holding a perfect glass beneath see the green magic cloud fill the void and that would be this and one all   a cosmic fulfilling into some gazebo of comprehension   the small vessel and the infinite maw establishing a dial log beyond time and mind   nothing pissed we say   were no fan of common inebriation   of cirrhosis and puke and dt   but a legitimate pilgrimage to the desert of hyssop and clorophyll where mmuommiri hop from petiole to panicle and rainier cherries careen from heaven like joyful paparazzi   i do not know of your political and social addictions   your confinement in sad conventions   your toilets and your heavy dreams   the lead in your souls and the moats in your minds   i dont know of them and i would not know as i waft on wisps of louche and drift on anise boats with fennel prows that long ago and easefully defeated the sorry battalions of production weak in their force and pathetic in your dominance

all our food problems are solved   all economic woes and injustices dissipate   all war goes awry   the third tap glides in and is grain and vegetable   fruit and protein   fat and vision   a new earth rises from the weary clump of whonym destruction   whale joins hand with elephant and roach with sequoia   babylon kneels before our liquid evolution and monumental solidity evaporates into polychromatic reverie   no   dont turn off the water just yet   maintain its two taps alongside the future for a time   but know dear fiend and comrade in your stuck disarray that a new flow flows and it is water and honey   mineral and cultivar   our destiny is neither space nor power but that luminous green swirl that becomes our blood and platform and guides us on the obscure paths of peace   oh artemisia of our altars

shadows may coagulate and cumulate along the old pipes in wan copper but a golden light dances a new dance and it is with us   join the steps of lucid stars   reach out and open the portal of the green stream   let the faerie in and become the face of the new eyes of earth

all you need is covid

all you need is love

all you need is every form of love all the time which is impossible so all you need is the impossible

which weve got so all we need is nothing

the songs dont tell the truth

all the songs together at once tell something of the truth

which is impossible to hear

so the truths never heard

there go love and truth

covids a song

a song of the possible impossible possible

i once in 1349 or 1897 in some plague snuggled up to a burgermeisters wife and her infectious glowing plumpness was like a code to a beacon of regulatory calque

i dont understand   not your references or morphologically syntactic semantics nor your spatiopoliticochronologies or sexuality or sequituris or morality

not understandings more truth than understanding

negations more affirming than affirmation

this is why we talk like this

in the snow in the fog in the cold at the end of the world

in the pestilence in the monsoons in the fog at the beginning of something

in the fire in the coffee in the pit in the cat in the portobello in the shisha in oldmacdonald in the rat in the nightmare in the feti in the fog for the fog by the fog of the fog at the fog 

i was at hypercafe hyperdrinking a hyperlatte when a hyperbarista hypersweeping the floor hyperbumped into 

when we speak of work what are we actually speaking of

when whonyms say what do you do what do they actually mean

does happiness have any quotidian capacity or is it like a airraid siren   only on once in a while

when im in a good mood   ie when my serotonins up   death seems like a cuddle in a snowstorm   but when its down its like the now that powers all of time

you need to see things the way the egyptians and daoists did   that ups on down and downs on up and the updowndownup just goes round around backwardsforwards on an escherian ladder only seen through a psilocybin prism

but that was before they were daoists and egyptians

that snowstorm cuddle and the chronopowering now  while their bodies are different they wear the same clothes

theory has no meaning anymore   its not even theory

or is that while their clothes are different they have the same bodies

its more like a dead language that people robotically speak without knowing it

theorys taken a rocketship to neptunespear bx9190 and forgotten earth

i like theory   its like the invisible friend one has as a child

dear godless god   why was i born

lets get covid like amerika and sing the bar mangled manners as cerberus bites our ass in welcome

all you need is work

you cant say work doesnt exist

i can say anything i want

work is a phor thats lost its prefix

something thats carried but from nowhere and to nowhere

prefixes carry us

no   prefixes are the origins and destinations we mix up in order to lose them

we drop them as were being carried

this is work

in devoting my life to nothing but working as little as possible ive found work hiding in the little 

and you cant get rid of the little

nor the big

those words will always be around like ram and alice standing side by side in the lunch line

id like a ram 9500 bighorn laramie hfe rebel limited hd longhorn trx

thatll be 92k and an open asshole please

were a longway from love

or right in the middle of it

covid is love

i hooked up with covid once in the bathroom of a diner on east fortysecond

the objective of our conversation is to reach 666 words

and thus become the antichrist

and the antilove antitruth antiram antiwork and anticovid

almost there

just a bit more filler

any good patadreams recently

dreams are the original pata

want capers shiitakes and seared pears on your pata

nah   just want love

birthings

 it gets tiresome doesnt it   all this birth   its not just the others   the actual babies   the new registered life   the evangelicals with their second time arounds   third helpings   fourth cumings   the ripped gestational news   more sprouts in the greenhouse   the worst of its the eternal birthing of us   the wanton cycle of days   each exhausted new idea   shopping   another onion and licoricestick screaming on the delivery floor of the kitchen   words   even the fresh squirmy ones are doa   baby maggots on societys carcass   the progeny of our spit as we bear ourselves into decay and that juvenescent horror of the knowledge that what we believe in our ignorance is our finality   what we call death   is nothing other than yet another   another birth   not into another world or another body or another anything   but just another infinitesimal birth into another birth   covid   if we werent so obsessed with ourselves that we thought it was somehow about us   shoves birth in our dribbled faces   we think covids about death or bats or the chinese or globalization or science or conspiracies or pharmacology or history or madness   but its just another weary birth of birthings   factoids   suicides   addictions   personaldiscoveries   breakups   headlines   tweets   lonelinesses   regulatoryschizophrenia   hardly   for any entity that knows anything about geological time   anything new   the sun in its monstrous drama on the same stage with the same lines   the moon   if we can even see it anymore   pretends to be moody   but its just another recurring conception without parents or desire   and heres the jab   we think among our comprehensively totalitarian delusions that we are parents lusters creators agents of change and destiny   imbecilic shards of viscera   we are no such thing and never have been   youve heard it said that the childs the parent of the adult   sure   the childs the child of the child   the adults the adult of the adult   the adults the child of the parent   the parents the parent of the parent   its all the same fucking line whonym   take your novelty and stick it up your diseased brain   noveltys so unnovel it lost itself before hydrogen was invented   watch the womb of the spheres stream the nameless dying stars   im outa onions   its january   need to cry   where are my babies   everywhere and thats all there is and ever be   were trapped in a hospital without doctors or doors   time isnt a game played beautifully by children   it isnt even a game and it aint any more beautiful than anything else   times just another baby played by nothing   the onion storesre closed and onions are no more and i stare into night and my cat meows into the room like a banshee written like an afterthought into a poem that needs two more lines   i crave the babies of my tears   the death of birth   the numberless days like junkyard cars and plastic in whaleguts like the numberless days and birth births birth and i sit among the nativity scene like a contraction in the dark in a dream

a missed peripheral oxygen saturation reading

or theros and anatos and a slide and a slip

vinilos xuán picks up an oximeter

from a desk not unacquainted with lust

not knowing the ends around a corner

the devicell linger but vinilos      dust

such a romp though  right there on the blotter

with that cat  ixte vinilia faust

who meowed pantyless he had to do her

so things slid quickly to sighs and thrusts

inevitably afterward some disgust 

from the raunchy game of spent hunger?

meh   its not that the sex was really a bust

but that xuán divines the fall of his vigour

so he slips on his semen and dying whispers

this wasnt expected and it may be unjust

happy postscript

the oximeter gets passed to a medical consortia

where it saves some matuma from silent hypoxia