a polylog :
a hurrah for anything
map
a dial log travel log
a periphrastic wrestling
a travelaid
a patacadastral
survey of complaisance complicity
paranoia and desire
i don’t remember anything
that tastes like the tomatoes of my youth she says with a ciabatta halfway up her mouth
like a drunken baby marmot in one of those eponymous cartoons and a lonely
rocking chair in her psyche waiting for a feeling to finally run its course and
long for a little outoftheway place to end its days but what i do – and she says this less to no one in particular than
a klatsch of impressions punting on an abandoned canal of pleasure who (were
one to be given the right to access to ask them) might say their interest in
progress was lesser than the greater of the afflicted aspects of gravity – is an adumbration of a seedling of oneiric
exhaustion like a tessellated diamond print that looks from a distance like a secret
passageway to an outhouse replete with invisible doors leading to unmappable
universes
nightshadecide i’m
undetermined is a clear issue i respond with kalamata pits in my nostrils
like a minimalist shaman from a warped and culinary internet you must in your murky galleries of fuzzy
images recall us together touching an apple with our body parts under the
crepuscular tree and it was not as if we were in love for love then was not
anything one could be in for it only could be in and nothing then to enter
unmappabler unmappablest she says as if none of what i
say registers anywhere, as if talking were not anything commensurable but a
forensic rappel from an undeterminable edge and
the sun when it is just an orange ball in the ragged boreal beach becomes
plasmatic on calm meadows of distortion and the ciabatta sways suggestively
and i cannot help but think of the time we were bitten on a fated limpopo by vitrescible
gazes as we said the nadanoster to a glazier’s luminescent lechery
king kalamata caresses me she says he caresses like an imperial shag. all i
would like to do is have utility companies make mistakes on my bills and have
to eternally call them for recurrent restitution. i would get rich and all i’d
have to do is call and king kalamata would do his ypapantis on me and my
tomatoes would reunite like siblings on a weepy screen after long pyrocumuli of
massacres and king kalamata would take me to maria polydamouri and we would
echo chirp the chaos faint on beds of consumptive threesomes
i am touched by something reminiscent of ramen scent in a
mendicant’s amen like a whiff of iffy whiff waff wharves and with shirataki in
my hair and sansai in my yonsei say we
have come to watch the living like a banquet of prophets and poets and diets of
corsets and worms and butbitholes and corsages and who would join us in genius
to genesis an isis’ myiasis and where is my william when will i am is gone?
she slouches. she slouches like a a jilted macaroni penguin. eurydice
eudyptes euripides in conjugation sits in a eucalyptus in state or eupnea and i
look through the unfathomable distances like tetradecapoda tetrazzini. please
come back to our ommatidium and let us be rhabdomites together as we used to on
hypnopompic escarpments
i am alone she says and my perception increases in indirect
proportion to identity. my words are my earwax and the stage of myself is an intolerable
song but it’s all there is and lunacy in a eupnea tree is just another form of
wrestling
and we sit or something there or here the two or
so of us or
them food all around and in or
of us and countertalk or transistorize a hurrah
for polyperimapinguano surveywrestling anythings
