sitting
alone at home in comfortable madness as sandy begins to cry
“Who would know?” she asked, picking lightly at her leotards, parting slightly lower lips, thinking of those flights to Lisbon, in all that tumult, all for what? “Not I. Or me. Or that thing known by its given legal names.” “Who would know?” she asked again, as if I were naught, and me, and that thing, musing as she seemed to be to nothing. And Sandy came, crying from the south, over all the destitution of success and copulation. “Who would know?” But her words now seemed empty, like the wind, except for noise, and she stopped and we listened to the crying from the south, over nothing, like our tears over history and the wind.
language
& sandwich
Language has frequently been spelled language. But times have changed. We now live in modern times. We’ve mapped the DNA and gone to ground zero and know a lot more about everything. We now, for example, know that language belongs to the sandwich family and is most correctly spelled langwich (or, in Newfoundland, langwij). The story goes that Languor and Langwich were siblings, being children of Dagmar Lange, RD Laing, Dao Lang, Cassandra, and Ferdinand de Saussure. One day the two of them were playing in the local cemetery—or, rather, Languor was resting by a largish tombstone, munching on a zucchini, while Langwich had got himself squished between a phoneme that had escaped from the zoo and a gerund that really should have been sleeping. Languor was too lackadaisical to help and Langwich, despite superior articulation and wit, couldn’t persuade the phoneme and gerund to move. As far as anybody can tell, everyone’s still there.
hot
bathing
Mildred, dreaded, dreaded, matted, mumped, lay in mama’s bathtub in a heated heap. Help! she cried through the crack in her buttocks, The underbathtubheffalump hates my hips!!! But Mildred knew not of what she spoke and my steamy semen told her thus on decommissioned battleships through feigned fenestrated fogs. She slunk into a funk, I slue into a slue. The bathtub cracked and mama screamed and Mildred did again. We turned the water down, like a bed, and talked of baseball and how to eat a proper cupcake properly and hurricanes and the rising price of washers in East Timor.
The King
of France When Motoring to Leeds Takes the Left
The King of France had chosen to turn left instead of right when motoring to Leeds one Sunday afternoon. Right had said something like, Bad Hidalog 5 kilometres, and he had known he hadn’t wanted that, so he turned left without having had a chance to see the sign on the left. But it doesn’t matter, he remembered saying to himself, the left is usually better anyway. And I certainly don’t want to go to Bad Hidalog.
Those were the only two options
after all.
Henry
Moore Higgins TheVIII
Purcell Nobody
Being born in that year, he became the circumscription of himself and did not want for the artifacts allotted to his name, which were—true to themselves—little different than his name, his circumscriptions, his becoming, his being born, or that other thing.
Having
recently rushed to a free screening arriving though in ample time enough for
wine
Miranda, rarely lost for words or
even lost, lay, velvetly, on velvet heather, who was plump, reminding her of
that other day when velvet heather lay, less velvetly, on her, was lost.
wondering
what to do about the housemate
Milton, sordid orderly of Odin’s orchidologist, met Mitt, whose mended mittens miffed Milton, to sort out Saddam’s sardonic saturnalia, though the thing, unbeknownst to each, Mitt mostly, was moot.
Pope
Gregory XV
And after Millicent had accidentally tuned into The Horror Channel and watched 51 hours of human carnage beautifully presented and asked why (—but there was no one present to answer and even if there had been what might have been said?—) she did her catechisms and took her orders, for what, she asked herself, other response could be possible and how, considering the circumstances that had been offered, else could she have ever lived?
Beer
Beer is something we do when the cats aren’t here. Beer is something that is done to us that the cats say must be done to us when we’re not here. Beer, when it’s done to us or even when it’s not, when the cats aren’t here, is done. Beer, being done, when it’s done by cats, by us, when they’re here, when we’re not, not by them, not by us, when they’re not, when we’re here, is not beer, and is beer, beer is beer.
(psssssssst
where’re the cats? ...
where’re the cats? ... )
NO
In matters of personal decision, external rejection by others, internal
and external rejection by oneself, in matters of any import or no import,
simply in matters (or for that matter minds) this word is the greasiest,
slimiest, slipperiest, most affirmative shapeshifter in the langwich of
Sandwich or Greenwich. Trust it, far more than yes, far more than light,
far more than god or truth or money or fame or love or any of their prosthetics
or reasonable or unreasonable facsimiles. We are thereby faintly reminded
of the following story that occurred in Gippelwich when the Wuffings
ruled. Æthelhere, brother of Æthelwold, son of Æthelric, father of
Eorcenberht, Æthelthryth, and Æthelburh, cousin to Ealdwulf and Wulfhere,
sought the Lord’s advice as to whether to slay Ercongota, brother of Ecgberht,
son of Hlothhere, father of Ælfwald and Ecgburgh, cousin of Werburh and
Seaxburh. The Lord spoke but Æthelhere, brother of Æthelwold, son of
Æthelric, father of Eorcenberht, Æthelthryth, and Æthelburh, cousin to Ealdwulf
and Wulfhere, did not heed the Lord’s advice and slew Ercongota, brother of
Ecgberht, son of Hlothhere, father of Ælfwald and Ecgburgh, cousin of Werburh
and Seaxburh.
Logic
Long live the lizards of Lelilalulylolouleilauliyloilaa. The
lizards of Lelilalulylolouleilauliyloilaa live long. If the lizards of
Lelilalulylolouleilauliyloilaa did not live long, we would not say, Long live the lizards of Lelilalulylolouleilauliyloilaa.
Day (indefinite)
There, there are days, there is a day, days, a day that blocks and
balks, that whistles and whittles, without regard, or with little regard, for
the stuff that made it—time. A pleasant enough thing, not unlike the
others, hanging out with the common stars, whittling the little tunes, made of
time yet with little regard, these are days, a day, days, days that block and
whittle, whistle and balk, without much regard for regard, a thing of time,
pleasant enough, those common tunes and little stars, those days.
i
1 duchamp wandering around the thirteenth
century, with his fountain
2 my children
gently, lovingly, push me toward death
3 that which is
under the over and over the under
4 an acrostic of
dog i haven’t figured out
5 the conscious
offspring of a rock and a balloon
6 a sphere with
eyes, an i with spheres
7 a mandala
suspended on the face of the deep, peering through fogs of culture
8 like Знак, a
mild arithmomaniac
9 some ancestor
of job like job without a job but the job of being job: a fulltime job
10 a haiku made
flesh
11 you without the u except as a
convenience, possibly of the orthographic sort
madness
1 the inverse of the proportion of the
verse of the portion of the brisket of the options of the severance of the
reverse of the purpose of the porpoise of the outverse of the prrrrpose of the
poptarts of the upstarts of the g-force of the rhubarb of the blueballs of the
screwbards of the purpose of the reverse of the severance of the options of the
brisket of the portion of the verse of the proportion of the inverse of the
g-string of the upsmarts of the popsmarts of the booballs of the poor poise of
the outsocks of the ruebards of the screwbarb of the pooptots of the
prrrrrrpose of
2 See “Problems of Defining”
movie
Esila, last remnant from the diaspora of doves, as it was known, last
giantess of four or more dimensions, longed for none, to be a shade, yet one of
life, being glanced at, as she was, by the glass, to peer, as it were, from the
other side—not death but that which hides in life, like a closet off a secret
staircase in a castle—onto ... onto ... onto what? ... onto life? ... (no, for
that of her longing, that which hides, hides in life) ... onto ... shall we
say? ... yes ... the other side. So she crept, eye by eye, tear by tear,
death by death, through the glass, through herself that is, into that of her
longing, and became, in a sense, though no sense of the senses, that which was,
being made, that which she, being made, was meant to peer.
as soon as you move
it into society it disappears
Mifli, a twitchy young woman from Provence, lived alone in a cave on the
shores of the Styx, with her dog, Twitchy, and her cats, Cerberus and
Brassiere. She devoted her life to constructing an amulet that roughly corresponded
to one she had seen in dreams during childhood. After she was strangled
by a snake and left to die on the stygian banks, a passing bard found the
amulet and sold it to a roasted chestnut salesman who had it stolen by a
drunken referee who pawned it for a usbkey at which point it sat in a box in
various locations for 137 years and then was discovered by a granny who gave it
to her neighbour’s daughter who wore it to a party and left it in the bathroom
where she fucked a derivatives guy where it was noticed by a dealer who
presented it as a work of creative genius to Gallery Avante doing all right
with the dollar and it became something of a celebrity, even making it onto
postcards, getting its own wiki, being in an rpg, copies being made for the sidewalk
jewellery business, then falling into some disfavor, being relegated to the
collection of Dr. Q. F. Fitsgerald who bequeathed it to the Museum
of Esoteric Ceramics which displayed it in a corner case in the western wing on
the third floor, where it presently lingers and is occasionally photographed.
Cosmic Worm
I, diggitydiggy, dig through goo and poo for you. What’s
new? My goo and poo ain’t sticks&bricks, the fluff’n’stuff of
welterworld, but a metabrew made by you, still stinkywink, still unterwelt,
aber einige spiegel im spiegel made by us for some other gut. You split
me in two, i still wiggle. Blind, pitiable, polysexed, i decompose your
compositions for you ... no cost, but the cost of cost; no goo, but the goo of
goo; no earth, but the airyearth; no truth, but the truth of poo ... it’s
true: i dig, i diggitydig, for you.
Problems of Defining
Humans are celibate.
That’s not true.
To be celibate 99% of your life—and to
be something 99% of your life is to virtually be it—you have to be copulating
roughly (in terms of time, not style) 14 and a half minutes a day, every day,
for your entire life or—if you live to 80 and don’t have sex for the first or
last 20 years, about 29 minutes a day, every day, from 20 – 60. Wilt Chamberlain,
Mick Jagger, de Sade, and the Wife of Bath may have achieved such statistics
but considering the limits and variations of temperament, libido, sociocultural
conditioning, distractions, inhibitions, taboos, interrelational obstacles and
absurdities, fear, Schadenfreude, drowsiness, apathy, and virtuality, few
do. Yet even Chamberlain, having a new woman or three per day for 50
years (13 – 63), was virtually celibate; thus we all are celibate.
But even you admit Chamberlain was virtually celibate not truly so.
Virtuality is the new reality; anyone
who doesn’t acknowledge this is a philistine
Plus you’re defining celibacy reductionistically, simply as the abstinence from
copulation.
I’m not restricting the hole in which
copulation occurs but once you strip sex of copulation, it’s a fast and
slippery slope to defining sex as a gust or geist, a visit to the art gallery
or loo, a glance or lance.
But i’m polygamous: i have a wife with whom i copulate the third Sunday
of each month, two mistresses i see weekly, the occasional prostitute, my
admin, a boy now and then, in the manner of the Greeks.
You too are celibate.
But ...
I admit—you on occasion maintain an
appearance of monogamy, but you only have one organ, yes?
I’m not deformed.
Logically, then, even if you’re in bed
with all your lovers simultaneously, you can only be copulating with one other
biped at a time. At most, i’ll grant you the occasional appearance of
monogamy while being virtually—which is to say truly—celibate and never
polygamous, for polygamy is physically impossible and thus delusional.
Thus you are not polygamous, you are delusional.
But ...
All this does, naturally, is prove the
Buddhists right: only the void is real.
What?
In
mathematical-aesthetic-spiritual-religious terms (and we will see one day these
are the same), if we picture celibacy as zero or the void, monogamy as one or
god or flesh, and two as polygamy or society or impossibility, then it is
indisputable only zero, the void, celibacy, nothingness exist. Everything
else is appearance or impossibility.
You’re mad.
Everything now true was once mad.
So everything now mad will one day be true. Thus you are mad.
Which means one day i’ll also be right.
No. You have the kind of madness
that is mad because it has the appearance of rightness, but i have the kind of
madness that will become right.
How do you know this?
Ask me in two thousand years. In
the meantime, go forth into the world and copulate and deceive thyself and
breed to spread thy deceptions to thy bipeds and thy bipeds’ bipeds and theirs
and to all the nations and the nations’ nations.
TRUTHs
sonnet
i cross the bosphorus in the white of winter
on a sled of dead roses and yesterday’s song,
napoleon greets me lackadaisically not much sober
and we chat of his second russian hat and the deceptions of love.
it was asia. 1971. the wall hadn’t fallen. you weren’t born.
montreal was in the spasms of growing up.
the domes of the world were still the domes.
i cross the bosphorus but napoleon says it isn’t much
|
nappy—as he says to call him—says that all we do is cross
(proving maybe jesus right or wrong).
it was cold and white and dark that winter, like heaven on judgement
day.
the bosphorus was frozen to its tonsils.
flowers and children were trying to find each other.
i say to someone the water’s speaking to me but my ears are broken,
dive in and drown you say that should fix them.
meanwhile the sun set behind mont royal
and nappy tucked me underneath my dreams, like a smoky general.
my cat
huge, like a spider, loch ness
raccoon, inquisitor, psychologist, i ching in mammalian form, log on my lap,
slug on my bed, cash register of disasters, lump, jellyfish with fur&eyes&claws,
meow of meows, queen of identitites, bloated fuzzy child of jupiter, galactic
pussy, bully at work, suck at home ... oh, but, oh, when he looks at me with
absolute purity and power through those kilograms of omnipresent munching, when
i hold that dumb tub of innocent greedy meat in my arms like a baby of almost
my very own flesh, who would say that the world isn’t good and everything
right?
artist
eyes are black & deep
like rabbit holes, like dreams of
love,
like death of course, like a
granny god,
like rabbit holes interlocking
houses of cards,
whole worlds of cards on seas of
eyes and claws,
like dreams of love, those other
things,
heaps of holes, those other
things,
like death of course, in proud
display,
barbed śūnyatā of our anarchic
way,
like that granny on the
mantelpiece,
who never says what she says and
gently beckons to the madding fire,
like rabbit love, like dreams of
death,
like pits of holes, like granny
gods,
dreaming
We walk through the melancholic
meadows of our dreams
On paths quite unreminiscent of
our lives.
Turtles, choking slowly, climb
split-pea palm trees
While some lover rides your
kittens to the grave.
There i was, you
want to think, melding slowly
with the turtles
In that day in sacramento in ’73.
Here i am, weeping, nothing, for
the cats that never were, and you.
Then you wake—or sleep (it’s hard
to tell)—
To realize that was that, now is
now and pea palms don’t climb lovers,
that dreaming is the path to
dreams
As living is the path that seems
a dream.
myself,
taking a shit on a cubicle door, in blue, with touque
one never really dies, or lives,
i feel,
on a cubicle door,
in the blue of my shit,
with touque.
alone,
with 15 sculptures, on a wall of a universe, thinking faintly of love
accompanied by talk of pickles & pins
Here, Maria, daughter of light,
enters through two dimensions, reflection of the outside world, presents
herself without pretense, everything reflected, real, ordered light, Maria
enters through the floor’s dimensions, here i am in three, in thee, pickles,
lounging ladies, still and perfect as we shall one day be, though now, shadows,
thoughts, and somewhat ordered floors.
ahmal
& the NIGHT VISITORS
ahmal, ah, ahmal, in your bed, oh
ahmal, ahmal, your little head, ah that little head a sun, around that sun
little planets, each planet a terror, the terror that drove jennifer to gouge
her eyes out, the terror that drove afif and mitute to stuff each other in the
freezer, the terror that made t.t., the happiest person in omaha, to hang
herself with her cats’ tails and sisters’ entrails, the terror that wee babies
see in their wee cribs, when alone, that are hidden from us, babywaves, they scream and scream and scream and scream,
and we say oh it’s their
tummies but it’s not, the
terror of francesca as she realizes it’s not mommy coming through the door, the
terror that waits for you and will be yours, all these and myriads more, around
ahmal’s little head, ah, ahmal ahmal, in your bed, your little head, your
little bed, ah, ah, ah ah
ah
Aesthetic
Symbiosis
We exist for each other, society
and i
Its miggle fits in my woofwaff
My blubb fits in its
meyaladuchium
When it becomes too much like
itself, i pour oil and discord on it
When i become too much like
myself, it sends me to sanatoriums and lops off one my heads
(we’re always becoming too much
like ourselves)
We need each other, society and
i,
Like fiddleheads and green bins,
Like painted fingernails and
eyes.
Existential
crisis #39
It ain’t it ain’t and it ain’t it is
It’s not it’s not and it’s not cannabis
It might have been it used to be what it was before
But now that i think of it i don’t
think of it much more.
fear
Literature in its multi-millennia
life has never been more afraid of language than now, which is why it speaks of
it so pompously, like a puffed puffin, a pillsbury puff, a puffing pedant pill,
why it priapically erects prizes, pomp, privilege, piles them, sprays them with
the latest perfumes, over its heap of fear-merde, perfumed poo, its hatred of
language, its secret ressentiment of language’s superiority—moral and
political—over itself. (a hierarchy could be articulated:
language, talk, speech, text, literature) Literature, wallowing in
its sticky, its ponderous academic, insecurities, addicted, strung out, has but
one objective: to usurp language to itself, to assert itself as
primary. This is no less absurd than humanity assuming it can, it does,
dominate nature, or one sex the other. Language is prior to literature
and always shall be. No one usurps language. All one can do is
cling to it, as to a raft in an infinite ocean of void, or drown. All we
can do is topple into its fathomless well, and scream, until fate introduces us
to the bottom meant for you. (for there is no bottom for us—this our
individual sorrow, our collective joy) All we can do is rejoice
that we have, somehow, been granted the opportunity to be eyes, trapped in its
bouncy castle, for no apparent reason than to bounce! Literature is
dead! It doesn’t exist! It never has! Only language. Now,
then, forever.
The way
things are sometimes, the verb a little lost and hiding
The king of france, in
regrettable lace, cock ticking like a sunset, breeches breached but not
broached, with a predilection for honey and light bulbs, the concept—and
practice—of happiness quite irrelevant, hair tossed like bumblebees in a
popcorn maker, staring at himself in a pomegranate, swallowing holy basil like
there’s no yesterday, a little ragged, counting fishbones as if they were
tulips, riding on his tourtière to leeds, was a little lost, and hiding.
Coffee
Coffee’s one of those things
about which you have to say, Coffee’s
one of those things about which you have to say
Literacy
basketweave at eight in the
morning with books instead of cars. Four zero one. Supposed to be a
bypass, freeflowing to everywhere. Even if you add more lanes they can’t
keep up with the books raining from the assembly lines. Everything’s
clogged. There’s nothing like a good education. Freedom, speed,
accidents, insurance premiums, fads, designs, virtuality.
Opportunity. Opportunity!
Get your kid to read.
Orality
That which was invented to deal
with the problem of traffic congestion. Rides on air, not land. So
many dimensions up there. A kind of thisworld replacement of the
christian heaven. The rapture’s taken place and we’re there. We’re there! There is here, as the ancient
sages foretold! We’re all birds or angels or fluttering plastic bags!
Incarnations of adumbrations of icharus i-christs, the next generation of
apple, the new eden, the forgotten word.
blue
light
blue light being blue is not blue
light but
its
opposite
not
orange light but
its
opposite
not even light or blue but
their opposite
something i saw once
from the bath in the dark after dinner
white
light
i once have seen the white light
at the end of the corridor, in the little black hall, through the one-way
door. I once have seen the white light, two or three times really, maybe
seventeen, seem to see it all the time now so maybe only once. Shimmers
like a headlight on a country moonless road. Has a tiny black pinprick in
the middle and its edges are without definition. Its bulk is radiant,
shifting, morphing, like an iris eating itself. Hurts sometimes somewhat
to look at it and all around its circumference is night. I sit at the
door now, the door fully open, the white light a mirror, life’s sport behind
me, and life here at the door on the edge of the corridor with my eyes on the
white light is my kind of life.
when the
cock ticktalks
when the cock ticktalks and the
sheep are grazing
when the sphincter burns and the
lips sing praise
when that happy little button in
cleopatra’s delta
pops from its toaster drenched to
its heart
when the spheres of begetting
tumble and orbit
when the cherries of emptiness
swallow their pits
when the mounding and moulting
mount mount hallelujah
time is silenced, silence is
stilled,
tongues milk in the barnyard
and nothing fulfilled
i would
like a living room like this
with ceilings to the roots of my
imagination
floors as flexible as poppies
walls like alabaster doves
nothing really winking at me
images of anything at fingerscape
colours redefining colour
shape subverting shape
useless stairways
lightless light
blossoms, horses, couches, bosoms
lecterns, justice, dry ice,
youturns
all in useless cornucopia
available for life’s delight
beauty is
too proud of itself
look how it pulls itself in
becomes ridiculous
puffs itself out, hiding itself:
beauty is just beauty,
nothing else
You Know
What I Mean.(?).
1 Moral and aesthetic breakdown.
2 Frit and Firt are
conversing at an entrance to a woods. Frit says, When i eat yellow,
zambia turns back. Firt says, When i eat zambia, yellow turnbacks fly
south. Frit says, When i fly south, eating turns zambia on its
back. Firt says, Worms. Can’t live without them. Frit says, The
worms of zambia don’t diet. Firt says, When i eat worms, southern reforms
fly. Frit says, Fly! Fly worms! Firt says, Worms! Worms fly! Frit says,
Not when they’re in zambia. Firt says, Why, when eating south, do worms
not fly? Frit says, To live without worms or not to live without worms.
Firt says, Yellow zambia turns, eating, when i back worms. Frit says,
Fly.
WORDS & PHRASES WAITING FOR DEFINITIONS (i.e.
words & phrases waiting for words & phrases) and DEFINITIONS WAITING
FOR WORDS & PHRASES (i.e. definitions waiting for definitions), i.e.
waitings waiting for waitings
eating
stirfry after having sent an inappropriate email, the only drama now is that
there is no drama, there’s always drama, onions wrapped in butter, How the west
has lost but by losing won and how the east has neither lost nor won by winning
and losing and which is better winning by losing or neither and both or is this
only a question the west would ask?, Your cheerfulness is terrifying, yupyup on
the yukyuk and boom boom on the blaa blaa, Wine is the First World’s Mouthwash
...
chicken
soup
A gram of envy removes a kilogram
of vitality.
how many
shits can you shit in a shit?
Shit, the little shit from Shit,
shat a shitty shit that outshat the shits the Shits shat. Shit! Shitty
Shit’s from Shits shits are the shits.
silliness
Spouse with spouse with spouse
working to make ends meet [ends are ends, why can’t they meet on their own?]
and with with spouse also working to make ends meet [who cares if ends meet?
ends are tired of meeting ends, let them meet other things] with kids and kids
being trained to make ends meet [for fucks sake let’s start making beginnings
meet] and to make the ends as big as possible [making it more impossible for
ends to meet] get more dogs more cars more cottages more gigolos more
mistresses more things more ends and more ends and more ends and more ends
until there are so many ends all you see is the end ... and you call me silly
...
platonism
& daoism as synecdoches of time, the former as extension and arc pointing
to its source, the latter as source pointing to extension
the city
expels the poet: platonism still alive … i shall not cut the umbilical
cord to nature … if this the human project—to see how far it can be stretched
or even whether it can be severed and the collective human baby left to float
in the universal air without ground (the vision at the end of 2001), the
distinction of humanity, this absurdist unique force (the light-dark in the
dark-light)—i cannot actively participate in it, other than to use its means,
for its means i am born into, but rather am compelled to make as if the cord
does not exist, as invisible as it is to the external eye as when in the womb,
by crawling back into the womb, the womb of nature itself (this dao, this
return to root) and so diminishing the need (dissipating to the effective point
of removal the rabid need) to temporarily access it (through coitus, acquiring,
prosthetics, travel, substances, the clambering to virtuality); one becomes the
access and so obviates the need for access. Isn’t this (a new dao, an
e-dao) the alternative to what society is offering in conglomerate and almost
totalitarian form (under the names of freedom, individuality), a conscious
returning rather than an unconscious marching and accumulating, a quiet retreat
rather than a stormy wordy onslaught, an other vision of lit night in which
light is provided from inner darkness’ fire rather than prostheticized light,
lightbulb light, fluorescent light, tv light, iphone light, laptop light?
Yet, does the universe expand and shrink simultaneously, the womb and its
extension, the womb and its snapping, as one … this more inclusive dao which
accepts the simulation that seems real, accepts it and clarifies the real,
shows it to itself, void sees itself, in seeing blinks …
The Rich
Are So Rich It’s Crazy
I heard on tv that Fritz
Prott-Bik owns 14 villas just for his poodle, Bikky, and a hundred servants at
each just to service Bikky and whenever Bikky whines or looks bored, he’s sent
to another villa until he whines again and when he’s really bored or whines a
lot Fritz just buys or builds another villa.
My friend told me that Yussa von
Abidoo maintains 1,001 Rolls Royces in three nuclear war proof bunkers at
undisclosed locations around the globe, though Antarctica, Siberia and
Diphtheria have been rumoured, complete with real life simulations of the streets
of Paris, New York and Tokyo, so that Yussa can still urbanely cruise (or,
truly, be cruised), dine, and enjoy the nightlife after the holocaust.
I read in the paper that Hydea
Mydea is lining Earth’s oceans with her laminated business cards so that she’s
the first to be contacted by aliens.
I found out the other day that
Looli I. Lool, in her 1776-room treehouse in Oregon, orders a fresh bouquet of
Häagen-Dazs tubs for each room daily, though she lives in a bachelor basement
apartment in Melbourne.
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
ilae
us
ilus
that which doesn’t exist by
virtue of existing and exists by virtue of its not-existing. One is never
on reality. Maybe reality is on you (unterrealism) or you are in it
(einrealism) though whether it is in you is another matter. You may
strive, in madness, toward the impossible inclusion of all
realities—panrealism, omnirealism. You may attempt to get beyond
it—transrealism—or hate it—misrealism—love it—philiarealism—eat
it—phagiarealism—exist alongside it (though that which exists alongside is just
another reality)—pararealism—live with too much—hyperrealism—too
little—hyporealism—be against it—antirealism—be through it—diarealism—through
with it—: that’s it: diaism, diaart, diaialism, diaology: the
new and true and real reality, without reality (arealism): but sur- !? …
too sexist anyway, old-fashioned: madamrealism, doctorrealism,
reverendrealism, fuckfacerealism, unclerealism. Really: we just
prefer the prefix without the noun, which weighs things down—i am a surist, an
omniist, a madamist, a hyperist, a diaist (a diaist daoist diarist is not
impossible). Surely a surrealist shouldn’t believe in nouns anyway—only
prefixes and suffixes … if that. yhwh may have had it right. But the
e-primists make yhwh disappear.
Fine. I’m an ist. No. This
fleeting conglomerate that others—and sometimes this fleeting
conglomerate—sometimes call an eye could be considered, from certain
perspectives at certain times by some … an ist.
The
RECTUM
The rectum is a funny thing,
being of two minds: the one, being smelly, effulgent, not entirely
predictable, sensitive in its own way, moderately flexible; the other, being
silent, capable of being convinced, wanting language. Yet the two minds
are mysteriously contained in one hole, surrounded by two true cheeks, wonder
of anatomy and geometry and metaphysics.
what is
that which yonder comes cross subway floor?
yea, how many heads dost it
have? What manner of legs, to what end its fashion? What style of minds
could have ever composed it? With what currency could it have gained entrance
and who could have viewed it as entitled to ingress? How do those of us not
yonder, not coming across, not that,
not collapse into ourselves and the void which forms, unforms? Which structural
defects in existence’s core are responsible? What malevolent capricious
indifference? Such ratios of items! Such placement defying reason and
experience! Such asymmetrical concaves of impossibility! Yet. Yet! Here it comes ... here it comes ...
against
the pudenda
it was stuffed in the back, vitruvia dobbs, wholly demur, like an
inactive clitoris, off an unmarked alley, under a neglected apothecary, on a
halfmoon night i found myself in it and sitting with myself, burnt espresso,
without music or pain; the barista lacked manners, the ceiling woodbeamed &
low, spills in various corners, the windows difficult, unyielding what’s the name, i said, vitruvia dobs, as i
egressed ... she looked at me as if i were a new moon and said, it might be
said, the title, scrambling back to herself.
Of course, i never found it again.
the sound
i thought was someone coming up the stairs instead is my heart
you, spirit of welcome disaster, for whom i’ve been waiting ten thousand
years,
climbing up the topless stairwell of my blood, heads in your right hand,
artichokes in your left,
impossible in everything you neither do nor say,
beckon with the finger i don’t see to
places perhaps existing in intractable facts
being in love with far too many humans, even cats, paintings, ideas, movies, gods, things ...
exhausting, just thinking about it, almost incapacitating, all action reduced to hamlet, lost count (what are #s anyway?): all i do in this state is wait for something (with the right formula? words? power?) to break through, the one that can contain the ones, the complex simplicity that calms simple complexity (the other way around?), the mystical predilection: one in all or all in one (or all in all or one in one or and), all these voices, even judas, cabbage, point to god, which god? Which hierarchy? Which language? Which sector of the soul? Which soul? Losing count’s like losing time: good thing: effect of love: 1, 10, 100, 1000, 10000, the more the zeroer, an argument for 1, but 1’s always there, leading the pack, no matter how large, all the hidden zeroes with just one 1: that’s it: it’s just a matter of whether you like your zeroes hidden: the 1 never is, for we are one and when we are not the 1 will be hidden, and what is too many and what’s the same time and what’s being in love?
every day s/b the end of the world
that space opens up, plump with promise, laughing like the buddha, ripe
like a wombed woman, time down the drain, like god or godot never quite really
here: this the crib of joy, the grave of
death: the end of the world is life’s
jism&egg and it’s every day, it’s another bite of cheese ...
