my cat: mister loungechair

identity ii: job

oh my love, my slippery love, slipping out of everything, and then

oh my love, my stygian love, sticking it to me with stix & suits & sanskrit

my love, my cuntal love, never one to snap your thighs to fly

my love, my broken love, having broken all the bases of the game

love, that wipey thing, wiping tombstones down with lysol

love, ubermensch, dissing through the trees at bipeds

loves, little loves, mirrors of the inner empty faces

loves, murky loves, clambering the monkeybars of dooms

flesh, eyed eyeless flesh, grinned and grimaced, peccable and pecked

flesh, vacant, dim, crawling down the spiky steps to the great perhaps

mind, labyrinthine, litigious, machiavellian, lush

mind, nevermind, icu & silence & the grave

death, horny death,

death, noble death, noble noble, noble nibble, gobble wobble,  iii

art, clawing-cloying, pentameter of nothing, this is not a friend,

art, altavistagoohooyen&^yenning&     olaf,too

love,

love,

, love

,is

, 

dom-tea vi

l^a goo brie us

what could be more beautiful my furry flurry friend

than getting naked with another and getting out some cheese

from france, some melted brie, vats and vats and vats,

and pouring it upon ourselves like kings or apes or gods?

there’s something about goo on us that makes us think of love

eyes poking out from bovine fat like visions in a spa—

who could say that cheese is meant for just internal use:

try it! cream it! goo us! brie us! take us to the spa?

IT’S TRUE!!!!!—:—BUTTER MAKES THINGS BETTER!!!!!!!

Butter from the udder, not just in the butt but in the ‘and, in the tub and in the turd, in the hinges of youth and the dashes of colons:  rutting makes things wetter!!!!!!!—:—naturally ...

baked peas

so green & singular, bumpy spheres, smelling mildly of dirty feet, indistinguishable thorugh the oven door, from outside, slowly shrivelling, neither frozen nor boiling nor lukewarm, faceless, somewhat, green (did we say green), with skin, so many, heating, on that pan we might call their world, like us.

WORLD APOCALYPTIC WEEK

So you’ve been attacked by zombies, the bubonic plague has tried to pickpocket you, the routine mad have put you on a litter and dumped you on a dump, a heffalump of pennies almost drowned you, it started raining honey from the planes, your meeting started eating, eating you, the muffins laughed, the coffee erupted, your spouse grew seven heads, your children turned into rats, the gods became real and set up their tent under your bed, money turned to water, art to stone, medusa has started googling you, your gorgoneion destroyed ... it’s been a nice week, a nice week, unfolding like the universe, big-bouncing to that ol’ fate-beat, everything beautiful and good ...

  

a meal for our times

... palm hearts and sour cherries, lit quails in the background behind hanging gauze ...

... back to the effulgent void ...

it’s what some spoke of, have spoken of, when convinced of the truth of ellipses, when counting lilypads, when the smell of women arose on the destitute plains, on night’s rungless ladders, in the downloading torrent of fools, on mephistopheles’ song, of the truth of lilypads when counting ellipses, on night’s rungless fools on mephistopheles’ ladders, when the torrent of woman’s rose rose on a plane,

waiting for an ex-housemate at a neon cliff of the world, bills & hawks quawking in the background, flirtation a mobile device, change agent of such magnificent proportions as to drive all fear away and bring eternal peace, redeeming not redemption but silence’s siblings, subverting not subversion but ...

... he’s here ...

softfeethardcock

àààà|~|=^</\@`:  coconut oil in the seams of the world, creamed and stitched like dinner, like white artichokes peeking around the curtains at you in bed:  it’s not the rituals we speak of, those precognitive prechronological joie de vivres of our days, those kerplunky plonks on april twentieth and then some:  but those other things, resembling rituals in unimaginative mirrors, but, really, simulatingly, not.  And everything fits into everything when you think about it:  toothpaste&shoelaces, butter&pencils, jude&rumpunch.  And who needs babies anymore when each consumes slightly more than africa and a foot does just as well and sometimes even a bottle of st dalfour tartinade de luxe cassis the smoke is choking on the phalluses and what is love but oil in the seams?

all we are are pawns in each other’s vaginas:  a poem for Reykjavík and nothing

øen dryhumps jimmy qe5+ kxf7 28.qf5+ rf6 29.qd7#

reach in & grab yourself, doris, you schizocarp

play the endgame, barclay, emrick, in toke-ee-oh’s wholly holy hole

shatranj : luis manuel ferreira ferrão de vasconcels

i take days to recover from myself, only to find myself waiting

round and round the soultrack goes the little me

one (mis)step, two (mis)steps, fickle under thee

completely exhausted by human scrimmage

humans, monads of unsustainability, each a shattered god & numinous ape smashed into one mould, each a black hole of language, an aspirin and a gun, made to bump to bump tobump tobumptobump, into all things bumpable (and all things ever always are made bumpable anew!); bump bump bumpity bump bump bumpity bumpbumpbumpitybumpwego, from ghoulies & ghosties ...

maybe that which smells is me

Feye-Lo Pace-Tree nee Noott—

not her brother, “Kid” “Knee” Le Goom

not her sister, Ka Baj Bustle Sbowt

not her mother, Toe-Phoo Barr-Lee

not her father, Bear Bere Beir du Bier—

said to herself when she smelled something, it might have been me

the day before the end of the world (again)

if the race is weary at all, it’s surely because there’ve been too many days before the end of the world, too many ends that weren’t ends, too many loose ends, split ends, dead ends, tight ends, odds and ends and very few evens, the hope & disappointment like water dripping on a rock (for where have the days before the beginning of the world gone?), ends like leaden butterflies, ends on benders, ends in blenders, ends that never being ends wear us down

what do i do with the maledictions of Tyn, in the labyrinths of Tyool, on the plateaus of Tlyll?

I, Zunk, living a quiet life in peaceful Ziik, with my beautiful wife Znood and my noble son Zuunk, was called upon one day to leave peaceful Ziik and beautiful Znood and noble Zuunk and sojourn to Tnynn, on which lie the plateaus of Tlyll and enter the labyrinths of Tyool, but i was not told of Tyn or Tyn’s maledictions or what to do.

Falling Off the PEDESTAL of MYSELF

onto the vermiculous ground, onto the rooting earth, into the rutting mind of the decomposing gods, into the joy of silence where the fish called Vast lives and wandering & willing aren’t that different and space yawns onto the canvas of nothing.

my ass is, @ 51, still firm, though in my mind it isn’t which, in <    > fashion ... <  > ...

does your ass hang low, does it wobble to & fro

can you tie it in a knot, can you tie it in a bow

can you fling it over your shoulder like a continental soldier

does your ass hang low?

the romanticization of the lost words

i had it, walking south on john from ago, that which was once in the <  >’s, and seemed so good it couldn’t leave that i didn’t bother to stop in the cold and the pleasantry of walking to write it down, i repeated it a number of times to root it and the swirl of the city, without and within, covered the soil i thought ... but, then, ... once i arrived, it had slipped, been grabbed by some force specializing in grasping new roots under the soil and swirl and ... eating them.  It will come back, i thought, as things often do when you don’t try, but it didn’t.  And now the lost words have attained a mythic status in my imagination and i’m ambivalent about their coming back (and even if they did i’m not sure i’d recognize them), for what could now compensate for their tragic loss?

do i want the buzz of booze? ...

but booze without its buzz is just oo-e ...

the human and the butterfly

the urban environment in itself necessitates that the dominant forms of human discourse are with the human—that is, take place in the social realm, frequently solidifying the impression that human social categories—particularly present, that is to say visible, ones—are ascendant (even exclusive) among the categories of meaning.  This collective solipsism—one might say insanity—is misaligned with the proclivities of the human soul, which attempts to correct the imbalance in schizoid ways:  primarily through technology (in which we include entertainment, travel, communication, etc.), sex (in which we include yoga, the body-health conglomerate), art (the commodotized and laundered products of those who have lived in the non-dominant forms, displayed in galleries, stages, bookstores, theaters, etc.), emotionally prosthetizing substances (in which we include everything from caffeine to heroin, religion to grand marnier, acquisitiveness to weed).  Not that any of these things in themselves is wrong or damaging but that they typically remain unintegrated (that is, without dialogue) with the social, instead being called upon to substantiate, further solidify, the human love affair with itself—which is to say human insecurity and fear, a deeply ingrained requirement to set itself as superior to other forms of creation, this requirement a vast psychosis, a puerile denial, a refusal to accept the root orientations of the universe, an infantile desire to escape the circumscribed conditions of life.  A new form of play is required, which operates within the urbanized social realm but views it as no more authoritative than a tree, a stretch, or a carmine streak on canvas, allowing the voices of silence to mutually question the voices of sound, attempting to recover what once might have been called god or dao or something else or nothing by listening to the interaction of all voices, neither privileging nor denigrating the human any more than a cat, an ant, or a painting.

as i didn’t walk out one evening

Wandering around, in the aimlessness of myself, not here or there, memories and hope something of the same, time’s just a blanket, i’m gaseous and warm like a train or a bubble, clocks don’t really tell time, time tells time (the hand is on the marmalade and clocks tell themselves), what time is it mister wolf? three o’clock. What time is it mister wolf? eight o’clock. What time is it mister wolf? eleven o’clock. What time is it mister wolf? midnight. But all the answers are the same, it’s what the children don’t tell you, they know the game, the artifice of names and thrills.  Midnight.  Dark and wet at the change of day.  Don’t cry wolf, because midnight will come and bite you.  Change the diaper of the day in the dark, in the train, singing clocks and memories like a blanket or an arrow, as it clickclacks through space and the gods of signs and signals doze in the control room at union wages, cool coffee at their sides like cats, but no collisions to speak of, just neutrinos in geneva, the teacup’s in the lovers and the deep subways run on.

character sketch

as if you craved your annihilation, that common desire, but with such subtle resistance, such dissipation, the craving seemed to annihilate itself and you were still.  it’s never the i that speaks anyway, it’s something below, bound with mollusks and language, the vision that can’t see,   the urgency is too urgent, too like itself, like a wave, beautiful but relentless, always that endlessly varying endlessness, that perpetually different sameness, the annoyance of it all, some adjectives are fucked.  You have to be lovers with jealousy, envy, lust, greed, success, money, solitude, despair, love, let them be stronger than you in theirs but stronger than them in yours, a spiritual division of labour, a divine taylorism, the new fear and future, that i read in you.

the night is safe, only the night

all wires cut, all wirelesses cut, placenta of parties, unknown address, day a faith-leap away, warm custard and cats, the human buzz seemingly sleeping, the outlines of garages, shadows of abandoned cars, traffic lights eternally recurring, only the noise of keys and fans, the safety of silence, i drag night into day, lay it as its foundation, don it like a fashion, spectacles on the spectacle, condom on the clock, mask on the cock, quark and face and cloud, glove on the simian hand of work, the protestant mind, the catholic craving to create and annihilate, the strange equality of all things in stature and truth and nobility:  night, silent teacher, naked justice, stripper of names.

dictionary of modern times: recovered blogs ii-v (with bonus features to boot!)

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. Fit^sgerald 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

and i agree

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 & _th^e 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.

mmmmmmmmmm^mmmmmi^la_eus

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 ...