Want vs. Sight

Sometimes, something will happen,

and Thinking says,

“This is changing Me into More Me.”

I am becoming Me!

Discovery is creation!

O, warm bloody and flourished life,

I adore thee!

The concrete beneath is a trampoline!

Then, a broken necked raven lost

& crashed illmellifluous

jars the view.

Can’t. So goddamn much can’t

the CDC came round

to make sure I don’t spread.

Pesticide. Vaccine. Antidote! I wanna be

fucking fertilizer! I wanna be

SOIL!

Inertia sears into immutability.

The doctors say nothing can touch me.

Need. Want. So desperately for anything to touch and just stay.

But mine eyes have seen

the gory of the bowing of the lords:

the smallest meaningfuls send all

sailors vomiting to the rails,

or worse, in their own stupor, so diligently remiss

are we to be touched in anyway that is not implicitly escaping touch.

I can’t want to see what Hamlet couldn’t unsee

in Yorick’s unflinching eyes, in his father’s putrescent shadow,

 acrid, stark dialectics

& briny B/W fetishes,

pickling vice to virtue&back,

so I can’t unsee this quintessence of dust

blotting out the moon.

Da Capo...

 My stomach is a knot pit—

I love you.

These twenty-four hours

I haven’t stopped thinking about you.

I’m terrified of you.

Everybody in my life reminds me how

unhappy I was with you.

Stomach overboard, anvil

ruptures water rushing

toward sea floor;

my lining is in tow,

plummeting cheeks howling in the wind

pull lips back to gritted teeth—

amor fati

breath

amor fati

amor fati

breath

amor fati

amor fati

amor fati

amor fati

amor fati

amor fati

breath

breath

CONSEQUENCES

ROYGBIV, where art thou bloomings?

Detach and morose, I see your B/W stick carvings, feel them in the shin, peg-legged, futilely stabbing into sand like Poppy in the dementia ward grabbing at his fork, like the pen slipping through Mom’s fingers. And I knew she’d be gone soon. Death, please leave me alone for a minute. I’ve lost my touch, and color is tactile. I can’t enjoy anything anymore except pantomimes at playtime. I can’t look you in the eyes aside from conversation; my step wavers, halts, errs to the side. I only want to talk to the woman I can’t. I need her to tell me it’s all going to be all right. It takes hindsight’s slow burn to show us the ashes of our fallen idols. The blood of the gods flows the same in us as for Thucydides, Pericles, Sappho. Trite loses the blunt edge in the personal.

The gloom truck swells and ballooned just as the average American weight extends second-to-second, guts distended under slavering slackjowled & stripely starred worship. But, really, no. Nothing of the sort. Just another pillow, an anasthetized stitch in our collective battle to become singularly forgetful, treating our impulse instinct to be excellent, to work in a particular sort of borderline divine-endeavoring manner as a machine we collectively discover, create, unveil. Amurrrica, no longer a slur. You went through the opine disposal. Rendered inert, spineless. Screamed patriotically now. Fist high. Solo cup atilt. Pabst falling quietly on the sidewalk, an accidental eulogy. Culture as wood chipper, reforming criticism into a temple. Inadvertent is all that is manageable. Trying is too much pressure. I need this moment just as I don’t want it. I accept the quick snap. Memory’s hulking defense looms over the line -- I’m a known one play wonder; there is no surprise. There probably never was. Reputation travels in whispers when we’re not there, and I’m often here, rarely there.

But we roofie down in early July, celebrating what except the simple ability to celebrate contentlessly. We may have to be shoe horned out of this burrowing, friendly malaise. We are converging on a singularity: the merger of man and entertainment, the regression of something back into nothing, the annihilation of the human project, the murder of the long-standing human narrative imagining, assuming ourselves to be a lack of being in order that we might become unbored, meaningful, happy, becoming?

Fealty (Sick)

I’m sorry, David. The tests are in. We’ve done all the bloodwork. Studied, collected, microscoped, analyzed, cultured every last specimen we could jar & hold.  We’ve telestratored an 80-inch LED, consulted with the very best: face-to-face, over the phone, text, Skype, Gchat, Facebook wall posts and private messages. You can click through the two thousand, nine hundred fifty-seven page Power Point presentation conversation. We’ve seen it all.

David, your cancer is no longer in remission.

The cellular infantry, so remarkably steadfast & intent in previous years, smelled fraud, turned tail & ran. The ribbon tying, binding, hoping to weld your heart together out of sheer gall is failing. Your blood is bloated sludge. Your atrophied lungs ripple tenderly, shaking the dust around with every inhale, exhaling impotent & inert cobweb geysers up into trachea, rendering every breath a chore, a tax on existence–itself initially unwilled, shot out into the world. Now, fumbling. Now chosen implicitly, only out of habit. Resented. Rueful. Enslaved. Decision making relegated to droning Xeroxes. To bend a micrometer, your knees crackle, snap & pop like a roaring summer fire cackles. And burns a few hairs more.

Weary. Your feet. Your poor feet. The plight of pawns, yes. The hallowed horse’s hoof. Calloused malignants. The inadequate footwear you so often chose for mountain life–oh! The boots you never wore in winter.  Bubbled over blisters. Eternally vacant nail beds. Crusted over scars eternally wincing. The coral seabeds you insisted on dragging soles across. Her’s too. She wasn’t accustomed to such sadomasochism.

Lot of good any of this did. Not paying attention to footwear. Or jackets & pants. The weeping the skin does. You know.

Aloof.

No. It’s no surprise this cancer won’t even be the thing to kill you. You’re a glutton. And gluttons have endurance. Fail safes to back-ups to rendezvous’ known to fall through. Disease has returned. Snow is falling, but not softly like the short halcyon winters of youth, lasting an afternoon til after finishing word problems, releasing out into

sun & fresh wind, an unfurled kite asserting a throne; Simba returned to Pride Rock & all that. Everywhere, the sky is filled with descending, indiscriminating grand pianos. Brusque, cold bureaucrats signing off on your forthcoming death.

David, it’s spread to your brain, blood, nodes, bones & into the deepest, most originary, truly fertile & strawberry caves in the heart.

Your cancer has returned. You have stage four, advanced, recurrent & metastatic cowardice. Rupture out. Embrace flux or embrace nihilism. Transcend. Or falter & wilt, through & through, never free enough to keel over, dump the flooding water & accept the necessary casualties of friendly but failed ideas.

Repledge fealty. Use your feet. Not your lips.

Love

Love is not just

for fate, or for the will, or for the 

leaping heart, or for the 

analytical brain, or for the 

stepping foot, or for the 

contemplating mind.

Love is acceptance of the necessary. Love

is both a base jump and a succumbing lying down smiling.

Love is not the sun, or the moon, or the sky, or the ground, or the roots.

Lovingly 

much more so than a mere toleration, but with joy

towards the sun, the moon, the sky, the ground, the roots,

the passing glance, the lingering hug goodbye, the awkward kiss.

Love is adoration for

acknowledging, absorbing, enacting the imperative

Here and Now, away from heavenly past and future’s narcotic release.

Love is abiding but never obligatory. Love is a constantly presented choice.

Love is the originary question, the question of questions. 

Every other question derives from the basic impulse to love or to hate.

Choose love as the man said to choose the abyss.

I an a writer
of nothings
if I don't write
of this lived lives.

I an a writer
of nothings
if I don't write
of this lived lives.

Lacy always wrap.
Drumming ear tolls, cushions
caging bleu ribrib ache -
nestling legs general paw, 
bodyneedtobeneedtobe. 
Always ox(ish) head yolks 
allway liftings blankets shirts comforters
& nesting, angling Lacy Way This Way
& That (Way), so ---

Lacy building cabins in woods, paintings imprisoned ceiling mural heavens, wombs
Lacy Way away from here: Mom's belly weaver dreamings&time-share vacas 
nexto Jackie Boy couching hard wombs, all so padding winter fat
& the pre-hibernative like.

D D

e  e

a  a

t   t

h  h

is C

C R

R U

U S

S H

H E

I   S

N  --  Romance's 

G      Less & Fullest 

         Scale tips just

         a smidge pending

us all.                           upon the view.

Yes, yes, yes:

castle cloud

on! Ward off

Only's, embrace

Only's pending

upon the view.

. . . heels click
on the pavement above
outside my bedroom window
&trance dream cadence
&heart beat trigger -

                                  So, no.

                                   I don't think so.


                                   I are
                                   flatters & vain, Truth: but
                                   why skin descends, rocking
                                   unporcelain bleeding atoms, tiding
                                   messengers tightroping tautiest floss held b'tween
                                   the god's big toe & fat northern lip                               
                                   we can never know.
                                  

T             Mu
  OO





                  c





                                                                            H



                  LIFE                                                  (,)




                                                                             t o    w    r  I  te

You In Hymnal (Written By Somebody Else As Me); Or, Secondhand Mythmaking 330: Adoption and Rearing

I hear her eyes 
fall on the color spectrum Some
Where between
Chartreuse and Infrared and 
the sight of them can 
cause a man to delve in the psy-
che of The Woodland People that once 
inhibited(sic) 
The Anti-Mountains of The Great Plains.

These builders of civilization conquered 
the internal uprising against 
The Dying of Light and those 
eyes reminded a modern man of those 
times past when 
hunter/gather's(sic) 
were seduced by the Native 
American version of 
Medussa(sic) 
and to gaze upon the iris caused 
one to cry and recall a fetus 
inside the womb of Sacajawea 
and the celebration of life and afterbirth that 
flowed into The Mighty Mississippi 
Ohh So Many years ago.

steadfast

feet patter & pit,
cold linoleum
bipedals A/C
flowing brains well
healthful & flourish

    Taking steps outside your bed;
    foreign funky
    unframed,outlined
    webbed,con,tin,u,a,tion, of cross-
    ed state & country lines
          
    just decimated, re-
    drawn blue skyed;Art needs
    some thing to
    art against arou-
    nd,from:High

    tide.

hands curl inter
locked fingers
entwine unlocked oxygen;
Wily lived in the 
forest for years


  

Quotid Jones Met Ravish Rupture-Smith

'per
 hap
     s' t
     he
'gre
     ate      st'    's
ong   '   '   eve r'
m a   de            ?

l                       o
ve a
s in-
semination bir  th       ,
wa          t           er     -
ing        in     -     choate
breath   fin          ger tip
stretchhhhhhhhhhhhed(
Cha       rle          ston C
                                     hew);Death put off.

Excerpt from a Story I'll Never Write (Only Live) (III)

Thank you

    (lowers jaw,
                      nose,forehead
                 even with her own,
                 lips plant)

                 for being patient

                 with me.

We
ll(eyes

vibrate      
taut, drill boring core
mind soul heart)

I think you're worth it.

(and it's perfect)

i

  t's o
         k;you
       'r
     e  i(')m
   pe
 rfe
ct.

-                  -                  -                  -                  -           I

w







I                        L!L!            al





w              a







         Y(e)S(!)    [...]& READ ALL ABOUT IT

help organize tea
                          pick the dead skin
                                                       arrange the library by spine by heart
                                                                                                                               and love you.

GIF Dreams (Sidney's Ma)

I am surprise by every breath released
sucked in caught back up taken in
up and away: the white chalk splashed
explodes euphoric as you GIF me

to sleep, fair unfoul. I am surprise by inauctionable
smiles rowing under the pier to look for sea-ridden lost and found
refusals to dock - out of what? acceptance? fe-
ar? Hoped. I am surprise with every year knows

known lives
what's intestinely
'tween eternal and breath
squealing triggerdly
galaxy bashed out of soil
standing at least six feet tall
shadowlessly, As-Is True.
                                                      (In Fulfillment Of The Scriptures)

un jeune albatros trouve le courage et l'amour de propager ses ailes (merci, charles et samantha)

But man oh man, I feel like you've gone and put more kindling atop heart's

glowing diasapora vast embers, stoking fire into matching shadows for once. Warm
tears streamed down my face calmly draining off chin, depositing 'neath t-shirt 

covered collarbone filling clavicle's basin, placidly accumulating on top lip's

pooled salty exultations from river into lake into ocean undammed falling 

gentle deafened onto tongue igniting the revelation of connection of feeling
like I know someone or something a little more, that we are one cloud closer to one
another than we thought possible, and, sometimes, can hear each other plainly 

speak in silent meditative resting our beat for beat rise and fall tasting all of tears'

despair and howling laughter, all while seeing in technicolor, too.

Excerpt from a Story I'll Never Write (I)

"The Alamo is a nice time and place I hear. My brother demo'd a time-share out and back there. Said it was a real trip. A good fucking sim. He even got to keep the coonskin."