por supuesto, la puta vida

dams don't have honest divinity.



The flood always comes.


The gods hear not, think


not and only uncunningly will

[ . . . . ] 

undead, too: the 
pantheon will survive us all. 

(Godliness next to 

nothingness.)

+ One Hundred Two Days, Twelve Hours, Forty-Five Minutes, Six Seconds

" . . . "

"I said that, yeah."

[ . . . . ]

 "I do live                      

        even tri=  

=umphant, pearly dreams 

half-awake."               

[ . . . ]

forest groves, the city, the sidewalk, 

sideways glances, cracks, slivers, crevices, mud brown, 

pitch black, chaste white, hand-

conducted words, conjured memories, maps, unrequited love, 

shrill hissing, requited love, hot pissing, heroes 

furrowing into cowards, cowards sweating into heroes, communication 

chasms, aladdin, thom yorke, mozart, simba and nala, apocalyptic 

v. gradual change, amor fati, foraging, rummaging, 

looking underneath, satchels, 

heraclitus, 

orange peels, 

red rover, 

the river styx, 

conflict->tension->rupture->flux->transcendence, 

leap frog, dirty clothes, naked sky,  spackled idols, sticky buds

[old] 2012.05.30

there's more in the shed

jus ask the girl at the counter

bring her empty cartridge box 

she'll pull it from back

microfiche

vhs

laserdisc

floppy disk 

whatever you want

just make it dusty

Elegy for 'Warm'

I cherish every
word you give
me though
you give me not but a few, and
it's not the void,
the sparse, the lacking, the...

   that brings me back and back under
   tornadoed, pinched-off knees
   weak through to plasm tenuous as
   you shyly try to outcheshire the missing-out-
   on-you-world but as a fool's fool I am unfoolable.

I've downloaded
the automatic refresher, and
purchased a yottabyte
hard drive so I might
divine genesis, gestation, birth: the
bell ringing your heart's hand-

   maidens, and at what hour, what
   angle of sunlight, I can see through
   foreboding uncertainty,
   through Beam courage holding
   belief's straggling hand giving

us Heart we
just dug: letting the
cat out of your eyelash,
ringing the mys-
tery out of your skin,
airing into being a stranger I
  
    know, whom
    you carry in maze
    goddesses enw(/t)ombed;
    I pray you know-- to
    gods divined wholly

in spirit, effigy, tribute, idolatry, through
saccharine lonely-fired castles
--that you might meet you, and we
might smile so big our
waxing, saltypink faces break off in-
to eternal combustion engine bread.

But this is myth:

   ROYGBIV to pitch-white;

   Lies under flashlight
   hurt worse than sunbright
   conspiring.

   Losingfull loneliness
   enlarges the heart in-
   to authoritarian delusion.

   Heart
   subsumes every. Heart colors
   Heart into blank. Warm does
   not feel Cold. (Warm is
   gullible)

on smiling (the de- and re-constructive act of honestly taking account of the cheese, the cliche, the tragically trite)

Harsh warm morning light

          

Creaking new house sounds

    Opening patio door

    Looking into vast plat;

The creek trickles softly in détente,

cleanly over stoic bedrock agefull.

i

His cheek's

a bit pocked. Smile peeks 

out behind red lips, 

life reveling 

ribs weary from 

rescusitation

exposed to flaccid 

pummeling broken 

into unevent. But here parting lips

calendar Holiday's arrival.

ii

Smiles are

tributaries rushing through forest,

trenching a new path toward

quenching scorched choking sediment

yearning memory aching to transcend 

sentiment.


iii

Smile 

plats heart's blueprint. Smiles

travel time, rupturing

past; 

Smile canvasses

future, bridges presents.

resting heartbeat (an end until another beginning)

and then all of a sudden
the sun shone brilliantly
upon the unfurled green pistil

and anxious pitterpatter
became ambling pit-pat

i'm a pathetic parasitic almost sort of poet dining as i do solely on despair or revelation emanating from my own day to day tribulations and epiphanies composing the year to year life arcs i foretell in dreams and then enact and then watch on looped replay with threatening telestrator in hand.

this might be the first time i've ever straight-facedly referred to myself as a poet. which itself is  inherently more than just 'some' acclamation from an otherwise increasingly cantankerous never satisfied always pullin out more canvas sort of philosopher life author self.

feels like implicitly bullshit tho. this whole charade now.

'poet', 'poetry, poetic'... these are judgments assigning value, taking 'poetry' as we (me and my group of bureaucrats, credentialed experts and thorough archivists) to not be confined to that niched writing territory of 'not considered short and novelized fiction'. i mean: poetry seems less a discipline and more of an abstract value not limited to written words applying to or eschewing convention. a spirit an aesthetic. 'a poetic gait' 'your timbre is poetry' ... as well as homer and whitman and rilke and dylan and hendrix and others more conventionally called 'poets'. i don't pretend this to be revolutionary to the aesthetics field or a meaningful contribution to contemporary or eternal philosophy of art conversations. the declaration is important to me.

this is all to say that i may be a parasitic poet but it's not pathetic.

unedited (or, run-on) (or, fuck 'or': 'and' 2012, baby!)

loving is the only thing i can do. everything else every other action is overflow outgrowth from loving or trying to love.

or that loving when i should've been liking lest i break some code some coolness line in the sand because there is nothing worse than looking up and suddenly realizing you're on a perch where after 0-CRYSTALLIZED you now are of the clear-headed sober minded opinion that (shhhh) you now just-this-moment like someone less than they like you.

should've been shouldve been shouldve been shouldve been...

who says?

the reckoners in the back working the super computer sharpening the algorithm to the meaning of life. you should see their faces light up as another story is built on some tower in a massive ideological complex. or when they repaint the veneer of a much venerated now statued high-rise principle after leading the way to victory in campaign after campaign.

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 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 of Here and Now away from the narcotic release of heavenly past and future. 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.


!this message has been jointly funded by the Coalition to Moderate Deification and the Campaign to Elect 'love'* as the Overt Acting Main Guiding Principle Influencing the Self!


^please stop capitalizing the preceding four words and capitalization-as-convention-in-general. it's pretentious, aloof, and diluting. this is a challenge to reinject words with meaning by really constructing, actively deciding what is proper to 'proper'.

*please email the author for a pdf of love's dissertation and video of his defense against legendary antagonist 'pragmatism'

faith

m
    a
y
                    b
e

h                                                                                                                                                               o

p

e

fully

some

t

                     hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing

sometime

super  symmetry me unseen
a Form
jutting 5d
out from body
as shadow
as path
as massive looming

destiny's narrated coincidence
harboring Dear Leaders
knitting A Pattern to Pattern
putting moment on a milk carton:

put down the telestrator
clear the room of experts
clear the room of archivists
cross your heart
and hope to die

immoderate thought's a bacteria

vice is only a towel away

stay in the water:

constant pruning

it's the only place to become

overwrought, panicking, schematizing

time-traveling, oscillating, vacillating

just let the body see

super symmetry me

under the raffia palm tree

History is the way

life ambles

History is life's

Absolute Cadence

isolated by the top place finisher

told by the gold medal winner

hanging on Hillary's Step 

jutting jaggedly

in then out 

climbing the sky

dropping into pits

we are homeless

pursuing History

and we are homeless

pining grey hymns

pursuing History

and we are homeless choosing

the bank we came in on

or the bank we'll leave for

over the flowing river enacting

synaptogenesis

place your                                            forehead on my forehead

see-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------saw

b                     ack n forth
b                     ack n forth

let's xerox our brains

lobe on lobe

let's    a             y
        h  r         s       n
      c      t                  apses
                our

under C R O W N I NG  S K Y

                                                           wrap fingers around t...r..e m b l i n g growth cone
                                                 firing axonal flares into                                                                    aethēr

                                           squeeze out coDicarius vertebrae
                                                 through MYelin sheath
                                                           buRsting into folia
                                                  and into dendritic spine

                                             looking for another den  DRItic
                                                  spine     lookingforanother
                                                           growth cone lookin for
                                                  another growth cone


you                                                       neural cartographer                                                              you

neural cartographer                               you                                                           neural cartographer

you                                                       neural cartographer                                         you      

then we'll trace a path
      and climb thalamic ridge:

                                              you be hillary,

                                                                     ill be tenzing;

                                                                                          no, wait, wait:

                                                    you're better with ropes;

                            you be tenzing,

         ill be hillary!

cuz i wanna live how
your pupils
dilate at apex;

i want to know the path

blood courses

winding side roads round rush hour

leading to your pop's cabin

i want to
                                                   ri                                  de you     r 
            heartbeat 
                                                                                      as 
                                  you place 
your forehead                                     on                                         my forehead

i want 10,000 double-sided copies

                                colored
                     collated

           stapled

88 gigapixels sharp

i want a ten-eon G       IF
                           to hang in the nursing home
                             to laminate into a placemat

                               for when narratives flicker

i want my last man in the cave to push the boulder   ou T                  and screa    M your naMe

into the echoes releaseD  

in eternity's big bang:

dippin sun   sets

old moon   wanes

bellyfull

harmful-less

potentialfull

waddling

left  to  right

grinning broad

holding to nothing

but cumulus

hope is always only wispy

dream foggies as descent requires

but above?

above,   clouds remain ladders
above,   a new moon quivers

reach i]]]]]n

r{[(e)]}{[(e)]}{[(e)]}{[(e)]}ach iN                ^five

reach i]]]]]n

cup yOUr hands                                                      ^six

cup yerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr han]]ds

cup yOUr hands and

drink                                                                        ^four

drink my    spinal fluid

drink my    spinal fl[[U]]id

drink my    spinal fluid

from your palms

drink my    spinal fluid

from your palms

drink mY  spinal fluid

from th[[[[e tap

drink mY   spinal fluid

from choroid plexus through S6


drink my    spInal fluid
and i will    drInk yours

^three

sit on the seat'o my soul

and i'll sit on yours

human1: to some people, this is the best part of the day . . .

(human2 is confused)

h1: 5 o'clock.

(h2 now understands perfectly; Kevin Arnold Facial Shift coupled with Knowing Nod)

h2: yeah, but for others(!)--

h1: it's the worst! so anxious!

h2: yeah, released from our slavery, thrown into freedom, for those of us unwilling to merely perpetuate the dominant practice of post-work recreation only serving to reinforce the status quo, only offering a more comfortable shackle upon our wrist, the pull of the throw pillow... we feel the tension of flux, of who we are trying to become. and our hearts ghosten?

h1: yes.

h2: it's called becoming alienated from our humanity.

i don't know what's right
but i know this wrong

-t's all i've left rubbing
two sticks held in tongs

no fire, no loving
pacing into abysmal

contusions i conjured,
i feel like i fear

damn the fluid wave
crashing the static pier

spacing away the days
until, until, until, until...

some magic moment
prophesied eons ago
as a tucked-in lullaby
promised into hieroglyphics
prayed toward in drought
before magic died
reckoned to death

i guess

i think

i feel

like

people aren't sincere

mostly because

it means

going into battle

without armor.

 

i'd like to,

like, 

have some steel, too,

over my heart

under the gobble

loop

swoop

and pull

--

but i can't find 

the season to hide

with no reason but

'survive'.

entertaining to tears
                       laughing
into unoblivious abyss
                       straining
throat to shreds boring
                       in-
to pillows but i can't unhear
                       my voice
wilting flailing galeful

loving
          anythingeverythinganything
remotely approaching hearts
                                            so intensely aortic
gush and burst astride towering unripe
                                                            frightened
quivering disuse

i would like to look in the mirror,
                                                     smile and unfeel lawyerous
                                                                                                 :who
                                                     is guilty but me                   ?if not                

                                                                                                          me, then community
                                                                                                 ?if not
                                                                                                          community, then me  ?

                                                                                                                                              nihilism,
                      
                                                               too exhaustingly exhausted
    
                                                                                                                                   apathy,

                                                               too pathetically copacetic

 i choose the idols

i choose the gods

come what mayhowwill

 i don'twon'tcan't unme .

morning, an excerpted short message service conversation from the one year anniversary of mom's death

thinking of you<3

[ . . . ]     heart just swelled    back to  nearnormallevel

:)just keep it beating                                           

                              (ed.-emp.add)

from a cubbyhole
in a tree house
at General Sherman's peak,

your nascent, still quivering, synaptic ridges
sit etched beneath my ass:

there will be a bridge
there will be a bridge
there will be a bridge:
the prophet said so!


no: one day there will be a slide
one day, i will build a water slide

out of your

at once, enquilted
at once, enwombing
and next, cavernous
and next, volcanic memory

i will careen down your thigh,
a fucking beautiful nylon run;



we will teem

nuzzlin' on the couch
------you by my side (on my elbow...)-

draw bridge simmers, trembling
lips await the word
brandish your sword
cut down the rope!

gateway of validation
sweep my rug under the rug
sweep... over and above
pull me into the station
gateway of validation

SURPRISE ME,
you Charon of circuits!
bring me old ghosts
in your wired ferry:

i'll take the bottomless messiah buffet

i'll take the bottomless messiah buffet

i'll take the bottomless messiah buffet

i'll take the bottomless messiah buffet, please


redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover redrover