Sunday, February 20, 2011

wednesday eleven twenty ate

The dream it was not sudden. Not so as you'd notice.
Hard and pointed as rocks tumbling from low grown mountain. Still they're hard to cipher as a single bluebird wing. Nigerian Afro psychedelic rock holds it's own in the early morning dark.
The final hours.
Tendrils of smoke and all that early morning imagery if it suits you.

Tomorrow is. Could be. Another busy day if we arrive in time.
I dreamt there was but only a single, one-more day.
Vibrant colors. Flying fish. Sailors aswagger with zeal. Finally come the drums.
For now only seeing stars but we don't know where we are. Or they. Living on in such a modern style. Far from all reality.
Over in the corner we placed the large void. Covered the evening.
Promise me the star, the seas. The phosphorence of creatures smaller even than me. The cold of a body greater than the depths of those who know.
Empty spaces, vast as Siberia. Waiting for a faith.
Probably any one will do. We have noting to compare. No grace from earth.
A circular motion we fall through languid airs.
They didn't want to turn this way.
A bag of totems for life and luck. Maybe a set of tickets to something.
The end.
It's coming.
But the end is only more.

I wash my body.
It disappears.
Joyous can be but silent so it is that we remain.
A singular new business each dawning day, washing all but that we can't. Leaving in mid conversation but whose the talking none of us know. Good enough then to know much as any can. Once when they are the rest are not. Taking away from any one leaves more the same behind.

Never want to grow to be a man.
Some did anyway.
Men. Eunuchs. I can't say.
We're not in imperial China anymore.
Same as always. You know it. No matter your denials.
Expected means no surprise. No fascination.
Deny your likeness. What it means to learn.
If god made man in his image how can he expect anything more?
What's done leaves no changing for any of it now.

The us, the we, the one you think is. Never enough. We can't take on like them others. Don't want to grow to be a girl. And not the other. Not one place we've been is safe for that.
Things might be bad in Cincinnati but that's pretty far. Least so far as we know. Could be. Probably is. More than we can know, so how to know where they mighta run too? For there and then we have no worries. Not here with these ones. No one else we know. Perhaps to cleanse. Whatever is.

As easy to breathe under water. Now. I find room for me. For the rest.
Should I thank them that thought this?
I wash my body and it disappears. Then on wakening I'm already found.
Love defined as absence of violence overt. Your own conveniences and temper. Convince me to please you, just me as we are. I am. We are fast beyond that place. Doubting ever the random possibilities of love. Your heart I have no use or want but dripping in my hand. Metaphorically. My synergy sinking.

Show no fear.
Destroy. Revive. Destruct.
Wash rinse repeat.
Dress your best for the simian disco.
Moving to the other side of my head.
The chances are that you are, come undone. Or that we are confused.
Of every rope there is a tension.
Trips of perversion.
Truths wildly untamed in the manner of superstition.
An avalanche I've yet to see.

wednesday late

The customary number and variety.
A full set if you will. Or not.
Everyone scared, the first one, more or less.
Some have ideas but no account of yours.
Aligning the stars, bliss peace reverence. Ignorance.
To never tell the father when the child is born. Only the girl of many uses. Some do don human form. Like dogss. Yes. And all manner wild ones.
But to be a man, none agree on that meaning.

Breathing not more than shallow quiet solitude.
To sleep disappearing.
As any decent geographer. Washing myself to pale fainting. Even as.
Filling my soul. Overflowed though it be. With out familiarity. To stillness. Other times with planks of music. Some time strange to meet again a some other. Never known. Or not. When there's to be no remembering any way.

When there's nothing left to burn all there's left is to set yourself on fire. Between lines color congealed. Our own to claim if we can but say.
Deep in the sun. Beyond rows of knotty olive trees. Fewer to see than come to say so.

Some time 'round seven there's nothing left to say. Only those as came packing take the space. Some times better understand saying in silence. Speaking. Listen the synsethete. Here is the engine room for those who stomach. Then come geographers claiming what could be.

Tell me how you claim a man. His skin his bones. Or girls. Women. Whores. Additional adjectives available on request. Some may find offense. Or take it even though. To maintain a certain decorum. Paint a picture. Make believe for you. Those around but they are different. Easy even, all things relative.

wednesday later

Five miles of road.
Three hours of conversation.
Never enough room to be anywhere else.
Too late for games but never still, never dark.
Always they say just one more time.
Until not.

Turned down one more time.
But we lost our time, no more turning away.
No more sorries. Sincerities fall aside.
We are they who grew up. No matter.
No more. Hurt lets go like.
We're come and done. Did and then.

Air sucked from the heart, gone dry as the eyes.
Some feel the dark only long enough to see the light.
Flat as muds parched to famine.
The next to last might be the only one that grows.

Only I have such free time for these things.
No physical weighs on us. No more.
We jump to the beat one more time.
What it's all about.
It's not me knows.
Not here.
Not now.
Not then.

Sunday, February 6, 2011


Tomorow truncated
Living segment to segment,
A road trip counting mile markers, peering past lines blue, lines red
Counting trainloads of graffitti rolling by
Swaying this and that, lullaby of the rails
Though we dare not
To sleep

Gathered the largest, swept together the others, held together
a large silvery ball, sticky duct tape
Kicked far and away then it too is all gone
Nothing left but suicide
but first to shear those seven rams
I wanted tonight to be different, but this place isn't us
Not that we're planning any funerals
just going out for another roll

Dancing here on cliffs edge almost guarantees we fall
There are no spontaneous energies, only hard fought thoughts quick to slip from conscious and being. I care not to Run after - there is no point. I am told to embrace all of it -- downs and ins and disappointments and not and expectations shattered and life's despair bad and good and death hopes
But we know in the next step is no
promise, no urgency, no reason
The air we breathe I cannot feel, but all around me it I see
Who are you to see these things I feel?
To feel the things I think I see?
A twinge of recognition, like deja vu, not even.
Even if I told it with outloud language then even not,
you wouldn't know me not if you could, not wanting can be strong
Like you. I am even though not to you
No, I don't
want to dance
you didn't have to ask
I already know.

In the end
Thoughts flutter like bats from the bridge
Dark beginnings. Brighter ends.

Pausing fiercely then to repopulate
Floating in the fray, sea foam populated
but there is nobody here
Digging a hole to the sun
Leaving the other's grave in the attic
Maybe for another day to fill with hymns and prayers
Letting loose the rabbit to howl
To run
To run and howl one more day
Til we all fall down

quiet at night

Om natten
too much sickness
in the lobby.
For those who don't believe Christmas is overrated.
The operation is risky -- dii or paralysis. The better? dead and know not or to know all with no recourse?
What is mercy anyway?

Without somethings we all die.
Define worst case scenario, use it in a sentence.
The music tinkles along even after the globe is smashed, snow glittering over the floor. I see you speak but your words have no sound. Of course you're not nervous waiting for it to end. What I said yesterday I'm sorry. It not my business. Religious crap. A whole year. A cold blue light, sharp edged, dispensed our secrets in quick short whispers. For there's no telling. It never really was a secret after all. Futility, sterility, and another bottle of beer. This will be our last party together. Infrequent calls become none. We never hear from you again but to read what is wrote to others. Of which we are no part. So we tidy up more quietly, putting this new absence to rest with the others. Wanting. Knowing. There is nothing for it. On a narrow thin bed in the ward we lie. Only six. How can only six be sufficient. But tomorrow will be another day, or not. Then will we know, or not. I'm not so brave as you think I am. Else we would not stop at six, wondering about the morrow. Someone should be affected when a person dies. Someone should grieve. To show it matters a person dies. Many died alone. Not even I knew.

A babylonian drone. A banty rooster coming down the alley way with wings akimbo. The subway clitter and clacks. No one looks. At another. No one talks. To another. Pages stared at. Or through. Marks made. Charlie breaks rank. Charlie speaks. Charlie listens. The others hear only one man. Now they look. For only a second. C'est magnifique. Notes from the margins. A man. A margin. Little tolerances. Small thoughts. We're not like the others.


We're still hoping someone will see us.
Hear us.
Pretend ... whatever, maybe.
Like things we've done and let be.

Another chance for eulegy. Breathing in, breathing out with out assistance. Cut from your cloth so there's nothing left for a pair of trousers.
Coming up out of the sea.

Couldn't find my voice so we went shopping. Where everything's the same. There in a dingy tethered to saggy shiny myylar clouds. Buy one get one. Discontinued. As is. The knives were one aisle over. Memories big on things that never were. But I see you there destined in a darkling world, Like a sun that never wants photographed. We have left no focused circumstances as those, nothing so grand as a big red lollipop. It's just us, here alone like, letting ourselves be swallowed. Whole we slip away. While we kick our feet against the angels coming. Never to go against the rhythm; rythm is the everything

Rythm and the melody and the day and the night. We're all out of words now. Waiting a shipment but expecting it to blow in Mumbai, raining down verbs and nouns on children who never think twice on anything comes from above. Still
the brains to think diagnosis and cure but it's only just and nothing more but the world's own hard and futile place. Flowing like water out of ourselves. For the moon gets a do over while we stumble long down another street
Solvitur ambulando.

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