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No one can smother the interpretation of the stars as you

Under 11

Everyone was wondering
About the dialogue in parliament
Hands hollowing out
To look through a telescope
A pack of spies approaching somnolence
The African Cichlid fish in New Jersey
Floating through various tanks drawn by Salvador Dali
The unrequited fascination with dream
The muffled approach of blindfolded gravediggers
Bad ideas migrating across the tabletops
The basement air coalition taken suddenly as having more then a single mouth
Nozzle full of hearsay
And the deer die on what ever street they encounter gas and electricity
You cannot imagine how many store fronts turned to museums
Playing cards muffled by knife angles
There is no corresponding constitution
Nothing to refine
Or set forth
And we can whisper to ourselves
Clean our windows
Calibrate and clock the frenzy of less then random occurrences
Or swim upside down

Worked through gonzo bloodline
I the librarian
The sluggish white moths collected by the millions
Pressed against a universe of black and stainless steel pans
Where once the fish military swam
Where the billowing of wooden boxes can imitate a birdcall
Where a sideways glance can destroy the evidence of thinking
Where hidden corners conceal empires
Where the whole of the whole is really only half
And that’s just the beginning of this thing
I the librarian
A statistician of mouth mumbling
Of opposition to morning noon and night
Of the concealment of puppetry under three piece suites and homely table cloths
Of vision revised by the total picture
Of the religious order of pyromaniac broken and in bankruptcy
I the librarian
Having circled
Will continue making sense somehow
Of this collection

White boat waiting for my head
South Brooklyn Casket Compan.
Sufficiency
Acquiescence
Hold out you arm for the mosquitoes
Make sure it is dead
Heavy white
Tattoos of slaughtered
Cream Jars

Succeed to the land of impudent context
Smolder without secession
Crouch about the low buildings
That contain
The rewound realizations
Put on a narrow suite made for a snake
Hit the button
Take the nosedive

Speak out against this drowning
You cannot lat things in water
Blue mouths
X's across both eyes
The end of suspense
Was the suspension of tense
Not only moving nowhere
But contributing to it

Underdoging the Underdog

I was wrung out by the excesses of the world.
By the guillotine monster selling selfishness in the back rooms of luxury.
I was hit by the camaraderie of those on the take.
Their profoundly twisted discipline.
The way they walked on the floor as if nothing was happening.
And it grew around me.
A suite made of lemons.
A thick rind of acerbic mush.
My head forgetting the wonder.
Neither reading nor thinking.
The incredible crimes of myself are persisting,
as I am now forgetful.

Woke up.
Poked my head out the window.
Looked around.
I was crushed by the world.

This cannot be, that I am here, and yet have yet to learn.

The grammar of the moment is not predictable by ordinary means.
And did you know that the Analects of Confucius were sold to the nobility way before anyone else got their hands on them.
Sitting on top of the kingdom of information, has not given us what one would imagine.
Or maybe I’m just assuming, my ability to see what is really going on, diminished by the spectacles I’ve grown.
Either way; and; or, double pincushions litter the sky.
The fountain mouth cannot drain out the dry.
As in ceremony, I will be carried out in real time from the Ant maker shop.
Where every single insect is wrought.
Were eyes are hewn and outer shell marked with insignia way over my head.
This cannot be, that I am here, and yet have yet to learn.

At the table dreaming.

The first condition placed down on the heavy table.
Covering every inch.
Shows oversights in the sky.
Crows as large as cows.
Just about everything, conversations about the distribution of twenty-five inch black outlined red circles, the midtown animal opera, the retractable forest in Switzerland, the Sharpie company ominously marketing permanent food on Park Avenue street corners, the lost and drunk fishing fleets learning the language of conquistadors from over sized sea birds.
Just about everything they put on the table was controlled by a white briefcase.
They drew back the claws of our minister with a muffler made of red wine.
They researched the viability of letting the world go dark again so we could see the stars.
So the “heavens” would distribute a fine mist.
I began to float up and out the window.
I floated over things more grand then I can say.
I had lost my mind in artificial paradise.
My feet deposited here.
This little island I have been hanging on to.
Has disappeared.

But most likely not for the public.

As I have rushed through the air in a dream.
Half of my body absorbed in Einstein’s equations.
Made green paper mobiles as we actually figured out how to slow down the speed of light.
Tried to see the lab coats moving, cauterizing the future production we will not share until a product is marketed.
It is a span of bridge running over water from a completely different civilization.
I want to be shot when I am sleeping.

~OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~

The king of owe.

For thirty-one years I have circled the same place, my organs committed to the singular filibuster of myself.
On the irregular adventure of the presentation of something just under the craters of moon.
Yes I talk about that a lot.
For some reason it is the only thing that I can touch, but knowing that I will never set foot is progress too.
You may think it not, you may also find yourself over fed and roasted up for a dinner that the king and his prize herd of goats will talk aobut tommrow.
Or in the white light kitchen they may crack you open and set you aside for the making of toys.
I cannot seem to find recompense for all the things brought upon me.
Not as if I didn’t involve myself in my slow rise to fame according to the collectors of what I owe.
But they broke my antenna years ago, with that little box full of stupid ideas from some kind of purgatory.
All the swindlers of the day have forged it well.
Have gone to town with the shoveling of it, and man all you little boys and girls better know how much it really sucks to owe what you don’t have.

Swap

What a great way to throw shock into the world!
Kneeling down and exchanging my head for another.
One from the yard with lunatics.
All staring out at the precipice.
The horror they immediately understand.
Our ridicule is turned inward.
What we cannot hear, they do.

Each honeybee is pre washed and canned without breaking the wing filament.

King volcano the Novocain out of reach.
Taking note of the failure of such explosions.
I yield to underwater hippo monster.
I give back the wonder to the moon.
I float over the water, all limbs new as in birth.
A recession of the fumigated marching columns of death.
My teeth golden peaches.
Each alphabetical deposit ordered into the etymological syndrome.
The history of the sounds coming out of our mouths.
Climbing up the walls of vanilla bottles.
And into the processing plant.

Francisco Goya on Main Street

What one attempts when in a town that has houses gathered together like street pigeons, is the making of a map.
You must include the black bull with sugarcane eyes at the ready for murder.
I am sure this would be the town center.
The square measure of Main Street.
A church with double spires and respiratory tract the likes of a hurdy gurdy.
And you ready for the burial of bird sound, of waves sloshing gently from the sea.
The gardens no longer producing recognizable vegetables.
The clouds like vapors cover in cold, a loosely distributed white ink glue, expanding its hands.
I have not abandoned my visits there.
Crowds hover down to see what kinds of knives will be used next.
In the fight for psychopathic control of the generals sleeve.
I must find the Royal Academy and send some letters of approval.

Captain Ahab In Japan

I have not yet begun to reenact all of the crazy things, which have been done to whale blubber.
The lady, her blue bonnet, at night, light in hand, perfume on.
All of this, the product of a harpoon.
Over six years ago I stood in a Japanese tearoom made of paper, and vomited up my guts.
Because I could not stand alone in the floating world.
Because of pickled eggs.
I am now a student of the inner mutiny.
My hands grasping my head, ever so gently, and separating it from my neck.

Look out below!

Sin of the Glass Jar Magic

Last summer I learned how to can things in glass jars.
First I started with some diamonds, which I stole from a very unappealing old woman on the twentieth floor of the drip-dry building off Fifth Avenue.
To the surprise of few, I managed to do this with the swift movement of a single hand, in a gesture somewhat similar to a forty-five minute ballet dance, full muscle control as Schubert’s Le Voyage Magnifique streamed its honey surface in the background.

The next canning project where I managed to very tightly fit all of the broken umbrellas of the day, (a very stormy one at that) required that I waterproof a suit of clothing that I held in high esteem, for it was hand tailored by an Inuit Eskimo who I had the pleasure of meeting at my advanced sociology class in Essen Germany, and upon taking my measurements I was given the impression this suit was the very last to ever be made by the old whaling hands of an extremely intelligent fellow who had given birth to the world in nine months with his mouth and five magical spells.

My third and final act involved staining the sides of the jar a fine spider flower blue white and spinning huge cones of newly picked soybeans and tea leaves into a manifold illusion altogether disappearing.

Like an exhibit at the Hermitege in St. Petersburg disappearing and with no one having ever viewed it, a lack of consolation entirely.
As great muffles of oil canvas and Faberge eggs are lopped off onto a black highway of henchmen to the underground.
Glass jar preservation is dead.
I pause for a moment my demeanor tested.

What is the motive?
I appeal to world tribunals.

Critical Exquisite
My jars are filled with this.
The clawing of coo coo birds.
The farmyard weather vain violently obeying the wind.
My hands involuntarily draped at my sides, a Cano paddle in each.
I see the useless monolith gone stale, the popular process of pulling weeds from the ground for selectivity super championed.
The sounds of composition detailing the orchestral filibuster have gained their weight and suffocated me.
I am the large ear sliced off and offered as a drone for the pity of the ages.
I cannot listen anymore.
There is no connection.
This is the magic of the glass jars.
Sitting on your living room floor.
Stopping the daytime light refraction and exposing the sky to its negative night.
A battle, which cannot come true.
I the crystalline carbon thief.

Flabbergast

Flabbergast, that I have an intestine longer than the length at which I lie in bed.
I have been a student of the ant farm for about ten years.
Eating yogurt and staring at the colony.
Taking notes while slipping cotton gloves on my hands so that I can support the cause of fabric farming.
Or eating yellow pieces of tart and gluing small letters to the tank, asking questions like – May I talk to your queen about a ring fitting?
It wastes your time doing this, moving your eyeballs firmly from east to west, then down, then back again.
I have built the architecture to represent something.
Suppressing your desires to rise from you chair and join those whom stare, counting thin strands of electricity dashing about the larder.
A structure not as neat as a metal box lined with Styrofoam and wire.
It doesn’t represent the public appetite for recycling and refrigeration.
But a structure built for the death of cocktail hour.
Breaking the lamentably thin continuation of our march towards the middle finger of God.
And then, I know I have gone on for too long.
It is a spasm.
A fit where the only way to remove this constant doubt, is quiet.

Farmer of the Moon.


Often over emphasized and gigantic, there are things I have put into a sauté pan for the olfactory ignition.
Like when I found a neighbors diving board and attached a grandfather clock to its tip.
Or when I replaced a fence plank with a piñata depicting the wooden leg of a springing albino Rhinoceros lunging after a cigar brown tour bus from Naples.
Look, I have been running around trying not to spoil the moment.
My attempts at putting up row after row of sand bags has divined very little protection for me.
I could not prophesize the bloating of my abdomen.
The free fall of everything in my absence.
Nor the practice of unsanitary acupuncture.
But if you can get control, even slightly, then maybe just maybe,
the Museum of Modern History may wind up with the appropriate calculations for my disconnection from society, and have an empty casket filled with paper pieces and garlic snippets from the fifth floor of a random building on the moon.

The maker of Napoleon.

Is this some sort of joke?
The way that a shadow black striped snake fits it’s food to eat.
The level of volume withheld from a mouth and lung suffocated by a cardboard gag, held on with a strip of tape manufactured at the hands of a self loathing bread baker?
I could see it in that metal oven,
the size of a solid-state radio on steroids.
The opening and sliding in of dough, blue with misery.
The opening and sliding out of patisseries that would follow you to your death.
Gladly sitting there on top of your grave marker, never changing, always impervious to the wind, never stale,
Continuing in their state of the publicly held notion of fresh.
I can see the insides of this instrumentation, diablerie extrordinare.
How they all fit so neatly inside of us.
Or psychological desperation met with exquisite workmanship and flavor.
How the large glue-white boats traveled from the depth of the lobster to unleash them.
At the hands of our super study, or mass of markers transfixed for the notion of action as inspiration.
I drank last night without you, and thought of this.
My love collapsing like the ripening of a perfect basket of fruit.
My face retreating into its own hole.
I am the aficionado of poison.