I AM OVER SATISFIED BY NOTHING!

2003-01-15T10:23:00.000-05:00

I am appalled by the killing man
The immobility of the mountain has disappeared into the wide trees
Found a home in the cattle garden where dead bones of rusting machines wither reddish lobster shells filled with lights beams
Oh a furrow in your brow my math has gotten stuck in some kind of halfway concussion
Confusion
For our times so promising

2002-12-19T15:14:00.000-05:00

A mouth pressed against nothing will go on.

2002-12-19T15:11:00.000-05:00

Things are leaking out of my heart

2002-12-12T08:56:00.000-05:00

To come out from the form of traditional marksmanship and pull the hat off
Tumbling in the reworking of pure nudity
the extraordinary moment when the body is not belittled by it hangings.
Like the film The Gleaners and I goes on
in its French saboteur reduction of our careless everyday to show we pour out smoke from the stack and do not see the making of birds and blessing cold handless clocks with the forethought that a celery scrap can be brought to stove with a flair for the underground grass
rethinking the pastry source of all its people.
Now I will ware a green hat made from discarded apple leaves
Knowing not to trust that all those that I have discarded belong in any place that I understand but stand upon.
Yes, God blessed the ground.

2002-09-16T12:26:00.000-04:00

I wild alone
My eyes dream death
My heart is gone
What hope is this?
In hopelessness
I dream

2002-09-13T13:33:00.000-04:00

In the midst of verbal defection
I am given to red paperwork
Houses full of secret entryways rooms hidden by hanging milk jars

2002-09-12T09:57:00.000-04:00

perhaps fear is a worthless thing

2002-09-11T16:16:00.000-04:00

Flames in my mouth I am at a standstill with what you have told me
I will press my ear to hear now what I was missing
And hope that our parting will become a new way to listen

2002-08-21T13:22:00.000-04:00

Ode to the pleasure of a small radio
Right now in this moment thank you for the small buttery blur in my ears

2002-08-20T06:55:00.000-04:00

Impartiality to the renaissance

2002-07-10T08:05:00.000-04:00

Song to be sung by a dead old one

Are we dead now?
Under the earth
Wet - suffered the things of birth
Complacent yet angry too
all of the moments when I thought I knew you
all of the moments when I thought I knew

This kind of rest will pull me back
Roots in the garden on the roof of the world
But you’re busy listening to other words
My mouth holds a lemon

2002-07-09T09:40:00.000-04:00

I am floating in bubbles that are sure to bust.
Just another time again for the pea shooters to strike.
I will not revile will not fall back
my mouth will stay open to the library.

2002-07-09T09:34:00.000-04:00

The trouble with the bottomless pit is we have lost our imagination with it.

2002-07-09T09:28:00.000-04:00

For this there is no true mediation, only decimation from one single rat.
I am not putting the whole thing for sale under the terms of this disagreement.
No f%$#@& way!

2002-06-27T07:19:00.000-04:00

bindi baby bindi

2002-06-27T06:54:00.000-04:00

Elimination of purpose, just great!

2002-06-05T18:30:00.000-04:00

Rain in my ears all night
The smoke bled out of the washing gloves
Now instead of yellow
They are old Chinese mans beard white.
I led the dogs to the speaker’s podium on north brown flying bug street.
With chicken tongs the women are levitating in homage to the pacemaker inside of the blue nun.
Are we are done for?

2002-06-05T18:11:00.000-04:00

I have eaten the rope, now the central question is why this makes a difference to the lobster on the bottom of the sea.
I have killed a strawberry, now one wonders if Sesame Street will wither away into a small red pond on the edge of a travel map.
I have finished Book’s One through Three of the ballyhooed Harry Potter series, now the question is will I inherit scuba gear so that I can travel underwater bringing the fish comic books and dried meat.

2002-06-02T11:31:00.000-04:00

How can we make them understand, that they need to understand, in order to understand?

2002-05-28T08:43:00.000-04:00

In the furious time of important death we belong to our own place.
So don’t you tell me that there is no way to follow this.
Don’t tell me that there is no control.
I better not ever come across someone with an eraser!

2002-05-26T10:23:00.000-04:00

At this point the availability of information has eclipsed it!

2002-05-21T17:05:00.000-04:00

This is not the way that it is supposed to go is it?

2002-05-18T12:35:00.000-04:00

So the first memory which I have been blessed to bring forth has nothing to do with intercommunication instead it is more motivated by the need to convert most of the things into parts.
Parts of pig
Parts of hands
Parts of vibrations caused by migration
Parts dissecting the universal provisional vegetable and frozen sections of the elevator which is straining to go to the upper floors but cant’ quite seem to get there
Stuck dreading decent into abysmal shovel reaches of bottom
What is the use?
If you cannot find the information!
What is the use if the information you found has no significance to your current placement.
I am ready to brush up on tuba and the rubber math and the snow heater and the seeds that precede the birth of the rolling lamps and boxed cigar makers.
But what does that make of me?

2002-05-14T11:19:00.000-04:00

My mouth a blur
Orange circles in the farm room
Jaw spread in the geometric palm tree
Butter and volcanic ash in the pockets
Dead bodies in the vestibule
When the evening comes and I have dreamt all dreams
I have opened up the trap door for myself

2002-05-07T14:10:00.000-04:00

I remember the problem with thick medical journals
There are three men in a boat, two are old, the third I have no idea
They are pulling white bottomed red rimmed boat around with a dark blue bleach yellow detailed electric motor
You can hear a lot of things very clearly on the water
even if you think that you are whispering it is bound to plop through
“You are what you say”
The circus acrobat is in possession of a twelve hundred pound powder white butcher cat
The kind that claws its way through piles of hamburger meat at the fast food pits all around our wondrous roadways
I like to walk and when I think that it is time to stop I get near the biggest tree I can find throw a rope up around one of its limbs gently tying a nice loop through the rest for my neck.
“You are what you say”

2002-05-06T17:59:00.000-04:00

This brings me about
Thirty-one hands inside of my brain all doing something different
Dreamland
Adventures in China; Scotland; Egrets nest; Rubber sunshine
Pots of owl tongs spread out over the pincushion thick rug; shaving cream blood farm
The matador singing French to the giraffes in the green room
This the flophouse mythologies
Taping themselves over and over again
And only to find
Plastic jowls and puff cases clamping down over the head of cinema; comets; liberty; rain drop exhibition
Common value is nothing anymore
A literally distinctive extinction
The installation of drain on dream

2002-05-02T10:27:00.000-04:00

We have all become the buzzards dream.

2002-05-02T10:06:00.000-04:00

Buzzard in the time of flight.

I have retraced the death of the forensics department.
Retackled, revisited, renewed, roughed, rocketed, rambled.
In the wintertime, all of the baking and drinking took quite a stitching out of the Eskimo population.
Death, impunity, dignity, drinking, irrational, quick sink, muffle, leather eyecup.
I am reminded of the smell I detected while walking under the London Bridge.
Flow of moving frogs, cramped box of sticks, mini snow inside brain.
I was carrying a sack of Marbles made from a cast iron bathtub, which was evidently removed from a witch doctors office in upper Mongolia on the count of it being far too heavy for the floor.
The sack was made out of 100 Minnow shins.
Alligator pins, lobster lollies, and freshly killed bubble gum from beneath the wheels of trolleys.
I am not a fan of the official constraints of how one must must.
Banister, pinstripe, bullhorn, potato splice, small summertime.
Take a right turn at the corner of the delicate,
Lay your blood down at the white tree,
Poke holes in the mouth of the umbrella bird.
There are so many ways not to care.
Sitting on oil, a golden pot of watch clocks on your lap, what a way to force feed the imperial birth we all seem to be waiting for.
Bid us all whip.
Send in the scientists with the ethicists.
Lets fill the room with accumulations of the paper resuscitation.
And plainly state how much is not know anymore.
Through the general publics assistance to the letter dopes and video hoax of the hog on high dreams of garbage bagged matriculation into the abyss of self abuse and half use of the brain.
Fling it all, fling it all to the moon.
That big white blue stain in the sky.
The buzzards dream.

2002-04-30T11:21:00.000-04:00

In anticipation of the over swing
Electromagnetic circles over blue white tulips
I would not buy anything from the paper licker
I would not spend one cent

2002-04-25T10:28:00.000-04:00

What to do without you
watching me from the clouds
your feet in the air
you know how I don’t understand
airbrushings
or fool fussings
how I would rather work on mustard and ping pong talk.

But really how desperate is the world for that?
And you suppose that anyone can see it anyhow.
I am so sick of the slick motherfuckers thinking that this is the way to be
just look inside your own belly
and when you do ask one simple question

2002-04-25T09:54:00.000-04:00

Letter box of the drunk fellow on the fifth floor has a pice of paper in it.
Looks like a swolen toung just sitting there.

2002-04-19T08:28:00.000-04:00

The necessity of revision
Far more focusing on this thing away
Yet pointing right back
To the leathery head and mouth full of fish eyes

2002-04-18T10:32:00.000-04:00

In death turn over
pull out of your placement
go shooting around in dirt
search out beefsteak tomato roots
Suckle boulders
Show up in salt pieces floating in ocean
Tie down bird’s eggs into the underground city
watch them hatch
teach them how to talk to underground monkeys

2002-04-17T13:05:00.000-04:00

Some things that I could not believe
Or almost everything as electric meters timing the death of the moment
Or the moment of death
not the moment of depth
The cycle of crawling
a plume of milk in the corner of grass ground

2002-04-15T16:57:00.000-04:00

For unlimited reasons
I quiet my breath
For eyes blending sky into empty space
I redesign the menagerie of thought
Into minutia
I must resolve the yellow in my brain

2002-04-15T16:01:00.000-04:00

Avenues for them
Smashed hats to throw over volcanoes
The distribution of destiny
The guarantor of the cross hatching
Where are we now?

2002-04-15T14:41:00.000-04:00

Vilification is easier then eating a plate of eggs

2002-04-15T09:23:00.000-04:00

Wholesale lard
Contained in blue grocery bags
And mouths open
And moving
A flow in the rice rain
And words wrapped in the cylindrical helium green box
floating onto wall papered ceiling of the hospital
where victims of the expression of stupidity encounter more of it
It being that which has over counted and reported without consideration for the formatting of the renaissance
Then again if you try too hard
might as well swing aside the bulk of everything
Go to ancient countries where they sell birds on the open market
And stuff one in your mouth
So that you belly can feel some sort of music

2002-04-01T22:14:00.000-05:00

Perambulation the rubber nose is on time and the tools have been given.
It takes far more character then a Zebra eating celery
black white and green cannot fully administer the shadows apparent in the oil and the paper mustache and the blanket made of mustard and horse brains.
There are teeth in this thing somewhere
they are expressing a full line of neatly delivered language in some sort of language.

2002-03-30T23:21:00.000-05:00

And who are we to be so dumb and struck with dumbness?

2002-03-30T23:15:00.000-05:00

And new things glow like lobsters in the lobster church with bells and solid brass gun muzzles stuffed into the holy sea sky.

2002-03-28T09:57:00.000-05:00

A simple paper bag full of jellyfish.

The man in the small white chair
looking at the wallpaper contemplating.
Small pictures of a paper bag with a Jellyfish sliding out,
finely printed like the girl on the Morton Salt cylinder
with a proper umbrella to displace the ink rain.
But each repeat at a faint sort of blue print blue
to look out in-between your five blood circulating fingers and see the park at the time when the trees are astray in the fields of June.
You do not know where to go with this.

A completely destroyed moment,
when you checked to make sure everyone was in agreement.
Why don’t you just forget about that ………
It does you no good!
Stick with all of it!
Find your way to heaven with jelly between your toes.

2002-03-21T14:22:00.000-05:00

Foundry has run dry.
The science fiction writers go on squabbling about their innards.
The stars gone wrong.
Fiction through the microscope old green lime skins encasing mutant fish.
Bananas have wings with red alphabetic marks.
People are grazing in the parking lot fields their pockets full of poisonous glowing fudge.
There is no room for simple complaining anymore.

2002-03-19T08:43:00.000-05:00

The hog plays with its milk dish as I write watching the lettering pour out
A contamination to the discipline of ink
But I go on
looking for ceramic boats launching at times tomorrow
Blue wax paper portraiture
Chinese stoves heating underbelly of birdcage farm
is single yellow green red flame on Cherry Plum Avenue
I am convinced that an abstract way can still exist
It’s honor is definitive
And even before I begin to care for luxury I have these pleasures
As time is a wonder
So may I also find the way for my eyes to glow

2002-03-15T12:37:00.000-05:00

Thinking does not retire, it compresses itself into a ten-ton accordion.

2002-03-14T08:41:00.000-05:00

Afternoon food
elevators to the beehive
wood painted red ladders
to the utters of the yellow black mothers

2002-03-13T19:10:00.000-05:00

I think that we should acknowledge the existence of such things, deal with them in accordance with the principle that they exist. If you don’t get it you should try and understand what “it” is you don’t get.

2002-03-13T09:10:00.000-05:00

Protest can represent the absolute form of being awake.
But that’s only when you really know your shit!
And me my mouth keeps falling dumb.

2002-03-07T09:04:00.000-05:00

Implacable the scientist delight, the over reaching of an elephant depicted on the wrapper of a box of "giant" glue
which is blue
as blue as the dark corner in the rug factory, where the collaborative efforts of unspoken words fester into a dime worthy blowgun
Martha has problems with her plants, their intestines are filled with small animals awaiting the hurricane

2002-03-05T08:32:00.000-05:00

Is it possible to reconcile the fathomless?
The spine shook straight from the funny papers?
The death of the onions growing on the carpets of the mathematical teachers?

2002-01-24T16:04:00.000-05:00

Refrigerator magnet poem limitation in the sticking of bits of words lacking quite a lot of what one thinks one needs

Good stream which will surround you in the trees
Sacred cranking marble voice dark fish cloud color
Red fat cake almost the flying melon of my sacrifice
Could bring down my eyes
I am not like the vast universe but a prisoner living in a deep concrete hole
All my making
You must explore life or seep into decay
As a fool

2002-01-22T14:54:00.000-05:00

Many hours of dream
erase the configuration of existing
in the brief moment of double ends
and I am ready for a reworking to posses
the next light

2002-01-03T12:18:00.000-05:00

Red Fig Tea Ornamentation of the most beautiful subtle line.

For what I did best
and in the death of my dreaming
I have calculated
pressed out the lettering for sounds.
Sounds will remain
lullabies for jellied white bread colored moths
holding behind Juniper trees.
And tomorrow as all will be painted in new day
I will not wonder about silence
I will not sit over paper pad contemplating the context with which I will displace the white space.
I will not marvel at the temperament of Octopus oval brain hulking my attempts of escape.
It is so simply easy
to be demoralized
to be a victim of pattern stretched so thin
that nothing is left
but the remnants of delivery.

2001-12-28T11:31:00.000-05:00
To be recited at the neutering of a humming bird.

In sleep we lay defining now
defamed by none but fellow brow.
And burst upon the steel chair glow
of yellow lakes and rice.

I try to sing
but with
no notes
And make this
black warm day
a night of stars.

Can we follow?
How can we follow
the sheep in super clothes?
Our eyes in light had slept through much.
We must rework the curtain’s touch
to floor.
I cannot sink a mother ship
a paragraph
a blast of ink.
I cannot pierce through slowing gouges.
My forehead is in pain.
And then I saw the super sheep it nearly blew my brain.

In sleep I reached the totem top.
Pushed myself through blurry clouds
came upon the dreaming tree
where I would crouch down
upon my shoulders lay white holy shroud.
Become rain water bowl
on breakfast table of tunnel people.

This is incontrovertible silence
this is paper from the makers of the moon
this is red garden and blue water all in bottles labeled hay pile
the death of too much to tell
the birth of the glass head in the holy house of lighted birds
reaching up past it's place to weep.

2001-12-22T10:08:00.000-05:00
God and the night with an empty mouth.
Man pushing hot milk bottles into yawning face
of ant
bright orange hill.
Woman taking notes on the mother giraffe
here now in the bright green grass.
Golden staff has lifted itself
over all in the world
we are welded to the perfect time
and the staff inlaid with pictogram
of the dream of dreams.

2001-12-21T09:29:00.000-05:00
Yellow lime lightening mouth.
The possession of the greatest regression
for which all form and content is exposed and removed.
Squeeze advanced library calculation
which at night seemed to zip the matter of meaning up
and lifted things with sophisticated welts
tattoos of sailing vessels released by birth of monkey queen in the fourteenth centaury.
Lifted and launched groupings of paper work water colors
turned into glowing puddles on rooftops of grand cathedrals from other planetary atmosphere
where they too go on all day
picking fruit from trees and murdering each other.
Open all of the grand cabinetry
the finely designed wooden sphinxes and school cubbyholes
inspect content
press the issue of professional puppetry in peach pie factory
the sky at birth of fire flies green with white hearing green time trembling
awake with mouths agape.
Inspect grand pianos with gloves made of porcupine quills.
Grow genetic oddities in the mass waterways and privately sleep with a golden crown upon your head.
What is this here?
The means to an end is another beginning
a billowing loop of time
again will pin something down.
And if it cannot will turn back to rethink the ways of swimming fish
of flying birds
of miracle and mania.

2001-12-20T12:38:00.000-05:00
If I cannot hear sound
then what would be coming through my black and white cake ears?
How and why would my eyes turn down the birds?
What of the thousand things I am blanking out now
which were so much larger then I can account for.
You are wounded with invisible contraptions
making their way on burnt butter carpets
roughly strewn
clearly death is not a form
till it makes form of something
and spins it away into the ground and air.
No longer can I hear what is coming for me
a noose
a cup of orangish white coffee.
Another thing brought into my hands
remaining indistinguishable.

2001-12-15T10:39:00.000-05:00
Raw time in world
It is raining
I have 12 pieces of ginger
each one a blue town with clouds
12 heavy oblong walking meters screwed to the floor
chocolate sculpted to the likeness of rodents
clocks are made of tracing paper
Caravaggio’s heavy bodies gnawing away any relief

2001-12-14T20:25:00.000-05:00
Note

Really
really there is no room for pomposity
I have looked into this
Solidification
Time does not drift in a plate of Saga Blue Cheese only
Not to mention that we are mostly dishonest anyway
With the amount of knowledge we really have
subject matter blimpish
a non-ridged airship
very full of course
as the completion of two differing points
only one is fully pressed
And then
there is the fact that misinformation
is rampant as all
and everything
Air is pouring out of the colonel’s mustache

2001-12-14T09:00:00.000-05:00
The animals go on unclassified
Entire musical ensembles encased in their mouths
tongues painted with ancientness
red parchment monastery and ministry suspended in living time

My feet planted in pavement honeycomb
clock on wall
still thoughts shuddering on springs coiled for goldentime
this is not goldentime

2001-12-13T15:56:00.000-05:00
Mongrels all of them
circling
Pushing paper plates and mop heads into the empire
Pushing replicas of umbrellas under wooden trestles
into southern woods
yellow sails folded
laid out in red green pine fields
mouth of ocean floating blue boxes
blue black flooding
those dressed in tailor made mementos of rotten big time
Rotten big time and the classical cow manure washing down on the pink faces of children
We are here with our full quotation around which thrives half of the mechanical progress of the trolley cars
We are here our comments not properly aligned to the taste and reckoning of the figures entrenched in ultimate design
that tomorrow must be protected so we can move on
We are here as everyone should know
it matters to the slow muscles in the brain which do not receive
challenge
the drifting concepts
to think
unless we start to swallow enough water
and you and I have had enough

2001-12-11T16:52:00.000-05:00
Call me off me
And buy the honey maid a gown of pink pig paw
and reach around the jowls of monkey man
is against far too much
and woman is against far too much
we are indebted to argument
yet do not know why
It is our place to simmer up here
and drink what we can squeeze
and feel as much we can
till night falls big
and our palms cannot
press the earth

2001-12-11T16:45:00.000-05:00
and we are what
or what are we

2001-12-11T16:44:00.000-05:00
My eye

I have dreamt with one eye again
Forming black cases with my arms and fingers
Telescopes of glass sprung from fire and underwater white moon
And when I was steeping tea in the yard
my blue raincoat was slung over stone tigers
stone mane orange black stripe at front of the orchard
full of steam ships and
of farm squid
acclimated well to the rounding off of the new world
where your average fruit trees bend themselves towards ink well
And I am elevated by the invention of plastic
even if
I don’t want to be
I will never understand with clear
What this means to me
I cannot say I know anymore
As I am space
and space is me
and we are black with stars.

2001-12-09T17:02:00.000-05:00
I was slaughtered in the caramel making factory.

2001-12-09T11:04:00.000-05:00
Thirty Minutes of the filibuster

Charlie Mingus playing the base
typewriter with yellow goat bearded humming bird
in each hand
typewriter pistol from the sinking world
Pick up the chopsticks to pick up the loose ends
of the world
weld a fine lid over the basket of chicken and buns we have been poisoned to believe would feed our desire
I cannot counter the decisions
only contain myself and slam on cardboard keys
refocus light on the sleeping booths of my insides
And promise that I play for the museum pieces pined under files in between the floor mats and jungle gibberish of the contemporary bumblers
looking for the contemporary!
They are looking
this fanatical looking
this frenzy to float above
ocean like a million pound person on the rise from feet dipped in gold
and floating above the cities
and floating above the rivers
and bending their neck to breath fire
all over the babies born of yester year
God I hope you will play to play and not the game
I hope you will play to play
And not to clean your sins
‘cause the apples born through the blowers of glass
green
red
are ready
to be wiped from the sky
with the miracle of the minute

2001-12-07T22:32:00.000-05:00
Recipe for disaster; get inside my shoes!

2001-12-06T11:20:00.000-05:00
And there is the sea, at wintertime, when all the mocking birds, brown blue black, are floating on top.
And there is the ice in your mouth, and a red shoe on your foot, and you have bookmarks in about as many books as you own.
And you sleep and dream about having eyes the size and shape of a snapping turtle shell.
And you check your pockets and find complete meals; entire roasts, vegetable gardens and butterfly shaped rolling pins to make the wonder pie.
And at night, just about everything can be reduced down to a little gray white color sound.
And you sink in to the sides of land; great cliffs are your hammocks.
And the light that you can see in the air reminds you of the pine needles on the island with the honeybee eggs.
And the yellow bus is filled with shoe polish tins, which have brail paper on their hard red labels, so the blind can have nice and happy strides in their walks with working dogs.
And you make unrecognizable movements with your hands.
And you sit in the windows of the Llama palace attempting to explain the bathtub phenomenon.
How when you were little you made small rafts out of the tongues of cows, after reading Huckleberry Finn, and floated them gently down the imaginary Mississippi River.
And how you gave blood to the miniature people in the office of fake golden owls, and they heralded you the minister of stretch mark.
How you gave birth to the first flower with your fingers, and some vocabulary borrowed from the book of hiding things.
And there is the sea at wintertime, when all the mocking birds, blue black brown, are floating on top.

2001-12-05T23:10:00.000-05:00
What is this conspiratorial muffler
I fasten
I reduce myself to nearly nothing
blurs over weighted
deliberate sugar
deliberate bureaucracy made the hatchling sing
rope marks on its neck before it could have even been
olives at midnight still hanging out on the trees of Italy
and I am somewhere stooped over with a yellow stripe down my back
Call in the metaphysician to get it all together
Name names
press stamps on the hardware
'cause we just ain't getting it

2001-12-05T12:43:00.000-05:00
The birth and death of this.

I can no more retrace
and gather as outworn
I am
not thankful of inner persecution.
The instruments of sweeter time
so distanced.
It is visitation
recognition
of the opening
for all to tremble in front
the door.

2001-12-04T23:59:00.000-05:00
Kenneth Patchen

Up at gasoline station.
Loaded with white tissues move out the nine times
that I bought a frying pan for baking bread at summer
these the most rancid things I could ever do
call out 0,0,0,0
oh the mother
point of the number
not given anything but
that it is not here really
0,0,0,0 the source of numbers drop down steps of library
0,0,0,0 and I could waddle like the roasts in the black cylinders, while all the while zero manifest at tips of mouth
of every one
and said.
The binder is once, then not here
then yes appear to
by the one thing between
the something or nothing.
Did I mention blood is blue before it hits the air?
Now I am against the holy moment when I forgot to finish.
I was filling up the gasoline station with wooden blocks picked from an apple tree.
O or 0 is much a difference of how you represent the Monkey and its tree.
And if you don’t like then up your ass!

2001-12-04T17:12:00.000-05:00
Rule # 1,000,003

There is no way to win an argument if you do not know the details.

2001-12-03T22:48:00.000-05:00
My Dear My Dear My Rotten Apple.

I think she thinks I walk around a fool
my documents to be impounded.
Thrown into a nest where animals
work on electronic cartography machines
custom made to pull a dead man out of a hat
and train the yellow black bees to
walk around in white oval strides.
All of them gone under water by way of map.
The edge of sea
erasing all honey.
Do you give a damn for damn to give you something of worth?
My dear
my dear
my rotten apple.

2001-12-03T22:05:00.000-05:00
No file in the cake for this one.

I am at this moment so deeply unpleasant.

I cannot speak for those poems written in prison.

Then the manufacture of further fracturing
all carried away and frozen in
the quiet double doom
of alone town.
And often this if anything
will move me right out of the opinion
as if
I was worth opinion
to have exclusively bought the brain of one thought
and move along that way.
Why can I not emerge
wail like a baby?
Speak improved languages of my own
where at least they understand
I do not sit up high and sold.
And the room is an emitter of faint glow just under our nose.
The smell of old oddities left untroubled by touch.
A whirring in the background
is not a hush.
For quiet kept
can run
over the ears of men and woman alike
in moments where all I think I know
will never be another’s time.
But left alone.

2001-12-03T14:46:00.000-05:00
By absolutely no design of my own
I was pulled into a posture of prayer
My hands on a stair railing
My head encased in clouds

2001-12-03T09:14:00.000-05:00

In thick green rain
I seem to say too much now.
And all of the inkwell in the world turned green.
And as I am to drink this green
I find myself inside of green museum.
And all of the paintings gone green
And all of the plates gone green
And statues too.
And now it is thick green rain inside.
A milky green ivory beam
anointed the tops of stars in space.
Now the words all green.
And my breath gone green.
Like the steps of a tea factory.
The tips of trees at summertime gone double green.
All this gone green
but not the one green
so many green you do not know how much
can green be green.

2001-12-02T11:58:00.000-05:00
The only empress is the empress of TV

Far too many times
I have seen the empress calling out
entangled in unimaginable embroidery.
A visual discourse
the entropy will hit
as if to sooth wounds.
Gathering all reductions
geared for the redirecting
through composition
of shallow channels.
Pig sized boulders on either side
of our mainstream.
This is fear and trembling.
The divine death of our right to move past bureaucratic structure.
The neuter of the circus show.
And we cannot say this without jaw.
And we cannot say this without muttering
the miles of dead megaphones retraced to the beginning
of such monarchy as to have stolen dream.
Your ear split sleeping yellow
nothing.

2001-12-01T09:31:00.000-05:00
How could this be?

The world of birds were present at your death.
As I cried.

2001-11-30T09:31:00.000-05:00
A half-inch baby
Birth covered in typeset lettering
A belly
ink black with vocabulary from the jellyfish sting
Long
dark
down
in ground
a hole
Where I pray for the moment of singing
true song
When the wonderland will not have to cover me

2001-11-28T16:03:00.000-05:00
-Internet (God;and a church covered in butterflies)-

The modernization of thought process
had an involuntary effect on the bloodline
making me talk like a donkey.
Wonderfully forgetting
just about everything
my butterfly collection
spooked into providing semi assassinations.

They nearly covered the cathedrals
once decommissioned.
A resurrection of prophetic constabularies
each one
gold black Monarch
Swallowtail
Clouded Sulfur
Mustard White.

First you organize around mystery
then it does so to you.
A reverse assembly.

Imagine God
making a holy place
and praying to the world?
I think that this happens.

It is not about formality
or how much one can
provide authority
‘Cause information is able to travel faster then the speed of light.
This is the modernization of our time
and I am its donkey.

2001-11-26T21:45:00.000-05:00
Only that which can be splayed out across the universe,
is worth its worth.

2001-11-26T10:03:00.000-05:00
In the deep of open sky, we all will know.

We are forlorn.
In accomplished anger
(in the accomplishment of anger),
in the acceptance of the moment,
we accepted defeat.

Here we have a lamb with laminated feet.
An orange shadow pressing
dark hands down.
A critical remark,
remaking the day.
Entirely rethinking,
as if anonymity can think.
I slid away,
and pulled the stone from the giant beak of the bird mosaic.

I ran from the room of prayer,
and sung my sins outside.
The street was welcoming
its structure of street
deliberately welcoming
privacy not given title.

I drew out equations and maps.
Leaving them there.
Rose up,
and moved out.
Eyes calm,
in sea of air.

You do not know,
you do not know, they’d say.
But I do.

2001-11-25T23:39:00.000-05:00
(a) Is it important to speak?
(b) Do you think that we would bring opera to the moon?
(c) Did the cage come before civilization?

2001-11-25T23:27:00.000-05:00
Conventional forms of stupidity.
(a)Invite reprise through crime.

2001-11-24T16:16:00.000-05:00
98 % of my Magazine Subscription

No one can smother the interpretation of the stars as you

2001-11-24T11:10:00.000-05:00
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

2001-11-23T11:09:00.000-05:00
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

2001-11-23T10:27:00.000-05:00
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

2001-11-22T12:16:00.000-05:00
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.

2001-11-22T08:32:00.000-05:00
Woke up.
Poked my head out the window.
Looked around.
I was crushed by the world.

2001-11-21T15:57:00.000-05:00
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.

2001-11-21T09:46:00.000-05:00
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.

2001-11-20T22:52:00.000-05:00
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.

2001-11-20T22:24:00.000-05:00
~OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~

2001-11-20T21:11:00.000-05:00
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.

2001-11-20T17:15:00.000-05:00
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.

2001-11-20T12:12:00.000-05:00
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.

2001-11-20T09:03:00.000-05:00
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.

2001-11-20T00:09:00.000-05:00
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.

2001-11-19T13:11:00.000-05:00
Look out below!