These words want to jump into the
theater of thought there are entire civilizations in this concertina tell me tell
me please where you find the present in the past or in the future I think
people like the sound of electric guitars because they make your emotions shine
A language lives through the people
who speak it together we can sew little blue dresses for the parade of
tarantulas I put the world in a sack and left the neon raspberry impugns the
timidity of pretext with a bright red glow in the night of our oblivion
Everyone gets the taste of poetry now
and then I helped a spider out of the kitchen sink this morning I like poetry
with the big legs of the grasshopper bounding down a dirt road in the old rural
America of farms and dolphins cephalopods in fishnet stockings and stiletto
heels
We live in a romantic country a lion
stands in the middle of the road like the nucleus of a nation did you want to
speak to the gravedigger or just wait around sipping this fine Tennessee whisky
it’s not even a question it’s a streak of color pink or yellow or the deep
rustic brown of a metaphor aglow in a pronoun
Dada pushed nihilism to an extreme I
remember the first time I saw Fight Club I thought wow somebody has
taken notice of how fucked up this world is eighty-eight percent of Americans
think you should get a permit before carrying a concealed handgun nearly three
in four workers say they’re in debt more than half say they always will be more
than half of minimum wage workers say they have to work more than one job to
make ends meet is it any wonder that punching someone or getting punched is a
coping mechanism for a lot of deep frustration where is my mind it’s in the
cavalcade of words I’m spilling it’s floating light as gauze as a breeze blows
in puffing up Fanny Brawne’s skirt
Gravity gets me down but I’ve got
seven pearl buttons on my shirt and a ticket to ride there’s a reverence to the
description of anything how good it is to feel the warmth under my cat’s chin
the two little bones in a V shape
The sky is a patchwork of clouds and
gulls the Milne Ice Shelf on Ellesmere Island in the Northwest Territories of
Canada is covered with linear blue lakes of melted ice trapped in the folds of
the surface William Butler Yeats leaping into space the feeling is mutual said
the saxophone to the drum what is the logic of the logic of hand lotion there’s
a hole in my pocket coins falling out at the bottom of my pants it feels like
I’m shitting money
Fires in Australia fires in Siberia
fires in France and Portugal fires in California fires in Oregon and Washington
State the entire fucking world is burning down insert André Breton here if I’m
not being surreal I’ll be surreal later when the truck arrives loaded with
perturbances disturbances oscillations soluble fish ultramarine exhumations and
a big fat pyramid teeming with astronauts
The cat sees a squirrel on the laptop
and runs behind to look for it nuclear war remains a very great threat I’ve got
a lot of sympathy for snobs there’s no point to their behavior
My knuckles are red and swollen from
knocking on the neighbor’s door beside myself with rage and frustration I wear
an oleomargarine sweater and a jacket buttoned with sonnets the mountains are
beautiful so calm in their sleep how frustrating to live during a time when
people are so incapable of nuance or openness of mind the snow conceals the
testament of rock impulse is my main modus operandi good intentions are nothing
willingness is everything I’ve got a parenthesis in my radio and a thud in my
clairvoyance I’m starting to see masks bearing the imprint of status and
fashion
A third kind of madness comes from
the muses I believe I heard Ram Dass say that the turbines of heaven are
solitudes awakened by the wind smoke from the wildfires bits of ash floating
down like tiny hearts of devastation the rain has no melody but it does have
rhythm Hamlet holds a skull the present isn’t present it’s in the past or maybe
it was Charlie Chaplin getting chased around a table in The Gold Rush is
it possible that a new form of life could develop near a hydrothermal deep-sea
vent light bulbs have become increasingly bizarre over the years arousing us to
a Bacchic frenzy
Silence ensues the playing of the
oboe the shadows of the WiFi router and TV cables intertwining on the wall are musical in their squiggles
and loops the plot turns on a dime the dime turns on a nickel the nickel is
mostly found in the interiors of large-iron meteorites the voices of the
gardeners adrift in the air until they arrive at the door of poetry words are
mostly silvery-white lustrous possibilities of semantic currency for
Kierkegaard the dialectic machine is destined to liquidate the negative all art
aspires to a condition of music the rubble of a broken heart like squeezing the
last drop of music from a song I’ve heard a gazillion times
Words wander the air in search of
ears there’s a suffering that remains invisible and which makes us quietly desperate
and then I saw an orange glimmer climb over the mountain a thread of silver
connecting typhoons of thought these little bubbles that appear every time I
grab the big bottle of liquid dish soap that pop out at the top I love Abbey
Road what a great album imagine a blue fairy tale Tristan Tzara rolling a
cigarette and talking about the brutality of WWI my soul worries without
knowing why the atmosphere is so heavy the wood of the desk sings its heavy
silent song of grain and rain and forest despair is the trombone of a
primordial fauna sulfur-crested cockatoos and wolf spiders in the high arctic
dancing on the sly the tiger snakes of Perth have heavy metal in their livers
everything all the world’s beautiful animals and living things in general exhibit
such unceasing activity how is it that various differentiations of reality
emerge the distinction between mental and material phenomena in no way
signifies that there are two kinds of reality there is in fact only one side to
this dialectic and it’s completely transparent and adds very little opposition
to the whole idea of straw
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