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Showing posts from 2017

Impasse (default)

"Is there something I'm doing wrong," asks she? When the hammer is broken, we blame the nail. When the nail breaks then the picture won't hang. If the picture won't hang then a thousand words remain unsaid. If a thousand words are never shared then the story ends...


"Hello, angel popper and again hello. There's blanket enough for you if your horse has swept its business. Let's be real. Let's be kind and orderly through this swamp. I'm a beast, so let's be beasts and never stop"
Warm socks, everyone had warm socks and there was a tidy slide presentation about a small and nameless boat. No one had an IPhone but everyone was encouraged to laugh at the dancing bear whenever it came around in the song. If I recall, then after that there were puzzles and brain teasers handed out. There were animal crackers too!!! Oh, when I suggested that Shia Lebeouf should host his own episodic television show, much like the Twilight Zone, they asked to hear more. When I told them that as host he would actually be a mime, a mime host that would introduce each episode from inside an invisible box. When I told them that, it blew their minds, poof. Just blown away, I didn't even have to explain that the show was going to be a whole hal…

Your Fantastic Sex, it is Genderliscous!!!

Oh Alice, sweet Alice, down the well and in the low field across from the helper-bees. We'll face our frontier with a buzz. We'll cast our piddling stones in the wind and wait. Dream, Dream, Dream, "Cordial and regrettable things, stand solid, unflappable and gummed inside this wonky tide of glue." She's ankle deep in tired feet herself. Climbing from her hole, she's laid her potty mouth in the river by the road.

"Please, the victims aren't even gone yet, Gert! They hover around our ears. Sometimes they'll leave to go away but for now, they've stopped to listen to us groan. They're watching us when we slide under the nest of clouds and the silver weight that they bear. They're quiet below the simple round moon and they're quiet for us now too."

"Those are craven and nasty things. They're easily locked inside of my box or chucked under the bed. What, why me worry at all, is all that I have to say that."


Mister of Dicks and the boys like to sing at the bar.

The lights are out and the planes won't land. The world is as flat as it's always been. But it's a rhetorical flat. Or maybe it's baby flat, a flat left over from when it was very young. Now there's a little bit of it everywhere but it's been broken up in the wind. "Everything is everything and it's all at the top of that hill. Water is everything and it's on top of that hill. Food is everything and it's on top of that hill too. They're going to take my house, my land, my car everything if I can't get to the top of that hill." The sign's broken, it won't spin around anymore. Inside there's a television that's on. 

Clean and pressed into the service of a hotel that can't be stopped. At first you seem goodly in your suit made of iron beneath that one of old fish and then there's king's lather even lower still. Are you waiting for your train. Are you waiting to cleave the light before you. Or are you waiti…

Curator of Shipping Events

There's the tall chimney that's like a brick line carved from the flat sky and then patched up with calcium hydroxide and some saucy sticky rice slurry. The wagon below pulls into the shadow of this enormous thing where the sun's late angle is entirely lost. The box in back of it is motionless under the high arch of the yards gate.
"The title plate behind the train line, it's not well lit at all."
The boxes are like blocks that are like ink spots to be lost in the corners where the crumbs and the trapped smoke have followed the short lines of the boards. "No one ever looks back here, you'll never be seen," they almost always promise, a reality that's more promiscuous than it is shared.
"If they come, it's with a purpose. That's true enough."
On the cover, there's a man-sized peanut in a claw foot bathtub. It's scrubbing its back with an outsized scrubbing brush. The name of the album is, Lather My Nuts. Thus we fad…

Things that don't fit on our T-Shirts (or around their collars)

Old and tardy, his slim shorts are overstuffed with balls. His white shirt is dull as a stain of mustard loosened with water and a drop or two of Diet Pepsi. The buttons of his shirt are hanging, they're clearly gone for tarnish and now limp. "I tink you know, what it is I am say-ink?"
"What I tink for christ! What I tink is that you been an ass. That's what I tink."

"I don't like your shoes either. They have those dribbles, dribbles."

"Preacher, go fuck your cleaner!"

"There'll be more in awhile, they say to me. While I say to them, we're toothless but not too weird. The tacit yet repulsive angel ponders Chicago's front steps while a warm beer drips on his shoes. Petey mutters dogly from his mat by the door. "Am I lying here or what?"
The old priest checks his watch again, "Nope, it's too soon already."

"You can't stand on Kant, on lore or bribes in the middle of …

Things to pretend that you did when you were eighteen part one.

For a while I work on my spelling. I pull out my dictionary every night and for a while I sit alone and work on my cover letter. That is until I realize that the only word that matters is, you. Then with the help of my keyboard that's also shortened by one. By 7 o'clock I'm as tight as a flat fart and my job is waiting. Welcome home is how I sign my letter, care of B' fucking J'.
So I go out with with some stickers to vote in my bathrobe. CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SYNERGY, CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SYNERGY, it's all up and down Milwaukee Ave now. It's on every little red kiosk and light post between here and Avondale. I keep a yellow chap book in my pocket for jotting shit like this down. It's full of neologisms. It's like a church of spartans in the raft of Texas full of, song song song.
But after a long day in a hot room with Murray and the Luke Skywalker of dance, I really want to unwind. It's like I'm always saying to Theresa, "Like all of the…

In fashion, passive is to envy the figure smote.

Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's alr…

Of Parade Terminal and it's Bus

"She's not very nasty, is she? Instead, she seems to be transformed by language and it's osmotic character."
Tis toil and toil for dust alone. Birds in the vacuum that won't shut up. They squawk about their guns. Can't sleep with the vacuum on. Can't sleep when I sit. Maybe, I'm too clever for this? Sift softly, the humble beginnings of science's toil, it's ring of equivalency, the mechanism of culture's boisterous metric. The boon of its breast and all. This flower, that flower and over there, that one too. These flowers, they're not so hard to reach. They're still young and fresh, well held in the sponge of this dirt. Time is only spent well when it's well and truly spent, the birds know this. They know that laundry is a plaything, lunch is only a friend. 
Little bird is being a bitch, "But I'm ok, sometimes I beat the ground with my fists. I'm tired but that's ok. I can't cry and I won't." Littl…

Got a dog in my earring (an instance of 3)

H' after everything is a mailbox stamp knows. Don't, it's all bad. Like a captain bad.

Own Mah Own Rose

What say the fallen in the Vestibule, late to dinner  Warm as a garden chair Yes to that, to tea and all  in the green as pale as peaches will get 

Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet.  Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot. Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss.  Fontso: Onion thugs, yello…

We like to borrow

If you're happy and you know it, is a repetitive children's song created by Dr Alfred B Smith. It bears a passing similarity to, Molodejnaya which appears in the popular 1938 film, Volga-Volga. This film's title is derived from the song, Stenka Razin which Director, Grigori Aleksandrov once sang with Charles Chaplin while rowing in San Francisco Bay.

Pulling the staples out, moving the ghost of the old world up. Here's the page. This is 50 years that we've had to make our monkey work. We became scientists and then it was all over. We watched and learned until we were high as hell. We ate everything that was left on that horizon. Now the lumber is gone and so's the pie. There's only chalk and dust to fill the air. Goodbye, limits. Our host is out of hugs. Goodbye, triangle tethered to that tree. Goodbye green and gold of the land, auf wiedersehen good night.

Rally, Go Cry Me

There's no snakes and there's no trees To tempt these sailors at sea No fortune has ever been found on your butt sitting down I know you know what I mean I'm not part of your team Not Japheth, not Shem or Yam or Ham man I'm just me Watching what I see Noah in a wading pool Noah on his knees Feeding binary opposites apples from the trees

"You won't always need a plate but there are still many other ways of preparing a fine meal from almonds, carrot sticks and scraps of veal. Not all of them use mint either. Some of them will require kale with the edges charred. For this you'll want to use a stove-top burner but many chefs have special kale searing torches that they hold right inside their pockets. You can always tell, they're happy little lumpy things that are fueled with methane."
In some cases, if the fat is still warm you only need some dry wine and heavy cream for a simple but explosive sauce…

The eventuality of dissipation and Thursday

"Our's is deep and manic as the bottom bait in the depth of a half tub. The day will calm and the wind will finally die in it's own way, flat. There's water that will fresh itself to no end, no more salt or piss to taste," It should be higher still but this is where we're at. An east coast flavored dog whistle in a haircut flavored love suit wearing a clipped tie under his bold chin swaggers by for a drink, "Hmmm, it's ornamental, tastes like an arrangement of cranberries folded into dry-goods, patient dry-goods even. There are hints of ash in the back of it, they surrender quickly to a spry lavender that's easy if a little wan. I like it. How much is the bottle."

A woman in coveralls arrived early on the 10th. She unpacked slowly, inspecting every piece in turn. Then we skip ahead. Everything is suspended from the ceiling, free from all concern. Then the team leaves the park. The goodbyes are all warm. There's a lot of hugs going arou…

That biological fetus

"Goodbye," says the wet man. "This womb is mighty big. It's been a singular sack indeed." These are not the times of us so much as the place where the clockwork fails. The house is a'clatter in shifting gears and torn fabric. All of the tools of modernism have finally blinked and so goes the glass.
Gender is a lean and wary host, it's a comfortable friend, and the scary story on this broken bus out of town. It's a biologic frame with long social tendrils that delicately obscure the face of the hosted. We are blind, the sun has made us up. We are guilt with chance and dumb fingers too. The bath of my moment in the day of my job. It's around the corner, Hi-Ho! O' Ho, the superlative mange. Trust is any blanket that puts out all the flame.
Blue house with an orange dot behind the shrubs, it's a calculated risk. There's an Arthur C. Clarke novel in my back pocket. It's thin and sweaty. The pages are well dogged and they're very …

Modern Borked (1997)

There's the green lipstick pen, the pie eating plate from the contest in Dover along with the twirling cord from the windup phone on the wall; there's the singularly flat counter top in teal, the pink boots by the door, and an apron string from someones mother from somewhere else before. There are better days and there are better ways. This map is only intended to be right, a suggestion with as much flourish as none. The sun can shine when I'm sad. It can be aimless and off course in parables too. This is the story of a witness, that is all. It's the lullaby before going to work. It's the action that lets me swallow before I spit, she says. This is the hood that I'll pass on when I'm done and my promise not to linger when it starts to hurt. This is the quiet click and the simple math that promises an open door for one. The dressing room is tight, the hooks are worn and the mirror is a little bit foggy. A carrier pigeon and a small ant share coffee on the b…

45 45 45

Let me talk about your rose Your painted little rose beside the folded stream in the valley of time Let me talk about the lines the lens and all the things you've hardly been Let me try and doze With this trigger underneath my tongue Little lamb made of ivy Little lamb dancing home I see you in this bowl of peaches I hear about you in this song You're the shape of a quilted pillow Your angels are never young If ever I hear your people They'll spin like bubble gum
About Dona's plastic toys, "You put those guns in the hands of the people that start too early and they stay late, every time. You're too confident that they'll make the rounds again. There's that tall is in his eyes that are sad. They seem to make him feel a bit more than distant and bit less then he should. On a wet cold sweater day under the broad wall he's pretending to be a cold wet sweater on a different day. School is like this but it doesn't have to be.

Throwing bait at the pr…

peccata mortem

"Things could be more different if we had their trust still. There could be enough time for thinking things through. We probably wouldn't let them just go like that."
"The box, the white walls and the basement below it were always easy to fill up. We didn't even need to ask. Just dig a hole and people would write about it."
In the dark, the ruined lath and smashed plaster is reminiscent of crazy knuckles and sick cartilage that've been whomped until they're slick and pulpy. Death sits here underneath the broken roof. Death is making some beans. They're stirring the hot can with a limber stalk of elm, muttering and talking slowly, "We've aimed low enough."
"Any lower and we'd have to pull up the rug to find what got hit," they answer to themselves.
"We'll stop here and make this park our home. We'll live behind the vending machines and we'll blah blah blah," Still, they stupidly insist on talking t…

Song Title

Fraxinus is a good hard wood at market but its leaves are wild. The ash almost always turns early in the autumn, surging bright and hot into the shorter cooler nights of fall. But the magic in them is gone. Instead, they're drunk on the juice of summer's lily and fern, scattered by the squirrels and the breast heavy log nymphs, the trees are slack and thin with hangover. The house sits behind the wreck of these wobble drunks, peeking through. It's tossed eves are banging in the long winds off the lake. The garage is also poor in purpose and execution, the less I say of it the better.
There's rotting wood, ratty with bird shit and worm stuff that's descending into the busy grass out in front. The doors are gone and all of the windows are broke. The smaller rocks, the good throwing stones are inside with ache of the mildew that's spreading over the high birch paint along the withering walls. "You should come with me," Nancy steps out of the stairwell as …

When Our Architects Dream of Sweaty Slumber

When roses match (The rabbits burn and others won't make sexual overtures involving soda cans and candid smiles When roses are red and they're soft and as real as the money money in the house with the turn turn turn) Then roses same as day December is like August and the humble Republican disrobes. The Democrat watches, blushing, "Did the tattoo hurt?"
"Only if you really like Ayn Rand," he says dropping the suggestively long belt beside the big oval bed.
"Well then it's a good thing that the President just signed an executive order undermining the long term security of your personal information on the Federal level while the Governor is busy eradicating it's immediate safety on the State level."
"Why so," the Republican asks, slipping out of his wet leather slippers.
"Small talk, I'm nervous I guess," the Democrat liked his chances better back at the piano bar.
"Privacy I love it. It sounds just like a new …

Our city wasn't planned as such

The stage is really cold, the door outside slaps shut again. There's a stage hand walking in a tight circles with a length of chain and some pliers. Carmen's forehead is really red like she's been shopping and the kids won't shut up. "The angels don't supplicate themselves and they do not bounce," the vastness of the theatre is only alluded to by the extent of its sounds bouncing around in the dark. "Lincoln was shot, no one bounced. Corn is served and no one bounces. So stop being such a dick limper and get on with it."
"Well I think I like the way you sing. Maybe if you put on your nice coat and pin up your hair," no one can see past the front row of chairs. All anyone can ever see is his feet like dangling dancers on the top of the knobby gold upholstering. The smell of tobacco is rancid and thick as old tar. "Others may drown in slow rivers or wade through slurries of rape towards an empty box that's been nailed to the floo…

Ayn Rand loves a good architect joke

"Mike, Mike do something." From somewhere far off an alarm, a klaxxon and several bells can be heard bouncing around. The big firehouse was constructed in the teens. A mule team and 6 drunk ignorants voted to do the job right but it still took three bricklayers a month apiece to even try. Finally after a couple of years they finished up and then the market crashed, "The masons never explain anything."
"No they never do."
"What," John Lurie is eating his own ghost again. There's some confusion and the waiter returns. CB and MB are next to him. They're talking about the kids when they look and see the smoke. Of course the server arrives with water. He's confused too, "Lemons?"
CB say's, "Mike, Mike do something now."
The kitchen is hot. The swinging door lets out great white puffs along with the occasional yelp from a frustrated busser but the dining room is getting even louder.
"I remember this," W…

Savages By Noon

Like this, the distance to the hills is as flat as a cosmic whale open to water, cupboard, and a tin of beans. So see it this way, over there isn't going anywhere soon. The days won't run as long as they should. Then some of its hours will fly right by. I've been waiting for the same dance after dinner for decades, bowl in hand. Here, hold this.  Now's the time for a proper clean up. Not so much as a peep, now it's for real. The UmperKunst and all of the little stone holes that bravely steward the line against the slippery edge of the darkness that's beyond the gathering veil. Where its hypocrisy is an endorsement from the rasping choir that is gathered around this pile of penises like it's a man ready for a drive. So many of us have been silent for so long. These are the people's resources, the tools of its culture and they should be persuaded to find within themselves a voice that's common and clear. But for the moment they're steadfast only,…

X marks the rhythm of the night

"Altogether there has to be at least four of them at the edge of the world of ideas," Edmund would say this and then pour himself another drink. You know he was an excellent haberdasher but Edmund's money, nearly all of it was borrowed. Mostly it came from people who were short, young, or gullible. In all fairness he would ask nicely and smile, using his best comma and a curly thing too."
"You're mad Esther."
"No, Edmund was very wealthy, even for a Superhero-Man that didn't work. Then he died but before that he was really tall and very thin. He also had a high forehead and three piercing blue eyes. I've read that he liked his houses like he liked his women, Queen Anne. This old house on top of this hill was built about 118 years before he died, still Queen Anne."
Sloan appears in the open door, "Did you get cigarettes yesterday?"
"Exchange," she said, "at least as you're picturing it, sounds pretty simple.&…

Where farmers fear

Emergent and cheap as a thing. There's a bowl in the hands of the man that's standing in back. There's emptiness in the halls of his house, both furtive and black. There's rust and there's ashes in the beds of the masses, piles of shit masquerade as their asses. Keep keeping them all by the witnessing tree trounced by the bucketfuls, a leitmotif. The thumb of my eye making blanketing snow, hissing all night, green as it goes. Inspired by angry, encouraged by dumb, fall asleep on the red and the white blue rug. Start warm as the fishes swimming here in the pisses of the other fishes fucking and spitting. In blindness they bathe, witness to nebelung. Go deep in the lake of naked as lambs to the season of reason, bunny the bunny or sham to the legion. There's stars under the table, they're watching it rain. There's liars in the tub they're learning to swim. I'll put my hands in the water, I'm ready for sin but agape might win. - where only farm…

No bowl from charm (code for smoking pot)

Prologue.There are major goings on right inside the school's front office. This is where the neat desks are arranged into right angles. Prim and trim in front of the neat white secretaries with their tidy assistant pins pinned to their sharp lapels.
"O' can I get a picture please?"
Type type type, "Of course, yes."
The slow arc of light being thrust at the dusty screen aches like a spreading bruise. It's a hot knot shaped like a hound, a small fat hunting dog on a wide rug beside a glowing fire and an oversize bouncy chair. The long table has a dozen sleepy students sitting at it. They fidget with their pens and gaze at the dim clock overhead. The radiator bangs and a couple of the girls chins bounce when they nod. "We've taken advantage of the this rule before. Last week we saw it with Hawthorn. We're likely to see it again in Updike. Can anyone identify the rule I'm talking about here?"

No one moves beneath the steady weig…

The Folklore of our Economics

This is after all of that talk about painting and painting things clean and free from the sounds of value. - After PvZ, after SMJ Radio, radio, barn owl hoot, the tainted thing in the dry black grove on the pale clay mound. No chairs, no chairs or tables, no beasts, no beasts with guns in the back seat of my checkered yellow car. The walls of the basin are like cold tonic being served over traffic and the walls are like 8 foot high piles of dung in the center lane. The cloud of super-villain in front of us is drinking from his paper cup and he laughs a little too much like Frank laughs.
"Cold coffee is cold enough," He tells me from his mirror. He casts some blinker, promptly switches into the right hand lane. He slides in beside a great hovel of a necromancer then pounds the steering wheel for effect. "The market is a cultural construct, a series of black eyed occurrences. The market is all math that's been translated through the actions of determined transformatio…

Slip it in, not so vague nor lost just slip it right in.

The drawer with my business can be opened by angels. Flat and left folded, my shirt's in this drawer. Its purpose is worried. It's being more than the quiet that's settled in there. Drawer upon drawer and opened to this. I'll remember that boat once I've hauled out its line. I'm crossed. I feel as erratic as a cold winter rain. My eyes are frizzy and my skin is all hot from so much haywire, so much botched nerve speak. I'm alone. I'm sitting in a chair. I'm waiting at home. I'm alone in this room that's quiet and tall. The door's shut and the shelf is often bare. The general foam of this experience is standardized and it's limited by the nowhere presence of a convicted god, an angry god and someone else's god. None of whom are in here with me now. I'm battered and whipped and tossed at the straits. I am left of this shore. Alone with this cold and as wet as a cake, I am grand. I'm as a horny as a day fowl. If I could be …

Morning, dark as a wad of copper tasting spit

Party party party has an assembled goal at the end of every line item Reach out there's a glass eye in the fountain O' poach'd soup Marble in the hall Door in Door out - Out into a forever kind of space on SwingRoundTunes by the This Old Angel "We'll lose our sad cowboys first, they're in the front row. Then that other dirtbag, the self righteous pile of puke will do in the rest of us. After that it's going to be a long shared nightmare of hand wringing and broken sweats," Mr Mittens sets his bag of groceries beside the hot plate. Through a spangled haze of cracker dust and oily tuna stains there are sounds of the briefest of moans slipping through the deep blue walls. His humble eyes graze the table's top. There's a glass of water, a peach, a rose bright and blooming like an open heart that's on display.
"Here we are than," Says Mr Mittens. He walks around his hard chair and picks up a shallow dish. The water inside feels thin, …

Your hubris is piss drunk and swinging again

Four years. Four years of connecting our collective thumb with the working end of a hammer. Four years of never forgetting. Four years of trying to get the mosquito out of the tent. Four years of butter side down toast. Four years of Ted Nugent. Four years of broken shoe laces. Four years of spoilers. Four years of snooze buttons. Four years of one wet sock. Four years of catsup sandwiches on white bread. Four years of deciphering Furby gibberish. Four years of forgetting that it's, I before E unless after C. Four years before orange can be a fruit. Four years of missing pieces under the couch. Four years of missed buses. Four years of shark week. Four years of clock watching. Four years of practice makes perfect. Four years.