The Sheer Grey Bulk of Lead

towards the order of tulip, calliope, then gone

Great curling toes ripple in the cheap light. The pugilist corp takes the field. They're expecting an enormous bumble-stooge, one with a dour gift and a strident glide in its stride. While talking amongst themselves they also decide that, Some virtues are going to have to be enough. That the massive iron and steel jack-a-man can stare down on their ranks like it's facing a table of cyphers. That this is a dour gift of the morning and that forward into the warm squint of day they'll continue. - Generic Frustration

I am like the power of history, much read but clearly misunderstood. I am like the power of history, the kind of story that puts out again and again. I lean back on a hot summer night and listen to the radio wail. I smack the ribbon of my lips and dry my hands. I am not this worried for the power of every small friend that I see. I'm not this worried for you. I am like the power of history, I worry and carry the groceries to the other side of the street. Lord knows, It's not changing, not fast enough. Not at all like last season and the power of history. Not at all like the horizon in front of me. Where it is that the traditions of the landscape and the street are about to meet. It is there that you will call me building and watch me burn again. The range of my limitless self is not far from there. In fact it's here, just two doors down and on the right. We call this home. It can be released or it can be held by all the staring eyes in all the trash of old Brooklyn. They say, emancipate me with your fever, your bones. Let me know your history. Let's share a dream and the shakes. Let's be gone and righteous with the fat of thy pugnacious hand. Lets be ill informed and grubby merchants of petty schemes and shiftless tyrannies only to be further truthed and more equally unconcerned. Just to be one with the good god damnity of it all, just you say some shit to me. I'll be certain to cry in my many tongues of fault. Just to be done with it all again and again, let's be done with this box, its two doors, and the window that faces the cool breeze. Let's be done with the reality of the power of history. Let's be done with Brooklyn and France. Let's be done with the ape in his wonder pants. Let's be as hopeless bread and break instead.

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

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