Stray a day
The time you laze
the track you lose
your ass at home - or
out the door. The life
you save?
May be the booze,
maybe your own. If not?
Whatever either/or
you care to take
on board, get down,
grow up, or throw
up if you must
And groan
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
procedural
There's no room in this world
for more than one right
in the head.
Everyone dead
is sane, and everyone here
but the judge is, shall we say?
Not guilty, by any means
you could justify by the ends
of your wits,
frayed to snap and saved
by your exceptional, limitless gift
to shit-shoot the gap, come loopholing back
with knack, grace and ease, overruled
by a technicality.
for more than one right
in the head.
Everyone dead
is sane, and everyone here
but the judge is, shall we say?
Not guilty, by any means
you could justify by the ends
of your wits,
frayed to snap and saved
by your exceptional, limitless gift
to shit-shoot the gap, come loopholing back
with knack, grace and ease, overruled
by a technicality.
Monday, January 28, 2019
back hand catch
An insult's always
a compliment of sorts. First,
someone took the time
to knock you off
a horse, or wherever
you're wrong, or try.
Second, enemies give gifts
friends won't.
Take truth for what it is,
and know the difference.
Insults are gifts
from jerks,
and should be taken for all
that they're worth. With gratitude!
For any damn clue you glean, if not
for the jerk
who was not giving favors to you.
Or try.
a compliment of sorts. First,
someone took the time
to knock you off
a horse, or wherever
you're wrong, or try.
Second, enemies give gifts
friends won't.
Take truth for what it is,
and know the difference.
Insults are gifts
from jerks,
and should be taken for all
that they're worth. With gratitude!
For any damn clue you glean, if not
for the jerk
who was not giving favors to you.
Or try.
colonial revue
It's time to reexamine,
in a passing way, those wildly
colonialist boys
of yore
with their honor
and duty, their cheek
and pluck, doing stiff
upper stuff
rather well enough
to score.
By means of
their bright white
deeds, all the long lived kings
and queens used to savor
and relish the pride
in their reigns
for an age,
before.
Well now, as we now know,
their stainless swords
cutting ribbons and bows
to festoon the gift
- and a burdensome one
only theirs to bear, by steel
or by gun, only theirs
to give.
They must take it
to every land where unclaimed
lives of - well, whosoever might
yet there live, for
what time remained,
back then.
Yes. As we know now, despite
how it all worked out quite
well? Give us this much,
at least: we have,
to be fair,
to our credit,
learned. There was something
ever so slightly off,
something not quite square,
something not quite earned,
about
how it was done.
We should like to condemn
in the strongest terms.
Now then.
Let's move on.
in a passing way, those wildly
colonialist boys
of yore
with their honor
and duty, their cheek
and pluck, doing stiff
upper stuff
rather well enough
to score.
By means of
their bright white
deeds, all the long lived kings
and queens used to savor
and relish the pride
in their reigns
for an age,
before.
Well now, as we now know,
their stainless swords
cutting ribbons and bows
to festoon the gift
- and a burdensome one
only theirs to bear, by steel
or by gun, only theirs
to give.
They must take it
to every land where unclaimed
lives of - well, whosoever might
yet there live, for
what time remained,
back then.
Yes. As we know now, despite
how it all worked out quite
well? Give us this much,
at least: we have,
to be fair,
to our credit,
learned. There was something
ever so slightly off,
something not quite square,
something not quite earned,
about
how it was done.
We should like to condemn
in the strongest terms.
Now then.
Let's move on.
the fifth star
When your favorite movie reviewer
you've followed forever and relied
on his rare and perfect four stars
as a pretty near guarantee of a ball
breaking out in your eyes and ears
as you watch, and his even, consistent
authorial voice of authority: letting
you know what he likes and does not
so delightfully well, especially on
does not! even though
you and he
do not like all the same things
at all, or equally well where you do.
But he's let you know so strong
and so clear his tastes, that an on-target
scathe of peculiar tilt tips you off
- this is your kind of flick, not his.
It takes knowing someone pretty damn well
to trust a recommendation inferred from
a dis.
I've had relationships like this!
It's rare precious, a resource like that
of opinion you trust one hundred percent, and what's
more - know just how to take.
Til' you wake up one day
and you note
the fifth star
of a brand new five star review.
Your world
drops through
to the basement below
(like all of those physicists wagged
it might do, if it all lined up)
well it has. You looked twice,
once, thrice, and with force
back and forth between four
and five. Innocence
couldn't stand the hits.
And has died.
What
has happened, just now? Did every
grade A he gave just get knocked
to a B?
You run the conversion, limping
your way with an ankle sprain
up the stairs to see.
4: A
3: B
2: C
1: D
0: F
All clear. What value is gained
to make five
A+
four: B+
three: perfect C
two: D
one: F
zero: ? zero,
I guess. An F score of 63's better than
nothing, after all. In fact, there should be
another three steps or so, 62 and below, but
sure, not
really worth it
for degrees of suck. "Don't go"
is the verdict.
Why waste your time
telling us in such fine
detail just how far back we should stay
from the line?
If there is one, even.
These are some truly bad films.
It's not a bad system, five stars, but the sudden reveal
drops the standard of four so hard.
Every top notch film you agreed you had seen,
between you, in a sense
are demoted to B. Or at best, B+ He must never have been
that impressed. All along, despite superlatives
he would choicely deploy to do yeoman's work
by only the most justified of means.
What's next, sprinkle half-stars through?
What a scene.
Either that, or a typo was made.
Either way
you don't know how to feel about
seeing this five-star film.
Well,
prepare to be blown away
- it was a typo. Sometimes one
frantic call to the office does wonders
to restore perspective, or is it
proportion?
forever
except
that one fifth star
had had its say.
You will never forget the day
you've followed forever and relied
on his rare and perfect four stars
as a pretty near guarantee of a ball
breaking out in your eyes and ears
as you watch, and his even, consistent
authorial voice of authority: letting
you know what he likes and does not
so delightfully well, especially on
does not! even though
you and he
do not like all the same things
at all, or equally well where you do.
But he's let you know so strong
and so clear his tastes, that an on-target
scathe of peculiar tilt tips you off
- this is your kind of flick, not his.
It takes knowing someone pretty damn well
to trust a recommendation inferred from
a dis.
I've had relationships like this!
It's rare precious, a resource like that
of opinion you trust one hundred percent, and what's
more - know just how to take.
Til' you wake up one day
and you note
the fifth star
of a brand new five star review.
Your world
drops through
to the basement below
(like all of those physicists wagged
it might do, if it all lined up)
well it has. You looked twice,
once, thrice, and with force
back and forth between four
and five. Innocence
couldn't stand the hits.
And has died.
What
has happened, just now? Did every
grade A he gave just get knocked
to a B?
You run the conversion, limping
your way with an ankle sprain
up the stairs to see.
4: A
3: B
2: C
1: D
0: F
All clear. What value is gained
to make five
A+
four: B+
three: perfect C
two: D
one: F
zero: ? zero,
I guess. An F score of 63's better than
nothing, after all. In fact, there should be
another three steps or so, 62 and below, but
sure, not
really worth it
for degrees of suck. "Don't go"
is the verdict.
Why waste your time
telling us in such fine
detail just how far back we should stay
from the line?
If there is one, even.
These are some truly bad films.
It's not a bad system, five stars, but the sudden reveal
drops the standard of four so hard.
Every top notch film you agreed you had seen,
between you, in a sense
are demoted to B. Or at best, B+ He must never have been
that impressed. All along, despite superlatives
he would choicely deploy to do yeoman's work
by only the most justified of means.
What's next, sprinkle half-stars through?
What a scene.
Either that, or a typo was made.
Either way
you don't know how to feel about
seeing this five-star film.
Well,
prepare to be blown away
- it was a typo. Sometimes one
frantic call to the office does wonders
to restore perspective, or is it
proportion?
forever
except
that one fifth star
had had its say.
You will never forget the day
Sunday, January 27, 2019
Flim Noir
Most guys have a chance with a dame who puts out
vibes like she was sucking a bone the minute before
you were introduced, and hasn't had time to wipe
her face. Her eyes go wide as she covers her mouth
with the back of her hand - that antique damsel
in peril pose, familiar from stills of old black
and white flicks - but why is she giving you that look?
She must have seen you do it. You're tumbling quick
to the need to review your not-kill-again vow.
She knows.
And there's nothing you can do in here, not in front
of all these gins and old-fashioneds. So chill,
play it smooth and off. She can't know you know
what she knows - any more than the next one
will.
Besides, she is built like her dress
is a cry for help. Just position yourself
as an honest man
whose only pleasure ever
in life is to serve.
That's true enough, in a sense
too richly deserved.
Knowing what she must, she can't fall
for it. But the trap you twisted out
of your head won't fit, without
more moving parts than you have.
You'll need to rope a buddy in
who you know is square,
and who owes you a life. You know
he'll be glad of a job. It will have
to take place outside. In the dead of a night
on the dark of the moon. So
You have some time to get to know
your roles. Stock still and posed
in a crowded room.
vibes like she was sucking a bone the minute before
you were introduced, and hasn't had time to wipe
her face. Her eyes go wide as she covers her mouth
with the back of her hand - that antique damsel
in peril pose, familiar from stills of old black
and white flicks - but why is she giving you that look?
She must have seen you do it. You're tumbling quick
to the need to review your not-kill-again vow.
She knows.
And there's nothing you can do in here, not in front
of all these gins and old-fashioneds. So chill,
play it smooth and off. She can't know you know
what she knows - any more than the next one
will.
Besides, she is built like her dress
is a cry for help. Just position yourself
as an honest man
whose only pleasure ever
in life is to serve.
That's true enough, in a sense
too richly deserved.
Knowing what she must, she can't fall
for it. But the trap you twisted out
of your head won't fit, without
more moving parts than you have.
You'll need to rope a buddy in
who you know is square,
and who owes you a life. You know
he'll be glad of a job. It will have
to take place outside. In the dead of a night
on the dark of the moon. So
You have some time to get to know
your roles. Stock still and posed
in a crowded room.
bird story
Despite all the talk
of gullibility, I've never seen anyone
in the process of being gulled
you think
this meal's for the birds, it's got
sand in it. And "clam sauce" as a euphemism
stinks. But
as long as we're dying of thirst
like we've always been
too much in the sun of each other's
bitching, incessantly and not cocky
enough anymore
to block, or maybe
way past the point
of having to learn anymore
to like it
suddenly
to discover the saltiness
has miraculously gotten lost
or drowned
in the sea of our tears.
Unbelievably, suddenly
fresh and so sweet
we dive in, and deep -
drinking it down.
of gullibility, I've never seen anyone
in the process of being gulled
you think
this meal's for the birds, it's got
sand in it. And "clam sauce" as a euphemism
stinks. But
as long as we're dying of thirst
like we've always been
too much in the sun of each other's
bitching, incessantly and not cocky
enough anymore
to block, or maybe
way past the point
of having to learn anymore
to like it
suddenly
to discover the saltiness
has miraculously gotten lost
or drowned
in the sea of our tears.
Unbelievably, suddenly
fresh and so sweet
we dive in, and deep -
drinking it down.
Saturday, January 26, 2019
receiver to send
Listen, think
it through before you read this poem all the way
to the end. Are you sure you're not better without
- even now, knowing
as I type these words; years, days or ages later
if anything survives, you may guess or know
(depending how much survives), (I guess something
must have. For you to be here with me at all,
but) I may be dead. If I am, I hope you know
I didn't go into this loving you. I know we don't
know each other. If you did, you'd know it violates
my entire grasp of love, which needs trust, so much,
which entirely comes to rest in knowing. Without
which - how can you trust someone? Who are you so
trusting them to be? Anyone at all, so long ago?
Surely not me
which doesn't matter,
But it was just...the thought, the point, a
realization
that I could be so far in the past right now
that everyone I love may be dead, and what could
have happened? And
it made me feel sick at the loss, and so grateful
for you. At least, even if I never know who you
are, you read this far. So we're stuck with each
it through before you read this poem all the way
to the end. Are you sure you're not better without
- even now, knowing
as I type these words; years, days or ages later
if anything survives, you may guess or know
(depending how much survives), (I guess something
must have. For you to be here with me at all,
but) I may be dead. If I am, I hope you know
I didn't go into this loving you. I know we don't
know each other. If you did, you'd know it violates
my entire grasp of love, which needs trust, so much,
which entirely comes to rest in knowing. Without
which - how can you trust someone? Who are you so
trusting them to be? Anyone at all, so long ago?
Surely not me
which doesn't matter,
But it was just...the thought, the point, a
realization
that I could be so far in the past right now
that everyone I love may be dead, and what could
have happened? And
it made me feel sick at the loss, and so grateful
for you. At least, even if I never know who you
are, you read this far. So we're stuck with each
Friday, January 25, 2019
Garbarge run #2: duck
Listen crap-bag, go bust if you want
and sic your whole sac of venom
on the face of a duck, just
call it a goose, but
if that bird bends over
on the way in to the weigh-in
to show you something
DUCK
or you'll end with an egg
face-job before you even
began to see the bird
in it's accustomed place
on my fine feathered hand - but
a custom of its, not yours, all preference
(inside joke) aside - sit down quick, before
the crowd starts to fly
from the disgusting enough
now spectacle you represented
anyhow, to every wide-shot eye - it's
enough to clear the room
how your life's so spent.
that's a wrap. Take your straight
ass home and get bent
you goon.
and sic your whole sac of venom
on the face of a duck, just
call it a goose, but
if that bird bends over
on the way in to the weigh-in
to show you something
DUCK
or you'll end with an egg
face-job before you even
began to see the bird
in it's accustomed place
on my fine feathered hand - but
a custom of its, not yours, all preference
(inside joke) aside - sit down quick, before
the crowd starts to fly
from the disgusting enough
now spectacle you represented
anyhow, to every wide-shot eye - it's
enough to clear the room
how your life's so spent.
that's a wrap. Take your straight
ass home and get bent
you goon.
The Pants Anthem
Hum.
Ok alright guys, ladies this one's
straight for the guys but.
if ya listen along, and you can't help yourselves,
singalong - come on! You might learn a thing
keep it tight and hi, now
here comes the song!
I would never do anything
EVEN IN WAR
to another man's butthole
I'd just have to think another way
to EVEN THE SCORE
not another man's butthole
well I tried it for myself just a
COUPLE A MONTHS
some other man's butthole
and I found there isn't anything
THAT I WANT
in another man's butthole
(butt hollllle)
you know we all got a certain kind a
kinda kinda UNITY THERE #YES!
All Men
(butt holllle)
and we each have to find a way to reconcile,
my vulnerable friend
(butt holllle)
with the steely eyed threat from the equally
vulnerable man coming in
(butt holllle)
when you trouble to talk, you know he don't want
what we don't want do he?
He don't want what we don't want do he?
Man!
Let's try not to jump to some clue
Man!
That suspicious society pins on in
and right through, you
MAN.
A real man's not interested though. Not! When
there's so much tail around
Ready to drop at a glance and GET DOWN
or you'd think soooooooo so so so
so that's why I
would never do anything, even in
the best / worst for some tastes case scenario
Trust me. Ain't a phobia about it mah man I
just can't lead a dude on like that, it don't
listen, it don't swing, it don't scan
it don't ride
and it's not free. Now my BACK GROUND,
singers one more to last time, BACK IT UP
and sing it just once more for me
than for you, SING IT UP duh
(butt hollllle)
Ok alright guys, ladies this one's
straight for the guys but.
if ya listen along, and you can't help yourselves,
singalong - come on! You might learn a thing
keep it tight and hi, now
here comes the song!
I would never do anything
EVEN IN WAR
to another man's butthole
I'd just have to think another way
to EVEN THE SCORE
not another man's butthole
well I tried it for myself just a
COUPLE A MONTHS
some other man's butthole
and I found there isn't anything
THAT I WANT
in another man's butthole
(butt hollllle)
you know we all got a certain kind a
kinda kinda UNITY THERE #YES!
All Men
(butt holllle)
and we each have to find a way to reconcile,
my vulnerable friend
(butt holllle)
with the steely eyed threat from the equally
vulnerable man coming in
(butt holllle)
when you trouble to talk, you know he don't want
what we don't want do he?
He don't want what we don't want do he?
Man!
Let's try not to jump to some clue
Man!
That suspicious society pins on in
and right through, you
MAN.
A real man's not interested though. Not! When
there's so much tail around
Ready to drop at a glance and GET DOWN
or you'd think soooooooo so so so
so that's why I
would never do anything, even in
the best / worst for some tastes case scenario
Trust me. Ain't a phobia about it mah man I
just can't lead a dude on like that, it don't
listen, it don't swing, it don't scan
it don't ride
and it's not free. Now my BACK GROUND,
singers one more to last time, BACK IT UP
and sing it just once more for me
than for you, SING IT UP duh
(butt hollllle)
brimstone breath threats
The silence of Hell is not
that you can't hear the screams - you can
it's that they're the screams of people
who are getting their ears put out - or
rather, pokered in (though I'm sure
they'd rather not) by a serious, horny
redskin fan from way back in the day, way back
when he made light
look good, and even God
agreed with that. Now
he's still so sore
butt hurt from that one time
more than 40 days ago
in the desert with the Lord who said,
"Step off! If you want to fall. I'm fine
up here." It was hard.
A brutal fail, built on expectations stretching
millennially, and as smug as millennials
today, so sure: this long-awaited crack
at the kid would
pay handsomely. All the lakes of fire torture porn
and brimstone biz had back then (barely just, even
then) started making the rounds. Jesus said
"What the Hell? I could use some more powerful imagery. Gather
round, people. Hell is a hell of an acid bath. Don't believe
me? Pluck out your eye! Toss it in for a closer look! Don't like
what you see? Pull the other one, toss it in as well
as you like - but the hand that hath plucked thine eye
out has sinned. Cut it off!" You have to understand, people
were dying, here. He had the crowd, rolling round in
paroxysms, right in the palm of his hand, as he did
his bit pushing right to the point of schisms, and past it.
They were streaming with tears from the howl, but
- humor that dark just doesn't translate well
to our age. The sarcasm
was just,
but lost
between lines, as tends to happen on the printed page. Even with
the Word of God, that's
just how it is some days.
that you can't hear the screams - you can
it's that they're the screams of people
who are getting their ears put out - or
rather, pokered in (though I'm sure
they'd rather not) by a serious, horny
redskin fan from way back in the day, way back
when he made light
look good, and even God
agreed with that. Now
he's still so sore
butt hurt from that one time
more than 40 days ago
in the desert with the Lord who said,
"Step off! If you want to fall. I'm fine
up here." It was hard.
A brutal fail, built on expectations stretching
millennially, and as smug as millennials
today, so sure: this long-awaited crack
at the kid would
pay handsomely. All the lakes of fire torture porn
and brimstone biz had back then (barely just, even
then) started making the rounds. Jesus said
"What the Hell? I could use some more powerful imagery. Gather
round, people. Hell is a hell of an acid bath. Don't believe
me? Pluck out your eye! Toss it in for a closer look! Don't like
what you see? Pull the other one, toss it in as well
as you like - but the hand that hath plucked thine eye
out has sinned. Cut it off!" You have to understand, people
were dying, here. He had the crowd, rolling round in
paroxysms, right in the palm of his hand, as he did
his bit pushing right to the point of schisms, and past it.
They were streaming with tears from the howl, but
- humor that dark just doesn't translate well
to our age. The sarcasm
was just,
but lost
between lines, as tends to happen on the printed page. Even with
the Word of God, that's
just how it is some days.
poemsplaining #2: into the friendzone
The concept of "friendzoning" is borne in on a peculiar secret
some truly sweet dudes cooked up and introduced over
an aching and lonely boner for a buddy of theirs
of the wrong persuasion (far as their concerns go):
She didn't want it. So,
I say "she," maybe technical he/or
most if (admittedly, #notall) of these
braying Eeyores complaining about
the long wait for tail
stuck in with a pin
like prick are males,
so they say it's worth
the weight as if they know.
Where expectations go a bit
less heavily,
trust me though, women
even especially those
gendersexually identified by themselves
as girls, (which must be
respected please) have a different
view
of friendship: as a non-punitive
unbullshitty move between those
who love each other's company
trusting the lack of easily
-available freely shared
nudity and sex benefits
wouldn't ruin it, but
let's not anyway okay? We can justly
still be friends
isn't that why we show up?
Ideally, but the pedestal view
from beneath you (thanks for
that parting shot, nice
sarcasm) is more beautiful
if
you don't mind the fantasy
he's sticking close to you
over, in the last-man-in
the world mentality
so natural to a dude
banking on it.
The "friendzone" doesn't exist
to be clear and truer than usual: the
"fakefriend zone" is what it is
and definitely where
it's not trying to be at, but
close. Close is sometimes no cigar
at all, as you know. Your call
Not his. He sits.
Waiting for ever so fucking what. You don't know
everything possible. Everyone deserves someone
right? Well who if not you could deserve
this guy? Exactly.
Nobody there but him, and you
not nearly dimly enough suspect
where he goes, protesting much too
loud goodbyes
to sneak out the back
door of his mind, to picture
you, just you - is that too much
to ask? Without all the clothes
he specifically compliments
you on. Please dude
it's not over nothing
you keep beating yourself up
to a close proximity to
a dream come oh so close
to true, biding his time
with a bet on the side
next to you, pretty much
all in! For the long
haul ass to this week's no limit
buy in, no bluff
all
just friendship Texas no
hold 'em partner
poker night. Apart from the
poker, oh
he says "just friendship" but trust
us, girls, he means "unjust
friendship" muttering under his
long-held breath,
which is something a woman
just can't understand. The true
value of friendship
if you're fair
is not the sharing of
a secret trust in pain
and knowing who is all
really there for you,
(typical woman
perspective) but sex!
with a woman involved
obviously
a truly just friend
who puts out
a friendly, welcoming
event for you!
not a girlfriend, grow up
the whole point of all the blah
blah
blah
you sit through
stuff is
an exchange of revealing
intimately personal views
and all that that
so clearly promised (implied) is lost
on her. She just sees your gaze
glazing over, all zoned out
what's a friend to do?
Fake it.
You know, 'til you
make it (preferred outcome)
or break it
ok, capisce
we're done
some truly sweet dudes cooked up and introduced over
an aching and lonely boner for a buddy of theirs
of the wrong persuasion (far as their concerns go):
She didn't want it. So,
I say "she," maybe technical he/or
most if (admittedly, #notall) of these
braying Eeyores complaining about
the long wait for tail
stuck in with a pin
like prick are males,
so they say it's worth
the weight as if they know.
Where expectations go a bit
less heavily,
trust me though, women
even especially those
gendersexually identified by themselves
as girls, (which must be
respected please) have a different
view
of friendship: as a non-punitive
unbullshitty move between those
who love each other's company
trusting the lack of easily
-available freely shared
nudity and sex benefits
wouldn't ruin it, but
let's not anyway okay? We can justly
still be friends
isn't that why we show up?
Ideally, but the pedestal view
from beneath you (thanks for
that parting shot, nice
sarcasm) is more beautiful
if
you don't mind the fantasy
he's sticking close to you
over, in the last-man-in
the world mentality
so natural to a dude
banking on it.
The "friendzone" doesn't exist
to be clear and truer than usual: the
"fakefriend zone" is what it is
and definitely where
it's not trying to be at, but
close. Close is sometimes no cigar
at all, as you know. Your call
Not his. He sits.
Waiting for ever so fucking what. You don't know
everything possible. Everyone deserves someone
right? Well who if not you could deserve
this guy? Exactly.
Nobody there but him, and you
not nearly dimly enough suspect
where he goes, protesting much too
loud goodbyes
to sneak out the back
door of his mind, to picture
you, just you - is that too much
to ask? Without all the clothes
he specifically compliments
you on. Please dude
it's not over nothing
you keep beating yourself up
to a close proximity to
a dream come oh so close
to true, biding his time
with a bet on the side
next to you, pretty much
all in! For the long
haul ass to this week's no limit
buy in, no bluff
all
just friendship Texas no
hold 'em partner
poker night. Apart from the
poker, oh
he says "just friendship" but trust
us, girls, he means "unjust
friendship" muttering under his
long-held breath,
which is something a woman
just can't understand. The true
value of friendship
if you're fair
is not the sharing of
a secret trust in pain
and knowing who is all
really there for you,
(typical woman
perspective) but sex!
with a woman involved
obviously
a truly just friend
who puts out
a friendly, welcoming
event for you!
not a girlfriend, grow up
the whole point of all the blah
blah
blah
you sit through
stuff is
an exchange of revealing
intimately personal views
and all that that
so clearly promised (implied) is lost
on her. She just sees your gaze
glazing over, all zoned out
what's a friend to do?
Fake it.
You know, 'til you
make it (preferred outcome)
or break it
ok, capisce
we're done
Thursday, January 24, 2019
backslide
It would have been normal
if when we first met
on our
technically not even a
date yet first
night, let's say
at the concert - I had taken
the opportunity
for a smooth,
deeply
gentle
lovingly hand-made
grope via the tit, either one
dealer's choice, or
/and followed up toot sweet
with an immense bragworthy grab
and bounce, fondle of
"that ass" you know
the one. That, and none
other. But this
almost
a good decade ago
was a bad time for standards.
And we've come so far together
since then on separate paths,
and so
we thinks,
has the world.
Now we know how to handle. So,
when you
told me
by surprise
for some reason
I asked, that
it would have been
fine by delightedly you
in that just right exact moment, that
pass that was made
for way back then,
but not made, deferred, unpursued, I was
knocked
about emotionally ten years off
my old age
by which time,
I met you.
if when we first met
on our
technically not even a
date yet first
night, let's say
at the concert - I had taken
the opportunity
for a smooth,
deeply
gentle
lovingly hand-made
grope via the tit, either one
dealer's choice, or
/and followed up toot sweet
with an immense bragworthy grab
and bounce, fondle of
"that ass" you know
the one. That, and none
other. But this
almost
a good decade ago
was a bad time for standards.
And we've come so far together
since then on separate paths,
and so
we thinks,
has the world.
Now we know how to handle. So,
when you
told me
by surprise
for some reason
I asked, that
it would have been
fine by delightedly you
in that just right exact moment, that
pass that was made
for way back then,
but not made, deferred, unpursued, I was
knocked
about emotionally ten years off
my old age
by which time,
I met you.
stark, harsh and bold
Stark, harsh & bold, came
stumble and bounce diagonal
off the angle of wall on
his way and fell short
to a standing stop, bolt
up right and - swayed his way to heavy, saw
on the well-shelved wall, every single next drink
he would never now have. In decision
adamant, after
what he just
done? Nothing could take that
back or top, still
spinning
he turned to the cabinet
to suit up
in articulate gold
steel red
as old blood, now
the last hero on Earth - not the one
he deserved, to be
but
the one nobody needs
Last piece, the mask
no one ever saw behind.
Hit
the room surround, crank Sabbath
on blast, and
from the inside, the one button untouched
has been touched
from nineteen ninety-when by ones,
each one
last chance
No. Disengaged, again
as usual, and dispassionate
this time passion buried deep, not
to be disinterred, do not disturb
sign hung from some knob, cooly,
even, disinterestedly - the display
one last act of command, reads initiate
self
destruct
complete
end of song, new random next track
brash shuffling in
it's been
a very long time, been a long lonely time
since he trashed a hotel room
six
floors
deep
stumble and bounce diagonal
off the angle of wall on
his way and fell short
to a standing stop, bolt
up right and - swayed his way to heavy, saw
on the well-shelved wall, every single next drink
he would never now have. In decision
adamant, after
what he just
done? Nothing could take that
back or top, still
spinning
he turned to the cabinet
to suit up
in articulate gold
steel red
as old blood, now
the last hero on Earth - not the one
he deserved, to be
but
the one nobody needs
Last piece, the mask
no one ever saw behind.
Hit
the room surround, crank Sabbath
on blast, and
from the inside, the one button untouched
has been touched
from nineteen ninety-when by ones,
each one
last chance
No. Disengaged, again
as usual, and dispassionate
this time passion buried deep, not
to be disinterred, do not disturb
sign hung from some knob, cooly,
even, disinterestedly - the display
one last act of command, reads initiate
self
destruct
complete
end of song, new random next track
brash shuffling in
it's been
a very long time, been a long lonely time
since he trashed a hotel room
six
floors
deep
approaches to infinity
I begin
infinitely, which means
it never ends, and cannot possibly
be justified in speculation by pretend.
Take your reduced, cut-rate logic
and drawing out to a point as far
from your reach (your finger isn't even
aimed right), call it a line
and pronounce "unacceptable!"
so peculiarly that I consequently
change my mind on what accent it is
you're so trying
to fake. Dear me,
darling little you whomever you suppose,
(so great, but)
that isn't a line, it's a run. And
I? Do not believe in panty hose, or
in such low jokes as those,
Let alone me. You should
wait! Never mind. No fun.
You were way ahead of me once
again, too slow for you
to really get,
and left
behind.
infinitely, which means
it never ends, and cannot possibly
be justified in speculation by pretend.
Take your reduced, cut-rate logic
and drawing out to a point as far
from your reach (your finger isn't even
aimed right), call it a line
and pronounce "unacceptable!"
so peculiarly that I consequently
change my mind on what accent it is
you're so trying
to fake. Dear me,
darling little you whomever you suppose,
(so great, but)
that isn't a line, it's a run. And
I? Do not believe in panty hose, or
in such low jokes as those,
Let alone me. You should
wait! Never mind. No fun.
You were way ahead of me once
again, too slow for you
to really get,
and left
behind.
missionvision reprise
I am a
surface
of infinite shallowness.
It's a birth defect. I'm just
lucky I guess.
And if ignorance is anything like
the state of bliss, as advertised
I am innocent of this, and what else?
I am wise
to some such
similar
tricks
we've devised.
surface
of infinite shallowness.
It's a birth defect. I'm just
lucky I guess.
And if ignorance is anything like
the state of bliss, as advertised
I am innocent of this, and what else?
I am wise
to some such
similar
tricks
we've devised.
the beautiful neighbor
I am so
effortlessly self-amused NOT
by the limbo-low dive bar of my revolutionary
self-induced delusions of adequacy in terms
of standards (to wit: as a banner unfurled
heralding the absence of, which has just
'cause no reason, really, just about left
none of us wanting the lack thereof
added to our calculations, or even
subtracted from them in the slightest:
FINE. It's ok. It's only two of your cents,
leaving with you none but then - I didn't
ask) but also, even primarily the facts
themselves, which - evident as they are,
can hardly be called mute on account of
the ludicrous dumb ass testament they
so-called leaped up full of GOOD NEWS,
signed in sealed miracles, attested by
the undetectable remains, in some case,
fossilized in a wide-eyed jump
of disbelief, witnessed by all,
since roundly denied as a joke - but
- and it's a big bouncy fundament! -
which every single one of us swears
hand smack flat upon the cover on, raising
up the other hand to please, pull the other
one, the very cover of the book we all heard tell
us: "Don't judge, bud, but"
isn't that a hypocrisy or some such? Right
on the cover! What a good, bookish move
but is it reliable? What does it think who
we are is it really even trying to prove?
Really trying, I mean? But
that's not the reason either.
I'm so easily self-amused because,
I'd be a fool not to, and hypothetically a fool
anyway (don't fight it! It's hypothetical, kick
a fuss and who knows what happens next! You
hypothetically could be part of a thought experiment
tied to the tracks, and - oh snap. The Neighborhood
of Make Believe, next stop - there's the light at the end
of your live, oncoming jauntily and tooting and -
no one at the switch. Must of woke
up, obviously this is all a dream but
the trolley seems so convincing and I wish
King Friday hadn't staked his reputation so hard
on making the trains punctual. I'm about
to find out why
the hypothetical game
is not ruled by any
but the sportiest type guy
imaginable. Nice! Where does that leave me up
in the stands cheering in one-man waves,
shaking the bleachers with my stomp stomp
CLAP singing buddy your a rum man gin man
whisky on the side beer chaser upskirt glace
whoops
the second stool to the left just angled under
the wrought-iron upwardly spiraling staircase
can give you a real case of the glares. I recommend
the occasional proximate location of temptation be
moved around more. Make it harder. That was too easy
to give into and really? She wasn't, no she wasn't
asking for it jerk. Self-jerk. Nothing but J'accuse
and that plus jack is still worth jack you know,
(potentially a superior sort, thinks he beats
the jack you don'ht hands down) look
See?
I slip when I'm not paying attention and
I take it all in strut, more of a jive
ass honky rooting tooting his horny
little caboose dragged backwards
and OUT THE DOOR, where I really needed
to go anyway, but, I'd have professed a pronounced
preference for restrooms than an open-air promenade,
for example - and I fine one I have made upon it.
Don't mind me, I am drunk on water and I very much touch
the stuff illiberally, or is it inconservatively - too much!
Either way I mean to say that embarrassing enough,
to my shame, naturally not really, but - I just
completely forgot the reason I am so self-amused.
It doesn't even seem tenable to venture a tremulous
case for it, let alone perch such porcelain doodads
as I collect and dignify with the name "memorabilia!"
(beautiful name for a newborn baby girl, isn't
no well, maybe) There's no name or for that matter
concept for the kind of abashed bull I pull through
the whole China shop out of sheer curiosity, like
Sherlock Holmes, dying for a peek at the clues. True,
the real conundrum to beat all is how my neverlasting
humiliation (immodesty, arguable suits me to so fetching
a 't' to the extent that I have to wear clothes,
I like them to say something about me, pretty loud
and garish - it's a fashion alert! Violation is
a transgression of the kind of subversive tricks
I pull from the racks and scatter all over so
I can shuffle-walk on wool and try to hone
my static electricity charge. But the point:
because it is so large and immodest as I am,
now and then, I pretty much need to indulge
myself in some shocking humiliation or two.
Preferably my own. I need to humilitate
against yourself humilitantly and STILL)
doesn't stick. It never does. And so I sigh,
as Tokyo sighs for Godzilla. Just that immense
and ill-advised, sentimentally. You can hear me sighing
a mile away, rush to ask and refrain - just from the look
in my eyes and to the thrilling extent
That I am,
That I am, not
merely in word, but
indeed, thought and action,
meek. Surprise!
It always has been to me, too, yet there it is. Inescapably,
insouciantly louche and lounging leaned back near a building
but - not touching it. Just that aloof, with a half-cigarette
turned to smoke and idly musing, out loud, to one's self at one's
self with the whole wide world, that say maybe somebody should die
for no specified reason, but boredom is a pretty good bet,
from the tone and cut of renaissance laissez-faire
this man of the world so barely puts on, carelessly,
before gaily skipping breakfast and so out the French
doors to bullmerde the boulevard in passing, which he
only he
can do standing still not even lifting a muscle to
scratch an abstract and absent itch on his smooth face
of considerable cheek. Deadpan with an disinterestedly
head chef attitude, like he knew the recipe before
the invention of ingredients. Which for all we know,
no, he didn't.
Compared to that guy, I'm meek! You know
really meek enough to inherit the whole fucking earth
in accordance with God's venerable and most
recent, still-current will with a shot of
testament on the side - I accept it may
by no means the last. Besides. I'm getting above
my station, here, barking out wares to the wily limit
of my unruly wiles, what's for sale? TICKETS! Tickets
on the main event me! Selling tickets on my self, but
At what cost?
Oh, why do you ask?
The answer is dignity. Have you to spare? Are you
perhaps free on the day! Look.
It's
a treat! No,
tricked you it costs fifty dignity dollars, but
with the look you have all over you at the moment
- hey were you in the spiral staircase bar the other
night, 'because I think I know something about you
quite personal but giddyap! I'm feelin' horsey
and chivalrous as always used to and still do! I had
a stable upbringing, fed on soft fresh hay and hoo
wee! Slops, but we have to agree not
to show up all
little miss not-so-innocent spectator and me,
her impossibly obtuse at both ends bystander,
designatedly bystanding alone to keep fast
by her side (it does take some catching up
quick) in the nick of time. No particular time.
A good time! But in any event of a fictional
emergency calling for superpowers neither of us
have. Well, there's a number you should call for that.
I saw it in - look, not stalling, but - a not-so-secret
not-so-government lavatory they had partitioned into
tall cubicles. Workstations. Openly available, just
in case - and therein was the number to call.
Holy shit it's yours! What DICK
LOOK
I'm sorry I even brought it up, don't even
look at it. Pretend it's so not even dog-beg insistently
there.
That's disrespectful. That
is what I'm saying: we have to agree
not to go there and be that way, like that. It's a fact
that is not what these tickets are meant to grant such
open and disparagable personal admission to. Watch the game.
Make free
with your hands, ok, if needs
must needs must but eyes, dear, down there
somewhere within the area marked out as
the playing surface, dear. See all those lines?
It's a pattern or something. What does it mean? And WHY
is it the peak of admirable for so many fools
to watch GROWN MEN chasing and hitting each other after a
CHILD'S TOY, for whatever they think they're supposed to do
with their temporary and fleeting possession of it, or
try? You and I see myself as well see eye to eye, pretty
much, I see. You have pretty eyes. Please.
On the field.
You know what?
I just remembered what I was originally on, with this
reason I'm so easily self-amusing bit. It's twofold:
1. There is none. And
2. I'm not.
No wonder I couldn't see as hard as I looked,
inwardly even, outwardly all over the place and, odd,
nothing. Nothing coming back to so much as ring a bell,
run away again, nothing.
There isn't anything amusing in and of self! Shit
sure not mine! I've never been easily self-amused. I've
never even be self-interested! I take a disinterested
(which whispers of trustworthiness!) look in the mirror
on the way out the door after skipping past breakfast
(well, its uncleaned up remains, later on for that)
and out the door and there!
It's OUT THERE that's amusing. AND interesting. Riveting.
Confusing and wonderful, not yourself! Wait - actually
no definitely your self, but obviously less so to you
as an object of interest, knowing it half to death
already. Slow down.
I just misremembered it, what was so notable
- probably by not bothering to look too close,
which makes sense in the light. I'm not and have never been easily
self
amused, just, you know. Remarkably easily amused.
It amused me. I don't. How could I? My mind is a pretty
big
tipoff to the twist ending, twist middle, twist
beginning, shall we?
It's cool. No need to.
I find it worth the ask to know. Truth is better than anything
you could make-believe into a kingdom and run some puttering
homicidal trolley through it massacring puppets, innocently
relaxing on the tracks, in defiance of signs and wondering what
the clearly posted table of places and times
could possibly be worth amounting to. Well that's the difference!
Between me and a puppet and you,
I do!
And you may.
But they need help. NOW!
FAST!
And LEAP
to the rescue!
Ahhhhh, just kick the trolley
over. It's a child's toy, albeit
a valuable piece
of memorabilia.
effortlessly self-amused NOT
by the limbo-low dive bar of my revolutionary
self-induced delusions of adequacy in terms
of standards (to wit: as a banner unfurled
heralding the absence of, which has just
'cause no reason, really, just about left
none of us wanting the lack thereof
added to our calculations, or even
subtracted from them in the slightest:
FINE. It's ok. It's only two of your cents,
leaving with you none but then - I didn't
ask) but also, even primarily the facts
themselves, which - evident as they are,
can hardly be called mute on account of
the ludicrous dumb ass testament they
so-called leaped up full of GOOD NEWS,
signed in sealed miracles, attested by
the undetectable remains, in some case,
fossilized in a wide-eyed jump
of disbelief, witnessed by all,
since roundly denied as a joke - but
- and it's a big bouncy fundament! -
which every single one of us swears
hand smack flat upon the cover on, raising
up the other hand to please, pull the other
one, the very cover of the book we all heard tell
us: "Don't judge, bud, but"
isn't that a hypocrisy or some such? Right
on the cover! What a good, bookish move
but is it reliable? What does it think who
we are is it really even trying to prove?
Really trying, I mean? But
that's not the reason either.
I'm so easily self-amused because,
I'd be a fool not to, and hypothetically a fool
anyway (don't fight it! It's hypothetical, kick
a fuss and who knows what happens next! You
hypothetically could be part of a thought experiment
tied to the tracks, and - oh snap. The Neighborhood
of Make Believe, next stop - there's the light at the end
of your live, oncoming jauntily and tooting and -
no one at the switch. Must of woke
up, obviously this is all a dream but
the trolley seems so convincing and I wish
King Friday hadn't staked his reputation so hard
on making the trains punctual. I'm about
to find out why
the hypothetical game
is not ruled by any
but the sportiest type guy
imaginable. Nice! Where does that leave me up
in the stands cheering in one-man waves,
shaking the bleachers with my stomp stomp
CLAP singing buddy your a rum man gin man
whisky on the side beer chaser upskirt glace
whoops
the second stool to the left just angled under
the wrought-iron upwardly spiraling staircase
can give you a real case of the glares. I recommend
the occasional proximate location of temptation be
moved around more. Make it harder. That was too easy
to give into and really? She wasn't, no she wasn't
asking for it jerk. Self-jerk. Nothing but J'accuse
and that plus jack is still worth jack you know,
(potentially a superior sort, thinks he beats
the jack you don'ht hands down) look
See?
I slip when I'm not paying attention and
I take it all in strut, more of a jive
ass honky rooting tooting his horny
little caboose dragged backwards
and OUT THE DOOR, where I really needed
to go anyway, but, I'd have professed a pronounced
preference for restrooms than an open-air promenade,
for example - and I fine one I have made upon it.
Don't mind me, I am drunk on water and I very much touch
the stuff illiberally, or is it inconservatively - too much!
Either way I mean to say that embarrassing enough,
to my shame, naturally not really, but - I just
completely forgot the reason I am so self-amused.
It doesn't even seem tenable to venture a tremulous
case for it, let alone perch such porcelain doodads
as I collect and dignify with the name "memorabilia!"
(beautiful name for a newborn baby girl, isn't
no well, maybe) There's no name or for that matter
concept for the kind of abashed bull I pull through
the whole China shop out of sheer curiosity, like
Sherlock Holmes, dying for a peek at the clues. True,
the real conundrum to beat all is how my neverlasting
humiliation (immodesty, arguable suits me to so fetching
a 't' to the extent that I have to wear clothes,
I like them to say something about me, pretty loud
and garish - it's a fashion alert! Violation is
a transgression of the kind of subversive tricks
I pull from the racks and scatter all over so
I can shuffle-walk on wool and try to hone
my static electricity charge. But the point:
because it is so large and immodest as I am,
now and then, I pretty much need to indulge
myself in some shocking humiliation or two.
Preferably my own. I need to humilitate
against yourself humilitantly and STILL)
doesn't stick. It never does. And so I sigh,
as Tokyo sighs for Godzilla. Just that immense
and ill-advised, sentimentally. You can hear me sighing
a mile away, rush to ask and refrain - just from the look
in my eyes and to the thrilling extent
That I am,
That I am, not
merely in word, but
indeed, thought and action,
meek. Surprise!
It always has been to me, too, yet there it is. Inescapably,
insouciantly louche and lounging leaned back near a building
but - not touching it. Just that aloof, with a half-cigarette
turned to smoke and idly musing, out loud, to one's self at one's
self with the whole wide world, that say maybe somebody should die
for no specified reason, but boredom is a pretty good bet,
from the tone and cut of renaissance laissez-faire
this man of the world so barely puts on, carelessly,
before gaily skipping breakfast and so out the French
doors to bullmerde the boulevard in passing, which he
only he
can do standing still not even lifting a muscle to
scratch an abstract and absent itch on his smooth face
of considerable cheek. Deadpan with an disinterestedly
head chef attitude, like he knew the recipe before
the invention of ingredients. Which for all we know,
no, he didn't.
Compared to that guy, I'm meek! You know
really meek enough to inherit the whole fucking earth
in accordance with God's venerable and most
recent, still-current will with a shot of
testament on the side - I accept it may
by no means the last. Besides. I'm getting above
my station, here, barking out wares to the wily limit
of my unruly wiles, what's for sale? TICKETS! Tickets
on the main event me! Selling tickets on my self, but
At what cost?
Oh, why do you ask?
The answer is dignity. Have you to spare? Are you
perhaps free on the day! Look.
It's
a treat! No,
tricked you it costs fifty dignity dollars, but
with the look you have all over you at the moment
- hey were you in the spiral staircase bar the other
night, 'because I think I know something about you
quite personal but giddyap! I'm feelin' horsey
and chivalrous as always used to and still do! I had
a stable upbringing, fed on soft fresh hay and hoo
wee! Slops, but we have to agree not
to show up all
little miss not-so-innocent spectator and me,
her impossibly obtuse at both ends bystander,
designatedly bystanding alone to keep fast
by her side (it does take some catching up
quick) in the nick of time. No particular time.
A good time! But in any event of a fictional
emergency calling for superpowers neither of us
have. Well, there's a number you should call for that.
I saw it in - look, not stalling, but - a not-so-secret
not-so-government lavatory they had partitioned into
tall cubicles. Workstations. Openly available, just
in case - and therein was the number to call.
Holy shit it's yours! What DICK
LOOK
I'm sorry I even brought it up, don't even
look at it. Pretend it's so not even dog-beg insistently
there.
That's disrespectful. That
is what I'm saying: we have to agree
not to go there and be that way, like that. It's a fact
that is not what these tickets are meant to grant such
open and disparagable personal admission to. Watch the game.
Make free
with your hands, ok, if needs
must needs must but eyes, dear, down there
somewhere within the area marked out as
the playing surface, dear. See all those lines?
It's a pattern or something. What does it mean? And WHY
is it the peak of admirable for so many fools
to watch GROWN MEN chasing and hitting each other after a
CHILD'S TOY, for whatever they think they're supposed to do
with their temporary and fleeting possession of it, or
try? You and I see myself as well see eye to eye, pretty
much, I see. You have pretty eyes. Please.
On the field.
You know what?
I just remembered what I was originally on, with this
reason I'm so easily self-amusing bit. It's twofold:
1. There is none. And
2. I'm not.
No wonder I couldn't see as hard as I looked,
inwardly even, outwardly all over the place and, odd,
nothing. Nothing coming back to so much as ring a bell,
run away again, nothing.
There isn't anything amusing in and of self! Shit
sure not mine! I've never been easily self-amused. I've
never even be self-interested! I take a disinterested
(which whispers of trustworthiness!) look in the mirror
on the way out the door after skipping past breakfast
(well, its uncleaned up remains, later on for that)
and out the door and there!
It's OUT THERE that's amusing. AND interesting. Riveting.
Confusing and wonderful, not yourself! Wait - actually
no definitely your self, but obviously less so to you
as an object of interest, knowing it half to death
already. Slow down.
I just misremembered it, what was so notable
- probably by not bothering to look too close,
which makes sense in the light. I'm not and have never been easily
self
amused, just, you know. Remarkably easily amused.
It amused me. I don't. How could I? My mind is a pretty
big
tipoff to the twist ending, twist middle, twist
beginning, shall we?
It's cool. No need to.
I find it worth the ask to know. Truth is better than anything
you could make-believe into a kingdom and run some puttering
homicidal trolley through it massacring puppets, innocently
relaxing on the tracks, in defiance of signs and wondering what
the clearly posted table of places and times
could possibly be worth amounting to. Well that's the difference!
Between me and a puppet and you,
I do!
And you may.
But they need help. NOW!
FAST!
And LEAP
to the rescue!
Ahhhhh, just kick the trolley
over. It's a child's toy, albeit
a valuable piece
of memorabilia.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
forgot the damn karma
Self-satisfied prophecies ain't
worth a Fate's worth of destiny's
chance in some Disney Princess Only
circle of Hell, next to them
self-fulfilling ones, man
No. As prophecies go, smug's
not indicative, any more than rubbing it
'til everything you wish would come
turns out to be, well
What you shouldn't have planned
on how true it must be,
from how good it felt
to think you both
thought so,
permanently.
It took a lot of convincing
otherwise, I guess you wouldn't even
have done step one
to this. You had
more sense, I thought,
than
that.
or say
for instance,
this
worth a Fate's worth of destiny's
chance in some Disney Princess Only
circle of Hell, next to them
self-fulfilling ones, man
No. As prophecies go, smug's
not indicative, any more than rubbing it
'til everything you wish would come
turns out to be, well
What you shouldn't have planned
on how true it must be,
from how good it felt
to think you both
thought so,
permanently.
It took a lot of convincing
otherwise, I guess you wouldn't even
have done step one
to this. You had
more sense, I thought,
than
that.
or say
for instance,
this
beloved boss
beloved boss
(the original and unself-ishly
-centerdly -censoredly chart-
topping greatest bits,
hits and mash notes mix tape
taken apart and edited from
context by the light of
the silvery dulcet tones
of a rare and valuable analog voice
male toxicity precursor AKA
answering
machine,
way)
back.
Second thing
in the day,
no ring, just
BLEEEEEEEEEEEP
"Go FUCK
yourself on your OWN TIME,
douche-bomb! I so help me
promise you if you don't
tear your hairy, malingering
ass-first bouncing butt out of bed
slap yesterday's pretty, still clean CLOTHES
on your back (
not neglecting to cover your ASS
) faster than half an hour before I can
count up all the mistakes you should have made
today, already! Well we can just FORGET about
the FIRST one, if you do, which I just about grit
BLOOD
from my pearly whites, just now listening to the apologetic
TURD you were on my VOICE MAIL! From the conference
room. Speakerphone. Ten minutes late, based on
the timetable you invited us to meet on, led
(misled) ostensibly enough by YOU. The whole team
thought it was a gas (your new nickname is "Both
-Ends" by the way, come in
and get a jump on getting used to it!!) If you do. IF YOU DON'T,
buddy you can just PLMUB THE DEPTHS of whatever your wretched FACE
is retching up (with high, no doubt, fidelity sound effects), and you just plum
forget
about coming in tomorrow, either, not without the sorry-not
-my-policy human racehourses driven mandatory two-days-or-plus
-consecutive-absentee doctor's note. Are you hearing me, loud? Are we CLEAR?
Is this a JOKE?
Yes, of course
its, we all
love you, Joe. You're the one
the team always looks up to, and this
inexplicable disease of yours, all of the chronic
is getting way past bad example, but
and it's a pretty big, but.
Rest up. If it's really that bad. Stay in.
If you don't, get your ass in here now, then and
the mistakes you make (trust me) in your undiagnosed
(so-called) feverish delirium, will have your back
in an indentured servant collar, slaving over them
in the coming deadline - a week out, by the way
thanks to you yesterday. They ought to make
great practice for you later, for proofs and catches
unused as you are to finding anything to fix
in one's own perfect work you self-driving punctilious
perfectionist. Not your strong suit, prrofing, I know, but with a
quite LOUD
POWER TIE, and the peculiar cocked knot we can't all figure out
how you do
precisely, exact the same, exacting, standard just-so fucked up way
every time! What?
Is it some kind bespoke clip-on? I dunno, anyway dude
if I see ya I'ma catch ya, if not,
back atcha on the flipside we're all
waiting for you, to come back
so, you know. We can all pitch in
and help you catch up, if
- and by the way, please DO train someone, or some
two, or at the very least three, how-to? Don't get
you're back up, you need a backup - don't fucking
slip into defensive hypocrisy, here
You've been begging me to assign some
assistants for years, well, the board
saw fit when they heard about
What's been going on, with you? Don't hoard
the know-how, you selfish little PUNK ASS hapless
GURU, YOU.
Sharing is good. We're re-gearing the team a bit,
to be fair. We all love you, I
know, hell,
I said that already, some things
that never need to be said bear repeating, I.
...
Love ya, man.
You're my fuck-hot platonic mancrush shit-you not hero, okay? Don't
mistake me for some arch, overbearing nemesis. You know that. We're
in trouble, buddy. Come back and
save us some, huh? Not now, if
you can't. But as soon as you can.
Ok.
Toodle-loo, fuckface"
(the original and unself-ishly
-centerdly -censoredly chart-
topping greatest bits,
hits and mash notes mix tape
taken apart and edited from
context by the light of
the silvery dulcet tones
of a rare and valuable analog voice
male toxicity precursor AKA
answering
machine,
way)
back.
Second thing
in the day,
no ring, just
BLEEEEEEEEEEEP
"Go FUCK
yourself on your OWN TIME,
douche-bomb! I so help me
promise you if you don't
tear your hairy, malingering
ass-first bouncing butt out of bed
slap yesterday's pretty, still clean CLOTHES
on your back (
not neglecting to cover your ASS
) faster than half an hour before I can
count up all the mistakes you should have made
today, already! Well we can just FORGET about
the FIRST one, if you do, which I just about grit
BLOOD
from my pearly whites, just now listening to the apologetic
TURD you were on my VOICE MAIL! From the conference
room. Speakerphone. Ten minutes late, based on
the timetable you invited us to meet on, led
(misled) ostensibly enough by YOU. The whole team
thought it was a gas (your new nickname is "Both
-Ends" by the way, come in
and get a jump on getting used to it!!) If you do. IF YOU DON'T,
buddy you can just PLMUB THE DEPTHS of whatever your wretched FACE
is retching up (with high, no doubt, fidelity sound effects), and you just plum
forget
about coming in tomorrow, either, not without the sorry-not
-my-policy human racehourses driven mandatory two-days-or-plus
-consecutive-absentee doctor's note. Are you hearing me, loud? Are we CLEAR?
Is this a JOKE?
Yes, of course
its, we all
love you, Joe. You're the one
the team always looks up to, and this
inexplicable disease of yours, all of the chronic
is getting way past bad example, but
and it's a pretty big, but.
Rest up. If it's really that bad. Stay in.
If you don't, get your ass in here now, then and
the mistakes you make (trust me) in your undiagnosed
(so-called) feverish delirium, will have your back
in an indentured servant collar, slaving over them
in the coming deadline - a week out, by the way
thanks to you yesterday. They ought to make
great practice for you later, for proofs and catches
unused as you are to finding anything to fix
in one's own perfect work you self-driving punctilious
perfectionist. Not your strong suit, prrofing, I know, but with a
quite LOUD
POWER TIE, and the peculiar cocked knot we can't all figure out
how you do
precisely, exact the same, exacting, standard just-so fucked up way
every time! What?
Is it some kind bespoke clip-on? I dunno, anyway dude
if I see ya I'ma catch ya, if not,
back atcha on the flipside we're all
waiting for you, to come back
so, you know. We can all pitch in
and help you catch up, if
- and by the way, please DO train someone, or some
two, or at the very least three, how-to? Don't get
you're back up, you need a backup - don't fucking
slip into defensive hypocrisy, here
You've been begging me to assign some
assistants for years, well, the board
saw fit when they heard about
What's been going on, with you? Don't hoard
the know-how, you selfish little PUNK ASS hapless
GURU, YOU.
Sharing is good. We're re-gearing the team a bit,
to be fair. We all love you, I
know, hell,
I said that already, some things
that never need to be said bear repeating, I.
...
Love ya, man.
You're my fuck-hot platonic mancrush shit-you not hero, okay? Don't
mistake me for some arch, overbearing nemesis. You know that. We're
in trouble, buddy. Come back and
save us some, huh? Not now, if
you can't. But as soon as you can.
Ok.
Toodle-loo, fuckface"
'S The Spirit
This whole morality play has gone off-
Broadway, spilling out into streets
in a roaring flood, trickle-down
into civilized streams babbling
to murmuring brooks
as competing, repertory companies
destined to long lingering end
a bad case of the runs
in poor showings at poorly
attended community and regional theater
locations, meagerly pitifully staffed with
an insufficient number
of has-beens, driven to performances
by their moms (or for that matter, meek and mild
-mannered grandsons, hoping soon to cash in on such last-
gasp belated goodwill) that would embarrass most
borderline high-school equivalency plays, to a degree
greater or lesser, all depending on the night.
This should be a breeze, people. These characters are world-
famously unidimensional and wonderdeveloped, and to a less
infamous degree, the writer as well. The show
must go on if we are,
to pack them in,
willing to die in public. What's
that smell? OH
That's me.
I've been swimming upstream in this downward trek
all the days of my life.
"I love it."
Broadway, spilling out into streets
in a roaring flood, trickle-down
into civilized streams babbling
to murmuring brooks
as competing, repertory companies
destined to long lingering end
a bad case of the runs
in poor showings at poorly
attended community and regional theater
locations, meagerly pitifully staffed with
an insufficient number
of has-beens, driven to performances
by their moms (or for that matter, meek and mild
-mannered grandsons, hoping soon to cash in on such last-
gasp belated goodwill) that would embarrass most
borderline high-school equivalency plays, to a degree
greater or lesser, all depending on the night.
This should be a breeze, people. These characters are world-
famously unidimensional and wonderdeveloped, and to a less
infamous degree, the writer as well. The show
must go on if we are,
to pack them in,
willing to die in public. What's
that smell? OH
That's me.
I've been swimming upstream in this downward trek
all the days of my life.
"I love it."
Little Miss RSVP
Quit
helicopter
vigilantiuncling, pal. These
nieces and the nephews now
gushing forth wow, pouring out
of the pool
from which, dripping
your oh-so-tight genes first sprang
are alright. It's you
slipping. They
have got the hang
from the chandelier, to the
balcony, one swashbuckling big,
banned swing to see, so far,
so clear! So step
hard, to the floor and make it bounce,
floor, bounce! As the old-school man
you've become leaps and bounds, oh
decrepitly pathetic in halfelderly ways
that must be seen, simply can't
be explained these days, not by honorable
means, to the ends that never failed
our fathers like they're failing today,
fadeaway, you burnout case. But!
Still! You do amaze, in your quaint
embrace of begotten benighted chivalric
standards deemed ominous and heralding
naught
but crosses of azure, in
fields d'argent, filthy lucre'd up
in bars most sinister, haunts
most Scooby-Doo corny, by now
just unmask. It was you all along.
You weren't tricking anyone
but the stoner's, dog. Chad,
Stacy and their maniac
pixie geek mutual ex
are not impressed in
these right
-brained, left-handedly
complimentary
eye roll days, dazed as we
are, oh,
we won't ask. But do tell! Lo,
who goes? And Hark! How they groan
and blindly but firmly, fairly grope
and grow, even
in your storied and legendary
epic bedtime tellings
of them, its beginning to show.
Well, OK
then, smoke
'em if you got 'em, grandpa. Blow it
up, up and us far and away, regale us
with your eldritch sour anecdotal zephyrs
and mastery of antique dance moves. Whichever.
Redounding to your credit - as they
immeasurably don't, gay as thank you, please
how it pleases you, only too well
done, as we roast, to a turn
into a frolic with capers -
tonight's special, isn't it?
Burn. Wow.
Call the papers. What
a stunt.
You've seen the need before now, so
hey.
what do you want
and who ARE you?
Man, I think you got the wrong reception
or something.
these are not your moral relatives
You cutting out? I'm losing you can
you hear me now? Oh,
piss damn screw. You can.
Hold my beer, I'll hold the door hey
let us adieu
perchance,
to just in time,
beat the deadline, that grew
in agency, mutually urgently gasping
for you in sighs, and
in pants, yearning
to be no more free
than what could one expect, so
long overdue,
some ass finally cashed the blank check
your heart can't remember writing! Caught!
horribly hard in the nick,
in time, to submit
the bans
that just about
perfectly
fit
the complete and perfect seizure
we so suddenly plan
to commit.
helicopter
vigilantiuncling, pal. These
nieces and the nephews now
gushing forth wow, pouring out
of the pool
from which, dripping
your oh-so-tight genes first sprang
are alright. It's you
slipping. They
have got the hang
from the chandelier, to the
balcony, one swashbuckling big,
banned swing to see, so far,
so clear! So step
hard, to the floor and make it bounce,
floor, bounce! As the old-school man
you've become leaps and bounds, oh
decrepitly pathetic in halfelderly ways
that must be seen, simply can't
be explained these days, not by honorable
means, to the ends that never failed
our fathers like they're failing today,
fadeaway, you burnout case. But!
Still! You do amaze, in your quaint
embrace of begotten benighted chivalric
standards deemed ominous and heralding
naught
but crosses of azure, in
fields d'argent, filthy lucre'd up
in bars most sinister, haunts
most Scooby-Doo corny, by now
just unmask. It was you all along.
You weren't tricking anyone
but the stoner's, dog. Chad,
Stacy and their maniac
pixie geek mutual ex
are not impressed in
these right
-brained, left-handedly
complimentary
eye roll days, dazed as we
are, oh,
we won't ask. But do tell! Lo,
who goes? And Hark! How they groan
and blindly but firmly, fairly grope
and grow, even
in your storied and legendary
epic bedtime tellings
of them, its beginning to show.
Well, OK
then, smoke
'em if you got 'em, grandpa. Blow it
up, up and us far and away, regale us
with your eldritch sour anecdotal zephyrs
and mastery of antique dance moves. Whichever.
Redounding to your credit - as they
immeasurably don't, gay as thank you, please
how it pleases you, only too well
done, as we roast, to a turn
into a frolic with capers -
tonight's special, isn't it?
Burn. Wow.
Call the papers. What
a stunt.
You've seen the need before now, so
hey.
what do you want
and who ARE you?
Man, I think you got the wrong reception
or something.
these are not your moral relatives
You cutting out? I'm losing you can
you hear me now? Oh,
piss damn screw. You can.
Hold my beer, I'll hold the door hey
let us adieu
perchance,
to just in time,
beat the deadline, that grew
in agency, mutually urgently gasping
for you in sighs, and
in pants, yearning
to be no more free
than what could one expect, so
long overdue,
some ass finally cashed the blank check
your heart can't remember writing! Caught!
horribly hard in the nick,
in time, to submit
the bans
that just about
perfectly
fit
the complete and perfect seizure
we so suddenly plan
to commit.
conspiracy of dupes
I demand satisfaction!
It's a scam I cooked up
to drive up the cost, given
a limited supply that I'll never
see any of anyway, I figured "How
can I make an angle out of this?" Soon
A list of my demands
appeared on your lips.
Settle down, now there. This
was intended to be a long
con,
not a grab & snatch proposition. You
might want to roll around your mouth
the taste of this gift
you may already have given.
I won't hold you to it.
Not forever. Not yet. Take your time.
We have not yet even begun
to make a living.
It's a scam I cooked up
to drive up the cost, given
a limited supply that I'll never
see any of anyway, I figured "How
can I make an angle out of this?" Soon
A list of my demands
appeared on your lips.
Settle down, now there. This
was intended to be a long
con,
not a grab & snatch proposition. You
might want to roll around your mouth
the taste of this gift
you may already have given.
I won't hold you to it.
Not forever. Not yet. Take your time.
We have not yet even begun
to make a living.
no accounting
Now listen here, see?
Feel this, and tell me how it smells. Is it in
good taste? Don't you have any
sense at all?
Oh, well.
Feel this, and tell me how it smells. Is it in
good taste? Don't you have any
sense at all?
Oh, well.
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
I taunt you with the best in online poetry
...I got.
I said I taunt you with the best in online poetry
I got. Ready?
Let's begin.
In the time it took
for you
to read this poem,
I had
already written it off,
and was running up another one, you know, yeah
I knew you did.
You have heard this one before,
and it's STILL THE BID. YOU KNOW I GOT
more rhymes than the wind's got chimes! YOU KNOW
I GOT more styles than a model's got smiles, YEAH
I rock more beats than hotels got sheets, and if
you take a breath to think,
you'll be drowning for weeks!
In the downpour I'm the deluge, you're
the paper cup - hey now, hey, no you can't predict
the course I make up,
'cause I'm just making it up
(albeit that whole snip
from "I got more rhymes," et cet
was a just a very little bit
they call "homage,"
sincere from me, to mines)
But for the rest?
Check it.
I'm the free style imp! As in provocateur, I can
extemporize a lie, by the time it trips the tip
of my tongue, you want more! - 'cause
you've seen for yourself, that it's done
become truth, fresh and hot off the shelf,
Certified organic modified and double-blind proofs,
by repeatable experiment, control the whole group,
until they go dumb stupid in a doof doof bush.
Goose a kooka, shimmy down and catch a boot in the tush!
Uh huh. Uh huh.
Shhhht. THIS, is the remix. BACK ON BEAT I GOT
more off rhymes off hand on beat, than it
could take a fully-staffed rock band to
defeat, even though they would LOSE,
shouldn't even compete.
I don't let fools win. When I slip
When I sneak up, and TAKE THE STAGE
you'll never find it again, I GOT MORE slick rhymes
than an illegal chef
with the contraband spice on his meat
named Jeff
could grill in double-shifts without sleep
for a week! Get copped, and then
tossed in the pen!
If you know what I mean,
I mean,
I don't,
but I'm already past
the last point between
when I started to care and stopped - just that fast,
we'd gone long past there, it clocked
attoseconds less
than your last thought popped
in your head, but wait WHAT? was I just
thinking about? I got
I mean I don't quite,
(with the power of recall I've got)
have a doubt that I'll screech this train
in its tracks, drag it shrieking in steel
by its booming caboose (this is a convoluted metaphor for
brain, but stick with it, we're almost through) 'til
it's all the way back
where it was,
pick it up,
pick it up
- that's the stray little-thought-lost! Yeah, I know
no need to thank me,
it was just because. No cost.
Thank you, thank you
Remember cats, it doesn't take a very big man
to lie about his size. Trash talk's a pastime,
maybe, but not much of a calling if you ask me
which you didn't.
Still.
Surprise!
I said I taunt you with the best in online poetry
I got. Ready?
Let's begin.
In the time it took
for you
to read this poem,
I had
already written it off,
and was running up another one, you know, yeah
I knew you did.
You have heard this one before,
and it's STILL THE BID. YOU KNOW I GOT
more rhymes than the wind's got chimes! YOU KNOW
I GOT more styles than a model's got smiles, YEAH
I rock more beats than hotels got sheets, and if
you take a breath to think,
you'll be drowning for weeks!
In the downpour I'm the deluge, you're
the paper cup - hey now, hey, no you can't predict
the course I make up,
'cause I'm just making it up
(albeit that whole snip
from "I got more rhymes," et cet
was a just a very little bit
they call "homage,"
sincere from me, to mines)
But for the rest?
Check it.
I'm the free style imp! As in provocateur, I can
extemporize a lie, by the time it trips the tip
of my tongue, you want more! - 'cause
you've seen for yourself, that it's done
become truth, fresh and hot off the shelf,
Certified organic modified and double-blind proofs,
by repeatable experiment, control the whole group,
until they go dumb stupid in a doof doof bush.
Goose a kooka, shimmy down and catch a boot in the tush!
Uh huh. Uh huh.
Shhhht. THIS, is the remix. BACK ON BEAT I GOT
more off rhymes off hand on beat, than it
could take a fully-staffed rock band to
defeat, even though they would LOSE,
shouldn't even compete.
I don't let fools win. When I slip
When I sneak up, and TAKE THE STAGE
you'll never find it again, I GOT MORE slick rhymes
than an illegal chef
with the contraband spice on his meat
named Jeff
could grill in double-shifts without sleep
for a week! Get copped, and then
tossed in the pen!
If you know what I mean,
I mean,
I don't,
but I'm already past
the last point between
when I started to care and stopped - just that fast,
we'd gone long past there, it clocked
attoseconds less
than your last thought popped
in your head, but wait WHAT? was I just
thinking about? I got
I mean I don't quite,
(with the power of recall I've got)
have a doubt that I'll screech this train
in its tracks, drag it shrieking in steel
by its booming caboose (this is a convoluted metaphor for
brain, but stick with it, we're almost through) 'til
it's all the way back
where it was,
pick it up,
pick it up
- that's the stray little-thought-lost! Yeah, I know
no need to thank me,
it was just because. No cost.
Thank you, thank you
Remember cats, it doesn't take a very big man
to lie about his size. Trash talk's a pastime,
maybe, but not much of a calling if you ask me
which you didn't.
Still.
Surprise!
moxie overdose
toxic masculinity is
enjoyable, turned inwardly
as a means of arch self-critique,
one's own arch nemesis one might say
man u feek,
what a fah-REEK let cha flag fly, why?
WHY NOT.
Take a deep breath, my man
show you what choo got -
it was
the worst thing
both eyes burning, pried wide
you refuse to cry, admit state of shock
or display
- only to yourself, mind you -
any emotion other than fury, you
pretend to die a little, and crumble
into an ever-widening but essentially
rather shallow abyss, circular, you circle it
and then plunging in and out like a plunger, and then
you begin, and then
- looking round first, so no one can see -
you beat yourself silly, imagining
what she could do if she would see you now,
and wanted to, taking mental note:
how manly you are, how hard it is for you
that it isn't for her, apparently, not her hot steaming
cup
of tea, eh? Well,
Oh well, cheerio anyway. Lock it up.
Like a mime with an invisible safe, exaggeratedly
in huge, unmistakable and overly-dramatic gestures lock it
up,
and throw it away.
And, another one. Lock it up at the bottom
of the deepest well
of impenetrable vaults,
rising, all tipped over the brink
to tumble down in clanging, hollow booms, a
jumbled assemblage towering uselessly where no one
will ever think to see, take a look -
very safe. Each vault holds the key
to every one of them, and you
know the combination. What
if all this sentimental value could be tapped?
What if it could be released?
Breathing deep, you steel yourself to imagine
and act out in pantomime what that
might be like.
Easy enough, for a man in touch
with its feelings.
Ok. On three.
Two.
One.
Alone.
Trembling, muscles
taught sinewy times tables by rote since birth
multiplying in
your roiling, soon to be boiling blood, the spectacle
you make of yourself erupts, bursts forth in public, finally -
finally! The POISON KICKS IN, you fool! WEAPONIZED
double-blind single malt testosterone
- a double-barreled shot right in the balls!
HOWLING, you bend over and take it, keel over
and fall, tumbling
like a stuntman,
making it look painfully obvious
none of this artifice is anything
but
natural, and easy,
just the way you make it look.
"Made you look," you think. Then -
"Ta-dah!" You say, "I'm fine all along," in a even, casual breeze
of a tone pleasantly fun, sunniness running from your skin like sweat. You cry,
easily and freely, now that the overacting's done,
as if to prove how fine that is, how assured you are
with the strong and booming emotional biz. And for your last
trick? You pick yourself
last for basketball, a pickup game,
a fakeout, a fadeaway, you pick yourself
up,
up,
and away we go. You stand there easily, cut to ribbons
and bow, deeply
we're all impressed
with this.
Sweetly, nutritiously, wholesomely
artificially and not really poisonous
at all, at least,
it's not you it's me,
these hives
it's probably allergy.
enjoyable, turned inwardly
as a means of arch self-critique,
one's own arch nemesis one might say
man u feek,
what a fah-REEK let cha flag fly, why?
WHY NOT.
Take a deep breath, my man
show you what choo got -
it was
the worst thing
both eyes burning, pried wide
you refuse to cry, admit state of shock
or display
- only to yourself, mind you -
any emotion other than fury, you
pretend to die a little, and crumble
into an ever-widening but essentially
rather shallow abyss, circular, you circle it
and then plunging in and out like a plunger, and then
you begin, and then
- looking round first, so no one can see -
you beat yourself silly, imagining
what she could do if she would see you now,
and wanted to, taking mental note:
how manly you are, how hard it is for you
that it isn't for her, apparently, not her hot steaming
cup
of tea, eh? Well,
Oh well, cheerio anyway. Lock it up.
Like a mime with an invisible safe, exaggeratedly
in huge, unmistakable and overly-dramatic gestures lock it
up,
and throw it away.
And, another one. Lock it up at the bottom
of the deepest well
of impenetrable vaults,
rising, all tipped over the brink
to tumble down in clanging, hollow booms, a
jumbled assemblage towering uselessly where no one
will ever think to see, take a look -
very safe. Each vault holds the key
to every one of them, and you
know the combination. What
if all this sentimental value could be tapped?
What if it could be released?
Breathing deep, you steel yourself to imagine
and act out in pantomime what that
might be like.
Easy enough, for a man in touch
with its feelings.
Ok. On three.
Two.
One.
Alone.
Trembling, muscles
taught sinewy times tables by rote since birth
multiplying in
your roiling, soon to be boiling blood, the spectacle
you make of yourself erupts, bursts forth in public, finally -
finally! The POISON KICKS IN, you fool! WEAPONIZED
double-blind single malt testosterone
- a double-barreled shot right in the balls!
HOWLING, you bend over and take it, keel over
and fall, tumbling
like a stuntman,
making it look painfully obvious
none of this artifice is anything
but
natural, and easy,
just the way you make it look.
"Made you look," you think. Then -
"Ta-dah!" You say, "I'm fine all along," in a even, casual breeze
of a tone pleasantly fun, sunniness running from your skin like sweat. You cry,
easily and freely, now that the overacting's done,
as if to prove how fine that is, how assured you are
with the strong and booming emotional biz. And for your last
trick? You pick yourself
last for basketball, a pickup game,
a fakeout, a fadeaway, you pick yourself
up,
up,
and away we go. You stand there easily, cut to ribbons
and bow, deeply
we're all impressed
with this.
Sweetly, nutritiously, wholesomely
artificially and not really poisonous
at all, at least,
it's not you it's me,
these hives
it's probably allergy.
ever inwardly
Her dead eyes came to life with a gasp,
more a hiccup, really a sigh would have done
as much as I can't see anyone
but you,
really can't see anyone.
more a hiccup, really a sigh would have done
as much as I can't see anyone
but you,
really can't see anyone.
counterpoise
If I’ve smashed through
to one bright, clear fact
with my thick dense head over
all these years, it’s that
my obtuseness does not imply
another’s opacity.
Nothing gets through
my skull through the eyes
and ears, unless
there's a miracle. But if
anything odd
or even
gets in,
suddenly,
it becomes hard and clear
and fits right, it rotates
and slides and slips into
place, though it might
take a day and a night, or
some weeks - if it's hard
and has weight, it persists,
and will slip into place
in concatenative assemblage
as an integral part
of reality: a machinery, whirring
at blinding speed, glass gears,
wheels and blades tempered too hard
to break, crushing ever so fine,
cutting ever so thoroughly
through, and
taking all to pieces
which all know their places
and all fall in
choreography, rising
instantly to architecture
shot through with light,
of some unknown make.
A vast, glass, cantilevered
building flying on its own
huge buttress,
Equally poised
between flight or fight
with an appetite for the former
and chutes for the latter.
All made ready, waiting
patiently inside
at a constant, blinding speed
in case anything ever gets in.
A procedure in place. If only
there were some way
for it to break out, smash
through skull and scalp (straight
up, saving face), win free
in a burst of machinery,
in a blind, dazzled glare and whirl
of blades - out into the world
made so easily laid bare
to its penetrating gaze: liberty or bust
out
from the deep dense
thick hard opacity
it sits within,
in all judgment's suspense,
without one single reason
left
to doubt.
And thence,
finally,
to begin.
to one bright, clear fact
with my thick dense head over
all these years, it’s that
my obtuseness does not imply
another’s opacity.
Nothing gets through
my skull through the eyes
and ears, unless
there's a miracle. But if
anything odd
or even
gets in,
suddenly,
it becomes hard and clear
and fits right, it rotates
and slides and slips into
place, though it might
take a day and a night, or
some weeks - if it's hard
and has weight, it persists,
and will slip into place
in concatenative assemblage
as an integral part
of reality: a machinery, whirring
at blinding speed, glass gears,
wheels and blades tempered too hard
to break, crushing ever so fine,
cutting ever so thoroughly
through, and
taking all to pieces
which all know their places
and all fall in
choreography, rising
instantly to architecture
shot through with light,
of some unknown make.
A vast, glass, cantilevered
building flying on its own
huge buttress,
Equally poised
between flight or fight
with an appetite for the former
and chutes for the latter.
All made ready, waiting
patiently inside
at a constant, blinding speed
in case anything ever gets in.
A procedure in place. If only
there were some way
for it to break out, smash
through skull and scalp (straight
up, saving face), win free
in a burst of machinery,
in a blind, dazzled glare and whirl
of blades - out into the world
made so easily laid bare
to its penetrating gaze: liberty or bust
out
from the deep dense
thick hard opacity
it sits within,
in all judgment's suspense,
without one single reason
left
to doubt.
And thence,
finally,
to begin.
Monday, January 21, 2019
rhetoric & compost
Listen.
There isn't a man alive I'd rather trust
to see this through than oppose it. But you
know what? Me? I will not oppose it. Myself,
I'm willing to let nature take its course
correction and shove it up humanity's collective
as usual, as it always does how it always goes.
Peruse the manual. It's in there the past billion
years, give or take a few fingers or hooves, or
sure, toes.
This is part of why fools believe in God, you know. But oh,
tell me why, why do they fall in love?
My guess?
God. That's a surefire bet. God sets and has set
an infinite example in this regard, which
is perfectly good for him, but the rest of us not
being invulnerable everywhere at once,
tend to get
hit pretty hard.
It's politics, essentially. A great, big,
not very good in fact tiny little argument over
whose noble ends shall be stuffed with the means,
straight up the wazoo to compact, till it screams
shouting gaily, with capers and a tart lemon
drizzle, gone prancing in tandem-chained gangs
up the bizzle, press-ganged into grass-roots
stain removal crews. Protein gets out protein, y'all.
Whose game is up next?
WHOSE
Let us have this ball. Who let the dogs
drool?
This is pointless, depressingly jubilant,
shrewd, calculated in a last-minute least
-ditch afterschool special to an nth
of the latest common vulgar extent, rude
slurred, drunk speech
you could stand up and hate, singing boos
- was it booze? - get bent, as the same damn
top of the class pomps through, circumventing
again: bearing down with a lurch, you're crushed
under stone like mortar met pestle, to mush. Then
they jump up, spin around yet again, pick up
where they left baleful glares back then,
wrestle passles and pecks of free passes to go
fuck yourself, it's alright. Get yours
you know.
There isn't a man alive I'd rather trust
to see this through than oppose it. But you
know what? Me? I will not oppose it. Myself,
I'm willing to let nature take its course
correction and shove it up humanity's collective
as usual, as it always does how it always goes.
Peruse the manual. It's in there the past billion
years, give or take a few fingers or hooves, or
sure, toes.
This is part of why fools believe in God, you know. But oh,
tell me why, why do they fall in love?
My guess?
God. That's a surefire bet. God sets and has set
an infinite example in this regard, which
is perfectly good for him, but the rest of us not
being invulnerable everywhere at once,
tend to get
hit pretty hard.
It's politics, essentially. A great, big,
not very good in fact tiny little argument over
whose noble ends shall be stuffed with the means,
straight up the wazoo to compact, till it screams
shouting gaily, with capers and a tart lemon
drizzle, gone prancing in tandem-chained gangs
up the bizzle, press-ganged into grass-roots
stain removal crews. Protein gets out protein, y'all.
Whose game is up next?
WHOSE
Let us have this ball. Who let the dogs
drool?
This is pointless, depressingly jubilant,
shrewd, calculated in a last-minute least
-ditch afterschool special to an nth
of the latest common vulgar extent, rude
slurred, drunk speech
you could stand up and hate, singing boos
- was it booze? - get bent, as the same damn
top of the class pomps through, circumventing
again: bearing down with a lurch, you're crushed
under stone like mortar met pestle, to mush. Then
they jump up, spin around yet again, pick up
where they left baleful glares back then,
wrestle passles and pecks of free passes to go
fuck yourself, it's alright. Get yours
you know.
piracy, reconsidered, arrh
It's not a crime.
It's a derring-do
type swashbuckle deal,
and a good one, too! It's
a good bit to do with
the rum, I think.
I lied.
It's a crime.
Although, what about international waters? Way
way, way back in the day, well before
international government bodies outpoured
their brand-new powers of shoulda and oughtta
in floods of indelible, bloodstained ink
all over the deep-blue, briny
depthless drink?
It was no crime then.
Just a guideline, see?
The old war of each, against
all. So I lied.
It wasn't
a crime. Necessarily.
It's a derring-do
type swashbuckle deal,
and a good one, too! It's
a good bit to do with
the rum, I think.
I lied.
It's a crime.
Although, what about international waters? Way
way, way back in the day, well before
international government bodies outpoured
their brand-new powers of shoulda and oughtta
in floods of indelible, bloodstained ink
all over the deep-blue, briny
depthless drink?
It was no crime then.
Just a guideline, see?
The old war of each, against
all. So I lied.
It wasn't
a crime. Necessarily.
folly
to frolic
in whimsical bliss,
and burrow to deep depths
of fancy, for this
is the goal that all art
and artists will stray
just as far from the mark
to avoid any risk
by some chance, they will have
to explain it to you,
and so
explain it away.
Hark. Harken,
Hark unto me, dear.
They are cowards, each one. To the very
last each, they have underserved
none of such judgments. As if
they can't say
what the truth
of such beauty
has done. To them,
in the test, in the proof
as a rule. But maybe I'm not
one
of them,
at all.
I'm the critic
I always have been.
I must be detached
all the way,
as I fall.
in whimsical bliss,
and burrow to deep depths
of fancy, for this
is the goal that all art
and artists will stray
just as far from the mark
to avoid any risk
by some chance, they will have
to explain it to you,
and so
explain it away.
Hark. Harken,
Hark unto me, dear.
They are cowards, each one. To the very
last each, they have underserved
none of such judgments. As if
they can't say
what the truth
of such beauty
has done. To them,
in the test, in the proof
as a rule. But maybe I'm not
one
of them,
at all.
I'm the critic
I always have been.
I must be detached
all the way,
as I fall.
ingenuous advice, disinterestingly
Truth or beauty
can not be reduced to one word.
You have something to say?
Speak on. You'll be heard. Bla
bla, blah BLAB! like I do!
Like I like.
It's once you've fallen off,
that you'll never forget
it's a bike
can not be reduced to one word.
You have something to say?
Speak on. You'll be heard. Bla
bla, blah BLAB! like I do!
Like I like.
It's once you've fallen off,
that you'll never forget
it's a bike
urn
I can't help
the days flying by, you know. The pace
that I set for myself is firm. It's
uncompromised. Non-negotiable. I will fill
in the gaps with the ash mixed in, over smashed
blacked pieces of what won't burn,
and I will win.
the days flying by, you know. The pace
that I set for myself is firm. It's
uncompromised. Non-negotiable. I will fill
in the gaps with the ash mixed in, over smashed
blacked pieces of what won't burn,
and I will win.
timing
Timing myself on
an antique watch, which
they pretty much all are, by this time -
I am running my thoughts half-speed, to see
if the seconds will stretch, whether
only in perception
or memory,
I am pacing
a personal best. Like tigers
in cages, prepared to eat. But so much preferring
to kill. Such is life. Lost a step,
you're selected out. Your use is now
almost complete.
You hang ripe
for the kill, as your juices turn
inside, and you exercise this last
of your lives.
The approach
will be slow,
and bittersweet. Taut
as a bowstring, sharp
as a knife, inhaling the scent
of somewhere close by,
the meat.
an antique watch, which
they pretty much all are, by this time -
I am running my thoughts half-speed, to see
if the seconds will stretch, whether
only in perception
or memory,
I am pacing
a personal best. Like tigers
in cages, prepared to eat. But so much preferring
to kill. Such is life. Lost a step,
you're selected out. Your use is now
almost complete.
You hang ripe
for the kill, as your juices turn
inside, and you exercise this last
of your lives.
The approach
will be slow,
and bittersweet. Taut
as a bowstring, sharp
as a knife, inhaling the scent
of somewhere close by,
the meat.
failsafe
Suicidal ideation
's
never a thing I bothered with. Except
for the thrills of plummeting cliffs,
with my lungs aching hard from a hike in the sun,
a smile spreading over my face, looking down
leaning out -
the thought of the waves, just a little bit
sick, so far below
as the brink falls
all the way down,
to a diamond migraine glitter of sparks
- millions of broken white piercing shards
exist
in the eye, lie dancing
a skein
in the ocean mist, or
I
am
visiting my dad's house, with all
in its place, put away -
and the growing heaviness
in the knowing look
of a silent and menacing,
freshly-cleaned
gun.
We know
where we think it is. A place
for everything, in this place. And me?
I'm a tease.
I would not stand a chance against myself.
Before I could glance
with that look of alarm, before
I could even act, or react
in the nick of no time to waste
I would throw myself down,
or take myself out.
Remove the threat,
in the moment it ceased
to be fun. Entertaining
such thoughts
is too easy
to even concern. I know
the signs, how they run
from the first to the very last
one. If they ever did grow
on my mind
to an urge,
an obsession, a shock
of decision made - it can't
go like that. I've learned.
I know.
I'm fine.
I am not that way.
And you know what? I could
never be.
I have already
learned. I could never
put
everyone
I've ever loved,
and whoever's loved me - through that plunge,
that drop
that shock
to that place, where suddenly all
I have been, who they knew
is burned, consumed every moment
that they knew me
- is gone.
Irretrievable. Permanently
disappeared.
Knowing they never knew what
they'd never in years,
in decades, believe
about me. Believe
I could do. Oh, no.
That never was me. It will
never come true. I have
a contingency plan, you see.
It would not be the first.
It would surely not
be the second - I wouldn't be new,
at this. No avoidable hurts.
The instructor would know
certainly, it was not her fault
She had taught it all clear,
and thorough,
and true,
to a serious, fun-loving,
competent man who she trusted,
with excellent judgment,
knew just what to do.
And I would.
It would not be the third.
Or the fifth,
or the sixth -
without further ado,
without further suspense,
the seventh would come,
for good. I would halt, review
my defense, ask silently
anyone present to stand and object,
close
my eyes,
and wish.
One last time - I would hesitate,
and be lost. Unsuspect.
I would lean farther out
than I'd ever done.
I would take my last beating
and kiss the sky, unspool weeks' worth
of spin-cycle sun, dry my face
as I'm pummeled and plummeting down,
quite believably all in fun.
I would
pull the cord taut, shoot the chute
that I packed myself -
with nothing to go amiss, silken wings
streaming out and up,
up away in the dying and blinding bright sun
with the whole wide world rushing into
eclipse.
Finally,
a target too big
to miss.
Everyone,
I know
would be crushed.
But when all's said and through,
consoling themselves, saying
however many times it takes
to catch, and stick:
what they always knew
about me would hold
fast, and they
would hold fast to it.
Had I ever once lied? Okay,
about anything big?
Was I fake?
No, just as I knew they would,
they would take the bait.
The gift: bought and sold. Never guessing
how long it took to make.
They would take it. They'd have to, see?
To redeem the past, and everything
everyone knew all along,
proceeding inevitably,
as many times
as it takes
they would say
- because
they'd still know
who I was
- they must. It's true.
They would never see.
It would be
understood.
One last leap of faith,
to keep in trust
between we who love.
It is over now.
What it always was,
and will always be,
is enough.
And somehow,
easy to do?
They will say it, you know.
And so will you.
And so you should:
"He loved life
so much.
The way he went out
is proof
of how thrilled he was, his life
was so good."
's
never a thing I bothered with. Except
for the thrills of plummeting cliffs,
with my lungs aching hard from a hike in the sun,
a smile spreading over my face, looking down
leaning out -
the thought of the waves, just a little bit
sick, so far below
as the brink falls
all the way down,
to a diamond migraine glitter of sparks
- millions of broken white piercing shards
exist
in the eye, lie dancing
a skein
in the ocean mist, or
I
am
visiting my dad's house, with all
in its place, put away -
and the growing heaviness
in the knowing look
of a silent and menacing,
freshly-cleaned
gun.
We know
where we think it is. A place
for everything, in this place. And me?
I'm a tease.
I would not stand a chance against myself.
Before I could glance
with that look of alarm, before
I could even act, or react
in the nick of no time to waste
I would throw myself down,
or take myself out.
Remove the threat,
in the moment it ceased
to be fun. Entertaining
such thoughts
is too easy
to even concern. I know
the signs, how they run
from the first to the very last
one. If they ever did grow
on my mind
to an urge,
an obsession, a shock
of decision made - it can't
go like that. I've learned.
I know.
I'm fine.
I am not that way.
And you know what? I could
never be.
I have already
learned. I could never
put
everyone
I've ever loved,
and whoever's loved me - through that plunge,
that drop
that shock
to that place, where suddenly all
I have been, who they knew
is burned, consumed every moment
that they knew me
- is gone.
Irretrievable. Permanently
disappeared.
Knowing they never knew what
they'd never in years,
in decades, believe
about me. Believe
I could do. Oh, no.
That never was me. It will
never come true. I have
a contingency plan, you see.
It would not be the first.
It would surely not
be the second - I wouldn't be new,
at this. No avoidable hurts.
The instructor would know
certainly, it was not her fault
She had taught it all clear,
and thorough,
and true,
to a serious, fun-loving,
competent man who she trusted,
with excellent judgment,
knew just what to do.
And I would.
It would not be the third.
Or the fifth,
or the sixth -
without further ado,
without further suspense,
the seventh would come,
for good. I would halt, review
my defense, ask silently
anyone present to stand and object,
close
my eyes,
and wish.
One last time - I would hesitate,
and be lost. Unsuspect.
I would lean farther out
than I'd ever done.
I would take my last beating
and kiss the sky, unspool weeks' worth
of spin-cycle sun, dry my face
as I'm pummeled and plummeting down,
quite believably all in fun.
I would
pull the cord taut, shoot the chute
that I packed myself -
with nothing to go amiss, silken wings
streaming out and up,
up away in the dying and blinding bright sun
with the whole wide world rushing into
eclipse.
Finally,
a target too big
to miss.
Everyone,
I know
would be crushed.
But when all's said and through,
consoling themselves, saying
however many times it takes
to catch, and stick:
what they always knew
about me would hold
fast, and they
would hold fast to it.
Had I ever once lied? Okay,
about anything big?
Was I fake?
No, just as I knew they would,
they would take the bait.
The gift: bought and sold. Never guessing
how long it took to make.
They would take it. They'd have to, see?
To redeem the past, and everything
everyone knew all along,
proceeding inevitably,
as many times
as it takes
they would say
- because
they'd still know
who I was
- they must. It's true.
They would never see.
It would be
understood.
One last leap of faith,
to keep in trust
between we who love.
It is over now.
What it always was,
and will always be,
is enough.
And somehow,
easy to do?
They will say it, you know.
And so will you.
And so you should:
"He loved life
so much.
The way he went out
is proof
of how thrilled he was, his life
was so good."
procedural notes
What was I just thinking about?
I was thinking, “Hmmmmm, I should go check
a thing. I forget
just what. And then,
as I was scrolling down the first place
I looked, scanning
to see if anything jumped
out at me like a picture of you
in the dictionary, to trigger "a-ha" or
"Eureka!" I thought again, “Hey.
Maybe
it isn't here, after all.
Maybe it's someplace else. But when
did I put it there? And what
could it have been? And where shall I check
next?"
Oh yes.
The human brain.
Of course!
This one.
Hi.
Just a mo ment
ok
we're in
These things
are so complex. You can not imagine
the subroutines. It's in here for sure.
Let's pick it clean. Or hell,
just file it away for now, and move on?
To the other thing, the I just now
can't quite recall. But it's on the tip!
of something's tongue, because before all of that,
I exactly know
what I tried to think. I was wracked
in the mind, in frustration raring
to go, tearing off and clawing abysses and brinks
in disgust (or what passes for contemplation, for me) and trying
to find where I left
the snippet of lyric that featured the phrase - Ah!
Yes! “cognitive dissonance”
- that I’d filed away to jot down, in a sec
which was only an hour or so ago
at best! And forgot
to do just that. Alas,
alack, alack alas, there
is nothing now left. And furthermore,
“Bummer.”
This place is a mess. These things always come to pass
away, leaving you none the wiser. It's just
they seem so locked-in and memorable when
you make that note to jot them down
next chance you get. Another shovelful
of bull shit, thrown in, you've plopped in clumps
where the roses don't grow, and wait for the points
of the thorns to grow in, like so many sharp
ideas you had. 'Til memory steals a loss
from win.
"I won’t be able to forget that," you know,
you're sure. It's just so
snick-click precision fit
inevitable. Oh, you wish!
We tend to forget: mental notes
aren’t worth the paper you plan to transfer them to
later. Mental notes are dish best served
to an elephant that never forgets, not
this God damn insincere alligator crying
over spilt whatever-it-was, whatever
-it-could-have-been, but never now. Mental notes
are good for being instantly lost upon filing away,
then turning up later
by weeks or months, unconnected to whatever
you’d meant to say. Without which
they make no sense! A dissonant chime,
missing its symphony by a mile - and worse,
you're never quite sure you've unearthed it
whole and complete, despite all
the deja vu that pours in
like eerie light, and you want to be sure,
except - why does it now suck!
Like an empty, amputated arm
still pinching itself
from the tourniquet
Is this what you get? To abuse your soul
in agonized taunt, by a trick of false memory
You curse yourself for not chasing it down
at the moment you'd noticed it first slipped the leash,
while the trail was hot! By leaps and jumps,
the lost could be found so easily, and lashed
and bound, and punished - by being
carved in stone. Imprisoned for good.
But it's no good now. You can dog that track,
but it's leading you on
to a trackless wood. You coulda, you shoulda
It never turns up, turns round
or comes back - even when
you can tell that you’re so damn close! You have
to give up.
Let it get good and lost! Then
finally, come snuffling back,
round your door, all wet
and draggled, having eaten its fill
of the wild,
to jump up and lap your nose. Sweet home! And, filled
up with triumph, like some dumb child
preparing to shout,
you shut your mouth. And swallow it down,
and swallow. Number one, at the moment,
you're all alone.
But supposing you weren't - there’s no way
to make this
a sensible boast, worth anyone's
while all that was going on - finally,
I
damned it all, and spat out some kind
of impromptu
quasi-poem. And I snatched
it up at once -
as a lesson, a warning,
an offering,
I carried it back
to my poetry blog, for a round of experimental
suffering - cruelly stretched out, mangled in
edited clumps, being painfully straightened, or
- contrariwise,
bent
to affected artistic effect, whatever
it doesn't want: intense,
intent, and ruthlessly purposeful:
to punish
itself
for not being what I lost, at all.
I'm sure that it's not. I checked.
I am now responsible, for whatever it was,
and wherever it went.
I was thinking, “Hmmmmm, I should go check
a thing. I forget
just what. And then,
as I was scrolling down the first place
I looked, scanning
to see if anything jumped
out at me like a picture of you
in the dictionary, to trigger "a-ha" or
"Eureka!" I thought again, “Hey.
Maybe
it isn't here, after all.
Maybe it's someplace else. But when
did I put it there? And what
could it have been? And where shall I check
next?"
Oh yes.
The human brain.
Of course!
This one.
Hi.
Just a mo ment
ok
we're in
These things
are so complex. You can not imagine
the subroutines. It's in here for sure.
Let's pick it clean. Or hell,
just file it away for now, and move on?
To the other thing, the I just now
can't quite recall. But it's on the tip!
of something's tongue, because before all of that,
I exactly know
what I tried to think. I was wracked
in the mind, in frustration raring
to go, tearing off and clawing abysses and brinks
in disgust (or what passes for contemplation, for me) and trying
to find where I left
the snippet of lyric that featured the phrase - Ah!
Yes! “cognitive dissonance”
- that I’d filed away to jot down, in a sec
which was only an hour or so ago
at best! And forgot
to do just that. Alas,
alack, alack alas, there
is nothing now left. And furthermore,
“Bummer.”
This place is a mess. These things always come to pass
away, leaving you none the wiser. It's just
they seem so locked-in and memorable when
you make that note to jot them down
next chance you get. Another shovelful
of bull shit, thrown in, you've plopped in clumps
where the roses don't grow, and wait for the points
of the thorns to grow in, like so many sharp
ideas you had. 'Til memory steals a loss
from win.
"I won’t be able to forget that," you know,
you're sure. It's just so
snick-click precision fit
inevitable. Oh, you wish!
We tend to forget: mental notes
aren’t worth the paper you plan to transfer them to
later. Mental notes are dish best served
to an elephant that never forgets, not
this God damn insincere alligator crying
over spilt whatever-it-was, whatever
-it-could-have-been, but never now. Mental notes
are good for being instantly lost upon filing away,
then turning up later
by weeks or months, unconnected to whatever
you’d meant to say. Without which
they make no sense! A dissonant chime,
missing its symphony by a mile - and worse,
you're never quite sure you've unearthed it
whole and complete, despite all
the deja vu that pours in
like eerie light, and you want to be sure,
except - why does it now suck!
Like an empty, amputated arm
still pinching itself
from the tourniquet
Is this what you get? To abuse your soul
in agonized taunt, by a trick of false memory
You curse yourself for not chasing it down
at the moment you'd noticed it first slipped the leash,
while the trail was hot! By leaps and jumps,
the lost could be found so easily, and lashed
and bound, and punished - by being
carved in stone. Imprisoned for good.
But it's no good now. You can dog that track,
but it's leading you on
to a trackless wood. You coulda, you shoulda
It never turns up, turns round
or comes back - even when
you can tell that you’re so damn close! You have
to give up.
Let it get good and lost! Then
finally, come snuffling back,
round your door, all wet
and draggled, having eaten its fill
of the wild,
to jump up and lap your nose. Sweet home! And, filled
up with triumph, like some dumb child
preparing to shout,
you shut your mouth. And swallow it down,
and swallow. Number one, at the moment,
you're all alone.
But supposing you weren't - there’s no way
to make this
a sensible boast, worth anyone's
while all that was going on - finally,
I
damned it all, and spat out some kind
of impromptu
quasi-poem. And I snatched
it up at once -
as a lesson, a warning,
an offering,
I carried it back
to my poetry blog, for a round of experimental
suffering - cruelly stretched out, mangled in
edited clumps, being painfully straightened, or
- contrariwise,
bent
to affected artistic effect, whatever
it doesn't want: intense,
intent, and ruthlessly purposeful:
to punish
itself
for not being what I lost, at all.
I'm sure that it's not. I checked.
I am now responsible, for whatever it was,
and wherever it went.
the fear
Sometimes I lay me down, awake
asleep, and paralyzed between
the night
and day.
And terrified.
The first time, it was aliens.
I knew it was,
by dream logic. That's how I later realized
it was a dream. I didn't see
a single living alien being, but
I knew who they'd come to get.
I lay there on my back, considerably
upset, and waiting worse.
I'd seen a ring of glowing white
emerge, in circled symbols of a kind
unlike you ever saw. Revolving,
slowly,
on the ceiling, right before
my very, very eyes
- this sight
was not just in my mind. I knew
paralysis
was just the start. A glow began
outside
- and went away.
It was a car.
I was awake.
Third time, the bedroom door
was open - and a shape, an ordinary
shape,
was standing, still. Outside
the door - the living room, ironically.
Not coming in. There was no one alive
this woman could pretend to be.
I knew it was no burglary. This bitch
was supernatural. This shape
was here for me.
To kill.
I stared her down, just long enough
for her to move, to prove
malevolence and will.
And I woke up
The bedroom door
was standing shut.
As movement flew back into limbs,
with day broke wide through window blinds,
I rolled from bed, and
and stretched, and yawned,
and felt quite well-disposed
to humankind.
asleep, and paralyzed between
the night
and day.
And terrified.
The first time, it was aliens.
I knew it was,
by dream logic. That's how I later realized
it was a dream. I didn't see
a single living alien being, but
I knew who they'd come to get.
I lay there on my back, considerably
upset, and waiting worse.
I'd seen a ring of glowing white
emerge, in circled symbols of a kind
unlike you ever saw. Revolving,
slowly,
on the ceiling, right before
my very, very eyes
- this sight
was not just in my mind. I knew
paralysis
was just the start. A glow began
outside
- and went away.
It was a car.
I was awake.
Third time, the bedroom door
was open - and a shape, an ordinary
shape,
was standing, still. Outside
the door - the living room, ironically.
Not coming in. There was no one alive
this woman could pretend to be.
I knew it was no burglary. This bitch
was supernatural. This shape
was here for me.
To kill.
I stared her down, just long enough
for her to move, to prove
malevolence and will.
And I woke up
The bedroom door
was standing shut.
As movement flew back into limbs,
with day broke wide through window blinds,
I rolled from bed, and
and stretched, and yawned,
and felt quite well-disposed
to humankind.
Sunday, January 20, 2019
oldest soul
Whenever she fell,
it was some kind of world-record
and she hit so light,
there wasn't even a crater
but the world was affected,
as much as she's not.
And no one could hate her.
Wherever she steps,
the whole damn planet
is that much lighter
from the lift it gets
under her firm tread
as she's lifting it up
and rolling it over
step by step running
to see what's next.
She's gone off ahead,
again, I suspect. She's been
all around and around,
forever or close enough
for government work,
or to win a match
to settle some bet.
But when she came down,
it was not for nothing
apparently it was just
for some jerk.
He must be some catch
to have caught her eye
from top of the highest cloud in the sky
over all the earth.
it was some kind of world-record
and she hit so light,
there wasn't even a crater
but the world was affected,
as much as she's not.
And no one could hate her.
Wherever she steps,
the whole damn planet
is that much lighter
from the lift it gets
under her firm tread
as she's lifting it up
and rolling it over
step by step running
to see what's next.
She's gone off ahead,
again, I suspect. She's been
all around and around,
forever or close enough
for government work,
or to win a match
to settle some bet.
But when she came down,
it was not for nothing
apparently it was just
for some jerk.
He must be some catch
to have caught her eye
from top of the highest cloud in the sky
over all the earth.
the audience
I can't
paint
the side of a vehicle beef hazard over without
alerting the truth marshal. It isn't against
state of the art norms and mores or I'd be
hung in decisiveness and unable to come
up with a single objection to all
that's allowed. Trust me, bewildering
arrays of liberty haw and hem us in
to no purpose anyone is free
to say. The point?
It's not power, or
authority that compels or prohibits
me,
just me. Who's to say why
me. I won't.
I simply won't say why, but
I'm the only one who.
So you know where to.
The question is closed.
paint
the side of a vehicle beef hazard over without
alerting the truth marshal. It isn't against
state of the art norms and mores or I'd be
hung in decisiveness and unable to come
up with a single objection to all
that's allowed. Trust me, bewildering
arrays of liberty haw and hem us in
to no purpose anyone is free
to say. The point?
It's not power, or
authority that compels or prohibits
me,
just me. Who's to say why
me. I won't.
I simply won't say why, but
I'm the only one who.
So you know where to.
The question is closed.
Saturday, January 19, 2019
badge of courage
Is it just me, or
are people freer now about admitting they're fucked-up
on social media, at least? Not necessarily
in person, or on a phone call
"Hi. I have chronic pain and anxiety issues
IT'S REAL"
but putting it out to the world as a statement,
via the internet. It's like a movement, or
maybe it's just my friends. They have gone
on the offensive, defiant, confrontational:
this shit is real. I don't think
it's just them.
It seems like the world.
In any case, I know how they feel
are people freer now about admitting they're fucked-up
on social media, at least? Not necessarily
in person, or on a phone call
"Hi. I have chronic pain and anxiety issues
IT'S REAL"
but putting it out to the world as a statement,
via the internet. It's like a movement, or
maybe it's just my friends. They have gone
on the offensive, defiant, confrontational:
this shit is real. I don't think
it's just them.
It seems like the world.
In any case, I know how they feel
Friday, January 18, 2019
explaining the joke
Explaining the joke isn't funny, they say
I wish someone could explain to me why.
I find it hilarious every time.
The joke's just a little trick of mine
to get that explanation in, and let it shine.
I wish someone could explain to me why.
I find it hilarious every time.
The joke's just a little trick of mine
to get that explanation in, and let it shine.
legacy
Someday, they'll all be sorting it out,
what I've left of my life, and they'll notice
I wasn't considerate.
Which is I guess is right.
what I've left of my life, and they'll notice
I wasn't considerate.
Which is I guess is right.
gratuitous
There isn't anything left
or anything less, of whatever
it was I need to do. But
there never was. My whole life,
to this point, has as far as I know
been good and true. Gratuitously
so. I know at some core
that I really needn't have even been.
I don't feel diminished
by knowing this. My innocence
is some kind of sin.
or anything less, of whatever
it was I need to do. But
there never was. My whole life,
to this point, has as far as I know
been good and true. Gratuitously
so. I know at some core
that I really needn't have even been.
I don't feel diminished
by knowing this. My innocence
is some kind of sin.
dilemma, conundrum, paradox
Dilemma, conundrum, paradox are all
different things. Dilemma sounds like
a yogurt of a less-popular flavor, like
lemon, or lime. There's a lip-smacking
sourness to it. Conundrum on the other hand
sounds like a fun drum to bang on, even
if you're not getting anywhere, you know
there's either a solution or it's no
problem.
Paradox, on yet another hand -
which suggests you've brought someone else
into it, a third hand to hold
the thing you can't make sense of,
but everywhere you test it, seems
true
despite the tension of its
contradictions.
different things. Dilemma sounds like
a yogurt of a less-popular flavor, like
lemon, or lime. There's a lip-smacking
sourness to it. Conundrum on the other hand
sounds like a fun drum to bang on, even
if you're not getting anywhere, you know
there's either a solution or it's no
problem.
Paradox, on yet another hand -
which suggests you've brought someone else
into it, a third hand to hold
the thing you can't make sense of,
but everywhere you test it, seems
true
despite the tension of its
contradictions.
obstacle
You can't write a poem
about wanting to write a poem. I mean,
I can,
I've done several, but
that isn't really the poem you wanted
to write.
about wanting to write a poem. I mean,
I can,
I've done several, but
that isn't really the poem you wanted
to write.
my film review of Dunkirk
This turd
of a prestige flick
was plodding and enigmatic. Cut and paced
like an art film
that wanted to be both intimate
and significant, its story
was too big for it - despite
(one would think) it was not
so very big the filmmakers
couldn't have made sense of it
to us, with our bird's-eye view.
We never get
a sense of the undertaking
until, suddenly, we see
all these boats! By then it's
over. We've been following around
characters on the edges of things, or
too deep in the thick to see with
their heads down and bodies flying. These,
at least, all seem to be human
beings. Most of them as confused as we
are, thrust in the midst of things
none of us can understand. This may have been
the film's point. Its desired effect.
If so, bravo.
It wasted my time,
but I enjoyed it while it was
going on. I kept thinking
it would come together
into something.
of a prestige flick
was plodding and enigmatic. Cut and paced
like an art film
that wanted to be both intimate
and significant, its story
was too big for it - despite
(one would think) it was not
so very big the filmmakers
couldn't have made sense of it
to us, with our bird's-eye view.
We never get
a sense of the undertaking
until, suddenly, we see
all these boats! By then it's
over. We've been following around
characters on the edges of things, or
too deep in the thick to see with
their heads down and bodies flying. These,
at least, all seem to be human
beings. Most of them as confused as we
are, thrust in the midst of things
none of us can understand. This may have been
the film's point. Its desired effect.
If so, bravo.
It wasted my time,
but I enjoyed it while it was
going on. I kept thinking
it would come together
into something.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
unironic requiem
Anyway, I'm sure glad irony's over
I never understood that crap, it went on
and on, forever seemingly, and over
my head. I couldn't recognize it
if it bit me instead of just
cruising past unnoticed, honking
its horn, flashing its tits,
man. Irony was everything
in those days, and the irony is
I don't even know what it is.
I never understood that crap, it went on
and on, forever seemingly, and over
my head. I couldn't recognize it
if it bit me instead of just
cruising past unnoticed, honking
its horn, flashing its tits,
man. Irony was everything
in those days, and the irony is
I don't even know what it is.
Tuesday, January 08, 2019
past mastery
mastery is acquired effortlessness
the hardest thing ever to learn.
it takes years
and years, working hard
you train
your eye
and mind
and hand
and arm, and
everything else
involved in the practice you chose,
to devote your work and time. And one day,
you forget all you know, and make beautiful music
or forms and shapes
in space or on paper
or somebody's face,
and away you go
the hardest thing ever to learn.
it takes years
and years, working hard
you train
your eye
and mind
and hand
and arm, and
everything else
involved in the practice you chose,
to devote your work and time. And one day,
you forget all you know, and make beautiful music
or forms and shapes
in space or on paper
or somebody's face,
and away you go
wanting to be here
I got a postcard the same day
in the post. A bold design
in white and dark blue:
a big sun in the middle
of a small squared sky,
rays radiating out to clouds
above, and trees
and beach and waves
in a semicircle below,
with lines all through
all swoopy and straight
and underneath it says
"wanting to be here"
wanting to be here
wanting to be here. I haven't
turned it over yet. I want
to suspend the surprise a bit.
I'm trying to decide
what I want from it.
in the post. A bold design
in white and dark blue:
a big sun in the middle
of a small squared sky,
rays radiating out to clouds
above, and trees
and beach and waves
in a semicircle below,
with lines all through
all swoopy and straight
and underneath it says
"wanting to be here"
wanting to be here
wanting to be here. I haven't
turned it over yet. I want
to suspend the surprise a bit.
I'm trying to decide
what I want from it.
Sunday, January 06, 2019
the long lullabye
That's all for tonight.
Call it over for now.
We'll go to sleep angry,
and wake up somehow.
Perhaps we can meet
in dreams, unaware
that there's anything wrong
waiting for us, out there
when we wake up. I know
it will all come back, then.
And we'll still be in love,
or we'll try to pretend,
or we'll fight our way through
to the end.
Call it over for now.
We'll go to sleep angry,
and wake up somehow.
Perhaps we can meet
in dreams, unaware
that there's anything wrong
waiting for us, out there
when we wake up. I know
it will all come back, then.
And we'll still be in love,
or we'll try to pretend,
or we'll fight our way through
to the end.
Saturday, January 05, 2019
The stars don't even know their own light.
Because they have a sense of proportion.
Because they have priorities.
What are your priorities?
The reachless expanses of space spinning out to infinity?
Or the things you can reach and touch,
that can reach and touch you?
People are mightily significant in the latter realm.
Each of us can be potentially the biggest thing
in another's life: more significant
than all the universe outside the solar system
put together - which it isn't.
The potential significance of a human being
to another human being is that cosmically huge.
It makes more than that difference.
As a species,
too,
our significance on this planet
has been huge. Dominant. Potentially world-breaking.
Significance can be for bad or good.
So far as we yet know, though, humans
are the only things capable of creating
and receiving significance.
Capable of signification.
The far-flung stars signify much to us.
Do they signify anything at all to the stars?
If you say yes, you're just making-believe.
Don't pretend to me, love. You know you are.
Another thing we do. Another thing
that so far as we yet know, only we do.
If we find another species of being
capable of signification and imagination,
that couldn't diminish what we have,
only enrich it.
But until we do,
we have no reason at all to conclude
we're anything other than the source
of all significance in the universe.
Pending another confirmed source.
So far, there doesn't seem to be one.
The stars don't even know their own light.
At least, there's no reason to believe they do.
Not like we do.
So when you stand under the wheeling night sky
trying to reach all those lights with your
so-called so insignificant mind,
reflect: as far as you know,
you're standing on the only place
in all that vastness, where such reaching out
is going on.
And that thing you're reaching with
- your human mind -
is the only thing known that even tries
to discover and assign such
cosmic
significance.
Don't kid yourself. The rest of us
all do it as well, you know. Quite as well
as you. Idly, we'll marvel and gawp
out at the skies,
at the distant and relatively insignificant
stars. Myself,
I glory in them, from right there
where I stand. Their brilliance,
and especially their distance.
It’s mind-bending.
But it's trivial.
And through it all,
I don't lose sight of the things
I really can reach and touch,
which can reach and touch me. The things
that really signify, mightily, meaningfully.
I have a sense of proportion, you see. And humans
are far more than just significant.
And not just to me.
Because they have priorities.
What are your priorities?
The reachless expanses of space spinning out to infinity?
Or the things you can reach and touch,
that can reach and touch you?
People are mightily significant in the latter realm.
Each of us can be potentially the biggest thing
in another's life: more significant
than all the universe outside the solar system
put together - which it isn't.
The potential significance of a human being
to another human being is that cosmically huge.
It makes more than that difference.
As a species,
too,
our significance on this planet
has been huge. Dominant. Potentially world-breaking.
Significance can be for bad or good.
So far as we yet know, though, humans
are the only things capable of creating
and receiving significance.
Capable of signification.
The far-flung stars signify much to us.
Do they signify anything at all to the stars?
If you say yes, you're just making-believe.
Don't pretend to me, love. You know you are.
Another thing we do. Another thing
that so far as we yet know, only we do.
If we find another species of being
capable of signification and imagination,
that couldn't diminish what we have,
only enrich it.
But until we do,
we have no reason at all to conclude
we're anything other than the source
of all significance in the universe.
Pending another confirmed source.
So far, there doesn't seem to be one.
The stars don't even know their own light.
At least, there's no reason to believe they do.
Not like we do.
So when you stand under the wheeling night sky
trying to reach all those lights with your
so-called so insignificant mind,
reflect: as far as you know,
you're standing on the only place
in all that vastness, where such reaching out
is going on.
And that thing you're reaching with
- your human mind -
is the only thing known that even tries
to discover and assign such
cosmic
significance.
Don't kid yourself. The rest of us
all do it as well, you know. Quite as well
as you. Idly, we'll marvel and gawp
out at the skies,
at the distant and relatively insignificant
stars. Myself,
I glory in them, from right there
where I stand. Their brilliance,
and especially their distance.
It’s mind-bending.
But it's trivial.
And through it all,
I don't lose sight of the things
I really can reach and touch,
which can reach and touch me. The things
that really signify, mightily, meaningfully.
I have a sense of proportion, you see. And humans
are far more than just significant.
And not just to me.
Friday, January 04, 2019
pinprick manifesto
Sometimes, with poetry you just
write as beautifully as you can,
and screw rhyme. It's called
free verse,
but sometimes
they forget to write beautifully, and
sometimes I forget to screw rhyme
write as beautifully as you can,
and screw rhyme. It's called
free verse,
but sometimes
they forget to write beautifully, and
sometimes I forget to screw rhyme
Thursday, January 03, 2019
kissing lessons
After first kisses
come better and best kisses (though
first ones have
unique sweetness, it’s true.)
A kissing relationship
should be like conversation:
no one is only talking
or listening. Each of you is both
teaching how you kiss, and
learning how the other kisses. You begin
passionately, furiously -
or tentatively, yearning. You shift
gears together, pushing speed
tearing around your frantic curves
and powering through straightaways,
pulling back slowing down going deeper
into the abyssal bliss
of a moment drawing out
into infinite sense
with less than a conscious thought
- getting yourselves completely lost,
and if you're luckiest,
finding yourselves
in the other. You both
know how to kiss! You've kissed before
- you've seen it
in the movies at least. It’s basic
and it's imitable.
But neither of you knows
how you kiss - how you two kiss.
You learn by paying attention
to what the other is doing,
by giving into it
and giving back to it. You pick up
tips and tricks to what they like
wordlessly.
You surprise each other
and yourselves as well,
and if your styles and tastes and likes
and wants and needs
are a good match, compatible -
you'll soon be ascending
to levels of mutual mastery.
come better and best kisses (though
first ones have
unique sweetness, it’s true.)
A kissing relationship
should be like conversation:
no one is only talking
or listening. Each of you is both
teaching how you kiss, and
learning how the other kisses. You begin
passionately, furiously -
or tentatively, yearning. You shift
gears together, pushing speed
tearing around your frantic curves
and powering through straightaways,
pulling back slowing down going deeper
into the abyssal bliss
of a moment drawing out
into infinite sense
with less than a conscious thought
- getting yourselves completely lost,
and if you're luckiest,
finding yourselves
in the other. You both
know how to kiss! You've kissed before
- you've seen it
in the movies at least. It’s basic
and it's imitable.
But neither of you knows
how you kiss - how you two kiss.
You learn by paying attention
to what the other is doing,
by giving into it
and giving back to it. You pick up
tips and tricks to what they like
wordlessly.
You surprise each other
and yourselves as well,
and if your styles and tastes and likes
and wants and needs
are a good match, compatible -
you'll soon be ascending
to levels of mutual mastery.
Wednesday, January 02, 2019
adventures in babysitting
Wizards make great babysitters
if the child's potty-trained
- but if the wizard changes baby,
you might find your baby changed.
if the child's potty-trained
- but if the wizard changes baby,
you might find your baby changed.
Tuesday, January 01, 2019
byway
I missed my chance in the mist,
and found myself stranded in a present
I'd never left, having always lived
in the now, in the moment,
I couldn't return to the past
or guess what the future
would hold, except
maybe more of the same
sort of thing that it's always held.
It's always been me, right here
right now, very different
from heaven or hell,
but beginning to get just
a little old.
and found myself stranded in a present
I'd never left, having always lived
in the now, in the moment,
I couldn't return to the past
or guess what the future
would hold, except
maybe more of the same
sort of thing that it's always held.
It's always been me, right here
right now, very different
from heaven or hell,
but beginning to get just
a little old.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)