"Do you piss out of your ass
or what?" He said.
I was like,
well, no. Do you?
Piss out of my ass? I think
that would be weird.
I think with the original
statement, he was trying
to imply my way of doing
or ordering things was off.
Uncanny maybe.
Typical primate banter!
Confront the interloper.
I love such stuff.
Qualm
can calm
what whim
incites. It's
not the same
as scruple bright,
and consciention's
clean line drawn -
but whim can't win,
where qualm stands
strong.
I hate being
on a flight with some
famous person. They're never
sat near me, it's like...what good
were they? One time it was G Love
and Special Sauce, and I only noticed
because
some standup bass addict was
trying to pack his shit on
at the same time as mine,
on the flight, though?
Never saw them, him or
whoever. Last on, first
off,
I dunno. I was minding
my own deal, so
what good are they?
Look. I say either be sat
right next to me or fuck
off. I don't have time
for these people on flights,
and I'm too courteous
and deferential probably
to make the fuss,
anyhow
I put on my armor as-if and trod
the land like a bandit lightning shod,
sowing seeds by boot with each
thunder stamp growing crops behind
without hindward glance, and
reaping by wind in backward gust!
I trust it all came out like I planned
to a bumper crop windfall,
bold and just
a bit too much
for a man to plant.
Having roamed all the world
and called it blest, and ordered
it best,
I found myself home,
and I never left.
A lot of the time, kids
are too much. People just
stand back, step back/detach
(or try to) from them and judge!
How else to assert our imagined
inner height? Like big ol' trees
doing the loom and shade routine
on some upshot youngster. "Count
the growth rings, short stuff."
We'll be all like:
"He's amazing. Did you see-?"
"I couldn't believe it."
"She is a boss brass brawler
upper baller on TRACK TWO:
GIRL MODE. How old?"
"Two!"
"About right."
Both: "Admirable."
"He-"
"-He's a She!"
"OK, don't be phobic mom - how old is she?"
"Six months."
"I respect her already."
"You better."
We just can't take
such beings in
sometimes,
the sheer look see
spiked to sudden will
or interest on display -
- and when one talks?
Oh man. We make
an ass of self tryna
engage one of these
brand new or recent
developments in being.
We know why they
toddle over or go hide
behind mom’s leg, or
run wild like nuts, once
they got the hang.
We know why they crawl
to us,
on knees,
elbows and belly
over all handsy
to tug out
our shoelaces.
"Because...
...they look up to us?"
No. Well, yes, but
that's a sheer coincidence
of biological geometry.
We know.
So do they.
It's shoe practice.
Soon to be stepping
in them.
Kids don't even know
they know this, some of 'em
yet - don't kid yourself.
They know. On a level
we can't quite reach
no mo'.
Get your batons clutched
for handoffs and your hoops
set to fire up, folks, because
the kids are here to take it
and jump through less fake
by the bound, pound and inch.
Gained ground's a cinch when
you're a learning machine
on growth hormones
of in-house brew.
Don't fret sweat or blanche,
though! Once puberty and
the approval of others hits
for real and slips, sticks,
catches and clicks in them
they'll be just like you.
Advantage: us. Grown-Up!
We been at it awhile.
We know whose boss
is ours, and how much
is due.
You were sitting in my grave
that day, and smiling like you
always do.
Which I had
for the first-time seen.
I'd hand an apple out to you, if
I had picked one
on the way.
Your
outstretched hand
held apple green.
Your smile told me: seize the day!
"Thank you!" I claimed,
and plucked "Just what I
wanted!" from your grasp,
at last.
Then looking fast
upon that hard
and rounded
sheen, I grew
confused.
"This is for you,
grave apple queen."
Your troubled smile,
first I'd ever seen,
grew wide enough
to fall
into and dream.
The planet stook
upon itself. Upon
us both, all schmicky-boo.
And we both thought
abstractedly, oh -
that's not right and
this can't last! We've
got the planet stook
right here!
But it will do
Way I figure it
comes down to
permission to suck.
Frees up daring to try
what’s up plus death
dives down. and
I need one or both,
sometimes. I follow both
or one. I reckon each
lil' new-breathing
work, whose
tiny bones
align mid-hang, sinews
and guts webbing in
to tune, to chord
whatever song it
sings, or might have
sung: "If it dies,
from being created,
it dies."
“I was only going to make
another one! Rack ruin
and hazard and hang
fire wrong!”
Or aright, as it comes.
Let it, I say! That's its
job.
Mine is
to suck loud and with
enthusiasm, so perchance
perhaps to rule.
In moments, memorialized
in good works and turds.
I see free clunk and free botch
as steam vent and tendon stretch
to cleanse and supple me up
for strict rigor
and discipline, later
maybe. Switching off apace.
Switching on in space.
So an opening, aperture
in me
dilates
I've got a pair of jacks
and a pair of balls.
I'm pretty sure that's
not enough to call
at this stage of play
in this canny strip
chess game, up so
late as I wish to stay,
apparently. But
...instead of this
fooling around on
the board, with a hand
full of cards, half-dressed,
unscored - perhaps I might
best interpret by feel? With
intuitive hard soft tactile sense,
perchance, find real?
Maybe this whole deal
is some kind of ploy?
Aimed at some other
play between girl
and boy? Or fuck -
that's presumptuous!
Beneath us both, for me
to guess so assumptuously.
Unless it's just "pre-" in
a sense before sumptuous,
innocence less modest by
turn of hands, and
waiting to boast?
If so,
my next move
could depend on me! Wait
What?
It's my move? Hey! Sorry!
I thought
Oh heck it. I bet
my shirt, knight to rook
two, and...
hit me.
She did.
each other properly - we in our puny,
mortal, dying as we live way, by
eating. You! In your infinite way,
pretty obvious, but please:
long before we dig in!
We pray:
Give us forks, knives
to dig in with, spoons
to scoop and plates and dishes
for this food. Which we so gratefully
gather 'round, some of us - pretty
hungry; grant these patience dear
Lord, as I pray.
As we all pray!
As my prayer grows. so help
me God! Please confirm you
brought the food, because if
you didn't - who did?
How can we even trust this
good food
you gave, if
you didn't? Please!
God!
Please give us mouths
to put the food in, teeth
with which to chew it,
throats and such, down
to stomachs, to small
and large intestine, to
rectum - you know,
God.
We all here know - and
so on out. To pinch, wipe,
flush and dear Lord! Let us
then wash our hands. Please!
Grant us these blessings, O Lord!
Plus the hands, of course, not only
to wash much later, but to use
the forks now and such. Let us not
take the food
by hands into mouths
directly, for it
is an abomination to us, in our eyes
and norms in most cases - though
we know you of course, Lord
could not possibly give a tin
shit about that pipsqueak stuff!
But we are, my Lord. Wretches.
Pipsqueaks - unless it's bread! Or
something handy like that.
That's OK. Then let us use our hands,
oh Lord. And you above all,
and we beneath, please:
grant us the faith we need! To believe
these gifts we ask will be or already
have been granted in this, our day.
So that we all, gathered here, might say
- ready all? One!
Two!
Three!
"It's a miracle!"
I grew two wings
to fly to you.
One bird,
one bug, from
human back. But
to my surprise,
in a long arc out
to a very death dive
my wings
don't aerodynamically
jibe, or
"fly"
in a literal sense. In a way
to bear me up, or bear me
on.
Which - if I'm right,
is why bears don't fly.
A fly does. Bees?
Sure do, bats too - am I wrong?
Plus of course - some birds
galore.
But none
of these wings bear me
to you.
Just down, I guess.
Should have thought this
through, before I decided
to erupt these alien growths
from my flesh, in a quest
to you.
I guess, once I hit
I might fly like a ghost?
But if so, chances are
you won't touch me or see.
That seems to be the deal
between you,
dear me.
I read about tomorrow night
coming up. A phenomenon
scientists predict! It allows you
to see unpolarized light with
your naked, unaided eye.
That swift.
It's something
to really look
forward to, guy!
Or gal. Or how
'bout you?
And I.
Let's go
out see tomorrow
night, and discover
what is,
and may be.
Or might.
Loose nuclear rhetoric
I hear could result in
anything. Panic, miscalculation,
well I say loose nuclear
rhetoric - if that's so -
could lead to widespread
female indiscretions
of the male variety,
vice versa, or any
other uh uh whoops
oh okay that was
the clear bold way together
forward
and so:
world peace.
However that's called
a longshot,
a far fetch,
a low-percentage pass
I say
let's play
catch
To reach the peeps who can
be reached. A line is drawn
and taught. For each
who can't be reached
by teach? The line
we've drawn draws
taut.
It is the best we all can do,
catch-as-catch can, wrong
as wrongdo. Believe or not:
for good and true.
Yes, some slip through, and
some are bought, and some
do foul right in the rig! And
sometimes this miscarriage
catch is cracked uplifted in
our eyes! And we go mad
for all we lack.
Sometimes a system fix is found:
here, there! Spot-weld the system
rig. Sometimes, no fix - it wasn't
"it" to blame, just him, just her
just they. Well, not too big
to bring that home
upon the heads
identified.
Is it?
As best we all can do, we hired
it. Now it's our gig, our ride, our
job. If we're responsible! Or let
it ride, and pay the bull, Most rock
a mix, and call it sucks. Cut glass
in half - and call it full. But I?
I do my part, in whole. I jam
and thrust as best I might. It makes
much sense and feeling, but
I can't help feeling, not much
right.
It is as best as I can tell: not quite.
Just cause, sometimes: just 'cause.
Well if whoever told you life is fair
could be believed, we'd fly by
pixie dust and wear forcefields.
Not having such, we do real good
by doing fair and best and such,
wherever can can catch - what
can be stood.
The lines are many, drawn for all?
No. Drawn for each. To save the most
from only few who can't be taught or
reached by teach. They can by grasp
and longish arm, be caught.
And they are few. And weak,
when stood against this all
of you. Of us. Of we the peeps!
That Us verse Them song rings
to chorus in refrain, guitar solo,
and back again: an earworm caught
by now in brain, to catch as each
catch can!
To honor each
in keep or breach
as each own does, or call
the help, or run
from it,
it works.
It rings as many bells
in catchy cage - it fits. As best
as we can do ourselves, and
better yet by far than any
one
could
manage, act
and stage by do and do alone.
Before the law, stood equally,
beyond, between high dotty line
of law: we range all, peopley.
To freedom's heights and depths,
with full-on government impunity,
by bone and gut and many sighs,
we live the size of liberty.
Seek happiness,
and you will find just
what you get.
For life's not fair. Fair is
a thing we make-believe
and then apply: made real.
Right there.
We're up to next to
nothing good,
we know
but you don't care
and I don't mind
so we'll go anywhere,
do everything that takes
our time
and makes our future
fly from us, in panic
bucking consequence.
We're up to next to
nothing good. That's
no excuse, just some
defense.
If I had to be a geek
of the Star Wars kind,
'cause somebody asked me
what side am I -
as if to use the Force
required I pick!
I am on the lit side.
My side
is lit.
She objects "Dark or Light!"
I say "Hey, come on! If it's
only possible to dichotomize
wrong, then what's the whole
point making Vader so Darth,
just to pop a Luke Leia style
balancing art?"
She said
"HM. O,
K.
So...you think you're a Drood?"
I'm a lil' less dee and dee, than
that dude. Just Lit.
Lit
side,
lit attachment and feels,
not some cool light of dimwit
frosty ideals. Nor do I hold attached
strong emotion wrong. It does not
one jot darken my
wonderknot song.
"So...'enlightenment,' then? Lit some way
like that - part Rationalist? On a Zen-based
grand Romantic twist at bat? Atop a cliff,
let’s say - with Byronic coat flap shaking fist
at oncoming storm gods at play?"
That's...
it.
I'd say she nailed it, and
pegged me in one. Well, our
top dog glowstick duellists are no damn
un-fun dualists!
Nor puh-tickly wroth.
Just a pack
of warm cool peeps having telekinesis
strip and precog-reflex dance-off!
"OK! What are you called?"
Not knights!
Our brass takes the honorific "Yeo!"
We are yeopersons, lass. Yeoladylords,
doing yeowork fast, yeogirls, yeoboys,
yeobeings of worth where it's worth it,
and wrath as catch-can!
But the catch-it-all sobriquet's Dedi.
Jam in pinpoint, on-point days and nights,
we are so Ded-on, we don't have to fight twice.
Since when we show up lit,
there's hardly ever a fight!
Just a party. We're the Yeo Dedi Party
of Nights and Days. Our top guy is called
- not Ben Haze, that's a nickname we clapped
on his dumbass back of a robe, no he's properly:
O-Be One Y'self.
That's my own grand mentor, yes
he's still in good health. Soon as someone
finally kills him, and nobody tries,
I'll be tracking them down.
"But what's your name, guy? Sir Dedi Yeo?"
Close.
I am Yeo MamaFartha Mista Business Ho.
I know.
I know it's a bit long, but you should see
my glowstick. All ours are pastels, mine's
a cool shade of hot gold and iced purple!
It pulses all weird, but don't mind. I can
control it okay.
Oh my god BULL-SHOT!
That -
- would not have worked!
If I hadn't mis-grasped my bow
ass-first, dropped it! And bent
in a full-moon bow that I did
not mean! To wow the whole
crowd with a sight obscene.
Then - trying to recoup my grace
and style, with my arrow held
backwards - I didn't even look!
I didn't even mean
that full-on flailing flustercluck,
And that's how
I shot
so clean.
what's apparently work
you love: rendering my mind brand spanked
gleaming and thoughtless of all
but
pure
me
holding
onto you
singing wordlessly
to a tune you dance, well -
it isn't just me. It seems neither of us
can resist routine
when you've got no pants! But
- what's with the wings?
Was it not enough to keep feet firm
turn, twist-leap pirouette - oh, as if to display
that your dancer's form isn't just for show? But
whatever other move, act, test, daring-proving
technique that you
in such moments
bet your ass you'll do,
do proud and all, stood, sat,
luxuriously tousled in sprawl,
beheld well in all your glory,
for any to see? Who happens
to be lucky as hell
just now?
Just me!
But wings? Hey,
come on girl. You're the ape
of an angel at least - we all
are. Ask Hamlet, but I think
the wings
are a touch obscene.
Gratuitous. Better
than need by far.
And on you? I prefer
a touch much of the less
pretentious being you
really are. Albeit -
keep the wings! If that's
what uplifts
ya self!
I was just
a touch curious.
Wings. Do seem a bit extra
on some girl's back when she
barges in cleaning
out
every
thing
Some fucker died today
came back
in eldritch robes,
enflamed and sword
and shit
to go meet
every one in person
who wronged
that
punk
that git
made every thing
legit!
Unscored all fouls unchalked
the board, and that
is why
we sing
this song:
oh "In your name,"
some bells have roared,
your bull shit flesh less
endless self, some how
you ghost,
you settled scores
with every one all
through your life.
but those who'd done
you wrong
were somehow rectified.
By you.
That's why.
We toast.
We'd like it even, then.
Of all we gloat, we brag, we boast
we wish this world
were like you some how made
it
heaving, wracked ruined and blasted
just
O just! Like
we'd be then.
I stopped believing awhile ago,
and never
told anyone, just-so.
It's need-to-know.
And no-one's need
Could ever be served,
by that,
from me.
Except I kept daily praying to God.
Which some
of you sucka emcees might find -
quite odd!
You see, though, I don't
don't stop believing at all, after all
I have known,
after all
who I've found,
after all who have
ever believed at all?
It's you and me God now,
I wouldn't
drop
the ball. BUT!
The point is: still,
I was prayin' to God, Who
I asked
for the help
to go back:
to school (!) to church,
for my mom, next
time I see. 'Cause
I missed a few
and each time it hurts.
Right through. But
Aa I do,
when praying "out loud,"
I mangled the syllables!
Mid-thought, and all
right through! And said
(tried saying my) "Back to" sch-WHAT
hey CHURCH! no, WHAT?
BACK! Start it again!
But I didn't. And so it's "Back to skurlt"
is the prayer I wrought.
So,
suppose
if I really meant it,
and With The
Almighty's Help,
(which I'd done asked for) I
had better have
meant it
in fiery fiber
of each lil' cell
I'd engaged in the task!
Right
down
to
core, SO
I ought
I guess
to go back to skurlt!
A given human life,
if you could take one
in your course and lift
it up by facet flash to see
the glimmer gloaming
depth of it,
There's nothing greater you
could give
or pick
or find
so fit
to miss
A given human life,
if you could just give
it a twist.
Your eye and mind behind,
and heart still beaten -
so beat down beneath
- could see the hole
and find the key
to so much sum
or part of it
It's worth a look.
For what you see
is perfect gift
no matter wrong
no matter bad
the cost is right.
Because it's free.
And if we fight,
still gratitude
and mercy, we
should find within
and for and in all
we could never have
unless.
For all we find we
didn't have
to give.
Perhaps
it's best?
When that bullet came through
the front, that day
Our buddies up there
stood, strong and hard.
But the enemy shot
proved harder still.
It plowed through them
like a house of cards.
Which is why we all stand
looking at this scar.
We erected it
in their memory,
but the day itself
gave us no such pause
for sentiment, reverencing bravery.
For the enemy fire still burned,
inside, doing damage and pain!
Major artery
blown, torn through
- 'till heroic bone
cracked, and that fire
was caught, by an organ
or two, now cooking internally
wraught.
"We're through!"
We thought!
That's the end.
So we said, as we raced, as we
ought, swarmed in and around
to discuss what to do
with the foe we'd found! But
the enemy again came! Through
like knives!
From our point of view,
and our prisoner extracted
from us! Out right, from our
midst, to some loss
of yet more lives - in the way,
at risk, unawares as they lived
and died, by some instrument
ripped right through.
The enemy’s ways won’t care
for you.
Though we made no monument,
there, it is known: the one at the front
stands for all who fell, from the front
to the organs, from skin to bone. Though
we still don't know who. Who fired! Or why!
Oh, well! With how hard we try and fail,
we find we'll inspire ourselves somehow
- plus the fact we're alive, just to wonder
such stuff.
The kids these days laugh, scoff, shrug it off,
but those who were there that day got
tough.
We had to. You know, if we even could?
- We will not slough it off. Not for us!
No good.
Check the monument, then.
Looking up at this scar
from within beyond belief,
standing here where we are,
just
underneath.
Knowing life is good,
Vowing never forget:
War is grief.
How can we?
If we could
Well people call her fiery
and childish
no good for me
They're mad!
They're mad!
'Cause ever since she
knocked me down I
finally saw what I had found
I'm mad!
I'm mad!
And if we're not a perfect match
then she's the Pope of Rome
Don't need infallibility
Once we
Are here
We're home
I love how much she values
her precious things
- she overvalues them
- and it makes perfect sense
She spent her whole life growing up
picturing them
and now she pictures me.
In with her precious things
Saw all of that in such a flash
my whole damn life is coming back
so glad
so glad
Apparently the only hitch
her brother thinks that I'm a bitch
so sad
so sad
When people come from different lands
we bring our different ways
If people there can't understand
true love!
Then war!
Is played
I love how much she values
her precious things
- she overvalues them
- and it makes perfect sense
She spent her whole life growing up
picturing them
and now she pictures me.
In with her precious things
They slap me on the back now,
such a quiet man
but boy did I just beat
her brother black and tan
the whole damn town came
piling out to cheer it on
'cause they and me can
easily see just
the prize
she won
epic.
ho
meric
I love how much she values
her precious things
- she overvalues them
- and it makes perfect sense
She spent her whole life growing up
picturing them
and now she pictures me.
In with her precious things
t
So, my butt has bad breath.
That's one opinion! Everybody gets
one,
all is forgiven.
The fall in your eyes has found me out
it proves itself soft, in how we'll doubt
as we stand from here.
Look forever on,
knowing retrospect
now in advance
too long.
It’s pretty much always an experience
sharing a cup
of coffee with anyone,
isn’t it huh? HOW WEIRD
would it be
if
you literally had to share one
cup?
Passing it
back and forth, between?
Measuring pull,
to sip not mean.
Compromise sugar.
Compromise cream.
Two’s better! As different people
will scream. Take coffee their way,
or the wrong way! No!
Take as big of a glug - once
it cools a bit! At first - once
burned, pursed lips blow
hooo! And sit. Oh, such
different ways, with it.
Even seriously, or two glee
full fools! We take
our coffee as grave.
We dig talk sharing
cup, or two
or three
but
cast
your mind back a spell
you could daydream fast.
Imagine how well
and good
and strange
sharing one
could go.
If coincidence came,
or could be arranged
between black and white
bitter and sweet: not
binary, babe!
It's a spectrum between
complete poles, and
a symphony, if you know
and I mean. This theory's
a cup.
It has
one hole.
Her ass,
was really the only thing.
But never in moments
where eyes locked
us.
And never when tits
pushed brains
out of mind -
I told her that once,
in confidence.
Trust.
A too-too secret
between us shared!
Such privacy squared
is confidence cubed.
I told her that once,
And I never once
stopped. It's just
between us,
her butt
and true,
one cop.
Of feeling, I mean!
Way more! Than one
of that sort of cop. Encore!
Some fun grows parting parts,
to immeasurable sum. Once more
- real feeling!
Two hands, one truth. Full on!
For one! How is it for two? Like
love struck fools, in misspent youths,
only way older, man. Woman? Girl,
you know!
It's true.
I do will, vow, cuss, bless, swear, though:
as I lie here in beauty's great gazing grip,
grasping slippery stakes, no bluff, all hit,
raise,
show, and no limit!
No hint of haze,
in the pane. As
the visibility spins amaze
from inches of mind into miles
of brain, by a well-measured span
of landmark'd, landscape, portrait
and form: sake's own! Too good!
One, two being punch, spiked body
hard spirit and break!
For lunch. Makes one
inclined, two so
entwined
in fame. Or
the amateurs couples
event, not too equivalent. Just
two superstar fans on the scent,
going ape on cue! Buck wild!
No pants!
It's enough to remark!
If the word were meant,
well,
no trouble there.
Finding so many lines,
She could read between,
but the text is just
fine.
Natural.
Obscene?
Oh,
clean out your
gutter-mind's eye,
so prone on your back
to lie! In a made-up daylong
dream of your nasty-ass raunch!
In a sense, from innocence made!
Out of two aping angels in pastime
staunch! Look up, or grow there.
Count the stars!
Five, four, three,
two
go.
Launch.
As the neighbors bang,
shout, yell, doorbell and phone
- what the fresh heck, hell? Some
obscure complaint
about some sort of moan
Couldn't dumb ass wait?
We were not at home!
just
then,
just
now.
Ain't.
No, we are on roam
in a heavenly field,
which I call your
own.
As to mine?
I yield. Some
people just do not
honor the home
grown bone in
deal when they're
jealous as hell,
apparently. I call
"fine by them!" on
that. But
please
people. Quit
scarin' me, have
some respect
for others, fellas
well as fellelles!
If you can't? Hey!
So sue us,
or
surveil us and
sell us, and we'll
sue you. Or some
other thing. Who
can tell? Point is.
Big whup!
If it's not clear you're in
the biz,
"Big whup"
is a big deal
in sum parts. Let being
be yours. Let living
make arts.
I just plotted a hard edged
action suspenser tv series
where all the supporting
actors are riven, riveting,
interlocking and breaking
in waves and clashing catch,
in patterns wholly real, yet,
it's a God's eye view, only
ADHD so, you only piece
the puzzle box narrative together
as it goes. You sense the main links
and trends generously, easy - plain
enough like life. Heavy business
and light going on. Point is.
The theme of the show is
there's this guy.
Because the CIA and local law
enforcers, plus the medical
emergency responders,
art students and the ad dep't
of the vitamin company - look -
the cool neighborhood bar people
cross paths and cozy up in?
It's
just
life, right?
Tons of stuff like that!
So there's all this real grit
set to explode into any moment!
Menace is sudden! Like life, and -
this guy
every time something
horrible, because
of a completely different
random asshole
(or assholess) is about
to happen, or is actually
happening - you
know
how it is when
shit goes down
in those shows.
This fucking
GUY comes in!
You'd about forgotten
about him by then - it's
like he's from another
plot! From the corridor
or door or
rushing
in a physically normal
way from between two ferns -
and he's badass.
Thwack! Knee shot
in the chest!
Pirouette elbow shot!
Two hardest
human striking surfaces
on earth!
Sudden 5-hit combo!
Uppercut!
Uppercut! Body blow!
Body blow!
This guy, nondescript
as all hell - white,
burly but mousy
- great chin, strong
eyebrows, but - good
fluffy flop-shag of hair
(NO male pattern baldness,
gene-test the auditionees if you
have to it has to look real. You
sorry. Parentheses close) never
at any point get a real
or good look at the guy.
Not unless you cheat freeze
-frame. The camerawork, oh
man it's smooth swift pan and
balletic shift enough. Not crazy
cam cut-cuts you can't even see
what's up or who just hit who. No.
Completely natural and believable
camerawork, but
this guy
just walks right in and on
through. Knocking clowns down
and out like popcorn fireworks
boom thwack crunch and - poof!
The casually dressed avenger is
KA-GONE.
Thing is, the whole show
could
conceivably
be done entirely
without
that guy.
He never shows
up
past or before crisis-point,
he takes out
the trash like some
carefree maniac on zen
meditation mode
and he's
that gone.
Whoever he is, he
appears to have no
overlap, intersect or
relation to any other
cast member of these
characters. He just
shows
up.
Like mixed-martial arts
bro ex machina all casual,
barely interrupting the ongoing
plot arcs,
brutally
ending
the threat-point,
and
that's his whole deal.
He's like the real hero
you never find out about because
- where the hell? How did be - !
Shit.
The name of the show
would be Badass J. Doe.
Or some similar hook.
Jack Slip. No that's weak.
Jack Nil.
Nonesuch Joe.
TOUGH GUY SWEET! The antibullybully? No,
that's...that's a different world, different character.
Superhero b.s. Skip it: it would be a damn-ass
refreshing change from the kind of bullshit
"hero" arc bullshit we seen now.
It needs it. We do. The time does.
Anyway.
Be pretty cool to have a guy like
that around! Right? Come on.
Brut Cause. Casual Force.
Interloper II: Real chronicles of a true community hero.
That'd be the movie version. I figure, do the series season
one, season two, season three - then with interest running
hot and continuous, ditch tv and jump straight to the sequel.
We'd announce,
"The entire series
is now officially
retroconsidered as
the first movie, Part 1
of a planned Who Knows?
This coming feature is officially
the second movie. Any questions?
Get it straight if so! Don't call
it a show no' mo' oh kay?
First movie, 66 hours, second shot
- coming up - probably less. We're
getting it down, folks."
I've pretty much got it
all
worked out to an nth.
Apart from who the hell
is that guy? The
Interloper.
Coming later on
to cinema, but first?
Let's do some shows?
either now
or eventually
or
unknown. Since
there wasn't ever
anything
there,
once you're gone
Don't make the mistake
of a fiction novice with
these books of yours.
Serious reading is not
all facts and docustuff. You
came up hard in the scholarly
halls of no-bullshit erudition
maybe.
Well these books are not
like
those books. I don't say better
and worse, I say important. Facts
aren't, unless you live in a position
to do something about the very facts
you take in and revolve in wrack and
ponder. Otherwise mission: trivial. Oh,
good to know you suppose wrongly.
Dig in to a feast now. Wised-up, clued
-in all through you've stumbled into a
wider world of made-up ship that plumbs
rumbling, bumbling, stumbling 99 yards
through the crux-core ruin of one human
condition none of us grow out of: crisis
shock ego beef biscuit gravy, with shaved
almonds in a braised mayo barbeque
vinaigrette,
herbed
to within an nth.
This shit
is meant. On a level nonfiction only
masturbates to in its hot fond wish
and will to real signification. You
know this.
The ancients knew this.
It's why they used to crank down a god
to save the day and pull out the ending
they'd unwittingly written themselves
into - hard to see why, given you write
the thing first! Nobody backstage should
be looking up mid-run of the play saying
"holy shit!" "what do we do?"
Fiction solves all those problems, and
to keep it engaging,
invents obstacles
and crises that make
nightmares look like
lazy daydreams, by
comparison.
Nonfiction?
What can they do?
If they're serious scrupulous,
Jack Much. Fiction though?
Can do it all from Jack Damn
to Jack Nil plus Jack Whack
and Jack Woo: The Kung Fu
Gun Knight Hard Ops Soft
Sell Charm Knacking Jill
-Jacker!
Really you don't have to know
Jack One from Jack Next. Just
plumb some deep shit in you,
step two: suspect it may be
universal? Step three: Aim Hard.
From Deep.
The Act As-If.
Reality.
Is one motherhypothectical.
Accept the premise without
a fight, and war and love
accordingly, that's
what fiction has way the hell
over non-.
Don't make the mistake
of a fiction novice
with these books
of yours.
Goes without saying you
say? Bears
repeating, says I.
The last time asked
to say "Grace" - you
know. It's never that
easy. You're supposed
to somewhat beautifully
bless the food, but in a
humble way, all props
to God - I
found
myself
among protestants!
To honor their piqued
peculiar fixity against
them Catholic "Bless us
oh Lord" alphabet-song
soulless recitals, too well
-known, too long-worked
in groove to rut to be really,
truly understood, the lyrics
lost in a too-classic tune (so
went the bigoted knock!), I dug
in
with such gusto I had,
and have. "Oh,
Lord,"
I said.
I suspected then
and now calmly reckon
a couple others who knew me
better than well
might've redoubled
my thought, on that
one, but
"From an almost infinitely
infinitesimal speck, you
caused all this." I looked
around the table, but well
below eyes. "In inexorable
lockstep chain of causality!
By your will and grace, can
I get an amen to this? Let us!
Gathered here to break bread,
pass salt and cut mains and sides
with family style propriety, pause
now
for the moment. To bow
to a mystery all of us love. May
you, Lord,
please,
boost
our eyebeams
to high-beam.
so we each
may pierce the cracks
in the mortar-work of these
deep
wells
of subjective alienation"
pause
"In which we float,
none
too well, where we are
well-enough. By your
uplifting light,
we find hope
halfway down
a seemingly infinite
height, where we bob
treading deep water halfway
up from infinite depths,
and
perhaps
by the light
that spills and breaks
through the cracks,
from passing well
floating by one's own,
in the interlace
of light,
may we be somehow uplifted?
Somehow sure?
Sure."
"And knowing you,
the source of all such
light -"
A low-beam smile
having got through this
finally breaks
"-call it Grace."
That
was probably the last
I'll be asked, but if you're
called into pinch hit
and coach signals bunt,
hit it out of the park
at least, I say.
By means of trick bunt,
of course.
There was no hell. Just
some damn dream. In
waking me, you broke
some rule - but heaven's
just a touch obscene.
From where we lie
in truth untold uplifted
upon obstacle,
to sweeping
view, in deep
enfold, we
two
stampede
unherd to where
our kind can be,
alone
unscene.
And find ourselves
unmatched
in flesh ensouled,
as we had
always
rather
been.
I don't know
if it's coincidence,
or everyone's experience.
Transcendency,
banality
is somehow fine
as lines can be,
and yet
the impact
runs us through
beyond, beneath, to
root in grounds
of cause effect,
result and aim
in driving out
from in this pain.
You broke
my heart and
collarbone, by how
you gripped so graceful
soft,
my sharp lapels - and shook me
shook. Then smacked
my lips
with yours
aloft
I wants wuz an Ace or so I’d bet.
Twice degraduated to King, then Jack.
I do sense by now that I'm no "10," yet
I'll keep raising stakes in counterfeit stacks.
I still haven’t learned my last lesson yet,
but the lesson before: I have figured it out.
There isn’t any gift or luck in doubt, just
Judgment's suspense! While the evidence
settles to landslide rout in an open case.
I have seen them all proved. Here comes
- on the river! I do
hope, bet, guess, thunk
hard, prayed sweet I reckon
suspect:
my Ace?
Close.
So let defeat cut cigar in half,
call it whole, better light next
time, next gaffe. Closer still
forever next, on this we vow:
or we really might as well:
’til death we
yet.
As close as now gets,
catching closer still,
oh yah. You bet. You
bet you will. So. Set?
Ready Go? OK.
Come closer still.
I carry stacks and sheafs and reams
of cards with chip and magnet stripe.
Some ones, some fives, some twenties, tens,
each card's face value is alright.
I hand these to dumbfound cashiers
for purchases of twigs and leaves.
They hand back cards of oh-six-nine
or oh-four-three or one-point-two
I don't know what
to do with these
I shake the whole house when I masturbate.
It's a good thing I live alone - hey, wait
The people above and below can tell!
They're laughing in heaven
and crying in hell?
Imagine if Plato, Diogenes,
Joe Stalin and Nietzsche,
whomever you please,
Catherine the Great
and Helen of Troy (if
she ever existed, oh man)
(oh boy), from wherever your judgment
placed each of them - they all stand agape
and agog at you! Whenever you take
an idle hand,
and an idle moment
to make self-woo!
Laughing and pointing!
Spreading the word! Come
look!
This person is Jill-Jacking off
all over the earth!
Oh, it never grows old in eternity.
Just a childish bunch of voyeurs,
you see.
And so I suppose are we.
Another's vomiting
is not like my own
vomiting.
Dim. Sympathetic.
Tugs heartstrings
from deep sick
visceral just to see
or even hear their
misery, knowing
I've felt such wracked
pangs and worse! Such
upheaval and gushing revolt
from deep out of me, revealing
me,
inner,
disgusting -
where I am
in my inmost
utmost core.
Made of meat still twitching
on wires, swollen by pumping
ichor and other humors, vile
and foul, the stink
kept in by a sensitive, lightly-furred
sausage casing. Kept
mostly in.
But when we puke, we know.
Mine though is far worse. Theirs
only recalls mine. It brings
a horror movie playing in back
of mind: a patchwork piecemeal
docudrama montage of nausea
experienced directly, for real.
Direct: imminent and immanent,
immediate, insidious sheer reality of it
explicit in white hot
shocked shards
of gaping wholes,
cramping parts and
gasping flesh, a moment
like many, forever seared
and etched in nerve and muscle
memory, yet - potent and gross as it is!
- only a dim sympathetic recall
compared to the real thing, which
I know is much worse.
I have been there. Been that
wretch. That thing, powerless,
helpless before, after and during
my own body.
Another
is only going
through a semblance
of what I have had.
For real.
It's hard to imply
in a place your own
that someone has done
something incorrect.
No matter how kind
your guidance is,
such feedbacks
are taken as slight,
suspect.
The other won't
stand to tolerate it!
They bolt in a huff,
leaving you unrepaid
by the well-behaved
person you'd hoped
to redeem.
They take
themselves off
someplace else. No
gain. It is what it
is, it seems.
Or worse yet, pain.
Rebuked and chastised
by your velvet-shod rod
wielded firm but soft,
gently bludgeon the odd,
the wrong, the "off" - in
constructive ways!
- so-called, so-hoped -
they declare open war!
It's just one of those days.
Or revolting defiance! And
then what to do? It's hard
to imply
anyone's made
mistake
In the place of your own
that you welcomed them in
to take. Well?
What's the alternative, then?
Let all these fools, miscreants
and sweet peeps run amok
being how they like, not like
you like - when it would be
so easy?! But
it's not,
though.
It's not.
It's hard.
I am Ak-Akoom.
"Attacked - I Attack!"
My name means this, so
they all know that.
From an ancient age,
my deeds have grown
by warriors' sighs, and
in wenches' moan -
with my bristling, glittering scimitar!
and my crazy spear, I have ridden far
in my mad rampage of self-defense.
Which I always will wage,
'til the day I'm spent.
At the dawn of me
- as an infant born -
attacked, I attacked!
It made mom laugh,
so she called me that.
So was destiny dressed
and shod, pretty much
- in a name ever since
well-worn.
