The Golden Damned (XLVI): Buzz or Bust

Buzz or Bust

Left acling on the old feather of an angel, your rust. Glimpsing infinite cosmos, are ya. Well two matters humming may indeed relegate. There is no telling why. Protective bubble of love wrapt round me as I spend cash at the convenience store. Gusts of care pooling out. Out, out, out forever. Into bent knee when I kneel for the Queen of Another Place, whose name is just her title. And she claps all royally that barely energized way as the doves fly overhead, dropping palm leaves. Rain of palm leaves landing with spent flits. The doo-dad ornamentation to all things every last speck of matter. There will never be another way to get back here, once I leave. But like a dream, I will gather up my most immediate recollections and hold that imagery close to me. Close to my heart. To the heart of the thing itself, it is my person. There is just a song all steel drums going bananas with such high frequency the recording flips out and swells, breaking. The celluloid’s analog limitation brutal. Toward the crescendo, unable even to be perceived. Right a’now I do though I do write to the music from Donkey Kong Country 2. Somehow really just beautiful. Actually a how, because it makes your heart happy to be able to hear it. Even just having the gameplay up onscreen, it becomes hard to not look over to it and become hypnotized. So beautiful. Simpler parts of that age make it, in hindsight, easier to follow. Pixelated webs. Pixelated spider in loud red-n-yellow sneakers. Etc. But to the brunt of today forever. Tomorrow can wait. While I am here, I want to exalt this truth. Walk through my livingspace like it’s a beach. The Beach. Road-flung beautiful warm always falling apart but still soft and still whole. Yellow sun gracious behind clouds, glazing the planet in love. You notice with some certitude you are feeling well. Better than before. You find it pretty reassuring. You may not know what to say or how to say it, but due rest time is all love. All one amazing thing, brought together. To capitulate the sounds of life marrying and changing themselves together. Vowels get prolonged in a glottal echo that pinballs through canyons. Names get writ in stone that seem too be remembered. Not quite Ozymandius. May be spelled wrong. It become another structural quality to the world. The living in the world. Round quality flights. Through hypnogogic lulls and to the sound of strong white noise imagining you are a bald eagle soaring high through the clouds and overlooking endless oceans. And the words “I’m just going to lay here a while” given to you like a gift you can use forever. Buzz or Bust. The title came first and I have not integrated this. For all the ways language can be like music, I am floating in trill shapes like a lasagna. See, now isn’t that more of the nonsense you’re looking for. But it doesn’t mean anything. Even still, comparing. This word after that words after that one, together all before punctuation. When streams end, when tears dry. When drool gets wiped off your chin in the morning. Who is the one responsible for everything being able to feel so nice? When does less spiffer drake tense? How und room fore drink is smaller than now it seems. How I pull from the thinnest air a word of two like ladybugs off my shirt. Walking through dense fields. The chapter to begin has already started, love. And it is all, all, all so lovable. When this pouring motion of the apple juice makes a conic diagram in each splash. When while I wait in my untagged shirt at the stop for a bus or a train the highest rises give pulls beneath me from the sight of rain. On the only morning mist clouding errything. Do you doze off like a lion, then? Where is that place that was once your dreams? Does it come from within you? And why. Why do you have to go? You may forget, we were ever here. Dust on lampshades and stars-for-eyes attendants. Whole whirlpools of this single day going turning, turning in. Like a bear for winter. Then somehow. How, you say. Somehow, newer things. The paragraph has information, but does not permit the most meaning, you could say. The imagined book like a thin drinking glass you’re afraid to open lest it break. Sand. Dunes of The Beach’s sand getting haircuts from the wind. Off the water. Green, blue water. Roaring out in open space. Take me there, with you.

This too sadness, let yourself go and not be lost

I come to myself on today feeling pretty bad. I have problems in my sprit it is or has become hard for me to address. If there is a solution, I only hope I can find it. I just want to be ok. That has been, really, a running theme. Though this pressure in my stomach and skull feels—simply, feels, I guess—there is no real way around that. You kind of just have to feel it and try to keep functioning regardless. I have these intricate vaguely symbolic usually strange dreams. Sometimes they’re mundane and more purely experiential. There is it turns out maybe no reason to worry. And that is the case simply because I want to believe that’s the case. In order to really not care what others think about you, you probably have to go under the duress of them thinking pretty negatively of you for a good good deal of time without changing who you are or who you want to be. In that way, the eagle or whatever fledges its beak. If the fledgling can’t do that, it will die. In the same way probably, if you can’t thicken your own skin and actually be who you want to be, your soul probably dies. They have that old turn of phrase “a thousand deaths,” and it’s probably like that. You can only trust and believe in the present moment. Your own body. The air against your skin. Your finger pads loosely on the keyboard. You have to really believe in the only things that appear to be real. I’m writing a novel where reality itself sort of falls apart and becomes or turns out always to have been fiction. That is like the ultimate mindfuck so far as I can imagine it, but at the same time, it makes you question what the difference is, if you’re the one inside the fiction.

I don’t know why I’m saying much of this. I’m not feeling too well. My stomach is kind of queasy, my throat is sore, and my body on the whole is pretty tired. There is simply just no way of dealing with yourself if you can’t be compassionate toward yourself. “If you can’t help and love yourself, you will never be able to help or love anyone else.” That is what they say. Some of the best advice I ever received was from my brother when he said, “Just say ‘fuck it.’” It goes a long way to remember that this is probably the only life we’ll ever get, and that we won’t get to live it again.

You Can't Have a Heart

Shut up, there is no distaste like this out there. Despite who you think you are….. Not with no mouth but relieving yourself on alcohol like a robot made for consumption like that. But with no stake in this laughing you feel you have when you think you laugh. Hard, nearly impossible, how unable it feels to be able to cry.

To call out what you can when you can from night to night. Not at all. Not even there. Not remotely, in the head you have your own precious head. The slipping notion nothing is coming on at all but something far, far, far, far out there. Listening why. Listening hey. Nothing at all being real. Nothing at all knowing why, and I am apart from it all. There is something if anything nothing going on anymore.

II

Remarkable envy your forgotten task. Because you deserve to, I thought you should know you ought to live. With nothing in the way of yourself, if possible. You really ought to live. It’s really, really great. At times, it’s terrible, but on the whole, you should know, it’s great. Like for sure you won’t get this right now, but later on maybe. There will be someone you care about hanging on to their own life by a thread. And you will not even know. But you will be there to tell them something that maybe makes them able to go on for like another day at least. And a day is everything, there is so much more. You can honestly see it too. It’s great, you should. Right now. Go and see it.

For like one of the many bullshit grievances I share with myself now, there can be no way. Right? It feels impossible, right? There is just no fixing this. At the end of the day. There is no way all this rushing turmoil barreling itself in on all sides, right, there’s no way it can all be ok in the end, right? There’s just no way. But look, I have saved you, my son. Again. In the wake of every scathing flame that came right up close to harm you. In the brutal, brutal, brutal nonexpression on your face. In the end, there is no end to what good you can do. Pulling sensations from the edge. Push it away. Wrap your arms around me.

This, Too, a Respite

Wonder if in the words of your own mind you would like to read. But not too coherently. Not all the way, wondering. Just like when you put it down there and there’s something to say but you don’t have words for it till it’s put finally down, there. And there it is. You have it, for yourself. Share with me if you can words. For this. Like that. You would think. If you knew what to think, you would think: shit. That was exactly what. I had to say, you know. I could write it down there and leave it there and know, it was true, and it was true. Bent like rain falls in off arcs and doesn’t choose. This, too, like you, like me too. And the way heavy falling of gravity on your back on your legs on your lungs walking up the street’s incline. You, too, know it. Should not drink quite so much. As you are, but you are, and you know. This, too, a respite. But to come drooling from a dream and wake here right here in your space by yourself brought back to this. Trusting it is true. While not too too long ago you did in fact see, the layers or hanging curtains of reality part for just a little while. Folding inward out like fractured light off a cell of air. To almost as though it was almost like though. Some perceptive slip allowed you realize. Everything you experience as real and your life and here, now, is only a tiny layer to the condition or quality of existence. And you can know, now. For almost sure. There is so much more, out there, all the time. You can go to sleep and dream and wake up and forget the truth all the time but still know, deep down, in a part of you. Till right then right where you bridge yourself to the eyes of another in a small moment, having a conversation. And you’re having it and you don’t remember but there is a quality to the light, on them. And maybe you can reach another second longer being alive and maybe you can know it’s not just you experiencing all this condition to being human. Or don’t you, already. This, too, is a respite. And tried folding in-following in to the speck of the heart’s heart’s heart. Good scuffing good soft mine eyes distract feeling from itself knowing so beautiful, now. Then this, too, responding whole to it: this sound like love moving through the universe all the time, your own breath your own heartbeat carrying it through you. The can the can’t the will the won’t burying thoughts. The cool returning simple peace. The hungry the comfortably hollow space filling with warmth comfortably. Thinning time thickened life. Thirst quenching from gratitude. This zillion breaching arts being met with a meal and a bed. To face how you can scream into a microphone finally and feel for yourself. And come up finally from the splash to surface in splashes and breathe surrounded like a gel treasure in cool. This, too, a respite. Lying down on your side, say thank you. To yourself, to the air of the room, to God. Try to give God the benefit of the doubt. Try to give giving the benefit. To rest to be able to rest to be able to try. To. Hushing loving angels outside your life calling back like they care for you, knowing. Knowingly. With no clue, but trying. Trying this, too. Trying. To look in, for once for real for once. To try to be. To. Wait. Here. A while. For truth to be. To set in. Into you, well. While you’re here, waiting. For good, for once, for all time. West, west. Over and over for all time, it seems. West, west, west, west. To truth of what? No, to home, no. To bed. To rest. But that is home. Yes, that is true. Yes, we are home, now. Let us be. Glad. Let us be. Hopeful, for the good things—for the future. For all time, for all that time seems. Let us. Be. All. Together. You, yourself. This, too, a respite.

Scruff Post Zux One

This last entry is the first one I have read, and not. Good sanction on my own policies for self-regulation depending. There is the overt suction sound going when prior helms depress oxygen containment. In a vial I am ducking the exit to. To rend sifted sand already bright slipt through my hand. Telling few truths but somehow. Found out on my own my own finding out. Glass on my screen on life partially cracked but already so thinly. Here I am sensing always sensing sometime feeling that sense lift when I’m about to fall asleep. Then sometimes not, sometimes entirely gone. Pulling through this wakefulness desperate, sometimes. But not looking at things the way I should, and aware of that, and aware I should be thinking something more to the tune of not-having-a-song-playing-right-now or what have you, but still listening. Still having songs playing. The world already doing music with arbitrary noise. Birds and shit outside window. Cars. The electric kick of AC units. Neighbors. Dogs. Cloves of something in the brighter eye. Ex Wye Zee. Toning-in fire. Blue ways night. Gone-off wanderers visiting unknown place unkowably. Except with how they return later to tell you and it’s known. All this What am I doing now. No, to the point, spilling mess. Ticking clock of high-low. Safe but truer. Flown-on. Sponsored Kite. Run a tail of blades over the sky and tried steering it away from everybody. Myself my presence. What it is, whatever it is. Wondering this, too. To be honest still nesting waiting for something to take me by the nape and fling me out into void truth. While with heart hollering my last impromptu exclamation or goodbye. Some dramatic seriousness like that, haha. Weakness of mine this sick solemnity. Yes. But sometimes. Most of the offset zu-nai lakes beat like heart valves and repose glowing gusts of weaver fish with heavenly pacts and the like. You can take it all down and you can report to the side. You can become more yourself than you ever knew just by being alone. You can see this, too. Just by doing. Today I have changed locations and situations and mind in a very, very good way. I am now on my own and so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so breathlessly stupidly humbly fucking happy even I have no clue. No idea, but ho. Yeah. It is a good thing. And so, I will keep trying to do this. Now more. I will try to write to you as much as I can as I may as much as I can now, too. I will try to communicate with the outside world. I know this all self blue-eyed rum-haggard spunk-zoinked weedling bump I am. Still aloofly in love with this too. Still having my company alone with you who are not here, still loving it. Thank you. Thank you so much you have no clue. I am becoming more and more sure that there is a God. I don’t know. I don’t know. But I have faith, and that is why I believe more and more it is true. And listen to my feelings, that is something I also do (too much, sometimes). But I listen to my feelings and I listen and I find somethings sometimes, too. Some things like evidence of truth. Have yourself a mighty mighty mighty one. Take care.

Have This

To come here today, on this day, for this day of my life. With cherry Pepsi and Marlboro Red and humid warm porch sunlight, again, but it is today. And with Pink Floyd’s “Marooned” behind. Can you imagine how beautiful? I am stuck, just taking it in. Amazed how. The future, needing scheduling, is still far ahead enough to wait. I and me and everything, more or less, is right here. I am right here, with you. And I wanted to say how good it is, that we can share this. Too often the socked grinding noize of sawlike worry blazes loud in the mind. You’ll try to sleep, it’ll not care. "(“Wot’s… Uh The Deal,” now—playing :)) I about this song can’t explain just how beautiful. I’m so fucking grateful, now. You don’t know how so-good you have it and then sometimes you get an idea. “So let me in / from the cold / turn my leg / into gold / cuz there’s a chill wind blowing in my soul / and I think I’m growing old.” Relax and also know, here, we can have it all. Right now with us, without needing to own. This too your whole life leading up to today so-far. Jank nothing to do, and I think: that’s what I want my life to be concerned with, from now on. Soaking up the presence of whatever’s good I’ve got through all this and sending it sharing it out on a line through the world. It’s a good thing to do to remind yourself you’re still alive and able to enjoy it. What is your dream? I can say, I have known some very good people, and I am glad. Just to be here enough to notice or to say it aloud in my mind. Just to have eyes and to have them see. Just to feel like warm currents brush, brushing, bleak itself going beautifuler every second the further the finer. Have for me too a sense of now in this and pain doing fine but standing up still saccharine hearts wavering like sent balloons. Busting down like a concert going on inside you. Moving like an enemy to yourself getting along. This incredible instrument of light gracing me. Psychedelic guitars from a vocal arrangement. And still today you or I having this between our selves, things to say, things to leave unsaid, this-perfect silences to share because that is a good sign, and it feels good, like it feels right. While my hands work on this keyboard to tell you so I can hear me tell myself. Coming in frequenter, dipping out to less-frequent, softening signals. Thrumming up and mellowing out like recorded distorted electric instruments in heavenly earphones. Concerted effortful progress to enjoy your very own experience of being alive. Dreams of one day how kind of like right now there will come a time the beautiful things around you just are, and yes, your headvoice will dip in and say things, dip out, but they won’t be all negative and egoist. It’ll be that rascal wile of the dark-side meter every founded soul seems to usher. It’ll be something observating, maybe a little sly, but just another leaf you let float at the end. Because yes, I can, yes, still remember sunlight on the water and float breath, warm on my wet arms and face the sky cut around cloudy by banquets of spangled leaves and others near yet far playing in the creek bed while I float watching the vertical, how it must’ve been like the most perfect bed you had to submerge into to rest inside. And now with all the modern freakout internal, zinging petric sting often in the past but today only a day after you walked out and smelled the rain on the clay and felt like the beach, walking to the station. Yes I can remember being aware something more and remarkably good was there a part of the physical world in my sight and like senses. Perfect tine petrified movement of mind because much too to take in and remarkable. Don’t forget myself remembers. Still, and do experience, because I have this—all this—right here, too. And I hope to what is best you have some yourself too. To if there is a God fathomable or not, to thank God for you and to hope to God for you right now to have some of this in your corner, also. Don’t trap yourself old ornery idle inside brittlely hard where your heart’s softness should be, though I myself feel that strain taking over much of the time and so don’t feel bad if you do. Don’t be afraid to look out and witness. So much of what this bullish sense charges is another danger sign, but it does indeed seem to have fun, too. Wrecked cars, wrecked bodies, wrecked lives—all you others perhaps a lot like me. Destined despair dripping in silliness. Sadness, all that. Not pretending. But also how fucking sweet must all this warmth feel coming in from all that frigid shittiness? How fucking able are you to really reach, now. This too, clear, now, somewhat. Going in and out of it. But not demit to sleep when just now there isn’t enough tiredness, I can be here. Having this moment without the most thought. Having it more then, maybe. Descriptions up to you. Please be OK.

Downway Den Decline

But for laying it down, I mean—really,—laying it down. And understanding the potential like totally, that nothing may occur. That’s kind of what I mean when I’m talking about this sorta thing. That you put your whole self all the actual way out there. And you wear your heart on your sleeve. In a moment like that. But it’s more too, it’s burnt heaven’s breath smoothing out iron works for satire. And cologne like a sacrament to keep yourself safe or something. And tressed fill-lines on computer motherboards and sectioned off wards and swift nubs of celestial erasers bearing down on your chest to erase (is it you?). If the palled tall man suffering in a linen cloak by the fronds of the gate knows why he’s suffering, does he say? Hey. Halls of oats, and burkview, and buffering static mews from the banks. You may—you may—begin to become accustomed to this walking through entropy’s entropy. How ur-valdi sank in music to its own general tragedy. How the sentences voiced are like music—music. It’s strange. But it makes its makesense somehow true, in a way, and it—blinding the cephalopodic third-eye or whatever you find greedy skittering noam-berts cyclical numbers rotating endlessly, however wild. You know then I’ll feel like bleeding out on a day the clouds don’t cover it all.

Stretches. Vast inert stretches rumbling the clay. Gross cracks in the vert of the flattened sky. Hay slick with embryo, burden slick with hay, reality bumbling. All the make and model of the earth aging and aging and aged. My com-carset face ruling out name. In the mirror. Pretends he has dreamed this is happening. In the mirror. Hue before. Not a tangent to the light but there. A thought in your head wondering, “How did I get born? Don’t you remember?” I flecked brackish ire on the rails of the steps that led to the lighthouse in winter, wait. I presumed you were my own, you words without sympathy: you things I call thoughts. I presumed you were my own, and I fled.

The last gasp of me shaped. In distressed spino Dramamine. Terrified, lithium, agnate, brecht. Sloughed-off inked weird letts. In strained elven voices asking, What is the purer mask? And to not disrupt whatever wavelength frays, almost out of fear, just nodding in answer. There is a reason in fact that you dream the things you do. Ghoul fines for Bartleby. Drool lines in crest. Zoos of cute hypnautical creatures alien to the aliens and the natives alike. What has become of this house I call home?

The Golden Damned (XLV): Singking

Ten-Million, four-hundred-and-thirty-thousand Euclid paintings cementing my eyes to the walkway on my way there. But beneath comets set in green flies. I was an empty nut case, with a nametag that read Brian T. in Sotoscript. The ex-legless elephantine eye whose gut microbiome determined stock-market prices for the next two years was ambling up closer from the opposite direction, snookering the ground with the heel of his big toe. Like pageantry for a marmalade commercial or something. Or the umber in dream time whose face occludes whatever is going on behind it. The neck down a swaying beam of black. Horror. Scrambling for keys. Remembering not to wall it. Ventilation. Ventilation enking ee.

I have to pump music into the earcups in order to drown out the sound of people around me. And remind myself I am essentially alone; it is more true. Or not. I am not sure of many things. Perhaps this, engine kissed cherry-kissed sunspot of the back of my eyelids taking in sunlight off grass below me. Perhaps this. Negligent parenting for a fortune of dimes. Perhaps this. Turbines on acid in rainsoak bulleting wheely winds out facially rippling. My microphone in jejune. My calliope register. The draining. X the Y participle. X the Omega saffron. My diet is killing me.

Then, too can it be said: necked red-arts like spirits in the borealis of reality frames. I encourage you. To go see them. Sometimes also it helps to not look at the words on the page but rather your hands writing the words on the page. To not focus so much, on the object. In leaving, we have you set foot in dear expligennn naught raincoats rainforests reindeer hopping whiled like ninnies cooped up all alone on the blear end but sanction four-thirteen the first door on your right wait for me, dear. I ‘ssssssss’ the hiss. The mission you find out is actually going on but is not real in a dream you are having that is actually going on but is not real. To do with why you’re walking alone down an empty hotel hall lavish. To find out the world is with you but is itself alone. To discover what the meaning of not just your life but of every life is. To hear background radio mugen and seek. But the door is just a door again. To pull back the curtain all bleary-eyed and numb and to false-signify and to weigh low and featherbed the hurt signal eaking mousily from the SCAD towned. Downy down-singe. Pillow burke. Ssss while I cuff myself to a light pole as instructed by the higher angels. Ssssss. Ssssss. Wained think Vo nautilus thinks he’s crazy. SSSSSSSSSSSS. This, too. Perhaps. Wait while. Sssssssssssssss. Again. There it is, in you. That scowling curl of hope destroyed like when you’re just a sea fly and the oven is on around you. Tank my face. Facelessness. Thisening. Bitterer. Scruples. Carting the bike out of tiredness to heat self’s skin and watch neighborhood gather to fly a single kite. Beautiful. Beautiful, blue kite. On somehow bluer sky, vibrating with wind. Denser ending not because nothing wasn’t nud jest true faces bark like trees’ outer layers sin. Blank rogue range oozing effortless. Out under my eyes. While standing, standing still. The door is just a door and I walk through it. The room inside is just a room. Just. Justice for whom? Whom. Whom? Justice for whom. Yes. Reague. Read? Reague. Like how? Like what. Like what.

Because he’s gathered the gumption. He is a soul narrating, he thinks, but he’s not. The soul he thinks he is is like a node in a vast network of nodes. And the network itself is more like what he thinks a soul is. Except, I’m wrong.

IW. E Z Ned sssss Peck. ZZZZZ heliotrope. Hhhhhhhh how? No. Set the. Set. Set rhymes to blaze. Set whistle top blicked tunes. Set them to your tooth’s frequency. Make them holace. Whorld worlds apart apartmentages ssssssssssss singking.

When the singking sinks, the life guard yells, “Oh no! He’s sinking!” The blind acrobatic beside him just shrugs, “We know.” I make a stupid joke. Oh no. Oh no! He’s sinking! It’s actually really sad. Wash your eyes. Wash your face. Ugly pustules bustle for my real estate underhanding money like shark dons on a trip to New-Wears Vegas. One on my left nostril’s parenthetical visual area. Lobing druffit cloves in gusts. Wanding ssss magnet smokes. This, too. Perhaps. But it leaves. It leaves and it leaves me, too. Right there in the room watching blank ruff. Coarse fur of a monster the floor. Sad cadric lidges. Smiling awfully. How do you frown as well as you smile? I mean, the reverse of that. (Reverse that.) I mean, when I was tripping that one time and found I had never actually smiled before or perhaps like more accurately maybe—maybe I had never really been happy before. Because the smile on my face, though nearly insane, was the truest I had ever seen it. And maybe it’s true the I’m late..

The Golden Damned (XLIV): Godly Eye

This tript of solid features in durrs of its bleaf met us wandering the night. If across many waits. In gin sick bottle-scrummed full-bearing weighty weights of hot. Sacrilege in how the dewy pumpkin rolled downhill to the doorstep your little cottage dreamhome. Opening your door at hearing its thump thinking mmm it is time for some pie. How many doggereled ventilation shafts do you spies have to slide through in The Building of A Thousand Names? Where wet work became the dry mouth of an ingress leet show. A bunch of hory lessigens seeping into cole-words. Speaking like miners of African crystal. From a news-stereo occupation in Tibet. This is the business there is no news. There is a whine high and whiny coming from the Outside no one knows the source of; no one goes. The spies begin self-spying—not only among themselves, but of their actual selves. The paranoid Swiss maple-colored lips of that double-triple one in her ventilation-ruined spandex stealthsuit mouthing “Oh. No.” A mix-headed feeling running through her thoughts which manifest in spurts at inconvenient times. While talking down the barman; while trying to survey the Lozzet Lounge abustle a party; while nooking the Receiver into the tampon disposal bin; while igniting her car’s engine to leave before deciding not to leave; while walking back in the parking garage detecting stalkery sounds; while innovating truces with those she suspects are enemy spies; while hundred-heading her emotional register and mad-mapping awayback on the premise it’s going to be all right. There are covert espionages going on at the Mega-Blinked Pent House Apartment 223 on the side. On the balcony, Ruffo notes how the fog covers the lower city and still no detection of the source of the sound. Trembly No-Wun is heckling the off-duty comedian at the couch area, who’s making people laugh at various levels of sincerity. Inadvertently helping the comedian to make them laugh. The slushy shush of newwwwwwwww slithers all around at all times in all places in the building. It’s especially perceptible in the silence. So the Rug Vane at the heart of all this is amiss and Twist Hardly is the new sentiment. For what is off for how to fix what is wrong with what is off. Section Drones scour the pitch-black basement with thermal cameras and find only boxes and leaky pipes. And a mouse trying to catch its stubby tail. All the rooms are bugged except the bugging room, which is occupied by sentient AI who feel no fear and do not like themselves. Crumbling away the soul starts to michigan. The face distorts in the faces of others; it distorts in the face of fear. The synaptic nothing ruse flapping itself wideways sidelong into an exy fish bowl won’t truthify the situation. The way-way wasn’t meant to be found they don’t think. They are eponymous. This shrinking of my hand inside my pocket around a Lucky Lozenge disturbs readily. The aces a bank. The nordritch entities. The suffering celluloid stuck inside a grate. Which would answer the questions of everyone here, except the robots. The robots have fewer questions than directives. The directives are jumbled in Nordic-looking code. When explained to the government-forgotten programmer whose goal it is to find a bed to sleep in, he just says the word “semantics” and goes on his way. It makes no sense. There are heavenlies. Whole droves of off-looking cars on off-looking roads in movies whose lighting feels always off. There are kits to repairing relationships adjudicators have locked away in MGMT closets. There are bleak spiritual energies to the thousand-dollar light bulbs on East Wing where the Swiss spy again thinks with thoughts that bother her. The ocean of nothing the non-fearing Godly eye. How did we end up here if we just came through that previous door? Directions to change for the better are written in hieroglyphics nobody understands. Everyone is motional. Even while still. Everyone is freed. They are like tokens of witness to being enslaved to their own freedoms. They are not; they are like blank paper. The words are there, you just don’t know what they say. There is a reason we have brought you to the room labeled “Ending Room.” The officer who is likely getting paid too much palms his holstered glock and steps to the side. Cool it with the attitude, froyo-face. That is what the officer says when the Boss enters behind. Closes the door. Looks you in the eyes. “Do you know why you’re here?” I’m waiting. “Do you know why you live and breathe and occupy?” There is a ruse here again. Of course. There’s always a ruse. Some damn reason. Some damn plot to set up or take down or avoid. “Do you know… we could totally silence this whole thing. This whole thing—all of it—if we wanted to. But do you know what we’re going to let you do?” What? “We’re going to let you go. We’re going to let you live. You can live, inside.” Bulk of the explication involved not looking up only looking down at the widgets of factoid renum that burrows at your feet and inks the tiles in a coppery glyphness and disperses. Spelling out rules spelling out circumventions spelling out rhymes. “For your life, you will give us only one thing. Do you know what that is?” I come to understand more and more the more and more I’m here that there’s nothing really I can say to affect any change in the atoms of my life. “Why? You should know. You all should know. Everything.” It doesn’t make sense but it doesn’t take time. “There are so few reasons. You all should know why.” The officer unsheathes his glock and pops himself in the head. Out of nowhere, the floor falls out and it’s black and you die. The Boss in the room laughs like a cartoon villain. You can hear him from your soul’s perspective as you ascend back and then leave up through the ceiling and why. There are no more entrances from here. There is only the vast vast vast outside. There is only this there is no more time. Wait for me, won’t you?

The Golden Damned (XLIII): Bling of Vines

And lost things. Are be com ing. In crea sin gly ab surd. How deck oh mei. In her ab sence. Loves to watch things burn. And lost thin(n)n(n)nn(n))n***(gs are be com ing. In crea sing ly con cerned. Watch this old song.

Which the thing was this first start happeted whilely. I come to understand you are the keeper of the idea of a man who in his body at the gate daydreams a door opening and yes. Whale district bay. Old soot on his right shoe staring up at him. His helm is a lion’s head enframed in Grecian ale leaves and he sways a little and the gate remains closed at all times. While therebeneath Yeats’s brain a wandering might’ve occured also, only outside of time, I have to tell you. This too being the name. We are (not) concerned. We are concerned. I began to write this series of nonsense after shh when I began living at shhhhhhhhh says the alformat Deindrene psychopathic pill-bottle mongoloid. Shhh says the SHHHH!!! I do not want to wake you. Upon lofted toes the achre dwarves stroll you on their shoulders to a glade in an advertisement for Mountain Dew (insert trademark). I sit down I would sit down initially and just hammer it out like a typewritten unapologetic spree and feign blast rhythm and sometimes not at all feign and at times also eventually reach nearly-lucid flowy states. Suntlye nerlydowell. Some typos I would instantly realize I preferred over their corrections and some typos often immediately or shortly after the previous ones I’d strike back and scratch and change. Yeah all that. Like in a few of these previous clauses for sure. But Baron bun tark et yu. He monoliths the show stage. The audience are beaker skullpeople wafting magiclike smoke a purple grain to their clothes harkening back to a distinct sort of prologue I wrote as a teen entitled “Somewhere Eight, Post Meridiem.” But the majority not supposed to be necessarily truth in fact truth having nothing to do with it sfar as Icantell. There’s a yeet scur tantying amounts in the alley off burk and narrow vein. To Tea DeLaw Fren Niend Divine. Less word salad than archipelagoes rising for their own sakes, divining their own names. This one is Frieksa this one is Arkansauce this one is Leu Tolo May. I traverse each one in a separate dream with a pirate crew like that Japanese cartoon One Piece. I frost silent rims of draft glasses with my cooling breath. I wait at the table. For silence to come and finish me, while the bar waits. Deft denine looking into a parasol like a kook wanting to know if God’s grief is a brief day or else. Wait by the fire while I walk with you. Return to emblem set in a deep green the greedy land murrs sticking shafts of ice into the earth which spread like Fuji kudzu. Tomorrow lake all this all in a dream. The point is not to try too hard to hold on to just like let go once the sentence is held and follow it up with a thing whether it coheres or not. To frame drab silence in a limitless oxy bowl. Deepers dipping their hands in for more. Fur-warm engine skin scraping another. Quall kest nest quest to lay harking lolls. On the roof of Dinner The Princess Astrauu. Who is a muffin but still does her hair red against the blueberries. I come to call out swing wide you gate ignoring capitalized beginnings of imbedded sentences. Or punctuations denoting exlamation. Or time. Thyme leaf of pages set in a storage unit somewhere with my original baby-egg of a monsterly novel somewhere somewhere feen. It’s disk relate. It doesn’t show you. There are passages on passages of iron lanes. Igneous invisible ideas sleep and swim through. Some of them their lanes are pushed along, some of them the water is still and they really really have to swim. You cao trep cow on a field wielding bugaboo sintrince. Watching the blink slow down on a marmalade. Not denighted yet the sky the field the far off village watching wows. Silent wows. The ideas represent themselves independently if at all; most are confused as to the nature of themselves. Symbols on the page they translate tangently into stifle moans of exhaust and **gh-gh-gh-gh** shivers and freeze like paused rain. Unknowing what ghosts lie in dins of tribute, creating them. And then o course yes there is you there is the reader there is the one picking up the page glancing down maybe along the sentences’ lines in frame. Trying to make sense of it or not and finding something like a feeling or image in their brain. You don’t like to wait but you like when the waiting is over, tell me do you: do you know your own name? Say it aloud. No? Why won’t you? You did, I just can’t hear you because I’m writing this already way before your time? oh. No, oh. You didn’t. You didn’t say it aloud. I’m just lying. You’re not? You can’t. This wont? This won’t work yes I know. But I fry a dozen or three bags of chicken at the local grocery store a day until I decide at once to just walk out like an asshole, leaving everyone to do my things. I am sad before and am still sad but I can breathe now, even if the future’s less certain. There are trains woosh trains! Yes. Going by. Over rails of iron glazed in friction smooths. Making rackets of rackets. Weighing in to bet you a gillion things. “How much do you want to … that the next time you blink leaving already tried? How much.” Wan decks of slate falling over like incapable omming mows. Blessed wrecks of cane. Odd innie Oreos. How do you interpret it, selver ain? come up to the gate where Gnosh fritzed man in his daydream stands and slightly sways, doing his job like they told you to. What does when you approach he say? “Hello.”? Curt legacy? Bling of vines aswoop from a newly goddened forest in the sky? Picking him up? Is it are they picking him up now? Does he smile? Does he just give you a blank? Do you watch him ascend in the hold of plants while your mind remains it real? So it’s gosh, well? Do you walk up to the gate? Open the gate? And it all is just normal, like everything. What amazes us about dreams like a cardinal strike. I come-to as a rhino breathing in an instant heartbeat. I walk to the bathroom to take a leak. I cross-hatch my fingers over my face and breath like a sigh and breathe. What does it want to? Where did it all go when the pars for Paris weren’t so high?

The Golden Damned (XLII): Ninth Layer

Capitulate my mind in softer rows, I was saying. Dist-ent but it makes no sense. I could not put into words but I tried the sort of sadness I was experiencing. Not that it matters because several light years away there is going on and on the world’s star’s only last parade and people are dearing. You and I are not all that different.

Would yay did you hey would it be-be-be me-be-yourself when I was one person when I was connected with another, hey. Rise and shine.

They are all outside waiting to receive their dreams. Golden gated. I put my hand on the surface and lay still and rendered liberty insane. I did not know why I wanted to die. And I fell asleep watching the clouds above me.

Rise and shine.

There was the bottom of a train screaming above me and something had nicked my arm. And at any moment I knew I was about to be torn in half.

Blare deceive not what wanted in shay streak day voole nasa treetrunk. Minced me but did not make me a nostril. Sniffing up cocaine getting numb getting numb. I walked through doors of bathrooms without doors and reached out for people beneath me who were in my way. And everyone was in my way. Down. Reach for me down. Sing about how sad you are. Write that fucker down.

Pull off restraints if they are clawing and Vivisect divided entries who portends this fate? I Sound it Out Like Truth. What nix whale moaned deep beneath the ocean. If anything you read here is liked please remember: it is mostly completely gibberish or else… evidence that meaning exists everywhere exists everywhere nah. I am lying on my back on my way to you. Because the ground is moving. All the time. The past is going away. Again. And here is what matters this spirit may say if I dream it is there or not and reach down to see it once, Here is what matters: Your heart. Who who are are you inside? And here is what matters: this this descent is not like you I like you am losing touch with reality I like you am not myself anymore whoever I was if I would’ve evolved further might have wished I was. And none of this is about me but I am making it about me. The kind of people I respect have their own way of looking at things no matter what others think. I see the ways all the time I am not like that. There is a better sense in calling home you get to understand where you came from. And all the traumas and the good things. And if this is what it takes to continue may I wait a while before continuing? This if there were no rules a way at all like how Kafka made his sad but true parables evident. With strange words. Thinking no one would ever read him. And dying. Girls from the north country fair have gotten forgotten. I am mist it is snow waves. It gets nappy.

Ju-jitsu-justify fuck kung-fu. I like kung-fu better. Go eat your heart out.

Have a nice day and this is not like me. Truly I am much more selfish than I would ever let anyone know I am. Not that I too often give opportunities to get close. I and my own little center of the universe.

Try to belt a ray of nonsense out your mouth and let it ring. If it lands it will be somewhere else. Like the balloon from first grade. Red and a purple string. Some family from another state farther North mailed back with a kindness in words. And guess what it was mine. Out of everyone’s. This is true, how it felt like being chosen. But wanting so much since forever to see the spiritual world. It passing before my eyes and thinking I am not seeing. It showing a million signs and not reading the signs.

Boo-hoo. Look at me. God I fucking hate you.

Hey I just found a picture of you when you were like four and blowing out candles. You hid behind furniture they said you were shy. Maybe you just liked the attention but you didn’t know. For sure. I cast back bleary shadows out of my feet because I am standing now. But have not resumed walking yet. While this earth seems to stand. Still at great height. Je-Je-Je-Je-Je-Je-Jesus what is going on? With you. First person.

Stall ways if in grief there were venom aching through your lungs but do not want to write those words. Half the day sleeping half the day working barely awake. Through storehouses. Cataloguing names. Off of files behind spiders’ webs. Sense of an ending not the title but a lot like a place in your heart. Here is what matters: your heart. Do you believe you can change?

I think I really have to because. I do not like who I am. At all times. I do not know him. Debrief if ill gotten gains wait low xeroxed xeno. Gracious hellacious facts. Sounds like a fax machine the angel. I am why do I always involve me. Can you help it I don’t know. Walking through hallways. From settings to settings with the hallway its own. And dreaming always inclusive of architecture strange. Always having loved M. C. Escher. The birds ridiculous like hay breeze while knotting up the wildness of the planet. Call refrain call wait I am not home don’t delay call wait my number has changed wait your number’s been called wait it’s not you. Who was there behind yesterday? I cannot remember and I have to be grateful. This is not to say I’m not tired. Dis-zzy. Spinning in time with the ceiling fan above me so the blade I focus on looks perfectly still. As kid. falling down. Down. Down receive me. I do not want hell to exist but am afraid I must go there. If at the very least to see satan in the ninth layer freezing. With his frozen tears. Feeling he is like me. Always so focused—on himself.

Receiving word from No One, My Favorite Dying Sparrow

Not so much a checkup as it is a flood of sortof feeling. The title came in the same manner: climbing a wall by feel alone. As though I were blind grasping at a rockface, suspended. Because maybe something I’ve learned is, I myself can’t think my way into creating anything memorable. Solely to myself. Or maybe meaningful is more the word. I edit, yeah, but it’s more that I guess the raw mineral that’s shaped is the part that “matters.” See what I did there? I don’t know. But again it’s like, knowing is what my problem has been if my spot is on. If you even can know, I for sure don’t, and trying to understand by knowledge alone will never really get me there. Of course again all this’s under the pretense that nothing I’m saying is for sure, so, when I say “x is y,” there’s an understood “(I feel like)” stuck right in front of it. At maybe all times. And that can be pretty cagey feeling. Yeah. But maybe it’s freeing and I don’t know. The point is that, if I really think my way into a sentence I like from the get-go, it often just doesn’t work. And that energy feels wasted. And it’s spent, so I’m drained. The way that feels best for me is something like listening for what pops in the brain first. It’s pretty crude or whatever I guess. Like how the egg accepts only the first-there spermatoid. But it’s much better for me than pulling my hair out over what sounds best or gets to x meaning most artfully. What the hell does art even mean?

All of that pretty much a dragged out thought. Explaining something I can’t explain—which is what language in general does for me.

A story I want to get in the midst of. From a midnight signal. Recurring throughout my life as epic things inspired always by some media source on the outside. And mostly hypothetical. I skirt narrative with scenes involving characters never returned to. Settings and people it’s assumed are already part of pages and pages of a story that is going on. Some mostly do recur. The protagonist is vague and vague and vague. It’s been over a decade since I first started working on it. Maybe twelve years, now. Or thirteen. In junior year of highs school, I wrote a page about a conference in an office building. I was avoiding work in computer class. I would always do that. I think. That page became the springboard for everything. And that speaks I think to what really resonates with me about stories and media in general: atmosphere. It’s most always something oblique or tangent just far enough out of frame. Like what even is atmosphere? To me it’s another one of those things that can’t really be described or created. It’s interpreted. And comprised of the variable everything involved in what’s being perceived. Like, sure there is birdnoise at this park, but the birdnoise itself isn’t the atrmosphere. And sunlight, and moms with strollers, and a chimp throwing darts at a panicky zookeeper with a fu manchu. But these things themselves: none alone is responsible for the atmosphere. And even my definition I think now is wrong. Because even all these things together, when you perceive them, are not alone the atmosphere. And maybe alone they are, and together. But what I’m wondering is if there is something even more beyond what’s perceived. You can never put your finger on it with words, it seems. But it’s there. As though to begin to describe it changes it. In which case the perceived thing is not the actual thing itself. Or whatever. I often do this: I talk myself in circles. And it’s involuntary. But so: the atmosphere is for me kind of like an indiscernible white space between the lines of the matters at heart. You get this sense but cannot describe. I love that. That is what speaks to me. That’s what I mean when I say I love something. It has often to do with the atmosphere. It’s inspiring. Or motivating. Or I’m in awe either way at least a little. It’s that “one hand clapping” Zen koan sort of thing. You cannot put your finger on it because to do so would mean you don’t have a finger. I’m probably totally off there. Whether it’s doubt of truth that makes me want to say. Addendum. Could be both. I love the atmosphere of David Lynch films. That’s a marked quality of his work. Like a signature in how he translates what he imagines. You can describe it. You can describe it. Over and over again. I don’t know that the description is really the thing. What makes it valuable is that it’s something words can’t reach. That’s like an essence. That’s what makes it feel real to me. All of this, I’m reminding myself, applies only to me. Even if it applies to everyone.

The Golden Damned (XLI): In Doors

How bad must it feel yes when with new heart say what you will not preferential to business and stuck that way. Coming home through a squall brief delays report my body walking through a door and closing it behind. Inside a room becomes outside the world but are you? Here when with what I have there are new ways. Unaware of whatever I am saying, but saying it. Still yarns unspool. Get over it. For whoever you could have been, get over it. For the finished sentence’s sake. Get over it. Get over it. For the mountain(s) still in your way, get over it. Get over it. Get over it. Wait while still what I hold in you is quality light, get seen. Though not what you think you want now, what you have is good. There are reasons. So whatever you could have said and what this is coming to let it last for however long it does and when it’s gone let it be gone. Lest a flight stir.

Bearing cold neglectful sight in weary blood-cracked eyes, nerveinous slips of tearing-open potentials getting discarded everywhere not to be picked up for centuries by cool ash-affected winds. Then damn this whatever it is and damn my hands that bear it forward. Damn whatever you want to, all it is all we are still counting out the numbers of days. And nights. And weeks. And months to come. Well through new year’s. Ball drops no one to kiss, give me a boo-hoo. Megaphoning to yourself you sad pathetic wretch and words like that. Go on. This is a stint in. And for what it’s worth, I used to know.

In celebration. Lasting vestiges. Of denied sendouts. To whoever it is expected will return. I and my final reflection colliding for once. Once a man twice a child, that is what paw-paw said. Cold beautiful next-up receding light. All of it pooling in from outside time. How do I even begin to describe to you. How does it begin even to show itself truly. All the things, all the time, happening.

What was a reel slows down for just you. Slid through redundant lids. Tall-ordering. Feel-gooding the room. Again, we all return to. Casper-like ghosts and fruitful returning heys. For one day, I will not be here (here) anymore. And then I know some way I will not have to worry everything catches up to me. Ghosted breath expiring. Lock your heart with the non-snow outside. And relieve yourself of all weight for all of it. This and someone else’s solemn vow. To be gotten by understanders elsewhere.

The Golden Damned (XL): TIMED SUNS

TIMED SUNS

There is a goading there in liminal and deep space. There is a not-to-tell some wayward thing or set of things. Which is to transpire. Which is to go on. Which is to say, there is something going on that is the thing and that we don’t know what that is but that that’s OK. To know or be able to tell is only like a fraction of the problem. There are whole scenes transpiring in the mind’s eye. Getting fluctuated. Getting seen. This is but one of them. I am channeling, now, something like Terrence McKenna. Not really, but it feels like I am trying to. There is a way there is a wanting to escape from the esprit of the thing that is being said—the being said the thing, the not knowing either way. Trash bin words. All of them scathing getting tossed by. ¶ Fuming across getting variable sleep. The with-wash the wayward vagabond suspends in the sacred areyoudoneyets of the text ambling up stagnant walkers. Walkers’ entire heads only massive scanning eyeballs up the side of the mountain up the craggy face. There is no way really to tell, now. “Well oh dear, I hate to be unable.” But there is a messiness. The system you have created for yourself features a sum total of spiders’ legs divided by oceanic thrust. The surface area of the water so slight. Over our heads, like Jesus. The typewriter crawls over to the edge of the table where the writer sits, poised, on a strange trip through the inner self, sloughing off egos. A non-setter’s convoy ramps up to the edge of the maleficent face machine, projecting down from the sky. The letters to write are done in droves, hypothetically, in real time. The seven nautical sights. Harrowed flames bust. In coming down from nowhere, often. This is apparently the time. There is no way to tell, though. Again. The inner atmosphere sanctioned not to be a way out. Come up from the bottom of a pool screaming in the gray day. Not to know if this way’s our own. Not to know many things. The narrative breaks down. The angled grieves in the slow sphere going crazy, crazier daily. The half a way to no know. But I have heard you. I have come up from the nascent nothing to view the haphazard rights of things. All of this nonsense spacing. There is heaven in a little glint of dew. On the leaves of grass in the day, the story has been undergoing changes, and many of them are not remote. But an internal voice begins to wonder, What have I been suffering for? And the question rings true. There is no way of telling. In static shew or barren glow, the ending being nigh revels in nothing. It is just an ending. Not animate. Disembodied of time. The real question becomes, are you willing to try for a continuation? The lack of an answer numbs its surface—the surface of a way to displace oneself from the continuation. Time is moving on. But the horses the cowboys rode on to the edge of the cliff staggered there as if posing for an inchoate album cover, set apart. “The truth is,” says Nelly, “there ain’t diddly you can do about it at all. It’s just going on, right now. That’s the problem.” ¶ But what harping on what the chord was nedner secrets said it was not involved. There was nothing more to the matter, it seemed. Left and right, words were making way for nothing to transpire. Can you tell I am in my sacred era? Up and away, plants bend toward the light. There was a running game that was going on in the back of my mind just recently. Heaven-or-Hell’s width was winning over the cantripping scientists to their newly acquired real-estate. The beginnings of a mouth from the projection in the sky says, “Hey, can you hear me now?” There is still nothing really going on. But a lot of things, too. In a way that is all sacred. There are words being formed on the page whether they say much or not. And who was Nelly? The questions old embroglio asks are pointed in the direction of reason, and strained. There is half the way to a cheeky center’s plight. Not at all handed down. But become, a way. What most of this amounts to is really just speaking in tongues. Not directing an understanding this way or that, but really just practicing patience. There is a rile driving away the Bellham twist. A city of words copulating. The adrenal glands revving up again to make a case for the reasons they are even there in the first place. The party going on with people talking about themselves and the other people being talked about. Not a stout reason, but across many agues divined. Slotted into the dominant rotary compartment, Leftist brains flying doors-wide-open out for the dragon’s claw the flame was too blue for. We had to dare mist with what all was there for. And to cross a plane not at all separate but begging for it, separation, we held in our breath and recanted the slightest drive north. How can you capitalize on the iridescent splits of a wild-one alleging right and braking, breaking? Genius mancala meres sporting up a dancing pipe to set away a lasting ocean, again, for the way there is transcendence in hype. Groveling plastic sea. Under the projection of the maleficent face machine hologramming the sky. Would you have been able to tell? Blasted sheaf perchance upended in a rightful splatter the scaling of grace. No concomitant darkness to sleep in. No eye-shattering ableness to rail the brief. Saying in doneness the not-so-wary lost mind could recant its problematic stipulations on the lifetime. To be blessed. Latter words in timed suns. Heavenly freight to load-wield. Honey-masking gracious blooms. Toured tar and living unhavered. Gloss over this, too.

The Golden Damned (XXXIX): A CHIEFTAIN WAITS INSIDE

A CHIEFTAIN WAITS INSIDE

All of my tears are fears and all of my waking up blinking hearts start heavily panting at the rappings of the fist upon the door do-they-know-you, but I have written this before. This one. I have described myself as the mongoloid strange humanistically head-cocked thing with a ball cap on and earphones cupping my ears and long blond hair peaking out and I have been described, also, smoking a cigarette, looking back at you, not knowing what to say. I know, now. I have forgotten what all I said or how it was all described. My fingers bared and I do not know. Sometimes a heavenly portcullis closes over my blinking heart’s emotional face. When you’re walking up to it to entreat it to questions you have on the matters at hand, yae, we know. How and holy only you have come up to the gates to ask a question of me and mine, how have you? Calling up the center spree the not-knowing despite you, the all-things? This is just a jittery lot of words capsizing forever out one over the other like it’s nothing. Can you write out up here without sunlight? When it’s being abutted by the cloudcover, stalling weight of warmth? Can you cross the dreary plane? Together with the heat in the arms grown? I asked this to the heart-shaped sage whose visage served as a metaphor and he did not respond, but he did say… something to the effect of… How have you been, now? And, How do you do? Just some simple things. Maybe. But the words were spelled out in barley leaves. They were not taken down and digested all the same. We did not know for sure which was right and which was the way. There was no really telling, was there? Awesome suck-in-sighs the whole hearth of the earth played bree-leaved developed under the orchard’s way. Forever all of us piling up together spiritually basking in what sense of peace we can before we’re gone. I know. I don’t understand, though. It makes no sense how it makes no sense when all is clean and I am breathed in and disparaged. Waiting up for holding out the whole claim. We cannot see or eye you for down there. There are things to be believed. Husks of who I am now developing leaves. All these leaves, what’s this thing now? How can I not be busked in bright rays photosynthesizing somehow when all this sunlight brightens my brow? Do you touch down now for me? Heavenly how-have-you-forsaken-me? I don’t know how. I’m trying to perceive outside an addict’s mind. There are haunts where there are nothings getting spared out far below our eyes and hon I love you. Watch as the greens pale to cream and describe the rosy-filigreed skin of our bodies in the sunlight. In our individual rocking chairs on a porch somewhere in time. How has it come to you? For neither the outlasting nor the inspent overbearing out-of-orders have taken the place of the image on the screen. I have waited for you to describe me to you for me. I have waited to be described. Wholesome in heaves of breathing breathe for me breathe despite you wait while I dig up my patience and don it and shine. There is a joke numbing up in our throats a vast portrait of scenes. The calling-back of where were we now again?s and de-levered apparatuses shorting out. The calm hold-you-downs and not-despite-whats and nothing out sounds. Can you take me there in one of your airships? Do you have the time? I know. None of us seem to be morphing away on the water anytime soon, but I do feel this gelatinizing sense inside me bubbling out. Wait up while I call you. Far away and a part of me a part of you. There a name to this that has no sense but is wanting to be called by its truth. I having crumbled the page in my hands so it’s a large pearl with no nacre just a while plangent reflection of light on it almost a kind of sheen. A part of it a wide-swinging thrashing over the moon its own late-day rainbow in view. I’d wanted to get at what I’d been writing before, but I forget it now. There wakes up something in me so unseen it dreams a dream it’s visible at last and laughs as no one walks on by. There this canted sort of way each poem is chosen. A knot on brass to knock across the knee and make me belt it out the pain of mine that rings that rings that rings. True and only not knowing if this should be a way. Not knowing when it should end, but making it up on my own anyway and doing the thing over nothing often enough anyway. Home can I cross away can I cross you home? Waiting in disheveled light. Spangles all around around. Not a single bluish eye to seethe this way a brief despotic night can creep up in the day and be just there by the dusk. Spin its words and play its games; it is not a healthy name it has to say, it spins and spins until the whole world’s vertigo. Calm my storms come up beside you. Rhythmless in listless days and nights away alone in room despairing nothing’s getting done. Wait and croak a lonely day makes itself a largely whole uncovered wave upon the shore. Wait and hope it’s not in vain and stay a while and smile when or if you can at what you can. There’s no telling how it’s right. There’s a lostness to the saying that we are what we despise. Keep it up, dear lonely duck, keep on swimming, let the water run like nothing off your feathered back. Float on lakes, leak and glide inverted light, numb and daze away a chieftain waits inside. I swear I swear I swear.

The Golden Damned (XXXVIII): HEGELIAN ESPRIT

HEGELIAN ESPRIT

Not in darkened doors, in yae in darkened hallways there are ghosts whinnying like horses to imitate a scare. In the hearts of the listeners through the walls in whose rooms mannequins are moving toward the windows to spy the cows in the fields out there, no, in the fencing, yes, at the edge. There is a weirdness to this place. This house. Imagined in the mind. As all things imagined find themselves in a place like. On the air, too, but imagined. We are coming down, too. We angels in Hegelian esprit proffering angles on the scene in the stills of each tape’s cells. Coming to on a table in a dining room in the dark. Not for dinner, yae, not for breakfast or lunch, but for all time this sense fading there is something being lost you have something to do with the forgetting of, the angels and their offerings of film strips and their ways of making you wonder together with your feverish dreaming what is going on, not a single answer to be had yet. Not a single way to the place you want to go. With no roads there. A wonder. I know. There is a man on the corner selling pot asking you why you move like that and how does he know you and where are you from? And what do you say to that? Hold up, fine specimen. There’s plenty of fun to be had yet. Not a single scripture could foretell the kind of rapture in your heart you’ve got going on now. Not a single speed link of line spread could detail the way you zoom through each platen’s line and rollback and wade a stifling sneeze over the edge of matters elsewhere. No, wait. Ahh. (Choo!) ¶ Have you yet been told there are ways to deal with the knocking off the matter the not knowing which control lets you reach lightspeed in your spaceship the wonder how improbable it is you’d hit a celestial body of any sort just going speeding infinitely straight ahead. There is another knock at the door. Can you get up? Can you answer it? There is a stranger selling magazines wanting to confer with you about a sale going on through the door. He is standing on the porch licking his lips, thinking of green-green money. Paper bills. The like. The wonder of it all. There is a new sofa gone sailing down the river someone must’ve had wrecked off their truck bed over the side of the bridge. Who knows. Where it came from. But there it is: with the icefloats. Yae for tomorrow’s timberline a series of mint-whiskered fallabouts wondering Why and Why is their life so grandly gray and Why and so on as the trees fall one after the other to the sounds of large buzzsaws. Godly gravity taking hold again. There is an emptiness past the fragile mind being sober. For so long. Almost seven months. Something like. But yes it has been some time, and yes there is a wonder there about what to do with oneself now that all this craving has reached back up again into the realm of the heart—of the gnarly-headed mind. A wonder with headphones on, listening to Pink Floyd. The need to relate to some imaginary reader some imaginary place in imaginary time. The imaginary city of the damned, with steaming shrubbery. On the edges of the sidewalks. Over bridges. The imaginary lie. A lie within a lie. A series of words some old crazy sober man says which make about as much sense as you’d like. This is not a set thing. Just a rambling on the things which fall off all the like, the sense the page is an ocean and we are all wading through the edges of it to the sandbars where maybe we can wade again and stand upright. But there are stories. Waiting within words. Within stories. The way. There are ways the stories get made but make themselves nonsensical that way. The green-green dollar bill’s raging at the floating off of property into nature. The going-away for all time. The wonder. If it’s a life sentence. In a body we operate like watching a movie. You’re meant to serve or not. The wonder. The lack of a place-name. The way. ¶ I pull off in hundreds my thousand layers and eye what husk of myself is left in the mirror. Wonder how high I could be right now wanting a blunt or something, wanting something. Wanting almost anything just to get high. There is a jety stream falling closely behind your body in the air as you upend your ass off the table and go warily for the door. Have some conversation. With some salesman. About what he is selling. Not known. To anyone, either one of you. Not known. It is a wonder. This vague sort of emptiness going running through the veil of the mist in the day the time not well spent but well spent all the same, all of this getting recorded by ANGELS yes by ANGLES yes. All of this getting recorded, who knows. I wonder. The dreamy dreamy quality to the havingslept oceanic-eyed still somnolent bastard writing wearily on an Underwood Star about the whole experience of the dream, yae. Not a care in the world except to spell out some words, mayb, but also the wonder there is a way to, there. Snow atop the ice atop the river, now. There is a sheet of white pooling up over everything under the snowfall, here, in Montana. This is not autobiographical. This is just a singsong way of telling you. The same things. I’ve always said. In some way. This is not the end of the sentence. This is not the end of the paragraph. There is a want to. There is a dream of. There is a way back. And it is not through the opening of the door there is knocking at. It is not in the waking up or the doing the thing in the bedrock, no, yae, no…. There is water somewhere natural being frozen, and that is the way we know, sleeper, there is water in the way there is a way back. Oh

The Golden Damned (XXXVII): PRIMARY LOVE

PRIMARY LOVE

These words have all different meanings in the circus of life. Well done wine proffers a delight to your eyes. In sky tones. Delivered meaning. Crying out to blue, in sway, a seed of truth. Plants grow on the opposite ends of our size. Needing breath. Terastalized deception over now. It’s all-damn-right. We can’t quantify the Gretchens’ corporal minds. 3 or 4 or 5 of us in dropped daylight. Surface beams a many manic weathered days. Over us in secret how a balloon flies. But depth-left of center, just ending on an ocean of glazed rolling eyes, again, oh… did the carnation buffer in the windspritz onward where its petals loomed for a lot on light. There was the beginning of a want to be all right again. That same twinge in heatric, with the fervor of a sinner’s heart. We may yet equine—I’m sorry: opine. We may yet opine that there are bricks as soft. So tell us. Few of you you have might to tell us of. In Hondad rivulets let gloom in to night-light. The same shame a nevered fjord would’ve ankle-blasted to step a few. That was the recourse of a humbled dash on spittle’s maw. For famed old divorces of a humbled ash on jetter’s few. I know it not all the time, son, way-long. Some of us living in the light can’t afford to. ¶ How to more fully conceptualize entropy the leatle-winks of aspry droll. And all our heads have rolled—but not, son! You have known just as I have known what it takes to become a person in this day and heat, one. You have surfaced on the face of the sun in dreams overwhelmed in vats lost of starburning retrogrades. You have made this palace a home, a home. And for once would you, oh honest simple thing, re-relate the incidents to the ones about the wall? They have not yet heard of us, or our suns lights, or our stars’ worlds going hypertrophied in the vast desolate grayscale of space. A metric ton for a fact still left over. Implausible darkness at the edge of them all. You who would wait for me on the other side of a fall, I am grateful that—yes, I am grateful that you would wait for me. I do not know what else to say now to y’all. ¶ In principle flashly, despite what our cants have in sight, I know—I know—I know, I am not prepared at all. There is something like a lie being told at the center of the self you can’t get over but will, I will you, now. To. In Decembering fervor while it is January still yet you do not know. I cannot pick you all up like that. Not just like that, no. My wallet is lost somewhere and the bed makes us red, va. I had a dream I was searching for the love in serialized beds, with inflatable dancing alien sheens being breathed through, protracting. I made friends in disappearing projects against the plight of bulldozing machines and ampterfuge. I found lost paint pallets with secret compartments whose messages left had a gang of thieves wanting my number. I’d had to recall all parts of me I believed in the bluntly sexualized rhodo-bombs’ cartaways. It was another empty scene in a dank tent tarping over everything. I understand just as well as you, sometimes, mirror image you, loved. Though not always as completely and always as the foresight to your expressing understanding. Never with the same gestalt or shrike. ¶ There are ampules of God’s plasma being delivered to covert botanists working on the shame girch whose lurching in at the sight of gold specks on the rhotorific leaflings is spire-eyed and tall. Not a hundred percent on anything, seemingly. Primary love is shared. Unchle-thwait lemmering seafring. The bastard head preparest. In its own sea beloved hash-bowled. But primary—yes—primary love is shared. There were ways we hadn’t come to delight yet, and soon so… over the ways there were heights yet unsoothed so. ¶ Combing separate orchids for fate runes. Apart from these, too, handled briefs. A lark a tall-tale sees. Perhaps is more than lay our alligator-eyes called. But rung up in fine tune the delight I got to hear your voice this once. Before it was everywhere, everyone was speaking through. Soon enough it may’ve become a question. The toke race might’ve been oblong from the looks of it, but we weren’t going to pretend yet it was oglevie’d oft. Per tracks in the frequent seams they might have already caught on but to tell the truth we were fun to read. Then and now in loud packets. There could’ve been another long false start apart from us there. It was the brain on its own ticket doing the dime shimmy down where the skinny departs. Not that we could underdo the frequent packs. This or that one, what did it matter? I had gotten the typewriter, but the damned thing didn’t work too well. I’d had to constantly readjust the ribbon feed so as to allow it to be stricken hammerwise without the thing flying out and gunking the reem. You could maybe understand my delusion. It wasn’t seen. I could’ve at one point believed in us as apart from the vagrant tanks. It goes on and begins to come back all a sudden. This sickly sense you could not recall fully the sequenced pops of the off-kilter brief flee. You could not tell at all you were going to become this thing. Yet here you are. And here we all are, found wanting. Wanting us, wanting you. Apart from ourselves our own hearts reeking. Separatist flights from what has come down. Altogether the doff start. Not to part, but to part all the same. Waiting in vain. Apart from what you’d want to. There are escalators waiting in the day. No explanation why. Just the same old thing, that voice, getting tired.

The Golden Damned (XXXVI): APPARENT RAVES

APPARENT RAVES

A knock us all want in waved hands to ride the air on a gale it’s great. ¶ Test a random twist of fate on the long-boarding long johns out there just catching the waves. I know you want to, Salamander. The air might’ve fucked you up the way it’s so late. I don’t know. I’m not responsible. But know you, too. Know you’d want to understand what a hurt faun knows is its way. Crawling up inside of ourselves with this paranoia we’re not being understood, unwilling all the same to show ourselves even to ourselves. Unaware, wanting it that way. ¶ Now we climb in common many lies as weights. I hold out my hand to you and you subform into a glass of white wine and cry. Out over your brim, unknown. To yourself unknown. To the world unknown. All your tears being washed away through the rungs of the latter you’re not so well balancing on any longer, no, don’t fall, don’t go—no…. ¶ Well I feared you, you shadows taking name. I feared what you’d become and pretended I didn’t want to. I walked out on a wave frozen in time and sighed. Always a wave with this one. Always a wave. Blazing arrowmathed warp-hearts throbbing blobbily, twanged. Zhizhing new arondith lack but you later saved a want for a need. Whatever that means. And to preparest leads a light a life not tangible bleeds wakes in morning sprite. Not adonis zeniths in dreary pays. I plunged my feet into the ocean. Again, now. Waves. Clamoring for best work. Not a hindsight sought for you. And wiggly wogglies flib-flob about the wayze. Lesped in might in tame. Dreary angles protruding from the haze of the city you’re in where the steam grows and grows. Tine a right to lethargy. Bricks by bricks by bricks’ light. In the ochreous brood tale. Purchased fine-line sacrament. Tired eyes waver. What it is I don’t know but it’s not its own. Ingenious eye to load. River den river den-den-den-deden. Harrowing slight-of-hand maneuvers going on in the interim between when and where, not known. ¶ Cat’s pajamas fly and sweet. Going clung-on clasped by the cat who can’t fit into the pajamas. Way-done wacked-out nubile frontierswomen gesticulating stage-right to the great trail there is not a set for. Glaciers moving slower than ever. Nothing actually accounted for in that way. While the levels of pith are furrowed on in the ash-gray heartrot’s Heimlich-saved beating spree a pox upon sweet dreams. Not the lay deframed painting. Not the only way to go, now. Many ways to go. Saucy in swing with the limp-ish angling of light to where want would go. Not in the season’s greeting card you received in the mail which involved a cartoon from childhood you’ve loved since then and a warm note you cherish from a loved one. A lot of love. Warming the icemelt delivering naught wiles. Per tub a grievance about water getting colder still. Not that you aren’t warmed sitting in there with the world still and time at a halt, some. There are saviors to be glanced in your past you cannot imagine now. Frankly beauteous button-nosed zithered hearts. Climbing up a rosy collection of raybeam, sotterswild, nutherly, plank ace, gourmet Fushimi, nutmeg, wallop-thorp, green grass and sweet pea, healer’s sparks, nascent gluey, percolating hilts, grand-ah-V, not-a-worders, not-a-things, placid jungle cats, blurry helped guests, at-dinners, attractive hips, whole water balloons busted free, soaking the pavement, an organic spatter of water, a long-long overdue hand with things, not alone, amblux, tortured screws, whalesongs sung, apparent raves, etc., etc. ¶ Insult to the maze of shrubbery a large Greek glass folding itself molten along the creases it makes. Zig-zagged brief flees. Ha-ha-ha-ing Santa Clause. Maybe/maybe-not, but who’s to say. I’ve come to try a flair to see. The ending the ended-one note of spares that does not prevent itself from sounding out-loud loud as sea. The freeze of trees—the freeze of the tree line. ¶ In a way just—and, in black and white almost—just scared, like. To have anything intelligible that might be good enough to read in a book I should’ve spent the time working on instead of this nonsense. But it’s just the way I want it to be: imperfect: nonconcomitant. So where bleary forces smash imperceptibly dust motes along the long screaming hall of the windy-ing atmosphere, there are all sorts of drags getting taken out of cigarettes and things like that. All this way all that. You never really know. But so, yes, we have taken it back down and, yes, we have learned what we can but honestly basically nothing. We might have found a way but it is hard to tell. It is hard to tell if it is too late or not. Or what’s the case. But the loving mind of it all is speared apart a locked gloss of Grecian castoffs’ lanes. There were no mere words to put to the lockjaw going. There were no forcible utterances or mastered shrake. Apart from the sin mil varnish the black desktop held its gleams in and reflected some, there were little dew drops—honest—on the thing; the window had been left open. Some humidity and morning’s air had gotten in, that way. You cannot tell for sure the look of the actor on the screen. The background is dark, and so is the actor’s face. There is just enough lighting, though, to make out a nose and lips and ears and cheeks just about and something like a wiry hairdo going thisaway thataway and not anything really besides that. The frame is unforgiving. Where the penguins march off the glacier to spryly jet through the arctic waters, so in much the same kind of way copies of yourself waddle onto the staged screen of your mind. Where like players in the play they say their parts and walk off one after the other after the other. And nothing is lost. And nothing is over. It is only just beginning. All of this everything.

The Golden Damned (XXXV): CHANGEABLE HEART

CHANGEABLE HEART

You’ve got to get through the tall grass stalks to make it to the glade, he said. He was holding a winner’s ticket and I was lastly frozen in plain sight looking into my own dreams inside my head and not seeing one that corresponded to anything here yet, wondering. Many clotted inks to return one, vibrant shape. Elusive lest in the bar maid’s voice. Crying out VICTORY in a small voice. I at my table drinking a pint down. Wondering where in the sequence I’ve arrived, if what is to happen has already happened to the God who looks in on my little life and sees. The plain light not tomorrow. Who knows. There are ghosts like birds perched on the eaves and radio silent. Quad a cusp like a log enough. Riddling bumblers. Being shot astray by whiskey warming the chest up. Predominant figures losing touch with the greater crowds all glistening with expressions of sweat description. Not in such a way. We have lost you. But over there beams go lots of loud. Into the outerbreak cloudwreath overhead where the pale drying blue to dark purple of the sky describes them, too. Away a wantward worship one and only receives away from the bishop stretch across the board and rook’s minute paranoia of hexagonals coming on in a fearsome way. Meal accordian gray. Coming light on right one way and not another. Delivering depths to depths and not in vain. These gruesome truths about us high time to be a certain type of thing, which makes no sense. Under an umbrella I watched the rain fall. Through the rain falling I watched the sidewalk. Through the sidewalk I had a daydream. In the daydream I was in a movie and it was brave. There was music being played. I did not know it in my world, but the shapes were perfect. All around me. The S-vectors closing in. Spinning wheels deliberately arching. I had a dream where the pirate’s cast included me and we went around the small world to various places. Doors opened up for me. I was leading all these friends to victory. Friends I’d never made. Wonders in our way. Not a chance relived. I packed a waterproof bag and fled by the large man-made tide-lake. To the other side, where the mission was and several more were gathered. And I watched from the tops of buildings a world of roofs. Clay shingles orange and red and brown and in every direction, concerts going on. But this was another dream—not the same. I walked from the top of my head to my toes. I folded myself into a circular coffin. It was great musical roundabouts going laid down in earnest getting frayed by the light-switch of eyes looking on from the top of the key the point disguised as person the person disguised as one of heart. I watched it all conglomerate in the end wish’s left off reprieve bath, where my mind was washed clean from all the drugging and boozing. And I did not know which a way. Again. The dark center changed. Millions of miles of milky brackish things low to the ground asway. I’d come up from a dumbest down I could not account for the meaning of. And I lived my own life my way. I was not separated any longer from the truth, then. White and violet. Eyes and eye-ends. Portrayed for semblance peaks. Of mountains made of dust storms. Len ver Nay crowed. Hindered nothing. I had a dream I was somebody somewhere with a mission through a fray to lose and cry VICTORY. Just like that. Just so the dreamer hears and says himself in his sleep the same thing. Whoever is listening God only knows, I love them. Let the words be and stay in your heart a way. That can change. Listen. The changeable heart. Forever in the flow of things. Ripping a match across some sandpaper watching it light right up red and rosy. Placing the flame to the tip of the wick of an oaken-white candle, waving the match out, and watching the candle’s flame. There are parts of the story not even you can handle, Lord God. Just kidding. I don’t really know. All the time. The fool playing tricks on himself starves to see. What the truth is and doesn’t seem to manage. Ever to know. For himself. What the truth can be. But do I know. Not at all. A freeze away from dumber still but not resaved. A cross marked on the floor of your chest with the tips of your index and middle fingers and thumb. Shoulders the crossbar. Forehead the crest. Where maybe an angel’s halo plays freedom from the earthly plane. I pray by talking aloud to the breeze and the inner room I’m slumped away in and the positive ambience all about me. I dream midday in a nap only God could really love and I love it, I love dreaming I love the sway of drowsiness pulling me back down to sleep again and I love lying there sometimes lifting myself up a little and falling back down to my side. Sometimes in all my clothes still, my jacket a cushion, just taking a nap midday. I want to understand some God’s code, some of everything. I want to make a peace with this still wondrous heart under the river of the mind’s noiseless breaching ray. Then for laying itself down in the soft kitch, green river person goes. Aswim this way only fish can. Type myself up a mirror image of love and loss and deceit. Type of way to the image in there you make but never see after it’s made you never prove or approve to yourself for your own sake. Higher dimensional fugue states lumbering out from exclaiming doors opening up down white-walled halls where the dreamer takes an old friend down the way in their janitorial outfits to commence the mission. By which time he must awaken. To the dark room and the time being 5:55 or some other brazen coincidence, wondering what’s going on. With the outer matter of life and grays. How the noise hits. How it sounds. What’s to….

The Golden Damned (XXXIV): SPINNING WHEEL

SPINNING WHEEL

Leaches to burn themselves briefly, oh mix of rain. A writer sadly letting himself have nothing to do does nothing. Nothing gets done. Spiral eye were oh ver-veering shame loss a trapdoor forever shallowed. Triptych nonsense and what has become of you. Sometimes new words get used. Forever lost in part of the helm uplifting the sea across the vain grew to small hath wa portions. And hath wa knew. ¶ Constantly at thrust away from bay where solid states emit a while. Bonding while it’s just a way you offer the blanket a smile like hey have I warmed you? In jit away gleck formed a part of iron clad in paper waves grown apart the ripple enlarges to encompass the way each circle forms and dissipates and then again a harper’s few. To become to-tulle a white away. Way in havvard stray. Por ton a light a man. The regardless endophry glattening the frost humors off in distant sway. Pretense por light ag mendra. ¶ The aggen frenda heavenly setters moving the car with their bare hands. 2-foot-2-foot-2-foot cube lumbers over tip-toppling the way to the ice elves, again, who get mentioned, but get summered, too. Raff-ling serpentine sports for the blimmer spots on the frog-coat Lucinda walking tall through the open alley. ¶ The very end of the road is not a place you want to be but have to go to. ¶ The frog did methamphetamines. Claustrophobic yawn-ditz Eiffel-tower-style breathes. Hamming-bones with a bunch of oxidants. Cruxing the spendthrifts for billions of G dollars. Not quite all alone but somehow something like all alone with the deprivation of silence. Bing-bong-ching-chong-ching going the falling dradle per-clasp aglance a sunglint against qhiter days long. Not to say this or that about the thing but to then eventually to mask the self behind the face. With the face in brusk. Not-light vernal days spinning brisk and bright above the dome of clouds for which there is dreariness all below. Not a question the asker saves but something to be had about the not-so-frequent blunt being smoked. Had and lipped and embered and loved and swelled with the smoke of the bud in the wrap and gar-gutted and licked sealed and flame-creased and rolled. Smoky O my control station going remote on the dark side of the planet’s roll. Around sun ceased a climb of lights we survived on the planet for long enough but could not condense all our most commonly used words and verbiage and syntax and lexical strengths down into a single beautiful sentence for God to hear us pray up something like prayer being reading like all tolled no one understanding the headstrength given up. Gone goopy with the love cross lace livened alive growls imbibing sloth furnaces and chalk streaks. ¶ The surfaces of the leaps lengthened and I a lone traveler along the air there watching beside myself my own ghost giving up stalled as time went on nothing cared. For centuries of long lost qualities to the off-centered wreath on the door of my palace in heaven or hell who knows. My little cottage hovel little home. ¶ Distanced from this place and told not to come back again and old again watching the frozen embrace of another swall en swellinger frell der nithium addum brawl. Watching a dance of words go on. I am brought again into retrospect to the center of the line to see what is going on and all the light in felled heaps stretched again all the light again all the light all I really talk about and all or nothing and all the time and dreams and waking up and being asleep and taking climbs and falling and falls into dreams and all the life. ¶ I like it. I swall. ¶ I rek’d senseless stipped of pride and hauled away. The wrong sense lied about whoever walked away, I know. I wasn’t there all the time; I was never paid. I walked away. ¶ Quail a sensed egg less in May and, stale, tell the story you wanted to. No one will judge you either way, and if they do, well, hey, go fuck yourself—you tell em. So googly-eyed Yay can watch from above as God and judge for real my actions on here. I don’t pretend to know what doing is right and what’s wrong and what’s happening half the time anyway. Yay is gogged, smacked and rayed. Yay is smily-faced-eyed and frowning going “Hey, there. Hey, there” half the time. Whole moose conniptions grommets ply wind and bay fool the locked synth’s sounds out of thick air and pummel ear cannals’ walls hey. Frequently in flight set to auto-recursive ambience and growling glows the hairpin turnabouts mauled hey. Frowning. Don’t frown. Upside-down that shit, hey. Cromming a sequence. Hey. I know now, not but. Hey. ¶ Get your ass over here, said the angel to the listener from the burning side of the house’s wall still lighting up the bowl anyway trying to feel what dying is like. Terrible numbers drifting museless calling-carding the able way not still not moving not qualitative by-the-by pall-anked skurred of glimmers in the night where inspiration like miniature lightning bolts strikes down from the doom clouds. Whole amphitheaters of gray. The sweat on my hands making my hands caked. Veiling clots of mumbled numbing jelly verbiage hey. Not a knot on the head or anything but something like that—some kind of remote pain. Going on frequently in the back of the head where mind’s rumbles sense the world. Squashing off delayed days. Sincerely awesome plumes of rice. Not known to the freaky jays but heard of sometimes in the smoke-filled soothrooms. Forsooth to say. Wile your turning-rounds with glintlight and prick the hand on a spinning wheel like what’shername. Sleep for a long time til love has to come and kiss you on the lips to wake you up from a scary dream. Wonderful and strange. This world, so near danger. Half the time. Anyway. Mind melt.