Gave myself a hand for that grandstand.

Legerdemain (& Luminous Augury)



Thrones of wet field
backing away sunk 'n' sullen
stranded storms, bottomless swell
full of gargling muck'd sprawls

Following through ties unended
my gaping, widing stare -
separating unseeamingly
what crumbled mind

Lurked with the hermit (on the other side of luum)
tearing cloaked glyphs (risen fr sprills spinning force)
streak'd, rung-ed w/ fear (above; holding over)
Boulding, brimmed & bleeding (trail'd crest sputtering)

Picking up motion, sliding easy unending
kneeling clumsily open & slow, over slink'd slope
weighing [exhuming] all the air, heavy in permanence
dropping all down in a pause of uncertainty

Current Mood: ancient

Bub 'a dub dub
Part of a(n) (l)ongoing saga started tonight, scribbling furious in tiny dim light... A small fraction of what won't be finished for a long time, intended to be read aloud, this is the first piece of writing I'm happy with in a long time. You might know what it stems from.

... & maybe go about it differently like..

Praised be man 'n' the air he stands
all murking & shaking w/ glee
Whorring there, filled w/ cares
muttering lowly w/o 'ny intimacy
His buttons 'a shining, his pockets 'a steaming
swept over 'n' out all the crumbs from the seaming
Glaring a stare of disinterested obsession
He ponders 'n' wanders the lengths of contention
No walk will he take, for leaving his place
would be deceiving 'n' grieving the state of his face
His mouth now closed, the growling stopped
tremb'ling a hand through his greasy mop
His eyes water up, his breathing stops
All at once his nose sniffles in, his thought bubble pops
Tears burst forth, dripping snot 'n' sobs
He cries a cry that's a whine, & moves his head in bobs
He sighs a sigh that echoes all 'round
putting his hands on his face, w/ his fist he pounds
Praised be man, unable to ask
for help from his friends, or even a clasp
from a human being's being
or presence to pass
Quietly under his breath he asks
[himself]
humming 'n' singing, of ancient masks
In pasts full of pasts, classes & castes
Wooden metal, plastic & broken glass
Lost in a swirl of thoughts he thinks,
Brings himself to himself, away from all things.

Current Mood: Nightly

I'm Going To Sleep
     Free Black Market weekends
   Free waiting selling foreign papers
Free faces with orange juice and coffee
          Free abandonment
falling over striped shirts, open up yr windows I've got
       something to yell at you

I haven't breathed the same way since.

        You should have been on a plain
           playing with fire
or in two days without that gasp
           under the heavy waves
locked in a car, swimming in the ocean
                High diving.

Escaping the clutches
only touching creepy tins
with sentiments of us
Traveling through a city
that's more like a desert
more like red walls in a red world
peeling back tall black words like "crayons"

live [thoroughly] this

. . . McDonalds astronauts and walking coffin coughing
syrup from a jar candy mints on top of table tar
hi-fi going country western showing
musty little dogs in chairs next to corners
moving hanging pictures flicking tv dials
moving on blue water tiles Where Are You
1770s?

                                          Wavering piece of warped board stood on by a variation
                                         repeating over and over again 'Ah, but I thought...' in awkward
                                         shame, I know. Step over and out, eye type thing everywhere.
                                         It is dark. Haunting tension, varietyless -- hopeless. Makes me
                                         cough. This happened here, I'm wearing it around my neck, it is
                                         dangling forward, going back, hitting me. I see and hear them. I look
                                         but do not find and I close my eyes again. This room has a
                                         sickness stemming from the floor, nauseatingly wet and
                                         weakly familiar. Blurred faces blaring through country western fires
                                         justify the self here. Sinews tougher than the bones, in the end,
                                         sat down to tomatoes.

For every freshly painted mirror...
                                there's one less window.

Headache weather.

Lines on the markers
                           to open up the fingers or fumes (to one side)
                                                              [WHICH?]

Tv's back barking, hanging onto trees

                                              and sparkling ceilings

                                                     desensitized to windows & grass in the sun.

                                                                                        Old staplers holding things together that shouldn't
                                                                                               Burned dyed plastic surrounds me
                                                                                                      each piece a lone mass showing "WAR

                                                                               Cramming (deaf), into wide pockets from every era.


                                 The street's wide (everything's wide) cracking half sides sticking out to a waving
                                             hand "Who's there young man?" scoffing loudly
                                                imaginarily to a friend.

You see...
Often times I'd like drop off the planet, or rather, have the planet drop off me.
This face it has, I do not like. The constant scorn and smirk (fading back and forth) of a half-cracked-lip snicker always poised, still waiting.
For now I will keep it waiting.
"How much longer", I wonder, "before I give in?"...
I am left constantly questioning. Re-questioning over and over again.
(Mothersbaugh had it at "Too Much Paranoia.")
Keep it dark, keep it cold, keep it alone. Keep it wretched, keep it cursed, keep it horrid. Keep it barely alive.
I want to be cold, I want to fight shirtless this freeze, this creeping fear, sharp anxiety, permanent anger.
Skinny fists don't seem much help here..

You see, I am not happy.

"Will you ever be satisfied?", you ask.

I don't think I can answer that...

Current Mood: Dismal
Current Music: Amplifier Worship

Oh you, oh yours; wind whistled while birds roared...
(the wings, not the sounds coming from their mouths and things)

head weighted, eyes droning on, off into the distance
part of you with with me now rubbing and rusting my body through my clothes
or so it feels
i don't quite remember sleeping,
just
pulling a ring off your finger
I can't tell if it happened or not...

troublingly tremblingly troubled (i once was)
invisible explosions of stupidity rolling in the air
Horrible creeping rising feeling planted, now sprouting
into the monster i was and will now no longer ever be

Dough Raft
This is what my grave will say;

"Never a cowboy - always an indian."

Sometimes I feel like a certain Buddy Glass, living alone in the woods in a cabin.
Replacing my phone with a typewriter (that actually works) so I can write letters instead.
I'm a better letter writer than a talker (we all know this), but could I live alone?
I honestly don't know if I could. Right now I know I couldn't, and for the first time in a long time, I don't want to.
He did start off writing messages on a mirror.
I write one or two for you quite often, and I hope sometime soon you can read them in person. (Maybe even when I'm writing them?)

I want to turn on a dark light somewhere.
Time gets real slow when I'm talking away
all huddled in the corner
falling over phrasing, what ifs, etc.s
crispy wrappers crunching 'n' sliding in my pockets
resounding friction hiss of clothing
as i circle 'round the important points
my voice quivering loudly in waves of uncertainty
then turning smoothly 'round the not-so's
(like driving was breathing)
wringing them as dry as possible before moving on in cowering fear.

Realize this:

Words can mean a lot
but sometimes it's better when we don't say anything
Most of the time, I can't.
Nothing like being stranded (here)
somewhere in the middle of the ocean (vertically)
in the dark
Cold, wet and blind.
If I could get to the bottom (of this)
I could maybe turn on a light
(it would be a dark light, dimfaintiny suspended in blackness [you might think the blackness would swallow it slowly, but it will stay home, lit up, rising, getting small-ly brighter]
and float back up (not as lost)
(a little) hopeful with this spark started.
The spark that could catch the ocean afire. (Make it clear)
It could also catch me on fire (if and when I break the surface)
potential danger lies waiting for me, but
I will never know if I sit here wondering.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: Like the days...

Standing over the fire
around the humming, mumbling roar.
It crackles in my head, waves flowing, drifting, fumes consumed
Learning, relearning the living from a book
fulfillment scratching my face
seeping into my eyes as I look around
and catch your face in my dreams.

Current Mood: cold
Current Music: Starflyer 59 - Gold

Boo
This pressure in my head is bursting out the seams and through the cracks in my mouth in words I didn't say. My skull is cracking wide open, pieces breaking off to show me where I was. Everything is so, so empty, but nothing is cold enough. Boring and tedious, the same words repeating repeating repeating. "Maybe this chair will fall out from under me and change something," I think to myself. "What vanity, what audacity, what courage, sir! Rise up out your chair BEFORE it is pulled out from underneath you. Only then will you..."
[Static fades in... and out.]
Easier said than done, acquaintance, I assure you. Please, go away and let me walk alone. On nights when I feel so at ease I wouldn't mind if a car hit me while crossing the street, I don't want people around.

Kids moved in downstairs. I need to obtain the fluid to piece back together my brain in a coherent manner, thus transforming boredom into burnt toast.

Just because I don't know where everyone is doesn't mean I'm lost..
& my eyes are always burning, but
it's not
a searing pain
they're just itching
from a dusty dreamin' draft
flyin' in from the win-dah
[-CLOSE IT-]
and someone's always ruining it
ya know, that damn cryin' on in the background
just never stops...

fucking phonograph blaring insanity through walls
& my eyes can't burn through the ceiling

"GODDAMN GOD DAMN!!" is the resounding ""
as my head beings to pound
and I fall to the ground
squirming, shaking, writhing
& my fists pound it all right on
HOME

Current Music: The Electric Prunes

The three strangers, face to face.
Left my clothes on
the floor under the door.
Blinds up, layed down,
looking down because the
ceiling was spinning..
Which is fine,
I just can't take it
not wearing my sunglasses
inside.

I don't know what to say
when I'm gagging on my tongue
in the dark
Crust scraping the top
Exploding mouth
covered in guts -
just laughing and rolling
with the carpet of vast
expanse
In my head
ripping the tee-
th

Fast, but so far
Bright, but too hard
I have no words
and I just continue to breathe
I don't know who you are.

Current Mood: Full
Current Music: Dream

Not my proudest moment.
These words were written by yours truly when I lived a different life some fifty-odd years ago. I am currently twenty years old.

"As I sat down in the deck chair, I slowly began to feel uncomfortable. I watched myself moments earlier, placing the receiver back on the phone, gingerly walking away, all the while too aware of the heaviness of my body and the pressure placed on my two feet. Blood rushing around tired making my skin appear red like the dull wrapper of a bright crayon. I sat there in that deck chair reading and re-reading the letter, occasionally glancing at the glossy black and white 3 x 5" photograph enclosed. The writing on the back didn't make any sense. Just a few words hanging in space, barely connected, hardly grounded.

'Silent walls of loneliness.'

And I looked at the sky growing heavy with night. The dusk was starting to spread, the sun setting, only one star showing. As I stared up at the sky, at it, I felt it. Rising out of my brain, flowing, I tried to think of the words as my eyes welled-up, but all I could do was look at the ground, hiding the forest inside me, holding these trees apart."

Big black balloon moon noon doom thing
Just think! if I hadn't a smile to skew and crack slightly while being serious, where would I be?
If you dart your eyes that way casually, holding back a burst of laughter, maybe you'll think it to yourself..

Current Music: Rockets and Bluelights

KILL. ALL. SOMETHING.
Fucking tired of
ALL; any waiting machines
you don't ever use.

Dissolving into
space in my brain (i can't see.)
I should've chewed it

over and over
all floating inside my mouth,
leaking holes of hand.

Yelling screaming loop/
tape scratch skip strip grips my brain.
thrashing in deep holes

hardly means a thing,
horrible chest cavity
caving in on me..

I just... PLEASE SHUT UP.
gazing intently is just
no fun all alone.

Current Mood: trappedandangry
Current Music: Doin' the cockroach/Halluncination Guillotine

Some subject of inquiry..
I'm floating on waves while there's a nail in my door at home, demanding stonily I close it, wearing a threatening smile that isn't really a smile and more like a shine.

I can read my sheets while lying in bed.
I can't read that book on the street.
I can't r(a)[e]i[g]n on the soggy, drilled, peeling cover,
scrawling idiocies on the inside with my broken faux-"pencil."
I'm moving quickly, covered, dark blankets of trash and night block some mourning light from bright bulbs, feeling up the street gently before morning and... forever sets in while my legs and my eyes scratch my face with no sleep written on my pant cuffs, sweat running down the inside, smearing it into nothing.
These streets are long.

"Hey you!" is something I want to scream when my walls are green and my eyes do gleam, eying knives in the street, eying eyes across the counter, bleeding away my understanding of interacting, pretend touching and burning, pervasive confusion, while fake hissing pillows discover their abilities. All I need. (I don't know if that should be a question....)

Trailing off throughout the day, even with an even focus, I still see you barely there in the periphery, hiding and hovering in and out of everything, blowing around glows in all directions towards me. Anywhere, I see you, sometimes standing, coaxing waving hands onward and upward.

With my little king on my arm
and
the flying machine on my collar,
I am ready to die with you in this
bed of
m y m i n d .

Current Mood: eager
Current Music: Colorado Valentine

Short Story.
Two girls were sitting in a room.

“You know, I think I’m one of those girls who can really take it in the ass. I mean, I’ve never tried it or anything, but I just want a man, a real man, who can goddamn well give it to me straight.”

The second girl barely looked up from reading her book.

It was a particularly old but well-worn self-scrutinizing classic; a forties edition of pure sage-like wisdom, a compendium of quotations from various self-proclaimed ancient second-century and onwards Chinese masters. No stone was left unturned, if you get my drift. This copy came from a printing done by a small independent publisher and had an almost grass green drab cover, only with slightly more of a yellow tint to it. Inside the front cover was a rather ambiguous, short, meaningless message scrawled in black ball-point pen ink quickly and personally by the editor, who also dedicated it to the alleged owner, a one “Buddy.”

She was in the middle of a quotation that was intensely introspective, something about the value of a dead cat, and was slightly annoyed, quite frankly, at being disturbed at all. Again, she barely looked up. “I’m your man,” she said from across the room, half serious and half serious.

“Maybe I just want to pretend I’m in prison..” the first girl said meekly, yet carrying an undertone of boastfulness in her wavering voice.

There was a slight pause.

And there it is.

-Brooklyn, 1953

Current Mood: jubilant

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