Month: October 2001

perhaps it’s time to start walking in the dreamtime

grinnning jackanapes: there was a triangle sandwich beneath my arm and (smell
that crushed plastic!) the life is blur… the scandal crawls…… the paterfamilias
meets with lawscags… to see what we will see. who knows when everything
is bitten in pieces by fruit hounds scorching the fireberries and loftwafting
pillow cases through the air……. voices on the phone: electromagnetickal
wiggles, those eardrums are so old-fashioned; perhaps someday we’ll replace
them and hear things better.

everything!!!!!!!!

there’s a hand floating this way and that, with a cord wrapped/stretched
longlingly back… and creaky muttering into just wicked magnetic loops and
curls or whatever it is that digitalizes voices and sends them spickling
around the globe… chatter chatter chat. the boodle is so full of nackers.
last night beer was the drug of choice: to honor my friend’s mother’s accomplishment
of 23 (?) years ago. to your mother, I think of saying now, lifting my pint
in my mind’s. there’s talk of hockey which I sit silent; I like the pre-teen
girl screamers, lusting for their hockeyhunks to fight; other sportalk? can’t
recallit, all so similar. oh, and bartender, “cocksucker,” says. referring
mewards? can’t tell. don’t care. bring my pint, you bearded fellow. and he
drops my change in the barpuddle. mayhap doesn’t like my look, my outward
cover, conceals the deepself, those twisted pages of words and words and
words. and everyone’s chattering and there’s loud music, and to be sure
the ears only catch like every third or so. but that’s enough… I think.
and you only ask people to repeat themselves once: it’s so redundant. I tell
my little story. but the boy’s eager to get back to talking. so the story
just loses allsteam and blah blah blah. what a reludicrous…

why, just think: a piece of nutty whatzitwhatzit

why, last night, I fandangoed. last night.. last night… last night…..
tonight there was to be some kind of thing. what it was, I cannot say, for
it hasn’t happened yet. and what it will be I will not know (at least not
Thursday style, october 18 style) ever ever ever ……

try reading Philip K. Dick’s
THE DIVINE INVASION why doncha? I did, and liked it.

name would
give this sweetness
breath?…
i don’t know, but
it is worthy to be
praised my word what a boisterous
sleep i have

to be sure there is
no remedy for past
sorrow it remains
with me forever
i would not part
with my soft sorrow
for all the joy that
lies in world’s
store
unknown vapors crash
throughout these
neurochemicalogical
phantasies and madnesses
and self-made-self
which wanders mightily
questions questions
questions and all
my word-hoard lies useless in its vault
the sparkling
dewdrop painted heaven
so the nighttime
revels dance their stardust moonbeam
spirals in the
sea shore
once when i was
small & the seaside
shone with life and
bright odors of salt
and sea came bringing
all my sandy wishes
home scuttling crabs
and flopping fish have
become my seashore
friends

time was we’d had
some sorrows lodged
in mind but grief
resolved itself into
something not
quite known before
how to say it? what
in nightly dreams
has made its leave
within my mind
what face a
bird-free sky
parlor games charlatan tricks soup?on of
a garrulous
medicine man
don’t drink the water

neither swim in it
nor bathe or dusk
your flanks in the
dusky dirt
but do wrap up your
sighs in boxes packed
away in livid orange
u-haul trucks store
them away all winter
but beware do not
raise the door too
quick
mouldering winterlong in dust and shadow (darkness?) deep secrets have
been growing secrets deep enough & dark enow to burst your heartstrings
as you like on the backs of water- starved fish dry ribs heaving
in the sun por qua, my dour cockle-shell? your dainty bounties are
withering in the wind wipe those quiet tears from off your back—we
have no room for excess baggage (luggage?) piecing together the witnesses
to all the wilted gold in all the windy treasure boxes of the world
i’m sorry there’s nothing more to say when all the birds on earth
are dead try as i might i cannot summon up the courage to whipping
wild fish into fashion while whispering sweet nothings into the
lips of a crocus there is a splendour lurking in the bower eaves
don’t mistake it for malice or a lurking partisan brimful with arrogrance
and spite (despite?) all these paragons are wallowing in their own
fortitude drowning in their own virtue beware the sneaking suspicion
that you are right write down yr. whiskered breaths upon the windowpane
cracked though it is with spiderwebs and time discussing fine wine