Heavy, ripe and heavy. Laguna tears et al and freedom from trust. Freaking out is so strange, I have that old apocalyptic feeling again, like the world is undergoing phase shift and I am in the middle of something that I cannot control. Fragments of dreams. Holding on to a comet that decided for a time to revolve around our planet, green and strange, hard to see what was inside it, but everyone had a vague feeling like it was alive. I thought to myself that I could hold on to this comet and continue holding on until it moved away from my own planet, Earth, and travelled to another planet with an atmosphere and people, but then I was afraid of lack of oxygen. Was the air I was breathing while holding on to the comet there because the comet had its own atmosphere or because it was using the atmosphere of the earth? I don't think I was alone on the comet. I think I was there with a woman, but I don't think it was with a woman I was "with." But I think I might have been romantically interested in her. I ultimately decided not to continue to hang on to the comet because I didn't want to suffocate in space without any oxygen and I remembered that in space time there was no way I could live for the aeons it might take for the comet to get to another planet, and who knew if it would be inhabitable or not? Sheesh, then I wondered about stars and in this dream, not that one, this one where I am alive and never sure what the nature of consciousness is, what about the possibility that stars have consciousness, I mean, if rocks and trees house sprites or spirits, why not stars? It's a conundrum, because stars are a friendly lot, when you see them from a distance, but as you get closer and closer they get hot and start to bug you, especially if you get way too close. I sand tree parts down to meet my needs. Tree parts are everywhere, wood on the rooftops and in walls and sitting on wood, so many world citizens using wood. Thanks trees, for not chopping back at us. And fish? Yesterday I thought about fish a tiny bit and ate chicken for dinner from Lucky Wishbone, fantastic fried chicken that can't be beat, so hot and juicy and they give you garlic toast and French fries with your order...it's just delightful. Especially when you are reading about the treason of Ezra Pound. Clay and fire make weird things worldly.
Pull those daisies. Crawling forward from addiction place to secondary addiction place, moderation is a dream. Whisper in hourlong sessions with ghosts of elbow past, mango students shouting about falsity of dinosaurs. Removing articles of shadow clothing, stashing truth up on a shielded shelf, nothing is gained, neither is gained, nada is ganado, callate la boca para silencio en la mente. For crying out lout, frying the pain, callous hands master card tricks with victorious boobs. Nothing to dazzle, nothing to shiver the spine chances away in a manger, adrift on a shark strewn sea, plaster and moderate protection, this has to go on from here, for more minutes. The journal of a time and something is said about it and something wishes to be made real as a wrist, as a twist, there is trick ninja shit buried here. I remember willing myself to go with people I didn't like because I am willing to buckle, all about buckling under the pressure of whatever...like, if there's pressure, I'll seek it out so I can buckle under it. Thass moi. Tracable tangerine boy from coop in burbs seeks pressure to cow under. Please, oatmeal? That's too hot, spicy chicken. My ninja captain, oh my capitan. Try lake water for maximum stench in your stool, standover height beyond the wishbone, not a shaven chance, just a belch and a Bernie MacNernie to offer a pitching career to. Well, he's a part of my memory, just as is Janet Cryan and Ben Liu, high school best friend and confidant with a BB gun. We ate a lot of rice, with strange dried pork shavings, it was always good, always warm in the kitchen, always there. Mastodon got et by them Russia. There was a flavor like beyond history in them Russia and they et it all up like a treat from The Beyond. Not many people have eaten mastodon, especially not in the golfing communities of Boca Raton. It's special if you are in Florida and the world is round, all around the world the world is round, all around the globe the curves are arcing, filling the tangential void with space, with curves and ways. It's a small trick to travel in them, like a station that spins, these curved -nesses that have being for their direct drive engines. The oatmeal is warm and fully consumable now, but boring. I feel my buds, my mind attached to my buds, wanting more powerful, more grandly stimulating sense impressions. What is my life's homepage? How does it get free from stuff, from whales made of want?
For known and unknown, this thing extracts. Meat and muscle of road edge and graded technology franticate three districts. You want to say “the” but instead you must say three. The number, three number. Switch to dark side of you with intention and internationally you become known in circles, crop circles. Tangible fungible edible you, totally precious and totally buttressed and stressed and jeans jackets for the masses, oh god how does that look in a report to the nancies at central at high school courtyard? In the smoking room smoke only those whose dads gave permission and something went awry. Where did praxis slink to? The weevil tadpoles but it don’t frog down. Pry your dusky layers from old folks’ tomes, you’ll strange a weir, a dun apocalypse with fashion and breakfast on hats. Deep delving for hat space, not a chance, but then, who gets six from a dozen gets half his pay in eggs. Hoo! That cat with Duvall, Bobby Duvall, all the truncheons he must have had to endure to build endurance for trials and tests so he could fly on a plane to see The Great One, the apostle. To which day does allegiance owe something? Altogether a smile, with articulo avoidanzia, mastermind of the old shutter game and instincts like shag carpets. Such incidents make stuttering a fool. Tab naggedly, you see explosions of the moon, something happens, something else happens, like what that sighted young Willie Mason says about how all we get to knowing is how to put things on paper…give me the ether over it any day, excelsior. True blue in spirit, chicken on the cob, road treasure in the midst of broken tape tragedy, nine chances to sweet delicate dessert and abandoned hollowman eye expressions. This is the silence from which I am writing. This is the place for our down trust to magnify. Your trouble is my relief. You are me, I address me in the second person for reasons of autobiographical injunction. This is saying something, though not much. It’s ever badly a chance at gathering the folds of district riddles and other chance hopalongs. It’s capital Nifty but for the sweatybacked ballcruncher you turned out to be. All the gin my grandfather ever drank…all in a bucket with tears and memories and seven nights of only knowing. We rubs raw with nutcracker precision, a ballet of transient, cannibal sludge, grunting towards a screwed oblivion.
If the mosquitoes can get through, there must be some way to start making things bigger and smaller at the same time. When the accident started, I was in a daze. I'm still in a daze, upside down et cetera and with someone named Magnum I marauded in a dream last night, ran alongside walls, rode motorcycles encrusted with jewels over ancient maroon mansion carpets. All things were plastic, and cops could not catch me, even when they had a hold of me, I managed to jump out into space where I became ungrabbable...not space like final frontier space but space like free air above our heads. Then, riding lightning and whatever else happens nothing is for us but the smooth ejection of power. I think about the power of a man, a Bush, an Obama, a Castro. I wonder what things move through such minds as sleep approaches. Interesting things, or things that would make me nauseous? Going forward in a car over rocks and dirt. Nice to feel wired nature of the world unfold and unwind just a small bit. Peel of orange makes something for nothing in iridium chambers. Light on your fingers makes me say we should harvest figs again. In the distance a barbecue grill, dull black but still shining in spots, apple-shaped, with three legs, shadow casting a dull blob against dawnlight off-white cinderblock wall. Casting off my old garments, nothing but a bigger and bigger pile before I befriend my laundering self again.
Percolatin' rhythm and shins, nothing to dangle ate all the carrots perfection and junk in coffin rooms, we sample those nodes where the forms came through. Thinking, it's good for us when we store memories we can use. Throat and glands so swollen can hardly swallow anything, not hungry even, either. Per chance, tea or some other thing tried to hep me but no avail, just some slight relief. Here is text complaining. Call the odd doctor and see what ails you. The fascination of the street moves to me when the troubles are uninflected. Pure gusto. Have to write reports on things and such as they are there are tales to tell. Oh well, not even a shoreline has a chance these days. Early in the morning, rising in the street with cars and other technological advanced fiascoes, just our luck that lunch made its numbers thin and absorption-free. What is it people are always saying? You should consider youself lucky and so on. They are always adding and so on to everything. Whazzat?! Saw the exclamation pt. inscribed inside the question mark and liked it, where did I see that. Pshaw! You feel like too many cupcakes again, me.
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."