Jangling toward where the angles try to meet, there’s a slippery street where the supper clubs shrug their shoulders and turn away from sense—unmentionable menus and nothing left to eat—the eat’s gone off and the dessert’s too much to speak of… it’s love in alligator style, crocodile tiles and an elephant alarm clock, going off with certain abandon, random in its certain sense—ever tense enough to note remote melodies we cannot freeze for selling later at bargain prices in the basement (debasement and much lower feelings reeling in our back pockets, locked away from closer examining). Let us not overanalyze, let us not go roughly into psychosis. Let us hold our hocus pocus and focus on applause—these are the clauses we can do without, these are the phrases we shall raise up high and swim to meet. Let us greet our securities and exchange our commissions. I will king you and there will be no checkers. Onward with the salads and elsewhere with the ballads as the songs go streaming into the floods. The couches will forgive and all the figures will mount to action. Seeking attraction and finding is a magnetic sort of thing, you know. Ice for snow and heat for hot, the space for ship and cat for nip, the name for no and sky for fall—let me tell you and let me listen.
Monday, January 28, 2013
At this point I’m disjointed wandering toward where the wondering ends and trending my way out of sense immense caverns opening up and swallowing whole polite respite the giggling pleasantries the peasantry nice enough to wait to cater to the needs of exceeding well here’s how it unravels it travels down a chord which displaces the laces that untie that bind that wind the mind that matters and the wind that tatters the wine that chills and the worry that bills its own clients in advance I thought to dance upon my own misbehaving gravy train but what remains is worry the hurry that cannot be waylaid I played the wrong part let’s hearty that soup let’s recoup that superman complexity the way we see ourselves we toast our healths and bagels too the stew and also the bisque the lemons and also the whisk I am stirring myself apart the start of something completely different tired of waiting and again the forgetting the watching the window is closed and the curtains are open I am looking for an apartment for the canary and the scary thing is the gold mines have opened again but where are all the forty-niners gone to tech firms every one oh when will they ever reevaluate when will they wear socks that lock in the right rates that put up gates for communities with needs and trees and villages that take a child and schools that secure and what’s more into the breach with henry and I cannot tell a lie or a tree and I chop down my own hope when the scope is turned the wrong way but it’s a part I play without even noticing the hocus pocusing because too often it comes real and I steal the lines before they are cued I’m sorry if it’s rude but the avocadoes are heading south and someone ought to mention it before the turn is irreversible the worst of all is how the colors fade the shades of way back in the closet deposited and when I press myself into the laundry the sharpening is contrasted and lambasted as I may feel it’s too real to do anything about the dye the wool the play is all cast and it’s just one part but on with I go so please to put the kettle on we’ll all take the T
Monday, January 21, 2013
Applesauce lemonade pineapple pie, how many pancakes til we die? These are the questions that we bake over the alabaster underwater stake. Lay into opening and carve up the puddle, mark up the blueprints and darken down the muddle. Once all the riddles have been sharpened by the wit, take all the intellects and snip them all to bits. These are the ends and never to the middle, once all the answers have solved our own selves’ riddles.
Whatever happened there was too fast to escape from, the chewing gum under the seat too discreet to slip away from as it scooped its hold boldly onto thighs and fabric alike, claiming games in the name of embarrassment and other certainties. While we were looking the other way, misunderstanding crept in and threatened. I wasn’t having it. I didn’t invite it. the night is not worth rolling over in if the dark is prickly. I prefer the velvet of closeplease and the underdog alarm clock goes off again: I want yes.
The apology is in fashion and I am a strong supporter. I cannot stop myself from undertaking the claim that it is the fault of this tongue, unstrung and hung out to dry its tired eyes in confused illusions. Still and all and the call of the wild child within, there are sinking swims within these mistakes and I do not make them all my own even as I bake clones of other badtalk balks I back away from quickly, sticks stuck in the mud and the befuddled hand-me-downs crowned and drowned in somewhereother and sidewayselse cafes. By the way I hope for yes.
Please and thank you for the rank you’ve conferred with absurd certainty and this point and the disjointed structure of this narrative which lives on and gives strong beauty to these days. I praise the wild life of lovely imagination which lookingback offers and the surprise which appears even as I ponder the wonder from angles window-wide and upclose. Whatever else is other but for this I say yes.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
First I’ll say thanks and then it’s your turn. We earn these developments in sideways smiles, the miles between leaning in and out with trout streaming in rainbows with dayglow earn these developments in sideways smiles, the miles between leaning in and out with trout streaming in rainbows backpacks chockfull of wonderful. Thank you for the okays and the otherdays and whynot we’ve got to be kidding but bidding on moredays we play our hands and take stands telling the truth and nothing but and I’ve something up no sleeves there are trees and skies and I don’t mind if I do, but you can please as you see fit. It’s all up to chance and the dance that takes the cake makes the bargain, as I’ve often heard said by the quick and the dead—though the latter say it slower than you’d ever want to hear. There are fears and there are worries but the sun is warm and clichés are free. Spillover dandelions crowd past drawing boards and laugh into existence, tumbling into the truth and offering themselves for your examination: a parade of hopeful explanation and clarification and yesplease lookattheese. We are charting new hearting places and spacing unexpecteds. Neglected paths I’ve wandered alone, but I will show you and I will tell you why I what and how I when. Let the liondark jungle and the wintercold sky fall into sleep as the fright of an ice-gripped day melts past. Turn toward the hope of a different wonder and a maybe yes thank you, a future with no single date circled, just a daisy-chained melody to puddle-splash through: the truth, please, to only be spoken, no hocus-poken. No more apologies than possible, the access codes diagrammed in scrambled eggs for breakfast text message with coffee on the side (there’s a ride no one would miss, with bliss for a twist that you cannot take with). I’ll have you know I’d have it so, had I anything to do with the next. But as it is, I’ll take that sourdough bridge to the next pastry and waste nothing to be learned—just earning toward a sweet spot, I can’t not look away and back: there’s no track, but I like where this is going as long as it is yes.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Foggy-faced alarmists trundle blindly off the docks and into locks filled with shocking developments: these are the headlines, no breadlines to stand in, no bagels to land in, like inner tubes to ride in to safety on easy-go rivers of quivering ease, sliding through avenues of sense-making stories of the fairy tale variety… these are the days of miracle and wonderful, where anyway anyway as we were saying, the playing goes along, as the thing rings true, and the snails are there, too, clogging up the intake valves, salving their curiosity with travel, unraveling their sensitivities and exploring their proclivities in tiny little bits of movement, never guessing where those steps will lead and the developments will breed in terms of outcomes and the overflows to the floor and more and the basement and the door, but as it all works out (as if doubt were to enter, as if no egg had any center) we can trust that rust will oxidize in reverse and the worst is yet to bet itself out of the equation, so if you station the wagon, the dragon will speak naturally and no hands will be required on deck for the wreck for the fitzgerald in question the lesson—as we clearly see—is the tea is capitalized in this harbor and the text that is a-comin’ in loudly sings coo-coo even as I’m writing through, knowing that this is how we do, a new truth, but pleased indeed, even as exceeding all surprise (can’t be analyzed)(swiftly surmised) and as we rise to the end of the wonder that trends toward poorly observed sentence structures we wonder what such offerings will prove in terms of consideration when compared with action figures and extensive discussions of batteries like rams and clams and pigfat and what’sthat to a rose (does it smell as sweet?) (is there really any meat) and when the greeting’s done what’s to be held and what’s to be led and who runs when the setting suns?
Saturday, January 12, 2013
The space that replaces the chase makes the case for the words that herd themselves into meaning to matching the scenes that wean their weary way toward whence they came the ways that wind the whiles that bind and while we’re minding our manners I’ll say it matters, dear, to be clear that the lines that break and the ties that bind can easily wind and re the ways that we take and mis the words that bliss will spin from lips but be as that and may as it will I’ll spill those thoughts as I chance those takes and happy may I be for such opportunities as who can tell when the lines may up again the standards may not bear such weight for waving the hike’s not meant for caving and I could tell you more but you’d have to sleep right through it and I’d be hard-pressed not to move it on my own—yes, there are thrones and there is sitting, there are yarns and there is knitting, but the weaving that’s ongoing is a something else entirely and I’d rather just marvel than continue with any sort of rhyme scheme. End punctuation shocks. There is something uncanny. I’m pleased. We pay no fees for this pleasure and the measure comes without expectation while a grateful nation carries on its course with horse and buggy bucketing nuggets of wisdom fizzling ways to wade through the river and challenge the giver and other such texts with disappointing endings, depending on who you are and how you think—but off into the brink, there’s a stumbling wonder and the light is bright in the dark of surprise, with blinking eyes and unexpecting unexpected just a deep sigh satisfaction something like contentment for what is at the moment even just a moment and no worry about the whatelse and the anythingmore and tomorrowthen the everyonewho and wheneverthat just rightnow veryfine juicy and all that thanks