February 25th, 2024
You bought this for me in sleep
& brought me out of it
Walking in moonlit
Sonata wall.
Can I float in what
You brought the boat in
Where you buy your dreams??? Okay
Bring them into me.
I get one hinted before you flow?
Midnight...
Why’d you name the place
Where my names you caught
Under clay-breathing clay.
Bring them into me.
Pillars
Stay shadow care.
Come on lay it here
Won’t have where else to go
Being gifts I fear.
Sandro included windows
Desultory-annunciatory
Lifted out from under me
So we have palm-tree now.
You kiss my hands.
Be them to me
Let me go trebly.
Death mint
Across the nave
Paddles suddenly.
November 20th, 2023
—I HOPE THIS YEAR…
That’s all we ever acclimated to: the polka-rave far gone off treatments of ecstatic media-ethics (ecstasy, lethargy). The come-up took 6 months, the come-down took 6 months, & the high took place on a venturing plateau located prior to experience. Because of this, the high could take all the time it could fill (6 months), because of its timelessness. Swelling within a rotary zodiasm, the 6-month high transcendentally slipped between the aforementioned ascending/descending (you can never really tell), in total three halves to the single year in an image slipped in time, what middled rarified and disappeared, was able to fold into itself evenly by means of salubrious dissolve between the sow and harvest of each half-year of the same year, in which we interred ourselves, for solace, for some time particularly high, 6 months of time this year, in one year, in the year of our solace…
—HIDING IN A SOLSTICE
In the year of our inebriation or suspended interregnum of imagined-amber in the yew-gum of the hidden half-year, which truly rode the divinity out of the phaeton-leaf spellbound in the glance of trace-harmonies—simple ambient processions endured 6 months a song (you didn’t even need synesthesia, she said, to feel the purity). The song-vision lasted 6 months, in which all there was could be brought to a breathlessness & a poison newtlike stillness, by an inner sense of freedom from time, like jagged rocks or ivy or intertwining bodies stretched across a plane’s flat share of immanence, pancaking and folding like a panoramic entablature or beveled sunset, as if riding the 6-month song took a subtler thought than cords take a moment to become taut. The subtlest thoughts, flattened into overdose or simplicity, could then bunch and coil again, jelq loose and limbered, back into complexities and imbroglios of diverse lethargies, of an entire year spent singly plateaued, and what that meant for a life, with the green minting green and the real light the broken glass in the grass falling into the hole at the center, scintillating as it drops, or a picnic manifesting a free-floating party, quiet talking on a quilt overhung with gingham strips and stylish legs, plates stabbed with slices of bread—actually we were ripping the bread with our hands and the knives remained a danger to hands in the basket. As soon as we thought it, we consumed (cut-off), & then we were high in the immediate remembrance & archiving of ourselves, lost in shady wicker-glade dissolves with an olive-and-fog aesthetic: luminosity, rapid transit, rapidly spreading rust, sprays of steel, copper bubbles, dover cliff divers, cart spray, frogs said, giggling ears, hands touching and cracking with slender intent, & privacies made bundled publicities in a traveling hutch of love to the place the sun sets anxiously. We were being pulled around and around the plateau by the phaeton not separable from the ground, pulled by pale robotical horses with minds you could feel were simply free of…
—SMALL-TIME ETERNAL LOVE
With minds you could sense were free of images slipping through time. We spoke to each other over the drumming of the hooves, balling at their clip, we spoke over the clouds that cut too quick and close to the grass, we spoke with lisps fried & vocoded through the weeping arches & the sun’s working itself out & research into the core of normative loss and momentous morphines, our empty cores, our necessary needs centripetally overleaping themselves into the phaeton's upholstery, being pressed into each other, shoulders to lips, teeth to hips, eavesdropping on eyes falling, dreaming the bliss-dreariness of passage, and when will we get there? And are we there yet? We slept, feeling empty, emblematized by the lotus swingset in the middle of the bowling-green around which we rode in a proof-loop for some miles, until the internalization was complete: the lotus swingset in our chests, the chests in our gun-bodies. The lotus out there stood still, like a dial-up statue on a rotating platform, & it stood tall, spreading its evenly unfolding-exfoliating leaves in an exotic clover-intimidation pattern, always there at the center of the circumflex phaeton being spun around the spinning plateau. Sometimes the swingset could verge on a quick, expectant dark, in the middle of the green, making blood. We drifted back to consciousness and looked out the curtained aperture, and were generally surprised at the changes dripped over the scene, the terrain an extensive intensity, & our eyes glazed over with a pale robotical acceptance of what could be construed as tragedy, but was just the presentiment of the necessity of goose-down and oats, spilling out into the fresh-air coming down around us, going to sleep in the rising beneath it and investigating, finally, this side of outside of home.
November 19th, 2023
I turn around. It's good to see that side of the room, sky, or
Setting. It's good to see one's bed. Turning over is for
Bed-settings or leaves or pages
Which could be leaves.
I turn on my phone like
I turn myself on
This place we live on
By turning you
I turn my hands
Over
I am my hands with them
Turning
Always music.
I turn on a dime. I am money
Made of turning. I can't turn it off
Profits which are a kind of
Turn to you.
Line turns into a wolf.
I turn to you.
As I tilt my head to one side
My ears point to the moon
Music is good reason
Always music.
I turn in a posture of imposture.
I turn into a wolf in a dream.
I turn to love in that which was it in the what sounded like the passage of an at
Or act in the sense of scene but what felt like what it could all
Smallest index of hearing and moving cutting out what could not accept
Music and not wanting to talk about it. With
Reason not wanting to talk about it. Turn of
Speech. Wolf-dream. With that we turn
Back. I turn to you and say
Music is good reason
Posture of imposture
Reasons.
September 29th, 2023
A large man tumbles through town, frightened but steady. He looks like a hunted or hunting man ("—Wait—"; weight). He looks like hay fever. That night, horses fall & the townspeople talk as though they’ve lost their horses. Windows shut where there were none large in the scry. Bats spin wheels, or make wheedling music, wolves circle firelight’s shade, their eyes of children. They barricade the north. There are no more soldiers.
A small man darts over and through the barrows. He finds a shed. He opens it & finds a girl. He is bubonic. He has a theory. He tutors her until she can help the rest of the town. He moves on.
The girl finds a horse, healthy in the middle of a midden in the commons. There hasn't been a horse this handsome or healthy in her time. This section of the commons is broken with windblocks and hedges, east of the barricade, and deep in the fields, almost labyrinthlike the journey to find it. The horse in the center is black with white around its eyes. It stares but does not see. She grazes its mane, her arms barely reaching, her feet on tips. She squints. She shudders back on her heels. The horse is not real. She weeps. She mouths the word “fellaheen” but does not know what it means. She feels barely saved. She stays.
She rides into town bearing her shoulders and arms proud with a new philosophy, like her dress. She gesticulates the following infans: The fields will bunch up. They will rise into towers. The towers will not be seen but will be being. She will scale them on her horse, & gather at them for salvific mushrooms & moles. They will be lifted into their proper homes, the sky heaven, by the unfoldings and upfoldings of the fields. She will find a new measure in the folds, folding the earth with the sky, where dream and invisibility enfold, flopping together, she thinks. Her new measure will help the people. She will hold them all high, & they will live up there.
She is found in the fields northeast. She is twisted in the mud with her back a new kind of system. Her horse blocks her from the sky, nudging her in the method she had found rising but finding only soil rise to rain. Men find her. They huddle around in the rain, which pours faster now, speaking quietly. Her dress is dry in this weather, her hair is a mess. They lift her softly and begin to move from that place. They begin to move and the first drops fall on her body and she is like the rest. She wakes up in a jolt, jockeying movement and in that first fright, she manifests to herself and to them such that the pain means she's dry again, somewhere, astride her horse where there was one and up into the sky.
September 29th, 2023
“I rub it with the vitriol-stone. I salt the fossil with the acid. When I wear the coat, I feel like a lever. When wear nothing, I feel like a pump. I hang the coat on the rim of the singular dirt-sconce. This one, beside the door. Now I will play with myself.” The naked creature sits, begins turning knobs and playing music. A dirty synthesizer sits in a shelfless room. The room is videotaped so it's full of grains. The creature’s head oscillates between very small and very large, depending on the timidity or bellicose gears of its mood: notes, chords, nodes. Embellishing or minimizing frequencies hides nothing. The walls are carpets they are so dirty. The creature sits back. "The song is finished. Grains are a jungle. Jungle is a culdesac."
September 10th, 2023
I spilled water on my copy of the Bible, King James Version, whose paperback cover shows a detail of a Michelangelo print, a grey human face. It shows no signs of having been wet. Water splashed on the cover and was quickly moved to other surfaces—bedsheets. I moved it. I was waiting for this miniature disaster climax, I manufactured it. By setting my cup on the book, the book became my cupholder for the day, the book sitting next to the bed, the book on the floor, as I worked prone on the bed, the bed also on the floor. I knew how dangerous this was, and I risked something base every time I touched the cup. Every time I touched the cup, I found myself a happy medium. It was a workaday day delayed by various attentions. But the day was a middle way. Around 9:30 p.m. (it is 9:44), I was setting my cup down after refilling it. I filled it to the brim. I was setting the cup down, down from a rapidly walking, shifting-standing position and I let my mind go, my hand slanting on the way down, I was trying to sit as I positioned the cup. My hand’s holding position, palm and thumb holding the cup with a light touch, accidentally pushed diagonally down on the edge of the brim’s horizontal rim and the cup followed with a slant. From it, a stream of water flowed. I noted the rim of the cup as it spilled. The water curved and made me see how it was liquid. It fell and broke up mid-air, sprinkling on the cover. I heard it land on the book, it was a dense slapping sound, but it quickly pooled, and the pooling was silent. It pooled on the paperback chin-wracked father image and the white band of the book’s title type announcing itself. They chose a very human image, a face. It’s the Bible. I do not associate age with wisdom. In my mind wisdom is reserved for certain agelessly shaped faces, faces sharp or other associations that this Michelangelo face doesn’t have, though it’s hard to tell. He is old and definitely oldly. He’s maybe enough boney, maybe too knobby. Wisdom depends on sharpness, a chin that can live on its own, thoughts that can live in that. An angular mouth—a small wiry or large scary body. At other times, heads perfectly round. Heads that can't be toppled. Heads that can live on their own. It’s hard to tell. He’s gripping his face, covering his mouth. His nose rests on the soft cleft webbing old skin between his thumb and pointer finger. He’s doing a thought-pose, a finger-gun wraps around his mouth. The pointer wraps around his cheek, his thumb rests on his other cheek. The other fingers, below the pointer, bend inward behind his hand, skin and veins, and these fingers are not visible and could be pushed inside his mouth. They could be pushed in, getting wet on his tongue, in his throat, but I shouldn’t say that. The face is true, and I should say the image got wet, or the surface it’s on. I quickly picked up the book and wiped it on my bed. Now, there was a wet spot in the zone in which I lay my feet at night. Tonight I’ll feel and flick my feet. I move my feet while trying to sleep, sometimes I leave my socks on in order to contort and leverage them off without my hands, under my blankets, in that deeper zone. Sometimes my socks get wet and I don’t know how. I’ve always liked to strain my feet against the sheets, side to side, up and down, heels steep, bent, splayed or parallel. I stretch my feet to the stretching point, kicking off, like I’m swimming deep. Yes, I’m a scullion wading in the deep, tight sheets or shallows. Dark water is wettest. My feet won’t get wet. I will sleep in the water. I will go to bed at 4 a.m. Work tomorrow. I’ll rest. The spill occurred 17 minutes ago. And now I see the sheets are dry. It is 9:48. They are dry already. The face on the cover is Jeremiah.
August 22nd, 2023
Riding ambiguous apostrophes & apostrophic amphibians tripping in the high weeds of overrun memory lees. Box is a trill. I ripped on a fen and lost it and enlisted. Syntax is a barrack. Bury pens in derricks. Midden of quill. It takes closed eyes to see outside grammar pill: tongue throat & teeth become one cube of whispering. Lined-off lemon trees. Crime disease. Escape means. Nasturtium fees. Method takes boys as references and coughing values warehouses. Iron door electrum. Anus university. Oxford commatarians & duke theologians run fields of blank stares appraising spires into sky. From the army to the gym. From the hook to the book of a wife. A crowd grows next to the tracks. A crowd goes down a sidewalk crack. A book fair on the scales of leperism on a warm winter day. A winner is announced. Everybody is invited vocally. It was an aleatory festivity. Barber fuck-up done with dun-colored stirrups. Speech as punishment. That dyad died with parentheses. That didn’t exist until it said it died. Coffins prune. The nymphs preen easy. The hares leap over the body until no more breeze. The prayer chases after themes discovered. Idiom takes to throwing down. Inventing damage in a play of hate. Downloading things to help with creativity. Trees bring war. I took to randomness. A host of creatures came and went. Triangular group-figure take me home.
July 17th, 2023
A Satire: Three friends sit around a table, drinking tap-water from oversized pill bottles, caps face-up on the table. They take sips routinely, and they've been talking.
—Language that isn't self-exhibiting, which doesn't draw attention to itself, is just communication, just information. Words that turn transparent and move straight through to their content, you can barely see them if you wanted to. A lot of language-use is like that, it's like a habit of disappearance, the moment it appears it's gone. To be fair, they leave you with something. But there's no literature there.
—Literature has some pragmatic and informational import too though, yeah? You're just saying it can't be all content, right? Without style.
—Of course, yeah.
—I feel I'm often struck by the most bland, basic things I say, maybe for that reason. Stating a straightforward, stupid thing or need, it almost sounds illiterate. It shocks me, the fuzziness of my head.
—Oh yeah, but it's like, it makes me remember I'm using words.
—Exactly.
—For me, it just reminds me that other words exist. So many words, and my life chose those.
—But the absence of anything notable hits that weird note and becomes the negative presence of what it lacks, which you can then identify. Honestly it's so exciting when that happens.
—Yeah, and you want to fix it. But there are so many options.
—At least you know what you want now.
—Okay, what if some words are bland and unimaginative in that kind of way? Extreme in the opposite direction of inspired, but they're presented in an exhibitory way, like they announce themselves as something they're not? Or no, they couldn't do that themselves, you'd have to announce it, announce them for them... sort of advertise them in some conspicuous way, as literature. But it's just entirely ordinary language, uninteresting statements.
—Have you heard of the publishing-industrial...
—Well, yeah, but that's not intentional in this way. I mean like creating or forcing a context by framing: "These words are of such-and-such a quality, of excellent design, these words are beautiful, these words are vicious, delerious, these words are profound."
—Intentionality-lit.
—Wait, what would be the point of this?
—Just, could you make these words into literature? Could an external designation claim that, or a framing fix them?
—Could a reader?
—The "this is a poem" move is insanely played-out.
—I remember reading that poets used to write poems just to drop them in the streets, in the dirt and the mud, for noone in particular. Like monks or troubadors. Because they'd be inspired to write at any time, they'd do so, they'd stop under a tree and write and then immediately drop it in the road. Scraps of text just lying around, y'know, lost, like anonymous products of the language, anonymous ephemera of the world. Sometimes amor fati or love poems, sometimes written to a person who lived nearby, perhaps, but they would always be left unsigned, I think, sometimes expressing a horrific depression and nihilism. Which must be frightening to discover in a passing stranger.
—Concrete catharsis. Litter-lit.
—Wait, they got paid to do this?
—No, I don't think so.
—When was this?
—The 14th century.
—Wow.
—Yeah.
—Do we have any of those poems?
—I'm not sure. But I also read about a poet who sincerely claimed that his lover resembled a rose, physically, in her face. He claimed it was due to a disfigurement in childhood. He said he was in love with her, but he wasn't sure if she loved him.
—Wow. From the 14th century?
—No, I read this in an interview, from around 2001 I think.
—Oh.
—He wasn't very big.
—I see.
They sip from their bottles, as they've been doing, drinking life-water.
July 6th, 2023
Churl miss me effervescent in the ray
Fresh cuts the trumpet beds the morning
Unless tree borage knits bosom clay
Got globs of dewfish on flesh bordering.
Called nature would wither sap sighing
On bridges elves welcome backgammons
Sun praecox lobes engorged betoning
New mind breeds soapy airs the glee summons.
Puppy lane conscious privet trips tidings
Mud mistake is deep speak for slap of it
Forward orb flings aerial smile wings
Facing the sun did green victory pivot.
June 29, 2023
—I am writing this because I am very nervous, but this is a soothing soundtrack.
...
—Reading books is fun, when it teaches you about guns.
Still nervous, she tries to view this reply as commiseration, like a string for a wooden-boy. She imagines a puppet, with a book for a phone. She recedes into the music before reaching a conclusion. She senses vague reactions in her anxious core to this soundtrack, which she determines, though slightly dissonant, must be soothing, because 432 Hz. She forgets to reply, ever, and when she thinks of him, he's reading about guns, small text with big images on soothing, blank screens.
June 27, 2023 - a sonnet by Noelle (runwaykevlar)
A flash of light, a tambourine, is on
the floor, crying. Still of an oak salon.
Dissolve a busted face, a readable
Expression, basically, and in the hull
Refuse simplicity carefully set
Carefully, set in the wall. Sopor-
Ifically. You keep trying to tell her
it's something like, something like a Ted Fendt
movie, like life made nonexistent by
its recording. Then the movie starts. Blye
Don't need no dinner tonight, and you crept
Around on all fours like an animal
You were breathing weird. And if you lost me you
would forget what to do, I think for good.
June 27, 2023
I open my mouth and drop a blog in there. It’s not mine, but it could be. It hits like a vision—I parse my body in the insides of an ecstatic industrial barge. The blog consists of three girls, sable-haired, nodding their heads in unison, facing forward and away from me, dancing simply but sorting perfectly in the luminous flow of a thousand miniature horse suns, something like that, liquid pounamu futures. The air pounds invisibly, the bass is not silent, and the blog lasts an hour. Their heads and braids bop to the beat. There is nothing beyond the barge, and within it, there is nothing beyond the light and the bodies that swallow the light, so we swallow the light in the space of the crowd. But then, swallowed light becomes language, says the blog. I know the three girls have words across their mouths, typographical tattoos on their lips, but I can’t see their faces, and they’re wearing masks. If we were to talk, it would be silently. I remember them from blogs of the past and the future.
I drop a blog in my eye, a different blog, and I become tender, like the night. I’m happier this way, avoiding the brutality of my own blog-body for another week or so, thirteen days. This one lasts awhile, the length of the night overlaying the day, or vice versa. I lie in bed, imagining starting my blog over and over again, never touching it, as if it didn’t have a body. Then it is morning, and a new blog shivers and fades.
In the day, I walk the streets and piss under a dome, relaxed and respectful. I’m not looking for anything, I’m doing the opposite. But as I move, my eyes follow, and I catch appearances of blogs in the world, glowing and muted blogs, floating over curbs, hiding in walls, loaded with ivy. In passing figures I see facial structures, lookalikes of my dreams. Some blogs are auric, some hollow. My blog appears and refracts through the material grid of the city, then conforms, sinister in a bubble of air, in tinted green. I miss it entirely, for I had half-twisted my torso forward and to the left for a more convincing screen. I find my steps plotted in advance by the date and the format of possibilities, arrows through the noise and the patch of the day, pointing tenderly at the night. There is a text to the world, and my only end is to love it—I am not ready for that kind of reading. My life is an account of unaccountability, though an account is a funny thing to call it. Of all the beautiful people, I would like to kiss two. That would be my posting for the day, though I would prefer it in the night. I am in love with the absence of my blog, or the light otherwise.
These friendlier blogs having worn off, my blog is nowhere to be found. Apparently, my blog treats me very rudely. Yet it’s my disinterest in posting which is the hand that thrusts my face forward, out of the screen, into the world. My shoulders are bare, my blog in darkness. I don’t believe that—somewhere it is shining. Then it is morning, after the tenderness, and I am surrounded by lights. None of them are my blog, but blogs of the past and the future and the present, yes. Escape enters you closer to the core, in fact. I refuse to write until you are happy again. You are happy again. Blog.
June 14, 2023
Been concerned with the woods. Trees in their own context. See the coast. See the hills. Trees are the words used to describe woods. Trees to woods. It's what's the matter. Woods are the matter and matter is concerning. Taking this seriously. What do words mean. Haunting. And where do they do it. Woods. Words mean something is the matter, something’s up or seemingly grown. Soon there is a bunch or there is a dream—graphemes. Without that nexus or nest, words WOODn't be. Identified as trees, words are made up of further trees. Syntax trees, scenic asymmetries, leaves, bark patterns, or branches, scratches, scratching you. Some are clipped, as letters, syllables, or hived, silver-tongued alveolars. Each part of a word combusts and reforms when its home tree is done for. Take a leaf, graft a glyph, watch it disappear, down a throat. Much of this process has already been mechanized through bodies of shifts, sluices and pipes, gutter leaves. Meanwhile, living leaves are chosen and expertly pressed, by the binding and fleecing of teams, with terse, adnate fuels, into latex or glue, with which the mulch is hit. The creation of types has been considerable, and typifies the whole house of cards, built with natural shavings. Nothing in language is ever really green, more real’s thing. But real can be dark or seasonal, like a trend. Real spits vetiver, is the prime arbiter of. Real seems very trendy. That doesn’t mean it is. Or nesting orders and roots, it's still unclear whether the system is a fake or a garden, according to similarity doctrinal stuff. We have our intuitions. We have our books. We feel the draft of an idea. We can almost recognize that they are selling themselves short on these levels for the benefit of our lips. We're relatively untrained in ladder-climbing to a perch in faded rooves and then falling evenings and then falling. That’s as far as we’ve figured the picture, fearing guilty dropseeds. At that point, we've either migrated inside or to public works. Of grey steel. That was a mistake. That leads only to pain, and to windows, leaning out of them, the test of which is called pane, pane that reveals what it contains but cannot itself verify. I barely or rarely ever lean out of windows, you can break through here. If you do so or have ever done so, you’ll know the trees. They call us, we name them, they give us our rules, like for parking. Rules never say cut it down or cut the rules in half and use each half for more cutting, for that wouldn't be cute and it wouldn't be possible. It would turn rules for resource allocation into a natural resource itself. Contradicting not only the sense of framework-based thoughts but also heights, heights are the concern of all that happens in a gladelike absence of trees. In a gladelike absence of whatever there's a gladelikeness. Considering repairs, reparing my connotations, fields of force, lines in the dirt depressing the dirt. Considering a copse, what it might mean, how it might matter, if the dictionary should catch something. Age can be read into the lines of a broken tree, also we age similarly.
June 12, 2023 1.3
Some students believe the professor didn’t understand the topic. The photo can't be used, the professor said. Two students went to the top of tall towers & ran & leapt off the towers & fell onto a truck bed 40 ft below to prove that they could land upon & enter the photo lying there. They couldn’t; they made noises when they landed; I watched from the side across industrial mud; I had placed the photo there. The trees reflected spots of landing. I was okay, for my "nausea" had kerned to "purpose." The empty infrastructure was used when the class was in session to prove a theory. Now we were using it to prove a different theory. There was an inappropriate amount of rebar. I had snapshots in my eyes, wet & videous in the grains, which made it all the more obvious to see. Class was out & I was waiting to fold into my research & get a quick turn-around on my thesis, which will be a great reveal or solid revelation. But we are going to get hurt proving this thing.
June 12, 2023 1.2
Men were falling in the street. They fell drily, with dignity, but they fell and tipped their hands horizontal to the earth. Their hands skated above the ground as they fell, in preparation to catch their forward-motion. Most of the men fell forward, first splaying, then laying their bodies out with the dirt, which welcomed them and greeted their hands. Hats were found at a remove, sometimes at a considerable distance, exclamation point. No hats were ruined, there were some creases, but there was no reason for falling, which doesn't matter. From the beginning, men have done it. There could be no trusting them, those falling people, that rising earth. It’s like the earth made them do it, the street-dirt and their suits of dirt, becoming the earth. They stayed putting their heads to the ground for a few minutes, then got up and went.
June 11, 2023
Are you ready to go, tunic, by morning, clutz, by boring?
Talking to oneself amongst the consumption of novel black fruit
Sun through the withall—a frog autoprojects through simulated window glass
The air open to the real, gives meaning to “green”—
Dancing concrete, fluttering bodies, leaves which scratch ardent lights out
Mainly plaid and bubble and vein scratchings
Deigned cancerously attractive upon the rat’s black tree.
It’s okay to worry about the distance, the wanting to close it
From the dregs out real green window
Chirps mommy frog
—Good evening.
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