Correcting for the boil, an old dead pot gathered in the corner and shouted to everyone: "I am old, a dead pot, full of ruses and knuckles and the way you look at me is broken." It tumbled forward and extended its arms out into the dust, awkwardly rolling from side to side, with nowhere to go and no one to help it. Everyone was gone from the house years ago, and only the beams of sunlight were there to witness the scene. The old pot, rolling from side to side, the cold blackened fireplace, the sunbeams, and the dust. They made a family and agreed to stay together until that grande dame, night, came calling. Then they would forget themselves again and roll about in wasted solitude. It was an altogether fine reality. The walls leaked cold air all around them and no one had a care in the world.
To be in touch with sides, and to walk along a shifting
sandline, these are approaches to civilization. Then the rocket. And the fault
lies with earthquakes. And children discover the mystery of solids. No souls, only
spheres that vibrate when we approach. Chives and potatoes. And mercury. That
silver quickening of black blood waiting in the trees. A proper face and a
warming hand that adjust the collision. The comfort of dolls, the slats between
the moments in time. The boy with his hand in his mouth. The boy with his
speech sliding to the horizon.
A thief sits in a landscape he stole even though it was already his. He is throwing away everything of value. The sunset. Birds. Wind on the water. This has to be done to make room for the beginning. He throws out ownership and the myth of things. He throws away language and the calliope of symbols. He throws away plastic. Cantaloupes and cardboard and air. He lets his own mouth do the breathing for once.
Wondering a oneness, a silent conclave. Nothing goes hurtling across the sky. Everything and everyone, all shouting down from disappearing clouds. Hands shift in hands and nerves leave them behind, to grieve in their own cradle. Goners get gone.
Distinct in the shadows: these old feelings. The dark awake, when the bright cold buildings meet me at my window. Then a heavy breathe is routed and I am without. Just a shift of thought, a glistening scarf on a velvet chair.
Meek tones in the margins, a paraphrase to busted longing, a mute descent, these coarse cuts. Hear this, and bend in thought. Hear this, and go below. Attunement.
Home is where the cieling is. All blue and far away.
Death and its requisite implications will have to happen whether or not we make it to the edge of the ember. A lonesome stinging thing will see us confused when the windows play tight and envious. I woke up and knew you, and in knowing you knew I was known. Then I lived some more. You watched and panned for me in streams. There was also how the light moved across the floor. It carried vast shoes with it, dust in a teacup, nothing for a sung hero. Our bed had a hand in the drink without losing us. Who falls? Only the story that won't listen. A court will find us holding each other in the storm, laughing.
Elk train vert. A few years ago, no one imagined that the spines (foliage) of pine-trees could be converted into wool. Roanoke ember auroch, bos taurus primigenius. The problem Saxby Chambliss faces is that he has maxed out his support base. What about: “I don’t like you, do you understand?” Keep in mind, keep leaves in mind, keep then, using the habitat template approach, that hydropeaking pressure is related to biological quality elements, such as the ellipse of the half-moon. Lunatic lollers and lepers about, and mad as the moon sit, more other less. When passing a senior center or other facility primarily used by senior citizens, contiguous to a street other than a bleak highway and posted with a standard "SENIOR" warning sign, a local authority is not required to erect any sign pursuant to this paragraph until donations from private sources covering those costs are received and the local agency makes a determination that the proposed signing should be implemented. One thing about this, the longer you last the less you care.
True roaming, the everything way we go. This had me down and I
was down and something made me say go up there and find the bottom for the
plumbing and should you see him or her or that way that they do, then you might
get in the middle the way you want to. That is just the down way of saying this
is the thing. So, I said it. That had me saying it over and again and of course
there was no me to be there, but I said it as I said it and something true
happened. It was a cool treasure and there was a way to extract its great bulk
from the bottom, but it required we go live at the bottom, so was the worth
really inherent in the value? There was no there without us, you have it. Than
me, she was something with something growing, and I stood marbling the hallway
with my smile. Everything hit the eject button at about the same time, and
nothing blasted, it all just heavily drifted upward as a sprint might fuzz out.
Was good. Was real good and everyone cried all along and alone and there was
both of us zanting and melting and skipping away when the prices were told. We
knew they were more so we held our heads out, hands in mouths, fingers getting
wet and our eyes starred the way they do.
My longtime friend and craze-art collaborator, Ben Cramer, and I are pleased to announce the launch of our very first album, Carmelita Velasquez, which you will soon be able to buy on iTunes or listen to for free on Spotify. It's been years in the making and we are simply tickled that it's finally a reality. If you would like an advanced taste, you can listen to it for free in its entirety (free!) by clicking right here.
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."