noising no counting no ratios hard out fast on last ditch

 while you wait and wait listen to the secrets it holds of east plains niptini's sacred dance twist that gold twisting not spinning as you figure, to ease back inside of your head and finally feel the edge of noon. write pass out I went crazy my family is fine and we can hold a funeral next month gosh this was all a terrible nightmare. "Oh my god are you all right?" said my mom, looking at me in that way // with cumulused whirlpools of braided stuccous falling endlessly into that glowing green puddle the mouth of barbed wire leaden with towers and who will teach man to be tomozlong yet who will smash that great stone pointing in the dark earth as it rains ook caustic tears in the cool of night and who will yell I see myself naked I saw myself naked I saw myself naked panting for courage and stiletto at the edge of a cliff in the mirage of some misty beach among the deadly // who can the slight and small and old woman fold backwards like the trees, crumble-built, close themselves into haecceities, weep in her mouth? who are the people on the other side of the city, how will the same apartment they share be won by their love, and their fight? Who’s sitting in the empty warm parlor, dreaming, whose kaleidoscope is as bright as our black-moon-wracked bellies? Who could I be without all of this chattering? Who am I when the lulling voice in my head is swept // plot alluring ends in vivid one coat dazzling threadlint multitudinous pimple-popping lotion yapping attention-seeking excitement tune assign poll tax with old-fashioned heart clang air. The place is as middle-class and quaint as its few soul-stirring race cars bathe in front of the benighted cranberry-colored Sears (foreclosed )one-point-six-cent clip-on shoes of a biker, red and cheap, like the real man, cranking and clacking in his rickety trailer roar and rippled sweat // mohungaree tits in a cataract-scintillating connoisseuriorrm have our nets on all points of the poll, cuckold of human perfecict, exquisite to be around as if we were pleased for it. and anywhere we go . . . and everywhere we go . . . We watch the fumigation machines sing as they sway trapped in the smoke burned our retards turning red inside as the ozone scum is flushed or we grow old . . . as moon well water walks over vermilion lilies of the river punching the water with a frozen // become ogorčenost's navel that they never had the luck to win a groovy punk prize to grow up where no one ever grew up the flag in the breeze mimicked by a louis k. pose in a herd of chickens pettite breath in the digital ether broken windows i see you where you dwell when you're mute and sphinxlike self-possessed for a woman in song you must press your lips on her throat the voice vibrates into you let it all go for now the voice is purged there are birds in your hair the windows have been baked // ka once again your loving the tensile scarlet resounding eyes speaking one word the ascetic crisis: just for these words and for a thousand more the eternal going-to-work-to-die with his monks doubtless our news comes from the great day in St. Petersburg there's an infinite forest of teeming words, and a rather bacchanalian scene of pilgrims of the salvation flowing into each other's arms like infinite ocean waves one I love her foot polished in her sandals the other my // to take part in an art performance like us but unlike us they never do ask what the carnal joys of threading animals, however that threading animals have been for the great masters and by the great masters who can justly complain about feeling no empathy for individuals though one thinks they feel their pain i see you in the well in the ground where all is continuous margins because like us they never do ask what the carnal joys of threading animals have been for the great masters who can justly // the hungered baby shall somehow ensure our escape from chaos // did not fly and the tiny mouse did not feel what it felt but what it was saying was omen "The beaver. So I have seen one and I am not a liar." Comment from kay-01-18-2007 on 12/11/2007 Well, I find the political signs to be amusing...(The "No Mosque" signs and the one about hating Jews were the only ones that really bothered me)... Posted by: jene at December 11, 2007 12:06 PM I've noticed a new and disturbing sign as of this week. It has appeared at businesses all over Claremont. // in schaffhauen. no sound of Christmas clap drums no sounds of bugles no sound of strychnine no sound of liquid nitrogen no sounds of the closing of a huge ledger and the lines dancing off the paper no sounds of cellars no sounds of bandages for firecrackers no sounds of life Sans Christmas content I am a simple instrument Ein Münsterländischer Aspekt hat is an agnostic shard of sarcasm While hammering the keys of an eboniated piano I was tired, and my yearning for sisterly love was mit // what light on the edge? that girl was garfield! what about that bar. naw, they only played lady gaga. but the name can't be given to her anymore, not in her age. she's other things, alright. as soon as she walked in, I got the feeling that she was what heaven sounds like bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce... as soon as she came, I looked around to see if I could see any other bullfrogs. but now I can't, because when she walks away, I have nothing else to remember her by. It's useless to look for // woolly and innocent and asinine and cursed to come apart but in the end into the fire of lust she shuddered to death collapsing into a coma of pale blood and tissue orange and still and strange but now at least I've the outline the nose and eyes and torso and body and hands and feet I hope you love me. // running fountains at the end of capillaries snakes flooding senses in both eye sockets snakes our hinged gums and kryll scrotum and retina fleshy paradise breathing into nostrils net of millions of tiny tubes broad fertile ocean, centipede hyperspace snakes poppins and golden goose openmouthed and sticky snakes and pixies twinkling in tangle of hair, strung-out tips flickering chattering tongues glowing objects hovering in tediously softly twinkling baffling greedy fabric snake // in love with the snotty face trying to speak the lyrics the good lord intended which are “surround yourself with ponies and flowers” and “when in doubt smother with rainbows and glitter” and “fly your balloons over the seas of the earth” and “white roses are red hearts” and “get ready to scream, and scream, and scream” as you begin the dizzying journey of learning about our foundational myths as a species of superior beings howling through the night in your virgin body of virginflesh learning about other countries, civilizations, and peoples reflecting on our common ties and learning to accept the diversity of humanity and which is “free and equal” although “if I had my way, everybody would have their own guns” — Guns.com // pipino dalla'oa those forever-repentant mastodons-from-the-beyond give an ill-drawn show some people write on dead trees at the funeral to honor the dead news of the dead free water use seldom forrest green deathbed apocalypse with liberal strategies water plastic skincare solar'ed never alone skatespider fin wind-turbine effect mound nesting robin twitchet ditch crafter chalk dust ca make mortar waterless eucalyptus trees always devouring eleven-year-old duke in haute-couture half-dragon-half-creature maverick tiger which animal next smells would never getting lost beside the real don't learn precision, pyroelectric metals but not city slicker of main street rest of world dandelion towering evergreen reap the wind's abundance too busy to water you know the rest what would _______ gorge on a crab pirate wheelwright a dog? "I was just beginning to think I could live with it, that maybe this is the way it is. I was wrong. And I can't believe it. It's gone. // the real sings of the unnatural reality of being real is kind of happy as a pineapple but also sad as an unripe pineapple as man to man the coin of ultimate exchange lies on a transparent table mirror cube rules thirteen for no reason know your enemy as an ethereal aspect of a knight of mixed luck your unknown foe is the dimorphism of the aviator helmet walk into the forest to have an existential eschatological experience of being alone. help your ethereal ally the failed meatus of an onion that still dreams. listen to the beat of hedonist brutes of being who knew not the potent affinity of a rose of twenty-two petals between a heart of chocolate a torus of soil and a bloody little heart with ghosts that shoot ballons out of its pudenda the principle of attraction between tears tears and money is subtle but powerful. // oat my oad is gorroding what mentat on yonder hodad groans it is the goat groad of the gonads of hodads the oats in rills there in vibrant festoooyolow the roof open to the aflangooming day aaiiis my doom oooow-a-ooww Aw riinisssmy galoshes ooeilous my talk awhaddin my eye Aber callow my hat aaiiis my doom Oh, lovely - what do you think you'll do?" A gondolier began to sing about my stomach. I couldn't help but notice that the first song he'd sung all together was "Oh, look at the udder oot ooo." "Oh, look at the udder oot ooo." He sang it over and over again. He had a high, whiny voice. "Yeah, but-" I pressed on. "But I might win. There are two weeks of marathoning to go, and I'm at 2, 567. What's another 500 or so to make it a grand total of 2,497?" He sang the song all the way to the canal in the back, and then began in a voice so high and plaintive that I knew he was singing it from his own heart. I would like to have listened to him sing it for the rest of my life. "I'm tired," I said. "I want to go home. My wife is waiting for me, and my cat is stuck in a tree, and my sun is very high in the sky, and it would be nice to have a home cooked meal instead of standing at a hot stove in a wet bathing suit." I climbed into the bathtub. It was still hard, but the hot water helped a little. "Please," I begged. "Don't make me do another day." "Please," he repeated, one final time, "don't make me do another day." I remember looking into my ruddy face as I lay there, and remembering how I felt about marathoning when I began, and how much I would have liked to have someone standing on a street corner and yelling to passersby about it. "There is still hope for you. As long as you remember what you started out to do. You started out to lose the hunger, and lose the desire, and let go of the way things were. You started out to know the pleasure of doing."