the grass today is so green it repairs a drive-in movie screen flapping, defunct soaked in gin even the hay is healthy, hay colored songs come in my head and burn away what cruelty, its body eaten and then its heart eaten.
There’s something so lobotomy about the kitchen table anyway when you add to that a dead woman in the window you’ve got this fake fruit in the real bowl If this one memory is full it’s just because ditching their own cure aspirin expire without their lithographed insignia the past is wishing for to have been surer of I do not remember watching this voluptuous smoking octopus dismember living coral with her velvet suction like a pickle stirrer at a college radio free buffet She floated darkly toward the shore now in the treeline silhouettes of giant horny periwinkles seem to verify that rumbling cherub clouds are threatening Illinois In general going home is never not some visitor who thinks to head there I have forgotten what should happen to the road when we attack it Noxious and obscene a heavy blobbing up of ricey Holland Tunnel blueprints where we are returning we drive past the cartoon kings hoisted up with molded ropes
In my nightmare I forget how to explain “pathetic fallacy.” Ev’ryone waits. My grand- mother listens patiently, wounded by the table. It is late; the coldest of my tentacles which lives beneath my ring finger re- tracts as we avoid the chicken gel around the island whereup- on a chicken body. Life is tough for jelly. Willie Nelson knows; he asks the window if it’s crying or just misted from that cornet playing in the song itself, a Second Mouth. The glass of an idle listener left by the narrow sill and in it half-a lemon. Nelson’s window rubs the rain; mine rearranges sprinklers on its inside face, the cries of young grass being sprayed with Zinc. Then in my dream I lecture her some more. She’s never cowed by earth’s receding; “it’s a smiley-face we just lost track of.” It’s as though she were a mouse in- side a book be- hind a sink and not a woman marching in her violet taupe in- side or going out again in her clothing. She goes to get the heavy cream. “Hey look, is that an eardrop?” I ask no one in her bathroom thinking as I pinch it o- ceans pour forth porcelain in God’s mansion like wrong- headedness secreting chlorine cream. Because from every fixture buzzing sounds im- passive bank on us; a 4.5 hits in the night or what a fur hydrangea- colored bathmat in my shoes. “One day,” I can’t say when, an armor will enfold the town but every outside planet every boot- kicked boot- height lantern shall show smoke collecting all about our ankles.
Its like yr going fishing & 4 a while u dont ctch anything but it dosnt mater bc u mite & then aftr a while wham it maters bc this is so boring & y am I doing this? So do u go thru that again evry time u go fishing or do u find a way 2 exploit the early part - Wonder, Expectation, Feeling Thoughtful & forget the rest? & what if only Wonder, Expectation, Feeling Thoughtful hav a claim on u yr time & fuk the rest yr busy u hav standing comittments w/ them u hav appts? I. Looking at the wipers I have dreams of fresh rotoscopy, new sciences of movement born of love and spindles in the future when animals were love, somewhere back there by the engine heaps of carp, trout, pike, bass—empty buckets, dad took me fishing and I thought maybe I have something to learn like how to put a lid on it, the compound kind of polyethelene airtight seal on sloshing liquids or I got so bored listening sometimes; he liked to explain about fishing and silence he explained a lot about, its being like fishing and other likenesses building and fishing, painting and fishing, iterating dotted grids and fishing, with a fine rapidograph on no-bleed…things like that, all things he did, which being actual you would think had some stability and purchase in our father- daughter discourse, at least on its surface, even when the latter whipped out its water legs, and superfine, and dimpling slid but that we actually cast there at Sea Cove Pond seemed some most minor coda in small print like what the people we were watching watch TV were watching on TV in the morning, this being one occasion fishing so fishing and self-like I forgot which lures were lake lures, the harlequin ones I hoped II. All parts of nature wear their processes outside, like a bicycle: bugs, fish, trees, pollination. This is true not after one or two casts but even before, as we’re loading up the car I think sometimes he thinks I’m touched like Jodi Foster in that movie I can fish but not remembering how to when I look into the plausible, I’m wrong when I go with him to the pond Lake Lake I mean, it’s like it’s wrong to keep in mind a rank of big and little apertures along the rod it’s like pedantic. When I try remembering what it means, from which direction, when I try to be instructed by the papillary spirals, when I try to think about the camel and a finger in the bible I am ready to believe in such calamities as water being skin or oil, a darker liquid than it is, or a darker gel, inane like that divinely boring perversities that never…struck it. Nothing, we get nothing, an imp I conjure, a snatcher who levitates all the fish before us, before we glide there pitches them, conductor-like, in some more insensate part of water: a third outside part. This action, general and airborne as it is still shakes some bells, the liveliest assurance of a thaw here, hues of teal so total sports equipment outlets glitter with embarrassed clear; on our way there it could definitely rain, definitely rain on our way home.
Before there was a beige fortress and short nights rendering idiocy to my getting idiot-dressed. The chunked Harm-O-Lodge air called to bedlessness. Like a saltwater taffy-making machine the matador rug wore this tumultuous folding shelf we call “accidentally good,” with a sideways glance from poise that gave what lies beyond propaganda. The joydivision to approach is the silt cloud that films dead command of these entitled to commodify the heat of your light. Ziggomatic chimed lack of slats & Kobo° schema. Earth corrugated, lethargica and the mode selector is recumbent. The dawn tastes magnet-thick. Orange tiles joyfully told with blanketing angles promise of configuration. The work wakes up, muscular cables iridescent and ice- blanched. The walls disguise a real mass my envelope will press. Dogtag waste-bugatti around the necks dredge against the escalator in controlled fall. This platform puts me afoot a bar of sun realer than suns. There will be a stage some day to grab the frozen vomit and make them see the hot unspoken signifier. The side of the range. The compression things are in cellophane blvds and the sound of other nail-tappings.
I stood up and unfolded
at an ancient pace of universal cadence
There is a day inside the native plastic. The wood staircase is reverb with guiding stars golden drano and shafts of light; the shrine to fictional board meetings behind every closed door, rooms that do not communicate. Must we not shine on the office. Unreadable billboards to day retrieval. The moulding is a language they tried to hide from points the ubahn core breaks at the declarative glass house, and face thick beams. There is always at least a triangle to displace azimuth from the main window, taking unimportant mountains, in their place I-beams, the arches and steel parachutes, the working world of a singular deal, the skycasing project of hilltops inverted to cancel valleys. Godbuilding is the main job, largest consumer of metal. next was god-sharing. I asked for this hello from where I romp and look at the mirror too many times, from where I knew the green stomach burn that felt cold but consumed metal coils thru the windows called the moon down to open the roof, remained a sound mural of tomorrow atomized grey in the chest. A man playing violin red cone attached, they put no eyes on him. Another with dulcimer jerked industrious consumption like a medical manequin. These two sounds diode on the platz. Something is devotion. They were on their feet. Filling roles like the coy who ignored them. The street demands food and drinks without being rude, loose and squalid as a peacemaker. The conductor is ashamed because every note is a naked parent. The café was slow, green jazz, a candle Algeria house cluster from a 1960 valley, ice cold air over the river. The arteries in my eyes were abrasive. The buildings wasting negative space. A deaf gypsy came to give me a four-language card and heart-shaped keychains. I pointed to absinthe to see the beautiful spoon they bring, a house, wings or wormwood. …anyone wearing sunglasses looks arrogant because I can’t see their eyes. He laughed and I hid my face and looked at the ground between our feet like a child, bored grease humming on the bare table. The ache divinity hides between table legs. The rain shales and municipal brine fill small channels on a cobblestone arcade and bind together its fish egg communities. The stones are silent by my hand (printed to the ground so as to not directly gawk), and the tongue finds it not so, any fissure able to drain a quivering mound of what it has. Then the cold material is ergonomic as the water had glazed the belly and brought it darker than the posterior. The palms come away sanded and each dome push is a magnet flinging onward in mosaic fountain. The interlocutor will eventually be bounded out from the empty bin and all other bins equipped with tube or boulevard, as they would say on the economy to show the gestalt of soggy calamari rings trying to flower in the shadow of medieval cantilevers in the nail-stump pub and döner district. A cocoon private stationary it’s a cargo ship each day they remind me, they remind I am a child as a mirage the heat bends the sky that’s close to the ground, they are a caravan trailing off in the distance, striping as a fence, dune bound into halves a staked-out world of chipping latticework attachable to where the shadows are clear lines of a foundry, the box animal that can shift the smoke goes two miles in the distance but here only rains ash, there is a flock of birds funneling around inside a dust devil— It throws ash to at least me, and farther yet, landscape on all sides, burning exalted, compartmentalizing the infinite, human stomach never settles. Where the sun slips, a sky that I recognize as blue and beige dagger swipes, and the bleeding mango horizon where the docks end, to the sea behind rocks, the sound of wooden shoes across the pier, over the god crevice where sky and water crush the glimpse of finite days. I ran back grabbing at hands of saltwater Spoke with open hands, to shift jointed insects and be architect preacher, platinum-collar, after Xenakis of the already-fallen-over and frozen, after-catastrophy sturdiness, the death position, and finally useless. To find fluid location, ideas of boundaries as inside or outside of a circuitry, the distinct parts are incubator tanks with an indefinite edge, the line at untamed wilderness. the emotive post-travel account oversaturates with intrication and falls asleep on the train Blowing off dust before laying on red clay, steel bricks, aluminum bricks, bricks of green tea, bricks of concept material that can’t crisp in the vision, so they are pods. And there is music that disassembles, an industry that flirts with insight, the crushed concept cars, the mash litbutter, mashes real people. about machine games, surgical tubing in knots replacing the octopus in the sea. The wet caricature in darkness opened and collared an enormous mushroom of steel and glass an avenue lined with portraits of young people in tall punk hairstyles. elders bowing over newborn clairvoyant, the center of a glass flower held an air of relax body placement. could taste in the machinery. walked faster and spoke in a fury of two annihilating activities. wanted to let become, engulfed intoxication of finding, but cranked out noise from memorizing all detail of a place that will be seen once. on the fountain and terribly, stuffed angels low around the crown. Azure wood and gardens heavywet saturated in historically metal overcast, neon foliage from adjust light and wavelength. Dew-weeping closed a tunnel above the train, treething around immaculate tracks, the train rush under skin of a countryside jugular, sustained in the parentheses of the earth. satellites of Mother Soft Consonant. Language places two arenas where one is frail.