Monday, September 28, 2015


i.the house of buying

a full, blood moon closed itself from sight like a flower, eclipsed by the earth, eclipsed by the sun. that's when nazareth appeared without a preemptive search for him. i buy from him, which is generally entailed by a preemptive search for him. i buy whenever i'm not okay with anything. it's the sensible thing to do. buying is what i do to be so-so. so i search for him on the streets. streets are the house of buying. we don't often just happen to pass each other.
nazareth was his face, like how the cheshire cat can choose to be his. nazareth is my cheshire cat.
his face was distant; luminous with a halo around a pulsating rust-spot. his face was a microscope slide, alight under examination.
nazareth appeared to be lecturing the planet- those of us he could see. he pivoted his head around and spoke wordlessness. his mouth moved under his beak with fervor, with urgency. i thought of how people on the planet also do this, but not with authority; they do this absorbed in their own grounds. we are the bubbled people.

coming to terms with this truism, to me, always seemed to be a matter of prioritizing chasing my thoughts and keeping an ear out for ideas. at this moment, this brief musing feels like a chased thought.

i'm a satyr, i think. oh, dear god. i chase as if after game, snickering and smirking. lightning electrocutes itself with lightning. i decorate my neck with mardi gras beads.

i looked up because i felt the eyes of nazareth burn through me. he shook his head back and forth as if in protest, passionately negating. his rust-spot quickened its pulsating suddenly, rippling from himself, past the halo. it was as if i was watching something i can only see in my eyelids, when my eyes are closed.
i am not the one to whom he speaks. "no, no, no. you know, you're not exempt from this."
i am one to reflect my speaking onto him as he does to me. this is how i handle communication, and assume others communicate the same way. true language is an artifact, not vocal barking.
i interpret his head-shaking to meaning. he sighs. "let's start from the top, once more."

how do i catch nazareth into transcribing what he means according to himself? i wonder. what is wondering?
i'd like to drag all of the wondering into a body in the middle of a room that people are in. i'd like the body of wondering to strip in this room. i'd like it to strip down right to the fruity seeds. what is it, the inconcieved possibilities and impossibilities? what is anything, wondering?
ii.the military
one by one they step before my desk as i change the context in which they'd been set. "welcome to your new life," i spit all over my face and within close proximity. they leave my office, shivering. i look like a dickhead and i smoke a cigar. it's uncomfortable to be around me.
the queen of the elements, wonder, is now what she couldn't of been without the courage she possessed to divorce from meaning. (just like what i did.) now she's independent and doesn't fill voids at all.

ii.ii.hard facts
i can speak on behalf of myself, dolphins, and morning doves, that sex is intimate because you shed bodies that aren't cared for together. sex is a very buried abandonment that you reflect onto the person with whom you have sex. there are no more abandonments. there's nothing left of what you really wanted to you cut ties with but couldn't until someone did it with you. fulfillment is the interplay of all this.

hard facts are cold. they are disinterested and dispassionate. hard facts aren't in my kingdom. in my kingdom, we respond positively to beautiful days and respond negatively to drab days all together. we search for light. hard facts prevent us from responding positively to our "gut feelings".
the gut is unfiltered. people say it's the abdominal region- the gut- where consciousness truly lives.
sex is the response to gut feelings. the neck of the hole's mouth
everywhere is garbage. that's what this city is about- turning garbage into other kinds of garbage. the big city willfully decomposes. yes, it's certainly notable architecture. the sensory influx is pushed, forced, to extreme sounds, tastes, smells, touches, and colors at all times. you know everything that screams like the back of your hand in the blink of an eye. the sensory influx flowers a hypnosis.
without this hypnosis, we'd find ourselves drifting, lost without our canonized cultural identities. it's a high cost to live seeing the world this way.
this is not a moment of clarity, but it's just as real.
there is this one garbage pail in the center of soho somewhere among the hustle and the bustle. everyone knows about it but doesn't do anything about it. long ago was it filled with trash, never to be removed of. the pile of trash in the pail has since overflowed into a cascading. i once picked through it.
the wind leaves hardened bubblegum be. what hardened bubblegum is is the insignia of the big city. the bubblegum remains pink after being spit from a person's mouth. however, it hardens, and gets stepped on by zillions of feet daily so it turns black. black as in, like, odious black- i'm surprised the entire sky isn't overtaken by this shade of black. the city sidewalks are decorated for good. it's like installation art of the alma mater.

i seem to believe in ghosts- a phenomenon at most, as i know ghosts deceive me, and that they are out of touch with authenticity. how could i let myself fall for that shit? i guess i'm not in charge of gravity. am i? is someone?
ghosts do not mean harm or non-harm. ghosts just say "boo".
ghosts find inability to reflect in one another. this is dangerous, because if they observe this too much- compulsively, perhaps- they will never find anything else to do but find themselves stuck in that very inability. this costs an arm and a leg.
the sun rises; angels pluck at their harp strings; life is on the move. in life, is encapsulation. the encapsulation is callused. signs, like hardened bubblegum on sidewalks, are what lead us within the callused encapsulations.
the parts of life move from one to the next like from one far away land to the next, skipping over the many steps to do so. trust is entirely unsettling, disturbing. this is an important step to skip when moving from one far away land to the next.
a particle is in a breeze- a spore. it goes to find a decent landing. in the pure air this particle is eden, the garden of eve and adam. pure air turns everything it touches into utopia. pure air: within us all, the seer- the eye never to open outwardly. i am preoccupied with indoctrinations to know any more than that.
i am naked. it's irrelevant whether this is a part of a dream sequence or not. there is nothing left to do except leave things behind- and i am naked with it all. i see entrapment. i am not lending myself space, because i believe there's already a fulsome amount of space.
there is nothing i leave to the imagination. impossibilities? possible. this is a mission in my hands.

a poem about grease stains; a poem about
exploit. a poem which exploits

to get the west to listen. the west
is fluent in exploit.
a poem, and arm outstretching reach; a poem
coupled with sex. poem
about the south, spanish moss hanging
from bayou trees...; a long winded poem a poem
demands to destroy the demanded
routes; disproportionate jagged shadows
colored rabidly. a poem and its reactions; amoral
poem. good and bad yes and no poem; no such

is itself a core
but conveying
social demands
which must be exploited, disgusted by itself,
deteriorated and unswallowed.
a poem grains of sand, a poem which

discovered unknown possibilities, a poem censoring
the unrealistic, poem demonstrating
impossibilities. grease stains. graffiti. confetti

somewhere out there.

policies are enforced to target us impersonally. we choose whether to remove parasites or not. to some degree, it almost seems apt to keep them.