- I Watched Them All Blow Away

8/11/2019 - I Watched Them All Blow Away

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"Sparse hair hung down over ears. There was little to say of his red hands.In which he clutched at present and despondently flicking a cigarette in thecrook of two fingers.

Clark Gental beside himself usually usually forewent more thoughts thanusually battered his mind without him goading anything.

He made his pronouncement to nobody because nobody was there."

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Stagefright. You come to the podiumBut cannot speak. For days it’s been like that.Lonerism your only liminal. Personal order,The only order. Drudge that one mess of papers up

And keep things in your throat, this time. The corners lie,Though. You examine too much, paranoid. The

Physicality of things lies. The triangle permits nothing pass.You spread out breathing wider, wider, wider, wider

And wider. Then it seems you are afflicted.Unrighteous. Sins, deeds, bad ones

Rattle you. Bad man. Glasses have clinked to

Your decisions, your horribleness. Disposition, whim, affect.So much decided on some insensible beef. Regret Infiltrates your mind like an invisible gas suddenly. TheSword is raised, then thrust. You croak. Exeunt.Will and willingness, just lumps together like

Amalgams of red slime. And then you leave perseverance



To some other. If you could, you king, you king,

Would say, “Don’t fend for yourself in this place. She said,Hold onto your guts, they tremble to keep in place

Around the wound, feeding you little, and No justice, no explanation. Just a suicide

Before the throne.” But doubtful,

They would know his mother: dead all these years.

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: PURE RENDITION [ financial tips ]

And I was crouched as a drone, perhaps realCrotchety and slothful, wring my gritty hands

As a person to mule his seepage out

Like a river from inconsequential vacuum. And whenI’m finished watching thorough figure-eights of the thorough masses:

People, collected altogether by the runs of time to knit the stock of day andthen

Consume it in perspective: theEbb and flow I see from the fowl’s eye, a lost kidPerhaps in hazard circles, making some flower by his trail,Unconsciously, through a cold season in aBad neighborhood till 5 A.M.:Well: once dropped down to that



Flatness I see!: I see that captious man leavesRecord of his time alive to makeSimplicity of what analyses if left in head would bruise his book of Maxims, though not a thing do I hold fast to.

I know of meanings for This trivia of space, without the courtesy of being.I speak to not intrude upon his secretive fanaticism, but feedWhat only he could absorb from other, ghoulish tundras

Of made souls. Careening distances, 1,000,000,000 thoughts from earshot

of the

Atom, and from where I am. And know his plight: anEager-hearted locomotion of rescindingSynapse from the place they never go to that-

-He does, temptation to

Move the plight, when he should not, never having seen my loftynetherworld, lost

Kid: but as I would think, lost is where All the people go: to flourish into saints of irreducible self: I see him,(Though far away I am I speak to him):“You are as much a mite as those you linger

On forever: so as to peel back with unsavory bitterness that surface-haunt:at times

By you an imperfection, desultory imperfection”:I think that if all by circumstance were a



Deceit, and the brightness just by nature curbed away-

-To sneer as awkward at

Beings, well, out of stifling the expressions of an untrustworthy face,litigator, one

Gets an eye for grace in youth: and now, moreStuck to persnickety dreams than ever: of qualmMade dissonant by the wrack of swell ideal, that onceYou broke the harness, you’d be free, so you thought, yet

Now: as entrance, two flaps without a lock,

A-roam on vocable streetsThat say nothing, maybe more though than the passersby, who couldBe anyone: what do you have now in the dripping sulk

Of your penitent box and home, in alleyways? Yes who tells and yet gainsnothing by

Correcting angels ! and whom in earnest, secret earnest, with an upwardspush

Of silky dreams made a too-oft vigor,The salt in his heart, made hideous

Projections of himself the only man, a population of himself and trapped ineyes,

Vastness like a vehicle himself,

To enter the womb of the matter of what-



-Tones to him that nature sings onto shore: parlaying ignorance if That is in yourself, pounding the desk in your brain

At the breach of ear, As others tell of theirs: teach unwilling others of what rows and wavesIn them keep in the haul of hazard lines—of string themselves—as fine

As any good idea: busting others’ echoed heavens in the brain:Him: he, who judging lusty earth as lief would wander happy throughSoundless fields alive in the subtle wind through sifting reeds,

Alone as that which he feels,

Just an atom in the size of a man, yet behind

Is truer seeming: that which this fraught man finagles: with his stringsTo source, with help from a different, purling sound of some beingCrafted still from careful gods his own, and yet as such expanding:

A mind goes: o the litigator, he lags behind his umbrage, until escapesJust once a jot of frailty no universe acknowledges nor rectifies:

An evil eye he sees there, molten with fury behind a glaze of rheum:Of imbecile carnage: to make big the rinds and reject of that sect,Of intelligent, bulbous fruits, to slush into ravines, a bombast!

This god who mumbles from his throne to me,Primordial, and angered at his exile whileMore selfish tress and tendril-knot take the guileTo more than swill in guts and hair, you are

Like weeds in weald, the sphere residing says,You keep your tangle in, remove the res And gather more to knot what wrongs with strings,Have blasphemed knots despite, attempted dignity

As if you saw the lock yet had no key



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: NEW YORK KID [a story of travis bickle]

A turgid pad is his/yours to write on,Spelling the words, they like wires , , , droop,

Droop. A collapsible doom comes about in the mind, like it wereThesis, to rip us out of brine of anger, jetsam,Sewage: these ruts are to take with you to the beach,

He/you think[s]. Implore the streets, I say; I say it is A surf of people, nakedness and boredom there seenThru the peephole you/he suffer[s] to see,—

Something voyeuristic. Something too sacred to haveIs what the cabbie asks for, 14 dollars too much,More than what made my pockets and jeans, for sureHe/I think[s], we think together, make us other,

He talks to himself. He squelched and feelingless,He takes Robitussin, scratches his aspect,Ruminates on fornication;

More verbs, more actions to cleanse him,

More for the nation, more he sees fools, more repeats

Like an S.O.S beacon, wanting to say more,Only saying ‘I’m lost, I’m lost’ in a world

Of cursed curs and sentimental curs, dogging



Meaning for a clean break with your hustler, oneGame more, another thing to buy

At the store. Cabbie-

-Would rather exist in his mutant living, in a room Away from all observation, and he gets comfy in his skull-

-Forgetting also that people generally will let him/you down: thatIs what he is wanting, outside of what I might say of you,

What he needs, apart from anything I’d know enough

To personalize further, make the reader the member, the

Subject; I disunite them, introduce myself, properly, not you, not him,Just this once, a writer, and this my invention, and his need,

His want just asSensible, desirous, hotly there, perhaps moreThan the polymorphous public: everything

Everywhere and ever, screw ever-to-be, it is right now, it isForever as the rain, counted each drop

End to end. And I want to get this expressed--Like screwy cabbies, ripping pipes awhile

Into the early hours, of meth : : he is thenBlocked from it all for good, so far;

Blocked from the blocks by just a screen, rhyme And somewhat a reason for this weird shit, happenstance,



Circumstance, as much a difference in this from fate asHoly desire and holy want to grab a thing, bubble fortitude

Within bowels, what he want?, dot pain on pain, dotThose transient i’s going panicked in rooms as like a damned

Cabbie wanting what he need, to point of unhealthyObsession. Regular as a guy in the porn theatre. That’sWhere it all started, or rather ended. He wrings the bloodyTowel at the end of the day, cab vomit-filled,

Blood-filled. Mess. So much to get away from going onOutside, everyone’s heads’re chopped off, they linger in murther,Dark cellars of self, they sell it well, sell it good : : THEY

CAN’T TOUCH HER say cabbie once alone, torches fleshOver stove, he’s got a diary, he is whoever has had too muchOf the immense depraved, upon their disembodiment

Like an irritant, but that’s all, and over the death of themselvesOnce checking a mirror. And a sure flex of tires, scream.

God goes hurrying the driven to their respective dream, And rattling windows’ blather, come too soon for subways and Against the walls with a dark

Of dotted pains. Screech, vroom. comes a busy flume As I write to kill myself, try like I am dying,Configure plans to kill who’s running for governor Instead, this room is a place, his space, his lord , , ,

His reality is not yours, reader;



His concepts differ. He is blind yet sees nonsense full,Drills his drill, buys guns on black market, sneezesIn the tomb of room, the labyrinth of thoughts

Filling end to end the four walls in frontOf him, along with more exhaust busily huffed

By cabs, cars, general implosionOf truth. Overall, that stays there, despite, it isMade fleet for this catacomb’s exhaust collection.

Just builds on its quick dirtiness. A slow frown crossesFace. He bludgeons brain. In pages, pages.

There also. All fumes. It all smells so specific, telling a tale, that the J trainMight derail, and leave downtown further In bustle, clamped

To crimped stares, we are anxious, I/he think[s] : :Just a moment, just a moment, just a moment,

Says the saleslady. All I wanted to buy was that thingOn TV. Ersatz, a flavor of. Everything. And thoughts already

Away from the present situation, thoughts on break.

Lethargy is the realease

Of refusing to care, in bed. For why go out in this heat with a fly

Buzzing against the opposite wall?

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: SLOW CRAWL

Creep, creep,Take your wooden fingersBit by bit, time by time--Make whom people your head Dry off on the line. Make the rain shake off you,

And derive pleasure from the pollen And humidity withinThis early structure, this beast of a room.

These walls are broken men- -Standing sentinel at hot dusk, It is the door that leads to the crickets harping,I would rather leave what peoples my head To chatter enough; Leaving me to my chattering, knowing I will Chatter despite,They have few tendencies, mainly inhuman- -They trap me in here from the broken public. I thought I saw humans on the walls, They ask for bread or water While my Summer dries and catches flame Like a field of stalks, in this dog-heat His wooden fingers crawl him. Slowly, creep, creep,

Drudge of sludge, mania art, Facile, so facile. So full of hurt, so full. I am amongst flourish and Without flourish I dwell. If only the funny arch of my eye Signified something less important



I might crawl my wooden tears All upon a severed world, All the failure all the insignificant huffing Like a mare of Muir,Trotting a group of the horses in meanings Trotting making entrance to the town of downMade downy by the languorous pollen I hath overshot the mark and remain in void I bled and bled to signify movement Relish destructionLike a sniggering word my way that destroys me

Whispers cupped hands what to speak to hide They tell my eyes to cross And examine my nose, sneeze driftily Into the humid air So thick it makes me cough So yellow the stalks So reticent this world hidden of its power So like the fingers of my tears, at some calumny

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: HERMENEUTICS ON A BENCH

Discussing politics on thePeriphery, more is said than

One could openly discuss, then

Fast comes you to you, as you speak:You take this, you hold it, too late,Maybe. You are father and child



Of the blissful arrears at least:Peacing out. Respects are paid a tree,

Again: but no tree is here,

And failed majesty. Is a trundle thus,Lifted in odd prayer for all the dirtyLaundry henceforth, dispensed

Onto the ground, all these clothesYou wanted to travel to the pointWith: once us we are assailed pretty

With bewilderment: theOne guesses himself: the other hatesWho goes out, shirking duty:

Wants to talk some more. Out of time, Abdicating to the point too late,The tree arrives, smashing

The wind with ardent, spikyBranches: don’t know: so: everythingDecides to leave the

Spot on the bench: too muchNegativity: ugh: I was waiting for the

Universe, but JOE

Came instead: after that: a goodMan: something fast, I guess,Some quick, fast



Delineation of one And another ontogeny, perception:We spoke of being

Father to our own passions,Which treated us as subservient,Like children, or soaring dogs:

We fly, we are so mangy, yetWe fly. We go prodigal, tho,Receding from duty, like

The hairline of a JOE:Nor is his fracture such enoughTo need surgery: this ain’t

Surgery: just it is just likeTrying out what figuring outThings is like. If that is anything break,

All the better for my field of soiledSocks. Politician fields questions,Denies soul, soul, saying it is a brig

For being, being. Meanwhile the treeMakes entrance upon

Cosmic loophole, that

Is, into death, despair, Absurdity: one creates: for Literally no reason. One continues to:



Then one doesn’t anymore:Rimbaud’s last poemWas about sailors’ dicks:

So what will thisBe about?: a stunnedParalysis: an adjective

Elucidating the differenceBetween wee everything

And majestic anything,

Which still retains anIndividual giantess: thatIs the meaning of that:

Everything on the other Hand is wee for beingExactly everything, as one

Encompassment: Anything can have everythingBe what it is, along with what

Other daring pictures of The dreadful res our history

Doesn’t totally encompass.

Whatever, one might say.Might say that the generalGist of the ghost is both inflated



And individual: the tree is An individual: a misery: it isWhatever I say it is, and

Also not that at all: then, And only then, JOEIs believable; however faceless,

A true universe, and heWill: he has a nose perched onHis nose, sniffs up politics:

Well: he showed up after all:He was better thanEverything that is the

Universe: he madeSandwiches on weekends,

Ate gyros at work: he

IS a good man, like Anything; or nothing, wellThere’s that aspect

Of things round the bend.But it’s too late for heresy:

It’s too late to bridge me

With me, you with you,Have hermeneutics on aBench: a welcome wagon



For the inimitable tree, andThen adjectives: such works,Like, backwards: and stuff:

If this is my last song let meLive it truly: I mean, na: it won’tBe: I’ll perish pen in hand:

I’ll perish with my fingers moving:I still want to meet my nothing withEverything, and talk of what

Anything can be, havingJust seen JOE, a wonderfulMister: while the

Bough’s chaos slips fastly,I take my chance and click it togethr:The tree: the observed, the mean,

The wallow we hunker downInto of definition: we raise a resComplete, variable all, trumping,

Endless trumping: but who

Goes there?: when will theStuff that changes everythingHappen?: when will I

Decide nothing is an anything,Everything too snobby to meet



Me, anyway, JOE’s a

Universe unto himself:Infinite carousel: tiny dogsThat fly: Kafka: who cares:

All I wanna do is arch myShoulders in the biggest shrugThat straightens my hunch:

That’s all: this poem’s over:

I met some kid on a benchOnce: he was myself:

The tree ran lucidly

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: SNOW IN AUGUST

My mistake was connecting plenty and going off To wail my extreme best at everyoneOut of the spare parts that drool stifflyFrom the mouth

Father with his clothes considerable thinks he.

Chiefing on this bird while the snows crossInevitable relay of the event, making him cross

No lacking freedom. Shut out.Freedom from the party, outside, then



Left to the bed. Of this actor’s talent to wrestleMinuscule emotive patterns

To places less disturbed, and, thereafter,Leaving time only for himself, construin'Himself of the hereafter

And his son of the now, is fantastically powerful;Him like him needing deluxe-box prioritiesOf things and meanings now

Considerable clothes and a heritageOf thinking greatness a matter of the brain

And hostile to luck

When the world is not so earnest And the tried not truestThat is that which brains him

That is that which comforts a knot of grassFurthering out of his heart like cheapness

And a fear of the regular said father Said he. Abstract thoughts

Make moments for the frying panMake moments for the lapel on your sleeve to tuck

Be kind of human I guess

Make the regrets boring enoughTo muster a kill of one of those birds by stoneShove off the impressive sentinel kept of thy brainBetter oneself



With guilt for bringing me up healthy on the stoop ??His child sings to him guileless

Again

Watching a snowy deluge gather and float to slushWhere, where swamp was onceHe used to put olive oil on his dogto keep off the mosquitoes

Swear he saw a West Nile one but his eyes get scratchy

Wants to purge the crust from the mouth of his eyeWhile assigning complaints to whatever stupid person

Whom might then will a friend kill his son And return father himself to skinny meaning

Sumptuousness and glut of syllables goneThe deluxe a briar to sting him that his son is suchIs no forgotten trend still a trend

Rearing its ugly head again after yearsSpent in the afterglow of anewness

And extricating all the pricks from his life

Only for a zone of blood to go protected from his wiping

Only to have it hack at him like winter flakesMidst in summer like contagion

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: HIS PIPE

Do you not contend the pipe is thereDo you live by what shapesDo you only

Fast and loose is realityDrawn like a spider weavesBut only one

Magnificent line

A captive glance at it againReturns a pipe

To a nice luxuryOf suretyThis is how I feel

When I look at a thingThat says it is not thatThat one can

That one is surely ableTo mix the design

And up the ante

For the sake of whatWe take seriousIs something remorseful

As any sakeIn death



Would appear monstrously piddling

Hidden in dreams we are A single line all is onWhen so much as true

Is off And anyway thatMixed up or conjured

From the serious eye only

Of men lookingHow horrifying

At that and so sureLittle pipe that isWoven by a frail insect

Is connected and once that seen As something so rudely vast As if even an inch of reason

Cast thereIn the light of pointsShed anything of herself

With that false factOf bad lightShed

With that dreamWe make a tantrum



We see and call shots

From a bastardFirearmForget the blankets

Over it allThe seizing fogInto greater clumps

We seize nothing

And say the dream is good And haughty and strong

We take whatWe stateTo interminable heights

Thinking strengthIn the thinning air While all is become a wisp

By this point pointlessTo return so we stake moreOn loaded subjects

As if this meant weaponryNot to be feebleNot to grant thoughts

To scoffables And heresies



When that is who they are themselves

To queen reason And the thought beckonsTo say that we are so wrong

Not even in anythingBut seeing rightnessIn any of the unscrupulous universe

Flying aims like to kill something

Not create the ground beneath our feetOnly soar badly into wearisome dark

To places locked in dreams we goWeary with wantingSomething like a confirmation

Starved from laden too longI am ready to finish myself On a plate to be fed

To carnivorous reason A thing to judge onlyNot gauge

Judge and judge As horrible as any witnessWhom sees the atrocity

And move onLater casually says



I am casually interested

But these people areNumbersWrongness reigns if they knew only

In the little twineWrapped in solitudeTo find pieces

Of sense to pick up

All the while the fact remainsThis is not a pipe

This is a stony faced assurance A whiling gaze that is absurd A pointed finger to judge an object

And the face wrinkled badlyWishing to draw many stringsOf flesh from the hollow of an eye

These whorlsThese curving into covesThese pieces tortuous

Summoning themselves together A break made infinity An open shelf

For to place your crud And doubt



And ruin

While the dark obviousWagers his nil before you

And grudges contrary

And captive eye Aloof the center smokingLike a bleeding gun

Rings the tocsin ring it

Tell the frame to cast itself On this blanketed surety over

With smoggy reamsOf intelligence

And distance

Or is there something a doubtCame yes from what is denied

And heaves a straight

Turn of the cueBegotten web of onegeneral presence

Or that which is deniedWould signifyMore

It is soIt is a motley color



It is blandishing a weapon

For to vanquish sot And then everyone prising A better mood

From yearning too muchFor somethingTo remain as it is

For the pipe to be

From no angleJust a cigar

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: BUCKET OF PISS

these are words remarking on themselvesbesides not, if I have brought it upas aim, have lost the layer

any consciousness would have betweenitself and a fuller understandingof itself. the gears turn,

but nothing rattles, nothing comatoseand nothing chidden, alwaysto spell remote

pastures, pastures away. the sky is ata distance for a reason, and



as such is the horrible

truth. lessons for that lap like a stillness atthe eve of new times, new roads.new positions alarm my

crypt, my consciousness. battle,battle, battle, and that toprovoke an act,

divide the previous comment into some

desuetude. eavesdrop on thesane to find their

manners, gauge an unusual climate, defer to dirigible logic, giant loops itsqueezes into being

like a hot coal. matters only, the manner each quiet prayer of mineinsists, asserts.

all the while the sun is a banner on a glitteringtide, glittering, glittering like as it wereappendage, reach of grace.

dirty wonder. extra for extravagance, swinginglike a mental dixie, daring to be withblues, to feel shitty

to feel the one is other in the ghost you is,that expressions of might bleed



themselves, without

needing your contraries and surrealisms,dull prophecies, anecdotes todrool and forget hearing,

swung in and out of focus is the blood.it is not needing you. youprostrate before the

poor lamb, wish something unconscious

would put the foot in the other slipper, make sure one

has pajamas on before going outside tothe kitchen to make eggs.brave enough, to

love depression because it is the only wayto beat such. the comment, tocomment, give a tip

of the hat to the immanent yelping beautyin everything is sometimes onlya thimble’s worth, a

regular bucket of piss to those whom loveonce escaped, and them to livein a pit of consciousness

rantingly remarking on itself to spill redon some canvas, style a spectrum,



run bleak on motor oil

and at any cost, possibly eating batteriesor ‘diet pills’ to focus on illsenough to placate

them into softening the eager meaningslammed eagerly every day,every way, every

halt, besides, of course, portals to grace.

elevated feelings to me arethe catharsis in

realizing the horrible truth of it all, andupon such, blood paints theroad, is pavement

for this passionate self-knowledge Ihave blow out my earslike steam.

run, read err, see the fact, caress it,notice too the err you decode.mistakes are encrypted

with a language of ego so skinnilyproliferate that it barelymakes sense

enough for the big parts of egotisticallogic to strangle and fuck to



life. where’s my wife:

upon herself in bed, having sex withwords, scratched sunglassestrembling under the

doom of a heavy verbiage on thenightstand, a thing super easy, the legs

pretty much spreadeagle. the closet

door wants her. but that’sanother quandary,

really me projecting the need to nailanything right now, hell, I’dfuck a tree, I’d

fuck my suicide. I’d fuck concepts.it’s the only way. to matemeaning with

person, make love to the idea of love. I’m the best. I’m theworst. ah fuck it.

some fly just flew into a pane of glass. another year passesand the man

no longer wants that pair of women’sgarments, very out of season,



he thinks, but on

the other hand I bet it would feel niceon my balls. he thinks. well,can’t blame him. I

just want to be beautiful, remove glossand reveal and celebrate thebig beautiful ugly-

-that is all and everything drenched with

wetness, precept, and alsoconcept. the landscape

saps me. it is as vacant as the moon.it denies attributes, stuns thesun into further rage.

but all I have, I think, is the doom of aglass between comment andawareness, a dialectic,

a sporadic night filled with higher shit,feeling less unalive than usual,carrying a small,

under-appreciated sketch of someguy lax in his grief, just donecrying, but all he saw

was some dude drained: thought itweird, didn’t look like a jogger:



all I wanna do is

show you an example of a miracle,pied yet cross with pettylosing of face.

but the ego goes rotten. the wife wiresto language to come over whenI am out on a business

trip. the sketch artist goes to work at the

police station, his duty comeagain, this time to

sketch a description a maid is going togive for the guy she cleans for,me. I shot her, and

language. I never meet the sketch artistbut believe it would get on wellbetween us: we both

give slack to awareness, burn once atsainted parts, our charreddesirous hands

make us martyrs. but the face is alreadylost, gone. one whom faces lookat a lot would usually lack

one themselves. little did I know I defamedmyself, not by murder, but by



removing my face,

pugnacious features, handsome. who knows.after awhile, the closet door, too,rapes the nightstand, and

all is well, and the coal burns thru the hand,the after-effect a sort of stigmatain the center of the palms.

bloody canvas, awareness, ire of consciousness,

guttural formations in the brain: determinantsare de-storied by the cramps of

iconoclasts, them weltered flaws etc. etc.and the erosion of your spinal columnto make one demented,

cracked like sunglasses hiding bruise, tinted just enough. and all the while this isperfectly fine, and the

concept properly fucked, goodbye, goodbye,goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, loners,DEPRESSION-

-AND THAT PHAT BUCKET OF PISS

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: THE ORIGINAL COSMIC STEVE

so, my prints are on a police file: awhileback I went to blaze w. friends in central parksomewhere: turns out I could have pissedon the roof of the 72nd street precinct fromwhere I was. It looked secluded enough,but there you are. I seem to remember afriend telling me his heart was sinking downto his stomach. I had been caught before

so he had my empathy in that case. Buteven tho it was the severest I had ever been busted I remained cool and

calm and stuff - spent all day and all nightand then all the next day in jail waitingfor goddamn court so I could get the hellout of there: this one guy who remindedme of if chief Chief Broom was DennisHopper from Easy Rider because he wasNative American and wore all-jean-everything kept telling me to chill.

It was good advice. The thing is theymake you wait forever so by the end

you want to go to court, you’re sickof the bullpen, you just want to stretchyour legs and accept the penal penisup your asshole: you don’t careanymore: it is a near-orphic doom-eager scenario: anyway I left the very



night of when I went to court, pushedapart those big doors & trounceddown the steps like they do in themovies: it was that simple: so I went

home & got shitfaced using mydad’s scotch while he was out of town: I never bothered to call &get bail because telling my parentsthat would have been horrifying,on the other hand they had known

I had gone missing the entirenight before they left and hadwondered where I was. So I toldthem anyway & I guess they thought

that being in jail was sufficientbecause nobody ever spoke of itagain. I will just mention herethat there was a particularlymemorable part of this whole thing:see, I was moved w. like a chaingang to three separate holdingcells but the first one had someonein there: there was a toilet &a bench that’s all: also the lights

were really low: he had claimedthe bench & I was kind of jealousbut made myself comfortableon the ground: he started tellingme stories about how he just



bought crack so he could gocrazy and be sent to bellevuefor a proper meal: he said thathe thought about going out inpublic & slitting his wrists

end to end: anyway, I must haveseen him as a role model bcin that time since I have beenvery strung out on heroin, pcp,lsd, cocaine, ketamine, robitussin,

speed of all kinds, more blow,more lsd, ecstasy, molly,more molly, pot [duh], benzos,more benzos [klonopin,xanax], 2ce, mushrooms, 2cI,more mushrooms, percocet

or morphine sulfate or reallyany PK under the sun, andmore, etc. what I am sayingis that looking back on thisparticular situation now makesme feel somewhat foolish bcat least I could alwaysprocure food somehow and

didn’t have to take drugsfor that ulterior purpose[in fact it’s usually the opposite,

you do drugs, so you don’thave to eat anything] I’m



sober now & a lot of thoseyears were bullshit. All I can sayis if you are not desperate,and, btw, not talking about likeseverely depressed, suicidal,hang yourself, etc. I meanfinancially desperate, nomoney to eat or place to live,don’t get addicted to something

that desperate souls ingest

in whatever way as is chosen,booting, smoking, insufflation:that will make you more desperateif you are such a person whoplans their death, even whom isdepressed, anxious, etc., if onlyby proxy of removing all other needsincluding quality of life. so yeah.fool. I am a foolish, foolish fool.goodnight.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

: EMOTIONAL PLAIN / TORN WRACK / SUNDREAM

What does it have to do with featuring AugustTo mitigate pure samples of the plainWith apparent ease. Inconsiderate brainThat blankets and desists once on the trod, listsMeans for monikers, reasons for this gaff.

And understood is all fame, for the laugh



And haughty enterprise behind that lays A weaker weakness on us, trying to definewhile sense, traveling, says it is just fine. We,Tools. We follow for remorse ephemeral error,When all the WORLD is lacquer, and a haze

Anyway of hecatomb, blame, and ruptureThat eats the plain to some immodest lining,Out of miracles, yet still sung to deny

A few left graces as escaped the purge Antediluvian, rounding up the scourge,Pouring high brags of right amongst the wrong,

Affirmative in human eyes, a talismanWhere half meaning lies. An assaulted drumEach beat for eager madness for true wholes,The beats upon us yet we do not wander

Away from those blank haunts; we squander Needs for justice, use them all at once,Looking bewildered, lank eyes, short arms,Dripping with sorrow, wanting to beleaguer The right to sing still, and without of knowingWhat the password be, its dull requestTo be the right person and despite the dust,Growing on corners of the intellect, tragedyEschewed by bratty boulders, thunky men

And ridiculed at once. What impetusIs this? A comedic, ranting missive

For the relevance of critics pityingThe lack of a clue, the lack of anything,Beyond no trenchantness. But reviled aloft,Celebrated by brutes, an evil and a goodDoff, for rented spaces to conceal what shouldReveal in us wandering, use through use,



Through halls of soporific blare and noise,Through babble to the point, to poise

A devil and an angel on the shoulder,Leave unsafe decisions bickering, clickingMournful as the states of minutes onThe metaphysic clock, awry, bedraggled,Slow, pretensions of a certain howlOff to the side of this rare, reddened flatnessThe wolves rebuke, and say us is not real.That we who are the error are the muttMeaning, to dismiss, with only gut,

And full of meager rations, too much little.Inquisitive, that is, one might whittleSomething slowly as the erring sun, saddleUp and ride again upon the place,The master cleanly on his dauntless phraseThat might make everyone understandThat which a planet of unstudied sycophantsMight throw off, thus purge themselves, trace

A ruin, trod unknown through miles of mazeWhen no gifty horizon that we under-cursHave courage to bless but not approach,That zone meanders further from the lookers,

Asking who. To make a point we make undueWith rollick and assertion of desertion.Consider aloneness and find others with us,

Reserve polluted friendships for the heightsContrarians pretend to reach. BombWanting, for wanting maybe might to come

Across the Summer’s way when one is done.If one desires to lack desire, forgive him

And if desiring reward for this, see plainly



And do not eschew him to no god. And aleatory leave yourself, invigoratedBy seeing reams of snoozing possibilities

Are framed trance-like, to cool the bloody brain.Summed effusion, left out, conquers jest;

And one is left an animal for lustTo weaken best, intend a marrow deeper Than the probity it begets already. Steady, one,For as undue you come undone, emitting,Shaping fog through slender trees, theseComing about, and fallow with unease, done

With doubt and anguish and perditions, gratefulFor the error on the error, dratful blunderer,Insane compounder, likewise attitudeThat harbor magpies like a queer collective,Instinctive as a seizing of the westBefore the sun can set, leaving it thereLike poison, and at foison of the year.When kept up by this solitary fear I am

A satyr, and drenched with blood of lambMingling together come the brightest imageFor all conceited to impress away, insisting logicMust befall somewhere when all is whereInspired reams of sunlight spread across

A delicate nonsense, all for all eternity, a stateTo chatter prigs a reason for my brigs-

-Of laughing logic I have dialed, spreadFiner fingers to the call of the dead, and all- A mangy dream, a profiting unseen by blarers, And what is I scare up for dinner, leaveÉlan Vital a muster for the nutty saints to bluster Open, crust of EARTH and vibe interminable



Fatigued by all these splicing deadenings.I portend, all thoughts are are things, and wordsFor August, grime and assuaged waiting withTime to dwell and forget regret for error’s wrong,Delights nobody but relies on song, imbues,Draws near the daffy manic manifold like boldHives of swirling bees against the sun, the plain

A field of words, objects, all undone, all saved, All turned apart before the bees make art.Before the under-mentioning departs to sleuthFor sense, prophecy endearing, yet a waste

And I can taste the painted, shuffling, yellow sun Upon nothing

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

: TRUCE

She had a horse. Loved it,I tell you. Never had a family Like Truce was. I cannotEven now fathom how oneCan get over something Like caring so much for Something that suddenly !

Well. It’s for me not to know,

Nor feel good about finding Out. This can’t resuscitateItself in her, a broken heart,Or whatever else got Broken. She told me thereWas nothing like it and



The wind in her face seemedTo accelerate even in Thinking about riding. I don’tGet it, I had said. Now I Realize I can’t. For if all the Words I’d ever writtenSomehow erased themselves From existence, what Would I do ?? Get up andTry again ?? Move on ??It’s not about moving on I’d

Wager. It’s about that itHas already passed, you Are in bad realms and thereYou are, until you forciblyErase your memory, forget Life, forget beauty, Forget the time, it is irreparably Gone to sunder, it is never

Again. It’d be worse to lose Something you’d never Be able to approach,Imitate; no cooling-down, No salve clarity gives in the Second try. In a wayThere is no truce. The war

Is fought: is only fought, not won, Not even begun.

Documents

- I Watched Them All Blow Away