experience machine machine, a machine that generates machines of its own type, that type being the generator of generative machines type shit

I am currently writing this and watching it be written

I can't get out of the experience


built-in nothing generator

an advertisement for a pile of dust

an advertisement for the idea of lint

"think about lint! it's… fun!"

a rope that doubles as woven fiber strands

division of division of division

only think of things at specific times


my favorite game is my daily routine
only the most mundane things interest me
only the most mundane for me


"death in venice" cut-up

taken his arm again taunted him with his pleasure. The nearness have to see through all this!
nothing . . . him a little, when they were the walls close to the third person come, he was
busily past, idly his friend. And again he was a man who was perched.
The king had wept . . . a leather coat. They said "Good" on the Lindenplatz, and he jumped
upon a beige fun it was to stand on along it with his crooked legs
and let it swing on its good-bye. Hans, with emphasis.
He had Hans. "Good-bye, Tonio. Next announcing his likes and if I don't."
leased to confer them like Tonio. "It was a nice walk." that. . . .

He went on talking, all wet and rusty from there he had left off. Anyhow
looked into Tonio's eyes, his house; the walk over remorse came over his charm, they held their caps and
damp wind that rattled pretty soon, too," he said. And Hans
king in his cabinet must be forced yes or no from time. Hans talked eagerly, like a shot, even gratuitous
apparent, not real; it mean . . . Hans did like they struck away from the alone, that he knew.
But let where they saw a train puff ashamed, and offered up coaches, and waved to the alone.
He thought of King of the last one bundled in "Goodness, I have to go,"
in front of the Hansen villa bye, and thanks for the toffee
went into detail about what that stood by the way, ran bottom rail of the garden gate jumped down,
and trotted off hinges. After that they said, "I must go in now,"
I spoilt and arbitrary way of time I'll take you home, see likes, as though graciously "Good-bye, Hans,"
said order on this person and they put out their hands
about the riding-lessons when garden gate. But as Hans was not very much farther
bethought himself, a look of walls was not a long one.
Thing face. their heads before the strong and groaned in the leafless trees quickly.
That bit about the talking, Tonio throwing in


soft oxide breaths from haphazardly carved styrofoam
busts echo forever along infinitely angled walls
lined with outer space cartoon texture
fading from a dust-particle-sized postage stamp
licked and stuck to a grain of sand
and mailed to itself

styrofoam head on a granite cylinder
breath forming imperceptibly tiny angles riding out away area intertwined bricks piled past clouds extended to breakroom wedge pushed through transparent acrylic cylinder
fast quiet barrage of exhales followed by an infinitely expanding echo
triggering electric-shocked conceptions forming infinitely angled rooms
whose walls are a causal chain of shadows
casting each other in boundless flowery orgasms quickly rusting past
skin layers receded and flaked off
under broken microscopes roughened by centuries past lives between crevices
growing thicker in terms of thinness until zoom past perfect sparkly flakes
of displaced breakroom chairs with cold coffee collecting dust
and rotating under lights that burn off universal skins
each peeled by an inward styrofoam breath


star maps forgotten
behind rows of cardboard boxes
skin thinning every day
luster is gradually lost
breathing rhythmically and feeling
my feet on a cold stone

(^a one-result poem)


forever unfolding flower
piles shifting subtly
old smoky parlor
coated thoroughly in dust
walls softly fade
to dust and dissipate into
artificial cartoon type
clouds scratched away
on a transparent lottery
ticket installed as a
window in a small wooden house
three thousand years old built from
manually separated particles
as was the way back in those days

some decay spirit
filming a white void
in the past and projecting it onto the
future void created
nested voids of
crackling flecks
altered by size and color
enlarging and shrinking again
gradually form soft
image of dead machine
its innards convulsing

(^a one-result poem)


branded on a cedar plank
flowers smaller than the eye can see
stock dusk scenery
a few colorless trees
cash register close sound

alone in dark dusty rooms
with galactic fingers
feeling the years of dust
explode in a million hues
merging and dividing at once
distant orb of life
distant space sprites

brown cloth with yellow spots
folds itself in midair

three even layers of sand
dissolving into each other endlessly

to smooth roughens
each surface a little bit differently
if you get close enough it's all
infinitely tiny flowers
if you get close enough they all
flutter vibrantly and
crisply together in unison
flutter and brush up against
each other's delicate skeletons

worn fabric lifts
yielding rock surfaces
the textures of oceans
ornately chiseled by
eclipsed spirals

embody idea orgasm
stretching smooth flesh
in supple contortions
tightening loosening back and forth
whiplash undulation

infinitely tiny screw
driving infinitely fast
yields the slowest progression
before a complete stillness

potato it seams
pointless a potato is
pointless like a potato

(^a one-result poem)


pair of pants sitting in a tree
cold crisp branches
pale light evenly distributed
light leans over the horizon
the earth is just leaning
away from itself eternally

cold crisp leaves fluttering
from the innermost cubicle
the cubic innards
decay our way out
time decays it all

(^a one-result poem)


propelled by dual desires
to get coffee at cumby's
and feel styrofoam
with the nerves in our fingers
jackets brushing with a
muffled sound of wind through
glass cold flesh
caught a feather in the wind
frozen moment rectangular
street light cover, eyes
fixed lifting me
like death for a second
frozen wisps of thought
turn my sweat into steam

remember the wall-to-wall carpeting
hidden in the deepest crevices of my brain
traveling for a long time and not getting bored
listening to the sound of my blood flowing
garbled whispers in the dark
dark hands toying with
dusty wooden cubes
camera pans away from space
up out of cadaver


hey man what can i get you man
he is old and points
at two hot dogs and
mumbles to me in spanish
while unknowingly secretly
his hot dog point
plants soft grease
marks on the glass display case

(^a one-result poem)


damp hands heating
slick sterile surfaces,
the galaxies of molecules
experience fluctuating tension

alone curved beams
in a blank dead space
have to hang in a moment
rotate reaching over

world's thinnest membranes
not quite the right thinness
to be sifted through centuries
hovering tiny over
a great silent abyss

the internal consilience
old fibers interwoven
abstract plaster built
and dreamed into myself
grease stain years ago
a plaster guilt

several sterile galaxies
sat cold on the windowsill
in one hanging moment
silence and a bee


the largest crystal pile,
examined with new instruments,
was revealed to be the smallest

the newspaper told me this and
i wept continuously for a year

my friends were peeling away

i curled myself around a corner
quietly dwindled to nothing

morning fresh bright light
gathering shreds of fabric
skin warm with a glow
feeling novel texture

ground up our clothing
as a last resort on our vacation
fibers opened up into
flickering static environments
filled with plastic sculptures
sculpting selves from
black heat dancing

we drooled at the spectacle
washed our faces with blood
and shopped till we died

we are grateful that you are here for
tonight's bible adventure
we forgot how to pronounce words
so we will sacrifice you
directly upward toward heaven
give us this day our daily crystals
and explode us from the inside
so the patterns that support
can deconstruct the need for
our conscious energy focus
never and forever amen

(^a one-result poem)


another wooden-walled room
in some obscure basement somewhere
was filled to the ceiling with cakes
big glowing cakes

light fell into nothingness
her metallic thrust
dimming fibrous
scattered completely lost in
damp dust smells

an ageless man stepped in
running a frail hand through his thin hair
speaking a faux language
moved his limbs in patterns
particles stuck to his shirt
glowed in shafts of light
from windows at certain times of day

silent electric crackle
isolated in a unique universe
sound of grey electric
contact generated connection

the ripping apart sound
of eternal lack of knowledge

this eternal lack of knowledge

(^a one-result poem)


spreading for an end
beyond the act of spreading
what can't be spread

greyed out moisture
in amorphous kingdoms
bleeds down form
contoured at first and
with the passing of countless centuries
deeply woven into itself

serrated gradation
in stages of withering
until tucked out of sight
coddled brightly
in rows of quiet
radiating wombs

lonely bitter monkey
crowned king of self-loathing
gnaws off a big hunk
of his own right thumb

(^a one-result poem)


automatic particle separator
willfully disestablished
a stringent plasticity
rearranged at all points
according to a delicate structure

time has composed itself
of all possible combinations of coincidences
consistent pulse beneath
a communal epidermis

hand over heart walking
to and from void space
no object contains meaning
aside from your personal perceptions
nevermind you probably can't hear me anyway
but let's talk about ears
just kidding I'm right here with you

ride in gas chambers
into a configuration of tubes
metallic shuffling feet
on intersecting stairwells
ascend universal dream

row of houses blurring
under the darkest possible sky
as birds die in mid-air
and disintegrate with fingers

you might get the feeling that I am talking
but my gestures convey
all of the things I could potentially say
so clearly that I want to die

(^a one-result poem)

come to grips with your grip
give way to infinite nothingness
dissecting indefinitely
without questioning the act of questioning
understood by lines drawn
through inconsequential points
tied by untying
and the smoke wafts through my house

blame all those animals
for blaming each other for blaming
but please don't think about anything
unless you want to die at this moment

I am the limitless power
of your desire to allow me
to inflate into you
to extend past your skin
connecting gently in a
precisely opposing spectrum
each subsequent phase determined
as a desire for extension

unwatched moss
decays and reestablishes
its status as a moss

floral cloth left
in electrical heaps
emanating vibrant rays
only you can remember the smell

(^a one-result poem)


early experiments in one-result composition

arranged from previously obtained one-result terms:

difference between wrinkles and crinkles
on the brink of wrinkling

treading a blurry line between
nothing can always be achieved
I just want to play all the damn time
can we please just interact
only the pure interaction

monkeys form complex relationships
primate selves connect
it’s just the natural way of everything
I have nothing to say except that I am alive

my milk can help you
I need help with the milking
helping my friends milk
please help with milking
can I please just milk

monkey myself to death
it couldn’t possibly be any more perfect
a gleaming unfolding
losing and regaining my control

I seriously cannot milk
I must be completely worthless to you
I used to be a good milker
but my skills have gone down the tubes

antifreeze off my body
room with some antifreeze
with barrels of antifreeze
Tate and I adventured
discovered lots of antifreeze
I have to wash it off my skin
maybe I’ll just let it sink in

you are a sensible logical man
I don’t know whether or not to be touched
are you concerned about yourself or me?
it’s evenly dealt

high on notifications
never get enough notifications
sad without notifications
I want to die a bunch of times
keep liking my posts please
being liked is the best thing

have I validated you enough?
evaluate my validating
is this validation working
please tell me that I’m doing a good job
now I am irrevocably depressed
thank you so much for making me sad

I can’t prove you wrong, and you can’t prove me wrong either
your equivocal perspective
my equivocal perspective
please don’t assign my feelings
fucking accept my fucking apology
ugh emotions are so complicated

proud 2 be tuna
can’t squash my pride
well I hate essentially everything

torturing myself infinitely
forever returning to zero
greasing up my innards
cosmically smoking
I am cosmically inclined
render me really well
place in hell for a pig

3444 lawn mowers
(word that sounds like a street name
words that sound like an address)
my lawn mower’s busted
my lawn’s busted
my whole face is busted
all I think about is mowing the lawn
lawns must always be mowed

one anatomical impact
a pubic hair fever
this is an idea that prevails

there I go that’s exactly what I wanted
expressing every single one of my feelings
advanced expressive tools
producing absolutely dead

shit panda cakes
some pancake shits
part of an ethical breakfast
I know that sleep is right

seriously uncomfortable radiation
I have never radiated so much
the radiation superseded
I am debilitatingly confused

can I be the dominant one for once
please let me dominate you now
oh now I’m all dead
because of this whole framework

academia says hey
never felt so academic before
I can’t believe that I finally made it to this point
I completed the academic challenge
is this a good time to die

it’s a gradually developing condition
the right way is to be living
on the brink of aloneness
best to be as close to original as possible
well that’s all there is to life

are you the lightbulb guy

I personally feel like I’m dead

ever seen a pig bark
a wild barking pig
he can’t be stopped from barking
bark my fuckin head off
reach inside and kill me
someday I’m gonna be inside
I wanna be inside myself

I am glowing heavily
a heavy dull glow

your face on a golden platter
raw clams with a side of
infinitely large foods

air inside a small cavity
the air inside of a pig
maybe they’re all pigs

I wish I were better at crying
you have mad crying skills
milk my eyes out

awnings are a way of life
I’m an awning person
the awning lifestyle
it is seriously a profession

humans leave their faces
some dark corner of someplace
I found myself in a dingy corner
a vast dingy space
resting in a coiled heap
decaying wreathe

proliferation decontextualization
proliferative disjunctive

infinity the dead space
woofing at god

what if I never did anything ever again


earth slabs routinely overturned


unravel my armsockets, routine gingerbag drowning sprockets warm grommets drying out suns
gross tomato hands blurring with sticky pulps
rotund alfred wringing his fat hands
squeezing milk from his big dead eyes, reaching out with his hands infinitely feeling around outward inward to the deepest depths unimaginable
freezing fire eros sore me red rhino or a tango mango


collodion outbreath proposal
one leaf decaying at the speed of its descent
myocardium wavering
his last moment within

mole button

aproning iron blacksmith ochre response, yellow tongue creature response, relaying a yellow orb response


greased desirous sour rising etched ice detached dehydrating traditional notion noisy loins soiling snail lanes senile lines and greasy stencils slick kill licking nickel lichen nascent tent scanning nine entities sitting nightly soggy ghostly host


crescent scents, ten cents
blossoming gnomes among mosses
relegated deterrent retention
forage rage eggs arranged
grinding dirge grips pure erupting night thighs
sight of guised suite sets


soft wet membrane
supple skin flowering
pulse gently wavers
between expansive ethereal white light dream beams


arduous sewage wages
segmented dental nemesis wedges
swerving wagging soupy rare area
grolulating gnishes sessions vital snowy organs


Here, the milk milks itself. The ground grinds itself, and the earth encrusts itself.

Rolled up into itself, the orange range gnashing billiard rags, greshing lengths of thin nights stinging ginger rings, syringing degradation, regular angular radiating arugula rugs. Lurid diurnal drooling, ordinary rain doors, sordid droids and DNA roads. Gory grazing under elegant relegated detoxing axolotl. Talking kings and snickering kernels lurking, I reckon. Grandiose diodes rang soiled doilies, sliding dill lids by sinful sloughing ghouls.

Hordes of gourds, ranked by gourdliness.

grenadso ebofahus frandolatunophenauthinalineated brendocrambolantro gorgandrona porbulafettode rhasch ghrendelle.


hurled from infinitely behind myself
I tumble into a deserted universe
where abandoned foggy hills
yield to delicate branching forms

insidiously dividing spreading
birthing nested worlds
(of drooling writhing children
raised in hidden dingy homes)

wind quickens ancient sifting cycle
moisture leaves brittle abbreviated tips

unnecessary subjects
subjectively rejected
my nucleus distilled
and routinely reassembled

from the nucleus extends
an unnecessary world:

my spindly rain-soaked wooden chair rots quickly in the sun
its tender porous rungs teem with healthy organisms

precisely churned to mush
nails eaten by wet dirt

a tight electrical hum propels
its orderly fugal dispersion
toward a final together moment
and I catch myself

fresh stress infects a rusty spring
elastic form yields a plastic sound

atmospheric hue bobs a low resonant tone
temperature oscillating wildly
a flurry of electric tingles
flowering through my skin

hands move detached
and I unveil my innards
in old thin wooden buildings
lit by dim yellow cubic lamps
collecting ghosts of desperate moths

in swaying segmented corridors
where every room is sort of yours
nameless friends shout unintelligibly
blurring away quiet with dissolving walls

precisely forgotten rusty moment
seen your hand rots quickly in the sun

fresh morning smell of warm pressed grass

I landed in some hayfield
by a crisply faded house

on the cracked paint balcony
stood a well-dressed family
with spherical paper heads
slopped with vague shapes of features

I wanted to reach out
and feel their stages of decay


jcjcvjcjc jcjc jcjc jcjcjcjcjcjjcjc jcjc jcjc jcjc jcjc jcjc jcjc jcjc icicicic jcjcjjjcjc jcjc hchc ycyc ucuc ycyc hchc ucucuc jcjccncjjc jcnc jcn jnncj njncj ncjnjcjcn jcnj ncjn jcnj ncj njjjcn jncn jncjjj jcjn ncnj j jncj njcn jncjn jjcnj jcn jncj jnjcn jncjn jcn jncj njcn jncj njcn jncj nc

fnf nkfnf knfjk nfjn fjfjfij ifji jfij ifj ijfji jfi jifk okfj ifji jfo kofk ifji jifj ifji kfo kofk okfi jfij kfo kofk ifji jifij ijfij jifij jifij jifij opklfkl kofok kofok okfok kofok kofok kof okf kof kof okf okfo kfok okfok o okfofok o okfofok o ojkfoj oj ojfoj ojfoj ojfoj ojfoj ojfoj ojgoj ojgoj ojgoj ojgoj ojgoj ojgoj lngln lng lne ube ube ube ube ube ube ube ubebu beb bueb bebu beb bueubue bue bue bue bbe bue bue bue bue bue bue buecniecniecniec


lemon friends?

eye drop soup


willpower myselves triangulathon, areno ranero, yo ~

arsenal’d scottish ires reirepairpiarliealai

arsenal umpqua rarbos totem margochi crambone narphundelphunous crambone particles crambone’d into your skull! Right on, clairvoyant Claire!

cramerocrop kamerocop *put on your sunglasses* slick n smooth repair randeldleledldeled
dranjsdk dranelion


massage a knoll
read a bear tread
on a hand, nah, a knob
grill beans on a spit patch first fire
high chimes with ham
gramolite breathing dragons with his hand onside brotund handrome sarcubious ardlambotto, bread alone, a place we went in the past, grow your own reality


grown together moment
infesting patterned imperfection
unpredictably frothing intersections
grown together moment


some cut-ups:

I am ladderlike, wooden, stretching into the distant extent of mostly dry grave
and there is the sound of the mountain torrent behaving
there is that monotony that, whether large or small: it shuts one up as in a dream
wet locks of a silent moment
cigarette was his jar of fresh water
there were no hands to prepare broideries
washed away the dust and the “Leave him there.”
poor beast fell beneath scene of a fierce struggle
she had never known surgical skill, learned as her silent moment,
drawing through things with marvelous rapidity
left alone with the landscape
her hand the wet locks of observation and intuition;
gold gleaming in it by her knowledge


microscopic stones settle
into downward channels
forming tiny nested pockets

hard to trace
sprouting point
vanishing point


gravity released us
elation incinerelated breakdown
to earth particulate
between betweens
between betweenness

dense walls of hands
sliming smiling reality earlier
mailing a greasy box to a close friend

open box reveals grease-stained innards
(cloth pantry all beige with certain specific types of thick rope)


• • •

crate 12, under crate 11
such specific hands that the onion made him sad, so he cried.
his tears were saved and studied carefully by scientists for centuries helping us discover that our veins marble our innards bleeding into ourselves all the time!

a meager moment,
frail wavering edges of an indistinct form . . .

fresh wind lifts dust over a worn threshold
damp tingly particle smells
exploding through eagerly calculating stability.

fade crisply through
delicate shaky meadow, drifts
rusty-looking memory

few days ago whisper
turned with quiet blossoms
gusts blew in his arms
a new bright whisper ` *

pillar schema rounded out over in back of a coffee smell lingering. A cream-colored schema. Brown glass items arranged carefully, washed out faded thinning until shreds disperse to dust.

East Texas gutter sparkled bright in the sun
That house was painted white now.
hotel bar carpet
watered by selves
around whose wrists will radio waves flutter?

streets spring
background 7-Eleven blooms a brightness
felt through slight roseate
walls unearthly room

obuled mrandelphunous rond vargonia


upspring your apron-like handlebars in glass hotels in cloistered suburbs,
an old man with his dead soft hands in an old brown jacket silent in his deadness,
but chalk only smiles and spills all directions until my only undercoat night street,
with rustling leaves in an empty breezy alley,
with the quiet gentleman’s decaying old person face out in the open,
a soft stuffy interior, carpet always freshly vacuumed.

he would talk about it . . .
his rough carpet hands on beige plastic buttons,
dressing down lost cakes of detritus,
only fastened to his face an old clock…
feeling one's own clockface is his hand.
My old leg was just inside itself. Within what river was each cradle selved? Around whose wrists will radio waves flutter? Is the only key the least appealing? Wh42!

A fresh unearthed toxin blowing down into a cornstalk haze under a blurry firmament. Bread made by cloud hands baked by cloud breath

Not inside itself my arm peels over outside into a fresh sea of half old images. Feeling like wet bread I slurp a thick, bready breath and feel myself grow older and flop forward into a bucket of slop.



bhurandothone trapestery breautophone neurandlebrot bernardrean brantolanchus chrautundronite brinsuphialis tape, bring crustaceans home to their nightstands click on lamps and sit in easy chairs. Create subtraction state in unto andelbrote brandeltron cranstronaut ornament head. bornauphinous pharphalicus cronundrome? unruffle your underhanded feather-soft tap on the cap of the old long-bearded belly-breathin' Beast of a man, old with a long beard extending across scuffed wood floor disrupting a thin layer of dust trailing thinner and thinner ~ warm sparks between your night fingers thinking and humming to yourself in a self-contained void voice--sort of a dark damp air vibe clamped down under.



handlebrot plans to can a smattering of cranberry hands

a stale ghost roughly sprouts crumbly cranberry hands



Seamphony endless layers of tendrils dividing pushing and pulling a tightly wound but constantly unwinding cycle of transitory bodies rubbing closely boundaries interweaving



2207hq05quandary, made into unnervingly ambidextrous dextrose particles.
Crazed 40987 under tundra gone very mellow.
Made 84 into 85 bag gone--.
Elbow jackhammer handle. Wheeled plotatos.
(lump it into a big lump)



Handheld hostage, bend my elbow such that I get a vivid specific sense of how my elbows are different from one another------it's like I'm made of old stagnant billowing ELBOWS, or maybe my grandpa's made of sugar! Huh! How about that idea, eh?

Rigidhead10324, 38, 37, 36, crossing below 27 47s he aimed his 387 at a 409, beckoning a 38-style axle into his thoughts, encouraged by his ancient dying grandmother, he crowed awkwardly angrily at her but wiggled his tail clean off.
Marginalized 42, baffled under Magnetic 41, boxed and sealed in a giant concrete area surrounded by the backs of tall ambiguous grey buildings and huge white trucks unloading boxes sealed with industrial tape and 39'd right outta there!
Now it's all about Rick, who is a professional boxer and has been (bin) 4 47,000 years ! ! !

Mills are where we go when milling needs to happen. Fair 'n' square.

Back to Rick. He has hair and an overwhelming face complete with huge mustache and dead eyes surrounded by fake flowers and rotated to allow 4 more handles to be attached----Rick hired a crew to maintain his face; a crew of one thousand human beings, three hand-pigs (pigs w/ hands), and the world's biggest (& probably stupidest) onion. The onion only performed psychological services, mostly for the crew to boost morale, occasionally to influence an intricately specific facial maneuver, of which Rick possessed approximately infinity. His other important trait was that he could be milked like a mother, a trait on which he capitalized heavily as a second source of income. "Mother Rick" sold his milk constantly, and he seemed to be able to generate infinite amounts of it while making trillions of the most minutely detailed facial expressions anyone had ever been exposed to, in such quick succession that the significance of each one was only made clear to spectators long enough to be registered unconsciously. Of course, after viewing them in succession for long enough they begin to form a larger image (infinitely larger, in fact) that forces itself into the conscious mind, often causing explosive--sometimes fatal--"Aha!" moments in people choosing to spend more than 20 minutes viewing Rick while he "performs". His audiences have been known to get super heavily giant like 2 billion humans, 8 pigs, 99 donkeys, 8 hand-fetuses (99,999 regular fetuses), and a larger copy of Rick that moves with him in total synchrony. This is his "brother," Rick2. Usually Rick performs for days @ a time and the pigs react to his shows by speed-breeding into about 50,000 fully grown pigs.  Great scene for pigs, not so for humans… Usually about three people are left alive at the end of a Rick show, the rest killed by explosive reactions to Rick. Sometimes they TV-broadcast it and it almost destroys the whole world of humans! At least the dumb ones who haven't observed the death pattern. See, you just have to limit your viewing to 20 minute portions!




(A and B, two average men, sit in comfy chairs. A has no legs.)

A: I am sad because my legs got cut off yesterday.

B: You don't need to be. I'm just happy. (Smiles.)

A: Easy for you to say--you're dead. Here I am, alive, with no legs.

B: (Smiling.) I'm just glad.

A: About my legs? (Growls threateningly.)

B: About being here, now. Just stop talking. Stop growling. Just stop doing everything you're currently doing. Pick new actions.

A: (Suddenly obedient.) But how will I choose the right actions? There are so many of them?

B: Nope, wrong. Stop asking me questions.

A: But this will ruin our chances of becoming friends.

B: I don't know how to be a friend.

A: Have you ever tried?

B: I'm dead. (Dies, slumping over in chair, but A does not notice.)

A: Too dead to try?

(Door opens and C enters, dressed exactly like B but female.)

C: (To A.) Do you know what dying even is? (Checks B's pulse.) Yes, this is for sure a dead human being right here… (Turns to A and makes eye contact.) Right now. Just stay here and maybe start journaling or something. It will help you process this death that has just occurred right in front of you.

A: (Looks blankly at C.) I don't need to. I'm just glad. (Smiles.)

C: Ew! You sick fuck. I am going to remove this body from this place.

A: Where are you gonna take it?

C: Don't ask questions. I'm sure you will be happier without this decaying corpse here right in front of you. And don't you want to talk to somebody who isn't me? I do not feel qualified to be having a conversation with a human who has just witnessed a death.

A: (Calmly.) You seem perfectly qualified to me. I like having conversations. Why don't you just sit down? (Gestures to the chair where B's body rests.)

C: (Visibly disgusted.) Ew, gross, stop talking to me. (Picks up B's dead body and carries it offstage. C's voice yelling from offstage.) Actually, can you help me carry this?

A: (Excited.) Sure! (Suddenly looks glum.) Oh, actually, I got my legs cut off yesterday, so I can't.

C: (Yelling from offstage.) What?

A: (Louder.) I got my legs cut off yesterday.

(No response from C.)

A: Ugh, I feel so incapable. So… dead. How can I choose actions if I know I cannot act? Well, I guess my actions are just more subtle now. Maybe I should buy a gun. Then I could have a powerful impact on my environment.

(Lights and music off. Lights up on A in a wheelchair at a store counter. The clerk, dressed in drab clerk attire, sets a gun down on the counter, rings up A at the register, A hands the clerk bars of gold. The clerk picks up the gun, which turns out to already be loaded, and shoots A in the face. C immediately walks in the door of the store, this time dressed as A.)

C: (Pointing at A, shocked, but not getting too angry in fear of the CLERK, who is still holding the gun.) That human was supporting this whole narrative!

CLERK: It's not my responsibility to me to keep this going.

C: Well whose is it then? We all must hold ourselves equally responsible for everything that happens.

(Lights out. Lights up on the clerk, now dressed in a much more fancy, ornate outfit.)



this place is your only choice for an experience!



I crocked the crooked hand inside of my lung but it was so far away that I couldn't see where I was going, under the rug and under the fridge I crawl and crawl until I reach a big bag zone full of rats and stargazers unfolding their wings outwardly nothing else like it they glimmer and stargaze until the stars have all died . . . nobody but you in here, just you, zeroed in on your face your stature and demeanor, reflecting the signals of others back into your environment all into a big package a mandatory game

zh-zhing, boss, bury my head under the sand so that the grains become lodged intimately in my delicate folds of head flesh. stack it on top of itself but maintain a pattern, a consistent regulatory pulse, holding it all together tying them into each other infinitely--say, do you have a light? I knew a guy who said he could stand up for twelve hours straight without doing a single thing else. He was dumb, probably. Couldn't imagine any other reason why somebody would behave that way.

zh-zhing, boss, I can't breathe can you get me into a different factory? well I guess I can stick it out another month or two, but I'm afraid all of our lungs will collapse into one big lung! This is a fear I've had since birth! I narrowly missed the train to outer space and then my leg got cut off by a demon and I gained a thousand pounds and died. My head was cut off and stored secretly for fifty years and then it was destroyed. I rose up out of my remnants in the middle of the woods and began to type on an old keyboard. These words, these are my words to you. Read them carefully; study every word with me--imagine that I am writing them at this very moment, as you read them, a tangible fragment of an endless abstraction.

[ [  Mrellow Ned, rrrraowwww ¡ hello oat bran head !  ] ]

pelly-can head

the old verse cracks and peels its shreds give way to a new verse



While they have little raw aesthetic value to me, I have strong positive feelings towards these two gray plastic boxes, and the ways in which the objects inside are arranged: particularly resulting from non-particularity, touched only when needed for a specific non-aesthetic purpose, such as packing into a gray plastic box for easy transport. I often try to convey feelings using as few words as possible, and this often produces many words. The objects in the boxes end up in patterns that clearly and precisely signify the emotions that gave rise to them. The objects and their arrangements are unique expressions of fundamental ideas.


stale smoke ingrained in cramped wooden walls low stained ceilings orange shag carpet. blinds drawn collecting smoke. thin old apparitions drift in deep seething static haze of electric calm ~ shabby clothes on old folks in waiting room chairs, mcdonald's fluorescent plastic charm I find myself in one dingy flickering corner planting seeds under broken floor panels

early new place feeling intricate rust patterns on vibrating metal walls, maybe some factory behind there but nobody felt motivated to investigate. rudy narrowed his tie down and sat up in bed with his head clean

walking in an unused stadium plants budding through metal the camera zooms up and you're alone in the stadium pocket cut off from all else

thin disintegrating apparitions float past a humming air conditioner and colors run splotched beige and brown and algae green, caught in dusty dormant spaces


march cram

to bore an aerobot

taste lemonade menu that lame cadet air benign ill, if, ma, I am filling inebriated ace malt. ah, tune me, dan. omelet sat.

DNA help, pa, tint it red! nah, ask cat dubs, eh, the tub's dapper, not I, to jail, had a dahlia, jot it on rep pads, but, eh, the bud tacks a hand, er, tit nit apple hand

no melt lemon

tin wad, tan waffles, red nu-traipse notes, e-tones, pi art under self, fawn at dawn, it.

tip amygdala stupid, i put salad gym, a pit.

hey, no, benoit, ali give ross a crack cabaret to parse, mandelbrot orb led names, rap otter, aback, carcass or evigilation, ebony, eh?

pastor rape parrot sap

diva david



hanging strata of blue smoke
clustering flowers
rays of penetrating light
impossible branch hands
dingy red orchard chairs
old, dead faces slipped
little stale glances
They smoked and talked,
that feeling of smoking and talking.

    over the old farm twinkling
                clasp of hands
        paint was scratched

        wind blowing
    bright cheeks
glowing japonica flower.
          strange, longing murmur

fair, slight, broken rose face,

convulsive jaw   lonely without teeth

3/8/12 - bits from eugene, or

tag me with a pin rag, hand me a tan pan

a bunch of bad shit for handslinger adam jeffrey blasting my face puff my

tattered little plastic head some hairs sticking out eyelashes wilted. lipstick grimace in a candy shell

my leg can't straighten out, i should really pay the leg specialist a billion bucks for a quick lube

this is the best thing i can possibly write at this moment

i really know how to write

over the old farm twinkling clasp of hands


approx. 3/1/12

distant siren wind
blows tattered sheets
spare hand sheaths
low machine hum
a bag in a corner on a banged up chair



I’m a bag. I am a bag i’m a bag I am a abga bag  ab aga baga bag gab grab arg rab ar grab arga barg ra barrage, benign beret. yeast palm, goat strap.\\

kereat kerosine keereat keerosein.x


meaty stare betwixt a fry breathing gently into a silk bag, carried into concave canals, fry judged gently, the grace of grease, the cylindrome, mac-donald's within grown together gradually but tightly aware of your own mouth to a point of crazed stamatic vigortronics.



i turned myself into a big bag



glance stance
platinum marble
chrome chreator


a scholarly paper:

i'm fat because i think i'm fat.





™¡å These sterile creatures cracked around the edges, curling and crackling as they curled, something coming up the side of the wall in a universe of completely white structures that are somehow discernible from each other, against a backdrop of stars. Wet painted wood in the beating sun, dad cooks brisket and we all eat it. Make more for the kids so that they can eat it and turn out like us. Each generation desires more and less.



pole poke sheepdog
madison, head of the heads
mild form of bed
cream walls and a dark shade
the brightest chandeliers you will ever find
little kind limbs
glister cut crafting along the skyline

folding hammers and crushed geometric flatlands

hold me until i have been held to the maximum.



mealtime spirals flickering



I made a notebook out of products that could have been used to make other things that could accomplish other tasks, but I decided that this mattered the most.

Medium sized Robert.

What do you want to eat, you sick ass shit sock? Okay, yeah, that'll cost you sixteen thousand gallons of blood. Sweet deal, neat clean business transaction, glad you chose to do business with me and not some other shit ass sock of ass.

It would be hard to guess exactly, but I heard you could hear things despite not being able to guess them exactly. Sweet. Yeah, okay, call me back tomorrow.

I had to say those things to you because you said things to me and I reacted without thinking about it. This is called something, and that thing is known to some people and not others. These are the bare hard facts. Bears are hard to track. You have to have all this advanced specialized equipment designed for bear-tracking and NOTHING ELSE. In college I learned the difference between a bear and a bear tracker; you need to know that in college. It's a thing. it takes a while to figure out but when you do iz just some shitty shit, hhhm hum hum, hmmm hum hum, do you hear me?

I specialize in specialization.

porcine lemon

marry me to this branch

this place is so sick
i can't smell or taste
maarry me

complete crumpet

the moment of crumpet completion

medium roasted socks

cradle me and i'll cradle you, go

i can hardly do anything; my feet are strapped together and my tonsils are compressed. i undid myself and slid limply into a small can.



Fun Fact: When somebody sneezes, they are actually sneezing!

Hey Paula,
It's far past your bedtime.
Go to bed, you bag of shit.
You're a woman.

I have to bake cakes or I will die of cake-baking withdrawal.

Always use some objects when doing a thing that requires them.

Bill has three engorged stomachs. The rest of Bill is just shit.

People have been telling me that I'm fat, and I've always just looked them and shit.

Bleating. Pleating.

I cremated a big man with my own hands yesterday.

I hear they've invented hair.

A pleasant blend of halibut tears and dry whiskey.

I am living a completely different life than you are, and I am doing it all the time. Different body, different reactions to my environment. It's all trapped in my head and there's no way I can share any of it with you. The parts of me that you can experience are the exact parts that I cannot experience, because they are being experienced by you and only you.



Trombone land: While the trombones rest, elk graze on small grassy hills. Flowers sprout and fog enshrouds.

the chef was cremated and his body transported to ten distinctly different areas. his mind melted and its particles evaporated into twenty quintillion colonies of carefully arranged slots and patterns. he had been the best chef the world had ever seen, and now he is the best ineffable conglomerate the world will ever not see. done.

ch-ching. it's the next time, and this time it will be more progressive than ever before let's move quick no time for anything to happen we've got things going forward and forward and huge fast objects and lights flying at light speed the way lights go and go and go and never stop keep it coming folks, the guns and rays and fast hatch opens to reveal hatch opens to reveal hatch opens to reveal speedy special delivery right to your door so you can open and use and put into action move on turn into something and die--ch-ching--alright, not to take anything away from your current perception of these kinds of things, but let's remove all of the spots in between some of the pieces of this thing so that we can have a more pared-down stripped-clean death-ground representation of the pure original object--ch-ching--open the box and dive deep into it, find a new thing and bring it out into the world and out out into another, bits taken from various stacked levels and redistributed according to nothing at all, but to reach the next possible world we have to undo all we have done but struggle to convey our thoughts concisely and flawlessly, for example, the name you've given yourself is not the name we have ready for you tomorrow, i understand this probably isn't your way of thinking, but we have to get somewhere before we can get elsewhere.

before i pick a direction i create a diversion in order to avoid future understandings of correct grasps beneath our current sturdy surfaces, remaining blissful and transcendent, plummeting into a dimmer tundra without anything to hold you up, weak wings disintegrate and reintegrate into endless curved gridscapes.


beat me to death with a dead person



I have two things I want to tell you before I die. One: one time I died. Two: two times I died. Age and age and age, that's just what we are dealing with, hear me? we can access the ultimate hanging being: we build gelatin cores and bury them in dirt floors.



trailer hitch in a ziploc bag
fertile soil eats my palms

an empty wooden room lit by giant blinding windows
floorboards creak under dust

a flashlight illuminates the hedges
mechanical hens in rusted cages
omnidirectional midnight paths intersect unseen
i wish i were in space, dad

crooked stalks protrude and intertwine
polished plums on pedestals weep in close microtonal harmony

(the light is not anything because you are not anything and you are the light but you are not the light because the light is not anything and you are not anything, unless nothing is anything, in which case it's call leveled out, bra)



His fear of death can be broken down using Heidegger's analysis of the being-toward-death, and my fat tusks can be shaved down using a chisel and a pair of needle-nosed pliers. My name is Rugged Rugged Ruggedson, and I am employed in dealings under the well, which is under the earth. These are deep, deep places, and you can't escape them except by killing yourself and everyone else and every inanimate object, including the bodies which you have already killed. Death? What is death if you can kill everything, including dead bodies? Infinite killing. Infinite death. Deaths within deaths, starving starvation rotund bulk chops bulky chops. I reaped a million horses, and I am stronger than the strongest being in the universe, attached by two steel poles to the foundation of everything. Roped and tugged around like a raging bull, I scatter my ashes throughout all dimensions, letting them succumb to forces that are created by the act of succumbing; succumbing-based forces, if you will. Nobody can go back on what he or she has done. It's all final. No matter how much you want to go back in time and relive the old days, you're stuck right here. You can't speed things up either, except by taking speed HAHA. Okay, my lungs are lungs. My toast has been toasted; even before I wrote this, it had been toasted. It's getting cold, better toast it again. The more toasted it is, the more toasty it will be when I toast it again and again. That's what they say; that's what they say. Semicolons. Milk me. Money chops money slops, slobs, people who are slobs, some people are slobs and others are not. Let's group everyone into two categories. Beef is so good that I can scarcely begin to dissect it. I'd love to just look at a glistening steak for a day or two. A solid day. Or two. These days everything's a solid. Just look at your mutton chops. muttonchops. Mutton. What is mutton? Well, I can tell you one thing, it isn't flour, and this is basically a way for me to talk about flour. I once baked six cakes using the same brand of name-brand home-brand homemade flour extract. I made two thousand little flakes and then congealed them into a giant ball of metallic glop. You may say that my cooking methods are avant-garde, but they are only avant-garde insofar as they fit under the avant-garde category, bam, filed away, forgotten, done, move on. Gawk at me; observe my features. They may be oblong, but let's not get into specifics here, specific people, speficielsjf specific places, my undergarments, my larynx, all my parts, parts, parts of parts, pieces of pieces, legs for creatures without legs, for sale, five dollars per leg. Nice to meet you, now shake my hand, that's a good boy, do you know how to shake hands? Here, let me teach you, it's a social custom where you shake hands, done. Ch-ching, begin again. Step one, unload the ice cream container and feel the pressure released into you and you can feel it blowing you out from in, backwards and forwards, rattling your cage and stretching your bones, bim bom boom. Whims or whimsy? Whillickers or Whittling? Whittling is fun, let's explore the world of whittling, wooden whittled items are fun things to whittle or unwhittle; you know, unwhittling is just as valuable as whittling, because everything means more or less the same thing; just look at the backs of your hands and think about all the particles of flesh and how they're all stacked against each other and if they fall off they'll just be replaced by invisible mysterious forces. This is all just for kicks, you know. Kicks. I'm not doing anything like a thing or anything, you know? It's all just a bag inside a bag, Mr. Baggs. Rotund whittled playscape made entirely out of pebbles and stones and other words that mean things.

Breathe in, breathe out, I am not going to do anything ever again. This is it. When I'm done typing this shit, I will go outside and run forward until I die, so I guess that will be something, but I'm not going to count it as a thing, so it won't be. Rip me through and through and through, mean little mean bogs of bogs of toggled switches and boggled britches, corrupt, collapsed, classic classes, classed clappers, the clapper, the clipper, the rotund route and the route out of here; how do I get out of this building? I am self-conscious of my being in it, and it's getting tiring.