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
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?
background 7-Eleven blooms a brightness
felt through slight roseate
walls unearthly room
obuled mrandelphunous rond vargonia
CHAPTER II : THE OLD HAND REDISCOVERED!
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.
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.)
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.
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
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.
™¡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.
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.
marry me to this branch
this place is so sick
i can't smell or taste
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.