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

rotundra

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

auto-division

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

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.

9.16.12

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.

9.10.12

handlebrot plans to can a smattering of cranberry hands

a stale ghost roughly sprouts crumbly cranberry hands

8.10.12

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

7.22.12

888--888--888

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)

7.17.12

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!

Done.

6.16.12

(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.)

4.23.12

this place is your only choice for an experience!

4/18/12

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

4.15.12

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.

~4/15/12

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

3/8/12

silence

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

12/8/11

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

12/8/11

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.

12/7/11

i turned myself into a big bag

9/30/11

glance stance

platinum marble

chrome chreator

9/30/11

a scholarly paper:

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

bibliography:

me

9/13/11

™¡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.

9/8/11

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.

8/17/11

mealtime spirals flickering

proscrape

8/10/11

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.

7/17/11

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.

Love,

Mom

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.

7/26/11

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

7/20/11

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.

5/25/11

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)

5/23/11

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.

4/25/11

i had a dream that i contained a thin pail of morbid fluid,

some of my throat came off into my hands and i stitched it up with twine

three little glass bottles sat behind a starched old windowpane,

my limp finger held by the crook of a wet rose stem

we were all a little damp

it was one of those grungy anterooms with pale splotched rugs and little baby chairs

sat down in an old green chair and read an antique novel

tin can crushed against a tree

squeaky metal belt buckles

silent wheels in long tunnels

unfamiliar spigot

done

4/25/11

busy tractors of moleville

handover hand

stale stanley

well, i say, might it have been a bin with tin, duke?

duke.

doohickey.

a cough that sounds like the word "doohickey"

HEY HO, I slipped on this patch. HEY, HO, I buried some thatch. WHEN, WILL, I, nelly.

4/25/11

"grandma torch"

grid marks on a rough-edged pulpit

i held my own hand and it gave way to a universe of hands, arranged in cheerful coils and swaddled in cheesecloth robes.

harmful harmonium

4/22/11

Travesty chops, anyone?

Milk my tits.

You can't avoid it; I am a clam.

My handlebars emanate plastic vibrations :):):):):)

Okay, so I have this little hammer and I have big plans with the hammer. Okay so here it is: I have these chairs and my legs fall over them like big fat waterfall legs. Grasp my cauldron of filth, you win, I can snatch things from you and use them to interpret other things so that I can derive information and use it toward some survival tactic, because if I died that would be bad, uhuh uhuh, yeah.

Kcik.

Magnify something made of wood, and watch the light push up through folds and folds and folds of billowing black cloth. Bury my trachea deep in the soil, rush through the air, brush with death, breathe so deeply that you melt metallically and transmute into tunnels. The end.

4/20/11

Fat people usually like fat things. Now this is great, but sometimes it hinders the progress of progressive fat people, who generally aim for as much progress as possible. Progress, progressing. I’m a cyborg.

4/8/11

"pills in themselves"

a poem by tricky ricky

stood up in my chair because i wanted to inspect the ceiling closely.closely as closely as closely as closely as a conscious moth.

ratbirds in a sky dumpster

little village joy melts into a paralyzed loin

paper is free

now let me tell you a story of the time before i died‎:

they scattered my skin across thatch and left me immobile for ten solid decades

i emerged with scars

my family lived in a glass dome

back then

we'd rented it from a local farmer

he was an abstract man with wild ideas

but his farm wasn't fit for his crops

as they say

3/25/11

A trolly full of yeast.

Yank out the little beetles carving away at rough skin patches.

Troubled trilobite.

Masking the sun with a leather strap, Barnabas reclaims the torch and crosses the threshold.

2/?/11 (collected hawaiian bitz)

I don't know you and you don't know me, so at least we know that about each other.

I have to take these shoes off; they've been bothering me all day long. My shoes keep investing themselves in each other and trailing long lines of taffy into various small tubular growths on the walls of our cells.

Milk pours forth from the glands, and I break. My matter shatters into cleanly cut triangles that shimmer through gaps in the void.

Prop me up in a feed trough and tell me stories that contain a lot of action and adventure. I want them to be told with as much vivid expression as possible. THANKS.

peep collar! jack daniel's fire chamber mouse trap hammer toed beaver claws shitty blank nipple hats i wandered through the empty alley with a baseball bat smashing glass bottles. croquet core cannon lager sheets and sheets of old crunched seaweed congratulations you have stolen the prize from satan.

I stored a bamboo shoot in my left pocket for seven days and seven nights. When I awoke, I was dead.

I want everything in the world to be made of steel so that I can build steel forts out of everything.

My collar is loose, buy me a new one. I am an asshole.

2/4/11

Do you like my hairstyle? I spent a lot of time styling it to look good so that I could get your feedback on it. After studying hair for seventeen years at the hair academy, I feel pretty knowledgeable about it, so I don't expect you to criticize me much; just compliment me. For I am the Lord.

I pumped the old steel heart and quickly withered. I fell off a cliff and broke into a million pieces, each of which was propelled into space to join the stars and build new irreverent systems.

Entirely new landscapes, skating forever across infinitely large expanses of metallic reflective surfaces, no more spoken language, no more pain, no more bulky body cages, no more thought structures, no more needs, just infinite mirrors and lasers, infinite notes playing all possible melodies at once...

1/28/11

I work in a linen factory, where huge thick rolls of linen are generated by ferocious throbbing machines.

I've tried and tried to show you how to hold the handle, but you just can't seem to understand the specific maneuvers required. This makes me feel very tense and stressed and I wish you would just stop not understanding things.

Some basic excuses for having all of your teeth missing:

Unfortunately for me, a feral dentist crept in through my window and removed all of my teeth.

I lost my teeth in a teething accident.

I got in a fight with my dentist and he won.

This is the end of the dental excuse section.

Some basic excuses for ending a dental excuse section:

Unfortunately for me, a feral dental excuse manipulator crept into my thoughts and manipulated all of my dental excuses into meaningless thought-dust.

This is the end of the dental-excuse-section-ending excuse section.

I had a pony but someone shot it because it was mine and the person hated me.

I had a bullet but someone threw a pony at it because it was mine and the person hated me.

I had a sentence but someone unsentenced it because it was a sentence and the person hated sentences.

Now let's probe the depths of the latest creations by splitting some atoms: Take the crook of my arm and pull slightly to the left. See? It forms an arc, you know, like you learned about in school. Nice, nice work. Yes. You're almost as good at learning this stuff as I am at teaching it. Now stay with me. I want you to gently grasp both of my lungs and think hard about them. I know, it's a little shaky in there, just stay with me. Rotate your face into this broadsword, please. I don't even know you and we're already having these kinds of interactions. What a day!

I don't really like your perception of me, so I'm just going to kill you.

Yeah, I've always thought that about carpenters. It's just something my parents taught me. "Have these specific thoughts about carpenters, son."

My boots are all strapped up and ready to go; just tell me when and I'll pull the cord and start the engines and we'll roll all the way home, singing songs about boots and straps and being ready to go.

Carve me something out of a carving utensil, why don'tcha?

I have so much grease on my sleeves. I wish I could get it off but there's just so much of it left from all the generations of greasy men who wore this shirt before me.

I shaved off the inner lining of my throat. It was fun at the time, but now I regret it.

My pants are too tight. They feel like pants. I can feel each part of each pant on each part of each of my legs, and that is not what a pants-wearing person wants to experience.

My neck is sore from all the neck rubbing I've been receiving due to neck soreness.

I have tried to manufacture things in the past, but I gave that up decades ago. Too much skill involved, ya know? Like when you start the whole manufacturing process, it just spirals out of control and before you know it you've spawned a whole plague of death dragons. I guess the real challenge is in shifting your original goals to fit the entropic results. Never mind.

Let's start a club based on our common appreciation of gelatinous things. We can call it, "here is a name that could be the name of a club," you assholes.

I've got the ol' carpal tunnel, don't make fun of me for it! ;)

I could try to make you happier than you are, but you could also try to make me more in a state of trying to make you happier than you are than I am.

1/25/11

"I want to play in a band," Bill Bakerton explains, "but nobody will accept me because I don't have the necessary attributes."

Bill Bakerton. Now here's a man who loves bands. He has always dreamed of being in one, but more than that, he has dreamed of becoming one. If you zoom in on any part of his face, you'll see a band. He plays the saxophone badly on purpose as an avant-garde act, but nobody appreciates it, so every night he weeps 70 pounds of tear gas into a special chamber in his house designated as the Weeping Chamber.

Bill Bakerton wails and moans with the sways of the tide, his saxophone gleaming in the moonlight, his coattails flapping in the breeze, as he flies over a mountaintop and up into the sky above all the clouds and into space, where he crowns himself king of the stars.

"Now I am the king of the stars," he boasts, "and bands are no longer a thing that I care about." I am boasting right now by writing this story. I am kicking you in the teeth by writing these words. Just take my word for it. Oh man, that sort of sounded like a joke or something, but I want you to know that I didn't mean it that way.

My gallbladder hurts. Maybe it's all the toxins I pumped into it. HAHAHA.

My tears flow like tears.

I don't really even know how I got here. All I've got are these two cylinders. I suppose they could be used as tools or something, but what kinds of tools are just cylinders? The answer is no kinds of tools. So I've got to figure out some sort of use for them. I could build something out of them, but then I'd need tools, and we've already been over that, so I guess that's just not even anything. Sorry, this is pretty tedious, I don't want to bother you with my problems like this. But you did decide to read this, and if you are going to continue reading it then you have to fucking commit to it, because I'm staunch and I hate you. Never mind.

Well, let me pretend I'm something else. I am going to tell you a story about a time I bought something from a person. The thing I bought was a dog. I guess you could call it a being or an animal or something, but the specific terminology doesn't really matter in this case. I think. The dog was about 14 years old and had no teeth and no legs and was blind. I took it home and gave it a soft pillow to lay on and fed it the best possible food, since it still had taste buds. Or at least I was left to assume it did. Sorry, this story is really bad, I'm going to slit my wrists.

JUST KIDDING. Sorry if you've slit your wrists before and I'm offending you by casually referring to it. I'm being way too cautious. Do you even know who I am? I am named Backstreet Boys Senior, the choir boy from the 18th century, and I own a pedestal on which I place different objects depending on some combination of my mood and the seasons. As the seasons change, so do the objects, do you get my drift? Right on. Oh, also my mood plays a roll in determining how and when it shifts. Sorry, this isn't really happening the way I want it to happen. So basically there's this pedestal with objects that are frequently replaced by other objects; today the object is a banana, yesterday the object was a flaming UFO. SO YOU NEVER REALLY KNOW WHAT IT'S GOING TO BE, I GUESS.

Alright, so I own a bus and I fucking drive it around and shit. You can go drown in a little puddle or something, because I don't even care about your well-being at all. I'm a bus driver. I have a Commercial Driver's License (CDL) and you probably don't, so I hope you're having a terrible time not having that, because I crave superiority and want to subordinate you.

1/24/11

Crinkle cut. Crinkle cut. Crinkle crinkle crinkle crinkle crinkle crinkle I have a hat and I am named hat hate man. Hating hats is my specialty. I own a small business called "Big Hat Hatred" and I own a large piece of farmland and a large piece of alternative organic earth life death processed farmland.

While we're on the subject of processing and/or processes, I want to tell you something: I am really into processed cheese. It's so soft to the touch, and I can look at it all day. In fact, my tears are made of it. I cry soft cheese, kids!

Okay, now let's pretend my name is Wranchwro, and I work for a large facility called the Stank Bag Facility. We deal with Stanky-Ass issues, like pocket money, bank accounts--you know, the works. So here I am tonight to let you in on a little secret: I am a little man. I've always been a little man. Now, being a little man, I know a lot about little things. Things like pocket money, bank accounts--you know, the works. SO, here's the meat of the issue: I can't see because I am without eyes. And the reason I can't see is that I am so blind due to my lack of eyes. Now you know some things about me. I am with you, here in this room, tonight. And you know some things about me. But I can't learn about you because I am inside a machine right now. And because I have no eyes. Also, I am deaf. I also have no mouth and no internal organs. Thank you. *Repeated bowing, uproarious applause--you know, the works.*

Now let's talk smack: Woof! Woof woof woof! I'm a dog! Hey! Hey! Hey!

Call me crazy, but I like to wield shit. I've never been so happy as I have been while wielding a thing. Doesn't really matter what thing; I'll wield anything, from porkchops to wingbirds, headshops to waterfalls, I've got 'em all under my belt. I guess you could say I'm somewhat of a belt champion.

Milking is quite a thing. I have milked animals before, and I have always been left with a satisfied feeling of having milked something. It's a very specific feeling. If you have ever milked a thing you know what I'm talking about. Milk. Milking. Milk produced after having milked a thing. You know, the works.

Alright, enough about milking, on to salamanders. Salamanders are interesting creatures because they are the only ones with toes. Yes, that's right, believe it or not, I have told you something about salamanders.

My toes itch. Chop them off.

This stage is a solid object. Feel that? That's a goddamn solid right there.

Feel my arms. Feel the muscles and sinews and even my goddamn nerves and tendons, watch my skin squish around and change colors and catch on fire, watch it burn, burn, burn, searing the night sky with fiery tendrils, explosions, battery jam blasts, hunks of molten steel, commas, spaces--you know, the works.

You punk bitch.

I ought to slap your head into a frying pan and fry your head up in that pan. Groaf.