NOTE FROM GOD. LIVE AND RIPPED OFF. 8/15

".... A CRUTCH YOU'VE BEEN USING

TO GET BY,

ISNOT AS HELPFUL,

AS IT USED TO BE."

(NEVERTHELESS YOU STILL SEEM QUITE WOUNDED, GIMPY-ASS)

"LET GO OF THIS PERSONAGE, OR THING-AGE
AND TRY DOING THINGS ON YOUR OWN."

(MANIFESTING; CAT:CATTING, MAT:MATTING, YOU:CARRYING)

YOURSELF, FOR ONCE

"YOUR SUCCESS IS PROOF THAT YOU NEVER REALLY NEEDED THE
ASSISTANCE IN THE FIRST PLACE."

(DEAR GOD, PLEASE ALLOW ME TO REMEMBER THE 1ST PLACE)

THE OLD GERMAN MAN SAYS TO WRITE IN NUMBERS

#'S--YOU SEE!

AS THEY KEEP THE PURE FORM OF THE SUPPOSED EXPRESSION...

SO I PRAY.

FOR STRENGTH AT 29,
FROM THOSE EITHER POSSIBLY DEAD, DEFINITELY ROTTED,
OR POSSIBLY NEVER TO BE
LIKE SHE SAID
"DADDY DADDY"
YOU'RE ALL THE SAME ANYWAY...
I PRAY FOR MORE WITHIN MYSELF
TO BE.

--thanks to Holiday Mathis and the morning paper left on some table somewhere

September.

September found me rankling,
intemperate
somehow both closer and farther
from you,
Old things fading, always extrinsic,
external,

Like the garrulous middle age women at the far table
Trading stories and whiffs of perfume
Over bottles of half-filled California Chardonnay and yellowed martinis.

I remember the bartender, the bathroom, and the wine list
Landmarks as if I was going to tell you how to get there
Find it, in time
Like you could.
My eyes, aqualine, seeing the world in a crystalline
state.

(“It was nothing,” the crumpling woman whispers out from the cloak of her hood.)
The old man turns uneasy,
stepping tremulously up the creaking stairs.

Do we feel pity then?
Store it for some time later, when we can accept our own disbelief.
While the worn, decrepit face with knees looks behind his lanky shadow, cautiously, at the landing,
Wondering, for a moment, where he came from.

The number 9 in his divine memory, as he looks for a button in an elevator, some new way out...

(Did we once have a sanctuary so divine ?)

In the last moment, the one before the turn, the fear is something palpable
Is it us seeing him or him seeing us?

Or the silence,
only moving on to more of itself.

We do not exist in relation to anything but ourselves.
Another’s maudlin apparatus so grievously unattached
to anything human in ourselves.
His next theory will be so overstated
It will merely prove its fallacy on the tip of a flaccid tongue
While you watch the forecasted glory of your species dwindle into the flecks
of well projected spittle
from another's open mouth.

But remember this
it is always up to the audience as to who is trying to make more of themselves.

As the 9 women
their bobbing pigeon heads
their pointedly pointed fingers
And the crystalline specter, I saw, in youth, with liquid eyes.

For Emily, lost in thyme...

* 1 *

HE TURNS TO ME QUIETLY,
LIKE SOME ONE YOU WOULD KNOW.

THE MOON SHOOTS HIS TONGUE DOWN TO THE SIDE OF MY FACE AND EXPELS FADED DREAMS AND CAVENDISH SMOKE FROM THE TIP OF HIS DRY MOUTH.

IN THE MORNING, WE ARE LEFT WONDERING WHO PROGRAMMED US THE NIGHT BEFORE
LEFT US SO GLIB,
OVER THE OTHER'S NEEDS.
THE ANTICIPATED DIATRIBES,

YOU BARELY NOTICE YOU ARE RECITING LINES WHEN YOU SPEAK
YOU ARE ODDLY HAUNTED BY THE GLARES OF YOUR OLD STUFFED ANIMALS.
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF THEM,
EVEN AFTER THEIR GLEAMING BUTTON EYES
FELL INTO YOUR MOUTH AS YOU SLEPT
.

* 2 *

FUCK THE LATENT BOREDOM IN YOUR HYSTERIA,

YOUR NU-FUCKING FIXATION ON THE FACT THAT EVERYTHING WE DO KILLS US! WHERE DID YOU THINK THIS WOULD ALL LEAD?
YOU WHO WOULD DIE AT THE SIGHT
OF YOUR OWN BIRTH.

* 3 *

A CREATURE WHO HAS LEARNED TO LIVE WITH
ITS CONSCIENCE, DOESN'T HAVE ONE.
AND HE TURNS AWAY LIKE SLICK RAIN HEADLIGHTS.

(I watch films about some mythic journey, and walk to the corner store.
She ignores me)
...her eyes are open upon the floor.

* 4 *
THE

OLD MAN IN THE BASMENT TENEMENT HAS
AFFIXED EVERY RECIEPT UPON HIS FOUR WALLS
THEY TELL OF HIS...YOUR...
CHEMICAL DIASPORA,
SEROTONIN GYPSY,
SCREAM...

... AND YOU ARE.
LEFT HEAVING INTO THE MORNING,
WONDERING AT ALL THE NOISE AS YOU START YOUR CAR.
WONDERING HOW FAR YOU HAD TO GET
TO COME THIS FAR
YOU ENTER LEAVE ENTER
LEAVE
A MILLION WAYS AND DAYS TO GRIEIVE
PERPETUAL DESTINATION
TERMINAL DEPARTURE
OUR ONLY CONSTANT.

* 5 *

HE ENTERS LIKE ANTIQUITY
LIKE THINGS BURGUNDY AND UNWHOLESOMELY GENTEEL
HE TURNS AWAY LIKE A SKYSCRAPER
GLASS PANES SHARP, AGAINST THE NATURE OF A SKY AND ITS STEEL.

* 6 *

THE MOON RECINDS HIS TONGUE AS MY TIRES SQUEAL...

(untitled)

(untitled)

This world is an insular, elemental madness
The purest tincture of an insane pattern
Something invented in a form so pixelized that it flows both outwards and inwards,
An unalterable synchronicity
An electric braille, collapsing and blistering in a unison exchange
A convexing concavity
An innumerable number of appliances whirring
Mechanical animal - inbred half-breed
Left with a certain fixation, sedation
of what was once ash and ember, now made unwholesome, in some one else’s mouth

And at how we are eaten...

Eyes crazed gently by some extrinsic ideal of symmetry
grafted on closer to the stem
A programmed polarity of our opposed thumbnail nature
An ice-nine implant, brought to the chill of fruition
So that all the trees systematically salute their intermittent and, yet, sequential
grace
in a forcibly linear display.

The ultimate vacuum of both and not, yet, neither.
The plaguey drone of the insect hymns in the Grand Canyon.
The ripple-echo of the city crazies
traipsing up the town
screaming out the names of things that have yet to be invented
as if they were drunk and wild obscenities
A maddening Adam

The lightning above the Mississippi
Midnight, rain steeped, old children dance on stone ramparts
leaving memoirs of acid and sin and
the way it laces the eyes and kisses the water’s shifting skin
And, in short
it reflected a pattern
Of not-fear, of nothing, but the movement that compels it
seamlessly, seemingly senselessly, onwards.

5 Strings, 7 Suns

Five Strings, Seven Suns

I used to believe in dangling marionettes
Limbs expressive in limp dispair
Bright colors falsifying eye’s light, expansive expression
Sweet small hands, tangled strings

(“But Father,
I have made it dance.”)

A poppet. A swaying waltz.

Days darkling now, upon these lessening books
And my fingers dangle thusly
Charcoal smear on an eyelid singed shut
Words that know suppression’s convenience
Strange fantastical displays - evasions on tea cups

(And yet you drink wetness)

There is no midpoint here - no signal
No speck marking the halfway
We reminisce easiest divisions: markings of thread
Sylph’s thin grace to slide
Away or nearer to some judgement { spatially }

In this, All are Declined

Helios, Phoebus, Apollo, Hyperion, command these lines
Curves, caught behind ourselves - de-emphasized
Morning’s soft granite walks - each step behooving,

Only light creates shadow.

The portrait’s dark-half insinuates madness or grief
Are we to claim both?

Luna, Diana, Phoebe, Selene, silver-footed slightest queen

My friends dream through walls.

Hush, for these are your crucifix headlights
Showing us these harsh strings
Are we dancing? Others watching this waltz
Of marionette sun. And poppet moon.