thing in the morning I went directly into debt. Early worms,
you know: “Dead, it’s what’s for breakfast anymore.” Please,
it’s the least I could do for that fat class war on wallpaper. Patriots
may act, but I prefer to bend (and really, I mean, wouldn’t
you rather be fish-farming?).
that day we all met downtown for a bit of ringworm. It was
warmer than useless, less priceless (now just $19.99 plus handlebars
for all this and wait, there’s more!). It’s the
same but really, no, it’s the same. And besides, I can’t
drive until I’m six times more likely to have tumors with a
mild case of laryngitis. Not that it won’t turn up on
my website (text me, K?). Not sold in stores.
time it was all said our work is never done, the water had boiled
whet stone dry and plenty of blame to square round lay at the foot
of my doorbell jar. I sat up with a start (who doth be this
hour at that late?). Just the Greeks going bump into that good
night darkly? Well, as they say. By the way, any Who’s
in the audience tonight? Give it up.
thing tomorrow morning I swear I shall foreclose. Blood everywhere:
it’s the only way the neighborhood ever truly goes. (Not
right this minute. I’m occupying.) Here, the wall,
you can’t see? Honest, it wasn’t meant to be so
very derivative. At least it never trickles down.
shot? No? Shit. What, then?
a scale of one to, oh, say, ten, who are you maybe? Was it
mother dressed you over, or was it someone in the water? Strange
your moth wings slyly furrow just like tiny browbeats. Got
Silk? Bilk whom? But think down on it: is any body merely
biological any more? In a word, it’s all about the pain:
tilded, granular, or just this side of rare bird. Know what
it means? At the end of the dalliance, I am but a caller in
your daily hospital, now, don’t jump to confusions. I
mean. Sun or man the scale, it’s all or one or ten, remember? It
ought to get right at the concentration, purse the rosy tips, turn
down the eyes, lips, and hardly bother not to warn them: they’re
sure to go all about it. At least our very own lost grail blows
neither this way nor there.
zephyr, catch drift? You, the only child to turn wine back
to the well, are never beside the point of every departure. Sancho
may have said it best: not so easy being mayor (much less when cities
are so solely fungible). At some point, listen, just put the
colors up on the wall, square by squaring circles and cones and,
well, all your Sunday geometries, lo. We really cannot
hope to creole so much shapeless sound without another day or two
more spare pins and needlepointed. Oh just divine, oh look
at it just, would you? I’m not saying doesn’t mean
I don’t care. It’s that there’s space, see,
then there’s world: it’s a certain quotidian state of
indifference, and there’s nothing you nor shiver my worm can
do to stanch the flagrancy of it all. Flood water water, the
impossible streets of these architectural nightlies, see? Doubt
not. It’s all just to pass up time, wait for the morning
stream, oh most frangible transmutationist. Out the window,
rest your surfeit: everything appears to remain the same.
his doctorate in Romance Languages and Literatures from Harvard
in 2008, and now teaches in the graduate program in Cinema and
Media Studies at the University of California in Los Angeles. A
poet, visualist, and freelance curator, his intellectual pursuits
range from experimental cinema and aesthetic philosophy to experimental
archives and visual culture. His work has appeared in Annetna
a short-lived, multilingual journal of experimental poetry.