Poprishchin (protagonist of the novel by Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol
“Diary of a Madman” by Ilya Yefimovich Repin)
“Words are ‘things’, too, but that’s another dimension.” (C. Faville)
A mother tames us, not with her psychic private-eye (although that is ‘in’ for mothers of the 21st c.) but instead with her indigo—transforming this filthy world into another—not taming my language when I say a “big word” unintentionally because had I just read an Anthony Burgess novel and my brain’s tongue isn’t quite on-cue, but perhaps laughing when I say that I can say “California” much easier than I can say “Schwarzenegger.” Not really. A father often excels differently: his eyes fleeing to avoid all eyes, will question his knowledge, will squat in his office or in his shop, saying, “Let’s have a little music,” when, in turn, translates to: “To lose blood slowly, and why am I afraid of the truth?” This is what I know, what I’ve learned. My mother has bailed me out of these questioning-loopholes. I see everything differently. Those same parks, the same factory-smoke in my face, all renewed with a die-for-you love; the way events can make you or break you, the way love can arrange a life for you in any place.
Where does the Peak go when it increases through the axis of the tongue composed primarily of natural resources unknown to the ‘role’ of speech that is broken but gluable? Is every poem a bio-degradable solvent that enhances the image that we sculpt? Simplicity is timeless. Difficulty is the excuse. Warped like a war. Bombs, decisive consequence (a love for hatred). A war is a flower given to a child; it’s thorns ripped off secretly, then planted into the child’s back when turning around to show it off. A worldwide defunct, like the unpleasant fragrances of silence. Quiet isn’t the message, but the sound is broken. My spine, the “Willans Line,” on this cold night. What could firmly bring me to this unquieted calm? There are no accidents. The toxic-waste transforms the sweetest aromas into the scents of the dead, of limbless trees, the unwilling Flap against Complex animals versus Indirect animals—Indirect individuals versus The Terrestrial Body of being bodiless. Alternating the absolute engine of necessity. Embodying all dynamically-materialized pulses in Maps that are pouring out of the face. Behavior is Unintentional for the most part. Subtracting a representation—dramatic articulations slipping through the ears like an arrow through fruit contrasted through silhouette; the chance that it could be associated with my heart is possible. Possibility is richer than reality. An applause. Illusions determined by the distance between the difficulty of what is sown is like the painted still-lives of plant-life that will never grow—that will never crisply-wither & die.
Captain Beefheart, the first to coin “Korn” in the musical titled atmosphere? (“Kandy Korn”) ...The rarity of originality always clucks like a chicken. Hm, I wonder if Mr. Davis (or, from the same clique (‘cluck’)) is a Captain Beefheart fan? And, if so, would he ever admit it?
Unclenched thirst, quenched, winced out of sour milk, unexpected expiration. The problem with poets is poems. Music from the computer, Le Mépris, makes me want to visit France. A brown thrasher peeks in the window, expecting decorations for its nest, my movement instills fright. I watch it fly away to the next tree where the processed-vocals of the music synchronizes with the swaying of the tree’s limbs, branches, dancing as if promising a tomorrow.
Slack is busted by jean-wearers. Columbus wrote to Diego’s son: “I would like to receive a letter from you each hour. Reason must tell you that I now have no other repose. Many couriers come each day, and the news is of such a nature and so abundant that in hearing it, all my hair stands on end, it is so contrary to what my soul desires.”My hair stands on ends and beginnings.
Artificial hills may expire, summer sweat perspire, repeated patterns never tire, repeated patterns never tire. Doggerelish rhymes in these Times are no surprise.
Last summer: The old man up the street who is always smoking a pipe, who says “my ol’ friendly dog” as if he wish the dog were something other than friendly, who would rather it never rain because he hates to mow the lawn, saw me walking up to him. He stopped, I stopped. We began talking. His dog began barking at me, came close to my leg. He pulled the dog away from my leg, cursing. I asked him how he was doing. “Not worth a flip. It’s hot out here.” I laughed, fakingly. He carried on, “Ninety-three today, you know?” I agreed (nodding), started walking. He said, “I just told the woman up the road how hot it must be in Vietnam right now. One-hundred and fifteen I’d betcha with the humidity and all.” I walked further down the road. He walked up his driveway. “Have you always lived here?” I asked, pointing at his house. “Ehh, about three years,” he said annoyingly. As we parted, I followed with a "take it easy"—He said nothing in response, just mumbling about the heat, the grass, how he had just mowed it three days ago, before it had rained, unable to believe the length the grass had already gotten.
Tonight, I feel like a poet. Tomorrow, I am not so sure. If yesterday was, at this time, Now, then the poet in me would be like a head hanging lowly. I’d divide, like violence, a silence to spread across a blank face. In my head, I am whatever I want to be. My outlook appears to be shortening. Shortening bread, remembering the song sung as a child in chorus with other children, feeling grey for the most, acting out the part just to get by. It sounded like shortnen, shortnen. I could relate to the Mama part. I went home one evening, in my mind, before the bell, as I sat in class imagining the song, thinking of fresh chess pie cut perfectly by my second mother’s skin-thinning hands, of which I never noticed until I became older. I snapped out of it, almost getting slapped by my “friend girl” with strawberry-blond hair, yelling at me, “Come on, come on!” Rubbed my eyes for an x-amount of seconds before getting my right shoulder nearly snatched out of the socket.
One afternoon, in 1998, Robert poured sour milk on Nina’s Mother’s head who was sleeping comfortably on a dusty couch next to an opened window in the living room. Later in the week, while visiting Nina, he poured their sour milk into the sink and urinated inside of the carton and he giggled and snickered to make Nina suspicious, but she was always accustomed to his antics, and she didn’t particularly like her Mother, so she was always quite thrilled about his heedless headless activities. I was always suspicious that Nina and Robert were a couple, because they were always flirting with one another, and she would never hesitate to entertain him with her flatulence. I was always suspicious, until one day Robert took a leak on Nina’s head and called her a slut repeatedly. I meant to ask him if he knew what a toilet was, but I never did, because I wanted to keep my head as clean as possible.
If the soul is a reflection of man, I consider everything edible.
Botanical print of Nepenthes Rajah, a type of pitcher plant
with a strange-looking purple and pink flower. (1901)
A mother tames us, not with her psychic private-eye (although that is ‘in’ for mothers of the 21st c.) but instead with her indigo—transforming this filthy world into another—not taming my language when I say a “big word” unintentionally because had I just read an Anthony Burgess novel and my brain’s tongue isn’t quite on-cue, but perhaps laughing when I say that I can say “California” much easier than I can say “Schwarzenegger.” Not really. A father often excels differently: his eyes fleeing to avoid all eyes, will question his knowledge, will squat in his office or in his shop, saying, “Let’s have a little music,” when, in turn, translates to: “To lose blood slowly, and why am I afraid of the truth?” This is what I know, what I’ve learned. My mother has bailed me out of these questioning-loopholes. I see everything differently. Those same parks, the same factory-smoke in my face, all renewed with a die-for-you love; the way events can make you or break you, the way love can arrange a life for you in any place.
Where does the Peak go when it increases through the axis of the tongue composed primarily of natural resources unknown to the ‘role’ of speech that is broken but gluable? Is every poem a bio-degradable solvent that enhances the image that we sculpt? Simplicity is timeless. Difficulty is the excuse. Warped like a war. Bombs, decisive consequence (a love for hatred). A war is a flower given to a child; it’s thorns ripped off secretly, then planted into the child’s back when turning around to show it off. A worldwide defunct, like the unpleasant fragrances of silence. Quiet isn’t the message, but the sound is broken. My spine, the “Willans Line,” on this cold night. What could firmly bring me to this unquieted calm? There are no accidents. The toxic-waste transforms the sweetest aromas into the scents of the dead, of limbless trees, the unwilling Flap against Complex animals versus Indirect animals—Indirect individuals versus The Terrestrial Body of being bodiless. Alternating the absolute engine of necessity. Embodying all dynamically-materialized pulses in Maps that are pouring out of the face. Behavior is Unintentional for the most part. Subtracting a representation—dramatic articulations slipping through the ears like an arrow through fruit contrasted through silhouette; the chance that it could be associated with my heart is possible. Possibility is richer than reality. An applause. Illusions determined by the distance between the difficulty of what is sown is like the painted still-lives of plant-life that will never grow—that will never crisply-wither & die.
Captain Beefheart, the first to coin “Korn” in the musical titled atmosphere? (“Kandy Korn”) ...The rarity of originality always clucks like a chicken. Hm, I wonder if Mr. Davis (or, from the same clique (‘cluck’)) is a Captain Beefheart fan? And, if so, would he ever admit it?
Unclenched thirst, quenched, winced out of sour milk, unexpected expiration. The problem with poets is poems. Music from the computer, Le Mépris, makes me want to visit France. A brown thrasher peeks in the window, expecting decorations for its nest, my movement instills fright. I watch it fly away to the next tree where the processed-vocals of the music synchronizes with the swaying of the tree’s limbs, branches, dancing as if promising a tomorrow.
Slack is busted by jean-wearers. Columbus wrote to Diego’s son: “I would like to receive a letter from you each hour. Reason must tell you that I now have no other repose. Many couriers come each day, and the news is of such a nature and so abundant that in hearing it, all my hair stands on end, it is so contrary to what my soul desires.”My hair stands on ends and beginnings.
Artificial hills may expire, summer sweat perspire, repeated patterns never tire, repeated patterns never tire. Doggerelish rhymes in these Times are no surprise.
Last summer: The old man up the street who is always smoking a pipe, who says “my ol’ friendly dog” as if he wish the dog were something other than friendly, who would rather it never rain because he hates to mow the lawn, saw me walking up to him. He stopped, I stopped. We began talking. His dog began barking at me, came close to my leg. He pulled the dog away from my leg, cursing. I asked him how he was doing. “Not worth a flip. It’s hot out here.” I laughed, fakingly. He carried on, “Ninety-three today, you know?” I agreed (nodding), started walking. He said, “I just told the woman up the road how hot it must be in Vietnam right now. One-hundred and fifteen I’d betcha with the humidity and all.” I walked further down the road. He walked up his driveway. “Have you always lived here?” I asked, pointing at his house. “Ehh, about three years,” he said annoyingly. As we parted, I followed with a "take it easy"—He said nothing in response, just mumbling about the heat, the grass, how he had just mowed it three days ago, before it had rained, unable to believe the length the grass had already gotten.
Tonight, I feel like a poet. Tomorrow, I am not so sure. If yesterday was, at this time, Now, then the poet in me would be like a head hanging lowly. I’d divide, like violence, a silence to spread across a blank face. In my head, I am whatever I want to be. My outlook appears to be shortening. Shortening bread, remembering the song sung as a child in chorus with other children, feeling grey for the most, acting out the part just to get by. It sounded like shortnen, shortnen. I could relate to the Mama part. I went home one evening, in my mind, before the bell, as I sat in class imagining the song, thinking of fresh chess pie cut perfectly by my second mother’s skin-thinning hands, of which I never noticed until I became older. I snapped out of it, almost getting slapped by my “friend girl” with strawberry-blond hair, yelling at me, “Come on, come on!” Rubbed my eyes for an x-amount of seconds before getting my right shoulder nearly snatched out of the socket.
One afternoon, in 1998, Robert poured sour milk on Nina’s Mother’s head who was sleeping comfortably on a dusty couch next to an opened window in the living room. Later in the week, while visiting Nina, he poured their sour milk into the sink and urinated inside of the carton and he giggled and snickered to make Nina suspicious, but she was always accustomed to his antics, and she didn’t particularly like her Mother, so she was always quite thrilled about his heedless headless activities. I was always suspicious that Nina and Robert were a couple, because they were always flirting with one another, and she would never hesitate to entertain him with her flatulence. I was always suspicious, until one day Robert took a leak on Nina’s head and called her a slut repeatedly. I meant to ask him if he knew what a toilet was, but I never did, because I wanted to keep my head as clean as possible.
If the soul is a reflection of man, I consider everything edible.
Botanical print of Nepenthes Rajah, a type of pitcher plant
with a strange-looking purple and pink flower. (1901)
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