Friday, June 28, 2013

Zodiacal Irreligion and the Havoc of Heavenly Haps

Episode Seven

In which during the month of heat and thunderstorms
The Mass Kedman
asks;
"Is there
an end to life?" and
says "You monsters are people! Everyone
wants
to go to heaven but no

one wants to die" and vice versa

"This is where the Hips begone," Mr. Marley malapropedly misspoke

 The man who worked in the lending library, sat there, reading comfortably in what looked like a reading nook. I imagined we were not in a store, in the city but in a cabin deep in the sea of trees. This man was reading in his cabin and when we left, he would open the door and go on a hike where the air smelled like icy pine mountain death.

A lark, alack a larch.
He peeled back the face of a shag-bark hickory.
 I pressed my whole weight into it, letters
grooved deep in, pressed firmly against my face, leaving
behind a backward M+R in the empty

hollow of my freshly shaved flesh-

I became a madman.   I become the hunter. 
Snow falls through the pine boughs and covers
Us in a fresh white page I
rip out the bindings I
recede multitudes I
take leaves of the grass I
gutted squirrels.

 I met Paritosh only twice, but the second time he made me give him my address. Gibran's The Prophet arrived in a neatly wrapped cloth package.
It's been 4 years and I haven't returned it yet. I bet he is still in his store.  I imagine it is not a store.

enAss


One time at a waxy museum I thought one of the tour guides wax a was person cuz he wuz just standin' there. Naught movin'.  So I goes up to hem I does like "who the guck idis spose tah be" then he just looked at me and laughed.


 hole.Time

You are the future.

Mornings, The Masked Man tries to look so tall,
unless he is still asleep
or half a sleep
But if there is a girl
nearby
And he strides
up the high train platform,Man tries to look so tall,
el masqbre, eye-
-ing her one hand
holding her skirt against the breeze, the other clutchin
her brief - ings

And then are split apart into multiples again:

One day there were high rise office buildings
and tenements and grids
girding and alleyways sunk down under with rain water.
Then one day she came with them.
tearing them apart from within
like an overfilled balloon.



The Unending Battle of the Sexes (Past, Present, Not too Distant Future)
 
 
Cloister walking 156th street and midnight stroll souvenirs from the neon 7/11 where people were recently shot.  With large guns.  At close range.
And
I said to her mordaciously  that you have absolutely no idea what in the world you are talking about.  We steeped the hill and broached the porthole door wherein found us three sofas closely parked around an old Magnavox television, they were there, watching a bearded Roy Shneider, on SeaQuest.



A Bronze Bell


A bronze bell.  That's what it was.

Two week ago I asked my friend Edi to paint my portrait because she is an artist and she does art.  I told her I would pay her, and tried to get away with the conceit of paying her after-the-fact, but she, (like a good artist who is almost thirty now and no longer an imbecile giving away the fruits of her labor for free) insisted on my paying up front so then today was when I got the results back.
"Is this what I paid for?"

Yes.  Yes it was.  A bronze bell.


Vitality Valley

She's 26.  During the Mid-life Crisis of Dionysus he watched Archer work at ISIS crying "Why's this not mine" like I wished...  Bing!  Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar, and be better off than you are, or would you rather be a mule?  Or a double-amputee struggling emphysemically to breath three an oxygen tube.  Through.  I want to trademark "MyBad".  mybad.org. The Elysium Corporation, maker of "green" beauty products is owned by the Clorox Co., a Fortune 500 company with more than $5.5. billion in revenues last year.  Their CFO is reading the names of flowers followed by their unpronounceable secret latin names.  I remember promising myself to catalog a dictionary of sounds people make when they sneeze.  I just remembered why my teeth taste like beer bottle caps.  Tim McGraw was  33 when he recorded "My Next Thirty Years."  Jesus was 33 when  was asked "what is truth?."  Pilate didn't stick around for an answer.  I forgot to close a parenthesis in an email this morning and now I'm going to feel off for the rest of the day.


Ret Fleedom Ling

let's explore limitations
stretch your neck till you sweat, girl,
just vent that frustration
lively, delicately curves wet, girl
eyes examine my radio station
pole.

She laughs.  She laughs in quick clips.  A glow spreads across her tender skin.

My armpits smell like pot smoke.


It’s time again.

Er, Ring


Pale window peregrinations and temporary fixes
Pilate dreams like charcoal drawings.
Utility is defined as maximizing happiness and reducing suffering.
The moon, gently evanescent, is going to California, in search of stardom.

ps can you mbake me a bulky cherry pie in a skillful and passionate way?

A Complete Lack of Considerable Changes

That littlest tear in the fabric. A Best Of list of ferret riddles.
The sunset red laments of the confederate want ad. The perfection of all dying things.
The dollops of starlight that spring drops you through the nightclouds.  The Rejoinders of the Llama Herders.


Okay, I forgot to tell you all I have been failed to build up the nerve to talk to this pretty girl in my math class all semester and then on the final day I ran into her three times outside of class and she spoke to me.

I never said a word,  Never will.


Forever. Unending. Infinite. Unquantifiable.

Fortune and Glory

"I think when we're young we kinda want to fill the air with notes,
it's kinda a natural
youthful exuberance
in the young player.
I listen to my old records and I think
Goddarnit take a breath'
you know?  And uh, I — ”
"It's very impressive," Marion interrupted.
"It is impressive,
But it's more impressive to play one note that means something.
Now, I'm trying to slow down.
Slowing down that's the-
the-
that's the art."
-Phil Woods

  

Episode Twelve.

In Which We Meet The Masq'dmn, and he blogs about The Nice Girl From Somewhere Else and finds Nothing to Talk About and Talks About It.

May 6: The Office ending and Jim and Pam are going away and I don't want to lose them and I don't want to lose her.  I listen to Alexi Murdoch and I miss her, thinking of her crush on John Krasinki.  That was like five years before five years ago.   I don't miss her all the time.  I used to miss her all the time and then some more time happend and for a lot of it I didn't miss her.  I didn't.  That felt like a short time.  Right now I do.  That was a long time.


HOUSE

Lately I've been contemplating the beauty of trees.  Partly because we're looking to buy a house and the parts of houses that I'm most excited about owning (aside from the bookshelves within) are not parts of these houses at all.  I'm dreaming about a yard.  If there aren't any trees, I've been planning on building a bunker.  I've always wanted to build a bunker (to put inside some bookshelves) and on top of it I'd plant some trees.

It's difficult shopping for houses, as anyone knows, but I have stringent stipulations for a property, and among them it cannot be in so deep a city that there is no room for a yard, and it cannot be in the suburbs because I have a strange unsubstantiated and yet unmitigating fear of the dark heart that lies in the bright avenues of the American Suburb.  Fascist rows of houses all the same with spray painted skulls on the interior garage walls briefly visible when they raise the door to drive out at a quarter to dawn to join the workforce.  Or children, on a playground, selling crystal.



Revolutionary Youths who Quit the Struggle (because they did not realize what an impact they truly had)

RobAndLeRoyBrownInc: I used to think it was just me who went through periods of hating their friends and family.  Turns out its every single human.
dMskdMn: Yay humanity!
RobAndLeRoyBrownInc: Boo humanity
dMskdMn: It's not that bad.  Not all the time.



Again with the Poet tree


A vast sky refigured, flashing

buds scrawled
on black limbs  -
spring trees.
\
/Trucks yawning Ag supplies down
Highway 9

your hands are cold.
your eyes are steady


The clouds all flushing eastward

Through streaked glass, the accused
billows
[past]

A line of elms/
\Waves.
 

Em.Real.Fine.

God is real, she said. “Could this be a real thing?”
Sure,” he said. “fine.”  If people say they feel it, it has to be real – in some form or another.
The question is what kind of real is it? Are all these people experiencing the same thing? Is it learnt, or something we are born with? How common is it?


The End of ('Dis)continuity
Or, the long blank-verse, streets ahead of the groaning populace of this great agrarian lostland.What makes the study of history so fascinating is that the perception of discontinuity exists within the context of continuity. "The historically ignorant believe in absolute novelty; while those with a smattering of history are apt to believe in no novelty at all; they are blinded by the discovery of similarities.  Beyond that, however, lies the discovery of small, but sometimes crucial, differences.

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