: awesome funeral

8/12/2019 : awesome funeral

1/28


2/28

I hear the sound of birds reflect

Against the walls of the dark

The birds do not

Forgive, so, then,

Their sound forgives

And if the dark, a broken pedagogueCould goggle at the sifting of my heart

In the night which does not sift

But blurs into each movement

Living at the end of a noiseif night

Had eyes to look within my form

And understand the grind, the beat,

And understand the heat of the beat

If so

Would I be connected thus, to night

By thudding signals from my heart hoping

Hoping to catch on the bleak radar blipping

Out nocturnal blips?????????? ThuddingTowards the ruin of oblivious day

Hoping to find a pattern

In the secret of the shade; for, both

Are shades, my heart and night

And both beat. If one stops

So does the otherI would

Put money on the mortal muscle,

Rather than bet on the extravagant

And immortal animal of sleepthe sleep of death of night

I remain intact, a full person

In my knowing heart of blood in spite

Of all that tells it not to beat again- -Perhaps, my friend,

I will discover that in the healing is the disease

And in the suffering that ends

Without pleasure at it having ended

So these things are one.

It is in the worm of a phrase.

The importance modified without parade

Hushed as the fraud found out. The

Second and its minions

That all coagulate under the

Brutality of light . . . .

The slow light of the sun, as it begins

Cannot be much fun.

Dude, its not that Im

Trying to tell you the way

It is, but have told you

Something else, hoping

Yud fuck it up, and come


3/28

To your own conclusion. Can you at least

Cram the information described with

Meaning, and not leap

Upon franchisethe first

That pops up????????????

Swollen with the heap of dayThe embassies are doled

The certainties are proclaimed

To the reverberant hula of trumpets

Singing in the wake of a premonition

That is lost, dark, light and lost

. . . . . .

The WORLD is juxtaposed to human error.

I see the WORLD and find no error in it.

I see the people and find much error in them

In how they vegetate in the parentheses of living

An eternal stopgap, an abdication

That makes people emotionally lazy.

They have lots of hangups: disdain and conflict

Breach the sphere with imperfections

The delicate sphere of peace o o o to be back in the caul again

When mother beats the young human on within his heart or her heart . . .

The strangers who brought us into this WORLDTry desperately to make one at the least

Appear wellrounded and properly normal

Even in the obscene places of the psyche.

What I speak of: it is a serendipity, a perfection, an incorporation

Of all parts to make the summit

Revealed in moments, between others

When two people mesh their feelings together

Like amorphous clay, and know that they

Are comprised of a similar mould.

And moments of quietude when one is alone

And fathoms the somberknows it as equally there As the things less morbid,

And accepts both as having a place

In the WORLD of human error

And the WORLD is not so much human error

As what flowers, perfectly, from it

Like these affinities of the mould.

Like the somber, meshing with happiness


4/28

When one is in their unique aloneness . . . . . .

In an effort to create, the lines

Come single file, and naturally

Dissect each other, in the attempt

To get at the center of this phrase

Do not speak from the center

Of this phrase. Speak like a howl

From far off, an animal that paces

Along the embankment. Speak

From the fringes, as tho what you

Said made the air thick, and

Was humbled to whispers by the

Press of air against the sound

You made, a communication

That is a tangent. An impression

Of a hand upon clay. A figure

Emerging, supernatural derelict,

Head hanging down with the sameGrim flourish: his gabardine

Suit, draped over wiry bones

And hanging down, the buckle stringing in the

Wind. Such a figure will emerge

From the screen of the rain, with eyes

That are black whorls. A howl from far off.

This could not

Be something that you truly wanted

To articulate, and is trampled by a phalanx

Of more ominous images images that make

The air thick in its own perpetuity, as

Tho what we could not see, somethingBlithe as air, were to possess in its energy

A heaviness that increases

With each thrusting of the mindless wind,

As tho perpetuity were a goo

And air the thing

That must wade in it . . . . . .

So, I plant the seed

In the soil of my disquiet

Imperfect ligaments grow after a time from the soil

Each particular is a flowering each fearful detail

Seen in the sadness that thrives from an imperfect seed

I could deny this idiotic growth its permanence,

The severity of mistakes that haunt the

Flowering complicates the details of my sadness

While crashing the large statements together

As like a house of atoms, crashing

In a particle acceleratorthe plain sense of things

Solidifies into a cube of spontaneous depth of simple feeling

Augmented by the bizarre into chance clarity . . . .


5/28

Anyways: I could hack down the nature of the plant

With a machete, and leave it subsequently false

But then I would be hacking down my life

To only the good, to only happiness, which

Is not what life is wholly made of . . .

So I let the plant grow out its canker

And hope one day the plant will become beautiful

Sustained by my own magnificent sadness

So that, I can see some beauty in the sadness

But, then, I find that the parts of life, where I am content,

Appear naked, public, anonymousand, I find I can only grow

The green ligaments of life, can only grow

The dreams into theory and the theory into wrongness in this life

From perpetual grief. . . . . .

In the place where we are born . . .

Yu feel, immediately, a persistent nausea climbAhead of yur throat, upon entrance

To the place, as of one who stumbles out of time

And into a sort of fugue state: leaping out

The serenity of yur changing mind-

-And into vague turbulence; and, yu worry, because

There is a soft sense

Of something kind of evil in the air. Yu assume

That it is spring however cannot be certain that seasons even exist

Or if anything exists, besides what does exist

In this little fugue of yurs.

A trouble of violets shall scan

The scene, themselves surrounded by a brink of shiftingLilacs: this ornate isolation of overwrought architecture

And nude cherubim. Yu find that all of this is flanked on

All sides by a series of tasteful granite pillars,

Searched with vine . . .

Reminiscent of STONEHENGE, in how

The motives behind both structures remain

Doubtful tho numerous; often, strange.

In time, in time, the silly font in the center

Will go dry. Before this, however,

It will spool, copiously and

Vehemently a dream of water into

A poolheavy with motion.

This image alone could assign this plaza,

Which is a beautiful cage, to a site of significance.

In its churn, one finds the burn of a life

That has come thru: meditations, theories

The diligent, tireless browsing of a life

Spent within spangled borders. Troubling thought:


6/28

Ugh, loo loo loo! The vine no longer searches.

And the flowers, once flayed with

Technicolor are sparseand gray . . . . . .

My own is not my own, it belongs to someone else

And still I claim it as mine, since it is more

Important to me than to the other,Who is never around to enjoy it, anyway.

So I steal it, in the hopes that he would

Not realize that it was gone. I soon find

That it did not rightly exist without him,

It is now half of itself, when given me

To extrude its peripheral meaning

From the mire, and relate that to something

Quite intimate, though plain, and without detail.

Plain in the ways that what I had had before

Still had not been mine though I made a feeble attempt

To make it mine. This makes what I have now, plain

Because I cannot fully see it as my own

It is merely a temporal attachment to meRather than a necessary limb, an aid

To the anatomy that does not pass on-

-And so I give the thing back to the person

From whom I had originally stolen it, and

Understand that in order for one to own something

It must not only belong to that person, but

Be OF that person, a serious entity

That supports life without derailing it

By the power of it, the power of something

That abbreviates the levity of these dead syllables, and

And holds the indictment of the WORLD against it, with

With careless, tender hands . . . . . .

The attempt to cheat oneself out of the universe

And arrive with a clear head at the gates of HEAVEN

Without needing to explain that particular subject

That is, the subject of the shifting of the universe

I attempt to cheat myself out of a slice of that metaphor

For the sake I might profit from my own ignorance

My own forsaken knowledge: published against the walls

Of my brain, like ancient drawings

On the walls of an ancient cavemy mortality

Is a metaphor, a sensory metaphor; or, a type of intelligence that begs

To be taken back toThe truculence of early manhood, those days, those

Days when Answers & Truths denied explanation

Tho we found many of both they both

Led always to another frayed end, an end indeed

But frayed, an imperfection at the root

Of the circuits that seemed out of our control to extend back

To whatever Answers & Truths we had solidified

And the trouble was that


7/28

We could at that point find no frayed ends

And thought each Truth & Answer as impenetrable

. . . . . .

Since then I have not thought about any sort of ends at all,

Whether they lead back to definitive means does not matter

Neither does it matter whether the ends were frayed ends,

Which, actually, goddamn, is a peculiar way to put such a

Phenomenon . . . .

Tho my curiosity regarding these organic imperfections

Still burns to wangle a formula from shapes

It nonetheless has gone thru the dissolution of ice

Into water

And now the thing that I have left is prayer . . . . . .

I cannot tolerate serenity in

Words, excluding one particular Serenity: a seeking stillness

That makes the mind feel as though

It had entered another quadrant, more lucid

Of space and time, between the spaces

Of time. Fixing the figure, at the first,

In a spot of reality that grows more and

More confusing by the secondpacked

With strangenessand soon, we realize

The place: it is ours, tho stripped

Of that familiar concord between images

And, we are left bruised, and naked

And frustrated, with all the ignorance

Of a soul still in utero, lacking form And shape. Our own infant wisdom matures

Into banal intelligence, and, suddenly

The strangeness is gone, as the shine

From dross . . . that is, until

Resurrected, and cultivated, with

Extreme cautionaware, now,

Of a delicate situation . . .

Such is the persuasive carefulness I find

In Rilke and his poems. Only by means

Of longing for the meaning, could I find

The purposeonce typified in the exterior, and

Now gone beneaththe purpose

Between a muse so very fraught . . . In yielding with a weak mind

To this unfortunate alien

I develop in myself and for my friends

And for all creatures and all apparitions

A private clarity, in seeing them: a strongly

Deserved love for all the seminal creatures

And apparitionssome ugly

And some vile the visage of Eros


8/28

Can be seen, fully, in my mind, dominated

By the volition of years, of mortality

Fast encroaching encroaching towards

Truth, as the quiet angle of a shadow

Creeps with passing time across

The sundialbut, she is indomitable

Tho kind, and refuses accurate Translation: swiftly she forgets

Herselfas of someone virtuous

Who, for a moment, forgetting to be good,

Shall spike an explanation for the

The senseless will of a WORLD, abruptly

Switched: a wrong place, where someone virtuous

Might disregard patience, in anticipating

The ebb of vague desires to offend,

And show, in themselves, the antithesis

To all and every virtue that, apparently

Had previously been upheld and what

Is more was communicated, to others

By themthru mostly selfless actions And pious tonguesuch people, so it goes

Will feed the opposite and indulge the sin

Before it even has the chance

To retreat, as I have said, back

Into fabled cells, collecting forever

Tho invisible, behind the shadow

Of an Unreal Mind. In Rilke, I decipher

The painful peace of words that are

Bound, unwillingly, to depict all things

Beautifully, in both sound

And image . . . each word lamenting that it must

Be beautiful, in order

To be meaningful . . .Excessive peace mortifies

The subject and the inner conflict

It would seem, denies itself,

By how the words can sway

And keep the rhythms afloat . . .

Nonsense. Something more is required.

In X and Y I see no silent

Cacophony behind thoughts, which blur

Awhile, in the head, and blink away . . .

In these tired men of ice there is

No wavering on the brink of an idea,

Tho indeed, apparently the pause

Would be there, had you prior knowledge Of the pessimism possessed of each,

In private. The scope, thru which

Both saw the WORLD as but hindrance

To ageless death and death, as medium

Between themselves and more desolate

Discoveries that prove the WORLD

As fickle, and lacking consolation . . .

Well . . . I don't see it, because, well,


9/28

Even if these tired men of ice

Had any reservations, any impurities

The words they are too beautiful. They

Scarce trip over a root in the

Syllable. Nor do they seem to suggest

A quiet wonder for the echoes:

An accumulation of grim references, From an origin mysteriously robbed

Of origin. This is no simple scream, forced

Out and upwards from the scratchy

Throat of idle intelligence . . . rather

I feel that the muse by definition is inspired

To evade the nature of itself: a taunt, a character . . .

Created, within the troubled womb

Of its own, intense mind. Thus,

We find the fear in negative capability,

The terror of the sublime, sealed

In Rilke's German as a prophecy

To see such opposition, and push

Against it, and bleed out harmonies On the whirling structure of a strand . . .

Harmony, which, despite its solitary

Peace, and despite the lack of oddity

In languagewhich in itself can be

Superficialdespite all of this . . . .

Well, Christ, the harmony can still afford

To be harmonious, because

The push is still present, and the terror

Is still present, and yet absent

Of peculiarity, of deficiencyin other words,

The peace is the subject, and the subject

Is peculiar, tho the words

Are not. It is that push, that struggle To enhance the vulgar . . . .

To make something weird

Into something sublime . . . . . .

Look into the eyes of a monster

They roll like a paraplegic

It is necessary that in order

To destroy the eyes one must be savvy

To the clarity of purpose that is secured behind them

Passing itself off as furtive, plucked

From a timid sort of grace, and delivered like mail to your

Diversions, courtesy of that regrettable human blunder . . .

Yu go back to the post officeAnd tell them to return it to the sender

We tried and failed

To divert ourselves from thinking of that day

The eyes of the monster

Are continuum each that promise death

And the challenge is to die

Without looking at them


10/28

They are portals to a nether abscess

A place of the clouds to be engulfed

The build of the monster

Is never really known for sure

But the eyes are there.

The eyes I see clearly keenlyFresh as water on my tongue

After keen thirst

Description of her hands:

Loose and roving,

Each digit is a chattering,

Purposeless gestures . . . . . .

The eye is the monster,

The hand is her eye.

The scrape of the moon resides

Somewheres upwards from the clouds

The clouds obscuring in whitenessAll that makes up the sky

The sky revealing space

Of the greatest kind of intent

And a few pocks of planets

And the sun

All that we orbit, and all that that is in orbit

With: a larger reserve of gravity that yet splices

Into smaller relevance

And, at that point, the perambulation

Is already blunted, severelyand, yetgravity builds up,

Thru some fluke: a sort of act of revenge,

For being so small a point on the chart.

This is not food for thought. This

Is the tranquil being, bled. This is

The product of our peace, our peace made

With our galaxy for shrouding our universe . . . . . .

The day drags on. The day

Is without color or insight,

It is without all things besides

The fact that it is a day

That drags on

In the hopes that monotony

Thru repetition might become

A more fruitful evening

From a wistful exertion

That merely clogs enuff

Between the morning and

The afternoon to spike

A fever of thought within


11/28

The dome, and leave me

Thinking of my duties to think,

Which will result in strungout

Feelings, and intense, repeating

Despair that bleeds into

The next day

A more sobering thought

Is this: what if my inability

To get things done were only

Constraints against myself and

The reality of discovering

Higher reasons for quitting . . . . . . ?

An echo from out the primordial dream

Splices the future of our thresholds

Into a present reality, as we awaken.

A section of who we are remains in the ancient ectoplasm-

-And, as we go about accomplishing our futureBy means of memory in reverse to fathom

What has not happened yet, the present sickens,

And reality becomes loose and out of focus

The perimeter is fallen from the VOID

Like something collapsed to the proponents

And the fragments of the splice of my future

Live in the lonely regard of this inimitable reality

Unwilling to connect the memory to its dwellingplace

Unable to take the memory of being, inhumed by TIME

And place it in the echo the echo that is real and vague

As footfalls on the stairs, during the night

Heard by one who is sleeping in the next roomAnd this is another dimension of the killingfields of TIME

My eyes roll back into my head as I recollect the perimeter

That once had kept my future and my past from the skew

Skew of useless investments, in no such inimitable present

But only a dream, without sound enough to cherish the echo

This being the perimeter of the VOID in a cage

Caught like a brontosaurus in the tar of my past

So that it would not mingle this future of mine

With a memory that goes in reverse; a league of clarity

Reveals like a magicians trick, and deems the curse

To be lain within these seeming words . . . . . .

I could not tell you now what I had

Previously been thinking of, even as

I think the same thing now as I had

Been before. The reason for this is

That as I calculate what I will think

Of, what I had thought of is compacted by

That process . . . compacted, and folded over

Onto itself into a miniature


12/28

Cube of rage

In an attempt to go forth and characterize

Yet another thought as being mine, the

Cube distorts the process of all forms-

-Of thought in general until it is all A single, absurd dithyramb, which,

In being caught up

In motion, for its own sakefails

To rein in the purpose behind the tangent

In question, and leaves that process

Without constant life. I do not know

Why this happens, but can tell you:

The original thought has been

So far mangled that I can barely

Discern what it was. As a result

Of this, I take my shoes off and

Throw them out the window, so that

I can bask in the nonsense of thought Without thought, place without time,

Decisions made about what to do

About something in which it is

Better that no decision be made,

But I decide, anyway, and am left

To decide again . . . . . .

The beautiful image is at rest

It once had been an image for the kings,

And, now, the varnish, lost: the numbering of stones

That bud along the swale of the muddy margent

And now it is an image for the poor

Faceless as a stone, an image left alone

To reveal in trembling weight

The astonishing persistence of the real

But a reality independent of its purpose,

It burns out the psyche with mysterious

Beginnings

The beautiful image is at rest

It once had been caught up in motion

So that no image had been there

But in the motion of something absurd

That concentrates reality into a wallop

An artificial blur, an intimate blurSeen only clear by those who are at rest

Thus, the image ceases to be an image:

So that the waste of the poor at rest

Can mangle it to suit their own absurd clarity . . . . . .

The image creeps, you do not know

The image as it creeps, but only after,


13/28

When it has slowly gone away from you,

Leaving an imprint of itself for you

To decipher, any way you wish

Entering a double space outside of space

And thus not. But what is the space

The image, and wherefore it creeps,

What are these things???? DetermineThe image first, and what accounts

For ityou find, shadows are profligate

In this area of the state

And bloom like termites in the wood.

The image is full of shadows

A variegation, summoned as one

Tho it is bleak, like the faces of those

At the funeral of a bad, bad

And evil man. The definishun of the image

Is aimless. It describes a wide

Circumferenceyou rely on

The fact that there must be an endIn there, somewhere; tho you seem

To find no end but one that you yourself

Are able to conjure from a broken

Synapse in yur head, rapidly

Bleeding out. The image

Is a farce. It holds the power

Of a mutant, in that

One first must see the normal way

In order to detect anything that defers.

The image creeps, she creeps and creeps,

And does not stay for long, and goes

Off as with the purging of the sunFrom sky. And so, the image dies . . . . . .

I have crossed the desert of the mind . . .

Western winds flay the dark dunes. My skin is caked with sand. The sun

Is burning my face. The bite of the sand

And I have in the desert night, seen the moon

Cradled like a rheumy eye

In the impression of a cloud

I have a pocket where I put the things and people-

-That have lost meaning. The pocket

Is full of isolated theories and vulgar and general ideas

And, the pocket is itself nothing:Well, not true: Its an eddy where things thrust into it

Flush in a cleft of darknessfight to be freed

From the discipline of hopelessness that

The eddy condemns them to feel, robbing

A sense of duty from the SOULs of those

And whatever enters the pocket: the duty to return all the

Flatly proven things, to the moment before they were

Proven, flatly proven, by a wrinkling of prophecy:


14/28

A diabolical pleating of the embroidered tablecloth,

Or, a notch of significance, somewhere in the fancy

Piece of tasteful furniture: a small rift in the curly continuum

Perpetrated by the ultimate apparatus: a vessel of obliteration

Given license to obliterate fantastic perfection

At the hairy hands of the small

Child: flashing the unreal fangs of his toothy grill: enamoredBy various destructive feelings, given action to their shade in his nearly

Scientific wielding of the apparatus:

With a whiplash, creating his creation

Of a notch within a universe of perfect furniture: he whispers weird evil

In the other room: the volatile,

Mistaken room, his large words

Left unheard, but to the immortal, unforgiving X:

And this must happen if the intrinsically meaningless thing

Is to gather back whatever it was that was right about it

And, each thing in my pocket speaks to me of its existence

In a voice that is not altogether sadBut mournful of the peculiar power that had been

And now, as the years pass, is no longer peculiar,

But power, indeed. Sigh. I look out of my window

And see the people cross their own deserts

And ford their own strange ways

And live the lives I could not live myself . . . . . .

The point is made

The point is made without considering

All the dangerous upshot of that point.

After a little meandering through knowledgeWe uncover to our horror a lack thereof

To be in conflict with what we know-

-We thus contain a lack thereof

Within the same sensibility: seeing

The truth as whole, we thus

Restrict our lacking knowledge to focus

On the question only

Which could be wrought as iron from imperfect thought

And by doing so, we garner the ability

To display the truth, if even

In wrong forms. We examine the mythic

Side of the coin, and, we find the examination

Yields little progress beyond the sanctified Thoughts we started with, and, which

Now seem doubtful.

So you take that point and you make

A nave of it: a sultry moon

Reflectd off the water abruptly disturbd

So that the moon is cheapend by the look

Of the water. So thus is the point


15/28

Or, at least, what it becomes is not so much

Than the reflection of a greater object.

And then, the point is made again,

And all that could have been left out

Is put back inall not taken into

Account, is receivd, by the message That that point was, ultimately,

Trying to repulseandwe see the vast

Reality of being as being but a moon; or, rather

A blip fast gone but shorn slow from

Memory, and, in such absence, the mind

Creates its own nave, its own fickle moon-

-That reflects all our stubborn ideology

With an exaggeration of the factual moon, a counterpart,

A pale, wan eye, contemplating serenity-

-And yet we see that vision as unreal

While the copy of this vision, veritable,

Maintains the stronger doctrine of our SOULs . . . . . .

The millions in your heart each count

A chord, for you, upon the harp

It is not haunt if it is art

And harp goes quickly down the strings

And beautifies the feeble things

The millions in your heart are dumb.

I recall, as once a boy

That faces and appearances

Seemed without clear difference,

And each one played upon the harp

Given identity, thru music

There is something that relates

Without a rhyme. In time,

The ellipse, the arc will swing

Down, unable to hold the curve,

And such a harp will tell of millions

On the other side of the ellipse

Most of millions hurt somehow.

Most of them do not know the hour

From the day, and live the dour

Pursuit, without knowing a

Familiar root.

I will now strum for those millions

In the heart. And the millions vast abroad

The sky. The sky is soon found

To be a vast mirror

For the EARTH

The mirror is a metaphor for millions

The millions are the curve of the arc


16/28

The arc is the swaying of the chord

Upon the harp . . . . . .

What knowledge I have of myself

I have distorted. I would not be the one

To ask, regarding my secrets

And the noise they make in my brainIs a soothing falsetto

I am contained within an embryo

Like so many men and women before me

They have gone on to live lives

Both fulfilling and tragic

And, the scene presents itself:

I squat on a bench, in the park,

Watching air drift, as though

I could see the air drift and I watch the leaves fall

Onto the ground, littered

With grass and strewn debris,Experiencing the slow coeval

Between the oaks and their branches

And their nice leaves, and the specter of chill

Wind that moves the leaves, the nice leaves

Experiencing this, I am someone else

Remedied by the everlasting nodes that spike

To fit my ends into beginnings

And drain the meaning like piss in the shower . . . . . .

Behind the compassion is rhetoric that

Tries to pass off itself as a giving way:

Yu impart unto me yet another ramble, barely sustainedBy elliptical mantrasunresolved, petty logicwhich yet yu see as grand,

Because it is your own brandtho logic itself

Is not enough to ease this hunch of mine that this monotony that yu are

Repeating to mefor the zillionth timethis harassment is not merely

A natural reflexbut, indeed, is the work of a deliberate obsessive:

A subtle retaliation against my own antagonism

Developed naturally from the start of my life towards most others even

Just to quell the teasing antennae of this my sourceless guilt . . .

Behind the compassion the useless rhetoric

There, I find the reason for this clot in my arm.

Until I have used up my scattered wisdom

Until the wisdom becomes too scattered . . . When the crows on the bough dip out

At once, and, one of them, in haste

To catch up, loses control and crashes

Into a windshield; when a man positions

Himself, every night, at the same table

In the same bar, and stares through round

Glasses at oblivion, and sometimes the

Waitress' assin these instances


17/28

I will find you in my mind, and, perhaps

Hear your dissonant

Laughter, and see, finally, the arsenal

Of pathologies that nurse

Each guttural declarative, as would a breast,

Yu massage the lump in yur throat

Back down, into the pit of yur stomachLeft to rot and languish down the chute.

Behind the sun of your words I see the night

And in each night a darkness never known

Besides in haunted corridors, where the symbol

Becomes yur mind, and how you actually feel

Is suddenly oblique, and the inclination to be kind

No longer seems apparent. It depends on what

Door is opened, however, and that is crucial to understand.

As you tread carefully down the haunted hall . . . you wonder:

Which identity are you fated to receive? Disingenuous qualities

Of the self you builtfor so long trapped

Behind the bogus door you end up choosingone of many doorsThat number down the symbol of the hallnow, once freed, they roam

Somewhere in yur scruples, and, the WORLD seems

Really uplifting, emancipated from the interstices:

These demons, funnily enough, eased into the position of virtue

By tribulation, so that, simply by quaking under the seism of bad things

You who harbor daily demons

Assumed yourself as someone

Wiser than you were, and, more confident

And more poised than you were, and so then-

-Became these things, simply because it was

The way you thought yourself to be,

Based off of yur own horrific experiences.

But in each topical rant and personal miserere

Was the same dispassionate talk: the same

Pursed thrill injected into the mundane

As into the importance: the purpose fragged

Before it is released from your lips;

You are a figure that stands on a figurative

Ledge, about to drop. You are a sanity

Forgotten, and so then judged insane by all

Except for me. But I never will understand

You, or the dual credit of your words . . .

Will they stand resolute before time?

Will they disappear within a minute's hush?

Will my absent body again be given hands To grab the wheel?????????????????????????????????????

Each is a petty circumstance, compared

To what I could have had, and even when

I receive that, there is always some

Trouble about it, so that it never appears

Right; even when I fix it, the stain

Remains, like red wine on white linen.

This relic of my ancient life is given


18/28

To you, and, I am left to cultivate my brain

And hear the pulse that snickers in the wrist

And only know an image of the rain

Upon your hair, as my eyes opened

While we kissed. They shone, in the gray afternoon

Like orbs of condensed space, reflecting all

But what they are. This is the image That I am condemned to remember, as tho

By reflex: when my eyes opened, I noticed

That yours were not: dark eyelashes

Dipping upwards: solemn girl: the brow contracting

And, then, relaxing, as if shaking off some cosmic pain:

Some everloving assumption that could redeem you

And destroy me in the cage I built for us-

-To starve, together, in disembodied guilt . . . . . .

Passing like a wane each ghost

Consumes the spirit of the one before

While the ghost before wept, for being out of touch

With being. It could have had its way, It could have said what it needed to say

But then, the rhythm spikes, and the wheel turns

And suddenly the ghost before has lost its voice:

To be spoken in a different way

By the ghost after. The wheel turns

And, what any ghost could claim

Is lost, between the furtive lines of being.

Thus it would seem that the wheel is forgotten time

That has suffered too much the blear of consumptive

Minutes. Thus it would seem that each ghost

Represents the breaching and altering of origin

They do not move into new forms, but merelyEtch a difference out of what always was.

The ghosts they walk across the EARTH

Tweaking and manipulating the core of the EARTH

As if by making it sound an altered elegy

For these ghosts innumerable, fixed in purgatory,

As if by making the EARTH swell with hate

Each ghost could then learn to hate hate, but simply

Because it was popular: the ghosts persist

Not so vacantly thru the disorder

Only to come to some different malefaction

Appearing righteous for its reason to destroy

That only appears righteous. If the ghost beforeHad seen what the ghost after had made of the EARTH

And, the ebb and flow of it . . . . from something living so long

As to be extinct, to something formative and oblique

By this we see that each ghost is the specter

Of a former malignancy that struggles to be righteous

And only ends up distorting the pantomime

And mangling the origin, in the chase to describe


19/28

A finer sphere, before the final ghost

Invokes a new beginning that denies the summation

And restricts all that could be to varying, unspoken

Melodies of rancid time, a time that is fallow

And rancid. A time before the origin is there

That dismisses the need for ghosts to speak

What should not be formed in words What should be left unrecorded

So that we may heal our own unfinished specters

Without displacing the specters to external ghosts

Who build upon the other, and eliminate the summation

By expanding it. We shall leave the final word unrecorded,

And reach the summation

By eliminating it . . . . . .

That's what I would figure would

Happen. Cuz things don't work

Out stupidly unless we make itOut to be a stupid thing that must be done.

Have fun with that. Meanwhile,

The corrugated cardboard day whines

Out. Simply

Because of these other findings things

Are left up for grabs, and everybody

Like pigeons to bread, clucking to the beat of

Masticating.

That's what I would figure would

Happen. Cuz things don't work

Out stupidly unless we make itOut to be a stupid thing that must be done.

Have fun with that. Meanwhile,

The corrugated cardboard day whines

Out. Simply

Because of these other findings things

Are left up for grabs, and everybody

Like pigeons to bread, clucking to the beat of

Masticating. Shit

Whines out. You

Look through the window, like

A tired hawk out at that lady,

Checking her bagFor keys. The sidewalk

Burns in a slope down past

The limits of what you can see from

Where you are. After getting

Up from your chair,

You sigh after an improbable indulgence.


20/28


21/28

That things are perceived . . . . . .

When one is in the grave

They do not think or feel.

When one does not think,

Or feel, does that make Them dead? Perhaps, but

They still breathe, still may breathe,

May go about their daily

Chores, without once

Refining the nuance

To obtain, at the least,

A bare sort of personality

That strains to act on something

Of much importance to them.

If one does not feel, then,They do not think to feel,

Since, up until this point,

There was no need for empathy

There was no need for sympathy

To become the body a wreck of itself,

For the sake of knowing of pain.

To become your body of glass

And know yur mind the same as glass.

There is that, and, there is to rely on the

Intrinsic value of things,

Rather than connect yur lack of sorrow

The sorrow of all the musty masses, to an emptyPlacation: that you seem the same

As the musty masses. You are yur body, yu fiend,

You needless product of sperm and ovary

Married to possess all that is wrong

In a single soul of elegant sensibility

Deigned over by a mind, without doubts

And yet, he errs, this man without thought

Or feeling. He knows that he will err,

And does not feel a thing, in the

The parts of his brain that are a lagoon of bile,

And slowly, deeply, he learns to cave the screw . . . . . .

I am about to meet a friend and say my peace

I have beaten around the bush for long enough

And, many times in previous engagements

With this particular friend

Have made myself out to be a fool

There is much left unspoken. Incurious, distracted

Friendship: I might as well have scribbled an oration


22/28

For what was left unfinished, instead . . . the scratch in her aspect-

-The kink in her style is a way to apprehend the formula behind

These coded witticisms,

This irony incarnate of a girl: aloof, slightly hostile

Without meaning to be, and yet

Confined by some eternal lethargy of the spiritin such a formula

How could one expect to equate the figure of a look, This look, right now,

Which is nearly humorous in how enigmatic it is,

Regarding needless complexities that ultimately project

An obvious pretense:

The look shapes out, between us bothbut was initiated by her:

A halfsmile,

Flanked by lucid, blue, accusatory eyeshow could one equate

All this to a deep attention that we share

In guessing in our dusty brains the one's

Opinion, for the other

Which the other assumes is not so deep at all

The cold look that quashes an inherent

Sense of want for the other to breach and see Lusting after the pitiful tooth of a grin.

What makes it so cold is in how she distracts herself

From an importance to which we relate mutually:

The unfinished, secretive glance that seems deranged

We look at what is between us, and clear space

Rather than look at what we are looking at,

That is, ourselves,

And, one to the other, two feet apart, allow to mingle

Only our silent, odorless breath. The air we breathe travels

Silently the distance of that clear space between our two

Bodies that never seem to touch

And mingles what we cannot see

I am about to meet a friend and say a few words Some of the words will gather falsely

The fire that burns at the back of my eyes

Venting out smoke from out the edges of my eyes

Tells of much that will remain unspoken

And much that is left to burn in the breeze of her breath

The relation is strong and weak and tame and wild

This importance shall engulf us both one day

Until we are forced to express everything,

Only to find the depth of our mutuality

Located in the secrets we had kept from one another

That burn, and imitate desire . . . . . .

When the first rains of winter hint at the coldness to comeWhen the rain with time soon is not rain but hail

That tamps on the aluminum siding and soundlessly

Against softer surfaces dives and is expunged

But partly only partly and becoming shards of ice

Remain and yet remain still pieces

Of what they are, and are thus not what they are

And in this way the power of the hail is expunged


23/28

When the rain is not rain and it is ice

When questions you ask yourself intend a force

That reels you into the base heart of the matter

Except when it rains, and shades

Over the reality with something grim

And destructive

When the sense of touch is placed in a shard

Of hailand thuscannot be touched, and

Only seen . . . since, well, fuck, all that has the possibility be touched

Is condensed within the shard, rather than

Existing outside of it, to be fondled

By tactile impressions,

Which are impressions that are outside of my hand

Well then, the neat placation that you speak of

Regarding what you sense, in turn, to be real

Is blurred a bit in this image of the rain

And morphs and is disfigured by the hail . . . . . .

These insidious references to lost youth

You talk and talk about your past

As if it were the only life that you

Had lived

And now, you say, no vibrant vibes are left

And there is only darkness, but darkness

That deceives one into thinking there is light

When the only light is artifice, an embryonic

Sense of more to come, of more that could elucidate

The sense . . . and you go darker still.

Where could you go from here you say,This wheeling tune of dawns-

-In the brain . . . the dawns that play

Like music to represent the pretty

Lies you make, about having other plans,

When all you want to do is jack off, alone,

Trapped all the while within an eternal

Construct of nascence . . . . . .

What I feel is not quite anything

It is a dispersal of shadows and light

As they translate through the jaws of the tree

And invade the room, like a trifle dismissedOnly to resurface in the midst

Of a problem that does not seem to end.

One could witness the tree out there

Thru the pane of a dusty window

As it grows slowly, slowly grows

What I feel is thick in its own evil mask


24/28

What is right, what seems to be right

Slipped into a guise. What is wrong??? A seconds

Thrift of doubt pervades

The guise, the avatar,

With a sense that what is right to it

May just be a farce, perfidiousness, a seeming.

This doubt: neutrality, insistent, trembling:

It keeps me up for nights on end

And has me looking at the tree thru the window:

The simple strings of shadow and trembling light.

We spent years together one night.

I never learned your name

But knew you, whole as all hell.

What came of this was nothing

But life, wasted . . . . . .

Where would I be without my coffin

When I am spent the WORLD goes black

Where would I go where I went yesterday

Could not be gotten to. This simple, single,

Cohesive fact, as it turns out, seemed to be all I could reflect on and

It would remain all that I reflected on,

For all eternity, because it was the last thing

That went thru my headbesides

The bullet: this fucking box into which I am placed is not

Quite the end that I was looking for

The coffin is a diseased metaphor

That trumps the ages with one final conundrumThat drumming in the heart of a man

Drums a frenzied palpitation. When

I am spent the deathless minutes

Press forward, indifferent, bemused

Minutes without place or occupation,

They merely are. And what is not

Is all that can be rightly forgotten

Without the plastic paramour of minute

To hour, and hour to day

And the coagulating of brutal light

Suffers in the termination of the day-

-The day licks upon the sides of my coffin I am surrounded by a haunt of eyes

Some of the faces are weeping

The eyes that pair in people looking

Upon my coffin, wishing to land upon

An intractability, an answer in the wake

Of death. I told them to bury me

During the evening, and they have,

While the sun shifts in differing canals


25/28

Thru the trees. The roots of the trees

Feed on the mulches of the men like worms

On the mulches of men and women,

Placed beneath a tonsil of stone

And each stone a body and a life

Put carefully down to rest in the drab cemetery:

A location of solitude, where one can hear theBuzz of cars from the highway next to it

And see as backdrop to this fiasco the structure

Structure of a chuffing factory that looms

Over the scene of my funeral like something uncaring . . . . . .

To look at the kernel of a thing

To know the existence of it

As a difference between molds,

As a crotchety tenant

Coughing in the next room

To know such a thing:

A crotchety tenantWho coughs in the next room

This idea, this intelligence, is such

Not the thing???? This definitive, tho absurd example

Without context, or, any sort of purpose

To the pomeis that not, rather, a poignant focus

On the kernel of a thing, a hideous thing????????

And to make peace with meaning

Is to uncover the alien that happens

To be behind the curtain, toiling at the controls

With webbed hands and large, expressionless eyes

This presumed, unfettered reality

This infinite xerox that portends

A blurrier image of the thing As and when we first saw it

Infinitely blurrier and yet never disappearing

These dissonant confabulations

Of the bizarre . . . . . .

At last I have reached the disfigurement

That most likely resembles me, or, at least

Who I was, when walking by the shore,

Alone, and compelled by a singular force

To move on and away from the ailment

That brittles bones, drains the reserveOf the complacency to be siphoned from my will

To collect beneath the riverbed, like oil

And I wonder what is left to be preserved

When from the rig no oil gushes

And all that is left is the wind on blackened rushes

And, what little decency I have left to barter

Is destroyed. Why preserve the things most important?


26/28

The solution to these troubles cries, like a martyr

And I am seeming impotent.

I have morphed and changed, delayed gratification

For something, something not enough to equalize

My rough ambitions, appealing to some impudent

Demographic of the nation, who see the WORLD--As an inconsequential blemish: they are anxious

In the choosing of their own disguise to fit

An imperfection: they are held in place by this infection:

Ambition: youthful phantasmagoria: Spent ways, fortresses

Made of sand, by the children on the beach: something

Illumined for a little while and prized, and then, washed

Away: the failed edifice left to be gawked at by

Young, blinking eyes.

And forgotten, quickly, before the merit is packaged

In the brain, and all my disfigurement guarantees

Is the torture of changing my own sacrilege

For the sake of nothing but tattered clothing And some air to breathe.

Leave my disfigurement alone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It once

Was inimitable, and now it is bygone, and has a lofty sentiment still

Without utterance:

A whispered sheen of obscure/equivocal dawn . . . . . .

The usage of the sun, changes

Into light, from

Another light . . .

The visor is gone. Before this happened

I knew that mother could

Only for so long makeThe wrong, into enormous right

By sight

The flowers, the trees,

This culture of brightness . . .

Sans finesse,

Sans every shade of

A shade, of a shademade into

Exactly that. Now, one has knowledge

Of the ledges, peered over.

And the dropping fall

And there is nothing left to this

Matte of privacies.

These details of

Leaves, and grassimages

Grieved to show their shorn parts withal

And prove the power it took

For our eyes to look


27/28

At blackness, fighting

To digress from the mouth of

Blackness that launched us

Launched us from an ancient conceiving

And left us walking walls.

There is no more of somesuch typeOf a world. Winter hinted at

Such a thing being not long to last.

We all woke up, and went outside,

And found that the streets

Were tame with heat of latter spring.

Apocalypse?

People asked. People

Whispered to themselves that the universe either

Was interrupted by the grand jostling of

Proponents: some satellite breaking

Apart, in the heavens; or, some seismic

Heave, shaking the dust The eleventh hour

The mitigating vore of senses,

Is now no kind of mouth to eat what

Always wasjust to produce some

Tingling, in the brain

In flowers in the trees

In the stout mooring of building and

House, there is place not accounted for,

Nibbling on the corners

END.


28/28

: awesome funeral

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