Cornhusk Lane

Monday dec6 2010


gotta glob out a few yards

of the muck of words and trinket to make room for the sinker and the hooks.

there is a push these days to make some sorta connection. to drawl some series of diagrammatic spiderweb draperies’ hugs over all these weird tangential references at the seams of me, the weird glib glides i try to make sense of remembering. my lady has some variant of the disease, we sneeze out the bigger world even when fanning ourselves with the quiet of intentional reclusion. there is a fusion of Quixote analogs and analogies here, abstraction finally presenting itself as nothing more than a veil, never a wall. the squares and their schizophrenia. everything is connected in a quantum perplexity laughing at our mnemonic devices, our constant chasing gold and ice, supplies and updates, dates that accessorize our midlife crisis. im doing well. i am doing very well. i will huff and puff and turn ye all to gold

quietude. sublimation. these kinda words keep flitting through my head like so many leaves and gnats husks of wheat slow scratching my palms in a million individual points of contact like an eternal tongue, purple in the bloody sky. everything layering itself around a few pristine bars of that A Beautiful Mind soundtrack. this is how it happens, profundity is always ridiculous and trite if you believe in dignity and presentation. i believe in warmth and entropy, revelations of eternity always being completely random and unexpected, nirvana always comes while eating soup in a poorhouse, discussing warm places to sleep.

there are the bares tracings of a million landscapes perpetually scrawling themselves in glaze over the everyday sight now. melody is way more important than truth. i’ve worked with like materials myself, i know how to apply the image but not how to tear it down, to smile calmly and think about thinks like clocks and index cards and waiting for a flashing hand to walk.

i talk and talk and talk but all i want is wind and sweat and a long road i get tired of, rest, and run back to. some understanding off the soundboard highways, inns and new names, some sound , wines and no lines, some ground of mine that aint prison


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March 27, 2012 · 1:53 am

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