sandstorm fragments

There there. there you are, Prometheus.

When will you sloop off, anyhow, with your pronouncements?

You fucked up.

Once you gave us fire, the world was warm and communal.
Then you gave us electric light, and we stayed up well into the night
penning our darkest, most secret and poignant ideas,
all those that were laughed away in desperate terror of private society,
in the fascism of the social paradigm. Smile, you motherfucker.

So you came last season with a new gift, the television, to do
away once and for all with the cinema, that mighty conglomerator
Western mankind. Television. We all separated into our rooms,
our couches, our television dinners and iv sacs and coloscopy bags
and bathrobes and grimy three days old underwear and watched
images of our better selves broadcasted bright across
the living room floorboards.

We began to live vicariously, or to rust bright in
the bleaching rays of Hiroshima, bent tranquil and placified-icated
by myriad white faces and polos, gentle scenes penned by the
bloated Bronte advocates of magnificently overwrought
marriage spectacles, of the ostentatious birthday fiascoes
of the nouveau riche bourgeois bitches, of the immaculate terror
the nightmare society of an american high school extended and dubbed
indefinitely and forcefed to the gibbering goblin youth of a
Thousand countries.

Is this our final solution? The politicians finally got
it, then, the only real hindrance to their eternal dominance
was never any external scapegoat they could rustle up
to distract the masses from the shitty state of
their own lives, rather, the politicians greatest new battle strategy was
to merely

merrily inoculate the masses against any image of beauty,
the urge to chase it, to create it, to recognize it, to recognize what is not it.

They watched Daphne fleeing in the forest, and the moment
she stopped as a spruce they covered her in false snow and ornaments,
plastic birds and tiny business cards of local real estate,
pizza delivery and telephone psychics.

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In a certain light

oh tonight
all things clear
the wind blows low and sweet
the walls creak soft
they’ll speak freely out
the tap stops its drip, sips from a source
edging in an ear, my heart my chip
red and fire in strain my drumming pulses
purple outshined redness stretched on my streets, swapmeets
as night overtakes my wound roads’ gleam & steam
and here on this empty boat of cold sheets reflection
i am a thing entirely about you green rhythm pouring grass and trees

like a giant with a conch shell amazed on his knees

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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

Recently Reclaimed

its the same as ever, the guilty reprobrate grasped in retrobate snare, slip sliding weeks into years in an endless flood of distractions and minor disasters blushed out of their utter significance into the mainstream. none of this matters. nothing is sustainable out of this cadence. got to move brisker, organize, lean out, get some glare in my eye and some flashes of hunger over my teeth. im finding myself too caught up to daydream, just the shitsap pop pulses bleeding the world out of my mind. got to get to it, soldiers are cutting us down

and thus…

“New Canvas Coping”

inimitable power of subtle gesture.
sparsity and grace. simplicity and obstruction

birds eye view of night cityscape, potentially seen past silhouetted/highlight birds and tufts o cloud

nightsky spectrum studies against silhouetted suburbia features: power lines, rooftops, local trees and lampposts, traffic lights, fencing, bridges trains and glowing highways winding over hills, traffic neon veins and stretch mark glares of refracted light

compulsively compelling emotive silhouettes intensely focused away towards things, attenuated advertisements rearing their cajole carol and cavort. lines of sight, unreliable narrators, second person, omniscience and edward hopper

unreadable texture

spirals of tree branches bending into circles against sloped circle hills, refuse, tall grass, raising mist, nudes floating in dream, illuminated dust and jewels floating their way into star

strangers blurred along the subway winding stretch

cast light transformation as sky color reflects on pale textures and surfaces, battles of color and glow, benches and braidwire hedge fences, folk sleeping in newspaper quilts over vents in spiraling wafts of steam and cast traffic light a la gustav klimpt subversion

treeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees. in all shapes and situation

birch forests trying to bend over a vantage point, the quiet approach of a shadow in a bright sky snacked on by sparse branch canopy and simple line repetition, rhythm of color echoes
orchards and vineyards in arrangement and varying dimensions, partially obscuring into mist or fog, beams of sunlight, pools of water, strips of suborbital suburban simulcras, roving bands of dogs, termite seeming trails of cars and ants

mountains and chasms in sunlight and shadow at twilightor dawn

constellations and star clusters, versus time lapses traffic trails, inebriated travelogues

architectural elements juxtaposed to soft shapes and shells, transparent jewelry boxes, feathers and hair

hair floating in water as per natalie

footprints in moss and mud, near water

water and reflections, car reflections, reflections on bottles

studies in blocking and cropping

mall as a monster

seductions of the city, civilization elements as a giant woman, accessories those of the town and its consumption

empty parks and arrangements of trash

what is the purpose: gaining closure, celebrating transition, heralding change, encircling vision and conscious attentiveness, enforcing defamiliarization, earning awakening

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come you starting

Paris, I don’t know you
dont know you at all
no idea I’ve awoke
adament damp in a basement
Five months wandering more, in the halflight hum
mornings’ big mantrabooks and their murmured complacent
with silhouette watches end climbing my wall.

I chased you through recital halls-
through the boneyard resoot smoking screens
past ragtag prof en train recount
lustbroken, housewived streetcat schemes, l’or
grease, fuzz italic, clicking sad the breeze …

i ran after you sans mobyette
with only my own footblood guiding me down, downtown
damn train took me three days to rise and deliver
still more to start searching and spinning, for rain
dust rings a’counting lesson, impression, time, pain…

thirty days and night merge, at the glistening dew
at the dawn in the haze and the mention of you
ghost whispering by, float blank sheets of red paper
resolve paleface eyed, prism glass paned rue de…
ark, reflect twice mailman indecision, my motive, and means, repetition, toward true…

i traced my face grey again down as you waited
this then what i know, what i do know now
ask nothing but time, and i’ll shiver a smile
teeth sharper than wit, or trust, domestic life
and my back to your lack of a question

as thirty two cobblestones down on a copper
a story condemned as she douches in warm
sterility spread to a camp and a capon
more press presentations on theory and form
vacuity theory, then theory, then form.

O france wheres a frenchfried hotspur now
your gallant prosaic towards now bathing brined
daily image, the lukewarmed gloss-covering curl
and image, my france, your morosity defined
at your theoretic, heretic philistilosophers shrine

exprime nothing and more, you dark sunglassed messiah
polarize merely but all, the foul carion call
in long fingered gyration ache photomatation
shoot! lecturing crowds skimming one quoted fall
at the tour camps quantified lime all spent, & the great big magnificent blue tv set,
feeding us leading us each to a stall.

And to each, and to all, and all.

( o sun,
come you starting the making of making of
dust from the waves on a cresting magenta of
webs from the eyes of these postulous things
in the midst of forbiding the dream from the gleam
and the meaning from seeming the dream? )

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spinning wheel

Image

looking out the window

everything is rotating. Everything is radiant. Everything is on radials, resplendent.
Yet doubly distant. Where are the names for these faces, the shadows I’ll love in spite of- losing track of the minutes and routes, you can’t go home, Cohen moan-groaning roses and wars, things by any other name, warden of words. Dry fire. Haneen leaned over my shoulder, what is that? A mass of spirals snaked across pages. War of roses. She reached over my wrist and traced opposite three characters, right to left, consonants. That is rose, she said. I’d been living backwards.

Sol, lucero, diamente, estrella y rosa. Always lost in the sea
There is one word for “blessed” and “wounded” you told me seriously
1.80€ one way, 40% volume established 1820.

(Thomas, who had spent the last ten years of his medical practice working exclusively with the human brain, knew there was nothing more difficult to capture than the human eye.)

Unter den Linden, Ranelagh, Termini, Benedicti, Saint Lazare San Francisco Seattle. Saint Stephen’s Green, Saint Steven’s awful mall coffee. Expense, theme, curtain. Palestine spilling against the wallboards, a country existing in slides and picketlines, the smell of oranges and bulldozers. Drinking parting glass, il bicchiere dell’addio. Congruity continuity particulier à particulier. You and I are imagination and ink. A candle within oval lantern, several glass panes and million tongues of flame.
You burn me this distance, though you are cold to the touch, whispering wind or gurgling water.

Your lips are all the wine in the world, or the other way. Your eyes are my fiction, your feet moist are clinging to the earth, wet from stamping roads and postage. Your diction is the silence of 4am direction unknown. Your obligation is nothing. Your hairs are maps and lines at theatre. Your retinas carry the pale subterranean glow of the eternal cinema.

Watching you I’m dancing across the emptiness of these rooms where we’ve met ourselves, amidst the randomness of all, attracted by chance, attributed towards youth. My truth is hunger. My promise is slightly overcast, showers ‘o chance. My dance is series of entwining mosaics of luggage and lipstick that I let to drift alongside roads.

Sur la mer il y a un grand pré, après- que le grand vent qui vente

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pushing past all that


I’ve got all kinds of drama. Hear ye hear ye, exciting shit, you’ll laugh and cry. Its shoveling in like coal to a railway car, burning away the landscape, washing out my life in sound and fret. I’m all bound up in money and possessions, this cat is highlighting the direness of my otherwise dour situation. This washington wonderland escape to visit marsha backfired in a million senses when all the dough i’d gathered for june’s rent bounced, i came back with nothing for july intending to pay late. there is none o that, however, they’ve sent a fiery letter demanding $200 in late fees plus the other $1000 worth o rent. I currently have 400. My lease, moreever, theoretically ends August 31st. IE one week after school begins. That which is already its own cataclysmic story, I’ve gotta go and get a rubber-stampbefore i can register for any classes, and point out a real “track” and plan towards graduation, as I’m a 7 year super senior at this point. I’ve got no plan. I haven’t looked at what courses would make sense. Haven’t given it the least thought. In fact, what really concerns me is the fact that I’m scheduled at work, that i gotta be there, ive got no choice, all these expenses are wobbling above me and threatening to come crashing down. Like the traffic ticket that burned the tower from the front door up the staircase, ever threatening my garret at the top story. This girl is all keen on seduction and leaving, lost dreams and bookmarks. This one wants a fling. And this type here, girl never wants to let herself depend on nobody. one girl moved on, she’s so big now, beautiful as ever shes an artist of her own, laced of by words and 9 hours of difference, 7 spins around the godhead. paris is my home, its so far from me. These people don’t love me.

or better

 

My homes a secret; for beggars, liars, cheats and

dreamers with heart.
We don’t stop, don’t sleep, look back from afar: it glistens

like stars and salt

 

[pushing past all that]

a blog i sincerely posted implying i was sincerely posting this blog on that blog at the time signifying

THHAAAAAT i would begin blogging in earnest. which I haven’t, ive just shuffled the same posts from site to site fleeing google and the vacuous vain urge to show off my stuff, corrupt the anonymity. be that as it may.

the post


This is one of many blogs I purport to maintain but do not, in fact, maintain. This has gotta change, no? i came across a giant stack of printed sheets of paper in a dusty desk drawer today, it was a record of old myspace blogs, hundreds, stretching from may 2005 til the time i was preparing to leave for france. the whole world somewhat fell apart around this time and i lost all track of time and diction, phenomenons i’ve been noticing and adjusting clumsily to ever since. something excruciatingly conscious, and awkward, happened with these two years wrested from an otherwise normal cocky kid. a monster was reared outta adversity. anyhow i’ve been observing these blogs and realizing that all the normal metabolic and practical functions other people have for their psyches and planning capacities are entirely latent in me, evolved to manifest in the written form outta habit, but otherwise entirely silent. i had almost forgotten the fact that without it i just collapse slowly inward like flan, ignoring the passage of the world and focusing ambiguously on things like colors and shades of emotion, endless microcosms, microanalysis, divorcing myself further and further from the real worlds, any attachment i could have with them, etc. so i’m working on it. working on rekindling the instinct to writer, to hash out enough words to realize that i do in fact have to plan, i do have to reflect in a real, concrete form, i do have to consider bonds and reprecussions and sit down, tieing and securing traumas and lies into neat bundles to be dwelt with, healed or buried quietly beneath impoverished neighborhoods of myself like american toxic waste

i might as well use this blog as any. i’ve got a million open already, hiding around the web, i forget they exist. every window is a different false image of me, i wonder if enough of them might approximate a likeness. there is a lotta pretension in adddressing oneself from afar, in using these grammatical gimmicks to get some distance. but im pretty neurotic, i do what i gotta do. im my own shrink, i try what i can. i’ve gotta clear out some space in my head so my subconscious can stop shitting over every narrative line i ever pen out, polluting poetry and grating through melody lines. my inner monologue is like a fiery scream at the moment, a thousand nails on the chalkboard, and any time i sit down to write it always suprises me, like somebody sitting across the room quietly pressed unmute and the room was flooded in bristling white noise.

girls and baggage and leaves and trains and colors and seasons and and and and and sssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhussssshhhhhkkkkssshh

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