[Response to: Why must the subway boil…]
Glowing in the underground for a report from those in costume. Ra this morning is green like fresh turtles of the estuary. I read in a newspaper on a bus to treat a fever diversely from accepted wisdom you suspend it in the eyes for a foreshortened totem. One syntax draws a line and another one hangs itself from it. Hung syntax on a wall of brick with forewarning. Pigeons walk jerkily around it and surmise.
There is a wall of books that Ra is standing on this morning by the lattice. For this reason he is so green and cheerful. He is filibustering his old digits in a can of worms. He has had the worms way too dear. The frogs will not jump for them. He is hoping to approach a pilgrimage to Luxor. When he steps from the books and into a wall of subway he takes the train to the end of the line. There he is painted in more green and subsides like a constellated fortress.
[Response to: He thought he was made of meat]
Half dancing half waiting. Watching a past great, son of dead great, moment of greatness shred the guitar like a deep deep deep purpleish moment of haze and blaze. The hipster feathers hats outfits boring….
Then I saw him. Flaky flaring hair. He used to have the longest hair. Bone Daddy. A huge fan, don’t know how that lead him to heroin. He dances with such joy. I heard he was married. He dances and bounces and dances and flances and flakes and jumps. I saw a girl put a cup in his back pocket. i followed suite, as if I was paying tribute to a god. A past god. He was filled with insane energy, extatic. You know when you see someone and you know every second that his muscles burst are more interesting then the moments you pop. Hold me!
My cup pops out. Tribute rejected. Heat, fire, blister, sweat… Melting and he keeps going. It wasn’t the heroin at all. It wasn’t even him. Not bone daddy, just the back of a cloud of familiar hair.
[Response to: I say: is it this already]
Those awful necks, to exist they must have been sorry. Numbly they circled the shoulders, in conversation with past crimes, their underlying exhibitions. I drove a pickup to the edge of the yard, saw them distorting the jawbone like a partially crushed cricket distorts its knees, and made for the line of the fence. The beams would spell like the limbs of some specific tree the sounds of the sculptor. Confined to up and down, whether we knew it or didn’t, the show we preferred making represented in verse the office of our points of departure. It wasn’t far, no, and the necks ruled there too, over the growing.
[response to: When the Monsters find my notes…
Get these creatures out of my head!
They make it hard to concentrate.
[response to: gold, silver, bronze…]
Smell of Exhaustion
The Spice of Life
[response to “She bit into a painted brioche…”]
In one encyclopedia there could nothing raw. Not meat or data or hatred or speculation. Nothing to the tasted not like a person who enjoyed eating it. Nothing to the person who might have enjoyed eating it at one time. Data doesn’t get like that but bushels of it have to be dragged across a field tied down and let sit. Hatred and meat show their fat if you’re very polite you don’t stick your tongue in them. I’ve got seven widgets but I’m elegant see.
[read the response: “at one time…”]