Run, Rabbit, run!
South! South!
To suppress, merely (or more),
A mouth
Reaching out to be saved like a trapeze artist
& there is a bit of “net” in yr soulself - a souse
A mouth, espoused toward Descartes
I think I think, I think
& therefore… what am I?
Guess one never really knows
Brain biased as gravity or grain
The battle of Fate vs. Free Will is rigged
Nobody can win
Bet on Voice & Eternity!
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the author runs you through some lines of text stylistic he
hasn’t really experienced since his 2002 southern california flip trip year through
san bernardino & riverside, with the dharma bums’ ray & the chateau on
mt. vernon st. under the big C on the mountain desertscape dream bibliography
aka real fiction, or some other non-innocuous nonsense didactic dreambomb
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Baby, baby, baby!
I want you, one two
Wanting for some, but not for a cunt
More, a wanting of Want
More for some unkempt trump
With a truepenny mind & a sumptuous rump
Under summum bonum
The greatest of supreme goods
The fruit of a woman
Ripe, like a bunt
A tripe love in-field double
A stunt for the light
The horizon in trouble from the hunt
The prey of the night
The pay for the trouble, light-drunk from the height
The fruit of a woman
The fight for the fun of it
Make a deal of it
Get over it
It’s un-won
Under a sun until one day’ll come
When sight aligns with the wonder of being lit like a candle
I see it all so biased-ly clear without context
Without smoke & mirrors but for insight…
Beveled eyes are pushed to be flush
2nd rate vandals on a sinking vessel
Shining in the dark
Long lost in electrical light
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in a dream i had right at this moment i slumber as ice
traipsing i from distant moment to distant moment laughing & crying in
balmy abandon unable to abandon i reading the language of contradiction song
bird cement slab i remember to take toys apart jack in the box with a
screwdriver driving screws into my substrata a small crack lengthening horizon
on windshield sky light the light i am off & on oscillating alternating
currently in the sine wave pool audio and radio jacked conscious conscious consciousness
with a big C the great i am or so i would seem this pronoun i to be my local
theatre critic giving a fresh fate production an unfair shake in scope &
making toast & eggs in free-will’s boxer shorts I a picture inside a
picture inside a picture inside a picture inside a scripture inside a sacral
pulse… pouting there like a sacred suture … gigantic as a mouse
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Blonde On Blonde plays from an ancient white on off-white
Mac laptop
Dylan’s subaudition is tangy & anxiety is a peach pit
The organ is hunting for hips
The drums are dancing for an audience of feet souls
Strings are plucked with tacked fingertips underneath lily
pads
I have a trusted veteran dictionary of a million-word war
Lying spread eagle on the dark, faux wood kitchen table
I am doing double duty
Painting Christmas gifts on the night of the 23rd
Working on new
words for new insight & out
For today, the 28th of December
In the year of our Lord, Santa Clause
& that cute punishment/reward structure of his
& his horrible iPod playlist
Full of self-aggrandizing lyrics
Ya know,
I am growing very wary of omniscient snow bearded
& largely fictionalized authority figures
Bearing eternal sweets & threats of unpleasantness-
Making a mockery of being good
Standardizing & marginalizing many a kind act
Robbed of the integrity of doing right, even when nobody is
looking
I grew up bombarded by & embroiled in unrealistic sit-coms
& endless crap Hollywood drivel
I should have worn a helmet on my eyeballs
I can see how it’s an escape
I see it snowball into life on the run
I don’t seem to have much interest in my autobiography
My life is so slow & boring compared to 90% of
television programs
I’m not scored very well
Wardrobe seems severely under budget
I don’t know where to buy a can of laughter
& I think I am a pretty decent narrator, though prone to
diatribalism
& I think unrealism has become the new realism
How much entertainment is a cure?
How much entertainment is a poison?
I better Google it
I always thought Bukowski wrote medallion-level shitting
poems
Ginsberg’s were as funny as a self-portrait of himself
Mine are better served behind a closed door with matches
Sandburg’s defecation would be democratic & smell like
Chicago’s asshole
Saul Williams shit is TIGHT!
Senor Pablo Neruda’s would become anything but, perhaps…
A daily feeding of the world at-large or a bed of floral
beauty
The great denominator
The inevitability of waste
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Karma is in the recycling business
& Heaven’s offices are now based in Hollywood, C-A
Jesus Christ, the best storytellers generally get no press
Crucifixion via indifference
Yet, due to the power of the exception, I implore
Practice your freedom of speech
Say the things you are afraid to, because
Suppression gifts us acrid bouquets of power &
viciousness
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If there is no ear around when a tree falls, there is no
sound! The sound of one hand
clapping is a testament to the limits of the human sense organs. Hands turn. Organs are grinding.
Monkeys are singing & dancing.
Wet hand towels are twisting in steamy shower stalls. Cymbals bang together. Polaris is a birthday party, dripping
in drifting lineage. Shadows run
across the ceiling like turning pages, again & again. In between again & again turned
pages, scenes of localized luminosity, animal lunacy & electrical spinal
chords, serpentine like DNA. I
play a game of Candlyland & I don’t even need to be present. I pull a cinnamon roll & take the
lead. Neck-in-neck. Hands turn. I’m playing 14 games of Candyland right now (& 8 games
of War). Strategy went out the
window with controlled sobriety.
The grinding of the organs creates a groundswell of lurching monkeys, screaming
& beat-boxing. The DJ turns
the tables deep in the discotheque.
Pilot flames, my eyes, flicker & lick my brainpan. Gas is included in the rent, which
allows you to keep it cooking.
Gears spin. Cymbals bang
together.
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Run, Rabbit, run!
Through a crowded field
The gift of not knowing
Makes you uncatchable
Better as sport
Ever alert
To threats hemming in greatness
Yourself, solipsistic agitator
Through a crowded field of self
The gift of not knowing
Everyone together & alone
Each & every I:
The way the truth & the light
Joneses be damned!
Amen….
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