Inundated with liberty from the camphor, perusing low interest loans. I talk thus in a low register. To effect a communion my face sports two layers of sleep relief. Shady aftermath interscope.
Thus the world carries on in a Buddhist prison theater filled with dogs and consequences mirroring exponentially our wildest ambitions to blur what’s real and yield authority. And to think a way out I guess I know our ability to influence conversation is remarkable. And many pass admirably, throwing stones.
A voice with a message sounds handsome, calm, also nervous. In the same call he reverses his prerogatives, that is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference.
The message is mixed but our swift powers have never been better aligned.
Together across the call center that serves as a hideout, learning the ropes, scraps and parts of rope.
I know this sounds lame — you and I annulled our thingness with a few hand-waves and felt pretty rapt, the way we inspire open, emotional austerity, rubbing eye cream in under our eyes, admiring buzzwords but no ideas.
No fins of infinity. Nope.
Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed.
We have no major issues. I’m the one who hoards history, buying and piling stuff out in the garage, keeping nanowires and foreign minerals wound like elastics.
We can pick each other up like a bowl that’s really a vase. Let’s sit then let the sunset pitch its foam. Smoky dogs can turn brown tracking vans in drizzle, tarnished from sight, playing against a stack of storm windows, with a composure for light a translator can’t reach.
Twenty-three hours ago the idea of writing took time. Dozens of spices. A mind occupied, just so.
I wasn’t orphaned, I decided to pursue other interests.
It’s another day I do not hope. Almost the same as hopeless, jokes turn into dreams. It’s dreams that forgive us for everything or almost everything except paranoia’s belated redemption. That’s because ideas, when they’re ‘awake,’ get downgraded to an icy mindset, trapping you and me inside a force field owing to our expertise.
Everything is definitely going on. The body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons. Your name comes up on my snaggletooth, aching in baby blue blather, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy, a quiet start, zero gravity.
Am I in some experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. And how do I maintain the balance sheets and my resolute informality? I keep my reckoning far away for most of my youth.
We grabbed the narrator; we couldn’t rule him out, staying blithe in the win column, an aluminum, tenebrae-filled kind of guy draped in potatoland dirt color, echoes of prosthetic fantasy, perhaps, yet eco-conscious and looking cool responding to our frantic calls.
All experience is correct.
But what is identity?
Preaching to tenors, he loves what we do together to let off steam. He’s a fop.
The fop is a French invention, an essentialist’s incarnation. It’s now an English thing, Le Smoking for surfing, dressing on the left.
Beach safety — wow, everything has that just-did-it-for-creation smell. The Buddha Machine is on low, marking Tramp Lapping My Skull. Pointless stupid madness. The double v above his eyes means very-very dunkel. (I’m not.)
So this lack of media polish is transparent as ranch dressing refabricked in aromas of polycarbonate. Like a surfboard.
And gang murders are cut in half. (I’m not going out in that.)
And the guy interested in robots, the narrator, urinates, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts all over himself.
Some opt for poetry, rattled by Vogue: “Cloven, we are incorporate...”
(Very good, Geoff...)
As noted in the last century, there’s rustic prep for a painter style and muddled cool. We come from someone, calmed by his fear we were of a kind he was to others. But I’m backing away from Hill’s patrimony, his sounding-it-out tools.
Did he check the oil?
Very good. Very goo.
I mean actually knocking the chanters
off, throwing knives, wrecking them
from the inside, slicing things up!
Geoff, you gave me hiccups back when. Now my senses are restored. The unoccupied mind is long overdue.
And I’m back in my vertigo seat, now, reading and writing my disciplined boilerplate, my marble thought structure swarming with pleasant memories. That’s how the paints sail.
Becoming free it’s too late to beg. I reference the primary season. In the battle between the sexes? The rich won.
I used to have a powder dependency. I think it’s just polite to say ‘powder’ instead of ‘poo.’
Once there was a mantra logjam I was of two minds grounded in a common cold. Or one who remained outside the big tent, a globalized illegible. (All discourse is indirect.) Yet I’m germ-spurned, something I said about you, Mr. Kerchoo.
(The big tent is a jerk off. Concentricities and touchstones are a powder trap. They navigate within a self-contained, almost ostentatious pensiveness.)
As one voter you fail to mushroom. But I’m hellbent in two, discovering ignored wisdom on human terms. So I need oversight.
There’s a glow in my argumentation, like an avalanche. Or, in other words, I’m wintry but fun and explosive. Like a vending machine.
I’m also a leftist deep in my head. I see consensus as influenza.
Concerning the Novel, Including My Own
Some thoughts on the novel, a form of writing that somehow perplexes me. I have written (what I call) novels but haven’t really thought of the effort as nove...
"Games of Life" (on the art of Morton Bartlett and the LACMA show "Playthings: The Uncanny Art of Morton Bartlett") by Douglas Messerli
games of life
Morton Bartlett *Playthings: The Uncanny Art of Morton Bartlett, *Los
Angeles County Museum of Art / I saw this show on October 22, 2014...