Conditions look gray — wanting you (I do), not out of calculation, & how far & vast connivance liberates us to oppose the other ingredients.
Or plans change. Pandering to guess, we might replace active similes & what’s in a line or two, set off controls to lose my footing (clop directional blips) on the oily tarp, perplexed, taking it outside a Rubik of profane, denatured octagonal gloom.
To outtake a thing is ample. The ecstatic that’s crap, scrunching it up is everything for breakfast.
The pond plays Schubert like a bouclé, searing, puffy, relaxed, succinct. Hold my earrings.
I’m drunk on history, empathy, bounce. I’m sick of nice things. Now it’s daybreak —
For my doctoral research I followed joy, the top two percent of delusion that swell and swell. I also prefer free, motorized speech that’s dissipated but purring put aside.
Government is not that difficult. I’m reviewing the lab egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace the apparatus (not properly issued to commentary), a colorful PROCESS shot. Bliss was the verb. Scary Movie was a date flick. A private-public bond like Klee and Ibsen wearing bluetooth up to their shoulders, smiling but neither laugh.
“My regrets.” Switching phones, I look up to the crazy guys waiting to take me to the parturifacient facility.
There were other, subtler indications you just wanted to cry, and it's not such a bad smell, it’s just sad with a slight lifting in the dimness when I wake up. Anyway, it all goes well. You and I will be taking off, though. One by one, I suppose. Reasons are weather related, the paleness this morning and a similar wash of fog coming back, lilac-dark in the air and offshore atmospheres yesterday and the day before. The winds exchanged directions, and it barely pertains, and why should I? What I have in mind is low on your list, even lower than that, it’s off the list. So it's contradictory to insist I’ve won in a runoff of longing and gratitude. Your taking time to sift through any, even the slightest, part of what I think is the spoils of coincident poses. That’s what poetry does. I cherish your placing a tag on mine, yet I have said nothing, foundering and tongue-tied, handing our fortune over to that first letter of the alphabet where you lived. You want back in, me too. It’s my off-centeredness alone that excuses maintaining a safe distance. I'll let you go then. I was hoping you would rhyme over me.
Are you sitting in the apparatus while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive for eagerness to do what we were afraid to be?
Her eyeballs are all they need, not what they are. It’s a classic knife-in-the-back suicide.
Part of the world faces the street to whoosh by... looking outside and still walking through it adhering neatly to nothing, a science-fiction flushed hollow just passing, but also taking root, ornamenting impurities of state.
The carport is perched high above subatomic beings. We use photographs for subject matter, like this of a garland arched over people who are sweating their existence.
So a redraft: Bafflement is tentative, one mountain clinic after all of the above. Herding cocktails, we sleep with a relationship. Rough seas but you’ve been in the field long enough, you know how we leverage the social graph to miss you. How long have you planted thoughts without a gender balance?
See this pigeon? He’s a true antihero. Incandescent.
And it’s hard to get foreign sports equipment
or the meaning of structure, a table for the couturiers,
along with the varmints in the shortness of thought
indexing suspicion and objurgating.
There’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, knitting your own brow.
I’m happiest procrastinating. When stairwells mesh to go nowhere,
tiny, hidden wriggling strings
between you and expulsion, the hole is closed. Turn here.
Like all of the above and the rubber suits going in and out of buildings, climbing stairs, you’re one hundred percent normal running up debt to keep devotees heartbroken.
There’s transactional friendship, and it’s a job (like sloganeering) and, more elevated, craft (making a sign for consciousness to observe). To illustrate, job is to craft as sport is to theoretically or astronomically kicking a sign. Don’t get me wrong, unattempted sound is cool and we’re for it and against any impingement unless it hurts the transaction. What’s it? There’s no work-around to the observer influencing the observed except later, much later.
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...