Seven Versions

Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious. A guy interested in robots, the narrator, urinates on flowers, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts himself in.

Voice mail happens. A man’s voice. Handsome, calm, also nervous. (Protecting dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that.) Our swift powers have never been better aligned.

We have functional emotions & this much-traveled vocab of affects. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I just missed the last place you look. Stay with me. Never stop exploring. Turn here.

The sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.

Pigeon fathers pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the bright series, brocaded & then stiffened into sympathetic parody staving a muleta for thatched kinfolk.

So there’s a rule-of-thumb with natural stenches & hidden dimensions in the landscape, ultra altered like ranch dressing.

Small islands serve as hideouts. Tall men are restless in the rain. Excellent. We shall conquer, read over the presentation, juggle heads. You’ll need a new camping saw & hood scoop.


Why was this week’s contest insisted upon from side to side? What bud are we?

The short answer is a teenager’s you can scream open and enjoy.

Brain damage is in the eyes. More bounce for the retina to unscrew the internal hysteria pouring up but embarrassing, rocking like a party, like losing both death and life, dropping your rags, breaking water gushing down over my heels.

Steal Princess & Rogue’s Whip. You look how I feel.

No plan is perfect.


Between grief and nothing I do nothing wearing a torn shirt as an escort.

Dream within limits. What do we do here at times? I deal in ex-ghosts feeling dizzy. We tease out opinions on redeeming encores or nutty enterprises. We’re not so interested in dreams. But once in a while we can’t help it, like this morning we woke from a flash of such gruesome practicality we became distressed talking to painted traces and vapor. I was looking for performance glamor in a sports-transition store. There was no deeper pretext or tortured prelude. I walked into this pleasant, really dark place decimated in lights. The lights were out. But I was in there casually shopping along with others. It was a showroom for Under Armor where mannequins, staff, and customers match up in comfortable, form-fitting shirts and sweats and some in jackets pulled a quarter inch back, almost off their collarbone, not to flex but to suggest upper body development. These are steadfast figures and outlines but nothing shows. We have eyes and the mannequins don’t move. That kind of carefully lunatic geopolitical stow and store. That was what I was thinking as I picked out five pairs of socks. A pointillist grey pair, two pair in enlarged, graduated chocolate pixels, and a couple of pairs in ink, one with a hint of an inkier digital plaid-ish under. Everything was going to blend with other clothes. (So what was the point to a sphere of flowerets and blood?) The total came to under $200. The wind always kicks back allowing us to translate sleep into discrete transparent overlays of desire, textured fantasy, aimless expectation. We call this shopping.


Waiting for Hillary.


Landscape takes out the flowers.

But it’s my doing, making money hard to borrow. Clenching-tight, I’m on a distorted guilt trip, shafted by the viability of conquering death with abundance.

There’s no work-around to the observer influencing the observed mire except later, much later sprigs pick up and the driftwood gets epigrammatic, the upside unrelated, pale, immaculate.

The sky foregrounds all that is style, the worms’ motive, subjects for close attention.

Paying attention is the field call to haunting the future. And the future notices who attends. But it does not impinge on the field.