The queen answers to no one, except perhaps her clones
Never alone, the clone drone picked up the phone
for a little chat with the lady.
The grand queen, in all her sheen, was never mean,
together they tended the babies.
In the beginning was the [explicative deleted]:
In the beginning was the joke.
In the beginning was astonishment & shock.
Then we moved.
(Just as we had before the beginning)
The universe is only one version of reality, a show universaly agreed upon. Reality is a multiplicity of versions of the universe, a question endlessly debated. Even so, it goes on. Universe? Multiverse? Hell, the verse is only some lines in a poem, ocassionaly sung in the key of be flat!
or, Brain damage is no justification for bad poetry to wit.
The intricately spun medical theory of dysphasia is just a [what's that word?] That word justifying another mere poem called diagnostic category The diagnostic category is just a fancy word for a poem A poem about word associations where the only lines possible refer back to itself The only lines possible refer back to a pill for everything except for poets Poets who've forgotten what they're up to and think Think they are doctors or german railroad engineers An engineer's brain damage is no justification for bad poetry to wit:
My slippedophasic tongue has forgotten the one where the poet goes on and on and on and on about the poem he's just done what was that word again? to explain and reframe and possibly tame with extensive refrains just to capture some fame i remember them all, and all in good time, especially that rhyme, they don't fall from my mind there's no doubt about it the tome of the pome shouldn't exceed in the length of the creed but many proceed to defy and suceed ah now i've got it! extraposomeblojit... already forgot it again.
or Every Described Milieu is only a Reflection
You think you're old. Time to settle down. Leave childish ambitions behind. Time to settle in. But you're only half way along! The time to settle down is the time of retirement. Have you made plans? Will you be able to support yourself in a life of liesure? Will your family survive the ordeal? The answer is always "No". Settling in becomes the end of youthful idealism. The last precipitous ejaculation, The final premature destination. At this point, all new is experienced As by a spectator, An hostile witness. It's all just so grand! The past is history, the future, mystery and all that jazz. A comfortable lie, A secure life does not concern itself with questionation. It is resignation. Nothing's left to imagination, Always just another imposition. But there is still such a long way to go! I will wear my invisibility cap so I can fit it. Fit in. No wave pounds these beaches. I am beached, waveless! There is a reason this rhymes with "beat". If I do my job, I can enjoy the little luxuries in peace, the little moments, a carrot, a truffle, a sardine sandwich with a slow-gin chaser, ever watching my children and grandchildren grow up to be like me. Don't you want it?
The argument for answers, or Semantical Flute
Words, words, semantical flute the more you eat, the more you toot the more you toot, the better you feel so eat your words at every meal. Swallow your words, but do not choke protect them from that other bloke who'd take 'em, change 'em, call 'em 'is own you'd cringe away, your cover is blown. Take that back, but do take care in love and death, ev'rything's fair in 'is mouth, you place your foot with a yank and a fart, recover your flute.
The Philosophy & Aesthetics of Goat Etymology Rap
To a wood tick, the landscape is a goat; that is, it is, it's becoming. What's becoming of ticks and goats, is their jumping and biting. Observant ticks jump from wood to goat. Goats have hoof and hide, ticks don't. Information is of a goat jumping in the landscape, but it is not the property of the goat, nor even its content. There is a form of a goat, but goats are only content when well fed; goat contents come out in many different forms. Goats can not eat information; one must take care of their horns against your backside. This is a handy thing to know. Information is a goat's recognition; (that is, an observer of goats). Only parentheses make a difference, the goat, by any other name, would smell as fowl. Goats exist without observers naming them, even parenthetically, even by parents! yet goats are also keen observers. Goats therefore, only serve inversely. Information doesn't. It seems by definition, observers should not serve, they should verse! With enough information, observers can act like goats, but they cannot reproduce them, because they are in-formation. Only punctuation makes a difference.
Difference is always somewhere, between seduction and conversion. In 15th century Latin, a verse is tractus: "a drawing out, duration"; from trahere: "to pull". We say "paths we travel", or is that "works, to travail"? Did Derrida say, "all movement is play?" It seems there is no such thing as information, unless, like a bad cold, one contracts it. Informants require contracts before they will reveal contacts, handed out by wishful thinkers in uniforms, for the purpose of uniformization, a uniform nation. Tract is the past tense of track; we claim possession by its former pacing; having have had done it; it, inscribed for all posterities. Always with tact, we pin and are pinned down; resigned to our posteriors. To track is to make or follow a path; a track belongs to someone else. A contract is the path having had made you. A contract makes a dead statistic. Someone else ... and you are information. Goat horns and donkey hooves will knock you both off your track, on your ass, just to shake a meddling tick. Genes are a handy scape-goat, convenient suspects, but they are only tracings. There are no such things as genes; unless, of course, one contracts them.
Ode to an H-bomb:
Roses are red. Violets are blue. I've got a hammer. What have you?
Fish Art or Bonk on the Head
Art is the satchel of fish and their catching,
Whether proceeding from shore or from rafting,
Emptied, cleaned and placed on the home fire,
Finally consumed with relish n'desire.
Tell Bad Bob there's no art to his crafting,
Reflection in mirror, you'll see never more,
You'll die with your boots on, but lie everlasting
You'll wish you had never walked through that door.
Worms in your eyes will be fresh for the casting,
And Bob will keep fishing and cleaning the gore.
And when Bob drowns from exceeding his fishing,
Don't the fish spit on his folly and roar?
Isn't he eaten by fish and their cousins,
All eyes to the critics, they call out for more?
"Ask not what your country can do for you,
But what you can do for your country . . ."
"Burn it down before it burns you!
Phuck the republic!
Phuck laws and taxes!
Phuck officialdom, and
okanogan chapter of eugene anarchists
Dialogue between three pirates on the selection of a new captain:
One-eyed Kate: "Arrrgh!"
One-eyed Kate: "Oy matey, di'na ya mean Grog?"
Greybeard (Cutlass drawn): "Grog this, One-eye!!!"
Pegleg: "Oy matey, di'na ya mean Grog??"
Greybeard: "Grog this, One-foot!!!"
Koan of Pwn
Initiate: Master, what is a Pwn?
Master: A Pwn is a free radical which will restore the universe. The great master, Quinn Pwin once owned a Pwn and was himself instantly annihilated. Seek Pwns along the sides of each path and catch them if you can. This is the trick to invisibility.
Uniqueness is not something one can search out or discover, it is the starting point for all searches and discoveries.
Without uniqueness, there's no difference;
Without difference, there's nothing to communicate;
Without communication, there's no community;
Without community, there's no commonality;
Without commonality, there's no synchronicity;
Without synchronicity, there's no meaning.
Without meaning, there's no association;
Without association, there's no knowledge.
The Immortal Corpse
A strong visual image was cast endless upon my breast,
By the smell of countless maggots swimming in orgy of rotting flesh.
This brought me to a sound I no more wish to hear,
Than their gentle fingers probing within my dying ear.
And as I scream they chant, like tightened piano string:
"Oh please, oh please, not again, not again".
On Maple Street - An ode to Rod Serling:
And Jesus said to passersby, "Let's abolish ruling!"
"Agreed!", ourselves replied so loud, "Hip! Hip! Let's make him king!"
"I mean let's all be parallel!" said he, outright bemused.
"That's mystery, but sounds so keen!" they went away confused.
The king's men they got worried, "What shall we do, oh boss?
"I've got it!" the nimble-wit he pawed,
"Let's spike that bastard to a cross!"
"Or put him in the salt mines!"
"Or make him row a boat!"
"Or maybe folks should gather round and put it to a vote!"
Grey Man looked at Lizard Man, his brother in a way,
And said "With such a spectacle,
We might just get away
With taking o'er the whole show and them without a clue"
"Or should we just go home again
Before we catch bird flu!".
Lizard looked at Grey Man, and blinked his lidless eye,
And said "with such an attitude,
You may as well obey
This dictum I must now repeat, (as often that I must),
'Choosers will be beggars 'fore they're turned right into dust'!"
"Stop! I'm getting hungry!", so eloquently said Grey
"Adjourn to lunch! Me thinks I saw some dust mites 'long the way".
"Those dust mites love the earthmen, and we in turn love they!"
The Illness of Civilization:
Colonies or communities of microbes friendly to us,
contained in benign tubercle, or flowing within our principle,
wax civilized with grandiosity and aims of bold conquest.
Their groups diversify, with intruded "foreign body" or undue exigence.
That which defines community is extincted -
namely, symbiosis, reciprocity or inter-independence.
Restored by that famous system, "Immune",
(our corporear, warrior society),
or on the other hand, do we assume,
of pain we suffer terribly,
On Reciprocity, an ode to Jonathan Swift:
Reciprocity is not a form of economic distribution.
It is an unhurried, multidimensional relay race, sans teams,
... such that the baton you hand off to the person you ambled into is replaced by a like baton
... recieved from another who has ambled into you.
The proper gift does not entail loss,
... nor sacrifice,
... nor exchange,
... nor gain,
... nor even value
it is the giving itself which is esteemed,
You either play or play not.
There is no game.
The game of economics is born when the gift is annihilated,
Mutuality is destroyed when a single particle of play
... collides with a corresponding antiparticle of game.
Life is replaced by survival,
Survival is mucking about in the mud
... scrounging for scraps
... and fighting off other interloping scroungers.
For homo economicus modernensis,
... it's nasty, brutal and short.
But those scraps, how they do shine,
like jewels from the diamond mine!
Yahoo, yahoo! I've got so much more than you!
On discipline and punishment:
What is the difference between discipline and punishment?
As a fellow ruined self, have you become an autocracy of one?
Full of questionable tendencies which must be censured, put in order, denied?
Without this control, what might this explosion of possibilities become?
A violent spectacle?
An outburst of chaos?
Must this always be translated as rage?
How is it an example of ethics to rationalize others violent behavior towards you,
... as something which should be tolerated in the name of anti-authoritarianism,
... but your own tendencies must be kept under control:
The democratic urge to respond in kind, to violate yourself?
External conflict should be avoided but internal violence is expected.
Oedipus will keep them under control.
The problem with Oedipus is that he is a monogamous patriarch of the isolated nuclear family.
He is the stern German father little Irish boys must fear and emulate.
The cure for the Irish boy afraid of his own violent reactions or arogant tendencies,
... is to be repeatedly run down in the street by a gang of six foot Amazon godesses,
... knocked to the ground,
... crushed and
... sliced open with overwhelming blows of sensuality,
... until he also wants to connect and find this desirable.
The king must die to make room for our aunts and cousins.
To drop out:
thru the ceiling, thru the floor,
i dont want it any more.
out the window, out the door,
you dont have to be a boor.
but maybe you would like to stay?
you cannot play just any day!
you cannot ask me where or why,
you can only cry or die.
dr sous he is my friend,
we play all day right to the`end.
On the Titanic:
Never jump from a sinking ship until a suitable life raft is prepared and your number is called
This came out as a brief episode of projectile vomitting. A sudden memory. An illustration. All madness is not negative, terrifying, other, black, weird and smelly. Sometimes it is a cure or a blessing, bright, hot, loud. Down the black hall, I think I was sitting on the floor, against the wall, came a small, young, beautiful, screaming Korean lady, escorted by two black large men in white shirts, pants, shoes. She might have been forty or so, They might have been football players, or body guards elsewhere, but didn't look unkind, not that there was any kindness either. She was a nurse as well in white, in real life, that is, in real work, and still dressed to kill, or cure, with her little nurse's cap. Today she was the pope, and not in that order, that is to say, she was out of it. The gentlemen were there to keep her from walking on the ceiling, smiling. Did not know she was once a child protιgι, a pianist who played Carnegie Hall, a one and only grand performance of youth, maybe eleven. And they passed down the hall on the way to a door where she could enter as loving pope and leave in a week's time as an unanimated nurse, but under her own power, well grounded, leave the front door of this place and into the back door of the work place, sticking children with needles or whatever it is saner nurses do. Like myself, she was only on vacation. But as I was about to say, as they passed me, she stopped. They stopped in metric time, surprised her papal mania paused, I thought I was spying from the floor, unseen in my blackness. She looked at my eye sockets with intensity, smiled angelically, set one hand on my head and waved the other through the air, a magical gesture, it may have inscribed a cross but that did not impress me. I was only concerned with magic shows. She said, "I forgive you". And then walked on. It was the closest I'd been in decades to a sublime, erotic moment. This was a breaking point. I knew the vacation would end, but it was on a high note, an Incandescence heard clearly in the balcony. It may be the source of my tinitus. In fact, I'm sure of it.
Some Shit for Sale:
Excess Sunlight? Unproductive expenditure? Wasted effort? Excrement? Binge? Isn't this going a bit far? I don't think there is too much sunshine, it shines just as much as it wants to. It is certainly in no need of repair. These words produce nothing. If I'm full of shit, I should stop making words? Or only stick to useful ones? Unless I shit, where will I find room for new ones? This is the starting point of the general economy, but only the tit-for-tat one. Give up, ex-pend, no contingency, no will. It's all the same shit: pend- "to hang", pending the arrival of a doctor. Only a sacrifice or amputation is an expenditure, whether or not it is placed into public works, around the neck, and whether or not the live vivisectionists pay you a token in return. Garbage dumps are public works too. Seagulls use them for breeding grounds. So what? Batshit from Carlsbad caverns fertilized the Imperial valley. It was a useful gift from the bats, but not for the miners who shoveled it. They would shovel any shit for a bite of something else to eat. Because one man's use is another's shit doesn't mean we should all become shit eaters. When my car runs out of gas, who is having an energy crisis, me or the machine? Are we so sure we have a handle on usefulness and garbage? If not, how can we quantify it as to excess and shortage? If everything is useful, there is no garbage and no excess. This doesn't mean if we don't use it, it'll turn to shit. Garbage and abundance don't command their use. Without god and man, nature has no authorities. Besides, one god's man is always another man's god. And vice versa. And someone just said Nietzsche was a repressed lesbian. Where's the sense in that? Apparently it was useful to make a point, but like sunlight from the backside, it went way over my head. Value is an ordained teleological redundancy. It only means energy is incorporated and you can keep moving, if only in your head. How humble to judge one's own usefulness. What hunger to think everything must be incorporated. Arrgh! What arrogance to think the sunlight which misses our planet is a waste product, excess, a missed opportunity. What grandiosity to erect mounds of shit and call them public works, What's so grand about a working public, that they can eat and stay bored? What is in excess is arrogance, hunger, humility and grandiosity. I guess it's a useful term after all! It's only natural, like class war among the fishies. But really, we don't have to buy all the other shit use is associated with. I'm sometimes just as enthusiastic scavenging garbage dumps as public libraries. My home only looks like a dump and my brain a library's sewage system. Appearances aren't everything. Unless they cover up nothing. That use can only situationally be of value, or value useful, doesn't mean we need to come up with more projects to utilize it, to use it up, to create nothing boldly going nowhere. Like any word, shit and utility can be useful metaphors for just about everything. One thing I know: there's too much toxin and not enough oxygen, and that's two things not meant to be taken metaphorically.
There was an old Scandinavian word, "lief" said to link live and love. From old Greek we got "poiesis".
Distributivity by any other name was still an unfolding circulation within rhizomatous pipes resulting in a complex flux of interpenetration. When it was vaguely meaningful, we called it poetry. When we looked closely, we thought we might witness cybernetic relations, purposes and two-way mirrors, but only at the point of focus. The context itself was a labyrinth. Very young as well as old and distant eyes only saw a blur, but it was still somehow familiar and not typically thought a trap. Was it something we should copy?
We looked around for agreement with our assessment. If we felt strong and insecure, we imposed it. But it was the wrong season for the circus, so on these grounds was erected a pentecostal revival tent to entrap new souls. Sometimes the magic didn't work. Sometimes it's just the wrong moment for literal interpretations and we came up empty.
I once had a lamp shade with a tall spindle, upon which a little spider spun a marvelous webbed tent. It should have worked: heat, light, beauty, stickiness, all the essentials were present and there was neither fire nor brimstone. For some reason, the bugs didn't show up. The spider itself left town in a funk.
Sometimes the magic doesn't work. Sometimes it's just the wrong season.
The Reason There is For Seasons is Because:
Winter is for revolution, but it's just too damned cold.
Spring is for relief becoming hope, impudent and bold.
Summer is for basking, cause it's too damned hot, 'nuff said.
Fall is for disapointment rapidly becoming dread.
Why Prometheus gave us fire,
Not tit nor tat, not sold?
But we is for got, for get, aspire.
Besides, we ain't been paroled.
Automatic Verse With Edits Later That Day: Self-explanatory
C(aca) precedes D(ada), a theory of cognition.
Explain yourself! Am I not a poem because my form does not rhyme with yours?
The interchangeability of toilet paper, pickles and slabs of meat between two slices of bun generates the poetic of babble because of an inverse relation between food and thinness, in which case, babble is no babble at all, and all vice verses. The universe is just a cover-up, just like any other uniform. Whether extruded or intruded between the buns, is it still shit in between?
The metaphoric euphamism of toilet paper pickles demonstrates the illusive nature of spectacular progress in the latter half of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty first, where we witness a progressive thinning of toilette paper along the same perforated lines of a sheet of pickle on a nineteen cent Arctic Circle hamburger in Seattle in 1971. Both have been reduced to transparency, inviting a provocative increase in consumptive attacks which even Arizona will not relieve. There are 24 burgers in my bag cause that's what it takes to feel fed.
Since a noun-like "rainforest" is only an abstract theory of behaviour in a theoretically articulated universe of association by way of originary identities diversifying, every name is interchangeable in its adjectival state. There has never been a unity of original substance. But-symetry is not a dialectc face-off. Thus, "I survived in a flush, wiping my thinning pickle with the burgermeister of Brittany, opus number 2" makes perfect sense, if only as a blurred image with a bad smell to which everything is commensurate.
Since we are all inhabitants of the same universe (or so we think), that we share a context is assumed and need not be communicated (the redundant noise in the background), assumes as well generalised gnosis. It may not be considered that sharing secrets may be impossible in the same room. We only wish it were so. The mad do not care. There is no catcher behind the plate. The outfield is empty. It is not mad to anticipate an amazing catch by an intruding phantom or a pitch from an internal voice.
Poetry admits the difference of perspective is the difference which makes a difference so is inclusive of all interpretations. Only Jesus' pa would kill all their wives and cattle, selling virgin children into slavery. We must pour blood on our roof tops to keep safe from the author of goodness passing over on his way to exteriminate another poor bastard who pissed on a wall. How crazy is that?
Bad poetry pays no mind to externalised environments. It is not mad, even though internalisation feels good ("feel-good poetry"), it shares to no one else but where am I in that picture? The more authentic its exteriorised altruism, the more the intended pattern emerges, because every pattern points to it, it points to every pattern. All interpretations are acceptable in inclusive toleration, else we must kill them. We are also god's children, so why not?
Reader/observer and writer/performer engage on a joint exploration, either and both performing an observance, observing a performance. This is not possible with the King James version, making all literature, as offal litterarium officialis, absurd or war-like. This is how we created the word world void of exploration: all voiding needs wiped with a map or on it. Is there anyhing left to say but "garnish" in a pinch of recongnition?