Tuesday, December 18, 2012

a swum vex

a swum vex

acorn ex

crux sow viz

mu oxen
arc arum
sex vow sewn

zinc as women
aver rum awn

serum some


ax crone
screw crown
over rove

corn axe sum
scum worn axes
car carne

coax con wax
waxen cos

cow max nurse
rumen sax

earn maw
saw rune near

wan was cozen

crane craw
craze mix sun
crew crewman us

crow exam
sue user

Monday, September 3, 2012


"i'd play a different game, " was the reply. the solitaire addict went to the track. the end.
"it's been years since i played," the game addict admitted. "what if you played now and lost ?," the jerk asked
"i couldn't explain it to myself and i couldn't do it with any other game," the unnamed solitaire addict said, "so i clammed up."
the story of a solitaire addict who has been quietly winning every game played for 25 years.

Monday, August 6, 2012

we argue over the meaning of suffering
just to ensure hell is met

we watched, M. and I, as this thing grew and was copied

grooving on social mind, dragged to refocus
kids don't want to learn they're busy feeding into and taking from a mass global popular culture
that withstands any and every comment, any and every gesture
collaged in every direction
and they are learning. and they don't have to read books even though it's good for them
and they don't and they don't the kids
they are busy writing
with costumes and rites, codes and plaza politic

Sunday, August 5, 2012

the thing is the thing

dug three feet deep for stability, timbers soaked in earth
lord once again

you want to to do this thing
this thing you say that's an old chevrolet this thing dismayed not a soul
groovin in your trucker hat, called apollo

'my wrist tattooes herald a new dawn for me' , he said showing me his arms,
'this one is the oldest one. It started with a cross.'

'we can only watch' is something that when said
i can only repeat words, the story hums on it's own, a steady transmission since day one
not a change in the message it stays true and unedited

written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper
written on liquid paper

i've written several teen anthems that i think should be able to grab if you will, the heart of any persons experience, a cry that can only quick to the very pulse the soul of one receptive to it's call.

ok, well. what does that entail ? what are these traits that define reception ?

it's all reception man, it's all in the groove. there isn't something it isn't, dig ? how much more plain do you want it ? it's all an illusion man and it's all the realest thing their is.

yeah ok yeah i see that that. that's not the problem, all is one is all.  how does one leak out into the public the switch that activates a larger self awareness.
i'm sorry to say popular music isn't turning everybody on. what will is my question ?

man. man, you are not the guy that does that. i do that. i touch the people, i touch the crowds in ways that leave me shuddering. it's a fire that spreads, it's lightening. any thing you want is right there.
 . you taste the girls. you taste the drugs. the party. the food. the food. it's royalty man but you better be careful. you better watch which flame is burning to burn you. that full on access to any desire, miracles of miracles and i kiss the sweet earth, never left me in a deep grip for long

i try to fly right. it's hard. the temptation is always there, peeping around seeing if you'll take. you'll take too, make no mistake about it. the thing is the thing. you gotta ride it.

i thanked him profusely, knowing my zine hanging around his pad might have a chance at not being completely ignored.

i wasn't that guy, i thought to myself on the way out. i had met a rockstar a little burnt but not much. what he said made me think. i wasn't the guy to light the world on fire with my songs, jumping around from spa to spa between shows. rockstars party is going to go on and i'll write up this piece and call it a day.

the thing is the thing. he said that. the thing is the thing. it was ridiculous. it was all mine.

over night there were four hundred repetitions, all over town. a card stapled to a pole - the thing is the thing - scrawled around the bottom of a fire hydrant - the thing is the thing - stenciled on the sidewalk - the thing is the thing - scratched out in grime - the thing is the thing - wiped clean on windows - the thing is the thing.

M. was a great buddy watching out and writing too. she pulled off some massive ones. she made total mayhem all the while saying how deep i've gotten myself because of my 'art project'.

my 'art project' was just beginning.

i always thought the writing on the wall should be showstopping. not in terms of beautiful artwork. that was great but i don't mean that.
i always thought, wasn't there just one simple thing you can write down that would get people to nod yeah. that the word would spread and everybody would get it. it didn't have to be all of a sudden, it could take a while like plants growing. and it was just something that made every one ok with life, not afraid of death but not calling it either, just mellow i guess. forgiven. self forgiven. and with the neighbours too. just all the bullshit called off.

yeah, everybody knowing and i mean everybody, that life is sweet and precious and short. i'm a kid and i know that. and i'm a kid to think it could ever happen.

the thing is the thing.

a couple of days later there were pictures of it on the net. i didn't put any up. M. would have told me but she also could have forgotten she did. in any case, there you go. somebody, within the week, had taken pictures of as many of the phrases we wrote. of course i found their postal address and sent them a letter.

dear blogger of note
the thing is the thing
the thing is also the thing
i offer you this thing

and here i stopped. how do i sign this ? do i sign this ? is signing this cheezy ? should i use a secret name ? isn't that getting fancy ? and so on. my mind raced as i scrambled whether to use my real name, my zine name (which would lead back to me of course) or just leave another thing is the thing at the bottom of the letter.
i decided to just send the thing i made. it was a short plank of wood that i painted the slogan in brown and black on. i cut up pieces of pictures from a magazine over my letter and glued all that to the other side of the plank. i scraped at the glued paper revealing scraps of text, a 'th', an 'als', a 'you'.

i've been mailing for a while. one of those things that some friends think is neat or cute or just don't know about. you often don't tell people you don't mail to, that you mail. but this started something else. i called M. and we sat down to collage, cut-out and rubber stamp a batch of letters filled with bits of paper, the slogan once maybe twice written different ways.

i sent an anonymous card to rockstar. i put in an obscure reference to the zine i had left him some weeks before. no one would ever get it but it was fun. it led to a streak of puzzle making that left M. tired and my so-called art project swell into something a little bigger.

i had vinyl stickers printed up, 2 inches long, 1 cm high, black border black letters. i put them up in
out of the way places, just out of casual reach. it was fun. i always carried them on me.

it is with awed
attention now waiting
florid ors
nothing doth stretch towards

lord once more
(lady out not waiting)

finger rattling on board
stick to see it

fountain realm
not a bad place

forest over pound keys
numbers lost in fold

back to the board
harping wise knots

surfs up wavy ears

thank you

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

R. lines up the objects on the counter according to size. this is done absently, an exercise not in establishing order but in wasting time, in busying idle hands.
the hands of R. have things to do, things requiring attention and intention. moving baubles in a row and standing bobs of plastic at attention are distractions away from a series of deeds, that just the night before, excited R. with commitment.
R. retreats away from the sounds of tonight into the chamber.
The sounds of distance turn on themselves and leave only pale and muffled impressions, and only when listened for. otherwise things are still.
the chamber offers solace and thus, reward.
R. waits for the capsule to enlarge enough so he can climb in. the duties of the day will be offset by this movement. the dishes will wait. the fabric to be folded forgotten. thankfully there is no mammal or bird or fish companion that needs attending, no bowl to refresh or box to clean.
the capsule takes longer than usual. it sputters at half size and stalls.
neglected exercises leave us plump and yearning
the feeling of things cresting right below the surface
i feel that right below the surface of my consciousness there is a world waiting to crest
competing worlds attempting to crest forth into consciousness

coils and fleeting sinew
dorsal fins and hint of scale
cryptic fish or mammal all

ideas push against the bottom of the top, sniffs and hints