note. the captain. why is my olfactory so sensitive? Waters said it well enough. dear disease. drink beer. thursday night in shorts. neither one thing nor the other. a man walks into a bar. boyish velocity. embrace you tight. lions in my pockets. animal style. mirror stay afar. koans. maverick. nasal tickles. clouds. where's my wolf costume at? hipster to be circle. sunset. stroll. parachutes and rain. Matterhorn Loon. Space.
Prose, I've come to understand, is the traditional, professional way of communicating thoughts, ideas, and stories. Like these sentences I here write, a reader follows linearly as a witness to the development of a thought process through strands of textual fragments, compiled into organized sequences. From such threads, a reader knits a contextual world by way of the author's fibers—his/ her vernacular, tone, and style. Once you're finished, you get a blanket.
Poetry, wonderfully, isn't nearly as lucid. Nor is it as easily constructed. It requires a bit of goofball words, bouts of stress to induce rhymes or alliterations, and serious curiosity into what the English language can achieve. It dismisses grammar as a faux pas, thus allowing the poet to express words like the energetic sprites they wish to be. But because of this irregularity of the poetic form, many poems—from the stanzas we write in our 5th grade English classes to the love notes we leave on windshields— possess furtive representations of truth. Very different from its prose counterpart. What does it mean, they cry as they sit in the cold. My response:
i got lions in my pockets... nah, i got minds in my pockets. them skeletons breakin bonez on the floah express yourself with movement flavah of the moah sexual english. wait, where this vernaculah come frum?! floetry that comes from back in the day. motifs— mo kief pleeze, put that shit on the bowl, owl man. eyes dinner plate large with the flowah of the sun. sun flowah. flowah. flowah. smell the floetrees.
he drives through his town night after night, talking heads to himself: two eyes and a sunset in the rearview. in Ghost his machine, he drives on his road. on the streets. on the planet. on his beat path to the final destination he calls home.
man walks into a bar and its like-like-like. I skip the beatz, three timez to ensure proper syntax of English rhetoric man walking into said bar is upside down most precariously on his head hands strained under the light of gazes and stairs... tumble tumble tumble down to The Bunny Hatch... the bartender calls, "oye! mine eyes beseech me to watch the fool" jukebox then dies, music bye bye byes and the rest of the world watches "who is this man who walks on his hands? is he from Atlanta or Boston or Kalamazoo?" everyone laughs all at once: "hee-haw" man on hands precedes motional movement syncopates pedicles ambling, like muscles hitting joints, the beatz float bubbles back up and everyone's yawping, then choking on smelly "yasses" and stuffy "nose," which kicks on the jukebox in interruption, which falls beneath the dub of the life step.
wub*wub*wub*wub*wub* hand man is now pariah man. talks to knees and crotches. feet flail and hit faces. fingers scurry from the basses of heels and shoo's. wub*wub*wub*wub*wub* upside down mouth says, "music is too noisy, please turn the stars back on." hand man pariah man: no one could feel the pulse of the blood rush no one could feel the superb oxygen delivery to the brain no one could feel the wrinkles sag with reverse gravity no one could feel the hair on end without electricity he asks for a drink, but is not heard instead, he smells cheese from meeze scurrying, delightfooey aged cheddah no wine though (upside down sad face) "gin and tonic pleaze," man on hands says to the meeze. "put some battery acid in as well," he adds. (for digestion) the meeze shake his drink and scamper off. once the drink consumed, hand man burns fire brimstone, dancing with oil of vitriol, he looks around at beautiful babies. hand man stands upside 'round and the babies and bunnies were aimless flotsams in the air.
streetlight mistaken for starlight gives shadow puppets to the night and they dance. metallic timbre! under groves ooo, interesting, he says, electric, fantastic dopplegangers hidden beneath darkness: the blind spot, the corner at the tin man's eyes. ooo, interesting, he says, peach fuzz fear sparks embrace him tight, street punches light across his path, broken sticks vertical or horizontal, depending on which way he looked. ooo, interesting, he says, tap shoes dissipate, perhaps quiet strangers, (whisper using the back of the throat) a troll in the brush. hush, he wants to make a deal.
I once jumped out of a plane during a lightning storm. The pilot yelled— DON'T DO IT! CAN'T HELP IT! —My back yelled as my front jumped. I spun around to wave (courteously) but Maverick went off, chasing Charlie. Boyish velocity, a sough— parachutes and rain, my shoulders carry thunderous blunders of others. Still raining. Still falling. Only still.
mesmerize the light of thee red chair— sit down, sit down listen to what the chair has to say to your ass. it shines the light into the warm bum. the wonder bun— i’d like a wisdom burger extra catsup (wassupdog) lettuce, toh moh mate ohs. one inch thick. grease to lube the stratosphere of the questions I ask. I will only ask only questions, to hold the motherfuckers accountable we are in in n out out, meticulously white and fresh. sahara animals drench oh, little tidbits of delicious comprehension, fast quick knew memorize! memorize! do it faster! then without pre cum hen shed engenders philosophomatic undoing undun the roads to this burger joint, are exactly the latter
heart beats make the snake go away, timeless children await between the breaks of the pulse yet, begetting the begot by the will of naïveté boys yell, "oh, loathe me Sophia!" I do know the properness of experience, yet the shying from youth I cannot do."" falling into darkness of the imagination, I see black fins in the ocean.
viola vanilla sounds cause faith. an angel drummed on the cloud's rippled torso; the cloud was wicked ticklish. he laughed. this caused rain. the sun forecasted it was about to rain. it rained. water globules drizzled from the cloud guffaws; the earth was wicked sensitive. she melted. and a mountain moved.
dear disease. craving the numb feeling of ( ) only to have ! opium of “sigh” – thank you very much containing monsoons in wells lasts longer than me ha ! ha ! (hope you see sarcasm while) my kidneys fail and i piss sadness – your welcome how do I feel when the pitter&patter of life drifts with the tide of the ocean?
yahoo, its a respite to be away from that green horror, Nietzche and God were dead'n'a'minute... got yeast and hops (let me check, maybe wheat?) on my lips acquiesce that smooth and tart gulp bosom bliss, hearth fire guffaws. sandpaper, carpenter smells. pulse carb pulse carb pulse carb inhale that liquid joy of the brown bottle. amount to head rush, lethargia. foamy rings around a glass mean good things.
I am an owl. You are a fox. Creatures of the same grove examining each other's furball anatomy, mangling the tangles of our two bodies, sprawled in the night. Air everywhere! Hair, fair weather, and feathers everywhere! Our poetic vernacular exhibits hoots and gruffs. I'd rhyme thingz with z's. You'd wake me up— Smile, Wake up, Pleaze! Oh, how my large eyes swooned over your little body in the morning time. Corn twang steal me away, oatmeal. Don't run away without me, fox, I'm not done eating breakfast!
medium is mediocre when it is the thing upon which you rely. ugh, deny artistry the occupancy to change the bed before we go to sleep— dust begone—move along! fresh vacuum bags I suck at the marrownful carpet telling all, “It’s okay, the god of the sky is loud and smells like dog." —and die. --------- can ghosts ever have too much of a good thing? embrace hugs upstairs and then fall crescendo moon sonata. what genre am i falling into? ---------
raybans off pupils dialate into the sun rolling backwards to a new perspective on the world (white eyes are seeing what's going on in my head, face licks the sun) mirror of saturated energy. it burns a hole from occipital to frontal. if you look through me i become a gangly, rangy microscope, peering at planet petri, honey moon shine—known as an alcochocolate i’m floating in the most peculiar way. diverse stars meow at the sun squeal amongst themselves and bark at the dark satellite of my other side. that place is lumpy. think one part brain mush other part space balls and you get a volcano with a mellifluous zephyr. Hazy hash ocean waves—the tide surprises the proverbs, there are thirty days in a month.
free the land the ocean the sea and let the mist surrender in gratitude avoiding the insanity of jealous machine eyes— pierce into the lightness of what was true beauty god mind. and the magic —magic without an oil lamp.
I’m drowning some self-pity into my mocha latte... in this coffee shop called my room... with fingerless gloves on so that I can write freely... all while listening to David Bowie’s Low. Check it out; it’s dope. I sit in my room of coffee spoons and sugar cubes, turn the light down low, and pretend that I am Allen Ginsberg, while being absolutely certain that Oxford commas are shaped like bees' knees. I will howl at the moon— only during the daytime because I'm afraid of the dark— and then pretend that I right impeccably good foodthoughtstuffs, On a mountain, I tell rumors of my book coming. Like the Messiah, I add. It’s a tetralogy book cake, actually. Jerk T.S. Eliot’s "Four Quartets" into Catholicism's open pages (wait! not the Gnostic Gospel!), better known as The Holy Vortex (as seen by Kerouac), and you get my ostentatious baby character named Tycho.
He'll gestate in a box of human experience so that I can watch him grow (during Chapter 2), transform, weed-like, into an ironic Pokemon, Kush the Mandrake. Stoners will smoke hash and hashtags. Oh, I'm in a fishbowl. Ash is on the floor. Sublime, they'll say. Bookworms, with pinky salutations, mocha hazed, they'll understand. Maybe the tea poets, too. And the salted pretzels. No ending. Can't be done. Just quick now that cat. Cool cat. Last page, an assortment of squares, All ya'll are squares. "Hip to Be Square". New hue's to me! Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds, and bubbles. You get nothing! Good day, sir.
mirror stay afar technology before and I above the LAY-Z-BOY. Green beatz pronounce the drawing of pain by the rhyme’s articulation of James Blake. An- Alize the world, my friend. Take that sweeping sweet sweet breath Inhale and drop to a knee before these words which fall down like energetic sprites. Sweep that sweat sweat from your face. lights blur shadows where my pen hovers it moves linear as my head bobs to the hypertext link. just bobbin’ to some chillyz. The fan overhead throws noise around. scatterz the waves reverberberberates.
the Beatz have jazz. I, I, have the dub. same plan, same euphoric feeling, same hydroponic pot, purple aura, beautiful colors, strobefly lights composite stars, garlic and sapphire, hell awaits the impatient belle, heaven awaits the seeking giant,
inhale dog hair smells ineffable percussions to the hollow in my nose, i exhume the dust in the air, passing the football of microparticles through cerebral strings of the harp named Brain. into the couch, i go freeing the spine of its reverence to gravity, i jam to this jelly of marsh mellow music, cut diagonally. gimme grilled cheese, instead. pickles and milk. conspicuous yack attack, blat— guttural vomit spews, with it come words of enzymes, music breaks down into dance, and i tap abdominals like a beat machine. rhythms drifting abound, the soil ejecting waves of the dirt back in to the air so you can smell what i smell. the maestro is my socks crossed, smelling ripeness into the air. masturbating pheromones, i can’t stop sniffing sometimes, weird. euphony tickles the cochlea, and i sneeze a boogie.
Rooftop hanging, sing -ing banging, oh watch the leprechaun sing. And dance and dance till the rooftop arcs and bows betwixt and between innumerable atoms and atoms and atoms. Until they go down into the sepulcher laid to rest and pieces of… and piece of the thing that can least describe the atom by which it was. Now becoming, only to be- come and befriend do you join in the fire of the fell pit. The pit falls with fire and glass the consistent bemoaning of nerves. Cheshire molding in the corner. Look now ‘twixt the quick and the dead. Gold crumbs ablaze with flamingo saplings of fire. Here is the thing that you asked for.
(note) – I am young full of answers but am questioning incorrectly so take into account that when reading please be attentive to everything – even the blank spaces
the captain; a romantic fellow writes a poem to the wind Take me up, O’ treacherous airs Time is of a thimble My lady is lost at sea And there is no room for er’r Half past dead - the seas doom me Loathing of the moments anon So hear my notes Carry them to the sky Everything perfect (again) but the wind deafened “alas, my heart just sunk” and so did his ship bubbling and breaking and rising to the water’s brim “yet i’m alive” “yet i saw her in the water” “while i’m complete” the captain lived happily after then “because i met her…i am better” the wind felt his emotion answered singing: don’t let an anchor of love contain your hear since love is constant and around you.
I am writing in shorts. Is it weird to know that this is the first time I have written in shorts? Or is it weirder to know that I know this is the first time I have written in shorts? The shower I just took gestated my brain like a warm womb of wisdom, and I had fantastic thoughts like Kerouac when he was a wormwood wino, lying on the grass of the sun. Pretty lights glister. I am still in my shorts, believe it or not. Can’t say why it’s cool yet can’t say why it’s not. Wait, I do know now though, ‘cause I just had a Kerouacian thought.
To see the dark side of anything is brighter than most jocks. Contemplating whether to be this or that. He smiled at his new affirming dew and took up poetry to BREATHE – Laughing like a lunatic scares some but after time (walls) are built and he is stronger than ever… Still – learning to fly is common so it goes !
Why is my olfactory so sensitive? Am I a bloodhound with a nose for tears? It’s the darndest thing!
mad god rage me! arwhooo,,,, fang night fight moon. werewolf shags grabs and snags. sirens sirens sirens arwhooo,,,, frag soldier, bourbon moon. blind sun, indelible dark, dark, dark. "walk faster in the park, Danny boy." church bell hear? fear. only. fuck. second. run, rabbit, run. sneakers squeakers. arwhooo,,,, loud on the great now, slam and check. wide eyed Danny boy lay dead. it's 4:01, red. saturnine metronomes. mad god save me.
Altitude: 10,000 feet, gasp whisky clouds. run down Matterhorn! pitter-a-patter rain fall after, Altitude: 8,000 feet, cough flowee trees. can't fall down Matterhorn! pitter-patter-patter faster, faster, faster! Altitude: 5,000 feet, yodel lungs falsetto. run down Matterhorn! pat-a-tat-tat red cap, Jack attack.
Altitude: 2,000 feet, wheeze heavy breeze. can't fall down Matterhorn! Tatter-patter-pat-tat trip the light fantastic. Golden hour: Boots leap on rocks, a sweaty loon.
simplicity the air, or lackthereof space the august frontier hushed felicities grassy star diamonds For heaven's sake: be quiet, pay attention!