Or Logos Lego? Jane said to stop misreading
I say please start. Stop being smart.
Lego logos wouldn't get the point across.
Words are more than sounds.
I can't reach except by laughing
And every time I get even slightly hungry I am starving
But our doctor games are only theoretical
Who says they hate theory...
If only I could fix a screen to the page
With a permanent live broadcast of my face
And beneath it the caption: this is who I am now.
I want to go back to what I was saying tomorrow
But I can do that tomorrow.
My part-boredom, part-excess, prematurely correct, belatedly arriving
When I take away all the wasted time
What is left is art without a person.
A heart without a torsion? A hearse without a parson?
The words that would do what I want don't exist.
Everyone is happy but no one is particularly happy.
Why should they be?
Poems are not essays. Sounds are not ears.
Badly evil lost.
Good persons rushed in with enormous weapons and battered and stabbed and mutilated evil deservedly until they noticed the suicide.
No attempt is a success. No success is impermanent. No impermanence is artistic.
They thought happiness could be found in a kind of politics.
Thickly and with finitude, judgmentless and basking in its bland moderation
Cloud morphing into a stupid dog.
Evil stumbled forward and perished pitifully grim grime glittering on the actor brow
I am uncomfortablemaking it. I am uncomfortably possessive.
Ham of childhood prophecy.
The fangled fountain sheathing the furry plume in a blanket of water
Ice sublimating to vapor without ever even being water.
Special blowtorches were used in submarine setting to erect the piers.
In Santa Monica, in Coney Island.
We are going to be late.
(We is a good sign.)
For years I dreamed about a novel called The Cinematographer.
He slept with the actress who was married to the director
And the image gave him away and everybody died except for him
And it was the saddest story I have every heard.
Another curtain, another scissors scissoring.
I watch a movie about an adult kidnapping. They still called it a kidnapping.
I watch movies about filmmakers.
I have no tattoos. I have no babies. I go to sleep on my own and wake up surrounded by help
No ideas but in generations.
I'm free, says evil, dead!
I'm the statue of liberty the bronze chains broken around whose feet cannot be viewed from any plausible angle!
I'm the butterknife!
Good wins good hairlip good baldy good fist good and righteous and hostile and mean forever foreverever and forevereverever, seriously.
Seriously, mean. Seriously, good. Seriously, hostile, Seriously, and
And who do you trust? Anyone
And thus we arrive at wintertime in the aquarium
Where the whale tattoo on your bicep meets an actual orca.
The real recognizes images of the real.
Images of love are not so scary as actual love. Their correlation does not presume causality.
Orcas are harmless in the wild.
The Art of War
Somewhere it is later than where I am and where I am is too late already
I follow the line into the troll headquarters
So much money spent on patrolling
So many cadets in Los Angeles uniforms
To notice a raccoon out during the day
I set up my camera rig so that there were no blind spots
With words like "princess"
Have I reached into your mouth now
Because of California, Oregon, Washington State
The Pacific Rim
Sounds so sexual
They make me into statuary
Having their way
Insisting on a more Eastern Eastern style
Can you imagine?
Like looking with shoulders
This is a plan I've always seen fail
A style of imagining projected over everything
Think of the thing you are looking at
Think of the thought you are thinking
A timetable of the satellites glinting in the sun
Glint, glimmer, glitter, glister, glisten, gleam
The world is a wheel
But what really turns me on is sex, sex turns me on