Yoão met up with Charlie at the ballgame and they met Ingrid (Joanna). They hung out together in the peaceful times, and, innocently, Yoão fell in love with Joanna, and Charlie had to watch that shit. So they walked, no, let's be clear, they strolled down the street: they saw some blonde skinny ostrich of a lady walk by wearing one of those flat shiny fabric coats in old-person beige, and they overheard: "Yoaoh, Clement man, you still high?"
How can they serve that stuff on the street isn't it illegal to sell - wait, it's not really liquor it's just those pourer caps on some working-class, ethnic juices. We waited to cross the street because a car got stranded in the intersection but some bright light with flattened black hair and a blue blouse decided to scamper across and fuck the whole scene up, because then the floodgates opened and the car actually got stranded and all the way up the bridge honks reverberated and shook the girders as the afternoon sun split, centered, and eclipsed the massive rigid structure. Her whole body seemed flat now like a blue cracker, she couldn't be less of a Cracker but in terms of two-dimensionality, let's go with "cracker."
So the yesmen followed the leader and the leader had money on his mind. They could probably take a shortcut but let's not tell them about it - it distracts from the point of the story, which is that Charlie fell in love with Joanna but Yoão did too - only Yoão was more forward about it. And while Joanna wasn't exactly available, the advantage on this one had to go to Yoão, because his desire had contaminated his body language and released all kinds of mammalian particles into the afternoon air and maybe everyone got a whiff.
Maybe the blonde starlet on the billboard with her legs spread open caught a little whiff, or maybe some yesmen thought about the shortcut for a second. Either way the gasses found their way to Joanna from Yoão, like pollen finds its way from stamen to pistil or whatever. So while all this stuff was swirling around, a train emerged from the tunnel and lumbered over the bridge, and at the same time the girl wearing blue caught up with the leader and his yesmen and she jumped up and gave him a smootch. So the yesmen said something to each other along the lines of, "yeah..."
When Charlie got home it was Night. He went to his room and turned everything off and realized that he felt a little dirty. The sheets were just washed, he thought, so he went to the washroom and splashed some water on his face and rubbed some soap on his hands and gave each side a thorough once-over. He kept thinking about the sheets and how clean they were. The coarse city kept at its howling, and the bridge girders shuddered as cars passed over beam intersections. We closed the door to his room and felt much better. He was ready to retire.
Yoão and Joanna went to Joanna’s together, they exchanged smiles over a conversation and a sleeve of crackers and Yoão even invented a game where he would play a ringtone on his phone and say, "guess" and she would curtsy her perfect little face (in profile) over to the speaker and shout the name of the song with a big smile. This went on until Yoão ran out of songs, he played every song he had except the song he used for when his old girlfriend would call. Yoão was one of those guys who came out of womb on a sunny day.
"Tomorrow morning, everything will be different."
An arrestingly attractive woman dressed in a silver suit and a light purple blouse flicked her tall black sunglasses down onto her eyes. We never got a look at her eyes but if we had to guess, they shone. Her dark skin precluded her from many conversations, and that really got us thinking. "Well, does it?"
"Once he passes you, I want you to get ready for the next guy aight? You put your hand under your shirt and hold the handle of the gun, show him that you for real. The man walked innocently by the kid and the kid showed him his gun. The man stopped in his tracks and stammered backwards, his life flashing before his eyes, his organs collapsing within; his vocal chords scrambling around trying not to be fried by the nervous frenzy his brain had showered upon them. The kid laughed and the guy played it off like there weren't that many feces in his pinstriped pants. The guy turned away and started taking longer strides towards his front door. He saw two men strolling towards him across the street and he looked to their faces attempting to use them as rear-view mirrors.
"No, no. Back...then...things like that...didn't...."
All these people think the same thing when they walk into a fast food place, am I going to go all out or am I going to just put it off until the next time I go all out. The dark-skinned girl in the silver suit thought something along the lines of, "chicken $6.49 that's a little steep for fake chicken." I want to emphasize something - she is the be all and end all. She makes Joanna look like Charlie's trembling heart.
The clean man climbed into his clean bed and the moon shone through his light curtains and illuminated the nighttime and the bedroom with shadows and a wise white light. He spread his legs out to the sides and folded his hands on his waist as he lay on his back. He thought about death. He thought about how everyone's plans, especially Yoão's, could be brought to a grinding halt if any of the universe's fluctuations left him out of the Mission. He could be murdered in an alley, for instance, or he could develop melanoma. His parents could die or there could be a natural disaster. A train could derail or he could reverse over a little kid with his Audi. Anything could cut short his life and he doesn't even have a will or a note, all that would be left of him would be varyingly intense (mostly) fond memories by the people he interacted with while he was alive, or rather, while Yoão was alive because Charlie was really pondering his friend’s death, not his own. Well, in terms of carpe diem, he thought of himself, in terms of "reasons and treasons" he thought of Yoão.
Through it all he thought of Joanna. In conversation, in bed, in marriage, in parenting, in old age, at the wake, standing over each other's corpse, saying "thank you for coming." Maybe they'd die together in a car filled with CO - wills on the kitchen table and suicide notes in the mail.
Yoão and Joanna didn't do anything, so he walked home, and Joanna thought about Charlie. Joanna thought of Charlie, "Why does he seem so weak?" She thought of the pyramids and the heavy white marble stones. She thought that with patience, she could extricate herself from Yoão and Charlie, and maybe move to California - clean slate, men with some well-directed testosterone, not to mention the weather.
"Squint a little harder, maybe then you'll see how selfless I am."
He sat there thinking about Joanna. The wind swept on inaudibly - a comment on Charlie's thoughts. The darkness you know? All that solitude before bed with the pressure points caused by metal springs can’t be good for the heart. How can "Gold" be the middle, shouldn't it be the top? Yoão had struggled to compose a very serious e-mail message to Joanna, something similar to: "Hey, tonight was really great. I really enjoy spending time with you. I hope we can hang out together again sometime soon." 23 words, 23 minutes. The "I hope" construction is essentially an expression of self-doubt, but in this context, it is the least presumptuous phrase he used - an effective counterweight, a charming touch. She removed one of those black hair ties from her perfect ponytail and went to bed. She hadn’t washed off all the makeup around her eyes.
Charlie rose. He put on some music. “Eight Miles High,” The Byrds – Fillmore East, New York, NY, 1971. He leaned out his apartment window and looked down at the street. He saw an engraving on the lamppost. It was white. In the shower he remembered one of his dreams from the previous night. His mouth was open and he was rocking downward, sort of shaking his thighs rolling his eyes back a little…getting lower as the bassist raised his hand higher.
Joanna had gotten up earlier and passed an enormous mannequin in a store window. She had to do some errands. “He’s got it coming to him,” some construction guy said as he motioned with his hands. “Well, Bill told me I had to stay here but he didn’t say nothin’ to Jim so I don’t know why he’s still here.” “I am listening.” “Gimme a scoop of mango and a scoop of cherry,” a hard man asked the ice cart guy frozen in a permanent squint.
Yoao met Charlie at the park around 11:30, “I went home with Joanna last night.” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah man, I don’t know she’s all right.” They walked to a bench, Charlie looked up at the magazine store. He wondered where they manufactured the white letters above the storefront. “She’s actually really nice C.” “Definitely.” “Yeah we hung out for a while last night, just talking you know?” “Yeah.” Charlie looked down at the ground and saw an ant that didn’t have much longer to live. “But I think I’m over it dude, she’s no big deal.” “What’s it?” Charlie squeezed the ant’s insides out with his foot. “I don’t know, yesterday I kind of had a thing for Joanna.” “Really?”
Showing posts with label nile. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nile. Show all posts
Friday, May 9, 2008
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Bottlestops, Cops
A little folky don't ya think? I liked everything about her except didn't ya think she was a little folky? Let's move on to the next candidate, what do you say? You want to take a little break, huh? Oh you quit? But you're our diversity officer you can't just pick up and leave. No, see you can't do that unless you don't want to be eligible--what's a polka-dot-collared job?
On the street things were decidedly less surreal even though I'm prone to dramatize colors when I'm alone. Now I don't have a job, WWDD? Actually my surname has many more Confederate city streets named after it than yours. My stupid little red shoes gripped the ground and I pulled up and up on my chin to avoid sobbing. Goddamn white laces, ya'll get dirty so fast...find me. I need someone else to give me a chance. Where's the adjusted line of professional behavior for people like me?
I need a thumbnail picture and a byline and a ticket for a bus to a train to a ship to an island to a hut to a bed to a hole to a handle to some sweet deadly darkness. I kneeled and raised my hand and got a taxi who took me to Church...to Canal past Tillary to Flatbush saw Jacob by Robert from Robert also Robert heard something to Beach Channel to Rockaway Beach a few blocks...135. I got out and scaled a 7 inch concrete wall (how symbolic) to a set of eroded stairs - saw the dunes saw the sand saw the sky saw the beach touched the sand with my shoes - which are stupid. Removed them, discarded them, threw them away they washed away like anger like disappointment and the sun moved behind some thunderclouds and the afternoon got purple and the rust on the bridge turned yellow and the green turned dark blue then grey then asked for shelter but the man had plans to go. An escape plan some broken bottles a needle a trip a fall a high a crash some reading all wet all emotional all impossible all too much to handle to much to stomach digest process daily weekly after a day a week a year a decade veins and colors and dye and needle the needle his needle his hands his fingers guarded protected explained taught held. Hold on.
What happened with her Harvey? Can you hear me Harvey? How could she say all of that? I take offense to how she said Adios Muchachos without at least stopping to think that there was a woman in the room.
God winced. We all winced we couldn't believe it. Fucking life...I want to see it. I would give mine to give the world more of his. A chariot and a street and a dynamite listen to this wind all the sand on this beach she thought! Roll me over let me swim she thought. A knock and a nudge and some neck muscles and a sinking feeling give me more. She dug up a mental motorcycle and rode it off into the still-orange grimey sunset as the lightning refracted on the ocean right in front of her. Chances like this come and go the train noises hide it the jet engines hide it and the storm hides it and at each one of those it's great to scream and get all the fucking shit out.
Rarely are all three of them audible at the same time but the jet had to land because it was below decision altitude outside of the storm and the A out there with the purple summer storm crossing the bay. As the wind and the bay with the rain and the wind and the plane with the lightning and the lighting, which was purple and the bridge that was dark green between the grey that was the cockpit she saw the pilot and the conductor and the mother and her dad and she turned her neck like the last time she did before everything sank. The whirling and swirling and vibrating pulsating wishing crashing sliding surfing flying falling tripping. All this nasty yellow fluid came out herb leaves jungle leaves Amazon keys golden and Socialist but better but barely leave it there and walk back to the street. She left it there and went back to Beach 135th St.
She walked to a payphone and placed two quarters in the machine and dialed the operator. That was wrong they told her. For operator calls press 411 then oprima numero uno not to speak in Español so she pressed 24 because it was funny and sentimental and not uno. Queens, NY. That is not listed in our directory, please call back with a valid city and state please. She called back and pressed 24 and then said she wasn't exactly sure what town she was in but please don't hang up they asked what was the last town you were in she said New York, NY. They gave her a Holland Tunnel-based taxi company. She asked to be picked up they declined. She dialed 411 then oprimió'd 24 then said Brooklyn, NY and she got a very local taxi company even though Brooklyn isn't really a city. They picked her up it was dark she had no shoes or money and forgot her phone where she used to work and now she was wet from the storm she lost her voice basically. She liked the bridge and saw the city and the lights and thought she saw JFK. Got to a busy intersection she had to pee her cigarettes were ruined didn't have a light anyway the driver wasn't very aggressive she paid and got out far from Tillary far from the bridge - Flatbush. Hailed a cab he said not going to city she said neither was she. Let her in she said, Port Authority Bus Terminal, he said get out she kissed him, he took her by the chin and threw her against the little glass opening she hurt her neck her stomach sank her heart sank the fucking shit had come back.
The lights of downtown Brooklyn in the distance reminded her of Manhattan in the distant distance and the lights and all the fucking shit. Got another cab didn't have any money he didn't care took her over the Manhattan Bridge let her off when two little kids needed a cab they had money higher priority missed connection? Said thanks said thanks so much said one day, had faith believed it thought it ok didn't think about it. Walked from E. Broadway and Canal to 41st and 8th Avenue begged for a bus wasn't that era. Can't beg for a bus the busses left from garages roped off no hitchhiking no valuable trade no pawn shops needed money knew what to do went to 42nd saw some guy needed a lift gave him the needle fell crash cash - beautiful cash "get me out of this place!" Next bus out of PA is in 6 hours attendant said gleefully. 4AM to Philadelphia first one on last one off got to sit in the back.
In Philly she had slept on the bus lots of stops then packed gross and constricted and stuck and sweaty and wet and tarred pockets and bare feet funny looks concerned looks two faces especially. In a crowd far from home kneeled raised hands no cab this time. Stood up not a power ranger not a superhero nothing...deflation but closer to the resolution to the reconciliation to a comedy to disbelief to bed.
On the street things were decidedly less surreal even though I'm prone to dramatize colors when I'm alone. Now I don't have a job, WWDD? Actually my surname has many more Confederate city streets named after it than yours. My stupid little red shoes gripped the ground and I pulled up and up on my chin to avoid sobbing. Goddamn white laces, ya'll get dirty so fast...find me. I need someone else to give me a chance. Where's the adjusted line of professional behavior for people like me?
I need a thumbnail picture and a byline and a ticket for a bus to a train to a ship to an island to a hut to a bed to a hole to a handle to some sweet deadly darkness. I kneeled and raised my hand and got a taxi who took me to Church...to Canal past Tillary to Flatbush saw Jacob by Robert from Robert also Robert heard something to Beach Channel to Rockaway Beach a few blocks...135. I got out and scaled a 7 inch concrete wall (how symbolic) to a set of eroded stairs - saw the dunes saw the sand saw the sky saw the beach touched the sand with my shoes - which are stupid. Removed them, discarded them, threw them away they washed away like anger like disappointment and the sun moved behind some thunderclouds and the afternoon got purple and the rust on the bridge turned yellow and the green turned dark blue then grey then asked for shelter but the man had plans to go. An escape plan some broken bottles a needle a trip a fall a high a crash some reading all wet all emotional all impossible all too much to handle to much to stomach digest process daily weekly after a day a week a year a decade veins and colors and dye and needle the needle his needle his hands his fingers guarded protected explained taught held. Hold on.
What happened with her Harvey? Can you hear me Harvey? How could she say all of that? I take offense to how she said Adios Muchachos without at least stopping to think that there was a woman in the room.
God winced. We all winced we couldn't believe it. Fucking life...I want to see it. I would give mine to give the world more of his. A chariot and a street and a dynamite listen to this wind all the sand on this beach she thought! Roll me over let me swim she thought. A knock and a nudge and some neck muscles and a sinking feeling give me more. She dug up a mental motorcycle and rode it off into the still-orange grimey sunset as the lightning refracted on the ocean right in front of her. Chances like this come and go the train noises hide it the jet engines hide it and the storm hides it and at each one of those it's great to scream and get all the fucking shit out.
Rarely are all three of them audible at the same time but the jet had to land because it was below decision altitude outside of the storm and the A out there with the purple summer storm crossing the bay. As the wind and the bay with the rain and the wind and the plane with the lightning and the lighting, which was purple and the bridge that was dark green between the grey that was the cockpit she saw the pilot and the conductor and the mother and her dad and she turned her neck like the last time she did before everything sank. The whirling and swirling and vibrating pulsating wishing crashing sliding surfing flying falling tripping. All this nasty yellow fluid came out herb leaves jungle leaves Amazon keys golden and Socialist but better but barely leave it there and walk back to the street. She left it there and went back to Beach 135th St.
She walked to a payphone and placed two quarters in the machine and dialed the operator. That was wrong they told her. For operator calls press 411 then oprima numero uno not to speak in Español so she pressed 24 because it was funny and sentimental and not uno. Queens, NY. That is not listed in our directory, please call back with a valid city and state please. She called back and pressed 24 and then said she wasn't exactly sure what town she was in but please don't hang up they asked what was the last town you were in she said New York, NY. They gave her a Holland Tunnel-based taxi company. She asked to be picked up they declined. She dialed 411 then oprimió'd 24 then said Brooklyn, NY and she got a very local taxi company even though Brooklyn isn't really a city. They picked her up it was dark she had no shoes or money and forgot her phone where she used to work and now she was wet from the storm she lost her voice basically. She liked the bridge and saw the city and the lights and thought she saw JFK. Got to a busy intersection she had to pee her cigarettes were ruined didn't have a light anyway the driver wasn't very aggressive she paid and got out far from Tillary far from the bridge - Flatbush. Hailed a cab he said not going to city she said neither was she. Let her in she said, Port Authority Bus Terminal, he said get out she kissed him, he took her by the chin and threw her against the little glass opening she hurt her neck her stomach sank her heart sank the fucking shit had come back.
The lights of downtown Brooklyn in the distance reminded her of Manhattan in the distant distance and the lights and all the fucking shit. Got another cab didn't have any money he didn't care took her over the Manhattan Bridge let her off when two little kids needed a cab they had money higher priority missed connection? Said thanks said thanks so much said one day, had faith believed it thought it ok didn't think about it. Walked from E. Broadway and Canal to 41st and 8th Avenue begged for a bus wasn't that era. Can't beg for a bus the busses left from garages roped off no hitchhiking no valuable trade no pawn shops needed money knew what to do went to 42nd saw some guy needed a lift gave him the needle fell crash cash - beautiful cash "get me out of this place!" Next bus out of PA is in 6 hours attendant said gleefully. 4AM to Philadelphia first one on last one off got to sit in the back.
In Philly she had slept on the bus lots of stops then packed gross and constricted and stuck and sweaty and wet and tarred pockets and bare feet funny looks concerned looks two faces especially. In a crowd far from home kneeled raised hands no cab this time. Stood up not a power ranger not a superhero nothing...deflation but closer to the resolution to the reconciliation to a comedy to disbelief to bed.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Ignition Post-Position
If the devil parked in my business, I'd light him up and throw out the receipt. In the city, we deliver each other from daily sins, we drench up and down all day, all night. We expand like blue bubble gum at the intersection of flighty emotion cushions and the devil's comeuppance. "For you only the highest grade sirloin," I told her in passing. And she said, slow down son.
I heard my mind and transcribed what I heard. It told me to slow down, take one thing at a time, break it down break it down. What's complex wholly is partly simple. Ok so now I break it down I draw some vertical lines. Now I have two brass parts: a trumpet and a saxophone. I'm sure you see the discrepancy already, don't you? Obviously, you can't play the trumpet while you play the saxophone, so stop trying, she said.
Follow me to wider times, follow me to the future, I frequent here often. You're going to need a ticket, a special permission authorization from the government. If you live in certain zip codes this isn't a problem - I'll pluck ya right out of your coward-hut. We love the system. We love the system. We love the system. We love fossil fuels and their refinement. We love men behind booths and behind messy wooden desks: "my office is such a mess, excuse me." We love instant incarceration, we love petroleum pillows in the cell. "That's fine," my rockin' dude told me with a rifle beneath his tummy.
Happiness, surround me, enfuel me, breathe me. Light me up spark me down, dull to a barely conscious chaotic din, and then ravish our artillery all at once. Throw the sticks down, zap me with your purple turquoise voltage. What parameters does my current mood pass to this periodic lamedar I've developed. My inhibition-system needs a little reworking if I'm going to start this engine again. Well, isn't that the moral of the story these days. I wanna modulate in and out of that. I don't want to lose this, lose my control. Day after day it went on and on. On a hill where dinosaurs roamed, I stared down at my dreams, nestled in the urban sunset.
I flip on the lights, full throttle chuckle, there she is...[explicit, must purchase the whole album to view]. Wolverine-man tumble fall down down down and out, stop the bleeding. Elbows at odds, heart pounding, seeking the comfort of darkness and your [explicit, must purchase the whole album to view] skin. What scares me is that I may never get that again. Deadness, as a feeling, is interesting, and it explains alot about recreational drug use. A gentle breeze or a Manilow melody whips the deadness into glory. Deadness dams the onslaught of a raging environment or a familiar pop tune too, and for that reason, I desire it, for I would relish it, I want some relish on it, I want to relish the relish on my dead sandwich of life, a tautology.
Spin in to the room, it's so bright now, everyone's doing the ancient dance. Ancient to the extent that this colonial would know. Bright to the extent that hundreds of oil lanterns hung from the rafters can produce. Hung in the sense that this is happening someplace colonial. Following the formula, we riderate: riding to the right! the devil leave you alone. the devil leaves you, the fiery devil leaves...he leaves the oil lanterns burning. Such formulaic tastes and preferences mean that someone, anyone, can program a robot to come and get me to do anything. I am thoroughly surmountable. I AM THOROUGHLY SURMOUNTABLE! fuckin' you up. fuckin' you up! thoroughly surmountable!
Leaving yet? No. Still the One baby. Tim Duncan, Lenore, glandular amputation, meatloaf. Living peacefully in myself, of myself, but not to the gas mileage. Twilight transformation. Slowly, we changed. We widened in all directions. We rose above the rest and attained a truly special vantage point. From her shoulders I could see water towers and suburban grid deviation. A charge of night: and I could see Idlewild! the distant shores of Rio de Plata, Catanian seaports, brick slabs smugly resting on an insurmountable hill, London. I am charged. My veins have been alchemically, eugenically altered for ever, for the [explicit].
So formulaic it hurts, you know? So programmable. I could be abstracted away, I could be a freelance job for someone who really hates me. I'm itchin' for a comeuppance, ya see? I'm dyin' for a little fourth-dimensional skewing. Burn it up. Burn my time for me honey. Make it run, make it melt, just burn it up. There are times and places I tell myself, there are spots and there are vines, and when you cross vines and neglect spots, you end up with, well...my ideal job. Sign me up! Register. Rewind. Cross-square costume shopping just a week before everything changed, forever.
Oh drugs, oh rusty whistling and dampened advice...just tell me what I need to know in order to get from the urban hustle to that windy perceptual plane of recreational depressants mixed with professional light equipment and maybe a hook nose and a flat chest and a dog and a helmet....two helmets...and a garden. and an [explicit reference].
Epic ant-hill commando, ARM! (adillo). Road rage scares me, but I never understood how yellow could be slandered in such an irrevocable manner. Little old wizard guy in blue said, "you're going to have to come up with a whole lot more than that if you want a tubride to packed tri-state-area stadiums in forty years." A little slap here, an elbow slam there, patriotism-veneered placards on nude babes way...whoo...river wild, river wild, river slams me up and down through this time. It's venereal really. The chaos of the river, the chaos of our situation the vines and spots the straights and the hills.
I heard my mind and transcribed what I heard. It told me to slow down, take one thing at a time, break it down break it down. What's complex wholly is partly simple. Ok so now I break it down I draw some vertical lines. Now I have two brass parts: a trumpet and a saxophone. I'm sure you see the discrepancy already, don't you? Obviously, you can't play the trumpet while you play the saxophone, so stop trying, she said.
Follow me to wider times, follow me to the future, I frequent here often. You're going to need a ticket, a special permission authorization from the government. If you live in certain zip codes this isn't a problem - I'll pluck ya right out of your coward-hut. We love the system. We love the system. We love the system. We love fossil fuels and their refinement. We love men behind booths and behind messy wooden desks: "my office is such a mess, excuse me." We love instant incarceration, we love petroleum pillows in the cell. "That's fine," my rockin' dude told me with a rifle beneath his tummy.
Happiness, surround me, enfuel me, breathe me. Light me up spark me down, dull to a barely conscious chaotic din, and then ravish our artillery all at once. Throw the sticks down, zap me with your purple turquoise voltage. What parameters does my current mood pass to this periodic lamedar I've developed. My inhibition-system needs a little reworking if I'm going to start this engine again. Well, isn't that the moral of the story these days. I wanna modulate in and out of that. I don't want to lose this, lose my control. Day after day it went on and on. On a hill where dinosaurs roamed, I stared down at my dreams, nestled in the urban sunset.
I flip on the lights, full throttle chuckle, there she is...[explicit, must purchase the whole album to view]. Wolverine-man tumble fall down down down and out, stop the bleeding. Elbows at odds, heart pounding, seeking the comfort of darkness and your [explicit, must purchase the whole album to view] skin. What scares me is that I may never get that again. Deadness, as a feeling, is interesting, and it explains alot about recreational drug use. A gentle breeze or a Manilow melody whips the deadness into glory. Deadness dams the onslaught of a raging environment or a familiar pop tune too, and for that reason, I desire it, for I would relish it, I want some relish on it, I want to relish the relish on my dead sandwich of life, a tautology.
Spin in to the room, it's so bright now, everyone's doing the ancient dance. Ancient to the extent that this colonial would know. Bright to the extent that hundreds of oil lanterns hung from the rafters can produce. Hung in the sense that this is happening someplace colonial. Following the formula, we riderate: riding to the right! the devil leave you alone. the devil leaves you, the fiery devil leaves...he leaves the oil lanterns burning. Such formulaic tastes and preferences mean that someone, anyone, can program a robot to come and get me to do anything. I am thoroughly surmountable. I AM THOROUGHLY SURMOUNTABLE! fuckin' you up. fuckin' you up! thoroughly surmountable!
Leaving yet? No. Still the One baby. Tim Duncan, Lenore, glandular amputation, meatloaf. Living peacefully in myself, of myself, but not to the gas mileage. Twilight transformation. Slowly, we changed. We widened in all directions. We rose above the rest and attained a truly special vantage point. From her shoulders I could see water towers and suburban grid deviation. A charge of night: and I could see Idlewild! the distant shores of Rio de Plata, Catanian seaports, brick slabs smugly resting on an insurmountable hill, London. I am charged. My veins have been alchemically, eugenically altered for ever, for the [explicit].
So formulaic it hurts, you know? So programmable. I could be abstracted away, I could be a freelance job for someone who really hates me. I'm itchin' for a comeuppance, ya see? I'm dyin' for a little fourth-dimensional skewing. Burn it up. Burn my time for me honey. Make it run, make it melt, just burn it up. There are times and places I tell myself, there are spots and there are vines, and when you cross vines and neglect spots, you end up with, well...my ideal job. Sign me up! Register. Rewind. Cross-square costume shopping just a week before everything changed, forever.
Oh drugs, oh rusty whistling and dampened advice...just tell me what I need to know in order to get from the urban hustle to that windy perceptual plane of recreational depressants mixed with professional light equipment and maybe a hook nose and a flat chest and a dog and a helmet....two helmets...and a garden. and an [explicit reference].
Epic ant-hill commando, ARM! (adillo). Road rage scares me, but I never understood how yellow could be slandered in such an irrevocable manner. Little old wizard guy in blue said, "you're going to have to come up with a whole lot more than that if you want a tubride to packed tri-state-area stadiums in forty years." A little slap here, an elbow slam there, patriotism-veneered placards on nude babes way...whoo...river wild, river wild, river slams me up and down through this time. It's venereal really. The chaos of the river, the chaos of our situation the vines and spots the straights and the hills.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Sluggin'
The second iteration has a vague echo, but for the most part we're talking about the same thing. We're doing the same exact thing. All of our decisions are identical, we are clever composers. Indeed, 1985 was an extremely, extremely important year. It was our big break. March hymns and upbeat electronica inspired our lives.
Oh, how long can a charade last? Pretty long, apparently. That is the nature of a circle, you know, what goes around comes around. In due time, the pendulum swings and if you're standing where you were the last time it came around, you're going to get knocked out. Unfortunately, that's the nature of justice in this world. Fortunately, everyone drones around dumping sediment all over the next guy's alluvial plain - rarely incurring the wrath of the forward-swinging pendulum of justice. And that is what I have to show, [16.3], thanks.
I want to create a vast multimedia autobiography, but the multi keeps growing. I want to index it, but it's slipping from abstraction (which can't be a bad thing, I guess). Ya see, statements like that are going to get me in trouble. I must resist such things. Stack dump { smbnntwp }. A vast, multimedia autobiography. Unless you're straight with us, things will never change.
Oh, how long can a charade last? Pretty long, apparently. That is the nature of a circle, you know, what goes around comes around. In due time, the pendulum swings and if you're standing where you were the last time it came around, you're going to get knocked out. Unfortunately, that's the nature of justice in this world. Fortunately, everyone drones around dumping sediment all over the next guy's alluvial plain - rarely incurring the wrath of the forward-swinging pendulum of justice. And that is what I have to show, [16.3], thanks.
I want to create a vast multimedia autobiography, but the multi keeps growing. I want to index it, but it's slipping from abstraction (which can't be a bad thing, I guess). Ya see, statements like that are going to get me in trouble. I must resist such things. Stack dump { smbnntwp }. A vast, multimedia autobiography. Unless you're straight with us, things will never change.
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