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| 1 0 . 2 . 2 0 0 8 O n e d a y i l o s e m y s e l f i n r a i n, n e a r l y d r e n c h e d f r o m n o s e t o l o i n, n o t y e t a l w a y s w o r d s r e v e n e l i k e c i g a r e t t e b u t t s p i c k i n g t h e m s e l v e s u p a n d d o g g i n g o u t i n t r a f f i c a m o n g p o r t - r a i t s h u n g t i l l o n e u n - b u c k l e s t h e b e l t a n d s l i p s o f f h i s t r o u s e r s a f r i e n d o f m i n e a g h a s t w i t h s m o k y l i n e s f r o m h o l e s t h e v e r y p o u r s i n h a i r s i n n a i l s i n e p i d e r m i s f o r f l o w e r s a r o s e a n a r c i s s u s t h i s v i n e i c l i n g t o y o u w e f r o w n e d t h e – s h i p e m p t i e s i n t o s u c h o c e a n s t h e i s w i m s w i t h y o u r i m a g e i n p i e c e s i n p a s t e s i n p o e t r y, y o u t h i n k y o u n e a r l y l o s t m e, w h a t d o y o u m e a n f r i e n d O m y f r i e n d h o w i n d r e a m s i p a w a t y o u r b e a r d a t y o u r T a r t a r b e a r d i l i c k i t i l i k e i t y o u h a r d a g a i n s t t h a t m o t h e r t o n g u e y o u r b e a k a s i t p e c k s a p a r t t h i s g a z e a g l a n c e g l a s s y t o d e - p a n t s t h e g l o s s l i k e t h e s m e l l o f h e r l a b i a n e v e r e x i t i n g t h e d o o r w a y, m y m o m i n t o m y s h e l f a c o n f u s i o n c e l l u l a r m a y b e ? y o u s h o u l d s w i t c h t o i h e a r y o u l i k e t h e y h a v e p l u s d e t o u r s t o b e s u r e w h a t m a k e s u p w h o i a m, i n t w o a c o r n e r o f e a s t q u a r t e r t u r n r o a d i s a w i t o n c e d o n ’ t l i e t o m e, n o o n e, n o t e v e n t h e c h i l d r e n h a v e s u c h s t r a n g e f a m i l i e s s o w / o h a v i n g d o n e a n y t h i n g w r o n g i l e f t m y s e l f i n a p i t f a l l b y a c c i d e n t a s I r e s t i n e v e r y p a i n i s s m e l l | |||||
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November 1st, 2010
June 21st, 2010
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| Invest in eventual exchange and mark the kettle to death when you learn to comprehend that shared experiencability itself reached finitude years ago, only alienations exists in episodes of this vitality nearly extinguished with the squash of monstrosities in sects and cults on the wall right in front of you, just look at what you invest in what these days I no longer know you when I mark territory in permutations of policies, of total mobilizations of police, of what is called polite according to tests administered by foreign policy and exchange rate agencies, I mean little to no thing between us a wall, crushed myself yesterday when I dropped the repression technique (shh! I smoke cigarettes) into water cup at long last all the while I cannot begin to learn to comprehend what I share with the negation of one unity, namely, no one knows me in all the alien nations episodally sparking from allotechnological deferred actions, to invest men in facile facilities for womb, man, if I could just get my hands on an other daze all the while at the pass we'll get right back to you after this commercial break. | |||||
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June 12th, 2010
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| In the year of our lord 2- -and 10 i can attest to three absolute periodic to- -pographies in my experience: those in which i would call something, like, “the remembrance lost,” those a bit like time in a hospital there were days when i went for walks at three in the morning, would go to churches half way past twelfth street. recognized you from the sound of your footsteps before i even turned myself towards the memory lost crutches speared into my right armpit scrambled atop the dissolved pink pills in my stomach, those something like I’m the pan frying a word? a rhyme pushing outside its sound. | |||||||
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April 26th, 2010
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| Let’s take for example the milk dud experience takes for example the dish soap shower, you take the dandelion flower, so take to building what the edifice, we picked you now here, now gone, now there erroneous errand, we won the milk dud challenge amuck with candied hours, you are your flower, you are your haughty flower, we are your agent’s tree: upon the least the patty burger teeth, the look of your fingers all grease as you make an example of experience, edification for example: experience the garden of children, a rummage through adhesive water stains at treasure, the interlude between your happy meal and a plastic flower solar-powered dancing all the hours, for example, in a truth-or-dare candy-care festival, all the while your trance exemplifies a story in traffic regulations, but really this tells us what you do at night, right after your hand slips from love’s and you leave from the glissando between mom’s ice cream in refrigerators to dad’s well-read five-leaf clover bed where in the end your bother comes again to overdose on the bitter bud of no more meaning, so putting your foot down on un-working the lazy gaze of lame the reading, exemplary to writing, your ambulation takes as example the interstate circulation, a tactic frenzy: at first, the trees rule the automotive spring by way of radar capitulations—exemplarity capsized in mid-air, always telling us the trees came to earth before we could land a deal with some organization—but here a castigating frequency gets up to tour all the route to toot tree horns, to spring forth a factory’s worth of prohibitions, of course, making an example by death and duty do you need an example of the meaning of this last sentence, to death, do us part? so putting your food down on inoperative trays you phase 10 into a fallopian sewage plant where the stick of milk dud scents the potpourri blinds from which you see us but we do not see you, you are none, not one, not at all but then you hard&heavy become the one just example to purging an extent, at the extremities of language that like just yesterday you woke up to the perpetration of all friends struck dead, over-read or lofty by the unappeasable most mendacious electrical wiring of thought, as we say in English, for example, so much so that you fell down in novels, how ample are the exams, one worn over by the decay of layers: the other weighed down by laurels crowned on the hours: the ledger written out for your wager to capitalize I’m sorry on the internets where a blunder of ego-frenzy got rotten in flowerplants, an example of postindustrial nature states, a Frenchman says the French think by exam, in order to pass this exam, you must answer one question: the gas at an island’s distance from your nostrils’ ticklish subject of the gas at an ill distance from your nasal tickle to such injections as a land’s dehiscence to foam you in the insistence of machinating phrases together all too complicit to end the war on fire island that was yesterday or a play towards yester words, when the example made an error to the affectionate relenting of permutations in your agent’s tree, a futurity with which you tried to consider the filler between all or nothing when will I turn into something like your pocket? you could fill me with your four-leaf clovers, you could put all or nothing into the kernel, make me the shell of your filler, your landings, a land rover all over territorial war manifestations exemplified in alienation and booze and Christian destiny, are we native to Amerika or no? you tell the girl why her head spins when she kneels before the doctor lord, a grave tapestry of Eucharistic effigy, so you left your mouth gaping open to the mother tongue of burning cigarette wrappers in ashtray flowerplants, naturally you’re getting postmodern about the sudden counter attack, an example of dying nature, as I say: look now how you become nothing but a young rash got fiery in webs of memory and desire, like you—would who?—to look into the eyes of scolded six-year-old beauty schooled in geometric clearings, that had the scent of young love gone rancid? or rather the rush of dew grass as you lift your tongue from the pallet to chew a convention somewhat to metamorphosis between clay and herb, there lies the verb, exterior face up, what translating—to perceive to sense to make an example in senses to perceive again, so I used to think that Madame Bovary senior released her second studio volume, with the global chart-topping lead at loose ends singular being the eldest child of Yosef and Maryam Miriam, believed herself conceived by the ends to all humans wars miraculously by composing essays and analytical papers on 11th Street such as the nymphs, the parts, the daggers and a local fixture but bugling felt that she had pleased further along creatively than some of her classmates such as James Joyce or a refugee from jersey shore with big black hair, heavy eye makeup and tight, revealing clothes, so that at the age of 19 you become a sorry, suburban, preppy socialist Amerikan, you are my belly, lift me up or throw me away all this to say you still don’t get the it’s-not-you-it’s-me example of a play-on-words too errant a nomad to return to the motherland again to end, you’re gonna take up tai chi and tell all your friends about the queen in all her excellence, an example of untranslatability, which doesn’t mean as much as tracing unknowability down to its last appearance or disappear in the unrelenting infantry of infantile pawning, you’re gonna’ play language games or die in sexual castration by the way, according to Swann’s concept, Karl Miltitz, in a tertiary tense attempt at bringing about EKGs for university friends, came into the fathers of our dame in the flowers all in assembly at their tupperware event and sought your advice in settling few surviving sources on Caligula’s reign over the controversy ample with excitations which had now grown most poetic and dangerous at an apartment in the Lower East Side—was it 5th street or 11th? O does it matter?—a theater of community, with pre-pubescent futon for bestial couch and a Yoko Ono record hung above bed, well-read, inspired by glam rock musicians in coming up with a stage name, when all of the sudden you received a text message from Tiberius about Caligula’s neurosyphilis, subsequently striking a music publishing deal with Harvard Press: You mustn’t miss it or you’ll be sorry, says a former astronaut putting suspenders on the jeans, which is just as well as wanting to say you take the milk dud experience for example in the dandelion showers where come the lens the film well put over the eggwhite eyes, a parade of film across the gelatin, your corpse a record wet with welting oxygen: it wilts just until you take up press and hit the streets on the brew for history’s ideas or the historian of ideas, a thing for him or her to tell each telling a retold recital of universal amiability across the hitchhiking nervous system into the respiratory system of blinds, a blind spot in love’s triangulation with Karl Miltitz’s war, let’s hit Popper’s examination in the streets before we hit the sack, pajama roads a pack of cigarettes—they tell us, “you don’t have to go to college”—this is to say nothing: or sorry, you don’t know what you just read, anamnesis a shot in the dark at love’s triangles broken into passion a rash of examples to remember the member of civilized individuality, are you gonna just say you left today to learn the future of experiencability at roadside cafes in Arizona or so sorry, fork love over, you tuna face retard, all cold at the lips, and then you recall your causes on the telephone wire, a petered joint out of too distinct two, just two periods in dying I can recall to you, while you live in my death waste system, ones where I fit into you, love, like a glove into a hand, others where I pocket your love for another one-night stand: like music, it will kill you, drowned in flames, like limited or no connectivity, you might as well log into fictitious affection, like page load errors, they will read you as you wander to no end, like the furious eyes of a younger girl all about-face in curls and she turns to you to know the catastrophe between thought, church, state and a bird perched on a branch in summer pollination of bees, the bees, they buzz through alphabetical categories, never return to the abbey, o please me, like your hand, as it turns the leaf of a page to the branch of a book unplugged from all the hooks caught knocking on death’s beehive, a passion for breaking into language and spelling out your darkest publicities, here you must start over or else, we have gotten too lost in the poetry of tomorrow, like just yesterday, for example, ample to examine the next phrase, testing our love (did you cheat?) or breaking up at ground zero. | |||||||
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January 4th, 2010
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| At 53rd Street, your sight: do you meet me blueeyed underway to leaves: a doorbell rings at the Pennsylvania Hotel, at Port Authority: how we used to talk about stairs in drawing a child I was a lot like ever- green you were and twenty-four and there’s a coin between us: so much beyond us not to toss away the clock- works for what we call homely: a cross it costs us nothing to get lost in the daily eye or blues we wash or underwear at times I hardly carry a bag with any these days of fewer, dazed by many, someday I’ll have a middle- ground down but on top of all that booking the ageless smile you laugh and hearing your while as it passes from once to cycle and dries the irises in Norridge on Cumberland Avenue, I wonder where we meet at Dapper’s you sit across from me and shuffle a napkin across your dress: flowers you wore yourself down at St. Eugene Church with choral genuflecting to falls into sleepy-eyed daze dandelions the ways you and I can remember each other often vary from garden to kindergarten when thirty-two years start to ivy in the mental recesses and breaks that span all pregnant thoughts we seem to carry out in similar terms: the child I was a lot like you were twenty-four and there’s so much: beyond us, eyes travel the course from road to roadway and so on and today, if only I could tell you: only so humble as the entryway bows manifests less than your spirit, a face and now: none, not even the place of sunny the son, begins to embrace how your wrinkles warm up to our future. | |||||||
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December 31st, 2009
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| like every desire teach you taut O amnesia how to (or do you) stitch string through fabric, a time ago how to put fabric softener into the machineworks got heavy we dropped off the car by one get one free, some band the late 90s i think, threading hair from the mamma matrices, a big box of hoax slaughter i never knew he thought that, all the vita- mentality vitals, congenital on yr side lean into the clinching screen and memory re-schematize the part, grand army plaza right around the bend, let's check or test the structures out, we're getting waste en- dead | |||||||
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December 25th, 2009
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December 24th, 2009
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| Once the minivan battery died on water hooked on spirit, palm springs, the hudson stew or just on some shit & all out there the get-by I and you drove us thru death, that mini-mall pamphlet, or I woke to write the New York Times a best seller wants he to be now that he dances thru social convents says he, “I feel like I can finally write a novel here,” in ascetic nobility, the sun flashes the great hydrogen spots yearn condensation splurges into molecular you, what else but in kindergarten they taught me how to simplify Goethe’s witch into just another bitch at the kitchen sink, all you depend on lucky you—just look at you, the minivan all petered to battery or holy bronx, yr ghostly haze holds bananas along necktie roads faraway, that gets into character hooks yawn throws at the wink-eye abyss a lover, he reads: “Rebate Receit is valid for rebate submission only. Rebate Receit is not valid for refund,” or in order to comply with some shit & all out there, is now collecting additives to life, the cerealbox a host of hostile guerilla. View fare rules or shhh! The ghost wears verdant bikini bottoms. | |||||
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November 17th, 2009
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November 7th, 2009
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| listen to me tell the tale of it: http://ubu.artmob.ca/sound/joyce_ja | |||||||
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