[Range]

Beyond the fence the frontier was poemish
forested voices poured fermented longing over words in wide mouthed pint glasses
like a laundromat quartet lingerie & sox everywhere one short
lonesome threesomes of anguish & snake hiss
aimless salacious provocation zero machines for future
venture capitalize on the inopportune slip up my ass on the line
was crossed up double crossed loose lipped whereas
tongue-tied tight assed tongue lashed eye line the street
with a writhing multitude & riot cops feeling up
to defending the whole home in each human soul
violated my grand volition orgiastic, archaic, anarchic,
anachronistic wet dream now a dry town
media flesh wires tube to tube anchor
man to electric ground flights of fancy
bed stories he’s fucked with bed
time stories to go off in my head
out of here time mind full of
fantasies elicit illicit gasps never mind
the gap between hole & whole holed up
in a cell brains sells fetters to deforested voicelessness
once poemish now anthemic, anemic, & widely understood to
cover the UgliTruth with a syrupy liqueur.

Three for the Fool

The Arguments Eschew the Source at Their Own Peril

A gaping hole in the sky speaks silences
to the dumbstruck legions below, their heads
tilting up, their mouths open. Tune out
interference static, sorry ones & zeroes & what-not
from the gadget boxes & chrome tabernacle of circuitry
dispensing digital Eucharist to awestruck consumberbots.
Whatever temple is good enough – more matter of no matter,
as in who cares? A question I want answered
before another atmospheric airwave episode strikes you zombie.
Hey, quench your fist knucklehead & watch the returns.
The small hours are stealing the votes. Burgeoning hangover
despite expanded sobriety stations. So many channels.
Watch the intake, baby girl, first or last grail.
Jesus, the air’s heavy under this regime.
Belly up to the New American Century.
As the saying goes, what’s good for your goose is cooked.
No do over this time, Sisyphus:
On yeh go.
On ye’go.
On y’go.
*
You Were Foolish to Start with Ideas Instead of Language

Nothing could be done. You insisted.
Use punctuation to create ambiguity
Or clear things up.
"Nothing could be done," you insisted.
So it is what it is whether you’re listening or not
Or whether it ever gets written down
Unless the transmission’s on the blink.
How’s your freewill treating you?
What’s your name doing on top?
Except it’s true you’ve learned patience
& discernment, which can’t be taught no matter
the happy buzz of campus kiss-up & your colonoscopy fund.
Prorated mentorship on a grandscale consumes a counterculture.
Don’t look so surprised. Your soporific retinue leaves you
none the wiser. The amble bodied are maximizing
their learning potential & grazing the water parks,
esplanades & flea markets on weekends. What’s a wannabe to do?
As to the degree of selfinterest, You’re the doctor,
you figure it out. Is it the order of operations or a consenting adult
form? Maybe both. I can never get out of my own way when
Prolix keeps me up all night. (As if you’ve never heard
that one before.) I started working out &’ve never been in better shape.
*
"The Boards That Signify The World"

Die bitter. Die! Die welt, bedeaten.

Has your Faith Community gone south?
Who’s left to take your picture? to make an iconic image?
"Do you even realize how impotent that is for the TruArtist?"
Nothing is more imported.
Nutting is have as importunate.

Wake up to your real lice. Cleanse the sheets-- the curtain opens on the the first act. Making a scene in the minimal aisle. You’re so punk rock. How can you stand it among the peach fuzz & skim milk? Identity is performance. Name dropping creates celebrities. There is such thing as reciprocal stardom. Every New Yorker knows this & they’re starting to catch on in SF & in the Northwest & w/o it LA’d have no economy to speak of & as for culture…. who did you sleep w/? Don’t tell me you forgot to take notes. I was hoping to edit your Collected Emails some day. Did I say I’d sleep w/ you? A coy way of saying your work bores me. There are other venues. Try the gazebo circuit. I hear the public parks need more squirrels. Giddy up!

The American Dram

Once upon the rant, Elias-like, we prophesied the antimonian verb. In a garden hidden by a torment of roses, the quietists made the best of their split situation: half worm-eaten, half-reborn with carcass infestation. Those were days when it seemed the world would split open & suck us down into it – or the heavens’d burst & suck us up.

Later, after the days had passed, the quietists came out of their garden, nominally fighting off technological hegemony, all the while unwittingly buttressing the status quo with stakes & lattices.

We went underground, in a sense becoming quietists ourselves – in the dark under dangling roots. We started taking down for up & so finished in a garden of our own.

Elias-like, we returned, down into the old world, fighting gravity & history all the way. Our chariots gleamed with nutrient rich soil.

Upon the rant once gain, with the world turned upside down…