Metaphors arrest us.

[My dream:] Slow breath in; never mind/time restraints. The life of brilliant thinkers are more interesting; Norbert Weiner for instance, ever heard of him? Why don’t you ever talk about yourself? What’s the dream you were poised to explain? Who cares? I’m tired of self-abortion; I’m my own rune to seek, and muddying the airwaves hearing my overworked replays/All right, who’s Norbert? The father of Cybernetics who met a tragic end. (Like the 'dream', I’m thinking ... topics conjure themselves to segues nobody can predict.) Tracing of a ruthless father, no doubt. Uh huh. And the shallow, power-hungry wife. Next question : So what did he do? Founded the modern theme of our information age, some would say./Is ‘some’, actually you?
He loves to talk in the third person. Some part of him watches his moves, and berates him/do not!/yes, you do. He’s hyper-vigilant of things I DON’T EVEN BOTHER TO ACKNOWLEDGE no kidding, that makes


being conscious that much more difficult..
Large gaps of essential emptiness are filled with bright colors and underlines
he has a manic unexplained need to feel everything and save what’s valuable, knowing full well what is discarded will soon be the key to the puzzle he’s yet to properly define. The entire physical world is fleeting; vivid beauty is always appearing as fast as it fades away, and the two become one. He truly is the bee busily moving between flowers, sampling everything, and having to tear himself away, for once he’s felt the pulse of life a stone, or an art possesses, he is trapped by it. People go without saying; he attempts to tear himself open to see the good in every human being. It is a process of abandoning permanence without killing yourself. Can he find peace there? Is it good to drown in essential moments which can not be recorded, because you have to pay rent? Each minute he wrests from living fully, he grieves over, feeling it lost, as if it never existed ... there is not time to turn off, and complete robotic tasks, because your art supplies require money, and the galleries prescribe what to make, to support yourself, as the lure suggests is possible. Follow our bliss to the amnesia of what the vision was, which took you through the desert, to arrive at the ‘path’ you’re defining,
and so on.

The long
deposed marine scorpion
they claimed ate whatever it wanted to
came to mind as I watched the lines
chopped
on the boyfriend’s portrait
by dabblers descending into addiction.
The vehicle of transmission was itself a rune.
Layers of music washed the hidden acoustic of the razor blade, and the beer
and the cigarette in the phone cradle his glance
the termination of the rail ending whisper his third eye the phone rings thoughts become
actions
lower chakras avoidance
dependance Candide the flight becomes the round trip
to the departure point w/compass diarchy lost/horizons fighting
to arrive at the place we fought to flee from a panorama of hindsight to confuse the savvy and wary from themselves. She’s right; I can’t argue because the policy of right is a trap; I have to listen, and absorb. There is no spiel to save your father from his father’s lectures; they have simply occurred. It’s how we absorb their energy, that shapes our islands in storms. I know I’m distressed, and suffering ... that I’m blessed and divine. I’m rotten and torn about for the best possible reasons, that my life is my one and only; that I’m alone and surrounded by loving friends ...the diaphragm between enemies and lovers negotiable
space
is the norm and yet
I’m compressed to the breaking point.
I’m sorry for myself, and glad I relish this mess, enough to keep at it.
We re sitting here doing next to night meets day nothing, less than dreaming nonsense
or are we?
"I love it when the funniest little things are too funny." my beautiful girlfriend says as we walk, and I love that, like she said, loudly laughing. I’ve got to write that down; she is happy it’s caught and recorded, the smile other than anything else/ I write it on leaves, with simple scratches from twigs/instants ongoing/create missed instants’ moments/ . But who cares. It doesn’t matter but it’s deathly important; I have to hand it to you, when you let go, it’s like, fuck everything/you’re tortured by the matters you drop in a measured moment, to experience something else completely/I can’t do that/I’m structured. We pass a sign that expounds this, a neon red marvel SMOKING hissing its subtext from a dive bar, we loathe and embrace the vital depressants of the everything we accumulate, and try to case, or cast out. I like that/terribly blatant/the exhale of smoke is a holy act. My beautiful girlfriend is addicted to nicotine, and/or should she ask, or so I think I am? She is self-dedicating the deity trapped inside her, raging off the hook the phone ringing the beer I see the unerring truth in the rune, only now completed. "The occasional beauty of buying a six pack at eight am." I love that shit, right before he snorted the art up; it became him. Right when the corner stores open. Bi-Rite. Bushy tailed and well-partied, the tow equals the pull/hello? Who is it? I needed to know. We purchased the proverbial and threw the glass pipe in the garbage can at 8:11 am, 4-2-05. Why’d you do that? I’m finished, I dared to think, nothing said/you want more? Nah. When you’re researching something, you’re surrounded by it. That’s why you must choose your research carefully. I disagreed. It chooses you. You choose it. There is a mutual agreement to lean on the lease of a post you define, as fixed. That spot is ordained for your demise or enlightenment; and few souls threaten our politics, by finding a wormhole through both. It was daylight savings time which suggested we’d lost an hour, somewhere.

I like this version of chief See-aahs speech by Vi Hilbert; I listen, as I examine the Islamic Armlets inlaid with incised ivory-bordered gold, and say: that’s weird/I was just writing about him. Which speech? Ah, 1854, I think. Some reception, somewhere, before a treaty. Himler, in a culture numbed by greed, our heritage, looks like, we haven’t learned much. A workmanship of such exquisite detail, on arms for battle, literally! I linger on the shield, and sword, destined to clash about rivals, the opposition to wreck and disfigure, is that possible? And maul an armored soldier of intricate detail, weapons shielding the user from themselves, magical amulets blurring the void of art, and killing, politics and war. The detachment of the Japanese tea ceremony, the mandate of consciousness, each act present and prescribed, but open-ended. No tea ceremony or battle the same. They say attempting to copy is the accomplishment of the original attempt to copy something profound/in Japan, the copy is praise to a master, and the imitators, tending the force which drew the work to art. All assumed traitors are financiers of change; it’s important to take their cues without succumbing to prejudice. I tell her, Vi poetically constructed it, it’s an annotate version with licence. Oh, she says/I cried, it’s so wise and non-judgmental/is the original better? Not right now, I thought.

I need to escape the excruciating divinity of perfection, and am opened further to it, attempting to do so. Miracles of missed steps and blooming flowers are all-consuming; emotions are complex tracks in rock-once-sand, expatriated to pre-terrestrial critters, dragging themselves haphazardly on ill-formed flippers. I don’t think you appreciate me. You came in with a certain sense of entitlement, wouldn’t you say? How do you mean? The skies are certainly blue; the wind is perfectly still; why are we always processing things, rather than silently sharing persimmons, and basking in dropping pedals of pink cherry trees? Women are hurt when they chose a man, and he doesn’t enthusiastically respond (the way she imagines he should). That’s downright wrong. The shadows of budding branches are shifting slightly, as clouds scan the horizon; needles drop from a massive fir to a verdant ground. All day long, you say no to the men you attract. Every day, you adorn yourself to attract them. Do not! Look, that mascara the lip gloss and the tight sexy wifebeater top, isn’t for ... It’s for me. I love to look a certain way for myself. Dubious at best. Our hardwiring is to procreate and attract potent partners or mothers and fathers to mate with. We default to attention seeking behaviors. Well I don’t do that. I’m glad you have such faith in yourself. Most everybody I know does it, including myself. My MO is to do something great, and I suspect I’m tainted by a primal urge to be seen, as most men are. Yea, it’s disgusting. Don’t be so fast to judge. One reason we’re so glazed over with ego, is our egos are starving to be something society sees as impressive, and worthwhile. Let’s go back to the nerd: We will remove all the energy a.k.a. attention you receive each day from men, and replace it with ... what? Nothing? How would that make you feel? You’re so habituated to it, you hate it ... like an addict, must have, can’t do with out it, dying to quit. Although it’s often shallow, you are validated hundreds of times a day you are a worthwhile addition to the race. As a dweeb, what kind of applause will you seek to get? How will you extract that much energy from society to survive, in the way you have grown accustomed to? Perhaps the only way to feast, is as children do, with negative attention. In the distance, a plane floats over a lake. Or with scientific acclaim. You will do the equivelent of shaping your eyebrows, and teasing your hair to make your intellect valuable, to attract the attention of others, and feel worthwhile. Perhaps you’ll become a criminal, and feel smarter than those you swindle. You make this sound so cold and hard. Personalities are fragile things; our idea of self is an illusion for the most part, so men and women engage in a dance which goads and bosses them, grounding them into the projection society exploits, slavishly employing us towards the destination of our ends. You don’t’ think I appreciate you, because I can’t know the total energy of who you turn down. I am knighted in your eyes, because you choose me, from a crowd of tens of thousands. I don’t seem to appreciate my fortune. For men it’s a little different. How so?
I’m somebody you landed upon, who didn’t harass, pursue, or overwhelm you with hubris. I had no distance or attachment, didn’t get jealous easily, was fun, and had my own life. I was an individual, who ran his own program, and didn’t need knighting. I’d learned to eke sustanance from the world, without being noticed. As far as I was concerned, I was invisible to women. Their subtle clues if given, were lost on me; I am a lone wolf who delights in visiting the den the pack inhabits. Any attention I receive from women or men, is a windfall. It is a momentary blessing, not to be overused, codified, or relied upon. Nobody is knighted or ‘chosen’. There are not a hundred women licking their chops to possess me in two blocks of walking, I don’t feel valuable, nobody wins me in that sense. There is not an egg or two to fertilize, flushing itself each month. Kids for me are a nightmare of that much less sleep, and change to effect on a world out of balance. If I wanted to white picket fence, maybe things would be different. I’d be jealous and possessive, making you realize I ‘cared’. I’d try to measure up to the attention you frequent with others, who want to possess you entirely, as if that’s possible. Men are opportunists, because they have to get what you reflect, you receive so much of it. They are starving for the sustenance of being seen as valuable, however they betray themselves to project it, to receive it back, case in point, your perfume and mascara/ Stop talking about my makeup/why? Tithes to fish hooks net dinners; you have little notion how becoming a geek nobody dreamed of, would destroy your ambitions, and erode your notion of self.