I’ve never listened to the Devil… he’s whispering in my ear now, telling me about chance— play the cards, don’t pretend you can deal the hand… I never tried to deal the hand, I tell him, because the deck has no card with a poet’s face. The Devil laughs at me, dumps a load of press clippings in a bag I marked Don’t touch— …………………………………………. now, it’s so cloudy we can only perch on rigid, bare ruined branches. We cannot fathom what the surface should be, why the inelegant is preponderant. Red flags whip our livers. Red hot prods in crowded rings circle us. There can be no twittering hope without notions of liberty, as means of using flies, flying, flown over the protests on Market Street. ………………………………………………… When you lift a Coca-Cola, you are pulling a lever for entropy. The cloying tickle of high fructose corn syrup— all dreams dried into anodyne. Goods may be America’s heart, en masse; what in them beats? Sounds of horses hooves, trampling down corporate dirt, all in a bone-piled graveyard. Sounds of whinnies, conflagrations, blinker-viewed social situational Waterloos, & you don’t know (they won’t let you) who’s standing behind who, or you. ………………………………………….. An old, mad, blind, despised, dying king, says the country. We protect imagery, say others. Belief is testament to goodness, rigidity means faithfulness to a spiel we all know like simple algebra, and that can be equated to squares. We are bellwethers of chicken egg home fries, I am a clucking and a shucking and jiving, you’re alive to little red roosters too lazy to crow for day. No facile Geist for this Zeit. It’s a time for knickknacks picked up like cordite. Shoot. …………………………………………… No Blogosphere back-draft, only post ahead, into cacophony: wire, networks, new wild west; ropes, holsters. Age-old books; angst, anemic. It’s sexily red, moral/ethical oblivion, hemmed in, quick as spurt, across oceans: thermo-genic press coverage, safe, free; corpses, numbers, brain lotions. ………………………………………….. That notion, “that I’m suffering well,” must be in Plato somewhere, or Nietzsche— now, it’s in you too. You don’t succeed in laughing at the shard-sharp world; it’s jammed too deep in your throat, with suffocated senators, black-robed judges, tentative press secretaries. You only cough up butt-ends based on others’ words. Laughter is solely for surprise autopsies— of an atrophied surface, what’s under incomprehensible to most, who know, very precisely, just how most they are. …………………………………………. A gift everyone gets is a Pat Boon(e). Death & taxes are both Pat Boon(e)s. Truth, as always, is less pat. Truth has more to do with what I really glean from you, which is not a political (exactly), is (rakishly, richly) anti-politics, & is conveyed by swift skin-kicks. There is no place for this in the full frontal assault land we’ve been Shanghai’d into, & the dissemination of which is America’s ultimate Pat Boon(e). ……………………………………….. a soul's incision into your cerebellum which i can fill gingerly, not spill onto a nail-bed you carefully made to ensure maximum viscosity crank & creak the senator speaks …………………………………………….
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