Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Mine canary

when you were done you sat on the edge of the bed looking at yr shoes and i dismissed you by closing my eyes but your outline stayed, and a shadow, dark maroon on light maroon. my mind is an instrument that works with or without the input of light and a blind whore once told me a mind will still produce its own color projections-- what, with no optic nerves at all? If they are dead or even missing? This man was completely blind, I had my eyes closed to dismiss you, and yet your shadow was in my mind staring at the floor as if your shoes would walk themselves over and climb onto your feet, and I knew anyway you were still there.

i doubt it's true what we think of as clarity is just a point on a spectrum of perception-- that's hocus pocus; it's bullshit. there is such a thing as seeing clearly, not seeing clearly, seeing but not wanting to see, wanting to see but not seeing. what i saw when i closed my eyes for example was my vanity, my horrible insensitivity toward your innocent fantasies about our love. with my eyes closed i could see you sitting there seeing and not seeing, with your back to me, seeing me better turned away than straining your eyes to look up at my face when yr crouched between my knees. i don't really know what you knew but i can guess from seeing.

i don't even know for sure what drugs you're on or how they might affect the type of functions on a space travelling telescope that go wrong or get enhanced through fine tuning from an earth station or hits by gamma rays or junk or rock and ice mists, whatever it finds beyond the farthest layer of what we can slough off tho not too far to project signals that can travel but few scientists even know i guess if such messages are really matter or just waves of stuff that's already there hopping in a different rhythm from a chain reaction you can make with our advanced machines that supposedly started by smashing bones with different kinds of rock.

clarity and metaphoric light come from all kinds of senses of course, pheromones, the pitching of the voice or when you hear me scratch or sigh at night or how many rings before someone does or does not answer a phone or a pause in texts that someone inside you knows is different even though your main operating persona is officially a sight beast, plain talking, private man who expects everyone to keep their peace on or question their vision at the peril of loss or retribution for the antennae who knew too much and got cocky with their secret knowledge no matter how available it was the whole time; i respect by not thinking much.

For the Chama-Tilly 
Fordamall Chank Motel

Sunday, April 27, 2014

< b >Meaning = ?< /b >

Be clear
Feel clear (lucid) (no emotional storming)
Speak clearly (pronunciation) (logic) (reason)
produce v. encounter
difficult/ easy

dogs feet on laminate sound like tap dancers
dancers tapping seem like gloating animals of prey

problematize/ catastrophize clarity
see: Dr. Bro. Cornell West


Clear path to objective = + ?

9:30-10:06 pm: mostly eating strongly-flavored Jelly Bellies both individually and in random combinations, twitching nose, attempting to name discrete flavors while staring at unfinished course outline


Enjoyment of fog/ privacy

attempt to spectacularize realistic flavorings and believable generic texture placeholders as example of few modern inventions to live up to childhood expectations of Future (source: A Wrinkle in Time)

To deprive, deceive or blind in order to inspire
Sadistucate/ Masostication
(hairshirts/ witchboarding)

Yellow cake flavor tricked me into drinking milk

metaphor/ simile = path to/from light?

my face smells like skunk even after my shampoo
to catch a cousin who knows my smell I roll in doo

Drug free:
schizoid: bad/ ambien whore: good

good: communion wine/ bad: vat of communion wine
bad: thorazine; bad: heroin; excellent: heroin; heaven: heroin; destruction of all we know to be good: heroin (crack, meth, pcp, kids smoking pcp, crack whore, designer drug, designer whore; drugged whore: good?)

Drugs that will clearly be available in heaven:
Marlboro, Black Label

Future = Heaven? Clear path = +?

Low visibility slows traffic/ grounds flight
Clarity = grounding? Clear intention = outcome?
Can happen what can picture = +/-/ Can happen what not pictured = bad?

Love of dogs> love of people/ dogs thoughts clear/ unclear?
clear = simple? gray area between simple and complicated = clear?

Light/ burn/ sunglasses/ dark/ clear/ W. Blake/ racism/ clear black = clear dark?
Whitecade/ Clarior
Blindness-sun; nightburn-? solar eclipse = auspicious/ lunar eclipse = ominous

Hell in Drugs:
Thorazine, MD 20/20, Rabies

Opposite of clear: foaming at mouth/ or you can't handle the truth

Tap dancing: produce = heaven; encounter = ?

Claws curl under to gouge at food/ prevent efficient travel on sheer surfaces

Meaning = ?

"Stuck at Peg's all week, beacon down."

Friday, April 25, 2014

Foundation of society

My abductor was hot,
I went along to save my life,
And then they blamed me.

I love my kids but they were
No help as prerequisites for
Whut? Beach house, husband

Also not plugs for a bottle of
Nasty funtime perpetrator jizz.
Can I be held guilty for cumming

All those nights and waiting for
Him alone at the motel? I was
Mortified and trembling horny.

At least I didn't take a drink and
I have preserved my sobriety
Date. My sanity map is intact.

All I ever learn is don't get in
Trouble surrounded by idiots.
Right, mom: think it through.

But then if our society were not
Vapid and trite, wd I even be in
This rifonkindonkulous situation?


Thursday, April 17, 2014

Dead Family

Tomorrow is a place of mind
Where we can fade together
And disappear at the same time.

Dead family don't split off,
Don't wander away alone;
Thank you for not leaving me.

Grown-ups and babies one,
Today it's no matter where,
Know you can always call.

Dead family may choice out
But it's a package deal, and
I'm so thankful not to worry.

I feel good, dear family in a
mode of thought that we're gone,
already safe from what happens.


Monday, April 14, 2014

Snow on new grass

Thank you for going on record as my associate;
It is a good feeling being peopled by the proud
N' strong, warms like a text bong for the illiterate.

Blooming all over, from the breath of the young,
Unfortunate flowers of ice layers are going down
To remind us of dogs and that their shit is brown.

Thanks for taking a moment to click on my icon;
Me I can't find one peer who merits their full-time
Collusion in this paradigm of queerbait jobmakers.

by Ken

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Springtime of regret

Eyes of twill, goddess like-- she may not answer
Trailing warp strands of wind from the bluing pupil,
Drapes her finer bands of woof in cave, out wood.

To a boy she gifts a turn of earth as if she'd forgot,
Like God above, she decides, she may not answer;
Giving cover is to suggest or hide uncertain luster.

He may not ask her what has died, so if to mourn
And might himself unlace as if to smoke, to roam,
And being out of place, find in her wake a home.

"Find me on"

Useless privilege

Holed up litterly back in a high cave with dogs and jewels,
the last few peridots and silver horn rings, I face the lee side.

Not even a slave to sit and remember when entitlement
worked because it bled into the guests and wandering.

The armor tilts against a charred, greasy corner dripping still
the mists that bore us in defeat on sleds with baskets, data.

Debtor, inwardly I exact a rage and skillful path line hedging,
tuned as a noble corpse's concubine's, cuckolded by virtue.

It starts with an eye painted against the central peak, awake
to every sip of wine, hate, sloth, neglect, indulgence, swim.

"For Mike"

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

The 24 hours of natural sleep

Prior to my abduction, students merrily gathered in
chambers clustered along passages, and my breath
swole all the apparatus of the university hospital clinic,
savior of wayward intelligent and other rural children.

Then blown like knots of mucus, teenagers through
crash windows, ashes rose to mix with snowflakes,
the suddenness of my absence was the bunker bomb
that saved only conspirators and their empty victory.

Now my dogs patrol with their noses in the curtain folds
Blind as moles to real criminality, claim only movement
unsanctioned, sounds that are free and wild, productive.
Dogs sniff out warm terror and target soft, darting beasts.

All day long and through the night they lay in wait at a
tractably ebbing and spiking unwakefullness, one eye
or ear, a whisker as lonely drunken antennae, the mind
sifting through other years, categories of intransigence.

Dr. Donna Thong

Tuesday, April 1, 2014



I'm writing down this dream about Peg and Ted because if I try and tell it to you I'll prolly start crying. And it starts with you. In the back seat of the Galaxy 500. You sneeze, I blow on you, you blow on me, etc. but it doesn't end with violence. It's actually fun because you are your current self at your present age.

Ted is there back from the grave, why? As if there is no Ken and the same young Ted is our dad, Peg's husband even though the rest of us have grown old. Except for Peg of course who is pretending to still be as young as Ted when he died. I get into it with her about like, well, I'm sorry if you forgot, but I already told you I have to drop off my prescription on the way. On the way where? What prescription? Ted is driving us around an anachronistic Anaheim, California. There were druggists and a storefront post office.

We get out of the car and I am walking ahead still pissed off at Peg and Ted follows behind trying to place his (dead) hand on my back. He appreciates, understands my efforts with Peg. Maybe because he's no longer really there and I am. His black skinny-tie suit is way out of date.

I squirm away, feeling bad about it but can't accept his comfort. As if I blame him. Easy to make him feel bad as a way of lashing out at life. I realize it's a boyish thing to do.

Turns out we're stepping inside a yellow-brick clinic with white letters stenciled on the door as they used to do. The patient is me, and I'm on the same stainless steel table where I was born, with those aquamarine rubber sheets and gloves, and the nurse standing behind me is going to have to insert a very large needle into the back of my head. Why?

In a fetal position, I feel the needle go in and it's the most actual pain I remember ever feeling in a dream. Was it LaLa behind me in real life gnawing my scalp? It goes deep, and I hear the nurse apologizing and then gasps and says "Oh..." and starts crying. She has apparently hurt herself, but so badly that she is actually sobbing. Then I turn and see the doctor coming in, the nurse going out saying "That's the most I've ever cried-- not just at work, but ever."

It's become a little clearer why we're there. It must have been from a letter in the New York Review of Books about Syria, because I've got something like polio. And I'm a boy. With polio. And the doctor has invented a contraption where he can put me in a hanging net on a track like a rollercoaster/ centrifuge and send me flying around the clinic. In some sort of multi-purpose room. Remember those?

Then the doctor is Dick Cheney and then he's Ted again. He tells me I can pick any gift I want. I say I want this and take the thing from a box, a taped-up moving box or the one you keep Christmas decorations in. I have sovereignty of movement now, and we are rich. I sit down on a free-weight bench holding the thing I wanted between my thighs trying to figure out how it works.

Very heavy dream hangover surfacing from this. Whut? I kept saying. Oh my god whut? LaLa is by my side staring patiently but she is a bitch. In truth I'm single and I dream about my nuclear family from 100 years ago. Is that the same as having polio? Did you infect me when you sneezed? Ha ha just kidding. Mostly I'm disappointed we're not really rich.

Love, Hoolie