Wednesday, November 19, 2003

An accordian that exists in your mind is another accordion

In the moment is in that exact spot where you can't find.
Not A

Stop for a second.
Okay, go.
Now transcribe the space
between the already gone
and the street
or avenue or park.

Soup is as fresh as the air is internal.
That, my friends, is human and new.
Notice the color limping
and sounding different than
any tornado you've ever won.
And that's not just perfect,
that's hermeneutic.

So listen to the back of your name
as it's pronounced.

My name is Spacio de Luz.
It means "Two dogs are having
simultaneous bowel movements
in France"

And the form it takes is success.
Later, a run

Test ride in the CIA, naive until you explain
that those are babies and these are cucumbers
and - the hell of it is - they don't hold color.
They're alone and you're alert and talking about gossip.

Red means "Caution - Flowers Crossing".
Pale blue means "Talk Only At Night And From The Jugular".
Frost means "The Moon Made A Raw Deal - No Money".
Singing means "A Long Dry Road Old Man".

Take the door and shut it on your way hat.
Jump the door on your way Dad.
Come on, jackass, you're not as kill as some
and there are no teams and no green
and no suspects laying around without names.
There's briskets and hiccups, pick your palimony.
Elk Elk!

State and no State.
Marching vultures.
Nose, Nose.

Ink ear is to Ink ear
and I am on guard
sinking quicker
than my nose is
naughty and then


(The train has not left the station)

I'm fond of your extraneous eyes
& your back-ass-ward melancholy,
modeled as it is after Leonardo daVinci.
When the sunrise is splendid
& the sunlight gargantuan,
I know of only 2 other guys more absurd,
& that's because they're always
intercepting the kisses
meant for my hands and large mandibles.
Because the sun sets on their merry asses.
Like today, I get up and face the insolence
that I inevitably compartmentalize
& the vile contradiction alone
& the natural wretchedness...
Is this what you look for in people?

Your people tend not to be my people
sitting in their tan undies,
tan parasites and tan equality.
My bruises are not your bruises.
I come to the party of life in mid-movement,
where great chunks of life
are not my great chunks of life.
& your silence that I compartmentalize
& your voice that I compartmentalize
as I ride my instant miasma
& instant Myata into a sort of
instant Miami.
Is that what you look for in people?

Friday, November 14, 2003

Riding Mr. Fanelli
    for Charles Bernstein

Look at this photo.
It's in a station
on a street. 1979. You could say
that it's interesting in
the way that
Pudge Rodriguez standing over
a stack of pancakes is
interesting. Mr. Fanelli,
there's a mountain and
a comb and they're walking
down a street. 1979. And what happens
is so disagreeable that despite
the tiny cries
of a million tiny people
one still cannot see the hand
cream or the kielbasa
that moves parallel to
what is permitted and
adjacent to what is intended and
loping along to what
feels like a cry for help,
untransmitted. Mr.
Fanelli - there's a
gentle mountain lying dormant
in the station, in the street. It's 1979.
And my point is trite,
but think about it. I don't have
a sandwich and I don't know
where it is. Mr.
Fanelli, do you think that
you could take your finger from the trigger
and we'd both feel more comfortable because
as they say, subtlety is the
rudest form of vanity, especially
today with all these express trains
passing rudely by the streets
every fucking minute, when the
trains actually do run on time?
You've got to admit, Mr. Fanelli, that
thinking about a station, about a street,
about 1979 is the most imbecilic state
you could be in tonight
or even in the day.

    (work in progress)
High School Pickle Kids
    for Tim

Young one, you've landed here
and I'd bet you don't know what the
Automatic Data Processing RTS
you're doing here.
Well, I've checked and
even if I can't see it
you must realize that Punk was not only noise.
Punk was not only "God Shave The Queen."
Punk was what happened when
one does not get original photographs to hear.
Could punk have also meant trousers?
We're talking Punk Besmirchers,
not just any punky, pre-pubescent, unbarbered,
bored band of rodents.
Punk represents skirt volume,
but you at least must grant this to the trousers,
the volume-dead trousers:
Anyone who stretches the elbow of 1977
on over into the 80's slashifies the light
and exfoliates the spall of thunder.