Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Friday, June 19, 2009

soliloquy from a freight yard #2.

1)
sweat of day
stick sideways on a modicum of mediocrity
but you would or you would not know by the hound in heat laziness
broken legged summer limp.
sun-yellow tarnished daisy.
we're about to move
about to move on out
with breeze against bones,
move the fuck on
roll on
roll out
if only momentarily
we got the
fixin-to-get-the-fuck-on-out-rollicking-men-and-women-air-user blues.
2)
short crackle-jam yr living hand more or less jumps out the speaker mesh
& the things short circuit revealing
living flesh from a real woman's hand.
3)
freights and coalcars roll thru
a police state transport ghetto
humming
massive sci-fi concerto, martian emmissions,
a new type of shared lonely, mass groaning
slow bombast squealing squeaking squalling human ants were never hardly there at all
4)
beans over a pot over a fire
mini-smoke-stack-stick
fat free high on fiber crackle
slow churn
the behomeths in background roll on-
the ground shakes-
our ears are there-
keeping all day all night vigils
for motion.
5)
air-conditioned whirring
the thing is working
overtime here inside,
jarring loose the bolts of summer
the sidewalks
back these days
swarm human livelihood
humming outside
jarring loose the bolts of summer.
coffee fills desire
brain speeds
abruptly back home
to
where our attempts have failed
ourselves have succeeded.
6)
Perpetual man of the sidewalk
dog dayed summer
floppy eared
and stank breathed belching up summer.
the cop cars here are very strange
the days are similar
grunting apes with shirts
wearing faces
almost men of the streets go
archetype spelled backwards
go to that ameture god connection
through prayer circular mutter-dialect
goes
yeah-yeah-yeah-clack-clack-ooh-ooh-boom-bawha-boom-biddy-bye bye.
cell phones are the new people,
something to ignore.
solitude is out on the streets.
forged social relations are the new hotness.
beautiful women are still beautiful women in a banal world.
hella gay.
the dog of summer takes a shit on the sidewalk on the flowering corpse of modern america, period.
7.
possesive peeranoia on the street lined streets,
if everything i have is mine and not mine,
why do i want it.
8.
a tribe of skateboard kids,
something americana,
gloriously obnoxious.
the machine sneezes a bit.
9.
fossils fossils, metal fossils everywhere.
words like bleached bones
thrown in the air.
10.
we need
we need
we need
a new jazz
a new spring
that new anarchic joy-stuff
something awesome glorious
flowering out of the rut
out of the bleached bones of our disgusting failure, out of rapture, out of motion ennui, out of breakbeat pupil dialation, out of slang mutilation, out of purposeful & unpurposeful neglect, out of ache of bodies, out of mind warps, out of computer slow-neurosis, out of no straight stares, out of coffee pissings, out of inadvertant acid drops with no intended driver but the god of minute inertia
out of pages and pages of this shit
this aching shit,
sunset overdose stare
beautitude transcription,
one n done,
one n done
goddamnit
throw me a bone
one n done
people wrapped in condoms.
catching spreading stamen seepings.
a new spring.
can you create a thing by ordering it into process?
11)
that old apartment we haunted
is whithering of spliff musk
as the clever kids slowly leave it
in the sun shrinking everything.
motion is implied
and in fact exists
or existed here
where our bodies moved
once, twice, one thousand times
here.
P..S
nail me to the air-conditioner and i'll bitch no more,
words like DNA strands
just go by.
catch one if you can.
this is the last palpitation
of palpitation
deep breathely out open window.
there's an outside there
out there.
12.
Wake up wake up,
throw the stones from out yr eyes
suburban clean trash-heaps of buildings thrown atop hillsides,
exorcise 'em,
stop-it
seein ghosts of wet grassblades in reflections of cathedral windows,
they'll turn a catholic outta you,
those bikini nuns,
gonna make old ladies outta yr horoscopes.
they'll see the stars outta yr eyes.

you come here to write yr masterpiece, yr big one and if ya fail, then to find yr almighty solitude, and all all you can think to do is wake up, wake up, throw the stones from out yr eyes,
there is something you must invent that needs saving
& yr cape is frayed
& ya need a goddamn tailor
& more caffeine dreams for yr too-much and non-never sleep.
wake up
wake up
wake up my sons,
there are stones in yr eyes
there are rocks at yr feet
deep breathely out the air
there is life 'round there.

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