Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010


She said “I’m here to waste time”
eyes tiny black boulders,
slim awareness.
I thought back inconsequentially
“what the fuck else is there to do”
here in normalcity
where dead fish flop
on the street, gills flailing as arms
in an acute awareness of a different

in normalcity they ask me what I would like today,
and because, “for Babylon to burn” seems a played out answer,
I say, slyly, “for the socio-economic stranglehold of the spectacle- commodity society to come to a thundering dry heaving collapse onto the sidewalks of some hacienda of future splendor and social justice”,
she shuffles shyly behind the flush oak counter with the scones on it
and goes, “umm, oh, dear, uh, I believe we ain’t got that, not right here now no how”.

(((so, as I was saying)))
in normalcity every prelude is a splinter hominoid of own near cliché levels.
in normalcity brains crack pigments
in normalcity men pound barbaric teeth at rattling copper cage
manes askew and afluff,
flailing, no yalp to be had,
only worklike talk and digress and digress,
-this-n-dat-got-three 150 year life sentences…
-well what da fucks he gon do with those?
-he sez he gon kill himself I sez what da fuck you wan’ do that for
you cd always escape,

but then in normalcity some conversations and realities rarely translate well into writing.

in normalcity, the method is always in question
and the aqueducts are still built on backs of slaves,
in normalcity
cars are tyrannical ocean waves
the people are too shy to commit crimes,
though thoughts meander homicidal often.
in normalcity art parties turn thuggish upon the discovery of past lives.
(((but at least the women wear pretty boots)))
whilst the sound keeps comin’
conch calls and all of gritty ‘hop
awkward turning of a dance
whose feet merely now only start
to realize that they are possibly
capable of motion.
in normalcity the dreams are dreams
but reality is not reality,
existence levels shift
as cogs in a manual transmission,
the thing is clunky
and needs goddamn repairs
but still gets the job done.
in normalcity drunks stagger streets aimless but for beer coming out of a nipple,
every outfit of possible meaning is tried on then thrown out,
stolen car wail constitute forever sound collages in the head of a psychotic.
in normalcity we go from room to room
thinking one will have more in it
and know not what to think afterwords.
in normalcity
the poetry is the furniture in the room
and the furniture yearns for more exciting patterns
to say the least.
the soliloquies write themselves
(((almost))) and depth perception
is an object made from diagonal terms
of negotiated existence.
it is getting dirty in this house,
the soot decays in rooms beneath the not-talking couches.
in normalcity that is the avenue on which we lived.
outside all this we wonder what constitutes normalcity and are perpetually disappointed in our quasi-grail quest but meaning must erupt from some bigass mountain of metaphor with a hole-in-it termed, just, ‘possibility’.
if only
as detectives for the hyper-real
we knew more
got more downlow
as to
what constitutes this goddamn motherfucking bewildering wichita of a normalcity.


ikon said...

them poem writers, they like to talk about dead fish and the flopping.

i'm guilty.


it's a good image. nice and pleasant.