#more spaghetti

[love-is-four-legged-word]

From: Less Upsetti, More Spaghetti @jjdontplay

[divinentrails-blog]

More Spaghetti [Third Draft]

More Spaghetti

By J. David N. Pezzone

Part One: More Spaghetti

I

Please let me work, boys- let us bare witness to how I build up my quarry of shit to eat each day.

What can one do. Here r some scenes that didn't make it into the last one but have found a way to be loved still in another context, unless of course I fail.

Do not set urself up like that! The Censor is me. Le descordre c'est moi.

The girl at the bar yesterday- so paranoid it all has something to do with her, something being said about the moment.

Gotta stay hydrated. Slightly sore throat + on a thuggin role. Doing all I can to stay on my grind, remain blissful through this wet winter gloom + above it all, take what's mine + remain in the moments. If I'm being nice or fake I still can't tell, but for anyone who cares, ScuttleButte 10 Below Vs. Manny's- Manny's wins.

My cousins, who I shouldn't think so lowly of, who would call me ugly, would think even less of me now. Still frizzy-ugly in the southern light + in the eyes of Queen Annenites too- Thank's what they're called, by the way. Not anything else. We could describe them as invariably white, uptight, on mood stabilizing medications + absurd deductive diets of polysaccharide abstinence.

I'm not allergic i'm sensitive.

We could describe them as aloof, brain dead dip-shits in the face of common sense, but highly educated + well-to-do. Conundrums- embarrassing paradoxes of people. False priests, the lot of them.

My suicide note will be one word + unoriginal.

Mayonnaise comes to mind, but that's not my style.

Dead-icated to good writing + writers, piquant honesty, + u fuckin off.

What will be this next tale's focus if the last was dedicated to inter-relational strain with one's peers or in short, alienation. On never really knowing the other, of no one thing being the same display in nature, + all matter of things changing, growing, metamorphosing simultaneously, nonsensically chaotic + accurate. This one will be a cleansing of the rest of the parts, if such a thing could be imagined. Being less upset, eating better + eating more. about shucking away not the negativity, which is so clearly a part of my being, an alignment more than a cultivated disposition on anything, but all counterfeit emotion, bias + disposition will have to be fuckin off now. There's no room for that, what with this crown.

Das Universum ist meine Krone.

I know I'm nice, I know I'm chill. But I'm not a sunny, positive being + I'm going to explore themes of being true to oneself without being necessarily selfish towards others in the process [Selfish towards others, u fuck], as I'm sure I could illustrate through my various blunders in trying to relate. Or at least to feel compassion above frustration, flow over the wronging + exploitation.

This is my hypothesis: I say what it is, like I present the data that will be used, say what it is I'm looking to illustrate with these ideas, + then execute. Like my last piece, I'm sure the outcome will be drastically different from what I originally set out to accomplish; accurate in the sense that for all it is, it tells the story it does. It embarrasses me to no end so I know I've told the truth, or done a truthful job in illuminating this gossamer + most scandalous cosmos.

Maybe truthfulness, honesty et al feel so illusive + evasive because the totality of everything we can conceive + sense is intrinsically lacking in substance. In which case why anything is still as valid a side of the line as any, of many.

Baptists kicks so much god damned ass its ridiculous. There was a band in Florida in my day named Merkit, said an entity on the internet, they also kicked so much ass that it too was ridiculous. Just u bein in the fish tank, T-Bone, Red with Little Bones, r u playin me, pretending to be on my level but being somewhere else. The keys r the color red. I'll never not drop my are's for r's its the MASShole in me.

II

T-Bone mother fuckin Walker. By 1969, to skip ur entire life, u were such a god damned Shaky Jake monster, screw-loose mother fucker of the blues- people's heads must have exploded. Since I live in the past anyways, + it's gotta change because it has no place in the present, in the spirit of our times, to stay an old dog reluctant to turnin tricks for the alms of better living, I reflect often about what it would be like to have witnessed first hand T-Bone Walker in a barn, or in a club- anywhere hot, smoky + drunk rocking inappropriately the fuck out because I love it + I can't help it. To be a queer in '68 or earlier + have a record player, + own I Want a Little Girl, or Good Feelin even a year later during the counter culture, I'd be hitchhiking to my hero's, or else the adversary in me would have turned me weary to Brautigan or who knows! To be sexually unfit for war. Alms indeed.

To exhaust all possibility into language. To make things into things, to put things into boxes.

Bleh.

Make pretty things at least. Who wants to look at Minecraft. Get away from the torture. Hide away in the Douglas firs upon the background of a star-filled midnight sky that stretches past the eye's comprehension. Mirage curvature of the biosphere through the gradience of midnight blues. Peak a glance at the the Black Peacock. Just the facts, M'am, like Dragnet.

The method of injection is certainly different.

1PINT 6FL.OZ.

(850 mL)

BY VOL.

A barrage of hyper local marketing upon my iPhone, nods to Brautigan's prophecy, who left to become the Grim Reaper incarnate- Every Zeitgeist will require many.

Why keep a journal. It's a strain to the umpth degree on the eyes to make drafts from it. It's alienating to write in even. I feel the negative glares of others being absorbed by the black hole of me writin in a cafe, the black hole of no-care while shit's occurring. Why not bypass that now. Mike fuckin Bloomfield. Knockin Myself Out. O my fuckin god. Fuck ya. Tellin the fuckin truth. This + T-Bone, + Krallice, + this here popcorn; Poppycock. Want to vomit forth all the black bile of my thoughts until there's nothing left but the will to write beautiful poetry to accompany my true love in its most wondrous form- music. To be reincarnated in the same perceivable life, unless its all very perceivable, in which case, to be free to create as I please without the stray disease of word magick pulling figure eights like malevolent-minded dragons in the clouds.

Qemetial,

Belial,

Othiel.

III

It gets so dang depressing in the wintertime. The darkness broods from morning to round about two-thirty then the white sun descends behind Olympia. How at night when u walk home + all the sun's gone outta ya u can hardly keep ur eyes open walking the slink of sidewalk in the pitch black. U feel like u've been dead forever. The gravity wrenching from u in reverse, ur feet leave, r separated from the earth + on goes experience in helpless surrender to the bidding of our overlords. The two-dimensional, fifth-dimensional bodies in hyperspace, hypostasis. With inside out boy bodies filet on living breadboards of gurneys while an electricity pumps syllables, pre-fixes, su-ffixes, like snakes to the rhythm of ur rolling eyes. UHT.. git.dow- dow- dow- dow-

glibtched in ka- bib- bib- bib- bib- bib- bib- bib-

Like this in rabid re-run. + all the while something like the sound of brainwaves, radiowaves or a bonesaw occupy the air in the back of ur brain. Its like a Talking Heads song, the production of it all + that's another thing. It's all very familiar as one could imagine, but never the less horrifying, as I know I'm not doing it justice. Becoming cognizant to songs will lead u elsewhere in finite, tethered infinity.

Part Two: More Spaghetti Poems

Somewhere between Destroyer 666, Deicide, + Marduk

Between Bloodstorm + Bathory

A zig-zag of Zim Zum sigils across the

Space-time continuum + genres

For Ahmad Jamal

*

I close my eyes until my vision is

Horizontal crescent moons + faberge eggs

In tendril caves of lambent spider hyphae

sorbet stacks like totem rungs of summer legs,

[As above, so below]

Oranges on streams of golden thunder

“Poems are telegrams from your soul.” - Richard Brautigan

*

We come back

To give ourselves

Second chances

Forever

*

Shucked apart [u can

Cut the butt off a corn when u pull it out of the

microwave, husk + all]

All the lord-given Qlipphoth

Our self-induced phantom moonwalks

Ghostrider

Advancing forever until all the stimulus is eaten up

In every way- with every feeling expended,

The enemy of enlightenment,

Adversary

*

The helicopters of war

Out my window, flying over the sound

In my headphones, choppers

On my shoulder, in my shoe

A wetness, through the sole, an abyss

+ through the hole in my sock a sickness

permeating from biologic ponds of

stagnant scum, churning in my worry

Sour butter black bile

Vomit forth like prayers,

Anal beads, worms from

Dank earth.

For Witold Gombrowicz

*

Free will doesn't exist

We could choose our experiences if it did

All the configurations to love with no answers in the way

No one asking a thing

Bore forms to love more than oneself

Best friend, worst enemy, sadness

Messy, ignorant, hangover

U could walk up the steps of a Mayan pyramid

+ have lunch in the eye of a sun dog

Nap in Amazonian pools, rinse the memory of

Mosquito hamburgers from the mind completely

We could choose our stimuli

Could drive a matte black C-10 down the

California coast

See the desert + drink in hotel rooms + finish

Dozens of volumes of terrible, treacherous

Poetry

Push forward + publish my

Timelessly crafted balls of dung

Our Free Will, words holding air

To chuck at a plastic hysteria +

A future of diminishing returns

For BF Skinner

*

Our fear is this-

That ur eyes will hear our words + go,

The bass was not at eye level

The floor was blood + we could not step through

Histories encased in molasses

Crypts + castles entombed in the ghosts of

Queen Anne + Prince George-

That our brains r lost forever

+ yet from here the kinetic energy's honed

For Collin Marston

Part Three: Five Aphorisms Everted, More Spaghetti

Compassion vs. Pity

Get to being nice or else get to steppin.

Get to bein nice otherwise get to fuckin off.

Where do the memories go- out the window, out the window. This is how it came about, only in the place of just, because I still haven't found a place holder for that, smash the part of my bits I wish to get rid of- to see get steppin.

Reading now Zero, a comic that Farris gifted to another but they didn't want, so now they're all here. I have a lot to get through. Inspiration in any way it comes. Zoning out through the panels, the pink + blue + blue that's closer to black + black. The way the pictures r stacked on one another. It brings me back to distant windows into outer summer. + other windows with nude fans going. Piano stands, sheet music, the smell of pages full of ink notes that had travelled the mystical route of the mail. Ferns in the windows, shallow husks of their shadows on carpets of lava, dead + awaiting the black hole suction of the vacuum, dust-trap, black bag, landfill, Massachusetts.

Today has no outlets. Positively crammed up without an imagination. Where to go today, to sit + do the same. Never ends. Up, hiding. A recent print finding focusing on QA states it's: the Best Place to Find Women Drinking Wine Alone.

[Lost +] found + depressed.

Like finding the end of Trout Fishing in America. The riddle of could I hang in DFW's Occidental english class. Anyhow the answer is no I couldn't, he's way too fast paced for me. Would require not getting drunk every night to bare witness to my body breakdown.

Could I perhaps finish Trout Fishing in America on today, the third day of reading it, loving it, then putting it down. Savoring it for later all the while procrastinating. Answering the internet's question of could I hang in David Foster Wallace's Occidental english class. The answer is no. Each day when they were on Brautigan they finished a book of his. The first day was Trout Fishing in America. The next day is In Watermelon Sugar.

Not like this anyhow. Not being drunk each day envisioning my organs crapping out. I have to be more healthy about it all. Why am I refusing to eat. No money for lunch. Have to conserve in order to pay rent. Have to find a new spot. Those contingencies that I've been missing since the spring when I lived in a baby blue cloud in an attic. I couldn't stand on my tippy-toes without breaking my neck. The room was shaped like an aircraft hangar only pint-sized. I'm missing those days but they weren't perfect either, this last spring going into summer. I roamed around Fremont transforming places like this into a place to purge r u doing homework. Each part of the day in a block of concrete- It's a solitary life. The long meditative walks to the Borders of free will, to Phinney Ridge, Greenlake. Have a seat by the roaster at Herkimer, the pub, Ed's Kort Haus, where they serve grilled snake charmers' cobras + mosquito hamburgers when mosquitos r in season + Ed can get em [he won't tell u where though + he get's pissed if u ask].

It was a whirlwind of a time, even without all the cocaine. I had a lot of good eats, Large pots filled with coconut butter soup, every kind of bean + pea one needs, a little nutritional yeast. In leu of a kitchen, I am dependent upon the hole to maintain his stases, whatever they might be, to maintain my own.

Ur hiding in the back because u don't want a conversation that u have no control over to grip u + then to take u for a ride. Like those Mievillian hand monsters in Perdido Street Station. Compassion be damned, its not about that. Its precisely about not being taken for a ride. Cafe carpool lane.

Farris + the tests of compassion. On giving others time in the day. On not taking pity. Listening to it while I'm at work. I realize I make, no, I don't even do that; I'm not the type to make small talk when I'm at work. The pangs of falling into castes. Does Farris not see himself as beholden to a caste.

Regardless of place, the Theatre of Farris is projecting from a cushy chair in a panel of four. I'm in one of the chairs. The other two r occupied by tension + everything else. Compassion does not have a seat + so is instead standing in a darkened corner of the room, a non-participant.

In my own vapid theater, compassion is a hostage being held in a cage + prodded by missed social, linguistic queue's. Really there r none for Farris. There is so obviously a disconnect here- an unaccounted for scope of perception- unnoticed on his part anyways, so who knows if it's really even a thing. Aren't we all fooling ourselves into a glue that adheres us to castes + language, a bomb, + a neighborhood. Dreams, visions of nuclear tornadoes made of water, clouds, + sky debris. The panel could be on a road trip through the shared wavelengths of our subconscious.

Let go of the hurt. Tap back into it again. Let the snake regurgitate itself.

Held in place by the facts: u need a job to deal in money: Already not true. People make money all over the planet by means other than a job. There's also theft, extortion, + being born into it. Born to a nest in a manger + raised on love, some italian kale + patience for tireless inquiries.

Child rearing gone awry. Stifled interests.

Yearned for, begged for art classes + karate. Disney in tandem with Predator + Alien. Got the basement with Grampy Jack. Tried summer camp at the Y but opted for the basement. Got neglected by my dad + his side of the family on weekend for more or less 10 years. Both in a small town, both scenarios played out with televisions + VCR's for juxtapositions. It's what my teenage parents could swing, how could u hate even. How could u judge! Its by this equation alone I know not to judge anyone, that judgement lies in the dominion of man. Judgment + discernment for what- survival. For keeping the pack strong. The answer retreating behind a question the hole once gave me: Why not let me give u the best orgasm of ur life.

His libido is a throbbing constant.

My own, an entity shrunken from neglect, from not being used. Theta-linked chakra systems of discordance. My swollen nodes + pustules erupt in hope if absolving Farris for the humanity I do not judge him [of all things!] for

Is there anything left.

Hoping to dissolve it all.

I do not act upon my own best interests out of fear from an assumption that

a> The truth for [anyone] is predicated upon a hyphae of past, learnt defenses [ages born to six] that in adult life serve as a mirage + r therefore Illusory. +

b> No matter what, Farris may view our shared interpersonal space as negative + a judgment upon his humanity but that recognition is not my crucifix to carry. Chill Baby's do not discern [as if Chill Baby is not tied intrinsically to desire, tied to time, only when I am Hare Krishna]. OR fear that the Chill Baby has discerned. That He is not peace. He is not love. He is tied intrinsically in a knot with desire. That if I'm tied to flesh, I'm tied to desire, lacking in substance, not origin.

An insubstantial desire that lacks an origin in the untruth of duality- the Chill Baby with an under-developed heart to tell him, Farris, ur much-appreciated dispersal of pertinent information is at once loathed upon ur physical arrival. + instead of whatever the desired outcome, u r greeted with a repulsion that rebels the Chill Baby's stomach into a witch trial hysteria.

Unties the knot, is free flowing.

U can see the translucent spindles of silk that remain, but the knot separates + u were right, kinda. We r all falling, kinda.

In a way.

Shedding Qlipphoth

The fear that u r dying always, from the random pains + shivers, the various possessions of one confronting this stand-alone door. Huge cysts or swollen nodes from bottom to top, oozing with pus. Black phlegm with the consistency of tomato bisque. The chemistry of my snot has changed in the last year. Something's different. I feel the push to cram a lifetime into a particle + I go forth with gusto when I am not crippled, am prisoner to this vehicle. Afflicted with what can one do + why anything. Nonsensical complexes I can't seem to get through. Snap out of, look away from. Leap, hop, skip over- Just get over it! Small attainable goals until it's all gone. Eaten up, gulp, glug. Sword of Right Now, what do I want: for this train of thought to end + for the curtain to fall + expose itself, the bricks of gold, stacked on top of one another, all the way to the rafters, to the lights. + ur all alone, + u remember how to fly from ur dreams. Cut, cut, cut.

We're done here taking our ques from comfy repetition. Looking to ur neighbor + going, me too right guys.

No.

Absolutely not. We want different engagements at least on the weekends if e couldn't swing nightly. The sun onur back. Refracted light + ur onion head shadow cast on the wall.Ales Kot

Quatrefoils of Proliferation - Seasons, Sun + Holy Ghosts

The main character of the story would like to check in but he can't make it down the stairs. He's out to battle the Kraken with scimitars of reason. The tentacles plunge with purpose through color-riddled Mandelbrot sequences that defy all swords.

Or the truth is in + its that the main one is happiest to + by himself now. Happiest without words + obligations + roommates + dance music + terrible music + the girlfriends of terrible music with a junky hunger for beat droppings. Her girly cackles r the rabid non-sequiturs of a feline trance. Following the dust or the moonlight.

The here who didn't arrive or come downstairs like he said he maybe would is battling cluttered desks of dusty candles + desk lamps that don't illuminate, which do not allow for work + is tangled in the abstract too much always + forever to solve the riddle.

Some men strive to harness the elements, subjugate the seasons for their gain; In a civilization, there r divisions.

If the music weren't distracting it would be the glare of the sun going down, 3:38pm, so the world's getting brighter, the winter waning ever since the solstice + we pray:

From here until eternity it be one in four of quatrefoil import to our work, to our livelihood. As we do wish to make communion with our truer vehicle, charades + mistakes + all. Until we get it.

AMN

Wouldn't u feel better if everything were up, off the hardwood ground. If the blind was fixed so u weren't exposed to ur neighbor continually, ur sleeping head right below.

So u don't rise with the grey sun, that part I don't mind.

Fifty red, orange, yellow, green + blue street lights hang like stars. From the end of my bed, diagonal, then over the window. Its reflection falls behind me in a green, glowing chain.

Cold, steady rain today. The glowing chain looks like it's underwater. I can hear the wind + the water smashed under the tires of people getting to work, bringing kids to school. I live in neighborhood.

Where to + what to do. Work on this a while longer I suppose. Drink some coffee. Water fowl kickin off a death siren.

On the days that there r 31 days in the month, beginning on the 25th, there r seven days until the end of that month.

What would the next writing be called.

Whistling Helvetica. Large Drip + his whistle tooth.

How u just gotta own who u r.

Just gotta own it.

Let love in + open up. Allow that piercing whistle between his incisors to penetrate + cut u deep.

I feel it in my ribs. The thunder of children stampeding our hollow ground. Like water smashing under fast-moving cars, the color of liquid.

A pond of mirrors + tiger lilies at the conclusion of arterial roadways through neighborhoods + micro-townships. They r clandestinely arranged in grid-like successions that mimic the I Ching. Living, water-smashing, soot-hacking rice paddies.

In these 100 to one-year-old houses is a vomiting worm. Puking out both abalone ends puss + blood the color of tea. A wrenching from the midpoint, which is nothing, less-than nothing. He wants to die, or at least knows he will, or at best is trying to reduce his time, which is all-time, to nothing. If he can let go of the time field to where he was never not dead to begin with, maybe, what. Perhaps a time-out from the suffering + confusion for a spell. A brief interlude from suicidal ideation. Knowledge + remembrance- Remember how much u knew [+ remembered] this last summer.

We're trying to sync ourselves to the seasons the way we feel intrinsically + absolutely in disjunction with as is. This, my call to morality.

The happiest man is he who learns from nature the lesson of worship. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

The worm winces as he digs in his hollow eye sockets with conjunctivitis fingertips for the gunk in the corners + the pressure which somehow eases a tension behind the septum before migrating like clouds scattered about the cranium.

U don't want to pity anyone, u want to stick to ur guns.

Cheated + used the word just a few times, now u owe urself deadlines + ideas such as:

If u can read four books in a month, why can't u write one story with the ideas those books generate a month. In order to do this u would need deadlines, Like, read at least half of Portnoy's Complaint by tonight + tell me what u thought about it in the morning. Since u work in the morning, u can tell me all about it when u go for beer + writing with another tomorrow. That's far enough to know, anymore would be prediction, a game I play with myself. Like saying I'll be done with it + my thoughts on it in a tangle, ready to start on Perdido Street Station.

Small attainable goals. Like getting through the day. Breaking through the filigree of distorted situations within the vignettes of hours. Learning the Processes. Writing is a constant. It too is growing, evolving with the demands of the times. I need it to juice up. It's hungry for psychology books + for Ezra Pound, Pablo Neruda, Bolano + more Brautigan. I want more Michael McClure + I still need to track down Dambudzo Marechera. It's the future, is that even hard, the Censor jeers. Of course it's accurate. Po' like Edga Allen

The Dance of a Thousand Hands, caterpillars, lurching necks, slowed down on lean]. Warped to hell dimensions where ur forced to know + understand the members of ur family in intimate orgiastic dismantling.

Progress in Art

Productivity coming out in great gouts of starclouds. Like a sparky, kinetic fetus falling from grace. The incarnation of STN as an ugly goose cast from the heavens. Not dwelling in the past, the horrors of the precious gift of memory, onward, forward, game not fame, negative pole of the pisces seeking positivity by way of realness + by putting in the work. It has to be that way. Its never fun. Never becomes fun. Is always work, remembering, straining to read because ur system is inefficient.

U try to look back to a time when perhaps u were more graceful + diligent. U think lord, way back when, school must have required that I be more sharp. More on point, but that's right, I did terribly in school. So I may be right after all- consistency is a hallmark.

My brother + old roomie Josh believes we should stay in the city + self destruct. He envisions the zombie-geist as one giant pirate ship [a ghost ship, although we don't know it,] + the city as a nuclear cannonball that has torn a vacuous hole through our ethical obligation not to drown or implode or self-destruct. To see our demise through because this is our trajectory. + this dude has studied mandalas extensively + from a Jungian perspective, too. Put money down + got a degree in that shit. A war hero.

The artist is president, present, hesitant.

Deathspell Omega- Paracletus; pageninetynine / Majority Rule Split

Back-to-back

Then listen to Whores.

Some Meatjack, Helmut, Dakota/Dakota

Something, Anything by Mick Barr +/or Weasel Walter

Alright. I can do this.

Yeah! U got this, assured with two thumbs up.

Haha, I'm just kidding, I'm going to die.

[Yes u r, the ghosts reassure]

I'm so stressed + melancholy I feel like I'm gonna have a heart attack.

Ur fine, she continued steadfast, Look at ur options. Ur about to free up so much money + u won't even be stressed any more.

But could I do it was what I was stressed about, not money necessarily, but could I put it all in motion. Go down there my next chance within the times allotted in the ad + speak with someone + see a room. Get everything set in motion, all the paper work, who am I. I would have to have utilities turned on + I'm quite sure I owe them money from when the Darkness + I still lived together. Have an address again but that had to happen eventually. I may not have internet again. Have to rely on coffee shops again but we'll see still.

U'll finally be alone again, she reassured one last time.

Jesus, what's come over me. I feel so trapped + prodded, weighed down by everything to go out- what is everything, what r u talking about why do u feel this way its ridiculous drop it for god's sake. It serves no purpose to clam up like this + to feel this bad. U r totally responsible for how u feel, including all the burning + suffering u don't want to acknowledge but too bad [Bolano called it masochism to have to do this]. Pain's a part of it too so u'll have to go without being oblivious while we whip u into what u r not.

Go back to the woods, u fairy.

The censor is strong in me everywhere, wis to rip into + eat, tear + shit upon. This vehicle is crooked, off-kilter. It's not operating properly u can see that. + this does not make for conducive work, to have to be like this + to be so sad still. How r u allowed to be this sad + worried. U should have opened ur eyes by now.

Wings Splay Refract Light*: Two Things I Would Like to See:

I

Exploding Pages play a Tiny Concerts gig for NPR because they're friends of mine + they'd fit right in; They're arguably good.

II

I wish more people would appreciate their local music + go out + support it. Like, made it a priority to where they augmented their life to fit around schedules that meant staying up late to rock out [really I wish music resounded through the streets constantly, every second was 'Block Party with better irrigation], so maybe their livelihoods would orbit around these priorities [fuck u asshole, u don't have kids, the censor is up + so it is time to get beer] + not the flow of commerce, but that's gonna have to come to an end, we hope.

3D printers + solar power converging, open sourcing, the nexus of completion technology will reach with no cost to create- The end of this nematode's conquest, + to extrapolate, conquests altogether. Mycelium working through us + knowledge being free. we're gonna have to eliminate competition + all this, it's absurd. Soon we'll inevitably have anything we want + do away with want, need, supply + demand, + competition.

The prosthetics companies r out of business, soon enough. Now let's see the pharmaceutical companies, when we crack that egg. Let us all be the Black Peacock*.

III

Ur just gonna hit a little bit + then ur gonna be on ur way. Listening in ur earbuds what someone else has already accomplished,

sloppily.

Rough prog just thrown in there. I like that though [this band is known for their swedish, their prog digressions, + being a city on the moon].

Then again I've never been to Sweden, nor been any one of those guys. Furthermore I like their band. But I'd still use rough + sloppy to describe their compositions.

I love their drummer's double bass. It was relentless + better than most in the 90's [April Ethereal] + grew tasteful through the 2000's [all of Watershed]. Or maybe they switched drummers, every band does a trillion times. Either way, their drumming has always been noteworthy.

IIII

the hole hears the dollars signs in the music + is not stupid. Has an agenda + an image of a solid gold spread eagle mountain of muff that he's gonna penetrate for all eternity like a black cat sneaking slithering through the doorcrack. On the sly, with much machismo.

Is why he prefers shit like Crystal Castles to caviar, like Current Value.

Got laundry going. Today is the Superbowl. I want to head to Russie's but--

Weird commentary, actuary + a projection of who I am not. The me I am combined with the dude I used to be, stoked by the diasporic tribe I belong to out here. Loosely, to a handful of sprites, cats + fairies. Florida folk, on account of the 10 years of time I spent there. From Ft. Myers to Tallahassee, back to Ft. Myers pining for Tallahassee, to Orlando, back again [my parents live in Ft. Myers] to Ft. Myers, + now here.

What is accepted as genius to the west coast is brain-scrambling stupidity to the east coast townships of MA, worthy of remedial education.

the whole here's another bottle pop from the next room before 11AM even + wonders what's going on.

R u ok

The Letter J

U wear it like a feather between ur eyes.

A leaf u picked up off the ground, licked,

Then stuck to ur forehead declaring:

This is my home. This cement wall my grandfather built. Its made of Letter J's; His name was Grampy Jack.

He loved my grandmother,

Her name is Jenny.

He loved it all so fucking much he cast the letter J in iron then nailed that son of a bitch through the cement wall he fashioned shirtless + dripping sweat into the rim of his blue jeans years before, basketball.

Progress took its time in the 19-somethings, not like now. We don't even have a word to sum it up. It's like ice to Inuits.

A photographer said let's make ur life into a book on art. I slept with her that evening + we fucked until morning, all the while her shooting grainy photographs of no-light's entry upon mostly my nude body + a little of hers- the thigh meat. It looked like rain clouds wrestling in an imaginative tesseract. Shadows of an androgynous carpenter + his lover, spirit photography.

Addiction is a smiling iron bar barricading one from letting go for peace. I say wait a minute! Take a time out + look closer at the the iron to see that someone has scratched with their fingernails over the course of a long time the inscription: WAR ALL THE TIME. They didn't sign it Hank but I knew it was Hank anyhow, I just didn't know Bukowski was a graffiti artist.

Flesh is addict to belief. Anima adhered to conscious effort. The why anything revolution.

[thef000lishone-blog]

There's vomit on his sweater already...

Spaghetti

[dontdropthatdirkadirkayyy-blog]

"HI there!"

"Evenin'." Though he's never encountered this guy around his age before, the feeling in the pit of Dirk's stomach told him something was wrong here. It almost reminded him of.. Oh. Oh no.

No.

That's enough of that thought. At least not until he's gotten a confirmation. Dirk gestured to the wheelchair-bound guy in front of him, the movement somehow tight, and asked, "Uh, hey, call me crazy, but your name wouldn't happen to be Tavros, would it?" Play it cool. His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms spaghetti. There's vomit on his sweater spaghetti. Mom's spaghetti. And he may just lose his cool for the first time in a very long while.