Wordlings

Beautiful noodles.

[wordlings]

engineers

tell me about a song you really liked that filled you with password farms a small frog middle aged and lonely shining from a woman long ago   tell me of the man who saved your soul when you were going to be an engineer who took you in their dirty airplane arms in a time of cold and reference   there are no indifferent images there at the home of the airplane arms in the toggle of night and day parsimonious engineers

[wordlings]

platypus islandia

like part of the laundry business expended islandia rodhiharnian material inward laden with the tumulus remains of anybodys antibodies   sunset materials tintwindow   sunset mathematics how to develop your morning material   cool shot I took of my teammate's soul closing platypus connection

[wordlings]

sugar blue goodnight

like a sugar blue goodnight just as the wireless gas gums up tactical airways, as the birdhouse goes an incarnation of pure information different aliases for different rents sugar blue allosaurus in the curtain of another life the mighty big east

[wordlings]

a simple book about the sea

Joyce intended to write a fourth novel after the Wake "a simple book about the sea"   but by then he was blind the Wake had consumed his last particles of eyesight   and he had mountained the highest everest of human literation. and he was tired, like to die. call the Wake Joyce's own.   ...   by then, to write a simple book about the sea would require that Joyce become the sea, and write his autobiography. in rocks of Ireland and Europe well that is what he has been doing since then.   yes, while you were writing easily on paper, he was etching his latest narrative, a very simple book about the sea, in the rocks of the coasts in the shapes of the the bays, the slope of the sea bottoms, the configurations of the surf, the ripples of sand under the late afternoon homegoing dories when light declaims the homegoing boats and even the skirl of a keel on shingle is a syllable of his next lexicon. the cloud mirrors of the bays and the   birds embedded motionless on the blowing wind, and the spray of grit and that wet cold crust of oncoming storm and the long flat clam-pocked flats that shine from the ebb of time. A simple   book about the sea. A simple book that is the sea.   those who engender words like that are incipient gods. and all that things that lie created around you have been devised by such gods. who do not demand obesiance or worship just notice and attention, you'll see. just notice the details of a thing and you'll see, you'll make contact with the forgotten writers of the ancient eons. appreciate them, for they are your ancestors, never-ceasing, and one day you'll be among them.

[wordlings]

drips

from a sky that was dark and the waters were full of yesterday the ice looks sweet til it slips moscow january charlestown mausoleum so firmly held the sausage of the moon in a darwinian bungalow between her malthusian legs love in a January mausoleum quick before the lightning breaks! sanity graduation pass the lightning ballots chilltown mausoleum where the fluid drips, drips, drips

[wordlings]

athletic skies

vacillating privately on athletic skies weather-battered skies to ink the divorce or the dark stomach machinery sophie the prize and the race she lived for disappear into the machinery of dark stomach skies

[wordlings]

continuous

some cholesterol ghoul in a whole dank nest of movies several years off the ledge and fudge censorship   the sun in my targets the sun in my tears that first terrible glimpse of the black hole's maw that is a force in the mind and now it's in there, it will pull all material to it and down into oblivion   these are objects of mind, friends which is where they only exist   reality in a dream is just as real as this is, and yet, just as real as this is. objects of attention, together seamlessly. one's attention moves from thing to thing and they's no jump, no seam, no splice.   it's all perfectly continuous.

[wordlings]

aliens of everest

the dead on the dwindling line even after you die the most important part of you does not the only difference between a loser and a closer is the letter "c" his last industrial line of defense chocolate fonz powder nimby maneuvers   aliens snatch frozen bodies off everest for reasons they alone know north of our thromosaurs the sky marches on down off the tibetan mind down off the pilgrim man hell's unbelievable brainpan   jesus, as narcoleptic logic systems of beauty to succor the narcoleptic mind the bullet of a damp soul tumbling off a narcoleptic laugh dean death on english street saps the pilgrim mind   this is the wind that blows us mallward money's always a little out of focus wandering the repetitive array would be very bird afraid money's always a little out of tune some men are money walking the pearl of their lost souls harvested by the everest aliens

[wordlings]

dead nebula standing

you are the crumbling nebula you are the dead nebula standing   afraid to abandon the disintegrating ship for the infinite old ocean   boy you are the rumbling nebula every atom minted in an ancient sun every atom conceived in the womb of a dead sun   aerosol in a dead sun miniature abrasion of a star in a Minneola dead sun   we are actually Ex Nihilo but our thoughts connected us with stars our thoughts, which configure our sciences, lead us back to the stars in this way science, as do all our arts, points the way to ascension   pearl cleanmanships points the way to accretion as we rejoin the nebula at last

[wordlings]

lost souls

the same cast of lost souls walks the sidewalks day by day   the sound of a bullet dawning dawn roar records   is written down in the other place in the soul of the dawning era  

[wordlings]

the internet tide

wandering spray the moon's wet clothing the workers' light phenomenon you don't think the moon makes lava move? this is why the wandering poles wander his dusty shoes on the powdered crust of the language moon the vortexes of the ballistic coast back out these spanish counts in precincts of unanticipated monsters data ebbs and flows the internet tides, pulled by a moon all of data, collected of the world's ignorance

[wordlings]

poetry is a thankless job

we lied to the rainbow and to vic mizzy   roger to his sensitive death a guitar makes a poor parachute   take a moon from the left hand pile and go join the others   we'll be along in a moment    

[wordlings]

graduates

the deeper life goes, and homeless men under the moon are searching for the doorway searching for doorways   and we who rattle our chains are only starving ourselves for the visions it contains   green needle money vaccination from ennui and the seven seemly sins the rattle and flash boys   but we are graduates of the silver airplane we're graduates of shadow college and know the margins of life and earth   the deathless graduates come from gloom and go out to gloom statistical minds suffering for the unbelievers   we found an ocean deep within where submarines probe blind the lightless depths and the sea segues into space   and we who rattle our chains are only starving ourselves for the visions it contains

[wordlings]

skinskates

skullskates skinstake is trips rainbow dna soft lodely fiction is its own thumb with a bullet for a heart father brown resin sugar number six baron brown and the rainbow man like a brilliant arctic battle

[wordlings]

monobrain species

the world's all shook and fire and we just want to retire to our hentai gardens   in league with the horse acrobatic laundromats took off a guy's head   moonsprain species that species you'll always forgive censor of the intellect   mansprain species and homely nonetheless the helicopter jerked  

[wordlings]

Breaking Elmore Leonard's Rules

Elmore Leonard’s rules – http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/304

I decided I’d write something that broke every one of his rules. … It was raining. The tops of the buildings were lost in a fog of falling drops. The light was scattered in their many prisms. The streets were mirrored with liquid surfaces. Cars planed by with a tearing sound, followed by splashing. The splashing continued in the gutters. At intersections the gutters gurgled into sewers. When you passed you could hear the muffled rattle of an underground waterfall. Before our story begins, you must understand that John’s father was born here, but his father’s father was born in Poland, in the endless grasslands under the sun that were so tempting to the German Army. Janusz, plagued by a premonition, gathered his family, begged borrowed and stole passage out of the country, and stepped out weeks later onto the shaggy, mossy docks of New York, blinking in the smoky sun, wondering what demon had possessed him to engage in such precipitous behavior. And then not three days later, picked up the newspaper and saw the gigantic three-letter headline. But all this happened long before our story begins, and may not even be relevant. “Taxi!” John warbled, stepping out from under the awning of his apartment. “Where to, Mac?” cawed the cab driver as John entered the cab. “Just drive,” John mumbled. “Need a destination, chief,” mused the cab driver. “Uptown,” John wavered. “That’s not–” “Freakin’ drive!” John barked. The cab driver smiled and put the car into gear. “Tough day, boss?” he said compassionately. “It’s…” John said querulously, then stopped. Did he want to pour out his woes to this man of a thousand epithets? “Please just drive,” John said morosely. “Fine, fine, you bet, Ace,” the cab driver said sanguinely. Suddenly, the cab skidded to a stop! He had almost hit an old lady! The old lady shouted curses at them! John stared at the apparition in shock and fear! Then the cab drove on! John turned and stared at her as he went by. She’d been German, this lady, and her invective was difficult to parse. “Vot you doing bastids? You zons of muzzafugging cocktease–” (yes, phonetically that’s all he could come up with) “–azzholes get off my vace zunsabitchess!” It was an imaginative and perhaps insane recital on her part. One wondered if there were groceries in that cart or belongings. John guessed groceries but they were too far away now to be sure. John had an egg-shaped face, with a flatted and cleft chin, somewhat like Niles in Frasier. His hair was a wispy, waspy, color and cut, so brown as to be black, but instead shaded to an almost non-color that helped hide him in the shadows. His eyes were limpid pools of seafoam green that reflected the bright sunshine of a May day and swallowed, like the tumultuous and foamy sea of a Breton storm, the scant light of a blustery afternoon – now they were peeholes in the snow, and beneath them sagged bags of weariness or care, or both mingled. His ears lay flat against his head, unobtrusive, and slipped behind his hair slightly as if considering whether or not to hide there permanently. His face was blemishless, without scar or freckle, though it was seamed with encroaching age and concern. His forehead, formerly unlined, was beginning to resemble a washboard. His stomach, once a washboard, was beginning to resemble something else. All these things gnawed at him, and made him worry even more, and the decision to turn metro and start using creams and powders and ointments had begin to occupy a larger and larger part of his waking consciousness. He thought again of the old lady, and wondered what her situation was. What drove her outside in the pouring rain like this. Well, steady rain, pissing down really, not pouring. The streets were not rivers, after all. He tried to recall if she had an umbrella or not. He thought not. She did have an oilskin, battered and paintsplattered. Perhaps she was a famous artist in decline, squatting in a heatless walkup nearby, having snuck out under cover of the inclement weather to re-provision for the next week or so, with her cart of groceries in bulk, staples in bulk, and of course her girdles crammed with additional bonus items her nimble bony fingers, still so adept with a brush because of her regular exercise shoplifting, had liberated from the bodega’s shelves. He wondered if she was a Nazi, that German old lady, and if she had seen his face, and if so, if he had made her list. Being a painter, she probably had a photographic memory and was probably even now rendering him in oils, having rapidly charcoaled in the broad strokes, and with a hunk of sausage in her mouth, which was one of the purloined things the old bag had secreted in her undergarments. She was even now painting in the colors of his face, working in the glow of a bare bulb running on power illegally jacked, while rain trickled in through the cracks of her head and in the next apartment the laugh and smack of methheads in congress sounded periodically, like some sort of non-rhythmic sporting event that featured plastic bags of meat and bats something like cricket bats but slightly larger. Pizza paddles. They could be like big flat pizza– “This uptown enough for you?” the cabbie queried insolently, pulling up to the curb just past 35th St. John shrugged and threw a bunch of bills at the cabbie. “Big tippa,” the cabbie said appreciatively, ingenuously, as John got out. He snapped off the roof sign. Time to go get warm.

[wordlings]

move along nothing to see here

the face that launched a thousand ships the ships that launched the face on mars   starla and the millionjets launched a thousand barriers into the rage   the barrier of the dancing dollars the barrier of one million vicistors the barrier of I wont make trouble a conga line of hot dog suits   listen oyster, dancing around on the bacteria you prisoners of the bacteria boat creation is the name of rage   be the fact that launched a thousand ships and the ships as well. that face on mars is yours.