When does my CV resume?

If you would care to talk to me
during my static apogee
the words, because you sent ‘em,
would increase my momentum.

The lights that shine around and illuminate the room
contribute to my comfort, but my shadow splits in slices.
Likewise, my spirit isn’t whole for I spend time with different folks
and, snap! It parts. It parts in earnest due to what entices.

Looking For Something.. resumes January.

Land Coast!

Why, I'm off for the month of December, not from what I'm looking for (and hence this blog will still exist), but rather from the form of school and every other thing it brings.

C*******s is coming and I'm just not in the mood or in the care or in the season. That's not my fault, though, the ice storm is in Missouri for the second year in a row, with my grandparents, who need it less than I do. Of course, there are probably people my age in Missouri with grandparents in Indiana who are praising the Lord for the same phenomenon.

Forty-five minutes thirty-three seconds later, I'm no more musically talented, I'm just forty-five minutes thirty-three seconds later.

I'd be up for learning to dance, if you think you can teach me, and if you think we deserve each other, and if you think you're the right person.

Keep it up! Keep it up! Keep it up!

'Fly' and 'Freesnow'.

So Whatcha Want..

WHY, LANGUAGE IS PERFECTLY ADEQUATE.

fire!

Yes I suppose it is all fine and dandy to read and discuss Frank O'Hara, but in that time couldn't I write something almost as worthwhile and thrice as present?

I WILL DIE
why wasn't multitasking drilled into my kindergarten friends and I? I will die

I DON'T KNOW
I DON'T CARE

Go home, son. You're not built for walls, you're not prepared for them or literature in classes or through glasses. Go be safe. No, I'm serious.

Box Kites of Four Dimensions.

your head is closest to an oval.
there's no pure geometric shape that's more of a match
but let's not assume an oval is a good fit, either.
I can only look at it in two dimensions
and so it is difficult to verbalize it, it, it,
there's a nose in the way,
but I can make myself ignore that if I need to,
and there're several sockets spread along the surface
but I guess it's necessary to have them

stop nodding, girl, you need not apologize

3423981827371:.

Nigel! Eh Nigel!

There's no part of this screen that's not moving. The screen here is so soothing, so soothing it's nauseating. But it wasn't always like this and the blues and the greens have a habit of making me think it's the first day all over again. I know it's happening, I can't stop it, I don't want to stop it, I hate that screen. All the acids flying. All the colours flying.

She's going to die. She's not, and neither is he, but she will. He'll die too.

Nigel!

'Where's my drink, mate?'

Unimportant, Nigel. Listen to me.

Why is retrieval so difficult?

'I'm still thirsty!'

'... yes, I know, Mr. Nigel, just one moment, Mr. Nigel...'

Nigel! Nigel!

She was only fourteen. Well, I do what I do.

The Future is Predictable..

Well dag. I've still got that cold. I realised that I was hungry last night in all my blowing my nose and so I cooked myself a potato and it was all cold on the inside. To think we can cure AIDS and cancer and public transportation is everywhere for cheap and we still haven't improved on the microwave oven...

I've been using that telephone. It was fun for awhile, but no one's reacting how I expected them to and you know they have this new model (like, in the present) out that improves on hologram technology, so maybe this was my entire technology archaeophilia era. And it's over. Dag, it's not fun and it doesn't solve my problems.

I'm going to go eat out with my friend here in a few minutes. Honestly, I just want some hot food. That's not unreasonable, is it?

The Future is Boring..

I felt sick, so I walked to the pharmacy, and I picked up the cards for the Sudafed, which is kept behind the counter, but then before I knew it the cards for some albums and some futons were also in my hand, and they too are kept behind the counter. Maybe I was planning on lying on the futon while listening to the music while my sinuses cleared up? Why do they even have cards for those things?

Maybe they need to have, like, maybe, a card for NO CARDS. That'd be new.

I've been thinking of trying to find my old wireless landline telephone. I think it's in one of the boxes out in a garage... maybe going back to a simpler technology would be better for me. I don't know.

Earthquakes Call Us to the Things of this World.

My future and my past are slightly jagged corkscrews,
all my adverbs accordioned across that path,
which, itself, always wants to keep moving!
But forces keep it, along with me, encircling
(a simple machine if I ever saw one).
All my dates and times and places reduce to segments,
coordinates along a the rocky schedule.
Intangibles, in prisms, in atmosphere, inertia.
So if I want to see you, I have to scout a point;
orient myself so I fall into place,
the jigsawed system, we the final pieces
slam with enough force to knock some earbuds out.
Reorient what swings me to vertical
and we are falling, or sliding, sick and standoffish,
crusty, with old plans and trajectories latent on the mantle.
It's a good thing that I'm used to this climate,
for I know in my core that I am never exiting:
ad nauseam 3-D timecircles lack the momentum
to swing me free into uncharted, open space,
oceans, prairies, deserts, Fridays, encounters.

Vector: 11 November, 2007..

I'm on the verge again. I'm on the verge.

I'm not extremely close, though. But I am close.

The Tinted Word I.

Your Grand Sublimation..

Waves and wind and nebulae
(aeronautics, astronautics, oceanography)...
If I was to traverse you, would I find you agree?

I'm afraid for your evaporating soul;
as you delete, I cannot shift to alternate control,
nor can I enter, they've locked a cap for toll

and I don't have the means or homes or ends
to pay for liberation for you, for my sake or your friends'
and so you will just disappear between the exosphere and catch the bends.

DASH 'EM!

If I was twice your width, I'd kill you.

(to be screamed)

'All music is repetition, which is a major problem.
What is repetition for? For? Seven—eight?'
'Correction; the world is not constructed wif dashes.
Today's pioneers reside in hyphen-houses because
with the same supply one can make twice the
punctuated projects in half-time. And besides,
aren't we about reticulate-community, and isn't it selfish
to demand that much space? With the em dash?
Cut yourself in half or convert to hyphonics.'
'That's ridiculous.'
'What a waste of a good line. You could have said
"That's ridiculous, and I feel sad about it."'

Convincing Points..

Fully charged Quantumsex, irreducilbly complex

yellow laterostreetmarkers, Fridays

—

She formed a bloodstream reticulatorium
(after the skeletal moratorium)
and I could see in her...
eyes [?]
... .

—

ENCAPSULATE MUSIC, LINGUISTICS

—

In America, bread® comes in sticks®,
consumoresearchquantumtestedorganicoined,
bred in Styx.

—

Your honor, if I was and still am doing my duty for the genome,
if you really think about it,
how am I in any sense, guilty?
We don't wish for the best parts of our species to die
and so if I have, in my time,
slaughtered a few enemies, or perhaps
fucked a few good Christian girls,
it was for survival or reproduction,
plus, between you and me, aren't they the best kind?

—

I don't know what perspective to skew anymore...

Five Minutes in Dawkins..

'...seductiveness raised power explain improbable unlikely evades improbability riddle stupendous restatement grotesque amplification anthropic answer general discussing capable producing existence determines therefore zones physicists vary everything unknown imagine numbers freer diameter needed twiddle unsatisfying plausible setup eventual almost theoretical analogy sentenced reflect missed bribed suggestion universes multiverse megaverse constants bylaws plethora alternative presumably happen propitious intriguing theory ultimate values destined stabilise equilibrium reverse culminating models expansion cycle billion serial initiated terminated previous understands singularities conceivable forever accordion parallel biogenic daughter mutated selection reproduce predominate...'

Почему? (Илья, не знают. Они некрасивые.)

A.
—How would you relate that line to the rest of the poem?
—I understand, but to do so would require a poem in itself.

B.
—An imposition of decode. Colourly chatterbox.
—But flip back and look at the date! Commentary abound!
—Focus. We zoom in. A-F, stop, G-Z.

C.
—You shall, then, connectit.
—Why? She is trying to make a statement.
—NO! I have made a statement already!
—.... but we... we had an argument together...
—No. Too many statements.

D.
—Unfortunately, your time is UP.

50,000 Appreciations!

November, you elegant, relevant, prevalent, marvelous, torturous, tortuous, splendid bastard!

Welcome back, old friend.

Twelve Amps, John..

I feel like that one guy from Apollo 13. There's the scene where they're all in the planning room, and the flight director is taking suggestions as to what to do with the ship to get it back to earth. All of a sudden, this guys stands up and makes it known that they have to cut back on power usage immediately in order to keep the command module working for reentry. Even though everybody hates the idea, they know he's right. Barring a conspiracy, Apollo 13 made it back home.

I'm on the U.S.S. Western World. With our current way of making music, we are going to run out of new songs far before we splashdown. We need to turn almost everything off. LPs should be illegalised, and EPs should me limited to 2 songs, maximum. Artists must be limited to releasing one of these every two years at the most. Otherwise, we're going to, like, blow up in space or something.

Twenty-Six Letters...

Animals are not gears. One may not simply perfect one and move on to another. Also, animals are not perfect.

'We have a tendency towards entropy.'

And all of a sudden I could feel my feet being pulled down beneath the sand, millions of troglodytes and billions of neophytes lapping at the wind and there was no one there to die along with me.

'We kill alone, we die alone, we are born alone.'

There is your name, your name in lights, your name in pixels. Your mouth is foreign, whether or not it is smiling.

'We would trade our eyes for chocolate.'

My only weapons left are the scythe, because it draws its power from vocabulary, and the scimitar, because it is there.

'We sing out of key, and yet the door still unlocks.'

You haven't ignited your face in days.

'We slurp your hair and sip your saliva.'

I can't hold this portal open much longer, and I need you to go through it now, before they come through that door.

'We are tall and mathematical to the point of literature.'

Animals are not animals. One may not simply treat them as such. Also, animals are not treats.

'We sense your keyboard and locate you.'

If I could have said something, I would have, but I didn't know... I just didn't know...

'We have working screens working vicariously, working wills and the will to work.'

I love you. There, I said it.

'We watch watches.'

I love you.

'We knead your want into edible logic pie.'

I love you.

'We siphon your organs into what can and cannot be used.'

I love you.

'We are the shallow shadows.'

I love you.

'We are the next generation.'

I love you.

'We are the choreographers and authors and chefs and engineers and writers.'

I love you.

'We do not need you.'

I love you.

'We do not.'

I love you.

I love you.

'We are flying over cities and signing contracts and singing compacts and citing contacts. We need nothing and we desire nothing and yet everything is ours. We need everything, we desire everything, of course, of course. We are transportation and communication. We are your sisters. Nothing is evitable under us, nothing is rainy under our sky.'

You are rain.

Maturation Axiom..

As one becomes less cloistered,
the world becomes less oystered.

There's a Sphere Hovering Over the Arctic.

Why, I have the blues. In all fairness, I also have some reds, greens, and a turquoise. But of course I have the blues.

Why, I think I need to take it easier. Maybe I should listen to bluegrass and skip out on the soft drinks for awhile and cut back on the pace. Eli couldn't get away from any of it, and look what happened to him...

Why? Everybody wants something. Everything is conflict. Death through inaction is sounding strikingly appealing about now; that is, not letting other people walk all over me to the point of a gruesome expiration, but rather everyone lying down in the middles of streets and rooms and just dying. Calm... calm... calm. Calm.

Why, yes.

Why I Try to Avoid Deep Arguments These Days..

Where is the fun in climbing into a catapult to be shot into a gargantuan void of striped blackness and whiteness where there is neither an exit nor a window and within which there is no way of deducing the answers of the questions that the void compels one to answer for no real reason other than pride or instinct, and after all of this one ends up materialising at the exact same location days later in time from the departure point and knowing paradoxically less than when one left?

Flight of the Albatross.

What person, place, or thing was silent now?
With Earth ending, what reason did exist
to remain quiet, scruples adhered to?

And in the streets were humans wearing masks
to keep the toxins separate from their lungs,
their dogs expired, lying in the streets
and decomposing into nothing new.
The last surviving men cavorted ‘round
parading, driving, slaughtering their kin,
raping former wives of friends and foes.
Tomorrow, none of this would be intact.

And woman also killed her fellow kind
with knives and other weapons free to grab
now that the world was surely doomed to roast.
They cracked the necks of children to prevent
the cries of pain from adding to the din,
then trampled off to find spontan’ous sex.

And yet there still remained a hint of mind
in vari’us individu’ls here and there…
they talked infrequently about the sights,
the helicopters planted in the sky,
the winds constantly blowing gale-force gusts,
the crimsons mixed with oranges in cascades
that fell along the skyline and were lost.
Always, more helicopters on the scene.

And countless rotors never stopped their spin,
they levitated choppers as to fly
across terrain and drop a payload which
was unknown to the oldest of pilots
and in all likelihood unknown to all.
The copters, tens of thousands up above,
refused to stop their cycling blades for God
machine, physics, philosophy, or man.
They coldly peppered black the warmish sky.

And Agatha was watching this unfold
as it had done for weeks on end so far,
commented on by pundits on viewscreens
and politicians, if they existed.
Her bluish eyes contrasted with the reds
that shaded the apocalyptic sky;
her hair of red contrasted with her eyes
that looked forlornly at the foreign scene
and tried to figure out what this day meant.

And while she sighed and waited for her time,
the mural through the window lumbered on,
unfolding as a movie or a dream.
All matter was collapsing on her spot.
In a matter of hours, all’d be gone.
What mattered anymore? Why even think?
It would be minutes now… perhaps seconds…

And at that very moment, with such force
the ceiling disappeared and in its place,
the roof now gone and only sky above,
an Albatross! With eyes of brightest green
and wings of purest white spread out in span
that must have, tip to tip, been fifty feet.
This bird was marvelously present tense
and looked expectantly into the eyes
of Agatha, who understood and knew
her ride had come and it was time to fly.

And with fervor, confusion, and the like
she climbed on back of Albatross and rose
above the hoards of logical zombies
and into scarlet skies across the bay.

And Agatha looked back towards the land
before she vanished into backwards time
which manifested as a bright blue light
inducing nostalgia in travelers.
Someday she would arrive back at this time,
the Albatross returns eventually…

Julius, Caesura.

I've found my place in history--it comes
with breathing room and seething room. So how,
then, plastered with enjambment (still prepared,
amenitied, sanitised) could I fail?
I request! a book, a scribe, a pen:
amanuensis, write me down. Also, in
learning from the past (for safety's sake)
all of my rivals shall be slaughtered. Hail!

Translations..

I cannot understand
a word of Polish, though
all that I have to know
relating to the land
is that what I can hear
was written by a man
in languages he can
relate to his career.
If he can write them well
in stanzas, words, and lines
of mortals and divines,
it rings a sylla-bell...
this is the poet's role.
Thus, anyone's a Pole.

The Mephistophelic Manifesto..

I've grown taller with people, the people in my age group. Together we heightened and widened and lengthened, we learned to drive and to derive, we walked. Some changed their hair colour, some changed their ideas, most altered. No one, of course, had any idea what we were doing, but somewhere along the line one of us got the impression that our parents were different than us, that the entire earth didn't exist except for a small slice that we had been born into and were presently surviving within. The USSR was a name in a book and nothing more; the eastern hemisphere itself was a conspiracy. Now that we realise, though, that we are not special or powerful or at all separate from our parents (and some have yet to come to this, even), our eyes roll back into our skulls and we it is decided for us that we shall float with no control through adulthood, creating children of our own and deploying signs and snares for them in the style of our own experiences.

We are not to this point yet, however. Now I and my fellows are in the university setting, and we know now that picturing ancient Egypt as anything more than stylised hieroglyphics is tantamount to containing the entire universe in a box within the mind. No one can be blamed, of course. It's not our fault and we had no choice in the matter.

And at this moment in space I am picturing a girl I know, knew, will know. She is growing as I am; I see her at intervals where the paths of our patterns (represented as weighted red lines) curve around each other and occasionally collide. The slivers are enough to show me her progressions and yet far enough apart to keep her transgressions hidden... no matter. All I am able to think about is our past and our future, how it is carpeted all around us and how she will grow older and more beautiful and a tad taller and how I am depressingly happy that I have the chance to decompose into adulthood with her and her shifting, static image.

9:00 I.

Lovely in your mind, in your mouth
Coming from your alphabet
Flight! Don't tel me you're uncoloured
because you aren't! (although you might be)
Flying forward somehow, isn't it unfair
how you force me to be an albatross
birds are certainly fun though
My name is, my name is... albatross

(away from me...

Nuclear Smash!

Only This… Lifetime…

Happening gladly I watch as it looms
over tree tops and banks making shade in their rooms
and explicity we understand that we’re safe
of course that’s a fallacy quite wont to chafe;
nitrogen flows from the cracks in the wall
where I failed to apply enough nuclear caulk
and my love is next door just like all yesterday
while we wait for the half-life to stop the decay.

Postwλr Pλrenting


Alpha-Particle Rhyme Time

Dream of U-238 split?
Postponement of nucleus reduction?
Fusion machine powering a farmer’s vehicle?
Bomb-induced avian navigational abnormality?
Group around a ‘fungal’ detonation sight?
Word meaning ‘within a nuclear holocaust’?
Fissionable material from a skull?
Chaos caused by fissionable material?

The Philosophy

If the world was to go to war again, I think it might as well be nuclear. We have the technology, we have the will, we have the strategy. I would say it is fitting for the human race in its madness to end up destroying itself via the same technology it used to build itself up to the level it is currently at, though that’s too easy; in actuality, it would probably be more fitting if the entire species and the planet that serves it just kept on building and building into pseudo-eternity with no end in sight. The universe is boring enough for such an unhappy nonending. At least with nuclear detonation we would arrive at some kind of finite finishing, a definite closing to complement the definite beginning. If offered the choice to live forever any sane person would (unless there is an argument I am unaware of) decine said option, though to have the opportunity to live for a ridiculously long increment of time would be a significantly potential plus (providing the long increment is both short enough not to be reasonably compared with the insanity-inducing eternity of the previous option and spent in the company of enough continuing culture to keep oneself occupied). Perhaps the same is true of a species. For us to live forever, somehow, insanity would have to enter into the equation at some point because those equations would simply keep adding up forever and ever until the humans of the far future would hold in their polymered hands a jumbled mess of unintelligible math-mush. And my grandchild would be born, he would learn to learn and count until, when he was my age, he would look back and say the exact same things and look forward and say the exact same things—at the same time, the organism created when we all act our parts as neurons in the grand species-brain would be moaning in sickness and senselessly crying over the prospects and past years it had been alive. Were it able to think, it would say it could not accurately describe its status as ‘alive’, and since it would not be able to think its speculated speculation would be correct. Time and time and time and time and time and thousands of times and time and time over will kill anything. Or maybe give the universe fifteen billion years and whatever makes its home inside it will have adapted to a safe life length: long enough to live and accomplish some objectiveless task yet short enough to retain one’s marbles.

If the world was to go to war again, I think it should be nuclear. It’d be unpredictably fashionable and would please the nonexistent celestial spectators for its value as a plot twist.

3:30 pm..

Today is Saturday and I have
spite in my cart,
light in my art,
flight on a chart,
night from Descartes,
and pyrite in my heart.

MINISTRY OF RELATIONS ADDRESSES 'ALL TAKEN' RUMOURS, MANY RESPOND.

BLOOMINGTON, IN, Oct. 10--The Ministry of Relations today, in response to claims of the availability of wild type females in the general population suitable for long-term relationships with, released a statement confirming, more or less, what had been circulating. 'We are neither confirming nor denying the presence of girls that are both (1) wonderful and (2) not already in a relationship, however the science has so far indicated a much higher probability of such parameters being mutually exclusive than not,' the briefing stated. Officials are, nonetheless, shocked that the MR has taken such a public position on the issue; at the same time, few are fazed by the research. Zoë Llovt, noted psychiatrist and frontwoman of the post-post-rock band Zoë Llovt & the Sertralines, said that she was 'initially surprised. When I thought about it, though, yeah, you have those people that're going to be angry by the official comment and yeah, there are going to be mistakes made. But I think it's a good thing and high time that the Ministry publish this. The sooner everyone comes to some kind of consensus on this the sooner we can figure out what to go or where to do next.' MR administrators themselves were, as expected, unavailable for comment. The Minister of Forecasting, Rev. Schtarmza B. Komen, held a press conference on the impact such a public frame of thought might have on the way the MFC performs its jobs. When asked whether or not the MFC would seriously consider scientific speculation (alongside the regular methods of runecasting, time travel, et al) into its predictions regarding the odds Eliia as a whole enters into a relationship any time soon, Rev. Komen commented, 'Well, I'm sure it will factor in somehow or other. The MFC is always looking for new, innovative thoughts and all, but science... how much can science truly say about love?' It is likely this story will progress further as the Minister of Biology has scheduled a rare 'fireside chat' to be broadcast at 9:00 pm EST today. Undoubtedly the subject of available women will be brought up and it will be interesting to see how the Minister tackles this issue.

Wavelengths at Midnight, the height of her Hair...

My digital clock displayed two forty-five
in spite of the naturalist argument that
although said display said the time, it was not,
and whether that meant our small earth was forlorn
or simply that I owned a clock that was wrong,
?
I'm coloured in rainbows that lighten my skin
you're shaded with charcoal that frightens my cat
she's tinted by tachometer jactitations
?
ABC DEF
colour me treble clef
GHI JKL
shade me Emmanuel
MNO PQR
tint me to leave a scar
STV V... V, um...

and what an absolute pest you are sometimes, Anna.

Coreolic Fire.

LEIF
Pardon me, but isn't this,
atom bombs exploding in
deathly clouds of hazy sin,
finally the denouement
planet Earth's been waiting for?

MĒSHA
Out the window, plenty more
death spheres make their way to ground.
Orchestra of sweet relief
following the toxic reef?
Playing to the soft brigade
Sunday comes and Sunday leaves,
darkening all Christmas Eves.
Maybe, friend, you are correct.
Terra Prime is at its close.

LEIF
Toss me, then, into the throes.

Architecture & Furnishings..

Happy Birthday Sputnik; Goodnight, Moon..

Many years ago there was a man and there was a woman.

They walked the earth together in harmony, talking to each other, singing the same songs at the same times. They watched flowers grow, trees lose their leaves in winter, animals run and die and play. When they looked into each other's eyes they saw their own reflection, and below the reflection, the truth of the other.

Over time massive walls erupted from the earth. Buildings nine miles high and twice as long and four times as wide grew from the bedrock of the earth in uncontrollable swarms so awful and fantastic at the same time. Water stopped flowing through brooks and in its place bolts of electricity and information traversed the rivers of the world.

The man and the woman were, for the first time, separated. Somehow they had found themselves in different locations, both surrounded by unfamiliar sights and a despair brought on by being alone in the staggeringly endless crowd of humans. He did not know where she was, and she did not know where he was.

And so the man called out to God: 'I cannot find rhythm anymore--these houses and roads are molding with no rhyme or reason! Where is my love? Has she died with everyone else?'

And the woman likewise: 'My love has vanished across the plains, he has evaporated into the stillness of the din and without him I cannot hear myself think or love or cry!'

And the Lord understood the pain of the couple. He walked along the planes of dimensions higher than human numbers have the power to express and from the finest quarry in heaven moulded a sphere. He hung it in the heavens, closer to earth than any other object in the entire cosmos, lit by the same light as that of the earth.

When the man and the woman saw the orb glimmering from its position in space, they knew they were looking into the eyes of their companion, for in spite of the horribly spliced mix of culture and humanity separating them, they were individually identical and knew exactly where they were.

And God said that it was marvelous.

Sixteen Dimensions..

What Does Prematurity Feel Like?

(excerpted from The Story of Dynamo Pullman)

When the guard pulled the trigger, there was no sound. Despite the firearm having caused an immense ripple through the air in the chamber, however, time had stopped and there was no way for it to be recognised. At the exact same moment, the bullet had left the barrel, passed through skin, bone, organs, skin again, then air, disintegrating into the fabric of nothingness. Zückerman lurched once, ever so slightly, and yet this too, this cacophonic convulsion of his doomed body, was completed in no time whatsoever. He was dying, but in that moment such trivialities were indistinguishable. All stopped.

Though Dynamo was able to think in the temporally crystallised wisp of nothing they were trapped in, the threads of his thought remained perfectly still. He was aware of himself only through the irreverent repetition. Millions of lines ran through a single point in spacetime; airplanes and trains collided, attempting to occupy the same space at the same time.

Zückerman's eyes were perfectly centered, as if they both were endeavoring to say something and, having discovered that the eyes is not a mechanism for narration, were screaming as loud as possible in the only ways they knew how. All of him was trying to pour out nonsensical amounts of information, an entire life's worth! A childhood, adolescence, adulthood amounting to this eternity? Whatever natural laws that govern the physics of Earth were hard at work. Repairing an eternity's cache of illogic in a period of not time whatsoever... and everything would have broken down into unintelligible static if there had existed time to do so.

A mass deletion of memory and future caused by an infintesimally small trajectory collapsed to a point. This never ended. Somewhere we are all locked in this stasis...

Then with ridiculous colour and realistic immensity, the room rocketed back into place, and Wolfgang A. Zückerman collapsed to the chilled floor of the cell, dead.

Stop deluding myself. (the nest is Guernica.)*

At eight I was brilliant with my body
destroying birds and stealing and crying
palindromic numbers fascinated me and I used paper liberally.
Physical items forming connections through my darling continuum
so I can travel, or could travel
and the figure of God materialized in front of my eyes and physical items

I came here because I was god in my own right.
I am raw power and untamed creativity
Or at least I was, or at least I was told so.
Wave hand colour erupt death squeal smash.
Coordinates, flying bears, dancing bears in doorways.
I am the ultimate authority on rhymes and circles and airplanes, or I was.
Perhaps I was just drawing pictures
But I destroyed birds, and now the nest is Guernica, and that is a picture.

In Illinoise I was brilliant.
In Massachusetts I was brilliant.
And now I have that power developed
and now I will destroy birds for life, in real lives
I kill everything
I collapse my continuum
Alphabet soup disintegrates because of my commands shouted to the universe.
I kill everything.

*(This poem has been reviewed. I know it is confusing, smashed, mashed, and disconnected. If you are the one that reviewed this originally and are under the impression that I have shrugged off your suggestions and questions, I want you to know that such shrugging isn't my intention. To the rest of you, this piece is an exercise based on a poem by Gary Soto; please don't sue me, Gary, I'm giving you credit. Apologies if I have offended anyone, said apologies extending to the bounds of common sense.)

In The Meantimes..

&

Pointing..

Point! A trip to Meijer reminds me of an often overlooked symptom of consumption (taking a far backseat to oil et al): packaging. Everything comes in a box and for some reason or other (food spoilage, sanitation, aesthetics, et al) everything must come in the box. What happens to the boxes? Later a drink from Speedway in a plastic cup that will never be used again, using a straw that will never be used again--the straw itself wrapped in discarded plastic. Recycling is one thing, but it has too many issues to ever really work. I suggest Reusing. Fill a mug; give the earth a hug.

Point! 'The Office' is overrated, or at least it cannot possibly live up to what it has become. When comedy is reduced to gushy, romantic water-cooler conversation the following day and the key force driving the show is a sweet romantic plot thread, it's time to reassess your situation.

Point! I have a new hat. Now I have two hats. One is this kind of brownish striped cap that I've had for a week or so, and I purchased a cheap, um, something else. I don't know hat terminology, I apologize. (As an aside, the hat was labeled with plastic and paper that I threw into the trash without any attention whatsoever. Should I mourn their retirement or something?)

Point! When I really try to deduce why I do anything, I end up with the idea that I have no free will whatsoever because I cannot for the life of me remember immediately ex post facto my reasonings or train of thought leading up to the action. I miss my free will.

Point! No new music can be created; all that can be done is the composition of stylised covers of older tunes paired with different words.

Point! 'You are what you eat' is the greatest aphorism I have to combat my evolution to Chinahood. 'You are what you have' would make me instantaneously Asian. Of course in retrospect either would land me in a factory somehow or other.

Fratricide Futurism..

It's Worth Analysing More, For I Met a Metaphor.

Adaptation in Senses, Unnatural Complaining.

Adaptive optics are, according to NOVA, how to see through my atmosphere. Odd that I’m blowing it at myself with my cheaper instruments. The temperature here is fine , and I’ve walked to a room with A/C in order to let my roommate, who had just walked in when I had left, go to sleep. There is a girl sleeping here too so whatever;

now I am lying down in this here hallway, it’s chilly enough. I’ve calmed down significantly from that NOVA. I’ve cooled down. NOVA told me a black hole was at the center of the galaxy, something caused by wicked cold and deathly hot temperatures. Odd I’ve got fans running. And listen to all that noise in the background:

some kind of music, a static hum-fan, my respiratory system, my muscular and skeletals through this here pen. I’m thirsty enough for a drink, granted that would create more noise, but it’d sure calm me down, or cool me,

or silence this here trachea. Does the carpet seem indolent in repeating itself or is that just me?

It’s not something to cry about but if you’re already sniffles from a cold that might be acceptale. And after all, the carpet’s okay, especially with adaptable optics.

The Response to the Response.

Scott tells me I have a message! Hallelujah!

She tells me I am angry! Grrrrrr!!

Get out of my way, commas & periods!

Kathleen: 'You can't read your own work.'

A dichotomous item mash!

'WE ARE REMINDING YOU OF YOURSELF.'

and, as an, ah... aside, I like your bow, Becky.

I am inside when I make my jokes.

How exactly do I pull this off the page?

What might I do with the rhymes of this poem?

Count to 10.

'My Party Has Died of Dysentery And I Have Scribed My Epitaph in 8 Parts.'

Here lies Eli T. Drumm
or at least he would have lied here
had his last requests not included incinerating his expired body.
-
Polymath, a true Renaissance Man of modern times,
aspirer, lover, philosopher until the end.
Surely the species has lost a fine asset!
-
Of course let's not get ahead of ourselves.
We all know Eli was an incredibly pretentious, judgmental bastard.
I mean, he wrote his own epitaph in third person.
How ridiculous can you get, y'know?
-
Unsure of himself, unsure of others, or of nature or God.
A life spent in the void of this uncertainty
coupled with a wicked sense of humour
and a good, solid, American, Christian upbringing
yielded the fellow you knew or did not know
and the fellow you see before you now, dead
(except he's not actually here, but we've been over this).
-
At this moment, he is either existing or not.
-
Brother, son, owner of his dog and cat.
Friend (often enigmatic but certainly well-intentioned),
lover (or at least he would have been if there existed such a thing
as a functioning, loving, emotional, intelligent, deep, abstract female,
and statistically there was/is though they never met).
-
Astronaut, extraterrestrial, meteorologist in every sense of the word.
-
My life was perfect.

I Should Be Asleep Right Now..

I am starting to think that my mind knows what is better for me than I do. There's this absolutely brilliant and terrifying spectrum of noise around me all the time and then again I only perceive the slightest bits of it now and again. Something is only music if I want it to be music, if I tell it to be music, the same way that this hall is not as beautiful as a canyon or cat or Calgary or Christine at all. And yet it is. Of course it is. Every single minute detail even in this small hall on the ceiling, feeling the same way I always do during an intense session of stargazing. You just look at the carpet and for a moment let go of all your inhibitions and what you're trying to tell yourself about the carpet, everything your mind-knows-best attitude says about the carpet being a uniform plane on which to walk and nothing else, no abnormalities, nothing worth paying attention to, and you begin to feel angry at the people that might have dropped the hint a long, long, time ago that this carpet wasn't worth looking at. The dots, each one of which enough atoms to feed a continent, with enough persona to love for all time, to never know all the facts about. And I feel this way. It comes at me when I try to leave my place in the middle of things, when I try to reach out to other spectra of size, smaller or larger, mildly more minute, like the carpet, or incredibly vastly larger bodies than myself. Maybe they can think, Jupiter or these weaves of coloured fabric I walk on. Likely it is that they have their own lives, their own families, their own happy suns and daughters and sons. In fact, I probably believe in that more than I believe in the sentience and/or sapience of most humans I know, biology and common sense aside. But please! Let me communicate with them! I cannot reach out to them, talk to them, get to know their dreams or if they even have dreams or words or minds like ours. Such a disconnect exists between what our dictionaries, such horrible, closed-minded things, call life and what life actually is. Even if we are the only aware, aware things in the entire galaxy, wouldn't it be horrible if we went about our entire lives believing wholeheartedly that life is a separate distinction? The Philosophy of Biology reigns supreme over our arrogance, even my arrogance, or, more accurately, the arrogance of a mind that tells me to ride certain coasters and skip others, skip the majority. Don't you want to hear the sounds you never hear, touch the signs and smell the colours that you can never feel ordinarily? And yet I know, I know, I know, I know that to ask for such a wonderful and wonderful and aforementionedly terrifying gift would kill anyone. There are reasons why we only perceive small fractions of sensory input. Come on. I am Winfield, I am human, I am somewhere in the preposterous middle between nuclear physics and behemoth galactic clusters. I have to be where I am, I have to know all about where I am, and I have absolutely no idea why. For some reason, although opposites attract enough, I must pay attention solely to my kind, my size. This is all geographical. And isn't it odd, everything is smaller and larger than me at the same time. I sat up a few minutes ago and all of a sudden I was struck with an intense feeling of wrong placing. Or perhaps that's not the right word for it, but it was something... along those lines... something that existed and was telling me that everything I was looking at and ever had looked at was wrong, that there should have been other snippets in different places, a strikingly dazzling girl walking toward me at deep dusk in a field of grass with a startled and imperative look on her face, a woman crying, her face bleeding for some generic war problem, someone worshiping something, maybe God, who knows, Hands, length, width, bubbles, a cityscape, a human being wishing for solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace. And, and. More noise. Someone's coming. Divert myself, divert yourself. Help me. Help yourself. Now I am decaying. I decay. Stop me, or pardon, it's just too late. I want connection. I want connection please. Look at me. I want connection.

Her Attempt at Conversion.

On a street somewhere with asphalt reflecting sunlight into my glasses
inside with water reflecting words into my ears
there's a girl talking to me from across the table with a name, but of course I don't know what it is
Again and again pelted by stimulation of my ears and eyes
trying to make sense of either of them but all the information is so damn disjointed
Confusing, Disconnected, Mingled, Sliced, Seasoned, Coloured, Colourless...
(I hear those scientists haven't perfected the polarised earmuffs yet)
So hey, what's wrong, what's wrong. What's wrong with me
tell me so that I might, tell me, tell me, tell me,
but all I get is just those disjointed words all over again
with different patterns sprinkled with copyrighted confetti so difficult to get off of your face or out of your ears
shredded books of love, of love in my hair
but it's my hair and a part of me will always hate her for it
Yeah, smile, smile, smile, reboot, read, smile
Let me have those headphones in your bag and I'd tell you just how horrid your music is
with all the same progressions and professions and transgressions
too many and yet they're always right there and I can't insult them.
Reboot, read, smile.
Where am I?
Where am I going? Where am I? Tell me, tell me, tell me.
But the asphalt it just too much and it boils over into my subconscious
tells me something is wrong, takes control, but no, I can control it for a little longer
Much of it all makes sense, tell me, tell, tell!

Sertraline..

I Can't See Straight or At All..

Please help me I am driven by my drives
But all I want is love, somehow, rromance
Mail order substance X from Paris, France
Or meld me with some other peoples' lives
Or plant me in a radiant new shell
Or mind control the females in the yard
Or teach me how to lose my natural guard
Perform your actions fast and now and well
For I grow so impatient waiting on
A Love? A wife? A toy? A 'her'? A thing?
We're all so tired from the fast running
I'd take whatever, pack up and be gone
Aw, hell, I'm still at my computer screen
Deciphering what the hell these syllables mean

Trials of the Modern Comedian: 1.

Group; Nongroup; Companionships?

Mankind is not unique
in that he can talk and speak;
though with others we'd much rather,
we lose wisdom when we gather.

So today was the sort of fluctuating updown that would, um, never mind. I guess I'm still looking for cool individuals around college, and there are far less of them than I had originally anticipated. I find myself anxious that the people I meet don't care to spend time with me even when I doubt it to be true. Whether or not there is anyone, statistics prevents me from finding people, though I have leads. Tonight was promisingly spectacular, and we'll all see where it all goes when it walks and talks toward the future.

I don't think I believe in free will.

When Dealing with the Basics..

Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Hold strong! Repel!

The only other alternative is love.

Tenorly Sayonara..

Time for organisation! Items are here and there and they need organised. By organised, I mean that my organs will place them into a specific manner that I consider to be their proper place. Some might call me arrogant, and by some I probably mean 'me', but hey, arrogance is a personality trait and I am proud of who I am. Shouldn't I be? I thought so.

Au revoir Luciano, bye-bye Pavarotti,
you've been soulsnatched from earth by a heavenly Scotty.
Leave your music behind you, back here it's desired;
up there it ain't useful and sure not required.

Lovers of Harmony Serenade Me With German Romance.

I.

Trumpets, fanfare, pats on backs,
requirements are rather lax;
sectors, vectors, circumstance,
success is founded upon chance.

II.

All these old bald fellows in front of me are trying to appreciate the same orchestra as me, I suppose. No proof.
Fiscal, quarter note!
And it's all in 4/4.
White men watching black keys
ALL ABOOOOARD!
Let's keep this concerto together.
... but beef aside,
the music says 'atmosphere' and 'duration' to me
(I naturally look for nature metaphors, which I avoid.)
Bows like palisades rising in vibrating air
White keys watch black suits
And it's all in 4/4!
The pianist typing away furiously;
A, G, C, C, G, C, C, A, G, T?
Black suits on white hands playing black instrument
Black spots on white pages but only so I can discern
Sing for me, brown beautiful bowed blue-blood violins
Crystallize my sordid, searching spirit, liquid like viscous molasses, malformed like Jell-O, Sing!
Sing, bass and cello!
Lock and load the magic flutes with sixty-fourth notes, laden with history and chemicals, solidify me within some long-lost romanticism from back in junior year of high school.
Just tell me it won't be in 4/4, promise me.

..... ah, no, it's not that easy, like meets the ear or eye, black or white or black or white. Amidst the subdivisions, deeper than the theorymath can explain to me outright... there are my, my, my, my, my?
Our?
Landscapes! Ours.
So, between the extremes, I am content to be competent, to be cognisant, to compliment on a concerto well-played.
Complexity is not overrated, just misunderstood.
All my notes flow together and it is this quantifiable yet ungraspable musical dynamo of human experience that has made me so allwardly happy.
Red hair, brown violins, purple curtains, red walls, yellow lines.

We will return!!!

fin. for all of us, for now.

My Climatic Gravitational Cereal..

Finally a cool breeze is here, I've been needing it and also the rain that it it brought by. I can't really describe how great this weather has become, all of a sudden it's just falling down to soft music featuring the beautiful voice of Luciano Pavarotti and two or three moods and scenes or scenes have just been thrown together at the last possible moment to tell me that there's something to this Saturday the eighth of September of the year two thousand seven and as dramatic as this is I can sense a slow beat in the air. The rain is musical, chords and notes and rhythms, I've got my fans on, blasting the cold air into my face with a tint of the moisture that's been in the works for God knows how long now.

I could feel great like this all the time and I'd still want questions answered. I'm out of Life, and the kid on the front of the box still has the nerve to smile. The front of the box never runs out of life.

And? Is there?

It's about time for me to go to sleep, or at least attempt to. In all spirit of hopefulness I'll dream something tonight and remember it tomorrow morning but I suppose that's stretching it. Recounting from earlier, though, at about two:

So much human, everywhere sapiens protein...
And why would I feel I have consciousness if I did not?
And is there such a thing as intrinsic value? How?
And is there such a thing as difference?
So much everything, anything, anywhere; collisions!

The 60,000 Ws..

This is a shorter framed thing. This is writing with no goal in mind. As I see it, it is sputtering, easy for those without reliable willpower and likely to fall prey to biting off more than they can chew, or purchase for that matter.

Going here are places, things, and people that relate to what I'm looking for. The answers to the questions are in part the questions themselves, in that I don't know who, what, when, where, why, how I am looking for. No ends, simply updates and thoughts. I am glad to have talk.

I am yes for time being. Begin: