I think tossing darts at a spinning board which is also rotating round its axes is a little bit like participating in a little bit of temporary contemporary literature. Coconuts. (Something about Spinoza’s eyebrows roasting) And really no one disagrees on the score because the darts are too damn small for most of the participants to see, let alone the patrons. Pineapple. Thank you for patronizing me is the first page of a book of mine that isn’t. Nectarines! Seeing is believing has more to it than you think, think of faith. Banana. Mississippi, but let’s face it; it’s a lot more than not for most of us; most of us don’t have time for such a view. Plums.

Most of us haven’t had the time to have seen a lot of the darts the rest of us have seen and also we are on a gigantic hot plate that is rotating around the game itself, making it difficult to know which part of the board one speaks of relative to another because it is simply impossible to say what we see is the same side at the same time in the same way. Ice cream of fruit. Float.

Thinking on what I am saying is a given. Salmon. So that it seems redundant to say so, as I did before. Roe. But then the affect is different with or without words like. Avocado. With gives you a feeling of humility while without lends authority, or something. Tomato. Either way I am the same person and so are you. Sandwich. But what does it matter? Football cap. It does. Forgiveness. I think. Peace of my mind. Which is why. None of your everything.

The reason everyone agrees on Orange is because the sun happens to set that way. {{{—}}}
The question is is it really so beautiful or is it just that big a deal to see the end of the day.

Like baby in a corner, don’t put language in a jar.
Put it in a penis pump.

Repetition is all that separates static from music from muzak.
So I scream, Fruit is French for something! I think!

Of course nothing happens. How could it.

Instead of going to AWP I got a place to put my crap.
Sincerely hope you had fun with all those formerly floating faces.

I’m sorry but… do you believe in going for it?
The literary equivalent of discord is awkwardness.

Clunk.

A westerner writing about the situation in Egypt is like telling a stranger your neighbors are fighting again and then expecting them to form an opinion of the subject based on five to ten minutes worth of information culled from various sites and sources and instances suggesting this that or the other and then actually arguing with them about what your neighbors should do in their own house and then finally concluding to call the police but all you get when you dial 9-1-1 is a dull tone.

Zzzipped lips keep lost ships from spilling out your mouth like that time you blurted out, The language I made up with my sister had like sixteen words for sock. That time I was spaced out.

One thinks more abstractly while driving, as opposed to say, riding. What I mean to say is, Without words so much is driving because brain time is thinking on words in relation to what you are doing. Such as, Steering wheel. Brake. Turn signal (use this for fuck’s sake!). Way too much noise. So much but the blahs. The other thinks twice in twos while riding around quietly yelling yeah yeah I have a compass in my heart. It’s no big deal. It’s in a box with a bow labeled Do not open until 2012, or: The Apocalypse!

For example I have two writing desks in my room. One is placed at an acute angle with the rest of the room—that peripheral sense of being in a space is there in the angle—but not an angle to the crook of the half bay window, well okay 90 degrees but that is good, so that facing the corner glass one is seated looking out over a large part of the outer corner of the city: south by southwest. Twin peaks is something like north by northwest. I think.

The other desk faces due south: the south wall. While seated one stares at the south wall.

I haven’t checked for south on my compass. Just a hunch; I don’t. I don’t have an iPhone.

I have two chairs. They are different. One requires that another kneel. That’s you. Kneel.

Repetition is all that separates static from music from.

When seated at the other desk that writing desk in the corner, in the other chair that chair in the corner, in the evenings mostly, I feel like an another. An other another than there was in the morning at the other desk that half bay window of light desk, south by southwest as it was rather than as it is now in the evening, due south being beneath the big white china ball and the ivy or whatever it is growing in the corner there.

Like a charming disease, basically, I’m just kidding, sort of; in fact, I just saw a shooting star shine straight through my shade which is approximately half as thick as a shard of jade but not as clear as some of your hair shit becoming shale because it happened in my head which is of course the same thing as that other thing which did indeed instead become a bee for balance. Random. Bumble about a bit. That’s swell. Skin my banana well like a flute, baby: I’m high on death and destruction. Also Ketamine is a horse I ride south for the winter when my mouth is on fire in a foxhole, atheist.

No one should really be worried about whatever.

Rather than as I would like to be, I imagine myself as I am. A bee. Depression as a malady having curved for years the way we are in fact falling south as we walk along this way, which is why we go forward. So two speak. To words so to. Two spoke of one to three. A word. So as to break wind makes sense. Definitions. Disambiguations. Bread of nothing, naught. To smoke is too easy. Broke is what he spake of me. Spank me a bit as I’ve been bluff with the booty call to naughty naught about the town without. Haut or a lot, no one wants to wear your dirty laundry. Or do they. This guy has a list. Sex clubs are where to go to get your shit set on fire then put out cooled and oiled up by my my a stranger with soft hands. Let’s bet our life savings on the Superbowl by going there to see the game. Or not. What does I really mean if.

The underside of an ice cream cone working your way north of the creamy white curve towards the street of the hand and there is of course the forearm past the elbow drip-a-rip past that loving stretch of concrete below the elbow of cream, a caress of the nub of the bone where it feels the most brittle, nudging onward through the bicep to the shoulder those lips those eyes that jaw line drawn out like a short stretch of de Kooning’s lesser works. I don’t know how travel writers do it, since writing is clearly its own adventure.

S  t  r  e  t  c   h  e  d  .   .   .  She is a womb. And there is an inner alive there. A thing which expresses itself in the form of a female nude, A GLOW, the very figure of health and fecundity. One of many. Of which there are several that present themselves like goddesses, which is fine by me but frankly I’m tired of padding the pockets of these kids’ parental units paddling out to sea with my wife’s unquenchable thirst for young and throbbing gristle of cock reminding me just how inadequate I am in the trunk of my tree in the yard, the one they said was mine when we planted a bunch of them in the yard, one for each of us. Mine became a hotbed for wasp sex, and was stunted as a result of so much sting, so it was said. Who knows what a tree doctor really is you ask but doctors do they seem to know because they laugh a lot. So why do the people those people in canvas control your water and electricity? Do you remember monopoly? Were you good at that game? Roll the fucking die then.

We are all as nudes in the night, on the roof. The stars watch. Okay. The male nude is a thing contested. The moon hides gliding behind a bed of clouds as it always does always but more than most right now. Fine. Rub my rump. All of it is a good thing good I think I think good. I think I will start naming my pieces after the date on which they were written according to the Mayan calendar because if you cannot beat them you join them of course.

It must be admitted that I gave sex the south a short shot long ago and cut it off, pinched at the source. Having found it rather taxing on what was otherwise a prosperous schedule of flogging myself with a police baton wrapped tight with barbed wire of flame. Fillet de Moi. Char that chin it’s a little fatty round the seam. Blow me out. It may seem a strange thing to you, a philistine, but let’s face it, you’re probably going to bloody up that word with northwardness. I’ve got a barbeque pit that could fit half your torso I’d say, to wage a game of war. All one has to do is to chop off of your arms and legs and maybe your head too and then we’ll be good to go around once more after I remove your heart with this sharpened spoon stamp I hold in my hand as I smile my mustache says, If you need a blurb for your stand up comedy act, tell them I said it was the funniest shit I’d seen since gawd burnt my toast and I had to pretend it was blackened, charred, then bury it beneath a wax sculpture I made of your mom. We stuffed the head with spice of India so that your sinuses clore out because shit we wouldn’t want to offend anyone by serving your nose of fattened calf sans jus. The other day I heard an Indian call a Native American an Indian and I thought, New Americans are stupid. Everyone else is chill ass wave. We are maybe. Maybe is to die because maybe.

To my north I sense the scent of jealousy and so I say what I always want to say when I smell a rat, Repetition is all of what makes it music out of noise because trash is a thing there is a lot of. It is mountains of a lot.

My horn itches some. I’ve got a twitch in my leg like this stain isn’t coming out. I dried my dry clean only sweaters the way my tail is wagging north like a goddamn dog on dognip. Hawt dawg on my gawdbawn. C(k)orn ch(k)i(nd)ldren. Aww… Pobre ecito carne asada, mijo where is the library? Donde esta east of eastR? Duck, you ducker. What is the emoticon for total destruction? Corn flakes of veener hash harsh instead of cough cause. Can you believe they’re translating him into German? The nerve of them. I want to stick my wee ween between your tom toms and make a beat go boom bush sush in the night. ¾… Quit dicking around in that camera bag, smash my face north with your fingertips all smelling of salt like it’s my last tube of tartar sauce. Give me a break.

Speaking of: Earlier I was standing in the sink and your ghost told me the funniest joke. It was so funny I didn’t laugh. By which I mean I forgot: the joke. It was a joke the kind of joke you would get if you got it in your head that jokes are true, which I don’t know maybe you do. When they’re good anyway they’re it to a T. And they’re good pretty good when they get told a lot, lean. Retelling is telling is story is telling again. Succession is repetition of what word. That one. Jelly is what I should have had with my toast, like I did it north with my cereal in Berkeley. You remember how I once told you that of course, long ago, and the thing about John Zorn’s niece of course. Of course I couldn’t remember the joke after life happened for a while. It’s like I’m on a wave in my mouth and I don’t have a board to bend back my teeth so you can see how well my lungs match my heart. How they push and pull as part of one thing. A machine, the best kind: a person. Non-human people seem fine. I have no problem sharing the earth. Do I think some people are dumb? Does the moon share the sky with the sun? Dun.

There is so much weather these days. It seems like maybe forever is as long as a movie. A movie is as long as a movie can be. I think the longest movie is maybe forever and the shortest movie is also forever and all of the movies in between are as well as forever as well as never. Never doubt the power of four. Contrition of why. Four is how many dimensions I have in my car by which I mean it is dented north a bit but really no more than like a lot so that it looks a little whack, like a wreck, which is nice actually, because people won’t steal it, even with the keys inside. I swear, they just walk by and wonder how it holds itself together like that. They are impressed, mostly. That’s what I hear.

Repetition is all that separates static from.

In truth, I’ve never used my other desk.

In truth, the other desk is for reading. I read kneeling. Looking out at the needle beside the twin peaks looking nice and firm, I pray: I lie to myself. Meditation is as old as words are not. My what. Who cares. I’m lying again. I never read in my room; I fall asleep.

Of course nothing happens. Why would it.

Whataburger and Lonestar are definitely things I miss because balding man’s blues is the best kind of musack to play for your kind’s kinds. Thank god I’m not.

Mice are something we’ve got a lot of over here. They squeak it up like little doors with feet full of disease. Tea time for Tom and Jerry. Where did I put my rat poison. Raid is rad. If you read all this expecting to find a point at the end of the rainbow there is one right here but you have to pronounce it in French in order to hear the way it sounds when a dart strikes the board because I’m so pointentious.