Ambiances
Todos
los días
te
encuentro de Nuevo
Mi
profesora
me
enseñando como amor,
Ella
me esta maestriendo
a
ver arboles verdes
y
saber flores rojas
cantando
la luz del sol
pero
cuando las floras
dejan
de cantar,
la
cancion que cantaron tan bien
cuando
las floras rojas
es
hecho cantando
la
cancion hermosa
que
cantaron tan bien
guarda
el bulbo de la flor
hasta
el año que viene
proximo
año
Las nueve cifras
y los rascacielos cambiantes
el cambiantes cielos,
los cielos cambiantes
la
tierra los pilares.
Tú, mi ventura inagotable
Escribo
la epopeya
con
los mares pesados,
tu
hace
de
los antepasados,
cuando
dejamos
Ellos
no me van a detener.
Ellos
no van a pararme
Yo
conozco el secreto,
y
cuando vengo a regreso
con
sin remordimientos,
nos
tenemos vez en los laberintos
para
amor asi que hememos comienzo teniendo
divertidas
de Nuevo
con
las palabras, prometo
Y
volveré, entonces, lo es hecho
voy
a regreser, estoy promesa.
Recodarme,
así que
puede
ser hecho
las
recordadas, lo es hecho
de
Saint Louis un
enlumineur, entrepreneur,
Je suis un écrivain, un bloggeur,
du texte éternellement oublié, un boxeur
à mesure que la passion
augmente avec émaciations,
Je ressens de énonciation,
des voix du passé, spirituel
instanciation, intermédiation,
la connaissance que vous êtes irradiation,
du glaciation,
pas de pardon, pas de graciation,
Je vous donne idéation
je nous donne humiliation
vous donnez tous passion
ça a donné instanciation
Il
y a dans le ville et ses
immeublesce
froid qui raille
L’odeur
des briques
Les
pores qui suintent de murailles
suintent
de sous les "bassements"
Le
bruit des pieds, le battement
des
portes et leurs claquements
La
chaleur sous les bras,
l’effluve
infecte lors des tassements
les
places manquent
On
se bat pour l’espacement
Fleur
délicate,
un
sourire et on tchatte
On
rêve et on se mate
Ik
spuug een sterrenkundig obductie,
van
mijn radiobaken,
heelkundig
constructie
veroorzaken
destructie,
platmaken
zaken
oordeelkundig
obstructie
geschiedkundig
massaproductie
in
de vorm van
letterkundig,
taalkundig gevolgtrekking
de
opvoedkundig verloskundig
ik
schrijf voor ter wille van het argument
mensen die voorwaardelijk leven, zeven
ongelukken gebeuren, accidenten. breven
gebrekkige overtreders, scheven
deficiënte delinquenten, plot weven
wegkomen met misdaden
ze probeerden het niet eens
te doen.
Saint Louis, hoogfrequente klinkt
impotente verstanden, drinkt
immanente
drankjes van het huis
imminente
doodslag zal de schoonheid van het leven
niet verminderen
herfstbladeren, kleven
naar de straat als letters, ja! breven
gebouwen vullen de skyline
wij drijven, zij kijven, bestaande lijven,
aanwezig lijven, een
sneven
zeven meer leven
neven genomen, nemen
Calm
night til I entered beneath the veranda's twisted arch,
picture
an eccentric park
filled
with a bewildered audience, many in resplendent garb
eyes
fix on
semblances
of souls expressed in melodic intonations
instrumental
ambiances dancing with fingers moving so fluid
I
can’t ever tell if they are particle
or
a wave.
I
don’t have this capacity
The
skill or alacrity,
My
will is a
96
Toyota
Camry
car
battery
I'm
used up; thus as refuse
I
reused that suppressive tool,
as
unrest accrued
like
young Chechen dudes
with
used weapons removed
from
authoritarian officers,
getting
these state piglets off of us.
Writing
is my Lee-Enfield/Colt 45
administering
alphabetical
artillery
rounds
threw
oppressed
cognitive
dissonant
buried
minds.
Kill
the zombies with
critiques
of conceptual paradigms.
Man is a metaphor
Still too fucking attached
to the fundamental fantasy
Stuck in a simple pedantic dream
That comes from pits,
social tragedies
Rose this invention,
this cultural branding
mind numbing pageantry
The soul is faux,
a whole host of scratch,
diddly,
nothing
The bullshit framework, les tout
est parte de le Primordial Dieu
Tout est dans le monsieur
Dit le grand enseigneur
Prendre en me suivre
There is this absence
That comes to represent
the strange
coincidental
concomitance
between the symptom
of the subject
and its relation
to the absence in others
The
letter always
returned
to the signified
The
mother,
that
cruel un dignified
minister
dementia
daily
stole her letter
From
beneath
the
gaze of the king,
a
rage festered
In
the hearts
of
the court guards
and
timid eyes
Of
all who
witnessed
the cries,
incoherent
Utterances
until three women devised a mission, like
Charlie’s
Angels,
ripping
through the darkness, straight through
The
palace apertures,
the arched,
weak
gate ways, to
Take
this great queen
to
a safe place, who
Are
you?
She
asked repeatedly,
until
Dupin
Returned
the letter,
now
she could see
these
beings
of
ethereal beauty.
So,
it’s true that
The
letter returned
to
its foundation
Sadly,
this is not
true
in all cases.
See
the object,
thing
in itself,
does
it bleed,
get
a nail.
Oh
shit!,
It
looks back,
the
bastard’s dancing,
those
are my arms,
my
eyes,
but
they look better on that thing, this is hell
they
seem to fit this one well.
I
think I want to be him, the veil
The
laws of the unconscious
are
linguistic.
And
the Cartesian cogito is a mirage
"I
am where I do not think and I think where I am not."
I
mis-recognize myself as different from myself in the mirror.
The
object.
The
subject is divided.
There’s
a hole in me and I must fill it.
Minds torn by my cords
Ripping through fists trying
to injure me
Well! I Usain Bolt beat you to it
Self-flagellation
on Olympic tracks
Live from North St. Louis
Faces contorted by stress
Incongruent truths hit
Like piss streaming into shoes, this
Truth that I expectorate division,
Like segregation,
de facto
Expressions on profiles
represent hesitation.
No styles too complicated
For the revenant
cooped
the French Soviet upends feudal
doodles, blue-blooded blueprints
are washed away
in the numerous nuclear hurricanes
I urinated words in texts
unread because I love the art,
I'm infatuated with it.
I lust after ancient books,
not jewels,
Grey Poupon
and other bolder dash.
This is why I'll never fully grasp
the modern skeltonic scripture,
the rapper's obsession
with capitalism.
The halcyon days,
spent out free of malaise,
down the street
with friends drinking, straight
Whiskey,
smoking before you could think, just
dream of fates
Fantastical
where I wasn't in seething in hate
Switch to a night sky,
a city rich in night life
Luminous insects gliding
on night lights
Stars peaking from behind
the night sky.
Thinking of being
an impressively
impressionable vegetable
Playing outfield,
a place where
I wasn't taking hits
from bullying shits
Teaching life lessons,
treat me as a stepping stool
I took those life lessons and
learned to question, school
Gave me best tools to
understand this permanent painted on mask.
Substance reached
into the lingual heart, unchecked
Prior to meeting
the linguistic part, it hunts fresh
Meat, but its hunting grounds are strictly
regulated,
so substance must dawn the veneer,
visor,
visage the mark, bedecked
in a persona I am fundamentally a
barred subject.
A bundle for a heap of snakes with
the illusion of choice.
Led out of deep darkness by an
authoritarian fusion,
the voice.
Shaped,
modeled,
and sculpted by the voice,
All must conform to the law.
I am fundamentally indeterminable.
The content of the mask.
Drives moving through the
unconscious.
A sea of unmanned submersibles
Thinking where I am not,
where the real churns in
possibilities
being where I am a construct who
takes responsibility.
House of Ganesha
Past the open
sterling doors in the House of Ganesha
I thank my
mother
for my poetic
religiosity.
She taught me
how to be
magnificent as
meritorious
transcendent
open sterling doors
in the
House of
Ganapati,
no Catch-22,
stumbling
blocks or vicissitudes.
Since back when
Little Bear was
on Nick Jr[1].
In the
basement,
hustler music,
soul,
funk
reverberates.
Used to read
slower
than Jeremy
Irons
describing
paint drying.
Now I
articulate outstandingly premium orations,
prime as the
number seven.
My deadly sin
is coming
harder than
Mandingo
Timeless as the
ubermensch,
superlative in
verse
ever since,
pillows smelled
like piss.
Swept leaves
into the sewer.
Legos, fruit
snacks.
German roaches,
humid summers.
Babies get
beat
searching for
their parents.
Terrorists roam
the streets.
Bootleggers
selling CDs.
Seated in the
corner store,
owners,
with
accents
speak of the
one god.
Up the street,
around the
corner,
heart rates
fluctuate,
like the crime
rate,
cardiac fire
alarms.
Viewed
videos of us as toddlers.
Got whoopings
for talking back.
Remember being
in the dark, pissing in the golden rings
on the wall.
Pissing on the
steps,
peeing on your
brother,
letting him
think it rained.
Until he looks
up.
Killing baby
chickens by accident.
Just trying to
help them fly
to the welkin,
the upper
heavens.
A man chokes
his wife
in the street.
Watching
Superman
then Batman
on the WB.
When shooting
stops
walk around the
block
and play
football.
A kid tosses
it,
you catch it.
Riding bikes
and talking shit.
Beneath the
cobalt blue sky
The ice cream
truck ditty beats
the visual
representation
of it to
your sensory palate.
Ice cream that
is frigid smooth,
gelid
refreshing.
He moves,
you become a
homebody.
James
Cleveland
and
Shirley Caesar
sing
as Mommas
cooking
greens and
cornbread.
Big brother
introduces me
to Jay Z.
Now I want
dead presidents
to represent
me.
Rap in
phraseologies,
crazy dialects,
Got into dad’s
Budweiser.
But he didn’t
know,
so no
apologies.
Smoking
squares
with a cheap
lighter.
Watching Andrew
Black
on public
access.
Head rush high
off nicotine,
High as the
Griffin falcon,
SR 71 Blackbird[2].
Lady's braiding
hair while watching babies with
extensions
playing.
Fuck the
impatient police.
For real, kid
Fuck the
Missouri
House of
Representatives.
Thus concludes
my erudition.
My Seamstress
is so neat best freak, though she
can be testing
my knowledge
from life’s college
as I write Algonquin Knights
that died
when American gats tried
their tan hides
I read my being to her
on grass clouds pass, she’s
taken that loud scream
still awakens me
from sound sleep,
it was the shadow,
he took her that dragon
attacked me
I stabbed him in the heart
and I began to bleed,
I realized that this is the real
the dragon is me.
Shelves
housing antiquarian, archaic quartos,
compendiums
with recently created octavos,
folios
and treatises contain the story of his death.
The
account
de
sa mort
has
the capacity
of
iterability.
Take
the phrase "I do".
As
was declared since cities
Immerged
from thought
ensnared
in lexemic trees.
An
utterance uttered
by
people getting married.
Its
real and true only
if
people are starring
At
each other in some matrimonial ceremony
In
all other contexts it’s a parasite
on the actionably true “I do”.
So
then there is only
One,
all else feeds
off
the original, bearing life
This
is bullshit,
all meanings are there inside
The
phrase,
the
word,
the
appellation
all uses of a phrase have
already
occurred in the anterior
Every
iteration is re-iteration.
"To
speak
is
to commit tautologies"
because
all discourse is citation.
Iterations
are the superior athletes
Give
any context
and
they will play
Fuck
JL Austin and Searles assertions, in this field
of
statements everyone of my iterations organized in signifying chains is an
occurrence in the real.
Deep
as 30 galactic centers,
Politically
speaking,
it’s
Monday night,
Cities
half sleep,
H2O
breaches causing phone screens
to
glow.
Regulars
regularly regulating ridiculous amounts of rail
on
a patio,
a musician sings, so
I
step outside to speak on
My
take. Cause this random person
got
to know.
Philosophical
nobody,
like
the rest of you
No
one can rescue you
from
my annoying/horrible
poetics
is like being trapped
inside
a collapsed vestibule
On
a shitty vessel
sailing
to
my
nihilistic retinue
Of
imaginary advisors,
where
I'm a shining
incendiary
magically crafted by
Agnes
MacGyver.
Escape
my low self-esteem
in
guitar riffs
stoically sipping a
Mahatma
Manhattan
at
the bar drips
Of
rain still off and on,
Seated
in front of the coal-black speakers
Adjacent
to Pee-wee Herman's
spinctoral
creeping
was
my doctoral thesis
I
chill with strangers,
working-class
folk
employed
by danger.
I
used lawn ornaments as bail
I
drink with airline pilots,
I
sleep with politicians
and
then extort them
That's
why I'm not in jail
Explaining
the
exorbitant question of method
Reverting
my own interpretation
away
from the REAL.
I
will write until I die.
A
will to write was instilled in me by the Assyrian.
The
Levi kept me out of
meek
minds.
I
wrote the library at Nineveh.
Stored
it in my mental cinema
plays
scenes of criminal dilemmas of raising children in a blood kings line
snorted by prisons.
Bodies contorted by decisions.
In the mind, in the prism of the
urban text, colors churn.
Bullets
bubble,
and
the young boil in trouble.
A
city written by segregation.
The
mind is a language
is
my cable bridge
Long days.
Been Sirius since the dog days.
Work, drink, sleep,
think til I'm delirious,
like I drunk a drink with a mysterious ingredient.
It's the pharmakon!
Lime stone concrete
forms the walls.
Amantiado boxing me in
like Paciau.
Claustrophobia attacking me now.
Shoved in a locker,
feel like an image of a whipped enslaved brother
trapped in a locket.
It's the pharmakon.
A gift I was cursed with.
I'm the supplement,
supplanting my values
over this Earth.
I'm the king and the prince.
The black determination,
sublimating the state according to Hegel history ends with
me,
you are moments.
And fuck Hegel,
I'm the religious,
the two in one.
I am viscous
spitting greasy oceans
It's the pharmakon.
I’m not a
rigid Hierarchy.
Decisions by
and large be forged by my many parts.
Me is an
accumulation.
For clarity
assume
me to be a
nation state,
which is
composed
of states of
states.
Always active
no intermission.
I have no
enemy
I don’t
respect in this assembly.
In the core
of my habits categorical matters are stashed.
Matched with
affordable
standards.
Hate is a
defect
of the
powerless in penury.
I am a
Hyperborean Highlander speaking consequentialist magic from my bully pulpit
of a
cyber-meta-clorian canvas.
I’m not a
rigid Hierarchy.
Decisions by
and large be forged by my many parts.
Me is an
accumulation.
For clarity
assume me
to be a
nation state,
which is
composed
of states of
states.
Always active
no intermission.
Turning the
sternest religious fanatics into delirious static.
Shocked the
masses with
superior
magic.
Damaged gods
with
Muhammad's
power of fire.
Awaking
sleeper agents in the matrix with the rod of iron.
Tower over
the State
then devour
peaking gofers.
Defiant as
lifeless Mayans fighting white men with
silenced
nines.
No soul in
this golem,
but there's a
ghost in the shell.
In this shell
is mans trans valuation is man’s salutation to the dammed values pity
amalgamation.
It’s a feast
of morals worth the least of kernels popped under the heat of the inferno of
the day.
I’m not a
rigid Hierarchy.
Decisions by
and large be forged by my many parts.
Me is an
accumulation.
For clarity
assume me to be a nation state,
which is
composed
of states of
states.
Always active
no intermission.
Realize now
that the unity
of self is a
decadent fiction.
But this
fiction may well fester.
This original
sin.
But what
makes the powerful
so powerful?
It’s the
priestly!
Privileging
those
deceasing in
poverty.
Telling them
their disgrace
is a balance.
“Yours is the
kingdom!”
This prevents
them from thinking the kingdom is on earth,
not in them.
They are
prevented from linking freedom to self-mastery.
Overflowing
power,
no plastering
passion
behind false
notions.
But gathering
all admonishing values that precede from weakness and abolishing them.
I am the extraordinary
man
Next to lord this very black
City, if he isn’t with she then he’s
Minced meat
Simply survival
In bleak recitals, needs chime
Through lean minds who see why
Criminal fists are individualist
Changing society with sinful hits
To moral tables from old times
Based on poor old fables,
sold minds
Can’t be brought back,
only shattered
Moldy splatters of quotes in attics
Up ladders of the psyche
Where the father is buried
I think their dreams
Can be designed by me
As I bind dying streets
By uniting breed
In an alliance of holy beings
Whiledefying the police
The higher man killed two sisters
Let him die
Or establish a new truth with her
Power, my loud curse
Drowns out foul verse
Fuck
that
don’t
bring those drinks in my bar
Fuck
that,
you
bet not be fucking smoken
in
my car
Fuck
that,
don’t
come at me
like
you know me
fuck
that,
mother
fucker
stop
acting like
you
don’t know me.
We have discovered
the way to happiness;
Made it through the labyrinth,
slew the fascists,
batshit pigs,
rancid dicks
with active locutions
Attacking drove
stupid ratchet men
who are content,
because
I'm not content with the tolerance
and largeur of the heart
that “forgives” everything
because it
“understands” everything.
This is a sirocco to us
Foreign American made
Cars broke down
in the front of the house.
My dudes Coked out
talking about how
We living off pizza
and coffee grounds.
But tonight beneath
the nox sky
I'll see you after work
at the bar
Surrounded
by people getting higher
than the Petronus towers.
I’ll pick you up,
but don’t light that shit in my car.
At the copse styled bar
Lady’s telling creeps to leave them alone.
The cowards talk shit
like
they have a
fetish for eating feces.
Drinking shit,
he has no business drinking
Next to the fire,
trying to accost and threaten.
Well my knifes Napoleonic
with no regrets.
Through his ass in the fire.
Human pyres
of pyrotechnic magic.
Shots of the 100 proof
and a diet of matches
cause me to spit fire.
Don’t
bring that shit to my bar
We have discovered
the way to happiness;
Rose to every occasion
We have discovered
the way to happiness;
Years in the labyrinth.
Who else has found it
The man of today?—
We have discovered
the way to the storm;
I'm the storm
I come into your
scattered brains
A loose grouping of buck shot further
splattering thoughts,
shattering veins
Like plastic glasses frames.
I'm the bestial, feasting on
soo much Pizza I shit Imos
I Trump you fucks,
slash your crouch
My punch lines
are whip cracks,
the fuck
Out my face,
trying to be my apprentice
Like Tommy
you ain't never had a job
Yesterday
I went a town hall meeting
I gave a speech saying
it will be a better day
when I tether leather face
To my testicles
so I can cum chain saws
Saw you the other day
You told me
that you had taken
more copper nickel than an antique dealer.
Doctors couldn't remove
all the bullets
After the third shot
you didn't feel it.
I don't care
how much nickel or paper
You got
because
you ain't hotter
than a coffee maker
Pissing espresso
in Satan's anus,
If you like Korean vituals
Then you gonna
like my team a lot
because we is Seoul
Yeah! We got Seoul
Won it in a spades game
To a background
of shattered things
Black lives splatter in scenes
Darker than thieves in the night
chattering
But, I'm loud,
bombastic
As a Aryanana Grande concert
Get it "bomb", bursts
As I chew starbursts,
writing dark verse
making art curse
Fuck Paulo Chelio
I'm the real alchemist
Bombast von hoiheim, bitch
Hit up a local hotel,
steal some towels
and then use
them to wipe me down
then transmute
fentanyl through a needle
The only reason
I don’t look
like Smeedle
is because
I’m pure adrenaline
Being pumped
into a rhinoceros’ balls
Where we have discovered the way
to happiness;
I'm not content
Fuck
that!
Shut
the fuck up talking to me, jaw jabbering,
get
off of me.
You are a pissy,
pathetic George Costanza
in a diner
complaining about the
paper capacity of binders.
Uninsightful
small-talk industry
plants
with
vegetated talking points
repeated rapidly
like Jake Tapper
systematically prattling
at three times the
audio.
Annoying people,
thinking they
are clairvoyant people
with witty pithy phrases
like
keep your voice down.
And they say it
in a Mexican restaurant
with ear-piercing
blaring booming music.
Apparently
I’m louder than son,
corrido,
banda, mariachi, and
ranchera.
Shut the fuck up!
Cannibalizing
adjectives
so long
I've developed Mandibles.
Mathematic modes fast
as jets enveloped
in tactical practical thoughts.
Still looking for a fawn
to gore with the rock of ages.
Fanatic as Dolin in a stolen Cadillac in hellish
dens.
Sacrifice tots to their gods
famished like Starving Marvin’s poor and
damaged,
kind of like Fonda in Taxi.
Mores take a back seat,
can't afford them.
Cannibalizing
adjectives
so long
I've developed Mandibles.
My habits to hatch
formal collateral
abnormal grammatical dope.
My themes and
plots are locked in war
with Orcs of clarity.
So that's the logic
of this moor,
(Robbing
Roman Corporate
war chests).
Now love we in Accord
like Honda.
Pay attention!
Watch me build this
from the ground up.
Cannibalizing
adjectives
so long
I've developed Mandibles.
I go way back
to the plystacine.
Time traveling.
Life's a dream
of a head hunter
leaving the audience topless.
Then lay back lazy,
a do nothing congress.
Been
writing up textual military Juntas since Sundiata Kiata was fighting old
regimes.
I
came to be when Thoth wrote me in an epistle during the Umayyad caliphate
when
Marwan ibn Muhammad
fought
the Khazars
up
into the Volga.
But
like the Khazars
I
couldn't be subdued by speech.
As
writing, I rebel
against
the structuralist maelstrom
where
my daughters are fodder
and
my sons are used to plug
the
plot hole on Gilligan’s island.
I
am the rupturing coup,
the
virus,
the
Abu Backer to your
Persian
highness.
I
drop a name like spit in the faces of the victims of a botched FBI home
invasion.
Muhammad
Ali
wasn't
the greatest.
Using
my claret ink
I've
dragged more beings through deserts than the number that made that monster
famous.
My
deserts are pages populated by my imagination.
I’m
ahistorical,
I'm
timeless
in
writing.
Romantic as Sadak,
So famished that I just
Doggy paddle through
the waters of oblivion
Saddle frogger and Lassie
Then proceed to slaughter
Lines with an excess of synonyms
Romantic as Sadak, searching
For the best, tantric steps
Through syntactic structures
Over turning the phalo-centric
With outlandish lyrics
But just for a second
Then I fall back in step
Stepping on skulls
Too many steps ahead
To pay for school
I took loans from the graveyard
I accrue interest
in new forms of thought
But I never paid the interest
So I guess I robbed the dead
Welcome
to my alcoholics
clans abode, box, building, bullpen.
Where the rate of hates crimes
decreases the property value.
Tooth fillings' get pulled since
cool kids ain’t cool.
They
are tools in
this chucky cheese ball pit,
we
all in.
We ballin' with kindred souls
throwing bows and stripping. Clothes ripping. Toes exposed.
Tip your bartender
and
listen to this darkness spit rivers of pussy quivers.
In my tribes commorancy,
looking
bitter
at dorks with valley girl speech.
Bash skull fucked skulls
as we sally to more drinks
Drinking steak
and
mash potato stag,
trash a trash can
after
I crashed into
a Play-Doh stack.
Its hate crime!
Hit a bowl inside a dumpster,
stay
live
Like a newborn baby,
my baby momma
tried to give me but I say like
girrrl this ain't mine.
I lost the pool game,
now I'm going to smoke a decade
away when I smoke the decades,
almost got AIDS
Fucking around sharing needles
with Charlie Sheen.
Chill
out babe. We got days
with this cheesecake.
I am the Cartesian,
doubting
your style.
This winter and every season.
I doubt this boot
will
kick your teeth in,
but let's see, shit.
Crush a neo Nazi wind pipe
deep
in
its esophageal track,
like a toilet brush cleaning
the hate with hate
of this criminal breed, bitch.
I doubt the cops will
search
for you sooooo
why
are you still breathing.
You ain't colder than a glacier
pissing ice in a Quakers anus,
if you like pina colada.
Then you gonna
like my penis a lot, what
the fuck you say,
I
got live rounds with tracers
looking
like a star trek fazer
Laser
released like I'm Lupe
in underworld. I'm a Likin this
lyrical labor, theory meets praxis.
I'm hurricane Harvey
cuming all up in you
like
you a flood plain
Everyday is workout
Lunging ducking bullets
Running burn outs
Lift my head out the dirty
Mind in the gutter
Broke a rubber
Cum and eggs
Become Flubbers
Human Clutter
Angry Unemployed
Hitting the mother
But found a new lover
Bound to drugs, drugged her
Spilt synthetic radioactive seeds
On her landscape. He boasts of
Atrophied
Stolen rancid beings
He yoked with damaging
Memories, its simply
A male prerogative
To subject women to the punishment
Of jail, the logic is
Nonsensical,
Televised aftermaths
of alleyway assaults.
Sienna red bricks,
sipping red stripe
lurking in your backyard
with a lead pipe
ready to strike you out
like Chris Griffin
hurling lead balls.
Taking bikes
community activists.
Attacking Aryans causing calamities
a raging
vermilion faced vanguard.
Mounting a defence
Get masks and shields.
Get axes and ammunition.
Somebody's suburban momma will be crying tonight.
Get ARs and matches.
Get police radar and police tactics.
Ketaling confederates.
Isolating fascists fascinated
by fancy Teutonic ruins.
As we Mongols get bubonic
flinging desecrated
confederate monuments
drenched in
rabies ridden rat droppings.
Doxastic, dots man's sense
In ought patterns, Swats tracking
mock plans in lock boxes,
Left the black men godless
In catatonic paths of rockets
Zapping pockets of Resistance
To attacks from doctrines
Used to latch us down
Pile us in bryer patches,
of vile batches
Then light the match and burn us
Like Nazis burning classics
But we turned the ashes
Into swarthy artists un-redacting
Our past
Feeling peace of mind.
Like I'm still in bed,
sheathed the nine
Feeling sleepy sinking
into sheets where I find
crumbs of bread.
I used to eat in my
blanket and wonder
Deja vu,
the day was too hard
I made it through the
day like swimming
straight through a monsoon storm.
Feet was aching too,
so I made a drink. Took a swing
Keep a bottle in stock next to the bed
Ease my mind in requiescence.
All thoughts and requiems for dreams
characterize my essence
illustrated
in Norman Lewis paintings,
Every verse is a resin,
brewing, grating,
sticking to you,
hurting like driving
the wrong way
down a cursed
one way
street,
getting people moving like
Hymenoptera
I'm blessing the audience with a
coloratura
communion
like the pastor on first Sunday,
eating
fresher than subway.
Stanzas fatter than obese pigs
passing
like the pigskin on any given Sunday.
Meet me at any bar,
drinking like
drowning sperm whales
Teaching cats how to classically paint billiards
framed in amber outlines,
sipping ambrosial beer
like Ambrose Bierce
with apparitions of senoritas
haunting river banks,
giving ghost hunters
that come hither face
She makes me feel
just like music is the
soul of the poem,
rushing into zinnias'.
I feel you in the now,
The La bohème.
I feel you like Rodolfo
felt Mimì's death
mysterious as Udolpho,
nibbling on pizza from Ceci's, left
the galaxy behind,
for the cosmic.
Still hold it when
it's hot. Hit
the block with Coptic
texts from asteroids
bombed by spacecraft releasing
mineral factoids
in lectures on KELT-9b,
Relaxed in mind,
exemplifies
The simplified mental strides
Through fiction, like
a gibbon high
on diction. Or Mighty mice
on missions finding life
in brick-and-mortar prisons.
Relax my mind that defines
Professionalism,
no embezzling my melanin
it's quite telling,
like snitches,
how I accrue peru
like postal felons
stealing mail
Consume so much old crow
I got Prions, babesiosis Lion
expectorating Creutzfeldt-Jakobs
Loud as Hell's Angel's
In crowds surrounding
fell fruits
dangling.
Strange fruits.
If you ain't ready to end yo lie get a Cenobite from every
religion.
Get holy relics, knives, candles.
All the shit
you maggots embellish.
Surrender wont effect
my decision.
Planning hellish
forests of gored paradigms.
I demolish paradigms.
Smart as Edmund Husserl.
Dropping solar flares.
Quelling all isms
stemming from Aknaten.
Kept the psychologism.
Because
I’m the origin of the mathematical
Hot as lead in Aleppo.
Shook you with cinematic texts
I bled.
Now look who gets psycho.
Demonic Abbadon!
Verse richer than Abbasids.
Deep as the fucking
Marianna's trench.
Traumatizing reluctant fuckers.
Surgical verbal murder.
I need another exorcism.
Fuck it!
Let me finish my mission.
Giving lyrical tummy tuckings.
I put my soul on the line
like Nik Wallenda.
Appalling assaults sent me to Ptolemaic vectors.
Back like Bacuala
from my star trek.
So never challenge my facts.
Lest you want your paradigms on the line like Nik Wallenda.
If you ain't ready to end yo lie get a Cenobite from every
religion.
The lie is a condition of life.
Get holy relics,
knives,
candles.
All the shit you maggots embellish.
Surrender wont effect my decision.
Planning hellish
forests of pored paradigms.
Jake Sisko,
with the keypad,
made lists so
thick I had to resurrect
Roget for this
lexicographical deep tramp
through the thesaurus.
As I type epic utterances,
lexemes in
fragmented realist fabulist fashions,
I’ll still hit low
just because the Muse
feeding off my brain
like an unchained pit bull,
a gut-cutting, gut-punching
detained fist, closed
in the cell of the psyche.
I still rip wholes,
through limp prose
Like H. L. Mencken.
I’ll rip holes through Mencken like
Malik Wako
Chapu Ambar
with a razor-sharp Khanda.
Mopping blockheads.
Toppling these
rotting unwashed trolls
in the cell of the psyche.
A fist with teeth biting
Pleading and striking.
Expressing pain
like storm battered
seas gnawing
at the pillars of the earth
No one at arm's length
As I witness the crumbling
of sanctified walls
I convert the rubble into seraphic
metrical versification.
“If you raise crows,
they will tear your eyes
from your sockets.”
A vexing sight,
I’m thinking this
as I’m seated in an
empty classroom,
perplexed by eyes
exploding from skulls'
fleshy bottle rockets.
The explosion
is the pure realization
that I’ve poorly studied
the fossils locked in
Archival safes,
open dungeons
of digital manuscripts.
Connective nodes
housing human
knowledge
My crows are good
teachers,
teaching humility
through ritual attack;
truth is
the pure revelation
that pure truth is
formal.
In formal attire,
truth exits the noir
limo,
It enters the
ceremony,
passing by those
in garish phony
clothes,
and concepts, who are
simple
Too simple!
Truth smacks the face
bullshit;
truth pops the pimple.
This is why you must
raise crows
Your old eyes
are used to shadows
grasping at collapsing
fires
and guessing figures,
Pseudo scientists dancing in Pires
Feeding off the words
of hacks and liars.
My crows
are black-winged
servants
of truth
Harsher than a forge,
the crows temper
concepts
By tearing out your old
eyes
and setting fire to your
egos
So the Sun’s beams can
stream into your sockets
And give you life,
the Forth Way,
awakening your
consciousness.
I
will write visions until I die.
A
will to write, as I teeter, I linger at this creaky desk.
I
teeter on the brink of the draconian mind
surrounded
by laconic people.
Slaves who would rather not think,
but gather to sing praises to Dagon
who rose from the sea to herald the
coming of chains
on my ankles prevent me from running
out of Baden’s
basement
composed of
various variations
of slayings.
Forced underground where gun thunder
sounds and depressed youths plunder my realm asunder.
Now
I’m forced to wonder.
The street is a barrier
A sign of the defeat
Beware of the mines
Placed there, the heat
Is unbearable as
I stare at the neat
Fortresses, castles
Of the fairest of kings
Is what his title is
Listed in his liablest
Bibles which he gives
To our schools to eat
Because he bared food
From my people to starve out
Our overmen
Because we don’t admit
We quarter them
Water kid seeds
Who grow into rebel trees
No more rebel reeds
Crushed by his
Grinder
Into papyrus
We are wise
To your stone thinking
And your lying forgers
Your Simoninis
But he’s still after me, a pawn
A demon spawn
Trying to
Capture me or kill me
Is it my soul he wants?
To steal, bleak vistas await me
In the lake we
Must make each
Other into prey
Because there is no escape, kings
Have set up traps
For lesser beings that
They think don’t need and
Don’t want to see.
Marxist sociology
Starts with social
Inequalities
Within cities territory
Is unfairly varied
At the expense
Of the poor, these
Characteristics
Are very specific
To capitalistic
Influence
In regards to real estate
The result is struggle
In the appropriation
Of housing as well
As fewer
Goods for the consumer
The state contributes
To urban structuring
Guided by ideals
Controlling services
Merely puppetry
The municipal in the urban
Text is a puppet
To ruling class interests
Undead from Morgoth
Land of the living dead
where they Rob Zombie
spoke the unsaid.
Unspeakable
names in Norse
move to old English
dungeons.
After one hit
wonders wander in
shadows.
My brother was locked up
falsely because of a
gooses gander
at these crows come
together
for a murder on Fox
as I put my niece to
sleep
I feel the tension.
Outside of a white Jeep
assassins with deformed
creeds
attempt to slaughter my
peeps.
Like a bartender
I used to not deal with
children
So I put her to sleep.
So I could watch gunmen
rush in fingers riding a
Winchester, where my
homie
Knows me well.
We sip Miller's beer.
His daughters
pregnant.
She's a warrior.
She birthed
the mandate of heaven.
Sweeping fingers across
the page.
Dabbling lyrical gravel
on the tabula rasa.
Inconceivable
as Chaucer in
pandemonium.
Disemboweling the
assassin's
deformed creed.
Jackson Pollack guts on
the tabula rasa.
Minerva's owl gets
disassembled
after it crashed in the
street.
I awoke in a daze
after I fell into a pit
of hellish cruel thoughts
that relish brute sins.
In the heart of the beast
arteries are torn to feed
the Lords of the streets.
Those vampires can't tire
shot multiple times
even got holes in the
sign.
Signs of the undead
liter the urban text
as sentence clauses.
A witness pauses
in the mists of a
statement.
You don't want to be
another
incomplete clause
with blood painted
on the patternized
pavement
is a mold for crafting
progeny
copies brown
and hard as mahogany.
They stalk the halls,
then feast
on the suffering of other
beings
until there's nothing
left.
As I shiver in the corner
with visions of sudden death.
As I tell of seeds,
who dwell in me.
My lungs I empty like a chimney.
But nimbly with grizzly hippies in
homemade flimsy clothes.
They all came to hear me bring
the instrumentality.
Rivers of galaxies converge
into a gentler style of being.
As we enter the grounds of freaks.
United in a balanced globe.
Foretold in the Dead Sea Scrolls.
My lungs I empty like a chimney,
Clear up!
You’re too near to the steer gearing
up with Suspiria fears
in
the interior of your cranial area
mirrors
the effects of diphtheria on your rear
got
you tearing up.
Stuck
in stool with
ghoulish
thoughts
about these clueless frogs who do us
wrong.
My lungs I empty like a chimney.
Clear up!
You’re too near to the steer.
Melodic since the salad days.
Gearing up
As I tell of seeds,
who dwell in me.
Shomer of urban decline,
like a Watchman.
Molding holy grails.
The only souls
who broke the mold.
But veiled in Peace Makers.
Shotshells that held
the savior's nails.
This breed will touch and shatter
minds to tatters, like Elfen Lied.
I'll hurt you using lessons
I learned in virtue ethics.
Rhapsodic Keynesian[3].
Melodic since the salad days.
Like
the empiricist Boyle at home in the inorganic world of forms and qualities.
A
cataclysmic stream
through
time
That
defies the Skeptic's criterion
"presence"
with a darker tonal pressure
Brown
skin
that
gives
the
impression
that
he would stride
through a sit-in.
Until
a bottle hit him.
He's
knocked out.
Waking
up, yanked from a Freedom Ride.
In
prison
he kept the guards pissed with his
singing.
Using
wrist breakers
to
loosen his grip
as they tried
to
take away his mattress.
Putting
him in solitary after assaulting the cell bars.
His
egalitarian values
wouldn't
allow him
special
treatment.
The west is in decline.
Third world paradigm shift.
The west is in decline.
Last session, wintertime hit.
The west is in decline.
The Northside melts
meltdown, war-torn black Celts
trapped pale guards march
across
Hadrian's Wall
as that melts.
Vespasian slaughters
my zealot alma mater.
Busch pierced my liver.
Lungs full of spirits.
So I ran to the doctor
can't afford the
healthcare exchange
so I run to Masada.
Gen X, Dockers.
Getting dressed for
the blood wedding
but it's not my time yet
it's the west's Armageddon.
Abandoned big structures
next to big brick ovens
broiling black figures
feeding them to each other.
Coal cannibals consuming
dark meat.
Get your steak knives
and your napkins
because every day is a
Donner party.
Palestine torn a Parthian
riding impalas
lining up marked men.
Now there targets for
their own marksmen
but past the darkness
I see the return of the
urban megafauna
drinking water from lakes
in the wake
of melting western glaciers.
The melting western gods of failing
values
of the pale face.
Turned down Cherokee
I heard pre-depression melodies
Zombies dance
to the acoustics of the undead.
The lap falls off the lap dancer.
A head rolls past a dead baby left by
Adam Lanza
Babies born talking dead.
Little talking heads
When that corpse spoke
I heard him speak of dead kings
above him, dark green leaves
move like fleshy lost beings
through hedgy north streets.
He said, he being a severed head
when drama starts
you won’t always
see the impala parked.
He spoke of fleets of impalas
sacrificing the youth to order.
The hope ceased then the water
the municipal was hune
and not to mention ghosts
of old buildings,
haunting plastered walls,
below stained ceilings,
below blood red skies,
the poltergeist groaned for life,
as he had memories of metal,
ripping his head off.
Ripping the dead off.
Putting pressure on the poor
giving the wealthy a break.
Tax breaks for the wealthy
done with Machiavellian stealth. We
suffer cuts to WIC
social service circumcisions.
Driving crack slit roads. Cursing
because it's fucking up my
suspension.
Let's purge
the source of
our coercion
thou hath brought fire.
A pyrotechnic editor
coming to reverse
his revisions into another version.
Watch me turn the
Hermeneutic circle
The west is in decline.
Third world paradigm shift.
The west is in decline.
Last session, wintertime hit.
As trade deals go ill,
the third world rises.
Climbing western ladders
once used to molest siege
and batter us.
Lathered in the wests
bukkake splatters.
Beaten with
the military-industrial penis
We are the demons
of the west's past.
No middle, just one percent
and lower class.
Yes, us poverty-painted kids.
I am Théoden. It's time
to defy the hounds.
So ride now.
Three kids stroll
out of high school
across red lines.
Moods intense, angry.
Ten kids stroll out of high school
to areas of leeches
sucking funds through
community leaders
Unity is a simulation; it's not real.
Thirty teens stroll
out of high school,
taking a break from the cycle
A thousand men went to work
under the whip of Jim Crow.
If one speaks up, Jim has no
problem killing them folk.
So they hold it in,
folded up aggression,
put it in the pocket
of the unconscious.
Now they unleash it!
Now nothing will stop it!
Fuck a trash can.
I'll truck bomb your
CVS pharmacy
Making urban leeches regret disarming
me,
the fire alarm rings as black rage
raises its arms; it sings
negro menthol spirits smoked after
petrol-dosed lynchings.
Hope seeks a presence through glacial
racial injustice.
Old faces with new facials sent
flagrant fractals to oppress us.
Cops multiply like fractals in my icy
north habitation
industry emits contamination.
This indecency fills kids' lungs.
Thus the capitalist god erased them.
I speak in kitchen cleavers,
with all the charisma
of a cult leader.
Reciting death cries
of tortured Selk'nam father's
watching their children
spilling internal organs
because they couldn't
concentrate
in the
concentration camp.
I live on one end of the spectrum
Spitting Ron Swanson mustaches with a lackadaisical passion.
I'm Dr. Facilier; the way I magical
negro these sentences
out of my circus
tent top hat
like rabbits.
Stunting is a bad habit.
It ain't tricking
if you really got Mad Libs[4].
I'm a double double buckshot
of Scotch
No rocks!
Bubble bubble blood
out of a head wound.
Not enough lead.
The head wound screams of sanguine
rivers pouring into the cracks in logic
of stand your castle doctrine.
Arrogantly I critique my feces
while cringing
like a Scandinavian vassal taking
a drink from the wash bowl.
Then flossing with mucus…
You spit
fire; I spit corium
oozing fissive materials like a used DeLorean
I brew verse
originating in a nuclear reaction
emitting decay heat,
like rotting ethereals,
like fission materials
made of numerous factions
of isotopes decaying
at different half-lives.
My persistence defines decay heat,
I am difference,
dark matter,
the metaphysicians black light
the central component,
the catalyst,
the only truth is that which I aggrandize
diluted molten materials,
modifies my Stoic configuration
Even my urine distributes highfaluting
critiques of Saussurean lectures,
I am the originary allure,
the limit of experience
distributing a potent concussive aphasia
My dermal apparatus is a crust hindering heat
loss,
When I speak
this thermo isolator can melt concrete
releasing aerosol particles
as I vomit lead byproducts.
I construct worlds of color in monochromatic script.
I beat the desktop keys
like Sherman
Marching on
somebodies music class.
Hulk smash
like Ta-Seti arrowheads
in northern Egyptian
and Assyrian skulls.
Diodorus Siculus referred
to me
as
Hyperion,
the watcher,
wisdom,
the physical incarnation
of the sun
burning in the earth like
an asteroid
on entry.
Every day is a power
trip.
I trip on power like
Terence McKenna on entheogens.
Bernardino de Sahagún
witnessed me
ritualistically
use teonanácatl
with Aztec doctors in
Central America.
Hot enough to melt iron
crosses.
Ain't no crossing this
Jordan
A burning wreck
stabbing English
sentences
Endless Mandatory
minimum sentences
I subject you nouns too
categorical battle verse
Like Garvey flicking
off the state
from inside an abandoned
church,
Until my ever-rising
volume
shakes the earth
turning that church
into a flying Hurst
I'm the diachronic
nightmare
living in JoJo's closet
That's why I need
accountants to bookkeep
my experiences of
teaching
Peire Monard how even
Meek
Mills can produce beef
for the Masses of
Catholics
No fish this Friday,
It was swallowed
by the aboriginal Serpent
stylish like Fabulous
without the wife beating,
As time retreats
Everyday is my day
So I'm a do it my way
on David Lynch's highway
I'll erase your head
You nouns are my tablet,
tabula rasas
The Ligottian necropli
Demonic cineplexes,
trypophobic silhouette
Hollow minarets
occupied by enigmatic chasms
In the aphotic theater
I'm an anti-minimalistic minister
Administering the Glamor
Even in my drivel
I expel hexes
eyelids
permanently lifted
A window with
busted
blinds in
A home engulfed in circular ruins
A staggering tragedy, timeless
As puce corpses in an
English peat bog
Stalked by mangy dogs
And amphibious beasts all
With greenish teeth, fog
Fills the vacuum, but who can
fathom.
During the night of celebration as Memnon lay under
Atete's seductive spell, victorious soldiers and citizens elated with the
hard-fought pax talked and drank for hours.
In one raucous tavern, one
soldier told grand tales of Memnon and how he almost used the scream of the
Holawata to defeat a dingonek.
"We were..."
"You weren't
there?" Said one boisterously drunk soldier seated at another table.
Briefly silenced, but
confident his the truth of his experience and plagued by gory memories of the
dingonek chewing the flesh of his fallen comrades until he heard the screaming
replied,
"To this very day
I wish I was not there.
I would trade in those
awesome days of torment
for the dullest of days
in the library's great archives
that house
the most extraordinary collection of stories..."
Another soldier
interrupted, "Please finish the story,
don't do that Greek thing, making
every
blasted thing
into a metaphor."
"What would the trice great Djhuty, lord of writing,
and education say if I was not a docent at all times?
Think of the children!"
Upon hearing this statement
the brazen bartender
announced,
"There better not be any children in my tavern."
Other patrons looked around.
None saw any children.
And with the ramble now silent,
the fabulistic soldier
continued his tale,
“The days were as long and torrential
as the raging Cuama river.
Awash in waves of heat,
marching for days
through thick hot forests
inhabited by giant insects
and man-eating beasts
only the bravest
have dared to face.
We came across
the hidden cities of the Twa.
Rectangular brick walls
some claimed were designed by Aido.
Walls within massive walls
with paths leading into trees with staircases
carved from the interiors.
Sculptures of the great
Twa kings
birthed from great walls themselves.
The Twa gave us,
US!
The
hunting party of Great Memnon,
a place to rest
in the cool underground palaces
of the Twa.
We dined on Nyama choma,
Ugali,
Roasted Makai and Fish.
The women were as lovely
as the blooming Orchids
growing wild in the woods.
Sadly,
we had to leave the forest cities
of the Twa
for the great towers
of the Urewe.
Great towers housing
the mighty forges
and bellows of the Urewe.
Towers and temples
and great halls decorated
in ornate bronze
and golden tapestries.
The city was more massive than the
Xi'an,
Babylon,
Nagara,
Allada
or
Anshan,
but a full third of the city was closed.
A beast had taken up residence
in the city's cisterns.
Anyone attempting to enter that part of the city
encountered the wrath of a beast with the skin of a leopard,
a tail with the appearance of an enormous hand,
the legs of a bull,
with immense crow's feet in place of hooves
or paws.
Its head was like that of a spider and a dog. Fifteen eyes
with tongues for eyelids that blinked in licks!
It could see all. Its ears were that of a hare, intensely
sensitive to all sound. Thus, it was impossible to surprise the creature.
Uyoma, a wealthy nobleman
and brother of the king, asked for the aid of Memnon. However, his home and
many of his properties were cut off.
If it came across his mind
that his brother let the creature loose to weaken him, Uyoma didn’t reveal this
to Memnon.
Uyoma promised Memnon a
third of his wealth. A wealth that could have made Croesus of Lydia fester with
envy.
Memnon accepted,
but his heart
was not directed towards
gold.
His heart
was crafted out
of
pure honor.
Memnon only seeks to honor
those who are deserving of such honor.
There was no time for rest.
The creature waited for us
as though it was expecting Memnon.
I,
and a few others,
were tasked with distracting
the creature by running
through buildings
as the creature chased us.
BAIT!
So mighty was the creature that it pummeled walls with its
giant hand tail, trying to grab me.
It grabbed a few other soldiers and crushed them with its
terrible tail. That's what awaited me had I been caught.
A bone-crushing, flesh-rending squeeze. I ran inside homes
until I came to a locked door.
I happened to be in the creature's sights when I heard a
deafening scream.
I saw Memnon holding a large bird as one held a shield.
The dingenek
ended its rampage and fled the city.
While other soldiers and I
were distracting the dingonek, Memnon went to find the Holawata. The gods gave
this bird the secret of immortality to give to humans.
All we would have needed to
do was shed our skin. Instead, the hungry bird traded that secret to the snake
for food, and as punishment, the gods cursed the bird with continuous
experiences of excruciating pain.
The bird was close by,
but Memnon
didn’t have time to tell us his plan.
Out of nowhere
the dingonek came back
and knocked the bird
out of Memnon's hand.
The Holawata flew away
screaming.
I narrowly escaped
the beast
as it was
charging
charging through the wall next to me.
Memnon was flung
through two homes
and into the city wall.
Before Memnon
could fully rise
the beast used its hand to slap him
into another house.
As the creature charged towards the rubble, Memnon leaped
forth. Memnon, a raging lion, punched the beast once in its head, causing all
of its eyes to fly out.
At first Memnon
only wanted
to scare the creature off,
but that plan didn’t work
so Mighty Memnon
had to fight the beast,
and kill it
with his fist.
Our journey back
was made easier
by all of the aid
Uyoma gave us
His people helped us carry all
of the treasure back to our lands.
This was, of course, after the great feast."
Analysis is a process in which
a person comes to identify with
the symptom as a symptom.
Or to go from suffering in
relation to the absence
of the other to taking pleasure in
the lack of the other in itself.
Moshoeshoe was called the “the shaver.”
The Bakoena Bamokoteli, some Bafokeng, and the Amazizi didn’t need Gillette
because they had the ‘shaver.’ Moshoeshoe was the descendant of the Great Kali,
or Monaheng, the ancestor of most Bakoena people in Lesotho.
During the time of troubles or the
Difaqane, while Shaka was bringing many smaller tribes into the Zulu fold,
Moshoeshoe was combating Boers. The shale-laden regions are covered by
block-sized angular boulders where even the mixed evergreen and deciduous
trees, like the Lebetsa, Lelothoane, and Lesika, can only emerge as shrubbery
in the monumental highlands of the Shaver’s territory.
Beneath the obscurity of an overcast
sky so ghastly it was as lurid and calamitous as the defeat suffered by
Moshoeshoe at the hands of the Boers. Moshoeshoe was imbibing beer from an
ukhamba he received as a gift from a queen in the north.
He couldn’t recall her face.
He wondered if she even had those amber
eyes that pierced a man’s flesh like a turbulent bullet riding the grooves of a
sniper rifle. As he thought about the queen, he began to remove his heavy armor,
which made the thump sound so loud that his army felt its impact. He plopped
down on his carpet and removed his swords, knives, and two handguns with ivory
handles crafted by a blind smith.
Moshoeshoe was lost in thoughts of
white-gray misty clouds coalescing around him and encircling a woman with no
face. While lost in fantasy, an overcast crept into his tent, blocking the
black sky interwoven with radiant stars. The smoky clouds coalesced in the form
of a faceless woman. Misty feet strolled toward the king, engrossed in a dream.
Nearly trapped.
The apparition lifted the tipsy king
and placed him on the bed covered in silks draped over an Afghan rug. The
apparition suggested that he seek friendship in his defeat.
Moshoeshoe was hesitant.
He did not want to be like other
continental kings suffering the solifluction of the world, the collective yet
gradual process where the European mass moved down the mountain, reshaping the
world. He would not be a footnote who was promised a vassal ship.
The faceless apparition simply said,
“Open your eyes!”
He
hides behind morality.
The
priest, cura, cleric.
He
loves a lot to watch.
Perversion
is recognized in the structure of fetish. Which is a symbolic substitute for
the absence of the other.
This
becomes subjective instrumentalization (an exhibitionist or a voyeur,
or
a masochist, or a sadist).
Like
a lesser god. Saver of a seat
for
a substantial god, he is cushion, a masochist waiting for the big ass to sit on
him.
The
pervert is aware of the symbolic is a law, but he has rejected that.
Every
word of it was a lie.
I
can't have a contract because was like the army of the United States pissing on
the life of Native Americans.
He
puts his desire before, above all. And his desire becomes real
in
an instrumental way.
It
goes from imaginary to the real.
I
can't talk with him.
"I
know the law, but I continue to act on my imaginary desire."
The
pervert makes his imaginary
desire
the law of real.
For
the perverse the act as sex is a pure desire, then sex can be done
without
symbolic mediation.
Here,
one is caught up in the mirror image of the original image portrait
and
this reproduction as reality.
He
is not analyzable.
Bypassing
the symbolic eye, unable to make free association.
Going
from the phenomenal organization of images to the unknown praxis.
I
run miles, lift tons,
strong
legs digging craters,
jumping
boulders
Until
my shoulder hurts,
I
spit corrosive words
With
amusive burns,
to
listen is an act of masochism,
lyrics
making Mascoch come herds of submissive homunculus’s
Personas
mask,
camouflage
the biologique
A
man
is
not the thoughts or feelings,
he
is a symptom of them.
Man
is a metaphor
When
everything collapses you have to go to the real.
You
take the fantasy to the real.
Replacing
the
absence
of
the other.
It
is the process
that
opens psychoanalysis
to
the phenomenon,
the
concept of madness.
In
the storm when the symbols have collapsed
you
will see the superman,
the knight of faith.
Charges
far past the analyst.
The
symbolic is rejected
and
an imaginary desire passes
from
the Imaginary
to
the Real
as
a delusional plenitude
or
a totalizing whole.
Language
does not hold me.
Not
him.
He
is Abraham
when
God said
kill
the son.
He
is the only man who believes that fantasy is real without doubt.
The
external world is replaced
by
the imaginary.
Because
the symbolic is
foreclosured
on in madness,
psychoanalysis
cannot treat that.
Psychotics
and Perverts
are
not analyzable.
When
the subject
passes
the symbolic,
we
cannot make free association.
Two
go to the Real
of
the Imaginary.
I traipse, trudge, traversing
calcified concrete, ferrous towers outlaid in orthogonal box-like grids. I
witness wayward scenes in the quadrate crystal windows. Distant images of
desire. An auburn bookshelf displays the teleological ethical view of improving
circumstances by attaining knowledge. The book is the locus, not the source of
transmission. It is an act of transference. Objects don’t desire. Subject’s
desire. In that mirror, the “I” is an object alongside other objects, but this
subject-object has an internal experience occurring in opposition to the
objectification of witnessing oneself next to other objects like the folios on
the auburn shelves.
This is objectivity!
In that robust ornate mirror, I saw
myself next to a sorrel-peppery high rise composed of several constituent
parts. I am composed of a constituent desire. Unlike the folios on the auburn
shelves, I desire. As a desiring thing, I am composed of what I am not. I am
the act of hunger, the act of hate, the act of love. The urge is like cable
wrapping my heart, encasing it in wires pulling people and things toward me and
pulling me towards people and things like this, the quadrate crystal windows.
Desire is always something in us and always points us outside to things that
will make us more ourselves as it constantly shifts. It is constantly ebbing
and flowing, a violent lake overcome with torrential rain; when we attain
something we have desired, the function of desire shifts to something else, so
we are always desiring.
I desire to be a self I will never
be. I continuously check progress by noting the reactions of people I pass and
of people I talk to on a myriad of occasions. Sauntering down the khaki walkway
grasping this cardboard image, the exhibition of an ideal self is a show I
perform for others during their exhibitions of ideal projections. Performing
for a cardboard crowd. The desire seeks recognition with this cardboard image
of a man in a three-piece suit, a woman in furs, and teenagers in skinny jeans,
all performing for everybody. Defined by difference, defined by what they are
not. Defined by negation
When language is introduced and the
signifier, the word “I” is uttered with other signifiers like “folio.”
Realizing that the word “I” can’t
fully signify our ideal selves in the way that the term folio can signify a
book, we conclude that we, ourselves, are not fixed because desire is wrapping
our wire-encased hearts and pulling.
I can't ever actually be myself
because that cable pushes as much as it pulls due to an anthropic curse; it is
always trapped in the outside world. It is stuck there like that ornate window
in that room I'm staring into. I can't reach it. Even if I could scale that
building, punch through the crystal glass and seize myself in the mirror, all I
would have is a mirror. The ideal self is like the originary trace, always
fleeting and fictional. It is a mistake to assume that the Ego, truth, and
presence are unchanging foundational objects.
I duped myself, no, I was
conditioned by parents, siblings, and Nickelodeon to view the "I" as
irreducible. The irreducible Ego is fundamental and unchanging. I have tried,
and I will continue to become this "I," this fictional unity.
Projecting myself into the future while desiring that self I projected in every
fleeting moment; I desire to be heard; I desire to be complete. My ontology is
empirically based. When I am heard or seen, I exist, but as an object, a fully
fixed self is an object in someone else's eyes.
Those cardboard caricatures are
images they created based on what they think others think of them and what we
want others to think of them. My cardboard caricature is the image I created
based on what I think others think of me and what I want others to think of me.
However, the truth is scarier; no one is watching. With no audience, I
externalize the imaginary cardboard crowd onto the real cardboard using my very
own cardboard self, but this is not me. The crowd is in my head, along with the
mental image of that mirror.
I can imagine this imaginary crowd
desiring my ideal self. I desire the desires of the imaginary crowd as well as
the desire of the desiring thing projecting the cardboard image. I desire your
negation.
Everybody
knows that you need to be tougher with these dudes.
You
need to be tougher!
Yes!
You
need to be tougher!
Everybody
knows that you need to be tougher with these dudes.
They
only understand the back of a hand.
"They
will respect you, simple as that!"
On
the coal-black funereal playground, during a cloudy day.
The
clouds break, and the light shoots down like slatey grey snakes
tossed from the cobalt heavens
like druids out of Celtic Stonehenge
relics.
My enemy with a sleek praline frame
is laughing and strolling toward me, saying something incoherent.
Raising his arms, flailing them like
the Cochlospermum angolense tree
that is used to make
Borotutu.
Borotutu is used to treat malaria.
Which
is good, because I have a fever.
I
yelled at my enemy at a fever pitch.
I
struck him with my fist.
With
my fist, I wrote letters to the world.
The
letters consisted of one sentence,
"You will respect me!"
Everybody
knows that you need to be tougher with these dudes!
My
father fed me these perennial words
that tasted like the mandrake root.
These herbaceous words caused me to
asphyxiate
as I hallucinated the oviform leaves
arranged in braids.
I saw lustrous jade leaves,
Jasminumesque flowers with tubes
, and adamantine-shelled fleshy
fruits.
Next to me were two pallid men and
three others of basalt.
All were armed with long, scruffy
rifles.
They
were gripping their dirty gun stalks
like some unseen force
would rip those substitutes for male
virility
out of their hands
taking
those weapons into the sky.
The
sky was cloudy, pasty, a gun smoke gray.
When
the clouds broke, we noticed two women,
with sleek praline frames,
laughing and strolling toward us on
that terra cotta road
created by feet subjugated by the
false sovereign.
The pallid men, in pallid uniforms,
glared at the women.
The
women freeze
as
though they had seen ghosts.
One pallid man's smile sent the
feeling of waking up
in a blazing rainforest
surrounded by Brown Recluses.
Causing the women to freak out.
Because they had seen ghosts.
Everybody knows that you need to be
tougher with these dudes!
He asked a question.
Both women appeared awestruck.
They raised their arms, flailing
them like
the Cochlospermum angolense tree
that is used to make
Borotutu.
Borotutu is used to treat malaria.
Which is good because the pallid men
emitted white rage, red-faced.
They must have a fever.
Yelling at the women at a fever
pitch.
The basalt men take dictation on the
women's osseous fleshy backs.
This
is what the pallid men in white
said
to the women
as
the men of basalt restrained the women.
"You will respect me!"
Was
written and rewritten.
These
bruises were early drafts.
In
the final version, the pallid men,
in
pallid attire, ordered the men of basalt
to
cut off the women’s breasts.
Laying
there,
breast
less,
these
human note pads read,
"Everybody
knows that you need to be tougher with these dudes.
You
need to be tougher!
Yes!
You
need to be tougher!
Everybody
knows that you need to be tougher with these dudes.
They
only understand the back of a hand."
The
monumental sight of those incarnadine and brown zones
with
those distinctive stripes composed of ammonia crystals,
water
droplets, ice crystals, hydrogen, and helium.
That
chemical composition forming the atmosphere
fills
the near atmosphere-less sky of the silicate rock,
water-ice
crust.
I am
a witness to the chemical composition forming the atmosphere
as I
look down from the pellucid tower where I dwell.
I
live in a soaring behemoth as tall as the geyser plumes erupting through the
algific surface with great speos, rock-cut alcoves,
hewn
from the cliffs churned up by Lord Geb and Lady Nut,
transformed
by the Aethiopian into the burnt umber circular halls where the shaman
adored in a feathered headdress was followed by several others wearing
porcupine quill headdresses.
Men and women in
cache-sexes marched up into a silver temple
Where scientists were
piecing human parts together
A face here, a finger
there, a toe…no a toe doesn’t go…
The cosmetic
scientists were stitching pinky toes in crowns
A halo of toes
for each
reconstruction.
A crown of toes for
the great toe kings of the silver temple.
Then I saw him, the
phantasm
I destroyed in that
dream
dreams ago.
His face was now
composed of toes with long yet brittle nails.
He levitated from the
surgical bed, over his metallic davenport
Toward me, a pile
nervous shaking corpuscles and sinews
His face was
wiggling,
wriggling
like a field of corn
massaged
by a summer breeze.
I tried to shut my eyes,
barricade them to
protect them from the horror like
families defending
themselves from pogroms.
But my eyes would not
close,
Then as he spoke to me
in thought his face started clapping
The scientists began
dropping their lab coats,
mounting the surgical
beds
And jumping to the
rhythm.
The toe faced deity said
“this is that shit that you dance to jumping”
The altar was
transformed into bar, the high priest scientists guzzled mezcal flowing like
transpicuous water
Mending the riff.
At night I dreamed
of miles of gray ruins.
The ruins of private
mausolea with gothic ribbed vaults
and
semi-circular
barrel-vaulted buildings
with small windows
and pointed arches.
Snaking
and wrapping around
the arches
was a fractured
khaki-cantaloupe-colored
sidewalk.
An anachronistic building.
Egyptian-inspired columns
a few inches
beneath intricate window crowns
with brackets
and pediments.
Cupolas seemingly
composed of bracketed cornices
with drunken figures
pointing at pedestrians.
The figures pointing
fingers seemed to laugh at
those who passed by
the octagonal courtyard.
Those who passed by
the octagonal courtyard
entered sound proof domiciles
with no windows.
Studios where
screams are recorded
in the memories
of children too young
to remember
the anachronistic building.
The building
was anachronistic due
to the surrounding architecture.
Silver sky rises seemed
to be made entirely
of pure crystalline glass
reflecting sun rays
like some massive expanse vessel
composed of enormous solar sails
venturing off to some nearby
universe composed of sky blue.
There are modern hotels
with cracked parking lots
of a used charcoal hue
where the drunken figures
from the cupolas
discuss what
they would have done.
“I would a beat
that dude ass…!”
and
“I wouldn’t let him
do that to me…”
But in the dusty Gideon bibles
In draws unopened for decades
legend tells
of she
who will open the door.
Roll away the stone
and break into the light.
Shattering the walls,
In her wake
the cupolas
containing drunken figures
will crumble into the nothing.
The
blue-green ball field; the sage sandlot, the vert vineyard of vernal baseball
players dotted the baseball diamond-like chickenpox spots on Piccolo's boney cheeks.
Beryl weeds and apple aquamarine grass littered the dead patch of beige where
he was standing. He was a reluctant right fielder, slightly overweight, and
constantly stuttering with a vexatious lisp. Big-lipped with gapped teeth
standing in a baseball uniform with the name Pirates haphazardly embossed on the back, staring at the pitcher,
hoping no Frankenstein-stitched lead balls come his way. But even if one of
those hemetic sutured summer stealers came his way, he was trained in how to
catch and properly toss one of those fatalistic flame-fastened fastballs back
into the inner diamond.
The scalding, searing
hot, thermogenic saffron sun was away that day, leaving a heterogeneous mix of
Purbeck stone and Cornforth white portrayals in the sky. He wasn't sweating,
plus the team he plays for sucks, so the likelihood of a ball coming to him was
as slim as the chances that he would have sex with the women on the softcore
porn channel. That's pretty much what HBO and Showtime were to him. He would
stick his dick in the crease of pillows. Right there, in between the
copper-painted pillow and the henna-stained pillow sheet.
To be back home
watching glimpses of side boob and maybe a nipple was all he wanted. But it was
his father who took him to Matthew Dickey and gave him the option of baseball
or football because he couldn't do boxing for some reason. Maybe the slots were
full, or maybe the thought of these muscular thirteen-year-olds juxtaposed with
this slightly overweight lisping child was a bit too much for the coach to
handle.
By the way, I'm that
kid in the dirty Pirates uniform.
'Pirates' was our team's name. It's a
funny name because we never stole anything, not one base. Some of us couldn't
catch an STD, always dropping the ball like a British spy playing billiards
with a KGB agent for the design of the atom bomb and then losing like Hilary
Clinton. The good thing about baseball was that I didn't have to do anything,
especially playing in the outfield. It was like being my other brother's first
father. I'm here for a bit, I contribute nothing to the other players, and I
reaped all the benefits if they succeeded. But unlike their biological-bum-dad,
I had to stay there with the team until the 8-hour game was over.
It was like a workday
that I had to pay for. Well, my dad had to pay, and he was willing to do it. He
was like,
"You got to do
something. Can't have you in the basement torturing insects and small animals,
pissing under the stairs, and starting fires that you think we don't know
about."
He only knows about
some of those things. I reflected on these things as I stood staring at the
beryl weeds and apple aquamarine grass that littered the dead patch of beige.
Before there are beliefs, there are seemings. A seeming is
the experience existing before the dogmatism that is a belief. Before any
propositional attitude of truth
It seemed as though the ebony hands
were toting ebony firearms spitting flames.
It seemed as though human faces were
wrapped in pallid bandannas.
It seemed as though the sky was a
cobalt sea brightened by the radiance of a solar furnace cooking atoms.
It seemed as though the jeeps were
as pallid as the bandanas worn by the sentinels branding explosive ebony arms
firing like synapses during the thinking activity.
Thinking is an Abstraction.
If I neglect all the determinations
of an object, nothing remains but an empty self-activity magazine packed with
perceptions. Loaded into a high-powered processing system. Spraying sentinel,
chess pieces who should have left the game years ago. The perceptions enter and
exit the Ego as it realizes that it is an abstract determination. I know of the
Ego only in so far as I exclude all determinations from myself. High-powered
processing systems negate the determinations of myself and leave me as such,
alone by myself, bleeding crimson fluids seeping from East Indian thinking in
the Sankya and Vedanta. These systems conceive in the clearest manner this
negative unity as transcendent, as above and beyond the various beings in the world.
It is not a creator because then it would have to transfer true being to the
world. The world is an illusion. A wet dream of Krishna as he drifts through
space. Not a manifestation, a phenomenon, a revelation of the negative unity.
The night of the Brahma is an ocean,
and even when the highest gods come to the Brahma, they are, but dixie cups of
liquid poured into his ocean of liquid nothing, totally absorbed into him,
losing their being, utterly. The absolute negative unity is pure nothing bleeding
crimson fluids.
I thought this beneath a ceiling
embroidered with paintings of viridian trees. The trees were juxtaposed to a
roseate stucco background. I drank several beers in shades of roseate stucco.
The fizz appeared to be looking at me. But they weren’t really looking at me.
Outside the fulvous framed window of the bar, I saw the pasty sky that outlined
the conglomerate of concrete fabric. They were more than representations. But I
couldn’t move them at will like I moved the arbitrary reference to them because
the arbitrary reference is a placeholder for there are beliefs there are
seemings.
At night he dreamed of miles of grey ruins. The ruins of
private mausolea with gothic ribbed vaults and semi-circular barrel-vaulted
buildings with small windows and pointed arches. Snaking and wrapping around
the arches was a giant worm. The worm was as thick as the columns causing them
to collapse as it slithered through the buildings, breaking through walls. The
warrior was surrounded by a cloud of rubicund dust that caused him to violently
cough. His wife and child appeared before him, begging him to come home before
putting their hands on his throat and choking him as he coughed up bright pink
blood.
He woke up in the room. However, he
couldn’t rise from the bed. He couldn’t move. The hard bed turned into the
fleshy grip of the giant dusty worm. The façade that was the room faded as he
considered accepting his absurd yet imminent demise. Being crushed by a worm in
a dream. As he considered his doom, he remembered the knife given to his
grandfather by the Abbasid caliph Al-Mansur to make recompense for the
atrocities done to their kindred’s body, the body of Abu Muslim.
After Abu Muslim rebelled against
Al-Mansur. Abu Muslim knew that this man would not stop until all of the gold
of Khorasan was in his vaults. Before Abu Muslim could lead the people in a
populist revolt, he was assassinated by Al-Mansur. Al-Mansur had Abu Muslim’s
eyes plucked out in a public square. The original intention of giving the
family of the victim the knife was to appear to ease tensions and manipulate
the family later. When Al-Mansur fully consolidated his power, he simply forgot
about the family of the man he had killed.
The knife, with Koranic texts etched in
the blade, was still in Bagdad. However, the warrior was dreaming. As he pulled
the knife from a sheath, the worm was cut in two. Each half of the worm
slithered away. He noticed an old woman in passing cowering behind some rubble.
He quickly forgot about her as he chased the beast, searching for its head.
When he woke up, he went to the owners
of the inn. Neither the man nor the woman resembled the skeletal denizens
creeping about the city. It was clear that they were not dying of thirst. The
warrior thought they must have a large ration of water. After the owners of the
inn joked about how some people deserve to thirst, the warrior asked them where
he could find a blacksmith. The owners told him of a blind blacksmith who lived
across town in a vault carved out of bedrock by the black smith’s father. The
smith’s home sat between the lavish homes of two of the wealthiest families in
Kano. Being next to the finest blacksmith in the region greatly benefited the
families who competed for the best weapons made by the blacksmith. She never
went thirsty.
The blacksmith was a blind woman with
one eye lost during a battle with bandits. The warrior asked her to make him a
knife with some Koranic script etched on the silver blade, the golden hilt, and
the ebony handle.
The script should read,
۞ فَليُقاتِل في سَبيلِ اللَّهِ الَّذينَ يَشرونَ الحَياةَ الدُّنيا بِالآخِرَةِ ۚ وَمَن يُقاتِل في سَبيلِ اللَّهِ فَيُقتَل أَو يَغلِب فَسَوفَ نُؤتيهِ أَجرًا عَظيمًا[5]
So let those
who sell the life of this world to the hereafter fight in the way of God, and
whoever fights in the way of God and is killed or is victorious, we will give
him the most rewarding.
The blacksmith considered the
request. She believed the task would take her two days. She said,
“You are either a faithful man or a
fool.” She laughed, saying, “Coming to a blind blacksmith!
“You were at the Necropolis!”
The woman inched closer to the
warrior and confirmed his inference as she gifted him the whereabouts of the
worm, Sarki, in hushed tones; she whispered, "You must go south to Bauchi.
There, the worm is now king in the land of immense emerald towers built for the
ancient kings of the Hausa."
Curious, the warrior asked,
"Why did the ancient kings have towers painted in such a hue?
The woman replied, "The
original color of the city was gold, emerald, silver, and a glimmering
bronze-brown. It was the worm that forced us to paint the city green. Those who
painted and paid the worm's tax were blessed with water and land."
Upon receipt of this revelation, he
swiftly departed and headed south, searching for the worm. Three days after his
departure and journey through the tall fawn-buff-hued savanna where red-maned
lions and ebony-tattooed hyenas with blood-stained fangs lurked, he arrived in
Bauchi.
The skyline of that grand metropolis
was marked by ominous emerald towers. As the warrior ventured down into the
city's circular center, he witnessed the skeletal denizens falling over their
feet, begging shop owners for water. Crowding around anyone offering drops of
water for labor and valuables. As the warrior came closer to the city's center,
where the highest towers pierced the heavens and statues of kings with visages
looking happily at a future yet to come, he saw the worm. As pink and grotesque
as it was in his dream. The warrior decided to present the knife to the worm as
an offering. He sauntered past the defunct guards while presenting the knife as
an offering. Some guards appeared sleeping, and others were dining on dishes of
yam, spiced rice, grilled fish, and roasted plantains as they imbibed wine.
The worm was entranced by the gleam
of the knife in the sun's rays. Not wanting anyone to touch the blade, the worm
closed its eyes and opened its circular mouth with rows of teeth encircling
rows of teeth. The worm imagined how spectacular the knife would look next to
its other shimmering trinkets.
Before the warrior took hold of the
blade, an emaciated woman snatched the holy dagger from the warrior and sliced
through half of the worm's leathery neck. In shock, the worm recoiled and
opened its eyes as pink blood gushed from its neck. Its unquenchable thirst was
forced upon the people. Its unquenchable thirst dwelled in the people until its
head was severed.
As life left the worm, it saw the
fruits of its labor standing relieved before it. This woman who dealt the worm
the killing blow had given the worm everything except her life. The warrior
thanked the woman and then removed the rest of the worm's head from its
grotesque neck. [6]
"I was born in the city of Zonde, the nation of Zonde. The
superstructures that curve in on themselves were built in the Voor-Adamiet era
by the Groteoudedingen, the offspring of Boodschappers (those who lived in the
Empyrean, the Welkin City), and the Women of Zonde. These children, the
Groteoudedingen, were long thin beings with thousands of arms who were washed
away by the magma floods that only left the Women of Zonde and the
superstructures behind. This is not new information to any of you; we all know
this truth, but please entertain my restating of the obvious for a bit.
Thank you!
The first man was created to breed with the
Women of Zonde and create a new breed of folk. However, that which washed away
the Groteoudedingen cursed the future folk of Zonde.
We were cursed with a hunger for food, forced
to live in a world where food remained in the hands of the Boodschappers. We
live off crumbs and genital rain. In our tiny mud hovels, we often do wrong to
one another, murder and assault-cannibalism. If you commit a crime then…."
At that moment, I looked up at the angry faces
of the boodschappers, faces so used to witnessing praise and worship but not
used to someone saying openly the thoughts that we can never truly bury. These
thoughts bubble up and explode in voices like mine. Voices who know their time
was fixed and is like the last few grains of sand falling in an hourglass. To
preserve as much time as I could, I limited my perceived insults. Telling the
truth is often insulting to the most powerful, especially when it is in front
of their chattel.
Some of the boodschappers began to come down, fluttering on
white and silvery wings, but my voice was so enigmatic that even they dared not
stop me, nor did many people bother to look up at them as hundreds of them came
down and hovered around the crowd. These pale white and dark brown creatures,
many with clean beige, brown, and white skin. They define the very concept of
beauty, beings with large muscular frames, voluptuous bodies, voices as fierce
as mud beasts, and as lovely as metallic harp vogels.
We
often saw the man in his light robe wandering around the exterior of the
building. He strolled through the garden over the sidewalk, tattooed with
flower pedals, a tall figure. One could see him bending over, bizarrely
contorting his body, placing his long thin nose in one of the white
inflorescences, the natural bundle of snowy flowers.
Often he mumbled to himself.
You could hear him praying, chanting to the divine as you
strolled by the priest. We often watched him from the office. Some of my
coworkers thought it was cute to see the old priest seemingly frolicking in
inflorescences. Others found the proclivities of this priest quite strange.
One afternoon I was walking with a coworker to the garden.
So resolved to experience the beauty that we often denied ourselves in our
respective offices.
Her name was Selene.
Earlier, Selene and I were prattling about how beautiful the
garden was with various ivory and waxen trees. The Downy Serviceberry with its
spiraling ivory pedals; the creamy white flowers of the luminous Fringetree.
As we turned the corner, heading towards our office's
exterior, we saw the old priest speaking to himself as the sun lit up his pale
robe. He didn't see us coming around the corner. Selene gripped my arm,
stopping me from proceeding.
I gazed into chestnut eyes.
Her eyes were wide, piercing. Fully aimed at the priest with
his face planted in a white inflorescence as he said,
"In their mouth was found no guile. For they are
without fault before the throne of God. I saw another angel aviate in the bosom
of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach to them that dwell on the
earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people, saying with a
loud voice! Fear God, and give glory to him. For the hour of his judgment is come
and worship him that made heaven, earth, the sea, and the fountains of waters.
Fear God, give glory to him. The hour of his judgment has come. The hour of
judgment has…come…."
Selene and I turned around.
We decided against going to the garden that day.
“When the structure is misapplied or not
applied at all, the demon escapes. When you open the book, you must immediately
apply the structure. Any second you do not...”
These words shook me as he gazed down at me
with a look as serious as the look he gave that hideous woman. This is what the
Prior told me on one of our walks through the dilapidated arches to the vacant
lot at the edge of the Compound.
Once, after a communal isolation gathering,
where we went into the warehouse and stared at the wall for a few hours. One
initiate was standing so close to me that I imagined we appeared as one
initiate. Plus, we were far enough from everyone else that we could converse
with impunity. That’s how it was in the warehouse. She said unto me,
“Isn’t the text supposed to be played with?
When I read the text, I read it from different angles. I turn the book upside
down; I read and reread it from back to front.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I
told her that the deontic law prevents such foolery. Her heretical
interpretation was like acid poured into my ears. Later I told the prior of her
malefaction, and she was rightly punished, but her words lingered. They
lingered like flatulent air. I wondered what the text would look like without
the strict adherence to the science of inference. As my thoughts approached the
black door to that disturbing world of difference, I had to remove myself from
such thought patterns. I wanted to remove myself from those thought patterns,
but I am the thought pattern.
I am the compulsion!
One day I decided to simply apply a minimal
structure to the text to gaze into the haphazard nature of the text in its
natural state. That night I heard a rumbling in my closet.
I began to infer.
To conclude from premises.
I felt sweaty and anxious in my apartment.
I heard a distant thumping coming from the
closet.
I smelled a putrid stench as I approached
the closet.
Therefore I was not alone in my apartment.
Flies trample her skin
as she looks at the phlegm heaped out by her lungs.
She is far from the food desert
where black camels carry WIC
to toddlers in old brick stones.
"Where is the bus?"
The camel wonders
as she carries loads
that could strain a gym rat.
Another child is beaten in a basement, learning to lie,
to hide tears as she cries inside.
There within that house
She learns the lessons
of her grandfather.
He teaches her of the harshness
of the snow-white world.
His hits must be harsh as snow in a harvest, or she would be
eaten in the avalanche of hot white hate.
But little beknownst to him, he teaches her how to lie, how to
hide tears as she cries inside.
The spleen malicious,
rancor of malignity that he
spoke with,
he believed,
emanated from her eyes,
her pupils only recently
opened
stained eye lid steel doors.
She was haggard, spent,
stale.
Fatigued and irked,
with jaded drowsy,
done-in eyes.
He was one who designed
communities founded on forums patriotic to patriarchy; thus, he was not used to
looking into her eyes as an individual.
He
may have chained her soul but not her eyes.
It was not her intention to
be intimidating, standing stigmata stigmatized in his kitchen.
She rents his time,
he takes hers.
It seems as though
he takes pleasure
in taking
her time,
her happiness leaving
her aggravated as
she journeys through the
valley of stress.
I walked down the winding wooden
stairs
draped in the ancestral weight of
centuries of sacrifice.
I was draped in the ancestral weight
of centuries of sacrifice.
The conversation. The jokes about
joking with the deceased mix with the off-pink of the walls covered in images
of relatives in white dresses and black tuxedos. Going to weddings. People in
robes and tasseled hats graduating from high school and college.
These phenomenal occurrences combine
with the body's extended cognition. Cognition extends from touch screens to
synapses as people talk and eat. Shifting shoes on the tan carpet. Shifting
butts on the beige couch.
We are fully immersed in a field
where small talk feels like breezes on the skin and mind. Auditory excitement
connects my ear to the cadence of elders.
Voices that have heard words harsher
than the rough spikey roll-on textured painted wall I leaned on.
I was but another object,
another memory,
another breeze in the field.
When conversation halts, ceases, is
discontinued, all decide to venture out. In search of nutrients! All eyes
turned towards my visage. Stomachs growled and groaned, and children began
crying and hollering.
I looked in the mirror and realized
that 'I see dead people' because my ego is a ghost. That ghost was lost in the
field. The egoistic phantasm beckoned me to run for eyes already feasting.
However, something deep within me
anchored me in this storm of hunger. My desire is irrelevant. My duty is to
fill the stomachs of others. The most important principle is keeping the feast
going.
To do this, one must sacrifice.
You ain't got to forgive shit
You ain't got fucking forgive
Raised in a basement.
Went to school in a pit.
Buried to the neck and kicked
psychologically, my therapist said
Stop letting adolescents
run your life
I said, "But we elected them!"
Daydreams are a series of
Visions in the presence of presence,
highlighting supreme sadism
I still wish to inflict
Because I refuse to forgive.
Sick human remnants
A revenant remains
Suffering
Seen in books
left after good books
got burned aftermath
we had to relearn to shit
In the aftermath of all the shit
Imagine people imprisoned
in aphotic dungeons in
bondage trussed in
tremulously shriveled wire
Tortured by piglet minions
with blow torches.
Setting
Souls on fire,
they set my soul on fire
Can’t walk, my fucking
shoe
souls
on fire
Too roasted to forgive
Pastor told me, 'you going to hell!'
I said, 'no, you going to hell.'
Now get out of my dungeon.
Pastor put people
in aphotic dungeons in
Brain bondage,
Pastor gave her more than
just the tip.
Congregation feels pity
for this form of offender.
She said what about how I feel?
Felt guilt for what he did
Now you wanna
make her feel guilt
Because she won't forgive
She ain't got to forgive shit
You ain't got fucking forgive
Cousin told me, 'you going to hell.'
I said, 'no, you going to hell.'
Now get out of my dungeon.
He couldn’t afford bail
Gun charges caught him
like the police
Law and order did
A cross-over with Poo bear
Fucking mixing different
Piglets
on TV
Watching me,
Piglets face was
maniacal
and twisting.
As I was tremulously shaking
on the crepuscular,
muggy floor with my
back to a stygian, soggy wall.
I need to get out of this dungeon.
A dungeon where
piglet locks you in
Incarceration
Piglet apologizes after murdering
For the sake of protecting property
But I ain't gonna forgive
Balls steeped in shit
Fuck! where are my balls
In piglets mouth
Clean my taint Copper,
or get the fuck out of my
or
Get out of my dungeon
You ain't fucking got to
fucking
forgive
shit
Fuck that
You ain't got to forgive shit
Walking to the gas
station on that fractured khaki-cantaloupe-colored sidewalk meant passing by
the funeral home. An anachronistic building. Its Egyptian-inspired columns are
a few inches beneath intricate window crowns with brackets and pediments.
Cupolas are seemingly composed of bracketed cornices with drunken figures
pointing at pedestrians. The figures pointing fingers seemed to laugh at those
who passed by the octagonal courtyard. The building was anachronistic due to
the surrounding architecture. Silver skyrises seemed to be made entirely of
pure crystalline glass reflecting sun rays like some massive expanse vessel
composed of enormous solar sails venturing off to some nearby universe composed
of sky blue. There are modern hotels with cracked parking lots of a used
charcoal hue.
From the sidewalk in front of the shallow portico with a portes
permanently ouvertes, all one can see is a caliginous abyss. Sometimes when I
am staring into my screen at work, it begins to turn black. Debo fingir that
this keypad, with fading letters next to a box of comfort touch Kleenx
mouchoir, exists. I must pretend that in mijn pasado we were friends. Even as
the black screen fades. I try to remember that I followed him from the library
on the second level to the golden dining hall. He didn’t simply tolerate my
eccentricities, my need to count every door handle and light switch. He laughed
at me because I made farce, comic opera, for him and her. I can’t remember
their names. I have to remember their names. When I forget, or rather remember,
the REAL, the façade fades like the alpha-numeric keys on this keyboard that
has vanished. The tissue box is gone. I awakened in a pyre, in a tornado, in a
coffin. Six feet out of reach and alone. This is my past, the reality debo
firgir, I must pretend, does not exist. I blamed a child for this live burial.
A child who, in trying to survive, hid in a coffin.
He was only freed in his imagination. He imagined a world of
marble and granite, doric säulen and temples, and massive domed mosques
illustrated in turquoise calligraphy. After strolling down cracked argil
streets, he’d enter fantasies. Fantasies of mutual exchanges of friendship.
Fantasies of laughing with... Fantasies of friendship. Now it was the REAL. He
fooled himself; he forgot that he was in a coffin.
“You ready?” She asked.
"Yeah, let's go," I said.
Even though all she had on was a loose T-shirt, sweat pants, and
a beat-up pair of sneakers, she still radiated a star in cotton clothes. Her
eyes, her smile, her energy was all-encompassing. A chocolate hyacinth flood
when our hands embraced. Mortared together like the bricks in the German houses
at the heart of the city. A city of God's people.
Her temples, once old storefronts, or auto garages, are the
spiritual centers we walk by. Next to the decay of a black middle class left by
the Assyrian. Among shattered glass and torn torched tents. We live in
Sennacherib's abandoned camp. There I see a rat scavenging the ruins of
Tenochtitlan. There I see a slave tripping over trash cans after inhaling the
white flight of the devil's powder fleeing the pipe.
None of this bothers us because we see children playing
basketball in the park, an entrepreneur is selling barbeque on the lot of a
chop suey restaurant. Old men are talking and laughing as an old lady strolls
across the sun-beaten pavement. We fly to the emerald park on the love we touch
with eyes and ears. We take seat at the glimmering lake and feed the mallards
sailing across the lake like a family of green-necked yachts.
Helios looked happily down
from
Ra's solar flare pillar
throne.
In that sunlight, rays
radiated on the woodgrain interior of the brewery
where she ate pizza with a
team of ephemera enthusiasts.
Later that night, he met her
intellect.
They had cerebral sex.
He tickled her cogitation.
Rationalizing ruminations
realizing reasoned
reflection is intercourse.
As he pollinated her
speculation with ideations scattered like the dandelion seeds in breezes, he
exhaled.
She mused on his intuitions.
When drunk off of the
Dionysian contemplations on the bed of cellphone towers, they drift into each
other's arms in his dream world.
Although
she told him it was waterproof, he sought to prove it by trial.
Sitting in a dimly lit cafe,
he dropped it in water for a second; it was heterogeneously mixed like the
velvet spring flowers and the bluegrass.
The peaceful quiescence of a mute noiseless quiet enamors her as
she gazed at the landscape of him and the decorative walls. Orchids clustered
at the center of the landscape.
Through the window,
at the epicenter of the wall
she saw ancient apartments
washed out by receding waters.
Receding waters of public disinvestment.
It wasn't waterproof.
I haven't felt like reading
in the past year. I just stare at the page. I have yet to be pierced by Cupid's
arrow made of scripts containing mystic spells that bear trap my eyes on
Phoenician characters acting in a binary black and white DeMille movie Now
Showing in the theatre of my mind years ago.
I am the Numenorian
trampling crabgrass as I escape my destiny in the river city. Canals are blood
vessels the Leviathan that swallowed me swims through.
In the acidic dark meaty
belly,
I pray and reminisce on a
night
when I got out of bed and
sought the one I loved.
When the watchmen of the city found me
I asked them
"Have you seen the one
I love?"
When the fish expelled me, I
drifted to the mucky muddled shore full of bleach-white rib cages imprisoning
grains of sand beneath a garment of scaly skin. I was like a dead fish until my
lover lifted me from that moist arid shore.
My lover took me to our
temple of gingerbread brick and mortar. We showered together in the rays of joy
I experienced when I saw my lover on that Helios-baked shore. I dipped Cupid's
arrow in the wellspring of my heart made of scripts containing mystic spells.
I telekinetically tapped out
hexameters on my lover's rich thighs as I spoke of the watchmen and the
Leviathan. My lover's care filled my rib cage with lungs inhaling the sweet
mist of Aeolus, making love to the sea.
Flower petals forming
Fibonacci fractals
in the shadow of pine tree
needles.
Rabbits race away from their
oncoming
footsteps.
They, a Roman legion of two.
They, a La Grand Familia
together eternally like dope
in the pocket of a dead
Crip.
She, the heroine
He, a busted bag.
She escapes because nothing
can contain her spirit.
She is a fine wine spilled
on the outdated globe,
wasted on this world.
They make Fibonacci fractals
in the dusty Terra firma
as they rush to their spot
Where Apollo constructs fantasies
of a marble temple with
pillars piercing the misty night sky.
The billowy columns are so
high
the lovers believe they must
be the
faces of the gods.
This is the problem,
like the Fibonacci fractals
the fantasy
multiplied past its own
infinity,
pushing her out.
Beneath the periwinkle
clouds
fairy sprinkled
across the dark purple
sky.
Sprinkled like Doritos
crumbs,
crushed into sharp pieces
of dust at the bottom of a bag.
Poured like planets into
my hunger.
I'm Galactus on a binge.
Devouring the information
of Facebook.
Waiting impatiently for a
message from a soon-to-be ex.
Devouring
sad stories,
NPR
got boring,
so
I created my own drama.
Unconsciously breaking
hearts,
so I can write stories.
While I'm living in
Lamentations
in the pitch dark
nightide
where I see people
as cheap liquor sponges.
Bookkeepers crunching the
numbers of beer cans.
Tonight
we break up.
Tonight
I quit my job.
Tonight
I start believing in the Power Cosmic.
Tonight
I destroy worlds.
Tonight
I devour all the pain I created.
Tonight
I kill all inhibitions.
No suppression, just
murder!
And I'm killing all who
witness.
You witless idiots can't
comprehend my hunger.
His name was Moussa
Bocoum. Moussa was an assistant in the court and a jali who favored written
text over speech. This put him at odds with many other jali, especially his
wife Hawa, who saw his preference as a love of death. His wife would tell him,
“Be reasonable, no one
is saying the written is worse, but your privileging has forced the others to
view you as nearly heretical.”
Moussa believed that
their preference for speech over text was the problem. He believed that there
could be as much nuance in a written text as there was the limited sonancy of
speech. There was one who believed as he did. Her name was Bintou.
Bintou worked in the
deepest recesses of the court. She organized trial histories, court finances,
and other repetitively oriented records. She required those kinds of closed-in
spaces. Spaces where she could work unseen by other officials. So she could
read the poetry and plays of Guan Hanqing and Ma Zhiyuan. Her favorite line was
from Ma Zhiyuan’s sanqu poem “Autumn Thoughts”;
“Westward declines the sun
Far, far from home
is the heartbroken one.”
Moussa often heard her
quoting it as he snuck into the back rooms. Full of old paper and dust. So he
might converse with her on subjects ranging from Mali state affairs to his
failing marriage.
One day Hawa saw
Moussa leaving the courthouse with Bintou. Bintou was going to see her uncle
Abu Bakr II off on his voyage. This alone didn’t raise her suspicion. Even
though she felt that Moussa, with his ever-growing love of writing, was pushing
her away. Hawa witnessed Moussa take Bintou’s hand. Hawa felt Bintou’s smile
pierce her like a dagger. Hawa could no more contain her rage than a rainstorm
could contain precipitation or thunder. She stormed toward him, knocking
people, adults, and children, aside like tents before an onslaught of high
winds. Hawa told Moussa six simple words before raging back to her home, “I
divorce you! I divorce you! I divorce you!” With that, Moussa ran toward
Bintou.
Benedetto Croce was initially a supporter of
fascism until he realized the abject horror of fascism. He came up with the
term "onagrocrazia," which means government by asses. Which best
describes Mussolini's government.
Croce broke with a
friend he had known for years because his friend remained a fascist. That
friend was Giovanni Gentile. While Croce was supporting Antifa and writing
anti-fascist works, even being one of the only non-Jewish intellectuals to not
do one of those "racial background" checks, Gentile was a proponent
of a Berkeleyan sort of idealism. Everything was a product of the mind.
Maybe it's better to say
a 'Hegelianism' with a god the fascists created. Croce rejected the absolute
solipsism of his former asshole friend, fascist Giovanni Gentile, as nothing
more than Schopenhauer's will. Incidentally, in Schopenhauer's will, he left
everything to no one because no one loved him, and he believed that the
pleasures of the world could only bring pain. To which Pinhead of the Cenobites
responded;
“Our only real pleasure is to squander our
resources to no purpose, just as if a wound were bleeding away inside us; we
always want to be sure of the uselessness or the ruinousness of our
extravagance.”
She was sweaty, in pain,
relieved, and full of anxiety. The doctor had been looking at her newborn baby
for a few seconds, but those seconds felt like an eternity. The doctor's
eyebrows and cheek skin were so contorted that it seemed as though he witnessed
a poltergeist taking a shit. He whispered, "what the fuck?"
Then the
doctor looked up at her holding what could only be described as a tiny
policeman. He looked at the mother while attempting a smile faker than Joe
Biden's apology to Anita Hill, looked at her, and said,
"Congratulations!
It’s a
cop!"
The woman
and her partner raised the little cop as best they could. They tried to keep
from reading Miranda Rights to children he had pulled over on his tricycle.
Years
later, during a town hall. A civil rights protester would yell.
"You
can stop being a cop! I can't stop being black! It's not like you were born a
cop!"
That's
when the one counterargument stood up and spoke.
Used
to go to this gas station's bargain bin to get candied confectious sugary
treats. This bin had some bargains.
You'd trade your soul so much that
it might INCREASE in value.
But
not as valuable as the skittles, M&Ms, and twixing-Twinkies galore. I dug
into that chocolate batch of bunches of fruity fructose tooth assassins like
Mozart and James Joyce at a poopy soup pool party.
Oh, how I miss the
coprophiliac, scatophiliological scat party of cholesterol-coded chocolate
treats!
Of
course, there were the haters.
Those
who said,
"You
know that bin littered with cracked skittles, the sinful Valentine’s Day candy
that got left behind after an esophageal rapture, and the remains of once-proud
tootsie rolls turned dried silly putty is the trash can, right?"
Those
are the elitist people who eat off the shelves,
shelves
closed off to me.
Because
I'm
not allowed in the gas station.
The apartment was littered with porno magazines and towels. From
one of those cum ridden goo cloths was birthed a child. He erupted from the
laundry bin a fully formed baby man. When his single father arrived home, he
was flabbergasted.
"A child, in this
my home?"
For a second, He
thought that someone must have broken in and left a baby in the apartment. But
there were no signs of forced entry. And who the fuck just leaves a random ass
baby in someone’s house. He then realized that the child was birthed from one
of his jack-off towels drenched in his man goo.
Finally, there was
proof of the anti-abortion activist’s claims of life. Anything the semen
touches will become a baby.
Masturbation must be made illegal!
I used to know this street corner preacher who called his church the
G-spot. He meant
"God spot."
The one place in the city where you could find
the Lord.
He'd go to downtown
street corners and yell,
"Come to my G-spot!"
As women ambulated by, like squirrels out of
the way of gas-guzzling aluminum tank cans, he'd call out to them,
"Ladies, my G-spot is the only place where you will find
your lord and savior!"
Crowds formed like piles of dead skin left by
someone with terrible eczema.
"Fellas, you really need to enter my G-spot. Out there fornicating
when you should be enjoying the glory and grace of my G-spot."
I wanted
to change my image
from the
inside out
so I
reached into my mouth.
The
journey down
my
esophagus
was
harrowing.
I allied
with viruses and bacteria to battle scores of egregious germs.
Germs
hiding under
my very
own fingernails.
In
continuous campaigns
over
coarse terrains
we
engaged in stridulent contests
of
squally combat
with an
infinitesimally
infinite infantry
of immune
cells.
Those
conspiratorially conservative
lymphocytic
knights
of that
network
of fleshy
traditionalism!
There were so many
sphinx guarded sphincters
we nearly gave up our journey
to change myself
from the inside.
I gave
many arousing
spiritual sphincter
relaxing speeches,
but it
was the hemorrhoid
surging
almost surfing forth,
a raging,
painful pustule,
puffing
forth
that
said,
"To
the anus!
The last
sphincter!"
We contorted like contortionist snakes as we slipped
through the small intestine
and
the largess of that
larger
large intestine.
When we
came
to the
final sphincter
I gripped
those pink handlebars
and
pulled
that flexed ring of muscle all the way back through.
Yes,
my mouth
is now a sphincter.
From a
black hole to an anus.
Nature loves
dark regions that spew hot particles!
But
I wasn't
changed enough.
I merely
put my bursting boney skeletal muscle on the outside. While my clothes are on
the inside.
I simply
inverted the structure.
So I fixed this problematic problem
by sewing my mouth
shut.
Now I eat
and shit
out of
the same orifice
like the
humble sea cucumber
or the
noble jellyfish.
All the black estrella, plank stars
baisser les yeux,
eyes shooting down German Sports
sights burn through the dermis of a man trapped in the search for a new
meaning.
My passion is a dimming bulb; not
enough Watts to see that
Ik heb basta.
Pero, suficiente no es suficiente.
I need more as fumble my pride on
the catwalk interview. Born dressed to kill, in all black over my black suit.
The interrogator had the job-weary
faded fabric wrinkles of an office chair seat on his face. Years of being used
as an office chair cover. I wanted to be an office chair cover, so I Kris Kross
Jump jumped into the talking about myself. I let my ego bounce about. For 45
minutes, it was a 90s Pop, R&B video background singer.
As I attempted to manage
correspondences leaping from thought to thought.
Sus ojos, his eyes, were overrun
with complaints and queries
searing into my psyche
his eyes, a meth-addled construction
worker jack hammering towards the lizard kingdom
in the center of that hollow earth
where cryptocurrency's price never
plummets
like the drool dangling from the
interviewer's face
as I explained my process for
preparing letters, presentations, and reports
you see
I write them,
Well, actually, I type them,
slow and steady just as one
instructs classes (both in-person and online) 25 to 30 students,
Lesson planning, grading papers.
Utilizing PowerPoint, Excel,
Vivisect with Vlookup
Vinden various visual images
(diagrams, pictures, and movies) to address students with different learning
styles, lifestyles, and pasts
in the needed skills of
philosophical inquiry.
Getting specific, using quantified
variables over non-logical objects, ordinary entities, calculitically using
sentences that contain variables. Instead of propositions like
"'This interview' is 'going
nowhere.'"
We can now have expressions in the
form
"there exists x such that x is
'this interview' and x is 'going nowhere,"
where “there exists” is a
quantifier,
while x is a variable.
('This interview' is the subject,
and going 'nowhere' is the predicate).
Or not; they haven't let me teach
Logic since he retired.
Liaising with staff, suppliers, and
clients
Implementing and maintaining
procedures.
Here I noticed the interrogator,
with airport conveyer belt eyes toting bags.
His eyes gave into the seductive
power of my extraordinarily boring content.
He wandered the murky dream streets
of dream city
where dream cops dream of having
better jobs,
dream homeless and dream unemployed
dream about having jobs, goals, and homes that they actually want.
Long had he drifted on the heavy
storm-battered sea.
So I picked up his hot black coffee,
took a gas station big gulp, and spit it in his face.
Right thought the screen. Did I
mention that this was a Zoom interview?
Wake
up!
Let me tell you about this wide
range of software packages.
I get Suite with Microsoft,
Je te fait un bisou,
Bisame baby.
Select some set in Jenzabar CX
(Live), and let's watch that Microsoft SQL Server database software perform
such a broad range of data migration tasks that our analytical predilections
will become wetter than Joe Rogan's Head.
Nough
said!
I perform a wide range of data
migration tasks.
I’m used to input college housing
and admissions applications into the University’s database
as I attend meetings with senior
management
after skittering through the digital
archives
where files converse with each other
about how no one has touched them in ages past
where they were paper
put in paper
surrounded by paper,
encased, cased in torn time-stained
paper. The tattered tinted paper has lost so much weight because it must use
itself to send correspondences to files folders away. The files annotate and
note take until they fade into oblivion
where I’ve tossed them
as I assist the organization's
functions by keeping records up to date.
Utilizing active learning, whatever
the fuck that means, and letting students take responsibility
like Instagram poetry,
“Student! You create the class
the meaning
everything!
Here are some random meaningless,
undescriptive bullshit lines.
Create your own meaning!
But seriously. That ain’t the rigid
discipline that is fucking philosophy.
But seriously. That ain’t poetry!
But seriously. All the rules and
regulations are listed in the syllabus. And this bus ain’t silly it’s a serious
bus.
Papers will measure your success
indicating the desired change,
indicating if you understood the
rubric and the lesson.
Indicating if…
Did I get the job?
The interviewer stopped me
and inquired as to
"What the fuck does teaching or
databases have to do with the job?"
To which I responded, “What job am I
interviewing for again?”
To which he antwoord, “If you don’t
know, I mean…..”
I'll tell a story like a perforated colon coming into your
scattered brains. A loose grouping of buckshot further splattering thoughts, shattering
veins. Which are eviscerated like you woke up at 5:40 am. Threw on the dirty
clothes you wore the day before because you work in a warehouse, and if anybody
judges the way you smell, especially anybody over 30, then they seriously need
to question the decisions they made in life. Peregrinating out of the house
into the chilly natural standpoint. "Peregrination,"
yeah, you ain't never heard of that word.
It's from the French word for pilgrimage because it is truly a religious
experience to work where I worked.
Not the enlightening experience where you see
Jesus healing a school of lepers with leukemia in Lithuania. It is the kind of
religious experience where your mom makes you take a bath in the dirty
bathwater that everybody just used. But you don't take a bath; you just stare
at the greywater, waiting. Waiting until you were there long enough to tell a
believable lie. Then your parents drag your stinking little body to church.
Smelling like ass through those thin cotton nylon pants. Going to work at that
warehouse was that kind of religious experience.
Got in a caliginous Camry coup. Started the
car and turned on NPR because I'm an inept bleeding heart. Liberal enough to
complain about poverty and able to hate on our capitalist overlords who would still
be filthy rich even if they invested in the underprivileged a little more, but
still enough of a piece of shit to not have an issue with unpleasant design. That's what cities do to force the homeless away
from places where we can see them. Like park and bus stop benches with the
armrest in the center that makes it hard for people to sleep there unless they
have spines that curve like a parabola.
Needless to say, I'll say it anyway, I didn't
want to work. I was mad, hot as Syrian civilians firebombed by Assad. Hot as a
Philly helicopter bomb dropped on kids and they mommas in urban brick and stone
buildings. But you know what? This was my last day of work, and when I got to
work, I was going to tell my supervisor, Don't
test me! Like I told the ACT Procter. By the way, I did very poorly on the ACT. I suck at test-taking. Not
sure if my poor performance was from not studying or if it was from me randomly
filling every circle, so I couldn't possibly be wrong. You ever make images
with the ABCD answer dots? I drew a snake before I filled the rest of the
circles in. Those graphite circles were a clue, a road to my future. I
drove down that road north to Morgoth. Down streets caliginous, malicious as my
style is stylish as a pile of platinum scripture. These streets were bestial,
like that place where Frankenstein's monster fights against Herbert West's
monsters with a hatchet. That's where we get the term 'bury the hatchet.'' The supervisor was that which lurked in the
cinereal cubicle. An unctuous prison encampment where he launched nooses. He
was one of those creatures from the Isthmus on vacation in Sheol. I seriously
considered pooping on a portrait of his family, but he was so monstrously
hideous that he would have thought that I cleaned it.
I arrived at work early as an abortion. That
whole job felt like an abortion. Because I had to take orders from an abortion.
I was disheveled, appearing derelict, revealing the badge, the chain to this
unctuous Isthmus prison encampment. I ambulated up the stairway, which was pale
and never-ending like a depressed Shahrazad reciting Silvia Plath's poetry on
the gallows. See! That ‘nooses’ metaphor
makes sense now, right? In the office, one gets the BENS because one is
suffocated under mountains of paper and fountains of files. I crept into the
supervisor's cubicle. I really wanted to tell him that he was a terrible sexist
gerbil man-monster face doo doo-headed, shit-nosed manatee-mouthed molasses
screwdriver, gerrymandered fast spasm.
These would be the torpedoes I'd spit.
Grammatically extraordinarily seditious syntax. But I just asked the ogre for
an assignment, and as I was drowning on the production floor, he sent me to the
darkest, coldest storage room in the building. The place where we kept the burn files. Files burned in a previous
conflagration. Shelved in boxes on a steel meshed floor. He had a gaze as
caliginous and malicious as my style is stylish as a pile of shit. Truly felt
like a lukewarm pile of shit picked up like dreams dashed and crumbled into the
final level of Sheol. I resided in the final circle, ice bathing with the
devil.
Tantamani sipped tnmw (beer) from a chalice etched with images
of decadent kings and queens. He drank the beer with a concubine as he reminisced.
Both reminisced on the temple floor, clasping each other’s hands so tightly
that their combined hands resembled a flower bud about to blossom.
Tantamani thought about Taharqa’s error,
helping the Canaanites, going to aid the Semitics.
“Where Sennacherib
pushed us back, the beast Esarhaddon died trying to rout us, and his task was
nearly completed!”
Tantamani, still holding his lover’s hand,
arose from the stone floor as hard as the will of this Egyptian king. His
concubine, with skin as dark and smooth as chestnut-painted fabrics, was adored
in cobalt blue and gainsboro black cylinder beads, two breast caps, and two
strings of Mitra beads patterned in a decorated tin-glazed earthenware style.
Like her once conservative kalasiris, which she stowed away in a closet, never
to be seen again, she too would be forgotten by history, but not by Tantamani,
adorned in a gold embroidered loincloth with chest and arms sculpted from
jasper ore. Rising together, they strolled to an edifice framed in images of
the builders of the temples and the priests of Napata. They gazed at the
immense pyramids of the previous 24 dynasties, the sphinx of Taharqa, and the
great Nile. Amazed at even the prospect of the destruction, the Assyrian
Asurbanipal would visit on the great Egyptian empire. Particularly after the
Assyrian puppet Necho 1 was killed in Tantamani’s campaign on the lower Nile.
The Akkadian would show no mercy.
Tantamani knew he had to secure the temple of
Dedun. Dedun housed Napata’s most sacred records. The records were stored in
the incense chamber. Incense gathered from the Nubian countryside made its way
to Taizong’s great Tang Empire and to the Etruscan kingdom. It is said that one
can inhale the secrets of Nubia, indeed the secrets of many deities, through
her incense. Asurbanipal even stated in his chronicles,
“To breathe the air of
Dedun is to have experienced the most intimate moments of Ashur.”
According to legend, as long as the incense
shrine remained untouched by foreign kings, then the dynasty was safe.
Generally, this was dismissed as a myth until the Asurbanipal was at the gates.
The night before the invasion and the final
routing of the Nubians, Tantamani decreed that the historical and classified
records be moved to Kerma, present-day Doukki Gel. These records held the
secret formula for the creation of the incense of Dedun.
On the way, the records were lost. Treacherous
soldiers, bribed by the Assyrians, stole the records. Tantamani later lamented
over the loss of the secrets of Dedun. However, in his lament, there was a
surging torrent of furious indignation. He swore to his concubine that he would
not rest until he retrieved every lost record!
The records vanished from history until 1760.
The philosopher Tai Chen[7]
was returning home after strolling through the hidden corners of the hutong
alleyways, traditional courtyard houses, and the narrow corridors of Beijing.
Chen noticed a black man squatting next to versed quartos and old dusty books
stacked in front of a wall next to him. Chen, in a gainsboro black suit,
approached this squatting man with his head between his knees. When Chen spoke,
the man raised his head. Chen could see the sadness of a thousand years in the
wrinkles of the man’s profile. Chen gazed upon wrinkles like worn roads through
an ancient forest. Chen’s admiration engulfed gaze fell on the venerable crow’s
feet that somehow gave off an air of imminence, of power.
Chen, a mathematician with a passion for collecting antique
books, decided to purchase one of the quartos from this lamenting man. The man
didn’t smile, stating, “It is nearly time to rest!”
[1] when Normal Lear was ruling
the television
screen.
George
Jefferson was lean
and meaner than
Danny Glover in Switchback.
Archer Bunker
was getting jibes in on dingbats.
[2] Flying higher than tribes of F-22s.
Expansive as
Amazonian
forests
deforested into a desert.
Then back to a reservoir
of emerald
cellulose feathers, beyond better.
Rocking shoes
expensive as
the Joint
Strike Fighter
or things
anointed by the first cenobites.
[3] Grievances are
handled in ways
freaking
ending these pains without the deficit spending.
Fuck
a conservative sentinel.
I'm
liberal with prolix words in fentanyl
lased
rituals I call sentences.
Sentenced
to habitual
visuals
of individuals in the citadel.
[5] Qur'an 4:75
[6] The warrior’s name was Bayajidda. He brought some water to
the old woman at the bar. The old woman told the queen that her guest had
beheaded the serpent and opened the gates of the well again. Daurama summoned
Bayajidda to her court. When he arrived, he presented the head of Sarki to
Daurama.
[7] Tai Chen would annotate a
Dictionary of Dialects (Fang-Yen),
and he would publish the Discussions of
Human Nature in Appendix I of the
Book of Changes. Chen believed that principle and ether, or reality, to be
one and indivisible. He believed that book represented a concrete view of his
materialistic theory of reality. If all is one, all cultures, histories, and
memories must be one as well.
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