It's 9/11 Weather in San Francisco on July 4, 2010
Improvise with a plan. I'd throw you a ball
but they all have handles and I can't get a grip.
Budgetary addiction to corporate sponsorship. Slow day
at the car wash across the street wears make-up
like a ball player. No one is counting the small boned
bodies. Only at night does the Pentagon
land its bodies home. Unzip at the margins. He came
out as a woman, spurring Louis to arm the American
revolutionaries. Iceland exhumes a grandmaster. She's drunk
and I'm buying us a drink, sitting on a barstool. She's
standing and leans her crotch on my knee. Describing
sounds to a mechanic. Describing symptoms to a doctor.
Thanks a lot. Thank you very much. The Evil Genius
has mind-merged with the nation's supply
of chicken feed. We are conquered by the eggs.
Hugging and kissing on TV. I am watching TV alone.
The flow charts that regulate human touch. Take a chair.
Drink your coffee. We don't need to talk every minute.
Help yourself to my bedroom knowing I won't take
the sofa bed.
Cage's foot-tappin' orchestrals. No, I don't think
it's fair to say that Bowles' music is a goldenrod
American movie score subtitled in French & Arabic.
What am I to do with all these old plastic bags? Stay hungry.
Full stomachs and sleep are for the young and the old. I am
neither. I am one of chance operation's
valentines out of season, muted amid shuffled arias
afternoon piano. There are voices beneath the music
deciding what would go on the ship before it came in. Lizard
oils. Just a little storm looking for some shelter. Down here
we don't feel tax cuts. We feel budget cuts. Tired-wired.
Milky roadway. Flagellants and rowdy women. Looting
orgies in houses of the plague dead. Some women just
don't mix. Can't you just be my secret? She doesn't want
to be seen as my girlfriend or my whore, she says. Sitting in church
she completes the weekly puzzle between amens. Sex advice
from God. Ah, such beautiful apostasy. Everything is about religion
except this. The university of desire's seismic pussy. Other
guitarists. Mariachis cruise la Misión rectory outlets of cool.
We belong nowhere. "Harold, that was your last date."
Testify!
To live by the first hand of Jehovah
The invisible white penguin of the Vedas
A blackavised history of sperm
Like a standby trinity
A galley of sitar-playing oarsmen
Fear 13 shells
A world without blues
Without yellow rays of light
Is an ark without stone tablets
The Perigee of Salt
Not to the news of disproportionate flyswatters
Hindi-pop alarm clock and I'm up.
Whatta I want from me? To design houses
nobody found their way out of, not without reasonable certainty?
1. Turkish Airlines to ban red lipstick
2. There is no God but Gold and Corporate Personhood is Its prophet
3. Lauryn Hill "intended" to pay her taxes
Lawnmowers left me sand
man standing on his head
hen red eye whites
spy out. South
is uphill from here.
From my San Francisco kitchen window out above my sink over there's
an early 21st century "Toledo window box." 13
the new Black Sabbath album:
Every time you think, Oh no did Ozzy
really just rhyme those three words, you remember
Black Sabbath owns that.
Every time you're about to name that riff
you can't because it's just that new Sabbath riff
sounds so Black Sabbath.
If I write fast enough the scary people won't catch me
People are staring they don't know they are staring at me.
She stole some of her stars from another galaxy ... billion year flirtations...
Let's see what happens:
1. Childhoods on screens
2. Predator drones
3. The Theme(s)
Christine Story wants to read long sentences.
She is a pain theorist.
Having grown up reading the channel guide
that Tight Wet Holes was on-demand
The fear of hearing test results
forgetting which is good and which is bad
Which is thinly sliced European meat.
Another front-line troop doesn't turn in a deserter
Back-line troops do
don't know that desertion is the cycle of service and of leadership.
The Northern Ireland summit
is not a rush to war. Still
I can't afford not to plan for my death. I am told
my death will decipher the cypher of my life.
I do the seedpod boogie as I run dosages down streets, I
let's me go reptile, I
loves to be loved
Injecting itself, music's cold fusion reaction is where it gets heard.
[He spoke to her through a magazine photo.]
We wove some fabric
according to Leviticus.
How, you ask us?
We don't know.
The color purple was the foulest odor of the ancient world.
A whole generation now dreams only of killing its president.
When I was asked
about my life
I had time to figure out
if I still had one.
Unwanted martyrs.
We need to hire proper mourners. Young people don't know how to cry anymore.
Moments before the blockbuster summer movie, then
sunshine after rain. Standing offer to give those judges
tours of the prison's infirmary. Guardrails work the metadata on US phone calls.
Awaiting trial in Texas is the founder of ProjectPM.
Barret Brown has been arrested by the FBI and indicted three times.
He faces up to 105 years in prison for being an investigative journalist, aged 31.
Furnished as if I were lived in
I am a nickel less than darkness.
The form closes in on its only idea. There used to be empty spaces in my music.
But now it's full up without the guts to stand by the shapes. I am caterwauled in.
Our emissions are not under control. Battery is our electric future.
Mutually assured devotion is
all we have left.
Ted Koppel is a pessimist
said so on the last show
of Talk of the Nation.
An historic week in the Supreme Court of the United States
- more penny dailies for Baudelaire -
I can't hear NPR over the shopping cart of bottles.
Ted Koppel is heartened by the tolerance of the youth.
(No more metaphors with eggs.)
Electric bass is the lead guitar on "Something."
Abbey Road is The Beatles' bass guitar album.
Abraxas is the 2013 heat wave in a California
sunny window lounger I can't sit still in any longer.
(No more metaphors of trees.)
Brad Wilk is respectfully in the Bill Ward tradition
even in the mix
heavy metal violins hint
beneath guitars and bass - thank you, Rick Rubin.
The hierarchy of conjunctions in film credits, especially for writers
is an ankle-deep baton to twirl in the cotton candy Spun.
Watch me pink myself up from the floor.
Take little bites. Always be taking little bites.
Saxophones blow like it's the Seventies in here or something worse. What did
Sartre say about Mallarmé and Anarchism?
"There is only one man who has the right to be an anarchist, Me,
the Poet, since I alone make a product that society does not want,
in exchange for which it does not give me anything to live on."
Because the eyes of the world are watching
watching now from Gabriel's family snapshot.
Capital is communal. Just drive the car. Drop off and pick up.
Take off glasses to better hear the music: "Effigies of Me" by The Latest Toy.
"The gaining of knowledge should be smelly," said the Librarian.
Everything was a long time ago. What it was. Contaminated trash cans.
And the album ends with rain and bells
And the album begins with a song the same shape and texture
as the first ever Black Sabbath song.
Euro-drunks in the sun. I am reminded
to light up once the breeze kicks up. Close
my eyes inside with the lights on and listen. The pope is in a press
conference on a plane. You know which one. America
is not a jar of mayonnaise. Not anymore it can't be.
