04 Big Bag O' Frag Meant
Class consciousness,
Puffy proletarian fingertips,
Clammy clumsy capital
Carresses the rest of the hand
That will wed,
Ownership shifted and dowry debt delivered.
Ideally democracy makes us
Owners of our governance,
As does skill at free will,
But - "this is really happening."
So we are owners of our infrastructure
But its being sold out from under.
The holy name of Capital and a
Fully privatized food supply.
----------------------
Concrete cancers and cinderblock coughs.
Butterfly artillery migration exploding across the desert.
Pre-eminent promontory of plastic parliaments,
Pitiful in their powerful petulance.
Ragged waving raven raiments,
Reigning in elements of irreverent recompense.
-----------------
A crash, a fall, an armageddonish implosion smelling of crispy factory fresh bacon served every morning.
Visions of suburbia's summer mornings reach the processing plants, stamped on the packaged brains.
The dream is simple, just food and safety.
----------------------
Music.
Music like a fool's errand,
As if in the Tarot deck with one foot over the cliff-face,
Or leaves scattering in their endless race to the green-brown ground.
This constant toil, in my own head filled with rocky soil, a whistling boil.
Get along, get along,
Gotta gotta keep going on.
The music plays a different tune,
The same old song.
--------------
Poverty like a grinding sound out of the night,
Class warfare upon you and you don't know how to fight.
Which side are you on; are there even lines being drawn?
How long can decision be voided, is it worth it?
Can one so easily let slip the back rent - there is no other form of payment.
If I want my own space there is none vacant.
I'm just a tenant, there are
No stewards.
---------------
Grid-pattern overlay
Saves the day for tomorrow,
Digital diaries diagram entireties,
Cartesian coordinates complain
Of carrying universes,
Pitiless infinite mysteries
In us always.
-----------------
Oh Voltaire
"Belly to belly with a good woman"
thought the good doctor.
But who knows if he knew what good was then,
Hell-for-high and watered-down-drunk,
He was robbing the poor - the poor! -
To see the Bad Sherriff scramble,
Just a hood, he was...
But does being poor make one good?
Nah.
Just an easy target.
So the good doctor changed.
Put on a shirt and tie, got a bum job
And began to rattle on his poor cage with a tire iron.
"Stomped on the terra" hah!
Conrad or Orwell would have something to say about throwing your weight around like that, man.
But : they : I just dunno.
Tend my own garden. The world is just too wide.
-------------------------------
Meditation
Picture yourself dreaming.
Imagine, as if in a recording,
The sight of your soft sleeping.
Twisted sheets wrapped round, repeating.
Let your focus drift,
Add a rhythm to your breathing.
Switch from that to images and back,
Make a moment with indefinable meaning.
That's it, so much more real, yes yes -
The moon has broken through the ceiling.
The timber'd roof it is receding,
Twisted vines wrapped round, repeating,
Coiling round the timbers, bleeding,
Sap onto the floor that needs cleaning,
Sticking up the covers of books that need reading.
--------------------
Alan Watts
A net, consciousness,
slapped to self like batter to a griddle
its an old old code and we're stuck here in the middle.
Nonsense, this page is just bubbling mumbling gibberish.
I mean it ('cept for that last bit).
A net, attention creating focus,
feedback gripping synapse and you can't let go.
"Been a rough week." the birds twitter.
I feel fragile, like sunbeams,
its like I don't believe its summer...
in my mind moonlight memories of the very alive ghost of my brother.
Back not - as I fancy, from the ether - but from Iraq.
------A net - a ------conversations - vacant locus,
------a ----- self - ----- melted - to its attentions.
A - self - disappeared -- molten - with its focus
a - ____ - with all ------ making - itself known
self with - the scary ---- mixed - sad-faced emotions
____ - - - connotations -- meaning - blank connotations
with
A net, feedback gripping synapse
I mean it, just study this last hit.
It HAS been a horribly rough week, even if the birds begin to disagree.
My mind has been lost to strange rhythms,
symbols flowing endlessly
so many languages in infinity
shape is a meaning
texture a symbol re-read by fingertips.
The feel of rock on skin translates into the meaning
of the word "rock" and "skin" and "feel"
and into the words for such things from there -
but every translation is one step further away,
Or rather the meanings change from
Filter to filter, context to context.
And to me, to my, to this self,
this rough, for-the-birds week,
What does the world brother mean,
to me, to my, to this self...
My mind has been lost to strange rhythms,
Disturbed by diurnal dichotomies,
Stuck (as always, ironically) seeing not the horns of the dilemma,
but the whole bull, shit and all.
Still the birds tweet,
translating to myself their sound represents a rough week.
What does my dead-alive brother want with me,
I'm afraid, and I will see.
Still alive - isolationist,
friends and family dropping like flies,
this is no way to survive.
-----------------
5 grand and 5 years
Five grand and five years
"Well the money doesn't really matter
there's loans for that sort of thing."
"And five years?"
"A good chunk of time - but again,
nothing serious."
But to wait so long for a child of your (plural) own
WHILE raising someone else's children
YET really not invited to truly be a father figure.
Let's face it, finally, let's face it: good reasons to balk.
It wasn't the perfect plan or bargain that I so long wanted it to be...
Anything for love, but let's face it - good reason to hesitate.
Screaming child,
someone else's screaming child
and my heart is a selfish and jealous one,
Universal love is not condoned.
"Think of me first"
"Look for me first in any crowded room"
Dunno, I saw her children as her
and I did begin to love them (sigh, miss them too) but...
Even if I had been able, they still might not have.
They had a good father, I guess. (but he was a bad Man)
And five years-ish, one child, for my own...to start...
The truth is somewhere in the middle, of course.
It is the contents of a silk purse poured into a sow's ear.
Puffy proletarian fingertips,
Clammy clumsy capital
Carresses the rest of the hand
That will wed,
Ownership shifted and dowry debt delivered.
Ideally democracy makes us
Owners of our governance,
As does skill at free will,
But - "this is really happening."
So we are owners of our infrastructure
But its being sold out from under.
The holy name of Capital and a
Fully privatized food supply.
----------------------
Concrete cancers and cinderblock coughs.
Butterfly artillery migration exploding across the desert.
Pre-eminent promontory of plastic parliaments,
Pitiful in their powerful petulance.
Ragged waving raven raiments,
Reigning in elements of irreverent recompense.
-----------------
A crash, a fall, an armageddonish implosion smelling of crispy factory fresh bacon served every morning.
Visions of suburbia's summer mornings reach the processing plants, stamped on the packaged brains.
The dream is simple, just food and safety.
----------------------
Music.
Music like a fool's errand,
As if in the Tarot deck with one foot over the cliff-face,
Or leaves scattering in their endless race to the green-brown ground.
This constant toil, in my own head filled with rocky soil, a whistling boil.
Get along, get along,
Gotta gotta keep going on.
The music plays a different tune,
The same old song.
--------------
Poverty like a grinding sound out of the night,
Class warfare upon you and you don't know how to fight.
Which side are you on; are there even lines being drawn?
How long can decision be voided, is it worth it?
Can one so easily let slip the back rent - there is no other form of payment.
If I want my own space there is none vacant.
I'm just a tenant, there are
No stewards.
---------------
Grid-pattern overlay
Saves the day for tomorrow,
Digital diaries diagram entireties,
Cartesian coordinates complain
Of carrying universes,
Pitiless infinite mysteries
In us always.
-----------------
Oh Voltaire
"Belly to belly with a good woman"
thought the good doctor.
But who knows if he knew what good was then,
Hell-for-high and watered-down-drunk,
He was robbing the poor - the poor! -
To see the Bad Sherriff scramble,
Just a hood, he was...
But does being poor make one good?
Nah.
Just an easy target.
So the good doctor changed.
Put on a shirt and tie, got a bum job
And began to rattle on his poor cage with a tire iron.
"Stomped on the terra" hah!
Conrad or Orwell would have something to say about throwing your weight around like that, man.
But : they : I just dunno.
Tend my own garden. The world is just too wide.
-------------------------------
Meditation
Picture yourself dreaming.
Imagine, as if in a recording,
The sight of your soft sleeping.
Twisted sheets wrapped round, repeating.
Let your focus drift,
Add a rhythm to your breathing.
Switch from that to images and back,
Make a moment with indefinable meaning.
That's it, so much more real, yes yes -
The moon has broken through the ceiling.
The timber'd roof it is receding,
Twisted vines wrapped round, repeating,
Coiling round the timbers, bleeding,
Sap onto the floor that needs cleaning,
Sticking up the covers of books that need reading.
--------------------
Alan Watts
A net, consciousness,
slapped to self like batter to a griddle
its an old old code and we're stuck here in the middle.
Nonsense, this page is just bubbling mumbling gibberish.
I mean it ('cept for that last bit).
A net, attention creating focus,
feedback gripping synapse and you can't let go.
"Been a rough week." the birds twitter.
I feel fragile, like sunbeams,
its like I don't believe its summer...
in my mind moonlight memories of the very alive ghost of my brother.
Back not - as I fancy, from the ether - but from Iraq.
------A net - a ------conversations - vacant locus,
------a ----- self - ----- melted - to its attentions.
A - self - disappeared -- molten - with its focus
a - ____ - with all ------ making - itself known
self with - the scary ---- mixed - sad-faced emotions
____ - - - connotations -- meaning - blank connotations
with
A net, feedback gripping synapse
I mean it, just study this last hit.
It HAS been a horribly rough week, even if the birds begin to disagree.
My mind has been lost to strange rhythms,
symbols flowing endlessly
so many languages in infinity
shape is a meaning
texture a symbol re-read by fingertips.
The feel of rock on skin translates into the meaning
of the word "rock" and "skin" and "feel"
and into the words for such things from there -
but every translation is one step further away,
Or rather the meanings change from
Filter to filter, context to context.
And to me, to my, to this self,
this rough, for-the-birds week,
What does the world brother mean,
to me, to my, to this self...
My mind has been lost to strange rhythms,
Disturbed by diurnal dichotomies,
Stuck (as always, ironically) seeing not the horns of the dilemma,
but the whole bull, shit and all.
Still the birds tweet,
translating to myself their sound represents a rough week.
What does my dead-alive brother want with me,
I'm afraid, and I will see.
Still alive - isolationist,
friends and family dropping like flies,
this is no way to survive.
-----------------
5 grand and 5 years
Five grand and five years
"Well the money doesn't really matter
there's loans for that sort of thing."
"And five years?"
"A good chunk of time - but again,
nothing serious."
But to wait so long for a child of your (plural) own
WHILE raising someone else's children
YET really not invited to truly be a father figure.
Let's face it, finally, let's face it: good reasons to balk.
It wasn't the perfect plan or bargain that I so long wanted it to be...
Anything for love, but let's face it - good reason to hesitate.
Screaming child,
someone else's screaming child
and my heart is a selfish and jealous one,
Universal love is not condoned.
"Think of me first"
"Look for me first in any crowded room"
Dunno, I saw her children as her
and I did begin to love them (sigh, miss them too) but...
Even if I had been able, they still might not have.
They had a good father, I guess. (but he was a bad Man)
And five years-ish, one child, for my own...to start...
The truth is somewhere in the middle, of course.
It is the contents of a silk purse poured into a sow's ear.