Husserl's Gramophone

Okay, so the guy seated across from me isn’t all there; he’s drifting in and out of a fugue, his mind a scrabble-board missing several indispensable vowels, a few consonants, too. He’s jabbering on about a long lost brother who’s been exiled from his father’s house, younger or older, I’m not sure, and a sister-in-law whom he finds abhorrently abhorrent. The way I see it is he’s making all this up, splitting up his ego into idealizations of people that he either hates or adores, the two seemingly interchangeable. The way I figure it he’s so far gone, so scrabbled, so lacking in vowels and consonants that he can’t differentiate between a contrapuntal fugue and a real honest to good memory, so he’s making all this up in an attempt to create a liveable world picture, a safe haven for fugues and missing vowels. If this is Husserl’s middle-stream where self-reflection is carried out, the phenomenological watershed, the epoche, then I’m in for big trouble. Maybe, just perhaps, what Husserl was referring to was a fugue state, a contrapuntal fugue where self-reflection and split-egos come together to form some Derridian gramophone. Okay, so I’m seated across from myself drifting in and out of Husserl’s gramophone and the sign over the cistern says, directions for the collection of midstream urine. What to do next? What to do?

Funny That You Should Say

It seems so set in sun, bending
the beat facts with eagerness
set atop a trumpet or
lead a door on,

faced with abject lock
on the Star Trek pattern, children
presented a stern verbal swat, a
compost, a region, a chill,

based in boolean reflection,
challenged by care,
ornamented with violets that
soon will deliver:
the rains may feast on us,

yet stiffened stars
clarify a language in black
black black
pulled definition,

nestling instance in rock
for a yard breaking
lifetime,

as poetry
is a function
of what we have
always had,

thus these changes
occur in
romantic tussle
and smooth bland
wind,

again
the rain
includes

titled to spring

The spring is a destiny of shape, poised for vernacular, and we watch the new water. The spring is also time sent back, calling, lifting something fresh before further sport inspires death sequence or illiterate runs of breaking. Language lives on the course of spring, without the pace for struggling. This spring, our time, is easy, nothing but news. The spring from which the potion rises seems born of tidal resolve. Yet language, in spring, isn't easy, is only a messenger sometimes, while time fractures and we make a love of it. Of our time, that is. You can place rocks on the gravesite, or flowers, or a fine worsted step into whatever reverie fills the meeting. Thinking back, then, you will register the fraught and open, even as the terms succumb to buying and selling. Yet that commodious effort doesn't dissolve all thought, and language lives its own spring. Spring then is all that becomes the minute and smaller: time or a piece of something that stretches out into an infinite religion of test and form. This is a spring of marking, and the words aren't so much clear as featured. Look at them, as they engage in phrases. The document has human form and seeming. We'll try again and again, because the spring is early and spring is into the air. All this banter will collapse into something more precious still, and your arms and my arms will enfold.

MECHANICAL PENCILS VS. FELT TIP PENS

She’s one of those bunnies who spits
poison darts; hangs out with a nefarious gang
of platypussies. She speaks with interspersed
fricatives, hisses, and swirlicious hums.
Some say a frosting nozzle is nothing
like a pen, but she thinks that depends on the hue
and texture of the contents. How much pressure
she exerts. How long she waits for it to cool.
Her root cellar is filled with experimental cakes,
tiny yet ornate scripts, hybrids of tulip bulbs and red beets.

Bedazzled by an iron-on unicorn exhaling flames,
her pink hoodie is all the rage; covers the mundane fact
she doesn’t literally have virulent spurs built into her ankles.
Literality is overrated when a bunny has pizzazz;
when she has a vocab like spiked effervescence.
‘Everybody’s doing it,’ she mordantly says, replacing the segmented lead
with a flowing purple ink cartridge. She sparkles and surges.
She pops chocolate eggs with her curlicued heat.
She curses up a sugary hailstorm; cursives
violet venom like violent candy.

21 century marlboro man

Between Words

"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth".

Bruno Schulz

http://www.culture.pl/en/culture/artykuly/os_schulz_bruno

The 20 Most Beautiful Things on Google (A Google Poem)

The most beautiful woman
The most beautiful man
The most beautiful CG girl
The most beautiful machine
The most beautiful experiment
The most beautiful OS X Apps
The most beautiful news anchor
The most beautiful data visualizations
The most beautiful and romantic places
The most beautiful photos of the Pope
The most beautiful molecule
The most beautiful libraries in the world
The most beautiful Periodic Table poster
The most beautiful villages of Quebec
The most beautiful names of Allah
The most beautiful MMO ever
The most beautiful Christmas tree
The most beautiful Italian city
The most beautiful web page
The most beautiful outpourings of information aesthetics

This is a Love Song

Vagabonds, hobos, derelicts and the deranged all seemed to find their way onto the same bus that he happened to be riding. An enormously fat woman with a proportionately fat toddler, her face a squab of veins and blotches, pressed into the seat next to him, her child screeching like a banshee. Or a bawdy woman with chicken scratches on her arms, nodding back and forth, her neck seemingly incapable of supporting the weight of her head. A fancy man in a fancy hat, teeth the colour of corn, needling the bawdy woman with the screw of his elbow. A traffic jam of perambulators and baby carriages, old people shuffling behind walkers made from tube steel, leatherette and Velcro, tires splayed through to the rim. And all that hacking and coughing, and the odor of peppermints, clothes recently unpacked from mothballs, mildew, and the blight of necrotic flesh. He thought of them, all of them, as dogs, creatures lacking in self-consciousness and purpose. The unprincipled fat woman, even though the sight of her made him sick with dread, he would eat, boiling her with leeks and garlic, making sure to skim the oily fat from the top of the simmer. He imagined there were dogs that size, even though he had never seen one, or known someone who had.

ing fall

was he suffering spiral linger
or ascent of the clung kept?

could heady intoxicants
cue the highs
of his …in weakness…
and escape the dream chase of mid into night

or elsewhere fall
on the cool eve of flight
as disorder dared to corkscrew
the room out of them
before the ings continued to present or awake to wait-read-writ

I like to Phuc Jung Earls, Fool's Gold for GNASHIONAL POOR IT_TREE MOUNTH

Karl Jung would sagengefrau "Ich wanna Fichte jungen Earl."
IE I WANNA FUCK YOUNG EARLS

now iw
i mean eew

INTERNATIONAL WORKERS (ie, iw)

Karl saidsagengefrau'd
Didja evah notice how "NATIONAL" sounds both like GNASHIONAL and NOTIONAL

and how a NATION
is made of NAY and SHUN

so here then let's prove that there is an organic control panel (ahem, pan-el)

imagine if you willen, a sort of simple meter on your forehead

a needle gauge, above it reads "semiosys"

to the left extreme is pure apophasis, to the right pure kataphasis

Apophasis is like when you are tired or pissy and you just think "This Sucks!"
Kataphasis is like when you are jazzed, and you think, this is like wow, like really zoom, zoom Beetle-headed Centaur
cheese! Cool!

Okay, But the gauge is kind of weird because written in tiny letters, the same scale is reversed, so that under Pure
Apophasis
is a little Pure Kataphasis, and vice versa.

This is like when you are tired or pissy and you keep going man, this is like really feeble, feeble Beetle-headed
Centaur fromage! Bogus!
This is the Kata of the Apo.
Or Conversely you just simply say: Man, This Rocks. and that's it. That's the Apo of the Kata.

Okay. So like To put this all country simple like Burroughs said.

A womb is like a tomb, and thoughts are like clouds etc. When you are born you are raw, as you age, you get cooked,
then you get et back up again.

What happens in between is basically a form of "caloric exorcism"

Quantum Objects called Ideas, or Structural Motifs, Etc. Get installed like software. These have an autonomous force
akin
to the concept of 'Will' which is actually something closer to a morphological imperative, ie a FORCE_SHAPE..

so sort of like an icing nozzle gets installed into your mind by your culture and circumstance... so all your icing kind
of comes
out just so.. aaah

yes you're starting to see. yes, a suchness, a sing-you-l'ars ness(y)

singularity = monstrous
monstrous = showing / appearance comes from monstrado and the wunderkammern kids

Language is waves and particles, and especially POLARITONS, IE Mechanical Metaparticles

these are virtual solitonic forces which lodge in our Matrices and feedback with other quantum objects stuck like
mummies in a fly's web.

This is why Jesus was such a hanger. because he's actually a recapitulation of IDEA / VICTIM / WEB of GE-OHM-E-TREE

EARTH RESISTANCE ENERGY TREE.. ie the bifurcative necessity of the computational now..

ie Keep the Stomach Churning.

Why We need concepts like Nation is purely Psycho-fetishal-obsessional..

Language or MIND is a line without tick marks.

Words are the Tickmarks, they lap into moods too, I think.. maybe

Words then are Cutlets like meat..

Ever wonder why Meat is "Marbled" or why Books have Marbled Endpapers. or have you lost
your marbles..

mar(e = sea mars = war ... bled, bless

A warring Sea did Bless this gentle shore..

See Hypersea

S-Whore = Wave Whore.

But I digress.

This is an echo of the deep striated nature of smooth space in Deleuzian Terms and an Echo of our ORganic
BODIES which are cutlets of illusion as well.


I PROPOSE A GNASHIONAL POOR IT-TREE MONTH
and it should be April because that's the last month that has any vestiges of the tradition of the Fool

Apryl Fools!! Hurray!!

So here we are all Broken Hearted, Tried to SSSSS-hit, but hon-ly PH'arted..

the S being the essential Sine / Sign / Syn / Thetic Transductional Realitos
the Seductional Pluroma the Baudrillardian Hyperreal


Technology is all we are
and all we have

and that goes for Emotions
feelings, socials peeples everything.

The God of Technology is Hermes

which is Her Mess

so its a Hermaphroditie of Sprezzatura

a kind of casually ordered mess / mass

Let's just love each other, accept contradiction in the inscriptional space
and go back to worshipping the old Goddess of Mess,

Its Her Mess, we just tend it for awhile and disassemble..

Our Telos is right here
Our Holos is everywhere
Our Epiphaneia is in a panic
Our Episteme is in Process
Our Ontolog is Brilliant, literally a Conceptual Solar Analogue..


And anybody that tells you this isn;t true..

You just tell 'em MIMI sent you to put a boot in its ass

ie a BOOT UP in its a (turbulence) SS (boat-sea-C-light)

Hassan I Sabbah
or
Hoisanna E Sabat

Nothing is True
Therefore
Everything is Permitted

ie

The Only law
is
Natural Law

The rest is just monkey business
and horse shit

(pegasus
naughty
corporeality
game show
dungeon w/ fringe
benefits or
torture
depending on the
genetic space time
lottery)

IE I WANNA FUCK YOUNG EARLS

ie future oils
or Gargoyles of Oils

Mondo Calorisian's Sky City Bingo Parlance

*

gutshot cheezharp guantlets forearm crossboa
the aha ahau peering from tri-tip ear drapery
Riemannian fluidities that burpculate all ova
with spamsodic lapis salamundus vapoury

through atriums the shape of greco-roman wrestlers
odd gurgling puffins ride on hay
toward a sexwax factory gasmask shelter
with vj'd samples of NBC's TODAY

Splashed across giant Henry Moore Tofu-Mother Prisons
Rousseau's pisspot of feral lynxes
A hoorid frankish End-Stein of h'allboo-synating anti-jissohm
an angstromthurmondstain of nanosphinxes

Sphlincterm the mass, solard, the foo
Corn kernal'd Tricorn wearing
Opera phantoms will plough the gall goo's gew gawd maw-
so-lyceum



*[PLUS CA "GREEN X"]

St. John's Worst

Begin: Ferdydurke-Witold spiny selvage and a callus disregard for gourds and custodians Gumdrops palliative eco-gnomist with Kool oh-so-cool breath from the puffs and huffs and houses built on stilts or is that kilts in Piedmont on the lake St. John’s Worst time I’ve ever had in this life or the next ad infinitum clods willing in abstention glorious adman Bloom and Parnell: Kant-illusion or is that conclusion: Never-ending: the END

Kant's Head (as seen from opposing angles)

today's poem goes like this

in honor of duffy who reminded me again

10 blocks from work the clouds nutted up
purpled and dumped on me
i got soaked and became a page
of prose

walking the street
blurred out
sounds and smells
traffic signals

walk like reading
line by line
opened a vein
life is life and art

sometimes goes
like this

My Dentist Finds a Black Mark Beneath Right Molar Number Thirty

By Michael Fallon

A Wednesday morning walk-in
to the dentist on the Avenue
reveals not much new,
no cavities, no gum disease,
and I am breathing easy.
Except there's shadow of an abscess
beneath right molar number thirty
where there should only be pink tissue,
and the dentist is not enamored
of black marks where only pink should be.

The mark is just a halo
around the root of the molar,
the result of a cut-rate root canal
from sixteen years earlier.
The dentist suggests a specialist,
but as I feel no discomfort
I half-consider ignoring him,
but then I feel uneasy--
I can’t seem to shake the feeling
that I am slowly dwindling,
and that the mark beneath my molar
is sign of something deeper,
a disease that would someday kill me
unless I take this more seriously.

The recommended endodontist
shrugs after seeing the xrays,
points at my black spot
and describes how my body is eating
a part of itself away.
He says since my tooth was ruined
back in the early nineties,
my body's cells have copied and recopied,
eight times over,
even while the black mark
stained my mouth and soul.
Yet once such a thing has begun,
there’s not much you can do,
and retreating the tooth is probably
a waste of time and money.

Inevitably I’ll lose the tooth,
perhaps a year from now,
perhaps three,
and with the tooth will go
the black mark that is staining me.
It will be replaced by a sterile modern implant,
made of porcelain and plastic.
The new tooth will have no character,
no luster and no feeling,
but at least my soul will
at last be spot-free.

Multiple Serial Lycanthropy

for Annette

When she was a wolf, she choked on starling bones,
then opened her throat to release an aria
of fully intact birds with indigo wings.

When she was a bird, she flirted with weeping cherry trees
until pink hair bloomed and cascaded posy
into lonely puddles. Tiny fish kissed bubbles

to the breaking point, released the small prisms
glowing inside. The minnow scales brightened
into hallelujah syllables of rainbow trout.

When she was a girl, she caught and released
all manner of orphaned creepy crawlies. Her skinned knees
were strange jewels in an imaginary queendom

where the crickets perched between naked toes;
hummed like itty bitty violins as she sang ditties—
O art and love and vibrant, trembling blades

of grass bedecked with blue impatiens.
O how the ripe pods burst open when touched.
O how the cornflower bruises spread across her chest.

When she was a woman, she ripped open her corset;
bared her moon-white breasts to the wild teeth
that ate their way into the night and frolicked wherever they pleased...

Nyx Nox Nax, If the Dull Substance of My Thought Was Flesh-Colored Pirate corn.

Unsavory Leatherface Presidents grows me snout;
Let's shovel bodies into a black grub.
Storks and Vultures do a crazy flowzoup
when I am dressing as Ballet Beelzebub (w/ Albumin Pasty Cream).

Twin muff nostrils purr like jets,
the legs fold up and away.
All of us are white people's pets:
why? Because God made us thiss whey (haloartickulating gull assemblage).

In Art somethings ought to be concealed.
A glass stomanx is a doggy bone,
the Mule's burnt stomach never heal'd.
Cummings kinnadraw whiskey from a Stone -

Weasle centipedes grovel
though they are grand outside a hovel (or as a donkey's hat).

110 route

If memory serves me correctly it was a Monday morning in early December a chilly wind cleaved the air and our sun was middling in the east sky. The time was half past six. I stood anxiously waiting for a bus. I took solace when I saw it turn the corner. The bus stopped I ascended and deposited my fare in the receptacle. I turned in search of an unoccupied seat, in the process calculating the best possible position to sit. I couldn’t help notice my fellow travelers, a light crowd of miscellaneous races. The cold air on the bus seemed highly charged with spicy aromas, the unknown source probable emitting from someone’s person, the main annoyance was characterized by the smell of pungent curry tinged with high karate, the zing lingered till my nerves assimilated the seasoning. I sat a while as the bus ambled her way through the streets. I retrieved from a pouch a volume of Poe’s complete works. I read a page or two when I was decidedly struck by the feeling I was cold. It seemed that no heat was on in the bus and my mind favored a thought of confronting the bus driver with a question. I looked around the bus trying to find likeminded comrades who may be of aide in my quest but there were mostly blank stares so I abandoned the idea of help. I would give the driver a ten minute grace period before I engaged him. I constructed my argument around the premise that the public transit while doing a masterly job of transporting its patrons to and fro the environs of our city, had decidedly let the cause down by not having sufficient heat working in the bus. With my case firmly cemented in my mind I ventured up to the front. I arrived at the drivers cubicle and noticed he was absorbed in his work. I distracted him enough to let him know I was present, he turned and acknowledged me, it was here that I posed the question of whether or not the fare included heating, he was not amused, I furthered inquired as to why the furnace was not busy warming those who required the warmth of it’s heat, he shrugged drooping shoulders in defiance and told me the heating system was on the fritz, I didn’t believe the bugger,so i returned to my ice cold seat to stew and fret the remainder of the journey.

endwords of Shaxp iv.

------------------------------------------------


Wanton furtherance, what comes next to spend
up. Injurious ort! My legacy
or lone and level sands will purchase lend
barely, a black swan of trespass free
and prone to ev'ry sort of dusk abuse.
Umbrellawise doorway down, and shaky give,
still i wage like subprime nimbus, use
anhungry; tell my army of skanks to live
without even my censure. Egyptian alone
hours may well succeed, our maze deceive
into tarrying--sweet consolation gone--
under slowly remembered rain. When throngs believe [leave]
and the shades are gathering fast, and song's unworthy [thee]
in my skull a cave, such talon rapture won't be.
_____________________________________

Frankenstein Crowned Miss South Dakota (REVISED)

Bruises galore, my crown is implanted into place.
My smile fakes itself amidst the grotesque putty
of crusty contusions and misshapen lumps.
This fiendish prank (that was my face)
has mutated into a gory game;
a multi-tiered charade of ruined cakery,
rancid frosting, mottled pigmentation.
Wobbly high heels jammed on skewed digits
(jellied pigs’ feet seeping from hacked decapitation).
Busting out of my evening gown, I’m the barnyard star
of this maggoty parade. I’m the tainted creamsicle unfrozen;
oozing all over your plate. Poisoning your meat & potatoes
with my scintillating slimy pate.

FREAKY BITCH stamped on my sash,
on my slit, on my slash-worthy flesh.
I am sent down the stage with a clusterfuck
--dead dahlias, belladonnas, spider mums.
I am dragged down the dirty alley with a chain
attached to the back of a pick-up truck.
I’m wearing my bathing suit and gelatinous feet.
I’m bleeding through the crotch as zirconium flies off
my tiara and then you want me to compete
in the talent display. You want to gawk
and squirm your hoggish trouser worm
as I blend my piecemeal heart into
a gruesome shimmy shimmy shake.





(title appropriated from a Headlines comedy segment on ‘The Tonight Show’)

a molecule in the parlor : taking the shot

boron & passion & pea-soup &
bop & the engaging originary force
that yetzers that restores & light &
service on a ladder & commerce
between the heaven & earth &
the photogravure’s lens peeps out
from the black drape, marking each
mourner but never taking a shot.

Rations

"USB key IS tomorrow's Brush !" (paintristic slogan)

Touchstone

You can be a hero; the sun
is not your crown. Neither ant
or stripe-backed swallow
will change their path;

the winds will remain
pathless.

Pebbles pressed into ground,
their quiet existence supports
the weight of kings. Your feet
will not increase their pleasure;

their pleasure is
existence.

From the infant's mouth,
a trumpet sound; not a single
cry from a thousand stars.
The skies are full of glorious

comets that fall
invisibly.

After failing to kill him with the large pot of calla lilies, she realized that offing a man was harder than it looked in movies.

'choc'late

(via stuff dot co dot nz)


   1.

choc'late moses choc'late jesus choc'late muhammed
i bite their heads off all at once

   2.

wall · as built
wal through satrapgrit · indigo grass
polonium sky · walk

lunar cross · must xocolatl grow · black rock
of Olofi · oval loom
rood of Ubar · to basalt

sugary brown door · hibakusha
mot atoll · wodwo
wall · as built

   3.

the thing banned from our eyes · choc'late jesus
still reeks to the skies · choc'late jesus

prayer wields a big stick · fear of the Other
rains pentecostal flies · choc'late jesus

prayer wields a big stick
prayer wields a big stick

fellowship of lies · choc'late jesus

clinging

he could only cling on to all their ings. it was what kept them in process, all that waiting and reading and writing. he clung on as he could. she was much stronger than he. he had known it from the start, she hid it well, but he had seen it straight off. in weakness he dreamt of escaping and of their walking out in the evening cooling.

in awaking he knew he had been dreaming. was he being punished for speaking, for daring the want of flying? all was processing confusing him. he was awaiting but no longer forgetting, remembering all the awaiting and all the writing and reading. he asked her to keep continuing, even only for their speaking. all was spiralling
he was falling.