Friday, November 21, 2014

o 69! lo siento muchachos, it's the hunger for story in the dearth of story that is somehow me. and coincidentally, i Do like the number, if it doesn't add up, it's the yin and yang, symbolic, we are left with the yen.

an alligator pas de deux



america is a global terror network. but let's not worry about that.

america insists. ok, waddayagonadoo.

brother sun sister moon







cementary hum

cetashus


when i say you gotta go in your crib now comet he runs and jumps in the the big bed.

copp rescues mickey maus from death by water after i throwed him in.

dance of hallway souls

a dog and pony show

dogs are the best confessors if you aint religious

envy of a fur coat is misplaced

the eye of a comet

fur arcades



hedy lamarr

hildy and her gator dance


i believe one day the freedom fighters will win. naive, right.

i remember those night volcanic roads in santorini, the sheer drop with a boneyard of cars, the drop in our groin, the intake of precipice.



is that smoke or cloud.

it is both.

it seems dumb but i just thought freedom is only a struggle

it's really weird, the thugs below are silent, burning incense.

little prince

looking up to mister cuz he's a genius at life

loss of the unlived resides


a good nose for trouble

partying a little death where my diving platform waits

later i will leave the maus adrift and you will say that's ok, he was already washed up when we arrived.






the hunger for story is not a real hunger

it's a fictional hunger

but like belly hunger it can only be temporarily assuaged.

and then the quest must begin again.

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the body knows no theology but it knows john donne implicitly

the children watch the executions for training

referring to the comedians


the rime of the golden mariner.

the school of waiting.   it's closed?

tomoro we resume the struggle

i said, we gotta hide out here, in the west. the midwest.

we only count our dead,


bring what wounds freedom. what wound freedom brings.


who knows who but ill be,


one narrator reader alone in the cramped foreground of somewhere vast and vague, paraphrasing gerald murnane.

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