between boredom and shock we oscillate

                            gods and I

                            lodged inside the phrase "end to end"

                            with attraction and resistance

                            suppositions and same pages

                            a glowing green exit sign busy at its frigid vigil

                            posits through another sort of pointlessly

                            gorgeous coastal afternoon, music by james ferraro

                            blinkered and ratchety from a lifetime of norcal cannabis

                            and the lame doom of state school student debt

                            excesses of ellipses distinguish 

                            you whose drones opened wide 

                            a mouth to whisper this

                            boxing phonemes from hot cogitations

                            licked insanely by daylight

                            through senile and skin-tight distances

                            the finest life is turned into insipid fiction pretty quickly

                            cloudless blue upper place wherein sun disappears everywhere

                            the universe is fine it has its place is all I'm saying

                            a piece of coffee linking me to sleep

Hidden City Quarterly

   

Here is some scarcity, a thing of great repairs; here is an eidolon tuned on museum clouds. Stop here and then, in an ear-ringing excess of derelict air, wherever’s left.

Here comes a querulous race to the death where the track slips up and we quit in the distance. Here appears an update on the glass-to-cash ratio, post-consumer recidivism interests set spinning in the dark crowd so you don’t move.

Here's nothing to it. 

Churlish inner problems only captured in truer words never spoken:

that's the trouble around here?

Here goes the cure-all that was my lurid ardor, the curious, worrisome, mind-in-creation-is-a-fading-coal old saw we raised in my defense. Told it was of the essence —

Here (related) is a crease in the longue duree where I tuned a knob and the scientific method shrieked apart. My license, twice stolen! Here's a bank between hands. 

Here's a blank tape of a bank between hands, here is resonant combustion, here's the engine it ruined. 

Back up. 

(—that the body clots with presence because pressed to reason sense from it — "it" a massive fragment of infinitesimal complete works —

who are you as opposed to you? Here as opposed to where? 

Purposes, likelihoods, difficulty generalizing, scripture, cash back, struck bells, a word for it, a third of it, wetted lenses, tethers, membrane and field, a vague and hopeless sort of fame in one’s own time, dying plants from the flea market, “wished-for disappearances,” store credit only, and from myself always the same shed light in here, same street and residence, same plainsong and video rentals, same redactions, same time as it runs out —)

Over all the lies that floated out of me like prayers rang a new glass raised by the coated-over world to every corner of its removable room. A motion tone grasps refracts over noise.

Things could be different out here: a next life left uncorrected enough —

Hi you've reached the guest house, the grocery store, the green freeway, the border forced into the orbit's core, we're not here.  

  

Mondo Bummer © 2013