Space V
what if this window is a part of what goes through it and what gets met is what went through, back to what sent it through: oh, remember
this picture of myself looks like an Ohio
legal to roam and putter and vote, oh
feet, wear these shoe (international, Target bought) with dollars into the Ohio economy, so Ohioesque, Ohio, oh, oh, pick leaves grown in this soil, oh, walk over slugs
what if
posted by Michael Rerick @ 1:15 PM
3 comments
3 Comments:
[warning: graphic imagine a head]
to de aye es window
In this pastime is. In this pastime is the occurrence of things infinite. In this damned pastime is infancy, and through THAT summer is born. A septic shipment arrives afloat and is acclaimed by no-one as its bilge gulps and bulkheads drain cobble-tongued in disarray, packages with language painted on them to pronounce: courage mandrake, courage coffling, courage from gasps festering; a few prisoners know of this and type out histories in their sepulcher’s. No-one listens. Circus chiefs are lionized by lost laws, and clicks clicked go the clock; til’ their cantilevering silences foil the thundering gates of chaos. I also close my eyes, for distance is not hidden from come cancer, and I will neither hide from our cancer come a distance. Ohio! Who will hire us to manpower the junky’s manna? The fingerman, the joker and the cook will. They will hire us to exacerbate our own nomenclature and pay us television. Here are the chapters of the plebian caucuses, writ in management’s hand, writ in characters of idiocy, writ in hokum pokus to the terrifiers of your poem, writ in pas de deux— a dirge to dance in box steps to, and from everything a forgettable speed, and from everything else the eyes of the hay fields shaded from the sun by branded caps with curved bills, underwhich a wasted wickedness waits. From things to come a rapture of nothing. From Jacobs ladder, memories of angels climb down into baskets headed for hell—and the homunculus, charged to stabilize the ladders feet—laughs like he’s all alone down there. The little fuck. Because there is always what if, and our teeth. Where to get a halleluiah now.
and the clown-cook says: eat
Should I explain that I used your question as a jumping board? My answer wasn't aimed toward the window, but out, farther than the question pointed to. Somehow, I got some of your gleanings in my ink pot. Am I a clown-cook? God I hope not. I shouldn't vote, do I have to? Will Ohio? Will you? I hope your new shoes keep your old feet warm. And safe from potential slug smashings...
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