Sister Dream Frag

Just awoke from dream of walking through the woods with my sister.

She told me I cited a quote when I told her: I don’t hate what hurt me; i hate myself for hurting.

A line I thought I made up about a month ago.

Seemed common enough because I read too much but the look in her eyes made me wanna hate myself for it.

We talked again about “simulation theory” and I snapped awake wondering for the first time:

If this is a simulation, of-what is being simulated exactly?

Honest question.

Updated a couple of hours later.

I box things up.

I find this odd card.

True.

Forested

A leaf paved over.

A flower in parts.

A bit of purple in bloom,

enabled and barely shielded from above

By what is below.

Yesterday’s feather.

Yesterdays’s feather

today.

Balance and proportion

Foaming for seasonal salmon roe.

A welcoming en-trance

A good exit.

Watch “Junior Kimbrough – I feel alright” on YouTube

No rights, homage to a hero.

Get off there kids.

Not talking to the older kids.

Fuzzy noise.

Raw vibrations.

Good morning from the city.

Herringbone does not yawn

Fuzzy balance

of positive and negative space

on a cape that I drape around me

to step outside.

The grey morning opens wide

And inhales me into its reality.

Here we go again.

/

I fell into fitted sleep last night

while listening to to

to the British “Sir” talk consciousness.

I read two of your books.

A late night compatriot who noticed

the emporer was still naked.

(“A new theory,” he said, “not another reinterpretation.”)

S/he should borrow

My houndstooth.

/

I awoke to your unannounced reentry.

There is nothing to take, hurt, or steal

but me

But, you could still lock the door

When you do leave.

What I heard

Young man,

you predict myself to my face.

Giggle-snarl.

And also, you may be right.

But, hush and do not assume

you just keep those precocious eyes closed,

precious.

Pressingly and curiously

like a street legal switchblade,

a switchboard operation.

Useless matter does not

deserve smashing

just a quick slashing.

Diamond cutters crying with

those backseat jumpercables.

I missed the film but

I want to watch the movie.

My cellular telephone

likes to automagically

Prompt me.

It told me, after I typed /i/,

‘don’t get internet culture.’

Howl.

Didn’t you k/no/w the anxious

(ancients) taught music

And, invented time

For others?

They were just counting to eight,

Again and again, and, it

Turns out that this moves time forward

And that this everlasting, temporary

Retrograde is the forgotten remembrance.

This time

The blue specks return at

this time of day.

Scepters of spectres.

Spectators of the Spectra.

Speculators and crusty prospectors.

Gold merchants running along-

side the train.

The Highwaymen will

see to

them soon enough.

Yelling: always pay yourself first.

The only people not fearful of

such speak

are snickering kids.

The immortal ones.

How old do you feel most

of-the-time?

The sun will set in the next

five minutes to five hours.

It gets

Tricky.

Pure Fools

I sit at the striped, canary yellow

No Canary Row.

(I never finished that book either, to be

Candide).

Now bemused,

Now nearly bored.

Now frenetic and feral.

My long-hand is no match for my keyboarding.

In this state.

Of non-sense,

Everyone is a poet.

Everyone is an idiot.

Everyone is exactly who they are.

And perhaps we are just dummies.

Silent until we realize we are they,

and, they are

Leftover

pure fools,

Fools.


Hush 0r howl

This much I believe to be true:

I make others comfortable.

Frequent descriptor from people that touch me.

It makes my eyes harden then go curious.

Comfortable.

Huh.

I do not get cold.

I suppose that is speculation.

I try to warn people.

Everyone seems to be cold or worry about it.

I wish I got cold.

Faded out of my rabbit-holes.

Fell behind by one miss-step too many.

But, I wake up sweating whether the weather is

February or july. 

But, I grin, now, and giggle at the very idea.

Behind this smile

That betrays a happy tear.

That aches in my stomach.

Of course, I could get cold, right?

This is 

Howl i silently howl.

The salt is gone.

Now, I see how large this place is.

The placelessness is almost too big.

Me and these ghosts make good company.

The chorizo finishes.

Eggs and a bottle of white

Microwave hood fan

Setting two.

Discounted granola.

Time to cut meat from casing.

An unused balcony.

The window with the looking-glass.

The other window that is looking-glass.

I drove the perimeter of a street festival.

Ludicrous.

People formed a line at the

Automatic Teller Machine.

I could have walked for my eggs.

But, the milk would

Have gotten spilt.

I arrive home.

My salt is gone

Watch “Magazine – Peel Session 1978” on YouTube

Suggestion: put this on and do your thing.

Good fretting-about tunes.

No cans required.

No rights, homage.

Summer Maize

I made my hair sit straight yesterday.

But, summer has its ways

Of sweating my scalp.

Salt and the occasional breeze.

“You should write about that,” said the girl,

Who stopped for a smoke,

About something else

Entirely.

“Thanks.”

Kind.

A little

Shock ti

Power.

Speak-easys and

Music without lyrics.

Talk of narcissism

And, I wonder,

Do narcissists know they are as such?

The dog was all fur, and

presumably

Sweaty as howl, too.

Fur ball coat

Dandelion-white.

The masters smiled

And said, “her name”

Meant /hair/ in another language.

Doubling the word

In affection and affectation.

Cars pull u-turns,

To go to the street festival.

They hold traffic while invisible things

cross the street.

Huh, huh?

I saw the last five yards of your memory.

You were simply sleepwalking

Lucidity from insomnia.

Asleep and awake at the same time.

Rest here.

For a moment.

You are still

In the field.

Come here but close your eyes.

When

I did write something for you

before we met.

At the little theater you barely

Remember.

Painted stars on the roof

twinkled to indicate

the show was shortly

Underway.

A connoisseur versus a collector.

Coat-tailers and chasers

Partners in crime.

A trail-off of the trellis

Braided-up locks

Flow like tresses

Caught in bureaucratic

Lochs

Being and nothing

Ness

Scorches from Summer Clouds

The dragon is impatient.

Selectively scorching leaves

Such as these

Fading embers still ablaze

Sparks off burned tar.

Shedding hair is ripped.

Old roots know where to look

And look gracefully.

A leaf suspended.

Not alit by wind.

Brambles

Steles revel as Black Pond evaporates.

A lean-to against a cut-down.

A greasy blender rubbed wrong.

Proof of I.D.

It is infinitely easy to identify with someone

(but not any-body?).

So you hate cool, swift breezes on hot days?

I don’t.

I leaf notes to future me.

Encryption ain’t the new

Steganographia.

They remind me to

Remember right.

Write.

This is a thread to me.

Leaves about a spine.

Fluttering

For no-one but page

turners.

I slept in

I slept until three p.m.

Because I could-no usual m.o.

In the pac NW 7 a.m., 3 p.m., and nine p.m. all

Look the same

Waking from dreams to remember

This is the one from which you do not know how to wake.

I imagine the world can

See and know what my mind holds

In that state.

Like there is nothing to doubt

Nothing to fear.

The cat slept on my feet.

They were not cold.

The gray summer sky

Resembles the colors of your silent eyes.

I slept by scraps I scrawled for you.

I slept by a bit of wrapping paper from a gift

Half a year old.

Oh howl, you make me sentimental.

To ask for what you hope

And to wait.

As hard as crying non-sad tears must appear to observers.

The sea is soft today.

But, í can always find a reason to smile.

I.e. “cheesecloth”

Sobriquet que ridiculoso.

Late

raze or a ruin?

Just to defuzz.

But have you ever considered

Why you get clean?

So much water to make yourself smell different.

I get clean to be defiled.

I get clean to be dry and then wet.

I get clean to show

What not-clean is.