john_brown

's body lies.
a mouldering in the grave
is a state
and nothing to go between
the truth of death
and the faucet of life.

some fruting bodies lies
a mouldering neath my bed/
toast

compost the windows
and everysingle snows

wwwwaaaayyyyyy

this oats
thing is a crock
I cannot sympathize
with the crutch called a clock

antennaeiou

whos a with?:
you are with,
, , but now not with with ;
is with this wither with here , an,
where?
in the infield feeling aroud , a,
with?

the_listen_to_this

I'll sink yo boat!!
Dont think I wont!!
Yours dont know how
to swim
so mine does! this
my win!

this_is_the_return

textile selves of them
return all sewed
sleeves
up on the other end
are holes
for the headless.

you

are a tremendous
fart the type
to rip lamp posts
out of landscapes
hair raising, nose melting,
covalently sour
blackmarket haricots noir

ominitions

let them beware
glass ware
solid quarts underwear

the bird drops a lozenge
to sing the better
the bear stops a gar rage
to sleep the better

sinh(dilli_beans)

this new snow juice
is such a craze
to the parched

the_last_our

traumatized by bach ;
under wooden cows
dogs horses eagles things
like coursers they flew
impressions ripe and smelling
in mint onion hungry tongues;
the best friend of venturi

fingers_for_brains

fid = fopen('fuck_this_and_that.txt');
a=textscan(fid,'%f64 %f64 %f64');
fclose(fid);
lim = length(a{1})-1;
J_100 = a;
b = J_100{1}(1:lim);
c = J_100{2}(1:lim);
d = J_100{3}(1:lim)-J_100{3}(1);

figure (1);

loglog(b,c)
hold all
loglog(d,c)

hold off

return;

>>hungada hungada hungada & McCormack

letter_to_the_editer(anteater)

I am inventing
the telethrone.
for kings (and queens) (and god?[does
that guy {or gal} sit {or
stand} on one])
whos time is not
insufficient
in enough places.

ankles

of broken candles
in the singing heat of
billion layer sleep
and its there only
that its illusionary

;;'eal

cornish ham.
what is that?
corning glass.
how early is this morning?

outside giant and shiny stacks
are standing
miraculous and unsupported
and doing nothing for me.

Just to let you know;
the sun (sic) does not
peep over the top
at try to kill the conical cells of photoreceptors
any more than the pigions still clap
in a cheap immitation of gross drum beats,
dig?
gross drum beats? dig?

the cranks are wobbling
and my nerves are fluctuating
with the thermal expansion coefficients impossible to account for all of the time
so then it is pray
that the bracket dont stove in

you, as I knew you

and as I went
out across and crossed myself
like a dracula
I did not die
and did not know
that where I dracula
I could die
when I went
out across and crossed myself

but I am more than that.
more than that one crossing.

phantasms of plural speaches
hover around my raggedy andy head
hover around your raggedy anne head
, shoveling the scripts of moments
shining in absolvement
, shortening the lists of christmas pasts
. realizing you have not lived as long
as you thought you had
is a strange feeling. Do I
think that at some point you are wrong
about not living as long as I have?
I bet that you are wrong
because it happens during when I
did not, apparently, be living.
Just a scabbard of me was maybe not there,
the blade splintering into sharp quills
and implementing a cursive exaggeration
about apple trees and pear trees given to the porcupines
out of the mere kindness of providence,
and then melting back together again, unlike water who is
with condor wings
always dissolute and unable to resolve a singular condition.

groundchuck_across_the_wall

ninja turtle breath
expelled in awe
at the spider
resurrector
!seasonal mutagen attacks!

jumpin_juniper

a cannon shot down the alley way
grapes wrapped in
poisson effects
clobber limbs from coursers
flying in a mock v
a real g


twenty thousand feet antecedent

clumsy and dropping
a flouric shroud of two runs
;;' ';[;;;this doctrine
';';;;;'[l; should be montreaux boppin

succinct

when my shorts
are made of ice cream
I'll let you know

but for now
they are made of snow

eeee

four levels of mouse noises
hiccuping and running for cover
in the pile of corners

know the spring. the taste
of struggle.
of the indecisive wet and muck
exuding from thin air
stirred by the sun

forget about the moon sturring nothing
it is a lie
wrought to you by the postage stamped
margins of partridges

phase_diagrams_written_

in ice
on ice
for ice
you might say that
of me
when
I'm on the ice
in the ice
of the ice/
.
Crookedly booming
slip slid crossing
to stand on the bottom of the river
on a rock protrusion
the breath of
an eagle
the eye of an seagull
flapping over the open water that is left steaming and brooding
up a church full of indelible motions
the ice is pushing
in on its self turning back into water in the
only watery way that peculiarliar is is is reversed
a whole verste of ten inches and internal fluxuations
in every direction but a quick stream
refusing the containment of cold/

that is where I live and always.

lll_or_III

cannot tell
you

my shoulders crunched
when the sun
was trying to burn a whole
through the land from under neath
to reach me
my only friend
my old friend
the sun
trying to reach me
always and only

polecat_tails

In the evenly spaced
beams invisible things
remain situated and in
constant dynamic battle
over the meaning
of equilibrium and
steady as she goes state
To not get worried
is half of my problem
To squat and seethe with
indecision on which to favor
is half of my problem

b

azure blush and ice
mica flights in the
strong first rays of february first