blob blob blob blob blob blob blos blop blob blob blobg blog -Jackson Mac Low (1956)

March 29, 2006

My bonny lies over

Another tile floor there to ravage. It'll hurt, but it's worth it as always. All and to always. All and to all. All to all. To all. There in the sideways mindwalk. There in the sifting mindfuck. Where she went, where I'll go. This isn't a time or a place for anything packaged and neat. This isn't a time or a place for anything fucked up and out of whack. You sons a bitches, wait for it. It's coming like you've never imagined and I ain't some asshole on the street telling it to you. You've already heard about it and you were never listening and you won't listen now. So put it all down along with whatever you're holding in your hand right now. Walk to the window and if you don't jump at least leap. And if you don't have a window near by just look into a mirror. It's all the same anyway you look at it.

What is a bathroom, but a place for your dirty work. And you are too dirty aren't you. Why don't you get right down there and rub your stinking ass on the clean tile. Please? Do it for me. I wan't to watch, but I won't, but I'll come back to see the streaks later. Oh, I'll come. Don't worry. This is to all of you. All of you and your little corners, the ones you hide in or behind. There won't be a place to be in the light anymore and you'll never have to hide again once I'm through with you. This voice flowing this voice ending.

So she was over there across the room and he looked over there across the room. And he had looked over there across the room so very many times before. As you would imagine him as he would imagine and as she had imagined, and as that other one was imagining even now.

your angry dick

I was at least a little angry after leaving my cat and my plants for the confines of this room, after being kicked out by him or it, after a good long screw and a longer argument and the potted plant I clumsily hurled at his head (barely missing his left foot). The cat, I guess, actually left me running out the front door I had left open and, somehow, down into the street, past the normally closed door to our building. It was imaginable. I could have seen it and then I did. There wasn't a schedule for it all, but it worked like clockwork nonetheless. I felt the one box of stuff I had gathered tightly against my stomach as I walked down the marble stairway and out onto the cement sidewalk. Fuck him, I thought, soon after fucking him. What the fuck was that? We both knew I was leaving or he was sending me on my way, one way or another, but for some reason, we both wanted a good lay before laying out reality before us in a neat spread of circumstances. This everlasting hotel was crying in wait. My room, number 17, greeted me in the afternoon. Very cheap and very cheap. I felt it wanting to keep me. I could hear it wailing for me from the sirens on the boulevards, could pick out it's very own incantations from the din of the streets. And I thought, what the hell am I thinking, or what the hell was I thinking. A time passed, then came again and stacked up against my door, the one that led to a sort of stretching patio, stretching across all the doors in their light green frames, graced, each one, with white metal chairs, one of which I sat in smoking one after another even though I hadn't done anything like that before. Eventually I was sick, but I walked across the street for vodka. I always went for clear liquor when things were less than so. What the shit was I doing there. These two guys checked in next door and their very faces seemed to ask me that exact question as they sauntered, carrying nothing. I'll be joining them later, in my tossings and turnings if not bodily. I mean, what else was there to do here?

Eyes of fire, I'm afraid good intentions now would do you no good dear, bound to die. Irene never had the blues and St. Thomas Cathedral said we're all gone in it's architecture. Hey Mr. Better keep your hands off my girl, follow the river somewhere else. Behind the big brown door never is forever go on to heaven. Born poor, might as well get ready for more living on white lines in the consumption march. Dead and blue, just like a loser stuck at a self-help convention in an Amarillo assembly hall. When will you will find time to cry? I need your help. Open them crossed legs, I've never been you're lover and your face makes me hot, and I think it's a sin. It must be morning by now, let's walk onstage at some strip tease show and have a good nervous breakdown, onstage. A sort of failed instrumental—one, two and three. So, you are a girl or a guy or what successful, instrumental hungry stranger—one, two and three—really really really really really really drunk I got a woman, she won't be true. Please, please me with the meat and a hard days' night for sale. Help! This rubber soul revolver is lost on me.

One little filter to seep out of another hanging from the ass, the drifting tongues laying gently on lunchtime's bench—this was a conversation that wouldn't end in the afternoon, and then it was over. The two left for other benches, to sit in the sunlight and dream. To dream of each other's skin, to dream of each other's hands, noses, fingers, legs, thighs. It was tight, one simple trick to forget. Yesterday was all over now. It was now some times built of glass and an others tin cans. That was a fine drunk, simple and slight in the beams of sun streaming and reflecting off glints of metal, the paint worn down to a sheen from all the touchings, all the handling that had come then gone. There were two things always in front and beneath always a flow of water or piss. He had a beer in his hand at four in the afternoon without much of a leap. That one sunshine left the beer in his hand, but mostly clouds—and beer. Its a bottle at least, glass at the least, something to trap the light with, something to throw. Something she took from his hands when she walked up to him in the square to admonish him as she looked while drinking from the selfsame bottle at his lap. Drinking in the afternoon—Aren't you cheeky?—no response elicited from behind her dark glasses.

Another goddamn slinky, riffing back and forth there on another couch, another crust of mud. Shoes on the floor. Here is a moment of pollution a time told forever by another. Home again after a yo-yo ride. It was cold. It wasn't snowing. It was brown. There were people bundled in black and hugging themselves tightly on the sidewalks. What was this crumbling concrete under their heels? She would come back even if all 'my friends' had scared her. She would return like a dime on a railway track. She would come. It's certainly going to be another great triumph, like swine running over a cliff into the sea. The unending doom would swallow as many as it was given. Like another metro station in another city, it's gates opening as a giant dragon's head—ready for another bite of life. But fuck, these questions continue to bubble up. Where the hell were you? And why were you so late? And what were you doing pandering to another human being, lavishing your time on them, when you could be ravished? This isn't serious, of course, but you're still expected to expend your ever waking moments in cognizance of the fact that there will never be another thing to lunge at, to plunge your body into wholly or otherwise. Where have you come from to surprise me? Will you surprise me? Do I have to wait here?

Well suck your own dick. I don't have time to wrap my lips around it. While you're at it, jerk off a hundred times a day, some in the shower, some in bed and some writhing on the floor in pain.

March 28, 2006


Her hair swang back and forth and her shadows cut a long swath across the wall, standing on the bed glistening naked and stroking that strap on with a smile on his face. There wasn't much else they could do besides set up the video camera they didn't happen to possess. They took little notice of the cracks in the ceiling, but were certainly impressed by the general ambience of room 18 at the Olive Motel. There was a painting on the wall, on the back of which was a short plea for help from a young girl in a crude mix of freshly learned cursive and squiggly print, dated May the sixth 1976, begging someone to call the police and let them know that Samantha had been there and that the man who grabbed her after school three days ago in Barstow was named Karl Cummings (the exact script didn't happen to be so clear and so could have as easily been interpreted as ...). They found this out later in the evening after shotgunning five or six cans of Ice Beer and attempting some standing on their heads acrobatic screwing while holding onto the head board of the king sized pad they paid very little for. They never called the police and neither did anyone else. The eye makeup looked rather convincing along with the lipstick and rouge and his high angular cheekbones—that long straight mane of shockingly blond hair didn't hurt either. They met the previous night drinking Jack and Coke, Jack and Coke, Jack and Coke, Jack and Coke, Jack and Coke, and Jack and Coke after Jack and Coke at a run down modernist cement block of a moldy house up above Echo Park. Jack and Coke was how they had referred to each other since sometime the night before and of course someone at the party eventually produced the coke to go with the Jack and Coke and when the party was down to the thinnest slim hopes of making the leap from night to day Jack and Coke came to some sort of nodded little slight of hand agreement to band together and give the coke guy a few good kicks before stumbling out and down the long tilted curves of pavement with his amber vial. And so the day, the day was fucking bright and barely endurable. After an over stimulated long stumble, some jelly donuts and teabag inspired caffeination, they hid in an obscure alley way and tag teamed tent city, sucking and sucking and sucking till their fists were full of green dollars. Jack was a little horse by the time they paid for the motel, as it seemed that he had gotten all the guys that wanted to grip the back of his blond locks with both hands and hug his head tightly to their mid-sections. And so their case went quickly, forming a tin pyramid on the teevee and soothing their split red throats, no more Jack and Coke they referred to each other as Natty and Ice Man. Twenty year old laughs echoed against the drywall when Some-She-Body knocked on their door right when the painting came down, a vase of flowers junking down to the matted pillows and torn sheets, then the canvas flew across the room and broke in the frame of the door, cracking the molding and responding to the soon to be forced entry on the hollow unlocked door.

March 26, 2006


Unsure of it, hanging there like a plant in the window, his ivy droops, but in sunlight her ivy hangs in shocks. Alert, Alert a time passed by and there was no moon to clock it by. A time upon a time there was, and a moment in a moment this moment in and a the moment. What clocks her jaws. I ask you as I asked her and I'm about to ask the other one. This ticking while we're talking here is unbearable and they refused to close their mouths and cease that endless swimming pool from sliding down the cliff of their chins.
He fucking screamed
shut the hell up
he fucking whispered
"in her ear"
another additive another condition, another wet towel hanging from the rack. There was the bathroom—it was smelling the bathroom, there in the old bathroom, smelling the sink, bent over scratching her angles he simply licked her panties—above the thigh. My time felt spent, my thoughts, damn full and developed, my breasts, where did they go? out the window to chase the dead pigeon down the street. The morning is dawn and down there on the street this torrent pouring—hot coffee, sweet biscuits, nipples. Heard, over some thing snapping, your whip cracking.
Sodomize me? tomorrow—there'll be time after work, after televisuals—another leg, another stick in the lips. So she took the clay pot from the window, roused the cat from sleep. She was clawing the window in her dreams.

March 11, 2006

Rubber Venus

slow after held
a stop time
like a slow drink,
like a drink
after a drink

held against rebellion
a kind overturning
a time at the front of
against distance

where desire travels
simply stated
apart from simplicity
flows take shapes away
involved within fixity, trembling

deep into nothing
an everyday view
a rhythm skips
cups to catch
a dreamy thing

sitting table
boasts a stolid
a stool abstracted
takes six legs
from physicality left

out and down led to out and down
along a gentle curving path,
something else outside the lightest touch
touches off another
fiery vein of resonance

forgotten, forgotten, forgiven
in an end that is a hope
an angry request picks up
with a response yet watching
that long fuse shortens

to lessen—fall over
and to shatter, a break—
a part, totality launched like a
rubber band from venus
the hit soars to the top of charts

a trite left over from
the chorus belted out
around anywere that can be
conceived as circular
"I will not be unindulged"
      —a half speech never delivered

March 10, 2006

Mall Bowie

Whereas J.C. Nichols and Victor Gruen originally imagined a shopping mall as a place where individuals from various distinct cultures could come to mix, in the 21st century the mall has become a place where a thin notion of culture exhibits itself for sale and attracts individuals already attracted to that narrow conception of culture—effectively eliminating the idea of difference, the idea that members of different cultures could find a place to mix—especially as the mall once envisioned as a discrete place has blossomed into a topographic space overlaying and essentially mapping its culture over any other previously existing notion of culture.

David Bowie's skirts are various and amazing. I'm sorry his skirts are much better than anybody else's. I mean seriously, maybe it's his ability to accessorize, that must be it—that blouse he was wearing totally showed off his nipples—that was hot—right—yeah—my god I lost it right then, lost my nut—socked in the dick, for a moment you know.

a night of

billions the real source
perhaps my love
hope, switch the flaw
maintain this innate–
to(o) experience(d) close

a night of sleep a night of
noise a night of eventuality
a night of blur a night
of off a night of right
a night of pharmaceuticals
a night of precisely a night

of anxiety a night of
waiting a night of wonder
a night of life a night of
for what a night of you
a night of eyes a night of
darkness a night of staring
a night of reading of talk
a night of talk a night

called a night of the
museum of a night of
emotion a night of sometimes
a night of yes and no
a night of terribly upset a
night of truth a night of
not allowed a night of
walking a night of ever really
a night of outside a night of

random inevitability –
not exactly not quite a caving
in a blow to the body –
in the cold watching
the screen two months and
the second to a definition –

what's undone
uninterested – sought out
perhaps there's more
on trial to know a
misunderstanding alone
an appeal someone else

this might eventually seem
like silence
a reading drifted creating
an indirectness –
a language for knowing what's not known

leaf blown, border, crossing
left below bare
all budding blue cares
ants build busy arteries
digging buried bruises along
digging cherries browned assonance
difficult cento culminates
easy cat, clowns are
everywhere circling church buildings

March 07, 2006

an animal language

to be an animal I kept
looking into night visions
of days all language, a dominion
all language a kingdom
all language given to all
language a verse
all language a presence

all language all language
remakeable all
language propped on a
shoulder all language
sitting all language in zeal all
language returns born
all language an exception
all language an infant all
language in a second on a tongue
of all tongues a language

all language is luggage prepared
for people as beings and in wrath
and made—said—drawn—learnt—
resting—wrested—rationed—in ratio
systemically evaluated—pictured
made right—made real—what is
done is mattered, weighed—honored
alone upon thousands—

the many pulled—drawn
changed before closed
rendered in accident—
accidented walking to
never to never heard
to ask truth in recognition—
a table a thing an object a life

in terse connection livid
in concocted verse heard
shipped on absurd fixity
to tell swarms slipped unabashed
form conversion in ancillary tracks
of antics fixed aversions
ants crack hell in acts.

unintended consequence
unintelligible construction
anti-intellectual canned verse
in actual worms of all Kant's shell
inactive offal—a cunt
a verse correction

a language of tipsy
a language of topsy
a language turvy

leaving room

the speaking, leaving some room for
has had influence
the titles, the composition
could you stop when asked
bow your head, in silence recorded
on paper ink, one is assumed
noted by something outside the self.

what is which is outside
the self and why is
this experience similar to
experience—alterity—acting an
offering brought and dashed off

a thing to remember
cannot be measured
a thing of—at the birth
lost, the word the breath
held—the past, now does not

prophetic a misinterpretation
take everything out of
everything out of significance
out of place the days shut in
unidentified, a lost district
murder shed a city of power

troops daughter of troops
the rule of the son
the mother shorn from context
raised up, then descended in completeness
invert forever in reverie

slaughtered by promise
by following the point
known by a vision
to be taught, wiped out
passed down—an heir, a murderess

in verse safer, in praise revealed,
kept—looking into night visions
hopeless built a temple
an ancient day's dominion
a house in use
a lack of ideology

March 04, 2006

a name

a name, a forgotten – naming the things seen – a vision compact, a nice bundle a scene > a list of time collected there for anyone to see < a stairway to crawl down – onto another floor :: a place to rest, a place :: the movement of an eye paused and a pulse of light | recognition | to rethink a piece of fruit labeled – arranged in aisles and islands – something held down… something lifted up… a move ambiguous and on the lee side – layers laterally shifted in relation to each other – a rumination and thought well of [tenantless shifting away from] a compromise or promise – as in something will be returned :: given to return :: not to the same place – only a context – an image offers a symbol and a sideways definition to the seen – here is a pine tree blown over and stumbling across a bed of pine needles :: is it to communicate the scene? to evoke another :: emotion thought :: a name for a time – relaxed, relenting or released.

a bell

familiar wholehearted – proclaimed
engaged wrapped and small reading
pass abandon over to left
bereft dream a lover

and shorn

one light death & small outside
where there is a
where there is another
through eyelids
through smiles through hands
change on the hour

a lapse, a newborn aurora fading
in slow a movie in performance
still a search, all touching, all sentiment
taking note of notes, all in script

and crying in error arriving
in expectation and the cause cover
for celebration the cause
in borne revolt spread open
the breath in the opening of a word

of the schism a word
the moment a word
adored the word on
the chord a word

hells bells, this thing that ties
and blood restrains red like
and like bread this shall be
a sign for you dropped,
pleased and reconciled in triumph
veiled in the light

bring a second birth to continue
all that has seen, all that is seen
all told, as it was told
all lines close—shifting and slack
a blood streak
where is the glory?

March 03, 2006


hungry hunger drives gouging away teeth fine points envy hunger hungry and afraid of seizing upon shy to take and leave a walk away from an immediacy always perfectly important at this instant something to the shape good shape want to grab for it now cold and faint a craving a desire severe and yes lights seem to float above as if clouds distorted their vision inside and there is something hanging there above and nothing yet still a want a lack even to get away from it is a want a lack of lack hunger is eaten by a craving devoured by a desire munched up by a want until there are only crumbs bread crumbs leading out somewhere on the horizon a sense of time by distance a sense of possibility by limit a horizon a sense of hunger by now


wet round exhausted –
raging lined by
bright hair – half decomposed
love drawn down – rendered
powerless occasionally

empty tucked under
thin cities must recede
to an exact spot – a way
with your ego immune
unconscious & shaded –
enforced, pressed up against
unstable breezes

the line – a project
or projection –
large reaches –
reaching through these
sweaty pursuits
sweaty oblivions

reaching to shape
singular – spun together
made replaced by an equation
these longings for a mystical
diversion become a
recognized present –

a location of culture
charted – counted – cannot
dragged to death, uncaring
a voice of flooding talk
unknown care – all things
impassioned, bloody forgotten
made optimism of
recognition in matter
a living alongside

March 02, 2006


Electromagnetic interference pushing waves of radiation (sound) a constant emanation. sferics (short for atmospherics), whistlers, tweeks, a chorus of whistlers low frequency lo-fi connections and interconnections a protocol for this, a symbiosis living off of a stream, a machine. a tree like time finds thought branching across bridges – switching packets of strings, bundled, packetized – labeled and sent. there is no moment only a queue disorganized, simply an address, a conscript. you will listen and will not hear – this isn't a voice, it isn't a message, there isn't sense kicking around – a long wave bouncing off the ionosphere | where time tends toward instantaneity | a phase shifts its modulation \ a constant interruption / a constant walking away {drifting} unaddressed – a transmission controlled in the making and breaking – the making presumes the breaking – a connection, an inevitable disconnection [always on? – turned on] a switch isn't a material, time is immaterial, sound is immaterial – a material dematerialized.

for shame

silent eyes downcast
shame eaten – a halt
to looking a clipped
rhythm spoken – sought
unleavening time through
a pile of – accumulation

mistaken for objects making
mistakes for a subject inhuman –
as iron overwrought as irony
distance of distastes steaming
taste – untouched

this is an exhibition of
awkward angles lined up
after – a duck – an absence
a rehearsal for murder
is this shameful

why is diction deceived
by lips, fingers on your
knee – only parts of
separation, pits of fear –
hidden between limbs

overhung from sheetless beds,
shirtless arms – enwrapped
by the air – unwrapped
in the light – a denial
of affect by face – by
faceless presentation –
a denial of faciality –

through another tunnel
of absurdity – grating –
skimming symmetry to touch
this is lifeless – as an exercise
dangerous because lacking
life dangerous as an ingestion of
      silver polish –
there are pronouns –
      direct objects
          simple objects

a rehearsal many times
performed perforce – rehearsed
of shame blazing in pale cheeks
an innovation – tense lover secure
under whelmed blazing
with feedback – ringing through
zones of comfort – is this
demand for presence –
calling up moments of
beds alarmed by destinations

landing on a location – turned down
indented – spaced & parted
at a guttural edge – throat
gurgling bile to generate
      another –
forcefully reinstated
coerced into a service for
the service emerging

a lowest commonality left
cut up a sibilance seething
against the front
teeth cracked / gaping
cloaked – anecdotal moments
elliptically mixed in – over timed –
over clocked evocations – citations
cleaned of a human mess
interest cleaned of
emphasis – an originalled copy

March 01, 2006


these incantations relatively weak put up against powerful language and set aside again.. these totalizing combinations morphological manipulations without exclusion, convert the words to worlds. a slip of recursion sent forever back to a beginning, a point to build from… Hexameter's strigid proteic verse in chiasmic recombinant configurations leaves the mouth - salivating – streaming in time on top of time folden – chains to trip on these chains trip over – links between arbitrary and indeterminate – becoming an unutterable chaos to express unutterable chaos – not a moment too soon, a moment returned – time a time over and hovering – no flash of recognition – similarity lost in difference – given over to relation in contrast to comparative exercise – made to make excess to be seen – excess to wonderment – a machinic work.


a narrative wash – moved
like a desk – pulled away
enhanced? painted a picture
a screen pierced, pioneered
simply a thin membrane
a watch –

seriously – a telling theory
off the top coming back
- imagined – with distance
withdrawn – a room abashed –
necessarily a feeling – a narration
it makes sense – this is clarity
this is clear

like waking up one day
an idea – an essay
divorced from ends –
written, but not right –
as if, the idea, a proposal

the steps up the idea
– the thing starting off – your
taught a book taut –
credit – your name
on the tomb –

a contract delivered
ultimately an idea – a title –
What the Fuck
a profile prolific – interviewed
background a series