post errata

(if they can, in fact, adapt):  through struggle or (and) through an ignorance of struggle. Complications emerge; struggling ignorance, ignoring struggle struggle,  ignorance ignorance struggle, struggling struggling.  Fine.  Let us suppose, for a heartbeat, that everyone is not fully conscious all of the time (is).

What follows are simply musings on the aftermath of a storm.  

I’ve decided to give more serious thought to becoming a mortician.  
Roscoe ate paint, plastic; he appreciated Enya.  During the storm my ex-boyfriend picked him up to comfort him, he had a heart attack on his shoulder and died.  Changes in barometric pressure see the ends of birds, chipmunks.  Indoor cats, extraordinarily rare.  I believe Roscoe was a God.  He fully experienced what the rest of us could not.  I am still in love with said ex.  
“History doesn’t repeat itself; But it rhymes.”  Mark Twain.
I fled the aftermath of the hurricane.  I drove to Maryland.  I waited in line at a gas station off the Jersey turnpike for an hour.  Droves of women and men in sweatpants sauntered up to the pumps with gas cans the size of kegs.  Chinese families ran around vans, switching seats.
Relief efforts are now being struck in Manhattan, spearheaded by a group of hearty and loveable freaks and queers carrying cupcakes.  
A few weeks ago, I traveled to Pittsburgh and saw Che.  
Candle makers and bartenders are exempt from questioning their life choices.
Creation is more essential than presenting creation.  Audience is a luxury.  Flatulence is the key to understanding this.
Who is your family?  What is your modus operandi?
“My wife's jealousy is getting ridiculous. The other day she looked at my calendar and wanted to know who May was.” - Rodney Dangerfield
Memory is not stored in the brain, but in bones, triggered by resonance, sparked by endorphins, shocked.
Life is generally composed of the act of forgetting to remember.
“I want to learn more and more to see as beautiful what is necessary in things; then I shall be one of those who make things beautiful. Amor fati: let that be my love henceforth! I do not want to wage war against what is ugly. I do not want to accuse; I do not even want to accuse those who accuse. Looking away shall be my only negation.” - Friedrich Nietzsche
I left my pomade at Goodbye Blue Monday.

On big fat tires dude's massive truck sat in traffic
Hungover as a crow
Face greased with stubble
Bending over ass-to-zenith
Eyes bugged, shifting, on a search for a bathroom
Palpitating curiosity, on the run from a bit torrent

Arms strained, they pop, his head a pouring torrent.
Induction, convexity, a coma stuck in traffic.
The road, all cars, the lines look like a massive bathroom
(Which it is if you're a crow)
Evolutionary zenith
In a universe of stubble

Where bumps between lanes stand up like stubble
Scraping tongue and hatching eyes before the torrent
Like sponge, with pores, pupils meet zenith
Pulsing a different era, a different form of traffic.
Spirals sported in the eye of a crow
A string of bizarre incidents involving the bathroom.

Long brown stains run down the walls in the bathroom.
The sink overflowing with presidential stubble.
On the lip is a feeding crow
Bleeding maple syrup, gallons of torrent.
It's head a pineapple, ants teem toward, black highway moving traffic.
Yet still we march on, eyes fixed beyond the zenith.

We plodded. Our conversation at a zenith.
Too entranced to reconsider, too intense to find a bathroom.
In his head are letters, his thumbs reflect their traffic.
Forgotten games of cards and a slam of the hand on the wheel, jostled, seatbelt scraping stubble.
Between his legs, a torrent.
That all too familiar feeling, where porcupine meets crow.

His thighs moist, alternate with prickling, a flutter like feathers, black pants, wet wings, a crow.
And still we march on, not yet beyond the zenith.
I say, "listen man." And then again, "listen listen listen." My mouth loose with torrent.
His eyes in his pants, cry loosed lips, unable to drive to a bathroom.
"Listen, man. Let's stop. I want to shave this stubble."
And then waking unto wetness, eternally born into traffic.

Proximity Distorted Conversation

poop message

linksys

some text that cannot be said out loud

lozenge

Guacamole

itchy... mold... fingers... scritchy

hot...sweaty...fishy...asian

canal street after rain in July

tongue sandwich stand run by cyclops
underneath the eyeball a slight dripping source

a cactus trembling with remorse

hammer and tongs, hammer and tongs

the United States of Bulimia (Gross Insistence Traveling Salesperson)

Eating crabs in king sized waterbed

shell in back, turn over, remember salt-water

Mother apron-backwards, fucking the mailman and cursing the price of milk.

those cigarettes way up on the shelf

Memories of scotch bottles haunting the schnauzer.

NOSE NOES KNOWS

the royal we

glop glop splash with this pointed fork of an icicle

can we eat soon?

Unbothered and alone, I've lived in this broken down room for years, safely cocooned by barbed wire, rubble and neglect, silence of broken bricks and the seasonal green of a useless tenacious plant. I watch the rise and fall of the sun, forever waiting for it to fuck up. Of course, it never does.

Every day, I stare at it all through a fist-sized hole in my lair. I stare and absentmindedly fondle protrusions of the crumbling brick wall. They feel like chicken nipples. I am at peace. I look for entertainment, mostly. Nothing I see ever tempts me to leave. I just need to make sure of that. Often.

Until the day Delicare comes. It arrives in the daytime, although I prefer it were night and I never saw the whole thing at all. I can see it now - the ghastly thing - in its entirety through the hole, and I don't understand why it never leaves or how long it's been there and why it is that even though it's so close to the hole I can see the whole thing in such damning detail.

The thing is full of kittens, was full of kittens, and forever will be full of kittens. They never stop. They come and go in a stream of unending activity, and there could be five of them or several hundred thousand and I have no idea which. One or a few hundred like to carry a briefcase and there are others, or maybe the same ones, that talk on mobile phones. I say talk, but I'm not sure. They make sounds, but I've forgotten all languages long ago and don't know if those sounds mean anything.

They spill out of the Delicar, and dash about with importance of ones charged with an important diplomatic mission. Sometimes there are plaintive sounds of saxophone and I feel the world slipping away from me like a deflated balloon skin and I tumble through lots and lots of space, with cold lights and no air, heads over heels. I reel and the Delicar is there, sometimes laughing, laughing, laughing in ways no one or nothing ever should laugh.

I've found cement, I blocked the hole. I blinded myself with a brick and covered myself with cement in the corner so I may never leave. Never see. Never again witness the Delicar. The cement hardens and I become immobile. I am at peace again. I feel death coming. With my last strength I reach for the place where the whole was and claw at it - I ... just ... want.... Delicar...

got my thrill in Co. 2 blue ill

and no one noticed save a porcupine

he nodded gracefully out on the porch

he woke and dashed into a grate

his face was mashed like grvey

I went back to selling felt

We shared something we felt

Conspired over felt at Co. 2 blue ill

we made a load of grvey

until John arrived with porcupine

who told a story about a grate,

who every night would burn a porch

and nodded as away went the porch

ablaze to fund his factory of felt

all profit made to clog the grate

as goes the saying here at Co. 2 blue ill

"Someday we'll see the porcupine!"

I've been here for 27 years, have gone to every picnic, acquired frequent flier miles and put my daughter through college and still, after a drink, I won't hesitate to tell you how it's all a bloody load of grvey.

it's tasty, this squished up grvey

worth the cost of every porch

burned up by John's porcupine

all my clothes are made of felt

the uniform of Co. 2 blue ill

the blood and sweat and tears that fill the grate

the porcupine looked jealously at what was clogged up in that grate

his eyes burned holes into the grvey

my thrill about to happen in the barracks of Co. 2 blue ill

chairs rocking eerily on the porch

the porcupine was chewing upon a piece of felt

I'm sick and tired of that porcupine

The thrill, grvey, the grate, effluent and oh that chewing porcupine

his cries echoing through the grate

a reflection of my thrill I felt

up to my knees in shimmering grvey

spilled out onto the porch

where now I stand, with a pocket full of pills, preparing for the party tonight at Co. 2 blue ill

I wonder how he felt that day the drastic porcupine

chewing bills for Co. 2 blue ill like arson in a grate

the thrill a match the grvey spilled on that fateful porch

They're fucking in front of the kittens
These two
I'm watching them through my peephole at Co. 2 Blue Ill
They came in a Delicar
Shit happens playfully
Blame the cat.

Suppertime for the cat
Preparing for the arrival of the kittens
As they screw playfully
Between just the two
The seven, the twenty-six, masked and holy neighborhood in a Delicar
Excitement runs through Co. 2 Blue Ill

Somebody spiked the water-cooler at Co. 2 Blue Ill!
With some fluid excreted from the cat
There's a bust at the Delicar!
Where they rounded up all the kittens
Removed their antennae, and escorted them through the parade, two by two
As they purred and puked playfully

He spread her legs playfully
In front of the peephole at Co. 2 Blue Ill
Communal shower's at 2
With a lathered up cat
Giving birth to 2 kittens
The legacy of the Delicar

Say your prayers, Delicar!
A kitten screamed playfully
In a shower full of kittens
The kittens fed by Co. 2 Blue Ill
And it's philosophy of Cat
Feline and Body bring together two.

And there was never a two.
But under the wheels of a Delicar
And between the ears of a cat
A woman's legs were spread playfully
Knocking over my cubicle at Co. 2 Blue Ill
To release what caused all this, a box full of kittens

Goddamn this cat, licking thighs two by two
Blending kittens and the backdrop of the Delicar
But that's how they fire you, playfully, in the shower, at Co. 2 Blue Ill.