The Process

Tag: poetry

Another Day

The toilet was running the toilet the toilet was was running,
running there’s a pool of shit water in the toilet brush holder
in a well-ish kept public bathroom there is a pool of shit water shit shit
water.  The two feelings are annoyed and nothing and intermittent
intermittent, fairly intermittent crying regardless of either two and a half sentiments |sashimi
has made me consider presentness due to its honesty|  the best the best the best

of the policies is is sashimi sashimi is the best policy.  Staling is the need for
speed staling thighs and lungs I am pond-like or rotten in my stagnancy in my
stagnancy I consider cutting my hair off or leg or finger off off off any choice is productive

if motherfucking productivity is producing an effect an effect instead of an outcome of course of course of course horse norse viking pelt the presidency if that if that if that is what we are calling it it it baruch hashem ass man frito pie poured into black-polished tasseled loafers

the boy has the boy has boy has left the man the guy has left he is i am the frosted windshield and the bugs the bugs on the outside are the bugs are also us and you | the two metaphors are rarely able to occur simultaneously; they are more here for seasonal options which illustrate an obstructed view and a constant bashing and a gnashing of bumper against what at once is was a 3D being and is was a 2D was-ing| in any in any at all of the cases the car the car is in motion the car is in motion away and the innards and outards are not are not succeeding not so well not so well, in fact they are hollowly raining of the eyes

The sashimi was cut shittily by a shitty person and served by a shitty nihilist and eaten by a shit and turned into shit and pooled into a toilet brush holder and no one was any the wiser or everyone knew and didn’t care and did but didn’t care and or everyone knew and cared and hated each other and money and fish and appetites were lost and a family of fish worms died a mournful and needless death or they didn’t care and preferred to end it all because The Leagues Below are Teeming With Russian Spies and they can trust no one but don’t care as the only fathomable existence fathoms below is one of {kremlin or gremlin or cruller or worm} survival which was ruled out by such worms &/ they fathomed something fabled and aspired to return as some behemoth whale and and and and whatever the mentality, they perished, and who is to say whether it was a shame, in vain or and and fucked.  Sillily

weighing the thinness of the line between orderly and anal retentive, the human considered the likelihood of achieving either and subsequently aimed for both while plainly aware of its inability to avoid the quick brown fox Wearing Bathing Suits at Work jumped over the lazy dog on Laundry Day |It had it had been certainly been decided that one would not definitely not enjoy its mead and also achieve anal reten-tion/-tiveness or avoid sticky licks of chicken skins and the scenario’s subsequent sucks of sticky digits | trunks, picture, obviously, +/-  what the fuck bikini fox, salted/burned nipple?

 

Advertisements

Banana Pudding Tequila God and Heaven

Any responsibility I have to a self is shredded wheat cake and disassembles in the presence of most liquids: most think of milk but anything//
salacious bodies lie on the gum-tarred sidewalk and flap fish-like in search of
orgasm, a veil dropped behind the eyes rather than lids

maintains decorum within, without is dissolved and on display for passersby
who wouldn’t bother anyway–the body could be a corpse or a tree or a box.  Doesn’t
matter.  The sticky sweatpants will affect almost nothing.  My pillow talk

is of being dead in the ground without the interest for something more.  The third rub
on the lamp evoked a thick smoke that dried the wheat, almost set fire to it: a body that said euthanasia should be available on grocery store shelves.  What if your child…

“yes, it’s sad.”  Community of frigid underlings?  Underlying?  Outlier?  Interred?  Flung out or even strung out in the cosmos, one toe in Earth’s atmosphere, dipping it, buying milk and naked?  Seven layer dip served out of a guy’s head while he sits on the cement,

loafers and shorts, maybe lost a job or found Valhalla in a urinal: many will win, few will enter?  I am reduced to the powder at the bottom of the bag but consider that a step

toward firmness and the construction of sap to amber, while I trap you transparent, beetle, we might’ve been syrup but now head toward jewelry, ornament exhibition tomb.  From what I understand, the choice of death quick and cozy could be taxed.

In Loving Memory of my Bowl Cut

When I try to explain myself, I remember being a child, watching the hips of teenagers spilling over their pants on Rehoboth Beach, wanting them for myself and also for myself. To figure out which, I don’t know how: this was before I learned to hate this body and when I didn’t know it wouldn’t grow to be a man. The gentle hanging of fat from down the back of a thigh: it was ideal? Inhabiting myself is a dream in which I’m on and off lucid, committed and then quickly realizing this couldn’t be true, wouldn’t.

The Usual Crises and Boring Shit

In a room of talking bodies–I am one of them–I’m looking at the
rest, each glance sounding off a little wish in my head.  I wish I were…
that lazy looking, low-belted bro, the girl that subsists on just coke, the now-long-sober dude, the girl in the either ironic or stupid-sincere t-shirt: I wish I were anyone.  Even as I’ve come to suspect A Body Can Only Know Anyone Besides Itself, I’m bound by the perception that everyone here defies that notion, wrapped up in their enigmatic but clear designs, and the bindings tighten around my regret for my choice of pants.  If I could tell anyone about myself beyond the basic physical and occupational facts, I could hardly think of anything more than a list of things I am not.  And because people these days have eyes, half my potential parlor conversation is obsolete.  I Am A Cooking Person rarely makes the cut unless you’re talking to someone incredibly narcissistic.  Where do you work?  What kind of food do you cook?  What’s your specialty (the worst question)?  It is difficult to steer a conversation less than by saying “I don’t currently work, the only major cuisines I don’t cook much at all are Japanese and Ethiopian, and I don’t really have a specialty unless fried bologna sandwiches counts.”  Out of context, I guess I sound like a real winner.  But context is just that, and long ago I lost a spark for the type of varied inflection that captures an audience as well as anything to say that might call for such melody.  A joke on myself, I might make, and then make a joke on that one.  Something like, A Real Winner I Am, See?  And then something like, Well, What, Haven’t You Ever Had A Fried Bologna, Jim?, Tough Crowd, Jesus.  And just flat like that, unyielding, boring music.  Like a song you turn off when something fun comes on TV.  It’s the sound in my head, too: when I see, read, hear such things…flat footnotes loom up in each pause in whatever medium, mad at the similes I used to like, bored at almost any poetics, mostly Romantics, like “Oh, but was it as vague as etchings on glass (one I understood and nearly liked–sorry Patti Smith, who I adore–I also mocked)?”  It happens with most work: by writers, chefs, artists, politicians– I gnaw it all away and rarely find a strong bone beneath all the rotting flesh attached: their respective masturbatory description (somehow always full-hearted and VERDANT), cabbage shoulders and onion crumbles, obtuse color blocks, jargon and lies–and I make myself out of what I won’t be compared to what exists, and I don’t have attributes but I can sure say what qualities cancel out those in anyone else right back down to rot.  But often there are bones enough to hold them together, and that point thinks at/on/in me enough to want some flesh on mine.  Sardonic skeleton, depart.  Let me codify as and name myself as anything, maybe a series of 1’s and 0’s rather than “not 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, or 9,” maybe a seer of true flesh over an exposer of the rotten.

Much in the Way the Sun Evades Me

The season suggests an opening of sky…maybe a month…maybe three…I look out in the black afternoon, these days, and think it won’t be much longer now…but then I think I’ve heard that before…in a dream, maybe in a mouth on my mouth, and I think the mistress of daylight is them…or even that when the daylight comes, it will be the night I miss…and I have considered going somewhere more even…like an elderly person…{realizing that maybe night is day’s restraints, tight ropes to hold us down…make us wait for our satisfaction?}…because, ever-skeptical, I have thought, and what if the sun leaves me tied up in moonlight and doesn’t come back?  Or, cynically, sadistically, that maybe it’s time for Sweden, where they become their abandonment.  But here, maybe, it won’t be too much longer now…or will it?  I look out at the grey and think, you and your non-answers, you and your waiting games.