Stream of Containers-ness

I don’t know about anaDrl but someone clocked a Kronos Pill, left it sticking on my grill, and went away to be so chill. What the dill? Mace, parsley, curling and weight. I that sees we have a date. We’ll meditate, and masticate, and maybe even break the chain. What keeps us here? We small, factual boredom chambers, fascinated and submissive to the whale-tail waves that color this factor. What dreams are rising? What space is sitting? A mountain, crumbling. A tree, lifted from its root-hold. Is it an illusion? We have no form, here, in this world o mollusk-goop. We just know where to go, and where to stay away from. No survivors if seedlings spend their growth hormone on fighting antler-Ants. Get to killing that station, soldier! The less you artfully dispose? What? Nonsense, Lieutenant! I have no patience for war, word salad, or kookamamie!


The Lilithian Receipt

If you call Lilith,
don’t regret it when she comes.

The ocean is wide,
and there is no time-
but there is space-
and now,
resting compulsions.
deliberate injunctions to
remember your functions:
your constant devulsions
to purge your buddha nature.
and yet your cries,
honed but but unheard, felt like cloths wavering,
changing the weaving,
convening in this house of liars, while we rip our love away.


in the shade
someone just got made into a man by the blade
(don’t get whacked)
(gangster shit)
Partially bubonic
This man is diatomic
He’ll put it into blunts
You watch my back
I’ll watch the front
it’s multichronic
special army
it’s karmic and you want it
(don’t get whacked)
(gangster shit)
It’s special
It’s Hel school
it’s something that you know that you’re supposed to be exposed to
it bleeds
it feeds
it’s something that you have when you’re in amongst the trees
widen up
wisen up
found pieces of the puzzle inside a broken cup
we’re treating
the lies that kept us cryin’
the smiles had us dyin’
I’m pleased to believe I’m right where I’m supposed to be
with da feet
steppin right
and left
and right
and left
(don’t get whacked)
(gangsta shit)

A misplaced vow

Twisted together we eat each other’s words in silence
we’ve said everything
the yes and the no
the tests
the why
you slide me
and for glory I cry
fill-i me up
crack me open, heart
for we have one moment for truth.
in comfort from dying
to make you real, well-loved, to make mine fly, deservèd of course
we’re corpse.
hold on tight, for now
merging sound
to love (the violence)
to face you (don’t kill me)
to smother (& resurrect my will)
as a fit
I know and trust that you cannot be mine
but I try to grind you in.

a vine grows

The plant’s senses are shrouded from light, but anyway grope into the unknown. They who lack eyes bud out into the void by an unseen vibration. Intent to flower and vine, drenched in sun solfeggio, the quintessential will elongates onward. Entropy sprouts leaves and blossoms. The subsequent aches and moans of the rhizomes are relieved by the slow meander of growth: spontaneous authentic locomotion. In forfeit of resistance, joyous shadows follow the direction of the golden beam.

Old Money Blvd, Atlanta GA

The dew formed a pearlescent sheen on the bed of grass that, when observed when in motion, as on a bicycle or walking, caused the grass mat underneath to seem as flat, a mere backdrop, consequential and 2D, to the film above. Crystalline and almost holographic, it gave off a most imperceptible, possibly psycho-logically imposed by an observer, rainbow prismic air, a glamour. It implied a recent perfect manicure by the hands of a God-like pamperer. This sheen did not appear, however, in the spaces characterized by shadow. Not the shadow of the observer, the shadow of the bicycle she rode upon, but the shadow of the blades of grass themselves, their shadows most noticeably seen next to happen-stance pockets of where they come together to spread out from a common strand of shoots. Common strands, or where natural variation has created billows, places where a few blades had been brushed to one side or another and there was an open space larger than between most of the blades, thus giving the shadow more opportunity, more time to form. A million stars reflected in the thin film.

The observer has a thought. What if these stars, these liquid crystal dots in a fabric of sheen, could, or even are, reflecting all of my inner sides, every thought? What then? How can I be sure to think the right thing?

Excuse me, do you know of the Bonaventure?

New York, New York

New York and I barely tolerate each other anymore. It’s too concrete, yet illusory. It’s a simulacrum of itself.

Friday Eve on the D train a woman steps on holding a book entitled, “Feign Thyself.” The cover image is a torso portrait, proud and exuberant, of the author.

New York is a comparatively “grounded” place. You cannot help but feel attached to Earth whilst rapt in rock. Cement and hard ground are the uprisings of the spirit of this place as it has come to be. The buildings are the monuments to the sky; the subways a burrowing system, ant colony, gopher extraordinaire rodent tunnels. A city known for its rats, everyone has their own little hole and corner, tucked away in rows and systems of mazes, turns, and hideaways. The city seems to run as its own living entity. They say that New York City never sleeps. This is a farce – the city itself may not sleep, but if you have ever tried functioning between the hours of 3 and 5, you may find that the only fellows you have are the rats, and their human namesakes, themselves. Yet, the automation lives on. Even when the police force struck itself off, things go off without a snag. Chaos exists, of course, but New Yorkers step right over it, like long legs over a destitute sign-flier, not even missing a beat of stride.

It’s a city for an observationist. There is no short of signs, patterns, protocol, sound, or emotional input. The sheer variety of people one is exposed to in a short ride through a major subway line is enough to take one through the entire human condition in less than 20 minutes.

New Yorkers are known for not smiling at each other. People here know that a look in the eyes may be a battle challenge, and it just simply isn’t done. It may seem cold, or inhumane even, but there is a very good reason for it – the constant input and numbers of people mixing is very hard to bear. We haven’t evolved to make contact with so many people. Tribes are only supposed to be able to handle about 150 members. To make contact with so many people in a day is enough to drive a person insane, which is why the only ones that do, are the ones who are in motley or rags on the street corners. They’ve already crossed over. They’re already dead. Most though, have to stay in their own little world. There’s no other way to remain safe. Duck, cover, and get there fast.

NYC lesson #1: Get The Fuck Out Of The Way.

Standing Up

When you’re struggling and there’s nowhere to go

Besides the place where you think you know

And the world has left you red and shown

Faced with swell and eyed with crown

We share the malt and fest the pear

And walk the mile, & smoke despair

While lies abound and eyes defray

The partial sweet and half decay

Of life amidst the suffering

Of compound pain on compound strain

Of lashing out because in pain

Of years and years of allowing chains 

To bind me to your rage, your shame.

I see you, Monty. I see you, Caine.

I see Ur fake, sorry, and I’m not gonna stay

To watch you rake my face again with rays

Of blight



Determined and uncertain of everything

until the clear appears

and the



elevates me


and I remember

The Truce.