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still.subject-less.still



i imagine i post to much.

precious prescience. ha!

my thoughts evaporated on the way. to here. they were good. to me.

they are not here now. apparently.

that was editing of a sort.

i keep forgetting to use palmcorder. i used palmcorder this morning to
catch her momma's voice from the phonecorder. one medium to another to
another to another.

i dunno why i do this. it is obsessive, futile, fetishist. this must be
'why'. this is not right, good, maybe not even ok. but it is.

once, in rage and remorse over love lost, i blew a faux-poem to a friend.
a play on the name of the love lost, mixed with plays on the names of loves
lost by others, mixed with plays on the lost love's philosophy of things,
mixed with plays on the philosophys of the others, whose loves had been lost.

as well.

eight lines, which is more than these describing, densely packed and full
of hidden significance, as ginsberg might. but this was not my intent. the
ending line was most cornball, as is my wont. i knew it was cornball. but
i edited it not, as is my wont. to my surprise, no line i have ever written
has had so much of an effect on another. well, at least that's what he said.

well. ok. these are things...

sometimes i keep my ears to the ground for popular indie flavors.
sometimes others. flavors, that is. and others.
sometimes i stick my neck in the sand.
sometimes i test the waters.
somtimes i jump, head first, into -the shallow end-.

may all your punk rock dreams come true.

is it punk to dream?

then we were at the same party, different times. i'm sorry for this, but was
happy for another. these motives are at odds. it was my time to be going. i
was subject to another. me, an object. we melted together.

sometimes i am at the party.
sometimes not.

sometimes one gets over one's conservation, gets over in the tub.

forever getting this, shunning that. what's up?

diogenes, where is your tub? alexander comes to envy you.
is this myth? somesay.

sometimes i howl. sometimes i wake. sometimes i am at the beginning
of times. sometimes it is the end of the tour. sometimes people wish
i'd get a style. sometimes i hope i might avoid that.

the evening of the party, every other male i met was named chris.
the evening of the party, every other female i met was named elle.

what's up. no question.

she thinks i am sad. this makes me sad.
she thinks i was angry. this makes me sad (as well).

she does everything to make me happy. i am.

-you, however, are- the king of comma.

you, how, ever, are.

may no one dispute this. i ask. may.

as long (as long) as there are are commas, lines drawn, aristotle, the thought
will not be complete, but shall instead, be conserved, almost real, formic.

let us draw, and redraw, about commas. i ask. let.

i ask to post.

mother, may i.

i ask you to post.

but, please, i ask, too, may you sleep, as well.

our prayers are heard if only for awhile.

sleep here, if you wish. your dreams are my best idea of you.

now i lay me down to sleep. bag of peanuts at my feet.

bag of pee. nuts at my feat.

you dream of forms? well. it is well. is it well, i form an opinion?

it's a good thing i don't care.
it's a thing to care about good.
it's good to have one's things cared.

icansaythis: thank you. and thank you, too.

i had a dream last night about four squares. i woke this morning to a dream
about twos, threes, leibniz, and hegel.

the unadorned, the real, the faux, and the apparent.

leibniz was in the tub. hegel was taking a bath.

one must be a pervert to like anything.

so, if you really like that, get dirty, get over there to it, the heirs
apparent.

the air, apt, i rent.

there i go. again. saying should to be said. what am i? a copclericcounselor?

with every breath.

every breath edits yet another word. and all the ones i lost, i loved.

but i'm damned if i can date.

i neglected my diary awhile. later i tried to relist my dates.
but, theyallruntogether. and they were so nice, every one.

the green room echoes too loudly for me yet. not very nice dates.
that funeral home across the street, from where the ghosts wander
out, and drink from our beers while our backs are turned, and whisper
odd thoughts into our ears when we think we don't notice. the day i
am dead, sunday, maybe. i dunno. shufflepuck without the one, of many,
who thinks i am daddy, who wishes for daddy, i dunno. those feet trot
elsewhere, so.far.away. now. my neck was crained. left and would.not.say.
odd motives.

so, cc, you are back in circulation now? well, yes, but really, i was
never out. you were just not here. all that and more.

so, cc, just climb up there and take that b outta the sign and it would
say cc. well, yes, but we might just rearrange the b into the middle.

rearrange the b. into the middle.

eclectic honor mentions viva.

come, pair, to past performances.
always, lost, the last rah kin roe, sho' nuff?

nuff?

never. enough obnoxiously loud din. i find chat unusually annoying.
but icanwrite, imightsay. so, i guess i'm curious. nothing to get
excited about: to know for next time. i had to explain what that
meant recently. i'd love to have posterity. very hard to n.awrrow
down.

the band i prefer plays tonight. i am broke. i'd listen and win. but
i am here, instead. momma's girl will take me to movie, anywoohoo.

all sounds the same.

,

3.2.3