On the Our

But

The origin of the project was the reversal of time
The beginning would always be the end
Which made ending the book easy and
Beginning the book hard.

Just

Total dislodging from the consistency of what you thought yesterday

the psychic map wraps
nicely into a square
which fits in your pocket
when you travel

so I say to him, I say,

the real-time outlines are due

or I says to him, I says,

"never say nevers, ye? better late then ever"

but we talking

walking, sulking and barking

with the bridge with the gap middle

where the fiddles play fiddles

and the hole in the tooth grows.

or new tricks.

But probably have to show up with some regularity.

I'll do what I want.

I'll come and go as I please.

Fuck it.

((( * Chapter Eleven: The End * )))

I now know people
Whom times are falling hard on

And I now know
This is our time.

We saw or've seen
this transition

From ease to struggle
But we've seen it we know it

And I've seen friends working
As hard as they can

At jobs that don't pay
Not in this economy

I see the panic of debt
and eyes turned long

Because what can be done
To get by or give up

Let us find it.

Please

Let us find it.

And should we
Let us not nullify with gifts that sour

Let us cultivate
Let us deliver it anew

Let us be the ones
Help us be the ones

Our kid's wouldn't have to

Our future's past in the eyes of us as old
Those who make it to 90 bones turned cold

Hello 2075
Our eyes say

They pronounce 'better'
As they shut goodbye

Not better in full
Not ever complete

No stuck-up in full
Utopian dream

But what works

But what works
But what works
But what works
But what works

Or is working

What we made out of time
Not what time made with us

And that is our time
And this is our time.

And we'll make it
You'll see.

What?

CELEBRATE WHAT?

and be despondent to who?

the time have changed fair sir.

and the water is rising.

Celebration and Rejoice!

A leaving and letting go.

Oh God, how your opinion matters no longer!

And the Revealing of something else: The Next!

For soot is ash smeared.

The incremental layering of units that will tell.

Say: 60 new minute clips woven.

A feature length film bent around two.

Mario Kart and God.

The breaking of the game.

A left veer or infinite green shells.

Clap.

Forthwith notwithstanding.

And a spiral in which I'm protagonist.

But the incidentals grow and change too.

And what would it be.

The loneliness wouldn't be hard to act or to present.

What the new. What the new.

personality in a pouch, so am i.

The words now sent by text bring new life to book.

here we are in another book. hoo-ee.

if only you knew the change that just occurred.

what occurs to me now is that it goes on.

and the second saying makes the first all the meaner,
i'm my own problem, you're yours.
and the thing happens again.

jealousy ain't love and i said it again.

i'll say it again: jealousy ain't love.

simple guitar nothing needed force

engorge

peel and orange

*not a spelling error

sibilance

or toe

tote,

tut, tut, tut

steam boat willy in towe

battalion battle brigade

war ship!

whorish worship

1 or 17

a treasure map

the selected typography

rail car collision

so no more
so no more
so no more

leave spaces to fill

equality leave spaces to fill

look where i can reach

notes taped to backs are labels

oh, dali textual

science and zen in embrace

with tits on forehead

some beast

and the whorish mock-up it became

left to trial

sent wonder from after

dip, lose grip

let to fall

another tremor

so follow the lead

ten times the tilt has left you

fearless evocative

the project is failed

you clicked shut

for all the people they had known were gone now, too.

They wanted to leave the country, finally

and so they did, in sickness and in health.

((( * Chapter Ten: My God * )))

now the battery on my computer is dead

and i'm writing from beyond the grave

and i'll write back soon, i swear,

or won't

and pray: for me-that i go to more bars-for-dancing

and meet more

stupid
\
passable
\
boring

girls

because i like them a lot

mom, i want you back with dad

dad, i want you back with mom

sorry, but this is what i want for you

and i want it much

because i can

because i must

but will do what i am able while i am still in this

yes, i will die
will be over

will perish

and god-damned-it i've got to feel alive
while i am

i've got to smoke

while as the photos of a young me differ

this is 'i am'

and i am

and not, alison, marshall, maureen, tim, AARON, nick, dylan, JP, charles, jamie, girl at bar, girl at counter, girls at place who were met,

and people i've yet
and lovers i've yet to suggest

god, i'm so ruined

and the nothings they know about it

even with all
with the Christmas Tim spent with us
with the endless parties had at mother's expense
with all the booze bottles
alcoholic nothings
and soul mate friends who aunt would discourage

where I'll starve and learn to love it

where an ex-girlfriend will give out hand-outs
like they are yesterday's news

where my grandparents won't receive the thank-you-note they deserve until they're dead

where i can't do a god damned thing

where the night terrors crawl
where i've made a mockery of my family's past

where i'm supposed to be

even here, where i have arrived and am su-posed to be

i feel it i feel it

god, i feel i have done wrong

"i wish she were here,"
or the rarer,
"i wish he were here"

"i wish the four of us were the five of us"

it is like a question

god, the bricks and barriers it must create

my soul is running at full steam

if you read this regularly, or checked it, you'd know

i am at home now

something something something etc

not so much the same

and the thing that is left will be similar but

and the editor will change things

the first reader goes and then the editor shows up

ought to untangle the mess a bit

and soon - maybe next month, i ought to reread it

because you're the reader, too, not only the writer

or whatever the one thing is

or a book of poetry

but the whole life can't be a photo album

because we don't forget how to ride bicycles

which means nothing about not returning

like with anything - you do it a lot and then you have to stop

meanwhile: the thoughts pour into the unaccountable universe

nothing to report other than a quip or a pun

but also: the old nagging feeling of nothing-much

or are

they were in favor of life

the months of only a few days

the stretches of author-gone time

you'd see the absences as strengths, historically

you can't walk away from one either

you can't talk your way into a meaningful life

nuke runs atop a train

he sees his target, a seeming half-lizard half-man

the thing has long arms and uses them

to pull a tree out of its roots and hurl it backward

still atop the train

nuke dukes it and we see it fall away behind his shoulders

it hits a snag and rocks the train

with the slowed momentum nuke flies forward

barreling head over foot

the half-man grabs him as he passes and spins him back again

in the release nuke grabs its wrist

as they both fall off the train

and land in a river

old dog sitting in a rocking chair

take that sorry snout and learn to age

all your life
you were only waiting for

a wait: to wait: for waits

preference saves

melody wavers

I sigh for thine eyes

sorrow for the lost children of sorrow

cooling ages with tips of toes

sell has-beens to the cops

torrid arid frigid flunky farts

solo cup pizza hut hanuka for you

sort tenta de nini, come pata se frio dee doo.

tilling the farm thrilling the arm spilling and filling a cup full or warm

Cybil spoke of Sarah, Sarah spoke of you

immediaiacy from my finger tips, my cheeks painted blue

it's okay to let it go
let it flow
let it grow

it's okay to say hello
say fellow
say, or, foe

it's okay to walk the alley
it's okay to sleep the day
it's okay to be so shallow
it's okay to fill with hate

it's okay
it's okay

it's okay
it's okay

the phone rings - i thought it was broken - so i pick it up

the check in all the boxes on the mental to-do

a day that i need to go for about four days

a day where if i can keep my posture upright i might

today is a day in which much must be done and in which little worry can be spent

today is a work day

things i'd rather not do - but today is not a rather day.

there's things i want to put off but can't afford to.

so i sit and i write, but even the writing is a form of avoidance

and the coffee feels like the warmth of love or experience without the temporal commitment.

the bright lights i've set up work good but they're no sun.

the house is dim - it lies on the east-west axis - very little sun

i stand from the damp brink stoop

so get your ass back to work, i demand once more - and this time i listen.

and I won't look it up, either. today is not a day to increase knowledge. it is a day for work.

indemnity is the word on my mind today, but I don't know what it means

now get your ass back to work, I tell myself with gusto.

but you won't see the ocean for at least another four days
call it five

the sun warms your skin in time for the wind to chill it again
and the waves are crashing somewhere out there
and you know how the sand would feel

its one of those days

then march your ass back in there and get to work.

Finish your coffee, I say to myself.

come back, come back

for hark-and-bellow sought below

look-and-see said he

'look and see,' he said

look-and-see heralded from the highest peak

SOLD!

the rhombus is

there was some comfort in it

with nothing to spare he lept from the basket

and the horses galloped unherded

in 2008 a cowboy hitchhiked

in the prospector town, something awful happened

'yahoo' lost the meaning

'yippee' and some other things were said

eons eon and wolves wolf

pigeon pigeoned and pig pigged

tv glowed until bomb exploded

the boy's middle name was 'fucker'

falling forward faster

the crate of golf balls packed itself

the molecules slow down and come closer together

you look and see that you're blind

warmest tingle, trying to find your tooth under your gums

whatever it was, the baby teethed on it

which is only just beginning
which is the decision to start
which is a shift in mentality
which is a directing of will
which is some kind of shift
which might be chemical
which might be spiritual
which might be nothing at all
but is most likely something
which could be anything
but it is the change
the simple turn
the going
and doing so needs no plan
no specific idea
just that beginning which is
and if is not
must be
and if didn't
ought to have
because actions speak louder than inactions

the first step is the first step

and the forthwith forbearance forgoes folly

with feline fragility

as he fell to his prayer

the grip was unbreakable

as it dripped from the bottle, i saw new color in my own blood

tripping, one was left for dead, unconcious

they all ran for their lives

and the knife tells you so much you never knew about your stomach

it was the kind of gift an enemy gives you

the shovel hit the ground in the swoop away from his chin

courage was scarce and the time had come for blatancy

i took out every one of my crumbs

the bottle always prescribed the opposite of what i'd inevitably do with the stuff inside

the terror twenties were in full swing

i got good and drunk

the rat had a mustache

follicles fill landfills full of filthy junk

there is no meat in team

four hundred years later the alphabet was invented

the car was dead so he parked it

with snake like smoothness, he started up the fence

pulling the umbrellas out from under the couch, he began his day

false syllogisms, logical fallacies,
simpleton statements
cardstock conundrums
broken engagement

...

hand truths, sad or aloof,
reciprocal alley
side split dichotomy
deep in the valley

...

meaty pepper pie
clownshoes in winter
sapling devour
a toe in my splinter

...

i ate a date today
the date i ate was dated
and darts were thrown and hearts were shown
and experience was rated

...

four three seven nine
five and two and six
and one and one or one one one
and eight, too, in betwixt

...

hey look
a stone
all alone
a stone

...

scribble dribble fillibust
something other i now must

when the waves
whatever they are
curl at your feet
tearing asunder

the jags of rock
will cradle your skin
waiting stoic -like-
for the pierce of thunder

as the sea rescinds,
it rebuilds in the ocean
and readies its force
in multiple hundreds

the left of another
holding hair to shoulder
with stymied action
irrevocable blunder

i'll be there
you'll be there
we' be together
in your and my arms

we'll weather the weather

Yes, No, Maybe So.

More Words

Time
Color
God
Life
Nature
Art
Thought
Text
Belief
Sense
Intuition
Persona
Compassion
Emotion
Substance
Physic
Local
World
Narrative
Form
Thing
Soul
Picture
Texture
Focus
Human
Math
Growth
Love
Loss
Ground
Surface
Gesture
Jester
Guru
Proportion
Hand
Relation
Symmetry
Geometry
Buddha
Spider-Man
Icon
Figure
Body
Alter
Derive
Faux
Origin
Impetus
Impulse
Equate
Number
Technology
Tool
Extend
Free
Determine
Know
Use
Take
Create
Allow
Pursue
Mean
Risk
Self
Question
Who
Direction
Perpetual
Continuous
Chronology
Geography
History
Society
Control
Catastrophe
Wrong
Truth
Age
Era
Place
Space
System
Star
Universe
Atom
Scale
Consistent
Obsession
Conjure
Project
Multiple
Thanks
One
Here
Now
Is
Other
Norm
Qualm
Reservation
Archetype
Concept
Science
Organism
Skeptical
Illusion
Metaphor
Scheme
Capital
Order
Dominion
Abuse
Power
Plane
Real
Finished
Complete
End
You
Begin
Audience
Collect
Please
Information
Object
Mind
Sign
Construe
Binary
Assume
Fundamental
Element
Base
Particle
Belong
Care
Total
Addict
Everything
Toy
Primary
If
Enthusiasm
Random
Center
Follow
Reject
Soon
Death
Family
Lover
Sport
Service
Game
Play
Pray
Serial
Certainty

((( - THIS IS THE TOWER OF BABBLE - )))

Deliverance

to have been delivered!
to find forgiveness in a hill
to fall in and then out
of love with a girl

to return age ten
where the fog rolling hills
did plip on my forehead
and give me my fill

to have moved
and have moved
and have moved yet again
suddenly feeling close to the end

and suddenly homeless
the ultimate choice
to start up from nothing
to dance with your voice

see sign posts
seen sign posts
seen them so clear
there's nothing to nothing to nothing but fear

we are let to be and then are not
and there's much in between
we are young we are old
we've lost our healthy sheen

it's the circumstance of going
from one to the next
have to eat dinner
have to cash checks

have to be clean and
tie up loose ends
have to be willing
to let thee things mend

will the geese who all gander
and the peace that resides
all flutter away now
from this sweet lullaby?

Go Forward

i'm tearing it down
remove it from view
a vision of death
translucent in hue

the anger that comes
when i call it by name
filthy and crawling
it injects its blame

but the peacocks in rainstorms
and the kitties in yards
Will avert their eyes only
Their claws still go forward

to take to task the tinkerers of touch and go

sinners in corvettes

or the innards of a pervert

invert the innert

cat whip terror time the

absolutist philandering the
sad sack very very sad sack the
simple repetitive gesture the
ingrained against the grain brain pain the
good for you, good for you, good for you the
bad for you once the
slap on the ass the
crack of the split the
shit of the dip the
depression into war the
planetary force the
torrent tumult pummel the
Cybil Cyrus Orian the
orient money spent relent the
sand bag carpet bag pink slip the
missed appointment cargo pants the
ice cream parlor parley party parsnip piss pant slip shit the
same same same the
love hate war peace cry laugh smile frown the
old saggy tree leaf green fire cricket guilt the
wronged been wronged done wrong the
gong show the
cane that pulls the
pains in full the
shames of yours truly the
fame and the duty the
cold cleft gang war the
bang bang bang, whore, the
flame retardant Jane she darted into oncoming

ten most likely to succeed or fail the

celebratory murder the

congratulatory beating the

soldiering settlement state the

tension of a trained mind the

smokey throat sorrow the

clips of words that end with the

woven things of story the

thirty foot drop of the foot the

subliminal subservience the

The solipsistic the

Grates over nooks.

Or the vagabond doorstep.

Temper tantrum titty.

Selfish squandering shits.

The last is first.

The groundhog's head

But the sun cuts right across the yard and sky to educate.

Yet another act of forsaking - giving up on hope for the world again.

A betrayal by the people of most trust.

The tot was taught thought.

Buddha, Buddha: Buddha, Buddha.

The two former lovers were trying to fuck each other, but not in the good way.

When Jesus came back, he was surrised at how little time had passed.

no more belief in people who don't deserve belief

a vote of 'no' confidence

the 'no' of you won't see me again

the 'no' of a dislodged hierarchy

the 'no' of an early life bankruptcy

and it might just be the 'no' heard generations out

i might just though this time

useless ultimatums because im too weak to say 'no'

calm me down

who am i kidding - calm me down

and the cards played in order to calm you down

a bind which is always without choice

the kind of release that leads you headlong right back into a grip

fuck it

voices in wavers

my remorse mortgaged

and i feel robbed

pathetic and hurtful

terrible

the real gritty grinding shit and abhoring

and my pity cannot hold back the rage

struck by a truck, dumb luck and a bunch of lousy fucks

Oh, Alan, who forced me into reality just in time to be struck

thank you novel fiction

my heart jumps and tried to break through the ribs

i can't breathe for it

it takes my breathe away

how much selfish shit went on

i know exactly how much waste there was

i know how much.

how much

how much anger and deceit spent in ignoring the gifts we were given

how many college educations on the expense of comfort

how much bullshit to rot

how much bullshit now to rot

desks, mercedes a hot tub - the endless excess

the drink fridge - are you kidding

fuck a yard lamp

breaking or ruining the heirlooms of over-priviledge

ball of foot sore from kicking the inanimate

and working very hard with the expectation of being beaten for it

the monkey in the middle

the most disappointing moment of life so far

getting going action

not a destination but a way of doing

and not an end in itself

but really the media - the text - it must be a tool

oh, certainly it is in whatever Marshall way

and you undersatnd the media is not the message

hunger homeless hate

some clarity with anger

And then there won't be a difference between the old gravity and the new.

We'll evolve to dangling beasts.

I hit the ceiling after my neighbor crashes through the window.

The world turns over - or - gravity inverts.

God, who lets the dying catch up almost to her stride in death.

These diamonds roll down her dress as she soars through the heavens.

God, whose skirt hem is star laiden.

God, a woman with bitchy sensibilities.

XOX

God, who moves faster than light.

I>O

Lifting the giants.

Sitting, watching the landscape of the past disolve.

Life, Art, Thought.

I won't let thought ruin my time.

My life calls me out of here.

You see, I know how to defeat this.

Whatever you fear: name it.

Naming is an act of denial.

Not the denial of disbelief - but that of not allowing.

I see how it ends.

I say that and it cannot then end that way.

The same way we jinx ourselves out of the best fortunes.

We can avoid catastrophic finish.

We must address the apocalypse.

We must look directly into the eye of the storm.

We must call it what it is.

For if it is is tricky - and endings, surely, are - it will change.

The thing, named, changes.

The object of observation alters the observed object.

And the resonance - or echo - chambers of our minds

Can allow or let to end the evils of the world.

Call it what it is!

Do not perpetuate!

So I do - or I will.

I will name the thing.

It is selfishness.

It is laze and resignation.

It is doubt and "good time charlie-dom."

It is loafing and uselessness.

It is an egocentric exercise.

It is masturbation.

It is hatred of the worst order.

It is hatred that flows through itself, through it's owner, and into the world

Redoubled

Refined

Renewed and

Resentful

It weaves into the life of it's creator

Or host - however it works.

It is shameless in it's shamelessness.

It is me and I am small.

A mean and nasty, foul-spirited monster.

A pariah seeking victims.

A play-victim seeking th support of rubes.

A know-nothing in furs.

A towering glutton in the rags of the starving.

I put these nails through the thing.

Tut tut tut.

I put more nails through it.

Stick it to the wall.

And you see - here is the purpose.

It changes.

Identified, it changes.

And other nail.

And it changes.

It is not a ship - holes will not sink it.

It is a skin - holes will make it grow.

And growth - in this sense - can be seen as a good.

And that I enjoyed playing the part of myself.

And I would find, after the beating and derison, that my own life was better as a fiction.

My inner demon or angel - as I had been his.

My navigator, my conscience, my homunculus.

And Alan would be my writer.

And I would return to my world.

He would weave my foundations with the doubt of failure and light the fuse.

Alan, in the part of the torturous interrogator, would expel me from the book.

NOW I KNOW.

O, you sacred vowel.

"Muh."

Only one and so brief - made by the parting of one's lips and a humming forward push of air.

And you know the next part is the 'm.'

Think: O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O.

It was a rolling 'O.'

From the depth I heard an 'O.'

Could I hear in a way as to grow this small world?

No violence could avail me now. I had to sit and listen.

He might not be able to end himself, but he may be able to end my part in his world.

Otherwise, I felt that Alan would close it for me.

I needed to know the universe of my creation to know how it could be closed.

I needed to edit, reread, clarify.

This was not fun. It was not good.

"No, you have not."

Had I had any sympathy for him?

Had I ever written sympathy for him?

His eyes lacked that basic human sympathy.

His words were hissed and scraped through his lips.

I don't know what he said, but he said it with cold breathe.

Alan got mad.

And the chalky feeling of my lips I hung on to.

And the light streaming from my french doors was total dark.

And the asian sleeping mat under me was a concrete floor.

And milk curdled in my stomach.

I was here. Here, now.

I could not write or think myself away.

I was flying through a landscape of gold... but, no. I was not.

This is death - or birth, I heard in the dark.

What is this?

My mouth tasted tired and used.

I spit but did not hear it land.

The light was gone and my bones were sore against the ground and wall.

And I... I felt something.

I knew that. I knew it was.

...

The End.

What is?

Alan said: It's almost here.

Over half way there and closer than I knew.

The days were falling off.

Where am I? "Where am I?"

He patted my back. I did not know where we were.

"You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch."

"YOU Son Of A Bitch."

"You Son of a Bitch."

((( * Chapter Nine: The Descent Into Reality * )))

Then, Alan hit me in the face.

Not only! The added dimensions!

At circle's center is sphere.

The march inward to the centered outward expulsion.

Joy is the first sign of pain.

The loopy dopey happy feeling thins to empty.

Spends a night with an empty stomach.

Anger Hunger Anger Hunger Anger Hunger Anger.

Makes each piece of the spine scream sour songs.

It rises from the hungry stomach and runs commentary on the slowness of time.

No anger. Please, no anger.

The future he saw was the future he built.

There are children, Christmases, candy corn on Hollow's Eve
There is no doubt anymore, and things can proceed
There were mistakes and will be
But their acceptance is granted

There is rest through out
The stream near by keeps a slow pulse,
With enough walls for all his work
And hers

And theirs - so much
He outgrew his need for privacy
And order and control
He knew they were the mistakes of his fathers

But were no longer his to carry
And maybe not monetary wealth
But a wealth of love and of belongings
And the still satisfying nature of sitting to lay color

They sparkle and blink
Then as now
The blue evening sky
Saying: Blessed

And he agrees - how could he not
Gone were the days a entitlement felt
Gone the times of selfish means
And an allowance for the fading abilities of a man aging

And she's okay with it too
But he still knows he cannot help-
No, he can - and does
He can help.

But she reminds him-
God- The Loss.
Because you must account for it
But please let go

And he does, too

So, he said: "I'll change it."

His fear was an angry future.

Then the cascade of rays, bursting forth - not only in their pouring weight but - also in the illumination they allow.

Until the first sliver of light.

So much to worry about now.

A deep breathe and he's seeing through the night.

She's been dead along time, the girl who hurts him still.

He can't though.

It is as though he could reach far enough past the rusty nail piercing his heart to grasp the sweet cup of love that is beyond.

His pain, felt through the body, is only the reflection of his desires.

What was it this time for the sad sack?

Not only through that. Through aching legs into an abdomen full of loss and remorse.

It is damp and dusty. I feel it with Alan's toes, through beach thongs.

Just long enough to feel the texture of the ground.

I swirl the colors of imaginary places into a semi permanence.

What else can I?

So I must - what I can.

If it does not then what is this?

An hour must matter.

I pledge allegiance to our Father,

Who art in heaven, hallow be thy name,
And to the republic for which he stands,
One nation, under that,

With Liberty and Justice for All.

Tap the ball over the net.

Except I'm not playing.

Now the race to dominate the playing field.

You, in a caddy manor, whip out the insults.

Baby cakes split her head on the curb. Whose fault is she going to make it?

She goes to lean on a wall and there is no wall there.

Channel the body as to let pain, hate and anger pass through it.

The most ___ _ I ever was ____, when and _ ________.

The simple act of holding a line is enough to draw contempt.

If you hold a boundary, you're likely to be seen as a bad guy.

There are people

who were in your life and are no longer. Some times this is by your own choice. There are two distinctions that is important to make clear. 1) A person's having been in your life does not entitle them to be in your life and 2) Your choosing to keep a person out of your life does not take away your right to the memories, records and trinkets from the time of your life before the person's removal.

Or: My life, measured in Blow Jobs, sucks.

A life, measured in Blow Jobs, sucks.

Sayonara, Senorita.

Today, the holiest of adjectives.

Picture, Painted, Today.

Steak, Ate, Okay.

Girl, Kissed, Crazy.

Shit, Shat, Great.

The last __ I _ed was ___.

Hold to it. Monitor it.

Sex, say. Or Eating.

Pick a standard, any standard.

There are ways of measuring one's own life.

"I am the past."

She said as she rose out of her self
Suddenly a towering goddess

Like a tree before him stood
As her branches pushed out shrouding

He was each piece of her bark
A photo in the chronology of his life

She had the sweet face
That was an average of every woman he had ever loved

She looked down with an all knowing tenderness
Parts of her half rendered like a Nintendo game

Parts of her in searing focus
Where the depth was a world unto itself

Colors!
They were the dimension of past

She was brown with flits of red
Cuts of blue and shards of gold

White trails wrapped her form
With the absence of black like machine gun bullets

Then she spread her wings.

Her face said nothing.

She was not a person
She was a memory
She was not

It had seemed so real
Her smell but now he couldn't place it
Or even recall it

Who had she been
This fading collection of muscles and joints
Who had she been

Under the sheets,

Sweaty smell known too well.
All light colored by cover
In this case red,
So you're pink, so pink!

This moment arrive at
Wrap covers tighter
To let in the day
When or where will you see

Don't know who she'll turn out to be.

It is done
The cold air with hints of salt
Not from ocean but street
Snowy street

It's five PM to boot.
And the sun is setting
Winter in Rhode Island
Faker. Which year?

Her face should tell.

There's a funny problem, though.

What would he want to know?

What is there to want to know?

He could want to know why he was -
but I knew the answer to that and
didn't figure we needed to talk about it
anymore.

I put him at the bottom of the sea.

Fwoosh

Once your head explodes from the pressure,
You're free to drag your feet heavily along the floor of the deepest ocean.

It's all fire at the bottom of the sea.
The earth is working in one of its hardest activities:
The creation of land.

There is something to be said
For the layers of the earth.
They sit - and, from a distance, seem:
Only as stable as oil sitting on water.

Ready for God's straw to plunge through and disturb balance.

Blub Blub Blub

At this depth, too, questions arise
About the nature of gravity.

It is a hard thing to think about
With the weight of an ocean on your shoulders.

Its paralyzing push keeping you still.
But from where is the pull?

To burn out of physicality
As we approach the center of the earth
One will find:
Absolute gravity is no gravity at all.

The center of the thing
The very yoke of our planet
Is not much more
Than the heat of very loosely packed molecules.

Buzz Buzz Buzz

Under the sheets with a small woman
Alan felt all this
Or thought it.
Some people bring it out of you.

By the time he got where he was going he did not know where he was.

And, conveniently, he had forgotten all about me.

I'd grown tired of playing psychiatrist for this character of mine.

I thought I'd let him find things out for himself.

Alan throws his hands in the air.

"I give up," he says and I say that's okay.

I keep leaving him behind.

Imagine that. When he is not being written what is he?

I tell him to try to start doing something each time we break.

"Like what?"

Like walk away toward some very serious cause.

So Alan lowered his hands from the air and walked away toward some very serious cause.

It was funny.

"What is wrong?" I ask.

He says,

"Ray, I used to love this stuff. But I've seen it. I get it."

And I think: he has outgrown me.

"No, no. That's not it, but I need you to grow."

Grow how?

"I need a real life."

Then have one.

"I can't. You have to make it for me."

I will not.

"And why not?"

I'm busy. And I am.

"I can't write myself."

I realize the truth and want to kill its messenger.

"I have a young son. Let me watch him grow up."

He does, and lately I've been relating to that circumstance.
Alan does not realize that he has lived more life than me.
Alan thinks I am an infinite being.
I am not... he is much more so than I.

"I'm still a child."

He says what I am thinking.
He does not know why at thirty seven he should still feel twenty three.

I fear that if he knew how young I was,
How irresponsible I have been with him for simple ignorance,
He would not forgive me.

God damn the characters who ask of their maker.

I tell Alan that I cannot do for him what he asks.

He does not understand why.

Now he wants to know why.

I don't know, I lie.

He sulks and there's no avoiding feeling sorry for a pouting man.

So I tell him.

"Can you make me be twenty three, too?"

Oh. That makes sense.
And he's twenty three.

He doesn't have to deal with the reality of the future yet.

HE CAN STILL DREAM.
And he does.

He dreams big.
He dreams of the son he might have.
He dreams of the names of the children.
And, really, is this what he chooses to dream?

He does!

How odd, I think to my Godly self.

He recites poetry,
He jogs and leads meetings

He paints on everything.

All his objects nearly made functionless by his artful approach.

Like a damned tornado.

He makes good stuff.

I know because I'm a painter too.

I fear my own tendency to invent.

Because what if a bad realization comes?

Oh well.

Maybe bad really is an illusion.

I don't know and I don't care.

I'm twenty three, too, just like Alan.

I'm almost twenty-four.

Which is Just over three in dog years.

So I think about a three year old dog.

It's time to sniff.

The difference between a three year old dog and a seven year of dog is the bulk of the average life, I think. That's twenty-one through forty-nine, I think.

The fear creeps in a little
But only so much as is necessary to keep a healthy coat.
The way oil is good for our hair.

I get up to change CDs.
Alan will have to wait.

We go to the moon, I tell him about the Universe and I'm surprised how disinterested he is.

"Alright," I say.

He is old and asks me to take him on an adventure.

"Hello Ray," that is not his son's name.

The instant I think he might recognize me, he does.

He takes a moment to focus and then looks me in the eyes.

He wakes with a start, his working heart at full beat.

I shove him and say "Daddy, wake up."

I am posing as Alan's son - I do not want to be recognized as his creator.

Then little me returns to wake up Alan.

Two total failures, a success, a reconcilable failure and the greatest potential for future expansion, resources, resources, resources and the Outpost of the Beyond with a lopsided moon.

The planets in order.

The suns, I suppose.

The sun grows earths.

The earth grows houses.

Too, functioning, are the features of the landscape.

No. It is many of which we are some.

is the geological organism one?

And the rushing geyser tries to spout farther.

The 'miss' is a seed throw from the branches.

We grow continents.

And the fault lines that touch sun are bound to be stimulated into growing.

To expose one's strongest sides to the blinding sun means your sensitive cracks and ruptures will burn.

And I hope you can appreciate braveness.

And then it is now, it is undefeatable.

And that one brush stroke, that one thing moves across the canvas, is the same as the progression of time.

Details are layed over as a single coat of paint.

Wars never fought occur like blips on the map.

A waitress is born.

And the best momets of all come together long enough to explode apart again.

Tapdancing guitars play acoustic celebrations.

The billions in droves / hanging from the rafters.

There is joy.

Through the iris, we settle into the whiteness of outside.

Out of a thing that is like a great eyeball.

There is some color. We/whatever we are climbing, if climbing is even a way to describe it.

The infinite hereafter.

The unknowable.

"Then what happens?"

And eventually the Earth dies. And the Universe. All things end.

And the lady dies, too, eventually. After the skunk.

You know. Because things die.

I don't know. Maybe the skunk dies. No. Definately. At some point the skunk dies.

"It so does."

It doesn't matter.

"Wait. No. How does it end?"

...

The story ends how it ends.

And a month goes by and she's caring for this skunk.

And the thing, though mangled beyond function, the thing lives.

She apologizes, she nurses it back to health, the cleans the fucking thing and sets it up in a makeshift crib.

And she gives it all the love she has to give.

And she scoops up this smelly piece of shit and takes it inside.

And she doesn't give a fuck about the people in the car - she's running down the street at a sprint toward the skunk.

Then she hears the thud.

The girl, Annie, she's only coming to realize what the fuck is going on as the thing is flying down the street.

And this thing goes flying.

And the car hits it.

And it is like a flat front VW or something - and the cat-skunk is rolling through the air, spraying it's shit out of control.

And it flies into the street, which hadn't been busy all the time, but now a car is coming.

No shit - and so she gives this thing the boot like, dropkick, the boot.

"No shit?"

And it's a fucking skunk!

And that's when she put on her glasses...

And it's rubbing on her legs and, you know, doing the whole love act.

And this thing, this cat, comes up to her and starts sniffing around.

And she makes that chip-chip noise with her mouth. The thing you do to make cats comfortable.

And this cat comes up. White paws, black line down it's back.

Yeah, and the sun is shining and she is feeling divine, you know, like women sometimes do.

"Yeah?"

Well I guess one day this girl, Annie, is sitting on her front porch.

It's about this girl, they call her, Annie.

I have to tell it before it's too late.

But I have to tell it.

This won't sound relatable at all.

((( * Chapter Eight: Annie's Story * )))

With a mind of Alan's age, you felt able to describe almost anything.

Let's say, the nature of

the Evolution of Universes.

There was nothing - sort of.

Then there was infinity.

Not only infinity, infinity infinities.

It happened like this:

There was a decision to be or not to be.
Then there was a decision to be or not to be.
Then there was a decision to be or not to be .

This was the theme.

The decisions that were not to be were not.
The decisions that were to be were.

And how to progress?
Try everything.

So one infinity split off into two and four and eight infinities.
Plip plip plip plip plip.

And each of these did the same.
Some did not of course, but then they were not.

And so the realm of possibility surely did shrink,
You might argue with error.

Each infinity birthed infinity infinities.
And on and on.

And infinities did not or did
And so were or were not.

But he would trail off into preaching prescription:

So each of us is in one of infinite possibilities
But here we are, all in the same.

So our question must be about this infinity, this universe of ours.

Will our infinity be the one to direct the infinity more?

And so:

He locked himself in his own.

*** - { : ( - E8=& } - ***