sum archives
| bugpowder dust every day i go the pond and listen to this soundtrack hippie craque sent, i'm framing the original art work and liner notez cuz they're original but the thing is i don't consciously chose to listen it's just my antenna fell off and now i can't get democracy now at lunch and then my fragged out mind forgets to get a different cd so i've been listening for weeks to this cd it has the beatles and led zep and mars volta but also some peeps i dn't know who they are like my favorite is a techno rap , eaten alive with naked lunch refs my daughter sez it reminds her of the movie which the liner notes confirm but i still don't know how this dude mixed it so fine that no matter what kind of bird or suv or butterfly like this dude yesterday walkin all the way from stephen dunn inc to my car for a light drops in at the pond, this song wraps the visual in tendrils of paxilTM as if the opening of scene of kpax was done in music instead of light. 6 minit pome outside a half hour ago suddenly the sky had changed from cornflower to billowing grey. i think of historical confederate sites, the museum of crime and punishment the ad's entreaty to get your lunch at the last chance cafe. i've spent the whole day producing a rework of an engineering fuckup. dealing with the pragmatic fact that things that look good on paper often aren't robust enough to stand the real world and it isn't till you've built the first thousand that the customer complains. then comes the retrofit. squeezing different parts on to available real estate. getting impedences to match. i'm just thankful it's not my job to figure it out that all i gotta do is remove, replace, retest. nine of cups here at work i keep banging my head against the glass ceiling but i don't know why cuz i'm not trying to get beyond it just away from it. what a shirker. i call home and yr depressed but it's just the usual noises so i tell ya to smoke some meds. things look good, then they look bad. i got some foreknowlege beating me with a forelock. the same thing's messin you up about the world's messin me up about us. so i ask the tarot. it says to stop whining. que sera sera. seraphim and cherubim line the antique roadside chain link fence. also some plastic lifesize deer. i can't imagine why anyone who lives in the mountain would put fake deer in their yards. you say "amerikunz r stoopid". i nod my head to the beat of the burning books. rolleyes when i have to explain to another voter why gas is cheap right now. get em while they hot.  anyway. overflowething. fount of hap of hap.. piness( i had some trouble finishing that thought) it's a threesome i have issues with, electronic cards notwithstanding the ring tone of my id. just like a sage advisor's, i ignore what the damn things are saying. i lost my psychic in training t in one of my moves and i'm not gettin it back. still, when the phone rings, i always know if it's you. the earth's skin looks like elephant hide there's bracken in the cistern you want a drink but it won't be clean. fissures open, obsidian spews out- large chunks, like after a night of too much. she's crying on the phone to you now. the line fills with sulphur and static. you don't know what you did but you begin to imagine you'll never be quenched. the domain of attraction of the super-attracting fixed point we thought three lanes would be enough. but we kept being born, and each of us needed a vehicle. cloverleafs shrink bypasses expand, the angels wings are concrete but they fly us above birds and smog alike. let us give praise. : it was time for the iteration to go negative. she could tell from the way the waves sounded less like sponges than before. she pictured him walking up the hill backward, to the flat part of the story where they'd once shared an apple pie cut in thirds. his caterpillar eyelashes, his hair spun of metaphors. he's asking her to cut it now. she thinks of temples and destruction. delilah and divorces. with each curl he falls further from understanding just like she didn't, then. but now then begins to crumble like earthquake, higher mathematics lose their glow. the fractals take their bongs and go home, petulant like lovers with their livers eaten out. she remembers to kiss prometheus just before the sun sets. his hair is so sixties. ; "i wrote that pome with rush limbaugh's dick tied behind my back" -chinaski, forgotten tickets from the racetrack ; unwitting he said you made me write a haiku, then stood to push the window closed. ; what if i said it was all cooked up would you feel tricked? i have a hat i like to wear. it makes me squirm but no king except the mad will kill the one wears it. you plotted the murder of a friend his rescue was the shiny roads of america. i flounced to his side like the cartoon that i am shaking hands with all the motorhomes along the way. we went seventy in the slow lane all the way cross georgia. antebellum houses snored in their sunday best while you and i tortured disney hits for their lunch money. for miles we thought of tifton whenever the signs told us to. tifton, the reading capital of the world. you amused us with gifs, but the cell service cut out near the cottonfields. so we had to roll our own jokes, starring billy bob and the national arts council & education bureau. "no one reads billy bob, especially not goin ninety down seventy five!" but he endured. forgot the onepointeight percent probably would see past the subterfuge on the billboards. they fired him after the first year, but ads still stand. think. tifton. in the summer. think hell. think god it's october and the weather is stunning. after the bar b q, i drive. the sun is warpaint thru the pines lining the roadside with bright bladed vestigial memories of our genocides. i want to eat three cigarettes on the edge of the cotton while i stare at that light, but a winnebago towing a race car trailer, a miniaturized double cargo truck weaves into my lane just ahead. i turn off the sneaker pimps light a cigarette, limp toward that distant x, that siren wart on the limp dick of this country(erect if you look at the damn map sideways from space) where my history is writ trailer large and flood plain jangly a.waiting the next iteration of desire. . | ||||
| noverili Moderator (10/23/06 11:04 pm) Reply | Edit | Del | .. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- we thought three lanes would be enough. but the fuking lemmings keep multiplying we're widening the I 66 - 88 - 110 - all the way to PI infinite allowing 2.6 yards for the just born interstate and 6.2 for those droppin off intestate cause this causeway's never done and the cliff that we're boring through is always cavin' in too fast for the struts and the trestles to keep up and each of us needs a 4 wheel drive to feel lucky on the cloverleafs shrunk to 3-balled clubs grasped in hairy hands of the scary trolls under every underpass too high and bonk on the head canoe srongs fre of the bungees lemmings dying like flyballs mid-tracj stalling with that heavy sudden fallin i tell you dying like flies from the bypass caught in a mitt in the infield shrunk to secondary trunks tight as a surgery i got one change of underwear left gonna trade that for a pair of wings on a pink elephant heavy as abutments but they fly above the glove compartment moths and bugs and smog alike. as grey as gray let us give praise i got a ticket to ride : and then it just goes dim | |||
posted by hiccup at 8:30 PM
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