x censored x

this post was titled sum edits and was unpublished by blog for violating malware and viruses policy. what the actual fuck? this whole blog is behind a wall that warns of community standards and acts of triggering. oh winston, what do? 

remember crow? we kinda thought this was coming, whistling past graveyards yet to be discovered. funny thing is, this was orig published in 2007 and was unpublished just about a year ago. i was cleaning out my email and ran across this notice. there's also some in simplerealitywriting.blogspot.com .

recently went over the remnants of the sandbox and they finally closed that down. google wants five bux a month to have me continue to not delete the 3,356 remaining mostly spam emails in my official email of existence. which is why i'm deleting old things and ran across the bloodbath. ello has left the building . 

these all are  my poems from the sandbox. i don't understand how or why they say there's malware or virus. malwriting perhaps but i never went viral.

i also want to download the pics from my current phone and google drive onto this laptop and into a backup. but i'm sure they'll be lost none theless

sand fritting away, i should look up how much medicare is gonna cost me. i edited some of these, mostly changed the name of the rag for the story on jack. lol . i was so close.

 at first, it was only sand filtering away

the wind took the door
the dropout rate increases
past tense becomes present
and the long silence was upon us.
well, how to make it clear to you?
when you sang your song, i heard it.
nothing evil in that/ you whisper/ then
why are you whispering?
drifts began to pile, then form.
they got annoying because they were so cold.
it was ok, the case hardened, went slack
then flew into the gutters and became home.

pizza chronicles 7.
 so they're counting the boxes 3 times each
and the MANager says the number's wrong count em
again. and again. we could do this till dawn.
my rollers ping ,it's been slow tonite- dan, the boy, & fred a-crackin
fag jokes and the boy sez to fred i think he is listen i got a plan
& they walk off to do some dishes. a very slow nite
meaning less dough to take out the heat. i'm
the only slave in this place works all night,regardless. At the end
of a nite like this my racks
contract from a more
fluid state too fast. i get cramps. they don't make oven ibuprofen and these guys obviously have never had training in gear
maintence. i'm mullin this over, wondering
what i did in my last life to merit this particular hellish plane when
a sound like a tazered buffalo comes from the back
where they've been counting boxes for the tenth time.
michelle runs to the back and they all come out half
draggin dan, bent double but still walkin, and he's all like "i didn't
do nothing what the fuck" and fred's all "you fuckin fag you're
lucky i didn't cut you grabbing my balls like that i'll have
your mutherfuckin job you cocksuckin assfucker" michi's speed dialing regional practicing we have a situation
and the boy's all i-got-your-back with fred all
nodding his head and i can see
i ain't gonna get the no-stick bath tonite.

Self is an error of the language.

this is my line she sez o yez
i built it, they would come

a dribble castle on the edge
of the tide pooling on top of itself, crennelated sugar
tumbled and melted in wavewash admitting to nothing
like permanence,immanence. it melts. i build again
coquina corpses thickas the beach grows . breaking out
further, water that licked me yesterday.same ways, different waves. jonny
cash sings about why he wears black.jack introduces the birds to his cat.he's foaming at the brain, like thru a soap bubble wand with too many holes.froth, popping from he center out.froth on the face of the water
sizzling burgers heavy on the salt.
white stripe down the center of my ears.
crank that muther upwe got a skimboard and boogie board
and the ocean's not getting any younger.








*


and there's the sky. blue. uncluttered by metal
or other falling objects. i have electricity.
my li'l shell's color is the last purple before dark.
i feel squishy and ready for dinner.here comes the tide.


oooooooooooooooooo

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

avehicle. cloverleafs shrink

bypasses expand, the angels wings

are concrete but they fly

us above birds and smog alike.let us give praise.

888888

once you've entered the maze

it's cheating to step over the bags

where candles glow inside fireflies

 with elephantitis. you can sense frendly

faces beckoning to you

 outside the half lite cast

murmurs at the periphery of concentration.

you learn to ignore them, follow captured

stars along a path whose substance

fades beneath their light. you find yourself

beginning to hope it's a very long maze.

a minotaur at the center.

* used to say "time enough to sleep

when you're dead" . i check my pulse.you close my eyes.
*

paris, having tried everything else

tries celibacy. it's the third time

i've heard that word in less than 24 hours.

keith says it, and di asks if he masturbates.he says yeah and she explains that's not

celibacy. no sex. that's celibate. then she says

i'm celibate too. i ask, literally.

 she says, no, i'm his kind.


*


it was time for the equation 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 temple

sand 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

lovers with their livers eaten out.

she remembers to kiss prometheus

just before the sun sets.

his hair is so sixties.
*
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
unwitting
he said you made me

write a haiku, then stood to

push the window closed.
she said

i look at you because i cannot bear to look at me.


*
you see the last luminary

the one which beyond

there is only the dark wood

where your friends have gathered

with cider supplied by the priests.

you know this but have forgotten.

its glow grows in your eyes

a cinder's pulse. you hesistate to leave

the maze but it rushes toward you, warp speed,

you wanted to linger between jupite

rand saturn but now pluto looms in its wrong orbit

and it's calling you home, some place

you've never been before.


vizit wit jack--excerpt from "koi alors!" salonist magazine vol 35, issue 6

reprinted with permission

...i visited jack on his forty acre estate, rimbaud, in what used to be part of the great smokey mountain national park. The purchase was made after the landmark supreme court decision caucus v. north carolina, and jack gave homage where it was due."the caucus case was not only the most important case I'd ever worked on, it was the only case in my life for five years."He must have noticed my consternation, "no, no, not the land case. The case I'm talking about was several years before that. Able Caucus came to me with a immigrant issue. Look it up, it's a matter of public record"Later I attempted to do that, but the settlement details were closed. Suffice to say that mr caucus' not so famous case provided the funds for the purchase, and his famous case provided the means. As we walked through the main compound, jack pointed out the koi pond, his "meditation place". There were huge imported japanese lilly pads covering the surface, beneath which the koi glinted like molten precious metals. He scooped a handfull of fish food from the head of stone budha and tossed it into the pond which erupted with splashes and bubbled like a witch's cauldron. I said as much to jack, who laughed and insisted I "put your feet into the water." Although it was 35 degrees outside, the water was warm as a bath."Heated year round to an optimum 72. Best temp for koi. Remind me to take you to the koi plant on the south side of the property. This little pond is peanuts compared to that". We never did make it to that plant, there was so much to see in the compound and I was on a limited schedule...

...sipping his earl grey tea, his silk dinner jacket co-ordinated with the mist beginning to rise over the koi pond, which could be viewed from the elegant dining room. His lovely wife, Jenni Russel, the author, joined us. I was almost more thrilled with this meeting, being an aspiring author myself. I asked her how it felt to live with jack's elegant pragmatism. She demurred, "jack is pragmatic by choice. He tried to be a poet once" turning to jack "didn't you babes? But poetry almost killed him, and there's no money in it, so he threw himself into a provider role. I keep telling him enough's enough, but i think money and the power it brings is his poetry now". I was non plussed and said so. I had never viewed jack as being particularly interested in power. He had the popularity to run for office, but he lived as quietly as he could, given his level of fame. I said as much to jenni who laughed and said, poetically, "power comes in many forms, not just the clownish ones, and my husband is not interested in playing the fool"...
...the stars were incredibly bright from the drive of the estate. I stopped just outside the gates, after they'd closed and waved goodbye to the cameras. I don't think Jack and Jenni were watching, but maybe they'd ask for the tape. I stood there in the North Carolina darkness, in the cold watching my breath rise up toward those lights. Pragmatism had purchased the darkness in which i could watch them shine, forty acres of wilderness, tucked safely away from the jungle of amerika. they twinkled like fish jewels in a pond.
Edited by: trashpo at: 10/14/06 10:12 am

lunch at the historic last chance cafe of the death row museum just off I 75, georgia, usa.

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 rollour own jokes, starring billy bob and the national arts council & education bureau.
fired after the first year, the 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 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. i wanna be a winnebago towing a race car trailer, i want to be a miniaturized double cargo truck weaving across all the lanes --just ahead of a turn off i wanna fire up the sneaker pimps,light a cigarette, limp toward that distant x where my history is writ trailer large and flood plain jngled . the next iteration of desire.