On being a thing

Perception – bolus in a timeworm.

And every day to think about what’s keeping us alive. Must be something (otherwise –  all for not). Think, planet collides with rock tumbling across surface, all creation to dust. Then some microscope, some telescope millions of lightyears away or a few inches above asks “why?”

No point, though, in questioning as many have since consciousness did, but that’s all we can do with right ‘n’ wrong. Still much too easy to live for self. Still much too fun. (Still much? To fun!)

Certain people are so pretty that other ones must clench fists/bite tongues to stop idiotic, sauntering emissions born of quenchless aching for the nude form.

(but is it really just that? the idea of the pretty person? or is it the pretty person, a thing more intrinsic, like two magnets tugging on each other fully understanding the possible compatibility? pulling hiccups of desire out of one and the other’s body as they pass by each other, never never never again…)

.em kcuF

All this anguish struggling for a seat at my think-table. Thanks, mortality.

Intellectuals perish when push doth shove. A whole other batch of time, fresh out the oven, if they return. Will they have reference, all this that’s been made? Sickening thought.

And I know you aren’t feebly defined I know you aren’t coincidence you keeper of keys!

Consciousness: element of the fourth dimension.

There would be no time, if nothing noticed its passing, eh?

All anything allows is the right combination of words to make a sentence. Tut tut tut Mr. Koch. Reaching into innate somethings buried. Good ol’ days. Getting back to ’em. Ho hum har har – how bizarre, to be a thinking thing.

Good Man One: Gas Points

I wake hearing a big one’s rubber feets screaming smoke into the air,

Spit-coughing a warning call angry to the Greens. No better way to

crack the lids. Little eated one, director of the coffin nail lush gush

red herring shared there, gas points won proper. A tremendous union.

No thing more smart than this battle against the sorest loser: green hell.

“Green hell is all around,” our Good Man warns, “take back our air!”

And green hell is so much bigger than those sinful pukes coming out of the ground.

Big ones run their rubber feets on the blood of dead old beasts.

Everywhere everywhere always all days all nights goading great gas points

Towards the little ones’ breathers. Waiting for Scrape Day, great day.

1 million gas points on the Good Man’s Good Faith Wrist Watch™

Come Scrape Day means pay day, Travel Day, THE DREAM!

“If you dream it, you can do it!” our Good Man cheers.

Dream I had

Me and the smell

of my shit. I sit,

throned, defamed,

fusing with porcelain,

botched bionic blob.

Hurtin’ like a motherfucker

would, had they

licked a little

too much sour

atop the hour.

NOW

bowels all howls,

no cowl growl

but relief waves,

“Hellooo, beautiful.”

AND

when I peel myself

from such devices

I swear (!)

I hear a tear.

here to there;

nether to tether.

(how’s the weather?)

(pretty nice)

THEN

every body

is all ears;

leering peers,

sneers ‘n’ jeers.

Were I dog,

would this feel

SO

em-bare-assing?

Forced! Me!

good dog,

piddle a puddle.

Shit missile

aiming humans take

me on the beat,

affronting those we

meet; please

DO

excrete, excrete!

good dog,

I wipe myself.

hurried, worried

street-side porcelain

was not the

way for me but

the high way for

YOU.