Wakarimasen

The jaws are snapped a second too late; there is nothing there but a slip of air; the taste of flesh, but nothing there.

Pierce sharp
Pull tight
String it along, along, along
Almost done keep your mouth on tight
Keep it on, keep it on
I want it off I want it off
Take it off take it off
Tear it rip it pull pull pull

My arms don't bend that far back
I can't reach I can't reach
Why can't--wakarimasen

This dog does not exist.

Failboat is all failin' and stuff.
paws snubbed deep in the mud Wings fucked I am chattering like teeth against nails against toes against scabs I am-

Get out of my head, Kafka.

Apologetic intonation this is messy and I don't know how to cut it the fuck out. I am not patient enough for closer fictions. I am writing some, but they are not very good or very long. I am not patient enough to construct them. My skin is getting away from me and that is a distracting sensation.

Swinging metal rustweight
I'm going to walk it I'm going to walk it
As soon as I get back those tracks are mine

This is not inspiration; it is inspiration's earthy brodir. He is no muse; he possesses no mouth. And he knows it, too. It frustrates him. He communicates through his nails and his knuckles. He puts his brother's skin on sometimes and is the same. They are the same. They are not the same. They are the same.

I have two commodities; myself and that which I distill from myself. Beyond this, my pockets are empty. Beyond this, I have nothing of value.



I have a question one question Railroad? It does not make sense without the intonation but Railroad? It is said in the same way as another word I've read Railroad? I saw at least four of them on the way here. But there was only one that I--that I-

Radio On. 828.

"Now listen up you sons of bitches born in ditches. And listen good:

Red is three.
Three is red.
Red is three.
Red is three.
Red is three.
As sure as the sun pulls knees to burn them hyp-o-critical seas
Red is three
Red is three
Red is three
You still listenin'? You got yer radio turned up and out and in?
Red is three
Burn yer hide and lick yer sides, lucky dog, ducky sod, 'cuz
Red is three
Red is three
Ya'll gettin this yet? You'd better bet it--a hundred men rolled their legs up and smoked 'em to the butts for this. Eighteen girls spat ribbons to the curb for this. And yesterday six grandfathers and two sons of bitches traded eyes and dug root for this that here come on now now git goin'
Red is three
Red is three
Three is red
Red is three
Take a bow, Violet TAKE A GODDAMN BOW These words are for you and yours not me and mine mutts grubby grit turned lips frothing red knuckled mitts
Red is three
Red is three
You know three? Yah well it's red 'cuz you see
Red is three
Red is three

Let the broadcasting begin Fin."

Soap Nuts

These are soap nuts. No joke.

"No, not a place of neutrality, but of forced disarmament."
I will not call them anything else but brothers, because that is what they are when one of these elements is removed; broken down; dissolved in this place of.


I woke up this morning and thought about what giant broccoli would look like. I thought of hooks and harpoons. And that giant broccoli. I thought about going for a run. I thought about taking a shower. I thought about showers. And that giant broccoli again with hooks and dark green tongues sticking out of its neck. I thought about the backs of necks.

I am always about two or three proddings away from acting like a damn fool, with the exception of when I am acting like a damn fool.
Don't tempt me.


Soapnutsinthewash
The answer to this is books. Yes yes, I'll take two and call you in the morning. Don't know which yet. Might need to drink something to keep 'em down.


What right do you have? None. No relation; no right. Not enough of a right.
But what's my right? Hey, I paid for that--I've got a right to eat it. Hey, I grew that--I've got even more of a right to eat it. But are you pointing at that broccoli? Or that cat? You haven't gotten your fingers nearly deep enough in the soil to have a right to that. And maybe you won't. And maybe you can't. And probably both.
I have some words I don't have a right to say. They are all greed. But I might have to say them someday.
Because a fine chap said to me one day

you may or may not have a "right" to anything, but dammit if ya like it hold onto it.

and fuck. I believed it. And fuck. I still do.

Fuzz.

A feather fell from his back or leg or arm, just far enough away for a kid to grab. He took it. This is the only thing I think I have understood in the last three days. It is the only thing I can seem to remember, at least.

Honeycomb in one hand, smoke in the other; this was a day for brothers.

I am going to write stories under the sun this summer. Because I w-

Time to sleep.

My dream version of you is terrifying. Makes me wonder.

I am dry-lipped and aching; my body's not doing too good today. Neck splinters when I sit; back teeth bite back when I eat. Eyeballs are warmer than my eyelids.

But with the exception of the headache, my headspace is weirdly...doing great.
I have made a mistake. I have tucked myself neatly into Isaac's rule. And it's...kind of embarrassing, of course. But not unwanted. Like being hit in the face with some much-needed vittles.
Mm, pass some o' those on my way, Don.
Hold on, hold on, lemme get my own good share.
Hold on yourself, that there's good enough for the whole goddang town!
Ah, you shush your whiskers. That syrup up in 'em? Second serving already, Jim?
Look up, Donnie! 'sa full moon. Belly moon. Tonight's meant for feastin'.
Mm, hm?
Mm.

These are potatoes.

bread and oil.

Loose Ends

I cannot post the last blog I wrote yet. So I will post everything but that.

I am thinking about garlic and mugwort again. I am thinking of bears and tigers. My favorite cosmogony--one of them, at least. I think the absence and presence of a tiger, a striped variable, has very much to do with the patience of a bear; the bear is not patient by nature. Not entirely, at least. It dreams through the winter months and wakes with mad hunger.

One the bear would not have had the patience, I think; but it would have tried forever, and perhaps have gotten very close. It is not certain; it is not known.

Two the bear would not have cared about garlic or mugwort at all. It would have taken its share of either at its leisure but ignored any schedule. It would not bother with the gods; it would be one.

Third this is How The History Goes; the bear did not have the patience. But something else is taken up. The bear ate as if every day it woke from three months of fervent dreaming; it could not but keep the schedule. It desired no form, but opposed none either, and so when transformation pressed, it did not resist. And then this world began.

We will never forget the way you slept, miss. Much obliged.

I drew a picture three days ago called Man with the Tuba Bones.
"I don't hear anything. Where does the sound come out?"
"Look in his eyes, girl."

How now, brown cow?

It isn't three so much as a third position
Third position: up near the body of the violin, thumb against a walnut fingers broken then bridged over four beams on a black highway The sound is muted, miffed, always wanting to collapse in a furious heap onto a low and open string. I hate third position. I love vibrato, on any instrument. It sounds good, sure--but it feels better than it sounds.

Hiding
caching (returned to at intervals)
preserving
burying
sectioning off
cauterizing
cut
quarantine



Holst, I like the way you think. And I don't just mean your planets.



Today, Thursday May 13th, will not be long enough to keep Friday, May 14th from happening much sooner than it should.