Thin Straight Lines ––It’s about the world I’ve written to feed me back to me, openmouthed and struck dumb and birdlike 2 suggesting a wiser stupid loop of man burst 3 from a mirror only to stand looking into shards of it having forgotten there is nothing like this to recall having been destroyed for want of ultimate expression: Three days after I finish this story, I am to sit alone in a room and write it. 2 Birdlike– It’s about the religion of Good Ideas above us on the morning sky with their silver underbellies in the low sun winking polished and everyone down here thinking shine on! – but they are foulbrown on top and God up close they are offal gulls off a gut wagon and they will ride our shoulder screeching electric nonsense on wet air, shocking women bald on the ground, owning us. It’s about walking through it come evening. None of us can fly. 3 Man Burst– It’s about skittish monkeys pushing out of cellar doors, cellars with no houses on top anymore to wander walleyed in the savage apogee 4 of evolution with language faltering lame through the penitentiary present, looking for a key. The key yet looks like a baby bird. Yet it is not. 4 Savage Apogee– It’s about the bad news decided fast about you: the aboriginal kid 5 in the junk drawer feeling all exits from here are hot and some are hasty. You’re a cone of ashes in the midnight rain. You fancy new snowblower in June, you. 5 Aboriginal Kid– The rest was a lie told a dream whore– told a whore in a morphine dream at late moonrise– It’s about a boy martyr on a horse, a martyr for his infamy only humming the rest the rest was a lie that held him in a fluttering grip of brutal affection he’ll never see the rest again. Goodbye to the rest. The rest was a lie. Recherché (a work designed to hurt you both in helpful ways)You showed a monster lack of forethought when he offered to lubricate your closure with a touch of meanness. Hint neverturn that down and beware the rheostatically mean A harbinger was your belief in this finespun color of love and that you both had rights to it. The swale across that logic was a vulgar venalvein. Hint whitewater crowfoot is where the snakes hide Your Thing rose like dust from pretty heirlooms. Rose prettily rose. Hint the mistake was saying look, prettydust! Your fulltooth smile is something sweeten dear to passersby but somebody somewhere told you also, turn on your toes, honey. Makes your little ass pop. Hint he noticed Remember the rattlecan clank of ideas among tomorrows when he emotioned the walls a nice responsible texture? Hint aerosolized fairytale leftovers, $1.39 And the two of you formed this nationstate and together you were very concerned with your flag design. Your goddamn flagdesign. Hint all your flagpole halyards were halflength But you fearedmost being a placeholder for something ridiculous like a watercolor of an earthquake or a lungful of trumpet in a smallcar and you agreed, did you not, that a single forcertain is a starkstill. Whereas several whatifs can be a sametime. Hint comelook was always your flatterside Oh, and when he awoke that firstnight and the air in the bedroom was titanic and something docile was hunched in the farcorner –using his givenname– Hint that was you Waresan outstanding silhouette I’m assuming you guys were somewhat less-than-enthusiastic over Panticles© or wintertime outdoor oral sex in Chicago. That’s fine. I want to turn your attention back to Decelerative Entropassion© whereby wet nova, as a quality between two systems, is stretched like seconds in a fatal collision (bad analogy) is slowed like blinks and sweatfall in a firefight (worse) No, is, is pulled like toffee from the Tiffany Blue Machine on the boardwalk at the lapping seaside. Just a dime for the infinitude of what comes next (complementary goods may cost you all your arrogance and some of hers) and can be sold by the truckload thusly…if I may: Make me sweetly want you wholly, do this before you see me. Do this: speak with physicality and push those sentiments into me. Do this: for my reason alone, leave something behind, draw in your breath the first time– the very first time you take me, don’t exhale until we say in resignation, How lonely the ruined and how ruined the lonely. Only then pull off. Let that be our tocsin. I’ll be fine and perfectly diminished if you leave your curious curly rein dragging and leave your last thought lay, your spectral thought of anyone, of me. So far as I can admit, I’ll be fine. It’s worth a dime and at the least all my time. Show me your glimmering hand. Smile. Say, It’s that easy. No? Well, you’re a hard sale. Sell. I get confused when we name things, confused with this language of the mutually abused, like the one saying Fuckit and the other, Wherefore? Him meaning he’ll do all that he has to and wishing the same thing for her, too. Isn’t that what we’re trying to avoid? Then I’d like to introduce you to Seemly Similitude© or a lovely preassembled collection of lust and expression of hope and desire to change the flow of things. A stick in a riverbed? Maybe. It standing in the way of something only changeable at its own behest? Well, you know we don’t believe in any suchathing and if we did… If we did… At least it would be something standing, wouldn’t it? Not kneeling. Not backing. It would be us. There. And inordinately marketable, if I might, just try this on: Wine stain all of me honey–red–honey indelibly. Make me a believable mess, make whatever we brush against want to be us. Here in an otherworld, make a dark matter handful of heavy galaxies and make our scented parallels intersect in you; make us teachers without accreditation, teaching lines themselves all the warm curvature and worthwhile cleft which lay between points (H)opeful and (C)ontented. In so doing teach me again and first, that nature has a soapstone trophy for not caring if anyone’s watching but sort of hoping someone is. Depict meYou will be painting with words So learn to fully chew them And relinquish other demands upon them, now Make punch my head On a surrealist diagonal Make the larger of my eyes From square penumbra In negative space, like the square on a top-lit apple Now make the other eye A story of words confounding Due And drape generic To the prohibition of each saying anything useful about Handsomeness Another. Show your stuff here About the face for example With waterfalls in shade Slipstream Roughshod and maybe swope Stack the torso tightly With indisputables Make it so hard it’s shiny And conceal it with a mackintosh Made from a foreign culture’s ideas regarding Cool-important/Important-cool people But beige of course. Of course use that word. The ground, then, is blood Now fill the air around me With the lexicon of interpersonal politics And light the whole thing from the Northwest With Oregon. I forgot: “There is a single plump cloud up there but it’s an aggressive little fucker.” And that’s exactly how it should be rendered Even if some of the rain comes from above it. Make it clear by my stance – Find some sixties sit-in lingo to make my legs And fray the corduroy with arrogance See where we’re going? Houndish manners and Wraparound amber glasses out of Vapid flash fame and candid In some bejeweled order. We aren’t disrespecting your mindmatter Your contribution is deep background Revival1. Join in our mosquito notes upon every sudden gloaming: this is all I have to do. Nevertheless, I insist I rise like a wild man like a bear as though my leaking pen is in the night as though the night straddles me and I scratch its salty dreams deeply, dreams of birthing something raucous –which roars, which excites– I rise like a wild man like a bear when restraint is the warmness gathered, quilted as həˈjemənē (an American lie worth four blue beads) and it’s a gorgeous peachy rite of long-legged wetlipped things of lungsore smoking preaching things of obsidian abuse and all the ribbon bleeding abused and all we have to do is agree tonight that what’s imagined wrong can only do wrong; and that which is hard to hold should not be held especially to the light. 2. Join in our mosquito notes upon every sudden gloaming: volcanic glass is a razor even when broken– a razor especially when broken– only when broken– when broken (depending on what we’re saying, of course). Nevertheless the perfect square of day is half brisance half adolescent shattery sky and rocks on one corner for all the unhung bells on one corner of our sidelong mind when all I have to do is stay behind and fly this burning kite. Somehow tug and run fast enough to bend the trees is all I have to do. In the face of that, rage like a wise man like a virus fevering these greasy words for normal (there are 183) all of them wistful and dire as a lucid coma, you shall recognize yourself in me, you shall clamor justly as a crooked gene, you rage like a wise man like a virus. (Recognize I had previously called you a name. A derisive name. Hoping to release something within, among us. Like beating a pillow because it seems violent.) 3. A gorgeous peachy rite of long-legged wetlipped things of lungsore smoking preaching things: plenipotentiary of naked races to the heralded beginning how long since I bathed with myself in folded sunlight with my own trash buoyed how long with bells in the sloppy fog around me? So I do it now precisely in a thrum of space when it’s all I have to do. Remember: only ever criticize this legend on a lark only ever let it be our worst enjoyable habit collectively. Nor can you, nor should you, Beachcomber, push back against the tide. Please don’t. It’s all I have to do. 4. Fight like a scared man like a poet and what dies from over-attention, let die and what flies in elemental chains, let fly. Fit your sense like a hot tar dip, rather self-applied and wear it beneath your verse. Remark on your sacrifice, say someone told you so– fight like a scared man like a poet. (With that, I cease to intervene.) In a hush we laud, fingers laced, sloe faces full of gorgeous peach, a fuzzy peach of fire–of saccharine yellow–sermon beneath a battlement brow, eyes flinty things imagined (pounding) can only do wrong; oh, and that which is hard holds no special light. Sing our singalong and along with us swear-by-numbers in the night. Marc Phillips had a virtual presence in the early part of the century, before the internet became a vicious shopping circle and spawned a dark child, before social media grew into the leviathan even an idiot could see coming. At present, all you can read about him is what others have said. Luckily for the curious, others have said some things.
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