Thursday, February 26, 2009

I think so. I don't think so.

Stop celebrating. Your head, carved slowly from events, costs double the suit sitting on a hanger like a frog made of frogs. Your creeps were similarly expensive, shakes talking for their own security. We lie, some of us, and we wish ill upon others. We seek a hole to plug with a cork that someone older and more ignorant passed to us with a kiss.

Such kisses close on potions. The tension pleases a never-ending collapse which has been civilized except when longer. The walk, the walk. Touching down on a silence constructed from bodies, the bodies we carried out ourselves and put into new circumstances that, still, refuse to clatter.

I wanted to hear it. So I put both my ears on. Those clothes, suitable but not alive, can only go so far, so far as you know. A tear in the collar, weeping all day but not once falling. The air between songs thins until hitting tin. What breath caught on a thorn? Did you want it back? Again, it goes too far, far as the end of the line drawn by dark monkeys taking turns with a stick. Love in a package? If you say so. Stop celebrating the end of the world, the means aren't yet out. They need a likable accent, a frog's pity. What they need, not what they were given.

Monday, February 23, 2009

I think so. I don't think so.

I believe, leaving, that the mole is two-thirds done. An elevator of bronze and those toes, whatever costs two of those and three of these. You sit down, spitting and speculating, having taken medication.

A newspaper, spurious but well-behaved, escaped our notification, we suppose, otherwise what? You'd think they'd have heard. Their ears! And eyes, too. Some people crawl with obvious direction, you know? A little tucker, the spent wastrel explains, has cost too much -- rooms of virtue, rooms of guts, rooms set aside for heart and dreams and toothaches. Father, where is your battery!

You, too, are slowly exposing a sexual extension. Slowly, as though close to removal. In the days we were eating a variety of circumstances, you'd remember, but an extenuation, wrapped in rice paper, is made up and replaced. Cruel boys. Standing is not absolute; you keep having to come up with another blossom. Weren't you going to dance the elephant requiem? Dirges ripple over barges during the evening of the president's first victory.

It ought to be over and settled, like a cloud of means. The ropes belay their image. What are you looking at? The kneepad reified by the atmospherics of the rumor. Quit trying to be like me, feeling, feeling. It's not the thing recommended, even by cats. You pay out for a new thought and get hair. There, there. You who are repaired are also mentioned for singular awards in the nighttime, especially come August. You are paid up, aren't you?

Stronger things have been spared. A nice spat. If you must smoke, think of my holy soak in a holy pond in a holy clearing sale on a holy oldies station. Then banish the drums. Call them what you've always been dying to call them. New people, friends drowning. Dip into the tusks. Walk all the way to the can of place.

listening to six songs from U2's "All That You Can't Leave Behind"

Monday, February 02, 2009

KNBC in kahoots with Mormon Church

I just read that KNBC refused to show that scarily innocuous ad featuring the AfAm gay couple and their kids. So I sent them the same email I sent KABC.

KNBC claims they wouldn't run any "advocacy" ads during the Super Bowl, but, as we know, they are full of shit:

"Despite this policy, other advocacy ads aired multiple times throughout the day's NFL-controlled programming. Among the advocacy ads which did air were PSAs for and, an anti-steroids advocacy campaign."

What's with L.A.? Is this why Prop 8 passed in that otherwise liberal bastion? The TV stations?

Sunday, February 01, 2009

I think so. I don't think so.

If the head had been replaced a new situation would be returned forthwith to the thin edge of the thinner. Here we supplicate that. On the other side? A new amphibian list. Don't expect a failure. What succeeds is dusk. Whose task is purposed by the next parsnip? We put on our little hats and confer. Oh no. Or oh yes. Such things are put in pretty chests and sealed with a tabulation of apples. When newspapers burn, a new voice emerges from the pendulous quips and assaults fogs. That is the last song on the record, isn't it? No, I don't think so. I think what it meant was mean, a failure of will, a willful wheel, a flurry of rituals. I think so. So I put my ear to one side and the whale calls back from her honey's real home. The rings open several times, too many times to count. It doesn't count now. Not tonight. No more colors. Your receipt remained sincerely secured to a lanyard all morning and the people saw it twirl in response to wings. Stairs. A new historical marker on the road to the sea. Water, put yourself to use. Come down here and put down a night master so we know what touches your burning lids. What broke is also what made my happiness list. The wind blew down the wad. Look to that awful act once more.