Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Iconoclastic bunny my mind is exploding with possibilities and I don't know what to do or how to satiate this need, desire, drive ambition, an arm-leg thrust so powerful I foall into a myriad of potentiate opportunity and hpatasmagoreic being. Oh, opiate alternatiave beingo of the masses, wherforeout are my desires to be satiatedin such a plentiful narrow-midned vast and unspirialing world of opportunity- in my mind's eye surely, more quikcly, faster and cleer, celerit, celeritus sum than any alternate univers,e black hole symbiotic cohension relationship could ever define on the axial arm of the milky way galaxy's dangling dot arm of a plant- swallowed up in Einsteinian emptiness glamour- electrons exciting phatasmagoreic swellings, some drup,e druid, droopy headed fetus exreteing life from bone and mottled red nad white flesh to become the kunk orchid, intrepidly, insurrectedly seductive, drunk lust liquor to the fly, and with enough convincing the homeopathic hominid imitates the tiy-bity squlatundripidous fly and convinces us veil-like to drench ourselves in unspoken words. A silent ether-reality (etherreality) in which you love me the wya I've alwyas loved you- the preternatural vacuum where no (but most likely so few) molecules exist that I fear we've brought a chuck of outer-space down here with us, and if we let it out, we'd have to follow it arou nd, chasing after it like a moth trapped against the brightness of the torch-like prch lamp, dropping feathered dowdy bodies of them every which way like paper cuts layering themselves wieth snowflake thickness, swiftness, too many musty yellow pages to care, and yet their morbidity darkens us somewhow and we run from the lamp with screams and twitches of anxiety, fearing to be brushed, dropped upon and cursed by one of their soulless biological carcasses. Vacuums are like this. I have an intimate affair, a love-reality with vacuums and writing this here is almost too gaudy, self-absorbed, illicit (please, you must admit this) to Not be caught writing this (w)right now. Can they see me at work? Cna they see how comforta ble, inimitable my induglence is and, ah, how illicit such a behavior should be-and yet I am not deviating any more than the bored or mostly aware web-browser would. Hence, the knife-like sharpness and seduction of the poem, the imagination, in such times of "confinement." The pleasure of escape within confinement, the trick of time-capitalizing, is almost too much to bear. How far down will I fall, Alice? What does the bottom feel like with regard to poetic and/or stream of consciousness blather/ artistry (will defint what exactly it is later)?