Monday, November 19, 2012

you that there exists

As I Cross the Heliopause.

if your check engine light
for a minute relents
jumping spider bombs
even as the ship sinks i am piling on
Tavolara · gallery

oppressed by bad mythology
in night retail exile

Tai Chi 0 trailer.

Grinchus in Twinkie mourning
dolphin serial killer
the final nail in the cream-filled coffin

non-azan on

names that never leave me


distorted guitars
muddle through
though mackerel skies
give perhaps overplus
grizzly years on
a raw, snarling noodle
everyone knows the way

grizzly clawmarks on my conscience
Ixtab bhakti
known & unknown gnomes
Sogdian fashion item


hashtag-apocalypse tweet

if i could say it in
one hundred forty characters

white puff
from your tailpipe at the green

Hipster ringtone.

thirty through Richardson Chinatown
ZZ Top
& the pinkgold whisper
of Lingco Drive

will i learn to find in myself
alchymical gold
Ameslan rhyme
for the phantom fingerstumps?

row of yawing crosses
voices in the bleak land
on TV an explosion
replayed five times
just this morning

Crescent Neptune (via Systemic)

Friday, November 02, 2012

vampire squid thundershirt

(via Al Jazeera)

Green Penguins.

"[Alberto] Manguel, when I had first met him, a decade before, had told me that he himself had met a man who had known Franz Kafka. And what had this person had to say about Kafka, I'd asked? That Kafka, Manguel had told me, had known everything there was to know about coffee." --William Gibson, Distrust That Particular Flavor (2012)

Dr Death as painter & Armenian.

"People think the truth is bulky, like a big package. More often, it comes in small drops, like rain from the eaves. You can listen to it all night long, but in the morning when you go outside, there might not be anything there." --James Church, Hidden Moon (2007)

The rectification of names.

"I was ashamed of my trade [the military] when I saw those horrors perpetrated which came under every man's eyes. You hew out of your polished verses a stately image of smiling victory: I tell you 'tis an uncouth, distorted, savage idol; hideous, bloody, and barabarous. The rites performed before it are shocking to think of. You great poets should show it as it is--ugly and horrible, not beautiful and serene. O sir, had you made the campaign, believe me, you never would have sung it so." --Henry Esmond (1852)