2007-08-22T19:33:00.000-07:00

The broken impulses, shoulda and woulda except after coulda or when hounded by hafta as in Labor for pAY. All day delayed by must and mustn't. Nevertheless, Reality, Capital OUR. Capital's hours, or is it real/ly any penny anti-hypo-thesis hypno-occupation-no-therapy about C-ism OR b-ism, ad infinitumism reflections on/about/of stale "New" and "American" and Savant Posey way past bedtime postures. Fuck you and the Theories your syncophants drove in with. R OLD MacDonald bought the Farm Club, Avant-Schmoe. And & Plus BE4orthed BUT, Accept even after Exceptions, or when sounding like Closed, as in victims and preys. So sick of "sickness." So-o-o Tired, Tried, Tierd, over-alliterated, over-poetried, under Herd of Rhymers, Schemers, Dreamers, Seemers, Deemers, Reamers, Lemurs, Teamers, Meme-ers, Members, Dicks, Toms, Harried. F/or not-hurried. As such, just relative, ducky, temporal, tricky, rickitty, iffy, stiffy. Reality, I mean, not so important, in the full scheme of things existential, not so REAL at all, really -- rather, noTHING but intellectual property transactions, financial instruments of the rich and tenured. Precisely NOTHING to do with yer true realities, Uncle, Aunt, Cousins, buddies, loves, FRIENDS, true Friends and Lovers and Devoted Pets. , so you want to think you need to try and own it, eh, Dear Poof-poof? Well, fok, Man, you can have it, Pucker Folks. Just don't come near here dickin it around and pretending it's worth the Bye-bye Pout-mouth you get for it in my market of ex-fanhouse mirrors! Now, there's "the Poetics of Disruption," and another name for what remains of Literature, but why not "the Poetics of Psychological Maturity," a la D.W. Winnicott, or would that be too much of a burden for these nice tight tykes and their stipends and their apparently realizable dreams of formal lit'ry conquest, the domination of the upper class by any other name neither arbitrary nor oblique. Weak II, we'll differentiate between the chance procedures spam I keep getting in my e-mail at work and post-avant poetry -- well, I dare ya to try and make a distinction. Of course, if it's coming from the Chinese, then it's got to be cool because the university has "diversity" programs in place and that's how the stipends are financed; besides, maybe they're idiotgrams following the fuckers' Pound, too, no weigh couldn't simply be foreigners phishing for suckers' social security numbers. Really radical? Then grow up, Chump. Change. Then corner the market on Maturity, then altogether disappear, then altogether reestablish being, which is absolute, er, absolutely not an artistic feat, a crutch, a bad habit or stringy toupee, a feather in no true thinking cap. Then annihilate Literature and the marketing of so-called "art," plus Art, too, altogether. Annihilate all but Hate, which leaves everything else intact, and resolution, of Depression, which is distinctly NOT what pea brains and sing-songsters think it is, having so little insight into true being, which is distinctly NOT narcissism, I mean THAT Narcissism, the one artists and pea brains embody, embrace, because they don't know better, don't know their little rhymes and "disruptions" are moronic, egoistic, the hubris of youth, don't know, don't know, don't know, don't know (anything), don't know better, can't, for it's far more complicated, and way off their grid, that distortion of careerist letters, letters for money, pay, position, retirement, non sequitur, some kind, any kind, not so kind, any kind of illusion of singular 5 minutes, Take Five Dave, Take a pill, take a bow, the earth stops moving me to tears.

8:00, *9:00, 10:00, 10:30, 12:00, 3:00, 5:00, *6:00, 6:00 early, Christmas, Shutdown, Reviews, Emergencies, Slowdowns and Peaks, Hunting Season, Network Downtimes,

As per the truculence, more sporysh than theirs, seats like the five easy priests festering with dobrophobia. Right between Finally and Glad to Get Started, despite batt’ries jumped and chassis frumpy, it arrives, then just like its sister, Curiousity, circles with good pagans for one last stand. Here, doncha know, what they’re waiting for. By this point in the game, the winners and the losers have made their intentions clear – they’re out to heckle the spectators, in turn and by turns chuckling/chucking vending machine lunch. Early, I might add. Then the real stampede begins, woe to the Homeless hopeless at dumpsters or hoping that shoulder’s not shortcut to Dinah’s – good old boys chow and that won’t mean Vegan; the VW’s roadkill if it blocks the four-wheelers. Somewhere, somehow, somewhoo, too, there must be gaps in the transitions, how many pecks of pickles Peter picked, and the pickles themselves, the chief pickle-counter balancing hours wasted and years heisted with profits the IRS will never manufacture, everything working out in the end, sorta kinda, mysteriously perhaps, electrical and nearly patriotic. Speaking of which, since the protocols dropped the ball this mornin’ what say we got a situation here and make the most of it, frolic with the best of ‘em and lament our lost glamour. Tomorrow, the day we’ve all been waiting for. Muzzles loaded to the gills they musta been almost a species of spearfish, whole schools of them stalking does and jawing donuts for the week of their dreams, out by Bristol Ridge where the Dear Cross signs outflank the motorists. Bleary’s just one of the biological rhythms, how some come off Graveyard and perk up for beering while others at Sun-UP can’t snatch ball bearings until they’re swimming in caffeine; these are Godgiven if you know what I mean. Briefly, even profit must rest and an ethic lowers itself to more ethical levels. It remained the standard, of course, to move the mark out of reach by simple subtraction, a five always meant 4 and four always meant 3, a mathematic adding endless improvement and guaranteeing eternally satisfying numbers for management and owners, “the Old Math,” as it were and continues to be. Silent Night all day long. Vacated mandatorily, the place found some loss labor loved those old last weeks of July.

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Overheard, the dreamer’s rumor woke acoustics of artificial light. Neither soaked up nor shed truly, and if contained, then by golly value or restraint. Which exist in such intonations of these paint-by-number spaces few and far stretched between. Not merely pure decoration or the cover of creases but also separation and the bulwark of disguise. Evenly distributed throughout, the protrusion, some would say intrusion, of capital attention on labors languishing in surfeit chaos. Except in these ratios whence prevail wetness and vapors largely receded, forgot, occluded, vacumn packed away with rigid limpid decorum and stiff humility. Yet straight in front of us now and then slanted backside of deadened metal beasts we are always surrounded, beaming with the uncharted sabotage of our concerns, themselves sandwiched athwart late afternoon’s giddy camaraderie. Oh to be grounded here? And what’s beneath us in the next incarnation? Had rather sat that out, the sedentary resignation and what but doubled cushion. These, plain as Tuesday, exposed Thursday by the hum of unfettered efficiency, rub off by dusk or return in a pale Martini. But for the layer of halves, uniform as monotony, or, if you will, Too Kind Sir, the proverbial blanket of Security. Of course we must put up with them! Damn Straight you oughtn’t tear it down! Better believe I want you around! Speaking of “preoccupied,” we’re as fit as the late Mrs. Duncan’s falconer glove. Scratch that. The same old boys who sniffed the stuff now watch it dry. What you don’t see won’t hurt you, but you’re in it up to your ears. By the same token, what goes up must come down, rain sleet or hail. Would be mostly an anomaly in these surrounds, these parts, these laborious hours, lest perhaps one rose to Machinist/Shop Super/General Manager from another station in Life and garnered very different details, the spring in locksteps, the garters of junior assassins at lunch, the 10 packs of tobacco. Or, you could just paint ‘em all black and blue. They take your breath away, in some cases – Vietnam, for instance – and they leave a chill over you, in others. I’d count, oh, seven, eight, maybe nine, none particularly distinct, in fact just staid shades of industrial grey, nothing to get all hopped up on psychedelics about, though maybe that’d brighten things up – what say we drop a cup in the company picnic punch this summer; most of these boys are so old they can’t remember the transition to bourbon and Coors anyway and if best come to worst then we could blame it on the steamed clams. The hardest thing about this joint is its resemblance to Florida State, over by Raiford, that is, not Tallahassee. Plastered gets flakey, not to mention pasteurized, what a pastor half-mast Jon Done passed with gases of alabaster, ya Impatient bastard, Ya! Wanna rumble, with the punch-drunks, all-night long, all day too, whether one’s listening or nought, such that just jest rambles. Ahh, Yes, here’s our enclosures, our privacy, our liveries, our sole square properties, where we apportion our daily provisions and position our tenure’s delicate Dilbertian possessions. Some say one good turn observes a manager reclining in her office, skirt hiked up to So There or another fella got that knobby thing out for a walk on the mouse pad, so ya better knock first, never know what ya gotta handle if ya just walk straight in. The chitter chatter, natch, and the winter coughing and from Station 14 over by Anderson the career-long yearly sniveling, the hum drum drone of the heating and the hawing, of course, the good sneezes and the stifled, the earnest Yes and the sternest No, the beeps of reboots and the bleeps of crashes, the Intercom overhead never overcome, the laughter and the sympathy and the berating. Though nothing to do with autos or critters. A foot in, a backyard out. Mighty lot of blight and slight at the end of this tunnel full of wretched retched riddles. Nice work if you can get it gold laid. The place was bugged, Mate, but you shoulda swept it under the rug.

8:00, *9:00, 10:00, 10:30, 12:00, 3:00, 5:00, *6:00, 6:00 early, Christmas, Shutdown, Reviews, Emergencies, Slowdowns and Peaks, Hunting Season, Network Downtimes,

Infuriating, bewildering, abashing not astonishing, perhaps inexplicable the way the will wants purpose and consistent actualization when attention forced to deliver 28,800 straight seconds of unself-employment daily, the way it waffles once home and free to be unenjoyed, unobligated, uncontrolled. The true measure of meaning is concentration on genuine self-interest until internally originated projects become completed. There exists no such state of being called “freedom” in any space where meaningless labor presides and the properties of the mind and heart are owned by bosses and false exigencies. Materialism wars with Peace of Mind and Meaning of Soul: How surrender the American wet dream?

Twelve hours later, call it a daze, work supper evening news theirs, while yers lay dormant, spoiled, just words expired by nine, the lives unlived on time for Conference Room 3’s Production Meeting. Hello, is there any buddy in there? “I think ought.” “I thought so fink that stuck up the corridor bore.” One little rhythm goes to market, one little rhythm goes to wrot, one little rhythm can’t find a word string to hang his coat or his neck on, to save his life on/off. It’s a toggle switch, yes, and the future and the past push pull back and forth arguing for eternity. Where’s the boos in all this dross. I said, aside, there’s the boss in all those dresses. You want to make sense today? Find another sucker from Quality Control and document your so-called sources. The Govt. will love ya. All of them twill.

8:00, *9:00, 10:00, 10:30, 12:00, 3:00, 5:00, *6:00, 6:00 early, Christmas, Shutdown, Reviews, Emergencies, Slowdowns and Peaks, Hunting Season, Network Downtimes,

Figure, ground morning against concept of observation which may or may not describe discernible subjects and objects. Unclothed sentence stripped of adverbs dignifying rhetorical contexts. The fragment itself both measure and measurement whereas what can be said done. Blue, greens, red, primarily the colors out of which a landscape of abstraction more concrete and in its way thoroughly vibrant. Yet the form club from the east and the form club from the west with their members out to scrimmage only what is relative, regardless kind. A man who might be not only involved in a crime but in fact its perpetrator. This being the absence of an inference she would have made to argue for theoretical flourish.

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How the network at Work works. Is also the kind of line another Stephen (R.) wrote. Was how. Communication operating across distinctively more or less metaphorical platforms, linked on levels alphanumeric, what do you feel experiencing such codes, 1's, 0's all aligned in perfect order in their preprogrammed octets, how do you feel if there exists no word for feeling or even if you can choose from several thousand in your native language alone? How do we feel, with words, with verbal or with non-verbal consciousness, with or without bodies and their visible abstractions? What does the word it feel like, and if that is the case, can it feel independently or merely feel "like?" These do not necessarily feel like compelling questions in and of themselves. More like something else, warm ups, perhaps. Or responses to previous language inquiry. "I'm really not that 'fucking' interested," but to what degree must interest, including self-interest, select attention. Personally, I say, I would love to locate one particular cluster of thot (would Ted the head have written "snot") comprising to my mind and heart spectacular interest, or spectator interests, I imagine, not having actually experienced such a state of relations to the infinite other objects being constantly produces. Being conscious, too. If he knows what's bothering him, then why does he bother? Aren't all problems merely constructions of words problematizing experience? My loving and lovable wife remarks that I'm paying too much attention to this piece of paper; now, that IS a problem, for I cannot write for her and be genuinely fair to our mutual experience. I would read D.B and R.D.'s Spade; Aerial 8 (B.W.); S.R's Real; N.P.'s Fait Accompli; "talk to" them, so interesting and compelling, or "listen to" MYSELF, whoever, Whatever. At best, I anticipate writing some several pieces narcissistic, solipsistic, and self-indulgent, but why anticipate SELF constructions? (another Ted B. switch, there, from "destruction," choosing something like the "opposite" word). B.W., would you read anything of mine with (self) interest? I have to admit, I noticed in recent days that I'm finally ready for Aerial 8, after all these years fumbling through it lonely and feeling inept. How does that happen to me? Get this, sort of, all sorts of, one year (or one decade), and don't get that until another very different moment, though all written by the same fine mind? Always feel so ashamed of these limits even though I suspect most good others, who don't truly regard me as "dumb," experience very similar "frustrations," lags in readiness and interest and opportunity. Why bother? Why should you need to feel interesting to B. Watten when you've already been interesting to D. Bromige for two and half decades? "Feel interesting?" Why should that be such an uncomfortable contradiction? What's wrong with writing Sillimanesque questions -- you DID learn wonderful things from him to do with your mindfulness. And you'll never betray D.B., your favorite, as R. Duncan was to him, and he had to Desire others, also. Everyone desires others, Brother! Bodies, and their visible attractions... Silliman, of course, should be credited for observing multiple perspectives engendered by traveling B.A.R.T., changing seats, playing musical venues here there sitting standing taking steps. "I could no longer see my reflection after relocating that mirror from my home in Glen Ellen to a storage locker in Shortsville." And then I opened a line with a phone call to Sebastopol. And another to Novato. And another to Bolinas. And another to San Luis Obispo. And there you were, looking straight back at us, as if you'd just had breakfast at Alice's Restaurant, inside Alice's Looking Glass, inside Alice's head, listening to a Grace Slick on an airplane to Jefferson, Illinois, Alice Smith's and Alice Jones' hometown and Alice Doe's destination for a vacation from this place. Just go ask Grace, living as variously as possible. Hey, Jim M., what's you doing with that pun in your head, my corn in the other ears? Okay, one more, pretty please, if you're going to San Francisco, California dreaming, it's such a sunny way. Am I obligated to revere your friends from 35 years ago who died back then before turning 40, essentially from drug and alcohol habits of mind and body alike, like mine own fetish for nicotine sticks, while I reach my fiftieth year in an entirely different continuum of circumstances Plato detested, I guess. Yes, I should have more respect for the dead, you dead heads, Bruce Berry, Ted, and he would have been a friend of mine as well, for I too have met more interesting folk in the ditches, sometimes. Blather, blather, what's the matter! Bother, bother, who's this other? You could argue that you're fair-minded, just fair, and fairly show some Popular Mechanics debunking some unpopular conspiracy theorists, refusing nine/eleventh's foggy profits and how much Loose Change. You could separate the wheat from the chaft, further commoditize the activity, learn a thing or two about repeating winning literary strategies, defeating rivals, successively comparing your product to forerunner's all two human drive theory called Make It New. You could become more competitive, compelling, cagey, conspicuous, conspiratorial, consistent, collegial, conscientious, contiguous, communist, cunning, conned, cute, corny, cooperative. Corny?

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