POINTLESS STREAMS
The fullest cold till became what of a living man was good would call his life and too much spent on for daring to understand what the fish is doing on the side. Never mints does sathe. Ruplin for dear ashen trays gone empty tossed out to the grass which absorbs the gray. Then mittens down to symbolize a sway away from trury aln apart us our frequent minds across a climb to neversent aspergies. Always a climb. Always a climb with this one, a climb. Duth suth would say. Carry ending symbolized embryo punching out the white lights of the eyes who the man was the sun. Despondent. Even if it was nae to veg out over the couch’s arm like a ragdoll slunk down to the psalms, edges blazoned eyes. ¶ Never sensed the lily pads were key caps getting stroked by a giant’s fingertips, invisible, typing stories into the nature of the thing—halt. What stories? Dalmatian bear cubs formed out of scoops of Oreo icecream. Crawling up sundries a totem pole buried in honorific ice sprees. Not a sink too soon. Between me and my own penguin brain. Scannerific, the plural fume for yer old boon on sangsway met my own down there in the gut of the ocean. Wondering why this way was a fish’s way. ¶ I propered ire for canters the way Kafka depicted himself as weak but at least offered profound truth—I have no truth, on the other hand, to offer. That having become a part of it for me I’m not too proud of. Maybe even which forms regrets. I can’t be sure. But there is still honest a part of it for me in the blanketing snow pounds I sense with a season of grace to be good. This cyclical turning over again and again repeating sound. Returning us brief in the lucid outlines of angels not understood manning the trumpets we can’t play looking over confusedly at one another asking ourselves, Well, what am I supposed to do now? and getting no response. The untypified lender’s brush with death was a good one, when he was me in the vehement swirl of casters’ glaze to wit a sum. Carry us somber off to the place echoes travel when they’re quietest, oh, and the later stage. ¶ For toons a cupid’s runoff nonsense babbles riled a billion bits of hoff. Some arrow placed in my shoulder when I was the dreamer walking the halls not knowing which way was the correct one to walk down. In love with the floor I could’ve sworn had just changed on me again, but could not be sure because I could not remember what it had looked like just a few seconds before. The shapes in langue for rites of passage the potter’s wheel spins up a comatose slab of wetted clay for throb. In the heart of the passage. My own infinite tattoos gone mid-dissipation like ash risen off the skin. The beautiful vernal foul way. Not to do what a one might have you, but to raze the crypt from the comb and comb your hair with your fingers so it’s out of your face and wake up again with your eyes still open in the dream and wonder… the same thing all over again, I suppose. The same thing. ¶ Blue balloons risen the necrotic ancestor holding one the signs of life all stayed. In forever clues oldened napkinned grease crumpled too on the table by the hand of Rosculoe, whose theories on divinity range from the skies themselves to the plastic spoon. Recurring characters in our lives all the words we use. Limited feng sui to the room I’m in that is mine but not, writing this. Little dobbles of granular light escaping horizontally behind the word processor’s plane where a video depicting slowed down feature-length footage over the sounds of ambient videogame music plays. All of it slow-seeming, nearly hypnotic. Not knowing which way’s the right way, staring down a hall of gray whose floor is snowcapped whose doors are closed except the one at the very end, the source of daylight. Walking walking walking this way. Past door after door unaware of my name. What would God’ve said? Don’t you know? ¶ No, and the secrets piling up beyond obvious a cause for alarm in the grays. The grays piling up a cause for celebration in hell where at the frozen heart I am petrified in an ice block of my own tears. Grace. Did you get the reference to Dante’s Inferno? Grace. This is helping me supposedly, though I don’t know how, and I am not too staid. A waste. A wonder why the words appeared at all and a race from the inside to the outer reaches of the place. The same face that looks at you looks at me, too, and it looks like—heavens, is it already this late? Come, come on. We must be going. I pretended to have some of it all together when the signs collapsed. I pretended to have my heart set on the ipsrumal omulan ricketing my lapse into face. So, who is the subject here? ¶ The same old thing admit we don’t throw but we know in a way we don’t have but we walk on fires for we don’t see but we feel with the callouses of our finger pads going gripless away the donning of glue hues and fickle veils lifting up and a nonsit pad whose words are a triptych for the colossal haze going on outside all the time, wait. There are reasons behind things sometimes after all was my last revelation, someone’s last confession, my final ace. I put up a poster with your name on it and I grazed some Caesar salad and I waited for space. I was tired of writing the thing was the thing. In drevay lack crulomm desonai sufruel. Clopping hooves up the street this way.