Every morning, there's a tangle of words clogging my intake valves,
fettering up my nonsense meters, fretting my nonsense outflow vaginas,
and so I need simply to stirrup the fingers in the proper keys and just
eject anything in there. Get the speculums clicking! I am not going to
imagine the morning emanations contain prophecies of any kind, nor that
they are inspired by the wikenweenie ghosts of off-color civilizations,
the rack and pinion ghosts of old angel drivetrain tests -- although
the other morning I was definitely feeling Phildickian, and since he is
dead he's available in that fashion, available for download. Having of
course read a lot of his books, I know when I'm feeling like him and
what it is to bring writing that sounds like him but anyway -- all this
to say, you never know who you're gonna meet when you open up the

When you open up the Wordsworth doors
When you open the Vermeer ventricles
Twist the Titanic menticles
Trump the Montanic momsicles
When I undo my titanic ventricles
The tricks I've got up my ventricles

Available in that asshole fashion. You clear the sphincter of words and
you settle your cheese in the breeze. You sit and listen, to inner
guidance, to the gentle metallic creak of the weathervane turning to
point to some new north. The more words you use, the more you'll get.
If you use energy, you get energy, simple as that. It's axiomatic.
Nature abhors a vackume. A cumulative vacuum. If the words gather, pile
up, rot in there -- if the words rot on the docks, don't imagine the
distributors from the interior are going to ship more out to you! They
find other markets! They leave in disgust, leaving you only able to
tally numbers, to tabulate figures, able only to bring enough
creativity to bear to argue with your spouse, reason with a child, or
discipline a pet, to reason with the judge, argue with the cop,
discipline an employee.

Vermeer's up to his elbows in ventricles. Squid Ventricles in the
vinedark zee. Squid squad to the rescue, fighting sperm whales. The
uterine squid, the latest in self-guided parasitic symbiotic
contraceptive devices. Fighting any sperm whales happening into their
dark and salty estuary.

No reason to argue with the judge. No reason to murder the judge in his
sleep. No reason to poison the judge in his whisky. Once the judge is
well in his cups, put him behind the wheel of an automobile. The judgy
in his silky cups of whisky. The judge's gigantic silky wig. How many
whores have worn that wig, laughing, bubbies bouncing, blackmail
nights? Whore no more when the judge runs off the road.

Putting the squeeze on Vermeer
Slipping a mickey to Van Go
Rubber bullets for Van Gogh. Rubber bullets and psychotropic medication
-- he paints only geometrics now. He's become like Rothko. He's got a
new job, painting houses in Arles. People sneer at the one-eared little
Vermeer. The rough tradesmen eating potatoes and drinking absinthe
simper at the dodgy little Belgian.
In edematuous fashion.

A real winedark fuck, by the windbreak luck, down the windrows, the
double-wide windows, looking out on the winedark road. The blacktop
Odyssey, from Troy NY to Ithaca CA.