Increasingly arson. Arson arms Johnson. Arson Jane Johnson. On death row
for her latest torching. Indefinitely arson. Irremediably arson.
Infinitely touching, this torching, this one true torching. Arson Jane
sings a torch song at the foot of the flames, at the foot of the fifty-foot flames.

Wigosaurus. Lost its hair early in its evolution, so took to wearing a
wig, which it constructs out of the regurgitated hair of consumed
mammals. Some are better than others -- I mean, some are really obvious.
We were lucky to have found one of the better ones fossilized almost
entirely intact. You could put it on a rhino today and nobody would even
realize.

The Invisible Collector

The internet and its vapor people
Songs of a superb device
vapouriser hissing
an empty suit of armor masturbating

kiki and queequeg
audrey wonderland wells
Blowing the guru
Schooling the uncool guru

amateur eugenics
songs of the spelling bees
truck in your buick pants
in the ruins of a Flamsteed Europa

and yet Bertrand
hired the bad boys to teepee his house
so he could look cool on the bandbus tonight
poor hoods, they got carried away
now it's burned down to the ground

Evolution*
* The searchstring which unites these pieces

This is why I reillusioned! Instead of sitting leg-splayed in an aureole
of shattered illusion shards, holding jagged pieces of old illusions in
my hands like some pisspoor humpty dumpty, I suddenly silently
re-engaged my imagination and reillusioned. I suddenly had the gall
to create new mythologies. This, as I later learned, is a signal stage
in a person's evolution. This is where ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny.

---

Future humans will turn small, like the dinosaurs into birds. The better
to utilize the earth and resources in the face of overpopulation --
evolution favors the small.

---

Hm, here's a revolutionary idea -- just write what I like to write and
let it be read by those who like to read it? Wind em up and send em out
and see what happens. Let them see to itself. What happens is usually
best when I didn't expect it.

Say, this is what I got, and let the world integrate it. Say, here, I've
got little storylets. Not twisted them into twisted shapes. I have not
bent them to make them add up to something. There are no sums in
something. Sums have corners and inspire the existence of a counterfeit
world of points and formulas. And whenever there are formulas, there are
those who will abuse them. Alright? The English language is one vast
formula! It is too easy to sell a promise unfulfilled. To set up an
emotional puzzle, those with tools they don't know how to use, adding up
to nothing.

Better to be like natural phenomena, flash through the sky and tear
wonder out of the heavens. Alright?

---

Thinking endlessly of what I'd like to do, what I should be doing. It
troubles my woolgathering and naps. At the bottom of things is a jagged
melange. I am living on an aeroplatform requiring constant attention to
tend. I get suspicious of the gods of today. I worry I am wanted to
expend some extraordinary energy which I do not have and have never
wanted to expend.

Since I won't throw my stone hat in with the rest of them, then I giss
I'm devoted to writing silliness for children who are adults. Or trying
to tease out the child is in you. It's all silliness for me, and
arrested development and just some funness to while the hours away in
stile. To unemphasize the dour and serious aspects of the world and
declare my indepertinence from the bland, insecure, evolutionary rituals
of the salesmen.

To be mature children, not children of ritual. Not automatic adult
children of rituals. Frankly, what is considered to be adult is just a
series of interlocking childhoods. Independent thought is dead by ten.
There's a reason why they're called "schools"...how else do you classify
sardines?

---

1972, and I don't know nothin'. I understand nothing. My days are spent
playing. My days spent spelunking a cavernous universe I never made --
we come into the universe we never made as rebels, defilers,
iconoclasts. Adults, women, strangers, look down on us with their huge
rolling sheepy eyes, daring us to kill them. They got seniority! They
rightly fear us. They see the look in our ratty little eyes, the eyes of
something one nudge up on the knowledge chain, one link up in the
evolutionary scale. We've come to supplant them. Supplant em and then
plant em. We've come to invent biotics and chemistries and psychic
phenomena to not only kill them all, but to emp their electronic
memories off the face of the earth.

This is as it should be. Every new generation is a bulldozer on the old
generation. Heavy machinery, to bulldoze the old generation into their
mass graves. The evolution of heavy machinery. The Evolutikon. Step into
the Evoluticon, my friends -- yuh spins the dial, yuh takes yuh chances!

Yes, this is my morning! This fourth November Sunday -- jingling cold
wind, fresh and cold, not a soul in the streets and only dry pine
needles in the gutter, butterygold morning light syruped there, slanting
in over the low apartment rooves, planing the palms and the pines,
whispering the asphalt, brushing the steel, whistling a turn on the
tender blacktop. Whistling in the trash and the asphalt. Even the clean
dry trash on a November morning like this. To be warm inside, to hear
the youth of the dog walkers, the tao of the dogwalkers and the electric
rambling of the gate below, the quiet youth of the morning workers in
pools of sun & comics, sporting in flannel sheets & bedclothes &
heirlooms.

Warm heater air from above to soften my cold hands, pooling on my cool
hands & clothes -- typing warms them up too -- how nice is it to hear
the wind battling against the landmarks, buffetting the windows and
walls, knowing inside I am warm and safe as soft dry toast. The cold is
wind and inviting, yet it has blown away the clouds and the sky is
unfettered blue, unlettered virgin blue, blue majolica...as D-503 would
say in We.

It's a blue perfect for planes to penetrate. It is unspeckled by cloud,
rose, windsprint, vortex, or rill! And the courtyard jingle the tiny
bells, and the clinkers of cortex, and the sough turns to a roar, to a
thunder, and only muffled thunder reaches our ears inside for it's good
solid recent construction in a good solid recent neighborhood!
Construction that satisfied the earthquakes and confounded the planners.
A morning of soaring sound in the blue distances, roughing under the
lower arbors -- through a space beneath the lowest branches, a green
opening hung with shadows and peopled with only trunks, cars go by on
the distant highway opposite the park.

The robins are picking the wormsoaked earth. The robins are mincing on
an early spring morning. Robins over a robotic earth. Quiet in the leafy
sunshine, and the only movement is the movement of robots. What's
happened to us?
Look in that hatch when the robot opens it. See those pink things
in a squirming, moist mass? Or, there, in the turned earth -- that
elongated pink and wet thing's got smart eyes! He winks once before
disappearing. And, those little chitinous things sucking excess grease
off the housings? I swear that one looks like my Uncle Rob.
Robins in the bionic earth. Robots moving in the bionic earth.
What's their destiny, their goal in life? There is none. To work until
the end of time. There's planets like that all throughout the sky --
stuck on nuclear autopilot until the end of time; until the end of the
sun, which is time for each one of them.
In a sense the sun is time. It's the giver and taker of time. The
measurer of time, the initiator of time and the terminator of time. As
its terminator swings round and round, granting its acquittals &
reprieves.

---------

I have one of the finest collections of microscopic art in the world.
See this gray framed print? This has the equivalent of several
hundred museums worth of art in it. Simply call up the viewer --
extruding up from the floor with its brass armatures, arranging itself
automatically at the correct distance, and voila!
In this other room, my microscopic anemometer and other weather
equipment -- in here, bicycles & velocipedes of all kinds -- in here,
the kings & queens of england, etched in individual salt crystals.

Words and logos heading sunward to die, just like Icarus. Words with wax
wings flying higher and higher -- words, brainless, keep going though
their wings melt. They don't know about physics, gravity, etc. Do words
even know what freight they contain? Are they dumb train cars into which
you could easily put either ingots or Jews? Is it all one to the words?
Is it all won to the oerds?

Words in the sward. In the swale and the sward. Hiding in the
sward. Heading swardward to hide! Heading sunward to die. Swarths
and scythes in the sward. Swords and scythes, mowing the swale &
sward today. Sowing the swale. Swains mowing a swath in the sward.
Swarthy little swains with their swords and their scythes. Swarthy
winnle swains. Swains and their sons.

Daedalus fashioned wax wings of words, which he fastened onto his son
Jesus. Jesus, on wings of logos, floated upsun, wild on a wing in the
sky -- aureole a go-go, dripping feathers on the upturned faces -- thing
is, he didn't come down this time: he turned into a cruciform airplane
in the sunset, flashing bronze fire off its riveted undercarriage.

Flashing blonze flire
The flier flashing fire
Sunset from 2000 feet
Bronze coins for my eyes
We are linked by this exchange
Pennies for my dead old eyes
Resurrection seven o'clock
Lucky pennies for you
The finder of my body

A devil of a lover in the images. Details of a lover in the ingots.
Polyglot in the ingots. Glossolalia among the ingots. There in the train
cars, along with the jews, well-dressed and comfortable, shepherding
their ingots to Prague to be melted down, melted down into a gun with a
maw so large you can put a train car in it, which will be shot directly
at Berlin -- Jew Force Eh'ad, ready to bring down Hitler with heavy
metal! With traincars full of botulism, anthrax, plague!

Black plague for the Nazis! Didn't anybody think of that? Why
didn't we drop bombs dipped in plague?

Details of a lover in the ingots. A pretty balinese lady in the
ingots. Lovers in a bikini review. A bikini revue. With your host:
Dr. Goldfoot!

Vacationlands

Jumpin jocks on the jive jingle clusters. On the frenary foundation
clusters, the fundibliform jiggling testicles of the ivory freakshow
features, out on the freakshore, the reekshore of the arcadian beach,
there on the circular tonsure highways, the tonsure harmonies, the
tonsure rotundas of gazebos and carousels and movie houses on down Old
Orchard Beach in some ultimate mental Maine of the mind.

The mind, that vast vacationland, endless with full running commentaries
of the infinite imaginable things.

The testicles of vacationland. The easticles of vacationland. The
northern forests become quilted northern toilet paper.

The husky frequencies. Huck finn in the final husky frequencies. The
trick is, you see, to find something in the huskyfrequncies you can call
your own.

Something clutter a vacation you can comma your own. If it's just about
using a song to randomize a swing, of putting together words who are new
acquintances, then it should be brung.

Standing camera. Clutter remora. Vacation vomma. Comma remova. Remora
remova varinova.

Clusters of vacation mommas, and their gigantic ballooning deep blue one
pieces with the reinforced cups. Bathing cap, she surges in the pool.
This is the motel pool at the end of a curvy slide in the city of Omaha,
NE, in the year 1970.

Wonder emerges from the wreckage of wreality, blinking like a mermaid in
the low morning sun. refineries of vast distance, towers piercing the
haze, long lightning rows of cars & children. Streaming out of the city.
Toward the dropoff in the distance. In between the concrete rows, the
oxygenated air smells silky and sweet. Down by the treadle of a grating,
several indigents laugh and laugh. The indigents engineered this
apocalypse.

---

The engineers and salesmen lay in long slumped reclined rows down the
concourse of masonry along the avenue. Many of them had bottles in paper
bags, some of them were napping, with the charming spontaneity of the
idiosyncratic, breaking the rules to nap in the middle of the day. Some
of them dully watched the pidgeons clacking along the grimy pavement.

Then, a commotion. From out of the building trailed a thin, long-haired
man in a rich humanhair coat adorned of glorious silver bangles and
pennants, and aswirl with sycophants and gadabouts. The salesmen,
engineer and insurance bums rolled their dull and rheumy eyes toward the
scene. If they hadn't been so pacific on laudanum beer, they might've
been more animated -- as it was, this shift of their glance, in unison
like a lot of dirty old radar dishes, was akin to a gasp of surprise:

A Poet!

Clinking around his neck, the medallion of the Order of Byron -- on his
upper arm, the band and logo of Coleridge. Poet gangs fought each other
depending on the placement of these colors and sigils. Pausing at the
curb, the Poet calmly murdered each sycophant in turn, puncutating the
grace and lipstick dispatch by wiping his blade on the pantsleg of the
last to fall. Serenely, he climbed into his quixotewagon and pedaled off
into the sky.

unharnessed horses
horses out of harness
browsing in the grass

are the unharnessed horses worthless?
Must they always be racing?
Or ridden in war to annex our neigbhors?
Must they be used in battle & conquest?

What if they'd rather run? Imagination wants to run, to run its long
legs on the endless green hills. Horses race up the hill to witness the
sunset, stand with their hair blowing in the blowzy breeze, and the sun
is sinking below in a blended sky. Horses sniff the stars rising out of
the deep sky, and wink at the windows of the bluffs below.

The sun is blended in the sky.
Something's blended in the sky
Horses blended in the sky
The pharoahs of the sky
Huge ramparts of the sun
Their sunny monuments
Oyzmandias' monuments
Form and bloom in the western sky

Ptah holds out his hand
Aten blossoms forth
Amun smiles and grins
Hidden in the gloom of noon
How many sacrifices to the pharoahs
Immured at noon
Like a moon immured
in a pyramid beneath the earth

The cold warriors and the cord warriors

Softly decomposing under the old cold stars
This arid metropolis
In the gloom of a progressive moon
In the year eight thousand and twelve
There are men here who only want to play guitar
They are travelers from something called Seventies
They've arrived here in skins from the Seventies
They summon the atlas of seventies
Several are arguing loudly
Whatever it is, it is settled with music

Mostly the soviet seventies
Haunted by nuclear subs
Haunted by huge colors and bugs
Haunted by smog and by paisley

Strewn with nuclear subs
Cosmonauts listening to Elvis
Communities summoning elders
To visit and listen to elvis
The vanity of summoning Elvis
Summoning devils or elvis

The cold ankhs of decomposing warriors
the cold angst of egyptian summers
several summers in Egypt
resemble the seventies summers

I have taken Ipecac. I have eaten the Ipecac pie and purged myself of
the clever writing. My feeling is if you find yourself writing something
overly clever, do your laughing and prideful wriggling -- then burn it.
Godsake, don't inflict your cleverness on the world! We are all awash
and going down in a flood of cleverness. The linchpin of web culture is
cleverness, clever prose & comics and snark observations, interspersed
with pie-eyed activism & callow agitprop. This is, of course, as it must
be when you empower the public to publish. It's Gutenberg gone riot; the
aged printer is spinning in his agitated grave.

(A system of power generation on the table in California:
attaching turbines to the buried corpses of public figures of all
kinds, then employing graveside debasers to continually insult
their memories.)

I trend toward the functional, though I continually manufacture pretty
bouquets. I like crops, I feel drawn to crops, and well-managed rotation
systems, cross-plowing and other ingenious inventions, hybridic &
genetic engineering technologies, and so forth. I love flowers and
functionless beauties, and the arrangement of ferns in a sward, but then
I think of the hungry mouths, mine own included, and my thoughts turn to
crops and what moon to plant in, and the only farms I've known.