in the society of principled minds

oh, pale young regulator with her accidental
controlled by flexible casing and wire,
do you sit comfortably wile your consciousness is
harnessed to a certain flesh?

she says to me ‘the problem with
is that they are not enthusiastic,’ and i wonder
at the flitches that have
veneered her face. does it hurt you, faint
bureaucrat, that you hunt for fire nonetheless?

‘however, the promethean curse seems to remain;
the android hunts for fire,’ she pours these liquid
into my ear. lulled by her rattle and hum, my reptilian
brain sits warming in the sun – anesthetized.

doubt sloth and vice are missing yet, but why? i ask
from behind my curtain and she licks the velveteen
with an inspector’s sanguinary
‘isn’t the assurance of truth a louder voice? a
clearer one?’ she seeps.

‘the desire to pass on the fullness of belief,
can it be found in an indifferent android? an
android?’ the ventilation of her pneumatic
lungs bristling down the length
of the rosary spine that contracts while she weeps.

‘but we are not blind to predetermined nullity,’
blares the voice-box in a tinny hoarse
‘but are free of it!’ now full of vim
yet lacking the vigor of a youth
resigned to ever-darkening future we’ve prepared.

oh, febrile faculty with your polymorphic
you’ve seen an eternity without life,
encouraging the androids
to flourish in the fog of denial and despair.

Posted in categorization problems | Leave a comment

in the higher order of animals

malicious children in the

upturned dark,


around windows filled with cinder blocks.

Posted in problems in verse | Leave a comment

‘Hurld in the Hadean eye’

“Rocks are like immensely slow waves,”
She said, turning a bit,
“And occasionally they weep,”
Now with her back to him entirely.

Posted in problems in verse | Leave a comment

for lars von trier

windblown and screeching
she clambered towards the sky
like a deranged tree,
root-bound to a balding mountaintop.

Posted in problems in verse | Leave a comment

“For an old bitch gone in the teeth, / For a botched civilization,”

a small buddha sits absorbing all motion, deep rumbles beneath the earth, vibrating into the buddha’s mind.

monogamous billboard

hermetic hay bales

fabco and zaber industries

tired joys and torrential fuel

magic body collision.

great billows of smoke in the distance, dense and undulating, diaphanous backdrops for expansive steel frames, rusting, looming over concrete patches given up to weeds and debris.  dead brown grass and gnarled leafless trees, endless shoals of gravel interweave with trampled brown-gold straw.  intermittent pylons totter on iron-stain-red concrete footings that are being slowly expelled from the earth, by the earth.  all the trees lean away, aghast, jealous, vicious, everlasting.

refractions of sunlight glint through the balding pines, the culprits nothing more than piles and clumps of busted glass and torn plastic, stacks of uprooted tree trunks, shorn and systematized, are surrounded by yellow-brown heavy machinery. an unholy exhumation and grotesque display of remains. earth-shaping.  and we’ve come to the place where they tear at the earth, all motors and steel, hungry, hungry, always empty.  Herzog’s container cars and shipping depot loading docks.  waste treatment plants buried like middens, ancient and seaward.

a tiny hill-top graveyard is scattered with miniscule headstones looking over a muddy stream and the kudzu would choke these trees had it not already died.  endless fields too ruined, spoiled, poisoned even to be fallow, consisting mostly of charred tree stumps and empty utility sheds.  hawks circle in tight arcs, eyes tethered to the ground, wondering if prey can even live here.  what dredge ponds that do form are fly-ridden, myopic, and mostly sludge.  it is a wonder that the edges are a deep rich green and not a rotting-death brown.  

Posted in problems in prose, problems in verse | Leave a comment

Gravity’s Revolt or; Now tis in his throate! / I, I perceive it plaine. / ‘Twill out! ‘Twill out; stand cleere. See, where it flies!

And the world raged around them, incessant and malevolent, the earth howled and the wind shook and they thought this was to be their end. Mountains trembled and fell, oceans rose and crashed, sleet blew and the thunder spoke the death knell of the lives they once knew. All over chaos reigned and the people trembled in their skins. Those great cities, reified and pulsing, fought tooth and limb and were overcome.  In the early days their science brought them much comfort, hidden away in radiant fortresses, so revered for their responsiveness, so relied upon for their intelligence, and all the more hastened to their destruction.  To respond and react was one thing, then, but to cope was another matter, for the world had lost its agency.  Its populace had become enabled and hamstrung, that ingenuity had escaped them and left them destitute.  Further attempts at righting historic ailments were beset by despondence and overwhelmed by forces that had been neglected and since divorced from.  The people would gather in small bands, cowering under such structures as they could fashion made to face the ends that each small group could fathom.  Here an inhabitable instrument that sheltered thousands, only to be torn asunder by elements outside of the instrument’s measure.  There, a machine that housed a multitude, only to crumble by the onslaught of powers greater than an automaton’s programming.  All around, a great efflorescence against the almighty march of the inevitable.

And yet, life remained. Humankind was not of such ilk to disappear quietly into the night unheard. There were those who had harbored in themselves a quantity of themselves hitherto unknown.  A smattering, spread across the globe, had crept silently among the rocks, gathering what they could salvage, using long forgotten impulses, to build small, earth­bound shells against the onslaught.   Squirreled away in the dark corners of this ill begotten rock, they assembled their life rafts of an unholy sort.  Bizarre compendiums of metal and earth; they lived on yet.  A few of these managed to slip erstwhile into the sea and lay dormant and embryonic under heaving ocean waters.  Homunculi built up over generations and their escape may yet come to pass.

And the unending steam billowed forth in tumults of blue, ravaging what little land still gasped for the air above the waters. Drowned, this little mote of dust in the cosmos had returned to its most balanced state.  The skies may have ceased to rumble in exhaustion and the shaking crust may tremor no more.  Equilibrium has finally come at long last.

And then they burst from the firmament of that bedeviled earth, sailing beyond starlight, ejected from a mote of dust suspended on a sunbeam, off toward an as-yet  fabled future that could haunt them all. Swaddled in fear, they grew dimly aware of the vast chasm of their alienation and commenced to rebuild themselves to a more Universal means.

And so, generations on, we overcame our neurochemical selves.  We would feel our many mastered genomes coursing through newly incorporated molecules into the singsong swelling of a new habitation. Our words and culture and technology would weave together and substantiate a new individuation, billowing out into our new home between the stars.

Posted in problematic dreams, problems in prose | Leave a comment

dream record #3

so this one begins with me and 3 other people getting a car to go on vacation. im with my old friend greg and these two middle aged african women and we’re riding along in a blue SUV and we get to a sandy parking lot that must be near a beach somewhere and we all pile out and we’re standing in front of a row of houses that are perfectly square and rather large and are covered in small blue spanish-style tiles.  the women stay near the car and greg and i walk over the sand and he tells me that one of them is the messmer’s old house [a family that used to live in my town, apparently they're going to tear their old house down, which is sad] and sure enough i look closely and some of the tiles on one house have letters on them that spells out “The Messmers.”  

Greg and I turn around to see the two women moving the car to a different parking spot where there are fewer cars and they get out a bunch of beach stuff and disappear, towards the beach i assume.  Greg and i are walking along the row of houses and we start throwing a ball around, and by that i mean that greg is throwing the ball at the upper blank expanse of the houses.  eventually we pass a house and he knocks something off and it falls to the ground and kind of splinters a little.  It turns out to be a very old wooden sculpture, sort in bas relief, of three men in long robes. it looks vaguely ancient christian, perhaps of the three wise men standing in a group. the piece has splintered in between each of the men but not enough for it to fall apart.

naturally we feel compelled to tell the owner and to fix it.  so we knock on the door and a brownish women with one eye, cyclops style, wearing pink eyeliner that is also bejeweled, opens the door and lets us in.  we are standing in her living room, there is an obscenely high table to the right, perhaps 8′ tall, but the perspective is warped and we can see the top that is covered in weird knick-knacks and a radio which is on.  next to the text is a large TV hutch thing that has items in it as well as a TV, which is on.  Across from that is a small light brown leather couch.  we proceed to attempt to explain to her what we have done and for some reason she refuses to acknowledge that the piece is damaged, but we insist that we fix it for her, so she kind of shrugs and walks back to the couch.  

as we are bent over trying to fix this thing with i dont know what, i begin to look at the things in the tv hutch more.  i see a collection of books with arabic writing, and for some reason i assume them to be islamic.  alongside these many books are the garish covers of what i realize are dvd’s about beginner’s anal sex and the woman was watching one while we were working.  nothing graphic was being shown or could be seen, but i had this weird understanding that she was islamic but not practicing in any way and was trying to figure out a work-around in order to get some anal sex.  she is intently watching the tv, completely ignoring us.

as i am coming to this bizarre conclusion, the sound of the radio crescendoes. greg had been listening to it and tells me that he’s just realized that the local government has just declared a state of Sharia Law [if that is even possible.] just as we look at each other in shock, we see the woman standing in front of us looking very scared and very tall and very cyclops-eyed [pink and jewel eyeliner] just as we are all looking at each other, a monstrous explosion tears the entire right side off the house and we are in a desert where bombs are exploding everywhere and there is a tank that takes a shell and out of the smoke rises a helicopter gunship that tries to fly away but a missile comes tearing through the sky and splits in half along the shorter axis and it crashes back into the desert.  there seems to be army paraphernalia all around, but no people in sight. explosions but no fire.

the women we came with are nowhere to be found.  presumably they are still at the beach.

Posted in problematic dreams | Leave a comment