Too hot

Can I contribute a gift? You and me were tied to a tree. We don't know the chainsaw schedule. I was often afoul of the police. She dragged the fox tail hammock out to the woods and sang a piper's ballad. Milady of malady, dreading humid Saturdays. 

Mention most men. They are jelly until 10. A sweater song, come undone at the dangling string of root a gun. 

O, Electro chemical benzene molecule moist meatpacker backpack-flag-attacker! You sultrify the snark dens with leather pants and obsidian earrings. Twist your dope face into something good. Look around - there are 500 sq km of forestable wood. 

Never even met him. Saw reflections on a screen. Every day you have the same dream.

Need change

I see what a mistake this has been.

I couldn't stop it though. It needed to roll all the way down hill.

I have set myself a deadline.

I will work toward it now.

There is no future in the social networks. The more they feed us, the emptier we feel.
 
Old things are best.

People need to figure that out for themselves.

Feel free to take advantage in the meantime.

No use bleating. How could any of us have known?

Chee boy vibe

Ms. Rhythm's dead, so I celebrate, I order up an ice cream cake - freshly chiffoned with sugar cream, spelling words that Zarathustra spake. You could pick it up, if you don't mind, three business days from now, the cashier tells me on the phone as I milk a mental cow. I have a coat that's smooth and grey, as my head will one day be. I need to walk outside sometimes just to have nothing to see. Talk to strangers at the bus shelter, ask to squeeze politely by--each trip upon the streetcars has me drinking bottled sighs--and commiserate telepathically while staring at the sky. I walk into an LCBO, they've got pretty good customer service--but middle-aged cashiers on Friday night can make a sober man feel nervous. Then I duck into an alleyway just to photograph graffiti. No one remembers hidden things; it's no wonder why we're needy.

What we did

We were warned about the snow. We told you so. We were taken in arms. What could be the harm? We were troubled to see nothing apparent in our destiny. We were asked to sacrifice, were promised hope and given the key to kingdom. We were championed by the press, then forgot to dress. We hid our gifts, and lavished paper money on the problem. We asked for advice when it did not suffice. We drank all Sunday, combed our hair, shaved our beards, we lived in fear.

My screen is shattered but hell you need me

Never been so unrestrained and yet focused, never has this weight vanished so blessedly, never have I been so free to be so me. The blog was awaiting my sigh; I was never pompous about the need for purity. I boycotted for the first time, on strike to guarantee my lifeline, twisting in an hourglass until I found the time.

We observe and ape wild seductive methods, untrue expedients that succeed at blurry distance, we are consigned to blunt objects, brute conclusions, frozen resolute regretful obtrusions.

I won't rhyme just cuz I'm able, but pair sound and sense deliberately, so that the rhythm doesn't run off with the brain, a syllabic concatenation as runaway train.

***

[I dance sometimes in the early morning, don't mind me if I do. I will wake you up, my buttercup, and make you breakfast too.]

Twenty five minutes and I'm gone

(killing time -- I missed it)

Limits get results, a hurdle before me artificially coaxes creativity, squeezing blood from oblivion, inspiring netizens to dig within. But if I'm remembered for one thing, bronzed on a pin and shouted about at parties for a game where winning didn't matter, was anti-matter, where I was thick of skin, that's when I dissolve grudges and begin:

There are lights above the muck, and I get shivers in my spine, even from the firetrucks

A toast then, to the marathon men, I was one of them, I ran, broke all my bones; I spent my very best years raising funds over telephone. What then, did I get? A slap on the back and five percent bonus on my paycheque.

But I'm fine with fruit, cave slaving, my shiny bag of loot. (I have a saxophone in my laptop bag, and there are online forums too for how to play the flute).

What boredom! We are constantly at war. No wonder how we snore. For if all the world agreed, there would be anarchy. Hands in the air? Me! me! Buddha won't let me be, until he humbles me (They penalize who's first in line to extinguish all their greed).

Things are rather flonk

Flonkishness abounds. There are many reasons. Copious like grains of sand. I was prappish, I was dunglish, but now all is frisia and butterscones, glashnoo and punabbly.

We wonder why it took so long for this vortex of meanderglow. But patience, like a feather grack, floats in far flung crevices.

Is there a brighter boygan? Is there a likelier mass of marzifleck—in oceans of under the riverbed? I know not.

Oh peppered pillows of pink, inside the undermount sink! Floating clockwise down a stainless steel drain, mixed up with macadamia and sprinkled by rain. Opium poppy powder pizza-pie piledrivers are often discussed, picked apart and proferred but in mid-July we sing instead the snappish chart toppers. Do I wheeze when sun rays are like lanterns of shiny hair? I don't think so, I just don't care.

As for blondie, she and me are in the middle of our history, no time to write, when we use up all the light admiring the light.

To/from us

We tumbled head over shoulder, face down on the sidewalk, end over end, jacket on the pavement, quite literally on the way to the movies, metaphorically much more. Open doors, evaporating clouds, hearing music never known because our hearts are turned up loud.

We got a little left tonight, we stroll along the lake, we won that right, your day off today after all, and I see your eyes are made of light.

My job's making music out of music. I mix it up to make it right. Now you've meta-musician, skip the sounds and wave to the waves, each song a ripple stitched together, interlinked as levers, free, no cost except what we couldn't save.

On the wall is the picture of the shadow of the kiss in the sand, and the stereo plays the eternal band, it's Mick and Keith and Bowie and the Cult and sweet soul sister, your little hand is in my hand.

CNE

sweet smells my mind

remembering her hair,

jetscreams everywhere

airshow blow-by

blonde with blue eye

what time wasted I

and now must we die

having lived just now

alive

Blanket

(no excuses, none necessary)

I mimed in silence, rode rainbows to Venice, through cloudy gondoliers with typhoon paddles, to the glistening summer evening ponds lit up by fireflies and bonfire light.
...yeah I drained my skull in the basement,
cleared out mucus, marveled at the miracle blank canvass, the second-third-fourth-chancedness, depackaging, gleaming white casement, superficie, public relations statement, another image replacement.

Joy is no longer obsolete - I've got blastoff feet, enough-strength-to-achieve-orbit feet.
Regeneration - reinvention, I've achieved meaning, self-deception recognition, so cancel that part of you that is a whore
You are better than this, my dear one, and you can ask for more.

Why do it? Why give in? When nothing is forbidden except the word sin — you give away your cookies and end up in the dust bin.

Calm

Happiness can be deadly. Procrastinate amid generalized joy; the blog must face this new steady state. You can still write - but you don't have to shout; tired of the tongue-tied fistfight. You can't worry about calm. So invent a new category.

Once-a-year light at 8:30pm tonight. The house bottom bricks past the point of light but the treetops turn a sunset shade of green with the last rays licking leaves. Notice it all, the firefly-night delight, swing-sitting take-in-everything insight, meander on the bike, sackclothed women with hoses on the lawn, group goodbyes upon a porch, summer not for long. Tightrope walkers tree to tree in Trinity B, I stick hands to highfive strangers, oh yellow-green jerseys - go Brazil! - dogs, smirk, always dogs - please, have a kid instead.

I'm stuck on a stunning white dress, fluffy bathrobe, warm towel, my sweet success, half-baked bluster, waffles I insist are morally provocative, but a first-prize smile takes the cake. Who is to blame for this dance-sing-body-mind harmony? A woman named Justin Timberlake.

Ms. Rhythm had stopped my heart, an arrhythmia, mumbling mumbletypeg; she rained vicious undulating waves of vocab from the sky, she wanted logic to die; and so whenever I tried it felt like a lie - that is, to prompt an effect - your deliberate intentions are just like a shipwreck. She would sing mind-wringing rubbish that rang like a siren: You are sleeping and beautiful. You will never know yourself. Creep alone, unconscious as you type Sanskrit-speak, spinning at perfectly harmoniously satanically satellite suborbital outer-space speeds, forever peeking at the pink edge of dawn from the dark side of the moon.

(And so I've decided to fire her!)