Sweat roll

Listen to Sweat Roll, the song on Suno.com

I could control this expression or I could dance on the keyboard. I could batter this tendency, I could confront the mental enemy. We walk hours, we wake years, live lives loved and wives and sons. I am a man who's full of gas. I parse relentless at the pass.

Never divide, only add. The last 15 years were pretty much a fad.

Include yourself in this argument, take it all personal, everything here was meant for you. That's why the author is anonymous too.

Quiet yourself. There is silence somewhere on the shelf. He never even tried to shut his mouth. It takes amazing willpower and that has been thrown out.

Look through the dust in drawers: Rubber bands and paper clips and all of your awards.

Amaze yourself, unphased, loaded up like a room service tray, dedicate the games to the gays and the sun to the rays, the only day (today) to the one deity, the gaze, your gaze, her gaze, all paid up and ready, all taut and unsteady, straddling dynamite to take a side bet on the afterlife. I didn't finish that thought, you did, they did, they do it a lot. I was passed out on the cot.

It takes a certain sameness and everpresent drain to sharpen a knife edge nose and lead us to suppose there is magic in the fluff, that a wink is not a trick, that the end has an ending and our logic isn't sick.

I can't end on this note. I'm 35 and on my bucket list: Spain in May in a 32-foot sailboat. 

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.

Second Floor Ryerson Library

Potent pizza is a perfect pestilence possibility. I was screwing a large caboose into an onion bun and it occurred to me, shall I shallot a scarecrow? Shall I shimmy with slimy murk into a bodum of unfair frothery? Things are piglet-worthy and mucusmaking. 

If ever a cylindrical cullulent pigeon did unman a masked mysterioso then surely sixteen succubi could collect an unemployment cheque from a red-faced postman. If a college degree meant anarchy then the streets of Quebec would be swept with sweaty pit stains and colander-cudgelling jesuvants. If a jesuit, I mean, did quaggle and fleck then surely his hysteria about the biscuit was just another knottleneck? Poor pissed pachyderms, prancing without the ability to jump, large elephantine fairy queens dusting rhythm guitars like so many Ron Wood replacements uttering magic passwords in the basement of the Rivoli, lacking hot heat, lacking fresh feet, drying wet wit with looks of loathing and curled lips, eating too many tofu tacos in an underwear commercial's catering van restroom.

Can I quell a Cosbyfest? Could Theo ever drive a bus? We waste what we waver, we waive all rights to disenslavement that is emancipation if we neglect the ballot box out of jade frustration. I was warm to the world but cooked like a log, blackened charcoal in my nether zones and soggy from the bog. If a klepto took my tethering hooks--how will I climb a mountain? I shake like Evgeni Malkin, he of fame, of mispronounceable name. Twagger your digits like a disapproving simpleton sloshing about in tens and twenties from hours vending Bingo cards at the bingo place on St. Clair, where chain smokers don't care and lives wind down like the west wind, and a win is a win and a loss means it's time for a smokebreak.

Have a cup of ice-cold gelato. It's after 1pm; I'm drowning on my tip toes in Arizona heat, killing strangers with stares and oozing blackheads from my feet. We ooze proud, we yodel ever loud, we will publish or perish or perhaps both at once, going on vacation for 72 months. Can I call you in the morrow? I need a ride to the Scarborough Zoo, my driver has the flu. He was not reliable like you.

Hamish Macbain trolled for hours in the wild, eating dried skins from the tree whose name no one has written, taken tidbits of misfits and missed facts and complaints and loaded them all onto a server in a closet in a hallway of an office in the suburbs of the capital city of a minor province in a confederacy of future lands locked down under empire struggling for solvency due to solar flares interfering with economic growth models fashioned by 19th century professors amid the dust of a chalkboard.

Palm Beach Calisthenics

1. Why not smucker your pucks and drop your digits? It's a little after ten and I'm slewshing anew. Big Bill Boggins bought a racecar. Left out to throw out music from the ashtray, slapped on plastic and masked Michaelmas mournings. Ovid drew a nice noose from a sluice caboose, yelling half an hour an hour near the suburbs of Toulouse, "Crack my gills, smack windowsills - I'm yellow and fed on fear, I've eleven of your twelve-year-olds, they're German and they're kind." I don't swear like I used to but otherwise I'm fine. 
2. Gob left the Earth and tried to jump, I never knew he didn't have an elephant and I was killing peanuts to the potions to the best of the rest, the leftout cassocks, the rousted mass monks, the fifty-four five-fruit trays filled with kiwis, the wired rests the diacritical extrapolations and the Federation of the Jest. 
3. Oh Meg, you could drum! So easy to hum. I don't know what love is. In Piazza Grande lies the bum. 
4. We worked too hard. We were tired. I lived too long, didn't leave myself to future generations, I consumed all I had, I was afraid of leaving, stretched out the living, didn't invest in centuries of infrastructure, took civilization-building as someone else's problem, couldn't make the connection between watching reality tv and ignoring reality.
5. Left to devices, the bridge ices, smoker vices, rice dries, pies fly, sighs cry, eyes die.
6. Clogged to the cuffs, I considered all the stuff I had. I let out the hallway. Filled with dust. I must mop, I can't stop. Sheer smiles are worth the admission, left out on sidewalk with a hat and poor nutrition. Contrite and bleeding, walking up and around all about with yellow, moments of mild meanness mixed with patience, stayed up all night working on your science project, the baking soda volcano, year of the ash, Anno domino, pompeii exploded in seventy-nine, trapped in time 20000 loose living Romans coughing on their rapidly crashing property values, priceless tourism snapshots to be vandalized and voyeured like Snooki's blog. 

What we've been doing

Remember when words mattered, image matter of factly worldwide, mouths open wide at a picture, yesterday's news could get ditched and forgotten, and feelings and fantasies weren't verboten. Mugged as I was, drawn to black arts, loaded onto slaveships, that cruel heart of dartboards, overboard with big lungs so your brain survive 4 minutes without air, the longer I live without you, the more I guess I care. Silence is an investment, see? 75 days with no coronary artery. No, it's serious, business school, not a party.

We get what's given in - that's 1-to-1, win-win, just timelines, giggling frauleins, make sure you make mine, bring a tray of cherry pie; if my boss thanked me with a two-person screening of Casablanca I guess I'd also cry. There's no point of view, just a field of vision, and in the ocean, there's you. She waved her wand, outpoured a tall blonde, short roast, if you smile they sit and empty wallets: it happens on both coasts. Sit for a day, measure magic - it's tough to sell tickets; vinegar, whine, so tragic.

Melt goals, make a saint. Wash facepaint, lead as marshmallow man, nice guy, big fan. 'Thanks for being you' said he on his stool - give so much, tough to love that much - the whole school he built from scratch and such. And we wait, procrastinate. We bronze our heroes far too late. But sorry, gotta run, got a mani-pedi-facial date.

Load up on likes! I got an app that let's me bike in my pyjamas; I can play a game where I samurai bananas, that's why I'm under the stairs - hide me from the red bandanas. We're releasing 4 new genders next month, no wonder we get a trillion dollar valuation, all that love from the S&P, we're the most heavily weighted factor in the ethersphere, all it took was a flat screen separating us, connecting us, proving there's a market niche out there for the unedited burps of sub-humanoid xx312322-ab-489-cupafree. 

Paste this into your search bar

Stop wondering why you're not number one. Start feeling the bottom of the sun. The things you think you deserve, you didn't create the earth, you didn't build your car from scratch, you couldn't start a fire without a match, so many generations came and went so you could own a couch, I didn't know it was an evolutionary trait, you know, the adaptability of the slouch.

Make me more like screen-mediated teen idols, make my mind like guinea pigs tossed into a snakepit of marketing gurus, make my taste portable like a digital tongue, sell my preferences to Google and say it's good right in front of the UN.

Kim Jong Il's son is set to be number one, nepotism yet again, mediocrity throughout the 'Stans, leave your country to a kid who thinks a thermonuclear toy is his birthright. What can the North Koreans do for you? They can put away their blackmail, they can turn tales through their brainwashed wailing, they can dig themselves an economy, they can resign themselves to the worst part of the Old Testament -- you know, all the circumcision and concubine stuff in the less quotable parts of Deuteronomy.

We don't ask what we don't know anymore. Siri doesn't have an answer to the question you don't ask. I could have hired a secretary instead, she'd have worked hard, you know, like everyone else in Saskatchewan. Now she's stuck in Moose Jaw, ll'never know the joy of working for the man, for me, she might have an extra three kids out there, all that space out on the plain.

Have you ever sealed out the air, with a plastic sheet, against a glass wall, on a Monday evening, just to save a few bucks, because YouTube showed you how? That's the kind of universe that's happening right now.

Time to move

Dragged from under a rock, I finally learned to talk. Eaten by the river in his underwear, chalk river radiation or abnormal solar flare. Crow pizza parties for the doughty and the hearty, we're lucky to have roadkill, times are tough, don't be a buzzkill, don't make me get rough. Sign your union card, get your brother Marty too, he's only twenty-one, he can work for thirty or thirty-five years until his back is done.

I was away at the beach when I found out about the quake. The sand shifted, dunes by the dozen and so it was the same. The roads were all wrecked through, my Bug fell in a pothole, flushed by the tidal wave, just another Tuesday in the Maldives, an underwater Atlantis with downgraded credit rating, a small island paradise with a minor plague of race-baiting, work-hating, subsidy generating, midnight gyrating sugar-daddy-babies, ladies looking for young lambs with rich wool scarves, tarted up trollops with coco scented arms, fixing gyroscopes to throw their silken poison darts.

Mellow my memories, chilled in the fridge, time slows down when you stare at a crib, the orbit doesn't budge, not even an inch. (I miss that veal sandwich at Keele just south of Finch). We got a big dumb leader you just have to see. He can't read. It's obscene; you won't believe what we've elected, I think it's 1933.

What do we do in the face of such ooze? We don't huff the glue. We got to unpack the boxes. We got to tear down the drywalls, save what we can use. We got to live, me and you, and to do we got to move.

Outside they are handing out free deodorant

Wonder weird in a ketchup beard, dripping with the three Ps and the gravy knees, sang sweet songs to a syllabus-screener, solved a million messages with a bathtub cleaner. Odious men don't try my shoes, never asked long and tried freehand, longhand, scrawled marathons ran in underwear; might I wonder where you hide the booze? Long ago I was promised a peach, so I asked you to marry me on the beach; I wandered in and struck a leech. Which lake was it? Probably Meech. I owe my audience an hour each. My sister-in-law says I should teach.

Leggo the Lion

[sequel to Tony the Tiger]

Give us potato hash, and ready for the backlash. We want coiled licorice strings and fast-food onion rings. We want everything on our list, boxed and delivered and rung up on the exchange. Then the devil readies thugs to de-liver deadbeats, shivering and hungover waking in a bath of ice, and missing key internal organs - or so I've read once or twice.

Tall men in suits chuff effetely on the flute, lining up for coffee instead of kneeling in a pew. Why not be a coffee bean and never wonder why? I get steamed, I get drunk, I have swimwear in my trunks. I have a bank right in the clouds -- too bad the interest rates are junk.

Try to relax as the keys get stuck, the mind in muck, the wherewithal just out of plucking range, the chi, the Clear, the dianetical celebrisphere. Why not dabble in a bit of Scientology? L Ron's alright? Give new religions a chance, if we have no use for God, we gotta have SOME sort of crazy dance.

Leo the Lion wrote an airtight business case for getting the hell out of this place: to rent a forty-foot canoe big enough for him, me, you and half the local zoo. A simple fifty bucks a head; that is, unless they're two by two.

Obadiah Smith and Jersey Pocahontas, tied together on a raft, forced to agree while Ms. Rhythm had a laugh. She put a waterfall + jagged-rocks right where they shook hands, then she'll pile their shattered souls to blackmail the Pelican man.

Grow nuts! Yes, to plant seeds, you dig up dirt to build a tree. I never smiled at a toddler reading, seems so unfair -- I had a thirty year head start to also sit and stare, wonder what I was needing, to find a decent patch of air.

Ozark Ike and the TSX, robber barons merge agendas while a man in Muskoka builds a deck. In the June air above water 'round dusk you can only hear ducks. "I don't believe in boardrooms when my teenager drives a truck." Okeeochobee in Florida, palm trees ye high, I got no patience for humidity, and cockroaches creep by. Did you call the exterminator? He's got a hot date on the playa; men with blue collars have thick brown wrists, I'll put out the ant traps myself just this once - that guy deserves a filthy tryst.

Mona Decadona has cleavage she bought in Arizona, loaned $50K to wear her dreams in silicone, or silicon, body porn or cyber porn just makes another yawn. How can we afford to pay? We got money marts poppin' up like crickets off a log. I got facelift grannies melting in Phoenix in a slow midmorning jog. I got fatass secretaries poppin' Skittles I got human-as-dogs at forty bucks a kibble, getting groomed and massaged more than a man with a sledgehammer stance and cigarette breath ever will and you wonder why the onlines seeth with despair, every thought you ever had will splat against the stare, at forms you fill in, it's never enough, you are like me, guaranteed to leave - we got a forty-foot canoe, just me and you and Leo wishing he never learned to read.

"Some swarthy sonufabitch scattered slurpee sauce up my sneakers!"

We grow fat at a magnificent pace, in this, the donut race, a cycle ride from Leaside up to 905 and back again - it makes  a man. Now I swallow mounds of fried magoo, as only I can do. An about-face, all about timing, pace, the business case. An obsession with a grand 'a-ha' makes magicians vanish senza trace. Prophalaxis upon members of the Axis would attract some serious debate. [Even Hitler bowed and scraped at Eva Braun's father's place??] Do I snicker when I say 'Djibouti', or a keep a straight face for 'Clafouti' - your snobbery eventually lands in a glove that only fits your hand.

Zounds - 150 pounds

Unfortunately I find I'm unable to write. You never had that problem, never had to fight.

Swish in sandals, heavenly dreaded scandals singing overlong in temples gold and making men feel young and old. I was white and bored and black and cold and wired to fail. Magic muffins burn in brown and challah loaves from Chinatown did frown my friends and eleventy-ninety never-ending disco bending botany beauties - walnuts wild and other fruits, I did elope and pas de tout did you know that far below, the TSX, I wrote it down, a silver quote that make men rich. You want that cash, clutching savings in a book your advisors so much trouble took and bishops knights and castles rook which check you out of fortune.

Tralala, said Sherry Sweet, from 119 East Dover Street--her rubies slippers on her feet did flit and float on Sunday. I never saw her bottled hair, I always knew she'd never share, I couldn't care when her auntie crowed of how she'd hit the jackpot. The mother lode! My poor toad! It's nothing now to save a tree, when green is black and white is wrong. Of manic men we often sing, a quota on our list to fling, a fire into open arms, we spread a blanket warm but made of lead to cover all your good ideas?

Oh yeah, still here

Big burly buckets of beans in a soup canteen, asking me politely if I still was a has been.

Slow silence and sound screams, not knowing whether to dare or dream.

Minus my magic, married by logic into a silver blue suit, never ask Noah if he packed your flute.

Obvious analogies, fitting fallacies, tautologies, originalities, all the third-world nationalities gathered baseball bats in a banana tree and launched hysterical bees at a satellite tv, laughing so rude and scatologically.

Find me foolish, drink my wine. I don't bother to dress up swine.

Heaven men, best of 10, nothing to compare when we have no when.

I miss that season, the meaning, the simple dimension, when I got excited at a media mention. When running water's everywhere, do I give my friend a drink? When information is the air, well, don't ask me what I think.

Metaphoria

[a word I could have invented but chose not to]

The ability to choose we rarely exercise; move an inch forward to look me in the eye. A wheel revolves until it stops, but inertia might mean the other shoe won't drop. And if we ever agree on progress then someone call the cops.

Omega man has a broken hand, which requires more thinking—the need to plan. You can't dig out of sand with just one hand. He tried it once on dry land. He dug sand too out from the ocean, but could not understand: When you dig something real, but have nothing to say, the sand creeps back in and fills your hole, and you just wasted the day. Toil is a cruel idea, invented by school so that we'd behave, and what exactly is the difference between me and a slave? You earn it while it burns you; to see the light you ignite the candle in your mind—which unfortunately means your head is on fire, spine is a wick, face is wax and there's no water by design.

Aspirin(g)

[powered by pure wind]

Breathe what is better, borrow a letter, I knew Eddie Vedder's second cousin Bert Beethoven, massacred outside a 7-11.

Dramatic inches, Sidd Finch, the April Fool's Buddha, could throw 168 miles per hour wearing a hiking boot; could have had groupies in Bermuda or diamond-leather suit. The punchline: he didn't exist, but boy what a beaut.

Old guy with hot dame on arm got game, nobody remember his name. Crusade men, long swiss in leather, armed with big sharp spikes: we end up liking whatever they like. But I don't conspire in my spare time, which won't please the Dragon lords. We stood in back of church for Easter, punished for being bored.

We, like you, will pass, I don't think you mean to try. I'd shill like a midget on reality television; their happiness makes me cry.

Watered down in Twittered unison, nation known for barrels of bitumen, barnacles manifold, fructating cows, living like larvae on the cover of NOW. If Sid the Kid was a silver-haired Swede, I'd still love the way he leads; when we pot through five-hole those magic gifts from hockey gods the devil's eyes will bleed.

Overroasted toasters and sixty year old east coasters remembering their youth through the corner of a cover of Vogue, flattening wrinkles on foreheads 'stead of worrying about hospital beds -- we were lied to by the Mad Men, so I say AMEN - those merciful lies make life worth living; how else do we explain the continued employment of Jeremy Piven? [ok... stop]

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.

Distillate

You can't write with a double life, on the page, with your strife. Lines hypnotize, lull, unfinished sentences dent everything complete. Thoughts in flight, clauses for the weak, noun phrases, pronounced aphasia, voiceless songwriter; the lazy man is an energy miser, inconclusive philosophizer.

That one song over and over

[always skipping over half the words]

I met this lady, I love her, lovely, fair. I'd go for days about her hair if you'd let me. I promised I'd write her but have been swaddled in sacred feelings for a couple years. I made provision only for burps or farts, no knowhow to explain those dimples that bring me tears.

***

There're only seven songs in the universe, and I've gotten used to one
I do like variations on a theme, but
if there's only one way to flatten out into a runway, carry all your friends
so we land with dignity
if there's still a reason to blog
if someone on this passive intelligent planet hasn't learned to read then
I'll gladly stay stodgy if it means I can pay an entrance fee to see
a lone lost tourist find a reason to fall on his knees

and I'll wait to hear minds click, my
mouse is making me sick;
you there,
too entertained to realize your boredom
too sustained by routine to fall down running
on empty

you there, I need lost little lambs like you! we need a lost little land like ours. we live lost lives, learning to get big, know ye not that ye are gods? and
the kingdom's within you
there's that ancient wisdom burning through, I thought technology'd let me forget where I came from? the definition of a fool

15 minutes of focus

Too long I put this off, it seems, I use happiness as an excuse not to bust my own knees. It is not allowed to slink silently into bliss, while my charges sit in a barn underground amid the cobras' hiss. If I could take you where I've gone it would not do, for I do as I must, and you are you--and what use will I be to all of us if I don't do write by you?

I've been admiring the bricks of my finished mansion, afraid to meet the press, I've been poring over pictures on Facebook, obsessed with how I'm dressed. I always wait until the last minute to squeeze this bottle through the tube, but it seems I'll be up till midnight glued to what I'd already conclusively proved to be "what is '1 + 1 equals 2'?".

I can't wish better things for my reflection, the universe I saw last night happened 4 billion years ago, we can't let that be our life story, we have to build another universe to grow, we can be so much better than our demographic peer group analysis would predict was the way we vertigo.

So I'd like to promise never to think so much before putting finger to key, that's been my problem with this blog for oh for about a year; a problem with everybody. Everything created is a miracle, and we've been in awe of all the miracles, until the miracles made us small. I've got to make friends with giant aliens, massive creatures, influential blue whales or something, somebody with a blowhole big enough to toss all the self-consciousness into, somebody with the garbanzos to toasterize every little worry and kerblontz all thin-haired pale quiggling into salty smithereens.

I am a weirdo overdone by words, I have polished many dancing turds, they make me giggle and I overindulge, but undone if by nothing else but the bulge. At 31 I'm in my prime, yet all these words aren't worth a dime if we aren't tumbling headlong into truth - that we can't mind striking out so much, as the Bambino would often do. No use sitting in a germ-free oxygen booth, and hey did you know cancer of the mouth is probably what killed Babe Ruth?

Woohoo

Fartleks and frodo intimating bloating. This note I wrote was sour and lumpy and long past expiry. I was giving up my final run at the friary in favour of full lunged admiration, and August light, tongue tricks refracting reverberation.

We are swollen shrimp in the catch-drain of the sink, thank god for a dripping faucet, an Econo-lodge amid the forest, middle class dreams with an unvarnished support beam, factor in hidden expenses and, it seems, we are better off with Mr. Clean.

If I ever tried to paint I would make your children faint. I don't breathe when about to burst; in fact I'll pay the limo driver personally, so get your hands off my purse.

Instead I'll write ten thousand terse two-word rejection letters to all my creditors, ask my debtors to hand me an Ontario peach: in fact I'd trade everything they owe me for a 30-second speech!

Keytharsis

"She did what?" and we cried, she lied! I just can't believe it's my last reprieve. What could explain such pain, how I end up on any plane, aerial crash rehash and embellish balderdash, I whigged out on my walkabout and, Yoda says, I'm you.. telling it ... about. Never stopper yourself, save the stoic face for the Elf. Jumble all your crap and unwind it in a wrap. Dig dirt, cast about to subvert little ones hiding under mom's skirt who'd better learn to marvel at my mega-hurts. Ataturk, a great man, such a sissy, he had no pithy profile to sympathize with, he did his job just, massive feat and hard-to-fill shoes, so biographers could have at it, exhume his bones and whiten his skeleton, omitted his cycling prowess, or his fondness for the peleton, and so does this remind me why I'm me again?