Posted on: Wednesday, March 25th, 2020


Something about the deeds. Something about the callouses, about the airflow, about the feeds and creeds and breeds. Everything around me have been reduced to an offer. I do not spin. I do not spin. I am Nowhere and everywhere; have everything and nothing.

I. What I Told The Devil

“Do not tell me what you’ve reduced me to. Devil, I am Grand Nobody.”

But I’ve never wanted to travel. But I’ve never wanted to feel
Like I were topping off. My mind had embalmed itself onto
All carnal rotogravures, and all the console of my Luxus
Petrification had been aching to soon mind itself undone.
I calm myself some times. I down the done within myself,
Some times. I had to learn that the Devil had never been
My friend. That I, in the personal, am Calliope and Michaelangelo,
And I, myself, are all of Adam and of Eve, and of Apple and of Snake.
And I, myself, had learned to live, not in decades, but all by the hourly,
And by evolution of rhetoric. (Do judge me by my will for evolution.)

But all my aspirations are for when I’m dead; and what I’ve always
Wanted to be was to become a writer– not a famous one, just one
Who gets by, and jots down how heavy the pellets fall on the roof,
The sound they make, all the slushing and shushing, and shuffling
Of the wild leaves that get to make it, as I, too, hope to make it as
A writer whose no identity is his identity. (Do tell the devil judge
To judge me by the identity of my work.)… I have heard of Adam
And of Eve, but I know the two sorrowmongers only by their infamy.
If I see them both in hell, I would fail to recognize them from faces.
I bet they talk in a certain manner. I bet they walk quite differently.

II. Asphalt Terror

Are you ready to offer again the love that is never enough? Offer again
That certain fervor which is only optional? Are you ready to commune
With all your own evils? Disproportionate afferent captions of the land
Burnt through tomorrows and bickerers of the Lady Luck conservator–
Let me hear about you talking about the stars! (Only stars are truly lucky.)
And so, I have heard they were considering to take the land where you grew;
The land where your left foot learned to never yearn the blues of grooming.
(Have you ever considered my love that never knew of skies? No luck to try!)

Woe, O’ Truman, the young!
Woe to the people who do not reinvent themselves!
Woe to the sinners who did not become saints, and
The saints who never wavered, enlightened by everything
But not all the forms of sinning! O’, but what fun it is to see
Raised cadets from caskets interfere! It must be their hour.
The red hangar bangs, deplatformed by the protrusion,
Through spurs and spouts, scats, scoffs, through
Momentary monetary, the mystery and mockery!

I have not heard much or learn’d much. This is true.
I have not heard of or learn’d of much except envy.
Again, envy! (Envy is just another form of my woe.)
Envy to those who rose and never became mocked.
They know of life’s secret. Envy to those the boat
Unloads for but never rocks. They have the soul
Of teenage Truman…

O’, but how lucky and how lonely! You all must be
Paintful varietals, precincts of cutbacks, of fortunes,
Of splintery! The prestige camp rises and devours!
You get the love that is equal to the love you give!
(I had to ask: do you know that’s no proper way to live?)

III. Accelerants

For again we let
The sighs of time dispel the pride of the lovelorn child.

Love witnessed through the camera roll, and the tumbles of the money, the little thwarts and tuts…
If I am to be miraculously arraigned by my little flatlings with the flat wings, I am to be considered lucky.
I have not known luck since I rose a simple man. The simple kid in me still begs to be outed. I still feel
Like I should have to be feeding my emptiness the Veblen good. When I see myself dispelled, I sense
Myself compelled… There is meaning through life. There is gladness for the afternoon.

“I would rather have a sad story than no story at all,” I sang.
Where is the gladness in this mediocre afternoon, then?

(Extravagance creeps in the corner of your hyperarousal.) You! You!

You’ve told me– through letters– how:
          “Every person is born equal but do not grow up equal. This is the harsh truth of society. So why, do I beg you tell, should I care deeply ’bout the thoughts and whispers of those whose time and skill and thought are below me? When mine already isn’t much, then theirs must be already aren’t much.” …This is the inverse of you. I do not believe the inverse of you.

(Extravagance hides in the shoot of the bamboo.)

And then you sent me the post-card that you had taken
From the top of the brightest monument of your sad city;
And in the back, you wrote, through the purest moments
Of teenage agony:


It is peak April…
The world reversed.

Sad February approaches…
I want to punch its lung…
Maybe with that, it’ll be able to breathe…
I do not trust this candid extravagance of yours, kid…
I want to wring it in the neck. I want to be perceived by it,
I want it to so be reddened by both my hands.

IV. A Home For My Bones

Do climbing mountains really ease your insides where all the worlds’ storm clouds inhabit?

I’m starting to learn that the greatest kindness I’ve shown to my lovers
Is not letting them hear who I really am. (They would have heard wrong,
Anyway.) But when I show it to them– the real green that slimes through
The unveiled skin– it feels like a betrayal to that kindness, and it reveals itself
To be the better one.

As leads kick back, I listen to the offset nuggets, bite
At the pluots fresh from the forgotten cupboard. Say I,
“Yodel at me, brilliant man not walking, mind like one sarcophagus. Please
See through me like the through and through, up until we’re to the end of everything.
See through me and all of defeats and fits I eat, even if we’re through the short snorts;
And rise early, I, and leave work early, I.” “Save yourself some time and save yourself
Some times, if not all the time. Leads, lead. Kick back, listen, listen, and never truly die.”

“Skimpy empath prowling, hissing at the night, randomly snacking on the dead. The rad
Dead through achievements in writing lores, bubbling with goodwill curated, abundance
Of panting through medication trials. I’m not playing the game of faults, Mrs. Eigentlich.
Am not here to justify anyone, either. I cannot absolve your sins for you. Cannot touch, I,
Nor, I, to test you. And I will have to maybe leave, around noon, tomorrow. Somewhere,
Somewhere… Perhaps Trinidad and Tobago… Perhaps somewhere back to Asia Minor.
Perhaps, to the informal Regencies of Tomorrow.”

I pass the time, counting my days with fish oil, and all those
Discontinued discs and diskettes next the dirty kitchen sink,
About to be washed dry. I’m moving onward. No time to cry.
No time to be oblivous about or against the chummy rubbings.
I only now have time to promise to try.

Didn’t you know?
Mrs. Eigentlich, I’m not to be trifled with.
I’m so tired of being giving; forgiving
The un-toughened cookies, their ngala-ngala,
For my love isn’t helpless and my heart’s no cage.
(I take him back– me as the shrieking boy with the shrinking tastes.
He pastes in haste… Love here is being denied here. Flowed is being deprived here.
I came only to be counting blessings here. I’d like to rethank their grinning DMDs.)


The selection process had been all but withdrawn,
Something is missing. I just couldn’t tell what it is. Finger-pointing,
In around fifty save-states, the kaingin itches are popped. Aegyo, ayo! APB!
Suction and inaction! I never cared for nobody’s fan-signs but my baby’s.
I’ve come to realize that I’d never realized no trends of the future’s.
I’m just here sitting pretty next to the interludes. Imperceptibly
Auditing the mess being left behind. I could swear, in my past life,
I was a secret attender of the First Council of Nicaea.

V. The Gambling Men

clockings and compensations of the compulsive rethinkers, their
snobbing of society’s ever-said smug eloquence and ecstatic guiles
of triangulated sincerity… but what I can tell you about is the abide
of the fief and their hustles and their hustler’s lands… the binds of
the abode supplant me, and in hourly; high men with high fidelity,
punctuations and their privatization, and their hands with the whip,
and fingers sans bite-marks… I’m starting to see it, honestly, the dull
availability and the tricked monopoly… I might have to rethink my
own snobbing and my own insincerity… I might have to blind myself
if I ever catch myself looking over my own shoulder just to avail on
some time to look down on other’s, the other’s hand, and the other’s art…
I might have to wear tigher shirts, and train and trim my eyebrows thick…
I might have to cancel trying of dreaming about going around the world
and, instead, be as undomesticated as the glowing, flowing, clocking gold
that is compensation to all the un-domestic wonders of wonderful honest
souls… if only the gold has their fair share of the fare of the soul… if only
the green goblet is yelling in the ways that the crass overpours… I pour
all of my days into half-working and half-sleeping, and still I have gotten
nowhere exactly! (I am nowhere, I am nowhere. I am Nowhere. Exactly.)

I’m thinking about your billion songs.
A billion songs wouldn’t land on me.
Even if you land Everything, everything.
Land everything, land nothing.

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