It All Melts: Seattle Poems

27: The Exculpation (after Route 90)

. . . no fiery map nor singing . . . I cannot join the past
Kenneth Patchen

We are being forced down a road we don’t even know
and we let our only map decay a long time ago,
because we shut our eyes and started to hope,
that the age of our bodies was older than the rope,
and it suddenly turned into night where things die,
and I suddenly brightened and blinded us silly with lies.

We’re forced down this road we don’t even know
because the road keeps morphing with emergencies in tow,
and we made the road way back then, not now,
and no one ever asked us who, what, when, why, how,
because there were those who were here before the road,
and the computers will never stop talking, are never slowed,
and we stopped caring long before we started,
and the asphalt and dust anticipated as we parted.

This is Route 90 we’re being forced to fly across,
because natures distort the quality of perceptions,
because the driver drank liquids and started veering for the cliffs,
and we’re actually in the ocean and it’s so hot inside!
and my feet are rubbing against barnacles exposed to air!
because we’re actually in chocolate and we’re attracting flies!
and I’ve got living sponges crawling through my brittle hair!
and we’ve got needles poking the spinners of our motors,
and we create the future as we travel through the present.
and this world exists in text and with the text you cannot know
that we’re destroying this fucking highway with nowhere else to go.

exculpate
[EK-skuhl-payt; ek-SKUHL-payt]
-transitive verb
Definition: To clear from alleged fault or guilt; to prove to be guiltless; to relieve of blame; to acquit.

30: Autoschediastical

We all make it and then we all love it,
the air sinking in from behind the curtains,
behind the window, which is screened,
which I have kept my eyes on, like a crow,
for some time, waiting, playing ,
letting the air in with each released breath,
an exchange invisible but sharp to taste,
bitter, a developed state, a cherished ideal.

We all make it. We all take the chance
and then fall in love with these ideas,
enraptured like the worming of the sea,
our eyes playing the dance, twisting,
shouting, our limbs making all noise
underneath the touch of fabric,
since we cover, enclose, keep secrets.
We are noisy and need semblance of quiet.

Last night we were making it a dream,
eating, and I didn’t know what it meant,
to put testicle into dead, dreaming mouth,
looking down into the mirror, the plate, hearing
pate knives scrape against the warmth,
pushing fuel onto stoneground crackers, a mixture:
duck and pork, bird and pig, flesh and balls,
for all I know is to be okay, as the center,
I know the universe steps forward in each dish.

We all make it, at least, as we live,
fumble around on days looped to nights,
we are beings, and in thought can be drowned,
can be taken over and cut off from knowing.
This is my hand on the cell phone, larger
than my ear, covering the hair on my face,
taking over, to become implanted, this vision,
the information fertile, ready to wane, to dim,
it is a light, we have it, the understanding, the fade,
and I am here and I rush violently to attain it.

We all decide to make the reach, to make the mark.
We state our mercies, we laugh, and it is loud.
Mercy! Give us the change for the better.
Seep into skin and feel the circuits of cells.
The pattern of prints, the scrape of fingers
through wildly harvested greens and whites,
staring at a screen, touching numbers, data, info,
storing it, letting it sit, simmer, grow thick,
and beckon, beckon us back, for digital is primal.

You and I are one, you and I, since we all stare with age,
never younger, just shadows, shades, dark dreamers,
dark spool with the chaos building,
and you are the statistician, the one who waits,
there is one when there is another, breathing, a breath,
deeply you can hear it, the voice of the breath,
see the salvation, oceans, lost to the key, slightly off
in this noise, this vacuum of sound, where we parade..

autoschediastical
[aw-toh-SKEE-dee-az-tik-uhl]
-adjective
Definition: Something improvised or extemporized.

31: Inside the Chatter

For Rachel

It starts with a phone call, or a buzz, the vibration,
leading you on, through a dense forest, passing intonation,
an incantation from the wild, yes, no, yes I was there, and you,
on the line, the other end, but there are no lines, no ends,
and this is where it sits, always, stops, stopped, a setting,
for tech, atop a device, atop eyes, drooping leaves, facial hair,
sitting on top of two heads, opposite ends, and the spectrum,
an alignment, for us, yes, to make it, connection, up, back, a wish,
two to one, convergence, the metallic ray, shining, godly,
and the air was stiff for me, and black how it was for you,
thickly, but it must have been colored, a painted picture, a dawn,
must have had light passing through, recognitions, a book,
but I couldn’t tell, as we barely touched, voices unconnected,
or fleetingly embracing, or maybe it was memory, maybe unreal,
and I, my heart racing, all pounding, all twitching, disembodied,
and the sight, neither black nor white nor the space between,
nor my own eyes in front of my single face blinking, mechanic shutter,
my senses limited to buzz, the call, the vibration, absence,
the feeling lost, felt, lost, felt, inward, outward, static chant,
my beating, my breathing, your choice to elate the message,
to make things content, the consent, invisible landscape, dense,
hardened, that dead space, yes, that death, in death the endless,
to us, what we fill we choose to, a separating distance, a balance,
and the moon, and the quarks, and the passage of light waves,
and us, forgetting defiance, to forget, everything remaining nothing,
the faked trees, a stomped ground, antennae in stale air, awash, bathes,
we create the distance, and do so in knowing it, in calling out,
in clicking Send, in pressing inward, a place to find the ear,
or leaving vision to lap, like tongue to milk, to stream, chin for dish,
face dipped to river muddied with our bodies, too early, soon,
things, things remembered, shades intertwining, then recalled,
and I am a crook for this, where do we stand, how do we force open,
while waiting, the pretender, a choice, to answer, to ignore, to flush,
down, a single game, a single note, and a single speaker, the sun coughing,
the others smashed into light, and this is the room, the Western altar,
the satisfaction where we may bury, beneath rock, beneath root, bridge,
the bridge beyond long rumbled beneath hooves, tanks, gasoline,
and the distance so far, it was carried, transformed, electricity,
circuits, mesh and wire, cables, fiber and optics, spinning dials,
everything so cordless, so much metal, so detached, bodies acute,
deferred, left to repair, replace, haunt, build one more January.

chatoyant
[shuh-TOI-uhnt]
-adjective
Definition: Having changeable lustre; twinkling.

It starts with a phone call, or a buzz, the vibration,
leading you on, through a dense forest, passing intonation,
an incantation from the wild, yes, no, I was there, and you,
on the line, the other end, but there are no lines, no ends,
and this is where it sits, always, stops, stopped, a setting,
for tech, atop a device, atop eyes, drooping leaves, facial hair,
sitting on top of two heads, opposite ends, the spectrum,
aligned for us, yes make it so, I gargle, wish, two to one,
convergence, the metallic ray, it is shining, it the godly hammer,
and the air was stiff for me, and black how it was for you,
thickly, but it must have been colored, a painted picture, a dawn,
must have had light passing through, recognitions, a book,
but I couldn’t tell, as we only barely touched, voices unconnected,
or fleetingly embracing, or maybe it was memory, maybe unreal,
and I, my heart racing, all a-pounding, all a-flutter, a twitch,
could see neither black nor white nor the space between,
nor my own eyes in front of my single face blinking, mechanic shutter,
my senses limited to buzz, the call, the vibration, absence,
the feeling lost, felt, lost, felt, inward, outward, static chant,
my beating, my breathing, your choice to elate the message,
to make things content, of content, landscape dense, hardened,
and that dead space, yes, that death, in death the endless,
to us, what we fill we choose to, a separating distance, a balance,
and the moon, and the quarks, and the passage of light waves,
and us, forgetting defiance, to forget, everything remaining nothing,
the grove of trees a stomped ground, awash with stale air, baths,
we create the distance, and do so in knowing it, in calling out,
in clicking Send, in pressing inward, a place to find the ear,
or leaving vision to lap, like tongue to milk, to stream, chin for dish,
bodies dipping down toward the river muddied with our early bodies,
remembered shades intertwining, recalled, and I am a crook for this,
while waiting, the pretender, the choose to ignore, flush it all,
a single game, a single note, and a single speaker, the sun coughing,
the others smashed into light, and this is the room, the Western altar,
the satisfaction where we may bury, beneath rock, beneath root, bridge,
the bridge beyond long rumbled beneath hooves, tanks, gasoline,
and the bridge so long it was carried, transformed, electricity,
circuits, mesh and wire, cables, fiber and optics, spinning dials,
everything so cordless, so much water, so detached, bodies acute,
deferred, left to repair, replace, haunt, build one more January.

chatoyant
[shuh-TOI-uhnt]

-adjective
Definition: Having changeable lustre; twinkling.

We all make it. We all make it
and then we all love it, the air sinking
inside from behind the curtains,
behind the window, which is screened,
which I have kept my eyes on, like a crow,
for some time, waiting, playing the game,
letting the air in as the breath releases,
an exchange invisible but sharp to taste,
bitter, a developed state, an ideal.

We all make it. We all take the chance
and then we fall in love with these ideas,
enraptured like the sea worming in its own way,
our eyes playing at the dance, twisting,
shouting, our limbs making all the noise
underneath the touch of the fabric,
the silence of garments, since we are human,
since we cover, enclose, keep the secrets,
we are noisy and need that semblance of quietude.

We all make it. Last night making it a dream,
eating the fries, I didn’t know what it meant,
to put testicle into dead, dreaming mouth, thinking
that I was looking into a mirror, the plate, hearing
the pate knives scrape against the warm fixture,
pushing fuel onto stoneground crackers, a mixture:
duck and pork, bird flesh and pig balls,
for I know how to be okay as the center, I know
that the universe steps forward in each dish.

We all make it, or can at least, as we live,
fumble around on the days looping to nights,
as we are beings, that we can be drowned,
we can be taken over and cut off from knowing.
This is my hand on the cell phone, larger
than my ear, covering the hair on my face,
taking over, it will be soon implanted, a vision,
the information fertile, ready to spout, but
ready to wane, to dim, it is a light, we have
it, the prognosis, the understanding, the fade,
and I am here and I rush violently to attain it.

We all decide to go for it. We make the mark.
We type the pages. We burn the pages, and we cry.
We state our mercies and we laugh, and it is loud.
Mercy! Give us the change for the better.
Seep into our skin and feel the ribbed cells.
The pattern of prints, the scrape of fingers
through wildly harvested greens and whites, a screen,
as we dial the numbers, research data, info,
store it, let it sit, let it simmer, grow thick
with the flavor and beckon, beckon us back,
for it is all primal, digital or ancient alike.

You and I are one, you and I, I am looking at you,
since we all stare with aging eyes, never younger,
at the muse, or just a shadow, just a shade,
dark dreamer, dark spool with such chaos building,
you are the statistician, you the one who waits,
you are the zero, or I am the zero, one is the one,
there is one when there is another, breathing, a breath,
deeply, you can hear it, the voice of breath,
you can see it, the oozing saliva, salvation, oceans,
lost at key, its key slightly off, and for the better
in this noise, in this vaccuum of sound, we parade.

autoschediastical
[aw-toh-SKEE-dee-az-tik-uhl]

-adjective
Definition: Something improvised or extemporized.

To see the broadside I created for this poem, click here.

How me as a man did not see you, my doppelganger, my fittest, my best,
all fuck and riptide latex, the smile of the clothing, the perfection of your sex,
it rings true within me as it did once within my model, my vortex, twin picked,
within the person who had dealt with it before, within her, the womankind,
true, and yes, the bludgeoning of truth comes in the form, the attraction,
of a pasty little doppelganger, we’re still on that, yes, petite as a ring,
as a bell being rung, as a marksman on the roof, propped up by rifle,
waiting, waiting, this is our page being turned, our book bought,
this is the stamp being made, the button being clicked, fire of gun,
war torn ground waiting for eruption, the flakes of volcanoes, tomatoes,
and we’re wrapped in ideas like the tongue of subterfuge reenacted.

It is all in place, ever since I met you it was falling through vapor, solid,
and now, put into place, put in, pressed in, clicked in, turned on, rubbed,
I can wait around the corner for you, I can wait leisurely, leaned, against wall,
I can put a smile on the back of my head, wear it, wait for the structure’s hum,
it is like a garment, one that you wear heavenly, headedly, appropriation,
and there is a wood stove burning, and I want to throw it away, blacken it,
but I am waiting for you, around the brick building, without fire, smoke, rub,
that hasn’t crumbled yet, hasn’t been broken apart just yet, hasn’t found timing,
and it’s time to consider yourself a space, a place to go, a place for others,
and the garments will fall apart too, you doppelganger, things will morph right,
wearing the same thing as me, waiting to approach me, right, directionally,
and we will see each other, with purpose and muse, and one of us will perish,
because it’s too much for the two of us, and I am smiling, and it’s one place for two,
because I have been sitting around messing with my shoes, tying knots, trying.

The ground isn’t getting any older, any brighter, any colder, any dying sight,
and there is no rubble waiting to be threaded through hands, spooled like thread,
and maybe the sun will come out and sheds its light on a battleground, on us,
and maybe I won’t see the end of it, like the sound of a sunset song, we duelists,
maybe I too will become all about fading, dimming, growing smaller, bellowing,
and maybe they’ll play the tune like it’s a funeral, your fists at a funeral, both
having been bloodied, water been poured over your wounds, me wrapped up,
my body freezing as you go on with your life, covering it up, cleaning yourself,
waiting to move on, now that you’ve freed yourself, there’s the answer, you say,
it’s not obtainable though it is viewable, you will say to yourself,
and you will say: I absorbed, I didn’t destroy, I am keeping with the tune
of so many different peoples throughout so many different times,
and my life is nothing more than an ache, can’t see through to it any other way.

An Acrostic

Just as I begin to take up a fresh and refined comfort
A new issuance of the dose rouses me from the bedframe.
Nothing is as thoughtless as this turned page of morning.
Underneath each passable is that singular pit, and it’s waiting,
Attracting each of the predictions, every cause, little nothings,
Right down to the streams of liquid you brought forth:
Your piss the color of crystal, snot oozing electrodes.

Jealousy comes later via a hearty backslap of pavement
Arriving at the knuckle after a falter and a fall far downward.
Nether regions statically fill with the rites of the cycle.
Unrest is for those who don’t know how to wait, to hear for it.
Another lesser stance awaits with perfuming sickness those active.
Repeat and to Learn Repeat is the game as boundless as it is wild.
Yet descriptions are never anything greater than their speaker.

Jumping up and heading for the door is the easiest part.
And when I get there I turn the lock tighter, leave the door closed.
Nobody is waiting on the other side despite the crooked noises
Upsetting the harmony and placid precipices of this home.
Around my face are chills that I push into a corner to forget
Rather than keep in the forefront like pain should be taught.
Yes, I have pushed things away and that is a great discovery.

“Exculpate the Extractions”

(after Route 90)

. . . no fiery map nor singing . . . I cannot join the past

Kenneth Patchen

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we let the map go to decay a long time ago.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we shut our eyes and started to hope for an end.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because it suddenly turned into night where things die.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because it suddenly brightened up and blinded us silly.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because the road keeps morphing into strange realities.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we made the road in the beginning not now.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because those who came before us distract with history.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because those who are with us won’t stop talking.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we stopped caring before we started caring.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because winding natures distort quality perceptions.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we drank a fifth and started veering for the cliffs.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we’re actually in the ocean and it’s so hot inside!

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we’re actually in chocolate and we’re attracting flies!

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we’re too busy winding up to be winding down.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we’ve got needles poking into our minds’ eyes.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because we create the future as we travel the present.

We are winding down a road and we don’t know how far that road stretches because this world exists in text and with text you can’t know.

exculpate

[EK-skuhl-payt; ek-SKUHL-payt]

-transitive verb

Definition: To clear from alleged fault or guilt; to prove to be guiltless; to relieve of blame; to acquit.

And when I close my eyes I am reminded that I am Gambrinus. I am the one of the suds, the one that has intercepted the nurture of bubbles. When I close my eyes: cascades down glass and wood. Perspiration of surfaces lingers, memory built upon loss. So many people have come and gone. I, too, am tired and aging. But I, too, will be found in the depths of each pool consumed. The liquids will travel as order bearing health. Exhaust of breath, inebriated let-go: documenting time through the shortfalls of lock and key. We are tied to our vices. We are tied to our greatness. I am Gambrinus and I am here to let those who have never known chance be tuned by what divides.

It takes the shadow of the nether to become enlightened by the swaths of history. It takes a warrior gulp to please an audience. Gambrinus, you must shout, beckon me. But it is not I who beckons; it is the source, the output, the product that can answer your calls. Ruination is not damnation; it is consummation and confirmation. It is desire said to be let loose, to become part of a wave of a fist or flesh. There is a peak, an elevation, a turn past wood and the ascent into harmony. My mistress is the underworld that provides rise through a bow. A notch carved into your pedantic self. Proclamation is what I am known for. The foam escalated along the tipped walls of a container, stale stick of a sweet residue. The fermentation learned later, after fervor returns. Let my own blood reveal in acquaintance. Let the repeal of the people be drunk in the wisdom I have gifted.

Notes:

gambrinus
[gam-BRAHY-nuhs]

-noun
Definition: A mythical Flemish king, the reputed inventor of beer.

Quotes:
1. As a bit of amusing anachronism it may be mentioned that there is a poetical apotheosis of Gambrinus, which elevates that personage to the dignity of a heathen god, alongside of Bacchus. — Twenty-five years of brewing: with an illustrated history of American beer , George Ehret

2. Gambrinus, the mightiest of Germans, not only did nothing else – he owes his greatness to that fact. — “Saxon Studies – of Gambrinus,” The Living Age, 1896, Julian Hawthorne

As a way to restructure my view of the Seattle Poems, the next part of the series will feature historical figures and events that may or may not directly be related to Seattle, but are certainly related to my experiences in Seattle in a near or distant way. This is how I will approach the Winter in Seattle, which really begins now, post-anticipation of holiday consumption.

Spoken of addendum: lactating crux of Hungary! Magyar trumpets let loose!
When I see that neutral activities have been smashed
by glyphs and runes of this hesitant atmosphere, I tightly speak:

REJTELY is mockery, and we are born, NEHEZSEG!
Radiation memories yellow: a glowstick over backyard ice,

I watch with power-outage vision the spirits’ scars.
Wounds weep the Age, fluids streaming after they erupt.
Traffic consanguineous, the milk of earth’s breasts,
wheels following paper pushed to concrete. This is home. HAZAI!

The narrow escape riddles us as microcosmic.
In another era of history a pulpit with screaming drizzle.
This is activity, this is the fluff: PULYKA and syndromes.

There is the grab of intoxicant, horns on the softest wind forever.
Crushed collapsings, haunted musings, a land that stretches.
FUTOANYAG: mashed steam rising off a sea of C.

And a fever that rushes to capture nostrils. A dense image waiting.
Rounded caricatures, well-serifed surfaces: as accompaniment, a mask.
I am left compounded: the DOREJ echo carried home.

Vocabulary:
Rejtely (mystery) Nehezseg (difficulty) Hazai (home) Pulyka (turkey) Futoanyag (fuel) Dorej (boom)

Spoken of addendum: lactating crux of Hungary!
When I see that the neutral activities have been smashed
glyphs and runes of this hesitant atmosphere are tight, speak:
REJTELY is mockery, and we are born, NEHEZSEG!
Radiation memories yellow: a glowstick over backyard ice,
I watch with power-outage vision the spirits’ scars.
Wounds weep the Age, fluids streaming after they erupt.
Traffic is consanguineous, the milk of earth’s breasts,
wheels following paper pushed to concrete. This is home. HAZAI!
The narrow escape riddles us as microcosmic.
In another era of history a pulpit, screaming drizzle beyond walls,
this is activity, this is the fluff: PULYKA and syndromes.
There is the grab of intoxicant, horns on the softest wind forever.
Crushed collapsings, haunted musings, a land that stretches.
FUTOANYAG: mashed steam rising off the sea of C.
And a fever that rushes to capture nostrils. A dense image awaits.
Rounded caricatures, well-serifed surfaces: as accompaniment, a mask.
When I see neutral spontaneity bludgeoned by reformation
I am left with compound mithridate: the DOREJ echo carried home.

Vocabulary:
Rejtely (mystery) Nehezseg (difficulty) Hazai (home) Pulyka (turkey) Futoanyag (fuel) Dorej (boom)

Author’s Note: Second Wave Begins

Spokes of addendum: lactating Hungarian crux.
When I see the neutral activities smashed to tight posture
along the brows and pocks of this hesitant atmosphere,
glyphs and runes speak: REJTELY is the mockery, born NEHEZSEG!
Radiation yellows, the glowstick, amidst ice fragments of backyarded paths,
I watch with power-outage visage the spirits with their scars
weeping an ooze of age, a time where bodily fluids stream, erupt.
The horse’s window, traffic consanguineous, milk of earth’s breasts,
crumples of paper, crumbles of concrete graffitied, each crack HAZAI!
the narrow escape for we can all know what riddles are microcosmic.
In another era of history acknowledged on a pulpit, screaming drizzle,
this is activity, this is the fluff of feathers: PULYKA and syndromes.
FUTOANYAG: Mashed Ps, candied Ys, and the steam rising off the sea of C.
There is the grab of the intoxicant for every essence has one of each.
I watch the cars blow their horns on the softest wind forever.
Crushed collapsings and haunted musings and a land that stretches.
And a fever that rushes to capture the nostrils among invisible nooses.
Rounded caricatures, well serifed surfaces as accompaniment, as mask.
When I see the neutral spontaneity bludgeoned by reformation
it stops me on my skidding heels and rests at compound fracture,
compounded images of the mithridate: DOREJ is an echo carried home.

Vocabulary:
Rejtely (mystery) Nehezseg (difficulty) Hazai (home) Pulyka (turkey) Futoanyag (fuel) Dorej (boom)

Hearts are flown into the screens with a smattering of splatter.
Tell them you are relieved that you won’t be back before it ends.
The electrical fences we move our bodies into give off sparks.
Down on the highway a strange hybrid of currencies rotates.
The palms are neither of bark nor skin in this urban evening.
A break is tapped lightly and eventually there is the release.
Certain people smile from certain places and it is different now.
They have taken their obnoxious clothing out to advertise.
It is shocking to think that the watermarks can be seen in stretches
when the lighting is so poor and the bulbs are so long gone.
They are smiling, clutching their greasy chicken legs to mouths.
I am wailing away toward outlets in the walls, waiting for the vibration.
Stories below it you can see the support beams and the structure.
Everything is lit up in that disgusting orange death-lighting.
It is worth more to think about this than experience this around here
and now they are jay-walking and cracking open aluminum cans.
The tabs have been ripped off and the pressure applied.
The smiles are all sticky with soda and sugar and water and stains.
A place exists where the laziest folks go and they call it home.

Been stumped:
Madison throughway.
Got my fair in a pouch.
A damp dimple waiting
to ooze and breathe.
Betting motion:
a time to secure flesh.
Strange words:
I can hear the height.
Gravity’s down
like crushed buslines.
No stops for blocks.
I can smell strange odors.
Heat jackals in yellow
dancing with bright green.
The air is a sponge or a death.
A collated collapse:
the dollars run drier and drier.

Fremont’s bleached canvas flipped down
dabbles into a revival of muddy surfaces.
The rain-freckles destroy the glass purity.
The pause of the breath damages travel.
Dogs are walked without leashes.
A bearded man stacks stones into a pile.
He yells along the gutter at a pedestrian.
Another man is passed out with celestial texts.
The gravity is cruel and leaves heads craned.
Three women in front of Lenin await communion.
There is a cruel dichotomy with an army of gnomes.
I look at the industrial segmentation.
I look at the rows of illustrious garden homes.
I follow the arc toward the troll’s crooked nose.
Someday someone will plant dynamite on Aurora
and blow all of this away into an abyss of saturation.

Saw off the lowest limbs of the trees
and pile them up in chaos at the base.
Tear off the wheels of their newest car
and belt them into the four clean seats.
Rub off the layers of mold and bottle it up
then take routine huffs to inspire sickness.
Enter the grocery store with ten dollars
to purchase a carving knife and bandages.
Or spend your money more wisely:
buy some cat food and rat poison.
Look at the cashier and ask them what they think.
Return home, rip off the wallpaper and glue it back..
Mail empty envelopes to your only contacts.
Turn the dial of the watches to inverse time.
Dissect clothes and use scraps for your bed.
Converse to destroy your sense of pleasure.

Alaska Street is the last frontier.
There is a steady mouth shudder.
There is an impregnated oral site.
There is a gibbed raccoon with its jaw jounced,
lost in the pose of the great, last wail.
Traffic sits bellowing but for no single being.
Everything descends to the free water.
And each siren that arrives has a goal of blood
and each citizen has a caustic difference.
And Alaska Street will come to ruin you.
There is a trench of toughness in the eyes
of the blind that mope in droves on the sidewalk.
They still remember the brightness of the green,
and the drooping corridors that linger at night.
City control is the hunch of the infrastructure.

Sound Transit’s LINK windows open worlds
and I remember a black duck perched on water.
I follow the rain drop from death to origin.
The bugs have been reviewed and have gone.
Push the circle to open the doors when lit.
Our warnings are the gestures of the infallible.
Our windows are large and clean and beautiful.
You can find glimpses into neutral plans.
The train slices through the ominous valley
and blood-letting heads around the hill.
There is no need to feel around for anything else.
The sky has been pacified into procrastination.
Even if we are all slaves we are clean and attentive.

Slowly and slowly my nails begin their decay.
There are layers of white flakes rapidly growing.
I only have forty five minutes before I leave.
Yesterday we walked Seattle’s waterfront
and it smelled like aquatic fuel and salted history.
We walked down the hills and up the hills.
We saw the Market emptied out, twisted,
like a gutted fish leftover after the sales.
We saw the Olympic park and structures.
Consciousness is highest amongst the weak.
Typing this, my nails make me look like worry.
The rain was slamming into us and we got wet.
The ideal came in rising with the mist off the Sound.
The sky cleared up and sucked our last energy,
and we could see how a city like this empties.

Don’t forget your decoy now.
You’ve breached idiocy once.
You can do it again here in the West.
At this center for aircraft travel
we force our bodies through rooms
with gigantic ceilings beckoning.
We fall in love with the vertical.
We pray we don’t get the urge
because there’s much to consume.
The answer is to stare at the windows
and turn to the scheduling board.
While we imagine Europe or Canada,
it’s clear: people need learn to walk.
This is the breached defense.
This is the calm of Sea-Tac Airport.

The whispers came to us like glass flying through air,
like blades of grass shuddering, or spectators below,
the edges of each vocal code quivering with inertia.
Intimacy is the object with two wings across the sky,
keeping the stars from giving away their positions.
The scattered crafts are invincible and dull and grey
moving like gods over the world of the pedestrian.
This is the other side of Georgetown, the other fire.
We burn wood to ignite shadows, drink wine from glasses,
eat edamame dumplings and baked eel shaded bronze.
I could walk back home from Georgetown tonight
but it won’t be a good walk, they keep telling me.

The light was being chopped by a machine made of wood.
The log got cut from an earth warped by immense storms.
Something made this place, gave it depth like breath.
An ascent led to a dampening in the damage of light.
We hung conversations of cosmographia and waited,
hunched over and impaled upon the frothy city sights.
We arched, our backs pointed upward into patterns of nothing.
It was a collection of lights dissected through trees.
It was how we wondered at the folk tales we abandoned.
On the summit there was a man searching for something.
Sharply cut edges were emphasized by orange signs.
Beacon Hill’s steady traffic sucked around witlessly
and there was an ending after a prolonged descent.
There was a change in eyesight like guard rotation.

The Arms Inn: how we learn to live with each other.
Life is to avoid those possible eruptions of selves.
It’s nothing new except the direction of the mutiny.
Our beer cans make an amusing path on the counter.
I have more dreams to coordinate but for what is to be.
We have mirrors on every surface and I measure them all.
I measure the difference in appearance slowly morphing.
The next stages are contortions as subtle and as normal.
The majority of the floors are carpeted and it’s noticeable.
I swallow the air which causes great digestion problems.
Just above us a young monster roars and runs for hours.
Energy is something we need to be reminded of.

Columbia historica dumped into this.
Subtle refraction at the valley’s edge.
The waves minutes away spill clustered
this be this city before you die.
Enjoyment of the sights and the sprains.
Oblonged and trained at spotting stoppages.
The shield is the pavement, and then steps up.
There is a park next door where we hitherto hid.
Then daylight: a block away a bus filters something.

Hearts are flown into the screens with a smattering of splatter.
Tell them in your most relieving way you won’t be back in time.
The electrical fences we moved our bodies into give off sparks.
Down on the highway strange hybrid currencies are rotating.
The palms are neither of bark nor skin in this urban evening.
A break is tapped lightly and eventually there is the release.
Certain people smile from certain places and it is different.
They have taken their obnoxious clothing out to advertise.
It is shocking to think that the watermarks can be seen
when the lighting is so poor and the bulbs so long gone.
They are smiling clutching their greasy chicken legs to mouths.
I am wailing away on outlets in the walls waiting for the vibration.
Stories below you can see the support beams for the structure.
Everything is lit up in that disgusting orange death-lighting.
It is worth more to think about than experience around here
and now they are jay-walking and cracking open aluminum cans.
The tabs have been ripped and the pressure has been applied.
The smiles are all frothy with soda and sugar and water.
A place exists where the laziest folks go and they call it home.

We get done biking the perimeter’s paved paths and hit the Center.
Lumpy the Turtle crawls across the floor eagerly eating blueberries.
Later on, after we had walked through the middle via the Spine
and hit the main perimeter after the Erratic we looked at the shoreline.
Your whitest skies can cover everything and there will be green waiting,
ready to heal everything up again, even the slugs that feed on their friends.

Industry pieced together block by block.
This is the closest space to the East we have found.
The blocks are long and memorable like back home.
Everything is chopped up into centipedal segments.
Everything worms and writhes in blind production.
The streets are brightest at their darkest points
and the figures and their shadows are finally Intimidation.
Everyone wants to whisper: Let’s imagine the architects.
It is evening and the trains sneak by like parasites,
trains trained and invited by some bloody tracks.
As roads close things pause like the West pauses.

Some will never know the mountain,
will never take the path through the sky’s bluffs.
Reaching a madness of the mountain
to jump freely, to fall long and hard.
The trenches never allowed for rest.
The views from the peaks were dim.
The voices are faint in their calling.
For whom does this landscape erupt?
Who has given Mt. Baker its finite label?
It used to be that cartographers
would grapple in masturbation
and put up new warning signs.
But this solace is so close to the source
it is trustworthy and unstable.

Riding, striking, breaking West Gate into a shattered mirror.
This is not exploration and this is not the fear of knowing new ground.
Things are simply confusing in this double grid and we’re over it.
We’ve turned the map over in our hands and we’ve folded it.
We’ve let the sky’s scrying morph and mold our bold directions.
We’ve burned ourselves down with long gazes at primal matter.
West Gate subsumed us into solidarity and now it expands,
forms feet walking down a hill, across pavement, wild,
matching eyes that seek out the any available abject postures,
and it’s not the absurdity we’re used to, and it’s not kind,
and nothing’s reliable, and the dreams we had of what could exist
and what does sink below arched brows and crinkled noses.
The noise of mass transit modes is the noise of boarding.
Any conceived capture is highlighted in typical urban neon.
The reason to stay away is the desire to encrypt a return.

Madrona’s heart rips mine.
I’ll climb your hill for you.
You are a woman who I hate
who I would ascend for.
Madrona and her infinity-sized surprise.
As a man who loved a woman I hid from her.
But I could hear her out there, screaming.
Madrona’s voice: immense and absolute.
A most absolute silence,
vibrating large pools of fluid.

I’m sitting at Dick’s where the meat is the taste of subterfuge.
We lost all our things on John Street or Thomas or Olive or Denny:
any wherewithal is like flesh ground by sandpaper.
Broadway is the sawblade the stupid human limbs can’t avoid.
Without luck we suck down coffee and there’s no other option.
The Capitol perfect for breeding for the quickest blades.
Sturdiest grips outlast the footsteps of bewildered foreigners.

Belltown fits like a worn pair of jeans
stained in semen and food and nasal blood.
I’ve wiped my hands on this neighborhood
and don’t even know its limitations.
I’ve thrown up in this neighborhood
but still haven’t visited any of its corners.
Waiting are those thrown out of their homes
or the incantations of the dwindling drunks
and de-vogued fashions of the cash-cropped.
The stretch would be better on the skin
of a thirteen-year-old anorexic rape victim
who forgot to let known their reputation changed.

First time and I’m wanton in the University’s District.
You get your own district but you’re dead inside.
Schoolings in Seattle start late like a lazy morning.
I see the pillars of the redless Red Square.
I see the fountain and think of the lost love.
Everyone here is dreaming being mindless or insane.
I will obsess over your obsessive minds.
It takes the Stevens circuit to see the hills.
The water is life is of another exact world.
We depreciate ourselves without history.

Cotton swabs. Cotton and blood.
Grease of and off the forehead.
During times like this one
I wish there was a blank remainder
to explain the limitations of crusading to.
What’s in spacing. What’s in a cup of English Breakfast.
What’s with walking around campuses?
This life might be just another fountain explosion.
“Your largest water phallus can crush mine.”
It’s pretty sweet, the way it all melts together
like a giant breakfast left out in the cold kitchen.

“Make sure you grab the jalapeno focaccia
before you go to the airport tomorrow.”
It will be cheap enough one more time
and so you will look at the mountain
and think not about cannibalism yet again.
Tearing the head off the bread is called Process.
There are those who think about the wrong side.
White flakes of skin resting on a black cotton shirt.

Lost in a sky that has not changed
its charge for six days knowing growth
begins the process of looking up to start.

To be on top of those things always toppling you
would be a nice aperitif in a land of landing.
It was blue and now it is white with sprinkled salt.

The first white of the northwest sky isn’t in a coma.
Having come the cloud takes on its entity energy
into the new infinities with dry twitching eyeballs.

Dousing yourself in a long, regressing stance
was the latent instruction for some beginning
and the knowing will lead to restructuring.

These forever abused paper trails:
they are and you are likewise wide and
for the remainder they are made of paper.

And this is what on the whole matters:
that there is the life of a pile of recyclables
and how it exists with the rate of a turnover.

How it will stare extremely at you and
in the face of you it is stared at until
you take it out to find the limit of its ending.

Been stumped by the Madison throughway.
Got my fair in the back of my ass in a pouch the size
of a damp dimple waiting to ooze and breathe.
All in the betting motion: time to secure flesh proper.
Strange words: fierce as a hoagie and this here the West.
I can hear the height of this steep move and gravity’s down
like crushed buslines and no stops for blocks.
I can smell the strange odors and it’s the clean surprise.
Heat jackals moving about in yellow sweatshirts
dancing along with puppies on leashes and bright green eyes.
Reflection comes year round where the leaves ain’t fallin’.
Clear blue water saturating as if the air were a sponge or a death.
Unknown soldiers suffering in the cribs somewhere else.
Collated collapse and the dollars run drier and drier.

Fremont’s the bleached canvas flipped down
to dabble into revival our muddiest surfaces.
I am the asshole bearing the gifts of silence.
The rain-freckles fuck up the glass purity.
The pause of the breath damages this flat ground.
Dogs are walked without leashes along sidewalks.
A normanized bearded man stacks stones
and yells along with the gutter at a pedestrian.
Another man is passed out with celestial texts.
The gravity is cruel and leaves heads craned down.
Three women in front of Lenin in communion
form the dichotomy of cruelty with the army of gnomes.
I look at the industrial segmentation to the west.
I look at the rows of illustrious garden homes eastward.
I follow the arc toward the troll whose nose is crooked.
Someone will someday plant dynamite on Aurora
and blow away the oddities into an abyss of saturation.

Let the fish learn that they’re being fried.
Saw off the lowest limbs of the trees
and pile them up in chaos at the base.
Tear off the wheels of their newest car
and belt them into the four clean seats.
Rub off the mold and bottle it up
then take routine huffs to inspire the sickness.
Enter the grocery store with ten dollars
and purchase a carving knife and bandages.
Or spend your money more wisely:
buy cat food and a bottle of rat poison.
Look at the cashier and ask them about ideas.
When returning home, rip off the wallpaper
and glue it back onto the walls as fast as possible.
Mail empty envelopes to your loved ones.
Turn the dial of the watches to the inverse time.
Dissect your clothes and use the scraps for your bed.
Engage in conversations for one sake only:
to destroy your relationships and sense of pleasure.

Alaska as last frontier for the open wound.
Mouth shudder and impregnated oral site.
Sit on haunches of legs before the master road.
The gibbed raccoon with its jaw jounced
now lost in the pose of the great, last wail.
Traffic bellows for no motor but the first.
Everything descends to where water flow freely.
Each siren has a goal of blood and caustic difference.
Alaska will ruin you if it doesn’t batter.
There is a trench of toughness in the eyes
of the blind that mope in droves along sidewalk.
They remember the brightness of the greens,
and the drooping corridors that linger like death.
The white mazes shackle and bring wrist spasms.
City control is the hunch of infrastructural patterns.

Sound Transit’s taking my back slack away.
Windows open worlds and I remember a black duck
perched on some fresh water landscape.
As the tracks arch I follow the rain drop from death
to the origin of open air where escape bursts from movement.
The bugs have been reviewed and are gone.
Push the circle to open the doors when lit.
Listen to us, beautiful robot women, sing praises.
Our warnings are the gestures of the infallible.
Our windows are large and clean and beautiful.
They offer glimpses into the plans for neutral zoning.
The train swoops through the valley and around the hill,
slicing open and blood-letting the massive car transit.
There is no need to feel for anything here, no links.
The sky has been pacified into royal procrastination.
Even if we are all slaves we can be clean and attentive.

Slowly and slowly my nails begin their decay.
White flakes and I only have forty five minutes.
Yesterday the three of us walked the waterfront
and it smelled like ship fuel and salted waters.
We walked down the hills and up the hills.
We saw the Pike Place Market emptied out
and twisted like a gutted fish put up for sale.
We saw the Olympic park and gawked.
We mocked the structures like stupid peasants.
Consciousness is highest amongst the weak.
I type this note and stare at my nails and wait.
They make me look like I should be recorded.
The rain was slamming into us and we got wet.
The ideal arises like the mist rose off the Sound.
Inevitably the sky cleared up and sucked our energy.
You need that static mesh of lines up there.
You need to see how empty a city like this can be
to understand that beautiful hammer of land.
Life surrounds the arch and spreads it out,
and isn’t strange what a city starts to feel like
when it’s clear poverty has been pushed away.

Don’t forget your decoy.
Breached defense: SEATAC.
You’ve breached idiocy once
and you can do it again in the West.
Things are more beautiful
at this center for aircraft.
The position doesn’t come to play.
Instead we force our bodies
toward the vertical satellites.
Pray that we don’t get the urge
because there’s much to buy.
Instead stare at the windows
and turn to the schedule board.
Imagine Europe or Canada.
People need to learn how to walk.

The whispers came to us like glass flying through air,
blades of grass shuddering spectators two feet below,
the edges of each vocal pierce quivering with inertia.
Intimacy is an object with wings soaring across the sky
and keeping the stars from giving away their position.
Large metal crafts that are invincible and dull and grey
are like gods to the unparalleled world of the pedestrian.
This is the other side of Georgetown, I kept thinking.
This is the other type of fire we burn to ignite shadows.
We ate edamame dumplings and baked eel shaded bronze.
We drank wine and listened to the piano and the crackles.
We knocked over the wine glass and then it got late
and we scrambled to figure out what all the shards said.
I am drinking my raw milk from Washington now,
picked up from the local African bookstore, up the street.
I could have walked back home from Georgetown last night
but it wouldn’t have been a good walk, they kept saying.

It was light being chopped by a machine made of wood.
The log gets cut from earth warped by immense storms.
Something made this place, gave it height like breath.
Who comes to you for redemption on this dream plane?
An ascent leads to dampening in the damage of light.
We hung conversations of cosmographia and waited,
hunched over and impaled upon the city’s frothy sights.
We arched our backs upwards into the patterns of nothing.
It was the collection of lights dissected through trees.
It was how we wondered at the folk tales we abandoned.
On the summit there was a man wearing underwear.
Bent over and looking in, he was searching for it.
We gazed on with eight eyes and minded the lanes.
Sharply cut edges had the emphasis from orange signs.
Traffic on Beacon Hill witlessly sucked itself around
in snaking motions like the structural panoptic digestate.
Then there is the ending after the prolonged descent.
There was a change in glassy eyesight like guard rotation.

Somehow we got dumped into this.
Ideal delish lisp of a hovering hood.
Subtle refraction: or recession.
Choose your poison: of food; or hill.
Transience at the edge of a valley.
Watch the waves ten minutes away spill
out onto pebbles with herrings. Showings.
A social room. A spawn shop. Clustered.
This be the city. Columbia historica.
New district furthering sickness. But no pour.
Yet poor. What it is. Be poor before you die.
Enjoy the sights. Enjoys the sprains.
The strains of being oblonged and trained.
Wicked hysteria seen in the headlights.
This is a car wood for a car world.
The shield is the pavement, the steps up.
There is a park next door to the story book.
Where we set and laugh and hitherto hide.
And a block away the bus filters something.

We get done biking the perimeter’s paved paths and hit the Center.
Lumpy the Turtle crawls across the floor eagerly eating blueberries.
Later on, after we had walked through the middle via the Spine
and hit the main perimeter via the Erratic we looked at the shoreline.
Isn’t it amazing, you said, that we live a twenty-minute rail ride to downtown
and a ten-minute bike-ride to here, and I nodded in agreement.
This is the nature I have been searching for and it’s right here.
Your whitest skies can cover everything and there will be green waiting,
ready to heal everything up again, even the slugs that feed on their friends.

Industry pieced together block by block.
This is the closest space to the East we have found.
The blocks are long and memorable like back home.
Everything is chopped up into centipedal segments.
Everything worms and writhes like blind production.
The streets are bright in their empty darkness
and the figures with their shadows are finally and intimidation.
Let’s ride through this place and dream of sandboxes.
Let’s imagine the architects and their fantasies of squares.
No more hills when scrunched below the top floors.
It is evening and the trains sneak by like parasites,
trains trained parasite invited by our own bloody track-lines.
When the roads close momentarily it is time to pause,
pause like the West pauses more than is comfortable.
City development here is the West’s equivalent to the park.

I will never know the mountain.
I will never reach spiritual dignity.
I will storm the path through the sky’s bluffs
but never wrap my mood around a fictitious place.
Why bother when trenches never allowed for rest?
Why bother when the views from the peaks were dim?
Oh but it does exist and oh but it does exist.
But I hear the voices and they are faint in their calling.
And oh but for whom does this landscape erupt?
Who has given Mt. Baker its finite, definitive label?
The cartographers have grappled like masturbators.
The pen of the terrain has been jerked off
and someone has put up the signs to prove it.
But no one with a voice has come to reveal themselves.
This solace is so close to my being to my source
it is an aphrodisiac for those trustworthy and unstable.
I will reach a madness of the mountain and I will jump freely.
I will reach a madness of the mountain and I will fall long and hard.

Riding, striking, breaking West Gate into a shattered mirror.
This is not exploration and this is not the fear of knowing new ground.
Things are simply confusing on this fucked up grid and we’re over it.
We’ve turned the map over in our hands and we have folded it.
We have let the sky’s mode of scrying morph and mold directions.
We have even burned ourselves down to gaze at the primal matter.
West Gate subsumed us into an I and now the singularity expands,
forms two feet walking down a hill across pavement, wild and fresh,
matching two eyes that seek out the most abject poverty available,
and it is no longer absurd like we are used to, and it is not kind and comforting,
and nothing is reliable here, and the dreams we had of what could exist
are the reality of what does exist below arched brow and crinkled nose.
The noise of nearing the mass transit makes shrieking and boarding happen.
The conceived capture is to escape this zone of typical urban neon
and head through valley through charge through synthesis.
Forge the reason to stay away and encrypt the desire to return.