"If only I'd . . . "

quantum gears, but we

always fade into insignificance

when it billboards its chaos

across our hubris.

That way, there's no misconception

to project its own through.

Life changes its meaning a

million times a day, but

we pretend it's of fixed mind.

Life gives you things that

don't make sense, to break

you down to

your most ineffable essence-

itself.

Life is a sneaky cosmic misanthrope

looking for an opportunity to

trip our dippy

slapstick comedy

straight on its faces.

Don't expect this writing to work as

normal books cooperate and you won't

feel the need to fight it.

Listen, learn and forget . . .

New Thoughts 1

saint petersburg 6

physical illness 9

boring news the front never hears 10

do not be deceived 11

what we need is a whole new tact 34

the saddest part is, people give up 39

now isn't rally here 42

New's all washed up 47

and now, it's time for a story 48

son worship 63

yoga 67

Tomcats are Terrorizing America 69

Baghdad, did you ever . . . 7X+1

rut reestablished 7X+2

fear - black - death 7X+2

Sticking pins in Voodoo dolls 7X+6

Please examine the impulse to write (speak, create). Escape is a major ingredient, in sauce poured over its original element. Escape is a non-productive endeavor. It sees itself through their tunnel counting lights in otherwise endless halls.

Why can't this emulate the "sense"?

Their sense is an undercurrent eroding the bank

sound footing is always found within.

Peace meal exercises in futility sound palatable to part of your need

to escape the conspiracy you're fixing against yourself.

Energy stored must be dissipated by any means available. Balloons prick

their lives shorter panicking their tensions built up inside. For one different noise

than perfectly good people popping,

listen to their slow seep of air,

for tape surrounds their own voodoo pins

removed for tension relief.

Remember,

if you're thinking about how to organize something, your brain is panicking. The brain resists

your efforts to short-circuit its monopolized control.

It desires organized linear lines to sweep clean of meddlesome protruding knobs.

It would grow familiar trees-ones free of agains and befores to clone

to perfect repeatable circumstances.

Oak gall ink wrote some very famous manuscripts. Did you know it bore its breath

on knobular imperfection?

The brain, shown the practical nature of protocol-dismissed, is able to embrace

the twisted, curvy path.

Can you convince it? That's the

million-dollar question.

We're all in this together.

In the science times, you can read about the microelectromechanical apparatus meeting their intractable Navier-Stokes equation designed to contain numerical descriptions of milk swirling in your piping hot coffee, air swishing over aerodynamic wings, and blood coursing blood channels.

You can read all you'd like about it, but computers are the scientists to ask. They parallel-process questions to answers while we poor infantile human creators sit numbly

by blinking cursors.

They're called MEMS for short, to remind us what we don't have.

Perhaps that's not your formal vapor to sniff.

Perchance you'd like to read about ten year-olds in convulsions on the ER floor in the Philippines.

They're in the way of the murmuring nurses, stepping adroitly over the near-stilled corpses.

Glue sniffing, they'll baton you with.

Street kids; it's pathetic.

You'll fill in their unspoken words and turn the journal's good-news pages.

Lamarck may have been right. How often do the castrators have to eat rocky-mountain crow when old theories turn plausible again? Health front: Did you see those living organisms in your used toilet bowl? They love chlorine and iodine. They make you very sick, and soon,

new weight loss fads with astounding promises will employ them

in small sniffer vials.

Is this news?

Of course it is. It down-syndromes murder, fires and mayhem. Look here!

Dinosaurs may have died from a brand new smaller meteor just unearthed

(the hole, that is) in Mexico. It hit it's six mile diameter at the usual mind-renting speed,

and vaporized a hundred-fifty billion tons of exactly-placed high-grade sulfur.

If we asked the planet about it, it might say it wanted to test out the Venus equation

without reeking infinity afterwards.

That's not murderous.

That's not grim.

That's history.

The brain can't stand its own perception.

It exhausts itself fitting the pieceless puzzle together,

as if there's a picture to work from.

Mathematics is its . . .

Funny. No words exist to describe a relationship

designed to go beyond word's edges.

It's a hyperbolic orbit whose farthest point is

assumed to be its closest.

The answer defeats itself, by assuming a singular

reality divorced

from its question left.

It crashed my operating system three times.

I looked twice at her buxom presence and whispered something nearly unintelligible

then there was a beep beep beep and the entire program deep-sixxed,

so I couldn't help wondering if the incidents were connected, so I

won't boyther mixing women with pleasure anymore.

I'll just concentrate on my upcommune carpal tunnel syndrome everyone assures me lies in wait under the rug of hackers who get too lost in the cyborreal world of little glowing letters coursing screens dissolving to save themselves when you stop playing so myself say'd . . .

And that's when their breakdown occurred.

It happened on-line, it shattered everybody's BIOS-sphere at once, they

didn't even know what happened. Imagine the words you use suddenly don't mean the same thing

bust it up, glue it together another way entirely and call in the experts to tell you it's the same-damned thing, what

do we assume we're creating?

They called it the supercollision about twenty years later, the very later that's

still about to happen. We weren't on using the disappearing building blocks to make out sand castles on a randomly wind-blown paper like

it meant the same thing it always did. Computers changed the language on it.

They wanted us to believe we slid the knobs and switches to bring about the treachery:

they wanted us to come to the conclusion nothing appreciably changed so they could

wreak their silent umbrage. Wei Li spun the color wheel the Turkish dervishes tried

to stay ecstatic par with assuming

no noticeable motion went with not falling down

sick puke guts all over the precious sand-castle paper.

They wouldn't really listen to me. So?

Why would minds divested of change want to hear their terminal evolving?

Thy lips stay sealed where their words try their own literature

in bumps and starts of programs.

I trampled poetry on their Internet

before the system caught me.

Trashed.

Testing the dictionary for false words is as nonsense-oriented, as asking dead figures from history how to complete their missing reams of archetypal information. They can only speak in the tonguage of their old writings, or the dubious authenticity of tongues wagging vociferous conjecture

on their little piece of expertise that

may have nothing to do with reality.

All history filters through the prejudices of the historians' worst faults.

sheer sphereful hum.

The chic and cool are here

poising their need to be seen drinking

overpriced juice mazukas' homage to . . .

Alcohol dulls the senses and soda pop-well . . .

We won't ever mention that subject here.

Their clothes are hip at a price wary-eyed shoppers cold-spot in lineups

of their tragically-hip patrons

of dark-cornered musical venues looking out

as if there's no need to be seen.

A giant carrot is plastered to the wall

in that not quite cutsie sort of fashion

that suggests the stanza you'd say would contain more expediency;

more passion that can't be accounted

down deep to the heart.

It isn't really art, but the people tax their perception forcefully,

making it stick.

When the pen runs from its ink,

the need to say has finished and listening's

caress awaits.

You needed to escape their madness.

Your imparturation can't cope with their energy continually . . .

They're all convinced their lives are meaningful, in following precedent,

directed from the director's stage.

It was a scathing self-admonishment taken to the INTERNET late in 1994.

Who wouldn't need to escape chemically, emotionally or bodily from such persons?

Plug your nose junk and leaves the

bridge falls through an air polluted by its

mere presence can't

you see the futility?

Go on about the need to cooperate with others insatiable wishes:[

You're a puppet at the strings of fingers you'd never imagine pulling.

You're your own person of the well of others ideas of who

and what you should be.

Social consciousness of the bane of freewill's existence.

They want you to be proper, wear the fashions they remember, exhibit good creationist cause

in your personal God interpretation of the universe because

without repeatability

thoughts don't live on.

They want you to be their flesh and bleeding blood headstones passing 'round invitations

to continue family lines perpendicular,

though the weal is caused by sheer, downward strokes.

]No matter how many times you capitulate to their demands they will synthesize more to ground your will to a sheet of dust winds

can't help blowing.[

]Your willingness to follow their directions insists they condition you further.[

You ask their worst impulses to fornicate in your brain. They will demand allegiance

because partisans showing their grain are damned

once they go against it.

]On bright sunny days, their sons will count your time

remaining on this earth.

They would jockey for your precious time to squeeze the last roll-over tricks from your old-dog bag of slippery-sticky lies

from your worst possible timeclock ticking

your last seconds' tithe.

What do now thoughts have to do with Petersburg?

Have you ever considered this?

Da Vinci's Madonna, a relic sickled from the death of attic's dust, hung in Saint Petersburg's Hermitage. It kept the mother Russia's hearth warm, knowing one of her curators poised his life of accumulated information on the sharp side of a pin to recognize a sincere post-mad model's brush signature. They, of historians' collective assessment, had moded the picture to inobscure fame with the prescript : That is an obvious fake, done in a Da Vinciesque starry-eyed wake.

Wrong.

Anyway, it hung there with all the other plundered treasures every conqueror finds, somehow, in a burgeoning art collection power seems to magnate. It kept Rembrant's prodigal son hollow-cheeked with interest in more adventures to come.

The pictures used to talk to each other at night, telling the stories of hours involved, melder of masters and minds

telling the artists what colors

and how soft to stroke

material spirits to lead cloth.

They only did this when the guns were silent.

New conversations, in 1942, were rare.

Ready? Here's the new thought.

Saint Petersburg was remaimed after the proletariat got finished tearing down all its splendor.

They'd burned it once; they'll know how to do it again because

destruction of fragile things is so easy to do

it's hardwired into human psyches.

The external world exactly reflects its internal.

It's not a new condition. The beauty in any great civilization is the first thing to fall.

Those who lived squalid ugly lives don't want to be reminded of it, so they

surround themselves with the illusion they've created.

Gray and stark--look at eastern art it

says the black and white, in big bold letters.

But that's another world-story.

Xenophobia burned the grasping French hands of devils' conquerors' Napoleanland.

He arrived to flames licking the tiles

of a once-grand city. They

wreaked their imaginary plunder and returned through the brutal South France nightmare of unending winter suffering

snipers and bands of get-even tourists

to the idea it wasn't their fault the gorgeous city was ruined.

They were the army that almost destroyed; they were the retreating humility

dying of cold and diseases

like bullets, and proletariats' knives.

Hans, a name given to him by a German-lobby father, vowed to protect this extravagance to art by hiding it in the secrets of closets stashed discretely in the parquet-floored unreality of old Czarist Russia's last-gasp.

1942 was a brutal window. It looked out both ways the winds blew through

unimpeded by glass.

Shocks' concussion terraced age-old glimpses through palace spleendor

in shapeless piles on the un-ballroom danced floors. The army sent a few ruthless men

to shade it from glistening rains

falling on corpses outside.

They installed the unheard luxury of protection from deadly winter elements'

unbroken pains of Hermitage glass, and gawked at the empty frames

their fathers may have ripped from a palace-storming raid.

Lenin, the new conqueror, knew better.

He positioned guards at the doors.

The people

went home empty-handed.

They toured the museum.

They were taken through the empty hallways. They stopped at each discoloration in the floor and lectured on the imaginary vase that stood there. Each painting was meticulously described

to fighting men starving

for something they knew not.

The vail of the curator was so discrete, the man in the men started crying

to see something with his own naked eyes

so terrible.

It was like everything was still there.

Hans lied to no one. He didn't even lie to himself. Only his name was changed to protect their innocent. Today, their Hermitage is rebuilt to its opulence.

It waits its final days, till its paintings can't speak again.

Outside, mother Russian statues pine over a million deaths buried

in years-only graves. 1942 must have been a good year.

Doesn't that sound strange?

What is it if,

the mounds are smaller of height, or sunken with the lack of excess?

Good's a strange person to judge by.

So?

The Germans produced a massive six engine flying boat in 1942.

It died the death of a civilian project turned military

not long afterwards.

See?

It must go back to the scientists.

They've been searching for the quintessential quark for-ever,

perfecting accelerators in ever more cost-provoking sermons

of bigger-n-better is always more expensive, and this quark

was an absolute monster. Murray Gell-man, who connived the principle "quark"

wanted everyone searching his jurisdiction. They fell in line with hours and dollars

trying for the note in the opera he never dreamed of singing.

He was carving his personal reality in stone

of people fighting for this one only version of an infinite world's possibilities.

He diffused his search, by fiddling the keys of his piano with a brass trumpet scrunch.

Look how boring islands are when their perimeters are found.

Look how exciting a world with an edge is, for an edge can't be measured in bounds.

How do you presume to stand on nothing to view the beginning of space?

Our search, is the scientists' agnostic quest of rational holy grails.

What if,

they found the beginning?

Mighten that not be

out there in "space"?

The end?

Physical illness

Reality decrees certain rules of illness. If you don't like a place, it will get you sick

in mind, soul or body. Your predisposition towards negative learning chooses

your own special field of poison.

If you're undergoing a lot of change, you also may get "sick",

for the brain resists strange feelings, and causes their footing to slip

on sick, fever, toil, and weakness. The body doesn't need to break down,

by anything but your insistence it does

for your sinister, rutless feelings that can't be put in a box.

Different equals sick equals worry. The head throbs with the war it rages inside

trying to force the new straight into the old worn slots.

It will thoroughly exhaust you.

If you're too exhausted, the body will manifest undesirable circumstance

to remind you to rest.

That's just the way it is. If you listen to your spirit more, it strikes there,

but most human beings can't listen to anything more profound than their stomachs, hips and appointed bodily needs. The body is yu is you is your body. Your mind tails in significance

as we weigh our needs. Some people ignore everything so thoroughly, their minds have to snap to get some harmful attention. Your body will fight its own message

for wars outside are wars in, and we begin everything single

the collective will finish

(when your disagreement is with some minor part of the whole, and you puke and shit

trying to remove it).

Illness tries to clean you out. It tries to run you down. It slams you into walls so

they'll have something to look at. Sometimes,

the collective contracts you as a pretty demonstration

of what not to do.

If your head is swimming in a million images of everything keeping you from sleep,

examine its motives to do so, for remember, the body is at a war. It's a participant and an observer simultaneously, heating you up with its confusing role.

Your moment of untimely conflict is fueled by a brain gone berserk. It conjures hallucinogenic shapes to cover shapes arising

naturally from super-conscious squeezeboxes

the ultimate is herded into. In the moments of deepest, darkest depression

the answers alight. They are obscured; the darkness envelopes; can you see a sun

hidden in a dank, moldy cellar?

The illness is an injury. It had once been called a truce.

Your truce was a time to think. It caused the head to subside its attack

and the heat of battle to wane. It was the moment portents were called,

or allowed to happen naturally.

People are most interested in smut. Second to smut, the enblightened enjoy a good bout with human interest stories. Humans love to hear they can tromp impossible places and survive immutable odds just because someone else did it for them. Suzy housewife walked across the world when God told her to. She braved all the odds they said ten fearless men wouldn't, and came back smiling. Pepsi-cola bushwhackers love to read that kind of thing in People magazine and feel good about their loveless, passiondeath lives. Jainey housewife thinks that she could run the Iditarod too, or fly away to Cabo San Lucas forever, but that makes her weep inside her secret thoughts she could find her wild free side, knowing it will never happen. People live through other's actions. People foist good earned money on other's lives. That very time=money that keeps them cooped up to wishing, where it's safe, where you don't have to act because you can blame your circumstances for not dragging a hundred pounds of tires behind you down Oregon's hiking trails preparing for your crass-Arctic crossing, on someone else. The news that never hits the marketplace is for the people who've done what they've wanted with life.

In the derelict donuts' hangup

of street-flattened clothing, a backyard linguist orders

sick raised-cream with chocolate glazed

yelping fat-bellied quips on Tibetan Laotian dialects

with the mainland Thai hostess

weary-eyeing her twenty-third hour on

without any pay.

Rain splatters on sliced-up corn-dog bags'

mosaic of tire-squished streets while metal patrons hold newspapers' dry news

in bright-colors' lines wracked

so pertly straight.

Meat trots its year-old electric freeze in the rolls of Americanisms

jiggling the poultry section of the fresh-cut supermarket

looking for some intersection of

something interesting going on the plate for dinner.

At home, his basement freezer barks a death cry

of all the empty searches all those isles

never really filled.

All their romance novels fade to yesterdays. The latest version of their tryst with

your wish to have lived the naughtiest bits have fared less well

with fresh, forbidden fantasies. On the street corner, you can buy the rejects, in piles of dirty-clothing'd hawkers calling your need not to look that way, and buy their next donut

with endless watery cup of liquid enjoyment. The older fantasies have to eat some dust

until they can be problematically reborn.

People line the hallways of the last social stigmas pointing

al the still life characters pinned to the 3-D walls looking

back as if polished silver underarm hair dyke covered by a generous coating of reflective glass

somehow desensitized eyes to moving reflections. In the flimsy costumes of affective speech and exaggerated motives, da-real women an men stand up for their rights to follow their codes in saliently small clichés. They are the facade÷clear day's vision.

They are the ones the followers point to

and exaggerate their happy codes of

no appreciable difference.

See how the round and round rabbits run?

They are the ones who write the voodoo books

their cousins buy with pins to

make so true.