Jab!

One from Beazley Kanost, and one from me in response to hers.

Proof, “Proof”

It is grey and reminds me, encased in a boot. The kind that scares little kids into proof, "proof", of what happened to every part of a man's life, equally mechanical.

I'm going to get my gritty vernacular up there in the car like most cars, with various tools.

The Maine plates probably turned this evening sweet, except the stigma of next week has been stepped on by a very large Comedy with laces made of steel. Thinking is greasy, the threaded kind you see these days. I guess it was only matter, an old competitor of time.

I hope to change that Ocean but don't speak English. Use the receipt, and this time 'round, speak of an atom that existence requires, a love never really made with anything else. My love is a whopping conversation--earlier in the revolve, mysteriously absent from the TIRE shop. I'm supposed to mine this swoon with tragedy, but meander on up to free running speed.

What about you pushed back to early English? The original reason for nice guys makes swagger even more like putty. You're always putting together nagging borders by way of that boot and futile quest that had the car at an exact conversation. You purchased the two days. You know, for as long as food is a worthy guess. I bet the shop there were a few major states when some thought during the trip met up with a pot of time to change some point and didn't feel like the days before the State.

The car is dramatic, aloof. Probably more fun than not being so strange. I rarely do anymore. Me. I'll be in and I will be in something when I visit new visits.

I lived in.
It was probable.
It's been.
Admitted myself.
It's been.
They were right.
Checked at.
If not, then maybe.
I didn't try many.
Which will be since will.
That's with.
The Thank.
That was the trip.
Anyway, but.

Written on 04-15-09

*********************

" "

The gray encasing me boots up. It is kind, and look at all the little kids happening to proof it. The women are forcefully mechanical nearby.

The scars are various up at the top, where form, formal, molecular, vernacular tools away with new proof. Your metallic box ticking to sleep.

No more Maine plates. The children get new ones used. Does replacement echo disintegration? Tying these shoes, spreading rust everywhere, time showers one week, the week of one, onto the next. But damn the sweet stigma of this evening's footwear crisis! Drawn curtains do well to damn. It is like everywhere I go finds one more comedic roof. I'm digging up a garden through Center City Philadelphia rooftops, revising a mystic's triptychal trimmings. What is more than three? Whatever comes next will just have to be grease. Ooze. Pleasant. Purpose. Let's not talk about our minds or dimensions anymore.

2000 years, all threaded into what came before, should be the full-stop we need.

"Into the earth we depart / Through the gates of its own railway station: / The full stop / at the end of the tunnel / is black, / like the snout of a gun." ***

So read Voznesensky. Read ideas about our great competitors, and shut your books. You may find, upon shutting, some hope in the (Atlantic) Ocean from some Russian hero who receipts our existence. Our love bobbing within the waves makes nothing nor just destroys.

I see:
- Holding up mica below the sun. That was in Maine in 1995.
- Burning a dictionary but full failure. That was in Rhode Island in 2007.
- Crushing a cockroach below a lamp. That was in Pennsylvania a week ago.

But we make with love even through destruction. The whoppers whooped in a Southern tire shop. No one whoops in the North. No cough. Nothing. Just doesn't happen.

There is revolving conversation in Boston. Catch the door and run away from there. Get your free speed and doodads voluptuously tragedized by the villains. We villains with our words and wands.

Sri Lanka coming to an end. Can't sit still while below the swoon howls. Move to the large states (of America) where you can't handle. We have grit in these large places. We think we can get away with a dialect but remain decent enough. Fetch the decanter, they say. No one fetches. No one decanters.

Brotherly love. Social erections--butterfly antennae. There aren't really and puttings going on are something, too. Nice guys swagger to where we know the nice guys are known well enough. For their swagger. For their nice swagger.

We who are plentiful, silent, are also murky. We who are mercury are always early and ugly. We kiss New York on the cheek. This is Philadelphian.

Imagine that as they don't kiss us back. Seeya, See you, Seeyaw, Seeyah, See-saw. We and you. You brought us here. You bought us here. Purchases may have been nagged but stills were released and we had to.

So there was this post that we threw you in. Filled with on-sale Easter candy, it was just the right aid for your brittle AIDS bones. You had had a good Easter and a good Friday before it. We waited for you now to fatten up. Cremation costs 2000 Washingtons and that's more than a trunk dig at the car stop.

We screwed that idea away.

You asked if the sugar trip was free. I said yes but now the Delaware no time for the glucose. And not the gap Delaware we ain't going up there. More like Old Richmond where the artists' bonfires would be close enough. A few major State agencies might show up like statues and get a kick. Seeing messages tattooed onto your ribskin with knife point. We got good kicks so why not they?

You said what about coffin decisions? I said that's the dumbest death decision humanity ever themed after. More like ran through with blue shorts on. But what about your end? you asked as you passed self to trunk. We got you at a discount, oh exhaust hat.

STEPS TO AN ALOOF CREMATION:

1. Death by drowning (Delaware River where Camden is just to the south)
2. Wait by soaking (on the Philadelphian bank of the Delaware river)
3. Body monitor (coastal camp out with fish-line spiked to sunk bod)
4. Body modification (transport of body from river to Camden waterfront)
5. Resource gathering (dried bushes, deceased and breaking, 3 per body; unleaded gasoline, ten gallons; match-sticks with witty messages on the paper packings)
6. Abandoned forested area translocation (for further wear and tear)
7. Dance after stranger has dried and begun to light. You may now know him or her. You can go home and create your artifacts later.
8. Return to the remains every two days; adequate wind measurement system. Does God really talk to us? et cetera

In the car on the the car ride home. Wasn't so strange. Carol read the Jack Spicer book because Carol wanted to feel like she was doing something on her own. This happened under a pear-shaped moon that was usually banana-shaped. Windows were down to doom's end. Stenton Avenue was the Avenue we drove on.

For no other reason than anymore being so rare a visit these days.

Down the tubes where the radio piped in. Shut up, boxed in Carol turned the KIA's volume knob to the right. By the way she existed nothing new was going on but it was true that the verse confused her right at the intersection of Stention Avenue and Mermaid Lane, a romantic urban hotspot for traffic goers alike. I could be found in the driver's seat. There was nothing romantic about the situation. Only incantations from the speakers.

Those housing projects have so many people shutting down inside of them, Carol said. More bait for our tackle, I thought to myself. I could hear Lovecraft crying from a large mouth in Providence. A beast or canal or mini-sky-scrape. And from the radio, the lines flowed like today's news report on Swine Flu:

Written on 04-27-09

You lived out.
They chanced at.
They busy being.
Admittance of a them.
They done in up.
I was ripening it ripened.
Plucked down under trip.
Maybe before the after.
You busy at one.
Were too were for will.
Again, and not then.
Pleasing mentioning over.
That could be its open.
Therefore however.

Written on 04-21-09

*** From "Ballad of the ." by Andrei Voznesensky.