All that happened this morning has happened again, twice, as the gallery of your imagination floats on a rubber raft to the corner of a lake, an unknown source of dark adventure, home of giants and fabled military heroes, final home for God's unassailable. You rowed over there once, on a pile of books, warbling songs of humor and alarm as darkness slept on you and as the obscure came to capsize its clown-faced revelation in a way that suited the clumsy grandeur of the moment. In youth you heard talk of those who came before, but all you found at the scenes of their storied incidents were outdated train schedules, dusty light bulbs, wood tables, and coffee mugs stuffed with inkless writing utensils. It took time before you started imagining what clues these objects could represent. You searched for a palimpsest etched onto maps, looking for directions, left by someone, to a stone wall at which a naturally flattened stone had been topped with keys and instructions which led you back to your boat of books and back to the waters. A summary thud of attention, unknown to you, was engaged but not helpful. You assume your travels are self-guided and so you miss important clues by declining to remember details, vanishing behaviors with which you attack your surroundings and atom-sized specks of mental glue connecting everything from cracked sidewalks of your childhood to rotted apples in your refrigerator, denying yourself (and those who will scramble your past for precious information) a full or even skeleton-frame understanding of why your desultory rambles sent you where they did. Oh, you begin with a statement, an excuse, a revelatory confession, but that reveals nothing new. You are like the ancients in your tendencies to place yourself at the center of things but you come clean in the end, detaching yourself from rancid planets you concocted and quietly orbiting, one at a time. This, you think, is good information: Temporal but infinite, greedy but righteous, you have crafted a flamboyant vacuum for attentions unwittingly manipulated away from calmer snapshots and comfortable subconsciousnesses of those whose attentions arrived from sources about which you knew nothing, quiet squanderings of loyalty to a booming trail of invented memory.


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video frames grand pills chipped away drama bonds of seagulls darkened afternoon child panic nun racing hurt reports of vehicles driving with legs spread bullets removed cigarettes peeling steam creationist courthouse wheels pliant dew-stained suggestions from hurried boots raced bodiless down a pencil-sketched crown wreathed for future centuries slipping up now under multi-lingual notes-to-self crossing in the washing machine of radio static throwing rugged throats for hungry mouthpieces slapping houseboats rising with picnic supplies for blind retreats and directionless paperwork sanded to its original nub by triumphant anonymous ambulance chasers preparing their speeches and adjusting the microphone of their collected deprivations trusted to the casket of personal policy-making animals loaded onto trains removing chatterhounds to the graveyard where vibrating memory twirls a hindered concoction into the future of nimble fiends who stole nothing incoherent save for drawing room conversations among generations of gull-bitten flowers pushed and rolled out of troubling parades by fleshless bionics named for 3rd century despots whose secrets rise up on every first date lying straight but poised for thundered retreat at the criminal compound of streetwise maniacs greeting adolescent pornographers with military hills of grease and barrels pouring sweet and numb police onto trinket shops where freedom roars and follows you for decades of explanation and anecdote pointing your singular little finger to illustrate and graft boondoggles with masterworks for cleverly adroit nuances of your intellectual innards hovering freely in the bottoms of a highway's solemn dreams littering the undertow of your cocoon as it teases unsettled nurses and priests whose iconic royalty amounts to a common fad that guiltily admits its theatrical bitterness only covers the dull taste of a deadened cabernet coiled by vigorous zonal greenhouses eloping with asterisks and afterthoughts in freest compliance with junkmen and statuary challengers poised to fly from the deepest buildings into the highest breath


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a swirl of morning delusion mixes cash memories from childhood with pitifully fallen styrofoam cups with laughably trite memories made magical when spoken by the object of an infatuation, with bold newsreel headlines from events that never occurred but which you joked about in your forgotten youth spent clinging to fences and gawkily radishing in the sea of honey and sugar swirling from the back of your head to the candy bowl inside your skull, that region of inalienable mystery, you memorized some parts of your human anatomy but never the skull, never the brain, you maintain the mystery, like people, like strangers, like the invisible material bonding the universes, clamping far-away countries and rooms in which your language is never heard, you cling to the magic of sparsity as it ironically evaporates, hurrying through your teeth like a hungry fib, drowning a world where everything is common, libraries stuffed with deteriorating accumulation, you discard once-precious volumes of unique publication, wishing errors survived so you could summon your expertise to deliver a pointed finger at mis-spelled names and errant citations, but these clever bits of discord vanish into malleable blandness and you solitarily conspire to manipulate the past with those headlines you concocted, studying lies for centuries accepted as history, rummaging through possibilities to believably manage reality with the power of one who writes it, you let joyful hoaxing thrive in obtuse lunacy by copying pages from partly-filled discarded diaries of a neighbor, by mastering her hand-writing and learning the surface of her language, you complete her book, filling a balance of her stories with barely-literate attempts at explaining what drove her to become a living excretion of luxurious anonymity, your reticent language barely strung together like whispering wind chimes summoning calmest comforts of sanity but rising up to future thieves of history like your morning mix of boiling news and America's scramble for something ulterior, something baffling over which to triumph, into which urgently stiff contours of a fabled land stroked events into contortion of lies.


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joy pops defiantly numb bubblers on sands of paint On minds of robot villainy On flapjacked roller rides hoisted wily & glib in the staredown between human and reindeer who are practically keys in the pocket of a bottle of wood, the trivia is easy the answers litter the conversation of 3 generations who memorized borges Who followed him around the stacks and looked for themselves in his blindness Who tried to dance on borges' eyelid flipped up like a youthful soccer player's toenail, $3.99 for a hypercunt pop of sullen joy its volume yanked like a checkmark on your 5th grade social studies masterpiece where the rains fell onto the sleevelessness of new york and under the live burial of a massacre survivor who acted dead but felt the footsteps of the woman with the guns stomping about the corpses barking posthumous orders and lecturing on what to expect from the blood and brains tangling "like goobers in butter" and "like phlegm sneezed into your mother's hair" she prepared you for the inconveniences of brainsplatter but you refused to honor the advice and on account of knowing how not to breathe you live for another useless week spitting angular honks of geometry into miasmas of suicidal glee footnoted over the pinnacle of abraham lincoln's fame before his face was known to have traveled under communist lotions Before his melungeon eyebrow characterlessly grinned at the hieroglyphic sounds of a touch-tone telephone Before fingers touched Before tones jumped into joyful drudgery of adolescent alcoholism Before cloned cheeseburgers girled washington, d.c., Before abstract sexual positions surveilled portuguese anchormen for parenthetical explanations of 13th century punk rivalries among pot bellied senators, chickasaw caucasians, and metal-voiced preachers one-quarter the age of the portuguese who noodle sermons through trial flocks of rural worshippers unconsumed by the noise of ice cream trucks and undigested by the aggressive wealth of insignificant strangers lurching out of obscurity from their magnificent mausolea into which idle minds wander from the panic section of print newspapers half-read Half-blamed Half-crumpled Half-heavied Half-rhubarbed Half-diseased then the curtains showered down on the tiny light bulb which cream-killed plastic cunts and concrete cocks by singular death ray of the lungs incapable of deeping to a catch of lithe summary strokes pinned to obscure arrows seen in hotel bathrooms and erased from dismissive laughter of youthful howlers travelling in american laos reliving the golden days that never were but which they presently own on account of access to lonely tubes of pulverized information yanking around like sentenceless punctuation