the unwanted help
the fart in the felt
i thought of how air heads must come out of
the conveyor belt like a fan, fluctuating the air
helping everyone to the right level of not needing any other words to be there
and modern day, internet way, there
fanned out in front of the photo board
however this aware
this is a block of stone to keep the foundation symmetrical to the air
the unwanted help
no switch? priority switch? minority hall. transformative long hall? if life is a dish? it’s still utensil and object.
"Every ultimate fact is only the first of a new series. Every general law only a particular fact of some more general law presently to disclose itself. There is no outside, no inclosing wall, no circumference to us. The man finishes his story,—how good! how final! how it puts a new face on all things! He fills the sky. Lo, on the other side rises also a man and draws a circle around the circle we had just pronounced the outline of the sphere. Then already is our first speaker not man, but only a first speaker. His only redress is forthwith to draw a circle outside of his antagonist. And so men do by themselves. The result of to-day, which haunts the mind and cannot be escaped, will presently be abridged into a word, and the principle that seemed to explain nature will itself be included as one example of a bolder generalization. In the thought of to-morrow there is a power to upheave all thy creed, all the creeds, all the literatures of the nations, and marshall thee to a heaven which no epic dream has yet depicted. Every man is not so much a workman in the world as he is a suggestion of that he should be. Men walk as prophecies of the next age."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson -Circles
grooves that leave wiring grounds
an appliance floats up and then floats down
appliance floats up and then floats on
the cord one hand tugs
the hands that have not been grasped to shake
the fling towards a ring drawn inside a circle of pen
we all abuse what gravitates around the siphons of our heads
each flower of a hole with each a solar system of collective soul besieged to telescopic row and the distance
and what we know is making dishes, wishes, but also the never removed crashes with rubble never disposed
all in order of pragmatising “rather not conspire with” clacking tone
lends a boat grasping fruits, all kinds, call them plums and figs
still a frig of what should please stop stomping
spinning and wanting what we should really be off to
a fortune cookie’s reading hand into my nook and cranny
the cold shoulder of a nihilist beach
i think of frisbees on feet when i try to beckon you to flux
it’s like i was told “you’ll get lost but i’ll be like this”
or more likely that i’m disposed to being a box driving a box
everybody’s sitting on the beach next to batteries
our teeth are calcium
deposits of our own personal stockpile and a drawer full of apologies
a nod of acknowledgment to a sense screwed right off the threads
as the soda trucks have flattened down
are we for a shallow
even when this underfound?
i hope the cancel dress’s biggest architecture isn’t mothballs
i guess we all want keys to the starting gates
not a race, would it be a whirlwind, recording glaze?
is respect in place?
is this every single way?
text messages between some infinite and scattered
while locked tight in substance crates
what even, right? is a phase?
i’m intersected by a world of sections
with a map of a napkin on a tissue
and then i breathe on passes
if you’re not happy when you leave the room
stay put until you stretch a full teal yawn
into the outside through an open door left for full wind blow ins
and if the walls don’t blow bubble gum and the light doesn’t dim you sound asleep
then what’s blowing that gets around, that bounces off a corner?
in our short life time’s moments
and as each blade of grass is strapped to a hat and gives a miniature plastic lawn to its favorite offspring
what feelings are we all trying to beat?
to be human feet tall
we take this thing for a ride
'that we are our own cocoons'
suggests the motion of mood
that the thing has been known to stop and start
is in the second hand bounce of the wrinkled so magnificent
poor old moon
yet ‘breakfast in half an hour’
ripples from sound to sound
spins what’s inside and bound
and then it seems to drown