ruminating in a wrinkle
Ataxia - The Sides

Ataxia - The Sides

the napkin stages or to drown in a bowl of cereal

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

how many jellybeans are in the jar?
does broken glass count in a whiplash contest?
i took a dive in a candystore
and every time i break the surface of the water
there’s a beautiful swimming being
the diving bell may have been already invented
but what about an organic wind chime
of rigid autonomy?
every one i see is metal
and all shores are social
their water breaks and pools on me
how far do i wish to see?
over the lighthouse fly outs

all rocks have a seat
and if they’re blinded then in some manifestation of desire, we wish to find them

i fell in hole with decomposer
I’m being statue of a toaster
am i in league with minds pulled over?

our thoughts drown and then they tell us
in the tune of the many sounds that found us
even while you’re swinging branch so taxi
can you hear sounds forbearing and do they stop and start you?

of a mound making eyes unattached and
on the ground for what’s on sale
yes i am, i’m pulling my limbs
these material composited, the finished
but as a get us there
for this, what sound is the layman of the air
other than the calm breathing once you’re there?
walking crab clawing hair
in common with lobster, in common with randomly anyone
composite of jammed locket
part of wearing a necklace
where hands release
and beknownst directional motion smooths out the construct’s crease in the intrinsic stretching fields that beg the world no exploding
a center lying flow in the new sounds loading

When I pop open to language what’s now a retreat it’s fleas of the week. Then back to the work of discrete and quick-crete there’s so much clunk it’s clunk in brunk and a stomach crescendo is hitherto’s window and hopefully not henceforth’s ladder to our world’s tray only each split second moment of the day’s arm room for clearing what’s huge owing rye to a pumpernickel sky beneath we’ve been living off our factory’s tortillas

drip drip drip drip
rain on the knots
drip drip drip drip
from what’s known of these knots
thirst calmed down
trees loving with better than a telephone
if it’s a path way in the middle of the woods
can you really see it with a back holding these woes
i’m gonna design a bed that looks like a grassy road
i’m gonna sleep in the right lane in the night time and the left in the morning
all my time awake i’ll spend under a gazebo
when it’s time to move i’ll find a way
and after enough words
i’ll realize the first page place is just an island
and the next has yet to arrive
i’ll get sick of being out of the sun and climb up on the roof
or i’ll drive back into bed

with a ladder laying across
that i will make a shelf

if i ever have four walls

for the minor dish small 
i’d love to sit there lightly
while the walls go convertible
and i haven’t sat down like that for a million years

because all feet extend out the cash register doors
they crush the glass of the pictures sitting on the floor
because just standing in the mess
chilling standing in the mess 

big world of action

When I call upon the man
They want me to be santa claus, I want them to be santa claus
When we’re shaking hands we feel everything’s moments and regret and dodge pettiness’ lust
At least in the moments we feel unguardedly us
We take the steam roller bus but wake up on the caterpillar and every time, on the way we hatch into a butterfly and go somewhere better
We take a slingshot to the dust and rebound into hobbies
We blame lobbies and idle bodies
We call it the yingyang, we call it two sides of the wafer because we want to eat the wafer, because we want our arms extended bulging, and we stand, too scared of let downs to walk to where we’re standing and collaborate on what’s up and down
We want immunity from the frown and we know there’s channels so we want to believe everything fits into this one and flows smoothly down
We pull spokes from our backs and long to be ebbing and caressing and cruising
We sing and yell of mobster jams and stick our heads into sardines and put goldfish into empty cans
We’re maniacal locked up against the anchors for dip in the water art
And we all must prove and create even if just in our own heads, otherwise the every day state upon our every day face breathes shadows that we hate
It’s something about this place
Whatever the moon is, it’s of a collision and its tides we must choose how to swim in

Whatever the wiring
And whatever its birth
It’s still not like a decision
Still in this living

And we’re all scared of large voices in our heads
And we all zap with any words we read
And we’re all abhorred by unwanted ends
And we’re all outside our heads
The language too painful to willingly comprehend
Of we’re were at, hello, my fellow men
I’m just saying, language is reaction, I’m just saying this in a world full of action
And when I’m headfirst I always feel pinned to a backflip
I’m just always trying to go right back to some ideal space between something so massive

Haruomi Hosono - Chow Chow Dog
22 plays

Haruomi Hosono - Chow Chow Dog

I missed out in this blasted spree
Every crosswalk’s compromise and the same for the street
As just paint and as just pavement pick up themselves as a laser’s laser and cross back and forth the street
We do or don’t get rested and fall asleep from towers
Perplexing, the next thing, that I’m gliding down the hill pushing good moods like laughing babies in carriages
How lucky a horseshoe around the neck
And around the back, the camouflaged back
Every time I look at it a prone man acts all grown man and instead of groaning, fires a rifle at the sun
Would suck to be chased after by the skeet shot at duck

This lunch, the picnic
In the water picnic
Pool floating picnic
Esoteric igloo
Stretch hands stuck to glue
Lonely for any thing felt let go
Or of the preposterous limbos
I’d like to fill a tuxedo
With the world’s shadow puppet matinée
And all the extra sunlight that’s been blocked away