now what

now what

follows is speculation.

let it in

like the default

drool of millions

over sftp

this rigorous posturing

along the notes 

that are our barrelling

ground, they fall away

behind us and everything,

trilling waft into a tune

over the fissures

of the database.

listen to it in pieces

follow the prompts

on this little sortie

adorned with some tend-

ons from the corpse."

and flip the house spatulas

to send out as swag to reporters

in the final weeks.

in the final weeks,

call me drill:

water, headphones, almost nothing 

carried by slack fire,

‘mere’ content

, the thing about,



let it in

as you draw level

with the boutique,

its easy open empty time

of death, witnessing nothing

, brought by nobody

four centuries ago.

click away

to the verge

of the drool of millions

in the mouthpiece

of the plastic trumpet

in his plastic mouth

listen to it in pieces

in high dudgeon

as a brace of soldiers,

aides-de-camp, and scouts

ride in at the gallop

from all directions

—hence describing viscous flow. 

there was this one time.

fixed, like a match, struck

and cast over the salt pan

of your flat punctured 

petrified overinflated 

blown-out eye;

parents yell.

stick finger in

for symmetry

tack east

elect madness

else hand disease the 

conch for a change and

abscond out the pillow

’s bottom dripping

through the surface

of a laketop you ride

into a waking distance

and, being a destroyer,

theres aught but

waste about you

, so mown of natural form

you cannot see

the sschreeching wind

stick finger in

riecht nach nichts

as was written

or of cheesecake

topped with whipped cream, 

sour cream, cream cheese,  

custard, quark, buttermilk, 

cottage cheese, soft serve, 

labneh, kefir, meringue, 

gorgonzola, ghee

and schmand

phlwomping down

the río pícaro

stick finger in


, like all good art,

on soft-lit shipboard

eating poison trash

with the witches

who actually arent

but shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

who actually are

and who already know

the levels of mercury

in deep-sea fish

and ordain sea-level rises

on the other side

of the other planet

their noses buried

in tufts of sun

they see moon and say

moon, their eyes say eyes

who brave death

just to be here

whose words take us

past being, past

quadcore mayor

to haggard gull

domain. a 

deputation went to

complain, led by a seaman

named gorf and his sternman

(director of saw II, saw III, saw IV, 

saw V, saw VI and saw VII)

what a dragnet

stuffed with steel wool

advancing like suspicion

carried by slack fire

thru city blocks

to enforce the construction

of the unbearable

whose hard-edged stair

wells press you out

into cut vacancy.

bin be in it

else joy stick?


“use this to jail

all users in their homes”