August 26, 2014

Poetry "Three Egegious Errors" by Mac Wellman

                                 THREE EGREGIOUS ERRORS 
                                           Mac Wellman
To live is to act.
        -- Isaiah Berlin
...  uh-oh the Overthrow (The Argumenta).
sundisc has, ah, over
played the, ah,
Oversoul; has a
V valve lain with a
drastic sidekick and
there you are;
                                              CANTO 1
Cooked goose of instep  
thrown as throne as throne can be
throne as thrown as throne can be
thrown as thrown as thrown can be
and no slide-rule
Reunionist has hushed the
matter Silvery's
sleight of hand
has caused to be
sprocketed.  Has caused
to stay the splay,
retuse and sinuate.
opera hats, recusant unredeemables
pardon the tails
reluctant top timbers
have caused, likewise, to appear
apparent to no other
fractured deity, but of whom
it is spoken:  No gravel
grows under her torch-lily
toque, till the till
is filled with other scarcity,
debris of azure heaven, popped
out into a wastrel
dig, all top dog topery.  The
of Uh-Oh is: I should've
heaven's wingnut by the Western
most flange, at the Wendish
Outreach Station, there, by eld
Cubicular Heights, where the
pork pie greets the cowboy with an
alien doff, placating rebuff
and porism which says to
each, hold and stay thy
point.  The Illuminist gaff's
broken wind, wind of tines
and screwier owls than are
brother to screech;
brother to awful inappropriateness,
denier of Jesus Olfactory Depression
our seldom seeable
DeepSeatedOne, weighing down the nays
and noes of categorical
upstart.  Of figman and figwoman
our curious and silhouetted
Types, tongued and tasselled
earliest of deodorized Earliers,
all cinquefoil, gullies
shrivelled like the short-tailed shrew,
to uttermost moonwort, a
thing no other thing can hold
honorably, in hand.
                                              CANTO 2
For Time's jalopy and hosted mice,
gone whopping loose-strife, or,
loose-strife whopping and lost a wheel
to whosoever
has diddled crackery;
whoso has done that
ensorcelled act of not so bright
retrospection is a snow-man
deft, too deft to hear Time's
low-note rumble.  Too populist
and other-fascinated, far the fair,
to settle in with, in a relativity incline,
Janus-faced, safe in the mistake
no no-man, old Porphyry's own,
has jacked and swayed,
sinless and slightly Roman
as though lost like a wooden top
on the silver-tufted current of Japan.
Japan, our western bezant,
similar in form to the classical
patera, especially on the fiascoes
of archivolt, pictured girls and boys
of the Japanese nation that
lost the war, but won the peace;
thrown as throne as throne can be;
throne as thrown as throne can be;
thrown as thrown as thrown can be.
                                              CANTO 3
I was a Prowl Car
and a journal box
both; I
do as I am directed
St Finitude has ruled;
this corks the bottle
my syntactical boat
floats, with flagrant quintara.
Santara, santara, santar.
An "if" of proximal stress
relaxes; all our glory,
pruning hooks, deathward set
to horrify the cloacal;
find prunes for the metaphor
workers, sipping an ichor of shimmer
glow, in our dank, low housing,
all housing without siding
because Mister Shiloh missed his
mark at Mount Psychochemical,
a place, like Amor, not on no
known chart, a place
aped by the unlovely
shill, chosen sod of Hobson.
So when you slide downtown
with the Law of Menippus in your Wendish
knapsack, stop for a quick cafe
at my cousin Leaden Joe's.
He has beheld all fishes
that illuminism wonders
at, deep breathy phosphor tube-crocus,
amusements of ribbon, Niger Congo, feathered angelus,
sunken nidhogg, stooped enigma fish;
and the fabled eel of New Nickerie
who nidges, frames pantropical
ecotops, all roundly aglisten, gruff
and soiled in a mystic attar
no seemly utterance has space
in her vocabulary for, for
Pansy is a girl's name, not a
quadratic of release.  But
the cynic is a fool;
the fool is a gimmick the cynic
has supposed a tool, but
Moses had perfect pitch.
Pray, relay to the infinite, my relator
this local delusion, this dust
as lost Seti deposed in Crete.
fetch only the waxing moon
to amend wrongdoing and the Law
Nations makes wrynecked, wood.
Wood is mad wood in wildish
dogmatic, so Miss Wyoming dreams
sewing up her lira in waxenberry
frenela; the girl there, so aware
St Finitude has longeyed, long, too
long, her golden hair, object
correlate, pigalle, homestead,
loadstar, coin of praise, folly, lust.
So: Do not ask for flint glass
when you mean the fabled
object ball.  The man of war
like the periodic cicada, is drenched
in fantan and lilywort reverie.
Problems are posted for him
to consider, dry as infolded
granulate mica.  Precious dust
the polyphemus moth conveys
All the way from Proverb,
France, a place September
massacred in one aloof
Mind.  A mindful murdered thing
seeking the so and so
of romantic question and repose.
Rosella, rosella, rosella.  Pose
So and so, the Rose-Water man,  SS
(Sunday School) reject poses in
rude rebellion to Any's ethical T-square;
this happens, late, by the dimestore
nickelodeon, Cubicular Heights'
one moral Rosetta Stone.  Idiots
assemble to watch, lurianic
outlaws accuse the times
without a cloth and goth
processional.  What the tale
that origin has obliterated, scone
and scone, mad Rosicrucian
hack fest, might seem to was as is;
therefore's failed theorem.
We bear the majestic scourge
thought cranks up, all souls,
eventual mandrake, blossom of rosehip,
a driven crie, fatal
parenthetical.  Particular physic. An
This too shall
pass.  Oh,
we all make mistakes, only
some uh-oh, all the utter clarity
down driven, ah, the fatal
cellar steps, one way
staircase to hell's
blue flower suite, limitless, solemn
dreaded tomb of the fieldmouse, owl even;
you who
dip in a phantom's disregard
for truth, no lake in Avalon;
place of welded swords, X
with no rights and no privilege,
a marked man in hearts, have a power
less for that garden path
shrouded with abominable tree branches, the
ray of hope raised in Xyst;
Rose of Sharon- luminous,
dripping a cold attar of phosphor,
slightly damp-- and dead to worlds;
than a will to right what's tipped
over, all the way.
Passionnel, reveals a bookish
crime against nature; crime
the rawest parable of might crows,
always indelible, always at noon
time.  Because you, the fairly wronged,
lost youth, have overmanned the
occidental with merely human
messages, guesses at the dark
pull the accidental causes
poof and overpoof, obscuring all
with all other pulled teeth, factual
noise.  Irony
ironizes ironicity, and other
occidental nuisances.
Accidents are always certain
they are to occur just when and whim
crimes against nature are true
in this absolute manner.  The way
cleared for the human by a formal
contingency appalling as the idol's
smoke, santara santara--
Santap.  Law reduces only the lip
tragedy adheres to; all the rest
engorges the  human sky like an
unpredicted unexpected violence
storm, santara santara--
Santap.  Of the sort no one here,
all dental throwbacks in star
or four-points' region, can recall.
The Law stands outside the law;
what is foretold does not demand
to be told when to fold up tents,
curse the wild raccoon, and get
Gitana in out of the rain before
she is absconded wholly in that wind
a thing gone,
unafraid girl
just the way fearful Elementals like
them.  Slender waisted, pale-- and to
wit and knowing wholly dead.  Songs
like to dwell on these conclusions;
total removals, speech without a hope
of pindownable edifying star-scatter.
It is after all, La Mama Umbria,
a dark time we keep telling
ourselves we have mistakenly got
ourselves, lost in a pigsty, in.
-- humiliation.  Wolf moaning;
then a girl comes out from a tree.
She smiles, slank.  Once more
everydayness has shanked reality
and she cannot get away.
Smiles, slanker.  More good-humored
than he who set the top
to spin, maddened wooden isotope,
had he been, thus, sprung.  She
cannot go;  still, she is too fair
to stay.  Fair meaning just.
In the woods we hear someone we thought
less than us, make a better music
with a stick, a bucket and a window pane.
Pika, pika, pigweed, pike.  Pika Pika.
                                              CANTO 4
Airy's wish is to complete her education
unafraid of willybugs.  Wish for Oversoul's
underbelly and walkable tangents.
The cosmic geometer has slept through
our false damnation, she thought.  Apparently
I am finished.  It is this perhaps
the point St Finitude adduced, wakerife
midrib, involving the Wendish rule
no one had ever yet invoked, without
or within the saint's earlymost nest
on Lower Rupert Isle, a place of inky
black leather ribbon-fish, and site of certain prehistoric
rites, all night rites
of seven, eleven, and bright pink pumps.
I deduce a closing
door, thought Airy
her nose climbing like literary judgment;
Kicker's parabola is veering this way;
Very's hyperbola turns my song to hay
hoots of a primitive ball
game.  Not baseball but backswimmer
balky.  Ballarat, ballarat, ballarda.
The balance
bar has catched expressman's rifle.
Coldest summer in a hundred years
they say.  How do they know?  Who,
who, darn it, darn it, has crept
out of the baccarat to proclaim this
if not owl's Blagg, a crater in the first
quadrant of the moon, not known
for making tracks in outer dark upstate
nettled underwood.  Blagg, two miles
across, a blast crater two miles across,
home to none but ghostly homeruns
of Honogiru (of Cipangu),
sixth son of Nono, bar sinister
boar's head erased, stag's head cabooshed.
                                              CANTO 5
Silver knot, slink-square in the dire rope.
Rope of fiendish mold people, fssh.
Yes fssh and nddlg.  This last an old
oath on the truancy of certain beans.
Cranberry beans driven to choose
where to go and whether to become, like us
a kind of people.  People, less and more.
People, and thus subject to a rule
that cannot be adduces outside
the hat of that, Kerygma's Enigma,
star fruit of the eldest known elected
knot.  Big one.  O Spinnaker
of myriad Kepi, to what dark fulcrum
do we tend? do we doom toward?
So we do the Dinwiddie be-bop do-wop
with an erring sense of wardour.
Recalls me:  Wardour's wobble
a kind of fanatic diorama we used to
(not Airy, not Silvery, not me certainly)
frequent in our
kicks and cartwheels, proclaiming
for all Love and Justice and other
similar causes, essential and dimorphic,
inked to a local disturbance plate;
blue lightwave at the bottom of the lake,
Lake Zannagustapolier,
where at midnight the mighty ratfish blow,
bellow and blow and blow once more;
fates are facts twisted to hard knots,
strangulation napkins, 7
kinds of forbidden veils, 3
kinds of inner light handkerchief,
the ones we give in trade to Feather'd Peoples,
whose dark, runcible nomenclature
is permeable to our, inly
ownest, Newtonian wishes.  Those
we improve to help
the Fall.  Those
Who were mostly like
us before the
fell, awfullest Transparency.  Awful
clearing in the antique woods of Cubicular Heights.
A place like any other, roundish
and cloth-covered, a-thrill.
Statement of worth, crossed, crossed out,
Belcherized.  Rendered snotly
by dwarfish intervention.
Cruel Ilka, your hand-springs have
lain these long years in wait for pretty
Susan's bum;
there is no rule to caution, the localism
is supreme, is's infolded after
works.  The setting down within strange canoes,
overminded ministrations, cuckoo
taunts, night's cahoonery, all
crickets, doves and foxy
squabble, a parliament of squeaky hinges.
There is no right rule to any of this,
Airy, what opposing FICT
with undenominate FRACTION supposes.  It is all
Luther's cool blown.  Burbank's possessive
shawl exposed to the Arctic sun, bleached
and kept for clean by the
Northmen.  Their guess's good as mind.
Cush, cush, cush, cush.
Inly owns a fractured inch
and not a kind of fiddle-faddle,
for night is mind.
                                              CANTO 6
Goat's rue and Goa powder
stand alone, an offering to the Ilfrit;
the rest of us sheltered from the cold night
by a meteor shower Sitt al-Husn the
Innocent mentioned but once, blackly,
in her bloodred Book.  The fully human
error is built upon the twisty staircase
that starts on the plain, starsent,
at Old Sarum; Wends again.  An
inmost of elsewhere, all
troubled by rounds.  Place to place
moving with a fixed plan, Dorobo,
Wandorobo, Walvis Bay-- the
Ilfrit's Ilfritah, scorched to cinders
by charged volts of Allah's
quiver.  She who took our care much
to heart.  Lost above the wandering Ghats.
No one's gain, no one's wamefou.
                                              CANTO 7
On the wane
is waning, quote the cryptic Ilfritah;
want's wanion
is quite due to produce new
urges.  Urges beyond the alligator
press, curse of the four-eyed devil
deep.  Urges composed of simple
wishes.  The common want of simple
things, things that bring a certain
piety to human dwelling.  Places
not on the hit wire agenda.
Ghost places, old Zebu fear has accidentally
burnt out
in, leaving them alone and pretty.
Buttercups, phlox, foxglove and wallcreeper's
delight, all
spaces given over to children's
laughter, nameless beast chittering
that missed the epic upheaval
just next door, Site B, where fires smoke out
in ruined barns, skulls.  Airy's
loss is Silvery's baccarat;
the offcast recast as the Savior
of Wands.  Hairs'
jubilee.  Idiot's true listening box
and bacca macca of citronella,
a surd of substantive
beyond the and of Babu Eliot's ken,
Signor Sterlino's.  The hook-edge
of Nictu
viewed optimistically as Dawn's
Razor and day's bachelor degree.
In the woods at the city edge
no one takes the time
it takes to talk about these things;
old useless errors fill up the air
ways with the songs of hatred,
Tom Thumbery of Vengeance Deified
and the litany of dread.  I sit
here.  My car won't start and, hey,
it is not even my own car.  Clearly
is someone else's and how did
I get into this?
And, hey, if
Police should come along and want to
know whose car
Would I be able to tell them?
No. No. No.  God keep you, small and nicked
says the good
phantom Ilfritah.  Angel of the soul's
removal, scotched egg of doom.
Unlike Socrates to Crito, I spew,
Then say: Apeleuthomai euthus!
which means something like
"Henceforth I'm out of here".  And go--
after tossing high the keys over the
squushy green center of Lake Cristina,
shadow place.  Yawn of unfinished
tasks, epic and otherwise.  You? You guess
what Ilfrit saves me from my actions.
A thousand and one thoughts
occur to someone much wiser than me.
I correct myself, vault into the midst
of air and light and destiny.
Cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo gala cuckoo.
A mighty raintree ratfish rises and
with a blow of steam
swallows the keys, high, at the top of his arc,
splashes into the greenish moss
colored splurk, all the curled water
faints and refrains and refrains, still.
Other owly eyes greenopen doors and
shut eyes, other eyes than those
known to the othereyed, the green bottle,

bag, ball, belt, bay, barked acacia.
Briar, crab or dragon.  Green
verditer, my greenish strength.
And off some wolves moan
as the water stills,
comes to thick closure.  And the, ah,
Elementals prepare for belief of the
predicated unbelievers.  Those who are the
clueless.   The many of church going
stopped ears, with mouths agape
in a stoppage of utter
wonderlessness, when! O Stars Above!
-- humiliation.  More wolf moaning;
then a girl comes out from a tree.
She smiles, slank.
Starts start
we rest on what's rickety.
Fssh and nddlg.  After the "rickety"
an information burst of the untimely
as it burst upon you.  One
soul among many, forever lost
to the FACT
We are all cuckoos in another's nest.
For night is mind
and not a kind of fiddle-faddle.
Inly own's a fractured inch.
Cush, cush, cush, cush.
OOOPS: An Epic Blunder in Miniature
Canto 1:
O, wind above the rabbit-hole, what,
what are we;
What what what are we;
What are what we;
What we;
Are what we;
Are what, we:
Are we?
Are in the sense of are:
One of masks.  One of puppets.  One of,
Er, of stuffed animals; an are
Of ricketty voices enacting plurality;
An are of being many, some above, some
Below and characterless, wanderers
Of the Symparanekromenoi, fraternal
Order of moribund sisterhood, misnomered
“Brethren and _______ in mortuary
Readiness.  Dreamt music in
Fiery polygons, all
Of inappropriate musical wreckage.  Un-
analyzable words.  Shicknasters. 
Buried up to the ________ in the



Canto 2:
For the forecasted d
And her third partial derivative, an
Errand devoted
Hush hush hush, to ingenuous
Error.  Untold
Toledos of lead-pipe, semi-
threaded, hawk-headed and more
Complex than simply comely;
Watt’s, or the conical-pendulum
Governor, for
Tish is a tasla, an image of rare cake;
No man says,
No man smokes,
No man possesseth.  The true d
Unforecasted be;
Or suffer the Ilfrit’s curse
An L of misconstruction
Must even and ever dis-
A man’s most hopeful shots;
Pot shots, deflected; a
Crisscross of ricochets.
Beggar’s velvet toe the rumpled
Old shoe place.  The Crystal
Doubt unfolds to reproduce
Another seismic suction.  One like
Deflated Johnny
Victim of an ISPE, vast
Intraworld seismic pulsation event.
Oops.  My beetle-black tricorn hat
Has slipth, cosmetically obscuring
The squash-hued demise of day.  Day
that old thorn, whom I shall
fitfully encounter chez Madeleine, in the
Noisy room of rejoinder, where two
Young Ladies (from another drama,
Fearful Industry never resting), the duo
Enacting a migration from far off, perhaps to
this place, a repetition
In reverse of my own old
Cynic’s Ball of periplum.  Plum cycle.
Plam.  Plom.  Plimsole
Their own bootless errand of error
Without so much as a word of action.
For get not or not get to a parent.
Presents only & utterly
Bugtopia.  O Roxanne
Of the new day what possible kiss
Enkindles the truant nose

Of the one who is mistaken?
It knows.  Not you or me
Nor anyone
Else, that lost island of serenity
Knows.  knows, and the
Old unresolved rowers on Bug River.
Oldest slake, far from settled;
A parent for ged not, or not get to
unreconoitred boo boo;
The blunder’s magnific scope
Ope.  Hope.  Stop, dope.
Canto 3:
Wolverinos, say, it is that we are;
Even worse: cork-eating ferrets
Or some unnameable animal,
As unresolved in being as
Pulverized Polyneices.  The glamour of it
All says we have rhymed our troubles
Doubled our mishap.  Folded
With much godly Error, more high, hence
Henched, over and over till the hole thickens
To be all scar.  Woundedness’s medallion. 
Thus goeth the thunderclap he fails to
Recognize. For  Der Text
Is the thunder-peal rolling along behind.
Hollow sonority with no centering
Breath, echo upon echo with no
Central brazen impulse, impulse beyond.
Old blatherer, the talk in no tongue
That lifts the dust as though it sprang up
From mortal mechanism.  Mortal suction
Of immortal wind.  Oh no oh no oh no
Not the next in the first, for that
Last that the final authority sums is yes
An empty vase, _______, of what is,
Is only from what, single-headedly
Runs the risk.
The duel.  Once, twiced.  Out of
Predicted beat, clamp and measure;
Nope’s ope.  Opening’s aslant.
All the _____
Fallacies of the single-headed Antigone
Are dual, dual in nature
As in the mechanistic air she sees
To breathe, even as she dares not.
The error’s not mine, thought
The weasel and wolverino and the
Whatever we are, deep, deep
Deep in the rabbit hole, among bones
Of what feast, natural or not.
As turned by that disclosure
As the Shriek Operator !       ;
Blue air an inverted ocean into
Which we tumble, hazarded by any
Choice to fall forever, forever upward,
And be dunce, direction’s dupe....
Once wolver, now nil, nowest dunce.  Folly
Or foppishly re-engendered by the slowly learning
Way Ops foisted upon Oops, great
Est among lesser essays in attention
Gotten; getting gotten;
Aether of un-
Doable errands, all running from the
Central points,
Equal radiants, incommensurable races;
A blizzard of dotted redoubts.
Canto 4:
How could human beauty be so mistaken?
Mistook for ... for you name it.
For the nature of the goon stands a hat
Away, a hat away at noon
Like the foreknown conclusion
In the supersession of surprise
That is the goon’s goonmindedness.  The
Thingish wayward underslung sidearm
Delivery.  A
Dust of dots.  A
No surprise at the whole damn
Shebang.  Bang’s she as bad as a he
Goon bang.  The clueless exemplar
Total evening leaves us alone with;
One damn thing, one after another;
Bingo Bango Bem
Canto 5:
For I have monkeyed around in the upper air;
Nightly over and under cover of Error
To become that (a Howler)
Which remains in the bone-cup ash if one
assay a phantom essayist.  The nucleus
Of a vacuum,
primal homestead.  The
O’s finality point.  So said Monkeydo Moffat
in her incorrect and tallest tree;
the truth is everywhere
The shame.  A same shame.
For readiness arms the glitch with a
Thimble of precious cat-calls so
The Fallen regions of negligent arches
Amount to a mere disbanding of tents.
Cu rucucu; cu ricucu.  O,
Lovely diameters, what metric fits the
Arduous foam of a sub-Planc length?
What elder bark?  What terrible threads?
The knowable and gravel-voiced Iconoclast
Perhaps has misread the candle-lit tesserae,
There, dome high, in eld dread’s dark.
To read’s to misconstrue, it is said,
Some otherwise intact
Entablature.  A silver earring shaped
Like a fox’s ear.  Shaped like a leaf
Of fur fear.  For
Before I slept I swept here and
Before I swept here, at odd’s
With contradiction’s sour fruit
I wept here and there;
A keshkination of Kan-du
Deoperates the Jerome laws on All such
Goon dries a goonish tear and lumbers
Off the world stage.  Alone.  Unsung.
It is as if an awful word
Were pronounced in the primaveral
Love apple grove.  A nestled love vine
Swirl, all patches and emblems.
A homecoming to he who wore the hat
Of tragic indiscernment, blue doctor.
Doctor of the doable petticoat.  A
Hobson’s choice five live divisions:
One with masks,
One with puppets,
One with stuffed animals,
One with caged bird, and one without
Season planning.  A gilded starfish
Regrets the notion of motion in one spot;
She rotates the hideous polygon
Till the blue above the tree goes away.
A single witness
To the drowned world of Ovid.
Folly, folly, folly.  To what depths
Do you surrender?  To what hidden
Koresh world, doll within doll
Within doll within
Charms and rituals;
Tizzam tazzum; wheaten
Hats, beaded red-snake bands and hickory switches,
All viewed as beneath the dignity of
Being.  Narration wrapped
around an imperfect conflagration.
This is your doing and all you can
Say is “Oops”.  For the riddle of the
Missing lake mystifies even
Moshoeshoe II, no man’s fool, so
Where have you taken it?  The
End of the riddle stands naked on
Her radiant girl-slipper, peeking
Through the forbidden hedgerows;
And all that cloth smells like clover.
Force, may force carry the chain to dark place;
Place where radios tell the truth because
Just because.  We
Step on broken tile, as if blind to what
Comes roaring from the future to abduct the
Passing glitter.  All that golds up
And holds up a smoking shoe of Moroccan leather;
The tease is what leads us on to Mount Tambora’s
Ghast, a muffled
Roar centuries old.  When I was younger
I made a strange pact, with that, er,
Certain gentleman at the Astor, flat
Against the plaster decorations, cherubs &
Dolphins with terrifying eyes, so no other
Person could bear negotiate a
State of affairs foreign to the times & taste;
This I reasoned, incorrectly, was the
Right thing to do– I so badly badly wanted
A silver claw.  The red bowl of Etna
Spoke to me, as to old Empedocles:
The scarletblastofblastforce is only
An apparent thing– a phantasm, if you will;
fear it not, young boy;
We who crouch in Shadowland
Love Ohio, her apples and her sons too;
So....  And so I did leap.  The
Fact is like a lily’s scent.  Disturbing,
If you think about it much, too much and
Thereby smutch the– stop right there.
And Lola, Lola had not such teeth.
Consider the rare-earths Doctor, pencil-thin
In the radiance of turmeric and arrowroot.
The message no one can read in the what
Tiger’s wind cannot be believed if not
Seen.  For the stun of the seen unfolds
In a negligence of lily-time.  We breathe in;
We breathe out–
Nothing happens
....  Our fortune
Whisks about, like maddened sparrows in the dust
Of a hundred degrees.  To be free, the Voice
Of rare earths whispers, on the verge of
Audibility, is to be self-directed.  Only what is
Self and woos self within self can
Shovel self, elf;
Can bend ear to this.  The sparrows mean to say:
All those who believe in arrested being and
Retrogression and putting inanimate nature
At the steering wheel of the swirl ...
(Swirl?  Do I truly mean “swirl”?)
For they are stranger to us.  Strangers to us.
Canto 2 Again: Now properly Considered in the Now of Now We Know.
For the Puffwig is inclipt in sparrow-time
With a Nernst lamp.  Glare habituates
One to accommodating Error.  The fog
Swallows all nonself hedges
As a mongrel predicate.  We inhabit
Hibits instead of habit, as the white-gloved
Ones lure us– all with tin ears–
To listen to vacant-eyed sirens, pitchwomen
Of an oiled seascape, beheld from the moon
(Hibits are habits so ill-framed by the
Timid they cannot be rotated in four dimensions;
But remain yanked up impostures,
Bleak toes of, of goon mindlessness).
Still some other force may carry the chain
To some far Other dark place, gagged
And drugged.  We are forced, perforce, to consider the following:
1) the efficient point solution
2) the Edgeworth contract curve
3) the Cournot solution
4) the Von Neuman and Morgenstern solution
5) the cooperative game with side-payments and
6) the cooperative game without side payments.
Alas, the total world picture collapses.
Argument among elders, omens and signs
Acupuncture and punctureweed therapy
Queer theory and recourse to pungapung
Do not help to clarify the matter, as
Dominations which occur because of a difference
Of one chip or so are ignored.
Stuck in a finite world, we break our
Wooden hair on wooden boxes.
Far off streamers, scarlet and golden,
Ripple in the Tiger wind atop pavilions
So high the weather rises in ever icier stages,
As if in pursuit of rigorous mathematical truth.
Children’s laughter punctuates the
Hollow square of helter-skelter as X
Mistakes her historical mission for Y
And boils up a swupple of
Red pumps, radishes and frangible glassware,
Martini glasses mostly,
In the presence of a lower divinity of cardinal
Ordination, a plausible stand-in
For the god who hammers the unbeliever’s
Nailhead with an ironwood stick,
Clat clat clat clat clet totooo....
We are too close to the truth
When he bites on the ass;
Further off a membrane of indifference
Bottles the ego
In some laughing gas apocope
Of apparent soul and mindfulness
That is really not.
And what they are laughing at,
Those precise children?  They
Are laughing at some intellectual
Hoodoo, there, in Groaner Park, a
Sinister place which when viewed from Mars
Reminds those there of an emerald
Fan, a miniature punka-world
Turning slowly on a feasible racket
By a team of tireless punka-wallas, men of heft
in the imaginary world.
This is what they laughed at, nothing
Funny about that you think
As you sink to the hard, brown
Bench.  Squirrels and pigeons view
Your shoes hungrily.  The sun flattens
As she creases the hats of the small
Ones, far out at the teensy purple ether
That is the end of the world and flame;
Real force forces forced habits
Be hexed in a doubled X;
And all the prodigious nation comes a-billowing down
Just as quickly as Juniper Orchard.
Cheat and Ransome as sure as headless Raleigh.
Morgenstern, Applejack and Pious Luther;
All the cheerful fellows of the failed ripcord,
All these come tumbling out of the blue
Like a basket of blueberries flung in the air.
For the Erymanthian boar
Did not live in Erwin’s shoe, here
On Magnolia Drive, no;
She designed the music of flutes and
Tinder, and gave us to understand
Why so many creatures possess an
Eyeball that looks the same.  Because
As Leonardo knew, space
Is filled with infinite lines and these
Are of light and are of light’s extract
And are thrown out to strange places
In Erwin’s flatlandia, a domain even
The purple murex has not dyed.
We persist in thinking the eye, happiest human eye,
We take to have been constructed;
So that to understand how the optical
Organ came to be, we must take all apart
in form of an explosion of diagram,
Out of mechanistical habit.
Habit, the Crested Idiot’s
Habit that habituates
Us in folly.  The
Orbicular eye fancies her own
Halo of habit, and so– just happened.
Folly of misrecognition circles the first
O and is our only one, perhaps.
Otherwise we are, as if perfect,
If off the round by only a touch.

Just because you achieve some
 great end
doesn’t mean you know what you are doing.
For now you must grow a shell and become turtle.
That hurts because shells offer countless examples of spiral surface.  Whorls and unfocussable helixes;
A vibration of pin-wheel.
The apparent Archimedean point
is a dizzying
froth.  What
to do now?  In and of itself the panorama circulates
a litmus for the aggrieved to, to cry
out.  Each one a different kind of frog.  Things
are unique before they are alike.
And the battle for the center stays away,
stands selfishly on the rim.  Rime
world ubiquity, as
cosily ensnared as a coat-tail rabbit,
all silk and para-fiddle.
The diesel debops de storage chamber.
And hems in him, for
that “just because” gives evidence
of inept quotation, like Settler Djoegh
did the dreadful dumb, because.
He offers an evidence to follow
from another piece of evidence and wood
– would I mean, not “wood” –
be proved along with that absolute roof
if he did not just squat there like that,
a rascal on the lam.
For I abide my time.
I byde
I byde it
I byde my time
innocenter patienter constanter.
(O the pain of being blown thorough panes of broken glass)
As if I never knew the greats.
Deeds imaginable only to the dead,
bivouacked in dreadful caverns,
foggy places, fastidious bottom lands
of nomenclature emblems wrath.
Three toed gods’ wrath;
Yellow-eyed wrath perhaps;
So that chalk faced Anchises refuse
to be carried
on the dreadful lurching shoulders, shoulders of such
a Son, half wolf and were-
Whirling demon, type, Flibbertigibbet,
even if that were the only way out
of flaming Troy and of flaming Rome.
Canto Two: O noise of what
noise redoubled to inch
out of nothing and become unique
solid with whatever one is
Fade.  Fade away as a divine silence.
Be bereft, sweet goosey, sweetest
horn of noontide
doubt; the rule cannot be played out
because of yron-hinged past, passing
the ridge of oldest dragon hill,
just there, obscuring, one by one, all stars.
Because the rules  of eld undermine the
empties the sock, and
the clock of sock;
 because the
Because one needs a mind to own
 true confusion;
and cultivate a great many silly things and things
skittering about, hither thither, in one’s head.
Otherwise a petty madness
thickens, and
withers the broke stick like a stone;
stick stock still: Stillest
an instruction to the world glare
gibbous moon garden, a
convex lentiform vibrating orbiflem.
The gander glow’s
Sky-gray, aloft,
to be so so safe
assurance against the quick to anger.
Because the one big thought
Can only bring down brightness
“And all quick light aspiring things”
whether ing or solitary.  The go
twice in life blows off the encounter a
double, the demon _______ in the
garden at Gethsemane.  A
terror twoness calculates fatal
annihilation, ing, as the shade
in his and her past.  A letter Y
less than love for the wickedest troop
of theatricals....
Down they
Doom.  Entire mess
Eel’s valence.  The doom of elvers.
2 Reconsidered.
The lowest part of anything has bottomed out.
The domed top, beyond revelations’ freak
become a bottom, a top drowned;
while who is called time goes on
something else does not.
Dotted people, people
wired to a speck of hope, dots
and rebop, are
something now else.  For dot
people behave oddly around things
have no wit to imagine;
do not imagine but as images
reflect a smile they recognize, a
swirl of skirt, swish, just a
just out of view.
Out of range for lens, arrow, bullet and
I treat my shoe
part of me, no, but as an unwelcome
but useful push button.  Vestigial
almost, as a boy’s nipple.
FOR the grandest mistake of all is to, to
deny the encounter a
machine’s perfection, a
click clock cleck of and yets and
furthermore and phantom
all frost, hat and elbow.  W
ear what we are.  Are.  Hence
alone is not enough, still.
What is still still lingers in the unseen cogitation;
Noise, a nothing of leaves and moth wings,
nips at hell’s heel, gone
dog of windy inaction, lists of links, olden
Time dots, invalid warranties,
instruction pamphlets in a tongue
large and unknown (despised by the awk-
authors).  If one can call them that,
a fellow hood of the Hallows the
place we fear and despise
not knowing it is our own home
grown strange.  Our
we is a them.  Thumb dumb din.
haunted by pix
of hix whose nix
trix nobodaddies of disappearing
air-blebs.  Bats of disp and desp
and airs of disappointment.  Ants of
the boid.  Boyd’s
void, imp hole of arrogant
For someone first made the maze, in the image of the maze; the
technical flower and poetic
machine, like and like not.
 Someone’s design.
Natural surmises clambering like
old freak show on a rickety trellis
all engineered moonlight, sane
barely and apparent to all.  To all
but hijackers of all stripe, who
know not the hoodoo in
what’s done truly.  Idea’s inkstorm.
All measures do not
match, little fierce one with
fire-tipped top.
All measures may not stand aright;
Someone did not comprehend what righteye
things are for.
Things are for themselves, not
the imprecise dreamer
rankled by turban necessity
outworn cashflow museum,
fly-haunted, glob, putrid
with an inner picture of some Some
Christ insect, afloat in a foam
of decidability.
Things exist because of love
detached for
From one who knows how the use,
to a thing in question.  All things
in question, carry with them
the only love the only holy
touch abiding and in, in this
wooden things woo the greater plastics
all of golden radiance, rakes
of wildish light from your
truth going
 girl’s wicked armful of light;
borrowed perhaps but given in
to all whose gladness bears the
trick of worth fully understood.
This is how the LIGHT bends but
breaks not our human back, ballad
happenstance, the beat
always off, always to avoid the
obvious, inarch
to what is not, smooth and slim.
For use determines the practice of the crow;
as the feather, whipping with softly zig zagging
whooshes, demarcates the subrural
mood plain, in graphic exactitude
silence perfection and a
kind of knowing wholly fit
for an apart part of the world intact.
Wind, laziness of cloud, eye-blue
glaze.  Miles of periwinkle hue’d
crystalline.  A
simple line drawn in air
domain.  In truth an
open-timbered open system
that lays the hatch upon latch and
key-card wahabbis and fellows
of fool in Crawford, Foggy bottom and out
all elsewhere consumed and
open-string climbers to the
presumption of some heaven, a
place open to nothing but question.
Green parrots
klakk klakk klakk klakk klakk,
spoken arithmetic o and
You who are open to the spidery
talk the petulant klakk klakk klakk
tells of an opening
foreclosed in Parrot Universals– the
Universe can fathom.  Canst ‘ou?
Let the useless ones be buried
under that clatter cloud
Wreck.  Used force to use none
but spirit weasel, fennecs of the high air
disappearing into another eyrie.
For what eerie choice has the lake and albatross
coiled round like wrung necks, rhubarb and rhythmic
Kashmiri bell-chains?  The
question obtained
hangs in fortelleze, useless,
an isolato, unless–
The seed hope, coral ear things,
as ghost lings, in a mirror and a
explode in chain-blooms, roughly
equal to the same simile in seed-time.
Saddam’s no dope.
So who lays flat offers an enigma
blind as use. 
Say, hope is useful;
so is chair, air, hair and on
even the horrible cinnamon bear,
to name a startle
by question fishing for fission,
evildoers and tube allows.
Always owls no damn good.
Passion of rectitude, anger, ripped of fated
cursing.  Blasphemy, a ripple pocket
with long trail of change, coins of every
kind, trailing along over the deseret.
I propose that:
People who believe in god
Shall not be allowed to drive an toaster oven;
Shall not be allowed access to
radio television
access to the internet and anything electronic.
I propose
they be encouraged to dwell
in foul huts of worship and stay
in the housedness of a most  foul faith
In the time before pain-killers and
modern pleasures they so much despise.
In the name of Morpheus.
In the name of Pentheus.
Torn god.
For use of things must grow from
ways they are fashioned.
The liars who rule us rule us
with their lies,
misrepresentations, the
televised shouting down of
historical evidence by tendentious
Misuse of what is by what isn’t.  Dog
bedogged by the un
; not to be allowed to lift a fork, tie a shoelace, nor
hold anything made of PLASTIC,
casein, resinous,
bakelite, vinyl and nylon.
For truth in
what.  What matters, being what is, allows
Faiths all action,
especially the unforseen and unforceable
Puppet show.  You, dog-faced
Boy with wooden hair and skirted hand.
Canto 7:
Under reproach from use, delight flies;
Then Grace Generosity Forgiveness from Error.
The ultimate Plebeian
congratulates himself in fake hick talk
an icy and dead Arabian pastiche, classical and
love withheld cankers the orchid as
Alarms fill the air.
We, I that is, turn over graying
 documents, seven years tinted in my old
black coat, to the proper authorities. 
Poetry becomes an ex
mess.  Peccavi for
cribbage muggins.  The
Rich rule us with wants, ours;
all reason collapsed
to an arbitrary duck pin game at Rudy’s
departed gradualness.  Candle ex
A haints’ misrule.  A
certain gentleman meets me at the Ivory Room of the
Astor; offers me and mine a world of textile
apparition, to both bolster the class and. 
Well, we’d not, would we?
So may who presume the moral
Cash in on
Disaster.  Who the and how
Rich famous patriotic and low types
Done run off with 9/11.
Same old same old.  A
Forest is an island.  The
is full with whispering voices.

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