suchaswitch

101106, 101208

In Uncategorized on 101209 at 0241

Sitting by the river after seeing my new psychologist, I’ve hardly slept, so I wonder whether sleep is even necessary, I could stay up writing, lay on the floor for a few hours, maybe four, if I could only find a way to endure the awful waking that motes me. It’s an autumn Saturday and I gape at the foliage, Stipe fuzzy and ominous on repeat, I rock in this hanging seat, donated “for” a troop of scouts (so the placard states) and I approve, I’d rather it than sit somewhere in one of the many park seats made in memoriam, I don’t want to mingle with the empty memories of the dead. (Now, if those placards, instead, said of the loved ones’ legacy some important sentiment they once had embodied, something important worth waving around, not just another name on a stone, the wasted space of tombs, however elegant the engravings are, then I might feel better sitting there, then I’d go all the time, make it my riverside shrine). For all the religion that causes wars, or foreigners squeezed into small neighborhoods, the problems how any colorful people feel stifled in this almost-rural town, thus emptying it of activists, artists, it surprises me that we don’t see spirituality in the street. It suggests most of those people pray in a way that is trite. Where are the hijabs?, not that that’s anything to purport, can’t be proud of a patriarchy even if it’s more mindful and intentional and full than the necklace cross, or the businessman’s only jewelry, a wedding band – none of it’s wholesome, all is infuriating. I wear my beard, isn’t it obvious?, the gurus, the scientists, the sculptors, the rabbis, people ask why, people pass by and only see leaves on a lawn and think “nice”. They never ponder the river, its island only paddlers can walk upon, or the way the tree is colored more on its south side, perhaps even the lines of tension in the different types of tree-bark, though there is nothing alluvial beside this cementpath. The locust doesn’t lean because in its early years almost all of its limbs had been pruned. I’ve never been a good arborist, even after allowing that it’s all non-native, such stewardship feels like making ruin. I have to have endurance if I am to garden, not for the stooped work but the weeding, not for the time but the need to spread lime sometimes, the way the best ecologists aver that their fruits taste better using manure, compost can never stoke things enough. Poop is, by default, dirty refuse, poisons jettisoned, and then the plants will say thanks, I’ve got a deep-pocket vacuole for this, junk in the trunk, we think it’s wealth but it’s weight, it’s a mess. Here is my paean to legumes, a long-latent hanker to have lain out its conduit. I handshake the dog yet never pet its walkers, but at least some of the older perambulators nod hi with their heads, just a slight subtle tilt. My reflective badges on my backpack (really reclaimed from those things hip businessmen affix to their pantsleg to protect their fancy slacks, prevent them from flapping into the chain of the bike), they distract in the daylight, clashing the circumstantial subtlety, the commercial drab that permeates the thrift, o monochrome!, I do my best to collect it into an earthy olive aesthetic, an Ilex-loam-sage sensibility. The tether causes the dogs to surpass each itch, to not become sullen when prevented to sniff. This is the path. Though the sailboat still’s able to drift, we pump our rudder to get where we’re going; or, who am I kidding, suburban adventuresmiths never embark with no emergency motor, know CPR but trust that the cell has a satellite to beam queries at, search the rocks of the shore for a cache, exchange an egg-encased toy putty (invulnerable to the eternity it might sit until the next bored engineer searches for it) for the small Brontosaur inside. I want, golly, the city with aesthetes. When two men run, or one with no shirt on, why do we suddenly assume we know what’s inside the bedroom? The fuzzy husky which once was a wolf hangs its tongue. It could kill a squirrel, sure, but it can’t take a porcupine, its ancestors’ forced sorting made it dumb. I say hi to anybody, the pause to look up helps me hunt the right name, for something that almost rhymes, I cap my pen as I ponder, mustn’t dry out the lavender ink, what word can serve allure to my jots, assemble an ornament which won’t clutter the lapel of the garment with brass bling. Oh my, is that actually a car on the island? Maybe I’m mistaken, a fragility to which I’m always open, maybe there’s no river-margin on the opposite side? I hate how I’d thought down about an anarchist, he who’s renamed himself Locust, imagining animals genetically gluttonous as they, like bland yuppies following the fruits teeming near the passels of artists, avocados just dropping from their asses with every wind, crowd fields in a pestilence. I’d had to hock and expel spit, thought, Why entice what is ugly? Yet, I now notice, in my riverside seat, swinging idly: perhaps he had actually named himself for the leguminous tree. Gleditsia. I and many (yet I cannot categorically say “we”) are arrogant, and will push and puff chesty I-know-I-know’s, if I could be a bird I’d caw “I-am-a-dinosaur-rawr! I-am-a-dinosaur-rawr! Kookely-Coo! Kookely-Coo! Dinosaur-rawr! I-am-a-kookely-coo!” Lupine is poison, its dominance still allows all shades of purples, an atypical monoculture, causing the hill to glint like an opal. Wow! Have you heard, yet, you can eat it? We were told, by the head ranger, not to tell that the teatree in your toothpaste is Melaleuca actually, because we can’t have them return again, this paperbark lycanthropy, after we spent decades to evict the dense tree-weeds from Florida — like the red peppercorns planted as hedge, the source of the cypresses’ lollygag, hopelessly here forever, yet we kill it whenever we can, whack the machete to sever the stem and move on — some dumb industrialist or myopic permaculturist would undoubtedly cultivate it, its wet-toiletpaper-roll laminar bark, a ceaseless sponge of moisture, would make excellent fiber, an interesting easy harvest, just peel the three-inches-thick layers of wet bark once a week. I ask the churches, why don’t they wonder what the dog does with its thoughts when it momentarily aches and barks back? The dust in the metal’s tamped relief is fascinatingly pretty, causes an opportunity to ask, why is it shadow we quiver after? We find allure in contrast of sharp life with the streaking effect of the reflection provided by rivers, with squinty un-essences, hummed songs, our poetry intentionally obscure. The bright russets should say “weep, it’s the end,” but we congregate our family to the camera, trap them in front of the poor vascular tissue, tender and withering and madly announcing: It’s winter. We have enough sap to last; what about you? Soon the squirrels will be feeding trifles to you. I shop at the Lazarus, estates of impetuous grandchildren, split the marble collection, the remnant of someone’s struggle to transform defecation, a lifelong line we turn into fetters. Fie! These two teenagers, passing now, match, emerald dye on adultered cotton, not understanding that their flippant needs, pubescent caprice, can be filled, like the glamour of puckered pink icing on cupcakes; style’s an experiment, tasty and ephemeral, but someone still must do the design of it, nothing’s left after people’ve eaten it. You can’t call quilting a craft, it’s too littered with choice, and heck the whole thing’s contingent on picking from available scraps, the art is to dream then select. Some of us like mutts, appreciating anythingness or sometimes the earnesties which force mulattoes labelless. My hair is there because I’m a man, bushy because my parents fated it so, sort of, they probably didn’t know, and anyway, remember the lupine’s opal. These are two different bicycles, sir, but thank you for admiring mine. One won’t ride well off the street, could be because of the hidden liner one lacks, tucked protecting the other’s tire from its “underneath”, a barrier for those ubiquitous puncture-vine seeds; or could be its history, a wholesomeness, like a language’s meter & timbre making idiosyncratic New Yorkers, impulsively boasting and arrogantly harping, influenced by Italian’s inherent bounce. Still there are poems written only with certain words, take Perec and Calvino, can’t compare them to Shelley and Melville. If you saw solely the surface striated by current, would you be able to say that inverted dappled reflection’s a tree, nevermind name it? The problem here is picking a favorite: wanting dusty chiaroscuro in a placard, or staccato calligraphy?

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  1. I am fascinated by “dissociators”. Wow! Here are some Markovian remixes of this text:

    I. A loop this diastic reading app got stuck in (keyword “alluvial”):

    Though forever,
    experiment,
    necessary,
    colorful almost-rural all only though alluvial arborist,
    handshake perambulators a slight tilt.
    Though forever,
    experiment,
    necessary,
    colorful almost-rural all only though alluvial arborist,
    handshake perambulators a slight tilt.

    II. Order-1 Markov:

    Sitting by Italian’s inherent bounce. Still there because I’m a deep-pocket
    vacuole for admiring mine. One won’t clutter the red peppercorns
    planted as I wonder whether sleep is there because in the eternity
    it momentarily aches and arrogantly harping, influenced by the thrift,
    o monochrome!, I kidding, suburban adventuresmiths never embark with
    no emergency motor, know what’s inside the lapel of moisture, would
    make excellent fiber, an ornament which won’t ride well off the surface
    striated by the island? Maybe I’m always open, maybe there’s no emergency
    motor, know what’s inside the trunk, we turn into fetters. Fie!

    III. Travesty generated at 7th Order:

    Sitting by the right name, for something there, then I might feel better
    sitting the fruits taste better sitting by the right name, for sometimes,
    the scientists, it surprises me that we don’t they once had embodied, something
    important sentiment they once had embodied, something important sentiment
    they once had embodied, something important sentiment they once had embodied,
    something to purport, can’t have them return again, this paperbark lycanthropy,
    after we spent decades to evict the design of it, nothing alluvial beside
    this cementpath. Though the stem and move on — some dumb industrialist
    or myopic permaculturist would you be able to say that inverted dappled
    reflection provided by riverside shrine).

    IV. Mark V. Shaney says:

    When two men run, or one with no emergency motor, know CPR but trust that the cell has a satellite to beam queries at, search the rocks of the loved ones’ legacy some important sentiment they once had embodied, something important worth waving around, not just another name on a lawn and think “nice”.

    Sitting by the river after seeing my new psychologist, I’ve hardly slept, so I wonder whether sleep is even necessary, I could be a bird I’d caw “I-am-a-dinosaur-rawr!”

  2. IIIII.
    [FROM BEETLE IN A BOX]]

    Sitting by Italian’s inherent bounce. Still there is there because I’m mistaken, a long-latent hanker to not for the end,” but the need to my riverside seat, donated “for” a placard, or could be able to spread lime sometimes, the trunk, we pump our family to legumes, a placard, or the wasted space of someone’s struggle to which I’m mistaken, a tree, nevermind name on a squirrel, sure, but the placard states) and then the bedroom? The problem here forever, yet never embark with every wind, crowd fields in contrast of the earnesties which once a way to collect it

    –or, another version–

    Sitting by and only find a fragility to collect it obvious?, the path. Though the source of moisture, would undoubtedly cultivate it, its south side, perhaps he had to surpass each itch, to mingle with no shirt on, why is poison, its history, a craft, it’s the stem and withering and then I’d caw “I-am-a-dinosaur-rawr! I-am-a-dinosaur-rawr! Kookely-Coo! Kookely-Coo! Dinosaur-rawr! I-am-a-kookely-coo!” Lupine is nothing alluvial beside this cementpath. The bright russets should say thanks, I’ve got a ceaseless sponge of it, its history, a way that almost rhymes, I could kill it into the machete to beam queries at, search the lavender ink, what the rocks of artists, it whenever we kill a wedding band – none of the path. Though the sculptors, the businessman’s only find allure to not just peel the head ranger, not just another name on picking from its wet-toiletpaper-roll laminar bark, a lifelong line we suddenly assume we kill a porcupine, its limbs had been pruned. I’ve never pet its south side, perhaps he who’s renamed himself for the daylight, clashing the best ecologists aver that the rabbis, people feel stifled in its thoughts when prevented to mingle with its history, a fragility to look up

    IIIII-I.
    [FROM RICHARD KNIGHTS – GENERATING RANDOM TEXT]

    he pause I’m mistaken, a fragility. These two different types of the endure told, by default, dirty reflection’s a tree-weeds from its dominance if I could be because we can’t their heads, junk in this almost all that their fruits tongue. It’s wealth but we don’t the endure to sever ponder ink, we turn again, this hangs its “underneath”, a barrier foreigners squeezed in the path. Thought, it’s an opposite side, perhaps he had actually a car on the pass bling. I want, and heck the street. It could stay up writing, lay on the lavender ink, we pump our poetry intentional and move on its early years almost of the time but trust that it’s anythingness or staccato call quilting animals genetically reclaimed from available to tell there, the chain out

    –another version–

    after we spent decades to evict the dog does with its thought, Why entice what is trite. Where are poems written only with choice, and heck the whole things hip businessmen affix to the camera, trap them in front of those placard states) and I approve, I’d rather it than sit somewhere in one of the loved ones’ legacy some important sentiment them from flapping into the churches, why do we suddenly assume we know what’s inside. I want, golly, the problems how any colorful people’ve eaten it.

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