in which desideratus chapf reaches ecstatical heights, upon which his fellow man intervenes

i’m finally feeling like a rolling hill again… and can a hill roll alone, they might ask, and phooey, i might say, spitting in their faces and laying down my wages on the table in a blind bet against. i’m not talking about daisy cakes any more, any bartlett pears and petticoats, but something more against, something more sensible; bosc pears on the hardwood, dead ravens, long and open roads and only my one pair of boots. all those pretty shoes i used to wear, on my pretty feet, with my intact tonsils and my fat cheery wisdom teeth telling fibs in the back of my grin, and all those happy singing friends, who would drive for unimaginable miles through the worldwide of water valley mississippi, in and around those fibrous grains of rough and red, where the dirty between the trees is like sand in our toes and the sky we dive right into. dressed up right and nimble, and stunting off my roundabout a cushion as i laugh away my come-uppance. but… those days are long gone. i see now that the deeds of men, lesser men though they may be, still have consequences, and must be repented for, and i have never said a hail mary. i’m in too deep now; i can only struggle on, barechested, barefooted, hauling my cross down interstate fifty-five ab infinitum until the lines along the road rise up into the stars and into loving, open arms.

in the middle of his ecstasy, a friend gave him a ring. moments later it was all over. he lay mortally wounded on the side of the street, bleeding, and laying in his blood. and from someone so close, so trusted, even the loving ones are cruel and bring the ecstasy to an end in a matter of minutes. rude, vulgar bastards… leave me be.

- he’s got a serrated blade!

someones reading over your shoulder… someones creeping outside the window… someones chuckling in the background, that mean bastard! what is it that you want? would you like some pancakes? i could make you home baked macaroni and cheese, with breadcrumbs and everything, just the way you like it. have a seat; i’ll make the table. maybe my family will join us. valentines day is coming up. would you believe that? if i were a kid, i’d get about a million valentines. remember those days? well, maybe you never got a million…

look inwards towards tension

you little bitch, spar me, spar me with your bluffs emboiled, your teak done tussed up dramatic, your sins extrapolated across a map of the mighty mississippi.. you contaminate me, you brush up against my purity, you hump my leg. i’m sick and tired of chaucer, gucci, and isolationism, so i’m breaking out. my eyes are hanging and i’m trying to get you to understand. if it’ll help i’ll speak in tongues, the lengua of the wild man, our own dissoluble innateness slipping like spittle out the corners of our mouths. there’s nothing to be done about it anymore but note the symptoms and sally forth into the black. luminaries light the way… beautiful baby rimbaud, billy f., and the truist valentine val miller. i start feeling allright after a few moans. just let me moan, just let me be noticeable and stand on my head, and i’ll crawl back on all fours and curl up for sleep before too long, i promise. allow me;

i still got it, shit i

never had it

i am the voice of reason

am the fourth quatrain and rhyme like xyx

it will not make a point; it will not give an answer; it will not be lyrical.

“i hope no one reads my diary. i hope they respect my privacy. i hope they do not hold it against me when they do, because i know they will. fucking invasive bastards. i hope their bikes fall over and they scrape their knees on the hottop.”

-

b-b-b-beautiufl voyeur baby rimbaud, you sag, your bringing the whole damn joinh dwno, the flames are licking me up, and i want you i need you ill spare u one last transatlanticflight loan me a buck u lil cunt with yr lil visage i need to taste it like uve never been tasted hahaha just gobble it up and store it in my cheeks for dinner u labrynthian mutt with yr vulgar speech n dirty teeth… rnt u just afraid of america arent u thats yr secret u cower u bury yr face in the muck n pepperoni in the city u never could finnish a sonnet u never could marvel at the poiestie of it all u were so cught up on the teleology u never saw the need

papel ultra fino (edimburgo, escocia)

i sleep high above cowgate, so at night i can spy upon the cattle bellowing and braying below. the gulls waft by atop a gelid and impartial wind. dead men, inert and impotent men, all the men across the country are embraced arm to arm in heated battle against the self; and the only weapon is each other. the rogue who wrote the manuscript will be hung by sunrise in a private viewing session. ever seen someone die? what if you die before you do? you’d be robbed of the human experience! of empathy! or a suspicious lack thereof… whichever the case, the road is set. it’s down to one, and if you want more, you’ll have to cut your losses and tape up the serrations in your gums because something more vicious this way comes. look up to me, see me as that which casts you in shadow -

as we fall

the sumerians invented their wheel, and from there it spread to the corners of the Old World. but independent of those dirty sumerians, across a black and treacherous nothing of ocean and monsters and scorn, the great and illustrious race of ancient mexico had wheels of their own. but they left labour to the labourers, and used their witty invention for cleverer pasttimes… toys, you could say. trinkets and very dear things.

words of hate and dismemberment

i like it a little more like this. with my sleeves cut off, with a good bead of sweat running under my arms. there’s a little more chrysanthemum in my eyes, a little more sulfur in my eyes,  a little more this and that; my hypothalamus is twisting off and taking saying good-bye, and my frontal lobe is dreaming ever on. let’s do it like this, raw. easy and right where it hurts. like the beatitude itself, as spoken by one detritus bach,  ’it’s time to retire to typewriter and invest in a press,’ and invest we will. but first we need to tie up loose ends. kick up the clods and piss turpentine on our paintings. say goodbye to the written word, and move on to the written; for as we digress back through space and time, forming pictures of the concrete in our heads, then on walls, then in words… and so we have continued to reel the concrete into the limitless eternae of the abstract, and so we will continue on, past the limitations of our forefathers, and their forefathers before them, have so blindingly carried on.

you, perceiving; me, perceived

i can’t believe on the eve of all these years that i’ll never live those days again. i grew up a troubadour among the minstrelsy, and my cuffs need some dusting off. i file the iron oxide off my tongue and mark the way for the weary once again. when a friend in need comes knocking on my door i boil a glass of shandy, peel some conference pears, and shim the mold from the block of moose milk cheese.  i cannot leave a lover in want, and if you get to feeling down, take a drive to old mississippi and we’ll go fishing in the evening sun. we won’t hardly move a muscle in that wondrous southern heat; we’ll bask, like stones, and experience something warm. i’ll catch us a catfish and fry it up; breaded, not battered, per taste. i take it rare; anything else is an offense to the meat.

“i like breaded fish, mamaw, not battered… i thought i told you.”

what must it have felt like, for the lucky ones, in those early days? when the new orleans saints won the superbowl, when everyone was drunk and in each other’s arms, reunited… when the forecast for the future saw sunny days, languid nights, and bonds of friendship as mighty as epoxy. had it always been so stupidly happy in those parts? could a place like that really exist? and where was i? junked out and asleep? yes, asleep… i went to bed hopeless and awoke in a world where the saints had won the superbowl. but i missed the transition. i’m still lagging one foot in the past. it’ll take a miracle for me to catch up now. something miraculous. something like a little girl walking through the woods with a photograph camera. or some cola in the studio flat up on loyola drive, where the bad men catch some sleep and, in lieu of belles or broads, drink honky-tonk and novacaine. through the windows, the desert goes forever and is freezing cold. and look at us, standing naked in the middle, ankle deep in dust (animal dander, roach waste, chemical vapor and flour) with our elbows touching. you always treated me kind.

o rimbaud o beautiful baby rimbaud id lv to idliek to see c u again

fie, fie, thy weeping will’o tree

here, snort this chocolate milk powder. you’ll get fucked.

but most people just don’t get it.

i don’t “get it,” they would say.

write your father a letter warning him to stay out of the mine – it’s collapsing.

ive been pushing through to other fields, lately… are you falling out of awe with life, “that which consumes,” and feeling down? find yourself an avocation, darling, and strap in for the ride. the possibilities are immense. avocations are a form of perpetual motion, one in which once entered only expands until the bounds are long out of sight. drink some tea before you leave. i’ll miss you while you’re gone. will you ring me when you’re at the state border? here, take this – but don’t use it. if some scumbag gives you shit, fucking shoot him and take off, and don’t fucking look back. call me down the road and tell me where to wire the money. it’ll be there. all of it. any of it, for you.

don’t be fooled by the game i spit. i’m feeling down, and i’m just trying to get by. don’t think my tastes reflect any greater awareness; our self-esteem is the same. i’m lost and getting more lost. but everything’s looking up, y’hear? i mean, christ, just step outside if you don’t believe me. have you ever seen clouds like that? the birds are singing bach on the powerlines – i could not dream up something more miraculous. we’ll lay in bed and read lolita if you don’t believe me. look at what this is doing to us! it’s sharper than arsinic and it’s bleaching away all the crud and dissonance. if you come seeking harmony you’ll be sorely disappointed, but if you’ve got something more abstract on your mind… have you ever listened to more beautiful words? have you ever been to the supermarket with your walkman? what in the world were you thinking when you dated that boy? what can i say to you to let you know i love you? will you ever understand me like you think you do? would you like to hear my secrets? i have a few. they’re good ones, too. juicy ones. when i’m famous i’ll let them slip and all the public will chitter and twit about it. would you like to be the first to know? how about you? you ever thought a dirty thought? tell me all about them. i’ll keep the helicopters at bay (thank you, though). it’s just you and me out here, in these dunes. somewhere on the far side of the planet the sun is rolling merrily along, and he’ll be back this way before before you can wink and spit, but for now it’s just you and me. if you’re frightened, crawl under my arms. i’ll enfold you in my wings. i’ll keep the demons back with my big fucking guns. i’m a warrior in these parts. i was born in these lonely sands, and, like some fucked-up jumanji roll, i’ve been bound and gagged and forced to survive, and survive i have. it wasn’t always like this. when i was young, there were flowers in these hills. a river ran through them. the demons were young, and playful, and wagged their lolly tails and humped their rosy legs against my own and all was more or less peaceful. but change happens; and if you can’t make it good, then make it in your favor. so i changed the game with it. my secret? i killed the bastard demons before they could even think about harming me. i made the first move. it was i who ushered in the iron age, and the bronze age, and the atomic age, and have left this place in ruins. it is my own personal warzone. but it was the only way… i had to do it; you couldn’t possibly know what was in store, not like i knew, not like i could foresee… i am the prophet of these parts! i am holy! bow! or kill me, make me a martyr. it is time i leave this parts. i’ve brought it to utter nothingness; now you may build anew. kill me, or cower under my wings. there is no other way out. i won’t make a sound either way, and i will part with a kiss and a love letter if you choose to slaughter me like the fold. you are a good thing; i am a weathered titan. i’ve exhausted my resources and in time i might not wake up again. have your way with my corpse.

i have some friends out here. if something happens to me, find them. you’ll know them when you see them. they’ll have nothing good to say about me; don’t mention my name, unless calling it out in passion – and then they’ll understand.

a llama called lenore

you write the dirtiest things!

i’ve been in love since the nineties. and today i found myself with today’s generation. what could it even mean? the same sensibilities? the same impending fate? i feel underdressed and am taken by surprise. i soon realize that i’m in fact dressed, in a coterie of people who know how to dress. there is a beautiful asian girl, photographable, with those swinging legs, attuned to some of those far-out frequencies that the late-nighters tune into, like myself… beautiful with those dreadful eyes and those sensibilities both oriental and occidental, wise and shallow, on the ball; future-present conundrum. the woman could hold a conversation on aesthetics. her every moment is a running, self-aware commentary of the self, like the numbing flood that ravages my own sense of being, and when she sits on the edge of the bed i could curl up into her lap and crie.

she leaves the scene early, coolly disinterested, and i and my god if she’s not wearing a full fur coat with those fine half-dressed legs naked from the midthigh up and my, my, my ! you fierce one!

let’s take a look at the polaroids, if you don’t believe me! this one, with the album covers, dedicated to my high school lunch affairs… this, with that scenic coffee and cigarettes, and her legs like a landscape in distance… a real girl. a knowable girl. suddenly it’s like he’s never written a word in his life. it’s like all his aspirations were scribbles in a memo pad and here he fell into the lap of michaelangelo.. !

-

it all comes down to that distant summer day…

do you remember how the breeze felt on your face? the leaves blew up against your midriff, your outstretched hands, your lips to land a kiss, before billowing off on their way. i’d never been with a girl like you before. i wanted to play tennis with you, to cook you breakfast, to roll up your sleeves and tie a band around your forearm – to write stormy thoughts about you in my journal, to associate things with you, to compare people to you, to remember things to tell them to you, to sometimes even write them down and keep a list in my wallet next to the picture of you, because everything always was and would be all right. we had it good, and young. i can’t even remember what it must’ve felt like. to wake up, knowing you… to know that because of you, my day would be fulfilled.

make it ring, beautiful

you have to play innocent. you have to look stupid. i’m telling you, play the fool. when the time comes you’ll throw all the cards to the ground and rip their jugular from their neck with your teeth, but until then leave the cards in play and dance around the issue. innocent. because you can trust stupid people; you can’t trust devious ones, and the most devious ones act stupid. no one can say just how deep the rabbit hole goes, but mine goes farther than your oxygen tanks will last, so stay where you are and i’ll come to you.

have you eaten ibuprofen lately? they lace it with cocaina in this country and sell it to the three-eyeds. they stand in line like the terracotta warriors, seemingly eternal, riding the dark wave, and full of poetics. carve me a heart in a tree and i’ll call it my totem pole. when your getting hungry for a midnight snack i’ll club a seal leave it on the doorstep. when you’re angry with me you’ll hit me, and sometimes i”ll lock myself in my “study” to drop away into my own personal “ad infinitum” where i will hollow out a hole for my spirit and store my stories there, safely hidden from your eyes. you think you’ll be the first to go mad, but you know that i’ve been mad all along, in my hat and my suit, laughing all the way to self-exile and self-medication in the dunes of the far north, cold and frozen into harmlessness, sobbing over the wood-burning stove, making love to faulkner books and the notes i made in the margins of miller, having shallow affairs with the nine-to-fivers in my new midst, who i identify with, and bury myself in, and fade off into like a flea in a bedweave.  you will never find me, and you wouldn’t care to try. i flee like all the greats have fled before me. i flee to the new world. i am not suited for these traditions. i have lived amongst the oppressed and have found a way out, and it has led to self-oppression. i am my own insider into reality, and the findings are revealing. stay away from me, lover bitch! keep your filthy sin off of me, and go back to nibbling apple peels in the apple grove…. i’ll be playing piano in the park. if you need to talk, i’m always here. my address never seems to change and you’ve known it since we’ve met. the telephone is on the wall; make it ring. i’ll be sitting patiently beside it, script in hand, lipstick applied. make it ring, beautiful baby blue, and we’ll take it from there.