true magic

This work is about a time I had a broken hand, and how the brokenness transferred from one hand to the other. It is also inspired by the works of Shooby Taylor, which, on the Internet, may be found if you google 'index of pheezy shooby' (not as a phrase).

For some reason I had broken my hand,
you know, how some people sometimes just go ahead
breaking their hand?

It was not capable anymore,
to reach anything.
It lived, as a person (if a hand had personality)
for some time in new york, ny 10010.

then magically, there was a fix.
"Wait," I said, very very carefully,
"I thought it was my right hand that was broken."

So why was the right now performing better than daddy's daddy?

The answer could only beg in my face. "What about the left? With horns?"

I had to laugh. Since my ears were enveloping my own brain.
"Now we will finally be able to simultaneously blow and speak."

really?

When they first met him he was in 9/11, in the morning before most people woke up. nevertheless, broke up.

He was making people float back upstaris.
(that's baby talk for on top of the Towers).
He was making them float back there.

"I don't want to see them like this," he told his good friend.

His good friend looked back at him. "You have to accept how it is like this. Let it go man, let it go. Nobody will see you. Nobody will see you let it go."

One of the people actually floated back up.

.

"Someone said they sho fucked us for sho," in the background, said his buddy to him.

"Ok, some sho fucked us, for sho, then, let that be. "Why are you boasting that, like an ass?"

"I'm not boasting. I'm calculating splats."

"You cannot lift anyone to safety."

"Really?"

"Really."

painfully real things that must be deleted to move on

i moved all the pictures into an 'archive' folder.
on a yearly basis, i visit this archive probably, oh,
whenever I get drunk now. which is becoming a variable.

why would i visit this infernal folder?
to masturbate, of course,
mentally, about this one photo of her
absolutely happy and pleased,

stretching herself out over a gare bench.
gare, in french means a station.
her mom is probably taking the picture,
unless she lied to me, and it was taken by some boyfriend of hers.

it's not a concern of mine.

another really good picture of her is ...
is also in this folder, that i must delete.
i can't archive it anymore. that is not the kind of man
that i project myself as.

she sent me letters. one that literally promised
that androids do dream of electric sheep.
she also gave me a puppy on a tricycle with a basket at the back.
she now speaks of taxidermy for the dog, in her journals.

how do you refrain from verbal descriptions of items,
and focus on memories?
well one of the memories is where she put a bunch of posts on mymymyspaces.
then i deleted them when i got angry.

she was cold to me, on a forum.
so i deleted her stupid posts.
then she emailed me about how much
time it had taken her to think each one up.

that, apparently, was the basis for our break up.

i tried to tell her that anything she posts is permanently registered in my brain, but, obviously she thought i was shitting her.

"but it's true. i really do want to be in blindfolds with you."

and your bizzare throwing of the whore on the bed. and i was sartre (before his mind exploded) and her, simone.

her horribly outdated fascination with picasso. what else would one expect from a communist precinct? then there was a time i called her a peasant.

to be honest, i'm not sure why she indulged me. my belief is that it was probably playing one of her higher games, to which i am not privy.

this certainly makes it easier to delete all of her.

The Reason For My Long Beard

When I was but a boy, I saw the Blue Angel.
Her photograph, of course, just her photograph.
Then, on a night of great despondence
regarding the ability to ever find true love,

She said something to me.

At this point my entire life had gone astray.
I had killed some prince or something in some
rudimentary village, and hence was not allowed
to go beyond certain Boundaries.

I didn't tell her that I killed a prince at first.
I waited, until I knew she was really my Blue Angel,
then snuck a small cavern in the cave of my infinite
secret caverns, where I sneak my secrets.

I showed it to her there.

This did not seem to affect her, and she continued heroically,
but I knew it meant a lot to her, and I could only observe.
She came to visit me, and I remember for unprecedented reason
they let both of us into the terminal, and I was able to watch

as she returned to her home.

After that, I was left to my own devices.
We spoke again, of course, frequently,
yet I was always left feeling incapable,
for some reason.

My sadness would pour into all my illusions,
those days. Random women on the road,
the sort of anonymous harpies one may find
at perhaps a random forum.

I sent her a lot of emails.
I even waited until 2012, and sent her
a trick from Grand Illusions for her birthday.
(Sending a trick of my own would be crass).

The difference, of course, between Eisenheim
the actual difference, between the master and me,
is that I messed up in the middle.

I don't know how I did it, but I lost her.

Equal spending on robotics and paupers

My dream is to resolve some major human fears:
(exclusion, impotence, extinction)
via pathways that free up the boundaries
promulgating such fears.

i can do this because i've suffered it.
except impotence. i'm very potent, i promise
(and this is how i pretend to be personal).
but really, i think i really can.

how wondrous that two enemies find themselves
equally aligned -- yet not in the way that samurai are aligned.
more like how a peacock may be aligned, with a baby seal.
who wants to be the peacock? who wants to be the baby seal?

the us is afraid of exclusion (no, it really is),
and, at the core, so is iran.
both are impotent - one in terms of product,
the other in terms of ideology.

at this point, the extinction ratio is zero:0.
until you contemplate the overall effects.
then basically, not only do these two creatures die,
but all of us.

let all the pixies of the rest of the fucking world
pay close attention.

refinidefinitions and such

Broken eye connected to mind,
delivering all sundry serotonin.
Amongst your pills for 'courage rogaine'
you forgot how to fight if you were to go blind.

Do you always find the available sublime?
Or simply patter pointlessly contrived?
Do you really think my shenanigans
something you could ever offend?

Who the fuck are you anyway?
In namespaces, I never see your writings.
To be honest I don't see you posting more than little brays
in the same trite disorganized ways expected from your institutionalized stays.

pillatthetop

The pill at the top of the world
will swirl down to the trench of your guts.
What havoc over there can be wrought?
Nothing but images of 'Splurts!"

I know all your grandpeepulls fought
for whatever heritage you find fit to cavort.
Just Clauses in memory with your name, though
signed all over documents like they'd fucked

you all over once and twice.
Masturbated over treaties and such.
Their dick and cunt juices layering docs
now your accountants beg for excel ziplocs.

But the software will be too expensive
for the kinda partays you bitches iz throwin'.
Don't throw the vase at me again man,
ok, shit, your pill's down the drain.