To four the Road

Yes, back, here--I'm not sure what else to say. It's the same, frighteningly the same. It's so damn same it makes your eyes bleed would if you were stabbing them. Another bit of light, occasional verse:

much ado about a park bench and Jane Austen

I’d taken her more serious if series
of events as sense and dimes rhyme
and ice on the limestone huts we
what for tat and tits too fit to stare
I hold her

two bold and the underlines waiting
out subway car bars made of cages
to stage or not to page my dealer to
heal the line in my cracks about
who held her

welder sparking white whines who
despite the cries of the weather bats
had on sunnier haze made plays
for the suburbans thumping what
will hold her

hand me down clowns’ balloons
big-eyed toons a-makin whoopee
cushions sing the bluebells wells
of sonnets and planetary bonnets
to hold her

back home when the South rises
WE BEAT IT DOWN
with doughy will it goes on risin’
WE BEAT IT DOWN


This is, I suppose, what my brain looks like on sleeplessness and Heidegger. While in content it is largely incomprehensible, it does, as I like it to, display certain obvious formal characteristics. I had the idea of setting down a few verses and a chorus while also trying to make use of a few hiphop tricks that I am obviously not adept at. It became obvious in writing this that my strengths lie in the long phrase and not in the quick turns that someone like Del the Funkee Homosapien might employ. And then,

an ode on a CD cover of a woman named Apple

WHAT I WANTED from you was an essay
on matter of fact, I would like to stay, hearing
your ear over cocaine and a beer-stained
mustache—I listened—four hours—two—the
dull pain of the evening silences, whose lenses
I WOULD SEDUCE, they’d click and fall in love
with suicides treating lovered wounds
with pesticides inside the bottom left cabinet,
behind the Drano. Oh, black and or white, you
simple woman, death’s first maiden of songing
the life from the evening silences we made
love to by candle-blight, oh lips too tight to
kiss too slit to miss, I’d heal the wound in your
face two face unloved each other we last.

It'd be easy to read Fiona Apple into that title, but in fact I had in mind a particular Shiina Ringo album whose intricate folds rival many a state map. It's a sonnet, sort of, roughly in three parts. There's no rhyme [sic] or reason to the tripartite division, that's just the way it worked out.

I'll try to have something more insightful to say in the future, but for now, this is all I got.