The Promise
I’ve listened to a good number of subaltern aesthetic movements.
I’ve mini-mighted my feet in the direction of their promise.
Godzilla, in his dark green coarse coat, “a city—all mine! well, sorta.”
My emotional walls are thin as paper; the walls are collapsing, one onto the other; sharpest pencil to run-of-the-millest pulp; charms, alarms.
My molar.
You, you don’t speak, you won’t speak, even though your young family’s behind the waterfall screaming in ecstasy.
Spalding Gray was found floating in my neighborhood polluted river-front.
I nurture (quite literally) no one thing; it’s the blanks I venture.
Look at that spec of light, hear Mayakovsky’s imprint At These Four Strokes
Two negations, one tucked inside the other.
I’m cued up to be a social infant “in the middle of my path” (in the dog days of my ways).
I’m cued up to speak—after you.
I’ve glistened too long in the sun without sympathetic, beluga-like realities, popping up for air.
I’ve maxi-minded my manners with the most uninsurrectional crowd I’ve ever encountered.
I hear a thousand fifes in the distance—fuck, I know that’s bad.
My spongy sack o’ cum.
“I”—ain’t a problem at all, it’s the “You” that’s the thicket.
Spalding Gray left his loft early in the morning; it was 11 degrees that day.
What a chilly thing to say, “You, you don’t speak, you won’t speak, even though your young family’s behind the waterfall screaming in ecstasy.”
I fracture (quite literally) everything; it’s the particles I assume.
Listen to assemblages of flesh, hear Artaud At These Four Strokes
Two suppositions, one slipped-knotted into the other.
I’ve been roped into being a representationalist “in the midst of a dark forest” (in the Aurora Borealis of the now)
I’ve been tugged hard to speak—after you.
L. S. Asekoff / Jennifer Bartlett / Michelle Brulé / Sean Mullin / Jennifer Stockdale / Rodrigo Toscano / Keith Wahle / Matt Reeck amerikin faggit poim; Ode to /u/
The Last Toast
