Let it all begin to unwind for me. I could tell by the sound in your mouth that it had ended. As I walked through all of that cement to you, my eye in every pot, I could tell that it was over.

The blue stars will burn out of the sky tonight. I am surrounded by the walls of my love (all of you) but feel the loneliness crush my temples. Why should I stop striving now? I saw my legs move through olden times just a little bit earlier.

I’ll go onward though I am unsure:
-I waste all my time
-I am not learning what I should
-I bury my life in writing
-I can’t get out.

Ahh this Autumn night. I am mixed in with the amber music of the cicadas.

Am I alive for this moment? Do I whittle my life away on vanities? I have so many questions I want answered. And yet I sense that my life is a short thing. I’m drawing to its end.

Where are you? I look everytime I step into the daylight hours. For a liberation from this undue gloom. I place my key in your heart: come, come. And yet how to find when I’m confined like a caged beast. It’s choking me!

I can see all of the contours of your blue world. Kill me. I can hear the outside turning night. I am ready. Whenlast you tucked me in and tears ran down our faces: last August.

Punch.

One year filed away into night. Two in the Sanlitun hospital. Three at the beach in Sanya. I thought it would be romantic to sleep on at night. Or to get out of the oppressive cold room. But all that approached was the heat and boats over the water.

I guess my flesh melts with these words. Indistinguishable media: ideas under the one, blood and bone under the other. Skeleton thoughts and skeleton body. Tick tick tick tic tick tick..

This music plucks on something rare in me. In the chords knocking one against other I fancy streets. Columbus park. Chop chop. AAA and the boats of San Li Tunr. Tortoise’s blue Hawaiian and the mosaic on the table. Night of bordertowns.

Lifts the blue sky above Brooklyn bridge. Oh I feel eternity in those words. Each night river and open space a cipher to young minds. This will fade too. Your hot acuity: out out out.

Acuity?

-How does it feel to wake up and be old?
-Well I have to get up in the middle of the night more.
No rest. Jenna’s movie.

Make a guitar out of these words. Have them — dock-dock dock ; dock—dock dock; yes but can the shifts flow atop — dock-dock— as we sink —dock— as the blue sink deepened after running —dock, dock—dock on top of the music too. They complimented the timber in your voice. Half faked, half-docked. Felt more like dock home on the lower frequencies. Los demiurgos. Deet-da deet: the chords shuffle over the balsam planes they cash up ringing. Like a grilse athronge plucking full-rede inn za treebark. Failed deet-a-dollar. Follow the note downwards like a slide.

I thought writing perhaps would help. (I knew there was a childish glint in her eye). Oh, how we tangled for a moment. Stupid coarseties. Burn!

Mind floating out of body. I’m not me. I’m this net. Trying to strum: which now I see as colored dendrites. Clearer clearer work into it: you. From go to go.

I was upset last night because it felt like I was rolling boulders. I collapsed on the floor again, waking up at an uncertain hour with a still-displeased mind.

And sometimes when I catch the train out can feel the improvement close lives have on the mind. 叹口气 I’m lonely and these wide open nights bore into my mind.

Regret. Anger. Fear. Humiliation. It always feels as if my heart is on edge. Like someone’s going to pull back the curtain and step out. Or put a claw on my shoulder. Gah. More nightmares than ever recently. Don’t know how to interpret. Delusional to see progress in unending malaise?: or its actuality. Throw a few questions into Blue Point and see how the water answers.

Aghhh but you didn’t respond. You could have shared in this fun whittling with me.

♪♪ Stan Getz – Luiz Bonfa – Jazz Samba Encore! – 1963 ♪♪

As the baby of Aruba sits atop my dictionary. Listen to this: My eyes are immobile: beetles: and dreams mix in with the wall. Pretty good? Zeiga zunt.

A cherry blossom for you. Her smile.

Whispering her name again and again on the highway with madness: Chloe, Chloe. Watching the sun sink the sunk sink dock dock dock.

We paint pictures to ourselves. And whoever look. Taste. Crab cake. Bananas. The film of tobacco on my lips. Bolete scent.

Ahhh: a little feeble tonight, a little feeble tonight I got the scream out. Wooh wooh the song fades.

I raise feet over the hot sand. Where has that brainmusic come from? And why every time that I step on sand? I see little hot coals jumping in time to the song. Pinned the umbrella to the wind with my legs. We exchanged quick glances before then…

Which of these words of mine will not fade? Or evoke the newness of me in the youness of then? That name I know. It was she came through the red bar the night we danced.

Woah! stop Woah. Fuckin guy almost mowed him down.
You can respond by saying:
1. 哥们儿好球
2. He was askin’ for it
3. [say nothing but draw first]
4. Blow on the cigarette: “The tortured ways that men express themselves.”

Tell ma I’ve struck some kinda rhythm here. Dee dee. For Sarp I flashed conductor’s hands. Hey! Get out of there, it’s not like that. Outside the moon is covered in black robes. I …wait on mercury to fling itself backwards through the sky. Pray to Mercury for something to buy an apartment with or season ticket to the world. VR?

I’ve always liked the guitar best. I like the shape of the neck, board with strings, and the round base. I remember when the strings dug holes into the tips of my fingers. Playing Borderline and Bowie: a dark year. Suicide often on my mind.

I-I-I the way the guitar melts with the fluttering trumpet here is nice.

I came down from the sweven in a place rocksbarre that seemed doubly un-familiar to me. The banners of your teeth were red with sausage and egg when you got the call. I knew it was coming to an end then. I tried my hand at poetry for all of that. Somewhat missed the touch. Yea I missed the touch. Clammy lobster dinner afterward I was obliged to go to. Whale Island. Pound the canoe’s side: drive em to shore: stab: fire in the hole: dead: drag up: slice of long sections: four cuts and sharpen: let blubber and meat and bones and unnecessaries hit the poisoned blue waves: peel more: two weeks later all of the bones are too big to move.

I know this isn’t darkening to the pattern I have stored to righteously put there for to show while a camouflage behind always camouflage too scared the self out or with to show for fail ways be gretst why if then then deck deck deck. It comes to roll with end. Pink ending or comes to fleck with green now ends.

Let’s get greasy.

Once upon a time I was born into the blue world. You should have seen it. Every morning ran across the walls which ran across the hills. With holds full of spermaceti the boats pulled into the harbor. They chattered in different languages: fine and low Italian, something German and Chinese and Japanese.

Fragments, tatters, the little moments, a register:
-A boy astride the frame of his bicycle, peddling through the ages
-Persimmon: branch: she picks mushrooms for her yellow soup
-The ink scales, alive for me.

Can what rearrange them? Now this intaglio, not this drift.

Watch this piece of the world like: do what you say sand say what you will do early on: let the world absorb your Word.

The lives you know will drift, go on, write them: scrimshaw for someone somewhere. Their lives now: deposited in me:

-Jesus
-B
-Mother and father
-the Presidents
-C
-Mushroom
-Bamboo
-Frances
-Arches Bridges
-Bi Gone
-John Rott English
-Shamen
-Schifff

Ah I think that I’m done for now. See these imprints.

Five black witches with yellow skin. Materialized on the corner where I was born.

-Hey what movies were those?
-Hey Goodbye, goodnight
-What’s
-With all the letters
-I thought for a time I would get rich off my notes, delusional:
-But now I speak with a mouth full of rust
-Come on get it out come on get it the fuck out.
-Hi, Naomi.
-You’re leaving. Your work attire?
-Yes. Yes. Yes

Fucking fool.

Now the eyes tangle.

Back and back and back and back and back. Aye some brainwork this is! Loose cannon, dust to settle: more? If I die? Last will and joke of a testament not yet printed. Jarring to read the nothing I had bequeathed the world. Working on it.

He walked in proud—no.no. Try: he woke up that day… Not not — yes, this: outside the moon was blue. No dammit, no! Buried.

Forestwood. Used to recite:

-and in the Darkness bind them

The deep, deep woods. As you approach Hauppauge Highschool from Veterans Memorial H.W. you see the green island as far as the Northport smokestack. Fucking trapped in forever Forest. 到山顶俯视；这岛我卜居, and I’m trying to carve my name, soul, love for us in the changing face of clouds and waters.

Went in and ended my two year voyage around the world last week. Had to see a bit of the territory. It’s mine it’s mine it’s mine it’s mine. 我ith the ballad of the stars on my lungs.

Floss obtained from the undersides of leaves. If not at 2 am then never. What would she understand about the fire wrapped around, my aorta? Wouldn’t’ve from a glimpse: in which knots had tangled. I disguised myself too.

Women who know these men from the second they’re born until the moment they die.

Cooped up in Hen frigates for a year. No other friends. Neither mwah. Blorder glines. Bian, bian bian bian stop. Stop. Bian. Nice water animation.

I gun that fucking Jeep past the cameraman and assistants standing around. Hi Beth.

-How fast?
Exhale blue smoke
(Ava are you taking these notes)
-I don’t know.

Nicotine melt tar puddle. Not my style of note-taking either, or writing. Deep in the laboratory.

Drive and turn and inhale: again.

Cole drops his hand. All of the world is in my veins. Their lives at my fingers that they know. Chugga-chugga

-Was that scooter?
-Goodjob dying.

At the time of his death I watched the sun droop into the trees behind the highschool. All of the twilight air seemed to contain your atoms. For you and for all I shake myself out of these cinders. Rising and rising and rising. Gone now: she’s gone and everything. Nothing holds up, not the scalp atop the world. But for a single moment to sustain a note of violet and dream, could end.

Day

Habitat: Terrestrial. Found in the shade of an oak tree’s branches in wrinkled clusters. Nearly mistook for dark wet leaves.

Caps: Varying in size: 2.5cm, 3cm, none much wider than 4cm. All with a sharp central bump, peak of a witch’s cap, and color tar-black or varnished rosewood. Surface slightly greasy, rubbing off particles of ash. Four black-hatted elders plano-convex with radial cracks, the middle-aged rosewood with unmarred cap, conical-convex and shiny fibrils. Margins of four elders upflaring, lifting the gillhem and showing wrinkled gray-black lamella; the middleaged rosewood with down-facing gills, and with small black fibrils appressed tightly to the cap.

Gills: Black and gray in the four elders, but pale yellow in the other, which slowly bruises black. Narrowly attached, broad, close. Leaving a blackish residue on the fingertips.

Stipe: 3cm x .6cm or 4cm x .8 cm; color a fusion of black and yellow, the colors blending in streaks. Overall yellow. Slowly staining black. Smooth but not greasy, smooth but not viscid. Flesh soft but not fragile. Equal. Hollow on the inside and stringy. White base.

Odor: Scant, indistinctive

Spore Print: Wafted misleading black spores on paper. My research say witches leave white marks but this was not observed, probably due to age or mischief.

Taste: Indistinctive

Notes:

-Where else have I seen these colors likewise balanced? Nowhere but on the uniforms of the Pittsburgh Steelers, and there the colors stay in equipoise, here they dance slowly into black.

-Distinctly witchlike in posture and attitude. Some with crooked, overbig hats spattered with dewdrops, others spry and their bodies spindly, most with glossy hair of tar.

-I wonder if these colors, like the suit of a wasp, ward off the gnawing of predators. The ubiquitous little slug crawling across dying mushrooms was absent here.

Night

The flashes of heat lightning throw open my wall. I cast four of the witches over the balcony. I saw them tumble through the air, yellow over black, some colliding with the deck, others sinking into the grass.

A man, his mouth emitting blue white light, lies with his head sinking into a pillow. A witch, her face a palate of gashes, digs her fingernails into his shoulders. She has the eyes of cats. She opens her mouth and shows sharp triangular teeth.

I awake, flashes of heat lightning on the wall, my heart pounding.

Cursed.

The plentiful beauty:

Found: April 7, 2018 in Huddart Park, C.A. growing on stumps, logs, branches and wetdecaying wood in shelves.

Fruiting Body: 2.5 cm from base to apex; flabellate;  hard at the center but softening outward; strongly zoned with colors of branch, chopped oak, caramel, drab green, olive, dark brown, poolfelt green, and white at the margin; zones of velvet alternating with bands of silk; flesh sturdy but pliant // bottom whitish-gray, 4-5 pores per millimeter.

Spore Print: Did not obtain.

Odor: That of a polypore: fragrant wood soaked with rum.

Notes:
-I shut T. versicolor in the oven and let the pilot light dry it. I removed it after forty-five minutes and found that T. versicolor had stiffened without becoming brittle. I then placed T. versicolor in my blazer pocket, instantly making it the most breath-taking pocket square in existence.

-To run the tip of my thumb and index finger over alternating bands of silk and brown velvet is bliss.

 

 

A throwback to Menlo Park in April.

Found: Midapril in Menlo Park, C.A. Growing in dappled sun and shade from rich, dark soil on the roadside…humicolous.

Pileus: 8-9cm wide; color warm beige to buff; surface glabrous, striate at margin, with apex covered by a large white patch; convex.

Lamella: White, free, close.

Stipe: 8cm x 1.5 cm, white, peeling, fragmentary annulus colored as cap, with lower half (~4cm) enclosed by a large membranous volva; equal; volva buried in substrate.

Odor: not distinctive.

Spore Print: undetermined.

Notes:
–An esteemed edible I thought poisonous, rudely cast into a tangle of poison ivy.
-Astonishing balance of cold and warm colors: a portrait of the April morning sun.
-Amanita velosa, the music of your name passes into my heart.

 

For showing me that hearts are not to be feared,
For your consideration and friendship one night
In a city full of vice, danger, and cutthroat liars.
For the love you showed beneath August’s fire.

I to you gave perhaps too little.
But I shared memories with you,
And trusted you
Though one in the dead of night could do harm.

You were a great friend in a time of loneliness:
I am very grateful. You were insightful, too,
And listened. You pointed out my prejudices
But did not stoop to chastise me.

Neither of us is perfect:
I have trouble accepting this;
But in the hours we knew one another
We knew one another’s souls.

I dreamed that I was being led from rickety musty cottage to rickety musty cottage. Inside the rooms the lighting was dim and there were chests,  treasure chests. I was bid to open each one and each time the lid swung open I saw gold coins. I was bid to open the chests faster and faster, each time seeing more and more gold. The coins began to pile up to infinity and I gasped and choked as if I were drowning.

I awoke from this dream not with fear but with appreciation.

Lesson: do not covet money.

The ribs of clouds above the bay, lilac waters and gray smoke. The barrier island, a thin strip of black. Above the sap of the ribs leak out incarnadine shading to orange, pink and pale yellow.

Portrayed in the yellow slits peaks of cloud. A savannah, a cream field, leaking paler blue. A blue breeze touches all this crag and scrap of land. I abut on ocean tides.

In the waves come peeling grayly. Curling silver and holding glimmers of the sky. Ribs drifting and slicing open. Often pickup trucks move by squarely.

A glistering airplane going through phases of sunset; an auburn-orange little boat slicing the metal of the wavs.

The bicycles, the throbbing water. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Silver waves keep curling in. On the horizon the colors darken, and the ribs of clouds look now like lines in raw fish meat.

Sliced wide open.

The lilac city; the sun drooping golden. The roadways slick and green; the treetops summer gray. Evening traffic, jeweled headlamps, churn forward and backward in the soup. Brakelights, red fireflies, flare out in the goldenrod of evening. And clouds, peeling scurfy clouds, mauve, yellow gray, encroach on dying day.

Between the eyeball of the sun, and its lid of clouds, and the rising unfinished stone of the moon I’m aligned. And attuned. The rhythm of one setting, the other ascending; my arms the scale, my brain the point fixed between both so dies.

The day decays in the west; the moon lifts out of the periwinkle east. The cicadas begin their whine, and kite-winged birds crazily pivoting hunt out the last dragonflies of the day. Not yet twilight, the last lights of day sink into the park; all gravity in the solarsystem I feel on the crown of my head.

A page flutters. To the west blocks of smoke and city; to the east land’s end, and the lighthouse beam prowling the waves somewhere in time. Nothing but silt and sediment, the relics of glaciers to bridge the two. Yes yes.

Midsummer nights dream.