daily_news09

On the back of a stage coach we travel and in the distant pouring blue over the hills of dew in through the whispers of the cold wind in the heated crotch of the valley in by the river in the cave through the mine shafts and boiling over a net of abandoned train tracks we search for a beast of sorts who eating by a naked feeding sweating breathing real girl in a temple of sorts is a brewstering pestering nap of shady beasts sampling the moss and resting on the chiseled cold stone licking the last bone and
receiving the news on an all access radio the girl petting her grandiose pet
who`s hair feels cold the way shade feels and who lyes by her side in the
grey fading afternoon knowing soon the May trees will make their way to
full plumage and make for even more pleasant places to lie but for
now all  they have is their rest and their old dried paws waiting to
hit the mud running through tracking their pray through the
knowing groaning trees and when we arrive the
beast will not just be in my dreams but i will
see and we can live in harmony on the
banks of equestial equinox dreams
that can only live in one place
i have come to realize that
the beasts will not
tolerate this sort
of dim
view
and
self
-loathing
important
note
if
ever
confronted
by
 a
fraternity
of beasts who first give you a fright fight the urge to run away
these beasts don`t bite.

In this sensual blister cult a piece of a man is lonely
The other pieces are brought out in a wheel-
barrow not ready for what they've succumbed to
And bringing them out is a woman with big cleavage
"Nothing stays normal, No one fucks for fun
No one eats just bread anymore, No one calls a friend
their brother, and stands up when they're called"
In these soap scummed bleeding chains
we'll walk till our normal heads are brained.
the man who sees our pieces exclaims
"Your tired laptop eyes and stripped down lies
will not be your only loss, all your sins will cross
and your norman vacant story will have a name."
In this prairie dogged open pore pour poor life
you have made, your jeans bleached stained in a
sink where the colors drain all the contents
of your wallet and soaked you i.d.
wiped clean your S.I.N. off the laminant
7
and 5 all the other numbers are gone
In a second you'll wonder your name, where it is you are
and who you should be impressing
all essential inquiries that no one knows.
Ask the woman at the customer service desk and she exclaims
"Wait for more news tomorrow, sorry we still don't have that in
we'll contact you when it arrives,"
8pm and all the beasts wait to hear the final word.

9:40pm
scientists are racing to develop the key
they would speed efforts to develop
a 19-year-old student
a mix of pig, bird and human
said in televised interviews Thursday
"we should be moving toward phase 6", he told reporters
He defended the
criticism that
the government
believed to have killed 168 people in Mexico
Mexican President Felipe Calderon
it is readying an army of 60 million
Businessmen in surgical masks
traffic was unusually light
"It's a mixed pattern out there"
"we are entering a period of stabilization."
"without delay"
maintaining great vigilance
somewhere in the world

9:24 pm
This day will bring the dawn of a new coffee maker, the hawk soars through the blackbird night.  The night will bring the dawn like a purply black eye upon the sky.  In the frame if your photo it is not you, it is a square that surrounds a brickwall between my heart and the ocean.

The memories that make you wonder, make me learn, reveal to me my idol.  A false one would not whisper to me at the turn of dark and soar above the streets like a comet  You will never learn these words, the language will exit up a near by fire escape  My tears fall down and turn to glue on the glass table  Should they melt I will scrape them up and give them to you  Then the first you not the second you stood you hard brown face above the other you  The attention you gave to details every ounce of yourself is in the body of him but you are always you  Like the old lady making em uncomfortable in the dark from behind the pained glass  Never knowing when she looks I will never know if my feelings are true Those who act tired those who make new enemies will never be happy  Those are the men who shoot other men in the faces Breaking the code of the last famous man.  9:15 p.m. the beasts sweat from their nappy crowded fur.

It was a long day, poor but competent performance, lame but sherpa style lingering life.  Each nail in the coffin knocks the next one out, results of using particle board.  Driving you big white truck maneuvering down old cold streets.  Chrome bearing down the lamer, slower vehicles, waving to your cousin Al, the cop on steroids, bleeding wrists, cuffs cutting, breaking your fist on the back of your victims.  Eating the lard out of your fatty authoritative jowls.  Pouring out her change purse, ripping her jewelry off her bruised neck, stripping her skirt down her stolen pantyhose, and raping the exhaust of her sporty red porsche'.  Lethally injecting all of your poisoned oil into mass production, and poisoning the cars of america.  Eating salad off the dashboard and shitting on her leather interior, breading on the back seat, and seeding on the hood.  There's not enough money to buy all that freedom, and not enough to get rid of it all.  In a city where no one lives, in this city, the cellphones text each other, and TVs watch themselves, and the shitty coffee pours itself out, cold and bitter on the blue streets, and all one can see, if there was one to see it, is the highest building, and hear the laughs of cars complaining  about the price of parking, and the empty cubicles, and the old clock, and the haunted excel, the ice cubes place themselves in ridiculously elaborate martinis, on cold black marble bars, puking themselves up on sticky ceramic tile floors, and eating olives out of back alley dumpsters.  11:50 PM.  and the beasts are calm and their breaths synchronize.

blanked out  on the beef hard cake the net fell off the neat way past the old bridge on my bicycle bloodied meat train, passionate pulse driven paired in the past with the present on your own last word.  Nailed to a cross made of popsicle sticks  in your wicken tradition your name is too said man!  Your black leather coat on the back of the missile blasting on past the moon  out your pistol whipped pussy pony. pERHAPS tHIS cOLLAGE wILL cOLLAPSE.  In the old world we shot ourselves raped ourselves enslaved ourselves, in the new world and so on.  And Blake would see all this and wonder if the kids are engendered or just unheard and tiger would cry till the end of the night in the back of your convertible.  All this until the last incomprehensible end.

The best vacation that I ever had, I am no longer able to remeber.  Perhaps this because I am 28 and when I took the vaction I was 12 but my all time favorite and the one that sustains the most memory would be my trip to the U.K. in 1992.  I had a clown nose that I was carrying around in my pocket for several days and that accumilated quite a bit of the humidity both from my nose and from the air.  I remember the smell was mucisy and moldy, by the time we got to the airport my nostrils were soaking with mildew. I remember the humid air overtaking me as we step out into the airport.  There is more I could go into about it but I won't bore you all with my pleasures.