disutility function

much has been written, historically and qualitatively speaking, about the way surface water ripples in mid-June across a majority of the midwest but one thing that often slips past unnoticed is the silent secret meetings, quite randomly convened, in which the elder carp in any given pond discuss the recent increase in guppy population downstream of their favorite dining spot

oh, and every so often the wind picks up, and occasionally it corresponds to the same moment a train passes by, speeding north and a little west, and if you lean in close enough you can spot a flicker of attention paid the train by the head heron, standing ever still just inside the water’s edge; a dozen or so minutes later as that same heron steps out of the water and into the air, having sufficiently, and accurately, decided your presence is of little consequence, pulling a long slow arc only a few inches above the rippling surface, you won’t be ashamed to find yourself wondering if he’s headed north and a little west too, bound and determined, or better yet destined, to run that terrible train down because you’ve got a few scores to settle with it too

it must also be noted that not much is ever officially, or unofficially really, decided about the guppies at these meetings because, lest we forget, carp do, in fact, lack the ability to speak, even, and maybe especially, the elder ones

the point, of course, is that there may be a guppy problem, and no doubt there is, but as long as the carp are unable to properly communicate what that problem is, or anything that may be on their minds, they are likely to just idle their lives away, hovering in the water looking foolish and forgetting why they got together in the first place

or, better yet here

like stamp:ng blank snake eyes on everything
a witness to nothing, i guess, at least i know what i mean

i know the always
disappointing so heres an
attempted equation{N+1/Norsomething} less one variable
yr infallible thatsmemyvoice sono arguments anymore

theres a silence too and its

this is a selection from a larger piece, as yet unfinished, that i am currently working on.
in a vague sort of way it is the celebration of a writer who i’ve admired probably more than any these past years.

well sometimes, maybe

but then always another
and a lifeless rendering am isam: i am rampaging charlatan grammar logic

hurtling head over heels in love with your language
like ive got my sixteen fingers and a triple-blank-h-e-r that loves too much
we’re this then and then that and only this child always and allways a child

our sound is
faithful love letters and the ever often
storefront soft and forefront softmore sometimes isit whorish goldfronts and aall
the retched stench and unknown prophets

and true blue like never living up to two woo-hoos, too,
or grand and greatfathers like begat/begot and maybe not
the mailbag daughters thems all nasty naughty and fraught
in forgotten headphone frosted foster-your.own.damn-care forgetmenots

there they’re blasting blisters belated across sidewalks
and well shaded front porches with and withered maidens
all made in when came and went

and allof us slaughtered losted brought and bought in the freshest doublenaught
for all we’ve got yesterdays possesive esses with their own
and home taught inedible indelible drunken mistakes
while you’re reqwesting victory not never sham or shameless h-i-s-tory,
forsaken as my hands are shaking in this first minute of anxious debate

marble maybe pseudo half cut sliced or diced the forty five (imstillFuckIngalive!) not quite a crashed plane or planet nonsense were always on top and running into tables another long distance runner in striped shoes and expanding comfort zones dont you feel so honored this new and next time your honor? we don the wool cap comma never nonono sandles like the weather we once called our own lets stand at stellar stalker sized microphones and turn the echo right off for right now

there’s a soft bend in the road, becoming behind me, one-sixtyfour, where, if only having gone this far, i’m reminded now of, was it montgomery? yes, well its likely part due to the light and the sky, also, of course

it was dark already, then, late spring or early summer, depending on how you cut it, i guess, so also quite late, when i, though vaguely i recall it a cold night, or at least, i remember, shivering and waiting at a gas station, tho’ that came even later as well, for what its worth, backed out of the driveway in an unforgivingly familiar way

yet, i thought to no one, who, or what even, its always worth considering, am i running from, exactly, this time? some day i may settle that argument, whats your rush?

and oh the fog, i imagine, like some stephen king novel, that must have surrounded me, as i did, contrary to a history this time, laying down cash for those, what was also a distinct form of irony, packs of cigarettes, i asked for a mountain, sir

not so able, or convinced, at least, of my very own trust in myself, or the steering wheel perhaps, i keep repeating, like another newest mantra, to stop and turn around, that’s juggernaut to you jerk, ha ha who said that? and the ancient path was altered, like some kind of broken carousel around a dying, or dead, flint, or a cedar point ride, instead, laid horizontal, a new kind of gravity pulling me back, as, how i saw fit this time, not much else would be able to find the way, like us, to get it right this time

i feel wrecked, yes completely fucking wrecked, this is certain, among all others, must have been the victim of a hit and run, was i, as i suspect, time traveling? i consider, there was a cop car at the gas station, as previously mentioned, maybe investigating, maybe an investigation, what had happened or was yet to, piecing together my clues, like, had he cleaned the windshield? do grainy stop-motion security videos reveal a certain presence of mind, though i doubt it, to throw away used wrappers and bottles? or was it all a haze, not so doubted, of a dry salty everything and a focus on nothing? an old shell on autopilot fishing for payment and seatbelts?

and, oh my yes, of course! what about that dent in the rental a couple weeks later comma dot dot dot comma the plot thickens, as it always must, and moving on, was i both the hit and the run?