the undercurrent no doubt is blood red, umber, no small portion

too is black. the hue that holds all.

time has a lot to do with why it is she and yet it is she

who stands and seeks to stand here



the undercurrent is the dream state, the marginal rioting jungle

or is the truly slim margin the brightly lit columns where such tendrils erupt?

to live only for one moment, then die. but in the margin

(or do I mean to say outer fields) the dream state lives



sweet girl do not unsettle this hibuscus, you mustn't stir with gentle knives

such mayhem fit for theives and kings as really must be handled by gods and wizards

hermits and monks and to rudely bring up from dire sleep a churning mind is truly

to wake the angry undead



i make a lot out of what amounts to me getting polluted in the basement then busting

our place up

but what's stunning is you seem to love me yet



i guess it's worth wasting faith cutting limits and cutting into the margins

just to know this and i hope you feel

my thanks

i have no choice now but to write, no excuse i

see the easy going property owning young parents

on the bus stop corner mornings and wonder where

the bad in them inhabits or if it does



my excuse is never easy but in action or maybe never

better be careful or the cops indeed will show up

all day my heart was in no spirit of rage in finally

no mind either the spirit of destruction is one of vacancy



hey baby you wanna leave me don't do me no favors

percussive swearing hard vowels hard



damn lucky i didn't break my wrist and damn lucky

my upbrining prohibits true mayhem this would be

a good day to start smoking again i suppose but that's

one more problem i don't need this would be a good day



to stay covered in one's hole and that is what i intend to do

hide and read the bad news from Iraq and hope

for better days better



hours

if I could have put semen in or onto you and you

it might have made a difference to me and my public tonight

but you and you are irrevocably lost not even able to be found on Google

and my public

is largely illusory

and even more largely

at a previous engagement



and yet the problem is with my own head

my own heart

and that's what and who and why I'm yelling and at

a certain point I will simply cease to stop



I am he who hunched in black wool

and viewed under the yellow street lamp

and the smell of the East River that eternal river on your air

I am he

who looks for the slant of his incisor and the temporary bewilderment

of his eye

like nothing so much as a black German Shepherd

and were I such an athlete you could tell and not tell



somewhere is a man unfaithful to his wife

and somewhere is another opposite who's instead

always to his life guess

who I



am

it should be mentioned that Tent Trailer whose name is in fact Giles doesn't live exclusively in the tent trailer and hunting camp but also rents a room for $300 per month in the 2-story condominium townhouse of his brother who works on the 11th floor for some bigass telecommunications company. I have alluded to the brother being a fucking asshole, but he is not. Witness the good rent for his brother. He is in fact sort of a fucking asshole for a variety of reasons, but then, so am I. So in fact is Giles. This brother, Christophe (known universally as "Chris") is different from both me and Giles in that he has a great head for business and has never been at a loss for money or women, to put it plainly and crudely. That is why I unfairly think he is a fucking asshole, and that tendency, strangely, is sort of at the root of what makes me a fucking asshole. Giles likes his brother though, and not in a naive way. As he likes his brother, so does he know him.



I am leaving this fucking soul mill (I am speaking of my job) in about 20 minutes but I will just post this shit as it develops.

the girl who comes between them is a girl no shit that Tent Trailer meets one long Saturday afternoon at the Public Library or more specifically outside this library which is pretty big and good for NH. when he takes a break from the books and heads outside for a cigarette because she has headed out and he has been watching her use the computer and scoping the loose falling brown hair and her shoulder blades and her long legs in loose fitting carpenter jeans and let's face it, Tent Trailer may live in the woods but he has had more than the benefit of a college education, he's been around, he's been there, and he can recognize an interesting piece of ass and also a scant opportunity. who knows where she is from or what her story is but headlining is a pale oval face, starkly lipsticked, lips a color like plum or perhaps a shade darker, and when she gets up to head out side he is struck by how dark her large brown eyes are. why must it always come down to some woman but yet it most certainly does? and so that radar tells him she is of his ilk and when he finds her sitting upon the cold bench by the dormant fountain smoking and staring at something she has written in a small leather bound notebook he because he is essentially lonely but also, curious to recognize, essentially happy with his life he sits down next to her and lights up and says hello, says the first thing that comes to mind which is just a shade from awkward but he smiles a little easily not especially giving a fuck and he has a snaggle tooth which she seems to notice and he knows about his blue eyes and she seems not unpleased as they speak and when he suggests a coffee down at the shop which is down on the main street (though not Main St.) she agrees and they walk off still talking, walking next to each other, the new October briskness a fine thing



she is a student transferred to one of the better state schools due to the proximity of a parent and a vaguely alluded to wanting to get away but she is not starting until the next semester she is just here and working and where does she work and she says a restaurant and he is letting it lie keeping the conversation moving and move it does. he asks for her phone number and she gives it to him. it's her cell number. that's what he has too.



we're going to get next into the story of his fucking brother who works on 11th floor and it is only 3:33 on a day with mental real estate so maybe I will get to that.

maybe I'm no good.



if later it was later said of me, He was a very bad Internet poet - that'd be fine. Someone would look up from their draft beer and ask, Was he even a poet?



and the barkeep would say, Oh hell yes, he was a poet. He was definitely a fuckin poet. Just a very bad one.



it still would be something



it occurs to me that I invoked a strange image of bestiality in an unrequited dream lover poem as if that was like a good thing



but fuck it.



I might get to telling you a little of that other story today. That one brother he lives in a tent trailer in the woods behind a hunting camp he plumbed himself. ah fuck it



you know, you feel like a good person but are you really the fuckin authority on that jazz? Maybe I'm fuckin evil and don't know it. Maybe God don't like cantankerous.



but at least I ain't bitter. and try to say truth.



what a fuckin world it is

what a fuckin world

the only world worth making it in is the world of dreams but that is ok because that is the only world I am in fact making it in

Manhattan Ave. is a motherfucker but India St. is a song



in the dream everything you do on that certain day and it may be Thursday

you write down right away on the blog

and by everything, you mean specifically 4 things

and one of them involves sex



I kept trying to get you to combine all 4 into one that involved me

but it was a no go and there were two of me there on opposite sides of the street

one per sidewalk

I was waiting for you in front of the Polish restaurant you lived above and you were to come downstairs

and I was across the street lurking in front of the electronics shop in front of an oily parking space



the me in front of the Polish restaurant was cloaked in black and looked like nothing so much as a black

German shepherd. You emerged from the door left of the Polish diner and you were wearing a red and black plaid

skirt stopping just above the knees and black tights and boots and heavy black fisherman's sweater and a red winter beret that perhaps could look good only on you and your waist I could tell was slim and your thighs slightly thick



the me across the street hungered after you knowing your love was for women only and unreachable



but the black German Shepherd me grinned noncommital and was thinking of the conversation we were about to have over sausage coffee and blintzes



and the smoking later, black German Shepherd thinks about the way the light gold & low and cold, November, 3:30 dusk, may it fire some mystic amber in your hair like another smart girl long ago another November in Indiana and on a rooftop



the me across the street has just been heckled by some ghetto youth they seem to sense his want



but black German Shepherd is beyond wanting and for that reason he is the one whose contrast you will have cause to ponder against the pale skin of your navel, at least



this is how it goes in the mind of me across the street as he skulks off half hard to the Check Cashing place, fucking usury, cashes his $35 gratuity from a half day job quit and humps it down to Galapagos which is same as it always was,



no hope and 4 beers till broke then walk back

in damp

toward self that is but not

yet I am glad

black German Shepherd and I fuck

your woman's loins so



deeply

the day after a lapse is always the worst but the day after

the day after a lapse you can feel cool again

you can have a renewed mental focus

if you can only keep from procrastinating

from fucking off and fucking up and getting yourself

right back into position to fall prey to another lapse



don't worry I haven't forgotten about the story I'm still bound to tell you all

I just thought I'd wax on for awhile about lapses

you see I'm prey to them

they're what cause this blog to fall off and me

to go through the motions of the day to day to day

and let's face it, that's no good, I mean I have certain responsibilities

here and elsewhere that only a fool would abrogate

only a fool only a fool



funny too, because a lapse is actually how our story begins,

the story of the two brothers

and the lapse in question



well, I can't quite get into it all yet because I'm at work

and I have a little bullshit here to do before I can

put the real meat on you, I mean in you, I mean out for you



on this here platter

but before I tell you that old old story about the two brothers

one of whom lives in a tent trailer behind his Dad's old hunting camp

when he's not actually living in that old hunting camp with its ancient wood burning stove

and the other of whom lives in a two story townhouse condominium

and works on the 11th floor of some douchebag office bldg.

and also the story of the girl who comes between them



before I tell you that old saw let me also assure you

that this blog is a fully computer-generated random creation of the Internet

it's actually an experiment

it comes from nowhere

spidering and pinging itself out of the very Ether I mean Inter



so you know don't get too involved in this motherfucka

all 4 of you reading this



best surf along



so long



bye now

delphinium



she



is way too fabulous



Let's hope she is computer-generated



yeh she is way too fast and fabulous and in some sense I envy her



but in another sense her glamourous sex/art fable



makes it that much easier for me to instead tell you another tale



of two brothers wrapped up in one lover, one girl



and though this tale that I'm about to tell you is not as daring and shiny as hers,



not half as glamourous,



it however begins in the woods and, like hers,



invloves a lot of drinking.



but unlike hers



it begins very badly



and ends even worse

it was a morning of everything going wrong

dog puked

power outage

sheets of rain

some bitch nearly crashed into my truck

feebleminded driving persisted out on the highway



it was this kind of morning

and so I am happy just to sit here remote from people

immersed in the Internet

I want a response from the universe

I want the universe to fuckin straighten up and fly right

I want to slap the universe around and if it gives me any lip I'm going to stick it in detention

The universe has so many detentions now there's a real question whether it can even graduate now or not

I want the universe to stop sticking to the sole of my boot because it's smelling the place up

I want the universe to temporarily morph into a nice fatty steak, baked potato, all the trimming plus an eggnog IV for purported snarling criminal heads of plutocracy

and also into brain food for all the poor dumbasses out there in the land

I want some god damned accountability for this bitch universe

I want to know about ennui, refractive states of reality, the illusion of statis, and all the other fucked up tricks

the universe has been pulling these many long motherfucking years

I want to bend the universe over the edge of the couch and let her know what she's been missing all this time

shock the bitch universe back into some kind of gender role the motherfuckers can get down with or barring that

I want to devastate the universe with my wit and logic in an argument so that she just shuts up for once

but shit, here come's the kicker,

she's dumped me, fucking bitch universe

has dumped me

and there's no going back now because

she's on to some other guy indeed

now for all I know she's

fucking the town

This blog is going down.

I am going to kill the fuck out of this fucking blog.

This blog just received a letter via certified mail, and that letter said in effect your fucking time up in this bitch is UP, motherfucker. Please report tomorrow a.m. to courthouse square for reassignment. Please do not ask questions. Any questions you ask can and will be used to fuck you the fuck up

This blog, many years in the future, will be the subject of a a morbid documentary where the path of this blog is traced right up to its final doom seated in a harshly lit bare kitchen black and white checkerboard floor and the big knife drawn cruelly casually across the blogs neck and the matter of fact spatter of the bright red blood on the checkered floor in the hard yellow light



this fucking blog is so fucked, it's fucking done. this blog

is seated outside on a bench in 20 degree weather wishin for 50 cents for a cup of coffee

and it smells like piss

and little does it know it's going to freeze under the bridge tonight and die in its sleep

and no one will care or cry for it



this dog aint gonna find no mongrel dog to keep it company either before it goes, that's

how fucked this blog is, this blog

is fucking doomed,



fucker is going down.

this blog is the yellow powder and the prisoner forced to consume it,

then eat his own guts out his own anus

stricken with disease and as it goes into the rigor

it's still alive, too alive to actually pass on and then it realizes that this must be hell

in pain forever

this fucking blog, too bad, you could have had it all, you could have been a star

but no, you're just a dumb douchebag with a steak knife sticking out of his solar plexus what a way to go



you dumb fuck.



this blog is fucking done, had it. that's it. it's a



wrap

I had a dream last night where a fellow's mullet was referred to as "beer hair."

future historians and anthroplogists will determine

that television

was an essential part of our undoing

The Quotations Page

Jindo Felas enters the basement bar. The bar is empty except for the Bartender who sits smoking, reading a magazine. Murky sunlight streams in through a small window.



Jindo: Give me a shot of Mr. John Daniels, Esquire.



Bartender: Bar's not open yet.



Jindo: What?



Bartender: [pause] Bar's. Not. Open. Yet.



Jindo: What time does it open?



Bartender: 3 o'clock.



Gina, a waitress, early 30's, pretty, enters from the kitchen, rear.



Gina: Manolo just called. He's not coming in tonight. He says he's sick.



Bartender: [very quietly, still reading magazine] Fucking terrific.



Gina: So I don't know who's going to cook tonight. I'm certainly not going to. I don't come here to fucking cook.



Jindo: Listen to me. I want that shot. I want a shot of Mr. John Daniels, Esquire. I'm asking you nicely now.



Bartender: [pause] Yeah. Sure. Why not. Coming right up. [continues to read magazine]



Gina: So if Manolo isn't coming in, not too much reason for me to stick around. I got other things I could be doing.



Bartender: Like what?



Gina: Excuse me?



Bartender: You heard me.



Jindo pulls out a handful of crumpled bills and begins to smooth them on the bar.



Gina: [noticing Jindo for the first time] None of your business.



Bartender: [going back to magazine, impassive] You fucking crank whore. Listen, before you leave do me a favor and pour our insane friend here a shot of J.D. He's getting on my nerves.



(to be continued)

Homo Excelsior: The Omega Database