i am working on a series of cantos, i know it sounds like haha pretentious, but i need to, they’re just so fucking lyrical.  wrote 7 except for #3 in one quick stream yesterday.  i can see their presentation as a chapbook of prose poetry already.

take a job delivering phone books (advertised often in our very own jobless town), keep all phone books and take the economy promoting ads and cut them up into unlikely poetry, cover the walls of a gallery with them, and make the world a brighter place.  no one will ever report that you never delivered said phone books, because nobody uses phone books anyway.

is the organ of the spirit.

Crowley, Book 4 p. 90

so, ya know, whisper into it…it’s my most developed sense…and i love the pitch of your voice.

When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe. -John Muir, naturalist, explorer, and writer (1838-1914)

is turning on me, and acting with a mind of its own.  my stories always do this, the better ones anyway, so i guess i just need to give it the night and let it tell me what it wants to tell me.  skipped writing group to let it.  so okay alien story-wha’didya wanna say?

a Cantorian continuum of infinities of possible move and response, Cantorian and beautiful because infoliating, contained, this diagnate infinity of infinities of choice and execution, mathematically uncontrolled but humanely contained, bounded by the talent and imagination of self and opponent, bent in on itself by the containing boundaries of skill and imagination that brought one player finally down, that kept both from winning, that made it, finally, a game, these boundaries of self.  

Infinite Jest p.82

the sudden intra-dream realization that the nightmares’ very essence and center has been with you all along, even awake:  it’s just been…overlooked…

Infinite Jest p. 61