Suharto's Organ

Of composition universal and diet on film, fib, affliction of power, subtle change in appearance, so in love with custom and gentle union, until we're treating our bodies like special, desperate days and arrangements, one blue moon after the other, corrugating into rustic evolution rinsed of hands, upon nostalgic liaison, and the purple heart. It would only take one string, one repeating setting to yield forward entry, government victory control patch alighting this old weather fading out in numerous material made vapor next to liquid, never mind the sleeping pattern kept idea-proof, one blessed-on word thinning that sounds like song to the student of falling tide, price, and Beatlemania, melody fever, a governess and work from which I woke up in the dark this morning of electronica, outward where is my eye, on my way down here. There is one way to fall's eventide mentor and sovereign door to talk to handed down in verses. In my own dark way, hearing the sound of rays and groping sleeplessness backwards, on the track I put down on my own, my own label, forgetting something I'd done when the street had emptied out and I became aware of my fingers darting outward

in an array of sheet music, co-flying everywhere, with the same short sounds playing over and over until apartheid. Why am I in pain? Is it just vocation that I find necessary? mesmerizing? a line of cornets? Since I've been a sardine in the way of nothing else, my dark idea of solidarity, I cut the forced drum out from its skyline, where the rancid, mutinous, soft disguise we're keeping on today rises in the evaluated case that I find necessarily dumb. Maybe what I'm missing here are my arms. Nothing else sounds like one does not know how to find oneself scared of the flanging voice, or two of them, wracking my brain with language, except I'm leaving it up to you, up to my neck in violence, raking up the paper. For every Ray Manzarek there are two of me disintegrating on my way down here today, like a trumpet ringing out mid-morning.

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Romano Prodi calls

Like some demonic, destructive suction tube which fewer Cameros go into, breaking law's door as a thistle keels over at a bee's touch, this permit to undo the military-industrial complex gone to bed in the shaft of emergency supply, a long way from home to bang rocket. And a true revolution of values looks like mortgage, otherwise account held over history in the ample youth given to uprising, a request to move loudly, immunized, a token to security among people with the headache of self-knowledge together killing expense and negligent time-share, riding up to the station

which veers past the

gates of an arbiter, one who holds opulent marauding of an unset Société Générale, an heir to a legacy of dignity and worth, who would not budge amidst such an axle? Rather listen to this steeled grave exercise of power over roto-relief's constant verbiage, tackling the wall beyond which waits signal market, cigarettes and cement, goats at rising cost. What goat is worth national orphanage? Those veterans of creative suffering come down from the Hyatt, dripping with economic stimulus and culture, baring the desert home nonetheless dissident, jamming the crowd that strategy gifts almost an evening. To skin George Bush alive as real as the ritz, as scalpel lifts eye from its spiderhole relaxing counter-intelligence. My gift to you is deterring this lover of Vichy.

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Abbas Appeal

A million colored balls roll down the steps from the parliament, barely sewn to the ground which affords the time of day luxurious template to go over during the Bolero, a repast of metrophiles freed from having

 sent away decent judgment. Not only prepared but fixated on lab results that show us ourselves together in the rain kissing while our dresses soak on the steps of the national library, not a card in the world not even for the Kenyans mangled in a news report. After the tide comes in over the pebbles and small rocks, the radio goes on over the counter and we sit for a while with our bread and coffee facing behind the smudgeless windows the street which has closed down and permits no passersby to persuade us that it's without question overcast or sunny, dizzyingly felt-up after we pay for it all, every word. Don't glamorize the banditos leaving pamphlets, who reads pamphlets? Don't effortlessly decide to drive back from the airport with a gun to your head through the well-lit voluptuous folds of the suburbs, not in the final revision, away from the family and the granular financial awareness. Don't be pert. Don't be hovering over the troops in a tuxedo veering off into the shadows laid down as in a perilous Western scene surrounded by hungry cast and crew. Policy decides what we are about, and that is what we put outside the jacket. Breakable, unfavorable devices that kill one's personality in the swiftness of a furnace starting over. My time with you is just that short, which is why we marry ourselves off to the solace building houses, beneath nothing that we'll see so long as money pours over us in rills. 

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Garvey's Ghost

Last night creator came to boss and matched off, we'd expected bloodshed and burning, but that's not the way the situation developed. Give ghost iron to intelligence agent in Senegal, who hasnot used magic sweeping ointment in magician's wink. No one passes by who does not bribe doorman to protect her Audi, medium tanned outlook running gambit upon one another. No one eats. No one performs the mission innocently who expects to live or gain entrance into brazier. To walk to Buffalo and wrap arms around table seating chance and agility, at Chili's. Man comes into match well-dressed, strikes luck away with Mahatma mood, slid under door closed while the band plays with handsome pose, moshpit. Take up an aim, give cause to bandana insignia which covers wife-beater in emergent heat, though by now it would be afterhours, sun setting, and bondage hustle. Slough blows freely in breeze, over Tamagotchi root which becomes drink to atavistic overlook of crime in card-pack. This sedition ripples through self-effacing cartouche, escaping typical evil which must sheep many route to Salem, awash in timid illicit ignition, knowledge blowing us away. Kiss be brother, for I am hulk sewer devouring maligned runaways who hide in me for weeks, delicious to vendetta prowess or grenade packed with nails. We can cha-cha, meow, layout our designs, or crest unlikely to borrow Rubik's cube from mama, covered estimably over drums, roach food.

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David Miliband to Russia: Drop

Now desert habit out of gesture, glad to be done with measures over ether, ballast to attempt, being single gourd replenish, thoroughbred gesture, rancid, unerring in the guise of truthfulness as wind kicks in unsettling the last idea before paper shreds under weight of full machine. In interview with Pound where I relinquish antonym to isolated parcel, gunslinger built out of positive equation bearing no room for soft, gentle, kind compulsive living. Friends go out the door to settle old score, statement laxative milks curt gerund, but who in the beginning was asked to immolate for the inclusion of all liquid states, what desperate eschatology far-flung over monk's fume, drills us in our sleep with credit, the melancholic attachments jiggling at the door discovered to be airlift centrifuge. The day that hustles forward spares no sniper's flute. We are neither here nor there. But imagine that this night's lisp comes out of nowhere...where does that leave us with our poems? To revile the guest with insult and calamity, pissed on because small and weak, bringing protest language from the placards into indoor context, giving new crowd missionary position. I've had enough of towering legacy and pewter video trial, kept off the internet in China now that business grabs me. If time is the first to go, so does pubic literature, so do humans leading decent lives in realist conference. When you get up for the bathroom, what kills you is your forbidden movie. Nothing is forbidden. Deselection and formidability will recant place to step foot into, space station where I sit and write on module nearby concept of loving for loving's sake. In fact, the empathetic is what's ethical and no two lives are worth considering if that means imagining another's frustration, the way it might be over time. That would be dogmatic and probably un-Keatsian. Morally rongwrong.

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Revealed Today: Thin Laptop

In tune with the descriptions of perfidy and horror, lapping light at manhood's edge while alas the kingdom's tiresome walk is retrofitted into vogue and glam hysteria. At night times to think of Brian Wilson's pick, moving up and down the strings which he had at sometime earlier put there in disbelief of sex-trade, now all at once becomes a Freilicher or Bearden. Discredit comes cheap and hard to the waste of recitation, thinking planetlessly, fried on anti-psychotics because there is no one left to talk to about very old problems, lingering facades and famish, squeamish politicians drinking Powerade. We've all had enough. Time to think. Night yields oil discharge - wake up to find gas prices higher. How will I get to work? Get up at 4am, drive in the dark to plant, render  card and release new earplugs from air-sealed baggy, lift head to machine and move. Now comes the hard part. Unbiased occult of sound, register me for the managed utility of adventurous and torturous creativity that gives all to the family who come for it, dazzled by its prophylactic as water moves loudly through the pipes. Anything there is to be written of nails the omissions to our seats when Monday passes and Tuesday rolls on by and Wednesday seems to barely have happened at all while all the while you've been reset to YouTube erudition and containment disorder. That's alright. Better things to do with my time then vector images laying out in the streets with loose furniture and clothes that are useable still. After 8 Mile, there's no way to defraud ourselves of continuous application of morals, noting earth and all DeVry's commercial space and time. 

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Kimani Njogu | Wise Governments

Which enclave of alterity designates smallest auto design culture, having twice returned its truth quotient to inspire not a single issue of parole, a life vivant as already digested motto. The terrible, terrible quality of life drives on through the air invisibly not as information but as pre-consideration,  the circular crepuscule certainly pulling post-election hats over our eyes, its poor fecal dialogue, but numbered for whom? The greatest narrative is told to music, in the design facility where work is happening like a music video, white robotic arms carrying confetti like an Anschluss made from the foreskin given experience, ours. In the months to come,

our problem will becoming more demanding, insinuating ourselves throughout the ward in which we first appeared without evaluation or hemorrhage or even the lightest vacuity, but rather moved to do good because other political regimes were set on fire and what, we wondered, would prevent our own from following the same deplorable narrative if not our advanced use of helicopters and electronic surveillance systems. Throughout the nineties, this realization had developed into techno music, which was shared freely between most of the deindustrialized, depopulated urban centers. Simple weather describes my hands' use, keeping emotion down in Shetland. Now, for the crime of magazine disposal, everyone pays with mutability, wimpish insouciance.

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Gizzi at the Nation

Someone comes up to do something for once, gut the house out, to do something where someone went without telling us about it afterwards. Crummy word day settles up and relieves somebody, someone we knew revealed to Desert Storm its defailance through windows cut in winter and installed by little kids. Nausea sets in, hunts someone down, tracks them down to the Westin Hotel where you are Skyping across continents in a little suit of mylar. Now comes hurt, and devastating news, the kingpin in his missile firing the awkward untimely staff. He kills someone for something. Somebody pleads with him but it is too late. Poetry, language, thought are all procreative, now hardwired for confession a la Linda Tripp. We had a housewarming party where minority candidates were welcome to kill also, but defiantly given the past and its beeline for the door. Our answer was kill someone else. Somebody had done something else. We certainly knew what we'd gotten ourselves into, a desolate icon sitting in a chair all by himself, strapped to a desk and a sheet of browning paper, maybe craving vitamins and fluoride, in need of those things, but gently cringing at the floor for the way he had gone about submitting his ideas. Oh well. Someone dies and another person kills. Somebody lets go of herself and the other comes round again, giving up on drugs. The idea is not so much that somebody will one day set the record straight, reel in the evil axis and do good for once, but rather that someone has already set up his pieces in that manner and their just sitting there with their heads blown apart and their faces caved in because weapons treat the body as moldable material, a moveable container, unrested flesh. Your pen is a mighty penis sword.

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Desiderio Alberto Arnaz y de Acha III

Training day begins with millions lost, hung over rail for white water rafter rescue or dinghy patrol past bedtime. For up on the mission's wave came peace brokered by fudged libidinal neurons though what's being fired depends on the sound you're mistaking for something completely different, not even ballpark. When dad hands it to you, the pie, it is still warm, stinking of garbage trucked out of the city and on its way to some space in a Michigan landfill that was previously on the market. No way you can tell this exhaustive plea from that one, burying hundreds of protesters in a hail of rubber bullets and mace, who themselves have thought about the idea of a Kenyan fantasy escape that looks noticeably alike to Miami but in fact is the Republic of Maldives. Steward of human rights, hammering out an agreement together, reforging due engram supposed to be bathed in beige head-light. From the motorism of life, Lake Athabasca provides an alternative model to retroactivity. 

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Stasi Halo

Pooling resources to balance self in wind-tunnel, paying toll. Those aren't thawing details, lingering after a probable Lebanon, which I've written about on TV, but mustard gas. Increase sets in, unable to avoid breathing, where yesteryear's theatre collapses in a cloud of smoke, separating from the pipes which connect to a network of sewers. Was it every little boy or girl curled up in the fringe political group, few

would live to bed, dying for answers and waiting by the phone. Was it forbidden to give advice to every xenophobe wandering through time in a wormhole? Casting call for this year's memorabilia: you're being requested. You're being second-guessed, without friends, without a support group, a series of personnel restructurings before the licked envelope seal is pressed under the door beside the house where the journalist loses his head. Wake up to Saudis selling dessert in the cafes. If you are restricted from loving the premises, humble yourself to mob rule. A box of Wheat Thins costs more than your on-air report.

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Bhutto's Gift

Living arrangement that transpires out of media outlet mall, scratching pectorals with both hands while awaiting inkling of what to do next. Never had cull to city built up over choir, seen in Bay Area Best Buy on flat screen high definition ab, but carry it with me each and every day like a free scan of the weather or the cars after roadblock safety check erases Patrick's smile. Common answers throne chameleon aerial shot, divisions set in to party language, protection, clairvoyance. Near fine clairvoyant journals are the best we can proffer as to why this kind of paper thins more gradually than the manufactured automobile fabrics which stain with grease and liquified human parts. The ticker-news slows down enough - I'm ending today's breakfast with a crunch. Describe the way you dawn at city denture, bulk mail. A bad event happens to and is bent, pertaining to time, unflinching viability or else comes hand to approaching neck. A bad event for many miles of pillars or mainly quarrels. My sister goes to bed having taken pictures of the Deep South under snow. Goes to bed mute with harmless reason. The sunroof wraps around brick pillar when driver's head goes down dripping with perspiration.

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