there’s an ascemic ascetic thought digging in my head
telling me that it’s winning

– … thInKINg on networks and automata to create a lexicon way of working. if you could say anything, why would you whisper it? this makes no sense to me, i get out of bed and i toy and i tinker and i write the codes and exercise my fevers until i sleep again. i talk and talk loosely about my convictions, mostly listening to the woes and contradictions of others. thInKINg >> do not compel yourself toward a discipline, toward a fever and forget it ever existed every day as you refuse to exercise that drive. distracted by in-articulation? get out of my fever.

False drive.
Fakely driven fevers.

there is a space between the calls
and i attempt sleep
but you’re still here
even when
everything’s locked
and the drums
are banging while the
spanish guitars program
generative and nostalgic
fevers in my dreams,
there is a space between the
printed storyboards where
memory is whited.
the record jumps and
pulls me down,
while you watch the needle
the atmosphere becomes stale
and ancient… i get up
and step into a party
but with foreign
entrance music
bouncy and scratchy
i float. with a sedated smile
and with the coy sway
of a secret spy
you should leave
i say

kill all electric machines
and
no more love until my truth
can present
and my fears
banish themselves
ugly love,
banish your fictions too
and put your mask in a drawer
for me

i strive for unreadership and
recant the lines i can’t agree with
a few hundred poems did not survive
my indecision

_
here take this CMD-X to April
slaughter every sad song
and melancholy story i
ever wrote in every book
and html
any m s word docx
that leaves me unwell

_
all the paper’s dissolving
and the memories expunge me
leaving only the good for me to
ruminate in future writings

i occupy the time
that i’m in
and what else should i do
with it, honestly

and if that is ok
why does it
disturb me?
i’ve spent this week
in isolation
dusting my floorboards
with moody frustrated love
and counting every grain
of myself
i can reach
not thinking and
not caring
how i got here

when you come over
i’ve got coffee and
possibly stories

and if that is ok
what does it
lead to?

there must be ghosts
bothering Lu
while my fevers
itch at me
in my room
nagging at every corner
of my transparent body
there must be a fire
nagging you too

_
i sit at my typographic piano and wait

_
for a chasm of opinion
a simple sign to get me moving
or my editor to disapprove me

_
hours of useless garble

_
improving into real thoughts
the manuscript collects
into heavy paper piles

_
ever expanding digital files

_
into an increasing share
of used cigarettes the boy
i left still smokes and laments

_
two bottomless coffee cups

_
to fill a sea with no real readers
all words sink and sail together
it’s every script i ever and never

_
my fevers stayed across the water

There is no shelter from the chatter. There is no quiet unless you work for it. There is a blind spot in us all. There are omnipresent eyes… There are tones fighting in my ears. Meeting harmony in certain middle. Coercing me AS I write this gibberish. As I sit with a book in my lap. As I contemplate coffee and spectators AND the fortitude of omnipresent gazes. Speculating child games then laughing with myself in the corner. In this corner I’m collecting all of the chatter AND someone or something that IS not me but INSIDE of me is cataloging it and encoding it on memory places.

Disheveled documents in the dark.

a room of archetypes, having a conversation                  a drinking contest
at a table around an eminent sand mandala                      with a enough hooch to
a conversation logicizing the origins of life               ruin the sand drawing