MODEL RESULTS

can vary with assumptions

we loosen constraints

to achieve convergence

there is no art, in it

only the minds who

people it, good, bad

indifferent, only the

people who mind it.

Yet integration’s never

easy, in the South

in the soul, on paper

in paradigms lost, the

engine of advancement

is not NASCAR, but

a drag sometimes, race,

sometimes cigarettes, or

dresses against hairy

legs who are beaten

by convention, and yes

constraints must be looser

must be flexible -- they are

inequalities not identities

but they can be used

and loosed against the world

worked on, solved or at least

transcended.

Therefore -- it is important

when defining the potential

shape of your emotion to:

1) fear the voice of anger,

2) avoid fuel-intensive gigolos at all

costs, 3) weep instinctively

at the edge of the world.

This very elemental theory

the old inverted schism we

want to work for real but

money dictates mad alter-

natives, there are too many

excuses here, we become

enamored of our own suffering

embroiled in this thin condition

less room to accommodate con-

vulsive ecumenical shadows of

emotion.

The evidence is this: stewardship

of the planet, migrations

of scrawny teens, wedding plans

gone awry, Moloch, stained

bibles, future homemaker

(her tattooed monolithic smile)

that was some of the evidence.

You know the rest.

You gotta roll with the

punches always changing

forms the way a guy with

more than one lover con-

vinces himself he really IS

what each wants and needs.

[Top]

I GOT NO PLAN HERE

but surrender to the inevitable

[retirement] worse than death

judging by the pants, all old men

look the same since when I was 5,

wearing same pants up to tits

no jive, old man knows He

takes us one at a time no group rate,

good or bad line up, day after day

in the same parade

bring yer own flag.

[Top]

I FEEL THE BLOOD PUMP

constant heart beat and me thinks

each moment takes

every ounce of my strength,

sometimes more gravity than

I remembered just yesterday.

When you, either your hands

or you move, a sudden flash

of knowing what it is to be

here with warm brain and

self indulgent verbalization.

[Top]

BAD DATA JUST RELEASED

that the agency for centralized

non-intelligent, infantile behavior

wants now to be incubator for

corporate start-ups in Silicon

dude ranch Valley to no-doubt

fight narco-terrorist PR men

with better even infomercials

in places far away and hot

with our no-doubt tax

dollars and splendid rationale.

How many times scammed, conned,

deceived, this crock of unAmerica

waving flags and pistols breathing

rancid cigar and beer fumes into

electoral college, community standard

vote ignoring Congressional

bastardization of ho-hum

undecided democracy.

What should I care, I got:

money, paid also with tax dollars,

house (convenient to downtown)

car w/ sun roof, CD player and

extras, all the trimmings, wife and

Mistress Bradstreet, so should just

keep head down, sip wine on deck

in summer, avoid discussion of political

or religious symbols, ideals, anything

might irritate the Chosen leadership

risk their ire, or otherwise command

attention to my own all-too-sardonic self.

But if the very thing we are

is not a thing of beauty of

courage even, but a reactive

little place holder-type of life-

form, pale insipid, like the lips

of a smiling politico, but

how much more of this

can we take? Hey how much?

Do you really believe that

passion is a Hollywood device?

THE SHARP AGGRESSIVE EDGE

of your smile reminds me that

we are subject to all kinds of alienation

and I admit that while I understand

your motives the way an archeologist

understands an ancient civilization,

they are a world removed from mine.

While some people use recipes

in Greek or Latin, I, like Frank,

go on my nerve, either lacking in

discipline or perhaps loath to

authority figures, ya know some

times the distance between two

peoples is greater than that be

tween two (let’s say) stars, funny

the size of space makes many,

what, uncomfortable? And there-

fore belief systems blossom, or

simply sprout as in a dark wet

canister, where your legs form

a perfect answer that I am not

allowed to perfectly dig into, but

this alas is the very thing we must

confront, where freedom, this

abstract piece of art we hang

on the wall and eye happily

on our way to work.

Now and again the shared angst

has merged into the fast lane and

by a strange coincidence of memory

we find ourselves trapped in a Tikki

Lounge in 1975 drinking hideous

concoctions and dancing the moribund

inter-temporal tango.

Blake was a dreaded

interpreter of the truth

or was it that Baretta guy?

Dare I say more. I shall.

Empty the prisons, expunge

everyone’s records and let it

all start again, gentlemen, your

engines, start them.

I’M FASCINATED WITH DEATH

as a way out of work

for the glib excuse press 1

if you have a touch tone

otherwise, hold for an

operator, a system design

person or something that

displays itself in public, hold on for

the sensational pubescent warrior

who parties for 45 uninterrupted

hours, largely unqualified for

anything but the highest peyote

festival.

Consider peacenik isolationist stories

that all end with some reference

to the beguiling inertia of space

that all in time amble off the page

in desert sand spurs, chirping old Indians

whispering in saliva -- manifold holy signal

flags, papoose on back of unnamed

Mayan assistant, earthen pots and powder

jingoist phrases, boiling mad border towns

theological 12-year old girl in pink dress

hand-me-down eyes, old insane neurons

on the side of the road, watching her,

watch the sky.

THERE IS A POIGNANT URGENCY

in the bustling synovia

of fungal skirts on 19^th century

riverboat queens that we must

discuss over drinks some day

when the patterns of our irregular

lives converge in a Pareto optimal

tillage, though a flavored thud requires

both an open scouring and froth beet

metal allegorical whipping: say that

after the deluge we meet at

the White Castle near where the horses

run in a fever on the dialectic surface

elongated by a mapping from textile

to modern times, the power of which

was established long ago between

sheets and diodes, frisky perky types

prepare for war, emasculated isotopes

of original selves brisk and foliated,

big through leveraged buy outs and

war bonds, gravy boats on waves,

pink promiscuous peer-reviewed

samba dancers wear understanding of

cod pieces embroidered by the residents

of a nursing home delinquent in back

taxes.

Canonical pygmy intellect boastful

with jejune wax lips prepares an

eloquent menu, piquant dialogue

available in plush leather internalized

guilt padding, cropped head hair,

vestibule myopia will be the way-out

way out of here, when we seed the clouds

with our puffed winter songs and still life

irradiated dirge: no recourse now but

to petition the dean of monkeys, slam

institutions in random order from

the privacy of our own mock trials

and dribble on the last few marchers

whose parade begs a pardon, lifts a leg

on society, keeps the sky from tumbling

west off the edge where all things manage

to bitter conclusion, disposable and blue.

HEREIN THE THEATRE of

continuous metamorphosis begins

at birth or before, at death centrifugal

forces rip over-weight electrons

from fantastic beach front

properties of probabilities

in holy computational dynamics

and orbits of wretched beauty

on the ordinal phase of space

frenzied heliotropes basking

in sun-drenched villas

where you appear before me

your flesh a sign to the admiralty

of my own strange fleet

my own barbarous loose crew

of signal to noise ratio.

This splendid portfolio

of ideas always splayed

out in labyrinth, looking always

there for it, never reaching until

then it is beyond our reach, it is

reaching beyond, it always is idea

we are reaching for it, and when

and when it is reaching and always

idea there reaching and beyond

always idea waiting it is, and never

and never and reaching it………

never it is gone, and then and then

gone, idea never as it was, pure

and gone, and never, I will

never, and never, I will

never understand the way

your hand moves across

my bleak terrain, a swan

in a still hot pond.

FREEDOM IS THE KIBITZER

of choice, a leopard’s leap

of passion, and color, consider

Matisse stroking his

beard, against the grain

the rain falls up, inside

the tornado’s belly, forces

prepare for battle, rattle

their ego-like keys

protecting the interests of

card holders, beauticians of the

Beaux Arts explode

and a breeze of genius comes

as through an open door.

The rag is that talent is latent,

literally rearranged and

discovers itself in back alley

operations of kaleidoscopic

blood stains, ephemeral as joy or

as lasting as pain, but it alone sees

beyond where it is, and only then

moving by itself on strange crab

legs of ideas, it will one day eventually

unfold like a tent as big as all hell

and then you and me and us

and all ours will scream and hollar

and dig all things without giving

ourselves to any one notion

but to all, full of piss and possibility

we’ll laugh and sing and say: this baby

is what we wanted all along

the God-damn day.

OPPOSE all systematic

(organ)ization behave

where an ameba would float

drunk and happy, when I make

you, this way we float under

a sky of sea, inverted above

the clouds twisted under the

upper edge of now and then

right about then, the world

is holy and whole.

The other day the kids

Neanderthal in their fleece

wardrobes, barked at a Peripatetic

sun, saw with their own eyes

a flamboyant gesture

golden fissure ripped to bone

story wedded to the dog

who digs a reality (w)h()le --

we swore out affidavits

threatening abstract logic

disruption of middle-class

wedding plans, sent spin

doctors nervous to their

cell phones, corporate

logos adorning Christmas

wrap, lots of other crap,

hardened criminals, justice

department officials, gone

to dance, the same song

what they bring along, is

their own damn bidness, my

goodness you’re bold.

Where our toes fear

the tag, the tag toes

the line, madness

as a Raw and Savage

movie poster version of

your breathe condensed

against mine, my conscious

desire to move well beyond

psychiatric diagnosis and jargon

that on the one hand liberates

territory from enemy hands

on the other dances

to a flaccid rhyme.

Suppose we all go

now, to the same world

of the same fuzzy dimension

as the one we invented

long ago.

THE AIR IS SUDDENLY LEAVING 

my lungs, the plenary disruption

of orbital extremes negates all

supposition: a warm dagger

in the pants, a thimble full of

poison balancing the attack

of back-fired accountants who

will give good head aches if’n

you ask them to leave the orgy

they will only loiter by the door

by the dormant fuselage of tense

and demure girls unmasking their

phobic psychology.

Your bold advances go unnoticed

but, believe me your gingham skirt

will fluster the old man whose naked

filibuster against death is about to

end solemnly and involve his

family in something they don’t really

have time for what with their

lives full of negotiations of

every sort and systems of every

kind.

WHAT’S FREE WILL

when love is a negotiable

commodity? I

don’t want to be a

genius, if it means

being a shit, no sir

Mr. Bones, not me

no sir Mr. Bones, not me.

3.1

MAYBE  I’D BE WILLIN'

if I could hang my hat

in hollow resilient tubes of fantasy

and telescopes what placate the void

of watching self for too long in

turgidity and salvation, the unescaped

imbecile of voice creaking its morning

tongue, mama the apes of fortune are

askew, the indigo cannot release its inner

child, but where oh where do we go from

here.

Many give what they can and many what they

shouldn’t, but the lure of the sea, is a big

hook of a cliche, wrapped inside the words

waiting to git ya, like some who take what

they can, what they want, though that’s

what its all here for – them. Hell I’d never be

that much a shit Mr. Bones even if I got the

smarts some day.

[Top]

3.2

THE REVOLVER AIN'T A COMPLICATED

instrument, been around a while, before the

phone and fountain pen, funny the order of

invention. Funny the priorities in peoples lives

stampeding their brethren for a corner office

in some liberal think tank out to save the world

from itself, like that guy who loves everyone but

whose back is always thrown way out o’ wack the

day he’d gotta help ya move.

The only difference I can see ‘tween a cult

and a bonafide big-name religion is numbers

tho myth is not to be avoided but to be drunk

in to surround ourselves in a serene gelatinous

glow. The durable power of attorney is just that.

And I’m no longer responsible for my actions as

say in my youth when I knew what it meant to be

bad.

There is after all an immediate delegation of

sanguine astonishment formed by the best minds

of any one generational interlude. And this is

a solid reason for avoiding a stranger’s gaze on a

subway or in a cancer ward.

[Top]

3.3

HITS ME ONE DAY as I float

down a subway escalator into Freudian

myth how I know nothing but the small

avalanche of my own times, to decide the most

basic of circumstance as take the killer:

an object of hate or pity? wired to be what he is

to play out this and that scene,

free will a corpse by the road.

I can’t make it gone, this

syrup of ideas, a place for whips

of solitude. Sponges at the sea

floor know more than I. The streets

are full of ideas and people who live

them, believe in essentials. Rehearse for

job interviews as if caring is their

baton.

I always drops mine.

[Top]

3.4

WHAT YOU ESCAPE me from this norm is

when the considerable few align abnormal sales

figures all can run into passive aggressive smiles

a thousand sales reps and lined up that way they

feel like I’m under considerable pressure to conform

and you also, every day that you don’t they are like taking notes

man, that you will be too perceptive when the implications

line up. That you will make them afraid by the sheer weight of

your glance. Look I’m not, nor you scared but we together

salvage, and our hopes excreted all Sunday School quiet

those millions feared to boat the rock, bate the master, pump

the Rumpled-Still-Skin.

We have finished 2 thousand years

after the circumcision as though it were a big deal, but

whatever it be it ain’t much in geology

and now celebrity is a funnel down which

we pour. Nuance. Hell another drink.

Down which we utter mantras to put death

and our sweet sheer numbers at bay – oh boy, obey.

[Top]

3.5

THE OLD MAN IS dying in Angola, give

me the remote. The warden’s a good man

he don’t play dice with the universe.

I’m leaving out the dance, my pants split

last night I’m living out this chance encounter

while black holes suck light into

themselves an den black o’s suck destiny

is a rainbow where there ain’t none. Coalitions what bait

us is the magnitude of their promise understanding

all is a nebulous encounter or a monster of unseen

proportion. I’m attuned to these things and have practiced

many hours in the dark.

We live on adrenaline, the husks and various positions

we live on a farm what grows love, hah I tried to buy

some at a road-side stand, and nothing but kurtosis

I’m skewed again, I’m alabaster baby, forgive me.

I’m the fog on your wind, shield.

[Top]

3.6

THE GOVERNOR IS announcing football

at the beginning of the 21^st century.

All things possible align themselves

and where is the noun of fantastic and where is the

given Shiva who rents us his divine ability to pull

down the pants of every school boy’s grin. I strive

for perfect thighs but I’ old, soluble as fish

and in the interim who cares mostly who has visions

of the future and a perfect human form. Parents we

love hang from trees of our memory, children we embark

on journeys unable to understand. All hush and turn around

what you see in the deep night of your understanding

what you caress is the situation of your most and fear

is its own reward.

Stand against the night in convulsions

of rain. Empty of essentials basking in the flood. There is

no danger but in all things, there is no paradise but your

strange angle on the world. We vibrate between states of

knowledge and exhaustion, looking out across horizon.

We try so much to merge, but then what is at the end of a sub-

stantial kiss? In the morning I will become like the eyes

of salvation, warm and sudden across a matrix and a distance

folded in time. These are the particulars I spoke of, these are

the details what make up a song.

I’m ready for the next thousand years, to exist only a few,

but I’m ready!

[Top]

© Copyright  2001 - 2003 Perry M. Lindstrom

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