A Second E(ff)luvium
—for Matthew Cooper

The mild vibrations are clocking in at about one-tenth their supposed weight: the bird's nest falling in the absence of gravity; so gesture through, young house-painter, the transgression is closer at hand than your simple categorical leave-taking of haunted limbs. Your every move resounds in the walls, falling through pinafore masks silhouettes with no corresponding reference: clowns, clowns, clowns, clowns, clowns to excommunicate now dull edged grins. Order=trip the fright fantastic as you go, through the spinning jenny an abysmally loud nightmare of folding ebullience. Everything is going to be just awful. Trust the mistakes to the shakers, they might say, pleased to meet you, show me the world. Young man, there needs to be more teal in the overhang not the vulture black and carry-on blues, but rather mixed support beams golden-triangulated through the back door of harried (oh the endless fields). Under dying suns there are only a few left wrappers which once contained such rubber delights as only you might disapprove of, you now taking a smoke break by the pool and not even paying attention. Work makes you harderbiggerfasterlighter, more of a nexus, more a realization that powerwork is neverover. The dictionary is open to its nine-hundred ninety-ninth page. Can you read what it says there, near the top? Octillion, yes. One followed by twenty-seven zeros. The world is not waiting on you. There must be a distance between you and it, yes, but it does not wait. You once were welcomed to what some would call the desert of the real, but you shook your lanky body, informing everyone that you grew up there. There is no sistinic drive here, just color and form, not even color-field, but a job to cover over the old holes made by nails in the wall.

Falling between one dilemma and another, the rise and fall of humanistic debate ravaging the time immemorial which is a certain index of petty tragedies, a solvency of misappropriation designating the half-consumed litter clogging the alleys of iron-bound passion-fruit next time do not let the codex, the list of names follow the dramatic urges which spurns one on toward the piracy of time-pieces. Designate the power broker on the shopping mall lawn with blue. To designate is to follow the cramps now forming in legs and arms, soon to be realized of course, and disavowing any specific relationship between the ravages of space and the celestialism, nigh taciturn compulsion, of speculation: the party at the end of the superimposed gigantosphere. This is where the bus stops if it had not been so clogged with people. Mix the quality of desideratum pale-light and up-bring the phosphorescence. Big green jelly ape, there are mixtures of turning crazy lunatic birth, engenderments of commonality below the tree-line philistine. Do not let the voice of the people come to rest underneath the circumnavigation of talismaniacs/ voodoo-mobsters. Yon! There are new divulgences, new transgressions to make-up-the-breakdown. Dissociation begets the farm implement/hand disaster of the new spring hallucination in the coma soft down philandered all around the nonsense.  Read this as you will, for there is truly nothing to be done with it rather than wander and pour, as if into a glass (though there may be something in it already, surely not bile) and then reconfigure by situating the whole thing as simply color and deregulation: this is a desire, but there isn't necessarily something seeping out the chrome functionality which should be the contested aberration, the fought over nix on the bell. Pull the octopus through the Plantagenet whole, then there will be whole new limits of systematically questioning the other powder bits, the other seeds which work as if from below cerulean measure, but why is always the direction which. . . and it brings up questions of. . . course it does, and then this would be how one would speak all the time, not as if there were some hoped for canon with specific direction, but rather nothing at all except fastidious traipsing over the never-ground.  Communicate.  Listen fair sir, there are only a few things left to be untried by the categorical imperative monster devouring itself while holding it all together.  Let us not be worried about the fantastic conundrum at   the  heart  of   this  entire  race  towards   global  distraction,  it  is  right t/(everyw)/here—dastardly commandos of language, who would attack and only exist so as to train more for assassination—this is not desired of the desire movement which we have now all signed on and let focus our energy in so vibrantly as to become overcome with the ebullience and trepidation which consumes even the most fervent of analysts in the new democratic discovery of pain and jubilation, except, that which harbors new and wholly transfixed realities is neither camouflage nor dirt; yon figure of repose, I congratulate you on seeing one most worthy; thy exquisite pain divulges toward the all and yet has a clear focus of the gray when the window is open. Focus! Mitosis is coming at a full-click earlier than it was going to, with a head of steam; dragnets are being spread through every trash collection to find the culprit who started the dignity wars; on pain of death there are streetsweeps who gnash teeth for a morsel of flatlander bread; it is a one-dimension shenanigan; a dumb-show put on for the clearest, most malignant tumor growing pus ball staring at bare breast and bone—the fever is but a ruse to drum up support for the beautiful and the sublime. Romantics are drunks on clever boats, smart apes with nothing to do but stare the self-same prophecy in the mirror of sense, while hooting and hollering at the witch-crawling sympathy. Devil, out with you! There are far too many things which go unnoticed on the envy ship, not the fools, but the prison; not the patient but the cure—these are the call-to-arms-actions[block in the head of syndrome]foregrounding of the system mixture tenaciously; felix says, oh look at the stars, and he was right. Not just right in the fallen sense of the word, but the texting of the microphone right which dittoes the camera new. Fine. For what mere symbols could hope to—save him, save her, save them, save it—that thing over there starving against the wall, save it a few. . . wait! Did you hear that, they must be coming; up the gangplanks and raise anchor, there are pirates to skewer! This is not an easy drumming into the backside of love affairs. No, something else entirely, the hogwash miss of the award show dinner. Yes. So much inside that needs to come pouring out, but too much, so that there is a huge artery blocked with lymphomaniacality, worse, the mob of blockage is creeping corpuscular limbs—forward the chant goes, and all stops with the realization that one could go forever and never really say anything amidst the howls and screeching of those who would never be with mountains nor camels to trek up them, and yet below below, there is this overwhelming feeling of inebriation which never truly got started, and surely has not ended the hopes of the simple-minded middle folk to which one would pander if they could grouse up the affectation and respect to soil oneself in the crystal milk-bath holy waters of everything and everyone; but no, these are not the times for that. The space will never open up, the ground will never be found. For an informed look at the state of things, we now turn to our correspondent in the field who will introduce the warbling of the pigeon bone arrows that have come piercing through the windows this lovely autumn evening only to fix a hole in our wall so big that we must get someone to repair it immediately, otherwisethebirdsmightflyrightinandwesure lydon'twantthatnowdowe?Imeandowe!?