The fascination with killers like Raskalnikov or Benjamin — slightly sathinous, a chaldean and homogeneous –nocavanasnofloor — no canvas blossoming pipeline/killtime the body itself and its blood, its living organisms.  Deny the accident.  Deny Second.  The flats and landlords — the language loops — canvases and the patchwork of murder, let us say, or the patchwork of human.  Christina hold inheir — not death no die the flats and pierce the sirens, yes the sirens, without the red the white the nodding (noodling) of the red and white as a curtain call.  Drip technique.  Full Fathom Five, five lives random in cars bones in basement or sometimes left to California Condors endangered themselves and scarce to the death  with a big fire (of grapeshot, a handheld grapeshot fire through silver coins I swear).  Comets and drip technique, crusted with the white across the tapestry, thick like human plasma.  Jack the dripper.  I am not sick, I am not insane, but that will not stop the game.  If life really is a game.  Blood spurting, dripping, spilling; all over her new dress Oh well it was red anyway.  He plunged himself into the billowy wave and an echo arose from suicide’s grave — beware the jabberwock, my son, the claws that scratch the jaws that bite.  Your new dress is very pretty, I say to Christina, it reminds me of sunflowers.  You don’t think it’s too slutty?  Oh no, a good length.  She smiles.  Amongst paper footballs, automatic pencils modify shoots staples and textbooks complain direct objects) odd narratives (called creative writing, I suppose) — pre-Columbine so that classmate writes to classmate gunning down the entire class with an RCP-90 — nonsuspicion no I don’t like Mondays — marvelous.  I write being trapped in a video game, dying grisly deaths like impaled on giant serpent’s teeth and dissolved by acid — or for a thanksgiving story, giant mutant turkeys overrunning towns and taking revenge on simple townsfolk drugged out townsfolk maybe sharp beaks sometimes [The cat was fat.  It saw on the mat.  When it died the people cried.  There was a fish.  Her name was Tish.  It was fried and placed on a dish.  When it died the people cried ] — Christina, oh silly one — she signs my yearbook like a serial killer — Don’t forget, I’ll come over in a raging fit and kill you over the summer! oh well — have a good summer anyways OR I’m sorry, I really like you and all, but I’m going to have to kill you over the summer — I just can’t have competition for when it comes to the world’s best serial killer… (The truth is out there)/ flats and landlord — do you think I would be able to get away with it, Christina?  Yeah probably but you can’t.  Why not?  It’s a bad thing.  It’s a terrible game to play.  It’s not a game, I say, but the intellectual the methodical.  Plunging into the metaphorical rib cage.  Plying open like this or like this:  […] No, I don’t think you would get caught but I am scared for you.  Let’s make a promise, she says.  What is that?  You can only kill me, that’s it.  Hmmm Ok that’s alright.  But it will have to be a painful death.  Can’t it be quick? — like you come up behind me and cut my throat.  Where’s the fun in that?  I say.  If you are the only person I kill then I should be able to have a few bodily stab wounds and such — real combat and struggle. Then I can commit suicide, a murder-suicide.  I bet it would make the news.  No, you can’t commit suicide either — that’s the deal.  Fine then.  I win! — you know you can never kill me — I’m too sweet and darling.  floorcanvasfloor stretched tacked no boundaries or simplexes homology boundary operators not defined here flatsnoboundaries growling like wild sunflowers — death is sunflowers too — echo graves, ball coffin graves, and the sunflowers vandalize the surface and are harvested for shells (discarded gun shells) and seeds, eating the birth and fruit of its labor its entire purpose of life, that’s what death eats its harbingers eat, how cruel the natural is but how beautiful the sunflower.  I prayed into the ribcage that goes farce like a plebian surgeon before ripping his tongue out work subways for dead living corpses the malformed ravenous feasting human meat off bone / sunflower dress the jabberwocky like nursery rhymes [ashes ashes tumbling down] like sleep.  Jack you’re dripping.  newsman puns.  No outside or inside no surface no bubble that is organism into unknowns and trefoils embedded 3-spheres the simplest of shapes / Death.  Christina I like your dress I haven’t seen you wear it in a long time.  I remember you wore that dress and such cute sandals and your toenails were painted yellow too and it was the most darling thing I’ve ever seen and I was jealous because I said to myself I wish I was a boyfriend to a girl like that .  Integrated and melted in language into the ground and dust, blooming into Spain — Jakemerian Myth — the Kindred holy: thrushed into strands the Spanish tree (love is a naked shadow on a gnarled and naked tree).  In our dress, the sevilla.  Us — death and life, Medicine wheel/twelve cones against one and a scooped eye removed from sacrificed victim, a time traveler goes past into Mexican ritual with flying gods — the eye was everything (I once knew a collector: those severed optic nerves kept in a cold pack a basement freezer and staring int pupils and colour, divines providence y event_world events and he must have thought to himself it was good to take them out and look at them every once in awhile to see somebody else’s point of view) suffer the drought, discover the well, but I don’t know if it gives you any more perception — sight is limited by the sanity.  No home for moving or still, the sine wave or the step function.  Valleys and stones tied thus pathern wais godspeed and nomad.  naysayer conquerors and crosshairs like a neat pistol into a car window, threatening Glasgow glass — it was red anyways, the Arizona striped rocks run man the most dangerous animal, godspeed where the Russian bedeviled the Axe among the Jewelbary, mineralizes St. Petersburg Streets, a Mad Axemann of New Orleans where one goes hack hack little bitty pieces fit back carrings and curtains and perhaps fed them to your baby for nutrition — flurries though and alephnull (I am thee alephnull) /dispolseileium disposeileium disposeilieium / heavy coats ragged coats markets frozen fruits vegetables no refrigeration required scorched winter bleeding wither like a killer but a genius.  Ha! genius I say (he says) mumbling with fingers partially in the mouth, plumbing chapped lips and bits of lip flesh but if one inspired — and let’s say I am inspired (separate usually from a Muse which I am inspired by — no, I am speaking independently inspired, self involving) and then I cannot be called a murderer because rather I am THE artist, a cubist who rearranges the arrangement of furniture and gratings of pretty colour (flesh colour all sorts of flesh) and that is absence morality — mask morality for (love) objects (love) artsay, for we are making masks of men.  Not death masks, but live-ing permutations of features facial, missing brides and heavenly creatures, for that which is above a god or is a god — imagining a god skating among the tangible and touching those with something not holy or unholy at all, with no value to it, but rather the touch itself, disgustingly powerful and perverse, but necessarily perverse, for that is how things get done.  One attains to.  Attaining or ascension (in groups alternating and decompositions).  genius god    god genius   godflesh genius    fleshing god in person     genuine genius a leather wallet in which god resides      each blood becomes a new god in an afterthought or worldly      genius is exclusive mine (for my Muse only)    supersedes Law and breaking the tablets like Moses on top brings the repenting and purging of fleshings and fine metals and that’s what our aretists doing do.  In a bed is a newborn degradation of light receptors, retinas and cornea gradation of intensities and this is the first god / the other sprawls the suicide into the chest chattering, ruining the buttons of a new white shirt.  an Irishman.  (The second god)/ Not a Catholic funeral — mortal sin the sonavabitch mortal son (condemns a bystander any bystander)/ His own mother wouldn’t even kiss him.  Damned to hell, some Fifth Circle some crackling bird.  In the Dublin outskirts?  Yes those chemists make ‘em look alive.  Soaped up and suited.  Off into a long drink.  Bloody funerals only thee survivors or two dos goes.  Spectors as suicide, undirection and hitchhikers, ghost transits and vanishings; Kindred vanishings, clean as death and most card games.  Free as they are being ghostly and in dark, eating men instead as men.  No life, I say to Christina, no life at all, like those in World War I biplanes and rotor propellers — divine into doom, never really lived at all but never dying suspended in the carcass of the airshell glue and wire [or the thickness of cement truck a beat drum penrose sidewalk bricks tile bricks used the bricks jump skyscraper — skyscraper and hit the bricks some ten stories (a frame story, a lawyer proving pigeons) not part of the air not part of the concrete (although even hitting the concrete but the molecules repulsed and disgusted by gravitons and vomit up the forces up throwing up).  The satire and pun of death — a tightrope walker juggling knives, a capitulator of suicide in a waterfall almost freezing, the wound steel and spectacle –Christina you I love, let us freefall, red figure five and plum swallow over nutrition, our feet the way up — termonocitalcitystaermenmemes — the memes is Kindred Holy, Holy Family (post the crusades, Joseph and Marie) — the bare rush of citizens, the slipshod satire — hare liquid and Columbine, la Petruska.  Finding some torso in a ditch or train track son, a hacksaw, no Identity — a head never found or anything other except large molten bitterices — no identity no soul sometimes.  Music for a Revolution) scoop out one eye five years from now and do the same five years later with the other.  Although I am not whole, I am whole.  A part of this or that, insignificant — better to gouge out an eye then for the whole body (if the body was missing postremoval, then why did he still call it whole?) to diverge into Gahenna Valley of Worms / playing Pinochle on your snout.  Catch me if you can Mr. Lusk Mr Lude before the bus bomb hits before the frame and children (like us tiny something graders thinking smart yes we’re smart write smart better then our parents and teachers \BenjaminChristina reincarnated Krishna the musician traverse flute traverse lover Us true not lustre/ and so of course laugh at the over caution the over killer and Halloween slavery, an S&M sniper, colliding our classes and mock glasses mock turtle came galleons and guns underneath long tables and desks hiding — Dear Policemen I am God — hey Christina he thinks he’s God he’s not even a god the most minor of gods I bet you he gets caught among some grassy knoll [and indeed he is caught a moron who thinks he’s an invincible like We are but We truly know who is among us and who is not].  Do not die Chris do not die no death our satire and graphic, blinds of taverns [bottles no shade misal aligned reflection whether former conversation and watch jesters floppy eared) our arms for the tavern and hold — fauvist the green line our face the green line, wild beasts among donatello, lines and faces, blocks of our colour, lives and figurines [searching exit, wonder meaning; perhaps purgatory].  The killer knows death like We know death and how to average life into quilts, human quilts and a backyard.  We are sections of quilts — binaries.  Clusters.  Almost as God but only as revelations of God.  Suspended.  The dance upon wild sunflowers.

Softly as the morning sunrise I hear Coltrane the passing of many faces / jaunt fourteen faces impossible faces old recluse like a spider a regular salinger fill prey the junk food / [inventor the egg mcmuffin died today.  Age I guess.  Didn’t know the man] the only food of the day and a coffee reading morning mail rubber banded mail all in a plastic bag all in the features the dashboard crowd magazine subscriptions sunken postcards scraps receipts and tell-do’s; an ancient I wonder if he is an ancient a patriarch a son of man or all sons of men daughters of all through flagged mailboxes cozy corner boxes with too many cars where the neighbor’s kids play football in the yard — a missed tackle a missmox injury but not hurt just running — I was just running I say leaving the air conditioning even though it’s fucking winter and I feel a little sick from it from the weddings I heard today I got a little sick from that, thinking marriage and polynomial rings (here such and such irreducible except over a field as complex as life is; then all is closed and close) and statisticians pleasure dropping — no, predicting — bombs and London rockets marriage is a rocket in a silly string canister  [Glad it broke up for awhile even after the grief because that’s letters and dreamy so dreamy but waking up and realizing you’re only a butterfly it’s only a butterfly]. Till tree from tree, tree among tree, tree over tree, become stone to stone, stone between stone, stone under stone, driving straight to Texas, straight to the suicide man’s nondenominational Chapel / vaguely black but varying black in large panels with the broken obelisk by a reflecting pool — say memorial for an old man I knew once or twice — forwards and card games and I bet I lost quite a bit although I rarely remember but he liked me okay — I didn’t know I was a prophet or a psychosis (at the least upper bnelounds yet) only normalle yet thought I was alright and that was enough — here is a card for the memories, funneling memorious, somehow catalog — interval / I remember.  Preacher Coltrane, passing many faces, vegetative like congregation like sick and death, never fearing sickness or death but saw seen gomeetmadhowwaitress all mad here.  Spiritual I said heavenherosun in these things — She studying three notes from a b-minor scale that suffer death signal death show coffin stack dock angelic over pouring rain and granite the mica.  alluluvia, aman, adan.  In the first instance, suite space Interstellar Space and obsess with one face Coltrane’s face and a trap with brass and in that February years ago before dying in a hospital like mine, sing a little, and ceremony bells like an enchant a grove and first it was for a few minutes and then an hour saying this permutation that permutation over and retrograde (right side up and upside down) with his pure live and char orange all blood martian orange build orange pick orange star orange cut like bleeding garnet pikes spilling like a delta.  Eden was shaped like a delta and we are eden – manyouments alpssinias and geranges — the beetles of street and side path dressed in church clothes and book, black like coal, mazing sinwards and to city, any city he played in and Christina says I miss it here, amongst the green under light of busstops.  They feel jaundice to me, I say, a terrible waste of advertisement — the tincans of trains and exhaust.  Deltalike and triangles and colour.  Do you remember when we used to eat here before they were ran out?  Ordered French toast in the middle of the day.  And I remember they used to play Dave Brubeck and John Coltrane all day.  Yeah I Remember she says.  The history of city on walls — those deltas.  We come to the River in many costumes always in red and scent.  General and madness like a gas station convenience store acts blunderbuss (WE SELL LIQUOR AND CIGARETTES HERE).  Irrigating and lactating river.  The miniature plows and tractors / I was listening to John Cage’s prepared piano in the Name of the Holocaust part 1 and those paperclips get to me.  Those slides.  That is what Coltrane was saying:  I believe in all religions.  Dear Lord.  Father Son Holy Ghost.  OM the first vibration.  From that which manifests genius Poetic from one humanity and one creative mind (the collective unconsciousness some say a deep memory to well from) — therefore all religion is same expression and monster.  The delta is where the cross intersects humanity and divine.  At the restaurant I had a ruben sandwich and Christina had French toast.  Take Five by the Dave Brubeck Quartet was playing. [Coltrane everywhere — in the heroin, the bluebird, the bootsoles, the cancer cells.  The Kindred in Japan gliddinyss and nihlnulls.  Breadbaskets.  I hear something 1966 turbulent and riot) quintet something: Rashied Ali, Jimmy Garrison, Alice (somewise Alice different quadquell lobster looping claws and dancing smack but similarly the piano is the same if guards play piano and flamingos ride the torchtops), Pharaoh Sanders, John Coltrane — a physically tired Coltrane, perhaps overweight but still full breath / faint and sweat nectar.  Once, My Favorite Things, alto untempo protain pulse the necessary and sweeping up bicyclesections, a jalopy bouncing like a ware, shedding notes like a moth or altissimo dogs her(e) — that somewhat alive for radio carry signal radio all mono and the Pharaoh screamed at Us screaming at Us some humpback whale language and the shamans understand it forefront cymbal rolls suggestive and shimmering like a bamboo wind — crrrsssshhhh very silently and the PQWEO PQWEO right after the multiplicity.  Multidirectional.  Cold fancy and raws delight moving a stage and players alternate support and speaker like a flag does in the backdrop] This broadway.  Another kind of noise (no noise but laughter or orcs and arks the gods born on Saturn) grafting different time periods — Tokugawa or Super flat — cherry blossoms.