Thursday, April 16, 2020

THIS IS [-ALL-] BEGINNING TO GO INSIDE-OUT WITHOUT ME [Baby, I Reckon, This is the Best It'll Get]


So, IF I am Catapulting This Beauty, then I am Strapping Your Floppy Jalopy Into This Linear Mess.   I Might Be Longing to Prolong the Stalking with a Big-Boy Thrust: --------à“To Be, For Me, is My Heart, with a Beat, for THEE”.  The Moment of Surrender and that Tender Look of Terror. And Here I am in Chicago, Sucking on a Finger that I have been Cherishing for the Past few Days.  And Here I am, at Night in the Mirror, Chasing My Tail and Sober, Remembering that This is the Exact Direction My Life was Meant to Take.  “Ah, Shit”—Shoveling (this—All—in)—And Still: This is the Only Body I’ve every Completely Adjourned.  Juggling the Yams of a “Man, You’re a Doll.”  And Now-Now-Now: --------àFiddling a Tittle for a Remittal or Acquittal of the “Why-Why-Whys” that Appear in Life’s Middle; But for Now: You Toss and Turn, Having so very Widdle it Belittles, to Till-and-Fill the Urn that Adds, to your Family’s Historical, Account and Riddle. ß------IN OTHER WORDS--------àThe Portrait of this Heart Resembles all those “Whatever Elses” You’ll Never Know. “Prudere, Addire || Treo, nor Trow”.  And HERE:-------àI Am: And Again, in the Trenches: a Hunk and Hoarding All Belongings, Especially the Mink Stole, I Stole.  Or Perhaps: I’m Wandering Aimless, Broke Down and Limping Through the Street of Strays with “Ballyhoos—[!]” and Half-Hearted “Yoo-Hoos”. ß------IN OTHER WORDS--------àIt’s the Difficulty of Narrating Anything, Ever and Clearly, a Concern: How My Face, Might Frame when Yellowed Between the TeethBut Listen You: this World is Nothing but a Cheap Bet of Hoodoo. And This: --------àNothing but a Document of How One’s Head is Held-in-the-Hand-Up High by Violence. And Yet: You Thought, “But No”, I Guess, I’ll Rest, “Oh Noß-----àNOT YETß-----àAnd Oh Lord, You Bet, it’s all, such a Mess” and No-No-No, One Never can Rest, and This, with My Hand, to Chest, I Swear and Do Surely Attest, And No --------àOh No—[!]”--------àWhat a Terrible Way--------àIt Was, And Then, And All: ------------------------------àThis STOPS, to Drop, This Beat, in the Street, And We Go, to Home, All Alone.


Friday, April 10, 2020

Good-God, The Inevitable Destiny of Life’s Repetitions and Vanities

Throughout its Journey, the Body Aggressively Evokes the Rewriting, Scribbles and Folds and Mimes the Shove that Life’s Fragmentations Form.  When This first Entered the Room it Announced its Intention to Enact an Objection.  The Tinea of the Other’s Subjective Interruption.  A Craving to Build What Ultimately Abandons.  This was the Beginning of a Stutter Step into a Pinprick of Stunned Isolation.  Staggered Nevertheless, Hysteria Presses-Down and Absolves the Acts of a Life Hell-Bent on Violence. 

This”Body has No Exact Place, Full of Disheveled Reflections, Hauled Up to the Heart, then Razed back to the Ground. 

And Now: Slipping on the Ice, Striking the Forehead and Breaking One’s Neck. 

All Definition of the Body’s Journey Brought and Bent Back to This”YAWL, Exhaling and Scratched with a New Appetite, Tip-Toeing over the Stones and Silence Cindered in Winter. 

The Body Changes.  It Rearranges Into Something Catastrophic and then Recoils in Horror.  Having seen Absence was No More than to Drain Your Face and a Reflection Which Passes Right Behind Your Collar.  And Less and Less, each Morning, the Body, and the Face Continue to Meet and Hold from Behind.  And Despite Myself, I Vassalage and Massage Myself Through This Image.   In Other Words: I Lower the Hands, Naked in the Bed in Disgust, Waiting and Waiting to take up Betray Till Once Again The Words to Say: “I Begin Once Will Again”.   But Again, the Body Pushes Back and the Face Changes, and Night, Where over the Shoulders, Lies a Place, in the Distance, for This to be Birched, Slipped Overboard and Buried. 

And Now: With What along the Cracks Change, I Whisper and Floss You In, Till Forgotten All and When

And here: This is What You See, What Is, What Collapses and Rises and What Shoves You into Place.

To Thus: a Street that is Now All but Gone, Turning to the House, the Door, the Walls, the Window, the Figure but Gone but You at the Edge of the Mouth to Say: Either is Neither Silence, Neither Laugh, Neither Cry, Neither Scream, Neither Voice, Neither Page, Neither Break, Neither Fade, Neither White, Neither Smell, Neither Hand, Neither Head but a Face Splintering Right Through a Double and Ends and Begins a Repetition, on This Other End to Thread to This that Ends to Begin, to Cauter, to Grace, to Fall, With It All and Again.

I Have Nothing Left from the Life I Led, which Formed My [Maybe] Memories. All agreed on This Point: the Instinct to Desperately, Pathetically “Hang-On”.   A Love Latent and Lulled.

Patiently: Always by Mistake

Nothing to Hold Onto when Falling in the Middle of the Ring. Nothing to Say but [to] Interrupt the End of Father’s Story.

Wildly Thrown “Whys” Deep, in the Depths.  Holding the Gut and Tumbling to the Knees

Every Other that Enters This Moment: Pummeled and Pointing to the Heart [of It]: Hiccups in the Wrinkles of My Face

Thus: All Other Names for This have Its Corresponding Absence, like a lost Shoe, Deep in the Ice, Below the Snow, and Around the Right of HERE:

Never to Lie Down, or to Turn [Over] One’s Back

Only to Confront the Endless Exclamatory Fragmental Outbursts. 

If there is a This, there is a Fragment, and there is a Verb to Subject, and a Subject to Subject to This.

And “This” I Vainly Suspect

For My Part: I Tend to [It] All--

The Rest is a Bore, Easy, like a Sneeze

Abandonment Versus a State of Plural over


If One So Chooses to Agree.

And Now:

The City has Come into My Own.  All Streets Devoured and “Cross Your Heart” Completely “I Swear” This is Devoid of a Single Other Covering an Inch of Space, or Bother.

And Now: Single Movements, within the Expanse of a Reducible Enclosed Space, Over and Over until it Folds right over the Face:

The Explosion and Freshness and this Absence ever Whence

The Signature from Which This lands Between Us, All Fever and Guilt, Making Itself at Home, Working Its Way into the Flesh, Slowly Turning the Chin from Death.

To Compensate: I Think: I Shall Go on Ahead of Myself, Hands Turning Toward, Divine and Maddening with One’s Hair All Alone.

Then This is Either but Neither Deprived What Voice, Toe-Tapping on the Hip, Imparted Strangely, Perhaps, on the Dance, of Returning Now to Sleep—

Thus: Dressed in a Constant Flutter.

Repeating the Fragment: “So Not to Forget” so Not to Forget What that This Might Sound like When This is Dragged Down by Its Fall.

And So Comes: the Immense Laughter that Accompanies the Process of “Coming Apart

Thus: each Fragment Becomes the Only Site, a Marker, of a Life, and a Body, the Middle, of an Initial, that Framed It

What is This that This Surrounds; Curb-Checked and a Handful of Teeth; Piercing Eyes, Famished and Swarm in a Circle, a Caw, a Committee that Breaks Through the Bone, Or: Flung to the Ground, a Face Full and a Mouth Caked with Earth, with Blanched Fingers Playing Gingerly Across the Dirt, Across the Path, Across Ice Stretched Over the Whole of the City Above or Below or Before the Vultures that Circle and Wake.

(A Fragment that Versus in This; Plural Possibilities of Turning, and Folding.  To Say: “Say Anything” Without the Need to Define or Sense.  Picture the Night, and Accidentally the Body. One to Hold, to Back the Breath, at Night.  A Hiccup in One’s Back Motion.  Or, Violently to Lure Two Tongues to a Crasis that Hurls a Hiccup and Into the Ear.  A Steep Congestion that Leans Within, to Grow, to Decline.  As Easy as Opening the Door, One Lights One’s Path, to Run Through a Dance, to Skip, then Stop.)

So: That This is a Climbing Into an Out of the Body; A Spacious Litany of Free Space. 

Then and a Thus Would Come Another.  To Fling a “Yoo-Hoo” Towards this One, Then, that Came Thus, to Be, an Either or Neither or Perhaps Either.

But Another Cannot Comprehend, thus Cannot Apprehend an Either or Neither Moves Neither in This.

The Point: to Never Console Either or Neither and Rest Neither.

Thus: Neither Either Neither Matters, Either.

To Compensate: We Break This Into a Subject. Of Rewriting Into Something or Else, Closing the Door on OUT.  And What Comes Around, Just Goes and Goes and Goes.  This Subject is a Body Always on the Move. 

Let the Body Stop and You Stop Without the Body.

No Matter What This Says: A Fragment “In the Flesh” Sleeps Within Something Else Within This. 

And that there Is More, there is Only One’s “Only There”. 

A Possibility of Pleasure Hidden Underneath the Feet and Stretched Over the Skin. 

Oh Its very Dear”,—Dear-Dear This is Oh So, So Very, Very Dear. 

Under Desire the Body Swells to an Edema of the Heart.  Softens with the Tension of the Sum. 

And Thus: Never to Sleep Again in This that Lived within a Lived-In Rhyme.

How Many Living, How Many Dead. Churning and Yearning in the Bed Once Again. 

All and All: the Body is This and Only is One. To Rip Up What Others had Said.  One Bowl and One Tongue.  To Desire and Cease No More. Which isn’t the Same as Giving This a Name so Never in End.

Thus: to Snow the Other All Over and Wool Again.

This Comes to Your Door with a Dissonant Thud which Reverberates, or Lashes or Rests Its Head upon the Skin.  This is a Matter of Refusing to Not [to] Move [to] Thus: a Separation of Edges, Thumbing Through the Hiatus that Explodes and Mutates Into the Open Field of The Interior, so that the Dark Gallops Over the Skin and Responds Thus to This, to What This Sees in This Outpouring of a Life that Never [Is] Led Right Into This:

Or: A Duplication of a Myriad of Difference in a Ditch, that Folds and Intermingles and Comes Out to See the Same is This in All of This that Comes to This.

Peculiar, Very Peculiar, How This Always Catches Itself Saying the Same in This.

[Thus: Where there is Bullshit, there is This.

The Structure of This is in the Bullshit in This.]

If You Enter This, the Fragment Carries You Out and Folds You in the Palm.

A Few Steps, as Far as the Tongue and Scream can Reach. A Collection of Slips and Deliberate Turns in Which to Eat.

The Shamed Beggar of Whatever going from Hand to Mouth to Sleep, in a Motion All Over and Over and Over to This and Again.

And So This has Comes to This: This is No longer a City or a Street, or a Room, or an Other, or a Sound, or a Silence, or a Memory; It’s the Head Split Into the Rod of the Tongue Violently See-Sawing and Falling into What is [in] is This. 

And Here, Its Origin in This:

The Source of This is the Ear that Shuns It.

A Tumultuous Laughter, that Gradually Sinks into a Sun, or to a Sung that Sang the Way This Dares Us into This

But Ah: One by One Smashing All of This. What a Rotating Relief. What a Loving Gesture.  To Undo and Undo and Undo All with just a Shove of a Hand Shoved the Motion of Shoving [You] in to This:

All and All and All the Rage in This Undoing that’s Doing to This

For: There is Only Death Without This.

And Thus:

Only Death [All] About You.

And Definitely, Not a [You in] This.

Monday, March 30, 2020

In This Delicate Situation, I Began to Laugh

The [Bēte] Body Signifies/Replaces the Work that it is Meant to Classify
Plodding around in the Grave just to get Going
Reveries of Putido’s Shake
At Its Heart: This Subject is the Root of Lunacy
The Rest (Remains) and Falls to Bits to Say:

“Batter Me Up, Butter,

Baby, Beloved, Risen My Bēte and Bang”

"Armand Capanna"

"Armand F. Capanna II"

"Armand F. Capanna"

Armand Capanna

"Armand Capanna" Chicago

"Armand F. Capanna II" Chicago

Friday, March 27, 2020

Putting the Kibosh on your Batata

Struttered [in] a Year. dump, then Dusk.  Recall: the Desire Hinging-Back; Models an Abstract and Pleasant
Pulse Across a long Memory: a Train’s Unscrolling and Libidinal blow: swole over


Enormous and Bent-

over a Lover’s past


Against Only Itself, Flesh Ahems like a Tragedy, or a Comedic 
bout of Tripping-
                            up[s] Memory’s Route; | or, --------
--àA Jury of Prejudicial Fists, Cataloguing “Negotious
            [-ily] I Oeillade”;—and Happily Extend towards the Nerves of the Nose to Perceive—

And in Lethargic March: the Maddening Cadence of Fingers Rumbling on the Glass: the Reemergence
of Eye’s Sunshine Strain, ----------à“That Winter
I read Pokarney Without Qualms,” 
                                                                        My Thumbs Stuck Out, Frantically
Dodging b
oobs in the Rain-

                                        “Girl, How I Need to Shower” and this Tongue: Aiming Nowhere in particular,
Bumping-Up a Schlup;

Leaving Behind the Bland Continuum, a Statuesque Drake Erupts along Lake Shore Drive— But Again, “I Swore

I’m Done”. ||
For Now

Digging to Bury Youth’s


 with its Entwined Etceteras and Half-Assed Whims]—Time Instead to rise to [this] Age [Stiff,
and Entrapped by a Quarrel “Over There”,|—And isn’t that what
One’s False Memories
Amount to:
Up Father’s Skirt in an Untempered Clamor of Fingers Weighing-Down Allegiances, or
Attempting to Define One’s Position-------
àThe Stupidity of a Family’s Moral Postulate 

                                                          Elbowing out the Serial 
Interest: to be
Between Obsessions: the Barrier of be Being Besieged

in this Whole fucking House: Greaseballed
and Laughing in the Hallway Mid-

Bounce, Lifting Oneself out of: Winter’s Fatty Paw [or]
                  Sweetly, and “Yes” I’ll blow the Entire fucking Block

Like All Others: I’m Submitting to the colon:

Blunts onto Verbum’s Dicendi and Perfictio’s Stunted Perfectum—
                                                                              And Now: -------

àI Had Arrived” and Replied in Lieu 
of What I Neglected to Utter: Some Things and How I Only Desire
World to Pierce my Lungs into Happiness
and that’s
[not] a Hard thing to Destroy—
                                                  But Remember: there is much to Gain and
Shatter and Sign: so Trill
and Huffing with Hope
That Flesh: -------

àYour Batata
and the Lumptuous rump of Summer -------

à I’ll Tuten and Scooter to My Barber, so that
through the rest of the Year: “I’ll Conceal
and Cēpan” this Winter:

Will not “Be Fall

nor these Bones



Desire Again Shall Prevail and Perverse