Table. Write.

this morning I had some ideas and was writing in my journal. I wanted to write about bbb, the funniest Pippilongstocking experience of the last I don't know how many years. Actually I wanted to type in the computer cuz I knew it would be better to fast-write, and I was curious to see what would come out. I actually had a momentary 'vision' of how the knowledge is sorta like in-the-fingers and being a curious sort, if I sit down to write, some stuff will come out. This is the nature of writing, an aazing detail that seems to get left out of the educations of most peope, all those who arrive unexpectedly at adulthood and don't know about the vast vortex that is writing and knowing.

I'm guessing it is called 'the examined life' and don't even want to go into the word 'woke' cuz that's another story, and for now I feel like I am just exploring my style of writing, perhaps getting a glimpse of what my ouvre might be someday, which gives me a inner lol to actually say out loud. What entitlement, but meanwhile everybody might be curious about the Pippilongstocking story. But I don't know the ending,

It's the End of the World

 It's the end of the world again and nothing matters all over,
like rolling a steamroller onto it's side and leaving the past behind
like a steaming turd of rainbow colored chords...
Noise, we need it, a wash in detail though, the micro meets the macro,
the personal is the political but we're being digested in the belly of the beast.
My arm leaves me, a leg washes by, a cock and cunt fucking in and out
of the foggy wash, then easily your dream comes closer to my eyes.
But it's your big toe in my mouth and so I spit it out on the floor where it rolls away,
a marble under the radiator. "Leave me alone!" I hear a shouting and it's my voice
echoing back from a great mirror in the sky, the aural mirror,
the one that soaks up every sound ever made, these sounds have drifted up to the sky
where a Godbox soaks it all up into one vast aural soupnoisecrash
excrutiatingly dense and rich and I can even pick out the single last moan
of the unrecognized genius Bob, his arm could do anti-gravity,
he's a homeless person on 4th and Bainbridge, one snowy night long ago:
"mmumooooooaaanhshfk!" and then he died painlessly, -frozen, numb.

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