Sunday, November 8, 2015
Slow-Talkin' Jones Ascending to Earthly Delights
Now boarding. Okay,
Mammoth always faces away from the sights ahead
in subterranean situations as if reverse-zonking initiates,
nay, intoxicates baryons of tasing grace.
Hairy, wooly, like Florida orange juice-whirlpooled by
sombre or sober stick-shifts-of-glory, nor necessarily
four-on-the-floor/ like saying that Bloody Marys
and/or Screwdrivers are analogous-inert-systems
created by heart-meister Ben Carson and Babe Ruth
to deliver alcohol to the great unwashed.
Astringent. Hell, Mars needs women!
Trending, like a bee sting, like, like,
say, funerary aria for dying swan, like
muons on fezBook shape-shifting to conceptions
of mystic trawlers cruising only the innerside of a
gin-ringed tyre in Astoria. Or not.
Or fiery Aetnas of fascinatin' rhythm calling
Oral Roberts home. STELLA! Darkside,
parkside, any kind-you-want-side/ it's
still barcarolle to me.
Shane! To live in the innertubes
of those we love. Cucamonga,
Flagstaff. San Bernadino.
A postmodern artist or writer is in the position of a philosopher: the text he writes, the work he produces are not in principle governed by reestablished rules, and they cannot be judged according to a determining judgment, by applying familiar categories to the text or to the work. Those rules and categories are what the work of art itself is looking for.