back from a long way

d i a l e d

push on back

e x r a y ' s

exray's lacault ultradyne superhet project.

every which way

that's where

pipe cleaner

moving

starting back up

nick veasey

be prepared

atlantish

reportswritings
possiblethings
writerofalgorithms
languagesfound
themusicoftenused
peopletechniquesbut
notionsdivorcedfrom
theactualworkarefunky
tellafrequentprocess
andyourlifewillexist
referencescanownyou
ifyouarenotcareful

dictation:

when

you i we

is are down

and life lives on

when when when

the mirror is clear

and buildings have

been blown aside

read between the

wooden cars

and the

glass shoes

and the

downside

directions

there is no

particular

faith faith is

not particular

believers just need

the streets cleared

fuck the interpreters

they can't even

enjoy the immensity

of their own work

not to mention

yours

keep up with

juggling lessons

climb the lower cases

you of of of me

a family

meaning everyone

and myself

no good reason

sweeping grey sand over

a round enormous dome

we drive with 110 degrees

of crushed out speed

we've ditched the car and

hopped aboard a flying rug

one wing for the druggist

and one for the hit list

we follow our uneven line

to a cracked body of

concrete, glass and water

tomorrow our wheels will

roll like mismatched eyes,

the left one paper

the right one pepper

bodies of small birds eye

five stomachs in flight

a glider of great ignorance

circles like a blazesmay rocket

a surprise comes

a massive payload of contractions

the engine goes silent

the red interior is exposed

without a roof or wheels

or a road or a life

with the exception

of those who stand

to bear witness

to the accident

techniques

we've got techniques now

improved boxes

machine water and trade birds

still puzzles and a canalhouse house

steam in buckets, removable slippers

cloud farms

indoor tin foil suns

we've got it down yes we do

we use wood only for the wider dramas

distances, doors, periods, that's it

WiNDOW TWiNS - i'M THiS TALL CiTY - 2/24

interstate

a glass world

swerves

time outdoors

with a twinkie

a huge quiet pattie

flying down the road

with no wrapper

the earth bends

a cracked wave

just repair the corners

our back's alive with pebbles

coffee

and a big white truck

we speak directly

with phone poles

sleepless moments

with a helmet on

there's a lot

of construction

to do

trading routes

new hebrides to low archipelago,
society, reykjavik and new orkney

black white color

although giving may
cause decomposition,
we still do it

common sense tells me
it is better
than receiving
but there comes
a point when i see
two headed roses growing
through the beams
in my bones

why does the vampire
persist as a creature
to dine with?

folklore explains it as
a black and white
necessity but i
hunt in a world
of color

helmets and cranes

the blue standard is
often green and yellow
signs are the distances
applied to mountains
by roads and hotels
water understands
the movements
of an old van
differently
nails pass
their materials
through helmets
and cranes
we road minds
expect the pylons
to be any color at all,
nothing can surprise us now

slow stacks

the orange substance
reflects less color than red
and what water shoots through
a hydrant arrives injured

single purpose seaweed
and drugstore sewer gas
mean that no trees are
available at this time

watch out for screws

don't bury my threads in wood
i'm not here to hold one thing
to another
mysteries are not surface freight
my ideas
are a little more quiet
they travel on the
backs of exposed fruit,
in the work of palm seeds
and water with real electricity
not chemistry reactions
that require your cookbook
humility is not an impression

cousins

three of them sitting around a sawhorse
drinking millers and talking about subwoofers
their plywood table trims a counted moon
warm beers are the language equivalent
when channeling the ghosts of old cubicles,
talking about a bowling conference,
eyes missing, mouths with or without words
the low cash count is getting them down
i had notes to the point but the burnt bulb
of a clamp light fell down stairs like
piano keys and i lost them in the clamor

the mind gains

they were friends
in search of periods
no written regards
no thickets at the center
no telling of the time
danger had no room
no passage to the center
often the screen was bright
walls were a distant hill
but the game got traded for grass
powerful books opened and
closed without end, even in the
years they were written

wool-making

still looking for predictions?

we listen for ska in the woods
we give directions for food
we build shadows on
our sponges while the
colors of a thousand minds
color us with their sound minds

you ask me to reserve a seat
as planes lift huge air timber
and tremble overhead

our solution,
reserve nights nearby
so the castle can establish
some construction,
but wool-making is slow

wolves pass priests
gently and wetly,
you nail a list of deeds
to the motel door

we're all groomed and grown,
found small on a swing,
hunting as others pass
when you wish upon a sound
it makes no difference where
your body is found

the girl of legend is a
full band scandal,
you're all on board,
so collect your leaves
and be more obvious

the hunting mind
is always guilty

euclid

mass message . one .
words to distance by
dimes . mainly interest
saying notions made first in
harbours, where units are
the denomination

the space of point is
paper . to singing,
most history is a
guitar, a congruent
space . an express for
lower plane money

wind called large
and people were
difficult reflections .
of state, of physical
feet, this vector was an
institution, time, today,
wires . to arbitrary traders,
distance beyond rules .
people pound economy
systems by translation
itself and love

sao paulo

pool of burtynsky

one more timofeev

blue buzz cuts

small city

through the roof

rapunzel

advances in robotics

cocktail sniper

fan of T H E M A Y S

brain stems for them

still hearing voices

with quiver and aqua orb

triple crossed

recording light on

toys for the waltz

astronomy club ghost story