The Historical Society


An ephemeral train of delicate bubbles shaped by a singular wind source. 
From the child’s dirty mouth, each bubble a society ultimately expiring into the oppressive atmosphere. 
Each followed by another and shaped by the previous bubble's residual soapy water on the wand. 
Material consistency from escaped bubble to escaping bubble. 
Sometimes bubbles temporarily coexist, sharing a mutual drift and refracting the other's light, air, and gas. 
Consequently affecting that very drift. 
If they were to collide they'd pop immediately, their unstable internal atmosphere would explode and become one with the natural atmosphere, 
They lose that iridescent fragility which makes them so articulate


Eventually, the soap bottle is empty, 
the child scrapes the bottom
and asks for more
there are no more bottles
and new soaps are invented
only because no one wants to make them
as the child muses over the artificial bubbles 




The inchworm only knows two dimensions, because it is its surveyor, and part of it. It crawls along the cold dark steel table, and onto another plane, maybe a sky-blue rectangular card that can be picked up. With the inchworm draped over the edge, surveying two newplanes with each end, the card can be leaned against another object for exaggerated verticality, with the inchworm at precipice. It can only suspect something beyond two planes. This suspicion is a temporary gift. 




two tones somehow persist
and drone in the air, 
so close, nearly indistinct
no one would be able to tell the difference,
but there is no ‘no one’


the ear is not a no one
and its fallacy is finally tricked, and tickled
into enforcing errors by the two tones, because there is
no analogue in the ear's sculpted mimicry
of the natural aeolian tendencies; 
all those bad cells. 


And so the ear perceives two nearly identical tones not as two, 
not as one
but adds an entirely new, illusory tone
nowhere in particular
far away, extending the din, and
lucid, terribly new and wrong
dead presence of the new
screaming distortion
screaming from the austere dirt
peripheral in all directions




plank on the floor amongst settled planks with architecture half, 
Bookshelves filled with books hovering leaning above, always about falling
Plank wonders nonlinearly, likes hovering and doesn't hover, 
flaccid moth flits angular and dead
again the amnesia robe
Amnesia Moth
Just the planks arms, armed inside itself
Bent over and sulking, anti-hovering
Maybe an amnesia shield
Amnesia as a hieroglyph
The neck without memory and vice versa persistently itches
zillions, but sans ‘mass’
catholics teach that ‘mass’ means to send away
Skittering across the transparent globe and over the edge
Mother misfired, baby went sailing into orbit
Infant a distortion seen always through opposite glass
Ceremonial eyes of the future are watching to discern
where one’s now disappearing, barely after they discerned
that same one did appear, 
as a plank amongst planks
The leg twitches and the words react like rubber
to kill what they depart from



All imitate a trapezoid brought into the life
Limbs mime angles awkwardly, how they were always meant to
but did not want to mean to
And stacked, but pasted too
Quantities quantitating
Kinetics emerging from invisible
to take a gulp of vice
And then back to invisibility
Imitating the trapezoid in private,
from a non-distance
Manipulating and manipulated by
phosphorescent-translucent bundles, slowly
bound, barbaric sinew in tedious groupings
across untimely era. Under stairs, and in prime numbers
always, stacked variegated, usually stacked always



Said the scientist: 
‘the worms used to digest cardboard
to crawl glacially atop and across the dried-up dirt, 
chasing an elephant,
before they too dried up and
encrusted into the desert ground.
And the elephant, once itself encrusted
with many hands that wanted to touch it, and
to bury it, 
vanished to a point’



Training horse to push cart
Poor training relentless,
and so it keeps pulling rightly
Hating its own voice, and chasing after it,
trying unsuccessfully to swallow its own gaseous emission, 
And so pushing the cart wrongly, and so also re-emitting
But pushing it still, directionless in all still ways



Another pebble
Beige another punch key
Harvesting greens with hammers,

Mating with plastic
And also unwanting to, 
from the perspective of an impossible efflorescence,
projected ahead of its extinguishment

Trapped in the extinguished-out, by shields-in
Worm-loops repeat the muttering distancing
as a propeller does do a stream breaking



Hexa-frown, flat limpid on pillars fragmented
Manufactured scatterings
Imagine a man with a cinderblock
strung to his head, then there is
an image of deformation.
So long as he has no idea it is there,
it has been there so long it has become natural,
though the weight stays same, and the neck grows more prostrate
So long as the block releases a muttering foam of words
at walls and into the un-reverberant air
like a hand-soap pump pumping its last dregs
Remember when you sat on my chest and the air
drained from my lungs?’



yapping ‘help-help’
Sending away from its preservation
A little spill-over-self from an eternal petting
And roiling around in the pre-.
Fear of terror love of terror
Sit it on a stolen chair
loving chair

What are all these flickerings pseudo-doing?
When did it start? And why can't it stop.

it feels like a drawing of a head with a sliver-plane symmetrically through, 
but only because it is in front of it
It feels like a lot of things flickering past, 
fast feelings.

holes drilled all over
through a tibetan singing bowl so it is a mere gauze

the matrix of a lapdog's discontent
the dilettante's lapdog



Book-weight bends shelves into parabolae
But not only the shelves
must be forced to be true someday,
and relevant, and cannot be either, for categorical reasons
But for also lived ones maybe

Repeated, as all carpets make them do the repeat thing
And child with a boombox in a corner somewhere

And sociopath child hating the pat on the head. ‘very pretty drawing’
no innocence whatsoever
it was meant to collapse society

Go back and uncapitalize the capitals, 
Go back and change the water's dumb and obvious consistent way
Here it went back and here it is back, 
a diversion diverted into itself

Maybe a foil, Cute hopes for foil
Create foil?

to sail around in the blackness of the silent midwest, 
in a hermetically concealed car, with a friend and a disintegrated music
Merely breathing and pulsating

All the pictures are crooked, and
all the nails are jagged
And all the poisoned quills are unused
and all the saints still sulk over their melancholic desks, imitating gravity, 
sucking into and at them.



Someone once said that wind doesn't blow,
It sucks. 
This was a revelation to him. 
And to me, I guess
A director says that wind=mystery.
Mystery has blown the community away
There is no process, its just wherever the sticks
fall onto the wind.
And all the dead animals smell of doppler

The fire has to be blamed for the illusions it generates
For its complicity
And there is no depth were it not for the pile of rotting leaves
Piling up on each other ceaselessly, and, why not, other stray bits,
Other identifiables hardly worth naming
For every yearning to get to the bottom of things there is a heaper of useless things

An invaluable, human gestation, enough to separate it even, 
prolonged until death
Incuriosity intensified into a vague mood, an epochal ‘project’
but the epoch has also been heaped onto the fire



the leech on a ghost,
thinking that by sucking hard it can bring
out the blood, and make it run,
like it once did.
But even if it did, it would still suck it dry
and kill it into a ghost again.
Perhaps it was the ghost's killer


(The Ides) 

The final spells come howling forth
The last gasp of enchantment is the most putrid, 
because it comes from the deepest bowels
So everything hangs on to its own puzzlement
Thinking deeply of how to draw its ears, and
ballad-mongering a lil spittle

Wherever the nails stick in the mumbling
Mumbling its own type of spell, 
mumbling the impossibility
of its own spell-forging capacity,

Where are the mumble collectors?
And the interpreters?



A record of nonexistence,
cannot drop anchor with a ballad.
anchors are tiny, and their swing send
one erratically careering, and of (their) course not very well.

Very annoying

I have no idea how to interpret blinking signals, and beeping sounds,
though I like them greatly, with a puzzle-face

And/or perhaps they are sent out in the middle of the night
where they go ignored, veering past the bedridden.

It remains to be seen if the record can be produced, 
or if the records sent into space for eternity will be
readied with their ignorance to do their actions,
desperation programmed into them and occluding their truth
as I have pathetically prepared them so eagerly to do.

But if the record of one’s non-existence cannot be written, that does not mean one had lived.



When scratching the walls of the womb, it is best not to scratch too hard,
Because it would wound, and in doing so only prevent one's birth
That is obvious
But not scratching too hard does not mean birth either,
And so it is OK to scribble a panorama lightly to bemuse oneself,
In case one is there forever wilting and burbling, which is not to be determined by anything
one would know how to guess.



Baby scorpions are the most dangerous because they can’t control their venom, 
They’ll inject all their venom liberally in the first Sting. 
It is only later in life that the baby scorpion learns how to conserve its venom, 
but the reasons for doing so no one knows.
the baby scorpion, when looking in the mirror in old age, still sees the image of it’s venomous youth projected onto its tired face.
And its memory clenches and strains to release this venom, 
because it is really the venom itself that wants to be unleashed, to extinguish itself, and to which drive the aging baby scorpion is mere supplement



talk of 'message in bottle' down by beach
the same recently cast out, returned
ocean won’t do its job
but dont know where beach is
ears hear The babbling, eyes bleared
looks bad, looks for hands in dark wind
fumble to read

found wrong
should have been sent farther through time, and then more far repeat, 
ocean cast, found by same night-stalkers, bottle kicked
dry up in sad sand, must re-cast

not found, babbling of the ocean
makes the illusion-words
and who could find a thing, in all these things?

plead for flood. sit on drift-log
forge no damn'd thing
bottle meant not to return so soon



Abstraction A 

problems to be, a those w/o chasm.  
in case of sans, be considered as a number or otherwise await.  
the it approaching, strength still enjoy the freedom to strength start
hoop de—side maximize.  
the enjoyment of skills, label the port. 
enhancement grow the month, control time-managing estimations
and line for deliverables ever.
a mountain system edict, the syndication meta-exc, 
shall benefit from plants, short-circuit art tickles.
integrate release/draft/tag-vopy-exible wield arcs. wield them
that first effort—Lyrically low-key. Minorly efforted.
fabricate installation lay down feet. 
calculate the number of stares numb
the shoulder be able to LED with teeming 23's.
weld my own certificate speak lish <> for sounds.
know the porch code for area, vehicularize backgrounds
(DE)————-a ̈ ask the necessary question do it now not wait put a top on top of lap, 
dogsbody for owners sake above the mentioned areas be able to get in and out of car often
throughout the day, sense that I have a character, exclamate over making real things! 
Quiptificate-cleanse power of its rel.+-+- can do re: lead w/ seals DE:RE:RE
approximate all over the region stick the …



right focus of attention, 
intense desire, hard muscle
face: steel

constricts fall of the drunken, 
distorts path of the gunshot,

in hands tense w/ intention, mind filled with righteous hope, 
spirit saddled w/ zealousness, snobbishly altruistic

misses the mark
nullifies satisfactorily



they have uttered, on the goings past
that a position will rot
behind some piles, a window
Decay or dessicated,
no matter, here

But, atop tables, unhidden behind endless piles, 
windows behind tables, littered with clear spindles, 
plane lines, black torpors, 
no matter here

Hidden behind piles, 
ruled marks and windows piled on tables
of almost atomized spindles
silvered decay, ornamental poverty

pre-ghosts in the dirt-present unceasing

if time is a river, then littered with timeless objects
all colorful rainbow spectrum until
flat no-color

we tree stumps pre-existent, wed to parched riverbed, 
but even the like are not tabled, nor the recursed, 
or spindled, or planar, but maybe something
else unshapen in pre-shapely tinsel-land
as yet unmade

misguided, judgments bought, piles laid out
and constantly judged, gray torpor, deemed 'If possible', 
but an impish spindle in the ceaseless pre. 
Piles, piles, endless after rot. 
And still the pre-position pseudo-poise, stillborn preformed.

Imprint of some thing littered, transparent
else inside the plastic preformed. 
no relief, transparencies past


born into a dustbin
destined for obsolescence from the misconception

saturated in disappearance swill,
smells of zillions of whispy swills
dirty in the unformed

wants cloak, needs everything for cloak, 
aspires to saturation cloak for respite, 
but less than one thing and lessening fast

no learnings in vulgar dustbin
threaded together by those filaments
that the assemblage whole and fake despises




the audience gets up to leave
all contours beige themselves again
odorless wisps of voice
willingly unable to will listener's return, but not intentionally
Unable to conjure new listener
Endless zoetrope days of the conjure-less



The Smarted 

jagged on all rounded edges
sharpened by practical misuse
smarted citizens
poor animals sprinkled
on the jungle lawn
engaged and collaborative only
when their individual territory breached
then the sharpening discourse
quiescence between violences



three cardinals stream past window
beyond a dirty window pane,
beyond a locked metal diamond grate, 
also a meager spire-scaffold insipidly jutting in pale sky
oh, some other diagonal black wires

the moire-defense of a limpid malaise,
uncured of three-dimensions
creates Illusions of bird-life



thinglikes dressed like war
mosaic'ed like people unmapped
posed like war-came bludgeon symmetries
civilians driving tiny wheels with big heads

insufferably relevant
insufferably coordinated
precision: determinate
the hygienic: precise

Posed like The Unmapped
False: posed-like hexagraph scribbles
given givens given


Abstraction B 

scribbling on heads through glass
the glass shifts. So?
Heads due to be white-markered
Scribble zeroes
Oh's or airs, on heads-through glass, glass
Bisecting-ed headstuffs, tilted shiftings

Zeroes scribble shifting glass-through
Shifting dues
O Scribbly head, whiten the marker
With a so-so, secant all the way through once

Urge a formula for the outer-head muscle
O, fine, numbers unraveled. Meh

Shift a point all the way through once
all-over, and so?

A cloud of re-efficiency
gets itself all-over-ed
in the glass book of constrainings-ed

Scribble the sigh
So marked?



all the innnocents announce:
"just harmless lil me"
Echoes yelling, droning on
doing active lil go-getting
no=comment, & all scat
mousy little pinholes
strains to make looks to the past
fake meek

As yet no backgrounds or foregrounds
As yet no contrast or low-contrast
As yet no figure or anti-figure
As yet no needs to be met or unmet


Abstraction C 

last night immense vault
i-It = a territory roped spoked
flags planted on it flags no grow
tiny splinter big round vault
tiny splinters round big vault
zillions, lights were orgs up high
takes other hand pushes its thing forward
stiff lil splinter ill lil splinter good
it is the glom of many faceless things tacked a wall
brown-occluded blue planes: right
melted bells, automated sighs, faint mauve splints
cylinders: fine
spokes the paragon of cutting-out
curbs: pastels




Two pigeons Y and Z wobble about, 
warbling and bouncing in the road at the intersection of two city streets. 
Pecking at fallen bread, two throbbing stray points in a grid. 
Suddenly and expectedly a car turns the corner and squashes Y, drives on. 
Fraction of a second, Y is reduced to a stain in the road. 
The other pigeon pecks on, blinks on, 
Z's share of bread has just been doubled by The Arbitrary, for now. 
In a distant world an automaton shrugs.


Pedestal Life 

Life has emigrated to the gallery
Life can no longer support life
it must be funded
and so the living are hauled into the clinical viewing rooms of the galleries
thing is, there's no interest in clinical analysis
more interested in watching or mere witnessing  
entertainment at how life behaves when brought into the realm of dead reflection



To write the vaguest of sentiments with rational precision
there exists no gradation of inexactness
if they must be inexact
intensively inexact
nothing wants to be exactly what it is


Peerless Care 

the poets friend: do you know anyone who writes poetry?
the poets girlfriend: no

the limbless poets eat trash fed through the moire of prison bars
the limbs of the feeders expressively contorted
and regurgitate to themselves in the silence



the so-called momentum of a century
cant bear the weight because it is just a dumb number
all bow before the big dumb numbers


The Litterers 

soon the process will be complete
the transformation into a statue
what will be the final pose
or have all the decades and centuries been the long pose
it will not be pretty, graceful, or tortured
the inward awareness of the process will make it ugly
the times littered with ugly life poses
Litterers of themselves


Mass Psychologists

if it is turtles all the way down, their shells are muttering ‘but…’

the need to disappear before one ever appeared

mass psychology mutters, ‘leave me alone to my corner’

but all the curators with the aid of the mass psychologists have removed the corners

to remain unformed for as long as possible


Delayed Appointment 

Citizen x has an appointment with the sublime later this fall
when all things wither and die
it is fall all year, much against fall’s wishes to hasten death
even fall cant function properly

To look forward to something
bred in an environment which dreams backwards


Abortion at the Milennium 

Wait harder
All the deformed heads crawl out of their basements
deformed by virtue of being over formed
big baby heads advanced and readied
trawling the streets grafted on stolen kinetic limbs
floating over the landscape
scratching it, barnacled with hope
quilled with positivity
covered in the ash of their making
terrifyingly sniffing out all the colors in the grey din
that if denatured and isolated would effloresce
as its always wanted to
Aborters of the unformed


The Missing 

An entire army has gone missing
It's not that people are needed
there is no shortage of people
people have become a nuisance to people
the alarms and the search crews have been exhausted
and never wanted to look to begin with
compelled by some drive or curiosity
the means to train new expeditions are not sought after
besides, the only ones who could have taught such an expedition
are the missing
we’ll have to make do with studying their lint



Quarantined to play
the quarantined like to play
but also to defend their right to play tooth and nail
and their right to forget that they are quarantined
always playing the infant
with poor old joints
always also the plaything


transfusion 1 

life composed of contemporary interviews, visual reenactments and self-reflexive footage
designed for the elements
vague news of squatters and cardboard
exclusive artworks revealed daily
some people will perform on the runways
every citizen looks good while they look
celebrations when people get new limbs


Transfusion 2 

Ponies in beds of carrots
Clocks wrapped around trees
An ancient symbol organizing
and disorganizing the masses
Photos of smashing bicycles
People sneaking around
Hatching plans
to vacate premises
To relocate
unsure where to



Cage Life 

The new people have nothing to say
And they're saying it all the time
But no ones listening
But everyone's a no one too


Ascetic Unrest

At the age of 1 the ascetic could articulate thoughts
By 5 it was writing essays and by 5.5 mastered academic thought
By 6 necessary intellectual discussions brought on migraines
Analysis diagnosed them but there was no available cure
For the next few decades it elected to communicate via electronic noises
Static hiss, bleeps etc.
Communication was futile, and critical thought absent
Words the enemy as always
But even the articulate noises blurred into a spectral mass of drone
After death words returned
But not to the ascetic
To be socially connected is also to be sick  


The Baited, not The Baiter

During the day it emails notes to itself
To be harvested at home after desk job boredom
While looking at other citizens on porches from the distance
Weeping in the sun
the ashes raining, the wasps on patrol

The loudness wars continue
Freedom is who can yell the loudest
Who can be the most bombastic
From the right city

But yelling doesn't kill the ascetics
It only makes ascetics more ascetic
Or maybe just more masturbatory
Except that the ascetic accidentally emails the thoughts to another ascetic
Of the same name
Who has the odd whim to leak the thought to the public 



Metal scrapper 

I hadn't seen one for a long time. Long silent walks
Choreographed ploddings accumulating
It scrapes across the bent land like a comet of junk in space
Paths crossing but not merely
Two hurtling junks recognize each other, and think it might just be a reflection
Or a shadow gone awry
X sees Y hold up a scrap of metal to see if it glistens
it only glistens for X, who is at an impassable distance
Y has no idea the metal it has glistens, but still attaches it to himself
and keeps on plodding



No Design All Accident

There is only one glass eye
A one dimensional point that looks out
And refracts everything back in on the somber emptiness
But studies suggest that the glass point doesn't just receive light
But emits it in the process
And messes everything up on the outside



Program of Deletion 

The curator’s office is where the master archive is kept
Everyone tries to get in there now, to add their name to the great archive
And they will do anything to just put their name in there, anything at all
Despite the fact that it says nothing about what they did to deserve being canonized
Oh it says everything, but those who want to be canonized are those who have done nothing much
Except affirm their complicity
So it'll just say, X was alive at this time, and did something

Really, people should be sneaking into the office late at night when the curator hobknobs at events, to erase their name from the archive
Because no one should want to be complicit with this era
When the redeemers glance upon this ugly book with disdain
The urge to be canonized is the urge to be judged guilty