“The world's a mess/it's in my kiss”-X

This is a shotgun, each letter is buckshot. No word is more or less shot; it's fucked in the keys that my fingertips hit and grind and lash at.

Bourbon, too

Piss coveted in the empty bottles already drank, stashed in the corners of this room.

Shotgun

four-aught

and donuts.

A lack of diphthongs and diarrhea, stopped up with the fat and grime of each moments grimace.

I say,
“Eliminate the middle class

Eat your lover's ass, even if you're your only lover and you only have the chance to fuck yourself
This shotgun is hopeless.”

She says nothing

Nothing is said by her but sleep and snores and sighs tonight

We're alone, together, you and I

History imagined now is where I think she's at

Me? I'm here without the next thought, only the next word banged out before me
and a floor fetish

No shit! This isn't a splog or a polywog but a bog of a blog, which is a bloem

This one is written to fester

This is also a lecture on the beauty of being frank and a petite bourgeoisie, which could be a revolt against the Aristocracy of the American Dream

An essence of a sense-lumpenproletariat, if need be.

Or a fuckin' fuck fucked for fuck's sake

after reading Claro by Joy Williams that Tao Lin sent us here at Frank Sauce, along with Samual Beckett's short fiction, both of which I read over the weekend. With apologies to Robert Walser and Jesse Bernstein



There is a harbor. I was a harbor once as I may be a harbor again.

As I sit here, this is where I must sit; that is, there is a unique knowledge that comes from sitting here rather then any other place I could sit. And I have sat, just as I am sitting now, in many places and none compare to this place I’m sitting now. I know this to be true.

There was a window once that looked glum. I remember the window now, sitting here, along this harbor, in the only place I could or ever would sit now. Yes, it was a glum window. It was the only window along its wall. The window owed its life to the wall, the only wall to know this particular window. They contained each other; they were companions, because they shared common purposes. When I knew the wall and the window, the wall was in need of paint and the window was in need of panes. The wall was still cheerful though. It was one of those walls that always saw something good in any situation. The window was not this way. It was often depressed and felt alone in its dinginess. A window, just like the window, sat in another wall across the alley way and sparkled in the moonlight, when it was clear and the moon had zenithed. The window lived in the shadows of other buildings. The window would never see the sun or the moon at their apex.

I felt sorry for the window. I was a young man in my first apartment in the city. The window was my first window, yet it was still glum. At the time, it was the only window I had. Although I had eight walls, the wall that held the window was not as important as the window within the wall, though as I think of it, this wall was more important than the other walls to me, because it possessed my only window. However, the window didn’t know, or seem to care if it did know, that I was an artist of grand aspirations and might write about it someday. The window didn’t seem to understand its importance.

Of course, this was all before I was a harbor.

My sympathies toward the window grew every moment that I was in the kitchen. The kitchen wasn’t really a kitchen, but a few counters and a few cupboards, which contained a sink and countertop stove, a small refrigerator and a garbage can, in one corner of the apartment. I thought they were all marvelous. I had a particular fondness for the sink and its faucet and drain. In the morning with my coffee, the glum window would sit there uninspired, tired of showing me the alley and the brick wall opposite, even during the first few days I lived in that apartment. The glum window had seen all this thousands of more times than I had. Each morning with my coffee and biscuits at the kitchen table, I would stare out the window at the brick wall across the alley, cracking the window a bit to bring in the cool city air, and there I would sit and sip my coffee and eat my biscuits. When the window became so despondent, I would go to the sink and wet a cloth and scrub and clean the window inside and out, hoping that a fresh bath would enliven its spirit. Even after its bath, the window would sit there in its wall. It would sag in the depression of itself, disfiguring my view of the brick wall opposite the wall that held my only window.

The window stayed glum the whole time we shared an apartment.

There is a general tacit trust in conversation, by which a man, perhaps, may be surprised that I should think it necessary to warn young men who have been ruined, even in good company, which you commonly keep: the people who hold judgment of you

and not tearing his hair, heads full of blasphemy, for having lost more than he had in good-breeding their unassumed, their prostituted dilution

“Mind one's company,” the last that he said

Things, seemingly indifferent, may allow to be true in day

I kicked the shovel and another unknown tool, shoved them in the biggest bucket in the basement

"Chicken pot pie is our favorite," she dropped at a haute cuisine potlatch

Whenever you write, it's an art of making anything out of everything, but I will endeavor to understand it, my society, the society of these words There is always a strict intention, here, and often times being a tender for tumult

He is never

She gives him always forgiven.

His subjects intrude into it by their own forwardness (what they put forward), and others slide into it by the protection of some considerable remorse, regrets hereafter

May you, in the middle, in the whole course of your life, have baby carrots to eat and one time devour a pristine Shepherd's Pie.

Stay away from eyes

and to carry them on to the main object of discovery, those two principal figures: both by the deference with you

“But on the contrary, attended to everything.” that was said, done, even

This is a fraud for his comedies, but not on account of the many obsolete words, and the scant sentences written all over them

This is concerned about events Go and tell any friend, wife, or mistress, we dare you

nothing shining in his genius, a wait with impatience for an accurate history from all our wars, to connect the various and jarring alliance between figures

The lady lacks her empire