experiment 337: besalo

incredible, lacking empathy
i made sure you know
how much money
is in my bank account

uff

una vida sin cojone
es nada sin poder

giving cash, hand over fist
we have nothing but that.

falsehood of our livelihood
run a tongue
down the barrel of a gun

Non-sardonism

     She will die of this;
we will give her
the best life 
we can provide. 

experiment 336

 

You didn’t dumb it down. 
You pulled the hair out of that abscess so long it came out coiled, too. 
a garbage feeling yet gone over;
tangential conversation. Yet,
gone over—ludo changing, obviously. 

experiment 334: suddenly everything has changed

Grown, man--gloved, masked.
NP endorse no need! Not dying
so many of us, no more.

Cough't a bit,
didn't get sick.

Finally, he,
we

can go home,

help, help,
let's go,
please, please--

a fall to the knees
two ambulances;
now he knows
he's different
now.

49 lines on cognition

Even we, who seek tracks of elephants 
better than our elephants; we, who fight 
for things and always find our things aren’t things; 
we, who so often bark as we do, paused, 
could not have been there enough when he died. 
We recognized it and that was enough. 
 
Black blood settled stagnant in his body 
like the molasses we dabbed with sponge sticks 
on tongue, now aspirated, coating lungs. 
 
– EMAHO, how you could perhaps describe 
a popped corn in reverse, a self, dissolved! – 
 
Now he knows. Thumb for the right passages 
decide otherwise, hold a dead man’s hand. 
Ten thousand recitations, what, for this? 
Hear it just once, see it, you’ll be okay 
in momentless dis – Pay attention! – tract- 
ion? One final cloud eviscerated  
by empty nucleus of unseen sun? 
 
– Did you miss it? In this chilicosm! – 
 
[om] 
 
And now, upriver, streams a new now. – Rise, 
a drop! – From this weaving runnel I want 
to pull all the filthy water with me, 
microbes and plastics alike, all this crap  
in me, is me, in a mirror. And so 
fade these thoughts I find myself forgiving. 
 
Fading, I forgot my resting tremor, 
forgot I’d forgotten how to swallow 
pureed duck liver, honey-thick water- 
gummed lungs, cruelly hyoscyamine-dried. 
I conjure a dissolving deity: 
something to do with the telling of time, 
Something To Do with Paying Attention. 
 
[ah]
 
My limping, hunched and aging illusion, 
inspecting tracks, shivering in redwood 
shadow nothing but mind, and not even that. 
I, a leg with a brain, strive to recognize, 
long for nothing, to liberate others. 
 
[hum] 
 
– A drop now crested! – when you feel no pain 
that just may be it – Yes, at any time! –  
futzing, this may just be it. Who are we?  
 
a cold ugly dawn; we stayed up so late. 
Coming home, returning to your mother 
who is not – A drop settles! – your mother. 
 
[2:30pm 4/22/25 - The Good Doctor is finally at peace] 
 
I contemplate my own miniscule death 
compared to his; his family gifted whiskey 
yesterday–they did not know my practice. 
I held his hand, one-eye contact, recited 
the immeasurable aspirations, 
saw his minute flicker of clarity.

David Lynch is dead
and there is nothing
we can do about it.