closets_and_sky lycanthrope to even begin with there is something so as a rice krispy treat is, the daisy chain of excess that is, to apply marshmellows and apply, so much time on our hands we do not gobble filled with things and things to be made of things listening to this kid at a supermarket and he's naming anything dying things disappearing things kids keep seeing the old thing on the new things. in stages. the shelves are continental and spectrumed rice krispie treat cereal. that's a daisy chain of excess. and colorful magazines with square jaws and thin filtered cigarette sex promised because it doesn't matter anymore that we eat rice krispy treats sugar not gobbled but presented as a treat while we read magazines which talk about crisis in some country that seems fictional like "the woods" in a fairy tale sedan or bosgrovia with children with eyes and bellies bulging like they deserved it like we imagine hell, feeding their dysyntery with insects from the dust like wading into a buzzing hive and forgetting yourself every day. until they die or worse someone finds use for their empty trigger reflex hands. we're already over that apparent contradiction while we talk about our happiness. and fufillment and low-carb living. america is a question of humanity. so many things. one more thing. a shadow that looks like a dragon or just a shadow. some night you can go out while all of this is going on this war, and that friend's new boyfriend and moving into your new apartment and how to decorate it, a million different ways to define yourself, and you can find a vast sky with clouds and the wind might be blowing a neighbor's windmill which is shaped like a smiling bee on which the wind paddles are its wings and it will be howling, a scene which was waiting for you like a room in a stupid house, like a jewel box just another jewel box. we've all been in houses filled with stupid accomplishments soccer photos and wooden ducks and a piano never mastered. great books never read and maybe they should've been. who can even read macbeth anymore? even macbeth. just seems like a normal guy, by the time he gets to the sound and the fury you wish he had said it at the beginning and saved you the effort. and that kid will be back in that supermarket next week. and maybe you'll also run into your friend who's a chef or becoming a firefighter or an engineer, or someone calling something by some new name or some old name a better name a worse name. that's their job to take up space and impose themselves on clouds in equations spelled with batons or graphs or a hose. then a homeless man presents it all outside the store with some sign or another. and they talk about catching those that fall between the cracks and returning them to their rightful place. we will return them to the good life of wooden ducks and a collection of something wine, baseball cards, great ideas, you get the idea. and this man is 50 or so and has no family and no real reason to want to work minimum wage just so someone else can feel comfortable. and i'd rather have him drink it away because that's what i'd do if i had made those choices too. choices. like that of the professor or the whore. as if any of us is better. we all want to be compensated for our expenses. but to make sex just another color commodity rice krispy treats i mean it's not like being a doctor because then you're saving lives? i have a friend who drinks and would think me a fool for even writing any of this and he can tell you that a hooker has saved his life many nights. computers are a great supplier of our interests. you see what people really are reaching for when they shake hands and dawdle after sunday mass. look at those search results. all of the porn in its variety always the same ecstasy pain expression in the same order with the same commands tirelessly. and it is ballyhooed by some for not valuing life or women for being destructive and taking sex out of its proper context. same expressions same commands tirelessly sounds like life's values. but protect certain things carry the poop away from the baby because it cries and we know what it's like to hurt so don't hurt, and you're trying to fence in a faberge egg when the world is spilling everywhere. head crushed like a faberge egg the other day drunk driver hit someone else's best friend, and the mother says "why my baby", or thinks about who he would've been but now isn't, or always is or whatever. and then true love in it, a couple in the park or three people but you can tell by how they look or talk that there are things they all think each other doesn't know that are gentle and warm and not all ugly. because it's both sides ecstasy pain a director saying pull her hair more deeper into her throat and to pan away from the outdoor sex the camera always fades to the blue open sky like a palette cleanser. and all of the people to love! all of them worthy and all of them little closets filled with things hoping you'll feel as stuck with them as they are. and it isn't ugly or inappropriate at all. kiss her feet drive him home when he's drunk a discipline of sorts drunken trade sessions wallstreet decisions made on hunches. it's true that a person's face, an expression they always make can change your life you can literally see a look on someone's face and turn into their accomplice. pan away to sky and start over again, or don't. is a disciplined life better? more worth it? you can split melons in midair with a sword on late night talk shows and maybe even come up with reasons for doing so. the sky will be the same sky. and all of this talking amounts to this it still has to end with a period or else gaping white promising more words more cornflowers and bullet flies and rice krispy treats and deeper into her throat and then kiss and pan to sky next scene. more things. 040707 ... lycanthrope rubbernecking at the scene of the accident i saw the mother make a facial expression i can't forget she opened her mouth in agony and no sound escaped and it was so similar to a moment when the lovers in the park caused each other to yawn soundless lion safety yawns. the statuesque grief mother and the lovers mouths both seemed like they were going to open and split into the blue and clouds above and all around them. like closets turned inside out into sky. 040707 ... camille doors fly open sky falls in trees uproot missing iceburgs universal thought sent morse code without a telegraph similar to a hurried message from the titanic Just before the heart sank sedimentary memories a world so primitive thoughts have contractions yet trapped within the mind's womb I fall silent As the words slice the sky “You think too much!” yet turns on it's heal out the door looking across the table finger follows the wood grained path as the rice krispy treats levitate I whisper, “You think too little!” someone muffles the silent screams of the boob tube in the next room clothes in the closet remember to fold themselves over and over for the next sky 041220 what's it to you? who go blather from