#'s

An olde choke disowned for reasons undefined...

SEXTILLIARD

(Why Even Breathe?)

Always Mandelbrot, irritating subset.
Drawings, Julia set, charcoal, no natural numbers…
Pan right 30 Degrees.

No visible properties, obviously linear, no coefficients.
Co-prime reset, left 45 degrees.
Order and Milnor absent.

I realize this is all wrong!

The algorithms are divergent, there is something buried in this.
Something hiding beneath this skin of calculation, something awful, blissful,
something beautiful hiding below these numbers.

Something like the red hoodoo ants in black knickerbocker pairs

that wet their beds every chance they get to take a dip in my morning coffee.

Something like the gematria rodents that clean the caculi, clutter, and muddle

that postdates me.

I will no longer collect biros, loose change, magazine columns, megrims or half-skulls.
I will no longer spend my money on fly strips rat and bear traps,

I will become completely incon-fuckin-spicuous.

I have begun interpreting the integral function of these creatures.
I have begun to identify with vermin, insects, societal outcasts, parasites;
all odds against us in this vast uncertainty.

All in search of sustenance, all in search of the unifying force that binds us.
We appear to be driven by the same abstract stimulus;
an extraneous compulsion to seek out numeric patterns that may reveal order in chaos.

I want to fly but their streams point to Icarus.

Back when I was on the trigonometry circuits, and when I used to tell people lemon tea and honey with a shot of Remy was Hemingway’s favorite drink, I felt as if the 10 and the 3 were no more than a step from being negative and this cold human device perched upon the splintered edge might fall.

I look back now, and see how free we were.

Tending to the soil, nurturing the seedlings to sporelings
which grow in a ratio of 1.618,
ten to the 39th sequence.

Can we break down now,
into digits in the golden territory?

The decimal place is like the kind of vulgar latin cold sweat enigma

that rubs its self off on you while you sleep indecently.

Always trading limbs for numbers, It’s not worth the cold sores or Quaaludes.
And as the esotery disassembles into vagrant integers...

All of our routine, all of our affairs,
all but a convincing abstraction.
Another knot on the quipu.

I don’t recognize the patterns, the equation behind this medication or the prism effect scowling through my window and onto my ripped mattress.

The doctors are unsure if my eyes are real or not,
I could have told you no, but I’ve begun to second guess my reflexes.

I can no longer dodge bullets or absorb thermal radiation.
I have retained human qualities, but its these numbers that dictate my being.

I’ll eat where I please!
I’ll add, subtract and divide what I want and come out on top.

I’ll come out of the fire alive, drinking food through a tube---blood in my stool.

Glass coffin metronome beating, beating, beating, beating, beating, beating, beating,

tasting the burnt sugar---exhaust poses of a dark hued cocoon.

The shocker fails to please, forget soylent green I’ve got grape nuts,
I’ve got call girls, I’ve got these numbers.

I’ve been sucking the dream weed, blessed water running from wrist chasms.
Two versions of the bile rising to meet the postal postal worker---Numbers!

Numbers! Numbers!

Numbers everywhere in everything, forever.

And ever and ever numbers….

This poem was excluded from the newest edition of Untitled (2007, Type-Kallitri Press)

A second edition featuring new material and artwork is now available at http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/untitled/7654719

UNU BIERON (Schlenkerla Rauchbier)

Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier Marzen

Degrees Gay-Lussac: 5.4%
Malt: Barley
Brewery: Brauerei Heller-Trum / Schlenkerla
Country of Origin: Germany

Type: Rauchbier (smoke-beer)

Description:
Deceptive disguises and a rat-trap bond of mud bricks fail to bulwark screwy
Mr. Pig and his homies from forceful entry and lucky for us all the big bad wolf turns out to be an accomplished brew-master by trade.

Nose:
Meat Train derails into nomads boscage outpost amidst Saturnalia,
discharging its cargo of 110 tons of beech-wood smoked back bacon
onto innocent bystanders and sing-along campfires
producing a formidable bark, pork and ethanol vapor
that tickles the olfactics pleasantly to no end.

Flavor:
A sapid seraphic bonfire libation served at conflagration sanctification’s
in praise of mighty Moloch,
complete with sacrificial livestock, hints of smoldering charcoal,
and the dew of sky clad virgins in coven prayer circles
all scrumptiously refined and encapsulated into a decorative umber pint.

Mien:
Preteen High Priestess with dirty blond hair dyed red kneels with her
chestnut frame drum and anointed athame upon a
50-foot ziggurat of a head that tempers with no real urgency
like a collusive gold-digger at a grave-diggers funeral.

Mouthfeel:
Sensitive biker thug with assless chaps refuses a flute of fancy bubbly
and instead opts for a half-flat but thoroughly satisfying can of TAB.

Drinkability:
Truly a five-star pork soda that deliciously tag-teams stack upon stack of
dark chocolate chip pancakes and demands a sly but good-natured oink
from all but the man behind the curtain.

Final Thoughts:
Thirst-quenching liquid bacon is the sex of blithe brewski epicures.

Rating: A