Sing to Me, Man

about rosy toes and eskimoes, all you know on damsel doe

babes and baked potatoes

the last time our family was together under one roof
I wrapped the babe in pruning aluminum
while he held a TV antenna in his fist
magnamous and magnetized
hoping for mothership to answer his waving
and take dear tintin back to baby planet

where rivers of formula feed
a sparse jungled Floridian key of baby greens
where the presidency is won screaming
and every single thing is pacified

yes from the angle of the musty couch,
smelling like relatives,
our baby looked quite the baked potato of hope

If you shoot a psychopath while he’s in the middle of a murder, does he at least die doing what he loved?

—One police officer to another

suitcase hatching

Could I hatch through this suitcasing of
ungrateful socialness
that scares me from exposing a suffocated meat

My space is a ravaged and caps locked rib
but I’ve broken through the leather,
now I’m digging into plastic

I can feel the plastic on my skin like I’m on NCIS
I can talk and hear it on the plastic
And taste my words as they vibrate back to me
sick as this boy-sized bag

A kind of Man-to-man in the mirror
that works as good as any to repeat back what I dictate
in between tabs

texts to the passenger’s seat

Driving a bad map’s grid’s worth
we hunted for a good view of the moon
like hunting for water,
just a glistle
just a white russian’s glob full
and even that much is rote and awful

The car smells like Chinese tilapia and a burnt cook
A bad ankle and sandle pushing broken gas
Your loose chunky malt of clothing,
you bitchy sage astronomy major
rote and awful

I can bear the smells
The dead air,
The mum of the radio host
The dead ghost you,
that past you in the backseat passed out

I can bear it if you’re serious with me:
am I an infant with binoculars over my eyes?
a boring brute?
moonsick with a journal
and “moon” inside of it?

bad shrinks

bleeding all over a 5 dollar medium in poofy pants
rips through them glazy with cracked crystal
arches and toe rings all solar systems and star children

The same depression you get from an eight ball
Can be found here
Soaked through the Persian rug

lazy fortunes wrapped in a toilet roll like computer paper on her wrist
she smells like wood drugs and sex on pine needles

bleeding along my palm lines
Jesus Christ I think this is helping
Call it garbage dump therapy,
But I think it’s helping


Tangible Media

MIT’s Tangible Media is coming along nicely,

"Almost like a table of living clay, the inFORM is a surface that three-dimensionally changes shape, allowing users to not only interact with digital content in meatspace, but even hold hands with a person hundreds of miles away. And that’s only the beginning."

(via sagansense)

Well, well, well, well. If it isn’t fat, stinking billygoat Billy-Boy in poison. How art thou, thy globby bottle of cheap, stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly thou.