Make wooden models of machines dreamt by the memory of the dead the kinetic organisms animate in perpetual motion The young compatriot and the War Machine were born of the past century’s terror torn from this world as if he could stand on the tilt-a-whirl tome in hand and declare that nothing moves besides him The young compatriot and the War Machine were scorned by the angelic order flew planes over ruins in the gambit drew tears from the papaver with the lancet shot holes into posters with the shooting iron a map of the world in 1871 “Goodbye, Guido.” a map of the world in 1914 “Goodbye, Hans.” The disparate remains of cities in Serbia The new and old ruins in Palestine An ever-changing regime created out of tin soldiers stilted performers marching off of a cliff so as to test the human potential for flight They say that war is just a form of mass suicide. The Young Compatriot and the War Machine played Russian roulette on a beach in Naples where the tide was announced by the sound of the horn and a white flag was raised to the top of a pole “Pro Deo et Patria!” the officer proclaims with the revolver pointed at his temple The cylinder clicks off of an empty chamber “For altars and hearths.” The soldier replies, feeling the cold grasp of steel squeeze off the last remnants of his sanity The second click is followed by a lengthy silence “Just one round.” the officer states, lifting the gun into the air and firing the shot. The Young Compatriot and the War Machine came face to face with the eternal body of God being torn asunder in the fray the exquisite noise a free jazz collective with all of their instruments prepared and out of tune The Young Compatriot and the War Machine never felt so free as when they took the beach and drove the chthonic Order from its arrogated post A broken chorus of disparate companies resounding in the din of the Fascist crescendo The oft thought of call of divine providence there as the hymn that hung in the silence The Young Compatriot and the War Machine were severed by the ecstatic gaze of love near a church in Berlin The Young Compatriot stripped of his seraphic armor, caught the doe-eyed glance of a young woman selling flowers beneath a statue of the Archangel Michael driving his lance through the heart of the great accursed rebel The War Machine cast in garish gold, sanctified somehow by the way that the light had fallen upon the ruins of the city in the ever-ephemeral hour of twilight The Young Compatriot would compose a requiem upon a mandolin that he pillaged from the mansion of a titled Fascist whom he summarily executed in a garden "Heil, mein Führer!" He exclaimed, having, like the slogan, been dropped to his knees “The heart knows its own bitterness, and no stranger shares its joy.” The Young Compatriot said strangely as if the passage had been quoted by another staying with his prayer for a while before the sound of his pistol broke through the silence and left one man dead by the tree he had planted before the war before the war when his money was spent upon the edification of music The Young Compatriot played his instrument for hours end without any formal training a rhythmic cacophony of whirling tones and the resonance drawn from mahogany He would play until the strings broke and his threnody collapsed jangled and out of tune The Young Compatriot and the War Machine couldn’t live so well together after the flaring pillars of light reigned down upon Dresden and the power of God was unleashed over Hiroshima and Nagasaki The Young Compatriot recorded his memories well as song The War Machine fell prey to the anomic regimen and the clandestine call of the epochal Together they made the world Apart, they now stand as enemies one with a standard-issue rifle the other in a garden by the ruins of a mansion with a song that has long since been driven out of time and out of tune

Wooden lanes the whole world crashing through a shattered dome & the High low drive of the Telecaster I need a walk by the flowers… Sitting crosslegged with my back to the floor another cigarette outside too many faces & young soon-to-be grad students sham-grace too blissed to care A life in perpetual flight The singing wheel of the bicycle spoke golden mead and the grinning saccharine taste of candy cigarettes & MGD A bitter wave the river alone and the firepit covered a brief altercation with a stray dog and the snap of twigs and tree branches Thinking about carrying a knife Endlessly rediscovering the delocalized pockets of resistance along the riverbanks and the city steps and trying to find a better way to spend the 7 dollars and 48 cents in my pocket on something other than a craft beer or a cup of coffee Bowling alone Playing pinball alone wishing there was an arcade in this town in one of the abandoned warehouses along the riverbank working for long enough to never afford a practice space enjoying just simply being drunk and milling about in one of the only three bars that there are to go to being nowhere an isolated line down a train that never comes or a bridge that has been fenced off and overgrown wishing that I could write well enough to work from home and half-hoping that I could meet a thirty-something woman with a white collar job and furnished garage Wanting to have met somebody who has read Raunig or Virilio Fantasizing about a woman in Belarus who paints abstract depictions of European diaspora & who elaborates at length upon the political fallout of the eurocommunist current following the dissolution of the Soviet Union Finding myself in over my head… Having spats with French think-tanks over their utilization of the biopolitical paradigm as a means to secure wealth and enforce ‘soft’-policing powers after having never been to college Thinking about communization and other dead ends Thinking about washing the dishes and how stupid it is that I am for some reason proud of my capacity to use the machine as a means to generate a citywide a-temporal rhythm Thinking about chasing a reporter form the Times down the street over the way in which they framed an article of the ongoing war in Syria and knowing far too much about a-symmetrical fourth generation warfare for somebody who is still unqualified for work in a coffee shop Attempting to start a modern day International solely devoted to noise music Considering a career in espionage, and discovering, for the first time, the language of deep state politics during the Cold War as an oft maligned anti-political aesthetic of refusal Just wanting to start a fucking band Just, kind of expecting, that somebody should pay me for the shit that I ramble on about at the bar, and making black propaganda pieces about the future of neoliberal technocracy Glad that the music sounds good again glad that the endless stream of psychotic, depersonalized VOICES have finally left me to spew out lines of verse and prose in peace and hoping that the next time I manage to produce a work of meaningful art that the bourgeoisie will not attempt to sell it off to American reactionaries or European neo-fascists Still needing to care and not quite capable of falling in love like I used to like I used to care about that look Like I used to…

Little Sister thirteen dollars and twenty-seven cents for a cappuccino in a café across the street from where Bob Dylan used to live the opening lines to a poem a used moleskin with almost nothing but empty pages The many lives I’ve never led and the few lies that I’ve told to keep myself company The same song on the guitar where the Baroque bleeds into the Blues and I never quite ride just right on the line so as to connect the notes drawn from the wood to the worn out resonance I once held to be sacrosanct

The VISION waned I lost my imagination three years ago and it only comes back to me now in short bursts the opening bars to a jazz song from the 40s “Eureka!” watching the waves crash over a cliff and the colors turn from a dull grey to a deep blue as if on fine grain film Nausea or catharsis I’m beginning to like the feeling of being sick and dizzied by the disordered flow of bodies heading away from me in all directions The city is full of everything but places to hide out I want to be alone in a world that never loses its momentum to just drop out of the unnoticed rhythm behind a glass of beer and a book that I’ve never opened

A Short Magazine Lee–Enfield No. 1 Mk. III in the hands of a young Palestinian reminded you so much of Arthur Rimbaud

first facing isolation in the bar with the low hum from out the ventilator shaft and slow draw of the cigarette as the woman who sits next to me attempts to finish her crossword puzzle The chrome signaling & black oiled barreling thrust from a line in the song that plays over the stereo Such a long long time to be gone... Then ducking out in the air raid shelter the clear white plastic to prevent the ceiling from caving in a few lines of dialogue & far too many patrons to be overhead eavesdropping as I sit and drink and stare at the flat panel screen waiting for another clandestine rendezvous like the call of black encompassing broken picture frames & suicide pilots waiting on the edge of some desolate ambit or else awash in foreign shores

There is a man who lives underneath the bridge by the baseball stadium who feeds stale spaghetti to the swans and who has the gall to ask me, “Do you believe in God?” “Yes sir!” Far be it from me to deny a man his opiates. The needle tapped struck vein and of course it’s a lie and I’ve never done heroin through strangely drawn to other forms of anomie not quite the chamber crash the revolving click and subsequent BANG! but more the way a child leans over a summer cliff and imagines his own death. Things are heavier now than I remember and I have not quite the flights I’ve made before being-before-death then I was quick and nimble and free to turn paper-made cranes into fluttering forms-of-life The light on Sunday morning and I could tell not were it white and hot as angelic scorn or gold as it rang from the sad chorus of a lone trumpeter. Call back to me again, I see her – chasing – always I through the strange house the many closets and corridors passages that seem to connect and I don’t know how - could it be that this place has a fifth and sixth floor? then out through the wall bombed out somehow, I didn’t notice before Color photographs from France, 1946. ‘53 English cliffs boys born out of Belle and Sebastian songs fighting on the rocks with sticks and knives Someone will die here some years later, and their blood will flow into the water. The present, now, the alter-modern a future torn from celluloid this projection the one we chose to reflect backwards to turn inwards-towards one still from a million others This fragment I remember - your hair turned towards sunlight the scent of clementines and then following as she rode away on a bicycle Ominous day but still light if not a sad grey blue Her purse I carried – six empty cans of Miller High Life a flock of birds black and a swarm of flies Then back at the house – a different one than from before I was made into the Organ Chesterfield, 1901. Dusk, signal fire swept through watercolor Phil slept on the couch covered in blankets The TV left on Out of the Blue She was there too, I am sure though I don’t quite remember that she sat behind me perhaps crying As I sunk into the wooden floor resonant gravity enamel chords The Long March – all things ending as in Riemann sphere. Such weight I feel upon me now my bare feet pressed firmly to the ground were you, too, a boy once? and utterly convinced of tress that’d grow inside you – arsenic seeds and roots that’d split your sinews still driving all flesh and bone into the earth The tempest tore the redwood out. There I stand upon the limit-edge of mortality as the amber waves of pain rack the shores of experience I dug my hands into the dirt and begged for the clouds to break for me to pray it is profane what sublime light could shine upon me? a child struck with awe even before the firing squad Hold to me this stone, my love I AM A ROCK I AM AN ISLAND the castle walls grown green with ivy do it now before the reign – Vergeltungswaffe! Safe, in your room a gold chain and a brass zippo you once held in the air aflame with a boy you once knew. The ground-truth here is strange SANS SOLEI I have buried my fears l’histoire! An assemblage of text assures me my place. It is a fantasy – I know, we have not this terra firma no hard rock to clutch or cling to there but for an unanswered phrase addressed to the wave or the spirit wind of a collapsing son.