“So you think and do – but life can see through”

     by Kevin Carney and David Baird

What about killing all death, before you die?

You “typing” into the “matrix” faster than types can be realized?

How is that possible? Something to do with fucking up your historical entity?

Your dream-nature propensity–

to always believe me when I’m saying things this fast-fluid,

because your rhythm isn’t good, compared to what the world understood...

Touching the keys, the secrets – touching the seen, many-folded field of “plans on light”

many-bolded man’s own, discovered, sick plight–

So – I don’t know what you forgot,

(about why you didn’t say “yes” to what you really liked),

because my eyes aren’t watching what’s seen –

they’re knowing what’s dream.

So? Reality is not derived from experience of fantasy postponed,

though that makes sense in a perverse way, (how things truly make sense).

As kids, do we know reality before we have sensation of technicality, or bliss?

What do we know with our hands, with our streets, with our faces, with our meetings–

crosshairs of your big symbolic flirtation-guns, centered on your partner’s mind,

balanced, but not ready to fire her design.

(For that, find the orange hair’d rabbit of your dreams hopping around the oft-tended secret greens)

which will take you to your love-tricks, take you to what seems/

it will take you for Western enlightenment kicks, and turn out to be forgotten screams–

and tracks left in the snow, and tracks left in the sand...

A beach or an icy waste? (The night is the highest good.)

(Oh no!?) Here comes that fateful cold time again, fateful bold rhymes,

the words of winter intertwine, intertwixt your fate and mine...

Prove me this :: This is better than the past – this is living – this is fast,

unlike in life, there is no pressure in art to be time-perfect, no pressure to chime on pretexts,

procedure worn down by practiced behavior, practiced to be savior–

briny bedroom manner, manner of what should,

backseat behavior, punishable by swerve,

aft and fore,

swung back and forth, from a tree, (from a plant),

(“Craft” is for...?)

Show the world, love, what comes of madness and trust–

big timber wolves on the prowl through the night city–

darkened by the night, marked by babes in flight,

and the sewers, and the steam that

rises like volcanic plumes from

the underbelly of the city

belly belly pretty

Really is it any good – this life you built?

Or is it “one” with itself – in other words, infinite in wealth?

Like I said “there is no logic in me any more,” which means I’ve left all guilt...

I’m done

I’m not looking for logic, (looking with sobs’ kicks),

tremendous trembling, tickling the toes my mind feels,

foot fetish – fantastic is the curve of your heel,

put on a stiletto,

and hit the town cement hard beneath the pointy spike that is now your foot,

Doesn’t it hurt doesn’t it twist your ankle as you step off the curb?

Doesn’t it make you feel you need to be a clown in a centerfold,

in the production we call the Lord’s circus of life , which has a game to it,

which has a name to it?

But you need to know the game of the world, in its many-folded manner,

before you know the play of the world, (the play lets you plan her! –

brother-or-sister, you were saying awesome shit – you were it.)

Miss Insertion-of-misinterpretations, in text lines here for all

to play with, who can see...

To make, with what will be

((audio for who can’t see))

Braille beneath their fingers that would shine –

such touch that is much to be desired, such touch felt after firing–

And under the sun, before time you’re given, before wealth you’ll find,

(been given, that’s expired, been driven, felt tired...)

(transpired), what has this time-world come to, right now here exactly this?

Why has it gone this way, and not the others?!

And thus we sought the trace of singularity in us all, we sought to face what was all–

psychosis for some, from an evolution of planes and steppes and ridges and valleys

and as thou shall seek ye, as others look for the “we” inside

feeble times, never to be seen –

life

speaking in tongues

actually understandable,

but yes

words that don’t “make sense” – but which are sense...

and such as you will do/ often requires/ what until then, was only for higher

Media – simple headed, simple threaded narratives dominating the sorry script of the nation,

thus and so and this and/ with that we will see who you are (except)

required a song – required too long

required a song about one who might live so long to experience all that is given fully by who knows to finish the sentence with a fuck un-fuck you-type world

world world world

squire arrow, fancy dress

shiny suits of armor breast

medieval times – renaissance festivals horse manure dung ale meed grog

all was revealed in past times! Everything has already happened?

Where are you going? Everywhere you’ll ever go!

Why will all be concealed – except how you choose to shine?

(yielded lances with warriors attacked on horses’ grooves)

As your parents, we got to let you play off into the future –

say, off to the cute per-head, cute that’s “said,”

like the future meant today all tomorrow will ever be...

Because in my rocking chair, slowly cycling through options of space,

mentality-as-matrix is being transcribed and prescribed, red big singular smooth smart,

as youth all want the shame to depend on others

(but their focus lingers – they’re somehow always here)

all the same, childhood ends,

So,

tell them all you want, tell them “words are but a front,”

lead them astray, let them the sick things say,

buy them alc before twenty-one, buy them gifts that let them run,

and their hair cut sucks, and what if they never wear a tux?

incest, natural or not, is what some people got

Don’t let them enter the house, if there’s too much dirt on them...

But if you send your children too far away,

who will take care of you

when you’re old,

in nursing home style, nursing all the while?

(insert good line here)

Re-create all that you wrongly feared...

isn’t it funny , isn’t it sunny

how my blue jeans don’t make sense,

because I don’t communicate with blue jeans!?

Why is it that logic is absent, and all comes from breath?

Is it something to do, with how life is as heavy as death?

When we sit down, when we rest

– for a rest is the “within time” –

we end up doing time, doing fine.

What we’re told not to, becomes what we boldly ought to!

When we’re too old to do what we sought to do,

we have to, with a weathered appearance,

do what kids never thought to do...

Finally, we are “young” enough to decide

that all which is set before us is an educational rip-tide

They taught you to integrate equations, but why did they not teach you this?

I’ve lost it before, but when I am found,

Fascinations replete with horror and sublime imagery,

Fascinations with the text as ground –

were here with me continually,

but now they are nowhere to be seen, nowhere I’ve ever been,

not with a special thought from the older lady or man, who any child hopes to become...

A pause was for me to catch my breath,

and set my racing head straight,

set my place, sing my fate

The truth within the truth,

Nothing more left to say,

Except when we next share the starry night sky,

“starry” / thanks / I sought you, you see