Kaos Maths as Tranzlitz

From The Broken Bowl



Document Z



We around here aren’t round, not most of us
Not to the degree one might fear if he was living here
After all it was the vibratory powers that made us so
And from there the leaning from one side of the room
To the other in hopes of replacing one space
With a new though pre-existing elasticity of time
So that sequences may be multilayered and drop
Like soft ice cream into a cone; not any flavor
But a likeness to that span between deaths when we sail
From one idea into another quite honestly, unconscious
Of the ease of sliding (a minor preparatory note).
Whoever it was that saw us finish should begin
To let a little of the stuffing out as we put away
Our casings from the factory jobs we are threatened with
Just in case the movement isn’t there to correct you
And you are out of your house on some early July day
Though when you look back on it, it is already November
And the whole chemistry of the place has changed
Back to a briefing made through a window pane
Don’t laugh at me. I’ve been here all my life
Which may not have been long, but is still virtual
And for now, the hourglass is stuck, so until
The next earthquake , or spending bill is signed into law
There might be something to run with that looks
More like you than you’d like to think—sorry
That it had to occur this way. More noise is what
We’ve invented, and that’s everything, final umbrella
Rolled into a baton for safe transport once dampened.
A fist of light. And a job one can get along in
Whoever wishes for more than that? And if they do
Boy oh boy I have a feeling they’re not going to like
This movie with its moderate to inane dialog
Action as terse and incomplete as any picnic basket
Without a jug of wine. Please pass the mushrooms.

There’s more than enough to go around through several
Of them have gone off to play. And the rest?
Well the rest are done-for as far as we’re concerned
We’ve already dumped their entire savings
Into the kitty, and parlayed out the cards
After all it’s a feeling thing, not something you can
Wrap with the we blanket of the intellect, just for
The sake of having something to say. I have some
Green soap to wash your mouths out with, just in case
It turns out to be your fault, or just your shape. You don’t
Need any more management now that it’s all
In a whip-like motion you’ve seen, you’ve all seen
Before the man of the house came home, brought building
Tools to add to the punishment. It’s not all repetition
But it feels like it, doesn’t it, the way it is
Administered in an orbital motion
Just before your teeth begin to loosen and the next room
Sprays something painful into your eyes. Suits the ones
Who’ve been doing it, whose music it is. They’ve ransacked
Just about everything that’s belonged to you.
And something more. Not that you must smoke in the dim light

Or go off on some protracted vehicle hunt
When all you really need to say is here in front of you
Still unable to remit. If you can get no solace
From that try imagining the circle in the square
Or a pair of reign deer drawing a flaming chariot
Through the sky or have I screwed up my mythologies
Again, their ragged twists of regalia stuck to
A fairly standard narrative form, but not this!
It made sure to leave no trace to paraphrase
No bow tie for critical thinking save an endorsement
Somewhat political in its formation over tea
And biscuits, some lemon aid for the new thinkers
And the roustabouts hanging on just wasting your time.
After all, it’s what we’re at heart engineered
To deliver, with a can of dried hearts, a flame
And a quiver of darts designed to reverse the flow
Of apologies pearling from your lips so that they
May later be taken up, and more aggressively
As to add a pounce to your nuanced eyebrow.

Some may cough at descriptions such as these
But others will fondly remember the righteous bump
As when hurling out of car windows after a bad drunk
One discovers an epiphany swallowed
Too many hours ago to relate the entire
Context to any new disciples along for the ride.
Though it is only bruising in a silent and pleasing way.
That was what fidelity was about. Those stormy
Afternoons when who-knows-whom we’d desire
So we’d keep the stack of records under the elm tree
Or conversely under the eaves when it was raining.
The drops would plinking against some hollowed out
Shingle or a leaf frizzled with filaments of desire
Or so the genome says. Nay, the righteous never liked
That explanation. It was too full of advanced
Sophistry. But so was their spinning of the many
Event horizons they’ve left in their wakes. Each one yearns
For something once accomplished by the body, now
Plastered into the past, or that which we call the past
But is no more than information written
Unreliably into our senses’ memory
How fleeting life seems because these flashes are remote
Intangible, though their effect on us may be quite
Operatic, grand, even destructive in their reach
Their grasp around our present moment, their bold
Insistence in molding what it is our eyes see
Into what the mind’s eye gravitates toward. Learn to love
Both the thing made and the think it itself, says the wise
Guy hanging from the chandelier. He smokes the last
Of your cigarettes, which you no longer need, since you quit
Nanoseconds ago and the nicotine fit
Hasn’t yet taken charge of the way you interpret
And communicate what you have learned. It may be
Nothing but the results of a spoiled crust of bread
Coated lightly with ergot mould. Wouldn’t you be
Lucky if that was all it was. Brown eyes seeing
Blue and green linings around everything within reach
And those at a distance have begun to shake, simply because
Living that way always reminded them of something
Even more ground down, artificial in it penchants
Toward nothing but the correct finger movements

But that didn’t mean they had to quit and even though
The artifacts of the movement had grown
Quite solitary in their organizational triumphs
There was a hooked tooth through everything they touched
That reminded us of an earlier swagger
Every blemish a caustic face on what we stood to believe in
And its presence flying out of our heads as if
To see the sky for the first time upon the backdrop
Of the moon. Wise preamble they tell us
And clever logic all the way up the clock for braying
The impossible while it’s still a hot topic
Always melding from ear to ear a storm
For rectifying the insouciant demonstration
To the architecture of mad love as it’s
Strewn in water colors across the comics. Someone
Winged and a dandy with a red cape inviting
You to feel comfortable with the level of crime
You’ve poured into your notebook, attempting
A wholesome sophistry of roses, daffodils
Burning incense, and more than anything
A sound and perfunctory reason that can
Parry any assault of multiple dimensions.
That’s where the goddess would come in, in those
Stiff cocktails of the past with their renditions
Of counter heroics circling the same themes
Like isotopes discharged from a carton of cigarettes

Fiery lips and repeated piano knock offs
Puff up the night into phantom parallels
Of everything you’ve been talking about. A girdle
Of fear the first face you were inclined to believe
As you sat in yesterday’s demitasse night
Injuring yourself on your friendly workmanship
Was the coalman’s daughter, shoveling herself
Into your straight and narrow tourniquet of a path
To have a go at the bull run while you fled
Into a mountain of shattered teacups, wounding yourself
Appropriately, as to avoid another spillage
Before the republic was turned over to the riff raff
Of the neighborhood. There you could embrace
And in that posture, hypothesize a new day.

I know I shouldn’t be bringing this up at this point
But the Cyclops on the staircase demands that everything
In your briefcase is turned upside down, only then
Will the true meaning of the paragraph come to the fore.
It’s been circling around your left index fingertip
Every time you move. It knows all your afflictions
And fantasies of life at other junctures, where meaning
Lacks not the invocation of its premise, but meanders
In a beefed-up suit, not unlike the mobsters you’ve met
Dining in Chinatown. They, of course, were in several
Gradations, from sparkles of light, to the thin film
Over your teeth after too many days worrying.
Perhaps a hangover on the beach, eating corn chips and
Frozen pizza. They don’t have any more impressive
Thoughts, so for the time, being what it is, you could
Either collect your things and march down the runway
Or continue in good faith, though the only good
Reason to follow in uncertainty would be to hold
Fast to faith in good faith where propriety
Should perhaps lead you elsewhere to some other
Defunct cafeteria, for instance, in some
Dead metaphysician’s shop. There you can order
A dirty water dog or two, belch a few times, make fog
In the icy air left by the enlightenment.

But excuses will bare not teeth around here
Not that anyone will tell you that at a party
Friends will beg you to stay, and rivals will try
To trip you out the door. It doesn’t make sense
To blame anyone, since anyone could muster up
A sizable force the same as you can with one
Exception: you have a right to your body and its alloys
The same as anyone with a shield full of grommets
And holes hoisted upon it to promote
Permeability. Its invisible dance
To characterize, though volumes could be spoken
About it, on the air, between battles, inside
A sentence with aluminum siding, a tarred roof
For viewing comets. The education system
You’ve been brought to, smiles urbanely with a straw
With a peaked end at your throat. It tells you it has
Known members of your family for some time.
But this is the first opportunity to dance
With the mother lode of false sorrow such as yours
Truly, the operator behind the rice paper screen
Upon which denizens of bleeding banners flock
With razor weapons, to tear each other’s flesh
Or skin them alive. A political thing to do, like movies
Like standing in line all night as Christmas shopping
Draws people to the mall really only to buy
A laptop for themselves, half off, to unscramble an eye
Boisterous cadences and rattling on the top
Of a can will always remind you of your meekness
In the presence of those more extroverted
And sure of themselves, dumb as they may be
Clear as the plate glass face of a fish tank
Barbed tongues and fake fire sizzling to exeunt
When it is you yourself you have failed avoiding

This is bullshit. Standing in line is not therapy
Neither is trying to fit my ass into this saddle
It’s been worn down before. But I can’t find her.
She was at the door when I left for the office
But now in outer space. Mythology is a bummer
Waiting to happen to your cadaver. Tote it
Around with you wherever you go and the lime
In your drink will remind you of life; too late
It’s too late because you haven’t been down
The chimney. In spades, brother, in spades.
Flying through the wall with saw blades spinning
On your fingertips. That’s how you imagine
Leaving your job, and on some ornate vehicle
Unrecognized by the people screaming by the hole
You left. I try to shake off this tremor, but it’s been there
Since I began taking advice from the accelerator.
Whole tribes of them howling nervously intoxicated
By their won nervous systems. I’ve got a way
Of playing cards that will undermine the government.
Ironic pastiches to the inconsolable
Instead of monkey hands fondling hand grenades
What’s with the new congress? Don’t they have any
Determination to win? Skateboards or ironing boards
For everyone depending on their commitment
To the same ideals as everyone. This is not
Going to win me any awards. This is a bad
Example of what I am capable of, but don’t
Confuse that with cold leftover pizza Mr. Ad-
Ministrator. Don’t’ confuse me with your digital
Dental floss can kill you Mr. Pile Your Weapons
Up On Your Desk To Intimidate Me, sir, I will
Bite off sections of your head put them in
A wooden frame and sell them to a hedge fund, Mr. X
V President. There are a few questions which state wears
The most glitter in its teeth where do you believe
Believing came from are you a captive of your
Audience or does it only hurt when you bathe?
I can ask these because I’ve turned my body to sound
It is in eighth notes and sixteenths and triplets and
Various forms of collateral, from banks bleeding
Out their mercy holes. I had a role in it
A quiet, lumbering step loaded with assorted
Energies. Quite the flame thrower you are, is that
Kimchee you’ve been eating? I need to start my car.

Find out tonight whether it is really a pattern
Or if seeing is the jurisdiction of some
Other sensory mechanics, a passion for panic
One may presume, a handle to some other dimension
Of psychic franchise ready to have you for spare change
That’s the exhumed part of the fable, anyway
Whatever’s left is as much a mystery as where
The buckshot goes. Out of the pipe like steam and into
Appearance, a friendly warmth, a quiet penetration
Somewhat like affection except by the mode of its chaste
Benediction. I’m really in love with your entry
The way it wiggles its way past the gate searching
For embellishments on either side of the hand
Are quick movements, toned in a circle
With distinguishing marks to make out virility
We marvel at the pencil pocking, the three-pronged
Equivalences barred at the opening of your
Action planned was severe rental phenomenon
And now possible to record. The movement backfired.
Religion is itself like that, a few scrambled heads
The rest of us starving for a music unmuddled
By insurance analysts. And as the market
Betrayed itself, by trying to know thyself in ways
That made masturbation seem a public service
In comparison, mega-church after mega-church
Grew out of the cesspools of self-immolation
Where the bugger of the underground lay in wait
For souls to capsize into its one economy
And sucks them off from the podium for a few cents
Thrown into the offering basket. I have done this before
In past lives. It is not a good idea, something
People I know will be willing to kill you about
Forgive me yonder diner club members. I have eaten
Something a little unsettling for you youngsters
Trying to win by alignment to your personal
Welfare state, your name or enter it into
The bucket full of apostrophes of ownership
Without the zinging final consonant attaching
You to the object of your obsession
I have borrowed a few of the drums you’ve beaten
Upon and they only sound hollow in my hands
Could be the thumbtacks in my fingertips are not
Sunk deep enough to matter. I am not
An actual victim, but a modeler of
Victimhood seeking out a completer sound
Which may in the end be better achieved through something
Besides these plastic wrapped mortification practices
Though the purely cerebral tends to narrow
My larynx by the end of the day, making me hoarse
And squeaky as science fiction allergic reactions
And while I try to be as redactive as possible
There are reasons why editorial pursuits
Can begin to know themselves as progenitors
Of the implausible, for an idea may be wrong
But a feeling is always might. There is a pond
We all live in. Perhaps alone. Perhaps sustained
By others. I am sorry you have to live this way
On the surface it doesn’t hurt, only beneath
The green haze of the drug, the incessant action
Bromides for the skill set, for vacillation between
The heart and the hard-headed minotaur-like marking
No, I didn’t say marketing, not yet, but I might as well
Have, since any crucial difference is due, is harkened
Only through the dark of framing. And once cut from
The black of the background an objet loses its glitter
Loses its toy qualities and you no longer love it.

But behold the benevolent panther. Rocks move
Out of its path as it drives down the sandy parts
Of this confused tangle of secretive meditations
Secretive because they ignore each other’s
Highest aspirations. More so because
They are lying in a circle—all unframed parts
Without an instruction manual lying around
To make useful these lying-to-each-other pieces
And the sky it suffers abdominal pain
It begins to shift light and drop water
In hopes that you will recognize its feeling
After all, it feels too. Who is bold enough
To enter from beneath its hips to sense its clear
Aspiration, and to say it doesn’t feel as you do?
Young panther, scraping across the rocks, bounding
A heresy, a fist of light, into the sky’s mouth
Condom of clear wrap, of air wrap of argument
Made of pieces arranged in a row. Somewhere
Within that above is opinion, a choice word
Grilling, a word tribe, trying to bend back the outcome
Its natural toes and the mud it has landed in.
Try not to be too simple, dark hand. You are not
Letting us into your heard. We are aware of you.
Behold benevolent panther. You are an unguent
On the mouth of this trapezoidal needling
The oblique rocket ship that solidifies our love
As something more than tuna casserole
Sweet darling madness, my chum and apprenticeship
Summoning up the slag of the old spacecraft
Strew over the Mojave desert. Young predator
Benevolent killer and tearer of meat
I have choice words for you, a voice of ragtag
Emblems, decals, for you, a feeling I had met
You before in another life, one of pain and drug-like
Spasms of gleeful violence. Daggered laughter
In the heart, in the syntax of your saying what
In its moment could ever have been and to find you
Here, beside my bed in a tangle of soiled clothing
Searching for a scrap to eat, an arm, a leg
Because it was you who brought us here, and you
Who we belong to, if you could loosen yourself
From my grip, from my choke hold around
What turns out to be a fuel line, a recipe book
A collection of flavors, a memory, forgotten cause.