Southwest friends are lost
on the Northeast road, meaning
heavy loading with

video light. The
mare has no boundaries, class
lines are compliant.

Germany has no
boundaries in the final
celebration. The

sixth day of every
month: shoe cream, a desperate
bid for shoe cream ice,

a cloudy cloud path
to the virtuous terrain
of ice, straight, square, no

detriment, not the
negative tunnel light from
the unaccomplished

king in a wild blood-
dark yellow skirt, ever bright,
knowing, enclosed, no

blame, a capsule of
end-harm, no reputation.
The road is poor, soft,

static; there will be
other celebrations, the
defense of other

calamities. Kill
the king, kill the parent, kill
Robert Frost, kill his

wife. The sage data
says blood on Cape Collinson
Road, blood on Judah,

blood on the sill of
heaven’s miscellaneous
earthquake diagram.

[Original Chinese (auto-detected as Chinese Simplified) via Bing translator]

http://www.cnd.org/GB/Classics/Philosophers/I_Ching/I_Ching.gb.html#2

Dry dollars the ninth
day of every month. Hidden
dragon: do not use.

Tin dragon: do see
adults. A gentleman’s dry
all day, a watchful

tiger, no blame in
a guilt-free sky, flying deep
in time. Concubine

logistics work the
engine; a good long hang will
also benefit.

Vigorous thing to
do: announcing sufficient
justice is solid

enough, without the
stuffy, boring music, so
one cannot worry

the contrary; it
cannot be drawn. Evil is
good governance and

easy, great virtue.
The faithful German course is
inferior and

without pride. Be dry,
dry and watchful, and despite
adversity, be

without blame of cloud.
Disaster preparedness
is world governance.

The United States
is energy potential,
civilization

accompanying
the poles of temperament,
leather together.

The Ephesians! Pure
essence of imperial
days, benevolent

evidence, latent,
but implicit, the seasons
of order. Play the

bypass and breach the
ghost of Robert Frost for good
or ill luck. Knowledge

in its turn, but do
not know the dead, and do not
know death. Only saints

advance and retreat
in life and death. Only saints
advance and retreat.

[Original Chinese (auto-detected as Chinese Simplified) via Bing translator]

http://www.cnd.org/GB/Classics/Philosophers/I_Ching/I_Ching.gb.html#1

rash planet of war,
isolated from cosmic
spheres, chained to famine.

hideous parrot
idol—the only law is
love for salvation.

bleached skeleton, bones
stupid in the sand of a
dehydrated brain.

synchronization
of shadows to authorized
reality: death.

. . .

let me synchronize
super-lightning seers with the
thunder art of time.

footsteps pattering
upon the rim on the edge
of the in-between,

the pioneering
mind, evolution of the
crystal sound herald:

chaos is music,
invisible light, music,
silence is music,

pivoting planes of
harmonious peace, music,
a vibrating fire.

circumtropical
sense creation is a form
of intuition;

you will recognize
the retromental spirit—
blue metathesis.

if you limit, if
you reject, pure music is
your nemesis field.

spiraled parallels—
pure sound, the living mirror
of the universe.

quiet, vigilant
silence, intuitional
intuition, from

the decision code
of the cosmo-usual
to the outer planes

of is-ness, sees the
solemn riddle, the cache of
the untuned double

beast, acoustics of
not-ness, density of the
hyperprism, hyper-

density of the
isotropic bounce
on a dimension

of infinite-dark
vibratory sun ratios.
the atmosphere is

a coplanar bridge
axis, an intermix of
rotating orbits.

tomorrow’s realm—light
years’ journey to a new shore,
world of abstract dreams.

http://nortonrecords.com/kicksbooks/sunra.php

water. Forgive me,
O Lord, who was in the old
shoe, small. Oh, forgive

me in the middle
of the mountains from the voice
of the day and night,

speechless death. Forgive
me the leopard who died last,
large. Oh, let me sink

all the fleets, armies
defeated. The first poem
fax, this: add to cart.

[via French-Galician-Dutch-Filipino-Latin-Welsh, Google translator]

http://www.booktryst.com/2011/03/charles-bukowskis-last-unpublished-poem.html

The central problem
of reality is the
sand of memory

***************

Democracy is
an incomprehensible
series of effects

***************

Immortality
is a fight between two bald
men over a comb

***************

To die for art is
easier than to live for
God the destroyer

***************

A translation is
truth in the divine language
of uncertainty

***************

The empire of love
is built on a river of
resigned solitude

***************

Life itself is a
quotation that corrupts life’s
quotation itself

***************

Causality is
a dream that suppresses the
fact of Paradise

***************

The future devours
posterity; it is an
ignorant tiger

***************

Religion is the
coronation of the sphere
of the infinite

***************

There is a single
moment in which one finds out:
time can’t be measured

***************

Take hands and feet and
something abomunist, or
spit’s about the same.

Frink abomunist
poetry, drawing, photos,
unemployment and

the abomunist
Prime Minister. Countries risk
real-time, ready-

to-drink death, nation
of abomunists who feel
American pain,

BOLI pain.
If you’re in Abomunist
Square, the exception

is a rectangle.
If you want to display talk
using only a

newspaper, read with
abomunibility.
$50 is

an abomunist
debt. Solve problems and write your
own money, not for

more money, for the
abomunist Catholic
fanaticism of

what are just dreams set
Protestant true. The think-Pope
is a candidate

for think-President,
fosters poet children who
believe that the new

literature builds
printism abomunibly—
abomunists of

write-foot, published by
outdated restrictions. Such
artists desire to

communicate but
read dentistry files at home,
in unmarried house

of mother’s mother.
Insane sanitariums,
university

prisons, USO
kindergartens and county
canteens—get ready

for abomunist
preservatives—compromised
rejectionary

philosophy of
abomunist everything
but snowman water.

[via Japanese-Latvian-Norwegian-Polish-Vietnamese, Bing translator]

sorrow strikes something
deep down in melancholy
dismal tears. heavy‑

hearted funeral
rites, black-bemoaned mourning, sobs
sunk in sighing and

silence. pitiful
violent lamentation.
loud weeping bewails

weeping’s lament of
weeping. depression deplores
anguish, deplores the

deep-grieved regret of
pain of mind, passionate pain,
regret afflicted

with tender-hearted,
moving compassion. downcast
sympathy casts sad

obscurity, the
gloom of midnight, a sad shades’
gloomy tenderness,

full of pity. soul-
wept dejection, cloudiness,
grief-heavy total

darkness, serious
gloom of a partial forest.
the cloudy of mind

sunk in mind-gloom, the
night’s somber affliction mourns
burdensome distress.

extreme anguish of
body, extreme anguish of
mind. harassed by the

silent Almighty,
weighed down by torture, humble
suffering, dull shades

of deep prostration,
loud, oppressive misery,
plaintive disaster,

a calamity
of trouble and affliction,
a mournful wailing

of calamity.
distressing humility—
mute grief, eloquent.

http://www.listsofnote.com/2011/12/eloquent-silence.html

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is replaceable.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is irrelevant.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is impossible.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is contradiction.

There is a time when
the conscience of Kierkegaard
is autocracy.

This is not that time.
This is the time of extreme
moral paradise,

the court of vast last
resort, when the chrome-plated
levers in the bleak

machine stop in a
wasteland of abridgment, sick
with dissenting stars.

Art is an orgy
of chameleons huge with
monkey dementia

***************

Art is the highest
degree of normal—super
normal, which is mad

***************

Art is plunged in snow
like the unlimited steppes
of delirium

***************

Art is anything
that the commissioner of
police says it’s not

***************

Art is anything
that the commissioner of
police says it is

***************

Art is art as long
as it isn’t grasped by man’s
raw smitten fingers

***************

Art is not in bed
with the State; it sleeps naked
in the dirt with roots

***************

Art is mimesis.
Art is mimesis. Art is
mimesis. Art is . . .

***************

Art is contrary.
Art is homogeneous.
Art forgets itself.

***************

Art is afraid of
extinction—but it scorns all
continuity

***************

Art is painting but
painting is not art; painting
is mood carpeting

***************

Art is dirt in the
service of rubbish; art is
fashionable mud

***************

Art participates
in the creative process
by not being love

***************

rotting in ozone
chrysalis—sun stuttering
in all-night purple

cafeterias—
smell of cobra jazz covered
in iron heart of

goof ball sleep—rasp of
green slimy iridescent
shit rubbing on flesh

somewhere in the cold
mouth of heavy knife time—boy
torch moving, rusty

lamp, tongue terms—round disk
of morphine, script gristle in
rooming house bathtub—

shrinking bread over
lagoon of old saliva—
village of built racks