Peter Case

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notes written on cards, from Buffalo trip, 2016

I crowed a temperate break-pest, lent to my own fault & never believed my stones, orbs eyes or slather, but edged reason to silence & spit in the wind of peace

Gathered my senses, stretched my extremities, pursued the drip drip drip of hollowed age bent on kindness but over my bent sensate confusion—or lack thereof

Calasanctious was the school of Gaynelle’s childhood horror & led to her death—the priest who never slept no doubt is sleeping eternally—as is she by her own hand

Particles always another bump down for October ’til the end Time gets out it’s bookends & destructions ticket doesn’t pay ’til the seventh race the one—where your hats on backwards your pants walk by themselves & Gracias

Catapult—shooting irons—the rack—turrets for the king wise treacle sucking K9—thats french for something—out of reach or rhyme for cloistered tenpin   challenges blue orange blue green blue yellow green ten to one ’til doomsday

Voices rising from the bottom—deadly traffic indistinguishable hand-riley bomblight—sheila—strengthened by dorm memory & pile on politics creeley fishing for sin to label high rise blow by farce

They sang with grace & stirred the ashes—tales of midsummer early morn & balanced on a chromosome—I bailed early on the off chance of a successful—retreated & nailed myself—guilty—moving backwards—a crab of sorrow—parental club loss—told you to get your weapons but it was church time

The pressure is on or off—the light too—this tiny constricted web—coffee minimalists trick the demimonde—biography fix—Im sad in my broken flesh but upward of thirty times in a garret or behind a wall of flavor & text—woven of fine tongue-lashings & freeways

I’m battling—something’s missing—someone left the party—many died—it hurts in & out—early winter I suppose—shoveling—tender tarpaulin never do that or this—forbidden patterns—money isn’t grubbed at gold rush creek—that isn’t what they do there—silver camp homicide fashion.

Strangled and stuttered shuttered in the green Pennsylvania battleground fields where this & that General hoisted a shot from his pearl handled fire stick—we lost now—move out of the sirens way—carried over fiery pits of furnace girls in boats & clean clear hair & bad music what do I know?

One of ’em had a nose ring, but heck, they all got them—one wore a suit too & a tie—another had a dick suit one dressed up as a flashlight in a dark room—one was painted like a one way street—the boss  came dressed as beach noise & a car barn—it was a weird operation.

It meant something before the moon crossed the road carried on a radio wave too tight for my skin but before I got sore—long drives thinking of her—white thighs shiny forehead empty pillbox peanut butter sandwiches rockabilly remnants & memories of the dead dancing behind a glass case to red hot.

Anxious pronouncements of side-seat terror echoing no twisting beam-like travel & I’m coasting after weeks of saturday nights & monday mornings & cross wise miles & torturing hours at the wheels—before lonesome crowds tempted by memory & sprung to achievements beyond my ken—clamber aboard ye pirates we’re going asunder.

A big lie spread & I rode it like a wave—cornered in the crosstown ink stand & shot forth a jelly donut—a Gemini rocket with a Scorpio booster—the struggles of work weigh me down—how to do good in a sloppy showroom.

Stupid things happen in my dreams of gargoyle high school—milk truck rendezvous—nebulous scatter track—shifters—like Darby—Daniel—other ding poppers of speechless sand imperiled frosting lickers—stoned—baleful— crotchety ass kickers “hope I’m not out of line.’

Updates every 39 seconds wipe the story clean but atrophy the flame retardant crime lab switch-eroo & useless video footage we’ll all believe but no one sees scam this you dullards shame coiled in a basket I know yr every catalog empty out those policeman’s britches & freeze

On the T slope & the hum of fans it’s the end of several months today is a skate tremor re-ledge tempest bait scat & throb the medicine, man.

I want to go but there’s no out I want to lay down but there’s no lay I want to climb & splinter but there’s no tootling horns no garbled tracts no voices there are voices  no voices & I hear them not now or ever claim the shackles of their memorial dream.

It’s as clear as yesterdays running water as plain as a dreamlike memory slats in a furnace the wrong preview that terrified the first grade covered in arbor jet sounds painted with a honey brush on the homeless & the homed only thing in

common is the falling rainbow.

In the big dusty hot as heaven corral—side long shotgun class concealed humanism of belt free trek—I’m lonesome here scarred for you my children swarm the knotted deck & load the artillery with chamomile edge water memory of their first second & third minute doors to paralysis—I might do some good now if we only could get up.

I sang Exodus like a chosen fool slipping & sliding in between Cumulous nebulous Fabulous endings & brand new dazed behavior like a child or or a wilde beast slinking sinking spraying members with Algonquin knives call it a re-up a revenant —a ghoul line stand.

Groucho of the trap door Morrison of the neighboring bar Liston & Clay on the streamlined product dumbwaiter Ali of the future killed or killing not a conscience or knee wound red & oozing cartwheels of dalliance frothing tenterhooks of and in the vain green scotch drawer shelf aesthetics.

Gathered my sense, stretched my extremities pursued the drip drip drip of hollowed age bent on kindness but bent over my sensate confusion—or lack thereof.

A landscape of bedding & soft light a sound wave of ritual coo & gathering of sore spots & pleasure shortlists—isolate by a silver highway that runs & runs & never lifts a finger around the house—escapee’s transport in question of return a satisfying reprieve the only thing that matters is here & gone.

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