Aught, no. 3 (1999)

Zane Ivy


Woe is he be gee be latching shimself to the yoga of worldy reward or renounce the world for heavenly treasure too, future pleasure measured in a golden land... "the bone" "the bone" cries the dwarf... the bones be rattlin' in the third hand.

Ah, the bone... the singers, the marker weaved into invisibility in their hands with words at the foot of the mountain... they are and yet are not... there they sit, eyes reflecting fires... in Cascade nights... the bone game.

Word - singular - is also a mass count noun - the most important - neither the first nor the seventh - the one silent where there is an X... there the universe froms and tos, ceding itself silently... talk about Juan.

Explanations are legion again... pigs falling into history streams... the flow of sociobiology's programs over and over again a soporific song on a dark dive's jukebox night full of jokers wild and cups running over with abominable no-men.

Yes...medicate on the bones... turn them over in your third hand without moving... they are neither dark nor light and marrow has a little lamb bleeding into your insides... outside your cup, bumping you in the night.

Somebody got a light?

Answers always exlax themselves blowing silently through sheep horns, ramming themselves readily down insensate throats over and over again (can you sing it?) over hill over Dale Evans' almost dead body...stale bread gathers no butter or jam.

What say I AM what I AM? Toot toot - open your eye to that thought my heart... woe is the easy and the hard... breathe threesy.


State of the World

message at 4 but don't consider Asia in the equation while facing the internal struggles of the mind and candles melt down as the clock's cat with the blue ribbon tail does the head-stand asana while the hands move sssllowwwly... (count the letters)

She calls herself and leaves a message for who don't know the names of the seasons speak of love in tongues... grandmothers force daughters to abort female grand daughters in the womb with a smile and nervous breakdowns... Amida Buddha turns out to be Lutheran and there are cute little bears on everything... can you?

The world's stayed up too late... cosmic contact lenses are sticking to terrestrial eye balls...reruns are playing on late night history... someone is always home and there are sirens singing pansori to the full moon.

The trick is removing lust the Catholic way the pope shits chicken lips in the woods... trees you can't cut down 'cause an owl was spotted.

A foolish man thinks always and only of the results... red-handed time teller's message from my perspective on the floor is a relative four finally.

My destiny is to die again, fly again to the bosom of the Buddha... I ran over in the road.

Copyright 1999, by the author. All rights reserved.
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