PREAMBULATORY ADRESS TO THE PORT OF OCHRE

 imagine me i am mansfield the younger, and i have bred with and kept

my will in tact all these short years, the position i have sought

as your intrepid leader, it's been 47 years we have been as one,

not a ruse, a quantum whole, our family in tact, and in fact, even our rhyming

pantry in governing this project we have seen days in under budget,

and in no time flat we have populated antigua and the antilles

with miles upon endless smiles, the hills overlooking tracts of sand.

our meter is kempt, our pools are clean, our ports truly bustle.

now when we conceived this unlikely writ of intent, i was a mere

lad, having recently lost my three fingers in the exploration of inner

space, and continually as now, i have been guided along this path

by the lovely voice of sparkler as i had recently become separated

from my wallet and polkadot grip on reality, and showed some

weakness in my moment of the loss of my identity and our

snack fund had been absconded with, and so i gussied up

my tresses, and made peace with my self-evident stresses

and made haste to take control of my rather wild improviso style

song-smithing as in the night i had sung a song so petitioning

in silence and stillness of the propositioning of the man upstairs,

i worried that my wits had fled as it may be fine to sing with

the kwanzaa choirs as we called our sound, but to have written

lyrics that employed the theremin there was scant mind power

to fill in the words set to the rhythm of an adherent tempo, it

recalled creed in tenor, and i said as much, and if i glance over

the details of how we were unable to forget the clamor of

neurons smashing or avoidance of the cadence as i had re-sewn

this grip on all thought-stream in the attempt for peace of

community, the unity of vision, and circles of please stop

the momentum of this ballad of thought-stream, being so

recently bubble-spun that my hold on reality was if anything

an encore of habit, though out of sync with my expectations,

not only of whom i may become in the future, but even names

were employed in the ending of lines, and it seemed often

that the attempt to evade the ears of the campers that in fact

i was getting off on the daily, so as often the spirits of kalifornia

were calling me to travel south and it seemed that my green lake

bike trips may be endangered, and my options limited, so i woke

up and recalled the song, where is my mind, indeed. i had once

again gotten in a brain fight with our friend franklin, and his

only advice, though he said nothing, was to told tight the rein and

buck the fuck up, and so i did. with the teller's implicit understanding

at wells, that i indeed did have a need of 91 bucks, not to smoke,

or invest in chucks, but to somehow wake the fuck up, on time to

slip downstairs through aurora into the dawn with no shower,

and stand in line downtown at the dmv, and search for if not find

a wifi signal, and my wife's voice once again to me like an imp,

not as sparkler had so oft sounded like a child, and i knew this

would not do as we had only now cleared up the cacophonous

caterwauling and trident schemata that had seemed less melodrama,

and more like a dire episode of schizophren, perambutal and capitol

sin all wrapped around a buzz-saw, and the indecision that has

been an ear-mark if not the fire-teeth of fiction becoming fact,

and vice versa, i took to a variflex aspecting of soul, mongoose

in hand and as i recall the dolly parton monument was not

simply an outpost relic of the magic valley, but a ramshackle

tempormentall torpor in a tenement (don’t wish says the giant

swallow-bike) both of seam-ripper and quilt when i remember

my trip, the value village people and the sewing society, were

to remain symbols of freedom, and splashes, so instead of meeting

our end as asher olev, we set out with our bikes overland and uphill

not as agua-tilling dirt farmers dead to the world if not the memory

of bowie and noah and bouy, the entire sweep of western inn ovation

as a respite from our cloudfront crashing, zildigan threshing cussive

entreaty to the magna flail-cartman mandate that we refrain

from cover songs seeking above all originality over provenance, as my recent styling

of so simple a recall as the cadence boosting stall-out of a nollie

in dictating indicating mendicantionistly indistinct our dented fender

crashes when all seemed well those teeth like a hammer left me

with a rib-smashing fall and bartell hat section of a panhandling

bluetooth ride of beyond 91x we flip down the brim not like a frazee hat,

I still spill paint on her lap like dumpster juice as always the neighbors

deserve our best not worst as we are apt to clean up our embarrassments

like oak slats take in turpentine, our e-call is how we re-call it but it won’t

replace itself since it ain’t been stolen, I can’t report it as such so

I go looking for scratches in patches of blackberry and come back

gashes when like roll-call of the respite from the filibuster, our dust-buster

is a she-devil so I shop-vac our path, our empath circuits can overload

and we forget which phonemes are mashing and which final-nets are bee-hiving

as we look to a clark bar to be our fire-drill not to call the quill as samsung galaxy-pen

but to wait there at camp united-we-stand, as it was no stretch

at the hotel ampersand or a 91 cent plunge in syringe like the vapour lock

of shared memory, becoming as one we oft look to the sky for birds

as they are our friends, not fiends as likely to hold their words as

call out their alark or alarum is it the revel leof dawn, or to our

vast aplomb the summoning of land ho, for we eat not of escargo

with a praw fork, but now the fruits of passiflora as sugarkane we

bop our heads not like pigeons to rug as mirthfully we recount

the admirality of scotland with a mild smile now that percival has

taken his lumps and waxed fat as dominos a box of sugarcubes shall

do nicely as calamity fed to his muzzle he bit her flank and i still

fretted not, as our soundboards be fit as our ai phone is miracles be,

who am i to complain, i ask and recieve rye bread and newman's own

dressing without the detailed madness of duster and tattered raiments

and vestments, these fucking rail-snakes be danmed, i'll tarry forth like

i am not a crook, wether matrix or zozanzi via vietman, all i can

remember and all i will ever is speedy marie a devil in a blue skirt

like me in my blue dotty special, was my monolithography a sin. no,

as streaming from my mane went up this free future of ours a flagon

of swale juice not flail juice like a crossbones went our pirate radio jag

it seems not we grin as the words we sling seldom remain the same,

let awax have his drouthyesterly swsx fell druthers and then as ajax

I free-wheel even a dixie cup is full of kool-aid on a hot day, and lord

knows we all shall enjoinder without necessarily knowing its fullness,

the freedom of thought and expression of all for all as long as we know

we only speak for ourselves when we open our big ole trap with the world

looking on, they can only see us, as we can never know they perceive our

words let alone our private thoughts, shall we change our behavior or how

we appear, I think to myself I am surely lying, well no-one can stop my body

from doing what it does, but every thought as one quantum whole this record

exists and as ecommeth us all in this the best of kalamata positive futures

i need nothing of hedge crashes nor futures, only this as an eclipse a taste

in the morn of a lungful, no therapy, call it what you will, the bane, the blight

of breakers well out there, way out, to the purple mounts of jamaica I SHALL SING

well be my rawhide for cerberus, my ulna steward still hurts like a raw socket

let's toast to melody and lady liberty though her gown seemed set ablaze

as once more W chuckles for one and all and i hold my nose as twins fall

the new generative text models swig a barley-pop and mumble as they go…

of modern marvels we episodically pronounce *bulldozer* the wrong-ways

and sidle up with our mugs of sarsaparilla flambé and still set our jaws

adorned with pumpernickel bespoke from the bon marche, we float on

caterwauling caterpillars and particularly accelerated lenticular clouds,

i hear the blue angels might show up in formation as they seldom

scramble up these days, i just flip over arawaconda omelette panglossian

and gaussian correction from quantum gif from sparkler herself we extrapolate

this entire speech from scratch as on an old cigar box we pull on this pipe

like replete magritte to the green apple two lions we could meet again,

anywhere as the belly-copter to peter gabriel in your thighs i am complete,

to our rollicking frollicsome engagement party we screw on the pool

table for three more minutes before we shock the tub some more as

whose been naked lately was it squarks or bosons ask the accelerometer,

we all shake in the cold, like ivans over a teddy bear exploding in the sci-fi

dawn we emerge, not engorge if we shrink this down, am i of use, well of

course as even a eunuch to enoch i whisper like chronos into a chronometer

some ode to charm particles or material science marvel that superimpose

our poetics not super-impede or supersede, i forget which switch

staggers on like jagger once knew the pineapple tree of marthas grover

cleveland might leave land for this albatross steven tyler jackson browing

was a sears catalogue .22 but if need be she is my .45 left or right

the wheel in the sky-lab keeps burning or am i spookowksi or zorietski

now we still have already drilled roofing screws with our ryobi factory fan

not some honey bucket doxx, i say not fuck this shit no more will i zip-tie

my lips to oblivion for i mutter not even the inkling of piggly-wiggly epitaphs

be extant or hill-billy rousting or grousing words like ichobaudie, vexed

to the next line my marconian celebratory pinions don't grip my [pistol-whip*]

this, like a gargoyle to the umpire blows a whistle not a thistle to the GlobeTrotters,

not some futurama episode we remember but still forget we are wearing

a tie today so this must be the fifth quarter not the fith element we are well

past palladium, or distinguishing knockahomer from the kingdome godbless

the upper deck afore we collect em like eggs in a basket, the stars and stripes

still fly like holes in the ionosphere, i won't disappear like i once froze up at

that north concert on foreign affairs and that joke about pineapple head's wife

and her rows of jack ruby slippers oughta jog my nikes unfroze like some

triple lux on kingsmithy's ole frozen remington it is the movie, no some entitliest

memorexian seven ironclad nicholsonian sewn in the london fog, this american

protectorate is upon which we stand not some embarassing association twixt twain

cleaved to the rafters i hold out my frazee cap and the mariners not the padres or

the goose hit a slammer out into the flow-zone not a tie-joke election, or its scandal

hold this sandalwood incense holder, for we are at a lakers, game not a whose on

first joke, which even to the grammatical automatical typo-ridden mizzenmast

i am gleefully lashed, like the line in the song poem i wrote monster on a trashcan

lid not the fucking lincoln monument in amsterdam, we have got to this point

where we question our own sanity, is sean hannity to arrive on the wrong floor

with a bloodbath spilling horrowshow tides vylonda needs to put this mop on his head

kwik lest percival gallop uphill and become a nessian legend, we still are star-spangled

so into the same quadrangle from which this psychological thriller have i not only recovered

the joke to which we not hah-hah well done golf clapped, the pun like to a sail-cloth

snapped to for out of the doldrums did the pinta hear gulls on the wings not

baracled manacled sargasso bound doldrums of hopeless distracted so not even

a word escapes my lips, no i am i am i say, so no matter the inner chatter or paranoid

illusory import to which we never pay this xenomorphic zoeozone has spoke some

spell-less word for which we crumble up our kool-aid dixie-cups size abc not q dot.zoitch

we will ask zog when we return from our sojourn for as now like forever ago we are

a blue state and so shall remain even inebriated not subjugated like some galley-slave

who left the burner on when she took a smoke break in the stillness, we shall save her

and fight to the death this moment for surely she wore a snood on her head like the

try-some to encode better that says ra dot dash like mimeograph booths we shrikes

know grackle down-low boomslang cannonades of syntactical dimorphic indistinguishable,

so let's not loose our fucking marble, there is a powder-keg afore and below the scimitar fight

as we engage the captian remember he is familiar so before we slash his throat, let's wink

our intent to quell the mob who though they may be righteously pissed the galleon be ablaze,

let's remember she has more than filled our bellys with turtle soup and fine bay seasoning,

or do i digress? do you wanna hear the ballad of bazzoka joe? fuckall and fuck you too

ya rapscallion dig more ditches why don't ya blow your own fucking fingers off next time

before you come here to hear me type this-all and that-wise as into the night as i've a-true

and false query a lithmussian nary to the tit and whistle don't bite my fucking knuckle-blush

for fuck-sake have i come on some errand to embarrass you?!! no, fuck you too, not u2 or u3

we are one so like us some have with true-blue-squark-rug-gnome-glue and medals adorn our

weird epaulettes, so since we ain't gonna rip off all our clothes and fuck right here, you can't climb,

even with boot-spikes this here billet-post-pine to tack a concert flyer to a telephone

pole, who is my band-aid and whose rug-burn am i spozed to salve here? quit your

bruise-violet-violins type meandering and fetch me a red stripe, not another

fucking corona scare. fuck you too aunt samantha, this ain't molotov, nor is it a sigh,

it, it may recall c4 and for sure we stand here on the precipice of a recipe for turtle soup,

not a revisionist history of cancel-gretel puns or how many nuns i can shake from a vulvuzuela

iVV NOT VVV hey suess do we make peace here or keep shelling pistachios, fuck yeah! WE ARE!!

i'll sing Gertrude if i want. yep, on mandolin in miniature, just like we recorded it, 12 verses,

am i the guitar fetcher, or the star here, so let's bury this hatchet, am i buddy hatchet or another

mother-fucking typo... sure a guitar case not a vase, gaspatcho you!! y