Assemblyman Zellman

Assemblyman Zellman loosened his belt before his midlife crisis, but admirably close to belly lint. I was lucky enough to be subject to his good cop routine. He didn't send me to the butcher of Baghdad.

He sent me here. Clapped a rhythm
and told me to DANCE!

So I...

thought

thought is attempting to sneak ahead of emotion
under the glare, the nails on a chalkboard light-year stare.
I forget attachment, remember detachment, what I
try to remember to carry around for convenience
at all times.

There are no axioms supported here.

This is not a masterstroke or a masterbation
but expressionism.

The lines blur between
addction, disease, life, happiness, reality, simulation, desire, mechanics
the seamless web has some chafing lining, if it's seamless
why does it itch so much?

The wrong is a subset of right which is a subset
of a neutral throng I can't net in words
which is pointless to say.

Somehow I'm allowed neophilia in a stroke of fucked luck
painting fleeting joy with phlegm
or fled joy in the gouge of a canvas
oil like fossilized feeling.

Gounging thoughts through layers of emotions, neuron circuitry
science has given me the gift of reductionism, the chains of reductionism
carbon chains, remembering the forum of the lycaeum, brainstorms of a bent bent
occasional benders would bend through there.

Impressionistically dissolved in addiction, finger, olfactory, Pavlovian
so purely free of chemical interchanges, etherally informing from the groundwater:
you're not fully clean unless you're ZENfully clean.

Bridge under the water.

The finger brings what rings in moldy memory, the drool of a dog, anticipatory with the tired eyes of limp gouged knowledge, gnostic swamp hag codicial, nag hamadi is fucking killing me here. The year is 2006 and I'm another dog, half-sleeping between two holocausts, here and there, everywhere.

I'm urged to binge and purge simultaneously - something's gotta go, but I need need need
that special something I can't name, can't attain through any immediate urge.

I won't reach the lusted for O of oblivion that way.

I passed by the rosebush covered tombstone attraction.
The gateway to the American Land of the Dead was roadside kitsch
Albuquerque collector's spoon, I can laminate the sentiment on a placemat
spill minestroni broth in it, crust on the mat Albuquerque, how's that for a symbol?
I can lament the sentimental sediment on the mat, placed like a plastic placebo between me
and the rollicking good times of potential reality
like a clown on ecstasy
if junctured to a sutured bit of neural circuitry.

Zellman tailored a suit for me to slink into one day
one day, may day, outdoor fucking, I'll say hey, a new way to say hooray
it's a tux, armani, not in a lossy format, but luxurious lox for a damned detox
damnation, every day is revelation if you want, if you need, if you sniff five more times
if your candyman wish is backed up by the think tank funds, how much is reality worth
is it the card, mastercard, for all the cards? Or is it just a ratty little double in the deck?

Zellman don't know - you won't get nothing out of him.