I will be the shipwreck if you will be the beachcomber
who, bewildered, would pick up the wood
blown onto the beach
and see gemstones and gold coins
and bottles of dried exotic herbs
and place them in your pocket,
unsure of their names but understanding their value
as "precious" or "special"
as I sit, shipwrecked, under the surface
spilling my glut into open water
several miles out.
Every day you collect the wood
from my shipwreck,
placing the plank fragments the wire basket
in the crook of your arm and stacking
only as much as you can carry in one trip
only as much as you need for a night.
The treasures you find find their way
onto your windowsill, peering out at the seafoam
or peering in at you as you peer through the gem
translucence, seeing yourself reflected in the facets.
You burn the wood
in your wood burning stove
and you curl around the fire you make
with your afghan around you at night.
Fish populate me.
6/1/13
The warmonger and the beast of burden having a battle of wills
I will eat the sun.
I will eat the sun and the moon.
I will eat the sun and the moon and all of my grandchildren.
I will eat the sun and the moon.
I will eat the sun and the moon and all of my grandchildren.
5/23/13
the boy with a hole in his stomach, again
The boy with a hole in his stomach, Noe, wound a tuft of wool up, dunking it into hot and cold water alternately to make it into a felt ball. He rolled it around in his hand until he got tired of doing that.
The gray lamb sat next to him and asked him politely to kiss it on the mouth. The boy with a hole in his stomach, Noe, did not see a mouth on the tiny ball of felt, but the gray lamb persisted:
"Make one if you didn't have the foresight to make one already."
The gray lamb nosed at the dirt distractedly. These kind of things happen, of course. "Best to not feel too badly." Noe did not sense that the lamb very much cared about how he was feeling, but he kissed the tiny ball of felt anyhow. With a fecund little pop, the ball of felt opened into a flower, shedding pollen on his nose. He didn't have allergies, so he didn't sneeze. He was slightly grateful for that, but he wondered why the gray lamb asked him to kiss the felt ball. The gray lamb didn't really have a reason probably, and it was walking away into the woods, where it lived. It was dangerous to follow, so Noe placed the flower into the hole of his stomach and sat on the ground until the sun rose.
He didn't stay awake the whole time, but he instantly forgave himself for drifting off. He walked home in the wee hours of the morning, when it was blue and the leaves clicked together delicately with hard frost. Noe was not cold, since he had worn mittens. He did not need to stop for tea, but he began making breakfast the moment he got home as the walk had made him hungry.
He always missed his parents, like most adults who are made into orphans during their 30somethings, but for whatever reason Noe seemed to be thinking about them more at present. He felt a hollow forming in his heart, like usual, but he was disturbed to find no thread of thought that had led him to reminisce like this.
He found himself, once again, without context, which gave little punch to his emotions or actions. He sat on the couch, eating his perfectly runny eggs with toast and jam, deflated.
The gray lamb sat next to him and asked him politely to kiss it on the mouth. The boy with a hole in his stomach, Noe, did not see a mouth on the tiny ball of felt, but the gray lamb persisted:
"Make one if you didn't have the foresight to make one already."
The gray lamb nosed at the dirt distractedly. These kind of things happen, of course. "Best to not feel too badly." Noe did not sense that the lamb very much cared about how he was feeling, but he kissed the tiny ball of felt anyhow. With a fecund little pop, the ball of felt opened into a flower, shedding pollen on his nose. He didn't have allergies, so he didn't sneeze. He was slightly grateful for that, but he wondered why the gray lamb asked him to kiss the felt ball. The gray lamb didn't really have a reason probably, and it was walking away into the woods, where it lived. It was dangerous to follow, so Noe placed the flower into the hole of his stomach and sat on the ground until the sun rose.
He didn't stay awake the whole time, but he instantly forgave himself for drifting off. He walked home in the wee hours of the morning, when it was blue and the leaves clicked together delicately with hard frost. Noe was not cold, since he had worn mittens. He did not need to stop for tea, but he began making breakfast the moment he got home as the walk had made him hungry.
He always missed his parents, like most adults who are made into orphans during their 30somethings, but for whatever reason Noe seemed to be thinking about them more at present. He felt a hollow forming in his heart, like usual, but he was disturbed to find no thread of thought that had led him to reminisce like this.
He found himself, once again, without context, which gave little punch to his emotions or actions. He sat on the couch, eating his perfectly runny eggs with toast and jam, deflated.
sucker
do you love me or the memory of me
when you slap theatrically at mosquitoes when they bite your
neck or the small of your wrists
and ankles in the grass
Pitching a tent in the wilderness
underneath a wild switchbush full of thorny bramble and
hairs of stinging nettle or fiddlehead ferns that are edible but difficult to
know how to cook due to unorthodoxy
Oh my god: leave me alone
have a sandwich when you look at me
don’t tell me a story about sandwiches
don’t say anything to me that you have already said
keep it fresh, keep it fresh
the sandwich do not go to the beach
to the sand
strand, where the beachcombers go to look for gems and
shells
from shipwrecked mollusks (the dead, the dead)
eat me by the water in small gulps under the sodden logs and
planks full of lichen and barnacle
scratching at naked thighs like a clam on my naked thighs
gore
nose your supple proboscis into my ear and, ductile, make it
swim in the folds
the folds
of my brain which are sodden with sex
memory and sex
dreams of the beach and your sandwiches
and the last effigy of your self worth
that you sacrifice at my feet, Raymond Cline.
I don’t hate you because I refuse to hate everyone. I refuse
to hate anyone. It isn’t a special designation. Do not become a delusion of
grandeur, please. You possess no virtue. You possess no virtues.
Who are you, with no hair, to wear the comb I bought for you
with the money I got from the watch you bought the chain you sold your hair
for.
IT isn’t enough ever, more is required.
You aren’t what you claim
you aren’t what you declaim
you aren’t what you claim
to be or to possess, that is.
5/19/13
Detritus
I lied when I told you that I ate the bursslees sprouts
unheimlech
don't look away
look away
look away
When you were laying in bed I was burning tiny holes in the sheets with a lit cigarette
Hello darlings,
Where are your cavalcades and/or your legions of menfolk who, which know what is there and has happened to amongst things where the other where the other where the other
Indicate the ininfinite possibilities of my personhood until which point you have not got a thing a thing a thing a thing a thing a thing a thing
I am made of 20 peaches
your cast iron skillet is full of grease
Do not eat anything. Eat nothing. Don't eat a thing.
When you look at me, please make every effort to hate me.
Catch a whiff of my hair and hug me from behind.
Let me wear you like a coat.
Drop and give me eighty.
Realize your organ. It pumps blood throughout you.
"engaging in a fantasy" carrot cake
add thyme, fresh ginger, cinnamon
unheimlech
don't look away
look away
look away
When you were laying in bed I was burning tiny holes in the sheets with a lit cigarette
Hello darlings,
Where are your cavalcades and/or your legions of menfolk who, which know what is there and has happened to amongst things where the other where the other where the other
Indicate the ininfinite possibilities of my personhood until which point you have not got a thing a thing a thing a thing a thing a thing a thing
I am made of 20 peaches
your cast iron skillet is full of grease
Do not eat anything. Eat nothing. Don't eat a thing.
When you look at me, please make every effort to hate me.
Catch a whiff of my hair and hug me from behind.
Let me wear you like a coat.
Drop and give me eighty.
Realize your organ. It pumps blood throughout you.
"engaging in a fantasy" carrot cake
add thyme, fresh ginger, cinnamon
Mercy
mercy is the promise of power unexherted
an inexorability which is not exercised
and maintains supple ligaments in the gentle hand
you
fold your arms sagely and nod at pissants
who live at your discretion and fold
away at your whim
sip a cup of herbal tea and know you can destroy me
but you don't because you love me
but you don't because you're amused
but you don't
and you show me mercy
the mercy of a benevolent creator that could blot me out
with the swiftness of a thumb
as an ant on the pavement
but you don't
you are a lamb who goes carrying thumbscrews in your mouth
weaving blowtorches into your fleece
and crushing flowers under your cloven feet
an inexorability which is not exercised
and maintains supple ligaments in the gentle hand
you
fold your arms sagely and nod at pissants
who live at your discretion and fold
away at your whim
sip a cup of herbal tea and know you can destroy me
but you don't because you love me
but you don't because you're amused
but you don't
and you show me mercy
the mercy of a benevolent creator that could blot me out
with the swiftness of a thumb
as an ant on the pavement
but you don't
you are a lamb who goes carrying thumbscrews in your mouth
weaving blowtorches into your fleece
and crushing flowers under your cloven feet
4/25/13
your ephemera is smoke and ether
you are a ghastly thing which is likeekkekkekkekkdkkekd
when moving away from something please be sure to engage the things which are necessary for
suck the salty water from off of the inside of your left wrist. Imagine the reasons why that would be that there. Feel the callouses of your hands on the callouses of your hands. Do not look at anything which you are not supposed to look at. Go away from the edge of the world having never felt the rain of a stupid cloud.
Cup a thin coiled ribbon in your hands. There is no horse. There is no name. There is no such thing as a sudden movement. Your insignificance is insignificant. Your mantra is mute. Your adage, appendage, amputated. Remember the rocky center of your being you're being. You are a slab of granite that was broken into smithereens and implanted in the bodies of the ones who came before you. Did you pass into the stone yourself, do you pass into it, did you let it pass into you by accepting the burden of life, did you escape the organic drudgery of loam and limestone?
Where is your great pyramid. Where is your masculine prowess, and what hand do you hold it in? The drum major and the baton twirler.
Run away into the forest, where it is dark and cool.
you are a ghastly thing which is likeekkekkekkekkdkkekd
when moving away from something please be sure to engage the things which are necessary for
suck the salty water from off of the inside of your left wrist. Imagine the reasons why that would be that there. Feel the callouses of your hands on the callouses of your hands. Do not look at anything which you are not supposed to look at. Go away from the edge of the world having never felt the rain of a stupid cloud.
Cup a thin coiled ribbon in your hands. There is no horse. There is no name. There is no such thing as a sudden movement. Your insignificance is insignificant. Your mantra is mute. Your adage, appendage, amputated. Remember the rocky center of your being you're being. You are a slab of granite that was broken into smithereens and implanted in the bodies of the ones who came before you. Did you pass into the stone yourself, do you pass into it, did you let it pass into you by accepting the burden of life, did you escape the organic drudgery of loam and limestone?
Where is your great pyramid. Where is your masculine prowess, and what hand do you hold it in? The drum major and the baton twirler.
Run away into the forest, where it is dark and cool.
4/14/13
2nd person, again
You were encapsulated in a sphere of water the size of the Earth (or
maybe the Moon because it's difficult to measure on instinct) swimming
wherever. It was lit blue through and through, there was no edge or end
to it. You didn't think to drink or open your mouth or breathe because
home is all you know. Home is all anyone ever knows, don't feel too
badly about it please. Resilience is better than breath control.
When you woke up you were under a rocky outcropping and a scorpion was scurrying away guiltily. You wanted to console the poor beast but it didn't understand English. You would have named it Armando if you weren't so depressed about it.
You were stranded in the middle of the desert, looking for the occasional scrub or blade of grass that could indicate the transition to a steppe or a more moist environ. However, the mountain range to the west caused the desert to persist in its dryness. You knew this was the nature of things and you looked out to the landscape like a goddamned idiot as you walked.
There was no treasure when you came. No x-marks-the-spot. There was only the promise of treasure which you did not invest yourself in. The journey, not the destination. Your adages comfort you as you go for the sake of having gone. Not for the sake of going. There is a difference.
There was no oasis, you started with a canteen for four days and ran out on day six. The camel did not die, it just played possum until you decided to leave it alone and continue on foot alone. You wish the camel would have liked you better. You would have named it Armando if you weren't so depressed about it.
Your goals were always uncertain. The landscape was always barren and dry. Symmetry.
In a flash, the clouds gathered and dumped a quantity of rain on the vast featurelessness of the desert. Little green stems poked up from the sand. Each untwisted a blue or white flower, which turned itself away from the harsh sun. Soon, a field of flowers was rocking gently in the breeze. A lungfish flopped in the water.
When you woke up from this second dream, the sand fort you made for yourself had blown away. So you got up and walked in the direction you thought you were supposed to. After a while you stopped and, noticing the swirl of the dunes in the wind, realized that the desert was featureless and ever changing in its featurelessness. The sand at the top of the dune was blowing away in a golden, horizontal plume. You saw the grains travevling away from you and thought to go open your mouth and catch them all in it, swallowing enough to make your own dune. For us. You would have named them armando if you weren't so depressed about it.
I went away too. I don't know if you lived or died.
When you woke up you were under a rocky outcropping and a scorpion was scurrying away guiltily. You wanted to console the poor beast but it didn't understand English. You would have named it Armando if you weren't so depressed about it.
You were stranded in the middle of the desert, looking for the occasional scrub or blade of grass that could indicate the transition to a steppe or a more moist environ. However, the mountain range to the west caused the desert to persist in its dryness. You knew this was the nature of things and you looked out to the landscape like a goddamned idiot as you walked.
There was no treasure when you came. No x-marks-the-spot. There was only the promise of treasure which you did not invest yourself in. The journey, not the destination. Your adages comfort you as you go for the sake of having gone. Not for the sake of going. There is a difference.
There was no oasis, you started with a canteen for four days and ran out on day six. The camel did not die, it just played possum until you decided to leave it alone and continue on foot alone. You wish the camel would have liked you better. You would have named it Armando if you weren't so depressed about it.
Your goals were always uncertain. The landscape was always barren and dry. Symmetry.
In a flash, the clouds gathered and dumped a quantity of rain on the vast featurelessness of the desert. Little green stems poked up from the sand. Each untwisted a blue or white flower, which turned itself away from the harsh sun. Soon, a field of flowers was rocking gently in the breeze. A lungfish flopped in the water.
When you woke up from this second dream, the sand fort you made for yourself had blown away. So you got up and walked in the direction you thought you were supposed to. After a while you stopped and, noticing the swirl of the dunes in the wind, realized that the desert was featureless and ever changing in its featurelessness. The sand at the top of the dune was blowing away in a golden, horizontal plume. You saw the grains travevling away from you and thought to go open your mouth and catch them all in it, swallowing enough to make your own dune. For us. You would have named them armando if you weren't so depressed about it.
I went away too. I don't know if you lived or died.
4/9/13
free hands
when I watch you
when you open
I watch you open
the door when I watch
your hands draw it open
the door as I watch you
and
you greet me there when
you open the door and I
watch you greet me
I watch you greet the open
door with a hand with me watching
your hands brush the handle
you open
hello hello hello hello
and
you open the door and you open
your hands and take my bag
and you greet me at the open
door with two free hands
for me.
when you open
I watch you open
the door when I watch
your hands draw it open
the door as I watch you
and
you greet me there when
you open the door and I
watch you greet me
I watch you greet the open
door with a hand with me watching
your hands brush the handle
you open
hello hello hello hello
and
you open the door and you open
your hands and take my bag
and you greet me at the open
door with two free hands
for me.
3/11/13
3/9/13
Intersect
Intersections
imply that our orderly and bounded reality has places where treachery is required
and frequently encountered. The conventions of a place will indicate whether or
not a particular person will yield right-of-way to another, what an appropriate
amount of hesitation time consists of, etc. etc. etc.
How
many times do you cross yourself before making a left-hand turn? What essential
oils are appropriate for anointing the head of the cyclist who is about to run
a red light? Linseed and juniper, grapefruit and cinnamon.
If
when a highway has no intersections and only places to merge, going on and
coming off, do you count them as intersections? Merging lanes is as dangerous
as impenetrable cross-traffic depending on the circumstances.
more hits/ego
Ray Cline
Ray Cline
Ray Cline
Raymond Cline
Raymond Cline
Raymond Cline
Raymond Cyril
Cyril
Cyril
Cline
RayCline
RayCline
RaymondCline
RaymondCyrilCline
r a y c l i n e
ray cline
raymond cline
Ray Cline
Ray Cline
Raymond Cline
Raymond Cline
Raymond Cline
Raymond Cyril
Cyril
Cyril
Cline
RayCline
RayCline
RaymondCline
RaymondCyrilCline
r a y c l i n e
ray cline
raymond cline
2/28/13
2/13/13
In spring, sweep the dirt to the corners of the room, where a wounded animal will drag itself and rest, hiding from you until it can recover and lash out. This is a motivation for the broom.
Also in spring, your idea of a mountain experiences a snow melt, which streams populate, eroding into pathways for you to climb.
If you think of these things when you drag your butt across the carpet and leave a small mark, you are by my estimation self-aggrandizing.
Don't say the first thing that you are thinking. Do not say the second thing.
Do not lay a knapsack at my feet and instruct me how to arrange the contents. Your language is guttural and it scares me when you talk. Out, vagabond!
Also in spring, your idea of a mountain experiences a snow melt, which streams populate, eroding into pathways for you to climb.
If you think of these things when you drag your butt across the carpet and leave a small mark, you are by my estimation self-aggrandizing.
Don't say the first thing that you are thinking. Do not say the second thing.
Do not lay a knapsack at my feet and instruct me how to arrange the contents. Your language is guttural and it scares me when you talk. Out, vagabond!
2/10/13
broadcasting
If you are thinking about fishermen, you are wrong.
Tiny smelt do not fly through the air toward aerials. They do not want to sing you songs. Smelt are fish that do not have emotions that you will be able to discern. They may be slightly tasty if you dip them in tartar sauce.
However, notice please that if you overcook them, there will be no saving them. They must be slightly soft in order to be pleasurable. Otherwise, your guests may be talking animatedly about your pending divorce behind your back.
No, no. Instead, you should be thinking of old men speaking into overlarge microphones about current events such as politics or, more plausibly, local happenings. Do not think about their ear hair because you will laugh and that will be impolite. Shush.
If somebody chastises you for being impolite, that will be your just desert. Consider the impact you are having on people, for a change.
Unspool your intestines if it please her so. We will take it into consideration.
[edited:]
We should be taking your wrong politics as current thinking.
Please, slightly animatedly dip your ear toward the impact you are having on people.
Change your people, change and consider. Overcook, change old men.
No saving them (you will be able to discern)? They must be thinking of you.
Your desert. Consideration.
[/edited]
blast blast blast
sis boom bah
Tiny smelt do not fly through the air toward aerials. They do not want to sing you songs. Smelt are fish that do not have emotions that you will be able to discern. They may be slightly tasty if you dip them in tartar sauce.
However, notice please that if you overcook them, there will be no saving them. They must be slightly soft in order to be pleasurable. Otherwise, your guests may be talking animatedly about your pending divorce behind your back.
No, no. Instead, you should be thinking of old men speaking into overlarge microphones about current events such as politics or, more plausibly, local happenings. Do not think about their ear hair because you will laugh and that will be impolite. Shush.
If somebody chastises you for being impolite, that will be your just desert. Consider the impact you are having on people, for a change.
Unspool your intestines if it please her so. We will take it into consideration.
[edited:]
We should be taking your wrong politics as current thinking.
Please, slightly animatedly dip your ear toward the impact you are having on people.
Change your people, change and consider. Overcook, change old men.
No saving them (you will be able to discern)? They must be thinking of you.
Your desert. Consideration.
[/edited]
blast blast blast
sis boom bah
peroxide
When dabbing peroxide onto a cotton swab, it is important to only tilt the bottle slightly (especially if it is a new bottle of peroxide) to avoid spillage. Do not get peroxide on mother's purple rug. It is a thing we use to nurture your cuts. Do not pour peroxide into your throat please.
It will ruin it.
It will ruin it.
1/21/13
hungry
Pull my head back. Cup your palm and pace it on my forehead, pulling down, and, with the other hand (also cupping) push up on my jaw with gentle and even force. When you hear the click into place of the mechanism meant to cradle my neck gently with chrome appendages, my neck will be locked into place. Open my mouth with two digits and split the divide of my lips so that you may pour the blight, the ash and the affliction into said mouth, which is delicious.
Tell me you love me darling. Darling. Teach me through example the wonders of the pharynx, my throat passageways. Press gently (yet firmly) onto my eyes and shout in my ear. It would sound like the ocean, the noises in my ear. Lick.
[I stopped at this point to make rice]
Tell me you love me darling. Darling. Teach me through example the wonders of the pharynx, my throat passageways. Press gently (yet firmly) onto my eyes and shout in my ear. It would sound like the ocean, the noises in my ear. Lick.
[I stopped at this point to make rice]
1/14/13
More detritus
The first step involved in human sight is a light source such as the sun or a light bulb.
There is no such thing as universal experiences. (wisdom is not experiential)
an eager tiger
a meager measure
the wager, a paige
the gague of a wire
in a coil, oiled with the
fat the fat the fat
Yawn
"Bucharest is just over there, don't you know."
Don't talk to me about avalanches.
[...] Cynthia eventually got up to pee. [...] In a different way, she felt as though she were repeating a sentence over and over.
-what am i doing, whatamidoing
The loudspeaker disappeared.
We are brother and sister, you and I.
We come from the very same egg sac.
It is murky. It is murky.
There is a ring of water just over there
6 flecks of food, paper, or dandruff.
An eyelast on the back of my hand, I imagine I ate only have of the salsa (should I drink the rest)
There is a wadded piee of parchemnt paper just here
2417
Please don';t talk to me about the siritual superiority of a place. I do not shit in a bucket or something.
Shut up. Shut up.
Shut up. Shut up.
The warbles in your voice are caused by inconsistencies in the morphology of the glottis, where the flaps are closing somewhat awkwardly or shaped in such a way that the air flows strangely.
The world sits in segmented factions of dream and concrete places and things.
For example: we acknowledge the existence of our dreams as items or places or experiences that definitively shape us and definitely exist. It is the where and the how that we called into question. The opposite coin is the concrete thing, it is a different side, the tangibles are definite. The meaning of an object, the spirit of a place is shaped in the dreams and ideas, the inclinations we have of that place. The segments are sandwiched together. They overlap somehow. How?
We could organize like a Prayer beginning on the inside. The framework of a dream begins with the ideas and the personality. It is a psychological offloading. But that is the mechanical process rather than the actual thing.
There is no such thing as universal experiences. (wisdom is not experiential)
an eager tiger
a meager measure
the wager, a paige
the gague of a wire
in a coil, oiled with the
fat the fat the fat
Yawn
"Bucharest is just over there, don't you know."
Don't talk to me about avalanches.
[...] Cynthia eventually got up to pee. [...] In a different way, she felt as though she were repeating a sentence over and over.
-what am i doing, whatamidoing
The loudspeaker disappeared.
We are brother and sister, you and I.
We come from the very same egg sac.
It is murky. It is murky.
There is a ring of water just over there
6 flecks of food, paper, or dandruff.
An eyelast on the back of my hand, I imagine I ate only have of the salsa (should I drink the rest)
There is a wadded piee of parchemnt paper just here
2417
Please don';t talk to me about the siritual superiority of a place. I do not shit in a bucket or something.
Shut up. Shut up.
Shut up. Shut up.
The warbles in your voice are caused by inconsistencies in the morphology of the glottis, where the flaps are closing somewhat awkwardly or shaped in such a way that the air flows strangely.
The world sits in segmented factions of dream and concrete places and things.
For example: we acknowledge the existence of our dreams as items or places or experiences that definitively shape us and definitely exist. It is the where and the how that we called into question. The opposite coin is the concrete thing, it is a different side, the tangibles are definite. The meaning of an object, the spirit of a place is shaped in the dreams and ideas, the inclinations we have of that place. The segments are sandwiched together. They overlap somehow. How?
We could organize like a Prayer beginning on the inside. The framework of a dream begins with the ideas and the personality. It is a psychological offloading. But that is the mechanical process rather than the actual thing.
1/13/13
Detritus
detritus 1
Every lightbulb is an individual's opportunity to actually predict the future.
detritus 2
I put my ear up to a small, invisible tin can that was definitely connected to the mouth of a babbling magician.
detritus 3
Chamelions
Dryers
Sleeping, not sleeping
Starving: saved by Cowboy
detritus 4
Maybe when nature takes its course they'll twine their little succors around your lovely head and sing to your ancestors.
detritus 5
paint chips: all better now
Every lightbulb is an individual's opportunity to actually predict the future.
detritus 2
I put my ear up to a small, invisible tin can that was definitely connected to the mouth of a babbling magician.
detritus 3
Chamelions
Dryers
Sleeping, not sleeping
Starving: saved by Cowboy
detritus 4
Maybe when nature takes its course they'll twine their little succors around your lovely head and sing to your ancestors.
detritus 5
paint chips: all better now
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