scribbles somethanes
by quinn
...and at times she introduced herhself
as eichornia magnavox, snarling in inane insanity
as the wind cries mary, the smokes from the pipes
smoke on by, and while my guitar gently weeps, there's
something in the way she moves
i begin to think of the perfection of
the underside of a well shaped breast and how this
table keeps spinning and spinning and because she
walked by and didn't smile i can only take comfort
in the now
because the thermometer dropped by a
good 33° and i found my old 45's yesterday and mr.
michener is 90 and wants to die and as i'm not wanting
to write wright now not frank not lloyd not wright
write now this is where i'll stop.
but now i want to start again, and these
five funny metallic, sort of steel drum sounding sort
of pizzicato sort of staccato'd sounds pan and echo
their way to the tongue of my brain and i don't necessarily
want them to stop, just would like to have a little
control over their volume as they melody their way
to my brain, i think in terms of the camera, the love
of the appropriated not procreated image of not quite
originality and how that not quite originality has
turned this century upside down with ithself, the
power of the image, the image of the television, the
power of the television, this century's conqueror,
this century's pacifier, the conquistadors being the
welles, the turners, kubricks, houstons, and gates
as well as metropolitan goldwinning mayors. and of
course many many others. have you disassembled your
monitor today? have you? have you? have you.....
prophetic voice pondered two years later...
beyond the void mundane a fluid canvas leaks perfection.
sailboats red with toughest rye. i look two years
and see.
division within the vision.
suck wicker lips beneath ear-viction. track lights
shine. the halo line divides divine.
religion is sin nis si noigiler.
fried like chicken she said. we fried
like chicken. my trip was burnt man. lights start
changing and the asphalt, man the asphalt, echoed
remelodies of freely taken liberties.
"no art here" said the curator,
"no art here, bill, danny, fred, and jamal, but no
art here."
the panning of a string arrangement,
trying no to lose control, trying not to lose control,
speaking french, wanting more potatoes, really needing
more potatoes, knowing, if she only had more potatoes,
everything would be alright.
somewhere else in the world today, a
girl who i'm sure is more perfect than alicia e.a.
in every single possible way, will be born, will die,
will see the dark night sky, all because that i know
and that she does not. the long and winding road.
there is no more u.s.s.r. it rains outside and black
and white images show such a thing.
inside of me, how can i say? i can not
and leave it at that. all of the incredible songs
that have not yet been recorded, all of the great
books that as of yet have not been written, even perhaps
a few memories i have now, i'd trade without a doubt
or shadow of a rope to be in loveralive with mrs.
e.a. could she only be the unofficial unreligious
and ungovernmental strictly emotional and electronprotonneutronfilled
wife de solo man.
once i indeed did attend a wedding and
really had a laugh because the preacher or is it minister
did say towards the endo d ceremony that, they were
now pronoun.ced man and wife and recognized in the
state of texas and d eyes of god and jesus. and eye
wondered how he knew.
sometimes a drunken musician being recorded
in a drunken fit or rage of playing exercising the
motion of his uncontrived fingers on his loving instrument
knows more about god, comes closer to god than any
fucking preacher or minister or deacon or priest or
brother (or anyone pretentious enough and with such
low hself-esteems as to call themselves a holy person)
ever could attain. what a moment i just had. tingles
run rampant.
spiders and cowboy boots and seeing
as how i know what will soon be said in red text and
knowing about a party i anxiously await i dream to
awake in a bed with thousand dollar sheets wet with
cum from both of us loving sweating sleeping loving
together, miles away from each other but snuggling
so close i don't forget about pillows, soft-floating-on-a-cloud-kind-of-pillows
and how for kissing she likes me shaven but she doesn't
mind the stubble so much for other things
and i think a lot about things like
cactus and the santa maria and why do they always
say the santa maria last, the nina, the pinta, and
the santa maria and so often how jungerl college freshmen
often graduate high school with long-sort-of-blonde-curled-at-the-bottom-prom-night-hair-but-soon-get-to-dorms-chain-smoking-midnight-coffee-house-a-little-less-make-up-kind-of-mentality
and soon almost invariably cut off that hair opting
for the more-practical-less-hassle-nevertheless-cute-sort-of-college-girl-haircut.
let's get happy.
it's never too late to see the things
around us never too late to take notice of the beautiful
things that surround us all the way.................
three people go for their drink simultaneously inexplicably,
yet mirroring things. the syncopation of the menses
in womens' communities among other things how schools
of fish simultaneously magically electronically inexplicably
instantaneously change direction...................
and to change direction, there's the magic and dramatic
dynamic of what it means to be jake and the characteristics
that qualify what proffesors can only explain as jakeness.....................
like chairness, tableness, and of(f) course appleness,
being back from a vacuum tube and neverneverland and
who am i to question who i am. who am i to go against
the wind. i know what i know, i need what i need,
and i need to write something that most people will
never times most comprehend, not out of the nature
of ego, but out of the nature of puzzle. hopefully,
someday, some people might f gure shit out........................
like what's on the next page.................................
About
the Author
quinn graduated from superhero school
at the age of 17, and because he was a bit of an introvert,
opted out of the sidekick internship search program.
it took him a while during his senior year at school
to come up with his name, while most of his classmates
knew what uber-identities they would take on as early
as freshman year, he knew that the process is the
plan, so he took on a sort of "write and revise"
mentality while searching for his super-name. because
of his personal agreement with the old statement "the
journey is more important than the destination"
he toyed with tao-man and zen-man and various plays
on those for a while, but thought that was a little
too there-is-no-spoon-feeding for the general public.
in his tenderness to their mind-potential, quinn wanted
them to work a little harder, so he eventually, through
a long series of ideas and edits, ended up with poosquared.
it is a triple-play on quinnythepoo, referencing of
course winnie the poo as well as a wonderfully written
book called the tao of poo, and the idea of squaring
poo to make poo(poo), which in his mind is a sort
of self-defecation sense of humility. his skin-tight
latex coated chest emblem shows poo2.
and his cape is purple.
because he operates in a "natural
is the way, the way is natural" sort of super-hero
mentality, he is always more concerned with how he
gets somewhere than actually getting somewhere, and
a logical conclusion (is there any conclusion when
your not concerned with concluding) is that he never
gets anywhere, and similarly, he never gets anything
done. as a result, he is now 30 and has succeeded
in no actual super-hero achievements, unless of course,
you call his living super-heroic, which although he
would never admit to publicly, believes adamantly
so in his mind.
his influences really are too broad
and numerous to mention, and by mentioning one or
two, he believes, all the others are discredited,
so he prefers to mention none. but he will say that
art and music are the most important things in his
life, and like schopenhauer, he actually believes
that music is the highest form of art. his favorite
things to do are to listen to as well as make music,
and for this reason, his first concentration is on
music, and calling all his writings "scribbles"
is for him a specific de-emphasizing of their value.
the work shown as "scribbles somethames"
are various words collected in no specific order from
a not-yet-published book he has written entitled.
mon solo: an evolution
