Ken Baumann - Solip

A general thing.

Porcelain deposits.

I cannot say I'm tired.

Is this about the abandonment of a remedial logician? Fill me in. I'm sure of it: This is a brush and odes of paint, it's all black, don't worry about the holes, fill them.

Please decode me if you think this a cry in a century. Please unlock the walls if you think I'm a decade's concern.

Hurry to the wall! Hurry to the wall! Get above it — the sky's lighting up!

I cannot think of municipal fireworks. They inspire another song to lying. Their construction. The stench in which the ladies work. Belts. Acres of belts. A rolling space. A star eye. Wicker scars up and down his chest. His allergy to belts. Tomato juice, whirred and poured — a whole bath. The orange tiles—

Should I command myself by number?

Should I provide myself more space? Let me just call someone—

I once birthed a birdhouse. I found myself singing in it.

In between fits, again I am haunted by singing. Remember the opera? I cannot claim, or fill in, a body or voice. I can only show you the disembowelment before-hand. My stomach lie resting on pueblo tile. My knees drop and touch, but my head is filled in with a stark blue white split desert. I am half in and halved. Tenuously holding—

Back to what which cuts like crystal and belongs to the same humming.

I wait long enough and I can thrive all of it in code. You'll take years.

I already said fantasia.

Great anxiety about the machine. Used to be. To feel another moving thing; it had life! I felt I had breasts. I felt braided white.

In a proposed jewelbox: Math. History.

Have I told enough? Have I outweighed a persian thousand? I have markedly been less faithful — to myself, too many. But, in null: I have forgotten what was promised for the end of the scaraband telling, I have forgotten the cloture—

Abandon me like sand! Feel the ocean instead! The waters are romantics — the sand merely a plateau into a moving field. Love the water! Leave the sand! Leave the grains of days! Drown. See if I keep you buoyant.

Threats and lies and jests and prods and promises and coos and softs and lows and hysterical highs. Pornographic highs. Thoughts of such a when when one could send some to shivers. Childlike excavations and latent pig images.

Please, please please please—

By now… By now he must've dropped them.

No boss he's stronger than we imagined—

Hah!

Tommy self-castrates. He makes the clippers go snap then wilts.

Fuzz, videotaping, laughs hysterically.

See? There's marginal use in bread and butter.

Can you both deliver a thing and withhold it? The live act projects its death. An overwhelming thing? Good too well? How do I make a place live and die? How do I return the animal to a lifeless living? I need to put more of a dent in god.

Hurry up, sit up, shut up, be quiet, quiet down, hurry, shut up, sit straight, shut it, hurry it up, shut up, sit still, shut up, hurry, quiet, shut it, hurry up and sit still, shut up and sit still, sit still and shut up, hurry it up, shut up, sit, shut it, sit still and shut—

Variety is also a way of decreasing.

Dream in a land where water knows its fluency.

Hung, a miserly wither. Barely wider than the pole. One piece of bread at his feet, the rest dropped on the dirt, many below the platform. A road nearby.

Is it now for gratitude? Is it now for stretching? I have no way of showing the time. Are you tracking? Keeping up?

I held my stomach to the right wall right in the center and waited. I held it there in the longest shifts, longer than real, and it or air never came. (can't be right anymore)

Sorry to be so vulgar, but: The ceiling is not low enough, just a bit high. And nothing I stack in the corners provides any stable height. Squishy. Nothing at all fits in this room! Smiling!

It was also a sport to fill this up with weather. (was) To imagine a boiling snow wider than first apparent, plumes and decks of it in draping, calming near my top inch when laying down, and finally whispering like all soft snow, and when it's so near, the space becomes unbearable: Latch! A pull to my skin, and then melt. Never cold to touch, though. Always warm.

Stars came, but the stars spaz out.

There were living room signs, all to deal with sadness. You can pick it up, he said. And that. And that, he said. Keep cleaning.

Mother blurs.

Nearly as vulgar to give you mother than to fix on piss and shit. Vulgarity isn't murder, it's arson.

Presently: Floating.

There's a record of aphasia somewhere. I've put in a formal request, but nobody seems to understand me.

By now my hip is bleeding. The scabs used to build, stack up. Like a temple. I could almost assign levels: Here is bestowed the colored crown, here is a view of the highlands. I could not disassociate the royalty.

Shall I trumpet? WHEN MAN IS LEFT TO NOTHING IS IT THEN HE TAKES AN EMPIRE?

Those mantis eyes.

Pleasurably.

How can I be both scarce and abundant?

You'd think by now a market couldn't encapsulate me, finally, now, conditionally, it loves me unconditionally. Some market. A little storm churned up with cream and separation. It will go and curdle. Under the new moon. So temporary.

Pleated born-agains at the door. They seemed to be more welcome by the carpet, all brown. Only welcomed for a minute. Rabbits.

Echo level bullshit. Pond equations. Nearly mythical arcs and propositions on a shale slide, down to rock fort with the rattlesnake missing. The humid and the orange.

How prone I am to slipping. It's as if there is a funnel, sucking down toward a dark spot or shut-off place, with the looping water a deposit-filled slick of chlorine and my own baby sweat. You see? You just did it! You just did it, sweetie! It's okay!

Tactical infusions: Tempo and the boiled of threes.

I can blatantly embody just one being one — being myself right now, for now, and say: The whole word is a command. Noel.

I shall gather you here today to praise a man lost to us, a man patent with flies and full of shit in his mouth dripping shit out his eyes and ears and pumping shit from his guts out his shoes and the coffin spilling with shit and black flies coming from the mouth of the pallbearers and shit stewing below everyone's feet, all fleeing, a shit lake that deepens with each passing word of the preacher himself a passing word of shit falling into himself in a lake of shit and bubbling up from his eyes shit and the coffin sinking—

HOLD

Hold now

Hold, please.

Did you catch them? In the space there? Like fireflies.

Let's—

Holding patterns. Are best left. Off. Of.

Theres a family down there!

An anesthesia of purpose. They take you into a chair — no, it's comfortable — and let you look at magazines and wildlife until you slow. It's all administered. Yes, there is steady supply of looks-over-the-shoulder. Negligence is left at school. Now you're dead. And wise enough to take that figuratively. And sleeping. And the sleep they place in you so carefully is the most deliberate and wonderful sleep; it's as if floating isn't an idea anymore. Then comes the check. They firmly displace your clothing, rub once over large sections of your arms, legs, chest — it's all very routine. Once over with the gloves to make sure nothing attaches and starts to go. No, no, not morbid if it saves… Yes. So, once they've roughly gone — AND SAFELY — gone over everything, the other three are brought in to watch while the other two are dismissed. Break. The local slowdown — mine, not theirs — takes awhile. Then the three administer certain utilities. And the three — NO — they come back, and take care of you once it's done. You're done then. So calmly they bring you back to life. They let you look at yourself with the room full. Mmhmm. No… The time will come.