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Share your dreams words photos illustrations stories

GlazedKid.org

Pub

lication No. 2

February 2011

falling shortspectacularly

glazedkid@gmail.com

COPYLEFT - ALL RITES REVERSED

 

Take a moment please, dear reader, and remember yourself.Isolate your mind from the distracting plain of existence-Concrete obstacles that barricade the passage of thought.Acknowledge the seperation between your Intangible mind and your bodily vessel.Your body is no different than the assemblage of nature.But you, dear reader, you have been touched by conciousness, A manikin animate;Your mind grants you godliness. And each god creates its own universe.How have you constructed yours?In what way do you understand this world, dear reader?You present perception has been sculpted by past decision.Future action will be driven by present understanding. And why would any god degrade its unsurmountable position?Why should anyone allow their perception, and thereby our world, to be polluted by cowardice?The residents of this world belittle themselves-Trading individuality for similarity, exchanging virtue for excessive comfort.Addiction to that which is not self accentuates this self-abasement.The residue of this timidity suffocates this world. This is a warning, dear reader - do with your mind what you want, but the ignorant will not achieve solace within this lifetime.Do not forget your mind’s godliness, for god will not forgive you.Your potential is endless, dear reader;Think for yourself.

These are the dreams of the Glazedsome lucid, others wild

We can neither escape norunderstand

But they suggest a notionjust beyond comprehension

Some story we are reaching fora slippery shining fish beneath the water’s edge

and our arms wet to the elbow

Dream with usHelp us to see

to reachto catch

to fall shortspectacularly

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Share your dreamswordsphotos

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glazedkid@gmail.com

a beautiful failureis at least no worse

than a squalid victoryand certainly better

than the patient drifttoward the end

the universe divides then unites and repeats. a constant beat.

for the sake of a laugh. THE ETERNAL JOKE.

wheres my tv, man?“its all the same old void, boy”

my eyes glued open

shallow tipped wings of crested nightfallin through cracks slipessences: the perfume of aged leaves fallenthe telescope on the rooflooks forward into two dimensionsyou stand, pulling tighton a dull green jacketas the fall air bellowsthrough your hairi wish we could be wrappedin armsand share our bitterness about the coming cold

sprain the way you see the day brain stays paralytic drained the congestion of data highs racing inline to eyes reeling, fishline lost its bite leaving the wrinkled mess adrift at sea sinking past coral reefs deeper down to the Angler Fishes Alluring into deeper depths and laby-rinths

Sirens’ watch, tics of the clock

A shattered homesick twist flirting with the known inclusiveness like puffs of smoke from a burning edge of paper

casting busts in silver polished and set out to shine in the sunglight; marvel

of mirrored surfacesleading, sloping, curving inwards

back inside again“Seems like a trap, doesn’t it?”

rhetoric: the face value commodity todaynot on the menu

the journey outside of eye’s sightand nonspace of the mindshredded senses transcendedthe starting line moved up faster than the racerswords unwind, swimming in inkstill wetunforget

effervescent peasant manila flotillais what i sometimes chant while walking alone

not here nor therecounting one-by-one, but not year-by-year

except when we’re faced with those jagged moments

when you tie yourself down with eyelashesthough more often word shacklesuntil your shadow grows too tall

and you will realize yesterday has lugged your potato sack mind

over its shoulder to some other placeindependent of interpretation

timely as ever- i knock on your window, with night gathering curiously behind me, night peeking inside

after all, who will congratulate the glass?for birthing itself from the window

the bricks and bits of pebblethat get us above the pavement organism

crunching so lovingly under our feet.

just read me out loud

just leave me feathering dust with the criticized.

scraping soggy chalk fingers of adolescencethrough the glazed streets of Tobin.

through a marsh mildew drainage pipecracked, dripping downtown discharge.

estranged by glimmer-eyed puss sac Stewsflapping their chapped erudite chews,

lungs puffing repugnant steam fleshed, ripe for the

spitting of ignorant spleens, as I tip my hat to the ostracized.

submerged amongst this flake catch snake scene,

ordering to suckle from the stream peel back the eyes,

and waterlog your dreams.

some text from the centralia poems goes up here

and down here as well

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sprain the way you see the day

brain stays paralytic drained

the congestion of data highs

racing inline to eyes

reeling,fishlinelostitsbite

leaving the wrinkled mess adrift at sea

sinking past coral reefs

deeper down to the Angler Fishes

Alluring into deeper depths and labyrinths

Sirens’ watch, tics of the clock

A shattered homesick twist

flirtingwith

the known inclusiveness

likepuffsofsmokefromaburningedgeofpaper

casting busts in silver

polished and set out to shine in the sunglight;

marvel of mirrored surfaces

leading, sloping, curving inwards

back inside again

“Seems like a trap, doesn’t it?”

rhetoric:

the face value commodity today

not on the menu

the journey outside of eye’s sight

and nonspace of the mind

shredded senses transcended

the starting line moved up faster than the racers

words unwind, swimming in ink

still wet

unforget

I ask the man who mugged me, way south near forty-second street, if he has a name. Does he carry a gun? And what’s with the horns that never stopped traffic even once? Maybe he keeps to the alleyways, this possibly nameless minotaur man. Looking five ways before crossing, fighting through the urban underbrush, he sees his fathers staring out from pooling drainage water. I could be lying of course, but my mother told me to know your exits, to keep a compass in your cap and the truth in your intestines. I get up my courage to ask him: where is the bridge out of the city? But this type of man never admits

his hinges swing more than one way. This type may not know if they do.

Underneath the streetlight he licked his pointed fingertips and they shone as he brushed air pockets aside. But his hands were dry around my neck, thud-ding softly on my earlobes. Fingers, his fingers said as they reached into my mouth. Nod slowly, said his head, understand. His hinges swung both ways, taking and leaving. He slung my bag over his shoulder, as if to say goodbye, but I turned first and walked away, trying to sway in that way, that way of not trying, really. As if I was striding through the forest, fleeing some specter, and

always expecting it to appear up ahead.

Fighting through the tangle of streetlights, I conceded to bringing a stranger home. Someone to watch while I ciphered my journal, someone with no horns at all who belonged on a suede couch. Our caresses hiding under a blanket, the way couples at high school parties do it. I mean those girls who never liked the way they looked, for whom love was searching: for the post office they had

been to once before, months ago.

There is a death here. I can smell it on the page, in the wall, wafting from the sidewalk cracks. This is where it is supposed to be. Not gored to death by mi-notaur horns, but expiring slowly, a story told by the hollow whoosh of breath

in, breath out, then nothing.

Why am I here again, on forty-second street? Streetlight, do you remember me? Why did you bring me, with only this taut end of string in my hands and the water sloshing in my shoes? Maybe his name is Henry, or Titus. At first he’ll be unfriendly, but his voice will have that sound. No primal roar from the dark forest, but a fairy tale sound of little feet pattering, lips crushed together,

a car crash, the mew of a child.

Imagine, please, just for a second, us standing there in the daytime, so I can empty my mouth and get back my credit cards. Thank you for that, streetlight. Now we’re going for cocktails. Those horns of yours stuck in a lit-up doorway, laughter.

Biased Notions about “Wicked” Institutions and Never Trust a Journalist.

Question And I need to Know K. N. O. W. Yes or No

Did you or didn’t you throw that stink bomb at those crowded black jack and poker tables Filled with the random faces, Endlessly, hopefully gambling away food?

A large grin, And a bit of silence Is absolutely necessary for these kinds of situations.

Truth and knowledge, is not absolutely necessary for you, my dear. Your tradition teaches you to believe the opposite But my tradition rejects all tradition What is important is the concept of action A theoretical existence of the altruistic act That this world, this life Joy and Love all the endearing terms for whatever the fuck this is

Can exist and flourish without that goddamn casino

and without those bombs

Ideas may manifest physically Only first through the birth of idea

So yes, I did clear out that fucking room But it was not the I that did it The I was removed It is the we that should act out Against the forces that control and destroy lives It was the we that created this

So to give you the straightest answer I can, my dearIt’s a definite “yes and no”And hasta la vista, baby.

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Into my arms you

And maybe you’ll stop crying

Jason Puglionesi