Etcetera’s Report

1.

The secret, too, is restless. It walks its confidence on a leash, drags its imperatives down crumbling sidewalks, knocks at certain doors. When I answer my own, the secret–without reason–slaps me in the eye with the pink belly of a fish, stabs me in the leg with the yellow stub of a pencil, proceeds to steal my only working watch, declares “Smoke is coming
out the chimney; water for tea is screaming on the hob; a few Bachs
and Beethovens are yawning deep d0wn below, hiding in their Castles.”

2.

Many brainy men, their unfortunate horrors,
have sought the secret’s whereabouts.
“Behind a wheelbarrow!–” one cried.
“Loaded on a catapult!– barked the next.
"Inside a toothpick!–” screamed another.
“Atop a flagpole!” replied one monk.
“Hanging from my clothesline” gasped the Pope
as (my dear God!) he waved from the gallows.

3.

“Octopus, Xylophone, Zebra,”

the secret whispers to my ear (quite ludicrously, I know)
as I press a frozen cut of cow against my inflated eye and

pray to a gnat.

4.

You can see how far I’ve come.

I sit outside.

On a cinderblock.

On a walnut.

On a thumbtack.

Pricked to death

But not defeated!–

Beside my neighbor’s dog

Who I’ve tied, most niftily,

To my uncle’s watering hose.

He sniffs at the green and red cactus for how it (ce cactus!–) holds
the sharp barbs and bristles that are all my thoughts: Battre le fer pendantqu’il est chaud! [Strike the iron while it’s cold]; Ce n’est
pas la mer à boire. [It’s not as if you have to drink the pond];
Prə-päst(ə)rəs n’est pas français. [Absurd isn’t camoflauge];
L’habit ne fait pas le moine. [The outfit doesn’t make the monk];
La sonnette a des oreilles pas des yeux. [The doorbell has ears
not eyes]; Prenez soin de votre soupe sinon de vos salades!
[Take care of your soup if not your salads] … then proceeds
[ce chien!–] to quench their crying, impossible thirsts with his urine.

5.

My phone rings twice, five minutes after midnight (verleumden).
When I pick up the receiver, I hear the secret mowing the grass,
trimming his lawn, pushing my yellow lawn mower which, of course,
a few weeks back (at gunpoint) along with a pair of clippers he robbed.

6.

Oh yes!–the feeling of slight unease, perhaps as Wittgenstein writes,
‘a squidish discomfort,’ being (as I might) between ten ferns and one hedgehog at nine or ten o'clock, chewing gum and watching the moon
from where it swings like a glow-in-the-dark yoyo that God hasn’t quite

figured out?

7.

Where are my shoelaces, where are my socks?

I ask the cafeteria cook,

have you delivered, have you delivered, have you delivered …

etcetera, etcetera

my desired breakfast of six penguins, three jokers
at the one diced hour of what was once zero dark.

8.

Where is the moon?

Beneath the cow.

Do you see?

8.

Oh yes!–the secret.

Its prophetical horses, chupacabras, yoyos …

Hold on, let me step over the bus.

9.

It’s kind of like when A falsely believes that he [Yeti’s Ass Hole] believes B when B* [P*resident’s **Bum **Fuck] confides, quite
plainly, quite simply, quite honestly–though not nearly apologetically enough–to **C* [who almost on par if not level with Captain Bonnaroo]

                                               *dot, dot, dot,*
                                            *etcetera, etcetera*

This C whom–in all caliginous actualities and those sharper boredoms of Kafka’s possible thumped, thrown, screwed, unzipped, dumb, slap-happy worlds–is A~MASKED; not B, not Y, not D, not E, not F, not J, not H, not i, not n, not S, not v, not X, not LMNOP, perhaps not T or U or r or K or L though Q
as well with Watt, as with Wittgenstein now rouse if not resurrect as those heartiest cadets if not candidates.

0.

Where was I? Oh!–with the secret? By the railroad yard. The shopping cart. The branded Barbie Doll (8 £). The blown-apart shopping bags, elementary report cards of a Mr. Sherlock and his factotum (Dr. Watson)
from which the wind births her next scarecrow. The beggar who flags
then halts then lags then labors then, most grizzly, bears himself into an Appalachian waltz with some fortune-teller’s bowling ball. The. The. The.

The engine neither will not nor will start?

1.

The unsteady easel belonging to Mr. E. Schiele
has been staked five times by three silver forks
to Hell’s train tracks by which Mr. Schiele (secret?)
desperately charges into his recurring nightmare
of my own eel-major sharp optic of the subliminal.

0

Schiele portably plants himself like a flattened eye-
lash before Ahab’s monomaniacal sailcloth, Schiele
who with Hume’s clown-hammer for lack of Homer’s
brush paints the nameless footprints of our darkest

oyster-cut dreams …

1.

And so its in view of our loosest teeth
of filched wisdom that we see the un-
recognized sobs and snivels of our con-
vulsive culture of (yeah) this one out-

standing vulture.

Anyways, yeah. Go ahead. Blink. There’s no golden link of Zelda
or chrome-black visa card to swipe as to the status of the secret:
there are no satisfying solutions, no sweet results, consolations.
No final soliloquies to endure in like a foliated rock. Just this year,
its merry–fuck-you-thrice–throat-chop from Five-Star[r]
Santa Klaus for which the COPS won’t bother, take pains–
you can forget it!–you can FORGET IT!) to embrace my meager inch-
meal last, ill respect, that being–as it was indubitably notarized in
the pyr[H]ric nest rhyme of Russian-Dolled papers; those given
Monarchs which I pinned, even marked with many most-much joy-
pumped Reebok exclamations but never (anseo) properly signed
for certain at 4:04 AM for those certain authorities sworn against
THOTH to so sloppily trace my poor, lost-boy frying pan-flattened,
scrambled silhouette with (tell me) their toothsome magic Eric Houdini stockpile(s) of cheap, gross, generic sidewalk chalk.

300

The secret marches like the desert fox,
Howling for how he–S has quite lit-
erally starved generations, rolling over
Slithering, Wordsworthian-like, beatnick
blanks and (another brick in the wall)
one of Ameri*Ka’s black-budget **time-
**machines, which is [JA!,* JA!, JA!]
a Nazi tank, reciting Yeats’

                         "The Second Coming,"

that which owing to these ridiculous sums and diabetic recip-
rocals {those close-calls and fifth-kind, eighth-type encounters
which are starting to leak out of that blue book [though
really brown] which refuses to be stapled and, that being,
has for a period of eons has been stuffed like a turkey filled

with paperclips.

if not fuck-we-are-totaled comeuppance of such time-travel could
be neither not the first nor the last, which is why for this secret

I am not Walt Whitman nor will I eat his cake but I stress the numinous, penultimate pen.

10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010
1010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010

The sky is an empty stone
street of Bushwick chef-
clouds and (yeah) Will-
iamsburg sheep-penguins.

{HAIKU}

In its padded house
The idiot rooster crows
For the Sun to punch the clock.

01. contraposes for 10.10.10

.