HARD DIVINE
“few can appreciate music
so refined” 5.185 -- Zen Sand
Con/Jur/d                7/28/2026

.                for awhile
becoming

.              and it didn’t
matter; heh heh  (a dualism
joke) the kind

all scores are bound in time

so why does birdsong
carbreaks SCREACHING

BOOM CRASH  wala wala
shhhhhhhhhhh. (sh)

becoming everything
.                 becoming

first time, nature of recording
innit? becoming you know
with certainty, its not in the file
the headphones, the speak

ers, or tapes, or records or
instruments, insofar.           out(ed.)

of being, but once the body
is gone what do you hear

not a psycho thunderbreath
there is no psyche, no ology

just gravitational waves
depth and breadth endlessly
swallowing a trillion trillion

selfimportance. Well

if not BEING becoming
why did you come here?       inthe


place with sounds, like nowhere
else, even if you can’t hear
time breaks 
when you become
becoming; became

YOU

THE ODYSSEY (cliffs and spoilers)
Con/Jur/d, 7/29/2026

YOU WILL DIE; youthful indiscretion
die or be killed; don’t believe, something something, gods
despite promises; you will die
HOW modern; existentialism as vivisection a living singular 
sacrifice, sacrifice (no?) bigger; SACRIFICE!
The west’s modernity is such a fragile thing;
                                                   trashy hollow books
THEY live in the gap;never to be sealed
                                                   without
                                                     losing
                                               conscious
                                       

                                                                  ness

                                  SPLAT! SLURP! SLOSH!

onomatopoeia           all the way down
                                             ends crunch, crack

only; the living hear it

you lived; you will die

surprised; you admit to being already dead

DESPITE YOUR ADMISSION; you will die 

older now; they do it to your men
your dog; you kill them
they won’t be; waiting
sail off

                                                                                   the edge,

despite that, still making a big deal
even in death, were you ever alive?

                                                          DID THE POETS BREATHE LIFE INTO;

a hollow.

SPOILER!                                        ;you will die

Empty God
“In traditions  among  the humans 
before the empty god was
filled by clockwork
there was a strong animist counter 
to the progressive (wd tick/tock evn
mean? foaf says its a dogwhistle
when robots were circuits and gears
instead of FLESH; nts: EWWW)
tech fetishist’s fantasy of 
everyone becoming less and less

a generational generator where HU
mans, were living animals

                 becoming more and more
human/human until we become
indistinguishable from gods
now the mechanical pornographers
excitedly announce we are to become
less and less to better fit inside their
HYBRID marketing, to be the PONZ
for their I to wash away their 
bone_muscle_blood_breath”
Con/Jur/d, 7/22/2026

it's not losing our humanity
.           long gone. long gone
.           loss of intelligence
Bruno est, even intelligent
design presupposed, you
were more than this, 

.                                 this
posthumanism, transhumanism
now comes with  the IMPROVED
.                                 promise
we will be skilless
emotionless, less, less, joyless
meaningless, honorless, artless
(without empathy) sexless, even less
sufferless BUT WAIT! ageless

funless too, drugless, riskless
restless, soon fleshless

CAN YOU IMAGINE!?
.        less/less finally empty
all loveless

fed the minimum to fulfill (fill the em
                                                            pty
               hide the FACE) 
the minimal needs, fake fats, fake
sugars, chemically enhanced
to compensate for the baseless
homeless even when sheltered 
your thoughts, your desires
optimized and owned (c)
                        by someone else

how long did it take
for landfill_junkies 
to convince you would
                        be more than >

by being 

less and less <

Jelly Glitch (ekphrastic)
“the glitch is the jelly as the jelly is the glitch”
Con/Jur/d, 7/21/2026

CRUNCH/SQUISH 
                                                       
                             where did the sand come from?
                         what was once smooth, these rustdemons
                                  these techy/touchy bros absorb
                    the analog smooth
                                                  leave the crunchy grit
                                      would be funny, until you know
SOMEONE HURLS A BIG GLASS BALL
                         through the plate glass window
                              brings WD40 squishy to a sudden

SCRATCH (the squeakiness compressed)

                    cut/cut/cut

feels more and more
         the edges are softer, honeyed
         golden, the way Oshun likes it
         all 5 senses, not just the translated
         translation in zen sand of
             “eyes peeled / ears cocked” Really?

all we can say to 14 surgeries in 4 years

the woman who’s making our breakfast
in this little, out of the way, lakeside village
maybe more hamlet, soon, soon they’ll take away
                                  the postoffice
                                        just like the pennies
the absolute in the relative, the relative in the absolute
                          ZEN of SQUISH

surviving cancer twice, now making eggs 
and pancakes, discussing chemo like yesterday’s
 murmur of football 
                                flow/score

why did the barbarian come from the west?

SQUISH, SQUISH
                 slowly he turns
                                         SQUISH, SQUISH
there was a time when we could spend an afternoon

thinking, being, doing: GALOSHES IN MUD
                                   coming home jellied and jammed
                                   mud pies for the wedding (we meant it/
                                                               we still do)

now everyone’s surviving and overcoming
an age of life? an age of culture? a kalpa? A wearing down,

AGE AFTER AGE, ageist

the hedonists who once bent limbed climbed/jumped
defied Zeno’s spectrum DANCED/DANCED

HIGH HIGH HIGH
                      (the slippy slid/slide y people)

now confuse the crisp/crisp endlessly 
arising discreet, finger forward (forget the hand)
with fecundity, with generation, with creation

the porous punch of  Jellyroll Morton’s liquid keys
imposed on the drone boomboomboom
the breaking of the glass                                        CRASH
                                 with the infinite stickiness
                                         of this embodiness

now we indulge in recovery like
we’re addicted,

NO MORE

Soon enough Alive or Dead?
         

we will return to analog pareidolia

CRUNCH   /     SQUISH 

he..                                ...rs
                 
                    l
                  oo
                  ks
              back/back
             
             (ekphrastic)

Imagine
if you will, 
we’re on our way to set sail
                      and the navigator
                      is fumbling with his
                      his music app, to hear

SOME                            ROOTS
MUSIC
             hurling through the town
                     named CATO

Valerie June - Calling My Spirit, plays

and there is a long haired
wildchild, dressed in neon green
foolrobes, fresh from roadwork driving
a too small bicycle, doing jerk/jerk
wheelies trying to cross the roadwork

                                     atop his head are VR goggles
                                      while he listens/listens to music
only he can hear, until our eyes meet

she pulls past him
               we mouth in the midday
hot_junkfood_sun

                                  DID YOU HEAR THAT?

notes to a long gone hat and the once proud concavity on which it rode
Con/Jur/d, begun 7/12/2026 stopped dead  on the cemetery road while the local crows cawed

Apoet sent us a photo today
reminded us of you, the dis comfortable 
                                 p    lace u sit
        in the overlapping time-pools
                   washing against our now
We 
left the house too late
the motors were already at
                                           ROAR
         the church going cars
the lawnmowers, this Sunday’s
unplanned activity at the corner
house, with the flash/flash firetruck
ambulance, and  waiting stretcher

walking by before it filled 
on the way to wander 
              between
graves, old_big trees

back then
when you, stylishly outlined a skull
keeping excess sun from the light_let_in
jellied sockets, you didn't spend 
much time in cemeteries, 
                               only for rituals
like the time  at the Friday_night_dinner
.                     your concavity had everyone
swallow a bite of graveyard    dirt_PEBBLES
            in honor of                         PAPA G
after you'd found the abandoned
tombstones, behind the condos
on the hill overlooking Marin City/
Mill Valley

          where the G could be for Gede
or Gangsta depending on which
part of the forever_war the locals
were fighting, 
.                       your mount, your
   crown height saddle, 
didn't spend much time in 
monument parks, then since SF had
excised them, mostly clearing the dead
(the  Legion_of_honor skulduggery stories
                                      SHUDDER            )
in anticipation of clearing the     LIVING

the time, before he wandered into
                               display_case_kennels and
fed your MERCURY madmomma money, wanted 
to be your horse, 
                            and you rode
onto the same streets, the behatted
hippies and poets beat their feet

he was lost, a little forlorn
too much SUN, a space
not yet filled with sense
relying on grace, HOW 
                                  DANGEROUS!
And he climbed up the hill
following the interlocked 
           bubbles of fairies/ferrys/fair

very scandalous, half mad, looking for being 
finding only selling, on the hill
off of HAIGHT,  in the gutter
words_names                                   SPARKLED

 as empty as he was then, he still recognized
crushed gravestones, fragments of mourning
a re-lost city, noone  plaque_unworthy 
remembers,               remembers, remember?
the dead, perfect place for the digital
to take hold, ALL SURFACE

what depth there was rotted, removed
reliquaries relabeled as unknown ‘ritual’ objects	

you weren’t around then, different owner
less considered and crafted felt
the concave thought of function, not  FORM
or was it not form, WHEREVER! huh

when you first took over weren’t your legs 
studying Ogun  when they became
                                      your perambulator?

THE SPIRIT OF MECHANISM
AND BLOOD, THE KNIFE 
AND THE SACRIFICE

Do you remember how pleased the 
the_absence_maintaining_your_form
no that’s not it

what do you call it ? steed? Don’t use
CHAT GPT! we despair of what he
and they become. Unable to
DIFFERENTIATE

SCIENCE and tool, forgetting the gods were
here before the accretion of a SHELL

thinking they were a pearl, discovering
they were a miasma_stink_stunk_stank
its the separation you see, they claim
MIND/BODY from where you sit, obvious
innit? STERILE/FECUND
          is how the moderns live

stuck in this cycle thinking their machines
are eternal, not the fertile loam 
from which they grow, ANYHOW, anyways
wanted to tip you off, the world is brimming
with possibilities, yet wealth, mis_aquired 

POWER

are doing their best to occlude
the_raw majesty/tragedy

and if you don’t start training
your horse now, he will never
be able to compete, or

                               walk away

from the rigged steeple chase
of this peculiar_contradiction

of every_ING NOW.

we sing despite there being too much music to listen to, if you want to read and write and do the dishes, watch TV, do the other things you've been told are necessary to participate, to be enculturated, like bacteria, like raising a family chosen or biologic, or finding out what the Internet is about, smoke weed and wormwood, perform the necessary medical ablution before you return to you to your gods or ore mine the self-help books as if they'll ever touch the emptiness which is a feature not a flaw, the gap of you which reminds you, you’re not just a particle but a wave in the depth of an ocean stretching everywhere, everywhen at once, headphoned, vibrationed, impossible without your ancestral commons, machines remain deaf no matter how deep the trembling Kundalini shakeshake travels through matter, don’t forget, a synthesizer left looping beneath a fallen tree makes no sound if there is no-one to feel/hear it; NOW without letter or title who are you before stick hit stone?

Con/Jur/d on the 250th anniversary of a subterfuge labeled freedom

just there
the sound selected
by live creatures 
with undigitated ears
somewhere deeper than the cerebral 
cortex. you ‘hear’ it and something

answers

left of your heart
over the meteor blackened
proteins, past gravity wells 
roads elliptical and slingshotted
thru the BLACKHOLE
at the center, beyond theory
words are a joke

together, we sing.

mechanism 
Con/Jur/d, 6/21/26


mind/body the old fake 
yet, handy dualism, we
called the question of the flesh
(high on CRONENBERG)
those days of youth, remanded relics
still concurrent slip/slip streams
how, even unhealthy coughing, 
spitting, HACKING concerned heart
might stop

.               STOP
still, for all purposes, at least
from this angle, through 40 years
of rainbowed cut crystal prismatics
some belief in future immortality
years to learn, only NOW it lies

now, THE MECHANISMS
say my HRV has been low
for days, my cholesterol concerns
my French cardiologist, who
doesn't seem to perform doctoring
rather a particularly fearfactor informed
acrobatic statistic SPONSORED BY
9who else?), wants us to be afraid
to fear like he does, 
with another 20 years of practice
having left immortal-me in the past

this is my body/this is my brain

at first, we wanted to play along
one should resist the meddling of amateurs
the absence of healing, the doomsday
speculations of strangers

yesterday, we forgot to push
the floor button on the elevator, declared
THIS IS WHO WE ARE NOW
living here, going up or down
subject to mechanical habits, still
there is the one who watches
the one who the lablists, the engineers
call soul, the attention who attends
sees the auto in the matic, who sees the
one who pulls the lever, pushes the buttons
gates, gates the electrons, and pumps, pumps
this blood who laughs when we say it’s all
mechanism

LAUGHS harder when we 
knee-jerk, deny it.

.                                                

inalienable 
"the mistake was believing these rights belonged to you"
Con/Jur/d, 6/18/2026

we’ve forgotten the name of the minor 
BEAT, Jon? John? Cla…? Clark? Clarke?
we remember his class through the fog
of chemicals, newly introduced neurotransmitters
from donothing to doeverything, even carried
clove-cigarettes, although, yet, we did not

toe
toe
TOBACCO!

And from his chair, before the disability act
he proclaimed:
                         My life is divided by being alone
and wanting the company of others
                     by being with others and wanting
                     to be alone, getting these impulses
                     and situations to coincide (did he

misuse, situationship, or is this the 

                                    (((((((CURRENT)))))))

rewriting, rewiring the past, in the 80s we were bolder
less adjusted to propaganda, the makings of MARKETERS!

@250

this is how we feel, never before in the last
50, have so many seenthru, been seenby, without
their armature, naked like our grotesque emperors
stripped of their HOLLYWOOD, flaccid blathering

PEOPLE! THINGS! MURDER! CHRIST! 
THE CHILDREN! the CHILDREN!!!

(please, please for the sake of the children --
not their children, of course, OF COURSE!
OURS! ONE OF US! ONE OF US! One of!
ONE ONE ONE) doesn’t quiet the screaming

remember col. kurtz didn’t start out as the HORROR
he was just another empire garbageman, eliminating
obstacles to expansion, quietly picking up variations
that  dream/dreamed the same dream, but 

didn’t Kowtow Kill4 Corporate inclusion

THE WHITEEUROPEAN ORIGIN
the divineright of THE TRADING CO
the superiorbully, the flagfighter, the believers
in SANTACLAUSE who will kill to protect
his dirty white wig, his cherryflavored missiles
his dentures made from slaveteeth, his right
farfar right to convert, groom and enslave
children, not by chain (unless necessary)
by fiat, BY FIAT! NOONE 
                                            everasks

who they are indebted to, what bodies
bulldozed and buried lies under
this plasticcard, or the electronic beep
transactioncompleted, signifying


SCREAM

for so long, this seeing through
was lonely, now crowded here
                                             (can't get a table)

people talking about doing the work
spiritual bypass, bound to the entanglements

( -- the bypass where we grew up was called 
the can o’ worms, remember much complexity
is just this

                 _NOTHING MORE_

now you need a machine to solve it --)

and we want to be alone so we can 

WELCOME 

you in. it was never this feeling

EXP:PLOS:IONS

a    re: jumpscares

our mother, our dogs, the vets who were our friends
despite their believing, who lived through

cowered and cried
while the rest of us, laugh and joy
because the redglare

                                                        THE REDGLARE

is not coming for us.


                                    Yet.

port timey / comes a loo
Con/Jur/d -- Discreet Koan Study

The Brown Album
skips 33 1/3 later, twists
straightens, we breathe out
remember we're going to
breathless, Port Timey

(we all do, otherwise
.                  faith covers
.                          the only
things of importance
.               great acts of evil
justified by a belief
              in your boring afterparty)

where arrogant assholes
phoneme all of time and space
leaving, the dregs

of matter for which we happily
reconstitute, world.        (S)
without end

weather control
Con/Jur/d, 6/18/2026

there's a tornado watch happening
climate change isn't just about
your right to diesel: forever chemicals
loss of NNNNrgy, just last week
twisted ankle, bit lip

had a long grey splinter
from the dock over too

STILL WATERS

embedded, drew out blood
life, maybe humans will
continue, the artifice of our stories

will collapse, civilization, money
private equity, the infernal hand
of the market, stilled

quiet 

not how to control
but how we meet it, we thought
when our biopsy was deferred
due to clerical error, a failure of capital
and the immense unbearable
pressure required to propup

the few

the challenge was understood
the gauntlet
                  was picked up
                  picked up

receiving 2 giftcards for $5
                   EACH

of Dunkin and gas

what is the sound of one 
gauntlet
             SMACK?

(poets like to pretend they control/
    BE
 / a simple subject of weather)

a great innocence
Con/Jur/d, June 2026

there's a story of a great innocence
imperfect, sure but an ideal we were
striving towards, aseptic  purity 
this beacon on the hill

where the monsters lived, so you, YOU
you, didn't need to, by casting a symbolic
vote, by taking that pill, by working
for, by being subservient to, by disrupting
to maintain this burden doesn't touch you
by internalizing the gaze, by becoming
THE MORAL SOCIOPATH, flexible 
and adaptive to this ideal, but never
other humans, independent supported
by Platonic networks of a separate truth 

a separate happiness

never directly experienced, always just out       
                                                                   HERE 
in a fake utopia, yet, HOPE as the game players
game, produces the best striving, while remaining

                                                compliant, patriotic
to an unachievable shore, and unknown
unachievable country, while right here 

right now, is all that was promised
the ungrantable, inalienable rights

we return to blamelessness, not by assuaged
invented/inverted sin, defined not by neighbor
by cohorted stranger, or as cotravelers returning 

                                               home

but by granting politician and priest sovereignty
over the only land you own

allowing their CEO, and shareholders to which
they answer to define the rules of engagement
the customs and laws of your COGNITION
your place in the great heaving genetic exchange
where your HEART your MIND lie embedded


creating all perceived gods, galaxies, good and evil
where you and THE OTHERS
here/now 
lucky enough 
                     to be incarnated

what was it like before you were born
and the insurmountable wall, the raptures

                              of this false innocence?

islands 
Con/Jur/d, 6/6/2026

you should provide islands, she said
give your readers a break, let them
know what the heck is going on, and 
this might be that, or rather that might

be this 

the breathing, fleshy island that is you
if you ain't breathing, you ain't understanding 
now don’t askabout clock time, it goes

IT GOES.



meant to learn Hamlet, instead wrote this

THE STORY
Con/Jur/d, 5/31/2026

the story this far:

we forget ignorance means lies. we

 and we're always returning, like the
time Michael McClure bummed a smoke 
or the time our brother asked

What have they done to you? 

we've broken so many times, it's why
we like Leary, he broke too, again and again
and never gave up, look,  we agree

to disagree, and we've forgotten more
truths than conversion will ever allow
why we aren't buddhists, thelemites
xians, preferring the ones like us 
who know addiction is always hyperbolic
all disease at it's root is a hypochondriac
neurosis is the body politic, not that it isn't
real, in the sense you mean it, don't you?

don't you? if not what are you doing?
pretending this. pretending that
try to hold on to it, and like the tree
frog you held too tight when you were

9

it died. it disappeared, and so will
this, ir, ir, irregardless 

of the linear, directioned story
thus far.

YOU are an adaptive field

before i forget
Con/Jur/d, 5/24/26

not all cancer comes from cigarettes
and it is not your job to be an ideal
patient, to do everything in your power

to live

for ever and ever and ever and evA

NO. you are just travelling through
when asked who you are, what's your
purpose here, after the obligatory

I DON'T KNOW

say, to live the best, with the time

.                                          i have

this morning, we realized how far away
our father's garbage eggs were, made
the last day at the fishing camp, with
a leftover onion, pepper and pizza slices

.                            (stiff as cardboard)

in a well seasoned cast iron pan

how we craved this taste for years
.       how now we don’t maintain
.       our cast iron, how long it’s been    since
.      we  slept in the hard, rocky
.                     bear’s family room
.       never having fought fires in the
.       Sierras, choosing instead
.                         flight instead of fight

mainly though
we forget

you made it
Con/Jur/d, 5/17/2026

you made it, finally
after rebirth, and rebirth, and rebirth
you stumbled in, did the work
embraced the truth, became the it
dropped the id, because you’re
fundamental
.                   without you this
story, this world doesn't happen

GET IT?

you're special, your god, your gender
your finances, your country, your
family, your ancestors, are building
blocks for this perfect, this ultimate
you; you had the correct addictions
you had the right amount of suffering
to forge, not break, this carefully
crafted now, all you went through
all you did, YOU deserve this

this NOW

closer to death than the now
before you understood that you
yes, YOU made it

now that you did
what will you do with this
precious, singular, IT?

taking the plums
and watching as little
Con/Jur/d after malapropism -- ai involuntarily edited text about an anime

She doesn't like plums
and says she's would never
study Zen, because
she doesn't like those people

“To me he's just some guy”
helped, we're sure our smart watch will
punish us for not sleeping last night

we've been here before
the all consuming fear, the preemptive
kundalini strike we called it
when we took this shit 
personally

the AI empowered autocorrect
is deranging our senses, as if the
nature of air has changed and
all our voices are heliumnated

riSING in pitch, making 
the undertones unintelligible, he
just makes up words? doneEE?

put an - other way, our communication
is curdled
 
both the reader and the writer are
hallucinating, this is a given for our
understanding of 
.                 SENDERS/RECEIVERS

now our mediums are hallucinating
scientists hire marketers, advertisers
staticians, algorithms, to prove 
the hypothesis IS FOR profit

as little

and we receive and in turn send
FOR: shits and giggles, as little
as babes agape at the chained
and bound MYSTERY

.               the greatest trick
the monotheists ever pulled
is to convince us
ONE GOD, could be tiedup
to all y’all, made to serve your
ambitions, on this spinning 

unripe, unplucked, tiny plum
of a planet, on the unfathomably 
large cosmic tree, convinced
our cruelty matters

tried to send this via text
the next morning
after launching early

FILLED WITH ANXIOUS

reviewed
 the hallucinating
medium through which it
passed had altered the message
 to read:

“Cool, so we’re taking 
the plums and watching 
as little”

after thoughts
like trails, stochastic strobing 
ill defined edges
.                         harder to see

the hallucination, years later
still regret a time, but they
are long/long
.                       GONE
.                        GONE

lost in past puddles when your life
know sweeps/sweeps
.                                 against

THE SHORE

they say
Con/Jur/d, ??/??/????

they say to become a poet 
you should read many/many
.                             poems
everyday, and we believe these
poems should be, good, not
.                            GREAT
great poems, can lay you low
for a lifetime
.                    we still dream
.                     of white
.                     chickens

beside the road, where the
BIG car barrels along
John screaming look
out where yr going
.                  
we say to read the truly
great poetry of you, sure

sure, imitate, it’s a muscle
after all, a generative organ
needing exercise, and borrow
(steal from other poets
.         real ones know we
.         own not a thing)
from the monks, learn how
to see the 10’000 of yourself

for yourself, yes, yes these
gods are yours alone

the yellow leaf falls

just for you, the squirrel
and the stranger with the
ill trained dog 
scuttling and shuffling
through brown/yellow/red piles
.                  are you too 

when you can write
we can say, this is me
this we; this motion
this self

will move 10’000                    and more.

what we've revealed to be true

discovering new neurotransmitters
theses subcultures of sound
we argue, only a chemist could make
this!  we're not addicted to a chemical
as much as a space, when  we said
we found beer could open the same door
once you found the key, you scoffed 

and sure, the ancestors, the spirits, the family
gods traveled over in the drums, hide, hid
hidden in the sugar cane, were revealed in
the rum, like something being said

and yes it does matter whose hands it
traveled through to get to you, never
badseed anyone, despite the garbage 
.                                                    that refuses
to compost

The Americans
WE THINK WE ALREADY POSTED THIS
but as we change systems/ ride the decay/
things can be confused

the brits, he says
have been doing this longer
they’re used to empire garbage
thinking their idea of exploitation
is civilization, what we can't abide

is the Americans who think
they're born individuated, merit
is an independent metric, whose
.                                         BASE

_____________________LINE
is slaughterhouse poverty, whose
best and brightest confuse cannibalism
with avoiding the abattoir, IT STINKS

they normalize becoming the ideal:
the idyllic idiot capitalist, agog, ideal
patriot, the ideal communist, the ideal
the bestest fascist the better northstar
antifascist, the murderer with style
THE IDEAL PSYCHOPATH, mother
father, sisterbrother and brothersister
and if it's merited PORNSTAR, godfeared
on the outside, HOT HOT HOT 
.                        (inside) mmmmmmmm
the ideal: man and his responses, the ideal 
womn, the ideal notman, the ideal 
worker, the ideal owner, the ideal divergent
ubermensch, without history, and certainly
far, far away from herstory, as long as
you follow the hero’s journey, are in recovery
are diagnosble, adhere to the spectrum
choose the popular statistically significant
disease of unknown origin, solely a result
of genetics, life style choices, ideal DEATH
does not come announced, it comes from
a lifetime of poor choices, YOUR
responsibility, you could have become

 the idolized eater of dregs, be
THE BEST at what you do, don't waste
your potential, become your merit

without exception
become after a life time of normalization

THE BEST PATIENT

leave not a ripple, when you go
your individual actions, acknowledge 
and judged by a checklistgod

gone, gone 

gang aft agley
Con/Jur/d, 1:52 AM 5/9/26

awry, a knot, the tree
.          full o crows
black against the seeing sun

the others bike away
insect song rises
struck by loneliness

a hammerfalls, if only
.                        NOW

renew the blackhole
the deadsun, the thunderblast
sheetlightning as the echo

of the original motion
to communicate

.                         we
sometimes feel like any
interaction is to meet a likeminded

sentience, with a new language

a newing

ING, ING we croak until
we understand, this is the same
think, same thing

The Americans
Con/Jur/d, 5/?/2026
after Phil commented we seemed angry

the brits, he says
have been doing this longer
they’re used to empire garbage
thinking their idea of exploitation
is civilization, what we can't abide

is the Americans who think
they're born individuated, merit
is an independent metric, whose
.                                         BASE

_____________________LINE
is slaughterhouse poverty, whose
best and brightest confuse cannibalism
with avoiding the abattoir, IT STINKS

they normalize becoming the ideal:
the idyllic idiot capitalist, agog, ideal
patriot, the ideal communist, the ideal
the bestest fascist the better northstar
antifascist, the murderer with style
THE IDEAL PSYCHOPATH, mother
father, sisterbrother and brothersister
and if it's merited PORNSTAR, godfeared
on the outside, HOT HOT HOT 
.                        (inside) mmmmmmmm
the ideal: man and his responses, the ideal 
womn, the ideal notman, the ideal 
worker, the ideal owner, the ideal divergent
ubermensch, without history, and certainly
far, far away from herstory, as long as
you follow the hero’s journey, are in recovery
are diagnosable (provide machinable metrics)
, adhere to the spectrum
choose the popular statistically significant
disease of unknown origin, solely a result
of genetics, life style choices, ideal DEATH
does not come announced, it comes from
a lifetime of poor choices, YOUR
responsibility, you could have become

      the idolized eater of dregs, be
THE BEST at what you do, don't waste
your potential, become your merit

without exception
become after a life time of normalization

THE BEST PATIENT

leave not a ripple, when you go
your individual actions, acknowledge 
and judged by a checklistgod

gone, gone 

How you approach what's left
Con/Jur/d sometime in april ; the one phil called angry

if you have never
been reduced to rubble
choked on dust, metallic
dry mouth, heard the planes
wondered what the ping/ping
bang/bang was, before

.                  ALL.         DEAD

dealt in unsavory, trying
to feed, self, children
seen a fleshed absence
where moments before was
vital presence, wondered 
if this, the lies, the expulsion

ARE WORTH 

greeted the cop inside with revulsion
 and, reluctantly, a hug, been
stunned by your own stupidity
.   nausea at your culture’s
normative violation, undiagnosable 
rage/sorrow at what they do
in your name

if not then,

WHEN IT HAPPENS 

how will you
approach what remains?

THE HAUNT
Con/Jur/d, 4/8/2026
“sometimes think you purposely throw in a few lines here and there to confuse” Colm

The professor, the one who married his best grad
       their university perambulations were scored
                               with whispers
chose a judasgoat-student, to begin intro to post-modernism
the ask: What is your middlename? [        ] WRONG!
              it’s CONFUSION It's where we start
                     (we see it as a scale of armor
                            lost in the daily noble grind
                                 lets the spirits of your enculturated armor       out)
or the TRUTH, what da
      buddhists in english 
                       call delusion
      

sometimes, on a cloudy morning
in San Francisco, (saw it in Buffalo
once too with an opium/hash pipe at 5 AM, at piny/wet docks 
near Kenai cannery before the sliming began, once by steam 
from a fresh cup of cheap coffee with a clove cigarettee
outside the youth hostel in the converted army base
By the marshy briny beach 
in Heidelberg, but was too young to know 
if it was by spirit of plant or place) if you blew tobacco smoke
toward the Brugmansia, standing before first the concrete 
    step by
           the invasive English Ivy covering
                  wall/fence to the right (a rental
                     for  hopeful newcomers
                         trying to make it -- in the SANCTUARY CITY
                FOR THE RICH as the graffiti on the sidewalk
                                  near FOLSOM and SIXTH whispers its 
              perambulators only message)
     on the left were the metal chairs (too
cold/damp to sit) and the fresh americanspirit
if we were flush, or a hand roll if we were
skint, thick, first thing resinous, the tarry
reboot to peaceful reflection, operational
certainty, before the days events convinced
you the entire world was rushing/rushing
           madly/blindly/stupidly
          :toward:toward:toward: BLOODY utopia
              (The stone Xochipilli living on the concrete
                running beneath the first floor, library          
                sitting room, between the little backyard
                lot, Honeysuckle and wooden stairs, once
                      OUT OF HIS BLIND HOLLOW EYES
                     while juggling the phen-ethyl-amine rings 
-10 mg-
                of  4-bromo-2,5-dimethoxyphenethylamine
                explained Maslow’s pyramid was the same
                pyramid with rivers of blood, in his day, when
                  THE IDIOT PRIESTS got literal
                hierarchies, are fodder for gods never arriving
                      STONED (any god worth paying attention to
                        is already here))
worth REMEMBERING 
          even out of state with the gentle tobacco spirit
                                                                HAPPINESS
                       only starts, continues or ends
                        HERE, at this moment, 
                                  IT MOVES WITH YOU
                        wherever you GO
             

smoke/ spirit detector 
         
would outline a GHOST
           a form not of faces, fingers, tentacles or   
                 batwings or mushroom clouds
                  although, those can happen too, 
                  MEMORIES in gestalt
                  as real as we’re real
  
seemingly solid
     They can blind us / bind us
      to the orange cat who 
       twined about our feet
     of the promise of coffee brewing, mostly to 
       the SILENT something, we pretend is
     NOTHING, because its beauty will crush us

    THERE! THERE! 
               
                    You can see it there! If you let
                     confusion wash over you, abandon
                      meaning as a transient betrayer
                      THERE  outlined in memories
                      of mixed solids and gases, a lazy 
                      manifestation of breath
                 
IN/                                                 / NOW/                       /OUT

Did you see it?

Don’t be afraid of doing the work
4/7/2026, Con/Jur/d

How man times 
must we learn the same lesson
change your music change your life

Change your silence change your

LIVES

The terms of your day, night, life
Con/Jur/d, 4/6/2026

“The following … offers a brief meditation on 
the concept of the score as a condition of possibility 
(a necessary condition) for an intermedial work to exist.”
Hanna B. Hölling, from Unpacking the Score: 
Notes on the Material Legacy of Intermediality
Issue 51: ONCURATING: https://www.on-curating.org/issue-51-reader/unpacking-the-score-notes-on-the-material-legacy-of-intermediality.html retrieved 4/6/2026 


HEY YOU! we call out, CAN WE GET A SCORE?  

HEY DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?
WHY NOW? WHY ME? DID WE ASK FOR THIS
INTRUSION?

(seeing we successfully dodged the thrown shoes)

HOLD ON! 

-- sound of rummaging from the open window
it’s about 3 am, and we had run 
out of cocaine, and were trying to reboot
the temporarily deadened synapsis, above
below the dark/dark wooden eaves come
comic sounds of a single bark, a single meow
and a single elephant trumpet interspersed and
punctuating what could have been a broken clock
performance of 4′33, crickets, distant cars and
a chorus of WHOOP WHOOP substituting for
the unpacked instruments, while out of the window’s maw
drawers being forcefully opened/closed, with a faere
tinkling of broken glass, the head reappears
partially covered in discarded unisex undergarments
holding a scroll like page, you know with certainty
is vellum, although you have no idea what vellum
is or may be

HERE IS SOMETHING IF YOU WANT IT?!

We check each others bloodshots 
and knowing the bars in this hood
are soon closing, and the suspended 
late night awake but dream timing is about
to be interrupted by drunks and other 
acquaintances, we nod, to THE NARRATOR
(no one else wanted the role) to whom
we appear to be fish rolling in a preindustrial river
the streetlights glinting off our sweaty exposed
and metal studs, assorted earrings and buttons
with band names and pseudo anarchists slogans

OKAY!

{clears throat}

FROM NOW ON, (Dave groans, Todd shushes him)

A police car drives by, slows, sees who it is
and continues on, THE Narrator continues
at a normalized volume:

treat everything as a conversation, that started pre-
birth and will continue post death, for the rest
of your life, you will  always be walking in on
listening in on,  as if you are in the middle of,
THE REALITY MONOLOGUE, the I am
the first-person singular, knowing its reasons
were explained and codified long, long ago, before
your ancestors, Homo sapiens and Neanderthals
before dinosaurs, before fungi, before the whirling
of hydrocarbons and the pools, never be repeated
INSTRUCTIONLESS YOU MUST live your life
as the ongoing experiment it already is
(Mike the scientists gives a thumbs up)
just acknowledged, be honest about it folks…

REMEMBER 
you are the emptiness
through which this  stream of conscious
flows, the idea of a hypothesis or a story
that will make sense of this, give it meaning
does not exist, cannot exist
HOWEVER, this is conditional
on making new hypothesis, performing
the experiment, testing and gathering
the results, when you stop it all stops!

there is a rustling, and he shouts, GOOD?

We look at each other and you say,

WAIT! That isn’t poetry

The Narrator scoffs, looks back and forth
across our collected heads, the milling
of bodies, improbably, arranged outside 
THE WINDOW of a million possible
windows,  in the middle of the night
in a tar and garbage smelling urbanity,
before the distributed/digitized BRIGHT/BRIGHT 
lights, after, the switch from gas, 
in the lull between boss battles
pausing mass murder as a business strategy, 
and an actor as president was still a novelty
not a prerequisite and NARRATOR says, quietly
yet, we could hear in the silence within t
row houses canyon

What is these days?

SLAM

and with the shaking of glass, the sound of
drunken voices, echoes increasing in 
volume, someone calling our names?

we knew the score, and 
needed to play it.

Gentle, the spring rain falls past crackling ideation
Con/Jur/d, 4/5/2026

Pork cracklings are a wonderful diagnosis
to answer, your question, mostly we try, and try
and try to understand our Stockholm syndrome
the conditions for our release, what belongs
to us, what shards of culture slop, empire blood
has lodged itself in our body, a diagnosis for what

you may ask yourself,
                                   (we’re always hiding)
a new makeup for an old mask? How much
did we miss the birds, during winter doldrums
a mentor and a friend, once said

NO, dromology is the study of speed, not the


                           VIEW

from 10’000, feet -- Embarrassed, flushed to the core
we had looked it up, where? maybe, a dream
during glymphatic clearance, although 
with the garbage each of us has to process
a Sisyphean task, Camus labors, not the 
grecian justification for how slaves were treated

-- you think you got it bad? at least not forever

BACK TO WORK!

this is how it is for us, what began 
       as reflection, on our, our ganglia
            WAKING up
              at the riot of birds in
                                  warm spring
                                               rains

on a stolen holy day, with forgotten
tributes to the genocidal Aztecs
tributes to rutting and  fucking, signifying Leporidae
tributes to mountain gods, who extracted

sacrifices, through misadventure, or herd thinning
   then just spill the blood, slit the throat gently
                               better than < or >
           fear frozen predation? Zarathustra says so

an exclusionary holy day (CHANGE TO HOLIDAY)
     of salvation hoarding
      although a great source of fine horror stories
                     removed as we are
                                   
INSTEAD, [thematically] the weaponization 
of convenience, comfort, culturalization
how diagnosis trims the self, neatly,
fitting us up:

“each according to his ability, 
to each according to his needs”

DECODED: when dealing
with a large number of human resources
and to reduce wordiness, it helps to know
ahead of time the size of the coffin or urn
required:

“it used to be you grabbed a notebook
and a pen, if desperate, a knife and nicked
a quick quill and wrote:

                                  the chorus of birds
                                  move closer than before
                                  to hear spring rain

now our wrist buzzes, reminding us to
meditate, the wordprocessor needs to update
have been told rain is starting 6 times
this morning, the instant pot is cooking 
beans for a family gathering, at this age
the seasonal Spring energy will not lead
to Fall babies, bombs are falling, hospitals
children are being sacrificed over a 
land dispute, the most honest emperor
says *yes, I’m naked! So what?*
proudly displays his McDonald’s folds

the teeth clench: unclench

always using tooth metaphors? 
like grind, clench, lock, our AI can help.

not interested in using your AI, just 
a thesaur…

              maybe you're a bird? 

what? pretending to have teeth

WHAT THE ACTUAL FU…

PLEASE WAIT WHILE WE REBOOT

the rain”

In the spring, we tell the old stories again and again
Con/Jur/d, 4/4/2026

Spring has been too much 
all winter practiced being dead
forgot about the pain of rebirth
how suicides rise with the sap
don't blame those who are
trying to escape, the tomb 
is empty in modern parlance
because it’s prime real estate
a perfect starter home,
there will be condos on the hill
Bernard now looks like a prophet
who believed in the resurrection, 
and  the punishment saying heaven 
was wishy-washy belief bullshit, 
intuiting 40 years ago
how many Americans would 
practice, an unbreakable
faith in hell, yet, skeptical of the grace
Tim was murmuring Kierkegaard 
Bernard, running low on cocaine
spat out the word, EXISTENTIALISM 
in his thick John da Baptist
Norwegian accent, his  warm van
wrapped us in fish, stale beer
yeasty men, brought to mind
the allegory of the bird
flying through the ancestral
Viking lodge, the hope of Christ
escaping into the cold beyond
sans furs, family, or the retreat to Normandy

THINK  you know something about suffering
about the shape of this thing, this life?
do you? Jack his buddy, met and bonded
in the Alaskan PTSD self-medicating
underground, after each of their wars
ended officially, leaving their gyri with
endless skirmishes and adrenal 
GABAgeric loops, 
tried to steady him, grabbed
a shoulder - I was sent over as a farming
consultant, agriculturist, he said, lived, ate with  
                                             those people
fooled around, planted, drank, smoked
compared, contrasted methods, and 
                 one day a voice over the static
tells me, tells me, someone or someones 
is Vietcong 
and I don’t know who was, who is, who will
become who 
who pretends to like me,              plans
on killing me
                    false drinkers!, false
laughter, the seeds sprout lies!
                                           FALSE
false friends, lovers
and it is  April when we should be planting, planning

we’re just picking and sharing
fruit from spilling from the jungle, sharing
                like we were all communists
                                    (the ones we’re here
                                          to fight)
and if they can behave this way, hard
                                      to ignore, to separate
                                         us and them

WE GREW THE BIGGEST RADISHES 
                                         YOU EVER SAW

and what a shame, you know
 someone was going to slit my throat, and
for a moment, nodding on some local
sap, considered going back
                  to being fertilizer, I couldn't
I couldn't, tell them apart, so i killed
them all, I KILLED THEM ALL!

he was shouting now and we ran  and ran
into the outlines of trees, air thick with 
mosquitoes, moose
   left Jack was hugging him, left snot 
and tears, undone by 
        bright  ALASKAN STARS
        
the aurora borealis threatens to take us
into the dark/dark, over the EDGE
       we can't fall off, Tim
               yells, stretching out his arms
                taking the position:

TO FALL
                                                TO FLY