Reckon’s Neighborhood

Kinetic the interface nerve spreads restless kinetic words
re-discovered in the anguish of the anatomical skinny

How grotesque these modern months
how dreamily diabolical the monstrous methods and intimate stunts

When might everyday life be pieces of poetry, World Words?
When might it not?
Visual music wants to change the warsong framework of time
With re-pulsing literature flashing superbeams through pre-recorded walls

Hot honeyed in the installation room,Viewer:
you water songs looking at the many people mazed

In the glittering gutter slurping at the waterbank chain
humping at(o)ms trying to find a pulse

In the rape and pill age
rebuilding after hurricane

after hurricane

after hurricane.

Intuitive evidence mounts and what's in a name or breed of plant?
What's in the seemingly familiar mundane lurking about?

Long that hard chorus sneaks and stalks outside my windows hardly worried
about eternity earth or the rough lense of time

Mothering me it knows better from giving and oral story morals
Still, determined stones are living

Tho some know not why
the ground becomes sad music

Sadly dimming
when the air says rise wishes rise.

Chris Weige '07
From The Pulchritudinous Review
Ed:  Renee Zepeda

Sexy social energies in the language influence ancestors who influence who we might be who shape the place with possibility and experience. Enormous systems spring forth anonymous faces with maps and avatars engaging sources and memes like johnny's apple seed. This is now another landscape because of ideas The process disciplines the complex work.

Street mattresses follow pedestrians
on the far side of the lime green trees

The film dreams magic nurses
outfitted blue wading in the rainwater

Such humane desires
(the animal felt forbidden)

In the windows in the moonlit
obsessive horse

Sex bodies saved themselves for the happiest hands,
metaphors moved vehicles through towns in the middle of forests rigorously recorded,

Hypnotic swells of the Pacific becoming (that animal)
Call it Love, call it a plethora in the dark, distant alit mountain...

From The Pulchritudinous Review No.1
Ed:  Renee Zepeda

Chris Weige / 07 / Austin / TX