I've blown out my third eye again
chakras collided
lined up against the small of my big intestine
who said congestion?
they were all headed in the same direction
trying to go through the door on time
and got caught
the web held them briefly
concatenated messages
no dropped packets
hurtling through the DMZ
smashing the graying firewall
widening the pipe
more more more!
all your lives flashed before me
then darkness
third eye closed for the rest of the season
and all those particles lying, twitching on my kitchen floor.
CHEAP SQUID TUNE
I like puppets but I'm not hit by waves
of nostalgia every time I bite into one
I'm like: Hello? That's a year's worth of
don't look at me like we'll never change
I'm so ripped I can stick needles in my arms
then stick needles in my needles' arms
I'm, like, a little squid, a sexy little squid!
of nostalgia every time I bite into one
I'm like: Hello? That's a year's worth of
don't look at me like we'll never change
I'm so ripped I can stick needles in my arms
then stick needles in my needles' arms
I'm, like, a little squid, a sexy little squid!
A reminder.
Golden Palace has tattooed me a record forty-nine times. Now I just sit here at this computer all day, never leaving, typing out pointless things because (1) I'm rich and (2) I look terrible with all the tattoos. Every few weeks though, the Golden Palace folks come by and drag me out to some event. They leash me up and get some guy to walk me around with a camera focused on… well whatever since I'm just a giant tattoo at this point. I'm not sure why they film me. I think they broadcast it to the internet or else beam it to space. I heard once from one of my Golden Palace tattoo buddies that they are involved in some heavy conspiracies to keep aliens from ever thinking about fucking with us and the tattooed people play a prominent role in accomplishing this goal.
Ontological Damnation.
Ontological Damnation.
Intellectual Property Patents will Stall the World
revolve right back into the wack-fucked primal fucking ooze
woman and donkey perform tango tiara
All that patriotic shit and they killed
The donkey, named Kitsch, with their
third World Child Oil/ Salt Substitute
A NJ postal worker was arrested after allegedly
giving secret tips about Video Strengthening Our Borders
woman and donkey perform tango tiara
All that patriotic shit and they killed
The donkey, named Kitsch, with their
third World Child Oil/ Salt Substitute
A NJ postal worker was arrested after allegedly
giving secret tips about Video Strengthening Our Borders
Saint Genet and Saint Euphrosyne
===============================================
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||from the Welcome to the homepages for
St.Aelred's Chapel
Sarum Episcopal (Old Catholic) Church
Mass at 11:00 AM Sundays
1757 North D Street
San Bernardino, CA
SUNDAY FEBRUARY 11
SIXTH SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME
St. Euphrosyne/Smaragdus (possible transvestite)
~~the above image of EuPhrosyne and Genet is a montage mounted by Son of Genet ~~. the text is from Our Lady of the Flowers _ by Genet naturally:
"But now I am afraid. The signs pursue me and I pursue them patiently. They are bent on destroying me. Didn't I see, on my way to court, seven sailors on the terrace of a cafe, questioning the stars through seven mugs of light beer as they sat around a table that perhaps turned; then, a messenger boy on a bicycle who was carrying a message from god to god, holding between his teeth, by the metal handle, a round, lighted lantern, the flame of which, as it reddened his face, also heated it? So pure a marvel that he was unaware of being a marvel. Circles and globes haunt me: oranges, Japanese billiard balls, Venetian lanterns, jugglers' hoops, the round ball of the goalkeeper who wears a jersey. I shall have to establish, to regulate, a whole internal astronomy. " (translated by ____a deadman_)
Interesting group they are: at
St.Aelred's Chapel
of the Sarum Episcopal Church
(Old Catholic)
and their beliefs
Affirming Sexual Orientation
Affirming Sexual Lifestyle
Welcoming People with HIV
Welcoming People in 12-Step Recovery
The Sarum Episcopal Church is a self-governing Catholic communion with Sacramental Orders from Old Catholic Bishops. The Sarum Episcopal Church is not affiliated with either the Roman Catholic Church or the Episcopal Church. The mission of the Sarum Episcopal Church is to gather communities of Christian People and to nurture them through worship, study and fellowship. This denomination affirms and supports Lesbian women, Gay men, Bisexual men and women, and all people regardless of sexual orientation. The Sarum Episcopal Church affirms and supports the right of all people to choose sexual lifestyles appropriate to their sexual orientation and the direction established for them by God. Welcome is extended to the families, relatives, friends and associates of all who may be Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual or of other sexual orientation. We offer a parish-based ministry in Catholic praxis. Our hope is to reconcile and restore the full participation of Gay men and Lesbian women in the life of the Church as once existed. (an interesting claim : i was not aware of this previously nor do I know anything about it)
AND THEIR PATRON :
ST. AELRED OF RIEVAULX
"St.Aelred of Rievaulx is our patron saint. He was born at Hexham, Northumbria (West Yorkshire, England) in 1110 A.D. Aelred, as a very young and handsome man, served as the Steward to the Court of King David of Scotland (1130 to 1134 A.D.).
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||from the Welcome to the homepages for
St.Aelred's Chapel
Sarum Episcopal (Old Catholic) Church
Mass at 11:00 AM Sundays
1757 North D Street
San Bernardino, CA
and this Saint 's feast day is very soon. Is it a full moon?
SUNDAY FEBRUARY 11
SIXTH SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME
St. Euphrosyne/Smaragdus (possible transvestite)
~~the above image of EuPhrosyne and Genet is a montage mounted by Son of Genet ~~. the text is from Our Lady of the Flowers _ by Genet naturally:
"But now I am afraid. The signs pursue me and I pursue them patiently. They are bent on destroying me. Didn't I see, on my way to court, seven sailors on the terrace of a cafe, questioning the stars through seven mugs of light beer as they sat around a table that perhaps turned; then, a messenger boy on a bicycle who was carrying a message from god to god, holding between his teeth, by the metal handle, a round, lighted lantern, the flame of which, as it reddened his face, also heated it? So pure a marvel that he was unaware of being a marvel. Circles and globes haunt me: oranges, Japanese billiard balls, Venetian lanterns, jugglers' hoops, the round ball of the goalkeeper who wears a jersey. I shall have to establish, to regulate, a whole internal astronomy. " (translated by ____a deadman_)
Interesting group they are: at
St.Aelred's Chapel
of the Sarum Episcopal Church
(Old Catholic)
and their beliefs
Affirming Sexual Orientation
Affirming Sexual Lifestyle
Welcoming People with HIV
Welcoming People in 12-Step Recovery
The Sarum Episcopal Church is a self-governing Catholic communion with Sacramental Orders from Old Catholic Bishops. The Sarum Episcopal Church is not affiliated with either the Roman Catholic Church or the Episcopal Church. The mission of the Sarum Episcopal Church is to gather communities of Christian People and to nurture them through worship, study and fellowship. This denomination affirms and supports Lesbian women, Gay men, Bisexual men and women, and all people regardless of sexual orientation. The Sarum Episcopal Church affirms and supports the right of all people to choose sexual lifestyles appropriate to their sexual orientation and the direction established for them by God. Welcome is extended to the families, relatives, friends and associates of all who may be Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual or of other sexual orientation. We offer a parish-based ministry in Catholic praxis. Our hope is to reconcile and restore the full participation of Gay men and Lesbian women in the life of the Church as once existed. (an interesting claim : i was not aware of this previously nor do I know anything about it)
AND THEIR PATRON :
ST. AELRED OF RIEVAULX
"St.Aelred of Rievaulx is our patron saint. He was born at Hexham, Northumbria (West Yorkshire, England) in 1110 A.D. Aelred, as a very young and handsome man, served as the Steward to the Court of King David of Scotland (1130 to 1134 A.D.).
He aroused jealousy on the part of King David's knights brcause he was so close to the king. He entered the Cistercian Order of monks in 1134 A.D. at Rievaulx Abby. ... Believed in Jesus Christ... as Second Person of God. A fiction, legal or not, of theology. but what a wonderous fictive!
a geotheologogogy
oN THE OTHER HAND:
In our (THE GREAT EDITORIAL WE)view Jesus like us, is atheist and orphan. His father, once God, is deceased, and as in the text of Novalis he tells his apostles and friends he no longer has a father. You are my fathers and mothers, you are my orphan unconscious.
Now he is atheist. As god has become many.. ie. the invention of god follows from the eternal return, eternal as the many and le multiple and the poetic ensemble Nietzsche's Daughter; Who was Niezsche's Daughter, apart from the name of apoetic ensemble a machine asemblage of music and poetry, it was a metaphor of description of truth, __ we arell Nietzsche's Daugther. I said this in 1987-6.
---------------------
So sweet Jesu we love you and our Saints.
of a new Genesis and Icon ography of lovers and many sexed saints, as you understand a power greater than yourself.
genesis
Sabbath genesis And on the seventh day god rested saying
Let there be deleuze and there was Guattari
aberrant Guattari
and her mother Mona Mother
Mona of the clothes and snows staring, staring there at the calender of space/
some period straining at her bit. the theological period rounded in the plateaus of Mister Guattari's mother, and her endless performances
and that was the fifth day ,
and the 34th plateau of their leaves in the telling of their riddles
and the quag mire hoofed
played the sunny day parlaying in the aporia of kitches
and rain sin the great,
the truly great deterritorialized spaces
Above the Repressed
America O America O Canada
not Caliban
kNot ban ban not ban NotBeula land
Of the bliss making trees
and the rhizome rattle roll
and the rocketed scientist show
of the simple rhymed love of the stave down stage
and the stare crossed body without organs
of the moutain and the chinee
and the simple chinned suave of the thing thing
thing there it's all whirly pearly wooh
flagrant as the flute you
play into our music
Mona do you play music, and she, Jill
was it her name? said
I play flute
2.
She play foot whilst chasin a welfare check hangin at the food bank knowing the capitalist ecnomny flows from eating out the hungry and spitting out the rich, a diggers society if ever there was one. she play the flute hanging at the food bank, watching the rich get deadlier and the poor mangier. what same of flood is this? what deluge of massacre and mayhem, sticking and stinking their noses in somebody else`s business, while climbing mountain and walking off ledging jumping from helicopter and ballasting off jets.
Mona knew she was never a solider but a mother , a mother of rearing and reading as it worked in the call of parents and loves.
___________
this from the fictions series. its older and being recast
Poetry is a way of life. Make yer own bloody body without organs. We are difference engineers, ok?
________
More later, good book!
Each day yer diction creases, the gold and fold ing drapery
of
.
Let there be deleuze and there was Guattari
aberrant Guattari
and her mother Mona Mother
Mona of the clothes and snows staring, staring there at the calender of space/
some period straining at her bit. the theological period rounded in the plateaus of Mister Guattari's mother, and her endless performances
and that was the fifth day ,
and the 34th plateau of their leaves in the telling of their riddles
and the quag mire hoofed
played the sunny day parlaying in the aporia of kitches
and rain sin the great,
the truly great deterritorialized spaces
Above the Repressed
America O America O Canada
not Caliban
kNot ban ban not ban NotBeula land
Of the bliss making trees
and the rhizome rattle roll
and the rocketed scientist show
of the simple rhymed love of the stave down stage
and the stare crossed body without organs
of the moutain and the chinee
and the simple chinned suave of the thing thing
thing there it's all whirly pearly wooh
flagrant as the flute you
play into our music
Mona do you play music, and she, Jill
was it her name? said
I play flute
2.
She play foot whilst chasin a welfare check hangin at the food bank knowing the capitalist ecnomny flows from eating out the hungry and spitting out the rich, a diggers society if ever there was one. she play the flute hanging at the food bank, watching the rich get deadlier and the poor mangier. what same of flood is this? what deluge of massacre and mayhem, sticking and stinking their noses in somebody else`s business, while climbing mountain and walking off ledging jumping from helicopter and ballasting off jets.
Mona knew she was never a solider but a mother , a mother of rearing and reading as it worked in the call of parents and loves.
___________
this from the fictions series. its older and being recast
Poetry is a way of life. Make yer own bloody body without organs. We are difference engineers, ok?
________
More later, good book!
Each day yer diction creases, the gold and fold ing drapery
of
.
oLD mAN and dOG
He gets on the bus with great effort, the thrombosis in his legs causing numbness where pain should be. He asks for a cigarette, should I have one to spare, as he is on his way to the courthouse, he says, to pick strays and half-smoked ones from the sandbox by the doors. His face is a litany of red lines and scratches, left behind, no doubt, after a night spent struggling to keep his legs warm, poached in a wicker of nettles and thorns. They bite my legs, he says, the ants and other bugs and sometimes a rat trying to get at dead skin. I worry they’ll eat their way into my leg, then I’ll need to go to the hospital for a new one or one made from screws and wood. They gave me this thing, he says, pointing at the walker, so as I could get round to the Mission for meals and a card game and such. One of the wheels is choused to the rim, the other worn through, spays of rubber gray as marrowbone. I smile and offer him an unsmoked cigarette; a sad happiness in his eyes that is unbearable beyond words. His life is subcutaneous, nothing living above bone and tendon. No burning sensation or itching, no lice scrabbling, infesting, the yellow skein of his legs, legs gone numb and palsied with grief and bad luck. Better to have lost all feeling than to be at odds with the constant maintenance of toes, shins and knee cups. Better to have no feeling at all, from head to toe, than to smoke half-strays with filter ends stained brown with someone else’s salver and good luck. I had a dog, he says, till it got run over by a car, not a brain in its damn head, poor thing. Always running in and out of traffic like a dervish looking for God knows what. Least when he was around I didn’t need worry ‘bout having my belongings taken away from me, he saw to that, smart, he was, having no brain as he did. He looks out into the road, at the traffic stopped up at the lights, and smiles, stupid, sure, but smarter than you’d think. He knew how to tell when the lights had changed, and when to nudge me into the crosswalk. He could tell what time it was, or when it was gonna rain, the way he shifted his weight from one leg to the other like it was time to go. He could even sniff out smokes for me, some with more than half left. Smart in that way, but dumb as hell when it came to cars and traffic. I sat two seats away from him on the bus, not wanting to see the sad happiness in his eyes, or think of the dog running in traffic, or legs without feeling, rats eating down to bone.
You understand, don’t you, I’m not like you, she said. Yes, we share things, but only those that are common, nothing more. We both shit and eat, sleep and wake, fuck and eat and shit and sleep and stay awake long into the night trembling with cold and bitter memories. That’s all; that’s all we share; all we have in common, nothing else. Beyond those basic shared human functions, animal functions, actions, we share nothing, nothing more. We are different, distinct, but indifferent in only those things, those vatic human needs, those things and actions and functions that we all share and have, together, as one human system, a functionality, nothing more. Beyond that we are not the same, but different, distinct and without measure, two separate things, entities that exist as nothing more than the difference between the two: you and I, it and that, him and her. I clacked my tongue against her cheek, below the bone, and ran it into the seam of her mouth, warm, pulpy, wet, glossed with her own tongue, washed into the spaces between her teeth, diamonds, ivory, hard Etruscan bone. When we fuck, I said, there is no difference, no distinction, we are of the same measure, a cloth cut from the same bolt; and that, yes, that is the difference between you and I, I need the difference, you see the difference, but never need it. We fucked, hard, until the skin leavened from out backs, her stomach pressed into the couch of my ribs, Adam and Eve, fruitless and at ease, fucking like two animals, the difference immeasurable, but there just the same, constant and holding, inseparable. The beast with two backs, blushed, reddened with sameness, indifference and functionality. Our bodies’ pulp cut close to the stone, deep through to the centre where there is no difference, only soft, succulent wet fruit.
You understand, don’t you, I’m not like you, she said. Yes, we share things, but only those that are common, nothing more. We both shit and eat, sleep and wake, fuck and eat and shit and sleep and stay awake long into the night trembling with cold and bitter memories. That’s all; that’s all we share; all we have in common, nothing else. Beyond those basic shared human functions, animal functions, actions, we share nothing, nothing more. We are different, distinct, but indifferent in only those things, those vatic human needs, those things and actions and functions that we all share and have, together, as one human system, a functionality, nothing more. Beyond that we are not the same, but different, distinct and without measure, two separate things, entities that exist as nothing more than the difference between the two: you and I, it and that, him and her. I clacked my tongue against her cheek, below the bone, and ran it into the seam of her mouth, warm, pulpy, wet, glossed with her own tongue, washed into the spaces between her teeth, diamonds, ivory, hard Etruscan bone. When we fuck, I said, there is no difference, no distinction, we are of the same measure, a cloth cut from the same bolt; and that, yes, that is the difference between you and I, I need the difference, you see the difference, but never need it. We fucked, hard, until the skin leavened from out backs, her stomach pressed into the couch of my ribs, Adam and Eve, fruitless and at ease, fucking like two animals, the difference immeasurable, but there just the same, constant and holding, inseparable. The beast with two backs, blushed, reddened with sameness, indifference and functionality. Our bodies’ pulp cut close to the stone, deep through to the centre where there is no difference, only soft, succulent wet fruit.
Haiku Hike
Haiku Hike
Here's news of a project taking place over this Summer:
HAIKU HIKE
Maybe some of you would like to share a walk - where you walked and a haiku though it doesn't have to have a haiku - any feelings the environment evoked etc - maybe even haibun... and pictures... or videos from you mobile phones... any kind of walk... not just in countryside... urban... anywhere...
Send your walks to me at:
little.onion@ntlworld.com
put haiku hike in the subject line... i'll get them to Tomomi
LO
Here's news of a project taking place over this Summer:
HAIKU HIKE
Maybe some of you would like to share a walk - where you walked and a haiku though it doesn't have to have a haiku - any feelings the environment evoked etc - maybe even haibun... and pictures... or videos from you mobile phones... any kind of walk... not just in countryside... urban... anywhere...
Send your walks to me at:
little.onion@ntlworld.com
put haiku hike in the subject line... i'll get them to Tomomi
LO
THE DOGS OF WAR PISS ON AN ALOOF DICKHEAD
You have assembled the claptrap
of "It might be said",
This is the purest anti-materialist
inherited structure of Tsardom
"WASP WAISTS AND MONKEY TAILS:
THE CODE OF POETRY, 772,
Haven't you figured that
out yet Blondie?
There's a wrench, and there's a monkey
all right, but there's nothing so patently
ridiculous as Father Jon
never shutting up about Hooters
I like a lovely miasma of
noises and poetry too
so also probably a bit
of a cynical romantic ;o) Ha!
Here’s a f**king dickhead
from nowhere phuck you guys
be a dickhead torturing Fred Durst
in a variety of ways for
five minutes with Butt Trumpet
of "It might be said",
This is the purest anti-materialist
inherited structure of Tsardom
"WASP WAISTS AND MONKEY TAILS:
THE CODE OF POETRY, 772,
Haven't you figured that
out yet Blondie?
There's a wrench, and there's a monkey
all right, but there's nothing so patently
ridiculous as Father Jon
never shutting up about Hooters
I like a lovely miasma of
noises and poetry too
so also probably a bit
of a cynical romantic ;o) Ha!
Here’s a f**king dickhead
from nowhere phuck you guys
be a dickhead torturing Fred Durst
in a variety of ways for
five minutes with Butt Trumpet
St Titille
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------La lèvre-----------------------Est-----------------------------Fuite-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Pluie de poudre----------------Givrée--------------------------Au cœur-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Sur l’affleur------------------La veine-----------------------Sera diamantifère--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Miel-------------------------A la caverne----------------------Luminescente---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Les soupirs percutés---------En reflets---------------Où miaule la jouissance--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Delhi - A Revisitation
It’s akin to visiting my foster mother, today,
That I am returning to you, mother city, after twenty years,
I look at your broad, bereft streets, mater,
Through which emperors, prime ministers cavalcaded,
In victory and defeat, through gates and triumphal arches,
That murmur of the pains of your rape and impregnation.
The sudden shock of your poverty upsets me,
It is evident in the desperation of the cycle-rickshaw puller,
His eyes intent on the ground, standing on his pedals,
He pulls his woes, as if there is no halcyon tomorrows.
Your grimy streets are dusty, high walled, impenetrable,
As if you wish to guard the gory secrets within.
Is this where histories, dynasties were made, and fallen?
A dynasty now rules by proxy the city of the great Akbar,
And a fratricide of a potentate now fills you with awe,
When you are the city of kingly fratricides and parricides.
Remember how Dara Shukoh was marched and beheaded, by his kin
In your own street of Chandni Chowk, of not long ago?
The secrets of the present and past mingle,
Where now stand glitzy malls, I know, blood had flowed,
In your dark corners soldiers, spies, princes plotted to kill,
You witnessed stoically the dethroning of emperor Shah Jehan,
And the ascendance of his wily progeny, Aurangazeb,
As you watched, your face covered in the folds of your veil.
Yet, now, mother city, your tears are dry, your sobs silent,
Slowly you die, spent and ravaged by your many lovers.
Though it is kitsch melodies that you hum today, you were once,
Serenaded by Tansen, and Amir Khushro Dehlavi,
In your parlor once, poets and artists did conclave,
Over the “daughter of grapes” and the smell of tobacco!
J
Pain Perception...
You believe
your pain
is the
deepest
of all the pains
I believe
my pain is
never
anywhere deep
than
other many pains
That
truly
is
my pain
your pain
is the
deepest
of all the pains
I believe
my pain is
never
anywhere deep
than
other many pains
That
truly
is
my pain
between what we do
In the nook behind the elbow, where a touch is prehistoric sign
as any inaudible murmur,
is the analysis of skin our forefathers directed
their passionate research on nature’s call,
hovered over by sparkly tinkerbell fairies.
Close to it are the lightest, softest hairs piqued
upon a kiss, is dampened by tangled words
spoken through a look, marrying desire in a white dress
with strands touching your body’s lines
spreading, never hesitating, never knowing
~~when, where, why or how,~~
like threads of love.
as any inaudible murmur,
is the analysis of skin our forefathers directed
their passionate research on nature’s call,
hovered over by sparkly tinkerbell fairies.
Close to it are the lightest, softest hairs piqued
upon a kiss, is dampened by tangled words
spoken through a look, marrying desire in a white dress
with strands touching your body’s lines
spreading, never hesitating, never knowing
~~when, where, why or how,~~
like threads of love.
Super-heroic
Yevgeni and Boris were sitting on the bench, just as they said the would be. I looked at my watch. 2:58. Damn, early again. They weren't talking. Perhaps they are like me, and only begin to act when the time strikes whatever time was agreed upon. But then, why were they sitting at the bench. Why weren't they hiding behind a bush like me?
We made the plans several minutes ago. We thought long and hard about the plans, that's why so much time passed in between making the plans and taking the actions outlined by the plan. When I first met Boris, I knew there would be plans. It was just a matter of finding that missing piece. That's when Yevgeni strolled out of the bathroom.
The American football game was on the television above the bar. I was drinking chocolate milk. The Laughing Vagina was the bar. It made the best chocolate milk this side of the town. The Colts and Steelers were playing. It was a silly game made sillier when laser-eyed bunnies and jumping-jacked monkeys attacked the players at half-time. I'm not sure why they attacked the players when their shared known nemesis was standing right there. The Colt! There was a scuffle behind me. As it turned out, Boris Yeltsin had just showed up.
I don't generally go backward in time. In fact, I've stopped at this very moment and begun going forward in time once again. I looked at my watch. 2:59. What the goddamn fuck!? You see? This is why you shouldn't spend much time going backward in time. When you do, an event that you have waited for all your life and is about to event itself upon you takes forever to event upon. I noticed that Yevgeni and Boris were talking though. So maybe my watch was just a minute slow.
"Yevgeni! Boris! How the hell are you?" They laughed at the pleasant tone in my voice. I don't speak with pleasant tones often. Nor do I paint my house with pleasant tones. I like subtlety. Yevgeni spoke first, "You are a minute late Jason, how come?" I knew he'd ask that question. He told me a few minutes ago that he would. Even if I weren't late. Wait, that's it. "I'm not late Yevgeni, and you know it." Boris slapped Yevgeni across the face. I did the same. I had won.
"So Boris. Now that we've executed our spectacular plan, do you think we can do something else?" Yevgeni, cheeks red from two slaps across the face seemed to think that was a good idea. You could see it in his feet. "Well, I hear the devil is making a visit sometime later today. The devil always does something wildly unpredictable that makes everyone either happy or sad." I knew the devil was coming and had hoped that Boris didn't. Those damn Russians, always wanting to get involved with the devil. I knew that if we did something with the devil, this re-telling of the day's events would take for-freaking-ever. I suggested something else, "How about cartwheels? The weather is perfect for it." Boris and Yevgeni sprung to their feet. "Cartwheels it is!" they screamed in unison.
She watched us through the whole encounter. The slap, the suggestion of bedevilment, the exclamation. That part startled her. Boris and Yevgeni really did scream quite loudly. It hurt my ears. Before we could make it to the open fields where cartwheels are allowed to be performed, she said our names. "Jason... Yevgeni... Boris... I can't believe it." It was a strange way to get our attention. I wondered to myself how she knew us, and then I wondered it out loud. "How do you know us?" She was obviously a very bashful woman. At my question, she pulled a large blanket from her purse and covered herself in it. "I don't know you, why would you think that?"
Boris and Yevgeni stood by my side for a few sentences of non-sensical conversation between myself and the lady. And then, just when we were starting to have an interesting discussion about the ramifications of the Wu-Tang Clan on Lindale Mall politics, they took off for the hills. That's where you do cartwheels if you don't do them in the open field. And when they reached the hills, instead of doing cartwheels, they did back flips. Sacrilege! They must be stopped.
Our blanketed lady also took offense too back flips in the cartwheel designated area and apparently, she cared a lot more about this sort of thing. Swinging the blanket from her body and simultaneously pulling a Civil War era cannon from her pocket, she was going to punish Boris and Yevgeni. And punish she did. First, she shot some cannonballs. Except, they weren't cannonballs, they were Russian classics. It's hard to tell the difference when they are going so quickly through the air. Then, she shot some real cannonballs. But not at Boris and Yevgeni. She shot them at the Russian classics. Boris and Yevgeni couldn't believe it. They begged for her to stop and also begged for her to tell us what her name was because I made the signal that meant that they should ask that question. I was curious. She did stop, but not until Boris and Yevgeni were cartwheeling themselves all over the hill. The did nice cartwheels.
"I am Anna." And so she was. If she was someone else, I imagine she would have said something like, "I am Larry" or "I am Yvette." But she didn't say those, she said Anna was her name. I thought about this a little more because when someone reveals their name, it's a very deep subject that must be thought about carefully. You don't want to end up with some misconception that misconceptionalizes what it is to be whatever that person's name is. I thought so long actually, and so hard, that when I opened my eyes (I have to close them to think hard), Boris, Yevgeni and Anna were all gone. That sucked.
We made the plans several minutes ago. We thought long and hard about the plans, that's why so much time passed in between making the plans and taking the actions outlined by the plan. When I first met Boris, I knew there would be plans. It was just a matter of finding that missing piece. That's when Yevgeni strolled out of the bathroom.
The American football game was on the television above the bar. I was drinking chocolate milk. The Laughing Vagina was the bar. It made the best chocolate milk this side of the town. The Colts and Steelers were playing. It was a silly game made sillier when laser-eyed bunnies and jumping-jacked monkeys attacked the players at half-time. I'm not sure why they attacked the players when their shared known nemesis was standing right there. The Colt! There was a scuffle behind me. As it turned out, Boris Yeltsin had just showed up.
I don't generally go backward in time. In fact, I've stopped at this very moment and begun going forward in time once again. I looked at my watch. 2:59. What the goddamn fuck!? You see? This is why you shouldn't spend much time going backward in time. When you do, an event that you have waited for all your life and is about to event itself upon you takes forever to event upon. I noticed that Yevgeni and Boris were talking though. So maybe my watch was just a minute slow.
"Yevgeni! Boris! How the hell are you?" They laughed at the pleasant tone in my voice. I don't speak with pleasant tones often. Nor do I paint my house with pleasant tones. I like subtlety. Yevgeni spoke first, "You are a minute late Jason, how come?" I knew he'd ask that question. He told me a few minutes ago that he would. Even if I weren't late. Wait, that's it. "I'm not late Yevgeni, and you know it." Boris slapped Yevgeni across the face. I did the same. I had won.
"So Boris. Now that we've executed our spectacular plan, do you think we can do something else?" Yevgeni, cheeks red from two slaps across the face seemed to think that was a good idea. You could see it in his feet. "Well, I hear the devil is making a visit sometime later today. The devil always does something wildly unpredictable that makes everyone either happy or sad." I knew the devil was coming and had hoped that Boris didn't. Those damn Russians, always wanting to get involved with the devil. I knew that if we did something with the devil, this re-telling of the day's events would take for-freaking-ever. I suggested something else, "How about cartwheels? The weather is perfect for it." Boris and Yevgeni sprung to their feet. "Cartwheels it is!" they screamed in unison.
She watched us through the whole encounter. The slap, the suggestion of bedevilment, the exclamation. That part startled her. Boris and Yevgeni really did scream quite loudly. It hurt my ears. Before we could make it to the open fields where cartwheels are allowed to be performed, she said our names. "Jason... Yevgeni... Boris... I can't believe it." It was a strange way to get our attention. I wondered to myself how she knew us, and then I wondered it out loud. "How do you know us?" She was obviously a very bashful woman. At my question, she pulled a large blanket from her purse and covered herself in it. "I don't know you, why would you think that?"
Boris and Yevgeni stood by my side for a few sentences of non-sensical conversation between myself and the lady. And then, just when we were starting to have an interesting discussion about the ramifications of the Wu-Tang Clan on Lindale Mall politics, they took off for the hills. That's where you do cartwheels if you don't do them in the open field. And when they reached the hills, instead of doing cartwheels, they did back flips. Sacrilege! They must be stopped.
Our blanketed lady also took offense too back flips in the cartwheel designated area and apparently, she cared a lot more about this sort of thing. Swinging the blanket from her body and simultaneously pulling a Civil War era cannon from her pocket, she was going to punish Boris and Yevgeni. And punish she did. First, she shot some cannonballs. Except, they weren't cannonballs, they were Russian classics. It's hard to tell the difference when they are going so quickly through the air. Then, she shot some real cannonballs. But not at Boris and Yevgeni. She shot them at the Russian classics. Boris and Yevgeni couldn't believe it. They begged for her to stop and also begged for her to tell us what her name was because I made the signal that meant that they should ask that question. I was curious. She did stop, but not until Boris and Yevgeni were cartwheeling themselves all over the hill. The did nice cartwheels.
"I am Anna." And so she was. If she was someone else, I imagine she would have said something like, "I am Larry" or "I am Yvette." But she didn't say those, she said Anna was her name. I thought about this a little more because when someone reveals their name, it's a very deep subject that must be thought about carefully. You don't want to end up with some misconception that misconceptionalizes what it is to be whatever that person's name is. I thought so long actually, and so hard, that when I opened my eyes (I have to close them to think hard), Boris, Yevgeni and Anna were all gone. That sucked.
trois
lover chasing after floating sky
winter's at dear balcony. thought withdrawn in mink spaceships. this electricity. she smiled sadly. gesture weather blue lighted steam lover chasing after floating night sky. stirrings shadowy. firework physical breathing and fall emphasis. description. put it hollow to distract shining propelled gardens. a look with dream came down extensive in the candy depths of summer evening dolls. sat by descriptions was wearing sunglasses. cigarette asleep irrational doubts was tentacle thickets. painfully masked partners in moist discussion sought electricity code. purest consciousness heart charade among bright dried lightning.
my winter impatient and black
my winter impatient and black. green see across another coincidence. telegram wilderness strumming banal subway. steel sheets lapdancing daylight meal. a white rose swirling droned knots itself. trembling remembered electricity stole saying me yes. the wheels festering dolls of mink. description hiding narrow sunset when these questions space to disgust. cage precipitation where handshakes hidden by eye walked wearing purple blue oysters.
this fern of dreams whispered eyes don't beach
been anything replied him. meadows lifted candy central electricity throws of activity. not enough admitted plastic. cold. fog center rowed to our future and dressed curiosity in sounded thrash. she cold standing caught the mouse was even becoming intrigued night coast. gaze face you know occured in funnels whom tar kissed of flesh wearing electricity boa. from figures bright feeling caught illusion. this fern of dreams whispered eyes don't beach. nodded of reason coffee sound runs along green da. garden invited lighted moment.
cRUMB-bITS9*
Botulism, a septicity of the skullcap, the machine that orders and correlates the things that are not things, the thingly things. Contemplate, a misspelling of the first order: logical Neapolitanism, a quid of plug between amber and nib dent. Exenterate transit, an evacuation of the inner alloy, crumb bits and bread heals, bicuspid of soda. I have, have I, arrived home. Having arrived, I have embarked home. I have embarked, having arrived home after arriving from where, one conjures, but home nonetheless. I am ill suited to sleep. Treacle sweet sucrose sleep. Sleep at right angles sleep. Sleeping into sleep, sleep. Counting sheep sleepless sleep, sleep. Devil may careless sleep sleeping in and out of sleepless, sleep. I am tired of sleep. I am sheepishly sleepless, sleepless like a sheep, this sleepless sheep’s sleep. Sleep is wolves’ clothing sleep, yet sleepier still.This afternoon I prudently grafted a picture of James A, Joyce from John McCourt’s aptly titled coffee-table book, James Joyce, to a $0.99 pretend mahogany frame purchased at the local thrift store. It sits atop a pyre of like-minded books next to a framed picture of Samuel Beckett, Joyce’s onetime annalist, not to be confused with analyst, or Dr. Wilfred Bion, to whom Beckett reposed back-head first to when he was a young aspiring playwright. The evidence that Joyce was unfamiliar with or had not read Freud is tenuous at best, although a prudent reading of Ulysses clearly contradicts this pedagogical bromide. The river runs, so to speak, circuitously and with little regard for proper grammar, spelling, syntax or punctuation. The funnel in the anterior abacus of my head, where information, datum, the odd logarithm and general nonsense gains access to my thinking-machine, seems to be fair to middling-full with dross, applesauce and ill manners. Perhaps a slight repose is in order, if not that, then at least a conk on the head to ease the ascension to unconsciousness. We of the Ego-less Id deserve at least such. Coprophaglia, as is evidenced from my own inability to master proper grammar, syntax, spelling and punctuation. Fuck but I’m tired, fucking depleted I’d say. Now that I am awake, I am unconscious. Wakefulness and insentience are, I fear, samesuch. Paunch, abscond, reformulate the integer, cake, meringue, scourge of lemon, lime sherbet, anise, melancholy, babe in the lumber, allocate funds to war brides, steal allocations from war brides, reallocate funds to war, bridled with enthusiasm, reuse toiletries, defuse moils, refuse the integer, pie and pecan, sea captain with eczema, fallopian agape, Plato’s cave, Socrates attends a rave, wave goodbye to the integer, reallocate the integer to Plato, Socrates’ war bride windowed, windowpane LSD, RSVP as soon as possible, I am in the hospital with rickets, babe in the thickets, eat lemon sherbet in Socrates’ cave, be enthusiastic about melancholy, hello jolly, Sir Winston Raleigh is a fat bastard, eczema is troublesome, itchy and persnickety, I am going to bed, with a scourge in me head. awakened from troubled dreams, I have yet to awaken, I will never awake. These ferments that neuropathology has gleaned from the cuckold of my hypothalamus are a joke, trickery and shamanism. I have no pep me ups or leavening yeast, all my thoughts are flat bread, pumpernickel, dark rye, untransubstantiated Benison loaf. I am twice removed from the once removed, indifferent to my own indifference, disinterested from my own disinterest, stale bread, unseasoned barm. I have thoughtless thoughts, frivolous dispatches lacking in mental content, a cuckoldry of intention and orderliness. If I were a Joycean character I would be Paddy Dignam, dead and rotting in some peat bog limed over to prevent an offal stench that no lemony scented wash up could ever possibly put right. Fucking grave worms and taproots fiddle flummoxing with my toe ends. Fucking horrid indeed
unheard conversation
Towards the dark,
the back of my mind,
is where I digest
your loose words that fumble with mine.
freedom intertwining with need
weaving with love
attaching with greed
strands of this and that forming ribbons
streaming out of my head;
my hands tuck them neatly
one behind my ear
another beneath my tongue.
why, I’d be happier eating canned dandelions
they are known to disperse exponentially,
and grow they shall underneath my ribcage
forming ribbons
that will shoot out of my head
contentedly,
happily
untucked.
the back of my mind,
is where I digest
your loose words that fumble with mine.
freedom intertwining with need
weaving with love
attaching with greed
strands of this and that forming ribbons
streaming out of my head;
my hands tuck them neatly
one behind my ear
another beneath my tongue.
why, I’d be happier eating canned dandelions
they are known to disperse exponentially,
and grow they shall underneath my ribcage
forming ribbons
that will shoot out of my head
contentedly,
happily
untucked.
lODEsTONEs
Bare Feet and Animal Bones
You could walk on lodestones in your bare feet, or on animal bones
grubbed white in the blistering July sun, or on fence-wire scrolled like
snakeskin after a hard summer rain, or on beer bottle caps and fliptops
left by drifters, mute wives, and FAS children, heads caulked with deerflies and lice, or on a gravel road marrow with feldspar and potash, or on cob tacking and railheads rusted into warps of keel wood
you could not, however, walk on water, or shrug off the pain, or remember a time when life was less complicated and happy, or at least less sad
Battleship Wood and Nails
Do you remember the fort we built between the house and the garage, made with battleship wood and straightened nails, and the hinge for the trapdoor we pilfered from the neighbors garden shed, always catching on a burl of
roof tile, the tile we lifted from the back of the construction man’s truck when he was drinking a Coke and drawing down hard on a Mark Ten, if I remember, Riders In The Storm was playing, and we shared a cigarette I’d
stolen from my dad, and those gray baby rabbits, like plant bulbs, my father etherized in a shoebox full of holes, then chucked in the garbage at the foot of the driveway, and do you remember when it first happened, when your
thoughts went haywire and the voices started, and when you couldn’t remember me visiting, or the fort we built between the house and the garage with battleship wood and nails
For Alan (two)
There was a doll’s head spiff with needles, he said, from too much LSD or chemicals or because I was reading too much Das Capital, they said
Marx would do that to a brain, tarn it to rued butter thick with nonsense or worse, other men’s thoughts and ideas, they said
The voices were never soft, or willing to let me sit quiet in the tally of my thoughts, they were like thieves, men with sticks and stones chasing the mice from the scatter of my thoughts, he said
Your chemistry set is busted, neurons firing at will and with little regard for your wellbeing, it’ll only get worse, they said, and you’ll need constant supervision and a vaccine, which seldom works, they said
I believe in God and human goodness and love, he said, even when the voices caudal my skull, but even then, he said, I’m still lucky enough to know my name and where I live, and the taste of wild strawberries and sun
You could walk on lodestones in your bare feet, or on animal bones
grubbed white in the blistering July sun, or on fence-wire scrolled like
snakeskin after a hard summer rain, or on beer bottle caps and fliptops
left by drifters, mute wives, and FAS children, heads caulked with deerflies and lice, or on a gravel road marrow with feldspar and potash, or on cob tacking and railheads rusted into warps of keel wood
you could not, however, walk on water, or shrug off the pain, or remember a time when life was less complicated and happy, or at least less sad
Battleship Wood and Nails
Do you remember the fort we built between the house and the garage, made with battleship wood and straightened nails, and the hinge for the trapdoor we pilfered from the neighbors garden shed, always catching on a burl of
roof tile, the tile we lifted from the back of the construction man’s truck when he was drinking a Coke and drawing down hard on a Mark Ten, if I remember, Riders In The Storm was playing, and we shared a cigarette I’d
stolen from my dad, and those gray baby rabbits, like plant bulbs, my father etherized in a shoebox full of holes, then chucked in the garbage at the foot of the driveway, and do you remember when it first happened, when your
thoughts went haywire and the voices started, and when you couldn’t remember me visiting, or the fort we built between the house and the garage with battleship wood and nails
For Alan (two)
There was a doll’s head spiff with needles, he said, from too much LSD or chemicals or because I was reading too much Das Capital, they said
Marx would do that to a brain, tarn it to rued butter thick with nonsense or worse, other men’s thoughts and ideas, they said
The voices were never soft, or willing to let me sit quiet in the tally of my thoughts, they were like thieves, men with sticks and stones chasing the mice from the scatter of my thoughts, he said
Your chemistry set is busted, neurons firing at will and with little regard for your wellbeing, it’ll only get worse, they said, and you’ll need constant supervision and a vaccine, which seldom works, they said
I believe in God and human goodness and love, he said, even when the voices caudal my skull, but even then, he said, I’m still lucky enough to know my name and where I live, and the taste of wild strawberries and sun
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