"Cuisine Bourgeoise" by Wallace Stevens
These days of disinheritance, we feast
On human heads. True, birds rebuild
Old nests and there is blue in the woods.
The church bells clap one night in the week,
But that's all done. It is what used to be,
As they used to lie in the grass, in the heat,
Men on green beds and women half of sun.
The words are written, though not yet said.
It is like the season when, after summer,
It is summer and it is not, it is autumn
And it is not, it is day and it is not,
As if last night's lamps continued to burn,
As if yesterday's people continued to watch
The sky, half porcelain, preferring that
To shaking out heavy bodies in the glares
Of this present, this science, this unrecognized,
This outpost, this douce, this dumb, this dead, in which
We feast on human heads, brought in on leaves,
Crowned with the first, cold buds. On these we live,
No longer on the ancient cake of seed,
The almond and deep fruit. This bitter meat
Sustains us...Who then, are they, seated here?
Is the table a mirror in which they sit and look?
Are they men eating reflections of themselves?
"Days of Disinheritance" by Nelms
As if it was within our power to decide, we've decided,
Time to move on. Using the ancient processes
Of humanity's vilified cannibals, we shrunk our own heads,
And we belted them round our waists to make it easier
For travel, and to hide the progression of our drooping
Guts, just as fathers before us had used the notorious fannypack,
Just so we've moved on to the use of our heads, new parents
Of new ideas for new techniques better suited to preserve the old ways.
Lighter in the neck, we stand taller, more erect.
With less room in our heads to think
We have improved athleticism for laughter, eroticism, & reflex--
That noble science of the present-tense animals perfect,
Which we've moved to accomplish and all our history remember only to reject.
Of the habits of the birds, we believe we remember the basics,
But not what beauty they were, if they were, or the meaning
Of the beauty, if we should be led to believe
It had a meaning at all. The lesson we take away
Is survival, and how to trash-up a nest for blessed rest.
Now we've gone through the hard part,
Through the paranoia of mastery
Which makes the world complex,
It's all so simple now, having shrunk our heads. Not only alive,
We've found ourselves in love with it, or shiny parts of it,
So much so, we somehow want to survive, which is in keeping with.
Like a nest
Of mirrored mylar and foil,
We grew up without
And without meaning to.
We were friends once,
And listened to mirror each other's tyrannies,
Sympathetic to power,
As the political bird knows
What wind does,
For itself,
And for him.
Now, there's no wind blowing.
And without talking,
There's nothing to listen to;
Nothing given, nothing used,
neocons of the heart.
The mill stops.
The power goes out.
None of the four elements call us
Friend, even the water
Borne in our eyes.
And atop our fear-dry hair,
Nostalgia immigrates.
To keep the signals out
We wear our tin leftovers from the cheap lunch of compromise,
Parrying the terrible alien-future by claiming rights,
Fencing our minds into owned property,
Into home sweet home, complete with a lawn gnome.
True, no one wishes anymore to deny health in loss,
And karma, like vending machines & classical mechanics,
Demands, Dante-esque, quid pro quo, the natural law
Of give & take & for all omelettes, eggs must break.
True, our peripheral vision is marginally diminished,
Having shrunk our eyes closer together, as if they
Were lovers moved to commit to split themselves to one,
But losing the sight of the world around us, we gain the world
In front of us, facing us like a pest to be dealt
Cards and lip and poison and food to. Out of sight, out of mind,
That is the essence of our purportedly redemptive New Testament.
Yes, we can see farther ahead, which, after all
Is exactly where we're supposedly going, not side to side
Like drunk dancers, but straight ahead over the hill
Into the great flatlining savanna acceptably hostile with age.
There we shall grow habits like shadetrees
For the comfort and neglect of our children
And our children's children, should they survive
Like true birds to rebuild without meaning
Or meaning to. And the candle of freedom's
Trauma shall light our vigilance,
Like a nest of mirrored mylar and foil,
And this reflective trash will be redeemed as home,
The place we fenced the voices out
To move beyond and on past doubt
Into the last outpost of the dispossessed
Where exile takes the home as truth and debt to repossess,
And on, further still, into the headless days unheeding
Our days of disinheritance, the nightmare of joy
We dreamed real as apocalypse.
"Fears of particular dangers, if only virtual ones, haunt the workday like a mood that can't be escaped. This fear, however, is transformed into an operational requirement, a special tool of the trade. Insecurity about one's place during periodic innovation, fear of losing recently gained privileges, and anxiety over being 'left-behind' translate into flexibility, adaptability, and a readiness to reconfigure oneself."--Paolo Virno
"All the Questions I've Asked" by Philip K. Dick
I went to the water. By the shoals were 7 tents, I put them to my back, & leaned over the water. The wind blew too hard and the water was too brown. I couldn't see my reflection. I pulled the flask & did my duty. The sun shone on a cardinal-bird's exposed heart. Dimly, the girls ran the trails. I picked up the bird. A cat did? I went home to the thing I almost wanted to call home, had a cigar, watched the game and moisturized. I had to drink a lot of water before I could sleep. Even then I woke with a desert in my mouth. I took out my journal and wrote 4 questions down while I had my morning coffee:
1. What if humans were taken over by their component parts, functioning now as conscious entities themselves?
2. What if humans were made to function as if they were components of another entity?
3. What if a computer behaved like a person?
4. What if people were made to behave as if they were computers?
After I wrote all that down was when I went to the window and saw a great plane basked in you, helpless before their closed eyes.
The sun shone on a bird's exposed heart.
And the girls, dimming like craved breeze, sparkled like an elephant's extra-moisturizing noocyte.
Till then I'm yours.
Till then I wrote with my friend Nelms this poem for you.
Here:
"Funny Friends" by Phil K. Dick
Everything's funny, or it isn't, depending.
It's funny how I care for you,
so much I won't bother you with my care, anymore, for now.
We're "grown" now, and what that means
is we can't keep each other from failing,
not because we don't care to, but because
we're too tired to help.
It's not that life is actually tiring,
We're just at that age
we're so terrified of our own ambitions,
we have no choice but to feel we have a choice,
and that that choice must be made irrevocable and now.
Look at us,
such urgent children
In the disproving face of unctuous death,
still too young to know death
is an indifferent decision
there's no right way to await,
and no right way but any ways
for life to justify.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
sacked lunches
snow white and adam and eve
william and walter and gessler
everyone with a job to do
everyone abruptly resigns
fucking apples, y'all
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
"death fluorescence"
call him carlos
a worm has entered him
to begin to die
one day he asks
was oral sex awesome
for triceratops
when a man is dying
his parasites accumulate bedside
the worm glows blue
the plastic of gadgets
is made of dinosaur carcasses
death gets a dick hard
a worm has entered him
to begin to die
one day he asks
was oral sex awesome
for triceratops
when a man is dying
his parasites accumulate bedside
the worm glows blue
the plastic of gadgets
is made of dinosaur carcasses
death gets a dick hard
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
from san diego to bunker hill
i do not need to see any more mayonnaise enemas
for the rest of my lifetime; put a grip on this knob
and lay a brodie for me, whisper, "remember me"
cosplay a shit sandwich, hereby to bear your buns
amply with egg & oil; peel out of the place, leave
it: "so you're a fugivitve from the laughing house"
heed the sun-spoiled blistering of white puss-like
that becomes your body, for to pretend too real is
it: "i don't care what you do to me, just do it fast"
a bunch of cops, they'll eat you whilst patrolling;
writhe bursting in your mask, there a second skin
in dirt: "yeah, i remember you from somewhere"
for the rest of my lifetime; put a grip on this knob
and lay a brodie for me, whisper, "remember me"
cosplay a shit sandwich, hereby to bear your buns
amply with egg & oil; peel out of the place, leave
it: "so you're a fugivitve from the laughing house"
heed the sun-spoiled blistering of white puss-like
that becomes your body, for to pretend too real is
it: "i don't care what you do to me, just do it fast"
a bunch of cops, they'll eat you whilst patrolling;
writhe bursting in your mask, there a second skin
in dirt: "yeah, i remember you from somewhere"
Monday, July 8, 2013
Friday, July 5, 2013
The New Business
Lucy & Trevor smile at me like a business decision. I don't know them but we met yesterday in the Ramada Inn continental-breakfast room. I know a few things. Lucy drinks her coffee black. Trevor drinks his milk with coffee. Lucy likes Pop Tarts cold. Trevor likes white bread toasted with strawberry jelly. I imagine them fucking each other into a whippet-with-a-broken-leg-frenzy, but my imagination has been miserably underused this past week. When I sit down to eat I begin receiving text messages like hamburgers sent from God. It's Tim's brother; not a lady friend. Lucy & Trevor smile at me like a Cuban cigar offered to a non-smoker & Lucy says, "Somebody's blowing up!" She looks at my chest hair and turns to Trevor, raising her eyebrows like a new suburb. Trevor purses his lips at her like a personal Jesus offering a profound aroma and makes an insect-like sound through his teeth. Tonight I will fuck them till they both feel like voyeurs calmly playing with shotguns.
After breakfast I drive over a 100 miles to a forgotten town where my friend Tim lives in a singlewide above a dry ravine. Tim is outside when I pull up, cleaning a handgun on a large, smooth stump. Tim has a big purple scar down the right side of his face. Today it looks greenish, like a big junebug. He doesn't answer any questions about it, ever.
Inside his trailer, on the counter next to his microwave, is a huge noodle of what looks like but doesn't smell like pastrami. He calls it "the effluvia." A pink blob the size of a large Saint Bernard breathes with a wet, heavy noise on his ratty couch. The large rotating fans with tendrilly flystrips blow on it. The pastrami looks like its sweating but Tim is already chopping fat slices off it with a penknife. In this light, with the blinds drawn, seeing his face in left-profile concentrating on making sandwiches, he looks a bit like Woody Harrelson in Natural Born Killers.
Tim puts Miracle Whip & slices of tomato on the sandwiches. He drags two stained fold-out chairs across the linoleum and places them in front of the blob, right behind the fans. The sandwiches smell putrid, curiously earthy, as if he'd pulled a week-dead buried cat out of the ground and dipped it in honey and bacongrease. While we eat, Tim points out to me where all the orifices are. I take careful note, scratchily diagramming them into a pocket Moleskine.
When I get back to the Ramada Inn, Lucy & Trevor's Lexus is gone. I figure they must be out for a late dinner at one of the chains that stretch the next two miles north to the interstate exit. Two girls in bikinis are swimming in the pool, and two more in bikinis are lying out in the sun on their stomachs, tops untied, hair rucked up in ponytails to lie like sleeping cats atop their skulls.
I get the bags out of my car, turn on the cold water in the tub, and make a few trips to the ice machine. The sun is going down and by the time I'm done icing the merchandise & step outside my door wearing swimtrunks, flip-flops, & a Fudrucker's shirt, Lucy & Trevor are pulling into the parking lot, clicking off and on their headlights in greeting & giggling their way out of the car. I wave. "There you are," Lucy drawls, "Look Trevor, Greg is staying another night, and he's going swimming too!" Before Trevor can say anything, Lucy turns toward Greg, her face twisted in mock, self-assured supplication, "May we please, please join you?" "Of course," I say. I take off my shirt and walk to the pool, now empty. From behind Trevor yells, "Great! I just bought some beer! We'll ice it and join!"
To my despicable unsurprise, Lucy has a better body than her Target-bought business casual outfits suggest. She wears a lime-green bikini & with her bobbed pale hair, Natty-Lite-blue-eyes & pale skin, it accentuates her shadows and the curves bright daylight whites out. She does a few laps walking around the pool, dipping her feet daintily, complaining of the "cold." I tell her to take the plunge and wade out into the deep. She slides feet first into the pool and comes up giggling, teeth very white, pushing her hair back. Trevor arrives in a heinously ugly pair of brown and magenta swimtrunks. He puts the cooler next to the shallow-end ladder and does a hysterical cannonball, to no one's surprise, from the diving board.
I get a beer and sit on the edge of the pool. There's a warm breeze and my hair & shoulders dry quick.
"So tell us Greg," Trevor asks, "what brings ya to our neck of the woods?"
"Yes, Greg, do tell," Lucy coos, circles, and pinches my feet under water. "Do tell."
"Well, I got a friend lives pretty close to here. He's an old buddy of mine back from data analysis days, and he's always been a pretty good tinkerer. Know that app that lets you see who's in your area willing to barter & trade & what for?" Lucy looks confused, but Trevor perks up. "Yeah. Yeah! I've used it before! Stuff I know's an asspain to sell I'll list it up. I like to trade with the local farmers so that way helps me meet 'em, get a little rapport hopping. Traded an old grill when I upgraded for some honey & mead. Traded some old bangup buggy ATVS for some veggies. Farmer send me a package once a week got peppers, tomatoes, carrots, whatever's seasonal fresh."
"Yeah, we worked on that app together."
"O wow," Trevor says, pulling himself out of the pool, popping open a beer.
In the hotel room, Trevor stands over Lucy on the bed. His legs are wide and his arms are locked against the wall. Lucy has one hand out choking his cock and I'm fucking her while I massage his prostate with my ringless ring-finger. Trevor can't control himself, to no one's surprise, and he comes with measly substance on the wall above the headboard. A tiny drop of cum falls on Lucy's forehead and I push Trevor off the bed. He falls like a drunk stork to his side on the floor, knocking the lamp & phone off the stand. I take advantage of Lucy's surprise and punch her twice in the nose and box her ears with a hard clap. Babbling, Trevor is up, pulling my arms from behind. I fling myself backward on top of him and catch a hard knee in my buttcheek, but I throw my bows back, gain the advantage, put him in a headlock and watch him pass out trying futilely to do a pushup with all my weight thrown against his back. Lucy's out cold, but her nose is gushing. I get out my duffel bag, unwrap the needles, and inject them both with sodium thiopental. I tie them to the bed, dress, get more ice, and crank the TV loud. I fill the tub with the merchandise up again with ice. I put a bag of ice over Lucy's nose & I wait.
When I hear the merchandise emit a high whistle, almost like a distant teakettle, I begin to perform the tracheotomies. The best position for a tracheotomy was and still is one that forces the neck into the biggest prominence. I restrain them with some pantyhose, duct tape, and load cords, and lay their heads back on stacked pillows I use as a fulcrum. Everything goes pretty well, mostly.
The merchandise doesn't have a name yet, but Tim likes to call it, "The Anthem." I've meditated for weeks on why & I can't figure it. I thought seeing what it did might make his nickname clear, but it didn't. Much has become clear this afternoon however. Suddenly, I hear that wet, heavy breathing. I put my mask and gloves on & go get the merchandise. I let it move across the bed. It takes twenty minutes to diffuse and cover Lucy & Trevor, and in another fifteen minutes enough pheromones have entered the air through the mask that I'm hard again and thrusting slowly into the ninth, middle-lower orifice. The special detector we've installed in the masks are counting up a higher productivity than Tim has yet recorded. Slowly other boldly colored orifices rise on stems from the bed like weird plants near ocean-floor volcanoes. I do what Tim taught me and feed them anything I can find--coins, lint, condoms, jewelry, clothes, the lamp, the telephone, soap, shampoo, towels, the empty beer cans...The level of output is staggering. I go into the bathroom and close the door. I don't even know how to describe the sound but it's sort of like taking your car through a carwash. Enveloping, but not really all that loud, except this sound had a weird high frequency to it. I record it on the phone and bookmark it for further discussion. It smells like burgers fried with doghair & rosewater, healthily decadent I wait a few minutes after the smell hits me, as per Tim's instructions, and I open the door. Everything's clean. The Anthem wheezes on the bed, shrinking itself off the output, evacuating its own vocation. Trevor & Lucy are gone, but if the Anthem worked I can get them back at anytime.
The output takes me a few hours to collect and mold. It diffuses when it comes into existence, spreads out in meaningless shapes, and though it looks like there's some way all the pieces are supposed to fit together, you can't figure it out. The angles don't make any sense. I follow Tim's advice and breathe on the pieces to soften them and then I just roll them up into one big piece, the best I can. I pack everything and go.
Out in the night, I drive north for hours, speaking into the recorder. Somewhere in upper Virginia I come to a rest stop and get out for a piss and a stretch. It's a little after 4 am and there are mostly parked semis, a few sedans, some young couples waiting for one or the other to get done with the bathroom or discussing a snack from the machines. I get my business done and ride on. A half-hour before dawn I reach the renovated courthouse and do what Tim told me to do. I write a note for S. and Brown on the merchandise, bag the output, and leave to find a cheap hotel.
Two and a half miles northeast of the courthouse, in Golden Finch gated community, Brown listened to the crickets louden and raised his chin toward the sky. He threw the cigarette on the sidewalk above the streetdrain and blindly, looking into the noise of the dogwood, scraped his boot across the sidewalk pulling the cigarette onto the street and kicking it into the drain. The wind he could feel passing his jaw didn’t match the strength of the wind he saw marionetting the dogwood. A gloved feeling came into his stomach, a feeling of latex-fingers attempting to palpate the outside air from inside his gut. He imagined a doctor inside him, one who tried to hold the air’s tongue and depress it with a popsicle stick, checking to see if the body of the outside world revolted against itself. He could see down the street for a little over a quarter-mile before the streetlights went out. In the dark were big mounds next to what looked like hulking beasts, figures which the daylight would show to be big red mounds of clay and dirt scraped into hills before Caterpillars. Dark houseframes made curious geometries behind the machines. Picking at a piece of food stuck in the receding gum below his left incisor, he walked into the dark end of the street, bowlegged, feeling the need for a looming.
After breakfast I drive over a 100 miles to a forgotten town where my friend Tim lives in a singlewide above a dry ravine. Tim is outside when I pull up, cleaning a handgun on a large, smooth stump. Tim has a big purple scar down the right side of his face. Today it looks greenish, like a big junebug. He doesn't answer any questions about it, ever.
Inside his trailer, on the counter next to his microwave, is a huge noodle of what looks like but doesn't smell like pastrami. He calls it "the effluvia." A pink blob the size of a large Saint Bernard breathes with a wet, heavy noise on his ratty couch. The large rotating fans with tendrilly flystrips blow on it. The pastrami looks like its sweating but Tim is already chopping fat slices off it with a penknife. In this light, with the blinds drawn, seeing his face in left-profile concentrating on making sandwiches, he looks a bit like Woody Harrelson in Natural Born Killers.
Tim puts Miracle Whip & slices of tomato on the sandwiches. He drags two stained fold-out chairs across the linoleum and places them in front of the blob, right behind the fans. The sandwiches smell putrid, curiously earthy, as if he'd pulled a week-dead buried cat out of the ground and dipped it in honey and bacongrease. While we eat, Tim points out to me where all the orifices are. I take careful note, scratchily diagramming them into a pocket Moleskine.
When I get back to the Ramada Inn, Lucy & Trevor's Lexus is gone. I figure they must be out for a late dinner at one of the chains that stretch the next two miles north to the interstate exit. Two girls in bikinis are swimming in the pool, and two more in bikinis are lying out in the sun on their stomachs, tops untied, hair rucked up in ponytails to lie like sleeping cats atop their skulls.
I get the bags out of my car, turn on the cold water in the tub, and make a few trips to the ice machine. The sun is going down and by the time I'm done icing the merchandise & step outside my door wearing swimtrunks, flip-flops, & a Fudrucker's shirt, Lucy & Trevor are pulling into the parking lot, clicking off and on their headlights in greeting & giggling their way out of the car. I wave. "There you are," Lucy drawls, "Look Trevor, Greg is staying another night, and he's going swimming too!" Before Trevor can say anything, Lucy turns toward Greg, her face twisted in mock, self-assured supplication, "May we please, please join you?" "Of course," I say. I take off my shirt and walk to the pool, now empty. From behind Trevor yells, "Great! I just bought some beer! We'll ice it and join!"
To my despicable unsurprise, Lucy has a better body than her Target-bought business casual outfits suggest. She wears a lime-green bikini & with her bobbed pale hair, Natty-Lite-blue-eyes & pale skin, it accentuates her shadows and the curves bright daylight whites out. She does a few laps walking around the pool, dipping her feet daintily, complaining of the "cold." I tell her to take the plunge and wade out into the deep. She slides feet first into the pool and comes up giggling, teeth very white, pushing her hair back. Trevor arrives in a heinously ugly pair of brown and magenta swimtrunks. He puts the cooler next to the shallow-end ladder and does a hysterical cannonball, to no one's surprise, from the diving board.
I get a beer and sit on the edge of the pool. There's a warm breeze and my hair & shoulders dry quick.
"So tell us Greg," Trevor asks, "what brings ya to our neck of the woods?"
"Yes, Greg, do tell," Lucy coos, circles, and pinches my feet under water. "Do tell."
"Well, I got a friend lives pretty close to here. He's an old buddy of mine back from data analysis days, and he's always been a pretty good tinkerer. Know that app that lets you see who's in your area willing to barter & trade & what for?" Lucy looks confused, but Trevor perks up. "Yeah. Yeah! I've used it before! Stuff I know's an asspain to sell I'll list it up. I like to trade with the local farmers so that way helps me meet 'em, get a little rapport hopping. Traded an old grill when I upgraded for some honey & mead. Traded some old bangup buggy ATVS for some veggies. Farmer send me a package once a week got peppers, tomatoes, carrots, whatever's seasonal fresh."
"Yeah, we worked on that app together."
"O wow," Trevor says, pulling himself out of the pool, popping open a beer.
In the hotel room, Trevor stands over Lucy on the bed. His legs are wide and his arms are locked against the wall. Lucy has one hand out choking his cock and I'm fucking her while I massage his prostate with my ringless ring-finger. Trevor can't control himself, to no one's surprise, and he comes with measly substance on the wall above the headboard. A tiny drop of cum falls on Lucy's forehead and I push Trevor off the bed. He falls like a drunk stork to his side on the floor, knocking the lamp & phone off the stand. I take advantage of Lucy's surprise and punch her twice in the nose and box her ears with a hard clap. Babbling, Trevor is up, pulling my arms from behind. I fling myself backward on top of him and catch a hard knee in my buttcheek, but I throw my bows back, gain the advantage, put him in a headlock and watch him pass out trying futilely to do a pushup with all my weight thrown against his back. Lucy's out cold, but her nose is gushing. I get out my duffel bag, unwrap the needles, and inject them both with sodium thiopental. I tie them to the bed, dress, get more ice, and crank the TV loud. I fill the tub with the merchandise up again with ice. I put a bag of ice over Lucy's nose & I wait.
When I hear the merchandise emit a high whistle, almost like a distant teakettle, I begin to perform the tracheotomies. The best position for a tracheotomy was and still is one that forces the neck into the biggest prominence. I restrain them with some pantyhose, duct tape, and load cords, and lay their heads back on stacked pillows I use as a fulcrum. Everything goes pretty well, mostly.
The merchandise doesn't have a name yet, but Tim likes to call it, "The Anthem." I've meditated for weeks on why & I can't figure it. I thought seeing what it did might make his nickname clear, but it didn't. Much has become clear this afternoon however. Suddenly, I hear that wet, heavy breathing. I put my mask and gloves on & go get the merchandise. I let it move across the bed. It takes twenty minutes to diffuse and cover Lucy & Trevor, and in another fifteen minutes enough pheromones have entered the air through the mask that I'm hard again and thrusting slowly into the ninth, middle-lower orifice. The special detector we've installed in the masks are counting up a higher productivity than Tim has yet recorded. Slowly other boldly colored orifices rise on stems from the bed like weird plants near ocean-floor volcanoes. I do what Tim taught me and feed them anything I can find--coins, lint, condoms, jewelry, clothes, the lamp, the telephone, soap, shampoo, towels, the empty beer cans...The level of output is staggering. I go into the bathroom and close the door. I don't even know how to describe the sound but it's sort of like taking your car through a carwash. Enveloping, but not really all that loud, except this sound had a weird high frequency to it. I record it on the phone and bookmark it for further discussion. It smells like burgers fried with doghair & rosewater, healthily decadent I wait a few minutes after the smell hits me, as per Tim's instructions, and I open the door. Everything's clean. The Anthem wheezes on the bed, shrinking itself off the output, evacuating its own vocation. Trevor & Lucy are gone, but if the Anthem worked I can get them back at anytime.
The output takes me a few hours to collect and mold. It diffuses when it comes into existence, spreads out in meaningless shapes, and though it looks like there's some way all the pieces are supposed to fit together, you can't figure it out. The angles don't make any sense. I follow Tim's advice and breathe on the pieces to soften them and then I just roll them up into one big piece, the best I can. I pack everything and go.
Out in the night, I drive north for hours, speaking into the recorder. Somewhere in upper Virginia I come to a rest stop and get out for a piss and a stretch. It's a little after 4 am and there are mostly parked semis, a few sedans, some young couples waiting for one or the other to get done with the bathroom or discussing a snack from the machines. I get my business done and ride on. A half-hour before dawn I reach the renovated courthouse and do what Tim told me to do. I write a note for S. and Brown on the merchandise, bag the output, and leave to find a cheap hotel.
White fog hung low and crept past
her window. The crickets loudened and an owl hooted.
In the brush outside a small animal scurried, skittling leaves in its
mad scramble. S. was involved watching a moth trapped in a lightbulb. The moth flailed near the tip. Its wings flapped, beating a tinny sound,
making the yellow light blink. S. sat on the edge of her bed taking off her shoes and pantyhose, watching the
struggle, wondering how. Then there was an electric pop and a blue
light stabbed the yellow into black.
S. waited until her eyes adjusted, and with bare feet, padded
across the floor to the utility closet.
She got a new bulb and returned.
When she had replaced the bulb, she broke it open and pulled out the
charred moth. She went to the window and let the fog
grope in. She dropped the burnt moth
out and quickly shut the window after making sure of the delivery. Outside
the room S. stored herself in for the night, dust piled itself into
ziggurats on top of the mantelpieces and roaches hurled their young down the
steps, playing at sacrifice while other dusts cultured themselves in the
petri-dishes of grandfather-clocks.
Two and a half miles northeast of the courthouse, in Golden Finch gated community, Brown listened to the crickets louden and raised his chin toward the sky. He threw the cigarette on the sidewalk above the streetdrain and blindly, looking into the noise of the dogwood, scraped his boot across the sidewalk pulling the cigarette onto the street and kicking it into the drain. The wind he could feel passing his jaw didn’t match the strength of the wind he saw marionetting the dogwood. A gloved feeling came into his stomach, a feeling of latex-fingers attempting to palpate the outside air from inside his gut. He imagined a doctor inside him, one who tried to hold the air’s tongue and depress it with a popsicle stick, checking to see if the body of the outside world revolted against itself. He could see down the street for a little over a quarter-mile before the streetlights went out. In the dark were big mounds next to what looked like hulking beasts, figures which the daylight would show to be big red mounds of clay and dirt scraped into hills before Caterpillars. Dark houseframes made curious geometries behind the machines. Picking at a piece of food stuck in the receding gum below his left incisor, he walked into the dark end of the street, bowlegged, feeling the need for a looming.
"Where's Nick?"
What if. . .
the Rapture came
and the only soul
Raptured was Nick
and no one
knew it. . .?
the Rapture came
and the only soul
Raptured was Nick
and no one
knew it. . .?
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Monday, July 1, 2013
Marie Calloway: A Manifesto by FEMEN
Translated by Christopher Nelms
At last, without a trace of a haircut, storms gather across the red horizon, split like papayas tied in a bonded game of Scrabble.
A horse galloping riderless, sparkheeled & in trivial pursuit, blinks like an eye stabbed with rain across the lust of the mesa. By this we know it's somebody's game & somebody's insurrection waits beyond some pass or strait like a cheating hand flush with rich red gold & a mouth.
A small child, handless with breath, enters the dust diamond drawn round you like a shaman's shawl. You bend to him & speak a language without chins. From your teeth a color vibrates to him until he wraps it in a knucklesandwich he can save for later more shore-starved days, when the trees shall shrink back into the earth like green snails salted with ecological apathy.
A small child, shambling, enters the water, crystallizing their overcrowding pity into a statuesque protest.
The child disrobes, shudders, and spits like a lieutenant into his own hands. He gives a mysterious, moist standing ovation and goes under, bubbling like a carbon-dated suicide-wish.
Amazed, the crowd assembled on the slick rocks muses loudly, rhetorically of squirreled away alka-seltzers pocketed in the child's cheeks. Minutes pass like refugees admitted with minimal fuss into another country wartorn beyond bureaucracy and borders, but the spectators' breaths stutter & jam, engrossing them into a panicked timelessness, as if an enemytank approached & all their guns of a sudden defected, spitting out fireless candied bullets, preservative & cold.
The bubbles continue to rise, breaking like Easter-headlines across the eggshell-tension of the water, diffusing into ever diminutive ripples. At last, the child rises to the surface to the empathetic intake of air rippling like poverty-rekindled nationalism through the crowd. He has a strange, smeared look, like a new chain-motel's decor. Into the water, the crowd, fervent with feats of paused adornability, throw silver chains, rookie cards, & hymens torn back together by rococo plastic surgeons. A rain electrical with hydrolized Vyvanse falls on the supplicant hands, hands, like dolphins, filmed in their showy hunger to convince a superhuman intelligence that their tricks analogically display a xenomorphic kinship.
The desert becomes suave with snails and greens its toupee with outre jokes. It has become a form of women's basketball--competitive in a new, exciting way.
Like a dance-broke vase blank with another's trod trash, the small child passes into the new childhood of a young man. What shall the day eat but its own blue toes?
This young man sat in the orange grove
Hugging all the turtles with hard concert tickets.
To the turtles on the highest branches
He threw breaking ampules of pure fresh coconut water
Perfumed with roses, whiskey & forgiven sins.
No one came to him in an atmospheric way,
But instead they came like the sound of distant thunder,
Neither to be feared nor loved nor questioned--
Like the archetypes of deaf-mute pilgrims
On their silent way to Protestant Work Ethics
And increasingly ergonomic rolling chairs.
What shall the day eat but what waking you decide is eaten?
Leaving the orange grove, the young man
Sought out joy in a historical city.
He remembered a fortune he'd eaten years ago
From the bark of the trees.
It said: "History has a logic
Only when subjectivity rules it, only when
The emergence of subjectivity reconfigures
Efficient causes and final causes
In the development of history.
The power of the proletariat consists precisely.
Like a missionary or vampire, capital touches
What is foreign and makes it proper, like syphilis
Carried worldward on the bloodied flagella of zephyrs.
What is joy? Ask the Third Modern Bureaucracy,
And it will say every planet on the nation hates America
For asking not only what is the working class
But for asking first, what would a true working class
Poetry or art look like?"
Why should the day eat, fast-aging its communications like cheapened cheese?
Outside the grove, the young man bought himself
The clothes of a lost-paradise narrative
And began investigating joy with hermeneutic tools
Bought at one of the many home & garden improvement centers.
With a hammer, nails, & cut wood
He sculpted a new rapper based on Eminem & Kool Keith.
He wrote inside his hat,
"Personally, I need the conviction, the fearlessness to experiment--in cooperation, collaboration towards a vision of joy, of a world of laughter, beyond fear and punitive despair--take Kool Keith, Eminem as models, sci-fi in its sovereignty of joyful theurgy, world-building...Your mind is the best studio you'll ever have. Also, build a new couch. Your old one has a gross-out patina."
He placed the rapper in a vast field of toothy-grass.
He powered him with 17 windmills
And a complex pnuematic system which required
Equal parts wind, virus, and raw meat.
A rope was connected to the new rapper
Transgressive in his willingness for mutual humiliation,
And the young man tied this rope around the hard ox of his own neck
And began to bow, deep, deep, deep into the lick-cleaned plate of the day,
When he bowed, the rapper bowed back.
Soon enough both rapper and young man
Were bashing their faces against the heirloom of the ground
And when the blood began to flow from the young man's forehead
It sowed its way into the toothy grass like a new taboo
Until the grass became one towering butcher knife
Toteming like a giant Doric column to support the weight of the sky.
Like a stomach with the sudden lip-gash of a mouth
Grown tearfully prosperous with communicable pain in laughter,
If the sky fell now it would impale itself
And die over the rhyming plains and mountains.
The sky had to admit then that another's militancy kept it most upright,
And in thanks released a rain of sunglasses & pulped oranges
Upon the furiously bowing rapper & young man.
The sunglasses kept the thirst from spilling out their eyes,
& the orange rinds were stitched like flat-tire patches
All over each of their orifices.
A glow as of a weaponized buckskin sugared with anthrax
Rose from the bowing bodies creating a cloud
Of wedding rice electric with cocaine & atomized white chickens.
Across the land in a 5 mile radius
Balls of electricity roamed like crittery ghosts
Crashing a catered DOMA-smashed wedding.
They ate the land and as it passed through the fiery jelly
Of their phantom GI-Joe tracts,
From their thunderous sphincters convulsing snow like 3D printers
Came an exact scale-model of the hunt-eaten land
White as the 1893 Chicago World Fair,
Only less expensive and with more murderers
Holding permanent markers in hand for spontaneously combustible graffiti.
Like a chicken obsessed with viral death,
Doors opened everywhere
Leading behind eyes to impossible gardens
Grown inside the flow of vigorous waterfalls.
Like an executioner obsessed dolefully with merciful claws,
Everything was new excepting the painful acceptance
Of the exception of the continued pain of the new.
In the new white city, a murderer marauded
The streets with architectural graffiti.
A scene grew on its pages until its letters
Caused this to take place in the city-wide
Theatrically converted sculpture-garden.
(Insert the scene)
After all the emails had grown ancient
In just two days, they found themselves
Buried under a forgotten stripmall.
A tornado furious with its own future had swept across them
And buried their storefront signs deep in a red-data-dirt
Of abandoned high-stake poker games.
Through pain, through humiliation, a peace, a glass of lukewarm water, a flower, a blank page, like a new face passed on the street--no, you can't keep it, you can't even have it, but you rise up to it, you celebrate it with momentary desire, you are a breaking vase of water and the water is behind your eyes, your eyes are a clear glass and the water behind your eyes is clear glass softer than a jellyfish reading water from a book and the glass is like water all around you but still you are inside it, against your body so much that it is become your body, & yet, it rarely happens...
This young man was pink with clear water behind the eyes. When he met another person who didn't know how life was supposed to be he felt a great foot swimming in blue inside him. He felt a flower, celebrating its own vase by trying to break it open into a great black opacity. Magic, the young man hoped, would prove to be real, real in the way a death sentence is real outside Russia & governors' stays. If life is not murky, endless waterfall of half & half, & not skimmed, who wants it. Who wants not to drink the fat down? Magic never occurs to those concerned with the self's longevity of continuity.
Every metaphor's a chance to think for once again. Along such a string, you have the knots for thought's DNA. A poem is the life-minded mind's clone, but it is only a clone of a ship, and like a new friend, you see him as more a clone of you than you of him, & vice versa. Such is poetry--vice verse; but of course, not really, since there are no virtues to be the vice of the vicious.
Thus, if poetry is ecological, its model is a ship in a bottle, and that ship is friendship, ideally. To avoid scurvy, the poet finds a lime under every stone, bows unto it, and practices hacking the code right out of it with a poor-ass karate chop that sculpts faces of food into the land for all pilgrims to touch.
A poet is concerned with cooking up edible Rushmores, and probably everything else which is more but never less than real delight in S'mores, snores, and even stores' gores. I get sores just kissing the hope new beauty goes herpetically viral, like a contagious landscape sick with quicklimed pirates healthily robbing children of their parents' utilitarian plans. Let the babyboomers snore away the days in the deep mono-sound they've contracted in marrying their infections to a single-other. Let the boom-mic fall into their view and peck the tops of their heads with an electric kiss. Let them wake to a percussive muffle revealing their true cheap production-value in the most epic B-grade documentary of torture-porn in America.
A prank is like a fresh baby, hairless but wailing to eat the life-river from your very breast, and for that it must be allowed to grow & incubate not only its own heat-death but yours as well. Within a prank's conception, you should already smell the teeth of death in its potential hair burning; you should wake to its cry in that deep shampoo of your peaceful nights and walk to its crib and string your own face twirling above him like a mobile circus which renounces your pain by the grace of free tickets. This is the side-door you can sneak through, which you have to sneak through.For the Theatre of War has closed all official entries, sinapistically copy-pasting data like traction-casts over its anus for fear of your pegging. Look closely, all the artists are Theatres of War, a monolith of vaginas walking around with plaster-casted dicks worn as chastity-belts painted chrome to look like loaded pistols. The prank you incubate must be a ripped apart baby of flung paint-thinner. It must corrode what it touches but also chew new holes in its own body. Be a mouth with teeth of acid and kiss the world all over. Become the hole you make shoveling the world back into love. With no love lost, conservative chemistry remains sovereign. Much love should be lost and will be, for so long now we have called hate love. That hate we masquerade we shall spill on altars of recursion. The future is lipless and shall not be read even by the deaf gifted with that silence.
Tomorrow we shall rise and find the old buildings crumbling like plaque between our teeth. We shall breathe wordless into the wind and our bad breath shall stink a new ethics into the sanitized weather which washes its hands like a creeping fog of Howard Hughes dissolving in singlemindedness upon the ground. The future shall darken into a tornado hot and bothered by our willful disfigurements, and across the membranous ground it will travel exploding the IEDs we have littered the land into eroticism with, and swept clean, the land shall be us, a world-sized skeleton of discretely general erogenous zones, pulsing, with every touch, messages into the void of space. Perhaps something other will hear, perhaps it will only be us, for we will be other, or perhaps we shall hear others pulsing through the stars towards us, who having ears never heard them, but now deaf to all but pleasure hear their cries scream like mortars across the universe, coming ahead of their own sound to destroy us into the beyond yet again.
At last, without a trace of a haircut, storms gather across the red horizon, split like papayas tied in a bonded game of Scrabble.
A horse galloping riderless, sparkheeled & in trivial pursuit, blinks like an eye stabbed with rain across the lust of the mesa. By this we know it's somebody's game & somebody's insurrection waits beyond some pass or strait like a cheating hand flush with rich red gold & a mouth.
A small child, handless with breath, enters the dust diamond drawn round you like a shaman's shawl. You bend to him & speak a language without chins. From your teeth a color vibrates to him until he wraps it in a knucklesandwich he can save for later more shore-starved days, when the trees shall shrink back into the earth like green snails salted with ecological apathy.
A small child, shambling, enters the water, crystallizing their overcrowding pity into a statuesque protest.
The child disrobes, shudders, and spits like a lieutenant into his own hands. He gives a mysterious, moist standing ovation and goes under, bubbling like a carbon-dated suicide-wish.
Amazed, the crowd assembled on the slick rocks muses loudly, rhetorically of squirreled away alka-seltzers pocketed in the child's cheeks. Minutes pass like refugees admitted with minimal fuss into another country wartorn beyond bureaucracy and borders, but the spectators' breaths stutter & jam, engrossing them into a panicked timelessness, as if an enemytank approached & all their guns of a sudden defected, spitting out fireless candied bullets, preservative & cold.
The bubbles continue to rise, breaking like Easter-headlines across the eggshell-tension of the water, diffusing into ever diminutive ripples. At last, the child rises to the surface to the empathetic intake of air rippling like poverty-rekindled nationalism through the crowd. He has a strange, smeared look, like a new chain-motel's decor. Into the water, the crowd, fervent with feats of paused adornability, throw silver chains, rookie cards, & hymens torn back together by rococo plastic surgeons. A rain electrical with hydrolized Vyvanse falls on the supplicant hands, hands, like dolphins, filmed in their showy hunger to convince a superhuman intelligence that their tricks analogically display a xenomorphic kinship.
The desert becomes suave with snails and greens its toupee with outre jokes. It has become a form of women's basketball--competitive in a new, exciting way.
Like a dance-broke vase blank with another's trod trash, the small child passes into the new childhood of a young man. What shall the day eat but its own blue toes?
This young man sat in the orange grove
Hugging all the turtles with hard concert tickets.
To the turtles on the highest branches
He threw breaking ampules of pure fresh coconut water
Perfumed with roses, whiskey & forgiven sins.
No one came to him in an atmospheric way,
But instead they came like the sound of distant thunder,
Neither to be feared nor loved nor questioned--
Like the archetypes of deaf-mute pilgrims
On their silent way to Protestant Work Ethics
And increasingly ergonomic rolling chairs.
What shall the day eat but what waking you decide is eaten?
Leaving the orange grove, the young man
Sought out joy in a historical city.
He remembered a fortune he'd eaten years ago
From the bark of the trees.
It said: "History has a logic
Only when subjectivity rules it, only when
The emergence of subjectivity reconfigures
Efficient causes and final causes
In the development of history.
The power of the proletariat consists precisely.
Like a missionary or vampire, capital touches
What is foreign and makes it proper, like syphilis
Carried worldward on the bloodied flagella of zephyrs.
What is joy? Ask the Third Modern Bureaucracy,
And it will say every planet on the nation hates America
For asking not only what is the working class
But for asking first, what would a true working class
Poetry or art look like?"
Why should the day eat, fast-aging its communications like cheapened cheese?
Outside the grove, the young man bought himself
The clothes of a lost-paradise narrative
And began investigating joy with hermeneutic tools
Bought at one of the many home & garden improvement centers.
With a hammer, nails, & cut wood
He sculpted a new rapper based on Eminem & Kool Keith.
He wrote inside his hat,
"Personally, I need the conviction, the fearlessness to experiment--in cooperation, collaboration towards a vision of joy, of a world of laughter, beyond fear and punitive despair--take Kool Keith, Eminem as models, sci-fi in its sovereignty of joyful theurgy, world-building...Your mind is the best studio you'll ever have. Also, build a new couch. Your old one has a gross-out patina."
He placed the rapper in a vast field of toothy-grass.
He powered him with 17 windmills
And a complex pnuematic system which required
Equal parts wind, virus, and raw meat.
A rope was connected to the new rapper
Transgressive in his willingness for mutual humiliation,
And the young man tied this rope around the hard ox of his own neck
And began to bow, deep, deep, deep into the lick-cleaned plate of the day,
When he bowed, the rapper bowed back.
Soon enough both rapper and young man
Were bashing their faces against the heirloom of the ground
And when the blood began to flow from the young man's forehead
It sowed its way into the toothy grass like a new taboo
Until the grass became one towering butcher knife
Toteming like a giant Doric column to support the weight of the sky.
Like a stomach with the sudden lip-gash of a mouth
Grown tearfully prosperous with communicable pain in laughter,
If the sky fell now it would impale itself
And die over the rhyming plains and mountains.
The sky had to admit then that another's militancy kept it most upright,
And in thanks released a rain of sunglasses & pulped oranges
Upon the furiously bowing rapper & young man.
The sunglasses kept the thirst from spilling out their eyes,
& the orange rinds were stitched like flat-tire patches
All over each of their orifices.
A glow as of a weaponized buckskin sugared with anthrax
Rose from the bowing bodies creating a cloud
Of wedding rice electric with cocaine & atomized white chickens.
Across the land in a 5 mile radius
Balls of electricity roamed like crittery ghosts
Crashing a catered DOMA-smashed wedding.
They ate the land and as it passed through the fiery jelly
Of their phantom GI-Joe tracts,
From their thunderous sphincters convulsing snow like 3D printers
Came an exact scale-model of the hunt-eaten land
White as the 1893 Chicago World Fair,
Only less expensive and with more murderers
Holding permanent markers in hand for spontaneously combustible graffiti.
Like a chicken obsessed with viral death,
Doors opened everywhere
Leading behind eyes to impossible gardens
Grown inside the flow of vigorous waterfalls.
Like an executioner obsessed dolefully with merciful claws,
Everything was new excepting the painful acceptance
Of the exception of the continued pain of the new.
In the new white city, a murderer marauded
The streets with architectural graffiti.
A scene grew on its pages until its letters
Caused this to take place in the city-wide
Theatrically converted sculpture-garden.
(Insert the scene)
After all the emails had grown ancient
In just two days, they found themselves
Buried under a forgotten stripmall.
A tornado furious with its own future had swept across them
And buried their storefront signs deep in a red-data-dirt
Of abandoned high-stake poker games.
Through pain, through humiliation, a peace, a glass of lukewarm water, a flower, a blank page, like a new face passed on the street--no, you can't keep it, you can't even have it, but you rise up to it, you celebrate it with momentary desire, you are a breaking vase of water and the water is behind your eyes, your eyes are a clear glass and the water behind your eyes is clear glass softer than a jellyfish reading water from a book and the glass is like water all around you but still you are inside it, against your body so much that it is become your body, & yet, it rarely happens...
This young man was pink with clear water behind the eyes. When he met another person who didn't know how life was supposed to be he felt a great foot swimming in blue inside him. He felt a flower, celebrating its own vase by trying to break it open into a great black opacity. Magic, the young man hoped, would prove to be real, real in the way a death sentence is real outside Russia & governors' stays. If life is not murky, endless waterfall of half & half, & not skimmed, who wants it. Who wants not to drink the fat down? Magic never occurs to those concerned with the self's longevity of continuity.
Every metaphor's a chance to think for once again. Along such a string, you have the knots for thought's DNA. A poem is the life-minded mind's clone, but it is only a clone of a ship, and like a new friend, you see him as more a clone of you than you of him, & vice versa. Such is poetry--vice verse; but of course, not really, since there are no virtues to be the vice of the vicious.
Thus, if poetry is ecological, its model is a ship in a bottle, and that ship is friendship, ideally. To avoid scurvy, the poet finds a lime under every stone, bows unto it, and practices hacking the code right out of it with a poor-ass karate chop that sculpts faces of food into the land for all pilgrims to touch.
A poet is concerned with cooking up edible Rushmores, and probably everything else which is more but never less than real delight in S'mores, snores, and even stores' gores. I get sores just kissing the hope new beauty goes herpetically viral, like a contagious landscape sick with quicklimed pirates healthily robbing children of their parents' utilitarian plans. Let the babyboomers snore away the days in the deep mono-sound they've contracted in marrying their infections to a single-other. Let the boom-mic fall into their view and peck the tops of their heads with an electric kiss. Let them wake to a percussive muffle revealing their true cheap production-value in the most epic B-grade documentary of torture-porn in America.
A prank is like a fresh baby, hairless but wailing to eat the life-river from your very breast, and for that it must be allowed to grow & incubate not only its own heat-death but yours as well. Within a prank's conception, you should already smell the teeth of death in its potential hair burning; you should wake to its cry in that deep shampoo of your peaceful nights and walk to its crib and string your own face twirling above him like a mobile circus which renounces your pain by the grace of free tickets. This is the side-door you can sneak through, which you have to sneak through.For the Theatre of War has closed all official entries, sinapistically copy-pasting data like traction-casts over its anus for fear of your pegging. Look closely, all the artists are Theatres of War, a monolith of vaginas walking around with plaster-casted dicks worn as chastity-belts painted chrome to look like loaded pistols. The prank you incubate must be a ripped apart baby of flung paint-thinner. It must corrode what it touches but also chew new holes in its own body. Be a mouth with teeth of acid and kiss the world all over. Become the hole you make shoveling the world back into love. With no love lost, conservative chemistry remains sovereign. Much love should be lost and will be, for so long now we have called hate love. That hate we masquerade we shall spill on altars of recursion. The future is lipless and shall not be read even by the deaf gifted with that silence.
Tomorrow we shall rise and find the old buildings crumbling like plaque between our teeth. We shall breathe wordless into the wind and our bad breath shall stink a new ethics into the sanitized weather which washes its hands like a creeping fog of Howard Hughes dissolving in singlemindedness upon the ground. The future shall darken into a tornado hot and bothered by our willful disfigurements, and across the membranous ground it will travel exploding the IEDs we have littered the land into eroticism with, and swept clean, the land shall be us, a world-sized skeleton of discretely general erogenous zones, pulsing, with every touch, messages into the void of space. Perhaps something other will hear, perhaps it will only be us, for we will be other, or perhaps we shall hear others pulsing through the stars towards us, who having ears never heard them, but now deaf to all but pleasure hear their cries scream like mortars across the universe, coming ahead of their own sound to destroy us into the beyond yet again.
dm an ex
me: i just got an email from kirsten dunst
she says, "my friend jessica is buying a car for 7,000"
Sent at 9:44 AM on Monday
me: who talks like that??
Sent at 9:50 AM on Monday
Carrie: whatttttt?
Sent at 9:55 AM on Monday
me: i'll forward it to you. the lena dunham part is the best.
she said the $20,000 sofa was "too expensive."
it's priceless
i mean lena's comment is priceless. the sofa is obvious priced the fuck out.
Sent at 9:58 AM on Monday
me: honestly, as someone who has written literally TENS of poems for lena dunham, i appreciate this tremendously
Sent at 10:10 AM on Monday
Carrie: hahahaha
i am so confused by that email
me: there's a lot going on
it's like a poem
a poem where everyone has a book deal
Sent at 10:19 AM on Monday
me: is this a decent cat emoticon? i can't figure it out. :X<
Sent at 10:24 AM on Monday
Carrie: =^.^=
me: oh
huh
what's a dog? i got this shit:
:BP
Sent at 10:32 AM on Monday
Carrie: hahaha
i dont know
me: yeah, dogs are dumb anyway
Carrie: yeppp
"my" lena dunham
my bathroom smells
like good beer
and i fucking
hate it
$24, 035.24 is just
too much
for that
sofa
:)
like good beer
and i fucking
hate it
$24, 035.24 is just
too much
for that
sofa
:)
people all be smelling nice reminding me i'm alone and shit
you smarted your smock toward the fringe
and i thank you
set to dipping dots alone for lonely doggs
cut it the fuck out
you set then to stripping suddenly
is it friday yet
i gave you honey bunches
of oats
sex was boring
without you
i totally
hm
?
and i thank you
set to dipping dots alone for lonely doggs
cut it the fuck out
you set then to stripping suddenly
is it friday yet
i gave you honey bunches
of oats
sex was boring
without you
i totally
hm
?
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Glenn Busby's Afterlife: A Facebook Mystery
I read that Eddie Major passed away in May. He had worked for the Gwinnett County Corrections Div. for years and had retired. I always thought he was the best looking "California Surfer" to ever be living on Pleasant Hill Road (Where Best Buy is now) I went to Prom with him and he was always the sweetest fellow. He was so shy.
Wanda Bachhuber J.C. passed away in'74. I'm Wanda, Eddie and J.C.'s sister.
Wanda Bachhuber Thank you Betsey for the sweet memories. While going through Eddie's things I found the prom picture of you and Eddie.
Carolyn Smith what happened to Ronnie Davis?
Barbara Grice Sudderth I believe Ronnie died with a brain tumor a year or so after he graduated.
Carolyn Smith oh me that's awful
Moore T. Jeff Ronnie attended the 20th year class reunion in 1987. I remember he was sick then... He graduated in 1967. I think he died in the 1990's not sure when. He was a great football player. He is only person I played with at Central Gwinnett and later against in football. He was a member of the Tech Freshman team and I played for the Clemson Freshman team in 1967. He won 13-2. We shook hands after the game. It was great just seeing him!
Angie Williams: Wasn't there a boy that was riding his bike, hit a pot hole near the post office and died as a result of a brain injury? Mid "80's maybe?
Windy Hood Daniels Jeff Murphy... My first funeral ever:'( he was going to baseball practice on Tray's team:'( his name has never lady my mind nor my heart...
Angie Williams Awww...Wasnt it how he hit his head?...
Marcy Murphy i thought that was glenn....not sure of last name...busby maybe?
Angie Williams Thats who I was thinking of Marcy. I didn't realize there was another one. Wasn't there also an "Algood?" Maybe Stephen?
Marcy Murphy steven allgood was shot and killed by ben huntzinger.....i didnt know steven, but had known ben for a long time. he always was nice to me.
Angie Williams Ben doed as well in a different accident, right?
Marcy Murphy well, he was in jail for several years....but i heard that as part of his sentence he had to move to indiana where his dad lived. then i had heard he died in an intentional car accident/ suicide. whether thats true or not, i dont know. that was so sad.....they had been arguing on the bus, and if i remember right, steven went to bens house to fight. i think ben shot him through a window. i think he must have been afraid to fight. just terrible for something like that to end in such a tragic way.
Angie Williams Oh goodness yes...Absolutely tragic...Do you remember how old they were?
Marcy Murphy im thinking we were all in 10th grade...so 15 yrs old, i guess.....
Charlene Manning Nash Yall aren't talking about Clint Cunnington are you?
Shannon Estrada who was the kid that died in a carwreck in 88
Marcy Murphy i remember when he died too charlene, but im pretty sure it was glenn busby that died behind the post office.....wrecked his bike when he hit a pothole.
Angie Williams That was Brian Potts Shannon, I think?
Tressa Haney Ash Clint cunnington died in a motorcycle wreck on 316.
Marcy Murphy so sad to remember all this...we sure have lost alot of people over the years:(
Windy Hood Daniels Jeff murphy was riding his bike from ball practice from Rhodes Jordan park home and his bike went down about 20 ft on his head near the post office that's why they built a little yellow wall up and a little fence up so no one else could just ride off the side walk down the pit wall. It was rite before where the RR tracks are going 29 toward town. Tray was in 8th grade:(
Windy Hood Daniels I remember Steven Allgood but not Glenn nor Ben.
Marcy Murphy that would have been before glenn busby died then, i think. im trying to remember tray....he was a year behind me, i think? i was class of 88.....
Windy Hood Daniels Ya he was class of 89'... So Jeff died around 85/84. Tray was QB of the football team for Central for alot of his high skool years along with ronnie
Jessie Grant It was Glenn Busby that died behind the post office
Cory Sinyard Definitely was Glen, I have the year book with a whole page dedicated to Glen... Class of 89
Susan Lynn Parker It was Glen. He lived in my neighborhood at the time.
Christy Lansford West Clint died on hurricane shoals road..and Steven Allgood was shot
Tressa Haney Ash Clint was on a motorcycle right?
Charlene Manning Nash Yes. I remember going to his funeral service.
Robin Renee Traeger Glenn busby was my brothers best friend he hit the wall and swallow his toung
Tim Klaes Jeff Murphy died in 1984 or 1985. I am still best friends with his brother, Sean. Jeff was riding home from ball practice on Old Norcross Road at the intersection of Davis Mill Road. He was hit by a car that was making an illegal pass. He was 13 years old. I was actually with Sean at the time this happened. When we got back to my house, everyone just kept telling Sean he needed to go home. I couldn’t believe it when they told me what happened. He was a great kid and that death haunted that family for a long time.
Windy Hood Daniels Tim I still remember it like it was yesterday. I guess cuz it was the first young friend ever or person for that matter to have ever died. His funeral still plays n my dreams.
Tim Klaes I'll never forget that funeral either. Lots of tears. A lot of Jeff's organs were donated, so some good came from it. They still talk about Jeff to this day. He is very much missed.
Windy Hood Daniels I never knew about his Organs being donated. After all this time, that actually puts a smile on my face when I think about that time in all of our lives. I still talk to my mom and Tray sometimes about it. For some reason his passing played a big part in my life...
Lisa Davis glenn busby
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