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

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"

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.

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. . .?



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.

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
what's a dog? i got this shit:
 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

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