If the Wind Would Stop Flocking

A Sincere Warning

May explode on contact without prior indication and without rational cause
May hang droopy ears at the teasing rain
A slow blink of the eye
For what?
Yes uh thank you
But how did we arrive at this problem in the first place?

Shouldn't this be Cause for Rejoicing?

... between lust and melancholy
One bundle of neurons constituting a nervous system
The Rhythm
A shark
The rhythm
A shotgun
Thanks again, but I still don't understand the problem

Because!

It seems so serious where four-elemental space converges

Tongue-Penetrating the Hottest Whore at the Babylonian Prom pt 1: Lessons in Strategic Mopping

The first thing a magician must do is learn to mop.
-Lion Low-Key

Cuz you never know when a contraption might fall on your head, embrace your face, suffocate you in mechanical grace until the days disappear in an unambitious haze. That’s when he realizes that everything must be done without lust of result as he tosses penny after penny into the lake without making a wish. Then the vision comes on him, looming at the height of his forehead: cleavage! Oh yes well I am horny thank you very much. Though he prefers pussy, who doesn’t like cleavage? Just let the serpent rise, wrap the Chinese statuettes in bright yellow and red and blue and purple silk scarves, take the pigmy dinosaur by the leash and go off in search of the next cosmic egg, the next nipple at the edge of the glorious goddess.
There’s a dwarf trying very hard not to say “hiccup” but keeps saying it anyway, rocking back on his heels, thumbs ‘round orange suspenders. He finds himself surrounded by animal people talking to cellular phones “like totally and I was like oh my god you know” and dudes all dressed in the same baggy shirts and pants which is all very depressing like a frantic alienation fit rearing up to scream “hiccup” in the collective face but any inspiration to do so having been stomped down by the ever present and uncalled for “whooo!” Fun is never really fun with a pingpong ball in the face, with a pitcher of beer, with a forty dollar bill from the coach to the tarot reader to tell who’s going to win the game, the sacred pingpong game that so very much rides on. So very much.
Back to Rachel Twostep and his darling little T-Rex named Rufki who only inspires endeared “awww”s with his “rarr.” They’ve reached the top of the highest nearby mountain, totally almost 100 feet, where he carves out a circle to sit down and meditate for eight hours, can’t find the means to wander into every remote land to explore every crevice of Her body (as though one could ever endure infinity). At the end his body’s grown so stiff he can’t hardly straighten his legs but managed to slurp up a good pentagram because he knows he is god and his number is five. Rufki is chasing butterflies next to the dwarf who is crying as he looks out at a burning boat heading for the mouth of Scorpio knowing it will never arrive. And a poet comes walking on the water, arms outstretched with an open chest cavity, doors swung inward, and a bright light blinding therein as he chants,
“I come to die in November’s abrasive arms
I come to love and do no harm
and forgive the animals my little brethren, my sisters
With a crack of thunder, with a rustle of feathers
I rise asunder from the earth, reborn by the wings of the Eagle
I rise I rise I rise”
Everyone is in tears that take on different colors and shapes as they fall and coalesce into one big stroytelling pool. They clap and call for an encore while Rufki is blowing fire out his nostrils-- ha ha, I didn’t know he could do that. The poet’s still standing out on the lake, ready to do an encore, only it hasn’t been written yet. He improvises with some tap dancing he picked up in Jerusalem...
In broken English the pool of tears is singing like an open-minded bigot that people have no right to get upset about its having oppressed countless minority groups. Then suddenly and with two hours warning it tells a nice anecdote about Lessons in Strategic Mopping:
Trish’s cousin wrote a whole book on the matter. You see the trick is to make the mop head out of noodles at midnight on a new moon– no, I’m just joshing you there. But it is to use flat noodles so the mop doubles as a weapon, just a sloshy thwap across the face and then thugs gonna think twice about robbing the janitor. Like I was seeing a guy in the news came into McDonald’s dressed as Ronald McDonald himself, robbed the whole damn place with a gun and a machete. A machete’s good, I always told my brother, not only for clearing away brush and vines, but all the clutter in the head, see. When I don’t know what’s what, I mean when I’ve really got no fucking guess, I just get in there with a mental machete and chop away. But as I was saying about the mop, you’ve got to start with big sweeping strokes what the book says. Of course remove all broken glass, cats, spark plugs ahead of time; roller coaster parts, panties, sombreros, even yachts and dinosaurs. Bob Mulligan used to give em to me on a deal, the plastic t-rex’s by the dozen for all the kiddies. Which reminds me, always teach em to mop young, like no older than four or five so they develop good technique. The first problem’s always identifying when to mop. Some people like to use litmus paper, check the pH of the floor. That’s a bit sterile, too scientific for my taste. I just bend over and knock three times, wait for an answer, then ask, “hey, you need cleanin?”But you gotta develop good inner hearing, you know. Fact, that’s the only thing I think was really lacking in the book: I would like to have seen something in there about spiritual mopping and floor yoga. You can’t always do it like a barbarian, soak it down in alcohol and toss a match in. Like that song by– what’re they called– Swans, “I need alcohol, it opens my blood.” From the top of the mountain you never need to mop nothin there, then down we go into the fertile bush of valley, overwhelmed by creeping snail trails and holy holy when you return cleaner than angel pussy. Cause when you mop it just right– and there’s ways in there to calculate from the dimensions and layout of the room, how to avoid mopping yourself into a corner– then you can rise steady and true, never a lizard brain. You’ll understand when you’re dead. But the floor joke in that tea industry is that they put all the tea on a big screen like, shake it back and forth, and the crumbs all fall out on the floor get swept up and bagged and sold in boxes. My grandma was an old bag, actually died mopping, trying to clean the blood stain from a dead deer grandpa dragged in one day with bleach and ammonia. The best mopping strategists will always tell you not to use either one. I don’t think her conscience could have handled it if she did survive– used to break into choking sobs if you so much as slapped a fly...

That Most Critics Would Say a Shark

I’m a living miserablometer. Like this: look here and find the greyblue night clouds bouncing urban lights and Gaea power off their soft heads. But Crunchy Man (known as such for the way he stays crunchy in milk) kneeling down in the silty clay keeps thinking he has to dig rotten hearts out of this patch of earth by the bay shore with nothing but a shark fin, just a way to distract him from his brainwash addiction... Always used to come out of the shack at the edge of town, the one hosting the radical speakers, spouting some propaganda about burning the fucking Jews one week, then the horrors of a central government wearing nihilistic black the next week, until he finds himself arguing over the intense relevance of wheat grass in a diet– didn’t matter what so long as it was someone else’s rhetoric-- because the words were so much stronger than him until “they” burnt the shack down and where will he get his fix now. So he digs away with his organism abused by the profound sadness of the sopping hearts until his salty eye wetness foams white in the dirt so sickly he can’t breathe reminding him of a good ovulating pussy such that he has to scourge himself for dirty thoughts. And blast it all to hell, this fruiting garshdarn Pythagorean mud is so full of ricks BALL!– oh hush child, the old man now with his hand over his mouth knowing that God is hanging over his head with a long list of Anglo-Saxon words he’s not allowed to say inscribed on a lead plate that he uses to beat the fuck out of naughty little boys. There! You’ve gone and thought a dirty word, a nasty, putrid, disgusting word, a must-be-controlled word of great cosmic importance, a must-be-empowered word that every good misery farm should fear. Just then the old man pulls up a heart all squishy and grey and oozing, turns to me in hatred and do-what-I-wilt fire pointed my direction for the way I’m mocking God there in my huge pink sombrero, a limp wrist and foppish manner. But dearie, where’s the laughter...?
Gracie Starlo White is somewhere promising me new habits with a jar of urine in one hand and a stack of shark teeth in the other, poised to attack, spring with an Anglo-Saxon word. “The modern world is simply predatory, society so deceitful... all about masking how we really feel, who we really are, pretending not to have a personality with a sharkish business smile,” her hand already bleeding. Phew! I thought she was going to say– “Shit! I mean, piss.” Oh she’s gone and ruined it. “The easiest way to make somebody uncomfortable is to tell the truth.” It just now becomes obvious that the radio is on way too loud, speakers distorted from overload, blasting a man’s voice: “Bicycle tire. Bicycle tire. Bicycle tire. Bicycle tire. Bicycle tire.” Gracie, relieved at last, lets he guard down, just glad to know what she’s supposed to buy next. Right after the lecture:
“... that most critics would say a shark, but my contention has always been that an Ostrich is much more accurate, most particularly in consideration of the fact that an Ostrich brain is the same size as one of its eyes. That simply can’t be a coincidence. Nature is always telling us that A plus B equals C or that C divided by A equals B or that C minus B equals A; or then again that we are mistaken through and through and that all along A equals B equals C: we’ve been wasting our time the whole while. But to step back a moment, it most certainly should not go unnoticed that the Ostrich, while it can’t actually achieve, contrary to our stereotypes about what it is to be a bird, can run up to 60 miles per hour. With it’s long neck and bulbous center, often idiotic demeanor and surly attitude it can trump the shark every time...”
The bell goes off and you’re standing on stage singing one of your most popular songs, “Go Back to Jeremyville.” The crowd loves you, they adore you, they just want to touch you.
“Cause baby you been kissing those eels behind my back and selling my record collection in a burlap sack...”
You see something in the crowd that you know is not supposed to be there. You try to look down at the moldy stage, hoping it will go away. You look back and there he is, hard to miss in that green top hat and sunglasses at night (only this is no Corey Heart). You almost lose focus on the lyrics.
“... I been shot in the face one too many times, I can’t even make a fucking guitar stand...”
You don’t know who he is, only that he’s not supposed to be there. And it’s true, you realize, the unbearable weight of it, that anything you think, anyone you think about, anything you breathe, anything towards which you direct your attention will be profoundly affected by your Will. Oh the responsibility! Oh the discipline required! That when everything happens. With a flash, ‘bang’ his mouth even lips it with a snap of thumb and middle finger while he faces at a 90 degree angle from most of the rest of the crowd, everything being consumed in white light with an ameboid slurp of bright bulbous things of astral sharks trumped by stupid looking toads who (you know, for some reason) are named Genri and Hagat, such a special disaster as your lyrics fall off the now largely blank page of your cerebral cortex
cuz it ain’t
my fault
the toaster
was
in the
bathtub
and what you can still “see” in the room (yes, because it’s more like feeling with astral antlers) is the green-hatted hero actually splattering paint all over the collective unconsious and splattering what was missing all along, no not the cold rotted hearts or obsessive commercialbots or any given part of the Ostrich, but the ink the ink the ink...

The Standoff

It takes a whole brigade of evil ducks quaking along a single file line, trampling down the five-inch blades of grass with webbed boots, snapping unkindly at the sludgy red substance dropping from the sky just outside the porch where Madame Zinger is knitting a new chain mail for general Krag of the Fucked-Up Liberation Army. They try to dodge the splots of goop, but it’s like trying to duck the rain (pretty quaky). So they tuck their heads and shake their feathers as the Madame hums tunes from the Wizard of Oz and Barrows, the lanky washwoman, comes stumbling out stiff-legged and trying to wipe flour from her face but only making it obscenely worse until she looks the perfect image of death half rotted for the open sores on her flesh. “Somewhere over the rainbow!” The Madame can’t help but bellow out loud and more than a little out of tune. Then Billy Saunter, who’s been leading the line, hangs his ducky head and wanders off the path, dejected, unsure of his life from here on out, disappointed with Madame Zinger’s whole garden and sick of this fucking wasp blood! Over the rainbow my ass! Then in response the Madame looks up from her work with a sigh, “I think I’ll retire to the astral next incarnation. I’m so sick of Malkuth.”
The words echo out and resonate in a single blade of grass on which a little red knight and a blue knight are preparing to battle in classic medieval style and a lady bug as referee, though momentarily distracted, mumbling to himself about the spot where he once buried over a ton of baseball cards before heading off to vacation in Ecuador and something about the injustice of being a man constantly referred to as “lady.” The knights are getting impatient, the horses pacing and rearing until the red knight taps Mr. Bug politely with his javelin, clears his throat, “excuse me your honorable ref, but might we be on with this show? The audience is clearly growing weary.”
He barks, “what fucking audience you bloody twit?” Wilbur, surly as ever. But does finally wave the flag and the knights charge valiantly, the red knight with his javelin pointed high, the blue with his pointed low until– oh god I can’t bear to look– crash! Except it runs out the javelins are just made of wet cardboard that go to mush on contact. They throw themselves to the ground and roll around both whooping big hyuck hyuck hycuks, beavers lifted when the blue knight surprises red with the ol’ Hidden Mallet Space Pie Grenade Gotcha Maneuver, whap, right in the face... mmm, cherry of course...
Yes, it takes a whole brigade of evil ducks, intentions bad, wills weak and unfocused, clustering together now, wishing they could destroy the whole damn world, but not even getting to the point of brainstorming on how to do so. It’s a regular standoff here below Madame Zinger’s porch. The Madame grins and has Barrows roll out the General Krag 4000 Multi-Place Computer which she wraps in chain mail and leaves to guard the entrance.
[The following is taken from the journal of a young duck by the name of Mann Hank, translated from the duck by Dr. Alan T. Hazer.]
At first we just blinked at each other for what seemed like forever. [Fragment missing] as though we had to ask it questions. The whole situation I found very disconcerting. There was a dark gloom cast about the whole s[cene...] our ambassador, stepped forward and faced up fearlessly. The first thing he asked was, “what is your will?”
The computer snapped into a hum, then answered. “I do not have a will as such. It is my only purpose to answer questions.”
Then perceiving [fragment missing] asked directly, “can we enter?”
“No.
“Why not?”
“Because you do not have the focus necessary to do so.”
As I looked about our ranks, I had to agree. We were a sad, scattered lot, most of us [not] even paying attention to the answers given.
[...] If I were to tie a piece of fishing line from one tree to another, what would be my chances of tripping Madame Zinger in her own garden?”
“20% with a 3% margin of error.”
“If we were to launch an attack here with, say, frisbees, what color frisbees would be the most affective?”
“Most certainly blue.”
“Fuck!”
I looked back at the pile of orange frisbees we had brought for the occasion. That was it. I mean, that really killed it. We had come all this way for nothing.

The Battle of Oh Chronicles vol II

Even white magicians must have days like this, clouds growing thick overhead, stacks of books rendered cold and meaningless, and the heart swollen from the remote pain for a girl I’ve never met. Oh well. It’s too convenient to think that your state of being in the present must be permanent, for better or worse, for a bowl of cherries bartered off the Dalai Lama or a stubbed toesie. If I reach inside often and persistently enough I know I can find infinity where nouns of various shape and quality that I’ve never even heard of reside and how I might run naked in the middle of the road on a hot day, waving my arms frantically at traffic or just lay down, rough black asphalt warm against my backside, and feel the crunch of my head as a tire rolls over it. I am not suicidal, but full of whimsy and wishing for a warm day and blue above and green below and how I might sometime be at liberty to hold the girlie beauties in loving grace, “darling, how I would like to sell you a jack rabbit.” That ruins the mood and she pushes away saying nothing, though I can see the taste of “freak” or “dweeb” on her lips.
That’s what’s really going on in my head when I wake up in the graveyard back in the clusterfuck Battle of Oh, trying to re-establish the warm feel of her body against my arms and wiping away floppy jack rabbit tears from my ghoulish face. Okay, what’s the scene now, as I get up and gaze across the rows of headstones feeling lonely for some reason and affirming that sentiment in my observations. Where was the battle? Where was the party? I head off in what I think is West for what seems like miles of graveyard before I find anyone. First it’s the commander still wasted in a cheerleader skirt of pleated blue and yellow, blond wig on crooked and the dregs of a bottle of vodka in his left hand, mumbling about karate mouse next to a heap of smoking rubble that was probably once some grandfather’s tombstone. The ghosts of innocence cluster around him, scary as shit. I can’t even look them in the face, completely vacant and completely untouchable, ready to reflect even the most subtle hostile feelings back into the deepest regions of your soul. I continue West, then, only a few paces when out of the fog of war emerges what’s left of the party, the farmers and avant-gardists still squared off and taking cover behind dead trees and elaborate statues of hiphop artists and evangelists. They take a few blind shots at each other with bb guns and .22 rifles, enthusiasms burnt out, lust for war gone, really, such that Patsy Booker, the most obsessed of the whole lot, just looks more the buffoon pitching spider grenades at both camps until little Ellie sneaks up behind him with a rope and drags him down by the throat. I intervene, remembering how the story went before, and insist that the proper thing to do would be to castrate the fucker. So the League of Angry Women descend out of nowhere like ninjas and pin him down all force and fire, making burn marks on his skin with cigarettes. I take out my pocket knife, which has grown extra long and sharp for the occasion, hand it off to Ellie– who really should do the honor after all– who only lingers for a brief moment, small fragment of her old compassion, before sheewwrut splat! cuts his nuts right off and tosses them to the Dogs of Nihil. She licks my blade clean and gives it back with a thankful nod. That done, I need only to check in on the Business Camp where I find the lawyers, bankers, politicians and realtors have all been torn to pieces, air choked with fabric of three-piece suits, limbs strewn about a grand pyramid of ribs and hollowed skulls, heads full of pennies, and the Buddha singing, “avarice is the sin of the world. IAO IAO.”

The New Country

Turn once about where you’ll find me that’s not me but some future self who makes wax skulls and pointy sticks for a living in some country called New Shitheadbrook. There will be blood in the soil for initiation’s sake, for dead Arabs’ sake and false passports blurred and obviously Warhol prints of young Elvis passed out to every migrating hipster kid this side of Gaza. I had to lay down on sharp rocks and think about the notion of empire for the sex fiends and Magus men and itty bitty kitty cats upset and mewing with ruffled hair and gashed ears. Oh how I love them all. There’s a girl kneeling in the street, about to get run over by an elephant, next to Nigel pounding cock into her tonsils and– hold on, I’m about to, oh yeah! And wet gug gug sounds spewing out around her lips. “What a purposeless purpose,” says a small girl with a mohawk, frightened and shaking in the cold. Yes, but it’s like eating or sleeping– how stupid and wasteful a thing– like calling yourself captain of the football team or Johnny Rockstar even though you’re a beedy-eyed artless son-of-a-bitch working in a financial office for Howard Co. The airplanes overhead open hatch and drop jellybeans and men with big dicks who land with a splat– parachutes anyone?– all over the North end of Baddadgag. Charlie’s playing standup bass and trying to catch jellybeans in his mouth, though none of them land close enough. Ted joins on tenor sax and quicker than a porn star falls from a plane they’ve got kids galore dancing it up, singing fragments of Elvis songs way out of key. “Damn, can’t one note be right in the whole lot!” I’m still on the rocks trying to solve the problem of a legal system in the context of relativistic morality and a police state where liberty is the rule. Then my neurons snap quite audibly, so much so that a goblin sitting next to me says, “sounds like someone has an idea,” and I leap up like a social Darwinist gorilla hooting and hollering, waving what was once some dead sap’s femur suddenly out of nowhere, trying to say, “eureka!” but vocal chords no longer capable of accommodating. I run up to where Charlie is plucking his bass and make for a smashing assault, only find myself standing erect in an Armani suit, sweating from hours of intense debate and the capacity for thought that claims modern superiority. Charlie claps me on the shoulder, says, “the world takes care of itself man. The world takes care of itself.” We dance late into the night.

Kephra Space

Planet Earth 2008: It’s a Throwdown Kidney Bean Contest here in the middle of Winter in Montana at thirty degrees below. I’m Frink Watson reporting from channel 93– and I hear this event is being broadcast to over fifty regions in the galaxy... With those words the sleepytime agent jumps into the river carrying on about wooden gates and how there’s always a mystery behind it, possibly initiation into the White Light; only last time it was guarded with a well cast voodoo doll tied by a rope. The agent makes splashy and hits the bottom where the fishies and bacteria are. There’s not really room for him, actually; he’s just wedging himself awkwardly against the side of a hill where the river runs. No fish to eat, no nothing. Back on Earth they’re still finding ways to waste food and entertain the locals. Badly chosen belief systems aid this matter immensely. Like this guy here thinks that keeping hundreds of watermelons on his barn roof will repel unseemly things such as sunlight, angels and aliens. And Loretta here believes that filling her panties with raw meat every morning is just plain good luck. So I smack the raisin bran icon (who ever that is) in the face to do something about this goddam tragedy already. He just winks and tries to sell me on protein and vitamins while posing for the cameras.

..

Okay, we’ve already heard about the things that happen on the surface of the sun, but what really goes on? Things you’ll never understand you ignorant child. Lets say it’s that roundy fiery feeling of a refulgent heart burning shining hallelujah light across the world with beamy open scintillant arms of glorious little beastlings roughly the size and shape photons living out immaculate solar lives of mitochondria. What will really get you are the beetles and things sacred. Kephra, the mighty mighty beetle, comes swooping in around midnight from some Nuit-knows-where outside of Pluto to grasp our great Sol in his buggy pinchers. Boy, NASA didn’t see that one coming. The bureaucrats just drink coffee out of cups that say “solo” while smacking dents into their foreheads as their satellites all bounce off a cosmic beetle. These fucking archetypes, there’s no stopping em. And another thing, why has Neptune been spewing out gamma rays lately? On Mars Crunk Stately, the only person to ever set foot on said planet, is waving his arms in performance of the supreme Martian ritual dance. That’s it, we’ll need no more Scorpio or Aries after this. They can finally blow those constellations to smithreenos. Two down, ten to go and soon those government wet dreams of a blank night sky will come true. Kapow! just like that. If we can’t control ourselves and can’t control the world maybe we can control the cosmos. That was their place: control and chaos. Thank you Miss Jenkins, I don’t think I’ll be going out tonight for the biting cold air full of nettle teeth. But thank you for the words on the dualistic matter... And now nobody can be born under any sign. The astrologers just hold their heads in Silence. The sky was trying all it could, but science only made divination harder while remaining completely empirically ignorant, always ready to say the sign is the same as the thing signified. But that was just right, that was their lot... Thank you Kephra for bringing our sun back home from the war...

..

Meanwhile, the Resource Destroyers have filled a luge track completely with raisin bran. Then Marty Scumtooth gets the idea that instead of pouring milk down the thing they’ll just toss in cow after cow and arrange it with industrial spinning razor blades at the bottom. A Tibetan bicyclist rides in and explains the rules of the game: “Okay, so you’ve got to watch this whole thing without cringing, blinking, or even scratching your head. For the losing contestants will be given the choice of the pit of fire and lions or of darkness and gnashing of teeth.” Darling little Elvisha Parsley comes in with a pirouette and a tutu, bright blue eyes glowing with pre-adolescent compassion, says, “isn’t that a meany-headed thing to do?” “You shut up, we occupy your ass!” Then they chain her up in the dungeon and wait until she’s eighteen to show her what they really mean. Tibetan cyclists, what are you gonna do...? Watermelon John, what they call him now, is mellowing out, reaching an equilibrium of sorts in which he’s no longer wearing the tin foil hats and dying his cows blue; he’s not passing out over fifty pounds of change at a time to the neighbor kids anymore. What he does do, though, is actually find a dead alien sprawled across the Briar path, big black tongue flopped ten feet out of its mouth. When he shows it to everyone, nobody tries to say he’s crazy, but looking at that huge lumpy slimegreen head conclude he must have created it with the power of thought alone. The reporters shuffle into town in abnormally tiny cars from which absurd amounts of them pour out like clowns, shoving microphones in everyone’s face. “Yeah, I ‘spect he somehow done it with peanut butter and masking tape, you know, not conscious like.”
End.

For Love's Sake

I ask a shower head, “what the fuck?” but he doesn’t answer and only proceeds to get out a pair of scissors and cut down peaches from the ceiling. Fortunately I already stacked the furniture into a pile on one wall where I climb up and try to push the ceiling higher so he can’t keep ignoring me this way. The tiles crack and crumble over my head in perfect yellow shards that get under my shirt and make me itch and bleed. Finally he answer me, “what kind of a relationship did you want?” I tap my face with freshly cut peaches while I think about it: “what sort of love could a boy give his shower head?” And get this, he’s all like, “lets not talk of love or chains and things we can’t untie.” Then I hit the shiny red Leonard Cohen button. “You lose! That wasn’t a question.” Hahahahahahahaha ha hahaha ha hahah aha h ahahah ahahahah hahahah ah ha ha ha ha hahahahaha hahaahahahah haah hahaha hahahaha haha haha ahah ahah....
Outside in the rain a woman’s voice screams in orgasmic delight, “oh my god white T-shirts!”
Hahhahahahah hahahaha ha hah ha hahahah ahahah ahahah ahaha haha hahahaha ha ahhah hahah ahh hahah ha ha hahahah hahahah... so I get tired of this bathroom and decide to grow wings and fly out the door where the 8x8x8ft lead cube is waiting for me. “Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.” I get out my crossbow and shoot everyone in the peach, pulpy juice splattering the walls all about. Then cubey boy and I stare at each other, still afraid of malnutrition until I take a step towards him, hear gravel crunch under my feet and the both of us finding ourselves in the driveway getting soaked with rainwater. I’m still holding up my crossbow. I let it down and hang my head, trying to love, but just sticking a fist through my chest where my heart should be. “That’s the least of your problems isn’t it?” I try to respond, to tell him that maybe he missed something, that maybe that is the thrust of the issue, but my face is completely covered in peanut butter and I can’t even breathe let alone open my mouth to talk. I’m too lazy to try to get it off, so I fall over and die.

Waste

If only the length of these sentences could take me away from the aspects of the modern world I loathe, away from the excessive maze and those parts of myself that need shedding. I could write it away, write off the day, pick apart the puzzle pieces of perception, reorganize, lights here and vampire costumes there. The clock keeps ticking and it too I could write away with a grimace of steal and a pen with blood for ink. I stare into a bulbous butt and with my pen pull down those panties and stick two fingers in just to watch her come. Go away responsibility, obligations! Free will’s a bitch boy. I’m in no mood for wasting my life at your command. Carpe diem? I kidnapped the day and held it hostage. Be damned with your modern inconveniences, pulpits and paperwork. I’ll thank you when you’re dead. ‘Cause the world isn’t strong enough to endure my passion; I get it royally when the Ram extinguishes the water, when the Arrow pierces the ocean, when the Lion drinks the river. I’m still running, not from fear but FUCK YOU. Weak wills and weaker joys– you wanna tell me about life? These dummy mannequin slaves to the tide. That’s carpe diem despite the world, rolling out reams when no one’s looking. Somewhere between here and the end of the page the day squirms away with a half bloody throat from where I held the blade and I find myself a prisoner if not a slave. It’s all material and there’s no helping it. The pins of routine puncture my heart for every X on the calendar until it’s captured low on the walls of this sterile institution. I could write my way out of locked doors if I could find and banish these demons, if I could climb to the top of the Universe to the foot of Saturn’s scythe, if man would stop knocking, if the Bull could keep braying, if the hooked stinger would stop stinging and turn its back on the seven cups. Can I write a fly-swatter to chase off this buzzing melancholy?

Scattered Sun Prayer

We are all white light sparks thrown from the sun, or drifting little glowing worming watermelons or spoons or bottles of clear liquid or dildos or any manifest or unmanifest thing on this plane or any other. Cut, we go rocking, drifting however (as previously said), singing praise to our own sunny selves, always a star that’s a sun that’s a particular path squirmily or elsewise to the brainy mushy pulp matter. What is that you mean when you take, say, an ambulance, toss it into the glass chamber of your mind and perform your crude tests on it? Well it’s really not for me to decide you star, you angel, you phantasmal illusion of my desire and volo aquila and I too only an illusion of yours my deary fear (only not fear– fear of what?). Now don’t cry about green ink spilt across the face of the earth cause as wise ol Tom said all the world is green and pretend that you owe me nothing cause they’se serving fish in the jailhouse tonight. (Daddy O, that cat was smokin so lay some bread on me cuz you bet they was gonna screw the pooch.) Sew what? That’s what we do with our mouths closed and writing in blood across walls of nebuloid brick states and all that jazzy stuff. I think of stars of Irish Catholic sultry Virgo chicks dancing to seduce every man in the room (let her be loud and adulterous and shameless before all men), and stars of old men who drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and paint fine art in acrylics and oils and stars of nineteen-year-old chill ass kids from Cancun who hold their shit together even after a quart of Jameson to quietly walk themselves head high to vomit in the kitchen and stars who may notice, please, that I ain’t really talking about plurals but each beautifully unique flame cast from our very own Helios our natural god glory glory glory. Now take this circle squared and forget not your every move or the Aquarian current (as if you could) where we wander close to congregate, to gather for reals– no false start– and cast our light about each other. Remember this star drawn for love, for Tehuti’s hand that guides the pen, for broken beakers of chemical bonding and Quantum Impossible Probability Factor, for success, for death, for Isis, Apophis and Osiris chanting glory glory glory, I adore thee to every brightly fucking magnificent perfect center of a starry universe. Aum ha! Amen.

How I Waste my Life

Oh great, another movie about carrots– at least that’s what I think as I sneak in through the back trying to disguise myself as a watermelon. Then the girl with a streak of red something or other across her face approaches me and clears her throat loudly. Nothing ever works out in this absurd little place. So I just turn around and let her take my arms, glad just to be touched by a woman, even if she is throwing me out on my ass... hard luck, no change in my pocket, just another cold night scrounging for excitement and trying to barter for whiskey. I try to catch a cold, but it keeps getting away, scampering to hide under Uncle Surf’s skirt– Uncle Surf, who keeps talking about this absurd cleavage and this girl he’s always bothering at the comic book shop who just replies, “there’s a fee for hitting on the girl”– trembling with fearful intent and whispers of golden time happy noise. Those were truly good days, only three walls per building, but still we managed to bring together a rusted trumpet, a shitty old bass drum, an umbrella for Allah only knows why, but what else can you expect from somebody like Gerald who wastes his days scraping anything adhesive off the sidewalks and cataloguing them in sealed plastic. That was it, just honking out sprawling tunes of imperfection, each note more uncertain than the last until the setting sun threw its end-of-the-day socks at us, trampled the last of our daytime music garden under its big orange toes and we sauntered out from the three walls like stupid children trying to spell the word psychoses, turning back and waving frantically lest it miss us when we’re gone... How could I spend my days after that? So I hit the road with John, just a simple farmer, good time guy from Arizona, straight as broom handle on the surface, but we smoked pot from here to Scarsville and me dressed up like Buxley Clown still from the previous night’s gathering where I had somehow promised a performance of the goofy sort but ended up hypnotized by gallons and gallons of icecream, rainbow afro wig glued to my head by some mad hair gel shit and face paint smeared. How we laughed though, not even sure what we were laughing about, John and I. I think we started on the horse with the hiccups and got round to something like 25% off coupons and how to demand that a sword be a dagger or a dagger be a sword (we never figured that one out for sure). Anyway, tonight I just stumble upon a bag of oranges, eat a couple myself, and throw the rest at this raggedy old dog, think his name’s Chuck or Buck, who just looks at my confused like, then wags his tail and licks at the them. I probably would have made friend there, only I wind up wasting the next 20 hours of my life handing one after another of this little glossy flier announcing a party to which nobody is invited to the same guy who keeps standing there grinning at me with ahead full of cracked and crooked teeth until at last I just yell “shut up already!” and throw the remaining handful across the street....
End

The Momentum of the Universe

Can it happen like this: the toner falls on the page, makes a splotty inky good mess across the whole paper. Page 1 perfect. Then you just turn the page and wait for other things to fall, but only get a dead squirrel, a glass eye, and Thomas D. Howard’s old calculus homework. You sigh, unfold the homework and turn it in to professor Carlyle. The next day he beats you with it in front of the class, yells that calculus homework make an acceptable paper on John Milton. All you can do is go back to that empty field, open your notebook and hope for the best. Only nothing comes. You start thinking about ways to invoke the toner god. You check the Tree of Life so you might determine his formula– just one problem: the Tree doesn’t exist on this plane. Then a fresh slap across the face by a tuna fish and you’re thinking clearly again, remembering this time that you need to embark into the sea of opposites where you find a farmer trying to force a donkey and a tub of chocolate together. You take the unopened plastic Easter egg from your pocket (hoping maybe for something Wester), open it and receive this message on a fortune-cookie sized slip of paper: to neutralize a donkey you will need an anti-donkey. This of course sends you mind into thoughts of the quest for donkey repellent and the everlasting paper– just a digression. At each bump of the sea you find wonderful new things, water and sodium (very dangerous in this context), dog and cat (false dichotomy and true), love and hate (come hither go away), until you arrive at The Horizon where the night is dusky and you are shadowed by the Bull, red bull, Martian bull of the hooked tail reflected from the obverse. Lastly, you find yourself prostrate on your back kissing a sweet half-clothed girl who whispers in youthful ecstacy, “I’m so wet,” and realizing that this is the beauty and momentum of the universe, that anything soever shall seek its opposite.

The Danger of Drugs: Documentation of a Mind Under the Influence of Caffiene

The tired mind wanders looking for an out of this paper box, glued to the ink on the page. Maybe with enough force I can shove these stale words far along, over several pages, off the lemming cliff. They come from nothing and return to nothing (and other abstractions as well.) Start with something simple: a house. Maybe it’s made of wood and has a face in the wall that repeats, “I’m the basketball.” The drywall crumbles and congregates on the kitchen floor. Matthew comes chewing his bubble gum, slips on the sandy stuff, bites his tongue, gets the gum lodged in his throat and chokes to death with a mouth full of blood. What are you going to do with that? Matthew is dead. The words continue along without a care. On to the next victim. The front half of a bicycle sticking out from behind a cracked brick wall. Amy rides it to and from work, indulging her perversion, skirt and no panties, hoping they get a look at her ripe ass. When she gets really horny she takes the seat off. The gynecologist, “how did you get these cuts inside your labia?” “He promised he’d be gentle.” Of course that’s an old fantasy, a cliche even. Testament of my fatigued wordbrain. How about coffee on a rainy day– and no burnt prison trash they sell to the students and the ignorant, a real cup of coffee. Mmm. The words are pushed along, spew out and flow along the tubular rapids laid out just for the occasion by the gnome engineers. Then there’s the tired experimental musician leaning on the counter at the record store. Red eyelids drooping, bugs crawling on his skin because a coworker brought his collection of wasps and pincher bugs today. For show and tell. Outside it rains on the construction work, sealed off with yellow tape, where the tables and chairs are supposed to be. The ink is setting into the paper where– and we better hurry, for there’s little time to correct the matter– it will settle forever, strange record of the rambling falsifications of the one thought of Eternal Holy Youth (which thought itself is untrue.)Well not exactly forever, but as forever as we care to think about. The fruit fly officer to the judge: “how long do you want us to lock him up?” “Forever!” Three days later: they are all dead (may their sweet little souls rest in peace), the remains of the prisoner decomposed, energy continued forward in the next manifestation (as predicted clearly by the first law of thermodynamics.), any record of the incident erased. Forever. Frames per minute: order: timing. Now with the analog click of a digital button we can travel time, forward, backward, at various paces, even up and out (only if you have the strength to walk away from the computer monitor). Onward ho! To the red rain over Africa, falling in heaps of organic mush, divine silly putty. The locals gather round it and celebrate with trance-inducing rhythms. The party is much greater than we first imagine, each drop of rain chattering its tiny voice into the shamanic song, clapping hands for the real winners of this Oscar. The obsessed fanboy: “I don’t want to sound like an obsessed fanboy or anything, but maybe the judges should reconsider.” “Maybe you should reconsider when to keep your mouth shut.” And with the that the Upholder of Convention blows shot through his insolent skull. The blood and bone sinks deep into the soily earth where it collects in a pool to be swallowed up by the Cosmic Fish and spit out as red rain of the new world. Now, the good news is I’ve been digging for the missing body of Matthew. It’s hard with a pen, digging that is. The task isn’t made much easier by the fact that the earth is made up entirely of bubble gum. Three layers in and I’ve got spearmint, soda bubble, and ashen oat (for the eaters of the dead). Impossible to dig through this goop. I’ve been digging for seven days and it’s all I’ve managed. I know his body, exactly what I’m looking for: limbs sprawled out stiff with rigor mortis, red baseball cap sitting just above the remains of his head, left cheek bitten off by a rat. Then it hits me all at once: this is the wrong house I’ve been digging in. Everything’s the same, but it’s a decoy. Oh well, I guess little Matthew’s body will have to wait. If we hit the rewind button on this wad of spearmint gum, we can get back between Amy’s red lips. The haughty hotty: look here at the red spittle running out the edge of her mouth. This time when she lifts her skirt (pleated to fulfill those Catholic fantasies) there is nothing you expect, no perfectly formed downy white cheeks or tumescent outer labia. This time there is the vastness of known and unknown space, head gets sucked in; galaxies, stars, black holes, nebulas and more, strange things that you may never see again, things that may heap a thousand more models of misunderstanding on the already burdened discipline of quantum physics. You follow the trail of her starry body into the swirling solar system, into a stirring leafy green planet, into a patch of forest to the tip of an arrow loaded in the bow of an amazonian girl wearing a leather toga, hair pulled back into a ponytail, loose strands framing her porcelain face. You look down the shaft, past the knuckles of the hand holding the string taught and realize you are looking into the black eyes of god. Perched up in a tree is the filthy joker, motley suit getting stained by dirt and rainwater. “We speak of nothing, but know nothing of what is meant. Nothing must refer to something. It can never really mean nothing, but only the absence of what is expected in the context of some something.” Then he cackles and throws apples, because the pain and acidic sting of apple juice is the only thing these tourists understand.

Jehovah Was An Asshole

What bastard said what pronounced that way not forgetting the moon was in Cancer on that special occasion. Hope we feel better for this that the ugly god had pigtails why battering against the head bang south gate pretension myth. Then female insertion syndrome catches us once more and tzaddi not paying attention to much of anything arriving for no reason on the shores of Naisha with fire and water. Flying basketball like Jehovah was an asshole dumbshit child god of tantrum thunder and plagues fighting alongside the Black Brothers wallowing in Malkuth. Then thou must bow is why pride went that way like ‘sin of Lucifer’ chartered by a fuckwad English poet preaching plague and pigeons to the too-bludgeoned masses sold from the first on restriction fear of sex fear of knowledge fear in all then bow shackled spirit! Who demands the blood of his own son for what purpose why “almighty” the only way to redeem testicle licking Dog-god? Silly twit always demanding blood can’t take your own yes I dare address you so directly with cock and blade drawn and everything above this plane of the four-way street. What is thy nature what thy Tree I say by the power of the planets by the body of Nuit by the joy of Hadit by the Vengeance of Ra-Hoor-Khuit demand you reveal yourself fucking coward fucking slavemonger drop your whip and fight like a man. Power all that speaks explains history by the fish gone goopy under the hot light of inquisition avaricious poisoned dogmen of now and yore caught by the net of blackest convention restricted at the throat ‘your children’ buried deep in the hoary muds of swampy time lost bitch.

Spiderleg [1959]

Soft skin and purple daze of the heart. It’s bruising from all the slow torture. I told them fast and never with the arm straps. But do they ever listen? Those silly mechanism administers of pain. This is a sentence. Is not. We’re not scare-mongering.
In a blank white room with flood lights, she arches her back, arms stretching upward, whispering with the lick of the tongue, “what were you saying about the soft skin?” Well, it was Sunday. “And?” Thighs. Mostly thighs. I could live there. Soft licky lickable woman fruit. Mmm...Did I mention it was Sunday? “The Sabbath?” No.
And at the curling leggy grip of the spider I...I? Nobody. This is a story about nobody. The sky, well, it’s blue. So we presume. Tree falling in the forest, subjectivity, subjectivity, etc. Then perhaps no sky even without subject-hood. Okay, scratch it all to hell! Spider. Yes, one that will do. Octogonical occularity. Eight by eight. Color? How about not. Grey sky. Grey sky at night! Warning! Warning! Spider approaching! Approaching what? Oh, good point. Okay then. A spider. Umm...builds a web. Yea, that’s the ticket, baby!
Many hours later that spider finds herself happy situated in her fine homely web. The furniture all arranged, the hi-fi tele that mom got her as a gift a blaring loudy loud. What’s it sound like? Hell if I know, Cedric. Hell if I know. Oh right, cooking in the oven. Alles gut. But...
But? She has no masculine presence to father her several many-legged, many-eyed offspring. Oh, what is Spider Rider Rix-Dix Dider ever to do? How to find a man? Meeting people is so hard these days. Maybe an arachnid dance club and couple sips of fly blood gin fizzly. Or a look into the personal adds. Yes, yes! Single green female seeks male to populate her web. No particulars. Bring sperm. Single orange male seeks SOF or male, open to experimentation, long flights in the wind, and bird hunting.
You psychotic beaver! Wha’ the hellsa gonna’ take wi’ dat fuckin’ arsthahal? How the hellsa gets rippin’ wi’ a go’ damn shtory li’ tha’? But ooh! it’s so good to be clean. Subjectivity, I’ll give you disorder! I mean...subjectivity...heh. Little too much on the fly blood. It’s the Spanish one that will get you.
Ooh! Pinchy pinch a little cheeky cheek boy. Hoopsa– ‘nough of that! No plagiarism, or “allusions” as you rooty tooty no so pembo intellectuals call it. Hand me that ratchet. Clink de clink de cling. OOOH! THAT SLUT!
[Cut] No longer permitted. Foolish child. Always gettin’ about on that merry-go-round. Exercise daily to avoid cancerous growth. Public disorder, I’ll give you public disorder.

Tibet and the Icecream Scientists

You should take a break, put down those clothes you’ve been carrying and kick up your feet. Put the pen to the page, who will take you to your dead sage? No salvation Tibet. “Take me to my dead Christ.” Who do you think you are, carried from shore to shore? We will bury you under the sand, me and Uncle Fester that is. And still nobody believed us. We stood out there in the fading sun, “X” marked in the sand where your body could be found, pointing, trying to tell the beach people, “David Tibet is buried right here.” They couldn’t relate to your ego. They didn’t care. At least we left you a shovel to dig your way out if need be. How’s he s’poseda get it from under the ground? Oh yeah... oh well, onward we go, leaving you where you have always lived or to climb or to climb out and sulk in a hotel. I’m going back to San Francisco to have a sup of coffee. Shovels taste good with icecream. Dirt can get in the ink a little and it’s still okay. But dirt in icecream? Let’s test it out. So the scientists get out their beakers and Bunsen burners (white lab coats already on, mix the dirt from the shovels in with the icecream, heat it to a nice sludgy solution. They let the frosh, Martin McVeinmangler, handle it from here. He fills the syringe with the solution, finds the first sap laid out on the table, the word “ready” across his forehead, and injects him with the stuff. The audience is holding its breath, but he gets the needle in right the first time. What happens, what happens! The subject dies, that’s what happens muther fucker. So shovels may taste good with icecream, but you damn best keep em clean

Mars in Scorpio

Little virgin thighs #24112 is called into the grip room by a voice on a rusted prison announcer, enters and only recalls steel bars. Time for her DNA injection.. The room disappears and only doctor clown face remains with a stethoscope swinging overhead and a deadly cloud of black gas coming out of his previously rehearsed eyeholes, the voice on the other end of the speaker saying lethargically that he summoned Satan and sounds of screaming voices all in the background. She comes back standing in the middle of the street, handcuffed to a steering wheel on the left wrist, nothing but a tattered jean skirt on, blood running down her legs, thinking she knows what: gotta find that smug shithead and offer him up to the fucking beast. Then it’s all by the short splotchy black hair, finds him stretched out on a couch. She clocks him once on the head with the steering wheel; he seems indifferent to the pain, so she drags him off the couch by one arm, thud to the floor, drags him along like a limp five-year-old, North winds coming in through the front door. He’s looking up her skirt, no panties, says, “looks like someone popped your cherry.” But that’s it. They get to the street where the demon is tearing through crowds of people. They lift him up overhead and give a good toss... Nothing like you expect happens. They’ve all been visualizing the stupid shit being torn to pieces in a storm of blood and limbs. Instead, when they spring off the ground with a hut three, he’s gone and the girl is caught with that look of someone trying to not get hit in the face by a basketball that veered off in a completely different direction. Then everyone is gone and only an empty cracked street remains. Cricket legs tell you not to worry about demons or Christ or anti-Christ, but they aren’t either. They shall not harm you at all... Then a metal toaster bubbles up in the Akashic sea. Only problem is you don’t believe in toasters, wearing a black robe and holding an index finger between your lips like the silliest of Egyptian gods, standing before pyramids, even refusing to believe in old glass tracks chanted back across several Aeons. There is a literal sea following like a lead coat over an abandoned street, the Sun of Ra most certainly present, obscured by the tantrum of our own little Gaia. And it’s hard to adore something you can’t see (Jehovah such an impoverished god, not power to smite, not to be mistaken for Jove or Chronos), by the delightful rays of the sun I tip my hat. And it would most certainly be a Ra sun if only we could see, banished like that to the realm of the invisibles, oh what a world! But not to lament too long– certainly not indulge in self pity or pity of any kind– before the back of my hand reaches my forehead I cackle out loud and thank the observable but infinite Nuit (forever blessed Our Lady of Stars) for all of everything and drink this Soma called “coffee” to be myself firmly Hadit, though wondering even as I say it as to whether or not caffeine is such a strange drug, having introduced myself some years ago out of childhood curiosity about the things implicitly denied to non-adults. When can we say to know anything– the effect predictable of course. Must we drink wine? I do not desire this, having seen it all before, having done it all along, counting by the bottle by the hour what a sad boring story from beginning to end.

Thel the Truth

Point One: You feel it lightly, hardly invasive, wishing for metal veins instead or dual exhaust, something you could put a wrench to...chickens clucking about the cheap pine feeder that Mildred kicked and split in a mad fit of sex and booze... the arm of a lab coat, the eternal world stretched to oblivion like stockings of tender white light... they forget the incident of swords, the sweet and macho young girl reminding you about her Discordian wedding, the bread beatings that left her a little sore even though they didn’t hurt at the time... the tattoo ritual at the parlor, ears ringing right proper from the buzzing of the needle, just the green outline of the golden apple... your own back violated similarly, moustache rubbing against the vinyl table...

Point Two: The colors in the room melt like globs of acrylic from godly tubes, hands start to forget the correct strokes of the fuzzy square of flesh– get it purr just the right way, but now can’t keep track of the three of them rotating in the speckled space about a common axis... “that’s the golf club now” then laughter from your right (only wrong it seem to misuse appliances that way, so you imagine– that is what’s with the laughter isn’t it?)... you only picture chess pieces sliding about the black and white checkered marble, stained and crusted from years of over-zealous coffee breaking free from precarious cups, mostly the pawns– pronounced as the knights may be, so like the horse (as any horse head is, right?) That lived in the pen among clumps of dirt kitty corner to Kidney Johnson’s old backyard... “why such a long face?” this perfectly unsettling timing on her behalf almost sets you into a fit, only you can’t seem to express it even if you wanted to heart that way cranked up beating have to breathe fast and heavy like a maniac and any minute thinking about the front door having to bolt upright and get out for some O2 less offensive to the spirit, that exact moment echoing back over your head caught in one moment some fucking time fart feeling of the exact right time and place for those two things to converge– probably thousands of others if you could only learn to pay attention (like the meaning behind green panties anyone?)– until it seems that nothing is an accident in a good way sort of right place right time, and else an abomination that couldn’t easily be lived down... at once it occurs to you at a new glance that the chess pieces are unevenly carved and not even laid out in a sensible way in the squares, somehow the red-toothed grin looming about the board in a frightening and clear indicator of how malicious intent can come to make chess pieces on a chess board look out of place– then quick but bright lightening flash about how it’s been about the current you’ve been in the whole time, but it’s gone dashed off into the air orange and green astral butterflies and with little capacity to form a net, all before you get a hold of it visually... “thanks to gardens and to holy beans” oh love of the world if only you can receive what you have...

Point Three: It comes to you a fully formed and seemingly geometrically perfect egg (hands still barely cooperating), still not sure what’s inside, electric pulses tingling ecstatic expectation... somewhere in your imagined periphery something sexy is happening, panties down, legs opening at the knees, good slow fuck simultaneous to some future moment, butt happily in the air visibly moist, nice without being too distracting until considered and the Taoist cliche occurs beautifully between her labia major, your whole life running like the river of the vaginal canal... feeling cold and wet outside the waters near dusk kind of lonely and gorgeous in a solemn way, remembering dad’s fishing pole arched in a J shape, pulling up those rich salmon, you just wanting to get back in the water, let it carry you belly up, happy to let it do so... “knight kingside, your move” only the move will make itself through you, happy as you are amongst crusty coffee stains and uneven pieces in some cases chipped away, fully formed complete set or not it was some forces at play, some choices to make even if the metal gears in your head helping to move exhaust through a metal respiratory system and entire universe taken all together made it a point shrinking infitesimally into irrelevance the fact of being able to observe and describe it in those terms made it just as infinitely lovely and enjoyable until ascension by descension, not perfect often more like the squared ovals of a cubist painting, the various triangles intersected... “it would have to be red and blue of course” damn she should stop doing that, the thought already loosed in your head before you can chastize it to oblivion for failing to conform to your profound realizations, before you even come back into the herenow with a chicken picking lightly at your temple more tickle than anything, leading you to see how far ahead of yourself you’ve gotten, hatching your eggs before you counted them, feeder still in need of repair, tools themselves to attend to until inch by inch you get out of the chair, without an anxiety attack as you had previously thought might be the case, and commit to starting from the beginning...