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
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
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...
-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...
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