The Four Dark opened up that can of tuna fish and set it right on fire; the wires that connected me are snapping.
At the porch door God is lapping at a sapping little lithe boy. Light wraps the strapping ion boy, cathode sold to Coca Cola boy. A laughing sapling boy, whose dust-crusted toes stay in place mutely. They accuse me, they accuse me.
No two things are perfect,
killed that motherfucker
be about four months
one and his throat
made funny noise
the lightening
ended she said
it wasnt good
enough she
said
The Dark Four peered at me with eyes of fire and I could see how round they were, the eyes, and how they were shining with those eight boiling tearfilms. There’s buckets all around us, solid buckets with still bucket-brown water resting, where bottoms should be. The years are passing now in spring, and when autumn comes the cars will rust on cinder blocks and leaves will rustle on the street like broken dreams.
A horrifying smear
of blood erupted there on the white, a furled denial, a crimson brushstroke.
Furled denial? A denizen. An orison. This dead sky, forever sorting out the backlit cloud. His mouth, dripping things... Moist crumbs, crumpled sobs, a great depth of falsehood. Feeling the heel of his palm, the hardness of him there, and how his knotted stomach aches, and how soft and ripe his kidneys are. Fingering them through his wall, squeezing them and listening to the shrieks. An instrument, and how discrete a single pianote is.
Is reality this easy to bend? It’s all in my head, these outlines of flesh colored in by
dreams. Sleep, drunken stupor, the buildings in the soft nightlight. The sweet snickering
of tires on the wet asphalt... Everything fading, spring leaves fading for falls gone and falls to come.
Diseased...
My head in my hands, my hands on my knees, my knees on the ground, the ground in my head. Kill the ground! I order, and obey. I’m falling without the comfort of a call to cry. I’m sky-diving without a parachute. I want the walls to melt away and the wind to breathe. I want to lose myself, and wander lost. There has to be a rat nearby. I lay awake and listen to the sound of those cars, coming out of nowhere and going back into
nowhere, and I am filled with a hate too horrible to be spoken, a hate too strong to break; a broken hate.
A sadness.
I sit here over my swollen knuckles and knead the dark, rocking back and forth on my knees, feeling myself pointed at the ceiling, towards the unlit light. Begging for a
beginning or an end. I want these tattered refuges to be swept away; I want to be
exposed. I need someone to shine a flashlight onto the slithering nothings of a wasted life.
I want to sweep away the tattered refugees. The wasted nothings of a slit life. The basted sitters of a nothing life.
I want to take the shreds of ink in my hands and make a window from them.
Some babies are born in the night, the cold, bitter night and the hot, heavy night.
Some babies are born into the dark night, and the night made livid by stuttering
street-lights. There are no babies born under stars.
There are no words for these.
I wash my hair with mud and when it dries I rub, and watch the pencil erasers curl off my shock. “I only wanted them to stop singing”, I sing. I only wanted to tokenize my
dumb-eyed words. I only wanted to shatter their vitreous convexity to point their
unwelded eyes towards the undeniable splinters of glass, and to show them how achingly beautiful the sunlight was through their ruins. I only wanted their hands to reveal the hidden pinkness, to liberate the wet stickiness of life and bring meaning back into the dryness.
I wanted the bright taint of iron and copper to roar, “YES! nothing and YES!
nothing YES! and nothing and NO and No, no,oo,ooo,oo,ooo,oo,oo,ooo,oo,ooo,oo,oo”
To Be Consumed, an inferno of o’s in an infer no of no’s in an in fer no of nose of nose of
nose pork and
dog
it’s furred tail wagging like some grotesque, infiltrated sausage. I took up the
Borax and the Hardened, Sharpened Phillips screwdriver, one for the closer wet and
doggy nostril and the other for the further.
Spiro, you’re ringing.
There’s the rub its a swindle spindle fold and mutilate, and hate. There is a sexpot
in the ice cream, mmm hmmm, I urinated in the window, now I swan enchiladas, you dog,
to who we bruised, my heart singing the tuba. Eveningless, it has a flavor; there are
different flavors of eveninglessness; but where’s the s in that? Ice-cream has no evening.
She popped in the tiny mountains on the plastic lid, one by one. The peaks
crumpled beneath her index finger; she was just one of many, and the context shaped her.
Now she gazed absently out through the glass at the parking lot. Don’t look at my
sentences that way, you pervert. A Wendy’s, half full and three quarters empty. Oh
Wendy’s, Wendy’s, burning bright, in the middle of the night... What capitalist society,
could frame thy fearful symmetry? She popped in the tiny mountains on the plastic lid and
splattered all over the ice-cubes. It was a diet Coke. Did I mention Peter Pan yet?
She got in the car and the rear lights came on and the reverse lights came on and
the car jerked backwards, speeding up, slowing down, stopping and the reverse lights
went off and the front wheels twisted, they turned and the car started moving forward out
of the parking lot but it hesitated at the street the woman looked to one side and the other
and the car moved forward again, speeding up, speeding up, vanishing. A Subaru. The
power of all wheel drive. The beauty of all wheel drive. FUCK ALL WHEEL DRIVE.
Who’d have guessed this sugar would be so tart? Now I am thirsty again.
You lie awake creating nothing and behind you, all the time, all the time they, they
are deleting it. All them time behind you is deleting it. They are deleting, time, with their
wires--you feel them there, you sense it with your censors behind you in the dark, your
sensers scent your censors behind you in the dark, and when you turn them turn, them
time, in time they turn, time, turn time. They turn in time and in time you resign. The
shadows of the past are accelerating behind you, and when you turn, delete, sink into you.
Where is the life we have lost in living; and the flies are buzzing in complacent answer:
here is the life you find in living. Too near, too clear, they say with whirring wings; that’s
why you thought it lost it.
I watch the people who live on my flyscreen. They move slowly, for theirs is a
difficult job. They rub their arms together, and reflect on each decision. Sometimes, for
variety, they rub their face. Then, carefully in an instant, they launch themselves out into
air. A thankless job, life, but they have no complaint. They hum comfortingly, softly,
complacently, and pause by the rim of mustard with a saintly hush. The silence is so lush
and transparent, the air is bigger than itself and now the passionate eloktricution of their
wings against the pain.
I have never had to do any work, and the wicker becomes stringy and snaps.
Getting old is not worth it. When I am old, I think, I will look back and smile at that
sentence. When I am old, I think, I will not smile when I look back at that sentence.
When I am old, I think, I will not think. I will not think, I think, and my twisted hands pull
at my ears as if I was talking to myself.
“Why don’t you kill yourself, then” he rasped, his wrinkled face twisting
powerfully into a bitter smile. From deep within his phlegm-filled thoracic cavity, harsh
laughter emanated fitfully. At last he settled back into his leathery embrace, exhausted and
for a few seconds silent--save for the sharp, shallow gasp of his intake, and the gradual,
newspapery deflation that almost alway followed.
“Your prose is flatulent!” he cried out at once while thrumming my face with the
side of a grasshopper. Yes, he was a rotten one, rotten from his core. His insides were
graying and sloshing inscrutably; his oral carcinoma seep the stench of death not come yet.
White against the gum.
“Fuck you,” I replied, the words like two soft cherries.
At this, he bent over, probed with twin fingers and produced something from his
vest pocket. It was the universe, and here I thought “‘What,’ I demanded flatly.”
Silence.
“What?” I fairly shouted in frayed desperation. Demanded. Flatly. in. a. high.
pitched. VOICE yes Voice because it is ALWAYS a High Pitched Voice. But NO NO
NO, a high pitched baseball, a glorious baseball, a baseball among baseballs, a baseboard,
a re-lighting, re-defining, clarifying skin cream, a redundancy, an obnoxious, noxious,
Xious Pope Pious denial of the need for a sentence to close, to come to an end and lilt
forwards into the next or stand defiantly discrete and jangling; an obnoxious toxin, a
refusal to put a stale thing out of misery. “What? What is it that I am supposed to do?
What solidity am I to offer? What still beating heart am I to tear and thrust out
portentiously, in imitation? Shall I run? Do you want me to throttle you as you hold out
everything and shove it brazenly into my face? No! I will sit silently, waiting for a
raindrop to leak through this roof. Three times I have walked this path,” I cried out
palely, “and three times I have stubbed my long lost toe on the same pebble.”
“Don’t misjudge me,” the devil ejaculated. “What I offer you is nothing less than
everything.” The devil ejaculated.
“Look at what you’ve done!” I shrieked at the filthy old goat, who cowered before
my wrath but nevertheless found the quivering of his Creation so irrepressably funny that
he jerked rigid, tried to stifle himself, then exploded with white, noisy laughter. He
became so weak, his abdomen so toneless, that he started melting, right then and there
before my eyes. At the sight of his liquefying flesh, at the sight of it sheeting off and
sulliying the carpet, his laughter redoubled; and glancing at my hate-distended face it
increased to an unbearable, inhuman pitch. The devil was overcome with laughter over
come; the universe clattered onto the table as his fingers liquefied. His laugh became a
burble, his flesh-coated head toppled onto the carpet with a wet *smack* as his neck
dissoved... within seconds he lay puddled on the floor. I stepped on him then, with the
resolution one has come to expect from a sumo wrestler, and then, stork-like, launched
myself into the air and flapped pendulously into the blue beyond like a gas-riddled
pudendum.
It’s time to get to the pulp of the matter. I don’t need some puny punk pushing
papers to masturbate. I need a leprotic mopsy.
“In that case,” he rasped, “why not put yourself out of misery without delay?”
“Because I procrastinate!” I shot back angrily.
“Wrong.” He was amused.
“Becaue I am lazy”, I whispered.
He chortled. “I don’t want to read a three hundred page complaint.”
“Then why not put yourself out of misery without delay.” (I said, life...)
“Because, my boy,” he says to me, as he wraps his leathery finger-pads around my
anterior neck and propels my face into his (his rubbery lips working and flapping loosely
as he speaks), “because Consistency is not a virtue.”
“As if virtue...” I said with a closed mouth, with clenched fists, with rage! No.
No, I can see where the whole thing is headed and I jet. Out on the streets, at
home at last, feeling the unfriendly vibration of the brutal city fill me and set my nerves
tingling, I let out my air and collapse. A woman steps on my hand with high heels,
skewers it, and I look up her taut gray skirt, where I see bewteen two fallible thighs the
squid tentacles squirm wetly on both sides, a stray hair a stray hair a stray hair.
I grab her leg and now she is pulling me along, (drag, stop... drag, stop...)
laboriously down the grimy sidewalk, across intersections, underneath shoes. She is
Laboriously Laboring; I can hear rush in and out, and with closed
eyes sense the warmth of her cold leg.
“You finish for me what I finish for you,” I call out. “Lady, you can’t ignore me
forever.” Indefatigable, pseudo-oblivious, she presses on, determined not to let flicker any
sign of realization that I exist. Women in high heels are getting them stuck in my stomach;
one of them punctures a lung. Stoma after stoma.
I start to scream. “I don’t understand, and I don’t WANT to understand!!”
No one takes the time to look at me. An arm finally falls off on the sidewalk and a
cigarrette is burning, here and there. Is crushed.
Here and there
I lose my mind,
A little time
seeps by, a kind
of lapse. Perhaps,
Entwined with swine,
I struggle, and collapse...
If so, this dance is mine.
There is nothing more heinous than an innocent person. There is nothing more beautiful
than death.
The finest part of life is sleep, there’s no rest in the rest.
“In that case,” he rasped, “why not end it?”
I was silent, and he smiled. At his smile I started speaking:
“I bet you're really worried. Really worried, rushed and hurried, scuffled, scurried,
boiled and curried. Cumin and tumeric. They tried to force them to pay three times the
commercial fare. It's an utter disgrace; simply a disgrace. They have no credibility. No
consideration. No judgement. A strategy of quick victory, quick games. This dispute is
ridiculous, potentially preposterous, a posteriosi, potentially penitentiary, preventually
eventually, potentiated Potemkin and Ptolmy, scabarously ‘give war a chance’ potentially
not a situation that would have lead to a hell-bent potentiality. No full scale analysis,
when I was in Chicago in 1998 run into the ground; runs in different directions. The WilL
of exalted decades is fading slovenly away. Fears that the successful independence would
be reversed. You're basically dealing with pride legitimacy; there is the perception there is
the hell-bent whole point, of independence is to fight one's own war and never to lose; the
real tragedy is that both countries are going to be faced with a famine. Don't forget the
blood in the egg yolk. Don't forget the petals of liquid absence. Individual rapes do not
sufficiently affect interstate commerce. Don't forget the mutinous numinous banditry of
cumulo-nimbus cotton. Nuns like battery acid eat, contained and neutralized. I think you
take things a bit too seriously, seeing as how you are stewing in your own juices there in
the residence. Give a person too much time to think, and they're bound to be dissatisfied...
What will you DO what will you DO???? DO DO DO DO DO DO!!!!!!”
What kind of a man are you? A manic. Cross this Rubicon and drown in the Pacific.
Who’s afraid of glossolalia? Upstairs they are pounding, oh Lord, they’re coming
down! Flabby Betty says no. You can’t give Flabby Betty an Indian burn, only a butter
churn. So clever! So clever! A baseball bat to the head. Mr. Rogers says something
over the telly.
What’s there in the end? An e? What’s there to a flower blossom but a dumb nothing? A
rose is a “rose,” that’s all! Don’t lie to me, you whore! I am making you with these
words, don’t you fucking lie to me. I didn’t ask for your comfort, no! I BEGGED for it,
you whore, and you threw beer bottles at me, and called me Andy Warhol.
Fuck your dammit son, he won’t stop the flow of shit. It’s coming out of him like
the glow from a bulb. He speaks of Drano in the morning. He has nothing to offer. He is
twinged with impotent melancholy. He is a clod. Hee hee hee! they all amargamate hilm
like Chinamen.
There was a boy in the village who, in his pitiful insanity, believed himself to be a
worm. He spent his days squirming in the dust; the instant a chicken strutted into view,
the child lept to his feet and fled in utter terror. The boy's father, distraught, brought the
child to the village doctor and begged the man to help, to cure, his unhappily deluded
offspring.
The doctor looked at the child; he poked and prodded and questioned. "This is a
tough case", the doctor exclaimed. "I can treat the boy, but I'll need to take him into my
home for a few days -- with your permission, of course."
"Yes, Yes, please!" cried the boy's father, ready to do anything for his son.
"Very well, then" the doctor told the father. And so, the sessions began. Every
day, the doctor spent hours with the boy, gently questioning the boy about his
worm-hood, and pointing out logical flaws in the boy's ideas. Bit by bit, the child began to
free himself of his delusion. At last, at the end of some months, it seemed the boy was
cured. The doctor joyfully called the boy's father over; father and son were reunited in the
doctor's house, and much to the father's joy it seemed as if the child had grown out of his
insanity through the help of the doctor. Finally, the kid was ready to step out into the
world; the three of them walked solemnly out the door together --
and right ouside was a large Rooster! The boy cried out in fear, and, as always, fled in
terror. The father was grievious dissapointed, and ran after the boy. Finally he caught up,
grabbed the boy, and roughly shook him. "What's the matter with you?!" he cried in a
fury. "I thought you were cured! You told me yourself that you now knew that you were
not a worm!"
"Yes," said the boy, "but what if the Rooster didn't know?".
At the porch door God is lapping at a sapping little lithe boy. Light wraps the strapping ion boy, cathode sold to Coca Cola boy. A laughing sapling boy, whose dust-crusted toes stay in place mutely. They accuse me, they accuse me.
No two things are perfect,
killed that motherfucker
be about four months
one and his throat
made funny noise
the lightening
ended she said
it wasnt good
enough she
said
The Dark Four peered at me with eyes of fire and I could see how round they were, the eyes, and how they were shining with those eight boiling tearfilms. There’s buckets all around us, solid buckets with still bucket-brown water resting, where bottoms should be. The years are passing now in spring, and when autumn comes the cars will rust on cinder blocks and leaves will rustle on the street like broken dreams.
A horrifying smear
of blood erupted there on the white, a furled denial, a crimson brushstroke.
Furled denial? A denizen. An orison. This dead sky, forever sorting out the backlit cloud. His mouth, dripping things... Moist crumbs, crumpled sobs, a great depth of falsehood. Feeling the heel of his palm, the hardness of him there, and how his knotted stomach aches, and how soft and ripe his kidneys are. Fingering them through his wall, squeezing them and listening to the shrieks. An instrument, and how discrete a single pianote is.
Is reality this easy to bend? It’s all in my head, these outlines of flesh colored in by
dreams. Sleep, drunken stupor, the buildings in the soft nightlight. The sweet snickering
of tires on the wet asphalt... Everything fading, spring leaves fading for falls gone and falls to come.
Diseased...
My head in my hands, my hands on my knees, my knees on the ground, the ground in my head. Kill the ground! I order, and obey. I’m falling without the comfort of a call to cry. I’m sky-diving without a parachute. I want the walls to melt away and the wind to breathe. I want to lose myself, and wander lost. There has to be a rat nearby. I lay awake and listen to the sound of those cars, coming out of nowhere and going back into
nowhere, and I am filled with a hate too horrible to be spoken, a hate too strong to break; a broken hate.
A sadness.
I sit here over my swollen knuckles and knead the dark, rocking back and forth on my knees, feeling myself pointed at the ceiling, towards the unlit light. Begging for a
beginning or an end. I want these tattered refuges to be swept away; I want to be
exposed. I need someone to shine a flashlight onto the slithering nothings of a wasted life.
I want to sweep away the tattered refugees. The wasted nothings of a slit life. The basted sitters of a nothing life.
I want to take the shreds of ink in my hands and make a window from them.
Some babies are born in the night, the cold, bitter night and the hot, heavy night.
Some babies are born into the dark night, and the night made livid by stuttering
street-lights. There are no babies born under stars.
There are no words for these.
I wash my hair with mud and when it dries I rub, and watch the pencil erasers curl off my shock. “I only wanted them to stop singing”, I sing. I only wanted to tokenize my
dumb-eyed words. I only wanted to shatter their vitreous convexity to point their
unwelded eyes towards the undeniable splinters of glass, and to show them how achingly beautiful the sunlight was through their ruins. I only wanted their hands to reveal the hidden pinkness, to liberate the wet stickiness of life and bring meaning back into the dryness.
I wanted the bright taint of iron and copper to roar, “YES! nothing and YES!
nothing YES! and nothing and NO and No, no,oo,ooo,oo,ooo,oo,oo,ooo,oo,ooo,oo,oo”
To Be Consumed, an inferno of o’s in an infer no of no’s in an in fer no of nose of nose of
nose pork and
dog
it’s furred tail wagging like some grotesque, infiltrated sausage. I took up the
Borax and the Hardened, Sharpened Phillips screwdriver, one for the closer wet and
doggy nostril and the other for the further.
Spiro, you’re ringing.
There’s the rub its a swindle spindle fold and mutilate, and hate. There is a sexpot
in the ice cream, mmm hmmm, I urinated in the window, now I swan enchiladas, you dog,
to who we bruised, my heart singing the tuba. Eveningless, it has a flavor; there are
different flavors of eveninglessness; but where’s the s in that? Ice-cream has no evening.
She popped in the tiny mountains on the plastic lid, one by one. The peaks
crumpled beneath her index finger; she was just one of many, and the context shaped her.
Now she gazed absently out through the glass at the parking lot. Don’t look at my
sentences that way, you pervert. A Wendy’s, half full and three quarters empty. Oh
Wendy’s, Wendy’s, burning bright, in the middle of the night... What capitalist society,
could frame thy fearful symmetry? She popped in the tiny mountains on the plastic lid and
splattered all over the ice-cubes. It was a diet Coke. Did I mention Peter Pan yet?
She got in the car and the rear lights came on and the reverse lights came on and
the car jerked backwards, speeding up, slowing down, stopping and the reverse lights
went off and the front wheels twisted, they turned and the car started moving forward out
of the parking lot but it hesitated at the street the woman looked to one side and the other
and the car moved forward again, speeding up, speeding up, vanishing. A Subaru. The
power of all wheel drive. The beauty of all wheel drive. FUCK ALL WHEEL DRIVE.
Who’d have guessed this sugar would be so tart? Now I am thirsty again.
You lie awake creating nothing and behind you, all the time, all the time they, they
are deleting it. All them time behind you is deleting it. They are deleting, time, with their
wires--you feel them there, you sense it with your censors behind you in the dark, your
sensers scent your censors behind you in the dark, and when you turn them turn, them
time, in time they turn, time, turn time. They turn in time and in time you resign. The
shadows of the past are accelerating behind you, and when you turn, delete, sink into you.
Where is the life we have lost in living; and the flies are buzzing in complacent answer:
here is the life you find in living. Too near, too clear, they say with whirring wings; that’s
why you thought it lost it.
I watch the people who live on my flyscreen. They move slowly, for theirs is a
difficult job. They rub their arms together, and reflect on each decision. Sometimes, for
variety, they rub their face. Then, carefully in an instant, they launch themselves out into
air. A thankless job, life, but they have no complaint. They hum comfortingly, softly,
complacently, and pause by the rim of mustard with a saintly hush. The silence is so lush
and transparent, the air is bigger than itself and now the passionate eloktricution of their
wings against the pain.
I have never had to do any work, and the wicker becomes stringy and snaps.
Getting old is not worth it. When I am old, I think, I will look back and smile at that
sentence. When I am old, I think, I will not smile when I look back at that sentence.
When I am old, I think, I will not think. I will not think, I think, and my twisted hands pull
at my ears as if I was talking to myself.
“Why don’t you kill yourself, then” he rasped, his wrinkled face twisting
powerfully into a bitter smile. From deep within his phlegm-filled thoracic cavity, harsh
laughter emanated fitfully. At last he settled back into his leathery embrace, exhausted and
for a few seconds silent--save for the sharp, shallow gasp of his intake, and the gradual,
newspapery deflation that almost alway followed.
“Your prose is flatulent!” he cried out at once while thrumming my face with the
side of a grasshopper. Yes, he was a rotten one, rotten from his core. His insides were
graying and sloshing inscrutably; his oral carcinoma seep the stench of death not come yet.
White against the gum.
“Fuck you,” I replied, the words like two soft cherries.
At this, he bent over, probed with twin fingers and produced something from his
vest pocket. It was the universe, and here I thought “‘What,’ I demanded flatly.”
Silence.
“What?” I fairly shouted in frayed desperation. Demanded. Flatly. in. a. high.
pitched. VOICE yes Voice because it is ALWAYS a High Pitched Voice. But NO NO
NO, a high pitched baseball, a glorious baseball, a baseball among baseballs, a baseboard,
a re-lighting, re-defining, clarifying skin cream, a redundancy, an obnoxious, noxious,
Xious Pope Pious denial of the need for a sentence to close, to come to an end and lilt
forwards into the next or stand defiantly discrete and jangling; an obnoxious toxin, a
refusal to put a stale thing out of misery. “What? What is it that I am supposed to do?
What solidity am I to offer? What still beating heart am I to tear and thrust out
portentiously, in imitation? Shall I run? Do you want me to throttle you as you hold out
everything and shove it brazenly into my face? No! I will sit silently, waiting for a
raindrop to leak through this roof. Three times I have walked this path,” I cried out
palely, “and three times I have stubbed my long lost toe on the same pebble.”
“Don’t misjudge me,” the devil ejaculated. “What I offer you is nothing less than
everything.” The devil ejaculated.
“Look at what you’ve done!” I shrieked at the filthy old goat, who cowered before
my wrath but nevertheless found the quivering of his Creation so irrepressably funny that
he jerked rigid, tried to stifle himself, then exploded with white, noisy laughter. He
became so weak, his abdomen so toneless, that he started melting, right then and there
before my eyes. At the sight of his liquefying flesh, at the sight of it sheeting off and
sulliying the carpet, his laughter redoubled; and glancing at my hate-distended face it
increased to an unbearable, inhuman pitch. The devil was overcome with laughter over
come; the universe clattered onto the table as his fingers liquefied. His laugh became a
burble, his flesh-coated head toppled onto the carpet with a wet *smack* as his neck
dissoved... within seconds he lay puddled on the floor. I stepped on him then, with the
resolution one has come to expect from a sumo wrestler, and then, stork-like, launched
myself into the air and flapped pendulously into the blue beyond like a gas-riddled
pudendum.
It’s time to get to the pulp of the matter. I don’t need some puny punk pushing
papers to masturbate. I need a leprotic mopsy.
“In that case,” he rasped, “why not put yourself out of misery without delay?”
“Because I procrastinate!” I shot back angrily.
“Wrong.” He was amused.
“Becaue I am lazy”, I whispered.
He chortled. “I don’t want to read a three hundred page complaint.”
“Then why not put yourself out of misery without delay.” (I said, life...)
“Because, my boy,” he says to me, as he wraps his leathery finger-pads around my
anterior neck and propels my face into his (his rubbery lips working and flapping loosely
as he speaks), “because Consistency is not a virtue.”
“As if virtue...” I said with a closed mouth, with clenched fists, with rage! No.
No, I can see where the whole thing is headed and I jet. Out on the streets, at
home at last, feeling the unfriendly vibration of the brutal city fill me and set my nerves
tingling, I let out my air and collapse. A woman steps on my hand with high heels,
skewers it, and I look up her taut gray skirt, where I see bewteen two fallible thighs the
squid tentacles squirm wetly on both sides, a stray hair a stray hair a stray hair.
I grab her leg and now she is pulling me along, (drag, stop... drag, stop...)
laboriously down the grimy sidewalk, across intersections, underneath shoes. She is
Laboriously Laboring; I can hear rush in and out, and with closed
eyes sense the warmth of her cold leg.
“You finish for me what I finish for you,” I call out. “Lady, you can’t ignore me
forever.” Indefatigable, pseudo-oblivious, she presses on, determined not to let flicker any
sign of realization that I exist. Women in high heels are getting them stuck in my stomach;
one of them punctures a lung. Stoma after stoma.
I start to scream. “I don’t understand, and I don’t WANT to understand!!”
No one takes the time to look at me. An arm finally falls off on the sidewalk and a
cigarrette is burning, here and there. Is crushed.
Here and there
I lose my mind,
A little time
seeps by, a kind
of lapse. Perhaps,
Entwined with swine,
I struggle, and collapse...
If so, this dance is mine.
There is nothing more heinous than an innocent person. There is nothing more beautiful
than death.
The finest part of life is sleep, there’s no rest in the rest.
“In that case,” he rasped, “why not end it?”
I was silent, and he smiled. At his smile I started speaking:
“I bet you're really worried. Really worried, rushed and hurried, scuffled, scurried,
boiled and curried. Cumin and tumeric. They tried to force them to pay three times the
commercial fare. It's an utter disgrace; simply a disgrace. They have no credibility. No
consideration. No judgement. A strategy of quick victory, quick games. This dispute is
ridiculous, potentially preposterous, a posteriosi, potentially penitentiary, preventually
eventually, potentiated Potemkin and Ptolmy, scabarously ‘give war a chance’ potentially
not a situation that would have lead to a hell-bent potentiality. No full scale analysis,
when I was in Chicago in 1998 run into the ground; runs in different directions. The WilL
of exalted decades is fading slovenly away. Fears that the successful independence would
be reversed. You're basically dealing with pride legitimacy; there is the perception there is
the hell-bent whole point, of independence is to fight one's own war and never to lose; the
real tragedy is that both countries are going to be faced with a famine. Don't forget the
blood in the egg yolk. Don't forget the petals of liquid absence. Individual rapes do not
sufficiently affect interstate commerce. Don't forget the mutinous numinous banditry of
cumulo-nimbus cotton. Nuns like battery acid eat, contained and neutralized. I think you
take things a bit too seriously, seeing as how you are stewing in your own juices there in
the residence. Give a person too much time to think, and they're bound to be dissatisfied...
What will you DO what will you DO???? DO DO DO DO DO DO!!!!!!”
What kind of a man are you? A manic. Cross this Rubicon and drown in the Pacific.
Who’s afraid of glossolalia? Upstairs they are pounding, oh Lord, they’re coming
down! Flabby Betty says no. You can’t give Flabby Betty an Indian burn, only a butter
churn. So clever! So clever! A baseball bat to the head. Mr. Rogers says something
over the telly.
What’s there in the end? An e? What’s there to a flower blossom but a dumb nothing? A
rose is a “rose,” that’s all! Don’t lie to me, you whore! I am making you with these
words, don’t you fucking lie to me. I didn’t ask for your comfort, no! I BEGGED for it,
you whore, and you threw beer bottles at me, and called me Andy Warhol.
Fuck your dammit son, he won’t stop the flow of shit. It’s coming out of him like
the glow from a bulb. He speaks of Drano in the morning. He has nothing to offer. He is
twinged with impotent melancholy. He is a clod. Hee hee hee! they all amargamate hilm
like Chinamen.
There was a boy in the village who, in his pitiful insanity, believed himself to be a
worm. He spent his days squirming in the dust; the instant a chicken strutted into view,
the child lept to his feet and fled in utter terror. The boy's father, distraught, brought the
child to the village doctor and begged the man to help, to cure, his unhappily deluded
offspring.
The doctor looked at the child; he poked and prodded and questioned. "This is a
tough case", the doctor exclaimed. "I can treat the boy, but I'll need to take him into my
home for a few days -- with your permission, of course."
"Yes, Yes, please!" cried the boy's father, ready to do anything for his son.
"Very well, then" the doctor told the father. And so, the sessions began. Every
day, the doctor spent hours with the boy, gently questioning the boy about his
worm-hood, and pointing out logical flaws in the boy's ideas. Bit by bit, the child began to
free himself of his delusion. At last, at the end of some months, it seemed the boy was
cured. The doctor joyfully called the boy's father over; father and son were reunited in the
doctor's house, and much to the father's joy it seemed as if the child had grown out of his
insanity through the help of the doctor. Finally, the kid was ready to step out into the
world; the three of them walked solemnly out the door together --
and right ouside was a large Rooster! The boy cried out in fear, and, as always, fled in
terror. The father was grievious dissapointed, and ran after the boy. Finally he caught up,
grabbed the boy, and roughly shook him. "What's the matter with you?!" he cried in a
fury. "I thought you were cured! You told me yourself that you now knew that you were
not a worm!"
"Yes," said the boy, "but what if the Rooster didn't know?".