happy three to thee

huh? wha’? wha’ happened?!

While I wasn’t paying attention this endeavor turned two years old, on 11/17/21, and quickly shifted into its third year of existence …

Hey, hurray, harrumph!

This is still:

thee istsfor manity reader

And this remains the origin myth:

i found my name on a t-shirt folded in thirds on a still warm body: a nice lady named ruth was wearing said t-shirt and i was wearing an open mind that day…

i’m a truncated word-person looking for a lower case assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the magician’s top hat while the magician’s bunny munches grass backstage…

you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film.


And this is still what people are saying:

“Please, make it stop!”
Lit Blub magazine

“I suffered from a severe case of leopard spotting, it led to a loss of jobs, family, and friends. Reading the thee istsfor manity reader every morning was directly responsible for my adding 20 lbs. of muscle and losing 2 inches off my waistline. I recommend the thee istsfor manity reader to everyone I meet. Granted, I’m still spotted and alone, but I’m now full of vim and vigor and look forward to each daily installment of the thee istsfor manity reader.”
— Frank Relish, author of The Submariners: The Leaky Years, 1887-1902

“I don’t understand a lick of it. I just drop by occasionally for the nudie pics.”
— Jean-Jacques Perdefue, former cruiserweight champion

“Despite the lacerations and the poorly done stitches, I read it daily for the Frankenstein-ish aspect of it. It has abnormal reasoning, it’s put together on the slap-dash, and it runs away from fire. Nowadays, one can’t experience that much underachievement, in such a concentrated form, from a single blogsite. It’s blatherskite. Uniquely trashy and crass.”
— Abby Feldman, editor of The Journal of Psychiatric Dissociation and Acute Bacterial Prostatitis

“I fled communism nearly 60 years ago. I know unvarnished shit when I smell it. The thee istsfor manity reader STINKS like a totalitarian turd.”
— Dr. Panfilo Sobrenada, Psychiatrist and Family Counselor

“I have flown under the power of my own wings, without setting foot on land — nonstop — from Alaska to New Zeland in 8 days. I would gladly crash and burn upon my next take-off if I were subjected to another post from the thee istsfor manity reader. Please stop it!”
— E7, the Legendary Godwit


And the management promises not to sleep through next year’s anniversary—provided we haven’t been finished off by an asteroid, a super volcano, solar flares, hypersonic nuclear warheads, electro magnetic pulses, anthropogenic stupidities of a magnitude unforeseen (is that possible?), the revenge of fleas and banana weevils, the return of Gangnam style (or derivative styles thereof).

Thank you for reading, following, hovering, lurking, and plain being flummoxed by what goes on here. It’s greatly appreciated. Now on to year three …

istsfor manity,
you might now say: thee asynchronous voice over in search of a nonlinear, non-narrative film

(j.i.alvarez)

“I write because I’m unhappy. I write because it is a way of fighting unhappiness.”

— Mario Vargas Llosa / The Paris Review Interview

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

the original skin

Writing Us into Existence

I.

He took off his shoes and the right pinkie was exposed — nude, malformed, and smelling like Limburger from six feet away. A couple of wiry hairs arcing over the sock. She, on the other hand, was at the bookshelf pulling out a book about genital piercings, entitled American Primitives, out of a shelf filled with the best selling titles about effective extortion techniques, labiaplasty, and breast augmentation plastic surgery mishaps. At the rear of the study lay their son on a lazy boy recliner snoring like an opossum with a severed tail—the disembodied tail still involuntarily twitching under the light of the bold wolf super moon on U.S. 1—the Saab’s driver long gone and oblivious.

The son lays there, mouth agape, drool pooling in the cleft of his chin. The whites of his eyes revealed beneath the slits of his fluttering eyes.

The dark circles around his eyes, not yet diminished, accentuating the ‘possum affect. His half erect penis beginning to show because he drank a liter of water two hours ago and forgot to drape a sofa cushion on his groin.

II.

Your skin looks like shagbark. You look like a shameless twat hung by the toes. Who hangs by their toes?

“Did someone hang you there, or did you do that yourself?” His son doesn’t hear the question.

“I don’t remember this movie,” she says dropping the book And I say this isn’t a movie, dear. Someone is writing us into existence and I’m kinda bored by it. Hey, you’re kinda cute. Well this kinda cute ain’t around. And something about happy loving couples not being friends of mine… oh, he must be listening to Joe Jackson. You follow it? Nah, I really don’t care; I just don’t want to be a character here anymore. I’d rather go back into that inchoate place ‘o blackness and stasis. I’d like snail tacos and drag races. Oh, what are you watching some feature length cartoon, from a secondary angle, full of rice and stew and red wine? Yes. Oh well it’ll stop soon enough after 100 words. Look at the length of this. He’ll check to see if it’s north of 100 words and stop. You’ll see. Pari passu delivering Centurias he arrived.

III.

English is my second language, but my Spanish, although mostly atrophied, remains stubbornly attached like the original skin that hangs on to the anole’s back after molting. Everything seems processed in Spanish first before the protean firing into English. My neurons work overtime, and therefore all the wiring in my head never ceases working. The machinery overtaxed and always at the edge of a breakdown.

IV.

The fug in this house sticks to you. The persimmons on the table spin when you look at them, and when I look at them they levitate and circle into a gyre that moves from room to room looking for the energy that’ll stop them from moving. From movement to stasis is the natural order, and it seeks the natural order. You look at them again and the fruits drive themselves into the living room wall, creating a starburst pattern unseen in this millennium.

“To walk in the world is to find oneself in a body without papers, not a citizen of anything but breath.”

— Kazim Ali / Silver Road: Essays, Maps & Calligraphies

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

in my neighborhood

be real, be here, get me through this turbulence

please, see me in a mirror that distorts

be the pain within me
keep me underscored & over-nourished

please, i no longer wish to assimilate

be the impulse i’d like to deter
bring me weight bearing softness

please, to the heavens, for murgatroyd nears

be the scratch pad malingerer &
write a novel without writing a novel word

“Maybe you gotta understand what punk meant to us. With the Minutemen, punk was not a style of music. It was the state of your mind. We thought the style of music was up to each band. For us punk meant if you find yourself not fitting in a certain kind of world, you try to create your own.”

— Mike Watt

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

in my neighborhood

You are like the tuber of calcaneous, necessary but non-articulating…

Without you there is no ambulating me…

The things you said to me in your gasps and low moans:

“They transferred me to room 15…”

“It’s the same to die here or there.”

This meant nothing to me at the time, but it means everything now, in this age of torn Achilles … “in an existence where words don’t count for nuthin’.”

I miss you my tuber of calcaneus.

“If you want to do something, don’t wait for someone to ask you to do it. Get off your phone and meet people. Get a full-time job you don’t hate, do your own art on the side, save money, and when you have enough saved invest it into creating something you like and believe in. Maybe it will work out, maybe it won’t. I have no idea what I’m doing either.”

— Bráulio Amado / The Creative Independent Interview

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

in my neighborhood

To help me further illustrate the immortal
we mayfly and quilt toward
indecision and worry trips.

Why do the shambles—
the tomtits of whistle plaid doos—
the pachinko palleters suffer the nape of the midden?

You are an empty idyll in is true hue—
swizzled in pray baste lily—
if you drone wireless cantos
fiery pinnies you may sire:
more
more
more.

This is fall in Jamaica Plain, MA, on 11/16/2021, at 8:17am.

“A poem is like a bank robbery: the idea is to get in, get their attention, get the money and get out.”

— Charles Simic / The Monster Loves His Labyrinth

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

in my neighborhood

I forget what that final word is …

Time fog is hellish …

What more do you require on the day of your death at 5:26 am?

You’re welcome!

The signs of the apocalypse are stark and plentiful.

“I must create a system, or be enslaved by another man’s. I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.”

— William Blake / Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

in my neighborhood

If you took a mondegreen and somehow made it a spondee …

would grass grow from its base and spread a towering canopy from its expanding branches

and throw us into shadow for two/thirds of the year?

A gutbucket of merciful and mercurial spawn drift.

Take me on a drive. Take me down to the cul de sac by the river. I love watching the eddy’s swallow the ragged streams of brown leaves.

“Get rid of meaning. Your mind is a nightmare that has been eating you: now eat your mind.”

— Kathy Acker / Empire of the Senseless

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

of love bugs

Feel The Heat Closing In

¡Clase de bamba, clase de bamba!” is what the bird says every time I move.

It squawks too—if I don’t move—but clase de bamba is on repeat for the last 15 minutes. It’s a hot, dingy little office overstuffed with papers and old phone books—the White Pages. The White Pages!—dating back to 1959.

And hundreds of pictures of Fidel Castro strewn about in every pose imaginable: fulminating spittle in mid-diatribe at a lectern, smoking a cigar with García Marquez, hugging Allende, saluting troops with Pinochet, glad-handing a sugar cane field hand. Then there’s Fidel in a baseball uniform. Fidel and his brother Raul. Fidel and Che. Fidel, Raul and Che. Fidel and Kruschev. And my favorite, Fidel and Nixon smiling camera right.

It’s just endless, hundreds of pictures, and every one of them has a rifle sight painted in lipstick over Fidel’s face.

Seriously, lipstick. The open tube on the desk is Revlon Kiss Me Coral. Says so on the red dot on the tube.

The air conditioning unit is laboring something fierce, rattling in the window frame. And that fucking bird is going on about clase de bamba.

Skip tracing is a special way to meet humanity — its kindnesses, empathy, and its beautiful places. Especially the lovely places where this humanitarian lives and works.

This Riggleman.

He’s a souse. It’s clear from the two dozen gin empties in the corner. The ashtray hasn’t been emptied since 1978. God damned clase de bamba must be his favorite thing to listen to. I couldn’t sit here all day with this mangy parrot going on and on.

I’m talking about the pre-millennium neuroses and the pumpkin-psychotropic blues.

It reminds me of Florida this sickly place. It’s hot, full of love bugs—sparing on the brotherly love— and it smells of piss and cigarettes.

Riggleman’s a fast one though. Always seems to be a half-a-step beyond the long arm. Betcha’ he’s shuffled off to Florida—the state shaped like a gun and an impotent penis all at once.

The dangler at the bottom end of the good ‘ol U.S. of A.

Now there’s a picture.

“We smuggle ourselves across the border of a demagogue’s dreams:
Confederate generals on horseback tumble one by one into
the fiery lake of false prophets; into the fiery lake crumbles
the demolished Wall.”

—Martin Espada / “Not For Him the Fiery Lake of the False Prophet”

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

hallowed is thy

November Spawned a Monster

October is in the rear view. The rear view is in the river. Pelagic creatures are flopping about in the shallows wondering where the encroaching oceans went.

The monks are illuminating by the gallows. The henchmen are getting soused.

Bring me freedom in reused wrapping paper and take your sleep wherever you can get it.

My knees are knocked by hummingbird buzz and candle wax. I’ve turned into a fairy but my wings are made of iron ore.

The Department of Divestiture is out on a declination of compasses decimated by degaussing — and the polarities have fled to Argentina and the Argentinians have decamped to Mauritania.

So I’ll content myself by washing my submarine and whistling a tune from a future era.

Hallowed is thy appendix. This is November!

“…’history’ was the word the English used for the record of every time a white man encountered something he had never seen and promptly claimed it as his own, often renaming it for good measure. History, in short, was the annals of the bully on the playground.”

— Namwali Serpell / The Old Drift

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

time at night

(Press play button above to watch my short film Looking for Lillian French)

Dreams of Bioluminescence

Because I didn’t want to go, I made my partner cry. I feel poorly today, both physically and now because I made him cry.

I have a predisposition for alienation—and a tendency to make more of sirens than I should. I never just picture a heart attack, car accident victim, or appendicitis; no, I picture terrorist bombings, the start of uncontrolled pandemics, anthrax poisonings, the first wave of nuclear fallout victims, and such.

And such is the way of my addled mind. I am a sick woman. I don’t think anyone would disagree — except the Sacrafect of Mantia who believes that sunfish can tell time better than clocks.

The Sacrafect has been trying to inject bioluminescence into sunfish so he’d be able to tell time at night.

He’s failed miserably.

This is fall in Jamaica Plain, MA, on 11/11/2021, at 7:08am.

“We spent most of yesterday telling stories. Someone says, Krik? You answer, Krak! And they say, I have many stories I could tell you, and then they go on and tell these stories to you, but mostly to themselves.”

— Edwidge Danticat / Krik? Krak!

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment