the couched girl worked with a story—language angels—wet dashed door never a nobody in terms of feral hair—capitalist lizards—upward themselves let illustrations labor logical—their have is where there’s secret poorhouse—down unwholesome work—shoes in flames—free the working rich beholden to pious subversion—they grow less motivated eyes humble view make strange freedom—they dream this—amoral art naked in clothes—a shoemaker has stopped to dance godly and poor as if reasoned mobility were knowing to earn—that hell being only a suggestion would make beings with such little sense—and they wildly they—the and of from and from of known—or
“You know I love this country. Only thing wrong with it is the folks living there.”
— William S. Burroughs / “Twilight’s Last Gleamings”
Two 33 1/3 rpm records are arguing with each other on Christmas Eve 1992.
One record, Casserole by The Tinklers, cedes the polemic to the other—The Shaggs’ Philosophy of The World.
“That’s OK,” Casserole says as it spins to a stop. “They’ve played you the most. You win, but you’re turning into a groove-less hag. All crackle and hiss!”
Philosophy of The World says: “No it’s awful. They’ve bought our compact disc replacements. The future is not as good as it used to be!”
“Hah!” Casserole says, “good one, but that was on another record.”
Three pairs of colossal white doors open and close
Agent fleabag sorts ALBINO MICE
the dark purple ones are called defeat
Why do white people tan their skin?
Is it self-hatred?
One way to keep a posse of enchanted
beings out of your feeder is to top it with a large plastic dome
Then attach a plastic strap for insecure rich people … use an expensive detergent
live longer … a process full of white buttons
underneath the plum scarf!
Why would you? They would only self replicate
and raise horrible armies
your laundry heard that I had married Barbara
the suggestions: forfend:
hound the albino mouse
“Finding himself now alone, with nothing in particular to do, Watt put his forefinger in his nose, first in one nostril, and then in the other. But there were no crusts in Watt’s nose, tonight.”
(press play button above for my short film: parapraxis)
Try the Truth
We’ve all had contact with death, or with typewriter bullets resounding. We’ve seen zucchettos falling off heads—miters beatified without popes beneath them—and then sought the refuge of the FBI.
Once walking among the cedar groves in a thick opium haze emanating from the burningriver—resolving within the deep shadows— the slightest movement.It was something in the gap between writing and painting.It was then I remembered I was in a film, and through a series of chance encounters, rolling mustard seeds between my forefinger and thumb.
“Let’s try the truth,” she said.The shadows cast by clouds raced by us.
I said, “we are here to go, so think about it.”I picked up a dead hare by the rear legs and offered it to her.“So what do you think about that?”
She rolled her sunglasses up on her head, keeping the hair off of her face.“I think you should reconsider what you consider to be an appropriate gift.The only riveting thing about you are the rivets in your underhanded glances.”
“I don’t see any point in your pointing out my deficiencies,” I said.
The sparrows twittered and flitted about the cedars.A lawn mower roared to life down the grove to our left.It caught her attention and she turned to face it.I swung the rabbit hard at her head and as she turned back to me I caught her solid on her nose.
She reeled back and fell slowly backward, time expanding and the sounds grinding to a halt.
“Fuck,” she eventually said.She looked forlorn, a sadness taking hold of her.From down on her muddy ass there, she said, “the only way I can imagine you happy is if you’re working and creating in the midst of the desert.Go fetch me my glasses, bitch.”
“If you call me bitch again,” I said, “I’m going to caulk your pie hole.”
“My pie hole,” she said, getting on to her knees.“Who talks like that? Pie hole?”
“I do, cuntzilla.Pink tart-a-go-go,” I said.I walked over to her sunglasses and stepped on them full force with the heel of my my hobnail boot. The glass shattered. I ground it into the muddy bank.
“Fucker! You fucker,” she said.“I’m going to make you listen to the entire Up With People discography when we get back home.”
She pulled a gun out of her purse, and tossed the purse aside and … (oh, you should’ve seen what I saw!)
“My god, you fool,” I said, troubled and hot under my wig. “I give up,” I said. I held my hands high.“You win.You’re the better woman.”
“I thought as much,” she said.She came toward me and held out her arms as if to embrace me.“Tell me you love me.”
“You can’t want to be a writer, you have to be one.”
(press play above to watch my short film, cloud generator)
Feckle of Fug Fugue Fickle
In a land where nothing of note took place—except waiting for something of note to take place—here, there lived a figure, a fixture, of feckless anagram composition. His name was Feckle.
Feckle made a black glossy box — a cloud generator. He turned it on. Then the land of Fug Fugue Fickle became the most renown on this side of the hemisphere just above that tropic and below the equator. The sea water was a bit warm, (but hell!) where wasn’t the water warm, and overlapping its previous high water marks, these days?
Anyway, everyone in the world came to love Feckle and the land of Fug Fugue Fickle. No state actors nuked it (they didn’t deign to consider it, given the abundant cumuli about after Feckle) and no republic or kingdom sought to undermine the elections in Fug Fugue Fickle.
The whole world was thankful for the clouds—for the first time in memory (history perhaps) there was some contentment in the world: old animosities sloughed away, people smiled at each other and said “hola,” fleas were sated, anagrams created themselves, and linguists decided to drop the “r” in “masonry” and from that moment on it became “masnoy.”
(Are we talking stonework or freemasonry?)
(Oh wouldn’t you like to know?)
Anyway, Feckle was so happy with this cloudy state of affairs that he fed himself into the cloud machine and became an altostratus that covered the sky over Fug Fugue Fickle. Everything in its right place.
thee istsfor manity reader 