thee istsfor manity reader

some lines on youth

fucking landscaping company with their jet engine leaf blowers and such… one too many one too blew… fly me in the morning, ‘cause you certainly don’t blow me… you sewer jack, you scum pellet… what’s a scum pellet?  don’t know but I like the sound of it… and of listening to devo’s blockhead circa fall 1979… while turning off 24th street heading to a’s house… fucking strange, and stranger still… that mother that yet instills disgust in me and a tremendously negative animus: acrid, incendiary and hateful… fucking german shepherd… dumbass muscle bound dickhead brother… nazi youth younger sister…

oh, what a fucking joy! what a fucking way to spend your 16th year…

“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
— Ernest Hemingway 

bitchsplosion

“Diluent,” he said at the wall. 

Then: “Offing.  Fealty.  Procrustean.”  The wall said nothing.  It remained stolid in its sentry like “Reflection Gray” satin finish.

Finish.  Finnish.

Finnish:  The wall itself was not, but some fraction of a compound, some iota of primordial matter remained in its provenance, and one might surmise that it had some atavistic connection to something Finnish, maybe even to Finland.

But now, it just stared back at him.

He stared back, and after a paint break and having shouted the vocabulary words from a dictionary app at the wall he tried a couple of his own words:

“Cunctation,” he said to the wall.

“Belligerence, you fuck!” he said two minutes later.

The day grew bright and hot outside the open window.  The cicadas roared.

“Bitchsplosion,” he said to the wall.

On that instance the wall snapped, and allowed an overburdened stud to crack in two;  from which a piece of stucco dislodged from the cracked ceiling and fell on his head blinding him for an instant.

The freshly laden paint brush slipped from his hand and he teetered —  a smaller but no less weighty piece of stucco fell on him next and sent him reeling.

He fell onto the paintbrush handle which speared and twisted through his groin.   He was emasculated.  There in his living room.

He felt a brief moment of elation.  Free at last.

The sensation of wetting his pants flooded his synapses, a picosecond before the pain hit.

The cicadas were quiet.

“Don’t write it right, just write it—and then make it right later.”
— Tara Moss

Sangfroid I-IV

i.  The Ashen Landscape

“He’s got what?  Days left?  I don’t want to be there when he dies.”

“Sangfroid.”

“I’m cold-blooded?”

“You didn’t wish to come back to the village — to the sea?”

“I see… a Rothko — canted, a lost apocryphal work — an ashen landscape in three gradations.  My father tore out its center and revealed there’s no heart to the universe, only a corrugated armature — frozen, encased — as if the sky were stapled to the sea with liminal ice.”

“You see wasteland?”

“I see ghosts.  I was eleven.  My father placed the gun to his temple — then mine.  He abandoned me here.”

ii.  A Song for the Plague Year

I find my father supine on the bathroom floor, limned by a bloody halo — a pinpoint hole in his left temple.  Gorgeous.

The floor seethes and the ceiling lowers its claim upon me.  I’m extruded out of the bathtub spigot.  Suffering.  Wait.  Wait.  Suffering.  I’m in the heart of darkness.  I’m in the heart of the work now.  Shiver.  Fertile.  Gorgeous.

iii.  Molecular Organic Nano-machines

I’m at the morphine station.

I’m a soft machine inside a hard silicone husk.  I’m a warped machine rattling out flickering images: images of a gun.

I’m a soft machine in a hard exoskeleton — silicone dark inside — silicone smooth and white outside.  My memories play back on the cryoscreen. Here memories are particulate existences transformed into nano-globules (n-g.’s) that are secreted from the ferrules at the end of your iPuffer: smoky, hormonal, and projected inside and beyond your eyes.

“Please cue n-g. 173-A: the day I met my father at CBGB’s; and frame n-g. 173-B: the moment that punk rock saved my life.  Please add the blue 17 gelatin filter.”

A puff from the ferrule and the images resolve, but this memory is faulty.  The memory warps and echoes: a radiator squeals, brass electrodes buzz, my father is blood-crusted, ignored in a dusty corner, covered with mites escaping the evil heat.  Batista’s henchmen torture another… no, stop, this is not my memory but the anecdote he told me that night…

“This is not the n.g. I requested. STOP.  STOP.  Press the eject…”

Blood, on the tip of my tongue.  Where is it coming from?  Then a bestial din: the sound of a million cicadas’ lament before the seventeen year death — a rupture tectonically within me.  The smell of hissing green plantains dropped into overheated oil — the splattering: tinny, spastic —  and then the loss of control.

iv.  missing  STOP

im not who i was once was   STOP   aposiopesis   STOP   STOP   im a perfectionist   im obedient    get away from here    get away from that gun   STOP   STOP   STOP   dr x said im not my thoughts    im not my feelings   dont relive it    dont rehash it   and if it finds you   then embrace it    embrace the thoughts    embrace the feelings    be one with it and then release it     youre not your memories    youre not your feelings   be one with the thoughts   be one with the feelings   and then release them   STOP   

punk rock changed my life    no punk rock saved my life    the songs of the minutemen   no not that memory   STOP  STOP   dont touch him there   dont touch me stop it   put down that gun   38 snubnose    it weighs a ton    STOP   STOP   STOP    embrace this memory   embrace this emotion   im not my memories   not my emotions   STOP   aposiopesis   apoplexies   apophatic   and aphasic   STOP   STOP    dr x said    whatever happens   its ok    whatever happens is ok   im ok    whatever happens    im not my thoughts    im not my feelings   youre doing the best that you can   im doing the best that i can   STOP   STOP   STOP

“To practice any art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow. So do it.”
— Kurt Vonnegut

flarfish 17: innervate coze

(Spanish to Persian to English translation version)

Even including the building inervacijos
This is very important evidence that the potential impact of gravitational loads,
Thesis paper joyless. Unpredictable and immeasurable
The new goal was to express their coze
Our research circle of conditions Coze
Although after stimulation to the heart inervacijos
Wendall immaterialising pileated your articles and Agreements
Brett Circean chubbiest, and estimated their gelatinous set
Is likely to be that while inervacijos heart looks
After the injection of potassium bromide there is no
Marcela right-wing jet, innervan defense loses it beyond recognition.

“In order to be created, a work of art must first make use of the dark forces of the soul.”
— Albert Camus

a natural tyrant

I have well trod ways of going off the rails. I have multifoliate multivariances and polyvalencies of texts. I have Brakhage films and John Cage bubblegum. I’m gonna chew chew chew ’til my teeth get numb. I have the eyeless in Gaza player piano bolweevils in exploding plastic shades. I have a plastic covered couch and a take ‘n tape cassette player. I have gutted all my victual fish and lived a livestock week in panoply and cornucopia. I have called upon Mr. Pharmacist to make my life more bittersweet but he only succeeds at distanat quasar sounds. Oh please be here because I am, and I don’t really want to go there where you’re not. That’s impossible, that’s im… that’s impossible, that’s im-poss-i-ble… you’re in Nova Scotia but I’m not…

Rimsky-Korsakov was lying in an arroyo under the noonday sun. His eyes blistered. His lips chewed away by ravenous coyotes, who were now digging deep into his viscera. He hummed a new melody he thought he might be able to develop into an operetta. One of the coyotes had offered to write the libretto in a picaresque style reminiscent of Count Von Yorga Difibrio of Romania. Korsakov thought Sikorsky would be excellent in the lead, as he had a tin ear and leaden lungs.

“Yes, Sikorsky it is…”

This was the day she started to write again. It didn’t matter much what she wrote, just that she did… and so she wrote this…

“Practice an art for love and the happiness of your life—you will find it outlasts almost everything but breath.”

— Katherine Anne Porter

flarfish 21: weltschmerz tehillim

After gaining massive support for her Weltschmerz EP

Time also meant organization and as if The prevalent feeling

was one of Weltschmerz – a bonafide interest in the other’s

slight distortion

“You must practice being stupid, dumb, unthinking, empty. Then you will be able to DO… Try to do some BAD work — the worst you can think of and see what happens but mainly relax and let everything go to hell — you are not responsible for the world — you are only responsible for your work — so DO IT.”
— Sol Lewitt

(click on the play button above and watch my short film “tunnel tuner” above)

a volley of musketry

carnival barker maladapter
man with a green suitcase
adopting english weaponry
full of bugs that need nesting
bugs in search of warm human

blood

blood of the loveless
viral blood
utter chaos

critical focal acuity
customary sexual freedoms
factions dividing our town

like a vial of bacteria
like an ampule of virus
like an angry pathology reticulating

thru a red medium

“The important thing is not what we write, but how we write, and in my opinion the modern writer must be an adventurer above all, willing to take every risk, and be prepared to founder in his effort if need be. In other words we must write dangerously: everything is inclined to flux and change nowadays and modern literature, to be valid, must express that flux”
— James Joyce

Keeper of The Doomsday Clock

I am the keeper of the Doomsday Clock. I know what will happen to us. I know how the world ends, but I don’t tell you. I’ll keep you in the dark. I stopped the hands on the Doomsday Clock at 11:59. When we met I thought I would turn back the hands on the clock, that I might set the pendulum in reverse. But you said our fate was sealed and it was fatal. I was drawn to that. I was afflicted. I set the works in motion once more, the cogs thunder. I have chosen this minute.

“You must write. It’s not enough to start by thinking. You become a writer by writing. It’s a yoga.”
— R.K. Narayan

Flarfish 10: woman shadow of a doubt

(english to spanish to esperanto to english translation)

He told the woman with progressive brightness

That a crazy white hat should be a trick of the shadows

Shadow of a Doubt … ALL STORES … you’ve searched:

Clock

She had been sitting for some time when a shadow came.

Behind her … I have no doubt that her liberality is right

Represented … girl emerges from behind the shadows

Perhaps it was a reasonable assumption in 1887, though

An apprentice sorcerer who discovers the mastery of his

Tragedy of the woman’s shadow of charity, or rather the loss of it

Bill has no doubt that he is cursed – he can not seem to die

“You can always fix bad pages. You can’t fix no pages. So write. Just write. Try to turn off that voice of doom that paralyzes you.”

— Harlan Coben

Two Views: A Cut-Up Bedtime Story

(a found and a cut-up poem)

I.

X.’s home was a shambles:

piles of amber eyes,

clouds of fleas and other debris,

the ritual heads against our legs;

red bodies were discovered –

strong and sharp –

in the refrigerator’s freezer

relying on a stethoscope,

crowbar and chisel to make a hole

beyond salvation

II.

Has anyone seen

I could eat your heart 

    for dinner

with such conviction…

you?

probably be scared

“I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
— Jack Kerouac