Sanctioned by the Association of Urologic Twee (redux)

(Fade Out / 8 channels of noise : one channel of noise drops out every 30 seconds until there is silence)

Voiceover In Search Of A Film: Soft antennae entertainment turned minds to mush. Mush was the preferred texture of pablum eaters the world over. Overcome with cathexis via parapraxis trying to gauge the thickness of the Foley catheter.

A: Catheter? Did you say catheter?

S: Are we talking about the indwelling and suprapubic type catheters?

A: This isn’t your typical prime time fare, you know. You know it must be.

S: It must be. Isthmus B? Be you choosing Isthmus B? Isthmus of Perekop?

A: Are you insane, man? You can’t get anywhere near that today—mines, errant shells, ravenous drones on the prowl for heat signatures . . . No. New.

S: New world Isthmusesesess. (Did I just neologize?) what about the Isthmus of Panama?

A: Why has this turned into some sort of geography thing? What is this about?

S: What is anything about?

A: About 6 feet 3 inches, 224 pounds—a strapping lad!

S: You, my friend, have lost your yarbles.

A: You mean marbles?

S: What’d I say?

A: Yarbles . . . Maybe that’s the parapraxis, and this is all about quasi-urinary tract issues.

S: Hmm?

A: Where were we?

S: I think we’ve lost the plot.

A: Was there ever one?

S: One is born and then one dies.

A: Dies? What about all the other stuff in between?

S: Indeed.

A: In deed?

S: Indeed.

A: I’m sorry I have to stop here. You’ve put me in a sad state of mind.

S: Mind you, pal. Go on with your bad self. Scat.

A: Scat?

S: Scat!

A: Boop-be-boop. Wada, wada, wap, doo, wah. Wee, do, do—

S: What the fuh— What are you doing?

A: I’m scatting.

S: Not that. Not that scat!

A: Well, why didn’t you say. (Drops his pants)

(Rimshot heard off stage / Silence / Fade In)

What I’m Reading:

Once asked how he maintained his stamina at eighty-seven years old, Noam Chomsky responded, “The bicycle theory. As long as you keep riding, you don’t fall.”

— Tree Abraham / Cyclettes

Mise en Squalor + Plagues

This is a mise en abyme of a mise en abyme in a mise en abyme.

This is historical quicksand.

What of the Inquisition kitchen?

A fungus settled on the heart. The Great Deficiency of 1534 forbade comebacks without the extrapolation of the repellence of nearly thirty years loveless marriages. Why not go into pop singing?

And what of this skittering mise en scene?

I found a hermetically sealed heart — deprived of voltage, loving fingertips and Hollywood endings.

I preferred faith and superstition and widely distributed distractions on Bergman’s Fårö. Courtesan portmanteaus denied to local fishmongers.

I had to have the book.

I explored these motherless quintuplets.

I’m here. I’m here. And I’m here.

Speculate.

What I’m Reading:

I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

— Robert Frost / “Acquainted with the Night”

harvest

broaster chicken on speed dial
fans oscillating from every corner
dust devils gyring in the living room
the fridge texts — low on oat milk

house heaves a sigh of desperation
wants to set upon squarely on a witch
but they’re far and few

seventeen year cicadas unleash the chainsaw torrent
at once the air is electrified
a sharp tang on the tongue-tip

welcome home

What I’m Reading:

I’d been looking for the “right” place to sleep each night, as if not finding it would leave us stranded. But now I thought, wherever we are at the end of the day, we’ll be somewhere, and we can sleep there. It might not be comfortable and safe, but it will still be somewhere.

— Emily Buehler / Somewhere & Nowhere: A Bicycle Journey Across America

After Gas Huffing (redux)

Cold in my tent last night—
Moved away from the creek
Closer to the fire.
I heated up the plastic Jesus—
Placed it soft and hot
On my abdomen.
Cold again this morning—
I bit into the messiah—
No sign of life.

What I’m Reading:

mothers of  lost habitats, mothers of  fallout, mothers
of extinction — pray for us — because even tomorrow
will be haunted

— Craig Santos Perez / “Halloween in the Anthropocene, 2015”

here’s a blurb

i lunge at your venerable prize
at your demise

i am a partition
a parvenu of adhesives

i am a conclave of addictions
in for a nipper of revival

i am a theremin player from obscurity
counting my rosary adjournments

i am a respite of ill repute
cycling through the burbs of burblements

here’s a blurb —
siphon your securities expeditiously

and call your mutilation theologian
i’ll be here all week

What I’m Reading:

Here, streets lined with fresh
refugees, straggler homeless, cardboard
box men, prostitutes, pimps, beautiful
neighborhood people who teach me
you can get a great meal for $2 on
this block. How to eat with chopsticks,
which store gives free bread if you
don’t have $.

— Allison Adelle Hedge Coke / Look at This Blue