When bored (or high spirited)
I will recommend de Sade to homely girls;
Their reaction, their disgust marks me
With infinite delight (not that I like the Marquis)
Yet the few, who turn their brow with intrigue
A stained baby blue dress
A sewed shut clitoris
Proclaiming liberation of body and soul,
I fear for them,
I hunger after them.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Nakedly waiting her removal from earth
She spins webs into her veins.
“Let me stay, just for a little while longer, I need you right now.”
“You don’t need us.”
“Yes I do, please.” And please and please. And a week later she lies as a nude. Removing everything, the nude becomes the place. There are four others, A Lot with an open mouth full of weeds. Lot pulls his dick out as Ariel lays in a tub of water, silver water, still water for mosquitoes to stick it in like they are fucking skin, the mere idea of the mosquito’s penetration tangles feminist panties, and there is Lot and he is stroking his dick getting the pecker hard (Lot has lived his life acting hard, a true Iron Man) with Ariel waiting in the tub semi-there like a sex pistol’s groupie legs spread wide, awaiting in a drugged out state in a kind of sexual anticipation formed from the annihilation of the superego back into the abysmal water from where it was form, back in the half-baked womb. Annihilation all up in here.
But he comes in, not Lot, the good guy, the one who watches her even as his own presence he feels erodes with his friends and he pulls out his knife threatening Mr. Lot who continues to stroke his penis although more furiously than before, adrenaline springing it to life. Reluctantly, more half-heartedly, not to mention the presence of cocksureness, he left.
“Let me stay, just for a little while longer, I need you right now.”
“You don’t need us.”
“Yes I do, please.” And please and please. And a week later she lies as a nude. Removing everything, the nude becomes the place. There are four others, A Lot with an open mouth full of weeds. Lot pulls his dick out as Ariel lays in a tub of water, silver water, still water for mosquitoes to stick it in like they are fucking skin, the mere idea of the mosquito’s penetration tangles feminist panties, and there is Lot and he is stroking his dick getting the pecker hard (Lot has lived his life acting hard, a true Iron Man) with Ariel waiting in the tub semi-there like a sex pistol’s groupie legs spread wide, awaiting in a drugged out state in a kind of sexual anticipation formed from the annihilation of the superego back into the abysmal water from where it was form, back in the half-baked womb. Annihilation all up in here.
But he comes in, not Lot, the good guy, the one who watches her even as his own presence he feels erodes with his friends and he pulls out his knife threatening Mr. Lot who continues to stroke his penis although more furiously than before, adrenaline springing it to life. Reluctantly, more half-heartedly, not to mention the presence of cocksureness, he left.
Paragraph Politics
The Revolutionary
At eighteen, Daniel Zurich, witnessed his first death. A fight broke out over a box of chicken nuggets leading one man to shoot another. Daniel was eating a cheeseburger. Three days later Daniel read Karl Marx for the first time. During the next five years Daniel would become intimately acquainted with the work of Bakunin, Lenin, Voline, Proudhon, Engels, Kropotkin, and other socialists, communists, anarchists. At thirty years of age Daniel founded IWUF (International Workers Union Front), it was short lived. Daniel became increasing frustrated at the world. Corporations abused the proletariat. The capitalists controlled the government. The poor were uneducated and killing themselves, for money, in gangs, for honor that never follows.
Daniel Zurich would die at the age of forty in a car accident driving on his way to San Francisco for the first time.
The Nation
Children wave their flags in the air like warriors readying spears. Bombs burst in the sky. Bombs burst everywhere, but there the flags are burning and books are turning pages for new phrases of worship, here the dye runs red in altar stages for peons who fill baskets with allowances and tumble heavily into their cars. They are evil, we know. They are evil, ok we all know that. A shit storm needs to happen. A storm that will tear up all the dandelions and expose their green soaked capillaries. Ready the spear, boys. We have a traitor and terrorist in our midst. Strike everywhere, but the shadows. We call out to you from the shadow.
At eighteen, Daniel Zurich, witnessed his first death. A fight broke out over a box of chicken nuggets leading one man to shoot another. Daniel was eating a cheeseburger. Three days later Daniel read Karl Marx for the first time. During the next five years Daniel would become intimately acquainted with the work of Bakunin, Lenin, Voline, Proudhon, Engels, Kropotkin, and other socialists, communists, anarchists. At thirty years of age Daniel founded IWUF (International Workers Union Front), it was short lived. Daniel became increasing frustrated at the world. Corporations abused the proletariat. The capitalists controlled the government. The poor were uneducated and killing themselves, for money, in gangs, for honor that never follows.
Daniel Zurich would die at the age of forty in a car accident driving on his way to San Francisco for the first time.
The Nation
Children wave their flags in the air like warriors readying spears. Bombs burst in the sky. Bombs burst everywhere, but there the flags are burning and books are turning pages for new phrases of worship, here the dye runs red in altar stages for peons who fill baskets with allowances and tumble heavily into their cars. They are evil, we know. They are evil, ok we all know that. A shit storm needs to happen. A storm that will tear up all the dandelions and expose their green soaked capillaries. Ready the spear, boys. We have a traitor and terrorist in our midst. Strike everywhere, but the shadows. We call out to you from the shadow.
Avenue by A Hundred Lakes
We stand still in showers picturing
Fake photographs with our friends
The miracles they bring are gone
What’s fading in?
Pick out of ourselves landfill yellows
And we parade across the street
With twigs falling from our teeth
A red filter to stop the light
From fading in.
I wrap myself with branches in the closet
Finding a way to find a way through
We’re stuck in cars on tables
Chairs bending like snowflakes in the wind
Those are drifting in.
With the kids. With the kids.
I’ve found myself a whole new home
A hole to fill the home I left behind
Where are the kids?
Are they in trouble, again?
I’m drifting in.
Fake photographs with our friends
The miracles they bring are gone
What’s fading in?
Pick out of ourselves landfill yellows
And we parade across the street
With twigs falling from our teeth
A red filter to stop the light
From fading in.
I wrap myself with branches in the closet
Finding a way to find a way through
We’re stuck in cars on tables
Chairs bending like snowflakes in the wind
Those are drifting in.
With the kids. With the kids.
I’ve found myself a whole new home
A hole to fill the home I left behind
Where are the kids?
Are they in trouble, again?
I’m drifting in.
Monday, November 29, 2010
To Home
The professor calls the class to closure. I begin to lift my bag over my shoulder when I hear a wimpy drop of a book and turn my head, then quickly turn back as not to call attention to my attention. Now time to just slip behind the crowd on the way out. I glide horizontally across the classroom and make my way out when a girl, from a middle row, I always sit in the front, turns to meet my path. I walk up as she walks down. Our eyes meet and we both smile. A sweet smile somewhat unsure but also this immense happiness arose from those lips. I smile back a smile I hope she appreciated. This moment last only a split second, face to face, back to back, like that, pass each other. And so we create the past in moments like this, that soon I will forget, I know it, for thirty years I will forget. For the next thirty it will be all I remember.
A swift smile for half-a-second, just like that.
I am not dressed adequately for the cold, a thin button up and a light jacket. The college lights at night dream yellow thoughts emanating across the yard, lying against passerby faces dreary and awake for a few hours more. And when they sleep, the students, they will dream of moments of undiscovered colors and unbelievable hours, all in unlivable experiences. I finally reach my car; I am cold and alone. I parked far from everyone else. It was a long walk and I am cold.
The drive home was simple memory repeating like every Monday night. There were no accidents, no mysterious events, no odd quirks, no, just the light reflecting off the road in gravel patterns, obscuring the horizon the bridge builds as it lifts over the highway to mark a way home. I never know what lies on the other side, or if I will continue to rise into the sky. Never will I cease wondering, but what memory taught me is that after a rise there is a fall. And that fall can put you at the same elevation as before or even lower. That these elevations of roads or streets, the old high bridge street, are just feelings, feelings we feel like vertigo or gravity, some mental/emotional and some more scientifically based. I learned that all we end up doing is looking up or looking down, walking up or walking down. But again we believe these binary actions because for some reason we feel we must delineate binary values, up and down, right and left, good and evil. I learned that a smiling girl who smiles at you isn’t something you should miss.
And on the other side of the bridge I dip and see a flood of lights, red and yellow, I know of which all belong to people. And before me a sea of people rises. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Waves tumbling towards home. A nationless flag waives over my house. A distance begets a distance, a distance between houses colored yellow, tan, and reddish brown, near which I find friends sitting on compasses spinning their boundaries around their homes, marking territories of who they are in terraced obtuse angles all from a center they call home, makes them who they are, four walls and a roof defines them and the grass that reaches out yard touching yard, a fighting ring where only they struggle, a home. I don’t think of home when I think anymore.
I want to sleep now. See you sometime later. I hope whatever your bed may be in, wherever it may be, may it be warm. Dream an experience not a memory. Live in the fluorescent cloud of nothing and something where maybe happens to be always, stones turn soft, and flightless birds collect dust.
And for just a few moments, just like that we sleep.
A swift smile for half-a-second, just like that.
I am not dressed adequately for the cold, a thin button up and a light jacket. The college lights at night dream yellow thoughts emanating across the yard, lying against passerby faces dreary and awake for a few hours more. And when they sleep, the students, they will dream of moments of undiscovered colors and unbelievable hours, all in unlivable experiences. I finally reach my car; I am cold and alone. I parked far from everyone else. It was a long walk and I am cold.
The drive home was simple memory repeating like every Monday night. There were no accidents, no mysterious events, no odd quirks, no, just the light reflecting off the road in gravel patterns, obscuring the horizon the bridge builds as it lifts over the highway to mark a way home. I never know what lies on the other side, or if I will continue to rise into the sky. Never will I cease wondering, but what memory taught me is that after a rise there is a fall. And that fall can put you at the same elevation as before or even lower. That these elevations of roads or streets, the old high bridge street, are just feelings, feelings we feel like vertigo or gravity, some mental/emotional and some more scientifically based. I learned that all we end up doing is looking up or looking down, walking up or walking down. But again we believe these binary actions because for some reason we feel we must delineate binary values, up and down, right and left, good and evil. I learned that a smiling girl who smiles at you isn’t something you should miss.
And on the other side of the bridge I dip and see a flood of lights, red and yellow, I know of which all belong to people. And before me a sea of people rises. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Waves tumbling towards home. A nationless flag waives over my house. A distance begets a distance, a distance between houses colored yellow, tan, and reddish brown, near which I find friends sitting on compasses spinning their boundaries around their homes, marking territories of who they are in terraced obtuse angles all from a center they call home, makes them who they are, four walls and a roof defines them and the grass that reaches out yard touching yard, a fighting ring where only they struggle, a home. I don’t think of home when I think anymore.
I want to sleep now. See you sometime later. I hope whatever your bed may be in, wherever it may be, may it be warm. Dream an experience not a memory. Live in the fluorescent cloud of nothing and something where maybe happens to be always, stones turn soft, and flightless birds collect dust.
And for just a few moments, just like that we sleep.
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