Tag Archive: go
Evening just about to even; women in song strewn about the linoleum. Dreams go like this but often fail, T_____ thinks to herself as notes from the skylight drift down featherly, notes from the chandelier drop like pancakes, notes from the signpost crash on the sofa. Sixteen summer squalls creep across the carpet. The light that dims is the lamp that lingers. Dresses she used to wear are wearing themselves now, no matter what we think and things thought they were through. Now she removes the bra-straps. Then princes start appearing, the good, the not, the other and yet another not so other but he is not even he or prince but wholly not. He hails from beyond our bane and something else besides. This is not my house, he says, This is not my tree. This is not my holiday, my pleasure nor my realm. I am thirsty, give me meat, give me forty years. T_____ is one to hold his him, she loves the way it smells. Catacombs would smell as sweet—the onions, the farm. Six years pass and still she sees it as the wax mould formed him. Six more years and nothing happens. Six more years and nothing happens. Then he tells her it wasn’t kismet it was just a fountain. Or maybe they were maybe them or maybe someone else. Then six more years and nothing happens then she bakes her sweetness, and all he promised oozes from the meat within her yeastfarm, where summer kept the broken bottles that reek of her elopement.
little girls’ legs
When first they found them strewn about the canyon and up and down the highway it was assumed to be the work of a single perverted miscreant. Still attached to each other—hips and waists intact—moguls attacked the situation for sitcom material to forge a tome of visual recreants giving birth to national culture and pop, but when the first little nubbin’s—discovered in a covered cover uncovered west of the west end projects—picture was posted the whole project was postponed for something more crimescenic. Oh my! said the little lamb to the gimphorse, these taste like nuggets dipped in mother’s milk, or cows’ brine, or semisweet gone sour. . .
rosary. Rose-marie. In the jungle. In sweatpants. Thwack of the tse-tseslap; smack of a whip. Whip of a tail. Orangutan. Wildebeest. Adidas and Gazelle. The last line of insects a circle round the camp. Fire. Cans unopened. With a rock and a stick, an ape in a mask. By a dungheap the water; by the bottle a glass. Vino. A bra and glasspipe. Broken glass. In the slag of a skinnydip and the bone of the bonobo. A lemur. A mango. A taffeta remnant by the moonlit sheet. Mosquito net and brim; thread of a horsehair. In the sorry of a torch; in the fire. With a slingshot. In a jungle. In nothing. Ave Maria, sweet swell of the.
What the Gimphorse Said
onlydalonly, da loosnin’ lulu, loast in da loam, da lack o’ da lock; loop-di-loop! loop-di-loop! loop-di-loop! lo&behol’ da fewah da mowa! da maxim iz mosim—da happen iz happen! oooohhhhliddle ladle, whe way go to da jayhow now—hoo way goan gloam fo’ da gleemeen’wha da do dat——liddle ladle diddle dadle————tekeli-li!! tekeli-li!!
Sorry I’m late. Traffic.
You know, if we had flying cars. ..
You’re still on the flying cars?
Hey—here it is, the year 2000 come and gone, and we don’t have the basic things they promised us. We were led to believe it would be like the Jetsons, man, but here it is and it’s not the Jetsons—it’s not even the Jeffersons.
The Jeffersons? Dude, that’s a Chris Rock joke.
Well, fish are fryin’ in the kitchen, man.
You’re a fucking plagiarist.
Beans be burnin’ on my grill.
What the hell are you talking about?
Whatchu talkin’ bout?
I’m talking bout she used to be a Riot Grrrl.
That was before I knew her, I swear.
I’m not accusing you of anything; I just wanna know the truth.
What is truth? And when he said that he went out to the Jews and said: I find no guilt in him.
I hate it when you do this. Just tell me if you fucked her!
What is fuck, and when fuck had said fuck he went fuck to the fuck and said fuck them: I fuck no guilt fuck him.
So if you didn’t, did he? You could tell me that at least.
Fuck is fuck, fuck when fuck fuck said fuck fuck went fuck fuck the fuck fuck said fuck fuck: I fuck fuck guilt fuck fuck.
Oh yeah, well fuck fuck fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck: fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. What do you have to say about that?
It was the 90s—we all fucked a Riot Grrrl.
bobby mcbain eats bacon for breakfast, pork chops for lunch & chews his chitlins as he struts across the sty & shits in the trough; other pigs call him judas & think that farmer lazarus ought to make a meal of the cannibalistic bastard: they hate him almost as much as they hate themselves. what they don’t know is how bobby saved lazarus mcbain that larksome night 3 years ago—soon after the barren mrs mcbain took her own life—as the farmer lay alone in his bed; how there came a knock at the door & he opened it to find the piglet in swaddling clothes & the note: please love & cherish him as your own & how the farmer wept & the piglet wept as he christened him w/ bacon grease & mrs mcbain wept, her tears coming down in the rain, gentle q-tips in the gutter; & jesus wept
4 fingers bend to whisper to each other secrets thumb cannot know; opposable—a finger but not a finger, a 5th wheel on a machine that pulsates in dark places when no one’s around. 4 in synchronous motion bend to make a fist perhaps to smash the places where it plays but thumb stiffens in opposition making smashing difficult if not completely impossible because smashing is an objective w/ such sacred purpose that fingers might overpower the will of thumb & smash him along w/ everything else. . . still erect& protesting thumb begins to crawl away from fingers, stretching/worming his way across the surface & fingers disagree how to handle the fugitive: pointer & middleboth say fuck him—let him go but middle doesn’t ever want him back while pointer says let’s invite him to the smashing & see if he shows up; ring feels like crying but holding back he says oh well—we come & we go & the blood keeps circulating; only the little one wants to run after thumb because he loves him so though he’s touched him least; but whether thumb returns or not—whether they ever see him again—all agree they must go on w/ the smashing—
i saw a dog with tulips growing out of his eyes—it wasn’t actually a dalmatian it was a dachshund & they weren’t really tulips they were sunflowers & they really weren’t growing out of his eyes they were growing out of his butt but they weren’t really growing they were sort of just stuck there. i know because i stuck them there. & i didn’t actually see this dog i just heard about it from my wife whose dog it is—except i’m not married & never have been so i made that part up & all the rest too except the part about the dog having sunflowers stuck in his butt but actually it was a female dog & the sunflowers which were really daisies were stuck in her vagina—all the way in—& i had to remove them during a dissection experiment the purpose of which is unclear to me since i’ve never been involved in a dissection experiment & the only time i ever cut through bone & flesh was during my tenure in the coroner’s office when we cut through flesh & bone from 9 to 5 & combined the codes of dalmated species in intoxicated after hours
Sympathy, she feels for him as globs of goo run down his leg. No—empathy. This isn’t the last time we’ll be together, she assures him as shivers of Aphrodite’s spit shake the column where he rocked. She’s not as cruel as she intends, but she has an agenda and way about her that will not move. The men she moved with moved with her, in any direction she flowed; at times the flow was bidirectional, monthly changing till the next. Each gave as much as she took, but took less than she was willing to give. They called her names and let her ride them, but sticks and stones are better tools. Only one would win momentum, but even he would pay a price.
He asks how he’ll go as she covers her assets. Don’t be childish, she tells him as he sinks back to bed level. She begins to move but one last spring forth of him holds her front. Please, he pleads, please me. She breaks his grip and gropes the saddle of his rocking: What we have is too grand to ruin with expectation. Tomorrow, perhaps, you’ll have it, or perhaps a tomorrow after. What’s the rush? Why this ancient rancor? There’s much joy in the sea of the city—go out and find some fish.
She leaves him in hope and coffee; he takes it as she leaves it. He only wishes vertical were as comforting as she is. Decades pass; he moves on—decades dust and settle. In the grass of home, bodies swaying, gentle in the cradle. And she on clouds between them swings from earthquake to the pasture; only once does she regret the path that she has chosen. And in that once she almost chose him, but couldn’t touch the pavement.