banging the empty all gone or, what i think about when i have afever of one-hundred and three
all i can seem to write
about is
what's tactile and missing
from this ubiquitous autumn;
envy for the
texture of those leaves
propelling themselves
from their safe places in
trees to their certain demise:
the orange, the red,
and he's still in my head.
all i can seem to write
about are
his hands on my legs,
my fuzzy socks on the backs of
his calves,
me, whisper-singing in his ear,
drowning out discontent;
i am the wishbone
spread out below, and
we are sweat and sick-fucking,
banging the empty all gone.
Showing posts with label heroin love songs vol 4. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heroin love songs vol 4. Show all posts
19 November 2008
daniel casebeer
ellen and ben
Ben wraps a towel around his waist and reaches for the shaving cream. Ellen is sprawled across the bed. She is naked, except for a slim triangle of black silk, and there is a trail of rose petals tattooed along the pale of her inner thigh.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Shaving."
He opens the mirror and rummages through the medicine cabinet. Rain hammers against the window. He watches the drops chase each other down the glass, and imagines that he can see Billie Holliday in the silver
streaks they leave behind. He finds a razor at the back of the cabinet and sets it on the edge of the sink.
Ellen rolls over and props her head up on a pillow.
"But I like your beard," she says. "I don't think you should shave it."
He turns the water on and twists the cap from a brown bottle of blue pills. He puts two of the pills on the sink next to the razor and returns the bottle to the medicine cabinet, closes the mirror.
"Did you hear me?" she says. "I don't want you to shave your beard."
He takes the pills with a handful of water, wets the razor, and sits down on the toilet.
"Don't worry," he says, unwrapping the towel. "The beard is safe."
Ben wraps a towel around his waist and reaches for the shaving cream. Ellen is sprawled across the bed. She is naked, except for a slim triangle of black silk, and there is a trail of rose petals tattooed along the pale of her inner thigh.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Shaving."
He opens the mirror and rummages through the medicine cabinet. Rain hammers against the window. He watches the drops chase each other down the glass, and imagines that he can see Billie Holliday in the silver
streaks they leave behind. He finds a razor at the back of the cabinet and sets it on the edge of the sink.
Ellen rolls over and props her head up on a pillow.
"But I like your beard," she says. "I don't think you should shave it."
He turns the water on and twists the cap from a brown bottle of blue pills. He puts two of the pills on the sink next to the razor and returns the bottle to the medicine cabinet, closes the mirror.
"Did you hear me?" she says. "I don't want you to shave your beard."
He takes the pills with a handful of water, wets the razor, and sits down on the toilet.
"Don't worry," he says, unwrapping the towel. "The beard is safe."
pablo vision
fuck-drops make entity
Fuck-drops make pink, bulbous, screaming entity fall from the cunt; a screaming bundle of liq-uid-shit and vomit. What a tedious and common miracle; delude yourself not: this is at least eighteen years of your life pissed down the toilet, in one careless moment of inadequate pre-caution. What cowardly squeamishness prevented you from reclaiming your own life back? Was it so dull that adding such frustrating and demanding and thankless torment and restriction into the mix seemed somehow appealing? Were you such a slave to tradition or, worse still, insane instinct? And will you lie to yourself and others, how worthwhile it all is; so special, and so fulfilling? Will you imbue its pig-like features with spurious resemblances, like the face of Christ in the anus of a dog? And will you mistake familiarity, duty, self-delusion, and hormonal chemistry, for some kind of deep love? How often do you allow yourself the time to regret? How often do you think what your life was, and could have been, without this life-sucking leech? And what of the slackening of cunt and drooping of tits; sleepless nights; gibberish and drool?
Such lack of perspective, you cry, such bleak one-dimensional viewpoint - what of the joys? What joys, I say (rhetorically, for I have no wish to tolerate your stupid assertions)?!!!? Would you willingly choose the educationally subnormal for social company? Are playing brum-brums and choo-choo trains really that rewarding? Is that paternal smile on congratulating some fin-ger-painted splodge a smile of genuine happiness? Have you willingly swapped all of this, for fucking in every room in the house, wild debauched parties, and freedom to move from place to place at will? Were your lives that dull that this boring bondage actually seemed appealing? Were conversations with your lover so excruciating, that you really wanted to punctuate them with spoon-feeding and irritating interruptions? Is relaxing on the beach with your brat screaming and throwing sand that much better? And the exciting nightlife…how wonderful to bypass any chance of life, and move straight to middle age; how simply excellent to drag push-chairs around the pyramids; and how much the little fucker appreciates all of this.
And they grow older. Instead of smiling dutifully at misshapen plasticine snails you applaud your offspring’s woeful acting and singing, listen grimly to their painful stories, and try and as-cribe cuteness to that which is not. What the fuck is wrong with you people????? Why the look of horror when I tell you how I detest the little bastards, and become nauseous at your photo albums and homemade movies? Can you only convince yourself by this incessant enthusiasm for this sort of hell? How my toes tighten and cringe in the presence of your wonderful prog-eny! How many times when you are asked about yourself do you drone on about your fucking children instead?
And they grow older still. Embarrassing children with hormones and tantrums convinced that they are adults and individuals, pathetically allowing other fucking teenage-child-brats to influ-ence their every thought, taste, and action. Just see how they will thank and reward you then! How supremely and sublimely superb to think of your precious baby out getting wasted and getting fucked - and which fuck-drops will make more bastard entities then?
How old will you be when, and if, the bastards finally leave home? What will you have left of your own life then? Do you honestly believe that these little shits, who never asked to be born, will owe you something when you need looking after?
Are you so bereft of the social skills needed to find real friends that you create these entrapped hostages for company? Have you failed so miserably with your own lives that you wish to start again from scratch, vicariously?
But without children, what of the future, you say? Fuck the future, and this dismal species, if it so disdains living life, and is so scornful of freedom, that it jumps at the chance to commit this sick suicide.
Fuck-drops make pink, bulbous, screaming entity fall from the cunt; a screaming bundle of liq-uid-shit and vomit. What a tedious and common miracle; delude yourself not: this is at least eighteen years of your life pissed down the toilet, in one careless moment of inadequate pre-caution. What cowardly squeamishness prevented you from reclaiming your own life back? Was it so dull that adding such frustrating and demanding and thankless torment and restriction into the mix seemed somehow appealing? Were you such a slave to tradition or, worse still, insane instinct? And will you lie to yourself and others, how worthwhile it all is; so special, and so fulfilling? Will you imbue its pig-like features with spurious resemblances, like the face of Christ in the anus of a dog? And will you mistake familiarity, duty, self-delusion, and hormonal chemistry, for some kind of deep love? How often do you allow yourself the time to regret? How often do you think what your life was, and could have been, without this life-sucking leech? And what of the slackening of cunt and drooping of tits; sleepless nights; gibberish and drool?
Such lack of perspective, you cry, such bleak one-dimensional viewpoint - what of the joys? What joys, I say (rhetorically, for I have no wish to tolerate your stupid assertions)?!!!? Would you willingly choose the educationally subnormal for social company? Are playing brum-brums and choo-choo trains really that rewarding? Is that paternal smile on congratulating some fin-ger-painted splodge a smile of genuine happiness? Have you willingly swapped all of this, for fucking in every room in the house, wild debauched parties, and freedom to move from place to place at will? Were your lives that dull that this boring bondage actually seemed appealing? Were conversations with your lover so excruciating, that you really wanted to punctuate them with spoon-feeding and irritating interruptions? Is relaxing on the beach with your brat screaming and throwing sand that much better? And the exciting nightlife…how wonderful to bypass any chance of life, and move straight to middle age; how simply excellent to drag push-chairs around the pyramids; and how much the little fucker appreciates all of this.
And they grow older. Instead of smiling dutifully at misshapen plasticine snails you applaud your offspring’s woeful acting and singing, listen grimly to their painful stories, and try and as-cribe cuteness to that which is not. What the fuck is wrong with you people????? Why the look of horror when I tell you how I detest the little bastards, and become nauseous at your photo albums and homemade movies? Can you only convince yourself by this incessant enthusiasm for this sort of hell? How my toes tighten and cringe in the presence of your wonderful prog-eny! How many times when you are asked about yourself do you drone on about your fucking children instead?
And they grow older still. Embarrassing children with hormones and tantrums convinced that they are adults and individuals, pathetically allowing other fucking teenage-child-brats to influ-ence their every thought, taste, and action. Just see how they will thank and reward you then! How supremely and sublimely superb to think of your precious baby out getting wasted and getting fucked - and which fuck-drops will make more bastard entities then?
How old will you be when, and if, the bastards finally leave home? What will you have left of your own life then? Do you honestly believe that these little shits, who never asked to be born, will owe you something when you need looking after?
Are you so bereft of the social skills needed to find real friends that you create these entrapped hostages for company? Have you failed so miserably with your own lives that you wish to start again from scratch, vicariously?
But without children, what of the future, you say? Fuck the future, and this dismal species, if it so disdains living life, and is so scornful of freedom, that it jumps at the chance to commit this sick suicide.
willie smith
in free
Take the cigarette lighter. You really only fuck it once. Push it in. Say to yourself shit in. Wait sixty-nine secs – POP!
Remove glowing element. Flip same out window. Pull off on roadside. Snap off seat belt.
Slide over. Slip out of pants, no time to waste, no point doing this without socket hot as hot gets.
Since a hard-on is fatter than a cigarette, or even a Tiparillo, expect squeezing. Even more than took to achieve rigidity; although maybe didn’t take all that much, because cars erotic to begin with; cigarettes, too; kamikaze lust further rouses…
‘Til you become a Jap, because everybody is everybody’s masturbation fantasy; you no longer a Jewish American Prince diving an African wasp into the Indian web of a Chinese widow.
You are a 1945 Jap flying into the smokestack of a big-nose boat populating that one pink about to hurt so bad, so hot, so white – here it comes!
Allye allye in free!
In the beginning was the rebeginning, because it began already before.
Take the cigarette lighter. You really only fuck it once. Push it in. Say to yourself shit in. Wait sixty-nine secs – POP!
Remove glowing element. Flip same out window. Pull off on roadside. Snap off seat belt.
Slide over. Slip out of pants, no time to waste, no point doing this without socket hot as hot gets.
Since a hard-on is fatter than a cigarette, or even a Tiparillo, expect squeezing. Even more than took to achieve rigidity; although maybe didn’t take all that much, because cars erotic to begin with; cigarettes, too; kamikaze lust further rouses…
‘Til you become a Jap, because everybody is everybody’s masturbation fantasy; you no longer a Jewish American Prince diving an African wasp into the Indian web of a Chinese widow.
You are a 1945 Jap flying into the smokestack of a big-nose boat populating that one pink about to hurt so bad, so hot, so white – here it comes!
Allye allye in free!
In the beginning was the rebeginning, because it began already before.
joseph grant
accident
Traffic ahead begins to slow. This means one of two things. Either there’s construction further up the highway or there’s a crash. A half-mile ahead, it appears that cars are beginning to merge into the dreaded one lane. The highway in my mind narrows also and comes to an unexpected stop.
The radio says not one word about any of this yet. The stations remain gleefully un-aware, playing inane love songs followed by equally inane infomercials, all of which have noth-ing to do with my current reality. Maybe this is not happening, I tell myself, reassuring my work-wounded psyche. Some sort of mind mirage. A delusion of the motor skills.
Progress flows slower now. There is the floating sensation as if I am almost under wa-ter. There is no sound as in dreaming or in drowning. Any and all noise has been swallowed by the privacy of my rolled-up windows. I wonder if this is what dying feels like.
The shadows growing in the Joshua trees around me outline the tortured faces in the cars of the still merging next lane, their mouths uttering silent words to gods unknown. Time ceases to mean anything. The light around us is steadily fading.
My tank is almost on E. If the traffic doesn’t start to move, my car will become yet an-other impediment in the struggle to get nowhere fast before this darkness descends upon us. A relevant thought overtakes my mind: If the car stalls, home will be a distant memory. This only makes me sigh. Thankfully, the traffic moves. A tongue of static hisses from the radio, the words I can discern come through as some sort of half-tone cipher, a hieroglyphic of the ear; useless. A check of my cell phone finds that dead, too. All lines of communication have been neatly silenced. I am cut off from the world and orphaned by modern design.
Now all of the cars around me are compressing into one thin line of an amalgamated steel snake, slithering slowly around a sharp turn, past what has been deterring our ride home. Burnt skid marks upon the gray-blue asphalt detail the last effort to maintain control. Then all gets blurry. Slowly, then suddenly. Fade to black.
The darkness of the road disillusions my mind’s eye and my memory is trajected back to a blood red sunset when a car ahead of me had hit a coyote in the road, already lifeless. My idiotic quick turn of the wheel to avoid crushing the already dead coyote’s skull nearly sent my car careening into another car in the other lane. It took me a week to rid the outside of my car of the splatter but considerably longer for me to purge the memory.
There will be no coyotes tonight.
Ahead, flares have been set up, funeral tapers alight near the mishap, rendering my eyes; retelling the rest of the story as the snake slowly slinks on. The flares stare back into the encroaching nothingness with angry, red eyes and give a hellish illumination to an already con-fused scene. I see an ambulance and a police car, both rave lights blinding the desert night, standing idly by as the scene is reflected in thousands of diamonds of broken reflection.
Given the length of the scorched tread marks, I deduce that a car tried to pass in be-tween two trucks to get into the slow lane to exit and one of the trucks, failing to see it or al-low it, barreled right into the vehicle, ramming it into the trailer in front of it, sending chunks of the Detroit spewing all over the road. The truck then apparently slid off the road in an attempt to stop. Maybe the brakes locked and the cab skidded down the embankment. I can not see it from the highway. All that I can make out are the remains of an overturned shell of the trailer, abandoned alongside the carnage.
The entire area is being carefully swept up and hosed down, as if it never happened. The ambulance is now somehow part of this cruel spectacle. It stands as a mocking figure of sorts, being totally useless now.
The cars shed their single skin slithering freely across the desert once again. The tor-mented faces will twist and contort from the inconvenience of being momentarily held prisoner to that of gawking delight. There will be now something to discuss around the microwave at work tomorrow morning, of how they were made late in getting home by this annoyance, I muse in a smug manner.
As the ambulance u-turns and the police hold back the stem of traffic, the carriage looks empty, there is no body bag, as there wasn’t enough to go around. No desert souvenirs, no body to identify, no toe to tag. A Christ on the highway. A perfect Mojave Resurrection. No proof of existence or of having ever been. We are here today, gone in a speed limit. Turn me on, dead man.
Manifest Destiny was what really killed off the American Indian, as surely as it did the coyote; although the coyote’s death was potentially quicker and more humane. Covered in blankets of smallpox, our ancestors silently watched the indigenous’ genocide spread. Now the corporations try to pull blankets over our eyes with each passing billboard lie; vying to get the last word embedded into the collective societal chant; to make us concerned about trivial dis-eases such as not having white teeth and having a dependable deodorant in a way our ances-tors never needed worry.
With only the moon overhead to guide us, we blindly follow the red lights ahead to the road that will take us from this mad hour of darkness; that will lead us from this bruised con-sciousness; past the realm of forgotten desert towns that disappear into the haunted swallow of night; where we have killed off the Western dream with neon and assuaged our guilt with casinos as the new oasis of greed.
American roadway death-Ideal-Madison Avenue-Streamlined-Right into the grave-Efficient. No down-time at the funeral parlor for me, no thank you. Now only one epitaph rests along these haunted roads for us; the ghostly message of “me first.” Common courtesy has turned to road rage. The thought merges in the lanes of my mind: Somewhere along this lone-some highway, we have become our own road kill. Goodbye James Dean.
I roll down the window, letting the cool evening air pour in. Utter a new creed, I cry, perform a new tribal dance in the shadows that grow across the promised land. The time has come again to embrace the Navajo night. The American Dream has become a mirage. The New World is no longer working, I scream into the empty darkness.
Out here, even on the precipice of nothing, I am consumed with the sensation of our driving too far, too fast into the American night that we can no longer find the original road back again. We have come so far only to be left driving headlong into the nothingness. Now, as traffic begins to slow once more, there too lies the tangible sense of our never getting home.
Traffic ahead begins to slow. This means one of two things. Either there’s construction further up the highway or there’s a crash. A half-mile ahead, it appears that cars are beginning to merge into the dreaded one lane. The highway in my mind narrows also and comes to an unexpected stop.
The radio says not one word about any of this yet. The stations remain gleefully un-aware, playing inane love songs followed by equally inane infomercials, all of which have noth-ing to do with my current reality. Maybe this is not happening, I tell myself, reassuring my work-wounded psyche. Some sort of mind mirage. A delusion of the motor skills.
Progress flows slower now. There is the floating sensation as if I am almost under wa-ter. There is no sound as in dreaming or in drowning. Any and all noise has been swallowed by the privacy of my rolled-up windows. I wonder if this is what dying feels like.
The shadows growing in the Joshua trees around me outline the tortured faces in the cars of the still merging next lane, their mouths uttering silent words to gods unknown. Time ceases to mean anything. The light around us is steadily fading.
My tank is almost on E. If the traffic doesn’t start to move, my car will become yet an-other impediment in the struggle to get nowhere fast before this darkness descends upon us. A relevant thought overtakes my mind: If the car stalls, home will be a distant memory. This only makes me sigh. Thankfully, the traffic moves. A tongue of static hisses from the radio, the words I can discern come through as some sort of half-tone cipher, a hieroglyphic of the ear; useless. A check of my cell phone finds that dead, too. All lines of communication have been neatly silenced. I am cut off from the world and orphaned by modern design.
Now all of the cars around me are compressing into one thin line of an amalgamated steel snake, slithering slowly around a sharp turn, past what has been deterring our ride home. Burnt skid marks upon the gray-blue asphalt detail the last effort to maintain control. Then all gets blurry. Slowly, then suddenly. Fade to black.
The darkness of the road disillusions my mind’s eye and my memory is trajected back to a blood red sunset when a car ahead of me had hit a coyote in the road, already lifeless. My idiotic quick turn of the wheel to avoid crushing the already dead coyote’s skull nearly sent my car careening into another car in the other lane. It took me a week to rid the outside of my car of the splatter but considerably longer for me to purge the memory.
There will be no coyotes tonight.
Ahead, flares have been set up, funeral tapers alight near the mishap, rendering my eyes; retelling the rest of the story as the snake slowly slinks on. The flares stare back into the encroaching nothingness with angry, red eyes and give a hellish illumination to an already con-fused scene. I see an ambulance and a police car, both rave lights blinding the desert night, standing idly by as the scene is reflected in thousands of diamonds of broken reflection.
Given the length of the scorched tread marks, I deduce that a car tried to pass in be-tween two trucks to get into the slow lane to exit and one of the trucks, failing to see it or al-low it, barreled right into the vehicle, ramming it into the trailer in front of it, sending chunks of the Detroit spewing all over the road. The truck then apparently slid off the road in an attempt to stop. Maybe the brakes locked and the cab skidded down the embankment. I can not see it from the highway. All that I can make out are the remains of an overturned shell of the trailer, abandoned alongside the carnage.
The entire area is being carefully swept up and hosed down, as if it never happened. The ambulance is now somehow part of this cruel spectacle. It stands as a mocking figure of sorts, being totally useless now.
The cars shed their single skin slithering freely across the desert once again. The tor-mented faces will twist and contort from the inconvenience of being momentarily held prisoner to that of gawking delight. There will be now something to discuss around the microwave at work tomorrow morning, of how they were made late in getting home by this annoyance, I muse in a smug manner.
As the ambulance u-turns and the police hold back the stem of traffic, the carriage looks empty, there is no body bag, as there wasn’t enough to go around. No desert souvenirs, no body to identify, no toe to tag. A Christ on the highway. A perfect Mojave Resurrection. No proof of existence or of having ever been. We are here today, gone in a speed limit. Turn me on, dead man.
Manifest Destiny was what really killed off the American Indian, as surely as it did the coyote; although the coyote’s death was potentially quicker and more humane. Covered in blankets of smallpox, our ancestors silently watched the indigenous’ genocide spread. Now the corporations try to pull blankets over our eyes with each passing billboard lie; vying to get the last word embedded into the collective societal chant; to make us concerned about trivial dis-eases such as not having white teeth and having a dependable deodorant in a way our ances-tors never needed worry.
With only the moon overhead to guide us, we blindly follow the red lights ahead to the road that will take us from this mad hour of darkness; that will lead us from this bruised con-sciousness; past the realm of forgotten desert towns that disappear into the haunted swallow of night; where we have killed off the Western dream with neon and assuaged our guilt with casinos as the new oasis of greed.
American roadway death-Ideal-Madison Avenue-Streamlined-Right into the grave-Efficient. No down-time at the funeral parlor for me, no thank you. Now only one epitaph rests along these haunted roads for us; the ghostly message of “me first.” Common courtesy has turned to road rage. The thought merges in the lanes of my mind: Somewhere along this lone-some highway, we have become our own road kill. Goodbye James Dean.
I roll down the window, letting the cool evening air pour in. Utter a new creed, I cry, perform a new tribal dance in the shadows that grow across the promised land. The time has come again to embrace the Navajo night. The American Dream has become a mirage. The New World is no longer working, I scream into the empty darkness.
Out here, even on the precipice of nothing, I am consumed with the sensation of our driving too far, too fast into the American night that we can no longer find the original road back again. We have come so far only to be left driving headlong into the nothingness. Now, as traffic begins to slow once more, there too lies the tangible sense of our never getting home.
mikael covey
fate of nations
mikael covey
They shake hands, cameras pop and click. The president smiling, and the king who is not smil-ing. Pictures for postcards and newspapers back home. “If you could only come to my country” says the king “see the land, the people. How far we’ve come.” “Maybe someday Vlad” says the president “but you need to come around to our side. Be a part of the team...before it’s too late.”
Knocks him off stride. The king’s name is ‘Valdamir’ not ‘Vladamir’ and he understands English better than he speaks it. But not well enough to know whether mispronouncing his name was intentional, or maybe just a mistake. Either way, it says a lot about the man he’s dealing with.
Behind the scenes, away from cameras and public attention, the minister of defense meets with the vice president. “We understand your security needs” says Myerinck “and we’re willing to do everything we can to help.” General Petros smiles, says nothing. American meddling is the cause of the insecurity in his part of the world; the wars and threats of terrorism looming over his country.
“We can offer you...aircraft” says the veep “fighters, state of the art. And pilots too, to train your people; all the protection you’ll ever need.” Still the general says nothing. The veep con-tinues “with that, you could be...a regional power. Someone to be reckoned with.” “We can’t afford such things” says Petros “but our soldiers...are brave and strong, fierce.” Surely he knows that, thinks the general.
The vice president isn’t interested, doesn’t care. Reaches down beneath the dark polished table and lifts up a briefcase. Opens it up to show him the neatly stacked bundles of American dollars filling it completely. “This is a loan, which will...assist you to purchase
all the armaments you need. With even some left over, I imagine. It’s our way of saying ‘thanks’ for all your help.”
The general looks at the money, more than he’s ever seen before, more than he can even imagine. Then he looks at Myerinck. “We’re not for sale” he tells him. The veep closes the lid of the briefcase and smiles. “Look, we all know your king has been playing coy and cute with...our state department; and his refusals of our generosity. So I guess it’s up to me to say it. This is our final offer, understand.
“And let me make this clear. The pipeline...is going to go through your country. That’s inevita-ble, it’s going to happen, there’s no other way. The oil has to flow...and yours is the most se-cure and...convenient route we have. So it’s going to happen, with or without you...or your king.”
“I understand” says Petros “but let me be clear also. We have a saying in my country...”
He pauses, scrutinizing the man in front of him, making sure there’re no mistakes. Then speaks a couple of lines in a strange sounding language, a Euro-Slavic mixture that’s quite pleasing to the ear. “And what does it mean” asks the veep. “Don’t smile at my face while you’re lying out your ass” says the general.
The vice president laughs, but Petros continues like he’s on a roll now “we don’t do ‘coy’ and we don’t play games. We told your foreign secretary that we don’t want your money, and we don’t want your pipeline. And you’d be well advised to quit meddling in that region of the world. You can see where it’s gotten you, can’t you?”
“I only see allies...and enemies” says Myerinck “and it’s too bad. I had hoped...we could be friends.” “What if we took your money” says Petros “and your aircraft; and used them...to at-tack you.”
The vice president glares at the man “it’s a mistake...to say things like that; even in jest.”
“We all make mistakes” says the general “but it’s better to live with good intentions, than to die with bad ones.” “Yeah well, we’ll find out if you’re right about that, won’t we.”
On the flight home, the king goes over it with his defense minister. They hadn’t spoken in the rental car, not in front of the boy who drove them. He’s only eighteen, one of the king’s palace guards, Freidrich Arnstid, a young soldier. This was a perk for him, this trip, an amazing adven-ture to come all the way to America.
Ostensibly he was there to carry the luggage, book the flights, make the arrangements. A lot of responsibility for a young man. But soldiers need to grow up quick in a little country like theirs; surrounded by hostilities and long-standing enemies. You need to learn, and grow up quick if you ever want to become an old soldier like General Petros.
Now they’re in the plane, and Freddie is off wandering around the aisles, looking for pretty girls, or anyone who might look suspicious or out of place. He’d booked the flight when they arrived at the airport, using different names, different passports. That’s what you do when you can’t afford a private jet. But even so, someone might recognize the king, so you have to be aware of that, see who’s flying with you.
Petros and the king can relax now, and speak freely. Unlikely anyone will overhear them or even understand the strange dialect of a little Eurasian country that nobody’s ever heard of. “I felt like killing him, right there” says the king “with my bare hands.” “Why didn’t you” asks Pet-ros. The king looks down at his hands, resting on the fine suit he’s wearing. The two of them dressed like businessmen, flying on a commercial airliner; second class. “They’d think...we were barbarians” he says “living in caves, herding goats for a living.”
“They think that already” says Petros “couldn’t find us on a map, even if you told ‘em where to look.” But they knew all that going into the meeting. This great historic event, the first and only meeting their little county ever had with the great and powerful Mr. Tomkin. Even so, the results were even more frustrating than they’d imagined.
The king tells how the president mispronounced his name; Petros laughs. “I like that, ‘Vlad’ makes you sound like Count Dracula or something.” The king laughs too, but then Petros tells him of his meeting with the vice president. And there’s no more laughter.
“Good God, Bruno...you didn’t really say that, did you?”
“I spoke...the words that came to me” says Petros “just, the truth is all.”
“You told them...what we think, in private. What we don’t want them to know we’re thinking.” Petros says nothing. Neither apologizing for what he’d said, nor surprised at the king’s reac-tion. He knows the king would have done the same thing, if he’d been in that position.
The stewardess brings them food, and wine to drink. It helps to ease the tension, focus on something else. Just the food, and drinking the wine. “Bruno, has it occurred to you...that di-plomacy is maybe not your strong suit?”
“Diplomacy” says Petros “is what little dogs do when they’re afraid of the big dog.” “Yes my friend, and these sayings roll off your tongue like a commander giving orders to his troops. Right or wrong, they’re going to follow you, aren’t they?” “Am I wrong” asks the general.
“No” says the king “no, it’s just that, we need to...find ways to stop wars, not start them.”
mikael covey
They shake hands, cameras pop and click. The president smiling, and the king who is not smil-ing. Pictures for postcards and newspapers back home. “If you could only come to my country” says the king “see the land, the people. How far we’ve come.” “Maybe someday Vlad” says the president “but you need to come around to our side. Be a part of the team...before it’s too late.”
Knocks him off stride. The king’s name is ‘Valdamir’ not ‘Vladamir’ and he understands English better than he speaks it. But not well enough to know whether mispronouncing his name was intentional, or maybe just a mistake. Either way, it says a lot about the man he’s dealing with.
Behind the scenes, away from cameras and public attention, the minister of defense meets with the vice president. “We understand your security needs” says Myerinck “and we’re willing to do everything we can to help.” General Petros smiles, says nothing. American meddling is the cause of the insecurity in his part of the world; the wars and threats of terrorism looming over his country.
“We can offer you...aircraft” says the veep “fighters, state of the art. And pilots too, to train your people; all the protection you’ll ever need.” Still the general says nothing. The veep con-tinues “with that, you could be...a regional power. Someone to be reckoned with.” “We can’t afford such things” says Petros “but our soldiers...are brave and strong, fierce.” Surely he knows that, thinks the general.
The vice president isn’t interested, doesn’t care. Reaches down beneath the dark polished table and lifts up a briefcase. Opens it up to show him the neatly stacked bundles of American dollars filling it completely. “This is a loan, which will...assist you to purchase
all the armaments you need. With even some left over, I imagine. It’s our way of saying ‘thanks’ for all your help.”
The general looks at the money, more than he’s ever seen before, more than he can even imagine. Then he looks at Myerinck. “We’re not for sale” he tells him. The veep closes the lid of the briefcase and smiles. “Look, we all know your king has been playing coy and cute with...our state department; and his refusals of our generosity. So I guess it’s up to me to say it. This is our final offer, understand.
“And let me make this clear. The pipeline...is going to go through your country. That’s inevita-ble, it’s going to happen, there’s no other way. The oil has to flow...and yours is the most se-cure and...convenient route we have. So it’s going to happen, with or without you...or your king.”
“I understand” says Petros “but let me be clear also. We have a saying in my country...”
He pauses, scrutinizing the man in front of him, making sure there’re no mistakes. Then speaks a couple of lines in a strange sounding language, a Euro-Slavic mixture that’s quite pleasing to the ear. “And what does it mean” asks the veep. “Don’t smile at my face while you’re lying out your ass” says the general.
The vice president laughs, but Petros continues like he’s on a roll now “we don’t do ‘coy’ and we don’t play games. We told your foreign secretary that we don’t want your money, and we don’t want your pipeline. And you’d be well advised to quit meddling in that region of the world. You can see where it’s gotten you, can’t you?”
“I only see allies...and enemies” says Myerinck “and it’s too bad. I had hoped...we could be friends.” “What if we took your money” says Petros “and your aircraft; and used them...to at-tack you.”
The vice president glares at the man “it’s a mistake...to say things like that; even in jest.”
“We all make mistakes” says the general “but it’s better to live with good intentions, than to die with bad ones.” “Yeah well, we’ll find out if you’re right about that, won’t we.”
On the flight home, the king goes over it with his defense minister. They hadn’t spoken in the rental car, not in front of the boy who drove them. He’s only eighteen, one of the king’s palace guards, Freidrich Arnstid, a young soldier. This was a perk for him, this trip, an amazing adven-ture to come all the way to America.
Ostensibly he was there to carry the luggage, book the flights, make the arrangements. A lot of responsibility for a young man. But soldiers need to grow up quick in a little country like theirs; surrounded by hostilities and long-standing enemies. You need to learn, and grow up quick if you ever want to become an old soldier like General Petros.
Now they’re in the plane, and Freddie is off wandering around the aisles, looking for pretty girls, or anyone who might look suspicious or out of place. He’d booked the flight when they arrived at the airport, using different names, different passports. That’s what you do when you can’t afford a private jet. But even so, someone might recognize the king, so you have to be aware of that, see who’s flying with you.
Petros and the king can relax now, and speak freely. Unlikely anyone will overhear them or even understand the strange dialect of a little Eurasian country that nobody’s ever heard of. “I felt like killing him, right there” says the king “with my bare hands.” “Why didn’t you” asks Pet-ros. The king looks down at his hands, resting on the fine suit he’s wearing. The two of them dressed like businessmen, flying on a commercial airliner; second class. “They’d think...we were barbarians” he says “living in caves, herding goats for a living.”
“They think that already” says Petros “couldn’t find us on a map, even if you told ‘em where to look.” But they knew all that going into the meeting. This great historic event, the first and only meeting their little county ever had with the great and powerful Mr. Tomkin. Even so, the results were even more frustrating than they’d imagined.
The king tells how the president mispronounced his name; Petros laughs. “I like that, ‘Vlad’ makes you sound like Count Dracula or something.” The king laughs too, but then Petros tells him of his meeting with the vice president. And there’s no more laughter.
“Good God, Bruno...you didn’t really say that, did you?”
“I spoke...the words that came to me” says Petros “just, the truth is all.”
“You told them...what we think, in private. What we don’t want them to know we’re thinking.” Petros says nothing. Neither apologizing for what he’d said, nor surprised at the king’s reac-tion. He knows the king would have done the same thing, if he’d been in that position.
The stewardess brings them food, and wine to drink. It helps to ease the tension, focus on something else. Just the food, and drinking the wine. “Bruno, has it occurred to you...that di-plomacy is maybe not your strong suit?”
“Diplomacy” says Petros “is what little dogs do when they’re afraid of the big dog.” “Yes my friend, and these sayings roll off your tongue like a commander giving orders to his troops. Right or wrong, they’re going to follow you, aren’t they?” “Am I wrong” asks the general.
“No” says the king “no, it’s just that, we need to...find ways to stop wars, not start them.”
zachari popour
courage
It was around 2 o'clock on a Wednesday.
I'd been reading the liner notes of every greatest hit's CD that I own when it struck me. It had been 3 months since the last time I've been laid. Masturbation just doesn't cut it. I'll swear it off; sex and self love—nothing but distractions anyways.
The bars are full of disgusting slop and my track record with relationships is a continuous dis-appointment.
I went out back, behind the garage where the trashcans sit, reached into one, dug my hand along the side, and pulled out a 2 night old pizza box. I ripped it in half and salvaged
the top half, which was clear of rotting cheese and grease.
I shoved the sharpie back into my pocket, grabbed a lawn chair, and took my sign and the chair to the edge of the road.
An hour, maybe longer, had gone by. There was minimal traffic and I began wondering if I should've written, 'DICK 4 SALE: $100', more boldly than what the sharpie allowed.
It wasn't until I took off my pants and boxer briefs that the prospective buyers began swarm-ing in. I spread my legs a little, stuck the sign between them, and plopped
my cock on the top of the sign.
There were 20 something's driving by pointing their fingers, middle aged women walking their schnauzers staring, and teenage girls riding their bikes up and down the street whispering
and giggling. I smiled and lit a cigarette.
I was beginning to get frustrated by all of the proverbial window shopping going on. On top of the obvious anomaly of some guy trying to sell his dick on the side of the street, it was as if they were afraid of it.
"Don't be scared." I said to a woman of about 30 that had been walking back and forth all af-ternoon, "Come get a better look."
She cocked an eyebrow and hesitantly made her way over.
"Ya like what you see?"
"…maybe." she said as she began chewing on her thumbnail.
"I'll tell ya what. For you, I'll make it $50."
"gee, I don't—"
I interrupted with a forceful, "$25!"
"Well, ok. But where are we going to do this?"
"What do you mean?"
"Where are you going to 'give it' to me?"
"Right here", I said.
"I'm not having sex right HERE!"
I let out a good laugh. "We're not going to have sex!"
"Then what—wait, I'm confused."
"Hang on." I said as I put the sign beside the chair and made my way into the house, down the hall, and into the kitchen. I retrieved a 9" carving knife and headed back out to the woman, sat down in my chair, grabbed onto the head of my prick, and stretched it out. I took the knife
with my other hand and hovered the blade inches away from the base.
"Like this." I informed her.
I was pretty shocked at how shocked she seemed considering the expressions people had been giving me all day long.
"YOU CAN'T DO THAT! YOU'RE SICK! WHAT IF YOU DID CUT IT OFF? THEN WHAT? WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE LEFT?"
"All balls, baby."
It was around 2 o'clock on a Wednesday.
I'd been reading the liner notes of every greatest hit's CD that I own when it struck me. It had been 3 months since the last time I've been laid. Masturbation just doesn't cut it. I'll swear it off; sex and self love—nothing but distractions anyways.
The bars are full of disgusting slop and my track record with relationships is a continuous dis-appointment.
I went out back, behind the garage where the trashcans sit, reached into one, dug my hand along the side, and pulled out a 2 night old pizza box. I ripped it in half and salvaged
the top half, which was clear of rotting cheese and grease.
I shoved the sharpie back into my pocket, grabbed a lawn chair, and took my sign and the chair to the edge of the road.
An hour, maybe longer, had gone by. There was minimal traffic and I began wondering if I should've written, 'DICK 4 SALE: $100', more boldly than what the sharpie allowed.
It wasn't until I took off my pants and boxer briefs that the prospective buyers began swarm-ing in. I spread my legs a little, stuck the sign between them, and plopped
my cock on the top of the sign.
There were 20 something's driving by pointing their fingers, middle aged women walking their schnauzers staring, and teenage girls riding their bikes up and down the street whispering
and giggling. I smiled and lit a cigarette.
I was beginning to get frustrated by all of the proverbial window shopping going on. On top of the obvious anomaly of some guy trying to sell his dick on the side of the street, it was as if they were afraid of it.
"Don't be scared." I said to a woman of about 30 that had been walking back and forth all af-ternoon, "Come get a better look."
She cocked an eyebrow and hesitantly made her way over.
"Ya like what you see?"
"…maybe." she said as she began chewing on her thumbnail.
"I'll tell ya what. For you, I'll make it $50."
"gee, I don't—"
I interrupted with a forceful, "$25!"
"Well, ok. But where are we going to do this?"
"What do you mean?"
"Where are you going to 'give it' to me?"
"Right here", I said.
"I'm not having sex right HERE!"
I let out a good laugh. "We're not going to have sex!"
"Then what—wait, I'm confused."
"Hang on." I said as I put the sign beside the chair and made my way into the house, down the hall, and into the kitchen. I retrieved a 9" carving knife and headed back out to the woman, sat down in my chair, grabbed onto the head of my prick, and stretched it out. I took the knife
with my other hand and hovered the blade inches away from the base.
"Like this." I informed her.
I was pretty shocked at how shocked she seemed considering the expressions people had been giving me all day long.
"YOU CAN'T DO THAT! YOU'RE SICK! WHAT IF YOU DID CUT IT OFF? THEN WHAT? WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE LEFT?"
"All balls, baby."
erin reardon
junky love
Daisies in a gun belt
Taking tickets to your sallow, sallow skin show
Chump change
The rot
Drenched in bourbon spirit
You didn't show your age then
Somehow you seemed so much older
When that stardust dissolved from your eye line
I kept a hand stuffed in my pocket
The left hand
Trigger finger cocked and ready
We had a junkie love affair
Dependency on abuse
My heart was pining for your hatred
Mercy, mercy killing
Bird in a cage
I could have kept you all those nights ago
In a stupor or a rage
It was hard enough
Just to keep my head from bleeding over your fencepost
My pyramid
Chemically-scented
Your tomb
Arms across your chest
A runny nose
Nightshade and moon orchids
Glow a sick, sweet blue
My cotton fix
Snaggletooth
I needed you
Bury my burning eyes
In your chest hair
Clueless now
How to shot a junkie love affair
Cold needles in the ashtrays
Vomit
Cigarette burns across the cover of your paperback
Did I want too much
When I swallowed everything
That was in our medicine chest?
My ears were ringing
Blind with frustration
My junky heart
Your skin was so dry
I tried to anoint you
With unholy oils
Street-slick
You slip away from view
Rose-tinted across a Utah sun
I stick out my thumb
The left hand still in my pocket
Trigger-sure against my stomach
Slow bleeding
Across your linoleum
Bleeding your medical caress from memory
Did I ask too much?
When I asked you to
Shoot
Me
Up?
Daisies in a gun belt
Taking tickets to your sallow, sallow skin show
Chump change
The rot
Drenched in bourbon spirit
You didn't show your age then
Somehow you seemed so much older
When that stardust dissolved from your eye line
I kept a hand stuffed in my pocket
The left hand
Trigger finger cocked and ready
We had a junkie love affair
Dependency on abuse
My heart was pining for your hatred
Mercy, mercy killing
Bird in a cage
I could have kept you all those nights ago
In a stupor or a rage
It was hard enough
Just to keep my head from bleeding over your fencepost
My pyramid
Chemically-scented
Your tomb
Arms across your chest
A runny nose
Nightshade and moon orchids
Glow a sick, sweet blue
My cotton fix
Snaggletooth
I needed you
Bury my burning eyes
In your chest hair
Clueless now
How to shot a junkie love affair
Cold needles in the ashtrays
Vomit
Cigarette burns across the cover of your paperback
Did I want too much
When I swallowed everything
That was in our medicine chest?
My ears were ringing
Blind with frustration
My junky heart
Your skin was so dry
I tried to anoint you
With unholy oils
Street-slick
You slip away from view
Rose-tinted across a Utah sun
I stick out my thumb
The left hand still in my pocket
Trigger-sure against my stomach
Slow bleeding
Across your linoleum
Bleeding your medical caress from memory
Did I ask too much?
When I asked you to
Shoot
Me
Up?
lester allen
rotting on the vine
some days the sun and others no
sun and all clouds and rain
and streets for cars
trees for birds sheds for saws and
stacks of pornography
kitchen tables but no dinner tv but
no entertainment beds but no sex
or too much sex and
not enough love
houses without husbands or wives
or children and leaky pipes in the
basement
always leaky pipes
windows to peek into or
out of squirrels to miss and boxes to hit
old queer men who like
young men say "come on in. I'm not going to
tell anybody. I have an extra swimsuit, let's
you and me go sit by the pool."
and sometimes it's the sun or
pretty women on a catalogue
pure thoughts about a
dirty thing sometimes it's old ladies
or new ladies or insane old farmers
preachers on the hill or sinners in
the trailer park
sometimes the mailman gets a
haircut sometimes the bridge is
out sometimes gas is 3 dollars other
times much more sometimes
the attendant winks at me
she says to me "you should come
around back." though I
never go sometimes the
kittens come out they are curious
end up dead on the road
with rotten-fly-eyes
while the trees
sway in the breeze other times houses
get painted or become unpainted
and as the wallpaper peels I think
of these things while
officers arrest lawyers
lawyer presidents smile
kids swing swings
bat balls catch grasshoppers or
caterpillars or other things
burn the world down
mowed lawns mean nothing
well-furnished homes mean
nothing
not much holds any meaning
men live for money and die for it
too and little ever changes
in our tiny eyes
we see only what
we want to see
everything is right in
this world except everything that
isn't
it is everywhere.
some days the sun and others no
sun and all clouds and rain
and streets for cars
trees for birds sheds for saws and
stacks of pornography
kitchen tables but no dinner tv but
no entertainment beds but no sex
or too much sex and
not enough love
houses without husbands or wives
or children and leaky pipes in the
basement
always leaky pipes
windows to peek into or
out of squirrels to miss and boxes to hit
old queer men who like
young men say "come on in. I'm not going to
tell anybody. I have an extra swimsuit, let's
you and me go sit by the pool."
and sometimes it's the sun or
pretty women on a catalogue
pure thoughts about a
dirty thing sometimes it's old ladies
or new ladies or insane old farmers
preachers on the hill or sinners in
the trailer park
sometimes the mailman gets a
haircut sometimes the bridge is
out sometimes gas is 3 dollars other
times much more sometimes
the attendant winks at me
she says to me "you should come
around back." though I
never go sometimes the
kittens come out they are curious
end up dead on the road
with rotten-fly-eyes
while the trees
sway in the breeze other times houses
get painted or become unpainted
and as the wallpaper peels I think
of these things while
officers arrest lawyers
lawyer presidents smile
kids swing swings
bat balls catch grasshoppers or
caterpillars or other things
burn the world down
mowed lawns mean nothing
well-furnished homes mean
nothing
not much holds any meaning
men live for money and die for it
too and little ever changes
in our tiny eyes
we see only what
we want to see
everything is right in
this world except everything that
isn't
it is everywhere.
billy burgos
tanya’s new man
You came over last Saturday, with the first rain.
Hanger shoulders hidden under
a gray cashmere pashmina.
Later you told me you could barely remember drizzle
or that Tanya came by that night
with her new man Earl.
She came knocking not long after you did.
You spoke through the camouflage
of an iron screen door.
It was easier that way to hide your tousled hair and
shrunken body. I remember thinking that your
lithe frame seemed to hover over the cold wood floor.
I remember the night sky had a crimson
tint. I theorized it
was the chemicals and the city lights held in tight
by the canopy of rain clouds like our
own version of Northern lights.
I watched it all from the dark window. You
shuffling out with
Tanya to the two idling cars in the street,
stepping gingerly across the
damp sidewalk with wet sandals.
It was unlike you to meet a stranger
looking so disheveled. The cat purred at my
feet as i listened to Earl's heavy voice
echo off the shoulder
to shoulder apartments on the darkened street:
" I've heard so much about you from Tanya."
" Yes Tanya IS a wonderful woman."
" Uh-huh, we are going to the movies, then dinner."
Later after Tanya left, I remember asking the
obvious questions: Why did they drive separate cars?
What did he look like? Your reply surprised
me as much as
your dazed appearance had earlier.
" you can't trust no nigga on the first date! What if after
a few cheap drinks, he go and get all clingy and
she got no way home?! What then...huh?!"
I hid perplexity within my laughter
and let the television,
the rain with the cars skidding by fill
in the blanks. I wondered
quietly into the night. Way after your hunched shadow drifted
trough the drizzle. It wasn't until days later, as the girls ran through
the house and play echoed off evening walls did i ask about the Saturday past.
" I did what?!"
" Tanya came over here? What for?"
"I went out looking like what!?"
You told me of the concoction of
Effexor and Ambien that you took
that night. About chasing it down
with Vodka and orange juice before
heading out. How it felt as if you had
dreamed it all. I remember feeling as
if I was alone that rainy night. As if
i had dreamed it too. As if Tanya's
new man Earl was a figment of both
of our imagination. As if the
first rain of Fall had never come. As
if somehow I too was high through
it all. It was better that way. It closed
the door on any hard questions.
We never spoke of that night or of
Tanya's new man again.
You came over last Saturday, with the first rain.
Hanger shoulders hidden under
a gray cashmere pashmina.
Later you told me you could barely remember drizzle
or that Tanya came by that night
with her new man Earl.
She came knocking not long after you did.
You spoke through the camouflage
of an iron screen door.
It was easier that way to hide your tousled hair and
shrunken body. I remember thinking that your
lithe frame seemed to hover over the cold wood floor.
I remember the night sky had a crimson
tint. I theorized it
was the chemicals and the city lights held in tight
by the canopy of rain clouds like our
own version of Northern lights.
I watched it all from the dark window. You
shuffling out with
Tanya to the two idling cars in the street,
stepping gingerly across the
damp sidewalk with wet sandals.
It was unlike you to meet a stranger
looking so disheveled. The cat purred at my
feet as i listened to Earl's heavy voice
echo off the shoulder
to shoulder apartments on the darkened street:
" I've heard so much about you from Tanya."
" Yes Tanya IS a wonderful woman."
" Uh-huh, we are going to the movies, then dinner."
Later after Tanya left, I remember asking the
obvious questions: Why did they drive separate cars?
What did he look like? Your reply surprised
me as much as
your dazed appearance had earlier.
" you can't trust no nigga on the first date! What if after
a few cheap drinks, he go and get all clingy and
she got no way home?! What then...huh?!"
I hid perplexity within my laughter
and let the television,
the rain with the cars skidding by fill
in the blanks. I wondered
quietly into the night. Way after your hunched shadow drifted
trough the drizzle. It wasn't until days later, as the girls ran through
the house and play echoed off evening walls did i ask about the Saturday past.
" I did what?!"
" Tanya came over here? What for?"
"I went out looking like what!?"
You told me of the concoction of
Effexor and Ambien that you took
that night. About chasing it down
with Vodka and orange juice before
heading out. How it felt as if you had
dreamed it all. I remember feeling as
if I was alone that rainy night. As if
i had dreamed it too. As if Tanya's
new man Earl was a figment of both
of our imagination. As if the
first rain of Fall had never come. As
if somehow I too was high through
it all. It was better that way. It closed
the door on any hard questions.
We never spoke of that night or of
Tanya's new man again.
jason ryberg
reconstruct
for the Little Sparrow of 39th Street
jason ryberg
Some people
seriously need
to step back and re-evaluate
their bass-ackwards
social fetishes and faux pieties
(always riddled, it seems,
with more than the daily
recompensable allowance
of escape clauses and hypocrisies
necessary to maintain
something even close
to resembling a consistent
moral continencey);
specifically,
that demographic
that identifies itself (profusely,
ad nauseam-ly), as being the biggest
sky cult/death cult on the block,
endowed with hugest,
most massive
divining rod
and most righteously
and peripatetically engorged
with the divine right
to lay hands upon
who and whatever it so deems
as falling under its dominion
and domain
(which pretty much includes
everyone and everything)
as well as being
most morally fit
to ladle out the healing blood
and sweetbread stew
rendered from one of the many
one true gods
available to the terminally fearful
and estranged of the earth.
And all
with which to more
efficiently demonize,
dehumanize
and goddamn themselves
and each other,
respectively,
to the unconscionable
and unthinkable
life sentence
of a life crippled
and traumatized
by the violent ain’t-intellectual insemination
of the virulent seed of guilt
and eternal suffering (as in
forever and ever
without end, amen)
for such abominable and
cosmic offenses
as lust, masturbation
and adultery.
Really,
why don't you all just repent,
reboot and
reconstruct
you sick fucks.
for the Little Sparrow of 39th Street
jason ryberg
Some people
seriously need
to step back and re-evaluate
their bass-ackwards
social fetishes and faux pieties
(always riddled, it seems,
with more than the daily
recompensable allowance
of escape clauses and hypocrisies
necessary to maintain
something even close
to resembling a consistent
moral continencey);
specifically,
that demographic
that identifies itself (profusely,
ad nauseam-ly), as being the biggest
sky cult/death cult on the block,
endowed with hugest,
most massive
divining rod
and most righteously
and peripatetically engorged
with the divine right
to lay hands upon
who and whatever it so deems
as falling under its dominion
and domain
(which pretty much includes
everyone and everything)
as well as being
most morally fit
to ladle out the healing blood
and sweetbread stew
rendered from one of the many
one true gods
available to the terminally fearful
and estranged of the earth.
And all
with which to more
efficiently demonize,
dehumanize
and goddamn themselves
and each other,
respectively,
to the unconscionable
and unthinkable
life sentence
of a life crippled
and traumatized
by the violent ain’t-intellectual insemination
of the virulent seed of guilt
and eternal suffering (as in
forever and ever
without end, amen)
for such abominable and
cosmic offenses
as lust, masturbation
and adultery.
Really,
why don't you all just repent,
reboot and
reconstruct
you sick fucks.
charles goldman
the empty plaza
charles goldman
I have never seen an empty plaza,
there are always the pigeons
who gather to the man with
his bag of crumbs.
Scatter the bird feed and
they will come,
they will come ravenous
and like locusts devour
whatever hits the ground.
And as soon as his bag is empty
they go
and do not return,
except to give a cursory glance
hoping for a remnant
of that recent feast.
Even a twitch of a muscle
can then alert the pigeons
whose eyes flick
like little shutters,
behind which an empty head
gawks awaiting
that one new morsel.
What if it never comes?
I have never seen a plaza
empty of pigeons
because always
someone arrives
in their loneliness,
in their hunger to be
an attraction, to fill
the emptiness inside,
just as he filled his paper bag
with crumbs
to gather the hungry birds
to his feet.
He sits in solitude among
the pecking and blinking
rats of the sky
who are driven to return
by his bag of crumbs,
like an audience
to whom he feeds
his empty life.
charles goldman
I have never seen an empty plaza,
there are always the pigeons
who gather to the man with
his bag of crumbs.
Scatter the bird feed and
they will come,
they will come ravenous
and like locusts devour
whatever hits the ground.
And as soon as his bag is empty
they go
and do not return,
except to give a cursory glance
hoping for a remnant
of that recent feast.
Even a twitch of a muscle
can then alert the pigeons
whose eyes flick
like little shutters,
behind which an empty head
gawks awaiting
that one new morsel.
What if it never comes?
I have never seen a plaza
empty of pigeons
because always
someone arrives
in their loneliness,
in their hunger to be
an attraction, to fill
the emptiness inside,
just as he filled his paper bag
with crumbs
to gather the hungry birds
to his feet.
He sits in solitude among
the pecking and blinking
rats of the sky
who are driven to return
by his bag of crumbs,
like an audience
to whom he feeds
his empty life.
joseph veronneau
paperwork
joseph veronneau
The plane is up and a bird
ceases the engine.
The one in my seat
imagines the windows
level with dandelions
as a greeting back to the plains.
Earlier, a man was arrested
for walking through, holding a black bag.
They imagined it was cash
until the wands and buzzers
stated otherwise. His shoes
squeaked and held
artificial buckles on the sides.
The one imagines him, tap dancing
his way to the sky, stepping
into the falling snow like
shredded milk glass.
Steam rolls from the factories
into the Hudson below.
The Christmas tree holds
a flashing light just like a tower,
ready for the landing.
All of the money imagined
floats out into the Brooklyn streets,
filling the eyes of the playing kids below
as a plane comes in for a landing.
joseph veronneau
The plane is up and a bird
ceases the engine.
The one in my seat
imagines the windows
level with dandelions
as a greeting back to the plains.
Earlier, a man was arrested
for walking through, holding a black bag.
They imagined it was cash
until the wands and buzzers
stated otherwise. His shoes
squeaked and held
artificial buckles on the sides.
The one imagines him, tap dancing
his way to the sky, stepping
into the falling snow like
shredded milk glass.
Steam rolls from the factories
into the Hudson below.
The Christmas tree holds
a flashing light just like a tower,
ready for the landing.
All of the money imagined
floats out into the Brooklyn streets,
filling the eyes of the playing kids below
as a plane comes in for a landing.
misti rainwater-lites
adequate sopper upper
misti rainwater-lites
Spill the carnage at my feet. Bring
on the flood of blood.
Give me guts. Give me gore. I've got
a mop and a bucket.
I wear a skirt of rags. My tongue
is a sponge. I'm Raggedy Ann's
forgotten twin sister. She's famous
because her heart is pretty
and red and in the right place. I'm
stuck in the shadows because
my heart is sloppy and bluish gray
and not easily translated
into a ten cent Valentine. I'll take
all the shapes and colors
you don't know what to do with. I'll
absorb the seepage
you have no room for. I suck at
many things but
as a shamaness of slop I come
highly recommended.
misti rainwater-lites
Spill the carnage at my feet. Bring
on the flood of blood.
Give me guts. Give me gore. I've got
a mop and a bucket.
I wear a skirt of rags. My tongue
is a sponge. I'm Raggedy Ann's
forgotten twin sister. She's famous
because her heart is pretty
and red and in the right place. I'm
stuck in the shadows because
my heart is sloppy and bluish gray
and not easily translated
into a ten cent Valentine. I'll take
all the shapes and colors
you don't know what to do with. I'll
absorb the seepage
you have no room for. I suck at
many things but
as a shamaness of slop I come
highly recommended.
richard wink
recluse party
richard wink
The resistance of temptation
is a fruitless pursuit.
Amongst the staging of wistful serenades
fumbling with errant passion
I fell in with the ideals of voyeurism
it fed my initial curiosity
but limited me to the saliva dropping
as the dinner tray wheels past
Excess and champagne
connected by indecision.
The mist of wishes made
when you're sitting alone in a room
with only the calming drone
coming from the air conditioning unit
The lips kiss the coffee mug
and the clouds remain under the pillow
the thoughts are mostly self obsessed
always trivial
richard wink
The resistance of temptation
is a fruitless pursuit.
Amongst the staging of wistful serenades
fumbling with errant passion
I fell in with the ideals of voyeurism
it fed my initial curiosity
but limited me to the saliva dropping
as the dinner tray wheels past
Excess and champagne
connected by indecision.
The mist of wishes made
when you're sitting alone in a room
with only the calming drone
coming from the air conditioning unit
The lips kiss the coffee mug
and the clouds remain under the pillow
the thoughts are mostly self obsessed
always trivial
ray succre
it packs its pillows and people with straw
ray succre
A colic mail of heirloom traits—
his birthmark, his pox ability,
his scarecrows in genes and
particle call to flesh from a
semen alphabet scrawled within
some breath’s eggshell bookcase.
Midnight tugs one’s tongue up
from the mouth and then roots
and snorts into boxes in attics
of tits set together, two each,
like sculpted musical tones.
His essence on a burner
babies the hairs, and a crushed,
salivating dick.
He wilds and ferals his bed
beneath her, and talks a touch
of teeth in a final, radio broadcast:
Help me come out of my
garbage heart…
The response is hinged, the world
opens and closes; it packs its pillows
and people with straw, these all
merging to decipher him
a dusk between.
ray succre
A colic mail of heirloom traits—
his birthmark, his pox ability,
his scarecrows in genes and
particle call to flesh from a
semen alphabet scrawled within
some breath’s eggshell bookcase.
Midnight tugs one’s tongue up
from the mouth and then roots
and snorts into boxes in attics
of tits set together, two each,
like sculpted musical tones.
His essence on a burner
babies the hairs, and a crushed,
salivating dick.
He wilds and ferals his bed
beneath her, and talks a touch
of teeth in a final, radio broadcast:
Help me come out of my
garbage heart…
The response is hinged, the world
opens and closes; it packs its pillows
and people with straw, these all
merging to decipher him
a dusk between.
christine bruness
untitled
christine bruness
I had a Beck’s today
and thought of you.
I thought about Punk Rock
and CBGB’s in the Bowery
and Ben’s Pizza on West Third Street
and clandestine trysts
in your cellar…
I felt so ALIVE!
Then I realized
where I was—
in the back room
of a liquor store
with a man
twice my age
and I remembered
how you said you’d always love me
and take care of me . . . .
I can still see your face . . .
Nothing
worked out.
The memories linger
every now and then.
I’m not sentimental
but
I
miss
you.
christine bruness
I had a Beck’s today
and thought of you.
I thought about Punk Rock
and CBGB’s in the Bowery
and Ben’s Pizza on West Third Street
and clandestine trysts
in your cellar…
I felt so ALIVE!
Then I realized
where I was—
in the back room
of a liquor store
with a man
twice my age
and I remembered
how you said you’d always love me
and take care of me . . . .
I can still see your face . . .
Nothing
worked out.
The memories linger
every now and then.
I’m not sentimental
but
I
miss
you.
p.a. levy
mongolian blue spot
p.a. levy
Random acts of Mongolian;
backteller;
skin marks wild with ancestral
sperm stains.
On the Steppes
perhaps there should have been
a poster campaign encouraging a safer sex
with indiscriminate acts of facefucking;
ejaculations
without genealogy
just the lure of khoomii voices
into the humidity of Buddhist sunsets
( … it’s often been said
painted lips make the mouth more vaginal
but you’d have to be a cunt
to believe that … )
and the slipstream of lipstick verses
spatspit
in the bloodlines of my forefathers
never foremothers
which has made me wonder
in distant days
if they were sluts or whores
and whenever they saw a Mongolian
in the pub or at bingo there was some kind
of involuntary reaction
that made them drop their drawers
when they should have puckered-up
bit of lippy
for me to have been born
with my adopted English heritage
as an unblemished shade
of perfect pink.
p.a. levy
Random acts of Mongolian;
backteller;
skin marks wild with ancestral
sperm stains.
On the Steppes
perhaps there should have been
a poster campaign encouraging a safer sex
with indiscriminate acts of facefucking;
ejaculations
without genealogy
just the lure of khoomii voices
into the humidity of Buddhist sunsets
( … it’s often been said
painted lips make the mouth more vaginal
but you’d have to be a cunt
to believe that … )
and the slipstream of lipstick verses
spatspit
in the bloodlines of my forefathers
never foremothers
which has made me wonder
in distant days
if they were sluts or whores
and whenever they saw a Mongolian
in the pub or at bingo there was some kind
of involuntary reaction
that made them drop their drawers
when they should have puckered-up
bit of lippy
for me to have been born
with my adopted English heritage
as an unblemished shade
of perfect pink.
dasha lilith desir
the king
dasha lilith desir
Sweet promises unwrapping salty skin,
The heart of a boy, in a man, so tall;
His silent statue now quivering within,
As armor comes down, a merciful fall.
Ah, this bold warrior possesses my breath!
Then buries His torment between my thighs;
Immortal yearning, my only true death,
As my legs guard him, this Angel will rise.
His eyes do not waiver, nor do they lie;
Honest and pure, He bows down before me,
A God on his knees, so I start to cry;
Princely He entered, within He is King.
dasha lilith desir
Sweet promises unwrapping salty skin,
The heart of a boy, in a man, so tall;
His silent statue now quivering within,
As armor comes down, a merciful fall.
Ah, this bold warrior possesses my breath!
Then buries His torment between my thighs;
Immortal yearning, my only true death,
As my legs guard him, this Angel will rise.
His eyes do not waiver, nor do they lie;
Honest and pure, He bows down before me,
A God on his knees, so I start to cry;
Princely He entered, within He is King.
shane allison
he said he wanted to get naked with me
shane allison
He pulls me like a gun, point blank to his lips.
His mustache is a cactus pricking skin.
He gropes my nipples.
Show me those titties, he whispers.
He strokes me in the restroom mirror.
His ass angles over assuming the position.
A peeking red rectum gives me the eye
and I grimace in disgust.
He crouches to my crotch.
Saliva trickles to the base of sensitive skin.
Just when I'm about to explode like a Texas oil rig,
he zips up, washes hands and never looks back.
I thought he wanted to get naked with me.
shane allison
He pulls me like a gun, point blank to his lips.
His mustache is a cactus pricking skin.
He gropes my nipples.
Show me those titties, he whispers.
He strokes me in the restroom mirror.
His ass angles over assuming the position.
A peeking red rectum gives me the eye
and I grimace in disgust.
He crouches to my crotch.
Saliva trickles to the base of sensitive skin.
Just when I'm about to explode like a Texas oil rig,
he zips up, washes hands and never looks back.
I thought he wanted to get naked with me.
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