Category Archives: Literature
Yearning for what you cannot have
Ogling over the unreachable
Curiosity of the cat
The unknown pleasures
Lingering for longer than necessary
Peering in for the dream
Anything to break this day apart
Some means to an adventure
Let me in
The Book (and Guide) of Outhouses is decidedly less imprudent than the contemporary yet still unassailable The Book (and Guide) of Yarn Farms. When the Genre Wars of the 20s started, the men in charge were not doing push-ups in back alleys or routine basements; they were not relaxing on gentle swings, jetty neo-crags, or experimental hover foams; and only somewhat importantly, they were not dissolving grains in pushable stacks, flying gyrocopters unscruplously into lunch-meetings, or walking their dogs. No; they were instead cooperating on heliotropic diversions of the Eastern persuasion, grassroots coal refinement, and paradigmatic poll generation. They also enjoyed plenty of local lemonade. In reality, these men were men in suits, that dressed in those suits in the morning, took them off at night, and preferred laughing to the alternative. They understood that not all wars were bad wars. They understood that context had precisely the gravitas it deserved amongst those who mattered. And they especially acknowledged that they liked being alive and publishing products. A statistically significant portion of the men and women who were not the men in charge were rather open about their extreme ambivalence to the topic, and most topics in general. It was a lamentable fact that very few historians sought to emboss the latent, gripping nature of this specific crevice of national history. But then of course, there was very little for the public at large to relate to.
first, heavily layer on the auger-hollowed aubergine. this is the base needed and requested for this particular project. if done right, this background will disgust to the point where each floating dollop of paint catches the eye as pin-fine relief and pleasure; the optic nerve should receive a primary buff of star-fuzz, rotating scrubber encyclical motion pads, expertly nano-programmed with the finest artisan algorithms. this will provide the recipient with forever-altered associations and a classical conditioning response to the used hues.
next comes the mescaline blue; its job is to only summon itself and provide unlawful neon piercings. it doesn’t even look at the nearby colors. it doesn’t need to.
albedo white is wholly next. it will have citrus-warm temperature still lingering underneath its brighter flecks. this is to provide contrast to the aforementioned blue; they are different realms, and will only correspond in the viewer’s brain-driven eyes. it will, as researched in trial ch#ff8000-x53, be a firm handle and flip-switch to remind the viewer how bright things can be.
finally comes the penultimate and the ultimate—necessarily in that order—patina blue-green and grape glaucous. they act as dampening fields for mortal observers; eyes will thank these colors (per a sanctioned interfacial exchange) later in old-age retirement. they will look of an unnatural paint substance, and will make the resulting canvas either more or less surreal, depending on previous experience and nature of the viewer’s philosophical character.
Everybody blames Eve.
The bitch has no self control,
In a garden brimmed with beautiful
colorful things,
a doting ( and naked ) man at her will,
everything handed to her expecting
nothing in return
but for her to remain ignorant
in a life full of perfection.
/
Everybody blames the snake.
Slimy and evil and winding,
in a garden full of things to destory,
lush and gorgeous things
he could have turned to ash,
fufilling his desires ( fully )
he could have taken anything he wanted
but decided, instead, to give.
/
Everybody blames lust.
Nothing gold can stay, they say,
because impulse ruins the foliage
turning what is white and light and bright
into dank, dark, deep, disgusting,
nothing good can possibly come from
uninhibited action, we must control
and limit what we want. We must never, ever
have what we desire.
/
And yet, quite strangely,
/
Nobody blames the apple.
Sensual and red,
tempting, calling, begging
touch me embrace me bite me devour me
hanging high and alluring,
hiding beneath its skin not only
juicy wet pulp but also disaster,
how can calamity be so sweet
corruption be so healthy
condemnation be so fulfilling
anything be so fucking magical
that one bite can send not only you
but the whole garden
the whole world
into a frenzy of such passion and
sexual intelligence,
urging you to take another
another
another
please
another
again
the apples gone,
but there’s more
and I know you want more
I want more
and who can we bame but the apple
and ourselves for indulging
in its perfection.
/
Delicious.
Choose: Eyes as clear as emerald windows
but teeth like glass that shatter and sparkle
with words as hollow as caves and similes
smash as if the/your cliffside could bear it.
Chest broad and brooding and broadening:
shoulders, too, that seem like steel frames
welded to make you feel safe, comfortable
in arms big and vacant as grand pianos, only:
Choose: heinous and hoarse and horrible however
truthfully trekking the traverse troughs toward
beautiful, bountiful, beneficial bonds bound by:
Truth and beauty are wonderful words, but hardly
Ever are they cohesive. Conjoined. Ugliness is
kindness the way each and every and all beauty
is shallow. Backseats enclose wildfires of lust
but onlookers peel their eyes to unsee, aforementioned.
Choose: Because the roses keep tick/tock-ing down
petals, a day is a year is a lifetime, when you’re
ugly
This city is big enough that it’s easy
Easy to bum a cigarette I can’t stand
But I’ll smoke it to the hilt for something to do
While I hate thinking of you
Change view
This city is big enough
Turnover makes it easy
To get over on folk
As I’m walking up Polk
That “Everything Must Go” sign
Has been there for two years
Change view
The future is so big
Vast and unset
It’s easy to freeze
Paralyzed in its threat
Ominous, exhilarating – CHANGE VIEW
The night is so big
And it’s easy to get lost between the folds of concentration
Hour overlapping hour
In waves of Real Time
Which is not the same Time as Your Time
Cuz you didn’t even see the hues change:
Sudden, blatant, unabashed light
Stark against the backdrop of a night still present
Within your poor, malleable brain cells
Stunned
Then mournful
Presently (and throughout this surprise day),
Exhausted
Defenseless to anything except Right Here Right Now
Your thoughts unfiltered
Exhaustion is a gift
And you wonder if your sixth sense is an inhibitor,
Now completely unpresent
Your present unfettered
By the predator of doubt
Unpleasant, to think your most powerful presence
Is this state of defenselessness
Language unchecked – Self Reflect
Reactions unplanned – Self Reflect
Unmanned, your spirit bare
Mind big
An easy receiver to the Biggest Transmissions
Wherever they’re from.
Truth is King only over a worn down kingdom.
Truth is King only over a worn down kingdom.
O woe be to Truth; let us never sleep again.
It could work.
“There are never enough hours in a day,”
We all say
Anyway
===
we can’t help but count
the syllables in haikus
ready your fingers
===
===
+
—tree-house pal views—
up inside tree-house pal views
friendship courts precious play muse
wonder, laughter, pious hand-slaps
twixt a flick of moonlit laugh jabs
won’t we sleep in bags of mellow fort trust?
+
===
The things you keep because
they mean something to you
because they’re yours
like bee stings or two dollar bills
or the freckle on the back of your hand
that you know so well
and you fear you’ll forget
but you couldn’t,
then you do
because of age
so you tattoo where you thought it was
in memory, dear freckle
then you run outside,
carve your social security number into a tree
in the park
behind your house
in fear you’ll lose that too
then the city sprays the tree in pesticide
that paints it bright and neon green
bright enough to cut down, to forget about, to mark the decay of
or perhaps just bright enough to read your privacy
yet if you took these numbers
and ran the GPS coordinates
you would find
on the southernmost pearl beach
of a tropical island
that you’ve never dreamt of
a treasure chest
and in this chest
there is a map of islands
they float twenty miles south
and their constellations
strangely
vaguely
align in a formation that
loosely
resembles a collection of freckles
on the perfect hidden patch
on the lower half of your back
that you’ve never seen
but they look so familiar
as if you know them,
for some strange reason
and this is how you know
you(‘)r(e) home
just stay
or yourself
please stay
sixty-two years of cartography hands
and estranged mirrors lending their glance
it’s how you recognized what you lost in the war
to marriage
stay
to Alzheimer’s
stay
how handprints left in cement
kiss the soles of feet that pass over them
without penance
as if they are not walking on someone’s sometime
just treading on their now, once, and again.
And If you collected all the handprints in all the cement
you might have something
worth remembering
stay
a mausoleum of fingerprints
the walkway to last century
but the freckles never show through them
because they’re cancer
we knew you by your scars
they were never meant to stay
like islands when the ice melts
on a map made of raised skin
on your lower back
that you’ve never seen
though you can’t forget
how it feels,
so you spend your whole life
running your hands over it.
saying,
stay
She looks up with her eyes, her head on my thigh, and tells me,
“In France, prostitutes, working women, are raising orphans, meanwhile their actually amazing adoptive fathers pay to jump on the beds of completely fake lovers, these sterile men, celebrate their legitimate children’s birthdays in the places illegitimate children are conceived.”
“Does it cost more or less to jump on their beds?”
“And the women, they put band aids left over from last night’s last calls, on the elbows and knees of the children, call them elbow pads and fall down spots, because they know how to fall over and over and over again.”
“Can you adopt if you work for the circus?” I asked her
“You can but you have to state a residence aside from the one inside your head, it’s hard if you’re always traveling. You also have to state your sex, which the bearded women and the Siamese twins haven’t found out about yet, but the children in the circus paint men’s faces white with wonder and learned the English language solely through finishing the sentence “What if?”
“What if?”
“Yes What if?
“What if the lion was afraid of the mouse?”
“What if the hoop was on fire?”
“What if we painted the tent so bright everyone could see us?”
“What if I was raised in the circus?”
“You weren’t, you were raised in the opera house, and now you’re half deaf, but you play the piano with short fingers and nimble wrists, that jump over candlesticks in the night while everyone rests, and the trick of it is, my child, everywhere is a circus as long as you can finish the sentence, “What if?”
