Thursday, May 25, 2006

A Long Stretch Upon Pile on Pile on Pile, or Do You Have the Endurance? Understood.

This is part of a work in progress. It is not done. Nor will it ever be.

In the name of WAR and
antiquated beliefs the people
of the People's Republic of Nair
have asked of me this question:

Do you like rock star,
cock star, pop-and-lock
and jock star? Or starry-night
and canola? Tell me a lie,
or you'll receive no truth, no truth,
no truth, no truth
NOT RUTH!?!?

And then some.
When the cops came and burned down the house
that Abner Runbuttons ran, he ran, ran, ran
so the law couldn't find him, and he lived underground
in a cave in them parts of the country without teeth and
booksmarts, and he lived with his commonlaw husband,
John C. McMammal and together what a time they had!
Bank robbers and cannibals, stage coach robbers and
hairpin turners: Abner Runbuttons, furry kind and fuzzy
gentleman cannibal emerging from the recesses of vampiric instinct
and John C. McMammal, the coldest cold-blooded killer to
emerge from the devil's deep-freeeeeeeze!

And time stood still.
That alien dimension from which Vlad depended,
it was his one stilt of benefit,
that kept him a foot ahead
and a tooth within at all times.

"My how that Abner's all grown up," Grandma Runbuttons
used to say when she knock-knock-knocked on the door, with her
fetid smile and drawn-on eyebrows, a butcher of EPIC proportions . . .

Transcendance and dance and dance dance you FURKING HIPPEISISISISISIS?!?!
"My face melts in the sun?" she said/wept/thought/dulled/curled/lisped/whimpered.

Shrunkenness, which had struck him so again into a darker street, and reaching at such a sacred and beautiful and as he looked he spied the Trojans over the wall knowing that HORSE would soon belong to an abundant place in history books.

A lip of smoke curls around the mighty mountain he calls a nose, but to punch through it is nothing. There is no wall, and that mountain not so big against a rainfall of knuckles brashed.

Come on my lips? Was that the question passed between those two gossipers of unknown whispers. I only love what I cannot see,
and eat what I cannot feel,
and feel what I cannot eat,
and see what I cannot love.
Here are some words:
In this spring of
1953 the free
world weighs one question
above all others: the chance for a just peace for all
peoples.

Natalie Peoples dropped herself off
in no man's land and worked herself
off into delirium searching for the sacred
self in honor of Siddhartha and Kerouac
and Bukowski and Shit
and came out on the other side the exact
same girl.
And tell me again how this Hightower person came
to submit his work to such a prestigious journal (PIGS)
as this one here upon which we select the works (TOYS)?
He sent it to us in the mail, sir.
And what do you think of it, Mr. Fently?
Well, it's quite shit, sir. Quite shit.
Wot's that? How do you mean?

Sticky nipples and starcrossed love manifestoes
clog the pipes in this old building.
Rubber booties and stump colored pickaninnies.

Lick that honey from the lips of time, and see how
fast you die. It's not for you to open the pages
of this manuscript until the last page is burned
and then you'll see an ash-colored golem that has been
sent to wipe the slate of black, black earth clean
as a
bloody cutting board.

Kidneys? Really, Mr. Joyce. Kidneys?
Cueball in the corner pocket, eh?
Well, scratch this
off your list, goatpoker!

Kick on the face of time=money!

Here's an equation you're sure to figure out, if you
can focus for a moment:
I don't + care + what you think + about + anything = Hilton Hightower
So eat it.

And so I dropped into interview a famous poet in light of his views:

Hilton Hightower: Why are you such a stupid asshole?

FAmous Poet: I don't know. What would the definition of that be? It's like asking someone, do you write for you, or for your reader?

Hilton Hightower: Shut up. Like I said, you're a stupid asshole.

Nimrod: I'm sorry. It seems interviews get more and more difficult with every book I publish. Every interviewer wants to engage you in some transitional way that mediates one's work with one's personal thoughts.

HH: You dumb speck, that's ridiculous. You're an idiot, and your braindead followers need to be kicked and stripped of their reproductive organs.

Dickhead: I don't think you're right there. Listen, I've struggled my whole life to put words on the page. I write the way I perceive, and that's a very raw and honest way to commit one's self to ideas. When I put something out there, I at least expect it to be respected by my peers, and hopefully enjoyed.

HH: WAH, WAH, WAH! You're a crybaby, is that it?

There is only one tunnel of time,
and it's filled with mosquitoes
and when you get to the end
you realize there's nothing there either.
There's no sunshine, no darkness,
just a punch in the space of
nothing.

splitting atoms down
to hairs and dancing on the
torsoes of fallen soldiers
you've forgotten to bury completely,
and dang buggers keep poking their fingers
back on up.

fib,
jostle,
fibo
crow, CROW, crow


Somewhere deep in John C McMammal's
reptilian brain is the following desire:
to catch the tears of every crying man, woman, and child
and drink them all; to feel that quenching liquid
is to feel finally fulfilled and ready to
strike, again.
And Abner Runbuttons wants to do a 1,000 piece puzzle on
the bathroom floor in the House of Representatives,
but John C. McMammal tells him it's not possible, unless
he can find some way to levitate in between dimensions, but
everyone knows you can't levitate with a box of puzzle pieces,
or at least not in between the folds of dimensional cardboard.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

poem too short