When I was a kid, I heard a really, really scary story in which the moral was to suppress desires as they arose and turn them over to the authorities. But now I’m a long way from the campfire, a mystical cornball in a place of cruel beauty, enjoying the stir created by the ceiling fan and spiced with positive ions. My mission is to stream live branded entertainment into every Service Department waiting area in North America.
LASHED AND LASERED
In the beginning was TV. Then there was the Big Shatter. Pieces of TV created a universe. Tinier shards are constantly being discovered still, we collect them and call them devices. One murky night after ending the crazy insane lunacy of my 12-tone stage, I danced with acrobats and office assistants. When garment lines became symptomatic I had to look away, their physiques were too bright to watch without incurring retinal damage. Like staring at an eclipse is what it was, or Ulysses lashed and lasered and listening. At the tribe casino I ziplined to recovery, with Cleopatra providing joy, resilience, and healing.
Minotaurs trending to the factory outlet bonus tag rebate sale, heeding the traffic light, respecting each others’ hopes and fears, aiding each other to advance and delight. With complete happiness downloaded directly to their rewards cards, it was like all right let’s go as the signal changed.
HEY RACHEL WHAT DOES YOUR BOYFRIEND DRIVE ANYWAY?
She commutes to the alternate universe in a leased vehicle under individually wrapped auspices and with an earthquake squeezed into a suspicious package. Supernal laziness prevents an overactive imagination from fronting the wrong party, but she swears to God the daily toll from tweaking the smart white oligarchs with post colonial questions and fighting the professoriat with brooms and tongs exceeds that of being in the ICU. With the skittish orioles back and forth between the tree and the Juniper Flats jelly we put out for them, and the smaller birds at the seed feeders in a frenzy of husks and feathers and shit flying everywhere, the world is insane.
MOTHER BASE INVADED
I love watching the treasured item appraisal shows on TV, laughing at the disappointment and stupidity that shocks the faces of the owners, like a cow that just had the wind knocked out of it, when their precious heirloom gets appraised for shit, and laughing even harder when they get told the price “at auction” would be lower still.
He is not respect the women. Employing parasites on a regular basis. They managed to stole a million dollars the piece of shit whore (accountant) never wrote the amounts because a client was paying cash to her.
She threw a colorful bouquet of flowers, vase and all, on our bed one time out of anger when I left for Dodger Stadium without her. And that’s about all I know of romantic relationships.
This is the place. Wind brachiating through the trees, surging like choppy water. Chemically imbalanced woodpeckers and other ill-attended sovereigns unable to afford insurance fill the debtors’ prisons in periodic roundups by police, flushing and replacing them with synthetics. Eight boats, 232 anglers. Trained like dogs to stay behind the invisible electronic fence. There’s a lot of movement at the line of scrimmage. Trash day war drums being beaten red, raw, inflamed, infuriated, infected. A biodiverse beginning to the homogenous day.
The message on my screen says You are missing out on a smoother, faster experience. I’m thinking what are we talking about? The day stewed on in its own territorialized puree, tranquility-fouled, like a shots fired call every five minutes. Just as I finished clearing the mint from beneath the apricot tree, Dana and Sparrow burst into the yard, profound day dreamsters, emplumed resonators, prayer flags moved by the same wind that inspirits prayer flags and music from trees. We talked and drank like we was deadheading east.
MY HORSE IS STILL RUNNING
I knew I’d written my final dewy-eyed impromptu behind drawn curtains at the bitter end of an unsuccessful afternoon that had begun at Portland Meadows. A composition of harsh whistles and melismatic scoring, an ode to my greatest fear—that I’ll be expected to believe the official absurdities while aging disgracefully—blubbering like a coffee maker concluding its brew.
AVERAGE NIGHTLY RATE
My head is the hotel where journalists and anthropologists gather, red wine, blue lamps, rainy winter night, the map of our empire spread on the table before us—Africa, Asia, parts of Europe, and Australia back in business as a penal colony—staring at it like slot machine players stare at the desserts in the buffet, rubbing their hands out of habit over the sneeze guard. That sort of traditional, you could say strictness, that a person should have a dream, that if you try your best your dream will come true.
I don’t know whether I should just pick up the lake and move it because of the cyanobacteria, or allow enthusiasts to bring lawn chairs and sit beneath the pergola. People have been trying to lose weight since the beginning of the Bronze Age. Movement is substance. Empathy is in short supply, sympathy vanished. The mountain peak hid in a knitted cap of fog pulled low over its head. Either way, I need to get me some universal trimmer line. I’m out not hiding under sunny skies, trust me.
WITH THE CANDLESTICK
Cosplay event goers at the Multispecies Ecosystem Megaplex suffered weight loss gains as flowering burlap glitched unexpectedly and completely covered the to do pile. The blush wine with the cabriole legs had stopped breathing by the time emergency crews arrived. Sun and shadows lay in each others’ arms on the roof. Behind the yellow tape, rabbits were eating apricots and watching along with the neighborhood Tiffany lamps and leather-bound books that walked over to take a look, art work from Dahomey (the name I prefer to Benin). I’m sure the extra toothbrush was left out on purpose. A clew even I could pick up on.
A VERY FRANK BRIDGE
Interactivity is the worst concept ever. It fouls the conservatory. Interactivity is nothing more than off-gassing vertically discharged horizontal rage, causing Earth to rotate faster. And then I remembered bringing ice up to the room, and why; so I rose from the chair. Isn’t there another way out?