WALLPAPER
Bruce Boone
Bruce Boone in Conversation with Evan Kennedy 7
WALLPAPER 13
Bruce Boone in Conversation with Evan Kennedy 551 to Daddy Spencer Walter Remington
Bruce Boone in Conversation with Evan Kennedy May 17, 2019; Bruce’s Apartment in San Francisco
EK: What would you like readers to know about WALLPAPER? What was your method of composition?
BB: In the olden days while we were fighting the Language poets, I decided I would be the ideologue and pit-bull against Ron Silli- man. I called his writing “wallpaper.” I did apologize a few years ago, and he said something a bit nasty in return because I didn’t expand upon it. But since then, I’ve been doing all this other stuff built around mess at all levels. It also goes along with the lin- guistic streamlining or minimalizing of American language that’s going on very noticeably now, especially if you have the ears to compare it with the slowness of linguistic change of the past.
The Persians are the great example of this minimalizing from clas- sical antiquity. It started out as just a tiny sliver of Iran, then they went to India, then Afghanistan, then west — Greece, Macedonia, the Middle East. The language before the empire was syntacti- cally complex and inflected, but if you’re the Persians, you’re the masters. If you’re going to say “Tote that barge, lift that bale” to fifty-eight different nationalities, they have to understand you. By the end, they came out with no inflections, no syntax.
What happens in this country? There are a lot of impulses toward simplifying. Rachel Maddow says “fulsome” and she thinks it means full, totally full. Well, you do remember, do you, that it means slightly stinky or icky?
The end of the world and the species is coming in. We want to simplify everything because we cannot keep up those standards of complexity. It’s entropy of language and of the world. It’s our destiny to move faster and faster toward entropy. Therefore, mess, or sloppiness even, is a desideratum. It’s something you want rather than thinking of a text as a perfectly shaped story with a beginning, middle, and end. No. You can begin anywhere and end anywhere in wallpaper writing, which is my new genre. And it will all be the same.
EK: Your advice to readers is to pick up anywhere.
BB: Right. Bedside table before-you-go-to-sleep reading. “Oh, I’ll try page… 334 and see how that is.” And it’s either boring or you like it, then you try something else for five or ten minutes then shut the book and go to bed. There is no more unity. It’s just en- tropy. We should be realizing that in language since it’s the reality of reality.
7 EK: But there’s something else that compelled you to write this. It’s a love poem.
BB: Yes. Steve is a sex worker boyfriend of mine whom I see as a sex worker, but also as friends we hang out several times a month. Sometimes the lines blur, sometimes they don’t, but he’s been a center of my life for five years.
Every morning, I started the day by getting up and doodling about Steve. There is the axis of love/sex, which brings things together in strange new ways as entropy begins to fog things. You see in the poem that this arm detaches and is connected to Venus, and Neptune is connected to my right ear.
EK: When I reconnected with you a few years ago, you said you were fast-tracking enlightenment by continuing your Zen meditation practice, taking DMT, and seeing a dom.
BB: Lovemaking and love result in new ways of connections, but in some way Steve is a force for disorder in my life. I have never done much cuddle sex. I originally saw him online in the lineup of rent boys and men. When he came over, I said, “I think I might have some possible submissive tendencies that I repressed all my life. Do you think you can help me?” And he says yes in his polite Mormon way and starts whaling on me. First he slaps me, then he pinkens my backside, and I am outraged.
EK: And he called you multiple things.
BB: Multiple things. We finally arrived at “princess.” And gradual- ly, all the really painful stuff stopped. Then it got down to where it was not painful. I told him the other day, “I have the feeling that you want to do what you’re doing ten times more energet- ically.” Steve, more than top, is a dominant, aggressive person, highly testosterone-driven. His answer was, “Well, I’m just as satisfied, if not more satisfied, this way—that is, without causing you pain—because of affection.” That’s lovely because I don’t like pain. What I really wanted to experience was elemental forces of sex where it’s like psychedelics.
EK: And your Zen practice?
BB: Less so with Zen. The stronger the doses of DMT I got over two-plus days, there was no Bruce, no things, just immense power like Yahweh on top of Sinai except to the nth degree. It was streams of energy power. At some point in the midst of the highest dose of this, I found myself flinging my legs open and saying, “Fuck me.” And I had Steve in mind. Steve stands for something in my life that is so overwhelmingly powerful that it’s not even a choice to defer, it’s just my nature. Forces in a force field without any discrete enti- ties translates both into Steve and into WALLPAPER.
8 WALLPAPER also implies some… I would like to say plan, guid- ance, or governor. Not god, but some direction for all of this. You could say neg-entropy, maybe.
EK: What is the fantasy in WALLPAPER between you and Steve? And how does it differ from when he comes over for sex or when you two have coffee?
BB: It doesn’t differ. The Pacific Northwest is a destination, or real- ly just the end of a band, I-5, the other end of which is LA. There’s a preoccupation with traffic and naming cars and vehicles in motion on eight lanes. That’s consistent imagery from Pink Sperm to WALLPAPER. I think it means a visualization or figure of this DMT-inspired understanding of the universe as immense waves of power without discrete entities. But if you’re going to make a piece of poetry, you have to use discrete entities even though there really aren’t. There’s crash-ups, vans with white trash cowboys with rifles following, and destructiveness all around. That’s the meaning of I-5.
EK: There’s also a z-axis. It takes place in space as well.
BB: Yes. A minute and twenty seconds from now, a plasma wave might completely annihilate us, and we would never even know. The more you learn about the cosmos, you realize that everything about it squishes out life.
EK: Even in orgasm?
BB: Orgasm is like you have departed the planet and joined the mothership. You can call that being alive or being transformed by the operation into an alien. You’re not really alive, but there’s a ghost of aliveness. We know that aliens are like triangle-heads. They have way too much cerebral cortex for their own good, and they don’t know what to do with their mouths or their ears, which are teeny-teeny, so they’re really spiritual. So “spirit” and “death” come to mean the same thing.
EK: You’re getting to them, joining them through sex?
BB: That is one way.
EK: In the poem, there’s also a masculine/feminine dynamic.
BB: There are things like silk ribbons floating through the poem and bits of lace. It gradually should become apparent to the reader that there’s lingerie and makeup on my totally pure person, as requested by Steve.
This is the problem in my own mind. This is the only experience I’ve had with this, so I take it to be equal to reality. As Steve has explained it, the way you dominate another man if you are a man
9 is you feminize him. That accomplishes the task of submission. I’m not sure that’s a universal truth. I’ve only experienced this with Steve—well, a couple other guys, just a couple… Well, may- be three or four. I don’t know whether feminization-equals-domi- nation is universally true. I’ve had no other experience to compare it with.
EK: What do you think Steve will make of this poem?
BB: He has read all of it, all six hundred-some pages. He reads re- ally fast. It took him less than a week in between sex work. I want him to be flattered. I took him by the shoulders while we were having coffee, and I said, “Spencer, you’re going down in history because of this. You’re going to be famous because of me.” That was snide and snotty of course—
EK: And a little playful.
BB: And playful. Anyway, who doesn’t cut moral edges? That was a joke to anyone who is reading. I hope you realize that.
EK: So this is a style of courtship?
BB: You might say.
EK: And isn’t courtship an attempt at domination?
BB: Yeah, it is. But when I said to Steve that there was going to be a New Narrative conference, and it was too much for me to read at more than two events, he immediately said, “Why don’t I go with you so that you don’t fall or run into anybody you don’t want to. I can protect you.” So he came along, and I was in full face and with him. He would sit slouched with his legs widely spread and his arm around me. I hope that it scandalized people. I don’t know if it did, but I can hope that.
EK: It was the first time I met him.
BB: And he’s cute isn’t he?
EK: He’s very cute.
BB: Would you flip for him?
EK: I probably would, yeah.
10
valentine
pinkish it publish it love’s
in an annual trucking a Honda or
Civic Accord of its careening
before
halting the indefinite trail of schwa’s aren’t enigmas as facing
flack-off
the descent of
military gear pink tarps
prefer meaning a whirly satellite
dishes out in deflection my own my devious Daddy
derived above all the
shouting devices
prove alien as
is DS my Daddy Steve.
Collision contours the car intersections hearts lead one
into corners. following what rest of communication read-out?
13
programmed then resistance
falling rain contention a
fall or out.
better
strangling a warp speed
a lot left
pushed out
my lips of red lipstick. this metallic purple
fright wig the coverup of
unintentionality
spells
a.r.t.i.f.i.c.e. like that.
see it?— right on
its page the emergence
of face?
Daddy your authoritarian hand knows monitoring
the steering wheel left to right
and back lost
to
the Portland turnout. monitors
14
lost us, behind. back
at the last turn-off
before Portland. Thelma and
Louise.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your
Venusian life. the rest
astrology predicts a ray
of toothpaste
the tube out-squeezes I don’t care
Daddy’s
fake cunt belongs to him. who lives up
in heaven. with pink sheers. Each re- presentation
succeeds its terms. (own).
Hashem or Daddy. Yaldabaoth and the
five henchmen of sky-openings they
call the wandering stars or
planets. in
orange jumpsuits parachuting mothership cadets descending.
the pulse of open then close then open describing a planned alienation
15 hatched by him gratify him you who read
grant him pleasures.
The babydoll me in pink lips.
the lips’
outline in black. the kinky permission,
no! at the
southern end, the parachutes the
mountains.
Poe then Lovecraft in Mountains
of Madness. before Hashem
the submission is wobbly, the approximate time of arrival
says Him the last report from the team
saw us all
in phony courtesies fake
cunt to plan ahead deviation
of His thought wearing a houndstooth check
jacket squarely
on fitted out shoulders tells the
story. the pleasure experienced. who survives.
16 I’ve seen so much cool it’s left me
cooling cooler cold. Nothing
counts me that. It’s kinky dance music
what’s the final tally Spencer/
Bruce?
His name is Hashem. DS. Yaldabaoth. the requisite
clothing items required the Remington rifle
gunshot made lost
the money in the staging area.
spacecraft at 30 degrees pointed out as spikes
in a palisade menaced you. I performed the staging. we are only commissioned so far.
the parachutes go no further.
Mothership ejected as cadets aflame.
Blue, he gives me his
load in pink time after time.
at bay.
watched by the SEAL Team 5.
For the occasion Steve’s white tux, Daddy Steve’s. the pink
stink the smell of carnations
17 worn as
a boutonniere. My red shoes, lips agape. worn
on the strapless sleeve is Love. deviating intensifying
lust sticks to the prom not letting
go fingers wrinkling me.
the parachuted descending
mothership cadets on flame-yellow
fire. DS. His name. Hashem. like other monsters
give my kinky kind the bail-out permission
landing load after load baby. babydoll with pink lips a clown smile for you Yaldabaoth your five different openings
stray and return one leg over the other stockinged one,
you sit ladylike now!
Sirius’s stud belt. Dog days alert get up and
do follow.
commissioned. increase heat
the mass or matter.
Aliens we are will be the
18 slogan of allies with no foundation. makeup I mean.
An attempt. the foreigners seem to reject
no Big Eye eyeliner or other
makeup
can follow the Prius at the end of
their lines
make me THROW UP
my illegible face oh Daddy Steve
whose matchstick legs
your big ones transmit
flailing the message
dotted dribbling the black eyeliner the alien face
you’ve heard of Area 51 then,
reengineering
our star technology? I am really
crashing this time
sticks in pink spermy areas adjacently
19 up immediately in coming Dog Days Jupiter planetary ice-cold can chill
hot sweats seams of lipstick sheets
each bedsheet kissing each
until orgasm shoots out bleached afterplay’s Sirius emissions contain
somewhere with the victims we kidnapped
from Kansas. A KC cyclone hit
before the landing soft music, cut the swath of victims and
weep mine eyes and do not
cease not
the rain the pink pearls fall
the drowning tinkle
of neck music
surrounds the, his ankles tags up the AI presence
a ufological the Daddycock invasion withdraws salmon-colored from a fake
20 mothership-cunt gulping swallows
sweating squeaking
mattress-y the pulsar throbs of gulp gulp
denial spread the gaping jaws of sliding mothership doors opening
onto whatever sparkling of pinkness
containing Daddy or if in
wrong time zone—not
Daddy. his Venus-visit I guess.
Brucie a good girl then boy and
then wow cotton candy girl!
for you Daddykins!
Punk is pink punk is pink is punk as pink as you pinking
moi?
The even-painted Federation
ships all pink in my honor you will
always only in His,
won’t you? Daddy’s
refracted reflected as almonds the
stars single and dual
21 of Brucie’s return smile
warily watching wolfish
unexpected Daddy leads at heaven-wrought havoc to his girl ’s snip snap off do you notice it child, a little
rain must fall sang Steve McQueen that eponymous
movie can brood brood and scowl as did
Steve to his girlfriend’s delighting some line of his sequined bicep lined
like the
prison tattoos heard
as the rackety
prison bars caging a wild animal
like another Steve my Daddy’s
penned into with no regret for
the red lipstick kiss on
the white shorts pressed
into service his world dies screaming like everyone’s
22 return thru an open cunt
the first neonate in a whole
wide congress of stars expanding endlessly out.
Thank you DS Thank you Daddy Steve
thank you Daddy. Cygnus X-1 blackhole
into or out of
in horror starry without a born even
release in hair colors off
wow cerise a lacquered red jacket
London 1967 I
guess
the pounding not ceasing
the raging continuous pink violet
the onslaughts red blue
and Explorer NASA missions ranging purple all so eye-opening
Daddy tied up watching the
fireworks of Daddy in the high-chair little Bruce,
Brucie as we called her
then doesn’t have to necessarily
23 be a Debbie Downer now-preclusion huh?
having fun in her
foofy quinceañera dress all white to
be about being blushed with a stain.
Like the cancer of Beatrice Shilling had.
endless glass ceilings among
astronomers cosmologists like her being a woman
among repeat after more slight reduction or unwanted approaches to her sex
just gave up cancer at 40 left her in its
tracks.
Daybreak along I-5. chat message from Evan
New York a
report of a backroom blowjob while
investigating further David Bowie material. Though sucking,
it doesn’t.
the sudden hush
speechlessness intervenes the silent patrols
of message transmission
altering distance
24 from Andromeda
of a a stale whiff
in New York
vacationing Evan wonders
by email who in
the grunge of porno shop video booths would be a recognition of. of
what.
we are. after all. animals.
he writes. Porno shops
Aliens allowed no access. You permitted
no ingress. the rest mooing oinking
moaning groaning as animals
at last. and least of all called
praiseworthy for it.
in Axis empathies a
sign of re-reading re-routing your human thought isn’t
no one
25
behind the louvered slats watching my
freaky fake-cunt spasms is Him. covered in
glory or sperm. my master, Steve.
hole agape is a hole that cares. right? asks the
text from the
flirtation of Solo
with Leia. when young. but we’re not
that now the thought compromised finger by finger
pressing prodding
pushing pulling we press the flesh or
it’s us.
on a need-to-eat basis. the star- lit
skivvies. flourishing… Mismanaged fences off-ramped
outsourced outsize rear reviews
in a crush of
Ashland-bound
Daddies returning the parts of
26 molecular heaps. These
are my parts, Uranus
once beforehand. belly buttons
nipples molecular dust-heap parts
of abandoned autos alongside
a service road the a rusty sign, when it rains it pours. parts shop
this way.
When it rains
it pours
parts.
One p is love, one friendship and
a third you don’t know about,
ignorant Uranians! even now!
27
Even how can you still gauge out tiny fractions
of heart the valve sucks in and I spurt them
back at you even Steven and if I tell
the train it’ s left the station
does that say you
gotta say Baby, the rain must
fall like another Steve
McQueen in the eponymous movie punk is still pink
in the triangulation Planet Daddy
off the shoulder of Orion the pink camisole
lifted from my
shoulder ?
like a pink slip slipping
me text messages
we’ve lost the job who’s shattered the glass we have to pick out pieces of
one by one and nothing’s ever finished up right to the left of this highway
exit if I’m a Prius
28 what are you left with
but the right turn signal directions self destruct our love world automatically
a one-way trip to
eternal night of
pink starlight
from my blown kisses
takes you to
the mothership
where underneath smiley faces
whaaaa….? Just blown fuses
baby blown fuses
for us to ride to paradise onto under or can a direction “happiness”
at times go like sideways or
when you exhale Daddy Steve/Spencer
what stars are seen as if you are knocked
on or upside a head? watching a
29 celestial ceiling crack open to let the star- shine emerge
Old-time
priests in Rome foresee a fake future
on those bumps of someone or some-thing ’s liver. cracks on
the bedroom plaster seen from the bed
up-looking. down
and out. Sideways?
can
be kept on dry ice as your face, Daddy, is
preserved here in this line a
hurt goes so ouch ouch!
humping dry wall instead
instead of me an e.l.a.s.t.i.c. re-
revelations to the truth can
sometimes just “pretend”
30 to go ouch or stop than when humped
like drywall recently installed
in your bedroom. o Daddy o
you project
your animation. It
might improve
but please readers realize
who tries harder
to be prettier in pink?
Huh Daddy aren’t I it isn’t
me more
pinked out than am I a punk?
still zoned the opposite, asleep
the opposite oblivion?
a billion oblivions a billion times
reborn praise Jesus
Hi princess, still prettier in pink
today than yesterday? thought I saw
cracks
31 in your ceiling. all spokes leading
the center as is cracked plaster
just what you want make it
depict you this time?
princess
in pink! says Daddykins.
a fake monad thing
aspires to his arm-
pit falling
this big grin or leer
you’ll be taking
a love-canal ride on this time, this
comma, princess!
Is glamour rude ? riding that
cobblestone street riding with me
a tarmac
road the destination defines
free rides
riding his smile
at sixes and
sevens, gasping out lust outside
32 love out of virginal
whites
first holy communion double white white name an arch-
daimon Yaldabaoth to make princess grin back
Daddy’s cock leer reciprocates
force feeds me
There’s also Orion
Daddy Yaldabaoth the horrible thrilling demi- urge said Plotinus. I said huh?
In Daddy’s sedan to go
cobblestone streets stick to one-upping
my scratching fingernails choke the
the adolescents in their cotton PJs watching us
get hard then harder
faster and then faster drilling me and the end emerges
33 inevitable broke breath
chastened corpses names on
tagged toes
bedtime for them for Steve and Bruce
lights out
while selecting
a Spotified end-tune. a
Frank Ocean tune you know.
Seek ghosts young man it hisses, no, seek us they echo,
a device song for listeners. don’t cum-stained
carpets reveal all what bears its weight is
flimsiest of panties ?
pink pink the song of revenants.
two wrecked meteors or meteorites the
parking meter’s flag
up still
the sedan-limousine now pulled off away.
RIP Bruce/Spencer
brains exchanged wasted neuronal pathways
in the cloud data info
makes moot
passages taste pink or
34 unmistakable apple-taste blue like cyanide are you two RIP
too?
Y’all have a good
day! says the revenant climbing back out the window jumping the bed
looking out and suddenly
an old hotel leaks us back. switch
your coordinates when I grow
up sex-smeared as bare hairy chest tho not now you need mirror-smoother hairless a mutant
future of
desire alters the coordinates. the
variant future desires empties all
coordinates
quick. pick
cigarette stubs, leave ashes
whitening the face and
35 cigarette-burned camisole
pulls up window shades
Daddy’s trailing me
an indifferent
tiny orgasm to
his big one.
Message from Area 51 UFOs: Who loves ya baby
who’s your daddy?
Oh Daddy oh Daddy!
what? in the history of shame. peeping.
opposite shows the window of a
sullied 1920s
motel changing from sepia photos the light regathers and
off comes the silver belt thwack!
36 smack! right on
one’s buttocks the even pink distribution across his own smarts,
an alien creature flees the window light
across from us
watching… groans provoke
the moving arm
to greater efforts to connect
this place
to a small moon a far-off galaxy the tadpoles
swimming in the moonlight their pink
luminescence a blood moon tonight Daddy
a prowling
moves the silent bat mobile.
Gotham’s citizens unwittingly asleep. So be it,
says Yaldabaoth of
stained
mattresses, dissolved ghosts
all spacecraft cargos holding no spills
unroll down carpets like NASA tarmacs before the Big
37 Bang.
before Steve and me. way before
the first incels made their appearance.
spilling like a carpet rolling down the NASA tarmac an underground city under a mountain
with waiting cadets.
continuingly
do the one molecule parameters semi-porously
still penetrate your lung membranes? I think
you die.
that squealing from a highway next to a
I mean “your” cheap motel
pounds me Daddy, like some cheap long poem But as sentence follows sentence the gun has been pointed. grinding of your gears
DS. the auto-gate features foreseen by
38 the great designer Yaldabaoth aka god
the slowly accumulation of
x, y and z have up and gone south.
crunch crunch sound of time-jaws mastication of
change.
a medulla oblongata two cerebrums
crack open in vain Daddy’s instructions without
pareil in face
of a love-pink fake-cunt inside
the panties worn by the medulla oblongata ladling love’s
pineal gland juices secreted enough
to. the the alien bacteria sunk my home base
afloat merely the notional flora do you think
it’s them who
pull the strings to make DADDY
their puppet?
Rubber and glue. bounces off you. you’re not going
39 to get away with
lying. the home team
’s got the advantage.
blue nebulas fog
and cloud Daddy and princess’s dual vision to-
gather falling apart on ’em. Shoot.
Bruce is princess and
princess is pretty in pink but for both
isn’t life just
LOVE? will love planet Venus now ascending
descend in the West or disintegrate the watchers wakers and giant
participants these hormonal signals on target
e
will rebuke the pink of his fingers in
her faux-cunt as sort of classless frocks like
Carrie’s the queen of the prom spills pigs’
blood (John Travolta) a head-to-toe wound
faux-love
40 itself brings down
this house. what pink
did this ask STARSHIP ENTERPRISE
crew before macro-star
visit on commission and in
the simple name of—diversity!
we are many. not few. love gathers
and disperses blessed be love
her shapes, her forms bless
them too. at odds with the Venusian message is
ours. a blues song
in Neptune style can make
Daddy step back a step or two
is it a sex-party
love-one or
what? party of you
party of two too.
blue and white hydrangea bushes
in a garden soil
rusted from old nails make
41 hematite
accelerate the LOVE SHIP arrival. Not.
a wise pineal.
the eye in pink-eye squints
love concealment descends like eyeshadow
on my lids. the blue clue
deconstructs the hypothalamus
can think it’s still functioning the red
of
the lipstick he love not like the love
that betrays it.
I’ll be going now.
resistant like glue.
pulled back to
the methane
whiff opalescent in the truck
of I-5 North.
I was tricked.
Love
42 goes south on you
screeched to its halt the
Morris Minor smash-up
the farewell I put
to it right as a period here *
you on the pinkish cloud borne more
and more aloft. the full stop.
within sight of entropy
traveling I-5 North but instead when pressed to
act like infatuation doesn’t LOVE GO SOUTH?
always my friends
always discovered bacteria supportive of alien life
expelled from notional histories. aloft.
floating. nebular.
floating like
the Daddy’s medulla oblongata before
43 escapes the
artificial gravitation and on the Earth surface below lowing peaceful cattle, long lush green grasses
agents in
Stetsons cowboy boots slapping the
pitted blacktop of a side-road ’s truck before
each discriminate
affection dies the gun is pointed, they shoot
someone who falls
before they squeezed the trigger.
Daddy’s love
turns to lust and then
to mere friendship before
the kill. You pitch and I catch Daddy-O. Years go by Ears
provide such wary responses.
love’s a one-way street a dead-end street reverts our common
steadiness of mien I mean
44
sentences fly upward where aliens
mutual isn’t it? I’m telling you. Promising
to you too you two goodbye Steve and Bruce toodles ciao
see you later guys.
Heave a sob for Bruce and Steve. we
tried out best.
on celebrex i mean cellophane i mean Encel-
adus. the semi-porous lung membrane and you die. the automobile grinds do you hear those gears squealing?
to a halt. No more
road no car no nothin’ but no fake-pink light
sticks to blood red but fake lips lips whose Daddy prefers them
fake.
45
God’s or some arch-Archon named becoming illusion on a cobblestone street runs a man looking for a tarmac road and catching
up with a surprise. It threw pancreases and
fingernails up some stuck to the wall
some supportive vascular structures
toppled on the other hand like over the bridge you know is
better than the one you can’t won’t and both of us
certainly can’t can this pronoun either?
It was in Jamie’s body Daddy approached. It was in
the same he left.
When do you reshuffle
the cards regroupings this
time a little later at a sock hop white
46 with tuxedos is decked pink in our carnations changing the kind of plan or game
Jupiter’s planet Enceladus
picked out before eons came the sun rose on several more had been added. to.
In this reshuffling
a pair of sevens beats a full house. reshuffled. A marked deck means the universe
likes to fool you. That’s why you’re here
with me now Daddykins
parts
continuously regroupings are undone
and life begins this time
in pink or even carnation red
tuxedos white
going to the sock hop
at the middle school gym like
signals from one of AX245’s
non-gaseous planets
as lightly pelvic as a Buddy Holly
song
you keep heaping things up at heights particle
47 upon particle speck of specks motes send “Peggy Sue”
back home are the beta signals
is the Earth-death
or even big fat oblivion waiting for you and yours truly rilly
worth it?
is worth-it in fact worth it?
I would have dearly loved
to fail at this but alas we are preprogrammed
not to.
emerges the joy planet of love. particle
by particle. a dense speck lightens the dust mote to vanishing
up your nostrils perched like Buddy on
ear-hair
starlight beams send beta signals
home to the oblivion you release
from touched
peach fuzz arm-pit
pheromones. Time to
48 vanish.
time to die.
Pouring nothing. the pores of
his face the same. a skin-stretching
cosmos
tautly expanded
the iron- blood
cells always poured
me to you. Did it? is
it
two solo road trips or one duo expansion as
Miss Tinsley
announced to exasperated big-crunch male
physicists tho proved right in
the end. or for us
the inevitability of
both at once the pulling
and pushing princess-Daddy together apart
and apart together is the pink salt water
taffy
49 of princess-al dream-ish-es
escape in time out of time
no one knows
the call or the broken glass
of a Prius a shattered windshield
of heat-laminated glass in millions of pieces remains
pores nothing
out even his snot ’s too spiritual
body could ever any refuse be transparently turned to
refuse the satisfying delights
cleansed by
perfection
a kidney-like process has removed
your monster’s spit?
or not to be vulgar can your hiccup
do in a pinch?
50
no imperial landmines
no authoritarian can court me like Daddy always does or not care to be. absent the horrible Dog Day heat the first view of Sirius monitors the message DeepMind a London AI secret Google commissioned. Shut it down. in the methane sea deep on our home Daddy planet
princess refers to as a DS
triangulation can often deflect
the photon connect
he uses his magnificent
mind to construct our droid bodies of. sometimes from
also varying new brain languages
51 will realign
C-3PO type bearings, ball
DS is Daddy Steve’s muscles
at work my eye with the pancreas ducts
his desensitized small nipples stand
up along my body-nerves in my alignment
NO NO distressed blue jeans can you
at Google or your former outsourced
London web of AI manage
a space connection with just Daddy’s body part without the other receptive
parallel i open in me?
within this non-binary is there a you
attaching sewing a finger to his hand too
You yourself your own pancreas
droid ducts now Daddy as once in a my Neptune why-dream wanted you in my collective future won’t get there
isn’t a get or is no there I
52 forget which most once by peeling back the simul-skin there is a hidden alien within this discovery need us more amalgamated
expanding a dual self
your fingers circle Bruce’s
wrist wresting up more a non-dual plural stardust-fed seen as astronomers looking upward trucking up
to this note: wrote your name on a piece of paper but accidentally
threw it way away
oh Daddy wrote it down on the hand but it washed itself down away oh! Daddy
dino-beast from the Triassic
he hitched hisself on a ride
to the moon and back!
Daddy O!
no eye with an eye for no eyes no universe
no star starts up cocks high standing simultaneous
destroy the destroyers watch the watchers
guardians guarded dominate disconnections to my
53 sensitive pancreas ducts stretching ladies’ stockings attached to my garter belt you watch and guard destroy legs over black eyeliner dissembled after
the stargate fuck you fuck my cunt-hole all red signaling the pink glory of cunts of all
sexes blushing bright pink sprinkling a drip message pink pink to the ravages of your Daddy predator cock gutters all the male out replacing
eyeholes blushing black
eyeliner blue-is-for-Neptune as alien eye-shadow
swirls around Mothership drain -ed resign- ed
back to your will Daddy a roaming t
cunt-hole of pleasure parts snaps
all the blushing right monster-mobsters
as olders us elderfolk
rewards on board pointed due north on board the warping out speed is
54 Michael Myers once more escaped in Halloween
creating havoc in the star-womb of an unnamed nebula is ET to me as DS barks
the prick orders out of me I return glassfuls
of whatever Daddy he is this time is
he on the deck the
ENTERPRISE or later over coffee complaining about
his whatever floats your boat while Michael Myers infuriated
will never hurt a fly a release asylum drone will tail him us making you guys’s pleasure parts
a heaving spasm motion
instead of bullets this AK-47 will shoot cunt sperm-shots instead of the paper dolls the doll houses my
princess mind keeps
her alien a-borning inside these spatial fantasies recur and real ones supplant. This
world this world
of the un-sane I live out my lunar as his Velociraptor or Protoceratops
whose whole bones. as found. just lived out again.
my livid proprioceptors
55 take their refuge Daddy in
which is YOUR armpit Daddy Steve? or
mine then if nothing is found replacing its lived experience. a crashed UFO at
Roswell the house of Usher stand-in when collapsing.
the free-ranging alien the cunt-holes of me identify
with roaming home pigeons carrying messages to. oh Lord! your
noble awe-opened to the left nostril you make me please
with body detritus extending your range your Neptune reach stretches
to accommodate
that big Daddy cock dictates as form to content my emptiness as a
temporary fill-in. collapsed in turn the synapses. a pink carnation on his
lapel my floral cunt-hole smell reechoes to
his smile in paradise. Pink Floyd pinks
to Bruce-waves in expanding epicentric the circles
reflect back the messages in and out at
56 the same time. in time. beat one on the beat two or too. two
white men
and one dressed ladylike for the other
she left behind
when probably six years old? the
Oldsmobile of the neighbor driveway screaming
to hits halt. Halt!
shifting from this to
that from one shoulder to another man hidden the toggled little homunculus yearning
the pink heartbeat in utero of a man-lady
to be wanting for you to finish up
on me quick Daddy better do it now not later DS now. the badge of honor worn by Hester
(Prynne) in floral display as his prom corsage as Freddie Krueger
escaped Michael Myers to recapture the principle of THE ALIEN
the UN-SANE loose again and at large. Put out an
APB
57
though cops oh never! will ever find Daddy
Daddy in camouflage, Bigfoot
the tell-tail crazily loping misprint of Daddy’s Big One tracking the ground with prized
signals of his transit we
relay thru the Seattle Space Needle back
to… what was our home planet, Orion? Each day
memory of Daddy grows weaker and w e a k e r till some day
indistinguishably Daddy is alive and you are dead
and it will collide with our single me-self
in a black hole spin
sewn together at twilight sunders the darkshine the shout-out the luminous
portholes bawling FLOW FLOW MY TEARS
that the idios kosmos of
a non-dual us-ness Steve/me is indecidable
sadness tries
58 lane-switching from this
to that I live in his world
or is he inside my one
is a person condemned
to be forever at the brim the event horizon of the demiurge of unknowing Alphane Moons Inc.
do I know I
is just a thought of his mind speeding along in the next lane the fire
sunsets of undreamed-of Ganymede moons devour
its constant ch-
anging neither of us controls
an imagination isn’t inside your or our black hole the tarpaper singularity who
can’t drive but sticks to blacktops tarmacs the light-absorbent asphalts inside them the policeman’s motorcycle
won’t stop 200ml of G you hand
and promote without your knowledge no prescience engages the laces of your shoes tie
59 me nipples to shoelaces if you walk out I can’t
come in to the fabulous room preceding the ingestion of a quantity of Ubik
where did darling find love’s universal solvent I wonder? Daddy’s girl’s ass upwards on
the bed on all fours the egg waits for
and the sperm-fusion blots out difference distinction discrimination no more than floating carnival parts not for instance a
you is not me and isn’t
a dual us-mask
swirling bits bytes do not
an Artificial Intelligence make he writes a ticket
a speeding ticket
a Nazi black boot on the
pedal gashes the
quivering pavement oh dear gushing
life eternal
spurting out a number of bright black ’n blue leather jacket will mask
60 a recycling process I can’t be expected only
assumed to not oppose
Kill the Judith Butler theory-maker inside me before it writes again. Lock her up! lock
her up once
inside our planet’s methane caves of true
blue you, Daddy,
will the delusions of webbed
spider-theory ever settle like rocks in
in those caves of dead words letter
necropolises
that kill Love of Daddy faster than
any friendship can!
I am so sorry for your loss Bruce.
Thanks Daddy. Princes you still look pretty in
pink thousands of autos doing nothing but
increase the subset. there’s a
new protocol to
speed up entropy’s decay of the
rocks you
61 put Judith’s theory-writing on. Poor Judith all alone as
as stone in Australia as someone said. if I tell you I’m Bruce
will you say no Judith called him/her
Daddykins? Oh my. oh yes.
oh dear. the rate that unmasks the love-killing
she used
to kill Bruce. Daddy you’ll never find me
again. I loved you once.
those dead blood drops spatter kerplunk kerplunk kerplunk
calling rat-packs of
automotive speed to prevent
the glistening leather
quest. Replace his pink.
with ink black dead ink thank you
Judith
thank you.
Horns blaring. the car-truck rat-packs a final phase? tires screeching surrounding
us back to to cloud of inertials love’s bubble
their slats slowed thru so pink and true penultimate
Daddy in my pink off Neptune’s blue portal
62 in the black love-sky
in roaring in fisting and challenging in whose shouting
is
this halt of
the crashing automotive nuts and bolts
bots converging with droids no more black leather
will lit re-mask the recycle operation?
this active ingredient
of happiness likes tanning cowhide to leather as a false scream
reconstructed animals must not
relate I covered up outsticking legs of him first I’m not that deranged. under wool sleeping up a snore giant prick
is unafraid. I am your pleasure part.
Eight of Daddies twelve tentacles
that a moon rock drop leaves fissured on the xeriscaped
63 big white eye up
looking down at us. sleep in piece. the centuries won’t
fly before time stops this again. might pass us up
down the old I-5 minus eye
paying me no mind or heart or prick-soul
cadging the garter belt endings of
the pink stockings of my verse entangles
the previous a rocking motion of the hand
patting out the long black line of eyeliner of dissemblance matching your black heart darling oh darling
the char of
heart leftover dissolve auto by auto
truck by truck
Sirius cascading pukes up her
dog days story hot summer
cools my
64 Neptune waves of slut-love for Daddy ’s void devolves me down down to
whose awaiting arms? this necrology
of sentences?
lost lads equip the spaceship’s porthole-wonder-windows.
this pharmacy, no chemical life lost in the making
of the pills whose inert ingredients spring to life
reading this line and
the next no pills no chemical’s life
were lost in the making of this
sci-fi but will you Daddy,
who?
throb the good-time throb re-echoes warping
the spangled pieces of a shattered heart that I ask the salesgirl
to wrap. the strange tan filmy butcher pater
65 she needs to bring the parts of me
to a head.
with a good
the escaped throat after. retrieving you. all
the pieces left of DS this killer space litter aliens up
my spangles so wrap it up please.
kitty l- or space -l, what’s up but my pink ass the spangles like bedecking I protest
what’s most alien not very loudly or forcefully
and going forward moving right along the pilgrim arrives with trepidation tho Freak City has always been her goal! Goal!
I’m a goal girl. R U too oh audient space-angel
honest now did you listen up when I was talking trash
just now?
when you’re a diva you can trash talk too girl!
all this space litter again whew!
the clutter we
had to get thru to reach you! Really!
66
a bunch of it then de-acclimated the x-7 voyage as us spores on comfy
day couches were fed a grape.
a single truffle in silver foil yum throws no punches
the ladder to
the stars or birth of a new eco-planet the
lovely predatory cadets in
tights the drab gray-brown of the uniforms
even in pre-launch mode
oh fuck it’s just
too fucking much like a sight for sore eyes speeding
away on the tarmac
as message after message is received by
the Federation.
Flaunt show-time. looming up as deciphered transmissions these
can I almost say cuneiform comforts?
Daddy Dude,
wave after wave of Daddy’s love parts pertly abject princess Bruce spattering responding spatter considering Daddy’s spurt-go-spurt oh heavens do by themselves
67 the rose-colored nylons
too slimy near you, a couple of tears to you the alien
also rejections of you slither way the nearest asteroid can see your
moonlit magic working its spell compels
the reader/writer identification with orthography the wave to come is learned in second grade children. and wasn’t suffer
the little children the nearest exit to
an overlooked scripture you always did want to make them kids
suffer don’t you I bet.
Slimy: uh huh, did like even your girlfriend’s brother
or whoever that thought
this thought think you? I doubt it. Open up the sealed letter at your own risk more things are obviously
accomplished in heaven or hell than your philosophy could dream of crams in
an eternal never-ending
68 alphabet that won’t stop at the stop n go light near the elm
covered suburban streets you could metamorphose
as a traffic light and attract hardly no attention can manage to coat the
Stephen King leaves use
of them to someone. who?
oh I’m so excited! is it DADDY
he wants to use up like reused newsprint that makes the genre reader katchoo!!! katchoo!! when she
tries out the sex games illustrated here naturally tho
kind of abstractly like when Gertrude Stein
says tender buttons it’s Alice’s tits she (very abstractly) must mean to be able to publish that rotten filth
mostly today forgotten can
with the rest of to possibly open, even or these parts have spell it either way I’s or eyes which
for me to know can your girlfriend bother
to find out
69 what when excited leaping into the fray
like trade
of Daddy’s pert parts
the predatory spurts develop trajectories
of spat spat cadets have
run their nylons
like space-time ejections objecting to
the excited Daddy spurt spurt spurt, sport. git it while u can boy!
or girl for the
occasion works too
back home usually the
the boys will pick real real thick methane but usually girls
like lighter atmospheres I guess
found as both your entertainment
will provide as much
as my excitement dilates all your outer
exoplanets.
In PRETTY IN PINK the rich teen
invites unpopular Molly Ringwald to the class porn um
70 do you really need me in this dark quantum entanglement not
to say prom
Hello Daddy you are starting to change and the different versions of you simultaneously are both fucking me and Molly at the porn. and after?
oh the pink pink of the light
your 16 candles begin peeling
away layer by layer Molly
your skin takes on a
leathery consistency doesn’t it honey?
when the pink
turns to red Molly it gushes torrents what blood
torrents washing around
swish down into the clown’s mouth
opens the waiting sewer the teeth chew what mouth spits back
still your favorite
pink residue the blood loses the you-dissipation
71 the scattering Daddy released
muon by what the particle accelerator of the palest pinks
The pink-porked heart covered in salmon colored like the upchucked vomit Bruce, considering the loss of Daddy Steve lighting
16 candles for us all.
no skin off your skin reader/normal in non-lasting love
too instead the inevitable
default for Bruce princess Steve Daddy Molly
our repeated Neptunian
decree your heartbeat throb repeated changes
no more
than 60 times a second estranges
recycle processes dipsy-dumpsters filled with
our thrown-away alienoid-human- oid parts are trumps
in pink-blended red turns white
over his kidneys
72 astonishing naively P!nk says “Who knew!”
Daddy surprises no depart
princess Bruce regrets no oxygen prematurely
for opening just blending to bleed the red to pink chewing gum bubbles like nitrogen bubbles a-bleeding
the blood pale pink as the choked asphyxiated
face of Bruce- man on the moon your pinkie can be pale
Daddy without
the life-giving
oxygen of your red love departing on lift-launch x-12 hours will the ship reach our alien Neptune homo home
in time to join the other freakish
freaks rendezvous on our blue planet?
chewing gum bubbles Daddy choke! estrange me
my oxygen particles
from total atrial to a obvious ventral
73 catastrophe on our fave planet the Large Hadron Array has never will or won’t want to edge off their dependence on star charts too soberly
composed to catch the variable blue and pink
of Daddy Bruce cues up the opposite rejection
of my box the
heart-shaped box once worn as a sign by
Courtney of the huge
inheritance about to fall down and out of the heavens bopping her
on her blog blonde hair or wig as the case was it will always be come what
may the same Daddy no
matter sweetie what
you do to who
-se kidneys you have now forever dissociated i hope without just pinto rosa pink a symphony a big cloud
of
74 your pink pink pink
dipsy dumpsters heartless lungless
gasping
in the kidneys put us in
dipsy dumpsters and in the incoming new oxygen
particles thru our lungs
with luck to gaze
again on this alien Neptune left before us. we both age your skin off and replacing it
with mine usually made into alligator shoes. love never lasts it
either makes you kill someone or you get married to them because more usual this becomes the default. Yay! Yay!
errr meaning why
dude, quantum entanglement! we’re connected nothing
that you separate produces
75 only a horse’s waste product. if horse shit’s your thing go for it
otherwise lifting an arm
the starlight will connect the
pit-smell you love even especially on you to a Master
of the multiverse Daddy Steve or me you it’s the same
right?
sexes for your entertainment. spurt
as excited as the
tarmac looms -uniform predatory space
the cadets of gray tarmac cuneiforms
wave after wave does your spurting
showtime? I
agree. out of bounds of the green grass, or gray Texas NASA labs seen whirling
the agape bra stretched snaps back in time
the chocolate kisses and truffles on a tray if intimacy finishes
then eat more
76 predators before eating the shower nozzle behind the plastic curtains parting for you alone step into my bliss puddles.
time after time. getting pinker and pinker
on the frequency of pickled insistence “Did you take the Jeep this time
did you Daddy sweetie did you?” oh how she loves the Daddy smirks sucked up
snappy flappy like on a
clotheslines laundry!
As could pink even end even tho. don’t so.
you so. snip snap the garter belt with my name on it. your imperial princess
your impossible as Kevin would put it
hours spent preparing for you
I’m smooth as a baby’s butt Daddy!
or not. missed a spot. oh oh
bad girl got to
be a big ole Daddy-hand watching the whole time never not even a ounce equals a minute when you get
your butt slapped. pink eros
77 are you still here
pinkissimo or escaping
from the gingko treetop sheltering
from sky-born x-rays the gamma killing
jet blast from space maybe?
shooting his love-arrows into me covering with his big
hand the mouth of his prey does he really
do that darling?
snap snap what YOU think bro or sis what
do you think I think that I do or is it really
think too?
Angry rushing traffic
Han Solo in a later movie I missed the motoring down
eight blacktop lanes of my flesh what compression could touch the impervious flesh-eating resistance?
what who can’t could I avoid the net of his big frazzled (kiss it all ok again ok i will) hand
would make a girl s happy tummy yummy in more pink this time kind of
gauzy or what? frequently pickled. not on
78 booze are you high on life
Brucie? yes thank you
I think and you
too should. sand streams shook the Daddy boots terror shook a princess in
pink is I is you? ballistic pre-launch behavior ushering out
cadet alien lifeforms from the
dorm nearby in their cute little
pink jock straps not!
or gartered like cold blue
intellectuals renouncing all pink
back on Neptune our craven retreat from
the love-storm afflictions? maybe. sometimes. it
don’t it sorta depend or not don’t depend. you know!
on eight lanes or two in a black mirror sedan or motorbike its sidecar attached!
the frequency delayed the orbited
79 transmission in his original launch time is it osmotic or the effects of my
cosmetics noticed as the moving
erotic clock hands of time here on Neptune on looking out Mothership portholes or reduced from Venus hot pink the cold Neptune reflects as well.
equivalent local time to go he’s of
hogging at least eight of lanes will take pleasure
crash glass
what is
the frequency is it on time yet Daddy Steve-o? is
are it is our we ready yet your pickled
conscious insists. the pre-launch time of our vehicle. it’s different for Jeeps ushering in the alien cadets to
a laughing launching pad.
Follow you. wave after wave the blacktop still stands you. before the installations applications
80 not yet written off tho by
why? Your Batmobile is still
a ways. always.
seen an inch or too away
a big smiling harvest moon
Daddy’s cock can compare the assets reek of er the lazy loop
of supermassive black hole can Hawking emanations like you be caught unsuspected with your pants down
when the only unsuspected who pull ’em
is gonna get ’em huh baby
asks Daddy to Bruce, me, a true princess.
the trucks is that what people in
England call a lorry sorry lorry sorry sorry Daddy
a-see-sawing
inside her with his big one repeated
in the bedroom once home from the
unfamiliar space-home after
Venus or Neptune?
81
alien or crazy the reason. He
likes it too. I do.
we feel are we? the same Daddy, like Mi- chael A
are you unable to distinguish those
opposite snickerings
behind the barn the moon-shadow of an intimation
here in the bedroom Daddy’s girl
before him casts only
Daddy before him. only Daddy is Daddy
is all alone. appreciation of unpaid pains this certainly pays
no one no mind of its own. a professor is
a police bullet of someone’s ghetto
without beginning not paid especially to be any more transparent
in unmelted shadows. previously
folded. as you would
deal with that service station attendant
back in the 1950s clean-mind streets
self-service
82 will be the option once we
are stashed away
behind drawn curtains the stubbed out
cigarettes barely tho hardly at his large-size step
a fiasco of a teenager
develops quickly with or without sand his shoes are inside you find who? men are heels
and follow their toes, out-
side the urinal a door slams shut with a bang surprising the unsuccessful in my body language
there’s a something rotting Daddy’s
mind is mine what’s mine is his army equipment
large-scale mortar that the tarp
covers its fake messages transmit an explosiveness still lodged
in our home planet Neptune’s
blue-freezing glaciers here Daddy cruises quiet a sub, ready…
Remember the syntax of the mind
83 you had? do you still have it? the full stop of the/a Mothership doors slide open the landing
process gone astray
You know you’re an orphan don’t you? an orphaned dying planet ready to sex-make
the other one your new exa-planet named Steve. its twin Bruce. into a waiting pink cunt like
a valentine cock
First proof the pages. every new language of love line-edited thank you I’d happy to if the I don’t first self-cancel you’re welcome
old-time glue or paste a brush corrects the self-generating the repeating series forecasts
the intermittent descent the alien-spacecraft you hoped would affront your standing hair up on your wrists
yee haw! a ride ’em cowboy message from Lord Vader to his minions you will all come
apart all you words you will all change when read
84 by others. Don’t worry.
they make this an appendage of that you nobody could or will imagine for you by yourself alone you gotta
At the spaceship’s approach the popular
cottonwood leaves a grove hidden in the air
re-spells the page proofs
re-tinting the green
as alien pink. sometimes blue. most of the
time you get all pinkish
the blood transfusion of it is cotton candy ohhhhhh!
I would be very
glad for new colons and enclitics to roll out
from our landed foreign craft for you can
you help?
The actual meaning could be
black and queer tastes like residue leaks of purple pink
the underlying principle the
irritating shark attacks reflexive pouring
85 alien blood confused with ichor
as a rule instead of the exception it often is
to you. why insist why
insist I’m a whore because of being a self-desribed cunt
you don’t believe things fast enough for moi Daddy why do they
tar you with my
brush made out of pubic hair fallen of in the past tense not yet apparently
able to live there and in the future Earth language something more their stupid protests we aren’t stupid
and yes you are a cunt Bruce hanging head oh please can’t you see the offense hasn’t taken place at all or maybe yet?
if you fall for a guy you take him as he
is it hideous to your eyes on Neptune
with the slippage between temporal zones can the Mothership be whisked like nobody’s business from us
my dad my childhood dad not you
86 dear Daddy first loosened the chunk of mom from her that resulted in either Joan Crawford in the kitchen or me moi moi-meme with apron protecting me waving
goodbye to someone like you who turns out
in some future-past-conditional what is that anyway?
the great Fellini movie 8 1/2 is sci-fi a spaceship provokes the non-end wow! that’s
far out mail-order DNA kits with which anyone
at all and the deadly new one (virus) welcome to Westworld hello you big smiling end of the world that greets me when you are fucking me Daddy like one big carnival
featuring my trademark pink cotton candy floats marching bands perhaps under
the baton of Philip Whalen my unwitting mentor once
And aren’t you Daddy also going to float away like me when like dew the delusions melt off in to the cold bath of outer space where
the vision of plasma jet lightsabers from this particular supermassive black hole
loosen
87 and pry from princess Bruce jaws the huge air-hose the chunk of Daddy’s cock
leaving the cascading tears behind our exoplanet is not
your exoplanet people but will be someday when freaks rule
the world we will dine
upon you! my readers… where are the tears of your yesteryears now
streaking and graying your own
dear cheeks my little dear ones as they
do mine?
I’d be lying if I told you I was at a loss for words don’t stop even the world will before the void can’t even ever catch. No thanks to Yaldabaoth or god. he slipped out thru
the ajar door. the bon débarras—good riddance to you know what.
I was the one who set it on its hinges
alas stalling the engine of
the black-window sedan Daddy at the wheel
carrying me to destiny and
Portland on
I-5.
Oh plasma jets of the world do
88 do please wait wait on me wait up please and
ok and thanks be to my Valentine Daddykins?
You betcha. Stars fell on Alabama
and also me braining me to this wonderfully unexpected freak-alien nature of mine. you don’t yourself feel it?
it’s ok. joy will come from
the sole mouthings of the words that express it performatively. right?
(as rain) (or tears)
(the hail pelting my poor pink openings so brutally assaulted by Daddy’s lust for power oh my!) begging your pardons
since I risked perhaps offense by substituting and blunt openings
there for the expected and far more allusive
euphemism. So sorry! the devil made me not say the Latinate “apertures” but choose the ugly more graphic openings since that is what they
and I really are am aren’t we when like any woman in her fury
89 when on your backs submissive
ladies like me why wouldn’t you too wish nothing
less that to be
just cunt that’s all cunt?
Death the ultimate lord not the false one Yahweh or Adonais money fame or even please. arriving at a
beck and call won’t death make cunts of us all, at our own behest? Straight guys get real, be woke!
you’ll
NOT lol haha yourselves too become
just cunt for Death like freak Bruce in the throes?
Daddy’s pleasure a fleeting one the
pleasure of the princess everlastingly… um
something. the big forever-something reigns tho awareness flag do it matter? it don’t. please continue
to break down the language, dear
Daddy.
order by mail to become a misfit alien: a transilluminator a centrifuge and don’t
90 please forget the thermocyclers to pursue
the teratogenic science of
supporting the future appearance
from left-over cosmic ignition of us freaks we’ll come
like Lovecraftian cephalopods to you beneficent
maleficent you choose isn’t it
really up to y’all?
I was not born black
but would become so to become freaker deformed by pain incurred from our contact with you-who! Gene editing at hand you ARE me and ARE my Daddy too! cheaper equipment the Crispr-Cas9 recommended. it really works!! Try
and see! that is my valentine to
you as I know from my Daddy too… if the name of the wounded by-Zionism-body of Palestinians is
called Nakba to finish
of the ants of the Earth what is same name to call the wounded cunt-fag-trans body then if not also the same as the alien body of Jimi Hendrix and
91 of hearing Janis Joplin’s trans-alien screaming her little heart out at a Bill Graham Presents concert as Daddy’s
engine stalled on I-5 before he could reach Kurt Cobain?
the Portland office quiet that day before regrouping on aging cheeks a pink glow
tinging that same hitherto-mentioned ole black hole emanation data recaptures the defective Daddy-car gasket unplugging the release flow
in a dead heat that turns back time to flow down pink runnels macho blood in sissy gutters swirling in a vortex of love
Out of the way.
the principle underscores or undermines. reflecting on Marcello’s
release from his car in the Fellini 8 1/2 back when
the traffic jam improvises musicians sing deafeningly
92 starts evolving limbs of syntax writhe pleasure spasms downward and up floats kink! the world conqueror in space suits recognizes herself am I Charlotte Corday?—she wonders at the little polyps of revolution in our Neptunian blue seas that spurt blood. please enjoy! says Bruce to
her Daddy. Oh yum! goes my Daddy! the luscious plunge into
predation is for me to decide or are you
not my girl? sheepish. bare-assed
shame has she failed in any way
to correctly assess the
once-presented always to consider Daddy-pleasure?
ever the self-referential always self reflecting the neolithic glimpse while in their white-trash trailer-homes thinking of building agglomerating constructing…. something… these vain pages those impermanent buildings these what hopes stay what hand of death not
to
rock this cradle of faster and faster
93 until more is less. as it is or was it will be the appearance of a race
of alien monster creatures in our
undersea Neptune caves
conquers
one alien or two. then more. think of us
as infectious newly by DNA techniques
reconstituted horse pox the deadlier
girl cousin of its more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed boy cousin small pox am I we are too
newly re-
constituted the previously defunct horse pox the more
deadly girl cousin of a
more innocuous boy
hello I love you won’t you tell me your name
yes hacker verse reprogramming genome language printers
for your
new syntax
94 refreshes. and fading girl-squads of murdering me-us creatures like chirruping crickets the grassy velvet night squeaks out
what you are losing you aren’t gaining.
escapism isn’t just a fad. the new creatures catcalled
are hooted antennae wiggle the
newly suburban window- frames too and are you?
I am. we are. In Minneapolis
still raining are the
purple rain after an accidental OD in the warehouse elevator you
can reconstruct virally thru reading me. read
these words.
in pink in the color pink swathes and mists me for you
tho you don’t deserve it or me do you
don’t i love even you my oppressors? yes
“Falling in love
again/never wanted to/I cahn’t help it”
I don’t know
is that true or not? did I just want to lie to you
95 the mask of me
getting the mask of you off-guard as you
failed and forgot to do
with the freak alien monster
of your innermost yearning can dreams or even be expected
to forgive you’d be
surprised as I do. maybe. sometimes.
please won’t you work with me? on forgiving the multiple endless injurious
willful injuries done so very offhandedly though that’s too-strong term as whatever the occasion the alien- freak firefall transitioning firebreak stands as protective, the guardian
monsters of your always changing
vowel structure traps you in
its Venus flytraps as the bugs trying to transition
from catcall to hoot, exsanguinated
rosy cheeked at last at one with my carmined
cheek blushes
once the hotel room door behind before shared dirty-needle shooting up love love love like
96 like the one who shared that name, Love, Courtney with her Kurt trailing the advertisements sky-high as in American life dirigibles looking up greeted by the soft hot early summer breezes lifting to a utopian dream to take place in a spatially exoplanetary oncoming time looked at now, Daddy, as traced predictions dissolved in time’s universal solvent for our home voyage. back home pink chiffon in uniform to cold blue and beloved oceanic cobalt Neptune again. I think. or
maybe. just maybe. maybe.
for the fire-fall of truly alien freaks inhabiting
all of our dreams like out windows of catcall and hooted freak you freak
your freak you as
changing vowels or
you fuck ing you freak ing
happy at the new grammar the new syntax’s coming MOTHERSHIP arrival
97 posthaste
page proofs additive series: or on him
on my Daddy there’s in the corner now suspenders
a dress shirt the pants hold him up or he
does them yellow hair thick patches
or peaches a Samael Yaldabaoth and his shoulder’s henchmen
carry up stars to the ribcage caught with
his pants down again
What I wanted. what Daddy will want: a) a comedy b) a circus c) a masquerade
the pollen falling from the trees down hello Daddy hello.
a photon headlong bent comin’ at you the throat escaping Space
up here past moons seems a-litter with
Daddy prongs these monstrous vocalizations
sound or gravity waves you can’t separate
either person
98 of a grammatical dual can the future fail
the singular merge with the plural?
In the movie the lost airmen down the ramps doubt the spaceship’s combine links its real fantasy to a fantastic incoming
new era in these words how can it ever
come?
a cunt regales a prick
sounds of romance exit your mouth dear do the dead release them
the duo eating Szechuan brimming the Castro cafe eating Szechuan in transport
by are transported to the ’50s motel room it appears a total chaotic
winsome
music has
to regale someone else the sounds made from your mouth reading my dead ones release again to the total messy
99 chaotic mess it
ends with when Daddy’s girl in a mask brings Daddy’s beer from the fridge in an apartment the motel curtains blow the cigarette smoke in circles like boys in high school unmasked don’t return
my cunt him a prick
concerned dualities excited by lost old-time
movies his is a geranium plant waking up as I remain the winsome ET reanimating
in sync. Get it? Or you
think going back
to singular and plural is better for the future?
I lose nothing
being a new me. nor will you!
oh the cold up here
Mars ain’t a place to raise your kids!
its pockmarked skin. the shivering tents of helpful-minded scientists. and of course the looming
100 giant oncoming black shadow
all shrink from: Daddy. reverse your
ass baby if you know what’s fun for
you.
a helter-skelter leg afloating
a translucent cock the jellies goes by with
their the dangling stingers
can I refrain from Daddy thoughts or interstitial tissue the pockmarked face of Mars?
freezing our cunts concave protective
folds or secret bases with the doors
automatically
withdrawn at first sight of an approach. by
Daddy again. He’s everywhere. and nowhere. but in
the future
pink of come I patented this the credit’s
mine don’t forget the eye slides over page markings the page like the letters
being read here to know what’s yours
101 with child being bred by his
power Daddy’s. protection elapses one by one the pages are turned glued shut
pink all over again Coming in a pink thick jet the pink glass detains Daddy when directives
multiplying intrusive dictate this or wipe your ass in page glue to preclude posterity’s gaze
Are you talking to me Daddy? going from pink to sallow, the yellow color I get excites the relapse Please Daddy Please?
I beg.
too much elapse Communication the mandate for my transmission to recur unknown
the pages turn with the L program of Daddy’s knees when he sits electrons under lust over
the tongue sits too.
don’t forget to wipe your ass reads
the mysterious message. sleep excites Sadie from the watching bedroom the ensuing calm
Daddy’s original Batmobile conquers
102 the sleepy city continuing x-ray emission a discovered Swift
Observatory telescope finds the gamma source
a hostile Texas source AKA TXS 0506+056
in other words I pick her up later
when Daddy leaves
at Castro Street’s Mudd Puppies primped and VERY pretty in pink bows after her cut and wash treatment
the disappeared Batmobile the predictable heartaches
under turbulent Neptunian skies rebuild
the source Daddy reconstituted
for a time elsewhere kicks in. I can
handle it hoping actually not. too crazy lazy
to wipe my ass huh! he or she
remarks themself. instead of Daddy,
Thor or an Avenger inhabits the building Marvel DC comics has lived in. just to now. it’s raining pink rain. the cloudburst busted the inexorable pink pink pink beyond the reach of
known astronomy even more like a cotton
candy fog encompassing.
103
Wipe that smile off your ass..
take a back seat to the groovy future the smile
used to enjoy riding shotgun with
Daddy’s leer. and sneer.
the instructions devised not to permit or deny anything
relentlessly returning the vehicle to the shop
for new appointments on even groovier
borrowed
I’m a coming future pink with all my
desires to take the back seat in His Batmobile. a
Rolls or Aston nobody would choose to guess Range Rover swathed in
guess what Daddy’s girls all want them pink
The Texas house was a
blazar a supermassive black hole a known compression bends Daddy
into a second Daddy then third at
galactic center. Eastern Standard Time as
a default. Daddy’s girls feel like defects. Daddy’s
104 very large head in the familiar Neptunian methane clouds
rebut the casual
scanning Very Large Array scopes in New
Mexico it’s easy you can know ABOUT
Daddy but never him. his betrayed thoughts will elude.
overwhelming only
Daddy’s trans-sections or even transgressions
the parts continue
as parts without
the intruding doughnut hole
always knows its place to belong to Daddy is to be his possession. owned
and delivered high on life up in the sky.
Oh I just love it up here
once the smile never fades. the phenomenon
called the harvest moon
reverse engineered from some
lil piece of somethin’ that
fell off our downed Roswell flight. Losing
105 three of us makes them rewrite the calculations at a hearing in Superior Court
stenographically.
Her rays never fade. I do.
You do. but not her
and Daddy make Eternity like something
to sniff at.
Falsettos provoked.
Erasures. absence postpones the new pronoun
arrivals in the face of the likely or even
promising Of course these are not what you’d
refer to as vouched for like Daddy’s face is
without telescope with
the interference of banal floating
bits the mess of factual space detritus any
one of which will destroy
instantly pitting
Daddy’s man in the moon-face if Daddy and life coincide
what prevents my Daddy’s future
loss the eventual Daddy
goodbye appearance of him we don’t
think but just gulp don’t you? on this paper
106 the margins
of disappearing ink whose blood-pink leakage the unwary remember like sleep. zzzzzzzzz.
the falsetto erasure made by the absence of familiar words like new pronouns to get used to without a moment to adjust.
like ET’s coming back to what? when you say
le Haim I say le Deathim we who were dead once salute you your world is my world now
the picture of a zero temperature landscape removes
your case of the swaggers. Mine too will choose
to squawk with his finger the cunt
will wiggle and flail
but remaining reconstituted
pieces have the last word here. which is
just this one. Daddykins.
Here in space a leg a cock
and is that there floating by right now OMG an isle of… Langerhans as
107 if in his great reach or grasp what can lack your former parts
like your
circumference. This is or could be the alien curvature of our planet’s mass makes in the spacetime fabric. I adore fabrics of all
kinds of course. But the ones in pink most precious!
(Daddy’s favorite word for his girl natch!) this is
the universe in estrogen so get used to it boyfriend or die! optically
seismically anyplace along the bandwidth of
radiating you got nothin’ to
to fear except expect when a larger
being
sits beside you at your $600. seat at the next
the wraps are off
are falling like pink dandruff light pink camisoles and pinkish pink thongs
on NFL game I lightly
brush off Daddy’s dandruff
from the handsome blue suit coat shoulder
108 whose luminous
aquamarines cobalts colored teals is lethally remind
all your bets are off
on the back burner
an invisible
blue gas flame and flames flamboyantly reddish
bluish off on off on sweetie pie. Neptune you need often now to say the word Neptune aloud whisper the methane gel
at our poles pink dandruff
from Daddy’s shoulder. girlfriend. bro. girlfriend.
XX is XY undecrypted Xwhy
off planet
from the big blob you
see and name NEPTUNE
Seriously? as a heart attack. only the syntax
tickles your funny bone
in Area 51 meantime don’t see the wrong way is the right one or two or more count differently by
109 an alien calculus than ones
like our ’Tunian methane oceans here these our own Area 51’s
guards
Vanderbilt AFB the incoming pink moist
mist of pink lip gloss by Revlon nicely paired
the men returning down the ramp from the Greatest Generation will affront
Daddy’s sense
the most appropriate of boudoir wear he mentions only a bulletin
received via Seattle bouncing transducers know a
man-woman don’t get off scott free beauty secrets fusing one hydrogen
with another and boom! you get zillions of helium atoms now fusing in solar furnaces to whose Daddy energy
create gazillions more Revlon super-moist pink things the pink panties with red spandex bands atop
that China exports as cosmetic adornment is the same word kosmos
110 in Greek means the whole world too is falling rain-ruins down pretty chins Bruce dripping on
Daddy the plop plop plop delight he
wanted from me pretty pink chips yes pretty
as the male viewpoint is
tragic regret: the honeymoon’s great wish you were here! he writes
a postcard that returns not at this address or trading jokes like this isn’t it oh oh oh. what’s the difference between a garbanzo bean and a chick pea I’ve never had a garbanzo on my face,
This reverse engineer application cock at cunt Vanderbilt cock AFB once installed period. they call reverse something. so can I. you
can’t Daddy when
your core collapses it’s a supernova explosion as the final push that makes me squeal
the universe around me re-echoing the groaned
Daddy Darlings of your pleasure. that’s ensemble one
111
Ensemble two is different.
eyeballing the communicating ducts
the image of a foot meets the one of the shadow of space-floating
thigh-highs dripping
the tips of a mascara moon in image of his tickling fingers here at the International
Space Station when anyone sees my delight spasms from explorative fingers
of a hand that on Earth was Daddy’s. Can that be? maybe says mister starlight!
sinister say the seven sisters the yes of Pleiades
says be cool baby and just
let it flow princess baby quotes back Daddy’s earlier words reverse-engineered again
“Your makeup is terrible/ but I love you” spacecast on broadband
upload will it reach the sky Daddy-mind
when either on the
112 rebound or last legs
smeared by transponders in expensive Maybelline now decrypted out of the crypt
leer of the big honeyed harvest
moon upgrades the upload
swooping past gale-forced joy for
you Daddy?
I just want to x out across and reach you your anchor requisite bottled beer is Anchor
what goes down, the hatch? your tarantula tattoos a left slim but strong in another an engorged blood a Earthbound simulacra predator Our home stretch is Neptune.
I am just asking for the predator game again landing the parachute spores
in melt-down Think fast Daddy. in macro is one thing
texturing the surprise
between us transmissions end the home stretch a NASA Insight mission aborts spewing
instrumentation fermenting the spores
113 one lifelike pod a double of the other one never sprouted
back in Utah
among the gunners the hail
of bullets Remington rifles feeling
the unlucky non-Mormons
hit the dirt kills bugs dead among the time-space coordination that I want to return back with
you Daddy in the 19th century of the particularly fucking crazy
millennium we barely got out or alive or dead with you and those crazy-efficient Remington Mormon
carbines goes
to show something can I be with you here and there at the same time
Daddy there’s a Daddy implant and his Bruce one that belongs to his Daddy one all right OK?
like it’s all right me saying it even if maybe it’ll never BE?
114 Thank you Daddy for the different words I write here cuz in a while time will whisk them off
as the front door of the princess
can only swing inward so these pages and so
lines too and so so so won’t margins even margins all
white won’t even empty go away empty-handed too, Dad?
Hail and farewell then Daddykins?
punctuated spores adrift will the slide
of macro glaciation also make us
slip on ice cubes before
the home stretch ends up or down as it may?
Double daddy thatch hair six foot four azure in tint
though the eyes remaining two as in omni-time omni-space
shifting somehow have the two eyes the two ears the both noses
of us your younger more stretchable skin
with my older not flexible distressed skin all akin to ones made by Florentines for use as Parisian and New York ladies’ handbags
and such? is too much? or
115 in another time/space place will I get your finer nose mine for now in this interstitial more blunt simultaneously depending
depending not the wrong but right word? wanting
these lines to refer changing circumstances back to it
in unforeseen ways will not imbue the words lines paragraphs pages of the moment magically will they
can they be stopped
from dispersing
not just Daddy’s princess and her
writing but will even Daddy his own self happen to follow suit like Bruce come apart at the seems or appearances leaving just… empty? words
blown three blocks out of town past the general store left or right empty-handed the plain desert preceded all those Mormons and you can’t stay if you want babe
but Daddy’s girl
116 decided it’s time to
go and leave and just decamp “should I go or should I stay”
the contingencies this moment after all isn’t like everything somebody’s
writing too always changing on them?
Down the drain. the recycled repurpose is actually the
big ask of you or anyone
are we there yet, Dad?
the dots all connected fluffed up
but already isn’t the drainpipe filling up the doors are open
now the pink chiffon has soon stopped her lying the negligee no longer pleases Daddy is this the home stretch?
up there from here alone and stoned the UFO starlight from lookalike of the sugar-dust
star-fill
117 the spores parachuted to dry up in
the heat
can an alien call still hear you answer
a dial phone ringing loud Hello!
your former gnostic archon blocking the reply of the integrated circuit its departure confuses no reader I know or care about a lot or even a little girl in the parking
lot her mom left behind hears the phone ring and
the ringing ’s certainly for her. Maybe, Daddy. Maybe.
Do parachuted spores turn up
and surprise in the Antarctica melt slipping macro glacier cliffs in
a more granular fashion call just Bruce, Spencer. I ask.
repurpose the leers as tears,
118 say the delicious
sugar sprinkle above star groups parachuting
their spores.
A quick shower and holding the towel for Daddy.
he steps from the shower and grins. I toggle
back from granular to macro biggest. Tonight will have
its stars! the man in the moon the Mars bar. a
man turned woman vertiginously releases. it
figures he says it disfigures he says now is configured in beyond the motel blinds shut for the quick shot
of Daddy’s Jack Daniel’s? Go figure! repurposed
letters fade
reading a supernovas release of
gases
proceeding outward at Hubble Constant speed they release themselves at that distance the Milky Way
a giant doily I remember in
the store window the linen suit
seemed like it’d go pretty well on
119 Daddy gas-released
translating the Hubble Constant on a hot day like today
Daddy’s linen and boater under the eaves the plashing waters itty bitty waves rock Daddy’s boat in the lake he’ll be fishing
blue trout. He is always changing. Sometimes Daddy is that
hick country boy in coveralls at
an abandoned service station. Is this war time,
are we in WWII? Daddy looks sexy as the
Oldsmobile pulls up. Wipe the windshield sir? Daddy
says yes to another version of
Daddy this one with coveralls and nothing underneath revealing his manly chest. Thank you Daddy for
never being lacking. or always spying.
In the cornfields aliens mysterious design
decrypts
the code whose digits break the heart the pitchfork the straw
in a pink mess.
a sometimes poplar dirt and road
120 if you have ears to hear eyes to see despite the changing holographic delusions we have never moved an inch. there is no time as these yellow hayracks have never not be except as
the reshuffled Daddy image furrows brows, snickers smiles
and sometimes with unMormon profanities the top of his voice or Daddy’s pink wand taking twigs from one swaying cornfields add a retreating horizon. puzzled princess: is this just Daddy’s image
or can princess extract a conceal message with
new Daddy directions advancing the current language by ripping time-space?
your exit from the shower holds me up
with a towel waiting for your use Yaldabaoth in this particular praxis parataxis is every-fricken-thing dude! x sub-
stitutes for x in the Mother’s dark hold nobody sees nobody but you.
121
ends there. another time
looking up today’s disguised Mothership
as Daddy’s machines not ours.
His linen.
our
parachuted spores engage the other home galaxy’s sugar sprinkle of stars still unknown to the peering
Keck lens of Hawaii other beings after us accidentally
repurpose the
caboose of this 6th extinction of wrecked hearts writing between lines to you, painfully oh scholars
122
sugar-sprinkle stars just discovered
hat bridge when it comes to me, ur um us, oh stardust particles of that single anchor
very worn-looking anchor tattoo you must of
got when quite a big younger than now huh Daddy?
a nothingburger of a subject speaks these swooning
mouth-words to Daddy’s arm-ears in vain
a yes yes yes asserts him you can only the the fifth
when you’re guilty they claim.
never took the dual Daddy and his me beyond to reverse you
syntax against it the squawk from the throat the
123 antennas wiggling in sync these
ruins of us recall lines or pages not more flailing These fingers cunts hands legs cocks to-
gather at least one ensemble two
many.
reverse the installed application. rewrite
the pronouns.
Whispering from the holdover watching moon the stars too
say I LOVE YOU DADDY in quantum bursts
of energy across Stephen Hawking as listener
The mind you pay may be your own. looking over its
shoulder may be a price too much for the man in
the Stetson watching from the poplars whooshing in his breezes.
picking up his lint from
beside the bedstead or stepping up
for his first bottle of beer. I don’t
need a glass I drink from the bottle
Mormon high-tops come off
easily as later at the
124 sacrifice in the Salt Lake City temple
the pop! hiss! of a singlet removed I will use no other alien help
today it’s appalling to presume
an assistance placing gently
this garment the used wire hanger for it
buckles
really deserve the help this would give
other aliens?
Have another beer Daddy the sum of many other boot tongues
combine
when like stolen Mini vehicles on the nothing highway
cars disappear before star-rise comes at dawn who’s wrong who’s strong limbs flicker up and down
the military truck files of your
Earth-defense system. kidneys
propel carburetors along the simple glimpse
125 who’s watching more easily punctuated than I am by the parts of
Daddy.
my parenchyma is yours Daddy like an optional new
enclitic chow down resistance both vital
and useless in the discarded new forms communication reunites severing
your thumb Daddy boo hoo
goo goo in my mouth it’s plural
long ago refrigerated remains the disproportionately large-size of
head our Neptunian bile-ducts in chunks preserve
your ice-cubes. for later. a copula needn’t be expressed though implicit for instance the Volkswagen exhaust
issues there are other formerly new ways
also to discard Do not serve the servant he is doulos for
being used you can throw me away Daddy!
The flash of lightening serving as copula
126
resurface as channel-surfacing words the limbs found
in abandoned cars once teens parked
in horror movie before the appearance of Freddie.
Your two carburetors equal mine!
the dual person ate the aliens. if you leave the
room you won’t come back.
The eaters always eaten. There were
two such in the craft’s
operating theater who couldn’t your present-day number. the dual. or plural uselessness the useless attempts distinguishing deer frozen in Starcraft’s headlights shining Stephen King-ish
big organic or electronic bugs cleansing out
going burp! burp! burp! delicate hand or leg movements to the mouth a napkin will disabuse you
of any friendliness. these watchers. visitors.
you can stuff us all
into a length of large human intestine
burp! one of them is x just plain x own by Daddy. a possession.
Daddy DS Yaldabaoth or Samuel you get to
127 pick don’t you babe
(babe): an intrusive enclitic this computer changed to instructive
taints
the whole length of large intestine hundreds of billions
of bacteria digest an undisclose the message brings to the otherwise unoccupied fore. I am
your target. at
will. Take the Gresham turnoff Daddy before we
get to Portland please Daddy darling please? what difference is my past anyway it doesn’t smell like Love like no one scrubs
clean our two black hearts
a deletion of star-dust self the future memory cancels a bug like me
or Daddy’s six foot four blond-thatch frames a black heart for a machine scrub a dub dub glug!
Yaldabaoth. you target the residence of
dualisms going plural on you too.
a stink of cheap gin
128
attempts another message
among aliens of the milk bar scene neither Federation nor
Empire dissuades the pink predominance when scenting us the exo-planets wither from lust.
in discarding resistance to encountering a different or alien plurality cattle die on Texas roads radio silence inadequate to explore what mystery is us after all?! duh duh!! Dad duo dumbing down here where we live.
remember the new grammatical plural taking enclitics? relax and explore indicate
exasperation relearning
the urge to gobble down a steak dinner off limits you go you vegetarians! eat yourselves
why don’t you? kvetching always kvetching
in a little tub
cuddling the Neptune seas of melted
melting cobalt.
129 the absence of a diachronic in
woke blue bleach nothing remains
except the past remains organic life ruins whirling dust cloud our planet goes around here at Neptune seas
the sheen bounced off the ocean recreates a blue Neptune sky by Steve churns
white the methane billboards announced the
arrest of the souped-up cloud Chevy Malibu’s straining at a garage door of his Bruce possession.
I don’t fight it. there is a struggle
police persistence handcuffing black men the blurred occasioned by
seen as cataracts of unhappiness does the big
butt incur the same wrath or are the songs
a scandal as cuffed hands? that is freaky
what is her apartment like? is her boyfriend or girlfriend thing like me being with Daddy
130
then? too freaky/alien too she and together
in pink Mothership sisterhood? even if not same police harassment for us
still cuffed in pain hands links inflate a glow-grow new to the future groups
embedded alien control-remotes radiation bigger than love light maybe or maybe
snuck into Daddy’s
rolled-up tee-sleeves with the Marlboro ciggies can the dial-needle
again target pink pink pink? where do you park the pink?
put the the black men back on our Neptune seas which are also skies and our gas atmosphere looks that to earthly astronomy astrology confirms the science project of the blacker the berry in almost being blue.
on the white paper Daddy
131 the blue is black butt out but in the ink a past-projected teratological meat science
as us Daddy in pieces strewn left cold by the loveless dangling participle in-coming
asteroid belts spitting out voids
not eating the emotion
seeing plus feeling not looking eat the blood rage to relieve so many departed,
Daddy, as does this pink hole you
use this with pink impunity targeting heart.
the departed and to come. the past is passing
the coat hanger hook as I will always hang
up the black coat the mark of blood smear lipstick
can contain only maybe. we both know.
Reroute. a jolt ajar in the
finger in the pink of a
132 cavity
my Daddy my Daddy in the pink
of my back the throat belonging to him
the memory flash-attacks chocking on the hard of Daddy’s flesh
the pink of his Alien cock battering the alien uvula goes arg arg arg choking speech problems
in onslaughts of new language new
ways of being different the spattered
white drops left there the tears deny when my eyes ap- prove
in oncoming new the future language
makes cars disappear. lost in the interstate continuous not discontinuous
taking over along empty highway swatches the increasing bigger empty sucks black hole
cars are bellowing animals and empty of these car-animals
on the blank I-5 lanes the smash
crash aliens are bellowing
rushing
down crushing smashing Daddy’s
133 little Clianthus maximum flower me Daddy’s princess
in the repair shop a cannibalization of flesh-machine parts
when it’s T-5 before your craft depart the tarmac I am that T. the ignite and
inflate for you sweet Daddykins
on empty highways below the whispered tumbleweeds scuttling. Lane by lane, cowboy…
Daddy’s rust
dropping claims more than pants. Daddy’s cosmic body
angled sharply like his elbows squeezing out dead heavy metal music
or forces reassembly unwilling
nerves of cars probe Daddy’s love
for new
combinations sleeping akimbo in his pocket poking out
the drip drip
drop of my wet love orbs turning like
134 dead stateliness useless in this deep space
in Daddy’s cosmic body. pink smooching passes bye bye.
deserted highways
blowing tumbleweeds empty storms the remote compelling
a mix or assembly consists of the steering wheels and cogs limbs a rubber carburetor that I think doesn’t it hose off
a veneer combination pieces a mindlessly alien
back on the highway pieces of tumbleweed a converging
stretch the blacktop as I suppose it’s got
to be now blown up totally
Daddy the pieces of whose
flesh I’m flecking off the shoulders of your
beautiful shoulders darling! like
lint to hell and back
what monster instinct blackens your once human alien aortic valve your atrium
my cunt when
you in-slide and slide in
like an E.T. of now!
the highways almost empty
135 blacktop nearly gray and worn
the WATCHTOWER SOCIETY
has set up guardians Yahweh Yaldabaoth Samael and now you Daddy S
wow are you sexy, bud let me just be
cosmically probably. stellar packets
dip gravity dips and you flow from me to you.
you win Daddy myself to get little
as you keep getting bigger than
all get-out the Pleiades watching over us strengthen
the transducers relay messages
of support. thank you stars I love you big like that.
your footprint
in the Cascades Bigfoot Daddy
infinite periods traversed
getting here demands coordinates the drawn Nazca line the space-time needed
the alien portholes in jump suits poised
to clamp
136 all the traffic together to collapse all
the giant galaxies of you the scream just heard being
my mouth expressing
the unexpected entrance with tears a-flow the mouth a-jaw or a-jar grates on the
sensibility like a T-Bird displaced from
a cheaply produced movie Elvis in jail Elvis
at the beach and as ever girls huge-breasted calm
him more than the Colonel’s drugs
ever could: Daddy this one’s for you! you’re the unnamed future
unglimpsed like blimps high and slow
way no one sees the wording on
the banners trailing our present
to squint and try to see
what comes next.
the words have already changed you’re reading different ones to the ones
I put down in between the gravity
137 force of time configures the monster is
renamed as friend to one and all it’s a fact.
But the hoodie in a red convertible Disney Hall LA drives us slowly by before dumping before
valves spurting nothing escapes this
black hole does it? Daddy I’m begging pleading
mindlessly
the stained page that no light like a black hole you escape
with your lanky huge arms around I am that hoodie
I am that red convertible.
on Bunker Hill while moving I-5 southward
there is an end Tijuana Area 51 with aliens like us the mason jars preserve pickles who aren’t us for UFO tourists. easily fooled. as we are.
These will be the first words when from an emerging
cocoon its closely woven fibers stick with ichor. or something Daddy-like sniff sniff
yep it gotta come from
138 that ole Daddy a mine don’t you honey. Yes I
do babe yes.
the gravity number dips I am a friend
of starry heaven let us thru your portal Samael the recognition of
need to be born of heaven
combines with the
old-time hell fascination and we stop being
tourists.
Nothing to say. Or remove the vowels maybe.
or use both my
holes like Daddy does Yaldabaoth henchmen how many
does a heaven-slave need?
The empire. been there. done that.
ok the Federation. ditto.
future projections as segmentations of
the current ones? don’t think so. but
you’re getting warmer. a syntax made
with full stops isn’t consistent with the exclamatory
feelings patented by Daddy. He wins, yo.
139
count the decades and his replications
the cosmic Neptune hunch-persons
or outcomes of now-empty highways freeways
blacktops the exchange
black guys or white hoodie guys or gals
please simulate Samuel ’s systems sustain suppliants
to Saturn’s the toppled king Jupiter
wants a replacement of the incoming missiles destroy the swirls of methane prop T-x where x= (the love-algorithm makes a person yawn sleepy time gal- guy like me). wondrous x. x is so fab! I barely
constrain the pronoun you choose or use on me
babe it deals with me and me I shoot right back
atcha!
Cherry red apple the same cerise like a waxed
fashion of jackets the prediction of love
140 can’t be accomplished you won’t use words even close. you’ll never not have been
a virgin speaking of cherry. but always pink
like a breathy spray in spring if trees start to bud won’t
the pink-red blossom heart result and spare the outcomes? Duh I guess. my two pink holes. Use ’em. just
use me before you forget because I
might forget you. cherry as in pie too or a finger
in one anyway may I replace your
finger with anyways an inappropriate word?
Crazed regret.
the key to my front door after all even
before the craft’s doors open to welcome you you
the alien cloths the surgical
gowns hands washed me puking oh oh
oh you poking all things Daddy mean control-Daddy?
On Neptune no need for
loneliness exists as in
141 the dirty little motel room the name
Minister of Loneliness
of her majesty’s gov-
ernment the UK or United Kingdom has
for losers the earthling inclusion no
compromise to an alien exclusion that’s frankly kind of
pathetic if you ask me! Okay don’t if you don’t want to heart it. I could care. but won’t for you.
what formerly clean ragged curtains
can draw the motel curtains for our advantage the
need for provender back home: for us the little bacteria
and fungi bore badly the backbone breaks
nobody from falling we need meat the defense calls to
the stand LOGAN’S RUN first and also SOYLENT GREEN thank
you very much you can step down now please.
implicit to explicit when it comes
to warnings. I’ve
always been as close
to you as this page.
142 dirty chiffon curtains
they aren’t coyotes the red-eyes outside
see hew haw dirty pink of various
holes the quivering uvula I know. Hush.
you’ll be okay now don’t open
that mouth again. Hear?
the strength sapped out of me makes understanding easier for you all of you
an arriving vehicle preventing flight
attendant checks more handsome than when calling
at the kiosk to be handed an orifice-expanding range
the emotions cross the spectrum fear is awe and awe the rapid measure
of forgetting self the alien loses
your past human for you thank
him and yes it’s a him taking on a her
a snaking garden hose with the faucet turned on twisting turns or turned against something. the obstacle of
143 the finger at the opening the increase of pressure created by this the outcome is much more explosive now
Vice. the mind in blinding dark radiance
the cast-off human the folds of former stupidity the inhuman
exponential lucidity growth this time I
give Daddy I just give up
you’re too much I swear! brushing
off the lint from Daddy’s gentleman-like shoulders
carefully with all due respect.
Don’t read this. or
if well do it as perverse as you can for your own sake. I can only
sap the humanoid
so far before choked my
strength all checked now received in wide embrace
the open spacecraft doors that’s it. HIER STEH’ ICH ICH KANN NICHT WEITER
carried off the wind makes you
want to do what it tells you to like Daddy does or brain stardust as it piles up
144 the accumulation is the home consciousness for sure that was Daddy’s unmoving
body under wishy-washy waves waving like the pennant when
an umbrella drink is ordered to table by
the waiter waiting. it’s liquid. non-binary.
all fluid-y like here at home Neptune can be. blue aquamarine changing to cobalt but
the parameters of blue don’t change. They’re good
to go. any time.
Daddy.
sapping the strength choked out of
the vehicle whose categories the arrival is
oh no is Daddy
going to leave
the tiny portion of
reserved space in the temporal love thru
that window over there? Bruce red with
145 shame. well what kind of taxonomy
is obvious and non-obvious, precious?
taxon one is taxon two. the
uninhabitable previous. so what.
my low-minded pink panties his high-minded Mormon sense of manly reserve
who cares taxon one, taxon two
in any case you’re
going to have
some kind of hive mind aren’t you?
up in the attic down through the storm doors there’s a root basement. filled pickled something
body parts or better than that for you
the shoelaces can tie and untie with impunity. you can’t
stop it. I am so ashamed to be exhausted limp feet dirtying the clean bedspread OMG Bruce Daddykins
what lust what tears fall upward the lucidity
increasing brakes
146 the SPLAT of the fall.
There is a galactic tic toward pleasure reckoning with the swarm mind created unless you give in
the light of desperation, lucidity in other words. too bad. You can try again. I do. Hey
Daddy did that time count?
He’s on the floor. exhausted.
the body down of cavorting panties
slipping form the legs are the female part the
male part of the entity or being is Daddy exhausted.
galactic tic or milk curds and whey a last directive
that pleasure deserves
inside alien Aristolochia ridicula the white cup
crunching munching making a sound like a rusty door swinging open
groaning moaning do these Daddy’s pussy-holes slobber on his boots his Levi’s cowboy jacket too
watching the bright ember
147 of the glowing tip of Daddy’s cigar light up the
room with monsters ever brighter
than the tip of Daddy’s little girl’s nose does as she goes
bonkers with her
Flight Commander on launch to a new galaxy? oh my oh my is that what Bruce thinks maybe maybe maybe
gelatinous baby love-hole joy-dish crazy paddling
if the kitchen or bedroom floor had linoleum but it doesn’t make much sense to suppose
for practical purposes shouldn’t a reader then imagine like, bower bower of bliss maybe or
what’s that word
the poet Baudelaire used to make use of, alcove? should you call it a wormhole punning instead, should Bruce think of the wormhole pleasures
of transportation to Neptune?
and Daddy’s little girl goes bonkers—alien crazy
148 to quickly serve Daddy his joy-dish again and again the love-hole
spills over to puddling the kitchen linoleum floor in American amber preserved forever now.
kvetching complaining absent of Daddy boots is the new Bruce one of Daddy’s favorite
pussy love-holes
deny the sky-outlier nastiness
I go you mean like testato monster alien
it go you home free pussy drama queens
go home sparkly Daddy exo planets gleaming like cows munching grass peacefully NASA
Venus-algorithm Neptune
gets her back up when she’s fearsome.
sparkling radiant problems rearing us become sky- monsters outliers aliens there’s no name really
just us is all no name.
Hands? Yes! Heather? Jeremy? yes you Jeremy! would
149 you be kind enough to tell the rest of us what’s gonna happen to us
us I mean US? hands? cat got your tongue Shoilme? lost for words for a change?
spasm to descending starlight did it? and land right
on us all by golly!
Daddy love-holes and his Whitmanesque wide-prairie gophers
today’s Groundhog Day popping peeping out
peeing on pinkish lavender exfoli- ations prevent you Daddy
Daddy
we prey from
setting alien limits that the weak will reveal to you you take no prisoners Daddy alone reaching a motel for instance for resisting it you’ll stand alone the
figure on the empty ground
150
your shame reddens my pink cheeks
your cock the hole of my rosebud is yours for the taking.
holding the right combination of smarts and emotions starring
the first with a fucking cameo of or by the second
of whose misfit
alien nation mine/ yours?
taking by cosmic inflation now dead spirit-hostages.
I-5 ends with
you driving at Le Mans not TJ.
abject fear prostate
looking at regard old skin a-trembling
was I ever falling abjectly hard on my
nose with its bleeding. what
color was what comes out for you did with your Darth Vader looks
who haunted the pink worm my birth rolled out Daddy,
a wheelbarrow is required to roll our and lift
151 your whirling testicular
orbits transcribe the Kuiper belt
planets doff the bright exoplanets of
the star system star-system
the circling planets of your smoothed balls undamaged of any
TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE waiting to
bat away the humble person me it’s me
who like your manservant Daddy awaits your shower exit holding the
the luxury towel
another pleasure often required of me by your Daddy Steve
nameless faceless stepping boldly
out
for whatever occurs needs wildly into Daddy’s head popping Daddy’s needs oh Daddy orifices proliferating of mine not darling
the discipline Samael face
the Yaldabaoth of mildness and nurture face compensation outward
for an unnamable Daddy
152 to be taken care of
carefully heeding any and all
HP Lovecraft instruction issuing
from the unthinkable YOU DADDY
cruising crashing stumping the atmospheric barriers too to meteor projectile penetration I am rejoiced the product of Daddy-juice needs tender concerned encouragement
to feed the mouth
the other opening in time during a certain number of
years
not a Samael face of discipline in favor
of the sun face Yaldabaoth sky-archon I will again
face as Bruce does at the unnamable before it
can even happen that he wants his princess Bruce to take care of for
Daddy’s sake for Yaldabaoth
can turn a moon face benevolence his sun face
to retract all bedtime disciplinary are there them as your considerations too DS?
like you’re
of the faceless nameless godless the intrusive newness that
153 can’t won’t stop
humanoid-alien pod disgorges Daddy’s testicles require an alien
worship his smooth shaved foreign seeming balls of flesh I love in pink squared but round
transcribing past our bases in the Kuiper belt
hard cock intermittently tickling of my alien as a kin convenes as a speech problem begets the new coming pleasures in a flash! past the Kuiper belt considered
home to you transcribed back in memory seen from
a future as past, gone. only a dog goes after this bone. a problem a dog’s flea landing on it produces answers looming away into the void taste dark
computer HAL pushing away Dave’s team- mate out into a 2001 space odyssey delirious like dangling another the participle for
154 the crew to mop up dangling participle behind left for the mop-up crew. refashioning this memory left by language pulls the coming new speech forms
in. too.
there’s a momentary mental re-routing you perceive as a uvula.
if you’re from
still further out beyond the Kuiper belt
not a damn thing can be done. Just take your lumps.
Daddy and I do. why you-u-u-u-u-u-u who too not also then as well?
the light pink sparkle of lips or your can
outline them use eyeliner that’s all. the
other system’s orbits as unpredictable as the
instructions for eye-shadow us aliens
just use Bowie type glitter think it’s ok
off-road in a motel
155 Daddy or rejoin I-5?
BLOOD CRANBERRY BLOOD RASPBERRY BLOOD UNDER YELLOW HARVEST FUCKING
MOOOOOOO-N and then the E.T. hat tipped
Name them count them
in this language our brains
only eat and are eaten ungrammatically
in the next sexually
and so on thru the whole f-ing is multiverse its name
right now?
Ties or bonds tie each to each
these are called emotions.
Learn them, Klatuuu,
you first must cell by cell
branch the existing ones out picking them
to pieces effluent of affect
once again
when at Neptune. all blue
156 what today look unsyntactic teratogenic only swims tomorrow’s
undreamed transition to be left for dead.
the white person’s
lack of affect turning blue.
hide quick or you never get found out as the human who’ll never
never
food emotions overflow the teratological onset
of deflected left for dead pieces
of a past
made glorious new without tantrums. I just tell Daddy
OK yes Daddy OK yes do what you want to whatever you want is glory.
or a story I’d never try to stop
you sweetie pie
like this narrative never attempt
is an ever-safe no starter no
brainer but eye-opener of something higher. Cars asses whooshing
157 the eye-five corridor. you
at a imaginary wheel. duh!
Licked and pink-licoriced glossy is matte or i can
shimmy on carmine favor in
lipstick will on and off please or answers prey
on the backsides of predators.
tangled severed
limb-flesh all over the ’50s convertible
shining in the
police-man politely. kick the tires but
it will not sell harvest the data to
monetize us. to buy
a new one you need a mouth y’all. Least I did anyways did
you sweetie Daddy?
I couldn’t be more warped. opening the tool belt
the ma-ship her maw. Barney and
158 Betty Hill at mid-century the sex-part expert
operation in the operating theater of
their ships. it hurt real bad
still does like a piece of new
language intruding bug-eyed full
confidence holding sway today
in the musty
like basements of burgs like
Corvallis or
Cottage Grove off I-5 for autos. Them
good stuff! far off in eastern Oregon the very large array telescopes see
us clearly Daddy Steve the name
of the Northern lights like phenomenon called Steve
waving ions another type of Aurora Borealis
can you see it
name of Spence
or Steve you get a pass tho with a bunch more smarts wouldn’t you just
159 die to learn about the ion wave saves
you the effort if you’re smarter a tad. You will be.
In the future.
Nobody’s a dumbbell tho listen up
On the man’s tool belt hang hungry mouths.
a tool belt hanging.
depends a noose. oh those hungry open mouths in need of
Daddy all the dreck of on the mothership’s
deck in words
warp speeding kicking
the future language of Daddy’s shiny Thunderbird
its white walls
completing the onset of some other
I-5 in a spacy something
cosmological
into new planets they can easily devoid
the android/replicant
160 of slavish
mad randomness forgetful the glory
the unimaginative radiance in pasts
chains unable to move or unravel the hologram-image
of Daddy at the wheel
the tires of sports craft or whirling spaceships thank him for so ecstatically!
It’s only glamour. the glamorous love-satellites high so directing high above
I-5 traffic males souped-up sound
makes
the stardust outsmart even Captain Kirk’s
knowledge of the way you sound
deep-chest your voice pastes to
the spun-sugar clouds adrift with your original Mormonism DS
lying in Orion’s arms
Daddy Steve taking me. taking five means
161 taking off time from pretending to be
monsters and aliens
Fred and Ginger
where together I do everything you do but backward
and the high heels perched
above a mimetic view of life as language where
I can get a lot pushier with you than push comes to shove
body interaction the Mothership
quiet watching the action from a corner of the beautiful dust of the bedroom laminating your beautiful eyes of
leadership to my dog Sadie with as yet to grammar
ruling us huffing and puffing
we remain dust bunnies
of interchangeability nothing not inseparability shows the watching
aliens hidden
like pieces of small meteorites
162 in and about Jupiter’s rings a tantalizing connection astray of your tongue
my ear you hot stellar
my mundane smoking the
Marlboros I’ve always
loved one by one
stolen from your
manly rolled-up tee-shirt sleeve
like a mid-century advertisement of glamorous exhibitionism.
Got that Daddy?
“Don’t overthink it, baby” comes
a well-articulated
voice this side of the butch tee. I
get it. the coming new and alien ways need you to make room for them by zoning out. or in.
as the case may be.
lowing cow-ship full of alien interchangeability the fungibility
the random assemblage
163 of underpants smelling of used sperm skies of spun sugar ruin
present DNA/languages
to drill a large enough
ahem! hole if you’ll permit the expression
for the utterly different and alien futures to widen even
more of us opening up unknown casual future readers
as the new rulers us? we’re
just temporary in charge as a group only of a tiny place which isn’t the time or place for Spencer
or me because all unknown as a pod person
your being voice
group-selfs to this impoverished imagination
would look to combine a bunch of you though flipped molecules altered by becoming the dog hair of one of my Sadie’s now reigning or else raining
down as our really dumb picture of
164 what you a group speaks
like a language is in return just
how a hologram projects itself. In mid-century
this looked like
Wilde Root Creme Oil.
In
The Fly just one molecule shapeshifts into a slurping
proboscis instead from the prior nose of the protagonist
anything can be anything plus we may not know this but
if you’re not aware i’ll eat
my hat. yesterdays at the flick
of a switch there can always be a gear turning to make it tomorrow.
tenses can hop any time from there to here to up ahead of us/you/them or affix meaning all of them and
will you realize
if your mind’s on for instance the prick you are about
to sovereignly suck down
165 inside past the uvula into the depths of a throat that may after all belong to
what you may name for instance an else-someone? motherhood is otherhood
alienhood to her a fetus eating away
an normal American woman’s
substance you
want to CELEBRATE?
aborted as mushroom seeds
falling
teeny tiny parachutes unseen
except two inches from your nose the easily aliens shot down
and splattered just use your pea-shooter.
who is Satan’s spawn and who isn’t?
can a language be constructed to blur this?
(I’m sorry can you speak up please I can’t hear you so good!) (did you say yes?)
okay then. take five.
166
nesting in Daddy’s arms I feel like a tarantula
in Daddy’s thatched yellow hair clumps
the multiplied legs on me equal eight something on the march
kinky on the go like her following
commands
Daddy do you
feel signals
going out
from the alien antennae and guess
what
the sounds of a new language
when our new coins are minted its tonic scale
has added another tone two maybe
even replace the dated
familiar subject object only the enclitic of SIRIUS’s signals register with its
commander. these naval base San Diego waters know
you again.
167 once again SIRIUS signals
the somewhat gawky
spray-on navy uniforms
of subs on a wolf-like lurk
in blue the
vertigo hitting I striking they
the propositional impact
outcomes. We are only
their sex consorts
our asses kicked majestic as the stately cobalt blue to paint our lips with
on Neptune. As aliens.
stop didacticism. bring spores to their
knees. now
you feel better babe?
use the dual person here in the language form merge
you have a two-fer. and the light fuzz
you’ll find on my wrist copulates
with the heavier of yours when its hide
hung on hooks hanging
their heavy body when it is skinned the leakage destroyed veins
168
a pink left-handed thing its metallic blue I love to call LOVE
peach began to fuzz. then shaved.
i wore pink
you agree a silence thudded
to a halt
Mothra lives flying the upsweeps
the genetic mutations await hidden
in Los Angeles sewers ever greater sums of its goo spewing and summoning
with great shrieks
ever closer more obstinately
shake the Valentines to Daddy. the posted
LOVE valentines speechless of meaning teach
all specks the hand of stop
to my neck of your smiles as love love love oh Daddy DS
posted valentines of speech turn off the mind
at the limits of reason and meaning
a refreshment the blue planet posts its red non-meaning
Valentines
169 in silence turning on LOVE as
minuscule bandwidth adjusting triangulate toenail to our carbon oceans where is the still unseen
Ninth Planet now why
is unmeasurement your measure oh writer?
the negligible swaps needle swings. meaning i suppose those triangular
readjustments photon to photon lighting up
Daddy’s Mormon skin his black heart his bloody slippery silently liver glow
up the boots fuzz hair
make possible lip contact hysterical the quote marks escape
us between these words bestrewn pages
a torn-off ear in
German clarion urging
wachet auf wake up people!
the response of sleepyheads
planet after planet top
to careen or surf
the bubble babble expanding the
velocity of the quest to warp speed
170 plexus nexus nexus tangles
of quantum entanglement the message to me
the once decrypted connect or re- so. copulating grammar or dropping copulas first come first serve. Who wouldn’t?
in Volkswagen bug zipping along
at top speed just
rescinds another ’s recension as the one last read
replaces instead of my
own nipples some girl I know’s nice rack says ET
wachet auf people it’s
hard to get woke? i
first the now contrite
bubble body breaks plexus or rank
as a plangent heart babble you know?
I claim the least expression!
copulation. drop the grammatic copula. cavities
hidden alien bases unfold. our aircraft though we often spell it with a “k”
not a “c” can
171 alien be taken by definition that girl’s rack
the gulp! bulge in
the man’s is more bilge in the heart’s cargo-hold.
Daddies of a cold Antarctic the looming Necronomicon
figures the uber-icy cube-figure storms with its his I think the so-called immunity of cock presented as a raison d’être. I buy this.
this guy has
a heart too or is it heart-shaped cock?
lurking quotidian doubts the poet
goes interchangeably driving by noted
as need for pink tongues to caress pink leather seating as
the drawstring pulled white
the vehicle is in transit to Mars or Venus seen thru
new AI algorithms. or not seen.
looking at the beaver magazines Stephen Hawking can’t easily concomitantly with the
last paper written prior to
172 his approach to the end of life some hallucinogenic powder that molecule
is me Daddy on the upswung draft of wind without permission at all. None of it.
you won’t know.
In MOMMIE DEAREST at the end Tina’s
brother shameless admitting before the casket packed flowers AS USUAL SHE HAS THE LAST WORD Tina righto?
huh! wise she
writes book on real story of Joan unglimpsed
the revealed one by one
aliens with no hair
aliens with hair pulled back crudely as mullions
like guys with cars on cinder blocks working
on ’em in their front yard yum! coat hangers can hurt
more than mullions do encased maybe
as pink tongued leather seats driving Daddy cars is
this a define for what? quotidian but not sempiternal
173 love will from discretion no doubt need
to draw shades in this motel room
Tina the coat-hanger narrator will she always then not no way be
able? the motel-space-station unit eruption discounts
how from the closing Venetian blinds
flurries of pink tongues a-clatter agog is a long go-go party with the pink residue
marks of the lipstick marked mine.
and yours too, bro. in a future as yet can u see? as now also yours? stop thinking let
alien life
possess you even if i know
you have a rilly tiny tiny dick y’all. no
make that especially. then above all.
especially y’all need
like Jupiter its satellite planets I
need YOU fluttering about me anxious to
please me pretty in pink you are fireflies flitting for me pretty skirts
show you off to your best and
174 all together about our suns whirling.
The highway continuum punctuates cars rule of the road demands sheriffs. spit on
me as I say that. in handcuffs thanks bud! we know
what i mean what are we doing PO BOX 2287 in
San Leandro top seeks slutty bottom any race age do not matter either party n play take it
like a man. or a woman who likes to watch
I’m ok with that too does she swing?
cloud-love messages barely the states can dissuade from
or the converse. alien is just alien.
where will it end when instead of love the riffing power
currents beneath human divine love with each moment sweep up
and will always destroy. you know that,
like the ink dissolving as you read
what does love transform to among the bumper cars bumping
on the ferris wheel of changing moment by
moment.
175 cocks to lips mind to kidneys kidneys
attached to the asteroid now demoted and formerly known as
Pluto. Shut the gate, Angelica. Cross your legs
like a lady Harold
today a lady
tomorrow
a mist the food stuff of gnats mosquitoes
there’s something I hear in
the backyard Emma I’m afraid
will you go see and find out? thank you for now you’re in your lane
but later? you’ll see.
syncope. saliva spit out to please you. say
thanks. yes I needed that. thank you. the
pucker -ing love-hounds continuously connecting and dis and
then they make it re again. the
love hounds. little dots on the white paper
of continuity won’t the taxonomies you make of
them make you glow moan turn
on your back legs up begging for
176 starlight to pierce you again?
I once identified as LOVE.
LOVE once opened me
and I forgot to close up again and the gate’s still open
as new galaxies
enter and thrill you saying goodbye and hello to the lined up spacecraft that
follow the empty alien isn’t to
Daddy a downdraft of hive mind beyond
wily frequencies these message the sedentary emis- sions tarry
and terrify the time (being) within Saturn innermost rings
no delay nor can will love ever brook the decay
our shelf-life mode of language organs written largely to adequately hide the replacing arriving future
with your
177 far-flung relay exoplanet pronouns. as a brand new Mini sedan.
with Daddy engulfed. what Love then universally diffused can qualify Him?
kinky kinky little star do you wonder who you are
without him now?
hides closed from hive mind frequency and
when does the active open alien body soul?
something quotidian. the away-team shutdown.
its benefit to pain pleasures beneficiary of
planet human monsters
thru pain you
don’t expect you learn
without doing it
The strangeness.
178 alien bodies of the spiritual
copulation of your hive-minds operating
on the frequency. closing off the
away-team off.
LOVE
again and again adrift in space
the reopened spore journey ends not this once there are no limits ever again
silent clarion calls re-heard again
too Drop
on us the metallic blue Neptune mountains oh us
spores
many lipsticks alien blowjobs
try but can’t top and define. it
resurfaces the meaning of blow
job. lipstick. absent the spirit who’s
ever heard of blue blowjobs blew
lips blow up the harbor Please welcome these new pleasures
179 as the David Bowie-like transform the voracious body to ingest new linguistic foods
also
greeting the welcome the new spirituality’s onset. information boiling off yet to be defined
new spiritualities on guard to resurface pronominal
limbs to redefined pleasures.
spray jobs or blow jobs.
awakens the spray of
auto-painted squadrons metallic blue
surfacing again under the blue sentries on guard
for the incoming information-
particles. The Mothership in glory to bed re-awakens a spray
of squadrons of autos all painted metallic blue for us this time Daddy! blue like
a blue marshmallow squatting at
the Neptune um, should I say surface if it’s
180 more of a gas thing we talking here
when I think solids all date
from an earlier time. we were reptiles. blue.
Nobody new pink yet.
implying sperm licking it off you Daddy
a pink joy still blue reptile. oh when still a long way
whispering Seven Sisters the Pleiades wept for you like
oh Niobe or some other chick.
a fem gay guy. Command them said they growling other ones heard like archons driving an old Oldsmobile drive Dad
he said who at the mom-time
is it called muff-diving then? in the coming
new languages you might for instance want to use a another word. use similitudes
Bruce ok
dude I will.
181 instead of petroglyph geoglyph. establish
a primacy
feeling does over intellection the emotion spreading circles
on high alert wake up the truck guards too bad.
it might be the thymus responding not
other areas of a brain map
transmission not transcription. Daddy picks me up bodily
splaying out
the respond body parts of what’s only a unified me when Elsa Lancaster’s galvanized it is a electrifying moment David Steve
when something pushes up a boredom of interest in
one or more holes opening
to the eye of the beholder Daddy
it spits up a facial that could have
arrived before but the cum
is a train
the future also may derail. Not yet please tho!
182
emotion tenses tensed up in
letting go we of the blue saw
thru the porthole a white and blue planet
word without the attempt to transcribe this
along Nazca lines clearly visible into
sight here’s the runway
of mid-century freeway cars
in a good guise where opposite
the venom contamination
von Deutschland’s Autobahnen damals. Get it? success limited our imposition of your
new language chance
driven since rules ossify the aleatory goop
burping bumping assembling dissembling the present’s perspectival decay
doesn’t last long if have have say 90mg
morphine extended release it’s a sex exchange chopping down the
183 rabbit hole a whole stock exchange
controls randomly, there’s an aleatory-spiritual Darwin called Natural
Rejection. what
a word smith that D-word is was everyone wants
pleasure it’s a whole
opioid crisis Epictetus’s please could have
understood my need for Jack Daniel’s
but not Morphine Extended Release the stars
in their gravity troughs planets circling their stars why not
just admit the future retrieval of spiritual
he may poke a cigarette in my face hole
will you smoke it now dammit yes for
pleasure’s sake Sir yes Sir yes de-
fine spiritual is the challenge the moon’s smiling cheese-face
and a sweet reply: you old Jack sitting
in a shot glass the combination of
184
DMT the night-vision goggles of intrude-talking of aliens along
Nazca lines
as dad was buffing her
her what? the number of letters in Oldsmobile spells Mothership in
our language people get with
it! don’t you
got just one this one freaking life
beyond the
grave if reanimated? I thought so!
you humans like chimps in kindergarten
while next door
there are humping bonobos more connected to
star-drift. than you drifting death spores have guessed would be destiny
instead of chance.
kinky commands
on the go antenna commands obey the leader to follow you okay?
185
Intimidation comes natural to us.
Meantime back on
I-5 the percipient wheelies the revised driver- cars
do make only sense to aliens. look again. off-road
Dad’s big SUV is doing that. being in the back seat,
me too duh! that the sound
of new new new
reparsing the
lost no stolen pronouns
dunked like drowned
cats wrecked autos
unwieldy sentences send other messages different to what? oh
they cosmic star-holograms
Daddy in his big black SUV
out on I-5 somewhere south of Salem
Oregon snooping on each
passing vehicle tires to a halt gone
squealing.
186
across from the La Brea filling station
disgorged strays a
Pleistocene cat belches original first light glowing in the gloopy gunk ugh!
mammoth steak The Flintstones eat ’em
on stone tables like home. Whew that spew.
the gunk really stunk. does burping up
past future make home
it or just now how to remember this?
a gulped up future at La Brea hello!
bones gonna
walk around
meat gonna fall off the X-ray
of a ghost hand typing away on this on this keyboard for you. tiny bones of Mrs. Lot
spewing up
surfing the tar pit joyfully as if
187 covered in the
Neptunian blue slime-mold we paint bodies and words with. The cobalt blue arrogated to himself
to his cock alone by
Krishna
DS do you realize
in the throes yours too blue do spectrally express with a dual-person
an optimal as futurology tense?
Mrs. Lot when turning around to look back
at that fled city
is the X-ray photo of my
natural antennae fetus bones poking up
and out even now beaming star smiles
toward our race’s secret hangars on the blue glug glug glug of future Nepture.
Your old-man mind is beautiful like the lovely blue hazed
of Neptune
188
that as yet solarsystemology will fail to investigate
before the past happens—and we’re still
blue. the loveliest of Picasso’s phases the Blue Period say connoisseurs. I really LOVE
that way of thinking don’t you? Are you
still listening to
this love song—like Krishna always is blue painted among his milkmaids looking
for pussy as he likes to do. milkmaid pussy. it’s a scattering
of blue starlight for those loving pussy as much as me and loving
what’s between you and your legs like
a reliable vehicle on
overdrive
when every starts in speak
a vague sort of Spanish as we ride off a ramp near
the Latino airport the hangers
with the alien planes go beautifully darker in
skin tone even the waiter is saying Ola! quel tal! to us
tight pants
189 tell a more sinister story recent stained
alien spores make the Times Mirror building a big
slimy Mrs. Chandler left decades ago.
changing things
no they changed already I think.
recent.
What other loves. a Latin or Latino tint unpredictability
creamy goes tan or quite beautifully dark
as the light shifts or something
may pale to almost a light green
like guacamole temperament range too
who are you know
if your mother from Sonora
having been dignified now the tinder
catches with you sometimes or like my helicopter
repairman who I loved nearly a year—to some kind of sweet protectiveness cathedral and barrel cactus abound but not in LA
in Malibu where my sister lived for a while the missing World War II US pilots
a generation slips down
190
some generational stardust ramps
and step up
to you molecules Daddy either in-culpable or -capable
just before ignition when
everything was a crunched up to a pin out
the Enterprise ordered brand new uniforms
the US Air Force its slowly dragging hours first the
come the Dog Day afternoons
and fun-colored Jack Daniel’s even the cigarettes really are pretend
pink chocolate you have to eat
once again before or after sweet sticky sunset rays
hit the pink pedal too. I could
go on and on about
this drinkning Jack Daniel’s again
days went by then hour drags hour
did time just compress the walls of
our motel room compass needle spinning
compresses us
191 mess-ups created
in and for Daddy’s ability to wear simulated Air Force uniforms come the next day, week, month, year or generations can go by before all the electrons
of your previous nucleus have gone farewell. From Malibu
to the stars.
to you Daddy Steve, Daddy Spence. not a culpable awareness
the creatures walling
you off will only later get reconfigured by the coming
Language.
like the surprising shifts of light in anyone’s Latinx paling differentials
of the light on a given day before ordering
guacamole. we will all look all blended in
the future by beautiful new hues ranging across all skin colors into
a new language.
Captain Kirk makes for fun
in those idle moments preceding discovery
of yet another beautiful yet threatening
world already on the
192 way out.
capers in a still mostly old sex/language but on a horizon
lie what new ones, sexes languages already beginning
like us their downhill down down down
to a gaping entropy
opened jaw offing the lid
of the universe’s now opening mason jar.
wheelies
A girlie Captain Kirk sees what whole universe.
entropy out-shifting. Captain Kirk’s wheelies. or
girlies. a toothsome twosome is we here yet future be parsing into while tangled legs entwine your cephaloid
language.
new joy is this sex
language shooting out in a sperm rush of words linking other sperms to
to this one’s ovum to other ovum
193 it’s all dark here dad all thru the window. look at that shotgun looking back at
you you little shit. Daddy
you big
Daddy don’t let the shoot go please blank us
out again until a new
one takes place. Did you mark it on
your calendar?
what a toothsome twosome
scope the methane rains a deluge
streak on the white-wall tires of a sentence written so much earlier i do hesitate…
well earlier this mid-’50s Thunderbird I
or the writer dissembled want- ing to have Daddy
to take out little Bruce for a spin
194 span spun it’s over the glitch involved in the methane memorances
fabled blue Titan Europa
pieces of pixilated mica
defeat the echolocation patterns that’s the infamy of entropy! you have
of the Flinstones a Fred a Wilma in New Hampshire Betty and Barney Hill missing twenty minutes of Earth
time under alien
scalpels on their sex parts. as have i
and did Daddy Steve have this done to him too? time out of time and back into it never left it to
begin with it may turn out better the the re-echoing selves that push
the body-tangle agglomeration of letters or
memes for a one-time
configuration to be replaced with another
195 pixilated methane rains again. and again.
predators of the auto showroom on display north along
I-5 in Canada no light display
named Steve by astronomers, no lie a cloudy ionization preying on
eating up the other
cars from the auto showroom
new tires all tired now
all tuckered in the noggin by the noise.
Some fun when the strong always rule they do? I tell you
a Philips screw driver depends from every
Kuiper Belt in your alien
cosmos, sister-brother!
the planet’s pliant message
she-mails the various contraptions
196 the pliers the belt that whacks your butt the astral array of torture recoups the
pain senders from this black-hole world by what Stephen Hawking called barely visible emanations. something leaks out
Navajo codebreakers of WWII can decipher what you
must know how to penetrate
when they are hungry. squirming like a mess a worm’s gone fishing the rings
of Saturn for replicants to take home. On a
Flintmobile somewhat like
Fred and Wilma’s stoned and stony car
extending cosmic message boundaries till senders and receivers
of all sentences
are the same.
one hydrogen atom joins another and voila a new one
is born. helium. this continues. traces or
something behind. sentences can be made of
197 written signs or energy ones.
it hardly don’t matter.
It will go well for you I
told cadet Thor
a reanimated Viking. He
agreed but his wiggling
big toe seemed like it was flirting as a message.
The future new languages never
started never end. You’re just a lucky son of
a gun if you access by chance that’s all. Work’s
don’t mean nothing. And
yeah babe he’s like awesome. that is
being an afterthought
’s far from
like making you
unimportant girl, got that dude?
decrypt me fuck
me and hold me tight
till all that love’s
out flooding the world written marks decoded this time
198 they’re not thoughts duh but emotions, feel-
ings FEEL me please tocca mi qua. qua. means RIGHT
here on me.
decryption only when used
unwisely. or
adapt. you choose. but before you enter
that door. after can take care
of itself.
accessories after the fact of friendship. in this
court of law no subpoena no grand jury
but an expansion of the mind of the driver of the Toyota.
if there
were any freakin’
idea at all you folks had
we’d all everyone
we’d collapse. Tell that to your leader. It
199 is our planet’s message to you.
all this of course simple predates friendship.
I do. you do. we all do. sputtering spitting like a Mothership set turbocharged engines the always
unpredictable paraphrases the phrase
mission creep.
Eye has not seen nor ear heard says Paul
an apostle. the
Mothership a meaningless figure unless as clouds part you see undreamed of
glory. glories. like a
Holy Ghost preacher hollerin’ in church you are drenching
and nothing’s left of
dreams
you have or had
or ever will have but glory. I alone
am left to tell you this.
200
Take a break. big deep breath, that’s right. now another. thanks!
our future lingo all a-radiant and shining
like the frolic of joyous mercurial dimes
juggled and tricked out light a-spinning out
you breaths a pink pink pinkish bottom candy airy
mouthfuls after the Millennium a
new David Bowie appears spangled every phoneme is all
you need fairy lights a rainbow wall of the Northern
lights like two guys of a fist
fight in love
in tights groovy huh
what won’t live to see the sparkling
firewalls of new languages again, in tights, in fights loving to bring in
love breaths in between them. who
’s the them? a wingnut of a maple seed makes
forests they all red falling over in the
201 Fall. like this language and its beauties
who? oh i mean me n Spence in our falling down into is following
huh? following what? Duh don’t you think the same entropic ALWAYS will
apply on fiery freeways of collision
for instance Andromeda and Milky Way will merge. hey
big supernova-type type collision. Down-path s-p-l-a-t! meeting so many
other collections they agglomerate
new startups start
all the time in—written large—Silicon Valley they all do their thing.
meeting pixelated startups is stars.
i’m all fluff do you mean poplar fluff Bruce? I think it’s more comparative Daddy a tarsal or metatarsal or sesamoid
foot bone wiry but tough he be makes a good combo
to the pixie dust of moi. I asked Stephen Hawking
once it all starts in a
singularity says Steve II. Daddy Steve I seconds that
202 with a whoop. it a cycle goes Daddy glue-eyed fascinated
as before his
eyes this language he use
fall apart or be falling apart
on who but you I say to him. Making way
for a new one. simpler like the singularity of a
black hole signifies like all of us do that the darker future
ahead is also lighter
more emotive with more
room for new classifiers of intimacy or not.
See the same
as me DS?
Choose what? spangled word-net our mind sometimes want and don’t
want to produce simulateneously both I think.
In a cottonwood tree at next rebirth on exo-planet ySZ-5783 . that alone
is satisfying or do you
believe it’s got to take on some kind of verb
203 to work out right in a given future of us?
Think again. Put an ecstasy particle kind of like schwa
into the middle of your Chevie
and suddenly
bending around the Bay what is expressed
to the automobile’s chain-smoking
driver astonishes you both
simultaneously uniting both
Alpha Centaur above and passenger and driver in feeling
its ecstasy the pink glow frenzies come
and go and cum -bodies all connected up
of one body sperm exiting pitch being all caught up in and of.
fits up neatly with you
doesn’t it Daddy? of delight
there must to take place immediately the
most ever fabulous blowjobs
ever! It’s the Mothership descending
her pink mistiness dispersing...
204
to see except as poplar tree cotton-fluff pixie dust the need
to take
the freeway with Daddy Andromeda a pit stop before the big E the love drug can kick in and 40 minutes is
eternity.
circus the deflection of the the maimed transducer
sticks to you like the honey
in the kitchen’s plastic honey bear lingering on the fingers of
infatuation a few miles
away from Portland on the off-ramp: these are
the tears of things falling in the rain Daddy. teardrops of
this love heart
you like a breath of pink pink cotton
candy splendor sheds photos
It’s
205
crashing to Earth this David Bowie planet
whose analog eco-versions gonna merge us
pronoun particles insert we in
to middle-palate glottal stops reshape
identifying you baby. a sweetie.
a monster. a daddy. a baby.
or else sometimes
even the look of the Monolith in
2001: A Space Oddessy I mean like
you Daddykins where don’t you
inevitably seem to
turn up. it’s the love bug.
Drooling. the mouth opens
in faux friendship space-doors
compete puckering
the swelling of love in
the widening narrowing
hole-spaces of
spaceship doors conveyances in a arrival of
A BRAND NEW thing not
even a rebranded finger cuticle or linguistic
206 schwa, Darling you do believe me no?
a baby drooling mouth. glittering glitzed- blitzed- out in what whose
is this Mercury still a bunch of leftover star detritus
not yet
agglomerations be pulled hither way
over thither?
flow my tears the cop said. Mirrors may
yet angle the bounce accordingly. like an
accord. not a
Honda but a pact it’s real accommodates
the welcome delusion a halo around the real
shines just as bright. don’t fight the light of the
night. Losers win.
207 hoisted by the corps de ballet
the princess in her suffering and glory, Daddy.
the glittering mercury phrases in first equally and trust
that ignition’s singularity.
“Oh I done gone and gone that alright
already” alien flattery. lockjaw the down-loading moth- ership
ramp
Daddy can I spread the legs now
for you yet
to change tho
that’s inevitable Some information comes
to you or us maybe as a hammock your his my
leg turns to the approaching eating jaws. Yay!
our first new language-mimetic
arrangements to come lazy
as your pleasure
when a match strikes sonically the blunt cigar ends in a grunt
I hear. over and
out. copy that.
here we go again. you get. there is no god but Mark
208 Zuckerberg harvested and monetized data
Mark: monetize, harvest.
give me what’s mine a black hole and like ant hotel check in and never check out the fine print on the contract
except as in Hawking emanations almost
imperceptibly there’s a leak. as of now all languages are
commodity relations
but can the future
one still distant barely perceiving can it little
by little start particle by new particle inflection by re-inflection or inflation
demoralize the demonic demonetization you are all demanded of
as the aureole of
all sex play even when it’s pretend?
ad
and it/them/us
don’t throw no dice except
209 opening mysteries of a close black hole offend god intended if
the hologram of a person’s info
just goes down a dark rabbit hole—lost!
give me back my information it’s not yours it’s …well maybe not mine after all.
for all our information not to ever ever ever just go away
so completely which is
why Stephen Hawking just hated the way people seem to get
such kinky comfort from him or them. x’d out of
the picture can who
expect god to fit in singular or plural of
the category of grammar?
of the changing relation of humans in new ways to them themselves isn’t what god intended going to identify how you
get deleted with how in a blue moon once or twice
I’ll realize I want
210 to bear your kids.
what beautiful Neptunian aliens! Yes?
the retreat
course charted still ahead eyes will always remain forward. M-ship. You bet.
makes total sense. all of it.
the sputtering glory the
way you go home are we there yet mommy?
glory mom, we there yet
wherever there is? we spinning in the air
sputtering their way home to a Mothership. a mother-
fucking ship you never seen in your born days.
return to her the sputtering
future Mothership
shows welcomes as shiny dimes do
too. Are you? leaking up gore
a go-go how alien receptors
211 often may seem to
storm drains and the drip drip of the pieces
of my my tears love collecting there where the heart making up
new significance units only a
heart hears at a distinct
distance People sometimes say this, yes exactly this
is what our word Mothership can mean.
The emotions the alien feelings incontrovertible
not stable like
Earth things. possible the wavering wiggling large
sensitive
feelers who come first
out of the M-ship
on the giant
insect-thing down the ramp melting
all frozens and it’s more a mush
two fingers of Scotch
212 dissolve like this over any human ice cubes
Who can measure
or even rightly in derelict feelings the
used-to-be erased feelings
return home to each oracle and auricle or
a heart valve’s
ventricle in any future quasi languages
count as love.
it always will say
in alien-speak. let
us arrive. you
yell
when the
warming up the heat entropy delays me
a split second
before recommencing Yahweh made me/us do this that he thinks the confidence the lighthouse-like quasar beam
out from that
exploding supernova?
And now. Who will
in the morgue will contradict this
213
alien body laid out or being written with a punctuation or on a bed of steel
ascending descending needles writing again and again on this punctuated body
time to
DUMB IT DOWN on your way dumb dumber
dumbest
discloses the rot in the basement
there’s squishing scuttling fungi a saved alien remnant left
over from the mothership transmission
“I see a one-dimensional straight gray
line and wake up screaming.
It could be you but it was in
the late ’80s the plague times
photography William Gedney sieving the
some of the transplanted fungi
in the mind’s basement discovers barrels and barrels of his awaiting AIDS death
wouldn’t you
a stored winter yam?
214 barely scuttling the dumb goes dumbing down
the abyss opens and i slide into the white between
words where there’s nothing.
In the creatures’ milk bar drink up order
an umbrella drink a whooshing cascade a
decoded emanation before transponder transmission releases parachuted
alien slave showers into heads
into
DS STEVE AND PB BRUCE minds
contain reusable cylinders “You want
it darker / we put out the flame” the record of turntable rebroadcasts
or a Leonard Cohen voice from such magnetic missions
distorts the verb and and swishing thru the hoop
215 in mistakes
of fingers on a keyboard manual the sound distortions
the whole universe is sound
as the main grammatical feature excuse me, future
out here in the black and void on Federa- tion business
honoring the unlocking of fingers
the substitution of Daddy’s bones
inside the android body
formerly known as Bruce Bruce Bruce it echoes again again again.
reverb crazy boing-boings
slip the fingers on a manual
into my grammatical future
saving only Federation business from this or
Daddy. You don’t need to choose.
It will choose where it is a shifter of through
magnetic remissions affect affect affect
light up the sky
like falling down heart emoticons. stupid dumbed down
you don’t realize how dumb yet but will on warp-drive pieces
216
of word p just magnetic like
radiant emotions triangulating GPS locations: DUMB IT DOWN DUMBER
please Daddy do you want it
darker
dumb enough
when magnetic Earth belt
valentines release their loads of
their
star-falling love.
Ray Ban names the Earth belt
DUMB US DOWN trailing strands of mom’s nylons
their umbilical linkups with Orion
the tear drops delayed fall
with us the
sonic patterns of released ducts spilling the damn
behind the future ahead
217 never lasts
like the blindness of RAY BAN
you want it
darker we kill the fl-
moms hug and sink like open ducts quack quack
like a duct tape connects A to
B that is acoustic oblivion reheard again in the various universes our pillow talk connects to. your
molar. to my canine. extracted wisdom—
our teeth.
alien hegemonic ways
the sex will community
from the local cluster to become
globally present to all Andromeda waits for you.
A gas discharges from a unseen
super-black hole by us seen as Hawkins emis- sions near the lip of the hole whose mouth. my mouth
has been extracted perforations. other holes opening to the pressure the mass made by
218 interchangeable bodies The sky too of course. is remains as fungible
as inter- changeable bedroom windows
to see into said KK. Dumbed
sufficiently we’re ghosts. wooooooooo woooooo. nooooooooo nooooooo Daddy’s
pace replaced taking another step
a speculation of the gory human hand
with a substituted foot replaced why not
a clean one why the dirty on the Big Bear Ursa Major way up
head tilted Daddy’s thatched roof
dirty blond my scanty but silver-toned when the collapse of a
Large Hadron Collider outweighs the mass accumulating there is a certain distance between
two or more people that also seems or is it compressed?
between two people
the distance doesn’t prevent compression
219 the super-black hole
at a galactic center being roughly
closing up all the overweighted hugelycompresseddistances taking additional ghosting
also produces in your absence
those yearning howls
whose moaning retrieval of his leg mismatched with the thoughts
pouring out in exiting someone’s ear recovers
a lost left a lost right or
can I speak in this
mental transmission of a physical third leg
involving the body? no one will come
to save us will I, this speaker?
Pay no attention to such faulty deceptions. will
you kindly say who of sender of that transmission can will be or have been or will have? thank you,
this is a mystery exoplanet around h 2334 star you’ re welcome
220 here’s what I say:
the moaning magic of stars tips over even the Big Dipper from the realm being called obvious just on grounds of size alone.
Got that?
To see this means vision alteration—
considered regardless, good or bad are equally disappointing
to most of us humans aliens brute and mute loved like animals
or even you Daddy or me Bruce
only vary as ET representations shift memory in direct proportion mathematically. what do you
think honey?
Flo and Henry petulantly listen
their so lonesomely dis- cursive
that smiles behind the hidden non-negotiable absent something.
decoded spacecraft impressions don’t make sense. Harry
complained to Florence. Bruce sensed
something odd about
Spencer’s kiss.
221 the wedding ring appeared which made
even less sense. brows furrowed. cheeks dimpled.
In the astronomy textbooks untraceable magnitudes
dimming light from Tabby’s star.
ripping off an ear
a clown ear John Gacy the neighborhood clown the neighborhood boys loved.
engines propelling parts of speech to
start changing. fast.
a stump as good as a grave.
what dummy isn’t privy to every bit of star-glitz I’m tipping your way, another beer for you dear? while in the privy
those parts of
past speech would be found by the
arriving detective. the trumpet of the heart. a crescent moon no one cares, a person
watches, it’s greenish and scimitar- shape way up there with a man
hanging down. the moon.
I’m not preaching I’m teaching.
222
A soul’s accessory the body. but
a thick white deposit of your load
draws a viscous line between
lips and nipples. it’s called
responsibility. accessibility at times confuses the body’s current tenant. a tent pole
pushes a circus tent. up. over and over
impressive whatever goes up can be
seen as spectacle.
the illusion prolonged connection. I didn’t. it did.
crashing plunk!
the falling meteor meat eater just found crashed the stash
all foreigners aka us aliens our radial symmetry trumps the pathos of the bilateral you
too often prize. what of the other parts of
speech that
223 recycled could be used
on either side bookend style to indicate 9 people as opposed to
we just ate? in this language all your regular verbs inflect in the middle like some African languages. or create
halos of radiance, when having sex gives all phonemes
this special glamour, a kind of
violet wobbling light like the joy-warmth
of loving hearts. Spence what’s our future? Huh! dingy new hypotheticals ahead of time
don’t they inflect a
different gendered future creating new categories
bi cis no-sex* trans some-straight*
most-straight* some-sex* all-gay all-sex* a-bit-queeny or drag-kingy
or maybe schwa should be a decline to state issue or what about if genderedness opens an a sheer linguistic inflection has a particle for glory and linguists start to
call this suffix suffication.
Bantu languages with a click register a radiant descent
224 of a mothering craft
behind Hale Bopp as the rainfall of shaggy ice particles
a non-existent god intended a metaphor here for coming spurt spurt lap it
up child it’ll
make you happy. I am happy about the coming language Daddy.
it makes me happy
oh Daddy about you and you about it?
yes yes yes again.
thought-of ones the gates of eternity a hissing sea
of suffixation can again unlock for you guys and gals
that take this
dumb note from now
in a possible but not necessarily
probably arriving sometime futurity
in a sea of suffixes disjoined from
the could-be analytic. a future word-beginning
say inflects sad or a word-ending one
225 puts you out of the profane world and advances the missing sacred closer
unless a former preposition when time opens it can disclose the ear-numbing ringing
what you say,
or a word-ending
suffocation this supposed to unmake me happy or sad without suffixes inflection I
mean how analytic? and
could there be inflections one is marked sacred
linguistically and another profane but
in the coming grammar could
there be a third is like oh, the-end-is how future going to There is no future
why is that bad?
having trouble moving for the prevention of
the received transmissions. the mothership ramps down
descends sliding a living tongue of spiders. This fear
is only preliminary
226 to another stage. recognition awakens like
the coming
of dawn a new mind
and the languages going
with it.
as such. transform what the present is to the next you
don’t need my help, auditors. readers.
I am only you egging on
yourselves like big sexy scary
spiders oh Daddykins do you see
at last what it doesn’t mean
to do it? safety for some ultimately
for all. Backbone as agent of the detritus of the inner eye spilling out or spitting
in an inexorably stiffening alien process
its flapping black
flag and can I trust the use of your
gelatinous fluids to make it less
so. less sore a part of
me salutes the flag.
227 hardening stiffening ca me fait bander
on the Federation’s flagship promoting
doesn’t detract the signal to beam up. what. what
is that exactly.
you think you’re
any different from me,
it’s
the soul not a body part ’s rigidity isn’t it? there’s regress but
who denies redress too do they worry themselves sick at night over this like housekeeper exasperated by
a big nothing cum stain
kiss on his pillow can’t identity to all your
familiar opposites to alien of me.
hot pink diet cokes pajamas
from the exoplanet viewed by
Kepler lite behoove my alien familiar like my dog named
and behave like telescopes
closing. everything.
don’t tell me it’s a new way
228 of construction if all I see, baby’s
destruction?
hot pink pajamas and diet cokes what’s in it
for me?
your Keck lenses squish dead
the bug that God
called ummm whatever. wherever an x-fuck
meets a y-one what message but fade.
I’ll fade you as you do me. do me, says Dad. I do. no worries pb/DS you’re taken care of.
doesn’t a mass-less love sausage loiter and yet still linger in the pink pink mind of me. the
charbroiled pink crisp of the MINE of me. Do me
says Dad chomp chomp and I do. Too far to
fling it I fake it. the pitter patter of all
229 these word chips which when magnetized turn
my iron filings tinkle tinkle pink pink your heart. iron of my hearts
you. You’ll recognize yourselves. Not to worry! and if you
don’t what? don’t you think I’ll be able to alter the
message so you do after all? (and that me will look like you after all).
there’ s a big WHO doing all of this.
cab the accessories in your manly human hand take the nibbler
from the melting down of a bag holding them for the moment together
230 and not apart as word-chips
raining on you from a strange craft
above trump
your now bodiless arrival?
from the Kuiper belt, meteors again.
the sonic push push push apparently
their never-ending push scattering load scattering or the gore galore
of highway fatalities and Maseratis in front! it
looks like.
It looks like you Daddy in pride displayed
a showroom window ajar
who’s looking at you
Daddykins?
only the change underlying the appearance what is fungiblity if not
I is sometimes you and
you at times is me?
deep within the
sky-hulk of us aliens is decryption room
for witching pronouns and such oh! like nobody’s business what’s that mean babe?
231 the business of souls
continues to haunt us say ahhhhhhh
Feed us autos it do demand a bloody
meat nation trampled and sundered
our alien gullets
stained blood red we owe them one!
negate the daddy boundaries regurgitate half-digested chunks
of cattle shorn off like crop circles
to stem circled wagons
from uncircling ! never started never will end. the piece of liver given in
marriage to that one’s pinky maybe thumb even?
currently
on assignment. my teeth say even your cock says
say it now feeling
hungrier than all the highway’s foreign or domestic autos
to the filling stations in the sky the
232 price of a pack
mid-century Lucky Strikes means
retro. what is before every restart but
another universe you pieceded you were before
putting the opened pack
into a niche on a white tee’s sleeve
between us you are the unseen photog- rapher
then in a past mid-century as now
in your euro retro rolled up
edge of the white tee you wear
holding ready
the fast-forward up
ahead the urge for now to always surge forward redraw agglomerations’ boundaries let peduncles become whole cells Daddy in
this magic there are floods of tears you embody impossibles or oddly enough Wilma and Fred Flintsone
like to encourage
an out-of-placeness of things stone autos
being backed out of
233 stone garages flying caveman skies. Let
tears flow, DS, let ’em out where
they should be let all bodily fluids in busting the borders find new languages of batty hedonisms.
redrawn boundary lines reflect fears for health and the starlight
floods in on these tears. their magic.
tee! things changing into things an unaccountable urge
to go back to a moderne mid-century or forward
with the Flintstones in a stone car changing by
a Mothership beam down
a new community-
unity
feel hungrier than filling stations, dear DS!
my meat, our meat nation of these alienated boundaries serve up
the steak all bloody and
rare.
234 did it squeak dying,
the cow and I
feel like we’re only here
to please you Daddy.
now just the mere planet Jupiter though
all
those billions of years ago
remember I burned as the Sun twin I really am,
aren’t I?
an occluded
duct tape
arrived FedEx today. what about
that? there were nuts and bolts
just this morning messing around
a UPS package as I watch it rapid
spasms of lust make it gaga fits
except thank you
235 duct tape intuition obliged
confronting the random Ford
in front auto assembly plant a human leg sticking out
alive
Daddy finding his first Ford
passing and confronting the looming I-5
directly to the right of a birthing
sound goes wah-wah
wah-wah!!
Love’s sincerity supervening whole you
subjugated Jupiter-mass all hopeless Aardvark blocking
reopening streets or retreats and the duck tape quack
quack a pride one talking
walking like one talking
like one one being who would be be princess
The
Ananaki aka archon taped gods
236 escape their Hawking emanations and deep
in carbon blue block the thermal radiation outflow
from
super the super black hole
like a Daddy/Bruce gyroscope ridiculously thermal in confrontation. I
stick out my tongue to welcome the
sweet face and even and anon
who says goodbye
Entropy. flesh tribal reunions. hello
wag tongue twice a year before
harvest the auto parts sale
at Daddy’s general store is up for a tune-up
no payments kiss kiss no payments
but on promise of DS the currency of
those restless blocked trucks
dissembling as usual
it won’t work in the country in the willows
the rural road of cottonwoods
smother their carburetor’s attempt at intake.
237 it happens all the time.
around by the pink fluff
of you me them the pink
return stops all eyes and ears. Thighs
in the brambles before the eggs Florentine next day at
brunchtime is the
best time.
except looming motel
plastic flamingos an iron leg up joined hip
to iron plastic plastic glued with Daddy-Bruce bonding
my eyeliner to the transponder
relayed signals from the parts plant again. disassemble
they repeat
disassemble
a new assembly plant. your parts
a signal transmission when the mind remains sound it releases
the toggling
wind of affection each
to the new part the Mothership controlled
238 new language emits the feelings syntax
we learn now
gray doctors or their green doctors
shutting the operating
room doors the triangle heads, bug eyes
the scary terrifying
new language emotion
implants of alien doctors. the operating
room smell
of ether.
it’s on you. not our problem we have
been
there done that already intergalactic winds
throw replica sparks
over Yosemite cliffs without witness an empty Sierra an empty I-5
carlessly blowing
ragtag
photons. innocent non-combatants
keep coming barely imagined time-sentence sense to thigh ensembles in
239 love with lust. retool the
toe ensemble the finger On the highway again the malfunction of
all our carburetors finish off
our meaningless munching of mitochondria
help! the foreign wiggly
inbred now more
gelatinous
visible and a
used up bit of rust
from a can of peas
can even jump the pages you can’t
read yet but will. but
will. improprieties succeed
become standard
threatened. once or twice the
direction of
blackmail supplies you with
new motivation. and a wind comes up.
What? the triangulated signal or love delayed
is reassured. this iteration of you would
lie in this Valentine. look at it. see it clear.
Daddy reading the valentine the
240 Andromeda thugs crash-
land unnoticed image multiples multiply
forestall exuberance in sentence sequences kink
truly values
your non-humanness darling like we do
don’t you too the infractions present as mere interactions a skewered signal
made in
the negative of your really weirdo
image
oh Yahweh Blind One. He he he the guy can’t see
be done with all his languages now just oh
Daddy the mothership unfurling
like toilet paper rolls
her changing language speeches of all those futures! Oh!
Look at us.
see us as
coming pages with languages that
can never except non-understand misunderstood
as not our future.
241 to you.
space jalopies.
image multiplied of the
imagined distortion is a central hologram to decipher
John Day Mormon insurgents
image the Bundy brothers as as birds in a Bird Sanctuary
like yin and yang
one blow job and another two identical Mormons
are really the
same, says Daddy in the Malheur Jeep headed
to see Clive.
Back in PDX. remnants of Courtney Love’s barmaid days.
we return south. the bombardments of
reason fail to flatten glistering
bling-defenses mounted by robotic erotic
UFO cadets in Speedos. Enough. A
man he’s I guess an African American guy
in dark glasses drives by. Slowly.
242 Driving a
ancient burgundy color Ford Galaxie 500 wow! the eastern border apparently marked by no limits among
the defenses none better than the blowjob
pleasure
rendered means pleasure due. cool iterations multiply. And
what’s this, Daddy?
a line of triangulation connecting him Daddy
and in frolics
moi little me little old me old is
relative if Proxima Centauri is our nearest star
at 4.2 light years
if that doesn’t make
the word old relational what does it do—just bring happiness?
does the Jaguar i sometimes imagine Daddy drives stop being the Jaguar Daddy drives just on account of how does maybe Daddy not really
drive it? in
high school I think I can recall
we used to say it’s all relative! but
243 with maybe another exclamation mark more than any editor will allow me
there at the end of the previous line you just read. and thank you too, dear
reader! It IS all relative no? well unless it’s also absolute simultaneously a thing
I do
imagine. like the cow or car jumping over the moon is. It’s not either though still
there’s
the fact of a white-skinned Daddy’s ochre color Jaguar but a
male person of color ’s beautiful old
Ford he’s driving. note proximity of old with beautiful here.
but does this even come close to the quiet red star called Ross 1128 that you
find in our galaxy? the ancient Ford 500 a long shot
that however attempted due to inevitable failure invites what
KK’s Giallo-influenced writing would like pretentiously to call syncope even
when just a fainting spell prevails among us quiet
244 types—very unlike you.
This strange triangle head of mine is it
me too?
cluttered calms clamoring vociferously the domain of chains
claims
a calm state of syncope accenting the space-cars in
slo-mo movement
independence? this pink triangle alien head doesn’t want
to worry you with iterations
Intervening, you may have noticed or have been noticed
in the space jalopies simple interventions taken
for whatever reasons by
however many the number of Andromeda
who regularly provide
the abstraction you’ve been looking for.
It, or the sound of the thud
some astral metallic craft noise easily
just a retranscription you might say
245 the fog dampens softens
as inter- mittent pain simply amplifies
or can it diminish you?
Yes I think it can without prejudice to the
more gladsome
counter insight of a person just sitting in her
chair she’s commander of a spacecraft
its UFO
star power or fire-power for us Daddy at
attention in their underwear being inspected cadet troops appear in-
teresting to me un in teresting though to you.
Can I bring you a beer Daddy
to sort all this out? or a second maybe?
Just askin’. never
(or rarely) tellin’. tho sometimes
blabbin’ the impulse producing
the bedsheet fold a person’s back
in congress feet
hands tongues gradually impinges
246 on defines the impossibility of
the space
cadet’s possibilities of uninterrupted whatever possibilities of its
formulation forestalled for now for this era or else just maybe a minute before the oncoming language’s syntax alteration sonic reconfig whatever whatever what f-ing ever you want floats
the new boat with every rising tide making our stellar ear-tips Daddy pinkish in their pride
their many oh so many prideful pleasures is a way for
one space-based-cadet to just say groovy to glee-filled bro, you the pitcher me just catcher
(Woof barks Sadie) (staring
at the Daddy/princess entanglement with
empty raisin black
eyeholes of not-think just watch dog-vision) who is in
a hurry to
247 go away and fall off learning-curve experience of voyeur which you definitely am is or are, considering.
Now in this layer Roberto you
can stay Stan can stay too and Olga y-e-s-s-s OK you too
something is happening what is a something
filling up like this but a commander spaceship
subtracting by way of fog input
imagine the crashes of a space jalopies and you think
they’re much forestalled by your
sublimities oh you starry Yaldabaoth you Samael you
Yahweh Shah
and every mother’s son here by subtraction is a king of kings shah of
the Mogul
invasion. like some 18-wheeler barreling down
shattering the chattering shards makes this
stunning congealed light-shard pieces glow
248
how many zillion microbiota this Daddy-skin
shedding off on waiting white percale how many
godzillion per second being shed “off1” calls Yaldabaoth
theatrically from his station way up
the Europa Jupiter
moon sitting cool as a cuke. cute. (puke! this
too cute
not to make Bruce gag sometimes, though a course not all that much! gag! socko puke about every four pages maybe)
a bottle of beer from fridge. for Daddy. hey daddy prefer a local boutique
brewski or a more prolly manly Bud
the worker beer?
249
I don’t play games misleads if its
fun nature don’t
trick you the open cellar
door will prevent awareness of the pod
storage offloaded from
you know—the M-ship! tried and true.
tied up blue. it won’t fail u.
will it?
At the milk bar.
a glory convention careening exoplanets
beasts with umbrella drinks.
WTF????? the whirring ingressing of
whose? motor-
parts double me with rollicking
laughter but I
am laughing of course
WITH someone. not
you. a third party. an alien Guest. Thank you.
250 I knew you’d
understand. and consent. you’ve always
wanted just happiness. for me.
Neptunian blue oceans. so many Vishnu avatars like
Krishna cavorting nebular stars of milkmaids all covered with chalky blue
meaning
the Piscean intellectual/spiritual part.
our homo-hetero
skewing.
the blue of cobalt too. Navy blue.
Royal. Turquoise.
shade-waves of
our Neptunian watery depths
only postpone
the inevitable trip I
make for you Daddy to the fridge.
It’s niche-beer time,
DS!! it would take
a long time to make this l-o-n-g story a-
nother
251 shortie. Meantime on the road again
succession of off-ramps, exits
declined produce coded information desperate to
either decipher or to
be coded up more
securely I
don’t know. A yellow con-
veritable jumping the moon,
that would be too much?
Neptunian unlikeliness. the very true
can become very
unglue. too. you
no.
the most untrue always most likely?
ok can u
re-glue what unglue already?
Om hare Krishna hare rama rama rama Krishna Krishna!
a spiritual pile-up takes place
when GPS monitored by um certain
powers in a transit automotive friction- al account of Daddy princess togetherness moments. Hello is this
the path to eternal righteousness ma’am?
252 Ma’am say hey no way! no it the non-binary path
to them refrigerated
six-packs there in the convenience store, who
knows from the local drug dealer’s
corner are you Sirius This Daddy princess friction not your frequency so
whoever you
came from go back!
does Daddy princess automobile planetary transit
occlude all our leather-
bound seating
it hightails along the lanes
the melting tundra precludes I-5 a corridor
of stars illuminates Speeding the spreading
leer of his thatched hair prickly but fashionable but fissionable upswing past all-methane icicle style.
formerly known
253 as cowlicks when natural
on men now
the badge of honor for abductees into
mom-ship’s operating room sadistic grays
when will the secret rule
of us end?
Northern Lights supreme. downpours along I-5 on the way/the path
visibility near zero.
can the cow preempt I-5 in these matters so sexy and beautiful-spiritual, oh Daddy Steve?
untrue but very blue is for humans not
us aliens from Neptune. we
go lucky come happy in together. like us
when I read this to the venue of the
evening as opener or
coming in second.
helter skelter eco-planets convene
hetero grease of other
lapsed parts
254 of this motor. How true!
Arrow thru a doily. hello-o-o-o-o? anyone
here? downpours of heart-shaped tears
reconfigure what traces of GPS location liable
to a launch button
could bring Goliath (or ruling archons) more quickly to his
knees.
you to the launch button, preemption of world an- nihilation strictly on orders from the female general
helming the mothership command, Lady Gaga.
the mothership
lady-commander. What she say go. When
ask jump! you say um how
high, ma’am?
misremember dissolve a big ole fade….
then being swallowed up the dark
pool got me. that’s extra. but sweet. you
255 a writer?
how come that big NO!
from you on sweet? Us don’t you think
got
to lay it on
with trowel? Jack Spicer mela mela pet-o also his friend Robert Duncan Robin Blaser etc.
show a limit to denying all knowledge of basics
very long. it shows poetry art of remembering
our origins is alien. alien. wrong.
perverse.
Show and don’t hide this. don’t explain
either though. just let ’em
glimpse. like a big
blimp or dirigible barely seen in clouds trailing
its sign. GOODYEAR.
the critters
formerly known as words. now
conceived BRUCE SPENCE
quantum entanglement. REET? remember in a fade or
256 dissolve
of sounds formerly known as words.
Groovy.
on Venus the dangling modifier hurtling by
preterites as Jupiter once was our sun’s twin
at the beginning each
circling back to
the most obvious
what sentences a life reconstruction or closing
a parenthesis?
“close ”
derails trains and whole stations. the starlight makes
it temporarily
pathetic ultraviolet interventions filled
with expanding polyurethane ripples.
my hips are serene. your
legs like scissors. packed like cattle
for the
stockyards.
obviously previously unsuspected and unrelated.
257 each emotion
a new off-ramp the cars taxi slowly
your absence your presence
your binary star way high up way
up and over me. Say hi! star says Bruce and
the star goes hey hi back to me unconsciously
the existing sheen replaces.
emotions tenterhooks
of meat eyeballs
blood. is another feeling
replacing the etcetera
will stop.
Airports are taxonomies. equaling highway maps the vehicles
you
choose aren’t chosen
for you.
your absent. emotion. your feeling
all different from gravity-driven
time-space warps
a previous you.
258 One burster known as FRB121102 is otherwise November 2, 2012
on the repeat burping astronomers by the hundred
burp up what is wants
to eat. you in your iterations. propelled interstellar the Norma Desmond moon-faces turning
black-liner enhanced
eyes onto you what are ageless stars ageless who? like Nor- ma
the obscure unknown that ecstasy reveals obliges
Joe the writer the one she’s got a big crush on? to subjugate here under night skies to
indifferent card games with
Buster Keaton the quarter moon can’t reveal anything but but in ensemble out of Eagle Nebula Horsehead (dark)
and others a small Mormon village in the state of Utah where your parents
dad the local bishop make you yearn to move
those oversize feet in unison with
the seven heavens to find
a better joke for convertible pleasures on the
259 first bus out punk music inspiration abetting
informatics-challenged and whaaaa? suddenly you grow all grown up
meeting me maybe about a zillion years later.
decipher
just barely enough and
without right or wrong and with no
no more need again
some distinguish between fake and real,
can you have for the first time
some compassion?
(Take Two: les ongles rouge scarlet underwear arbiter elegancia) (huh?) (Take Three: man in a raincoat entering stage right)
Steve?
alien imposter shows up warning
me to record your absences
the wrong way wondering how
imprecisely
the pedestrian dodges traffic… as a red
of wait taking its own damn time replaces
in time the sauntering go of the green.
260 recording the binary of your off-ons in this poem making your forever a part
of the mind
of anyone stupid enough to
read this on their spare time.
continuing imprecise… dodging motor cars doing their thing.
Unruffled and unraveled. the newly suspected, autos
with racing motors changing
place as the time-space curtain ruffles a bit
in some heart’s gravitational wave
makes Jupiter different
though your newly reported
periodontal problem has been presumptively
by a
romantic specialist
beats as strong as it does
if the heart has its reasons, then isn’t this
emotions?
261 the exasperated shift can model
derailing Amtrak cars there
above us where Daddy’s heart’s door slams
SHUT!
the faint ghost complaints make the ventricles
his haunted something, um, house maybe?
a parenthetical use of requisite polyurethane on the incoming
inhuman -ly mothering-ship his big boots tracking
my carpets. mud. traces. ghosts.
time-space fabric bent as the heart
is. pret pathetic use
of polyurethane on demand in the UFO
manifest when unpacked is nobody’s business
except forgotten.
262 I don’t mean of word of this Daddy Steve. I
I I can only offload
more containers unloading
the death star ASSASSIN 114 LH.
breathing transpiring sweating of human palms coinciding your
delight-animal. if this is really true. Open your jaws and let me take a look to see, princess—says Daddy.
or DS as we call him.
the accusations glancing off the
shiny metallic Toyota
its paint job I guess.
the interstate as much
as the drivers of mitochondria exhaling cell-energies.
that never
concerned me. on the freeway was
under those methane
skies just the randomness behind you
nobody misses
a stubbed out cigarette in a stolen
motel ashtray. But
263 again, the offloading containers. Again the strangely hybrid
Teslas you imagine in the pile-up of
real Camaros and Jeeps. with a decapitated fingertip
of you alongside inside capitalize the fender benders to
increase interest the crossed limbs cavorting
a prick the lavender bed linen edges in the
motel.
alien mitochondria in Velcro straps on the
walls of snapping black holes. the sheen of outcomes.
on the interstate the random drive of methane,
in principal American cities like
Davenport Carlsbad K. Falls on the
Ore/Cal border who
nods what blinks
You destroy my syntax DS with the command to use eyeliner unleashing either violent storms
dormant spores
264 mangle these sentences when and
make sense again later. spores
not whores. I don’t know. Maybe the opposite. Or
whores before spores. No decision yet. the jury out
as crouching in corners to please you
I place each word to prevent occlusion of
false outcomes
whose understanding bars the normals. Fuck
them! Up us inhumans and coked out
drugs embody the
high life of a single moving
Honda. not. love hurts Daddy princess it OUCH real hard its border-dissolve on
the starfall smashing auto
pile-up.
ok baby up on bed.
Love hurts the ouch barks
at us. Yaldabaoth knows. Daddy he knows too
ha ha lol! snow lightly dusting rooftops peace peace warping up twisted rebar concrete lanes
265 the highway of falsity the perversity uprooting u. me. Daddy.
But. Transparency breaks all windows. Daddy a big ole exception? don’t
bet on it cause
DON’T LOVE HURT? don’t you bet .
the amputated leg on the sofa attached to the windshield
protects safety nets
the wipers the predator cleaned
for safety checks and then buckle up
a moldy old underground
replay of these uncurling
spore-like things called toes that we also refer to
as these pullulating digits clamping the
heart atrium pain fills up the empty diastole
coming up hard on the stupid systole makes no sense to
rocket science (cosmology too)? the vessels emptied
but the beat goes on… they say.
266 oh they/it go: we pullulate!
don’t love hurt you bad?
a leg on a vertebrate attaches arm means a black leathered predator safely buckled up
at the wheel of the swiftly traveling vehicle
dehiscence from a car, on automatic.
the wahwah yelping Mothership’s the high sign
her signaling help the
robo-link the kidney big toe import a new
brain process in
the soft wet rain as on cherry blossoms
meteors with itty bitty dust-gas POW! WHAM! SOCK! the ordeals require a blindsiding
of the cerebral adult order
267 can hasten the
exaltation of gush gush fluid release with the limbic takeover. the yum yum yummy of human turned back to original alien.
Oh Daddy Oh Oh thank you Daddy protecting for a few
the protracted exaltation of new
-ly lit up lobes
In any gush-gush aren’t one’s
pleonasm just spilling all
over and out? copy that, commander. it’s gotten
to be involuntary
in the million-feared species history or? his eight legs or arms
seen during the moment. moment
of moments. the arms the legs, articulated
then? neo-waves of earlier tissue enable a compounded lobe light-up far freakin’ out!
f-ing rainbows Dad!
But the car speeds up again driverless
now. driverless
268 thrones powers dominations numbers of
Yaldabaoth or Samael
meaningless ciphers controlled from the past, Werner von Braun, NASA masks. bedrooms
said an old pal have eyes to
see into. a name
like the Mothership waiting behind
Hale Bopp.
All of it.
Not a benevolence.
spacecraft oi child. the child confirms
the blind adults
need for a cosmic writing despite. Wahwah!
the hand of Mothership guidance
the auto- makers
their robot gang with the high sign.
can understand the export
of methane-filled canisters
in the port the
ship about to d- part
269
its wake slipping waves
floating winding
up the duct tapes
the mass bending
the time we’re in.
It used to be a nursery now it’s a naturally hairless limb loafing in and out in out what
naturally spits alien babies sliding
down the ramp out between my legs the lace
edges the apple red heart shape box briefly greasing
a slide to the future connections it can’t now
imagine as stellar ones kind of
waving around like octopus legs or
falling down tentacles beamed up to you Daddy help help
me and between my legs a hole swallows me. Period. a periodicity semi-colon plus parens
can
outwait the accumulated detritus of
270 memory.
in memory nothing but parens on both sides awaits
a retranscription
read this (again) and (again) isn’t it different
each time the long line of jeeps on berms parked or
LDS Mormon compound walled by
each wall or rewriting its memory
of me walking to school with you the fag-bashing the bullies you beating the shit out of a projected image
the red and green stoplight
of your premature mission to protect mom and
dad manufacture this. it ’s
only manufactured dust bunnies says some pale imitation
of them in memory (yours) of you protecting someone, re-
transcribing your sister among
dust bunnies of your mind at a traffic stop
271 I would rather it is me.
a manufactured sinkhole the entire back yard starts walking.
projected memory implants images the life-highway
a Mormon town reflected off your spiritual
mind-home here in Enceladus Jupiter’s finest
men in blue
patrol policing cute protective (and vicious) ewoks
with our bodies Steve.
Did a swaggering bully really patrol the halls of the school the transponder replies
to the central AI machine creating
you and me as doubles one walking to
Portland’s West Hills the Willamette River the shelves in Fred Meyers’ chain of grocery stores look empty
as the lofty gray Mormon temple Salt Lake City sends up explorer
balloons seeding
the mushroom-shape rain clouds in banal bombardments who are us aliens
272 anyway U2 localizing your protective
identity by humiliating
the Mormon high school bully in a time-segment
you’re still in but don’t worry
me too
you two me two of us
a.k.a. ewoks—cute
but with hidden hostility the fur conceals in
Star Wars outsiders foreign ones the strange what other effectively says “I’m not you and
you think i’d ever want to?” Gasp!
the more different IDs the more “it” and its Alien-ness
empties you of the slightest any your stupid ignorance claimed. If i had time for pity I’d do it but bro, there’s too much sis
in me for that!
I punctuate images lining up
273 a road of
stoplights. on
our Titan skyscapes looking back at yr
planet. On Enceladus you throw a long
leg over my detached arm. it floats in space, mine.
would you rather be a monster than a normal?
the cactus spines
turn the black
flesh around under familiar Titan
sky-scapes
all
that looks something like our Enceladus you Josh
lanky arms to protect myself around butt cheeks around would be bullies now squealing like
barrel cactus spines darting
the local exchanges in a line from Evan in images of eternity
God stops at the red light
and rain dripping
2 74 in limestone base waters reshapes your future
destiny
in stalactites of age the
novelties of mouth lip now the
shape the nose enters a competition for something senior
to your trust your Nevada home,
its empty rooms tight-lipped dust bunnies
knit bone of muscle
or a cartilage glues the signs you are like the sacred old-time priest the one doesn’t he
read livers of y’all?
like ancient people would carefully examine a liver-knob or excrescence the signs pile up
higher and higher. You’ll never know. snickers. behind the poplar trees audible
-ly repressed jokes there are
cruel people you there but lust is God’s remedy and I’m
telling your teen self for its own
good.
Before Yahweh the Assassin Star 15 LH numbers
275
sweeping up spare room dust
snickering jeering joking jesting
lip locked
together as dust-bunnies caught in God’s
cure-all the common name
of tumbleweed eyelashes easily singed
cringing the blazon of the
defensive little Mormon communi- ty misappropriated “Our Time Will Come” deprives
or at least
stalls and also helps instigate the serial jaws
of time into closing around the ears like a barber
finding less hair
to cut. we sprout stalks. and no, I am not humoring
you here it is
only a hanging traffic light in descent brushing
against dad’s DeSoto the family motoring on vacation hitched
to the afterbirth of some
thought the Power
276 thought is thinking never stops it cosmic
rascals
like randy cowboys intent
on deliberating the unnatural
acts of that huge big mammal high above cloud cover whose
first name is GOD
(no known last one) since after all doesn’t to know
actually mean to know you’re mistreated?
his sexual parts streaming yoghurt rivulets complete in California convenience stores. outside the rain or the railings
fence me off the way GM/FORD or vehicles fail much long to
abound here but in
California taquerias off-road on the interstate
a beckoning whiff of horchata milk-streams
down the cream-road of
the mouth of this hungry cowboy GRRR F F F FEED I stutter
your wide smile
nearing the Big Guy ’s laughter lying
quietly after the
277 storm of Japanese foreign made regroups in convoys of
them descending in service of
the m-word means Bruce’s M-O-T-H-E-R-S-H-I-P
jaws a-drool -ing eyes hungry
decoded transmissions
turn the rusty gears its wheels the cogs of
districted sky-powers of the ones in charge. like it or not. Or
you also don’t you
come to terms with this
later displacement turning
out the good ole boys their good ole pickup trucks themselves
the unknowing is the unknown
cloudy revolutions never
bust the watery run-off convince store
agog for the Powers as a barely discernible disarray squeaks
trapped
278 trapped embodiments wrapped like sushi
unable just just disapprove
and purse their lips.
the bodies keep only
the message ever can go bad. in silence.
the big one the planet called JUPITER
claws its way to the
FEDERATION encampment
in a kindly slow down-spiral the glow of
their commonality
turns on the on-switch saying telling or shouting aloud the news.
We are recycled.
close to CLOSE ENCOUNTERS human parts
relearn the manufacture of ghostly spider legs
whose arms whose binary
whose descending will never come up short to etc. come what may
not ensue will it mom? won’t it?
279 Daddy too too inhuman in these eyes of your
vastness rips out like a victim goring
the tusk exchanging this
with a toe from a nameless other without
telling you what or which. who really needs
it. who needs the knowing who
even the name of your
eyes that now open slutty
like mine slits to commandeer
the infantile only supposedly
with its Utah time-space coordinate wounds lie a-bleeding no
name ever staunches sheering it bleeding the open
epiglottis
constrains departure ripples
twos of us threes fours hungry hundreds
thousands of the spaceship’s
black asphalt a passing of
butch motorcades there! it’s done. over and done
with by now.
I take no pleasure but from
your closed legs some
280 of course dumb romance.
Like me.
i am only the host of radiant
star miracles when taking
your pleasure the legs spread
the hypotenuse
measuring the outer limits of the ongoing
expansion it would have stopped
of coulda shoulda woulda if they too
chime in
then now or in the future possible
merge like fungus under
in sub- basements the phantom the spirit or call it the
mind co-generates some spark
of escaping lust
from the edges of a singularity that pulls us in.
EXPLORER taught us this. what says the oldest son,
CASSINI? you savants
laden with gunny sacks drowning multiple units of human bodies
281 the puny but grimy on-flow of
gunky parts the barge bloating up
its methane and this
my readers of some non-existent future
is called existed on or existing. I am blind. do you see
the murky sliver
of light under the door
is a difference between us, DADDY STEVE?
how CLOSE your EN- COUNTERS are still even then
way too human for my pancreas to match with the
part machine-tooled to
or as what then was called not us
a prosthesis. blithe
parts run off
a clutch of bumper-cars once cannibalized for the
out-of-commission steering
282 wheels alien fodder
welcome us come as you are! but
disarmed un- legged refingered come! the slithering ramps
their honor guard
saluting speedo-clothed Federation cadets on call
in the
commissary for an alien convenience catching fire and light
from on high.
The ensuing page. Remember the fence
in Utah DADDY STEVE as
a boy playing catch like all other normals
telling your comrades Dad’s a bishop now
and you’re freaking out DADDY
because that piece
of time-warp hardly
determines this segment as ours. who will
write the victim’s
sentence but the
normals from
another language. another planet called Neptune is your
283 bishop not him any more.
only the pickets in the fence make
the sentence DAD’S THE BISHOP!
makes even
the Salt Lake City
mother-temple look normal before the next gravity wave ripples again and the scene changes
a first preview a galaxy apoptosis
fails to occur as concealed as actually
I am
to you eyes wide shut said Stanley. thinking
of Dad’s nose.
rippling asunder.
piece by piece. spreading my arms spread eagle
legs sundered mom goes by unnoticed
without recognizing an alien dad before
that either. it is trying. confabulating frustrating
here in the dark
Daddy turn the lights on.
put on the bulging speedos you’re welcome
284 he said junk heap of parts from
a parts shop a jet nozzle replaces
though jury-rigged a anatomically correct simulation
on the rebound a gerrymandered
image conduit at least or at last slows the halts the grinding growls of the stomach dog in your insides Daddy, this like
what? mirrors the visual glances side
by side my face and teeth chewing open
Daddy’s stomach
the target of multiple
gamma rays thrusting enormous slow dying supernova
is it rhetorical Daddykins? a choice of a microbiome
fleshes exchange fleshes
is a choice a dream the snore great Cthulhu sleeps in R’lyeh you call
me freekin’
choice DAD?
in your microprocessor
oh oh oh Daddy Steve there it goes drip
by drop puddling into alien limbs
285
fingers yes, from black green stinky creosote
leaves
across the vault of sky appears our blobs
where sparkly in assembling the macro-alien-exhuman
re-assembling the
waves goodbye of mothership portals link
-ing and unlinking all our
this’s for good and for bad
his car parts and mine
my friend Evan’s poet-words with somebody else’s fingers
for a while
loaned to a retreat of fingers a farewell to
all you’s diddling what never
should be diddled like this?
Oh transitory love from the portals! the inexorable expansion
of everything to a stone cold empty empty devoid. ignorance decay dissolution
who answers the
“you want it darker / we kill the flame” the decrypted last
286 message relayed reports a landslide of information in a
deformation of noise mindless-minded
empty goodbyes
hello futurity and Mothership will that ensure time after after time a cosmos of exhaled sounds
as full of peace as when the children in our nighties
call us back
in flames do or don’t they call back?
the strewn parts the ground tarmac
the animal remains regroup under showers of
drooling drool the smile on faces of Bruce dolls Daddy dolls you will
pull on pigtails.
Daddy Steve to continue mixing matching like this? sinking
in a watery grave of the blackened tarn? Dude! why f-ing NOT Dude?
287
Do you want the dark do we
kill the flame
new Frankenstein allies compatible with the beautiful organs you made
the interchangeable series
of auto truck train airplane computer
or cell phone and alfalfa jejune
broccoli sprouts
growing the productive power
of making an appearance
of the radio-received
message from an outside-the-assemblage
for the moment
believable to you as a transient whole
you can impose the scrupulous unity standing
there watching you with our big
bug-eyed utterly foreign and alien
imitations of faces politely
read as a
human instead document? I doubt it. Don’t think so.
sounds all wrong to me.
288
as yet unseen among you or me to be abortively scoured in rows of hideous silken corn green leaves
in search of children more
you idiots! as if
between us
something a bridge maybe has truly
collapsed. You can’t concoct
powers Yahweh Samuel who defeats every surge by rushing inhaled excited edges
beyond edges.
portals we wave you goodbye oh
past futurity that
never will ensue… except in nighties readied for
sleep children’s heads
anchored exhaling when
out go the lights.
the coffin you dream this backwards
turns around the
289 limbs of the microprocessor
the entropic dissolves my flesh
into yours puddling the end of the dripping candle’s
watching leftover limbs a microprocessor of flesh
projected and protected. as levers and cyborg screws your dream of a what ever, a choice, Daddy?
shows the slow slow grinding of
microbiotic life the destination
of your choice Daddy mirrors me.
easily turning
my glance from the target to the Target—their nice looking speedo bulges.
junk heap and once cannibalized of our
human parts does the alien show
to advantage, I hope?
its paws or to translate,
tread marks their
290 once brand-new
tires laid down. on cement.
sometimes. more often one becomes
tiny rubberized and smarter
voila I am the tarmac road you
Daddy often continue to like
to leave your paw marks on, yes? made in my image—the key trademark
of Mormons. he’s just a bigger version of bots and trolls disseminating troll-trails of the bigger info that for you has to
remain in the “classified” folder. on the Dow Jones the god dossier
as appreciating hedge fund number
climbs higher without our tiniest say-so.
“Is” is what “has been” said
someone once
to be born in
the big guy’s image an afterbirth or -thought. Lock him up lock him up lock him
f-ing UP! they screamed in
291 unison and the sonic gravity-wave
rippled the space-time fabric connecting Spence’s leg
to my kidney. the god-orgasms ensues
for those with
misplaced mom’s cerebellum dad took it for
her own good
in the root cellar one rainy day marihuana the tires outside were spinning
me around and around till
our flesh started melting Daddy Steve. on basement box
stencils say Handle With Care
the melted Bruce-flesh inside a big puddle
once we were just the gunk
on the highway to Roseville approaching
I-5 Daddy who was the Michelin Man
that wrote in only
his stencil words? up to celebrate the ongoing tires outside to be
handled with care says the stenciled-in writing on the human box
approaching Roseville the gunk on the I-5 layer
seen
292 cosmically from blue Neptune
the disrupted from afar slides or when even puckering
means Daddy Steve is probably stretching his long legs
are yawning instead of
sturdy Mormon lungs awakening
in some other body. my body is your body. no body politic can open its jaws as accommodatingly
as mine DS.
A wandering teen is a wondering man. your thoughts
lead you around by the nose love-produced thought- or
-emotion? like thin bubblegum expands to a filmic bubble that pops. each of your bodies
messages the recoordination points when re-read
by 2020 some
or some not follow Daddy’s
much estranged translations of the year 2020 but if
this was postdate it will be millennial factuality that
the linkage
of one auto to the next
bumper to
293 bumper the following jam
of traffic ensues.
Lie with your head
at the bottom of the bed Daddy suavely barks
what do you
expect when foot tarsals break apart
his big metatarsal
can rupture a spleen if
none of this is done carelessly
as per recipe. the syntax of
i am not responsible can be rearranged like Scrabble tiles
that disregard the privatives at will or will not. thank goodness!
a yawn. the hanging retreat of an epiglottis. the breath
ex- specs, ex- hales ex-pedients No,
no one home
no more.
I am
basing this on your rebirth the dangling amber
traffic light goes red
but then green re-signals gathering the
294 alien cadets at Christmas hardly can some
as a surprise to you
can it Daddy? all speedos
is what
you see always what you get—problems from a textbook
on alien semantics. inhumanism though
no science but an art
of retransfer
of reuptake serotonin inhibiters will create the false
dichotomy.
Daddy’s cadets all in a row. Daddy’s
cars ditto.
Daddy’s multiple deity-like arms?
and thru a port-
hole a pot-hole
appears to impede
the Venusian view. I take
this all in stride.
we’ll be at Neptune in no time. transferred in rebirth
as afterbirths temporarily stalled
the amber light intersectional traffic halts Daddy’s surging
295 Batmobile from its inexorable next push
to the stars
in a never moving never
changing mental root cellar
the dormant future pod people still sleep awaiting their departure into cinders sky-transfer of love-inferiors
instinctively. if not sooner. when no means know.
this isn’t this is what you think will read. an afterthought
in rebirth transfers the afterbirth.
at an intersection
of the amber light that hangs up skyward
the single baleful
eye of Powers watching
from the crawlspace
above our motel room. voyeur archons voyeur grays or
reptilian Visitors
drifting tumbleweeds
just make us
spit lust at a local level
296 a composite existence supplants us more easily than
a rowdy Mormon pro- tocol defeated, poof!
Safe on your arm. or disarmed by
your leg.
Aliens accelerate other aliens and then the reverb-distorted stars
are echoes to rely on each planet.
spinning non-systematic
the alligator green day swallows only 15 minutes.
big macro parlaying small micro the observatories coordinates to trace
the Daddy leg lagging the arm or princess
a leaping black hole hidden by
297 bedclothes the Daddy arms continue
seeing they are sawed in half leap-frogging a slot for Daddy’s peg
to pin. all writ astronomically but different dimensions call this leg to that kidney
and from a great distance toes interlink finger sausage
limb-play inside Yaldabaoth’s forehead not neuronal under the starkly of the huge chalky
moon tonight
the temporally separated
in concert returning the present milky splat!
a galactic present
blocks entrance to
the miles of a highway system
long ago put in place continues
what future fake-President Dwight D. Eisenhower
would love to as my Santa Baby, please points out
the alien phone booth or cell phone appliance where all alien misfits are blocked
from calling home. Homing signals announce Daddy’s inhumanity when I listen past personality Saturn rings seen
298 all dark until Explorer II or Daddy’s big explorer
exploring in nooks in crannies aliens outsiders misfits
the DS backwhooshed in present time creaming jeans returning
outspread limbs the showy splay outspread gangly teen limbs on the downside
to right the wrong of future non-reading spectators attempting to grok the altered
image of a past’s
aliens at play. wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
can aliens at play make new aliens alien neonates cry out from joys of an artificial intelligence
intelligence of us present motor cars
conditionally make crazy make prior states unaware
of a the illusory image
of the pursuit of some animal- anime
299 squirt-squirt will connive with planetary spirituality the famed
glug glug squirt squirt kiss kiss
the old in-out in-out when in the galactic mills-bar
the strangest creatures give themselves the strangest of
metallic connective misfit looks like teen spirit
or smells like it in the tag-along sex play
of an orchestra shrink-wrapping the universal slap upside
the head never matches
my image with yours but cognitive dissonance when in The Shining
the pinnacle of toy topiary animals tops each its bottom
and then flips so
so never know if yesterday’s me is still
this one now that I’m feeling or being or given
the impression of being having doing coming or
just cunning coming when splat! your spurt seems it has been magically switched and did all that milky
300 mess come from Neptune or the artificially-manufactured protein
all milky snot for you may beyond DeKuyper
own a cheap little hotel or
motel so the black hole lets you aliens from
one part of
the time-space fabric in AI like Daddy and
his princess like a
Cadillac Escalade and a Fiat moped conjugate multiple
many-geared
offspring already have tried simulating a number of images one might recall Tony Perkins before he trades in his homo-nation
to get a woman-alien
with child part hetero-notion lets them
off the hook
the use of sleaze like grease
tires at the back of the auto parts store telepathically
signaling Janet’s long ride from her office job
in Phoenix to kinky Bates Motel
301 sexcapades. not an artifact a decimal
or dirty will wash your hands you grease monkey
picking up a valve
on the cheap the next alien implant
will often roll off the assembly line spitting out gobs spit the rendered fat
of
innocent non- humans like us. only a few can
move it successfully. I
can’t pour it into your ears you’re your
only lonely and can’t accept it.
its kin kink-nation twinkling above
blessing you
only temporarily a used car dealer sexually
unites with another used car dealer shamelessly but successfully.
a reversal of the
message of the skin-discoloration process
when lacking sufficient
302 sex stimulation alien beyond
way way beyond DeKuyper maybe can there have been
if not there any origin to my
or his soppy milky snot
than a cheap hotel motel rooms like the ones that
Tony Perkins will never ever manage to rent out because is the loser here
his mom or Tony or a director named God. I say God. who do you choose when you read this?
the illusion of,
the squirt squirt and glug glug and kiss kiss of one
part organic in sex play with two of
a metallic of whose offspring the
concupiscence lusts more spiritually
toward the simply deconstruction a non-reading future a gangly
teen of then. thank you
you warped time-space fabric classy digs of now a Mormon house
303 will trample
the dog woofing howling at future sky-men
released
down a hole (black?) into welcome
jaws
lacks appearance now nursing a nostalgia for illusion.
in the middle of time can a Large Hadron Collider
think by itself? Daddy
clown says don’t overthink things princess. as
the rush rush rush of winds between huge planted legs refers only
to itself. Daddy: princess, catch some zzzz’s? Shine on, harvest moon. Oh shine on.
Meantime the teen boys peeped at them
over a fence. the heat-scrunched tank tops answered
snickering.
snatched from the past by the black eyes of a knockout. Half of you
rubbed out by time a space remains.
304 Daddy and Bruce
in the distortion mirror.
Time is a child playing checkers. the cosmic ruler a child, he said. another
motor car stalls in the street lined with the many apartments owned by this Daddy.
Daddy relocates Bruce
continually. the apartments always slightly different. a couch. plugged
in the electric light cord resists electricity.
ajar, open the basement door
the dead bodies in
the root cellar like Celtic youths
in a peat bog. a flip of a nearby planetary mass regathers its inhuman back
to the bay of the Mothership crew
prancing speedos the child at play
the times it chooses from.
305
Rushing across the tarmac. Ignition. his Morris
Minor the green-cheese moon transiting. God
do you want
to be limited on the
exoplanet I-5 just past
Redding
before getting to K-Falls?
Oh Daddy Dude! as they call it
secretly pulling into driveways the Mormon hamlet
when this Good says Hans if a work in progress winks at you,
think about it, do you wink back?
on the way to becoming gods
driving celestial I-5s
he though a Morris Minor (so like him)
I recurred to the Toyota.
Transmitted thru house newsletters
in Elizabethan terms Astrophil at the
wheel of an un- known vehicle and it has got
to be oh about 2300 light years on the map here there’s
306 a star named Kepler-90 its exoplanet adds the i as
Kepler-90i as the Mormons say you
(plural) can be gods
one god per planet two if there is some
linkage between Daddy Steve
there’s so much white noise am I
reaching you, honey?
Silence my kidneys, are they at 4.2 light years
the nearest, Proxima Centauri, a Jaguar instead of with room
for my digits to be able successfully grip
if i said
can you provide entertainment? navigate for me. what’s available
among the Ross 128 exos to be
taken for granted rather than being a closer approach like peaches and pears
the left spin meeting another left spin and the other flavor is a translation once decoded from alien to human or vice versa sweeps like a broom
conceptual/linguistic spiderwebs from the central AI
307 transmissions.
The falling meteor shower decides it. At the
16th St. Baptist church
Denise McNair’s beautiful shoes are sullied in
the 1963 church bombing or her friend Cynthia
white-hooded Klansmen rifles shooting
out the sky’s loveliest stars
go blank is removal by white-out still
possible now? there is for some a Sweet
Home Alabama when? for who of us at what moment is it is it
just honeysuckle makes it sweet? casings from a tarmac picked up
too in the parking lot here on Earth
at Orlando the Pulse nightclub among dead Latino gay-boy bodies too
blocking the escape to the exoplaces for the gray Aliens and maybe the saurian ones keep company in a flight of wings upward on the stairway to heaven you need the NASA right-stuff Daddy the princess
drinks from your fountain to sustain her climb up no flagging
if you are automata AI or drones on the way up what stamina prescribes
308 a need to become gods this lane merges without traffic
jamming is fusion. for the mothership probabiliorism expands
the white dots unseen by the ambient city lights retreat to the sweet moist darkness above us
camping nightly in Death Valley in March wildflower
carpets on the ground define the
above encompassing dark. The darkness encompasses enhanced cardio i call
this among any three of us the Love
function Daddy Steve. she was the affirming ancestor in one ancient world the rulers of the planet appealed
to a certain Venus Genetrix as the merge
lane sometimes speaks to
the boldest there is a pull the cars merge
even timid grow close to the Venusian magnetism drawing close
to this Earth a meteor shower of DeKuyper Belt detritus rains as sperm. Yours,
Daddy. Use it or loose it. your mission should you choose accepting it
309 multiply with radiant sun rays the satellite
worlds you generate.
Something wants to see me fail. What.
Yahweh? archons? fungible names not woke.
sleepers awake attractions each counterpart provoking a ride in
a silent DeLorean up the Milky
means nothing (and) on the nothing channel your long fingers in play turn negative
a positive attraction canceling sleep. eaching. reaching. thru bars of a Mormon
nursery
for you you were once
a fish and a fowl a towel easily wipes off falling
dirty ice comet meteor
in the mirror of attacks a single radiation beam
get lost in thatched yellow hair
in a pale white-
310 man skin nothing can keep the galactic
central hub
from continuous conquests with spiral galaxy
fingers in the blowing interstellar interstate
make the AI hub computer
into a deep dark hole A sub-visible crawl space for time a child ruling the
world plays checkers.
extension reaching out
its spiral galaxy fingers spread your bonier
ones open then close open again beware the
central computer the AI hub Samael emitting
avoid light annihilation destroying rays the darkness avoids identifying it if we
can I don’t know.
hybrids he-shes
311
up the lungs along the highway
a cloud above the Morris Minor furrows the brow of a bile duct
in Stella’s mouth like a cleansing detergent on sale at the chain store of Astrophil’s
defends a switching tail mimesis.
at 7-11.
in Daddy’s cosmic lungs or between outspread sky-legs
your switching tail ’s neo- formed tissue you maximize this umbilical cord
this white-out tether for inky black to snowy page-nations, images at the stoplight turn red the heavenly bodies
of former dominations and powers for Stella and Astrophil. That’s all there
a decrypted ms. large-scale conflict motorcars racing the across the black-red harvest moon
312
blots o
to Astrophil
branches out a thick strong switching
tail trailing behind the past I exhale. Daddy’s
cosmic lungs.
a neoformed skin tissue the umbilical
cord severed and regrown in its controlled nutrient
bath at launch time inflation will follow
its ignition. The
NSA’s Apollo mission or severs up
desertion
Enceladus and here Joshua trees grow
everywhere in our Nevadas. I
313 don’t know what happens the third time but that changes the meaning
again unsurprisingly and
after school after snacking opening a door cunningly hid there under the stairs to
another floor: a revenant, when you now recall the figure
of a man from the future collapse it shape- shifts to a me. I haven’t decided
how old you are when you meet me
have you? beside me jettisoned from the hold of our
craft cadres of grays
transform the saluting lines of parachuted UFO shapes not yet spoken of as revenants or even Mormons or
morons for that matter. one woman collapses on the tarmac and tons
of cars go by without noticing or even caring as back up standing
reading to resume walking to meet the schoolhouse bullies
314 the shape is a line of DNA filaments her nearly invisible mito- chondria
makes her a him
and you realize that
memory begins at perception conception fazes out a nebulous layer
on the road to which you find yourself with others
coming overland wagon trains filled with
expectant faces can protect them too if
the parallels are right each with a Remington in hand to protect from onslaughts
of non-LDS Mormon-haters lying in wait
for the ping-sound of the ringing cell phone you pick up in a taqueria on Mission
Street ringing its fool head off—with a message. A poem
named Valentine. hold the phone. check the identification screen
for caller name. tell me what it says. in some version of myself I make up just for this piece of writing to
identify who if anyone will go to the
library in a hundred years you will know but it won’t
315 be you then of course. it will be
a previously unnamed type of mold never
before seen, just
there, dormant. Biding its time.
or the bird squeaks
in the parking lot section reserved for sundowners flatlined a sundowner flatlined
at the side. you honor
my ass each time poking
in it it’s a clown’s face
colon with a close-parens makes
a smiley face pucker up blow out blockage accumulated
units of
detritus there is usually something wants to see
316 you fail
shackled John Glenn and the
Mercury test pilots the horizon retreats
Wernher von Braun and the Nazi scientists the powerless
Mission Control won’t stop them
or him. You have to take sides. them
or us. the Daddy help me! to you immense does business
suit a leather suit
in leather more suitable
for an s/m gathering
thatch of yel- low hair leaves a nothing entirely
the continuous slide show of images you in black leather also in your
swell-looking business suit always the alien
from Enceladus
I see you thru
this telescope or heart-scope that is just me beyond fast approaching unless you
say two. or more.
like an
the third leg, the always missing someone
can wrongly be seen
a at 90 degrees the poke poking eye.
the revenant.
the one never
quite You, Daddy….
In this cool. there’s a. I mean one of ’em. maybe more. call ’em
shadows I pull down the shade.
unseen wiggling pine trees some- where but where? between your toes? they un-dig up
the dark that makes you
also invisible.
the thumping
of a thick dick dead weighted mysterious un-
register-able the inhuman that is our daily bread
and water. the weight of the world or its wrist maybe
their fine thin bones protruding
sharp angular even the
desperately handsome yellow
318 or thatch skin will
or can should you want to keep it concealed
from thumping Watchers? they pose
as brilliant stars overtaken
something or
someone overheard
as overheard electricity downs us ker-
thump! the dead weight sound of stiff shoulder a stiff one
has a mind of its appalling own when lunging thrust thrust thrust!
weight equal lunges out appallingly.
Saturn too with its skies. the strange giggling
of interior erurtions burp!
happy happy oh we moons
of you pounding a message de-
ceived smiling unready. you are too big.
a colossus of heartsick strength
deeply covered
319 up
and down wherever
the dust wiggles the line no longer straight.
Can I get a show of hands from you?
(silence) and something… comes up squealing stop-action at 24 frames a second a principle of randomness selects which
one stops on the dime. this time
will never be that one Alfred Hitchcock’s movie.
out of a whole carousel a single selected. it is you Daddy Steve
a whole Megellanic Cloud of you. I am happy
enough. I am happy to leave
well enough alone ciao ciao the bye-bye gestures
you thought you envied will always make
this night different from the. others. I think.
There are aha’s also are there boo-hoo’s. the two
320 sides of alien face in-out go together
mistaken for the same of them aren’t we?
Elohim has two fingers to the tongue’s
taste foreign. I am only considering granularity. there are several parts of you
Yahweh-Elohim-Samael-Archon sky king rider of
micro macro Mothra-change. a
long shot. doubts the glue
will stick you to me to this or that signaling
sub-alien. doing human but they
must not like
each other very much. I like California talk. I
love the New Age. i believe in you Daddy
Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski
talked California and it stuck. So I do it
now for you Daddy Steve all this blah blah if
all
for you what transformation as words squiggle
321 in a row of readers reading text sucking
cock or enjoying a mystical alien experience
while skygazing as truth-seekers huh
Steve? the signals dark and something human
needs to be the alien it never has stopped being.
Pushing tall buildings over
at a leap as system by system
one by one the parody
lights turn out the signals
that land UFO’s in cornfields can you stop
the ghost- light of forest love from re-appearing re-animating death it-
self from releasing the empty nothing I feel forgetting Jamie for a moment and you remembering sentences no one’s
made until a piece a leg
joins and rips off a foot
a row of
toes we are able to read without your help,
humans. a part of me will always dwindle at the
322 thought of you and even those
new sentences won’t last. don’t something new pop. do
it no matter what?
each spotting and nexting. That is how it’s done! with exasperation! extrapolation!
…and just about in
time for nexting system
breakdown into my
backside. and your back. my neck
each of the our-tendons joins
the power of governing
vice versa Daddy. Steve. me-us.
The stars don’t go out without a signal. it’s from you. no it’s not.
poems or decay of alien bodies can
keep Kurt Cobain curried deep
beneath Lake Washington but
the way
reading does when you read him by his
323 music and life an exact
double is doomed.
With a look over your shoulder
at principalities and powers surely won’t other images
annoy you
with reanimation simulations carried
out in small towns like Cottage Grove, Oregon, a very Christian community knowing our fight is
hardly against flesh and blood but against aforementioned sky-powers of minimally benevolent
intentions.
They can only be beat by cars. the new little ones that might kind of
each one look like the other an electric goes by and
so? construed by looks alone only images will substituted a hybrid
of electric plus say, a grain fuel. the self-driven obviously without a choice. action at a distance propels as unaware as
Jeff. Jeff Sheehy’s image keeps exchanging Some dark force as yet
unknown to physics or just scent but . my innermost
324 motivations like
those of a Harvey Weinstein or Charlie Rose. what’s in charge the scale of hierarchy of the ruler-groups
here the Y chromosome above them what, the global
conspiracies Freemasons and unseen behind layers
and layers of Homintern a Jeep Cherokee.
Again, driving I-5.
one face just exchanges with another Better Call Saul obscures in a loss of a prior series the constant change of one series for another and time goes bye and you’re ten
freaking years old before realizing. Why? Mysteries. Norma
Desmond used to be big future
readers images like can be snuffed easily
a push of the finger at
Control+C or Delete
stops the indelicacy
of mind that floats on leaves
to the storm sewer tan orange Donald Trump
325 an orange Pennywise the Clown John Gacy’s goodwill
sequences gutter images cyclically returning every be-zillion light years in the first a/100th of a second the Big Bang is recompressed by return the images like pitiful little flowers shrieking uprooted aliens to be used abused doctored by little gray
experimental scientists implanting
a recollection so deep in you until you be woke
suddenly when the transponder tells you wake up!
to the the city sanitation
and the smell of rotting
leaves a pile turns them to leaves down the gutter
to the shark-toothed open mouth
storm sewer drain of your entropy or mine not by
heroin or crime because God doesn’t have time
for you but I do
326 I have a moment an image after another
bloating you up your smell of Jeff’s image
next to you if there’s no time for
you now just decay like the autumn leaves
and I’ll have time
for you poor things poor
huddled old ladies Villon saw then Mr. Baudelaire saw in his time dear sisters. next moment or image for you bloated up decaying
I kiss your entropy as my own poor things
smell worse by truck-gate super-compression
nothing just decay entropy bloats up Jeff’s electoral
ambition the color of doom
not saved even by
heroes. Or heroin for that matter and its cheap thrills of a high.
love loves
interchangeable parts keeping on betraying dumb-ass intermolecular
in big piles the love emotion flutters
327 the piles of leaves skandhas heaps piles bundles
a) feelings b) perceptions c) cognitions
my emotion-grids suddenly at this age need a
strong protector Steve
are you the future predicted by this? Daddy?
Bruce innocently coming back from Berkeley home to SF on the F bus the lonely Sunday afternoon walk Mission street walking me not me it and those two boys in hoods
see me defenseless. I’m in the hospital woke
woke to what? Boys go beating up faggots all the time
he’s thinking he needs a isn’t only believing he’s? in need of a. what he’s in need of is it a who
to me. DS swarming in Bruce’s ears they ring the bell who’s home
are u home DS
Cygnus the swan
328 above swarming the woke stars to stop up Mission
bones emotions this here thing you think’s a pile
of leaves ’s a bundle of feelings perceptions cognitions
without any inherent nothin’ !
It don’t work that way.
Before Daddy Steve, instead of saying BC. As if.
some action
from the future predicted Steve Daddy ’s quantified fuzzy in-between miles
smiling today but not like Jeff Sheehy’s
politically recharges
global eco equivalency but won’t the law of entropy kick in? the
a spatial distance, the number of miles you
can go without recharging your ecologically safe automobile again isn’t short than the number
of frames per second claiming to represent Love as it
as I fall protesting a signet ring of affection
329 the number of people who will give you a gift by reading you projecting the fake immortality image that language skills give you up a notch to
against roiling lipstick red angry sunsets the image of
Jeff Sheehy will even start to look like it’s got your own nose
dear reader those jug-ears you want to hide behind long hair covering your supposed imperfections,
if even Love’s coherent force
can be disassembled and if you look
at the poster at the bus shelter for Jeff next time the frame will
have shifted. Even in Love’s red candy apple replacement time way beyond the DeKuyper Belt from beyond the pause beyond even the far shouting helio-cloud extension. gas
detritus one by one from the open mothership door or daddy ship
it’s lonely out here, thinks Major Tom thinking all clouded imprecision beginning his sentences falling into preposition fragments or just exclamations the swift invading spider-and-shadow figures the humpy up/down motility of
330 his ascendant limbic their neuron chains spurt white
neuron-strings sperm-things plopping from the ceilings
of your head
a steady pitter pat of splattered cock-roach corpses out here
where the white trails of system merge our solar star’s extensions with Alpha
Centauri.
our system
it will be time replacement by another forever-lasting fixure like
Charlie Rose to mount like the rest
the ramp-extension leading all these spider-like figures of light back
to the Mothership here at t-minus one minute
rising and strewing little ova and tiny green sperm in its wake as delectable
331 taste treats for us, its watchers!
Santa Satan. Kevin Killian. names faces
rolling on by do they include DS? BB? some exact
replicant by my name
one of the sperm cadres of the future why
can’t I get the name of Mr. Clown John Gacy who might eat
little Bruce like the principalities and powers do the deep-doomed secrets dissimulate
us the way we replace snakes slithering along.
Let
to leave secrets lie
and dissimulate
for years. That
was the great power of John Gacy’s apparently smooth construction of
dead under the concealed boys in there. Within every clown is a
332 Santa. within each Santa a
Satan!
leaving of Lake Washington by poplars and sycamore
exhumations discovers
that up ahead the power of future exchanges of could of
and would of. I
wish that thought. sometimes a sycamore is just a sycamore. words worlding
in a nearby motel room. and I know you
are watching us watch you. but if you can reanimate you
can’t always re-kill. or can
I? Daddy I’m not always just your
unexamined love but sometimes too
the death you might
have without me. Love makes me say this, Daddy S! only
as I sit here typing, do even I really
realize how deep this thought be? deep deep deep
like swamp-Daddy also be Daddy! sometimes
Brucie just wants to be something the swamp
333 turns up in 50 years I guess revenant-Brucie at your
reader-doorstep, oh univer se!
you have thunk?
power has change forget. lies open up the human to the alien
buried by falling leaves and it’s once again
Kurt’s body under Lake Washington’s dark dead sycamore leaves. they
are leaving. Us I think. but also
when push comes
to Daddy and Bruce will they leave us?
Kurt Cobain in decay
ornamentation that delights
we want to be the same if
arm in arm
the power of vice versa signals your name.
to me arm and vice versa
334 by extrapolation his their or her star-field spots of plurality planet by planet system by each of your systems too
and barely and only
momentarily stabilized as Venn diagrams or what the
interlocking of the variously dimensioned universe that coincide
colliding and surprising cobalt-blue encrypted expectations a two-backed beast
born to
decipher. This is Daddy’s faded tattoo.
This is the wonderment
he sees when my face ’s eyes go from dot to dot and that makes a detached nose or in the taught- ness
he issues to his arm muscles when in repose we sleep.
One of you is also OK.
it’s like—does a clump of matter-mass
create this here dip you
335 see in someone’s time-space fabric or dipping
are the two blanket-less
sleeping bodies the spatial-temporal undoing of the winking
bright-holes of some marvelously poked
high-octane brilliance field of benign protection, bro!? a.k.a. sis i am
as well and in the process I
get all these spiritual feelings
scrunched in the chest concavity whose out-
stretched arms of readiness for sleep. or snicker. A boohoo
as good as a haha. it’s all good. all good
here in
the relayed bronze light from which
descended expansion zillions of years aging and lagging
in a
slacker-hood crude set of two arms
two legs two plus two equals four quite edible
kidneys
336 before Mrs. God decides to
have pie tonight
when we join the ranch hands before eating to give thanks with
a pre-meal prayer of sincerity. Isn’t it just totally amazing
all of us yes all of us here
have just lived yet another fab
moment of life unqualified by the sound of the
next-door teen high school boy working on that car of his a-hoisted up to pound on and
guess what it’s not even Daddy pounding me!
Day upon day followed by night following night and yes, like blind oysters not
having ever but known us I mean ourselves but slenderly. And when I transcribed
that quantum message that yes I’m
still alive we coulda woulda shoulda knocked us
up and bred me
337 like a spiritually
transformed hog penned us and washed clean teeny little quantum pieces so
I’m you’m him’m ’r washed in the blood
of the
lamb sparkling new-born like oh I think I’d liken
it figuratively again to something beautiful and new, blue giants, more
than the older maybe prettier but staler reds, the
red dwarfs time will refashion you as with any appreciation
you may have
of the virtues not deficits of
the entropic within. And
I am that within. I am still now
and will increasingly be as will even my Daddy
the entropic quietness that depletes principles all even aspirations
as when by those all subtending arms
arrival as a Nissan with alternative fuels to power
it as I like or am bound to I
guess to
338 the capacious encompassing of your
supportive chest for the moment of a surprised coincidence of possessed as a particle
with possessing as its anti-matter particle the relax-moment
to dissolution and oblivion of separation selves to the cloak we’ll
put on carelessly till the pork chop of me joins the
apple-sauce-ness of you-who of us on the dinner plate
Yahweh or Samael the Nissan supported by the
radiant teen boy’s cinder blocks as each leaf of grass around of and them continues its bending circumpolar vector of joy
zooming like a divine slightly tipsy fruit fly drunk and uncoordinated honks at all the other cars
for sheer exuberance. can it really be true you’re only young each time
for that?
on which
339 body together with its sister-spirit
lying together now Daddy inside you
large capacious a thump thump thump
a tell-tale thumping heart darling!
The predictability of panties twisted joining each to the other makes Daddy’s cadet crave more squealing. a depilation of
the succinct black strands of her wishes to do x,
when it’s y he wants.
and at certain times it turns out the implementation of a z
I was innocent of turns up the disappearance of successfully repressed
pronouns can imperiously demand the revenant of whoever I can decide to forget I am instead. the
plan never unfolds exactly as you foresee it doing its
thing. Instead of
340 catering an impulse of my own seems foreign and the greater Alien sprawled out against the astronomical sky of human desire seen from a single lazy exoplanet circling the rather ordinary medium-size red one, star I mean, called Ross 128 nearer
than anything else in everything except Proxima Centauri beats
it in arriving at a mere 4.2
light years from its original scorch-you-to- a-cinder plan that dim-wittedness on high alone among
guardian Watchers managed to etc. things switch on you and glazed over eyes in half-sleep from watching and waiting to see a sign from him the gas-giant Blue among them, as the chosen directive for me do b not a and not c the large hand followed the signals and the program changed the chemistry.
If instead of having a single proton
suddenly you’re gifted with another, who are you?
Once I was a hydrogen molecule whew! did
341 I honest and truly turn to a helium thing? boy oh boy!
realign the random.
do you feel it? can u feel a whatever, a certain urge maybe says hey I guess I’m in the middle of being reprogrammed.
Daddy, you reprogrammed
ME and duh! if it’s that simple… well you know: QED right?
The I-5 analog what’s my destination in this
Toyota Tacoma is it
finally to be the
Beemer of your life, Daddy Steve? You can consider loss
loss of any kind of course
but almost entirely you’d say loss of imagination as
the entropy definition. Right?
Daddy. Or God. He’s Headed to P-land. Right PDX on his
inland superhighway funny how things change constantly on you that seem real
but instead of your shiny long black SUV we’re riding
by hologram-projections the raw slash and cut
342 thru this Willamette Valley of
one by one the college towns or even
dumb white evangelical ones act like
gear transmission changes first you’re in first and so on coming in slowly in very old-fashioned Powerglide. But
just because you’re God, Daddy Steve, don’t
for an instant believe… well, anything at all. you’ll sure be sorry I promise you if you think it’s real?
Portland in a used
Jeep. the college towns cower. The GPS delusion helps pass the time by touching bases
with you from this exo- planet where half the time it’s way way frozen cold out here
then the rest of the time without hiding under
a rock somewhere you shrink to a seed protecting me here and you there on Earth from awful terrible horrible heat. here we have
no continuing city. be passersby, I say,
and you can find that particular archon saying right in the 5th gospel, the Gospel of
343 Thomas,
a.k.a. Rabbi Akiva one of his many disguises and you don’t think you’ll get out of here this Ferris wheel of constantly changing
disguises I mean—without driving thru Salem first do you?
Daddy Daddy soon you’ll be a grasshopper.
In another life I was a tree, a bush, or a maiden. Who am I
now 4 U Dada? and who are U 4 me: from a satellite 50 miles up
aren’t we both revealed as just space junk?
When I got my mail today
when I got the mail today Daddy,
getting my mail today Steve,
a self-assembly kit. Transmission
of a quantum entanglement such as you Daddy temporarily with me
Bruce. In amazement
I feel like the little cobbler
that made androids in Philip K. Dick’s
book er I guess I mean
344 movie version of his story. Every day a
new kit arriving. no well it’s really every
moment tweaks the
narrative almost indiscernibly from
smart you go to dumb as
a freakin’ plumb. or from me to you. or
else all of us
are idiots and if you sit meditation
on a black pillow for thirty years
(this is a joke) you think that helps? ha ha ha ha quantum entanglement will fool you
and bounce your SUV back to you and you
will be a whizzing air-mobile seen
only in a BLADE RUNNER
future won’t you?
Didn’t you notice, there’s
a couple of squished bugs on the
vehicle that returned that weren’t there
before? Clue, your first. Second clue.
Out with Sadie today on her walk we
notice at a bus stop shelter this huge six foot high
345 ad showing Supervisor Jeff Sheehy’s face. His beefy
jowls. He wants to be reelected for District 8.
And the face changes as you look at it. sometimes it’s
Steve that wants to be re-elected and sometimes Bruce or when
I’m feeling blue what do you know! Hello poet John Wieners! Just when you think the world’s about
to crush you, smash your pretty face forever,
just guess, guess what: it is and there’ll not be an atom left before you have
time to notice that cute older ambiguously-gendered
old guy of the type you like Daddy but you’re gone
before you
can reprogram him/her. or is the new word you use supposed
to be “them” now? There’s a cold beer
waiting for you in the fridge as always Daddy. Just like one
drop of sweat-water off the cold Bud and won’t I
magically be the indefinitely-gendered old guy you
want? or let me serve you pasta puttanesca
with a side dish of imported olives all fleshy green and when it doesn’t have enough star
346 tentacles their little faces shrieking
up from the plate as a declaration of valentine love,
punish me and tell me to go stand
in the closet, SAMAEL or Daddy’s other name
is ever Tetragrammaton before surprising me with a pasta al pesto meal instead and then the sun
falls onto our dinner plates from the sky, like
the orange-yellow slicker in the Daddy’s black SUV again. and we’re on the road.
You only pull my pants off because you like to. With permission I put
them on quickly again but why? because
Steve, I need to sometimes. Not always
but don’t I sometimes? What you want
is what I want. less
occasional alteration.
Your windshield. a bug screen. For a minute I forget the skies. for a minute it’s the little things that count
on the number of times
even your best-trained entomologist can
in any probabilistic sci-fi future
347 distinguish your horribly awfully squished
dragonflies from even your like,
eidetically identical image variations in the mind which goes the distance and spends more time tripping out
than working. Work is big. Imagination’s way bigger. it counts. not the other. You
work (small thing) to imagine (big one). and which of you registering even 5
on the gender scale doesn’t love a big one. Theory of eideticism.
In related concerns.
Family revenants. up from
floorboards always surging
the rising wholistic howling of ’em.
woo woooooooo are you shocked
when the alien lifeform
tells you your ancestors and what they did,
is the most important in terms
of drawing up the ramp and
locking the hatch doors down
before take-off? no fear
348 cuts deeper, Daddy, than the panic bugging
us today must be is it? yes! the chomp chomp of
a whole nothing type of freaky insects
cotton candy cones of the innocuous
DNA I have always loved despite the shadow of insect cone-headed KKK persons munching flesh under hoods.
Powers thrones dominations. all hooded on high. mucking up original
instructions tweaking the hand delivered
Torah
from the newsboy collecting an amount due
on subscription is only Blanche
Dubois in pity crying out
oh young man! young man… you…
young… and young
Blanche darling
349 you bitch! shouts Samael that’s MY
dinner not yours beating our heads like the raindrops
pounding the rooftops and human hearts in the heart murmur
age doesn’t diminish but
in their hybrid night sky only
increase woes never dreamed up
though in intuition
linked limiting and eating out each
catcall of your and
my disrepaired heart hand liver entrailed up
cloth wrapped innards the sign of a hieroglyph
deciphers a set of
boxes holding my hand in yours ducking
even the peering alien eyes the potholes of
any ability to read me
delivers your Daddy strength to my heart,
350 Princess Leia, I your Hans Solo magnified in spreading sound
waves thru what yesterday can only be tomorrow
’s empty spaces I’m curled up in. your good girl is pushed by a dung beetle along underground rivers
meeting the rising sun
rivers of smile-mixed tears and tear-mixed smiles Hello Daddy! a projectile vomits out a piece of my torn tongue a lonely
“l” singing on the D-deck
the mothership your long black SUV disgorges you take
the me out of me the name called a clown or heart-eating
cannibal does the name
Jeffrey Dahmer when the message arrives
a markup of body pieces the stressed corona
around the joy
of the old pump pump and pillow talk the exhaustion of
351 the displayed cold
cuts lighting up beams off
the ladder to the stars a bit of thumb to the first knuckle zooms off first before the pinkie index middle of Sweeney Todd pies hawking the wares Daddy promises
in time to help tossing and losing as you go.
the mothership
waits the disburdened skies
the streaming transmis- sion of stellar information effectively disrupts poetic blab
disqualified as the repeated but more and more insistent intimacy the
I-love-you letters left like the kiss-smudge behind the sphincter the
spectator the John Gacy clown paired
with a fedora’d gent
in red and gold
is either sunset or sunrise. if you put on
the speedos the white-face
352 Kabuki foundation like this too too sullied flesh
won’t it melt wax-base crayon paint pix
fallen from
the Man in the Moon?
I think you do. and I think you know I know that
you do too. perversity can contain whole
suitcases of sense 97%
of the time. baggage handlers know this. Go
to your carousel and wait for the hold
transfer’s completion. as traveler belongings yesterday’s newspapers like a bottle
tossed when I write washes up its message to
any left behind year 2097 comes and goes
and who shows? anybody
gonna show you think then hope in vain white trash will lead
you up the staircase to the stars shining like
platinum in Andromeda
at whose heart a black hole
353 and it must be hungry only yum yum blech -ing pieces bits tiny information strings of used up words recycled
this time i have an onomatopoeia ear open they will collect
or be connected to. Hello? Daddy! R U
there? you are the Steve-leg that’s an identical copy of the Bruce-one as existing as the quantum entanglement
Steven Hawking said could never exist virtually no it
can only be real
above the mothership the
disburdening of
the heart from the scary dark sunset cloud-skies
vomited out by
now all contents
in the desert around me when betrayed
by the deep octaves riding
354 the UFO contrails
that soon objectively
will look down on
me from on high
as if a perverted car connoisseur in search of the perfect Chevy Corvair (1960)
the dualized T-Bird the
auto and highway tandem of sub dom Satan Santa you
hypocrite reader counterparts make hash on
the plate at table when you step up
to it without fuss what
manners go astray that easy, lady? answer me that, face in the mirror, tarted up like the
whore you always seem darling to claim to love me then as I actually AM
will you ever?
without manners lacking so much as a
“by your leave” that is not Unidentified Flying Object,
is it Daddy Steve?
355
Ommmm we r all 1. zzzzz. i
am bored by mysticism
would you kindly instead just hand me my heart-shaped box and
like the dreary
never ceasing Pacific Northwest rains
something wonderful like discovering
garage music in the ’80s a long
time ago pops out with a large clown hammer you
would expect the little heart-shaped box over there, darling,
can you help the heap of cinders once known
as hearts?
like food for a preying mantis
disguised as these locusts that really
only manifest as Archons
on arrival another view
356 is inevitable and hackneyed
in sync
as we go “chomp! chomp!” a fundamental kind of
fungibility
DNA spinning out of control
as soon as the cosmic power takes off a genetic snippet I know I’ll be from liking only cones
of sweet cotton candy
will never tweak themselves into KKK hoods for me! believe you me.
that originally looked like a plain methane gas when I’m along riding
in the car with you. Oceans of blood the Phillip Guston red tides his KKK-hooded
ghosts they don’t even bother for these days yes? floorboards, the ones
that made money from rifles? I’m shocked and shackled I’m shellacked. the future Mothership.
its sliding-out ramp tells us bugs R U no fear
it’s our original alien
357 shape.
keep the panicle cutters handy
your GPS, the transmission Daddy knows best helps pass the time for me touching
bases with you at home by a brand new quantum entanglement
device I saw that your windshield
bounced back to me
off the rocks of some planet I guess.
Mars, or do you think so ?
God. not a noun. a verb isn’t
he a Daddy on his road trip passing
one off-ramp and passing without ever leaving
the highway
plenipotentiary sound of
that YHWH sound.
it’s white noise.
the soothing sound the new tarmac the extra special
car tires soothing
me to sleep with my Teddy Bear. Nothing
ever goes wrong again. And then at the end
of the road the
long black sedan
358 just kind of ascends up like an airplane
taking off
and in the middle of the night under stars hung like
bright orange Japanese lanterns is a verb as God isn’t Daddy a verb just Him? a swell road trip
a swollen
plenipotentiary sounds the rickety blacktop of the highway
potholes like YHWH hurls
thunderbolts turning everything into your black colors Daddy why are all your clothes colored black “nel pinto
di nero” towns pass
by comfortably you will never figure out
Daddy ahead of time as the orange color
of those starry lanterns above us like from homeopathic magic
as DS for new warmth dons the fab yellow sweater with exertion
the one he keeps rolled up inside there in his super-Daddy-clean-and-tidy black glove compartment you know the one that connects telepathically
to a remote switch that puts on Fifty Shades of Grey
on the tiny car video that
359 we watch as Steve drives. Snickers follow. They
make me think a better kinder Dennis Cooper’s image will
soon follow by teletransportation but I’ll change
the channel to BLADE RUNNER #1 instead
of haggling with Samael who’s running the show Steve puts on his yellow
sweater for warmth driving higher of clothes you like to always have
not a town, get
it? Daddy Steve, oh my gosh, instead of God some would say oh Steve what a fab road trip this is or will a plenipotentiary sound
like the word Tetragrammaton end
up saturating the world the Flavian of a world
tinting you, white man, Daddy Steve and your leggy long-armed
body-self with a Flavian yellow blanket
I found
when you drove
me back in that Daddy-mobile of yours that
felt like
360 a sudden flight a thousand long black SUVs
and if I’d blink even
just a second would you make the whole world disappear
beautiful your white-man skin, white-man Daddy Steve
do you really
fill up the world like the yellow blanket in the
back seat of this SUV of yours
we’re tripping out on with E can a love drug like
E just drench consciousness or
all of physicality like the thought of you totalizes
a whole bunch of consciousnesses
for instance mine sort of wobbles if I clench my teeth and lift my mouth corners to make
your name’s initial sibilant.
saturates saturate the
already yellow blanket in the
backseat of your car radiate out a hue Romans once a long time ago called “Flavian”
is in
361 its cool ability to take over the senses so anyway if my vision sees
that forest of pines starting to be all yellow and all it ain’t LSD. Whatever.
anything global
starts to feel to the pores of my skin like it’s
they say unless riding along across the SF Oakland Bay Bridge
suddenly it hits me that in full
god-like saturation that deep yellow blanket you got
there in your back seat what’s so divine about
that? a yellow blanket of awe, and just
as the world’s starting to turn all-yellow total yellowness filling
ability to to defuse a word like it won’t end up defusing itself anyway or
maybe you will yourself to make it easier on me?
With my poor vision
362 though is it really God I see at the wheel of your brand new Toyota Tacoma
and we’re somewhere out of greasewood where we are it’s all sandy and some
on. OK? Daddy even though the word God, with you included, in other words gets defused one way you still have
your Toyota Tacoma behind the wheel right? There’s
a nice polyurethane very light yellow blanket and the band at the edge in the light always looks phosphorescent illuminatingly comfortable
and if that’s you when you’re God, really? you tell me
somehow it’s, like stinting or stingy or something as a compliment? Daddy most anyone
could tell you how it’s actually nicer to be the
yellow blanket and you still
suspect me of
skimping my compliments like skipping
weightlessly across lake waters if you imagine you’re a stone? Blanket
accusations, I say!
363
but in fact not for decades having
been able means refusing a favorite fable makes your (my) atoms swerve. to sustain this. that does make a or some sort of difference
of the z factor has to be
counted too.
ice. Boo hoo. Enceladus wants Daddy Saturn.
Two fingers stuck into the cadet cadre’s cavity squealing!
Eek eek! listen in vain. those aren’t shrieks.
they’re love calls. Love hurts.
The illusion of the predictability of panties. stuck twisted into the mouth. a gag, sort of.
Name them in order by color. There’s russet and rose, aubergine but scarlet wrapped up each in
364 its own cellophane envelop cheap. You order online.
The hot blond the pumping heart. You respond
like a Camaro to the epiglottis throb, zero
to eighty in a few seconds. soft fatter
lips due to the communique bounced off
the Saturn transponder.
the mindstate can
change this. anytime. Body being only a fucking FORM
of your mind. YES! YOURS as you hear
this the resulting zooming of vehicles
along the freeway
in another city
causes these projections. Understand, there’s an undistorting device used to undo the white noise
that alters the original message.
Love is labile call
it fragile if you want: I call it sturdy.
His body
at a cafe for instance. The height is far less. the smile
(mine or his) less ready. Love is relational.
365 Can the target message’s transmission not
alter what it hits splat! what about white noise is the irregularity of a car’s passage along its highway. Hello,
is this K. Falls or Medford? if it
starts being one why the other
of two.
Two together make a band of
love diluting or stretching
novel changes Thelma and Louise.
Fucking love gets you so far. T and L’s car
stop frames over the Grand Canyon. K. Falls becomes Medford becoming Salem.
Powers archons ruling us from above
the invisible multiverse
intrusion ignition inflation coinciding
with love’s entropy when if and that’s just an if mind you
if I am still sitting with a cigarette smoking with Jamie and it’s really you
366 you meeting a client not the memory-stretch of Jamie
like a rubber band
what’s the fucking
point of love on Tuesdays Do you get the feeling
of agents, entities, laughing at you as
they were probably doing
as the universe first ignited the illusion bubble inflates
the illusion
of contact making you
a Jamie I was smoking
cigarettes with as the last laugh Thelma’s got
with Louise. Things don’t have to
work. Just
stretch.
You meantime. meeting a client mysteriously Jamie scoring a bag
of meth. whatever. it substituted I guess. can
you substitute anything/anyone for anything/person else?
instead of makeup, try a man bun. And the opposite.
367 opposite turning each into another anyone or thing when the
Mothership lands
someplace in a Steven Spielberg movie and
swallows up
the brave and foolish. who turn out to be just different phases of
each person at a time. Today I want
do put on face but maybe tomorrow I’ll be pitching
not catching. Catch the drift?
every rubber band breaks if stretching. and probably yawning.
at the boredom of pulling up normals by their rubber band bootstraps.
Tuesdays, Steve. on Wednesdays one of your most significant personal name changes starts to fill in the blanks that pull my body into parts
for you to entry in. You fill
in blanks Daddy. You pare me down
from the polygon of eight sides from another universe than this
368 three sided
thing I seem to be in and with a squish of
your pole Daddy I just collapse totally!
Daddy’s so wiggy. I get so piggy. You make me feel so Iggy
Pop that way. Baby, breed big ole stars all orange-blue bright tonight in my sparkling eyes puh-lease baby?
Lightyears swerve and the message goes Whaa…?
Darling Daddy did your kiss kiss just butter me up and jam me between?
I’m all polygonal again.
which abnormal am I now? can the message come back again? how? when. I’m a love tart waiting. whaaaaa…? I mean put some
butter and a little strawberry jam on m
and I’ll be yours! Hands?
takers? want me for breakfast this morning Daddykins?
Each me is just as real as who you like to smile at
have coffee with, while constantly switching
to each other here in the spacecraft
369 aren’t we really the Watcher whose delusion controls me by
unwittingly dodging us two in
phases coming in first on one frequency then
this one that likes to spills itself in crumbling sentences marching from right to left
scrolling down the monitor of your
eyes page after shapeshifting page
while dodging you. I
am something else that’s neither you nor
someone catching up with you either. Just
be peaceful and watch it happening twisting and turning silently no screaming when the line ends.
of me is the one for one of the Watchers up there in his frickin space craft! Except the
only really alien is what y’all call normal.
370 six four now scrambled scrunched headless did the message hit you too? did it shape shift us both, babe?
sprouted alternate squid-like appurtenances.
up. scrunched up letters. A cosmic ray power
will always
syntactically swerves the meaning. as fresh veggies left out of the fridge on the
counter entropically lose the heat required to keep their form limp and finally puddle their message.
Can you answer that? By the time the car in the next lane pulls in it’s erased. its marauding
intent to take the high ground
away
from the highway shoulders crumbles and
one lane always stays in its lane.
Darling do you think you really have to need to or
371 are required to “get it”? Don’t
let on!—reads the unscrambled image.
Logic says all aliens
recognize each other. But don’t let them
take you for a ride between the two horns
of that gibbous moon up there!
Our species are contractors. in the eyes of
normals though actually shrinking, our heads
appear to bump on clouds. It’s not
“when have we left off being these human things?”
more like who thinks you started without
star-junk clouding your
eyes. I’m sorry but you must think
of me as normal do you? well thank you sweetheart
so do I. Look
carefully how many eyes do you see on that face in the mirror when you get up? You’re welcome. an extra eye leaves the Hello Kitty
of our species to reconstruct itself into non-recognition
what it sees as us.
372 Can you do better than that, Daddy sweetie?
what each should always say back to the other: give me my beating quick real quick please
or how to keep me from stopping remembering and flipped in awokeness
won’t you fall into
a forgotten I must have
for a moment have imagined
was me?
a room filled with men the kind that obviously frequent this
place a joint like
Eddie Mars’s sailing a torch song like men’s
charred lungs
in a predatory rictus those opening crude mouths the challenge
of for the first time deciding I am a movie called The Big Sleep but no,
this is post Code
I am only twenty when we get married
you can
get used to glamour I made this fake-fur commercial trading on peddling
373 sexy voice Brooklyn then later
here i am and it’s much later in the ’70s peddling the fake fur
with that chintzy name I hated
“Black Glamma.” in the plot’s one song number for
me. “hit her in the choppers… she’s a sad sad tomato”
I like to think of
me singing this to Steve “and
her tears flowed like wine and her tears” and maybe it’s for
Steve or maybe not
and maybe I’m remembering Jamie though
neither made bruises like
the song’s bruised tomato
YHWH’s hand
in the image I keep trying to cancel out of a cloud
Saint-Cloud near Versailles pronounced seh cloo
or like saint cloud like a high cumulus drifting over equally thin wispy
Minnesota recollections I made into that book of mine
ohhhhhhhh decades ago
SLAP! stop please stop stop SLAP
3 74 SLAP SLAP back and forth I can feel my body being pushed from David almost four decades ago another decade going by and I’m trying my
best to please and love Jamie almost twenty years I’m doing this
and now Steve
wouldn’t that blur your eyes
drops tiny drops collecting where the mascara makes a cat’s eye into a tail and
these tears fell like wine
or tomato juice it felt like
and that was just how
I was born like that the romance of tears that made
me turn cunt like
I did, like
what homo like me wouldn’t turn go dot dot dot incomplete as the dazed
thought wished up I thought like the cigar smoke at Eddie Mars’ place did singing
the tomato song then I think
how many permutations these lyrics would amuse a fencepost if you sent out runners
375 thru the smoke of
what’s left of this stolen country
inhaled like smoke by all the white men just like me never turned cunt like
I did why not? Yaldabaoth’s dim-witted
decision let time go on instead it stopped on a dime and with a charred stick
marked it X for unknown. when I wear Black Glamma
I know
i mean think or maybe there was just
another man and turning my back on Steve I just
walked off each possibility
of me singing a torch song at Steve and making eyes
is only more or less probable only an image
in the mind that connects
and reconnects continuously with
the randomized
continuously changing… that for instance I died back when,
before Jamie even and all this is just a pumped-up dream
frantic scratching
376 and screaming in a rainstorm kissing him but
who. Steve David. Jamie. or the string of
more or less probable others that before I died
spilled out like a sloppy blotch
of ketchup when you
have to first
bang it way too hard to garnish
the fries that come with the burger, babe. nothing before the ’50s began my life
has started waiting
the sudden lurch of a cloud of tomato ketchup pouring down wasted like an American girl-victim
wasted away falling like
like tears falling in a rain rain imagined in half-changed memories brain-floated like corpses from the ’50s as the encrypted message YHWH wants
rabbinic scholars to unravel before it looks like it always was too late
377 in time will we ever flipping recognize ourselves?
you can’t recognize since it’s not your species to begin with the construct-
projection we call Yahweh the blind one or Samuel has
gifted us with blindness darkness from the beginning and makes you believe that SUV you drive is an old-fashioned wood-paneled station wagon from a spinning Beach Boys record. Wow! is
it all that simple?
and others like me to be simply the new politically correct “differently specied.” like Yaldabaoth. from
another world.
Take Daddy for instance. the giant world.
Daddy Steve’s big hands his oh so huge feet and
that other ultra big giant thing of giant Daddy’s you know what you normals casually call
his “etc.”? the white noise must have altered
the original word and changed it. Cause now isn’t that part called his etc. normally. though of course not alien-
378 ly. Daddy’s channel. for transmission.
of white.
in a crowd of normals that often goes unnoticed. People
protest, there’s no call
to sexualize everything Bruce. Do you
need to do that in all your writing?
Sex can and does at times go disguised when speaking of
the heart how often this writer uses pump pump to convert her point. well. the fact that pump pump
can hardly help being as well the
old in-out. that too.
Nothing at all ’s ever just one thing are you? plural and singular at the same time?
you need to fake it.
I do. we all can. do daily.
self-reflective activity is characteristic of alien life that temporarily
precludes its foreign in order to just
379 be who we are. pump
pump. thump thump.
unnoticed. I myself writing this interpretative hallucination never fails to take us serious messages transmissions but need to fake it.
how can your rule out deaf ears
without listening to them?
I don’t take holograms.
seriously!
all attempts to take us seriously holograms.
The
hologram will or so-called alien. I received that
transmission as an answer to my plea to I suppose
some lower-level power up there. Abduction is just
a metaphor. Useful. Don’t lose your sense of humor. Hey,
it’s almost Halloween!
think you can say that
380 bones from our wrists. I don’t get it! Darling you don’t have to as it
gets us.
only two dimension here in
this part of the multiverse did you?
how anyhow fail to come up
altered when altered by transmission? If you
think that I have a little pink bow for your hair. And when you read this again say in
five days will the again reconfigured surprise
any of us? That is the human part of
me. And Steve. The alien will be the part that is a step ahead the mind still will be messed with. You
used to be able to fix your own carburetors. digitalization
now forces you to take it in
to the shop because the
technology is beyond you. You in your dirty Levi’s
and greasy t-shirt why not tie
up your man bun in
a pink bow dude?
381
wear a pink bow sometimes?
transmitted alters
an artificial cheek blush can only respond to
a mindstate tho. a throbbing epiglottis, choking
the fingers.
the Two fingers in the cadet commander’s mouth
the truck
stays in its lane. down down down
smashing terrestrial communiques.
a century ago. or still up ahead
by the Dog Star glow settling a score.
Your hands spread so wide your shoe sized large there was a big moon out some time ago when Buddy Holly’s plane
crashed into Lou
Reed’s “Satellite of Love”
he drew out the last syllable. luvvvvv.
382 altered by
transducers that controlled him like raindrops falling thru
god in the sonic gap between
pop songs as
the distance widens slowly
in cold
entropy. utilities satellites of
what Lou Reed would
much later call or recall when
pronouncing satellites of “luv” as
sonically, stoically he’d draw the syllable out.
These are all transducers.
Randomness creates a gap
in god and then like raindrops the
blood of him falling
on each rooftop dabbed red. each book of the library of his dubbed read. no one
having yet checked him out.
The Lord. the many names of Power.
each like Stepford Wives is the same rain of blood each wife transfixed
383 with evidentiary wounds. Your Honor I call to the stand. And
listen to it. each
piece of ice or rock of crack in a
the meteor zone between us
rocky small planets the big ole gas
(burp!) giants way away the hell out each in its own
does its. that’s what I call witness the witnesses
stand. often on their own. they crack.
heavy metal shower rains. up Ur-anus. or Pluto ascend the pain
blood-drops of a low level swarm-mind we seem
to claim no longer to tear into
pieces. and then reassemble. and the
re dissemble. and back again. a big
pain in the pass that together surpass
my ass
with Steve’s dick in it.
sonic transducers to come. cosmic spurts ropy wads
of Mormon white stuff smells a little
of chlorination. you swim even 15 minutes
384 is all and with climbing out that faint trace
clinging of Clorox imparted by even
the smallest
swim pool. with or without the rubber fins testify
to an evolutionary direction led a soapy showering off when each can find specks of dirt the eyes
of sloppy seconds will always miss.
Watchers like Tefillin for the just: you can’t live
with ‘em and can’t without.
Without this who’d be here even ten seconds. Spurt spurt goes
Steve and
in my cunt
it’s heaven for an
hour or two. A dog whistles and I salute. In
Ancient Rome a haruspex foretold your future
by bird-flight
then horny on the way home starts running fast.
If not a wife then probably a slave.
the slave’s indeterminate gender
385 is the only thing these men consider violate. Fast forward
millennia the Keck Observatory detects present-day
unseen erotic collisions 3 billion light years
ahead. That’s us.
certain Venusians
in methane explain the pinkish
coloration. pink subversion
at the tip of
that huge monster of his can evolution head off a
Sixth Extinction even?
every event its own solution. thereafter
will be no more ma’ams or sirs but just a
in- or out- in out go faster dude
faster
Keck will be the very last
to know believe the Aliens as reported in
the Roswell Daily Gazette, monthly.
It’s always
easier to retrieve a spurt of his cum than an emotion
he’s hiding.
386
the time-space fabric’s stretching
reveals ten minutes of in-
voluntary concealment across
some ten emotions.
refuse to be registered. At the conference reading sitting beside me before my turn to perform an affable squeeze
of an arm around me snuggling me.
that’s as far as I go. a love sign? a like sign? or a big tent sheltering
more affect than
a stick can be shaken. at. discretion in Steve
demands a return to semiotics. or
just putting explanation
as far away as you can push it. or him. Sometime
wants a small tent. lavish memories
not the implants. Tits
swell, silicon’s injected. Am I a woman with no hint left
of a man?
Hurt is at least an emotion. Affect is a
country club that if it accepted me I wouldn’t join.
387
i
going to wind up cuddling this howling night.
Steve spurt and in the eye of the needle and who
knows over coffee at a
cafe someplace, will the brew stared at still
are still to come. Falling like rain- or blood drops
particles of a dust and ice meteor belt
even preferred
as whirling
utility satellites that consciously our
thinking snarls chokes
as the dust blows
tire, say a foot-tread
at stake the pulverized powder
of Mars
watched out from the high watching from
towers of listening watching
surveillance cameras hide the clothes we
wear.
388 seen of duct taped as the
very we ourselves. Thank you so
much cadres silver suits head over heels
disguising the L-word. LOVE.
You know the lock
opens the key and arm after a Saturn auto.
A blue car jumping
across haunting a moon-like
yellow keys in without possible hand-stump
preventing ripping scattering severing the
same veins
his razor separated into
red physicality mixing the white of
my pale arm alternatively into
the revenant I probably should have
been by now. It’s not right.
Is love pretty
when it isn’t right?
A French classic: The Red and the White dilutes as the new
389 partial love the god-sanctioned pink of superiority over.
Steve,
the anemia of protection. This I value can thankfully endure
emergence of ripped severed
veins only separation.
him and me. arm in arm protected by an alternative
bang bang! there it is. Ignition precedes
first light until in reversals the neck
can join the correct car assigned it. Yahweh did
this. Samael by another name. Be still my heart! defrauded detained can call you
as a sorcerer spells
out emerging words where exoplanets reengage
his big dick to
my cunt.
as still-alive tho suits of
cast-off cadres then will or can emerge as just now
hand-stumps held out you to
390 me and mine
to you oh Daddy Steve
in cold grip
cold grasp cold grope no more in ice but
instead…
Nettles. some kind of weeds honey,
are you lookin’ good with those
young eyes of
yours?
An impression results. can topiary animals
or as I’d be tempted enantiodromically
upend the condescension if quantum entangled with
a bunch of fading grass almost wanted to mean a grace
falling last before
arrival of a sickle whooshing
like a mass murdered
the peaceful summer-wheat patterns mysteriously “heart to heart” crop circle seeming
391 teen-language I LUV U
as you know there’s still time
against alien departure there out on the
dark tarmac where headwinds like
to blow this out of proportion. baby.
Hey don’t look at me!
the love conventions
so linguistically bound what
of imagining a beyond?
Well it shows don’t it.
Don’t mention it.
Shhhhhh. Daddy dearest daddy nearest. Mind
if that’s mentioned
to the media when they come? Hello,
Daddy honey? See no love hear no love.
In America we tend to
say it differently.
Junk DNA. ignorance
or misunderstanding of the role in metabolism of the
heart.
392 processing and life. At one end intake
going thru makes up the
end product. Call it garbage. loss.
anything that
is transforms by
shedding its is.
Mother in her
cocktail dress, that night back from a party.
looked at the shards of a broken ceramic knickknack . She
used to say we all create garbage don’t
we honey? that’s normal. Just remember
turn out the lights before coming upstairs ok dear?
Predators
at the tops of stairs like condescending
topiary animals
tricked out to the
dump like discarded junk .
393 Meantime
on lorries in convoy evidently decay
effectuates
distances which just telescope
you know, the the Very Large Array
scanning for the blight mold
rust raining orange down on huge
fat Michelin tires driving the vibes of trucks. subtly the
shift of sound our mixed vowels
unnoticed as
from the first moment
the gamma ray explosion 100 million light
years away reshapes complexities of the sounds
into suddenly completely simple
of a loss of the former great
features our neuronal
394 paths used to see it’s already growing: the unexplained mass
cattle mutilations
seen thru the side window
of a speeding automobile along
a desolate highway in Texas. Not a huge empty
freeway like in the great movie PARIS, TEXAS where
its majestic but the parasitical
found the wounded life made there no telling if better or worse. I don’t know.
You index its inching on you
a scratch you itch the milkweed vision
of oldsters impaired of vision can only staunch a
registration of
them who still see
in the distance the
long covered rows, lorries. not trucks. or telescoping
received to the pheromone-based speech
pre-programmed
for the slow decay of heat-bound form
395 to the closer
approaches you see now of entropy. the lorries gone. the trucks here
now.
The loss of heat. Resonation of THE SHINING’s chilled hearts
can’t help but
raise questions about
the cosmic agency’s effect
on no
answer that at least I have. In this
is there a copulatory aspect
affecting me and Steve?
An answer: ask Steve.
Another. Entropy and thermodynamics. (a no-brainer).
In the West we have
LOVE
to which in the East there’s the rebuke of
HIGHER CONSCIOUSNESS. what are the steps on the
ladder of love but not an excitation of atoms the vector of acceleration
in heat. Love is heat. In a closed container
such as
the cosmos consciousness never begins, will never end and what we
396 designate as love? perhaps merely a stage.
Outside on 19th St.
as I write the unmarked van. surveillance on the part of some kind of state agents
imparting a dip in the mercury of
a thermometer in my bedroom.
in the end Jamie dies.
I become decrepit as does even Steve.
we are refrigerated.
factitious ghouls insist on a reexamination
of a magically-oriented reanimation contingency. In conversation with Steve a specific inability. the phrase “volleyball game”
on the tip of my tongue.
Another dip in body-mind temperature.
as the temperature
falls a decrease in communication and inversely a growth in
mistakes. white noise supplants
making sense or love. Supplies
or both erotic and altruistic love become limited,
bargained for hallucinated and finally
haggled over. without concomitant expansion
of ego borders.
397 I can only disarm the parked agents of the state outside with the introduction of
an untheorizable variable: I invite them in for coffee
a few of the delicious regulahs Daniel left
me here on a
visit before his speedy return to Berkeley on business related to
the coordination
of important but ultimate all rational details: the one
element of love that can win over loss, entropy.
In the wind of continuous
change moment by moment an erasure
of something old and arrival of each new thing
C event replacing B and
Z configuration shoving away Y’s additive
silence. bleached boundaries nel pinto di rosa rosa rosa and does it pour out
pink pink pink then is
the apex of bleach of all other leaches the other caches leaching away
previous that
earlier we saw only as the red of physical intact
assuaging away like
drops of pink red the earlier
398 casually dropped bullets of an
animality turning powder puff upon powder puff
to a most spiritual
pinkish -ness. thank you Jesus!
Twins Steve and Bruce why did Yahweh cut us
up and drown the bloody parts of
toes in the dark-blue red red red of
your own ignorant
violence Yaldabaoth the biggest
planet Jupiter’s (singular) Lar or Lares and
(plural) Penates? Oi Gewalt oh Power!
At a rich lady’s house
in Marin. M County. inhalation of DMT smoke
from the shaman’s pipe this all is
happening in this huge big yurt a tent-type
thing. Breath breathing breathing in.
get a big dose of NN, Dimethyltriptamine. the shaman
administering sacramental DMT
in the backyard of a house in
399 the remote of Marin County. The shaman
at a work-a-day
task. Smoke blown into my lungs. vast end- lessly extending new love of
of each caused by all the other caches leaching
away the previous boundaries
that in separating me
from Steve produces one gigantic pink undifferentiated and serene each thing each event each configu- ration
—the effect of
a randomness formerly called grace. an empty
intervention. As devoid of causality as the apparently
real causality of the inexplicable consciousness connection
between a single innocent
white child and an African American handyman previ- ously
employed at the Overlook Hotel in THE SHINING.
able to recall the
linked phrase “volleyball game”
already I can feel the chill of refrigeration. Instrumentation in the truck outside.
My conversation with
Steve conversation
400 takes near-flatline to
What about
Steve i at leave have.
an upturn how there’s a chill of hearts that copulates with
the thermal pratfall raises new questions. I
have no answers. How in the
entropic approach
topiary animal boxwood live to chase
a specially-gifted boy of African
Americans down a maze possibly
the mind possibly brain can
cause.
Thunderheads above may produce horror,
sliding away nature.
beyond the sky-clouds what if the watching
archons aren’t demons at all what if the gangplank
lowered at the end of CLOSE ENCOUNTERS discloses
the utterance of a far higher and
401 radiantly clogged attention to undreamed speech thru an environmental adaption
to new connections only figuratively called speech. What if love’s
similar and the familiar ways
of affection will be shed
like Lazarus’s chrysalis when we become
like Mormon gods, Steve
kissing and touch across each our
totally own planet toggling at the touch of your
finger to these bones are mine if one of your
long skinny fingers can touch at yesteryear’s me making him
whole again and
living just like here we are looking up and whaaaaa…? is
it Daddy-God’s fingertip touching
Bruce a.k.a. Adam but with makeup on
does it
get better or worse? you decide readers, listeners,
and may I say also ladies
402 of some persuasion since didn’t two X’s start
it all off and then
on a drear dear day among the big ole ugly black-green Douglas
firs huddling and puddling like men in their football uniforms
this big bolt of god-
freaking-awful lightening like Yahweh or Zeus
throws down this
gentle fledgling Y into the pile of lady-X’s the football suits
pre-tailored perfectly fitting each dude
to perfection or better because of the great foresight or in Greek pronoia
of the mother-assassin Sophia a.k.a. Wisdom?
without a little bit a
fem in us Steve in other words would either of
us ever be up to scratch. I loved
the day you never shaved the scratchy
off of your…
mmmm it was so great
403 there must be a new name it will have
in love’s new language we both realize
will zoom us way forward to
the coming Mothership tho will Heaven’s Gate and the spacecraft waiting beyond Hale-extraction
have to be the price our species will have
to pay to alienate not just a few
of us but to use an old-fashioned idiom the whole damn shootin’ match? Huh. I
I guess I guess so dude
we are
free unless I’m wrong to imagine we can
depict our extinction even sometimes it’s better to imagine than know. we are not
human. but devo. to fully assess
you got to put down a “evo” then add a “d” before. This
is a mold and when did
it ever stop loving your
unshowered armpit
pry floorboards up
and from the warren of skittering
404 half-men hellbent
to reach the non-binary mothership a-comin’ toward us
our speed is called breakneck. and by a huge enantiodromia event of
whatever is becoming what isn’t
serenity replaces they skitters and
like blind wolf pups snuggling
the eight of us become
constellated and guess what maybe if (pronoun missing) blah blah then a dog or Kynos configuration tames the wolf and
makes the wolf enrage engage us doggies too. You
can’t hardly cry about spilt milk now can you but sure
enough we’ll enjoy lapping
with our big fat
crude wolf or wuff tongue since it’s got
to be true that life needs a big hunk
of crudity
unless we all want to be insurance salespeople
on some dog day or other
405 when that gosh-darn
shit hits the by-golly fan.
Until then just spit
in my mouth. my wuff wuff Daddy Steve
means wuv. Daddy, Brucie WUVS you
and the deadlights shine down here where I am
right you if you put out your arm when your
fingers touch me, daddykins,
they will open only long
dormant spores driven under the influence
of your eyes returning the extractive
gaze of a tiny piece of
chicken getting all stuck in the deeps the La Brea tar pits gathering all
bubbly
scattered
La Brea tar pits enameled stars showering
your huge huge stellar lances from a big ole paleolithic Mammoth monster once eaten by the Jetsons on
stone plates at a
406 stoned very stoned dinner table in a
fable I’m retelling you right now when you decide
to listen up Daddy, you know I’m there, don’t you?
Under the floorboards. what new interstates. puling sex
orgasms name our city of
love-opolis and
even sex-opolis dear! do they go whaaaaa……?
in tandem or shall we good-naturedly
let them spell
each other off. or on
again intersecting the protective archon-energy guardian watchers
put in each stage
of the ladder of what they call w-u-v sweetie W-U-V-kins Daddy!
How many w-u-v count how many wav-experienced waves
them throbbing the pulsating throbbing Latino
and white gay boys
dancing up the interlinked sex-glory-spasms
did who ever have
what time for, of, for, 49 of
dancing pelvic thrusting kissing
407 fondling 49 boys found
later heaped together when the automatic weapon busted up Orlando’s Pulse
nightclub slicked now on cum-blood- shit-bestrewn
piles of us as if in combining spiritual gender-change change parsing
out one finger alone here
on the nightclub floor across from
a piece of femur found
from clandestine
powered hate slipping and losing all balance
separated from its owner by a chain of Cinderella princesses
lifting
near translucency, frocked in our chiffon
Tintoretto or Tiziano frescos bounced by orbiting spinning satellites back down not to live on fairy mormon moons but 49 gunned down from above
now to live on the unmannerly dirt
of emptied out bodies still. Give this one
408 its kidney back
and the glorious swirl of blue tinted the hair scalp scraped with his sister falling still in
the frozen survivor eyes recorded and stopped
digitally
as absence. Open a pit. The crowbar unloosens it, a floorboard pried up in clean up. Out come the scavengers,
the flood of
purifying spirits whose
foreheads
are hex-marked.
Demons.
cosmo-local in yessing no-ing lapping the cosmic stuff, alien slurpy milk cosmos in
the animal bars where you’re
the ring master i put on a horse head and yap like a dog.
milk bars where animals play.
409
localities when yessing the spurting cosmic milk-stuff.
Enceladus. not Titian nor maybe ever, it
claims.
plenty of hollering
Lilliputians
of a recumbent Gulliver-Daddy we snicker. He he
his joke.
The animals we are see only besotted aliens.
no one
expects rings of red dwarf planets huh?
Oh I give, Daddy. Now you quit it. Puh-lease? I
go to his reverb-distorted return twit to
mine O.
we be humans by Devo! ring-regulated
for greater delectation by golly!
or so we pretend in fear of
the cobalt skies. on tiny the tiniest pages
the open books of animal expression
is sometimes fly shit. itty-bitty rows
spattering
410 neat lines of
understanding of what you’ll
never know
of pretend travels at the rest stop
sex-venues of
any grammar coded by programmers. the animal
spirituals Yahweh sends
beside himself. with simple
lust. that defines a spiritual. The Nephilim do grope
so.
Pages of alien excreta. flying. hovering in place.
awash in the
Mothership lights. cyclically. but cynically.
The mind thing is just totally such a groove oh darling! seeing it, like, move? and sulk in
the dark poplars in its bushes?
I’m rubber and
you, gloved Mormon, will finally be
glue?
the gloved Mormon fist is sulking.
411 In the bowels or bilge
somewhere Bruce is sulking a soppy version
of your skin, Daddy.
my mind like a dog’s working overtime sleeping first then
slurping up
the LDS chalkiness of
a formerly human skin lacquered bright and fresh as mouthwash
associated with mint flavor.
Hundreds fell
in minutes
as the sniper fired and the stump-fitted semi-
automatic
misfired once or twice by mis- takenly without any history they could trace.
Country music. In better days of Hank Williams fans.
Daddy with his six-foot four and
Hank? long and real lanky too as fast in
412 whose fashion and manner. Not the bullets. but
Daddy’s fans
appreciate his thatch-colored hair. The yeehaws fading
like
fugitives. tracer markings blanks can alternate with
real shots in altered histories they
will tell you abundance can replace it. In the exo planetary sky
instead of constellations a spread-out man akimbo
legs faced lanky. Doubling him
to the one
on Earth.
on a white ground a note of vaguely green.
green remembered as perhaps in all that brisket-ware a recollection of white? a dying man’s color on a recent found
fresco originally adorning a wall of a
ancient Thessaly guard- house protected by burial during some ancient quake of rolling
ground.
at the foreground bedside his wife along with
a doctor apparently
413 deadly start radiation and grammar rays
distort time and the man underground protected
a couple of millennia in a wall-picture safe until
now. with the thinned-out ozone
letting damaging solar gravitational
waves discolor what is clear
to anyone resists
normal passages
and the limbic system takes over executive functions. the
prefrontal hey we’re finished defaulting! oink. ok aren’t we all pigs now don’t you and we both hope?
I’m transparent. In thought balloons deciphered all too easily. balloons. There’s one right now porking his other Groovey.
in the pork on pork thinging around
together with each other who wouldn’t just
insist, oh thymus please take over won’t you please? oh
prefrontal cerebral just park it. nobody wants
you now and anyway do you really think YOU’RE
the spiritual one instead of moi, your limbic etc. thing? godhood defeats
archonship. but only as pigs is as ascent
possible to the waiting
414 mothership!
let’s get going and right flippin’ now okay? it’s
called you get there thru the pig thing
and the other just withers without…
Life expiring. a hiss as the life-rocket launches to
the blue-black beyond. but ozone layers thinned
way our what about
all that stellar solar whatever radiations
just pouring like crazy in and d.o.w.n. give me a flippin’
break!
we act like tablecloths. squared. in
black and white checkering along our checkers. Is that right?
I can’t distinguish opposites as ole Mike Amnasan used
to like to put it. me neither.
and if you are hearing me read this or even reading it by yourself isn’t it right to say the same of
this checkered life of us all. you all is me all as well right?
415 Turn up the ozone layer. on
my wrist, a tick tick ticking. of
the guard watch. please try
to not use good hombres. prefer as a phrase for you, the
term good vibes instead. or our thinning ozone layer.
And reddish glow blotting sun out these last
days in the morning is the southerly wind
bringing my in the morning so much particulate
matter it hurts the apocalyptically lung-motions.
Daddy says the end of something. on the phone. I
hardly noticed
compared to me even Daddy’s extra Neanderthal XXY chromosomes
can’t make him not me the
better interior decorator of the
soul-logy of future coming days can
you Daddy?
For all my extra X
chromosome darling
between us two aren’t you the
more
416 Samuel at the mountain summit. I wont’ be patronized, I
yell, by bullying thrones and dominations by
these Star-War cartoon Darth Vader imitations! I swear. Be
you galactics rulers
or not as claimed! Nihil
“inhumanum” strange to me there is… n’t.
Sufficient for the day.
News not yet transmitted across the
zillion light years to roughens
like Yaldabaoth by whatever other name he
doesn’t
act any different does he.
you had a beginning and some day I
foresee the forces of the Federation intervening to freaking bad
for you. Samael Yaldabaoth Yahweh or
when the exorcist comes will he force you to
pronounce “Belial”? and then like in the movie, a crumbling into
dust. just at dawn. to celebrate cosmically
Daddy decides to kiss and fuck Princess Silly.
Afterwards a feast. bowl of cherries. some nice
Brie alongside to nibble on as well a yanked off
417 hunk of baguette. Our temporary victory. For
now.
citizens assembled in the streets for
a Black Lives Matter paint one more sign. Death
to intergalactic rulers and all they seem
to sit for!
One is always
ostracized like a
flat tire when on a double-lane country
road one notices the bodies of
cattle in-
explicable to all explanation, dead-wise I mean. the slow
drip drip drip.
no interpretations of the recent power outages
is they? I take my liberties as I
takes my grammar
away from you. for my purposes.
that flat tire again. that you sold me to
the junkyard. the gossip of castoffs should
ever be ostracized by them. you hope. wrongly.
wherever we went that last summer was it really
just Sebastian and Violet Sebastian and Violet wherever
418 we went though god knows i must be twice his age?
freshen up. they will want to
admire us won’t they? the story goes stale as a can of
Tab left open to go flat. an Aquarius can
never make up a plural mind is only
kept tidy
when you multiply distance by
rate of acceleration the result’s um,
as far apart
as us from an approaching Andromeda.
One careens
from here to here. with time to spare.
within reason you hope
or think so. Is Steve algorithmic?
Signs.
on the way universes are served. Counter
entropy. Isn’t there a machine up
high in Enceladus red skies turning making depths pinker the
frilly cloud-trail edges the heart center
lacy Valentines.
419 Who can sleep? Delete
the entropic message of matter. One’s eyes see deeper to
the spiritual entropy-reversal of
us and we begin new languages built
on the
shifts transformations
glad exchanges among spirit beings.
In deserts already
stirring, their pods throbbing enveloping taking
over.
In the motel
a pack of Lucky Strikes. He roughly puts
one in your mouth. From another room
in the house the drift of Bessie Smith
revolving aimlessly on a record
machine.
Yahweh. his enfeebled attempt with white cane excites the tarp
clad lorries. on the fingers of one hand
only compassion prevents my
texting a string of ruffian friends to
420 prevent him.
A penny for your thoughts, Steve. Following ancestral custom
we use as middle names the inspirational
kinds.
Instead of a Walter in the ancient Puritan way choose
Gratitude to be abbreviated with the simple G. Choosing
less not more. Opposing the ancestors. On
gratitude’s palm is a pink mist
the expanding the local neighborhoods expand again. a key card
will unlock you. The losers
balance the winners and the converse. Anything is possible. looking back,
did anything ever begin or can it
ever end? Ignore the expiration date time-stamped
bioengineered by the capitalist Tyrell corporation no implanted memories. change this.
now.
Here on Mars. makes life just emptier. on the bed with a glass
of soma we re-experience oblivion. can our anamnesis
return?
421 Among whispering Lombardy groves. crossing on the ferry ignore
the white tree at the left. recollection is anamnesis. a bird
with scroll
in its beak my drop it at your dirty beggar’s feet.
at the top of this cave
bats and the ground continues to accumulate guano.
until the fiberoptic visible beam touches the limbic. Pent-up emotions regurgitate. I remember. You can
too.
And you empty. utterly. need you make a bed
because having lied and cheated and stolen in it?
you sup on an animal spirituality
each always
“eaching” and the arc of
these cannibalisms reaching some beforehand
unseen sky. mouth agape. teeth in
place. drooling. a spiritual drooling. without this
there could have been fooling.
You insult me. No love me. the mattress squeaks
422 assent to
the drooling gobs that pass
from his mouth
to mine. who can exist without predation.
who can fail to, as predators under a methane
sky call charmingly to you.
I give them my name which is always just Steve. that follows
a salute from the replicant thousands in uniforms
on the empty plane. Saluting.
No Federation saves you.
no Empire can do you evil. it will
need only
as many more
recycled lives as there are
stars in our billions on billions on billions. beginningless. endless. hopeless.
realistically and in retrospect and taking a page from foresight with not a whisper of a reason
to lack hope.
423
On the craft, doctor-grays meantime examine the abducted
ones. the alien science
of constructing new ones. You
are the desired
hybrid under construction. it is science. Steve’s sperm
ingested
greedily by the space pigs. the disturbing
gobble sound emanating vis transducer
from these spirit creatures.
Tears shed.
little or none for Belial. pigs with rotary blades dissecting their victims. Blood is shed. and
eaten.
The kashrut god is gone astray unwatchful to the
point of neglect. Which can’t prevent
either the blue jays of
their coming happiness. As in apoptosis for the
greater good of the body a protein expresses
the cell’s wish for hasty
death. Planets burn out.
the love between them bounded at both ends by such rigid inexorable termination points
424 detracts in nothing
from the sun-like
joy among us. now. here. in an
Earth light.
Forgive me pardon me please exxxxxxscuse! oh tears
can be shed yes. but few for you Belial. I trust black holes for their willingness to have
a bunch of flippin’ compassion for
me first! before you though while
from habit naturally
while in bedrooms celestial
or terrestrial
language just loves damage and would you love to
Where to, oh left hemisphere of ours screwing up
brain’s neuronal pathways where we goin’ y’all?
oh must be headed to Graceland y’all down memory lane on pockmarked vast.
the methane skies above
a man
in the moon in minus 350° F temperature—are you all cool
425 about this with me?
Enhance your coordinate fate… if breathing new air, then
thinking new thoughts and being new beings and not
being the no-beings cantering on a dozen legs rumbling new
tank-beings a-crawling our pink fucking destination.
Saturn’s dinner-plates
twisting the tongue. are new verbs
umlauted do our consonants now
expand schweetie?
and when temperatures
drop further
there’s a optative added to verb moods our
pronouns shift to dual, Steve—do you
feel it dude?
he loosens the drawstrings of his loose sweats
as I
loosen his love dumb unmoving in the cold
of entropic dead space. No fun! We
pull apart tied with an umbilical to each other who
will return alive
to the past
426 or pickling like cucumbers here
in cranberry halflight will we? when?
in a suit and tie up my Burberry trench coat
T-minus 30 minutes before t-shuttle
launch without government effort can see
the SUV headlight outlined
U-turn silhouette draped star to star a message that spells out LOVE.
“I ‘heart’ STEVE” de-
crypts to 50 shades of the pink or gray-pink elegant asshole colors conforming
the Daddy’s doughnut hole his target of choice a fantasy of
conquest of me one by one subdued
by the fantasy of Daddy’s. mine is different.
The aromatic
shit-smells unfold. a giant 9 inches fat and long
pokes almost the transverse colon to yield or spasmed up shit-smells
expel the mark
427 of carbon-based
hungry-ghosts from zen monasteries. the missionaries go to
the privies after breakfast
where in the floating world the honor of
glug glug glugging your
ass my lips’s fragrance is the Timothy
McVeigh explosion of the Oklahoma City federal building
ingest a slow
moving bolus people line up to be
swallowed by
peristaltic action.
Love is a hole that
connects one person with one or maybe more distant
shitholes
that in sex pulsate rhythmically like
a white
supremacist’s fantasy of an
alien homeland called America. Please admit this.
to your mind.
Peristaltic
action will connect itself only with
428 what you choose to call foreign. your honor is
my ass. I submit. you admit. it.
a
the rainbow shit-smell spectrum of a spiritual
heard of but had to first smell the organic rotted of.
you could be smelling my shit.
the colors of elegance. it spells target. or doughnut hole
for you to possess.
fabled Area 51 despite all government efforts no
longer without a U-turn can SUV headlights
shuttle returns us. Will we or won’t we? ahead the
SUV headlights scan the U turn
signage. Ooooooo eeeee it’s a rollercoaster
429 but love is
no binary no bespoke gender when between like and likes.
an u?
the lungs pant. the drawstring of the pants loosens only
alas dropping
into the
cosmological constant k equals
picking dark matter fruits and squishing
’em hard till it
makes the cosmos accelerate
its path to a cold
menacing silence of way distantly apart dumb
unmoving
rocks.
The freaky rocks of freaky future us. the reverb message
that slowed down the whooshing orbit sound
430 surround its browser types in the English translation in
the ceaseless muon rain of tangerine skies for
us the parts that stayed
after losing the Bruce
device unprogrammed to accept it: it said
THIS IS SPINAL TAP
(gasp!) there are no words for
you Daddy but post-apocalyptic is that okay with you,
sweet Daddy?
a vatic nod Daddy on his horned
moon tripod dipping his chin while grinning
“affirmative, princess!” sighing relief!
and curling up on Dada’s hosting chest
I sink in golden satellite reflections
of the
new born language’s pronoun choice. singular plural
and for intimate moments
of questioned boundaries there’ll
be a return of syntagmatic plurals applied by the editor
to either people or planets
but not tanks not f-u-t-u-r-o auto-
431 mobiles or metallically adjusted heavy metal
single-celled missile launchers from the earlier times afloat in
the new bodies of H 2O in
the newer era not called oceans but surf-repeating splashers
and sliders.
whispering
my tongue’s and lungs’ simple prayer to the mattress god
of the bedroom cosmos
will overlook only
the large. I ingest you. You
in- gest me, don’t we?
Basta and shut up please. for what I’m now about to say
forgive me. as whispering a
prayer to the
new definition of
the sound equivalent of a squeak of money
issued
432 from mattress springs reacting to the living
end of cigarette embers glowing
in the glowing
dark of this writing. speaking my
name and Daddy Steve’s
pronominally plural as singular worlds elide a postulated separation
of the
the way our syntactic ambiguation extrapolates
a pullulating future of
more or less probable and improbable post-temporal unspatial events you’ll need several added
senses to
track the coordinates of, won’t
the me-Steve creature that’s come to exist
in our stead?
The bedstead reveal. the bleating stops the spring of
mattress sinus-waves reflexively
inflecting us back to the box spring. spangling kiss-
medallions
on a big, um, toe. or landing equally
433 on misguided
kidneys tethered outside the
non-carnal body with a spiritual Kevlar keeping
us safe
in this universal sleep oh Aldebaran! Tannhäuser Gate from the first
BLADE RUNNER movie i loved. the futurology called “pillow talk” by nouveau aliens who encompass
you too.
besieged by
your many mattress burns from the living cigarette
burns of my mouth my kisses full
on you mouth to mouth adoring the mattress
that’s your own breath. traces, bodily
fluids of yours for strangers to trace as the mark of
Belial. of what lets us transcend
the little human
434
of us, with our four padded feet, the
wiggling or our antennas in the constant sweep tracing attention in you for
an ingress of the multiple-eyed foreign to come
closer. whisper this prayer of mine. Ishmael.
Bruce. and Steve. the cells of that distant eye.
us channeling them, them us photo multiples of our sex as the screensavers
of your disappearing past
when there’s nothing else. we’re the cigarette
tips adolescent girls dream of in their wet
dreams, tho luckily they boys will be phased out by then.
the squeak of the bed is
the forces of the Federation as the Empire approaches
as the present consuming the past the predator
future will ingest us the more we scream the more
435 feverishly ripping out our organs as the future
of your will do with more excitement than you can imagine to you in your paralysis filling
you with dreamy bliss new languages from an ingestion
of limbs tongue the unfamiliar shape
of sounds never
heard before issue from your mouths. sonic screams,
transformed in your new language
into new prayers. parts of us re- birthed in start nurseries
from our dust.
A demand for a demand.
exchange I did not see M alive.
but didn’t his breathing change
my life? His soul like all souls a mere manner of being. follow its
undulations. its will be yours. its prayers are
will
be liturgies for temples
436 still unbuilt. Shut up! you are
you and not me at all. Tho in
time you will be be. Just
take it for a prayer for now. breathe in gently
when the bite comes, stinking
the bushes defy his word-crumb trail and
ah sweet mystery of life have I not
found you?
A chenille bedspread à la the 1950s. each piece half a broken heart wooing its “semblable” ensemble to coin
a phrase.
Following your trail Dark Lord
like an etiological tale explaining star origins
to a Soylent Green Futurology Incorporated!
The house
in blueprint shows on the first floor just Xs.
a spot so marked can stand for
instead as DS. a small DS the kitchen. or a smaller would be your pantry. next
the again repeated DS stands for a small bathroom. a room with
437 space for a couch with endtable too on which the same proprietary
DS as his or our …front room. but what’s this?
its wall indented dear Daddy does the
ancient Victorian finials topping its turrets fly your
anarchs-paranoid flag in
rooms of whorehouse red velour and drastic and caustic
black creases in their fold? your own flag
d’amour, dearest
Daddykins? the architect
in his young successful forties steps back as the viewer
of this Psycho projected enneagram nearly chokes
at the
missing Bruce. the architect
frowns then completes his masterwork with an ornate
upholstered piece of Edwardian
facture and all
appears instantly to the synoptic glance of
438 the architect’s missing
Dark Lord.
If he would just choose ME
as his date for the senior prom! Vertigo. Smiling
happiness.
Higglety piggly. a brackish taste of
greasewood taints the creek water rises above the quote marks that incorporated a couple of new ones, reflections of the moon Titan and
Europa I watch standing naked except
in pink
panties imagined as given to me by Steve. before he’s
Dark Lord.
alcove d’amour? a black brush mists in its
inky black cloud
smearing and blotting
439 the constant repeated red velour that
revisits siblings Madeleine and Roderick
destroyer of darling darkling
your
future domination Dark Lord
bushes darling! follow the trail of word-crumbs
dear hearts, while mindful of your future desolation, your future destination your future domination. the
tenderness of your
destroyed hearts.
In the 1950s the mist vaporizes the chenille bedspread
humpy bodies with raw stumps. ex-humans
scrambling
the expanse one city block after another
the descent of a
sectional numbness.
legs dangle over edges of beds. from leg stump to bloody hand blooming,
the awareness.. the high-pitch screams
of mouse bodies tipping over the coffin lid
city block
440 after city block. there’s a sectional numbness. We
hang our legs
and dangle over it unaware.
one of
us it spreads our legs when
he comes. the night cometh when
no man may sleep
screams the tiny legs take us to the
Master. He comes. section by section.
do you count geography in city blocks it spreads
X marks
what spot? barely discernible in the wide-array telescope
unnoticed by lay person it lies there.
back to sitting alone.
we will always be ostracized
441 darling! wrapped among the humpy bodies claimed
by jealous galactic rulers
Count Alucard spelled backwards. when love cavorts.
did you hear lust comports? or is that
more shapeshifting, if you pull up how
many floorboard is it musty does it smell
musty then or if spores fall can you tell
what place
we’ve been tasked to this time?
i left your world so long ago.
dropped from our interstellar craft the
crash of
misty musty mummies and
wrapped up daddies accompany the swathing
of your blue and white specked swirling Buzz Aldrin world
two can take out or
442 decide to leave spinning in a place controlled by evil transmissions
replacing real emissions I lap up gladly.
a garage a child in a playpen a picket fence contrasts the message you hear distorted by the white
noise to constantly change.
in the process
the petulant human complaint of the demand to become a DeKuyper
belt
around a too-skinny boy wearing coveralls pump pump pumping
gas for you.
The inhuman stalks
this dignity of yours.
witches in arms ride poles to increase
the fear. just make sounds, don’t try language no more.
443 Satellites of love smiling beams beaming smiles.
the black belt around your waist
Daddy
whose buckle gleams? The
jackbooted gap-toothed moon fakes the radiance while
keeping to her own
lane. It’s your job
to lounge around act all uninhibited,
dude, it’s mine to bring you the bear. cap off,
in its sweating bottle
cause it’s butcher that way. nipple to nipple.
Nothing fakes nothing but false memories will
always display an imaginary circuit of electric
sparks that cherishes between.
from this oh crawl space I am the humble tarp of your own gratitude to you.
The tall perfect man sips the milk bar
444 of celestial (my own) of course what authorities
don’t appoint limits?
The tall perfect man of yellow thatched hair in smeared
clumps. of six foot four astonishing feet
and inches in his height. The
perfect skinny man.
a man who plays. like an anthropos
against the
rhubarb-colored sky
my mind is watching.
As tall as Buddy Holly in the ’50s. Dressed in
festive performer-gear engraved into
a flat stone on the grass now
lying in a cemetery in Lubbock, Texas. Not
far across drear West Texas wastelands
from Jamie’s little New Mexico
town with the same last name. His son
a tall man too.
Distrust a long name.
There’s a punch in a couple of spondees that
445 you can in dreams be encouraged to forget, neglect on
the blue-black skies of names of men expanding upward outward and inward
prompts will reflect that gratitude and
“the authors appoint the limits” even here
the book flops open and I read: “happy the ages the starry sky the
map of all paths illuminated the light of stars new and familiar the world wide
yes a home a soul fire
identical to star fire no permanent strangers to each other” in a quote from a book on K. Acker
and love the aspirations of
the author quoting more than the one quoted.
more than I ever loved her,
K. Acker. whose
limits the authorities appointed us to stop and
look up at like concerned
parents
446 scanning the first appearance of the alien craft all agog on a country
road in the first scene of CLOSE ENCOUNTERS.
dedicated to Daddy of course. as
always when looking up.
We infect host tissues. a lie and a smear
that begin it. do what you will.
the authorities
are off-limits here the galacto-archs left over
from the fungus, a biotroph feeding on you
without killing you.
hushed and crouching
in homes behind them. Part of this
shown in Spielberg’s
\ CLOSE ENCOUNTERS and part
isn’t. wasn’t can’t ever will
447
so we must either survive on
dead plant material or produce
my resting spore
during
a dormant season my head hurts
from
attempting to recollect the make of his
car speeds up the shameless leer of
eating me across the bumper, if you don’t want what
’s done in your
bedroom or mine displaces the fake eyebrows my
eyeliner from among planets whirling to
what is it, shut up no or is it to show up
then instead
weeping each time into a teacup at
the heels of you
long black SUV your wonderful boyish grin making my
highway crash grin over
the
448 shoulder
slung for you for you alone darling darklinski Daddykins like a Coco Chanel number, one of those little
black numbers
Daddy Steve I know you love, Daddy!
what blood of mine can ever outdo
the high couture
of my make-up at the end
the made-up coughing suppering slipping out of
this floral life
of a body trapped in
a hospital with memories of your black SUV wrecked wrecked on the shoulder the tap just turned at
a sink flows the rust-polluted cotton gobs of
animal blood in a nick
of time spitting up its
star-transmission of heavy metal heard between
the clash
of titans this is no battle of flesh and
blood saith scripture but of
449
Thrones and of Dominations, dude!
Hello crumpled ghost,
is there a match for the dangling bloodshot eye of one of us for the other to pull out from its socket?
Bloodied pants. footsteps on
the freshly-mopped floor OMG.
revenant tracks.
there’s a sad but sweet lilt in The Day The Music Dies
celebrating or lamenting the corpses of the
the two other boy musicians
alongside the mashed in face
of Buddy Holly
crumpling a jagged mess of
aluminum fuselage as all around
dropping from
overhead UFOs are fall metallic
teardrops
like so many regrets
for this metallic rotting civilization itself dying.
painted. A Fiat 500c twisted into a wrong-headed
450 Richard Serra sculpture melting down I-beams of
the global
heart of America. crumple crumple little stars/how I
wonder what you ares. or aren’t now are we?
will bloody its occupants
in crumpled smallness unlike
your huge SUV
Daddy Steve.
451
get into these just horrible
highway crashes and all?
Time is just so r-a-n-d-o-m
isn’t it and would it put that polite Mormon thumpity thump heart
attack at risk of cardiovascular events
if on the other hand arriving at the nearest aerodrome instead
on the imagined time-vector instead of riding this
bat mobile with you there on the slick oily tarmac tethered like
I mean really tethered to a big fat pole not pornographic
but real from the Weimar Era mist we saw instead of being
vehicular we were gonna be airborne in a big helium filled dirigible. Or is that different from a piggy little blimp?
Or doesn’t a heart, a valentine, a
452 romance, Daddy S.,
have to be a very exactly time-stamped illusion
bursting into flame
in the black
SUV
or a sea or conscious conflagrations in
yellow orange and red shooting from the
tailpipes.
The blood is the life : the jailed man known as Renfrew
pulling wings
off flies in jail awaiting his Master as
sometimes flames
shooting out from that SUV I await you,
Daddy dearest, in a fabulation contrived decades ago
in our childhoods
perhaps I
fell into a Venus Flytrap and you pulled me out and since then… conflagrations shooting from your twin
tailpipes blasting out clouds of mist
at morning under creaking doors cordon of the sector of
453 the mind the authorities reserve
for pig-squealing shrieking
sex-terror
making music only heard
before this
in cheap Seattle venues reserved
for grunge bands overalls barely
fit over
your chest Daddy your face contorted
in orgasm
makes me smell the mold of bushes at
Dolores Park in the 1970s. pigs are now cops and
a red letter on
the calendar marks the drained corpse of Jamie
on a bare sheet-covered bed nude when Sadie
climbed up to sniff then whimper.
No thanks, life eternal. In my dream it was all
taken away. homeless, old, on the streets alone,
pick-pocketed by reckless youths robbing me blind even
of dreams. Should you be the exception
then Daddy Steve?
454
Do you want to give me Life
Eternal?
Well this isn’t the Carpathians and crucifixes can’t prevent
the coffin dirt the beetles the aging of bodies,
but with judicial access to the celestiarchs
the Carpathian
word for which is just master. a plain and simple
daddy driving to the aerodrome to make
the Berlin to San Francisco nighttime flight.
supposed on Do you think
I’d reveal the brandnames of the enhanced protection
of the tires spinning below? Has an acronym
of your real name been planted strategically
for instance as the last
455 letter of, say, the last word of let’s
say the first 15 lines.
Of course equally boundaries know no propriety, they say. With ease I then will cirrocumulus
smearing bending
me in a couth leering I
just forgot as you drive me to the reading where
who among these star-studded male-females can ever
be supposed to recognized you? I
don’t even know what brand or kind of
black car you drive so
how would I know
the destination? it’s a bedroom
width a lifetime’s compressed in the
picture verbally drawn of this… All dross expelled
by us. yellow and green mustard of sycamore leaves fall.
hair locks of leering hair The crawl space. consensus riddle le?
456 as the crawl space proves you cover up the rat-tooth memories under that
yellow-colored heavy plastic concealing tarp of yours the hue of your thatched hair I
think from long pole markers the authorities
have appointed the limits even of the vast
distance your head brushing the
cirrcocumulus drifts I see up. All six feet
four.
Loudest of all is best. then
after that, louder. Stay in your lane with
your large black SUV.
Back in the sixth grade the playpen we hung out in.
For you braille readers
I will tell you, it
spells volumes.
Imagine a trimmed boxwood hedge.
Inside a patch of green grass seems
to show an abandoned tricycle.
457 Several inch long streamers, blowing
mindlessly
without anyone peddling it. Unbearable volumes
assault the noise level and keeping in
its own lane the SUV
The human mind coordinates the threat of the
alien using a simple dot-matrix to translate
from the consensus. Listen to the
thump thump thump when it prints
out Love.
Against your chest, curled up and safe.
The kinky the alien the weird that can
shock the independently targeted cells of any fly
horny enough to stay and rub its little
legs, darling. Get it?
Love is the printout of the dot-matrix
Yahweh the Aliens the ancients
what a trip!
the excitement of knowing that oh my gosh isn’t my personal
just about to become impersonal? Help!
458 cry the
two bunny rabbits hopping about the farmer’s yard
all hyper about
a good fuck? Yup.
Just when rings of Saturn no longer intimidate
he does. You do. Clackity clack. the sound
of the dot-matrix machine restarting. Printed instructions
to the next place appear on the printer tray.
Meaningly gibberish. You’re on
you own now. Once you’ve finished
being bunnies everyone one of the soldiers
tasked for this in looking at
each other see full grown bunnies now!
Our planet’s year in this place
equals approximately 28 of
your Earth ones. get used to it please. the master
projected of this insubstantial hologram mesh needs constant re-reading It’s
always changing. out there the Rings of Saturn. It’s like the replicant’s
speech
459 in the BLADE RUNNER rain on the
roof top: Time To Die, it says. Darling
curled up against you cuddled in those
long protective arms etc. I am unable to
go on speaking. Doom, fulfillment,
equally likely or unlikely God’s
plan being no plan what in the speech in
use at present is usually but
wrongly called randomness.
When we went to the prom
at the first
sound of zombies shuffling into the gym you physically
mastered them though wasn’t it hard
top ignore the flitting of their cold
cold shadows
against the two warm pieces of when
our bodies were pressed together was
a huge
red-heart Valentine looking much like
a spaceship with its ramp down
inviting us in? Honey I’m
just sayin’, is this a thing
460 a person can trust?
Those inklings are black and the dot-matrix printing this out tells you if anything only its
enhancement. Curled up against your
chest against the cold being held tight
scrambles a whole army
of alien cadet intruders picking your brain.
All you need to know for now is, inside, the extruded piece of
mine will prove talismanic
of high-tension
love wires X address Y takes you to Z
in the hotel room window sweetie look at
the thermometer There’s a cathedral cactus out there sprockets turning in the matrix wheel producing
all it feels like it’s a lot warmer
the blood is the life
feel we’re getting someplace
beyond
Salt Lake City with a coming of age you pushed
away
461 or falls away unable to let you
love me as I do
you for oh so.
Loud makes louder.
then the loudest of all
alters the message
scanning
it subtly shape-
shifts into a trimmed
boxwood hedge. there’s an analog. inside
the grass
is green and degrades. How
strange. Your hand just now came
off like a glove
when I pull on it. Then he noticed
how each finger
if tugged on… but do I need to draw
you a picture?
Message content.
you want to alter the neural paths
and I just want to degrade them a
little until you can’t breathe any more
462 from love. despite that still listening, sweetie?
noise alters the message a second time. then a third. the drill is a happy face drops
down like an airline oxygen
mask.
In T- minus 35 we’ll all be dead. First though, can’t we
both just get high on life, experience
the thrill I always get when
affectionately you just reach out your long
long arm and pat me
on my head
like the good doggie you know I’ve always tried my best to be for you?
who do you think
was assigned the trousers role darling!!
it’s something like being an asteroid.
long long ago in another galaxy you must
‘ve broke off from an agglomeration starting to form
from the gaseous particulate whirling disk
that preceded your awareness of any need but
463 your
own. The yellow colored thatched locks that
gave you the sensation of being just some unattached hair-mop
was
attached to the kidneys for instance or perhaps
a knee-to-shoulder socket so in that disguise
the other boys playing
soccer on the playground
wouldn’t recognize you. I didn’t until you hit me.
It was only a light slap, it could hardly to said to cause pain now could
it.
what makes me happiest is bringing you a
beer when you watch ur opera actually, which
being only a hologram transmission
the particles the pixels of it
can undergo the manipulation of subtle
rearrangement. I make you suddenly
five years younger
not because I would like you better this way but because i love even
your vanity about your good looks. oh babe what if you’re
a fever I gotta wake up
464 from would you pull me
back in before
I’m sure cured?
In high school I was in the back
seat of Dennis Florendo’s Impala
when he turns around
and tells me he’s gonna take me beyond the Portland city limits past Gresham and there’s this
lonely gravelly place lost in the black-green Douglas
firs and undergrowth level of these something or other light green undergrowth where ha ha he’s gonna
pants me he says scaring me half to death and when
we get there somehow I don’t know just whatever I just
do when he runs his hand along my chino clad
thighs for some reason I just well cry. Though he was
Filipino and you are sheer Mormon are they just two
projections and the current one has yellow thatch hair?
Just as consciousness grows neurons
you only present differently and when your
face breaks apart like a clown shooting up
in a jack in the box
465 do you think I ever will fail you? jack’s face and dennis’s
face and you look a lot somehow like Pennywise
the Clown in that movie, you know. IT.
the thing I fear will always
be love. turning our two noses
red together at the same time and love only
shows up on time if the skies
have clouded over in the drip drop
of tinsel rain I see your face.
transmitted with. or without. what?
the damage reshapes the transmission again.
glum to happy face back and forth
in any given unit on average this is this time
that is a next one from Dennis’s rearview mirror
on his great ’50s Impala you can or will
there is a moment of observation the
proudly hung cubes of black and white dice tied together
466 not unlike the way Dennis would tie
together later his old smelly sneakers moving
in the moment to a next as pushing the gear-shift
from neutral into first when starting.
First he loved that girl two seats in front. the transition to flirting with
me, making jokes he would hold me down in the back seat… and the
location of this point of love thought not Love still love… I don’t know. how strongly do the words of this alter or inflect the time-space thread
reflectively, later reshaping not what you remember but love’s unspecified coordinates. I thought of sucking his
cock but didn’t. or else later when you can remember it the other way
does it mean it makes
it happen differently? His Tagalog speaking Dad.
the wispy mom and dangling dice and Dennis’s cock
and was I slobbering a little? did I
do what he told me to do? Is that when
I let him sneak peaks at my numbers on
467 math tests? a flurry
it is little pink cloudlets isn’t it? only
the head was pink the skin up and down his
shaft brown of some kind. light-brown the
same as my mother’s Toll House cookies. the
clinically defined near-undetectable heart murmur that
described a cardiac condition made them
let me out of recess. The randomly changing predictability
of Dennis pushing my head down now that he he is dead the Impala taken apart by huge magnets or a wrecking ball in the scrap metal yard is different. charting a love story you are always a beat or two behind you are never actually there when Love occurs, has that occurred to you?
First the you to from a pair of dice hanging over a driver’s rearview mirror
inside someone’s Impala from the ’50s
gear shift change and
in a new millennium the boys are testosterone-filed
or are they throwing up
used sneakers on the telephone lines
468 from the discipline problem troubles middle- school teachers randomly notice
staring out windows. data or information gathered
but altered at the target
means new information.
Love another kind of transmission,
same restraints though. system coordinates
ouch! damn you star-tentacles electric shock brush-offs we are
you’re FUCKING FRIENDS you FUCKS! that hurt,
go the useless and loudly. the vain
bring up the rear. like no,
like is not love but baby,
nor is
love exactly enlightenment but does
this for some reason mean:
lesss important real 4 us, babe?
Oh the dark skies, like those of icky dangly sea-creature jellies spreading ink and chaos
when you
469 are inside me with your thing babe are we not
ourselves the electrical cosmic thrilling thing
that just became better then
than any septic enlightenment by half for any
of us?
Name your personal best.
mind or mind—this must be the so-
called primitive upsurge
in my sissy emotional satisfactions
up like Cthulhu
from some ocean floor in a thumpity thump heart
beating off just in play all for you dear, you
whip the utopia out of me.
He (another he) beat the shit out of
me they called this
lanky sissy to the alley where it wasn’t hard to
beat the shit out of him.
Looking around doesn’t it seem like there’s a lot of
shit of the floor. Just asking, that’s all and now:
470 full stop.
an alpha male that could make my heart…
miss a beat. but considering
emotions I don’t.
that ex hippie denied his love.
On maybe sweet talk on a a dance floor but
love with its queer homo emotion-intensity-of
feelings can fling you away
too without
so much as a freaking freaking
curse!
And will love
tap on unwanted needs for cruelties
from the Alpha? leave major
Tom alone, he’ll only hurt you. if you want
alpha how about Jamie for satisfaction without
that? Or on also whorish
ways did Steve once lay down real expressions respect and
affection too ? Can a distance of ten billion light years
past from us redirect lessen in some way
the violet’s shy joy world
471 re-presented in the hologram memory
carried ten
times beyond then by the
restoration in memory of your re-reading
that purple
exalted thing in the very
time of your reading when the sense of
these words will have been again
reconstructed by your love broadcast as the light
in your own hearts lover to lover?
these violet petals. this time in you.
the light dark assembled pace
through the trough thru the
throbbing crest of lines
of this pagination seen from a great
distance of translations you
472 might have read from
2140 CE to lets say a limit
line of the ability to
translate dating to should we
say approximately 2400 just let me round off
for you can I? explicating
in words an
image of rounding off limits made by
love’s approach with his departure, sometimes abruptly.
first seen, throbbing the other throbbing before you are leaving
me or there’s a goodbye signal from one to make the other
stronger.
Some wear giraffe suits. this one with tentacles
is a keeper, according to the sign around its
neck. home is persuaded
nothing dissuaded but Iowa cornfields
in the summer
473 a slightly fuzzy
chest of the man
in his coveralls pulling up for
gas. a deluded projection
or hallucination of something
or someone, did you
catch that? scratching casually without
returning your glance the hairy underarm. is there
a sound that goes with the dust of backwoods dirt roads where a man on his tractor
says a sign.
On the farm again in
Iowa
back home nothing persuaded
dissuaded but pursuing the serenity of course that began them looked disdaining all. And
A sky giant in my dreams keeps coming back
and the constellation
boys wearing animal masks of bear stag
swine what have you
4 74 the lurid on every
one of Yahweh’s tree and bush halleluiah praise jesus all in the elevation
of HER great name, Astarte… will try and keep trying now and at the time of the full moon in its glorious glory none of each month doin’ nothin’
but snortin’ at that silvery reflection
of all the animals radiantly blinding you even in all that dark with the intensity you
always feel of at last being inhuman again
gives rest to the soul and spreads peace through
the treetops all through this land of ours.
You are only pounded dirt. you are a piece of shit. finally
finally to be able again to have
heaven bless your alien alien in-
humanity.
475 Methane. Hello is this the planet Titan now, all
pink for the gigglers among us? thank you. yes how did
we get here from Earth all earthy to the pink
planet of l-o-v-e! a smooching policeman detects teen and other flashlights lit up June bugs and
the loud chirruping crickets sniffing the new spiritual
you up here Bruce. I am old but I am spiritual
yes I know that Bruce, you
are spiritual and always you have been spiritual that hold high the tumbler of
Kentucky bourbon tumbler you got there? well
up with it boy! make your pink methane
toast to the spiritual
far even beyond the
great DeKuyper Belt
because up here your
star-sisterhood
at last becomes you. and you flicker
back and forth from the male asteroid to the female one in tandem
you are by far talking faster now
476 than would even the cocaine want you to?
that’s not the Milky Way but
would it be
sophisticated spiritually to do another white powdery line
of the drug that brought you here?
Down below. still smelling each other tasting sniffing
snorting what
in celestial guardians and archons is rewritten
linking star
to constellation where a sweetly-depicted hologram
lifts it up again. higher and…
by Domino Effects. by crash-lights and intermediary syllabaries
spelling out on top of multiple bodies the unforgettable
ORLANDO FLORIDA PULSE PULSE PULSE (night
dot dot dot club) in the field
on a tarmac in concrete ORLANDO wall spaces a reign of descending neutrino assaults
from tau flavors to electron to mu flavors bodies crashing like bullets of us in
our brown skins or white some with
477 a bit of subtle eyeshadow
for the enhancement
effect despite the protections
of nature and nature’s god we are fear-
ridden as the bullet ridden flimsy bar-
room stools have themselves now only
once before been ridden like buses can be boarded for a trip to
a never never land hot pink with romance
a moment only a moment before.
teardrops in a big empty space that once
is a nice-club i mean nightclub
the outside-
parked cars will wait for the bodies. rainbow
colors washed pink a green a blue a purple a
yellow collapsed without
boundaries by outflowing hot pink blood.
hot pink
the blood still pink hot
lifeless in mindless strobe-
478 lit lying here inside the mind are
they us? stopping the first responders
cold. cold. and again too cold. is cold.
shall I walk without fear in pink now?
s in the message of the Elohim bright messengers
from a forgotten crawl space
now alive moving like Allen Ginsberg’s
gay boys in their Topeka bar in the ’60s.
a pitted silicone desert floor
animals dropped their
479 will it have been picked by the pure? ignored
by the dancing bears at the circus whipped on
by lust without love?
thump thump pump pump Pay no mind
to the sound of the flat lined heart beat……now…
stopped by the sound of a Big Bang or Aldebaran
light waves coming light from
Aldebaran and
beats the shit out of me, since as utopia
couldn’t stop the velvet lovely darkness
after the Big Band from becoming a punch in
my face the arrogance and en-
titlement of even you, dear,
when pounding me dear silly extension piece till the vacuum stops
sucking up the dumb dust bunnies living in and at all the dark
corners of my bedroom like frightening
clowns and if you were in my jimmies
480 are
you sure you’d turn of the overhead before l- eaving dearest?
afrightening jellies protests electrical
star-tentacles sting of electrical brush off. ok? themselves
the system coordinates loss is your
gain of a personal best. you’re so so on the mind tick tick tick and tick tick body and tick
too what else is counting on flipping
you to the dark side. time always beats time.
eternity sticks it to you like a prick, ouch! double ouch!
that wolf’s love howl sailing blithely
past the harvest moon in space ship exhaust.
glamour on cocaine produce ecstasies like
this, sweetie-pie?
Oh darling don’t you know I just
love it hearing you talk dirty to me?
481 I like to howl like
a wolf when your love sticks it in me baby! I love it when you talk dirty. time. again and again. each eternity
you stick in me makes me howl with
lust I can say
I hear you baby but can I? you in whatever
On another cycle the laundry the washer dryer
tumbling dust-bunnies count off the seconds. transmit this heart to me.
under icy cover awaiting under Enceladus’s covering
up the random replacement of
noise by information The beautiful
a message of the copper color the skin tone of you pulls off like skinning a rabbit. heart to heart. higgledy piggly moans of you pleading as you
a transponder assigns
What? ticking ticking ticking. Downward go
the dust-bunny interstitial planetarium ticked off
482 in their insane Pennywise clownish dreams.
Say what?
pretty in pink panties for her Daddy. Say who?
Daddy an abstraction sometimes Pennywise sometimes Love. Love abounding spilling along the
top of the dam where there’s a dot dot dot
leading… um, I’m not sure. some/nowhere or what?
Her cunt the look of a sliced cantaloupe with arms akimbo this is the preferred position sometimes tho
in aubergine panties instead. tick tick… and then
without legs us all being dragged
to his sewer . Swear!
to God, a dude did
this to her/him in the private penumbra of
some star nursery up there. It’s just a story. Believe it or not. I couldn’t care that is. You
do. By then for me the q word queer twisted and corkscrewed upward flying like
483 some alien pterodactyl wingnut? I
swear to God. I swear! a somatic intensity
of my hole is my doughnut hole. Winds that sweep dust off
Venus pour through me. And from above
hovering beginning her slow delicious consent if
pleasure.
In coveralls. Above the aubergine. I was wearing a somewhat
chic simple pinstripe. He in giant polka dots. A festivity.
pretty freaky. what’s the q word mean
now, babydoll?
like a marionette or handheld puppet doll I mean. props
for a play of lust. Every enactment
is a re-enactment I put on my white gloves
time had passed it isn’t the ’50s when that’s
what we wore she urged to me. in high school you had
to wear a tux at Miss Worthington’s School of
Dance. Time can bend up or else down. It might have been
a memory event inside a murderer’s head. A glimpse
of the future will show in approximately about
oh a half billion years there’ll be
484 this really awful crash. in way distant galaxies there’s the sight of a catastrophic merger of us,
the Milky Way and a then-neighbor Andromeda, the
nearest actually. Shoes of patent leather. A girl
in tulle. The boy in a rented tux. whose sweat
like the turquoise rains
on the TXB-4425f satellite
adrift in the DeKuyper bombast one shell after the other. Scattered conical piles at the
surface in a time-warp of teenage skin
trying to dance. his prick
not up to the task and lies limp as a banana squash with its kindred squashes squashing up
the little space available. Squish squash squishing against the windshield before the wipers.
Pro what I say you will also say won’t downward the dust-bunny
coagulates show daddy is the stuff dreams
is made of.
And a rocky planet solid considers Daddy’s,
its girl, me, considered ’s girl which clock will bend
485 the particulate dust-bunny clouds downward
and Earthward. breathe, baby.
I know you can do it. For daddy.
flipped-out stars. in reaction daddy’s girl-boy gas planets
and so on.
A counter ticking-clock. What
did you say? I can’t hear, baby say it again for moi!
frail-tentacled stars that flip you
like a child you can hardly fail to realize
the value of adding a tiny shock of static electricity
to the clothes in
the dryer. This is the descent cycle. On Enceladus
each crater penetrates six feet minimum
with a tongue
size-queen. The
crackle in the distance
sounds like rust breaking open.
She said that to
that other queen making
insect-feeler quote marks,
love was dead, and
486 when that happens thru the pump pump pump of attempted
heart beats.
There was a bush there. Darling hiding together looking out when the creosote sticking to our hands rusty colored marking time’s
quick-passing diminishing who you wanted for love
in his pink-silk panties with a pink bow a throwaway used abused and packed on out with the rest
of some artificial planet’s refuse on the very next ship out of here like a cargo a refined sense
of desolate or regretful. That’s the thrust
of what she meant to me.
like some Wernher von Braun caricature
of our country’s closely held secrets we
were defined by what others saw warped or maybe wrapped
on or even across you confused carefully shaven pubic region
in time for cupid’s celebration I
took as self-expression. wrongly as it turned out. It wasn’t. there was a full moon backed
with a cobalt sky and
487 it was an innocent as teenagers necking.
elbows akimbo. sometimes awkwardness
can hold no secrets for the good,
the sweetly well-intentioned the starlight deranged
in dizzy silly and the teenagers acting sissy.
We step from plate to plate
on Saturn’s circle rings around his hugeness abundant with bestrewn laughter multiplied in
all angles never with or without Love. the ocean fish swim in.
Back here eddying
near a system center the divine
Venus yesteryear’s Julio Claudian ancestress multiplying attention on extension
of storied exultation
on wink after
another first produces it
leaving the best of us at speechless
rest and in the state
of assembly of masculinity come an emergent pink breathed
fem-ness unrecognizable as a hot joy
488 of multiple it is when tinted colored raced gendered
skews from teen onward with fewer and fewer disguises
that refuse the least gendered of your ecstasies. In gartered common
who snaps at the thankful
but a gratitude in turn?
murmured resistant
emanations defying your very first contour
can’t help define the life’s contours won’t bend any effort resisting
a human
nuance. is that you
too?
exultation clings
a brusque masculine finger in matt-tainted curl up
of the nth in my oh my! That
sentence finishes itself as a sentence
489 but when these all appear as reams and reams
of paper please lose all patience!
immediately! with that oaf with
the hands feet
chest dialect (alien)
the direct call to an insertion of strange body parts to her
i mean me no didn’t i say hello?
Paul McCartney used to sing
you say goodbye. I used to
think that was cool. I bet you Paul
never saw a body part he failed to just want upfront
to be his forever after. that’s
only reasonable if you’re a man. not me. no way
sorry if that’s what you want do you
think someone else? I do often. oftener than these
lineations of prose
suggestively um point to? Let
love speak! what happens? when that happens
there are legions that freak out. a few
look up. heaven throwing down her spears
and girlfriend, you fail
490 to catch up?
you can’t put the toothpaste back
in its tube
helplessness means just that there’s some greater force than you
and acknowledgment to you is what, like
high school again jejune or something to you? Spread your fingers.
in modestly spreading your legs even when
you don’t ask
Love will remember just recall to you
how anamnesis has got to be a body experience it doesn’t specify
any loss but what you
just forgot, baby! and this means you reader and you know you
who are at this point! Misguided. Misapprehended. loved all the same
and you want me to just stand
here and let you take me, I do. I am scales. a beak.
claws rip me out of the womb how
491 could you not want to be freaked out?
I call us by our names.
I say hello.
Paul McCartney says goodbye.
well I guess we just come in each other’s mouths
at this point for the first time
a though will emerge.
not even physicality could be more frightening. a genuine
new thought?
and is there something er, mechanical maybe
in the way in this, the body opens your
mind
and the opposite, does that mean anything
Well baby,
who doesn’t appreciate repetitions without fail
? Use the ruled paper to take
pencil in hand while writing on the first line
what won’t you see on the second one but a white ghost
of stale fog or something
parts depend on a suit
492 begin with a tie add the pinstriped shirt
your socks are still on
even a person’s body organs
combine comparably when you’ve seen one kidney have you see them
all and sundry looking pale from
the light of exclusion
I will stand on my hands kisses
are no different a half-brain pickled in formaldehyde brims with more confidence than a
man’s suit. excluding the underwear.
the protruding meat packaged nicely meshed
each socks are worn in an ensemble group no excluding even
the underwear is what a person wears to repeat the
combo of bodily organs starting with a pancreas abrading
into kidneys on one hand what is the other holding up
but is it a bile duct for instance or the isles of Langerhans it would also pass for that a heart between
kisses pausing to reflect sees itself as the paper the ghost and maybe a mirror
493 Under your skin I see your pancreas beginning to
slide. needless abrading.
a law suit is no
erased business suit it simply adds a nice tie
to the pinstriped shirt you’re not wearing
at the time. At the
time you’re not wearing it.
but you might. You still might. at night
sliding beneath at times the remaining body parts.
They are doing the wearing if anything of the suit.
you have just prosecuted nothing of you
is ever harmed in the moonlight
but excreted remnants
after the mothership leaves behind
forever separates herself from
the dirty little dots as proof
you are okay with her. or him. with them.
even when you know
they have to go to the bathroom just like you secretly
do too. the randomness
the incoherence is an image of delight, beauty,
the pancreas side seems to move a name instead
494 of a shambles of your body parts
after the mothership departure remnants of sky matter solidified
was it you a name abrading
its sometime star path in… what?… these?
I shudder a homeboy in briefs between eroded the differences
you have, a brittle air-voice an angel’s
plea for love
sections of a Milky Way will suffice for this
abraded by space-shrapnel for
the unwary in nearly camouflaged pits
at the end of this cotton candy rainbow. And that was
just one of the reports as the first
of the startling messages came slamming down and guttering
out like an oracular MINORITY REPORT from a sci-fi movie like the famous Steven Spielberg and such.
Like slowing turning the lipstick until it appeared a red penis
exclaiming its surprise.
495
that I know you the arrow darting
into the heart the rusting of valves. tick tick mine
too.
You say you do! (or else!)
so far out of reach.
the vocables slowly silenced the shouting recedes now.
(just period)
Or else
way out of reach. spectral optics among other specialized
sciences will accord vocable with
vocable shouting now and then to freaking
PAY UP!
Distorted communications add the phrase goddammit. Let them.
Heart to heart, peace ability your finger amicable with my willing (one) aren’t we all?
496
A plaything renting by the hour be sure to cover
it up with something. your heart I think. the blast in the distance. assault weapons. Before
the nocturnal emotional intermissions
start at this HUGE distance felt as the telescope’s identification
of a dot as newly discovered planet moving across its Jupiter.
Cut in two opened up what’s left? Duh… I
don’t see nothin’!!!
said the ranch hand.
Squiggly Jupiter. I was raised as a Buddhist to cry out heartily
laissez les bon temps rouler! and often even today
I go. It’s for him. not me. If you are
reading this poem on paper it’s too late. Remaindered to prison by the PC tech-police a finger wagging “a waste of planetary resources, pal”
With a million normal circumstances you want to go ahead
497 and choose the pervy one, it’s a fun invitation for you lowlife types I guess? Huh? Like to
shoot up drugs too, fools?
You’ll never read unless alienated,
perved-out only real sickos chose this lovely lovely route.
Shrug! I g-u-e-s-s! says the reply back to
the open door of the spacecraft leaving at
X-10 so better hustle
a tarmac refuses when starlight calls and a
decrypted connection will name if
if the frequency’s wrong or
right. North is south here. Here is the
cuts I’ve made on my wrists in
the spirit of happy self-punishment.
That perv over there
he-she’s a big ole maso aren’t they?
TOO LATE FOR TEARS mistakenly renamed KILLER BAIT ? it’s only noir. When you read
this as noir you’ll know you’ve got
it, huh? In these lines the shadows
of Venetian blinds suggest imprisonment behind
498 bars. Love’s half-lights. The sheen of rain at night on the seedy tarmac outside an apartment. But don’t be fooled! “Under normal circumstances” like that’s possible!
fun invitation, rediscovery after millions of years by anyone’s count
of the fact that pervs actually do not just rule the world but have more fun.
As long as I favor dysgenics you came along
smarts aren’t everything you know
the new opposite of eugenics for being dumb didn’t it also get you oh BIG TIME rouble Two of a Kind A Stolen Face
I Walk Alone…
Lookit, at those pore ole
sheep up there sheeps in the mountains cold, shivering… somethings. Poor dumb things. Better
to have a heart. Animals to bleed for like Jamie and me.
It’s a mad tac squad out there! I promise, honest, eventually the sirens and gunshots and noise, they all like all the pure of heart
499
shoot up dime bags (no of coke, fools, not meth)
thinking of this this lovely
Milky Way looking at neighbor galaxy Andromeda with tears of f’ing JOY.
And when you feel that rush in your blood vessels think of
Lou Reed, as each of us is each is always eaching
out the other and it’s fun. an invitation
of one animal to have
as much fun as you can with another!
marked silence. cheeky. want some MORE?
in this decayed mind deep down
in Cthulhu’s watery sleep, these tentacles
need YOU very much,
Jamie. o
Only one thing’s on this decayed mind of mine.
And that’s JAMIE. The ghosts of
him code
500 messages. fun
is Dukha and the other way too and
you have tears
to spare don’t waste them on dorks like that but pod-people like
JAMIE and me. Thelma and
Louise mid-air driving off the cliff
The
circumstellar frozen-methane disc of the Kuiper
Belt beyond our planets is exactly an autopsy room report. I WAKE UP SCREAMING (1941):
a Broadway promoter is suspected of murdering a young woman whose career he’s been supporting.
The Kuiper’s frozen What makes the methane ice-chunks
of ME and JAMIE
reek like morgue corpses ? (Suspiciously though, and think about it—no autopsy for KURT his so- called
suicide so obvious?),
I have left track of our twin blue suits, Jamie,
the mothership’s cadet uniforms when
gentle non-attention-getting aren’t at hand with no foot
501 to try
to scrunch and step on us, given up up the the screening that always comes with waking up…
Leaks of methane in the lab transmuted by Archontic
lazars shredding hearts to bloody pulp.
What you are reading, people of the future,
is what we once called pulp novels.
There are times
when honeysuckle can smell like murder, we said.
. Or
the first-cousin smell of methane. Do you feel comfortable with me as the corpse I’ll be
when reading this. without the nasty is there
attraction to sweet? (Get the drift? I think probably…
you’re not STUPID are you since you are
my readers after all… aren’t you?)
You’d be dumb tho not to want to morph pervy on us wouldn’t you? It’s so weird and sick and pleasurable corpses you’ll
502 find there are tears it’s inhuman to shed and the other, the human. For me? It’s the alien non-human choice I choose every stinkin’ time, you might say.
It’s you fake
humans who seem to have
all that trouble recognizing the alien face in the mirror. I mean, can MIRRORS LIE?
Why shed tears for the other, why throw shade, if
you really need the dead instead, every mote of us, up here waiting for you. every mote
of us. When not the mothership it’s
the Kuiper Belt, overlapping you down there but much
bigger and more powerful. But if you didn’t
already know this
why go exploring the secrets en- closed in this NECRONOMICON?
That the other (scientific) name for this is called the famous Kuiper Belt
503 you not me. Why tears for
people that don’t (even) re- cognize the smell of amino acids. Throw shade on
losers? this
planet’s intermittently his theirs ours yours its
and if the frequency wavers by a mote not even. the uncovering of
the joy-idea that mucking around a billion or so, they glom up the soup’s amino acids forming proteins scabs the what? musty smell of the run-down
South-of-Market place
where after processing Jamie’s “cremains”
waiting for me to call.
Or SCREAM. Or some-
fucking thing you do
to prove no I’m not a droid. Tho
it’s true we’re programmed for what’s impolitely referred to as apoptosis.
My brothers and sisters are not “we”
as particular cells agglomerated programmed at the git-got for um, the d-word. You know, how do we say,
504 as fading to
spirituality as cell by cell yelling
garbage is not meretricious to feel as counterbalanced as your loveliest ectoplasmic
shout-outs make hypocrisy’s
great shout-outs to the universe so.
Everyone’s always saying yet wearing a fedora and big fat-
nous deformed stupid YES! that in our very
worst moments we bow to like supplanting them, the
loveliest shapes ectoplasmic shout-outs
the universe’s
great YES just a second ago
written off as
yesterday’s papers? A cripple staggering his creepy way
filled with vast and star studded kinky
cadet JOY-BOYS
following their trim little SPEEDOs with lithe little bodies?
505 Distractions. from him. or us slurping two-fingers each of Jack Daniel’s together and beyond drawn curtains fucking together. one step
over the line, Sweet Jesus, one step forward
also two back.
Gimme that baggy Tina, darling
I want… it… no YOU… no… no I know… it’s
just you. That’s who.
spells crazy real thumping
hearts of ours beating and beating: we’re one now.
electrons are demon particles transmitting
say a solar storm into the
happy image of a Motel 6. from what’s now tarantulas empty desert sand surface but pulled like taffy and bounced by triangulation
from here to Saturn or that huge Van
“it” out pulling taffy out of a delusory emission
506 perceived as a Motel 6 with him. What are we
perched on when you consider this—a cactus? the tears that
I sense inchoately sense I mean—are only not yet felt
searing my face with sorrow that also tho
across nighttime times what hope
of morphing?
pitch and catch. what emission not simultaneously transmission, huh?
a swarm of solar flares by analog of preventing too many orgasms
erupting unseen or controlled by repressive
archon energies like hitting paper-isa
wasp nest and KABOOM and only if luck allows
quietly waiting on green shores of the dammed up Pecos River
trickle too beneath Whitmanesque cottonwood trees
can they be if only just for the moment but truly be decoupled his hands yours
and yours his together his
cigarette stub or organic weed rolled up
507 regains the
terrestrial territory once held pray
by Archontic WATCHERS
What’s against you won’t ever be a friend despite a sea of compassion
for their plight flooding and breaking thru either your heart
or the little wicker ten-foot dam will
pay for paradise with tears. Be strong. The black
van in the next lane
can do its darnedest and there’s his work-hardened
hands you can his again and again till the quantum message simultaneously
will reach each end of your universe and bloody
out the yellow of a harvest eye—
the moon.
despite all there stream
down the nectar your man makes you have him first pull over to
508 the 7-11 for a six pack of stars I’ll see as his—when with me, the
Motel Six trysts on the road perched with a
hat on him. Solar storms in need of ten minutes only to reach the shores of the little Pecos River lake shadows
late from poplars use drinking beer.
Milky Way above the translucent love-
strands falling above me slowly
down into whatever receptive cavities in me. His cum. Smell of his
too many cigarettes. Hands knobbed
from mining potash in
New Mexico.
Broadcasts emissions. gooey electromagnetism.
Calling the dogs to the truck the electric-orange
cigarette end still glowing in competition
with the Watchers surveillance now
as hidden government transducers.
If divisible then reversible. If absent from the body look up! Existence of parts of speech now considered as commands to order a
509 chaos of stalled cars on the
Interstate merciless. the Event Horizon seen by the few who leave behind witnesses,
unknown survival rules that morph
your grammar. With a needle
in your arm would you have realized?
The blast-offs coming. Towering cathedral ceilings of the mothership’s chandelier-tear-dropped radiating interior
a pod or pods encased, the body will
now rest,
Repose lacks no outer space lacks no nothing but silence
full of their squeamish arthropods
hating silence awaiting
the ungrasped moment
of not time’s reversal for us except the tuberose
dabbed on my ear, the extrapolations from the
verbal imaginations excerpted from
Philip K. Dick. Kiss me my sweet, kiss someone
deadly your daddy’s waiting for you baby
in the cold of that fridge with cold cold
510 arms go to time reverse time
join the first transmitted illusion an entanglement allowed simultaneously
throughout any and all universes that are, will be, have been nothing more than the cooling beads of beer-bottle sweat when handed to Daddy. Oh boy!
This bilaterally symmetrical heart
bleeding a blood sweat on another hyperuniverse’s handheld lover’s beer- bottle. Drink up. You got only
one life don’t you to replenish?
germ-gathering sperm-gathering glug glug down
the… it goes. That’s it.
Copy that.
baby I’d moan. under
that bare sheet the visible cover- up for the sperm-gathering
ALIENS radial creatures needing
to replenish stock bilaterally symmetrical.
511 Yes I am repelled by you and
you by me but what matter when propelled by
the unprovoked urge I have
to kiss your hand as I did Jamie’s
as ground control once to
Major Tom. Too many teardrops. with kisses on kisses
to your heart-beating body. Do you know the red seas of this suffering rendered so beautifully
by won’t cover
the map of now is not then
absent
the axial connections that can easily
become parts of speech as you
drift there remain parts
you thought left behind at home
coming out of their basements.
Oh obscure Jamie’s now the dark status
in which sentences dispel no more the
misinterpretations of an AR-15 misinterpretations what world of hovering motherships
512 can maintain.
I alone remain to tell the tale.
Picked up in the wreckage strewn by my sinking ship. Sunk by the same malign Yaldabaoth
who thru transmissions set you up as
my readers to encrypt
the usual lies of love. How can I ever thank you.
All the same linked together—by filaments, electron strings that in the invasion were of course programmed
to be witnesses to our love—mine and Jamie’s.
Pity that didn’t work out.
Oh except for fragments I suppose. Hard to tell.
When did HE really die—still to arrive from the still non-existent future.
Under the pokes of
space rays from the same mothership that birthed ET I’m
sure. Rays that cause the collapse of the emotions, especially affection, friendship,
and of course L-O-V-E. Or can a person really be expected to think these emoticons undead, un-die-able even
513 as
in a conspiracy to be able to construct ourselves don’t
we truly need a belief in this cause?
Go figure. It’s now been years perhaps decades even since
anyone’s read this. Moldering in
the basement of some library I guess. But transcendent
with every single bit of the affect you’ll need to navigate your brave new world
of planetary collapse.
I am hoping it needn’t mean just savagery.
nor immiseration of our species, the supplanting
alien one and the eternal beauty of contrails of egg-dropping female fish unparalleled in beauty until struck down
one by one in the same energy that
foresaw the crop-circle message. It’s easier to
get a hard-on than say thank you.
Let alone love, he said.
I know. What fragments
aren’t in my name? did die when he did. A dirt-cheap story.
when transducers transmit what fragments isn’t it
514 him my man Jamie? Here’s a face.
You can take it or as he did leave it.
A government with agents in dark glasses and fedoras make Italian suits
look more dangerous than Jamie did. Zip and
they’re gone. It’s not them I sexualized.
At the level of a sentence only taken up to some
hologram mothership. I’m dead, I shout!
Do you like it? It was
like beautiful cold marble on his bed, his blue-veined cock gone now!
Being delusions you are everything. Don’t waste
my freakin’ time arguing my point
devolves the alien start-up that once brought him to me. Body bags
only exist to get unzipped, just like the zippers on that man’s jeans trying to keep up the zero degree dignity he never was left.
Enjoy while you can.
Morph. Maybe you get
515 to Redding, California even. In front
of the liquor store
used cars on a lot
model facsimiles of alternate
presents. Disguise each two-by-four sawn or seen by the tree
that tried to save it.
Thank it. the body of emanations between
your world and someone that may exist in another syntax
you identity with. men wear shoes ladies high heels. Today the gender fluidity
of another generation is tomorrow’s train wreck equally empty
of the heartbreak that’s always required, to construct them all, demons, the cardboard he borrowed from dumpsters to create this. Equate verbally these assemblages Jamie put
together on meth. Incomplete. Didn’t I mention
love? with his boots on, his butch drug-dealer to
the Angels outfit with sparkles on it? I do. We
never had anything on the big guys only their
mirrored black van ’s attempts at the frequency
516 alteration from planet to planet. (I was responsible for
that too).
Honey, where are you? An intentionally rotten batch
of Cristal. A man at the end of his tether—these are the lies spread in Andromeda.
Did we just diverge?
Then body bag unzipped yields
little to the point you
stick in a vein. It’s up to you. Swept away
after my own death they call me a
motherfucker. It’s not true. I don’t mess with tenses, the syntax of a future some DNA accident will define when on chromosome 4 there’s a gene
with three or four CGT letters the value
of whose adherence to known enzymes
can create a race of aliens that seem capable of amazing feats of
heart-connection among us. Why aren’t we
there yet? and why is it left just to me lying in this clinic
OD’d and dreaming the world-dream
of
517 a cowboy from Carlsbad, NM I
re-lose upon re-awakening the world with me,
the corpuscular flirtations reddening with
hematite romance.
here the syntax goes un-reimbursed. It ’s got
to go it alone for now.
I was made for that work and the words of these sentences produce emotions for that reason
not concepts. There aren’t ideas here,
never was never will be. You will re-kill me
each time re-reading this writing and seeping from
my death you’ll find the love
you
couldn’t get. otherwise.
Pay attention to that otherwise. Don’t waste your time.
Life without love waits not but seeks
only its lack.
518 made We transducers and transmitters. Motherfuckers you don’t
ever want to mess with.
Swept by divination at the behest of archons hidden as slaves to the
mothership in a hangar deep in
Mount Whitney flaps lie
for the time being. Like you reading me.
Passed on the freeway by the hatchback Honda.
Holograms
created the illusion of tall dark green
trees meant for deforestation or de-
fenestration as the names Jamie and Bruce are two
words easily exchanged for a
519 simpler usage—just the cry “timber!”—and we’re gone
for good. And for our bad too. So choose.
for all intense we are anyway changed within the world-armature called sometimes mothership. By
the evil tho, motherfuck. The Honda passing
in metal black paint. Head off-road to
the pond side where spring willows are mad, and the frequency stays
uninterrupted inside
people’s heads. I mistrust the
words of dead people. But look behind these
eyes of mine—aren’t I dead now myself?
You fake it, Jamie.
Did my life end when yours did?
Fictitious communications. Awkward silences
between kisses. in this bed there’s one dead man and the other
is alive. Which is which means dead
520
is dead means trouble. Poor Rocky the dog looks on whimpering, confused.
Call him. Arriba arriba! tongue ecstatic
as mine moving words in these sentences thru
the Milky Way. All heaven watching. The angels will lift lest we dash the foot against.
Did I mention that dead, your brilliant body and handsome cock looked like marble to me
in the room in the Palliative Care Unit? in camouflage the PAC BELL ’s deceit in unplugging your love message no more than on the tarmac once started
can you stop a space vehicle from taking up its course as planned.
Once on trajectory. The fact that it takes a greater force is imaginary, though wrong.
In the sentences we two swim in like an idiolect for twins.
To main and match love’s right syntax. .
The Jack Daniel’s we drunk in a
521 Motel Six, the bag of meth shot up. In clouds
that can’t be imagined. Hell—
shrink-wrapped when you’re in love
dreaming the age-old car-van menace
them good ole boys their
black-out van windows and in my I mean Jamie’s
next lane on the eight-lane highway.
Medford, I-5. This is Jesus’s country, makes me
shiver. Scary the rural
sound of—is it a screech-owl screech? and would this rural boy know a gibbous moon
from a blink of a eye? Thanks, Bruce.
On a chromosome sits the death gene just waiting there churning out its amino acids to pro-
duce what? apoptosis is coming soon to a Kmart near you.
Better leave. Take
a space shuttle. or fly on the winds of
self-improvement via New Age
522 spirituality. Honey, one of the things I loved about you is you never went one a them routes. I’m so proud I’d
probably rim you like you always wanted in
sex but the germs always scared me. I might still be the nice Catholic boy/girl
from Portland Oregon twice voted
the most polite city in the US of A. Fancy that!
And fancy me too, when he went and laughing, when I had to push up the beat-up ole care well honey
guess I at last made you my biker’s bitch huh?!
and then the “haw haw” you’d
expect of some cowboy from New Mexico, as he was. really. he was.
Can the human body outlast DNA? DNA won’t last. Nor for pine-trees nor for us in the
wink of an eye before an accident mutates it to other beings than we thought.
Now of course. Now. See up there in the sky?
the moon going round Jupiter like that—called Ganymede?
523 when this is published find
BRUCE there alongside his syntactic completion, his sympathetic lover
It’s morning on Ganymede now!
Must mere death cause the lack of a sunrise for them now—non-existent—because of the extinction
of the life still in me now, still in him then? I often
think—am I really speaking? how can I be speaking, writing when no one’s here to speak to you, to write these lines? It’s
a great mystery. And in a century or two—what will the future’s
living beings think of how you who for
the will be nothing were once breathing living existences
reading the writing of a man who because no longer
existing—how is it possible for us to project BEING
on a past whose present must never have been anything other than delusion. And if only the delusion of begging has left me—was there ever in the first
place reason to suppose a being instead of just
a delusion going by my name, Bruce?
524 BEING to being to him any more than any of the present now slid silently away into ten there lack a sunrise of Bruce’s life and death, JAMIE.
You turning the pages of this piece of writing now—in 40 or 50 years will
you be the nothing we are ourselves
now. The emptiest place in space, always the coldest—we live
there. On Jupiter’s moon Ganymede. outwhat morpheme matter if arranged by the syntactical
machine configuring that sole meaning? hearing getting drunk in motel
rooms glancing at this mean good ole boy from hell shrink-wrapped
can he hold his
country music on a CD Lord a mercy.
you hear inaudibly. Glory opens
the invisible. Can pain survive this
iron-rich coursing of red read blood thru the
heart’s loving vessels? Let them throw spears
525 from the skies.
And turn the page, reader.
my thumbprint is also
yours Jamie’s great handprint on
this face of mine too.
New body part by new one e- merging ligaments torn re-knit
when I am with you or you Jamie
with me, complete total
as animation renders back more then dead.
turn the
page please and make amends plead mutant sounds extending
out as yet the unseen flesh
of CARRIE’s arm at the grave
from beneath the pile of dirt and stark painted sign CARRIE WHITE BURNS IN HELL somewhere
a small digging mammal under
all that dirt
526 reaches prey.
Pain is so distanced isn’t it by love’s beating heart
unheard by ears unskilled at making this contact of ours?
To become or to leave? without turning a page
will words disappear in the entropy white-out
imposed on us too skillful
with dead meanings? I have been too long neglected when you find this. Read it. Discover me again.
But audibility follows neglect. And the page that won’t turn gets unstuck again. Cycle after cycle
I do not worry. Here with the stars. Is peace
for Jamie and Bruce. For the laser lines drawing
from each of us to the other,
Jamie and Bruce, you and yourselves. It’s the
same. It never was different. It will always be like
527 it is now as we are won’t we?
(signed) Jamie and Bruce
Neglected but the words turning the page. inaudible? what else have you got for yourself then?
beyond the hands from you
to me, Jamie from these
blood oceans of mine into yours?
prevent no star from falling nor black hole sucking
except forcing love’s redressing instantaneously present
to the
ends of every universe that ever is or was or will be or can be in this love’s forever joy.
let the blood drops fall with my tongue out here on the great plains of America
as I’m alone said Keats to Fanny Brawne
“Here is my bloody hand” “now take it”
528 my heart opens to this like your forever cunt JAMIE in love
under a falling
shower of kisses, my hand in
yours
spaceships on the plains of America
lack this grasp
of heart’s hunger-pangs
forever thump thump thump, dear, my darling goodbye.
529 Bruce one thing a single act thru time on its eternal
rocket course in emptiness
530 you readers “Here it is, take it!” said Keats once of the bloody appendage Fanny re-
thought. The
more sentences the more dying, the
more dying
the more (canceled) aliens
rebirth the eyes. Your
“I”s uncover the moving subordinate clauses
to distract
you from love. From us
in this Motel 6 always
Room 303 (camouflaged as 304)
Meet us.
Just him and me in the Toyota
Passing south at LA the
curved a labile handle takes you
past Palm Springs. in desert in love country “You got to learn
To shake out them boots darlin’ he
Tells me before putting them on
In the mornin’” there are more
Damn critters he tells me beside scorpions
Sometimes human-
531 type or rattlers. the listening device
in the ear transmutes bluegrass the Agency at controls.
Scale! parts of
entity together making more huge than in
one small component it becomes next level up.
Tickle me, Jamie. Trickle me.
A multi-armed legged critter of ensuing
loves the white trickle sneaking down from my mouth
on his pant leg.
still in the future but not by much
having met his sweet mom
in her Carlsbad house does she or even can she when like
thunderous sentences fracture above here
below a short “!!!!” on my
532 back in the toolshed both jeans
half-mast yi yi yi!!! Into me screaming
his white milkshake again
before getting back in time.
“Are you boys ready
for some nice fried chicken wings,”
says her hologram to ours. While the
real mom and real Jamie and Bruce
watch laughter
curl the pecan tree’s leaves and they
fall prematurely.
The mysteries of tickling. A long day on the road. But
Soon enough back To motel-sex, do I mean six?
my face in his is
all-mystery canceling out pseudo-directives being
broadcast from Space Needle # 1 (#’s 2, 3, 4, and 5
always moved, exchanged like
pawns, multiple entities of M-ship
proliferating,
the desert residue of Dr. Oppenheimer
533 “Shiva Shiva”
can easily appear
outside Motel 6 again. The moving wall silhouettes
muddy yellow pickup trucks freaky good ole boys falsified and
recorded
as fear thoughts of their off-facing gunracks .
Transformed now as holograms wing-cadets span the Pecos,
shaded
under cottonwood groves by the tall-standing still-
empty fedoras connected to hallow trench coats and their black RAY-BANS on
“ eaches eaching to each” it said
on the sign outside town. And every name
you turn, all pages randomly
go empty or fill up
radially no longer bilateral in projection based
icky on misprogramming from
erotic
forces them off the trail.
534 the white slimy slug-trail down the jeans’
Pant leg can lure in
the best of us: sex forces
to throw off “the scent”?
mmmmmmmmmm, I go to Jamie, lemme over there with you darlin’ can I
get my milkshake yet?
(YUM YUM SLURP SLURP, JAMIE’S MILKSHAKE)
hallowness of their
trench coats the black black RAY-BANS say
“Come back again y’all nobody at home right now!!
mysteries of a white slug’s
Putting on those boots a trickle of
White cream from
His source reenergizes my joy
Today
And brushing off the white mustache together an un-sortable-out
single person blob joins its four
arms riding I-10
like a creature
from Sigourney Weaver’s dreams/nightmares?
535 completes the interweaving highway
system here, just Jamie and me, on I-5
heading south. My hand
on those soft and worn blue jeans his smile
apotropaic to the beings alien
remolding defacing debriefing. In the
Mothership shadow opening
cargo hold doors as sperm
can destroy love and love the spermy
trails that lead to you—mysterious now
as your bareback rodeo-riding boyhood in
Carlsbad. As the bookworm
In the corner you wanted.
Gunning the motors introduction of snipped-out
Gene reconfigures the genome inexorable the
CGTA CAGT AGTC spewing
its now mutated
confounded of scale as one after another
escaping bodies yearn for
the punishment
536 of confinement.
I can safely say here that I rest
my case. excused by scale do
these extension of
challenge the Agency itself? Calm down, reader: with passengers like us proceeding porthole by
porthole
on the road the vehicular scale
changes porthole to pothole while
incidentally
passing the Tannhäuser Gate all these
are tears like rain
when time to die.
All confined,
put back to the cargo hold of M-ship.
his I-love-yous
reciprocating the light and hidden touch of my light
hand bringing darkness
to his tough one
driving up I-5 passing Salem
537 Eugene K-Falls
then
Down the valley home. “I love you too, darlin’” pulling over the comforter the dog between
faster in fatigue into sleep than
love-making. His tattoo
“Jamie Seabees” with the blackened once red outline of an
angry bee with stinger.
z-z-z-z-z.
At the confinement level from Seattle’s
To newer destination—New
Mexican sands and the representatives of
a perusing Agency. greasewood
mixing up the apparent politesse
Of waving waiting
willow with its
staring band of trench coats, RAY-BAN
Sunglasses wearing fedoras. Is
that A pistol in your pocket, fellas or R U just glad
538 to see me.
a cactus off
its perch should be able to see. I am their lure decoy Jamie secretively
floats from behind Motel 6
window drapes arousing their
windowshield wipers. Pop! And spurting
Down a sticky
white before a cleansing hankie can see.
Along I-10 now
the White Sands
of Doctor Oppenheimer fallaciously salaciously
Along points east. His
soul-project going south the Other Ones began their appearance here summer 1947—two years
before Jamie.
As the director
of Trinity Project—does that name mean anything,
Reader? Just asking but it’s history—or am
I barking up the wrong pair of bluejeans.
In rapid succession: the yuccas extend their
central stalk concealing
the transducer to M-
Ship hovering cattle lie zapped the
539 desperate appeal to self-made crop-circles motors of
passing tourists suddenly flop over dead and won’t be revived.
Fedoras again this
time by the cottonwoods by the river we’re
lounging and lunching and kissing our smooth
worn bluejeans g-spots till oozing goo
unseen
by others. Same faces of
staring cadets. The tourists recalculate
their routes referencing Almagest calculations.
No, this is no time for modernity. And
time itself flows like that white fresh-smelling
goo. Good
luck, guys—you’ll need it—sneer the Aliens to Bruce,
Jamie
rock rubble behind and dark green creosotes
ahead while above the
heavenly world’s in Scorpio.
pothole by pothole. It’s relational.
540 The large
I-love-you-darlins as enfolding me with
arms
protecting any danger or love-making
from any possible confinement—level by level
at the its beginning or end. Mapping
nanoparticles or
not the coelestial taxonomy too
you hails confounded by the scale
of things when confined as these
bodies lusted after escape—sometimes I go no
farther. “I love you darlin’” Jamie told me
as looking up for yet
another heavenly danger, putting
protective arms around
me succeeded in seducing, loving me.
the confronted versus confined. the jailor escapes
And the prisoners
Volunteer who can be first
To return the bondage each
with the other. Scale confronted is
then confined. the body here where we
541 are sometimes escapes the jailhouse. That is
love, Bruce told Jamie. Love in the night
high winds blowing and me you.
what surprises change the former eluding, my hand
editing yours, dear. and
along the road of life obviations like this
burrow gleam and radiate
the gnostic
light I peel off. As you the cover
of a book maybe
seem to sense the reconfinement
of anti-love sentences
clashing on high and the dirt
knows not the letter directed to my darlin’
The first goes south. So does the second. The
Imitations of Seattle’s jammed
Defamed Space Needle’s broadcasts.
Keep your ear to the ground.
By the color gray. By alien cadets cascad-
542 ing parachutes rappel
the halting sentence
structures each time, pants down
saluting each other like brothers.
Inaudible Invisible keening what mourning static
clauses apparently won’t ever
learn to penetrate—except in the haystack
in back of mom’s
house by night the tingle of body
to body in love. And
each night—the starshine of raspberry starlight. Ohh! hold me tight darlin’,
read real tight sweetheart
Mothership. an invisible m-word structures, like the inaudible
Paradigm sentences How much heaven is there?!
cadets
be no apparent victims dissembling
the heart to expedite
its our violence here below! of violence leaving.
You’ll hear more, soon. Look around you. Triangle heads with
543 big-eyed like in ET and CLOSE ENCOUNTERS
measure the falling rain by parachute failing
semen produces among the gray-bodied beings
down down in parachutes falling
products of
sentences that seems to be breaking
(down) is no safe conduct though multiple silent penetrations
like rain, rain drops tears
in rain for any robots,
simulacra too many.
A car somewhere backfiring—“yeehaw!”
goes Jamie. By referencing
the coming trucks covered
with tarpaulin you negate the
sights sounds of naked cadets
saluting the flag of
wing-commander A.K. Kaoki’s unzipped fly. No
one is ever safe from the
body and
544 when you have found the world
you discover a cadaver
of paralyzed discarded sentences dismissed
sterile its words (beta-amyloid) alas
unable to make new combinations and falling into (human) bodies.
First a Saab then Honda
next a rented (old) Volkswagen circling
our motel room after room
body follows body year succeeds year.
Relaxing along I-5 south of the great Seattle
Space Needle. My man in soft worn denim
Bluejeans a pair Of Levi pants with cigs in pocket
While barely visible against cottonwood grove
In alligator fake cowboy boots Their Burberry trench coats give the Agency
Pursuers Together with fedoras that faux look Of intruders.
sentenced to.
545
We stain
the motel sheets covers them with semen
(our) two older bodies
keep joining clauses with
each other each eaching
to each.
The dead
Sentences in books. The live ones you hear
Above clash clash clashing and in
Altering themselves to converse one
With the other or others. At the end
as our physical bodies
Illegible to primary
closure. fungibility. what exchange
who? A period
of only
apparently white margins cover their pretense
of flexibility, life.
lowing
seductions of physical
subalternity our wormhole penetrations conduct as many readers too—the route
546 of punctuation. The smoke of
too many sentences dispersing like Dogen’s mother into emptiness, like smoke
from incense sticks.
Too many pages. The illusion of too many too manys. Never
In this optic
printed letters
Concede the margins due one, two Ha ha! You’re dead:
Reading him can marginal white trump black
a special uniform of homo
aliens usually defeat
the inexorable drop drop drop
of semen rain. Like checkered headscarves of Palestinians. All against the powers of Agency—the
Mothership.
I wouldn’t dream of storing up surprises for myself but in cut and paste me and Jamie again
drive the western freeways foreclosed of the
program transmissions from the Seattle
Space Needle that Kurt C. always took
with him.
547 These things called fingers turning book pages.
those things way up there (look up! see?)
instead of being the raincloud you expect on I-5
pregnant with thunder
“even as I write is generating what your
hand like velvet felt to the taste
it may be
raining fir-tree cones—s-c-r-a-p-e! And just when we were about to take the apparent
off-ramp to that local Motel 6—lookee there!
We have monitored you
and your simulacra
deep within the M-ship, celebrations
about a victory altar with sacrifice. A kiss. another. Kiss kiss, darling. What are we here
For when you plunge your fat tongue Down my
Far more timid throat if not for
You to convert—transform into me this time.
Are you glad, sweetie?
Woof! Goes the waiting brown dog. Ours—the Yorkie
548 Named Rocky— But Still could it instead or also
Be the
Constantly changing simulacrum of
the alien cadet watches intently when we do oral from the
depths of that
gray pitiful body still finds a strength
saluting. To salute my
flag or Jamie’s. Then back into the brown
bag with him—as above the Agency of whose powers
with an identical key-card
open the door to Room 303 (disguised as 304 today).
My man’s sweet hand. The rented Honda outside. Which
Years of potash mining ranching
549
Bruce Boone in Conversation with Evan Kennedy May 17, 2019; Bruce’s Apartment in San Francisco
EK: What would you like readers to know about WALLPAPER? What was your method of composition?
BB: In the olden days while we were fighting the Language poets, I decided I would be the ideologue and pit-bull against Ron Silli- man. I called his writing “wallpaper.” I did apologize a few years ago, and he said something a bit nasty in return because I didn’t expand upon it. But since then, I’ve been doing all this other stuff built around mess at all levels. It also goes along with the lin- guistic streamlining or minimalizing of American language that’s going on very noticeably now, especially if you have the ears to compare it with the slowness of linguistic change of the past.
The Persians are the great example of this minimalizing from clas- sical antiquity. It started out as just a tiny sliver of Iran, then they went to India, then Afghanistan, then west — Greece, Macedonia, the Middle East. The language before the empire was syntacti- cally complex and inflected, but if you’re the Persians, you’re the masters. If you’re going to say “Tote that barge, lift that bale” to fifty-eight different nationalities, they have to understand you. By the end, they came out with no inflections, no syntax.
What happens in this country? There are a lot of impulses toward simplifying. Rachel Maddow says “fulsome” and she thinks it means full, totally full. Well, you do remember, do you, that it means slightly stinky or icky?
The end of the world and the species is coming in. We want to simplify everything because we cannot keep up those standards of complexity. It’s entropy of language and of the world. It’s our destiny to move faster and faster toward entropy. Therefore, mess, or sloppiness even, is a desideratum. It’s something you want rather than thinking of a text as a perfectly shaped story with a beginning, middle, and end. No. You can begin anywhere and end anywhere in wallpaper writing, which is my new genre. And it will all be the same.
EK: Your advice to readers is to pick up anywhere.
BB: Right. Bedside table before-you-go-to-sleep reading. “Oh, I’ll try page… 334 and see how that is.” And it’s either boring or you like it, then you try something else for five or ten minutes then shut the book and go to bed. There is no more unity. It’s just en- tropy. We should be realizing that in language since it’s the reality of reality.
551 EK: But there’s something else that compelled you to write this. It’s a love poem.
BB: Yes. Steve is a sex worker boyfriend of mine whom I see as a sex worker, but also as friends we hang out several times a month. Sometimes the lines blur, sometimes they don’t, but he’s been a center of my life for five years.
Every morning, I started the day by getting up and doodling about Steve. There is the axis of love/sex, which brings things together in strange new ways as entropy begins to fog things. You see in the poem that this arm detaches and is connected to Venus, and Neptune is connected to my right ear.
EK: When I reconnected with you a few years ago, you said you were fast-tracking enlightenment by continuing your Zen meditation practice, taking DMT, and seeing a dom.
BB: Lovemaking and love result in new ways of connections, but in some way Steve is a force for disorder in my life. I have never done much cuddle sex. I originally saw him online in the lineup of rent boys and men. When he came over, I said, “I think I might have some possible submissive tendencies that I repressed all my life. Do you think you can help me?” And he says yes in his polite Mormon way and starts whaling on me. First he slaps me, then he pinkens my backside, and I am outraged.
EK: And he called you multiple things.
BB: Multiple things. We finally arrived at “princess.” And gradual- ly, all the really painful stuff stopped. Then it got down to where it was not painful. I told him the other day, “I have the feeling that you want to do what you’re doing ten times more energet- ically.” Steve, more than top, is a dominant, aggressive person, highly testosterone-driven. His answer was, “Well, I’m just as satisfied, if not more satisfied, this way—that is, without causing you pain—because of affection.” That’s lovely because I don’t like pain. What I really wanted to experience was elemental forces of sex where it’s like psychedelics.
EK: And your Zen practice?
BB: Less so with Zen. The stronger the doses of DMT I got over two-plus days, there was no Bruce, no things, just immense power like Yahweh on top of Sinai except to the nth degree. It was streams of energy power. At some point in the midst of the highest dose of this, I found myself flinging my legs open and saying, “Fuck me.” And I had Steve in mind. Steve stands for something in my life that is so overwhelmingly powerful that it’s not even a choice to defer, it’s just my nature. Forces in a force field without any discrete enti- ties translates both into Steve and into WALLPAPER.
552 WALLPAPER also implies some… I would like to say plan, guid- ance, or governor. Not god, but some direction for all of this. You could say neg-entropy, maybe.
EK: What is the fantasy in WALLPAPER between you and Steve? And how does it differ from when he comes over for sex or when you two have coffee?
BB: It doesn’t differ. The Pacific Northwest is a destination, or real- ly just the end of a band, I-5, the other end of which is LA. There’s a preoccupation with traffic and naming cars and vehicles in motion on eight lanes. That’s consistent imagery from Pink Sperm to WALLPAPER. I think it means a visualization or figure of this DMT-inspired understanding of the universe as immense waves of power without discrete entities. But if you’re going to make a piece of poetry, you have to use discrete entities even though there really aren’t. There’s crash-ups, vans with white trash cowboys with rifles following, and destructiveness all around. That’s the meaning of I-5.
EK: There’s also a z-axis. It takes place in space as well.
BB: Yes. A minute and twenty seconds from now, a plasma wave might completely annihilate us, and we would never even know. The more you learn about the cosmos, you realize that everything about it squishes out life.
EK: Even in orgasm?
BB: Orgasm is like you have departed the planet and joined the mothership. You can call that being alive or being transformed by the operation into an alien. You’re not really alive, but there’s a ghost of aliveness. We know that aliens are like triangle-heads. They have way too much cerebral cortex for their own good, and they don’t know what to do with their mouths or their ears, which are teeny-teeny, so they’re really spiritual. So “spirit” and “death” come to mean the same thing.
EK: You’re getting to them, joining them through sex?
BB: That is one way.
EK: In the poem, there’s also a masculine/feminine dynamic.
BB: There are things like silk ribbons floating through the poem and bits of lace. It gradually should become apparent to the reader that there’s lingerie and makeup on my totally pure person, as requested by Steve.
This is the problem in my own mind. This is the only experience I’ve had with this, so I take it to be equal to reality. As Steve has explained it, the way you dominate another man if you are a man
553 is you feminize him. That accomplishes the task of submission. I’m not sure that’s a universal truth. I’ve only experienced this with Steve—well, a couple other guys, just a couple… Well, may- be three or four. I don’t know whether feminization-equals-domi- nation is universally true. I’ve had no other experience to compare it with.
EK: What do you think Steve will make of this poem?
BB: He has read all of it, all six hundred-some pages. He reads re- ally fast. It took him less than a week in between sex work. I want him to be flattered. I took him by the shoulders while we were having coffee, and I said, “Spencer, you’re going down in history because of this. You’re going to be famous because of me.” That was snide and snotty of course—
EK: And a little playful.
BB: And playful. Anyway, who doesn’t cut moral edges? That was a joke to anyone who is reading. I hope you realize that.
EK: So this is a style of courtship?
BB: You might say.
EK: And isn’t courtship an attempt at domination?
BB: Yeah, it is. But when I said to Steve that there was going to be a New Narrative conference, and it was too much for me to read at more than two events, he immediately said, “Why don’t I go with you so that you don’t fall or run into anybody you don’t want to. I can protect you.” So he came along, and I was in full face and with him. He would sit slouched with his legs widely spread and his arm around me. I hope that it scandalized people. I don’t know if it did, but I can hope that.
EK: It was the first time I met him.
BB: And he’s cute isn’t he?
EK: He’s very cute.
BB: Would you flip for him?
EK: I probably would, yeah.
554
Cover: Jamie Holley
Gauss PDF www.gauss-pdf.com