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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 because we cannot keep up those standards of complexity. It’s entropy of language and of the world. It’s our 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 of reality.

7 EK: But there’s something else that compelled you to write this. It’s a 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 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 . 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 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 -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 “” 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 . 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 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 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 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

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.

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 .

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 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 “

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

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-

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 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 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 . 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 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

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 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 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 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

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 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 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-

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 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 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 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

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 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 . 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- 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 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

. 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 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 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 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 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

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 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 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

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 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 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. 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 ?

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

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 no subpoena no grand jury

but an expansion of the mind of the driver of the Toyota.

if there

were any freakin’

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 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 and glory, Daddy.

the glittering mercury phrases in first equally and

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 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

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

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 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 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 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 . 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 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 ( 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 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 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 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 -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 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 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 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 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 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

317

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 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) 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 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 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 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 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 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

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 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 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 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 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 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!

“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 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 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 . 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 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 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-.

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 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 . There aren’t 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

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