And we say good bye to them then, the beetles and all the dust on their rainbow shells, as they ascend like helicopters, beating the long grasses down all around them, stop a few yards up, turn one hundred eighty degrees and fly off over the mountain and very far away.  Goodbye.  They always seemed like aliens, when they sat with us at the dinner table.  None of us could get a read on what was going on inside, some sense of emotional life.  They always performed daily routines mechanically, some thought they were sad inside there, others thought they were angry.  Others, often drunk, would say they were teeming with goodwill.  Those bulbous eyes, glinting in the diningroom lamp, those pincers, working at a leaf on a plate.  They certainly followed protocol to the letter, and I couldn’t remember a time when I heard them say anything to anyone.  If they refused to perform in accordance with what was happening at that second, they would simply turn around as if they hadn’t heard and walk directly away.  They were excellent baby sitters, though.  All our babies, all of them, sitting in a row in the sunlight laughing at the beetle doing cartwheels for them, jumping rope, miming sections of Hamlet, playing dead, playing guitar (not very well, but the babies liked it) and flute (beautifully), alternately.  Sometimes the beetle would fall in the pond and float around, trying desparately to get out again, to find an overhanging tree branch to grab with its flailing jagged limbs while we all laughed.  After finding dry land with its feet it would trundle off for some alone time, no doubt to dry its wings off in private.  One time at dinner we thought we might have heard it sigh, toying with a leaf of its dinner as if it were a windchime.  But it didn’t have any lungs, that’s the odd part.  Then it got up, pushed its chair into the table, and thudded off to its room, climbed up to cling to the ceiling and stayed there for the next few days.  When it finally emerged again, it was clinging to a painting of Jess, from her last week of kindergarten.  It laid the painting on the kitchen table and that’s when we saw it had corrected the part where it was pictured to make it look like it was flying.  That’s one of the last things I remember about the beetle.  Aside from its dramatic exit.

Exciting news and flavors of billions of stars inside the galaxy drink at the drive-in fast food explosion bowel mercy crying.  Skiing backwards into cheese curls, chocolate fondue, curling greenglobe drops of weird rain, and flaming angel swords, all for one night only, at the hub of commerce downtown.  A spectacle of Last Day, a violent scene where the chosen will rise and smite the unchosen, the unfetterde, unwashed, unclassy, unlistened-to, unravelled, untoward, unbetter.  The crime is not being cool, and it is punishable by death.  Or at least life in a prison of squareness, getting to know your fellow hell-citizens.  Driving your dumb cars and wearing your dumb clothes, and easing into your dumb days with a dumb pint of alcohol.  Turn the light on in this room so we can see each other, so we can build up to something, so we can make sure we know where the fabric is, where the sugar has hardened, where the doorway leads, where the daylight went.  Every so often I want to hear you listening, I want to see you watching, I want to smell you smelling.  Then I will know that these dreams I spent so much time designing were the kind of horsepoop I could believe in.  Horsehair I could listen to.  Horseshit I could excrete.  Horsehalo I could ascend to.  Horsehoof I could tapdance in.  Gleaming like a nitrous ferriswheel at a Paris midnight, the smile inside of Daves mouth was trying to get at something I couldn’t get the flavor of.  He had been sporting it for weeks, trying to get people interested in his cryptic interest, I don’t think he realized that you have to say things out loud if you want people to get your meaning.  But he persisted for a few more weeks until finally he exploded one day while drinking coffee (there, we thought, was his problem, though none of us were likely to spell that out to one another, and certainly not to him). He burst into flames, and roasted before our eyes, until we realized he was not on fire at all, but just dancing some crazy disco moves, and they were so fast we could hardly see where his limbs were, but that smile was bigger than ever, it had taken over part of his nose, and had crept over his chin, and may even have wrapped completely around his head.  Even if he was not engulfed in flames, but rather alarming dance moves, the papers around him were starting to catch on fire due to the immense air friction he was generating, as the space shuttle encounters on its reentry to the atmosphere, and he was actually moving so wildly that the fire was joining him, it seemed to understand him perfectly, and as they melded together, Dave glowed much brighter, more a smile than a body, more a star than a planet, until we could no longer look at him, and the fire didn’t spread, exactly, it followed him into itself, and he rose in increments to the ceiling, and got smaller and smaller until we realized we were outside, looking up at lots of stars, and we couldn’t figure out which star was Dave and which star was Jupiter.  Somebody snorted and said Jupiter wasn’t a star, and then we were all quiet for awhile, and then someone else said, but isn’t it a failed star?  And no one really knew what that meant, but someone else said, Jupiter is a planet.  Ah but a planet of gasssssss that never lit on fire.  It just didn’t have the spirit, the need to become a star.  It bowed out.  All the advil in the universe couldn’t take its pounding headache away.  It just sauntered off to swirl and turn and storm and coldly mark it’s discontent.  The king, in a tower, poisoned by science fiction, eating a small fig spreaded cracker.

Hydrogen Pillars

Get across the idea that you will be here for a very long time.  Longer than any baby just out of the womb with heart problems, or than some thin wind you can barely feel on your cheek.  This notion should permeate the everyday existence of your intended audience, not just the passersby on the street or the online community that you frequently lambast in barroom conversation.  Not just the facebook fiends and the chatroom sofahumpers who lick their icecream in their rooms and scatter their hearts like nesteggs, grating them into a pulp of digital files and unintelligible garbage.  I got an email like that once, an email that I tried hard to understand.. the words were english, but the meaning wasn’t there.  It was a machine trying to be understood by some random person, me.  A machine that was coached and prodded by another person, or group of people perhaps, which is perhaps why it seemed so confused.  It was no doubt brimming with all kinds of advice in the form of code that would fight against other floating advice, how to make friends, how to make friends buy your stuff, how to make popular mechanics sell in the homes of millions of hungry mouths, how to draw a golden splinter from the giant’s hand and sell it back at a profit.  How to make off continually better and better everytime until you are selling out stadiums, selling out worlds.  Selling out.  I am famous with my friends.  I am famouser in my mind.  I am famous with my pets, and my slaves.  I am notorious with my possessions.  My clothes know exactly what I will do every morning, and they will just hang there, knowing.  My doors and windows will open upon sunlit gardens, my plants and my sky will convene above my head and create marvelous shadows on the ground, cast from brilliant blue eyes peeking through every criss cross of branches.  My glass table will hold my perfectly wrought breakfast, made of caring hands, and I will sit and listen to my animals converse in the springtime air about what sort of breakfasts they will be having soon.  Above the commotion, trees will silently drink the sunlight, and rocks will warm their bellies.  When breakfast is over the push will begin and it won’t end until five o’clock, when the whistle blows and I can put my hammer and my laptop down and walk off the job site into the arms of my girl with the flowing hair.  And when we climb atop our neighing convertible, the music will turn on and play loud timbres which make our souls throb, and we will smoke our twiggy cigarettes and blow the smoke out over the plains across cities, distant and populated by people just like us.  The whole planet is a consortium.  The whole spice cabinet is a dry garden, with flowers caught just so as they opened to the world to catch some pollen and colors approaching a muddish hue, jade colors, not faded but deepened, made somehow more like very fine stained-glass work.  These earthy jewels contain a concentrated essence that will turn your mouth into a cathedral where God lives.  I saw God walking one day, and she wasn’t in her cathedral as I would have expected.  She was walking on the underside of an Oak leaf.  I was like, hey God, hey!!! I was really loud, but she didn’t seem to hear me.  I tried to follow her down into the grass but somewhere I lost her, she was pretty intent on following the imaginary line of her journey, and didn’t even turn or twitch to acknowledge me.  I wonder if it was God.  Maybe she was just a faeriegh.  A fayerieghy.  A fry.  a foireighayiery.  Maybe she was just a mote in my eye.  A speck of gasssss and dust that get bombarded with radiation from a Young Hot Star and so begin to glow, get eroded by radiation into pillars of cold Hydrogen gas.  A dark mass like an inkblot in the middle of a nebula, a dark smash of matter and water and will o the wisp backdrops while we sing the song to children about love, green plants, death, and wicker furniture.  Wicker weaponry, I pulled a wicker gun on the bank teller but he pulled out a wicker shield and we battled in the fashion of so many championships before until I killed my desire to continue and left amid hot pursuit of cops in wicker chariots, with wicker emergency lights and sirens that sounded like babies crying.  Well I made it safely to jail before they even lifted a finger to their lips, pondering my motives.  The dog I had brought along was standing like a pillar of cold hydrogen being eroded by the radiation from a Young Hot Star until I whistled and he ate the jail in only 16 years, by which time my TV dinner was watched and heated and eaten by the neighbor’s boy, not only that: the neighbor’s boy was now another neighbor’s boy, since my house was sold to some out-of-town Jasper, here to tell about horse race gambling.  Not a wholesome trotting race, no.  The dog was old, but I was glad he busted me out, and the cops and I by then were great friends, and would share each other’s sentences, in harmony.  It came to the point where we would not so much as have a conversation but more of a think-aloud type of exchange where we would pose questions and then answer them, like a game of chess where you turn the board around after each turn and advance both sides thusly.  But of course, the real communication was not so much in the content of the lines, but in the way we would harmonize them.  Even if we knew what the other would say, we had no idea how they would harmonize.  It made for some very interesting scoring, and the hydrogen pillar dog would howl along, and clink the waterbowl in time.


I thought Wish Mountain was perhaps making fun of me, so I looked at it for a long time before I answered, “O these old things? I just made them two minutes ago out of crisp new cotton currency from another nation, a nation where a lightbulb is president and suicide is the national drink. Before that I was naked, you may recall, naked and in love with the idea of being naked for the REST OF MY LIFE.  But you and I both know that’s just not possible.  Things fall from the sky to clothe you, wish mountain, seeds take hold and pretty soon you’re supporting all kinds of antennae with solar cells sprouting greenly from each little branch.”  Pretty soon you’re an uncle, and uncles do not make it long before life kicks in, right at the crotch, right at the penisvagina.  Right at the vaginapenis.  Which happens to be my band name, the Vaginapenises.  Years from now the interviewer asking, when you were a vaginapenis, what song most influenced your belief in the inestimable curiosity of travelling sideways without so much as a vehicle around you, air in that vehicle, people around you, or a world to traverse through?” And I will chuckle and say, “The Vaginapenises were never that kind of band! We were just living in the moment, you know? A guy would show up with a plate of snow and we would have the most baroque of snowball fights, or just snowcones, if he also happened to bring syrup.  Boysenberry was always my favorite.”  And the while would wend away willfully, wandering which way I could not well wecall.  Like a panther, or a slug.  Or like cheese, as it falls from the sky between cats and dogs, making the world oily, and sticking to streetlights pearl and golden.  Inedible cheese, of course, full of all kinds of world matter that would scrape your teeth if you ate it, make your liver do very concerned faces and grunting, as well as slowly poison you in other ways.

The majority of the world is poison or nutritional? Or inert? Rocks would just scrape your insides, along with other durable substances. Wood? depending on how well you chewed it. There’s a lot of stuff that just wouldn’t taste that good to non cement trucks like myself.  By the same token, cement trucks wouldn’t really care about eating wine soaked raisins or garlic pasta. It would just fold it into the sidewalk the same as whatever else you could get your hands on.

Do not invite a cement truck to tea.

  1. The disel fumes would be very sickening
  2. It would make a lot of noise that would make it difficult to feel as though you were having a break
  3. It drops copious sludge from its rear end that forms into permanent sharp rocks
  4. Who knows who’s going to be driving it
  5. It needs a very large door
  6. It will probably traumatize whatever pets you own
  7. They’re not particularly well known for having good stories

On the plus side:

  1. It would expand your idea of what is possible
  2. The right cement truck could impress your contractor guests
  3. As long as it’s there, you could have the new patio poured
  4. Its grey matter, different from our own, would give your carpet a counterpoint to make the colors pop more
  5. Diesel fumes may have medicinal properties we are not yet aware of
  6. CDL drivers have to pass tests to prove they are intelligent and safe, and who does not want to know intelligent safe people?
  7. You may have animals living in the walls, which would potentially be frightened permanently away

Yellow school bus in the middle of the day
Yellow school bus in the middle of the day
Where are you going, how long will you stay?

Greensleeves and coatjackets and zippers and pantlegs and shoes and tie and skin. Greenskin, greensmell, green thunderstorm it brews and wants to take you with it, love the little storm innocuous little storm in a glass you pulled from the cupboard, you watch it rain little silver threads down to the bottom of the glass, where a little city twinkles, powered by imagination 3.5.3, which features auto-lock scrolling and rich text support feeds. Twinkle little city, beneath a column of lemonade infused with saffron. I will drink from one end, and you another, and when we meet we will discover the holes in our sciencereligion:religionscience.  When you were a religionscientist, how did you choose who would play what song? How did you choose what you when were going to why because I want to tell my readers what wherefore and which the whether william.  Scarcity, open thrusting, fowl language turns birds on, and birds can never find their way through your harddrive to blackmail you or at least just make fun of you. You will have to make fun of yourself. That is the only way you’re going to get everyone laughing, and that’s what you want most of all. To laugh with everyone.  Sometimes people laugh at things you didn’t want them to. Or cry about things you thought were funny. Cases in point:

I wrote a love song between a loaf of bread and a bread tin, an extremely serious composition about the wonder of pain and the death of a love affair.  I played it at the first open mike I was ever a part of, an intensely frightening experience, and as everybody was laughing as I sang it, only then did I realize how funny it was.

I think your mom jokes are often funny because they don’t make any sense, but sometimes people have lost their mothers or their moms are really sick or something.  And it puts them in a different space than I mean for it to.  When someone does a your mom joke on me, I don’t think I usually associate it directly with my own mother.  Even if I picture my mother, there’s a sense of play-acting that doesn’t connect it home, i suppose, perhaps because I’m desensitized to it as a construct? This inevitably leads me to making the jokes more and more psychologically harrowing, which is a quest for more and better humor.

We’re weird creatures with our brains, how we seek out complexity more and more as we mature, moldy fruit and grains, moldy cheese, scratchy lenses, et cetera. It’s like a fetish, which is a word I use somewhat ignorantly.. the only meaning it has for me has been picked up contextually.  Another word I assumed the meaning of from context was “shibboleth”, which I took to mean a mooring, based on the only sentence I ever read it in (a sentence which was waxing poetic, and therefore not disposed to offer precision in this respect).  I think it actually means name, or has to do with naming.

The sun has come out now, I want to go outside and feel it on my skin.

Monday, April 19th, 2010

Pajamatronical: only the few select pea controllers are allowed to show themselves in public when visiting a foreign sovereignty. We must regulated the emotions, and the celebration station hammers ring like lightning or stun-melons golden cantelloupe bells and hammers and bells and hammers and belle and sebastian winterglory someone with her mashed potato hairdoo is singing living wordlessly by a stream somewhere in the upstairs bathroom. It’s just a short magical walk up the stairs before you notice you’re not wearing any feet, and all the purples you thought were flowers were actually newborn planets with amphibians living on them, standing upright the way men do, with antelope heads, fish heads, mosquito heads, aardvark heads, cat heads, circle heads, underwear on their heads, crowns of thorns, basketball chandelliers, gumdrops, papier-mache, spiderwebs, tincans, plastic baby toys the colors of the rainbow, real rainbows, cgi rainbows, taxidermy, and suicide (the drink concept, not the original, primary meaning, which wouldn’t make sense, though saying it doesn’t make sense doesn’t make sense since sense is not, generally, made in this writing). Someday when you’re old and grey

Maybe someday when we are older and grey we’ll laugh about the planet of our pain

Wish mountain. I went there and communicated with it. I spent four days at the foot of it, and asked it many questions. I asked it where my animals were hiding, and where my girlfriends had fecked off to, and what makes vanilla icecream taste not at all disgusting but some how dreamy instead, and also how to read. It answered all these and more, and when it had finished, I felt as though it wanted to ask me something, but didn’t feel it could, being wish mountain and all. We sat there in that awkward silence, the only sound being a kind of whistle breathing being made by the mountain, the breathing a dog makes when it wants to go outside.  Then I said, “do you want to ask me anything?” Pause. Then, “well, actually now that you mention it, I was wondering how you handle yourself so professionally.  I mean, with the English and those pajamas with little hammers and saws on them.”

The First

My feet are cold.  I have been sitting in a garage with the yellow speakers hissing quietly reading about database creation for the purpose of making this blog possible.  I must have created one, because now I’m typing my first entry. I am evidently supposed to have some focus or theme in mind for a blog, but I am cold, and so I’m calling it “this”. It seems appropriately wide to me at the moment: an index finger pointed. Until I can come up with a name. Isn’t that how it was done in the old days?

I’ve been listening to the Kinks. The songs are stories, simple, satisfying. I’ve also been checking out books and books from the library.  A co-worker lent me a pristine copy of Sixteen Candles, which I put on today, suffering through the first 40-50 minutes finally to arrive at the late-night father-daughter scene which I found touching. I don’t know if it was worth it, but it was, I guess.

And now I’m going to play some guitar.