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.”