Saturday, April 30, 2011

Babbling Brook: A tribute to Eris, god of chaos




Rabble, Rabble, Rabble!
Can you hear the street walker's noisy fervor?
The rustling of pant legs brushing
as hard leather shoes CLACK against the concrete?
The Business
of rushing souls and kingdom's sold
of baby's fortunes and baby's doom
all under the soundless floating of royal death particles

Babble...babble...BLAHHH
Hear our funneling men-folk float
across the barriers of the terrestrial realm,
While far away a brook gurgles and chokes
with life
without us
with constancy and rhythmic eternality
that the babblers may capture with lettered equations and authority

--Reconcile
The word reconcile.
How will we reconcile the real and the false
The buildigns and the discolored lakes?
Babble, babble, babble!

The old man out west lives in a shack.
He throws his rusty dead tools into the streams
and shits on flowers
bending his knees and squeezing his eyelids.
Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky,
twinkling teardrops from fat-assed clouds swell and plop down
The ground water gurgles softly, while it hurls rocks,
and gives a deep massage to its lover, the ground.
What!
WHAT!!
What a silly babble that we shall shush.
What a wave of the ridiculous we are swimming in!

Asses turned to the wind
Classes filled with rocks
Radios firing Ye lovers of cats
Crying calves
Burning, aching, killing laughs from table 8
In the back

Babble, Babble, Babble!
Halt!
Halt, and we'll turn to the boy in L.A. pissing on a tree
enriching it with his life force
decorating the stronghold of la vie
so that we have before us a cool, smooth blend of
“What the fuck!?”
of “uhh, oh my god”
of “Ya-ba-da-ba-doo”
Mixtures and minglings so beautiful
we're forced back to that special word—NO—holy word
Reconcile.
Reconcile.
Reconcile the aqueous people flooding into the streets
speaking with flickering tongues and great breaths, sighs in teeny lungs
with the water unheard flowing for a reason WE assign
and YES I assert these two are out of line
so let's mix and mingle them, bend and break,
Castrate, power structures of man and nature

With no dicks maybe we'll stop screwing the world
Let's chop off our dicks!
Do the ridiculous
Ridiculous reconciliation with hints of insanity and bits of
Barabajagal!

Babble, babble, babble!
The wind and bees and brooks are babbling,
and we are babbling louder.
Apart.
The silly sounds are out of sync and disaligned
So we delve into pockets for our special word
But outside of our soul's mania these cries are
silent

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

More or less?

More depravity to feed my nights.
More caress and sweet touches to land on lips
that have never parted more widely.
More quaking hearts and staggering souls
that up-heave and upchuck a life built in vain.

In the vain of progression I’m turning into a tall wad
with a wide chest and heavy stomach,
a man with a brick laden soul chugging tequila
in lieu of a smoldering apartment.

I'll take more and something will give it.
Something has to give.
Whether it's icy patched pills to be inhaled
in a burning nose on a foggy night in a book covered dorm,
or molten lava leaves blowing smoke
into crimson red lungs, while I gasp and up-heave
once more to make things clear.

Because messages are exchanged and words drift,
but they land on ears connected to lips that talk twice as fast
and move like wind-surrounded bags on a quiet evening night.
In the end the words spread to other words and the collision is bleak
and inherently fruitless.

These exchanges, magnifications, and elucidations
of more pour down into the rooftop,
and we speakers drown in noise.
We scream, giving more fuel.
This apathetic nod is directed towards the ceiling.

The clay man will bake in his internal heat.
Misty word covered poems will sink fast as
Backroom poets see castles fall
in the background of powder particles making their rounds in and out of awareness
The nod is complete.
The village burned.
The esoteric cries tied up and left to land on the wind.
The throats fill with their burning words and we're forced to let the room submerge.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Real estate agent

He went to the woods. For the first few weeks he sat up late into the night nibbling on bits of greenery that looked like they might be edible. Under the headlights of the moon, a stream reflected rippled blues and glaring whites that would powerfully blaze a divine image into his brain. The night swallowed his conscious with the reflected images and he was the sole benefactor of an easy night.

When the sun burned him in the mornings he would defecate the night's fetchings and it was pure. The orange-red-green product on the ground stained what to him was only a work of art, something he had longed to see for so long in the concrete jungle. After he would regain his composure he spent his days mostly swimming, until his fingers aged and wrinkled and he felt the transition from man-of-land to man-of-water, or maybe not man at all. But even avoiding the transition out of humanity he sustained a change.

When getting out of the water, the residue droplets pounced upon the ground in hordes and he remained their object of transportation, a hulking tool of the water, the land, and the life all around him. The God fearing believer hopes to completely humbled to God, a waiting servant, and he was that for the elements. The willingness and no urge to change things without some direction, he was a believer.

Direction comes. After many weeks among the abandoned world, he felt his director come in the form of a wave. While in the water, floating like any day, a wave unexpected carried his body upon and down unto land, giving his flesh a rush of pleasure and then receeding as if it had never been. He took this as a sign that his time was done, his transformation another few percent complete, and that it was time to go to the next preparation chamber. He carried his wet body out of the water and crawled onto the ground carrying tears and shaking shoulders. That day he floated aimlessly out the forest, waiting for his next lesson and remembering his God, his garden, his freedom before he even had forsaken it.

He was found several days later unconscious on an interstate. The police, recognizing him as naked and thus consequently a streaker took him for questioning. He now, thank God, rests in a prison cell where he happily enjoys his days, but awaits his release.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Camel-toed transvestite

Camel toed transvestite walks into my living room takes a seat, has some sangria, makes a sandwich and takes a 5-minute nap, then realizes that I've been watching her from the sofa. I suppose she also realizes this must be my house. She squints for a nanosecond, relaxes her body, and proceeds to scream. Shiva, holy Shiva, great goddess, her scream cuts through my window and it remains in tact, looking as if it has suffered a terrible cracking, a most undesirable affliction. Of course I assume she hopes to be served some coffee, so I limp into the kitchen (as if somehow my knee or leg has been injured unbeknownst to me), and I return with a steaming cup of germ death.

The scream stops and her eyes excite out of their relaxed pose and rest on my middle finger. Does she want the middle finger? Do I give her the finger? This very intricate ethical question of finger politics, fingering, or what have you, causes me to shake with flashback feelings from college, where I studied Ethics, and sustained many paper cuts while working in the field. Being classically conditioned for fear in the presence of Ethics, I was forced to throw the cup of coffee at the camel-toed transvestite, causing her to sneeze and alliterate, just like my grandma used to when she burned her tongue.

Apologizing vigorously seemed so unfitting of the mood in the room, so I turned on the television, while she nibbled on the coffee cup.

“So, how are you?”


Finally some words are spoken, and I am happy to hear her speak.

“What do you want?”

“Teaspoons, coffee,and a lover to lick them off of me.”

“Oh, is that it?

“That's the implication.”


The idea of retrieving another cup of coffee seems too ludicrous to bare, and especially so when combined with the teaspoon request. So I do what men do when a request is to be denied, and I go to my desk (the desk that is at my office a few miles away) and draft a letter. It reads as follows:


No.


Unfortunately, she is a most ungracious visitor, and departs before my return, leaving only a trail of breadcrumbs leading to the empty space of my cupboard reserved for bread.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

April Guest Posts

Untitled


“I’m not feeling well” she mutters at the breakfast table, ignoring the bowl of fruit in front of her. She gazes imploringly at the structure sitting across from her. it’s wearing the ill fitting white shirt with the yellow stains under the armpits. yellow stains a synthesis of perspiration and deodorant. the lack of precipitation has taken a toll on most people’s clothing, but this particular article of clothing has been especially marked by thoughtless neglect. and pants not quite long enough to conceal the coarse, five dollar, off-white socks bought in bulk from Sam’s club.


Brother and sister roll their eyes.


No response from the formation donning those all too familiar garments.


“No it’s no that! I just don’t feel well!” she cries out exasperated


The clothed framework makes no movements, remains silent.


Younger brother grumbles something inaudible.


“it’s none of your business, stay out of it.,” she hisses as she leaves her seat, bowl of fruit still untouched, and heads in the direction of her room. For a brief moment, as she yanks opens the door to her very own fallen House of Usher, a faint smell reminiscent of doom and guilt wafts out. or maybe just the smell of sweat and body odor poorly masked by fabreeze, but the moment is fleeting and the smell evaporates when she slams the door behind her



the faded outline with the attire that has not been replaced in at least 5 years grows dimmer.


By: Pobo

Strawberry Blonde Holdings Inc.


So I go to Capoeira and see Travis*, the guy who brought the cute girls to the party. "Have a good night on Saturday?"

"Yah, I was just exhausted, you know?" He retired early as we reached the Belmar
"I feel you man. I was feeling the same way. Too many Beer 30's" Beer 30 is Price Chopper beer I think. Fermented water really.

I continued "I just invested a lot into something and I wanted to see how it would pay out". I was discreet and used the words "invest" and "pay out" to an Econ major.
And like Alexander the Great's sword cutting through the Gordian Knot, Travis* mutters "Uma*?"

At first I was confused since in my mind she was "Strawberry Blonde". The graduating girl from the weekend who I flirted with at a dry house party, then continued flirting with at the Belmar. The girl who invited me to her house, but due to a slew of unforeseen surprises, left me sleeping on her ottoman while an Ally McBeal episode played on her roomate's Wii.


Ahh yes, Uma*. I felt like a kid in grade school who everyone found out had a crush on a girl. It might have been 10 years later, but I still felt my knees buckle, my stomach quake and my face flush with red. I gave him the up nod and agreed. Then went to warming up.


*Names have been changed to protect yadda yadda




By Canela

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Renga--Hollowed

High and mighty atop my poison throne,
Fuck all vices and fuck salami—
I can't run this place alone.
Oh gosh, no. The pain hurts my asshole as I shit out last nights beer and pizza, fruitful.
I ejaculated this morning, however
My mother called me in the middle of it, crying.
And I can't stop the sparkle
of derelict days, daunting faith,
holding on to the beasts well and timely.
Self-help and lucrative suffering! Living in a flowerbed of paradox,
taunted by the nightmares of our illustrious pasts
one means not to offend; to each his own.

Submerged in the grey ice water, a growing swell of unvoiced noise
Recollections of half hearted resolutions to forget
a cracked lover, all I want to do is remember
Seven generations for success, prejudiced.
Confidently bend explanation, leader.
Society weeds you out, responsibility.
Scattered grey pools of leaves on the ground
call to the man who is indiscriminately empathetic to the apathetic
and shake under crashing waves of silence.

Contributors:
Farrell
Remanu
Kevin
Patrick
Jennifer
Jared
Chris(t?)

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Wrecking the Curve


Late nights at the library.

Blackness. From across the Arts quad cigarette ends illuminate from the steps of the library like fireflies. I proceed. As I get closer, the flickering stops and I focus on the faces. Of Oriental decent at this hour. Figures. They took my dignity when I played their game freshman year (Calc I, II, Mechanics, etc.), tonight I take theirs. I will be the last to leave. I won't leave.

-Headphones. Thanks.

I walk through the main hall at 1:46am and enter the stairwell with the swiftness of an automaton. I punch the Pepsi button a little bit more aggressively than necessary. I make my rounds. Sparsely populated. Good. Half of the battle won. I take a seat in the computer lab and glance askance at my competitors. It's 1:56am--the security contingent comes through at 2am to check for student IDs. I take mine out of my wallet and set it on the desk in front of me. I clench my teeth in fury as I notice my neighbor has already done so. He looks over with a smirk (-1).

Alright, fine. I take out my Economics textbook that weighs 12.6 pounds. In Stempel Garamond Roman font, across the top reads "Macroeconomic Theory". Emblazoned along the spinal chord of the bound bastard are the three kings; Abel, Bernanke, Croushore. He provides me with a deferential, solemn bow of the head. His textbook, while weighing perhaps 14 pounds or so, was a mere Biology textbook (+1).

3:12am. Most of the inhabitants have left. Bitches. Two remain. One eyes me unrelentingly with a glossy, pillow-yearning sheen. I take a hearty swig of Pepsi, wipe my lip and snap the tip of lead that protrudes from my mechanical pencil on my Five Star, Five Subject notebook (-1). I keep my head down as I pump more lead out with a vigorous thumb.

3:51am. He leaves. Not without spewing vitriol with his eyes (+1). One remains. He is drifting into somnolence and that is simply not how you play the game.

-AHEM!!!!!!!!!!!

He jolts to a start (+1/2!), rubs his eyes (+1/4!), and gathers his things(+1/8!). And he is gone (+1/8!), and the computer lab is all mine (+1).

I unplug my headphones and let the dulcet tones of Wiz Khalifa flood the room.

-A-huh! Black and Yellow Black and Yellow Black and Yellow Black and Yellow!

Bout to rock that Econ test tomorrow regardless of the fact that I DON'T SLEEP. EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Monday, April 4, 2011

Infinity Boy Pt. 3 (A walk on you)

Infinity towards the positive. No. Fuck that, it spirals and oscillates, dip, turns, dives, and by god I hate how these graphs and curves spin out and come alive. Thrashing my retina, fucking my lobes, and shit we just can't wait to see what the oscillating wonder will do next. Infinity now! Serenity now! Take a walk on the smooth Lyapunov Z's and we'll move infinitesimally closer, then farther. We'll move miles away from an infinite boy, with a brisk pace, a brew in hand, and new characters not added in when Z(space)functions with t(time). We'll walk so quickly! So quickly our eyes will bulge, and our muscles will give, and relax, so we're chill again, complete with icicles dangling from our ribs and blue skin. Dirt will kick up and cover raw, uncovered muscles, masking us with specks of personality and jouissance, fleas and ticks, mother earth's vaginal juices.

This is what we'll do. We'll meet at 4 o'clock in the morning tomorrow, plant some seeds, and walk until we bleed, drink until we're water, then bleed ourselves out all over the ground, crowning ourselves will yellowing gin, and fire red eyeballs. Is it a deal? We got bitches, tricks, dickheads, and bro's down to ride on the town, flaming motorcycles excluded, hot hands and heads included. Eenie, meenie, miney mo! We're up again. It's the fourth, now fifth, who cares? (I do.) Infinity boy carries the schoolboys under him, on their backs. On their backs, they fuck the world away and he peeps on in, giving a thumbs up, and hasty quiet little “hooray!”

Sit at the bar Farrell. I'll sit in my room. We'll watch the bar bums, exchange silly words, and recall the never-were times. We''ll down beer after beer and listen to the echo from the beer drip drop coming down our abysmal gorges; each one taking a nose dive suicide for the better, our better. But, rat poison, i've missed the beat, this can't be the script. I'm drinking to drink, to cleanse that wave of cusps, to honor the man, but I see him. I see him too clearly, shaking his head, smiling tiny, telling me these days should never have been. Mo! Eenie, meenie, miny, MOOO! My hand is hot and the hand is slapped, signaling for the icicle crash and dirt unveiling. Mo. Mo. Mo. More of this, now more of that, none of this, no , none of that. This must be the place? Sound the naïve melody, bring in the Blue Moons, and I'll listen so closely to the drip drop, and distribute my In Vino Veritas to the natives.

Every word launches caterpillars into artificial green fields, and I wonder why such a natural scene has to be so wrong.



---d(x)

Infinity Boy part 2

My tastes for the exact mixture of hop, barley and water have changed drastically in the past 17 months. Infinity boy will always have a favorite--he lacks the ability to be dynamic these days. But on days like these, these April 4ths, I entertain what my palette would once have considered to be the end all be all of effervescent potations; Blue Moon. How many soldiers was it we'd leave strewn about the battlefield that was MacArthur park the year we decided that we were too old to just walk around the oval at Relay for Life? I don't know. Lots. And today, when that bartemptress hung that wedge of orange about the rim of the glass, I thought of you. "I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty, I think of Dean Moriarty."

-in vino veritas! It's Latin! It means there is truth in wine, Jerry.

-Yea alright kid you say that everytime you come in here shut up already.

As Jerry silently and sullenly read "The girl who kicked the hornet's nest" part 3 or whatever the fuck, I sipped from my cup and so it goes..

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Template

Cold caresses of hedonia speed through the night. He spends the night with no one. Sitting on his couch with his laptop in hand, with the world just a foot away out the window, he chats the night away, and disregards the human experience. The experience can be supplemented with the idea of human experience. That is enough. Agoraphobic maybe, but true, true to what he is. He is whichever internet identity seems suiting for the night, that is, in between, the masturbatory trances he intermittently falls into when the chat conversation lulls. The identities are all the same though, because they are templates for ideas of humanity, and that is what he is.

By the door

I'm sedated
and stuck, glued, tucked
at the base of the door.
The same door my parents crept me in,
the same door dipped
in billboards with leather sofas,
scantily clad women, and liquor.
The same one I have praised for so long.

This sedating agent
throbs in hot veins
bludgeons my senses,
captures, strikes, and kills
my choice and thought,
while blessing me with the cool relaxation
only the devil should be allowed.

But that is the general,
and this is the specific.
Me. Laying at the base of a door
while the American dreams quietly crawl
around my temples
easing and massaging so gently
I begin to meow.
I meow, and I am the animal.

Now I am animal,
and I surely cannot be human,
because I have learned.

“Press this lever and get this food.”
But I cannot, and I am still,
under the weight of giant corporations,
or expectations, or biting alcohol
which goes down harder than my butt
when I try to get up.

But the musings don't help,
so I'll bow at the bottom of the door
with spittle at my mouth
and blank looks on watery eyes
signaling no answer to the lever problem.
The problem with the machine up high
and drugged up animals crouching below.
Sedentary, I don't hope.
I just meow.