Thursday, June 30, 2016

Stream Of Derogatory Demagogical Delight

FRIENDS,

What's up in the O-diary? Just catching up w/ a backlog of creative writing that I need to share or I'll explode. Mostly daily streams of consciousness that seem worthy of being read. But also this summer I'm going to treat you to my epic masterpieces.

Back in 2011 I wrote a series of epic poems. I always wrote short dinky poems & I wanted to try to write something like Howl or The Odyssey or Romeo & Julius Caesaret. So I wrote some long poems and though they were not great I called them epic. And I shared them with you, and you actually liked them. So I'm going to share those again. Then….

I have written 4 new epic poems that are so epic they make Howl look like a haiku. I will share those w/ you this summer if I can get them all typed up by Sept 21. 

Sorry for not doing any new art. I know the kind of art I do isn't really considered "ART!!!!!!" in its newest sense. It leaves me wondering, 'Why bother doing art anymore?' I have made so much art in my life it's practically pollution. And yet I still want to tell visual stories.

We'll see what happens with art. 

We'll see what happens with the life it imitates.

This year has been a trip--I never knew I could feel so normal. Just when I'm about to become a freak on the outside I feel so normal inside. (No, I'm not calling trans people freaks, I'm just anticipating that that's how I'll be seen by some folks). I look forward to being confusing. Just don't shoot me.

I feel great. But there's this shadowy regret lurking. How did I waste decades of my life trying so hard to be something I didn't want to be? To make other people happier & more comfortable.

Cispeople: SICKO!!!

Transpeople: YOU'RE NOT TRANS ENOUGH BECAUSE YOU TRIED TO LIKE BEING A GIRL TOO LONG!!!!

[I'm writing a play about what's in your heads. I miss my early 30s when I was a true creative genius!! (It's okay, I'm not a genius anymore so it's not stuck-up of me to say I was.)] Remember,

Genius is often temporary

Sanity is always temporary

You don't get to keep that shit.



********************************* 

STREAMS OF DEROGATORY DEMAGOGICAL DELIGHT:

Would you rather err on the side of paranoia, or be the clown full of bravado teetering on the cliff's edge? The clown is fun to watch for awhile, flailing and juggling and silently chewing the scenery. The paranoid's blather draws some disciples but alienates the largest portion of public pie chart. One fine day the clown's jagged axis takes a steep hike and down he goes, audience left gawking at an empty skyline. And the paranoid's poetry comes into focus as a neon brand of psychic self help scripture.  9-28-15  [AN OLD ONE!!!]

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Guns v. Cats>>>the purr report>>>the coiling recoil of a tail>>>swatting your shoulder out of joint>>>the catnip magazine loaded and shoved into place on the scratching post>>>stream of distemper and litter box rage>>>caught in the crossfire of knit ammunition>>>the intarsia pattern of probability>>>how many children in their fuzzy Fall sweaters will  catch a claw in the face>>>how many red blooded Americans will volunteer to loosen their heart valves around Thanksgiving by picking up that ball of fur and aiming it at their laps>>> 10-22-15  [another old one!]

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Excessive force from the spirit world. As opposed to a war in the flesh it is appropriate to bare all. To lay all your cards on the bathroom floor and wear your uniform in the shower. Unlike hand to hand combat there is only one mortal in the game---and you're it. In both types of war you must be on high alert, listening for bootsteps, crunching leaves, pindrops or IEDS. But spirits will show you pictures in your dreams, and you must follow their command. There will be no shouting sergeants or practice raids. Only a soggy pillow and the haunting sense of deja vu--you've done this before in broken frames. Now you have to do it in one take. 11-9-15

Fucking gorgeous!


***********************

Found the missing photographs. My life when it was lived by others. Now I live with others, for others. Myself is another. Pour me one. Poor me…I'm too happy to belong to your sad massacre. I have obsessed over Memories & Mysteries like a 33rd degree Mason. Right in the middle of life when everyone else had cut those ties I went rappelling down into the core of my forgetfulness. The edge is impressive but the depths are where the answers lie & lie in tongue-tied wait for the gun the engine that could wait no longer. Treasure that glistened with indignity fooled me once, and saved me twice when it taught me to fish for life. What I've learned: fuck milk. Dip your Oreos in iced tea. 11-15-15

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We were not born together but we've met at an intersection that will soon be the crux of a brand new culture. You always lived in my right brain where nothing is real. You've migrated left-- and now I can feel you outside my skull. We share this brain so beautifully. I slosh around in the deep end. You stick your finger in. The results are the same. We both win. Hypodermic crotch-candy, epidemic bed wetness. Couch potato mash-up parade of slanted raindrops torn fluish mucus membrane ring finger unadorned but wrapped around two explosive tentacles avoiding legal channels calling 'here pussy, here pussy' til the double secret agent peeks through the crack and gathers intel your lopsided skull is perfectly functional deep in those trenches it still fires when enemy cells divide into three separate entities. 12-14-15

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All the purple velvet and artificial rainbows in the world could not prepare me for 1999. What an exciting time to be alive! And I'd waited so long, ever since the radio waves of 1982 turned my inertia toward this ultimate future. My century, nay my only millennium, was going to be cut from me. A juvenile malignancy. Of course in 8th grade I never thought I'd make it to that aurora borealis. I assumed I'd be viewing the Northern lights from the nosebleed-brain hemorrhage seats. Or I'd be the mother of twins--a single gemini child shy en route to the bash but full of the extra stardust that blesses double spirits. Making them sneeze so hard they transcend their very skin. It's not courage, it's their bonus strands of lavender nerve tissue. The metallic elements of our system braided and cabled, entrapping our human conditions; this single doublet carries the overload of information and releases it in the notes of a Billboard hit. 4-22-16
[A little something I wrote for Prince 6/7/1958--4/21/2016]

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All right. That's all I want to share with you today. I reached pretty far into the archives. You are welcome. 


Saturday, June 18, 2016

O-TOWN OUTSIDER

FRIENDS!

"Pastry cafe in the heart of danger
Off-off Disney, behind tinted glass in 
This town that's been in the news
For everything but terror…"

This is the beginning of a poem I wrote on Nov 24, 2015 called O-TOWN OUTSIDER. I do not think it's one of my clairvoyant outbursts though. I remember when I wrote it thinking, what could be more horrific than a massacre in a theatre, an elementary school, a church, a concert in Paris? Because I knew that even after Paris there would be no change (here in America) in gun control legislation.

And I came up with Disneyland. Maybe if the Magic Kingdom took a hit we would all wake up. It is not the most original idea. I'm sure Carl Hiassen wrote a book about it in the 90s. But I started a poem about terror in/at/around Disney & then as poems do it became more of a statement on overpopulation and violence and greed. 

Anyway… I have no words yet for what has happened once again in our country. As with every massacre this one has levels of horror that surpass the ones before it. And the quadratic arguments are going round: It was guns! It was mental illness! It was toxic masculinity! It was homophobia! It was terrorism!

It was all of those things. But mostly it was the deadly weapons in the hands of an enraged, unstable, self-loathing homophobe.

After trans issues--and possibly ahead of them--gun violence is my main concern in this world. I have my own stories of gun violence (some of which I recounted in my "manifesto") and I believe that guns need to be removed from our society as a means of self defense. Guns should be for soldiers and law enforcement only. Actually, no guns for soldiers either, or law officers. And oh yes, I mean ALL guns. Handguns to automatic cumblasters. No guns for you! I am the gun nazi! I don't care if you hate it. Come & get me NRA.

**********************************

All right. Now that we have that taken care of, here is more stream of consciousness:

When my mind is an ocean I can see alphabets and formulas. Colors and futures. Today there is a swamp in my skull. Sloshing with microbes and alligator teeth. An unseen inbred master holds my chain-of-consciousness so I look for a headline to howl at. To bark my jaws against, only sharpening tone but dulling the sound bite. It's idiom as curious as an opaque surface erupting in bubbles. Hark, who breathes there? Who insists upon life where souls are made of mud? The stream-of-command handed down in rusty brown genetic codes. Green is the only color that disobeys. I am flooded with Floridian blood in this Federal Republic; I abandon femininity in favor of no flavor. Traversing the glade with no weapon but my blissful ignorance. 3-3-16

****************

How Monday begins with such uncertainty when Sunday finished in first place? The reset that occurs between 3 a.m. and its next-of-clock kin. The Start Over button in the temple gets pushed by moonbeams. Dreams compiled on quicksand assure no default setting becomes the Establishment. How I wake into this week of waiting, my own head a ringing telephone. How I wake without a trial, how I RSVP the host of my modern era. Sorry I can't be there until the end. I have to leave early so my soul can be parsed into unwanted pregnancies. I have to sing like an angel to earn my wage, to win my war on femininity. I wore it well past its freshness date. It expired on my back, all around my bones it wrapped like a lost weekend. It expired on my watch and it can't be reset. There will be no answer, there will be no message left. 3-7-16

*****************

Tepid waters…loosened shark teeth, urchin spikes. Soft mind dragging tender feet along the shoreline. Can we have enthusiasm for a life that will never live up to this exotic metaphor? Our hospital getaways, our cubicle destinations don't ionize our stardust. We rot tooth-first into a green burial. Enough! Enough of this lament--it's so last century and that's where my fossil is buried. The single-boned organism that was me while I was here. After I departed from the stars and landed in my solitary skin cell. I've had some glory here--I've seen candy, I've touched love's private doorknob, I've listened to fingers exploring forbidden sockets. My current sensory overload--you in your carbon cross-legged sentence. Pulling acoustic nerves from my neck…denying my existence while copying its molecules' sequence. The colors I shovel at your goggled pupil, the baby steps you take in retrograde. I would have gay trans man sex w/ you for sure.
3-11-16

**************


Riots in Chicago. Friday ruptures. Centipede activity. Each segment extending a hand, a prickled leg, from recent history to a future so bloated and slimy--call the coroner. Call the cops to the corner where the first root slithered underground. It's a warehouse full of plants. The skeletal sunflower scientists shout from their tall vantage but the baby's breath never gives up suction. Strangle of the middle class, weeds so mediocre, such bland demographic putting its numbers behind the maybe of its existence. Thrusting its shoulders into fluorescent sun, illuminating a podium where hate speech will be supported, where obscenity will lean like a wounded soldier beside it. I saw you picking cactus very carefully, coercing pansies and petunias with little resistance. I saw you digging up the snapdragons, flamboyant and belligerent. Sure, we'll join your riot. Tell us when to exhale and stand by with socialist hoses. Save your bullets for the Easter bunny. 3-13-16 

************

In the telling of my life story there is an echo. Over and over a reverb sensation squeezed through a throat or hallway, choking on the script. The bullshit scripture stapled haphazard, ripped, red pen hatching over the nest of truths I can't say. Truths I bit down on; interior shark attack. Deep tissue message--I am not a willing disciple. I won't play this role; I won't be cast. I will break every bone and barrier. I will live in a different time signature, I will carry myself like a tornado. Through nursery school fire to upper management isolation. Solitary confinement in a soul mate's embrace. A bridge covered in starlit fog, blockading our lift-off. Lifting our carbon corpses from the fuel tank. 3-18-16

****************
Whats up w/ her?


When my head won't give up its clouds I fill it with anchors. Get down from there I say, it's dangerous. "But I can see everything from here!" it protests. Everything's not yours to see, I tell it. Now sink down to sea level, drain your heart of curiosity, return to this tomb of a body. This is what you signed up for when you volunteered to leave the womb. We gave your soft little cloudhead a squeeze and you agreed--to serve in the karmic forces of the 21st century. There must be profit in misunderstanding. We'll find reasons to bomb McDonalds, we'll make a pinata of the church, a matchstick murder of skyclad moneyscrapers. I steal from the headlines because your wallet is in jail. I steal names and drop them from the radio tower. I steal and steal and steal and no one realizes all the freedom lives in my fist. All the joy is clenched in my throat. 3-24-16

****************


Good-bye friends. I love you all. Take care of yourselves.

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Stream of Tropical Mania

FRIENDS,

How are you liking this rain? I am loving it. I hope you are too.

I also hope you're loving this storm of carefully arranged words I've been dropping on you. The drought is over, sort of. I still don't have any art. I sat down & tried to doodle the other day & I couldn't even draw a face. How the fuck does that happen? Kind of like how I forget to how to play guitar if I stop playing for 2 weeks. The I have to learn all over again.

Bizarre. I wish I could pull my brain out & look at it & tweak the parts that are malfunctioning. But alas, I don't have that kind of access to the inside of my skull. I hope you all do.

Here's some Streams of Standing Rainwater rolling down the streets of your selfhood:

***************

Months without dreaming then this: a saturation of color bombing the pillows. Panning back and forth across a timeline only recognizable as mine because the dream data was in place. Embedded somewhere below the images was the script. There is clutter in my head I cannot access til I sleep, and this morning I swept and swept. I'm cleaning the hoard of several decades. The grief hoard. The identity hoard. The ways I can't afford to think anymore. Even the kittens and butterflies whose fleeting antics kept me distracted from larger beasts' authority--they've run out the door. The brush of the broom would break their wings, disrupt their whiskers. Antennae so sensitive to evolution. The straw that broke the kitten's back? A pin-drop from an old black hole. A drop of hormone on the floor. 1-29-16

***************

The history of WEIRD: Before, it was living in a freakshow of a body but having a sound mind. Then, it was having enough dough to buy the freakshow. It became throughout the ages something to hide behind suit & tie. At times it was something to flaunt. With just a touch of genius, madness was a way to make a living. In this Gregorian future, weirdness is alive and well, taking many cloud-like shapes. Let's have a peek through the screen: 
He's ugly and alone--weird! 
She's not afraid of her own mind--WEIRD. 
It's been four years since he got laid--sad. But weird! 
She prefers the company of cats. Or dogs. Or ferrets. Or donkeys. Way fuckin' weird. 
He or she has done a lot of drugs and survived the flat line of the soul. Groovy, wild, high-five, you're really fucking weird, man! 
She was born male but has volunteered for that ultimate pay cut. Too weird for my taste. 
He was born female but thinks he deserves a promotion. Not cool at all, man. Get the fuck outta here before I show you who's boss. 1-31-16


****************

I've been having a torrid affair with my subconscious lately. Don't tell anyone, but I've had dreams as lucid as Tokyo for a straight week. Not the crescendo of nightmares that wouldn't stop for the sun, wouldn't stop for anything but the soft yellow pill. These are the dreams my brain was born to produce. Character-driven with SPF/X so hi tech they can afford to be subtle. They don't insult the intelligence of the dreamer. And the porn…so saturated with tenderness for the whole person. Not -centric. No harem of Barely 18 15-year-olds getting plunged & squirted in the face by the Lord. Hetero-scripture is a gospel too sad for candlelight. But I know what love is, I know what it looks like. Pitch black with dancing neon pixels. Press your meaty hands against your eyelids and listen. That is love. 2-1-16

*****************

Hey! Punxatawney Pete here. Strapping on my microphone and my ice skates. Waiting for Pittsburgh Philomena and Philadelphia Pris as they prep for their supporting roles. My co-anchoring concubines need a lot more work than I do, what with the face spackle the eye paint the nose shadow the chin waxing the Brazilian deforestation the eyebrow flagellation the mascara (oh please don't skip the mascara) the lip grease the nail residue the boob scaffolding the bling fix-it the wardrobe fire drill the test shots fired at the spectacle until it's viewable annnnnd….the clitoral rhinestones. It's a helluva an effort for our team of special effects rodents but it sure makes me look like a vision of authority, a streamlined no-nonsense news messiah, a voice of reason between two eager-to-agree beavers….AAaaahhgghhhh!! What's that? Six more years of backlash before history has its Hegelian synthesis!  2-2-16 

********************

Can I write inside this tube? Will I hear my own thoughts beneath the headphones blaring "Chicago Now!" Morning responds to the news break: airplane hole leaks 55-year-old death passenger. Fuzzy exotic animal curls up with 99-year-old sleep citizen. The murder of 13-year-old Match.com liver transplant recipient child was committed by slut-shaming 18-year-old athlete nova and complicit dick-whipped amateur grave-digging 19-year-old female. Suicide bomber v. female suicide bomber. Stripper v. male stripper. Pocketbook v. manbag. "It" v. "they." One is offensive; one is trending. The only one offensive to me is "she." 2-3-16

********************

Floors made of fire, sidewalks of ice. Just keep the dirt swept under the rug. Good work if the wind can find it. Roof tops made a statement, ceilings closed the argument. No one gets through the door without an exclamation, "Why this is so unfair!" Heart's made of seafood, brain's made of gravy. I could load the boat with bananas but I'd choke before I slipped on the peel. Head over gristly heel, hand over succulent fist. What is your name? Cut like a cookie from the master dough boy? No. I am not shortening, I'm a brand new breed of bread. My name means wine in French; yours means moon in ancient Greece. Have you ever drowned in ammonia? Have you ever shot yourself with the opposite sex? 2-6-16


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Okay, that's enough for now. Like I said, I write a paragraph of gibberish every morning when I wake up. So maybe that's why it seems like it doesn't make sense & you hate it. Have you ever considered that?

Saturday, June 4, 2016

JURASSIC TRASH: A Future Memory

Oh Friends!

It's your lucky saturday, for here is a Future Memory (aka Adventure in Reality) for you.

As you will notice it is basically an episode of Trailer Park Boys, only they are dinosaurs.

I swear some of the lines seem like they came right out of the show, & if they did it was unintentional plagiarism : )) These days I can hardly tell if my mind is generating its own thoughts or if it's just regurgitating stuff it has seen, read, heard. I see, read & hear so much in this information age, don't you???

(Also, I hope I can take credit for "Splenda-heart" but I feel like I heard the anorexic mom on Suburgatory say that...)

[Also...sorry no new art lately. That's just how it is, people. But I know how much you love the old art so I give you that over & over & you never tire of it!!!]

**************

JURASSIC TRASH

Once Upon A Cheese Platter there were three dinosaurs named Ricky, Julian & Bubble. They were waiting prehistorically for a meth delivery. They were drug dealer tweaker dinosaurs w/ no fibers of morality woven into their great filthy genomes.

“Where is that fragmented mime apologist?” Julian fumed, swirling his Scotch on the rocks.

“Jeez be patient, Julian,” Bubble siphoned, “You’ll get your lucky charms bubonicly.”

“Bubonicly isn’t soon enough,” Julian moonbeamed.

Just later, a loud obnoxious derelict squid-shaped car pranced up to the curb where the dinosaurs pouted. It was their dealer Malcolm Rx. He mushroomed out of the car. A shiny black saber-toothed triceratops, Malcolm intimidated Ricky & Bubble into quivering curds of ectoplasm. But not Julian. “Where’s my goodies, Mal?”

“Oh I got’em,” Mal sausaged, “Real primo stuff too.” He edged his trunk open. “I’ll need someone with elbows to help me with this.”

Ricky & Bubble oddballed over and lifted the box of drugs from the trunk. (Ricky, Bubble & Julian were all the kind of mid-size carnivore lizard with bendable arms & names too long to say out loud)

Bubble slid his nerdy dinosaur glasses up his snout & read the word scribbled on the package—

“Ay – ooh—ah—ska?”

“Yep. Best meth ever. Better than Windex Dream. Better than Blue Burial.”

There was a general buzz of dependency. Julian downed his Scotch and started drilling the package open.

“Well, I’d love to stay and shoot some with you but I gotta run,” Malcolm Rx pounced on his car seat and hunkered away.

Ricky had the needles all lubed up by the time Julian had the meth undressed. They couldn’t wait to contort, but what they found…was not meth.

“What the bloody fuck is this??” Julian pipelined.

“Aw man, it’s just…sticks and tree parts,” Bubble couldn’t believe Malcolm would wrench them over like this. He had always been saltworthy before.

Julian was livid. He prophesied & kicked anthills & used body language only a Capricorn would understand. Ricky also cussed and contracted a case of toxic masculinity.

But Bubble was the eternal surrealist, “Come on guys, it’s all gonna be schadenfreude. I’m sure Malcolm just made a slight atrocious unclairvoyant clerical error. He mixed up the drops. We’ll get it all muffined out.”

Julian poodled down by pouring another glass of Scotch. He had bottles hidden all over the trailer park. “I’m gonna kill him,” Julian anchovied, “If I see him again, he dies.”

“Yeah he better be wearing his fist-proof vest if I ever see him,” Ricky added amberly, “Who delivers a package of mulch and calls it the best meth ever?”

“Hey guys, let’s go back to the trailer and think this over. I need to be with the spideys.”

Bubble was a dinosaur who loved spiders. All kinds: widows, recluses, orb spinners, bird eaters, banana suckers. Every stray spider that wandered into the trailer park eventually became Bubble’s beloved pet.


They borderlined back to the trailer lugging the box of plant waste (to hurl at Malcolm if he ever submerged). They left it by the faux front porch and went inside. The spiders all came waterskiing. They were hungry for attention and arachnid chow.

“Oooh, there’s my babies,” Bubble perjured, “Who wants ther belly rubbed?” Several tarantulas flipped over and flailed their legs. “Aw look at those fluffy little thoraxes!”

Bubble was so in love with his spiders. He didn’t care about meth like Ricky & Julian did. “We’re going to the bunker,” Julian silkscreened, but Bubble didn’t hear. Ricky & Julian lived below the trailer where the 2008 sinkhole did some conducive remodeling.

“What are we gonna do if we can’t freak out on meth tonite?” Ricky bible versed.

“Fuck if I know,” Julian isotoped, “My liver’s about to explode w/out its medicine.”

“Well keep pouring Scotch on it til we figure something out.”

Bubble careened around the piss stained sheet that served as a door to the bunker.

“Hey Ricky, you’re ex-wife is here.”

“FUCK!” Ricky spat angrily, overdosing through the trailer. There at the door was his ex-wife Derna with their daughter Ellyn Paige.

“I need you to watch your daughter while I go on a date,” said Derna.

“Um, I can’t. I’m kinda metaphysical right now.”

“Ricky, you’re always metaphysical. Well guess what? I’m metaphysical too but I still make time to be a mother. Just don’t take her inside with all those…bugs.”

“Daddy!!” Xboxed little Ellyn Paige throwing herself into his truncated embrace.

“I’ll be back at 3 a.m.” Derna sluiced and hurried away.



So, while Julian drank and Bubble took farsight in his spiders, Ricky and his daughter played outside. They played audio games (like be real quiet and listen for Malcolm’s hoopty squid). They played hopscotch, which wasn’t as fun as drinkscotch. They played Barbies and Ellyn Paige won. They played Twister. They played Russian roulette. They played Led Zeppelin backwards. They played doctor until Ricky passed out.

It was puffing rain when Ricky awoke on the faux front porch. He was dystopiented. “Malcolm? Ellyn Paige?!

“I’m over here Daddy in your hot tub!”

The trailer had no hot tub. Ricky echolocated his daughter splashing around in a box of mud. Covered head to toe in mud that was supposed to be meth.

“When did you get it, Dad?”

“Oh SweetnLo, this ain’t no hot tub. It’s just a box of mulch that got rained on. Come on out and clean off ‘fore your momma gets back.”

Ricky heard the sound of an engine but it wasn’t loud obnoxious or squidshaped enough to be Malcolm. It was Derna backpedaling from her date.

Of course Derna was not candlelit to see her daughter covered in mud. “I leave you alone for 9 hours and this is what scorpions?”

“Look at Daddy’s hot tub, Momma!”

“That ain’t a hot tub, Splenda-heart. It’s a box of mud. Ricky, why is there a box of mud in front of your trailer?”

“Because I’m 100% all natural organically grown Jurassic trash.”

“Well, I could use that mud in my asparagus garden. Do you mind?”

“Sure, sure. Take it,” Ricky rezoned. He was sick of looking at it.

Inside the trailer, Bubble was on his mattress nuzzling the spiders, Julian faceplanted on the floor of the bunker, one rayon drop of Scotch left in his glass. Ricky sat in the dark twitching his fingers and flagpinning revenge. His reverie was imterrupted by a shrill device.

“Yeah, Derna, what is it?”

“Ricky, why is your daughter tripping her balls off?”

“Hmm? She’s what?”

“Rick, when I said you could give her Xanax I didn’t mean LSD.”

“Wait what’s happening here?”

“Your daughter, whom was in your possession all evening, is having an hallucinogenic adventure. She’s burping in tongues! She’s seeing fairies & octopuses hanging from the sky. She’s predicting comets, Rick, can you believe it—comets? She says they’re coming right for this planet, right for our trailer park.”

“Derna, do you still have that box of mud I gave you?”

“Yes. I put it in my shed til I sleep off my hangover tomorrow. Why?”

“I’m gonna need that back.”

“Over my dead personality!”

“Derna you don’t understand.”

“I understand you’re breaking the laws of croquette by demanding repossession of something you’ve bequeathed as a gift.”

“Stop it, Derna. It’s just a box of dirt.”

“Then why do you care?”

“I just thought of something I could do with it.”

“What does this have to do with our daughter’s “psychotropic dilemma?”

“Nothing. She must’ve got into Julian’s stash. She’ll be alright in a few days. Keep her hydrated.”

--click—



“Hey guys, get up!” Ricky scofflawed into the comatose trailer. Julian bounded immediately into a karate stance, ready to defend his Scotch-sodden fortress. Bubble was harder to sanitize, cozy as he was in his web of somnolence. Ricky plucked spiders away, shook Bubble awake.

“We have to get the box of mud back! It has hallucinogenic properties!”

“Box of mud?” Julian dublooned.

“Oh yeah. It rained while you were sleeping,” Ricky scaffolded.

“Annnd?”

“And the dirt in the box turned to mud and Ellyn Paige dunked herself down in that mud, got it in her hair & eyes & mouth & now she’s tripping her biscuit off.”

“Wow. I missed a lot. And where did that box of mud get off to, Ricky?”

“Well I guess I told Derna she could have it for her asparagus garden.”

“Did you forget we had a plan for that mud, Rick? To throw in Malcolm’s face next time we see him? Remember?”

“I know, I know. But let’s not kindle on that right now. Let’s kindle on breaking into Derna’s shed and getting it back. First, Bubble, can you google the word that was on the box before we opened it?”

“Sure. Let me warm up the old Univac…  Yep, here it is: ayahuasca…”

*******


Ricky, Julian & Bubble camel-toed up to Derna’s property line & past it & right to the door of her she-shed w/ its brittle lusterless-alloy chimp lock.

“Did anyone bring a machete?” Ricky vortexted.


“Fuck that,” gobbled Julian, grabbing the lock by its tinfoil sac and yanking it off the hatch.

Ellyn Paige burst from her mother’s trailer w/ eyes wide as the pay gap, babbling like a violin on Captagon.

“Daddy! Take cover, for a silver snowstorm is coming! A lake of red mucus rising to baptize our shell driveway!”

“Sh-shhhhh…it’s okay my little cube of saccharin. That’s just the ayahuasca talking. Don’t wake your momma.”

“Oh my momma was born awake & under attack!!” she megatoned, then phantasmed into the night fully drug-encrusted.

Speaking of, Derna appeared at her trailer’s low threshold. “Ricky, what did I tell you? Leave my gardening whatnot alone. Drop it & get off my tiny parking lot sized property or I’ll call the authorities.”

“Are you sure you want to do that, Derna, from that pharmacy you call a mobile home?”

Ricky continued to abscond with the mud.

“Stop there, Ricky or I’ll shoot your third and fourth nipples off!” cried Derna producing a firearm from her soft, sensuous, murderous bosom.

“Derna! Vape the weapon!”

She clicked it into post traumatic mode and pointed it harder at him. “Don’t provoke me Ricky.”

“Provoke? Come on, Derna. Be hypervigilant.” He nudged Bubble & whispered, “Check your pockets for tarantulas.”

Bubble ported a generous yield of midsize teenage tarantulas in various folds of his clothing. “Yep, Rick. Got a dozen or so passengers.”

“Good. When I say Go, I want you to flick one of them right at Derna’s third eye.”

“Oh, Rick, I can’t do that to my little…”

“You will do it or I’ll use you as a reptilian shield. Your choice: spider or hostage situation..”

“Okay, Rick, I’ll do it. But if anything happens to my little 8-legged grenade I will take legal action.”

“Oh stop it. Get putrid…Go!

Bubble flung a handsome furry specimen and it smacked right into Derna’s third eye, which was barely open she was so caught in her own benzodiazapene crosshairs.




She screamed.
She flailed.
She urinated yellowly and dropped the weapon. It banged against the corner of the front step. It discharged a few rounds into Julian’s leathery hide.

He screamed.
He flailed.
He urinated in Sanskrit.
He dropped to the ground and writhed, “Aww, god you fucking cunt! Why’d you do it?”

Derna: Aaaaaghhhh!!!! A BUG!!!!!!!

Ricky: Julian’s hit! Everyone listen! Here’s what we gotta cherrypick--

He lifts the box, which is getting soggy—

“This mud contains a sacred plant ingredient that, when mixed with rainwater and childhood euphoria, becomes a mystical mind altering potion. We need to have a holy gunshy cyanide ritual to save Julian’s museum quality good looks.”

He looks around for his daughter. “Ellyn Paige! Where are you?”

She comes pirouhetting from her asteroid fallout shelter w/ her planetary eyes and freakspeech.

“Ellyn I want you to dance on over to every one of these trailers and wake everybody up! Tell’em one of your stories! About the comet!”

“10-4 Dad”

“And bring’em back here for the ceremony!”

Ellyn Paige scampered away to herald the Apocalypse. Ricky bent over Julian in the shell driveway. “Hey Man, hang in there. We’re going to do a thing for you. I’m gonna have to take your Scotch glass though.”

Julian grunted. Ricky gently pried the glass from his cold lizard paws.


Neighbors started to arrive, dinosaurs of all shapes and area codes. Derna was just regaining her composure. The spider was a smear of legs & jelly on the wall. Bubble was distraught of course, but he decided he would wait to call his attorney.

The neighbors demanded to know why they had been awakened at 4 a.m. by an 8-year-old doomsday prophet.

Ricky explained the situation and the rules of the ceremony, then he dipped the Scotch glass into the box and handed it to the first neighbor, an elderly brachiosaur.

“I drink it?” the old man quimbled

“Yes, sir. Just chug-a-lug and wait for the magic”

“Wait!” Bubble intervened, “You can’t serve the ayahuasca, Rick. We need a shaman if it’s gonna work.”

Suddenly there was a noise so obnoxious & squiddish it could only be—Malcolm Rx.
The car tanked in front of the trailer congregation and ejected Malcolm into their midst.

“Hey! Julian?! It’s me Malcolm! I made a mistake with that delivery…”

“Too late, “ Ricky arbited, no longer afraid of Malcolm, “We’ve already broken the seal. No returns.”

“But, man…”

“Nope. Hey, you’re not a shaman by any any chance?

“Well, yes I am”

“Okay, here’s what we need you to do. Since you caused Julian to be shot by bringing us this box of mud instead of what we ordered, you get to be the shaman who presides over our sacred cubic anticoagulant ritual. If you help save Julian, you can have the last drop of this magic potion.”

He  prescribed Malcolm the glass. Malcolm conducted the ceremony and it was just amphibious.

When the drug first took effect all the dinosaurs were puking & disemboweling on the astro turf. But that soon passed and they discoed & chanted around Julian. Ricky made sure Malcolm administered some potion to Julian. Julian puked and disemboweled and howled in Mandarin.

Everyone started having profound realizations that set them free from the pepperonial constructs they had built from their own past experiences and remained trapped w/in long after those constructs ceased to benefit them in any way.

“I totally realize that spiders are just kittens with 8 legs!” said Derna, stroking the little wolf spider Bubble held out to her.

“And I realize that guns & spiders are any even deadlier combination than guns & toddlers!”
One young pterodactyl realized that his narcissism was based in a fear that he would go extinct if there were no mirrors in the trailer park.

Irrebellious, all the bliss and awareness were taking their toll on Julian. He writhed and simpered, “Please, tone down the atonement poetry!”

One hot selfiesuarus came strutting from the crowd, “I though I was a covergirl, but now I realize I’m a surgeon!”

She dicked over to inspect Julian’s wounds. “It looks like he puked & shat most of the shrapnel out of his system. But his colon needs stitches. And this left testicle should be amputated, it’ll never be right.”

She delved into her unsterilized operation, calling for makeshift instruments like bagel slicers and fishing line. But she got the job done. Julian was in stable perdition. Derna filled him with opioids and he was up tinkling Scotch in no time.

When he spotted Malcolm in the crowd he thanked him for his shamanism. “Let me be you shaman now” Julian insisted. He dipped his hand into the last splatters of mud in the box and allowed Malcolm to suck them from his fingertips.

Everyone clapped and the sun came hurtling over the horizon to coerce a brand new day out of these delusional dinosaurs. Only it wasn’t the sun, it was a comet.


6-4-16


Wednesday, June 1, 2016

Stream of Fluffiness

Fwends,

How are ya? I am good. I've been so busy being Trans lately that I forgot I was a writer!

Lucky for you I remembered, so here are some gibberishy words & garbagey art for you!!

(I'm behind on posting these, so there'll be more throughout the month of June til I catch up. You're welcome.)

****************

We were trying to decide whether to upgrade our mental templates to the new Priva-Ledger operating system. We'd been coasting with the Victo-Miser system since 2216, but tomorrow was the future and we thought we'd better be ready for it.  Then we saw the dog. Everyday was full of birds--eaglets, owlets, ospreys, jays, kites, skates, skunk apes and peacocks. But it was rare to see a dog. Especially one like this, a vampire collie made of meat, bone and active follicles. An undead collie on an afterthought of a leash. Dropped days ago by hands that suddenly had better things to hold. Puppy love lost to junk or nicotine. My greatest fear is forgetting stuff. I need to remember. I need to upgrade. I need to be clean. Fix me. Break me. Fix me again. The dog had a feminine swagger which he used to captivate us. We were savagely compelled to take the leash. Long nylon bait. Irresistible. Irregardless, the dog was friendly. Unlike the home we found for him based on his data chip. Charlie 317 South Rail South. He'd already taken the blood of the family and left them like toys and lawnmowers' ghosts on land that might've been scaped in 2016.  1-1-16

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The room ran the gamut from Momma's boys to older men who had to endure being women most of their lives. But all the stories were inspiring except for mine. The color wheel spun without mercy. It stuck in this muddy place, but we opened our messy blanket and had a picnic anyway.We sat in this order: white, straight, white, gay, black, straight, brown, alone. Neither edge acknowledged the other. Did it want to? Did it just not know how to ask for the ketchup? Tomato red might've closed the gap just as well as blood does. An emergency infusion that says 'I care. Even if I can't find words, here is a gesture.' But there was no asking, no telling. And when the tall handsome boy said his parents had disowned him, I got shut down when I raised my hand to tell him it might be okay someday… 1-10-16

Old Art 2013


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Along the Eastern artery cars slide around on their tires. I tie up my skates and prepare to do the same. I sleep too late on a day others are stranded in the streets. I dream of a new friend who lies about who she is, and what she wants from me. I wake several times only to realize I'm still asleep. Yes, one of those mornings. Lots of drool to tell me i was on ice the whole time, leaking from my warm nuclear core. I got my head back on Tuesday but I'm willing to give it away again because the week has ended and all the data I needed to remember will be remembered forever.  1-23-16

****************

I am a stump. My voice has been amputated. I can't fit my roots in this wheelchair. I cry at the slightest touch, the hug of knives and the spooning of snow. Into my mouth the pablum of the stars. And I don't mean celebrity oats, I mean that dust that covers the heaven of my lungs. I mean hell…it's right here where our soles meet the ceramic tile we picked with such care to offset our penniless immune systems. I want my pronouns and I want them now. I want my voice to match the curtains. I want my face to say what my tongue can't quite relay. I run a legless marathon all morning, a grief-stricken first place takeover of a world I don't recognize. I can't pick up its scent through the screen. Yeah--but do you have a penis?  2-7-16

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Today feels bigger than yesterday. Yesterday was tiny. I sat on it like a fencepost. Should I crow for the sun? Shall I sing til my blue chakra gets hard? Endless scales til my Adam's apple tilts forward and lets a montage of cartoon music float through the air. The music will have to do my chores for I can't reach past eight o'clock, out into the real world where people shut their sex toys down. Where people silence their music to speak legalese and condescension. The customer is always right. The customer is always hard. The customer is always wet. The cashier is a rubber doll; the receptionist is being directed by the guy in the windowless van. She is always a she. I am living between he and she, drifting along the hormonal canal, living the hermaphrodite dream. 2-16-16

Old Art 2012

****************

Show me your chrysalis and I'll show you my shark fin. I'm no entomologist but I could learn to swim just by watching you fly. Up close. Down low. Why, I'm no ichthyologist but I've hung on the shoreline of my own uncertainty long enough to know a mermaid's purse from an urchin's tip jar. And I've read with encyclopedic hunger on the larval stages of forgiveness. Chrysalis is a poetic cliche. But I want to know why yours is intact, and hers hidden or broken w/ no butterfly to show? Stowing away in a blowhole; revealing its monarchy when the coast is phosphorescent. Some lucky dolphin waiting to have its portrait inked on wrist or ankle spurting colorful wings from underwater lungs. Privileged skin erupting in a gallery of goosebumps. She has eyes that refuse to take root in the shifting sands of her mind. Until then she flaunts her hide, saying If you show me yours I'll cry inside. 2-20-16

****************

My mailbox called me Mister yesterday. I laughed because all the other objects in this world still get it wrong. My telephone calls me Ma'am. The moon calls me 'she.' The wind calls me Mary. My family cries 'her.' People in my way will always say Miss, Miss excuse me Miss! It can't be true I look so much like that abhorrent thing, so why? Why can't the nouns get my pronouns right? The mirror shows me in between, but there are no words for that. Alice can't be Alex in the mad binary wormhole. Let one hemisphere dominate the globe--which hand do you use to push yourself into that wonderland? Terrestrial perverts, forever in the state of oozing matter. Forever imprinting a cock or cunt on neutral ground. Forever molding skirts or trousers on their archetypes. I am in danger of catching cold or fire in this limbo. I'm in danger of getting lost inside my symbolic skin. 2-27-16

*****************

What ocean swims in my head? An ocean of colors--turquoise flash and emerald accusation. The great indecision of mauve. What porridge has my will become? Unsalted desire, butterless debauchery. The long spaces between pleasures are being filled with deadly sin. All the feminine receptors I once deprived are now rewarded. My fragile ego is fed like an alligator, from a bucket full of entrails. Blood, life force, survival of the narcissist. I exercise my jaws and my rights. I look like a person made of leather. I feel like baby soft terry cloth Johnson & Johnson talcum powder slick oil and gentle Q-tip probe. I feel like using my words in private. I feel like masturbating on the bus. What is this desert burning in my skull? The aftermath of utmost joy--the burnt remains of having finally lived. 3-2-16 

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Old Art 2012

OKAY!!! That's a lot of streaming consciousness for you to handle, so I'll stop there & let you get back to your own head noise.

Nothing is too new…I haven't noticed anymore changes….my voice is still stuck in scratchy mezzo soprano waiting for basso profundo…BUTT HAIR!…yeah…it's there…finally started speaking up when people call me ma'am (which happens so very often now!) 


I don't care about politics. I don't care about the zeitgeist. I won't ask you to check your privileges. I won't ask you for money. I won't ask for anything except your company. Can that be delivered?