Saturday, February 28, 2009
After Confronting His Mortality, Martin Esslin Watches a Video by The Jesus Lizard, Because It's Just That Kind of Saturday:
Martin Esslin Confronts His Mortality
1
Martin Esslin screams into the mirror for three hours. The mirror darkens.
2
Martin Esslin makes eggs. He tries very hard not to think about the origin of eggs or what precisely he is consuming at this moment.
3
Martin Esslin drapes himself in diamonds and drinks coffee.
4
Martin Esslin tries not to think about the strange and tragical historicity of everything that surrounds him. He hums a little tune.
5
Martin Esslin dons a funny yellow hat and feels a lot better, actually.
Martin Esslin screams into the mirror for three hours. The mirror darkens.
2
Martin Esslin makes eggs. He tries very hard not to think about the origin of eggs or what precisely he is consuming at this moment.
3
Martin Esslin drapes himself in diamonds and drinks coffee.
4
Martin Esslin tries not to think about the strange and tragical historicity of everything that surrounds him. He hums a little tune.
5
Martin Esslin dons a funny yellow hat and feels a lot better, actually.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Martin Esslin Lollygags in the Park
1
Martin Esslin rents a paddle boat. He paddles out and dreams about being in love.
2
Martin Esslin does not think of cannibals or Beckett. It is too sunny, the grass shimmering greenly in the breeze.
3
Martin Esslin feeds the ducks. He sighs contentedly and realizes he could do this, just exactly this, for the rest of his life.
Martin Esslin rents a paddle boat. He paddles out and dreams about being in love.
2
Martin Esslin does not think of cannibals or Beckett. It is too sunny, the grass shimmering greenly in the breeze.
3
Martin Esslin feeds the ducks. He sighs contentedly and realizes he could do this, just exactly this, for the rest of his life.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The Greatest Love of All
The phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Singer, actress, film producer, model, mother."
"Um. Whitney?"
"My accomplishments extend over multiple artistic disciplines and plumb the depths of human experience. The range of emotions felt by me and the past two decades is akin to being at the rail on the cruise liner and spotting the iceberg, drawing closer."
"I -- "
"It is also the iceberg itself, the massive weight and bulk, the cold. The centuries of existence, stoically accreting experience, love, loss, like layers of ice until I can pierce a steel hull, send thousands to their deaths."
"Well -- "
"As the unemployment rate rises to edge nearer and nearer to 8% in the month of January alone, I consider the new line on my roster of accomplishments, the reformed addict."
"That's good."
"You have no idea -- the bombed-out hollowness, the hypocrisy (say no to drugs, indeed -- after the first round of refusal, capitulation increased and it was wonderful, wonderful), the gist, Brad, is this: the lows and depths have only served to reinforce my death-grip on popular consciousness, the history of this country and the world."
"Whit -- "
"My name recognition increases. More people know me and my accomplishments, my trials and tribulations than ever before. I am larger than Patton. I am larger than Churchill. Joan of Ark is losing ground steadily."
"Uh -- "
"None of this is even my doing. I am iceberg-big, my depths are frozen. I don't even need to try anymore, such is the scope of my life and name. Nothing you do matters. You will outlive me in only the strictest sense. You are puny, hopeless. When I die, there will be a crater in your hive mind and heart, my death will be Chicxulub, my death will be millennial Black Death."
Then she hung up.
"Hello?"
"Singer, actress, film producer, model, mother."
"Um. Whitney?"
"My accomplishments extend over multiple artistic disciplines and plumb the depths of human experience. The range of emotions felt by me and the past two decades is akin to being at the rail on the cruise liner and spotting the iceberg, drawing closer."
"I -- "
"It is also the iceberg itself, the massive weight and bulk, the cold. The centuries of existence, stoically accreting experience, love, loss, like layers of ice until I can pierce a steel hull, send thousands to their deaths."
"Well -- "
"As the unemployment rate rises to edge nearer and nearer to 8% in the month of January alone, I consider the new line on my roster of accomplishments, the reformed addict."
"That's good."
"You have no idea -- the bombed-out hollowness, the hypocrisy (say no to drugs, indeed -- after the first round of refusal, capitulation increased and it was wonderful, wonderful), the gist, Brad, is this: the lows and depths have only served to reinforce my death-grip on popular consciousness, the history of this country and the world."
"Whit -- "
"My name recognition increases. More people know me and my accomplishments, my trials and tribulations than ever before. I am larger than Patton. I am larger than Churchill. Joan of Ark is losing ground steadily."
"Uh -- "
"None of this is even my doing. I am iceberg-big, my depths are frozen. I don't even need to try anymore, such is the scope of my life and name. Nothing you do matters. You will outlive me in only the strictest sense. You are puny, hopeless. When I die, there will be a crater in your hive mind and heart, my death will be Chicxulub, my death will be millennial Black Death."
Then she hung up.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Boutique Comfort
We were watching baseball and the game was good.
We were eating beans and the beans were good.
We were watching the dead men and the dead men
weren't getting any less dead.
Everything was accounted for,
the trees were still, the ravine was deep,
the forest was deep and was getting dark.
The dark was getting deeper into the forest
which was also a part of all of us,
the densely wooded interior. We were
accounted for and getting deeper,
the dead men stayed put and we watched
them getting darker. We were watching baseball
and the game was good, we were ready for anything,
everything dead was accounted for in the dark.
We were eating beans and the beans were good.
We were watching the dead men and the dead men
weren't getting any less dead.
Everything was accounted for,
the trees were still, the ravine was deep,
the forest was deep and was getting dark.
The dark was getting deeper into the forest
which was also a part of all of us,
the densely wooded interior. We were
accounted for and getting deeper,
the dead men stayed put and we watched
them getting darker. We were watching baseball
and the game was good, we were ready for anything,
everything dead was accounted for in the dark.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
We Wrecked the Trucks
We wrecked the trucks and then
we screamed. We screamed
because we were covered
in blood. We were covered
in blood because we wrecked
the trucks. We wrecked the trucks
because we were screaming
and covered in blood.
we screamed. We screamed
because we were covered
in blood. We were covered
in blood because we wrecked
the trucks. We wrecked the trucks
because we were screaming
and covered in blood.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Dr. Ben Bernanke Dreams He Is Having Coffee with Martin Esslin
B:
I never wanted to be the fourth most powerful person in the world. As a child, I really liked to play saxophone, the clarinet. I listened to my father's records: Dixieland, swing, jazz. I grew up wanting to play big band numbers, to wear gleaming tuxedos. The world was in color, but I envisioned the future in black and white. Perhaps my dreams belong to another age.
M:
Nevertheless, the presence of companionship and family relationships lightens the despair of Ionesco's world. It would be wrong to regard his attitude as wholly pessimistic. He wants to make existence authentic, fully lived, by putting man face to face with the harsh realities of the human condition.
B:
The cafe au lait here is particularly good. I cannot order it, however, without thinking of that memorable, striking, chilling scene in The Stranger in which the protagonist enjoys some cafe au lait while sitting beside his recently deceased mother. Doesn't he care? Shouldn't we? Is monetary theory the dullest thing on earth?
M:
Are not Oedipus and Lear confronted with the full despair and absurdity of their human condition? In which our heroes experience the full disintegration of language, in which they lose first the power to act and then finally the power to even transmute their experiences into thought and speech? Are they animals? Are we, for yet sharing in their degradation? Is no part of the human spirit so well plumbed and illumined but our endless capacity for despair?
B:
Well. Should we go?
I never wanted to be the fourth most powerful person in the world. As a child, I really liked to play saxophone, the clarinet. I listened to my father's records: Dixieland, swing, jazz. I grew up wanting to play big band numbers, to wear gleaming tuxedos. The world was in color, but I envisioned the future in black and white. Perhaps my dreams belong to another age.
M:
Nevertheless, the presence of companionship and family relationships lightens the despair of Ionesco's world. It would be wrong to regard his attitude as wholly pessimistic. He wants to make existence authentic, fully lived, by putting man face to face with the harsh realities of the human condition.
B:
The cafe au lait here is particularly good. I cannot order it, however, without thinking of that memorable, striking, chilling scene in The Stranger in which the protagonist enjoys some cafe au lait while sitting beside his recently deceased mother. Doesn't he care? Shouldn't we? Is monetary theory the dullest thing on earth?
M:
Are not Oedipus and Lear confronted with the full despair and absurdity of their human condition? In which our heroes experience the full disintegration of language, in which they lose first the power to act and then finally the power to even transmute their experiences into thought and speech? Are they animals? Are we, for yet sharing in their degradation? Is no part of the human spirit so well plumbed and illumined but our endless capacity for despair?
B:
Well. Should we go?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Martin Esslin at the Laundromat
1
Martin Esslin sitting in front of a front-load washer. He watches his clothes turn and tumble in the suds. He whips out his notebook and begins scribbling furiously.
2
Martin Esslin flirting with a young mother.
3
Martin Esslin doesn't actually need to go to the laundromat. He has superior machines for cleaning clothes at his home. And yet he is drawn here...
4
Martin Essling watching the young mother drag her clean laundry through the laundromat's sliding door. He is transfixed by a purple sock.
5
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
6
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
7
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
8
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
9
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
10
Martin Esslin dreaming of a purple sock.
Martin Esslin sitting in front of a front-load washer. He watches his clothes turn and tumble in the suds. He whips out his notebook and begins scribbling furiously.
2
Martin Esslin flirting with a young mother.
3
Martin Esslin doesn't actually need to go to the laundromat. He has superior machines for cleaning clothes at his home. And yet he is drawn here...
4
Martin Essling watching the young mother drag her clean laundry through the laundromat's sliding door. He is transfixed by a purple sock.
5
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
6
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
7
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
8
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
9
Martin Esslin contemplating the purple sock.
10
Martin Esslin dreaming of a purple sock.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Martin Esslin at the Grocery
1
Martin Esslin picks up a mango. He realizes that in the essential point of existentialism, Genet's account agrees with Sartre. The mango looks too shiny under the grocery's bright lighting.
2
Martin Esslin bumps his cart into an elderly woman's cart. "Excuse me," he says.
3
Martin Esslin is buying laundry detergent. He considers the difference between liquid and granulated, with bleach or without. He resolves to wash his clothes only with vinegar from now on. He is well pleased with this decision.
4
Martin Esslin whispering into the bananas.
5
Martin Esslin at the deli. It is impossible to know what he is thinking about the plays of Wolfgang Bauer as he gets in line to place his order for assorted meats. Martin Esslin is preparing for a party.
Martin Esslin picks up a mango. He realizes that in the essential point of existentialism, Genet's account agrees with Sartre. The mango looks too shiny under the grocery's bright lighting.
2
Martin Esslin bumps his cart into an elderly woman's cart. "Excuse me," he says.
3
Martin Esslin is buying laundry detergent. He considers the difference between liquid and granulated, with bleach or without. He resolves to wash his clothes only with vinegar from now on. He is well pleased with this decision.
4
Martin Esslin whispering into the bananas.
5
Martin Esslin at the deli. It is impossible to know what he is thinking about the plays of Wolfgang Bauer as he gets in line to place his order for assorted meats. Martin Esslin is preparing for a party.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Martin Esslin at His Desk
1
Martin Esslin is thinking about how best to articulate the notion of anti-theatre. He fills a ream, and then another. He sips his tea. A little while later, he writes, "Who or what is the corpse that is growing so relentlessly?"
2
Martin Esslin wonders if he should spell theatre "theatre" or "theater". He decides on the former. He briefly wonders if he shouldn't be writing exclusively in German. He vacillates. He sighs. He begins.
3
Martin Esslin is thinking about what he's become. He grips his temples and screams, "Oh my god, what have I become!"
4
Martin Esslin is relaxing at his writing desk. He sips a bourbon and congratulates himself on finely delineating the new notion of the absurd. Shock and surprise, yes. He looks out his window to where he can see geese, a frozen pond.
5
Martin Esslin considers growing a slightly bushier moustache. After weighing the pros and cons, he reluctantly decides against it.
6
Martin Esslin think about his beloved and his beloved's habit of speaking certain vowels in a slightly odd way, as if there were some gusty protuberance behind "o"s and "ou"s that caused these vowels to billow every so slightly, exiting the mouth with a delicate puff...
7
Martin Esslin streams into the dark forest. As he flies away, a small village gathers to watch, shouting, "What is the moral!"
Martin Esslin is thinking about how best to articulate the notion of anti-theatre. He fills a ream, and then another. He sips his tea. A little while later, he writes, "Who or what is the corpse that is growing so relentlessly?"
2
Martin Esslin wonders if he should spell theatre "theatre" or "theater". He decides on the former. He briefly wonders if he shouldn't be writing exclusively in German. He vacillates. He sighs. He begins.
3
Martin Esslin is thinking about what he's become. He grips his temples and screams, "Oh my god, what have I become!"
4
Martin Esslin is relaxing at his writing desk. He sips a bourbon and congratulates himself on finely delineating the new notion of the absurd. Shock and surprise, yes. He looks out his window to where he can see geese, a frozen pond.
5
Martin Esslin considers growing a slightly bushier moustache. After weighing the pros and cons, he reluctantly decides against it.
6
Martin Esslin think about his beloved and his beloved's habit of speaking certain vowels in a slightly odd way, as if there were some gusty protuberance behind "o"s and "ou"s that caused these vowels to billow every so slightly, exiting the mouth with a delicate puff...
7
Martin Esslin streams into the dark forest. As he flies away, a small village gathers to watch, shouting, "What is the moral!"
A Short Note from Management: New InDigest Up Now
From David and Dustin. Enjoy:
Dear Readers,
Hopefully you've had time to get through all of the great work that was in our anniversary issue, because now we have even more outstanding poetry, art, reviews, and short fiction for you in our first issue of 2009.
For those of you in New York we're excited to also tell you about our new reading series in the art gallery space of (le) Poisson Rouge in New York's historic Greenwich Village. On March 4th, InDigest 1207 will take place for the third time (it happens the first Wednesday of every month). The first two were great, and we expect this one to be as well. We will be welcoming the poets Jibade-Khalil Huffman and Paul Dickinson (bios below). And if that's not enough, there will be free absinthe tasting from 6pm-7pm, just to get you in the right mood.
Now, the latest issue!
Narratives:
Mackenzie Epping takes us on disorienting trips through Germany and Nashville in "Auslaender" and "Nashville."
Poetics:
Mandy Herrick's "Bob Dylan's Cell Phone" and "They Say."
mumbling incessantly,
while thrown down the throat of the barrell,
ready for the trigger to lurch and smile
and say, can you hear me?
Gallery:
Kate Casanova's sculptures, inspired by social materials, those that are readily found in everyday life. These manufactured materials blend with natural forms to create otherly worlds, thought objects and new meaning.
Erratica:
Non-fiction is the focus this month as Bedside Stacks looks at the oddities of the English Language and turn of the century sideshows.
Part III of The Ulysses Sage (Tips 'n Tricks) takes the potential reader through the hooks and hang ups of Joyce's madness.
InDigest 1207
03/04/09
Jibade-Khalil Huffman was born in Detroit and raised in Florida. His poetry, fiction and photography have appeared in Boston Review, Court Green, NOON, Aufgabe, and Encyclopedia, among others. Educated at Bard College and Brown University, his awards include the Grolier Poetry Prize and fellowships from the Millay Colony for the Arts and the Ucross Foundation. "19 Names For Our Band" is his first book.
Paul D. Dickinson is a poet based in Minneapolis/ St. Paul. His work has appeared in City Pages, The St. Paul Pioneer Press, Request.com, and Conduit. Dickinson has read on Minnesota Public Radio, 93.7 "The Edge", KFAI, and 89.3 "The Current". He currently hosts the "Riot Act Reading Series" , a cutting edge literary event that features national and international writers. His latest spoken word CD is "Lord Byron Gets Busted" on Speedboat Records . He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from UMASS Amherst.
As always, thanks for reading.
David and Dustin,
Editors
InDigest is currently looking for design and editorial interns. If interested, for more information email Dustin at dlukenelson [at] gmail [dot] com and/or David at doody01 [at] gmail [dot] com.
If you'd like to support InDigest, here are a couple ways: forward this email to other people like you (you know, intelligent and good looking) or make a donation, money or office equipment. Email us at indigestmag [at] gmail [dot] com if you are interested.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
One, Two, Three, One, Two, Three
They were trying to decide what to name their new child. Shouldn't we determine it's gender before we decide on its name? Probably, yes. Are you going to look? No. How about Moonshine? Beamglow? Are you going to look? No.
They tried to determine what was in fashion these days, regarding the naming of children. They put the child down in an enclosed area where it slept, nameless, then they scoured newspapers and magazines in search of secret, coded information.
After the war ended, the man took the train across the European countryside. Every now and again, he would scribble furiously in his notebook. He was taking notes for his masterpiece, which would delight and confound, he imagined.
After the war ended, she took a train across the American countryside. She would look out at the rolling expanses of Middle America and a weariness would steal into her soul. She would hum a little then. This was the start of a very successful career in humming, and then much later, singing.
By the time war broke out again, they were ready. They had many cans of goods stocked in orderly towers and many deep rows. They had lots of ammunition. In the evenings, they turned off their generator and carefully kept the candles away from the windows, which were only partially blacked out.
The child would need a name at some point, but they were content for the time being to teach the child to count, which they did in two ways. One, they would have the child sort bullets, and two, they would have the child stand on their own, adult-sized feet, while they waltzed through the living room.
They tried to determine what was in fashion these days, regarding the naming of children. They put the child down in an enclosed area where it slept, nameless, then they scoured newspapers and magazines in search of secret, coded information.
After the war ended, the man took the train across the European countryside. Every now and again, he would scribble furiously in his notebook. He was taking notes for his masterpiece, which would delight and confound, he imagined.
After the war ended, she took a train across the American countryside. She would look out at the rolling expanses of Middle America and a weariness would steal into her soul. She would hum a little then. This was the start of a very successful career in humming, and then much later, singing.
By the time war broke out again, they were ready. They had many cans of goods stocked in orderly towers and many deep rows. They had lots of ammunition. In the evenings, they turned off their generator and carefully kept the candles away from the windows, which were only partially blacked out.
The child would need a name at some point, but they were content for the time being to teach the child to count, which they did in two ways. One, they would have the child sort bullets, and two, they would have the child stand on their own, adult-sized feet, while they waltzed through the living room.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Film Version of Somebody's Life, Probably
I once sat Beauty on my knee and hey I felt pretty good about it and but then I found out it had been done before, in fact several hundred years ago by someone with whom I share a name if not a story, which was kind of dispiriting, and but then I found out that the story that was his was undoubtedly (probably incomparably) better than my story:
(case in point: his story: shot-through-the-wrist, exile, long-nighttime-runs-through-the-European-countryside-and-but-also-transcontinental-nighttime-fleeing-while-also-managing-to-get-pretty-drunk-and-somehow-stay-that-way-while-writing-some-literature-of-enduring-value)
even though his story is done (death) and my story (not death (yet)) is currently in the long and occasionally tedious, occasionally exhilarating process of being written:
(case in point: my story: eight-hour-non-eventful-bus-ride, after-work-long-lines-at-grocery-store-for-sprouts-and-bananas v. swinging-naked-from-the-trapeze-after-sneaking-into-the-circus v. quiet-moment-in-the-daisy-field-recalling-lost-love which is maybe somewhere in between the two depending on the slant of light)
and but so who needs that kind of pressure, and but do you know where you go once you've been there with Beauty, well, a bunch of stuff and places, naturally, some hats that are at once silly and expensive, fistfuls of candy corn, the paradoxical quality of outlying pillars of a culture in genial decline and but ultimately again a slant of light that illuminates streams of motes, an unsuccessful operation.
(case in point: his story: shot-through-the-wrist, exile, long-nighttime-runs-through-the-European-countryside-and-but-also-transcontinental-nighttime-fleeing-while-also-managing-to-get-pretty-drunk-and-somehow-stay-that-way-while-writing-some-literature-of-enduring-value)
even though his story is done (death) and my story (not death (yet)) is currently in the long and occasionally tedious, occasionally exhilarating process of being written:
(case in point: my story: eight-hour-non-eventful-bus-ride, after-work-long-lines-at-grocery-store-for-sprouts-and-bananas v. swinging-naked-from-the-trapeze-after-sneaking-into-the-circus v. quiet-moment-in-the-daisy-field-recalling-lost-love which is maybe somewhere in between the two depending on the slant of light)
and but so who needs that kind of pressure, and but do you know where you go once you've been there with Beauty, well, a bunch of stuff and places, naturally, some hats that are at once silly and expensive, fistfuls of candy corn, the paradoxical quality of outlying pillars of a culture in genial decline and but ultimately again a slant of light that illuminates streams of motes, an unsuccessful operation.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Found Poem: CNN.Com
What stars get for free.
Slain actress found dark side of Hollywood.
A month of living perfectly.
Chimp had tea, Xanax before attack.
TV station founder beheads wife.
Mauling chimp had Lyme disease.
Shark takes chunk out of beloved dolphin.
One charger for most cells by 2012.
UFO still mystery, not space debris.
Slain actress found dark side of Hollywood.
A month of living perfectly.
Chimp had tea, Xanax before attack.
TV station founder beheads wife.
Mauling chimp had Lyme disease.
Shark takes chunk out of beloved dolphin.
One charger for most cells by 2012.
UFO still mystery, not space debris.
Monday, February 16, 2009
So I Can Put It Back
You can't fool me into thinking
there's not a ton of poison on this tongue,
but seriously, you gotta tell me
whose tongue this is and where it came from.
there's not a ton of poison on this tongue,
but seriously, you gotta tell me
whose tongue this is and where it came from.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Radicalizing Three Quarter-Hearted Assent
Even blunt instruments of death
like the lake, its greens and blues.
Not that we know any instruments
of death, blunt or otherwise.
What's the opposite of blunt?
The greens and blues of the lake
shift with the sun, which is
the opposite of the lake, which is
itself the opposite of ice cream
stuck in a young man's mustache
and somewhere in the middle of all that,
night, and maybe skinny dipping.
like the lake, its greens and blues.
Not that we know any instruments
of death, blunt or otherwise.
What's the opposite of blunt?
The greens and blues of the lake
shift with the sun, which is
the opposite of the lake, which is
itself the opposite of ice cream
stuck in a young man's mustache
and somewhere in the middle of all that,
night, and maybe skinny dipping.
The Furthest Thing From Snot
Bluebirds bust through the shrubs,
their song decimating the landscape
with silly trill, hell,
even the shrubs managing to tear
a whole through my heart the size
of an elephant and my heart
only anteater-big.
It's that time of year when that happens,
you know, when beauty slaps you.
Momentarily harpoons you, the trees
blossoming then freezing. Pink petals
in ice, slick in the afternoon sun.
their song decimating the landscape
with silly trill, hell,
even the shrubs managing to tear
a whole through my heart the size
of an elephant and my heart
only anteater-big.
It's that time of year when that happens,
you know, when beauty slaps you.
Momentarily harpoons you, the trees
blossoming then freezing. Pink petals
in ice, slick in the afternoon sun.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
How You Can Tell This Couple Is Totally In Love
He's never thought
of a cave full
of vomit and
unidentifiable
animal remains
and residue
or about
punching out
Ringo Starr,
just as she
has never thought
of pouring hot
coffee on a
visiting dignitary
or of herself
for that matter as
a low-flying cloud
passing slowly
through a city
surrounded by lindens
which is weird
since that's
what she is
and also him.
of a cave full
of vomit and
unidentifiable
animal remains
and residue
or about
punching out
Ringo Starr,
just as she
has never thought
of pouring hot
coffee on a
visiting dignitary
or of herself
for that matter as
a low-flying cloud
passing slowly
through a city
surrounded by lindens
which is weird
since that's
what she is
and also him.
Not Quite Beating the Spread
We swear we almost hear a song
but here we are in sweatpants,
unable to remember our combination,
fumbling through the snow,
gassy, dropping change,
and the moment is all wrong,
we dimly apprehend
the dignified solemnity
of the next hour, week,
hell, even a whole month
of rarefied thought and expression,
which is in full-on danger
by the Tabasco sauce spotting
our t-shirts, shit, even our t-shirts
themselves, waving and snapping
in the wind like flags of surrender,
we didn't even know we were fighting.
but here we are in sweatpants,
unable to remember our combination,
fumbling through the snow,
gassy, dropping change,
and the moment is all wrong,
we dimly apprehend
the dignified solemnity
of the next hour, week,
hell, even a whole month
of rarefied thought and expression,
which is in full-on danger
by the Tabasco sauce spotting
our t-shirts, shit, even our t-shirts
themselves, waving and snapping
in the wind like flags of surrender,
we didn't even know we were fighting.
At the Quorum on Human Suffering
We aestheticize the suffering of others
and are compensated, handsomely.
Toot toot, I'm in a Mercedes!
We eat strange animals
and consider how to describe
the sparks falling
from the train tracks
into the snow.
Late at night,
when our lovers are asleep
and we turn over, touching
the cool side of the pillow
with our cheeks,
we look at the bedroom wall,
which is white, and think
of salt licks buried in deep forests
and wonder who put them there.
and are compensated, handsomely.
Toot toot, I'm in a Mercedes!
We eat strange animals
and consider how to describe
the sparks falling
from the train tracks
into the snow.
Late at night,
when our lovers are asleep
and we turn over, touching
the cool side of the pillow
with our cheeks,
we look at the bedroom wall,
which is white, and think
of salt licks buried in deep forests
and wonder who put them there.
The Timeless Deaths of the Bourgeoisie III
Follow the money, they said.
Now my mother is on drugs.
You can see it in her eyes,
which are blue,
like mine.
The gulls sail out over the water.
This is the last time
we will ever see each other
and I don't even know
who I'm talking to.
(PS: The Factory-Machine Management Collective have been in Chicago and kind of busy and without the internet and chasing dreams. Normal posting is to resume soon.)
Now my mother is on drugs.
You can see it in her eyes,
which are blue,
like mine.
The gulls sail out over the water.
This is the last time
we will ever see each other
and I don't even know
who I'm talking to.
(PS: The Factory-Machine Management Collective have been in Chicago and kind of busy and without the internet and chasing dreams. Normal posting is to resume soon.)
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Timeless Deaths of the Bourgeoisie II
All my stock was in peanut butter.
My children are disappointed
to learn that their names
are also Manhattan seafood restaurants.
My children are disappointed
to learn that their names
are also Manhattan seafood restaurants.
The Timeless Deaths of the Bourgeoisie
Fending off the dogs
and making a mad dash
to the hot air balloon
only to be buried
under a mountain of
modestly priced champagne.
and making a mad dash
to the hot air balloon
only to be buried
under a mountain of
modestly priced champagne.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Idiocy for Dummies
We didn't think things would get worse
until they did and still it took a while to register.
We should've paid more attention in school.
Exhibit A: King Lear.
Exhibit B: find the electron.
Exhibit C: cut finger,
lemon juice, Ode to Joy
stuck on repeat in a three second loop
so it sounds like the world is beginning
and ending, beginning and ending.
We should've realized that
this was the normal run of things,
probably you'd never get to see
a giant panda scooting up a tree,
that at the end of this scene,
or beginning of the next,
Gloucester would slowly emerge,
stage left, led by the hand
by some kind, forgettable character.
until they did and still it took a while to register.
We should've paid more attention in school.
Exhibit A: King Lear.
Exhibit B: find the electron.
Exhibit C: cut finger,
lemon juice, Ode to Joy
stuck on repeat in a three second loop
so it sounds like the world is beginning
and ending, beginning and ending.
We should've realized that
this was the normal run of things,
probably you'd never get to see
a giant panda scooting up a tree,
that at the end of this scene,
or beginning of the next,
Gloucester would slowly emerge,
stage left, led by the hand
by some kind, forgettable character.
Monday, February 9, 2009
This Is Just to Say: O Deanna! (I Ate the Last of the Red Velvet Cake and I'm Not Sorry)
If you're more than halfway to Phoenix
there's no point in turning back around,
the cake is ruined, your birthday
is gone and already we work on the next.
By "we" I mean "time," I guess,
I can't say I'm working on it right now.
There's no real point in pretending
you're even thinking of coming back
to our small wooden cabin in the snow,
to once again turn your backward-
looking leathered face into the windy sand.
It's too far gone to be considered
sandy wind. Also, in some sense
I'm talking about you, of course,
your face, I mean. Are there those
cow skulls in the sand where you are?
I always imagine cow skulls dotting
the edge of the road with semi-
regularity like lights on a Christmas tree.
I almost forgot to ask about cacti.
I always imagine you getting lost
there, in the desert, the cacti
seeming to move around when you turn
your back back around and clamber
over the beaten aluminum fence
and enter the dark mouth of the cave,
which might also be you, I guess,
your mouth, of course, dark and deep,
as the storm worsens and worsens.
there's no point in turning back around,
the cake is ruined, your birthday
is gone and already we work on the next.
By "we" I mean "time," I guess,
I can't say I'm working on it right now.
There's no real point in pretending
you're even thinking of coming back
to our small wooden cabin in the snow,
to once again turn your backward-
looking leathered face into the windy sand.
It's too far gone to be considered
sandy wind. Also, in some sense
I'm talking about you, of course,
your face, I mean. Are there those
cow skulls in the sand where you are?
I always imagine cow skulls dotting
the edge of the road with semi-
regularity like lights on a Christmas tree.
I almost forgot to ask about cacti.
I always imagine you getting lost
there, in the desert, the cacti
seeming to move around when you turn
your back back around and clamber
over the beaten aluminum fence
and enter the dark mouth of the cave,
which might also be you, I guess,
your mouth, of course, dark and deep,
as the storm worsens and worsens.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
A Short Note from Management: InDigest 1207 Reading Series
I don't know for certain, but I'm guessing that probably, like, four people actually read this thing. And two out of those four are close family or friends. So, for those last couple of people out there, do you happen to live in the NYC area?
If so, you should really check out the reading series that David Luke Doody and Dustin Luke Nelson, the industrious gentlemen from InDigest Magazine, are running. It's called InDigest 1207 and it's been running already for some months and all the details are here.
The next reading is coming up soon. Like, it will be here before you know it. If you live in NYC or the immediate area, you should dress up purty (or not) and attend.
The View From a Human Growth Hormone
Our grasp of geography is shaky.
Our view is fixed on this step,
this square. We've heard about
shame and such but things
look good in the wheelhouse.
Nothing much surprises us.
Our view is fixed on this step,
this square. We've heard about
shame and such but things
look good in the wheelhouse.
Nothing much surprises us.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
My Wasted 28th Year
It started with chainsaws,
the sound of them, anyway,
and it got worse. As in,
alligators on the loose.
As in, moldy avocado, as in,
job hunt, job hunt, job hunt.
I swore off of Beyonce
but not Whitney Houston,
I listened to all the sad old songs
and cried my little heart out
as if a heart, any heart,
could be little, even in the ant,
the bat, the eel, whose heart
beats for many minutes after
the animal itself is killed.
I listened to all the sad old songs again.
The sky looked all right.
I was a doofus.
The sky looked all right.
The cats went up in the trees.
That was the last I saw of them.
the sound of them, anyway,
and it got worse. As in,
alligators on the loose.
As in, moldy avocado, as in,
job hunt, job hunt, job hunt.
I swore off of Beyonce
but not Whitney Houston,
I listened to all the sad old songs
and cried my little heart out
as if a heart, any heart,
could be little, even in the ant,
the bat, the eel, whose heart
beats for many minutes after
the animal itself is killed.
I listened to all the sad old songs again.
The sky looked all right.
I was a doofus.
The sky looked all right.
The cats went up in the trees.
That was the last I saw of them.
Friday, February 6, 2009
You Suck, Dave
If I were a giant lumberjack
and you were a conifer
I'd chop you down
and burn you for warmth.
and you were a conifer
I'd chop you down
and burn you for warmth.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I'm Winning, I'm Winning, I'm a Winner
Lately I've been having
this contest with myself:
I try to see how many times
I can sabotage myself
and in how many ways.
There is a highly complex
scoring system at work.
That is what these columns
of smiley and sad faces indicate.
There is a highly complex
referendum between the
pre-frontal cortex and
the chippy lizard brain.
Droooooooooooooooooooool.
Someday I will run for office.
Orange you glad I didn't say
banana, sticky dirty bomb?
Anyway, this is why I am
standing here like I am,
sans pants with an empty jar
of Ragu, covered in booze
and aggressive tattoos,
Beyonce's latest hit song
booming from the busted-ass
boombox beside me, when
I really should be leading
a seminar in job sensitivity
(All the single ladies (All
the single ladies!), All
the single ladies (All
the single ladies!))! all
the way down the long dark hall.
this contest with myself:
I try to see how many times
I can sabotage myself
and in how many ways.
There is a highly complex
scoring system at work.
That is what these columns
of smiley and sad faces indicate.
There is a highly complex
referendum between the
pre-frontal cortex and
the chippy lizard brain.
Droooooooooooooooooooool.
Someday I will run for office.
Orange you glad I didn't say
banana, sticky dirty bomb?
Anyway, this is why I am
standing here like I am,
sans pants with an empty jar
of Ragu, covered in booze
and aggressive tattoos,
Beyonce's latest hit song
booming from the busted-ass
boombox beside me, when
I really should be leading
a seminar in job sensitivity
(All the single ladies (All
the single ladies!), All
the single ladies (All
the single ladies!))! all
the way down the long dark hall.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
25 Things About Me
There's a kitty in the corner.
Look at it, not drowned.
His un-drowned name is Oscar.
The mailman loses one of my bills.
This would be okay with me, actually, but.
Is the gap between signifier and signified.
There is a far klaxon.
Drawing nearer.
I too hear the siren song.
I too wish to heave myself onto the rocks.
I am not a barge.
I am not even a rowboat.
This would also be okay with me, but.
What was that.
I am like Oscar in some ways.
In other ways I am like someone named Brad.
Someone with brown eyes, looking at Chile.
The self dives into the ocean of self.
Comes up for a big breath of self.
Is refreshed.
Is decimated.
Is refreshed.
Is Wednesday.
Practices field hygiene but poorly.
I have nineteen tattoos.
Three of my five ex-wives are the same person.
Is full of hate.
Is not a problem.
I am in Tijuana and I'm not coming back.
Is lost.
I cannot see.
Drumroll, please.
The stairwell isn't a stairwell.
It is a thick column of smoke.
In a week, a dozen struggling men arrive.
Many buckets of white paint in their hands.
Look at it, not drowned.
His un-drowned name is Oscar.
The mailman loses one of my bills.
This would be okay with me, actually, but.
Is the gap between signifier and signified.
There is a far klaxon.
Drawing nearer.
I too hear the siren song.
I too wish to heave myself onto the rocks.
I am not a barge.
I am not even a rowboat.
This would also be okay with me, but.
What was that.
I am like Oscar in some ways.
In other ways I am like someone named Brad.
Someone with brown eyes, looking at Chile.
The self dives into the ocean of self.
Comes up for a big breath of self.
Is refreshed.
Is decimated.
Is refreshed.
Is Wednesday.
Practices field hygiene but poorly.
I have nineteen tattoos.
Three of my five ex-wives are the same person.
Is full of hate.
Is not a problem.
I am in Tijuana and I'm not coming back.
Is lost.
I cannot see.
Drumroll, please.
The stairwell isn't a stairwell.
It is a thick column of smoke.
In a week, a dozen struggling men arrive.
Many buckets of white paint in their hands.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
How the Cocktail Party Finally Ended (or: the Very Very Last (or: Worse, First) Room in Hell)
No one knew what else to do,
Twister was a total bust
and the dip was gone
and there was nothing left to say
about Sartre or eschatology
and we were looking at each other
like stunned birds,
carrots halfway to our mouths
when a disheveled man
with a mustache and a revolver
and murder in his eyes
walked into the room and we were so
thankful we didn't know whether to grasp
his beautiful knees or weep or both.
Twister was a total bust
and the dip was gone
and there was nothing left to say
about Sartre or eschatology
and we were looking at each other
like stunned birds,
carrots halfway to our mouths
when a disheveled man
with a mustache and a revolver
and murder in his eyes
walked into the room and we were so
thankful we didn't know whether to grasp
his beautiful knees or weep or both.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Six Orangutans Versus a Half-Dozen Orangutans
True or False: Now is not the time for an orangutan.
The correct answer is false: all the time
is orangutan time, it's just that large reddish-
brown arboreal animals whose diet consists of 65%
fruit are better suited at some times --
bubble-bath-wedding-cake-roller-skate-dis-
aster-at-the-fireworks-factory-jungles-
of-Borneo-and-Sumatra, for instance --
than others -- burn unit.
But it's all orangutans, all the time,
such as the orangutan with problem-solving
abilities, feeding tools, and blood-matted fur
you don't even see as you leave the bat mitzvah.
The correct answer is false: all the time
is orangutan time, it's just that large reddish-
brown arboreal animals whose diet consists of 65%
fruit are better suited at some times --
bubble-bath-wedding-cake-roller-skate-dis-
aster-at-the-fireworks-factory-jungles-
of-Borneo-and-Sumatra, for instance --
than others -- burn unit.
But it's all orangutans, all the time,
such as the orangutan with problem-solving
abilities, feeding tools, and blood-matted fur
you don't even see as you leave the bat mitzvah.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
You Are a Spy and I Know You Are a Spy
Everything about you tells me that you are a spy. Your dress. Your bearing. Stop pretending. Why don't you just give it up now? Some of the ways I know that you are a spy include: the way your eyes shift laterally, back and forth, back and forth, taking in your environs while simultaneously creating a nearly hypnotic movement of thought, a swaying that even now I must struggle against lest you lull me into potentially dreadful or even fatal complacency. This is but one way, and hastily described. Another way: your precise and comprehensive grasp of geography.
A trend is beginning to emerge in even just these two hastily described instances: you are confidently and supremely aware of your environs, where you are located on both the micro-level (in a chair, in this room, facing the door, positioned in such a way that you can see almost two-hundred and eighty degrees around you, you have within easy reach the following items: a watch (time set last night), a cell phone (fully charged battery), a snub-nosed revolver (strapped to your left calf, a place to which you are accustomed to strapping a gun, you are very used to the added weight and bulk and your movements unconsciously take into account the added weight and heft), a knife, several knives, in fact, one, two, three, as well as on the macro-level (still re: your spatial intelligence and acuity): we are here, us two, looking at each other, right now, in this city, in this country, the ocean is just over there, there is a bird in mid-flight outside the window right now over your left shoulder, its red breast flashes by, you know the bird is about to sing a split-second before it does, the bird opens its break and throat and: now.
A trend is beginning to emerge in even just these two hastily described instances: you are confidently and supremely aware of your environs, where you are located on both the micro-level (in a chair, in this room, facing the door, positioned in such a way that you can see almost two-hundred and eighty degrees around you, you have within easy reach the following items: a watch (time set last night), a cell phone (fully charged battery), a snub-nosed revolver (strapped to your left calf, a place to which you are accustomed to strapping a gun, you are very used to the added weight and bulk and your movements unconsciously take into account the added weight and heft), a knife, several knives, in fact, one, two, three, as well as on the macro-level (still re: your spatial intelligence and acuity): we are here, us two, looking at each other, right now, in this city, in this country, the ocean is just over there, there is a bird in mid-flight outside the window right now over your left shoulder, its red breast flashes by, you know the bird is about to sing a split-second before it does, the bird opens its break and throat and: now.
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