the dada magazine about nothing
N A D A
And here He was, bad weather! Altruistic in the least, a decent friend, a complacent enemy. But here He was! Also a liar, at most a great thief, as well a sly rascal. Quoting the Multitudes all day long, the anarchists and other rebellious song. He walked in the roads, split intersections at random juncture, rode his bike around the autos swerving and swearing, spitting and pitting his nerve against an iconic champion of a thing he despised. If He sees another Dandelion again He will fucking scream. These rocks don't deserve homes. He will displace them all. Hailing down with an unhealthy hatred towards life and love and most things, settled down into lethargic envy of the success that surrounded him. I speak of course of the good weather. For good weather is always good, and this causes Him much anger and even regret. He asks questions in relation to the weather, like two bored, awkward gentlemen standing in proximity to one another. "Enjoying the rain?"
Nothing more to say, an aparent elation to one another. "Oh, you know."
Even a resentment towards their own situation. To find themselves in a place of such uneasiness and apparent calm discord. A common ground found indeed. They declare! Been void this week - tired and sore. A parcel of sickness - spilt onto your door. When their terms have been set, and an understanding has been reached, they sadly come to realize that their reality is defunct, and that They is actually a He. And thus the doors have opened, this is HIS Dada. There are many like it. But this "one" is HIS own. And if I see another Dandelion I swear to God we'll be displeased.
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I missed the Vietnam war, but not the sorrow afterwards- livers are moving under the clouds as if another set of eyes ( opening and closing- penetrating me with cold stares). I follow the angels of treason and vengeance and we are lovers, some do this, others collect stamps- in the interest of disregarding the collective rumblings of our fellow citizens, both are of equal value, that is to say, valueless. History becomes a redundancy on top of a redundancy. I wander crowded streets breathing and shouting ( gasping at invisible gods) then the collective windpipe collaspes, falling around us like ash. Then we walk home, to the old rain-drenched wood of the northwest, the feeling that those who never yelped knew something more than we do.
We sure dont know much, we could say this again and again and still be in the dark, rapping on the cellar door or the floorboards, well of the earth, the rattling of the heart of man; man dragging the corspe of the mountains ( rising and falling like a million stone kingdoms) into his mouth.
You got a big mouth, someone should knock you out. You come all the way downtown talking the mad junkie jabbing song of suicide- but you know ( ha, lets out the boy, almost without dictation from his nervous system ( and nervous the boy is) they believe you and you believe yourself, the way it once was, and will be again- its only death your better angels or demons whisper into your ear- we were once death and we shall end that way, no bargain no partisan, life isn’t over, it never began. But to sing the great solitude that your heart leverages against the truth, there’s something to it ( the rhythm, a cursing piercing cry in the pulse) something to the heavy downpour of living. We all gotta live, sad but true, most of us dont, so the struggle is pretty mute- make sense? you should live, but instead, you laze about believing that going downtown to rat infested cocktail bars will bring about the salvation of the earth ( because you’re yelling about it, while the midday drunks just pee, right there on the counter- which, unfortunately, you don’t find too funny, sometimes you scawl- you try to hide it, hand on foreheada real thinking prophet pose- but I see it, I know, Ive always known, we are brothers, lovers, mistresses of the other world chant, but we never acknowledge this). That would be too public. A real tragedy. Period. Yeah we talk, I like to think of myself as the shadow beneath the rambling empire, but all shadows wither, and me, no less.
We missed the war, but we didnt miss the sorrow afterwards. I remember saying that to a friend, in truth, a figment of my imagination ( but have you ever been strung out and hungry, in the belly of the foreign frontier- where only the elephants know how to speak- vibrations echoing through the savannah and unleashing an earthquake of sorrow: the language of giants) I was watching the TV, and there was a crack in the wall that started to open up, more and more, then i thought about whether a crack up is a sure sign of our coming salvation, or, a sure sign that our minds, bodies, souls (?) were going to the dogs ( as that rather strange expression goes). A woman cradled a plastic baby on her stoop, her sobs and laughter became mixed and overpowered everything for a while- before the sound of a siren and an engine backfiring or a gunshot ringing in the salty air of philadelphia drowned it out. I turned to you (myself) and felt only a drawn out feeling of emptiness.
The waves that depart the high broadcast towers are the songs of the sirens. The sirens of the early 20's, hidden taking shelter in the transmission rooms of the college. It is the rumble of the fog monster, with red traffic eyes. the radio statics in the valleys, you know the one by your house. you could flip your car into neutral and coast. But i hear that's bad for your engine. A radio man told me that. He also told me that deer look both ways before they cross the street. Can you imagine the myths that deer mothers tell their dear children? Some shit about how her grandmother was struck by the traffic monster, with blinding traffic eyes. Now Brother, I'll lead us, and we'll look both ways, always. Anyways, have you ever driven around the countryside on a full moon? it's pretty awesome, head south and turn off your lights. Just make sure the coast is clear, as well as the clouds. And be careful. You don't want to hit any deer now. And if you do I guess that's cool too. It will just lower the deer to human ratio, and thus there will be less deer on the road to hit. See, the problem solves itself. Nature runs its course. The ferry rides beside me on this stretch of road. Into the bends, down the bay, that roll inâ€™n outâ€™a town. Like one of those super kitschy paintings you give your Mom, with warm loving eyes. But that was when you were pure about art. Before you knew its real power. Halfway through a turn you press the gas. glowing lines guide you, trees confine you. An exhaust cloud trails you,The old fishing village is just around the corner. You remember, we drank beers on the rocks under the bridge. And talked about going to the island in the bay. It was accessible only by boat, which I thought was the more appealing part. I keep a spare person in the car . Someone to just sit in the passenger seat. Word around town is that the passenger is more likely to get injured or even killed than the driver. Come to think of it, I wouldn't want to live with that. Fuck, I guess it's all or nothing. The road along the Canal was always calm. It rains, it pours, it shines. We swerve in the lane, cross the single road bridges. And see ourselves from across the canal. Not with our eyes, but with the hands of the clock. We could drive forever, but the sun will rise soon. And when her rays hit the Earth we will be invisible again. Just bodies among the many others that fold their blankets and start their coffee pots. I fold the blanket over my head and dream again in dark and silence.
You can call me sweetheart You’re obviously Aware. Single-file hand to hand Needle to needle The money for the drugs Go round and round And they shake and spatter On my counter with Dollar bills and pennies Enough diaphragm to drive Away the neighborhood. Bathroom key flying Like hotel rooms And the coke Can’t smell quick enough The new baby looks like his dad Double normal eye size Mom almost fell on him On the stairs, It was early. “When will you fix the problem?” showered patrons ask There’s a bearded veteran Half sweet half black tea Stumbling on compliments Pitching the proper Swearwords when Cussing out tourists Like most black comedies Not sure whether to laugh Or grimace. “You know my friend… with the ponytail?” Of course. “He didn’t make it Tuesday.” He called me sweetheart Smiling wise like a Beat-up uncle And now the lines Left his wise smile imprinted On the dirt somewhere By the freeway.
Just think about the haze that left the lips of juniper trees, growing and then lost, in the forests of Minnesota; Think of the shoulders of farm girls in the hushed winds that sloop through the praries ( corridors through the apocalypse), Winter leaves shaving the inheritance- Just think, smiling and fingering the glue between your thighsand smile and understandThere was never anything gained or trampled on in the dark hallways of inertia, huddled between the closet and the elevators 3rd right & around the corner, something that catches- something to think - just think, It was never safe- just to think, the huddled mass is just lost thoughts yours and mine, I mean Thoughts that are echoes of our reflections over the mirror, caught on the window- blazing in the warm light of early spring ( these days are blessed with the teeth of kings and the wail among the brick, the cardboard mansions, and the lonely exiled- sitting mile per mile, under the dungeon and breathing the fumes- purring into the white stucco prisons, and yawning- we bless them, our inwards, turn away from us) thoughts that catch us, nestle into the scars. and then- all at once- vanish.
The next person who asks me to repeat myself will be decked. I recognize her words Slapped out against muscles Drooping and contracting With burden The unspoken hierarchy Of limp and legless to shaven, Sexed up pedestrians. Pound on her chair Morning in, Afternoon out Strangers never bending low To exchange pupils Short and unglued Open speed smile Maintaining footpace Forcefields Whipping heads Away From unfamiliar Posture.
Where we will stand I, not knowing how to hold The bar she Is a veteran.
Should I push you? She shakes no, Against the hierarchy of Mobility. Ataxia jerking wheels To the next room
She rants About ex-husbands cop visits, running away and thieving neighbors. Like bizarre happy hour I react And hand bites of food She doesnâ€™t care for You are a brat Just like my cat. Weirdly honored. We sit at the round table Agreeing that running Is a bore Anyways.
She had green eyes as she grabbed his hand heading toward the mouth that had opened in the street shaking lips and grinning with grey teeth swallowing air, she muttered smothering her on his then laughing it's a party we're going to, one where we scrape knees on blades and hammers to atone, cried the mouth the whole city blind jilted orange light that seeped through skin- shields skulls We had a dream and shaven the head of knights children who once tended graves that were filled only with rotten meat Our tears clamber beneath the rug and caress us careless as empty parks the highways receding to the prairies pictures or memories that never happened just things I listen for between the walls and breath a heavy ocular rhythm on an empty street around midnight only hands in an airless city his and hers
Seven pounds bad luck For each year of broken mirrors! Your pup starved, trained to follow Poor Benito at his best freinds head stone The sky full of floating feathers But the only song is from the gunbird A pistol sticking up from his pants Apologizing to anyone who makes eye contact Art need no purpose Only death need. Only devil need. Need the parade of monsters and eternal flames And the last shrill cry from abandoned houses But the need is just a hoax Plankton will continue glowing in the Strait of Juan de Fuca Don’t worry, as seals Silently glide through the twilight waters Two chickadees shatter Before her majesty’s opera singer From wide shadowy moans The fist of amethyst punches a hole Through the great Ocean skin, and sinks Onto the back of an ancient sea turtle Subterranean passageway on the conveyor belt Tropic Current’s carriage The crystal will always Eventually be found Emerging from the mud of a very small Uninhabited island near Polynesia The uninhabitant’s head was shaven in a stupor By a black sandpaper hand descending from the sky He took it Upon himself, to destroy the crystal, upon himself To lose! The loose flock of empty feathers still hung In the air. Completing their migration Across the pacific; While bright warm Kool-Aid Pours down my forehead The bullet’s ring, will feedback Into OUR heads for eternity To lose OUR heads! Is the need for a well-upholstered hell!
The stars aren't hung by strings No one cranks the gears that turn the Earth and the moon They told me that It was a bright sky that night they picked me up And took me on their spaceship You never really know who answers when you go hitchhiking in the midnight It was rather quick I might add, like they'd been following me for a while. These aliens were chill aliens They looked just like you and me I was surprised I was expecting those grey ones with the eyes I lie back in the lightless room The weight of my body, the pressing pressing of veins Blood is unsteady It drips from fingertips into a cup of water I'll hold it, till it's ready Till the blood has found each other They will bind together When it stops, the drips that is Then your cup is full Give it a second Slowly, Slowly tip the cup Let the water pour out It's quite easy But don't let the blood fall Keep it in the cup It's coagulated now, it should hold It's nice and firm Now let it roll out Slowly, Slowly Let it roll to the rim Let it get a taste of gravity The longer it is in the air, the faster it will accelerate The journey down 5 feet of air is immense And with the same intensity the blood releases All along the floor All over your legs They slither together in slow motion Each bubble has its ripple
The dust covered him head to toe, his hand gripped the steel pipe and he looked drawn, tired. We had traveled through the cold barren ravines of rock for many days (to be honest, I don't know how many, only that he stared at me like a vulture and cooed) Artifacts buried under stone that had collapsed into dust. now swept by the wind, this is all I know. We are ghosts and our hands spin the wheel. It's that simple, we do not exist, the plains rain sulfur on us, and we drown and choke- our vomit and blood are like bread crumbs, leading to the invisible sun- the sun that hangs over the land like a knife. Somebody told me once, in an hour of strangling that the world is the same as it once was. A man sitting at his farm said the same thing, we use steel instead of wood, we drink grains and get drunk, but the grains are no longer the grains tilled by us, still everything remains the same, castles still stand above us, their stride still dictates the way our mouths move, the world is the same, and we, starved by it. How can this be, when we are so ill, cradling the bed or the toilet and mixing our bones into powder? the city was in the distance, over the horizon and neither of us felt like talking, we lit cigarettes and watched the trees huddle around the knees of the mountain. We stopped in a small grocery store and bought some tall cans (24 oz Bud Lite, it was all they had.) then we continued on, drinking in silence and watching the suburbs rise from the mist of the early morning. We are the foresaken sons of the lowlands, lands that are not our own, but we play in them, die in them- crashing our car into the barricades outside the city-county line, and we mourn. The dead punks from the wayward country march in the valley of orange and black light and turn (slowly, year after year) into shadows. We are ghosts, not even our reflections are us, but instead, the mocking of the birds in walnut trees, bracing the branches of trees that have been castrated decades before. In the car we look at one another and think about things that seem meaningless and lovely, silk hands that caress the tabernacle, where do we come from if not this land. and why the lowlands? Do the western states burn hotter or are we just wasps, searching for dirty water to lay our lives in? My mother sprouted a thousand eggs and they all waned in their early years of birth, burnt out or drowned, and then she had more, in the lowlands among all the insects cradling their hives and dying for their hands to bash in skulls at the slightest command. We aren't ants, we're men, almost children I shout, breaking the silence that is the mold around the windows - the windows; fall there is only our breath, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer, we stop in a small store and get more gas. You never say a word, but a few tears roll down your cheek, we sigh- the names of the living are like a great to do list, when their eyes are blind, you cross them out. The blinding of the lowlands, this is our only way, to find whatever it is that makes this place home and other lands, invisible. This is the way the world changes, and this is the way it stays the same. I point to the tops of some buildings, the domes are so round, unclear; I shudder. You laugh, a laugh like the devil (as i heard someone say once). Shattering, the cackles launched from your throat ghosts can only tread the dead land.
= = -
There are short days and long
gniliec eht ta gnirats llits dna ,ainotataC ,aionaraP ,airohpsyD
ÂŠ 2012 draoB lairotidE adaN 3# 1SN devreseR sthgiR llA