the dada magazine about nothing
N A D A
A phenomenal mass of laminate and wood pulp stood, as a nonexistent truth on a tiny spec of empty conference room spacetime, vibrating so slowly that it remained twenty years in the past. Coordinator's meetings gathered around it for what would seem to be a blink of an eye, before they would disperse and jump back into the world speeding by, leaving its dull varnished surface pock-marked by rings of spilled coffee.
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By that time, however, I had already had my first run in with a bit of trouble and learned not to talk to or take hand bills from people on the street. But she was beautiful. Thus, in order to be friendly I accepted a “ticket” for free entry into a nightclub. “Come, I show you where it is,” she entreated me. “Oh, no thank you, maybe I’ll come by later,” I said, not wanting to get too involved in her invitation. “It’s very close, it won’t take any time.” So I figured I would humor her for just a brief moment and then insist I must be on my way. At the door she insisted I come in, to which I replied that I couldn’t, I was far too busy and I would be back later. “Oh you don’t have to stay, just take a quick look.” And against what better judgment I should have had, we entered. Immediately I was somewhat forcibly sat down and straightaway was flanked by two exotic dancers and was not exactly being restrained but was not easily able to move under the weight my ebulliently friendly hostesses were applying to my thighs. I believe out of the corner of my eye I noticed the madam of the house (every cabaret needs a salty old woman manager who is above the sway of feminine seduction) hand off something non-descript to my prior escort but it was rather difficult at this point to pay attention to anything in my periphery.
Now at this point I knew I had to extricate myself from the situation and the longer I stayed, the more trouble I would have when they found out I truly had no intention of spending anything. “Este es tu primero vez in Buenos Aires?” – “Si.” Oh and that called for celebration. Instantly a round of three colorful drinks appeared and I do mean instantly; no order was required. I could take no more. I understood exactly how this would play out: one sip and I would be expected to buy the round which I’m sure my two hundred remaining pesos would not come close to covering. I emphatically retold my story of leaving my debit card in the airport ATM and wrestled myself to my feet. “No tienes dinero?” the old madam scowled. “Que problema.” “Si, que problema,” was my reply as I hurriedly scurried out the door, blubbering an apology and a farewell in broken Spanish. Afterwards I found a beer and an empanada for twentysix pesos which by any American tourist’s standards is quite cheap – less than six dollars – however, that reduced my available funds by over 12% with just one meal. I wasn’t going to last long at that rate. So now I had my three basic rules of the road for Argentina: don’t talk to strangers, no sitting down to eat, no drinks at bars. Hence, I resolved to stick to a one litre box of wine, taking a walk around the city center, and worrying about money the next day.
It was the burning of my nostril and retinas and the smell of pomegranate that made me think of all this. A kingdom in ruins that is buried under a tarmac ocean, it was the squealing of shrapnel in my left leg (never fully healed that one). The drooling ghost of Darby Crash, at moments like this, seems to be kneeling before me, asking how all our friends have turned out- he stares into my eyes as the twenty first century reaches appendages into our hearts, pulls them out, and squeezes. What can you say to the dead(?), as I look down at my Mickey mouse watch, that has no past or present or futureTime isn't linear, â€œit is a spacious angel floating above and inside everythingâ€?, said Janine, when she left, not this world, but mine, my undersea cavern and my wild yearning to move effortlessly with the tide. My name is Ocean, my mother is the Marianaâ€™s trench and my father is the gulls on the rock- since before I have been, they have been tearing me in half. If we are sick then we are sick, cavities under the grain, helpless and dull, as the sea swallows us in its grave. I've seen a man die, under my knife with these hands bronzed in the California sun as the desert and pavement opened jaws and swallowed me- when I was rearranged the Pacific that is not the pacific stood over me; I poured the Puget Sound between my lips and could taste no salt, only the minute humming of those also lost here upon the shore; I've never been a big man or even an angry one-but don't fuck with me.
Lorenzo comes around spouting wolves and carnage so I ask him to step outside, just fists and kicks- have it out with that faggot Ocean (see I read minds and they all spell out weakness)- so I pull out the knife and cut him like a fish, ripping at his skin, I pull his guts out and throw them along the curve. Of course I took the twenty out of his pocket stuffing it in mine, then begin loosening his shoes. See this scar under my chin, ear to ear- sea to shining sea, air that is gold and riddled in bullets and pollution. My tribute to the Gods. You pay your fine, and I'll pay mine- some to the meter maid some to the Devil. Right? Get it man, we have always been slaves to something. Me, its meth. I don't need the copper greatness of metal tongues or the courage of Darby Crash, only the death brought to my lips on its silver platter. White gold for white slaves, what else is there, but for us, born in the fresh water to fight all our lives against the green dull ocean for our birth and death- the place that some could call the wildflower meadows, but I, the blackness of being still born. Life is the silent struggle against our own nature, mine is meaningless. My ashes already shifting through a million stoves and home confection ovens, Ocean is my name because life is the roll of the dice, between sickness and boredom, slavery and warfare, the white whale just swallows you and only then, inside the heaving bones and prison bars of cartilage do you learn, that God has abandoned you, that friendship is just a strange bright light (pink moths under a pewter grey covering, like a slab of stone, or a bison dieing- you shouldn't be, because it will only lead to disaster as all my loves have been. Every lover I have ever had, all that remains of them is their congealed blood in tubes and their blood mixed with mine caked in the abandoned squats of Oakland. Monuments that have been razed for our hemorrhaged future, Darby and Janine's blood, like an old man I suckle on them giving me only the scars of when I was still living, full bodied and somewhat triumphant skating through Echo Park and dealing weed to the Mexicans. The smells of those days- nothinglonging for ghosts. This is the bargain we make with time, an ocean that swallows everything into oblivion.
They placed him on the bench, his back laid flat, arms extended and supported by cross sections, his chest and body bare, limbs roped down. He stayed there in the dark with his head aimed north. The cieling creaked as those from the floor above moved. An absent of light makes your ears more keen. He followed the steps, drawing a map of the room, the building. Unsure of his location on the Earth, or in the universe. The steps came in pairs, either a horse, but probably just two people. It was a nice change he thought, a change from the compressed silence. They walk right up to him, turn on the singular bulb aimed at his face. An energy efficient bulb. The silohoettes of the two men were burned into his now constricted eyes. The two men left, tracing their path upstairs, the creaks moving in the opposite direction. He remained there with his eyes shut. For some time he stared at the pulsing of cells in his eyelids. The creaks returned, accompanied by 10, 20, maybe 30 more little creaks, and a thick smell of gravy. The littler ones run circles around the other two. Outside the clouds pressed in with trickles of rain, with lighting in the distance, and thunder across the fields. The group stopped in front of him, he could taste their breath. Looking up, he is surrounded by children, naked to the teeth, holding biscuits. One of the men is holding an over-sized gravy boat, the other getting comfortable at the organ. Together they play and pour.
[chorus] From the lips of the glass vessel, the gravy kisses his naval, it pools and ripples down his pecks, drains to his sternum, it fills and touches his nipples then it wraps and traces his chest, falling over his collar bone around his neck it strangles and trashing his jaw, but it's no matter cause the hot is soothing and making him sweat One of the men rinses him with cold water, this makes his scrotum shrivle in record time, then continues pouring the gravy. repeat [chorus]
After some time the children with biscuit begin to gnaw on his flesh. With their teeth not too sharp and jaws not strong enough, it more the feels of fingernails that pierce the skin every now and then. After some time when the biscuit where consumed and all his bones bare, they tossed them on the crooked roads of Lake City, keeping the eight dollars from his wallet.
It is midnight and the furnace is flames. Around the garden, facing the windows of the basement, a terrible sullen family quietly & forcefully eats cabbage and ham while the crude cackling of the nieghborâ€™s dog choking on a bone encircles them ( pushing the sound, its angiush ruptures- burning the canals of the drum, before fading to ash). the daughter begins to silently weeps while her father shovels a recently de-boned ham into his mouth. he smiles at the daughter before gaping his radiance in the direction for in the direction of the dog ( finally havenâ€™t given up the ghost, after two hours of swallowing its own vomit and spit, before, slowly drowning). God Bless America the father sings, the daughter ceasing to cry. Wiping away her face, lowering her shame- as if it were a bucket filled with supplies for stranded travelers at the bottom of some wild abyss- to her food, heaving and sweating on her plate, particularly pulsating in heat- the lasting bone, being flayed and tossed by her fork.
She smokes Virginia Slims, by the dock or the electricity shed or anywhere good times are had. Speaks in code with winks and simple gesture, a twitch of the lips, a mask for each person, an agenda to push. Tugging at situations and letting random work magic, yet prepared. with an escape rope in her backpack. It's insured with a lifetime satisfaction guarentee. All she owns is insured with a lifetime satisfaction guarentee. She once stared into the eyes of a dying elephant, a shot from her Mauser anti-tank rifle, a thousand yards away. And makes the trek every year, through the heat of the grasslands, to pay respects to its bones. When she passes, birds regergitate their worms in volleys. Deer cuddle and nap with her in the meadow valleys. A midnight flutist leads rats up and down rooftop alleys. A rat runs into the spring loaded bar of a trap, crushing its skull and promptly being released over a toilet bowl, 6.1lpf. It took 5 flushes to get the carcass through. She doesn't take shit from rats. A laboratory employee, she make knock out rats for genetic testing. It pays well, with ample time off. One fleet of rats went on to cure Alzheimer's disease. This and a myriad of other cures doubled life expectancy. She could stay young forever. A Northrop YA-9 sits in her driveway (there are only two in existence) The expiremental jet was a gift from franklin d. roosevelt's ghost. Post-mortem, written in his will. During late night tele-shopping sprees, her eyes catch ads for Shirley Temple boxsets. Black and white and in color. But that was her when she was younger. And flips the channel on her past. Now she flies jets recreatationally and sips gin and tonic therapuetically. Shooting depleted uranium bullets at children. And repeating the mantrah from the late great President "look at the smiling face of a baby and forget [your] trouble."
Once a high to mid-range christmas gift from the early tots, it was destined for the landfill by 2004. Through a series of fortunate half-hearted trips to the dump and one desperate trip to Goodwill, it was pardoned from electronic oblivion and adopted by an unenthused Program Director who, though focused on an anticipated coffee order and finalized permission slips, saw just enough of a je ne sais pas in that black antiquated plastic, tape deck wall ripped from its rectangular torso like a mangled war veteran.
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Place your army in deadly peril, and it will survive
eérépseséd tiaté i sap sias en ej
© 2012 draoB lairotidE adaN 7# 1SN devreseR sthgiR llA