the dada magazine about nothing
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Gloss the gangster, seconds don’t spiral Keep the glossy gangster, not the spiraling seconds The glossy seconds drip into the gangster-lined spiral Gloss the second spiral, ye gangster Glosses drip spiral, seconds till the gangster Glosses the spiral gangsters second.
Gangsters who gloss while the seconds spiral Through gangster-lined glossy spiraling seconds Gangsters count seconds while the glossy lines spiral Gangsters throw seconds into the spiraling gloss. The lone gangster spirals, glossing the seconds The lone gangster spirals towards a second gloss.
Seconds spin spiraling, a glossy gangster weeps Seconds spiral weeping toward a gangster of gloss Second the gangster, who spiraling glossy Seconds the gangster whose glosses spiral. Seconds gloss toward a deep gangster spiral Seconds gloss toward a spiraling gangster.
Spiral the glossy gangster in seconds Spiral the glossy second-gangster dream Spiral the gangster whose glossy dream seconds The spiral of gangster-lined seconds. (g)loss Spiral the second glossy gangster Spiral the second gangster of gloss.
He first saw the word drowning through broken glass on the highway. He dreamed of butterflies born from the artifacts of Auschwitz. 'Last night the letter 'L' appeared to me in a vision accompanied by twelve wolves bearing the insignia of the SS’ He turns to laughter in the shade of a facade ready to face the end. A smile flashes and then dissapears into a crowd. ‘I'm hungry’ the man says, blinking wildly, yawing, touching his thin lips, caressing the tips of his fingers with the void, dreaming of medicine. A cucumber yawns at sunset. The words are written in blood on the hood of his Trans-Am but he cannot read the sound. Grunts slither through the concrete and steadily the man undersatnds that language is unimportant, it is in the act of moving your wrist in the delicate motions of Stravinsky, of counting the spaces between words and knowing that someone on the otherside of the earth is counting them too. Telepathic. The dictionary on fire, their are stacks of Webster’s and American editions and all of them need to be destoryed. The man knows this and is ready for the coming age of Aquarius. He is burning a bridge to an epoch without definitions. The car is still on the side of the highway, metal twisted in the rain-soaked reflection of World War Two films, the sleek flash of what could had been (A porch in detroit around ‘77, the crooked smile of the women you love, grey hairs. A march to the center of time,) eyes pressed against glass as the man circles his car with his hands shoved in the warm nest of his pockets. An officer is on the scene his mouth tangled in the perplexed angle of an orphan. The man is asking himself what the word ‘drown’ means. The cop, thinking the questions apply to him, is doing his best to answer. tions apply to him, is doing his best to answer.
A terrible way to die.’ he says, shaking his head. 'A somersualt into the future'. Blackness. The young trees that create a barrier to the highway rustle. The man walks into a lower middle class housing development bleeding from his left ear, his check bones sunken. He strides like lost officers from the Tsar’s white army, drifting aimlessly through an invisible Saint Petersburg. He knocks on a red door framed in blue. He asks for gas. The woman (she is younger, with a drawn expression, a beautiful hand extends itself over the threshold in a willful, fluid movement) seems afraid. She offers to call the police, but the man says they are already there. 'Tea?' she asks. He nods his head. In the kitchen he can hear her whistle and asks what the tune is. ‘Nothing’ she sighs. ‘What were you doing before I arrived?’ he asks. ‘Reading,’ she says. A forelorn look washes over her only to be obscured by the half-wall that divides the kitchen from the living room. ‘You like reading?’ he asks, his pitch affected by something that hovers in the soft space between excitment and horror. ‘Whats the book?’ ‘It’s poetry actually. Before I was married I used to read all the time. These days its just a few poems here and there.’ She walks into the living room bringing the tea on a tray, sliding next to him she stares into his brown eyes. ‘I used to write.’ She says, lowering her head and blushing. He touches her knee. She slides it away casually. ‘Where’s your restroom?’ ‘Down the hall.’ she says. ‘My kids will be home, do you think you could leave soon?’ He nods.
When he returns the women is naked, reclining on the couch reading poetry aloud. The man glares at her with a detached hatred. They kiss briefly. He chews her bottom lip as she moans slightly. There is a stream that smooths over rocks, a wandering over deserts, a demented battalion of cowards gnawing on their femurs, carrying the word, written by god. Silence. The man’s breath reduced to a constant hum, a worm like expression on his face. He gropes through the well-lit living room as if he were in a dank cellar. A telephone carries a void, marriage, a passage spelt in indifference. 'I once dreamed of Sophie Plodski, of a winter that bled orange lights, a doom that tasted like a heart'. The man nods, comprehending nothing. An ice storm of words leading to a singular space in history. On her broken body (discovered hours later) ‘liteRATure’ written in blood, her bruised face covered with the ripped up pages of Hart Crane. The man carries a pen and writes 'the history of words' on the windows of parked cars. He punctures his left hand, stigmata style. When questioned by the police a week later he referres to himself as Homer, refusing to sign a confession claiming that he could not make out the words, that he was—in his own way—illiterate.
I only stopped because I like picking up hitchhikers. You need to go to your girlfriend's house. Where does she live? I think I know that area, it's a little ways. Sure whatever, I was going to mow a lawn, that stuff can wait. Where do you live? I think I've seen that huge orange truck on my street, more towards the old folk's home. Why yes, I would like to partake in this joint. Well here's your girl's house. Later. I only stopped because I like picking up hitchhikers. Yea sure get in. Really? Right here? You were serious when you said ‘just up the street’. When most people hitchhike it's because they need to get to God knows where. Whatever, get out, you're welcome. I only stopped because I like picking up hitchhikers. I'm not old enough to drink sir, but I've been known to drink. They kicked you out because it's about two-fifteen a.m. and you're drunk. Please don't ask why I'm driving about here at two-fifteen a.m. listening to this weird stuff. I guess I can give you a ride ‘just up the street’, whatever the hell that means. So the guys at the bar refused to let you use the phone to call a cab. These guys are out to get you. What'd you do to them? Well its a dive bar...isn't drinking a lot what you’re supposed to do? Of course you can give me five dollars, that's a kind gesture drunken Sir. This is my Grandpa's old truck, she runs smooth don't she? Well here you are drunken sir, your house. Three dollars? What happen to the five dollars? That's all you got? Whatever I'll take it. Thank you and goodnight drunken sir.
I only stopped bacause I like picking up hitchhikers. Yea get in. That's nice of you, making this midnight trek to go help your pregnant sister. That would be weird being pregnant. Male seahorses do it, but I am not a male seahorse. It's a good thing you don't live too far from your sister. Good luck in there, later
I only stopped because I like picking up hitchhikers, and from what you tell me you are not one. Let me get this straight, you drove here from Auburn to this shithole part of town, then you ran out of gas, now your blue shit whatever Datsun is down the street and you have been trying to flag people down for gas money? I am apparently the first person that this has worked on because you are still asking for the full amount of eight dollars. I would much rather drive you all the way to Auburn, spend the first part of my night with a scared old black woman. I wouldn't even mind the gas expense, but your car is here. I really don't have the cash at hand. I know you're scared, I got it the first time, please don't repeat it. I can give you three dollars.
Ramses was wearing a brown turban. Every article of clothing he had on was brown, in fact, all varying in hue. His eyes and skin were also brown. Ramses was a dainty man. Not so much effeminate, but dainty. His slender frame sat at the bus stop, svelte arms and legs were both crossed at his center, his long neck accentuated his straight posture. His elegant physique seemed at odds with the drabness of his wardrobe. Topping off his paradoxical appearance, the brown turban. “Whoa, whoa, I’m getting some strong energy from you, girl. Strong vibrations. I’m serious!” I turned to look at him. I was standing about five feet from where he sat. “Seriously!” He pleaded. He had the inflection of a southern black woman. I could assume he fit the first two elements of that description. “I’m a psychic I came here from L.A. to do some readings for a client I’m just here to help out with the Gay Pride Parade ya know? With readings and all but I’m serious I wouldn’t just say this. There’s a lot going on— big things with you right now I can feel it.” Ramses gesticulated with his willowy arms as he spoke. Perhaps he was gay. It didn’t really matter. The main impression was that I felt in no way threatened by this man. “I see you going a trip soon. I see you around water. Are you planning a trip to Hawaii?” “I was just talking about going to Hawaii with my boyfriend.” I don’t know why I said this. “Yes! And I see you growing your hair loooong.” He mimicked flowing long hair with his hands. I thought of a mermaid.
“What else do you see?” For whatever reason, I believed in Ramses ability, or at least, I believed that he was in some way or another, a professional. Maybe it was the turban, or the various brown tones, all equally faded and nondescript. If he hadn’t started speaking directly at me with such passion I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him, even with the turban. Someone who could camouflage this well had to be legit. I noticed at this point that Ramses also had a brown paper shopping bag filled to the brim. He was quite coordinated. “Well I normally charge much more, but I can give you a full reading with healings, predictions, the whole thing for just $20.” His voice dropped slightly at the end of his sentence, indicating that he would not continue his reading without compensation. “My bus is going to be here soon, and I don’t have any cash. I’m sorry.” Why I felt apologetic, or responsible for paying to receive this man’s psychic services, was a mystery. I was beginning to think Ramses’ true power was the power of persuasion. Or mind control. “There’s an ATM right inside that corner store.” He jutted his arm out behind him towards the liquor store that was in fact right there. I felt he had given me no way out. If the ATM was right there I suppose I didn’t have an excuse. But wait, why was I thinking this? “Well, okay. I guess I could get the next bus.” After I came back from the liquor store, twenty dollar bill in hand, Ramses had changed slightly. He seemed slightly less flamboyant and more subdued. Either he was getting down to business, or he had succeeded in his scam and was contemplating running with my bill.
“Great. I know this park a few blocks away. We could sit there.” With his sales pitch over, Ramses had a new calmness to his voice. “Great.” I said. Now I was the enthusiastic one. I was twenty dollars deep in this situation and felt exhilarated by the recklessness of my investment. I’m normally a very frugal person. I felt like I knew how gamblers feel at this moment. We walked side by side towards the park. Ramses remained calmer than he had first appeared, but spoke freely about his ex-wife, his mother who had practiced voodoo, alcoholism, his friend and wife running off together, all the while interjecting guesses and questions about my own life. “You seem like a creative type. Do you do stand-up comedy?” We got to the park. The weather was absolutely perfect. As Ramses began to lay out his equipment; various decks of worn tarot cards, some crystals, and a handful of other talismans that appeared to have invented purposes; I made eye contact with two older Mexican men playing cards at a neighboring table. Their presence had broken the spell. I was overwhelmed by self-consciousness. Who else was watching this all take place? Do they assume I’m just as crazy as this man in a turban? His decks of cards were not nearly as convincing as his initial evaluation of my strong energy field. I knew I couldn’t get out of the situation. It had already begun.
The whole ordeal lasted around thirty minutes. It could’ve been more. It’s hard to gauge. Ramses methodically went through each of the various decks and objects he had placed on the picnic table and did some thing or another with them. I did my best to appear enthusiastic as I cooperated, but our psychic connection had been severed before he had even begun. In the end we walked back together towards the same bus stop. He shared a little more with me about his personal life. All very matter of fact and with no interest in my responses. I hoped he wasn’t waiting for the same bus as me but when the twelve bus arrived we both boarded. I chose to sit next to him. I felt it would be rude not to. Ramses was surprisingly taken aback by my choice. Self-consciousness again. What was happening? In his aloof state, I decided to ask him questions about his abilities. I realized this was what I was interested in in the first place, not what a stranger in a brown turban had to say about my future. He answered each question, occasionally digressing into another personal anecdote. “What’s your name?” I finally asked. “Hmm? Oh. It’s Ramses. Here you got a pen?” I handed him a pen and my weekly planner. He scribbled his name and a phone number onto an arbitrary page. It was a page with dates listed on it. Some week in the future when I’d need to make note of a dentist appointment, only to find Ramses’ contact information. He got off at the very next stop, barely turning to say goodbye.
Hello Mr. P it’s so nice to hear from you. I’m so glad you have decided to give the ‘White Ventures Fund’ a— Ah, certainly Mr. P— Cut to the chase. Of course. Well, we are creating an excellent new venture that we would love for you to be a part of. In essence for each ten thousand you put down you allow us to bring a girl out from the clutches of Eastern Europe into a life of free market prosperity. As I’m sure you know most of Eastern Europe is—even to this day—essentially a communist wasteland. These girls have nothing, nothing at all. No prospects whatsoever. We have a very specific and highly guarded method which is unique to our organization. At this point we utilize your financial input for various fees and condition so that we may to set these girls up in one of our highly professional and, frankly, quite lovely work houses. Once everything is moving along your investment begins to pay off with a return of twenty-five percent of the profits these girls bring in. Now each girl is going to go for a different price, and we are unable to guarantee the amount of return you will see. Naturally we try to get the best but tastes are always changing. On the other hand there are plenty of other than ordinary customers out there, you know, freaks in the parlance of the day, that will kill for one of these—y’know—horsey looking ones, or one of the real fat ones or even one of those one legged ones. It’s all demand though, and if we can find a reason—no matter how messed up—that these guys demand one of these girls, we can jack the prices up and get you the returns that you deserve.
Now you are looking at a guaranteed three-year return on your investment here and the profits start rolling in from day one or, of course, from the first day the girl starts working. You know this is the hard thing though: sometimes we can get a girl out here in a month or two, sometimes it takes a little longer. We tend to see losses begin around the third year. But as long as we’ve got her working we’ll get you the money, but that is really the only risk you need to be aware of. Basically the more money you put in the more even your profits are going to be. So…so yeah, first off, I want to reassure you that all our guys are first and foremost professionals. They have been doing this for years. Things do happen of course, but look if something were to happen on the way over I can guarantee you your money back immediately. We have been doing this for long enough and, honestly, it has never been a problem. We’ve got these things going all over the place, Belgium, Japan, South Korea, the U.K. So what’s it going to be then, Mr. P? Seventy? Not bad. It’s a solid sum. Seven girls. But what would you say about an even eighty? We’ve had guys put in eighty who pay off their investment in a year flat, and then it’s just cream after that— I know but look the difference between seventy and eighty is— Okay. Okay. Now I understand you there Mr. P but— Okay. Seventy-five? Well now you see, I’ve explained before that we do this in the ten-thousand dollar increments very specifically and— Well yes you are welcome to come visit any time you like. Yes, certainly. You are after all the one who brought them out here so— Um. Half…Half a? I suppose we could do that.
We didn’t enter together. She went first and I followed a few minutes later. It seemed like we each needed to take respite in our own thoughts. We held the tail ends of these stray moments tightly and were reluctant to speak. Eventually she looked up at me with a perplexed rage. 'She knew you.' Case in point 'Yes. That cracked-out old wench has been my lover since nineteen-fortyfive. We had children in eighteen seventy-nine, but they passed on in early eighteen twenty from bullshit poisoning. From what I heard she died a few months ago.' 'Alright spill the pork and beans. What just happened in there? Who is she?' 'I'm not quite certain how to explain this. Really. I've got no data to go on. I just have this peculiar feeling that we're on the same team. Her and I, I mean. I have no idea what team you're on. Honestly it's more that we're sparring partners. And I'm pretty sure she just upped the ante. Excuse the mixed metaphor.’ 'Fuck you. I don’t give two shits about your grammatical inconsistencies. I just want to know what's going to happen.' 'You and worrying wants to knitting
me both toots. She won't kill me. If that's what your your misshapen head over. I'm quite certain she just make sure I'm up for it. I'm not going to take up or anything. This is a preliminary examination.'
'Are we really doing this now? Playing games with inmates? Intrigue and seriousness are not quite my style. I prefer blunt objects.' 'Honey, I don’t know about you, but I've been playing this game all along. Where ever it leads I'm going after it. Don’t you want to be there when the fun starts?' 'All right grand master. So be it.'
On the next day all of the other contestants arrived and were settling in. We headed back to the pen to check on our horse. If anything she looked more like a discarded cabbage than a competent adversary. 'Why are you here?' The question seemed to strike her as redundant and elementary. 'We've already covered this. I'm old enough to be your grandmother and I knew you before you were born. Canada has sapped the humor from your companion.' 'Enough of that. How do you know me?' 'I know you because artists always know of each other. We rarely seek out our counterparts but that does not mean we aren’t aware of them. And before you ask: I did not in fact arrange this meeting. Pure chance precipitated this. I had other avenues in mind. You needn’t trouble yourself with conspiracy and the like. This is simple fate or whatever you'd like to call it.' A slight shake of the head. 'That doesn't exactly answer my question.' 'It’s alright. You look tired. You don’t have all of your wits about you. If it's all the same to you I'd like to continue this discourse later. Have rest. Return around eight-thirteen.’
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