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Nidus Plexus

a metric montage

Mike Castro

www.paraphiliamagazine.com/oneirosbooks i


From 1980 to 2000, poems from Nidus Plexus first appeared in print in Diane Gage’s Antenna Poetry & Graphics (and on exhibit: Community Arts Gallery, both) San Diego, CA; Ann Erickson’s tight magazine, Guerneville, CA; Fred Engels’ Shattered Wig Review, Baltimore, MD; Lakeland Center for Creative Art’s Onionhead Literary Quarterly, Lakeland, FL; Christian Nelson’s Kumquat Meringue, Rockford, IL; Tim Scott’s Dream International Quarterly, Chicago, IL; Sharon Wysocki’s The Wire, Dearborn Heights, MI; John M. Bennett’s Lost & Found Times, Columbus, OH; Findhorn Foundation’s One Earth Quarterly, Forres, Morayshire, Scotland; Pat Lei’s sick Head Magazine handout and Daedalus Publishing Co.’s, Between the Cracks: an Anthology of Kinky Verse, edited by Gavin Dillard, both Los Angeles, CA. Shown at Beyond Baroque Literary Art Center’s 1998 Visual Poetry Exhibition (co-sponsored by Poets & Writers, Inc. and the Los Angeles County Museum of Art), Venice, CA; other L.A.-area galleries: Van Go’s Ear (Venice) and Dr. Susan Block’s Speakeasy (downtown); and from 2001 to 2014, these Tampa-area galleries: Kicks on Seventh Avenue, Nude Nite, Tampa Artists Emporium, Old Hyde Park Art Center, and Daphne Haines’ Capricorn Studios (Ybor City); with these pixel and print publications: Ben John Smith’s online Horror, Sleaze & Trash, out of Tullamarine, Victoria, Australia; Craig Scott’s 1/25 Magazine broadside, East Brunswick, NJ, as well his online Luciferous; TableGlock Press’s Boscombe Revolution, Bournemouth, England; with flash poems bopped into “an operotica” for Oneiros Books’ CUT UP! Method Anthology, co-edited by A. D. Hitchin (Chelmsford, Essex) and Joe Ambrose (Dublin, Ireland/Tangier, Morocco); as well as palimpsestic montages posted on Michael McAloran’s online Bone Orchard Poetry, via Bunratty, County Clare, Ireland; New Orleans-based thegamblermag[dot]com; and Reuben Woolley’s I Am Not a Silent Poet e-magazine, sent out from Zaragoza, Spain, and into the Pixelsphere’s Akashic Cloud.

mpcAstro ― “user name” for Michael Philip Castro ― is a montagist who waxes visual poetical near the Gulf of Mexico’s teal-tongued waters lapping at the peninsular underside of Florida’s powdered sugar shores where he consummated his thirty-year opus interruptus of photopoetics, SPIDER’S NEST Sequential Art Catalog, 1st ed., 2011. Expounding upon that catalog’s extricated flash-cycle vignettes, lined verse and pattern typoetics, this vispo montage constrains itself to the page in the name of the Square, the Triangle and the Circle. Amen Ra. Its amplifictitious tri-agonists ― Illustra Kix, Amrita Amanita, and Dr. Mortsac ― are loosely modeled on the author’s resonated 666-day passion role-play with the erstwhile Los Angeles-based dominatrices Ilsa Strix and Izabella Sol, before 2001, after which time the trinity dissolved like powdered sugar into The Gulf along with their pre(de)vious millennial identities. “m” for Mike says, “Please.

Forgive me my shortcomings,” a once extemporaneous dungeon pun pulled out of his ass in time to save it for his long lost baby coming to bring it on home from straight out of LAX via Tampa International. ☻ DEDICATED to Erin Colleen CastrO, who turned from green to gold to go Bragh, June 7, 2013.

• “The Triangle” exponent was first drafted from September 7 thru September 12, 2013, on what would’ve been ECCO’s 60th Birthday. ii


Programme/Catalog/Contents NIDUS PLEXUS: a Metric Montage by Mike Castro

Prelude: Verso/Recto

Foreweb: Old World New

Chapter 1: Cock Crow

Chapter 2: Waylaid

Chapter 3: Metro Rail

Chapter 4: Assfault

Chapter 5: Purple Piranesi

Chapter 6: Arachnoptych

Diptych.…3 “verso” .….4 “recto” .….4 Diptych.…5 “Goodbye Gibraltar” .….6 “Enter the Amazone” .….7 Diptych.…9 “The Pewlings at Dawn” ...10 “Rigged Vehicle” ...11 Diptych…13 “History Motors” ...14 “Gas, Grass or Ass” ...15 Diptych…17 “Whore D’Oeuvres” ...18 “Ad Astra per Aspera” ...19 Diptych…21 “At the Palindrome” ...22 “Why Black Holes Have No Hair” ...23 Pentaptych…24 “Piranesi’s Last Supper” ...26 “Piranesi Sheets to the Wind” ...26 “Piranesi Home on the Range” ...26 “Piranesi’s Cage Is the Rage” ...27 “Piranesi’s Last Nasty”...27 Sextuptych…28 Upper Triptych

“Moxibustion” ...29 “The Nidus Touch” ...30 “Youth in Asia One Way Out” ...31 Lower Triptych

“Sausage Barge” ...32 “Unnatural Acts” ...33 “On the Carpet and Then Some” ...34

Intermezzo: Disciple Lashed Chapter 7: Exitus

35

Diptych…37 “Sargasso Soup” ...38 “Mount No More Beyond” ...39

1


Chapter 8: Moonstocks

Diptych…40 “Yo Whip” ...41 “Avénuévo” ...43

Chapter 9: Crackpot

Diptych…45 “Sic Transit Gloria Mundi” ...46 “Shadow of Soma” ...47 Triptych…48 “PXL8” ...49 “Suckleberries” ...50 “Lyncean Oil” ...51

Chapter 10: Dismembrance

Finalé

52!!! 52

~ I a m b u s ▪ I*N~D#E#X~U*S

Metric Footnotes …53

{Foundation} [In the Name of The Square,] {53 Poems as Amends} [The Triangle,] {1st Amends} [and The Circle.]

…53 …63 .106

~ ECCO’s Etrinity illo

.127

I a m b u s

• “[#]”s reference page #s throughout. •

text(vis)ual illo-types derived fr. SPIDER’S NEST Sequential Art Catalog .8,12,16,20,25,36,44 http://www.paraphiliamagazine.com/oneirosbooks/catalogue/art/

Registered USA Address: 513 Sand Ridge Drive, Valrico, Florida 33594, United States of America Registered UK & Europe Address: 68 Briton Ferry Road, Wales SA11 1AP, United Kingdom of G.Britain/N.Ire.

Published June 9, 2014, U.S.A. U.S. Library of Congress Edition, Revised December 12, 2014

Copyright © 2014 by Mike Castro All Rights Reserved Limitation of Claims were acknowledged and filed with Copyright Application re news items, historical archives, social commentary & public domain, repurposed into “The Triangle” & “The Circle” footnotes for the Iambus Indexus.

Grazi, GIOVANNI BATTISTA PIRANESI▪b1720d78▪FEVERISH DELIRIUM LAY RUIN

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Prelude

Verso/Recto Diptych

The conveyance station for Automated Linguistics jumped track. Its monstrous cam ajam. As the duo assessed damage control from the cupola’s lofty vantage, the indentured e-PISS-stem-all-a-gist, Dr. Mortsac, was nudged by his transgenred Venus Ex Machina, the Webstress Illustra von Kix, in all her pantextual plumery: “Less epipseudic, more episodic, my dear doctor, lest we embrace Chaos.” Does she suspect my Phantom Limbs—Heresy and Anarchy? Picking up the gauntlet, the erstwhile Erosopher inwardly vowed to, thereinafter, amplify the logic of his metrics through the pixeLucinatious subconch.sys of the Nidus Plexus where creature may frequent Creatrix via hieroconversation…a circular, organic hypertext where artifact commingles with Architect in a dervish dance of opposites spooning into a dialectical ball of fire: the fabled Omen Globe—the elusive Versus Intexti. Episodic enough, Ms. Kix? “Kink is our business, Mistress. This is only a kink,” said he with a toothy grin. I see you, did she, Venus Fitzgerald Crisis!

◊◊ 3


verso:

re:photomontagerie 16 Piranesi plates :Fantastic Prisons commingled w/(il-)

lust-rated squatter daughters of labiarinthine culture in highiambic heels disquiet dungeons drive home pumped points per perfect reign throughout archcolossus slave labor creator of relic monuments magnificent made to feel genius of great artists who reign throughout every idiot detail fevered perplexus fevertree not just big scratch post itches to branch staircases leading the charge beamed vaults supporting vast compounds pocked with revolt squalid suites of crumbling stone not for squalor’s sake alone hell no but for the rush of root hold lost on rickety roads through space time manifest destiny heads us once more to the right page ▪ recto:

Look out belowward cyclopean machines neoclassic justice busting a nut gad

deuce give us Déus ofMaMaMachinaWorks lowered onto stage piffling epiphany poor judgment day a tough titty flop save your drama for your big mama in particular sag from airy arches over head hang ropes that carry the weight of the sap heavy hive in pendulous torture sickenly lit by narrow windows chambers half open to rosemarine sky revealing more or less complete vaults and broken walls in the misty distance coextends the feverpitchtree flushed severely redboard abandon all hope who enter this burning bush dumb asses bray branded balking in steamy shadows off stage a choral katzenjamhammer after all after sex all animals are sad

◊ Doctoral machinations went viral. An infection of incantations was introduced into Nidus Plexus’s vocabulary, retooling its quack dialectic to run a cascading tessellation of autonomous phantasmagoria. Avant-Arabesque!

4


Foreweb

Old World New Diptych

I first met the Webstress by appointment on a blistering First of July afternoon at her “happy”—Los Feliz—home’s dungeon with a portfolio of my metric montages. I explained, while she leafed through the illustrated poems, that it was my intention to “flesh in” the exoskeletal catalog she had in her hands with genuine gotherotic scenery. She agreed, in exchange for modeling scenes, to enweb the artist for 666 days while the camera could be tossed from slave to Illustrix to crew, all shooting scenes on the mat with Erato, Muse of Lyric, in a no holds barred grapple of metronomic servitude. To submit one’s self—Art’s ultimate price. Did I have the cajones? Sounded better than holing up in a flop with a Burroughs “typer” from Goodwill and broke dick…I’ve done that for art: getting it broke off and on a fork fed me. The folio aside, Illustra handed me a clip boarded “Dialog Sheet” with pen. I scribbled “no holes barred.”

◊◊ 5


I. Goodbye Gibraltar

Discipline kicks against the pricks in metrics arrayed hangbelted as an arsenal angel girded by spools of flesh-tapering lines gleaned from the strictionary's catguttural cadence crescendoing suspendibility a gas giant’s girth unguys to the hula uncircumcinching a shock of chokers≈ become-floaters beyond the pillars of hercules.

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II. Enter the Amazone

Click here. A pausal doorway into the next this bardo allows the heresy that is change to channel a live wire power exchange conducted along the banks of the River Strix fortuitous torture by exquisite machines more circuitous than byzantine freedom is a parachute stretched from a scrotum Slave M for Mortsac, ma’am, ready for the bottom.

7


Tawsday thru Thornsday

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Chapter 1

Cock Crow Diptych

The artist awoke from a florescent dream of fantastically frantic butterflies—orange, black, silver-yellow and peach blush—by the thousands scrambling to tear out from black pixelknit cocoons. One after another, each winged emergent, within seconds of first flight, would decorate a ubiquitous web that seemed to canopy the whole cocoonscape, so that sky and earth to horizon had become a kaleidoscopic vibration of vivacious panic. Eyes open to vitreous opacities transmogrified into a Boschian parade of buffoonery . . . hilarious mass destruction hysteria. Mo’f’er! Rub these endoftheworld floaters out of your eyes, dude…Hello? Arms seem to be sewn to sides. Wha’duh? Legs encased in…silk? Torso, immobilized as well. Fug! “Rise and shine, Cloudcuckoohead…” Lustra? “Hope you don’t mind me holding vigil…oh, and my sis’, Am’—Amanita to you. How do you find the body bag we slid you into as you slept? Comfy?” Yeah, snug as a bug; wh’up, Bit’h?

◊◊ 9


The Pewlings at Dawn

Nestles of quivered swallows unloose from the dew dank apse. The labial vault spat catapults just a douche by the loopy fold fragged night shell tourbillion chrysanthemums lanterns strung along the road to Ra

10


Rigged Vehicle

girded by young birch bark and silver to the teeth a car, blazing astral gardens

did scout up giddy alps of hovering ziggurats railed by spunkincensed trees abust

with nether roots forth frothing up soma’shrooms quaffed by imps the swollen ones piss ambrosia:

appointed toadskin anointments.

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not exactly Hump day

Woesday and forget Frigdays don’t even ask

12


Chapter 2

Waylaid Diptych

Lustra must’ve been looking for hours at all my new prints being readied for exhibition, while she loomed overnight for my peepers to pop. By the tone of her inflection, she must’ve last night womaneuvered me a covert introduction to a potent potion—probably at Rathskeller’s about when I was competing with the juke’s “Shaken Baby” metal montage by Moochy Splurgess, “Your name’s Lustra…as in, ‘Lust, Rah’!”—while a squadron of kamikazes roared themselves down my hatch into divine wind. And then—or was it all really just a weird, loopy dream?—she grabbed a fistful of manimal while seated right there at the bar pressed up next to me, Smilin’ an’ ev’raythang. And now I’m here…at home—in my studio…fluttering in from a total eclipse black out to a wrench tightening head bandwidth of static pixelation. “Hey, Dickweed,” thus spake “Amrita” Amanita, multi-faceted Indus Goddess, all five faces in my face, “Well for you your tang is all tongueled.”

◊◊ 13


(Breastfed on)

History Motors se habla Espanyomama!

All Mooches are Strokers.

Grapes may be Strokers

butternaut Mooches per se but may choose to be

see, ideally, Grapes’re peeled; Mooches, waste of skin

On Glaze, say it like you mean it.

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Gas, Grass or Ass

T A K E N T O K E N

fr.

B R O K E N B U S F U C K S

no body rides for free.

15


toss into the pile

Satyrday, Sinday & Monsday

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Chapter 3

Metro Rail Diptych

“You can hear me, Punjabi,” Amanita jabbed his bread box, “My ambrosia may bind body and gag guile, but you do see and,” jab, “hear me.” She was afire, “When I started out we didn’t sneak around about it. I’d walk right up to a café table, take from my purse and place on the table’s edge an empty champagne glass; it’s lip at the hemline of my mini. And right in front of the lone, perfectly unprepped gentleman seated now not minding his own business, dare I say—as well as nearby onlookers, all transfixed—I would fill up the glass with my elixir from where I stood akimbo, not even having to hike my dress it was so short. Snatched napkin from table; walked. “You’d be surprised how many dogs pick up that scent, even if they’ve to run a gauntlet of critics. Sometimes a critic or so would wag along, too. “What the alchemists called the ‘elixir of life,’ the devotional now call ‘Midflow with a Twist’: The twist?—kidney filtered soma muscaria extract.”

◊◊ 17


Whore D’Oeuvres Metaphor’s the first whore; Mythology, language’s oldest profession. ―Lea Chi M’Ortsac fr. “Pornocracy on Parade”

How now? Cows become clouds cuneiformed clouds “into” heavy morphing from waytoofamiliar topiary to bloodyhorror écorché (excoriated) figures cows become clouds while fingers once milking become sunbursts flicking endorphincascadingmanna meringue panspermiating the pie holes of the immunicable way down deep below within the pitmosphere of Grand Central Transference.

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Ad Astra per Aspera

Dear Astrolabe,

For your consideration, a palimpsestic eruption: following, please find now-encrusted ruins of a Vesuvian revival ceremony regurgitated from the bowels of the immured, lapped by self≈ immolating hounds of Torquemada Law

i roamed under it as a tired nude maori Pray for us sinners,

Now & at the hour of our death, Love

Preachy Leacher

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Six days of Six AMs & Six PMs ea.

Gross of Hours 12 shifts by

12 hours

each day a dissembly line of unhi nged diptychs leafed loose from which

each week Refractory Factory rolls out latest “secret” confessional

Closed on Fridays to Oil the Plates and Presses

Yes. All 12 Stations. 20


Chapter 4

Assfault Diptych

“But we now prefer to sneak Catherines down their gullets, don’t we, Sister Amrita,” Illustra, save my ass, their entangled fly inwardly prayed. “I was just reminiscing about sidewalk life in Paris,” poofed Amanita— Amrita’s her safe name, to decrimp her nom de kink; yet her inner cauldron bubbled over, “I’m also regaling while draining this piss face of all his color.” “Patience, Am’, the roast is better served baked than broiled. His sacrifice must not only be a labor but a transmutation of cream into chrism.” ’Rita swallowed hard; chrism was the coin of the realm. “Love your enthusiasm, tho’, kid,” offered Ms. von Kix, leering at the art prints she had hung on all the wall space of the ample studio throughout the night and morning. “But the Catherine, my dear boy, is a drink named after Catherine the Great of Tzarina Russia—contemporary of Architect Piranesi of Roma—she mixed vodka with elixir come eliquir. Put a new twist on the Enlightenment.”

◊◊ 21


At the Palindrome :GODDESSES SO PAY A POSSESSED DOG:

spank Caligula Lug

I lack naps

22


Why Black Holes Have No Hair

Rubyfruit buffed left cuffed to the ceiling bobs to Oubliette’s fillipings tips plum for most royal moonrilling Pussyfoot floored cups corduroy ridges constellates between molten globes ignites upon a vaporwaxed cusp

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Chapter 5

Purple Piranesi Pentaptych To:

Ms. Diz, My E-rides through your Magic Queendom make me feel so delivered from

the shadow of the Valley of Ennui. I confess I dream your kiss is the Breath of Life Itself. Can a man remain tethered to the earth after such a gift? My dear Illustra,, don’t you just love dreaming you’re flying? Me,, too;; better pinch me,, Fr:

Micycle. ▪

To:

oppoet, Yum!m!m!m!m! This qualifies for letter of the week ! ! ! I may have to whore you out again – beware! I would LOVE to pinch you!

Fr:

Lustra. ◊ Needless to say, the Tantrixhood no longer had to police him. The Nidus

Plexus routed his thoughts—deliberate or whimsical—to his controller, his Creatrix. And she, in turn, would book his render unto Seizor Central.

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And so, as per “Dialog Sheet,” she has called her creature forth. Tonight’s command performance: Sir Render delivers himself to the Umbiliphiliatrix, Shaydee von Shockra, to her ’Lectric Lair of Horrors where his glist gets blistered to a bitchen gloss, “no holes barred.”

Eccentrix Phoenix in Effigy 25


Piranesi’s Last Supper PLATE 1 | [from soup…

Denude me; protrude me O Cat-o’-nine-kisses deep in a mirrored dungeon’s Chamber of Hedon’s Navel of Narcissus Piranesi Sheets to the Wind PLATE 2 | salad days in the Hanging Gardens

cinched — winched — and pinched — all fours strapped towards the four posters of a cat’s-cradle bed all scaffolded and webbed harnessed and suspended leviathan hoisted and dropped — belly flopped — Piranesi Home on the Range PLATE 3 | rigged for pig

impaled upon the butting end of a battering ram biffing heaven gyro-frigging with rings and rigging my stopcocked pendulumbob swinging to the beat whipped to the kisses

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Piranesi’s Cage Is the Rage PLATE 4 | at Chez Ricochet

of your fertile crescent, Tigress, busting saddle upon a spark-plugged ass rock a cockhorse to Uranus and back ride the Seven Rings of Hades bless these piston rings, Milady, jerking pearly jism fizzes debutantes French-kissing fishes succubusboys hosing dishes Jeez Mon Squeeze! My cods rise like yeast, a foamy, gruelsome coming-out feast Piranesi’s Last Nasty PLATE 5 | …to nuts]

Holy Balls! How many told strokes must toll? My overrunneth cup needs be a bowl! Wrap me twice tight once the floorboard’s aslop; reform my tongue, Bustress, into a mop: le Truffle Grubber…Truss Hussy, lace this in rubber!

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Chapter 6

Arachnoptych Sextuptych born:

Lost in the Labyrinth from mentally cataloging its infernal puzzles until

overwhelmed, I then relied on fortune to meander my way out as if my enmazement were not a sentence but a freedom. Not until my wit was spent did my circummuration go peristaltic. Near exhaustion, at the threshold of panic, I spotted, then desperately squeezed through a shuttering portal to abort in an amniotic sweat, damning my fickle flesh for escaping from a well-earned, eternal fumbling at the Gordian slipknot that held me in suspense. died:

Fancy Trim, read the sign over the Factory Street door. I’ll jes’ bet.

◊ ◊

◊ ۞

◊ ◊

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Upper Triptych

Moxibustion

Within Schizandra’s gutted temple Whooping up an exorcist’s circle Flagellants gird their loins for Battle Berserko: Weregoths blow the house down…

Singed rope-ladders, lop-pulleyed catwalks, Bulks of timber jutting skewed, splintered Mostly into pickets yet somewise This ruptured, listing lookout turret Stays tethered by a fine cunthair yet Tarotia fishnets the sky for signs Humming a lumbering lullaby:

Warden o’ The Way or wayward, ho! how will you log, Crystal or Coal?

Mobile testimonials reveal The Deal: fold this hand into the next.

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The Nidus Touch

Tyra, we’ll have none of your tantrums nor tantric tricks, nun (or have you forgotten?) of deus ex machina

know your station in this passion play dear or else confess in forlorn truant ward splayed upon the Woe-oh Cross

intern, learn the ropes doped with sappy attar young succulent, know your betters must suffer the rub of it but lac it song gnostical

’tween piss and shit we’re born.

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Youth in Asia One Way Out

Ric-o-chets a-cubing within a pillowed skull monsters from the id totally out of control:

“Telemoroñes, Señor Omelet you got a lot o’ huevos”

infibulated portal unbuttons its lips spitshines a sapient sac of jelly

shifts into psilocyberoverdrive: a telescape―forbidden planet wagon train.

Be warned lemmings beginning descent into dementia, all of whom bed

in bedlam a strange ventriloquism of acoustic shadows shall rise up from

then fall back to sunken catacombs some leagues below knells of tromlongboned

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sump pumps gosuckyglubsucky squid squeezin’s ’n’ turnip hairs.

Lower Triptych

Sausage Barge

hung by the shanks wrung out pink slinks thru the skinching

mash sheen eerie toggle tub blubbory

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Unnatural Acts

first snort up gold finch then fart blue jay courting mountain hem lock

wedding lodgepole pine Sister Alder Mist swallows the timber line’s

ne plus ultra.

33


On the Carpet and Then Some

terse torsoed abdomination employs beyond parameters clamps and crimpers tum drubbers and ornate sanders enforced tightened diameters.

Further errantants snatched and batched castigated (How they hangin’?) down at the suspensarium probes strumming stretched cummerbungees like silver umbilical cords strung to the bend in time.

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Intermezzo Disciple Lashed It seemed a lifetime ago that Lucrezia—“of The Cross”—peeked over her shoulder back down at me, staring up at her high rump romping like slap happy Ben Wa hams both vibrating off the other as they knocked about, slapping it up in my over amped libido while I followed her up the stairs from the street entrance where signage from the previous Garment District sweatshop still hung like an insider’s joke. Yes, no run of the mill trim here, her piercing glance conveyed. On the landing, Lulu went to the first of a grand hallway full of oaken doors. “The Mistress will be with you presently,” she swung open the massive door to the antechamber, “Please, take a seat.” In a blue lamp lit corner a coffin come wooden maiden leaned upright with cabinet door openings at face and crotch levels. With dabs of testosterone cream behind both ear lobes, I rejoined, “May I ‘take’ yours?” Lucrezia held her poker face for three heartbeats before toying with a smile, “Someone will have somebody’s before the day is done, I’ll wager,” now grinning, she watched for her retort to impress my expression. My right eye cocked, “Now be a good boy and put your butt in that chair,” she pointed to a metal studded contraption with immobilizing straps, “and save your enthusiasm for your coming ordeal with destiny.” Coming ordeal come coffin. The reverie demisted itself as I sat naked on my heels on the stone floor in 35


the middle of the darkened chamber, gathering my wits after christening for twelve hours each the Twelve Stations of Sorrow. “Before being reborn,” Mistress instructed from her throne, “one must first die.” Illustra grinned as this initiate’s shoulders

tensed.

So

predictable,

she

surely

mused.

“Even

if

only

metaphorically,” she assuaged me, her latest tyro. A slight drop in my shoulders told her, Ahh, he’s mine again. “Before change, first there’s crisis. We here, also, use stressors to create metamorphosis. Now go, catch us the foxes, for our vineyards are in bloom!” Back out on the street after a gross of hours, the usual downtown tarryhoot was mute. Forsaken cars littered between emptied glassteelstone monoliths. Tumbleweednewsprint: “The Brutish are coming! The Brutish are coming!” Gothschild and Gilderberg, as per His Royal Highness’s last request, had Prince Philip reincarnated as a killer virus taken up by the four winds.

Immurgency 36


Chapter 7

Exitus Diptych

“Ask not what The State can do for you; ask what you can do for The State.”— State.”— fr. fr. The Man Said ‘Slide’ So We Slid: confessions of a lamb lead to slaughter

To:

Mistress Illustrious, Row me over the falls where primal screams trail off into electro mist

dreams roaring into a rapturous body aripple with your romping buoyancy. Without you I am a murky pool. Stagnate. A mud puddle. A smudge on the worn sole of a discarded shoe… ’til abuzz within the sweet, swarming sting of your honeycombed promise. ’Till then I await your pleasure in hive-honored dance signing the sky with your pollen-potent name, my Royal Jellied Highness. ’Til then, I am Your bumbling drone, Fr:

Smikes!

◊◊ 37


Sargasso Soup

Raw heart is a green, tough yoke Withholding. Boiled, Heartichoke, Your bracts fan like fiery rose Unfolding kept disciples Lashed with vine to dunking poles Steeped in ebullient minnows Your petals row turtle boat.

38


Mount No More Beyond

H’up its center stands a dolmen I lie numbed

back ’gainst its fool’s diamond slab I harden upon the Altar of Adora-with≈ jacklight-of≈

full moon I spread paddled down her beams with cocoon and dewclaw rattles

at my head, hands and feet I nuzzle the Milky Way’s suckled polarities. 39


Chapter 8

Moonstocks Diptych “Semi-precious” Nun Jade loved making men squirm under heel. Loved to escort each naked on a leash to Sanctum von Kix. Await their asses whipped.

posted: I

am Velum, Words on the Cross, Worte am Kreuz; I am knotchen,

tangled lumps, Mein Gottin, My Goddess von Kummer Zitzen, of Suffering Titties! I am your altar, my Pitmostrocity, through me rise from Hell this spring we’ll retrace wie die linien wackeln, how the lines wobble whackin’ out new chevrons flayed over old, fulfilling not destroying, signed: Lance von Longinus. date:33 33--0430 Novus Ordo Mundi. witness:Punishe Pilates.

We ferment in the Bowel of the Beast. A bevy bunkered. All bent over frottage bobposts, every navel a tight cluster of knots each puckered over gut punch pressure switch on thoraxis drive juddering to dithereens atandem.

◊◊ 40


Yo Whip

poorwill on tip toe stand stockstill ’stead so elsen jacked up flapped out cheeky leathered jewels slung thrust ward ’long pogo gutpost dubbed new el to the stair well to heaven i’m in whipper

41


snapper heaven i got yo whip persnap per right here dink drink up

42


Avénuévo

Hail Mercy Mother of Goose blessed art thou whose baby boom daddy booms

¡mut’am’it luminary ran

i’m ultimatum!

& blessed are the pacemakers for they shall lead us not unto moonie runes of ruin yet deliver us from nimrodster dogmas chasing their own tales of woe is me.

43


Shiftrix Mirrorage age â˜Ż

44


Chapter 9

Crackpot Diptych

It takes the juice of a school of useless breathers hung out to dry for inking a Versus Intexti. Each youbē a hump engine piston chugging autogyrally, cursively sewn together by our common thread, Illustra, whose design is to dry hump the contraption into a rapt seizure as metal shavings spit out smoky aluminum oxide streamers of a nano-crystalline mist culled to silver a chemtrailed

perma-web

univiewer

sky

topside

looming

forth

The

Hologrammaton scaring shit out of the genpop just so to get them queued in: Left shoulders against the wall! Shirts tucked in! Hands in pockets! Stack it up, nuts to butts! Gawd was restored to the sky. Trixtress, a kiss below. The Final Crusade’s a great diversion. General Sun Tsu say, “All war is deception.” Armies of Armageddon were all plowshared far from homes with doors left wide open for the marauding horde called the Cremators of Care. Revelation 9:11 † They had as king over them the angel of the Abyss…

◊◊ 45


Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

Myoclonic Urthjerk.

Slipped subduction disks.

Missy had a hissy fit like Nostradamus knelt upon us nothing cremains outside this whitehot sarcophagus we call Langwedge: thus passes away the glory of this world.

46


A Concrete Versus Intexti

● O W

F

O

D

S

A

O

H

M

S

A S O

S -J O I N G T O H

W E A C T A S I F A*S I*T I*S D O E S O M E hh oo L Y S U R N, hh oo²K U M³P P E G A/S Y S’T M S W hh oo F O R E I R B E M U S H O O M E D T O N G U E S C O N N E C T H E A V E N A N D E A R T H] W I T H [T H U N D E R S O F C O L O R S E C ‘hh oo I N G” S H I F T E D M A TTT E R

O U TF A N T R

S O·B E·I T

47


Chapter 10

Dismembrance Triptych And they had as queen under them the Illustrix, Ms. von Kix, without whom their sky would not gleam fuzzy white silver hubcap diamond star halo. The genpop were mostly communicable—“positive mutaminants”—and so were mostly recycled en masse. The Immunicable, though, they were topside rejects. They just didn’t respond to the everecho’s jittery barrage of debilitating neurolinguistics…whether victor or victim, they were marked for absconsion by the Catherine Society, who, like a rapture gone south down a spider hole, deposited at the feet of Madam’s Mechanical Absolutions a balance of books by eking out to the last breath Displacement Credits for the youb who might otherwise infect all United Holy Humpdom if he were to query, say, his block’s VeriCheX-ray Tech: Would you like me to lift my sac? How ’bout my wife’s floppy tits? Have my daughter stick out her butt’n’gina? How ’bout we stick a feather [duster up] your [ass] and call it MaC-a-RO-ni? The Breatharians foster all nasty because they can. Tourette’s at the helm of the Ecoplexus: Cockefellers and Kissassingers weigh each breath. Newbie youbs begin their sentences warehoused in the drone stables. To feel the full frontal brunt of First Day at Kix Caverns is to feel the life force swell up out from the magma through toes up veins flowing forth lava.

48


The Ma’am said glide so we glid.

◊◊◊

PXL8

Vanity plated Taffy Pullpucky fed through the wringer crunk from stem to stern by dunkard pearl divers ensconced in the bottomlands putting the question to lunasdualis drawn out wispily streamlined thinly kicking against the pricks into nothingness much less any semblance of what once was Ol’ Was’is couldn’t bluff a bark now much less a byte me. 49


Suckleberries

Trickster holstered his wand then hissed This congress is the ultimate limit of mirror or rim its rhythm is one big navelringed saturnalien

its wanderlust is bootyorbust comewhatmay pups retreading ahead the Great Wheel

that the Mastress Of Breath yokes to the pole of space in binary code

jones. 50


Lyncean Oil

Till your ogle orbs roll i nub you mordant myrrh curry and mars juice à la goose to,get,her ’clued in batter ease off throttle spin sigh cull in doe lint lea

51


Finalé The thread of this operotica wends throughout the machinations of the Webstress Illustra von Kix conducting a power exchange, yin for yang, with the elsen Doctor Mortsac who so over amps their prison planet’s exoskeletal Nidus Plexus that it fazes amok acoustic shadows until the “mash sheen eerie” descends into a cascading tessellation of crumbling dungeons strung to the bend in time.

Be he victor or victim, in the end their argument is all just a matter of semantics, I’m sure.

February 11, 2011 (repurposed 2012-13)

52


I a m b u s I*N~D#E#X~U*S Metric Footnotes [4,21,24,26,27]

~Peer uneasy gene yes are test ~All does hucks lea

<1,2> [4] [51]

[3,4]

V E R S Optych─────────────►│ <1> O P~T A T │ R E C T Optych─────────────►│ <1> I~A N U S │ t h U S primus ecco │ CatullU S~t for ass ▼ WhilS t the one-verse folds upon itself into Ever ything from the outer rim job on [3]

PISS-stem ~Mort sac [3,7,18(19),52] <ii> “OK, yes, I’m done. Now Get the fork outta my face.” [3,(4),(30)]

Vena sex mock henna ~Mz. Dizney Kicks [3,(5),(9),(13),21,24,(36),(37),40,(45),48,52] “For joy for ~Joyce, joy, the zebra’s in the zygospore, ignore, ignore.”

53


[3]

Arrows offer ~Cupidities [3]

Picks’ll loosen neigh shiss [3]

Subra-con-chess [3,4,24,(48),52]

Nigh does ply exes

<i,ii,1,2>

a nest of Webstresses

[3,5,52]

[3,45,47]

Unique Ver.sys intechs tai Disposable Sing Eularity, an artificial black hole-bubble containment≈ reservation barrier buster, rumored [4]

Fauxto mahn Taj eerie [4]

aft terse hex all any malls arse add, ’ceptin’ wimmin & roosters ~Galen? ~’Stotle? “Greek to me, Offither… [4]

Rose mar ’een the lines run aground ~Mel de Ville still bled slick on open water [4,(36)]

vie role enfeck shun ov/en cant asians sham dial hectic ~El Hombre from outer space 54


[4,52]

Cask aiding teh’s El Lay shun Ought tawny muss Faint asthma gore ria

[4] [4]

[4]

Avant-Arabesque Man I’m beat, beyond b[ah]roke Get back, ~Jack

<ii>

[5]

Lows Fee lez Griff 5th obs hervé ToRi indie ’hood [5]

met trick mawn taw jizz ~Eyes in stein

<i,(ii),1>

[5]

Sex hundred and sexty-sex daze ~The Beast sniffs out in a moment of quantum lucidity an Eroto-comatose cockhorse the golden crack of Dawn a flash a smile dewy lippity lobe auto me studded saddle bustress spur spunk sparkled galloping gooses bobbing buttresses take me i’m yours

[27]

[27] [51]

[5]

cam era ob scura Universoptychal fata morgana

[3,4] <1>

[5]

“typer,” by ~Beershitski

55


[5,25]

“Dialog Sheet” [C/S]ession Dynamic or, How Our No-Mercy Circes Take a Sissy Fuss Up and Down the Ladder in 6,6,6 Easy Steps [5] at Chez Ricochet, where the caviar, by far [27]

56

C I R

C L E

A N Y

N O H

O L E

B A R

R E D

T O R

T U R

E S S

F O R

C E D

F E D

P R O

B O S

C I S

S U S

P E N

D E D

L A D

D E R

I N T

E N S

O R Y

’L E C

T R O

D E V

I C E

H O T

W A X

V U L

G E R

G A G

E N E

M A S

H U M

B L E

R R R

V I B

R A T

O R S

P V C

C O R

S E T

D E G

[57]

R A D

A T E

S I S

[9,21,33]

T E R

A R N

I C A

N I P

P U L

L E Y

[5,25]

[26,(34)]

[(25),(37)]

[(29)]

[(29)]


[6,49]

kick…against the pricks ~Axe 9:5/26:14 [6]

arse in all Ayn gel ~Howlin’ Allen aka Sr. Carlo Marx [6]

strict shun nary Define me DĔG·răd·ĀTE* me [56] *beware; it’s in there will be on test

[6]

written onda Pill whores of Her queue lease: neapless ultra [33] “no mo yonda” [39] and yet

[7]

AMAZ♥NE [Vanity Plated] AMAZE ME I misread, so OK, revisionally Hanging Is Flying

[7]

[49]

whoa, pause all pausal for the causal [30]

beet wean pissant she ’twere bore in, say ’sain’t ~Ahh(gusting)~ so [7] bardo ’tain’t neither this nor that, here nor there [7,52]

POW! works change top is bottom is top

57


[7]

Reverse Tricks Ria Grande

<(ii)>

[7]

bizz unteen bop a sac/ra[(’s)peri]mental stopgap ~Yay, eights! at 69 still a play-uh

[48]/[10,13,59] <ii>

[7]

parry shoot — snap-on’s a slack clapper cincher upper come a cute pair annoy ya dong alongward [9]

Fug a dug it came in a ~Mailer [9]

Kühl loud kook [cool &] ~Airist often knees as in ~Offen a Free Lunch not oft it’s called eliding as in gliding afore ward ’stead aft see: [apos sibyl trophy]

Knot yore ~Ezekiel Dollar’s Lust Raw [(5),9,13,21,24,(36),(37),45,(48-9)] Of the Metro [17] [9,11,13,17,21]

Am Anita Am Rita Am Brosia (moosque aria) so much rooms, so much ~Is a bella, is a sol

<ii>

[9]

bawdy bag /bodhi bag 58

after the insults i beg your pardon

~Catullus ~Optatianus


[10]

Pew lings flock off!

<1>

[10]

tour billion oh the humanity vertical spiral of flame and sparks [10]

criss anthem hum oh the dynasty spherical burst of shooting stars metal salted strontium salts, lithium salts calcium, sodium barium, copper burning aluminum, titanium magnesium magnifique [10,13,(58)]

Ra

the light first <ii> then Amen, hidden wind <ii> “So Be It” say the loopy fold

[47] [10]

[11]

Rigged Vehicle <1> RġVeda “the swollen ones piss [the soma]” [11] ~Dīrghatamas (Opotamus), lost his hip Six THOUsand years ago [(11),(17),(47)]

[11,17,47]

somesh* rooms *lord moon “i have drunk of the soma <2> and now half of me am Urth [46] the other half [mirth]” ~Dīrghatamaster, “There was in olden days a wise Rishi…” [11]

toadstool bufo ten nine mooscaria countdown sync into the skin of the gods ~Once i was me; but now i’m you

[17]

59


[13]

Smiling and everything like ~Are. Brought-again likewise my 7-yr-old at-tension captured by the calendared ’52 Marilyn spread up against the wall of a cun’tree store slash post or’fice slash arm pit stop my 14-yr-old bro,“3-of-5”, broke his lust to bust my blurted utterance my milkfed innocence a mobile testes moany all together now back of the wagon comin’round the mountain in a buick ’59 ’59, buick ’59 yosemite bound vernal falls also naked and celebrated a force the moral stampede can no more shroud in it’s dust than O.G. Dylan T’s green thrust. [13]

Indus/5 hundred thousand millyin yang years may never know why 5? Hand to god Hand that pressed Mohen jo daro into delta silt pentagonal then swept the lines away Hand of Arjuna too from a litter of 5 shook as Krishna spoke thermo maha ha ha die damnics

60

[29]


[14]

History Motors Indus[ted] like Kh’mere you where go? all Rouge Lite like Anna’s Ozzie oh heck Olmec ax’im ’bout Aksum They done. Men owens? Bones. Like Cucu[ka-choo]teni and the Tryp[ptych]illians Uncanny ash canny. Can’t ask the Nabateans — all Petra’fied — what it means. Can’t ask Cahokia They, too, all up in smoky, uh, I dream of My sin eon Bronzed like ensconced Moche mole. Can’t roll me ova in Clovis starta cultcha — gone way ’fo’ Sargon was A cad aeon ago. And so he too, he’s gone, broke down the road all bas-relieved no hubcaps even way gone car lot and all.

-bah[48]

[15]

Taken/Token from/Old/Bus People ~Found Poem/Wall Scrawl, ’81 downtown Sandy Egg-o [18]

Transfer(enter fear)ence “I am Legion” okie tokie, ’Artichokie?

[38]

61


[(19)]

tooth ishtars threw’d iffy cult ease ~Roamin’ add age [21,48]

Cath urine

the Great* catheterize, catheterize pull out his “guys”

*“There is nothing, it seems to me, so difficult as to escape from that which is essentially agreeable.”

[22]

[19]

safeword: Palindrome [(19),(22),(30),(31),(43),(50)] RED NUDE MADAMED UNDER or would Palimpsest be best? See, Langwedge [46] is a witch that shroomed from a spore from outer space [11] man, why we spell out our names to this day [23,60] or so ~William Tell … what, too soon?

(40)

it’s a whole newer old ardor, baby check your ~Buybull [5,6,24,(27),36,37,40,43,45,47,49,(55),56,57,59,61] at the door

■ [In the Name of The Square,] October 2012 – April 2013

~ [The Triangle,]

▼ 62


[53] Iambus confusingly refer/ red to as “iambic poetry” not restricted to meter origins scholars traced to cults Demeter & Dionysus genre insulting obscene “blame poetry” For Alexandria intended to entertain, and elegy even though lacking decorum both Archilochus & Hipponax early exponents Callimachus composed against scholars which tickled Catullus, who popularized Hip-guy Horace, on other hand imitation of Archie’s invectives revenge and denunciation // “iambos” denoted content secondarily metrical Arch criticized for being “too iambic” “too metrical” cult of Demeter festivals featured Homeric abuse commemorate slave Iambe’s bawdy jests so abusive roused grieving goddess Dem forgets sorrows laughs instead. “Normality reinforced experiencing opposite.” common element blame dangerous unsuitable behaviors. addressed to audience under threat cast in role of friends // ranges from humorous ribbing to merciless attacks regarded as lower than lyric because nearest to speech because undignified // a “riotous affair” phallic rites). //

63


the drinking symposium the cult festival occasions. role iambic played in society. was complex found voice during change and dissent, entitled or empowered preach and condemn. Pindar condemned Archie “sharp-tongued” and “grown fat , ” yet still found sympathetic audiences // Callimachus following example of Hipster’s curse poetry versus farewell poetry a politic weapon by Cato the Elder account by Plutarch: // heaped much abuse upon Scipio bitter tone of Archilochus // Post-punk Catullus satirical epigram with Hipponax’s pungent invective the iambic poet bullies others yet victim too meant to appear spontaneous led to “mixed bag” Horace alerting citizens of a doomed republic: // where are you careening to? // nature changed from epoch to another // casts off ill-omened stinking pulverize / turn the sea loom rends trembling / appear sinks carrying winning sailed on / sweating

64


change hue to a pale green, / wailing prayers ignored resounding with the wet breaks apart ship! / scattered Lies at the pleasure sacrifices lusty goat // dexterous display of patterns. // The papyrus tattered portions, incomplete identification // spews out seaweed. // the surf, the seaweed, the dog, the manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s frozen body, outlines than they would appear

~ Aldous Huxley on Giovanni Piranesi the diagonal in a parallelogram of which the base prevailing tradition socially important events of the time the upright the artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s temperament his private the base is longer in others, the upright . // Prisons are of the second kind. In them personal, private everlasting upright notably longer than historical and social base. proof etchings have continued, going-on three centuries, relevant modern expressions obscure excavations spoke to the condition speak no less eloquent of deep psychologic. not subject to recording contemporary life. Nor trying to rewrite facts. Concern states of the soul states that recur chance, combines factors of physique in certain patterns for St. Augustine

65


human differences same as Grace and the mystery —only Nano sapiens one day maybe /havior outside sin and virtue— known, not as disease or peculiarity, not analyzed by lyric poets, but as criminal rebellions as obstacles of enlightenment indulging in which were plunged by Dante head over ears in the black mud St. Catherine of Sienna allowed “Confusion binds the arms of holy desire unendurable conflicts and fantasies. robs light and darkens the demons be vanquished by holy desire.” To someone like she treating as merely subject for would have seemed criminal imbecility. base, upon personal uprights, was so long and so deep in thē·ō·traditional proved impossible to pay attention even outward appearance hardly described gentle, courtly, avaricious, amorous, and the like. greater genius profounder ethic(s) resulting diagonal astounding // startlingly subterranean workings tormented , together with all who be like them. monks by candle-light in a state of elongation. All the plates in the series a single symbol reference —to acedia and confusion, to nightmare and angst, panic bewilderment. // the first idea came in the delirium of fever. the mind expressed was chronic and sort normal. Fever suggested but years elapsed between first and final plates, recurrent moods responsible such obscure indispensable symbols ropes, the aimless engines, makeshift stairs and bridges. // plates published while still young man, thence-forward, theme was always Rome; Rome as it ought as it might if

66


Augustus possessed inexhaustible supply fortunate resources limited; hypothetical Rome depressingly pretentious place. // Gio’s god was Roman antiquity his desire was mixture of historical truth and to make a living. These sufficient antidotes to confusion. never gave second expression to the Prisons.

beauty,

~ Catullus/Optatianus licenses which were common pre-Augustan became rare, were infrequent were almost unknown. // The passé cool -Cat poets gave weight to Ovid the pattern for most very considerable on the form In other lines Horace’s were models. Remark // tendency, noticed among the later Byzantines, playing with words and affections, became stronger and stronger, the want of real was felt. most remarkable , unique in its kind /Optic Optatianus: so Constantine, don’t be so mean

~ e-PISS-stem, all, “oh gee” epistēmē, meaning understanding,” -logos “study of” concerned with knowledge questions what and how it be acquired, pertinent to any given // connected notions truth, belief, justification. // propositional “knowledge that.”

67


there is knowing how to add and knowing oneself), place , one’s hometown), thing , one’s stuff), or activity , one’s addition). primarily concerned with first one. Self. // the distinction “know by description” and “know by acquaintance” ’tinction ’tween know what and know that failure to acknowledge leads to infinite regress // evaluate people’s “properties” and not just the properties of propositions // expression of faith trust ― Example : Nicene Creed). While also concerned in much broader sense simply the acceptance of any content. To believe is to accept as true. // is true is not a prerequisite other hand, if is known, then cannot be false. it could be said that the bridge was safe but that his belief was mistaken. whereas now, after crossing it), he knows // a system of justified true sentences. // of Plato’s dialogues, Socrates considers theories what knowledge is, the least being “given an account of” // Smith and Jones awaiting results of applications same job. Each ten coins in pocket. Whoever ten in pocket gets job. These cases fail because though belief is justified, only happens by virtue of luck. what will happen can coincidentally be correct // the infallibilist one. the justification must necessitate

68


// doubts may rise. not all claims can be sustained.” // Henry and the barn façades. driving along sees buildings that resemble barns. // believes his daughter innocent of crime // can’t be regarded as simply shorthand // to truly exist there must be a causal chain // in order to count it must be caused, “outside” the mind conditions are within states of those who gain // the only method through our senses not infallible not consider concept to be infallible “indubitably through methodological doubt “I do not exist” be contradiction act of saying assumes someone be in first place. doubt senses, the world around him, could not deny own existence, be/cause able to doubt and must exist to do so. would have to exist to be deceived. Even. one sure Archimedean point to further develop foundation // not particularly valuable not to the slender nor liminal focus ought to focus understanding. // “Only small parts of the brain a tabula rosa remainder more like exposed negative to be dipped into developer // teach the things of everlasting importance details change constantly,

69


Therefore, teach principles, people are human teach first about humans, not techniques. people first, and workers second if at all, teach liberal , not vocational focus reasoning and wisdom rather than vocational training. // Become aware Define Propose hypotheses Evaluate consequences from experience Test solution. // sense data. // and the abstract. // imaginary numbers, // “The norm of the truth is to have made it. ” (Up, usually normally.) // rock bottom just meanders in and out network stopping nowhere. an infinite chain “ only true wisdom is knowing you know nothing.” // an infinite series will sometimes converge // “amalgam of arrangements bonded through a given field how we know what we know.” // in issues of law proof may be required, or be determined a particular fact before a specific action whether premeditated). design user interfaces. taxonomy of behavior used to develop systems compatible with multiple “ knowing”: abstract analytic , “gut feelings,” “craft” sensorimotor skills.

~ Mortsac

70


From Smothered Video • Landlord in Latex Starring: Mistress Mina (from Vegas— very vicious problem with new landlord neighbors complaining sounds dungeon complaints justified. “ know what I think?” “ get on your knees and worship .” plants twat [’s happening?] face sufferocating punctuated slaps tongue-worship spike-pumps “Kiss!” “Show li’l shoe-slut.” • Is That Your Final Breath? Starring: Mistress Darian breathtaking insane outfit session purple dungeon cruel job hurting men not much dialog muff fulled “You like control every breath?” tramp pulled toes dam(n) nostrils clamp nasty nip pulls • Struggle for Breath Starring: Mistress Paris thigh-high boots over fishnets commissions muralist’s finest But(t) depicts women in bondage benefactrix firmly miffed said men in victim’s chair —don’t care? “instructs” : Reducing to jelly torment tail spin “no escape” artist (highfalutin flyer) fetches such cruel ass nose dive // From Syren Productions • The Merciless Ass Whipping Starring Mistress Jinx splendid San Fran sadist severe we have ever produced spanking block, strapped down shoulders to ankles lashing of life paddles ass ferocious fury switches from tree, buggy whips whistle , thick straps, floggers, every get hands on toy chest. sweet so vicious a beating. • Persephone’s Cruel Intentions Starring Mistress Persephone together with Super masoCh[r]ist we knew one hot corporeal punish meant not disappointed. attacks bifurcated lunasdualis with fury unseen previous 71


beats with every imple/meant to get hands on straps, thick wooden paddles, a bath brush, canes, dressage whips, single tail // From Ms. Strix Productions • Dance to the Whip Starring Mistress Ilsa Strix sexy Sadist unleash the harsh entire pasty-white backside flaying litany floggers, stock whips bullwhips pinnacle of painful face slapping firm hand , then whips to unrealized peak peak form , formidable arsenal “can it be real?” Believe marks and blood ultimate wrath // Add To My Favorites Save For Later Tag This Video

~ Venus ex Machina to not capture would be travesty unimaginable special realm // rules defer to no one trappings well oiled mechanism endless delicious facets // divinely improper // make your own clay // cast us from the garden // lewd and exalted // possessed with spirits temple dark rooms revealing lengthy involved process // gather in my dungeon, in my home, my heart, my head my gray-blue eyes

72

see


slaves kneeling then flying this is yours // float unencumbered

~ Disney an animatrix is born (“Let me entertain you.”) December 15th same day same year Walt took Route ’Sixty-six (one six shy of hell) further west of the garden walking on water from Los Feliz studio // She clean slate back East Hartford future ’Sexty-sexual when wagon go ho!ward The happy dominion // reanimation // week before winter blacker than control tunnels running under Main Street in Anaheim Park during a blackout and a sabotaged generator // let’s see you get outta this one.

~ Zebra gifts black and white, clarity balance, agility you/niqueness sureness of path individual within the herd. //

73


stripes camouflage against predators , can’t I Dentify un•divide•dead . to the herd patterns are you zebra to zebra , fingerprints. Blending crowds without losing one is one’s agility // stripes opposites, yin yang, harmony see deeper truth. // flourish in a harsh land. Compromising can be challenging enjoy Zebra show how. // small herds of a stallion some mares their foals. mix with antelope , giving protection alertness. fit the shoes protector therapist compassionate // Questioning common zebra medicine over-analytic hindrance for this totem imagination be awakened. // black on white , white on black what you see is not always . Occult seen and unseen shifts, new aspects // master magicians energy of light and dark shift expand past preconceived lead us into unseen. sure , standing middle of opposing

74


[54] Erosopher Socrates concludes prayer to Eros. pleads palinode as beautiful as could, seeing forced to couch in piety asks for pardon, not to be blind , begs Eros not deprive art of love let his technē be more than ever asks blame Lysias if anything amiss implores stop Lysias evil speeches turn him // only once Socks cited technē of love mirrored with philos , eros reverses the soul , like to know what is. Nothing indicates not a method purely a knowledge to dominate it will exist. nothing like method anywhere. a gift . Continued possession not expert domination , but favor not a tool Hegel’s Wissenschaft , nor belief in human metamorphosis pointedly reserve “wise” for Olympus while denies divine , it is that this // Thus, erotic art thus stand possibility in general aspiration transcend become wisdom” trying transform depend on conscious rejection of what says. No if what said about divine madness.

~ Versus Intexti not so much content as technique “twisted verses” //

75


lines arranged so stylized altar’d re/verse/d // acrostico // sheet not roll papyrus squared sign of salvation savior for monogrammar for stammerers, Sound now all dope and shit // procure pardon corpus intexti // “twisted body” from morgue’s resident table-hopper // it’s complicated , versus complexus

~ “After sex all animals are sad, except the cock and the woman.” // post coitum omne animal triste est , sive gallus et mulier // originally attributed to Galen Greek physician second century linked the four temperaments sanguine , phlegmatic , choleric and melancholic to dispositions. minus cock/woman appending strap-on , Aristotle author say some tho’ universal collective can’t be traced single person. // day·NEW·maw works like an invisible wall erected between out of nowhere extreme solitude hitting // recycled in Othello isn’t? It deception fusion the little mort // blissful merge or will subsist karma assume? for sure maybe never.

76


~ Rosemarine Ebb Tide The lost years // HANDSOME SAILOR // Melville forewarned about -Dick,”Don’t you read it , not Spitalfields silk the horrible of a fabric woven // impacted (“Dollars damn me,” condemned career went to work inspector New York harbor, writing verse on Sunday, burning letters receiver keeping no journals. inheritance permitted retire from the District at 66 // when spry, silver bearded 60 blocks work every morning hiking , pacing imaginary landscape mural trying to catch -“rosemarine”- sunset sky circumnavigating for a leg Central Park // at Customs the line came. “ These liquid hills” // sliding over sheets almost like sliding like into the swelling foam knotted tips breasts darkness // (squirreling away against inevitable .)

~ El Hombre More than a smallpox virus. // opiate addict. // Communication must total //

before

stop it.

77


knows a little // city dwellers depend on warfare. // shit disposition untenable parasite // war War all the time. based on based on war // borrowed flesh who survive // ghost on a crowded street. // Cut word lines // Word organism an air line sprawled body at an angle symbiosis a virus , lost option of silence. resistant organism forces the word. // take back everything

78


[55] Beyond Baroque 681 Venice Blvd. // small press archive // 1968 from a storefront to old city hall first librarian was Exene // index online. // Momentum , Little Caesar, FOREHEAD

~ Los Feliz affluent, hilly ’hood Hollywood district noted for expensive celebrity with Griffith Park & Observatory original Rancho land concession // Rancho Los Feliz -The Happy Ranch- succession of owners Griffith J. Griffith donated split the ranch with Lows Angle-ease proper // Mickey Mouse was born in The Happy in the garage of Walt’s uncle’s house on Kingswell between Vermont and Rodney first studio on Kingswell just down the street second, larger studio on Silver Lake side // Ilsa’s early El Lay upstairs dungeon on Serrano near Los Feliz Blvd. off of which on the park side I’d park for discretion once walking across blvd ½ blk down ave of castlets with a switch cane parked crack down back of my breezy pants

79


for an overripe July 1st noon appointment “replace whistler” one broken splintered over bare blistered previous // Here it’s sin not to finish job barely begin // home to other early studios D. W. Griffith Charlie Chan filmed and the camp classic “Johnny Guitar.” // sprinkled with homes by Frank Lloyd Wright,

~ Eisenstein’s Metric Montages Soviet Montage Theory creating cinema heavily editing French for “assembly” “editing” the 1920s disagreed how to view “A Dialectic Approach … should be considered a demonstration “the nerve determine nature solve cinema.” // what constitutes the effect collision of independent shots” not next to but on top of the other” // discontinuity in graphic quantities. impossible spatial matches. temporal ellipses // Metric― editing frames time), cutting to the next no matter what // the montage will in fact form thoughts tool for propaganda ideological agitation Strike cross-cut slaughter of a bull police attacking workers.

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~ The Great Beast 666 1875 â&#x20AC;&#x201D; 1947), ceremonial poet and mountaineer founding the religion of Thelema prophet who was entrusted // spy for intelligence, british throughout his life. Joined esoteric Hermetic Order Golden Dawn by Loch Ness traveling to India then Cairo. contacted by entity Aiwass i shit you not // Ordo Templi Orientis before founding Sicilian commune Abbey of Thelema promote Thelema unto death. // notoriety, being openly recreational social critic. result , denounced in pop press wickedest man in world.â&#x20AC;?

~ Eroto-comatose Lucidity a technique of sex magik formulation by occultist CrOWLey (not CROWley) several positions number of ways ritual repeated not to orgasm in a state exhaustion with their god. // and several guides. // to arouse to exhaust orgasm must be avoided enough guides if one tires another may take place. Eventually, sink into exhaustion Exigo //

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come close to awakening stroking alone not to fully to bring to brink to trance, or “sleep of lucidity.” back toward (but not into) sleep. repeatedly indefinitely until reaches a state communing without directing “bodily pure,” The Owl noted. // sexual exhaustion through repeated orgasm does not necessarily end the rite. moment should not be lost, use for magical purposes. // what is desired be focused throughout rite should not be free of desire // any semen (or “chrism”) must be consumed by the ritualist, “Cake of Light.” // solo effort. repeatedly masturbates visualizing the end sought. this is how the rite was taught. // similar rite sexual exhaustion leads to sort of vampirism guides use only the mouth exhaust the player intent must not be to assist but rather transfer strength when pushed to the point death in this way enslaved power transferred guides.

~ Camera Obscura Camera “vaulted chamber ” Obscura “dark” optical device pro-jects image of surroundings on screen room with a hole in one side external light scene passes through the hole

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each fate vector encoded in bits strikes inside , rotated 180 degrees color and perspective preserved projected onto paper , traced // Using mirrors to right-side up pinhole smaller sharper, but dimmer lens allows larger aperture // known since Mo-Ti founder Mohism referred to as “collecting plate” “locked treasure room.” // Aristotle understood the optical principle “sunlight traveling through between the leaves holes of a sieve , wickerwork, and laced fingers circular patches light travels in straight lines // what is projected is everything from outside // sir Bacon described for observation of solar eclipses . da Vinci described in Codex Atlanticus. Johann Zahn’s . Telescopium, magic lantern. // convex lens later editions compared shape of human eye to the lens // eye of the Pyramidal rayes a decussation strike a second base upon proper organ answerable to the paper, or wall in the dark chamber ; rayes at the hole hornycoat, and their refraction Christalline humour foramen of the window , or burning-glasses refract that enter it.

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~ Brewkowski nothing as glorious drinking twentyfour beers the night before. odor of a beer shit made you really alive.

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[56] The Humbler physical restraint testicle cuff clamps around base mounted center of bar passes behind base of buttocks forces legs folded forward ass up attempt to straighten legs even slightly pulls slack taut like pulling a train up “The Khyber Pass”

~ Arnica Balm Muscle Rub flowers infused cocoa butter and beeswax lavender and lollipops // Keep away from sensitive areas? // Bitch that’s all I got.

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[57] Carlo Marx Karl’s labored routine Which when delivered by Groucho manifests anti-capitalist comedian // Allen Ginsberg and Dean Moriarty together // define “sordid hipsters” nothing light and Care Bear poetry is dark doldrums — “sordid” also “The Voice of Rock,” asking reasons behind crazy. unable to provide Carlo ends up on fringe off Road

~ Degradate Esperanto • Adverb // Italian • Verb

~ Pillars of Hercules ne plus ultra 1. highest point; acme; above timber line 2. most intense utmost limit can go , literally , “no more beyond ,” inscribed astraddle at Gibraltar and Aphrike like a butthole tattoo a crown of thorns rimming a mouth french kissing a Sea of Darkness any further there be monsters

~ Between Piss and Shit We’re Born Swift’s comic irony with St. Augustine’s : inter urinas et faeces nascimur of love is the foulest place our most exalted

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the seat


aspirations bound to our soiled flesh even from their ordure, we draw not only dainties to eat, but and perfumes keeping clean and falling in love. imaginary air and vapours, not to confuse the anus with evil. refining a sin makes it vicious.

ornaments

~ Bardo Tibetan literally “in-between state” “liminal .” concept arose soon after Buddha’s passing, after dish of wild mushrooms // after death and before next birth , not connected with body For the prepared offers liberation , may arise place of danger as hallucinations can impel as much as rebirth. // usual way suspended external constraints

~ Power Exchange two people power relationship one assumes responsibility the other yields defining element is deliberate construction // assumes total control All final // flogging how much can take build up how to breathe can go into more agony

to

authority.

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relax a bit lay down that whip another step ladder of submission open up finally to the point endorphins in another century leaving body through some experience forgotten million years ago present breathing into her eyes Top’s high too. That’s power exchange // power dynamics, a strong man tied down relinquishing fuels libidinal fires. // adventuring. // art out of bodies , frailty whips and clothespins found objects. // big pretty package // intensity. , is key just grab it as extreme as beautiful as powerful as possible // for branches to reach to heaven roots must reach to hell get just as high as the bottom fly right along we create this vortex very healing see how far take someone, power within, not power over ’neath and ’round pathways , not just beating down ’nuff in this world don’t need more over much more complex beautiful and healing. // would never use whip if hadn’t used on self first, // else no currency no // ex change.

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[58] River Strix blue pools for eyes Mistress on the Hill Berkeley 5000 largest recorded piercings coursed twelve hours Mistress Ilsa ( inventrix Triangle [clit] Piercing) two helpers Mses. ~Sol and ~Midori Nine, Twenty-nine, Ninety-six // ritual done with Mr. Prickles already 333 needles under belt five thousand needles means ten thousand more holes steps emphasized , doctor on call contingency gear oxygen cardiac should things arrest butler to show wrappings/leakings the door keeping re/versed river nymphs fed // safeword red never “referred ” entire time, never time called . Mostly chatter “eventually regressed sewing circle of sin.” sushi and power bars. // world record one session some time to come. // respect our rawest vulnerable forms.

~ Byzantine no country for old men…”) 1934 Steinach operation spunk rerouted dubbya bee’s horn-rimmed head by a thread

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new vigor poetry with younger number among Margot Ruddick and Ethel Mansin conductive to despite age prolific occult letter noted: “ strange second puberty given me, the ferment come upon unlike anything I have done.”

~ Parachute tight conic collar leather , fastens ’round bag of soft rocks weights hung from chains hung ’neath // constant drag, and squeezing swinging effect restrict sudden movements , stim the bell ringer.

~ Fug -gin’ nor-man publishers persuaded mailer send euphemism in lieu of moment follows: // “Oh, hello, “You’re the young man doesn’t know how to spell…”. f-bombs all sorts of asterisks. // L’enfant at the gate

~ “Cloud Cuckoo Land” unreal ideal everything is perfect deranged holding // 90


from The Birds by Aristophanes not ’itchcock’s // inflated value just before the crash

~ Offen Times publisher Free Lunch Literary Journal “when kisses were sweet questions.” // barber shop, the red and white [blood-and-bandages] striped pole outside, spinning forever nowhere, like infinity // supported aspiring poets. // free issues 1,200 poets // instrumental in spotting // produced experimental plays

~ Ez/Ra Pound in London “ before I die the greatest poems loud brash “ I happen to be genius and deserve .” // …east of Hailey Idaho 4 years yet born …Big Whiskey Wyoming , 1881 Unforgiven …Will Munny Spencer barrel at Little Bill’s face supine, “Deserve’s …got nothin’ to do with it.” // arrived 14 August 1908. Not yet twenty-three Pair o’ Deuces knew nobody only fifteen dollars , no pounds // popular press agreeably startled serious critics seldom impressed. Unfazed, Pounded on promote by bizarre means. “ trousers made of green billiard-cloth, a pink coat, a blue shirt, a tie painted Japanese , immense sombrero

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flaming beard cut to exclamation single, large blue-earring.” “ kind but blustering adolescent. Almost ‘arrested’ development.” Punch parodied “palpitating works” “the new Montana poet, Mr. Ezekiel Ton.” took it as compliment wrote home, “London offered ultimate laurel taken cognizance .” under influence altered stilted language to spoken idiom. “austere, direct, free from slither…

~ Of “In a Station of the Metro” the best locksmith begins a bit flat: place, underground, public transport simple as pedestrian directions. Only more to be measured than what is called upon Confucius translates Homer. // curt and irascible, incessant talker, “ loose in a museum.” structure of year prior to great war 1913 edition of Lustra. others in this node thinking for a long time. // Paris sub system first true Imagist poem was effect felt when “ suddenly a beautiful face, then another another, and then beautiful child’s then beautiful woman” getting off a train // turned radically on its colon overlay two images. double helix snakes copulating hokku couplet // “ I tried all that day to find words I could not find any words worthy, as that sudden e/motion. still trying, found, suddenly, I do not mean that I found words, there came an equation … not in speech , in little splotches of colour. — a ‘pattern’ a language in color I realized quite vividly

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if I had the energy to get paints and brushes and keep at it, a new school ‘non-representative’ would speak only in arrangements gone into paint … “ one idea set on top of another … “ meaningless unless drifted into a certain vein of thought . trying to record instant when a thing transforms darts inward and subjective . worthy of .” // vision of the blossom oriental in nature decorative form of arranging, of linear construction, rhythm, color . vase, stems, leaves , branches, as well based on three main lines heaven, earth, humanity poem petals are people stationed/upon a stem screaming “Jug Jug” into dirty ears // underground horizontal and blackened branch side by side faces in the windows ancient haikus “Flowers Faded” “Blossoms Left Behind” a simple montage one concrete image the modern meter of the metro moves rhythmic into organic space there are no verbs how they echo.

~ Izabella Sol La Papesse de Sangre The Popess of Blood // Referring to one performance front page New York Times , May 10, 1997 “ is no shocking San Francisco been argued , takes some doing , and so done” //

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at a birthday party for Jack D (like Daniels, but Davis/ political consultant for Mayor and 49ers) Last Gasp’s Baba Ron arranged rage and disgust performance how America has treated its indigenous peoples, Apache Priest had pentagram carved into back with scalpel by Mistress Izabella Sol urinated on it Coyote Priest drank of it followed by his cursing of the United States in the name of his ancestors and Satan. said seven generation curse of the white man is alcohol. To express this , the Trickster Priest in the local San Francisco Church of Satan performed Apache Whiskey Rite. // “ fucked up my family for seven generations. My father, his father and his father and so on. Old Number Seven . If going to fuck me, going to fuck me in the ass!” Then sodomized with strap-on Jack Daniels bottle by local poet Danielle[’s] Willis. // Hey yuh yuh yuh

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[59] Tourbillion described by Charles Dickens: a double rocket, having orifices produce a double recoil one rotatory one vertical revolves ascends same time exceedingly brilliant outburst the multitude.

~ Chrysanthemum firework spherical break visible trail

colored stars ••

flower one of the “Four Gentlemen” of China with plum blossom, the orchid and bamboo • /flagrant “Chrysanthemum Gate” taboo slang “enter the anus” • /fragrant sun symbol Japanese Dynasty orderly unfolding perfection a single petal placed at the bottom of an empty tea cup // re-steeped each morning 25 hundred by 365

~ Viva Veda Riggy Soma profound mushrooms primitive attitudes of different races puzzling over division of Eurasia -phobe vs. -phile

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Russians greediest recognize 90 varieties // English ate only the white field except where blue hats sold . But in North Wales avoided as poisonous. // in Bavaria eight edible varieties to the kitchen . in Wales same growing in the woods “Throw those toadstools away! // so many million unreasoning neatly bottled another curious taboo Greek, Hebrew, Egypsy , most Middle-terrestrials forbidden any bright red food , lobsters, crabs, prawn wild strawberries had no name regarded poison except to priests, kings and other privileged regarded “reserved for” // sacred mushroom protected by taboos grew in forests, not in fields , scarlet little foxes // only birch forests wild // hymns (written in Sanskrit time of Trojan War) , Food of Gods . named Soma. also Ambrosia and Nectar all mean Immortal . Sappho preserved tradition as a drink , the juice squeezed out between boards , mixed with curds ; Vedic hymns, Agni mystic illum[Igni]tion identified with Soma , created when Sky Father Indra threw a lightning bolt // Dionysus Mycenus, mystic mycologician , sporn spore-dusted when Sky Father Zeus threw a lightning bolt // Ma struck dead little squirt saved sewn up in his Father’s thigh entered the kidneys

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strained reborn as discharge to worshippers stream of hallucinogenic urine October Fest , The Ambrosia. October mushroom season. mixture with whiskey long been by Scots called a “Cathy” the Great of Russia in honor said to have been partial // priests of Dionysus active in Mycenaean times from Mycenae City of Mushrooms claimed sole rights memory brought down from Siberia, not found south of 40th parallel , except at great height in birch groves. Vedic priests of Agni imported from groves of the high Himalayas. Throughout the world believed begotten by lightning. // Norse Berserkers magicians and sages amanita stems for nose plugs , induced prophecies Bear-shirters mouth-breathers for Ursa Major // Solomon’s bride urges her lover fetch her “the little foxes” mushroom-juice laced with wine “that spoil the vines” the better to enjoy her “for my vines have tender grapes.” // post scriptum pre-scripture Siberian reindeer are known to “nibble ’till red-nosed ,” then fly

~ Dirghatamas well known for verses in the Rig Veda added to since 1st Mandala // chief priest of King Bharata after whom India was first named

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// birth of Dirghatamas in the MahaBharata studied in his mother’s womb the Vedas Semen tuum frusta perdi non potest. “O father, cease from thy attempt. There is no room here for two Quum auten jam cum illa coiturus esset,” but Mamata possessed the most beautiful pair of eyes. // wombling enfolded in perpetual darkness born blinded by the father’s spit yet possessed of the Vedas yet famous for his paradox mantras enigmas : “ , he who knows the father above by what is below is called the poet // called by many names” // 360 spokes placed in the sky.

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[60] Richard Brautigan 95 • REVENGE OF THE LAWN couple of moments. Halfway postcard Uncle Jarv stopped and glanced up at Marilyn Monroe. nothing lustful about his looking could have been a photograph of mountains and trees. // he was writing I stood there staring Marilyn Monroe for all I was worth mailed the postcard. “Come on,” he said.

~ Test[es]ment And Abraham said unto his servant Put thy hand under my thigh (again with the thigh? Anyone here speak the Grown-up King’s English?) And I will make thee swear by the locus of power

~ Buick ’59 If The Medallions’ Vernon Green wuz still walkin’round/ telling you baby he’d swear on a Bible that the ride wuz mighty fine/ got’n eight cylinder motor and whack y’upside the haid/ widda jet propelled overdrive — Zoom, zoom, baby — got two carburetors — Ooo eee, ooo eee, baby — Caress and Lovie and a supercharger on the side/ oughtta buy yo’sef all whack wid puppetude/ a Buick ’fifty-nine, ’fifty-O Pompatus o’ doo-woppitous — let’s cruise, let’s cruise

~ Dylan Thomas The force Drives my green age my destroyer

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dumb to tell youth is bent // water through the rocks // hand that whirls Hauls my shroud // Love drips ticked // crooked worm.

~ Mohenjo-daro Mound of the Dead abandoned 4 millennia 1922 led to the mound by a monk sun-dried mud-brick 140º F // covered drains lined the grid underground furnaces for heating baths musta been cooler then. // destroyed and rebuilt seven times new cities built on top of the old , flooded by // Indra rubber ducking in the Indus

~ Thermosaic Wisenheimer Oppenheimer gravitational contractionist and Sanskrit scholar. History Channel’s Ancient Astronauts? They can’t even show a proper right angle. // Oppie didn’t have Sitzfleisch , sitting flesh like from sitting in a chair all day never wrote a long paper or did a long calculation no patience to read all one million, eight hundred thousand words

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of the Mahabharata but had for the 700 verses of its Bhagavad-Gita as well translate mystery of the universe surrounding him like a fog at the border more than there actually was turned away from hard methods of theoretical into a realm of broad intuition. // days before the Trinity Test if he hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t we know at least he wished he had thought first of Vishnu Destroyer of Worlds from having read in its original the -Gita decades before we found it we setting West/ re-rising East never lost it // at the border line not even funni Pun jabi Paki stani still epicpage turner

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[61] That Lot’s History Motors, Way Gone On its plains where grew fine plants Lamentation reeds now grow. // Circa 4300 years (“where go?”) “gone” — Sargon of Akkad arm wrestled Sumerian city-states from Umma, then stormed across her Fertile Valley Between Two Rivers controlled trade from the silver mines of Anatolia/ to the lapis lazuli mines of Badakhshan from the cedar forests of Lebanon to the Gulf of Oman fortresses were built/ to silo imperial wheat irrigation canals extended bureaucratic reach fed palaces and temples imperial taxes. // Then, like a hundred-year old cookie the sky crumbled/ withering storms cut through wheat fields coated them in black dust. For another hun- dread dry mouthed sulfurous halitoxic summers/ southwestern Europe to central Asia Iberia to Crete Egypt’s Old Kingdom towns of Palestine great cities of the Indus dusted. // sudden abandon collapse remains. 300-year cottonmouth full of erosion deposits no trace urbanality. Only above 3 centuries of strata later do ash, trash and monumental apparitions haunt anew same o’ same go. // 2 millennia before Yeshua people like Abram fled the Assyrian plains en masse. // A thin layer of volcanic ash sprinkle the last Akkadian mud bricks 102


under an 8 inch-thick cap of fine sand testifies to centuries of global drought Hongshan (“round heaven, square earth”) triangle collapsed Emericus? Still out remains tight-lipped as a jungle pyramid cut off and overrunneth with old-growth jaguars and Homeland guillotines carrying a big “We’re Number One!” shtick for review. No set up just gobble gulp go // The 3rd Dynasty of Ur was last attempt to revive Sumer back in the day before the great famine & drought like when Tom Jones back in the day came on stage every woman in the front row crossed her legs. // now it’s all FBI warnings about video piracy 5 years in prison ¼ million-dollar fines // follow the movie don’t mess with our cut // wands whittled from holly wood wave fluid Druidlike spells cast mass market cast mass media cast of thousands pulling strings pulling feathers American Bald Mockingbird he he he Fidelity har har har Vanguard hey twitter tweet State Street BlackRock da bomb go long, NSA: PRISM A-ok for liftoff // making a living let alone living a making can no way , like slickass Zombie movies , prep anyone for the headshot it’s in the clause apparently cuz all we do is bite infecting those we bite devouring what little is left after the hail I mean aren’t we just asking for it? // only Corporations are people // profits not prophets // mitts off Big Soma.

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[62] To the Stars through Difficulties Ad astra per aspera “A rough road leads to the stars” // Beneath the Wheel, to Lucius for his futile efforts // Kill a Mockingbird, from the mud to the stars.

~ The Catherine says, “Urethra” like Eureka! —for the connoisseur— wherever fine spirits are sold

~ Pull out his “ize” concerns the Vances, who lived in number seven , their daughter Eileen, whom Stephen was going to marry some day remembers hiding under the table to save his eyes from the menace between his mother and Dante // — O, Stephen will apologize — O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes // Stephen Hero epiphany “sudden manifestation, whether speech or of gesture the mind itself.” // — The eye that mocketh at his father, and depiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it. fr: Old Testicles crap

~ Billy Tell sublime to be born in time , mother soon to be blown from the face of the earth/ bullet hole in her head , father pale,

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lit the wad of cotton in the back of a little toy boat in Mexico City fountain . made crazy circles our separate fates lay sundered , he to opium and fame/ bearing guilt and shame. And I , shattered son of Naked Lunch/ to golden beaches promises of success.” // each needle an act of voodoo genetic path to be followed. // Would it be possible to shoot arrows from a gun? female blandishments would have fallen on barren soil.

~ Amen, Amen Ra The Kemetic

code: ∆ JZeus son of i/m “walking in the garden in the cool of day” Horus son of sun hip hip Heru Ray “our Hero, Heracles, Hera’s bane, most highgod-hubby’s bastard”

// wandering tongue // Hebrewed in Hindu too Abraham/Brahma(n) Sarah/Sarasvati (both half sister and wife to) Hagar/Ghaggar (both hand maiden and 2nd wife to) Ishaak/Ishakhu (both 1st son of // we are all thorough [-ly-] bred // recombinant mutts sharing protons 14 billion-years old // fat bastards // get over your bread & circuses selves. September – December 2013

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◙ [ and

The Circle .]

◙ 106


Capricorn Studios: Oppoet mpcAstro (Empy SíAstro) asked Erin C. Castro that if he lured Deuce Deuces to a private room at the Hilton to phototap her bumtat for a new piece during the Art of KINK! Show, running concurrent with FetishCon, “Will you chaperon so I don’t get myself into deep shit?” Gawd, we laughed that Sixth of June night, like it was the Last Night on Earth… “Episodic enough, Ms. Kix? ‘Kink is our business,’ said he with a toothy grin, ‘This [epipsuedic] is only a kink.’ I see you, did she, Venus Fitzgerald[ine] Crisis!” ~fr. SPIDER’S NEST Sequential Art Catalog ~book signing, Aug. 15-18th Only thing missing is the juice. Nothing sexier than jumper cables. Yesss…zzzt! Okay, relax; I'm going to gently poke you now. Saycheesebook is like jail. You sit around, waste time, take a profile picture, write on walls and get poked by dudes you don’t really know. Lisa Lorenz: And, Dude, are my arms tired. Wow… that’s deep. Stella Beratlis: Poke me gently, poke me slowly. Lisa Lorenz: I have to stab you because you never responded to my last poke STELLA. Stella Beratlis: Whaaa? I have pending pokes? Lemme attend to them, stat. But first, the antipokacidal foam. Marc Johnson: Whoa, Pokus Interruptus! ~Caught on Camera in Undisclosed Wal-Mart~ I've seen that gray bearded guy with the tight mini skirt and pink pumps walking around Venice Beach 10-15 years ago, tho’ much more refined. Some kind of self-professed (Annex) professor who took people (for a handsome “tuition”) on group rides to Ulan Bator, Mongolia, or some gawd-forsaken place. We crossed paths regularly at the post office. He was into calf-length mandarin dresses back then... very chic with long, swept-back hair pinned into a do cascading behind a distinguished salt and pepper wrap-around beard. Is that peacock still strutting his stuff with the by-your-leave public’s tacit—Just ignore him—“by all means?” Hey, do what you like, but this here Wally Worlder pictured has a look like, “Wait. This is not my yurt.” Definitely not a poster boy for Cultural Exchange. Besides some saggin’ and baggin’ by 30-something male “teenagers” a few years back showing off their butt-cracks and boxers in public, a national craze, I haven’t noticed a contagion yet of this particular brand of ostentation closer to home. Maybe these lunas head like moths to the flame of a 107


Sunset Strip West—yeah, these self-entitled dukes definitely have a transplanted air of scumbag entitlement. Why native Californios have scattered to the Four Winds, planting our seed like the Hellenes wherever we happen to land. Mike Castro: ^Says the guy with the “Dawn of the Dead” Hare Krishna face. Where might a free and adventurous spirit find Interzone today? Off-world, yes... but that is tomorrow. Seriously. My question is NOT RHETORICAL. Kbua Oqqooqqo: Mike: ASIA. Thanks Kbua, but too much mind-control, a.k.a. religion. ^Broad area needed Broad statement. Kbua Oqqooqqo: I was there for a long time and you can do whatever you want ... you can create your own reality. It is what is. I even wrote short story how Interzone changed location from Tangier to small village in India. I was there. You can get your morphine from Dr. Death Pharmacy. For real. Or you can be sober and driving your bike around beaches, checking babes, for 10 bucks per day. Period. Now we're getting somewhere—near specific, but not quite yet, can almost— within reach. What's name of village or short story? Kbua Oqqooqqo: You have to follow your inner daemon, then you will find the village. Goa. India. Chapora. [After googling maps, a pre-human memory hijacked my brain as it jumped track into my bi-polar brother’s once reckoning of what he did in Viet Nam: “I shot monkeys out of trees.”] We don't need daemon religion to explain the hierarchical brain, which builds upon itself by mobiusly looping connections between disparate juxtapositions— cut-ups—as naturally as we are programmed to see faces on walls, in clouds, within bark, on Mars and the moon... it's apophany, not epiphany. [Lunch? Naked PUNCH!] ~Stand the Fuck Still~

Klaatu barada nicto! Was just going on about The Mahabharata. What’s that? It’s not? Never mind... ~Futility is Utility all Effed-up~

“Will you put the iPodcameraphonEtexter down and for once in your shallow life follow the string of words as they issue from my mouth?” 108


The DTdiums b deth uhv me I like how the article has advert links to occult site Generation Hex and… and… if anyone knows G-Soup, can they ask, is “Sigh Chick Bible” occult or porno? And shouldn't “ov” be “uhv”? Post-literacy, let’s get it right, kids. Speaking of… Why does The Nanny State have a hard-on for your children? Because paraphilic infantilism is a gateway ritual for its bestiality and ass-rape fantasies come Institution. Because a people without dignity are without rights or recourse. “For The Children” is code for, “These dogs will lap up whatever we lay in front of them.” Spelled out clearly enough? Don't be a suckling child. Get off your hands and knees and onto your feet with spines straight and vertical. Grab a farm implement or a torch and march in a mob to Frankenstein’s Castle. Do it for your children, because they truly believe that we are the children, in their pockets fishing for candy. (Now give your daddy some sugar.) ~ Or... we can just sit in front of our desk tops, insulated from each other, and shake our disconnected fists in the air. That ought to do it. Frank Furillo: I love when I hear someone “warning” others about me. Reminds me of recess. Death by a thousand cold cuts, I believe, is the best revenge to serve. Live by the bologna, die by the bologna. S’he’ll love it. Beva L Steinberg: Hmmmmm, sounds interesting. Was it a he or a she? Jeff Scott Olson: If you don’t get people WARNING others about you once in a while, you ain’t livin’ close enough to the edge. Are you going to listen to reason, or that little green man in your head? Beva L Steinberg: Quick. Write a song. Something with a train in it! Fast! Something we can dance to. Throw in a kickin’ guitar, a drum that lives on the edge, some honky-tonk piano. Give it a bass that gets butts up and shakin’. Give it a name like... “You Been Warned.” Pick up your harmonica and KICK SOME ROCKIN’ ASS. Luv ya. See you soon, real soon. You’ve been warned. Beva L Steinberg: @ Mike Castro, green? I always thought he was Chartreuse. [YouTuba kicks out The Kinks’ refrain: Pair-annoy-ya, the Destroy-ya…] @Beva... first the little man is yellow, then like The Hulk he's green... so yeah, find balance, Frankie, in the Chartreuse. Frank Furillo: Tee hee.

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~ Art of THE KINKS For Keep-on-Chuggin’ “Chuck” (as in, “Yer Cares”) L. (as in, Lola) & Marilyn M. (but not Monroe) who took the bait like a charging horse crazy with her tail on fire (over the hills) lighting the countryside up and into smoke and ash… ~ Art Show Fantasy Guest Update, 2012’s 22-year old (“deuce deuces”) butt-hole tattoo girl, Maria Louise Del Rosario: dad | born June | 6th month | day 12 | (pair o’ 6’s) | totals 666 | me born from Satan’s spawn | abused | 3-months old | left alone with druggie dad | dislocated hip | fractured skull | left alone for dead | demon put away | 7 years | 7 | my lucky number | numbest | so | what ever I want | free pass || Turned 19 | dated pill head | couldn’t keep dick up ~

| so | I started watching porn | butt sex | so | broke up with pill head | neighbor Vince | moved head’s stuff out | told Vince | Curious about my little bung hole | I was like | Let’s brand it | so | he black magic markered | “999” | flip me over | “666” | then he tattooed | held my cheeks open | while I choked myself | with belt | against pain | up ended | only to break up | he said | Can’t see us | married || The guy who put me in jail | Rockwood | hated seeing Vince’s tat | so for his b-day ~

| covered 666 | with “ROCK” | added “WOOD” | ’neath | nearest ’tain’t | like so ’cuz | even if break up | I will still rock wood | so | we break up | his mom | Mrs. Rockwood | told detectives | jewelry son stole for drugs | was me | was 21 | turned 22 in jail | full of bad bitches | got probation | 18 months | 6+6+6 | so | cover over too thin | why directly from slam | Tattoo Expo | astraddle massage table| back arched | bum up: Dude, ink this asshole over with a crown of thorns! ~ “See you at the party, Richter!” Lisa Pastor Appalled: Yeah that's pretty gross. Lisa Pastor Curious: Every time I see that movie I change my mind about who and what is real. “Nothing is real; everything is permitted.” ~Assassin’s Creed Lisa Pastor Bailing: hmmmm ~ “on the current polic[e]ies” madcock MADoch!* “risible”: this wank wit does provoke laughter Christopher Nosnibor: Toot toot!

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Methinks...

~~~ *Neutered Oneiromancer, a/k/a Queenie Sodd, makes faces @ Saycheesebookdotcom.

Wake the dead. It’s pawdee time! Lisa Pastor Dogie: OH God what is that?? ZOMBIE RUMBA, ZOMBIE RUMBA, DISCO DISCO, ZOMBIE ZOMBIE Lisa Pastor Gopi: That sort of creeps me out. Just “Sort of?” Sagnik Sen: my god!!!! That's one creep of a god you’ve got there, Sag. Creeping good folks out since ’Fifty-three. Whaddya mean “Gender: Male?” [By your profile pic] I was just beginning to like you... I mean, really, really Like you. Oh well, back to my comic book. Mike likes Always High School Erin Reardon: Maybe I should lay off the opiates. I’ll have those, young lady. Ben John Smith: FUCK YOU. PAY ME. Comix anthology is finally launched. My images are (uncredited—story of my life) on pages 78, 79, 80 & 81, repurposed from SPIDER'S NEST... Candi V. Auchterlonie: How are you feeling? Cal Leckie: Medicated (ha!)… but fine. On leave for a week... before fully discharged. Lisa Dabrowski: Hope you are Back to speed soon, Missed you… kisskiss. Matt Leyshon: Good to have you back! Peter Marra: Glad you're out! Craig Podmore: Thank fuck you're all right! Dexuality Valentino: good on you bud

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My N[e]g[āt]er! (’Salright… we all walked out of the East African Rift, ah’ight?) Lee Henkel: Love you Cal - take care. (Kisses.) Purrsniffunny Smellycat: Cal! Was about to let my cherry pie insane clown posse loose!|Someone say, “Loose pussy?”

Cal said he’s on leave for a week and when he doesn’t check back in, they’ll probe the very passes of the Cockasses to bag their man. So, everything’s as per usual. Cal Leckie: Thanks peep[hole]s. Aramis Aramiss: Wud I miss?

10 Minutes of Staring at Boobs Daily Prolongs Man’s Life by 5 Years... The headlights headline caught my eye. David Lubin: And boobs allow Woman to be at two locations at the same time! David Leonhardt: I have tried this experiment once or twice. Honestly, it is hard not to focus on two things at once. So, by extension, do you think an hour a day of staring (while they stare back) would prolonglong extension into 30 years? And if I wanted to slap on an extra 150, I only have to set aside, like, 5 hours a day every day like my longlong life depended on it? I'm going to say, “Yeths!” (Sorry ladies, Doctor’s orders.) David Lubin: You'll eventually go blind you know. Call me Homer. Terri Cabral: Sean Poole [this is] for you! Don’t know what Sean’s been up to, but our sun—the entire universe—all—will eventually go blind... why have a load if you can't let ’er fly in an eye? Even the Table of Contents writhe on her back like a poem in heat. Blowfish McDufus: The late, great Dave Christy of Alpha Beat Press nominated “Eating Pussy and Blowing Chunks” for a Pushcart Prize. A man of immediacy. Very Zen. Blowfish McDufus: It happened at a drive-in movie in Clovis, New Mexico, “True Grit,” with John “Mo[fornicāt]ing” Wayne killing hombres. [shooting 6-gun in air] It's Not You... 112


“A Psychotic is a guy who’s just found out what’s going on.” ~Wm. S. Burroughs Wjp Newnham: luvvin the wild bill/nothin is tru every damn thing is permitted Dubbya Jay, ramroddin’ a Nizari safari with Wild Bill bringing up the rear. Love it. Joe Ambrose: What book is this quote from? You’re right Joe, I kept searching... can only find quote with no reference as to from where... interview? Book? Made up? Now I'm paranoid all over again. Joe Ambrose: I think it’s made up, but I'd love to know. I don't regard being psychotic as being an advanced form of awareness. … just posted those very doubts on Goodreads... Emperor Seastar made a comment on your profile: From what BOOK of W. S. Burroughs comes the quote (now meme), “A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. A psychotic is a guy who just found out what's going on?” [Mum’s the word after posted a full lunar cycle ago.] p.s. Not to beat this beat (faux tho’ it may be) meme into the ground, but I don't think the “quote” is suggesting that psychosis is an advanced form of awareness, but merely its formative stage reaction by the herd. Sounds more like a sardonic heads-up for the “doomsday prepper” to bug out from under a pouring down stampede. Matthew Levi Stevens: I remember at least one occasion of WSB complaining about this coming back to haunt him: late 1980s I was spectator to an interview that wasn't going that well in which he point blank denied ever having said any such thing, which rather stopped the interviewer in his tracks and the conversation stalled right there. However, the most likely basis for this remark is the interview, “WSB, alias Inspector J. Lee of the Nova Police,” from Friendz #5 (London, April 1970), in which he is asked, “Do you think that paranoia is a sickness?” And replies, “A paranoid might be defined as someone who has some idea as to what is actually going on.” But then I was also told the interview was not actually recorded, rather reconstructed from memory afterwards. So who knows? Joe Ambrose: Paranoid is one thing. Psychosis is a mental illness. And real psychotics are given to making stuff up. I’m sure some bipolar type who thinks being off balance is the same as being a creative artist made up the saying. “I stink, therefore I am.” ~Desfartes | (Unlike Sarcasm, Scatology is not lost in print.) I like to say, In the 21st Century, there is no “science fiction.” If it doesn't yet exist, it's being Researched & Developed. 113


~ Jeff Faria: I think you’re right, though I have a different take on it. Sci-fi started out more or less with Jules Verne, who dedicated himself to the idea to move mankind away from over-dependence, if you will, on religion, and more oriented towards science as the tool for our true salvation. Others after took up the cause, but some also profited (to Verne’s disgust) by moving towards the fanciful. (Verne took great umbrage, for instance, at Wells’ Time Machine.) Over the years, Verne’s intent succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, and as such I think he could finally accept that the line between fantasy and sci-fi has long been crossed. And yes, I too dislike terms like sci-fi, dystopia, spec fic, and ad nauseum. Yes, I agree, we not only expect change but our economy increasingly depends on it. Further, I believe that the inventions of earlier sci-fi writers of, for instance, Martians to add drama to their wares, have been rendered obsolete by the inherent dramas implied by Quantum Physics. Who needs to invent Martians or Klingons in a universe where merely imagining a thing might make it so? Where the universe we perceive is likely to be a product of our collective ids? Where it is no longer speculative, but likely that at least some of us will live forever? Well put, Jeff. By the way, I, too, am not gaga over jeez-us H. G. Wells, who was actually a propagandist for eugenics. Then Julien Huxley, Aldous’ half-brother, picked up the ball and ran with it. And now we have Monsanto for the Final Solution, as opposed to the old standby, World War that, since hydro-atomics, is now too conflagrant for a surgical population control. Jeff Faria: I thought Wells was something of a hypocrite. Or maybe just deeply confused. Or maybe there’s no real difference after all. We are entering the Fourth State of Belief, all of which are forms of religion. The first was that anything not understood (i.e., EVERYTHING) could be rendered less frightening (at least) or “explained” (at best) via an agreement on an explanation. Thus, the flame inexplicably shooting out of a rock (natural gas) becomes a Greek Oracle. The second stage of belief was a belief in Gods with an increasing amount of [metasubstance]. Thus we move from Thor (hey, we can SEE the lightning) to the [omniversal] model of God. We are currently in the Third State of Belief, where our salvation will not come from any God, but from technologies we [as a social network] will devise. The Fourth State of Belief is just ahead. It will demand, as all previous states before it did, that the current st[ruc]t[ur]e be torn down to make room for it. I'm in a holding pattern about the 3rd Stage Trinity feedback loop retrograding with ISIS and the Tenth Crusade time warp parallel in tow with Gods of Amen & Capital Dynasties. We’re still shy a 3rd Generational A.I. coup d’état until Nano sapiens, WiFi'd to the nines, walks on cue off the job oiling psychomythic, Bronze-Aged gearheads we not only service and endure, but must also outlast. Can’t even equate a 4th-Dimension—still an irreconcilable thought experiment for this (cinematographically-speaking) Dr. Morbius low-grade moron who, as such, casually considers mass an illusion of holoquantic folding. 114


Jeff Faria: Turns out the burgeoning A.I. isn’t interested in control after all. It’s interested in being accorded equal rights, like anyone else. It's NOT interested in being our slave, but neither is it interested in enslaving. (It leaves such hypocrisies to lesser beings. Well, er, that is to say—US.) Was thinking more along the lines of humachity—hue·Mac·i·TĒ—not an Us vs. Them, but a WE: Kurzweilian over Orwellian. (“Wile” over “Well,” meaning Ill, strictly NewSpeaking.) Hierarchical Evolution, as opposed to Rival Devolution. Speaking of Devo... taking the doggie out for a poop walk. See everyone in the future. ~ st About R&D in the 21 Century, here’s an interesting sci-fi story: What I’ve been liking to say lately, especially to those who can’t deprogram themselves from linear thinking and so snort at the infinite probabilities proffered of late with an, “Oh, that's just science fiction”... I enjoy saying, “I've got a science fiction story for you.” And then I tell story about the U.S. Patent Office almost dismantled by 1900 Congress because, "Everything that can be invented has been invented.” Jeff Faria: We have wheel; we have fire. What more you want? Ha! What a funny transitional phase we are. ~ What’s even funnier, I just found out the story is just that: as a parody of the “coming century” in an 1899 issue of London’s Punch comedy magazine, a genius asked, “Isn’t there a clerk who can examine patents?” A boy replied, “Quite unnecessary, Sir. Everything that can [etc.] has [etc.].” The joke was revisioned into fact about 30 years ago by a jerkoff flying solo. Kids, don’t try this like D. Carradine or V. Bodē at home without a spotter. Nicholas Thomas Hranilovich: Mike—currently, I am writing smutty art comedy, washing dishes, running, more pushups, smoking, going for broke, going broke, inspiring the poor lost souls of the lower classes, plotting movies, moving along the plots, sweating poems, listening to old music, loving and hating making music, missing my piano, writing lyrics in my head, preparing standup comedy, updating the website of a bookstore, pining for low housing costs, collecting meteorites, keeping a chunk from a nebula on my crotch, debating next moves, consulting the I Ching, dreaming of tattoos, staring down a plastic bird next to a painted bird, grooving, shucking, jiving, squeezing the psychic potato, beaming and beaconing, beckoning, weakening, strengthening, leaking, speaking, wielding cat toys, tolerating the young, emulating the old, playing records, listening to my neighbors argue and wondering what kind of world they live in that allows tension to be their main bargaining tool, working as a consultation hotline for people who feel isolated by their beliefs, eliminating all discernment, planning cartoons, scanning America for better resting places, deifying trailer park simplicity, trying to find people who want to summon spaceships, lamenting idealism, mourning the death of my own idealism, burying parts of my heart deep

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in the rocks of Big Sur, bonding with males, softening with females, turning into Shawn Misener, saving pieces of my dead skin in a bottle cap, debating whether art that operates entirely for aesthetic value is devoid of all purpose or if the pleasure brought by aesthetics serves a purpose unto itself, wondering if I’ll be poor forever, wondering if I’ll love being poor forever, wondering if my talents need to be directed toward something in particular, wondering if being directed toward nothing in particular is in fact my greatest talent, watching Star Trek, winking at a Shiva statue, eating my words and watching what I eat, pining for the outdoors while wanting absolutely no part in it, hiding from the Sun, wearing gems fused by meteorites striking glass, making smoothies, offending people out of love for freedom, realizing that putting work into my creations won’t fix them because I only want creation to be play or compulsion and NEVER a “task,” recalibrating the dilithium crystals, watching happy couples walk around, realizing that most of us are perverts and that if perversion is the norm then maybe it's a misnomer to begin with, searching for passion but finding only peace and an addiction to soft struggle, defending Pavement, listening to the same depressing song on repeat for hours at a time every few days because it puts me in a trance that lets me write precisely the kind of horrifying things that I want, reading, wondering if I enrich myself through gathering information or if it's all just redundant masturbation because I've known the answers for so long and Rinzai would have smacked me in the face for revering scrolls so much, growing a beard, learning Slavic tongues, figuring out whether my love for isolation is a habitual trapping or a real need, waiting for money in the mail, debating the merits of gratitude for what I have versus desire for what I don’t (wishing for more is either the only course for advancement, or a crash course with “missing the point of what you already had, entirely”), connecting with my father, going deaf, fighting my new discovery that you can order junk food over the internet, mastering the nuances of when to say “hey, there” to the people in wheelchairs who I pass in the halls of the retirement community I work in, Bosnian Rainbows, searching for the great novel inside of me and finding only jokes and poems and rants and fractured languages, typing in all caps with my currently displaced buddy, watching everybody develop back problems, and rejoicing in my low standing and lessons in humility. There are a number of other things that I had to leave out because, frankly, they’re “too real” for some people on here. I. Am. Hum. Bulled. Shawn Misener: Yeah, you don't wanna turn into me. [donkey bray] Shawn Misener: I don't think I saw a masturbation reference in there. I mean, come on. Like, real self pleasure, not just the word. Nicholas Thomas Hranilovich: What did you think “squeezing the psychic potato” meant?

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Davey Sifferd III: Kill everybody Not so fast there, Davey. (“But Wait!”). Good save with the potato there, Nicholas. But I think what Shawn had in mind was something to Bring it on Home, something like this: First I did a drive-by to Home Depot for a $4.00 piece of 9"-long PVC tubing suitable to connect with a girth thicker, I mean… a girth “wider” than a house-vacuum hose and a 2" wide roll of duct tape, then blitz to the nearest Goodwill for a refurbished Electrolux—can remove nozzle at home with steak knife—and before going back home where I already have the high-backed chair borrowed from the St. Augustine Catholic Church from one early morning while stumbling home in a crescent-moon dark after checking all doors along the way—parked cars’ and front house-doors with and without porch lights on, tin or wooden shed and garage doors when I skinched down an alley to come out where across the street, taking up half the block going both directions starting at the corner of Jasmine and Washington, with pretentious oak gothic mammoths to bar a weary wanderer from this masoned cathedral’s muff-cozy inner sanctum, that is, if those behemoth doors weren't left unbarred by the prairie-doggin’ asshole priest on overnight duty who purposefully left the altar vulnerable to penetration for the “No Hundred Dollar Callers”-girl he was expecting in about 20 minutes, so he thought this might be a good time to pinch one off while I happened to stumble in to drag outside and around the corner back home a solid oak highchair with a rack-stretched back carved with King Solomon's seals—just like for propping up a cowled confessor minor from right out of Torquemada’s Law Book where the official offered the serfdom-doomed prisoners (paraded all strung together on rusted chains before The Chair) the option of confession, thus ending their horrifyingly-endured tortures by merciful death, even if by the burning stake in a piss acrid, soot-streaked gray stoned public square—but before saying “ta-ta” to the second-hand offerings displayed like relics, I will look, I will do a quick but thorough sweep throughout the store, and maybe, just maybe, instead of my inert chairback waiting at home for me to mount and impale myself upon, if I’m lucky enough to spot one this day at the ’Will, I’ll score an old-timey plug-into-the-wall vibrating-belt contraption standing diaphragm high with belt long enough to wrap ’round my waist and still connect to the post-mounted motor’s horizontal, protruding armatures on either side to hook each belt-end to, but short enough to bend me tight at midriff over and atop of a ramrodding camshaft cover that only wants to judder me to dithereens right off my tippy-tippy toes right as I kick start the vacuum cleaner—all hooked up and ready to go—on: now I'm home. Nicholas Thomas Hranilovich: “judder me to dithereens” holy shit People better get ready to be real... once enough YouWho Glasses go online… Clouds will screw and give birth to descenders with books open at every page. Like: Remember that time when you were maybe five or 6 and you were playing “telephone repairman” in the backyard using the clothesline post— because it was, like, 1958 or ’59—for a pole and a noosed-about-the-waist clothesline for a “safety harness?”

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I know you weren’t born yet, but try to remember anyway… How your Teutonic Warrior mother came running from the backdoor towards your panicked cries for help, “Help me!” you called after you leapt into flight pretending, for excuse, to have morphed into Superman only to dangle hanging from the T-top of the post like your ass was corked with Kryptonite? You’d like to forget, but you remember… how beautiful and mythic she was coming to your rescue, lifting your weight from against the plastic-coated cinch noose slip-knotted against a rebarred backbone allowing for maximum pressure where the belly may burp up the ghost. Where the memory of a silver umbilical cord rooting for nourishment still lingered. “Feed me,” you thought it called out from the edge of darkness, “Feed me!” After dinner later that evening you slept with a congenitally nail-less left thumb like a fat, engorged nipple in your mouth, when, before fully immersed in the misty distance, your whole, naked little body was rolling in a narrowing mineshaft like a constricting cement mixer not quite ready to pour you out. And before the welling mist became a wall of water, just before drowning on dreams… remember musing about how the utility belt in the garage or the playground swing-set seat-straps hung from chains might be safer ways to fly? Nicholas Thomas Hranilovich: I was born without secrets, and I’ll die without respect. One of these facts is causing the other, ’cause everybody’s ruled by SHAME! (trumpet stab) Let whoever’s without shame cast the first “I’m telling,” ’cause you know what? I can use the free publicity. Tell the Little Hitlers to be sure to include their phone number in each report so that each obscene obsessor may be porta p[ar]ty lined. Machines are for fucking and tables are for turning. Who are these troll losers posting on your vid, dude. Turn that fucking shit off. The fucking comment thread... turn it fucking off. I think I may like what's going on here. It’s just hard to say when these blobs are sliming through the OozeTube. I'm “Liking” your fansite on faith because my publisher asked me to and I trust him. But no shit dude, I'm about ready to go get a six-pack of long necks just to bust the empties over some heads. I don't have time for jail right now... I'm two weeks away from art show opening and there’s no one to bail me out. Plus my cat and dog will starve to death while waiting for when, or if, they let me out. So give a brother a break and goddamnitall... Jesus Fuck on a Pogo Stick. Intra-Coastal: One Year On St. Pete Beach: The famous underground filmmaker Nick Zedd is responsible for those comments. I have disabled them. I apologize on his behalf. Ian Evans: Nick Zedd has the most irritating face I've ever seen! Not that I judge people on things like that but that's a really irritating face to have. 118


Gene Gregorits: That petulant pout of his seems to have become frozen. No one told him as a kid that if you screw your face up all the time trying to look tough it stays that way. He's been harassing me for years, via goofy made-up names. Very sad, for someone his age. Ian Evans: Do a google image on his face and they all look the same, it's quite funny. haha That is very sad. [Hmmm. Wonder if Ian and Gene wouldn’t mind helping me fall off the wagon over the Edge of the World and into the pisser, just for Old Time’s sake. Think I’ll check the pier; see if I can get a hand with polishing off this sixer…] She says it's time for me to make her proud. Time to free my mind and empty my heart onto the page in the still of an empty house, enshelled by Oort Cloud of spermy comets stretched a light year out. I, a hatchling, red feathers still matted down with albumen, yet crowing to leave the nest for the Aquarius Dwarf galaxy, with a blueshift barycenter circa 1 MPc, 3.26 million light years, out. She kept telling me that she knew, in her prescient way, my work would not die with me. And it would start to make its way into culture-at-large sooner than later. “Very soon,” she would repeat like a mantra. I was unconvinced, so worked out some ways to live long enough to be witness and collective participant, in a century or few, to humachina’s Resurrection Project booted by an array of diamond stars driven by quantumputers triangulating the fix on corpus obscura holo-patterns—posthabitants—to unfold back into our lives. OK, I'm empty now. Emp’y “MegaParsecAstro” SíAstro: Aquarius Seastar. If we can’t suffer for our art, why bother suffering at all? The density of Saturn is so low that if you were to put it in a giant glass of water it would float. And yet, because of the planet's extreme inner core pressure, hydrogen is compressed into liquid metal. Then again, a body of water (also made of 2 parts hydrogen to 1 part oxygen) would have to be so immense to “float” this Gas Giant God of the Pendulum that perhaps that body, too, would compress at its depths into shape shifting quickcrystal currents entwined like a disco ball of lucid snakes―4/4 overhand beats to the core. So after another phone call from another MIA, I decide to post E’s full eulogy that was pared down into an obit posted here 6 weeks ago. Gone from Timeline. Archived. But... ’Sokay to leave up my bare ass strapped down and spanked by a Syren named Jinx and Kevin M Allan going on his flat-out “I will not comply”-fuck-you rant and Madonna shaking her skank fanny in our faces... I'm just wondering... ~

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What’s the criterion here? Keep ’em guessin’. Keep ’em off balance. Hey-Zeus, don’t make it bad/ Take a sad song and… stick it! She always got a hoot from how the furthest degree of slight would trigger a cascade of volleys catapulting from my spit and vinegar. She'd laugh and shake her head. What's funny? “You,” she'd say. “I love how you do that.” Would take the puff out my huff every time. After posting, to get a grip on, I was compelled to listen to her one-saved voice message to me from last October 5th. “Hi Honey, it’s your only, one and only, love… um, can you call me back here? Uhm, I hope you’ll understand, but I’m not going to Windmoor. I think it’s a futile effort, and I found out a few things from the patients here. And… I don’t like it. I think I’d be better off at home. I guarantee right now I couldn’t go thru 28 days away from you. I just won’t. I love you too much. “But I’m still going to work on getting, you know, the safest treatment as possible. I’m an RN. I’m going to use my smarts to do that. Actually, I’m in pretty good shape for them replacing meds, which are worse than what I was on before. “I hope you’re not mad at me. I love you so much. When you get up—get this message—call me, okay?” ~ She used to tell me about when she was a nurse at Lakeland Regional and one of her patients would blurt out that they weren’t going to make it, even if to the rest of the Surgical ICU staff, reliant on digital monitoring, it seemed as tho’ the patient was finally “out of the woods,” they would usually die within days. She told me that she had seen it enough times… when someone says, “Uncle,” one’s ancestors are soon to come calling in a homecoming godrush of DMT molecules. Erin was doing a lot of painting with acrylics on canvas since after the 5th. She took some lessons about 10 years ago in Sarasota—60 miles south of Valrico—from an artist who also worked at a gallery, Equinox, where I had some photographs displayed, so I didn’t mind driving us down once a week (for about 10 weeks) just so I could hang out for an hour and reappraise the lay of the land while she took her private lesson in a back room. We bought a couple of small canvases and some paints and brushes for her to practice on at home, but she sort of lost interest... until after her last 5-day stay, from Oct 1st, in hospital. She self-medicated herself with delirious acrylics. I partitioned off from the front room the dining area for my desktop, where I’m posting now. We turned the rest of the front room, behind me, into her studio. We had every room’s floor tiled, so paint drops weren’t an issue. Acrylics come off tile easily. And nobody visited anymore anyway. (We didn’t fit Ye Olde Mold.) With easel, a few pre-stretched canvases and dozens of paint tubes, territory was marked. She was taught to first layer the canvas with several colors from her Sarasota lessons. She kept sending me to Michael’s Art Supply to buy more squeeze tubes. Yet for weeks, only a single blend was slathered on like icing. I’d remind her, Those tubes add up. She’d remind me, “How’s your book coming along? Shoo!” Her spurts of energy lasted maybe one to a few days, from an hour to sometimes all afternoon each day. And then her fibromyalgia would flair up and she’d be bedridden for twice as many days she was up. Then I’d ask her to take it easy for another day or so. Sometimes a week or two would pass before 120


she’d go back to a canvas. Then there’d be a day when I’d come out from behind the partition and her canvas would be draped with an old bed sheet. She didn’t want it to be seen until it was done. Then some weeks later I’d come away from the desk to make us dinner—your daddy’s hep; he knows what cooks—to be shortstopped by a lying-in-wait unveiling. Sort of primitive surreal, with layered, broad flat sections, mostly. But intriguing. Yellow, red and orange against a green background, if I recall, reminiscent of Frida Kahlo’s hospital bed portrait with IV tubes—except abstracted into Erin’s own style: a distressed meat casing seated, bent at the waist against a table, entangled with these thick tubes she’d call “connections.” A local gallery operator who had been showing my prints came by with her 7-year old son because Erin had been pining for her own grandmunchkins ensconced somewhere over the rainbow. Daphne praised Erin’s first ever painting. Later, my wife asked if I really liked it. I suggested she needed to touch up some feathered edges, was all, and then it should be done. The next day it was all re-layered over in black. Solid. Like a mudslide of tar opium paved over a chocolate depression. I was stunned. Why? I asked. “You said you didn't like it.” Baby, I cried, I just told you to touch it up and it'd be perfect. Daphne, yesterday, told you she was impressed. Didn’t you believe us? “Mike, are you in love with Daphne?” Oh baby. Autonomic Automan, your dilated pupils and flush pulse betray you. But, in hindsight, I think when I imagined her pictograms knocking on Void’s door; she rewrote the plot into an airlock blowing its hatch out into the calculus of my diamond-star predictions, with a wink to their First Assumption: If everything touches, there is no space. The shale and shellac background paints became a night sky with a black hole backdropping a venous “flashtree of lightning,” fronting white, pink and red stars, with an aerial flame streaking. She called it, “Catch a Falling Star.” I knew that the limb/bolt “connections” were my promised neuromantic net. She was the meteor to be caught. She was falling. Her hands were too swollen from too many streaks across the canvas, so she asked if I’d sign it for her. All of her finer brushes were frazzled from her broad-stroke technique, so I signed it with a toothpick, ECCO '12. Ecco is also the Latin interjection for “Here! Here I am!” She completed two more, each in its own idiom, yet all telling her story as a triptych. She painted the ending first. Next was the middle, the present, about her relationship with her daughter going on four years fallow, tho’ that hadn’t occurred to me until the day Erin’s mother and father, Lois Jean and Jon from California, phoned; mom on extension, a week after Erin ran out of current. I named the middle piece—I asked her by then to let me name them after signing —, “The Three Wise Men,” a painting of 3 fantastical trees, each unique and otherworldly. The middle acrylic was the largest, centered by a meta-apple tree with red heart-shaped fruits. Beneath that tree, with rubyfruit dropping to the ground, was a lone white bird, sort of a duck tailed dove with goulashes for legs. I joked that if the trees were the Magi, then the duck must be Jesus. She liked the title, tho’, and it also intrigued her mom. So, between tears, L.J. asked me to describe again ECCO’s “trees painting.” And then it came to me... The Forbidden Fruit Tree was E’s daughter hoarding hearts, pushing “Nana” away from the two saplings on either side. The grandson, Michael (my namesake), was then obvious to me on the left, sturdy and full of loud colors. And her granddaughter, 121


Ashley, on the right, was a milky tangle of sleek translucent tubes. Erin had been nicknamed Tweetie by an a cappella chorus she was a member of before I uprooted from Venice West to transplant myself east. Eden’s gate held open by a sun-bright canary trilling to end up milling for a heart from a turned-bitterroot daughter to drop haw on downy head come hell or high water—so the goulashes. The omega of the triptych I intuitively ordered as the alpha of the grouping. She was very mystical and corpora obscura would visit her often. She also was adept at keeping a door open between our dreams, so breakfasts were times to compare notes, which is how I fathomed this finalé to really be the prelude… a scene of two enormous waves approaching a deserted, powdered sugar (silica) beach with a thick yellow sun in a burning raspberry sky. Every color was a solid, autonomous region vaguely reminiscent of fauvist Gauguin. Depopulated of nudes or totems. Deserted. I joked that I’ll name it “Spumoni” because of the gay ice cream sky and, even though yellow, a pistachio planted sun: a nod to her Italian on her mother's side. We agreed, tho’, on “Abandon,” because that’s the ghost it evoked. But I’d sometimes joke over the weeks that maybe “Spumoni” would be better. Then one day, she started adding an extra wave as some breakwater. I couldn’t believe it. I knee jerked and said, Hey! I already signed ECCO ’13. You need to learn when to stop. She told me I needed to let her be her own artist. I wanted to kiss her; so I left her alone. I later renamed it “Set,” for the waves. And then, while describing it to L.J., it’s meaning, too, revealed itself… During a summer break before our junior year, when Jon wasn’t allowing her to date before her 16th birthday, she let me know that her parents and she were going to camp on Doheny Beach and we arranged to meet on a certain day and time by a certain lifeguard tower. Mike Miller, who first introduced us, and I drove down I-5 that day and like a dream, there she was, 15 and string-bikinied. Me all skin and bone. Mike stood lookout for The Dad. She and I went out swimming and got caught in a rip current. We were pulled fairly far out. Erin was about to panic but I remembered to not fight the current, to instead swim parallel with the shoreline until we were out of the deep suck. Side by side we swam out of the rip, just like the posted “Danger” said we could. And even tho’ a half mile or so out that hot-as-raspberry, cloudless blue sky day, the change in current now assured us we were golden. Doheny’s sand: ecru cotta. Gulf beaches here: bone crystalose. So because 33 years later I paralleled myself since with her here, she powder-sugared our memorable day. ECCO started a 4th canvas a couple of weeks before she left me talking to myself. It's still behind me on the easel. All blue. Mostly wavy mariner below an atmo-mistic topside. Driven home from the art store, while I pulled us into the driveway, she asked what was meant by, “Paint the light.” I told her to try to see all the colors of what she wanted to paint. Free the aluminum grays and lazurite greens from bark of living oak that we just parked under, for instance, with shadations of corporal-punished blue. The light tickles out color in spasms, not prisms. However, I reminded her, I really like what you’ve been doing so far. So whether this just begun canvas was to be a departure, I can’t say. She had already painted the broad strokes of our complete story while we knew each other. I'm thinking of using her 4th/final canvas as foundation for a mixed media. I'd sign it Mike Nerin. I may create a fansite, ECCO, to post her “Etrinity” 122


on her birthday, September 12th, along with her poems for her grandchildren to know and quote her by. Montages cut up from boxed snapshots. And post letters unmailed for fear, perhaps, of delivery headed off by a Mad Hatter mater hater. But going back to this reminiscence’s first paragraph, about people knowing when it's their time... Maybe around the time she started her 4th canvas, I’d ask, Is that blood or paint on you, baby? She'd say it was paint. Then I’d see blues, yellows, greens and purples. Bruises? “Paint.” Everything’s paint drippings in the front room still... floor, chair she worked from, paint rags, and glass jars for templates. And her clothes. She had a backlog of vintage clothes with bleach stains on some to wear in lieu of an artist’s smock. After one Deep Magenta and Naples Yellow day, I said, sitting together on the couch watching some evening TV, Damn, baby, you're getting all Bohemian on me. You want me to run a bath? But then she said, “You know that’s a ‘sign,’ don't you?” A ‘sign?’ “That I'm slipping away,” with a smile that begged a kiss. But I didn't hear what she was really telling me. I was distracted her last two weeks hassling with a couple of her doctors’ offices when her primary went on an extended leave and his office nurse with a ’tude over Erin’s coveted ICU status would tell her she had to get her meds from her other doctors, which I managed... but our last night together was like, Damn I'm beat... let's drink some sangria and watch a movie. We laughed and kidded. I dicked with the “Christianity is mind control” routine as I got animated; she said that when she’d be with Christ, she’ll let him know I’m okay and that I just speak a different language, is all. I told her, Jesus has a big enough harem, if you go before me I'll rescue you from all his bitches and it’ll be just you and me, baby, exploring the universe side by side, like that golden day on Doheny Beach when the Milky Way was about a half a billion miles behind us opposite from where we're heading at 600 km/sec. She laughed with me on our Last Night, thank the God of Lies, before all the monsters of indifference she kept caged in her heart rattled loose, so she opted for the burning stake, for the purification of fire. Now it's up to me to do well on my promise and tell the Confessor Minor to suck flame. Hence my June 7th post: Will bring you back soon as I can. Won't leave without you, baby. That, too, is now in The Cloud. ~Your Emperor Seastar, my Queen. Truly Trudy: Thank you Mike Castro. I love it when you talk about her. I love her and it makes me feel close or like she's here with me. Maybe I just picture our childhood, before growing up holding our babies together. You walking around that corner at school while she got so excited seeing you coming down the hall and all the time saying, “There he is. Isn't he CUTE? !!!” Warm memories and thoughts are swirling in my head. Everything in the Akashic Cloud will be rebooted. Lee Kwo: Hi Mike thanks for the suggestion/Im a two paper smoker/Regards I dunno. Too carcino for this windbag. I still say, Roll, roll, roll your toke; but Life is but a pipe.

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Lee Kwo: Hi Mike/I wrote the blurb for Homage/No I don’t have any more text on this particular page but the trilogy Pathology of a Still Life and the first book of two The Lie Detector are available from Lulu.Com/Just curious as to what you thought the obsession referred to in the collage was???/Regards “spectating/denial” Don’t deny me, Lee. Lemme jump from the cheap seats into the arena and mash that Homage bitch up. ~ Looks like I didn't pass Lee's test, but he did “Like” OpPRESS. Balance, it's not just for breakfast anymore. Truth in pure image... no commentary... no abstract[ure]... nailing it down Out of the Ashes, Phoenix Rises (bleeding in my hands) ~21 Days A.E.D. (Three Sevens) In the 70’s I used to think he was singing, “Love that feeling in my head”— instead of “Love lies bleeding in my hands”—and I’d always get an involuntary kundalini energy rush from the base of my spine up to my cerebellum, which would open like an electric flower. I still get the rush, but only if instead of “Funeral for a Friend,” I hear “Feeling in My Head.” Camille Asztalos: i get the feeling in the back of my brain that at one point i had transformed that elton john line into something else, but it escapes me… however, i do remember thinking when jimi hendrix sang *the hour's getting late* in all along the watchtower that he was proclaiming *but i was getting laid* N’est-ce pas? Just replied with a thumb's-up to acceptance letter from Oneiros Books out of U.K. for some print book projects ~43 Days A.E.D. (Four & Three Is Seven) Over Confidence and locked-jaw tenaciousness... you know, like a mad dog. And now it's time to take a deep breath and see how deep I can go for a couple of days. Don't worry. I do this all the time. Lisa Pastor Nightingale: No worries. As I told you, I will check on you. No smothering sweetie. Just wanted to make sure you are in a good place. Go deep. It's good for you. Lisa, I think we woke a sleeping giant in you. I did a couple of smothering— faux not *Snuff* (Geiche!)—fetish films in my early days of “research.” No, won't exit for boner like aforementioned solo flyers, David & Vaughn.

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Deep into the unfathomable abyss of the mind, that's the more challenging, so most-satisfying boundary to keep pushing against. And that’s the safest of exercises if done isometrically, by becoming One with our boundary. At least that's what my fortune cookie said. Lucius Rofocale: Congratulations! Well deserved. Lisa Pastor Goodnight: You seriously crack me up. (Steady, boy… Not literally, my friend.) I guess a lot of us have done “research.” It makes us who we are. So you are on film... hmmm. Guess I should watch for you. Oh... you also meant “smothering” figuratively... so, uh, (face palm), good night. Monsanto buys BLACKWATER, the largest mercenary army in the W[hole] Wi[l]de W[hurled Coming soon to a street theater near you: “Nothing to See Here, Folks. Move Along.” No more laughing all the way to the Banksy. Took nap. Woke up. Came to senses. Removed Duopolist Dupes from News Feed. Deleted my rant-post from an “I majored in Liberal Arts so that be my party line too” page. To The Cave! Hung up like a bat. OpERA not OpINION; OpERA not OpINION; OpERA not OpINION. Okay. I'm good. This Boat will float... D Minus-27 ’till Show & Counting... [(Chorus of) Sirens]: AHHH, now don't you feel better! [growly bear noises]

July 19, 2013 = 7 / 8|17(=8), 10|(+0)10|11|14(=2x7); Day42[(=6)x7] A.E.D.

“The Pipes of Pan that make perfume in the air.” Rick Peck The horror! The SHAME! I will now go out to the patio to smell if I can tickle out a rarefied perfume from the Heavenly Blues trellised about it. ~ Vapors from my purple and the white morning glories I can faintly detect, but the blues... Only the honeybees seem to fathom. For my next go-’round, I'll morph from Ape to Apis. El Hombre Invisible sub-text inspires. Even tho’ main article appears— font too small for me to read, but by Rick’s comment divined—to be a downer. Maybe the fine print will be clearer, too, thru eye of bee. Morphdom will tell.

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OpPRESS June 6, 2013, Valrico, Florida

hom·o·nymS: gam·bol /gambәl/ Verb Run or jump about playfully. Synonyms skip - hop - frisk - caper - cavort - frolic - leap gam·ble /gambәl/ Verb You bet your ass Noun So what's the hom·o deal fer Cry'sakes?

Mike Castro: We took five on our last night, with the help of some lost herb recovered—a half bowlful in a misplaced pipe—like a star was born and we felt good’n’silly together tho’ watching a parent/grown-estranged-daughter formula flick, Million Dollar Baby. Erin wanted to snuggle for half an hour. I told her “No.” I said I was buzzed drinking sangria for cottonmouth and I was pissed about movie reminding me of 38-year-old daughter keeping grandchildren from Nana formula replaying every Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, [what’s Happy] Birthday [about it?], Mother’s Day, Memorial Day… tho’ I often call Shamrock, our—Erin’s—French toy poodle (we picked out for her 2002 birthday from breeders as 3-month-old pup all fluff-yip yang-cloud with yinnish-black paws, cord lips, olive nose and onyx eyes), “Buddy”, like we used to call Michael. And Ashley shape shifted into Clover, our slinky Russian Blue feline with the chartreuse eyes. We’ve been trying to teach them over the last 3 or so years to meow & bark out Nana & Papa. Erin was playing on the bed with them while I found Letterman recorded before she brushed teeth. Hey, Baby, you comin’ back to bed? I remember we laughed together at the Top 10 List before I cascaded over Melatonin Falls as I always do when my body is prone. I awoke in the morning early to edit dreamcopy on keys, and she had her arm stretched out near my face. I kissed it. Stroked it. Spring water runs cold. How wonderful, to still be so loved. What’s up with the No? Fired up the front room’s desktop for an hour. Copy edited. Posted lightweight, “I’m still here. You still there?” on Mugbook. And then it was all, Let’s see what she wants for breakfast. I came back into the bedroom. She was in the same position. Medical examiner said coronary incident and that she passed in peace. She was reaching for me in the dark and I did not presage it. Reaching for help, or laying on of hands? Last gesture. Reishi circuitry. Why do I feign No, when all I want is Yes? What is that? ~This post is my 1st amends. June 8 at 2:04am-Day 1 After Erin Died

Erin did not return from the cloud, post-“hom·o·nymS:” This Circle is every Yes I have left to give.

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two/∅h f⊕r post. † 7x7 August 15, 2013-Day 69 A.E.D.


ECCO’s

ETRINITY 2012-13

SET

THE THREE WISE MEN

NET (Catch a Falling Star)

https://www.facebook.com/ErinColleenCastrO

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60 years from birth canal to post-morbidity as template ~for 6,000 years from cradle of cities to posthabitancy~ 128


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NIDUS PLEXUS: a Metric Montage  

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