Eventually it happens. You love something so much, that the desired object eventually morphemes under alchemical stress. There is mutation that torque's the muscle into tree root. Usually Elm or Sequoia depending on your geographical heart quadrant. And so it is with my Lily who has twisted into a Sequoia of immense proportions within the Upside-down Love Forest of dry rain, pollen, spore and hope. Her roots split the skull and have pulled from the earth like whistling suck pumps, an Elf that steps into me and chews my penal gland into a blue pen cap of nervous energy. Porto Rican Jew with freckles with wonderful skills in grammar and spelling. She corrects my grammatically incorrect behavior and blows me kisses behind her boy friends back. The concern now is, now that Lily has become a morpheme, is she still a pirate? The answer is, yes. Once and for always. It sleeps in your blood. It lays duck egg in the stream, carries with it the cream of destruction and rage. This elf that has taken over my Lily. She suck blood through the pores of my skin. My tears have become the blood of my crimes.
You see, I use to work in a slaughter house. The killing of animals never really leaves you. It becomes a part of you. Your breath takes on the smell of Iron and Iodine, that metallic smell of sangre de vacca; and so it is that dying cows own my blood. Dead chickens live in my brain. In a way this is the story. I will return to it: The summers on the farm in Nova Scotia and the slaughter of frogs.
Last night I was capsized. I couldn't remember what one should never forget. And what is it that one should never forget but your own name, for whats in a name but your crimes, and more important than your name, are those crimes that you have commit and will commit in whose name but your own! You Samuel! You George! Gull Boy! You Michael! Do you forget? What was that conversation that revealed your truth? What was that dialogue? That Guy: She has the greatest pussy ever invented.: He said that. Who but Samuel! He said it in public. That it was magical too; but nothing too interesting, he said. To look at anyway. Just a slit. But it made his penis feel like the only penis. This is all I recall, I really wish I could remember that piece of dialogue. The one where the girl says something pithy and the boy in response has to sell his testicles for a beer saying something along the lines of: God, if only she hadnt walked in. And what remans here is your own paltry imagination with regards to something sordid. Perhaps involving razor blades.
The hens in the hen house were telling lies. Hate Boy and Wanker Doodles were throwing crab apples at the cows when the shot gun went off. After that, there was a silence that was never to leave the barn. The hens too went silent but then returned to their putter pecking burble chirps. Both Wanker Doodles, and Hate Boy looked up the sloping dirt drive toward the barn which rested about fifty yards from them.
It was late in the afternoon and the dust and pollen made oscillation patterns in the low thick sun that sliced through the barn boards in beams. Jenny, aka Nipples Malone, let the gun fall onto the hay and then pushed the door open, stepping out into the sun light which did little against the enclosing farm and the darkness circle that swooped around and pulled from her belly and down into the dust all forms of light. She then fell herself, face first into the dirt never to rise again. In her hands where her intestines. Wanker Doodles turned to his friend and said, Was that your sister?
Yes. He said, And you watch: Ill get blamed for it.
Down by the river Charms, the tiny white Downey flowers quivered in the breeze.
That was the summer of 77 when I was eight.
But last night. Last night when the boat went over I had found myself on the shore just before the winter dusk that lingered for a good ten years. If you could imagine.
The prisoners arrived in a long line by the sea in the third month of winter when the old pilings were snow capped and the waters gray. There were thirty of them waiting for the ship. They were in line. Gull boy had a whip made out of wet Noodle Hair and the fibers from the Upside-down Love Forest, where the cuckoos scream russian love in rain drops and vaginal blood from the Northern Annie who had arrived on a goat while smoking a cigar made out of wind and swimming Buzz Trout that kept singing the low song that sounded like leaking happiness. She was bare bottomed and grinning. Her toes dragged along the ground leaving lines of ruination in the dirt. In the hearts of men to come. Two hundred years later monks would follow these line across the continent in drunken circles. (It is here that I might remember that hermetic monk on that styolite and the arrival of Northern Annie: The frozen TV Diners and cold batteries, the sluggish toys) On the dock there was a Pelican that moved like a mechanical toy. It kept burping the music of Carp and Pike rage. Gull boy applied his whip to George who was at the end of the line. The whip tore a slit between his shoulder blades where captain red came to sleep and grow brown. Years later large trees of rust grew from out of the pain. The leaves were made of birds; Red Robins, Cardinals and Crows who carried snow across the lands to trade for exotic cloud and emotional vicissitudes. Gull Boy wept at his lost childhood upon seeing George arch his back like an angel with broken wings. He turned his head at the sight of Captain Red and found his lost secret among the small pebbles: Walking home from school, wading through the frogs that kept storms of flies in their bellies. The flies that carried text books about blood, along with the graphics of nose bleeds and the algorithms of hate. When he had arrived home his bed made fun of him in strange poly trope sounds that his mother heard floating in the pea soup. Sounds like, Coney Island White fish and the never to be born babies that sparkled in phosphorescent sea wonder below the docks, as well as, the cold water on the back of her neck.
Northern Annie climbed off her Goat and sauntered ass pendulum over to George who was on his knees. The wind from her ears sifted through his hair and blew across the ocean to Phillips Townie, were it made gray horizons; upon which no ship could be seen by any of the prisoners. Gull Boy too felt the air and returned from his carbonated thoughts back to George and told him that the papers that ruled the world dictated that George be punished for suffering obviously on a public beach, and that this was why Captain Red had been called forth. Captain Red had already begun to eat the clothes off George's back. Capt. Red was a clothe eater. He became quickly what he ate so that upon eating his gray shirt he became that garment, turned brown and died planting bird seed into the loam for future travel.
Hate Boy and Wanker Doodles tried very hard to disappear into that frozen sand but the promise of Lily pulled them back with fishing line and hooks through the skin of their necks. I can remember it clearly, Gull boy and his cold eyes. His stare was like dry ice on your back. A cold burn. I felt it, then saw it settle on Wanker Doodles who began to quiver and cry for he knew that he would never get to see Lily again. Perhaps none of us would.
Northern Annie had begun making borscht. The trout began to swim faster and fog began to creep in over the sand. And then wind. A sort of gust.
Grackle cackle breaks
the cadmium air
exploding pillow of black birds
a tree quake and a scurry of quail in to grass of the shore line trees.
Captain Red!
No one saw the knife go in.
Coffee Eyes & Bacon Tongue arrived with Canker Lips. They were minions belonging to Lily who had left them stranded, land locked for how long no one could remember. But they too heard the rumors of her return.
Northern Annie proffered a kiss with her moon colored teeth for she knew the twenty nine in line were doomed. The fish by now were hissing.
Captain Red again!
No one saw the knife go in. Eater of clothe.
Another prisoner falls. There are now only twenty eight of them.
Black Lily, elf pirate loved them for never.
The memory sleeps in my skin. And I am cold for it. It was when the rocks by the shore gave passing and glisten to two skunks waddling through the night. By now it was night when I slipped into the fog, crawling on the frozen sand toward the quail and the shore line reeds where I heard the voices for the first time:
You writer, what more could you ask for, from a stone? Monsieur sangfroid, please do not kill my baby? No. In the end he will. Kiss it good bye now. Interesting to see it bleed.
Is it true that I am Gull Boy? Have I suffered alchemical distortions through the eyes of another?
But really. We know youre interested in other worlds. Mr. writer.
What worlds?
Those worlds
Oh those worlds from Maine and Portland Oregon. From the insides of pipes where Mallards define love. Stars. Quiet lakes at midnight in the north country where the fur trees carry sobs. Where in the bark our histories sleep
little boys
peep.
The white door,
the sister who carries
a steak knife.
The stuffed animals stabbed
and humped
and the carne terroir
who looks on in wonder
and steps in line.
Those hard wood floors
I wrote my name on the insides of pipe.
Water pipe that carried the voices from the graveyard
to the faucets of our thirst and the drains of our suffice
where hunger eats itself
and it is always winter.
You see, I use to work in a slaughter house. The killing of animals never really leaves you. It becomes a part of you. Your breath takes on the smell of Iron and Iodine, that metallic smell of sangre de vacca; and so it is that dying cows own my blood. Dead chickens live in my brain. In a way this is the story. I will return to it: The summers on the farm in Nova Scotia and the slaughter of frogs.
Last night I was capsized. I couldn't remember what one should never forget. And what is it that one should never forget but your own name, for whats in a name but your crimes, and more important than your name, are those crimes that you have commit and will commit in whose name but your own! You Samuel! You George! Gull Boy! You Michael! Do you forget? What was that conversation that revealed your truth? What was that dialogue? That Guy: She has the greatest pussy ever invented.: He said that. Who but Samuel! He said it in public. That it was magical too; but nothing too interesting, he said. To look at anyway. Just a slit. But it made his penis feel like the only penis. This is all I recall, I really wish I could remember that piece of dialogue. The one where the girl says something pithy and the boy in response has to sell his testicles for a beer saying something along the lines of: God, if only she hadnt walked in. And what remans here is your own paltry imagination with regards to something sordid. Perhaps involving razor blades.
The hens in the hen house were telling lies. Hate Boy and Wanker Doodles were throwing crab apples at the cows when the shot gun went off. After that, there was a silence that was never to leave the barn. The hens too went silent but then returned to their putter pecking burble chirps. Both Wanker Doodles, and Hate Boy looked up the sloping dirt drive toward the barn which rested about fifty yards from them.
It was late in the afternoon and the dust and pollen made oscillation patterns in the low thick sun that sliced through the barn boards in beams. Jenny, aka Nipples Malone, let the gun fall onto the hay and then pushed the door open, stepping out into the sun light which did little against the enclosing farm and the darkness circle that swooped around and pulled from her belly and down into the dust all forms of light. She then fell herself, face first into the dirt never to rise again. In her hands where her intestines. Wanker Doodles turned to his friend and said, Was that your sister?
Yes. He said, And you watch: Ill get blamed for it.
Down by the river Charms, the tiny white Downey flowers quivered in the breeze.
That was the summer of 77 when I was eight.
But last night. Last night when the boat went over I had found myself on the shore just before the winter dusk that lingered for a good ten years. If you could imagine.
The prisoners arrived in a long line by the sea in the third month of winter when the old pilings were snow capped and the waters gray. There were thirty of them waiting for the ship. They were in line. Gull boy had a whip made out of wet Noodle Hair and the fibers from the Upside-down Love Forest, where the cuckoos scream russian love in rain drops and vaginal blood from the Northern Annie who had arrived on a goat while smoking a cigar made out of wind and swimming Buzz Trout that kept singing the low song that sounded like leaking happiness. She was bare bottomed and grinning. Her toes dragged along the ground leaving lines of ruination in the dirt. In the hearts of men to come. Two hundred years later monks would follow these line across the continent in drunken circles. (It is here that I might remember that hermetic monk on that styolite and the arrival of Northern Annie: The frozen TV Diners and cold batteries, the sluggish toys) On the dock there was a Pelican that moved like a mechanical toy. It kept burping the music of Carp and Pike rage. Gull boy applied his whip to George who was at the end of the line. The whip tore a slit between his shoulder blades where captain red came to sleep and grow brown. Years later large trees of rust grew from out of the pain. The leaves were made of birds; Red Robins, Cardinals and Crows who carried snow across the lands to trade for exotic cloud and emotional vicissitudes. Gull Boy wept at his lost childhood upon seeing George arch his back like an angel with broken wings. He turned his head at the sight of Captain Red and found his lost secret among the small pebbles: Walking home from school, wading through the frogs that kept storms of flies in their bellies. The flies that carried text books about blood, along with the graphics of nose bleeds and the algorithms of hate. When he had arrived home his bed made fun of him in strange poly trope sounds that his mother heard floating in the pea soup. Sounds like, Coney Island White fish and the never to be born babies that sparkled in phosphorescent sea wonder below the docks, as well as, the cold water on the back of her neck.
Northern Annie climbed off her Goat and sauntered ass pendulum over to George who was on his knees. The wind from her ears sifted through his hair and blew across the ocean to Phillips Townie, were it made gray horizons; upon which no ship could be seen by any of the prisoners. Gull Boy too felt the air and returned from his carbonated thoughts back to George and told him that the papers that ruled the world dictated that George be punished for suffering obviously on a public beach, and that this was why Captain Red had been called forth. Captain Red had already begun to eat the clothes off George's back. Capt. Red was a clothe eater. He became quickly what he ate so that upon eating his gray shirt he became that garment, turned brown and died planting bird seed into the loam for future travel.
Hate Boy and Wanker Doodles tried very hard to disappear into that frozen sand but the promise of Lily pulled them back with fishing line and hooks through the skin of their necks. I can remember it clearly, Gull boy and his cold eyes. His stare was like dry ice on your back. A cold burn. I felt it, then saw it settle on Wanker Doodles who began to quiver and cry for he knew that he would never get to see Lily again. Perhaps none of us would.
Northern Annie had begun making borscht. The trout began to swim faster and fog began to creep in over the sand. And then wind. A sort of gust.
Grackle cackle breaks
the cadmium air
exploding pillow of black birds
a tree quake and a scurry of quail in to grass of the shore line trees.
Captain Red!
No one saw the knife go in.
Coffee Eyes & Bacon Tongue arrived with Canker Lips. They were minions belonging to Lily who had left them stranded, land locked for how long no one could remember. But they too heard the rumors of her return.
Northern Annie proffered a kiss with her moon colored teeth for she knew the twenty nine in line were doomed. The fish by now were hissing.
Captain Red again!
No one saw the knife go in. Eater of clothe.
Another prisoner falls. There are now only twenty eight of them.
Black Lily, elf pirate loved them for never.
The memory sleeps in my skin. And I am cold for it. It was when the rocks by the shore gave passing and glisten to two skunks waddling through the night. By now it was night when I slipped into the fog, crawling on the frozen sand toward the quail and the shore line reeds where I heard the voices for the first time:
You writer, what more could you ask for, from a stone? Monsieur sangfroid, please do not kill my baby? No. In the end he will. Kiss it good bye now. Interesting to see it bleed.
Is it true that I am Gull Boy? Have I suffered alchemical distortions through the eyes of another?
But really. We know youre interested in other worlds. Mr. writer.
What worlds?
Those worlds
Oh those worlds from Maine and Portland Oregon. From the insides of pipes where Mallards define love. Stars. Quiet lakes at midnight in the north country where the fur trees carry sobs. Where in the bark our histories sleep
little boys
peep.
The white door,
the sister who carries
a steak knife.
The stuffed animals stabbed
and humped
and the carne terroir
who looks on in wonder
and steps in line.
Those hard wood floors
I wrote my name on the insides of pipe.
Water pipe that carried the voices from the graveyard
to the faucets of our thirst and the drains of our suffice
where hunger eats itself
and it is always winter.