Sonnet 4
Expensive pregnancy, why do you pay
Outside thy soul thy baby’s breath?
Fertility cedes powers of brief elects,
And Willendorf Venus blesses beauty.
So, gorgeous bitch, why willingly abort
The gift infant sanctified to your womb?
Birthless pregger, why do you cancel
Such tremendous future so you can “live”?
By going on your own to the clinic,
You lie to yourself about your self worth.
How, when some god deigns a boy in bosom,
Can syringe or curette pierce your body?
Your breathtaking babe must see our day’s light,
With you as mother of world’s holy child.
XXX
Ex Ex Ex
Has me hyperbolically thinking sex sex sex
Ex Ex Ex
Has me under a neon rainbow hex hex hex
Ex Ex Ex
Has me without a loveless vex vex vex
Ex Ex Ex
Has me kingly acting Rex Rex Rex
Ex Ex Ex
Has me sharing kisses with such a sweethearted Mex Mex Mex
Ex Ex Ex
Has me high speed always trying to hastened on to what’s next next next
Ex Ex Ex
Has me convinced I have veiny muscles to flex flex flex
Ex Ex Ex
Has me failing to store my vivid memories in my mental index ‘dex ‘dex
Ex Ex Ex
Has me ignoring social miscues with no cognitive rechecks ‘checks ‘checks
Ex Ex Ex
Has me unable to compose in fumbling fingers any texts texts texts
Ex Ex Ex
Has me rubbing against woofers near deejay decks deck decks
Ex Ex Ex
Has me in a void where reason and instinct never intersect ‘sect ‘sect
Orchid
It hangs with the ease of slippery slopes
So easily it slides down
So easily it has slipped down
It hangs only for a short time
So easily it stands up
So easily it has come up
Orchid of mine
Orchid, O, Divine
Orchid that needs no sun to shine
Orchid that makes holy the vine
Orchid that pouts lips colored wine
Orchid that says things are fine
Orchid, O, Orchid, O, Orchid Divine
Orchid of mine
Orchid with long flowing hair
Orchid that knows too much, that knows how to care
Orchid with soul lain bare
Orchid that is still unaware, that is still trying to be fair
Orchid with oval face
Orchid that has my gifted lace
Orchid with no need for space
Orchid that has no desire for a chase
Orchid of His
Orchid, O, Orchid, O, Holy Orchid of His
Orchid that spurns titles of Ms.
Orchid that prefers flat over fizz
Orchid that prays to Him until y-dizz
Orchid that passes the spiritual quiz
Orchid, O, Orchid, O, Orchid of His Holiness
Orchid of His
So easily it falls flaccid
So easily it shrivels pathetic
It hangs only for you in a fleeting moment
So easily it’s denigrated
So easily it’s derogated
It hangs with the shame of a faithless man
Whisper (2)
I - Lazarus (continued)
When the hiccups/burps of computers do indeed raise overgrown unkempt eyebrows yet peppery cans sprayed in the faces of human beings - children - don’t bring even a quicker blink or an empathetic twitch
In the interface, out-of-body avatars have NDEs and life-changing events while under crying basements, buried esteems metamorphasize into video game controllers with three lives that are lived like house flies with too much metacognition and no cognizance of the species’ reproductive cycle
Whose gnitatilibed aixelsyd prevents the decoding of tsom noitome as their Abilify prompts med-less peers to classify their muscle-less friends’ faces as catastrophically catatonic and inexplicably missing eyes’ twinkling constellations
Who were speckled in the dust of dreggy tenements with the sprinkles of insanity governing language, idiomatic censures, dilapidated tokens of television-inspired adages… hateful of pop culture but unaware of its subliminal stranglehold
Who have been raped by greenbacks on which talking dead presidents, who still own slaves, drive new slaves to Wal-Marts on fossil-fueled vehicles powered by the feces of castrated bulls with iron-wrought nuts
Who sifting through rigid moral structures force fed by episodes of brainwashing and brainwaxing - on and off, on and on - and finding promsicuity and agnosticism as the only alternatives worth smoking and sucking
Who bouncing like babies, jiving like turkeys, juking like Heismans, jumping like beans, the club is a trampoline with the wave of hands falling and cresting as if a personified pulsating sound system decibel level display
Whose wild clunking cars grind sidewalks with kick flip parallel parks and 1260 double mctwist 3-pt turns through five-lane highways where ollie’d smog is added for effect and emanations of “bro” and “dude” dilute the air and infect tricky lips
Who texting with tip tap tip tip tap tap tip tip tip… tapping away life’s tips and tipping away life’s taps with mind texts in creating a larger facade of one’s cornucopia of friendships forged by witty words and incorrectly attributed quotes and cat videos and raging memes
Who swim among the strewn empty orange plastic bottles with their push-down-then-turn-right tops, neurological anesthetizations render once-thinkers and old-actors and do-gooders into google-spelunkers and meretriciously fashionable protestors and garish anonymous message surfers.
Who bounced a man’s sloppy seconds and unquenched with tinny beer, a mixed-race rose, a cadre of Camels, an incense stick, and knocked down piss poor plaster walls in low-rent makeshift bum bedrooms and delighted in thin palisades and echoing moans that permeated every single crevice and corner of the flat with Dylan’s Johannas of eternal wetness
Who reach the cusps of hypothermic peaks only to tumble in unhappy avalanche down his mountain of narcissistic selfishness, dried-up rubber, thirty minute refractory periods, cum-induced comas
Who sugarcoated the cooches as the bowers of bliss and positioned a thousand internet friends to fawn over phallus in the slithering sunset, and were sleeplessly nictitating through raven black polka dots yet revved by the raunchiness of faceless asses - standing behind - deprived of personality and refraining from endearment in favor of a living moving thing without a memorable name or dreams of wife / mother / forever lover / single soul
Who sat on plastic milk crates behind commercial refrigerators and stopped to drop below eye sight and roll a roll of rigamarole in the guise of loco moto
Who cavorted on top of kitchen counters, banshee jumped from couch to couch, went on playground hip swings from tall heights above cafe chairs and tables and let go of embarrassment forbiddance so the dance could express gratitude in the acceptance of the weird
September 20, 2011
Dear K,
I’m sitting in the back of my special education course wishing I was either searching for Asian pornography or reading David Foster Wallace - recently, though, he’s been hard to swallow without lubrication and some antacids. I’m not sure if your sexual fever has ever turned the color yellow - from all accounts you’re an “ass man” (what a ghastly designation - for fuck’s sake, we need to find a better sobriquet for a person who maintains a well-defended affinity for a woman’s gluttonous maxy moo moos) - and a so-called “ass man” (as opposed to a tax man) often spurn the Orient for the ebony or Latino. But what if she’s wearing jean shorts? I could probably deck out some loose Thai hooker harlot so that she’d tingle your proud modesty. Where would I start, you say? A cigarette - of the cannaboid kind - hanging rather surreptiously from the corner of her thick-lipped mouth … heavy eye make-up (too much of it works best - black only, yes, to avoid an unsightly losing-my-vision-grandmother-in-the-dark look)… thin where it matters, thick where it matters, because after all it all matters when your face to face with your hypothetical geisha. Her top is a vintage early 90s hip-hop tribute — if I could perchance procure a De La Soul or a Tribe Called Quest one, she’d wear that in the shade of communist red. Speaking in broken English would not be an option for her because the “best” language (hardly Romantic!) clashes with anything linguistically Asian whereas a Guatemalan’s Spanglish is “el sexy.” So, she’s fluent, and she’s also somehow able to chug a fifth of vodka faster than Putin (a tip of the hat to all jackals). Okay, and the cherry on top would be her emergence from steaming noodles - pho to be specific. You may want to tuck the tightness you have now to avoid offending B. (With one L! Oi, I did once offend but never again.)
This past tangent was therapeutic for me — I’m in my first EDSP class, and it isn’t exciting me as much as I had hoped. And it’s special education that’s been motivating me to get through the supplemental curriculum all this time… a tad ironic, eh? Guess it’s another choice I’ll chalk up to “life experience” - a board filled with dusty chalk that desperately needs washing. That’s what mind-erasing drugs, out-of-control and unbridled inebriation, and stupendous benders are for, my son! CLEAN THE BOARDS OF OUR MINDS. (Someone notable in the annals of history cited the Latin tabula resa [rough translation: clean slate] as a starting ((or restarting)) point - Locke?) So, as my teacher blah blah blahs and the phony girls hah hah hah at his excellency’s moldy jokes in order to boost his opinion of them because they have nooo ta ta tas… I yearn for an espresso and cigarette tit-for-tat exchange with your ticking tock. A digressive retread: You and I both know how hard it is for someone to go through life without breasts. Boobless is no way to tally-ho your way to the promise land!
Recently, I’ve been contemplating what my “promise land” (read: ideal setting to actualize my ideal self) is… now that I’ve mentioned such a place… and the only item I am able to conclude is that it is not where I am at the present moment. (But, ha, isn’t that always the case?) I’ve also come close to resolving recent conflicting feelings about becoming an expatriate a la F. Scott Fitzgerald and many other Lost Generation WW II American authors. (You know, Kerouac always name dropped in his letters and it worked out okay for his consumptive soul.) Technically, if you and your Bonnie continue to live and rob mind banks abroad, you’ll fall into that category. The United Kingdom remains a top choice because of the unreal music scene. As I’ve expressed to you on many occasions, I think the soundtrack to a writer’s life is as important as any other “muse” — even more so than the world’s most attractive skirts. Bass music (fuck all the genres and sub-Gs and their qualifiers for now) … yes, BASS MUSIC is this generation’s life blood - its most vibrant and vivacious blood, its impetus, its moving force, its unstoppable pressure toward a more transformative love or breed of pleasure. Because, after all, it’s sex and sperm and sworn dedication (monogamous or not) that keep this world spinning and reproducing. So…the promise land has to be a cosmo area that attracts true bass talent or at least boasts the speakers to play the legit artists. Hence, this crosses the U.S. off the list. But where else outside of the U.K. are there true bass purists and clubs/house parties devoted to the religion of bass? If you find this answer, let me know in your next note or Skype. I’d like to expand the breadth of the SSC and if there is a Hispanic option, I’d dream of heading with “my Eve” down south.
By the time you read this, I’m guessing you’ll have started school. So many of my questions for you relate to your initial reactions to the collegiate experience and atmosphere. Are your books intimidating in length and/or price? Do you have any profs that dance to funk? Have you or B befriended any idiosyncratic personalities that dwell in the dark corners of your classrooms? How are you handling the workload? Did you end up finding a job that you like? I’m a-cat-named-George curious about this next step in the ‘sky legend. Finally, have you had the opportunity to set up all the disc jockeying equipment?
I appreciated your support on liking and reposting my entry the other day. With very little hope of publication, I am going to start releasing much of what I’ve written over the past three years in notebooks like these. I’m thinking (in the summer of 2012) about releasing my book (or at least its poorly edited lining) page by page… 600 words per day… no one will read it but at least it will be “out there.” In China, there’s been an incipiently evolving self print enterprise. Maybe I’ll pursue that route so I can feel in my hands my print on paper.
Your last note still hangs like a Christmas stocking from the corner of my fridge - precariously dangling there as a reminder of you, your care for me, and the immortality of our friendship. Yes, long periods of silence between us must exist now - it’s a frowning reality. Yet, I don’t see any fade appearing in this link. Please deliver a few “hellos,” “hyuk hyuk hyuks,” and lemur mating calls to my Argetnine sister. I hope she has found England to be golden.
Be well in the peace of a pure heart,
M
