We made oranges

Hmph, the fucking asshole put his head in the god-damn jar and I’m supposed to be fucking cordial, expose myself to the lighter side of the fucking mess. I’m supposed to watch my language in the midst of a goddamn hurricane. Goddamn disparaging. I have a monster of a time in the aftermath of the discovery that my listless attacks at the social organization matured into a credible threat of anarchy, a visually defined sense of rebellion—sedition. The claim in the afternoon, prior to the down fall, the rain that caught me into the sideways motion of my future arm: the claim that the resistance incurred debt beyond the red. I had a submarine in the bathtub and I was painting pictures of dolphins and lions in the African Serengeti, the desert, the great plains, the fantastic Great Rift Valley, the harbor of the last Magi—no, the birth place of the schooner, and the absent minded dip into multiplicity, for once, as an unrecognizable navigator, there on the promise of only the promise of the rise of the skin and the care of the muscle would arrive the futile fact of the twenty-ninth parallel, the dismal rise of the industrial man and the charitable replacement of the memory of the bizarre: and only a hint, a softened mind that the canine would reimburse the burst flame in the lower corner of the Big Dipper.

And I would walk out, once more an animal. The drawings on the sidewalk and in the bathtub were only the drawings of the world that couldn’t ever be witnessed, not unless, on occasion, it looks as if the sun is really a big orange.

We made oranges, once. Goddamn hypocrites. Fucking soft recognition that the fiercest of enemies is only the friend that reduces the paint that is the life into the blacks and whites and grays of the newspaper. The goddamn reductionist has taken the whole of this earth from us and left us without the whole of us.



Rather than start all over again, it was decided that slow and deliberate action taken in carefully bound steps would permit entrance to a beautiful future. "A beautiful future," she breathed, and her eyes brightened though of course she could not see them. The woods were lovely, dark and deep. Along the way were nuts and berries, edible molds and mushrooms, some poisonous but if they took things as they came they would be fine. He had the foresight -- "Dumb luck! he said, laughing -- to bring a small mechanical device for the amplification and playback of digital signals. He had also brought headphones. So at night to reward themselves for making the fire last they chose the signals that made the speakers sound to them as if they were suddenly home to tiny musicians, in tiny bands, but playing loud enough to shake the headphones' padding. She clapped along. "I love you," he said, and now it was his turn for his eyes to shine, fast as light moves, and as the fire died darkness grew around the vibrations in the air they heard as song, come what may, one day at a time, though of course he could not see them.



Took a vote. Dissolved the union. There were cheers, and a brassy fanfare.

"The second trumpet is a little off," I thought.

The New York Times declared it an act of "ultimate patriotism." The Wall Street Journal celebrated the future, in which any person regardless of race or gender or class can succeed with nothing more than pluck and luck: "Less a war of all against all than a perfect, open market." Still, something bothered me. I made a phone call.

"Yes, I want to know: how I am supposed to excited about the vast unbounded future when its coming is heralded by a band whose brass section is, at best, a little wonky?"

"We are sorry sir, that is our only brass section."

"Well there are many other trumpeters out there, you know, I'm sure a good number with if not perfect pitch then at least better intonation. I mean, it's not like everyone is looking to hire a good brass section these days."

"I understand, sir, but in this future, as you rightly put it, unbound and vast -- well, this future is here, sir. We are no longer bound to each other."

"So is there nothing that can be done?" I asked.

"I don't think you understand--"

"But I need these harmonic relationships--"

"We are no longer bound--"

"--was supposed to make me feel good?"

"Sir." There was a pause on the other end, and breathing.

"You can go fuck yourself, sir," I heard him say, and then a click, and the sound of the dial tone, which was, I think, a slightly flat A#.


the less than (and more than) pedestrian vote

Ah, hell, the god-damn reductionists won. It is fifty-six, thirty-nine. It is not yet over. Its over, they god-damn won. And I am glad they god-damn won because it serves those assholes right. He is reddening and he orders a martini. Dry, he poses, but the server doesn't look back. They are all unconcerned, fucking unbelievable. The god-damn bastards. This martini better be good. Will you calm down, its not even over yet. Fifty-seven, forty-one? You say that isn't god-damn over. The whole thing is god-damn over. He is perching, on the edge of his seat and tapping, uncomfortably avoiding smoking. The culture has requested that he stop. Cease his activities in general shared spaces. I could fucking stop on my own time, god-damn it. Its not as if the party really expounds on values, he admits. The server returns with the martini. Little fucking olives, he thinks. This place is gonna get what it deserves too. It is filling up, slowly, the white shirt after work crowd. Vultures. God-damn reductionists. You need to take it easy. Take a break. And by the way I think they call them scientists now. Yeah, sure, it probably is fucking science now. But I'll tell you what--this isn't science. Its just stupid, no narrative no god-damn explanation just fucking useless. He is perching still, rocking back and forth, on his seat, like a child, sure, and reddening, still reddening. I didn't think irish got so red, his friend thinks. That is your problem, Carry, you never think for yourself, never walk out of the room and say, fuck you all you bunch of fucking assholes. You never think that this whole thing is just a joke, a phoney fucking joke and we're the assholes. Yeah, you and me, sitting here, drinking here, judging these other assholes, starved for articulation, lost in our own bullshit dialogue, overanalyzing the fucking market, the weak and weakening culture, the greedy assholes downtown--yeah, your problem is you don't even know it. He takes a sip of his martini--and another thing, that stupid girlfriend of yours, whats her name, Lacy, Lucy? Sally. Yeah, Sally. You got to stop bringing her around to the labor parties and prancing her in like she is some god-damn 20s dame and you just got off the fucking yaucht. Its out of control. The music comes on. It is loud. The place is filling up. People ordering drinks. More people ordering drinks. You see, I told you, the god-damn reductionists won. Look at that. One twenty-one to seventy-six. Fuck, we didn't even score any points at the end of that run. What the hell are we supposed to do? Fuck. Keep living this god-damn torn up lifestyle. Compartamentalize a little bit more. Jesus, they expect us to live in shattered motion, keep living in shattered motion. Ah, hell, what got you so steamed, we knew we were gonna fucking lose to these assholes. We always lose to these assholes and then we end up back in the office walking around some god-damn mouse maze and eating fucking cheese out of the water cooloer. You shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said what. What's got you all steamed. You shouldn't have said that about Sally. She didn't do anything to you and she's only ever been anything but nice to you. Remember that shirt she bought you, yeah the one after you had that real shitty day, all spent in the apartment? You really are a fucking asshole. Hey, I never said I wasn't an asshole but don't try to make me pity you and your sorry ass relationship. This whole fucking structure is sinking and stinking and I'm walking around in shit all day, eating shit all day, and you expect me to walk out of that sewage full of god-damn roses? Its a god-damn shitter. He finishes his martini, plays with one of the olives and looks at the room. Christ, this place is filling up with worse replicas than last year. It seems the new product of assholes out of the god-damn cloning factory, are lacking in spirit. Come on, lets get out of here and stop smelling like shit. I'll buy you dinner. God-damn fucking reductionists won again and I'm still playing the game. I should get my god-damn head checked out.


Day 17

The dissonance, she frets, only supposes, demands the excuse--the permission to disolve the frontier. The beckoning, though a whimper of obsolete discharge, nonetheless restricts the cognitive reflex, makes us, ourselves, beg. It appears the evolution has consistently gone quite well, apparently eager to erase prior mishaps. The beast, itself, is active, again re-activated and there it begins, the soldier journey into madness. He accepts the fetal sanity of industry--such an unlocked cabinet. No, she disagrees, I am safe in these machines, in this travel, it is as it has always been. Hmph, I reject the callous doubter.

And the scientist? Oh, regardless. For I, I here, along the other bank, just a witness of the disease.


wouldn't it be nice

but when it comes and I mean really comes then there will be no more gender or guitars warmongers or fearmongering; love has no opposite; so when it does finally arrive and the undoing is done I can leave the sword that cleaves ME from YOU and withdraw back into the infinite undivide of people and space no no no not people not space -- the undivided undividable. it has nothing to do with love though love has no opposite and is not therefore undone no no not exactly some things don't die they just change shape like a flood rushing through the hot streets turning to steam

like a flood

rushing through the hot streets

turning to steam

my poem for policy is rhyming and in ABAB

My-my: wow. Shelly, a non-activist neo-conservative mother of five (an authority on women in the workplace and in the value of economic roles), hence, pardon: ahem--she mocks her own role? Apologies, she condemns the roles of the old boys clubs--masturbation assylums. Male parts hanging off their bodies like children's art projects. Ha! Art? Children? Ha! I am a mother of the greatest esteem. I am Pro-woman in the market place. She sounds shrill. My apologies, again, she is shrill. I am Pro-woman in the economic labor system. She wants Him to know her role here is her role too. Our role over there isn't important anymore. For neither of us.

I promote only economic goals, institutions, beliefs. Unless science interferes and then I propose to introduce legislation that demands literal translations of the bible when trasmitting information across the academic hierachy--no, no, misplaced--across the academic oligarchy--no, political oligarchy--and just pure academic community (yes, readers, analysts, researchers, etc). Evidence of grace under fire from the liberal wing of Hell. Damn hell and his nazi fallen saints and his ugly hair and poorly hemmed dress and inadequate usage of the object [ELITIST]. Oh, but only ever coy and suggestive of independence. Define the value--raise Her to Him but do not change the value of what he has given prior to equality? And if the premise, that thing he stands on, is indeed made of paper does she still want to stand on it and be next to Him when the whole god-damn stage comes tumbling down--excessive, overwritten, trite? Overactor. Actor supreme.

Spurious, at best. Perhaps, inadequate? I dare not say. She is a five children mother and she is best in the in and out (aren't we all, I dare imply what you are thinking: sex and nakedness and lust and sex). Ban the books, ban the books. We are not a fan of parity but partly of God. Ah, shit, all of god.

Dear God,

How do you reverse the rules of evolution to make a dumb shit like me popular and powerful and responsible for the rising tide of the stupid as shit back-ass liberal bullshit?

I am still star-struck and a little bit in awe. But I do dearly love christmas. Oh, how I love christmas.

Your best friend,


P.S. I will do whatever you ask, I will, I will. I am really a very good leader.

P.P.S. Will you send Billy an IPOD for Christmas.