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sparkle + blink 51
2014 Quiet Lightning ISBN 978-1-304-96304-8 artwork Wesley Powell Fat John first published in Ilyas Honey Tony the Shadow Man first published in Nerve Cowboy Music in Parts, and The 7th of 7 Items of Here Comes Everybodys Clothing first published in Be About It Another Genesis Trickery first published in Finery Linguolabial, Fire Rainbow Duality Charm, and Its 4AM All Day Long first published in 1111 The Dysfluencies, Legitimate Peripherality, and Dialogism first published in SCUD book design by j. brandon loberg set in Absara Promotional rights only. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from individual authors. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the author(s) is illegal. Your support is crucial and appreciated.
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curated by

Zack Haber and Tupelo Hassman

featured artist

Wesley Powell

Set 1

Tender Points

1 9


Set 2

Tony the Shadow Man Fat John Music in Parts The 7th of 7 items of Here Comes Everybodys Clothing Another Genesis Trickery Fire Rainbow Duality Charm Its 4AM All Day Long The Dysfluencies Legitimate Peripherality Dyadic Ubiquity

15 24 25 26 27 29 30 31 32 34


Linguolabial 28

Dialogism 33



A 501(c)3, the primary objective and purpose of Quiet Lightning is to foster a community based on literary expression and to provide an arena for said expression. QL produces a monthly, submission-based reading series on the first Monday of every month, of which these books (sparkle + blink) are verbatim transcripts. Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the board of QL is currently: Evan Karp founder + president Chris Cole managing director Josey Lee public relations Meghan Thornton treasurer Kristen Kramer chair Sarah Ciston Katie Wheeler-Dubin Kelsey Schimmelman director of books director of films acting secretary

Sidney Stretz and Laura Cern Melo art directors Lisa Miller, Rose Linke, and RJ Ingram outreach directors Sarah Maria Griffin and Ceri Bevan directors of special operations If you live in the Bay Area and are interested in helpingon any levelplease send us a line: e v an @ qui et light nin g . o rg

- SET 1 -



In 1989, Kathleen Hanna traveled to Seattle to take a writing workshop with Kathy Acker. Acker asked Hanna why she wanted to write, and Hanna said: Because nobody has ever listened to me in my whole life, and I have all this stuff that I want to say. Acker replied: Then what are you doing poetry for? You should start a band. Nobody goes to spoken word, but people go to see bands. We know how the story ends: Hanna goes home and starts Bikini Kill, the legendary punk band largely responsible for pioneering the riot grrrl movement and changing the face of feminism.

When you have all this stuff that you want to say, how do you get people to listen? There are thousands of blog posts about how to write compelling blog posts. Many of these posts

discuss the practical benefits of writing listicles, or articles in the form of lists. 9 Reasons to Use a Content Management System 17 Power Snacks for Studying 33 Shiba Inu Puppies Who Just Cant Contain Themselves Right Now Listicles are a powerful way to drive traffic to your blog. People love listicles: Theyre fun to read and theyre highly shareable via social media. The content is easy to digest and the authoritative headlines command respect. 4 Events You Miss Because of Fibromyalgia Pain 1. Brunch with Marissas Parents Your alarm goes off at 9:30, then 9:45. Marissas parents are in town from Boston and brunch is at 11. The alarm goes off again at 10:00. You havent seen her parents since college. 10:05: You feel like youve been hit by a truck, which is how you feel most mornings. 10:15: If you dont shower, you can still get there almost on time. 10:25: Marissa is going to be pissed. Why cant you be a better friend. 10:40: Fuck. You can make it if you call a cab. It would be like $16. Who takes a cab to brunch? 11 isnt even early. Everything hurts. Its like youre under a brick the size of your body. Okay, its 10:55. You text Marissa,

Hey girl. I am so sorry, but I feel really sick and I cant make it. Tell your parents hi for me. 2. Company Outing to the Roller Rink Last time you skated, the heavy rentals dislocated your ankles and made your PT shake her head as she popped them back in. Nobody believes you when you say you would love to go. Least of all your boss, who already worries that youre not a team player. But you really would love to go: You, too were once a little kid who thrilled at swooping around rinks to Groove Is in The Heart and Turn The Beat Around. Its just thats not your reality now. But the tyranny of mandatory fun is bearing down. Everyones eyes are on your ankles, and they wont be satisfied until they see scars or bandages or blood. 3. The Noise Show at That Warehouse in West Oakland You forget their name, but its Alexandras roommates band, and theyre supposed to be really good. You told Alexandra youd go. You told Alexandras roommate youd go. But you are not gonna go. Last time you saw a show there, your muscles tensed up in the cold room and standing on the concrete floor for three hours made your bones ache. You danced to the offkilter pop of the opening band, but standing still is somehow harder. Confronted with the shimmering drone of the headliner, your body froze and felt like it could chip as easily as ice.

4. Yoga with Carrie Yoga helps, but only when you go regularly. Every time you go to yoga after taking a break for a while, one 60-minute class can make you feel sick for days. If you go to yoga with Carrie tonight, its likely youll feel like shit the rest of the week. Which would be bad because youre meeting with a client tomorrow. Late to work and home straight after. Pain lost in your muscles, trying to find a way out, slams you down in bed but wont let you sleep.

Its worth noting that its particularly difficult for a womans voice to command respect. To quote Kathleen Hanna again, Theres this certain assumption that when a man tells the truth, its the truth. And when, as a woman, I go to tell the truth, I feel like I have to negotiate the way Ill be perceived. Theres always a suspicion around a womans truth the idea that youre exaggerating.

Poetry fails me because its not written plainly. Its oblique nature aligns too closely with the slippery and unreliable speech that women have been associated with since ancient Greece.

In The Gender of Sound, Anne Carson writes, Woman as a species is frequently said to lack the ordering principle of sophrosyne. Sophrosyne is a masculine virtue: the use of moderation and selfcontrol in speaking. While men speak with order, Carson observes that the women of classical literature are a species given to disorderly and uncontrolled outflow of sound to shrieking, wailing, sobbing, shrill lament, loud laughter, screams of pain or pleasure, and eruptions of raw emotion in general.

Thats why I so firmly want prose here. Sentences. Periods. Male certainty. These are facts. No female vocal fry. No uptalk. No question about what I tell you. No metaphor. Go ahead. Fact check. Did I stutter. Fuck off. Im writing about the violence of patriarchal culture. Im writing about the uneven balance of power in female-patient / male-doctor relationships. Im aware of a certain home-team advantage, and I will not dare write this in anything that cant pass for straight masculine prose. Its not that this isnt criture fminine, but its criture fminine en homme.


Are you offering true thought leadership? Simplicity is evidence of insight. Presenting your information in a simple list form shows that you know your stuff. Listicles are easy to scan, and provide the reader with concise takeaways.

6 Essential Items for Your Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder Cave 1. Unemployed boyfriend With few commitments, your unemployed boyfriend has plenty of time to spend hanging out in your cave. No job means no need to shave, so its likely that he has a sexy beard. Because hes depressed, a cave feels comfortable to him, too. Like you, hes grateful for its shelter. Although talking about emotions may not come naturally to him, he has felt terrible pain, and he is kind. You may find that looking into his eyes works better than ibuprofen. 2. Pot Have you ever wanted the world to stop existing? Pot kind of works for that. While the world may contain rapists, twice-denied short-term disability claims, and any number of other revolting and evil things,

the cave contains nothing revolting or evil. Seal the barrier between cave and world with a thick plume of smoke. 3. Power pop In the late 1970s, thousands of men in denim jackets were working on writing the tightest, catchiest two-and-a-half minute songs about love and pretty girls and sunny days. While most of these songs have been forgotten, so many of them achieve perfection. The lyrics are dumb, but brilliant in their dumbness: Theyre merely a vehicle for the clinical-grade serotonin shot of the music. Only people who have known true misery can write songs engineered to be this cheerfulthis is the real deal. Invite the love and girls and sun into your cave. 4. Condoms Well, youre in there with your unemployed boyfriend, that sweet sinsimilla, and all those songs about desire. One thing leads to another. Your unemployed boyfriend is gorgeous, and fucking him is the opposite of everything bad. You fuck while youre having conversations. You fuck while youre eating clementines. You fuck while youre listening to power pop comps. You point out the drum fills to him. You lick his ear and stop to say, This parts really good.


5. Flashbacks It wouldnt be a post-traumatic stress disorder cave without flashbacks to the trauma that made you retreat. The trauma was rape, so the flashbacks happen during sex. When you start to dissociate, stop and tell your boyfriend you feel scared. Ask him to please tell you his name and where you are. What year it is and how old you are. To please just keep telling you things about where you are. He holds you until you understand youre 28 and hes your boyfriend and youre in your messy cave room in Brooklyn. And then he keeps holding you. 6. Diner The cave is a safe place but sometimes you have to get out. Getting out of the cave gets you out of your head; getting into the world gets you out of the memories that try to trap you. It feels good to put on clothes and walk to the diner. The diner is called Cozy Corner or its called Jimmys or its called Delight Diner and Donuts. You dont know it, but youre hungry and youre probably dehydrated. Get a grilled cheese and a Coke and watch something on TV. Now youre ready to return to your cave.



This is how you make applejack. Applejack is a concentrated cider. Its the ultimate event in making alcohol from apples. First its a cider, but if you want to lay it out, end to end: you take a seed, you plant it in your backyard, if you have a back yard, if you just bought a back yard and you dont know what else to do with a back yard, because a back yard seemed like a thing you should have, and planting an apple tree seemed like a nice thing to do on an unsure Sunday. Just to see what would happen. Just to see if you could grow something from the earth and have it give off life, which, having grown up in a very concrete place still astonishes you, and somehow it works. The deer that occasionally pop up in your yard to eat your wifes vegetable gardenfor whatever reason, they leave the sprout of that tree alone, the sapling, all the way up to when its so big you can hide behind it and after five years of it being out there by itself but in the back of your mind later it suddenly happens: a goddamn apple. Its a small apple. Its a young tree and youve tried your best to forget about it. To leave it to keep its own shade and not tell anyone its there. But it is,

its a thing growing. A little impossible ball of life. Right there, tiny and vulnerable, wrinkled red skin and just for you. You get too many, though, after a while. It sheds apples. It gets to be too much. They roll around, spread through the yard. You give them to strangers, you make juice, but still theres more and more and you cant keep up with it. So you pulp them, make apple sauce, make jellies and try to sell them. You are now the kind of person who is making artisanal jellies and sauces and anything you can do to get rid of the apples, but its just relentless. Every day you get home its just apples and apples and more apples and you cant see the end of it. It only grows bigger and gives off more apples desperate to make more trees to make more apples but you cant have that happen, you need to keep it contained, and how have we ever had enough time to cut down all the trees to make homes, to make houses, is impossible to see. We should clearly be losing this battle and we probably are. Eventually itll just be the trees on forever again. Theyll bury us all in the back yard. Its just something that will happen. But it doesnt, not right then, but pretty soon. I got lost in this for a while. I decided to make cider. It becomes something to focus on. I find out online that if you put sugar in the cider itll turn into booze. Free apples. Free cider. Free booze. Why not and before you know it the basement is full of buckets.

Little incubators for bad decisions. Theres still too many and suddenly I sell artisanal hard cider even though its against the law and Im drinking deeply into the profits. But who cares, the apples keep coming theyre impossible to ignore and the tree is twenty feet tall and looming over the house and its all you ever think about but nothing ever happens and then here it comes its falling. The tree got hit by lightning on the night she asked me to sleep in the back room and it split and fell into the house. It didnt look dead, but it had to be, how could it live through something like that. The house only caught on fire a little bit. The roof went up in a few patches. A crash and I woke and there was a burning branch through the roof. She ran in from our bedroom and found me, thought I was dead or delirious, thought I got hit by a timber, set on fire from sleeping through it but she stumbled over the bottles by the bedside and retreated from me again to call her mother and the fire department. I gave some to the firemen after it went out, after they hacked up the half of the tree that fell and chipped it all up into splinters and left it in a smoking pile in the yard. One of the firefighters told me to be careful and told me about his grandfather, hed gone blind from making homemade applejack. He got a bad batch somehow. Theres a bacteria in the fermentation that will take your eyes. People think its their fault, from drinking too much but its just
DaN SaN dE Rs


bad luck. It could happen to anybody but probably not you. You know? Not to me personally, but I can see how a terrible thing could happen to someone. How something like that could ruin you. You take the cider and you freeze it. You transfer the cider into two liter bottles and just stuff the freezer with them. Buy a second freezer, put it in the back room with the hole in it. Fill that. Get it all as cold as possible. Dont patch the ceiling for winter. You want to freeze the water. You want to separate the water from the alcohol. Its a process called Fragmenting like youre splintering, splitting, chipping. You take the purist thing you can think of, you add sugar so as to ruin it and you divide it down the middle, again, again and again, just let it keep dividing, and you let it sit and linger until its hard to breathe and you back away, keep it cold, keep it frozen, suck the purity out of the mixture and throw it away with the bottle, so youre left with absolutely nothing but a glass jar of poison that will have just the hint of the thing that it was and with any luck leaves you absolutely blind under half a dead tree.


Watch Zack Haber read from if you want to be one of them playing in the streets, along with some newer work

- SET 2 -






I havent seen the dude in a long time, but when he sits me down next to him at the park, insisting I take a seat on the bench as if I were a young boy obeying an old man patting a seat for me, I do. He looks worn but not so worn that I dont recognize him. Straight white teeth and sharp gray eyes under a lazy swirl of hair help him retain his handsomeness. But he reeks of booze. I know him. I like him. He starts in on the life story. It leads up to this: You got it made, man. But I dont. I dont know why. But it seems like theres always been a shadow over me, or something, since I was a kid. Im not blaming God or nothing. Just wondering. What do you mean? Nothing. But do you remember Dora who moved away in the sixth grade when her parents got divorced? Came back later and lived on Travers, Dora with the frizzy hair? Yeah? I started seeing her when you were away in college, about that

time. And we were having a good time, a real good time. Just doing shit that we did back then, you know. Laughing and joking all the time. Big Dora, I called her, and shed bump my shoulder and tell me to shut up, stupid, but she knew I loved her. He gulps. She knew she was the one for me. She knew everything about me. And I knew everything about her. Like we told each other stuff that was hard to say to anybody else. Shit, that I even couldnt tell myself at night. But I could with her. Dora, Id start. And shed laugh and say, What? Say it. So I would. Dora And I cant tell you, fucker, but it came out, the important stuff. We were tight. Sounds beautiful. Dont make fun of me, fucker. Im not. She made me feel real good inside, just being around her, you know, watching her laugh and smile at me. She didnt have much going for her then, not really. But she had me now and this job at the bank she hated still and a few things she liked doing for a long time already, like going out at night and walking. Thats how we first met again, on a summer night, Dora taking a walk and me just hanging out in the yard, looking up at the stars.

Tony? Dora? Yeah, me! How you been, Tony? Its been so long! We hugged and shit and got to catching up, you know. She filled me in on her life. Theres not much, Tony. But there was enough. She had the job, and a car, and a good record collection she kept real organized in her room, next to her stereo, because she liked to dance by herself late at night, she said, when the house was quiet and the world slept. She could be like a poet. He looks away, far off. She had some nice clothes, too, a few expensive sweaters and shit stuck in her closet that she put on for me sometimes, and man, she looked great. She had that little style some chicks do without trying too hard. Tony, do I look all right? Shit. Do you look all right? Whered you pick me up from, baby, the dumpster? Youre like a movie star on location! Youre my planet, Tony. The only spot I want to land on. He looks away again. And she had a dog named Rufus that she let in the house sometimes even though her mom got mad, a big gray dog, all shaggy and slobbery. He lifts up a hand to show me its height. Later I saw


it looking out the window at me with sad eyes. But that was later. This was now, dude. She was alive with me inside her. I mean knowing I was there. But she stayed home a lot and never came over unless I called her. Come over, Dora, Id say. Its cool. Cause I was lonely, too. You cant get away from loneliness. You cant. Are you sure? Yeah, Im sure. Then we hung out on the porch or barbecued in the back when my parents were gone because I didnt want them to make a fuss and got down in my back bedroom. It was cool. Sounds it. She even wrote me a letter once, signed it Dora Diehard for You. I didnt know. She always seemed skinny but not too much. She had those bony knees but so what. They worked. Forever. She put at the end. But I didnt hear from her for a while. You lose track in the County. Yeah, I was in the goddamn bote for a DUI, a stupid warrant out for my arrest. Gomez the dickhead put me in there and I still havent paid him back, that dickhead. Cop. Pig. He spits. But I went up to her door first thing when I got out. I even brought some flowers, a dozen red roses I

bought at Food Giant, and some perfume. Sorry, her mother says, shes dead. Like that. After I knock on the door and stand back. She just stood there staring at me, between the crack in the door. She was sick, honey, didnt you know that? she said. Real sick. She had it in her bones, all over. She explained it to me. Then she said she was tired and had to rest. She closed the door real slowly. I put my flowers down on the porch, then I remembered where her bedroom was, around the corner, and I put them right there under her window, in the dirt. Rest in peace, Dora, I said. I crossed myself. I split. I walked home trying to cheer myself up, thinking it was better for her anyway if she was hurting there at the end like her mom said she was. But I couldnt shake it, man, I couldnt shake it. I couldnt believe it. Goddamn, I said. To myself. Dead? How can she be dead? I just talked to her last time I was here, when I was out. But cancer had taken her. Dead. Like that. He snaps his fingers. But that was the second time it happened to me, man.


Thats the truth. Remember Arlene and how she got cancer and died? She was my first real girlfriend, my eighth-grade chick! We had a lot of fun together, man. She was cool, too. Arlene with the split between her teeth, remember? Smiling. And always punching me in the arm, Tony! Until we made out in the hall and she gave me all kinds of fucking hickeys on my neck. I couldnt even go nowhere without you guys making fun of me, remember? Hey, Tony, quit playing with the vacuum cleaner! Fuckers. But you were just jealous. I had the girl, Arlene! She had me. She said so. I got you now, Tony! Youre mine! Cancer, too. Ronnie barely tackled her in the lame football game at the eighth-grade picnic and then they took her to City of Hope after they discovered her bone wasnt just broken but cancer. Filled with cancer. Shit. I visited her a few times. First at the hospital and then at home. Right there on Senta Street near your pad. I remember. She was set up in the living room in a hospital bed already, with all kinds of flowers and shit around her, balloons. She was all woozy and bandaged, drugged up one time I went there, not too long after the operation. She just looked at me and smiled, I swear, like always. Tony! Get some cheer in your smile, boy! Its only a pierna! She didnt have no leg no more.

I swear to God I turned away crying. I couldnt help it. She got me that time. She was always like that, always laughing, always cracking me up. Tony! Dont step on my foot! It hurts! Then when I went to see her one time her mom said, Shes dead, Tony. She stood at the door and cried again, dabbing her eyes. She was a brave woman, too, a Christian. I liked her. She liked me. Thats why I dug Arlene so much, too. Thats why I kept coming back. Her family liked me. They didnt think I was just a fuckup. I go bouncing up the steps and find out the truth. Remember that summer? We were all at Camp Commerce for Teen Week thinking Arlene was going to live forever, just sitting there in her bed making us laugh when we went to see her as if we were the ones dying, man, not her. Last thing she said to me was, Tony, dont get fat now. None of the girls will like you! Then she winked at me like she knew I was gonna be drinking my ass off and none of the girls would have me after her, anyways. Like she was still my number one. But I drank those years away, so I guess she knew something else she was trying to warn me about. I drank and got fat for too many years, man. My life was a waste between her and Dora. When we started partying I didnt know when to stop.


Do you want to come in, Tony? her mother said. Sit down for a while? No, thank you, Mrs. Garcia, I said. I better go home. He pauses to take in the sky. It is faultlessly blue. The tree above us covers us in shade. Then the third one I dont even want to talk about. But you know. You know what happened to me last summer. Yeah, everybody knows, he says to himself. He got run over by a car. Right there on my street where they still drive crazy, even with the sign I put up. Obey the Speed Limit. Me, the biggest fuckup in town, Sheriff John now. He was just playing ball with his friend when he turned around and got hit. Boom. Plastered by a hit and run. They didnt even know who it was. Everybody knows who comes down these streets but this was like a phantom car zooming around the corner out of nowhere and keeping its nose pointed straight ahead. This thing is just going, going, going on down the road fast and crazy until nobody can see it anymore, and its on Washington Boulevard and gone, a big black phantom, probably a fucking drug dealer dropping off a load at the bikers pad. Naw, nobody knew who it was, nobody. They said they heard it screeching and a terrible thump and roaring off again, racing away, I dont know what you

call it, fleeing the scene of the crime, brother, leaving like the chickenshit coward he was, my son dead on the street, me at work in a warehouse loading up shit into a truck, on a forklift. I was doing all right those days, too, not drinking so much and fucking off all the time. More like settling down some with Terry, getting along. I was cashing my paychecks and bringing them home without stopping at Ninos and getting so stupid. I was being a good family man. I was getting my shit together. I was doing it all for Ricky. I was thinking things were going to be all right now, for me. Theyre going to be all right still, Tony. They are. Yeah, I came home from work and everybodys in the street crying, looking distraught. I found out what happened in the house. I just turned around and walked outside and kept going. I didnt stop until I got to the cemetery. Then I lay my head against a tree and cried so hard and felt so empty I dont think Ill ever be the same, brother. Im empty inside, empty. Aw, man, Im sorry to hear that, all of it. You know what I think, man? What? Im the shadow man, Tony the Shadow Man, meant to take away your pain.



What the fuck happened to Fat John, man? He killed himself. Fat John killed himself? I cant believe it, how? He hung himself in the shower or something. Maybe shot himself. I dont know, Im not sure yet. Nobody knows. But he did it? For sure. Fucking John. What was he thinking of? He was always cool, Fat John. Always laughing. I know, ha. Thats what gets everybody. Fat John was always laughing, man, making you crack up, too. Jiggling his fat fucking chins, he covered his mouth as if a little embarrassed. They were standing in the bleachers, talking. The field was empty and a sack of beer sat next to them. Ah, man, thats kind of cold. Well, he was Fat John. He didnt care.




The first age, on tiptoes. Before we lost our language. The sound of meaningless, meaningful conversation, clitoral. Borrowed giants. Pans hour, the faunal noon. A contest between the prophesy and history. The portion, enclosed, us. Confessed inside it, garlanded and waiting. Contrasted with Eve. After the age of the people. The chorus listens. The Black Stone, white, falling. The saints, a zenith, absinthe. For sleep. Dreamy-dreary. For sleep. Occasionally the stones answerer answers. Similar creature to the dragon. To pagodas. Murmur marine-like Merlin murmur, quiet.



Monuments make me cry. His sleeping body. Not a museum but an obelisk. There is a magic that wants to hurt us. The museums erotics. The rivalry of brothers. The father, the engineer, the paddy cakes. Palimpsests full story. Where everything broken is housed. Jabess God located only in the future. Getting past the thunder-word. Pushed not pulled. Sitting down in trains. But the secret a secret of something that we want out of. Our duodrama. Eleven signifies renewal. The sound of a branch hitting the window in the bedroom of whatever dreamer is dreaming the dream that is this text.



What came before the beginning is continuing now. Commodity is another curve in the neighborhood of return. If our protagonist is our protagonist. How many arrivals are not a return? Or, how we arrive in the center of something. What is not found is found; the pen, the penis, isolated, plate. How Atum created the world, I can do it too. Stumbling on what I dont understand, listening to the fire instead. We make what is made in the night the rainbow on the water. The ridiculous things you whisper in my ear. The unasked. First eaten fruits decay. How we love life.



A contest, with swords. Id rather buy the opposite of land. Where I want to go is that way but where Im going is the other. It resembles marsupial, it resembles colors. Ill pretend its gone, its gone bad, and I dont want it, and then Ill steal it. How to imagine nothing. The quiet entrance. I need a dosage of multiplicities, stutters, symbolism, a duality that means both of us. That which is symbolism and the quotidian all at once. The magic that will make you kiss me. Siglum for the 28. My returning misery, my favorite tea I never drink anymore. It is war, it is food, it is useless pantomimes, it is the garden as idea. It is the most expendable. It is all over you.



How the sound takes on other sounds just like how you and I do. Melting into poppies. There will be things that take a hundred days, there will be things that take a thousand. I have lists for each. Wars into poems. Remission granted. The temporal punishment excised through sex. Watching sins already forgiven floating past my second floor window. Im sure it means death but I think it means something else. Seeing cannot see itself. In her petticoat knickers and wedges. One of the three colors laden with your ashes. I want to see your underwear. I want to see you topless. I want you blue. I want you around the neck. What is made of oil is made of candy is made of life.




Unpaid bliss marks. The house at the intersection. A bite or a kiss, twice. Being left behind vs being placed behind. Willingly brawnlike, delicious, marsupial, memorial. Ice-cream roses. Sophia stay. The number of direct euphemisms for masturbation in Finnegans Wake is thirteen. Marble sperm memorial. Secreted keys on windowpanes. Negation doesnt exist. The sister of Jesus. Thighs thighs. The inventor of the camera obscura. Quitting what I want but dont need. Dressed in our genitive layers. Petty chimera. Deliver us from errors, and this famously crossed river. All the feminine icon #3s staying behind, refusing.


The harvest, the dance, the hollowed out head. If the birds dont need chairs, why should we? Candlelit means think about it. We always wanted to be a verb. A window for every day of the year. A friend for every day in February. If its windy Ill tell you a story. The three ravens, downtown. I spotted fifty I spys. Horses lying helplessly on their backs. The wind left out of the story. The Fomorians are stepping on my dawn. Every song a song to the gnarlybird. The protuberances trope. A form of the janitrix Kathe. A spinning, flying toy. Why upon this blasted heath you stop our way. The letter dug up. Throughout the land, undulating, bards, waiting.



The speech acts of birds. This death a return, and one step deeper. Later, in the crashtowers. The mirrored beaches of every French film I never finish watching. Snows never. Thunder never was a girl. Answer shower of rain, answer. Adorning myself in flashes. What the nymphs cancel, is in the river. What you blow blows back. Covering myself in husbands. Nebula mist. So much is just taking. So much is just too much afraid. Buried under what I want to slag. Becoming others crimes imposed partitions. She jism does hope. I leave the past in your jaw bones. The adjective for her. Shadows of teeth in the air, reminding.


The miserable unmoving, and roaring. The lower jawbone of an orangutan deliberately combined with the skull of a human. Pretty things that have no longer vanished. The sheaths of the physical, astral, mental, buddhic, nirvanic, anupadakic, and adic. Middle French for twisted. The place from which her voice can be heard. Oh God, a peacefugle. Or we could sing a round. Under the category of birds, are musical instruments. Half of what we are. Bird signifying death but colorfully. Fate, fairy godmother, paradise, a feather. Pinprick landscape. Einsteins thoroughfare. The biographers island. Seeing what beaks are like, by tasting them.



Cremate them all together. Another form of mass. To steal, to fuck, to become. The hermit who seduces. The curate who abuses. The archaic cat. Contrasted with laughing. A male deer, a measure of corn. All the syghes. The bird, or the rainbow, seeing the sign of the ark. Crucifixion kiss kiss. If life ends, when life ends, kiss kiss. Typographys Satan or transmissional variant. My lines and your lines criss crossed under the tea stain. True to the forbidden. The lost grammatical tense. Silence after prophesy. Allusion to the orange peel. Im full of floral organs. The first offense is each next offense. The pleasures of bells, the pleasures of bells. The shipwreck is in the other room. Helens cellphone ring, ringing ringing.


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- april 7, 2014 -

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