tongue dollar blues
vague.aliens
Once upon a time I drew Krista a picture for her birthday. The title is always changing. The current title is: the poetry industry is bringing me down.
Soon I will kill this website. Soon another website will be born. It will be clean and performative. It will be a protest form. (Morning keep the streets empty form e). For now:
Hank Lazser
He eats a one-hundred-thousand-cow smoothie popped with duck heart arranged
around a blade of breath, the orb. His rampant milkings and computer cluckery
four for the warble as he hoards slices of hour and hominid rage. His stranded
family sopped up the bomb or collected burger drippings from the rigid grip of
Neptune’s nod. Mouse house he cried lowering his fat finger into purple, throating
a bean jacket baggily with his rod of misuse and smelling bloodpockets morose
with salt and killings for wire. Dawn had come. Time for reflection licking,
scalped with hyena dust and blunder for the shoe planet and the magma planet,
beckoned his cellphone to jump his skin with a blubbery whisper or call to
fraction. Split he did, into frizzy planks of comet moss, mouthing a cantine made
of gas and insect horror, hawking sinus goo into a pixelated twilight wound with
maggots. Oh to be home and sockfaced. Be not blameable fooled the cricket-ghost.
Wheeze the key to seeing what saws you. Pupil and atom and quota and lump. His
whirring ranch of karma controlled, mooring wrench for the plow and how about.
His bell thump, his lifehack. Fastest pinch and dominoed swearing something
planetful, opting out of sunrise in a grass robe, he winked gum and marred bark
beneath his mist of thrumming regret and pressed Rumbler.
The Self-Portrait of John Borp. Click for full size.
Perhaps it was not ever the art that came. When I’ve sat down to make something I have only been trying to catch an echo in a plastic bag. The form of the river explained most things, like a lack of food to eat. Or what comes humming in my sunken roomtime. There is the body sawed in half: praise for its predictions. Reel me back to Minneapolis where my heart is huge. Jump on my slumber.
Santa sent me the trailer for his next rap video called Christmas Forever. Santa dances in it.
All I do is eat snow. Two giraffes in a tiny room made of snow. I went outside and rolled a giant ball of snow. I rolled the ball into Kinkos and mashed some snow into the optical mouses. I mashed some snow into the credit card dippins and wiped some snow on the monitors while turning them on and off. I smushed some snow into all the surge protectors while plugging and unplugging and ground snow into a laptop all over the keys and closed it then opened it and closed it again. I piled snow into the fax machine and punched it and packed as much as I could so that when I faxed it to myself at Staples.
.
 |
The year is new. Once, I worked for an anarchist magazine for one week. They didn’t like my idea for an op-ed: glasses vs. contacts. They let me make a cover though. It is about how people who go to Macalester College like to drink and smoke according to statistics:
The reasons we were eating instead of reading. I want to pack a fist with glass and dirt and mail it to the face of the god that failed my family by getting wasted in a costume closet and painting his heavy eye black with galactic ash and sorrow song. And songs of insect sorrow. A bug made of emerald and dew. Emerald beetles along a honey streak at the base of a beauty packed spine.
.
Announcement of Hoard. Pile these belongings until someone with an art stamp. This calcified foray into the mythmeat of drunk and drunker. You bloom with cheer and I am stumped. I am a stump on a distant planet. A lump in Gaia. A lump in the Gaia pipe. The reasons we were eating instead of reading include being dogs. Include wanting to shit into a purse. Include tomorrow as an acceptance of sleep.
.
Spool of sleep. Kelp in our ears. Governing sits on top of skin as the nourishment of smothering. Pillow chewing. I am yelling at a monitor till my throat is hard as tree. Dip my shoes into the bathtub of water. There is a small furry heat. Blonde thought. We ironed muggy jeans and the steam could kill a termite hill. Burnt cookies and old wet shoes. Bits of slammed banjo bumble down the river. Pilled. Wolfing pill. Chuckling at his wolfing pill, the inquiry.
Once I hallucinated under the influence of nothing. A small rabbit was careening from space in a fireball of white, red, yellow and black fur. The rabbit was tasked with a mission to protect the planet, and despite its small size and more cerebral detriments you might assume would prevent a rabbit made of fire from accomplishing anything, its eyes were mostly fearless. A space lion, bigger than the planet, bigger than anything in the sky, was behind it and also heading toward Earth to complete the job. Though, it was so distant that its travel toward the planet would take years, much longer than the rabbit’s life, and so it was a celestial protector. Like Mufasa but no jibber jabbering, just sheer magnitude, metal, and lights.
I was too embarrassed to tell my art professor that this is why I chose to combine myself with a lion for a ‘mixed breeds’ assignment, so instead I said that a lion would be what my friends would expect. Equation:
PLUS
EQUALS
“tiger woods, all these hos tryna birdie these balls” – Lil Wayne. I tried to read at a bookstore but then my iPod died and I had to listen to Non-Lady Gaga Diva #934875 sing Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire like she was seducing a Kennedy and after I wiped my inner ears off of Palin’s new book I began to sing loudly a song from somewhere deep in my soul called Christmas is Canceled. A little kid ran to his mother and said Mommy that man dressed as dreadlocked Santa just threw monopoly money at me and said I make it snow. His mother said Art is Hard and she gave me some real money so I threw it at a baby tree and said I make it grow.
.
and the sequel:
Jane drew this homeless dude on the street. He was asking people for bananas instead of change and he was punching and mashing them into his banana pockets. He said ‘I am the God of Various Goo‘ and begged a man to let him spit into a Santa hat and wear it for a year. Jane asked him where did you go to gradschool and he said he used to write poems for Brown but they don’t let him near the school anymore because he would always rub his Brown ID in bird doo before swiping it. His name is Dip Thickens.
