Orbs Whose Collective Sum Signifies My Age

Think of everything that has lead to my seeing tadpoles eat strings of eggs from their mother in a captive breeding program. 

I want to touch my face over and over again.  To take you with me so we can rub ourselves with fungus and lie between cracks in rocks, waiting for smoke to emerge from a bottle. 

To finally get our wish.  To be that smoke.  

I sewed my sexual fantasies onto leaves (the fantasies that involve my scrambling to reinsert all the orbs spilling out from my chest—all the orbs whose collective sum signifies my age);

ripped them up, along with the fabric softener you pulled out from inside your sweater (only to find a bee); and scattered the pieces near every notable meteorite on display I could find. 

Now the mother in a captive breeding program has to use her hind legs to push away the tadpoles eating strings of her unfertilized eggs.  The tadpoles writhing in her reproductive foam need a chance at the eggs too. 

All I could think to do was tape a string of pearls onto the mouth of a Freud action figure, put it in a box labeled neurotic, and place it on your doorstep.          

You remind me of an alternative:  the ant infected with a fungus that drives it up to the highest point it can find so that when its head explodes, spores are disseminated to the widest extent.

I left a note in the box:  While looking for fresh produce boxes to stow away into, a chicken frog stepped in my trail of leaves and thread and brought back the disease to his species. 

When this trail touches you,
you will roll over enough for me to see your bare skin,

enough skin for me to squeeze a small drop of water onto,

to acquire your nervous system,

to weave it with fibers growing around us
that ask for nothing but our promise

to stop thinking of ourselves as human
in any way. 

 

 

When I call you a host,
stroke your chin for psychoactive venom,

search you out and collect you again,
only to release you,
only to worry about and scream into you again,

can you stop yourself from mounting
the resulting manifestation?

You write down my chemical signature so I won’t forget. 
It says: You come from outside. 

I feel myself kick. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Words without God Could Be a Way Not to Be Alone

 

There was
nothing;

then they began god with
words
and to begin,
good,

a way
not
to be alone.

But alone stayed
until alone
was against,

to save themselves
from themselves

but
mostly from
them
because maybe
they
weren’t alone.

To remain alone
but to make sure
afraid
so all would be afraid
alone
with god/words

because maybe for some

words without god

could be a way
not to be alone.

 

Creating to forget
they were alone
became never believing
they could write the words of god
alone.

They forgot they made Jesus them
and alone
but
different—stronger so

alone was something to show
willfully dying is love,

and to say they are dead
to the world
and make it
seem
like a choice

could make them great
and
like him
when they unwillingly
die
alone.

To love someone alone
and not forget
makes it harder to

live alone,

but it’s better
not to hope for the one you love
to be
afraid
and alone

even though then
in that instance

 

you would
not
be
alone.

But with words written
by whom you believe
to be
you
alone,

how you make your own kind of love
to believe in the right way to love
and live
alone,

until you’re not,

you’re still just as good as you were before
anyone helped you to

notice
you were alone

because you know
you have a beginning
and an end
where you can make it

light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Done When No Longer Pink Inside

Of, supposing to,
heat brackets on a bold face trench coat
suddenly added,

informal as how turkeys run like us,
as how the new law says turkeys
are not to be killed or worried;

therefore,
a vase cannot be thrown to break
since turkeys might become
worried enough
to remember they could be
light enough
to fly in front of others
to die without us,

but first they must become wild,
like any of the various ways
I dream of your morning hand
in between Hume’s long
degradations,

the missing shade of blue really
your hand
in an
infinite degradation of itself,

mostly in reds

as I wake to imagine I was right
for no logical reason
except for how I feel
when I make myself
feel near it,

when I rub your mistakes,

when what is left has become Architecture,
analogous to finding the presence of your neck
in the trench coat collar
warmer than the brackets,

           
and what are they,
archaic,
like the thoughts your hands keep,

like your wire hanger brought here
to be hot against all the others,

like touching the small of your back
because I read you should like it,

though lab mice are never asked
what they prefer
and that could

change
everything,

asking you what you
think of syllabic dots
until I’m not shocked anymore,

you,
finally waking up to smile
in a direction
beyond me,

the quality of taking it to mean
mice always ask questions
when we think they aren’t learning,

the swinging hanger derivative
of throwing out the results
when we agree we are in the best painful
variant form we never expected,

newly marked by how you ask me
why I’m wearing your trench coat,

my dreaming of flying through blue vases
to keep up with
your changing hand,

to talk to your hand
as with my hand,

see map of India,

practicing the principle
that every day is anywhere else,

hoping you’re happy
as I am warm
with your tempering,
refinement,

the habit of imagining mice
turning into turkeys

into your hand

I trace on paper
with the reddest plume
without comparison
for you and I to reach for
with your hand
when it leaves and returns,
 
realizing I must be acknowledging
even now I miss you,

done when no longer pink inside,
etc.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White with Rabbits

We all got together, and we said to Adolf Hitler, alright so you’re reclaiming Germany, that’s fine, but if you go into Poland we’re going to fucking kill you; we’re going to attack you, and we’re going to stop you, you know, trying to create some kind of, some kind of, empire, that’s the word I’m looking for, empire.  So he was warned beforehand—don’t go into Poland. So why did he go into Poland? Why didn’t he go, you know, why didn’t he, you know, fight the war on another front? Why didn’t he select a different country?  Well, according to Ray, you know Jesus when Jesus was nailed up on the cross? There was a soldier who stabbed him in the side. If you look at Deicide’s Once Upon the Cross album, if you have the uncensored version, you’ll see there’s a wound on Jesus’ side—that’s because he was stabbed by a spear, which is a historical artifact called the Spear of Destiny.  So Napoleon had it at a certain point, apparently, and Adolf Hitler was very, very aware of the Spear of Destiny.  And Adolf Hitler wanted the Spear of Destiny, and the spear of destiny was in a museum in Poland, and so that’s why he ultimately marched into Poland is because he knew that if he could possess the Spear of Destiny he would be invincible. So he was absolutely adamant that he was going to go into Poland even if it started war.  So Ray’s going on about, you know, you know, the very supernatural occulty side of Hitler, and then he mentions that when Hitler was ascending to power he went electioneering across Germany, and there was this one rural community of farmers who had this really big problem where the rabbits were eating all the crops. And they were starving; you know, they were in deep shit. This is like, you know, depression era, you know, Germany or just after. So this was a fucking major one. So Adolf’s like, “Yeah, don’t worry. I’m going to sort it for you.  You’re going to show up at 4 or 5 AM and bring your guns, bring your pitchforks, bring everything you’ve got that is you know able to kill living things.” So they turned up at like 4 or 5 AM just like he said, and they could not see this field; it was a massive field—they couldn’t see it because it was just completely white with rabbits.












Watching Our Other Selves from Afar and Influencing Their Course of Action by Touching Each Other for the First Time Here

-From The First Days of Spring (1929) – Salvador Dalí

There we are. 

I dissolve my hands into a bucket
for you

until what’s left
looks like pinchers. 

You’re not alarmed. 

You know the thick
liquid is still connected to me and has feeling. 

I didn’t even consider
I could absorb the essence
of the bucket.  

The bucket’s been the witness
to many murders.

It likes to be filled with skeptics
and dismantled
wallpaper pasting machines.

It wonders how it can make its surface
feel like toast. 

I can survive as long as the bucket
isn’t moved too far from my body. 

I can’t stop the bucket
from being moved too far from my body.       

You squat to hold me up. 

The way your shirt wraps around you
without any buttons   
reminds me:

 

Are the crows taking away
and returning your Aztec
thought-form
for my benefit?

Those boots must be projecting you. 

Two crickets reproduce
below the underage
flapper girl tattoo
on a non-resisting man’s
partially shaved head.

This excites you.

You bite the elastic band
holding my face,

you draw me closer with your legs
as if you don’t have fingers either. 

My drippings become tubers;
the framed baby wants to understand. 

Any second now a tuber could be stolen,
and I’d die,

but no one prepared me
for what would happen
when I stopped holding my knees,
thinking: 

Yes, yes
for you.     

You’re also the little girl
holding out her paper bag
offering.   

Everyone says no,
and your shadow
reveals you’re holding nothing,

not even your arms. 

 

 

I make the monk ask you:
Why don’t people tabulate
every lack of profit
so the mark becomes one?    

Everyone else’s shadow is the suited man,
straddling the other suited man

who’s lying on top of a skeleton,

watching and wanting

and wanting
your every move. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All the Host of Them

I’m in somebody else’s house, and I should not be there. I’m not here to steal anything; I’m not here to, you know, fuck anybody over or kill anybody, but I’m in this apartment, and the owner too is in the apartment, and he’s always on the phone this guy. He has no idea that I’m in his place, and so I basically, sort of, I’m incognito, and I stealthily kind of stalk him by staying like two rooms away from him at all times. And so he’ll be in the kitchen like babababa, and then he’ll move to the dining room, so I’ll move away just a safe distance—keep that two rooms of safe distance. I’ll move into like the study or I’ll move into like the room with the grand piano or I’ll move into whatever. So you know, there’s this, you know, I’m absolutely alive, with, you know, my own stealth in staying undetected.  

I light the gasoline with dry
umbilical cord;
the coccyx is still your tailbone.

All the good that comes
from the rounded edges
of your apartment?
Prove it. 

Because the reptilian brain
is alive
on the coffee table
with all the walnut shells,

I feel preverbal
with all the host of them.

Your neighbor. 
She’s tall enough to walk over a turnstile.
She waters tomatoes all day.

I sign that the spice rack is disassembled. 
Nothing touches the walls.

The woman in the doorway,
she moves to drop nuts in vinegar;

she asks:
Is that a dimple or a scar?

Your stomach expands,
and I must remove my shoes
or be killed. 

I watch them go back,
move the thumbtack
and pour barium onto your rice,

but before you can eat,
I open your mouth,
pull out warm nutmeg,

and count to nativity.

You phone a vision:
me as blue and on a throne
with my hand inside you
while two beings watch. 

I want to tell you:
As a child,
you cried during tests
of the Emergency Broadcast System.

You ask me:
Is my call coming
from inside the house? 

And then in there, there’s like yet another room off of that, and then I go into that, and then there’s like some other bedroom room there, and I go, and I’m, you know, looking at all these like big grandiose mirrors.  And then, it’s very cyclical as well, a lot of this; I feel like I’m sort of walking around concentric ripples, but anyway, I go further and further and further and further, and suddenly, I stop fucking panicking  I’m like fuck, like I’m in total isolation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But I Have a Clean Hand

Tequila, but even so,
it was clean
in a way
that reveals
what needs
to be.

The bottom half
of the other side’s
dash
of half a cup of pre-rinse;

there,
my hand
as strong as a tripod,

there,
all the same,
pre-made before I made it
clean,
my own.

I didn’t stretch the atmosphere like he
to shoot a rocket at a satellite,
so forgive my dancing. 

If you don’t leave,
the plane will take someone else’s regret,
Casablancaed for the rest of your life
soon,

so why should I be ashamed
down here
on the ground,
mostly walking,

but foolish
in a way
that can only be called

dancing?

 

 

 

 

 

Thorns to Rescue Their Bodies

Today she ate water in the hose after he came and he want to ate water but she is girl so stop going to hose but he want to ate water so go to hose.  Now please God my mom and my dad is kiss and proud of him please.

Because they hear what is most fun they were dirty boy.  It sounded like “sop.”  Suddenly one of the girls knew blood in the bowl.  The way she looked as if she played “Salut d’Amour” for people.  If true, she had clap from everyone.  I want to swim in the bowl.  I want to read a book about bowls. 
                             
In the white room I see her red apple growing in the bowl.  It is a little bit green.  He punches it.  It changes to the evil.  This is a strange apple.  I said he hits it.  It changes to his evil and the rainbow cider.  A mouse in the corner wants her apple.  The mouse is a rodent of food.  People is rodent too.  I won’t ever give my apple.  I chew cakes where I am, but I don’t put flour in the cakes.  If apples of people had thorns it would be to rescue their bodies.  I put the flour all over my body to hide.

Today my mom get sick.  My dad put a piece of meat into my mom’s mouth.  I was happy.  Even then I remember my baby fish is dead.  Dad gave it to adult fishes because dead fish can be food for adult fish.  Dead fish are six.  I don’t know why they are die.  I look at adult fish, and then I look at Mom’s sick mouth and Dad always, always putting something.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inside a Hand Basket in the Burlesque Theater

 

As you may
already be aware,

the Burlesque Theater is upon us,
and the granite-encased monoliths of your muscular legs
drilled to the sides of the stage

are as tall
as you are

tall between them.  

They are
your legs after all,
and Victorian women know it,
and advanced
syphilis knows it,
and the shining temples of the man rubbing pistachios
on        his        suspenders
know it’s impossible to avoid the thought of steam beer
and a cast-iron stove to read by
whenever they are easily distracted. 

You have never been
more happier
to be
more astonished
that those are
your
legs,

and those are people too
who know your legs

more than two people of Moorish personages
peopled through twin Moroccan peepholes. 

Those               are                   your                 legs,

 

 

and all it took was a little foresight
to realize
you couldn’t stay
in
an Extravaganza
forever

where performers only act
as if they’re acting,
they only think
to use French obstetrical atlases
for all kinds
of padding,

and they only use their hands and eyes
to convey the limits of one’s scope
at arm’s length.         

But you,
in your hand basket,

use your hands and eyes
as if you are signaling in
the great conversion

from stage lights

to sun

to lizard skin

able to keep what it needs from its past
to independently use
all of itself

until the crowd feels this potential
of crests and spines
as their own,

even in the dark.           

 

 

You,
who are flanked by your
old legs
that all agree
are the only lines
you’ll ever need,

scream about marble statues
and how they should never come to life
because they’ll never enjoy it
unless they can have it
both
ways,

and your song is witchery
embroidered
in aurora bands of sequestered dusk
for this night only
and tomorrow too.

But the big difference is
there is a purpose,
three-fold,
peculiar,
salient,

the mesmeric pull
of leg and leg and basket

commanding all,
seducing all,
until all comes together
in grand separateness,

and no pantomime had to translate
how it felt the first time
you
didn’t feel
alone
outside yourself,

perfect and imperfect;

the crowd clapping singly

 

with the drollest hearts
and limbs
of leg.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trapped in a Force Field

The most rock ‘n roll misbehavior I can think of has got to be Daevid Allen. Daevid Allen for those of you who may or may not know is the main face behind Gong, and Daevid Allen—where can I start telling you about Daevid Allen? He plays really hardcore difficult stuff. He plays, you know, music that’s virtually as difficult as like “The Rites of Spring.” It’s a lot of fucking work to play with Gong, right. So he’s playing all this shit that’s like, you know, a bar of 7 a bar of 5 a bar of 11 a bar of 13, 8, a bar of 23, 16. And at the same time he’s singing along in an invented language that he spent, you know, fucking years preparing or whatever. And, yeah, apparently one day he turned up to do this one gig, right. And it’s like: “Ladies and gentlemen please welcome Gong.” “Yay!” And the guy gets ready to go out on stage. And he just reaches like just like the little bit back stage like behind a speaker or something, behind a speaker cabinet where the audience can’t see him. He went to walk on stage, and he was like: “Uh uh, uh,” and he pulled out, you know, a couple of little mime artist moves, and he’s like: “I’m trapped in a force field. I can’t do the gig; I’m trapped in a force field.” And they fucking cancelled it. That is rock ‘n roll. That’s fucking rock ‘n roll. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Return Me to Houyhnhnms

Return me to yahoos.
-David Berkowitz

All of this began when I saw the bird
use his beak    
as a phonograph needle. 

I could have accepted anything
as everything else
at that point,

but Iris told me a thing
can only be its own thing. 

But she never had to sew silk
onto the inside seams of her shirt

to try and stop
all the possibilities, 

like when she told me
to yell in my bed
so she could clean herself with vigor.    

The way she looked at me
up from her corn cob. 

I’m not sure why the cops let me go.

I see them at our meetings.
They wipe their noses below my window

and I wipe mine. 

I hate to see what’s behind her.  Iris. 

I remember for sure,
as a kid,
men kept saying hello to me at night,
each bringing his own coffee maker. 

After days of trying to straighten my cats’ tails,
I was thankful to try. 

 

I hope everyone has a Happy Thanksgiving;
that’s the main point of who I am now. 

She promises I will return to the streets.
I add:  In the arms from behind. 

If I try to make my shoulder blades touch,
I feel them the least.

I will return, looking back,
as if to say:
There have to be other arms. 

I’ve been sewn upon to make all these arms. 

Arms,
I have to return to what I do,

though I better not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jokes about Nepalese Villages Mostly Involve Goats

Today’s sermon was about the master who threw explosives, forgetting the nature of dogs. This story must be referencing young Pakistanis who confirm Bin Laden is a CIA creation.  By nature of dogs, I mean due process.

Which part of any of the white supremacist documentaries you’ve ever seen did you enjoy the most?  For me it was when the guy found a woman to love, and she took him to the beach and said: Look, all these people are having fun, and they don’t have guns strapped to themselves

I wear a sleep vest.  I’m a SWM, 41, who knows there’s a store with a backdoor that leads to a beauty salon.  The store sells patterns for ponchos, sweater dresses, and candles—Burda, Butterick, and Ocean Theme; I can take you there.  One time I watched a young girl at the store knock two candles together.  I question the actual contact point of the candles now, but I’ll be more observant with you.

Do you feel the entropy? 

More about me:  The bowling champion featured at Midway Lanes who’s holding his jacket on his back with one upturned finger knows that jokes about Nepalese villages mostly involve goats.  The jokes are cheap and stupid in my opinion, but I’d whisper in your ear:  Nescient. 

That bowler is I. 

Do you know that Lammastide, a time from late July to early August, is when witch weddings usually take place?  This, among other things, makes royal and political weddings very curious.  Also?  Hillary Clinton decorated her Christmas tree with Black Magick symbols. 

Let’s get it over with and watch a movie about Mexican masked wrestlers fighting monsters.  I’ll take you to the theater and pay for the movie with dimes I store in my shoe.  My grandpa did that for my grandma during the Depression, so you’ll know I’m being romantic.  








Wondering If I’m a Descendant of the Nephilim While Lying on a Merry-Go-Round at Prentis Park                                                                                                                         
It has come to pass,

my back
on a merry-go-round;

is there another name for it? 

Or here is a Valentine’s Day box. 

Inside, a photo of nineteenth-century
Toledoans
staring at a 9’8’’ human skeleton;

wind;

atomic sand fused
to olive glass,

twelve thousand years old;

a vestige;

primordial hands on primordial
single-celled forms

spinning long jaws
of wisdom teeth;

my reworking of proleptic
into symbols
for you to paint onto your body

when it feels misplaced
the most.

Funny how subatomic particles
can communicate with one another,
despite distance,

instantaneously. 

I look for clues
like the salt shaker trick
where one must figure out
which number
corresponds to each pattern,

as if the placement of the two shakers
means anything.

This is 1, this is 2, this is 3, this is 4;
what about this?,

when all that matters is what is said:

What about?=1,
And then=2,
What if I?=3,
Now we=4.

And if we realize
there was only one shaker

the whole time

or that what is said
is only what we want to hear
enough
to create?  

I find myself saying:

Place the tongue and peppercorns
until boiling
in water
to barely cover the taste of ________,

before I see you,                                                                                                                                                    
wondering if you already know.

I must tell someone:

Yellow stars of flakes
surrounding the pupils

are clues
one has blue-green eyes.

 

I was serious in the bathtub

after the dead woman
was ceremoniously
covered
with quarters;

Rh-negative blood
does not seem to follow
human evolution;

my cousin and I
buried the pinecone seeds
we loved the most

but in a time capsule;

three people saw cologne
trail a man as blue fumes
and felt responsible;

humans evolved the most rapidly
during an ice age.      

Now imagine a woman
covering a fallen god
with cloth
while he is staring down,

waiting.

What if I
feel your extra vertebrae

if I know where to look

and then
barely touch the corner
of a leaf
onto your lips

to show you what it is?

Now we
forget what about your hands
made them cold.










All Your Best Key Chains

So the home business
ended up costing you
forty dollars,

twenty for the permit
and twenty to the chain letter
scam agency
who gave you the materials,

and you made

no money
at all,

and it didn’t help
you were in love with a girl
in your Buddhism class,

and you’re a girl too,
don’t forget,

and the more you thought about it,
the more you realized
that in 1992
when you watched the episode of Picket Fences
where Kimberly’s best friend
spent the night
and suggested they kiss,

but when they did,
the censors blacked out the screen

and you wondered:

What girl would I kiss if I had to,
and would the world black out?,

yes, that did mean something
after all,

but what kind of love was this?

 

 

You thought maybe this girl you loved
would think of you
as the Ghost Festival key chain
she bought in Japan

with the ghoulish face
she picked out from all the others
because she thought it looked kind.

And when you used a hook
to remove your brain
to hide the amoxicillin
in the safest place
from this girl you loved

because you told yourself
you’d still love her

even without the possibility
for thoughts of affection and sex,

you really only did it
because she had a Pharaoh Akhenaton keychain
and you could be the best
This Is Your Brain on Drugs commercial
ever.

You met with Akhenaton the day before
and gave him all your best key chains
so he might chisel you
how he wants others
to see him: 

warm with his family
and possessing no genitalia
except earlobe
superior genitalia.           

But your brain     
is      in      a      jar,
and Akhenaton is dead
like all your favorite obsessions,

 

 

so who was the round,
breast-hipped man

who jangled all your best key chains
in your face
and the sun
until you fell asleep in his lap?

He whispered,

How great does it feel
to hear you
are like a snake
in the hieroglyphics
of “jump”?

so you might dream
about this girl you love
and ask her
if she knows you’re okay

because a snake
also feels useful

spelling
what it can never do.  




















 

Prequel to Genesis and the Missing Second Book:  Coral Castle

 

Stare around the grey log.

We built it

with magnetism
and canaries.

We built it

with jar flies
and camphor oil.

These images replace the time
your brother

rolled your arm hair
into knots.

On the stone heart coffee table,
Agnes tucks herself into bed

backwards

and asks to meet you. 

You taste cake and helium.

Don’t try to say:

How’s your brother’s
grape-making business
going
in California?

snap your fingers
through hers

like you used to.

Say it is a coral ark breaking.  

Say it is a diet olive twig.

Say it is a naked grandfather.    

Tell her she’s wholly responsible.

Parts of her
will feel

like a cubit.

These ideas replace the time
you grasped

the alphabet block
bathroom pass

and cried.

Click your knees and say
Moccasins—

that way

no one will believe
what else
Agnes says about you.

Feel relief
when she measures you down
with splinters

from the same block
you used

to train yourself
to have
emotions.

Feel important

when she voiceovers any ellipsis
from whatever you read

like some brief,
assumed,
disembodied surname
in a cellar

because she still reminds you

of adultery
and storage.

Go,
here are thirteen Ameros,
but disguise your head with ours
like we did with yours.

Or put this scroll into a black light

so you can turn
into Atlantis

and die. 









 

Words without God Could Be a Way Not to Be Alone – Live – 2/17/10

There was
nothing;

then they began god with
words
and to begin,
good,

a way
not
to be alone.

But alone stayed
until alone
was against,

to save themselves
from themselves

but
mostly from
them
because maybe
they
weren’t alone.

To remain alone
but to make sure
afraid
so all would be afraid
alone
with god/words

because maybe for some

words without god

could be a way
not to be alone.

 

Creating to forget
they were alone
became never believing
they could write the words of god
alone.

They forgot they made Jesus them
and alone
but
different—stronger so

alone was something to show
willfully dying is love,

and to say they are dead
to the world
and make it
seem
like a choice

could make them great
and
like him
when they unwillingly
die
alone.

To love someone alone
and not forget
makes it harder to

live alone,

but it’s better
not to hope for the one you love
to be
afraid
and alone

even though then
in that instance

 

you would
not
be
alone.

But with words written
by whom you believe
to be
you
alone,

how you make your own kind of love
to believe in the right way to love
and live
alone,

until you’re not,

you’re still just as good as you were before
anyone helped you to

notice
you were alone

because you know
you have a beginning
and an end
where you can make it

light.


Copyright ©2011 Annie Christain, All rights reserved.