permeable

pathos -> pathogen

when i was five my mother called
old women to lift my shirt and say
german measles
though the doctor only said measles
with a needle in my arm
there were so many:
tetanus locks your jaw after
being pierced by rusty metal
and is prevented by
being pierced by shiny steel

penicillin in my hip and a dead leg
for three days, no bananas for fifteen years
no cats and a bottle of benadryl in every room
with a k on top, and so saying
pediatrician
was easier than saying hero

they saved me
from pneumonia, strep throat, blood in my lungs, asthma, chronic
sinusitis, pneumonia again, we thought it was consumption
tuberculosis tests by broken pathogen
like everything else
a needle in my arm
ear infection, throat infection, lung infection: idiopathic
pneumonia again, and every other winter a week in bed
doctors' orders, pill bottles lined up and I speak
pseudoephedrine, diphenhydramine, loratidine, acetaminophen,
depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, insomnia
the writers' disease
Enough.

If I have to choose, I'll take
rusty metal
and gather up bananas
cats and poetry,
laugh at the pollen on my grave.

plip plop plip plop
descending like meteorites to the cold blue waters of my bowl

Cities, This City

The things they always complain of,
coming from outside and again on leaving,
there are so many of us crowded in here,
and we are all so aloof and alone,
We, here, are always alone,
every city alone in this country,
which has never learned to accept it's cities,
every city on it's own,


alone,
and doomed,
"born to lose" written on it's walls,
yet, here we stay in it,
and keep coming to it,
we keep pouring ourselves in and out,
We light the skies with ourselves sometimes,
sometimes someone may be watching those lights.

We are using ourselves,
people , bodies,
instead of trees and grass, and earth
We eat people instead of eating the land,
We watch love and hate bloom all around us,
not weeds or flowers, as in so many other places
We keep thinking we are making something from our own
bones and blood, and flesh,
and not, like the others, living off the land

We know that the oldest city was so,
We know that the newest city will be so,
It will always be the place the others use,
while they keep complaining about it,
while they send what they make from the earth,
while they send what they can't use,
while they send what they want to sell
for what we have to give them in return

They send their poets, and their whores,
and their painters, their conmen,
their dancers, their thieves,
their dreamers, their murderers,
and we add our own to these, yes,
maybe you can not have one without the other,
maybe, indeed, you need all in this city,
I don't know if this is right,
I only know the need to use oneself,
to bet on oneself even when it's fixed,
rather than watching things grow outside one,
and then killing them,
and then piling them up,

And then, when the ports and the crossroads,
and the easy-jumps-across-rivers

aren't needed anymore for their commerce,
the songs, and the poems,
and the dancers, and the drawings
of things imagined and real,
will come out of the rub of people against people,
will keep pouring out of the city's people,
feeding the people who are angry,
feeding them,
This feeding started in the first gathering,
and will go on until the last gathering,
because while the world builds itself in the void,
people alone hunger for eachother always,
for whatever it is that only people can make,
for whatever it is that only people can feed eachother.

And here in the moment of release is there not a sense of "in it's own time" and "at last"?
In the ceasing of conscious effort is there not a newness in awareness or scope of awareness?
What is the mood of this new awareness?
Is it the lioness' long sensual flop upon the earth?
Is it the deep huff in and puff-out partnered with her first lazy gaze over the horizon?
Is it the volumptuous rythmic panting that is causing a heavy thread of spittle to swing loosely from the sweltering tongue?

green enameled rust

No I swear, it's no burden,
I swore to my beastmaster.

Jangle-jims, you're too kind,
she patronized me often.

We both understood the irony
and cherished the same cruel joy.

aimertainment

i was gifted a hilariously confusing discussion between one nina kosmach and "ashley"? what i loosely gathered from this interesting piece; the antagonist, Ashley is an easily bored person that has become driven to frustration, at times bordering on schizophrenia. Her frustration manifests in the form of a verbal combat, a "chat challenge" ,or a "word war", in which she gathers concepts and accusations like clothes (from bottom of box @ Denton Thrift)and tries to "suite them up for an online battle". In doing so, she provides an abstract, yet somewhat persuasive thesis statement worthy of your poo view. Let's take a look now...




Original Document

whiteticktock (3:48:22 AM): stick to your own boyfriend and leave the rest of ours alone please!
jefumelecigare (3:48:42 AM): what



jefumelecigare (4:31:16 AM): whiteticktock (4:09:44 AM): all we want is for you to leave Andrew alone. we don't go sniffing around your boyfriend.
jefumelecigare (4:10:04 AM): i dont even know an andrew
jefumelecigare (4:10:56 AM): do you even know who i am?
jefumelecigare (4:11:13 AM): i dont has a boyfriend
jefumelecigare (4:31:28 AM): jefumelecigare (4:15:27 AM): so is andrew cute?
jefumelecigare (4:15:31 AM): can i meet him?
jefumelecigare (4:15:42 AM): does he think i'm cute?
whiteticktock (4:16:00 AM): probably
jefumelecigare (4:31:42 AM): jefumelecigare (4:16:23 AM): but seriously yo
jefumelecigare (4:16:30 AM): i think you are harrassing the wrong girl
jefumelecigare (4:16:43 AM): check yo spelling
jefumelecigare (4:17:51 AM): hey are you hungry?
whiteticktock (4:17:57 AM): is this Nina?
jefumelecigare (4:31:51 AM): jefumelecigare (4:18:00 AM): wanna go to whataburger with me?
jefumelecigare (4:18:09 AM): this is nineer
jefumelecigare (4:18:18 AM): who is this?
whiteticktock (4:18:27 AM): then I have the right girl.
jefumelecigare (4:32:00 AM): jefumelecigare (4:18:34 AM): ok but i dont know an andrew
whiteticktock (4:19:47 AM): ok. sure. bye
jefumelecigare (4:19:54 AM): wait!
jefumelecigare (4:19:57 AM): whataburger?
whiteticktock (4:20:07 AM): ahh maybe another night?
jefumelecigare (4:20:17 AM): who is this mang?
whiteticktock (4:20:36 AM): or morning.. Ashley, that's all I'm saying
jefumelecigare (4:20:52 AM): ok bye

Lighten Up

You'll care far less about what people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.

Blues for Janis

Well, the livin aint easy

The fish aint jumpin, but bitin its true

An if you catch Hell then Ill know

for sure

That there aint no cure

For the Babe but I swear I will get sick with you

Large Nook large success at the Krystal's Palace last night. Good God. And a hat.

The threads off Royal Street

"Drop the Tidbit, now!"
All rights reserved, "maybe later," he decided.

I found out too late.
"You son of a bitch!!" could not change the fact.

"Drip Drip."
She pondered of parents naming a child an onomatopoeia.

"How can I get my titties stared at around here?"
Her mother was direct and from deep within principal.

Still, the jelly's texture was distinctly off.
"Perhaps if we dig a little deeper and stir it up."

"A few passes more,"
For the next three days everyone's pink bits were sore.

Tonic spoke last and conclusively,
"Good meeting."

desert blues

wasting through dry desert days
aching for somethin green
coyote lurking, showin his ribs,
fear and hunger makin him mean,
and the sand in his eyes
sun on his neck
dust in the air

haven't heard the rain all year

the desert is makin me lean, makin me lean
got me missin things i aint even seen
waves on the shore, wet sand in my toes
green trees and forest, lord only knows
how this desert is makin me lean

yucca's got roots go a mile deep
'cause it knows how sand keeps shifting
and time can break down any stone
does me no good, i keep on drifting
with this sand in my eyes
sun on my neck
dust in the air

haven't heard the rain all year

and the desert is makin me lean, makin me lean
got me missin things i aint even seen
waves on the shore, wet sand in my toes
green trees and forest, lord only knows
how this desert is makin me lean

some bukowski for your pee pee poo poo

Big Night On The Town




drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.

you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.

you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser
.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.

I can see all of Bourbon Street

Brazing. Abrazed, grazed just, close shave indeed, close call, calling on a date, a date with an angel, a date with destiny.

Destiny's Child, amazing. Amazed, crazed I, the thoughts I might need, keeping them close, too close to call, more like an instinct, instinct to drill, instinct to kill.

How thrilling. Thrilled, I'm sure, shmarmy carbs, Carrie draws on her aunt's curtains, long indigo cees on the old dyke's drapes, spiteful lakes invaded by mireful drakes, new changes to pace the old family face.

Lazy. Zero-scaped the person-fake, he built it gradually up over time, more a practice of
patience than of prose, so stumbled when he felt like it was time he should be standing up, not noticing once standing up that he should maybe now be something other places, better with faces than names, but you all look the same, he wouldn't bother insist, but he would still lay a warm hand on your wrist.

This time. It must all be about timing. Forgiving himself in a reasonable plane, the feeling of separation was not going to wane any further it seemed "So why would I need to just take this, smoggy feeling like a bump on a log any longer just where the fucks are my rogering coal lighters this time."

If anyone finds this you must be far luckier than me. My name is Kevin and you can't know the shit i've seen. We're talking fucked up shit bro, real stone cold motherfucker shit fuckin 'Eh' bro. This kind of shit changes you bro, in a bad way, in a hard way bro, this is how i grew up now bro, no kind of going back bro, you can't change the way you is bro, we born and we grow up how we grow up bro, ain't no second chance I'm telling you bro. I'm Tellin you bro.
You ain't Seen some fucked up shit like I've seen bro. Shit made me scissor cut off all my toes.

Ode to a Model

I have followed you, model,
in magazine ads through all seasons,
from dead leaf on the sod
to red leaf on the breeze,

from your lily-white armpit
to the tip of your butterfly eyelash,
charming and pitiful,
silly and stylish.

Or in kneesocks and tartan
standing there like some fabulous symbol,
parted feet pointed outward
--pedal form of akimbo.

On a lawn, in a parody
of Spring and its cherry-tree,
near a vase and a parapet,
virgin practising archery.

Ballerina, black-masked,
near a parapet of alabaster.
"Can one"--somebody asked--
"rhyme 'star' and 'disaster'?"

Can one picture a blackbird
as the negative of a small firebird?
Can a record, run backward,
turn 'repaid' into 'diaper'?

Can one marry a model?
Kill your past, make you real, raise a family,
by removing you bodily
from back numbers of Sham?

(Nabokov; like, obviously)