Laying in bed,
I ate a bag of
barbecue potato
chips and pondered
the reason of my
personal being.
Natural flavors,
artificial; partially
hydrogenated
soy bean oil;
salt; paprika; high
fructose corn syrup;
potatoes. I ate
the whole bag.
6/22/10
6/17/10
The silver caliper loomed over the mantle
and mumbled his name in a foreign language
(it could have been Turkish or Polish)
while he sat in a straight backed chair
and ate graham crackers by breaking them
into pieces with his strong yet supple lips
and sucking on the pieces until they grew soft
and pliant, dissolving into his saliva and
becoming paste like. Another bite
and he repeated the ceremony of breaking
and sucking and softening into paste.
The silver caliper didn’t speak for a moment,
looking on in consideration as he ate stale
graham crackers in a straight backed chair,
the crumbs caking on the sides of his
delicious mouth (which was exactly
twenty eight and eleven hundredths of
a centimeter in length) and falling in his lap.
Ants carried the crumbs in a long line
toward their wriggling nest. He looked at the
silver caliper again and, in seeing the screws
turning slowly, panicked. He placed the next
stale graham cracker on his bottom lip
(which protruded somewhat and was strong
and red) and he used one finger (the right
index finger) and he pushed it inside,
all at once, cutting the corners of his mouth.
The silver caliper snapped shut and screwed
tightly together. His mouth bled quietly in dismay.
and mumbled his name in a foreign language
(it could have been Turkish or Polish)
while he sat in a straight backed chair
and ate graham crackers by breaking them
into pieces with his strong yet supple lips
and sucking on the pieces until they grew soft
and pliant, dissolving into his saliva and
becoming paste like. Another bite
and he repeated the ceremony of breaking
and sucking and softening into paste.
The silver caliper didn’t speak for a moment,
looking on in consideration as he ate stale
graham crackers in a straight backed chair,
the crumbs caking on the sides of his
delicious mouth (which was exactly
twenty eight and eleven hundredths of
a centimeter in length) and falling in his lap.
Ants carried the crumbs in a long line
toward their wriggling nest. He looked at the
silver caliper again and, in seeing the screws
turning slowly, panicked. He placed the next
stale graham cracker on his bottom lip
(which protruded somewhat and was strong
and red) and he used one finger (the right
index finger) and he pushed it inside,
all at once, cutting the corners of his mouth.
The silver caliper snapped shut and screwed
tightly together. His mouth bled quietly in dismay.
6/11/10
Fatted
We used to live in Brussels until I ran out of money. Then I lived in Cairo with a cousin. I would rather not discuss my cousin anymore.
When I moved away from Cairo, I had nothing. If there was fortune to be found there, it was not mine. All the luck had been spent that the time. Karma was in short supply. Destitute, I was. And I moved away. Away away. Gone. Bang.
Jet to the south of France, duck country. Foie gras every day for lunch on crackers. Cheap foie gras, to say. Foie gras for crackers on pennies. Euro cents and sensibilities.
High times in the south of France. Aix, other cities. The sea. Je deteste les villes. Gay Paris. Le Paris homosexuel. Slathered my crackers there, too.
I trucked around for a good time or two and I had my fill of foie gras, I would say. I lived in a cottage in a little village with a pig in the backyard. A one home village, green and empty and full of sky. Beautiful shit. Beautiful shit. The sea.
After getting my last can of foie gras I opened a box of crackers and set them all out on the table. I smelled them, butter, salt. I could smell the salt from the crackers. Then the can of foie gras… I opened it and I put it on the table. It was very smelly for some reason. It was a light brown paste, a duck liver in a can.
I spread it on every cracker with a knife and I set each aside in a growing stack that, when it reached 10 crackers with foie gras high, I started another stack of crackers that, when it reached 10 crackers with foie gras high, I started another stack of crackers that, when it reached 10 crackers with foie gras high, I started another stack of crackers that, when it was done, I left on the table and went outside to look at the clouds passing by as I thought of things. Fuck, says I.
I went to Paris again that night and I got so drunk on wine that I shit in the streets. I stayed with a brother of mine near a monument and puked in his bed. His dog came into the room and licked up the little puddle of foie gras.
I drank some orange juice that morning and I went down to the city. Café, omelette, un café noir, des cigarettes. Au revoir, pisser extraordinaire. Des cafés de café.
In any event. I left France. Jadedly, I’ll admit, but still. Gone. Bang. Away, away.
I’m over the sea.
When I moved away from Cairo, I had nothing. If there was fortune to be found there, it was not mine. All the luck had been spent that the time. Karma was in short supply. Destitute, I was. And I moved away. Away away. Gone. Bang.
Jet to the south of France, duck country. Foie gras every day for lunch on crackers. Cheap foie gras, to say. Foie gras for crackers on pennies. Euro cents and sensibilities.
High times in the south of France. Aix, other cities. The sea. Je deteste les villes. Gay Paris. Le Paris homosexuel. Slathered my crackers there, too.
I trucked around for a good time or two and I had my fill of foie gras, I would say. I lived in a cottage in a little village with a pig in the backyard. A one home village, green and empty and full of sky. Beautiful shit. Beautiful shit. The sea.
After getting my last can of foie gras I opened a box of crackers and set them all out on the table. I smelled them, butter, salt. I could smell the salt from the crackers. Then the can of foie gras… I opened it and I put it on the table. It was very smelly for some reason. It was a light brown paste, a duck liver in a can.
I spread it on every cracker with a knife and I set each aside in a growing stack that, when it reached 10 crackers with foie gras high, I started another stack of crackers that, when it reached 10 crackers with foie gras high, I started another stack of crackers that, when it reached 10 crackers with foie gras high, I started another stack of crackers that, when it was done, I left on the table and went outside to look at the clouds passing by as I thought of things. Fuck, says I.
I went to Paris again that night and I got so drunk on wine that I shit in the streets. I stayed with a brother of mine near a monument and puked in his bed. His dog came into the room and licked up the little puddle of foie gras.
I drank some orange juice that morning and I went down to the city. Café, omelette, un café noir, des cigarettes. Au revoir, pisser extraordinaire. Des cafés de café.
In any event. I left France. Jadedly, I’ll admit, but still. Gone. Bang. Away, away.
I’m over the sea.
6/3/10
It is cavernous and uninhabited, New York.
The dust in the air and the fragments of stiff paper and glass settled and are still.
The wind doesn't blow through the troughs of skyscraper ruins and streets like a torrent or a gale.
The ocean waves crash distantly and echo through the whispering haze and the empty walls that are simultaneously austere.
The ocean is a dead ocean.
New York is empty and brightly colored by glittering cellophane and plastic things.
And they, like everything, have faded into relative gray.
The ground doesn't tremble in its foundations or move triumphantly because it is ground, and ground doesn't move.
A noiseless call thunders depressively across the landscape and reaches out into another space, a living space, groping mindlessly at everything else.
And then everything stops, breathless and warm.
And this is the ascension, which is dull and never brilliant like diamonds.
And New York wails into the air and the ocean.
There isn't a lesson to learn from this. There never was.
The dust in the air and the fragments of stiff paper and glass settled and are still.
The wind doesn't blow through the troughs of skyscraper ruins and streets like a torrent or a gale.
The ocean waves crash distantly and echo through the whispering haze and the empty walls that are simultaneously austere.
The ocean is a dead ocean.
New York is empty and brightly colored by glittering cellophane and plastic things.
And they, like everything, have faded into relative gray.
The ground doesn't tremble in its foundations or move triumphantly because it is ground, and ground doesn't move.
A noiseless call thunders depressively across the landscape and reaches out into another space, a living space, groping mindlessly at everything else.
And then everything stops, breathless and warm.
And this is the ascension, which is dull and never brilliant like diamonds.
And New York wails into the air and the ocean.
There isn't a lesson to learn from this. There never was.
6/2/10
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