At The Laundromat

At one time Sandora and I had a fantasy about doing a zine based on laundry. It was going to be full of useful and trivial information about laundry. The covers were going to be made of paper from lint, we would include our own personal ratings of the laundry mat in our area, it was going to be a grand ole time.

Of course all of this was before we got a functioning washer and dryer. Also, dog hair lint does not make for good paper. Recently though we had to start going back to the laundry mat for a while and during my boredom I took a bunch of pictures. I hope you enjoy.

a.m. radio

There is a chorus of voices, and I am hunting ten at a time. This is the a.m. dial: amplitude modulation.

Voices from Tennessee, Virginia, New York, leaving their sphere of influence, I feel like a tourist: traffic on the George Washington Bridge, tires for sale in Nashville, the West Virginia Mountaineers down seven.

I am closer to home, a spy intercepting enemy transmissions, static under the bridge.

In the gaps between states, not the pure static of nothing but a rather full rooms where each conversation in trying to rise above the din. There are righteous voices in mono, a pulpit with a broken speaker, the Americana of original sound.

“At last,” Etta begins I can’t tell if it is the warmth of her soul or the revolutions per minute. Headlights turn and the trees begin to block my way home.

Asleep Mid-Paragraph

I say to you that there is nothing better than a good book. You inwardly agree but deny it out loud because you’ve been reading too many bad ones for so many years that it seems you can’t even remember what a good book is anymore, but know I’m secretly right whether or not you can admit it. There is nothing better than a good book except prolonged sex, or, maybe, some might say chocolate, though other taste buds disagree moistly. I heard some say a good sneeze is better than a good book, but those people are liars or should be given literacy courses. Luckily you are not one of those that consider sneezing orgasmic, and I forgive you even if now you continue to deny my book theory. I have nothing else but your patience, easily leaning to wane. To sleep when I am only mid-paragraph in a worthless diatribe to the second person reading bad books, means you should wake up, join a club or run into one headfirst. I miss you, far from being on the same page, book-lengths away. Will you write? I have. I have cut my nails too short, they are bleeding on the page. The words, I am afraid I will be unable to edit them. They were spoken out loud up until now, and cannot be corrected. I say there is nothing better than a good book. You tell me that is simply not true. Will you write if you change your mind? Look, I write our conversation as it happens. It is lapsing in waves like your patience, which is all I have. Will you write? Will you borrow a book, please? I have an extensive library. Choose before you sleep. If the text has collected dust that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad, only patient. But if the volume is covered in blood then that is the one to be wary of. My collection comes from everywhere, all places, all times. Read only what appears appealing. No returns. Only write me later to let me know if you have read anything good.

it was just a cloud at sunset

A gold wrapped promise hangs in the sky;
Not “Truth”, not “The Maker”,
just consequence, like drifting smoke,
just empty space and vapor.

The Patients are Running the Asylum

Photograph by andrewjosephkatz

The musicians are running the orchestra.

The waiters are running the kitchen.

The prisoners are running the prison.

The voters are running the government.

The actors are writing the scripts.

The player are calling the plays.

The virus is running the body.

The potatoes are cooking the oven.

The roses are ruining the garden.

One Take For Greg Brown

Everyone writes to try to impress somebody
and this one was written to impress myself.
I wrote this last night, or some other open mic cliché.

I SCREAM (all caps) HELLO, HOW ARE YOU?

I wrote some haiku about my ex-girlfriend
but she tried to sue me for libel. My hand upon
the bible. I swear under the stench of oath

I wrote this under the influence of godly
incongruence and zero hours of sleep. My heavenly
mother tried to tell me that I must have written this

last night, but I don’t remember the pen, just a knife.
I tried to cut my wrists but realized the mic wouldn’t catch
the sample, the sound of the simple slit of suicide;

no, the blood dripping upon electronics wouldn’t suffice.
So I wrote this, unedited, upon a stone tablet
like some lost commandment chiseled just to perform

in front of an audience that might not understand it,
but hell, everything religious is insular and sublime
even if written in some less-than rigorous rhyme

for a flock to reach in pockets and throw money
spontaneously because some subliminal spirit
told them to. I wrote this on all fours. It ends prostrate.

I wrote this for myself. How are you? (One take.)
I wrote this fifteen minutes ago when my ex-girl
broke up with me. I mumbled this into the mic.

A Prediction Concerning Lindsay Lohan

Lindsay Lohan will not surrender herself on July 20 to the Century Regional Detention Facility in Lynwood, Los Angeles. She will go on the run and try to make her way to one of the following the countries: Anndorra, Cuba, Samoa, or Taiwan.

Several bounty hunters will be set to try and track down Lohan, among those will be Dog the Bounty Hunter. With America now watching Dog’s every move, Lohan will secretly feed Dog bits of information on the promise of a cut of future profits. Dog and Lohan both agree that she will never be caught. When rating start to sag capture is staged but lohan always makes a miraculous escape.

click to embiggen

After years of being on the run, the film rights are acquired by Jerry Bruckheimer, with Brett Ratner attached to direct. Sylvester Stallone is tapped to play Dog the Bounty Hunter. Lohan agrees to play herself. Filming begins in secret in at her Hollywood home in 2015.

I Will Torture You

I Will Torture You

So, I show up at your door. It’s snowing.

Middle of the night, two a.m.

I pound on the door.

You wake, come downstairs, open up

and I’m standing there.

I have my pants around my ankles.   _____ And

there is just blood everywhere.

In the snow

My groin is this shivering steaming wound.

And I explain that I castrated myself

with garden shears and

…I dunno what I did with my dick…

_ I just set it down somewhere…

_____y’know, whatever…

and you would be totally like “AGGH”

And I would be like

“I knew you of all people would understand.”

___Oh the look on your face… woo!

Here sits a dark night of lurking shuddups

Wandering the house twitching

__at myself, bitching

My dirty assembly caught chemical

_______to the textured of boiled yams.

mushroom children stuffed into the belly of a casserole,

___cooked up until the wet fur smells.

conversations are like we’ve covered the kitchen ceiling

____in plastic wrap

conversations are like a sloshing wombful of fish

junk butt fuck chuckling buckle chuckets.

chuckle buckets

buckets of chuckle buckets

buckley buck chuckling fuckets
I am a bold lover.

Bold.

So very boldly bold, as a lover should.

Ah but as bold a lover as I

there was none more so bold than The Schlansky.

Man, could he ejaculate

The Schlansky had a signature move,

which was

The Schlansky.

The Schlansky’s The Schlansky is admittedly

__________an immature tact to take

______but

when one is primed for sweet sweat making

and one’s lover is refusing affections, again,

The Schlansky

is an effectively vindictive way of dealing with

___that frustration.

The Schlansky described The Schlansky simply as

___angry, audible masturabation.

Right there in bed.

Start off discrete and easy. Work it up slow,

But then

__Put on a real show. Get vigorous!

Lots of spit.

Talk to it!

Then finish it up with an orgasm

that sounds like you are pulling a live eel out of your throat

If done accurately,

__The Schlansky should be veritably pleasureless

fuck butt chuckling buckle chuckets.

chuckle buckets

junkets of fuckle chuckles

junkley buck chuckling fuckets

chutt uck juck futtley fuckel – uckl – ets.

_________________sshu uhtp

There in line at the market,

I see you.

_________You love and cradle your baby.

You whispers to the baby, and I can hear you

“You don’t know how bad I want to get drunk.

I am so tired I can see through walls.

I want to run away.

I want my pubic hair twisted and pulled”

You are strewn out in the bathroom around the toilet.

___Conversation and music crash outside in the hall.

You animate and clambers up to the toilet lip

and vomits,

you vomit through your hair
It’s just words to make

a sucking sound,

__as

oxygen ignites

_____black spastic orange horns

and you are at no party

and there were never Never any children,

you are covered in grease

____you are on fire

But I’m just drifting from room-to-room

____stopping to acknowledge it

__and whisper into the corners.

Kinda doing this –

__pull hair stumble around stareing

I drag a sloshing garbage bag of my organs,

my guts to the bathroom.

I grow gills and

I wait for something to spill.
I find I have raw gnawed my finger’s nails

nibbled the nails raw

Now –

random bites

on fingers, then hands, wrists

bloody nips, barely teeth marks,

flaps ripped removed,

my hands covered in

little red ovals, little angry red snears

You notice my blood

but

I don’t care about the pain

I don’t think I care about not caring.

What is to me? Any of it?
But you think I ought too.

After all isn’t that normal, to avoid pain?

___Healthy.___ Expected. ______Responsible.

Being human.

Not just deadpan.

Not lingering.

I’m going to murder you all night with that face.

Diagnosis: The Gloryspot

G. Jeffrey demonstrates a kobold dance to the perplexed
Doctor who scribbles symptoms on a notepad: 1)Oversexed.
Purple ears, Mr. Joseph in a dungeon-dragon role. Cloth
diaper hides a parking brake. 2)Roleplaying as mythical
creatures, i.e. Gremlins.

To My Fellow Americans

Photograph by xtoq

To My Fellow Americans,

In response to the terrorist attacks
on September 11, 2001 in NYC and Washington, DC
by Arabic individuals
and to help the ongoing fight in Iraq, Afghanistan and Iran,
and to help fight the ongoing cultural invasion of the Islamic culture