Friday, August 26, 2005

from Wild Daffodils

I don't have night dreams, nightmares or dream sweat.

When I'm asleep darkness happens and within this coziness the little nobody inside of me becomes resilient, impervious to fear and rests in the big overstuffed chair of perfection.

The problem comes when I'm awake; when I close my eyes to escape the visual bombardment of the world around.

My mother appears extruding bananas from her vagina saying to someone who looks like me: see this is what happens if you're a bad boy.

I don't have one father, I have two: one, instead of a head has a shotgun attached to his shoulders and the other has baseball bats for arms.

They're not images on a screen either.

The images are holographic, three dimensional and sometimes there's a kitchen table around which people are talking about the poor young man who drove his car into a tree and lost all of his teeth: a pity they agree he had such a nice smile.

Or there are some children playing under a house.

They are playing a game using urine and feces: the little girl who is bulky with a slant mouth says look at this and she rubs shit all over my face and I scream, begin to urinate and realize I'm lost inside a small room with a spoon digging into the furry hide of a dead mink or bear.

The holography of the images frightens me the most, the three dimensionality of the situation unsettles me making me restless; the engulfment of the substantial nature of the characters creates a nonsensual pain; the vicious vitality of the characters tears into me like a screeching high pitched tone that will not stop; the message or meaning is lost to my capacity to "understand" because I get it I really do "get" it but my "getting" the message does nothing to heal the cause because I don't know the cause and the cause happened a million years ago and I'm unwilling to travel back that far.

Sometimes in the middle of the day I'll be sitting quietly in front of a list of numbers trying to make all the numbers match up and a short man grossly, gruesomely fat but is socially accepted as Somebody, and talks slick as a banker enters and lectures me about Business: business he says should be the standard for living, we will organize we will order the room we will order the world I am not your boss I have been reading I have been reading Books On Zen I think we should order the world with compassion, mindfulness and kindness.

I hear him say this but what I hear is: I am a puppet who has memorized words in a book and you will kiss my Italian silk suit and adore my business like order because I am a very large man.
Oddly, I would, if the laws of karma could be reversed, turn rabid, maul him to death and devour him all the while slurping his wine flavored blood so as to remove all evidence of his existence.


Eating without forks, spoons, knives, plates or crystal goblets.

Mouth, teeth, paws & claws

The trouble with cities being "like" a jungle is that in fact it is not a jungle.

I would prefer to live In a Jungle and eat monkeys, lope through vegetation and move with the natural grace of predatory stealth: primal, perfectly attuned to the demands of the moment and free.

Alas, as you can see I don't know the difference between phantasm and symbolic reverie.

I wonder if there's a third option, a "place to be" and what will it cost to get there or where it is?

-- Jeff Wietor

Mark Allen Verbal Portrait

Full Measure

He’s a nose nestle nuzzler wildebeest ceaselessly giving to men their remote control
He’s a crossbow chapeau travel at his side gather up sobs low stones good fortune connoting
He’s an earlobe choir-robe moon beam basket behind him an harmony brouhaha galore

He’s one more need not in need a luck-of-the-draw throaty Omaha Panama Choctaw Cherokee
He’s what we think we believe we need we think we hear in the ignoble Chernobyl
He’s an approachable heart-throbber grave robber traveler Greek god hot-rod burst of tears
He’s a bomb squad artist antler eared Oduduwa connoting denoting irresistibly

He’s a probable lobster hunter fraught good fortune stoutly persistent: is not beautiful beautiful?
He’s a heavenly body magna cum laude hot-rod cum laude summa cum laude trampoline
He’s an formidable earthly adventure erotic hypnotic able lame lamb ably treading water

But the moment these words were uttered
the lamp went out: when houses were alive they could fly

He’s a pizzicato lowdown showdown aficionado telephoto lens mingling in polka dots
He’s a long long trailer with a Polaroid eye and a purchase order for green pens and purple pencils
He’s a not much that matters but greatly like light soldered to a stained glass window
He’s a nanosecond intelligent testimony hardwired interface ahoy to Broadway permanence online

But the moment these words were uttered
the lamp went out: when houses were alive they could fly

-- Jeff Wietor


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