pas de deux

The bag hung an inch from then solid ground. Could it still be considered dirty? Impure or fouled? It had touched other grounds, yes. None of which were sacred, because nothing was nor had been for a long time now.
"Just put down the bag," she said.
"Nah, I'm good," he responded. As he usually would, unless he didn't; in which case he would just raise both eyebrows and thin out his lips as if to say: this is how I am me.

Later, down the path that hair and skin takes, more or less stayed the same. All the world was washed clean by rain or by pipe and there it all sunk, back into that same filthy ground held together by heat and exhaustion.

In two separate lodgings, across a not-so-breadthy lake, two lovers stood facing their side of the shore-water's edge, touching their anonymous private parts -- not so fervently, but rather with quite a soft and longingly loving touch -- behind walls, but facing each other, the magnetism too distracted to feel any true pull, but certainly not pushing them further apart, and they stared forlorn at the lake. Sleeping in each of the beds next to these statues of moonlit magnificence, were two separate celestial bodies, hosts dreams of past events, some filled with joy and some with sadness, and not to be called by any fancy Greek or Roman names: these were just star people. Not Apollo nor Persephone, just star person one and star person two. Or two and four, in this story. Or three and four, depending on how it seems. Or six billion four hundred seventy-seven thousand eight hundred and two, or so on and so forth...

The as yet to be determined to be defiled bag swayed in a hovering rhythm not unlike a wrecking ball. Inside were all those things we carry. When we are going someplace. Someplace that isn't where we sleep and just for the day.

The lakeside lovers knew not to complete the act. It would be too distracting and neither of them sure that was even what it was about. Neither of them even sure the other had the sense. The natural sense is to stay and make due and proceed. So they decided to do that, separately, and forever so. And so not a stir from the bedside and not a stir in the room. Only two slivers of light in two kitchens and two bowls of cereals getting drenched by two separate streams of moonlit milk.

One thought of Seventy-six Trombones. The other thought of Bon Jovi. Both slipped out of star consciousness and fell into repetitive-action and process construction and so went the rest of their morning until the moon went away and the sun came up over the lake blinding them both with sparkling, annoying eye-wrenching golden light. One poured coffee. The other took a dump. Both houses woke up fairly quickly thereafter and took over the rest of the remaining thought-strings so as to muck-up the very slight and extremely agitated magnetics that ran above, below and through all houses everywhere.

Alive in Well

"You have to find your happiness," she said.
"I'll tell you what I'm not going to do," I said.

The joke about the bills and our money is drenched in wine and I can't seem to find proof that dust is alive.

45 minutes go by and there's a ringing in my ears. It sounds like a hangover, but it's not quite as industrious.

Maybe it's a cartoon. Or a radio frequency tuned to the Rihanna-dog threshold. I like Rihanna. Her ass is amazing. I think her power forward hungry box lyrics sprinkled with disappointment and planes is where things are at right now. At least for festival affects. I hear her lighting is good, too.

An hour later and I'm reheating frozen baked goods for my kids.

Two hours later and I'm on a train heading to the center of a video game. I think it's Arachnoid. The one with the spinning knob. Not the ball gently rotating in the earth. The nubby knob turny thing. There is an actual name for it. I think it's called a turning knob or a control knob. Rihanna has her fingers on the pulse of the knob of the control of the world. Everyone is Beyoncé this and Beyoncé that; but Rihanna. Everyone knows that crazy bitch represents what is really right and wrong with this world. Beyoncé, Ye, Jay. They are the translators. Rihanna is the direct current. She is the oracle transmitter and receptor. Her behavior is appalling.

Four hours later there is a lunch meeting and the secondary hell ring of managers and coordinators scamper about waiting for the drippings and droppings like wounded rats. Their shifty eyes making emergency movements so I pull the fire alarm then one of them says, "Are you fucking crazy?"
I say, "You did this. You went for the last slice of pizza like 3 times and I couldn't tell if you were going to eat it or wire it up with staples and dirty paper clips and terrorize someone with it. How can I be sure who you are? I only know that you live where other people live. That doesn't make you not a terrorist." And the rest of the day goes like that except all in avoidance with people finding small projects to finish, now mad that they actually have to work, to avoid actual eye contact, to avoid having to pass through a small cube-way with each other. All of them instant messaging that I am a lunatic. Go fuck yourself. I just bought you 30 minutes of time outside of the building while they checked for smoke and reset the security fire safety system and remembered about the box of masks in the top drawer of the desk at the end of the top floor.

They say Boho Chic or press their caramel leather into your face like its tits and then say, "excuse me" and "pardon".

This is what happens while we wait for weed to be legal.

This is the last jigsaw blade in the sawzall section. The last husk of the last grain of the last rice.

There is no denying the design apex of Nike. If they were based in Phoenix this entire mothership would blast off into space on the tail of a great fire comet. So, I am thankful for whatever hippy logging community they are currently set up in. If I could still afford Nikes I would make believe they were just normal shoes. I would pretend they weren't stardust threaded with the elemental code for life gifted to us from the heavenly creators. I would pretend because the alternative would be to live in a constant state of bliss. That freaks everyone out. Especially with people living longer and working more and for less and with less thought and less pride and more ambition and less know-how. Except for the EDM crowd. They might be ok with bliss. I don't know because I don't know any of them.

Certain times of the day are set aside for these memories. It's called prayer time in the third world. In the second world, I think they solve this with siestas. But in the first world it is its own channel spinning oldies all the time. It's on frequency 11.32 humming around in the skull right above the stem back where the tops of the ears are. Then you get hungry right in the middle. Then your frontal lobe becomes a horn and plows through the rest of the work on the desk. Then you go home.

Your list includes:
Fix the roof
Figure out water pressure
Look for leaks in attic
Half inch molding for kitchen
Find the old magician cooking up the dust
Trap and kill the dust
Drink wine




Gary Memi

Raison

After the Bull Dogs
and refusing to skid
a life's mission finally stuck
grounded in husk

Plain Janes
before corny was classic
bringing waffles to the party
weaving a blanket across all fifty

A perfect spot
a sharpened star on the walk of the everyone knows place
white in '47 and gone in '69
only to be reborn for all eternity in namesake


Charles Hollis Taylor

Less Than

Scant they said
As you filled them with bursts of light
Covered them all with the confident glow of buckshot
Frozen on a frosty beach of pure white
Perhaps the shadow of a beachball
To mark the time

Miss Trailercoach
Hailing from Edison
And Pennsylvania before that
What would the world have been
Had not the graces pulled you down
The magnetized needles aligned with the oracles
The universe needed the bikini
And you gave it to them
Never the same one
An arsenal of rockets and bombers
Sewn carefully into cups
Tied in the back
Perfect and pristine
Without judgement

Then, Cheesecake
The world caught up
Like you knew they could
Shallow divers and panting sprinters
With dollars in their cartoon eyes
Wolves with crooked smiles
And trap door teeth
So you receded slightly
Like the patient sea, your kin
A good first playmate
We will never forget
Jamaica, 1962
And most of 1954
And 1955

Perhaps our paths crossed
Getting a cheap bistek on Dixie
Or a rowdy night with glow sticks
Me not knowing
But guessing
You were some kind of Queen
Your realm not inherited; but seized
Then praised, honored, adored
Miss Personality
Orchid Queen


Linnea Eleanor Yeager

Metal Bender

Stop me when I cover
Ground already covered
At fifteen you knew what must be done
What did you do for fun?

Was it your father's track
That laid the foundation?
Your bride with the gumption of an ox
You, the deep burrowed fox?

How far the horizon!
Machining until dawn
Your undying focus on freedom
Gleaming steel and kicked dust

Were steeds too cumbersome?
Perhaps passion alone --
Your utopia still needs oil
And who can stop the rust?


Karl Friedrich Michael Vaillant

Mother Kanary

Where did you trickle in upon Reunited circles and not leave rings?
In sappy finger swaths you pain over the desert and then --
Back beyond the wall of white
Dust and blankets of mauve
Clouds like jellies
You sing heroic about the truth of love
Hearing only rustling sounds of brush
Sweeping across Arizona
In a letter
With eleven stamps
Far too many
But who was counting?
Nary an archetype of dinosaur spine
The way a fan cuts through a room
Or an Egyptian shell breathes Nile fire
You alone look behind
Seeing what has been unsung for too long
Needing a candle drawn close
Then with a whisper from windows yonder
A bend and flutter
A hunk of cocaine
Then back to a combed tableau
Remember those crumbs?
Next to the jug?
What is to come -- I have no answers of my own
But it will be Ultra absorbent
Soft to the touch
All purpley and
Ruby Red
Pointing in all directions
A flickering in night's orphanage
With light years in between


Robert Hunter

Farther Still

When all space converges
A tight pucker;
On the other side:
Immense wide open echo

Then again on all sides
You can even hear it
Surrounding you
Reverberating midair

A blast of chilly wind
From the river's mouth
Silent orphan
Pretending to be toothless

And in that soft hollow
A grounding feeling
Perfect balance
For such an off kilter wheel


John Luther Adams

Margherita

A few tables, a few chairs
Set up for the seance
Cheese on bread, you say
Time tunnel, it could be argued
Transportation system of the central nervous
Receptors jumping ships
Electrons swapping routes
And, bam
You're in Persia
Encampment outside a great battle
On pause for the night
Take out your shield
Place it over the fire
Now flour and water
Cheese and dates
Begin that journey
Then, bam
Five centuries later
You're in Pompeii
Nursing a hangover
Grabbing a slice
R.E.M. is not playing on the radio
But you admire the lyrics
Bam
You're in Rome
Turn of the century
A gentleman who knows things: Marcus Gavius Apicius
He tells you to put chicken on your pie
He tells you of the Greeks
And of pitta
And before you know it, bam
You're in Chicago
It's your kind of town
And Napoletana is your kind of food
Thank goodness the Americas dumped some tomatoes
So many years earlier
And thank goodness the peasants always use everything
Because now, the Queen has fare
And knows what the hubbub is about
Rennins ablaze with life
A low hum in your tunnel
You, too, are a part of this time
Your cells also mysteriously shaped
Like circles
With pathways
For things to run
This way and that
No true north
Only center
Where all points meet
Until there are no points
Only a few edges
Remnants for archeologists
Looking to tie things together
Connect tunnels
Reenact simple stories
Pie charts
Cutting tools
Pans
Shields
The curious lack of utensils


Gennaro Lombardi

Rootstock of Tangiers pt.3

I would throw numbers at you

But it's safe to say

There are still places 

Where you can buy the blood that flows

Beneath the feet of the people

You can't tell me that there aren't parallels

One hundred years later

Almost to the day

A crafty duo digs a knife in

Plugs it with a tap

And proceeds to siphon

And you, nursing ever so slowly

The remains of what was

The biggest diversion 

A slight of hand washing

Engineered for severity

Despite its soft delivery

We know you

And thank you

For your diligence

And brilliance

Before you

We didn't even know

We needed antioxidants

And now with wonderful halos

You will undoubtedly deliver

The greatest bloodpunch ever

Is there anything you can't sell us?

(Perhaps a live screaming baby

But if you tell me it's healthy

I might just nurture it

Then you could turn around and say

We said healthy 

For you

Not it

And the joke's on us)

And you can tell me it's raining

Because perhaps I need an umbrella

Or rather a wonderful rain halo

Is there anything I don't need?

Putting worth on

A shiny penny

Your first one

Behind glass

A copper halo

Stamped with a new insignia

Undermining an entire island currency

But staying bullish all the while

So we can find a new name for Caesar dressing

Like ChovieDrops or ParmaDrizzle

Seriously though

You suck

Like the very bones

Like down to the very bones

And we admire that

Because you make them glisten

When they hit the market

Mostly phosphorous

Polished and perfectly unbone

We put that above all else

Your sweetest spots

Perhaps the five or ten 

Please make them rounder, cleaner

Then release the trickle

Then the flood

Then the drought

Then start up the engines

And ride us hard to hell

Like horses or hogs

We will support you

With OTB and pork bellies

Your partnership dissolving,

Throatlock released;

The blood of Tangiers

And of China

And of India

By way of the Cape of Good Hope

And William Wolfskill

First tattled in coffeehouses of London

And the hoarse voice of Theophrastus

Before the destruction of Pompeii

And the twenty-seven varieties of Han Yen-chih

And the sweetest lines of Ch'u Yuan

Carved into tribute after Tohotmas III brought riches back to the Karnak temple

And Gitri as tribute on twisted tongue

And the jambila of the Vajasaneyi samhita 

And healing properties of the Charaka-Samhita

And the hadar of Moses

Virgil's Median

Dioscorides's Cedromela

In the open air and country gardens of Palladius's time

As a gift to the Norman lords after the Ligurians saved it from barbaric destruction

Sown in Oman

Cherished by the Crusaders

Manicured in the kitchen gardens of King of Savilla

Via the citronguli of Savona

Ju kan, Chen kan thanks to Kokwan

Stanzone per i cidri

Mulholland's reclaim and Eaton's pasture-grab --

A new partnership,

With same values and similar vision;

Best of luck

We wish you nothing but the best

The best of everything 

Higher value and laser vision

Lynda and Stewart Resnick

Rootstock of Tangiers pt.2

Just before the theater fell

Scientists grafted

The offsprigs of which we know

Sounding about like walkie-talk

The race was on, buzzzzz

An association failed

Nets cut profits by two-five

Almonds need love, too

And so we have a battle

Chicanery, subterfuge

Who wants to Tango?

This war hides in a trickle

Believe you me that sex sells

But it also costs

Coexistence is futile

If you don't get the water

You won't need it, buzzzzz

Roosevelt sides with LA

All this is a big lead-up

It now flows backwards

Emotional aqueduct

Or does it? Inyo shutters

Sylvester Smith died

Kern County echoes the truth

Compare apple to orange

All those stagecoaches

Making their way west for gold

Buried in that very dirt

The rootgold purring

Skeletons of contention

A chop here, a marry there

Graft and tar scion

Scientists irradiate

What's next is the prime time fight

Boxed and delivered 

Smile and unzip your skin

Retool your hayride theory

The Tangier mystique

Nestling Ojai Pixies

However glorious, look --

Fly to Morocco

Just like Tom and find answers

But the quest is in question

For long before that

There's honey in honeybee

Not to fret, it's a long game

Players will change, buzzzzz

Only the valley remains

Thomas Mulholland

Rootstock of Tangiers pt.1

The virgin was born before breath

Or at least breathy words

But definitely noted in Sanskrit

circa before and circled back around

She defeated the father with a loose grip

And mother whose puckered purse was rough to the touch

But still aroused by the prowess of a future crown to outlive all translations

They uttered her baby name, Nāraṅgaḥ

Now a side show name, Cutie

Or stripped to flesh, Delite

Or naked as a god without a wrapping, C. reticulata Blanco

Barney called home

After tracing finger rings 'round

eyes and nipples

Said to invest with impunity

Twenty five years later the goddess reborn

In all her sultry outfits 

Easy to get off

Harder to balance on one finger

With majestic nomenclature 

And tied up in legal debasing

Arbitration involving the king

His head nodding continuously 

Since the saga began

Knowing full well the gold in the hills

Having sealed the writ with sugar and salt

Delivered in arrogance because you know what you know

And there ain't no reason to over sell a good thing that sells itself

Now on posters and in commercials

We a know her and she is his 

And ours

And we thank him

With juice in our beards

And toddlers not choking

And office parks with flies buzzing 'round circular cans

Slight broads in heels with candy in their handbags

Okay okay

So, due to the extreme conditions in the San Joaquin Valley

Twas the freeze to end the 20th century

That put our dear king in bed with the devils

Alas, he was no baby Jesus

But he was of the earth

And so we followed

Because his belief was our intent

Our desires above his needs

For needing so little

Forgiving our trespasses and those of all other winged beasts

Three times as much for nothing

He said No

And went after the Moroccan orbs

Specifically a robust ascetic

Known to some as the Truth

And still to others as a Siddhartha of sorts

Being magnificent as all get out

He let that go, too

Got his hands 'round them anyway

Like the true Father

And the Truth don't mind none

In two years' time we will see what becomes of the demons in the architecture

Maybe things just blow west

As they always do

And always have

Berne Evans III

A to ZZ

In the forest

no one hears you tree

but look at you 

oh sweet canopy

go directly to the fruit at B14

Bark full of arrows

shot through space

those bars of black

either night or not night

but who can tell

When did you say this was?

1978? On Martha’s Vineyard?

Oh what a marvelous bike ride to be on

seeing fighter jet cockpits all in your foreground

and little scribbles in the ledger

Before then?

In Aldrich Hall?

The edge of the woods

still writhing though cut back significantly

there it is 

not so far away

and you with your laws of nature

why would you think to make it a thing?

algorithms in the sky

making guffaws

with long strings trailing behind them 

the wood behind the wood

and still there is more to do

Your basic tenets

set to a playful tune

now berthed in all man’s work

we do not know to bow to you

because the machines don’t tell us to

more fun for you anyhow

to walk among us

like a starchild

in the sloshy swamp of the dead

your feet dirty with a different kind of dust

that of scrolls and shavings

purposefully remote

yet constantly hammering the same fence post

it will never stay upright

but it is fun to keep cutting

Daniel Bricklin

Corporeal

I am Confused

As to the nature

Of Owning Myself

Or being my own property

So stubborn on the sacred

So Property of my self

So filled with the needs 

To be solid

I puff out my chest

And look to the heaven

That sky that harnesses deepest shame

Knowing the true feeling about fiddling

Or any other skin 

Stretched limitlessly

Then influencing 

Great works

That mean nothing

Other than

Themselves

Being in existence 

Upon existing 

They are our desires

And that is about it

Johann Kaspar Schmidt

CFC

As if hung from an open sore
Skies opened wide showing their subcutaneous squirmings
Unfurled for circus folk and tractor pulls
All things unswamped with the help of friends
The dark hot nature of things
Leveled and shot through tubing
The drip drip of collected condensation
And yet above
Tied to the skies
With invisible clarity
A million pinholes of light
Creating a dazzling display of beams
A ladder of sorts
A lean-to and less like something to climb
Although plenty of that to be sure
When holes hold hands
The very grips becoming fenced
Those fences disappearing as the depth of field shifts
Back up to down
Marionettes devise pulleys
To open curtains
For larger shows
And velvet with fringe
Should the house catch fire
Drop the last line and look up
All strings crossing the main grid
Caught up in the symmetry
Left to hang
Like sausage or Punch or Judy
Pipes all cut
Channels and passageways tied
A cinch to open
A sphincter or aperture
All ningyō jōruri never quite sure
What final funny is in store
Payment for good deeds
Punished accordingly
Where icebergs wear gloves
Sultry white fingers
Clawing through the waves
Carrying away beds and flags
Or shortened letter combinations
That make the pleasing secondary effects of an inside breeze
Seem utterly innocuous

Thomas Midgley, Jr.

F100-1

Amid furious chatter

A tapping was heard

"It will be like Western Union"

On your phone!

The others didn't celebrate

They enjoyed the pizza.

20 years later, OMG.

Matti Makkonen