Friday, March 30, 2007

check out the new hit single from ONLYMERK!

hey jared

what was our addy in boulder?

was it 3020 24th street
boulder, co 80302



Sunday, March 25, 2007

from Memory/Incision

Threatened. Narrative miscarried. Thighs agitated debate. Carcass architecture arrests you incumbent nude. Shutters thrust apart discharge. Drip grapefruit down your pubic bone. Abused pleasure mindscapes your safehouse. There idle jokers gag life preservers. Turpentine watercolor. Wake from drowning dream head beneath sheets. Fabric strands inhalation and a smashed back door. Perimeters of nosological thought volume everything that has happened between the shape of your interrupted body (edge of the bed)[1] and the consequence of skin. Emigrate abdomen, invented living. Precede umbilicus. This is where conception resembles artifice. Provisional membrane injured thread. Flush of ink and patterned sentiment. Formula is chemical process of integration.

Here in this intermission marginalia appropriates delicate space. Press firmly on perineum. Terrified by the demand for occupation Elle purchases potted ivy, conducting its various arms in a breathing frame around the living room. Stomach lining. This matter is territorial. Prosthetic p®ose shrieks incubation. Parasitical. Assertion is more temperate than museum. Invented domicile. Cloudburst. He lies while she lowers herself onto him. Breach absence, needle aligned eyelid. Headline reports 16’ boa constrictor living beneath suburban home foundation. Place hang your temporary casing. Your cunt casket sprung for summer. Like when Grandma Lynne would jar jam for a week in June. Eat with your fingers.

Text addresses. Fingerprint spliced telephone[2] digits measure temptation. Semen touchtone. “Call back in half hour.” Elle makes a hole in her pancake brings it to her cleft palate and wedges her tongue between the thinly cooked, battered fabric. Disseminate a maple glaze. Thick covering.

Almira Gulch. (Bring your broom-shaped dildo to bed) Hum tornado. Inescapable mechanical cackle horrors travel. Hear her anthem. Blizzard blows sideways facing angular predisposition. Elle and I watch through the bay window with popcorn and Southern Comfort. This gale. Trees sway zombies parading. We discuss hypothetical car accidents as a power line bucks the snowed-in road. Avert Dorothy the yellow brick house we’re in Elle; and I get high in the bathtub reading to each Other; articles on WWI facial masks children dissipate at first sight; unreadable face claims; dead daddy to disfigured (ceiling resembles eaten fingers under microscope) soldier moans initial tit grip; of “love of; my life” but to fuck your papier-mâché lover lose the glue and sun dried prune fingers clip roach. Cable television. “Hey man, this is a private residence.” Answering machine: good sell. Refrigerator stinks of must. Dog hair snarling in corner riles mud print webbed toes. Bed twists with skin. Garbage cans rant dilapidated curbside. “Where the fuck is the car key?” Mudslide eyes. Privately complain of violent spasms. Stick shift. You can’t go anywhere. Auntie Em oh Auntie Em leave your pig valves in a bucket for breakfast and black coffee, skin peeling off an eager mouth. Toto should have been a German Shepard. Nursery rhymes mirror addresser and addressee. The old woman in the shoe runs a fertility clinic. Shout obviously like a tourist protesting textual limitation. Camera flashed and I shot her again. Bloated. Ornamental. As a child I inserted Zorro’s horse Tornado’s tail into a box fan curious of result. His plastic ass glistened like the head of an upright cock. Tonight I will dream of a vagina fan hacking an upright tail with semen like little children on a playground slide gushing forward evermore. A space for monsters fused with iodine, a vibrant bleeding color, exhilarated body-bound thing; amputation.

Televisions follow Grey’s Anatomy—Meredith bawls in the bunkhouse “for anyone who stays up passed the official bedtime for mothers.”[3] Mystery novels frump nightstand—who done it? Pillow talk. Preface an event. My skin cannot accommodate this waiting room. This is yours. Build a medieval fort out of cardboard bricks. Enemy dentist. You are assigned touch. Fluoride treatment. But you get to pick a toothbrush. “I’ll kill ya, I’ll fuckin’ kill ya!!”[4] Bathtub. Psycho peaks through picture framed eyes. Back rub/between/shoulder/blades. Hack. Friday 13th drives a machete through Kevin Bacon’s bunk-fucked back. Leech. Suck fowl for all his marbles. Hip cum. Forceps are chopsticks. Placenta as curried shrimp. Sketched silhouettes interrogate strangers. You old Hitchcock. He Etch A Sketch(ed) a wrinkled rendition of his cock linked to an erratic ovum. Flick. Inhabit etched coal. Describe home: the place where your toothbrush is. No wait. Home is where your toilet reads. We fucked the stinking muck of barfly stain. Bubble gum lacerated quayside. Bus stop. Han Solo. Han Solo. I am Han Solo. A man with a jaw shaped like it was made to demolish skyscrapers perused The Buffalo News. The bench was warm and wet as piss. Aids prevention advertisement overhead glamorized a skimpy dressed red head. Superimposed graffiti jen has nice jugs underlined flippantly three times beneath her jutting nipples. She and the—got milk?girl—don’t look back. I imagine pouring paint buckets of squirrelly semen over the billboards. My Medusa.

[1] Hold and hide. When my father confiscated my pornography stash he left a torn page of a half-nude. Her eyes focused beyond the perimeter of reach. Lips pressed in discomfort. Yet more prominent is the illustration on its backside, a woman in bed fucking a plunger, her husband’s hairline split clutching his trousers with a hard-on the size of his briefcase.
[2] Full frontal stops and begins again. Amended audience.
[3] Bhanu Kapil’s definition of Mcdreamy in Urban Dictionary.
[4] Andrew Peterson—in the Sundowner—with the scizzors.

Friday, March 23, 2007

gap time

taping together the pieces start to slip through
fingers don’t always hold on tight enough
like letters just stitched to retell the interior
it isn’t adequate this lang lung gauge or some
other smell that lingers in the sheets too many
extra pieces litter a dross filled alley to the other
part where she is stinging together the lights
make things brighter or more refulgent how do
you adhere that yesterday with the image in a
measure of phonics tripping Heidegger pulled
a straight line while Benjamin took entropy sliding
out of any resistance the reels fold into sentences
yanking chords and chopped verse for the dolls
to piece together like a Barbie closet with mix-n
match all the rules for discussion out of one, two
time picks the word picks the word gracious to
absorb slats that line up one by one in a phrase

Thursday, March 22, 2007

A quote on our wiring for Andrew K. Peterson.

"Like a pearl diver who descends to the bottom of the sea, not to excavate the bottom and bring it to light but to pry loose the rich and the strange, the pearls and the coral in the depths, and to carry them to the surface, this thinking delves into the depths of the past--but not in order to resucitate it the way it was and to contribute to the renewal of extinct ages. What guides this thinking is the conviction that although the living is subject to the ruin of time, the process of decay is at the same time a proces of crystallization, that in the depth of the sea, into which sinks and is disolved what once was alive, some things 'suffer a sea change' and survive in new crystallized forms and shapes that remain immune to the elements, as though they waited only for the pearl diver who will one day come down to them and bring them up into the world of the living--as 'thought fragments' as something 'rich and strange,' and perhaps even as everlasting Urphenomenon."--Hannah Arendt on Walter Benjamin.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

zach slow.

hey jared, do you know a kid named zach slow?

Opie as Emperor (2)

  • modampo

  • check this out yall...

    Sunday, March 11, 2007

    Friday, March 09, 2007

    Thursday, March 08, 2007

    A quote on the origins of political patriarchy for International Womens Day

    Giorgio Agamben, from Homo Sacer, pg. 88:

    "And when we read in a late source that in having his sons put to death, Brutus 'had adopted the Roman people in their place,' it is the same power of death that is now transferred, through the image of adoption, to the entire people. The hagiographic epithet 'father of the people,' which is reserved in every age to the leaders invested with sovereign authority, thus once again acquires its originary, sinister meaning. What the source presents us with is therefore a kind of genealogical myth of sovereign power: the magistrate's imperium is nothing but the father's vitae necisque potestas extended to all citizens. There is no clearer way to say that the first foundation of political life is a life that may be killed, which is politicized through its very capacity to be killed."

    So, everybody, today (as we should everyday) spend some time appreciating the women in yr life and what they do in this world. And maybe imagine this earth moving away from patriarchal political mythologies towards something a lot less Brutus.

    Saturday, March 03, 2007