The Process

Tag: art

Another Day

The toilet was running the toilet the toilet was was running,
running there’s a pool of shit water in the toilet brush holder
in a well-ish kept public bathroom there is a pool of shit water shit shit
water.  The two feelings are annoyed and nothing and intermittent
intermittent, fairly intermittent crying regardless of either two and a half sentiments |sashimi
has made me consider presentness due to its honesty|  the best the best the best

of the policies is is sashimi sashimi is the best policy.  Staling is the need for
speed staling thighs and lungs I am pond-like or rotten in my stagnancy in my
stagnancy I consider cutting my hair off or leg or finger off off off any choice is productive

if motherfucking productivity is producing an effect an effect instead of an outcome of course of course of course horse norse viking pelt the presidency if that if that if that is what we are calling it it it baruch hashem ass man frito pie poured into black-polished tasseled loafers

the boy has the boy has boy has left the man the guy has left he is i am the frosted windshield and the bugs the bugs on the outside are the bugs are also us and you | the two metaphors are rarely able to occur simultaneously; they are more here for seasonal options which illustrate an obstructed view and a constant bashing and a gnashing of bumper against what at once is was a 3D being and is was a 2D was-ing| in any in any at all of the cases the car the car is in motion the car is in motion away and the innards and outards are not are not succeeding not so well not so well, in fact they are hollowly raining of the eyes

The sashimi was cut shittily by a shitty person and served by a shitty nihilist and eaten by a shit and turned into shit and pooled into a toilet brush holder and no one was any the wiser or everyone knew and didn’t care and did but didn’t care and or everyone knew and cared and hated each other and money and fish and appetites were lost and a family of fish worms died a mournful and needless death or they didn’t care and preferred to end it all because The Leagues Below are Teeming With Russian Spies and they can trust no one but don’t care as the only fathomable existence fathoms below is one of {kremlin or gremlin or cruller or worm} survival which was ruled out by such worms &/ they fathomed something fabled and aspired to return as some behemoth whale and and and and whatever the mentality, they perished, and who is to say whether it was a shame, in vain or and and fucked.  Sillily

weighing the thinness of the line between orderly and anal retentive, the human considered the likelihood of achieving either and subsequently aimed for both while plainly aware of its inability to avoid the quick brown fox Wearing Bathing Suits at Work jumped over the lazy dog on Laundry Day |It had it had been certainly been decided that one would not definitely not enjoy its mead and also achieve anal reten-tion/-tiveness or avoid sticky licks of chicken skins and the scenario’s subsequent sucks of sticky digits | trunks, picture, obviously, +/-  what the fuck bikini fox, salted/burned nipple?

 

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The Usual Crises and Boring Shit

In a room of talking bodies–I am one of them–I’m looking at the
rest, each glance sounding off a little wish in my head.  I wish I were…
that lazy looking, low-belted bro, the girl that subsists on just coke, the now-long-sober dude, the girl in the either ironic or stupid-sincere t-shirt: I wish I were anyone.  Even as I’ve come to suspect A Body Can Only Know Anyone Besides Itself, I’m bound by the perception that everyone here defies that notion, wrapped up in their enigmatic but clear designs, and the bindings tighten around my regret for my choice of pants.  If I could tell anyone about myself beyond the basic physical and occupational facts, I could hardly think of anything more than a list of things I am not.  And because people these days have eyes, half my potential parlor conversation is obsolete.  I Am A Cooking Person rarely makes the cut unless you’re talking to someone incredibly narcissistic.  Where do you work?  What kind of food do you cook?  What’s your specialty (the worst question)?  It is difficult to steer a conversation less than by saying “I don’t currently work, the only major cuisines I don’t cook much at all are Japanese and Ethiopian, and I don’t really have a specialty unless fried bologna sandwiches counts.”  Out of context, I guess I sound like a real winner.  But context is just that, and long ago I lost a spark for the type of varied inflection that captures an audience as well as anything to say that might call for such melody.  A joke on myself, I might make, and then make a joke on that one.  Something like, A Real Winner I Am, See?  And then something like, Well, What, Haven’t You Ever Had A Fried Bologna, Jim?, Tough Crowd, Jesus.  And just flat like that, unyielding, boring music.  Like a song you turn off when something fun comes on TV.  It’s the sound in my head, too: when I see, read, hear such things…flat footnotes loom up in each pause in whatever medium, mad at the similes I used to like, bored at almost any poetics, mostly Romantics, like “Oh, but was it as vague as etchings on glass (one I understood and nearly liked–sorry Patti Smith, who I adore–I also mocked)?”  It happens with most work: by writers, chefs, artists, politicians– I gnaw it all away and rarely find a strong bone beneath all the rotting flesh attached: their respective masturbatory description (somehow always full-hearted and VERDANT), cabbage shoulders and onion crumbles, obtuse color blocks, jargon and lies–and I make myself out of what I won’t be compared to what exists, and I don’t have attributes but I can sure say what qualities cancel out those in anyone else right back down to rot.  But often there are bones enough to hold them together, and that point thinks at/on/in me enough to want some flesh on mine.  Sardonic skeleton, depart.  Let me codify as and name myself as anything, maybe a series of 1’s and 0’s rather than “not 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, or 9,” maybe a seer of true flesh over an exposer of the rotten.

6

At night we argue until I decide to spend the next day cleaning the house, and what I do is hire someone else to do it while I clean the crevices in my teeth, because I thought I smelled the dying person smell on them, because my agreement was to become gone as soon as the old breath happened in this life, and it’s too early as just the other day I got home first and was alone and the cats were out because they’re not here and I was shocked and disabled by my solitude and as a result shocked and upset at the inability to be around nobody, not even fur balls and skin balls with legs, and I walked around and around and laid down and was forced to go inside my own body, which I rarely have to do.  She got home a few minutes later, and I could come out again, and I didn’t have to stare at my own hands anymore; I looked at her, because I like to, and she is not me.  Today we drank coffee and ate pasta and I put on an alpaca hat and scrubbed her skin in the shower because I had already washed my hair because I had gone to the gym to exercise in vain, so vain, because I know I will be stopping soon and have so much more weight to gain than to lose, because that is usually the case for most people, and there’s a long way to go until the opposite is true, and this concept forces a person to realize This Fat Ass is the smallest version of itself left in this lifetime, and that forces a person to befriend it or even to just stop dreaming of looking like a skinny Asian or white man.  The hat in the shower got damp, and I figure my hair smells a lot like a barnyard animal, which is probably gross to everyone around me, which is no one, so it’s alright.  And I worry, a little, about the cleaning person coming in, because I hope it brings its own soap and stuff, and paper towels, too, because we are out.  But when I was four, my babysitter washed my brother and sister with shampoo in the bath, and she told me it was the same thing as soap, and she was right, and I liked it, and to this day it makes me think anything is transferrable, like any glue, and my girl says there is shoe glue to glue shoes back together and ceramic glue to glue ceramics back together, and the only ones I knew were Gorilla and Elmer’s and the two questions are “why are so many things breaking?” and “if shoe glue is for shoes and ceramic glue is for ceramics, then is Gorilla glue really for gorillas, or do gorillas just trump everything, and if part A is true, then who is Elmer, and is he fine?”  But I’m more worried about talking to the cleaning person, because I am not supposed to leave it here alone, in case it steals all my broken shoes and ceramics.  I don’t know where I’m supposed to hide while it cleans, so I chose not to have my bed made so that I can use my bed as a private island.  Can I tell the person that the private bed island is sound proofed?  Does the cleaning person supervisor role allow me to get drunk on the Isle of Bed while the person is there?  Do I have to give it a drink if I’m having one?  Should I  offer it a snack?  Should I get cash for a tip?  Can it use shampoo to wash the floor?  Is it voting for Trump?  I’ve eaten 6 slices of turkey and some poofy but not puffed Cheetos today.  My dad said he eats canned beans and broccoli for lunch, and I agreed with him that sometimes I just eat food that barely qualifies as it in the name of energy or even health, such as the time I ate mainly chickpeas out of the can for days because of poverty but actually because of being lazy and disgusting.  But if I want to get something with good flavor in it, I will have to go quickly in case the cleaning person gets here too early while I’m flossing and listening to Patti Smith and breaking and glueing and having sore muscles that make me want halal food which is so delicious.  And my sister wants to talk on the phone–and that is what I’ll do!  I’ll Skype my sister so that I can ignore the cleaning person!  And she can watch me in case it is secretly a killer on the loose and that way she will have all the clues!  I like it, I like it a lot a lot.

Crawling Back Up in It

The dimming is

good.  Most days, I want to be alone in a dark

bar for hours but when I have the day I take its

sun and shit.  And walk and sit and breathe and think

about the dark bar and when I go

in I’ll want this and when I stay, I’ll want this, and

I want then I want then I want and want and the bartender

dims the lights and I think it’s OK the way I am.  I come

into my skin and I’m hidden and shown and unassociated and

disassociated as are the rest of the people.  I think

about American Horror Story the Hotel.  I think about Lady Gaga.  I want to know why we all need somewhere safe.  It’s just a show; this is also just a show.  And that’s a reason to not think so much.  The guy forgets he goes to the hotel; he forgets

he’s a killer.  We wash it down down

down and forget also; we are at home and then we exit

dark and we strap the faces and costumes and shit tight tight and that’s that.  Rather than

stay. |in the hotel they were ghosts| I were was am

out and the rules in the sun, oh the rules, but the sun feels possible–wants me to?

Cups

She says now that we live together, we have too many cups between the two of us and that we need to pare down.  I say the Brady Bunch didn’t jettison their excess children when they joined up. She says it’s different because children are different from cups.  I don’t know; I like my cups.  A lot of the glasses are specific to traditional service of various beer styles, so I want them.    Some of them are dumb.  Like the printed pint glasses.  But you always need pint glasses, is the point.  She tells my mom what about the Kinky Boots souvenir cup from the theater.  Mom guffaws or does something that might be in the guffawing category.  I am judged.  I shift in my shoes thinking they’re right.  But I went to that show.  It happened to me.  And I paid like eighty-five dollars for a cocktail at intermission.  Their faces say I’m a fool for nostalgia but that they love me anyway but also will ultimately coerce me into abandoning the cup.  It is plastic, and I know that’s not right.  But I like it.

This morning, when I woke up for work, I moved my pillow to find my phone and turn off my alarm so as not to disturb.  My pillow brushed my favorite rocks glass off my nightstand onto the floor, where it shattered into many pieces.  It had a blue old-fashioned bicycle on it.  I don’t ride bikes, but I’ve made some good drinks in the glass, and it reminds me of cold, proper cocktails.  Well, that’s one down, then.  I really don’t mind it when my things are gone too much.  I just like them while they’re still there or I think I do.

This One Day That Happened

It was the morning, and I woke up feeling bad.  Not bad bad, but a few steps to the side of right.  Some dream, it must have been.  She says, “what’s up,” and I say

“Nothing.”

We drink coffee and I look for the off feeling and don’t know it yet.  The kisses are good but outside my windshield at times, which annoys me, and she asks “what are you thinking about?”  My dog.  He was so good and sweet, and then he died.  I saw him die.  His sister died, too, and I miss her on the forefront, because she was most recent, but I go back for him, because of how he was and how it all happened.

“Nothing.”  We kiss more and more and it gets me outside myself some.  She knows how to unfurl the muscles and lay it all out on white, how it takes seismic roughing and brightness in the dark, and that’s how I bring myself into today, thank the lawd, as it goes.  The lawd.  lol.

We get in a car to bring things to Goodwill, because she is paring down.  I still can’t combine myself with these minutes, so I lay down on her lap…Jib had been laying on a vermillion towel in our backyard, and he was tired.  Finally, his tongue curled out of his mouth, like forced its way out, and he let out a low moan that sounded like Snoopy.  And then he shit a little and that was it, and he was so stiff.  It was liver cancer.  Later, I would run around my grandma’s yard with his little carbonized body in my fist, dropping some here and there, where he liked to roll and scratch his back in the crab grass…My eyes get teary, but as it happens when you’re on your side, all the crying comes out of the bottom eye, save the one tear on the top side, so she doesn’t know I’m doing it or gives me the dignity by not asking, which as we know makes it real and creates more crying.  I say something random about something my sister was doing at work to dam it up, and she says a joke about something else, and I laugh.  We get out to go to the store.

Everything second hand makes me nostalgic for people I used to know or never even knew, which makes me realize I’m just in it today and that it will just be a cloudy day parade.  We leave the store and go to a vintage poster store, and we look at Life magazines from the 1930’s.  I say, “Can you believe how irrelevant we will be in one hundred years,” and that makes me feel a bit bad but also relieved, and I already knew it, but it’s good to remember sometimes.  Scarlett O’Hara.  She doesn’t know about how people are riding around on single wheels with gyroscopes inside them right now, and we don’t know about the things that will come.  Like later that evening, after dinner, when we ramble into the sex store, I say, “they will laugh about strapping it on with a belt one day,” and we laugh about it, and I laugh because I turn around and she’s buzzed on cider and finger banging a pocket pussy with the clerk nearby watching, and it makes for a good scene.  I like a good scene, because mostly I just want everyone to laugh.

As we walk to the train, I think about his little ashes and it opens up the stomach a little, because it’s something that won’t leave me today, even though it was a good day.  And actually the better the day, the worse it is for the fact of the departure in store for all of it, but it’s so nice to hold hands, and we are going to watch the Rocky Horror Picture Show and drink red wine.

Falling Asleep

  

Autobiography of a Skinless Mind: 13: T-Rex 

Jew Harp

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The Good Light

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