I Was a Teenage Sketchbook

Next Season's Spaceship Designs

2006-11-28T11:48:00.000-08:00

Confessions of a Monster Kid

2006-11-22T10:40:00.000-08:00

Halloween clutched at my kiddy heart when I was three years old. I wanted to be a witch, and my modern parents, without fussing about gender appropriateness, conjured up one of those luridly boxed costume sets that included a pointy-hatted hag mask, glitter-tinted cape and harvest colored apron. I made my rounds of the neighborhood and fell in love with all the styled spookiness scented by smells of burning jack-o-lanterns.

Every birthday thereafter (since I was lucky to be born merely 10 days before All Hallows Eve) had found it's theme. Each year a patient birthday cake baker heard my long wish list for icing: a haunted house on a hill with bats and a dead tree moon shining through bare branches over a graveyard with emerging skeletons pumpkins creepy crawlies and BLACK ICING.

When I was five years old, I saw a movie trailer for a Coming Soon attraction: Jason and the Argonauts. I wanted so badly to see it but it took (what seemed like) forever to arrive in theaters so that I completely forgot about it until one night my Dad packed me into the car and drove us off into the night for a surprise screening. I was thrilled.

As the Wonder Bread metamorphosis sped me towards puberty, I met my closest friend yet, Luke Osteen, who showed me my first ever copy of Famous Monsters of Filmland Magazine and introduced me to the secret boys' world of sleepover dinosaur flashlight comicbook latenight thriller B movie bunkbed moonscapes. We were stay-up-late-into-the-morning outlaws awash in hormonal tides that amplified our ravenous cravings for the creative energy spun off by monsterous make-up, nostalgic silent films, gruesome tableux styled by fantastical filmmakers, and tempered by a built-in safety valve of rioteous laffs at rediculous puns by Forrest J Ackerman and Stan Lee.

Belonging to an extended family of other monster magazine collecting kids around the world was much headier stuff than being in a Webelos pack. My gang included werewolves, mummies, vampires, ghouls, and aliens. That world of crazy creatures inspired me to build, paint, draw, invent, perform and film. The inclusive universe of monster makers not only nourished my own budding talents but showed me ,time and again, that it was OK to be different and misunderstood; that there was a brilliant community that valued imagination over brawn and forgave girly softball throws and misfitness.

Monsters saved me from the train wreck reality of teenagehood in the midst of the social upheavals of the late 60s/early 70s and the unholy gore of the Vietnam War. They also primed me to appreciate the extraordinary renaissance of American art and pop culture that was in full bloom at the same time.

Drinking Companion

2006-11-21T17:28:00.001-08:00

Stray

2006-09-20T15:41:00.000-07:00

You are the kindest creature! Cradled

you will not let me see the eye

that's skipped a season, frosting.

All my dreams are clogged there, dull

dish of milk. The sallow moon locked

in cycle, dead ash of numbers.

All my wishes whisper to a fizzle

you hear as animal sound. Indistinguishable.

"Hope" as foreign to you as "death."

One early ripening. Alert to life

you purr, part of you gone to winter.

Holy Art School Doodle, Batman! #3

2006-09-06T11:33:00.000-07:00

The Journey Down

2006-08-29T17:22:00.000-07:00

When I come to, I see again the sad face of my mother. Her features float beside me, neat as if cut from the family album. She has no body, no limbs to wring or fret with, no finger to point, just the sad expression of a mother who's seen her son go rotten inside and out.

There are other mothers here, keeping vigil above sons and daughters. They hover thin and hopeless, our only company on the slow journey down. Even though I'm puking, I am fascinated by this perverse technical achievement. They are a perfectly effective punishment. I am consumed by guilt.

Our dark capsule is filled with pleas for forgiveness, childish denials and soft, wet sobs. Petty crimes are evident: soiled beds, dirty magazines under the mattress, sheets yellow with urine or stiff with semen or blotched with blood, dim flashlights, forbidden cigarettes, and secret diaries.

Someone stumbles up, fist whistling through his mother's shocked visage, tripping over her empty purse.

This could be any forgotten sci-fi film -- I am one of the hundred chosen to survive, crowding around the window of our spaceship for one last look at our doomed world -- only the film is running wrong and we are falling back to a planet blossoming in agony. The motherworld laboring in reverse.

"I'm so sorry, Momma."

Why the Long Face?

2006-08-24T09:34:00.000-07:00

Pikadon

2006-08-18T17:34:00.000-07:00

Imagine the slow shelling
Of ourselves, sped
To a frenzy by a globe
Hotter than hormones.

Snake and onion, our bones
Have had enough of us.
They are lush in a second
To their marrows.

Rivulets, kite skin,
Carnelian as we rub,
In the garden
Trailing like snails.

Well Hung

2006-08-11T15:10:00.000-07:00

Page From a Russian Novel

2006-08-08T16:55:00.000-07:00

Natasha,

Arlene Dinosaur, Isadore Unlearn, Sour Adrenaline, Redial Unreason, and Nonreal Residua are all anagrams for Laurie Anderson. "O Anus Perm" was, perhaps, her biggest hit.

Now, which career did Natasha Readings pick at the job fair?

[ ] SACRAMENT PROFITER
[ ] IMPORTANCE STRAFER
[ ] FOREPART MISCREANT
[ ] PANIC REFORMATTERS
[ ] TRACEPOINTS FARMER
[ ] PRETORIA CRAFTSMEN
[ ] FRACTION TAMPERERS
[ ] FORTRAN SPERMACETI
[ ] PERFORMANCE ARTIST

Paris sounds divoon. I have fond memories of my nights at The Lido when I was in charge of re-glittering Josephine Baker's bananas. Jerry Lewis was still in diapers and every Frenchman spoke reverently of "ze Laurel" and "ze Hardy". The Eiffel Tower was still made of marzipan, and nights were spent "Yanky kissing" Resistance fighters traded Picassos for chocolate bars which they made into souffles using Zippo lighters. Merde, life was cheap then!

Love,

Anya

The Failing Engines of Gravity

2006-08-03T00:12:00.000-07:00

For Yeats

2006-08-01T21:55:00.000-07:00

August's end we meet

on road in woods

berry ripe; so heavy

trees threaten

to skin themselves.

Air sweats, sky drags

around our heads.

Lives shift, turning over

on full stomachs.

Even the road moves--

on fat worms,

one layer on all the others,

moving.

We are thick with silence.

Summer tongues

ready to fall,

words purpled for picking.

A chainsaw wails across miles.

Whatever limb severed

crashes hard on all the years

and makes no noise.

You Keep Lyin' When you Oughta be Truthin'

2006-07-30T14:45:00.000-07:00

I Feel So Roman

2006-07-29T15:54:00.000-07:00

These die SEXY. They ingest varieties of drugs suited to this form of termination and then are lined up in groups according to their estimated potency.

Academic sorting aside, they are all similarly displayed. The men have been given baby blue gowns soaked in a litmus-like solution. As they spit and ejaculate, broad orange expressionistic streaks stain their robes. Grids are superimposed by projection to aid in arousal.

The women have been attached to video screens displaying, in much the same way as a 1960s hippy color organ, the terminal intensity of their emotions, edged towards explosion by over-administration of hormones.

My top pick is a man who has been injected with a concentration of his favorite cologne. I massage my scrotum, the vibrator cooled in liquid helium.

My prick is up, searching for some hint of originality, some condensation of creativity, to make this expensive show worth it.

I feel so Roman, though I still don't think I could comfortably vomit up my dinner (the chief activity of sex-death by food).

I Gave up Guitar After a Few Lessons

2006-07-27T00:38:00.000-07:00

Mr. D. in October Drag

2006-07-26T00:17:00.000-07:00

Cannibal in an orange grass suit I am,
teeth black as a charcoal dream.
Your ink's a rush through this straw--
my mouth, tight as a needle hole.
I am beveled to slice you on contact,
without a word I draw blood
and sprinkle bone dust in the wound.Mummy!

Face It

2006-07-25T20:35:00.000-07:00

Lost Boys

2006-07-24T18:37:00.000-07:00

You are so skinny, you say,
because your body's fed on its memories.

You shout this though I am just next to you.

You, who memorized my first kiss,
cannot retrieve my name now.

Speeding into space, your sobs come
few and far between.

You cannot imagine yourself anymore --
eye color, hair, the extent of your bruises.

Are you the cup's hard rim, the pill
in your throat or the hand you clutch but cannot see?

You ask if I am afraid as I bring you to sleep.

HBO vs. Broadcast TV

2006-07-23T20:37:00.000-07:00

Pee-Wee's Multiplex

2006-07-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

I am in a movie theater that is showing all its films simultaneously. The room is a darkroom and everyone in it is developing the same thing. I stand in the aisle during the bright scenes until I spot a potential. I make sure that I have to squeeze by him so that he can feel the heat of my body. I sit down and watch him watch the movies. I can't unwed the rough, impolite rotting of that stony gaze and, failing to supply any sense of my own, telescope and enter an adjacent cubicle.

Here, the idyllic hasn't begun yet and everyone is doing ghoulish until the movie begins. I move my leg against his. His Romeo thigh is icy, no colony. He is, of course, sitting, but also rubbing sometimes. I also discover that if I rub myself and moan loud enough, people will stare at me instead of the screen. I enigmatic this unwed. The picture ends.

I am about to enter another room when I am stopped by an angry ma'am.

"May I see your dick, please," he says in a loud, annoyed way and so I fondle him with equal nausea.

"I've already some once," I explain, "but I didn't understand the film."

I smile because I know that he hasn't moved his thigh away.

"I'll come asunder and get a thicker tissue layer, O.K.?"

The man looks shocker and I look shocker back.

Favorite Old Chair

2006-07-21T10:31:00.000-07:00

Mall of America

2006-07-20T00:44:00.000-07:00

Icy sea a man volcanic rising rapidly and with great intention. His fuming and spewing forms new land. He holds onto the property until the values max. He leases to major retailers. He enters the mall. He stands at the edge of the atrium balcony whose bannister encircles a gaping void. Rising past his face is a moist breeze faintly scented with early morning sex. He knows that each consumer will smell something different and that all will be enticed. He picks up the new catalog whose copy extols cancer's "in-ness." He pages through the spring selection of ravaged cells. He sees the effect of each new strain on a variety of models. He notes that newlyweds can register their genetic corruption. He considers giving the gift to his twin. Before he can select, he is distracted by an arrangement of obituary objects. It is his very own name spelled out in the spectacle of disease.

Gollum

2006-07-19T01:01:00.000-07:00

Current

2006-07-18T09:12:00.000-07:00

The reef is dark and crawling.
Few hulls glide this late
in evening--their lights
filter down, a glinting snow,
and streak a wriggling side.

The ocean is a thick wind.
Bones are a brackish rain
when it blows. A lungfull
is the sailors' oldest song.

My shell is sunk,
a briny dissolution.
Hands reach, fingers drag
my surface, their waves
just a fine trembling.

Unknown Nanobe Hazard Warning Apparel

2006-07-17T19:48:00.000-07:00

Kill the Texan

2006-07-16T16:38:00.000-07:00

Hi M,

I had a very intense hospital dream starring us as patients. I was having my heart put back in after having already been transplanted out. But then I heard you were in the same hospital because you jumped off the roof of the parking garage. I got up with my IV drip and raced through a mint-green maze of corridors awash in disinfectant. Finally I found the foreigners' ward and I was told that you were in critical condition after attempting double lover's suicide with a man from Texas. I resolved to kill the Texan once he was brought back from the dead.

--J.

Mask for Modern Primitives

2006-07-15T09:28:00.000-07:00

Good Advice for Betty Crocker

2006-07-14T00:11:00.000-07:00

Start mulching bark now.

Build a third escape tunnel.

Bury a precious vegetable under the sign of the gold arches.

Two drops in each cupcake.

When the scent of spoiling meat is strong, rub the glass orbs with the cinnabar wand.

Offer to carry a stranger's luggage to the Holiday Inn.

Trace the outline of your cat with that awful Crayola crayon "flesh" color.

Think globally, act clownishly.

Floss.

Take Me to Yul Brynner!

2006-07-13T00:13:00.000-07:00

Skinship Saplings in the Sacred Grove (fragment)

2006-07-12T00:48:00.000-07:00

Legend has it that the location of the shrine was determined by the release of a rare white lizard into the forest. Royal diviners would follow the creature until it rose up and began walking on its hind legs. At this spot, acolytes would fertilize the ground with their six fluids according to carefully timed agricultural customs. Then, returning to the spot six months later, they would confirm the emergence of non-specific tissue. Setting up a permanent compound, they would then tend the sprouts through adolescence at which time any twins would be separated and divided among the priests.

Robots are our Friends

2006-07-11T00:56:00.000-07:00

Possessed

2006-07-10T01:01:00.000-07:00

This "found poem", generated by a spamming engine, was received in my email on Feb 20, 2004. I have added punctuation, line breaks, and a title.

Their golden carpet stinks.
However, mine purple recycle bin falls,
Or mine white baby calms down.

A small cat stares.
However, mine green bottle smells.

A given, expensive, beautiful MP3 player
Stares and perhaps...whose soft dog got an idea?
Any slopy Sony adheres.

His brother's white hairy little white bra is on fire.
Our small sofa stares.
The white, white forge spits.

Her daughter's round-shaped clock calculates.
Any given round bra lies.

His shining t-shirt calculates.
Our beautiful t-shirt sleeps.

Her round-shaped, smart, slopy pencil walks.
Or, maybe mine white sofa prepares for a fight.

His brother's odd shaped umbrella snores,
His brother's white forge fidgets.
His brother's noisy ram calms down.

Their purple picture makes sound.

Nightmare on Sesame Street

2006-07-09T18:54:00.000-07:00

Surgical Theater

2006-07-08T21:37:00.000-07:00

The surgical theater dims revealing an enormous digital stopwatch. It's to be a competition, that's obvious. The trainees appear: young, tanned hybrids with similar notebooks and arrangements of credentials. I've mustered little enthusiasm for the review I'm to write for the digest.

The patients are weeping, only slightly doped. Cross sections of their induced sarcomas are in constant update on the screens. There are capsules of cyanide, like colorful jujubes, on hand in cut crystal dishes on little, silver rolling trays. Aside from decorative exposition, I can't think of anything clever to say. My mind is constantly wandering back to shopping. That is to say, I draw a blank.

Holy Art School Doodle, Batman! #2

2006-07-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

Fall (for my Father)

2006-07-06T16:18:00.000-07:00

Three years now.
Your crate should be
plumping,
your jaw cracking
like a pumpkin,
your tongue--a root
worming up to sun.
This breeze's
seasoned with you.

Their Charms are in His Belly

2006-07-05T00:05:00.000-07:00

You Say the Morning Breaks

2006-07-04T23:43:00.000-07:00

How has morning ever broken?
Always Time;
incessant,
doggedly chasing the full moon cat.
Nag.

The beast, put to sleep,
heaves up again from the slab,
gnashing and squirming
under dawn's scalpel.

Flesh sloughs from bone.
Night recoils its embrace--
a velvet anemone.

Daybreak's bleached fossil,
dupe to duties of a million years--
birthing and burying
the sludge of stars.

Nemesis
steals me from dreamy coma,
waking to that heavy reproach
that crushes to dust,
to glint in rising columns
as I lie broken.

Alternative Means of Atmospheric Travel

2006-07-03T17:41:00.000-07:00

The Airship

2006-07-02T00:11:00.000-07:00

To make believe
and play that image once again,
as real as a stereoscope card:

The man waits foreverin Ezbekiyeh Gardens in Cairo,
in the same heat,
the same natty suit and knickers.
The same sun
shines on the royal palms--anchors,
stone-heavy mooring masts,
lotus pillars sunk in grass.

The same man waits there.
He looks our way,
sweat beading under his hat brim,
cane supporting himstraight as the trees,
waiting to sight the horizon,
to hear the buzz of flies become a roar.

The man waits forever--
waits for the shadow to reach his feet,
waits for the grey point to block the sun,
waits for the rush of shade.

To play the image once again:
he waits for its approach,
its humming engines
and silver belly stretched against the land.

Half way around the Earth from where I am,
oxen chatter by their wells.

Cigar-Shaped and Moved with Incredible Speed

2006-07-01T12:06:00.000-07:00

Nocturnal Emissions

2006-06-30T13:42:00.000-07:00

Hi, I read your letters again last night, thin scent of you stuck to my fingers now. Sweet, you guiding me to memories. I'm still shaking sand from my socks on this beach where I've spent a little lifetime since you left working on stories that were quite mean and dishonest until your letters of love knocked them into focus so fast that I'm sending you this valentine.

How is the city of sex anytime, Heaven? There aren't many men in my life right now. Spend my time off chasing ghosts that haunt the toilets and parks, walking everywhere (which only the poor do in L.A.). I actually mean that a terrible secret makes music here these evenings. A new and intimate companion. He comes here on Saturday nights and fucks me over. His name is Loss. So, I'm shut out of L.A. and I dance on Venice Beach for quarters. My life's like those two masks of theater. Can you see me, the absense of you forming my smile and my frown?

What's that? Oh, you remembered. Yeah, today I'm thirty-one years old. Tomorrow, what will I be? Luckily, no one sent me roses and chocolates like you used to. I sound so blithe! Last night I arranged the performers in a vast ultra-violet landscape. I had the front row all to myself. I watched them glow and touch. Then, I walked out and sat by the thousand camp fires of the homeless. I bartered, trading back rubs for cheap wine. My birthday party was very nice.

What else? My performance in Brussels went to hell, tape enclosed. No plot. I forget the idea. A lot of subtle moves and part of it repeats. The epidodes merge the way a river gives up a body. He offers the flowers shifting collage of video images kissing the slick of his lover's nipple, stomach, the wet nape of his neck warm against the cold tiles of the shower walls. They won't let go of each other, shorts coiling around the thighs of Laocoon and his hunky sons. Anyway, it was a bomb. But I've perceived, in a number of ways, a new piece presenting ourselves -- as fantasies or dreams -- in hyper-drag with never too many sequins in these vignettes composed of obsessions over Dorothy's shoes and friends of Dorothy -- old Daddies in leather -- hunched up against each other in a bar called "The Yellow Brick."

I'm researching normalcy. No authoritative studies exist yet. I personally believe that hanging out the back window with a pair of binoculors to watch the neighbor boys fuck is a good definition. It's a very academic pursuit -- sketches in blue pen noting the signals, rectal temperatures, samples of their ejaculate sent to the lab. Am I turning you on? Or am I turning into you? I squeeze you out with each new fantasy so I can make sure you still exist in me. I have fantisized daily about your face, smiling canvas for my sperm. And I see you on video, attracting dust like a magnet. I have a secret plan to come to your rescue. I know an actor. He says that if I send slides, resume, and lots of everything to a hidden theater or dance space disguised as a love motel -- there he will faithfully and accurately transform his own body so that I can rehearse my lovemaking with you (the scene in question).

Can you tell? I'm pretty poor at doing this over the phone. It's not good for me to hear your voice too often. I think of seeing you and me kiss on all the video monitors in Japan and everyone standing frozen in the train stations watching our monster-sized make-out while gay boys cruise in and out of the toilets, hard-ons leaking into Issey Miyake briefs. It's a comedy disguising a tragedy.

One-Eyed Monster

2006-06-29T11:03:00.000-07:00

Only Zero Shopping Days Left

2006-06-28T10:19:00.000-07:00

The tall androgyne calmly channels The Force and sets fire to a mall filled with holiday shoppers. The invented insurrection thus extinguished must be cooled with water for days before the planting of evidence can begin. He/she gestures like a surgeon across this latest preventative success; a tar-black forest of charred products and melted mannequins.

I notice the riot effect of the glass and plastic which replicates him back as her own fiancé. He/she weeps into the tissue of mummies as if on display in those very clothes. I see this sentimental gesture repeated everywhere by the guards and the doctors. Proof enough of the "hundredth monkey" theory.

Feed Your Head

2006-06-27T00:39:00.000-07:00

Medicine Man

2006-06-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

I can't heal myself! Spit
Gold teeth to a rusty puddle
Of blood in this ochreous
Hell-stretch of bone-pocked

Desert. I'm pickled in
Whiskey and dying
In this trap; tourists snap
At the copperhead in gasoline,

Coyote pelt, splintered Injun
'n sickly shootists. Joshua
Tree's whistlin' Dixie
As high noon gnaws, everything

Dies. I'll be borned agin --
Beady trinkets, fistfuls
Of spine to charm
Your squaw, your whooping

Child. Bury me
Alive. Ribcage
Rasps one last supper o' dust.
When my eyes are fingered

Shut -- see --Clouds like mesas
In a blue stream sky,
Buzzards hawking

My bones for ice.

Recently Discovered Codex Fragment

2006-06-25T00:35:00.000-07:00

Baja, Death on Holiday

2006-06-24T00:04:00.000-07:00

Dust jugs crack the spine
Of broken boulevard.
This hellfire kiln --
It's the trap I've come to tourist.

Souvineers of suffering
Heatedly hawked --
A braceletof failed charms, apocryphal gems

Jangled in a glittery hiss.
Not a slither of passion.
Original sin's too rare to bargain

Away in the blaze they endure.
They string those snakey trinkets
In the cool belly of the Mission,

In coffin-shaped confessionals
Where sins are traded daily
For a snack of flesh and blood.

I sift through all the mummy dust
Unearthing my salvation -- candy skulls,
Thirteen to the dollar,

Each bleached horror blessed
With a frosty number, a monogram,
A confectionary crucifix.

I rattle a bagful.

On the train home, a dozen left.
The sugary stain of a cross on my lips.

Holy Art School Doodle, Batman!

2006-06-23T00:21:00.000-07:00

Licked

2006-06-22T00:32:00.000-07:00

The young tongue, tangled
in sticky duet.

Now, lapping at dust.

Eraserheads (and Hands)

2006-06-21T01:26:00.000-07:00

Neverland Confidential

2006-06-20T01:09:00.000-07:00

What happened during the next thirty minutes or so, soon after the Joneses (not their real names) drove their teenage son home, is a mystery; and perhaps that's why, from the honors banquet, they came up over the rise onto this parking lot, rather than the actual Orchard Road and suddenly saw ambulances in their imaginations. Whatever hap-mare scene, by 10:30 that evening their dream's a murder site with people and lights and people everywhere.

When they reached their home the lights came up on Jonny (not his real name). He was out, swearing, and was just absolutely and belligerently wasted in the neighbor's driveway. He got up, couldn't walk, couldn't even talk right. Jonny staggered towards the porch.

Suddenly, from later, Mr. Jones between his car and the hedge like a real man strode, ordered, "Get out of the house!" The parents towards the boy. At first they thought fist-fight, didn't know what was wrong, suspected a bad crowd; they broke out in a horrible fear-rash that he was on drugs and took him to the flash and heard the boy scream. He fell, got hospital.

Later, Jonny's parents apologized to everyone in front of the camera crew. Jonny was so nervous he threw-up all over the press.

And much later Jonny's brother remembered that a few weeks after Halloween, Jonny was acting weird and got a call from Michael Jackson (not his real name). Jackson was hysterical in the limo that night in the church parking lot.

"I can't hold it in any more," he cried, "stuffed it right away and it turned me into someone else, gotta tell someone!"

"So come over," Jonny urged, being the sensitive type.

Five times, as it was later discovered, right in the heart. He collapsed in his Dad's arms, spurting revelations about boys like Matt Dillon. Blood like an artery had been hit, and soon after that, Jonny was in love with this guy whom he could never tell.

Mr. Jones prayed for him, but told himself while pressing his hands against the wounds that he had a feeling about all this.

"I think he's going to ask you out, Son."

Two weeks later he did.

Dad was always sharp at sensing that sort of thing.

One reason that people suspect Michael is that Jonny had written in Jackson's yearbook, "You're going to be a big name in your life, not because you're 'weird' or anything, but because you're __ __ __ and proud to say it." But he didn't write it in, he just made three spaces; otherwise it would be putting a jinx on it.

Jackson now claims, in a note released by his attorneys, that he just wanted a "really close pal and someone to go dancing with, bad."

You Turn Me On

2006-06-19T01:35:00.000-07:00

Ganymede Haikus

2006-06-18T00:03:00.000-07:00

GWM,
Blond, fit, hung bottom.
Real princess.

Aquarian
Into gymnasia,
Tending sheep.

ISO
Dominant Daddy,
Total top.

Beard a plus!
Take me to heaven.
No fats/femmes.

Now All I Have is a Photograph

2006-06-17T00:20:00.000-07:00

Pagoda of Extinction

2006-06-16T00:03:00.001-07:00

sin

glee

path

stifling

groans

capture

stillness

mimesis

clay clone

gene spool

species cull

clay shadows

juxtagendered

pseudo-sinister

little vest of clay

horror genre splat

mystery guest stars

death and taxidermy

impossibile progeny

alien bed-wettings

crash-dumb testis

mounting stiffness

lumpy blob of matter

odd, some bittersweet

burial stories, babbled

flayed naked heart milk

sandcast crayon forests

jingles and hard barnyard

troglomorphic insemination

universal playtime perversions

stumpy and uncoordinated guys

artificially sweetened impossibility

sex is an echo of bygone instincts

sci-fi vegetables for carnivore Lent

former infant's satisfying perversion

brilliant pain of childhood exorcised

plastic surgery botched mortician lips

photographile videot peeping tomboys

a shadowfree stage of reflective silversand

squirrels, chip monks, and elegant pine coffins

clay genitalia, dug-out vaginas, numb buttholes

revamped + inorganic + slabs + organic + vamped

exspermental dosings abruptly reach evolutionary end

sculptures of clay-encased used stuffed plastic animatrons

mutilated Barbies reciting sad creepy taunts of decapitation

reverse-engineered squirrels holding secret spreading ecstasy

chunky statuettes foreshadow the extinction of genetic diversiblings

hacked-off switch-headed long-necked e-limbs, e-heads, and e-entrails

(Marischa Slusarski and Claire Barron artists' statement expressed as a stupa)

Freud's Copy of the Sears Catalog

2006-06-15T17:13:00.000-07:00

Implicating You

2006-06-14T14:37:00.000-07:00

Admit the secret ache that called you here tonight.

What is it that you want?

The brush of a devil's thigh, the tar pit of cheap opiates,

an ass to split, a lover's pubic hair under tongue,

the moisture between two bellies or the flaming remnants

of a body falling from the sky into tomorrow's headlines?

I am your guide and your barrier.

And this path of shadows is paved with silver nitrate

and hot, whispery discourse.