This is In


"Tarnation . . . Ornette Coleman," I read from Mr. Eisenlohr's profile. "Tarnation"- the documentary is staggering in scope, depth and the first to utilize the modern media available to youth to tell a profound story with little answers and a lot of questions. And the word tarnation, itself, is pretty cool, too. The only documentary that blew me away like "Tarnation" was "Sick: The Life and Death of Bob Flanagan Supermasochist." Never would I willingly view a nail driven straight through someone's cock into a piece of plywood. That one time I did, because he deserved my respect and admiration; he would have wanted me to experience it in 32mm and hold it and feel it and deal with the experience. "How did you experience it?" he might have asked, tied up by his balls, happy, a knowing smile on his face.

Sick Body Meta Tarnation

"Here is where my blood becomes bigger then me." - Lidia Yuknavitch from "Her Other Mouths" That's from memory. The only time I met her, she was reading at Powell's on Hawthorne and it was an alright short story about a city, inspired by something that happened at OMSI when it was still up by the Zoo; she didn't feel comfortable reading aloud, all that much. I told her that the line was very important to me and she said it was important to her, too. My hand that was propping up my arm that was propping up me, slipped. I was very nervous and awkward. She seemed to understand as I hurried away. "Here is where my blood gets bigger then me" is a line of pure poetry. I don't remember lines that often, and I don't know why. I remember one time in college, a professor was astounded that I couldn't recite one of Shakespeare's sonnets, because of my performing poetry whenever I could around campus and around town. I worked hard to memorize the sonnet, one of the faggish ones, but I couldn't. The other two quotes that will remain unforgotten are: "Wyndham Lewis chose blindness/rather than have his mind stop" (Ezra Pound) and "If the doors of perception were cleansed, then the world would appear to man as it is, infinite" (William Blake). There's a few more, besides all the aphorisms of my father's father, but that's heady company, all the same. Though I'm not important, just another poet in sheep's clothing, so it really doesn't mean much.

Here is where my blood gets bigger then me.

That's why I listen to when I'm writing, when I can. To be hip and learn to be someone, even though my age belies my ability to be hip and even when that was an age of mine, I rebelled against hipness. Part of it, though, was trying to hide my shyness, as though it was weakness or a fault. "Love your faults" is another quote that I remember at the moment. My dear-friend Joyce, we were still lovers at the time, wrote in lipstick on my car window, "(heart) your faults."

It's almost 9pm. Almost time to call my baby.


Tri-Chiastic Treatises


1.1 Every poem is of the aftermath of a moment, because of a moment of the aftermath in every poem

1.2 There is no hope for you and me, because without me and you there is no hope

1.3 Money is the potential for tragedy, because without the tragedy of potential there is no money

1.4 Desire is greedy after a sexless month, because a month becomes sexless with a greedy desire

1.5 Each sin is a redemption before you, because you before each redemption is a sin.

1.6 There is only calm after calamity when there is no third, and the opposite might not be so true

1.7 Who without wanting draws their name, when their name draws wanting without whom?

1.8 Floors hold the walls for the doors, when the doors for the walls hold floors.

1.9 To digest the many for enough-with just mounts the injustices, because the injustices mount with just enough for the many to digest.

1.10 Form is the function of fact only within belief, because belief within only fact the function forms

A root machine


The eggplant shipload overthrown by a strong undercurrent.

Toadstools wield emigrants, hereby bona fide to implement, haphazardly, a peaceful antonym to the skillet grunt of a totalitarian poplar, collatingly medicated.

The signage along the highway was indicative of replica, or skated smooth hydrant, a male concerned that his performance might surpass a rating of PG.

All the off-ramps in this state are mediocre, all the stadia unmarked, competitors to the collateral of a cheekbone, or the independent kickoff of an unproductive polio joist.

Even as the show started, the PA system boggled knowledgeably, an overt routine to the tattle corpse singing on the AstroTurf, as told by the seductively hinged anchorwoman.

vaguest virtuosos rotting seeds


Dear reader,

Don't know if you heard, but in past months it's come out in all the shows: the truth of how the stars drip fat. It's great that it's not only here for the moviestars now. It's here, too.

And syntax terms are obviously detrimental to the process of programming. In addition, spam remembers the paradigm of wicked virtuosos having the vaguest of nuances yet rotting seeds.

And you know what? I despise that she does not know what she is going to do with the gift and her boyfriend does not want it.


Frank Sauce

No Heal


Heal healing, hemorrage thought, graft gasp, constant crotch, pixel pocket, pandemic puss, the fuse lights the fire when she won't suck my cock

Love forgets its preamble, the trough of last nights cough as the cat snores until the bore forlorned in a naked bed beside her

fuck you, I have a toothache, a heartache, a sacredache, a fingerache, a headache, a hairache, an eyeache, a niceache, an ache for every 'yes' he ever said and ache for every 'no' she didn't say when she should have

I've worked all day for the perfect word, so I came home with my coat on, sat down and forgot the word that was perfect

All we need is one word and we spend our whole life looking for it

Wander Winds Myopic Song


Richard Marchand
Our skin changes the colors in an electric wind; the plea of the unplugged body prone to silence

Of which, in an information era, these thoughts electric, this mind coded into strings of 0 and 1, a half-world ordered in sets of 8, 16 or 32, depending on you and the machines you use

All the noise that I have won't get to you this way, it lies nullified between this mind and its fingers

Here we weave noise and reason into a language machines do not understand

What is the language for the noise that we share?

Sardonic Trailers and other Myths


There are no trailers here; it's just a set for a german sheperd, two women, nail polish, a couch, a table, a door, a latch, a lock, a big beer and a bigger gun

It's not real, even though we might want it to be real; nothing here is real except your laugh, if you laughed or are laughing

Perhaps you cried or are crying, because you miss your old life, the life in the trailer park or perhaps you never lived in a trailer park and that life that you could have lived in a trailer park cannot happen, because you live in a house or an apartment in a city or town far from your birth or too near your birth or perhaps you were born right where you are now, only you're not being born anymore, you have been born and since you have been born, you can no longer be born again into this life that you are presently living in a city or a town where there is a place you call home, a house or an apartment in which you are currently living

Premember is not an elegant word, it's superficial and does not resound

Strange how we hold onto words, even when we have another word or groups of words in front of us that say or write what we want or need to say or write, but we hold onto the word that we have first used, even if they are developed in clever-unclever moments, when we believe we were at our cleverest, but we were or are only mildly clever

Clever does only the head make, clever does not a world or life create

Frank Sauce

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