Monday, May 28, 2012

THE APPLE AND THE THING OUTSIDE

The table the window the apple and the thing outside can't quite make out what the table the window the apple and the thing outside doing being can't cover this whole face divided among the table the window the apple and the thing outside why do they do that with those things those people just things misshapen and misunderstood people things among the box wet with old food and laundry detergent burning into the buttons on shirts on cars on depressing into the holes of skin of things people things among the box wet with hallways leading inward so out of here to stay planted in the dried place place place.


The table the window the apple and the thing outside can't quite make out what the brushing up against the other contours glued over a womb that burrowed into her gagged withdrawal fumbling around books given away to the curb run over with traffic and its matching shapes and colors consolidated service limited but not there while skin grinds to the water between mountains under harsh light of eyes bargaining for connection to electrocute her pupils closing the loop the way is done around and around the loop around the noose tightening the noose around the bottleneck dry heaving on street after street.


The table the window the apple and the thing outside can't quite go anywhere with this this note this scribbled look on the face divided between dark hands whose hand is that held up in the night over the bed no one there sharing this moment this moment silent and filled with silence silence filled with dark fingers bargaining for connection to whose body to electrocute her pupils closing the loop the way is done around and around around the loop around the noose tightening the noose around the bottleneck dry heaving on street after street whose hand is that held up in the night?  


The table the window the apple and the thing outside it won't go away can't get away found along the road put in the backseat behind the wheel along for the ride driving


"What are you driving at?"


The table the window the apple and the thing outside it won't go away can't get away found along the road put in the backseat behind the wheel along for the ride driving


"What are you driving at?"
"Where to?"


found along the road in a line of bobbing heads bobbing no water still anyway hold on to the edge of the road or you'll drown in the living room 


"What are you driving at?"
"Where to?"
"When do I get my chance?"


found along the road slices of what has gone around and around around the loop around the noose tightening the noose around the bottleneck dry heaving on street after street whose hand is that held up in the night?


"What are you driving at?"
"Where to?"
"When do I get my chance?"
"How about I make the rules who get's a chance?"
"You've been playing for hours."
"How else am I going to move up?"


The table the window the apple and the thing outside can't quite go anywhere with this this note this scribbled look on the face divided between dark hands whose hand is that held up in the night over the bed no one there sharing this moment this moment silent and filled with silence silence filled with dark fingers bargaining for connection to whose body to electrocute her pupils closing the loop the way is done around and around around the loop around the noose tightening the noose around the bottleneck dry heaving on street after street whose hand is that held up in the night?
Speaking to no one else in particular just anyone else but the asshole never mind found another one along the road found along the road in a line of bobbing heads bobbing no water still anyway hold on to the edge of the road or you'll drown in the living room.


"You are such a good judge of video game flesh."


The table the window the apple and the thing outside it won't go away can't get away found along the road put in the backseat behind the wheel along for the ride driving


"What are you driving at?"
"Where to?"


The table the window the apple and the thing outside can't quite make out what the table the window the apple and the thing outside doing being can't cover this whole face divided among the table the window the apple and the thing outside why do they do that with those things those people just things misshapen and misunderstood people things among the box wet with old food and laundry detergent burning into the buttons on shirts on cars on depressing into the holes of skin of things people things among the box wet with hallways leading inward so out of here to stay planted in the dried place place place.


- Max Stoltenberg



Wednesday, May 23, 2012

AFTERBURN

Squinting and wide-eyed the bubble wrap vesicles popped or were left alone.  The wind played with the volume control of the land.  Voices were raised to pull conversations to match what they were wearing out and that was their form of overcoming or coming over or getting something over with or getting with something to be to be prevented from falling off the back back to that.  Metal gleamed in upper parts of windows on the upper floors.  They smiled and gleamed for eyes to look up at them and see their teeth and feel their own cavities the ones that separated them and their bodies and their thoughts.  A severing had passed through the town all slow like and stayed for some time a time that stretched its legs and wrapped them around for a hearing with words shaped with grammar that deadens penultimate nerve endings and endings that take their time some time a time that stretched its legs to wrap them around the buildings looked up to and looked at where metal gleamed in upper parts of windows on the upper floors.  They smiled and gleamed for eyes to look up at them and see their teeth and feel their own cavities the ones that separated them and their bodies and their thoughts.  A severing had passed through the town all slow like and stayed and stayed and still staying some time a time that stretched its legs and wrapped them around for a hearing with words shaped with grammar that deadens penultimate nerve endings and endings that take their time some time a time that stretched its legs and drew eyes to where its legs came together and the metal gleamed in the upper parts of its windows smiling with the shining brightness of its sharpened blade between its legs ready to come ready to come down.


Stool: What were you going to say?  What were you trying to say?
Gash: It wasn't that.
Stool: So, you're giving up on that now?
Gash: No.  It was never that.  
Stool: That's your story and you're adhering to it?  
Gash: What it never was is what you want it to be.
Stool: I'll bump into you some other day and find you and maybe I will just come across someone who reminds me of you and makes me forget you for good.
Gash: What good?
Stool: Of course.  I will just stumble upon someone who reminds me of you and makes me forget you for whatever.
Gash: Whatever.  What a word for one to use up all its limitless empty expression for seamlessly slipping out of the atmosphere and drifting off between systems worthless systems.
Stool: Stumbling will occupy my days to fall against or topple into someone who will never pull a trigger any trigger to evoke a crumbled fragment of you sticking to a drawn out roll of undeveloped film.
Gash: They might ask you to pull their finger instead and separate one of many old bones in their hands their bones their dismayed bones.
Stool: I'll separate your head from the rest of it.
Gash: It was the ending up in room after room and the purpose for my movements the getting up early the walking faster in the dark and the reasons would cut their hands to scale the fences and all the wires to get away from me to get as far away from me to reach the next sunset and its darkness before it is polluted with people and their hurrying to beat the light before it beats them to a pulp and its engulfing of the front rows of the solar system.
Stool: Stumbling about for me the brushstroke over my mouth painting the how it will be.  I should get on with it then.  Is there any rationalization left for me to stay?  
Gash: You were causing me to think of a brief little narrative at least I think it's not too long or I could abridge it if I am able to discern the appropriate spots to do so.
Stool: I know I am off as much as the next person and I am  next to you as the next person, but why postpone being off and on my stumbling through what lies ahead to smack into yet another decaying excuse.  I must be off sooner than later otherwise it'll prompt breaking another shovel digging up our tired routine including the lists.
Gash: Yes, the lists.
Stool: The latest turn your blithering has taken can drive one to being off and on his stumbling way sooner than later or it will be the lists and how to address you now.  Damn!  I went and said it.  May as well get it over with before I embark on my bumbling off-ramp or on-ramp or off-ramp.  The latest turn the blithering self-conscious reflection on the latest turn your blithering has taken leaves me more confused how I am to address you before I depart for good for whatever.
Gash: I'm glad you've chosen to delay long enough to bring it up.  You are a sporting and accommodating sort of fellow.  As a matter of fact I added a 4th page to my list of how I might prefer to be addressed.
Stool: The only address I'd perhaps consider would be your former location seeing that your current shelter was replaced by a rather sizable hole in the ground.
Gash: The bastards.  They're using more potent explosives these days.  Some bastards have no manners.
Stool: I better be saying, "Have a good dump and farewell."
Gash: Before you go, would you like me tell you the abridged narrative or I could read to you my latest additions I made to a 4th page on my list of ways to address me?
Stool: No, no.  It's no good.
Gash: How about a short synopsis?
Stool: No.  It's no use.  I am beginning my rotation of my body resulting in my back to your smeary face.
Gash: How about summing it up in one sentence and then you can decide to tarry a little more or leave for good for whatever.
Stool: One sentence?
Gash: One sentence.
Stool: One very short sentence?
Gash: Extremely short.
Stool: No more than 6 words?
Gash: I've got it down to 3.
Stool: Just 3?
Gash: 3.  No more no less.
Stool: All right.  Well, let's hear it then.
Gash: OK.  I do appreciate it.
Stool: 3?
Gash: Got it refined down to its very core.
Stool: Definitely 3?
Gash: Yes, 3.  I've been saying 3.
Stool: 3 beyond a shadow.
Gash: You, turd.  Do you think I've miscounted?
Stool: Actually, yes.  
Gash: Why?  What number is in your head?
Stool: 49.
Gash: Are you for real?
Stool: No.  I was really thinking 25.
Gash: Wow.  Glad to see I've moved up slightly in your estimation of my not meeting your expectations.
Stool: I wouldn't say from 49 to 25 is slightly.  Somewhat considerable.
Gash: Somewhat?  You're saying somewhat?
Stool: Now don't be too remiss when it comes to your I'm certain inevitable condensed narrative.  I have to be able to dig some amusement out from this dung heap before I about-face and take my pin to the soap bubble that was once you.
Gash: I'll give you inevitable.
Stool: Yes, you will.  Go ahead.
Gash: 3 words.
Stool: Say them.
Gash: Her skin bio-hazard.
Stool: Her skin bio-hazard?
Gash: Yes.  
Stool: Interesting.
Gash: Well?
Stool: I said, "Interesting."
Gash: Which one do you want to follow?  Her skin or bio-hazard?
Stool: Which one?  Well, that's a tough one.  I kind of like them both.
Gash: I'm getting that, but which one?
Stool: This is harder than I expected.  
Gash: I thought you would either silently mouth the words "fuck off" and do your about-face or you might give me a little salute with some flourish and offer, "May your night of the runs be not too runny and farewell, Thou Bio-Hazard" and then do your about-face annihilation of my bubble planet.
Stool: Those sound promising as well and I'll most likely get to them, but I'm honestly torn.
Gash: Really?  Do you want me to try again.
Stool: I'm game.
Gash: Her skin bio-hazard.
Stool: Well, consarnit!  I am dumfungled that you came up with this flipping sockdolager.
Gash: And I'm touched that you found a way to use that many words from the 3rd page of my list.  
Stool: It's a toss-up, my Dear Prophylactic Laden With Sputum.  
Gash: You never seem to tire of Page 2 either.  Don't think I won't be adding to the menu after you depart.
Stool: Why should you abstain from such an endeavor?  I'll take the bait.
Gash: What bait?
Stool: Tell me about her skin.
Gash: Now that I've gotten you to stay this long, I don't particularly feel all that eager to go into what I never much went into myself but it very much ended up going into me.
Stool: You mentioned you could slap together an abridged version.
Gash: Slap flinching and ducking beneath a trestle train trestle no not I think not there's this knot down here down there under the train trestle I think not.  I have an idea.  How about I do the about-face and run along used to run along not a lot of playing I think not but a lot of running along yes an about-face and walk fast along the alley and I can either make it to the desert never too far from the desert or maybe someone something I think not too improbable to think that I just might have something someone thing stop me dead in my tracks yes stop me dead dead you know where I'm going with this you always have know where I'm going with this stop me dead I think not too improbable for something to stop me stop me dead deader than something else anything else and do me the favor of I think not too much to ask or if it's too much to ask then never mind taking your hand to the dirt or wherever I drop dead to wipe away my tracks.  Do it thoroughly or do it half-assed or don't bother.  I think not now that I think of it those used to be the choices now they seem to have been wiped out and replaced I think not too unlikely when disliked by so many so disliked that when it comes to wiping someone or thing out it sure gets dragged out I think not too far off the mark about how it sure gets dragged out.
Stool: Tell me about her skin.
Gash: Her belly button.
Stool: You don't have to restrict yourself to 3 words.
Gash: A rare accomplishment when I consider how much my silences have provoked many a resentful exclusion.
Stool: Self-inflicted I think not too inaccurate a surmise.
Gash: So I have been told.  Yes, self-inflicted.  I have been trying to keep my head down deep enough between the tidal mounds of waste keep my head down deep enough out of sight of the self I have been inflicted with.
Stool: You can't outfox it, man.  At some intersection somewhere sometime they posted belonging on your back.  
Gash: Hammered it into me to keep it between the shoulders.
Stool: You've underestimated relationships.
Gash: I think not.  I have an all too exact gauging of their effects.  They keep needling you.  Like a lancet drawing out more pus than seed.  
Stool: I used to complain about grapes with seeds in them.  I demanded my seedless grapes.  I think not any measure of exaggeration when I say how very precious it would be to encounter some seeds no matter how dry and put my tongue to them.
Gash: Tic-tac-toe.
Stool: Noughts and crosses.
Gash: Her belly button had the center square.  A dagger cut in on us on her.  Superimposing game after game.  Deeper and deeper.  Got to keep this head down deep enough between the tidal mounds the tidal mountains of waste got to keep this head down deep enough out of sight of the self this head has been inflicted with.  Put the spoon away and stop stirring it with the spoon put away that big spoon stop stirring it with the spoon put it away stop swinging that really big spoon at this head you can't see it keep it down deep enough between the tidal mountains of waste got to keep this head down deep enough.




- Max Stoltenberg











Wednesday, May 16, 2012

EASIER DONE THAN SAID

Where did that go?  Where was it?  Somewhere in the vicinity of having to do with a lot not a great deal just an empty bare space of dirt of desert a vast tub drained of where was it?  Somewhere in the vicinity of having to do with a lot not a great deal just an empty bare space of dirt of desert a vast tub drained of where was it?  Been there somewhere at least the hot breeze and the whipping dirt is wearing away the edges of where thoughts meet with everything else or else flying dirt in the hot breeze decorticates the how it doesn't add up blown away so blown away along the path along the curb along the fence along the edge inserted into walls between this and that and by the way where did that go?  Where was it?  Somewhere in the vicinity of having to do with a lot not a great deal just an empty bare space of dirt of desert a vast tub drained of where was it?  Somewhere in the vicinity of having to do having to be having to do depending on who you talk to or who talks to you at you look away out the other side of the universe parked somewhere in the vicinity of all the other universes waiting in line for the toll booth as they leave their coordinates from inside the tollbooth with that look that looking for something look leaving behind the tollbooth windows getting covered in thicker layers of dirt flying dirt whipping dirt in the hot breeze whipping against what has what hasn't things and their attributes things and what they get to be called and thrown away and their what have you escapes at the moment stuck to the choking on the air the hot breeze and its crack of the whipping dirt trying lamely to spit the sand out over the top of the teeth bottomed out on the basin and its tollbooth left have they to look with that searching look for that dried hose for washing away this small pool of spit up brought up sand along with bits of undigested food sticking to feet weakening under the encumbrance of having of having or trying to bring this up at the wrong time and on the wrong rock hovering somewhere waiting to get in that line that goes on away from and goes on towards the tollbooth empty while they slap the hose against the dirt thumped into the hot breeze like exhalations don't bring it up stay down doesn't matter if staying down lying down breathing heavily before her opening up beginning to glisten that was stay down stay quiet not too loud they'll hear starting to dry starting to chafe said too much to them said too much to the plastic to the metal to the whipping hot breeze carrying too much said too much too far can't get far enough far enough away still here not too loud.


"Hang it up."
"It's already hung up."
"Then how come someone's still talking?"
"I don't hear anything."
"Yes, you do."
"How do you know what I hear?"
"Because I hear it and you're close enough."
"Close enough to do what?"
"You're right.  You and your questions.  Hang it up again just to make sure the talking stops and then move away."
"I hung it up again which makes how many times?"
"You and your questions.  And stop trying to count!"
"Now we move away."
"Now we what?"
"You heard yourself, don't deny it."
"Hang it up again."
"We've been trying that."
"We have haven't we?"
"You and your questions."
"No, it's you and your questions."
"Whatever, now the next step, remember?"
"The next step.  The moving away step."
"If we move away we'll break apart."
"We're already broken apart."
"Next step.  We've been changing our mind going up and down these steps that wrap around someone else's head."
"Can't wrap your head around it."
"Can't untangle it."
"Should we try to hang it up one more time?"


Somewhere in the vicinity of having to do having to be having to do depending on who you talk to or who talks to you at you look away out the other side of the universe parked somewhere in the vicinity of all the other universes waiting in line for the toll booth as they leave their coordinates from inside the tollbooth with that look that looking for something look leaving behind the tollbooth windows getting covered in thicker layers of dirt flying dirt whipping dirt in the hot breeze whipping against what has what hasn't things and their attributes things and what they get to be called and thrown away and their what have you escapes at the moment stuck to the choking on the air the hot breeze and its crack of the whipping dirt trying lamely to spit the sand out over the top of the teeth bottomed out on the basin and its tollbooth left have they to look with that searching look for that dried hose for washing away this small pool of spit up brought up sand along with bits of undigested food sticking to feet weakening under the encumbrance of having of having or trying to bring this up at the wrong time and on the wrong rock hovering somewhere waiting to get in that line that goes on away from and goes on towards the tollbooth empty while they slap the hose against the dirt.




- Max Stoltenberg



Sunday, May 13, 2012

MACULAR DEGENERATION

Lenses being wiped with tissue.  More scratches made themselves known as the tissue was used.  The present is grainier every moment it is stared at to have and to hold on to rub and to rub can't get this streak out a streak thickening into another scratch as the tissue is applied and fingernails lacerate the tissue.  The present is grainier every moment it is stared at to have and to hold on to rub and to rub can't get this streak out a streak thickening into another scratch scratches intersect to form another grid another plane between lenses closing in on each other invading each other's field of vision.  


Lenses being wiped with tissue.  More scratches made themselves known as the tissue was used.  As the tissue was used lens upon lens upon lens tissue was wiped more scratches in the tissue made themselves known as the blood was used as the tissue thinned as the blood was used as the blood pressed its face against the window of the limbs turning back to the screen always back to the screen.  Tissue being wiped with lenses.  More scratches made themselves known as the tissue was used.  As the tissue was used lens upon lens upon lens tissue was wiped more scratches in the tissue made themselves known as the blood was used as the tissue thinned as the blood was used as the blood pressed its face against the window of the limbs turning back to the screen always back to the screen.  Tissue being wiped with lenses.


Reading.  Blinkard was is reading.  Blinkard is was reading while sitting at his desk in his office at home his desk in his office at the office home was miles and hours away in his mind where he wanted to be in his mind in his office where he was is reading Blinkard was is.  Reading.  Unevenly.  Peeled unevenly.  Chewed bitten and peeled unevenly.  They.  They manage.  They manage to come back.  No matter how unevenly peeled they manage to come back no matter how unevenly chewed bitten and peeled unevenly.  They.  They manage.  They manage to come back.  Back turning back to the screen always back to the screen.  Tissue being wiped with lenses.


Blinkard: (on the phone reading off his computer) Nothing's wrong, it's just my connection.  It's taking forever to go somewhere.  It appears stuck at the moment.  And the next. And the next.  So what did she say about that?  Really?  What are you going to do now?  It looks like it's trying to do something and then again maybe not.  And then again maybe not.  What on Earth made me think that?  What made me think it was trying to do something when all this that time it wasn't?  Something here.  What?  What is this?  Clever very clever.  They live in holes dug by others.  I must have clicked on the wrong tab, one I had open earlier.  Falling into my own holes.  I don't know if they are going to move us to fill in the other two areas.  You're right.  The other three areas.  I'm not sure if there's enough of us to fill in for the other three.  You would think that might permit some flexibility, but all I keep seeing in front of me and in my head is one of those rope bridges with more missing planks of wood.  Trying not to look down or make it sway from side to side.  What's that?  What part didn't come through?  The most recent part wasn't clear?  It's not a matter of clarity anymore, you know.  Wherever I sit or stand it's the same thing the same scene, man.  It keeps swaying every time someone asks a question you sway to one side and someone else asks another question and then you sway to the other side all the time opening out onto a great height.  And if you want to steady things with your hands or your silence you're told how quiet you've been and their suspicions replace all their talk of climbing and ascension and then it darkens into warnings of how far you and others will follow the flushing down and down and down to the rejoicing rocks below.  Being down to Earth joins all the rest of the bullshit on the refuse dump of meaninglessness.  Best regards.  Not to you.  To her.  And everyone else over in her neck of the woods.  I know we have no woods.  Her and everyone over at the place by the you know where the plane crashed.  No, not that building the other one.  Why would I refer to her building as the one where half of it is missing and the roof collapsed in?  Well, I'll have to give her a call as well if part of the roof fell in at their building, too.  You went by there to drop off your stuff?  Oh, you picked up.  I went by there as well, but I got a plain.  Yes, that's me in a nutshell.  I think it had gone stale.  Left out too long.  


Cussman: (entering and sitting downHas Nancy been by here?
Blinkard: I haven't seen her.  She's still?
Cussman: Yes, she's still.
Blinkard: I think I accidentally opened another wrong window.
Cussman: I'm hoping to avoid her if I can today.
Blinkard: Are you both still?
Cussman: Yes, we're both still.  At least I hope so, but I don't know for how much longer.  I guess I'm just putting off the inevitable.  
Blinkard: Look it up yourself for a change.
Cussman: I know what inevitable means.
Blinkard: Don't know where to start or where to go from here do you?
Cussman: Are you talking to me?
Blinkard: No.  Sorry.  Actually, yes, it could be applied to you.  Yes, I'm talking to you.  Heed my words before they evaporate into the fluorescent lighting.  But, no, you won't.  And no you won't either on the other end of this phone.


Nancy: (entering and standing in the doorway) You have to go further into the back to find anybody.  And here you are.
Cussman: Yes we are.  
Nancy: No wonder it looks darker, two of your fluorescent tubes are out.
Cussman: Just one.  If you wait long enough the other one will eventually flash on and off.
Nancy: What an exciting wait that will be.  
Blinkard: I don't know how I got to holes already dug by other animals.  Maybe it was because I searched on gaps.  I'm not sure how far they go down.  
Nancy: Whatever they are they risk their wings when they could be out flying and insist on pursuing whoever they are whoever too afraid to come out of their dark holes.  
Cussman: I must say you lost me there.
Blinkard: Never mind about how far they go down.  Back to the gaps.  Some are big enough to be quite a dark expansive division.
Nancy: Don't you have that the other way around?  Who's trying to lose who?  
Cussman: I think I need to be somewhere.
Nancy: No, take it easy.  Relax into that chair.  Isn't that better than having to burrow your way deeper into a dirty hole?
Blinkard: I'm still trying to find it. 
Cussman: Actually, I'm not noticing much of a difference right now.
Nancy: You wouldn't you Jack Wagon.
Blinkard: I saw it just the other day.  
Cussman: I had an uncle named Jack.
Nancy: That doesn't surprise me.
Blinkard: I was reading somewhere this person who was saying that if they had the right question when they were younger about the gaps between the planetary rings they might have had something named after them.  I know it sounds preposterous, but it was the other thing they said.
Nancy: Was his last name Wagon?
Cussman: No.  And it was my aunt who was called Jack.  My uncle died in a rollover.
Blinkard: Where did this come from?  Why would I even look for this?  I have too many windows open is the problem.
Nancy: Your aunt's name was Jack?
Cussman: It was a nickname for Jacqueline.
Nancy: You mean she was called Jackie.
Blinkard: What's on the ceiling?  Looks like a big what?  
Cussman: No, it was Jack.  
Nancy: Jack.  Figures.  
Blinkard: What ceiling?  I thought you were driving in your car?  Where are you calling from?
Cussman: My uncle's death was not taken very well by my aunt Jack.
Nancy: I didn't think she gave a rip.
Blinkard: What's that in the background?  Sounds like people having an argument.
Cussman: It was her car he rolled over.
Nancy: Was it a nice car?
Blinkard: I know there's people talking over here on my end, but it sounds like there's another background conversation on your end.  What looks blurry?


Follow?  Follow it?  Follow it down?  Follow it all the way down along the true chicken stories?  False chicken stories?  Lift a branch.  Lift eyes upon a place.  A place in the back.  Fingers.  Fingernails.  Fingernails with the remains of nail polish.  The remains of polish and other effects.  Fingerprints on a forehead.  Softest marble hardening lifting up eyes on a place.  A place on a forehead softest marble lifting out first impressions.  Bleach them out with profanities echoing in empty rooms with bad paint jobs.  Can see all the touching up.  Lift a brush to hair underneath the roots of a different color underneath lies the know not what underneath lies just lies.  Touched.  Pushing up beneath this place that place.  Lift a branch.  Lift eyes upon a place.  A place in the back.


Cussman: He was driving her station wagon.
Blinkard: You can't tell if it's your eyes or something's on your windshield?  Then you are in your car.  Why did you say ceiling?
Nancy: In the back.
Blinkard: You've been driving around all night avoiding her calls with a couple of friends in the back who are watching TV while the roof of the car roof of the building got got pieces here.  What have you given me?  What has it given me?  Fat bug plane crash what a site wrong site out of site out of my mind.  What have they given me?
Cussman: What're you talking about?
Blinkard: I'm not even close?  Fine.  Plausibility is ground into finer particles with every step under rotting sandals.
Nancy: Of course you don't.  Why don't you just be yourself and never mind?
Cussman: I thought I was.
Blinkard: Why have I been doing all this?  
Nancy: Going through all those abandoned areas to get in the back.  
Cussman: Why do you keep clearing your throat?
Blinkard: They thought if they had asked the right question when they were younger that they would have had something that's not there named after them.
Nancy: Maybe I picked the wrong place to rid myself.  
Cussman: Don't think it hasn't gotten to me.  I've paid too much attention to all the complaining people have made about my manner and my ways.  I'm well aware that there's still more room for growth in making myself scarce.
Blinkard: I don't wish I was young again.
Nancy: Who said you have to stay?  
Cussman: Haven't a clue.
Blinkard: I thought it was this site, but now it's looking like it was another one.  Hold on.  I know.  We're surrounded by distractions.  This is taking forever.  It looks like it's trying to do something.  Nothing's wrong, it's just my connection.


More scratches made themselves known as the tissue was used.  As the tissue was used lens upon lens upon lens tissue was wiped more scratches in the tissue made themselves known as the blood was used as the tissue thinned as the blood was used as the blood pressed its face against the window of the limbs turning back to the screen always back to the screen.  Tissue being wiped with lenses.  More scratches made themselves known as the tissue was used.  As the tissue was used lens upon lens upon lens tissue was wiped more scratches in the tissue made themselves known as the blood was used as the tissue thinned as the blood was used as the blood pressed its face against the window of the limbs turning back to the screen always back to the screen.  Tissue being wiped with lenses.


- Max Stoltenberg



Sunday, May 6, 2012

BACK OF A SILHOUETTE

It it is it is something it is something slapped together with reflections of glare beaming through a forehead turned down to the floor with unvacuumed neglected unfinished unwanted unanswered answered slathered in solutions wanted obsessed over finished done for.  Chunks of barrenness living out the one another of the one another's of the smashing of the merging of the bashing of the blowing chunks of one another's of the one another's of the grinding down into smaller chunks of barrenness crowded with necks stuck out into not enough space or time for emptiness.  Fingers picking at the staple in the carpet.  Unfinished obsessed with stillness pushed by rotating in the head along with whatever underneath outside putting both hands on the table and got something sticky on the palm of the right hand at the bottom of the palm near the end of the pinky muscle feel it in the folds pasted together now in the beginning of the wrist there's an end of it it it is it is something it is something slapped together with reflections of glare beaming through a forehead turned down to the floor unvacuumed neglected unfinished obsessed over finished done for.  Meanwhile back at the bed with an old set of sheets and their patterns of grid  patterns of smoke between yellowed teeth and a ceiling dripping gravy as a tongue and buds and posteriors of thoughts poked at the smoke-filled air pulling helplessly at its invisible and fragile threads that broke with each tongue thrust yearning for the TV dinner stuck to the canopy to fall back defying the gravity of need.  She he saw his her his a face several a few times with years stretches and stretches of chunks of barren emptiness merging together rubbing together whispering nonsense together unconsciously tired lagging behind faces the backs of ears necks stuck out into not enough space or time for emptiness empty faces his might fit into that one or the other one up under the ledge of the roof in the distance falling off in the abyss of the dusk between the end of the neighborhood and the desert.  Whatever he that she happened to be looking at through at the time another time got in and infected the whole miserable thing on the table sticking to the palm the right hand palm at the bottom of the palm near the end of the pinky muscle feel it in the folds pasted together now in the beginning of the wrist there's an end of it it it is it is something it is something slapped together with reflections of glare beaming through a forehead turned down to the floor unvacuumed neglected unfinished obsessed over finished done for.  Meanwhile back at the bed with an old set of sheets and their patterns of grid  patterns of smoke between yellowed teeth and a ceiling dripping gravy as a tongue and buds and posteriors of thoughts poked at the smoke-filled air pulling helplessly at its invisible and fragile threads that broke with each tongue thrust yearning for the TV dinner stuck to the canopy to fall back defying the gravity of need.  She he saw his her his a face several a few times with years stretches and stretches of chunks of barren emptiness merging together rubbing together whispering nonsense together unconsciously tired lagging behind faces the backs of ears necks stuck out into not enough space or time for emptiness empty faces his might fit into that one or the other one up under the ledge of the roof in the distance falling off into the abyss of the dusk down between the end of the neighborhood and the desert.  Brittle fragments  within the narrowing hallways of the unergodic led down the chutes of abandoned next chapters swallowed into another of the one another of the one another's after taste of regret taped to the back of the throat burning inside necks stuck out into not enough space or time for emptiness empty faces his might fit into that one or the other of another of the one another of the one another's after taste of regret.  A stick and a hole with hair on the edges leave them be diseases of memory close your eyes and snatch at something not long for this world rubbing against the dark side of this body of weeds pulled into it and returning to it and diminishing water sinking into the rotting crack between floods.  Is that where they are taken where they dump all the hollow amounts she can lower and lift her chin to conjure a hand on her another hand on her another one another of the one another's chunks of barrenness living out the one another of the one another's of the smashing of the merging of the bashing of the blowing chunks of one another's of the one another's of the grinding down into smaller chunks of barrenness crowded with necks stuck out that's where she first saw herself in a scrapbook on a shelf in a room under the sieve where she came in entered in fell in fit in is a back of a face where hers fits in forces hers into the sockets of another's walls one another's of the one another's walls one another's of the one another's one another's extensions sticking out sticking into sockets forces hers into the sockets of another's walls one another's of the one another's teeth grinding into smaller chunks of barrenness crowded with necks stuck out that's where she first saw herself in a scrapbook on a shelf in a room under the sieve where she came in entered in fell in fit in is a back of a face where hers fits in forces hers into the sockets of another's walls of the one another's of the one another's of the one another's walls.




- Max Stoltenberg