Saturday, May 30, 2015

RICE AND FLAT NOTES

He'd say to her nothing it wouldn't arise it would feel like it was filling and then it wouldn't fill it wouldn't feel it wouldn't even think it it he'd say to her nothing and she would disappear one part at a time she'd force herself to play a part be a part a part and part herself and part he'd object and then sit there on the edge of what was her name couldn't hold numbers let alone letters let alone his toes rejected the carpet shaved to stretch as wide as the room needed to shut him into his narrow space between each care surrendering to the blankness of the present shrinking in the midst of the bickering parents of the past and the future they were still here and still now what the fuck difference did it make had they made in his tiny little shaft of a muddled statement dripping with wasted ejaculations he would

severance a new middle name
don't surname me
crumbs and petty looks
falling off the clouded reasoning
torn from angry fucks
knots in your reproductive ideas
and that's all they ended up
not being useful to smoke
rolled up into carbon paper
for burning into dying flowers
dirty water reprocessed by eyes
blinking blinking chicken
in plastic trays dealing out the 
cards unsigned unsent undying
pathetic veins of reminding wipers
rubbing ears flapping vision
into distorted phone calls
think we heard enough
before another one is started
late has arrived the hand 
held up to stop it 
stop some of it
none of it
all of it 
carries on
into the next searing day

fucking food food fucking us deep inside shit it out and call it a devouring some shit we augment only in this way ingredients for the factory minimized and shoved up our ass deep inside our reticence an itinerary for inertia loaded with crap crap cakes frosted with memories of times when recalled dragged out by nightmares and substitutions put in at the last few minutes of darkness before the glare of waking hours slapped us back onto the stage with stiff limbs for tripping over each other repeating unnecessary efforts for numbers for letters she would disappear one part at a time she'd force herself to play a part be a part a part and part herself and part he'd object and then sit there on the edge of what was her name couldn't hold numbers let alone letters let alone his toes rejected the carpet shaved to stretch as wide as the room needed to shut him into his narrow space between each care surrendering to the blankness of the present shrinking in the midst of the bickering parents of the past and the future they were still here and still now what the fuck difference did it make had they made in his tiny little shaft of a muddled statement dripping with wasted ejaculations he would

"Where did you get those?" she asked as she helped her children into the back of her minivan.
"Where did I get these?" he asked as the hot wind blew a note he had written directions on off towards the wash full of trash, weeds, and the excretions of the desert.
"Those are the blue ones. Where did you get those?" she asked closing the back door.
"I think I got them at the place right behind over there in the front along the main strip toward the back," he spoke as his mouth was somewhere else abandoning his mind that emptied of every place he had ever been.
"I don't think so. You probably got the blue ones at the end of that row around the other side. Know what I'm talking about? Never mind," she said turning the ignition and speeding away.
He looked toward the wash to see where the note might have gone where the directions might have blown off to as he walked around the back of the large metal containers and stopped as he reached the edge of the road looking down at where the dirt and sidewalk ended sort of ended and began tugging at the spiked tumbleweed stuck to his left pants leg had some gotten into his sock other sock?

Eyes opened and closed and opened at the smell of bugs and sounds of tuna fish squishing as the head moved around inside or was that paper ripped out of a hand out there outside the dark in here cans surrounded the head listening for the evening of the next darkness to catch up with the dark in here always in here opened or closed eyes opened and closed and opened at the smell of bugs and sounds of tuna fish squishing as the head moved around inside or was that paper ripped out of a hand out there outside the dark in here cans surrounded the head listening for the evening of the next darkness to catch up with the dark in here always.


- Max Stoltenberg

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

CAUGHT ON THE DESERT SILL

I am at a loss I don't know what to say I know exactly what to say and that is my downfall again the problem is that my downfall never takes me down far enough where I can't get back up stay down paint yourself a shade of the weeds and stand among them the weeds. Crazy going crazy crazy not going anywhere crazy going in circles crazy going in squares rectangles long thin rectangles hallways corridors of crazy couldn't sit there with him across the desk from him looking at me running out of things to draw to my attention his attention running out of things to draw my attention to his attention had to put them together you might have heard of them put them together things together and they lead right into a hole red with brown shitty smiles of forced entry the door and they don't fucking like the look you give them all day long as they pass by your door waving themselves around like the weeds they are poking their crass existence out of the ground why get back up why stay down to paint yourself a shade of the weeds and stand among them squat among them running out of things to draw my attention to his attention had to put them together you might have heard of them put them together things together and they lead right into a hole red with brown shitty smiles of forced entry the door and they don't fucking like the look you give them

as the stream pauses
in the desert of blank steps
leading up down to empty
expectations is it
was it is it hide and
don't look at her while
while she all the while
that's not right
it doesn't end right
it doesn't end
clicked on the wrong space
as the stream pauses 
in the desert of blank steps
leading up down to empty 
expectations is it
was it is it hide and
don't
just don't
a princess
where did that come from?
where did she come from?
she the that that came in
from 
where?

"I never discovered much," said the ex-girlfriend.
"How could you?" said the ex-salesman.
"How could I? I never discovered much looking away."
"I used to be a salesman until I took a hockey puck to the brain permanently damaged my sense of deception tragic end to a profitable ruse."
"When were you ever near anything frozen?"
"Before the desert everything was frozen and after the desert I'm the one who is frozen in my tracks."
"I prostrate like a sloth at the narthex of your bunions."
"In suicide I got an incomplete."
"My eyes hurt again the back of my eyes maybe all of my head except my eyes hurt up to where my eyes start in the back up to the pupils this same shit every day crawls in through the windows and tumbles into my mind and just stays and never leaves even if I burned it down the charred shit would still be there melted into the foundation and the fucking Earth takes its nauseous time chewing and swallowing."
"Turn and face the wall."
"Only if you have an actual weapon this time and I have a nasty mess on the wall I can look at before you pull the trigger."
"Trigger? Did you say trigger?"
"You didn't find something with a trigger did you?"
"Well, no."
"Figures, unless you have a blunt instrument."
"I haven't been very in favor of using a blunt instrument."
"Why not?"
"I'd have to hit you several times with my lousy upper body business and all that. I'd just be repeating myself and I might get you pissed off enough who knows what I could become next."
"You think I'd risk smashing your asshat and have you be a slimy salesman again?"
"That's a myth you know."
"Your whole life has been a myth."
"No I mean a blow to the head would make me go back to what I used to be."
"I know what you mean it was an expression I was using and the top of your head is your ass."
"That would explain why I've been trying for years to take a strong enough shit and empty out everything between my ears."

Noiseless the swamp
of rubbing my face to get the debris
from these dreams in the stinging daylight
off the sill of these eyes
putting the boxes away
until their contents go bad
tense bravado stains the mask
lifting up the garage door
delivered by hand 
to the roof of her mouth
she rolls her vision up into her head
as a man leaves deep knife marks
in her no-stick bowl
the color is divided
more contents to go bad

noiseless the swamp


- Max Stoltenberg

Sunday, May 10, 2015

TRACKS OF THE MUCKRAKE

I build a prison below the ground every day so that when the earth the dirt that is caves in into the cave this cave another layer will pile on top of the layers that are already there still there after the ones have crumbled away from the talking with the other prisoners the other things that walk around having come out of their corners their boxes having doffed their lids so officious it makes one puke the dirt that is it hardens into another layer will pile on top of the layers that are already there still there after the ones have crumbled away from the talking with the other prisoners the other things that walk around having come out of their corners their boxes having doffed their lids so officious it makes one puke the dirt that is it hardens into another layer of a prison I build a prison below the ground every day so that when the earth the dirt that is caves in into the cave this cave.

Must have erased it by mistake and the floors disappeared into the desert that could be why everything is so close to the street the only front yards we have are the 3 feet of bullshit we tell ourselves to keep each other at bay shackled strangers put away put it away no one is interested sounded like you sounded like me sounded like they got it from you sounded like you got it from them could be could be nothing must be.

"She's complaining in there again."
"Who?"
"She goes in there every morning to complain. Sometimes she goes right into complaining and other times it's the other times where she goes in there and ends up complaining."
"The other times?"
"Yeah she goes in there as if complaining is the last thing she'd ever think of going in there to do. She goes in there as if she actually intended to you know relate or something or mention something even esoteric or meaningless or useless or meaningless."
"Or esoteric?"
"No it's between the last two. I've narrowed it down to them."
"You've ruled out the esoteric and the relating and the something."
"Balsamic vinegar."
"You didn't say anything about balsamic vinegar."
"One never can know about leaving out what they might have unknowingly ruled out."
"No wonder you have insomnia."
"Someone will always bring up some little shit I didn't bring up."
"And that's how you shove off the esoteric and the relating to the gutter."
"They form their cliques along the sidelines and exchange their gutter talk."
"And what about something?"
"Something? Something."
"You're reconsidering."
"Something is crap that has been labeled annoying."
"Are you going to fill out the survey?"
"How long have we been in this room?"
"Years."
"How many years?"
"I've lost track."
"Lost track have you? So have I. That's what happens when we get our subjectivity packed nice and tight into a closed space. Fill out a survey my ass."
"We lost our progress again."

Fuck something sometimes sometimes the index index finger wants to dig in the corner there is a hole in the corner of the eye to dig it out and work on the other one sometime later work on the other one that will sometimes become the only one left all these eyes entering into detention to see more of the same as they hand each other kaleidoscopes twisting their vision into being intrigued with sights that divide and spin into mirrors of each other of each other of each other face them and bow to them and face them fuck them fuck something sometimes sometimes the index index finger wants to dig in the corner there is a hole in the corner of the eye to dig it out and work on the other one sometimes later work on the other one that will sometimes become the only one left all these eyes entering into detention.

"What do you get now?"
"5."
"How do you get 5?"
"I knew you were going to ask that."
"Of course you knew. I always do ask."
"I did want to be wrong."
"You don't like to be wrong."
"I try not to care but I get that wrong as well. That's the thing about being wrong a lot it kind of likes to expand branch out and spread its things all over the place all over your stuff my stuff."
"What do you get now? Still 5?"
"She got her coat caught in her office chair."
"Who?"
"And one of the strings in the lining of her coat the string that you pull on to tighten the coat."
"I know what the string does."
"When it gets cold not that it gets that cold in the desert I think she wears it because it makes her think of being somewhere she'd rather be."
"Who's she?"
"I'm on a tangent I know but nowadays the things that connect to each other or don't really connect are the tangents just want to get the puzzle done one color matching forget it's there taking up space on the table until we spill something on it."
"Is this the one who was complaining in there earlier?"
"She's still in there complaining in there. No this is someone else. I help her get the knot out of the string that's wrapped around the wheel of her office chair several times turn turn turn around around around."
"I get it."
"I help her get that fucking knot out and unwrap the string and free her coat and as I set it back in place on the back of her office chair all the shit in her pockets cascades all over the floor. And she's saying it's OK it's OK. No it's not OK."
"What did you want her to say?"
"I don't know just not that it's OK."
"Who does she remind you of?"
"The one who's in there complaining or the one who got her coat caught in her office chair?"
"She reminds you of your mother."
"No."
"She reminds you of your father."
"No."
"Who then?"
"She reminds me of the mountains I see far off in the distance on the edge of the desert that I contemplate throwing myself off of and they look at me from the distance as if to say it's OK it's OK you amusing little man."
"And the one complaining in there?"
"Who gives a fuck. I would have preferred her to say something more like that's how it had to end that's what had to follow huh?"
"That wouldn't be nicer to say."
"You're not listening are you? It's the huh? A tiny huh? I've always hated the way others have said it, but if she had said it and with a question mark that no one else has ever used would have made all the difference and she didn't so never mind how could she have known I'm finding these things out now that do me no good now that's the rest of time it is now or now-ish."

I build a prison below the ground every day so that when the earth the dirt that is caves in into the cave this cave another layer will pile on top of the layers that are already there still there after the ones have crumbled away from the talking with the other prisoners the other things that walk around having come out of their corners their boxes having doffed their lids so officious it makes one puke the dirt that is it hardens into another layer will pile on top of the layers that are already there still there after the ones have crumbled away from the talking with the other prisoners the other things that walk around having come out of their corners their boxes having doffed their lids so officious it makes one puke the dirt that is it hardens into another layer of a prison I build a prison below the ground every day so that when the earth the dirt that is caves in into the cave this cave.


- Max Stoltenberg