Thursday, March 31, 2016


He is tugging on his words making them longer and thicker pertaining to the trees the family trees the family's tree the family's tree's dispensary for useless phrases falling out of windows onto the sidewalk's gestures cracked with steps made by the woman who was reading about the woman who had given up on poison who had turned to larger blunt things to carry and hit assholes over the head and watch them fall and then smash their fucking faces in whilst not screaming while speaking softly lines that were on the back of the book she was reading not the one one layer out but three layers in we'll get there eventually I say that now she said it already back then on the back of the book and they said it's useless for useless phrases falling out of windows onto the sidewalk's gestures cracked with steps made by the woman who was reading about the woman who had given up on poison the kind that could be found without a trace on the inside of syrupy expressions she took a hose to many times and they would remain sticking to the sides of houses and their adjoining measurements lined up to make him and the others seem taller and be able to predict things things you know the items you've handled with cut hands stinging with the predictions the prophecies of the next day that brought not the summer not yet but the cold wind that would suddenly whip around the corner of her looking away and what comes after the summer comes when it decides like it has anything to choose except that we all stop retreating and marching out and that we just drop dead or fall and have our fucking faces smashed in little craters that no longer look out on the desert polluted with other people little craters that only are looked into and have nothing to say in return never to return to return for the next day that was predicted about and arrived without anything different coming true only coming until the testicles of assumption are replenished with the hot breath of emptiness.

- Max Stoltenberg

Tuesday, March 29, 2016


Hands are untied and
open for the still stolen
shakes from others 
remembering forgetting
hammering into existence
nailed to the continuous illogic
little booklets all over the place
father look at my technique
never mind didn't mean it
every word of it
and there it went I went
with the blended mirage
towards never ever coming
coming quite a bit
into the porcelain in the beginning
those that folded into thirds
flatten it what was said or meant
or not take it away to your
pile of dung what was dug
out of you out of me
by our by what was asked of us
I guess I guess again
not even close and then
the support the hanging down
between the legs
between the buildings closer
to each other and the ground 
underground insects scratching
at the inside of your brain
loose teeth bending back
bending forward book-ending
thoughts for distorting sips
louder than the whispers
of meaningless nothings
just nothings all along
where is that log that timber
in the muddy lake 
that rocked from side to side
arms burning in the Sun
underground insects scratching 
at the inside of your brain
this mind between the buildings
closer to each other and the ground

- Max Stoltenberg

Tuesday, March 15, 2016


Messed up the bed of the landscape had to move or walk about and they noticed made their noisy reflections on what still hadn't been digested she had to go in we all had to come in through the dog door and wait one at a time one limb at a time not too close respect faded in definition with the smell of each other's unwashed clothes suppose that fancy of yours of mine washed the tilted idea in this spinning cycle waiting for the bell forgot if we set the timer no one else was involved and it was probably for the worst anyway suppose this a pad of paper every page was used up not too many scribblings on each sheet took it for dead and may she rest on my chest until she wakes up and hits me breaks my glasses what's left of them and I look up a sub-optimal glance into the gleam that masturbates that migraine back into existence up the resurrected shaft of this neck stuck out over the sidewalk until someone comes along and cuts it off and the shrugging face no shoulders you know or perhaps that bottle nowhere to be found had its worries explicated and spread across pubic hair crusted with tears of frustration the kind that cannot possibly tear off the crust of worthless disappointment.

"Towards me."
"Towards you?"
"That's what I said."
"That's what I thought."
"No, that's what I thought."
"Then said."
"Then said. You are a pain in the ass."
"I have something."
"Is it about roofs rooftops?"
"Could have been. I don't remember now. It all just flits across from one lobe to another."
"You actually have some lobes left? They haven't untethered them all?"
"There's still some who have it in their heads to finish tearing into mine."
"A little self-absorbed are we?"
"We? Yes, we if we keep keeping at it."
"Yes, if we keep keeping at it."

Blitz shadows make my hands slow down before the sunset or after it doesn't matter when in the final analysis the mouse stopped flashing its family until they were all gone and he had to rely on the alibis of mechanical pencil leads poured onto the table stained with unfinished loathing charcoal embittered by thumbs rubbing their being no longer in favor of anything.

- Max Stoltenberg