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Guts. He didn't have them, but they were all around him. Guts were everywhere. Trying not to step on them was a bloody difficult nuisance. The pages were being torn out and shredded. The machine was constantly running. The running. The runs. Guts seeped out uncontrollably. Nasty business. These guts seeping out. Pissed everyone around him. The people who had all the guts in the world. The world was full of it. Piling up into monuments, hills, buildings, and mounds of guts.
He would slip on guts and awkwardly rise. An awkward rise to the surface of the gut-filled landscape. A landscape flooded with guts had become a sea. A sea of guts. An awkward rise to the surface was punctuated by voices interrupted by the unending motion of guts. Guts always in motion. Always digesting. He was passed on from one process to the next. The next. And the next. Being broken down along the way. Being. Broken down. All the way. Just most of the way. Not fully digested.
He was unable to purge the slightest bit. He was being dissolved and broken down. For not. For the guts. The guts all around him. They were sick of him. The pages were being torn out and shredded. The machine was running day and night. Running. The runs. His guts were seeping out. That pissed them off.
They'd get out the hoses and cleanse him of his seepage. Uncontrollable seepage. The hoses blasted him with fluid and guts. Mostly guts. They had nothing but guts. The fluid was from the inside of guts. That hurt. Guts hurt. Inside and outside. He tried to collect his thoughts that hadn't been broken down. Needed more time to fill gaps in his thoughts burned out by acid. An impossible task. The before and after gave the impression of not being like the acid of all the guts. All those pages had been torn out and shredded. The machine kept running. Day and night. Running. The runs. He seeped out of himself. Breaking it down. There was no before left. There was no after left. Breaking it down. For them. For guts. They couldn't make sense of what was left. There was nothing left to make sense of. They left what was left and they left. Guts couldn't rub off on him. Even though he couldn't help rubbing up against nothing but guts.
- Max Stoltenberg
Lost footing. Don't know how it happened. Just lost it. He found himself only to be disoriented on the ground. Exercises abstracted out of context. Noteworthy mishap. He was in a push-up position. On the ground in that position. Caught himself after he had stumbled along. Stumbling along with legs tangled by a reverie. Had it been a reverie?
There was the reverie about a week ago. Had it been before the start of this week? How far into it had it been? It had to have been that reverie. The one about the calculations that led to decimals behaving like rhythms of music. It created a visual that he thought really emanated in the story of the prodigy. The prodigy had been groomed to become a magnificent composer. Magnificently composing classical themes by the baker's dozen an hour. Had to have been about a baker's dozen. He wrote nothing down. His themes piled up within him until he became an escape artist. Escaping from art into all those glasses. Empty glasses. Half finished glasses. Broken glasses. Glasses chipped by his head nodding in time with the lyricism of the irrational. Had his forehead sown back together. Without anyone's prescriptive soliloquy, he pulled the stitches out and waved them to the themes soaking threads. He threaded them together into electronic compositions. Programming less than 4 pieces dying within a month of his rediscovery.
He didn't think his reverie emanated from that. Had it been the source? He thought not and doubted himself. Did that as he stumbled along. Didn't think that had been based on an actual artist. Might have been one of those - what did they call them? Extrapolations, if you will. Actually had been based on an actual artist, but the details had been changed as well as rearranged, perhaps. Or perhaps not based on an actual one at all. The reverie floated off into the air like cigar smoke. Maybe it had been a reverie while smoking his cigar. Then he recalled he hadn't smoked cigars for a while. How long had it been since he stopped smoking cigars? Had it been long enough ago before his reveries clung to other acts of abandon? Acts of abandon that separated from what was empty, half finished, broken or chipped? Untouched? Unapproached? Unapproachable? He stumbled along.
He did not stumble as dramatically leaving the plane. She was patient as he caught up to her with his carry on. He carried it on and he stumbled along as she rolled her eyes. She was patient. Patient enough at least or had been until now. This trip. Not the stumbling along, but this trip - this attempt to locate some sources and emanations from his past in his town of his birth was before them both. Before them and soon to be around them as they walked around what was before them.
Before them and before him, he endeavored to rediscover the emanations and sources of his reveries. She was patient or had been on the plane while he remained still. What remained in what was before them beyond their flight. His flight. His escape. What was it for her? An accompaniment? An obligation? An affirmation of whatever he claimed his past and future could be? Or a confirmation of the inevitable? The inevitable that had not been.
He addressed her with addresses and locations that were dislocated and relocated. Names and descriptions that remained unattached. Invisible people and story fragments that had been pending transferred out of the existence he rediscovered with growing loneliness as he wandered alongside her. She had been patient a lot less than he supposed or conjectured. It had been less. This had been reiterated by her hardening face that turned towards the other side of the emptying planet. That way had been the turning of her hardening face.
They stood on the beach he thought he had remembered. Thought he had remembered as his escape route to forget so much of his existence. His description was of its churning waves to consume the discomfort of experience. Her hardened face coalesced into pursed lips contemplating the idea. They stood there and observed each wave. Observed each wave casting jellyfish and waste towards their feet. Her feet. Her hardened face that turned towards the other side of the emptying planet. They had not been fast enough as they backed away from the ocean's dead jellyfish and waste. He stumbled along what had not been of his escape. Stumbling along what had not been of his efforts. His efforts to avoid the waste. As the tide and the waste filled around his lost footing.
- Max Stoltenberg
When would another one be made? Rocks. Rocks for seats. Rock seats in a long line. A long line stretching. Stretching for miles into the desert. Miles in a circle. A large circle of rocks. A circle large enough. Large enough to remind one. Remind one of that. That large crater. That large crater in the desert. When would another one be made?
The Earth was dented. Rocks. Rocks for seats. Rock seats with people sitting on them. Sitting on them in the desert. Sitting and holding bags of snacks. Holding pretzels. Holding chips. Holding dried fruit. Holding melting dried fruit. Holding snacks on rock seats in the desert. People sitting on rock seats in a large circle. A circle large enough to remind one. To remind one of that crater. That large crater in the desert. When would another one be made?
The Earth was dented. The people in the desert were demented. The people in the desert were not completely demented, but demented enough. Demented enough to sit in a large enough circle. Large enough circle to remind one. To remind one of that crater. That crater in the desert. When would another one be made?
The Earth was dented. The people in the desert sitting on rock seats were not entirely completely demented. And they were not totally unhappy enough. Not totally unhappy enough. Not enough to throw themselves down. Throw themselves down into the sand. Down into the dust. Down into the dirt. Down into the dirt that blew in their eyes. Blew in their eyes until they imagined they were throwing themselves down into that crater. The one in the desert. They could throw themselves down. They could throw themselves down as if into that crater and end up on the dirt. End up on the dirt and have all those people on the other rock seats with their bags of snacks make remarks. All those other people making remarks while holding their bags of snacks. Making remarks while holding their bags of pretzels in the desert. Making remarks while holding their bags of pretzels they bought at the store. When would another one be made?
The Earth was dented. The people on rock seats would make remarks. The people on rock seats in the desert would make remarks like,
"Do you think it will rain?"
"Maybe."
"Have you checked the forecast?"
"I don't have Internet."
"You should get Internet."
"You think I should get Internet?"
"Yes. I think you should get Internet."
"Internet? In the desert?"
"Yes. Internet. In the desert."
"Do you think it'll rain?"
"Maybe."
"You should get Internet in the desert."
"I doubt it'll rain."
"Yes, maybe not."
The Earth was dented. The people sat on rock seats in silence. No conversation for quite some time. No conversation for quite some time while the people waited. The people waited for quite some time for another exchange of conversation. The people waited for quite some time for someone to make a remark. The people waited for quite some time for someone to make a remark after someone might throw themselves down. If someone felt unhappy enough. If someone felt unhappy enough they might throw themselves down. And if someone threw themselves down someone might make a remark. The people waited in silence on their rock seats in the desert for someone to make a remark. When would another one be made?
- Max Stoltenberg
He walked back a few steps. A few. A couple steps. 2 or 3 steps. Or 4. Maybe another step was in there. Several steps he backed away. He could have stepped forward a step or so as well. 8 or 11 steps back and 3 to 5 steps forward or 7 or 5 steps back and half a step forward. Hesitantly. Indecisively. Give or take a dance sequence. Hesitatingly.
The partition of neutrality was so short. The basement was partially painted and partially demolished. Both projects were left to intertwine unfinished together. A bare light bulb hung uncentered over the lack of resolution. He wondered when it would go out. Now? Now. Now? Not yet. Maybe now? Not quite yet. Deciding to let it be not the next moment or possibly not letting it be missed as it winked out. Winked. Out. Wink. Never going out until the middle of a step. Stumble in the dark. It would figure. How is that? Ridiculous question. The whole thing was ridiculously undetermined. Although it probably seemed to him that he was ahead or about to win or he had won or that he was justified or something. It would figure. Not him. Him. The other one. Not him.
Not him. Although he had thought he was ahead, but it didn't matter. He gave up caring. Gave up so significantly that he sensed the energy expended on the contest somewhere in his body. Leave. Up. Out. Stepping. Backing away those however many steps. Awful dance. Recessional? The partition of neutrality was so short. Barely three-dimensional. A poster. A print out to be crumpled and thrown away. Or just unused. Its neglect could not outweigh the awkwardness. Awkwardness written in mutual rejection of his and his returns. The weaponry of missed contact. His and his. It was him. Not him. The other him. The other one. Some of it was him. He said he dropped it, but more like threw it. That's what it was. For him. Not the other him. Tonight would darken with thoughts going up and down the stairs. Basement stairs. Trying to stay away. Back away. 3 or 8 steps back and a 3/4 of a step forward mostly committed to the cause. The just because. Thoughts slipping up and down the stairs. Only to retreat into the partially painted and partially demolished basement tomorrow.
- Max Stoltenberg
Weeds in the carpet
Buttons can no longer be pressed
Tangled preferences
With the influential
And dead
None other than
Blank space
Haven't heard of it
Yet
Maybe follows behind
The door depressed
By the hallway's stench
Waking up
Office decorated
With snacks and odors
Of decaying lives
Circling around corners
Bending in straight lines
Interrupted by the wrong number
No calls
for somewhere else
No calls
No calls
- Max Stoltenberg
A locomotive engine with a couple of train cars behind it sits on tracks in a park. An old man sits on a bench looking at the old train, the tracks, and its machinery. Machinery. Gears and wheels. So huge. So heavy. So heavy. Can't see inside the cars. Metal plates and darkened windows with black bars. So dark in there. The past sunk so deep beneath the surface.
His thoughts are interrupted by a younger man walking up to the train on display.
Younger Man: I suppose you could tell me what it's like to ride one of these. What it was like. The wood. The smoke. Outlaws holding things up. Holding people up. Arms weary and rickety from keeping them in the air. In the air. I'd rather fly. The higher the altitude the better. My ex-wife said I should have been an astronaut because I belonged in space. I prefer to be up in the clouds. Things are clearer up there. You can look down at cities just as if it's on your pc. Except there's thousands of feet underneath. Over it. Being over stuff is the way to prefer it. The coming down part is the bummer.
Old Man: Bummer. Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum.
Younger Man: You had it right the first time.
Old Man: And the next time and the next time and the next time after that. Stationary.
Younger Man: Progress. Change. Not easy for people to deal with. That's why being so over stuff is a theme for the frequent fliers.
Old Man: Change. Loose change. Lost change. Gave up things to agree with and disagree with a long time ago.
Younger Man: Now you're bummin' me out. Bummin'. You. You from around here?
Old Man: Are you?
Younger Man: Yes. I am. I mean, I travel so much, but I live here.
Old Man: From here?
Young Man: Yeah. Well, not right here. I drove down here from up in the mountains.
Old Man: What mountains?
Young Man: You can't see it from here because of the train being in the way, but it's straight up over there. I have a place up there.
Old Man: Up there.
Young Man: Right up there.
Old Man: What're you some angelic race or something?
Young Man: Caucasian, actually.
Old Man: Are you paying me a visit from on high?
Young Man: Are you messing with me or have you missed your afternoon medication?
Old Man: No. I think you think you're part of some special race. From up higher. Paying me a call. To tell me how it is. When you're not punching buttons on your phone and your computer and flipping switches and making it happen, you're telling people how it is. What's up. What's down. What was and what's progress. Don't go in much for angels. Someone like yourself. Presenting himself as someone from on high. Over stuff. Heard that for years growing old in wooden and dusty classrooms while she. She. The one who hacked up a different internal organ everyday from coughing because she was allergic to chalk dust. Can you imagine that? Allergic to chalk dust? Trying to tell us how it is when she had a reprieve from all her relentless coughing. Surprised she had anything left inside her to share. Never heard two words of appreciation put together. Never. Nothing lit up her face or her eyes. The only thing that fueled the flame in her sockets was all the remarks. The remarks. Over stuff. That's all she focused on was getting us over stuff. Knocked the stuffing out of us. Did that. A great deal. Stuff and nonsense. She was allergic to more than just chalk. She was allergic to children. Allergic to mess. Allergic to accidents and mistakes. Allergic to what was underneath her. Caucasian. You can't fool me. You've met the wrong person who has had enough of it all. Caucasian. You're barking up the wrong bench. Nope. You are definitely nothing but an angel. A cold caller of the supernatural and unnatural. Trying so hard to prove that there is something such as a man. Face it. You're a fictional figure. You don't exist.
Young Man: For someone who doesn't exist, you sure waste a lot of words on imaginary people.
Old Man: Waste is right. Words waste us away towards nothing. I'm tired of existence. It's the only thing that rejuvenates one.
Young Man: You never answered me when I asked you if you were from around here.
Old Man: No. No, I didn't.
Young Man: Are you? Are you OK? Have any family that looks out for you?
Old Man: Looking out for you. Looking out remains. That's all. Looking out all day long. Letting the annoying and haunting thoughts run out and leave me in peace for a time. Time. Looking out all the time. All the time at this relic. This big heavy relic that obliterates your Valhalla. Sometimes the present gets pleasantly fucked by the past. Looking out throughout the day brings me a smile to counter the remarks. The remarks. Do they ever go away? The only ones that go away is family. So eager to leave.
Young Man: Children. See them when its possible. No time. So much waiting. Can't stand waiting. Delays. Postponements. Changes in the wording. Changing of minds. She. The ex-wife has seen to it that she changes their minds. About me. So that when all the waiting is done and you're finally with them, they don't want to have anything to do with you.
Old Man: Rough landing. Lost your wings have you?
Young Man: Got them clipped. Suppose you'll tell me more stories about all the rough landings and crashes in your life. By the way, how old are you, if you don't mind my asking?
Old Man: Stopped counting a long time ago.
Young Man: And how long ago was that?
Old Man: Stopped keeping track. Numbers are so important to you angels. Keep score of who is on who's side. Or they just might be a sign of something. Something better. Something worse. Something starting. Something ending. Ending.
Young Man: Where is your family? Your kids?
Old Man: Lost them through there.
Young Man: Through where?
Old Man: The gaps in the train here. Let them have their wiggle room to crawl and climb and get stuck and find their way out. Their way out. Let them play on the other side. Sat on this bench. Haven't seen them since.
Young Man: They just left? That doesn't make any sense.
Old Man: Really? Someone had to let them get stuck and find their way out. Someone. Looking out and waiting. Gives a chance for those same haunting thoughts to leak out and mix with that grease on those big wheels. Imagine that they could still turn and grind those remarks. Those remarks. And yet those huge powerful wheels can't move. They just sit there. Looking out for those who left. Nobody left.
- Max Stoltenberg
The chunk of salmon fell off her fork. It clipped the side of the dish and bounced over the edge of the table and hit the floor.
Woman: Crap. That was such an inviting looking piece.
Man: Pick it up.
Woman: Forget it.
Man: I'll pick it up.
Woman: Just leave it.
Man: Salmon.
Woman: Leave it.
Man: Salmon. Not just an "it."
Woman: Not anymore. It's become something else now.
Man: It doesn't have to if you decide to pick it up. Or if I pick it up for you. Allow me.
Woman: I won't eat it. It's joined another category of things.
Man: Goodness. What are you going on as? A librarian? Is that what I'm sitting across from now? Has this become a library? Is that where we are? What we've entered into. Who have we become? Are we borrowers? Never possessing anything anymore? Going about and asking for things we eventually give back. Tasting them and relishing them for smaller moments. Squeezed by shrinking time and weighed down by ever heavier obligations. Quick! Let's see who can draw faster!
Woman: I don't want to.
Man: Because you know I'm faster.
Woman: Yes and its a pointless activity.
Man: Pointless because you lose.
Woman: Pointless because I lose. Pointless because you win. And pointless because it's meaningless.
Man: Point taken, but what's the real reason underneath all of that?
Woman: You want to know what is underneath all of that?
Man: Yes, I do.
Woman: A chunk of salmon laying on the floor beneath our directionless banter no longer inviting me. No more invitations. At least to things that I would attend because I really want something. Invitations were more frequent in the past, but they didn't just want you to be there. There were always strings attached. Strings to get tangled in. Rope burns they were. Expectations. Bring something for others to stick their paws in. Some kind of sales pitch to buy something. Long distance deals. Real estate deals. Living arrangements. Flower arrangements. Remedies for aging. They don't send out any invitations. They are all dead and gone. The same old invitations and pitches went wild, sank into the Earth, or got batted away enough by people who knew better or were just sick of the same old business. Same old business. They keep repackaging it. And somehow they keep finding new customers to invite. Get less invitations these days. Maybe it's because there's less looking around. Less turning of the head. Less to orient to. Less to belong to.
Man: While you were diatribing for your lengthy stint as the librarian, I picked it up.
Woman: You didn't.
Man: Why would I say I picked it up if I didn't?
Woman: Just a futile effort at rearranging the world that doesn't end up as another upgrade of derangement. Did you eat that in one bite?
Man: I did.
Woman: And?
Man: The infamous conjunction that leads one to curious compounds. Something sharp that snaps between the teeth that will grind endlessly until you find what you've been looking for and avoid the inevitable. Growing immune to deterioration, but can never quite get past following the same putrid rationalizations every reporting cycle. Keep choking down the same promises until one is incapable of making a sound.
Woman: Feline have your tongue?
Man: Practically. More like the server.
Woman: The who?
Man: The server. I think my digestive tract will have to accomodate one of his toenails. The body's way of attuning to those who serve.
Woman: Not necessarily the server's. Could have been someone much further removed in the scheme of things. Funny that it's referred to as a "scheme." Says it all. Those who suffer the scheme's own process of incorporation find themselves by losing themselves. Forced along the highways and byways of excretion. They'll spend hours and hours wracking their brains in the last moments of darkness. They'll have to start all over again as the sun over-exposes their vanity of vision. They are truly converted. Broken down so far below any coherent argument that could convince them of being part of any heritage whatsoever. Nothing to do with it. No sound to emerge but the polluted tide churning them between one erosion and another.
- Max Stoltenberg
