to open a door

Starring up, I can see the new watchtower through the trees. It looks fancy and new — all red, cubist and modern. A vast improvement over the old one — which looks like a shitty tree fort, barely off the ground. This new one must be akin to ten stories up. I don’t even see a ladder.
I was attacked three times in that old crappy lookout. In fact, that’s why I haven’t been around. That last attack made me lose a year of my life to a hospital bed. I’m glad to get back to work though. But seriously, how do I get up there?

Huh? What the? …how did I get up here? And why am I staring at myself? My brother, Bobby, is up here too. He talking to me — the other me. They’re going over some procedure, turning a bunch of knobs and dials.

“Excuse me, but how exactly do we get down if our presence is needed on the ground?” I ask the two of them.
“We can’t tell you exactly. The passageway is opened differently every time,” the other me says.
“Passageway?”
“Yeah . . . watch.”

Just then a small, hollow dead tree sprouts out of the floor. For some unknown reason I reach for it and snap it clean and hand it to myself. And then, to my bewilderment, the secondary me begins masturbating himself with it. I’m so disoriented by the spectacle that I try not to watch. I close my eyes to see if I can feel anything — as if maybe the sensation would travel through him into me — but there is none. When I open my eyes I see an abnormally massive amount of cum shoot from the trunk of the dead tree, but the other me isn’t at the other end. And when I refocus my attention on the dead tree, it vanishes. I tilt my head and look around the corner; there, a pinkish white crocodilian beast is writhing on the floor. Bobby squats down and lifts its right side to reveal a large set of soft, fatty lips that appear to extend along its entire stomach. Without hesitation he dives under the beast and squirms himself between the lips. They slither shut, he’s gone.
I’m back (the other “I” that is), I smirk at myself, and then proceed to pry the monster up by the leg and dive into the slimy lips. I vanish, and Bobby then wriggles out.

That’s how it’s done . . . that’s how you get down. Although it will never happen in quite the same way — or even in a way that remotely resemble what I just explained to you. But that’s how it’s done. Just in case you ever need to know. . . .

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night knife life

It is night. I walking around with my brother Bobby and former housemate Michelle. We are in one of those uncomfortable American hybrid urban/suburban environments. I don’t know how late it is, but there is no one in the streets, and only white vans are parked all around. Michelle asks us to accompany her to a dodgy fast food place a few blocks away. She wants a burger. We agree and follow her. As we approach the yellow glowing “Burger Chase” a nervousness creeps up my spine.
I’m barefoot, and before we enter I see the floors are grimy and wet, as well as one of those “no shirt, no shoes, no service” decals on the door. I hesitate entering at first, but do anyway thinking the employees won’t really give a shit about my feet, and that I will just wash them soon after. When we go in I see to my right a row of booths, each closed in by waist high glass doors and filled with water reaching just above ankle height. People are sloshing around in the water and eating. I find it strange and gross, but try not to stare.  The ordering counter runs the full length of the place and red crudely handwritten signs are taped the whole way down. There is a door at the opposite end. As we walk down the counter I read the signs. They say, “Put all of your belongings on the counter. You will be cut by a large knife if you don’t. If you try to escape or look panicked you will be cut”.
I’m pissed. How did we walk into this trap? The people behind the counter are freakishly tall, but don’t necessarily look mean, they almost seem as if they too are following silent orders. A person who was eating in one of the nasty water booths walks out the door I’m standing next too. I step out and motion to my brother to come. He hesitates but my persistent looks get him to leave. I think about Michelle for a moment, but knew that if I tried to get her to come we all would definitely be caught. I console my selfish action saying to myself that I will send help.
Bobby and I are running full speed through the darkness. The lights of a parked white van turn on, and its engine kicks on. We keep running, and don’t seem to be followed. When we get to my parents’ neighborhood Bobby begins knocking on all of the doors and telling them about the place. When no one seems to care, I wake up. ♨

a girl falling from a plane

I am still kind of in shock. I watched the plane transform as it passed two other planes. It roared and broke. Some one said “that’s not normal” It looked like bodies were falling. A body plummeted toward and smacked against the wall of the pool and into it. I raced toward the steps. I was on the median between two pools. I looked down at the girl. Someone offered a red foam board for transport. She was small and  conscious but not even bleeding. She was shaking. Her legs kept sticking straight up. I am dying, she said. She writhed painfully. I woke.

In the little alcove a man with brownish skin talked. The store had changed its name. It had been Trohve in hamden. Up a back stair. A woman with a child pressed so tightly into her chest wriggled into form from the sagging twin bed. Another appeared behind her, but it was a manish form that hugged me when I told him I speak arabic. It was odd. As We left to go get into the utility truuck, I saw Rupert Wolonski, head down. I said goodbye. The side of the truck said “Mannslers” or some other Germanic thing. It was the Olde tyme writing style that made me think I was part of a german company. I got into the passenger seat. The dark skinned cabbi got to the intersection again. He wanted to take me to the new side of town andl eave me there. I was indignant. What this again!? Take me to the other side of the highway and leave me by the bus stop! But still, of he goes to the left hand turn lane that takes me toward the new part of town.

Earlier I skipped a class. I watched the time 12:10, almost 12:15 I thought. I sat with my high school friend Chris H. He kept leaning toward me. He reminded me of some earlier kiss which really had never happened. I walked down fantastic stairs of some incredible design. The shag had tubes of color flaps. It was remarkable, though I don’t remember what we were saying. I was in a motel room. I was walking through a doorway, not locking it.  Musical instruments play behind him. He talked about his girlfriend. I found myself at 433 West Creek Rd. or 6266 West Creek Rd where I grew up. I was upstairs. I was reading a poster. I placed two spray bottles near Williams pillow for the cats. My pants must have fallen down. I saw a naked girl in a room laughing. There was a sauna. It was an odd misplaced sexual energy.

the conjuring bells

Something is coming for me from the inside. It began one day when I was walking home alone through an autumn forest on a cloudy afternoon. Out of nowhere I heard the melodic ringing of bells. I sat down against a tree and listened. A strange high started coming over me, and I soon realized that the sound was coming from within. That first time I welcomed it, and allowed the ringing (and the high) to build — its song filled my head and all my thoughts vanished. It felt as though my skull melted and then murmured voices began to speak — but they were too hushed for me to make out any meaning from their words (nor to know if they were speaking English). I had a sense that questions were being asked, fairly banal questions.

The ringing bells starting coming for me multiple times a day, and every time I ran away to be alone and steady myself. The high lifts me out of time and space, and I am swept up into a pulsating and rhythmic tornado while still sensing my feet firmly planted on the ground. Every time feels as if I am being turned inside out — my inner life exposed for all to see, but with no one there to bear witness.

I lived in a roofless house in the middle of a forest. Helen would visited me there, and I would often find her sleeping soundly on my bed. One particularly disorienting afternoon, I was handed a typed letter by a tall, gaunt, faceless man. It was from my brother Bobby. It read:

                I’m dying.    I’m dyinG. 
  I’m dying.    I’m dYing.                     I’m dyiNg.
       Everything is made of Green.
   There is a GUN ship in Hanoi.
…it was used by ghosts to shoot down US Bombers.
                        I’m not ready to see you.            But soon. 

The paper was a work of art. It was stained in colors I had never seen before, and the ink from the typewriter seemed to endless drip off of the paper but leave no marks. I wanted him to know how beautiful it was — but I knew he wouldn’t believe me.

I raced home with the letter when the ringing came for me again. I grabbed a tree and rode the high out. I was tired of this unexpected visitor (or visitors), and I hoped Helen was at my house so I could hug her. I went in and, thankfully, she was there and held me as I wept frustrated tears. Whalen was sitting at my desk. He mentioned the ghosts — he said he spent 8 hours one day teaching them the alphabet.

In Helen’s arms the ringing came for me again. I ran out of the house into the dense forest — the melody became more insistent and began drowning out my vision. I started sliding between two separate worlds…. My eyes would open and I would be in my bedroom (in Hanoi) in a trance, motionless, staring at the ceiling . . . then my eyes would close and I would be back in the forest, stoned, the bells ringing louder and louder. This happened about three times, and on the last time I willed myself to stay in my bedroom — in this world, from where I type this entry. ♨

Divorce Hearse

In the bathroom with Joey sticking letters rub-on onto the tub and on a blue poster.  “o’  “p” and he was fussing around to “really” print them. I looked and he had a few letters with depth like old letterpress blocks made of wood. I was making swans and shapes by rubbing the letters over-top-of-each-other.  I was rubbing them right onto the tub like a strip of typewriter white-out. I had just come home to the abandoned  grey house to see a volvo and a long car in the driveway only instead of it being a hearse it said “divorcer” I went inside, popped a hook eye lock to my parent’s secret suite and saw my mother dumping a big contact down the drain. She was hiding evidence. And by drain I meant a big square hole in the up-stairs.  I ran out side to try and see the culprit who I heard moving downstairs, but they were gone.   I was driving in Joey’s car or a van and I saw his mother. I followed her into our neighborhood seeing her peek back at me. I was going to turn off to the left but there was a one-way sign to the right.  I rode a big blue bike. I was putting a weird foot on, a gym shoe stuffed with plastic? There waiting in line,  I met a woman named Christina I had met before.(not actually) I was somehow in a place with younger people and they were contextually able to talk to me here. I had hooked up the young boy with an act. I don’t know what act it was, but it was for a show.   Riding the bike in Hamden, I swooped to a stop on a corner. It was twilight.&~~

Elbe unfinished

Dreams are barely linear. How can I describe how we talked of Elbe, its desolate carved mountainous contours with only a train station running through. Even then I was walking in a plot of weedy land, seeing it for its potential, thinking of composting inside the abandoned race car seat hulk.  Big skunk cabbage leaves everywhere. I wandered in this solitude; sheered off by entering the house to hear her crying for me. She crawled and hung by her fingers from the red tool-chest with stickers.  Then she was the size of a fist and cradled in a small hammock. The baby in fever beside me; in the dream I turned off the hot spray of air and a cold shower dripped onto her wet face. I lay there in a naked embrace with the trio of our generation, for her father had joined us.   The lights came on as the bikers returned. Carl, Lars, and a third black-clothed carabiner-wearing crew member were in the room. Lars was finally ready to talk.

He took me somewhere and said.

“Someone suggested I write this down, so I did.”

He had a black and white composition notebook from which he read, “When I got there he was covered in blood and was flushing the face down the toilet.”

I stopped him there. “Was there a body?”

Lars sort of froze, expecting the words to speak for themselves, without question.

I wonder now, did I get off the train in Elbe once, and walk the brown soil, brown facade of a town, emptied of its old mining families; like a dusty set of “Bride comes to Yellow Sky.”  All I can picture is a combination of images accrued from reading about burnt firestorm scenery North of Berkley, and from the hills of Seattle seen from a plane.  And why would Lars hide something so awful?  I did not sit and listen to what he had written unfortunately, and since I was dreaming, I will never know the content of that book, nor what face was flushed away.

&~~

weasel’s watermelon accordion

~note: I performed the Varuna  Mudra for an hour before bed. (Releasing…)

The gift was a video. I was handed this after being subjected to a strange box. It was a recording of the experience, an absurd moment recorded in a terror box that I had been strapped into, examples of Jackson’s fourth grade homework, and a third unknown segment. My ex who now seemed to be shorter than me, handed me a card that said “Happy seventh” and kissed my cheek with a hug. I think I mumbled something. I saw that his version of this “gift” had been pictures of himself in semi-erotic moments. The terror box for him had forced him to watch pornography and had taken snapshots of it.  When they took me up to take my picture in the box, it was rushed.  The facilities were like an airport or a hospital room.  I insisted I needed to take my contacts out so I quickly did and put them in my mouth after one of the employees said they would be blasted out of my eyes in no time flat.  “Hold on” they said and I was plunged backwards into a blackness upside down not knowing what to expect.

The second sequence was humiliating. It was some pillowy space which was part of the recording experiment.

When I came out I was given the video whether I wanted it or not; I was given the hug and gift.

I walked on in a dress. I had a small child following me. We were looking for a way back into the building. We were stopped by Latino men. The little girl hid. I was worried about her.  Wherever we were going, it seemed like the way was stuck. There were ramps of concrete and a low ceiling.  I began to speak in Spanish.  But my Spanish was incorrect.

Watching a children’s production from above as though looking into a playhouse.  A girl showed a weasel that moved things around.  There was only a square the size of a garage in which they performed their tiny acts, and the girl with long dark hair and dark eyes proudly stood in the corner.  Her weasel moved an apple. Her weasel seemed to be trained. Then the weasel produced another fruit and began to gracefully carve teeth in its watermelon flesh, dark green.  It had a smile now, the watermelon, or a grimace. It was a transformation where the weasel would symmetrically remove the pieces. It became an accordion made of fruit. It played a brief and unrecognizable tune. Jackson had a turn. He was in the back of the playhouse now and there were other kids.  Jackson’s face was grim. The child mention something about death and his father. A boy behind him mocked him saying he had death at his house. I took a can, or a box in place of the mean boy, and railed against it saying that it shouldn’t say such things.

Leaving the place there was this terrible sense that someone would make fun of me or ruin my car or hurt me.  The cars were parked in a field.  The two fat kids on the way out were friends.  As I got to my car, which was my old yellowish tan Volkswagon with the purple tinted windows.  I was relieved.  I zoomed down the grass hill and onto the road and then J was there beside me, and he mentioned something about how it would be like that with Jackson, zooming so carelessly, intimating a slight disapprobation at my driving.

&~~