Thursday, May 25, 2017

Expedition Four:

Expedition Four: She bounced on the bed and I watched her black hair flop and wave with the mute surprise of gravity. She beckoned me with black gloves, pouched out her eyeballs with foggy, noncommittal intent. “Y’wanna fuck me, Horse?” she said. There was no promise in the question. There wasn’t even a question in the question. It was one big Grade-A ape between us - a gorilla where my libido used to be. A catatonic come-on. Where her legs united oozed a tumorous wall of cancer-hardened cervix. Penetration impossible for the moment. But her hands- thin, smooth, graceful, casting dancing shadows on the ceiling as she bounced. God her hands were as lovely as a war-torn ballet. Too lovely to look at. Men went mad at the sight of her nude cuticles. She positioned her hands for maximum effect. She acted out Custer’s Last Stand with lithe, gliding shadow puppets. The bed stretched away like an earthquake under a field and she kicked off her wooden shoes and they landed like an obituary on the bottomless floor. “Hey! Y’wanna horse me, Fuck?” And then she waggled out her obscene pink tongue; it stretched out so far I could see the roots. I thought of the panicked spasms of a gasping, land-stranded fish. That’s what her tongue looked like. She threw back her head in mock orgasmic revelry. Rain patted the glass with stained fingertips. Let me in.

“Let me out!”

Luke is trapped in a suicide cell with the Captain. They stand at the mirror, both staring at the other’s unfamiliar reflection. None of the reflections look like each other - individuality lost in the fractal mix - they didn’t blink until the Captain opened his mouth and black viscous liquid oozed from between his swollen lips.

     “What the fuck, mate...”

     “Gblo ahead. Shbloot,” he sputtered through a mouthful of black bile.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017



"My men read Leaves from the Smorgasbord or they read nothing at all."

Expedition Three:

The notched bones say clearly: Expedition Three: Television repairmen with broken legs hobble and crawl for ninety miles on a desolate road unpaved yet black. The drought patiently dries the swamp, brackish waters steaming into amnesia. Frogs commit quick suicide by flopping in front of the blurs on the harsh waves of screeches and sunburn. The forest is cluttered with dead forest. Branches and leaves conflict everywhere; the forest is cannibalizing itself, spelling out the sad agony of its collapse with dry hieroglyphics. “He did not turn in his report in a timely manner. He put forth minimum effort.” Repetitive, bereft of insight. High expectations turned to seagull specks in a Goethe landfill. The advanced architecture of a palsied dwarf in a closed bowling alley - the lanes filled with dying buzzards - the only light bleeds from the pinball machines and the cigarette ends of the smoking bowling team. “When’re ye gonna git thet ol’ radio workin’?” Parts are expensive and small and incomprehensible. I can’t fix it. It isn’t safe here. Gray globules of space matter itch like pink insulation on his sweater neck. It starts to rain unrefined memories. Memories of...

Aye Captain!

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Expedition Two:

The old man burst into the pub, his haggard face twisted with truncated dreams like a worm cut in two. His voice had perished, stolen by grim ordeal. He used dyslexic telepathy to tell the others, “Down was I Porter’s Cove was me. A box netted I. A wooden box long. Rusted was the lock shut and barnacles to wood clung the soft waterlogged. Right at it real close looked I and lettering seen I across the top. It said..."
Expedition Two: One thick black cord stretches from the muscled mouth of a naked woman carrying the loss of a dual mastectomy and into the charcoal eyesocket of a promiscuous horticulturist named Helen Epperbaum. The cord is frayed and stings the air with short sizzling bursts of white gnats erupting from the shadows of an area like a risk to your own health. A burro a child a burro a child leaps into a shallow black splash thrumming with gasping electric currents and like eels squirming on a slow current of razor blades, fluid fills his gasping utterances. “Here, let me take this out of your mouth.” He tucked his money into his pocket. “Eskimos are everywhere these days,” Luke tells me. They sit around worn ghost-laden tables, casting polished whale bones as if they were new galaxies, boisterously shouting with each arctic sledge that approaches. Jhinook pounds his mittened fist on the haunted table and scowls with innate and created heat. A man tells a joke about vaginas made of snow and an icicle penis. The other men laugh with glaring toothless smiles, rolling their whiskey eyes, happy here, chewing whale blubber like unruly gum. He sweeps up the ivory dice again and tosses them with his whole chronic personality on the line. 


What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Monday, May 22, 2017

Expedition One:

Atrophied arms behind locked gates. He hates boats, more specifically he hates drowning. Or the idea of it anyway. “How are you feeling?” I hate ocean voyages. I’ve done all the research. Your qualifications outclass every other anthropologist in this choking weed of an institution. The billowy, albino pockets of throbbing jelly seemed directionless, content to flow and bobble in the calm gangrenous water. The afterglow morning of Thorazine and Seroquel. Nodding into his breakfast. “We detected no head or fins or appendages of any note.” It was not preposterous anymore. Then the Captain went blitzkrieg and beat his wife to death. She never saw it organized or heard the Captain’s gasp. The speakeasies, the Charleston, Herbert Hoover. Rafts and submarines. They found the Captain scratching at his face with bloody, studied fingernails while his wife was a crumpled hump in the clean, unfair corner - sweet and thick with the perfumed invitation of assigned putrefaction. Amid crackling thunder and screaming seas the First Mate, Luke, heard a torrent of voices at his lonely door. “I’ve checked and re-checked the data. I’d have saved myself a modicum of trouble if only I’d realized that the shawls were made of flames.”

My goulash runneth over. 

Saturday, May 20, 2017

When They Stop Taking Pictures

“When they stop taking pictures, it’s all over,” she said, lighting a Satin cigarette. She spoke with a languorous southern drawl.
     “How do you stand it? Being the center of attention all the time?”
     “How do you stand being a nobody all the time?”
     “People adore you.”
     “And I adore people, darling...”
     “It would drive me crazy. All the attention.”
     “My life is never dull.”
     “Again. That would be crazy-making for me.”
     “Oh, stop being such a child.”
     “I’m only seven!”

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