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Storm is coming

Clouds hang low, city like a cave,
Gray and red-orange overcome blue,
Restless leaves on arching trees

Storm is coming

Hear the crickets, hear the sounds
Thunderclap! I'm living now,
Flashing light, I'm living in these clouds

Storm is coming

Sky blackens to the east, sideways rain,
There's rare power up above

Storm is coming,

Now trunks are screaming, buildings too,
Engulfed in furious, liquid skies

Storm is coming

Gale is whipping, puddles become ponds

Storm is coming

We see how small we really are now

Storm is coming
Storm is coming

A Dash of Wrath

I am demented, lamented, resented. I rise up and fill the air with my voice but I do not have to scream. My toes twirl wildly, each one splaying out from its fellows as if stabbing the night. I rip layer after layer of thick white linen cloth from my body, but there is so much that it is hard to find my own skin. I rip and I claw and the shreds fall like an autumn hijacked by winter. For every torn layer, new folds of constricting textiles materialize and cling to my body. They encompass me. They are meant to be comforting, but I resent the comfort they intend. Because they don’t really comfort at all. They conceal and they limit and they euphemize. I am consumed by the frustration of such a thing. These imposing white waves are spun in a loving light, but I know that they are only meant to muffle. My frustration turns to ire and fire rushes from my spleen and out of my mouth to lick the linen with blackening venom so potent that I burn my own skin. My spine tenses with the pain, but the cool, swirling winds make nerve endings calm.

I seek new threads as I roam the night air. I plunge into a black thundercloud, pulling its edges tight against my straining tendons and darning it with knowing fingers to accommodate my immensity. This feels right. The dark moisture is symbolic of my power, ready to gush forth at a moment’s notice. The immutable nature of water lends itself to me and clothes me in a second skin. That burst of fire was only temporary. Fire I could produce, but it is inconsistent. Water is like a Hendrix riff and a deep kiss: it produces something in me. Its strange dichotomy of permanence and fluidity appeals to me. I ride away with my cloak of icevaporwater to impose my will on the imposable.

>>>excerpt from the Autobiography of Radric Brazoban

What is that? The odd, maybe twisted pleasure of leaving people behind

There you are, on that boat. There they stand, on the dock. They stand there on the planks and nails, and the beams that bear their weight sink deep into the unmoving earth.

They stand on the dock. They are at the edge of the water. They can only turn. They can only go back. As they return back to their lives, they can’t fathom the dock; they don’t even try. They must return to the roundness, to the wholeness of the land. The concept of the frontier is too large, too unpackageable to even be addressed. The frontier doesn’t even have an address. It is beyond. Beyond what? That is the use of the people on the dock. They define the frontier. The point where they collectively stop, that is the frontier. Because some people stop on the dock, the boundary exists. That dock at the edge of the cold, dark water becomes so big. The big, scary frontier that repels them back toward the wholeness of their lives.

So why did they come? Was it to squeeze your hand or kiss your mouth with convincing passion? No, they came to see if you would really get on the boat. That Martian vessel departing the wholeness and the roundness. To where? Wrong preposition! It doesn’t matter to where. The boat is an uncatchable beam of light, tangenting off of the roundwhole. It is bouncing, flying, fleeing mothers and moorings. The shadow it casts doesn’t even touch the dock. The tethers fall away and the "bon voyages" ebb as thunderous waters make way for brave tangent.

But what of you? I haven’t forgotten. You can forget forgetting. Forgetting is what happens when you try to remember. You are past all that. You have put down your cup of Kool-aid. It wasn’t too bad: it was pleasant and safe and even tasted pretty good. Too syrupy-sweet though. It is time for a hearty swig of cold, briny seawater. Now that is a substance of clarity. It stings going down and it is complicated. It is liberating and revolting. Saltwater requires sharp focus; Kool-aid requires quiet concession. Kool-aid you left behind. You’re drinking seawater now. And after the first, hesitant cupful, you start gulping it down. There’s no label indicating its safety, but its salty sting doesn’t make you seize or vomit, no limbs fall off and your pores don’t leak essential fluids. Instead, the world flows into you. You are filled with its thereness. It shakes you and makes your eyes well up. The scrutinizing wind bites chunks out of who you were. It whips you like a lash, then fills your lungs – Straboccante! – with the food for which they yearn.

You crossed the frontier when you stepped foot on that boat. And however cold and brackish and biting the beyond is, it welcomes you.

Now go to it.

Can On A Hot Tan Cat

Some time ago, entranced:

“When I die I want my ashes to be launched out into outer space in this tin can. And no, not from some ill-conceived potato launcher out behind the house; I’m talking up in a spaceship, the whole shebang. Don’t worry it’ll be pretty common by then and I got $800 in the can now in case that sort of thing is expensive in the future. I guess you could still use a potato launcher but make sure you fire ‘em out into the nothingness.

"I imagine by that time I’ll be in some sort of “other” place, a nothing world of sorts. I’ll be walking through a series of tunnels. It’s not a narrow space, you know I’m claustrophobic, but bigger spaces with corridors running off in different directions. And it’s not some dark, spooky cave either. The walls, ceilings and floors are all made from this icy blue material and they all have such similar, swirling visual textures so that it’s hard to get any depth perception at all, which makes wandering through the tunnels pretty tough. The surfaces are smooth and carved out; nothing’s really square. They’re smooth, but not hard like they look. I never hurt myself bumping into a wall, but that could either be because they are soft, or because I never bump into anything ever. It is heaven after all. I’m looking for the Control Room, but this almost seems like a maze. I see the same room for the second time and try to make marks on the wall like Hansel and Gretel to find my way. But I have nothing on me to mark the walls. All I’m wearing is a white linen suit, with nothing in any of the pockets. I don’t even have a cell phone.

"But it’s not like a dream. This isn’t aimless searching. And I know why I want to get to the Control Room. That’s how I know it isn’t a dream. You know I love math and science and I know they have the world’s biggest, most powerful computer in the Control Room. Once I’m there, I can track the flight of my tin can through space and determine how far it will fly before it hits an asteroid or alien ship or Jupiter and explodes.

"And that’s all I really need as I travel to the next station. Just the pure mathematical pleasure of knowing the exact trajectory of an inanimate object through space. It’s beautiful and simple. As beautiful as peace.”

Peace out,

Alberto J. Alburquerque

Ty Cobb Salad Ballad (extra bacon please!)

.

Freedom fighters
Medium-sized helium lighters
Feeling brighter
Wield white flowing; sploosh! Seal delighter

Wheeling wider
Peel fast, steal beside her
Implosion hinder
Heist like ocean commotion rider

Erosion stopped
Beatle-meter hemo-globbed
Read-out reader
Be a snob, go sip some cider

Quill ink writer
Paper-faced, old Bealtime bider
Globularly held
Encompass rumpus, then imbibe her

Water rock roll
Deep dish sushi, windy stock pool
Ad-hoc Spock fool
Martian Spider spin that silky Glockenspööl



Sincerely,

>Peahchacho

This too shall pass

I don’t care. We don’t care. I don’t give a fuck. We don’t give a fuck. Let it go. Let them go. Let him go. Let her go. Fuck that shit. You don’t need it. I certainly don’t need it. Drop it like it’s hot. Not dancing. Just drop it. Back up off it. Evacuate. Quarantine. Surrender. But don’t give up. Don’t give a fuck.

They are wasting our time. He is wasting your time. She is wasting my time. It is my time. Fuck those people. We don’t need them. We don’t care. Should we care? Fuck that. I am me. Who am I? I am me. Fuck those people. They aren’t you. They certainly aren’t me. Drop them. Drop it. Stop it. Stop it. Now. Stop it.

Let it be. But don’t let them be. They won’t let you be. They are slowing you down. You want to go fast. Leave them, go fast. They are pushing you now. Not your pace; not your beat. Leave them. Push them off of you. You don’t need that. Weights and prods. That’s all she is. That’s all he is. That’s all they are. Not us though.

We get it. We got it. We go and get it. We had it, and have it, and don’t have to go get it. They have to go. They need to look like they are going. They aren’t going. We are going. We are getting gone. I am gone. I am getting gone. I am done with go. I will go to gone. Fuck if I know where that is.

Close your eyes. Stick out your tongue. Sing blah-blah-blah. Na-na-na. Close your eyes. Everything you have is yours. If it feels like they gave it to you, they didn’t. They didn’t give you anything. They want what you have. They want you to want what they have. You don’t. You want what you have. You want other things. You will have them. I want what you have. I have what you have. I have what I want. I have you. You have me.

They are obsolete. They want big. They are small. You are big. I am very big. Big is bigger than small. Small is obsolete. Small doesn’t exist. Not next to big. They aren’t there. Close your eyes! They really aren’t there. So don’t give a fuck. Don’t care. I don’t care. You don’t care. We don’t care.

I don’t care.

Ship-shape vs. Ship-shaped

Scalding hot water did more for me today than all the sex in my life ever has. I sat under the faucet, and the blinding heat and steam made me into a faucet too. My body shivered: it was rested but fatigued from the infection antagonizing it. Cold in my chest but millions of tiny cascading droplets that seared when they struck me if they hadn't already left for the world of vapor.

Sitting on the shower floor. Head bent, submitting to the dazzling onslaught of Hades spittle. My thick hair can't stop them from beating a frenzied beat on my scalp. Not to be outdone, however, my brain makes angry pulses that fly outward to meet the force of the incoming spray of heat. Thoughts and throbbing spears of headache are dispatched with speed, and fly like sparks from a welder's torch. My scalp and skull bones are like WW2 Poland, beset on either side by hostile forces: a battle fought with no regard to the battleground.

water water water water. drench me in some water water. it heals and destroys all, even Harry Potter.

Baby Beluga