Saturday, August 28, 2010

fred speaks

i am walking with my uncle to the airport
i am getting an abortion at the airport
i am filling my flask with rum from my uncle's urine
i am going to deepen my relationship with my uncle
i am going to deepen my relationship with my squirrel
i am feeding my squirrel rum from a flask
i am feeling my squirrel pulsate from the alcohol in his tiny body
i am preoccupying my self at this moment with the need to deepen my relationship with this mug
i am ignoring my squirrel go into convulsions
i am very fascinated with this mug
i am aware that this mug is from my uncle
i am ready for my uncle

viper await pad plot nervous shambles throw

airbus landing pad
shovel trucking around
tiny finger succcubus
dyna-fantasm sound
phallic viper overload
the occult awaits for you
pocket rocket house bag
the plot is not about fools
you see, nervous berber children
throw silver markers in shambles
nervous tic tic tic

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Granny's House

I walk into the library, where the contest is being held. People sitting at long tables, rendering their pencil-copied illustrations from books. I check it out, unsure if I want to participate, but mostly apprehensive because I doubt my own skill. I find a how-to handbook, which makes the process even easier, so I begin to search for an image I'd like to copy.

The upstairs of Dan Paul's granny's house is brightly lit with an entire wall of sunny windows and clean, reflective wooden floors. The room is large and rectangular and open, bare of furniture. We sift through rolling racks of clothes now that Brett has graced us with his absence. The racks multiply, full of granny's old dresses, vintage mens' shirts, coats, and miscellaneous costumery. I ask Dan if he wants to keep them all, hoping that he will so we could make the upstairs into a costume closet of sorts. He agrees.

A few people stand on the balcony right outside the large bank of windows. They seem to be involved in their own business, so I don't mind them.

The kitchen connected to the large, open room is also spacious and sunny. An old red stove occupies the grand spot in the kitchen, facing the entrance and made of old black iron. It is stuffed with cast-iron skillets, pans, fryers and other pots, and there are even more stacked into the open cupboards and shelves. The walls are neatly stacked to the ceiling with old pots and pans. Some people show up to the space, and they're just hanging out but not necessarily engaging us. Facing the windows, a smaller area slopes upward toward the ceiling, covered in kitchen carpet. Four red spindly wooden rods stand out from the carpet hill, pointing toward the ceiling. A curious installation, whimsical but mysterious. Later, Dan Paul finds a miniature piano, and mounts it on top of the four wooden rods. They were legs to a tiny piano! We all stand around as Dan twists the legs into their grooves and gives us a performance. Pure Magic.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

The Horror and Shame of The Phase

I walk down one of the side walkways of the closing shopping mall, the shallow steps leading into the middle aisle of the walkway disappear into a prefabricated subterranean canal. There's no time to explore whatever's down there. What I care about most is finding the perfect pair of tiny stud earrings. Unfortunately, the mall is already closed and all the shopkeepers left for the night. This leaves me only once choice: shoplift. I pass into an area of the mall with small vendor carts, usually stocked with useless trinkets or ineffectual miracle creams. Ooo, an earring cart. Would it be too obvious to peruse this closed cart? Would someone come up to me and start asking questions?

The best plan of action is to create a diversion. I take one of my flat, polygonal avant-gardey stud earrings out of my purse and drop it onto the ground. That way it will look like I'm trying to find something I dropped while I peruse this cart. This earring falls, hits the ground, but then I am afraid to lose it. It really does have a unique shape, and the post of the earring is jointed so it folds onto itself like the arm of a pair of glasses. I find it immediately, but then remember that I'm only pretending to find it. Playing with the jointed post lovingly, I see X walking toward me.

Quickly I walk toward him, curious about why he is at this desolate mall. The earring glints in the stark shadows as I show him what a well-crafted object it is. We do not speak. I follow him into a sparse white living room with white furniture and some books. He gets busy setting up a silkscreen type of frame, preparing and alchemizing some strange arcane concoction to make a special document relic. My mom walks out of the dark hall, and sees me there, sitting on the couch. Her facial expression passes from neutral to mildly disappointed. The lightbulb in her head flickers on and then burns out with a pop. Upon sight, she figures out that X and I were having sex in her house. That was the mysterious noise she heard some time ago. The long, low groan of a wolf's orgasm. Oh it's painfully shameful for me to feel her disappointment, copulating with this uninterested trickster. I sit while she admonishes me. She pulls a piece of paper from a high shelf in the wall, hands it to me, and demands that I leave. There's a one hundred dollar bill folded into a small clear coke baggie stapled to the paper. I tell her I don't need it, and leave.

The neighborhood outside is a lot like Bushwick, only everyone is super rowdy and loud, and in my face. It's aggravatingly hot and noisy as I walk down the sidewalk to my mom's giant truck. The truck is lightly dusted in a coat of yellowy pollen, so I spray it down with a spray bottle full of pollen remover and scrub it with a white plastic toilet brush. The neighborhood people don't like this, they start harassing the truck. They're retarded zombies who can't stop playing with the knobs and buttons, unable to figure out what they're for. I fight some of them off with the toilet brush after I realize they're not going to figure out the buttons and move on. This angers the retarded Latino zombies, and they throw tantrums. Moving from the driver's side to the passenger side, I discover they've removed the exterior of the car door and are working on the interior. Mouth gaping, I run back around to the drivers side of the truck and jump in. I thought I saw one of the zombie retards take my purse, but it was still in the front seat. The truck's smooth engine effortlessly and I punch the accelerator, flinging the zombie retard who was messing with the wipers off the hood. Reaching into my bag, I pull out an old cell phone and dial my mother. The dial tone rings but an intermittent voice chimes "Charges for this call will be made to your bill" What? The zombie retards somehow hacked my cell phone?! My mother answers but she seems to not understand that I am in danger and racking up a very costly phone call.