“Turn left at the next light,” came an absent voice from the back.
Turning left was the form taken by the mundane; in a sense, mundanity was in and of itself a form of life. The sweltering heat, the throngs of people pushing across the street, well that was the whole of it. I’d came to New York a boy, but a man of convenience for my mother, herself perpetually saturated in the self-satisfying mourning of my father’s passing. And I had left with the grandiose hopes of becoming a writer, and, having some fleeting but necessary thought that writers of the contemporary sort needed the fast pace lifestyle that cities offered, came here.
“Fifty-fourth and street. I got it.” I wouldn’t be provoked by a petty man insulated by his five-thousand dollar suit. Here, we see that all the time. The street was packed with cars, not all cabbies like it’s depicted in the movies, but a mix of the big’s and little’s, the fast and luxurious and the not-so-much. Each swerving and battling for position—jockeying would be the better word choice—but in here, the maze of the city as it is, it’s always for nothing. The moving standstill.
Gas and break, alternating the way it works out best to be a coordinated two-footed driver. I’ve felt this fog roll in before; I become so indulgent on the things that matter to me in the most quixotic sense that I lose all sense time and place. Or I used to. That is to say that I still make my way into the deep recesses of my mind but the city is now automatic. Subsensory even.
Onto Fifty-Fourth Avenue and the lights flared red, oscillating between nearer and farther before settling across the full quarter mile stretch. Street was up there, where it always was. The man in the back jumped out and asked the fare. Horns honking, bicyclists peddling past, and the general frenetic atmosphere surrounded this man on the outside. Routine. I used to think my philosophizing, my grand claims about human nature were unique and important. I thought I was a writer and continued to think that was the case for the months that I blew through my savings here in the city. I wrote hour by hour and submitted everything, anything to the publishers. I was rejected, but resolute in the matter; I was a writer.
After six months and two loans from my mother I found this job. But I needed to still be a thinker. I engaged in conversations with every individual I picked up, asked about the meaning of life, and the struggles against temptation. Here, I realized the real truth of human nature. We all think and we all observe, and while this was unto itself interesting it worked, insidiously, to cast shadows on my own thoughts. When I realized that we all held ideas and convictions as to why the poor man is ultimately God, the candle went out.

Sometimes you have to walk before you can
fall (a fact highlighted in speakeasies). The World
as a pseudonym for itself barks hieroglyphs to the
stars of tangerine kisses(again: let reason abscond
the nuances of thinking,
let motion dictate speech in librettos, hula hoops, clanging
and rasping with cockroach beads and walnuts).

Breathe.

It is like unveiling your nipples to
the sand storm; unabashed in their
proclivity to point north. It is like
letting milk sour; waiting for some cat
(calico) to churn the butter. Implore
the sands; implore the butter. Practice
connecting the dots; disconnecting
the dots. Let your neighbors do
the connecting and disconnect
your neighbors. Together, style
milk duds into David, but make
it new. or make it old to make
it new. Those are the rules.

It is like close captioning words
into thoughts; bubbles of productivity
escape and smile reason at EKG’s
(no propensity to smile back) It is like
humping imagination with a pickaxe;
Depletion imminent. Pop the bubbles.
Pop the pills. It is like Sheppard’s milk
Laced in golden phosphorus; an
Unabridged version of yourself. It
is like…

It is like ME; dirty and unclothed.
Polarized sand particles draped
over navel; always spinning.

Hidden from view But viewing Grandfather’s shed.

Arriving after

Mother had chased me from Grandmother’s kitchen

Where I had Found my CAPE and MASK.

                                                           Bushes.
                         And Underbrush.
                                                           Nemesis
                                                            Across
                                                      the yard.

Running [supersonic] Screaming (Stuns Evils) Rolling evades death lunge

Evil within my grasps squeezing and twisting eeking out death. Counterattack LICKED! Death lick. A sticky, smelly and Funny lick. A pink, 16 inch long Lick. A warm lick. Wet licks.

Losing the battle; hopelessly laughing.

      —laugh throes.

One. Last. Weakness.

Stick thrown. Fetching

   —panting throes
   —tail-waging throes

Any poodle under ten inches high is a toy.

Almost always a toy is an imitation

of something grown-ups use.

Popes with undipped hair are called corded popes.

If a Pope’s hair is allowed to grow unchecked,

it becomes extremely long and twists

into long strands that look like ropes.

When it is shorter it is tightly curled.

Popes are very intelligent.

There are three different sizes.

The largest are called standard Popes.

The medium-sized ones are called miniature Popes.

I could go on like this, I could say:

“He is a squarely built Pope, neat,

well-proportioned, with an alert stance

and an expression of bright curiosity,”

but I won’t. After a poodle dies

all the cardinals flock to the nearest 7-Eleven.

They drink Slurpies until one of them throws up

and then he’s the new Pope.

He is then fully armed and rides through the wilderness alone,

day and night in all kinds of weather.

The new Pope chooses the name he will use as Pope,

like “Wild Bill” or “Buffalo Bill.”

He wears red shoes with a cross embroidered on the front.

Most Popes are called “Babe” because

growing up to become a Pope is a lot of fun.

All the time their bodies are becoming bigger and stranger,

but sometimes things happen to make them unhappy:

They have to go to the bathroom by themselves,

and they spend almost all of their time sleeping.

Parents seem to be incapable of helping their little popes grow up.

Fathers tell them over and over again not to lean out of windows,

but the sky is full of them.

It looks as if they are just taking it easy,

but they are learning something else.

What, we don’t know, because we are not like them.

We can’t even dress like them.

We are like red bugs or mites compared to them.

We think we are having a good time cutting cartoons out of the

paper,

but really we are eating crumbs out of their hands.

We are tiny germs that cannot be seen under microscopes.

When a Pope is ready to come into the world,

we try to sing a song, but the words do not fit the music too well.

Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us.

They open their mouths at regular intervals.

They are continually grinding up pieces of the cross

and spitting them out. Black flies cling to their lips.

Once they are elected they are given a bowl of cream

and a puppy clip. Eyebrows are a protection

when the Pope must plunge through dense underbrush

in search of a sheep.

Three plums or one

grapefruit; juices stinging

eyes and morals.

Bodies

surrounding

bodies

—five dollar cover at the

naval.

X’s for the kids.

Imagine new mixing with old:

the pornstar who comes home

in hijab and does the dishes, or

the two albatrosses that raise

one egg: themselves both female

egg unknown.

LESBIANS!!

As if they were flying the rainbow flags

themselves.

Homosexuality is a choice!

But I’d rather just ask the bird what it was doing. It squalks for a moment before kicking one of the two eggs out of the nest.

Then it winks.

I’m a musician. The lead guitarist and vocalist for the ‘withering souls of Arcamia’ to be specific. But I’m horrible at singing and I’m anything but creative so the lyrics suck. And I can’t play guitar that well. So I usually sing softly and strum hard, but with the amp turned down (usually at five). The bassist knows all of this and keeps his amp at seven. We’ve also told the drummer that he has to ‘drum harder’; but he doesn’t know why. Unfortunately, he isn’t much of a drummer, but is an amazing guitarist. We think if he were to be let in on the secret he’d probably stage a coo to take over my spot and find a new drummer. Or at least try.

I’m also not here. I’m actually passing Saturn on the way to Pluto. You see, someone tipped me off that it was nice this time of year; the ice melts and the whole damn…planet becomes one big slip’n’slde. You just have to watch out for the sniggerpifs and tukers. The ship I’m on has three floors and my parents own all three. The main floor is where the kitchen (still gas stove—if we hit E before we get there I’m blaming their frugality), living room, and their bedroom are. On the top floor some traveling salesman has rented out the bedroom, hoping to sell office supplies to the Tous at the North side of Pluto. They had told me that I could have that room but I’d have to pay double what the salesman was. They pointed out that he helped clean and did his own laundry and even sometimes cooked. They stuffed me in the basement. So close to the damn engines I sweat three gallons every night. I’ve measured.

But I measured in my dreams. This tended to save time so that I could learn Korean during the day, the native language of the Tous. This is what the Encyclopedia Britannica had said. I had stolen my parents credit card and bought the online version—it had pictures that went along with terms such as robot fetishism and female ejaculation, wikipedia had not.

Why are you leaving.

Or. Is the damn satellite feed going out again. Just…just wait! I’m not crazy and I’m not that high. Well I’ll just try again once we stop at Neptune. I haven’t even started about socialism or the culture of the Flemers; you see they believe that when a male turn’s 450 he must mutilate…

Connection Ended.