LOST PURSE
_____________
Perfume passed balloon,
and the crawling machine
along wick of wax, that
dripping, melted round thin
cloud line and smiling the walls
of this perfume machine, through
space station , a small room --
epicenter -- looking for forever, the
hairs, a fabrication as the mentality
blossoms into orchid wax relief,
munching on an electric orange, a
Louisiana hour -- 25 watts --
who's digital dog? When
we find a parasite -
spaced out here in station
230 - we breathe fire
all the way to the lake --
swing the skyline - Leroy
shakes the limbs of the tree
like a very old chandelier -
the limbs of a mammal curve
the elements into the shape
of a brain, some houses off
limits to the operator -- A
clear disguise, and for hair
pasta -- and after long circles
of the same painting - the same
fabric in rug - after the exact
pattern empties out to the
flower bed at the end of
each night - a muttering love
occurs , a meek tongue through the mask
Steel method -- mouth around -- angled chow mein power line
pouring fourth in a laughter -- the mouth holds
dozens of balloons -- they seem to peek around corners
of the oldest house built in America -- I slept in it
last night -- built by the Spaniards. A hat hangs
here, a door laughs so hard its falling from its
hinges -- a coat turns into the six foot
tall ghost of a man haunting the
top floor porch -- he used to bleed
little girls on the second floor -- back when
the smell of bodies could not be recognized
through all of the horse shit in the streets --
New Orleans fights over who’s building is oldest
some French tour guide argued that this
building isn’t as old as the english buildings
up the street while at his desk surrounded
in flyers for swamp and alligator tours,
munching down his meat infested
Po Boy sandwich -- each room that you
enter here is a private quarters you
have entruded on --
new fiction (2014)
Shared Thread 5-HTP
I write to you from the cranky neck of my wif(e.) The year is 1777, and Sasha enters obelisk geometries of Josie city with a snails pace. -- she is biting me -- Small blurring German dolls at the curvatures of her eyebrows; she is looking at the lake, it used to be a clock. We don’t want to look at flat black, it’s scaring her, and I to sleep -- Snail trails of chipped, gold skeleton keys daisy chain beneath her, amidst this “orangutan logic” she has tucked, and partitioned with laudanum. I rub my eye,and struggle to rub my eyebrows against hers -- The slime is a mauve and golden reflection, displayed as multiple bulbs of light, they act in the way stars do, to retrace her steps; stars, so intent that she tucks deeper, unknowing, as she lingers to a shop window, handling the skeletons in her pocket. I dream country roads until morning, on foot, finding poor rusted housing --Twelve inch Sasha, I find out, through research at a public Library, hidden in the back with the manifestos, has written the most accurate account of my life. I find this out in the year 1666, through the Montague publishing archives. Ape trains rushing through town, dividing mental street from shoes and it’s hard to feel like a beast in these shoes --The next week I find her grave at the cemetery in Paris, on my way to Prague, to teach about the innovative filtration systems of the northern Gypsy. Blending down from the bent silk and alignment all string ~ I meet Sasha the next day, in Germany, near a Doll factory, where they make Steffen and wheeler dolls. She is reluctant to speak, but after some technical ranting on my part, she finally says her name and this.
“I will be home later.” and “Don't worry about me now, I am doing research.” There are hands Ivan found, painted white in the hospital, lounged plump, abandoned to a field, where the path smells like winter spruce dangling from ropes as fine as the razor wire used to keep out the blind from rummaging for manikin legs --Sasha follows me back to Paris, sitting on the train car directly after mine.
In those days groups of suited swimmers threw all night parties with fine cigars - mimosas - and manikin footage uncovered, where a group lounges drunken in the black water, sharing smoke over the legs of heads, of hands, of feet, dunked vintage manikins -- When she makes love to me, a dream of buried clocks tick under ground, women dressed in white paint their faces with leaves, using black ink until the perfect circle covers noses and eyes, mouths, earlobes, jewelry. That had been deconstructed by secret society, the known Walther’s white win-tress --Her body is a connection device, pouring essential oil into my skin, an inescapable vortex of clocks, both ticking forwards, and at the reverse back in time. Little pockets of the group still exist today, even an exploration to the first hotel (since boarded) takes place off the coast in a small town in these dreary folded papers-- the theater , and its coordinates cannot be discussed here.
Most of her subtle gestures seem derived from a past lover, and I fear, as I am falling in love with her, I am falling in love with her past.
Leather rose is all of the clue -- I move to Italy, and then to America in 1670. First to skirt back a bit, and curtsy for in the lights at ones binoculars -- I meet Sasha in America, in a hostel in New York in 1672. The hospice of the heart must warm before closing up , and cooling. She, like me is trying to escape something not worth discussing. Shared thread, a bony eclipse those shuffled rooms turning, turning, and on the perfect English argument, salt shoulders, check, change the channel, flowers, a bee and conversation with the grass -- We, instead wander New York together, finding objects: little forgotten remnants, scraps of the morning paper, and pieces of the city left to rot. Hold that thought: next, a white channel it takes, shuffles, flips next channel, the room, the waking room, the dark piled underwater, and magazines - a shared voice, one yelling-- We make collages out of these objects, and feel we have fallen in love again.
In an oak chair waking up from a long dream -- In Love together for months, every morning, every night, and sometimes three times in the afternoon, we imagine clocks, ticking underground and this all begins to take over my dreams. Cat masks, and candelabras in the chimney singing song fires -- In the mornings we drink coffee at a small table we found in the alleyway, behind our cheap tenant. Before the echoing chambers emerging open, before the echoing chamber releases its hourly pink signal, the rooms, wait, sleeping and the first flake of lead paint cracks from the ground floor in the foyer -- After some time, I have forgotten why I left Paris in the first place, sucked, abnormally deep into my dreams.
The shattered hands delicately shift around in a circle on the floorboards -- We make love for days, we eat nothing but rice and garden tomatoes she grows. A shot out window - hunks of plastic wrapped faces, and torso’s being staggered in a configuration that is well fitted to comet - Smashing me into the stove, the wall, crushing my pocket watch under her foot, she cries in pain, and blames me for her loss of happiness. Fluttering in the eastern clock -- I lose touch with my body for two whole days, transfixed in mid air, above the bed.
The signal draws a ghostly party at the swimming pool west wing -- We make love slowly in the air, starving. Caught in moving recordings as higher levels in 02 and moving objects -- Never leaving the apartment, Sasha and I stop exploring, we quit collaging, we stop paying rent on the apartment, and one day the landlord starts knocking, so Sasha barricades the front door, and says we enter, and leave through the window, through the fire escape. A talk show of European grays with three of the output/input RCA computers, glitch, and signal -- We only leave at night and she begins shoplifting. Headset’s feeding back with violin, harp, prepared guitar and 5:00 a.m.
I find food in the trash and we eat again.
And struggling to lift one of the white arms to the nose, there in one corner -- One meal a day. moves a mirror - She goes out for a week, and I don't see her. After a week of sleeping alone, I wake up and she is hovering over me. Oh, on string -- She demands nothing more than peaceful rest and kisses me on the lips, her skin smells of Patchouli and frankincense. We fall asleep together, arms wrapped, a cocoon of ticking dreams. Now the feet lift from the floor boards, bend he the jacket, and the tail feathers crawl their own string and a man above the room (floor four) with hands in reflections, all the many masquerades, the room makes and has witnessed -- She holds a mirror before my face, she feeds me medicine beneath the mirror and will not look at me, little gathered leaves she has chewed to help heal my wounds. Shot gun holes through that one --We write letters, hers post marked 1777, mine 1666. I begin to believe I have lost my mind. Or the post man has made some kind of mistake, or she is playing a trick on me. But still a good mask --I spend all of my time between composing stealing liquor, and cigarettes. Hallways flurry, puffy, cookie, birdie nests, fight, flight of white beak, and raven, into atticus -- I purchase with the last of my money a small parcel of rat poison, and stamps. That when the recording crew entering with boxes, tapes, computer wires, screens, chests of cable, two way radio, antennae -- I talk to no one, haunted at every movement, every shadow my hands cast, I begin to write the letter the place grows bored, wants only to rest and wither away from the
microphones aimed at their memories-- The rat poison glistens, dead black in the circumference of the small bottle. Danger. Poison. skull and cross bones. Do not drink. The liquid is flat and empty. The way I feel, but worse because it has the potential I am unwilling to venture through. I must get away. I must write the letter, and hide away for awhile in an angel of the morning, with queen of the costume room, changeling, withering, mirroring.
OLYMPIA( sofi nadia & zachary scott hamilton) correspondence between a span of 10 years
Zebyn, Baylu, Feb, 5, 04
I don’t know where to begin.
When I first moved into my
home I used my black boots
to prop open my window. It is
always cold in my room.
Tuesday night Outlaw was hit
by a car. he is doing well, but
the experience has reminded
me of our mortality, and of
our curse and blessing in the
ability to realize that we are.
I live in routine. Wake, sleep,
work, drink. I do not drink anymore.
And now I think. And think.
it is hard to remember how
to hope. What it is to love. It is
hard to understand how i want
to live - and to follow through
with it.
It is hard to be and not
become dead with thought
and sadness.
I am married to daydream.
Reality mostly feels like
a day dream. I find my
heart beating too quickly, and
breathe fast and short.
It is your birthday soon.
Years in a day have passed since
the summer. So much change and
not at all.
It is your birthday in four
days. You will be 19
{Signed} Sofi k
I am broken tin,
watching the birds with oil wings
indifferently follow
the loosing wind.
I threw a blood rose into
the sea
and let myself collapse.
The crows that used to
accompany me are gone
my tears are reckless
as I abandon my skin.
______________
LOVE Familiarity (in GREEK, Storge)
Friendship (Philia)
Romantic desire(eros)
Diving love (agape)
_______________
Never Piss numbers at her door, she is the woman, swallowing the lights of the formed chamber.
_______________
I.
Lines in my bones to a marble tongue -
all of the children but none of us, our letters--
God unicorn, wallowing Egypt, I looked for your wrists
Lord, they’re
in my mind. I looked for the curve of your small nails handling our cigarette
collective., that burned to a butt inside the ashtray -
I left your memories at state route 85, to press together
tears in a present, box with wrapping paper - none of your hair, three packs of coffee, and one pack of coffee, and six cups of cigarette - and i found a bag of hash brown’s
on the ground - Latin Amor, Greek Eros, Greek Agape -
II.
Living plastic gnome, and succulent hunger - in pale tobacco loops -
Hair stiff in a marble tongue, eroded Walter tongue. The giant sandwich walls, holy bible hunger, and portfolio floating clouds, within balloon hands -these rain turning
__________
i miss the shallow reach for a solitude I have created with my new letter in the attic - it takes a fishing line
before I make it through her writing - special me - a whole extended leaf -
calm from her makeup, all reckless flowers drifting -
Greek Philia, Latin Amor, Greek Agape
TOD SEELIE PHOTOGRAPH
DREAM .001
A dream I have
xo <3 meashka="" nbsp="" wbr="" xo="">!!
I L <3 babey="" e="" ever="" hon="" meashhhhhhhhhissssshhhhshsshhs="" much="" so="" u="" v="" very="" wbr="">hshchchcchchchchchchhahahahaha
xoxoxoxooxoxoooxoxoxoooooooooo
SLEEPING FISH XII CALAMARI PRESS HAS JUST RELEASED THIER TEN YEAR ANTHOLOGY. MY SHORT FICTION "SHAVING SISTER" APPEARS IN IT, AMONG OTHER AMZING AUTHORS LIKE ELIZABETH MIKESH, AND GARY LUTZ.
copies can be viewed on the sleeping fish website. Link above.
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