my branks

www.tinypic.com

Cucking Stool

www.dartmouth.edu

Coatimundi

www.civilwar.com

Coatimundi

http://www.desertmuseum.org/ YOINK!

Coatimundi

Connie

Now I see how I held you
in a smoke-filled room
and you really didn't have a choice
because I made you want me.

I sat you under my arm
and watched amazed while you breathed
and remembered many of the times
we went out together, your vitality.

I gave up on chasing you away
because it was bad for your condition
of loving me baby. I coulda
stole you in the face, or jacked

all the money I made you make.

Gibberish

Ah nee Ah nee Ay om ah naw Oh nee Oh nee ah naw rale. Too nee too nee ah naw ah naw rale. Yoo got cher brekast in a bag. Brekast. Bring it in a bag. Kicky. Kicky dog.

Reptily, Present Day

8. Time is a Liar

Zug came home after dark all covered in white dust from the mine. Standing under the yellow bug light on the porch, he looked like a primitive man at a ceremony. He was also naked.

"Honey, I'm home."

Connie was in the bedroom face down on the bed. She had been crying into her hands on the pillow. She wore fitted cigarette-length jeans, dirty white anklets, and a short-sleeve pink cashmere v-neck.

"What is it honey. I'm gonna shower off."

Zug stood under the warm water thinking about how they'd met. "I liked how you said that Shivas society denies women their dark power in class today," she'd stayed behind to comment. It was a wine-colored v-neck. Three years of nights since then they'd never been apart.

Cement Basics was considered by most academics to be more than just a required transfer-level course for geocareers. It laid the foundation for social mores in industry, and intertwined, for natives, their very bloodline with a set of values that could be reliably shared with others in a reasonably wide geocultural area. For migrants, Cement could be an a) eye-opener, b) a confirmation of expected prejudices, or c) something presented in a language not understood.

For Connie, it was all about Zug. Even before the semester had ended, they were going down to Damp Ditch most every Sunday to shoot heroin and toss shards of glass into the rainbow-like reflections in the slurry. Like the Bible-in-Life comic books she had read as a child, the two of them seemed to be applying principals and making use of cultural artifacts that others could only wonder about hypothetically or physically engage with every day without any conscious consideration.

He felt guilty now, as at the end of every shower. It meant turning off the water, stepping off the stone, and walking back in to her, and to that which he had created. Or wandered into. Or not resisted. Or it was accidental-on purpose. Whatever. He emerged in a cloud of steamy talc now and sat on the bed in his towel.

"Honey, we have to talk."

Her silence was encouraging. Maybe tonight she was ready to listen and to get real.

"Look. Even though it was just that one time with Zick. And I never dreamed I would be sharing my testimony at a Shivans with Herpes group. You know how bad I feel about it. Even so, was it ever a good idea. I mean... if you want to leave... I think you should."

Connie might have responded something like, "Thanks for your honesty, Z. " And, "No, I don't think it wasn't a good idea at first, but I kinda have to agree with you it's over now." More likely, she would have come up with something like, "You asshole! I gave you the best... I gave you my forties!" No. She probably would have just sat up, wiped off her face, and gone to pee.

But Connie did not happen to be living just then.

feeling blue

Boosted from: caminoalcielo.com

Response Re:Re: Student Complaints

The meat of my response is in the attached exhibits (please download Quicktime for sound archives). To accompany this evidence, I can only add that I speak from my heart, an organic instrument which, while rhythmic, is also prone to chemically-induced pace changes as part of a chain: a chain of movement and reaction. If movement can cause my heart to tell you this, it can do anything.

Across our desert, all around our campus community, and within our very hearts, time is a liar.

I reference Exhibit A, jpeg files 001 and 001a. Photo of 4-color Christ print, framed [001], and me at San Felipe beach, poolside, two summers ago [001a]. Please note color of pool water that fills background as compared to Christ print indigo tint. Similarity of hairstyle, facial features, and contented expression. Translation of Spanish title on poster: The Smile of Christ.

I contacted Ediciones Libra, still at C/San Mateo 1221, Mexico, D.F. I was put in touch with a retired foreman of the art department. He himself claims responsibility for the poster, printed back when Libra was a struggling Protestant/ Santaria print shop just behind D.H. Lawrence's hotel, the Monte Carlo, still crumbling gradually under the weight of the leaning Biblioteca Nacional. He was inspired to sketch out the face and write the verse, which he never wanted credit for, on a trip to San Felipe with his girlfriend and their kids. In 1960.

[Sr. Miserias (Paco) was delighted to hear that a copy of his most original work for Libra had reached me and lamented the fate of the company, which had made it big in devotional/ white magic/ gothic candle inserts for a while but then folded and resurfaced for tax purposes without any obligation to make good on his pension. He added that he would grant full rights to his creation including the original water color either to our Desert School Museum Foundation or the Smithsonian for somewhere around US $1500.]

artifact

Religious text recovered from modestly-framed image of Jesus, by Ediciones Libra, Mexico City, circa 1970. 4-color, on newsprint:

LA SONRISA DE CRISTO

sonrisa que
el pintor
no se atrevo
a plasmar

sonrisa que
el escultor
nunca pudo
cincelar

sonrisa que
el historiador
preferido olvidar

la sonrisa
de cristo lleva
mensajes de:
amor, alegria
y paz!

7. Time is a Liar

Tom's hands and knees were numb but he stopped anyway to look up at the cliffs and bleed. He'd parked the station wagon at the chain link border to the Desert Pavement Glyph Monument. He'd crawled across the restored desert pavement and its markings to get to the side-of-ribs rock formation he was resting on now. He'd fashioned a loin cloth from a fox coat inherited from his great aunt, Reptily. His neck ached from holding up his head on his punishing 100-yard scamper, so he let it fall back. The sun was setting behind the sandy cliff edge. The last tip of the sun made a blue and painful silvery star just where the smoke was rising a bit beyond. Tom watched the smoke and felt the star blazing down on him. The smoke grew and tormented itself into a thunderhead and shook the bushy creosote that dotted the sacred wasteland.

"Now that this phenomenon has entered my body and the circle of time is nearly complete, I consecrate myself as a host to these and every creature who shall reap sustenance from my flesh into eternity."

Tom came out of it for a sec and then look surprised, and then lightning flashed, and in the light of electricity, which was all that was left, Jesus's face appeared instead of Tom's, and anyone who might have been there could have reported it. Tom only felt a flush of understanding, a surge of tender pity for his former self, and then a singular curiosity at the events unfolding at the cliffs edge, now bathed in gentle sun. A fire crackled just out of view.

6. Time is a Liar

A few weeks later, Sylvia and Tom finished their conversation at the Scantron machines.

"You and I both know that was before psychosis was considered to be a manageable illness."
"You're such a droll boy," Sylvia smiled.
"Remember 'Herpes for Christmas'?"
"Uh-huh."
"That's when I decided to devote my life to being an asshole."
"I know, Tom."

For a few moments, Tom and Sylvia each knew the other was experiencing meaning in the sound of the wrong answers clicking as their students' final exams were scored.

Zen of Larry

Zen of Larry

As the situation is,
One finds interest in the situation:

the inherent experiential value
in any given result

of an action taken by a human
because all experiences go up to God,

and what one must do is to have an agreement
that all experience is passed along

to the Greater Deity, for that was
the purpose of Christ's stay on Earth.

5. Time is a Liar

"Yes, but you know as well as I do that we've got an unnatural number of these creatures here. No one cares about us, Sylvia."
"But I could be at home right now-- I've got the bait traps and spray, I..."
"It's an military-industrial desert. You think they're going to send somebody or even put it on the news? What-- it was about six years ago wasn't it? The pterodactyl? And you said yourself you saw something funny in that tree about a week ago. They'll believe us once we can form a consensus."
"A consensus?!" Sylvia was livid, now, in every possible way. "A consensus, Tom? Last person listened to you got a split schedule and six preps for the entire length of the 5-year contract, didn't he, Tom. There's your consensus. Get me my purse."
"They'll be here in a minute. Do you want to lay down?"
"On that oviparous filth pit? And it's lie, you prick." She was fishing a little plastic bottle of Benadryl caps out of her purse and weeping softly.
Then she puked yellow all over November. The pages became immediately gold-opaque, backed with the deep brown of wet cardboard at the end of the year.
"Oh, Tom! You *burble* suck so much!"
The bubbled remains of a time-release Wellbutrin continued to spin in a bile puddle on the ghostly diagonal line between 12/24 and 12/31.
"Huh huh huh..." Sylvia was sobbing now, and her face was magenta. "Don't you know I once loved you?"

4. Time is a Liar

Sylvia had been bitten by a black widow spider. They were common in those parts-- no one thought twice about them, and it was no exception when Tom put in a high-priority maintenance voucher through to his departmental secretary several weeks prior to the intense pain and nausea Sylvia was now experiencing. There was a dead one in the desk drawer near where Sylvia was finding it more difficult to bend over and rub the back of her heel. Tom had put it there for proof in such a case as this. Now his wide stance filled the doorway, the AirSpring still gasping, his hair blowing lightly in the desert winter breeze. "Oh Tom, how I hate you!" Sylvia whimpered.

3. Time is a Liar

Peggy leaned back in the boss chair in the Attendance Office. She had been burning a cherry mochachino candle. The fumes were overwhelming. But she did not want to get up out of the boss chair and open the window behind her. So she arched back like a seal, pulled on the cord, and opened the window with her other hand. All done upside-down. Little did she know, several large fluffs of lint had shaken loose and landed, one in an eyebrow, and another somehow hanging from her chin.

2. Time is a Liar

Tom went into the attendance office. Someone had a dog in there. He called Sylvia on the speaker phone. "I'm here Tom. Oh! Sorry it was a... okay let's go..." said Sylvia, fading a little. Then from another desk he called Mr. Sousa, someone who was normally very shy. Jim? Ready? "Oh, yes Tom." Peggy? Peggy was side-saddling a desk behind him. The November 8 on that desk's blotter calendar was disappearing into the rainbow pine trees of her lycra skirt just over the dorsal cleavage. "OK, Mr. Foury."

Fingers on the button. No Flash, two, three, snap! Tom clicked his camera with the patience and determination of bomb squad technician.

Tom posted all of the pictures on his Grammar Hints website at Yahoo. Sylvia's photo of the clock in Tom's office was yellow and streaked, but the clock clearly said 8:09. Tom's picture of the Attendance Office clock was glowing with flourescent light. It said 12:15. Jim Sousa had been sitting in total darkness at his post in Classroom B. He had not thought of turning on the light, but he had allowed the flash to ignite by mistake. His clock was an eerily shadowed 12:19. Peggy's clock, one minute later than Tom's, had something that looked like a third hand, but it was a very pointy Jack Russel tail, smeared.

Tom declared finally, That's proven it. There will never be a late-to-class advisory in my file again.

Charms of Brutality

What kind of mess would bring one to
Crave the homespun bustle of urbanity?

Guts laid out to dry on a rail;
Rowboat floats unmoving in a big sand pail.

Wanting to just get on a plane
And leave the hatchetings and cow urine mist?

Guts laid out to dry on a rail;
Rowboat floats unmoving in a big sand pail.

You think that with me, awe comes cheap.
Less you've seen them quit their belts in the sugar.

Guts laid out to dry on a rail;
Rowboat floats unmoving in a big sand pail.

Free teeth, and good folks watching it:
Guys and their wives who want to settle down.

Guts laid out to dry on a rail;
Rowboat floats unmoving in a big sand pail.

Ones who thirst lust and lust peace and
Other stuck freaks who stick it to each other.

Guts laid out to dry on a rail;
Rowboat floats unmoving in a big sand pail.

Fat lambies munching in the dew
Something smells bad and they nominated you.

Guts laid out to dry on a rail;
Rowboat floats unmoving in a big sand pail.

Gone to the city with my crew;
Times of loathing and po-pity will be few.

Guts laid out to dry on a rail;
Rowboat floats unmoving in a big sand pail.

WD4.0

To get to the quarry, Kug had to descend four ladders, crawl across two ladders, and climb up six ladders. It was a jagged bowl of dry grey steam. Some men and a strong woman worked with a dragony, scaled ox to push some of the rocks out of a hole in the quarry wall. The rocks rolled down a hill to the river, where rafts were waiting. The water and the rafts looked furry grey. On the opposite wall ladders disappeared into the dust cloud. Skinny men carried rocks in shaggy woven cones which were near to their own heights and strapped to their backs. They moved up and down the ladders like timid palm weevils. Someone had fallen, and a shiv priest was administering the scorpion from behind a heavy dust veil.

Women and children and old men sat indian-style everywhere in the silt, vaguely pink and black. They rocked back and forth bringing medium rocks down onto small rocks to make gravel.