modal parlance repercusses
to temporal presence
eminence to occupance
to immanence to rubble
yet i posit that deliberated
objectification is more probably
emolumental than confabulated
projectiles of catastrophe
right after ladies' school she went raging through
the landscape
a trembling paper lampshade pressed with flowers
war really stimulates my war goddess
my deep goodness that's feeling sour
fine drop your hemp trousers
someone's got to occupy the borderlands
keep them strong and be the first to
cry out, or try and blend in secret witness
i mean kill, as many of the enemy as possible.
to think of that is suddenly a thrill?
No it's the fire for freedom she moves me.
by Reptily
Aunt Jan has died.
She had spent around 20 years with her vulva nearly on fire.
According to cousin Jan, there were repeated radiation sessions
and other horrors which she has detailed for us over time.
For even longer, there was a woman who was not her partner.
For even longer, there has been a woman who had never been her partner.
We don't know if they were together in the final moment.
Cousin Jan says aunt Jan was in excruciating pain, even while in hospice.
She also says it's a mistake to think that Man is good.
But she was talking about a totalitarian then.
Today I had to watch another very triggering HR video about what else harassment.
You couldn't jump to the test. You were forced to answer humiliating questions.
Some people like getting flirted with, but no people like being treated like a perp.
I spewed my filthiest most biased language at the screen as the little situations played out.
But sometimes I'm not in pain.
I'm in a female-dominated workplace where the mantra is just be flexible ok but what
the fuck is my job and how do i bill the hours? Who is my direct-report? I swear
I will not sexually harass goddamn anyone.
I can only return to aunt Jan's pink bare vulva.
How would she feel about a mandatory fucking sex-harassment vid?
In her condition.
Where no man had ever been.
Do hospices require it?
Where was her lover Jan? Would they let her in?
Like it's on fire. All the time. Even at church.
Wait who's good who's not good it's triggering me.
They say your employer will really appreciate your report.
I know that for a fact to be untrue.
It's all rigged my employer paid for this video and they are paying me to
watch it again and again for the purpose of their own legal protection, and
that's it.
They don't appreciate anything.
My employer's not even a person.
Your god kills innocent people, or you're lying about him.
That should be the lesson.
by Jan
i includes all that i am including
aspects you surely cannot think of
when you look up my output or feed
cork, at the ports of local cacophony,
appears to take up words when i
try and
speak
words
you, for me, includes all that you
are excluding prospects for knowing
you better which may preclude our
ever getting together the way we
should i mean assuming what's hidden is
way
more
good
those who are not we are they, grammatically,
and it's cozy being exclusive that way
unless it, to you, means claustrophobia
and they equals the only ones who can free ya
i the parasitic twin enjoying too much of us
you and them, they
and me, I and
you, not we
[loop]
Jan Jansdaad
Keep repeating: Now my ceiling for
crisis is very high. Now my life is a
cathedral for mental stress-outs and
physical breakdowns a place where they can
stretch and breath because the ceiling is so high that it creates a
micro-atmosphere, small only in comparison to our planet itself;
rain clouds may even form there, within the cupola, in August.
Now my ceiling for crisis is very high.
each contender for the moniker will be scrutinized
drolly, with a sneer. or otherwise trod on, in
everyday shoes.
Now my ceiling for crisis is high.
approach much more authentically wry
contenders will be scrutinized
while i stretch, while i breathe, while i
sleep and sit and walk and stand and cry,
but always briefly, not asking why
Now my cathedral for crisis is
filled to the brim with adjectives
with a devastated point
that doesn't even reach the picture line
even the shadow on the clock has broken
off; it colluded with rumors of crazy luck.
Now whatever time it is that's where this
temple can be found, temple of sass and
regret and malice, all-sinners ground.
by Peg
intermittent humming of hard drive resembles
distant ship in fog, but
clanking buoy's peal
replaced by
cadence of Her breathing
silence brings too many
default noisemaking issue
squeaky-high tones chords
sounds of ear
listening to itself
sounds that speaking apparatus
having been damaged abused
afflict surrounding tissue
pressure on canals chinks
astigmatisms of perception
or it was born fused on one side
upper and lower yapper
no option to rest disengage
on any day after
congenital skull cracker
by Tom
Shab's mouth is splayed, consuming the environment as they go
Like the former rider of Shab, Ilyn's hands are missing.
His spine is scrambled, his stomach distended, face swollen, ears like a bat.
please don't do that, scar tissue
don't be the weed chokes his host
that's what free radicals are for
i want you to do the opposite of
arming up, favoring one side,
drama queen, sky-falling chicken
it's ok to relax now, even to
give in, stop resisting, live
knowing that you saved a life
by Braino
you can see from hand mixing hamburger
that even dead flesh wants to stay together
throughout their existential disaster and
beyond, cattle wanting at a cellular
level, same as drinking from the same
pond, to bevel individuality,
to fill the tank with commonality,
a temple of identicality that tempers
diasporic fears of wasting anger
at exploitation murder and dispersion
when everybody has a different version
of neutrality, destruction and creation
the ties that bind the stories of a nation
by Peg
like to share with a world of strangers
all of us floating, untethered by space or time
perhaps just that i hope your
landing place is kind if there is one
or that any endlessness refreshes itself regularly
when just floating one hopes to be in a
company of well wishers if not wishes
coming true in a constant strumming
we must realize and gird our instruments
seek out the good luck and opportunity
already waiting in our personal associations
you have so much you have to sort through what you don't want
possibilities are stacked in spilling-over boxes
each moment an opportunity to move forward
trapped in a mind a body that doesn't want can't won't do
sealed in brick and snowed in at the dead end of a
street in a tiny imitation of urban settlement dishevelment
you need legs even to get the laundry accomplished
how to break out of the disuse overuse injury cycle
mix your targets among the physical virtual geographic
a hungry mind that prefers to eat sleep
a jaded palate that doubts and postpones
a vehicle loathe to cross emotional landmarks
by Donna
now she's an anchor on the leash
while i jog in place
low brown cloud layer but bright
long pees with the shoulder hunch
boys look at us
through the grainy snow mist
by Donna
telling about a time when i was a
man fully loaded
is really sideways disrespect for the
kind of stud i am now
one stem into reminiscing could also
draw a stream of horror at the
hungry animal its disregard
for self-regard estate planning
this life wasn't yet a paradigm only
anti-paradigmatic yet
organized enough to fool a boy into
thinking he had time
my boot tracks in the snow are like
the bodies each a new step into the
cold delight of warm palm islands
we were an intimate crew
i have my colossal straddle over those
old-timey train towns and worn goat
paths in the gardens of other capitals
lonesome memories
now i am tripping off to glory
on the heels of my dad and mother and
so many countrymen
so that the past may keep being fed
by Ilyn
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