Prismatic Rendered Fat Tube

Every human can smoke a cop’s drugs and see gods and yet they had them lined up to meet him like Santa on a Monday at the mall when the workers are working and the students are working and the mothers are working and the only one not doing shit is Liza, the girl behind the make-up counter in the department store 40 feet behind Santa, 567 feet behind God, and not very happy for either of those two.

I mean, one is a drunken phony and the other gets pissed on.

She’d much rather do nothing. And no one needed make up now that camera’s self-edited blemishes and it became illegal to transmit a real human face across the internet. But sometimes the mortician would place an order, so she still had a job. She’d last longer than God, that was for sure. Santa seemed to be a fighter, however.

 

 

Kaleidoscopic Brain Vomit

“Welcome to the future.”

He held up what appeared to be a bullet.

“Don’t look too quickly, now. What you see may appear to be a number of things, but what this is…is a spaceship. And a timeship. And a voidship.”

I squinted, trying not to see a bullet.

“You see, how this work, now, is that this little miracle is sped up a thousand times the speed of man and shoved into the part of your brain that does your astral traveling. This is not a physical part of your brain, of course, and this ship is barely physical itself. You may see a variety of things when I hold this up, but know, now, that what you see is but a small aspect of the true nature of my invention. Let me demonstrate.”

He took the supposed ship and place it in a very real, very definite pistol.

“This is the accelerator tube.”

I cringed when he put the gun to his head, and shit in my shorts when he laughed and, instead, pointed the gun at me and fired. But he was right. I had not seen all of the aspects of his invention, only the little metal bit that destroyed my brain. The larger enigma remained, such as where did I go? And how am I still typing?

 

We Line Up

I could barely hear for the sound of hooves screaming against glass, an entire herd of sheep put into a transparent wrecking ball and slammed against the side of the building in which I spent my time tapping plastic. Over the crumbling, over the slaughter, I could barely make out my manager, standing on his over-desk in full military dress, face fitted with a air filter and blood purifier, talking into the back of a robot’s head. The robot, in turn, shot flames into the air to get our attention and shrieked:

“This is not the end. Please go back to your desks. This is simply part of the job. You do not get breaks simply because one of the Land Lords decided to amuse himself with carnage. Please, turn on Relaxation Hood 1, wait 10 seconds, and place your head underneath said Hood. And continue to type. This is not a drill. Nor is this an excuse for idleness.”

I enjoyed the Relaxation Hood and how it made me feel, like nothing around me was going to shit. Just a nice, dark place to tap on my plastic and think of other things, quiet and small things. They say you could die under the Hood through a series of images that brought on both nirvana and death. This didn’t sound so bad. I hoped the Land Lord stole enough money to buy a new glass wrecking ball and a new herd of sheep. I hope I can go under the Hood every time the absurd turns to horror.

One day, however,

Jimmy sold salted worms at a day camp for children whose parents were too religious to put up with their shit all summer long. They stood there in knee-length, anti-sexual blue shorts (knees sweating and tempting the breeze to tickle them and confuse their loins) waiting for Jimmy to dig around in his dirty, plastic bag for his latest catch.

Every other time, he had taken a dozen or so night crawlers (big fuckers fit for a back road bait shop) and covered them in salt in order form a paste before molding them into some edifying shape. He brought out crosses and moons, pentacles and unicorns, holy virgins and sacrificial doves.

The adults knew. He knew they new. It didn’t stop him. And they never interrupted. There was an angel smiling through Jimmy’s eyes, they would say to each other, the kind of angel that knows things and takes blood for milk. So they let him play at his morbid sculpting, knowing that most of the children would be taken for imaginative liars when they returned from camp and told their parents.

One day, however, Jimmy dragged three bags from this cabin and set them on the big rock by the sewer.

“Hey, what are the other bags for?” asked Michael, a braggart and bully.

“Well, my brothers and sisters,” began Jimmy, “there is a poison in this land. It takes God’s creatures, great and small, and turns them against one another, tooth against flesh. And I deem to purge it. I have been foraging all summer for the ingredients to this sacred balm.”

“How ya gonna do that, weirdo? You can’t even kick a ball!” asked Sally, a complainer and snitch.

Jimmy held his hands in front of him, “It is not I that will anything.”

“Get on with it! Lunch is almost ready,” said Tom, a glutton and sadist.

Jimmy took two of the bags and up ended them. From out fell stones of various size and shapes. A few quart crystals blinked in the sun. Jimmy began to hum as he took the third bag in his hands. The piles of rocks at his side began to give off a heat so great that the front row of spectators were forced back by it. Jimmy continued to hum as he pulled from the final bag a worm the size of a tree branch, which wrapped around his arm with a sucking slurp. His humming turned to chanting, words none of the children knew, and the worm unfurled until it stood straight and towered over the screaming crowd. From its belly, a crevice began to unzip and out stepped Jimmy, now with blue skin and yellow eyes, with six arms all clutching knives, skulls, and satanic wands.

He stood for a moment, breathing in the humid summer air. And when he spoke, he said:

“See? Don’t you feel better now?”

Indeed they did not.

 

Veins like Sentences

They want the story to be human: filled with blood, dried lips, mucus-summoning coughs, blind spots, assumptions, whispered threats and screaming pain when a fire gets near. They want a story to pick lint from its pubes with whiskey on its breath and piss into cold toilet water before the sun back-lights the dark, grey sky into a shade of silver like bullets being poured from teeth in a barn as the wind and wolves howl. They want a man to cry over doughnuts and a woman to bleed from her fists, smiling. They want me to make a golem of words and set it out in the hills one night to see if it finds its way home.

I know it won’t. It will find its way to your window, and it won’t be as human as they want. Something will have interfered, filled its head with alien memories, given it dog tongue and lizard tooth, told it about candy without giving it a taste. Try to write me a human and what comes out has too many eyes, not enough skin. Voice like a radio tuned to a local station in the middle of a gas attack. Try to write me a human and all that pulls itself from the word-slime is hunger and asshole meat.

Spear Ration

Sat carving sticks. Long ones. Straight as can be and cured for a while in the air and light. I thought better than to think while doing it. The pit at the edge of the clearing led only one way and the bottom felt spongy the one time I fell and saw their faces. Gaunt faces, eighteen drug-addled eyes. They sat breathing on their fungoid chairs, waiting to be taken back to the old place with silvery days and red wine water. They wouldn’t tell me why they had held on so long in this dead, dirty place, but I could tell right away what they needed: hyper-atomic brains and spears to throw into them. They hid in the pit, overwhelmed and unarmed by choice. Really, they were just bored with the glut of options.

No one wants a muse that can’t stab out your thoughts and replace them with thick, boiling poetry. So I sat, carving sticks, hoping they’d know where to find sharp enough rocks to turn into spearheads. And enough glowing brains to impale despite the darkness.

The Beginning of Something Else

In the days of the Vibrating Council of Thunder Popes, when the men and women of the world were brain-tethered by cracking hatred, running around in circles, cutting each others’ heads off with the dull limbs of shrubbery, there came a fool to the borderland and, seeing a river, crossed it. The river ran narrow at this juncture and was filled with farting alligators and motionless eels, glutted with cast off meat bits and each other. He didn’t have to swim, but rather crawled along the lazing beasts without true obstacle. A stinky eye here. A half-heartedly gnashing grin there. His jeans were wet, but little else, and he had kept all of his blood. He had some walking to do in the whistling breeze and would dry off in no time.

In front of him, that is to say, to the north, there sat a fat mountain or fat man or fat something large and looming on the horizon. He knew not what it was, but it wasn’t there before, so it was to there that he headed now. Penniless, weaponless, common sense abandoned some time ago, he decided to walk and to see what he could see before his bones ate the last of his meat and then his eyes and he’d have to stop seeing and living. But until then, he’d walk and look about. There didn’t seem to be much else to do in the strangled world around him and he’d received a new pair of shoes not long ago. Off he set along the only road he could see.

(These being the first moments of a larger story that I am writing for all of you, each and every one.)

As We Age

We grew the turkey on the side of grandpa’s head that year. He wanted to sharpen the axe himself, said dad didn’t know what he was doing, that he’d lose half his face. We all had to hold the bird up in shifts (a 23 pounder!) as grandpa shot sparks into the misty morning air outside of the barn.

“Now, when you do this, there must be no hesitation. If I lose an ear, okay. I’m old. I don’t listen anyway.” We laughed until father took the axe from grandpa’s hand and helped lay the old man down in the damp straw. Silence. Even the cattle on the hill chewed more deliberately. A crow on a limb opened its beak as if to yell a greeting to the bird growing from grandpa (you could see its black tongue vibrating), but no sound came out. It was as if fairies had stuffed all of our ears with cotton to soak up the blood of our anticipation.

Twack and it came off clean. The children took it in their arms like ghouls at a beheading and ran off into the house.

“Looks like I’ll be around another year after all.” Grandpa smiled and rose from the barnyard floor. “But next year, I think you should grow the turkey. I’ll just make the stuffing. Your aunt always makes the stuffing.”

Inside, the children cut the twine that held our aunt’s stomach together and began to shovel in bread, sage, and onions. Not long now and the house would be full of familiar smells.

On the Corner of Martian and Dope

Hey, you’re going to want this. Hey, come on, look at me here man, look in my eyes and see that giggling dancer there. That little spot contains my whole universe. Hole universe, you know? No, c’mon don’t look away. I got what you’re looking for. Every seen a shiny angel get shot out of the sky and buried in a shallow grave in the hills? Every taken dust from an old book and started mixing it with you’re own blood and writing with ghost fingers on the walls that no one can see. No one, I’m telling you. You need this shit. Let me give you this shit. You’re old lady, she like to get high and scrape her head across the sky until little bits of her ears fall off and get stuck to the stars? How you gonna help her out, huh? Just take a little. Take it. It’s yours. You’ll come back. Once the fires leave the ground and come knocking on your door like spooked children around dawn. Once bats start telling your future back at you like an echo of now. Once they dry you out and print all over your paper-thin skin and you can just sit there and read yourself all day ‘cuz your eyes don’t move anymore. Just take it. You’ll be back.