In the House of the Hangman 1086

In the midst of this fantasy, my dolls are easily dissected and displayed. Sometimes they are thrown out into the snow, sometimes they are baptized in flame, sometimes they become dress-up dolls, sometimes their sleeping form is gazed upon, and sometimes they are stripped to reveal their challenging naked forms. These dolls that are supposedly devoid of emotion take on various expressions under circumstances such as these. A curious point not mentioned in the article is that cannabinoid 5-fluoro-ur-144, also known as XLR-11, had never previously been described in the scientific literature and was first detected in synthetic marijuana. A year ago it was “four days after the Battle of the Brooklyn Bridge.” Don’t do what death and famine do. If that’s your job don’t do your job. The sheer density and diversity of these piles is hard to capture with the iPhone camera: masses of organic matter the most obvious, but also telephone lines, plastic baggies that say THANK YOU with dog shit inside, putrid rodent carcasses, soggy mattresses, towels, and rugs, bird feathers … Here's another pile a bit farther long the walk; look how the huge black garbage bags are dwarfed by the palm fronds and the banana tree stalks. Then there was the time last month Hank Williams Jr was like, “Obama is a Muslim and hates farming!” (Farming?) Previously: How Would You Get Rich? Would You Rather Be Ginger or Unemployed? Mater Dolorosa. Let’s leave this place. Long dining room tables scare me. To rejoin the revolution is a hope I still carry. DEDICATED TO: My first cell. Pigeon mistakes. I burned a hole with my cigarette over the HENRY FORD HOSPITAL plastic bracelet that Diego cut off my hand. What the Americans lack in conviviality they make up for in cleaning products. Dogs disguise their pain with an absence of ‘theatrics.’ But being sick is a talisman. And I really am eager to survive. Like the “ants / celebrating rites / of blackness / thick with the kind of oil Van Gogh gobbed on his canvas in swirls.” Herakleitos saw me as a storm of fire, a rose bush. An amoeba. An apple. Now: I am an old man with a handsome face and after the bloody movie full of guns and stabbings and helicopters, I stop at the photo booth and in the mirror is a dog with jowls, a silver fox, an eagle in the whirlpool.

[Note: Sources: Ryo Yoshida, “Dissection Play”, as quoted in Darren Bauler, “Astral Doll; by Ryo Ushida”, at Theater of Diminished Faculties, 16 Sept 012; Vaughan Bell, “Fake pot industry generating novel, untested drugs”, at Mind Hacks, 16 Sept 012; JBR; Anne Boyer, “The Day Steve Jobs Died”, at Poetry during OWS; Dana Ward, “From ‘A Trip Back in Time’ For Anne Boyer”, at Poetry during OWS; Christopher Schaberg, “Morning Photo Walk Essay II”, at What Is Literature?, 16 Sept 012; “WOULD YOU CARE IF OBAMA WERE MUSLIM?”, at Vice, 16 Sept 012; Frida Kahlo, letter to herself, Detroit, 1932, as quoted in Maryam Monalisa Gharavi, “I Was Never a Surrealist”, at The New Inquiry, 16 Sept 012; Michael McClure, and John Olson, as quoted in Olson’s “The Everlasting Universe of Things”, at Tillalala Chronicles, 16 Sept 012]

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