You must go to La Paloma Café and wave your pained face over a big steaming bowl of menudo. It is an emergency. Your soul calls for it, prays to it, waits for the red spirit of the menudo God to bless you and save you from the big mescal death. You must get into your car to drive a couple of miles down Paisano Street on a day when everyone else is in church praying. They listen to the Padre. Not you. Your stomach moves like a dying river. The parachute jump provides the lunatic with safe means of experiencing normal life. Is it true that you already have an apartment with a view of the Île de la Cité? Vous avez la derrière dans la beurre – which I believe means some folks sure do land on their feet. The crater was much larger, the suspect dimple much farther off, than had been apparent from the ridge. The ground sank by a grotesque staircase, of such scale that which each shelf a new basement story was achieved. The journey took eight decades. “Why were you in that blood?” Ogres love the hills, the dalekmite will be laced down on us, guest clinamen, the membrane of the perfume-grenaded Spectre General for frothing. What’s the best book you’ve read recently? Coleman Barks’s translations of Rumi are always wonderful, especially “A Year With Rumi: Daily Readings.” For instance:
I reach for a piece of wood. It turns
into a lute.
I shoot an arrow right.
It lands left.
I ride after a deer
and find myself chased by a hog.
I say one must not travel during the holy month.
Then I start out, and wonderful things happen.
Today is Karl Marx’s birthday. Next door, they are feeding the google kids. We – instead – are arriving late. The ripe force bows down sunflowers and branches of the apple tree. I think
I walked on the
banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
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RIDE OR DIE
A-1 steak sauce makes anything taste better. I no longer eat meat, but I don’t want to waste that A-1. I can tell you (I was somewhat surprised) it tastes fabu on jellybeans. Especially the black ones. It should be a dessert course. Three black jellybeans, a few squiggles of A-1, a Japanese garden arranged on a tiny tuffet of rice. (Estimates currently put the figure at between 10 sextillion and 1 septillion stars) I fall down when you say this: “only ‘we’ can touch us” / not ghosts nor thieves, nor passers by. So to bed and screaming of mandrakes, as lulltide in the secret bay.
[Note: Sources: Ray Gonzalez, “Mama Menudo”, as quoted in email from Lapham’s Quarterly, “Back Matter: Hangover Cure”, rec’d 5 May 013 approx 7 AM PDT; Jim Dine, “World’s Fair News”, in Diary of a Non-Deflector; James Schuyler, letter to Kenneth Koch, 1 Apr 1969, in Just the Thing: Selected Letters of James Schuyler 1951-1991 (ed. William Corbett); Francis Crot, Xena: Warrior Princess: The Seven Curses; Megan Sword and Timpani Skullface, “Fragments and Remixes”, in Superior City Song; anonymous interviewer and Robert Bly, as quoted in “By the Book: Robert Bly”, at New York Times, 5 May 013; Aindriu McFehin, FB post, 5 May 013; Maged Zaher, The Revolution Happened and You Didn’t Call Me; Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, “Verdant Heart”, in Plant Poems; JBR; Allen Ginsberg, “Sunflower Sutra”; the way rmutts, “The Medium of Contingency & Soft Dogma”, at Blandiloquent, 5 May 013 appeared in my Google Reader; line from trailer for Fast & Furious 6; William Keckler, “Lies”, at Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas (The Sequel), 5 May 013; Albert Mobilio, “Star Search: Heaven’s Map for Getting Lost”, at Hyperallergic, 4 May 013; Mahmoud Elbarasi, “Stillborn Somewhere”, in St. Beaumont Conservative Club; Tom Jenks, Items, at if p then q]