Horacio throws down a little Das Racist: “I’m in outer space reading Frankfurt School treatises / That curl the common man into fetuses / Nietzsche told me that the nostril’s where the genius is / Bossy just saucing like its falafel where my penis is / Soap em with Falafel like O’Reilly thought a Loofah was / Hitting they chalupa up / First I get real smart, and then I stupid up / Drop it and scoop it up, haters is dookie butts.” So I read a review that called one perfume “god's marmalade” (I try it and it's true). So I think to myself “Stasis in darkness, the substanceless blue pour of tor and distances, god’s marmalade, how one we grow, born of a dispute over the continued use of the name of the name Perfect Bound.” Everyone I know reads Hart Crane. (much laughter) Damn it! I mean I … Requisite! I definitely recommend Hart Crane! Shout out to Hart Crane! (monkey noises and grunts) The monkeys like Hart Crane! … Hey, even bats and whales do! What’s the very next country you’d like to go to? I’d kind of like to go hang out in England. I want to go hang out with … (indecipherable). One hundred seventy infinity hundred! Well how could they? Their calendars are date calendars & their winter. One hundred infinity thirteen times. So everyone wants to know SUM TOTAL. Won’t it make the mind berzerk? I will say the phantom washes in a pie tin. On the solid Chrome Diopside, of which with me you shared, we got messed up, really so like tonal disarray, subaquatic, I mean, for the next hour we held the eels in our hands, watched their hearts pump and gills flap inside their translucent bodies, marveled as they propelled themselves up the sides of the glass. And then the map grew back. The leak is full of baby fat. From each according to the jittery picnic whiplash, to each according to the virtual divot dalliance apex stuck in wet rabbit. “But I am a dancer, for 0ush read flush, I delete your echo chamber throat wail like radiation from a god.” I posed for one of those inevitable portrait series of burlesque dancers without makeup (The Truth Behind The Mask!). As I shivered in my sequined G-string, I stared at the photographer’s past portraits. Drag queens. Fetish stars. Performance artists with butterflies for lashes and 8-inch waists. Could that be right? Only two people have ever gotten angry when I drew their pictures: a Moroccan religious fundamentalist and a New York City cop.
[Note: Sources: JBR; Das Racist, “Rapping 2 U” as quoted in Horacio Castillo, FB post, 7 May 013 ( Urban Dictionary: “When after a long night of partying you go to the bathroom the next morning and your butt explodes into the toilet causing nasty toilet water to come splash your underside ... That my friend is dookie butt ...”); Anne Gorrick, email rec’d 7 May 013 1:18 PM PDT (the lines she mangles – improves, actually – are Sylvia Plath, “Ariel”); Aidan Semmens, blurb for Molly Bloom; Edmund Berrigan, “Cross Examination (side b)”, in Can It!; Brent Cunningham, “Anatomie of Sleep (Division 1, Section 6)”, at onedit 4; Justin Katko, “Shield of the Coloured Meat Glass, Unbroken”, in Songs for One Occasion; Nicola Twilley, “glass (of) eels”, at Edible Geography, 7 May 013; Sandra Simonds, “Fairytale Landscape Made from the Leak”, in Mother Was A Tragic Girl; Kevin Davies, “Karnal Bunt”, in Comp.; Jefferson Toal, Kaloki Poems (and errata strip); Molly Crabapple, “Why Draw Pictures?”, at Vice, 7 May 013; JBR]