-- a transcontemportation of Vallejo Let me explain. My dog is dead, no home or work. My alarm clock is a woman with a shotgun. I travel by way of trapeze. Exxon station (stolen): Corona, Jesus, comb-over, Post-Its. The state of N.C. allows me to bake 33 oz's of cookies every Christmas for my friend on Death Row. Your ass, a pineapple with no knife. You must have me mistaken for someone else. Redonkulous. Dementia. I have traveled from Pittsboro to New York, where I make minimum wage, and only one soul to sell.
--- a transcontemporation of Vallejo 999 calories. Rimbaud chugging Robitussin, no trapeze please. Guillotine the scone-slangers of the ghettos. Graft an eardrum to the mirror. Lucky iceberg. No Dogs Allowed! Lucky memory that has its cake and eats it too. Lucky dream of the jouster. 1,000 calories. Weightless, the gringo's imagination, blueless, with a lawyers laugh, it slouches... The impoverished sun begs to barter its albatross for some bread. Buurrrrrrrrr, it's cold. The Boogieman, naive to his love of boogers in the minds of ADD children remains saintless. A streetcar named Disdain. Air, air, where! The corpse minus a calorie = love. I dig a hole in the air. When Jesus died: Thirty three trillion three hundred thirty three calories.
-- a transcontemporation of Max Jacob
Another Starbucks! A flatscreen with no one I know dying. An allegory of time, measured in cups of thermoplastic polymers: Tall, Venti, Grande. A guy I knew in high school got blown up in Iraq (roadside bomb). He used to be into cars when we were kids. A Starbucks with Lazy-Boys and Lava-Lamps. The world, happening inside a newspaper. I wonder if Paul ever took a prisoner of war, if his eyes got big like the way he played baseball. What age will they call this one? Wonder if it will sound as cool as "stone." Remarkable. The way this seat adapts to match each ass that sits in it. Some new blonde kid doesn't fill the foam all the way to the top. This makes me so mad I almost forget to pay. |
-- a transcontemporation of Max Jacob
Night: 1° of black: blood, snow or shadow: classic pallet, stylized to look stylized. Pick-pockets make the best soldiers: attacking with silence and something like a cup of dice. All these suburbs look the same, like humans must to aliens, who most likely go by another name. Rubble makes for good games, or so I'm told. Look, it's snowing or burning? |
-- a transcontemporation of Artur Lundkvist Everything happens very slowly, and everything anxiously awaits the consequences... I know I am traveling all the time... The silence is like a fine spiderweb... They come at night, they come carrying... I wake up and find myself in surrender... How difficult it is to come back... I imagine it could have happened... My dreams are of iron, so strong... Stranger within me, stranger by my side... I have never before imagined nuns... What good does it do to caress an ocean... Suddenly, I have a problematic relationship with the days of the week... How badly you are suited to be a hotel guest... Love which denies itself is most durable...
Note: Many of the lines are direct translations of first lines from Artur Lundkvist's Journeys in Dream and Imagination.