fart factory images

palatable for Mecca

we whisper in the men’s latrine,
pedal deeply inside each others’
guts                gray-scaled baroque
renderings of your hunger,
my hunger churning
maternity leave

who will be the first one to
forget our inside chyme?
who will mew the good-bye
phrase?

once,            we called you a Sally
now,    you lay hands on my neck
     a frontiersman lapping up new
menarches                       shoring
   ¾  sleeved    mommy-and-me’s,
hopscotches up my arms
casinos, a regimen of the dating scene,
a cubicle, a rave pantry, tribal paint
in my trigeminal nerve (the chewing,
biting, swallowing nerve)  now, crazy
straw doubling my belly

my ghost towns teeming with news
              networks renegotiating “no,
please, no” subdivisions      task light
reaching a brand new nest,  opulent
with semen-so-silly               he does wear
his ring in a marrying club   in the morning
we pluck chin hairs at no-turn-on-red’s

who will buy my bifocal no-doze when
my stats are beaten so low?   my résumé
littered with a green screen of nothing and
a magnetic plate of days looping on days

my Übermensch, a man palatable for Mecca
and me: pancake errors, microwave s’mores,
                           all with passive verb tenses

devil in the bed pages

Had to say no, we only have one John Fante book, and never read a Burroughs poem in my life. Top of my mouth burnt cause I'm gluttonous like that.
 A psycho babble coming back all boomerang and shit it felt familiar, forgot the feeling, of expression but more vile like vomit.
 You speech patterns you bus time you favor bizarre meals your orbital planets believe in making gardens that you ignore.
 Two kids hid in a forest. Detectives constantly behind your shoulders talking you can't tell who's who.
 All of the world lives in L.A. and the arrival soon of winter.

norway ice fight

honole campoli
whosit going to profit
frankenstern pipe learn
frozen scorn upper lip
outworded by another

she smokeys in a corner a bar at sparky cracked breath night he sifts to linger or hair of hers all red and brown and dust flakes of curls and dust and hot and stale a sky through rock sides tendons behinder eyes snapping powder crusted dusty blood he asks she answers him one normal word but normler cool he towers but crouched he drools and feel what feeling she field in days precede those true and smellbound air and water seemed new to a year now years claim water and air as data say put some dust in it your true friend a statistic now go log it in the grey binder now D57Y you'll never find the sea again nowhere there people don't be they're percentages they've two heads it's soon they're coming and be building bars out to sea again broom dusty floors over the sea and then new islands above the sea again and mermaids will get paid. i've lost a sweet friend to sea again and dust is friend i'm dust to a friend dust to the end no end to dust dust must floss before bed

this is a picture of a jamoke this is a poem about i forgot what it is about

I only saw 7
no, it;s a knot
o plz

indigo hoops
yarn inside
frightful
excuses

divine

Of course i'll get the job

for i can pour my empathy onto a rock and
have it weeping within 2 minutes
allowing time for some sentimental foreplay
now you will say from one deep some dangling bunker
you've just ruined foreplay
also! you've ruined weeping for me!
and i'll wisp my lips- better than to learn on your last birth-rind
that the moment when love moved in you
like something green or when you knew
patchy fur cap- that little man was never coming
 homeagain
that every moment, every rhyme
a broken weep for all this time

a weep
is
broken- don't you see?
a reason for weeping is to drink tea
taste it on the porch quick here sit here
and would you like some honey?
a couple of bees i know cooked it in their bellies
they drink flower nectar and then regurgitate it
they keep it in little wax tupperwares to eat later
and i just grabbed a couple hundred of them while they were out

mittens

2.
so tender & conflicted (I could sense
oval shaped, gold-rimmed binoculars
as the writer watched on as two seasoned lovers
wrote love songs. She was a lawn gnome, left to witness)
her words were all a-frosty, it felt--when my fingertips
toppled over her phrases I wondered if mittens were near
but it was June. In June
the bugs are the only ones that cover my
dear thumbs.

Paralympics and Lactose Intolerance

 1.  You are super strong and everything.  Ever think about going into the Paralympics?

 Parapelegix aren’t estupid, they are just the only ones who can sit still when the merengue estarts going.

The kotinos, a sprig of jib catching wind on its way to Diamond-shaped heaven, rots on my shoulder.

Television’s in Quantum repose.  The Knicks trickle down the bleachers with worn Hollandaise drips.

I bought a Mystery Bag for 3 bucks before bar close, then was raked out by my billowing neck.

“Your almond eyes are toast!” he says.  “They look small but, man, are they strong!” he says.

Little girlie squints up at me, frightfully Nixon of her.  I ask, why?!  “I was being a You,” says her resin.

I am good at three things.  Knowing what a damn tree is.  Running away.  Saying hi when I mean it.

Look at us, monkey-faced, cross-eyed in sub-weirdo weather!  Will you step ladder with me?

We are hand jiving in a room of American Sign Language for Be-Winners! Oh, poor us.

We are canola oil in Sicily.  We are yellow paint for Krishna.  We are neatly checkered kitchen tables.

2. Sorry to compare my recently discovered lactose intolerance to your loss-of-limb.

Oblong body, weakened by milk, cozy in blue righteous underwear popcorn coach butt impressed.

I could be BATMAN FABIO SCHWARZENNEGGER COSBY STONE COLE STEVE AUSTIN BACONATOR!

Did you know the stomach gets no, nothing from the flowing Worchester sauce and tay-toes

When lactose coats it.  It is nesting its Zionist ass at the bottom of your belly, soaking and displacing

Those woeful nutrients.  That damn dairy takes your Vitamin Brave up to the tops of our Altitudes

And evaporates its ribosomes.   Sands its corners.  Reticules its heart, honor, sunrise memories.

So you are left with a nap that fries your nails, not lightens your lids!  Ick your lozenges!

Your eyes are wilting.  My eyes are wilting.  I am lactose intolerant.  My minerals went to no orphanage.

Poor me, now sipping smoothies in my know-how.  Poor you, probably just as well you dream in cheese.

You CAN so no to gas.  I swear so.  Princes, you’re worth it.  When will you go after what you deserve?

Devil's Elbow Forest Foray

Marvel at remains of Bussman family resort.
Armadillo, possum, blair witch project, pissing in the dark, iphone navigating.
Old stone benches, broken rake. Is there a UFO above us
or is it just the spotlight from exotic dancing joint nearby?
Who traveled these roads. Each time we get near the car,
the flashlight makes the license plate look like a tv,
as if we came upon a scary run down house,
through another dimension, with a man in flannel
holding a shotgun. But no. Car is there, safety.
Old stone bridge. Train bridge. Wood dark and risky.
Imagine blood long enough and you'll lose it by a scrape.
Sky, river, reflection, bent tree. Three musketeers wrapper.
At home. Soil and sunflower. Hummingbird brought me
to 3 years old. Can't see its wings, like it's a tube of feathers,
and it floats.

letter to several

    Well ole chap will we ever leave the book grabbing behind? With so much potential on your bookshelf it's hard to feel down about your self. So that's the real reason, eh. And we have fault with self value, and we don't listen, we fence up, we take so many (of)fenses.

 
    But the undercurrent the song in the background the nursery chant you don't understand but damn well remembered: there is a message. That you, reader, (and you, self), are firm. God done took a whole vial of you and filled your body to the top with it. And there's nothing wrong with it. If i pass by you and your face transfixes to someone else, if you start to believe in the eyes that we the world don't need you, then come to house of the earth, the garden of your insides, lay down and know that the micro is the macro, you are Jupiter, Mars is my brother, the grass blade is the elephant. Is this true? Does it matter? Does it comfort? The orchestra wouldn't work without you.

    You do matter. "You're not your fuckin khakis. You're not how much you have in the bank." And thank the earth we are organic, good for ourselves, but first we have to be ourselves to be good.

not erase it?
for sake of pride..
sake of hiding?
one never screams with a scribble
might only be grabbed to steam with a scribe

water suddenly becomes solid when touched
would take 49 minutes drive 65  alaska to russia
take me longer to get to you, milwaukee
anyway me explain
last they saw of mary jane
about your way
find another place
to cough
a pisces
pardon

if you can
if you'd like

I travel by Meru

When I travel, I am not alone

My thoughts keep me company,

as they meander from topic

to topic, sometimes until I snap 

to attention upon realizing 

I've been daydreaming again.

How thoughts and feelings transition

from a subject to a person,

or to expand an idea is mysterious

and as ancient as it can get.

it's strange how my thinking can be

like watching train cars zip by,

with me being a bystander,

the one not in control in the engine room

I simply wait for the train to stop

so that I can board

Does mood influence thought?

Or is thought derived from the flow

of hormones that drift across the brain,

coating the synapses within the skull

only to overtake my rationale?

I often gaze at book titles, in silent awe

Supposing and observing how

thoughts become concrete, as they transition

into physical, printed words and pages

to touch, turn, and ponder upon.

Then the thoughts begin anew.

-Meru

Patterns

FACTS:

- Currently reading authors Zane, Emma Trelles, Phillip Jenks, and Brenda Cardenas.
- At Alterra Prospect. We are rebooting, we like when people tell lies. Cause we like to practice tone discernment.
- I am we way too much.
- There's a lot of fun you can have for free.

- Black panthers are melanistic leopards.
- You can write that novel!
- You can find that job!
- You can beat that depression, both psychological and physical.









SLOPPY LINES FOR THE FORTUNE COOKIE:

You know that friend who is in that band you saw? He will approach you tomorrow, offer you a back rub.

You are the most interesting brunette in the room.

The "r" in your last name will go missing tomorrow! Don't worry! It will come back in a week.

Your mother is beautiful and therefore so are you.

Pick up your dog and look into his eyes, because lately, he's feeling ignored.

A pane of glass will break when you meet a short fair stranger tonight. It's not a sign, it's a coincidence.

Bad Girls Club: New Orleans

bitch it's about to pop off how dare you throw cereal
in my bed or switch out my bleach with water trick
imma bleach your shit with your bleach imma
switch out your windex with lemonade see how
you like that huh? i swear i feel like imma go crazy
this bitch is fake dude i swear im sick of angie
we used to be friends but not anymore i can't
fake it im real she threw her drink on me
i knew it was meant to be thrown at me
she act like it's judi who she was aimin for
but that champagne got all on my hair
and my dress and everything
all i know is them bitches better watch
they back cause i don't play like that
and if they wanna suit up i got em cause
i make games all day.

The Peterson Melts

I have transitioned from my dad's daughter in the world of cooking to my own, verified self!

The "Dave Peterson" Melt:

Tuna, Cheese, Peanut Butter, Bread.  Boom.

The "Kristin Peterson" Melt:
Olive oil-soaked bread (fried), Fried egg, Almond Butter, Swiss CHEESE!  Boom.

Broad shoulders from the pick up truck mmhmm.  Eat it?

Transitions: Into Cookdom

What meals did we make this week?

1. Watermelon zucchini gazpacho

2. Vanilla pancakes and fruit, Italian omelets

3. Stir fry with apple sausage and squash

4. Mexi-American Avocado Quesadillas with Potatoes, curried

5. Catalan pasta with sauteed veggies and fresh, seasoned salads

6. Too much dairy

I learned how to cut a pepper.  When to add tomato.  How to dice potatoes.  How to cut a boiled egg.  How to use less oil.  Corona really is the same as Pilsner Urquell, is the same as Landshark, is the same as Grolsch.  Dispute me.  Lime and Lemon really add to the flavor of oils.  Wine goes fast when in good company.  And, cherry tomato women might be too much for a tall, dark, and handsome man.

But, we continue to laugh.  And throw pieces of pepper over the ledge without missing a beat, talking.  I need to go for a run.  Man, do I need to go for a run.

Transitions: YOU WANT TWO MORE WORDS?

Dear Reader,

Here are some words you may not know, because I just learned them, and maybe our vocabularies can grow together as we traverse these strange paralleled paths.

I found these in a poetry book I'm reading called Aim Straight at the Fountain and Press Vaporize, by poet Elizabeth Marie Young. I like it so far. The poems are mostly in prose. What are you guys reading lately?

finagle

-verb (used with an object) 

1.

to trick, swindle, or cheat (a person) (often followed by outof ): He finagled the backers out of a fortune.

2.

to get or achieve (something) by guile, trickery, ormanipulation: to finagle an assignment to the MembershipCommittee.

dirigible 

-noun

1. an airship.

         

Transitions: it's good to be moving don't make me stand

up the stairs
up up up sand falls away
but it's stubborn and
millions of children (more like
50 but it feels like millions)
jump over us on our beach blankets
and steal our water hoses to
assault dry rock with wet
and little boys play like they
always have and us we are in-
between like we always feel
lately. it's amazing how my feet
get me from point A to point
B and to look back, say damn
i done went that far and feel
proud as proud can be
but know you've still got
a long way to go before you
feel like you've made it.

i pray to God Allah Brahman
that i'll never feel i've made it.

Transitions: Old thought, new speech

I cancel, Miriam on
        goat's back (sp?)
                   cistern road wars...
://combination hail storm
         meager...         w34n1ng on Lisbon
bareback relics 0101010001001000101010010101
               Rabbi ///          {proffers m0cha}
ambling concrete m00n
                    m1m3  m1m3    ...     m1m3
doe-eyed "of course not"s       of course n0t,
are you st00p1d or som3th1ng?   c0rn3r st0r3!

Transitions: "I suddenly feel like painting extravagantly." by Meru

A Transition Poem by Meru

they said,                      “we’re going to have to let you go”

                    in a tone bereft of any emotion

                    standing silently before you,           powerless

                                                              to keep you steady

you know it’s not them,                      it’s not you

it just is.

it happens every day;

the floor simply vanishes

                                 yet again, it’s a time of transition

                                   transitioning the mind to accept

the unavoidable:                            to feel loss, and lost

                                           in a state of worry and fear

the molehill of bills

suddenly became akin to a mountain

the flurry of worries flit around

like crazed birds trapped in a house

“it’s an opportunity in disguise,”               friends say,

                                           in a tone of tinny optimism

standing beside you, powerless

to assure you any further

you know it’s not them,                       it’s not you

it just is.

it happens everyday;

               people don’t know quite how to respond

yet again,                             it’s a time of transition

transitioning the heart to feel

the much needed calmness: to function, and move

towards a forced, dazed state of acceptance

transition is hard, indeed.

We Climb Devil's Lake (or) Impala Lounge Efforts

         At this apex you draw something obscene. Your hand can't handle it. We've come too far. I nibble on your coat tail as you create new gods. Our old ones grew comely. Will you herald my late nights, my dates with all these word smiths. Will you achieve a solution for my patience cause you know I hate waiting so long to say sorry. I need you to do the simplest things: build me elemental, toward the effect of my freedom. I need you to now paint the sky of night so I can drive home on my bike, percolating with all this opportunity in me. These gentle Colorado mountains in my pants, groaning from my knees, these Fallujah clouds blooming at my elbow. I know I can do it do you know you can do it? Maneuver your muscles over the rock face. Avoid the large spider and hissing squirrel in the periphery. At this apex you've forgotten about everything and only feel body, body, body.

is that book stuff or is that real?

We met Willy from Minne-hopeless last night.  His wife passed out from the day of open-bar drinking from the Wedding at the Intercontinental.  He has three daughters.  Madison, Stella, and ...forgot.  Bethany, Jerrod, and I were passing a notebook around us, writing phrases (funny or die).  We were about to leave to go to the Chinese Bar of modern folklore, with 2 dollar taps.  Willy said, "if I bought you all a drink, would you stay?"  Of course.  He made fun of Guinness.  "Why are you drinking that swamp water?"


Later, he would say, "what are you guys doing over there, passing that notebook around?"
Someone explained, we were writers.  Someone explained, I am writing a novel.
Willy said, "will you put me in your book?" I was looking for a name for the band conductor.  Of course I'd put him in the book.  Always welcoming more concrete to this damned whimsy story I've been sluggishly writing for four years.  The band conductor, now named Willy, has a German Shepherd named Rommel.


After bar time, Willy asked cute mini skirts and a Lake Geneva boy for their take out leftovers.
Jerrod went to have a row in the river.  Willy said, is he okay?  "Oh," Bethany said, "yeah.  He's fine."
"He's a ninja.  He'll be k."
"Is that book stuff or is that real?" Willy said.
"No, he isn't truly a ninja.  But I'm sure he could pass as one."
...
As he left on his way back to his hotel room, he asked, "Will you make Rommel and I make out or spoon or something?"  He asked this after he said, "you lied about bar time, girl."


Fuck yeah, I am making Willy and Rommel spoon.

descending Mt. Olympus

intrepid wanderlust underbelly bridge-be-gone hollow
sea, dry sea
no sea,
ever.

why even mention sea?
mossy granite fever rush
massive love story drip
runnels of "whoa" hillside


whispers behind, walk into silence
quotient patient worn husky
step into new zone of whisper
this is the south zone, boys.

these are hungry people
these are hungry people
these are hungry people
and they are not going to work as a mariachi band
and they are waiting for food that was served three hours ago
but the people serving them food forgot about serving food three hours ago.

yet they still wait
because these are hungry people
without the will to leave
just the will to wait

and you have just enough will to wave
and say, "you must go home,
these people forgot about you.
And We will soon forget about them."

We will feed ourselves.  Come with me.
To my parents' house.
They always have cheese.

an ode to our foursome (you know who yaw are)

who walked straight limbed no bending those knees or elbows and followed each other creepily in the dark and laughed

who waited at bus stops and allotted sections of the grand church where each of us would live if we did,

who proclaimed on cell phones "so this is our stop" to signal the end of our glorious conversation,

who made each other dinner with strawberry spinach mozzarella salad and chick breast glazed with olive oil and covered in nan, 

who watched game of thrones and fell asleep,

who watched old boy and grew horrorsome at the sight of those terrors,

who stared at a cement block and grew sad at our rupture, 

who wrote poems at alterra,

who threatened to throw chairs off roofs,

who car magnetized themselves and laughed harder each time the car reversed,

who washed each others dishes, 

who watched the avengers and felt like kids with their candy and wonder,

who spontaneously wrote vocal orchestras in a vibe on brady street,

who told eachother childhood dreams and nicknames in a living room, dialogues moving freely, like wind.

Before you! BEFORE you! Before YOU!

before you I thought carnival claw machines were rigged
before you                                I didn't have to wear a bib
before you, who refused Yoohoo!, I forgot the percentage
of deaths in the Midwest from slipping in the shower, undressed.

Coasters make sense!  Libertarians speak English!        I rest!
before you                   I tumbled and clocked the hours I was still
before you, I did not know I just was not meant for a box.
before you, I bemoaned my rounded corners.

before you I had to pay Frances 15 dollars to watch the plants while on tour
today, I request the river Styx to water the lillies when I am away.

You are my snow petal.

Dream Weaver

Age 7 : I dream now, while I am secure.

Age 22 : I must first be secure before I dream.

Age 35 : I've made it this far. I just don't want to lose it all.

Age 65: You must mix your dreams with reality to give birth to them, and work hard/water them, then you will see them grow.

graduation, super sneior

CORONATION: Why d y ou t ake d own t hat b log p ost?!
                    joon is may be naught lichtenstein forgot
where abouts, when?  when?  when are yoo returing?

yoiu like it hterE? in Germany?                 I heard you
graduation.  You don't.  You didnt.
I will NOT FOR GET THAT YOU SOE HAVE A BRIGHTER
FUTURE.  But I can hold my liquor.

And at leest I can spill horticulture fadter and play SCENE IT
like a wiz.

The Great Gubernatorial War & my sister's ear.

"Good, she will be walking on the roof," he says.  This is dangerous.  Merry whistles wave at us, a dingle around the neck of wisdom.  Our minds are on the matters at hand: my sister's ears bleeds for wellness, my gubernatorial candidate reads to breed contempt.  Phrases are recycled and cleverness is dropped in the description.  Phrases are recycled.  It does not do its job because our pain pills have switched tactics.  They tricked us.  Our pain pills were flanking us from the North and from the South.  Their generals' whistles whirring in syncopation.  And, now, they are uphill, coming down. My sister's ears are still bleeding.  But, this time, it is because she would not allow the enemy to shed her blood before she did.

you know them small places i want to support and those lesser knows i want to shout out

oodles of oomlatz uruguayan appropriation

fly held hi fi wifi lilted tilted world fell asleep

for 14 hours woke up waking more waked 

by night time mourn for a morning. noodles 

of noontimes nat and nuruguayan lap top 

times a man in a bar of fittys real in shape

peopls you know hours waking for a morning

we never think about time being interrupted.

tahini dreamland for ben

a mugwump chasm of un-volcanic rock
hiring a few peapods of consolidated memories
to drunk-fuzz what we think about
so we can think about

dreamland. Betwixt kisses my apron falls
and he leads me to where the handkerchiefs go--
into a small, drawn-curtain cubby with
an even smaller rocking chair with
an even smaller mouse
reading an even smaller bedtime story
to me--of all the things

this makes me want to sit, stare, and never leave.

so we tear off some from the basil plant that
we spent a whole day trying to find
and on the way chose tahini, lime juice, .25 ounces of active dry yeast,
sugar, milk, 5 cups of bread flour, minced garlic, butter, and tea.

and we ended up eating the neighbourhood's best chinese's
mr. general tso's chicken, please.

and with nothing left in the lazy susan
we sat back and tried again
to knot-think of the past
and focus back on dreamland.

"write a text poem about love with me? you start?"

a train can't stop it gazelle out bounding
Why detain a languid tongue?
and a sweater draping sound, a rustle in the couch, where
We listened to what we meant. And, wholesome exchanging nonsense
but so much kinetics!
and the hands in between our figures!
we were dawn by 5 o'clock and you
Say why don't we not and ill drop you off before I speed to work?
We can play dice and sticks and be silly on my trellice!
and maybe we can finish that painting where you start
a jigsaw puzzle and I turn into an animal, we are
Ovidian and bright obsidian
On la Grange. We till orchards with our mutual respect
and adoration for our skins!
wait for sky to fall backwards laughing we chase it
we run over valleys with our lips our wheels
I have an old house lets renovate and
Juggle arguments and jokes! You kiss me like you
just learned the tricks are jovial oratory! Linguists
woe at our thespian rhetorix!
they lose count of the syllables we skip
and are amazed when our in between breaths
create the longest sentence! snakes slide
sideways tempt them scholars with infinitum.

- by essa and pashmina