a third rate, fourth place, tenuous at best, unabridged yet oft-truncated collection of calumny & travails from the last manfish standing, husophonic orator & chronic fumbler, his nipples (minus 3), Crank Sturgeon
Closed curtain. There's the sound of hustle, airport intercom babble, curtain opens...
C: "Can I ask you what you are scanning the bag for? Just curious." Grumpy capillary-popped-nose security guy (who could only be from say, South Boston) not-even making eye contact, belligerently mutters: "Explosives."
A funny glance, cannot tear away. Written in pieces of plastic and consumer effluent, there were a few ropes from the rooftop to ascend. It began as a mist, certainly-- but as assured was the wind off the maritime provinces, the deluge would soon hail its portentous regale, covering the loess with soot and brass. I'd look to my then-boss and discover a set--second, mind you, like the recently discovered dental array in certain eels-- of grabbers, masticators, cuspids molars the lot... reaching forth like the clumsy advance of a groping adolescent; sly, however, redcoated and canine. The teeth wouldn't do, I had to keep reminding. Grab as though they might, the good air could never be snatched or be forced to deliver a profit. Still and yet, the gapes would chance and stay, transfixed and leering wide and oval.
Clipped hair from the portal entry, phop and p/jopes import rinse, say wrist or ankle tryst; neither two or gender saved! Both were hot dates, one might infer. 1. Top. Husoblivia. A live stream. A silly shaking noisy box for boxviewers to vista-vis 2. Bot. Antecender. Same tube used for truth reporpt, via birch, singlechannel erect, but kind of the same effect
The bumps on the head support dipst a tooth rite strapped tin and bun, josep-nyte, <€> clø; yipes grin bet (the wire has kaas in a pork tornado)/thusly why one detects malice in gleefyling doh'ses (escuchame) sluice & schiessefuegull/ ahora elliotness... pisthumed and thumbed posterior full frontals: empty are, empty are, and arse vacuumed ayn.
All I had for the to-do was a button press and turn slight to the right, grin and bare a gill, mebby let go the rough righteous and goggle dial a bit less red to some tom of something more hewn (of which breastbits, who knew?).
Myeh, oll th' lotsend chammer their cleases: gombed rommer and tryptophan monocraft ledgers billed with manila dots. Smears of constant sharpie made the mountaineering belts more alofty, barpie, clunged, and roled to the chaspar! Ahh, friedrich. P'neh and switch yowls of mini-cats and local wake-ups on elevenstrand cowlips browtips shippergoal and jowlconundrist. Blau! Røst! Empty are, empty are. A good day is turning off that pugging fradio, fore and shire, but don't forgo the wise. El and hume, thatsendbrick, well you godda dand and ropst the shuck from a hispot; NO JOLK, MISTER!
Not compounded well enough, kid rico ate a piece of silver niacin e twelve tincture to please his moth/re (gare, gate, nord, papstmere, eddypool). This cannot continue. Sexta and tzien, nerf and dease, numb the burrs with placations/plied for sasses of francis cans and repriests, mite geists and a colunderful haywain of days daffers, jeigers, liegerstraßeszcheßebrœßt enablers (I mean, fok, we're all en able ERS). But it was good. I'm all down with segues, man.
Ineffable prostration stereo. In the coming B's, letterists and letra-sects were subdued by their appointed jiggles. Extra ways were thereafter (into the hither props-to/accordionation recepted quell clover)(mind the gasp)(age rasp) corridored into bismile simulaction dishes, and boy! told, we were! They! Ferrier cheeses, monks and tones, claughter claps and pond chill-axe mont/Mom's treaties tooth & spread samwell wisdoms, shoot, Mame, too mantles many in proliferation whose-it's. The guns pointed, they insected. Dry wires, clearly barren with anticipation, left the sober with a candace face-- blam, rosietotes. Ludditic? Wait for the litmus passed.
I just performed Tzara's "How to Make a Dadaist Poem" as part of the Read Across America program today. For sixth graders, mind you. It's one thing to make a bunch of knowing adults cut up newspapers and giddily reduce themselves to the point of view of a kid; it's an entirely different matter to do this with kids. And let me say, kids are H I L A R I O U S... totally captive, 100% down with the method. It helped that I prefaced them with a step-by-step DAda approach; doing my best/worst Hugo Ball rendering of "Karawane", which is perfect gobble-de-gük for kids and adults alike. But THEN handing them scissors to make their own... man, whatta blast. There we were, snipping away, pasting random newspaper clippings onto a big sheet of paper, laughing, and fully enraptured! Just brilliant, those minds... grabbing letters from the bag and having at it. So cool. Too cool. I read the final product/poem for the class... hissing, trilling, piff-poffing the headlines and truncated words. So good. Bare in mind, that kid in all of us... some sly devil had snipped a bit about "boobs flapping", which led to all-out guffaws and chirps of delight. I won't forget this for a long time.
I do sucker for these paws, admittedly; galling or fallstepping each year in remarkery at how spring never ceases to astound. Last night was a warm chorus of two am peepers, treescaling whirrs of arboreal variety, and distant croakers... ballasting act supported by distant lightning which later reigned hail upsets and glorious backviews of three am cotton bolls and deadly illumes. And today... I sidetweak and wanderbluss; up the backwoods mountaining act to catch an osprey and smell arms, wet feet, hot earth-- not thawed-- but defuse, piquante, living. And then? And THEM. A director's cut. Foes to furthering my dada meme (as of late, less a committee of invisibles). Laylines were sought, found, and deedee'd perpendicular rectargle bopeswhip choldgren doej monure caspet xomb and reclection, bambit.
Odd specks tackle. Well apparently there was something wrong-- they'd huff in classic pride and with withered carpals point, as if to say: look at him? Too much hubris and yet still, bottom rung stubborn scrubber and appointedly plovered, a mere prince of mud. See? Denizen gentle had no measure. They'd scoff. You're an owl, you're a goer, you're a hiss and spit, you're a lifer, an abortion of our value romes, miscarriage of pregnant hope, a lost foul found in revelatory termite tower, cascading in worthless mirth, no til death to bury heads in twelve, like the rest of us, gauged mort, a hindered hundred prius cuff. Merrily dime, an affront to an age. How dare he? And you? Gazing in sandwich board cowls, as purulent as they chime, gloating over in petty sleeves of hollow piques and praxis; uddering in nihil milt how deep you've come, parlaying the elastics on everstretch & Saturnian ring-- some kind of better protein? Aesop, eh. Assailed and enervated. Beset with circinate fronds and curls maybe wiser than time, that timber underneath would mix with the brown, and damned wouldn't you know, the synonyms and sluices would run out and overbreast, rendering digit prods and appendices to the useless pox of human hex and inanity. No shame in spent cartridge pens, impuissant is the new erection salve...
Lush transits take you down to the Monday blue and cocktail parade of sudden cities and sights purportedly uncommon. There are usual suspects-- dancing millepede, with thousand toed puddle talon; and unused vestigial organs-- tails instantly acute to surroundings and delicious cheap meat barkers, hidden green sauces, and musty collared spaces that skinny pants encircle, all the while pungent of grandpa. It's a good army though. Dearest hosts bed you with gnochi, eggs, and smiles, and together we crisscrox bumpy lanes to gather round tables of bent circuits and armageddony sound stances and hilarious mosh mantras. The borders shared are unraveled by books and the tongue of murmur and mutual subverts; hidden rooms procure solace enough to buttress the keystone fall of everything you once knew-- all the safe and sewns, all the tidy northeast norms, all that milky toast and psoriasis-- out the door, and one's back emphatic: true human. I dig me every chance I can get. Eyes used for tooth support!
Do this: - have audience tear up words - Tzara-fy words; mix up, have audience reassemble into delicious cut-up poems - have audience read their poems-- together, individually, etc. Record this action - take everyone outside when a good five or ten minutes of this has been recorded - jump into car w/ a friend, leaving audience standing there. Have friend video process of playing back the poems in the car stereo - maybe go get a beer, smoke a cigarette, put on the flashy light, wear a dumb hat, comment a lot - return to space; play back video on projector - perform along w/ video - admit that you stole the entire performance from the following: Tristan Tzara Mattin PCRV Alfred Jarry