The Unknown Room

By D. White

"A room is a chamber, a box that contains objects, ideas, memories."
"In this book I use 'room' to sy,bolize the cranium... the skull that houses the human mind. This 'room' contains thoughts, desires, hopes, dreams, nightmares, memories of experiences, sounds, pictures and so on...
"In the Unknown Room I explore the most interesting (I think) of human conceptions... the 'Unknown'.
"What is it? Can it be known through examination of what we know? I think not... and yet? The 'unknown' must surely give clues to its nature...
"Through language I open doors to rooms to investigate... The Electrical Room, the Fire Control Room and of course the Unkown Room."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796051056

D. White

D. White is a master storyteller. He co-founded a children's multimedia book company that develops books, AR interactives, and read-alongs in collaboration with sports teams, influencers, toy makers, and other book publishers. He earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of Connecticut. He has co-produced and directed short films and TV show pilots such as “The Pointe.” His ultimate goal is to create memorable experiences by combining unique storytelling and modern technologies. The author resides in Stamford, CT.

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Copyright © 2019 by David White.

ISBN:                  Softcover                  978-1-7960-5106-3

                            eBook                       978-1-7960-5105-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/12/2019

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

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CONTENTS

The Electrical Room

The Fire Control Room

The Unknown Room

THE ELECTRICAL ROOM

Listen to a pet alarm signal, unswerving lines of time, battle scars & blood on leaves on bushes near unhinged back doors. Listen to hollow Halloween masks float in Edgar Allen Poe’s water puddles with a note saying; Mack. Where’s time buried in three parts of wrinkled paper? Where are holograms and servant’s quarters? (and where is Megan’s wrinkled hand?)

Dressed as The Crocodile Princess, her curves culminated in a doorway looking out on oxygen fields where oxygen leaked to San Francisco on elevated freeways, where crash test dummies were scattered (filled with stun-paper kisses)

In afternoons I discover she was born again… near a gate to Treasure Island by a gas station on a corner in the rain…

Her mummy walked into the water and drowned, dragging tentacles and photos of a dream-on-the-Hudson where marvelous gnats snatched her hair, moist dark curls knocking men off walls in hoaxes, with her scent sleeping (somnambulating) to wake in mud where good Baptist preachers always go to perambulate…

I discovered New York boats, apartments dripping from dresser’s dummies…

Let’s dry dock here where business is performed in dark alleys, where crime hides in elevators and sunlight hangs on dead men’s sleeves at the end of long dark halls that transparent (where parents transition you from lifeless form unaware into life, which is to say water that wants to go for a ride, water mute except for many mouths that attempt to explain unexplainables…)

You’ve been this far from home before, said a boy in a canal, and placed yourself at the mercy of white and yellow electrical rooms. (Just where DID federal ladders come from?" stacked together now… splaying shadows onto wallpaper)

I hear your footfalls, and dark bats fly from your hair, your skull darned cute, dried skin stretched over it (like Shirley Temple’s skull) so that I would like to kiss it on its lips (only it has no real lips, just teeth) You watched birds peck their way out of your egg-shell skull covering your brain-goo, a brain that wants to explain what you should expect from skylights cracked and leaking and singing… Safety Last.")

Come with me Miss Platinova… red beef…

Breeze smokes Portugal which is punk except for a steers’ head in Algiers mixed with tigers mixed with sullen Corvane (and smoke), making boundaries for room 8 where Billy-club’s soap-wrench was left on an old green table made of shadows from ‘Farmer All-trees’ Smoke and Painless Elixir (in bottles) causing hallucinations of desiccated deer meat sagging all day long from edges of ping-pong tables…

This is new?

Talk to her! Talk to her sullen sea… listen to schools in the ocean.

Wear strange headgear. Smile through goggles made from apple cheeks borrowed from homeless men (when they slept). Talk to empty chairs in Budapest until snails arrive from cracks in sidewalks to pray for release from Hollywood-tragic burgundy-colored hog-nails (or so they said… I quit!)

Hey! (said screams from an audience) A naked electrical room is an electrical womb.

TV Bastians dangled cold and slippery just out of reach out of harms way far from Farmer Green’s Almanac (two inches below the main sail)

Catch up! with flames, arrows, goggles and ‘Smoke’ magazine (with re-numbered and re-edited and re-calibrated edges) It’s the most uncomfortable I’ve been since dying a long time ago, said a corpse, drunk one afternoon in 1958…

(he’d crawled into a cop’s catapult by mistake…)

Are you Daisy Utley? sitting in a chair touching Ectograms of heathens and proportions? Policemen wore masks on Amherst Street in Entebbe. Scream-children trans-folded and were baked until a crispy brown (they were made of 80% naturally- soluble details that were ingredients from bio-American companies who had explored foreheads for profit)

It’s the way of ghosts! and hosts. (and boats…)

(this was only sung by cannons)

There were plenty of foreheads in profit-making bags for you! said a sign at Closed Gate Shopping Center-Spree, the front gate broken and flooded so you had to go ‘round back to see the bodies bobbling up and down rudely, some still smoking…

I don’t care, said a member of the B-minus gang, aging and flowering under drowned flood-gates (in time for a barefoot school-mistresses, demolishing accomplished horns, blaring and blasting to celebrate the Dead Buffalo Bistro across the street sliding on ice-covered surfaces, rubbish piling up in bright sun displaying a kind of beauty)

At ‘Airport Security’ a small girl held a stranger’s hand then took him on a tour. She especially wanted to show him the empty hangars used for non-existent airplanes.

Something that’s invisible is smart, she said in velvet pink electrical room dresses.

Dr. Utley’s chairs were filling now with milk and honey for Underwater Republicans.

Some held teeth, some radial tires & drowned boys sometimes named Gary.

So THAT was how we held them under, (till they were out of breath, till their faces bloated into common English Queens complete with crowns, straight teeth and stanchions, their heads stuck on poles positioned at angles from their necks (gory selections)

If you ask me, her dreams are mostly about the Highlands, Sherlock’s gate off hinges pointing at post-modern dramas…

She smiled at the heavy little boy. I made you with my body… said his mother.

How? (in her electrical room) in a car in a concrete parking garage near the on-ramp to Shun Street… At least I did sometimes anyway… I used to… Also I’d go to Shiner Avenue to meet men and look for your afterbirth…

But I’m trying to be more serious from now on.

Minaret-towers looked down on Scarce City… Even poor sections of town seemed to have boys in irons. (it was one of the vices of reason)

"Use words to get what you want. Listen to rain on tin roofs. Watch frat boys (in photographs) hold half-held hams so they can start crying tears of butterflies.

(no puppies inside Charles’ swastika).

In a printer’s hamlet, watch sparkling lice.

"Are YOU the Dura-Vent?" The electrical room is womb or cranium. Both give birth.

In Standard Electric Procedure, a light is in an ear in a tin cup. It is Triangle plus zero, a car coming out of the color of Central Bust… strange light from a back room refrigerator door.

Federal Hanging News says your subscription has lapsed.

Keep ‘em air-conditioned! Walls go wall to wall and doors open to doors. Looks like it’s Hangman’s rain today. Go over to central casting and see if they have an auction of souls. This goes to the highest bidder.

(a full moon in a noose)

Greet the day, said Bird-call heathens. and wholesale cats. And leaking flanges on a winter beach five years ago (one of 5 sores) It’s kept me going for five years. (said the Pirate skull)

Quit watching the snake artist for a minute… will you? I see favorite green-blue porn colors. Sometimes I’m 30 and from Seattle where strange lines cross refrigerators." strong clouds on powerfully built army bolts…

You came from down river? Did you see the aura of the sea? Are you going on?

An ear in a cup. Deal me out…

She was Approximate pointillism, drains for water’s return to the moguls. Floppy Mary. shining in mockery factory. Shining Mary? (not directly autumn). working on a house with hair pins.

I won’t make victory. (not looking into booths… holding Standard glasses)

Pope-itis? On rocks made of dangerous skulls? a safe bet (she’s a safe).

Connie’s paperwork loaded with kick balls… and x-rays of Dancing waves.

It all makes sense, explained Haircut Weavers, looking for standard waiver forms, leaking faucets, dangling patterns, waves of color. A hen’s egg. Give me injury and pleasure. Open a door. to modern star coroners.

Congratulations! It’s an egg! a bicycle too…

I’ll split my chauffer with you. a casual egg. Mrs. Peel.

In a stretch-neck Nerve dress. paper-cruel. fire behind her locked doors, humming the latest pop-disaster tunes. Christians are Gooey, gooey tune lyrics, high as a steeple (but no higher)… I want you athletic. Graphs & teens. It’s a happy line from death’s door to Shakespeare’s sleeping-dad.

I wasn’t a taller person. a Yellow table. They don’t please me. but they must.

Coffee from an urn? Aesthetics for one. I found buried machines at four feet. a girl’s pretty neck.

Some sun! double reserve. I fold my pen. And quill at Gerry service. doubtful declaration of independence (a machine for worry) Pretty girls decide Saturday night (and dead people laugh) They like thrills…

(what happened?) Police are coming (they listen to small infants cry)

It’s the hot chair! I’ve grown comfortable in it over the years. I’ve known shadows. in my life. I heard Trent whistle. on stacks of drama impact, A-to-B (slot A into tab B).

A monster has it!

I get homesick sometimes. for non-frequency sports ladders. Flying over St. Louis in closets. kidneys in their heyday. "I was a culmination of dreams, clouds of it sunning themselves on hedge-rows, fleeing floating motors churning mechanical war-death (it was a problem to overcome (am I too connected or not connected enough?)

You asked me what I thought… (sound-waves come from next door from a cement mixer)

Memory of long ago afternoons… sitting in a parlor smoking, wondering about wandering girls. (artificial mysteries made of plastic that are terrible liars)

They’re drugged in at night. Sleep fills them then they sink.

I know to wait. I was gibberish, gullible… which is to say a solid dream, hard as snails and complex as a journey to another side (outside at night looking for firewood), head bowed to carpentry, an intelligent cow eater, ice cream shops around the corner in a world of cut glass.

I don’t want to be around here. Open the door or close it. a pencil rolls to rest to be picked up to be alone with mother. It’s strange how time dirts and pennies. Look up a freeway onramp to Lucky Box, a lucky boy, hovering over edge of a child, golden cream, a moment from doom or Southern California with strangers. (same thing)

We can’t go on, or even be there. Confederates are afraid and calendars too and who knows a staircase in a mother’s head? Hollywood is where warehouses contain dreams (or used to… back in the ‘30s). We can’t go there, not anymore, not even on a thrill ride with Carol caroling in the backseat. Jack Benny’s old plane ride is spooked (in a desert’s backdrop) and desert hair is lost.

I won’t buy a penny, on Marshall Street. she left headaches on bathroom counters with tears like insect sounds.

Como esta head-cheese. Chit and grappela. Courant end of needa, a class system for youth, pero no more, mode and graceful test. Concha, a barber’s angle between legs, stage, the pool & Halloween guests… marginal Margie in a grace period…

You didn’t have to do that… said a Standard Buck minister singing the wedding blues…

Come on! (she was an evil bird). Come inside for three minotaur… naps at 30, 80 and sixty. on a jag to Sacramento…

Can I get polloi? A log-jug-strupt? I’ll get green. Two Polite punching bags and diet smoke. This is my final krelft. Elliot in the pace, a knee in a fast fog-bank.

Well. I warned them. We own them now. and their final elevator said Paul Linus…

Not for a dollar. Mexican Divorce fees. (they stole it from pumps)

She’s slow. She holds an oxygen mask… she holds orgasms too long. (then he broke her clay pots)

Paper. Two sisters. and a flag. Jump-start (watch shadows shadow)…

Don’t tell Everett Post… he played an original. One sister tapped the other on the back of the head, the palm of her hand open.

You had to borrow it, didn’t you?

Consider twins. born same place, same time… plausible as a woodpile. They were math equations, 3 leafs to the wind, a house-pink Judy. She wasn’t home but she was in the dark. People hid from noise & excitement, hoping to not get hurt. They clicked off many days on a clock hoping someone will find them (in a vast crew of an unknown)

Crew meal? make a meal of a crew…

Factory-earth? (Juan Flipper has a joy-scope) That’s the way to Rose. Cheerleaders in a garden. I turned my profile too soon. purple one. Buffet? iron-handed. K-brothers hard and metal… loose with monkey glands. I don’t permanent ice. (the thing comes out and rests on a hillside, spoors from a distant planet. Down from mottled skies, roiling and boiling clouds of poison)

What heap the care, niece Chinese? Male artisan?

Is this a birthday or something? oh my dog. Charlie Manson has his liquid girlfriend called; ‘Tulie Enrico Fogg’.

Sir chills. The cold one… a Pat-o-mine, an apartment up in hills looking down on the city. modern Hillary who is made of slats of yellow… singing Hopt soliloquies in the hall.

Mr. Durkey? A Liverpool. Screen-30 Show.

It’s after blood. It’s the answer in the bull’s eye. dancing till midnight’s curfew… The Pope counting to minus zero.

Fiberglas? Get this question going… School is almost out! Sugar Mountain is closing. A handful of medics are on hand for loose change. (lonely virgin bicyclers)…

There’s probably death going on somewhere in my body, said an old nun. Drop me an angel.

I went with a wallop. Right in a vat of dull soap. her little cartoon feet active… her toes. I would be happy managing a synthetic store. Polly drinks are on the house (on the roof) the first week only. The number nine horse in the lead swallows, Even passema, a mild mixture of turnstiles movies, due at the races at the end of hotel corridors. I didn’t have the heart. (I yodeled in your stool…)

I can’t get my hands on it at the moment.

How long trigger? I insist she be stuffed and on display in the lobby (my once and forever love)

You might imbue your enemy with magic powers. To the rider I’m upset. At 90 pounds you turn sillid. A dollar in the hand… the palm of an empty of love.

Cordless cyclers that keep to themselves.

There’s something weak about you. Write to me. (it was an economic struggle)

Are you curious? (given a hammer). Give me a syllable. I’ll watch.

Eat eels at night and in the daytime, look sideways. Channel 8 if you keep your bar open. A chance! A cloister! A chalice! A Palm tree large as a kiddee pool floating in a sky.

You’re going to be a lot more excited and relaxed, a lot more involved. In the house, the cook left for the way-station (cough there) in the middle of the igloo.

Toppy milk.

Rabbits are humping in the tall grass. & all’s right w/ the world.

Sky’s the limit?… sure. Said Columbus to Neptune.

They drank too much or took drugs.

What about your blood-alcohol content, your belly, your salad, your forget-me-not. Think about wonderful afternoons when you drank yourself into warm-sun oblivion.

I’m smashed, said Maxwell standing in the middle of Liquid-Land. He called his aunt who came and picked him up. in a pig dress. Au pair glasses. in proposition 226.

Safety heels. 227. and a bag of opposite luck-nails.

I can’t speak for him but I believe he’s tall… I still have some of his DNA in me, she said standing by the bay bridge. hot coming. the day spent looking out a window from coitus tower at silent traffic below & smoke from Argyle factory, a story best left untold, a gift from heaven (not counting secret-service requests)…

It was battlefield-beautiful sadness.

It was a play about revenge…

Stick it in her St. Augustine’s chapel, a new-age hide-out made of liquid designs, hot among plants & other sad garden-variety beauty (storage jars, a frilly dress).

An onion fell from the sky… It was turning green at the time.

She wore too much makeup and perfume & used to steal embroidered napkins from expensive restaurants. SMASH! said a boy who was made of Vaseline. An homo-erotic apple. No, no, no, no. a green dress flying off, jumping over goats.

That’ll be 108.

I never said I had a fright washing machine. I imagined a thumb print. Humming birds printed on paper… flying about miserable & excited. I had gone to he mountain logs and back. careful with my raccoon heart. They were in imagination recoil, on dirt and dust, malevolent bowling alleys and three broken ankles (stuffed in closets along with all the other merry-maids).

Down by the river, I never saw her dance, wetting channels and wayfarers.

"She called me from the island (over and over again), along long, childish sections of the blue moon, by the cannery, the cemetery and the bullet-proof glaciers, Alaska-pardoned igloo paste, a Bastian and a pardon for culpability for the fairy-tale, music being hunted, burned, the ticket booth closed (but tickets were still half-off till Wednesday), a scent of cherry-nickels wafting over a crowd (she blushed while blushing)

Don’t forget Lindsay. It’s cold in the mental house… (long green grasses stretched to the horizon).

You’re a liar! Your refrigerator is one too… make dolls till Tuesday, fish with hooks and your sister, way out in fields where rushes rush which happens to most of the pre-fab houses (filled with verbs, most of them) basic human decency summarized in smoke.

Look! Blushing feathers!

When there’s work to be done, happiness is over… the floor still shunning, Christmas lights in ’53 in the other room. I slid to the floor from the bed… tossing tinsel and glitter… phony snow scenes on cards and equally phony smiles, running for shelter anew (soon nearby the sweet nothing tree). Oh.

It’s coming! The skeleton band…

Boxed in in town,

Where safety is last and dew breaks the glass showers of locust, napalm and stars, crashing in fields far away from a weird pier painted in green pain to stand on to watch for the invisible ferry to the other side (wait for that ship).

It’s coming… (non-existence). Free-at-last! over the golf course and its pretty trees, birds chirping in the bush (in a nameless language oh to know the nameless language).

It’s an alien planet we’re on. we arrive and look around and wonder and curtains drop around us, showers full of news (each raindrop), contracts raining down possibility, beauty all around nameless so as to beautify… Light comes out cannons, opening smoke. not even people on the same planet can speak, individual separate madness of real, descriptions of flame and bright, descriptions of boxes of real stars, swirling over tops of sheds placed on golf courses (there are twenty or two-hundred words for ‘green’).

Oh Smoke. I recall you! fire. burning magic-language, card tricks and plays on stage… dread flash-wood, a standard form in penultimate blue.

I’m really for the other hire. at Trudge Lake. Could’ve been even better. Generic smoke a pound higher.

I’m sorry. But as intelligence goes, I expect you to find what’s wrong. Under an old bridge bending under weight, under a slimy rock. under-traveling bewildered drowned waves. It’s an outsized bridge, a beagle putting on pants so he could get away…

These are words are about how our lips are curtains. Over a hedge row, a heat show..

Danny? He’s our guest… our goat too! Massive shoulders. I knew him in Borneo at the Riviera.

He’s on Ed’s Elf rails. (but I also don’t get jealous)

Maybe it’s the nuclear saboteur. Strange… in Sugared-cell phones.

Doc? Aim me! An egg, a bonnet and an electrical egg dollar. I don’t know what I’m getting married to. (leftovers. Residues of past madness. Sadness and Sea eggs (sea eggs of madness). There are too many…

12. 12, 12 blinking red lights, on a dry dock deep in Stick, North Beach on my way to streets left and right with girls leaking white light (it’s still 1980). It’s still the edge of the century, next the carnival, the unborn in jars, their smiling faces.

Let’s kick a ball around the edge of the world.

I don’t know. Do you ever see Mickaela?

I want to record every blade of grass on the side of each road I pass (because of an amazing nigger soul), every dead limb against sky, every second-hour-year. I want to go into & out dusk & understand what I see hear feel touch, wonder inside wonder till the end, the very asparagus, my memory spilling out on the road, over to soil, body-maggots of sensual experience (stains and trances). I want to go to the end of religion and beyond to the other side. I want to go through sex to the other side. I want to go through words to the other side… crawl back to the shadows. I

Want to cry every tear in the ocean…

Hair cut current… down in front a cop’s dress, flashlight up her quimp…

It’s Springtime! It’s Springtime! he yells, jumping up & down on trampoline earth. wearing large hoop earrings. You’re moping around with cherries.

I don’t have it! I don’t have an outlet. I’m an author. This is my outlet,

spoke wheels on bicycles, a lonely virgin club… out in tall grass… Hoops of gold. Pure farms. A king, buried under a parking lot.

They say he killed 12 million Jews but few knew he was quite a cook.

(hee hee hee). A barber’s commandments. Mr. Tulie said so. He had on ropes… (dreams & things). Chaos smiled. It minded. It’s early yet, said Lord of the rings, a kindle stiff who said… Who? Me?

General inquiry. Anal rape with a web cam.

Our menu options have changed. For wire or seat deposits… sell orders. I’m not going to steal from myself but you can. Currently assisting other customers and pirate flights. Another ballet… drop commandments on the ground. They break up into smoke. God’s word in stone. "People need Laws to behave and god has those laws (also 50% off coupons).

A lot of muck is caustic (& happiness behind restaurants is a black bear claw)

I love cops. They protect me from myself. Sure as surrender (he walks through space, a prince among men… head & nose high over the shit).

Hi. Can I help you? in caustic shadows. Rescue me. Please stay on the line… I wouldn’t recommend the six-foot hamburger.

Die in comfort. A foot upon wall doctors.

We’re connecting you. Pure form. A Catholic having said that in a box, a hoax is flying. It’s flying… and high. Gravel in the driveway underfoot.

I was a drive-way for Chan for 3 leagues. Crying, she asked me why I took my paintings away…

Sir. Don’t waste our time. You work for them & I don’t. A web cam in my toilet? I suppose the board of directors float around wearing masks.

I’ll change yours in five black days… head-quarters put in reverse. She screamed an obscenity.

How am I going to piss puzzle-pieces? What did they say they’d charge?

‘Leaf’ is on tonight. A peddler’s view inside out. Evening lights romantic on a push-pull see-saw cart, life-death in traffic ports, L. A. green street. condos, born large as plant life as the human tide swells & swaggers…

It’s a twenty-first exclusion tactic, the broad-based idolized. She comes at you.

Tiger tiger burning bright, magic trips, threads of music in the tunnel. It comes out her mouth. (she knows somewhere deep down she’s a gross and gargantuan monster, one made of paste and cardboard, goo coming out rude and wet-plastic)

I’m not afraid of it. (but she is. I know I am). Mr. Air-freshener. Mr. Dura-flesh. In life (I have a can of it).

I’m blasting. I’m bleeding. I’m baiting. I’m justified. I’m stopping vanilla. Like awkward wheels from the Marsden cereal billboard

I’ll make you a jack-strap, a tail to run up in the docking trees, a simple life (in a wink) till Friday… Clip clop libido. No more cream, Kendra. Stalled drummers on a train. In a wall of half bake. Camouflage. Chattanooga. locked interns.

Know the music. Vilifying injured parties. Bury us in Government lock-down.

It’s happening again! on grapes. Chilled salad. And an interview with Landsgear.

That’s what you want.

Well. I figure you need friction in your lobotomy. Sometimes the old grace cook- book, a red brick boulevard, back behind dreaming trees (dark & floating & guess where you end up… just behind a parking lot 23 near the freeway, couples coupling in upstairs rooms looking out on the view. You can see them x-ray behind walls).

Go to Vegas, next your problem marriage.

Hanging down shadows from Christmas trees beneath water.

A nickel? You want this frost nickel (for only five cents). I came through the fevered forest (dark, mysterious, forbidding, full of unknown twists & turns).

I’m ready for profits. Are you gentle?

(don’t judge a taco by its bone press). The jury’s in an electric room (soft & moist in the dark). checking a camera test. Okay. Find the seat-belt, even if your hat is in tears. Beauty is pain.

Even alleys with alligators,

through doom puzzle. Holler rage. Because it’s Jordan Runnymede.

You have got a queen cleaning up? Cleaning ions, irons, coffee grounds and grape seeds.

Here or black?

You got me thinking. They’re a threat after all. Arrange a cave, a curve, broken teeth in an alley, candy bars hidden in pulpits. Jesus wants me to have snacks. In the jungle… we need each to each. A city jungle. Not much. The Boss speaks.

It’s luncheon time. I’ll be thinking about you all day…

One taco ranch stick. come to me & sing this song. All along the watchtower, bird shadows in the afternoon. Blind? You & me in the bathroom… skating. Come to me with secret fantasies. & start again. gas station drinking, the wash of rain & hungry folk… laundry otters. Scratching. It was an arbor town, if I remember correctly, a harbor to the possible, a port and a garden sprite outside.

You loved it there… (or you used to). You will be lonely without me. I’m sullen. Those barracks white-washed. They were the saddest place on earth… in white sand leaking across graves. Some of the men didn’t come back.

I wash away the sullery, Surrey, Switzerland & all points west on a revolving (spinning) cat’s compass. Dream world. You should judgment away. I know how you smell. small desperations. Careen canteen in Copeland. Swinging on a swing in the evening. Excitement. dread. (what leaked into me from you!)

Homelessness everywhere. I’ve grown. We’ll

Settle in Venezuela.

Hoppy time. Jacqueline. Green to party. Widowed. Juniper. I’m cold. Even Allah gets the blues…

A nerve system for a bento box. Existentialism.

I fell into her sweaty smile, her dimple, behind a warehouses behind a fence where a canal was full of dead fish stinking (staring into sun) cats moaning meowing they can’t get in & eat them. There is the law behind suburban fences on stained beds, under calculating stars. she leaves lawyers and the earth. she comes back where trees are restless and instantly lost…

And who knows? Perhaps one day she’ll dance on the stage, be drunk drug-tattooed, nights found dead in a park, gratefully… who knows? Charge into dream & bull, a horned beast percolating in her veins, intestines, an itching worm in her brain…

There she is displayed, nerves inside her dress, smiling (oh my grave my grave) so pretty, wet & livable (she doesn’t know what it is neither do I).

I didn’t ask to live and here I am… & here I am, mouth watering at the pool of her innocence & she looking to me for activation… (she’s an Indian who’s going to scalp me, a Swede blonde w/ white hair, thin, full of odor, magic, perfume, underarm deodorant (white powder in her pits) & a ‘fresh’ chemical in her swamp junk yard & time clock of her womb (up where swamps create us, all of us…). She’s there, here and surprises us…

Eh? Mr. Civic? Mr. Cave? I escape a golf course, a love-ship. Ben Afri-don. Ow! right now, confused in a fruit stand.

It’s the tail of Ampurda. Ma pere, Ma mere. Late as always (up and out of the ground, down in it… Sailor to gull, gull to sailor, the guilt).

The light is on! (self discovery). How many hills?

Another tree at the puppet-drome. We went all the way, under bleachers with a hanged man… You want to start night? It was a wrong cross & chickens were pecking out of e-mails. (oh how the suicides are silent!)

The Merrimack crossed the Hudson. Draped in Make-shift Penthal. Save me!

Are you at the school joke already? Blow-up. Maybe. Spread out. Toggi. Alley behind buildings, the dark and true sink, out down (she fell to jail) up on the fourth floor, people in the city waving…

On their way… rudders to China. Remembering yesterday.

In order for glory to go… Turpentine… (& roses). Yes! It was a plot… of sorts, cherished bail with punishment… on the edge, walking around with burnished souls… out the back of Smokey" Hotel. (not bad though, patch).

"It’s a perfect relief to be away from bullies, over at the ranch…

They see Allah… crimp push. Crime. a nigger.

Gain smoke. something at 9:30. It’s my house where the trains end. little people drink in the world with their baby eyes…

Montague pipes. Rotting pyramids. Mr. Bloodworth’s coin ma. Death is sometimes tender… say chewed rats in a field. (the boy watched his dog chew a baby rabbit)

Quit barking in the morning, banking, stirring still. (she took me under her wing. She rattled my bones). it was a telephone inquiry. The sea is my anchovy. What an angel… up a girl. can it long in wood? next to streets passing walnut cars? Can a telephone bully home and incarcerate?

Can leaves on a pillow tell us anything (such as our place to go?) Can pointers point & tellers tell? Can the middle of a doctor doctor?

Can you get to Barbara Towers from here?

She bulls into a crowd. You know she hunts it. 3 hrs. and her husband dead.

A chock full of happiness. Rolls out the barrels. Distant sounds. (distant lives) A car horn. ambulance. Red lights bleeding through a window screen. Down the hatch. All those years poison… and approximately…

They remind me of trees.

Happy layer-all. Trini. Seamless horse hair. She was barely born in 2000.

A car hangs the throwers. Amid the field. Cross a cross. Never mind the chicken. It’s rubber & it crossed the road, right out of Isaac’s Electrical room. I want to hold the drink. Chop chop… They’re walking around picking their nose. The whole line ends…" she holds her soft limp rabbit.

What are you thinking of? Crew members? Jurgens has it. Say hi to him there. The metal boat, And energy. Spokesman for towers that be, car hangars & beings of another kind. A rubber nose & cane. Oblique. Ice by the store. Bledsoe.

I had about three of them. Now I have trauma. Gopher. Perfume. What’s Jesus thinking? (run around w/ a rabbit. Her older sister runs away. Where are you? she cries).

Seven off the top. I have to pay forge.

It was Lincoln memorial night and the head wound was running. the hot April night streets were hungering in lamplight… sizzling with excitement just like death. The rats running around. celebration is over. Time for mourning morning meandering mundane mulling mullibrew mallet middleton marching & mumbling prayers to gods from their posts (awol). It’s all in the wheel, they were saying… Spin it and stand back. the numbers will tell you your fortune, mugged on the train, boys jostling inappropriately.

Stop it! The president’s dead.

But he pushed me! it was cinematic joy. grief by the barlows (they found him sleeping on the barge), hanging like butchered meat in brown-dark shadows…

Is the lobster coat ready? federal law says the smell of men and women’s crotches be labeled ‘swamp material’ and designated scratch-itch toxic where life hides in fields on dark nights & alleys of despair.

In green days… She holds her cup, and automatic cheese kitchens haunt us with abstract smiles & offerings (cute smiles from graveyards going back to meat market & beyond).

You have to have thought. There was alarm-clock news, brittle on the half-hour, infra-red an hour down the pike to thought instant coffee disaster walls thinking of loan officers and a Ralph’s Instant Gambling Wheel (where the others mile), fish-heads on it, nailed on like Jesus (& his horny bastard)…

"I liked her face and dropping. She’d sit there and I know she was thinking of Lonely island but not proud like yesterday’s cartoon gods commanding attention and old shoe laces, her job going with hangars to piers, fishermen hooked and throwing their lines in for what they could get… normally mermaids, old boots, cash boxes and used condoms full of fish eggs.

I think nature’s raw & gimpy, raunchy and cold news. Breed brother breed, bread warmers, roasts at the end of Africa. Russia on the way to the Caspian sea. Island sank. I was going early but nameless gods sent me on the wrong train… only heads on seats, no bodies staring out of windows, bored… broken windmills, abandoned houses with sad eyes looking through crusty windows. Murder here," the cataracted eyes seemed to say…

She laughed at the altar. It’s freaky this time of year.

That’s more than I would buzz at… She’s older than I thought, scraping lawns with windy utensils that were made in magic factories many miles from graveyards and freeways built over graveyards, turning into gambling’s older sister… She’s older than I thought but nice teeth… She has a battleship in the back yard, keeping it in shape with a five-iron and a little girl’s voice (she keeps it in the palm of her right hand). It turns me on," she said, wine coating her face.

What are you looking at? Wells. I’m drunk from wells. Half a taco. brittle on the spinning wheel. Your number comes up! the fish eyes you. brittle fish turning on the charm on the wheel…

Ralph’s Gambling Town. There’s a white rose with a red splash on it (everybody knows it’s blood) and a phony smile. I didn’t beat her to death with a guard-rail and throw her head under a train… Such a good standard inner sole. What’s laughter like on Altair?

Or Hooper’s town? I look out windows on midnight stolen cars, birds hopping on road fourteen death. Meld the cop, old rusty traitors in bed sleeping asphalt dreams. This is dirty, said a midnight head, on journeys to the deep.

To the deep. Leave me alone! They’re at him most of the time trying to eat him. Cannibal! he yelled at me as he slept on the walk-way. I tried to give him a lobster overcoat in the dark and by that I mean I woke him up. After all, you are sleeping…

Cannibal, he called me. Hannibal. Over the mountains w/ elephants.

He held onto her black hat for good luck. The signal passed from red to pink, his finger in her brain. Michelle was her name. With pomegranates and asparagus…

I shouldn’t have. It was a bomb, in the middle of an apple dream.

I’ll clean it up. It doesn’t seem far. It’s so much fun! Especially in the rain. Just like every day’s holy strumpet. Holy college (holey I mean), drafty old barns, midnight grabbing then conversing w/ ghosts. A flounder. This fish is a flounder! a minute bulk. In an Oscar-winning film by the same name. loneliness curtains and traveling.

Cover my fish with eye-juice. (fish juice efficient). Stairs up north street fields where loneliness travels. At street’s end a bright light.

I want to go up and get lost in the false cheer there.

You’re tied to me. I don’t know how the colors. 5 colors made me blind.

Arrested for development, please. (in her terrible limbs). far up north where she sleeps among the table-tops. Earning business? It’s hard to tack.

You are supposed to believe my motives are pure (and good for you) and if you don’t you aren’t being friendly. My word against yours.

Ugly gold. silent movie. Well shit in my mouth and pee on my face. I’m a member of the human race! if you ain’t Scheherazade, you a miserable ol’ Oakie with mis-rable tendencies and tender hooks. And her jump rope. draft escape. They aren’t expecting trouble, not even at the hospital office. They don’t expect a bag at church neither. He smiled as he held the door open to the gas chamber, careful as he’d hold a cake… Happy birthday, death.

he was smiling b/c he was about to become the happy-famous.

Oh yeah? Well then just WHAT should I be doing w/ my time? Making money counting bird shadows on an Equatorium while picking up sand dollars? a jug of wine. Terrible mouths March and April. rains come & wash away the broken teeth from Jr. skulls (they’re silent). It’s fast work there… at the Equatorium. I was nickel and dime at that time, a horse’s stake. This is a frog? (her hands are trembling. they’re so young). Sudden. Under. she had a complete collection of gym sores.

Sudden D. A. (women collect men). & ocelot monuments. A Grange Buddha. A month of chrome. Salad pumps? see? Her hand flows. Down river time. flux in a new midday. A quarter passed ten. What’s the gag? overflow? A month off from Conner’s Inn. what’s the gag? Whale page. Trade on a lifted & dream page, pal & job.

Shave a holiday in midday. A Farmer’s joy. gone inside a midday theater to watch the roses burning, flameless lawyers too. dental wash. You might disclose, a concrete contest, a bee bonnet. Foreign hammock. Leave us, Fred. A punchy Judy & a gondola.

Go home bird., Leave us to cane trilogy…

The ocelot’s a lawyer I guess. Shove us, Scotland. Married 21 years to grace.

Lights out in F-court. punchy olga. In the fog. Marriage? Like this? hanging from a shower curtain all day. a bee bonnet at night. Over the sink. Buzzing about. Lights out. in the city and a bull horn coming in over the Mediterranean. Some post, some glow on an