human suffering 25.11

25.11

We call the killers beautiful. It happens all the time. There is no need to be afraid. The things of the world pour through Tonya. She feels immobilized and drugged. She spits so the seeds of death will grow as she takes another swig of coca cola. Tonya was working hard at establishing her innocence. I had thrown my hat in the haha. She considered me her oppressor. I would shake her books and count the money that would fall on the floor. She had never seen mountains before. She begged me to stop the car so she could get out and take a good look at them. She was upset when I told her there was no film in the camera, this was before digital cameras. We stopped at a trout fishing spot and had lunch. I read to her a couple of poems from Richard Brautigan as she fidgeted on the blanket. She wanted me to write down all the names of my hookers. She wanted to sew their names into a quilt just like her grandmother did with her grandchildren. Tonya found it hard to sleep. In the morning she would be attacking the shore of the small little beach head. She knew that some of them would be dead, that not every girl would make it back alive. Bonnie was lying flat on her bunk with her eyes closed. She kept telling herself that she would be one of the unlucky ones. She prayed to every god she could think of and to some that she was sure she had made up. Bonnie figured that any god fake or real was just as good as any in a tight situation like this. Tonya was thinking about hard things like if they would be shipping her body home. She wondered if Hugo would remember what her pussy felt like. Tonya told lies to all the other girls about how pretty they were or how one had the grace of a movie star or the voice of a goddess. Bonnie put her trust in Tonya’s lies. The lies, for Bonnie always revealed the pattern. It was the pattern that she put her trust in. The lies were only the vehicle for revealing the pattern. Bonnie says that the pattern is everywhere.

human suffering 25.10

25.10

You lit up your pipe of opium and rubbed up against my leg like a cat. I am reading an article about a poet. I like how at the end they drag his soul through the mud. The writer reminds us that the genius was a sick and perverted fuck. I guess the article wasn’t about the poet but about the writer. You gave off some existential threat as you blew opium smoke rings into the air. There is always more reality than our stomachs can digest. All this talk of the enemy’s infiltration spun circles around your head, a world of endless dirt that always needs to be swept under a rug. At times, you could be all leg bristle with your complicated lips. The anatomy of where hips and thighs come together, magnified, stretched and out of focus, and the hungry mouth from another world, they all come together in you as if sealed together in Reynolds wrap. You stand outside the American hotel handing out coupons. I remember the wino didn’t want to be considered a beat poet. He wants to die in Bonnie’s hair before he discovers that he is all alone. We sat around and talked about all the ugly things in life. The news man doesn’t have a theme song, but he looks like he wants one. She had little titties and large hips. His wife found him in bed, dead with a heart attack. All his juices were drained out of him. The poor little girl couldn’t get out from under him. We thought he was a man, but he was only a muffin, as we stopped listening to his prolific promises. We shelled peas under a hot sun and drank jack and lemonade. Bonnie said a prayer for the growing season, we all said amen. Bonnie’s prayers are always like the words of an angry man, seething with the knowledge that redemption has been lost. She laid there for four hours before his wife came home from work. She said that he had great hands like a god. He made her feel so close to the dirt, so much more than one dimensional.

Doomsday Corporation

Martin Freebase is a member of the Doomsday Corporation. He contributes with Deep Piercing Cut, Ender Wiggin, Bobby Slade, Tatterdemalion, Lucem Fere, and China Love on all creative endeavors associated with the Doomsday Corporation.

The Doomsday Corporation controls; a magazine http://deeptissue2.blogspot.com/; two Youtube channels http://www.youtube.com/MartinFreebase and http://www.youtube.com/channel/UCYT3pzdeifDCzGfkNcimpDA; two musical pages http://www.unsigned.com/deeppiercingcut and http://soundcloud.com/martin-freebase; and five blogs http://martinfreebase.blogspot.com/, http://deeppiercingcut.blogspot.com/, http://simulacrasimulacrum.blogspot.com/, http://boiledtomatoesbook.blogspot.com/, and http://secondbookpoetry.blogspot.com/. The Doomsday Corporation is committed to spreading the Disease.

human suffering 25.9

25.9

You are willingly perverse among the detours and the ditches as you walk and talk the temptations of this world. You are a committed sensualist constantly in pursuit of your prize. You come to me in armfuls of love and desire, shooting the alley cat out the hotel window. I get wooly and hard to live with as I drain another bottle of bourbon, a startling juxtaposition. I was dangling from the chandelier and you cut me down with your razor blade. You shook me from my slumber and forced me to see the shit in the world. We become thick-headed from our derailments and prohibitions. I was thinking of a new name for you, something from the elide- a thing that joins the present with the past. I gave you away in seed packets. I asked strangers to plant you. You were warm and green and had love in your pockets. Your smile is what kept me from dreaming of death. I am standing on your school of fish as I sell lemonade at the carnival. A Rhesus monkey taught me how to squeeze the lemons. There is a wino in the doorway smoking a menthol cigarette. He asked me for a dollar to buy some food. He had tired eyes that were tired of living. He wrote his love songs on little pieces of paper and then posted them on the internet when he could get access to a computer at the library. He told everybody that he was a poet, but no one believed him, they couldn’t see past the tatterdemalion. He lives in the American hotel and remembers the dinosaurs. He said it was important to not be too drunk around the dinosaurs. I am grinding the coffee beans to make a pot of coffee. The wino likes his coffee black, it reminds him of El Paso. He would come visit your hamburger stand and sing you his love songs. You put flowers between his buns. One day he robbed a jewelry store so that he could give you a birthday present. You told him that you only wanted the daydreams that escape from your windows. He ran out into the street with a butterfly net to catch them.

human suffering 25.8

25.8

You are a complete slave to the drug. You have the power to change history, to change people, falling under the spell of macro-economics. It was so musical and dirty how the bruise appeared on your thigh. You call me ill-mannered in your childish way. I can see the resentment in your eyes when I am on top of you. You could fly away from this if you only wanted. Why you stay is a complete mystery. When I watch you dance, I remember where it is that I came from. There are so many things that I have lost and so many things I have forgotten. Remember all the things we threw out the window of that old Ford custom 500? We were trying to make our own place in the world. We didn’t know about fate and the different start times for the race. I kept running with my stigmata like it was some prized trophy that can get me through the door of some exclusive nightclub. Do you want to hear me testify about how I was so fucking lost? We drove that old piece of crap until it wouldn’t run no more. Remember when Leo raced around the neighborhood shouting, “You mother fuckers!” It was all funny until he drove into some old lady’s porch. We would listen to the Tennessee waltz and look at your naked pictures that I took with a Polaroid camera. We gave nickels to the Mormons when they asked us if we knew Jesus. You told them that he worked in a bodega on the street corner. You would hold my hand like I was your broken down papa as we walked the streets singing Johnny Cash songs and puff the magic dragon. You always knew more of the verses than I did. I think some of them you made up just to impress me. All you had to do to impress me was smile.