thrift'n

ever since we were little kids we've been going to thrift shops on Saturday mornings~ my favorite was the Red Door in Goshen, NY, in the basement of a side street run by some of the oldest little skinny ladies in the world, the prices ranged from ten cents to a dollar, we'd buy sweaters and books, and eat at the diner, with coffee in Buffalo cups

driving home in other peoples unwashed cloths, smelling like dead old guys, stained with there last lunch~ reading their underlined phrases from under Mickey Spillane pulp covers

like walking into everyone you've ever knows mom's house, she's kind of poor and kind of kooky, stuck in the previous decade, or more, it's all broken crap

crummy/wonderful art gets kicked around and stacked up

a couple of young guys carried this painting thru the crowded parking lot as i drove off~ it's probably hanging in their dorm room~ now~ stunning

everything looks comfortable~ washed out~ it's all averaged~ i don't buy anything

the furniture section is mostly empty, dusty and sad, a bored old guy seated reading, awaiting spring and birds~ they should put a TV in this room maybe some snacks

having huge feet, i have never purchased shoes at a thrift store~ something about this pink sticker against Mary Jane's, made my face want to burst into tears

this is how you tell the upcoming seasons by crap gazing

i steal things like super-8 cartridges, found an Israeli passport, in my pocket, watched a state police officer try to establish parking lot order by holding his hands up and yelling at mad bag sales patrons who ignored him while i snuck a picture of him and hide in piles and tufts of jackets, books and crafty wooden salad forks and giant plastic toys

when i test a machine i always type this line, the end of the civil war was near~ i cant remember the line which contains every letter, somebody else is much more pragmatic

years ago at the Warwick church second hand store, in a basement, again, i saw these two girls who from the neck down were dressed in serious filthy rags, torn, dirty, stinking with no recognisable style at all, like bums, but their little beautiful heads looked like they'd been transplanted, from somewhere too cute~ in pixie hair cuts, and glittered faces like little dolls~ so beautiful~ today, I'm still confused

i used to take photos of manikins dressed in underwear, i don't' know why so many church basements dressed their manikins in panties and bra but they do, and i took photos and Thrift Score fanzine published them, i loved that fanzine

Saturday mornings~ now that we haven't been surfing, because of the cold, the old, the econo, the kids, a whole list of excuse, the truck died, Toby moved, now the old draw, of wandering cluttered shelves pulls me to go out amongst the poor, the hungover, the Mexicans the hipsters, and I, am all of them

i would have bought this~ but completely empty it weighed thirty pounds~ sick though

look at all the compartments, me and this Spanish guy pawed at it for awhile, until we both moved on, i bought Mee Mee a sweet little ToughSkin denim jacket, half price 3.00 dollar, some great patterns, and summer time shorts~ at this very same shop once i walked into the unlocked bathroom, right into the middle of a little old lady peeing, i screamed and ran out side

we used to ride down country roads listening to VKR radio shows and, greasy kids stuff, drinking coffee in the rain~ with camera and piles of books

back before we had children and the stores were usually empty but for old guys and gals listening to oldies, yelling out prices to each other, doing arithmetic on paper bags

i bought bikes and cookies and birthday presents

That's where i met you baby, and wanted to crawl into your bags to let you take me home

now i only find stuff in the trash, in free piles, my dead neighbours house, as i type this out, I'm wearing a poached shirt

i don't go out to church, bag, or thrift shops much anymore~ maybe when I'm old, I'll go to church and help out with the bag sale, the bake sale, the charity

when i get old you can wear my lunch shirt, you can wear my shoes, and listen to my 8-tracks

this is what our towns newpaper is not sold from anymore~ black painted monolitic boxes/locked

THE TREE AND THE DUST chapter 8

Chapter 8


The mother tried to hold the inferno that was the child, held prey in frictionless arms of glass, the mother dusted in a fine sift of invisibility cradled the squirming human, the mother’s breast mechanically forced into the caldron of toothless mouth, while on the other side of the bubble, the monster sat. . . watched

Shielding it’s eyes from the radiant heat burning through the hull slip

In the black grey and pane soaked chamber the child glowed as a moon immersed in milk of burning magnesium
With every arm swing and leg kick casting giant weld light shadow
It’s very spooky in here the monster said to it’s guest, slowly being drained, who, would have guessed, something so hideous and freighting could be afraid
But the Measled Velligree, secretly closed it’s eyes, especially when the baby turned it’s massive face and screamed, with it’s eyes open, nostrils flare and such horrid white flesh with throbbing purple arteries map

I can’t stop looking~ I just can’t ~but it did ~this hotlife movement, with it’s bursts of speed and sudden directionless lunge, this jerky spasmodic muscular thrashing, electrically fortified with delight, every time this being moves the world tilts, is thrown off course with micro ship quake, how could such a race of beings become. . .
And the Proffestor, smiles a slimy unfolding, and envelopes it’s guest,
You have seen enough of my exterior, senor, the Measled Velligree mumbles with tooth, claw and tentacle laced about the sticky twig with eyes ears, noses and mouth, helplessly querying,
I had hoped to watch this human time line further. . .
Ah, yes, you may, but from within my cellular walls framed windows



One, two. . . And then three steps forward, the headless black suit stepped toward the naked shivering girl, held softly in place with blood soaked robot arms as snowflakes the size of diner plates fell like hats on to costumed children’s heads
One two three. . .four the suit opened itself up, vivisected, from groin to neck, revealing a slick pink fleshy insides, quilted warmth, evaporative, wound, gurgling,
I don’t want to put that suit on. . . The girl screams, steps back, trips and is held up, forced to stand, arms raked back, legs kicked wide, feet stepped upon, crushed into the snow pack souped with blood, carbon, black, yellow and squished fleshes,
I can’t put that thing on. . .
Her head rocks from side to side, saliva squirts across her rich black pelt,
One two three four. . .five, the suit turning itself inside out, reaches it’s arm holes out to her,
I can't put that thing on. . . She screams and the suit answers,
You, aren’t putting me on, I am putting you on.
With a spine chilling authorities’ command, she stops moving and is frozen, the robots hold her arms out in front of her as the suit slowly tentatively touches her finger tips, like a dog licking a wound, the girl completely immobilized can only watch as the horror, gently, laboriously swallows her
Creeping over her arms, like tongues of rapists, slapping at her underarms, adjusting her according to some need of tailoring, her breasts fondled, her ribs compressed, her navel probed, and down the curving mounds of her ass, thigh knee ankle heel and toe cleavage,
I’ll be your shoe, now, the robots release her, and she stumbles two drunken steps, and is turned around,
The baby swaddled in grass, snow, blood and bacterium is striped and pressed to her chest, a rutting hungry mouth finds attachment, and the suit slowly closes over the infant,
I am within you, and you are within me~ we are complete~ a union engaged in survival

And the girl dressed now, in black and silver spacesuit, with crest of tree and acorn, sits in the snow, with a plop, on her ass and throws up into her hands, silver, blood and gold

space suits

the new york times today has a nice little article about advertising during the space race and the corporations involved, with a great photo link too~ here's a sample~ a book is forthcoming

thank you Ms. Newyorktimes

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2010/03/09/science/space/20100309_SPACE.html?ref=space

the problem is not sand angels

this is where you catch croaker~ never go swimming after the rains, ocean, lakes or river

Mee Mee paddled around on Saturday, the water is very very cold, bluebird and well Flat

i like this chart ~ but i am not eating any of these fish, any time during the week, and certainly not more than once, yucky

this conifer make some huge cones, full of spiders

so this is my life,

and this is the problem~

this dilemma i've faced now for the passed three months is one of habitation, in my case my self imposed exile to an alien world, within my own thoughts, every morning i wake at four, and scheme, take notes, jot down scenes and random nonsense about this science fiction world i have been trying to build

because everyone knows that to write a real world novel, requires a man to build a real life tangible world on paper, but the rub, is that it must be complete and flawlessly self contained, in the case of s-f, the action and interactions have to span galaxies and myriad worlds and beings, unlike blase novel writing, where the world is already built, you can live in it, you can see it, you can use other peoples stories as your own, within the realm of space opera, and s-f you must be alien, off, distant,unknown and strange and yet, you must retain some human connection, be readable and try not to be dismissed instantly as a fucking hack~

regular people will not read this shit, regular people want to inhabit life~

this is the hardest thing i have ever done, because i have to live this silly haunted house blognov every second I'm alive, and to make it worse I'm trying to simplify it, down to the very bones of poetry~

to write this thing as a s-f poem, if it can be done,

i am only on chapter 7, have written eight and nine

now you know where i am, you don't have to care, i just want you to know

this distance is the distance of creation

and nobody has to give a shit and really I'm not asking~ i just deliver what i can, whatever this is

thnx

N~

and yes, turn your computer 90 degrees, kay ?

when it's not bluebird

this whole post was going to be a long drawn out story of all the dreams and plans i have had and how they've changed~ but the computer dropped the ball~ and i lost the whole thing but pix

dream your own dreams aloud~

as i sigh~

i took the kids over to the house which was devoured by invasive bamboo

found in the trash

the tree and the dust chapter 7

The spacesuit stepped toward her with monstrous intensity as the battle fell into a few random explosions, a stray shout, a thunder crack a flash of light
The arms holes reached out to embrace her hands like soft cold vagina and pull her in, when she screamed like a fart, and the robots held her tighter


It practiced all the things it would say, soliloquy, staring into the views, listening to her voice, smelling her boiling air, in short quick whiffs~ as knives stabbed in nostrils~

What if the world was a haunted house, a monster movie, what if every planet was taken, owned, or enslaved by all the creatures of your worst case thoughts, dreams, nightmared hopes, what if you’re the last person alive in a haunted space ship crash landed on a desert island after the apocalypse on a dead world, you are the last person alive, in the whole universe and there’s a knock at the door*

What if god is a shrimp and you’re a whale~ do you eat ’em ?

Does she even know the history of her own people ?

How these smelly huge burning fleshed humans came exploding off of their green and red and purple puffy planets and settled here and there and everywhere trespassing, poaching, stealing, mating, raping and setting up colonies and then cities and empires and further and further out here to the stars and how we just shrugged and stepped out, aside, into the dark and waited and hide and watched, until they all died out, evolved, crept back home to their hole in the dirt, but mostly just screamed along in jihad against each other, until this, a small museum sampling, a few books, entertainments, drama, and wonder, most of us didn’t even see or hear about them until~ they were gone, into the curvature of extinction. . . No, don’t be sad all living things race out there collective lives to the cliffs edge, the glass wall, the noose~

They never found us out here~
And we never had the pleasure
They would have eaten your fathers with a touch of salt, some fruit juice
A wonderfully short story
don’t’ forget how we helped exterminate them
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The incredible old man walked along the rows of coffins, draped in thick green mats of moss, crusted granite stones carved in lichen blossomed circles, beneath the large black dead trees, each thick haunted trunk hiding a life time of deception, casting a pale grey purple drapery of color on the snow covered ground at his feet as he walks with the military precision of a threat, his left hand pulls a line of frost off the length of black rolled steel of a casket, set atop a plinth of plum tarnished silver
Bumped up and to the shipNorth, the roots of massive twin trunks mere inches from the headstone, weathered, smooth, inset with the holographic image of a women, with thick black curling fur, her eyes follow his movements~
you can~ let me out now~ Dosh her aching young voice pants, with saliva still so strong to his ears that he is stopped and turned, with commandment his legs drop and he kneels at the foot of the casket
“I can let out, now ~” he cries with pain laced punctures from memories and twisting of times
Hold me back, hold my mouth shut, drag me away from here ! He commands and the three or four robots hiding behind the death dewed trees lunge at him, grab his arms, twist his wrists and smother his face with soft gray hands and choke hold and chicken wing and submission fist assault him,
Drag him away from the pleading young women trapped in her casket
Dosh. . . Where are they taking you ~ a white tendon hand touches pale bruised lip and her eyes follow the violence till it’s lost in the screen of thicket, bramble and thatch
Dosh, your face . . .where have you been. . . For so long. . . Come back. . .let us out
Her voice trails off as her eyes see the eyes attached to faces of all the grave markers around her, tens, hundreds, thousands, faces of men and women and children lovers and haters
All trapped, entombed, and watching
You talk to him someone shouts, you make him let US OUT !
until they all fall silent, again, frozen in pictorial grace under the forests’ black canopy of branch, twig and shadow~ litter
He’ll never let us free. . . a voice like a falling acorn bounces off plinth and rolls to a silence buried in the salt haired snow.

*some famous s-f stories go like this