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Hands in yr eyepits. Babylon is calling, with an X mark on the spot, look
who's reading fiction and look who's reading not. Each chapter produced through a haze,
various characters appear in and out of the high and mighty realm of smoke. The struggles
with the keyboard, the fountain pen, the bic pen clotting on yr fingers. Then the phone
rings. Light up.|
Girls are giggling dumb high noises into the phone machine. I want to complain. Why don't they leave a message or their name, but I guess I know who it is and that's the point? It's summer in Hollywood, the heat is bordering unbearable.
My name is Allison McKenzie, May Camille O'Fitt, Bernadette Kalleckta, Running Deer, Stoner Mom. Crawling around in the back garden deciphering undiscovered mysteries, Holmesian steps are required just to get the back fence. It was the return of the wild parrots, screeching overhead, when I realized I hadn't catalogued the newest mushroom specimen under the rotting grape vine. Yr right, everyone knows it's too hot for a mushroom spore to gather one iota of moisture and multiply. That's what was so amazing. And it had a mango mustard dusting in the inner spore cap at that. I didn't want to pick it yet, so I went back inside, giving the parrots a last laugh, to fetch Miller. Not that Miller is the best to verify with, but it's a good beginning. It helps clear the smoke outta yr head.
Instead I decide to peddle up towards the Hollywood sign on my bicycle. The air is heavy with smog and I don't think I'll get up to the top. Ride over to the video store instead, drop by the library, see if the head librarian is gone so I can apply for a library card. Do normal stuff. Let events unwind themselves, dust collide in the nostril.
There's a public menace growing in the nature strip. One of those date kind of palms, no one even considers to harvest them, the seeds become the fruit, plopping to the ground. Riding a bike over them is tricky, either they ricochet in all directions at speed of lightning, or they cause a spill. Either way, it's a menace to deal with as I peddle out into the street. I'm looking down at the orange pits, instead of oncoming hunks of steel and acrylic. Ready to eat me alive.
Eat it Raw. I stand in the bathroom, looking at my feet in the tub in the dim light. We used to live in rooms smaller than this. It was more than ok. It was life. Soaking.
Eat it Raw.
1 Lb Conch 2 Tbs garlic vinegar
Cut conch into thin slices. Chop slices. Pour chopped conch in a bowl. Cut onions and peppers into thin slices. Add to bowl. Mix well. Add oil, vinegars, and salt. Mix well. Serve immediately. Here we go.
I was standing in thin shadows that drew the spiral figure of a staircase onto the
lawn. My body stripped by the iron. Remembering how the sun on the beach left no one
to hide, how he slept, how I had only a camera, a bottle of beer, a ghetto blaster, a
blue and orange plastic bag with a warm, wet baggie full of cut carrots. I see him
walking past big trees, looking contained, coming home. He is a messenger.|
We were living at the Alamo, the staircase now covered in stucco, was a familiar location in grade b movies sometime back. He always saunters. Up the dry summer lawn, to my shadow striped body, eyes locked, we kiss like he has been gone a year, not 6 hours.
This is over 12 years ago when we drank vodka mixed with kool-aide.
This is now the short hours he's away, seem like decades.
This is about feeding, it's about internal changes, that occur during a life time. I am attempting to put my finger on the second the wound was properly nursed, when the introduction slips into full verse, where something gets into a cel and multiplies, the cartoon jumps into animation. I don't know if I can define that split atom. I can try, for what ever it's worth, perhaps nothing. I know it happened, I know I'm standing on the spiral, there are moments when the raw iron leaves a shadow on my hands.
Strip: Thong of a whip-lash, purse-string, etc. A long narrow tract of territory. A
narrow portion of surface, bounded by parrallel lines.
Some piece of armour. An ornamental article of attire worn, chiefly by woman. An
ingot prepared for rolling into plates. Tobacco-leaf with the stalk and midrib
removed. To unclothe, denude. 'Se despouiller avant que se coucher'. To deprive of
armour. To discharge. To skin. To empty, make bare, clear out, take off, to doff.
Of bark membrane. To roll up a sleeve. To rip off the screw thread of a cannon-ball.
To draw something between the fingers or teeth. A running stream of liquid.
Stripped: That has been stripped, in the sense of a gallop given a race horse when
The split atom. Begin at #1 (see diagram). Activated by movement in the Triangle
( A to B, see diagram), it begins a disfigurement, see #2's. Proceeding to #3's,
as the Triangle shifts from B to C. Another shift puts it back to #4.
This split atom, is unconsciously moving from the acute angle to acute angle. It
began from dead center (see diagram #5). What is it that drew it to the corners? Or
is it still there? It it a three way split (see diagram #6).|
The cartoon continues to spit out cels into the dark abyss. Flickering to the tune of "Speed O' Light". The images bright with color, rust won't sleep here. Wave yr fingers in the cone of projected light. The fuzzy shape of yr index finger blurring the image. An image made up of a flicker of cels, gone (see diagram #7).
Here's the open wound.
Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it.
A few years ago, the owners cut the massive palm trees flanking the Alamo entrance, down. Since we moved, and live around the corner, I check it out now and then. Last time I was walking by, I peeked in the window of Karens' old apartment and saw a couple having grinding sex on the couch.
Nurse it. Nurse it. nurse it. Nurse the wound.
Hands in yr eyepits. Was it the reefer twisting my brain? |
I drove slowly home, biting my nails for good luck.
Left to defend my basic human instincts. My eye is inverted.
Just be still, let all the insects know yr not going to kill Them.
Over and over I roll in the night light bulb, it just wavers when I go under.
Insert the decisions of another mind. Let them roll around in yr used brain cells,
mesh with yr own. Then you realize, your not using all you got. At this point
could use some sleep.
Babylon is calling
shoulder but escape. Tonight, tonight, I
Don't ride a bike when your too drunk to drive, don't write a book
when you want to be interrupted, sometimes it seems so easy,
I'll just take my sweet time and do this and this,
but the phone always rings, the kids are always alright
Forget the Formosa, forget the phone calls to Australia,
forget a 100 grand in the hole,
just fill my hole with love. Screwing in the car sex is fun.
Wake up time.
Then yr dry.
Here we go.
The struggles with the keyboard, the fountain pen, the bic pen clotting on yr fingers.|
The Alamo. The Bunker. Spanish stucco baking in the stinking heat. Full of Actors, Artists, Musicians and a Kung Fu Instructor who collected velvet Elvis paintings and Samurai Swords.
The charactors flew in and out, bats in the night, composing fragments of melody. We filled in words, changing the chorus' to the latest Thompson Twin single. We made love on Halloween.
The yellow Wattle, attracting hordes of bees outside the bedroom window,
the orange carpeting, the Hibachi fused to the linoleum hallway outside the door.
Bryan was doing computer stuff by now, I was a prototype maker for a mad inventor.
Our income soared to eight hundred dollars a month. We did not have to collect pennies to put gas in the old grey Viking.
Then we saved a thousand dollars and purchased a Tascam 244.
The Hull thing. When I listen to these early tapes, I recognize it's embryonic dark beat.
Row, row, row heave ho. Fog horns in the blow.
I got on, plastic lipstick
pen clotting on yr fingers. Light up.
reconize it's embronic dark beat.
The Hull thing.|
Hands in yr eyepits. Somethimes,
I get lost sometimes. Crawling around
We all have our own tunes. They are always with us. Laying in the dry grass I can feel the other odd rhythms, vibrations, playing the symphony of life, one sequence after another, in destinations harmony. Some days the crescendo roars. Sometimes it warbles. Some times I think of India. The Buddhists, the Chanters, the Ganges, the filth and belief in Gods.
I believe in Us. Our separate tunes mesh, the notes arranging themselves in our symphony. No one but Us hears. Standing in the afternoon sun, waiting for you to come home. I flick an ash onto the dry grass and watch it crumble to Babylon's song.
You find me here, with a Cabbage Moth
between two fingers.
X MARK ON THE SPOT
[This bit is not in the book, but I like it.
X Mark on the spot. I'm lost. The anchor not catching the bottom,
On tuesday mid morning, there were two dead jays in the bird bath. A few hours later,
I noticed an unusual pile of |
(Babel) leaves In the corner of the garden. On inspection, it was a haphazard pile of dead sparrows.
(Yea.) Mr. Dick wrote about air quality in 'Do Electronic Sheep..'.
I thought about it as I smoked a cigarette sitting on my bike. I had taken a ride around to look at piles of leaves, I only found piles of leaves. But later on, towards the end of the day, I saw two dead dogs in the street.
This is the city. Do or Die. Be Here Now. Get Out of Denver, Baby. I peddle past the Alamo. Two places for rent, a well manicured green lawn, and a new Magnolia shedding petals of lavender, in the air bees are not buzzing.
My heart is clutched in panic. Will you ever get home? Or will they open the car door and drag you around like an old mattress, stain your face.
Forget the terror. Bury the Jays and Sparrows, feel an emptiness for the empty air, Silent. The terror creeps into movements. The bus has been burned. The birds are not here.
There is no more control. Only what we are told to do, we are strong, we do what we
want. Even if we are starving. Who can see the insides of a stomach, if it has
shrunken so much it will no longer accept tap water. There is not a brand yet, to
burn into our foreheads.
This flesh only takes alcohol.
My hand is on my kneecap, in my dreams my hand was grasping the door knob. Open yr eyes to the sunshine. Plan out the day. Find new places to bury the dead birds, the yard is full of ritual mounds. No one has noticed the Silence. I keep Silent too. The Morning Bird is still singing, oddly.
This is now.
We read mindless stuff
(Who, in the moment
For who can yet believe
There stood a hill
And then, liquid cells of
On Tuesday, when my addiction reared it's ugly head, I was replicating.
Being the being of Caught in the act of the fix, IN THE DISGUISES IN WHICH THEY WERE
CAPTURED. surging; I said here,
Here, Pick the orchid off it's limb.
Noisily, through a bean patch I'll call my mind, float nickel plated obsessions;
singular events. Among torsos of the believers
basking in warm delight, I bask and
preen and pet my slowly beating heart.
Pick the orchid off it's limb. Surging, here. The web of intention
You look like Fang's hairy butt.
The Dogs in Drag baby.
break onto to the other side
I found a dead lizard on the road the other day. Two homeless guys were standing over
it, they picked it up for me, and put it in an envelope I had in
And then, the Pothunter arrived. Running up and down my
Parania. Derangement by delusions.
The mould rising through the water
Reading a magazine, maybe it's a fashion issue, full of|
colored advertisements. Leafing through, I notice small
color begin to go missing, getting larger, the clues have
erased. The blank shapes begin to resemble frames around
drawings. It becomes necessary to find the drawings and put
in the right spot, find the clues. Then I see the light,
I don't know if I have enough paperbacks to fill in the
frames, it's an
infliction, I'm snow blind.
A Sci-Fi moon is in my stomach. Weird germ wars, weird
marching (i.e. a lamb sandwich in bloodied wool uniform).
launch an attack on food. I can see the round neon light
my skin. It's painful.
Days and nights. Suffer (he he), paranoid dreams, the heat
in my head
could fry an egg. I have been poisoned by arsenic. Anyone
wanted to do it. My character is flawed, aggravating
repair; or, does it not fit into the pulp mould? Something
has made the decision without my vote. (We fight for Democracy, not practice it).
Pain. A primary condition of sensation or consciousness
I did not let the Pothunter in. I can't control it's
Only a smile from you, please please me to induce the Will, there is something to
crawl around for. The lawn feels dry on my knees.|
A Santa Ana wind is rustling the palm trees, lifting my hair in thermal layers.
I can see a sauntering figure at the top of the road, crossing the blacktop, shifting a brown bag from left to right. You will be here soon.
It's always there. With no eyes. Just instinct, looking for the open wound
going un-noticed. So many gaping wounds, unbleeding, the broken nail,
the chewed cuticle. A nervous tic is a Big Red Flag. It's always got two
bony fingers in yr pie.
Lock yr soul into an iris and stare hard.
Stand tall with a question mark glued on yr lips.
If we self inflict, we can self induce. I lied about the dead birds.
Moving very slow. Don't disturb the ancient pyramids housed in my body. Don't wake
Conversation comes to an abrupt halt when the electric power lines are all blown
Then I did some self induced pleasure with my left hand.
The winds blew everything into the grey ash concrete mass burial pit. |
When it was dug originally, it was meant to grow hops in, but the thrill
of a PIT took over. Bones and discarded coke bottles of all eras were
unearthed. Then the summer got into full swing and a barbecue pit was
needed, for cooking huge pigs, hence the concrete lining. Note: It could
have also been a swimming pool.
The summer heat, unknown to us at the time, was a breeding ground
for maggots, wearing cool outfits and drinking out of bottles. We didn't at first
notice the slimy skin through the billowing smoke from the Pit.
Maggots don't touch, really. When you see them rolling around in the rot,
they are not touching, they are working themselves into symbols. They
don't know they are swimming around in a million exact replicas.
By the time we saw our predicament, the only alternative thing was to throw them
Till some bird, in the ceramic plate on the mexican pot stand, does a dance
Pick the hair from yr teeth.
The hunger gets so obscene, you could eat a horse, instead you bite a
Keep saying it's an A.
The inkling of winning, rather the inkling of the virus grows another
In a cellophane cruise through yr brain, the song is clear. The parrots are flying
over head again. Hands in yr eyepits, feeling
Mushrooms are making a stand under the apple tree, this year they will
Blue sky past the low mist.
We moved away from the Alamo in 1983.|
We moved on. The atoms split and multiplied, floating worlds spun, dust colliding in the sunlight. Iron rust staining our palms.
It's a cat walk up the spiral, hold on to yr hats, when the music stops jump on a number and claim yr cake. Icing on yr fingers, slowly lick and twist, slowly jump start my bleeding heart. Lick and twist. Feel the flannel balls on yr cheeks. Lick and twist free. Pull the throb, feel the icicles breaking away.
We moved on. The train pulled out of the station. We listened to the various movements, the ins and outs, the Alamo, and I do have a habit of walking on by. Last week I noticed some mushrooms growing on the now, new landlord carefully manicured lawn.
On my knees, nose to the grass, genuflecting the decayed Palm tree roots. (No one knows who I am).
Natures Hindu trick. Coprinus micaceus. Fungi.
As I stood up, knees wet, I started to put my foot down hard on those Inky caps, but that split second of cel animation passed, and I made a fast turn to the south, sashaying home, feeling the spores slide past my cheek, floating on the Santa Ana.
Blow Blow Blow. You are like a hurricane.
Pass the salt.
Virus. Nurse with wound.
Bacteria. Controlled bleeding.
At last, a movement of sound. He's home. A bouquet of Iris' for Me.
Eyes of blue.
Take my hand.
Pass the salt.
Nurse the wound.
There's no one but us. He licks me clean. Natures Hindu trick.
Lets dig a hole to China, Baby.
So the Big I Love and Thank You from my ever blood simple heart goes to:|
Bryan I refuse it Matthews.
Cheyenne. The Real Mistress of Collage.
Mad Machinist Dan Owens.
Marie. Incarnate of Lou's amp.
Frank wherever you are gilding Lehmann.
Pana Dan Donavan
And Stoner Mom.
VIRUS By Charlene Matthews
Notes on the Binding
This is my first Concave spine. It is the only spine treatment, I figure, that will take the weight of two (135mm front, 138mm back) Tiffen Lenses, without causing the sewing thread to slice through the signatures. The boards are split construction, wood paneling on the outside, card board on the inside. The black leather on the covers is Kangaroo. There is a variety of paper used, manufactured and handmade. All the collage work is from bits and pieces found around the house. The bulk of the collage work was formed prior to the writing, some during the writing, and a bit afterwards.