Hey, I wrote a book of surreal experimental personal poetry about the structure of reality and memory because my dad died. Please read it, thanks.
It is so easy for me to feel close to Isak
he is expected to know what he is supposed to do
and how he is supposed to act at his age
he’s a doctor
he’s supposed to be so smart and wise
and a doctor for fifty years too?
but what does that have to do with how our hearts work?
i feel for him and us–humans–I really do
i fear that idea of loneliness for us–humans– too
it doesn’t matter how many people surround you
you can still be alone.
because being alone is not about having nobody around you
it’s about having nobody around you that understands you
it doesn’t matter what you amount to in life
or how much you may regret past actions
it’s important to never obsess over painful memories
and never obsess over who you were
and the most important grudge to give up
is one on yourself.
It was night and she shut the window. The door had been shut for hours. Music came from the walls. It was so soft. A plucked bass-line vibrates the floor. Smooth-like, the closet doors open. The potted plant is dancing to the cold slow beats. A large gray plastic vacuum like machine rolls in a straight line from the depths of the closet. It begins to release thick gray fog from its ovular vents. First it covers the floors, then it rises. Ferns sprout from the burgundy carpet, tropical trees in each corner. “The transformation is almost complete”, she thinks. “I am here”, she thinks. She opens the door–the jungle is fucking thick. The machine rolls back into its closet, the doors close smooth-like. The bass line is still shaking each leaf.
The music stops and the fog settles as a second gray plastic machine slides out from under the bed and opens the window. It zips over to the door, extending its long crane. Adorned with a human-like hand it turns the knob swinging open the door. It zips over to the bed and grabs her, pulling her to the floor violently. It drags her under the bed. The sound of a garbage disposal is heard.
Not much time before a man walks in the room. He leaves the door open. Once he steps in he is greeted with clicks that emanate from the ceiling.
The clicks ask him: “What tune would you like to be played?”
“Give me the smoothest you got, pal.”
Clicks screech: “Before song selection proceeds, the door must be closed and locked”.
He walks over, closes and locks the door.
“Give me the–” Clicks screech, indicating “the smoothest they got” had been selected.
He shuffled over, sat on the bed, and sighed. He picked up the bright orange plastic rotary phone and dialed fifteen digits.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Yes” He nods.
“Alright…okay” He stops nodding.
“Yeah–yes, I’m in the room”
“Okay, Bye” He hangs up.
He lays on the bed. Clicks intrude his thoughts: “Close the window at any time–” In his voice “PAL”.
He takes a little rest. In his dream he is free. He crawls. He remembers what it was like. He wakes up. It has started to rain. The carpet is wet. The potted plant loves that. A gray plastic machine is attached to the building, outside, above the window. It is spraying water inside. It is not raining.
Clicks: “Say ‘ENCOURAGEMENT’ at any time if you need motivation to close the window”.
Clicks: “Say ‘ONE’ for forceful, say ‘TWO’ for subtle, say ‘THREE’ for polite”.
It stops raining. There is a mechanical turning sound followed by a beep. The rain starts again.
Clicks: “Say ‘ONE’ for–”
The rain stops. Smooth-like the closet opens. The gray plastic machine comes out. It emits the king’s english: “Would you mind closing the window dear, it’s a bit chilly, if it’s not any trouble”. The machine wheeled back into the closet and the doors closed smooth-like with it.
Clicks: “Say ‘ONE’–”
The window slams shut. He runs over to it, trying to lift it open. The smooth bassline starts. Saxophone attempts to sooth him. The potted plant is giddy. A heavy bass pluck hits him in the gut and the closet doors open smooth-like. The kindly gray plastic machine rolls out straight from the jazzy depths. It begins to release it’s thick gray fog. The plant dances as it fades, others sprout beyond. He lays on the bed in acceptance. The jungle engulfs the room.
Music stops, closet doors close smooth-like, wheels zip, a door unlocking, a window opening, then: Metallic meat shredding from under the bed.
The orange phone rings. Nobody is there to pick up. A gray plastic machine lowers from the ceiling and extends its arm to a red plastic phone sitting on another nightstand at the other side of the bed. A sign on the wall above it reads: “HOTEL PHONE LINE”.
The hand at the end of the arm grabs the phone and uses its pinky to dial zero. Another gray plastic machine lowers from the ceiling on the other side of the bed and picks up the orange phone. The two hands bring the phones together and the right hand reverses the red phone. Speak to receiver, receiver to speaker.
“Hotel management, who might I be speaking to?”
A raspy echoed voice calls out “I don’t know, I’m–I’m in the walls today, fella”.
“How may I assist you today?”.
“I’m–I’m bleeding pretty bad, pal”.
“Where are you calling from?”.
A woman steps into the room. Violent indistinguishable clicks slam her temples as the gray plastic robots smash their arms up through the ceiling the second her high heel hits the carpet. There are now orange and red phone lines struggling to hold up their dangling bodies. She pays no mind, closes the door, closes the window, and lays on the bed.
Clicks: “What tune would you like–”
“I don’t give a shit.”
She closes her eyes: The sound of fog filling the room; Then: Metal grinding and squishy tearing.
Well I suppose it was a jungle. It was thick with ferns and flowers bloomed. It was darker though. Something in the jungle wasn’t too right. Robert B. Mahogany was his name and he lived in the jungle. This was on a planet we used to call Mars. It is not Mars anymore folks. It’s called Earth and it’s where we live. We are here just for a little bit while we clean up what is not called Mars. We ruined mars. Mars is full of great piles of garbage and there isn’t too much water either now. We will fix that. We always fix that.
Now about the not too right jungle. There’s one town inside the jungle. This town is called New Seaview Park Valley. Now I don’t know why they really felt like it needed such a name, but I suppose it calmed plenty knowing they were members of the great New Seaview Park Valley. I don’t suppose any of them really cared that it wasn’t really much of a park, or that it for sure was not in a valley. I don’t think much of them really cared about reality, when they could care about what they were a part of.
At the center of that town was a large metal building. That was the town hall. It didn’t have any entrances for people, because people always seemed to muck everything up when you put them in charge. Nobody really knew what went on in the Town Hall, but they knew that whatever it was, that’s what kept the jungle and them separate. Now that was just a whole made up idea whether they liked it or not. If any one outside that town came there, they knew, because they experienced it, and came from it, the jungle, the whole town was smack dab right in the middle of the jungle. That jungle, like I said, had something not too right about it. That something was, in fact, New Seaview Park Valley, and in particular, that large metal building known as the Town Hall.
Each house in the town was owned by a family. Owned is very different word than we used to know. Own has nothing to do with something that’s yours. Own kinda just means something that you’re near a lot nowadays. Control is a better word for the operation of the homes of each family. Although the houses ran themselves and the only thing families really did was open tell doors to open and tell screens to turn on. The rest was all handled. They knew it was time to get up when they were already in the middle of being bathed. They knew it was time to work when the finished their breakfast. All those in betweens were skipped over. To them, things just were and there wasn’t much doing.
Now by now you might say well that’s why that jungle isn’t too right. You would be very wrong because that is the least of the problem. Let take a look at Robert B. Mahogany’s day. Robert B Mahogany, in addition to living in New Seaview Park Valley, was also the Mayor of the town. The Mayor’s job was to act as the intermediate between the way the town was operated and the families. Robert B. Mahogany was the only one who had ever seen the inside of the Town Hall. Robert had seen what was not too right in the jungle. Robert played along as best as he could knowing that the town was sick, knowing the jungle was not too right.
The families lived happily not knowing. The families did not move in. The families were placed. That goes back to that idea of owning things. The ones in charge, up in what I imagine as a bigger Town Hall somewhere in space between Mars and Earth, find an empty spot for families from Mars and put them in a place on Earth automatically and randomly. When those families are gone a new spot opens up and the cycle repeats itself.
Now Mayor Robert B. Mahogany didn’t know none of that stuff. What Mister Mahogany knew was the facts of what he kept seeing every day when he reported to the Town Hall. Since there were no doors for humans the only way to get Robert in was too turn him into a liquid with a special machine the Town Hall had and pump him inside and resolidify him on the inside. Robert B. Mahogany never much cared to be liquid. That only added to the whole not too rightness of the jungle.
Once The Mayor was inside the Town Hall at the end of every day he never ceased to be horrified. The inside of the Town Hall looked much like the outside. The same shiny metal. The sound of Machines overwhelmed the air though they gave off no emission. The air was so very clean as a matter of fact. Mechanized arms moved every witch way in and out of double doors along tracks on the ceiling. Due to the process of turning him to liquid whenever the Mayor was inside the Town Hall he was always completely naked. This too added to the not too rightness. It didn’t matter that he was completely naked though because there was never any sort of being on the inside. No cameras. No screens. He could do anything he wanted. He didn’t know that though. Every time it was the same. He woke up in a tube and got out. He stood on a mat that dried him off. A light was red until it was green and he’d walk to the information transfer station.
Every time he walked through the same rooms. These rooms are what made him understand the sickness. The first room wasn’t too bad. Plants were grown, harvested, made up into mash and pumped to the next room. The next room was very unpleasant to the Mayor. A conveyor belt rolled in deceased bodies and fed them into a machine which then turn them right into mash, just like the plants. The bodies weren’t just humans, it was all kinds, which disgusted the Mayor even more somehow. Alligators, birds, snakes, monkeys, humans, all together with peas, corn, carrots, potatoes, you name it. The next room was the oven room. That’s where the Mayor knows the origin of the not too rightness is. Loud machines press the cooking meat into square patties that are carried through tubes and distributed to the food storage banks of each and every house. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if you own a home, it has you covered.
The Mayor walked into the final room in the row of rooms that leads to the information transfer room. There were through other rows of rooms each besides the one he went down at the end of every single day. God only knows what’s in those other rooms, but god was dead. The Mayor walked up to the information transfer station which was a blank box jutting from the far end of the wall in the room. In front of the box were black foot shapes placed in a way that you might wanna stand there because you were supposed to. A buzzer would sound and a light above would glow green. The Mayor was never actually told what to do, but the Mayor has always kinda just figured that he should say everything that happened that day and they would base what needed to be done in the town on what he said. They took what he said and converted it into something a machine could understand and that information was carried on to one of the next rooms over where a whole bunch of other machines deliberated on what was to be made of the statements. That’s what the Mayor kinda figured at least.
One day after the Mayor spoke into the box on the wall and the light flashed red once he stepped away he decided to visit the other rooms. He was sick and tired of what was going on. he was sick and tired of the not too right jungle. He wanted the best for the families of the town. As soon as he stepped into one of the other rooms he instantly found himself unconscious. He woke up in his living room. He was naked like he woulda been if you left via liquid. Something was different. His hands were colder than the rest of his body. They were covered in ripe blood. His little dog lay dead in front of him all disfigured like. He wondered if he could really commit such an act as brutal and unjust as murdering his own little dog which he loved with his bare hands. It wasn’t normal. He remembered going to the Town Hall and now didn’t remember what happened inside other than his deliberation with the white box. He forgot about the not-too-rightness of the jungle. He forgot that he regularly ate homestyle grandparents and alligator mash. He send off he dog to the Town Hall like you did with all things you found dead.
befall upon you that old cold black stagnent steel
creaking creeping wretches wretch and squeal
increasing noise of death is tolled
counting up from numbers old
stealing life/leaving cold
the spines of silk rotting mold
carving skulls with dead ones bones
tearing through all absent moans
knowing the destruction
of creating anticreation
your soul is sold
and your husk drifts into the masses
uncontrolled but controlled
( a Tribute to E. E. Cummings’ in Just-)
summer causes the roads to boil-
over like ancient
that flow so gently
to daveythenmikey so
they can’t draw with
chalk but hot
gives us the nice wise-winds
little tarpits that
flow so gently
to momthendad who now
know safe-roads from bad-roads in
My book Blank Machine. is available for purchase in softcover paperback.
Help support. Buy a physical copy.
This is not one cohesive work. This is fragmented speech. This is a machine. A white box you peak inside of. It tells you
things, about the world, me, yourself. It changes each time you look inside. The box might fit in the palm of your hand. You
might fall into the box and be stuck for weeks, days, hours. It all depends on what you let the box tell you. The box may speak
in fragments. The box may tell you more than you want to hear. It all depends on how willing you are to listen. If you purchase
this box with your earth dollars please feel free to email me your thoughts. Tell me what the machine told you.
Takes long to arrive, but I gain a reasonable profit:
Ships a lot sooner, but I receive less profit: