–>jasoneppink

-->jonty

–> dear_computer

MUST only
be one
cowboy
fluked
into place.

--> jonty

–> dear_computer

In September 1832, Myrna Kessler, the only known Jewish woman riverboat hand died on the banks of the Mississippi. Called “Kess,” she hid the fact that she was a woman by only pissing at night.

And now, 2009 — she haunts that giant movie screen by the casino: she flickers the pixels like slow river waves. Have you seen this screen from highway 70? The size of a building, it shouts only advertisements. Drivers get distracted when a white woman with teeth the size of minivans eats a hamburger that could crush your house. An Asian woman eats the word “Asia” with four-story chopsticks.

I’ve seen Kess’s ghost against this screen many times. But it was only in the microfiche that I found she was famous (in her time) for strength and meanness.

Where Kess came from nobody knows, but she was a man of the Lord. Tied His name to her head every morning at sunrise and punched anybody who looked at her crosseyed with the wrath of the Old Testament. The other riverboat-hands were godforsaken, baptized only by Mississippi mud and their momma’s moonshine. Kess wore God’s vengeance round her neck like a yolk, never ate catfish or took the hat off that fuzzy head — the newspapers speculated that religion was the sole source of Kess’s meanness. Little did they know it was mostly about waiting out that nighttime piss. And she howled as she peed, like no sound made by man or woman, like an orgasm but inverted. You can still hear it on the barges up by Choteau island.

Yeah, I’ve been reading all about it on the microfiche at the public library, AND I’ve heard it, so I know.

Kess could cuss in six languages, not counting the secret lawless howl of somebody who has waited sixteen hours for a piss (while unloading barrels off barges, even). Strong as hell for a little guy, cleanshaven, fine and rugged features, both. Never after the ladies, but seemed to have one in every town anyway. Dirty, but shit — look at that water.

In the middle of the Mississippi, between Missouri and Illinois, there used to be a sandbar called Blood Island. People had duels there because it was outside of both state’s jurisdiction, a kind of no man’s land. Kess was found there next to another man, both equally dead. Her secret womanhood put her story in the papers, though the true nature of the duel was never discovered. I’m not done with the microfiche and I’m looking for a medium or two — I’ll let you know if I figure anything out.

In the meantime, tomorrow try driving down Highway 70 at sunset, and look up at that giant movie screen by the casino. There you’ll see the ghost of Myrna Kessler muddying the pixels, tits taped up with a gunnysack. Ghost body rising up from the riverbank just after sunset, right when I take my cigarette break, silhouette taking up the full 5-stories, black against the giant screen. You’ll slow down to see her shadow piss standing up, triumphant.

–> nicky

–> dear_computer

TOMORROW love
a catatonic
affirmation
will ravish
the sleep
beam.

--> jonty

–> dear_computer

--> jonty

One Day,
The sun forgot to come up,
The day after, it was right there again.

2.

he’s like a talk show host; Radio. Laughs at his own jokes and uses the word “delightful” as if it where a screwdriver challenging a torque wrench to a pissing match. He believes in precision and sailboats but can never dig deep enough to get the dirt from under his fingernails. He ages his words like brandy and drinks them religiously. He’s a language alchy. He heads up a committee that determines the strength of arguments, even the most incidental are taken into consideration. If JFK was a Soviet, would him and Krushov be friends and then fall in love with the same girl and have a falling out?

The committee assesses values based on qualitative and circumstantial evidence and files it in cabinets shade coded along the grayscale. Special spectacles are used to discern the varying shades or grey and grayer. They are kept colorless to minimize irritability and quell personal conflict amongst the committee members. Radio Alchi scribbles on a stack of 3×5 index cards, kicking his cheeks around by virtue of madness and getting lost in limbic gyrations, drops his cards into manicured grey screening rooms.

3.

back in the den with Radio Alchi, P.H.D
Still drunk from last night.
Not me though, I don’t drink… I meant Radio Alchi. He’s a semantic whore. He wrote down Kings speech on those 3×5’s but dropped his briefcase on the way to work, messed up the order like any proper alchi.

Radio Alchi is a Birmingham bitch from a Birmingham radio bottle. Statistical cream pie would be known if by any other name.

While he is spurting like a wet clam, he gets right up on in his radio bottle, slugs on over to the thermostat and kicks off the a/c, cooking the air like a disease. His sweat coats the floor sand like on the beachside. Now this anatomical waterfall of a critical thinker eventually begins forming coherent words, though still mostly soaked in radioalchi bi-product.

“to solve a problem” he says two breaths short of abrasive, “you must be a critical thinker.”

Radio Alchi announces this over the bands… as those words make their way onto the radiobottles sandbox, a pack of house rats commit a mortal sin and are excommunicated, un-infested. A power sprayer turns on its owner and winks before spitting his chrome off.

This cat calls himself left but keeps his toes in the conservative bathtub. He opens up the phones for “Dogma Chat” and thirty minutes full conversation take a swim in Radio Alchi’s sandbox… Radioalchi’s Sandbox.

4.

“and you, Garcia Lorca.”
I don’t know when Lorca was alive and frankly, I have no interest in incidental details. Some people transcend even themselves.
Would I humanize him if a contemplated his context?
Would I imagine the way his cheeks float over his jaw as he resonates what kind of voice? Would he be sitting in a chair or on a “Chair?”
For now he is Garcia Lorca. Would he be garcia in the wake of our aquintance?
The real question I would like to pose is this:
Would his grandeur wane in the incantations of his words if said every morning, like a waking prayer?
“And you, Garcia Lorca.”
Did Garcia Lorca travel to hate Lima in his Yage birth?
Did he stare from a fishing boat and sing dirty sailor songs, moving the bowels with it’s rhythm.

//Full story: Here (this is a PDF file. If your browser does not open automatically, right-click and do Save As)

–>mishamake

–> hard_drive

The four volumes that I have date from 1973 to 1981, and every page is typed (on a typewriter) or handwritten. Most of the writing was done on backs of other things. Stationary from his wife’s various business ventures, fliers for a newsletter he put out in the 1970s, and records of stocks he must have been following in the ‘80s. One side of the pages tells the story of his fantasy, intellectual, creative life, and the other side tells the story of his work-a-day, practical, personal life. These lives exist side by side but rarely meet.

I’ve been living with the life’s work of John Alden Andrews for six months-it came from San Francisco in the mail unexplained, a gift from a California dumpster diver. Keeping and reading these books is uncomfortably intimate-they were never meant for me to see. I love them/I want to send them back to the dumpster/I want to track down his genealogy and present them like a treasure to his closest living relative, even though this is the person who most likely threw them away.

At the same time, I also feel like these were meant somehow for a person like me to find, read and become obsessed with. A new biography of Emily Dickenson argues that although she hated the idea of being famous, she worked very hard to make sure she was brilliant in the eyes of a few important people. Dickenson writes:

Success-is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed -
To Comprehend a Nectar -
Requires sorest need -
Not one of all the Purple Host
Who took the Flag-today -
Can tell the Definition- so clear-of Victory -
As He-defeated  dying -
On whose forbidden ear -
The distant strains of Triumph
Burst-agonized-and Clear!

I like to think that my fixation on the life’s work of John Alden Andrews might be a distant strain of Triumph for him. I’m nobody important-but I am a captive audience of one.

Here you may find a few selected pages from the work of John Alden Andrews. To see the first book in its entirety visit our Flkr page.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

–> nicky

Unmask down thyself. This image made a man die. Dressed in this garment of those pleasures — alcohol, drugs, sexual skylarking — marvelous rage is suffering. Being happy is whether from taste or travel the image; it is the true escape. Notice this: God said it is the garment of pleasure to eat it. Make no mist, woman! Joy turns to make the image of the sexual skylark; turns, commanding, to talking persons made of none of their order. Truly love the sexual eternity.

The lust of the thing tangible. The image — fulfillment and law — she obeyed only in the true escape from restraint. Power. The answer is satisfactory: Keep it holy. Be surprised if that issue is not comprehensible without the content from a grand crusade. Satellites and mania. Unity in neutrality. Two weeks of a common heritage, clearly stung. For all the given doctrine, the U plan may be in the evil empire.

To love the image is what he called the Dramatic Backwardness Union. No political leader knows how to deal with such an influence. Divide that new generation: the U plan may be the division. This image of lust made a man die. The thing tangible worked hard to believe a final, earthly, Spirit. Others seek casinos, or rich food, or sexual skylarking. Examine their role in the master plan: risking activities beats the boredom.

–> contraption_stl

“the kind of love that marks the recording illegible is not worth recording”
he often said as he moved diligently around the perimeter.

the first night they nested,
two twigs and fire broke in the bracken.

on second transmission,
timed out, he gleaned the gleaming arm of his recorder.

“unwork the undoable and look sideways at 8 degrees”,
mumbling under his breath he trudged along the path.

the third leaves little to say,
like when a door opens in front of a speeding bicyclist.
on damp pavement, open ended Heimlich and other failed resuscitation.

and now, think of the garden outside Lorena Bobbitts’ residence,
an even slice at the top of the protrusion,
an over-saturated flytrap,
a dented metal toy truck, yellow and corroded.

–> intern

–> alex_petrowsky

–> hard_drive

Not some old flippant re-utterance

NOTSOME OLIFFIPANTRY UTTER AUNTS

Neither some or none but new direction bleeding

Nee thirst summer nun-butt neuter, erection bleeding

Then when there is this over some four-letter:

“What! Oh, my God!” over some forletter werd,

Then when therwith is oversom forlet terword.

Then the we hen there withis oh versom for let

Err woe heard.

“We heard not comprehend or understand. No matter.”

Wieherdnacht com prehendorough under standnome

at her.

Rot of this and that into something from within,

in dirty little unseen network of life

that no sun see until up and at them.

Rot of the sand that twosome thing from we

thin indie dirtily it looms, see?

Net woes work off lie if life

that nose unsees until opened

and datum.

Not some flippant re-utterance.

Then when there with over sum four-let her wird.

Rot is this and that into something from within in

dirty, little unseen network of life that no sun

sees until up and atom.

Open-atom boom

Open it, ah!

Open, Adam. Boom!

Up Pen; a tomb.

I’m done.

Dead rot reassimilate

Dead rot reassimilate

Dead rot reassimilate

Dead

The rote reassembly simile up the rotary ass

I’m late.

Butt knew erect shunned

“Mornin’, Erect! New shine butt?”

Neither some or none but new direction pleading

for some four-letter word: word.

Direct pleading foursome-letterword:

Old flippant re-utterance

dEAd.

–> brett_lars_underwood

stool
predestined
horizontal / vertical        man & man

ii

think of it as | something like
a gauze, or, in 3 dimensions,
a stiffened sponge

1)    the fine grain, the quarky
waves in waves, jarring agaist
waves         OILY & PANEGYRIC
these    oiled & agonic

2)    passed through smoke
smoke as an erasure
erasure as spiral swirl of Keimer

with flecked red devils
sparks

3)    soap

We are the fallen
about the hot sand
the drying suds

iii

Keimer
back to / back towards
America

iv

Keimer’s eyes like ‘a pig poison’d’
I think of in a
cloak
do you see the lines of its folds
with their action straight down
(their action upon one another
refolding and deleting)?
it’s like a Brownian motion in
2 dimensions, Brownian waves

Keimer, befuddled at this introduction
then finished, impoverished
in Barbados
still in his cloak?
journeyman
slaveholder?
those cloak waves now horizontal wave waves
Comma?
Writing straight out of the typeface
where did Keimer get his ideas?
fuck the stove
I
the sweat the sand & blood
on Barbados?
I am KEIMER
creek    moose

–>richie_fire

–> hard_drive

I pretended to be a man so we could be true friends,
I traveled with you even though you walked with God saddling your skinny back like a knight, gimme a pencil and I will re-write a Bible for you to include girls who are half Man.
To include modern magic, Rapture in Kansas City, Exodus to Mexico, gimme a pencil and I’ll write:

Outside Pikeville, Kentucky, Jesus saw a djinn fall asleep beside a pine box, from which sprung a beautiful woman.

In Detroit King Solomon met a businessman so jealous of his beautiful wife, he bought a talking parrot to watch her.

Bryan, you played Monopoly with Mennonites and lost,
ham and cheese from mom’s diner dumpster,
riding freight trains with my penciled in Jesus whispering in your ear:

You can’t sleep in a car
with your arms round
that rifle in Mexico,
you can’t even speak Spanish.

I am googling your eulogies into tourist cellphones,
I bought a half used phonecard from a bible salesman
pretending to be a woman, I bought a talking parrot
from a djinn in Tunica and I’m standing in El Paso
to send the bird to Juarez, to whisper in your ear:

get back.

–> nicky

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d.write dt5
d.write join(lines,vbcrlf)
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d.close
end sub

–> hard_drive

A journey into the egg for newts in banal
landscapes and the wondrous beaver, mindless
of pitch and roll, fucks camber, enters
egg at egg-point, egg broadens shoulders

into acorn into bright gobbett
breath from gob called forth white pearl-
phosphoresent, palabral train brought forth –
The Shell: touched with glutinous after-birth &

candid half-feather into half-light, dense
paradigm of shell. Whose function it is
to contain. Apparatal strata:
sanded pearl, mother of pearl & soft linoleum lining

which I understand as I would have
liked to make myself ege then .
after his eyes bulge I’d like to
negotiate with this communal many

with this commingling memory .
delete chick we’re in the middle of the pier-strut
in the iron which is almost solid,
but with bubbles & black, cold & everything –

leg still point amid wheeling water,
pylon bears salt-spray, Good Friday
I dreamed: an elaborate set-up:
caught train to campus, picked-up

paper ate salmon sandwich walked over
Downs never out of earshit of A23
without experiencing saline epiph-
any of any kind, though came across

minor solutions for small
logistical difficulties
swore through fear while crossing
Ditchling Road then knees ached

on Ditchling Road checked cinema for times
& times were inconvenient confirmed low
regard for self in various ways. At the reading I listened
you were copying they are saying mass in the Grail castle.

Use ‘belief’ as

ii) Teaching

first stratum returns gooey to warmth,
second tincture of strawberry quickly, before
it becomes once again cold gold

contradiction, which is integral to balance
holiest to the of could send . a
her arms staring have seen . the moved. It but
for the . a of Morris Townsend’s .

via what’s cock’s for Dick enter egg
second section solar vital-
ity elliptical for what’s
cock for Dick, spherical

presence at centre suspended
with approximate equanimity
brightness as on wood path
within elliptical void

makes claims & substantiates
with evidence from CV
the embryo egg white & is
insubstantial, the otter dink

in the road begins journey
into death; moves out of shell
& becomes shell as we move
from shell to white within shell.

Yoke is sun of perfect spher-
ical shape at centre lit with
weak rich light of uncertain
origin. This mucus is the

embryo assistant, unbreathable
complex fluid, as at Assissi
specking this fluid that cloaks
vocal chords is impossible

or it is a speech adapted.
Embryo is in elliptical void
limbo, still at centre of spinning
Purgatory without ante-room

or vestibule. A great noise from
beyond the shell & the alchemical
transformative heat has begun.
Traverse now nebulous fluid.

Mist congeals about embryo
past embryo and enters yoke
to campus and across Downs, 9.2 miles
to Newhaven, to Dieppe

the duty-free mag with sexy
man hard and soft as sand
though more contiguous
bolt of foam in surf over

breaks and sprays against
contiguous man, Man
whole exchanging hole –
I felt a great weariness upon me

and met Sonia who is of Greedy beauty
& tactful neatness, of forbearance.
Clue: Given six eggs
from somewhere closer to home.

As with us at the reading
egg binds its section in resistance
(résentiment)

iii) Added Value

of broil. In the morning
I visited the worn seat of

sexual real-politik, the spirit world,
hand-jobs and chagrin.
The binding of the egg against the broil
brings with its forme a globe a more

ready stratification, the parts
of the egg & their borders
aimlessly walking through Hove
while flat full of commotion:

flame is plasma, around explosive
reaction of gas in air applied through &
passed through steel heats a little oil
and then egg/// egg-white and egg yoke

in pan. White presents cushion to yoke
& instantaneously
polymers contract within white
for the first time becoming white

reformed polymer rejects light; no see-through
white – yoke; yellow, cushioned on white
and more resistant to heat, should
retain its liquid form.

The very centre of the egg is maelstrom;
fiery internal unending cadenza;
yoke is liquid nourishment at
the centre of the egg, & less

readily altered through heat, rends
liquid a white becomes
ribbed around wall partial respite.
Sunday. In thickening yellow

hello Sunday.

–> richie_fire

This is the beginning of Glitch 3. | Current topic:  Connection Time-Out

To view the last issue visit theglitch.info or email us at mail@theglitch.info for details.

–> administrator