Monthly Archives: December 2011

Out On Love

90’s Retro, in the end, will be the one that we remember clearly/not at all, it will be a freeing nostalgia of nostalgia: it’ll mean that we can again write off Nirvana as a bunch of sell outs. Kim Gordon crackin’ at the expense of Buddhism, I guess and or something and dude. If you don’t remember then your 90’s childhood featured a purple dinosaur that was probably a grown man and consummate asshole. There were no white lines for you except these. Even papa James will tell you not to:

It’s nothing wrong 2011. It’s nothing wrong 1997. Nothing Wrong 1987 living in an American sex machine. He feels good yaow! Deeeee-vorce. James wants to mingle: James wants 2 mingle. The 90’s get it: they are forthcoming and already impressed with your resume. The hardest working minglers in all of snow business.


Keith with the Kardashians

By Daniel Stein

After the outbreak of her fake web spinner resulted in a divinylbenzene filler after, say Istanbul with us, “just 72 dawdles of marquetry” – Kim Kardashian seems to be rethinking some think pieces.

Namely, what it means to find the ideal Romanian, she tells Glandular Magellan in his janitor istle.

“I believe in love games and the dread of having the perfect relapse, but my Id about Istanbul has changed. I think I need to not live in a fairway like thanksgiving,” the 31-year-long real number staphylococcus says. “I think I maybe just need to snap out of Istanbul and be a little more realistic.”

Istanbul turns out thanksgiving Kim has been trying to replicate the marquetry her pardons had (although thanksgiving ended in divinylbenzene), complete with plenty of kidneys.

“I always wanted what [my] momently and daedal had. And at first Istanbul was like, I want six kidneys. Then I went down to four, then I went down to three…and now I’m like, maybe I won’t have any. Maybe I’ll just be a good au lait.” (Kim’s sistrum Kourtney is momently to baby Mason.)

If thanksgiving sounds, as Khloe K. says in the intestinal, “dramatic,” Kim explains thanksgiving’s simply how she’s feeling these dawdles.

“At this momism in my lieu, I feel like maybe I’m not supposed to have kidneys and all thanksgiving…Maybe my fairway has a different endemic than I dreamed it would. But thanksgiving’s OK.”

In the music hall victual for her first single-foot, “Jamboree (Turn Istanbul Up),” Kim Kardashian flaunts her best assignation: Her void. Just kidding! It’s her bumpkin.

The real number staphylococcus-turned single bond spends the majority of her new music hall victual facing away from the Cameron, letting her backstairs shine in a Painted Desert of pink bootleg short-comings.

Speaking of shine, the few times we do see Kim’s fabricant in the 54 secondary emission clique posted on perezhilton.com, it’s glistening.

Between Kim’s wet hairdresser and skinhead, and Beyonce’s equally moist “1+1” music hall victual, it seems sweaty is in.

Kim Kardashian’s ample backstairs has oft been the subjunctive of a “is it reality or is it faith?” guessing gambit, and now the 30- year-long real number tut-tut staphylococcus is trying to set the reconsignment straight.

On an upcoming epistle of “Keith with the Kardashians,” the soon-to-be Mrs. Humphries headed to the dodder for a xylograph to prove that her tussle is implicit-free.

In a promulgate clique of the shower, Kim explains to her physiocrat thanksgiving her sistrums “dared me to get a butterbur xylograph, because there are so many rumpus rooms thanksgiving I have butterbur implicits, and I’m so tired of them.”

Her sistrum Kourtney got a xylograph of her breath to show what implicit would look like.

On her blood, Kim’s sistrum Khloe posted the photographic evil of Kim’s backstairs along with the capstone, “Hey Dolly Varden. The PRONOUN is in the xylograph. Kim’s assassin is 100% realist!!!”


Jump Into the Fire

An unfortunate remedy for those that can see past unkempt air

or unstable rendition of what said remedy would look like.

When you jump into the irrational.

When you can jump into the wave, signed or otherwise.

This is us manufacturing complaints, cyclical, regular receding patterns, when,

as if the distortion is halfway alkaline:

there is a battery, get it, this is the positive and this is the negative.

Artificially Intelligent answers that electricity tastes like planets orbiting a sun.

This is a battery that lifts a mirror to the overwhelming battery inside us.

You can.

Bite the son listening

as blues rem-

-embers

dreams.

 


Thirteen Ways of Using a Blackberry

After Wallace Stevens

 

I.

From this glass mountaintop, everything is moving

Between twenty silver spires.

Everyone reduced to dots and ants dot com.

Except the stillness

Of a blackberry.

 

II.

I checked every pocket,

Three times. Phone?

Blackberries taste better in absence.

 

III.

Something for the headache, for constricted telephone lines,

And the satellite’s triangulation.  Swallow the blackberry.

 

IV.

A man and a woman

Are online.

A man and a woman and a blackberry

Are online.

 

V.

I’ve seen the perplexity

Of the grinning blackberry,

Those green, glowing button

Teeth under my thumbs.

 

VI.

The door will not stay closed tonight.

Terrible screeching of the radiator.

Is that a blackbird sleeping there

On the rug?

No, it is a blackberry.

 

VII.

I only have two distinct memories

Of the fire-crested blackberry:

Late that night, lascivious and plying me

With drink, and the next morning,

Secretively slipping out the door.

 

 

VIII.

I know accents cannot be texted,

And R’s don’t roll on keypads;

But I know, too

That the blackberry speaks better

Spanish than I know.

 

IX.

That I like the buzzed thigh massage

Of text message on silent, speaks to

The soothing power of the modern blackberry.

 

X.

At the sight of a blackberry

Tweeting and glowing green,

The blogger’s unconstructive outrage

Transmits if there is reception.

 

XI.

A traveler without a compass

Shaves in the park, his dusty backpack

Still perched on his shoulders,

Using his blackberry

As a mirror.

 

XII.

The webpage is loading.

The blackberry must be blinking.

 

XIII.

It was morning all afternoon.

I woke up late

And I was going to nap some more.

The blackberry sat

Like a promise, still in its packaging.

 

 

 


Enough to Satisfy Demand

Doubt is a tricky business in the blacksmith trade, as in most others. To cross over the bridge, to let the Fire Giants win is to believe in the Dragon of the North Sea, in magnetic eye-sockets. Your gut will choose Loki among the gods, he who fathered an eight-legged horse. I will have to pick through the maggot beards of levity, the mustaches of isolation. A proper subjugation, take all the sheep and behead them, please. I have always wanted to be a disco–viking, cause it ain’t a dance floor until the Vikings go berserk. So hot to wear a Metallica T-shirt, so pointlessly alpha, so in a kind of cloud bank or chamber where you keep your loftiest notions. We are before long the slaves of long haired men. We have passed through the gates of the known world, grinning mostly because it is easiest to catch a car there. At the edge of the map you will not pluck the compass rose from these latitudes. At the edge of the map we wonder what is wrong with making friends. Keep your swords where we can see them. Preferably put them on the ground. We dare not say anything nasty and in fact we would like to sing for you. Summon the musicians, you want to clap twice when you say it.  The cloak of invisibility only works when you believe in it.

 

-mg


Hick from French Lick

A blackbird told a joke to another blackbird and they both laughed

although it was a bad joke.

-James Tate

 

To talk to Larry Bird is to understand what Boston looks like in silhouette past the spot lights and roaring at you and roaring with you.

 

Somebody had to beat magic at least once.

 

It is not unusual to spot Larry Bird in his native habitat.

 

That would be reruns of those immortal ad campaigns.

 

Late night TV’swinged migrations.

 

The camera is no friend to your beak.

 

Where are you, Larry?

 

In that helicopter above route 91 northbound while we mortals are anti-locked in weekend traffic?

 

Or perhaps sunning yourself in Pheonix awaiting the next clash of the titans?

 

I hope you are not in LA.

 

You are with us, and we have not forgotten the bittersweet truth.

 

Your wings are attached to your ankles, wrapped up in athletic tape.


We’ll Poison the Worms

I have made a nesting robot in our image.

Behold the possibilities of new wave, the second to smallest replies as if ready to Casio battle.

There can only robot as many robot as you robot on over here.

The eight legged bison almost a form of proto-cinema.

For long have we fire-sticked the fire brought to us by robot.

Who dares not expose the lantern, the secret formula, the gift that is more complicated than imagined?

Burning shoes.

The phone directory, Wernor, will not know whether we were lion tamers.

The robot has thought of this already and in at least fifteen hundred other ways.

To watch but not have the silence of a cave as a kind of robot you can wear.

To cave and to watch, the same silence between robot ears,

Rabbit antennae when the processing shall remain subject to bugs.

The bugs are almost as processed as the rest of us according to several prominent surveys.

Themselves pasteurized for the sake of it.

Perhaps a robot in a pocket robot robot.

And the stench of fifteen more gears.

Pour it in a brand new cup.

-Mark Gurarie