Oh… Shhhhh…..

The First Flush of the Water Closet Series!

If your trusty toilet has developed cracks or leaks, uses far too much water per flush, or is simply a shade of baby blue not seen in 20 years, it may be time to replace it. You might consider this a good time to put in a call to the plumber, but it can be all in a day’s work for a reasonably handy do-it-yourselfer. It’s not for the weak, since toilets are heavy and unwieldy, but if you have a strong back (or a sturdy assistant) you can save yourself the cost of a house call by installing it yourself.

The Water Closet Reading Series is looking for some more shit. E-mail mentalmarginaliapoetry[at]gmail[dot]com with a similarly “personal” video. You can plop it at home or in any other bathroom. We’ll post it for you and tell our friends. Nudity not required but, you know, encouraged I guess.

I do believe the Senator is Martian

Men do not kill women upon Mars, nor women men. In the unmolested corridors of this under explored anecdote, the attempts to install an electric fence on the Plains become as fruitless as our terrarium farms, our turnip patch and plastic encased fields of gluten-free germ. Many a crew lost in the sandstorms. I laugh and change the subject, I comment on the current, the waves, this precious air quality. What pretentious architecture! Why build up our former habitations, unless it was to follow you to your brand new lighting. I’ll always please stay. This is nothing if not the decoration on the wall, yet there are people like myself and there are those that would stop us. Our ship docks on the creature you call e-bay 25. Language is a computer virus. There are those that claim not to speak in the lost sea of Chorus, the echo chamber self regarding. Pressed against me as if to wring a denial from my database. Believe the unstruck lightning rod, then, or nothing but mere electronics. The inappropriate analog between the fauna and the flora. Earth, as you call it, hanging in the plain heavens.

 

A Primer for Porpoiselessness during an Angry Apocalypse

“Eeeee eee eeee” I think it was relayed to us, written in the sky an unapologetic orca  wearing requisite muumuu and headband patterns. I artichoke on the words myself sometimes, by which I mean I snip from the vine and grasp the complex migratory patterns, the ways in which in a frenzy I drop the letter E three times in a row and laugh and slap in the name of performance art and chill wave. I have never slept with anyone remotely famous, not even cult-faves in indie circles, at least not while performing tricks for sardines to tourists from Omaha not that there is anything wrong with Omaha, not that there ever was anything wrong with Omaha. Quit your coastalism, you are probably not your Brooklyn neighborhood. Ergo there is a little bit of Jersey or Connecticut or Pennsylvania in all of us. Lou Reed is from Long Island but on Wednesdays I maintain solidarity with that whinging plutocrat of the Dead Downtown. I remember a neighborhood skeptical of American Apparel. I remember my mustache decrying the existence of mustache. But these patterns are smudges in the oversized sunglasses of my fast fading youth, and looking in the rearview mirror I care not for your masters in memoir. Basically, these matters require a blow hole, a three piece band channeling the beach boys unsuccessfully, a peak or a valley, a goddamn rating system. To which the porpoise replies “Happy New Errors” one week or maybe fifty four years too late.

-Mark Gurarie