This is Saturday Night, People

Talk about all of the terrible words that we speak, and I will tell you about the death defying feats of understatement, and what I mean is that everything is perfect— the way the mind works is the fact that everything is just a painting of the exact portion of the way that everyone understands the islands: we can’t possibly be anything else besides the interpretation of literature… Can we talk about the way that humans decide that everything is a terrible Italian dinner, and what is that really, so glad you found me here. Here is what we work for, there is a constant in our lives, there is a sinister way that we speak about the everyday, that certain something that makes the nerves extend past the finger until they are tiny little tendrils of  the vernacular;  the spelling is just exactly the perfect way that El Reed did his and that is not exactly the problem because Last Exit to Brooklyn is a sinful topical episode— there is a populace that allows those who are not privy to the remainder of the dialogue left over from the jest that is confounding— but wait, we are the record that spins the pin, the pin is cutting upon the record  Mercury.                       Spin this insatiable appetite for reconstruction, the gang vocals, anonymous, as if we could kiss your ass goodbye. In between rock’n’roll oracles find us misinterpreting the clouds; find us exaggerating the norms like a big business tycoon, and let us tell you why we are in fact and after all the king of the seas. This irradiation haunts us:  there is music and piano sounds like a god damn atom bomb that breaks apart like a simple crying concentration of the mind, and the grey matter is just stupefying and that is nothing compared to the way… the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

the machine of a dream

I have never been a cyclone unless you count the jazz years the jazz incognito the in between as a liminal that I prefer mourning to coffee but not that much and in so far as we are left to pretend with, and as much as a meteor might exaggerate towards the chorus, us chiming a brass anechdote, my life’s insanity, take care of us, be good company let us then find it, let us then examine, please for here and now’s sake who is scared?

-Robert “Adrenaline Bob” Tumas & Mark Gurarie

You don’t have that Connecticut Swag

A succession of blurry and blurrying lines, re-painted every several years and according to the conventions laid out. You have never thought of  Connecticut, never connected to it, only heard stories. You will never settle these woods, you like to think because you are comfortable knowing it by not knowing it. An inside of a Connecticut is a Connecticut onion I’ve only ever passed, that is, this is a passage. For the life of Connecticut, a sign post says Hampton Inn. Basically blanketed in green this state, and have I ever told you that I don’t “do” “well” with unpaved surfaces. Everyone in this car is driving. It’s what we do now, you haven’t heard? Yeah man, that same old interstate that same old interstate. What is a Waterbury, is a salad rotting in your refrigerator, and who orders what on Saturday in Connecticut? Connect eyes, cut this corner, see a vine for what it is. Overgrowth, a Connecticut disaster averted every millisecond. Who can falter during a lane change, who would fault her.

-Mark Gurarie

 

Chicken & Egg

The jaws of plenty, the label machine in a fine pair of socks,

a falsetto in the middle of the day snapped in half, that lost pill

thought it was in the pocket, but maybe there was a hole

eyes over the shoulder of day birds that annoy the sleepers,

sun that annoys the birds, maybe there is another hole

don’t stare too long, don the finest unearthed gems,

lockets, tiny replicas of galleons, a corset in the contemporary style,

a photograph of William S. Burroughs, of Gertrude Stein,

of envelopes foreshortened, unstuffed nests, a chain with a broken

link, forged receipts for seven of the most expensive cupcakes.

The chicken did not cross the road to get to the other side

chickens are obnoxious birds with no concept of sides

and I’m glad to eat them. Makes me chicken,

they don’t know happy from roads or anything people

like chickens they talk too much and cross roads

for the same reasons. They get hungry, they get horny,

they want to see so they don’t, they can’t help it, a foul

goodbye to the others in a kind of roost, find us in a coop

farmed for mass production, and which came first.

 

 

-Mark Gurarie & James Marchetti 

An Exquisite Corpse with James Marchetti

My poetry is so strange it is not worthwhile for people to read

that was cheating the line is a mess of word

constructed by moments of question-

-ing there is as much to play as there is to muster, a kind of strength I guess in

numbers of hockey players with such haircuts… bad.. yeah yeah yeah bull…

give me russian give me tonic we need it today as the epistolary yesterday

a letter I wrote to no one in particular a letter I wrote to no one

as the marginalizations of our fatherses change is inordinate being as an in-

-fraction against dog against dog dog that we called No Howard cuz it was

always no with that fucking dog Howard chewin up the uncle

drug. And one day we thought it might be the end. They said he was

as canine as a carbuncle on a stupid amount of shoes. A stupid amount

and every eagle totem

was meant to be an exclamation: “I’ve done it all, and having a great time at it!”

It’s fucking with my thought process, it’s as if everybody had an automatic entity

a kind of helmet you wear, to battle I guess, or in peace time cross it out, ex it.

-James Marchetti & Mark Gurarie