nevver: Progress

Wed, 19 Jun 2013 12:53:59 -0500

Progress

HUMMINGBIRDS DON’T FLY ON THE BACKS OF GEESE: DONATE NOW

Wed, 19 Jun 2013 08:44:19 -0500

HUMMINGBIRDS DON’T FLY ON THE BACKS OF GEESE: DONATE NOW:

Spring in America arrived with severed limbs, a new Pope, meningitis mutations breeding inside queer bathhouses, white roses, carnations dusted with blue powders, dogwood blossoms, orange speckled tiger lilies, red robins, spotted fawn, a stillborn child, prison revolts, hunger strikes in Guantanamo, yellow orgasm on silk sheets. Petals are scattered on the sod like the flesh of magnolias shed from Spring bones. The iron is on and the heat is melting polyester fibers. The room smells of skunk beer and ditch ganja. There is sugared bacon, cold black coffee and grape jelly on stale bread. The windows are wet with grey rain. The walls are shedding pink skin. My body is soaked with the blood of vampires eating vampires. Black on black intellectual crimes roll across the television ticker as riots burn in Brooklyn. What happens when the words don’t come? When the ghost is gone. She left during winter’s death and caught the first train to New Orleans where she walks barefoot down Bourbon. Her tits are illuminated with red neon light. The gun is loaded. The barrel is shined with polish and cradled in my hands with long strokes as if gripping a steel cock. My lips kiss the cold metal dildo as I whisper a prayer to our 2nd Amendment Gods.

The narrative is dismembered by the present tense. The digital NOW hollows out the soul with incessant words, periods, exclamation points, blue links, video viruses, narcissism photographed in bathroom mirrors, white space, black letters, sodomites stoned to death in Somalian ditches. The NOW bleeds into the future, disintegrates the past, and makes a mockery of history. History was a joke to begin with. The Great Apes descending from the canopy, crawling through lush jungles, grabbing thick tree limbs and inserting them into their primate orifices. Female silverback gorillas grin as they bounce their wrinkled, black vaginas up and down onto green plantains. Troops of queer baboons crush red berries and smear the juice on their open assholes in a display of anal submission to the band’s dominate males while the chimps suckle and pull on orangutan tits. EVOLUTION! History rots in libraries, stinks of sour eggs and curdled milk. Maggots feed on the meat of genocides MADE IN AMERICA. The Trail of Tears now runs through meth lab trailer parks and Best Buy parking lots. History is on sale now with the prostitutes down on South Broadway. The Eternal NOW sucks at the soul like bats on the hooves of goats, swallows bitter cum like faggot ghosts moaning on Mississippi River banks. The eyes become digital oracles reflecting on deferred dreams, pink nipples, open assholes, pigs vomiting and fucking at the trough of American Prosperity. It’s all too political now. The American public weeps at their own stupidity for sweeps week. History is compost for human ignorance. Feed ‘em more of that American Exceptionalism bullshit! Let ‘em suck the marrow from history’s bones. The corpse is buried beneath the poplar tees. The innards were smashed and ground for summer sausage. The brain, eyes, tongue and cheek for headcheese. A child is the future until it’s born an becomes eternally imprisoned by the NOW. The child will never escape the teething gums, the shit stained diapers, the piss soaked sheets, the tattered red teddy bears, the wet dreams, the barbie dolls, the blue ribbons, the silver dollars, the peach schnapps, the first joint, the semen stained pillows, the blackberry cobblers, the midnight revivals, the pine forts, the molded strawberries, the stink bugs, the katydids, the snapping turtles, the blue tick hounds, the camomile lotion, the honeysuckles, the beast from the sea. NOW were does one begin? The Sun? The Stars? The Big Bang? The gods? The Indians? The Coyotes? The Soul? Start with the Written Word. The Word will either lead you up to glory or straight to hell. Better pack light. The road up ‘head has been washed away by swollen creeks. The water roars with muddy garbling across flooded rock bridges. The baptism hole is a whirling pool of broken tree limbs, dead coons, black trash bags. The waters are rabid with white foam and the mosquitos and flies swarm on the water bloated bodies of white women.

Money burns with every revolution in Greece.. More blood money pours in from language plantations in the desert outside San Quintin, Mexico. The words smell like Tijuana Kush sprawling from the feet of indigo sierras. The dust and the sand cakes the lips of Mexican mules as they work the field. The veins along their arms stretch and pulse as they pull in the morning’s harvest. During afternoon breaks, they sit down on toilets in open-air, wooden stalls, remove throbbing, brown cocks. They rub their calloused hands with cactus oil and squeeze sweet lotions onto their palms. Raw fingers squeeze back wrinkled foreskins and purple poppies bloom with white gum.

It’s Summer now, and The Emperor needs his new shipment of bullet points to be delivered to Washington by 4 A.M. The Sheriff arrives to the fields in a black Chevy pickup pockmarked with rust.

—WHERE ARE THOSE FUCKING WORDS?! THEY WERE DUE ON MY DESK BY 0200 HOURS! GODDAMMIT. DO YOU FUCKING WET-BACKS EVER DO ANYTHING BESIDES SLEEP, SHIT, AND JERK OFF? I’M SERIOUS YOU FUCKERS. I GOT ‘BOUT HALF A MILL TIED UP IN THIS CROP. YOU BASTARDS WORK FOR THE AMERICAN GOVERNMENT. DON’T FORGET THAT MOTHERFUCKERS. I’M THE ONLY THING STANDING BETWEEN YOU AND A SHIT HOLE IN GUANTANAMO. NOW GET ME MY MOTHER FUCKING WORDS BEFORE I GET DOWN AND SUCK THOSE FUCKERS DRY.

Focus on The Word. Let it come inside you let it penetrate the soul and body like capitalism, like war, like pornography…let it take hold of your genitals and milk your balls into frozen shot glasses and ice cub trays… let the word sell you into poverty, prostitution, profit, politics. A crumbled, wrinkled dollar bill on the corner of the desk. Won’t even buy you a beer these days so why bother ironing her out. Sex owns your body. He calls you babee, buttercup, boy, beautiful, sexy, sissy, bitch. WHAT’S A GIRL SUPPOSED TO DO? BUT KISS HIM. Write a word. The WORD. The word is a curse. Sex is a curse. The soul is bound by the word. HUMANITY is sentenced to death by the word. Your woman is out and your body grinds to the beat. She make you wanna start hormones tomorrow. Get all that good, ignorant dick. Her tits are out and her nipples swollen wit fever. Our lips are wrapped round soft flesh, swollen cocks, open orifices all while the White Faggot Establishment continues to fuck and breed each other during Palm Spring white parties.

FAGGOTS FALLING THRU THE CRACKS. WE GOTS LAWS BUT WE ‘AINT GOT NO JUSTICE. You’re kicked out of your home, turned away at the doors of a homeless shelter and no one hears about it again, yet we know about every white faggot couple being denied a wedding announcement or dykes being asked to stop scissoring in hotel pools. FREEDOM TO FUCK YES. BUT FREEDOM TO NOT FREEZE TO DEATH BENEATH 1-70 TOO. Thai t-girls, black femme queens, and trailer park trannies march in protest against the psychological violence of The State against queer desires and transgender bodies. Jesse arrives late with her mascara running, black bruises dot her thighs, her fingers itching for another cigarette. Her teeth grind like gears fueled on adderall and espressos. She spits out a ball of red spit when asked about the state of American equality.

—Equality? EQUALITY? What the fuck is that??!! I need a cig. Ya got a cig? Equality is a cigarette right now. Goddamit I wish I had some good kush. EQUALITY ‘aint justice. Justice is fucking dead. She died on December 12th, 2000. Equality is just something needed in the atomic era. Momma is the bottle. Daddy the scotch. The sun dies of thirst like blonde boys fucking naked in foreign deserts. Drones provide equality to Yemen, Pakistan, Somalia, Afghanistan now. Thank god for AIDS. Thanks god for bombs. Thank god for FREEDOM.

Jesse digs out a crushed Newport and a torn ticket from the metro from the bottom of her rabbit skin purse. She crumbles the cigarette onto the ground. Two days ago she was riding the train from the East Side down to Union Station. Duanna is with her, her sneakers are coke-white, and she wears a red blouse with red nails. Jesse is harder to clock than Duanna. Her lips are fuller and her slender arms melt into her thick hips and puffy tits. Duanna’s shoulders are wide and her palms are bowls of cracked, red clay. Duanna’s phone rings.

—DATS MY BOO RINGTONE!

—YOU GONNA ANSWER IT?

—Nah. My battery’s about to die. She finished.

—Bitch your phone always dead.

—Cause TRADE be blowin’ me up!!

Jesse laughs.

— It’s all been been a good run of bad luck.

—Whatchu mean?

—I mean all the fightin and cussin. Trying to scrape up enough coins to catch the South Grand bus to Eric’s place where you know you’ll be able to score a hit or two if he’s feeling horny enuff to have you suck him off. If he’s really hard up, and wants to fuck, your open ass will getchu the leftover gin in whatever bottle he deepthroated that day. I wanted to be a storyteller but they don’ pay storytellers like they used to. Don’ believe they ever really did. This is the world we live in where nothin’s left but money, blood and sand. Nothin’ left to read but Kora In Hell. Ya can’t even trust the objectivity of chapters anymore. Chapters are as meaningful to a reader as the minute hand to the mud. They only serve to guide the narrative in circles of predictable metaphors, stale allegories, and empty symbolism caked in dirt. I tried that butchqueen shit for a while and played in red bottoms at the club. Ruined lots of lace fronts riding them fat dicks, got lots of that old-school bareback, spit lubed dicks, raw seed, primitive grunts, open bottles of poppers to the side of the bed, a 40-oz. of Old E on the floor and blunts burning in glass ashtrays. I couldn’t keep my woman locked and starving inside this public prison so I said FUCK THIS and named her Jesse.

Duanna explodes in mad laughter and her chest caves with keke cackles.

—I drowned that nigga Dwayne in the Mississippi and down Duanna came like the Holy Ghost at Pentecost.

Hound dogs howl down hollers blanketed in purple steam. Sunlight on broken hills bleeds through fences of oaks and pines. The world never seems to get any warmer. A leech on the sole gorges ‘til it’s too sw’oal to shit. Faggots overdose on heroin in the backseat of cars abandoned on Illinois highways. The sun burns and bleeds ‘til she c’aint run no more. She only feels daddie’s beating heart. Jesse’s daddie was a bearded man of god with eyes that shined like blue ice. His teeth were yellow and rotting, but to her, his smile was the only holy creation on this wretched Earth. He would rock her on his knees and sing P-O-N-E-Y to her. In humid, Southeast Missouri summers he would wear jean shorts, bleach-faded tank tops, white socks and dirty high-tops.

—My Daddie was an orchid dusted with sawdust pollen that smelled of dewey grass and sweet, summer sweat. He was a man born of this Earth always diggin it up, cuttin her branches, sawing and measuring and pouring cement, selling himself to the lowest bidder, he caint get around like he used to, his bones are hard like the rocks he’s dug up, his ears sw’oal with shingles. He wore polished boots, white button up t-shirts, braided belts, gray slacks, gotta be lined up like they taught him in the army, afternoons on his lap riding the dirt bike ‘round the house, nights with his belt wrapped ‘round our bare legs, it was usually momma swinging it like a leather snake screaming for us to hold still. It was hard for him to whip us. He hated it and preferred to just snap the belt to scare us into submission.

—I CAINT HEAR THE PEEP FROGS NO MORE BABY. I LISTEN FOR ‘EM BUT NOTHIN’ COMES. CAN YOU HEAR ‘EM BABY? THEY STILL SINGING OUT THERE?

The cold, granite rooms are saturated with the stench of wealth. The Narrative refuses to die. The Narrative will be the last thing to vanish from the Earth along with the roaches, the rats, the ol’ rich white women and their homosexual, Jewish husbands. The plastic, silicone, Botox, and massive doses of denial can preserve just about anything. But they cain’t CAN. Not like Grandma could. Her armpits dripping in the kitchen and her perm sweat’d out
`…tamatahs are boilin’ on the stove…the dill lays out to dry…catfish fryin’ in the cast iron skillet…buckets of green beans on the floor…jars of blackberry preserves, apple butter, gooseberry jam, bread ‘n butter pickles, canned beets, garden salsa…YOU ‘AINT GOT NUFF SUGAR BABEE, POUR SUM MORE IN THER…fresh pumpkin pies steam from the oven…salted summer cucumbers in blue dishes…NOW DIP THEM ZUCCHINI IN THE BUTTERMILK ‘N FLOUR, WATCH OUT, THAT GREASE’LL POP YA…bowls of fried venison, rabbit, and frog legs….platters and pans of biscuits, sweet cornbread, gold hushpuppies, peach cobbler….she always served the boys first followed by Grandpa, Uncle Daryl, Uncle Bucky, Uncle Charles, Daddy, Aunt Erma, Aunt Roselee, Aunt Harriet, Aunt Nene, Momma, then herself.

Jesse would sit with her during summer mornings and watch her fill glass bird feeders with sugar water.

—I remember her always telling me: HUMMINGBIRDS DON’T FLY ON THE BACKS OF GEESE! THEY MAKE IT SOUTH JUST LIKE THE REST OF ‘UM. BABEE, YOUR WINGS MAY BE SMALL BUT THEY’LL TAKE YOU UP OUT THIS HOLLER ONLY IF YOU WANT ‘UM TOO.

gallowhill: Babel, 2006 by Cildo Meireles

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 22:58:50 -0500

gallowhill:

Babel, 2006 by Cildo Meireles

"May my soul bloom in love for all existence."

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 22:19:14 -0500

“May my soul bloom in love for all existence.”

- Rudolf Steiner (via lemontreesoceanbreeze)

Ms. Kari Lynn West (2013).

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:11:06 -0500

Ms. Kari Lynn West (2013).

he had a nice cock

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:10:28 -0500

he had a nice cock

Photo

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:09:38 -0500

Photo

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:08:24 -0500

DYKE CAMP II (2013).

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:06:59 -0500

DYKE CAMP II (2013).

DYKE DRINKING GAME (2013).

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:05:47 -0500

DYKE DRINKING GAME (2013).

DYKE CAMP (continued)….

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:04:34 -0500

DYKE CAMP (continued)….

DYKE CAMP, PRIDEFLOAT 2013, LEBANON, MO.

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:02:43 -0500

DYKE CAMP, PRIDEFLOAT 2013, LEBANON, MO.

Photo

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 20:00:29 -0500

yes. this happened:

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 19:59:38 -0500

yes. this happened:

LOVE.

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 19:58:04 -0500

LOVE.

Photo

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 19:56:55 -0500

Photo

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 19:55:14 -0500

Photo

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 19:54:18 -0500

Photo

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 19:53:31 -0500

Photo

Tue, 18 Jun 2013 19:52:19 -0500

New Amurican Gospels

nevver: Progress

HUMMINGBIRDS DON’T FLY ON THE BACKS OF GEESE: DONATE NOW

gallowhill: Babel, 2006 by Cildo Meireles

"May my soul bloom in love for all existence."

Ms. Kari Lynn West (2013).

he had a nice cock

Photo

Photo

DYKE CAMP II (2013).

DYKE DRINKING GAME (2013).

DYKE CAMP (continued)….

DYKE CAMP, PRIDEFLOAT 2013, LEBANON, MO.

Photo

yes. this happened:

LOVE.

Photo

Photo

Photo

Photo

Photo