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. we find our friend.................................................................................................
. johneric reminisc.................................................................................................
. ing the distant pa.................................................................................................
. st. he is standing.................................................................................................
. at a 78 degree an................................................................................................
. gle from his favor................................................................................................
. ite blade...............................................................................................................
. Soon he begins................................................................................................
. to climb the sta...............................................................................................
. irs. The old fam.............................................................................................
... iliar smell filling..............................................................................................
. his nostrils, and............................................................................................
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Grandfather stands, hands are colder. Silent hum, streets wet. “It is raining.” Eyes closed- at caution at bay. I stand, the street is still. The air seeps back into my skin. Wet leather worn. The trees are not moving. My father stands. Rumbled subtle. Calm smolders up-street. Smell of burning skin and hair. Small boy, desk smolders calm stands intent welling up and cold morning air. It has been raining. I bit in to the child, peach skin puncturing and exploding over my tongue. The boy will not scream. Cough syrup filling my throat. Smoke filling my throat. Throat is empty. Cat piss ammonia soaking carpet, warping the linoleum. Structure bending torsion shaft. Cuts my nostrils. I stand several feet down. Cold dark stairwell. Flashlight burns soft fingers. Peach fingers. Green carpet matted worn. Ammonia is stronger. Old cardboard. New filling air of dew and rain. It is raining. My grandfather stands. I stand. Rumbles louder. My grandfather is dying. Thick eerie calm. BILLOW rounds edges, torsion winds enveloping me, as i stand, as my father standing falters. My skin grading off in steady thin sheets. BILLOW slow rumble is cut precise. Ammonia tongue thickening throat, ingests of soaked rags. Unclean.
2nd FLOOR
The stairs dissolve slow, i spin in light, door shaking. Glass observatory hit humid and thick. I feel each drop, the stairs open, vulnerable. I stand. Outside the storm shifts through the forest. Some distant wind blows.
Up roach Red kitchen. Cowboy sifting out sugar packets, heroin. He staggers and coughs, Dante Warhol cowboy, metro heads. “Why'd you leave? Caught you sifting out'n startled you so much Jonsey, you jumped an made that all wet Jonsey. Where'd you go? Where''d you go Jonsey...”
The air fell with his in it, empty packets strewn all across, pushed my finger in the sugar licked my finger... He wanders out somewhere through the house, dead echo filling out. Hang up against the sink, silence popping ears ring silence cold dead winds silent sugar hanging red room photographic room. Red water slushed heroin, it fills my print. The taste twinges with food color, blood, synthetic vomit and pain. I too wandered up and throughout. Cowboy ringing tune in 1st circle 2nd circle 3rd circle 5th circle, spiraling lower and lower, locusts and lover fucked bed sheets, custodial cleaning units, thin white cloth, night spiraling too. But morning light crawls depth crushing concussive windows. The radio slider defunct, no movement, sliding free plastic, attached to nothing. I will not be able to crouch, broadcasts from each floor, spinning slower, Slovic standing, naked, braces shed and crouched, wooden splinters, bare feet. Bathroom night club, his voices cracks again. “ she stands there with long black shorts... reverent bun, no shirt...” I release from the doorway, recoil, terrified. Rushing limbs, soft leg, leaves rustling before the setting sun. I spring from my transistor, slowly repressed scale. I do not see there faces. Wine smashed red room, his country voices spilling through bad P A systems. They unite to kill, for him and Jonsey. They strung together and shot. His visual girl tone stands out in front of the stage facing me in front of me. Smiling. Horrified. I am spilling slowly out too. Soft skin. The final transition- remnants trailing out- shatters across a theater screen: Arkansas camp-grounds, projections,wind blows slowly through the tent. I am alone. The sun is setting. Jump cut. Washed florescent dirty light. The cockroaches pull any unexpectants under the loose railing, fingernails pulling back the skin and their chest erupting in an orgy. The roaches have theirs. I too wait by the railing, in line. “don't purchase the bath house food or you'd pay my money for basil, rare to kill here.” Sums dilate and surface at his deep voice, numbers I cannot account for. She coys in offense, heads and eyes turn to him, the delicate intricacies stop stewing and: “you don't.. but..” They verge with sickening comradeliness. “ you'd like the clout and basil... you...” The moments cut, negative film strewn out on the floorboards. The bath house kitchen bellows stream, white air filling thick in our eyes. I pry her dumpling, mother does not notice, I agree and light my eyes.
The lanterns outside wander across a black sea, night thundering with hurricane clouds shooting out the lanterns. ONE. BY. ONE. Stairs stretching up through the mirror, higher and higher upwards, nothing below. Wooden carnival stairs, golden light through the out leaves onto the wall. I grope and caress, paint lowing and lowly hardened. Light bleeds through a shadow. I am asleep.
The final frame burns out across the theater: Barren Man wanders desert ruins. His skin boils red, eyes pitted, black teeth gun shells. The film ends. The light closes out abrupt. Theater seats illuminated in a remnant of gushing light. I am alone. The film rattles off the projector, lever sullied, and there is silence. Dark... Alone...
Silent.
That old voice, sorry voice, fills in cracks and smooth velvet pops:
“Oh Jonsey, Oh Jonsey, we loved you so. Oh Jonsey oh Jonsey- I startled you so. When you left and broke my heart...
Oh Jonsey...
Jonsey...
where... did... you... go...
The music fades, someone lights a cigarette, and some distant ruined wind blows out across an abandoned theater. Cowboy outs and ends. No poignancy, just death.
It should begin with this. Basement thin hallway, the smaller pieces formed a structure. Disarray beds and preservative sugars, sustenance spilling out onto the carpet. A chart, the money indicate, closet door, long hall, thin aperture. This, the same basement we drowned those in the the water bed. The cats crawl and romp, giant glass eyes, the second obese. They twist and gnash,ruining. She mounts and pummels stomach, brother and sister. The new born baby will be mentally challenged, but the cats, being a center, are feral. Their disorder erupting from their concussion heads. This, the show, will proceed the beginning. The theater opens up, to the ocean, dust and filaments waving, shadows starting. It swallows with precise handle, rough disrupt. IT pumps at us up from the bowels of the machine. Then there is the lobby, you're wet. The agents crawl the entrance, demand my papers, I wait in the limbo. All my students, fellow elementary brothers and sisters, stand at the organ, the walls still breathing and pulsing. I pull one for a suck, mouth vacuuming my tongue and ejecting violent spasms. Mental disorder feline feral standing all romper floating on a bloody mattress, a dried mahogany. I taste her vomit in my mouth and retract. The agents have figured my papers. They are faceless. They open me up to the Barrenlands. Giant cathedral doors leaking piss and cat hair. Hands wet, i contain my ill papers in my great swallowing belly. Miles somewheres there is the Shaman. I have not spoken in awhile. The doors swing shut, and I make my way across gray morning courtyards, fountains drying up. Sputtering. This the procession/progression swallows whole: what happens... This barren land is the Mall. Is Morocco, 1950- leader reinstalled. I wander nylon shops, smell of burning animal, cat intestines strung all across dank stone alleyways. Organics come at prices, if your for splitting you brother's chest apart. I hasty and jaunty pass over the knife to my table and stare at the Centipede washing up through my opium laced coffee. The walls tower over of great stone buildings. I set my deconstruction ingests on a wooden pool. At the end of this giant Dining hall, benches line the empty room, the stone room. Tangier heat waving from nowhere, the skies vomiting and stopping on the impenetrable stone. I stand to affront the Shaman,glass eyes frown matted up in light at me. My cats stare from the corner, ones eye torn from the socket, pawing the maggots into her mouth. I suggest a leave. Vultures descend on the wood pool, suckling artificial sustenance from each other's propagandas. I grab and pull, vault and descend into a den, smoke rising up. I feel it on my fingers and in the dense air. We sit, women palpitating some giant things abdomen. Birthing eminent. The room is filled with them, the walls now black, behind the surgeons, with the faceless and hungry. The giant turtle crawls out of the womb, wise and stagnant. The doctors rejoice, wife horrified. They carry it off in a wide procession, the turtle infant casting back one look, covered in enamel seeping blood and thick latex, a look of death, gasping out in dry sand and nails: “Terminal” shuddering and falling, withering in the shell. They proceed throughout a BarrenLand, shouting and crying out. The agents descend on the tired wife. Covering in blackness.
But I am older now, my shadows thickening. I remembered my mother for an hour. My father. He knows what my fingernails do to the paint. He hits the back, the rust shedding. He knows some. I will be known as Somn. My only name. Johneric is my friend. He knows where and how and sometimes makes objectives and kind words.
I will be the Somnambulist now.
The giant drudge emerges from the concrete. His skin black and oozing, he arrives to observe. I will flow to my plight, the wood underneath my feet warping, slipping from me. I feel the cement skin skin bare and cold, the wind blowing out through the leaves. The whispering feeding jeers, descend against my naked back. Blush and melt. I am ashamed. The drudge smiles, his black mouth coughing out hot-ember-coals, dying and hanging on his suit. The lack skin pulling tight away from his smile. His cane shifts and the wood crumbling. Blood dripping from my nose. He glares and indicates. I follow, shining and diminished. I seat him, and will refuse if offered. My suit not bent. Folds fabric rippling. An empty office. The autumn falling out and tinting the windows on one wall. He smiles Perverse- bloated, red tie, hands crumbling a dirty newspaper. His cold eyes running down my skin. He smiles into me. He begins. The crowd above laughing and catching the words and echoes in anticipation. Smiling. The women children men which i have never seen before, or will ever see again. The room is held for a meeting. Schoolchildren peering in over the railing as the Dirge... My office empty. One chair, one desk. Bloodstains in the corner. A machine quivers and hums. He begins, the crowd smiling::: “Tu es...” and I soon interrupting, quicking his cut::: “Nous passons la journee a travaiel-” He does not submit, screeching::: “you will not work”... He lunges forward, dirty fingers digging into the folds, peeling the edges, licking lips black tar raining hands grope grope tendons tentative glare vigorous breath- handling under... Pail face reviled and disgusted. I stand breathing heavily in an opposite corner. He stands at the door. Tears streaming down my eyes. He outs. I attempt to follow, to return, chasing out into the hall. Lights dimming. Transformers demolish the roadway, snow crumbling under giants. The wind blowing wind chimes. I am running... He is gone..............
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...................................After a time, johneric awakes at the apex of these granite stairs. He remarks to himself: .............................................................................................
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............................................................this is surely the end!..........................................................................
.........................................................but jhoneric, our virgil, holds to his ascention. soon we see nothing but blinding white light........................................................................then nothing...............................
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“Abase and abashed. Lines of ructions and palpitating, moving steady slow, sick or ill of the situation...” Running fingers on rain rusted rivets. I am told to retrieve. Fall- bone black trees, symphonies among the wet fallen leaves. Falling leaves rotate to be observed among the ends. I wander this alone, wet, naked. I feel the walls inhale and expand quietly. All rooms empty. Lined contortion crying out. Cool night wooden floors... I am alone, fingering cold things. Tight underwear. Night lulls of my MONOLITHS, quiet winter. Summer. Soon empty. I return everything is gone now. Leaves fall in, wet. The walls are not breathing. I run to my room, the pulse slowly fading. Stairs slicker and trip through the door. Carpet tack slicing my skins. It breathes in my room. Window open, wet leaves spreading out. Snow falling- precision stabbing, mile long chords. My fingernails shredding, fingers cold and starting to bleed. Room gone. Open closet doors. Nothing. Desperate search and long abandoned hope. “I wish I stayed longer there...” sharply inhaling and puffing out wet cold face. Faded Polaroids- I keep them warm in my hands, but they crumble and burn out. Ashes on the ice floor. I wander endless barren lands in sweet fallen disarray. Trudging, snow it thicks and crumbles. Here only abandoned buildings and dying things, winter roads and faded faces in gas station emporiums. I crouch in the distant fields and fit the ashes together. The first image:
I sit in the corner- i have fallen asleep. Hours? Pneumonia sickness and gorge sickness- I hold my belly. The walls are not moving any more. The walls are freshly painted. Floorboards covered with linoleum. This is not mine now. So smothering tall with fresh paint smell, fragmented streaming light. The first explosion is of sounds and blinding lights scattering away, clouds spreading slowly. Sharp inhalants sting nostrils like ammonia-pungent infestations. Second image:
I rub my name off of my skin with water chemicals. I am afraid to inhale. Evacuating all blood in the brain and unable to control the spill. Fragmented pieces falling together and aligning. Tendons stretch and coil. I take opposite dials and routines in my hands, washing in a sink full of cider and my fathers course skin. She spills to me over the sink some patter click dialect: “...hear that I have passed people- form still- but always pity or hate, for they don't understand love... it's just you and me out here...” I nod slowly and look up into her face. Tears start to form. Winter torrents shake out around the shop- grounds slick with slabs of ice. Cold granite, cold water, cold hands. Small hands. The third image:
The halfway-men slightly melted light and pain- I am strung out in confused thoughts, rearranging. Yet- no light, no sagacity. ...Used to be lonely traffic sirens. The roads were empty. The bleeding man here in the image is fallen and shrunken. Escorted to an inch thick plywood door, urine soaked rug underneath a basement porn house entrance. Green carpet with formaldehyde and vomit soaked in deep. Small hallway, 3 feet wide and left to right endless. A door opens forward. To a living room. David and Sally, fused together at wrists, bones intertwined. Their joints skins and bones tangle. I run away. I am a little boy... Outside another door on an iron staircase- the back exit maintenance building. The sun is setting. Fourth image:
The agents of retrieval stand at the opposite side. Vomit on the front of their suits- calling out a calm sky. Victorious, drenched, carrying a long sheet of shined metal, wet and sick. Holding wounds above full filled digestion and writhing things. The sun is setting... Image Five: start here
Confused. She fuses atoms into vulture eye contraptions, horrible smell of rancid sweat and blood. I am forced into projection light and received through false connectors with baby mask lab coats. Light blinded shoes and hearing aids. Forest, with tall greens and pulsating plants ready to expand and contract on key. Walking endless gray tunnel, cobble webbed trees painted pale and regarded as true. I'm along them, to meet her, but avoid her. Walked slowly and gaze at window light, alternating to the floor, alternating to the cobble stream flowing middle, and painted watercolor. Above by slope. The tree walls here are organic. I parallel her, not to intersect, moving the opposite traffic flow. My skin starts to bleed things like pinpricks -I show nothing- wrap it quick. Eyes contorting to reveal the slightest emotion, or hidden meaning, that must not be shown. She duked side, tilted red sprayed , only one momentum area. Light still shines and I succumb to explosions from the inside, outward. He is here. We are out from accepted passive cobble flow. Into side organic – instructed to observe. I ask where he gets it. I scamper, child again, to up large concrete. Fiesta Square- I was birthed here. “I don't want no none of it... just want to know where it's dealed.” He's gray at me with Maya. I lay in the fractured, multiplied, wet, yellow, red- lined free-roads and orchids. All accepting and breathing me in. Years away, there are cars and roads, and I lay in this field. Asleep. Passive. Observations made through eyes and a face conglomerate, of beautiful slanting light, bleeding and weeping out a broken window. There is a short pause here, and everything falls in- Taking to account: Tape loops, sound bites, orchestrated fall leaves, in lace dresses. I can be gone within fast falling flickers and sways of the subtle wind. I stay here for a while, walking in these isolated fields. “It's lonely out here on the edge.” The back of my head is taking a dictation. I can't keep all the papers spewing from my body, so I let them get wet and set them on top of long rows of water. The rice fields are flooded. I come to a clearing in the crops, to accommodate a road. It's not quite something... Produce photographic static moving instruments and additives. Blowing leaves caress hands, seldom to skin. Black jacket. Closed eyes. The black and tinted dogs glance and stir. They are too nervous. Black swirling mass interrupted by blasts of horrible flames rising above ears and there is a sharp screech. Tone deaf, the dogs batter me with teeth claws and bloody stumps and fur. Closer. The light vibrates and upsets the swirling leaves. Wet flowing electrocution. Brother explains and beckons me to the glass, to observe. Explains they are just light and tears in the clouds- sounds so far away. “ Your not supposed to take them out of the package!” This lamping is the one who drowned me and pulled my wings apart. I'm gone, out left exit down flower paper walling, to a congruent hall. Grainy video of me. I am young here, a fading static television, blurring in the darkness that surrounds it. Toy piano. These things are the only things pure here. ...............................................
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......................................................................Drifting through sands and broken bottles, storms dormant nowhere. I stand distant with the fallen in actions blurred. I'd watched them violently end one by one. Basements, corridors, and the slow accumulation of hardened fear and slow indoctrination. I stand again with them, dark balcony jets jagged and run out of no space no currents, falling endless lines of broken slabs. We a slow and sloth bleed soaking into the landscape and rivers. Organs wet and unclean frozen layers of sulfuric acid and argon, lithium. They pull to slide and gesture my puppet motions, so few so distant. I fall into the cold mauve light reflecting in the sunrise where cold still things quietly die. Rocks encased in ice. The sun brings its melting gaze. Fall subtle through solid ice ridges and growing things against the mountain. Their large ridges and surfaces for flamboyant exuberances. I shy and continued, abashed and filthy. The ice fades with concrete and the sun bleeds down with no comfort. Back lots of broken shards and glass concrete strips. Loading docks now forgotten filled with artifacts of pearls and extravagant dieing exclamation. The buildings all yellow and amplified in the sun. Highways built around this wasted land, no windows, no sound but distant distant cars falling out of line one by one. Super market, black gashes in the luminescent tubes and cases of dead things frozen in the morning light. No sun no sun no broken things. Nothing beautiful. Eight miles, they black gashes in the blinding cold light. Lampposts and phone booths blotting elongated corridor. They; black like slaughter house remnants few too many; glimmer in an artificial light. The fallen men are gone and I am soon a draft, set pale embossed gold on metropolis remnants. I am alone and blurred. She pulls a ligament forward and again depart, concrete melting in to red earth and dust. Lips golden and infinite calling out my name, her vocal cords snapping out broken and still. Urgent; as we pull and slide towards nowhere nothing, her eyes do not exist. Loading docks covered in derelict furniture. Escape and scramble down empty dark hallways. Red tongue rock slipping into my air. She dies away and whispers some small terrible words. The red dust and black sky eat away at my skin. I fall first in vivid white sheets, peeling away my face, my latex skull, and lift into the stars, infinite clusters of dust. I return to these modern stars...
WE ARE MOVING...End of Summer2006-Beg. Of summer2007 (notebook TWO)
Pages 1-62/79-
We've stayed away from the main ways, straying towards the middle, dodging them sans intention. They look on, ignorant of me. A slow pounding now, must risk the mains. Falling in and out of the isles. the over-ways Lit and empty- I'll flea to them. Burning anticipation lifts. Back track now. I'm under grated shelving, slipping through slanted metal bars and pillars. In the mains now, quicking through watched ares. They spot my eyes, burnt and contorted, fluid pollution and radio active industrial constructed grates. I am not safe here.
“I took them as they were taken, nothing very nice conditioned.” Ice falls in eyes. Aggression slowing and repeating- “As the moon turns for no one”
The new born endorphins. Black mass consuming small section, the windows are dim lit isolation, standing fixed in the dark. Swan in suit- clean cut, short hair, black teeth. I came in my fathers room, sifting in articles of disturbing things. Hinted ring echoes down the hall, stopping for a moment. He is not my father. I accuse him of being an agent. Not able to speak. Suffocated. The hallway beneath my feet crumbling, black teeth snarling at my back. Isolated windows. Quiet country.
Snow blankets black monoliths. All in rows. Fifty feet spanning upward. Fields of white cutting our delicate skin, steaming extremities. Black sky, blotted slow white pins. Light fragmenting off each piece. Business men in bowler hats, all identical. No faces.
The Tribal Boys are pitted slaves, each crying and circling. Pencils taped to fingers, crumbling, gashed and fell. Black and white. Black blood. Black teeth snarling. Rain starts in hot ash spurts. But the sky is gray right now, young. Rains bladder sky muddy shoes. Fear fear shouts, whines- wooden house wall, construction beams, wooden pillars. My company presses forwards, feet depressing wood, snapping timbers, gray apartment complexes, skies welling up. Restricted areas blinding orange ripples mud pools in noon-day dark. I saw as it had punctured, quick down to somewheres warm. He limps. Wood board nail punctures rubber rivets, sliding through wet gym sock. Rusted nail, sliding through the skin, deep in the foot. Asphalt road rippling, descending. Impaled peach oozing innards, a nail embedded core.
We are waiting. Brothers and sisters waiting. Chairs line the hall, they are all here by me, shouting down the attendance lines. Blurred.
His general tending, forming us, directing, admonishing. He is leading me further out in front of me, large mountains, instruments, lining out the shelves, the lines dissolve, the wood flowing out in my arms on each narrow edge. He is floating ahead, the pooled lights reflecting of each other, him wandering out in front of me. Dropping, resurfacing. He hands it down, the brass steel, deepening my fingers, content cafeteria school children gliding floating trash, the sex winding downwards, the hall opening up in torrents of light, all their films playing something they hear. They are muffled, my fingers
dance mild procession and white boredom, the suburbs eating them dripping from the infinite mouth. I'll have expected them both, gates flooding out rushing from the edges, and i quick down infinite assembly room. The amplifiers, i point to a fellow student- “the best i use... hands over the head...wild and blinding...rain...morning...”
the other children are waiting...” Sister mounting out the door, she is far away, she is in basement bong on table, drunk brother. I lead her to the assembly procession. I lead false into rooms restricted among the viewers, hallways melting, and we will avoid the mouth of the assembly hall, we see through boards and holes in the winding corridors, swallowing the children spirals down. We reach the edge and flow, the students waiting in front the wide angles; initial report:
Generic whore, sliced and filthy outlet. Playhouse is dying, no substance, in close proximity, one by one they fade into the darkness. I plunge out high above the mist.
Leaving, i run through empty rooms. Furniture losing footing, everything gone, leave pain nostalgia. I will forget soon. I grab my items-mean nothing- this the last day, mounting outwards into the sun.
passing wonder, across the public courtyards, i see her veiled, and she shows to our group, passing us. Dust clearing off and away i stare into her. She is a nomad. Passing her one line trailing out a false embodiment. We'll both take refuge in the small schoolhouse little girl restroom. She builds the christ manger, forming shapes and shadows. Silent film wanton madness, she is gone. She shows...
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Woke this morning, terrible weather. We all stocked into a junkard, bearing down the road to the Western Barrenlands. Out to the dusking, a burning sun dying into the mountains. The road stops and telephone wires bleeding less and less into the ground. We are surely at the end of the barrenlands. ONLY here are there the bizarre and the vivid, the burning and the damned. As the night slowly reaps death on us, a dead stroke before morning, we creep into a gas station- bunker room.
