Three Special Ingredients on Rice

(transcribed from original manuscript, 1994)

who isn't without the yellow ear mark? who hasn't

given the rub and glub on the slim who isn't aware of the

importance of distraction?

he is in the qualms of wintered discourse

the meats step over his angled shoulder, his eyes leap

off the page, sitting next to the miller high life.

whose chinese grand ma?

have you seen her?

-------> 1/2 cup soup, any variety

-------> 1/4 cup sugar reed

the pointed cap revolves

over the meadown, in a dirigible outfitted for the

duration, he gazes out at the cut of the land ... and cut it is.

into parsects, into homesteads, into pocket-sized giblets

that wail at the onset of the heel, the shoe and the leg that

parts it.

crumbling half-wit sons that are vying in suits for the

throny potato, who hasn't whipped up in bed, who

isn't going downtown on the E train? sit next to the

masticated skilllearner, his timorous act is a transparent

truce, jingo!

his ruse, it's sexless adaptation, makes her the shuttle to

befuddle.

kasparov hunkers down with the enormity. he kills

the jaywalkin' fool. inner outer around into the chant

chamber, bewail into the early morning.

squinted chinee, speak in this fat and sleek auto, sell

me a single stalk of asparagus, and later, i'll regret my

gruff demeanor, i'll regret the insistence, despite your

protestation -- you charged me 33 american pennies for this elegance,

this pulping rod, and it's funny too.

and the night previous, i eat tomato in cold wind, is

chilly. i eat hearyt toma toe. it big. roun. red like some

mysterious organ. it drippy.

want to have the council sit in the steam room, maybe

they'll burn off some of that full-on-crap they're always

leaving around, clinging to microphones, stinking all

smaltered on the lenses of cameras. dirty pieshells in the

midland brimming with flowers. floating in the water

contained by a vodka bottle.

the illustration of a tooth, tongue happer boar

gritty mouthed daemon, my teeth are like yours.

dental dreams, a big breasted blonde, with dark roots, her

seat makes her look happy, dark eyes, and heaving

delicous. rolled-up sleeves, diggin' in.

and then i stop to write, i go to pee. see old man wash

cup, red cup plastic cup washing. o'er and o'er he does.

droopy man. look like the crook of withered cannister.

new york is like a little baby, it needs to be burped

and chortled upon. mexico city is more grand. i have seen

it on a postcard the size of texas.

no love in the lump of brick. watched it like a kelp

bed, or dice roll without inky fingers.

opulace of dirty car

the man in all checkererd polyester

the recurring not the arab chap chatting to the

newspapermen who laugh with great tempo . . . or the

woman with the really large boots, that have insects

becovering, the chinese woman speaking in darts, broken

english, she even told me that south china is fish.

the coin operated love affair, the undulating

manticore, the beginning of helping and sharing and undre

the standing, and bowling lop lops, in joints of fur, rolling

bowling like energetic dung beetles in glee, tiny, round,

full-binned, ballsdown the lane, or alley, or the yes men

will come-over, clapping facelessly, grinning in the

impossible light, which is dim at best, even in little

magazine stores, which also bend cigars, the machine

opens it's beleagured maw, accepts my money dolefully,

coughing and sputtering out change into the hands of

some dandruff, some surgeon who gives it to me.

the townsfolk are all vandals! the dirty bastards can

all go burn in the furnaces, kept constantly refueled, and

maintained so expertly, that the temperatures rise to

undreamed of utility.

or perhaps, more kindly, the townsfolk will abandon

their shovels, let upon themselves fall the righteous

indignation and so and so forth. the opening in the

nearest mouth in town, the jalopy, ok i said, it now get out

of the immediately, abandon all persuits, of any

kind, and no dilly-dallying in the grass beanbag of love.

the young oilman yanked his haypiece

long and jibes

we saw the film the girl who wipes

virgin ploughed, keeping the napkin in a filing

cabinet, the verdigris. the flowers of fitteen minutes ago.

on the corner of lex and 88th, after the short and light rain.

laying or lying, or having been laid, beside the steel.

trash. can.

carved into rectangles and cubes, occasionally a

triangle for big sparks. the only the shoes in town!

the only floating jumpsuits, and the view! you should

see the view.

i thought of the screens, pryed off and emptied on the

floor. a tricky job.

a jungle hook with prey for a week, cold and

troubled, morose about the loss of his daughter who is the

new princess of inlets and doorjambs removed.

what of it? so he died to talk of it, he is dead, indeed

one in a tomb, he is dead.

come now, give me the opened head, once again.

capitus, soup cans, stinky and full of chalk. is he dead?

the earmarked page held nothing of interest, merely

drivel concerning the erection of clumsy facades and

palisades. to read such a thing is to fall into the hallway,

drunk, you can shout and hoot. you can even guffaw and

titter gregariously. to no avail. the stones do not breathe

despite what you may have heard.

the use of wood is most important. the hay is the

smack of tied rope. there can be no more bagels, today,

the jungle is surrounded by trucks.

by gorgeous trucks with large heads of sticks, rolling

on inflated rubber wheels, groaning in pits of steel, no such

thing, yer crazy.

lithe natives cower in the brush, popping immense

boils on each others backs. the sound of it is delicious. a

symphony?

no such thing, yer crazy as a hat.

it's a lulu

the burnt egg of dawn slips onto your face

because you didn't pull down the shade, dumbass.

the sounds in the hall rival those of hannibal's

advance. what of it? you gurgle in the steeped goop of

your dreaming.

through the cage bars a fried face. burnt in some

primordial fur long long hair knotted in traps and footfalls,

loose teeth in a bracket. black shudder with the head on

your shoulders working out the mathematical equations it

will take to escape.

arte moderno can go suck my ass, let me cum all over

it's bruised and upturned boobies

remember the sag pap? the old udder? the downtrod

babe of 80 on the stoop, her children going amuck?

if it's not a high tech plastic, then bedamn it.

what about the couple under the floorboards,

fucking? they want to write their names on the wood

down there . . . where done will read it, and only they, and

i, will know it's there, the sounds and vibration from the

floor, a large rat's wrestling, her face is tattooed, his face

is dark, and like mine, but different. i think they are

bankrobbers. the old let us fuck and shoot em up game

but what about my stack of black

and white photographs? in the midst of her fake orgasm.

he grabs them in his hands, wrapped in gauze or broken

plaster, i realize it has been a ruse! they have broken

my typewriter while i was unconscious.

all the gangsters are laughing and want me to pay

money to fix it, if i refuse they will shoot me.

all the faces up here, and all of them different. so

bizarre. how many can there be? where is my eerie

doppleganger?

i'll snap the homonculus' neck.

he has nicer shoes than i do, nicer clothes, neater

haircut, the building in bald shape according to the sound

of slaps on pythagoras' face. he is a good old chap, no

need to do any of the tough guy routine.

just sit and muse over it's old time beer night.

you can drink for a nickel and fuck the bartender's

wife for a dime

she has money in her bra, and if you lick her neck

she'll give you plus, extra.

her children watch from the hallway, masturbating

into tin cups.

they really go with the yo, yo yo yo, and shit yo

in tomkins sq. there is a statue of a woman, the only

woman, and her breasts are frighteningly large, large like

you don't want them to fall over on top of you.

if you depost breadcrumbs about the base, art is

made.

if you stare out of the corner of your eye, imagining,

madly, that she is shifting her position, so obviously! so

slightly . . .

dark raining drinking a 40

give me the opened head, and into the garden, give

me the full report. the rifle stands at attention, among the

gardenias and azelias. smelling like old pirate booty.

an old friend on the street

his face covered in snot

drunk as a piss

smelling of it, too.

little hands for little manuevers, stealing cheese from

the supermarket, cramped and mimicing the calls of dying

inbreds, stuffed with toilet tissue and overpriced cans of

prefabricated food and rinky dink operations in back

alleys, chinatown.

here is the pointillism of soup, can we uncover the

hereafter? three precious ingredients on rice

bean curd skin roll

aromatic egg

the newly shaven head, hunkered down in a

whillowhip of traction, tennishoes bloodied, picking at a

wound at the zenith of his head, rubbing it with a steel

extension.

i looked for a moment, took her picture.

my finger heals nicely.

the door open, down the hall, the breeze, the fat man

who stinks, walking around in his stretched out looms.

medallion on a mock turtle neck

tells me it costs too much too keep it clean, why

bother? rather spend it on beer, one beer, then two, three

beers, isn't is suave, he thinks. it keeps itself tied up until

ther snow starts carving in on his slumber.

why not keep to the stairwell? the tops of the

ascending heads have giggles written all over them.

why not climb out on the roof adjacent, reeling with

beer and pot, stumbling into pipes and tarcovered nubs?

look down into the streets, hoping for a glimpse down

some poor bag's shirt, titties like openhearted surgery, the

blueprints sweating in the creases beneath, fat, gigantic

nipples like land fields, no pearls or gold.

give me the opened head and the basket it rode in on.

moses of the park, needling the passerby with wingnut

theosophy, his hands wrapped up in his mouth.

action over-voiced revelling in wind moaned tinkle

knots.

his ream of papree sits available in a dumpster, he

simply hasn't claimed it as yet. dreadlocked black man

with the shopping cart and the toaster oven for a dollar

his daughter kneeling in the dirt, playing the lute.

pantaloons opened with the wear and the tear, etc.

she strips for the christians who warn her to clear her

plate

she is told to eat it all up