I missed you SO MUCH. I'm just so bad at talking on the phone. Ask Kevin.
Since I've been gone, Justin Edward Caligula Sirois My Pets III has begun to illustrate my employment sphere. It looks a lot like my unemployment sphere, but the terror is obscured by the joy of three initials: P P O. It has to do with health insurance. Now I can go to any doctor I want and pay a lot of money, except I'll know to label the money "deductible" in my head, which is much less threatening than "OH GOD MONEY," even if in the end they are the same thing.
Okay, this is from work, by Justin. It actually happened, all of it:
And you know what else? Bender, who was five feet of man-meat, now HAS about SIX feet of man-meat. I present to you the sweetheart of online dating and economic analysis:
Likes: cats, pie, circus peanuts.
Dislikes: driving, riding in the car, stuff to do with moving cars.
Between the two of us, there is nothing we can not fear. Try us.
I was supposed to have a double-header this weekend (this doesn't have to do with boning), but read in Baltimore and lost my voice and couldn't read in DC. Here is what I read at the Carriage House in Baltimore, in case you want to see it. Some of it has to do specifically with the place, so don't be intimidated by my snooty references. You wouldn't understand anyway.
Very little need in the modern world—by which I mean ultra, aligned, of course urgent (some friends say malignant)—at a club, for some barn or stable, with nominal function, and original storage and drastically small carriages, very little need for modifications. Because of their prestigious nature, please identify something unique to this large strata; note our differences in position; note the height of my prestigious nature; note my stature, my very little need.
Behold my marimba.
Consider the stove where there was once a different kind of stove; consider that song about things becoming lush and temperate, exchanging their retail for quiet return. For a moment, consider epic sleeping quarters; consider the job of warming the seat in the outhouse for someone; consider the story about doing that job in the dark morning, and when you go to sit you feel yourself sitting on someone’s lap, but there is no one there; you spring from it; you burst out into sharp frigidity with your wool pants halfway up and hit a root and fall—the earth has exactly the quality you would expect upon your arm and face. Huffing, you try to tell your wife but she won’t hear it. You saw your master’s horse dozing, his heavy head toward where there are now chairs with people in them. You can’t get used to this lifestyle. You caught a rattlesnake for dinner.
This place had a ghost and an environment.
Small carriage house. Mistakes will happen. Fanciful renderings of the interior. Kansas, New York, such structures regardless of their current use.
A suite for the whole family; expanses of terror.
In the mornings he rolled into low light from something atomic and lit
Couldn’t believe they were waking us up that early
To normalize the map in tow, the tether,
The years strung together by gaps
That I can recall the names of fruits and vegetables
Squeaking down Versailles in an inflatable
And following through aquariums
(Note the carpet—how it forces and absolves)
(Note the pattern—how it meets the chapel and retracts)
Scuttles by in an innertube and flip-flops
Scuttles toward the indoor pool wearing something inflatable
The Carriage House is a non-gaming hotel just off the strip
Our plane was delayed; we played nickel slots until
Flying home separately.
My brother rolls into certain light from other kinds of light
City houses could be
and only adequate
to house one small carriage
small, fanciful interiors arranged along
vast bodies of bays and prairies and plateaus
carriage bays adequate for small utilities
horses holding tremor in their vast bodies
think not on expanses of water but on the cliffs relieving them
small boys build their lean-to and throw metal folding chairs
sometimes it’s like a country inn by the sea, and others,
I had an idea sprayed with the foam of melancholy
I tried to draw a conclusion
The carriage house is like a country inn by the sea.
In it, it’s like waiting; the dunes are hospitable
You can imagine some southern fishing birds
There are no birds; look—no sound
On the dunes there are grasses
There is no current default page for your needlework aspirations;
Like the breath of small boys its recollection grows plaques of
Possibility—like certain farts it foreshadows small patterns and
Lack of follow-through.
Stitch Amish alphabets into slashed throats
Remember both throats against heavy polyester
Business casual behind the eroticism of sports injuries
One man holds the other, and fiddles down
For that retracted something
Pinched closed are the spurts of industry
Imagine marshes where there was once upstate
Stay with wholesome democratic surgeries
The throat within your neck hoarsely housing
Spaces to devastate and hold dearly
“MYTH was the product of another series, which began in February 1997 in Braddock Heights, MD at a carriage house on Maryland Avenue. Toby DeBarr and myself leased the carriage house for a year and a few months for $650 a month out of our own pockets ... and hosted BYOB potluck dinners with convivial readings on a monthly basis on Saturday nights, which were incredibly popular -- often more than 60 to 80 people would cram in, but it was so much fun ... we began asking out-of-town poets to come and do short features in 1998 ... and put them up in the loft of the carriage house. We remained there until August 1998, then moved to Other Words Studio in downtown Frederick by their invitation. We remained there doing the monthly series on the 4th Saturday of the month until May of 1999.
The first slam, in October 1997, was so large we had to rent out the Braddock Heights Community Center behind the carriage house for the more than 150 people that showed up to listen to the 20 slammers! People came from all over: Virginia, PA, MD, WV, DC ....
[read like slam]
we were stunned to find how
word of mouth
had travelled so far so fast!” My
last postal pony gallops lonely; my
mythical history bewitches me
pony tricks twist mixed-up destinies
Pretend that you are the horse
and your chair is the carriage
Imagine your efficiency
Your quiet subversion
Now imagine that you are a rogue economist
And your carriage is our recession
Nothing can move me like that octave
I hear it and lurch toward you,
My oversized head, my hot nostrils
Crusted and flexing against shiny weathers
Think of its efficiency as it becomes engorged
(its passive considerations)
Hear its contents coarse toward my equine guts and brains
Its proximity illusory beneath this baseball neck
Its filling held within or projected at trauma
Or in the car, like a donut
Plasma to deep color
My foal’s eyes are wildly rolling amidst
Its such visible physiology
I throw my taut weight atop
And snap its soft body down to marrow
We are in the bathtub
I have to live forever
Carriage houses get their name from
Where they were conceived
the out buildings of large manors where
at least it wasn’t Warsaw
owners stored their carriages
detached garage designs with living space above them
two to three cars
one bedroom and bath
in Baltimore we have bowling
he said when the pins crack they look like
a flock of flying ducks
These plans make an interesting alternative to
The idea of the Gestapo taking your mother
While you are deep in fever
A lifetime—which is taxonomic, multilayered, some would say shrouded in pragmatism or just really uncomfortable—laminated shingle designed to replicate scalloped slate, a lifetime of science and eaves overhanging a round hole in the door just outside of the bathroom, just right for one’s eye when no one is looking.
What was it?
It wasn’t. Just a hole to pull a door or look through. Ghost to tell, no story to project upon the alley, and what of the alley’s was, or was it? Just some stall to muck and think how deep to go.