An Infinite Regression of Past Lives

By Peter

A skunk walks across the beach
in a red and white striped one piece,
a surfboard under his arm.
He stops every woman
to ask for the time of day.
None give it to him
as bikini clad women
tend not to wear watches.
They are, for the most part, cordial
in their refusals,
but the waves laugh at his rejections.
The skunk, visibly frustrated by the guffaws,
refrains from spraying the water
out of respect for the other beachgoers.
The skunk is not a skunk at all,
He is a businessman carrying a briefcase.
The sand is Grand Central Station.
He constantly checks his watch,
then squints at the schedule,
then back to his watch.
He is the type of person who shows up
hours early in case of this very predicament
and would likely catch his train with time to spare.
He asks anyone and everyone
for directions to the proper platform,
pointing to his ticket for reference.
No one acknowledges his presence.
He is not a businessman at all.
He is me. I am no businessman.
I am in a motel room
washing my face
I don’t know what city I’m in,
some town bordering Detroit.
I stare into the mirror in the mirror,
see how many of me there are.
It’s three a.m. and I have a strange feeling
I’m going to a funeral tomorrow.
Why else would I pack a suit?

An Infinite Regression of Past Lives

Drunk On New York

By Peter

 

Madness is unrefined passion

Passion is exonerated madness

Yak’s milk is sweet

and I drink to no end

 

No end

like these streets—

I walk every one

and never grow tired

 

knowing even eternity won’t last forever

and I have a train to catch

out to the countryside, where a mad yak

waits for me

 

with an infectious smile

with pure milk

 

which I drink to no end

and think of the endless city streets—

with bronze idols, glass walls,

cemented paths

 

That is all behind me now

The streets are behind me

The train is behind me

The mad yak is behind me

 

goading me to keep going to no end

goading me to drink her milk to no end

 

until the last sap of life is drained

so she can sleep to no end

 

so her dreams become my dreams

and my dreams travel beyond

the endless city streets

who refuse to sleep

 

They drink me to no end

consuming the same mad yak visions

that gestate in the womb of slumberless nights

who give birth to babies

 

that overrun the endless city streets

with cries for yaks milk.

The wails resonate

off skyscrapers as

 

an admission of want for nothing

other than mother,

an omission of subways, stadium deals,

condo complexes, dreams of electric sheep.

 

A call for transformation

of pavement to pasture

and the world’s city citizens

to sprout curved horns

 

grow hooves, don thick coats of fur

and udders and udders

filled with the passion and madness

of yaks milk

Drunk On New York

Voice Control

By Peter

 

wave function rolls

over tongue

 

say it

      say it

                  it again

 

thoughts like

              french kiss

         ear lick

                       mind meld

 

right thought (check)

         right speech (check)

             lights

                      camera

                   (right) action

 

communication out

       of focus

 

a monkey teaching a dolphin

               to climb a tree

                              both agree that

                        oranges are oranges

 

peel means skin

        skin does not mean peel

   you can skin a banana

             but you can’t peel a cat

you can tuna fish

                    can the piano

                                             it’s out of tune

 

false positives

     doubly negated negatives

          placebos work

if you let them

 

everything is a matter

                                     of percentages

                 90% of the time

         from vegas to wall street

            but I live in kansas

 

off-broadway is still broadway

           paris is still paris

                   and still burning

 

I make a claim

                       then stake it

      I have no idea what

                                          that expression means

 

none of the words I invented

                 are in the dictionary

       I shout them

                      from rooftops

                           on cold nights

                      words are just a song

                               I don’t know the melody

 

translate english into

                             english into english

               and the original

                             meaning is lost

if it had one to begin with

 

this corn maze means

            something but

                                is too big

         for me make it

                          out alive

                     I need the bees

                        to dance my way out

 

I recite my lines      

    stage directions say

                                    to exit left

            I do

                 the curtain closes

                       no one applauds

Voice Control

Five Actions for Wednesday

By Chef Steel

Find two useless things. Unite them together with instant glue or string
Photograph the object

Find a small useless object. Wrap it completely with electrical tape
Photograph the object

Buy or use a deck of playing cards. Shuffle and take a card without
looking at it. Rip up the card into small pieces and put it into a blank
envelope. Put a stamp on it and mail. Wrap up the deck of cards
with masking tape and write on it “Missing in action”.
Photograph the object and envelope

Buy or use a full packet of flower seeds. Open and walk south 25 steps
and throw the seeds in the air. Tape up the seed packet and write on it
“my seeds are sown -(date)
Photograph the object

Find a useless object. Use it as something else for the rest of the day.
Photograph the object. Put the object in a box
Keep the photograph

After each action, keep what you can in a box. Write on the box “Use Now”.
Keep the box for one month on a windowsill. Then leave the box in a public
space i.e. bus seat, mall table, public bathroom mirror or a stranger’s car.
*note what I mean by useless object is something that is common or
broken such as a spoon or fork, a broken watch or earring.

Five Actions for Wednesday