A Culminating and Impending Desert

A Culminating and Impending Desert

There is an alley that is burrowed between a bank and a hospital somewhere in the world. There is no indication of it being there—only a right step in the left direction into the bright alley that resembles at once a well-lit hallway and a whorehouse. Noises live there—a composite pink noise made up of indistinguishable components blaring softly and loudly from the clinking ground, hard metal. The noise is so ever pervasive that it takes on the form of thoughts sometimes, manifesting itself for a second as a cloud of sparkling dust only to disappear instantly. If stepped into, the alley seems empty—all people seem to blend into the surrounding walls, into the ground, into the noise of a great waterfall. Once a man saw a woman there—he had the uncanny feeling that he had entered someone else’s dream. Faces, if seen, take on the glittering sound of a sarod, a steel drum, small hand cymbals—until they vanish again into atmosphere or melt like Kathakali masks on the walls. A man once followed the alley and realized it was a channel, a hidden third channel between the bank and the hospital. He was amazed. The alley opens up into a desert—the bank and the hospital look awful lonely beside all that dirt and sand. The barrage of sound is replaced by another deafening tone—a shrill whistle that seems to emanate from the sky itself. If a woman finds herself there, she will drop to her knees because it is all she can do. When the noise stops, if it stops, the desert and the sky are filled with so much beauty (the clouds in that sky swell like breasts, like ripening fruits, like opening blooms) that sweet juices seem to seep from the cracks of the dry ground, of the torn eardrum, the tearing of the eye. The light in the desert is like the light in a forest—filtered through thousands of invisible atmospheric shades so that when it reaches the ground, it is not a color that can be described with any amount of certainty—it is the color of the current state of things. If a woman sees this color, she will know what I mean. This desert is the same in which Foucault was found holding a cactus in his bare hands, face and mouth bloodied by the sting but deliriously happy because he realized what he had seen. This Mi’raj is the same in which Muhammad saw heaven and hell at once and knew it was the alike in sorrow and beauty. Suddenly and all at once, things will return to normal. The light will be the light of the sun, constant and dry. The sand will be sand again and the alley will not be found. The bank and the hospital will continue their business with the greatest urgency and a woman and man will find themselves standing, looking out into their now ugly life, not being able to speak.


Yikes shit

Between the words of many and mine

canyons filled with puddles of meaning


Culled and strained and pored poured over

You don’t care, though. You don’t care.


Scabbard, bone dry, knuckled through

You hit it over and over again


As if this crater spackled over

Were not an exhibit to your craze.


This lack makes you not lacking in man

Lies do, though. I’m not an infant here.


If I opened a box of shimmering jewels

Meaning would swirl right off of this page.


Through the heaviness of perception I trudge back to my bed

A mattress filled with animals nameless

Balls thrown up and down each eye to follow

Like a cat with a broken tail.

I’m fine, I think and I know it’s the truth

Yet some black spot keeps hurting to look

I had forgotten about that book

It is too filled with absolute whiteness.

Huh what is this?

Think for a second of all the pains and pleasures that must go into making this tiny piece of metal that you are scraping across your knuckles for the sake of having some bloody fucking knuckles.

That I wanted to say that to you makes me think I am going crazy.

I saw a dead sloth by the side of the road, his mouth open in a grimace. He must have fallen off the telephone wires like the scab that fell off your knuckles today.

I went to a class the other day, and it had vanished.

“Dude, where were you in class today?” Fahraz asked.

“I showed up, but it was invisible.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.”

Record Keeping

You are having trouble in the world

Because you want Sundays to mean waffles

And glass to mean truth

But you don’t realize

That tiny pink flowers

Mean tiny pink flowers

And their sweet yellow nectar

Is only sweet to you.


A felt tip pen has juice enough

To rend its insides out.

For me to spill my guts quick enough

For you to say, bitterly, enough,



Though this time I coughed brightly

Up all the shit you blew into the ceiling

I can’t promise that tomorrow

I’ll remember everything you said.


Because let’s face it, friend

Neither of us are much interested

In what the world looks like

Just what our insides feel like.

Drug Poems

Look at all these tubers of nebulas gathering darkly, brightly!


luminescent tubes

in the vivid black



of light

of glass



of bubbles

of thoughts


linearity suddenly shattered!

endless xylophones of color




shots of gold and purple (vibrations)

Swollen bubbles

coagulate, prismatic


softly glowing in the black

phallic and mammarian

liquids pulsate contained

within the thinnest layer

of transparency



growing from the walls

in an ecstatic magic EYE

of reflection

and deception.


Information? In this strobe flashing.


I draw fish with teeth and we all gather, quiet and blown over by a strong storm. The light makes everyone green. We are all the way we always are and yet this, this state of duality, of the consciousness being ripped out from the body, a state of pure data, is an alternate universe of patterns and seizures. When you come toward me, everything else recedes far away and the space between u                                         s grows.

I Found Old Things on a USB Stick

ye I ate that shit

curling me I watch tv

on a movie face swirls by

like under dark blue pool


I join you by light pool

prisms flash by surfacially

or at very bottom I snatch

them they stay glimmering


plink the metal string

ye I wanna be dick dale

his sound wettens like pool

water floods all senses.


Falling apart you leave me don’t leave me I am too alone to function pace chair to couch to bed sink down into thick cotton gaze at cloud turning to angel glowing through cloud eh fuck my sensational pupil…

…one spot on wall indicates treasures

stop don’t play that bungled shit…



dis                                                                               location.

Why scream you hurt “shit I took too much” chak chak chaka chaka chak chak

…do police exist?

Do mothers?

We are fish no need for hard hand

here apply this serum lay that curly head your face blurs like crying don’t cry the beauty kills and your face puffs up little by little…

…we cling to compartmentalize

all the information back to a soft gentle world.