the doctrine is IN.

The rapper reveals his sensual exploits in S & Eminem, a Yo Yo Mah Jongg film. Perhaps he was “cup-holded” in a previous relationship, you know, forced to watch his partner place a beverage into a strange receptacle. Or perhaps he developed sympathies for the captors who kept him hostage in a warehouse—he might’ve suffered from Stockroom Syndrome. Do you know the hip-hop poet, Eazy-e.e. cummings? Well, L.L. Cool J. Edgar Hoover Dam!

We say “patty wagon” because in the beginning of law enforcement, only hamburger makers were thrown in the back of the van. Did you know that the cops can invoke “Search and Caesar” and thereby confiscate your salad? The Chinese, meanwhile, will be catering the next solar eclipse with their cuisine, Dim Sun. Before that happens, you should go see the new episodic play that focuses on Native American deified spirits—The Kachina Monologues.

Listen to the editor, when the editor sez: “I smell errata!” He may be suffering from a Chagall stone in his De Gaulle bladder. Humankind emerged from the ancient goop to primordial ooze and ahs. Thirteen deer are a hunter’s venison whereas every bird is a moderate, owing to its left and right wings. Chickens are always being forced to re-coop their losses, while turkeys are on the rise—and on the pumpernickels. I saw it on that TV show, Slaw & Order.

Thinking ahead, the husband and wife planned their funerals: his and hearse. Afterwards, they watched a triple X movie about double-entendres: Read Between the Loins, a Yo Yo Mah Jongg Film. Here are your messages. The crunchy sixty-something called you back—yeah, the baby boomer rang. Whereas that Australian toy you chucked at the far horizon, that didn’t return? What a bummer-rang. Lodge a complaint with the Obscurity Exchange Commission!

Was it B.B. Q’ing who sang the blues and ate the barbecue? (He’s back on line, he’s B.B. Queueing, for some more saucy meats.) Okay, okay, I’ll mind my appeasements and queues. The mafia are now predicting the end of the world, or so sayeth the Cosa Nostradamus. If you can’t honk there’s a product—“Honk Ease”—that should help you honk, whether or not you’re brightening your coffee in Half & Halfghanistan.

SONNET NO. 2 (FOR CLARICE LISPECTOR)

The young woman’s whereabouts involve snow: seeds and dots weltering in halos of oily water at her shoelaces, which go boot-over-boot down the embankment to lengths of wintering scrub. “Garvey’s Ghost”—the bitter sweet percussion—starts on her earbuds. Her red hair clipped and chipped. The railroad tracks offer a north-south corridor between shallow wood where the wind can scour the poor footing of coarse ballast, culvert quiet and quiet akimbo. She had walked, once, through the pre-lightning metals, the stackable shoulders of a buckled housing distant, until she had lain down in a cemetery, long enough to be missing. A group of firefighters in t-shirts, heavy pants, and suspenders had discovered her, fetal, amid the irrational angles of the headstones. They had carried her (it only took one) (at a time) through a bright precipitate, and among the elevations and lift, she caught the slanted medallion of a fuselage in blue-gray suspension. Trumpet, the train drives through the wake of its own trumpet, the heralding, itself, always irrelevant.

There is little time to spread her arms in benediction as the locomotive—speeding, bright, juiced by catenary power—illuminates the regret of her body, organized forward in recognition of terror. Thirty minutes later, the train brakes, shrill, to a clatter, before the incongruity of a brief reversal, the passengers wakening to a small station, quiet akimbo. Abbey Lincoln had been guiding the musicians with the swells of her wordless voice, and the young woman must’ve deduced, “No, it’s good to be cold, it’s good to be cold,” before the engine’s number, 900 series, screamed beyond the glint of her good, cold, living eyesight. The conductor will fumble but save his coffee, the train will move, people will move, and isn’t that why she had protested in the first place, as the song clanged in her earbuds? Portraits will always decorate the hollows of a living room. They will always decorate fewer hours of dusty light.

also see

sonnet (for clarice lispector)

MOUSE DON'T RIDE THE SUBWAY.

Starring:

Little Blue Mouse

Setting:

Red Line

Wash., D.C.

Director:

Blood And

Length:

1 minute

Advance Praise:

“No mice, no dice! We demand umpteen equity rodents now!” —Critter Twitter

“The sensible reaction in the D.C. subway system (is to run!)” —Espouse Mouse

“The mouse sizeth-up. Ye shall know of my great benevolence.  ” —Mono Deity

Also see:
A Ring of Fire
Dan Gutstein Speaks to the Cat
Send in the Burgliz!