MR. Phelps

February 24, 2013 § 1 Comment

It’s the big day on wheel of fortune, Mr. Phelps lingers over the wheel, dancing side to side in his Swiss tweed jacket he has been wearing for the last 8 years while living here. The sweat under his reading glasses blur in the old fashioned 1983 lighting rigs, lost in it. His eyes watch the wheel rotate, his polka dot pants cling to his leg, and. The wheel of fortune! Welcome back those of us who have been away from Parker brothers tv city, lets start up there, Mr. Phelps. Let her rip. 

“The wheels has already been spinning, Alex. I can’t remember when the last time is I wasn’t watching it.” 

“Can I get a T?” 

“A T?”

The buzzer. “Errr”

Next to Mr. Phelps is an old woman with a tucan on her shoulder. She can’t seem to remember if she just spun or is spinning the wheel now. She spins the wheel, stumbles shining in the gold lights, and tries to stop it. 

“No, no let it spin.” Mr. Phelps mutters. 

“Alex she almost spun the wheel twice.” 

Alex looks like he hasn’t heard Mr. Phelps and turns to the live audience, showing his teeth hands tight around the game cards. 

“Can I get an O?” 

“An O.”


“Oh, no O either.” 

“Go on Marty.” 

Stiff upper back, hunched over the wheel like a mechanic studies an engine, Marty, dressed in his tan wranglers pulled up to his belly button, squints behind his lenses, quarter inch of magnification, and waits for the number screen to pass.

“Can I get a T.” 

“I asked for a T.” Mr. Phelps starts. 

Marty groans and backs away, barely noticed the comment and starts clapping his hands together in a reluctant small celebration dance, waiting for his T.

“No T, Marty. Try again.” 

“An O?” 

“She asked for an O, you numb skull.” Mr. Phelps shouts.

Alex steps back and makes a joke about Mr. Phelps under his breath. The audience is surprised, and laughing at the look on Alex’s face. This is zoomed on.



White Mouth

February 22, 2013 § Leave a comment


I’d puncture ribbons through her hair
for the noises that erupted from the
open garbage can mouth she has,
fold the replicas at home, on a bench
made just for pretty puppets

Dolls that escaped her throat white
turning away three prongs from the center
her place in the garden now, with the statues

Eating breakfast without her, the
shadows angled to my ankles
drain cereal grain through the window
like that
another weapon I had not thought of –
{an alien surgeon}
I really hear something in the wall

How do I even weave a couch
like this one, a braid of hair,
a lock from a Ruski girl –

look down in the shadows
for what you may like about me –
carpet to learn something from

Parts of the letter row missing pieces
in the room, corroding out from inside
of her weapon mouth

long chains inching forms woven, felted,
locked inside of each other, paper boats
on fire withered, breaking yellow blankets

Pretty violet, the feed store radio
I had sex with you! You would still be here
but my eyes have ruined it for everyone –

A violent shape is rummaging up,
ceiling fan laughter, admitting sleep
tongue towards your heart.

An awful shadow of silences have left
cigarette butts upon us
you have a garbage can for a mouth
I need to fill it with moldy teddy
bear, rusted engine part, broken guitar,
candles burned to the ends.

If the sun comes out, I’ll leave you
whispering Chelsea to the Ki-Ki
so I can get ready and groan no.

Ants wander through plastic bag, exploring
the yellow folds to find your bunny
feet, sails all twisted. Wire Nafysary
tried to sing from TV mouth, behind
eyelids –

good morning to the fallen leaves
carved with wood burn into the reflection –
A bed sheet crosses the wall, subdues window

I never want to go to a white person
again – their snowflakes landing in
printers – If you keep acting up were
gonna keep you here, bitch, you bitch.

Clap your hands full of gifts, Q tips, maxi-
thins, and arrange a flower of your lips
made for portraits.

Stack your tangles on page two forty
five in an elaborate fuck you whispering
blanketed in mania, convictions covering your
wet mouth stuffed in Essentials TM.

Too bad you wont listen
bobcat mangles the cat toy until you leave –
in a red dot you get counseling wired from –
strung the broken guitar with those morning
arguments and ate the burning rubble
waiting to watch TV.
You need therapy, you need a counselor
I don’t want you to mention your penis to
me ever fucking again!

Loud mouth, full of TV commercials,
now wasted in electric beauty, sophomore delicate
with your cabled hands across my back,
searching for an outlet.

Lick watercolors up, off of a piece of film
and get pieced together out of old porn’s
in your 70’s bathing suit, now they’ve
scratched parts away from your mouth
and no one can listen to your “me,
sounds like shit” anymore, but birds
and tires splashing rain water –

Whatever the show, tiled in winter claw foot
curled over highway 1, down across spit
out rock sediment. All bathing in flames –

The way I empty myself into the field from
a long wire of balloon lines, from pock
marked machine ventilation – is how I rise to
morning # 2. On a deck of playing cards –
early enough to shed sound waves as you
gurgle words you cannot taste – bitter
hemlock, leaking ropes –

It’s not four yet, he devoured silk
her hair just kept curling, she’s always
been hot. Her life just unfurled
bagels and stockings, torn with a sweater and
rain soggy cardboard –

Do not hang from ceiling grid
at nine-thirty. I’m not gonna control piles
of tarpaulin and chicken wire from there.

Done mating, I don’t have answers
any more, drew out plans of my
time, welding elk spine within
my statue to go next to her intelligent
mouth –


February 14, 2013 § Leave a comment


Cafe vita show (February 2012)

Bunny slide

April 29, 2012 § Leave a comment

The Zoo is full of random subspecies organisms that one can surely thrive within, like a little house where one may wander from inside the tracks. A little shack built inside of each room, a lantern glowing near a bookshelf, an origami of walls put in with hay and soil from the town pond.
Weaving through this, through these organisms in the Zoo, a rabbit named Suzanne marks her territory now that she has eaten radishes all day and has skillfully brushed her teeth with carrot stems. Now she is able to relieve herself and journey amongst the caterpillars in the entrance room where she may nap in the urine, play with her self, yawn and bruise her throat sore with hind legs (one of her more obsessive tendencies) and coil tightly in a knot, waiting for the circus tents to open down the street at eight forty nine P.M.
Rumor has it that rabies has gotten into this one (Suzanne,) or some form of preeminent schizophrenia that inhabits parts of her communication functions, (mainly grooming and eating.) The absence of attention from the others in the bunny rabbit community leads her deeper into such psychosis and also references the true meaning of her debilitation and which brings up the place where Suzanne is staying.

Hearing things and seeing things (repeated 7 times) Scissors on the rug. (hearing things, whispers, seeing things scissors.)

A neat part of the function in which Suzanne’s space occupies would likely be the fact that it is so tucked away, deep within an organism attached onto the animal now living in the Zoo, she is quite able to hide away very well. A house within a room is a great place for any schizophrenic to reside in and, with its plenty of doors and cupboards (which lead further into houses within this house,) there is much space for experimentation and elaborate hidings of food. There are others (she can see and hear) within cupboard drawers, closets and pantry ways that Suzanne can live with, she does not bother to look for in any capacity. She is haunted by these “others” yet has no escape from them and resigns to placing them in the “voices” category of her ordered file system memory bank brain, along with the bad smells file, the good smells file and right in between vision and taste. A carrot cracks, the cupboards open and out pops Gordon, her neighboring elf statue (produced and constructed inside of the factories of Taiwan, 1953) along with his gang, Santa’s little helpers (the cola collection 1953) off they go to a circus of razer rouser’s, circus tent 14 for a night of bedazzlement and fortune. The carrot is swiftly put away and Suzanne coils back up into a ball to sleep until eight forty nine.

Dreams of syrup bottles from the nineteen twenties dangling from fishing line remind Suzanne of the circus tent # 13 and she wakes in a sweat, freezing cold and worried that she missed a chance to play “titter-tatter” again – The thought of the game drives her out the door of the entry and onto the field of tall, tightly growing ape fur trees. A series of jolting, fidgeting movements occurs as Suzanne obsessively rubs herself while simultaneously trudging forward through the thick branches of the ape fur – Her longing to play sends her in circles over herself, wondering the time as she hits the skin by a giant pore where a raccoon is slurping liquid. The raccoon is wearing a watch she notices and Suzanne attempts to ask for the time.
With laughter, the raccoon lifts the watch up over his head and it appears many clocks all at once spatter the foreground and background, all with different times on the clocks faces. Suzanne begins to laugh too, and shoves a hand into her body, pulling out a thin, green caterpillar which the raccoon takes from her kindly and she is on her way –
The circus would be starting as she arrived and Suzanne could not wait until “titter-tatter” games began.
Titter-tater: a neon green inflatable rubber race way with accompanying tire inner tubes off of a large dump-truck. The slide is systematically coated with red “juice” that the audience can smell upon arriving, the pungent cherry flavor that hangs in the air like smoke. When Suzanne arrives at the entrance of circus tent # 13, she takes in a big whiff of it and decides to hide (instead of standing in line,) coiling around the sausage salesman,where she can “remain calm.” The smells emanating out of the old sausage cart make her terrified and she backs into another corner by the inner-tube booth. A rat standing by in orange swimming goggles and a white thong bathing suit shouts in excitement and raises the black rubber inner-tube high in the air, knocking Suzanne into the inner tube display stand, where she struggles to get her footing and grabs the biggest tube they sell instead. The tube plops down on the inflatable neon slide and Suzanne lands on top rushing fast, down the six inches of Jello like a powered mini-boat, everyone shouting and cheering as she blasts along the race way scratching at her bruise, half of a smile turning on her face. Turtles in jumpsuit cheer as she speeds along the neon raceway and a raccoon claps, waiting in line for his turn –
She spins out into a deep pool of red Jello and sinks under it, lost for a long time. Under the Jello, Suzanne has an epiphany about food. Food isn’t to be eaten, food is for speed, food is for playing, food is for fun. Nothing about food should be distorted or scary, food is her friend.


December 3, 2011 § Leave a comment

Section press

Surrealst editions #1 (zine) $2.00

November 26, 2011 § Leave a comment

Surrealismo Zine #1

Internal alterations are for sale for free