—a transcontemporation of Max Jacob

The binding is rendered from the excess stitches I snipped from my wrist. The cover is made of my melted G.I. Joe collection. Snake Eyes, if you’re out there, I’m sorry, if I knew how to pray, I’d say something about the classic geometry of your crotch and the screw in your shoulder I lost at the zoo. When the book opens, you can hear oars rowing, geese flying by, people pointing their fingers at the sky. The pages are made of paper, naturally, and everyone knows paper comes from trees; each tree was a persona from a Fernando Pessoa poem. The pulp of lost lives. Page 122 ripped out, rolled up in a pinch, a canoe full of burning grass…the smoke said… who falls…all of one mind…black dishwater of love…sunken spoon. Much of the ink is smeared like a slapped mosquito on the collar bone of a beautiful woman. The book is chained to a dresser in a Motel 6 in South Carolina. Its author has gone into hiding.

          —a transcontemporation of Max Jacob

My God, the crowds on Black Friday for those Best Buy promotional joysticks, complete with a redemption coupon for a pump-action-RPG wielding Mogadishu guerrilla figurine! Look at the two grown men with goatees and glasses dancing in the handicap parking space. The leader, in a camouflage mesh Yankees hat, is holding blueprints of the store like some kind of degree, and in the mêlée, a bag-lady is knocked to the asphalt, all her careless love spills from her purse. Poor woman, how can I envy and pity you? The face of the fat man dancing is an advertisement for holiness, and in the blackness of the asphalt, oil spills make a rainbow, and at the end of the rainbow, another parking lot.