olderish performance piece about poo

"Mornings he sings on the toilet. You can imagine the joie de vivre this man enjoys. The urge to sing bubbles up like a reflex. These songs of his, which have no melody or words, nothing but 'ta-ra-ra,' which he belts out in a variety of styles, go something like this:

'How sweet my life is...ta-ra! ta-ra... my bowels are flexing...ra-ta-ta-ta-ra-ri...the juices are flowing just right, straight through...ra-ti-ta-doo-da-ta...squeeze, bowels, squeeze...tram-bam-bam-noom!' " -Yuri Olesha, Envy

i have lived
with a beast
not canis noir lupus
arachnus or mustelid
but a living, wheezing
human beast

I have shared an Andersonville three bedroom
with four women
four men
and
one
human
beast
whose precision mucous
sought the soles
of bare feet
and who daily
crusted bands around the tub
so foul'
and so black'
they seemed to disprove the very existence
of a soul

where he shat...
i shat

i
know
fear

that was
two and a half years apartments ago
i am reborn
so long as we aren't boarding charity cases
or finding ourselves blessed with overnight visitors
our toilet houses three
maximum occupancy!

i have studied their habits
Tania goes before work
Kyle goes after work
Nate...
goes before AND after work
it is the only time you will ever hear me refer to that great and odd man
'regular'
the frog
may he rest in peace
having a keen eye
waited for company to come over
in high cockblocking protest fashion

the excretory functions of both the tarantula and my beloved girlfriend
remain a mystery to me

I

wait til everyone has gone to bed and
have myself a-time
pull out newspaper
aping my old man

I
have
become
a
beast

meditteranean hairs
shedding
tissues palmed
wiping sprayed tiles
allowing threesomes i was uninvited to
to collapse
entire toilets
and trust

I am fear

How to Pronounce Jehova in Spanish

I converted a dozen times this morning
really
I had nothing better to do
and the church crowds were having more fun

waiting for the bus at California and Walton
listening to the white gospel blaring from
Mercy Ministries
you could hear it two storefronts
and two storefront churches away
to the chagrin of
Iglesia Gethsemani Pentecostal
(formerly a deli)
and
Iglesia Rios de Agua Viva A.I.C.
(a once profitable bodega)

if you're curious as to whatwhite gospel
sounds like
close your eyes,
think of a commercial for a romantic comedy in the early nineties
there it is
upbeat,
watery horns,

ride the wave

not exactly the thing to get my toes
(a-)tappin
but- the casually dressed woman
about my mother's age
seriously shook tailfeather
as she waved me in-
seemed convinced

Not to mention it was darkinside
and ful of bad neon
manmade in god's image
more neon than a bar even but
similar enough to where I could adapt

I'd finished my lemonade and
wouldn't've minded a mug of wine
but alas
i had meetings to go to at the houses of jewish jazzmen
who were allowed no rest on sundays
as i sat on the curb noticing the stains on my jeans
they started circling

missionaries

unseasonably suited and completely unreasonable
they liked bus stops
because they had nowhere to go but waited eternally
they eyed me cross
and jabbed in two languages
but did not yet encroach

one
moustache
thick as the seasons first grasses approached
a man following close behind
they would not be dissuaded by the rainclouds hung over my head
or the storm behind
the eyes behind the veins
hungover themselves
ready to burst

flipped
like insecure tarot
through pamphlets
eyeing the band shirtt
he kid with the gun
no gods, no governments
found the one for me

a journal named
Awake!
rather reasonable and fond of exclamation
promising Relief From STRESS!
i waited for the kick
it did not evangelize
promoting odd concepts like
sharing household chores and woodland conservation
maybe they were onto something
if they can see clearly in a full suit in hot spring
look into my eyes and see that all I really wanted was
something
to read on the bus

-

post script
on later inspection i notice that one of the answers in the previous month's Awake! crossword puzzle is
1. ACROSS
chosenpeople

.

in the alley there was a man in a hard face with soft, runny eyes. he told me to relax. i asked him why and he pointed up.

i asked, "a plane" he said, "the sun" i asked "what?" he said
death
,grabbed my hand
i though he was going to pull me somewhere but just held it, rubbed
sandpaper
i zoned out
noticing sharp the siding on the walls, the writing on blasted grafitti, the labels on the styrofoam that dripped from the wastebins . it swirled around me. soup. my brain tried to catch up, it yelled 'germs' and 'rape' and 'mugg', as many ugly words as it would take to untrance
the rubbing became burn
in the areas between each vein and i looked up
his eyes were one or all of the colors of his flannel
sometimes the red of his hair, then the brown of his suspenders
it was too hot, for the month. oo hot for an alley. beads of sweat that felt hard and warm like bearings rolled down myt face and splashed in my boots. it all began to stink. he squeezed my hand and the veins pulsed. the blood was caught up like a knotted hose and i imagined it was spilling through my fingernails but i'm sure that that too was just those metal balls of sweat. my neck rashing nervous and itchy, i ripped my hand back to scratch it and everything calmed. a cold breeze softened the sweat and pushed it into my head. he spun around, grabbing a hot cup of cola from devil knows when from the dumpster and asked me if i had a couple of bills. i reached in and grabbed some warm dimes and sheepishly walked off
---
the woman pleaded (and she said it in all caps),
"I CAN'T TAKE THIS SHIT DAY FROM YOU DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY."

and then the man said, likewise,
"WELL I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS SHIT! FIVE YEARS NOW...RED PILLS, YELLOW PILLS, BLUE PILLS, WHITE FUCKEN PILLS. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

and there was silence. my ears sucked in, under their window, waiting for the crack. nothing.

then,
inexplicably
she was laughing. cackling really. that howling laughter i've only heard from women drunk on gin and spite. that determined laughter that cuts an angry man in half and begs him to strike. she waited for the crack, too. but i didn't hear one. didn't think so. if i did i'd have something to do i could call the cops or yell into their window that i called the cops and be a part of something. i could break my new boots in on their doorframe, and burst in. maybe both of them would go after me and we'd all look at each other crosseyed when i pass their yard where their ugly kids are playing.

i stopped daydreaming. they were still screaming and laughing and spitting vile. i shoved my hands deeper in my pockets and kept walking.

there would be nothing new at her house but i'd go anyway. i'd stop in and
do my thing
and leave
without so much as a change in facial expression
on either

we'd part and i'd walk
on a day too hot for the month and too hot for a jacket and i'd shove my hands so deep in my pockets that they weren't there anymore

looking up and thinking
death

reflections on waking up

1. after being left out all night, a bottle of Czechoslovakian beer (bier) tastes like Coors

2. My girlfriend's landlord's girlfriend starts playing house music at exactly 9:54 AM

3. I can masturbate better than anybody in the goddamn world

Governor Rod Blagojevitch tells Alderman Dick Mell he's gonna fuck him in the face

So yesterday papers quoted Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevitch telling off his father-in-law:

"Do you have the testicular virility to make a desicion like that, knowing what's coming your way...?"

Testicular Virility

that's right

Blago just asked if you've got the balls, Dick

New Alley Poetry

[found in the dumpster behind the guitar/sandwich shop on campbell and chicago]

Endok
Space Pimps
Galaktik Thugs
Space Pimps
Lorenzo Kalrissian
Steppin to the helm Again
Takin' Booty Rhymes to Space
The Paper Chase
Name the Time Name the Place
Chicago ILL Circa 2035

-thank you noble spacepimp of the future,
ELR Chicago ILL circa 2005

the Heroes of Wicker Park

so I'm doing this show in my old neighborhood. my embarassingly 'hip' gentrified old neighborhood. I should mention that it was embarassing and gentrified and tried ever so hard to be hip before I moved in, not after. But I've spent a couple years using Wicker Park as a punch line: the boys and girls with the uniform jeans and haircuts, the same ol same ol week after week dance keggers, even something as antisocial as grafitti falling victim to trends (if you're paying attention, stencil pirates out, sticker/wheatpaste blitzkriegs in).

The show I'm in is called The Heroes of Wicker Park. It is a site-specific spectacle that celebrates the history of the park itself. The park is an interesting spot. It is bordered by Milwaulkee Avenue, an old Indian road that has been paved over with wood, brick and asphalt. The neighborhood has housed such giants as Nelson Algren, Lucy Parsons, Ignacy Paderewski, who are honored in the show. The neighborhood has a weird energy overall. My old friend Pinky says he still dreads going down there sometimes, and did when I lived there because something just wasn't right. Some have argued that it has something to do with electromagnetic lay lines, a theory that seems popular with people whom were hung up on the Bermuda Triangle when they were children, that explains why some places have weirder stories than others. They attest that that's why the Iroquois or whomever had built their roads there.

None of this matters. What matters is that it's a beautiful show and, more important than that, is one completely devoid of cynicism. It's nice that I can perform in a show and look out and see families, see little children smiling. It's cleansing in a way and possibly helps to counteract all the time I spend writing animal fucker jokes for the Gentlemen Callers

I don't know if this show will lead to any others. I am only a small part of it, playing a djembe in a much more talented ensemble but hopefully you'll be able to come out and see it.

Rock. ELR

the only confessional in town where you can order a 'happy ending'

Glory Holiness

if you aren't laughing yet, read over slowly, repeat until hysterics ensue
if you aren't laughing because it's not funny, i hate you

me and sarah were walking down division after the cuban food
and kept winding up in other people's houses
first we were in some guys garage in humbolt
where half the neighborhood was watching a boxing match on HBO
i was the only one in the tie
little kids of varying size scampered around the alley
trying to fuigure out the best way to get into trouble with fathers only a few feet away, but completely distracted.

everyone was leaning against an old car or in folding chairs
some guy kept accusing people of stealing his chump change
a grandfather type was yelling at a hoodlum type about smoking a blunt in his garage.
"I ain't in your garage so don't fuckin worry about it," he said, from two feet away in the alley
after a round with no solid hits we went off, teasing guard dogs on our way home

in my alley we found a treasure trove
a sailboat made of animal horns and string
a "painting" made of molded plastic -with plastic frame- of some chicks rack
new wifebeaters, unlabeled vhs tapes, a notary seal
discarded photo albums with
obituaries, bad poems, and valentine's day lingerie photos

"Hey, you kids. Are you taking things?"
"Yeah."
"What things?"
"The saiboat, some movies."
I don't know why but I felt it prudent to neglect to mention the titty picture and photo albums
"You want to come in? There's more."

He was Eastern European and drunk and weird in that same way that all landlords are weird. His name was Igor. He invited us to take more than we wanted, pointing at bags and bags of clothes, we took a couple more paintings. They belonged to an old man, who couldn't keep up anymore. And left, without his things. "Do you believe?" He asked, when Sarah picked up a painted woodcut Jesus. It's not really a woodcut but I don't know what it's actually called. Her grandmother collects them. She lied, and said that she did.

high brow

the weird conservative christian science teacher with blonde hair and glasses who looks too young and too old for his age just farted

now here's a riddle i wrote for my crw columbia college fiction class to solve...you try it!

Bernard Law helped elect the new pope. Overall about 150 people voted in secrecy, but Law was the only Cardinal representative of Boston, Massachusetts. In Boston every third person is Catholic and one in every twelve people is raped. One in every four rapes is a child. Half of all children raped are males and two fifths of all rapes of male children in Boston were by members of the clergy. If one fifths of all clergy rapes were reported and 4/5ths of all reported clergy rapes were forgiven by Law rather than the law, how much blood is on the new popes hands.

the return of Jefferson, thunderlizard; the death of latrobe, king of glut

so for those of you who've been keeping up with the incredibly uninteresting saga of pets at the elks lounge, you'll know that our newest and smartest edition, jefferson the lizard, had figured out the seams in his "cage" and broken free to face the dangers of inclement may weather, voracious felines and, hopefully, a lack of sizeable bugs in our walls.

yesterday he was found

he appeared as silently as he'd gone and
all of a sudden
LOOK ON THE FUCKING RADIATOR GRATE
(our apartment does not utilize radiator heat, but the grate blocks an unsightly hole in the wall where some of the wood has turned)

tania snatched him up
half dead for the second time
like jesus!
since she found him in a crate
like moses!
that she'd pulled from a walk-in freezed
like encino man!

a cricket later
he is ours again

slightly more obedient

and we are a family again

---
have you ever seen a dried frog
as sun expands and ozone erodes
his everything that was outside will become in
his stomach will suck into his lungs and his eyes will recede
resembling more a prune
than a thing with a heart
the size of a chiclet
a little green prune with webbed strands
a vicious little fossil

we switched the bulb on Latrobe's lamp
Latrobe is dead
long live Latrobe

now. there are enough crickets. for the rest of us.

all about dreams

1.

this is from my boss:

so I talk in m sleep. apparently. so my wife tells me that in my sleep, sometimes I'll start saying, "monsters." Just, "monsters."

Sometimes, "monsters with knives," over and over again, and on really bad days, "monsters. monsers with flamethrowers."

but then on good days I'll lie perfectly still. "monsters....cute monsters."

2.

In my dream last night, I was in Aggie's kitchen. I've never seen Aggie's kitchen but it looked just like mine when I lived in the doems, only yellower. I think there was fake wood trim. Gus was there, a couple random girls. One of them fished into a backpack on the floor and pulled out that familiar orange bottle. She popped the safety lock and started to pour gelcaps onto a table. They were half blue, half yellow, like the waterbugs that used to plague lake Michegan but died off sometime in adolescents.

They were tabs, LSD chewables that tasted like Sweet Tarts. I ate four. And splurged on another, because it tasted so good.

She wasn't even charging.

We sat around, watching bad movies, but more than that staring at the ceiling, at textures, at windowsill caulk cracking and spreading like vines.

A blonde girl pulled out a syringe.

"I want us all to do some heroin."

"No thanks, give mine to Gus."

Things got silly. Gus drew in some blood and the needle spat it out. I've seen porn that ends just like that but, without the needle. i thought she gave mine to Gus. Things got silly and she started chasing me around the dininglivingroom. I was out of breath, my head spinning when the needle dropped from her sleeve and she plugged it into my hand. The syringe was only half full so I assumed it was just a half dose. I would be fine. She pricked me with a dirty needle but...I would be fine.

After a half hour I was on the floor. Reeling. A bit.

"So," I thought calmly, "I'm doing heroin."

I can see why people like this. I'm fucked up on acid but I'm clear headed enough to comprehend it.

I still couldn't talk for shit.

This is nice, nothin special.

And I slept til morning.

3. The best dream I ever had was about six minutes long.

When I was seven, I used to sleep with the lights and the radio on. Most of the other kids listened to B96 but I liked Z95.

I was in a diner, the Love Shack I presume because that's what song was playing, by the B-52s of course. It was a 1950's style diner at the top of the incline at Western and Touhy and I was drinking a malt. There were girls. Women.

On the other side of the table was Oroku Saki, the Shredder sworn enemy of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, in full samurai gear. I told him what I thought of him because, an enemy of the Ninja Turtles is an enemy of mine as well. He was outraged and set forth a challenge.

Wo would race skatebords to the bottom of the incline, just short of the lake. Whoever got there first was the winner. I played it cool on my board while he started out with no equilibrium, probably on account of the heavy and restrictive metal armor. Soon, he evened out and we were moving faster than anything I've ever seen, dodging potholes and dogs and fallen branches. I broke through the checkered flag first and he fell to his knees, anguished. Somewhere, blood was pouring down his arm.

The women, all tall, celebrated me, and I woke up, possibly because there was nothing left to do, as a six year old eric strom has no concept of what to do with a grown up woman.

Either way. In the dim of my small bedroom on Sherwin Avenue. I woke up disappointed.

i ruin awake

tv is on
bad tv
everything that is bad about tv is on and i am up
torturing myself
because
on
the other side
is you
arm over your head
fingers chasing cracks in the ceiling on tightrope
head in profile
the black O that plugs your ear
eyes me
like some liscentious friend
turncoat

i want nothing more
than to be warm
it's a cold start for may and i can wrap around you
but i can't sleep
never sleep
not now
for a couple hours
still

you shift and snore
you hate my bed

the tv is black and white
with the contrast down
as dull and stale as jokes from California as dull as
i need to sleep

maybe i won't dream tonight
just feel
your black shirt and my plaid pants
worn to rags and thin as the words that pass from slumbering mouths
a million blankets and comfortors and cats with entitlement
i stay my throat
swallow one last
and force my eyes up
into the recesses of skull that render them useless


when i sleep
or wake
(i'm not sure)
when my eyes close, then open
(but maybe not)
i pick up my blades
again
my whips
pistol
5AM shadow
it's time to fight again i think
out

the streets swallow sound and
the alleys have my collar
there is a man
dressed like the line in the middle of the road
with sparks at his fingertips
twin wires in each hand
eye to eye
with a motorcycle
itself dolled up like a legal pad

(it must be his
how else could they've
coordinated?)

nothing for me here
a man hotwiring his own bike
somesuch silliness
duck into alley
some skinny kid
a Polack sitting Indian with a shotgun
between his legs
which're long and sinewy like spiders
he doesn't see me
doesn't see no one prolly
the barrel props up his jaw
and
chin falls when he removes it to cock
fires out glass breaks
no other sound
just
bbs
nothing interesting ever happens
i strangle ex-boyfriends
ride guilt trips like greyhounds

i've never seen the dude who mugged tania

(i don't remember the last time i saw a black person in a dream either
maybe i don't
definitely Duo, definitely Nikole
but they're only half, and
when was that anyway?)
I go home and go to sleep
or wake up or go to sleep


I open my eyes
(or don't)
she is there
the alarm is going off
two alarms are going off
she'll leave before me
and we'll both get there late

i miss class
i'm so much better about it this semester though
i buy a diet pepsi/i nurse a pepsi diet
coz there's no better option

pour it in my eyes
try to
wake up

2:52 PM - 1 C

jumanji

you know those movies where someone pries open a crate only to find that a nice little animal has snuck in and nestled itself in with all the expected cargo? unaware of exactly what they're working with, they decide it's cute enough to keep.

he bites someone
(adorably)
and gets thrown to the ground

....

then

person gets sick

then his friends

an epidemic

som tropical pandemic from the deepest jungles of God-Knows-Where

we have a new pet
Tania found him unpacking Bahaman flora at work
stop by the Elks Lounge and say Hello
to Jefferson the Lizard

jack palance can eat my ass, inc.

glut...

basement
projector
roommates
girlfriend
assorted pets scurrying
hookah
(two coals)
beer
moose tracks ice cream
cookie dough ice cream
greasy organic tater tots
bootleg dvd of Sin City

god doesn't live this well