Lithium Flusher
Lithium Flusher
Contents
[I keep hearing about a secret main event…] 3
My Cult (?) 4
ROCOCO BOKONON 5
Son of a Tortured Genius Among Surfers 6
Intake 7
My Cult 8
This Heroin Really Resonates with Me 9
Abandoned IG Post of the Man (Name) Who Has Never Made a Single Post 10
My Cult (2) 11
Violators 12
[I smear my blackhead alfalfa…] 13
A Letter from Peucille Bowe <}}} in acorns 14
A Body Down the Block 15
Pal Peucil, I’ll Never Marry 16
Hella Albuquerque Undiminished 17
A Letter from the Study of Peucil Bow 18
[I spend all my glory on you Rhoda…] 19
The Failed Acquisition of a Wayward Youngster Freshly Exiled from Her Academic Community 20
THE LION OF JUDAH IS THE LAMB OF GOD 21
My Cult (3) 22
Transcript Between an In-Home Care Professional and His Charge 23
[Let's have a round of applause for (Name)'s story…] 25
I keep hearing about a secret main event coming up later today. People are reading a famous book by an infamous author and the .pdf is being passed around in DMs. I hear tell rumored release of some social hierarchy flowcharts they say would not withstand the labor of creation unless collectively assembled. I have a little leverage. When I noticed the author entering into a charged parasocial correspondence with a young and impressionable anorexic, I tried sending along my earnest admiration and best wishes as the grooming process got underway, but the author objected to my characterization and is raising the possibility of taking legal action. I am trying to settle it amicably and ultimately land the book rights. If anyone wants to throw in on a bid for the manuscript with me now is the time to do so. Bon voyage, DM if interested! –Your pal
My Cult (?)
I have begun dissolving painful recurring thoughts and memories. When I notice them in play I deploy into form a helpful mist of lime and periwinkle to clear it all out into peaceful static. Before my 30-day psychiatric vacation I took to Facebook and asked my friends and family to pray for my peace and protection. In the early morning hours of my first day in the facility I awoke to the shining light of this form hovering over my body. I believe it was the guiding intellect from their pure intentions which shone forth like sunlight as its heart and central support. Thus in sober truth I now believe we make veritable guardian angels to hover over and protect those whom we love. Tonight while thinking dreamily of an old friend I began to see emanating from my body this same strange mist of pure affection. I have seen it also surrounding a gently purring cat, radiating slowly outward in gradually enlarging concentric shells of rosy cloud.
ROCOCO BOKONON
I shut my cupped palm flat-form over my one good ear,
lean supersonic into the interchange-overpass
highway of my body audio & sense pouring forth fresh off
my fascist boy scout swimsuit shindig lunacy a bubbling newborn
rumor from the skinny thing I loved who said to me I love your name here
who now from all awful oft-haunted unmerry
metallic and teal steely shrieked in crumpled loose-leaf
that in an honesty too long resisted sensed in me
an immutable cringe, a projected faux intimacy
unshakably foreign and to make not what of. And who won't see it like that. And can’t. But all
that's beautiful who do, all who scare up as evidence miracles debunked,
feral Albuquerque incarnate, feral phoenix unglossy obtuse,
crossing infants off to-do lists, Realizing shit...
where wherever you could stay be made
an example of, into litany of,
or single fragment designed to disqualify you
from the promised fields o loving little mercies,
ignite surgery in the negative vision of the heavy
cloud hovering Thank You and That Would Be Great
beside the donkey draped in bright floral quilts that believe
they are television and have convinced many.
But I can really have nutrition too, whispers to itself
the rebel donkey, a radical decree of pride, in tiny might,
from harmless poverty, feeling out ‘til leaning on an inner gruff...
Fifty states? it asks the scribe. Fifty states, the scribe
responds, recording. Daytimes in Nevada? asks the donkey.
Daytimes we can count on, speaks the scribe instead
in silken robe and hood both brown and humble as the leaves
beside the tiny sprites whose job it is
to tally up the mysteries too few have witnessed
who journey seedlessly along the wind
with jewelled codes internal the blue-plated armor’s arboreal patterns
no, ...from with our blueprints of Yore Hour o Our Queen Barbara,
sprites alighting on oars, on shields, on shoulders and limes,
eking thee seep-speaky, sleepy ease, sprinklingly: Impress upon
these alfalfa a practical grace, & graze their wispy
tendrils trace upon, & unto surfaces of ponds(upon) I will you this,
I leave you this... I see you centuries at least alas… and
so on In low shrubberies, & moist in most in
moats n moats in house & if in mine & is thy own
Aloud afloat. Aboard. Amen. A roundabout abode. A boat.
Son of a Tortured Genius Among Surfers
Sam was depressed. When his tortured genius of a father
finally killed himself, his last words were I one hundred
percent blame my son. Out of respect for the family,
I withhold the full transcript. Suffice it to say he was obsessed
with the idea that Sam, even as a toddler, had conspired
with his mother to tear him away from the city—his one
great muse—and move the family to the lazy beach town
he had so come to hate. It was true that Sam loved the beach.
He knew his father resented his lifestyle. And the suicide itself
was unsurprising. But no one had seen this coming. Sam knew
what he had to do. He retreated somewhere deep inside himself.
He sat in silence amidst the mirth of bonfire, staring deep
into the flame. He said he didn’t want to talk. Dreamt of wolves
pacing the shore. He pointed at a can of beans roasting over the fire
and said That’s what I feel like. A single bean dropped into the sand.
Any day now, a new girl in town would come walking down the beach,
take the empty seat next to Sam on the log, and shyly introduce herself.
Then, another day not long thereafter, just by the look on her face,
Sam would know that she’d heard about his inheritance.
Intake
I cried blood at my neighbor’s backyard barbecue. I did it to memorialize some long-forgotten cultural pastime. In hope to revive all that’s been lost or obscured in the march of progress. It was part of my campaign to raise awareness of the holy biosphere humming with life inches behind the face. A colorful brain scan has induced again my homunculus to explore that soft area beyond the hair, behind my eyes, nose, and mouth. To investigate their heat, without which there are no roses, no writing, no formulae for mathematicians to assess that exceptional fetus lurking in the moist dark. I flinch in repulsion when I sense it hovering at the summit of my throat. Like a migratory bat born slimy inside my liver sent to dwell in the cave of my mouth. In a dark and deliberate technicolor jazz it whirs the drugs into life like a woolen dishwasher overflowing with filthy gray suds. I will therefore investigate nonjudgmentally the strawberry throbbing of glands, the medical conspiracies inherent in my neural activity, the vestibular incests of mucous within the external acoustic meatus.
My Cult
We will expand the perception of time
by decoding our secret names. We will gain
self-knowledge toward individuation
through dedication to daily processing
in the accumulation of mandala watercolor
expressions. We will gain the ability to peer
into our pre-existences and afterlives with
the power of the quaternity. We will bring
forth things with wings and build a living
bridge to the kingdom of heaven.
This Heroin Really Resonates with Me
My splendorous menacing has incited God's wrath. He has made silent the ugly noise of my poems. He makes me lie in my grave on a bed of broken teeth, with a blanket of loose-leaf. I am mourning the fruits of my violence. I am a stoic. I have lost that loving feeling. When I was a boy I loved life. I laughed with my friends. I expressed joy freely. Now I am a dark and sad little worm. I have developed addictions. I lash out at times. I stay quiet because I am a bad man. I have failed so completely that only in silence may I retain any dignity. If I did not believe myself to be corruptible and lowly I would not go where they gather. Hence this silly little chapbook that will never taste the tongue of another voice. I hope they begin pressing fentanyl into my supply soon. I will know when I am compelled to walk straight through the barn to be the first to take a cool sip of water from the gourd.
Abandoned IG Post of the Man (Name) Who Has Never Made a Single Post
Hi all you diamond islands! What’s a post? Here to say I’ve been hanging out and giving peace, just living that human punching bag life elderly occupational. Which I’ve come to consider spiritual penance for my many past sins. Will it be enough to elude my would-be cancellers in the improbable event of high success? In my time of attention-getting? Time may tell. Lucky for now though, on the In/Out list for 2022: Forgetting is in, and that’s the whole list. In my free time lately I fold precious a bouquet of flowers that nonetheless all go floppy into loose paper in the accordion outstroke. Then I hang it all up silly decorational in the as-if classroom like a cheap imitation of something worth remembering. It hangs humming with a secret reality accessible only to those who stay way late after class, after even the cleaners, who return for the forgotten textbook and find everything empty, with just a dim fluorescent light to draw them in, to guide their attention to the flimsy thing toward absorbing its private darkness. Then I go la-di-da-di-da and just take that nap, whatever. Past bright with grief may it always sometimes be, I nonetheless harbor a little petri dish lined with black velvet that means newness whenever wherever, which sprouts baby turtles and tadpoles– Now that’s what I call rigpa! Wagmi y’all. And that’s on grace via tBV HMoG tVM aka OLoF. And to anyone like me who’s lived in the blah blah blah for far too long, I say it’s now time to lean into the locomotion and add two more blahs.
My Cult (2)
We recognize that at our best, we are not so much ourselves as suggestions of what we could be. At our best, we are like walking prophecies of the next age. We will train ourselves to remain in this light toward establishing the auspicious destiny field of our potential afterlives. Those in your karass are cohabitants of this field. It is your duty to illuminate the hidden initiatives of your karass toward a collective bioluminal self-seeing.
Violators
They are fueled by the fallout of energy in the execution of daily distractions— in the time spent deciding which lamp, which box of cereal, in the protracted hours of getting dressed. In the moments past the amount of desired liquor in the pouring of a drink, in the brief and blank attention paid to an ambulance, in the silence between friends when passing a beggar. It all goes to the violators. And they’re happy to have it. You can spot one by the way they respond to a stranger’s genuine concern for their health and well-being. And by the manner and circumstance in which they ask forgiveness. Instead of white linoleum beneath fluorescent lighting, a violator in severe stillness may perceive an aqueous pulsing in the color spectrum of bruises. They will remain focused on the speaker, still waiting in expectation, after a joke that landed with everyone but them. You will notice two of them in a community and find yourself unnerved weeks later when they have become inseparable. And always that simple stare. And your choice to linger. As if in acceptance of an invitation back to some primal area. You will convince yourself that in just the way they smile at anything you say, they are seeing through the many layers of you, past all the fakeness, right to the naked core of desire that ought to be left unpunctured. They are a patient bunch. They yearn for a place where the blinds are drawn long before natural sunset. Where they can begin to undress and become again whatever it is they really are.
I smear my blackhead alfalfa on bathroom mirror and think softly of Rhoda
Who will stick around to name you when your skin goes slack?
I sneak an Amen into your inbox to stave off its dark coming another hour
I hold holy your blanching in the mirror, in that awful recognition,
that opening of something else, that softening, the worried palm on cheek, the expanding darkness into hey now something else must be
I see alive glorious Rhodas in the arms outstretched of your winter beginning
These poems are for you Rhoda, for the living mother enduring her third divorce who seemed to ask my permission to dress like Audrey, who lived out in such glamour the joy of the hotel bar.
They aim to sing somehow the strange allure of pistachios.
–Peucil
A Letter from Peucille Bowe <}}} in acorns
I invest myself in the slow body,
sense a growing attentiveness to sense
in cycle. Sense it low murmurous and commit
renewable patience, growing smoothly less
concerned, flexible enough to apply ‘fashionably
religious’ to soothing, I dream the mollification
of luxurious hair, a cloudspace learning to drape itself in willow
less admissible in the mind but with round hopefulness,
emanations of grace in gradual shells of rosy cloud,
capable of repetition which resists flatness, remains lucid,
to seem safe to flirt with violation, retain of its essence
what otherwise is lost or lessened when sussed out.
Specifically it is the breathing. It has been agreed upon
with a flavor of indecision that disguises its underlying systems,
modifies its processes while operating. Shame is my engine
engine, I shame myself, I live my shame when what?
When survival acquiring, requiring inflexible identity,
when personality is a luxury, I shame alive the adrenaline
of an amorphous psycho-anatomy. If you aren't drowning
in Albuquerque, rehearsing obsession forever,
preparing blood soup, delivering what shines..? Also
elsewhere all wherever so aloft allowed. All
of Albert unforever. All hail drown out.
–Peucille Bowe, in clouds.
A Body Down the Block
An anticipation. Something in the blood felt and left unreported. You curse yourself in the dark, unrelaxed, a reflex. Where one should let hope take on an iridescence, let accumulate in the bedside glass of water. I could allow that for you. A place where you could listen and learn how to be. Transcend the burden of recurring memory. Soften yourself but not disappear. I wish we were only here to talk about blood. I wish I had the words. To walk a dish of brownies five houses down the block at twilight, peach and pale. To reach in through the curtains of your open window. Where I felt your voice beyond the veil. Where the shape of your coming petrified into parentheses, held to form an oval. A moment. Something I could take home and own. Then grieve by easing into sculpture of mind its smooth marble, smeared with nightshade, all in royal blue. I reinforce thereby a necessary distance, a reminder of the limits of bodies, of brief exposure, abiding inadequacy of neighbors.
Pal Peucil, I’ll Never Marry
The thrill less in living than in rearrangement of the lived in a display at once wondrous, freely summoned, comforting. My darling Rhoda showed up in a dream and said this and this is all it is with a flip of hair. Yes I have begun correspondence with spinach. The art of a first marriage, said Rhoda, a green engagement, of proud loving dog owners, allowances hidden in the air that apply at midlife. Albuquerque as a burden, when as an escape one is drowned in a wealth of what flourishes. How in mocking legacy as a project, in dissolution of the emotional landscape of rigid definition, Pal floundering in watercolor at the slop sink, warm w distraction, dizzy in vivid liquor before early dinner at the pro shop, Pal guarding pitifully his relic of Greek syllabus on etiquette which foretold the spit-take. Temperance tells us the wan spigot drained of luster will fissure as so the too-adamant blueprint eschews youthful wisdom.
Hella Albuquerque Undiminished
My fragrance untethered, my dreamy alabaster eloquence
unassisted unrenounced, undiminished in the elfen aura.
Halflight falcon hella rest upon the low interminable alfalfa.
Low reed steamly squeezed, vaporous New Mexican borealis.
Hinky dinky doo da, crab ham wah, stinky dinky Horace,
bacon brah. I made stinky gone frightful Aloysius.
Starfish inheritable unstinky Albuquerque? I could never.
Doodad academic ho-hum incorrigible? Not in a million years,
Rhoda! Never in my low imprecious unsteady squiggling
did I ever once inherit the broke Elysian whodunit fantasy
those caulk-hockers spend babbling seminars sneaky gestureful!
Spark me alive some grace honey I’m strep weary
starved of fruit, I need me paragliding the frosty incalculable
Amen ASAP. Who harkens the bud unsightly impalatable?
Nobody who wasn’t drunk at three! That’s helpfully remain.
Who steers the dirigible maniacal into unholy Wabash?
Not this Amen-haver, stinky elephant! And not from truce!
Who whiplash sparkly in the slap-happy babbling of a drooling
whodunit? Who frightened stately into mannish unsqualor as-if
adulthood? Nobody who wasn’t already weary! That’s clean.
A Letter from the Study of Peucil Bow
A wheezy lemur has too fully grasped a tragedy
conceptual hyper-condensed, calls a lemur
powwow where solution is individual focus
on other concepts– for each lemur a complex
idea to grasp toward crystallize– faux pas +
funeral + contested eviction + reenacted
nostalgia falls short + fishing w dad +
Christmas– all regather in hands to impel
a core psychic mixture, relieve
the initial burden, finally come
to a new appreciation for the breadth
of experience in parallel human species.
They are nicer to us now but committed
most fully to contributing to and expanding
their own consciousness– a million fleas
gathered in the shape of a man
approaching thought choose to scatter
a shriek of Skittles among twilit leeches.
This is their premature rejection
of complex realities surfacing
from any spectrum– color, emotion,
raw data of DNA. Upon no prize steed
weaned from that scene wherein blending
with cold steel then gently recalled
did I announce the frequencies I esteem
and charities I fraternize & feed.
I spend all my glory on you Rhoda
All the glory of my life to Rhoda
All for Rhoda’s big hair
All my love to her flip of the hair
Dazzling Rhoda
Glamorous Rhoda
Rhoda in the moonlight
Rhoda in glory in glory in glory
Give it up for Rhoda
Rhoda in the moonlight
Rhoda in the everlasting Amen
Rhoda in the everlasting Amen
The Failed Acquisition of a Wayward Youngster Freshly Exiled from Her Academic Community
Teeny-tiny role models need big, brawny bodyguards for warm, secure teeny-tiny role model bodies. I pledge my profane volcanic primal in blond arson from the starlit-come-starry chemical minarets. From the woefully clueless lagoons of my cocksure miseducation. From the lost and stomping Waluigis gone hopelessly academic. I have heard word of the slurs you muttered among paper-thin walls and the following fall from grace in anonymous virtual backrooms. A jealous mime is shoveling mud into his gaping maw until he is soso fat he leaks from the eyes and searches skyward for pity from Isis almighty, keeper of the spell of divine friendship and map to the legendary atomic niqab of Kabul. I breathe abrasions like spells of wrathful Aloysius onto speculative skin, likely adolescent, likely plaiddish prep school leery-eyed backward glance for want of skillful loquacious. Seeping somehow sour in bleach-based perfume from the restless heart of Albuquerque.
THE LION OF JUDAH IS THE LAMB OF GOD
Have I done a little menacing in my time?
Yes I have. Am I better person for it? Mmm
probably not. But you don’t know that. And more
to the point, did I learn something from it all?
Well, I don’t know. I’m not sure. I’ve never
really thought about it. Albuquerque police say
I am responsible for ramming my vehicle
into 43 luxury cars parked in northwest Albuquerque
in a single night. That I have spoken with invisible
intelligent species from the world of the dead. To them I say,
was it truly I who stuck intimate carrots into the recesses
of Albuquerque bargoers at some alleged gunpoint? I which have
whomsoever no recollection? Or did I merely demand this
of their peers? Was it I who sought trillions
in compensation from the federal government
in exchange for telepathy services I did dutifully
provide? I who would accept three states
in lieu of cash? If I am him, say I am!
Tell me, O Job, if you know!
My Cult (3)
We will make them all pay for what they have done to us. We will live to see our foes turn their backs in sudden disgrace. They have called into question the very nobility of war. The parks department has zero authority here. They have excluded us from the dance because we recognize the sanctity of blood, which is the warrior's right. We will become the only true dancers in their false dance. We will head down toward Sam and our friends who have already started the bonfire. We will wade into the water when it’s warm, warmer than the rain.
Transcript Between an In-Home Care Professional and His Charge
Do you hate your job?
This is the best job I’ve ever had.
Have you spoken to Paul today?
No.
Does he know you’re fired?
I don’t know.
I thought you said you haven't spoken to him today.
Yes.
So you’re fired.
Ok.
And you’re here until when?
630.
And we’ll be having dinner and everything before then.
Yes.
And where’s Paul?
At home.
And why don’t we like each other again? What is it?
I like you. You don’t like me?
No I don’t like you.
Why is that?
Because you’re a smartass.
Ah.
Does Paul know you’re fired?
I don’t know.
Can you call him?
What for?
You fucking asshole I should smack you.
*makes sad meowing sounds*
*barks back like a dog* Yeahhh you little creep, you smartass. When is Paul coming over?
Tomorrow. It’s his wife’s birthday today.
Yes I know that he’s my son you think I don’t know that?
I’m sorry yes.
And do you know where he is today?
I believe he’s at home with his wife.
Is he coming over here?
He’ll be here tomorrow.
And what is it you’re doing here?
*rubbing his face and letting out a sigh*
Listen I know you hate your job. You know what this really isn’t working, we don’t get along. I'm going to give Paul a call and get someone else. I’m thinking of trying a woman for a change. Did I speak to Paul earlier?
You called but there was no answer.
That figures. Well anyway you’re fired.
Ok.
Have you spoken to Paul today?
No I haven’t.
Well you could call him on the phone. Why don’t you do that?
I don’t want to disturb him. He’s busy. It’s his wife’s birthday.
Oh that’s right. It’s Rhoda’s birthday. Have you met Rhoda?
No I haven’t.
I wish he’d join me for dinner sometime. He’s always busy.
He’ll be here tomorrow.
Ugh I’m tired. I'm going to take a nap. Will you wake me when it’s time for dinner?
Yes I will.
What time is it now?
345.
And when is dinner?
Around 6 o clock.
Ok. Will you wake me when it’s time to eat? I'm going to take a nap.
Yes I will.
*Waddling through the kitchen* There’s a piece of cake here if you want it.
Oh thank you.
I’m gonna leave this door open so you can hear me if I need anything.
Ok.
What was that?
I said ok.
What? I’m hard of hearing you need to shout. I can’t hear you.
I said ok!
Ok what?
Everything’s ok! I’ll be right here if you need anything.
What? Ugh nevermind. I’m going to take a nap. I’m going to leave this door open so I can call you if I need anything.
Ok.
And who are you? What’s your name?
(Name).
(Name) what?
(Full Name).
(Mispronunciation of Name). So it’s your last day here.
Yes that’s right. I’ll wake you up when it’s time for dinner.
What time are we having dinner?
6 o clock.
And what time is it now?
345.
Ok. And you’ll wake me when it’s time for dinner?
Let's have a round of applause for Name's story he did such a good job. He’ll be at the place reading tomorrow from his poem about books and life. A new person Paul will show up and tell lies and a music thing will be happening downtown for about an hour tomorrow at 5. If you have time go to the new restaurant downtown Paul will show up and tell lies at this one also and you should be nice because he doesn't know what he's saying. In two months Paul will be giving a demonstration of something downtown on a Thursday morning and you should all go and support him. Paul will tell lies. In five years they will remember Paul and everything he's done and no one will talk about anything else. And then suddenly Paul will show up and introduce himself as Bob and he will ask about all the events coming up.