Uncle Dragon Remains.

Filip Marinovich

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Timemindfullguest. The wind of the guest blows in and we are busy building walls against the undocumented guestworker Irma. 


How did that work out for ya, Plutocrat? 


But these are obvious slob maneuvers, my specialty. 


"The body as a skinbag," now that's a little tougher. Or when my brother Al drinks a sixpack of Miller Highlife in Los Angeles, and I, sober two years now, get drunk in New York. Such is the tolerance of Interpenetrativeness, apartment complex. 


But speaking of this particular skinbag temporary costume: ever since my mom came back from her last trip to Belgrade, the final visit with her now dead brother, Dragan, whom I call Uncle Dragon since childhood when he drove me through the Belgrade Yugoslavia streets speeding in his red Renault Diana, car of the Huntress and the Moongoddess of Virginity, which means Independence in the Mediterranean, not hymenese as in Puritanamerica...


My brother is from Amida, California, the West, where chestnut beer flows from the mountains that are walking and the skyscrapers flowing into the rivers. Even though this is so I do not believe I can control it: the heatwave logic is upon us again, and the mountains walk over us to show us they need footpaths too, and we are not the only ones who can clear a nature trail to return home for a hiking trip into the groove of bark and moss and redwood tinyhairs that love to be smoked by camping bears. Oh how I love those bears. I thought I could become one once before I lost all my weight and hair, but such is the sundance of a skinbag among the pears that drink in autumn, and the chrysanthemums drunk in spring. 


Nevertheless, the mountains are walking, and the wood of Birnam walks on the White House and will not be appeased. 


These are slobvious prophecies. 


Nevertheless when my mom Lillian or Lillyanna got back from Beograd or Belgrade she brought her rollaway suitcase which I promptly appropriated from her. I wanted the aura of Belgrade around it. Now I drag it everywhere even though my Uncle Dragon is dead we are two skinbags. One walks the other. The rollaway suitcase is walking me and I never have to walk it, it is more convenient than a pup this way, but I walk it all the same when it is tired of walking me away from the mountains stepping on me. High stepping! The rollaway suitcase walks me and I walk it and the mountains are walking, do not doubt that they are walking, even though they do walk, it is not mere plate tectonics of which I talk, amateur geologist sleuther ghost. This sliding is different colliding. The Chrysler is walking to the East River and it bends down for a sip of water and recieves a nip on its nose from a fish! Fish! You know that thing when it's so hot you want to pass out but you refuse to go back inside your filing cabinet and die alone? That's the way it is with me betimes. Because everything you see around you is time: the mountains walking, the East Side bluegreen glass skytoucher pedophiliac condominium complexes, and the West Side redbrick townhouse mountains walk out into the Green Mountains of Vermont

(the green mountains of Green Mountain, not quite redundancy but Rhythm In The Glissando Between Tongues,) and wash themselves in the cream of the long river flowing from the crematorium chimneyplume where Dogen Dragon watches his parents go up and I watch my Uncle Dragon and myself go up too. Skinbags are kites. But really they are smoke kites, or, we are, rather, we are cinder poof poof kites before long, so I like that we can bang our skinbags against each other like this, and get all the dust out of us before we are dust.

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No, that's a great department. Were there any pretty boys? Yes! But I can't touch them. I've come to this point where I've sublimated my myriad desires so much I can barely recognize them as they occur except I experience them as eruptions then. My name is Frank Throne. I first came into the world. Ego. In the red-on-red room of Wallace Stevens I was one of the thrones: was I the obvious red one or the little rocking chair frog babythrone. How does it feel to go from being a throne to passing as a fortytwo year old nocturnal Odyssey through the urn districts of dossier wallpaper Newyork. Do you remember the red food dye bathtub and Sara sticking your hand in it with her blue eyeshadow dripping down to her cheeks. I don't remember anything of anything of of. Ant hill district. Brickbrick. All the images of the world? Hardly: this is not a trapping mall. Memhorror, are we engaged? Are we going all the way? People try to intervene, to throw an enselfconsciousating light on what you do, to define it, when I don't know, and I need to not know, what it is I'm doing, which now is shot by a hunter in orange dayglo vest with pinned scalps of trumpwigheads dangling from the flapping lapels. Hunter knows best. And where is Artemis? The Lateral Travel Arts building closed down, it's cool, it's a space I like to fill, stop talking about it so I can keep listening without your interference. It's gone, do you hear yourself? Somewhere the monitor blew out, between Cambridge and Penn Station, and now this poem is called Fuck You to the Enshriners. I'm not dead yet. Though by your smiling you wish it so. Kill yourselves, governments, if you're so curious about death. "You look...thinner," old friends like to greet me these days. Do I need to make a T-shirt that says I'M NOT DYING I CHANGED MY DIET. Yes I clearly do. But my name is Frank Throne, not little froggy kiddy rocking chair throne or encoded codeine in the Tylenol viking pills. But it's like the grandparent's day, I don't agree with any of this, O friends of the Atreiades Treehouse, O friends to this ground and liegemen to the Dane. Denmark leaves a wetmark on my bed when I wetdream of it through my penis. Maybe there is a road of mobmobmob cobbles that throws you off it and you land in the ditch of a new recording contract with Fasterbean Damages to produce you, what can go wrong, product-oriented guru. You're screaming. But I really love my friends, I feel closer to the baristas than I do to my friends, my friends keep me at a distance of three thousand mikes west and east so I don't blow out the mike amps of the Pacific and Adriatic coasts respectively. But Belgrade is landlocked now. The Panonian sea used to be washing up on Belgrade shores, then it dried up and pulled back to the Adriatic and Meditteranean Seas, it shrunk up in marshes and landfills and New Belgrade Fountains, victim of a shrink who could psychoanalyze whole seas away, Dr. Ecocide, responsibility of humans. (Me!) You're just irritable because you had a tiny taste of threeday travel last week and now you are back in your Denmark New York rut route cage and cannot venture forth again and be great. Tell us what you mean. What do you hear. What do you CVS mean what you hear CHASE DUANE READE DUENDE GREEN SPRITE AND DEATH THROAT MIKE hi Frank Throne hi Frank Throne hi Frank Throne hi. I've stationed here for some work, I'm Mercury, childgrater, need some children to grate over my spaghetti to give it that childblood taste, so good to see you. But I love my friends so much I don't have any, my students pay me to be my friends, the baristas are closer to my brains than a Denmark sentry to his tower. I don't mean to imply. Yes you do. Immolate yourself and see if you have "No Self" to immolate. Then who is that on top of the spear you see from a distance yes it's you bleeding red mussel stew into the bowl of the French gourmet come to collect your taxes from you so you won't feel so horny in the spring, it's a US gourmet tooth operator pulling the long incisor levers in the Dyre Wolfmouth hanging above the offal office where you conduct your international ash business with desk, intestines curtain, and phonemouth. Fury, Frank Throne, I was so inspired by this person because when I was his age I was doing dishes, I was I and io io ai ai io io ai ai Medea yoyo knocking Jason's skull to pieces with her marvelous stone yoyo, that's quite a thing, one exception, no violence, and yet I love my friends the bioluminescent sea algae seaweed who give me a runway in the Pangean sea to land on. Hi, I'm John Glenn, and this is the moon landing, the moon landing on you, but first you must break the soundbarrier popgate, lace up your wingwing shoes and lower the cockpit glass and take off after me fast on grey runway tongue of Destroyer and join the military-incestrial complex consciously you already are a part of by paying the taxes you do to kill people you don't know who don't look like you and since you can't recognize your own feelings anymore, how can you recognize the right of others to exist with different clothing on? This is an outrage but it is gently the moon landing on you in moonboots, your surface cold silver dusty and the drifting sands go all over your face and bury you in the topsoil of the quicksand fracas fundraiser Grace threw when she renamed you Frank Throne so you could begin a new career as a red mussel stew slurped up by guests imitating the ancient gestures of friendship, long extinct since us all being enemies to each other became necessary to survival of the Punic War Revival Stratagem started by the burnt Papageno in his parrot cage when his beloved Papagenome flew away to imitate other words from teachers he barely knew but was attracted to due to their tenure wallpaper of honors and diplomas used to plaster over the redbrick walls with faces appearing and crying in them as the brick and mortar sandwich comes undone, and revellers turn to the fun of undressing and the wingwing sandal buckles are undone and you're already in it or are it, and there's nothing to explain to anyone: that's the fun itself: the lack of explanation, a zero gravity amvironment.


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                                    Jeudi Da Sensorium Rum

Today at 4:27 PM


Ou est le Occupy Biblioteque? This is the Queer Section. Where do you want your book? Fuck it, I've sucked enough (glorious pink teen and middle-aged professor) cock in this life to earn my place in the Gay Poetry Remainder Container, maintenant. I remember each (late) boy I kissed but not every man. It's not that you get older, you go numb, and what can we do with that at this (louchely) temporary space camp. The extra hour is huge. I think that arrow is a marketing tool. The Scorpio stinger eventually falls off from use, sinks to the bottom of the Hudson where it smokes and dissolves and regenerates itself into a fiery Sagittarius centaurarcher arrow which shoots itself up out of the riverocean confluence into the Rover Attic Cumulonimbus Cirrus Circus in the Citrus Grove Sky with its vapor scones drifting down the assembly line. Are you responsible for the work of taxis? Brooklyn between tendencies. In order to. Encumbent now. Varicose payment. The debt and the neck and the guilliotine nostalgia apology SORRY IS THERE SOMEONE SITTING HERE. Yes, my invisible boyfriend Bitewing. You won't see him until Seabring Street. Initially. But then cut up pastry reigns and you have to get over doing things in the usual border today. Order? It's stable. Oresteia table of human flesh dainties. Train's the documentary you watch. It's no different in Europe it's still pretty bad. I tried to treat depression with a trip to it. Industries I've participated. You know you don't really need a tortoise. Either that or start my own farm. Yeah, that's actually what my dad is doing, sewing, his own garden, he sends me videos about what foundations are fucked up. I like boots in the winter and my quality of breeding. Cos I hate flats. Ai ai io io. So. I don't remember exactly what happened. I remember I woke up on your couch fullyclothed. Do you remember it, I don't know. Friday was great but we drank a bottle of Lysine in ten minutes. Everything got a little bit weird after Peter arrived people started having sex in front of him. I kept forgetting who Peter was every five minutes which was so weird. I'm sorry Peter just thrusted himself upon you. No, I don't think he did. How is it? It tastes like beechnut. How do you make almond milk. Tout les matins du mond. All mond, all world champion, champignon mushrooms, and I am a mushroom, and what comes out of me is mushroom. There's no mushroom base lamp. At the office I stay late, seated, I wait for myself to come back from the copulation cubicle, I sit on my own lap, a contortionist. My building is turning into a newspaper stand, so I'm confident my recyclables are actually being recycled. Also, I found out I was going to the gym, and Lyndon B Johnson is standing in my usual elliptical exercise place. I freaked out, tried not to be obvious about it. I, actually I didn't say anything, I was so embarrassed with how I was acting. Weights. I realized there are mirrors: I turned around to have my reaction and I realized: there are mirrors in which he saw it! This is true. Lyndon Baines Johnson, twelvehundredmillionth president of the Rushmore stone statue states in profile. His cock is blue. He pulled it out to show it to you since you are the queer librarian who placed your debut volume "Strychnine Seas of Piracy Sans Abacus Dowry" in the gay section to define yourself with pride and now you are harrassed by the dilating shadow of the oval office as your own anus dilates with a wobble as you introduce the well-lubricated bisexual chandelier into it, or one golden lightbulb frond of it at least, chandeliers are hanging vegetation, and so I insist, you are my guest and must map it, your erogenous zone, the one remaining one, between your thighs but not the cock, but not the thighs or anus either, the aether rag pressed to your mouth, no, that's magnesium you dripped in your left receiving hand and spread on the back of your neck where the spinal cord joins the head to stimulate secret traffic all up and down the back, the vertebrae train, the Orient Express that passes through Belgrade, where you stay when in the Balkans on Business, leisure, or to meet the tigers at Belgrade Fortress Zoological Garden with your cousin Wolfman, the louche flammable absinthe in your shotglasses come evening, come evening, evening come, come on my face and leave me disgraced at the base of the Terrace Knave Fountain, my bluejeans down around my ankles, are those Levis, are they real or pirated, or is all denim a kind of motley patchwork of spinal cord bar chords strummed by the invisible boyfriend guitar player who plays my spine and is kind of a universal invisible boyfriend, a sog industry, for all those who need to be lonely to drink the wine offered by life from the cracks in the grey fountain marble base, I guess he blew my head off and held me tight and whispered "Sauvignon Blanc" as my grapes went blight. The whole family got together and started yelling about stuff they agree about. It's cathartic. It is cathartic. A white wine will wake you up. A red will make you wake up December twentyeighth in Paris, so it makes Seinse. In making that kind of psycho you have to take shots. Tequila was the first thing and from then I formed the temperance union in my all-invited three story starched stiff party jeans. My dad was this total strange hippy person, counting. We forgot Cleveland at the coffee. I'm second oldest actually. I mean three people are not a ghost organized but I am actually waiting and once I'm done what a viscous experience the lava must have, let's interview it at the caldera ridge with all our balding pates singed red for Yorrick sled skull racing down the fresh wet obsidian slope steeper than the vertical cliff face of Fantasm soda machine fountain--O Filou--orange head of plague defenestration stratagem backfiring on you, you have to show mercy to yourself and you're smashing glasses on the floor and dancing on top of the bar and you're dancing as fast as you can, aren't you, little twistbraid of grapes, Fasterbean Damages, Jackanapes and inheritor of mouthfulls of hot load semen spilling from the corners of your mouth to make the coroner jolly and even and calm enough to wake you up with his formaldehyde sponge and paintbucket of jessum. Jessup? Jesso? The canvas priming agent? I applied to be a catsitter. Whatever. I can't be allergic forever. I'm willing a hypoallergenic system into my skin and no one can stop me not even the laws of physics of the lineament-sensitive Milky Way Galaxy. So I get my tutoring clients to come sit on my face until the timer rings and then we play speedchess until replacements come from the wings, my partner sits on me until my boyfriend comes and my husband my wife--my sidereal property noise is Phantom's poise as he climbs down from the Paris Opera attic. There are some people who've made it their life. They charge a thousand dollars an hour to teach. Who has that kind of money? You'd think. The genociders grow rich with it and slurp the fermenting cider off their fisting fists. Hornographic, or rather, Hauntographic. I'm a Hauntographer when I'm at it, Attic.


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                                    VENDREDI FREAKOUT with Sandra Dee

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                           from Outer Space


Lactose! That's the word I couldn't remember yesterday. Lack dose. The lactose-sensitive Milky Way Galaxy, the autoimmune universe of our selfreflection vanity. Ooh it's hard today. 


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On fucking reality.


Librarytime. Mentallydivide. Are you guys working together? Scorpiotime--as if it could be reduced down to that and if it could--merry wet dreams to you the Prince Plinth Filip shin splints of Denmark--heir to the royal statehood grapecluster chandelier shedding bisexual light on the proceedings below, the coronation of Cell Cleo the Echo. Catmorrow. When I lost Sonny the dog it was a cocker spaniel clock I lost there on my life. I just was a primary fomentor without him I heard his leash bejangling my park thoughts of perambulatory persimmon lehrstuck, I'm stuck on it, what's the script, and then the One Bus flits by and a frog lariat-tongues it down his throat--King Frog John the former seagoat now evolved into Bemindfullness Proceedings. The mindfulnafs buzz in with blue uncertain windowfail light, don't be shy about it, wanting to have fun, even among the graves fresh dug, joy is a survival tool too, Citizen Jouissance must not be forsaken, it's just like when we play Life. Time Life, he's dating countless bedarvellings of Iced Coffee, he's I I I, glass eyeballs jangling in the Diet Coke for softer feelings and lose weight diet pill Dexedrine carbonation like in the Sixties when I never was alive but was so there at that party when they chopped up the grizzly bear Elizabethan Times. The Elizabethans had a heartier humor than we and showed it by funky idiOMsyncretic spelling bee, I'm here, it's been just fun, I'm here to lose friendships and gain them and repair them and it's friendship spectrum no significance, how can I befriend the blank cave wall for eleven years before a friend comes, finds me, chops his arm off as an entrance gesture, a gift for one whose eyeballs are gone now, given to the vulture who just swooped in and ate my spaniel cocker Sonny the dog, he of many names: Dog the Dog, Cruiser Bruiser--we can talk more after perception frays us flays us in its phrases and we mindfully pray before the kindness takeover of onetwothreefour companies begins and begets itself--of course it's annoying to hear others speak of mindfullness--every one DOES do it their own way--a different angleglade of light projected from the incandescent eyes surfacing from the red wine decanter to see the sky for the first time through the glass the grape makes to shine from its Dionysian forge lights of topsoil prime South Mouth France and Napa Grappa grapesmear pants and then the mannerists close in and poke out your eyes with their prepared brushes--Where is your luster now, Gloucester, Mass? Alabaster Sonny the dog had many names to hide in the fog of: Charlie Brown! He liked that one he would jump up and down and the best thing was when I was alone in the house my parents finally gone to businesstrip heaven on a plane of Ambien and I make spaghetti with Marijuana Marinara a-splattering the ceiling redmap red and I would blast BABA O'REILLY by The Who on the family Pioneer stereo and run around the house, Sonny chasing me in a circle because he is a spaniel and knows I am a bird and has the soft bite to bring the bird home to the hunter's hand, tho I'm no hunter, I'm the fasterbean bird trolley in thick eyeglasses for reading the red ceiling sola splatter map and knowing the way to the movieroom to eat spaghetti with Sonny and watch World War Two bridges go boomboom on the TVscreen courtesy of Steven Spielbird, the vulture capitalist feeding on history as if it were a corpse and not a thing you find out now as it is, blonde with jowls, a Sonny cowdog shepherd buried in the backyard and I go back there with swishing whiskey bottle and sprinkle the gold on his fresh grave and then walk out there again with my brother and he starts crying and my father yells from the porch Don't cry, Son! And I tell him Shut up! this is mindful binding tearing itself apart the flesh from the dog goes off and the fur from the hand the paw from the land we are Huntresses and no one can separate us from Dogland that's why I go tromping through le monde bond pond wandsticktwig wig of straw and iceberries thaw and the dog visits in sleeptime it's not a dream there is no REMing it's visiting time and there's no consolation for losing the blonde bellyrub time of the spaniel spanielling on now in other spaniellands beyond your hand where no leashes will ever touch his neck again he can run the soccer field off the earth he can pick up that whole green turf in his jaws and throw it into outer space so the planets can play soccer with asteroids kicking them through nebula gas goalposts for a point and the Sonnydog paws can bury me in the backyard and he can visit me and pour whiskey when now and now and it will is and is now is not is trick or treat and candyblob jawbreaker funteeth, is a minute, the dog hair shed and the serpenteagle flown forth from it, the eyeducts raw from so much crying. My parents didn't even tell me Sonny had died until three days after it happened. My father had already buried him in an allnight hardshovel in the icyground February session. I wanted to be with Sonny when he died. He howled and fell asleep on the library floorforever. What is mindfullness. The dog is off the leash and in the park and I stir my limbs into the spaghetti, the leprosy confetti parade is on, and my skinstrips are peeling off my facemask all by themselves, no need to help them, the barrier between places especially thin when you know they, the departed dogs, never left, there's a whole chorus of them in the front yard and two kids ring the doorbell and leave a small bird skeleton on your front doorstep mat and run off, back into the dark, and you wonder if it's a sign, it's a bluebird corpse, not carcass, it's a real living bluebird skeleton barrette you can hold your hair back with when the bangs get Octoberlong and garish and ashempathic.


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