This is a fragment of a looonnngggg loong long poem.
This is an automatic writing
I was sitting very still in my favorite spot in the woods
when I got a feeling I should be writing
so I hurried home and wrote this thing which
I don't know if I should call it a short story or a really long poem
so here is the very beginning
CRINKLED FABRIC IN THE BEING HOUSE
In the beginning the washer went round and round and round. It was hypnotic. The void has to be constantly washed or it wouldn't be the void. It would romp around and get bits of sun and stardust and sticky honey from forbidden jammy sandwiches all over it's existential coveralls and after a while it wouldn't be the void anymore now would it?…..it would be a mess. or a something. a place…or perhaps a person depending on it's mood.
So to keep the nebulus ragamuffin from being it had to be washed, hung out to dry and pressed because we do not want any wrinkles in time now do we?
All of this is very sensible and wise. You know this because i say so.
The washing machine grows lily pad step ladders down into it’s mouth. And where is this divine washer at the beginning of creation you may ask?
well let me try to explain. It isn't really a washer like at a Laundromat with the shining coins and shimmering bubbles and the one belligerent man grumbling how long does it take to yucka yucka a pair a nickers up in here……?
i say washing machine because it is the closest word i know to describe this odd metaphysical event……
for this place in the abyss was like a house. THE HOUSE in fact. The being house or the house of being though it did not have walls or a roof any mason could build and they know a lot of things about everything!
listen!
listen….
i'm really not sure what i saw…….
but i'm telling you about it any way….because it is important.
the washroom is green and warm but cracked as well. Like a green house over grown. It is a place you feel at home…it is the first memory you ever had…there is humming. soft humming and the smell of blossoms and her perfume…oh biology biology…..
everything is peaceful and serene…the wash room grew from a seed.
the house is kind of like the house i grew up in but different…..my house did not bloom at least I don't think so
you can see the clothes line out the window…..i remember……
Drying clothes hang flat and smooth….planes blank…undyed.
But they want to be worn…but they don't understand!!!!
To be worn is to be wrinkled….chaotic crinkles etched into the fabric
not to even mention stains
rips
but you can dance upon the body, dance and dance
then come home to mama
and she will iron you flat again
buttons and zippers which nudity slides underneath
to tease
the body gives it shape
and it lies insatiate upon it
Catatonic in it’s ice cold silk silhouettes. Siamese twin neckline. Octopus sleeves. Arachnid hemlines.
dimension of the mend and stitch, the reality of pattern chatters forth in polka dot profusion…..hidden inside symmetry
The washroom tiles are an inch underwater. Sweat drops and creates ripples around mama's feet. The mechanical earth mother stands near her ironing board generating electrical fins with her circuits slowly shorting out. fins of fish and sharks and whales zipping with brilliant energy in the pool of collecting water. Mama is straight and silver. Whip thin. Long neck of chrome rings. Unblinking quicksilver eyes. chain dreadlocks. oil spill etched skin. an Egypt head. The being house is triangular like a pyramid sometimes. Her posture balances marbles of sweat, rolling. She is the center pole. A wanted lightening rod. Diverting the energy. Fierce, hungry, soulless energy. Into random heads. Space between neurons which is what the washroom is I think. The mechanical electric space between. Spread limply with rolled up eyes on the ironing board is her soul and in steaming out the indentation left by a necklace she notices that there is still a golden honey stain left. She put her finger on herself and tasted her soul. Honeycombed. Rooms and hollow storage. Disfigured tribe antenna. And the taste made the busted zipper and the buttons all falling off something good. Something sweet. The earth mother irons her soul as one with her infinite selves. Her wardrobe is unending and of the most refined taste.
The washroom used to be a place of wonderful electronic humming apparatuses. Glowing screens, glittering functions. Printing X-rays and water purifiers. Super computers.......now divided and divided and divided into the washroom. Almost barbaric. The mechanical nothing between matter. Now green. Matter at that time didn’t exist. The green is part of the myth. A garden at the beginning of time. Eden.
There was only one plant that was not a metaphor, a folk tale. A yarn.
It was that tree out there….
the one the clothes line hangs on.
strung up in webs……
upon it grow blue apples
that is what I ate before I came here. I got it from a naked virgin
out in the desert
name eve
but the police came and took her away
for indecent exposure
and the moon turned blue
so I sat down…woosh! And here I am with mama……the umbrella mama
when reality was tidy
Where is matter?
why we have to cook it up!
and a kitchen grew in the being house with a big stove
The kitchen was white and clean
because no one has cooked a single souffle there yet.
But what to bake with? Nothing was in the cupboards!
But knock knock…..it was the milk man.
my dad says I look like the milk man
but my mom says no
I look like my uncle
who was a strong man in the circus
and bathed in ox blood
to become stronger then a strong man
where did the milk man get those frosty glass bottles of milk
there are no atoms, never mind cows
he tracked dirt into the laundry room
where did the dirt come from?
there are no dead things, no decay
because nothing is yet alive
accept electric fish
and a blue apple tree
of a hallucinogenic nature
but then the milk man took mama and kissed her with a wheat seed carefully placed in his mouth. She was so taken aback that she didn’t notice that she swallowed the seed until the timer on the oven chimed.
or beeped.
and with oven mitts of a most allegorical nature
she put the pie in the window sill and went back to smoothing out wrinkles
in the laundry room
The blue apple pie had many crumbs
and from one crumb came a little boy
But we are still cyborg....really.
because the apples are made of blue metal
and other hardware bound in nectar and photosynthesis
and the bees who are angels
collect the nectar and make
a honeycomb matrix
to stain the fabric.
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