Secret Mojo Dumbs It Down for You

August 27, 2006

Blank prose

Filed under: Naked Crunch,writing — secretmojo @ 10:41 am

Bah. Sometimes I suppose a person just can’t write for shit.

Instead, I will dust off one of these old Naked Crunches of mine, trim it up a little, and deliver it without a care.

(warning: disturbing imagery)

Tenderness at the Burgundy Rapture

We’d—meaning Aji and me—let our hairs touch in a game of our own invention, “Laudation,” always carried out secretly at cafés.

In broad daylight was our favorite time to do it. In front of others was even better. Surreptitiously naughty, the back of my arm hair met the electric of hers. With skin apart, feel burned pure.

Exquisite, our table games. Laudation became our secret dialogue. Arms “lackadaisically” positioned upon the table, we projected and received the flow of emotions, mutual admiration, lust and annoyance — all hidden in the prickling of our hairs. We indulged in the varieties of silence, sipping tea and flirting with the language of eye contact, before the window explodes and shards rake through our cheeks.

A wide-open dumbfounded look upon her face: is this really happening? From tenderness to horror in microseconds, we are blasted out of the world. This is our consummation. No marriage, no proposal, plenty of flirt yet no coitus, we lingered too long upon the hope of the future, the backs of our arms never/always touching as we sipped our tea.

But this moment, birthed in anguish by someone who felt wronged, someone who gave herself to God or Jellyfish Ultra, or someone who thought they were saving us from ourselves, serves upon us in sprinkling, tinkling glass burning fresh in burgundy, an end to romance.

Aji’s face splits open in an unnatural twist of flesh.

I regret we never kissed.

Her eye divides in two.

Maybe we’re sideways on the floor. Maybe we’re airborne. Darkness swells about me, confusing my perception. I think, “the politicians will never know the tenderness we delivered today. Instead they will ride our deaths like a horse to power.”

Aji smiles minutely through her facial destruction. She is happy I’m next to her at this moment. I want to smile back, but I have no jaw.

Minutes ago, we teased each other. Which particular body part might our wrinkles grow on first? We expected to die together in old age.

But this day, with all its faults, isn’t so bad.



August 5, 2006

the loss of stars

Filed under: Fiction,Naked Crunch,writing — secretmojo @ 4:57 am

I stood in one place forever ago, mesmerized. I cranked my neck until vertebrae touched, and flipped a headswitch, sending feelers from my eyes. I touched the stars, or rather, they touched me. Milky band of galaxy sequins warned that I was too damn tiny to get a big head. The endless pinpoints conspired to intimidate my being with their never-touchable tease.

But through time, a thousand eras long, I felt the light arise from my right (a small cabin by the shore) and a glow encroach from my left (electric installation at a country feed store). A haze enclosed upon my stars in steps minute and mundane, until the backdrop to the brightest, a ribbon of lustrous everything, rescinded beyond the fog.

But I kept my neck in position, vertebra a vertebra, hoping, wishing, dreaming that the industrial breath that abducted my stars would take a break, get tired and sleep, and in its respite I might find mine: a billion of a billion on my megascreen above.

But damn its tenacity, its industrious foreverness: the haze stayed strong and grew in power. After millions of years of your neck like that, it starts to crimp a bit. I endured the pain that lashed from cowlick to coccyx through the twentieth century, but now, I am.

I am.

I’m tired.

So slowly (the pain is insurmountable) I bend my chin parallel to ground. The Supermall attacks in a bright white flash; I shut my eyes. I return to become the center of the world, with no more warnings from the light of dead worlds ancient. I become righteous and absolute, final and enraged. Unleash war on my brothers like we’re not a collection of ants on an ant on an ant of the universe. Join the petty fight for the death of another, as if the Pleidies could feel the recoil.

I can become big again.

Slowly, I open my eyes. Praise the haze, and walk forward for the kill.

July 18, 2006

May I play with your amygdala?

Filed under: Fiction,Naked Crunch — secretmojo @ 3:01 pm

No sunrise today. An overcast blanket deprives the grass of color. But the robins still arise, naïvely chirping in the trees; early birds appetent upon the day.

Out there, on your grass, lies dew. Her dayspring glister begs for contact of feet. There is no reason for it; life is the reason. Dew was meant to be felt by feet. This, your dew. These, your toes. Call it fate, impulse, or the temptation of primordial nature: urge becomes will becomes action, and you are out the door heedless, torso slave to legs.

With a spritz, cool wetness—earth alive—nestles between your toes; a friendly caress from the carpet of green turns your morning muscles blithe. A zephyr tickles your ear, and birds gather their babble in staccato-tat cacophony. Do they notice you, a wingless animal enjoying the grass? And what is this interest they have in you? Chirps become gurgles turn hunger into rapture.

The turbid worms beneath your feet find purchase in your toes. Your back reclines like feathers to sleep as wet sounds crawl your face; you have no voice, the birds swoop in, and your sunless dawn in spurning motion heaves itself away.

* * *

Awake! A child. Not yours, but everyone’s. Eyebrows not developed, a head too big for shoulders. Eyes preternaturally wide, and her lips, his lips, quiver from a terror: she and he with halting motion raises two hands to plea for help; but you’re busy with yourself, ego stroking ego, too slow to enter the now. Before you reach to touch his finger, or hold her hand to stop her weeping, he effervesces: confetti into the sky. She drifts as mist to cool the day and through her, for him, a rainbow brightens, shimmers, and melts towards the ground.

* * *

I saw my friend, distraught from love, sitting and slouched upon the floor. She was sixteen or so, as I was then, and stoically showed no tears. I doubt she knew I was in the room, because she produced her dad’s revolver and stuck the barrel in her eye. Between squeeze and blast, she flipped one eye open; she recognized my bent-up hopeless face, and seemed to wonder, in her slow-motion “whoopsie daisy” way, if I’d mind stopping the bullet so she could have more time to explain.

I’d rather she had cried.

* * *

My ears started ringing thee days ago. But onlyu when the world got qwuiet. Yesterday, the knormal sounds of of my day wer overshadowed by this piercing, horrendous noise; I should’ve seen a cdotor, but I was stubborn and afraid. I couldn’t sleep from the nausea and the high fucking pitch ascreaming in my head. until it finally gave up its torture upon me and dealt me silenc. Full silence.

and just this morning, my eyes began to fail; i could not find my way aruond and i coudnt call noone because i couldn’t heare in the phone. i guess i couldn’ve called 911, but it passed my attention at hte time. So now i write to taell anyone who gets this that i cannot see eithe, and i am having trouble typing or finding the phoneeeee; theresmi,bmess in my fingers, butt i am every much alive; is ihjusatq canm t feerl anhythiiiiiiiiiiinggggggg

July 13, 2006

Backyard Inventory

Filed under: Naked Crunch,Poetry — secretmojo @ 2:58 am

Rubber chicken, DNA
Jersey guv’nor (flaming gay)
Toenail clippings, Bad News Bears
Better products for my hair
Sense of guilt and ice cream cones
South Dakota cowhead bones

Shawl, y’all, a kick to my balls,
mall, mall, mall, malls

Banana Boat, buff’lo wings
Hot dog glutton winning things
Knuckles and veins and dragons and strings

and sails and CPUs

Psychic bunk
viscous gunk
skunky, funky, chunky junk
in just one trunk
of my backyard

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