Pig playing the xylophone mural

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Doing the Wall drawing

 

The Wall Texts

Porker Parker – by Luke Van Tassel

“Porker Parker was a pig who hitched a ride to California with a caterpillar. Porker gets around using a walker with tennis balls on the legs. When he gets to California he covets the ancient golden xylophone that belongs to the caterpillar, so Porker smushes him.
The xylophone can make songs come to life. When he plays Humpty Dumpty 34 times, suddenly 34 Humpy Dumpties appear. When he plays Mary Had a Little Lamb, Mary and the Lamb appear. The president of California, W.D. Bush, comes to investigate and accidentally breaks
Porker’s
walker, so Porker cracks him over the head with a chair, and an alien comes out. Porker kills the alien with a hammer and hangs its skin outside. In the struggle, however, the
xylophone was broken, and now when Porker tries to play “Paradise City” he only sees brown grass and ugly women. Three years later, the caterpillar comes back to life, so Porker pays a skunk $5 to eat him.”
(story in the car, 20 August 2011)

       

Cannibalism and the Common Law

 

criminals, idiots, and women

forensic hypnosis intended to be sung but
no particular tune is suggested


Freedom for what? I’m starving on my feet
no woman prefers a pretty mincing puppet yes, with caution, to deserving paupers
(material rewards are ineffective beyond the subsistence level)
During this time she carries a good stout stick with which to ward off
possible attacks from her husband’s ghost
(blew his brains out in Vienna, 1926, after the midwife toads)
admitted sending her imp to destroy one Wardol, a tailor
against chivalry civil convulsion
Love! it wearies and annoys me greatly
mythical as the griffin that complicated thing which makes us dizzy
dread forgetfulness, fever or ague
inaudible summons blood-drunk vicious relations
there are no doubts, no suspicions at the coarse and hysterical tone
such an amicable resolution
knocked in his wife’s frontal bone
by striking her with an iron
threw a burning paraffin lamp
at her turned her round before
the fire like a piece of beef
even to the last gaspe, for her wicked
and detestable life
cut away with his crude razor several tags of mangled flesh
completely shattered the middle-third of the fourth metacarpal bone
with a hatchet, in the back parlour while attempting to force her into the oven
the black dog of Newgate: both pithy and profitable
does not appear to have suffered from
his deviant gastronomic activities

Memory fragment

The plane trip between Calgary AB, and Santiago, Chile were always epic affairs during my teenage years. I once sat next to a silent nun that spent the 18 hours reading fashion magazines. I have odd memory of a super-friendly, nervous ballet dancer going to Peru to find his family…
“Climbing out of Miami airspace I saw he was shaking, and asked him if he was scared of flying. No. He smiled sweetly and said he was scared of something else, asked me where I was going. I told him, pointing out my mother sleeping three aisles up. He said he was a ballet dancer from Germany. A bit of nervous staccato about life in Berlin, dancing. But his Spanish was so good! He said, he was adopted and spent his teen years in Munich. He was traveling to find his biological family somewhere in the mountains of Peru. They were Quechuan. I don’t speak Quechuan, he said. How did you find them? He’d convinced his parents to tell him which orphanage they’d found him in: a small mission in the mountains that wasn’t there anymore. But the nuns that ran it were in a convent in Lima. He was going there first. He had a couple of names, foundation directors, nuns… and the name of a village. He started shaking again. He talked and talked and talked while around us babies cried and people snored.”

 
 

summer morning rush in a subway car at Place d’Armes.

The Metro has always seemed one of those surreal, hallucinatory spaces where we temporarily lose our individuality. I always eaves-drop and scribble madly the just plain weird snippets of conversations I hear.
The subway’s a cyborg where our own programs lapse lost in the grocery store tangle of this car
not that one-quick flat thrumming on a pivot point to a call and
response red musked whole like energy from nothing-
from cut paper from a green Santa Claus clutching a garbage bag by a high-speed bullet train.
Our glitches trace down to spit bottles of cold cloud’s tenses
blue black cynic of taut cable connects
tongue tonsil tooth marks tight to each collarbone
shit-disturber of the playhouse turned into shit-house errors between molecular muttering to
muttering so loud
we all join in as the chorus of cogs milled hard-perfect swallowing oil thoughts coating mild
steel.
Smug little girl humming in the hard-cracked stage of scowling confident
in the braid-tossing stance of someone who’s going to get all she wants that day from harassed
uncles
Stranger’s grim primer
can feel his random rage in the halitosis smog of over-heated tunnels-the dishes broke the
dog’s shat on the couch the supervisor didn’t come to the morning budget meeting
breaking the line for the bus
so long the blonde buys her smokes whips her neck down to see the fat burgundy runners swelling
up with hot street gum
a mouse trap trick to code us into possible grid arrangements: pyramids, Dutch land reclamation, conscription-forgetting the sea’s boundaries of glass.
He grabs her wrist tells her
over her weeping to tell Carlos to watch out-he’s going to get the shit kicked out of him any
day now- she pauses
hot pink hair matching hot pink flower
twirls her skirts climbing on the escalator at Place d’Armes.

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