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Geripe 16
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issue #16 <------------------------------ ---> 05-06-97
"MOMMY, I SMELL DEATH. or
THE ISOMORPHISM OF LIFE AND BASEBALL:
WHAT'S THE FIELD RESISTANCE AND POLARITY?"
and other portions of the diary of emotions
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NOTES ON MOTIVES FOR GERIPE
Looking back over the first issue: an introduction; i see it was only
partially complete. The name was explained. It was important then what
billboard I gathered thought under and it is important still. But I didn't
explain my template for the nature of the content. I think only recently
have I fully understood what the gathering principle is (or more probably
what it has become): a chronicle of my life as it happens. That includes my
thoughts, emotions, and all that aleatoric nonsense that always has its way
of passing through my life. By writing or publishing/republishing what is
tangent to my path I can clear myself of what I don't need (and what are
those things I need?); true catharsis. It glances my skin and I can take it
in and then let it go. Something has to pass away before anything new comes
in. It's beneficial to me, and people seem to be interested in my tangents.
I can only really hope it remains that way.
Enjoy the issue.
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"MOMMY, I SMELL DEATH. or
THE ISOMORPHISM OF LIFE AND BASEBALL:
WHAT'S THE FIELD RESISTANCE AND POLARITY?"
Don's flesh is consumed by the heat; burns, crumbles like charred
paper and quickly replaces itself with a new coat. It is understood that
this regeneration doesn't ever complete the job leaving him lesser of a man
each instance. Soon, Don will be a boiling tumor baking on the asphalt, his
atrophied tongue pushing the back of his teeth straining for a plea of mercy.
He's grown weary of his supine days and nights. "Give me pain or
give me death; just keep me away from the fucking boredom." His lungs fill
with smoke. When he dies those lungs will appear to be crushed grapes lying
in a bed of soot.
Exhale...
Inhale...
Exhale...
Don is consiously aware of his breath. In fact, he can't take his
mind off of it. "Why should I waste my time with you? I'd rather wear you
externally: the branch of bronchi wrapped around my neck." He says this
aloud. The other few people at the bus stop ignore him with a bovine
indifference. A frighteningly homely woman next to him gnashes madly on a
greasy chicken leg. Her face assumes the shape of a rabid shih tzu: eyes
direct and predatory, hair bobbing with anxious rage. Her exposed navel forms
Don's future mouth. It whispers: "The end is coming." The tongue darts out
with the speed of a striking snake snatching chicken crumbs out of the air.
After satisfying its hunger, the mouth recedes to navel.
Don decides he doesn't want to take the bus. He hates the smell of
fried chicken. He walks away, passing a seven-year-old girl that writhes on
the ground in the midst of a violent epileptic fit. Grand Mal. She foams at
the mouth, eyes flitting like the wings of a hummingbird. Don sees this with
vague interest. Her mother prys her tongue out of her throat. The girl's
mouth snaps shut like an animal trap, biting her own tongue. Blood trickles
down the side of her mouth. She coughs and spits blood on the front of her
dress.
Don quickens his pace now, bored with sightseeing. He makes out a
little boy saying: "Mommy, I smell death." His mother blames it on the
people with accents.
Don steps off the curb carelessly. He trips on his own feet smacking
his head quite audibly on the street. No one notices, not even the bus driver
while he calmly drives over Don's neck. His trachea crushed and his neck
broken Don remembers a song he's never heard. It builds with a crescendo
echoing inside his skull:
This is just the beginning
Of life's new inning.
In this baseball game of life,
The innings are filled with strife.
You've just struck out.
What's your life been about?
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Haiku may only have 3 lines. It follows the pattern: 5 syllables, 7
syllables, 5 syllables. Tree-huggers may gain entry, but suicidal poets are
not allowed. "I swear to you, I'll never write a poem. Please don't flog me
again. My back and buttocks are sore and red and I am feeling ever so
morbid."
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FEEL THE PAIN, BABY. CREEN CON TRISTE:
THOUGHTS TO THE ONE I LOVE
White walls, red carpet: I'm taking the notes of a life I don't live.
Where am I placed? When do we intersect? When's the Great Smelting of raw
ore? The lead and the iron form nacreous pools, the rounded edges give a
sense of depth. Is it determined that our fluids flow through mutually, but
never connect? When's the goddamn alloy to be created? Does there exist
such an alloy? Am I the lead? Do I poison all those babies? Can I be
blamed for the trips to the emergency room? I'm stuck to myself; my life
is predetermined. I have no choice. But you can blame me. With it, maybe
we can find that understanding and satisfaction I crave. Does lead feel like
I do? Maybe I, too, have a low melting point.
I feel so goddamn CONNECTED. LINKED.
It's fucking irreversable and I wouldn't have it any other way. I
can hate so much, but I have a great bundle of love to give. It's densely
packed like the sun; but it doesn't burn. Cynically: "What do I do with
this rancid stuff?: the meat off my bones. Do I have to take it everywhere?
I want to put it in one place: One special box to whom what it contains is
recursive."
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FEEL free to ask me questions about the issue OR otherwise.
I'VE GOT AN EMAIL ADDRESS NOW. WRITE me at: rapeman@bbs.utopia2.com
SEND me your text. if i like them they WILL be published.
contact me at the distro sites:
file area is back online -----> vip------------------(972)494-1024
our newest distro site -------> high weirdness-------(972)288-6755
our new web page (perpetually under construction)----,
____________________________________________)
(
`---> http://rampages.onramp.net/~rick/geripe/index.html
(many thanks TO id for his GENEROSITY)
IF you would like FOR your bbs to BE a distro site please contact me.
ALSO, if you would like to ADVERTISE in Geripe, please email me. ads are
absolutely free
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grp_eot
