You may maul me, beerbongs nestled on a metal shelf, every orderly thing making little sense as a fact. You may maul me. The subject makes a weird face to be identifiable. And then the nineteenth century transforms weird face into tape hiss. The making makes the harp apart. It is the need to keep eating hot dog eating contests, everyday speech of sky bills. You may touchdown, chronology. You may maul me. You may make those ears a teaching thing. Fill a steel bowl with if & chug.



Nothing’s dumber than a shirt in California. And I am in your body like Milk Plant 8, while English is a gloryhole of intentions. That being said, California has only second sentences, pi only to the second decimal. People in California are like a foot being born out of another foot, a kind of thinking about death, the ocean, another ocean atop the ocean, yet another ocean getting weird with those oceans. Horses look stupid in California. I’m tempted instead to say California-where. I’m scared, but California scared, scared to wear my scrotum shirt with my scrotum skirt, to change my name to Chicky Wang. In California I read The Savage Sword of Conan. No, but seriously, what avails the?



It is always autumn in The Carter Family but it is always also winter too. The pears & the apples freeze in bloom on the branch. No one knows anything about America there, or if they do know what they know is the truth & the truth can be so sad. Everyone in The Carter Family ends up at the 24-hour grocery store around 1AM holding a bag of off-brand candy & reading astronomy magazines, but what’s sadder is the not-even-truth, the things that could never even be thought of as true or not, like ladders, or kisses, or the commentary track to xXx. Yet still everyone wants to hold a ladder to their lips & kiss it.



Eventually everyone lives in Colorado & likes it there & we buy those panties with tiny black bows on the back. We open books at random to stand outside being. We show each other the weird things our fingers do. What spoils we maintain in the breakrooms of our hearts decay into fives & sevens, the greatest good a highway with shallow shoulders. Winter in Colorado is a framed thing. And framing makes the heart more motorboatable, more cut-to-the-chase-able, like a fake gold chain that really looks good. One can always hear that Yes song somewhere in Colorado, it’s not a law, more like a Penguin edition, like the watermelon one can’t find the right time to open that sits on the counter until rot makes it sacred. We could say that nature keeps us sane but nature is nothing but an Alf tattoo. All I want is what we all want, that not-knowing being human makes impossible, a memory in a rowboat neither deduced nor unused.



Mathias Svalina is the author of three books & Big Lucks Books will release his Wastoid in the fall of 2014. He is a co-editor for Octopus Books & lives in Denver



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