quinhaus10 new document title

jak nance is a surrealist and pataphysician in pursuit of a phenomenology of the unconscious. unfortunately, nance is a knicks fan, but does believe in the apotheosis of unicorns.

Family of Light Bulbs / Being Dead Isn't Easy (3 Dreams)

nothing has ever been "unmade". the throttle of an end, nimbus masks of death, coil around one's throat, and lay the body to sleep with new mirrors and undigested feathers. fortunately, the cut creases around the fingernail, two drawers open and close, a chandelier falls off the rim of a martini glass, catches itself, and lands on its feet at the bottom of an empty swimming pool.

a footless bathtub caressing the inner sanctum of a holy tribe of stars. unbeknownst to the villagers, their mountain has never once believed in the geometric quantization of a soul. one never actually stands next to the other. one circle looks for a second circle, never finds it, keeps looking.

the circle of life, kicking out its knees at sunflowers. petals rain, worms begin to surface, grass consumed by mammal's jaws, a willow rots.

day by day, the sky fades, greys, opens up a filter shop, selling one eye at a time for a small, shiny fee. no one ever said being dead isn't easy. the image of a pyramid with no vertices appears in a pot of boiling water.

day by day, the sky fades, greys, opens up a filter shop, selling two eyes at a time for a small, shiny fee. no one ever said being dead isn't easy. with great difficulty, an iron steam-dries a grocery cart full of motor oil.

it is known, engines run on jacobson's organ.

a storm with no name induces the next ice age.

a wasteland, a poet's coffin, no flowers. the sun percolates, the wooden box stained and uneven. a voice is heard from inside the grave, a correspondence perhaps. an empty pill bottle drops from the sky, crests in the ice. it begins to snow over the audience, the stage darkens, but not completely.

a chandelier crashes on the stage, shatters into the surrounding audience. a footless bathtub appears at center-stage, overflowing with diamond colored feathers. the villagers see two bathtubs and not one, the audience sees one tub, and not two.

a family of light bulbs outside together on a rainy day in september. like icicles in the wind currying favor with mother nature.

an incandescent guillotine named after a surfer that was eaten by a great white shark wearing a mask made of blue foil.

for what appears to be no reason, the moon is out.

the isosceles triangle of the world has always caught my eye.

i feel that i've carved the expectation of both nobody and everyone. the limits of these decisions only find themselves so that they may align one another with each and every bone in one's body.

why must i feel the paint glow as is slithers down my throat? why does death only appear to us as signified? who was it that decided how many breaths i'm allotted per day? when was it death found me?

the sun grows. my eyes feel warm. an oven. listening to nails scratch hardwood planks rocking in their old age. walls fall inside. eyelashes feel faint. the heat inside my veins pumps as if kicked from an engine. the crescendo gathers, music plays.

the ball replaces the biscuit and the family all lose their teeth. one's life is quite possibly a rumor, or a reflection, and nothing more than that. remembering things that no longer exist. a launch angle. the world rejoices outside of these walls, i'm sure of it. inhaling the distance ahead one mile at a time, doors open and close, locks lock, tongues lick, and the oven still renders its heat. dreams covered in fire. floors falling apart one plank at a time. the hearts of stars fall weightlessly into the surrounding atmosphere.

all things float.

lord, send me an angel.

i've peeled the skin off the same apple thousands of times. the stars made of aluminum. stood dazed over the toilet, hovering to catch the water and pour it in the porcelain bowl.

a gate open and piled bodies through into the ocean. graves measured neat across the plotted eudaimonia. diaphesus. clock towers cured to the limb. diaphanous masks meant to mirror laughter while one sleeps, torn to shreds as hoards of thoughts frenzy their anguish and swim on by. shades and a pill to survive waking up again.

there is no bottom to morning, it's a cylindrical tube, a pipe, that extends far beyond anything the human eye can see. the feeling of waking up is never mutual, but singular in the respect that whatever ceiling one must stare at is, well, different from most other ceilings. if i wake up does that mean i'm still alive, like, by logical necessity?

where do i go from here? another log on the fire, dying the wood with ink and charcoal. dosed by smoke. dosed by you. veneer suicides carved by initials in the sun. coffee. french vanilla cream. an empty flask. reformation in an open door spectacle, minutes run down. a star is born. one thing i have to do today so i wrote it on my hand. not to forget.

echoes in the flood.

you stare at a mirror and you stare back at you. a divine simulation. broken glass shatters, the petals fall like hail. palm trees. i hold water in my hands and drink in the soil. staring back at me. who is that? is that me? gold cut on the hi-hat, keeping time as time passes. measures without signatures. doctor beat's infinite gluttony.

i sit and stare at myself in the mirror of the shower in the bathroom. do i have to do this? is this who i am? that's me?

eight cameras ranked the mirror of perfection.

walk out the front door and sit in a lawn chair and wait for causality. coffee. a joint. the grass pancakes under a hard frost, first of autumn. seasons take over. mt. olympus. one goes to church to feel a little closer to god, one gets another cup of coffee to be a little more like god.

anyway, noon rolls around. my list fades from its flesh. you see, ink only stays so long as you dehydrate it. not a great friend. the lawn needs blood. god waters the grass. each blade, the dew, the small forest sweats. how do i see these things? are they mine? is each tree for me? am i the only one that can see such things?! O thank you great Spirit of The Forest! thank you! these appearances are mine!

by the afternoon i always want more coffee, but need something to eat "first". once my hand falls off then the rest of my day will be absolutely free. free to do, well, nothing.

free to do nothing

it sounds like rachmaninov could wield death with just seven octaves. when i first moved the lamp over a few inches, shadows began to burn up. i've never forgotten that moment, darkness just began to disappear...

the storm moved in from the west, rolling fire over the horizon as the clouds ate away at the sun. the blinds hanging over the window fell into temporary paralysis, the lamp grew brighter, its shade shook from the elbowed convulsions.

"america's most powerful mafia empires", my garden daydreams of what it might be like to have a stream running along its ancient lumbar system. the sound gravity makes when it goes hunting for starfish. the tide changes over, crashes, falls asleep stretched out on the cold, wet shore. it's nice work if you can get it.

i've been changing my number the past few weeks, yes, more than once. my fear is that one day, i might wake up and not know who i am, totally forget everything about myself, forget that i am in fact "a" "self". it all sounds ludicrous i know, but just last night, the blind on my window tightened up, it began to thunderstorm outside, and my lamp got really bright. i began to spin around in circles, and vomited on the floor by my bed.

my pillow changes color depending on what i eat before i go to sleep. my electricity is always rotten, always planting itself in crops with no outlets. i don't remember what it feels like to carry innocent weight around in a dream, what it feels like to never notice the glass while i'm looking through it.

when i woke up the ceiling stared back at me and the fan, spilling out its final breaths. the eyelashes cut against the top of the shadows, sprawling out over the rest of the ceiling, dancing as the branches outside the window continued to gyrate. always staring back at me, the breaths i never take when i wake up. maybe i'll suffocate, maybe i'll swell up like a flesh balloon and POP, letting all those untaken breaths splatter all over the room, transparent and invisible. i prefer nowhere to be found.

the day of the wedding i shaved my head clean, brushed my teeth, and jumped off the roof of my house. the trees turned to blurs, the shingles into a memory, and the pavement into a new, brighter future. like a box of cured bones and cracked glasses i dropped, tossed, and turned. the sun was out.

the door opened and there it was, another door. this door was locked. i knocked several times, but no one answered. so, i shut my door and when back inside my home, made a pot of coffee, and began writing again. about an hour later, i glanced up through the window above the sink, and watched the second door walking away towards the next house across from mine. it made me wonder about the benefits of a job like that, going home to home, staying locked, getting paid. a dream job, really.

as night came and went, the sun rose, and so did a new memory. you see, when a new memory arrives, there must be a ceremony, a rare celebration. one must pack a pipe of the loudest of the loud, make a small, but firm drink, put on Ti Geralde, and beat an open door with a softball bat. once the door lay with all its innards sprawled open, one should then light a candle, and recite a poem about fire and time. this is the only, proper way to receive a new memory.

standing there, in the center of the living room, i thought about what it would be like to devour myself like a camera does film, turn my body inside-out and flip its axis so that it might achieve a new, visible polarity.

i started lining the edges of my bedroom walls with styrofoam to block out the screams from the outside world. i don't know what's going on out there, but let me tell you, it does not sound good.

on the floor was the rotting lamb of god, in all its glory. the mirror was the laughing stock of the world. the floor began to fall out from under me. the radio was on, nothing played. just static.

water falls out from under the water, tiles begin to loosen. the space between each toe ups the rent. every reflection that comes to pass by the mirror loses a little of part of its essence, is caught in the web of the mirror. god sick on the dream, foaming at the mouth during the insurrection of genesis.

the floor has been completely lost. glass breaks, doors slam, televisions flicker through the white noise, wind awakens, bile oozes from every pore of the room. as if being rewound like a VHS tape, smoke clears, the apartment returns to its original, haphazard state. a box with a question mark written in chalk is left in the center of the living room.

all i can hear are paws scratching a door, or crate of some kind. white leaves are falling. the house is vacant. no sight, or stars. a phone rings, the white leaves disappear once they reach the ground. i open the box in the center of the living room, nothing inside. a phone rings again, a door creaks shut. i look inside the box once more, this time to find the box empty.

ash continued to fall.

i held my hands in my head while they too fell out of themselves.

a kissing rock, sonic quakes reaming out serbine sewers, pipes of toilets, loose change pockets, orange peels still with life, foil, ovens that aren't ovens, and other heads praying to be a little more empty. the hollow devouring each streetlight one by one, legs of chairs begin to rattle.

i stood up out of my chair and closed the box full of questions.

when morning arrives, why must it throw bones? why must it throw eyelashes, lilacs, butterfly antennae, golf balls, apples, ladybug shells—why does it hurl these things at a person, while their eyes remain closed? does that sound

fair to you? when i wake up i wake up with the intention of not-waking up. a never-ending fade of mystery, morning boaring its own hyperbolic chamber and purple changeling tongue.

the sink ran, twilight legged on, cut by the slivers of blinds blanketing the window. a toilet is heard flushing, a butterfly is seen passing by over the brush outside the window. i peeled an orange, threw away the peel and counted the change in my pocket. a rock is thrown, crashing through the glass window, partially tearing the blinds, killing the butterfly. i walked over to look through the window, no one was outside, so i glanced down at the rock, which had a pair of small, red lips panted on it.

the bulb in the lamp grew brighter, radiated.

********