Energy in this room. Furnishings in this room. Particles of life. Photons. Papers with ideograms which are not always loyal. A television’s most sincere dreams. I cherish the t.v’s dreams like those of a bride. I feel a twinge when I must turn it off. It is like leaving a lover when I must leave the room. I close the door behind me, to let the television know that I am its protector. When I find dust on the forehead of the television, I could weep. But it lets me know how faithful my television is. When I see a television thrown out, lying with the garbage in a street, I feel an urge to rescue it. Even if it is dead, it deserves better. How could you not offer a decent burial to one of your closest living relations. What sort of animal lives in that house?
Life says be a sport about it.
It says this while revealing no rules
that might give the play some boundaries,
some sense of a definitive score.
People claim to be winners, but who knows.
Certainly, there’s no convincing umpire
or referee on the field. Not even the divine ones
with those shrill whistles hung around
their oversized necks. Their rules are crazy
and only there to soothe them. Life says be a sport,
and then does crazy things that no way make sense.
You start to realize the game is really much more
like art than anything else. You make it up
as you go along and just try to convince others
it’s a believable form. If you hang yours on a wall,
will people nod “Uh huh.”
There was a bench in the cold but no person
There were clothes but no people it was very strange
There was a window in the nineteenth century with no one there
The photographer took a picture of the no one there what did he mean
There were two statues kissing and they were all gone
They were all gone on each other like gooey statues
They are so abstract someone should probably put clothes-pins on their noses
There was a piazza with the shadows of many pigeons
But no actual pigeons do I tire you with my faith?
No pronouns stepped forth to take up the story
Only the wind blew and that had to be enough
Then a tenement fell over into a museum it was heaven
The Virgin was gasping in the museum she started texting
Neither at 8:14 A.M. nor at 3:17 P.M. did the animals appear to unclog
The stars stopped being constellations they stuck their tongues out
The shark in the formaldehyde tank was still art someone just checked
The ocean too drew closer and decided it too was art
Someone shut the door at the very last moment laughing at a juggalo
Now, when I am drinking milk, it is important that I am fully present in the experience. This is a gift. An animal has given me something. This is the bodily expression of an animal. It is a very complex series of chemical sentences spoken by an animal. We are speaking chemical sentences all the time, we humans, but pretend it isn’t a matter of that. How could I ever talk to you without it being fully chemical? We talk about free will. We talk about mental illness. True. But the chemical expressions are still there, still composing us, sane, insane, doesn’t matter, like telephone calls going on all the time. Nature is largely a series of chemical telephone calls, of chemical textings like this. Sextings. Warnings. This is servitude. This is manipulation. This is control. Pasteurized and homogenized control. This is delicious. This milk is on my tongue.
Now, when I am drinking milk, I think of tundra, of veldts and sacred hawks, jewels over genitals, sorcerors’ beaten gold masks and beaten sorcerors, grass-burned sorcerors, all those free range phantoms of the grasslands. There bodies were often brightly colored geometries. Hyperintense scarlet legs and knees. I think of tents. I think of horses that are demigods. Nazca lines tattooed on a hot young body that wants fucked so badly. In a room with nothing but file cabinets and ice trays of overhead fluorescent lights. A room with no window. It’s like do me on the Titanic. I think of fires in open air, clouds that might actually have gods in them scudding over trivial heads. Dark clouds overhead that might be teeming with gods like anthills of the sky. Sometimes people insist they hear voices in those clouds overhead. They hear conversations. There are streets of commerce and streets of romance there. Sexual afterlife TOYS R USes. Possibly, you are eavesdropping on a few gods that have just had their hair done. Maybe they are lingering outside the place of business of their favorite hairdresser, a hermaphroditic pain in the ass, these goddesses. Perhaps they’re talking shit about you and your family. Your bloodline. These divinities. These clouds make magic seeds, water drops, which will go into the soil, those weird wickery roots with hairs all along them just under the surface everywhere, rootlets, and roots like pig snouts, sexual roots, an argy-bargy of roots, an orgy of them, dreaming every which direction. The rain enters these and their coils and begins its hydraulics and hydrostatics in this loamy hypogeum of earth. The rain dream grasses which dream cows which dream milk which we drink to dream. There is more. Milk is productive of more. And lovemaking. Our milk of that. Those portentous clouds are moving quickly over our lovemaking in a dark graveyard this afternoon, our hidden, unavowable pleasures. Those clouds rumble with a stormy borborygmus of potential divine displeasure. It gets us off. This is an office building. Look at our cubicles. Look at our drawings on the cave walls. We love it. The angry clouds are assing further down through the sky dome like a fake sky over a plastic diorama in the lobby of a Trump casino, those clouds, yes, but more sentries coming to take their place. More new possible failed religions. People look forward to these. Light the projectors! There is a woman among our tribe who screams every time it rains, or when she thinks we go to war with heaven. She thinks that’s what rain is. There are people similarly screwed up about love. Be careful where you fixate when you’re young, when you’re tiny and screwed over. She screams for as long as she can, and they put her in a sort of chamber and put a large rock there at the entrance to try to tamp down the sound. How does she know when it stops raining? I don’t know. Somebody comes much later to check on her madness. That’s what you do with madness, all you can do. You check on it. You check in.
One day, they checked on her several hours after a storm had ended. Nobody wanted to deal with her crazy bullshit that deserved to be behind a rock. Anyway, when they moved the rock she was still sort of screaming, but now it was actually different. She was singing. She had invented song. Fear helped. The woman who we had to bury behind the rock. She had invented it. Song. Music. Fear she hadn’t invented, true, but she had used it. Clever woman.
We will give her credit even though fear invented music.
The woman was just there.
It was surely used, milk, to cut neolithic hangovers. They are all blissful teats. You want it in your morning coffee, which is what your primal self craves, barefoot on cold ground in that place where your subconscious self wars with your sometimes blissful animal selflessness, wanting those two great possessions, fire and milk, in your belly as you sit in your cubicle in that ergonomic chair that looks like a dodo skeleton in black plastic and that probably makes dodo sounds and that was produced by Ikea in the early nineties, retailed to torture consumers everywhere, to reconfigure sitters, experienced sitters, and which itself experienced tremendous ergonomic failure, and then was kicked out of the human circle of caring, that plastic Scandianavian dodo, buried in the wastelands of every country on earth, landfills worldwide, forever.
Now appearing in eternity, unbilled: everyone, everything.
I am a firm believer that milk should take you places. When the white liquid splashes down the juicy backwards-thinking sluice of your tongue, and your thick licker welcomes that cool delegation of lactose, it diverts it, divvies it up, sends it to all the different taste receptors, who discuss and praise and criticize the various qualities of this subdued attack like a group of semi-polite- because-largely-comatose, hungover political pundits on an early Sunday morning political “week in review” roundtable type show. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t a Lazy Susan of ideologies for the morally bankrupt who need to see their own reflection at the top of the great Ponzi scheme of national government, like that fuckwad eye atop the borrowed-ass pyramid, that is itself the top of the pyramid, apex predator, reminding you always you are being watched, on the back of the dollar bill. It’s got its eyes on you, money. Think how many people bleed to death holding these bills. The last thing they see is that eye telling them who patrols their soul.
But this strange white magic in my mouth? My ancestry and my civilization from a teat. Wunderbar.
You need the truth for five minutes. Can you handle the truth for five minutes? “Lactose is the major carbohydrate fraction in milk. It is made up of two sugars, glucose and galactose (Figure 6). The average lactose content of milk varies between 4.7 and 4.9%, though milk from individual cows may vary more.” About 87% of milk is water. Yes, you are in the third grade. Why not be there? You were more in touch with your feelings then. So, continue: “If milk is left to stand, a layer of cream forms on the surface. The cream differs considerably in appearance from the lower layer of skim milk. Under the microscope cream can be seen to consist of a large number of spheres of varying sizes floating in the milk. Each sphere is surrounded by a thin skin—the fat globule membrane—which acts as the emulsifying agent for the fat suspended in milk (Figure 3).The membrane protects the fat from enzymes and prevents the globules coalescing into butter grains. The fat is present as an oil-in-water emulsion: this emulsion can be broken by mechanical action such as shaking.”
There is casein with its weird fractions. The whey proteins are also weird sisters like the Macbeth witches. Milk salts are calcium, magnesium, phosophorus, citrate. The taste of milks can be as various as the taste of males with the differences in composition. Diet. Health. Genetic savoriness. Genetic nastiness. Did the cow or dude get high, etc. Imagine milk catching fire from its phosphorus. Imagine the wild combustibility, volatility of fire milk, phosophorus milk, invented as a weapon. The terrorist store would sell this in cartons. Pictures of Bakunin on the milk cartons. Cows would end up demonized. This is how people think.
The drawings of the fatty acids in milk, their molecular structures, are extremely beautiful. Simple Paul Klees. They lack only color. They look like the skeletons of very long, skinny fishes. But extinct ones. They hint at otherworldly physiognomies our planet once entertained. Evolution is kinky, for sure. It’s not your usual, tight narrative, the sort you’d find in an old school novel. The storylines in evolution are much close to the Markov chains of what goes down in porn films. There isn’t really a script apart from whom is going to get fucked and who is going to do the fucking.
The rest of nature is just showing up.
But there are always the surprises, the sudden flips. You think she’s his soft target, his battleground, and suddenly she’s all strapped-up and just look at the dainty way that lunkhead grabs his ankles.
Thank you, Milk.