*love letter, for the girl in the rift* by: yossarian hunter

can we just this once have it not be about you, just this goddamned once can it not be about you, can it not be about, can it not ,can it be about letting me sleep lengthwise just one goddamn time is that too much to ask it’s been four years & some change since I lost you in that maze…

there is one, I think she’s Marla’s daughter all grown. I have nothing to base this on, there is no science none of that matters with my little bubble girl at my side, whispering answers to questions I’ve yet to voice …

when finally I thought to, I asked her “is there anything I should be asking you” & I don’t know if she’s Marla’s daughter or just something that smells like you but I know she loves me, you can bank on that,I can tell by the way she kissed the air right next to my cheek as she floated over to perch in the place where my lap would normally be…

but there’s one named Bram there’s always Bram stay away Bram I saw what you did last night & she’s not mine but she could be for a minute & oh why’d you do that Bram why oh why oh why oh holymotherjesusfuck why the fuck did you do that?..

a finger that wasn’t a finger but some sort of needle shiny and a killer of shiny things a not for shooting drugs or sewing stars into flags needle but just perfect if perfect is the word it was just fucking perfect for sticking in my bubble girl’s lovely iridescent head & he killed her before she could speak of the things that needed asking that rotten goddamn vampire left her a giant deflated mess in my lap my misplaced lap where all she ever wanted was to sit & answer me questions I never thought to ask & I was already mad at him for the previous night’s episode in which he ate my geometry so I poked him in the chest snarling

”I saw what you did motherfucker, ain’t you got some off to fuck” & oddly enough he did yep he fucked right off I only wish he hadn’t turned out the lights before he did. it’s been damn near five years sleeping diagonal & I just wanted to get lengthwise for a night maybe two…

can we just once, just goddamned once, let this not be about you?..

I don't know what's worse- the copyrighted picture of an alligator's dick, or the face of the guy who ate it?

I don't know what's worse,
the copyrighted picture of
an alligator's dick, or the
face of the man who ate it,

or the sound of JOHN FOGERTY
defiling my wife's retarded
cross-eyed Buddha with an
Australian bush back-up band
& waaay too much emphasis
on the strings,

big outback jug tempo barbie dads
screaming like pariahs/pornaholics
caught in the snuff rack aisle,
discotheque in the exposed underbelly.

Heart attack, aisle 9.

New window.

Parasytic Handguide for Successful Employment

Don’t get complacent while working around power equipment. Practice and abide by all safety procedures. Ensure all proper guards are in place. Are you wearing your proper PPE? Have you verified that all of your buttons are buttoned, zippers zipped, that your hair is pulled back in a ponytail or tucked adequately up into your cap? Are you wearing your safety glasses, steel toe work shoes?

(see examples of job related disaster below)


I. A cold slab tickle drains the fat deposits of a motormouthed twin with no feet, no tongue, no hands to speak of; but lying safe in the humerus, below the clavicle of a forced habit. No one could really explain why a torso didn't accompany the arm, why an unborn twin wasn't described in the course outline for Basic Cadaver Anatomy @ Bastyr University, why the head had only half a smile- twisted and faded behind the cameo pink shield of the brachialis. But one student in the back of the class heard electric organs playing in his 3rd eye- when they sliced that fucker open.

II. Industrial ave maria bubbles pump from the vintage alpines in his chest. rapture, uncomplicated by context, circumcised of its gag reflex. pure as the calcified skin casket being spread to reveal its soft by sharp metal fingers. its developing vascular system, a mound of neon spider webs, old man frail but baby sweet. bulging like a bloated conscience - exposed for its gelatin - congealed electricity. a ball of unfinished organs frozen in a sudden death that redefines life. recognition creeps over the cyclops and he pats his right forearm as the camera pierces brown, pink, red then finally bone to a hand, no larger than his pinky nail, returning the hi five.

III. A story he’d heard at a party over the weekend. An Afghani goat herder, once a year would come down the mountain pass and sell his goats in a populated market square. The villagers called him, “The Pregnant Man” because he was so fat. When the Pregnant Man came down this time, American doctors were in the village helping the sick. They saw the bulge at his midsection and thought it was a cancerous tumor. Cutting it open, they found the remains of his stillborn twin brother inside of a pouch in the abdomen. Hair and nails and underdeveloped teeth.

***

Have you checked to make sure that you don’t have any remnants of your own twin sibling living inside of that arm that is being removed at this moment by these bumbling surgeons?

Now comes out the saw. Watch gently as they cut off your own arm. Look how easy it comes off. Like trimming the hedges out by the curb. It's gotta be done.

Pretend that it’s just Step One in a two part procedure.

Step Two, happens after the limb is lopped off and cauterized.

They pass the mangled arm like a hot potato to the nearest nurse who carries it out of the operating room and down the hall, chunks of viscera plopping on the floor like spaghetti with meat sauce. The surgeons keep an alligator as a pet in a room deep in the bowels of the hospital. They feed it severed limbs and sometimes people who have gotten too rowdy in the ER waiting area during an overcrowded holiday weekend.

Whistling, another nurse opens a tall grey cabinet, retrieves a robotic arm.

The surgeons wire the new arm into the central nervous system as if it’s as simple as hooking up a car stereo. A few simple connections.

Then, the wounded flesh between the new mechanical limb and the old torn flesh is wrapped in gauze and the patient is woken up and told very sternly, “Your new bionic arm must be looked after very closely. There is a chance for infection. No swimming in the pool and no trips to the beach for at least two weeks. Apply ample Neosporin. Change the bandages daily. No arm wrestling... That's now considered a federal offense for you.”

*written during SHARKWEEK by: Aurora Killpoet, Bud Smith & Frankie Metro.

this happened after i consumed a grover/metro blend spider leg

Walk Walk the Walkin’
by: Tim Murray
(written in one or two breaths as far as I can recall)


Lash sorta way the fizz I am the fizz an amazing fizz made of made of matter in the making of matter I am heaven just as sure as you are moss in the rain and I am I am not a giant I am not a giant I am the son of willie mccovey I am armed with spiders I am armed with san diego padres I am made of batter soil licker like my seed when sprouts does grow yeah real heavy ass like donkey mule mike stand in the way stand in the rain because I saw the spider ship arriving I am not the electromagnetic super wave I am here I am stain I am Wayne made of macaroni in knee high rubber boots spools whale dolphin their way through seared spikes I am the army I am Stan I am the man stop

Wish way you walk in the oven no in that onion stupid with shops paddles making lions I am made of umbrella stems I am dancing in the red rivers no wait not rivers but emergence emergency ball lines no base lines no bass lines emerging now from beneath the spiral stack I am dizzy von trout I am visiting soylent green I am Sunday I am rising I am la raza I am not I am knot I am dough bread rising I am fork and tongue and spiral and turducken waste walls and wash the magnetic pessimism we wait on rock ledge ledge legend and they walk and they talk and I am in the next dimension no I am waiting for the emergence of the next dimension when I am el fuero I am the neck I am the legion of spiders crawling across the floor of the desert they know hello I am beard I am the beginning I am the begging epic I am not now I am here forever I am made in season I am cake in the yakking season will you now allow the destruction of period of pernod of prenodal of pain attention paid attention I am broad I am spectrum real fine shit you got here Frankie like Jackie Gleason fine as some wine fine as some Reese’s same as the sun burn bulb write I am beginning I am begging for a way to extract bacon taken home rise a bone lanky dance sweaty blonder hair hooked over the eye I hear a children cry that wail no drums now blade now broken I keep wanting to spell nonsense words but I get tired of the computer screen red squiggly line mines is not your best one they are Vermillion they are Sliger they are bitten to how do you feel when the bride is all over the wall slight pause under the trance of Les Bres In A Minor I am the bent I am the taken over freight train freight car each one is to blame for the radio static coming over ten cars one hop afraid they will spoke they well spoke of him the daily city bus beneath Canal Street Chicago in the mud I am vast as river I am paddle boat I am bent spoke like smoke rising in the way are there so many itches in my scalp when I get to gel a pell mell over night hell because he sniffs coke and other soda pop she is the dragon love you like a lizard I am blue I am oriole I am Oreo I am Tang I was made to smoke a giant mountain slope will hide the dead man’s goat will you try to be a bitter dry poison water well wail pinpoint the holy grail beneath your index finger nail I am spoons I am spoiled I am water legs I am Mel Torme I am a way to be awake a choice a nervous knee nervous me

Fetus Soup in China

Perhaps the most disturbing thing eaten in China is a soup made from discarded fetuses, taken from abortion clinics.

It is believed that eating this dish will give one superhuman power.

Fetus soup is extremely rare, expensive, and difficult to find, but it is available, if you know the right person.

Nothing to Lose (or Freedom) by: Michele (mama punk head hostage) McDannold

i want to be the next S.A. Griffin
yeah- the guy that got
fucked over and deleted
as Editor from the Outlaw book
before lawsuits
before justice


i
want to be that guy
"that kind of pissed that leads not to revenge
but to a reckoning"

people will shed a lone tear
sniffle
and shake their head a lot
i will keep on gathering great poems
sharing the news about great poets
new ones
old ones
killer ones
fucky ones
we'll call it
the "didn't make it to twitter
because it had too much
character" book
i want to drive down the great river road
i want a reading
right now!
in bars
bookstores
and bowling alleys
i want to read/scream
at bikers and rednecks
housewives and whores
i hope they throw stuff
and spit on me
chase me out to the car
yelling
"we don't like your kind
'round here"

but they will secretly
worship me
and my freedom
and my hoard of poets
from the suburbs
the city
the farm
they're multiplying like gremlins
one dash of sit and spin
and they're out ruining christmas

i want them all
(not to make them famous)
to make them infamous
to spread their disease
of think
of cut out the bullshit
and get to the point
i want America
in her glazed over Red Bull eyes
to really
really
wake the fuck up
this is no time to let it ride
the great depression
is your brain on ice
your investment in image
the "i'm okay- you're okay" is a dead hippie lie
the 1% is selling everything
is selling you, me..
McDonald's and Twilight books

medication via
TV ads
the party is over
the beatniks are dead or dying
the outlaws are a joke
who's packing their gun and their Medicare card
at the same time?
i want to know!
the wild west is tamed, my friends
rail against that which seeks to defeat you
every day
every hour
RIGHT NOW
get in your car
go
don't kill the first thing that gets in your way
kill em all
kill em all
kill em all,
motherfuckers.
they call us the X generation
with nothing to lose
but our Nirvana CDs
and Fight Club on DVD
didn't you get the memo?
the "they" have
co-opted your identity for mass marketing
you can now buy
the special edition director's cut t-shirt snuggie toothpick rim job w/ decal
get the fuck
OUT
out of your house
and stick a fist up their ass for doing this
don't buy the hype
use it against them
like the goddamn motherfuckers nothing to lose asshole poets that you are

*The Operator & Chemist would like to acknowledge and congratulate Michele "One L" McDannold on her recent step forward with Punk Hostage Press. Michele is 1/3 of the editing team and head of public relations. Expect great things from these motherfuckers. Respect. Word is BOND-

THE POLISH HAMMER SMITES AGAIN starring Karl Koweski (VOL. 1.)

The Jesus Bubble

We were talking about zombies. More specifically, we were talking about the recent rash of cannibalistic occurrences whipping the media and the zombie apocalypse acolytes alike into a paranoid freak frenzy.

There's the story of a man who killed his girlfriend and ate chunks of her, mailing other pieces of her carcass to places in her address book like little postal doggie bags.

A mixed martial arts fighter killed his training partner and devoured his heart (Whether the fella was an actual MMA fighter or just wore the UFC shirts from Wal-Mart is unclear).

A man murdered his room mate and dined on his brain and heart. He would have gotten away with it too if it hadn't been for the victim's meddling relatives noticing the deceased's severed hands propped up on the coffee table.

"It seems like it all got kicked off with that crazed negro down in Miami," I said. "Ate the homeless man's face right off the skull. He'd gone totally feral, growling at the police, strips of flesh dangling from his barred teeth. Cops shot him a couple times without effect until a Romero savy officer capped him in the head. If that's not the epitome of a zombie insurrection, I don't know what is."

Sera nodded. "I saw pictures on the internet, all the homeless guy had left was his left eye and a chin beard."

"Guy coulda been Amish for all that was left behind," I agreed.

Sera's best friend, Angela, remained unconvinced. "The news channel I watched said he was high on bath salts."

"Well, I can tell you the zombie apocalypse is not going to be a product of Bed, Bath and Beyond."

"Bath salts, the drug," Sera clarified. "And the CDC announced yesterday all this cannibalism lately is not the work of zombies."

"And you're gonna believe those guys? Damn, Sera, my girlfriends usually have more sense than that. I've done all kinds of drugs in my life and never once have I felt the urge to eat a person's face, or even associate with the homeless."

"I think it's demon possession," Angela said.

"Demon possession?"

Sera agreed. Of course she agreed, they shared the same brain. If Angela got bit by a zombie tomorrow, Sera would dine on flesh in solidarity. "It'd explain that guy we read about the other day. The one who ripped his abdomen open and threw his own intestines at police."

"That was just... bath salts," I sputtered.

It was a disconcerting news story, one that I couldn't quite incorporate into my zombie apocalypse angle.

"The world's going crazy," Angela preached. "The end times are upon us. You never heard about this sort of thing when we had a white Christian man in the presidency."

Yeah, if you discounted the entire human history, it would seem as though the world were going insane.

"I don't know if I buy that," I said. "Dahmer happened on Bush Sr's watch."

I will say that I'm certain the United Association of Bible-Thumping Preachers would be far less inclined to discount demon outbreak than the Center for Disease Control were disavowing zombies. How many more cases of spontaneous cannibalism would it take before decent citizens began arming themselves, gunning down poor fools in the street whose only crime was to leave the house looking hungry and spacey and smelling of lavender bath salts?

"I know Sera and me will be all right," Angela said. "We're protected by our Jesus Bubble."

"You got that right, sister." They slapped hands.

"What the fuck's a Jesus Bubble?" I asked. Strangely, memories of Bazooka Joe bubble gum came to mind.

Sera and Angela shared a beatific smile. Angela fielded the question. She raised her arms in a strange manner one could deduce to be a serene Southern Baptist gesture meant to convey spiritual superiority.

"It's an aura of white Christian light that surrounds the saved and protects us from evil. I have it. Your girlfriend, here, has it."

"I don't see any white light, Christian or otherwise."

"Are you saved?"

"Let's just say I sing in the devil's choir."

"He's Catholic," Sera jumped in. Allusions to Satanism made her nervous.

"That goes a long way toward explaining a lot of things about him," Angela said, cryptically. "With the right set of Christian eyes, you could see the Jesus Bubble shimmering all around us. Nothing evil can get through."

"I penetrate Sera's bubble at least twice a day." All I wanted to talk about was zombies...

"Only because I let you," Sera said. "And if you don't get right with God and quit watching Alien Artifacts on the Discovery Channel, I may have to reconsider."

"Alien Artifacts... You know how old the pyramids are...?"

"I don't care. Jesus wasn't an astronaut. Aliens didn't invent microchips. And zombies are not MMA fighters."

"I'm keeping an open mind."

"There was an atheist," Sera said, "who was a barber. And one day a good Christian man came in to get his hair cut."

"I love this story," Angela said.

"During the course of the hair cut, they got to talking religion. The barber admitted he didn't believe in god. How could you not? the righteous man asked. Well look outside, if there were a supreme being, how could he allow homelessness, abuse of children, rampant drug addiction-"

"Zombiism."

"Let her tell the story," Angela scolded.

"I know how it ends."

"It ends with the righteous man leaving the barbershop and returning five minutes later to tell the barber, he doesn't believe in barbers."

"Aliens invented clippers?"I asked.

"Shut up or I swear I'll never let you finish another Polack joke as long as we're together."

It said something about our relationship that she didn't attempt to swerve me with the promise of compromising sexual favors, but rather went straight for the joy I get most, berating my ancestral brethren. "Fine, you win."

"He doesn't believe in barbers, he says, because he's not left the barbershop five minutes and has all ready seen two men with long hair. How can barbers exist in a world where there are long haired men walking around?"

I don't know how I can exisit in a world where there are long-haired men walking around with ponytails...

Sera looked at me with triumph mingled with disgust, the same look she usually gave me two minutes after I drop my pants.

"That's the same reason I don't believe in teachers."

"Yet they exist."

"So some people believe."

"What do you believe?" Angela asked.

"That the zombie apocalypse is upon us! Goddam, it's what I've been trying to talk about the last fifteen minutes..."