NADA

the dada magazine about noth

ing

A phenomenal mass of laminate and wood pulp stood, as a non-existent truth on a tiny spec of empty conference room space-time, vibrating so slowly that it remained twenty years inthe past. Coordinator's meetings gathered around it for whatwould seem to be a blink of an eye, before they would disperseand jump back into the world speeding by, leaving its dullvarnished surface pock-marked by rings of spilled coffee.

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By that time, however, I had already had my first runin with a bit of trouble and learned not to talk to or takehand bills from people on the street. But she was beautiful.Thus, in order to be friendly I accepted a “ticket” for freeentry into a nightclub. “Come, I show you where it is,” sheentreated me. “Oh, no thank you, maybe I’ll come by later,” Isaid, not wanting to get too involved in her invitation.

“It’s very close, it won’t take any time.” So I figuredI would humor her for just a brief moment and then insist Imust be on my way. At the door she insisted I come in, towhich I replied that I couldn’t, I was far too busy and Iwould be back later.

“Oh you don’t have to stay, just take a quick look.”And against what better judgment I should have had, we en-tered.

Immediately I was somewhat forcibly sat down andstraightaway was flanked by two exotic dancers and was notexactly being restrained but was not easily able to move underthe weight my ebulliently friendly hostesses were applying tomy thighs. I believe out of the corner of my eye I noticedthe madam of the house (every cabaret needs a salty old womanmanager who is above the sway of feminine seduction) hand offsomething non-descript to my prior escort but it was ratherdifficult at this point to pay attention to anything in myperiphery.

Now at this point I knew I had to extricate myself fromthe situation and the longer I stayed, the more trouble Iwould have when they found out I truly had no intention ofspending anything.

“Este es tu primero vez in Buenos Aires?” – “Si.”Oh and that called for celebration. Instantly a round of threecolorful drinks appeared and I do mean instantly; no orderwas required. I could take no more. I understood exactly howthis would play out: one sip and I would be expected to buythe round which I’m sure my two hundred remaining pesos wouldnot come close to covering. I emphatically retold my story ofleaving my debit card in the airport ATM and wrestled myselfto my feet.

“No tienes dinero?” the old madam scowled. “Que prob-lema.”

“Si, que problema,” was my reply as I hurriedly scur-ried out the door, blubbering an apology and a farewell inbroken Spanish.

Afterwards I found a beer and an empanada for twenty-six pesos which by any American tourist’s standards is quitecheap – less than six dollars – however, that reduced myavailable funds by over 12% with just one meal. I wasn’t goingto last long at that rate. So now I had my three basic rulesof the road for Argentina: don’t talk to strangers, no sittingdown to eat, no drinks at bars. Hence, I resolved to stick toa one litre box of wine, taking a walk around the city center,and worrying about money the next day.

It was the burning of my nostril and retinas and the smell ofpomegranate that made me think of all this. A kingdom in ruinsthat is buried under a tarmac ocean, it was the squealing ofshrapnel in my left leg (never fully healed that one). Thedrooling ghost of Darby Crash, at moments like this, seems tobe kneeling before me, asking how all our friends have turnedout- he stares into my eyes as the twenty first centuryreaches appendages into our hearts, pulls them out, andsqueezes. What can you say to the dead(?), as I look down atmy Mickey mouse watch, that has no past or present or future-Time isn't linear, “it is a spacious angel floating above andinside everything”, said Janine, when she left, not thisworld, but mine, my undersea cavern and my wild yearning tomove effortlessly with the tide.

My name is Ocean, my mother is the Mariana’s trench and myfather is the gulls on the rock- since before I have been,they have been tearing me in half. If we are sick then we aresick, cavities under the grain, helpless and dull, as the seaswallows us in its grave. I've seen a man die, under my knifewith these hands bronzed in the California sun as the desertand pavement opened jaws and swallowed me- when I was re-arranged the Pacific that is not the pacific stood over me; Ipoured the Puget Sound between my lips and could taste nosalt, only the minute humming of those also lost here uponthe shore; I've never been a big man or even an angry one-butdon't fuck with me.

Lorenzo comes around spouting wolves and carnage so I ask himto step outside, just fists and kicks- have it out with thatfaggot Ocean (see I read minds and they all spell out weak-ness)- so I pull out the knife and cut him like a fish, rip-ping at his skin, I pull his guts out and throw them alongthe curve. Of course I took the twenty out of his pocketstuffing it in mine, then begin loosening his shoes. See thisscar under my chin, ear to ear- sea to shining sea, air thatis gold and riddled in bullets and pollution. My tribute tothe Gods. You pay your fine, and I'll pay mine- some to themeter maid some to the Devil. Right? Get it man, we have al-ways been slaves to something. Me, its meth. I don't need thecopper greatness of metal tongues or the courage of DarbyCrash, only the death brought to my lips on its silver plat-ter. White gold for white slaves, what else is there, but forus, born in the fresh water to fight all our lives againstthe green dull ocean for our birth and death- the place thatsome could call the wildflower meadows, but I, the blacknessof being still born.

Life is the silent struggle against our own nature, mine ismeaningless. My ashes already shifting through a millionstoves and home confection ovens, Ocean is my name becauselife is the roll of the dice, between sickness and boredom,slavery and warfare, the white whale just swallows you andonly then, inside the heaving bones and prison bars of car-tilage do you learn, that God has abandoned you, that friend-ship is just a strange bright light (pink moths under a pewtergrey covering, like a slab of stone, or a bison dieing- youshouldn't be, because it will only lead to disaster as all myloves have been.

Every lover I have ever had, all that remains of them is theircongealed blood in tubes and their blood mixed with mine cakedin the abandoned squats of Oakland. Monuments that have beenrazed for our hemorrhaged future, Darby and Janine's blood,like an old man I suckle on them giving me only the scars ofwhen I was still living, full bodied and somewhat triumphantskating through Echo Park and dealing weed to the Mexicans.The smells of those days- nothinglongingfor ghosts.

This is the bargain we make with time, an ocean that swallowseverything into oblivion.

They placed him on the bench, his back laid flat, armsextended and supported by cross sections, his chest andbody bare, limbs roped down. He stayed there in the darkwith his head aimed north. The cieling creaked as thosefrom the floor above moved. An absent of light makesyour ears more keen. He followed the steps, drawing amap of the room, the building. Unsure of his locationon the Earth, or in the universe. The steps came inpairs, either a horse, but probably just two people. Itwas a nice change he thought, a change from the com-pressed silence. They walk right up to him, turn on thesingular bulb aimed at his face. An energy efficientbulb. The silohoettes of the two men were burned intohis now constricted eyes.

The two men left, tracing their path upstairs, thecreaks moving in the opposite direction. He remainedthere with his eyes shut. For some time he stared atthe pulsing of cells in his eyelids.

The creaks returned, accompanied by 10, 20, maybe 30more little creaks, and a thick smell of gravy. The lit-tler ones run circles around the other two. Outside theclouds pressed in with trickles of rain, with lightingin the distance, and thunder across the fields. Thegroup stopped in front of him, he could taste theirbreath. Looking up, he is surrounded by children, nakedto the teeth, holding biscuits. One of the men is hold-ing an over-sized gravy boat, the other getting com-fortable at the organ. Together they play and pour.

[chorus]From the lips of the glass vessel,

the gravy kisses his naval,it pools and ripples down his pecks,

drains to his sternum,it fills and touches his nipples

then it wraps and traces his chest,falling over his collar bone

around his neck it strangles and trashing his jaw,but it's no matter cause the hot is soothing

and making him sweatOne of the men rinses him with cold water,

this makes his scrotum shrivle in record time,then continues pouring the gravy.

repeat [chorus]

After some time the children with biscuit begin to gnaw onhis flesh. With their teeth not too sharp and jaws not strongenough, it more the feels of fingernails that pierce the skinevery now and then. After some time when the biscuit whereconsumed and all his bones bare, they tossed them on thecrooked roads of Lake City, keeping the eight dollars fromhis wallet.

It is midnight and the furnace is flames. Around thegarden, facing the windows of the basement, a terriblesullen family quietly & forcefully eats cabbage and hamwhile the crude cackling of the nieghbor’s dog chokingon a bone encircles them ( pushing the sound, itsangiush ruptures- burning the canals of the drum, be-fore fading to ash). the daughter begins to silentlyweeps while her father shovels a recently de-boned haminto his mouth. he smiles at the daughter before gapinghis radiance in the direction for in the direction ofthe dog ( finally haven’t given up the ghost, after twohours of swallowing its own vomit and spit, before,slowly drowning). God Bless America the father sings,the daughter ceasing to cry. Wiping away her face, low-ering her shame- as if it were a bucket filled with sup-plies for stranded travelers at the bottom of some wildabyss- to her food, heaving and sweating on her plate,particularly pulsating in heat- the lasting bone, beingflayed and tossed by her fork.

She smokes Virginia Slims, by the dock or the elec

tricity shed

or anywhere good t

imes are had.

Speaks in code with winks and simple gesture, a twitch of the lips,

a mask for each person, an age

nda to push.

Tugging at situations and letting random work magic, y

et prepared.

with an escape rope in her backpack.

It's insured with a lifetime satisfaction guarentee.

All she owns is insured with a lifetime satisfaction guarentee.

She once stared into the eyes of a dying elephant,

a shot from her Mauser anti-tank rifle, a thousand

yards away.

And makes the trek every year, through the heat of the

grasslands,

to pay respects to its bones.

When she passes, birds regergitate their worms

in volleys.

Deer cuddle and nap with her in the me

adow valleys.

A midnight flutist leads rats up and down ro

oftop alleys.

A rat runs into the spring loaded ba

r of a trap,

crus

hing

its skull and promptly being released over a toilet b

owl, 6.1lpf.

It took 5 flushes to get the car

cass through.

She doesn't take shi

t from rats.

A laboratory employee, she make knock out rats for gen

etic testing.

It pays well, with ample time off.

One fleet of rats went on to cure Alzheimer's disease.

This and a myriad of other cures doubled lif

e expectancy.

She could stay y

oung forever.

A No

rthrop YA-9 sits in her driveway (there are only two in existence)

The expiremental jet was a gift from franklin d. roosevelt's ghost.

Post-mortem, written in his will.

During late night tele-shopping sprees, her eyes c

atch ads for

Shirley Te

mple boxsets.

Black and white and in color.

But that was her when she

was younger.

And flips the channel

on her past.

Now

she

flies jets recreatationally and sips gin and tonic therapuetically.

Shooting depleted uranium bullets

at children.

And repeating the mantrah from the late gr

eat President

"look at the smiling face of a baby and forget [yo

ur] trouble."

Once a high to mid-range christmas gift from the earlytots, it was destined for the landfill by 2004. Througha series of fortunate half-hearted trips to the dumpand one desperate trip to Goodwill, it was pardoned fromelectronic oblivion and adopted by an unenthused Pro-gram Director who, though focused on an anticipatedcoffee order and finalized permission slips, saw justenough of a je ne sais pas in that black antiquatedplastic, tape deck wall ripped from its rectangulartorso like a mangled war veteran.

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Place your army in deadly peril, and it will survive

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je ne sais pas i était désespérée