A bowl of nembutal pops bathed in Kamchakta, the antipasto of the

Liz Taylor fast food diet, which induces a bulemic nightmare

featuring the remains of anchovies and sheep guts, stuffed

with calves livers and mare's blood, leading to liposuctions which

last for hours and fill dozens of stainless steel surgical pans,

which are then garnished with pesto and served, lukewarm, over

freshly made linguni, dusted off with ricotta, for those who wish

to smother themselves in fleshly remains, with the amputated

toes of Joan Rivers, frightened into spasmodic convulsions by the

naked ugliness of these haggard manequins, smothered by whole

Bayeaux Tapestries of languid flesh, draped from the skeletal

remains of Dolly Parton, lining the walls of Pompeiian vomitoria

with saggy ass cheeks and blown out navels dripping entrails and

crawling with maggots.


Vanquished Roman gladiators, bleeding grievously from multiple

lacerations, dragged half dazed from the arena, into the pits

below, locked into cells covered with heavy wooden grates and

forced to french kiss bloated clones of Liz, lips and tongue

coated with a fresh layer of puke, entubated with hoses tied

to stomach pumps, which are clogged with half melted tuinals,

weary from the stench of urine soaked leather and excrement,

whipped by monstrous Visigothic sadists, paraded up the Palatine

hill among ostriches and hyenas to the portico of Vespasian.


Genetic scientists in their laboratories hidden in the remote

highlands of Brazil, synthesizing DNA modeled after strands from

the tissue remains of Liz and Dolly, to be encapsulated in

cryogenic suspension for interplanetary and interstellar travel

so as to popluate distant worlds with entire self replicating

races of avaricious celebrity females which spawn chaotic scenes

of luxury automobiles in slow motion demolition derbies which

take place upon the glowing crusts of volcanic calderas, all

swarming in a thick pall of acrid diesel haze lit by the blue

and red glow of a dying binary star system, chasing down fleeing

genetically engineered descendents of the remains of failed

cosmetic surgeries, grinding them under foot in an eerie

cacophony of popping cartilage and exploding viscera.


Advanced quadripedal forms of Liz and Dolly which are hairless

and bloodless, filled with great bellows to inhale perfumes and

bathroom deodorizers, igniting the autonomous functions of sexual

insatiability, gnawing on the mummified remains of ancient egyptian

penises, with long sinuous green tongues coated with a clear mucuous

like substance that undulate and wrap about the limbs of their

victims, which they slowly suffocate and dehydrate, as shrill

melodies are repeated in long anguished dirges.

APRETADA con un nudo la garganta, encogido el corazón, inicio esta columna con el cuidado de hacerme entender; también de que las lágrimas no emborronen el folio. Que Garbiñe haya cambiado de forma y mundo no es sólo un asunto personal: concierne a una pequeña gran historia que salta cual ciclón por los muros de los barrios de San Mamés, Basurto y Olabeaga; un vendaval de vida que no sólo convencía, doblegaba. No, no era una mujer cualquiera. Hablar de Garbiñe sería importante en la prehistoria clandestina de las ikastolas. Eso lo dejo para más versadas plumas, pero en esta efímera columna tan sólo quiero destacar una cosa: la contagiosa pasión por vivir de un corazón enamorado hasta el final.

Los niños que en el año 46 llegamos al barrio del campo San Mamés, a su famosa Casa Grande, éramos hijos de emigrantes, manchados por el odio de la posguerra y cantos del cara al sol. Sin embargo, la casa de Garbiñe y Niko Medizabal fue para mí un oasis de convivencia donde comprendí a otros niños que no hablaban como Cervantes, ni pensaban como Felipe II, ni reaccionaban como el Gran Capitán…

Con esa vital mujer, madre de catorce hijos -quince conmigo, ¿verdad?- aprendí a amar. Y a ser amado por quienes para mí eran diferentes. Madrugadas sin final bajo los acordes del piano de don Niko. Gracias a esa pareja enamorada respiré otros aires. Como ahora, en este mayo respiro en el jardín de la Misericordia tanta primavera, tan inmortal, tan reverdecida. En su viento, Garbiñe, tú eres luz y viento, flotas y en su césped rebrotas. Lo sé, te respiro.

Cuando en este mayo regrese al jardín de mi niñez, lo miraré con nuevos ojos, me preguntaré una vez más quién fui, y, desde el estanque miraré de reojo hacia aquel tercer piso de Felipe Serrate, que se alza entre los tilos, para sentirme cercano a esa familia incendiada de tu amor. Nunca morirás. Gracias por siempre, amatxu.

Francis Elroy Duffy, Prisoner (Michael O'Sullivan):

Now Preacher?

The Preacher (James MacArthur):

You may say your peace now.

Francis Elroy Duffy, Prisoner (Michael O'Sullivan):

You're now looking, for the last time, at the mortal body of Francis Elroy Duffy, born to John and Edna Duffy, good, God-fearing folk. Who raised me up to be a good man and a good Christian, and I was a good Christian, a good husband to my beloved wife, good father to my children, who I leave behind, hoping that they, and all you, will learn this here lesson which I leave you with:

When you take the devil into your mouth, you're doomed! For he is lying there in wait for you inside that bottle of whiskey. Waiting for you to take him into your mouth. Waiting to get down into your guts where he can do his devil's work. Liquor is the most foul, evil thing in this here world. It destroyed good men like myself. It'll destroy you too. Beer is not much better - it's slower, cheaper. So take these words of advice. And remember, you heard them from a poor sinner, got no more cause to lie, 'cause he's going to meet his Maker. Now he's ready.

Well that's all I've got to say.

Malathion, malevolent sky fly, late night low hum, wide formations,
whirling insects blinking out maledictions, malignant rain from
flying spray cans, falling like a sticky curtain from magic wands
which course in the darkness.

Shall I stand naked in the infancy of the day and bathe in this
toxic nectar, to open my arms up to the deluge, to embrace all
of the minute dying forms as they twitch their last little
spasms of being?

Shall I pour it upon my pancakes through spindly fingers of peeling
flesh and then run it through my hair and wipe it on my face?

Shall I quiver in a hole beneath the ground while the world above
becomes a ghostly land of yellow mists and shadows of lampposts on
empty streets, with beams of green and red lighting up the sticky
empty fog?

Malathion, sitting in drums, arrayed in rows, with skulls and
crossbones, malodorously hiding in some unknown wharehouse or
some tanker truck in the bowels of a ghastly refinery, proclaiming
better dying through chemistry, as the long phalanxes of insect
doom rumble on and on.

Apocalyptic envelopment by a galaxy of tiny drops in the ever
widening campaign, the the deathly mist, in the latest screwy
gimmick to overcome them which proceeded us and which shall
follow us, which feed upon our refuse, which yearn to lap the
sweetness of our fruits and of our syrups.

Tawny Little in the Glendale galleria, like Hemingway in Pamplona,
drinkng tawny port, Tawny shops. Ernest had his drug, she has
hers. Tawny, who has tap danced, recited, and exhibited her way
to the pinnacle of american female beauty, now finds herself among
the masses, among whom she is replicated by the millions, as in
Circuit City, where on any morning her face may appear by the
hundreds and now she is here, in the Galleria, with her sycophantic
companion in singular fleshly form.

Why is Tawny Little? For what purpose does this being be? Does
she inform me or does she incite me? Do I lust after photons
and other radiation that streams forth from my TV as if it were
a divine wind? Is there evil in her heart? Does she have any
principles as she trades the sanctity of her soul for TV stardom
in the form of banality and bufoonery in the forenoon, setting
the curls of minds to hibernate electronically for another day?

Tawny, in the Galleria, patent leather pumps, adorned with a
large chunk of lapis lazuli, in a purple suit, her breast
emblazoned by a silver broach.

Would she marry me, give up the life of make up rooms and harsh
lights, in front of peering electro-optics, behind cardboard
desks, pronouncing the existential silliloquies of LA life,
filling up miles of video tape each day with pointless babble,
give it up for a life of anonymity, of self efficacy, coated with
raw egg whites and desert dust? Give up TV stardom and be with
me, in a life of raw and spontaneous lust, humping impulsively on
an old matress in the back of a beat up Ford Econoline, its seats
soaked with her anxious and impatient oozings, which are unmasked
and unwashed, spreading forth upon their dried predecessors, the
soft hairs of her long since shaven legs glistening with the dew
of her passions, which radiate for every pore?

No.

No, the camera will still roll and with the dawn of a new weekday:
the formation of a new gridlock, the opening of another galleria
or mall, the painting of another fingernail, the drip of another
drop into another pot of Mr. Coffee, the disarming of another car
alarm, the bouncing of another check, the opening of another line
of credit, the heating of another curling iron, the tooting of
another line, the deformation of another Nipponese auto body,
the rising of another elevator, another refusal, another acceptance,
new smoke, new haze, another state of flux, another self serve car
wash, another paper or plastic dilemma in a supermarket queue.

Tawny will again be there and not with me, in front of the lights
and not entwined in serpentine passion in the dust and gravel of
an ocotillo and rock garden of earthly delights, for she is but
a chimera, that was not her in the galleria, it was me, and she
is within me as an erstwhile hallucination.

One day Tawny will be old, her flesh will be languid and cold, and
makeup will not clothe her sins, she will cease to menstruate,
her hair will fall out, leaving behind inflammed splotches covered
with green and festering microbes. She will rot and the air will
recombine her to primeval ooze.

Steve Garvey, who could never resist the temptation of a well

camouflaged slider in the dirt, who is every mother's son,

who is seen amid stainless steel and tinted glass with perfectly

groomed hair, a shining knight in the court of corporate american

chivalry, who is sales and marketing, who is all things to all

people, who continues to earn merit badges, who never says no,

who was mercilessly and callously dumped by O'Malley, who was

unjustly accused of being too bland, who simultaneously lives in

Orange, San Diego, and Los Angeles counties, who personifies

real estate development and endless panes covered with mini blinds,

who commands cellular phone channels behind darkened glass on

freeways in shirts which define white, who smiles for cameras and

septegenarians, who dines with the sisters at the stadium club on

old timer's day, who went 2 for 4 with the flu, shaking at every

base, who is never mentioned in the tabloids, who is always clean

because he is self cleaning and always in good repair because he

is self repairing, who protects the weak, who does not do commercials

for personal injury lawyers, who made every throw to second base an

adventure.



Steve Garvey, who could never resist the temptation of soft pink

flesh, who has gone forth and multiplied, who can no longer send

greetings to his progeny on the post game show, who wears cuff links,

who has spent thousands of hours in front of a mirror practicing

that reassuring smile, a smile which has sold head shampoo and

seduced nubile post adolescents, who terrorized Candlestick park

for many years, who enraged Don Sutton with his made for TV

plasticity, who did not use the lame excuses of a Mike Marshall,

who choked in the 1978 World Series, who lives in the dawn of

early morning talk shows, who grieves for his cheerleader college

sweetheart Cyndy, who has sex only with women dressed as Michigan

State cheerleaders, who was not circumcised because he is self

circumcising, who has no insecurities concerning the length of

his penis, who occasionally cross dresses as a Michigan State

cheerleader or as a Dodger Stadium usherette, who has experimented

with bondage and sadomasochism, who lives beneath the shadow of

Lou Gherig, who saw Catfish Hunter as the reincarnation of

Stonewall Jackson, who eschewed the modeling of designer bikini

underwear in favor of the affirmation of dairy products, who

saw hallucinations of Catholic religious icons hovering above

the mound in Houston, who proclaimed the sanctity of the nuclear

family, who is in a constant state of newness, who endured the

martyrdom of a national media scandal promoted by a vicious and

ungrateful ex-wife, who is adored by the innocence of youth, who

was known to be taking on 2-2 counts, who wears clothes which are

never wrinkled because they are self ironing, who believes in Papal

infallibility, who owns apple orchards and dairy farms, who shall

ascend unto heaven on an escalator of gold in a neatly pressed

dark suit, who is clean shaven because he is self shaving, who

admires a freshly mowed outfield, who was careful not to get pine

tar on the sweet part of the bat and always neatly folded the rag,

who always takes his flatulence out of the room, who bedded the

pure and sainted white flesh of his mother in a manger of lillies,

who never forgot his mother on Valentine's day, who entered this

world without pain or trauma or even a messy afterbirth.



Steve Garvey, from whom microbes flee like the frightened peasants

of Bosnia before the Ottoman Hordes, from whom specks of filth

and dirt scatter in diasporic frenzy, who folds white handkerchiefs

by the thousands in his dreams, who served as Apollo in O'Malley's

pantheon, who polished the empty seats of Dodger stadium unto

effervescent radiance, who, like a consecrated host, is elevated

by pious fingertips in a baroque cathedral, who exhibited licentious

behavior at a number of low impact aerobic sessions in suburban

San Diego County, who lost virtue and abandoned piety under the

influence of curvaceous feminine form, who compromised the honor

of his mother and of the blessed virgin in a paroxysm of lustful

debaucherry, who was condemned in absentia by a tribunal of black

hooded clerics to toil in shackles for seven years in a barren and

isolated monastery lost in the outermost reaches of Abyssinia, who

escaped lonely exile only after many hours of torment and suffering

in the merciless sun and dust, who developed callouses on his

fingertips from the passing of endless processions of roasary beads,

who threw his fractured countenance upon cracked ground inhabited

by scorpions and centipedes, diluting their firey venom in vast

tear fed pools of repentance, who scarred his knees to bloody pulp

while bearing a heavy yoke across vast fields of smoky quartz and

amethyst, who fled across jagged mountain precipices and vast

alkaline infernos to a Red Sea port, where he was auctioned by

Arab slave traders, who was purchased by an elderly Japanese

shipping tycoon from Yokohama and offered for ransom to Peter O'Malley,

who was extricated at the cost of half the Dodger bullpen and three

minor league prospects and is now greeting season ticket holders

at the entrance to the club level wearing the familiar number six,

which shall be his in perpetuity.

I dream the delerious dreams of vast academic harems

composed of lesbo seismologists, who view their cold nakedness with

mute dispassion,


of a quest for a sex change so that

I could have my mutilated remains and genital fissures gnawed on

by entire subsystems of hungry lesbo seismologists on pacific h-bomb

atolls and gamma dripping lagoons with glowing tuna and shimmering

deuteride fireballs,


to flee into palm groves to drink to a stupor, buggering

wild dogs, delerious from thermonuclear shock and blindness, in a salty

fog of radioactivity, in dusty trenches illuminated by the primal

flash of galaxies and cosmos ringing with the romantic utterances

of floating point calculated lesbo seismologists,


from the riddling of fissile ground shock, to fuse the

naked flesh with the hairless she-man in tee shirt and glasses as

she mistakes me for a salamander in the early morning darkness and

takes me into her recesses as a mistakenly horny lesbo seismologist,


above the mastectomized craters strewn with dremmel scars

which hide in the cotton tents of pre-teen bras and jc penney

boxers, threatened unto emasculation by a scrotal tazer, quivering

orgasmically off the end of the richter scale into the perpetual

pessimism and negativity that is the incoherent lesbo seismologist,


for the lesbo seismologist, my little sweet geological lolita

who i spy upon and love and lick and stroke as i gag and disintegrate

and fall limp into complete oblivion, my beloved lesbo seismologist,


i watch you, peering through the glazed shower door as you

mount a large brecciated onyx dildo and hammer it with a little pick,

painting yourself with mascara as it runs in streaks into the drain,

and dream of buxom readheads and rodents tickling you with their

little whiskers and tails,


to make a mug of coffee in the repro room and go before the

public, to fly into the vast empty doorway of time and let the lipstick

melt upon the dashboard and crawl on searing silicated channels of

hardened magma to search back into geologic time for evidence of

female trilobites in ancient cunnilingus,


i have read your dissertation and heard you slice your aureolas

making little paper cuts and wishing you had lactation, dripping little

drops of blood into dixie cups and fondling little statues of the

virgin mary and of the druid goddess of fertility, to rend in an

endless orbit of foreshocks and fleeing foreskins and fade into the

procession of the sensless damned, wandering in incredulity, dazed

among piles of concrete rubble...

The Barbie doll, symbol of polymer frigidity and ageless

unending post adolescence coupled with co-arayan Kens, who

are likewise polymerized eunuchs or perhaps just genitally

deformed.



A Barbie and Ken festival, the grandstands overflowing with

the monotonous and repetitious likenesses of thousands of pods

of hardened goo from the bowels of Hawthorne, California, with

dainty little Barbies in tutus and chiffon kimonos, hip huggers

and taffeta gowns, all prancing about in blonde bee-hives and

pink frost lipstick.



A slim crescent of a moon appears in a magenta to violet sky,

propelling these petrochemical androids into absurd lunacy,

as they writhe upon the ground, licking the scum of dogs and

nauseated winos with pointed pink toungues, smearing their

likenesses upon the ground and howling the mad screech of the

banshee.



Barbies of all descriptions and types: Malibu Barbies, Madame

Pompadour Barbies, Balinese Barbies, Siamese Barbies, little

Spanish maja Goya senorita Barbies, carnival in Rio Barbies,

Gulag Archipelago suffering emaciated whipped and languid Barbies,

shrouded Islamic fundamentalist beating themselves with chains

until they bleed Barbies, tall slim ebony Queen of Sheba in gold

and ivory Barbies, plump Germanic apple strudel blond braided

Barbies, husky Slavic discus throwing Barbies, depressed suicidal

morose existential Scandinavian in winter Barbies, Florence

Nightengale covered with the warm blood of mortally wounded

Union soldiers at the Battle of Chickamauga Barbies, peeling

atomic dried skin and half charred powdered skeleton blank frozen

face at Hiroshima and Nagasaki Barbies.



Lewd displays of Barbie bestiality, Barbies with horses,

Barbies with dolphins, Barbies getting head from slimy toad

tongues and hot panting Barbies in tropical Acapulco iguana

sunset passion with young Mexican cliff diver Elvis impersonators.



Barbies in convertibles driving on the Trans-Alaska Highway with

big John Wayne logger chainsaw musclemen in flannel shirts,

swallowed into the baleens of great blue whales, with millions

of lifeless Barbie corpses washed up onto the desolate frozen

beaches of the Aleutians and the Kamchatka Peninsula, what a doll.