If only it worked this way:

Moon in a cage, crank that Celestial Pablum Pump. Really it can be a good deal messier, more painful. But surely Remedios Varo knew that too: note the determined look in the eyes of the woman in brown, above. For more information, see this essay by Dolores Dorantes.


Happy 82nd Mayakovsky Suicide Anniversary



Look—again they've beheaded the stars,

and the sky is bloodied with carnage!


Hey, you!


Off with your hat!

I am coming!


Not a sound.


The universe sleeps.

Its huge paw curled

on a star-infested ear.




Friday the Thirteenth Special

"At present I would prefer not to be a little reasonable."


Dream House



I'm still a little upset, digruntled maybe, that Jupiter and Venus failed to fully converge. Or if they did I missed it. I was reading a magazine, staring at the ground. But it seemed to me that they just came closer and closer for all those weeks, up there in the sky, shining, above Los Angeles, above all kinds of other places too, until finally they began, just as gradually, tentatively, to separate, to put distance between them, to walk in opposite directions. Like any other lovers. But what a show it might have been, right? Planets colliding, and maybe not just planets, but stars. Let's push it a moment and imagine all heavenly bodies in love, planets, stars and asteroids, all of them so enamored with one another that they rush closer, closer, closer, anti-matter and space junk even, broken satellites, all the unlovable stuff in love, everything out there except for us of course, never us, because if we didn't stay put here on tired Earth, who would watch the rest of them explode?