August 31, 2015 Comments Off on Mary Taste So Dirty By Robin Dunn
It does taste dirty — I’ll leave it at that. But leaving it — what does that really mean?
Do we really ever stop coming back to the taste of the sun, my sun worshippers, the taste, like a dirty woman, our city Mary, Mary, Mary taste so dirty.
Mary taste so dirty was my love, in the dark, when I built the city we remember now . . .
But I don’t want to tell you about that, I want to tell you about the temple we built — this was 11,000 years ago you understand, Mary taste so dirty and me would pour water into the bowl.
Pour my water into the bowl.
Pour my water into the bowl.
Take me and take you, to now, like yesterday —
Mary taste so dirty lives forever, not like me, I’ll die soon compared to her.
Of course we know Mary Los Angeles will kill us, that’s why we come, for the death we are owed.
You owe me death and I demand it justly.
“I’ve got five bucks says you’re a wash-up,” she says.
“Keep gambling,” I tell her.
“When are you going to fuck me?” she says.
Fuck me, Los Angeles.
Fuck me again so dirty
These stolen waters sweeter than symphonies.
“It’s not like that Robin,” she says.
What’s it like then?
“You’re fetishizing it, like you fetishize my body.”
But you are a fetish, the original Venus de Milo, sedentary and undying, written over the skies.
“You think you know but you don’t,” she says. “I’m still looking. Still looking so long, and the dirt in the water is message in the dark on the radio from the lips of the Wolfman, without noise there is no signal and I must recite my name, at least long enough, until someone listens —
“Let me tell you,” I say. “It’s not what you think.”
You have so much power but you don’t know how to use it. You don’t know what you want.
How much dirt do you want? Drink it with me.
© 2015 Robin Wyatt Dunn
Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming during the Carter Administration. He lives in Los Angeles. He is a member of the intelligentsia. He holds three degrees, drinks coffee (lattes included), and thinks that being intelligent is a good thing and talking about ideas worthwhile. He is the kind of pinko egghead Joseph McCarthy wanted to flay alive and burn at the stake on the White House lawn. He knows that the McCarthys and the Pol Pots and the George W. Bushes of the world are always and forever eager and ready to slit his throat and dump him in a mass grave. This is why he has a wicked sense of humor.
January 27, 2014 Comments Off on Anarcho-Syndacalist by Robin Dunn
When I came inside I knew that it was time to do it, my arms tingling, and my stomach filled with a slow pressure. Although I always hesitate, and was doing so now as well, curling my head onto my shoulder while I picked a fleck of sleep out of my left eye, I knew somehow that resolution had found me even if I had not found it, that it was now.
I walked into the kiln room and hit my mother over the head with the iron bar I had found under the oven last month, and she barely made a sound as she went down; I had hit hard enough.
The blood was the right color; I knew I had done it. I did feel sick, but it was okay too.
I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about transgression. But the trans part is important, the across part, like an unstable international border, through which you’re unlikely to pass again.
Now you’re in country.
In country in the fire.
I am an American man but my heritage is my own; I abhor medals and honorariums; I despise censuses and absolution. I know I am damned and I will choose the manner of it.
I am Anarcho-Syndicalist. In the moving of my body towards your future, all your own, I write this my confession and I write to you, brother, to remind me all that could have been ours.
Brother, do your hands still tremble as mine do? I am coming.
I stay up with the dawn to watch the explosions. Risky, but I do it.
Indescribable, and I will act in accord, indescribably, my monkey on fat, my heart on glad but low and folded in my hat, the watchword uncountable uncounted unremembered forgot, all the lessons useless but remembered still, the schooling, the schooling in the dark, in the long and luxurious darks of houses . . .
I wait for it. And when it comes, I fear for my family.
I wield for you a thousand star cities, ten thousand.
I wield for you the night, and the night after the night, and the night after the night after the night you folded.
I walk in the night and so do you, brother, so do you:
Let us come together and let us be arranged, as I shall say for you:
And if not, then as you say, for this is fire, this is fire, brother,
This is fire that we are bringing.
Fire and fire, and fire, and fire, and fire, brother, O fire brother.
Ten thousand fires, and a hundred thousand. Stars, stars in the dark —
Each one of us an ocean of urgency, each one of us desperate for the word, for the word go, so ready and set, O brother, O brother ready and set to you.
I hold the starter’s gun, brother.
Not for god and country. Not for the flag.
© 2014 Robin Dunn
Robin Dunn lives in The Town of the Queen of the Angels, El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, in Echo Park. He is 33 years old. You can find him at www.robindunn.com