Writings from Peter Castaldo

The Pronouncement

I have been emblazoned by the 1970s heraldry of the speaker fuzz of supernova funk. I have held it so tightly to my heart as to be subersive and stutter. I have been dry erased out of relevance by spreadsheet toilet work with violence (should I hide it in my pants?). I pussyfoot the 609 W. Adams street long running telemundo anxiety. I fart a grandiose spellbinding (KEEP OUT of my cube). Pajama hopscotch my way in a business luncheon. We hope you like BBQ and grape soda. I burned you a cd of you and me running through twilight, because I airfared my eco-anarchistic wannabeism with peach pie Obamaism cordial, but it didn’t fit in your ‘pod. I Rowan Atkinsoned my way through the big tunnels of 24 years. I show off the size of my adult basic education units. My knack of contemporary old world idea from wood and wobble fable. I overthunk lizards. I William Carlos Williamed every conversation until I had no friends. I verb dead jerk’s name. I .22 caliber trouble fraggle, cross pollination danced them all back, on their knees, “We kneed you.”


No Groove to Run W (ith)

She’d routinely dress in a rubber maid’s outfit.

The surrounding conditions made it impossible to discontinue our abuse

Our view was a psychedelic, kaleidoscopic Nebula of color.

We swam in midnight water where killers came to breed.

We played our songs in the same spirit, hydroplaning across the

emotional stage, our lackluster presentation of control.

The granddaddy of darkness chased, and on the verge of a

red canyon, barking dogs, silent children, forged understanding.

It was a standoff in an old western town, lounging lizards

were Indian gods. A howl escaped me and you scowled at my soul.

Do you mastermind the final blowoff? What was going on here?

Despite the elation of reunion, there was no groove to run w (ith).


Danse Novembre

I apologize for the nature of my gender and its inherent offenses.

For example, right now as you are speaking, my eyes capture your
mouth
most closely. I am simply inadequate to uphold any standards of
decency or
politeness.

On a good day, there are buffalo on an immense prairie of which I
am a part, concurrently
a man standing and watching things pass, listening to the flow of
moving water.

I want to trample and shit on all things corporate (APPLAUSE).

I wonder if the footsteps of a herd are a raindance of sorts; if fear of
god is a
survival strategy, if the earth will overheat, flood, and scourge this
influenza
from its body, if there is sex after death?

I am an ape up on a cross. I break people apart. Once on my plate I
gingerly separate. Sawing limbs and bones, making pieces littler,
until a horde of commonalities move in the firey dance of neurons.

And as your lip curls up I can’t help but think about how it feels on
the inside.

I’m on my knees when falling is an unfashionable exercise. I can smell
the rotten meat in your teeth. But really, I’m standing here alone –
feet wet.

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