Friday, June 30, 2017

Report on the Civil War in Castlevania

Report on the Civil War in Castlevania
by William D. Tucker

The poltergeists pounded the pavement with several dozen kitchens’ worth of pots and pans,
Spoofed the HooverOps surveillance system,
Jammed the tac-nets,
And disrupted the Autonomous Traffic and Commerce Management Grid with strategic ectoplasmic interdictions
All land and air trade, traffic, and ultratech peeping brought to a halt for miles in every direction.

But the free market libertarian Gill-men are still loyal to Lord Dracula,
And they control the seaports.
The Impaler has promised them the Submerged Dominions of Florida,
And a secret pataphysical map
That draws the way to long lost Mu, fabulous Atlantis, and glittering Pellucidar,
Even though most of the Gill-women have joined the strikers.
The bizarre colony-marriage arrangements haven’t worked out in times of economic stress,
And the Gill-men are hoping to get into some spring breaker mermaids
Rumored to party eternal
within the Submerged Dominions of Florida.

Via the seaports,
Armies of mercenaries are arriving by ship and submarine,
Bankrolled by those ancient reactionaries
The Sons of Cthulhu
Whose tentacles of influence
Extend deep into the White House, the Pentagon, the Kremlin, Beijing, the Saudi Royal Family,
and legion defense contractors,
mercenary syndicates,
mafia, biker gangs,
Secessionist Megachurch Pseudo-States throughout the American South,
And too many fundamentalist suicide attack religious factions to name.

Mantichoras roar-rasped his speech
Gnashed rows of razor teeth
Couldn’t help but fire off some steel spines from his sinewy tail
To punctuate key points of his own  New Labor Resistance Manifesto,
Which he sang more than read,
Vocal folds seared by many draughts of molten lead

Skeleton infantry
Clattered their bones
‘Gainst the breastplates of spectrally animated suits of armor,
While the Forest Armor Division
Extruded tangles of roots from beneath interlocking plates
Of long-abandoned
Recently reclaimed
Lunarian Rebel battlesuits
To grasp the protean long bones
Of slain hydras
To pound out rhythms
On drums derived from fine ceramic riot helmets
Still full of the heads
Of Lord Dracula’s 11th hour imported
All too human
private security contractors.

Lady Medusa,
Fist aloft,
Serpent hair aroused,
Led the Gorgon Delegation-in solidarity with the Catoblepas Conclave-in a raucous cheer,
Smashed the vain statuary depicting the Legendary Impaler
With judicious application of the Finishing Gaze:
A stone-piercing stare
Recently developed
As the official coup de grace of the Gorgons
And all allied Petri-Factions.

The endangered-insurgent wolf-headed sniper brigade,
Banzai-charging by two legs and four
Lethal trespassers in this domain
Rival to Lord Dracula’s power
Fired off their never-jam homemade artisanal all-organic bolt action rifles
Much mythologized and mural-ized sought after weapon of choice
For Nature Militants and New Era Anti-Imperialists
Human, Monstrous, Spectral, Vaprous, Mythological, Ultimate Other

Succubi and Incubi
Have formed the Pimp-Free Sex Workers Federation.
Nutbust quotients
Of politicians, comic opera colonels, CEOs, and megachurch evangelists
Have dipped
Followed on
By plagues of blue balls,
Stalled legislation,
And ever more frustrated militarized police actions
In all the nations of humanity.

The zombies flayed the skin from their own bodies,
And wove a new flag,
Woven around the bones of slaughtered Leviathan,
Imbued with strange satellite-jamming signals,
Composed by New Era Frankenstein
Self-created monster of shreds and patches,
His natural flow of adrenaline and testosterone
Transformed into a glandbath of all-organic PCP.

Even the Grim Reaper hovered and soared with the strikers
Filling the air with whirling scythes
That emitted an uncanny set of sounds
A postmodernist composition titled The Mysteries of N.E.O.C.: New Era Obliteration Complex
One of many contenders
For the honor of official anthem
Of this movement, this action, this moment,
This war.

But there could be no true, singular anthem
The cacophony was the anthem.
The true consensus
That grew out of many beings, many minds, many modes of existence,
And the Refusal of Obedience,
Impatience for the advent of a new age,
Resistance flag of a supple cartilaginous signal-jamming weave.
-March-April 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, June 23, 2017


by William D. Tucker

White light against a plaster wall
Looking with my back turned.
Window is the vacancy of intersection.
A perspective on one aspect of the jagged upper texture
There is pointing and then there are jabs from the buildings.
You sit there, white light on your back.
The room is so suffused with cold, clear light.
Nothing is hidden yet nothing is revealed in the cold, clear light.
We speak of matters with a speech that the Observer does not render exactly
In the rendering, we become a pantomime.
Nowhere above and beyond this room,
So filled with light,
Can we ever speak truly of the vacant point of intersection.
Who has ever spoken before the cold, clear light suffused this room,
How was it even possible?
It isn't blinding, it isn't sudden, in fact it lacks all flourish or sensationalism.
The cold, clear light simply is, and it is in a most unavoidable way.
Nothing hidden, nothing revealed.
Looking with my back turned.

Drink. Purchase. Sitting. Another drink/purchase.
Routine of the room of the cold, clear light.
Papers. Organize. Read. Papers. Sort. Prioritize.
This is the work of the room of the cold clear light.
Pillows. Laughing. Porch. Train car. Outdoors. Indoors.
This is the room of the cold, clear light.
Green, beige, red, blue, yellow, purple:
These stand out in strange new ways beneath the cold, clear light.

He wished to communicate sunlight on the side of a building.
Many received his communication.
Others received many other things besides.
Drink. Routine. Cold. Clear. Light.
"More real than real" as one person put it.
Critical response: good, suffused with the cold, clear light.
He did not try to explain, except for elaborate designs and plans.
Many view. Experience an array of emotions.
There is a look of awareness at the science and rigor of construction.
Science/rigor/effort is reduced to "emotional response."
Cold, clear light becomes invisible.
"I get a sense of loneliness," one person says.
"This makes me feel a certain way," says another.
Rigor, effort, construction, science subsumed by "emotion."
Opinion. Subjective. I like. I think. I feel.
Drink. Routine. Cold. Clear. Light.
Looking with my back turned, I see them turning away having observed,
felt, thought, and processed very briefly the offering before them.

Plans. Construction. Intersecting lines of purpose.
The science and the rigor necessary to achieve that specific effect.
"I want to communicate sunlight on the side of a building."
Result: opinions.
I think. I feel. Maybe. I like. I did not like.
I am approached for moments, perhaps, having extensively researched, practiced, and calculated myself.
The rigor disappears. Lines of intersecting purpose are softly, gently smudged into pleasant, distinct blurs of opinion.
Invisible. Cold. Clear. Light.

Opinion passed.
Return of routine.
Beyond initial foray into understanding.
Drink. Office. Papers. Organize. Dance. Sunbathe.
Cold, clear light becomes visible perceptible
Intersecting lines of purpose rise to the surface.
"I can see the wires."
Repetition of analysis.
Rigor and science unearthed
Notebooks are thumbed through
Paradigm shift/analysis again:
Cold, clear light hides nothing and reveals nothing.
"In this place there are fewer, wealthier people. No one has any memory of the past. Everyone is prosperous, satisfied, happy, and no one quite wants to remember how it got that way."
Paradigm shift/analysis again:
"He is expressing a deeply ambivalent attitude towards his subject matter. The elements of the voyeuristic collide with an overwhelming sense of the privacy of each person's universe. Ultimately, the voyeuristic wins out, because, alas, the end result is the work itself. He could not resist looking into the realms of privacy and then sharing what he saw with others."
Paradigm shift/analysis again:
"It is the portrayal of man's environment as supremely indifferent that wins out over everything else. His settings are neither threatening nor comforting, destructive nor supportive, good nor evil. His humans, likewise, have learned to dwell in this environment with all harmony by becoming creatures of supreme indifference themselves."
Analysis. Results ad infinitum. Each analysis different.
Return of opinion.
Opinion refined.
Opinion/analysis synthesis.
Still opinion.
Cold, clear light hides nothing and reveals nothing.
-February-April 2003

Copyright 2003 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, June 16, 2017

living skeleton actor fuck (7/24/15 version)

living skeleton actor fuck
by William D. Tucker

role puts flesh and guts and blood on me
it used to make me feel complete
now it makes me feel heavy, arbitrary, old,
like I was never quite here

it’s fuckin’ weird

I have all the evidence in the world
that I was here
never really went away
never gave up
but, uh, I dunno.

the feeling inside
does not change

a lot of work,
a lot of awards,
a lot of love from all over the world
but it’s, uh, it’s definitely a king of shreds and patches kinda deal

yeah . . .

. . . multiple past personas inhabiting my body at an advanced age . . .
My head is thick with Personas-I won’t lie . . .

but for my next project
very stripped down
just the bones
black box theatre
no vocal chords, lips, tongue, lungs,
none of that.
maybe just have the air conditioning cranked up to the max
with, like, the script in front of the vent
breeze will lift the text off the page
let the words whisper right through me . . .

won’t that be something?
-May-July 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Finding My Own Way to the One-Fifty

Finding My Own Way to the One-Fifty 
by William D. Tucker

I felt selfish praying to Jesus for eternal life.

Christ is an anti-materialistic visionary born and nurtured in a pre-capitalistic society long ago,
offering immortality
to anyone who is willing to mouth words
while striking a theatrical posture of prayer,
and I'm contemplating all this,
and I just think,


The Son of God is just not up to negotiating with millions of humans,
the products of terminal capitalism,
raised in the sure belief that anyone, anything,
everyone, everything,
is for sell for cold hard cash.
Christ clearly does not understand this,
especially when one considers his willingness to hand out immortality as a reward for amateur theatrics.

I refuse to take advantage of someone in that position.
Even if millions of my fellow earthlings did it with nary a twitch of conscience.
I'm made of sterner stuff.
I refuse to take advantage of the helpless, the hopeless, the idealistic,
I won't go out like that.

I offered the Prince of Peace a fair trade:
a complete run of Doom Patrol vol. 2 nos. 1-87
Doom Patrol and Suicide Squad Special no. 1
Doom Patrol Annual no. 1
Doom Force Special no. 1
Doom Patrol Annual no. 2
-the entire, eccentric transitional run of the perennial DC Comics cult classic,
stretching from 1987 to 1995,
spanning important transformations within the comics industry,
encompassing the writing careers of Paul Kupperberg, Grant Morrison, and the criminally underrated Rachel Pollack,
and artists such as Richard Case, Ted McKeever, Erik Larsen, Steve Lightle.
You get to see the flailing post-Crisis metamorphosis of DC Comics giving birth to the highly influential Vertigo Comics imprint-I could go on about this shit for months.
Doom Patrol vol. 2. Complete. Very Fine to Fine Condition, professionally graded. Bagged and boarded and in one longbox,

in exchange

for a one-hundred fifty year extension to my Hayflick Limit.

Immortality has no appeal for me.
In addition to my already stated moral objection to taking advantage of an unequal negotiating partner,
I cite Parkinson's Law: "Work expands to fill the time available for its completion."
Limitations inspire creativity.
Immortality inspires decadence, infinite ambition, boredom, outrageous acts.
Immortality is cancer of the soul.
Bottom line:
you put a restless, brilliant soul like me in an infinite situation,
I'll remake it in my image,
top to bottom,
heaven to hell,
all powers of all realities overthrown,
God, Satan, Buddha, etc.-all slain by this left hand.
And I'm right-handed.
No big thing to me.
Boredom has always plagued me.
Hierarchical power structures, traditions, governments, tribalism, localism, globalism, capitalism, religions
all fill me with loathing, contempt,
hideous ambitions to sabotage them, bring them all crashing down,
so that I can be king shit of turd mountain!

. . . and then spend my reign looking over my shoulder for the next up-and-comer.

Fuck, man,
who needs that stress?
Not me.

I just need another one-hundred fifty years to learn Japanese, read all the untranslated manga of Osamu Tezuka, watch the complete cinema of Akira Kurosawa without subtitles, and then learn Russian, and read the complete works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky in the original language.

That's it.

Maybe complete my collections of Eclipse Comics,
especially those early English localizations of manga classics like Kamui, and Area 88,
re-read Tim Truman's Scout and Scout: War Shaman,
get lost all over again in Jack Kirby's original run on Fantastic Four,
spin those Stevie Wonder and Devo records a few more times-
I'd fill out the stray hours, no worries about that.
Just need that extra one-fifty to get me over.

Christ heard my offer,
looked at the longbox askance,
said unto me, "Dude. DC Comics sucks. Marvel knows what's up. I mean, did you see that movie of Suicide Squad? Or Batman v. Superman? I mean ..."
And here the Redeemer couldn't even bring himself to speak anymore of what was vile to him,
"No,"  he continued, "just . . . keep this for yourself-you've put enough time into this collection, obviously, and, you know, just take the immortality deal. All right?"

I gritted my teeth.

Christ said, "Look. Everybody gets the same deal. Okay? I cut this separate deal with you-then everybody's gonna want their own custom deal ... do you know how many people that is? On the planet? Dude. Believe me: I know people are selfish, uh, self-serving, uh, you know-people back in my day ... they were people much like now, evolution don't turn over that quick!"
Christ chuckled in exasperation,
"I feel you on the whole trouble with immortality thing, but . . . I dunno what to do about all that. I thought, um, like, people . . . would be grateful? Is that what I thought? I feel like a . . . like super-naive saying that out loud ... but isn't eternal life enough? No, of course not, everyone needs their, their separate special deal-"

And here Christ just threw up his arms, made a pfft sound with his lips,
and I said, "No. It's fine. I just-you know."

"No," Christ said, "I get it. You want a special deal. Everyone wants a special deal. I get it."

"No, I mean-I don't understand the DC Comics hate-but I get the rest of it."

Christ's face worked like he was about to say more, but then he just shook his head, made a dismissive gesture with his hand,
shook the dust from his feet,
strode away into the grueling afternoon heat.

Okay. I felt like kind of an asshole.
But then again,
I'm kinda glad I didn't have to give up my Doom Patrol vol. 2 collection.
It rewards careful reading and re-reading,
get these books the fuck out of the bags and boards,
study them like a new gospel,
find my own way to that one-fifty ... those Grant Morrison scripts run deep.
Many riches and insights hidden away within, between, under, above those panels.
-May, June 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.