Nuclear Family

 

Here is tonight’s recording of the redmilkroe radio hour on Boston Free Radio.

 

You can catch them live on bostonfreeradio.com Wednesday nights from 8 to 9.

 

All of the passages being read, other than Jamie’s “there is no such thing as a thing not in flux,” are from Don DeLillo’s Underworld, from somewhere between pgs. 450 and 500.

 

 

Track List:

A Supermarket in California – Allen Ginsberg

Good – Morphene

Slow Coming – Benjamin Booker

L’idole – Jacques Dutronc

Canary Island – Houndstooth

It’l All Work Out – Blake Mills

No Such Thing

 

Jamie speaks for himself.

 

 

there is no such thing as a thing not in flux.

by Jamie Thomson


 

HELLO?

 

 

No one looks at anyone because everyone

is disappointed in each other and also

themselves I realized this when I realized

I wasn’t looking at anyone and no one was looking

at me

 

 

 

———————————————————————————-

RITUAL CANDOR

 

 

Vexed is a funny word for a pretty typical

state If you say new moon backwards enough

it sort of sounds the same

but not quite Instead

I stood up and declaimed ON THE BALCONY I POLISH A PEACH

(I was wrong) Upon flapping my wings

I discovered the shortcoming of certain glues

To say that we all experience episodes of the blues from time to time

is totally asinine and therefore I say it every day Dear x

I’d love nothing more than to be that thing

you hate At least then I’d exist for some might be reason

 

 

 

—————————————————————————————————-

 

STATUS QUO

 

 

The thing happens happens happens Empty shoe

= end of dreamlife A small crack

pursued the one big break I had built

the immaculate trapeze but where were my monkeys? Where

was whip and pony? Sometimes bones grow soft boiled as potatoes (slip

a

part) It’s time for dead then

I mean bed The thing happens happens happens

 

 

 

————————————————————————————-

VERTIGO

 

 

Dismantling every last peony and swooning

in all that sun Nowhere was I more beloved

than in the one dark alley What always held us there

was but a very real rope Of course I laughed

when a cow squatted and shat It was the simplest thing

to do Once-upon-some-time-ago a horizon was nothing

but any long pancake and such a feast No no no

at a certain point you just watch ten too many trains

depart and every room becomes the blue one then

 

 

 

————————————————————————————-

ETERNAL SYSTEM MALFUNCTION

 

 

Everything you learn gets put in a little room

in your head each night and burned This explains

how you’re alive but still so dumb This explains

the pile of ash in the sheets The real reason

you’ve hung around so long is it’s always so new

for you For me it all gets put in a little room in my head each night

and then buried inside 10,000 other identical rooms

so that I’m always left with the feeling of looking for a key

in a drainpipe or of stepping into a room full of light

but is not a room is not light is just a place I sometimes fall

 

 

 

———————————————————————-

NEW LIFE

 

Falling in line

Learning the steps

Smoking because the others do

Lacing my boots with both hands and spitting

When I say, Time is killing me boys

I mean it

Growing a belly

Seeing how they scratch it in the early morning light

Chewing and spitting more

Becoming one of the others

No longer others

Becoming us

Mastering all the daily chores and tugging on my cap when required

Doffing rather

Going to mess is not what it was before

I am together and totally changed

I do not weep for the old pathetic reasons

Not from the hopeless pit

(There is no hopeless pit)

That was just a game I used to play and it was wrong to play it

I am a solider now soldiering on

Carrying the brunt of it

I snap and hum and smoke I smoke

When the quart comes round I pull but once then twice

Then pass it along

Then some idle chatter at times like this

But most of the day it is all business

Moving the objects

Recording where and when

Nodding

Placing the stacks in rows and ready to burn

Can this really be me

Yes it is

It is

Parts and Labor

Strange-fruit-3

Parts and Labor

by Rob Rice

 

Days when the conversation among loved ones isn’t even that good

Or hovers on the awkward edge of bad

But still we’re relaxed

Splitting cherries slowly so they look like

Georgia O’Keefe’s corpus callosum

Pondering what is the common ancestor of all fruits

 

What huge fleshy compromise

Pteridophyte hidden intermediate

With swollen knots and melon’s bulbous soft-sitting

In the umbrella’d ferncradle it’s antioxidant tinged

Among rotting other ones

Vomiting ambitious seed volumes

Every one a small uprising

Evidence of plans to take over the forest

 

Expecting an Upgrade

 

Favim.com-30285

 

 

Upgrade

by Rob Rice

 

Now almost satanically ugly men and women are holding phones.

 

With counterintuitive and unimaginably perverse grace their casual hands are like precision scaffolding for a jagged obsidian sculpture that primitive cultures starved in agitated pilgrimage to.

 

The sun drunk security flippantly cosseting the museumed Baetylus, counterbearing exactly the principal points of load share by some occult intuition of calculus.

 

Fat mauls turn out to’ve been machine reinforced at several structurally key places revealing once and for all engineering and clairvoyance as the two most natural things in the world.

 

Deft poise in stark, perverse opposition to every other performance of gait and gesture behaved by their bodies as they prance two fingers, silent like prey animals of the historical plain with their inborn acuity of posture and hoof placement.

 

They sit divorced from their lower bodies; stalk sending up whatever macromolecules it can hustle off of the overtime kidneys and liver.

 

Sour-sweet kidneys and bitter liver.

 

Receiving no thanks and no, no honoring of receipts as its shorts bunch and dampen, involved in strata of noplace.

 

Fabric wicking flu-green expellant, overfunded by woolgathering’s prolonged contact, as legs go sparkling numb, crossed.

 

Flip flops throttled indiscriminately between toes now protuberant-blue, between indistinguishable larval toes that will never steady walks through the markets in Fez as their globe holding captain flushes one page, one capsular phosphorescent ask, into synthetic nowhere in return for the next.

 

A three-year-old, body’s composition a strict mirror, with puffy ruddy salmon lips and translucent skin, shows a valley’s complete set of rivers on vein mapped knuckles, moving with a synovially permissive stomp as the dad theatrically behaves its stupefied disinterest.

 

Now the person prequel’s expressing itself, lunatic enthusiasm about a series of sweet biological nothings, elapsing habitually disregarded, though not so long ago were unconditionally indulged.