Nuclear Family


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


You can catch them live on 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





No one looks at anyone because everyone

is disappointed in each other & also

themselves I realized this when I realized

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

at me








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 & 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 & 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









Hence 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 & pony? Sometimes bones soft boil like potatoes (slip


part) It’s time for dead then

I mean bed The thing happens happens happens








Dismantling every last peony & 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 & shat It was the simplest thing

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

but any long pancake & such a feast No no no

at a certain point you just watch ten too many trains

depart & every room becomes the blue one then








Everything you learn gets put in a little room

in your head each night & 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

& 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







Falling in line

Learning the steps

Smoking because the others do

Lacing my boots with both hands & 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 & spitting more

Becoming one of the others

No longer others

Becoming us

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

Doffing rather

Going to mess is not what it was before

I am together & 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 & it was wrong to play it

I am a solider now soldiering on

Carrying the brunt of it

I snap & hum & 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 & when


Placing the stacks in rows & ready to burn

Can this really be me

Yes it is

It is

Parts and Labor


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




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.