Part I of tonight’s double feature. There’s something for everyone so show mom and dad.




by Rob Rice



Faithfully and

All over spacious America

Our criminals are ripping pedophiles

Apart in prisons


It’s steady work

For steady men wordless

About their broken backs


And sticking up for our

Or their

Maybe at any rate someone’s

Intact morality


Or stratified morality

Just the idea of the thing

They’re keeping it alive

Generative in those furnaces


Regularly interspersed among the windfarms

And rolling lulls of corn orange

Reactors that keep our American decency

In stock for if we need it


That real violence moves us

The motivation in

The argument

To make relative their own misdeeds

Or our own


At any rate


While state reps send aides out to score Sodium P.


On the blank streets they organize and redistrict

Slinking in the alleys reluctant Dane and Roma people step

Bringing something home for pop to pray over

Then admin Back pats all around




And the search for it in small things

Pallbearers wetwinking at secrets they think He’s in on

Context boys gesturing at the ceiling not called anything

Without intersectional ideas motivating technologies


What happens as everything catches up

Cancers and strange base psychologies coaxing waves and

Drives into tonic grand malware

Applying themselves

Calmly seeking the same ancient sate

Of maligning systems


Server farms come down with datapox

Towers felled by bad blood

Reach into the news and extract the wet present

Remotely the ‘castersadness and plainness of living

In homes that fear


The synthetic grooming and clustering of cropped

Dot buzz hijinks

Misery of puckered vision

That works through grimaces to wager questions like

What can trick us into regression and

As a comedian generously allows an audience

To be satisfied by misdirection

What will send us back to the small communities


Ice Iron

Bronze Man


Without a ballooning commotion of pride like

Red cream clouding up lucent blue coffee


Freakish research and restaurants

New wave and

Undulating assfat in squat capital D due thighs

Isolated and frozen

Cheaply individuated with a candid look of surprise

But lasting and walking and introducing

And hating like scumsunk beans in water brought watched to a boil

Salted Explain and coin satisfying universal terms with

Definitions only as applicable as they are ambulant

While ingredients through the alphabet and back

Cost prohibitive


Too soon to bloom

Divorcing the past in daily tranches

Waking up unsurprised and comforted

To encounter once again

The fetal position


And when you start to wake on your back

With your hands laced prettily on your chest

You don’t notice

Because solace is solace is solace


And maybe there’s some honor in being the first the defining

Progenitor burial in a formerly functionless plot

But it’s negligible


Dying men of the flat night

Debriefing already dead sons

Saturating them with secrets for the grave

Secrets are currency there

They can swap them at the hellwait card table

For some simple jerky to drape over their collar

And recreate the skinfeel

Or a rotten peach to finger fuck

And let sticky the bone dribble

To attract flies

That then they all gather around

Giddy to praise life

In its mechanically full forms


Hard exampled irrefutable life

Not just spectre and memory and its progressing haze

Coming in hissing like rain curtains blottingout over the counterfurious ocean

Each story becoming less believable as told


And even though the audience is motivated to endorse

They are starting to itch with worry

Precautious to fully engage with What even is it

And they wonder which of them is still sure it happened

And defer to him


Let blond the black sap

Disoriented passenger-conductor

Like a citizen-soldier

Mock lost after a nation building exercise


The wonder of edgeless dull blockage

A whole sleeping calamari core of brain

Calling on

And getting nothing but clammy potassium slick

White matter’s breathy sweat sent

Out at pressure Nothing that feels hardcast but molten

And washing

And of soap


It feels like an expanding tinny aphasia

Leaving us without the proper words

That area having been overcome

That area having been overthrown dirty and hallow pained

Tried too much and too little

To have an effect

But they don’t


So TV persists

We think

Pleasantly At least now they’re including makeouts

Whole wet ones

In commercials about tech dating

The real and the super real

They’re worked matches


So they makeout

In the commercials

And I guess the logic is

Also in real life


Until eventually in super real

Matches and marks

Similar and often overlapping friends of the cause

Duped into daddyhood and mommyhood

Some worse for it

Some fed by it

Will always have

That mutual record


A shame foundation to accuse the other on

Persistent in boiling back up

Years after the early apartments

The natural laughs and parks and uncannily seamless vacations

Dixie cones plugged fat baby hands

And striped ice cream was thrashing around the stroller’s workbench like mercury

Taunting barometric augury was

Missed When they drove to Phoenix and

That bizarre night they stopped in Texarkana


But now the house is bought and the long

Yelling dullness

The vertiginous extended eternity and super eternity

To wait love and endure eachother through


There will be nights of creampure accusation

Where that basis will underlie each taunt

And they will abuse each other’s

Real or otherwise love

For its being bought on an instant

Neurological default to gameplay like cards


For sad and individual men


While inexhaustibly still

Spoilt on admiration

Cataract skyscapes peacock

Espousing they’re fully blind

Begging at least that for their son’s sake

They be entombed in oil


And Jokers

Pervade decks

Pervert them in sinister and mocking laughter

That’s sticky and smells

Shading the grain

Outing the creases at the dog-eared edge

That superimpose character onto quitting muscle

And again argue for age


Movement and concert

Spinning is to cones

As bones pose as all matter of things

Half buried in red desert sand

Half in red desert sun

Bleached waxy yellow

The fat still grinning

And fed from the life it had


In Massachusetts

Innocent dead kids stand by

The rites of chemical passage

A duty

They feel

Whining a gift of imaginary context

To those responsible for them

That lets poison into their memory

Like smoke drawn across the moon

And into a mouth


And out in Arizona

They’re unaware of the other

Too focused on the laced X’s

The scoring of their sleeping ankles

The viscous slowly evaporating spit from a

Copperhead’s tongue having thatch-licked hexes


Gratefully crosscutting that well organized chickenmeat

Tender against the grain and

Committing it to muscle memory

Bodies outfitted with the means

To tentpole electrofinance

Self-sovereignty as routers and

Conduits subliminally participating in

Redirection And trafficking in commerce and signal

Counterfeiting data as status

Completing the transfer from society to market


Sensual bad news when that sweet Thai food smell

You’ve been tracking with your mouth watering

Turns out to be the default funeral home

In the midst of the cooling unit emergency that will finally shutter its doors for good


I am just not interested in your blood

Like I am mine

There is no great fascination

It just looks vaguely dangerous and flavor-poor

While mine is pomegranate and impossible

Exceptional in color and content

Flamboyant and evident and

Minerally opaque

Surface tension tents pools upright

Must be magnetically floating cell rafts saying north


Too much so to dry and grey

Fibrous and supporting scaffolding of an interstate bridge

Straddling an unnamed and municipally nuisance waterway

Silent and humiliated and passing with its head down







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.




The Lobster


I am not sure if this sort of cross pollination is going to be a regular or tolerated thing, but for the time being I think it might be fine to try, for everyone’s mutual benefit, or, at the very least, to one time make you aware that there is this other place where things are, for those of you who, and I am sure you are many, know of nowhere else.

REVIEW: The Lobster (2015) dir. Yorgos Lanthimos


So far it’s been a month of spring. I’m realizing that of the things that wake florally up, most don’t get to stay up for that long, frost pruning those bold ones that break ground too soon. It’s sad, especially with the weather being so increasingly unpredictable, to see the little green tips that wager on a warm day in late February. I guess it’s like the frog or mosquito strategy at laying eggs: send as many shoots into the realm of the living, and nurture only those emissaries that report back. But what about those that don’t? Where are they commemorated?




I’ll Pick Which

by Rob Rice




Passing him, him not interested in looking at me is

in me forever

off packaging life turnaround


People gave up known people

known open gnashing maw

now they’re feeder cells


Sea beads populate a Ferris wheel

a chill induced in-folding fern bud

pockets dew



When you suspect through supplied theatre

the street

as it is


the people

as they are


without with what

you made them more than


Space and


and Mark



I would never be happy if I didn’t think of myself

in ways I




so manipulation

means making

them think

you think

of them

the way

they hope that they’re thought of



Is the size of the town’s graveyard

a credential

a breast of military metals

a flashed badge

a fake one


The smaller the town the longer the obit

the more dedicated Death of one man’s hero

seems like permission

to save the world

if not to slush it



My own synesthesia meets the man

brings me face to face me


It bends around the right few things

and acquaints us



nested intentions

tune humiliate rather

than procreate



Blame my scattered interest tines

that like Braille

are tactile agents of change



substrates that mill


Dripping seamy invasions

of private space


sensitive thin skin

her inner forearm




affectation involves it in a gesture so

intentionally his affection’s a freezer full


of steak fat clippings



Devil matter spans material like film

and becomes projection


while no less faithful a record



Rigid phase walkers pass through brambles


Brushed aside they’re

leaving stories of their own on that forearm

its etchings are three-dimensionally

deep maps


Clue engineers in there

allowing them to back-solve the structures:

a simple nature



I’m let down when you’re like me

when I realize the smoke is

of what’s just like the mirror


I train myself

blindfolded to sit in my room smelling

bombs Tell me what to fear

faces made bizarre by makeup

startle mine as they turn

to register it



Chest used like the beauty of consent

from tree to future canoe


Hollowed out with tools the anthropologists are grabbing

out of our hands to stick in museums


My heart and lung gore still riddling one

solid and trusted handle

brings new hope for purchase and center placement


Where fat older brothers point it out


Though they haven’t been much for the other pieces

this one has something to it

something it took





An Order of Operations



When he went in, sorry, under, out of vanity, out of anger at his current beauty for hinting at such huge power. So he went all elective on it, on his Crow’s and cleft and high bones. In there, he grabbed the marker from the doctor and started circling on his own, designating whole ambitious swaths for removal from his face. Despite the doctor’s protest he put himself down, hit hard at that gas, looking, while still on the edge, at his engineer, making sure he knew to follow the lines laid out for him.

Waking, he saw; perfection. Sharpness, then high and wide shelves of bone barricading his eyes from his long, vulpine cheeks. He was crystalline, dangerously beautiful, and he bore it, for long years, crippling passing people with it, them submitting to it, their instincts taking over and bending them into a bow.

But eventually, that wasn’t low enough. He got used to them, pitched at the hips, seeing the tops of their heads, and he’d fed himself and his vanity off of it, even sated at times, rich and fire-eyed from the nourishment, but, as was his way, he wanted more. So, some dark raining midnight, he returned to that theatre, once again wielding his own pen, this time attempting not to derive beauty but derangement. He wanted to see us on our backs. So began, as we have come to know it now, The Revision.




by Jamie Thomson




So I go and I ride horses with no hands The horses
they are the ones without the hands
As for me I’m not some total full-blown dunce
I’m doing much better since the procedure
thanks for asking With all these additional limbs
I can now firmly hold everything I love at once
and so close I think it is good for the things I love
to see precisely the other things I love Roast beef
for example its presence should not then presuppose
the exclusion of bocce balls from the equation My hands
are so full! I have so much of things!





One fine morning there were birds
in every tree and they were singing
so many songs and I was singing too
and right on key and my onion was alive
and well and filling the room with her sweet
onion smell and the ducks all there in rows
asleep in their eggs and downstairs shining
in the light or rather the source of all light
my toaster! my pretty green toaster!




*For Alistair

Under a fingernail a man grew until that fingernail
broke apart into a pile of its own dust The man
wiped the dust from his forehead and entered
his life Of course he did not thank the fingernail
for what it had done So I came and I wept
for the fingernail I swept up its dust into a cobalt
box I carry that box along with the other boxes I carry





In that line to have my candle lit I said How lucky
to be one of the chosen few standing here in line
with my little white candle beneath the trees
who are like strangers or some very old friends
All was dark I imagined I was finally departing
per my most urgent wish This happened
many years ago in the room with no walls
Remarkable how long they kept us in that room!





Now in the backyard in the pit I am chopping up
the mice because the mice were being
naughty It is my absolute favorite chore
I don’t even think anymore I just let the knife
do all the work while I daydream
about beef until night when I can close my eyes
and dream the Eternal Dream of Beef
unimpeded To a beetle in the grass today
it would appear the rain has turned
to blood It would appear it is raining blood today




GAME #17

I am taking my left leg and sticking it
where her nose was because her nose
was needed to replace the toe in his teeth





When a flower dies I cradle that flower
high upon the marble steps It is my one
true calling to gaze and whisper small happenings
of the world into wilted stalk I say There goes
an aeroplane in that determined way
that only aeroplanes know I say The wind, the wind





I talk to chickens because chickens are dumb
Although I am dumb I am not as dumb
as a chicken Herein lies the crux In many ways
they are just like little dust bins I am like most people
in my resemblance to a somewhat larger dust bin
but also my general incompetence and this desire
to be king I walk from room to room addressing my flock
I say It is a long way to Reno folks I say The pancake
was not a pancake and is the reason Esmeralda is dead
When I stare into the eyes of a chicken I see a field It is always
the same field It is covered in snow A man walks away
toward some other thing I call to him but he does not turn

A Season’s Sporting



A Season’s Sporting

by Rob Rice




I never called you back because you brought your bag to the bathroom and that seemed like secrets

Memory gone as of ’05’s accident

Thought it’d be funny to ask if you remembered


What accident

You thought

Not funny


I guess we didn’t fit it

Your trustless crumpled posture

Vertical fetal position

And my seated intention to euchre you

As you scolded yourself for expecting




Exclusivity by demeanor and fashion’s

Integral to some self-esteems as it

Justifies the distance

They educated between us


Though like money it’s relative

Comparative purpose objects

Are no value less the idea they buy

Which is valueless if you have the object too








Remnants of the front

Of the war that exists now in as many bodies as can hold all the blood it spilled

Then, soaked up the confused purpose, salvaging it

Filling future generations

So furtively ire’s semaphored



Those must-be-moments of apology eye contact



What do they count for

And how to appraise them


Me? incapable of a moment like that’s solving in a lifetime

A clear liquid’s not being water flips me out


But then I see it run; endlessly cold ethanol’s endless cold being my fault

The ripples in it poured are like heat distortion




Rightly it’s impossible

The little croutons of contact

Day by day wearing it

The salad of each other

Us obsessively dieting

Swear by it

Fills us up



Isn’t it ironic that most muffins come already wearing Spanx?


And mixing Dew with powdered milk for breakfast

Into the frosted flakes

Lights ‘em up!




Passing those guys on the street with their tongues screwed out unaware

They pass people everyday

Just not me


They say

It’s good to stretch on either side of the Matins

And is it easier to measure tablets or days?


Most people die with so much love still in them

Probably sadder than paying for the rental company to do a full tank

Then not even driving it in empty

(i.e. the losing money)


I wonder how many of the people I assume are sad are

They all seem it, and each one I’ve asked is

But they all talk tall tell of others

Laying in the lambent lap of

Having been heard of




How can you trust a person who wants to be a leader

That should immediately disqualify you

What indelicate world is it that we let people have power that want power

That’s a wrong trait


And their mixing media

The seat of civic somnolence

Who never even noted

The great bizarre truth in

How Oprah’s Law of Attraction

Relates to Pasolini


At the very least they want to be a conduit

And to feel it run through them even

Taste it on its way

Never negotiating with forces on the ground

For our release




Tell me a story or I’m turning a TV on

Open up

I’m the quiet sage stalking you

My primary source

Unbeknownst I’m bivouacked on the street




I see faces I’ve never encountered when I close my eyes

but I recognize them they’re these fully formed people


Enough so that I can get a sense of what they’re like

I supplied them


I’m always attracted to them somehow

How they are seems fine to me


I never kept

Chaff or fleeced it

But I can weave


I know I can

Spiking the hook

With wire and lacing up a bobbing string of days

Globes that I’ll use to drape the railing

On the patio in festivity

Where we’ll have wine

Despite my not being totally sold

On the outcome wine

My not knowing about structure




Snuff films for sale

Snuff films for sale all taking

Place in an elevated ash boardroom

With a standing line of people shuffling circles


Their hanging hooded crania

And him seated at the slab oak head


One by one they arrive to face him

Bow permission turn

Oak-draping belly down

Avoiding ally eye contact while lowering their pants

Allowing him thus inspector’s access to their genitals

Which he considers

And then shoots into with a rifle


Gathering up pants

Cupping the bleeding

They resume the recovery line

To generate some resolve in

In the small interim pre-resubmission

Having updated their résumé

We’d expect


Dimensions of ‘ROE



Last week I asked some people to spam their friends and, with them having done so (thanks, them), it seems now like a good time to launch into a phase new.


So, now, any new piece that we write will debut on Wednesday nights, right around 8 O’Clock, so that you can follow along as it is read aloud, to you by its author, in studio or by phone or by avatar, on Boston Free Radio. You can TuneIn, stream at, or do whatever you’re privy to.







Establishing Capture

            New York 2/13/16

by Rob Rice




Mill and machine into

Inclusion’s round logic

Those little crescent shavings

Don’t inhale them


The broadness of it

Its yellow-grey lights the sidewalk

Which is rough and sandy when

It’s broad daylight


And where does the crime come in

Inextricable recondite tertiary crimes

The beam of sidewalk

Some side street’s grey girder


Some crime dripped all over it

And was collected in cups?

Balanced on his feet

In broad strokes

(He said)


Look at me

But don’t look at me

But look at me

Look at me

I can’t have this

This not looking at me

You’re doing

I’m the parade for these pants




And you want to be taken home

You brat

Everyone’s looking at you

In your bonnet and sack

You’re such babies


You’re dead

You’re dead moose

Your last moment, seeing yourself mounted

You’re sold as atmosphere

To hover over the haute meal

Where they’re “still thinking”


Clean kitchen

Clean kitchen

It’s a constant fight for balance

You wanting the sick from the cleaning products

And me the dirty surfaces




Spinning in

A cream enters the rotating basin

Of chocolate and is absorbed by

Eminent domain

As a formality


Or begrudging for a moment a salve of affect

Bactericidal balm at the scar line


And leave me back here wandering

Ein kinder roaming

Waist high grasslands on the moon

Which are bound by physics/the definite need for water


Endless, even generations of water

Still silver sliver of moon

Its blue edges swishing





Wake up and use energy, valuably, ever?

Why do you think of your hands as a different person


Go away

And be thankful the sea was so exhausted

It bowed and accepted of

What would have otherwise been


Piles of former kipsy


I feel a bit of resistance or occlusion

On your part

And it treats me to the threat of all this’ ending





I’d like a snug answer

Satisfying like the massacre of an ant hill





Less tragic tragedy

You’re relatively embarrassing to mourn




Sleep celebrity

Make out artist

Makes a killing

Slimy eek

Bottling public trust water for profit


Better than better!

Bigger is back!

Bigger is new!

And better is now free!




You have critically contaminated the experiment

Hence the pending eviction from your share

Leave me alone with that little anencephalic pout

Why is it grounds for a photo?


I have a miserably feeble language

Such that

I feel aimless and acting when I think

It’s like hard air, everywhere


Like the plumbing that formerly scored the city

Rafters, baffles, cowl, sweeps, wye

Were started in on by cement at the source


The disciplined

Assault themselves

Purposing deliberate miscalculation of your banality

/Your permissive rearing and allowance

/Your defiance to a bringing out broadness

As kenosis