La Vague Journal - Christine Hou

for Brandon Shimoda

A bubble pops spilling its juices all over the table.

A mountain yawns, contaminating the rest of the air.

The mountain is a mountain of iguanas.
I worship it, an exercise from ancient days.

I rent a hole to rest inside and open my heart chakra.
See how the size of the hole does not matter,
rather its ontological purpose, how it looks in pictures,
its crumbling façade.

I prepare soup in the hole
Then boil away the broth

There are young demons in the hole. I fight them with my
hands without knowing what they have done to deserve it.
I sweat and gather more fighting materials.
No swords. They were not in the budget.

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Because I read

Instruction manuals

Religious iconography

I am tired in dreams

Humiliation by crabs and oracles

Robots and friendship

Indigestion

Limits adaptation

But not like butterflies

Policemen follow the drama

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Recall the necessary outlets
when dreaming towards the mountaintop.
Carry my pets there
Martyr flesh for flesh
Dine on cream and jerky and keep on floating

Scout for shimmering pleasures beneath rocks.
Hope not to rot so the vast sequence
of events can unfold in its entirety.
Can I achieve the right ratios?
How about when fucking?

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I arrive at the top and pull all the stops.
I put on a sweetheart dress
to relieve me from my journey's suffering.
Hold a magnifying glass up to my nipples.
Predict a disaster:
NO LOVE IN THE MONTH OF JUNE

Rub synthetic bovine gall bladder
all over the inside of my mouth.
Stuff me.

Fast relentlessly, but stay hydrated.

I open my legs and a saint comes out
like a tiny blessing.

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What is this mission
that I'm after?
Is it finding the hole
inside of me and falling
through it
triumphantly
naked
while reasoning
with fingers
and star
voices
that drain me
until my death?

Each reason in its own bubble.

Each reason is trying to outweigh another reason in its own bubble.

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