selected past writing at 42opus
When I say, "I can feel the toxins in my brain," I know I'm wrong. There are no nerves in the brain. But the sentence itself is toxic.
Reading this novel renders one a fly on a digital wall, listening in as half-baked undergraduates urgently chat about everything from the role of repressed postwar frustration as a motivating factor for tentacle-rape manga porn to whether the word "beige" can signify the same thing to two people in two places. All of which, in less skilled treatment, could be unbearable, but Pelevin's secret is pacing.
Congress met with the cops and the crooks,
appointing committees to investigate.
Me was outside in the adjective rain,
verbing and verbing about some proper noun.
For weeks, the visiting priest raged about the love of Cain and the sins of Adam
while, on break at the drugstore, I read letters to the editors of pornographic magazines.
So many young and horny housewives, so many sodomized waitresses!
High, I climbed Jim Corder's roof and watched his older sister skinny-dip.
24 July 2007 | poetry