VIRUS

A short comic on the sad reality of hard living

Ft. Lauderdale

for individual islands, made maybe a custom :: this bright, 
sweeping shinysand, coruscant Redtide :: each escalator frenzy,
my delicate hands in an echo all mezzanine :: or the dove 
beneath fingernails, where every fingernail shreds :: desolate 
yardhour, crackling horizons, bastard murals of towers and 
towers of Laughter :: scratchmarks on the sidewalk :: blithe 
encounters of kelp dust :: saying things like “the islands bled 
stupid rubicon” or “tea plants are illegal to grow” :: magnolia 
shreds against magnolia blinds :: faces in mirrors and mirrors 
in cribs and cribs in slick Vertebrae still seahorse-soft with 
coral rum :: dank Hours, faces all drugcolor crusty, lawnmower 
noises cutting clear zenith :: on and on, bursting Towers and 
the tangle of islands called mountain, to be later called 
Sidewalk:: and my idea of breathing or calcium or kalesong or 
itchy late and later and then a language all laters :: or 
daughters in cribs making noises like doves :: or counting the 
hours until all these islands stiff down, crackling magnolia 
eyes into magnolia Chalk :: then a condo paid for with delicate 
abyss scraped careful from each coolsky :: reading careful the 
labels, “don’t operate machinery” or “use stairs if the flames 
continue” :: and there are mouths only dreamteeth with gums and 
tongues in a riddle :: vertebrae fall from the cabinets, fridge
 full of dull islands :: and all sorts of calligraphy of itching, 
new uses for breathing and laughing :: shorelines Crystal with 
hours white and re-whiting :: then careful the kalesong, then 
quiet the scratch hall, and signs slick with muscle, “keep close 
those your items” :: a love again long again, lost again, then 
falling into shores of magnolia breathing

Detective Hunchscape

I just finished a new comic about a psychic detective: Detective John Hunchscape, citizen extraordinaire of the slippery city of Neo Karnak! Dogs have been up to no good across these streets and they might just send him the tickle he needs to put two and two together.

For everything he touches turns to Hunch!!

Celadon Issue 5: Offal Bliss

The new issue of Celadon is finished and is forthcoming! I'll have copies out at the end of this month, look for them in the scattered spheres and rabid echoes.

3 poems

Bermuda Triangle

you can never be too sweet. 

foreskins line the apartment room

like Used Sunlights. 

 solid screams of soiled Day, 

“this House is infected with Pig’s Blood!”

or maybe with her two year old son.

you have things you're told you’re needed to say

and ignore them.

you think about dicks covered in your shit

and sketch questions in the curious grime

and fermenting pineapple.

on granite counters and ammonia
 you almost turned to chlorine air. 

you harmonize the wind in your eye

to a meticulous anxiety. then call it:

reading. and you call people on the phone.

most are gone. leave voicemails descriptive.

the clouds, the grass, even the Strain. 

and when night comes,

you carefully pry it open, through each

amnionic wave, then soothe it 

into your river. question by question.

waiting the Vitriol who quiet the Everything. 

a long and a careful.

you listen and pretend. 

cursive fidgets along the Sidewalk 

hills and hills of the people 

we spoke down, or tunnel-licks.

and a so hideous. me, well, six drinks 

short of an atmosphere, but still

the Grindr and the Dogbrights. 

Beetlegeuse, you might say. a kind,

but delayed, afternoon; exhausting 

blurs. so much “we almost” and we 

a longness, but bit by bit

corroded into a bitter and useless verb.

then canary along a residue of faded moon,

a fit of yellow gauze. o birds, how they 

a softing and a fool. o stars. o hourless days. 

then I call your mom on the telephone.

gibbous fingernails fidget within my holes.

spay us some little chits, but I tell her

some golden minnows dreamt fine. 

and she to me gives a TV jaguar, 

intense though that may sound: it’s perfect.

so honored, I bow. I show you said bow.

later, through feathery hieroglyphs.

October Morning

we tilt hours into a vicegrip of chapter,

of things chained as centipede but immediate

as Red. I forget almost everything about us.

and watch the sun through their barking dogs.

there are things to say and books to explain

them. a belligerent canvas of Smeared Laugh

and Colorless Insomnia. sometimes I’ve copied

out dreams into insect-cold calligraphy, but

it fuzzes, like an erosion is so many bunches 

of confused bees I find on the ground everywhere. 

we’ve talked about collectives and apartments. 

cabbage violets and bedbug lentils. then again,

how early is Still. like the month has given

up and let day extend its reach though several

Autumns. mimetic the eyes, or the shrill air 

inside the eyes, to cars forever on the 101s. 

and here a green Fade lingers, clouds all spinach,

of some paradox of energy. Hydrogen rippled out

of landfills, or out of mute piles of Instagram. 

faces selfied bobbing amidst the dense breath. 

I think about my nerves like hotels, slightly 

pollinated by this and that Frenetic. to vision

a stillness across dunes. To strain us into focus.

to stay a little while, these feelings of love. 

Planet of the Apes Drawings :: loosely based on the Terry Hayes screenplay

Celadon 4: Towerhood's Cleanse

Hello!

The fourth issue of Celadon is finally completed and available for purchase online, or if you're in LA it's currently at Meltdown comics.

To get it online just email me at hartcretur@gmail

This issue took a lot of patience and insanity and general exhaustion so having to see it in its final form is just such a relief. Hope you enjoy reading it.