|
| |
garcia_echelon
|
|
|
paste!
|
Garcia Echelon approaching retirement 2-17-02
Garcia Echelon takes apart his flashlight.
In the dark, he summons a camel.
They race down the streets
which are lit
and post flyers all over the faces of pedestrians.
Thousands of flyers in less than a second.
Finally, the mayor screams, "this is my last stand."
Garcia Echelon and the camel make a sandcastle
on the beaches of Hapsslj.
Granted, there are no more solutions.
This is the road to destruction.
The camel bursts into flames.
Garcia Echelon takes the ashes and makes a balm
that he applies to a Chevrolet.
When he drives back to the city
the mayor gives him a medal.
"We had no idea!"
Garcia Echelon smiles and drinks a three-week old pina colada.
After shaving his three-week beard,
Garcia takes the mayor to the cemetary to pay respects,
"They were all my children and now they are fish."
The mayor replies, "I had no idea!"
Seven thousand years later, a fish comes in through Garcia's window
and steals his reading chair.
Later that night, after the debut
Garcia Echelon stands and tells the audience:
"I only depend on strong fish these days,"
as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand.
|
020407
|
| |
... |
|
|
paste!
|
Garcia Echelon as park ranger
Garcia Echelon has no fear of fire--
he is made of ashes today and tomorrow.
Garcia Echelon has handcrafted himself into the blueprint of wildlife.
He is a walking safari.
He defeats logic as often as he wants.
Garcia Echelon tampered with his vocal chords
so as to mimic the mating calls of all animals.
When they come near, he becomes a pond
because all animals are thirsty.
Garcia Echelon walks up the mountain.
When he reaches the top, he jumps off
and in the middle of his 138th backflip
he loses a shoe, which lands in Denmark.
He knows so little about Denmark!
|
020409
|
| |
... |
|
|
paste!
|
Garcia Echelon visits the Grand Canyon
Garcia Echelon packed a light lunch
but he failed to bring the automatic shoe.
Tough tribulations forced Garcia to place wagers
on the swift, lazy-eyed
self-reliant badger in gate #3.
“I have no need for anyone,” said the badger, pre-race.
After the race, Garcia collected the large sum of cash
and gave it all back to the children’s museum
where he grew up way back in 5600 B.C.
Garcia Echelon bides his time by
designing the best use for lemons and pewter.
He has a long list to which he adds to whenever he can.
Yesterday he added:
4802. Collect The Unbelievable Torches
it followed
4801.
which was smeared and illegible.
|
020511
|
| |
... |
|
|
paste!
|
Garcia Echelon does an infomercial
Garcia Echelon peers at the mountaintop
from the bottom of the ocean.
He took out his poison
and drank it all.
Luckily, he is not the only Garcia Echelon.
Garcia Echelon wakes up in the middle of a corn field.
His ears have been chewed on.
He puts them back in the basket, the unchewed ones.
It’s a long walk back to Alaska,
but he’ll make it there before the alarm goes off.
When he gets there, it’s cold
so he puts on a big furry parka
and climbs the antenna in front of his house.
It stands 800 feet tall
and broadcasts all over the world.
There’s a device Garcia can speak into
and so he says, “Love is in the air,
love is in the air and so are the gases of outrage.”
He jumps off with his mask on
and lands on his feet
because he had buttered toast strapped to his back
and a cat taped to his forehead.
Garcia Echelon knows the basics.
He is fundamentally sound like a veteran pitcher.
When he goes to the stadium
Garcia sits in the cheap seats.
He caught a foul smell
from the ump's ass.
Garcia Echelon is well versed in tragedies.
|
020801
|
| |
... |
|
|
paste!
|
Garcia Echelon picks his nose
It takes 20 years to head off into the right sunset
so Garcia Echelon packs his bags
and hollers and hollers and hollers
at his old other footsteps.
He reaches into his pockets, which are empty,
and pulls out a harmonica that is not a harmonica
but a lost bet placed on bad habits.
“Just then, I realized that I had been needing hats,”
Garcia exclaimed, “somberets, whisker-brimmed
gnarly suckers that get you away from digesting
and back into pasturing.”
He doesn’t know the answers
and to say that he constantly searches
for them would be a lie.
Garcia Echelon doesn’t like to eat pickled eggs.
He curls up in a hammock and wears out his eraser
on an old crossword.
|
020818
|
| |
... |
|
|
paste!
|
Garcia Echelon tracks dirt into the castle
Garcia Echelon fancies himself a lemonade
made from lemons, sugar and water.
When the lemon tree bursts into flames
he runs, then stops, turns around
and makes a triangle sound the way it really should sound
in order to belong in the orchestra
that accompanies the set.
“Cut!” the director shouts. “Excellent work Garcia.”
Later, he finds an empty can of spray paint
on his path from the castle to his bed.
There is nothing important about dynamite
except when Garcia needs to get the blanket off of Mrs. Echelon.
She is looking like stained glass this late.
Garcia Echelon knows that the best way to get out of sticky situations
is to dissolve through the ceiling of the room, up to the roof,
to jump across the sky, under the moon.
He picks chicken from his teeth four hundred times a day.
Garcia Echelon needs to go buy detergent
to wash the least worn robe from those he conquered.
|
020901
|
| |
... |
|
|
paste!
|
Garcia Echelon and the extent of his high-profile
Garcia Echelon travels in a fiberglass canoe
through the rivers of Amazonia.
He has a squirrel that loves trail mix with dried cranberries.
Whenever he pulls up to a trading post
he asks for trail mix
with dried cranberries
for his squirrel.
They usually don’t know what the fuck a cranberry is,
but they always have soggy boots and loose metalloid rods.
Garcia Echelon doesn’t know much about top 40 music.
The river is made of horchata.
That’s a drink made of rice, sugar and cinnamon.
Garcia likes the reflection of the sun
on the white murkiness.
He has no more teeth.
“Put up your dukes!” he says like a Western legend
to the empty jungle.
|
021005
|
| |
... |
|
|
paste!
|
Garcia Echelon and the correct pace of rolling a bowling ball
Garcia Echelon tears off his thumbs
so his hands can fit into Womb
of Existential Disbelief,
and this choice is one of the great
many things that unfold, like popcorn.
They grow back quickly.
A sparrow lands on one thumb.
She tells Garcia,
“When you look at me
do you see a dragon?
Is my name all that you hear?”
When she flies off,
Garcia quickly runs inside to grab a pencil
and an orange.
He writes:
I hear every twitching muscle
of your aquiline fragility
at night, in trajectory,
the sounds of your ragged breathing
console me in my slumber
but I have no conception
of your perspective of flight
yet this is generally agreeable
and I could only wish
that you will not be eaten
or stricken by electric lines
because I wish to know more of you,
lovely sparrow-who-is-a-dragon,
you perch and fill me with enjoyable
pepper spray for my heart
and that stinging just begins
when you fly off making the pain fuller.
Garcia Echelon then eats his orange
and a sleeping pill so he
can erase himself of her awareness
for this one night.
|
030113
|
| |
... |
|
|
paste!
|
Garcia Echelon ships the wave
In the beginning, there was stuttering.
Garcia Echelon dismounts from his unicycle
and tackles a running thief, with minimal elegance.
“You, stop!” he says to the moth.
Next month, Garcia has it out
for the produce department.
He is reminded of decapitation.
Lettuce rolls around at his feet,
stalks of asparagus emerge
from his sleeves as if he were some misplaced scarecrow
which tears him up, so Garcia Echelon
steps on a certain tile and begins to slowly disperse
into separate body parts, each gathered together
by an indoor draft that could only come
from the whisperers of his choosing.
When all is said and done
Garcia is round up in a duffle bag
and shipped to Australia
where he reassembles
and combs the beaches for lost artifacts
of the poor and bewildered.
In no time he has many followers.
“Today we will collect sandal straps of centuries ago,”
he shouts. And so begins the rummaging.
When they all converge
upon the section of the beach
marked PESCADO MALO
they flee in terror, throw their arms to the clouds
and scatter equidistant from each other
in a half-arc, like each path was the fold
of a stretched out Chinese fan
in the ominous typhoon
and the rice was breaking
and the children were not yet full of red in their eyes.
Garcia shrugs and packs a mean squirt gun
to spray at the resemblances of self-witchcraft.
Pow splash churgle pow the streams holler.
Even though Garcia is in his fifties
he has the heart of a 6-year old
or a 24-hour locksmith.
|
030720
|
