the waterfall exploding in the valley at the end of the movie

By Nick Hranilovich

Scene: A strapping young lad and his busty damewell companionado are resting against a cabin made of palm trunks. The sounds of celebration blast from the background, and they are apparently stepping away from a large festivity.
Lad: So do you think things will ever be the same?
Damewell: God, I hope not. People will never be able to change the way they live, and I’m glad. *Laughs* I’m fucking glad. It’s so beautiful.
*Guy Enters*
Guy: Hey, guys, the waterfall is exploding! Come on!
Lad: In a minute.
*Exeunt guy*
Lad: You know, now that everything is out there, there’s only one thing we don’t all know. Well, I know it. I… I love you.
Damewell (Crying): You sure could have said it sooner. God, I love you too.
-Camera pans up, and over them, as they start to stand up. It goes in a crane motion over to the waterfall, which bursts without flame, and sends bits of ROY G BIV light into the air. Pieces of it land on the excited spectators, who then hold hands in a massive energy transference that heals the fissure in the Hearth Valley (the portion of the Earth’s magic cortex that allows complete flow of mage). Pan down to Professor Limon.
Limon: It’s a beautiful day. Forever.
-Fade out (Street Spirit)

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Soused

By Nick Hranilovich

Resend, receive receipts doubt debits deny demise
Nontronics and signals
Crying out to a golden star
Golden Star sounds like a coffee company
Crying over the death of the phrase Golden Star
Breakneck speed to gaseous Summer homes
Rich kids with mercury-rubdowns and Daddy
hooks in his hat, beer in the cooler,
moonshine on the mind and fog coming out of the mouth
Prenatal fermentation
Ma’am your baby is DRUNK
SOUSED
If we ate your placenta we’d all puke right off the bat
The internet is a digital personality kaleidoscope
I’m an organic supersoul kaleidoscope

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Fuck Yeah!!

By Nick Hranilovich

Today the ricocheting frequencies got so thick with momentum
that the branch supporting all mutual grace snapped
while the base of the wound at the tree’s side
gushed forth my own blood
heavier than even corn syrup movie prop fake red
more powerful than an immortal visionary
puncturing your luminous body
with a hypnotic and mind-altering index finger
is docking with an adjacent soul so greatly
that as you walk to your altar of disavowal
the forward march of your bobbing, anticipating heads
pulls the dim navy of night sky along
like a wide open shade tied down
to kite strings on your crowns
with brazenly unpainted white cloud sheets
marking the Western quarter of the upturned globe
where you had not walked yet,
and learned you never would.

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Tide of Pledges

By Nick Hranilovich

I will fight until something perishes at tectonic skull cracks
grey sanguine seeps out, mispronounces the true names
opens up the temples of the grim beams
shooting up antithetical spotlights
boring black holes up sunny skies, keep views forward
unless you are the local man of strength
you’ll pour your life up a town’s strand
a fierce blue pillar of souls into the goblet of distraction
shattered bullet-hole-atmosphere
arks and arks slipping in setting up mountain axiom
after the first slip of the tongue telling the locals
the peak-valley horizon is the jagged spine
of one buried Mother Earth bygone era’s land lady
soot rollers on walls across tracts from boundary to border to edge
years of mourning massacre after eyes brighten
smokestacks after skies whiten
eating poisoned apples coursing the veins
like nature is a 13 billion year old smoker, rivers gone blood
open scrolls and soapbox shout at dead man’s first processions
up both ways of the Nile Delta sucking blue light to empty the horizon
to influx the coming spectrum ask not who delivers unconscious message
allow heart’s guidance to properly cast out and listen
not before I am known
pray not until I claim not as I but true He
has danced up the obsolete staircase stockpiled deities when the
millennium wrought no havoc though that was the end time of the week
with no meditative seal of quantum approval with equations in actuality
never expounded nailing a coffin under the 500-foot-tall
tombstone “oops, jumped the gun”
tell the New Age it’ll kill us all
unless it stops calling love a solution
and starts loving.

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Punch Line and Sinker

By Nick Hranilovich

Schrodinger’s poem isn’t even here.
You just needed something to read.
Everybody who thinks they’ve gone interstellar
constellation unconscionable consciousness
dart toward the extreme left
(H)ad better wake up and smell the Traverse City Cherries.
Smearing my makeup on myself, on the bus,
on the guy next to me,
wearing the glittery bargain basement bedazzled shirt
“Cum Slut” fights to = something like “Mommy’s Little Angel”
Smear it on all three sets of my lips, push the envelope
to the edge of a cliff
and fist its stomach ’til it pukes all of the letters into the ocean.
Good fudging riddance you printpiles.
Never sent good word to home,
’cause the written language is a dead one
they hear me on the TV beating drums,
standing fifty feet away from the marches
Leading a revolt against the revolution
and a coup against the cause
Down with picket signs, up with mortars.
Down with Lords of War, up with alcoholic baby formula.
Chocolate for dogs.
Equator for Eskimos.
Malcolm X and a Rabbi walk into a bar.
One got shot, one got disowned.

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Onion Ring Lamentations

By Nick Hranilovich

Over two vats-
One labeled “fries”
one “appetizers”
I believe (so says inner monologue)
that life is bountiful and just
& deny that I’m a fry cook

Flutes flit and caress my skin
outer cherub wing tips grazing melody cheeks
But niggas be blazin’ on the rap shit
New beats
Out of honkey-bought, cracker-operated,
turkey-bred iSquanders
A business major and a potbellied impermanent punk
From a bygone era of skipped class and sterlized
body-deforming style needle
chew the fat on kilos across borders
when they have neither grams nor atoms in hand or nostril
I survey the fat burbling beneath my eyes
Don’t throw the coin in the fountain unless it’s battered
To dunk my face in and inhale for workman’s comp, acne, and sympathy

I ain’t afraid of no time vampires.
No ghosts neither. There’s one in the basement bar
-some cat died here years ago and they dragged him down the staircase
so nobody would lose their lunch
(The same lunch I burn for them with disregard
the same lunch that killed him)
Now everybody speaks on the light orbs in the corner of their eyes
as they descend from upper booze quadrant
to the booze quadrant nearer the core of the Earth
where it’s WARM
Some spookiness enough to rattle and erect hairs
on unsuperstitious necks
Give me my bone necklace and the demons of cardiac arrest
will be cast out of these dank collegiate vomit-soaked corridors
Dancing a fury dance and incanting on deathlessness
Ghosts respect a possessed man as cars cowtow to full lots
Every inch of me is a haunt for some chosen few spirits
that can leap through necks and guzzle impertinence
straight from the words of faux pas throats

“I’d fuck her and her and her and her
and her and her
and her with a bag on her face
and her with a bag on my face
and her with firewater in my belly
and her with coke in my nose
and her with the right music in the background
and her from behind
and her from above
and her from within”
Your records are breaking, potbelly and yuppie.
I want to fuck your hearts. Major cock-on-aorta action.
After I check the temperature on these buffalo chicken wings.
God is merciful and I am a fry cook.

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Reconstitution

By Nick Hranilovich

I didn’t ask for this democracy I didn’t ask for these systems of election I don’t believe that the majority of these issues are within the scope of most of the public to determine I don’t believe in legalizing it I don’t believe in illegal…izing it I don’t believe in birthing it or aborting it I don’t believe in bombing it or putting embargoes on it or defying or supporting the UN about it or in developing new systems or in funding up-and-coming scientific endeavors or in destroying or saving the environment or in promoting nutrition while supporting business or in giving tax breaks or in decreasing taxes or increasing them or taxes at all or in allowing guns to exist or in banning guns or in increasing the power of the educational system or in allowing it to flounder and Democrats have no brain and Republicans have no heart and the Green Party has no clue and the Libertarians are walking contradictions and the Nazi Party would kick me out for not being pure and it’s foolish to support the arts but nobody had better restrict ’em and drugs are bad but we’ll damned well use ’em no matter what you say so relax and freedom of religion is fine but I want my church and state THOROUGHLY mixed but it has to be a worship of undiluted science (not historically supported, publicly preferred Earth science) that shoves itself in the faces of the whole public until they understand the crux of the issue but I don’t want myself or anyone to be told what to think ’cause I don’t want to live in a house unless I damned well feel like it and jobs are for people who can’t farm and farming’s for people who don’t have skills they can barter to farmers and bartering’s for people who don’t trade freely out of love and love’s for people who aren’t doing it to clear their guilt and the world’s to ensure an equal future and an equal future isn’t on the fucking ballot this year. I like trees.

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I hope culture dies before you

By Nick Hranilovich

I hope you stop talking like an underground VH1 subsidiary
before you die and your life flashes before your eyes
and there’s a network logo in the bottom right-hand corner
of your new astral sight
while your exploits are re-enacted a la Behind the Music
you notice that your hands don’t move when you want them to
because they’re the hands of a b-actor with a side job
serving ice cream soaked in melted gold to suits
who have side jobs setting up model trains for the sake of their zenity
and side hobbies yelling at their kids for touching the tracks
and their kids have side jobs crying alone in their rooms with their cats
at 3 am, overtired

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don’t talk about smegma when I’m eating melted provolone

By Nick Hranilovich

References, dignitaries
Sing-song sermons
Live long lives, found your way
What you eat=What you are
They are one
Turnstiles and revolving prisons
Doors fancy
Knowledge lazy Suzan,
unintelligible
The other White Meat, the Mother degrades me
Remember proper nouns
Always supper case
Favorite Mountain, Big Rock Candy
O BROTHER WHERE AREN’T THOU?
Alone in a crowd since ’89
Hummingbirds marinated nectar
1992 was a good year for you
Age well sweet grapevine
Age well my baby
CONTINUOUS REPETITION CONTINUOUS REPETITION
Is my hall dark?
Stole us fire
Dice tablets for scripture
Drawers are a failsafe
Store the grocery grove-meat
From a vine
What you eat…. what you are…. they are one

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Note on the fridge from beyond the atmosphere

By Nick Hranilovich

Leaving planet, as of next available flight.
Please feed my people while I’m away.
Return date unsure. Ticket says “Rapture.”
Won’t have my phone with me- zero service bars in deep space.
In case of emergency, I put the names and pronunciations
of every major deity on the fridge

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