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Archive for the ‘Nick Hranilovich’ Category

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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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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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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Seen

By Nick Hranilovich

Seen upon my satellite, stars aligned
Early morning, rising head and silence driving East
No visor, I take the Sun straightnochaser
There’s chill breeze upon the wafting surface of the atmosphere
And by God with these clouds to skim on it looks like Earth hit first frost
Somebody guard the crops from these white tufts
A thick freeze
I smell an age coming, coming on, forever come again?
No new, please, I’m just a girl, I’m just a Gwen, I’m just a L.A.M.B.
Upon my reference-broadcasting fashion-channel satellite
Used formerly for intelligence transmissions and my butt flipped a switch
So now it’s ignorance feeds and the wrong impressionable folk
watching its spew get fed ignorance
Ignorance and negligence fuck each other
and stare at the belly buttons of children, waiting for them to open up
so they can crawl inside and wear them
What a fit! This one has fresh skin and I’ll take its body everywhere I go
and feed it whiskey like the bar has the heads of rattlesnakes
where the taps should go
and we pull their teeth over mugs for a fresh draught
Hail poison, no? What else does one think midst swigs?
There’s no poison on my satellite
But the ghosts of every astronaut with cracked faceplate visit me
Hover and ooh and ahh and point to the sinking sun
Horizon swallows firey giant
And these ghosts evaporate into a thousand astral lightning bugs zipping around my head
Asking me to believe that there’s life in me
And the giraffes on the continent below

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By Nick Hranilovich

“Eat of this chocolate, for it is the opposite of what I want for you and hence totally in keeping with all of your behavior up until now. And why spoil a good thing?

Drink of this wine, for it shall remove your capacity for rational thought and cause you to yell over everyone around you and chase strange tail, as the Father never willed it to be.

Put this stuff up your nose and suck on these little perforated pieces of paper, for you’ll be absolutely positive it’s allowing you to have fun and be a better person, and that’s ALMOST as good as really having fun and improving.

Go to this concert, for the man who puts his treasure toward the consumption of modern culture will not be blessed as he who provides alms for the poor, and we didn’t feel like having to sort through the riff-raff, anyway.

Smoke these herbs, for it feels really awful and causes you to cough, gag, and almost vomit the first several times you do it, but you keep going to build a tolerance and then feel really dizzy and slow. And not to use my name in vain, but sweet JESUS I find that funny.

Kill Nick Hranilovich, for he has very possibly pissed you off here and I’m proof that you solve your problems with people who point out incongruities in your lives by murdering the absolute heck out of them.”

-Jesus

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By Nick Hranilovich

The true nature of the fabric of nature is still the truth of the nature of fabric. No cotton cloth or ugly ripped polyester falsity can ever stop the fact that steel is the height of fabrication, and that even water will wash it away to small grey sands. I would praise the beaches that showed the particles of a city wafting back and forth in the breeze, with the footprints of our children showing merriment and mercury both frolicking upon my, nee OUR apocalypse. The fabric then no longer advertised, but just breathed and known. The moment we call singular finality may be either a great bottlenecking of every sentiment or just the slow popping of each mind’s kernel as the cranial atmosphere cooks up. Could it be that every pressure bursts after eons? That if I were to live in caves waiting for my ancient nature to pour from me once more, and for my hair to flow in thin diamond so that every time the Sun hit me I would make a thousand proposals, then sooner than these gifts would hit me my heart would burst across a wall of coal? The man burrowed in the hillside is the man forgotten by his village as an oddity, remembered by his mother as a lost chunk of womb (an egg sadly un-chicken, no yellow-bellied sap, sucker, or bad lover), and derided by every toddler who doesn’t daydream as the Dead Man with moth-ridden wallet.
Testosterone vendettas produce an uncontrollable urge to sling lion manes across necks to show that we, too, flash peacock feathers of constant mating skin, but would never be caught dead with a mink that was caught dead to get thrown over something painted pink acting like the extraneous snake skin of an erudite affluent absent-everything’d daughter of the bears and bulls. Daddy’s Hampton House is burning with brotherly distrust, all lineage joined together in dry green blood that’s freshly minted so often that their family tree is caught in a constant nexus between Winter and Spring, always shedding those who find no solace in Earthly quests and those who burst up in a pile of jewels and declare that they are temporary giants until they are forgotten in the coming Wall Street Boom.
Many would release oceans in their crotches for the sake of a silver platter to eat off of. True lovers wait for stars in eyes and not commas on print-outs, surrounded by zeroes (which, believe it or not, are as hollow as they sound). When I look into one that my immediacy wishes to know in a private place that is slightly farther from here, slightly closer to eternity, then I know that the time has come to zero in on that small point in their pupil that is all light, and no black. The direct line from the front of an ocular lens right into the center of the skull, where my mind’s hand cradles whichever neurons in there are telling the truth about then, and then snake down the spine in an agape tease. Memorize the thunkings of their heart long enough to dance to it in the middle of Death Valley decades after the fact.
Whatever the opposite of death is, perhaps I’m bound for that. We’re and let’s. Us, which I call Our. When I was born, my name was made law and smothered with digits, and at least one innoculation must have had a hundred thousand small waving symbols of ramparts won in it, but my marrow forever pours essence forward to drain the burdening blood of country from me. I pray. Only we, having eaten every forbidden fruit and chased every dragon to a hole of magma in the side of the mountain to kneel before it in awe of its size while it licks its wounds and prepares to curl in a python’s maneuver across another town, would ever take advantage of cubs.
Make light never of those who rest in motionless solitude. They will burst forth a tidal wave of motion when their finger twitches on the edge of a jar, reaching for a drink. When the restful man who has reached his calm and zen stands, hands on his craning knees, eyes to the ground or still set on yours, the ceiling of the sky will rise with him. To watch the planet would be to see a bulge in the atmosphere over his slow and deliberate rising. This is the burst of power that silence makes.

Say if you have felt nights of loose and lubricated laughter have brought you the riches of the promise of miraculous pine bounty that you’ve always dreamed of (a world coated with sappy wood, sunlight, discovery, and the equality of the notion that one night, everybody went to bed, and woke up in a pleasant dream to which they never had to be any the wiser save for a sneaking suspicion that something was all to filled with potential and phantasmagoria’s images- the kaleidoscope of your life will spit you into many places at night, and all of them are communities I’d much love to wander hand in hand with many friends and any friend).
This is my dissertation.
Or so I say.
Who are these who curse their havings and holdings? Lo, I am among them.
Or so at times I think.

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Fallow

By Nick Hranilovich

Why does this thing treat me like an unwanted guest?
O sweet body o’ mine
Ceaseless pacing wearing treads in the granite
Wearing South Pole as a taint
And Northern Lights as a headdress
Magnetic interference is “IN” this season
All the rage in Milan and the most popular solar flares

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