Sleepingfish infinite
Process News 1

Ever Begins Bending & B Side by Jesse Kominers




The demented words I spoke into the house phone until I realized that your calming voice was a dial tone.

At the proper point of all things cycling a meshing will take place. And the I that built these words and said these words will be transmitted back to the womb by the one female voice capable of presenting the portal. Wait. I mean … sluice. No, I haven’t heard the voice, yet, but I have felt the undertow of one or two coring notes. A key sliding smooth to the back of a tumbler but always one tooth off. I don’t know how I know, I just know. But listen, I don’t think I have much time left here. I’ve just been—I have a hard time … figuring out what’s real and what’s—silhouettes or shadow puppets. Do you know what I mean? Right. But I won’t stop trying. As long as I have you I will never stop trying. I know but … because it scares me to think about it, sometimes ... fear flames in deceptions caves. Nothing—I would never leave you. I need you. I need you to come with me, okay? I love you. Can you hear me?

I love you.

Please don’t do this.

What the wall told me about the dream you had that made you cry in your sleep.

above the sinking cave for brown eyed neverminds the air pockets blip out before she can tell you how many hearts are housed within the red blood leaving her body faster than they can put it back inside her body there are pretty spines swimming behind soft skulls like apricots pickled in whiskey down your open throat doing nothing about everything will not be okay just because you say everything will be okay as your teeth fall out of your fucking head like wax fruit or wishbones in tinfoil crumpled in the walls of a washed out sandcastle toppled in ocean foam pulling discarded grains of understanding nothing as you stand there dumb gummy rictus and round eyes not crying as you watch it happen to her legs spread wide open waiting for educated hands to put her back together before her heart stops beating yourself up is helping her love you less than words can say in the cracks of her gravestone that she died for what you gave her makes no difference in white gravity’s mood ring going dark as death as a baby’s eyes open for the first time zaffer screaming blood is for bleeding blue is for breathing one last shared breath of medicinal weather forecasting regret

What the wall told me about me.

you are rippled rhythms in mechanical madness you are mad mechanisms in rhythmic ripples you are no one in somebody’s body you are not you you are me

The words you spoke just before the bedroom sank into a stellar egg.

I’m pregnant.

What the wall told me about the genesis of the soul inside your belly and its arcane relationship with the extant universe.

entelechy has no stop only starts in tides of bursting beginnings orbiting now in the warming pockets of mirror moons pulling the unmeasured minutes of hard harvest months to begin pushing all at once everywhere all the time excavating new ringed worlds in rotting tree stumps feeding billions in a thumped out earth jungle while whaling for atoms in the deep swells of stellar milk weather flowing upstream or downriver it’s all ocean never ending expanding ever eyes of mother suns birthing daughter suns to farther moons merely reflecting generation after regeneration of pale comparisons colliding crust and core to form the new now

The crimes my former selves commit in the webbing hours of gestation.

murdering funny spiders and foreign flyers with old clapped out scrap booking butterfly spreadsheets in disordered mental fashioning an axis one tunic of words on a dead woman’s negligee stripping down the antipodes from the louder cells of rotted out lumber beams and blocks and bricks and pipes and stones smashing old burnt stars with newborn moons rounding out the galactic village with blunting fists cratering sound shields of whale speech in the black mattered zones so cold the candle flames go slanting sharp angled cavern shadows for the indented slaves of the never eyed world of electrical screaming shit in a slop bucket at the end of the running river water epoch showering under a garden hose in the deaf hours when no neighbor believes in the face of a thousand leaves burning pink in the purple places and laughing out loud like a rattle snake swallowing its counterpoint swirling in the toilet bowl soup for brains gone bendy in the funneling light mechanisms are circled in red wax on the white wall right down to the dust asking the ball bearings how they failed to smash nothing outside squeaky doorframes in open air masonry slamming shutout policies for alternative dimensional excavation movements shaping encoded synaptic symbols on medium arms and legs and face skin swarmed in blue and black and bold printed inkblot manipulation of heliocentric surface systems dying invisible death sentences reading less and less like sentences and feeling less and smelling less and seeing less and hearing less and moving less but always watching watching watching until breathing less and bleeding out more or less fatally into the feminine fabrics which hung once between younger faces and warmer bosoms bonding seven former selves spine to spine to spine to spine to spine to spine to spine in the one light

The blooming words within the unlocking rumble sung into my hear-twice-feel-first brain before joining you and you in our new humming world.

booming sunsplit sensorium in prism cells rounding the body room for bold blood shaped shadows in core dimensional sound whirling water words bending nowhere red pouring more pink on the flame brain buckles ooooooooo what are we going to do rang the oak tree splitting firewood for the mud print party spooling belly yawns for drooling egg yolks on pumpkin pipe dreams do not wet the bed with our mouths fully forked we are flashing colors in the dark passages first lasting laughter rubbing our tummy bulbs are baking in fog under a shy star singing the motorhomes to bed now love us more than any cheeseburger in history from crust to core to beginnings bursting in Morse code we love you now begin ending before all warm windows blip out of bee amber in the brown blooded words we love you sobbing in the soundless spring in your brain gasping in mothers goo swallows five hearted booms bending conch and carpel couch and carpet calm secondary again waking blueprint again fire illuminating cave painting modalities again disrupting all relative matter pooling perilune creak turn click the resulting organism slung words as god as gold mainlining echo booms like neon wires and egg meat doubled in deep tumbling time winding manic books at a dooming frequency gasp the wiggle worms under the wise tooth can you hear us feel us love us stop shadowing puppets and jump the sluice on the b side of the butterflied brain dancing down the dark notes like Billy Holiday dying in a bathtub miracle times a sixty three percent increase in unknown side effects of orange hours says the squirrel doctor to the stuffed bear two more stellar eggs and one cosmic potato crowning in the core shadow of the ocher eye nebula say cheese around the cloudy marble overhead half full on the axle shaft and a hump lumpier on the hindside geometry stone on bone cornering red shapes into the crux tonight there is no knowing equal to sleep in life preservers hammering miracles into the blood there like gills flaring in slow lava for perfect pigment explosions double our belly concerns green with cartoon violence muddled portraits of pink parts on a forearmed body at the door warping embalming words with your mouth you love us cooking in your sleep studies now rippled in medicinal gravity makes no sandcastle of deep fear spirals down soft skulls to pretty spines pickling in womb pockets of black everything where an epic psychological scuffle between a drug addicted rainbow and an old stack of books rumbles on in the autumn of vibration backwards from center under the tunneling light at the bottom of the bottle those hand grenades of methadone we sing virus after virus into the backside of the page until morning more circles fingering palm dots on the fog machine elegies framed in the bending cellar sky reversed from birth we question the integrity of the topsoil until mars walking on the smearing sun inching down the cold butter junctions one paw at a time on the infinite staircase now only full orbiting ever pulse driving the gearboxed spectrum humming tooth on tooth interlocked rerepeating in the all waking prism dimensional mind we rehearse enough to be stupid sleepers on real time drugs writing dry facts on scrolling electrical air spirals inside outer Escher Gravity rings metered minutes wobbly after coring lower vertebrae for domestic comfort modes leave us refracted under spurts of glowing black folding folding folding between breaths like circles in a square factory stacks smoking brown out hemorrhages recorded into gallon cans of eyeball soup reality can be chicken noodle or egg drop depending on the holes in the sky smashed or giggling full of blood deliveries for the broken Gutenberg Galaxy overlooking tree sequins streaming in the streets like humans on hamster wheels running bone coated into the cloud mouth of mother death begins life naked and not warm but possibilities spool unending pattern home is honeycomb begin begin begin light white on our long winded words are milk to your ears full of warm waving sound blooming open blue bending looms primed for the flood of falling mirrors dead language kaleidoscopes silent messages walking inside your mind full time thumping vacuums in dark rooms remember to breathe in the pink frames dementing our blown image in the bubbled glass wobbling off the audible air oomwah kiss us love us miss us good news oscillating in lost eyes achoo a universe of milk as blunt as brain butter popping under the dawning egg in the griddle any questions answered by dog philosophers drinking dead men under the table plans to knife the fork in the moon eclipsing the holes in your head humming brown to blue see spoke the shell to the ear quick change the channel before the blending snow begins repeating ever begins bending



I’m not sure if I’ve died in a bathtub before but this seems familiar. Billy Holiday bouncing off the swollen walls, silent films flashing in the fog, scalding pink water thundering into scalding red water pressing in on my swollen veins. Even the empty bottle of whiskey lying next to the carving knife on the bath mat seems less ominous the second time around. But that pipe is still smoking there and those deep notes are tugging me toward a safer place and the murdering tiles are waiting for a wet foot they will not receive and there’s not so much blood in the water yet and now that the house lights are dimming down to dark I’m 63% sure my final transmogrification is underway so I close my eyes and flutter off the linear minute like a Rorschach butterfly in a virgin hindbrain under the influence of—END OF SIDE B.

Process News

Jesse Kominers lives on a tilted island with his deconstructed pregnant wife and aggressive dog. His work has appeared in Burnside Review and FictionWeek Literary Review.


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