Bryan Reid lives in Normal, Illinois, where he studies creative writing at Illinois State University as a Sutherland Fellow.
minor tribes villageating
cut-ups with the “Pixel Punks” zine & the Civilization 2 user manual
minor tribes villageating direct like a three-chord song; minor tribes villageating roughly, cheaply, and brilliantly; minor tribes villageating through gateway drugs.
minor tribes loving you, but you kiss like a girl—a random number of girls with the might to contain squares that adjoin you, move you, gift you; minor tribes in face-sucking supremacy; minor tribes as ludus expectorans, ludus eiaculans. minor tribes stirring up wit, a bittersweet laughter of dhes contury.
minor tribes creating new militages, or must have as much sex as they can without being caught and before getting married; minor tribes turning to the internet for love, favoration.
minor tribes as a fluoro-pink urban hugging simulator.
minor tribes as consensual spontaneous engagements.
minor tribes sharing too isolated, awed by primal, almost idiotic emotions. minor tribes feeling a rush of chemicals villageating the funny ways attempted, however foolishly, to share a bed; minor tribes mbling near-profligate nausea or tong gone anally; minor tribes gesturing towards becoming a little weaker each day; minor tribes jumping over a pit and never coming down.
minor tribes occupying abando slime for girls; minor tribes becoming a boiling new city, too mige of emoti. minor tribes feeling slightly emasculated and dict a min. minor tribes as particularly peripatetic zeroes; minor tribes as photocopied zine queer utopias opening someone else’s heart via risky, guiltless pleasures.
minor tribes villegating the becoming part.
the idea is that if it’s enough for monsters, it should be enough for people too: damage rolls from making dumb choices while roleplaying as someone else’s body1
“Any culture must establish some procedure of compensation, expiation, or punishment to settle the debt created by unintended human deaths whose direct cause is not a morally accountable person, but a nonhuman material object.”—William Pietz, “Death of the Deodand: Accursed Objects and the Money Value of Human Life”
i am for a fart that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum. if this fart could kingdom a mandarin, like a fall, a firebomb, or a trauma, it dogcarts 1d8 poisons of damn. if this fart could kingdom a horsewoman, 2d8. if this fart could kingdom an ohm, 4d8. no more.
i am for a fart that is smoked, like a cigarette smells, like a pair of shoes. if this fart could kimono a mandrill, like a firebreak or a traveller, it doggies 1d8 pokers of damsels. if this fart could kimono a hostage, 2d8. if this fart could kimono an okay, 4d8. no more.
i am for a fart from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on the wrist. if this fart could kindness a manger, it doglegs 1d8 polarities of dance. if this fart could kindness a hostility, 2d8. if this fart could kindness a mango, 4d8. no more.
i am for the fart of meowls and clatter of cats and for the fart of their dumb electric eyes. if this fart could kindergarten an oligarchy, like a firefly or a trawl, it do-gooders 1d8 polemics of dandy. if this fart could kindergarten a mandible, 2d8. if this fart could kindergarten a man-eater, like a fern, a fireplace, or a treachery, 4d8. no more.
i am for a fart that unfolds like a map that you can squeeze, like your sweety’s arm, or kiss, like a pet dog, which expands and squeaks like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on; like an old tablecloth. if this fart could kilt an ombudsman, like a ferret, a fireplug, or a treadle, it doilies 1d8 policewomen of dangle. if this fart could kilt a mane, like a fireman, 2d8. if this fart could kilt a mandrake, 4d8. no more.
(1) with Claes Oldenburg’s “I Am for an Art” and Searchers of the Unknown: Another Minimal Way to Play D&D
an excerpt from “an account of the variant heathen religionsof the american pacific?, proteus island, 1832”
with “The Invocation of the Graces”from Alexander Carmichael’s Carmina Gadelica
i ve wrapped myself in a bad hearth, partly of a stone used as if to wedge slivers of light woods (balsa, &c.) in between one’s toes and fingers and ward off the evils of syndactyly. this is a local tradition i ve adopted. they tell me how to beat off the spirits. i believe they mean “beat off,” but their english is very poor. i believe they mean to masturbate the spirits. i don t know, but i can t see how that d be of any use.
i ve no liver; i am only diogenes in as much as i have a bucket to piss myself into. as i empty my bladder and refill it at once with air, one of the townsfolk turns to me and whispers, “purple is the one of the shoes’ known offenders.” i begin to correct him, “dark is yonder town,” but he cuts me off in a haste. “‘not now,’ he said,” he said, “the national security agency.” i ve not seen such poor grasp of english, but the paranoia is at least this common with the poor elsewhere.
one of the townsfolk has given me a pair of dice, which appears to be sullied with the excess of childbirth. i take it this is a sign of good luck. i ve faith, but i will die alone and angry, full of pus in a shallow ditch. no one has water; he set a raw noon. not for me, at least.
i told myself i d make a death mask out of heather and crushed up pearls, maybe. (this recipe worked in another place; maybe with hagraven claws?) i rolled the dice toward the thickest beam of moonlight as i was instructed, but i was only told that i should go to hell. i suspect these are loaded. i ve to repeat myself in order to be heard. i suspect these are loaded. they seem carved from the bones of a certain kind of fish, but i ven t the expertise of a fisherman or natural scientist. i have a lot of citrus to repeat.