pair of shoes on. the one I store my noodle in because the cops never look there. three neighbors: the aging alcoholic, the African immigrant, or the State Trooper who's just visiting for a conference?
we also have a middle-aged effeminate male smoker who disrespects the laundry room rules, a property
manager who is always exasperated and facing a crisis (which I am afraid to ask about
specifically because it may be medical in nature), a vinyl siding installer with a most unusual speech
impediment which causes you to not be sure if he (he?) just made a racist remark or not, and a Latino family
with an anglo woman who always hangs out with them, as though she is the aunt or something. I think I’ve lost count of my loves. handkerchiefs to the wind. by melody we move. experimental noseblowing techniques have resulted in
page turning time trials which rival the flips cheerleaders perform when first they discover that their
mothers are fathers. henpecked is the height for corn that is emo. and temperance is a matter for the funny pages. shit on me,
oh dove of peace who used to work at the copper mines as a hair disheveller. we’re having peas with a
side of grease and morose conversation for dinner. the director has a knife. I recommend we do what his
mother says. experiential noseblowing is preferred these days (otherwise it’s hoop skirts and touch football).
there has been no retreat from the vagaries of fundamentalism. unless, of course, you count Joan’s moments in
the closet. at the seminary, Veg-All is a required dish each week.
eventually the road will turn to either the left or to the right. I unplugged Mtv for good and fornicated with
Kelly Ripa in a plastic surgeon’s waiting room while Tiny Tim struggled to make his version of “Close to You”
sound like an ad for fluoride. it’s too easy to buy a refrigerator; those fucking things are deadly. maybe it wasnt Kelly Ripa. maybe it was a glossy magazine with lotsa subscription cards which dropped out on
the cracked asbestos tiles. how hard is it to get on “Sunrise Sermonette”? does this briefcase make me
look optional? refirgerator. shake your apple tree. fershizzle my chiropractor. see how liberating this is? not answering your phone your door or your superego. just live by smells. this
may take a few days. take a few days. the issues tied to kidnapping. handicapped children laughing and waving flags. they have baggage claim tickets and are seeking either
attention or service. Flag Day is such a gay day. just because I speak english doesnt mean I give a shit. a roll in the hay on a day in may. bird watchers trapped under a cave-in of cars. eventually every rail line will
either climb or descend. welcome to bicycling in Iowa. welcome to pants which dont fit. welcome to your radial velocity. there is a certain harmony to be found in pig slaughter. break into Greek. so cold on that wednesday, Vulcan was mistaken for Minerva. Miracle Whip in relation to breaking bread and the (con)current pope. all the popes wear the same pair of
underwear. Kolob salutes you. gather your otherworldly possessions; we lick lollipops by moonlight. I’ll take three scoops of similar to lard. and crickets with whiskers for my free topping, with an orange spoon if
you don’t mind. and if you do I will sleep with your manager. I will beep in a high pitch at 7:23 am. I will not kill frogs
nor will I scribble Bible verses on bananas while coyotes discover tobacco and the newest dalai lama learns to
shmooze. it’s all in the elbows. hair flip skin flap bamboozled by the Madonna presidential advisers stained with chocolate sauce. corinthian leather on a toilet seat. postage stamps of
mummies. the high road leads to a sign. mommy, can I go out and smoke tonight? a Dillinger, a Derringer, a derrigible and a derriere that can be
parked. the smell of the pickle factory break room. (sex, just like where they barf the cotton balls and the tire plant. the
factory on second where they’re, the laborers, are hired under false pretenses, as donut mavens and maverick
fadoos.) finger incubator. player hater swallowing dice.
Mom stuck this boiled egg into the microwave – it wasnt done quite enough for her taste. she was going to bite
into it gently, to be safe. the egg blew up on her lips. I asked her for a fiver and the audience went back outside. renounced nonsequitors. no more raising snakes for frogs to seduce then suckle. benefit to fly the pigs. rats on crusade. she liked to dance in circles, skip rocks, and drink beer. I got just a kiss of the hops from her father. under the bridge that drops you off in the dream about architectural minutiae. kites dont fly there and
there’s a Volvo somebody done set on fire last spring to protest foot fungus while certain cheeses are allowed
to live. and breathe like oaks. I suppose we’ll name the child Milk Dud, me and the other girl. I am the author of the three books of the Bible, which your mother burned. I am the smell of baby powder in
the hallway, altho there are no babies around to protest like puppies under the pressure of the thunder. infants on a merry-go-round penning tracts and treatises on confinement using vomit and pablum boiled
for days on the eyelids of the feverish. teens up in trees penning love poems out of pituitary gas. I reckon the
sun will set tomorrow and the clouds will stand there like they have no choices. she smells like plums that have been sitting on the ground sunning. I smell like this is my 17th year
walking in circles. what do kaleidoscopes taste like? it really doesnt matter. formula one racing will continue to
harvest babies.
