Monday, February 19, 2018




Moist again


Mike shows up at the door crotch-deep in fly boots and obviously had just been crying. He had come to fish whatever was smelling bad out of the crawlspace under the floor.

So they pulled out 8 animals huh?

Yes three species. It's quieter now. But the

Smell, yes... Mike sobbed a little here.

Are you ok? The animal guy could come out.

No, I'm good. I'll be right out of your hair.

I thought about the tangled dyed wad from the tub drain. I still wondered who, how, when.

It smells back by the creek wall. The cement there seems to be getting moist again. Was it the right kind for there?

Yeah they're saying floods again so you'll have to keep an eye out.

For floods? Why is there a manhole in the creek?

I'll bring by some sand bags if the time comes don't worry. I'm going to protect my property.


Sunday, February 18, 2018

RE-CAP: Mordon Holy Star

Saturday, February 17, 2018

RE-CAP: intraceptive missionaryism



NO SHOW OF BLOOD CITING.
We noticed as we swung by to check for blood on your door
that there was none. and now, in the light of our torches,
you seem quite agitated, maybe insane. we are afraid for y-
our soul. we are afraid of what our God might do to you if
we decide it is appropriate. He may cause us to harm you
badly, and your family, and your future generations. we are
here to perform an intravention to protect you from any
further danger. Do you have a knife, or have you lost it?
Where are your lambs-- or have you failed to fulfill even
that most basic of norms? You are harming everyone by your
non-conformism. You are attacking our way of life, and we
are tired of being victimized by your mocking, obscene exi-
-stence which is only meant to cleverly highlight the futi-
lity of our Reproductive Circle.
...
UNAPPROVED DISCONNECTION FROM COUNTY FILTER, GRID, OR DISPENSER.
FAILURE TO COLLECT PROSCRIPTIONS.
We noticed as we scanned your home that you have taken the
dangerous step of disconnecting from your county's Filter
of Loathing. This will mean that the intended effects of
the drugs we have proscribed for you which were meant to
counteract the sickening effects of the pulses will spiral
out of control with nothing for them to heal. In addition,
the local Pharmsupply has informed us that you have not e-
ven picked up your proscriptions for several months. We h-
ope that you have not engaged in this type of antisocial
behavior as the result of financial difficulty. We care a-
bout the wellbeing of all members of our community, so we
are generous to remind you that discontinuance of a manda-
ted service or medication does not constitute release from
responsiblity for payment.
...
[Text of two ancient tickets found in Peg's glovebox, clipped to the back of an expired W.A.S.T.E.]

Personal Growth Now At Capacity

There are dead smells coming up through
the floors and a stirring in the bong water
but my golden center rocks imperceptibly
on its axis, still, no matter how the planet
shakes, an invisible thread pointed straig-
ht at heaven allowing me to bend only in
orchestration with the divine & timeless.
The growing of a self as nirvanic system
has been a fraught journey of learning 'n
veracity, but now at the edge of space as
I know it, growth has met its full capacity.

by Donna

Friday, February 16, 2018

Kirtipur lion



Ted's nervous system in a winged reptile


He redirected his hyper-vigilance by watching for numbers
He could spot a 1:11, 2:22, 4:44, 5:55 more than one a day
3:33 seemed to be the rarest though he was always up then
An alternating 12:12 or what have you was less auspicious
It only counted if it was a truly random glance of not many
This startlement helped him weep with wonder and remark


by Ilyn
"By Shab's pouch."

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Hank, Joe, Peg

Joe

Hank

Peg

Monday, February 12, 2018

RE-CAP: You Better PharmSupply


If you can't take the shiv, then you can't
take the shiv, but if you take the shiv,
then you can take the shiv and live, Hank.


Firstable Co. Initial Campaign
Seersucker Chank
"Prop-a-Nishitive"

RE-CAP: When corpus is absent

Q: Is the changing of hats legal as evasion?

A: Emotional cosmetics is
what you would call
keeping a good
variety of
feelings in your daily bag.

If the charging party
cannot prove
which one you were wearing
and when, vindicate you.

For an insuring corpus
would be absent,
and when corpus is absent,
no fault is found, stud.

RE-CAP: You, Woma


peggy i always new you were mai fren
because you left your kids, two of them
to seek after spiritual enlightenment, you
know? fuck them! because you knew that
their pain
would carry them back. their pain would
carry them, carry them into yor arms again.

faiwere on my det bed
i dlet you guide me
I do anything you say

you, woma, are from a-
nother wurl, and i cannot
fine you less i take yr wor

you can santify me woma
only you can see me thrua
horra show, when ahm touch-an-go

RE-CAP: Care-laden bells

There are those that will their steps on your dreams; a single drop swells the chalice, and you wake moaning. Call into the fray with care-laden bells clinking, buoy rocking, buoy clanging; sun is winking.

RE-CAP: It's not sustainable girl

fourteen months oughta be a monument to something baby
you cant juss say you gonna go and quit on me now womachal
y'got two kids and it seems like yor gonna hava nervous breakdown
corporations callin ona telephone tryna makeyuh pay yo dues nau
cantcha stick witme tellwe figure ifwe gonna go brakeda banko fo-cloes

misery
and growing old
withoutchu woma i cd layme downan close my eyes dontchu see-e?
youma co-D penna docta-lady fo-ah cobra vak-scene.

RE-CAP: Sinewy bitch prad chal

Folks that surround Chamatilly, they all seem to know what she don't know. She a toe-cher awda tam. She's thinking it all part of the ceremonies and whatnot. It ain't. They just a laikit, laikit alot. Tor-cher Chamatilly. Thats why she so lucki. Being a shivstar, we wershup you chama, you biggie awda tam. Chamatilly aways in pain because she so ignorant. The Muthya Preservation Society even know boudit. The Community College of Cement know. The chilluns an the bitches know. It's a secret a bit from the Chama, but not so much. She so scared cuz she never thot she deserve a be a deity or a slave to da shiv, on the spot to milk the Mthyuh at the momen notice. She half 2B prepare, ahways. So she ahways givin up da ego to da shiv and thats so paynfl cuz she nothin much modan ego and sinewy bitch prad chal. She so fight it so she cn geddit, fighdit, geddit, etc.

RE-CAP: Woma chal

Grrl I feel it's time
to moov that biggi
thang on uppy. Jus
moovit grrl. Moovit.
Moov that biggy grl
that thang on uppy.

Time to move along
no story here to tell
woman. Jus yo biggi
on da mappi blockin
awda traffik grrl yah.
You got to move grl
go on moov dat napi
thang......................

Grrl I feel it is time
to moov that nappi
thang on uppy. Jus
moovit grrl. Moovit.
Moov it on uppy grl,
dat thang is napinah
woma chal..............

Sunday, February 11, 2018

RE-CAP: i donno whus tsay

choose any day and you could
say that yor whole lives ruined

duznt maddr how good or bad
it's been its gone its done fin-

ished its natural day to day. so
live today, bitch, like u bin sni-

fin glue for a few months and
you just stopped into pay yr

gas n lectric at the Easy-Way
soda infa-stretcher can livonne


RE-CAP: That's Cashed

One feeding cycle to the next, doesn't the species try to breed against you? How can its archetypal memory not spell out, "We are meat," and that there is horror in swine, goat or cow? One could develop a bad taste, or wings, or rather, one did. It tilts before you, leans on a fingery rat-color feather, beaten as straw, as a cane. Your neck must crane to let its eyes' receeded glow cast their moon tricks across your face. That bedevilment, tragic waste, towering mhegamolith? In flocks, they wr once proud. It is time to cash, to nobilize, to seal with plates and electrodes. By the time
they get to this state, one cd knock them over with a bulldozer.


"Ks fly spread eagle." 

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

RE-CAP: It Lived

Even the Chukka Chanks Chain rejected
me. They said "yor not Chukka, yor a ba
-stard; you have minerals on your moth-
er's side sure, but that many times rem-
oved? We were going to invite you to C-
hukka Nite. Don't think yor offending u-
s with the Chuk lights in the front wind-
ow. We love our symbol and wish you p-
eace. But saltiness doesn't a stone make.
Fresh goes as earth does and we make i
-t grow. Stone love is stone is and love i-
s stone, Joe. Stone is love, stone is stone

is." They sang this clacking and chipping
at each other. Up Mthyuh way there was
a slab of granite near where I'd pee on c
-amping trips. I thought it literally recoi-
led at splashing urine. Once it seemed to
moisten itself on some moss. I was hon-
ored it would be so real like that in front
of me. It was a granite slab animated, b-
ut not a cartoon. That was before the shi
-v when hallucinations were rare and or
-ganic. What I encountered was rare an-
d inorganic yet able to shapeshift expres
-sively. I won't say poignantly, but it lived.

Monday, February 5, 2018

Abstract: Annual Symposium of the Metacognitive Talk Therapy Apologists Association

Diseases of Denial and Recognition

Hypochondria is not a disease that tells you that you don't have it; it's a disease that tells you that you do have it, so if you're a hypochondriac and you think you have another disease that does tell you that you don't have it, does that mean you do have it or does it mean you don't have it, and how would you know in the first place whether you were really a hypochondriac because a real hypochondriac would always say yes, of course, I have that too, so you can't take their word for it; but can I take your word for it if you say no, I'm not a hypochondriac, even though to me you might seem like one? How is it possible for a true hypochondriac to even contract a disease of denial much less deny it in a chronic fashion? Would the hypochondriac not nurse a gnawing suspicion that yes, maybe I am a hypochondriac, and experience a not-unpleasant thrill of horror at the thought? Then how is the true deny-or of a disease of denial to truly measure their pathological burden if they are self-diagnosed with a disease of pathological recognition, an obsessive-compulsive hyper-vigilance, an error in the ranking and evaluation of signs and symbols? Are the paradoxes not tied in a knot when the sufferer is convinced that no recovery is possible without self-diagnosis and the power of honesty, reflection, and faith?


Dr. Donna Thong
Surgery Generalist
(Relicensure Imminent)
"Check out my back patio!"

Sunday, February 4, 2018

RECAP: Trukk Stoppe Ho


Truck-stop Ho:
Truck-stop Ho:
Truck-stop Ho:

Yor aways mad when I leave you or upset when I didn't need you
Little Rembrandt of a paisley weasel, you are a slime right where a
man seeks some lube, chall. When I rent you, I feel all I get is a m-
-all! o' wheezing crine, Tiny. Anchored in whatch-u-whan! (a meal).
Truck stop ho. Truck stop ho. Truck stop ho.

If we can both just agree that you with me, lady, Mother of Evening,
you can leave aside your pleading, rise up and serve me, Muthuh W
-heel. You roll the dough, but someone rounded off the dice, Lucile;
Muthuh Wheel, give yor nights off such a feel, like the bride o' krais,
Muthuh Wheel, Truck-Stop Ho, Muthuh Wheel.

Here in this rain-po puddle, a man can meet a thousand jet-setting
sangle, from all seven corners o' the building; but then what is he h
-olding but his own butt in a butcher-shop case. When in Boulder, h-
ook up with the look-up king of older trade names: The Roller. He a
-ck laik he on TV bowling when he rilly in the gutter.

Trukk Stoppe Ho:
Trukk Stoppe Ho:
Trukk Stoppe Ho.


Petting zoo

CONNIE: Aren't flying reptiles and volcanoes and/or their unexpected ancestors genre if not hackneyed fiction?

REPTILY: No because this happened. It's retro-journalism, historical reenactment.

CONNIE: So nothing new.

REPTILY: The part that the K's never went extinct at all, that they'd been kept and mutilated and tortured surreptitiously for all these ions by secretive corporations and rich perverted human moral monsters-- that is pretty new or at least since it actually did happen then whoever might have made it up either did just that or based it on uncited reports of what we've got firsthand knowledge. Also the voluntary interbreeding-- through religious sanctions, the hideous scarring rituals-- that's not made it to the big screen, anyway has it? With reptiles? Maybe birds like Lydia + Swan but no. Mythology other category.

CONNIE: What else is new.

REPTILY: I don't know if any of this is new, bitch. Sorry about it. Just saying we've got a right to tell our story no matter if it suits you entertainment wise. This is not a lap dance, no it's all T baby. No shade.

CONNIE: Ok bitch you get to work, sell the product.

REPTILY: K-Bai.

CONNIE: Bai now.

REPTILY: Bai.


Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Tracking changes

huevos rancheros con cebolla tostada abajo

The difference between sleeping and waking is less distinct.
As my eyes are opening or closing, I can't tell which is which.
The prescription you gave me seems to be always in the background;
I could be standing in the kitchen but like I'm lying on my side, and
A substantial sleep paralysis sets in, which I have to override.


by Peg
"Hello?"

Thursday, January 25, 2018

End of brain-factory paradigm




my sociopathic stepfather explains,
by reference to his new genomic fun
kit, how mother and I, from less-hu-
man neanderthal stock, were built to
spot movements and patterns, but
not survive; that our brows are too
thick to reason normally, so he


by Jan

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

I'm not coming in from the rain

Husband? You ask
What's that? We've
always said, no
such thing for us

We've done our
thing our way and
developed a civil
protocol or two

But now, with a
swell of generosity,
after we've made
a camp outside the

wall, invited in,
reluctantly but not
without acclaim,
we say hell no, no

We haven't spent
our lives pining for
a straight paradigm;
at least I haven't.

So it's cold and wet
out here when a
whole new system
has to express, gag

and choke on life
but it's green of
growth, so we won't
come in from the rain.




by Missy (Mkidza Mlaf)

Thursday, January 18, 2018

GHOST WIFE



It was clear until my third or fourth call for repairs that the landlord and his girlfriend who wants to be a wife had agreed to always come over here together, never alone. But then they started getting a little cute and then a little tiffy about how he'd replaced the radiant heat for ducts which he'd slammed in himself during his twenties, mostly anxious to get the bar done with the smoke-a-lizer and the deck right there on the creek in time for the wedding, and then a prompt and open-ended fractalization of subsequent drinking + nature-related gatherings.

In contrast to this new landlord, say Mike, my ex-fiance was fastidious about dampers and grumouts measuring tightly up to their doo-hickies and corresponding flush surfaces. He didn’t mind poisoning house mice, for example, because he’d already done his part to responsibly and reasonably keep them out of our sphere; if they persisted, they had to be overly-aggressive anomolies of their species and therefore ok for destruction.

I think the landlord’s companion wants to be his wife because she was so thorough about checking me out, did it all herself, is very efficient, you know, though it is his place. The first time he finally showed up alone, he squatted and duck-walked an entire stainless-face dishwasher, still part way in the strapping and box, mudroom to kitchen, after having worked a 16-hour day or so he said. Then he muttered  something about before his wife passed away, and I figured that had to have been here, maybe upstairs. He couldn't seem to get the math right, even to the decade, about when and who and what. I sat quietly with the cable remote between my knees, just a dog and a green leather hassock between us as Mike  wiped his brow with one of my dish towels.

That same shade of bologna pink except for around the eyes, they seem like they've both been liking their wine hours or countryside tavern rounds in their present neighborhood, near my last address, over by Tom's, maybe since she died, maybe "Tessa," of cancer, and he'd been living on his own; but no, the hardworking girlfriend referenced having lived here by the creek as well... or was it just her air of anticipatory ownership through management, man management, and the exhilarating world of background checking other people's risks, the way she found out about me, hungrily engaging my references.

I think they must have agreed to always come here together, and never alone, because it's too comically common of a scenario for the landlord hubby to go and fix a pipe for Mrs. So-and-so, the divorcee or young childless widow, or widow/ divorcee with a sympathetic child, and what ensues. Maybe a shadow birth or a life insurance scheme. They must surely at least have passed some kind of bottle with their pants rolled up sitting by the water soon after Janine Wannabe came into his life and endeavored to replace his inferred melancholy with her palpable carnal and appetitive bounties, and to address her fiduciary insecurities with his plumbing and electrical business.

The thing is that this guy I dated, Zhann, is so swish on the phone, and he prolly still resents me for moving in with I guess I'm calling him "Tom" out in Brickhouse-Horseley's Craigs. Zhann apparently told my landlord's girlfriend/ fact checker/ whatever the protracted story of our meeting on an app and maybe prematurely asked to be designated driver to his niece's Magnificent Mile dance-floor wedding and reception in the city. The anticipatory and self-envisioned wife prolly put two and two together and said get smart, bitch. I don't care how butch he is; I'm not leaving my Mike alone with that fag. If anyone's getting to know the new tenant, it's going to be me because it could be fun. Or maybe a three-way. Drinks. Anyway not until after the spring? wedding unless there are already little rugrats bouncing around.

But then as the toilet/ furnace/ disposal-broken weeks clunked along (me a wreck fallen fresh from a dream life in a fairy-tale property) footstep-like creaks would follow my own going up and down the slick and narrow, high-gloss painted hard pine stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor, really not much more than a hot, musty attic, and cold spots and fragrant and rank spots would appear and dissolve unexpectedly in random angles and passages. One night I thought the washer-dryer closet doors would explode open when the European water heater turned itself on, blasting gas far more powerfully than normal, and the dogs startled awake to the urgent, mad attempts of the auto-pilot at igniting. I briefly imagined myself staggering from the smoldering ruins of Thornfield Hall in a flouncy, soiled linen blouse.

Raccoons started chattering and many other noisemaking activities that were less comfortingly identifiable. These invisible yet intensely present beasts occupied an alternate universe of drama, hilarity, and domestic corporal brutality right there in the same spatial crosshairs as my aging pets, tarnished silver, punch bowl boxed in tissue paper. The dogs drew crazy designs with their noses across carpets and into walls. The more needed repairing, the more I saw Mike, and the more he seemed reluctantly obsessed with hanging out, never at ease, always active in a pretense of punishing, grunting physical labor.

The fighting grew more intense, a real bag of cats. There was plenty of room under there in that choice crawlspace next to the water where they could wash their hands before eating, presumably. Prolly after a conversation with the in-the-running-to-be wife Janine, Mike told me to go ahead and arrange the wild animal removal myself. I didn't go with the really hot social media star daddy whose wife had created a huge photo-and-video album of him bending over backwards all kinds of ways to get cute baby skunks out of chimneys. They charged $20 more per animal than another outfit called Animal Removal Service, who sent a guy clearly attempting to hide, with posture and garmentation, the textual contents of a tattoo beneath his ear. He pointed out that it's mating season, so two males in one winter hole is just asking for fireworks no matter how roomy.

I remembered entertaining the viewpoint of a determined and tiny-brained but essentially innocent animus undergoing a process of systematic extermination, even as it dutifully offers concessions and phones an army of sophomoric relationship interventionists, not at all conscious that its fate was sealed the moment it had entered the premises. I'd helped Tom pick out our sprawling, ivy-wrapped Eduardian deep in the summer while a total density of green was still sealing away the panorama of protected natural wetlands professionally curated to assure historical accuracy and provide stunning contrast to a former Tallest Building in the World which rose from the clouds, framed by goldenrod and tree-like daisy stems, more than 25 miles to the East.

Before he'd told me that she'd died, I had my back to him washing my hands in the sink and explained I was just going to have lunch but that I'd just pulled a whole human head's worth of hair out of the bathtub drain, so I didn't expect to get hungry again any time soon. He apologized, and I turned to look at his close-cropped, balding head and said I understood it wasn't his hair. We stopped talking, which allowed a menacing spirit to claim for a moment the unnaturally maroon, multi-legged glop in the bottom of the bathroom wastebasket; one might have briefly pictured a forest-green and rust pants suit over a smart argyle v-neck and many thin gold chains, a newly hennaed bushiness under a floppy wool cap, and snowflakes, bumpy lipstick and mascara, out by the mailbox, reaching in all the way to the cuff of her long beige driving gloves for some envelopes like the ones that still come for her, maybe "Ramona."

    Ramona Plantagenet or Current Occupant

I knew Mike and maybe his girlfriend or whatever he calls her, maybe "Janine," had been renting my new place out for at least a decade, so the flotsam and jetsam of all those bodies would be boarding-house anonymous to any forensic detective determined enough to search the pipes and corners and attic and creek bed and crawlspaces. Neither one of us though, I fear, Mike nor me, can help but identify the creaking, the ambience of living but un-housed consciousness, the parallelism, an unfinished wish, the unsettledness, the strong odors, and whomever stands inside its walls at any given moment (Mike and me; dogs don't even seem to notice the difference) as young Tessa, the reigning past occupant in terms of prolonged crying out, of injustice (I suppose from cancer). This doesn't have to be spoken.

Even as smooth local gay boys, seasoned by their middle-class bullies, ring the bell and wait blowing vapor from their nostrils, their patient eyes bordering on expectation and then acceptance of either tenderness or relentless cruelty, talk up cable package or gym fundraiser and shiver with desire for warmth-- yet nail their scrupulous feet to the welcome mat without asking to come in even during inhumane arctic vortices-- there once again, helping himself across the threshold and stomping snow from his boots and onto the floor he'd sanded, returning, as the result of his intemperate youth and careless workmanship, is Mike: repairing, rethinking, replacing, grunting as if that nail had been re-set every day for a thousand years before, but that he must keep on pounding until the nails are everywhere, holding every fly, sound, appliance in location. Yet the holes (means of entry) multiply.

I sip coffee or jab my fingers into the kitchen window flower boxes when I find he's here thinking of her and being with me and feeling how I feel for him and want to be her not now but back then. I sip and wonder if either one of us wants to be who we are at the time, in the year we are in; the calendar seems to squeak along like a room where a nearby fire's sucked out the air and there's sirens and neighbors in blankets with their breath showing, and then pretty, sunny days, then volcanos; then it's time again to change out the furnace filter. I long for company now living alone again so soon after believing the mansion in the woods and its cruel master would be a final resting place, trying not to think about my inevitably over-confident replacement. I wake up not knowing where I am --except all throughout the day, and not from sleep. All I know is that I belong and Mike belongs together with an-others who are not physically or temporally here and therefore not available for normal carrying on. This is what we have instead.

Monday, January 8, 2018

Somebody else's fight








Thursday, January 4, 2018

Spin of planet laid bare

It's 2:25.
In a few hours, it will be dark.
Then it will be time to feed dogs.
I'll get hungry and eat something too.
Fighting against sleepiness will ensue.
I'll wake up tomorrow with the promise of coffee.


Donna
"Recertification imminent."

Saturday, December 30, 2017

RECAP: Bermud-a-go-go


Do I... II


Maintain a personal code culture by which I am self-defined as opposed to being
subject and object to the dominant and at times caustic assumptions norms mores
habits agendas vices ignorance around me?

Resist entreaties to destroy the self destroy before any rebuilding can be done and
destroy anew to refresh and revise according to the needs of the market-based e-
conomy?

Fear not to take heart and shop items from the membrane i'm inevitably forced to
squish through each time i venture out even in the car or open a window shade or
respond to an unsecured text?

Proceed mindfully even while engaging in the necessary mindlessness of self-con-
fidence, looking and seeing even when illusion is what's right and appropriate for
survival healing other miracles?


Jan Jr.

Monday, December 25, 2017

Dog Skla


dog skla
severed pepper stem

ricksh awe
motor is my body

ben shpres
work this out for you


Do I exhibit winner behaviors?

We ate the pets a long time ago.
I'm telling you the keyboard it-
self is rocking unstable; your
foot might go crashing through
the ground, a broken dishwash-
er, tripe block, traffic anarchy


by Jan

Funky gender shit

I don't know mom
maybe you think
i'm a tenor

because i speak
to you in a
high girlie voice

to connect with
you in a more
feminine place

funky gender
shit can warp how
you see the world


Love, Hoolie 
"For Peg"

Monday, December 18, 2017

wound farm

it's the city where i came of age
it's shitty now to turn the page

i just burned a lot of gas being
courteous to your speeding ass

stuntman, prankster, answer to
neighbor: i'm not drumming for

therapy-- it's entertainment. i've
got a wound farm in my privates.


by Hoolie

Sunday, December 17, 2017

desmadrona

oh my god I
haven't been breathing I'd
like to blow my breath in
and out

does self-sacrifice make
me pagan, or a mission
why

in this last
quadrant before I die,
what?

I want, and I still
want, and not for
nothing


Ilyn
"By Shab's heaving belly."

Monday, December 11, 2017

Shrinking of society




You and all this will be a
waste of all five bedrooms

the dog fence, only for you
to watch and wait for vines

more likely light content-
ment creeps back, deepened

as for me elderly canine
duty instead of last-chance

graduate school, or hiking
in the Pyrenees, gratefully


by Jan
"Remember you get the house, Jan."

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Acceptable level of heartbreak



If you want to be around and clean
up my mess I will make and make
make messes

If you go i'm crying in my stomach
and I throw up anything I encounter
is puke

I can't even look at who you will be
without my strengths and cancella-
tions.


by Donna

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Bucket Wig

ringlets, but swept up from the back
and brushed impossibly forward
then wrapped at the end like Kon-
Tiki, and the tendrils, lolling dots
of colored glass as from a horn.

Friday, December 1, 2017

Obverse robinhood

I sense the heart
lidderly going out,
pressure from within

You pulling yoyo
string, thus the hate
in each wing flap

from a base of
everything, we've
topped the point

our life was:
trading away
hegemony


Hoolie
"Sorry."

Friday, November 24, 2017

How come you got a hematoma?

outside the vienna beef
downchank from Chukka
Bowl, one of the flakes

they say you took it and
offered another cheek,
but did you really

i took it on both sides
the face and lidderly
saw stars of pacifism



Ilyn
(cousin)

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Sounds hellish carol thank you


Tuesday, November 7, 2017

PharmSupply's Prolabique NEWLY PLUSH "LIP LUSH" LIP LINE by Connie

 
  • Byzantine Disappointment
  • Casc Antiq
  • Skinheads on Cobblestones
  • Bifurcacia
  • Light Syrup
  • Neck Heart Pits
  • You-You-You
  • Highest Setting
  • Poplis
  • Aerated Vessel
  • Contradictory
  • Red Light
  • Oaths
  • Cherry of Your Pipe
  • Comfy Innocence
  • Organ of Nature
  • Ruddy September
  • Way Forward
  • Two Moons
  • Gratuitous Bursts
  • Amazing Witchery
  • Transient Cavities
  • Purple Jelly
  • Vengeful Regret
  • Festival Broth
  • Abduct
  • Bang Free
  • First Bird
  • Last Laugh
  • Glowing Surfeit
  • Crowning Paramount
  • Residual Fanciness
  • Glassy Earnest
  • Anticipatory Sepukku
  • Best Practice
  • Green Rubber Smock


Tom, Sales
"Palett au coleurs do ano!"

Monday, November 6, 2017

My love never stood

and then there was the
australian-peruvian
he was like a prince
a real gentleman that
place in the casc-antiq
must have cost a fortune

i was stopped straight
down from its peak by
skinheads on cobblestones
in uniforms and formation
my love never stood
at the balcony in fright


Jan Jansdadd
Shard: "Rise of Rightness"

halved, canned


had, could
don't, can't
won't, wouldn't

dried
light syrup
fresh

neck heart pits
velvet skin
bifurcated


by Mike
"Alkaline garden near the pool."

Tuesday, October 31, 2017


Tuesday, October 17, 2017

entificar

I promise to pathologize
and entify you, endeavor
to construe the closest
construct to a you you

With my whispers in
your heart, I'll send my
secrets in the dark to
find you you you


for Mike
by Dr. Donna Thong
"I remember the night."