Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Monkey on a Swag

Nobody Cares to Be My Lover

At least not who matches
My Ideal Opposite Gender.

The pain was waking me up in the night
N' giving me Circles All Day.

They called me La Llorona.
Now I spell relief: a_d-r-e-a-m_d-e-f-e-r-r-e-d.

My Blood Plug: worthless?
...and comfortable, like a pair of Curly-Toe Slippers.

My Grandiose Ideation may sound much
like a Monkey on a Swag, in a smoking jacket, tho

I tell you Pharmlife is always longer than no life because it's
Costlier. Your living cells have Employees and Stockholders.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Smokers Don't Need Fireworks

Tomorrow we're having meat laid on red-hot steel bars over the cinders of aromatic junk wood and brush. We soak it in vine and sear it this way until it is white with pain. Upon removal from its host, we nearly always receive thanks. With those nerves and tendons gone, it can go about its business faith healing and puking on bartops.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Guyz Like to Pray Rocking

Guys like to pray rocking
because it pumps their prostate,
and it gets them off
even if they're not hard.

Before you eat chips, or
in a stadium seat at
a summer pogrom,
let us be 1 body.

Part of your hotness is
the way they have you dangling
over a pit of
fiery death reminder.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

High-End Wig Shop

Donna was force fed Jive linguistics in cement school. She had come to respect at least the magic, but could never reproduce the spell, never get past the affective filter of girls with half her education but twice her size fresh in from the diaspora of urban public housing reform. These chicks were ball players and tight with no one but the school mascot, Jesuit. Donna took to wearing big glasses and a checkered Georgie-girl cap, like a cabbie, just to protect herself from their wrath by being her own teen with a strong sense of personal style. Later, headbands that involved dyed chicken feathers and suede, hoop earrings, shiny colored-plastic blob pendants and bug brooches, midriffs and lowriding, dayglo borgana sleevecuffs and shoes with pearls on them catapulted her all the way through pharmcamp and into her own clothing-optional tropical disco resort and snake vaccine consultancy.

summer crotch n' cotton

bird chirps at night
three dogs listen

candle in a pot
spewing lemon grass

lights on in house
mean safe outside

stanky sof cotton,
nachrul melody,

we peel it off
while ogres sleep.

To: Mike
Dr. Thong

"I'm Yo Scrip, Baybee!"

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Lush in a Poo

Mike's Swimming Blog:
Summer of WD: Endless

I've never seen anything like it: Dr. Thong becomes this water satyr when in contact with water. Earlier, almost drowning herself, she back paddled out to the middle with a glass of vine held high above the surface like a liberty torch. She then to the tune of a number of imagined tom-toms proceeded to execute a series of very geometric, 70's tribal bonfire dances using the grail, its ruby contents, and the tension of the deep end against her musculature as props. An entire victory lap of sorts was then devoted to what she called her "pig-dolphin movement," a super-undulation of great strength, gall, and poor taste. Coming to an abrupt though not unwelcome stop, she had her hands on her own raw hindquarters as if for the first time. "I can no longer bruise my pelvic shelf," she marveled; "my ass is now so big I can't feel any of the bone directly. I have a big ass, so I'm going to use it," Donna continued, still out of breath from her last performance while gaining emotional momentum. "I can... watch this..." Donna banged her hip up against the side of the poo as furiously as she could underwater. "I can throw my ass around and bang it on cement and it doesn't even hurt! I have a big ass. Yeah! It's big." Dr. Thong continued, banging ass violently and sipping carefully from her plastic goblet. Then the wind started to pick up.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Bandanna Bandito

There's a restaurant attached to a motel at the edge of town that gives onto a convalescent home across the highway, Chalk Chank Manor. It was shut down for a reason that's mysterious in a town whose most powerful most always get a pass in the press. The Manor is the last real estate that's not pharmland or plain sand from there to Chukka, way beneath the turn of the horizon. The road takes a deep dip also, at the bottom of which there's a mannequin who looks like a bandanna bandito selling junk wood. Kevin has evening meals

there at Finister's, flirting with bologna-face truckers, cement miners and horny carpetbaggers. After a quick dip at the newspaper machine by the door, he'll walk in and spread the Sports N' Alleged Sex Crimes Bugle across the chilly tabletop of the booth with the best view and look out on the dusk. The dead palms at The Manor have radically U-turned, their fronds upside down. The blacktop between is untrammeled enough to be a runway of sorts. Enterers see Finister's and The Manor and Manor Motel as their de facto introduction to the Low Chanks.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Intergenerational Bitch Fight

La-La and M'Lady went at it after a dispute Kevin says over somebody walking by outside the fence. But they were fighting over him. A lot of blood spilled on the patio and up against the stucco. I was trying to wedge apart their muzzles with a plastic lawn chair, Kevin was hosing them down (I said Kevin get the hose as he just stood in stupor), and I was kicking La-La in the ribs since she had her cuspids sunken firmly into M'Lady's upper gingiva. In the guest bath, M'Lady was spurting blood onto the double folding linen closet doors. La-La hid behind a giant white flowering Nerium oleander "La Comodona" where she also goes when I yell. M'Lady looked worse with the facial swelling, but La-La can hardly walk and bleats her whistle-cry with each step. Now I'm wondering should M'Lady be put to sleep. It was she who attacked her own daughter, who was being brushed by the deadbeat daddy. He only there once a week, and La-La growl when M'Lady try an get up in the bed with them. There was even a chunk of fatty tissue on the wet cement and La-La come back before the pain set in and lick it up along with a small puddle of her own mother blood.

It's a mistake to let them work it out between them who's top bitch. Who will cuddle in his bed? Eat from his plate? Sit shotgun in the pickup? Because K. won't step up to the plate and show his strength, put them down, they try murdering for fate.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

One Blessed

Connie slumps as a broken yoga nude on office chair stuffing and horse hair.
Lolling splayed with the public oracle dispenser as primary light, she can see
her role has become guest, prisoner, client to negotiate. They have to keep
her alive. She will always rub their face in that; her loins are still soft enough
to snatch cock from any nest; her brain can scramble eggs on flat rocks; her
love is like a burning hot smokestack. As she wisens into chaff, she meditate:

As the Flounce Girl, I made my fortune young and almost forgot the sufring
of my peoples. We small, blond and humble, not without cultural misgivings.
Out of control with the free breath of living, I garnered envy n' persecution;
there was no one in my tree of friends and famly that could withstand to su
-pport my idle woes a drumbeat longer. When another is illin, you'll explain,
"oh how we make our own way, own troubles." With grace go I, one blessed.

1blesit, the Mp3

Monday, June 8, 2009

That's a Fine Boutique...

Years later, Peg has opened an understated dress and fingertip vibrator shop in Upper-West Seersucker Chank. Ted stumbles in on account of a bad map. He can only see her butt as she re-stocks some Pinky Nuke, swinging expertly on a rope ladder. He exits immediately back through the heavy, treaded mudflaps and with a hatpin noiselessly scratches this grievance on the sandstone mouth of the establishment's windward entrance.

...but you think it's time that sweeps us? No, because stasis mocks time and still creates its own results. You think time always liffs the upper hand and therefore exists. Just because you always lose does not mean the victor is abstract. That might even be psychosis: not able mentally to embrace any oppressor as solid. In time's case, it's a setup: a supposedly moving target that's too profound to be understood. Booshia. How do they tell your speed from a traffic helicopter, for example? Paint lines and watch you move across them.

You been scratchin' lats in my path baby? Are you a woma with not much to do but see me spin my wheels in distress? Am I a hooptie tryna tess the curve on a invisible rail chall? You don't think I'm for real? Youda onee one who ever raised a fiss. To me, time is met you knew you lost you crazy kulat-wearin' ruttin' like a hound, afro-grabbin' slag-mammy.

I love you,

Friday, June 5, 2009

Phuket, I'm Goinda Thailandia

Whereas once Connie rose an impunate clamor carrying on in a flock, something about the way she shows up late in life and alone with the same old antics gets her sent more often than not to jail.

Whereas her age peers with higher-up roles in the global economy behave even more shamefully, no one sees how it's her prerogative to shower her wurl with boutique critical commentary, especially on a bender.

Whereas all the other seats at the bar are also occupied, those drunks have the presence of mind to shut up. "It's righteous what you say, girl-- but more so that they haul you away," says a skeleton.

"I'm just husband hunting, Jay," sasses Connie, heavy lidded, to a lady strip-search cop. "Thas whut you get for poking around wair you don't belong," retorted Chama, a goddess in policewoman's garb. "Youda nosiess dyke I ever saw."

No One is Innocent
by Connie

I'm impatient and
I jab at things and
I hurt myself.

I'm innocent and
think the hol wurl want
my prolongations.

Ery time I stick
my neck out, they hack
it. Phucking bastards.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

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.

Joe [the Mp3]