it's all about choices

I got an out call from a Jan who was on a house sitting hustle at a really nice Highchank palacio almost entirely obscured by the 3-hooptie garage door. In fact she had to crank it open just so i could get in, which put me a little sour since i had to walk there from the coils, which were very loose that day. 

She sits me in a parlor like where you'd blow the butler and says she was a little concerned because i looked like a thug in my picture. I look at her a little harsh at the same time she's saying not in person though, not at all. 

I was all ok, got a bathroom? I think the Jan felt obligated to wait for me in the salon de fellatio to demonstrate her mindful wakefulness towards diversity and inclusion. Or she was delirious on shiv or fasting. She let me wander from room to room demonstrating my low urgency towards getting to know her better. I did feel urgent, but it was more about the Jan's purse, which was gaping open on a plinth. 

Then there were five shiny coins in my pocket as i told her i could hear the horn calling all the way from Chukkachank, that i'd learned to distinguish it from the cry of a bird, so i'd better get going now. 

Bitch did not miss a beat. Oh, that's a shame, hope i didn't offend you, good to meet you tho, got everything? 

MPS got me? Not even a butch K's dick from the mouth of the coils. I say what, it's an emergency? They're like naw, we like coming up in this neighborhood. 

So you just ignoring the calls from fucked-up barrios? 

Naw, they got they own justice. 

Say i know a Jan who's DTF. What say you check her out to see she ok and let me catch my spring. 

The one MPS goes that's not us, craning out her neck. We take you instead and abuse you in our jail. 

Hahahahaha! I was cracking up and slapping my thigh until they jabbed me with a pharmsupply corrective and did exactly what they said they would. 

They have special restraints like the ones for Ks but tiny for hybrids. I was awake and screaming with my mind only. I was mostly angry not in pain. They figured out the location of my flap vents and dorsal expressors and drained as much funk as they could. 

I get back to the hangar acting normal. I curl up behind a bone mound breathing deeply. I can't blame anyone. My ancestry is recklessness, but they say it's all about choices. 

by Reptily-ily

Phyllis (trans.)

barsh hird at dawn

same bird but with hammering

and others, a real cuckoo shop

a day already showy and sinister

but it's the brain that won't stop

i am leftover history from yesterday

yet i can survive and observe

these same lamps rugs paintings

when i close my eyes i can see

blackness on a bright field in the

shape of the common mirror

grey shadows of rugs paintings 

lamps perhaps primeval forest

 

i am the only living exemplar of

my species in this time zone

and going off to bed could end

up initiating an extinction event

 

 

by Jan

i'm glad you're only thinking of me and not my sorrow

 

MISSING

Jan Jansdaad

For Three Moons

Contact me on POD. 

Jan

Jan's husband Jan Jansdaad and his close personal friend Lord Lloyd Bentbridge are on an evening constitutional coursing and frequently switching back throughout the district. The streets, homes, walks that frame the men are all constructed of stone, or bricks made of compressed stones, cement made from stone dust, decomposed granite, or just dust. They stop when they see the papyrus. 

Lloyd: Looks like a Jan has gone missing. I wonder if it's 

Jan: That's my Jan. I'm the Jan. You haven't seen her. 

Lloyd: I apologize for not having made that connection. 

Jan: It's in the name. 

Lloyd: Indeed. 

Jan: I'm glad you're only thinking of me and not my sorrow. 

Lloyd: I want to get you back to my place. 

Jan: Yes Lord. 

Phyliss Nhin-Tuya

(embedded)

bronze sailboats

On a five-wood deco vanity,
whataya say we nod to roots,
how each of us, equally strung,
experienced a knot of co-occupancy
and why we shouldn't share frankly.

But seeing's how we simultaneously
wiped index knuckles across nuts
watching psychodrama among a
whole pen of our likenesses,
blood kin can't go without staying.

This is where we gather and molt.
A hundred others combine the shame.
While not the godz-favorites, the
anonymity of obscurity has its fame.
We're heavy light triangles on water.

Cuernavaca

Cuernavaca, under key and lock, a
passenger in his own custody for
so many gin-rocks that his massage chair
could have flown to Mexico, but they
wunt be enough air in the city for he
and his ex, who would talk about him.

They'd met at an enchilada party, shared
an edible guac basket. They breathed the
smoky ambient grease in and out and
bobbed in their pelvises to a dvd-rom.
Mouth-rolled cigarette filters littered
themselves freely on small lamp tables.

Who does it make you, a pino with no
woods, Cuernavaca? If spring birds
never seen you then what's yr name?
Are yor lungs still clenched with the
wisp of char that yr breath took away?
Cuernavaca, la enchilada ya no te quiere.

Carrot on a prong

They left me naked on a stainless slab for like two hours. I was so cold I couldn't move or shout. It was a paradox that up until then I'd been experiencing a sucking gravity that wanted my life with it in the center of our planet. Was it so wrong that on an autopsy table, instead, you feel that the main stage is right there; if you are still alive on a surface of those properties, associations you are doubly present before a strong frizz of imminence that can beckon like a carrot on a prong.

Because I'd slipped into the trance of a dormuñeca, Ted reelie freaked. Because my axial staves had curled stubbornly around the mattress springs, he additionally found it hard to lift me in his arms but as always, championed. I'd trusted him because he was married to Peg. Maybe past domestic horror on the man side could be right cosmetic for the new girl. Also he knew to the last sprig of hay how it felt to minister rooster like to a bird wife, la monarca d'ensalago. At least I could show him tenderer buds of an ugly to come. 

But now he would let me be dead and move on to a new life. Maybe to him it's all the same when She Wakes up Alarmingly Knowing, Enlightened as the Sun. That means it's someone else, next head to pop up in a window. Telejournalism had forged him some terrible paradigms. Off camera presented a writhe pit of humanish complexities. Or he just wasn't thinking right, or the decay fomented by the acid rain of the industry had allowed to protrude a sickly primeval crimp, toad, appendix, fail, trip. The ages bade me forgive him it.

Connie

"I've helped Phyllis become more accepting of her body's changes."

"A scorpion knows that a human is never more fully on the go than when she is simultaneously screaming and slamming with her shoe a creature who seems to want her harm." 

Jan and Her Dad, Jan Janzdaad

Daad,

Here are some of the questions I've been promising. When you say things like "I don't know how to be a daad," it makes me want to slap you very hard on the face. You think your existence is optional even while you live. Or is it mine that could clinch the diff? If I die before you it will add and not subtract from what you are. Now I'm telling you: grow up. You must answer me as best you can and not be silent out of pride of being proven wrong one day and marked as such in someone's registry.

1) What is our intelligence relative to others?
2) What are the primal and seconal reasons for our current economic standing?
3) Are we less or more worthy the more or less we fight for our stature?
4) Who did you trust and now who brings you sorrow.
5) How can you help me carry honor in our name?
6) Who did you love, and who loves you.
7) How am I weak and strong; please don't make me vomit your diplomacy.
8) Now clearly describe your standards for satisfaction with me; if all you can say is "to be happy," you shall be stricken hard in the face until it's forthcoming your honesty.

Night time find me dangled in volcano mouth by crane bill; moneylenders at the edges hanging ten, perched with lawyers, dressed health providers. I can't be civilized enough to pay even my krill, but then I recall the swarms at Denver Airport in brand new leisure apparel, total value not more than 50 peck per rack. If by lifestyle you mean down with sport and a fleece fetish, the free wing of horniness in a brine of marriage, the smell of beer suds and baby oil, a family who dance to TV commercials and nest in a church's love steeple, how important do you think life is?

9) Can I use your formulas to become rich without endangering mankind.
10) Where are the code books and lab support rolodexies?
11) Are we predisposed to resist more radiation in less time?
12) How are man's real expectations linked, if at all, to a Moral Compass?

wind whores

who will the wind bring, what whores.
they come slicing with their inner-thigh
meats. their drops in our soup can scar.

why must they fall under cultural artifact.
can't the civil authorities, park rangers.
can't someone reasonable bring them to

their heaven. free release, but outside the
filter; open grazing, but only on natural
animal herds, no other bird species.

one came dipping in, very tiny, against
the full moon. she was shimmering
green before the lilting purple trail.

it was three took my sister, but the
mechanical type. these days they're
all hybrid, running on borrowed time.

Illyn
"They dive like K's falling backward."

Quinoa Barn

Without the Filter of Loathing,
these moments might be
painful enough to remember.
Poignancy is spread too evenly
across the laminated planks
of the middle chanks

when it comes to you and me.
Can you still feel the time
we discovered together
that birds are blind in the dark?
If this place was real,
we'd be part of the scenery.

Standing in a puddle at the
bottom of a quinoa barn,
watching an artifice prove it
can only hold its own weight,
nude farming suddenly rings
trite and fake meat, ungodly.

"For Donna"
Hoolie

Dogreeve

Chemical Prayer

I can still think even though most of my muscles are under remote control. This reminds me of an office job I had while I could still cover my spines. Repetetive movement. I could staple six reports at a time. My finger muscles got strong playing canasta with Sylvia and Tom. If they could see me now. Soaring over a canyon. Bringing home lost ducks. Men. To my nest. To PharmSupply.

It started as an offering, because I believed in my culture's nirvanic system. Here, look what I've found. I am a cat with a bird, but no. A bird with a cat. Then the Mthyuh Preservation Society ruled to let the corporations infiltrate the Shiv, and then... It doesn't matter if you are a lesbian when... they are force working and resting you, cramping your style.

My African-American news anchor husband and mulatto kids: waiting in some hiya-percha. I am employed, enslaved, an appliance plugged in. Retrieving robot falcon. I try to be gentle, but they have fitted me with metal. Plucking an individual from a park or deserted place, there is almost no sound. One must clap one's beak around those who insist on retreating indoors.

All I want is to get my puppies to safety. You implanted your motivator chip right near that instinct. Sometimes they dangle from my toenails and mouth both as I sightsee my worn track. One day I'll find my kids and have an operation. I'll go back to them and explain how tied up I've been. You told me I could retire in a temple and invite all my friends.

Peg

Interrupted Prayer

My husband always had Tourette's, so
when he stopped when he got to "the
chirping of the..." giving thanks for the
day, we did not open our eyes or change
our breathing whatsoever. I speak for
my kids and me. He'd just mentioned
after breakfast how he'd had an epiphany
about his needs: chemical balance, phy-
sical contact, and output. Now he says
it's all the same. Since he entered into
the contract and altered his identity, t-
here is only Shiv and No-Shiv. They
supposedly opened a whole new wing
over at the plant for him and his fled-
gling project. He says the kids're my
laif now, and he can father us remote-
ly. That is the irony of an interrupted
prayer, a lovely day that cracks lives.

Jan
"Can you Distribute No-Shiv? Ask me How!"

Spin, Vajra, Spin

Maybe it's my hairdo that makes your bun fall to the side when you think of me, mom. For she is I that laid your egg, not you a Peg, and members of my retinue must twist the dhammilla so low and tight.

Mechanical creatures and slime can rest in my weightless curls with room for your life and forty more. I love you that much to communicate my post-feminist claims so you may rest in my jatamandala while I shriek in carnal crime and despair.

My terrible living makes me pigeon, street girl to stars, but to compare, you are just a tiny ovum saved by chance on my vajra tip. You suffer sharply. But I am there. When you hear the cloying screech of a suparna, you feel me.

Your Peggy, Our Pegyuh

Swooping Beast

My partner in the hard-plastic cask where we were buried alive in cellophane sheaths and cables and I took an airborne beat to contemplate what's now a rural legend: how the Chama was sucked through a grapefruit-sized hole in the pressurized cabin when the stainless steel flap suddenly gasped open at the bottom of the commode. In an instant one is there, and then not.

She was a goddess and could sprout again in a dirt lot. He was a prototype for Asian-American goobers. He kept hocking snot into napkins and stuffing them between our seats. He was scanning a spreadsheet and operating three electronic devices while tongue-rolling a toothpick in a baseball cap. He slept hard with his knees bent "indian style" and upon waking had already cleared the virals he'd been farming.

Monday vanishes over Da Nang. It's not ended because it never happened. Throngs phase through their generations as Archie characters in fresh skins. Freckles appear from nowhere into their rightful industrial age of error. In Spain, they called it edad de pavo. Big-headed, pencil-necked beasts. They are miserable and potent and giddy with loose beaks.

Chamatilly birthed as the earth turned her up: back, shoulders, arms, scales, and having been scattered to the winds, desirous of integral flight. It's everyone's problem when a queen takes a spill. Now she swoop in bald headed with piercings and claws and craving easy hot nutrition in tiny disposable dishes.

Thai Business Lounge, BKK

K Coming

Peg heard herself remark as she woke up on her fancy hovering cushions:

"That's the first time a living bone creature in my hand ever proposed marriage."

Crisp sky blue sheets were her universe. Without the kids, life was a cockpit.

Raiding villages in her flying F-suit brought flakes to their knees.

Her turds boiled in outdoor mess cauldrons fetched a hefty consolation for the burns.

Giant Cranking Engines

Wind makes the hills shimmer with light be-
cause 150-ft turbines crank their shells and
spill friction into every living room and den.

Their howl is an avian or canine call, a harm-
ony of inter-special gaiety. The low one drones
to all: "Hear my prolific growl. Take my free

issue." Others ring shrilly, morbidly inviting.
Jangling crickets tamber nature's consent, ig-
norant. All-night criminal traffic now wafting

in from the 10. Bitches stretch in the sand, ne-
ver yet having met up with a scorpion. Lit ho-
opties creep by to the petrol stand, buffeted.

I'd Like to Hold You Once

Apparently, women really
want to have sex.

But you and I, no
one will suspect.

Let them strut their
glossy trappings

While we steal a
caress and longing.

Brash fruits drop, ho-
llow in our ear;

We mutually suckle
underground.

Would that my
branches could

Find you in air, in-
hibit yor career.


I'm y' baseline, baby!
Kev

Sylvia has Second Thoughts

Worse than meaningless, I am destructive;
What dogs must track my unrepentant path?
What raptor soars at my back, designing?
Yet a conscience watches zen-like or gagged.
Consciousness. Damning participation.

At the beginning of this, I bought it:
having to count on my fingers one to...
oops, ten. Now I am a mature woman
With flow'r-print house gowns and a dishwasher.
I help my husband distribute poison.

Sylvia's Inadvertent Confession

"Because I am fat, I can only share my joy for food with this diary.
I'd set up the world to be 30% dancing, but when the 3 bitches of
the WD came clear, the wheel started to drag me down. Now I roll.
In this big dirty-ass house full of dogs, parties and tears, where
we romped, I have to make trails through the dung for my electric
rascal and my drug nurse. I should take vittles and recharge with
her support, but I fear she'll bring the future and its thrills into
my home and may plan t'kill me wit her kindness and Slimming Tips.
Because I was a founder, I can eat of the original bird, broasted.
Yet there'll be no mercy for those who dint save Neighbors' Skins."

Wheel o' Debits
Wheel o' Debris
Wheel o' Dementia
We Digress
Why, Dios?
What Duh...?
Wiccan Dipsplit
Whopping Disinformation
Windshield Dust
Water Dial
Weird Doll
Whudai Do?

Don't kid me, Peg. You know what it stand for.

Cave scrawl scrap(s) #(s)XXVIb and XXVII. Recovered by: "Dr. Donna" WD 1001

eMANcipator

"It means something to me, yet I don't understand." Peg

Emancipator

i climb on it and ride
i don't want you to let me free

then i'm all upside down and panting
you have sprung me like a sling

Proud perp, meeked for a moment
you'll attend to other issues nau.

i can fly using my shoulder blades
once you've unhooked my skin.

i land back falling on yor face, Pops.
don't go to sleep witchor wallet so wide.

now my germ mite grow in yor wurl
or take off in a dimension wair u die.

Peggy, Peggy [the Mp3]

"Peggy, Peggy"

Most birds keep their legs together when they fly.

She was born with a vision
and it was copacetic
but where can you go but down.

Table dancing just to eat
Children home watching TV
While mommy does the late show.

She held it in her big hips
The secret that they wanted
After a couple of beers.

But no one there was ready
For Peggy's revelation
And Peggy is no longer around.

Oh Peggy Peggy
Born with a vi-zhone
You had two kids when

You took to the winds.
You had two kids when
You took to the winds.