bankowned houseparty

Broker went or gave the keys for the house across the street to his son or associate as a holiday bone. Shadows from the fire pit were hula-ing well above the 40-something ficus hedge. Donna says she feels that life is trying to squeeze her out, not the road narrowing. Families that still float don't even have to curb their dogs and might even kick yours on its leash while they eat. Problem comes when a primate or pug doesn't recognize a distant relative, only sees red and Dr. Thong. 

Loud bankers and sons or associates, some shrill women. Then did they start passing out or learn to drive themselves home on backlanes. Now the trickling blaze becomes less a vigil or moon and gives way to someone who's got our main energy source behind a bathroom door as her nitelight. The great eyelid over the valley begins to unstuck, but sickly. Donna keeps pounding out "The Doctor's Prayer" even though she's just a flake on a test how bongoing can address anxiety.

O Mthyuh I shake beads of your monolithic face, chips of stone, not even teardrop shaped, in a cokecan rattle, army pail. So well i get the need to bring the sheep along a path to rest in nothing that will fail, i won't ask you now the way because your meaning is too deep for minor aches. But could you put me back to sleep? I've gone ahead and healed in by for of your name and acknowledge that the whole reason for a doctor's prayer is humility in the face of abandonment by higher beings.

Mike
"Am I a fag hag's hag fag?"

creature o. habit

in winter there are the vat dyed suede house mocs,
the wide-slatted leatherette deck thongs still warm.

if you take up the rugs you mt as well chnge house
so where you put dn proverbial hat is always fresh.

but thn yr left with living tissue as the only constant,
an dwen it starts answering back you want 2 slap it.

Donna

clinging to a log

the battered women's counselor explained how her office had been moved out and then back into the same place again by saying welcome to my old-new office, and it was also the same office I'd gone to visit her in the last time I was battered and a woman.

we talked about how what would be the best case scenario and then very quickly following with how no, that's not going to happen.

later then there was a man and son clinging to a log in a flood. they said their neighborhood is a honey trap for disaster.

On storytelling

One event fills your cavities with helium. Your shell is pliable but so hard; you can float around in its warped global seizure, or try spinning out the thread, courageously banking against walls, furniture as the hiss shoots farther toward actualizing another moment, a backlog of strong postponed beats straining adherence to the microsuede bubble til they succumb to the overwrought notion of a present that resists exhalation.

By Donna
"I busted lactose at the scene of the crime. Ask me how."

Donna's Release

For a while it was third way or third rail;
we realized der was hel to pay if we fail;
You got a clock to stop you, a watch to
pop you soon as you come close to truth,
but this is the big time, in fac hours are o
-n the spot, effectively in the chair while
their final appeal is imminent and excrem
-ent and all you're waiting on is the phon.

Dr. Thong [wasted] @ the Beauty Salon

The masochist's whole thing is, "you might as well
kill me now. And enjoy yourself because there isn't
much else out there fer you'n either.

Sadist whole thing is, "ima go crazy. ima go crazy o
-n you-- less I hear a hoot. Then it's all good. yule le
-t me know what to do.

Then the peace keaper cumin try an say:
OK you two, leave up on yr weapons an
come an try an getta piece of me.

Scat Xmas: A Fart Journal

Psych-Low-Pedia say: "Errybuddy cut priusnear 35 farts a day."
So they are named:

1) I am wickit, yet a boon to you.
2) Another exorcism.
3) Drumroll of slumber.
4) Starting to sound like conscious intervention.
5) Wrong: it's as savage as it is archetypally knocked out, unbeautiful.
6) "Phhphffbbt."
7) Is it? A shy question?
8) Crossed over into fracking.
9) Is this corprate or goverment laxity?
10) Pray it was a one-time event, unrecorded.
11) Electronic woodpecker.
12) Grounded.
13) Butt-intense.
14) Weak and bilious.
15) Not at the table, but moving along the salsa bar.
16) One microwaved jetliner entree: $700USD.
17) Chicken.
18) Painful, unsatisfactory.
19) Red wine or internal bleeding?
20) The basically-digested earnestness of babyhood.
21) Cradle robber.
22) Jolly rude.
23) Hold it...just...try and...omg.
24) Does it count?
25) Heal thy moralistic burst.
26) And your mother.
27) World's most generous.
28) Santa Ana
29) Where does it begin or end?
30) Pushed out.
31) Her stalker.
32) A number of hounds.
33) Rilly dog like.
34) Afterthought.
35) Uplifting.

By Donna

Dr. Fashion Model

witchy things like locks and zippers/ fire
can bring about some situations you desire
but in the end the future is a fraud/ fake

Mamboon

I love these Waterford crystal double old fashions. I love them looking into the facets and think of how a queen would see it, as a royal mamboon, and I am going to hold on to these-- tight-- when I move up to that trailer.

This fire will be all I have to show the natives that I do come from somewhere, else, somewhere where I once thought to go online and order some Waterford crystal with my credit card. Now, when I laugh you can hear a whistle--


Donna

to shake and pray

Hyperbole soothes my emotion sickness;
I have behaved as jane fonda in the morning after,
Meryl streep in she devil, alternately
Wracked with laughter and sudden bitter sobs,
Hugging herself, her own elbow bones, against
the illuminated wall hanging of a drink tumbling
down mountain boulders in chiffon-slick streams,
light wheels working a mill house under blue plastic.
What I share with womanhood around the world,
Even in its masculine expressions, is the fortitude
to shake and pray and rock and sing to my babies.

by Donna

chicken

a sensitive man can feel the dimming of life giving jam.
as the headlights on the road out get stronger, he plans.
"this means release from an obsession-- maybe I can..."

We used to know a mexican bodybuilder named Vic.
Being in the stick trade he'd show up with a recliner
just because he's horny for me or me and my chicken.

some bitches you come home an they've rearranged the furniture.
Victor may have flipped the dinette set or every last dish for china.
he wanted to demonstrate how anything can change cep his dick.

Donna
"Thinking about how men of color have rocked my kitchen."

Prince of Alba

We met Hoolie one night we heard the dogs barking again, and Mike had just about had enough of those guys from the Casa Medio Camino passing by and insulting the bitches, so he went out like he was gonna rake the pool but then he ran up to the fence and starting shouting at this poor felon "hey you have a prolm, come and work it out, it's between you and my dog," and the guy comes up pretty calm, but what choice did he have really, of running ahead to his group home, what a humiliation, or facing La-La's daddy. He's coming up about the pace of a field hand over furrows, and Mike says "you have a prolm with one of my bitches you can just come on in here and work it out in person," you know? The guy tries to say sunthing and Mike just says "no, no, it's okay, I'll open up the gate, but no fair bringing weapons." He says "no fair bringing weapons so you'll have to come in all naked and defenseless just like she is." Cuz those are the terms upon which she is willing to engage you, sir.

Then before you could even have time to ponder it, there is Hoolie ass to the moon in the yard with La-La, just standing, facing off but askew. Not but the next frame they are rolling into each other, billiards like, in the sand. La-La, who everyone knows is the biggest joker, act like she's trying to hump him, then she bites his ankle, Hoolie shakes his head like a madman, flying ropes of spittle... too bad we don't have pictures of this! They were good buddies all right, so we trusted him too. He still has never crossed the threshold with a stitch of clothes. But if we're ever in danger or wonder who it is there, creeping up through the desert from the liquor store late in the evening, it's Hoolie. If someone ganks our license plate or swipes the power washer off the driveway, if it isn't him we know he can help us think of "whom." We call him Prince of Alba because he's so white. With the whole of his flesh, he's enchanted us and rules yet.

Mike and Donna
[when we were together-- D.D.T.Ph.D.]

Physician's Licensure Hold Lounge

Now Donna cannot even go back to her hut on the desert floor. Some say having left the garden hose on too long made a leak to the aquifer, and that's how the collapse occurred. Sunlight and her stucco home broke through the decomposing granite crust and free fell a few hundred feet before splashing down hard. One ironic mention about it all getting sucked in, her cards and pictures, pets, food, art collection, driveway with cement prints, mailbox is that at the same time, she was remote viewing a documentary entitled Chank Atlantis. She'd shown up to sit in for the state that day. They had her on a tuffet of clay, some would say, because of the law tablets that were played to negotiate her stay in the Physician's Licensure Hold Lounge. From her folding chair in the rehabilitative media chamber she had marveled at the power of the sea cutting down on hubris, especially the condescending sass of the middle class university-style intellectual with their endless self-congratulatory slumming forays and phat-assed group licking pageants. 

What saved her life was the rubber room is the first obvious but wrongest conclusion you could come up with. If life had been normal it would've been Nature there to call hero: Nature, who held Her shit until most righteous folk would be off at work before giving into the breach. The depressing fact was that nothing much else but Donna's life was saved of Donna's life. Was this where she'd be into perpetuity, a detention event venue for enemies of the meta-cognitive talk therapy apologist movement? Sure, she was safe, her life anyway, but the focus created by these environs always had to be the patients: were they secure from alternatives to medication as well as compliant with the prohibitization of medicative alternates? The rationale of the health vendor societies everywhere was cost, that they be recipients of all cost, that it be monitored, and that there was an accountability of payment, sustainability of need, and payment that could be pursued and multiplied and punished even while continuing to provide a river of product opts.

Phyllis, SSCB

Wreck Command

We're sensing some activity in the Crack
swimming bird-fish, topless
aframerican in her 30's
just picking up the skeletry
but it appears to be a cartilage-web
cape-like wing of light
and she's cutting on up through
the bog suspension with her beak.
There's a broken transmission:

...ckgghggk... donna... ckghk...

I Sit and Drink before a Screen

Rock rolling, in packs, against effigies, has been preserved.
Some flakes even stream in hoopties to communal slurp holes,
risk getting picked off by the sensation grid or spoiling a life.
Gods of atroposis can bareback their amygdalas and view.

Once you buy the razor wires for yr pinfold, the bolts and screws
close automotively, as at sunset for grain bank doors.
Yr consciousness and shiny coins are disbursed in the heavens.
All the moisture you can carry is your hydroelectric insurance.

Donna
"For Illyn"

journal of a house arrest, day 106

at least down at central lockup you had yr hell is other peoples;
a pretty prison soltera, even with dogs, may become agorapathic.
she sits in the sand with the bitches guarding, hoping, dozing.
her hair pushes through the squares of chain link fencing.
Donna, you are beautiful, but look at you:
a free tumbleweed with caramel tinge, mashed in a blockade.
whooda known you'd steadily become a morbid-ideating blob?

Phyllis, embedded

Sistah Grupe

Facts n' truth others kempt buried in serial tracts n' novels,
proverbial irritable pearls of horror they had to tease into,
Are what's splattered each line of my songs in murdrous staccato.

When someone who should be dead for the pain either or longevity,
wuman kep alive so's she can go on wailing in societies and snack pits,
A pall will still set in stuck like the sun on a jet wanting mostly to get down.


Sistah Grupe pome:
Donna
Chama
Phyllis, ed.

Phyllis in a cilice

Meanwhile, Dr. Thong has her toes spread between the railings of the brass bed in her cell. She is painting them with a q-tip from a bottle cap with a solution of urea and Pink Bismuth heated up atop the radiator.

Someone is with her: Phyllis, in a salt-and-pepper fall, natural mock cilice and denims on a folding chair. Her purple lipstick is inappropriate.

DONNA: She'd be very upset to know you were here.
PHYLLIS: But I'm a reporter. I get to be in on all the angles.
DONNA: Yeah, you put the bed in embedded.
PHYLLIS: Allz I did was sign up to express her preen gland. It took weeks to get clearance.
DONNA: As if you could step back through the Crack anyway. You can't mend two worlds with a few strands of horse-like hair.
PHYLLIS: Hmm. You noticed. [PAN FROM ONE TO THE OTHER OF HER BREASTS]
DONNA: Maybe she'll come to us. She could get me out of here.

[FLUORESCENT CEILING TUBE BUZZES AND FLICKERS]

PHYLLIS: You know Dr., time travel is a bunch of b'caca. But light beams come and go as they please. A deity can do that.
DONNA: Now you insult my sense of connectedness. Isn't it much more likely yr pal Wayne over at PharmSupply has been pumping up his experiment?
PHYLLIS: Are you saying you'd be down with RMP if it could bring back the Chama?
DONNA: I'm saying I'm a doctor and I know an evil phuck of a shrink when I smell one.
PHYLLIS: Illyn, her brother, does it the hard way. No one blames him for crawling out the Mthyuh's stinking rubble erry tam a generation almos fergets.
DONNA: You are sinking into superstition, and it's unbecoming of journalism.

prison snitch

ladies, when you took my boyfriends, I told other women.
gentlemen, i saw whut you did too, but why so violent?
here we must all swing from pole to pole, but so much friction?

like an embattled civil servant, i skulked through the lunchroom.
can't sell my tics, my shiv's a pacifier, can't get my mind around it.
where was all the love i knew with mike and ken and stu and...

here in prison, they say it's *a* hard life when really it's a whole
hard life, longer than most flakes could ever notice, and then,
they say, in retrospect it won't have been that long in the next life.

i'm sorry you stopped buying my tics, but a woman has to hedge herself,
and sometimes it's shrill as a scream. it wasn't like i was running a
racket. you only become a prison snitch when all hope has soured.

Donna
Incarceration, Hour 3
"Please come for me, Mike"

siberian rent discount

The worshipers have cleared out my home, split up the bitches. One of them, I hear, is fed on canned corned-beef hash and Hawaiian bread. If it's La-La, she could get bloat.

The pool torches, the Yukio Mishima collection, all gone. My pants suits, stethoscopes. Do you know why I'm not bothered by your pictographs in flames?

As long as they burn here, for me, they are good to no one else. Your hand on my breast was spit-blown with oxblood all around like a dissolving turkey star.

No rent to pay, no dishes to cull. I am on cement detail for a long career. The pulsing glow of my ankle bracelet is your good eye, the one that only looks this way.

I take my moles wherever I go. They were needled into me by heaven. All my attempts to extend into space from my torso, however far, have sprung me back to a single cell.