the prayer itself is an answered prayer

the prayer itself is an answered prayer

an oath reaches the air and wondering

if the mountain is listening

all the mixes of genes and genders

trickle upward rendered by flame 

disappear just the same

mother coughing up sweet poison

rings of voice on narrow ambitus

with Ilyn and his abacus

the prayer interrupts the transition

our mission remains at the border

in the naked disorder

from: LaChama Confronts LaVajraja
Preservation Society Collection
Phyllis [trans.]

No-Go on the Mo-Ho

I never thought I'd want a pre-1977 house with axles and deflated wheels instead of posts and beams
so desperately
And then be so relieved when the plan stalled as if I'd never really wanted no mo-ho at all.

My engine of change switched on just long enough to open up a crack in the down chute
of my soul
And then, when I knew I'd never turn it over, backfire energy torqued me on after other dreams



by Hoolie

Cannot endorse

While they may be loud and dry, a phenotype we've endorsed previously on these stones, the examples that have been trotted, stair-stepped, and blatantly squeezed out before us are also harsh and hard, and painful, which was neither the intention nor the spirit of our original Everythinguide classification.

Methane

it burns to speak or to be silent so speech is not the fulcrum but rather itself the burning. the burning is the enemy and the enemy must be burned. burn their speech their silence while watching silently.

watch them secretly, whispering their frailties; they will fail. Fail them openly as a sign that a limit has been breached, a singularity. H/she whose issue burns need not be burned if flammable but not fire.


Illyn
"I'm short for Illinois."

Uranus

OMG isn't anyone allowed to have a personality anymore? Not allowed in the workplace unless you are a vocal-frying, nasal talking, Lexapro-taking cyber-prosthetic clone of some fat, de-gendered hipster? Where are the bigger-than-life smokers and drinkers of the Earth's last earnest millennium?

The only reason some men pull back at all on their missions to inseminate is that they can't keep moving the penis forward ad infinitum, and despite the design of the organ, there's no more pleasure in retreat than in breaking a perfectly good line, a straight-on ray, into pathetically iterative fragments.


by Peg

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."

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

Salty

If I have cash and I'm willing to pay up now, would you let me offer them a bit less than your mass-mail quote..? No it was personalized, but by a computer printer, that's all. Say 18 percent of the new total including interest..? You could fax me the agreement, and if you'll accept a card tied to my bank account, we can settle this today. What is your percentage, sir..? Because you know if I claim 13, game's over for us both.

Donna leaned back against the tile kitchen counter top in her yellow gauze Charro pijama and farted. A salty peanut shell cracked between her teeth.

No, I'm not swimming in money that's exactly right. All I've got to eat is snack food. OK. Give me a minute to plug it in. I'm a doctor for chrisake. And dog food. Never thought it cost this much. I'm feeding you out of my bitches' mouths, mister.

Dr. Thong had been physician to super shiv-stars and wandering freaks. Now barely able to keep Juniper, La-La and M'Lady in kibble, she wondered if someone wouldn't once slip her a pro-bono, as she had done, on so, so many occasions. Was Kevin on some kind of Jesus trip? He had once, as a walk-in, asked her to put him down. Now he frequented a fiery healing pool.

O' Kev. You could touch my coin purse at least. We bonded on a pill-bottle bed, and that pumping beat. How could I know a lapse of shiv could trigger a random shiv test and set me up to lose my license all for a rotten night of hounding?

Pardon Me for Mattering

"Find Doggies' Tummies Imitate Sounds Around Them"

In the "woods," dogs' stomach and other sleeping noises would sound more like proverbial trees falling, we might guess. But here on Earth, you can discern everything from foreign voices speaking in tongues to electronic music and gaming chatter. Just the other day, Jesus Christ imitator Hoolie O'Toole was sent to jail for demonstrating that certain sets of instructions could be heard as well as followed from the bowels of a sleeping street bitch while in REM-Heat. The animal has been transported to a shelter thousands of miles away in the State of Maine where, "more than any other pound," her tired ass explained, "they treated me like I mattered."

My Husband is a Rickshaw Driver

Krais I think me air bladder's full, Syl.
Well just don't take to the skies, my love. And walk behind me.
Nothing like a brisk and life-risking stroll t'the hotel after Thanksgiving with the savages.
Do you refer to the motorcycle dodging?
And the blackout and the open pits and filth piles.
Happy Turkey Day, Tom. If yor lucky yule get eaten too.
Did you catch the framed photo of the dumpy colonists and dead tigers?
Hideous. One lain atop another. Lifeless as rugs.
And what about the way they announced our consumption from the minibar to all the other guests in the lobby.
You are ashamed?
There's such as thing as discretion.
In drinking or in collecting drink's wage?
Bastards will gouge you with their handlebars to avoid a stone.
Or maim a dog.
But we've come so they may see, remember.
Or for fear there's nothing for us anywhere.
Yor maudlin as a milk-begging cripple.
Yes, everywhere cows roam free, and yet...
Here we are.

Taco Party

Hey youse feeling ennui or tragedy but might be wearing developmental pasties on yor nips, Spike TV, mirrored embroidered Rajistanic bedspreads. Yo pet adopted greyhound is running circles around dogfarts in his sleep man. This is the end of his line. Do you feel the wind? Put yor tops away boy. This street is cleared for wide tires and vice sweep only sweetlips. Do you hear his epileptic claws scratching your plastic office chair pad? Here's where you trade mainlined Scottish peat burns for a frozen Mudslide: time for a Taco Party, playboy.

Ken's rash note to Mike after the final swimming blog entry

Sucking Beacon

Donut cloud, crown of thorns, and your lateral, unsurvivable blast: we must all learn, but be far away from. The charm of your beacon is a ring of pulling wanting. Our own livers, our sensing organs, viscerally seek to sate your warning glory.

Disappointing former anomalies, pivotal galactic trendsetters, turn out to be really no more than wood chippers. Matter doesn't "disappear" inside them. Their density is not "infinite." Law of physics: something always has to give. Look what's blowing out their axes.

We astronomers, in bed with our telescoping mirror cones and eye needles; we livers in other realms, of freedom, of caprice and lifestyle mistakes, of blight off season. They put us in prison in spite of our feathered hats. We recant our previous believin'.

Only the bars prevent our final charge on gravity. Suck me, wide one. Beauty is your annihilation of all other meaning. To true is to leave terminating dusts on a vinyl stack of atmospheres, to be creatures who will eat through song for an invite to a place where space bends.

From: "Ode to Black Hole 7"
Reptily, Graduation Day Speech
Hunger Gardens, Low Chanks

Hooptie to Tomorrow

I combed the chanks, all of them, to get housing for me and the bitches. It was the end of the longest Off Season ever, and a lot of what was closed down was going to stay that way. I guess I saw about _ spaces and met about the same number of men.

Phil Barleycorn drove me out to a hive where your fwd view and rear shield look the same. Phil was white and pink with the earnest humor of a man who'd been telling challenging jokes to chillun for all time. Never laid a meal in his own way. He also seemed to be sniffing for lint in my mind as he bragged about sending three zygotes to Pig 'n Tongue U. The rental structure had provided final launching pad for an original pioneer famly whose ultimate jump was remote lordship of these spoils.

"You may have seen it, the death march lot for K's right there at the end of the field, but the wind Never Blows this way," counseled Phil, farting. "They started this hole way back when the chanks were still flush and sweating. Then their heartland became a museum for ugly, militaristic protocols. Everyone who came here wanted badly to be a cog. So they called it God. It's where I'm still living."

Next stop, last rest stop before High Chanks and extremer pointz. RIP!
"Hoolie Roll: Hooptie to Tomorrow"

Fabrica de Pases

El tiempo: padre mentiroso, padre de gases, tirando tus peditos en pleno rostro, cada segundo toma otro pelo, medida vergonzoso, timo de tela, estafa de nada, de engano, tio; putada, lio, hueco vacio, espiritu, capricio, munecas, idolillo; parasito. plasta. fuera. le paso. me mosceas.

Reliquary of K's

Every time his head surfaced, he'd scream at the cameras, "How do I kill it?! How do I kill it!" and it would again twist him under the muddy foam. They were rolling, and the beast's plastic branks had come off in the scuffle. Kevin would have been crying if he had not needed to maintain, to save his life, a fierce persona. The electronic eyes became absurd to him then. He had to squeeze these prehistoric lips together in a lovelock and keep it shut until emergency services could hooptie on over. Publicity may have been his job, but he felt he had already stretched his adventure comfort aperture nearly to snapping.

Meanwhile a family of K's coasted about 250 rods above the desert floor. While they appeared to be a team, each one was searching, lost in its own way. Parents and chillun. Their bodies knew to fly to the left of another's wind, but that was all. Then they heard Kevin Reynolds's horrific squalling.

They turned as one and on a diagonal, calm as death, swooping low enough to take him. There was no question which. As deity, a mother must step forth to challenge the moral capacity of any contrary life form.

The sweat from the back of Kevin's neck began to pool under Peg's tongue.

Clipped in her beak, flanked by her significant others, Kevin wondered if they, now, might eat him, removed from record on a windy chank cliff, solemnly, as if picking through a reliquary.

Peg Thinks Hard, and Spits

This desmadre has been censored by the Mthyuh Preservation Society due to a redundancy of phrases such as open farts, devil's whoreshop, and holy skank hoar.

Word Hospital

Let's face it, Braino is bifurcated and like an ass in so many other ways, but it's the only organ that can speak, so it's able to tell me how its feeling unlike the others. And it does. I'm just telling you what it told me:

"I'm tired of being burned. After a time in here, I feel like life has been a scarification process that's not voluntary and leaves its mark over me where I have to sit cradled in bloody bone, which is as insulting, really, as Grab Bars on a Tub. Even though I know I prolly cun't survive in any other varn'mt, and that the source of my grievances comes with the territory, I want you to know that it's painfol; it's so painfol.

"Remember the farm. The immaculacy of her housekeeping juxtaposed with pigs. The bath radiated Lush Rose only Mildly Undermined by Shit. The towels were hard and plush. Always at two, something just murdered outdoors roasting indoors.

"Pretty dirty air balloon over our smokin' queen at the Motel 6.

"I could show you thousands of slides; why do you insist on spending time with others?

"FYI, I may be passing along statements that were originated by a second party and fashioned specifically to sound as though they were my own earnest and spontaneous utterances."

Ted, reporting from The Crack

"Weird things happen in The Crack. Perverted things."

Hot Drifter

You are 53, so you are cunning and cynical in a last-ditch
effort to hump your days and walk on top. Soon your risk
taking will give in to begging wonder for life outside d'bed.
You have bright eyes and a mustache you call the Womb
Broom. In one small town where you stopped they said m
-aybe you were a con man but anyone could guess it was
juss a chick or boy you moved and disrespected. Don't piss
off unions or steaming membranes with an itch for your c
-ock. Hot drifter, many may mock; none can hold your p-
ower over major regions of the wanting brain, oh, and nex
time you wan to stop by, jus come on in; don't even nock.

Serving Christians, yor trajectry brings you wide and on s
-ome dire affairs. The churches take you in an cut you job
-s at carnivals, car washes, and for burials, loan you a suit.
You safe in this town as a fart that smells like food. Erybo-
dy thinking ways of how you, as a man, are theirs. Imagin
-e wuhda local wife wunt want to stow you in her sk-
irt. You've never been a brother on the grid. Some men th
-ink that they can find themselves in you, but they are da
shed on rocks and ashes worse than wymen. Ashamed of
loving you, hot drifter, we offer up r babl verse an wicca.
I for one dont play that praying game. You are my sistuh.

I Had Opportunities to Become a Cling-On to the Next Rung

La La uses her butt as a weapon, looking playful; Jun exposes his fangs to be sexy, as if the grrlz must obey him. M'Lady, the mahmi, squints at her family's surfaces as tho they're zygotes or cocks her head as if to track her brother and daughter, as pus-covered newborns, twisting in their film.

Sometime Juniper feels lonely as the pahpi, or he's not on the same plane. La La attempts to speak using her larynx and sinus. She wrench it out by twis' her tailbone. M'Lady calls late for her bowl and steps softly to it just to let you know she knows somewhere there's better.

Ooo... it stinks! You had that in you? I'm so sorry.
Dr. Thong stepped away from the home operatin-
g table in her den, a La-Z-Boy, where she had be-
en setting up a buffet. Either La La or M'Lady, e-
ach of whom had been sniffing around the faux-g
rape border garnish, farted again. Ted would be t
-here any minute, and she could hardly wait to di
-late his palate. She has several long-tipped pepp-
ermint gum swabs left over from hospice duty w-
hich she plans, remarkably, to set afire in a vase.