Callous in an Odd Place

Donna's hut, carport and pool create a Tiki-style octagon behind the chain link fence. She can often be seen in knee-to-toe bells and a halter adjusting deck lounges. The parcel is mortgaged at more than three times its worth; one would expect it to sprout exhaust plumes and fly. True enough, a layer of hot lava sufficiently shallow to be covered in the mineral rights sometimes causes mudpots and steam vesicles to appear in the yard.

Donna lives in shame of her sun damaged forearms and ankles. The scar is a shimmry curt'n. The desert pulls at your blood through the skin. Someone has snipped your life stalk and placed you in a drying bin. But why the callous on the back of her thumb?

She was into fresh-juiced carrots until it turned brick-orange. Why should the most puzzling parts of the physique present so saliently dyed? Donna'd been at P-Supply U during the tenure of a psychoanalytic dean crossed with Jungian department heads. She wondered how she was somehow callous in an odd place. One would expect a life to form armament where friction is most frequent. Donna loves her girlz, has shared a kidney with the poor, and of another race. Of reverence to higher beings, one does not chafe from that which can't exist.

Could my linguistics background add something to the mix that would reveal, through language, a fallacy in the metaphorical approach? Not. Memory trumpets: "Phyllis, to tell you the truth, I think something may have bitten me there." Donna crammed a smoke in her mouth and stood to fold the chair. An incision had left the faint white jet-like streak on her lower back.

Phyllis
Re: Donna

Explication

Promise
this song, an avatar

Here in a trophied stone house,
the game cottage, game heads on walls

where palace charnel begins
meat meant for kings is first sacrificed and carved here, enabling their generations

its wet and glittering course,
see silver trays piled with fresh moist legs and chops bobbing up a path to the castle, into royal mouths, in royal peristalsis

I offer my fingertips,
this is where I choose to make a commitment, to reach out to the infinite (future)

blind and pendent ministers
active faith in our love, suspended in darkness

of last-moment innocence.
as yet but terminally unrequited

There in pierced forgiving skins
stacks of tiger hides on which you recline, their beauty has absorbed the violence of penetration

blood charges your perfecture
you on the other hand are throbbing with present life in a space that you experience from the inside out and I from the outside in

and can whisper a promise
blood, an excited pulse, rushes in your ears

while hours press beyond my lips.
that's how you'll remember me, how I'll speak to you, in that sound


Tom

Promise [the MP3]

Drop-In Center

In this village, there's still a camera shop.
But the money stopped with a red dream
And chop, chop. We put a drop-in center
For the third gender made whores of, but
They mothers started showing up. My son,
You told me you went for bleach, shaves.
Sheaths. This is where the rice thrasher's
Dogs and chillun play Carom with poker
Chips. The neighbors came round with
Sticks and chrysanthemum paste. There
were fights, but now when we see goat heads
In the street, we can say, here, I brought
Some money. Internationals need batteries.
No more swatting; you must say hi to me.

I am Hoolie

Auspicious Battery

Sated but still licking at shivplate from a round, girlish stone after the fact, horizontal poolside in a white rubber chaise, it's easy to call: Fool's Blessing, Chump's Paradise. After a 16-ladder climb up to the corner shade cave, it better be good, and it better be bad. I had to apologize to the valet-wench when the tip of my hard Italian duffel chipped the "bronze" trunk of a sentinel gomphotherium, stuck obnoxiously there in eternal trumpeting siege too near the beads like a high-security hole sniffer. Then appeared the living creatures.

It hadn't been three steps after checking in when I spotted it across the water, between doric plaster columns among a copse of senatorial nudists with towels, hunched over its tray of ashes. The chest was sunken, and the face was drawn of limits that all spelled bitterness and spite. It could have been so posed at a maiden's breast on a canopy bed, having sucked all the life with her breath, yet still wheezing for truth and light and sympathy. Its toenails bit into the cement. It watched me.

Later that night, I stepped out of my room for a jacuzzi. There was something glowing blue at its lip. Some bodies pose naked because they cook with religion, and he was a doctor of carnal gospel. To take the waters and behold him was to sit in bubbles of pornographic faerie children. His blue light and severed heads, caught in their fright and wonderment, dangled from every nipple, hypnotized all moral superiority. His youth and self-regard, krishna art and wicca, made that night the start of my final auspicious shakedown and battery.

sprinkler on a wicca twilight

it's cold and wet, yet welcome
to some life forms, even in January.
Even in the Northern Hemisphere.

some idiot paid to have fairy sprinkles
punched into the lawn, but it's
green now. He's got leprechauns on the inside.

dapsone was good enough for a while
then they started getting pissed off and organizing
marchers of the truth brigade were brought by magic.

they had to start putting cameras on their body parts
to follow their trajectories. They called this
time. Heads on shelves tell the story.