the hag and the sheriff

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.

Tonight is...

that's the morning birdy
like a kitten crying for a titty.
keeps chirping till it's good and sunny:
Pree-ooo. Pree-ooo.

blazing deathstar rears basically as a dot.
somehow a non-mammal goes after it like a nipple.
even though you and me can't even nod as two.
Me-you. That's brain freeze, flashbulb blindness.

Creature sounds are taken on only a la carte soup du jour by others at the zoo.
When they sync with their salvation antennae, link to their shame receptors,
Every color of lipstick could be a way to say how hip you were to suggestion.
Once cast into the tornado of a day, tonight is what men piss into showers.


Connie
"I love guys and cock and the 90's."

Whore of abstinence

There seems to be a tiny niche for someone to get away with this booshia, for men who are let's face it trying to shore up their years, yet still showing up ever more popping it new, as in styling moves, as in risky, nothing to lose.
Here's what you do: you say I admire your assertiveness. If only
I could be like you I'd end up the stud of this establishment or even including all the organic matter that surrounds us. My daily order, personal venues, would be irreversibly turned inside-outz.
But I'm a local girl. I have a responsibility to this my watering hole and community, self, a kind of watching, nurturing bitch energy that will go so far as to walk you to your car and let you kiss me.
**Barkeep, I help laborers in the tourism industry map out and monitor quadrants of their payload, responsibility. In turn, I hope they'd be honest if Someone ast if they'd seen me lately.**

Connie
"Some nights I'm gifted hot, and I can't waste it on the oracle dispenser. I tell the outta towners I'm just there for some human con-tack, but I start receiving earnest knee organ just the same. This new technique can nevertheless put off a century of dog days for you know who you are, baby. I will be welcoming and loving in part because I know you are on the way."

Worship Section

It says here that on Cabaret Night the Chama was serving cocktails to a crowd of tourists in a Carol Channing wig and wacky makeup. When she looked into one of em's eyes and saw a hatchet murder. Now she's coming out as having seen her own ghost through psychic time travel. Sports N' Sex Crimes Bugle is expanding with a section for worshipers. Tom?

Tom stepped out of the bathroom like a robot, glowing in purple light. He seemed to have a bumping soundtrack. Sylvia stood and let the paper sag and watched him stroke the spines on the back of his neck.

Air Serum

road fires, 1000 nights in a cab: your stink cave, married man. proven air serum, meter rigged, but you carry me in a new-moon lonely-body seatcover steam. I am Hoolie

Lesbian Stem

Oldentimey couples often chance to sit and chat over checkers at one of the Preservation Society chessboard cubicles chained to Sin-Gaberra Chank. Today Chet and Charlie can't decide which carnival or what ride was the most chilling back in the century before Chang K. Chang was even a mention on the Chama's lips.

Was it Hysteria? Tiny Gun Toter? Envious?

If I had to choose, ventures Charlie, in a pinch? It's Devil's Clit. Devil's? challenges Chet. Charlie: You betcha. Chet: Clit? Charlie: Yep. Ok, just checkin, Chuck. Charlie: Yeah, I know whatchur thinkin: 'The Devil's Clit never choked a man's speech like the coaster over at Chank Dhubbabera.' But it was the cheddar curls, not the attraction. When the commissary cooked 'em crunchy, they cheered you good.

Then they made us colonize Chang K. Chang and opened up the longest ridemall in the wurl. On the Vagina Root, you could have some hairs pulled or catch a load of someone's spittle on your chest; coming off the Lesbian Stem, everyone would be dizzy and hurl no matter what. Yeah, Vagina Root, Lesbian Stem and the curio store, Prosthetics Whore, were all perfect for a second or third date as well as kitty-corner from the bar.

Pandora was just a gaping humid cave with a fog machine, but everyone went in there to pee and avoid the perverts in the Ladies' Room. For some of their ideas, we blamed Perpetratoress, which always had the longest line, and once inside, things just went wild with lists of suggestions on what to do without getting arrested. The only way to exit the Perp tricked you onto the street as if the whole churning circus had suddenly become disgusted and attested, "Yor toxic!"

Lady McBirth

Hot neighbors' sons with shorn hair empty onto
the street and crawl up the block at night, spray paint
the garage. Reptily mom call police. Neigh-
bors complain, "Therz alwayz trubble over thayr."

She knew it was not at the law that they jeered,
but rather marked her as sodomy doer.
And their votes were against sodomy, not her.

She thought of the way shit stink stays in your skin
and wondered whether that was yet another
shame for mothers.

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
From:
Dr. Thong

"I'm Yo Scrip, Baybee!"

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.

Shivbar

Hoolie had scared everyone by passing out early so someone found a tab of windowpane in the glove box and slipped it under his Perfek Pink-Brownish tongue. In his oversized tan wool coat and fur leggings he came to like a bird's head popping up from a pool. They gave him a sharp knife and dropped him at the doorstep of a shivbar.

An elderly wiseguy in a Johnny Cash outfit greeted him with good-humored jadedness. There was a combo: two guitarists, a bass with a bow, and a polka master. "Who's that?" Asked the Hoolima. "Gilberto Whoopti-Sanchez and the Whatdaphux," answered the bawdy bouncer. "They're just doing a sound check right now-- should be starting in about seven minutes. I traida tell them: dooyer practicing at home, you know? Ha ha." Wiseguy addressing the ostensibly blind jazz organist on his off night sitting at the bar. "Waincha practice foya get here, y'know? Ha ha. Right Jimmy?"

Everyone loved Hoolie there, or so it seemed. Lovely Linda came right up to him with her throat uncovered; this was before she died. "Look what you've got!" she commented.

"I'd like to drag this lightly across your throat," said he, smiling, while doing so.

Linda was frightened and excited. She loved Hoolie, so she had some crazy faith that she would not die. In fact she didn't. Her subsequent death was unrelated.

She was sensitive enough to know that a tiny curly shrivel of the topmost layer of the skin which lie across her trachea was being shaved away and falling into His Perfek Pink-Brown palm, and that was all. She felt as though she had to trust someone just then.

Suddenly everyone Hoolie knew had ventured out into the rain and instead an impossibly beautiful young couple had taken a seat at the bar. They had shiv stones right in front of them but neither was going to lower their head for the tiniest lick. They were broke, he fantasized. They wanted all the beauty and meaning of this historic place without having to pay the price. But the longer he waited he knew that wasn't it. They only looked at one another, and all the more beautifully when knotted in that gaze. Hoolie asked the waitress, an elegantly aging goth chick, to send them a fresh dose on him, but only if they asked for one first.

Then the second guitarist was looking into his eyes and stroking vigorously to accompany his master. Between sets, the second guitarist stood in many places: near the service area, ordering for himself and taking in the compliments of the barkeep while letting his tawny brown eyes reflect in Hoolie's glass of port. Next to a column roped with Plaster Grapes, perfeckly in alignment with Hoolie's eyes. Standing speaking with the dark-spectacled accordionist while they drank, Peeping Gingerly over his colleague's shoulder into Hoolie's eyes.

In his dream, the second guitarist, a gaunt hungarian type named Kevin Reynolds, came up to Hoolie and whispered, "Darling you are too young to be sending Teary-Eyed Drinks to young lovers in nightclubs. Your true homage should be to those who can respect and appreciate the glory of your Ripened Manhood."

In reality, of course, Hoolie got tired of the suspense and went next door for a Bedtime Sandwich.

But songs began to well up in him.

Ebb Tide Show Lounge

Look, you can hire swarthy bitches who ack like yor place is a nasty dive,
Or you can hire fine bitches.

Each is cool in their way, doll. You jus don't have the weight down there
to declare your weapon, baby.

Wooden chew laika fine white bitch with a real straight wig and blue lips to take
on yor PR daddy you no u do.

You say premium you say upscale we think we getting nice not rough, swingah.
Zisda Ebb Tide Show Lounge?

Peggy's Last Chance

If someone would marry me, I'd come back. I'd take a high cave near Mthyuh with her steam falling across the front holes like curly bangs. Before the grafting my perp and me we'd have a nest of K's right there in the window box and send them out looking for my little ones. The four of us could briefly live as one before taking over each a hill or shivbar. We can pimp each other out as models and spokesmen. We can pose at the oracle for Volca. I would need to come out of my skin and sleep inside his shell at night.

Dare Ye t'Come Fwd

if we could only have some beer and sing once a week, all together, not in a church
we might still get red in the face and colon cancer and divorce or throw up silver,
but there we'd be on a Frydee's eve with a steaming kidney pie and a pint of spittle.

Guide me Ho-ma

guide me home woman
guide me to prayer-o

wenna wirl-o manso stron
ma-needa woma company.

walk me thru this bigole
neighborhood, fo-I go grrl.

gai me hom-a nau woma
stop an pray-yay witme.

then we can catch a show
or lounge about ata bar-o.

guide me home woman
gai me to pray-yayer-o.

Chamatilly Feel Crazy

Chamatilly feel crazy like it awl cumin 2 to an n.
They harrd all th' old shivlords, ones not sent to
prison, the torchrrrs. Gave them the job of call
-ing up folks on the phone saying you can make
it stop, only you can, any time. And jo mimimm
paymen eeyus: whatever. You can make it stop,
only you chamatilly an until theyun, we call you,
we call you woma ever naughtier laf. All nait lone
woma. We call you call you. Weda shivlords n we
gotchors baby. Chamatilly shake and sweat, turn
over. With the other ear exposed, she could hear
them writing letters. We know you in trubble cha
-l. don dowdit: we rspechu grrl chal. Yu beta pay.

Then sum wicked clerk walk up to a guy in a bar. Step right on his foot, with all he weight. Say mista. Hear you gotta anger prolm.

Well da udda say: I, well I, huh, uh, woe! say...uh.. you on my foot buddie.

An da clerk go, "Uh... idaynt yo foot. It belong to da Lo', bitch."

Chamatilly all ooo i aint even gotta foot dees daze ooo mami whaidai evuh evuh become a damn deity yall sheeyut. [etc.]

Fallen Woman

Name: Chama Tilly
Current Occupation, If Any: Ruler of Night
Duties: I rule the night.
Explain: I rule, as in ruler. I remain conscious while others slumber. I am there to witness the full measure of darkness.
Position Sought: fallen woman

ratty charm bracelet

tho the lunar light is at 2/3
looking in the water, it is
the clearest night: circles in
a pool become nervous lie
detector/ earthquake met-
er/ voice graph checkerbo-
ard, the bottom being solid
bright with these lines: for
today we dragged a hangar
loop across the top after a
wind and collected a hum-
mer nest of dog hair and
cobweb, a witchy pod with
triangular black seeds, wa-
sps and bees, human oils
and peel, the clear wrapp-
er off a tongue depressor,
and leaves, bracts of bou-
ganvilla rotted clear into
skeleton and transparency.

I Saw my Own Wretched Shadow

on a wall,
in a head-
light und-
er an arc,
it seemed
clawed n'
scragglin.

Night you could sleep or be conscious in

This is a night that would bear
Hard slumber or consciousness,
This hang of six-hour heat
Lifting off in fine rosettes.

This chill unexact wakens,
This ending attenuate,
Hours misappropriate from
Colleagues and co-worshipers.

Mark me now, and not at the
Iced tip of an evening gone.
There are those who for pure or
Coarse occasion stand vigil.

Others may honor this stretch
Giving over to her tides
In prayer and chaste hypnosis,
Riddle not her clement fluids.