Pecking worm cloud

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Swords for Olives

it's a perfick place for us:
where today is gone and tomorrow yet to become;
cheque the other mammals pacing.

locked in a dark ball, some teens'd
scream, grope, roll. All heroes see
night as best, either for rest or manufacture.

then when they grow old, hanging on
and that alone might seem the likely approach,
but no, it's a planetarium, a gyroscope.

Wayne
"I reelie, reelie just don't give a shit, Jan."

Death of Bill Naughdon

You can fast when you are mourning because
grief feels like hunger, so it's all the same,
but you can't eat to bring someone back,
and reanimation of life does not fill one
stomach.

stink of morning

stink of morning, clanging buoy, chum and fly
white blind, biceps are visors as you rope, hoist
meat on fire, skin turning, stink of morning

crack of day, foul effusion, stink of morning
every shape throws black in your face
stink of morning, poison rays fan derision

stink of morning, bad july, salty tan
comes a time you can't outrun the line
rabid edge, hot aggression, stink of morning

Illyn

Trick Room

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CnvoSl7nxU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KZz2ind5sk&NR=1&feature=fvwp

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyUor4ottfQ&NR=1

dodi al fayed

mega grip

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." 

A Cock is a Whole World

When once with the morning you are off
There's a whole day blossoms free on ya
Bran new sensations, slurpy kisses, funny
Wrinkle-puss puppies swelled with candy.
Fresh being gives the environment a gloss
Who can help reaching out to this fat hope.
Now everything matters more than before.

Sistah Grupe Project
Connie
Donna
Mike

Maybe You'd be Happier with the T-4

1) Here's my fashionable address, and
2) here's my extreme mint antiseptic mouth rinse.

MIKE: Being sent spanking back to poverty, we expected scenes like this. One feels that the windy neighborhoods are more exposed to the way the planet spins. We may have used this cutting edge pool robot for two seasons. It needs a little tightening of screws. Come and see us in our new location: Mountain Hill Wheeled Estate Homes for Those who Can't Get a Loan. You know the route.

RESPONDER [well-off immigrant/ other race]: Well I see that the Morbo T2 cannot crawl on your slatted floor. Fish out of water so to speak. I think I'll leave my wife in the car, as we are outside the range of tweet. And you live here? All week?

MIKE: Yes, out of sorts. It's where we are put, we. And I hope that you'll be happier with the T-4.

RESPONDER [couldn't be more than first gen dog eater]: You know, I didn't figure out until like the 10th lawyer that they want to be the judge and you have to make an argument there, on the cold call. You must be a performer, a courtroom savant and courtesan. Nothing bureaucratic can save you now. Nothing bureaucratic can save you ever until it's already too late. In the real jungle, there is only jungle, jungle acoustics. Prolly not, but one day a kid in career apparel with an electronic pen might attempt to trace a pattern in the trees on his tablet screen that looks something like a thing you said as one would lazily outline a Sears in a grainy black and grey satellite square. If you respond automatically as the powerless, suspicious consumer taking supervisors' names, you will get played, and it won't be fair. The Better Business Bureau is only a fun house mirror lane for we sillies with kid thoughts. In the same way, you won't sell heck with your take it or leave it to beaver snide attack. We live in a world of ideas, missy.

MIKE: Of course you're aware it includes a remote control, and the gentleman selling it in the back of NYRB still has access to filtered water. N' prolly dry ice. Must be nice. Need to be chemically burned to feel fresh? Walk out that door. Frame. Or fork over less than thirty percent of the original purchase price with none of the hassle and call it your. Morbo T-2.

Apocolant

Over and over he thinks he sees the soul of man and it turns out to be hollywood trickery. Unless the soul of man is something painfully sweet and an approved holder of Christmas, what a cheap catharsis. He settles on the idea that there is a soul of man trigger in the chest area and you only have to stroke it for a moment and you think you've seen the soul of man. It's the same button that the real soul of man would push, but everyone has figured out where it is. Certain professionals are able to make you convulse glandularly just because you are there and paying attention, even if you have never requested an expressive event. You begin to experience your physical response to commercial manipulation and it is sickening. It is an important life moment seeming to occur even as your real soul is gagging.

"Official Statement and Deliberate Expression of Revulsion"
Participants, First Reenactment of Apocolant's Attempt to Enforce Society

Country vs. City

Exasperating thesis statement: There are many good and bad points to live in the city vs. country.

This could pass the *CHAD: While urbana can provide a civilized tea room, chance of a circle jerk with any number of recognized gangsta-cult members, red or blue collar, el campo will top you every time, city boy, with our men of all trades, truckers, ethnic princes, hot married realtors undercover, stroller daddies and military.

*Chank Assessment Dump

Tom
"I can only try and claw at another month-- it's Gawd's choice." 
"Please try an' give me, knowing that I make the sacrifice that'd otherwise fall to m'famly, just a small sacred space around me that cannot be touched upon, and enough time to settle firmly into my bedding."

Like a Sap

My first snapping eyehold on daddy with irises of evergreen and shocks of ruddy premature, earthen hair from head to toe-- a six-pound spindle, in fact, of hoary non-baby likeness-- inspired him to visions of one day looking up my dress as one might close-up view the Tour Eiffel once everything were stretched enough and diluted out to see the woman in it, and being nearly blown flat by the sheer enormity of where life can go. Not Conrad, nor Condoleza neither Constance but rather "Conifer" is my name fully given. I am here to report the story on why everyone thought they'd murdered me, how it became so personally important individually, and how some of them might even think to cut me down for fear that knowledge of their innocence would leak out.

Connie
"Maybe I did it to myself. Like a sap."

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.]

Ruses versus Perfidy

Until we can manage a Butt Wedding, I sit outside the moonshine in the shadow of the house in the sand with the dogs. Until we can get Ass Married in matching pajama jeans, the bitches and me will turn our heads at the exact same moment when there's a noise in the bushes, and I may let out a tiny, low, preliminary "bruff," involuntary-intermittently. Until we can consecrate my Man Maidenhead, all other activity is dull and domestic-animalistic.

by Mike

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."

Beads and other reading

There's been some nerve damage, being born up through gravel.
This way, the world of beauty is something I can hold in reach.

Alternately, a myopia is congenital; as a surgeon, it's a wash.
What I don't respect is being left alone during an ocular migra

-ine, which could have healing power via beads and other reading.
We, ones who grind back through backwards are unusually curious;

much of knowledge is precious. For that, I pass hard obstructions.
I speak oaths against each world just as it forsakes, abandons me.

Why must I pick over the same stones in a different century?
Fossils or missives, these beasts sought to fight, mate and eat.


Illyn
"Posterity, always."

Phyllis in a cilice [the assisted Flash file]

original post

They made it smooth for love

Was a time when love was always on the table because of so much dying,
and the one was s'posed to make the other easier, smoother to take on in.

Was a place where folks'd gather round and purge your sin as it happened.
Even a game board or janitorial closet could hostess yr transmogrification.

I remember a boy's strawberry blond banana curls on a raft of knee denim.
He could turn fearful disdain to daredevil glee of victory for a community.

Lad had a platform to make and display a vis'ral sacrifice, be taken note of.
Of course he was later either tossed in a gorge or eaten, after some beating. 

Still t-tay, my thugs and me think with the same blood and know there's no-
thing dearer, more sincere you can expect from a man than the loss of fluids.


Wayne
"Not about you, Jan."

Austerity clinic

What you looking at, Missy Silly? They ain't no treats for you t-tay. Why so reproachful, lovey? The stink eye. Who saved you by tossing bait in the yard, even used my best boy, the house guard, to lure you in with sexy jumping.

In the hot pockets a local wears a percent of her skeleton on the outside, and visitors have to come and go quickly. To get you back safely I'd, oh I don't know, helicopter in and hang a ladder action.

[...] how in every town and age, there's a man wanders up and starts to build a cathedral outta tracter tires 'n "adobie." Who knew they were all the same guy. He's not a troublemaker; he's like a beggar; it's a mystery his place of showers.

Suddenly he's there in your rooms, a blinding light. There must be electricity in his touching fangers, or a deep smell of handiwork.

Bitch, you are our child.

Sylvia to Peg at age 49, already an unrepentant monster, strapped and clamped to a vinyl-upholstered panel van, as Tom stands by sobbing. 

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

I'm Too Vulnerable

As a deity you probably recall the ways in which I praised you, the only overriding emotions to desire having been nervousness about getting your personal attention and my unworthiness. Now I suppose my silence signifies to you how I can't bring my maiden lips to engage in this filth, but also now please know how wrong that is.

When you wrote me back I went weak at the bottom of the spine and the vision was all google-eye baby. But even frankensteins have an embryonic stage when they don't yet know how to answer phones. What you are asking me to do is way more, even further I think than you could pay for on some more tasteful corners.

Now go. If you ever imagined loving me baby, go quietly nau. I'm too vulnerable from the last assoh who thought he could catch a quick taxi to double-queer crisis in tiki-land and live on, fully able to pitch optimism and catch flack. I'm too vulnerable to let you grab my most intimate giblet and treat it like a bar snack, woma.

Phyllis
"And I'm Sorry"

Krewly Taken Down

Watch this advancement. Two warriors faced off on a stage. Their movement can now be phaged into hold phase, frozen while the ages play out. In translucent view, sponsored by PharmSupply, we can appreciate organ failure up close. The passage of meals is just a faint, grainy yarn in the video yield over time. Limbs might disappear, but early on. Similar elapses have been projected over classic statuary in open climate evolves now approaching 3-4 millennia.

Special attention to facial response to slow-cook trauma makes one of our most popular "Side-B" features. With the remainder of all musculature frozen into your choice of carefully measured RoicPoze, you can watch intelligent, feeling countenance bravely ignore, laugh at, ridicule, question, rail against, pale before, scream in horror, suffer from, and finally, pathetically, surrender in dissolve to the Click of Time. And you thought life was "all about choices." Fool.

The simultaneous degradation of the individual fighters, the lively bravado going pathetically prunish at nearly the same rate in each, the temporary soaring, inspiring but ultimately crushing thumic rantalog, each one hardly even unique enough in most respects, we find, to call himself a worthy n' wholesome opponent: often it was two organisms who shared a single host tearing at their other halves, or the fruit of disparate matriarchy rolled out the same chink, but in the end they're krewly taken down just the same, system by system.


Jan Janzdaad, Lead Wiccadocca
Recreative Clinics

Qtd in: Old-School Telemetry Without Regard to Budget
PharmSupply UP, Highchank

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?

Phages' tears

When she raised her hand in the classroom that day, now therz a statue of it on the Pee Lawn. Because the riot that she started stung with the sun all afternoon, and the placement of the security garters, we speak of "the revolution that smelled of urine." At a number of historically numbered perimeter set points, called washes, a type of humanoid called phages, sitting in trench coats on the curb holding their heads, still serve to mop up, with their tears, any residual contaminant.

Why aren't you some kind of freak?

Why aren't you some kind of freak? How can it be that outta-all the beautiful chicks and dudes I've seen, you strike me as sumthin reelie spesh? You fall well within the heart of the realm of attractiveness, but your exceptionality makes you particularly memorable and commands an emotional response more sweet and richer than Caramel Dream Swirl, chahl.

How can I even unnerstan your language? If your tongue is the dearest, hottest live wire ever, wouldn't the creole stink on out beyond its cipher? Wouldn't yor existence compel matter into a steamy mass of shame over centuries of labor, generations of real flesh babies whose trajected paid-fers wd always undermount the lots we'd get of creating major ideas of tiny observations?

How can it be that you would become a lier out so much farther and me so conventional while having been your Discoverer?

Cooling center

I'll never forget what my very first Spanish teacher confided in me after many many sessions. I had signed up in hopes of intercourse with a busboy at the taberna in the basement of my workplace. You think I've got cheap furniture. She told me that all of hers was folding. Folding furniture. And she had a scar. That was visible during our meetings. But that wasn't all, not just the scar. There was... some facial... displacement. Not by birth. And muscle wasting.

I simultaneously translated the following from an instructional video tape during one of our lessons:

Once global warming sets in, I'll have to take my babies to a cooling center.

Then the señora wept into her dyed cotton crepe jacket.

Epistemes, plotz

we were already 14 when we acknowledged openly
the pointlessness of new friendships with strangers.
if you've often had occasion to judge the world to
be a troubling spot, then you are more oft than not
open to off or awkward approaches, epistemes, plotz.

Everything phatic or rhetic that you spew nau
will be logged entry to my journal o' knowledge,
assuming sumthin as heinous as our love
should be cock-copied down and legislated after,
in whut, clown clinics and drag universities.

You may imagine, in erotic fitz, an oubliette
Where the speech act seeps out, posteriatum,
to where ya' half claim paterfilia to the fevered
perconesias and todonoscums of yr offsprings
and their pigs they call husbands.

Sylvia and Tom
"We're thinking-complicit."

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."

Truhbl

Truhbl n' Prolmz [the Mp3]

Gau Gau Bata Utha

 Gau Bata Utha

Come out your towns, where you camping!
Beat the face of your land, come out grrlz.
Got an eyebrow pencil or a crayon, bring it on out.
If your instrument plays, don't be ashamed.
You know your tool is welcome baby, come out!
If you are not packing, you can come out and SING!

Translation by Sylvia

Men's gene

We always believed in the true horrors uncovered of popular feminism, a product of a guilded horror age. While it was so easy to remember what had just happened, not really knowing what to say, it was also easy to remember sunshine and chintz, keeping movement frontal, forward and advanced. But when you see horror over there, you take a second start when you look anew around you. Humans aren't who we thought they were, or whom we made them out to be. Not least of all men. Disappointing. But most of all women: worth celebrating, mourning. But then you get a pendulum. Pig/ saint. Wench/ king. Magician/ witch. Biology itself has been a perpetrator, but all to men's credit as conscientious super-mammal. Created poorly for the modern world, he resorts to a hamster wheel. A hamster cranks out worlds of it's own dark little oblong worldz. In a flashbulb, all tyranny was rotten, harsh. Even eager embra co-dependers were seen as vortice-eyed followers of the missile-phallus. It was Men's gene. Fems had to prove that they had it too.

By Phyllis
Freelance Free-Weekly Filler Filer 4U

Bitter last thing they yelled

air is muskety with wisps of shrapnel steam
you won't take my farmin and i'm givin my horses t' injins
standing in a dapply shade with that sword-drawn pose
swore a war vanquishee, now hewn forever so.

air is dusty at home with The Hoarding Squa, squatting
into the land with boxes and snacks to weight the structure down
and to have on hand whenever tomb travel might set in,
a war with men or nature that knocks out common supply webs.

air, world you blew it on me, i wd have done anything, i swear;
wd have given anything in and outside me, family, shiny sterling.
wd have submitted to tying or courses of labor, obligations, fines;
wd have been willing to stay here, breathing, for a longer time.

Crazy guy sez:

you pump supermen bible stars hockey legends presidents at me like a batting machine

and then you give me the MMPP, which ass if i think i'm on a mission?

i just soak up the spills of my heroes and keep the faith in what i been wishing.

i see the ills of society, but you see those pills in me, and everybody can't go to prison.

sleepy scream

Compared to Donna's pretty prison, Peg's incarceration over at PharmSupply had been much more futuristic and steely unyielding 'cause of both the interior architectural elements of the space and the officious register of her jailers. They were at work, bottom-lit, ghoulish, suited up; the rooms and interfaces boldly angled out of indestructible polyfab. The optimistic, gothic high-ceilingedness suggested a society of builders that would see their curving hallways with concave base molding tunnel through a millennium.

Once as she was taking in a breath between screams, Peg heard a guardian yawning. More splendid a range of emotions could not have dropped from Mthyuh's craw just then. Peg was grateful as if to a nightingale through her cell bars, but also miffed. Was the hard young mercenary jaded, bored. Did his employer weigh that sound down on him with labor, true as her gasps in chains? Did he intentionally hurl a sucking insult.

Then they went back to turning the big wheel of the rack. The basic mechanics had not been altered for centuries, though this was a modernist rethinking. Someone obliged by pulling her hair back so hard as to lift her head, and she could see the level of industrial streamlining possible in cast iron, the high-gloss cleanability of an aquamarine Dyemenkote dip.

Phyllis, embedded

Nachos "Espanto Hindu"

small red beans
media pechuga
spices
Fritos "Scoop" chips
gerlic
laurel
pimenton
>8" boner
aceite virgen de aceituna

cut a thinner fillet of store-bought whole chicken breast half.
key to this meal: a darker spice that bleeds the satisfaction of red meat.
let it shallow fry in a cast iron pan with three bay leaves and
your estimation of whatever is "a lot" of cayenne, paprika and naked gerlic teeth.
you finished the beans days ago in a pressie: heaping t or level T of turmeric, whichever is more.

Donna, at the hotplate in the privilege room
Casa Medio Camino
Desilusión, Fordamall

People are Hot on TV

I was interviewing a sex guy who likes other sex guys.
He says it's paramount to get them on their backs
'cause then you've got the choice of either being on top or
being on top. Even better: dick/hole/dick/hole/dick...
Is it a values question, say if the only choice was embra.
Yes, he had to admit, he would choose the vadge. One
can't help it-- it seems cleaner even tho each opening is
nasty in its own way. Anything, in fact, seems nastier if
it is attached to your non-preferred gender. Also consider
the het-fallacious bias for reproductive essence in love
paradigm [RELP]. How it leads to dissociative fixation on what
penetrates. Reality contains, we contend, one set: conscious
beings focusing their targets of desire. Intercourse is a term-
inal object in a panopoly of toys/ instruments/ expressions.

Phyllis, rovin'

Devil on a Chain

Even after the transformation, Missy snipped two claws together pointedly to signify wanna ciggie. But her screeches of indignant soul-wrenching need sounded identical to an itchy call for hors d'oeuvres or snoring or Intruder! or wanna play. So no one knew how to help. A Pall Mall is the last thing you think of offering a non-mammal.

We wanted to set her for free release. At the precipice of a fine waterfall, the resolution of Walter Ditch, in Fordamall, there was a ceremony. We removed the cigar bands from her dorsal spears and administered an amphetamine, but she just stood there.

It was as if Reptily were hosting a banquet in her memory and had to tune inward. Our civic event was merely the ambient trickery to pimp her reverie. What was going to be the culmination of generations of patience and misery, a way to eschew, into perpetuity, the co-dependent mischief of the land, a dirty given, and let savage have its own airs, domains?

We found the way that wild is tamed for show, but we still didn't want to keep her. For sure, they say the devil on a chain is a wasted life. But the truth is: she's got no wheres else to go.

blue-collar mad scientist

Yor laf in m' fangers gimme dread deepina bawlz,
Sorta whut you muss feel ravaging yr taunting food
Sep it's a kinda love too as I let care grow b'tween us.
In this hot room moisture prickles erywhere b'cause
you have evolved from a 2-bit preacher to a
national shivstar lottery queen from all I'm doing,
along with the searing truth 'n chance of electricity.

You think I'd risk my tam with Jan 'n the kiyuds
'f I dint know there was sum'm better t' provide
lak a day unner direck sunlight, stan on a real hill,
outta cement caves n' twilight of wan superstition?
I want yor skeletosis to tell a story longer than th' both of us.
You can raise bribes 'n forces, try 'n blend inta rustic corrals
while yr frens tie 'n kite you with ideals 'n booshia.

But because you have killt fr hunger, shiny coins, boredom,
or jus the sum of whut you were born being worth,
We cn bestow on you 'n honor greater than th' crusader kings
as you unfold these thinly fleshed and hideous wings
and a war helmet's gouging horn is organic to your face.
You may rise now awful Chama, and step in terrble knowingness!
Epistles loaded in yr chips will tip you into streaks of righteousness!


Wayne
Beta Invocation of Operational Systems

Hunger's always a bran new idea

Kep dreaming of a patteren or a mark:
from when they drove me spanking from poverty?
Regardless of how I'd been, I would be holy.
The gowns and injections, the bars.
I had to learn to twirl like a goat on a pin.

There were circles, lines, and curved lines.
Faces aimed at me filled the biggest caves.
At least no one marches a goddess around by the elbow.
She pulls on ropes, reveals tureens of fragrant smoke.
Preservation Society pays her in cash from the plate.
There is public housing for these special creatures.

Wayne, I'm awake.


Chamatilly, to the rescue

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

Aquarian song

i used to rilly morn my swimmin' days,
but now that i cn post strokes to the POD,
i can sweat both sloth and malaise
so long as you can hear my aquarian song:

you gonna make my crossed-eyes cry nau,
break me till i can't buy ice or cigarettes.
ima gawda liquids baybee, with one regret:
that we dint goda the lenths that we coulda had.

Mike
"For Hoolie"

al be-ashamed tomorrow

al be-ashamed tomorrow, al be-ashamed at the end of it all.
al cop a plea an take a fifth of whatever been a-served to thee.

Them wrecks, them crimz them scavs... it's why we discriminate,
but al take the fall, for brotherhood sake an unanimity.

Wayne

Lab lockdown

Once i cd lift her with skin and blood alone on thigh power.
With pills you get full flower but it's not the same at the crux of the elbow:
Yr torso is just the main balloon in a multi-twisted limb affair.
Where soul reached out with all its might from a crown of hair,
There's a big-assed parasitic worm feeding just below the breaking point.

Wayne
Lab lockdown, Day 2

Believing

i hope you'll always let me go on believing yr better than me
because it's all i can figure about trying to grow

no matter how much you thrash in yr upper berth,
i feel so stable below, and no matter how much it

hurts, yr taking it on like someone just a shade more
innocent, in fact yr skin is translucent.

i hope you'll always let me go on believing i'm silly and
ignorant; i want to fill each hour with questions for you.

no matter the lonesome excuses for touching my cradle
i know you'll keep me alive enough to stay an embryo.

Reptily
Waking up as the Chama, to Wayne's sweaty face

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.

Wayward kernel

My brushes with decadent company
kep me spinning to the edges;
alls I could feel was stomach punches.

All the fine living in the balconies,
Pearl rings on gloves perched at brass
railings, made time reach like a feather bed.

Finely now change has found a patteren,
jarring as a cart trip on wheels squared,
with the high points blunted, knowing yor

No where, and are traveling there.
You see faces peering over and viewing
your spin like a weather cock or crucifix

In a sunk diorama of storytime ruin: a
damasela's eyes pecked out as the Failed
Shepherdess, calcified, weeps in her coats.

Quietly now it's the engine I question, the
spark that was supposed to be pushed along
to regenerations of florid qualms and spies.

How can a squiggle in a dish be intensified
by anyone's cynical easy moonlit labors
if she too is powered by a wayward kernel?

Connie, in retrospection

Dog cart

Harsh Sunrise

Like grapes, it peels my eyes.
It's no time to shine a light on.

They say radiation splinters t' kill,
That death is a smoothing guiding.

But here is what the night's been unable to heal:
an accumulation of daytime crusades n' missions.

Grant me one more hour behind the screen,
No inconsequential might from worlds away.

When my features have realigned
, it will be time to hunt and forage.


Illyn, rocking in a dog cart without a rug

punchawune

if youda ast me fo fi yee ago
will you still take this ryusk
knowing how it cd all come down

ida sed shoreall still doit
anow can we pleez goda bayut?
nowahsay godledit eyun.

juscuz yr brave dzn mean
war dzn hurt, chall.
loviz justda punchawune,

a site wayr bloodflow easy,
an irritation ana cerse,
wayr sunthing began to nerse.

Reptily, age 13

Mordon holy star

Spittle forming on his lips, Mike feverishly tries to force his sturdy plastic tubing neon-look Mordon holy star, with its loose and twisted cabling, into a cardboard box. ERUSOLCEROF FO GNIRFFO is spelled in backwards letters on the translucent paper sign taped to the picture window behind him. The points of the star are making every angle impossible. Finally he whips the star back out of the box, hitting himself on the forehead with the plug, drop kicks the box into the fireplace and storms down a long hall to the sliding glass back door and further down wide stone steps and onto a cement patio from which he discus-hurls the star into a low puddle of yellow foam at the bottom of the pool. As it flies, it resembles a spiky brain and spinal cord set free.

SIX MONTHS EARLIER:

Doorbell rings. Mike, wearing nothing but a denim shop apron and flip-flops, hears the chime from a backyard loudspeaker deep within a nest of scarlet bougainvillea. He drops the pool robot, whose tank treads are already turning eagerly, into murky water. He geishas up the stone steps and the long hall and to the front door, near which a glowing blue Mordon star can be detected from behind the living room sheers. The open door frame reveals a middle-aged couple smiling quizzically.

Hello. We noticed your star. Are... you a Mordon family, and if so, what are you doing for No-Shiv? Hmm, we are the leaders of the Mordon community in the chank, and I have a red box gathering every year at our home-- it's a Chalk tradition. That's Dick, and I'm Embhra.

Dick, Embhra; Mike. Well, I'm not a family, or-- we're not a traditional family. By the way I am one-sixteenth Mordon, and on the mother's side, but I am Shiv, brought up Shiv. Uhm, for many reasons, including the obvious need for diversity in Chalk Chank, I decided to show respect for the other part of my heritage this year. When I say we're not a traditional family, me and the folks that tend to live in this house, I mean there is no legal contract, and we are of mixed and questionable gender. I'd love to come!

Mordon holy star [the Mp3]

Her father was not Satan

Jan tries to convince a panel that her father was not Satan:

Anyone with a key to the mill is suspect, first of all. There's work to be done there; you can't make a watch list of everyone that leaves a fingerprint knowing the beast doesn't prolly even have one, do you know? And it's not because I wd be the Daughter, assholes. Whut wd that mean, anyway? Spawn of the devil indicates... are you good bad neutral. That's not been nailed down. A demon wd hang around and try to assimilate someone willfully or situationally ignorant, don't you think? OK I'm evil and I'm going to wear you because you are a sensitive searching self tortured hotty of a mess? I mean even after his cuticles became rotted with nail fungus Daad was irresistibly naive and focused on traditional virtue as a hair shirt, tio. OK, so I can speak the language of the Inquisition, and that was handed down to me by some sort of gothic nazi antihero that fits the cascading style sheet of the gift shop down at yr local lyric-opera joss house?

Jan Janzdaad: Plea of Patrimony
An Annual Public Oracle Dispenser Volca Series Event
"Only double red moon in recorded history."

Chilling howls

We're in a ditch, bottom of a moat that curls part way round a moun'n and sucks wind in from the ocean. Relief filter graphics show how a storm's plasm turns from maroon to turquoise as it pushes across Mthyuh's peak. A pink thunderhead in a sheet reaches in from the shores and up through the pass just skirting the lower chanks and back again to rejoin its northerly impulse. It's raining noisily. Feral pups squat with their ears back on rocky hillsides and search for their mothers along washes in the lightning flashes.

Peg appears sopping wet in some kind of buffalo fur hotpants and bra. She scoops the wayward babies into the fossil of a pelican bill, but giant, and drags them off in their hope boat of bone by rope to a distant glowing cave.

Phyllis, Embedded
SSCB

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"

Gaping laxity

Wayne and Jan's first year went by in Jan's Dad's four-clawed bed above the family-owned mortuary cosmetics forge:

"You saved me."
"I bought you."
"I hustled you."
"You made me."

Wayne and Jan had saved one another, but each still carried the shame of the lower chanks. Wayne's lowest impulse was to disrespect Jan because he bought her in an alley. Jan's lowest impulse was to disrespect Wayne because he grew up in that alley. In moments of doubt, absent parties were heavily considered:

"He bought you."
"I brought you to him."
"But you're mine."
"He owns us both."
"Let's have kids."

Jan wanted to adopt the ugly child who had been spying on them from under a truck. Wayne said ok if they could take her brother too, a baby covered in scars. Reptily explained that the tot in its wooden crib was really her uncle, who had been 27 only a few days earlier, before leaping from a cliff-side prayer station into Mthyuh's roiling gut.

"He's a re-baby."
"I can guide his nature."
"She could be beautiful as a topless aframerican in her 30's."
"There's something in yr daddy's lab we can use to cure those scales."

The expectant couple had to step back through the crack tho to find the chillen. There were hunnerds of years of folds and recriminations. Jan and Wayne were not afraid because the momentum of their luck in meeting had brought them safely to righteous lives and prolly forced the muscles of time into a gaping laxity.

the last time i came was with you

the last time i came was with you
but it wasn't like getting off on youth
it was more about respecting me and our
relationship

the last time i came with you
was a vacation from being a gender puppet
; you went ahead and acted subservient.

the last time we came it came unglued:
our construction of an oppressor's paradigm
, the wasted thoughts we paid for admission

the last time i came was with you
the last time i came was with you
the last time i came was with you

[repeat]

[thelasttimeicamewaswithyou the Mp3]

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.

the human meat bazaars

Reptily loves telling stories of her childhood in the human meat bazaars. One endearing slave's Johnson was so large he would be ordered routinely to hold it still. It held metaphornical value as a coat rack, a radiator, a spritzer bottle. By way of salutation, you'd jive, "Just don't move, daddy!" in place of [his name] or ciao. For fear of insurrection or other friction, it was gathered to be the phrase Wayne wd encounter most often. Just as cruel were the simultaneous demands for hot verbalization. Two central desires, to act and be wordless, were denied him during moments of nature's most strenuous command. This was Wayne's work and Wayne's sacrifice. Bereft of options either for civil disobedience or employment, he wd oblige the temple-step tithe monitors to collect their coins by shameful finger from deep inside his snakeskin lucre sash.

Reptily was watching with blackened eye, from bed of filthy rag, beneath a corn hooptie when Wayne finally met his ticket to the middle chanks, a kidnapped preachers' kid from Fordamall. Jan's bare-shouldered, curly-shod traffickers were scraping her encumbrance along a pinched and moldring callejón, high on a mirrored pillow. Her veil branks was fine as wisps of smoke out the nostrils; wrought-iron finch seemed to dash for liberty from the fancy, cage-like dental installation; her head was razored to crushed velvet pile. He bought her where she sat. Without hesitation, for a five-teated cull nanny and a few ribald shouts, Wayne set Jan free. Jan took Wayne home. Jan's dad bought Wayne. Now Wayne just moans. Jan can now see. Wayne is on top. Jan says, "Don't stop..."

Illyn's Dethbed Soliloquy #16

I've been a wandering fool, and it was amazing.
Popping up though gravel like a science film--
what if every frame were an entire short life?
Somehow Shab and my cart are always waiting
; so whut is my purpose circling through here?
Both my eyes are featured too low in the face.
What's next? Skin over mouth and cheek lips?
Every rebirth takes a toll on yr body cosmetics.
I keep passing through I guess because I jump
over and over into Mthyuh. On this entire mo-
untain in fact every expiration is rewarded in
a stinging revisualization of all that was sacred.

Belle-Vu Public Value Motel

At least then I'll be in a no-bind cell. They have bed linens and sinks. We can produce eye-shadow and tattoos.

Public values have been my ball and chain of all the avenues the polls could have taken.

But the old system, a skeleton, is my Public Home. Every iron bar a month's living rent.

Donna, incarcerated
Phyllis, embedded
Chama, amica

Mass Sociopathy

Why so many zombies? Our answer lies in the widespread fear of zombieism.

You sit in the Killercoaster, tilt with the wurl. Do you dare take a sideways glance at the guy at the tip of yr axis?

Remote Tissue Decisioning needs to stop here, in this momentous space we share.

Remote Muscular Positioning seems too painful to resist. What if the operators were dead? What if a million zombies could be cured by taking a shotgun to the cameraman instead?

If everyone took a snip at the Filter of Loathing, in just an evening we could be back asleep with no one knowing. Our intimate blister would again be a universe without a crack.

Phyllis, Embedded
Sports 'n Sex Crimes Bugle

Empty pool

Mike's Swimming Blog Vol. II, #6

Rcvd from Donna this am:

There's no swimming in jail. That's how we made the most of the low chanks, isn't it? Your beautiful nips, my statue of liberty in the deep end with a glass of wine. Or you and was it Ken? standing on the bottom with hoses for the winter drain, resurface and tile fests, echoing bitchiness.

No swimming and no love in jail. They say one's lips grow thin. I remember waking up with you beneath a surgical gurney in a sea of boxes of No-Shiv. The treatment worked on you. Miss the glowing and bumping tho. There was a chick we let out in a cove picked up violin melodrama by Chausson and St. Saens. We think its how they interact with the Filter now; they are receivers and interpreters more like bats than fowl. If you had allowed yourself to develop fully you could be clawing, right now, through the bars on my window.

I don't expect you to get back together or say you will just because I'm here.

D.

trial of ms. dr. donna thong

• Please tell us what led to yr charge that Ms. Thong is a rampage shooter.
• First, when we refused to pay her, she appeared to be quite angry. That was frightening.
• Go on...
• Her reputation is pretty violencey. No one at the clinic likes her at all.
• What are some of the complaints for which you personally were stationed on cull?
• There was the one when Sandro, an enema nurse, was pretending Dr. Donna was invisible. He reported that she kept vocalizing more and more loudly to him until she was nearly yelling, which obliged him to employ a habanero spray in her eye. Anyone can tell you she seemed insanely out of her mind at that point. Like a killer.
  
• What had Dr. Thong been trying to tell Sandro?
• He said she kept asking for the key to the Ladies'. He had it on a chain. But she could have had a weapon stored behind that door.
• Why did Sandro pretend the doctor was invisible.
  
• Everyone knows what a scary, violence-toned person Donna is. Someone on the distribution list suggested that we all just aklike she isn't there until she gets the message, and some of the more responsible ones did just that.
• Did Dr. Thong also receive that message?
  
• She did, because she took it directly to the Workplace Fluffer Team.
  
• Please describe the mandate of the WFT.
  
• "To keep things fluffy with hearts and smiles, so that every day is a worker's treat."
• Thank...
• "To decorate with skeletons on Halloween; to fill our desks with things to eat."
• Thank you, Mr....
• "To sit and pout when you ask, jump and laugh when you give, go sleepies when you take."
• Is that...?
  
• "We are vested by the state to guard a worker's right to talk of sports and cookies bake."
• But sir, is this not a serious clinical environment.
• Out-of-towners don't understand how we do medicine down here. Our patients add up to one of the highest averages in the chanks for prevention ignoral.
  
• You mean their illnesses are their own fault.
• They made their beds. They could have made their own happiness. Why should we all have to pay for that.
  
• Because it's what you yrselves are paid to do?
• We're paid to satisfy the Preservation Society. They've got us filling out forms all day. So what: if the prevention ignorists can work the system, we can do it better.
  
• Would you characterize Dr. Thong as ignorist empathetic?
• She thought she understood the dreams of men. It's how she hurts us in our minds, and why we don't expect her back again.
  

Stoppers

Tom,
Tonight I couldn't harly sleep hearing this clanging. With a forty-knot gale sandblasting the paint off the Exoblinds seemed it must have been the lid to the barbeque grill getting ready to punch a hole through the chain link. So I got up but I could see that it wasn't shaking. I wandered into the kitchen and the sound was louder. I looked out both chinks and there was just the oleander holding on, writhing patiently. It was loudest by the kitchen sink. It was coming from the drains. I found the stoppers and dropped them in. Now it's tight as a thermos in here. I just had to pop my ears.
Sylvia

Can I injure my eyes by crying?

Goober searches, by Wayne: "Can I injure my eyes by crying?"

Crying not that intense since baby;
crying and traumatic globe luxation?
should there be stinging after crying?
safe to watch television after crying?
crying how brown liquors play role?
crying headaches common?
how can I connect with others self-injured by sobs?
does it matter which sounds you make while crying?
is it ever appropriate to speak and cry?
# of minutes before crying = nervous breakdown?
when a commercial makes you cry...?
is vocalization always paramount to self-pity?
crying seize or resist moment.
precursors for tears during sex?
crying outcome : rage, submission, epiphany?
Jan please call Wayne please

mob action

Donna reports:

One of my Spanish ex-husbands' families mobbed me once, so maybe that's the connect with the term mafia. *A* mob is loosely associated, maybe just by geography and emotion, an employer, or not even. *THE* mob is by definition an extended family.

Conchi, Paco's sister explained by telephone: "Es que somos casi como una mafia."

But he lies to you, I pled. I bet he told you I was the one gave him Hep A.

"It doesn't matter. And don't surprise yourself if suddenly there is no water or power."

This isn't because I never brought children to the tribe, that your husband stated my arroz al horno was exquisite? That I mirror your sterility?

"1400 hours tomorrow. Under the M60 bridge, Parque Caprichon, near the statue of Satan. With the keys. We'll have your check."

Father Unamuno had secured some goat pen in the mountains to hide our hooptie, so I had nothing to get to work in.

The family estate on a low floor of a suburban apartment block was shuttered up with painted steel blinds.

Conchi's husband since the age of 9, Jose Maria was nearly a lawyer who could draw up the documents necessary to make it all seem above board.

Mrs. Unamuno only participated passively and hid as well as could be her disappointment at no longer having one less chico pijamado around the house to serve and mop up after.

Paco's brother, needle hanging from a vein, saw back to a time where the two boys'd lived in ecstatic flannel and hardons on thin mattresses over spring cots or at their homework desks or in the formaldehyde veneered pressboard dining salon sipping at fideos or steaming puree.

The jamon, in its holder atop the sinfonia in the anteroom, conspired to seethe with translucent mites.

Arethusa

Missy leans her elbow on a ledge, which sends a boulder crashing down the slope. A mature sugar pine snaps at the base, nicked by a wing tip. She hangs Its face in her hands.

"I take it minorities are well advised to make a strong impression. Is it like the weakling bug who's painted a gargoyle across its papery head? Is it nature makes a swarm come when not backed off so?

Maybe naiads from a previous life rising from nerve venom come to act out, in their wisdom, and with hooks in, wriggles of memory that jar or pull shut levers and consequences that can be accepted as archetypes."

In this way, a graze prey unit outside its hoard contemplates vicariously an apology for the urge to have a bloody meal.

pleasure centre

even nothingothingothing
can echo backakak when
it's bubbling just below the
plaque of comprehensibility.

when you find a sarge who
needs an order, you can
generally think up something
to stoke a larger ardororor.

once pinpointed, a pleasure
centre gloats in unexplainability
and leads thinking mhen and wymhen to
accept a state of wan improbability.

Ted on his own

Feel him, a man whose
mother's quilt's in tatters,
entropy thorough from within,
headlights from the freeway
project fast shadows on the house,
a river of leaves let go,
a current of dark on white;
guest room mattress is a raft
above a carpet where mice got in,
where gramma tried to batten down
an even older weave with red yarn knots,
where dogs moan in star-studded
torpor. Alas a night's almost
gone, another loss postdated.

Ted
"Are you there, nena?"

Auscultation

As yor my main pericardial rub,
I don’t listen to my own deep peril.

In taming me, by fashion of a hub,
There’s nothing left in life that’s safely feral.

Potential space can only be a cave
when queen is one in gawd with courtly knave;

You trace a paradox of my body
and bring the sounds that situate me, oddly.

Wayne
"For you, Jan"