Jan's Chant

You remind me of my father before he had me, and I remember your father before he had you: him, whom you remind me of and I'll remember you to if I see him again.

My father before he had me reminds me of me myself before he was gone, and your father before he had you reminds me of you after both of our dads were long gone.

You were spinning out just like and from your mother, who reminds me of my mom, whose big brother spun out and was gone into a world like the one you're in now.

Our mothers are like spirit sisters more than ever that they stand on either side of the line of alive; they remind me of you and your mom standing shoulder to shoulder.


Jan Jansdaad
"On holiday in Dubhabera Chank"

hernia of the craw

Once ire's fruits've made it too wide an opening, the thyroid cartilage gets sucked into the anomaly and a poor sod's diagnosed with hernia of the craw.

Left dream-splayed and vulnerable, a sitting duck for the picaresque, he rocks in a corner with his wrists pressed together starting over and over, "i feel...".

Space itself has to drain from the body when an impression's been made too strong and wrongly and efforts launched to recover normally've gone on too long.

Before you can chew your way to freedom a mother figure is forcefully feeding you live and squirming fodder for the chest burning that's also used for reflection.


Peg
"I too was Missy."

Dry and Loud

Looking up from a sulk at the ground

We put "dry" first in "dry and loud"
Because seating comfort should come before sound.

If the sound is good but the feel is wet
The experience unfolds as one you'll regret;
You haven't known humiliation yet.

But wind that's dry, with trumpet full
Calls foul the cries of "Imbecile!"
And proves you've been responsible.


Ken
"Scatology is not the same as scat."

[donna on ken notes]

[donna on ken notes]

he has different moods but why
is what's not easy to justify
he's not a single mother
substitute teacher, police officer
and it's tricky to decipher
a code when one's so earnest
so basically with what you're left's
a literal interpretation, direct translation
and some hyperbole, dark or sunny
which leaves a consistent note of exasperation
that seems to appear outta thin aspiration
and it isn't clear if it's period, just there.


Dr. Donna Thong
"I'm alla bout your relationships."

Inability to titrate

My inability to titrate creates an irritableness surfing on tubular rage.
They prolly did that in the 70's and 80's; it's just not cool these days.
There's no excuse from a blunt-edge mood target perscription, Dad.
Things I will stomp on: all the objects I need most throughout the pad:
electronic equipment, barware; bread, sling tokens, a hardback book
you have to come at with a slide, expecting to travel, break the spine.
I took my time working out love on a number of men, nothing missed.
I can rest on a loud, dry train better than a bed in the heat of August.

Ken
"Parsing through my feelings."

At Least Tonight I Have Hope

I'm not going around calling things like multiple leaf blowers for 140 minutes this morning heinous
I been in the business long enough to know the difference of a cataclysm opposed to annoying
N' even though no precedent's been set here for a cocky night leaning toward a second following
It's a positive something I've got with me now and it's measurably kicking: at least tonight I have hope.

I may get in a freeway high-traffic windshield fluid fight with spraying at velocities of 80-100 mph
Might even bail if it gets too real, call it in to the CHP as road rage though the other guy was laughing
Even though mine's the vehicle on the warning sign, going to pass on the right, into a semi's wide-turn flank
Tonight I'm stealing a breath, however undeserved, and entering a period of unjustifiable smirking.

Perhaps instead I've figured out a way to have the future double paved, as the life line on my left hand
Whether it's cuffs coming up from the other end of the wrist, a crossing-over experience, or much worse
A full moon takes up just as much room in the sky as the fully waned, and as fully I, whole, repose.


Ken
"Applied for a job down at the pie factory."

Tudhu

Block out as many sources of light as possible to get one super-intense light source.
Cough until all impurities are removed from the lungs.
Read enough photo captions to equal a multi-volume treatise on sloth.
Love everyone, even people you don't know, so much that you die at one with humanity.
Keep remembering a song until everyone else is singing it.
Have a system in your kitchen that bakes fresh pies like a factory.
Spend a whole day doing a task over so many times you'll never have to repeat it.
Practice talking dirty at home alone until it becomes second nature when a sex partner is present.
Find a place where cliffs and sea, sky and recline of sand overlap to reveal a perfect square.

by Donna

I Saw a Glowing Dog Lounging

X: I saw a glowing dog lounging by the pool at nearly ten pm.
O: Were you seeing things, hallucinations, voodoo, optical illusions?
X: It was a matter of dimensions, like several transparencies overlapping.
The ecstatic pet was in the house trancing on trying not to listen to the television.
Out near the water there was a patch of moonlight on the cement, someone's lost moment of election by heaven.
In between the dog and the light was a film of glass and behind that another.
O: And this was meaningful for you how--? Do you think your bitch is a medium or saint?
X: M'Lady is so far beyond reproach already that calling her saint is not a compliment.
What it meant to me was how we try to imagine other dimensions, just as a metaphor.


Peg
"From an old tape I found. Who are they?"

Urge to Beg God

She stands up stringy hair, staring horror-eyed, as if into a void, without taking air, n'then it subsides.
She must apologize to all victims of fallout everywhere because she blew, and blew so much.
But now she must stay alive and never go back to jail, not kindergarten, nor the place they kept her after the abduction from the parking lot at Sears.
The only safety there was never having to go back and never being able in any case to return.
Sprinklers kept wat'ring the strong desert plants that only knew to grab and thrive when they can but did it all the time and soon were banging up against the house with the wind in an entitled fashion.
The urge was to cower and dread even though she was the god that was supposed to let the beggars in.


Phyl
"Peg's really opening up."

Life of Peg

If some professional-primitive magical realist hack painter sloshed together or spent all night smoking pot and fine-lining it all in ball-point pen or traced with a stubby stolen public library pencil in front of an overhead projector image jazzed up by a team of so-called parapsychologists, right onto the stretched skin, the result would be Peg, topless, looking back as if at a history-changing conflagration while visible ghosts of the beloved buzz all around her head, advising or just projecting reminders into this waking plasma that they existed and of what they meant.


Phyl
"por parte mia"

i hate...

i hate having work things in my personal box and personal things having my work box,
or i hate it when there's personal works in my things box or personal-things work in my personal work boxes.
i hate it when there's work-box things in my personal thing box,
or boxes in my things or when things are not in their boxes.
i also hate doing thing-box work when i could be spending personal time boxing my personal-things work.
But mostly i hate working on things personal while things from the working thing boxes at work work at hating my person.


Connie [R.I.P.]
"All I get is pretty."

God Beggars

God beggars are gods that beg God for food,
and they starve feeling bellies full of good news.

God beggars beg until their nuts are blue, eager
to dream a century of virgins saying what to do.

Virgins beg a god t' make their sufring history'n,
that "this" once again have ambiguous meaning.

She felt th' begging as a wordless urge, but din't
make of it a saying, can't be judged for wanting.


by Phyllis

I'll Make the End of Life Really Beautiful for You

I'll be there in confident open blouses and pearls over tank tops. We'll be gliding through wooden-paneled hotel lobbies with the bouquets in giant vases. I can be titty all up in your face but I know that dying isn't only about that. Maybe you want to imagine naked slick slavery helping your way crib to kingdom, the backs of naked slaves maybe with fringes, gold satin cord. Stop and screen this: I am whispering Wall Woman's Blade of Grass in yr ear with yr eyes closed and you're seeing the grass. All of it.

"White Chocolate"

Algorithms of an Executrix

Her cataclysmic world's a rocking canoe: while you just can hold on, every moment is an upgrade. This is when sometimes people they start to sprout alternate personalities that can better handle the stress and strain of any given situation/ problem.

For example White Chocolate is a chick who's been hurt but still has a social craving and a sexy, hurt sexuality about her, very much into stockings. Sometimes guys guess she's a dyke, and girls think she'd make a handsome man. She started out practicing quick comebacks, for about 20 years, like it's cuz I'm sweet, but then she settled into folks thinking she was a freak even without knowing her name. Even fewer could have guessed it was Peg in lip gloss.

Another apparition sits with his legs tightly crossed and a can held at face level. Seems to have had one of the fingers on that hand removed for a better tipple. He can remember events of many years ago, but none of yesterday's. "Alan" has the permanent look of a monsoon native trying weepily in exotic tongue to explain the disaster to first responders and direct their efforts toward where they'd be most fucking needed.

Then it would be time to do the laundry, feed M'Lady. M'LADY Peg'd shout as if a cry for help at a lower creature could yield much but hiding in bushes. She's trying to express all the fear and exasperation of a braking middle life in an empty nest strewn with needles. Just her own raw self, without K-mones, couldn't be more inept at operating its shielding or filtering systems much less the measured algorithms of an executrix.

Phyllis

On Peg's backstory

Peg and the kids made house of a large working fridge in the middle of the desert. They could peek out, run back and forth from the car without singeing their faces.

When there were clouds it would be time to scout curling lines in every direction; it was like a ranger's post. They could burn garbage at night in steel barrels with holes poked by some unimaginable force.

Paper goods going made a multi-eyed jack-o-lantern, sparks blowing out his top. Phosphorescent scorpions, exoskeletons, clattered backwards from the light.

Inside, they welcome their own smells to remind them they're alive. Yet they feel kept only fresh, and how celery skin will start to slough and ice on the inner curves.

While Ted was out reporting the news in his salt-n-pepper beard, there was overall fear. When the dog held his breath to prick motion outside, a general MUTE was applied.


Phyllis
"Thinking about Peg's backstory."

The Future is Just a Cushion

The future is just a cushion between now and you know what.
The future is a cheap cushion with a hard, uncomfortable button right in the middle.
That cushion's button, squared and wooden, is the wheels on Ilyn's cart.
Ilyn's barely moved an inch in 20 years, except for straight down into crust.
A chesterfield sofa is an illusion of softness the way its buttons pull the surface in.
Illusions of depth are often mistaken as illusions of time.
Time does not exist. Time is a lie. The lie of time is just enabling your blindness.
You are blind because your face is buried in a cushion.

Peg

Identification Shell Slough

Missy, coughing blood bubbles, skew-winged and grotesque, pends between her stucco front porch railing and a massive iron drug store scale, still teething on a rubber diving vest. 

MISSY: In this my third iteration involved in these habitats i invoke, even before the fangs set and i can lift myself steadily from this misery on fully formed arms of flight, the names of my pre-carriers, for at any moment I know I shall lose their recollections.

SOME VILLAGERS: Don't tell us! Don't say the names, for we cannot hear!

MISSY: The names are Chama Tilly and Reptily.

SOME VILLAGERS: Great. That's just great. Now we'll have to go back into the records and produce some recompense for any act of disrespect tordall and any persons with those names.

MISSY: I would certainly hope so.

VILLAGER WITH CHIN LIKE A MIRROR HANDLE: How can we cope with having viewed your hideous molting, or...

MISSY [literally bending over backwards]: To take those backwards, I'd opt for meta-cognitive talk therapists and the term is "identification shell slough."

First-flesh venture

i am a genetic line
where vertebrae grew along it
and a nerve bubble formed
the faceless prototype head.

my parents were so unworldly
that i wanted to mount every trend
and i metamorphosed from within
so no special effects were needed.

when you learn you're descended from a pantheon
of first-flesh venture
you can roll out your tanking chakras
and they sparkle like dimes in a rug.


Chama Tilly

Once her hairdo missed the bell clapper, she had to say her own prayer.

Mthyuh it's a test
of how bad it is
that I insult my own beliefs
to moan your name.

Donna

Spam n' Eggs on a Plate, Stat!

Hey Mr. Big Tiny, y'gotta tiny big prolm?
Why doncha getchr big'n tiny off th' street?
Hey, Mr. Big; hey, Tiny Big. Where's yr
Tiny Missy, Tiny? Tiny Big, y'lostyr little
Missy Tiny Little Big. Yr gonna hafter sit-
chur big n' tiny body down fr spam n eggs!

Cause Me to Seizure

Metaphors Within Shmetaphors
Two of the four seasons
A menacing shorter man
sympathy for another
intensity of today's sun
i remember what i used to remember
don't know what i'm doing here
cause me to seizure

Ilyn

8 More Lipsticks

stay you die/ leave you die

Unrequited Suitor

random, but constant

shame for change

Day of non-participation

Had a Little Grip In

Drag on The System

Big Ol' Quinoa Party


PharmSupply

Phyllis on Jan Jansdaad

I recently had some down gal time with Jan Jansdaad, the daughter of Jan Jansdaad, Jan's dad. What's it like to be invisible? Is education overrated by the uneducated? How does she mean when she say "take it like a flow"?

PHYL: Jan you're one of my favorite co-bloggists because, I donno, you're less assuming and I guess self-defacing in a way.

JAN JANSDAAD: Thanks Phyllis. I used to think that you asked questions because you just wanted to get a grip on the right switches to totally turn someone off when you go bored. That you insinuate into people's lives and become meaningful to them only so that you can then later, for your own amusement value only, come up with the deepest possible way to hurt their feelings. The idea that psychological violence is better because it's legal, otherwise you would be a real murderer.

PHYL: Oh! But all that changed when...

JAN JANSDAAD: Right, since I found out you're embedded by the Sports N' Sex Crimes Bugle. It's cool-- in fact I feel comfortable being exhibitionistic with you now.

PHYL: So Jan, who are some of your favorite authors directors thinkers.

JAN JANSDAAD: You know I never have been one to maintain a lot of names in my accessible memory sectors. And even though uh Wayne and I are growing old in our empty nest, I've always not bothered with --and couldn't have anyway because I'm not capable-- human names. Baseball players, presidents, writers, directors bands poets. I just tend to take it like a flow, enjoy some music or a book, but not feeling obligated in any way to care who or what was the creator.

PHYL: So for you it's not old age or lack of education but rather brain capacity, strong sense of personal style and religious belief. Basicly any kinda nomenclature is Satan's nature; there is only one godhead. Now. "Take it like a flow"?

JAN JANSDAAD: That means be in the moment, Phyl.

PHYL: Why do you think it is that people don't notice you?

JAN JANSDAAD: We've taken steps over the generations that leave shadows like veils, and what in some places would be actual veils. Our behavior acts as an invisible burka. Leering shock envy dishonor my body, which resonates disrespect back hundreds of mutations. Moreover, modesty itself is a shield.

PHYL: Do the poor resent us.

JAN JANSDAAD: The dignified of any class can harbor no resentment toward another.

PHYL: Well spoken, but...

JAN JANSDAAD: Who's got a well spoken butt?

PHYL AND JAN: HAHAHAHAHA!

PHYL: Ok but really [smile]. Who is your God?

JAN JANSDAAD: You should know; I'm sure you tryda make a deal and beg him all the time.


by Phyllis

2nd Burnoff

Bad genetics

Every single facial expression
my face is capable of making proves
inappropriate for any situation.

But how often does the environment twist itself
hard enough to wring you into hovering orbit?
Enough to make it seem like an interminable hell.

And wouldn't it be better if, like the mail,
you could say i don't accept this,
i won't accept this-- it's the wrong address.

when you let your body take charge and speak for you,
it'll take its electrical cues from the mind,
so you're back where you started, with bad genetics.

Genetic shadows

When it's late and extra quiet, when the seasonal owners have gone on beyond to the next temperate happening, we see something like the flicker of candlelight, a sample of many a typical evening take a hundred years, or skipping continents. But here it's from inside the ancestral mind, where your instinct uses nuances of weak electric color to project target practice for its most visceral calibrations.

Only one curly bulb can make of a peaceful den a psycho-dramatic playhouse or frozen backdrop for dreamless, open-eyed sleep. A real estate photo might make these furnishings seem cheap, as if someone had opened wide the theater doors in the middle of a noon matinee, and it's all exposed and sordid and ruined, the giant protective stone lid removed from the top of a maze of clowns.

Genetic shadows twitch like atrophic limbs, facial spasms. An intensity of the left eye; the other's from the head of another guy. This personic blend can only see one life and its offset double, never truly two views; when they say a horror lasts forever, they mean across millennia, and it throws switches along its own strand. What I've always known, even since before I was a man, is nature and Her cruelties.


Donna
"I confess."

Prayer Gong

i can almost taste lake michigan on my lips
and breathe the rot of autumn at close grip

when i say god and gaze upon a place
in the curtain hanging black across His face

the fabric falls away and my eye goes distant
to a floating island in an upper quadrant

looking way beyond because it's been so long
since the call to prayer for me's been gonged.


Donna
"Mthyuh...I'm so grateful..."

dieoff up ahead

Never mind the swollen sea of young behind;
What concerns instead's the dieoff up ahead.

Our exercise of awesome individualist power,
god's voice one with making the right choices,

is good now if it will be or ever has been good
tho I reckon it's hard t' see thru a circle of fire.


Peg
"Really thinking. Kundalini thinking."

Entry Portal Craw Circumference Dimensions

As a virgin parson's son is out about his day, and just as he is ready to grant his first true blossom to a ruddy shop girl, he is seduced, literally hoisted by the roof of his mouth with a pair of thumbs made into hooks, by a scarred, hairy older man in a suit open at the neck, a handsome bearded but sadistic aristocrat.

The cruel and charming duke turns out and sets to chain the bewildered parson's family's only son for seven months in butt plugs and scrotal weights. He forced that the boy, wearing more than seventy tiny rubber-on-metal clips beneath a kimono, say goodbye to a friend who lay expiring in a mechanical bed.

Preacher's kid eschews the magnetic grip of the lusting mastermind and his duplex in a canyon highrise by scaling back to earth along the slippery yokes of the anonymous and undocumented classes, training in return their progeny on what to say to be redeemed in the context of the host society.

When he wakes up in a cooking pot with a cassava root and a pound of celery, broth to the chin, he stands and gathers his fortune slowly wrought from proctoring and chalk, returns triumphant to the scene of his pubescent initiation frights and is immediately tricked by a familiar voice behind a cape.

You've taken seven years to be away, and now another seven alone with me you'll stay attached to a radiator pipe in a pretty prison full of playful castrati maids. Your still warm nest egg isn't all you've signed away on what you thought was a petition to lift restrictions on entry portal craw circumference dimensions.


Odrin and Ayre Fromme-Diaz

Gift to speak truths in anger

you call me crooked
dick clown wanderer
broker of heart and rules

my argument is that
i love you just as much
as I ever have

there's no truer fortune
my better eye could find
than the sinew of a trail


Tilly

Spin, Vajra

winning and losing connote will
zen master refuses to take step
goes down on a burning temple
aggressives link selves to a god
and feel good about the victory
the bending willow slaps a boot
without even achieving titillation
the vajra, a vessel or pin, coun-
ter ambulates against our plane.


Ken and Jan
"We belong to each other."

cataclysm

and ground splitting,
loss of limb strength
signs thrown at you,
jarring, a vajra spins
past is disintegrating
wraith in a spotlight,
fireballs behind you,
dank rent in the sky
convulsions of sinus
begging, intervening

waking chi blackout
out-of-vehicle drive,

hello? I'm travelling:
it's a lucid career of
then to nowhere; he
who troubles not be
troubled not by any-
body, so I go toiling.

Paranoid of Nature

It was a role play or exploring letting swim a fractile of human makeup that most share. Maybe because of the music then we lent ourselves cheap to its timing (or just by being in a generation can you claim any hand in coloring the nature of its arts?).

Human makeup is darker than the skin. Or so said the mind who invented original sin or simply spoke for every person having flinched from nature for fear its dangers represent a judgement kindred to the horror a mind beholds at its less civilized head.

The mind includes nature, but atoms cannot include other atoms unless where there's a mind, which must then be agreed to be para-atom, para-material, magic and its imagination. Mind cannot exist without surroundings. If it did, it would be a horror.

If what's around us was a mind it would be a mind without surroundings since what surrounds what surrounds us is a vacuum. Tension created by sucking is what teases on life. But your fear about nature is that it just might be a mind and not that it could disappear into a void. 

If all else went away forever we could finally heave a sigh and symbols could no longer torture us with accusations as if we ourselves had decided to be born so dreadfully bad. Not even a stick man can exist when there are no lines. Nomenclature is meanwhile my only defense.


Baal

Pups

Pups watch through trees for the fence-walking kitties, but the trees are all wavy from light off the pond.
Pups think that kitties are mystical creatures that come from a world that is shimmering fronds.


Donna
"I surrender."

I Blew My Pleasure Center

My cheeks felt tight for about three years, and my gums were receding prematurely. In the mirror, my face kept changing. I thought my bite was sinking inward. I wondered what force could make the bone structure of a skull move and bubble. Nocturnal bruxism? An uneven ridge swole up surrounding my mouth like an older smoker whore, but it wasn't unattractive. Only if I pinch-lifted my lips-- and who does that?-- would anyone spy what was really developing. Even I didn't guess until the little ruffled moons started poking their fingers through. These have got to be someone else's damn teeth.


Missy

Good luck thieving

i drowned a wasp
left him in the net
turn back around
an a piece of fluff
flies at my face an
i flinch so garishly.
but all the evening
under half a moon
good luck thieving.


R.

cathartic diagnosis

They say a walking problem is a mind problem
as if your mind could have trouble walking, or if
you could even think and walk at the same time.

They assume that everything physical about you
must be normal and in so doing make your mind
para-physical. It's not matter that exists in space.

They see you wobble and think of drunkenness as
mind impairment not physical disabling. The mind
wanna own everything so it calls everything mind.

I name what your problem is so I can own it while
still not having it myself. Whether or not I own you
as well is inconsequential as to cathartic diagnosis.


Al Upinnahb Iznis

a new poverty layer

out with the genteel poverty that's neat;
in with the ground-in extra layer returning
intimate effects into earth at your feet.

one layer of wallpaper or applique bordering
one fiberglass headboard as the base for an
entire climbing wall of fluffy Borgana faunae

thin crust of sprays and exhausts and their
harvest of dusts and micro-excrement;
now slide, rub passing by, and carpet stomp.

from bong water of the Jedi to Febreze,
oily, salted kernels, pebbles, party sprinkles;
coarse smears making of shag a rank flat top.

cap 5's a measurable gaseous zone;
above that we experience mists still falling
and then roundabouts the hearts and arms.

the center may follow the throat to be able
to vacuum over again its own essence;
the throat is the eroded gate that plays out.


Donna
"Yes, I'm up."

Meat Horn

I remember the blood and turquoise-color rubber and my mother.
Stainless steel trays and instruments, from beneath a paper bonnet, druggily beholding me.
There were electric storms that felt like my hair growing, emergency sucking.
Sounds interrupted, noise was interruption, we were attention bait on an interventionist planet.

Now clots of our lives, appearing behind mirrors, in drains, snag on the present, must be yanked.
Her shimmer fills doors a couple times a year then disabsolves into telephonic vibration.
When I extend my thumb at the end of an arm to pull her braid I'm blocked from contextual access.
Except for hearing waves lap school-blue tiles, how she squeaks free of her swimming cap.

When I hold myself the way she hugged herself in self-knit sweaters on a slug-lined morning
The same elbow tips come to touch the mitts with similar tentativeness.
I am a genetic trail that's grown the habit of spouting vertebrae along it.
We have so many stomachs that it doesn't matter where the break is, or change of mind.


Hoolie
"For Peg"

I am a genetic line

Slack gaping knots of vines of rubber coated vines of metal wire roping, dipping over and under, across each other in their glacial play. I am a genetic glacier.

The tree, a spear that disintegrates attempting to exit the atmosphere, all the while shedding dna and re-materializing in competing shards. I am a stack of totem.

If the heart was the only rhythm we could hear, and we liked getting bounced around in a leather bag, the drums came out and we bobbed, singing "I...I."


Illyn

Wherever He Lays a Cat is his Home

from their breath each could tell that the other was scared
they lay bare in their bed with the light from outside
it was right what they'd done but they didn't know why

There were roads that would never be lit by the moon
so deep or so smart as to always be gay
to wither or not one knew night from the day

But some sinewy vines that swung out of control
re-trajected by chance with the same random goon
and in blindness of living got tangled in two.

Tilt of Mast

there is a lost-ness
but also a seeking;
a tilt of mast could
be caused by sink-
ing but also rowing;
mor'n half a planet
covered in puddles
flat as tables, a fly
meanders cursively
over, seeing his self
from most angles 'n
not sincerely caring,
for it's all an old sto
-ry now, reflecting.


Ayre and Odrin Fromme-Diaz

Why = Where

If what you desire is for me not to exist, that's not ok. 
That's the fist with which she grips reality. Where
Were the OK police? They'll come swooping in. Why

There's a whole thing happening that includes your sleep and what happened you thought you forgot, and added to that what you think life is, your assumptions about why events occur, how material changes hands, and the dark presence of the stars and planets teasing growth while life counter-intuitively resists and yes, choices.

When you try to hurt me, it almost seems like I can't
Trust you. Peg's girlhood is full of blank spots like
These. Now she is a fierce and lonesome retired woman.

Tendrils of wealth can curl in anywhere at any age. Some license you got on weekends suddenly pays off. Teacher of that course filing for bankruptcy. It seems like a directive hand because she can't see the invisible swirling currents, just her little paddles. She squishes forward with the bated breath of a blindfolded bottom.


Phyll's Log

These Things've been Kicked Around

These things've been kicked around
these things've been tard n hung
things we are a used to be
regretful for what's to come.

First thing is a prison round
out yr window a golden town
one day they cough up the key
(that's) when you chose to run from me.

These things've been kicked around
these things've been tard n hung
things we are a used to be
regretful for what's to come.

Another one is a paper cup
you take a drink and you've used it up
Now Raylene she is history
but when she ran, the cut was clean.

These things've been kicked around
these things've been tard n hung
things we are a used to be
regretful for what's to come.

Finely my dog passed from me
Bad breath and vasectomy
Not once did he ever run
I kep'm chained t'the Mercury.


Donna
2 Mike: "Should we really?"

These Things: the Mp3

Psalmz N Prolmz

Say did you ever notice wen yr man seem 2b driftin
Got you out twice a week on a curb try some griftin
Used to sing you to sleep up to now doneven listen
Grrl he is unresponsive and therefore it is nonsense
We don't care for the violence, the overconfidence
Say es que I-N-U were n-o-t not meant 2 parly voo.


Rappy Wordinghood

Short for Illinois

Her body finally started showing signs of morphing into another thing. Maybe another species. Bones are trunks, bubbling over each other's paths. I saw a personal form swallowing its own mouth as part of one major folding crease down the center with dark grey bone rising breaking round the edges like molten dough to crust. Maybe just a phenomenon that happens and doesn't affect the soul, though you die. Though she didn't die at all. In fact she stepped out of that thing when it finally cracked back open. But then she was Connie. And from Connie they wanted to know: what happened to the Chama. And then when they found Connie dead in the motel on that robin's egg chenille spread, they started sniffing around her boyfriend Ted.

Ted is the blue-eyes Aframerican former news anchor and husband of Peg. His face only appears to be sad because he knows that anyone can melt by it. His sideburns become salt n' pepper from this worry. He fathered Hoolie and a daughter he's not sure about. His albino half-brother is Illyn. Illyn is short for Illinois.


Phyl's Log

Psalmz N Prolmz

This post has been quashed by the Mthyuh Preservation Society. 

they'd won before they even came out of the womb

they achieved eternal life by getting shots of fingernail starter hormone.
the whole body would secrete itself and have to be trimmed frequently.

they were ready for everything including some kind of lobotomy for sorrow,
that too a self-perpetuating enzyme that only breaks down if you stop eating.

you might think they can't appreciate all the good they got without the valleys
but you'd be surprised how looking upward'd have you swinging vine to vine.


"Terri"
Misty Terra Rinni

Nettick before/ after

Splay hope

the waves were in a perfect grid
as if you were gonging the barrel

so we can't deny patterns exist
but only in the realm of physics

what's now, not dreams, more
truly is an offring of the surreal.

how your argument turns clown,
cash money vortices in this home

must we splay hope to phenomena,
or through magic only prove dumb?


Jan Jansdaad
"My husband is Ken."

Emphasis Mine

Under review by MPS. 

Phyllis channels Ted

Phyllis: The way you've steered your son will cause him pain.
Dad: Lucky for him! I speak from beyond the grave.
Phyllis: Now he wants to become the first gay guy in space.
Dad: Measure time, weigh matter.
Phyllis: How do I know this is automatic writing, not my projection.
Dad: What's automatic writing?
Phyllis: How do you measure time there.
Dad: Time does not exist; here's all there is.
Phyllis: Wait, that's... projection. I've lost reception.
Dad: *kgkkckghgkk* ...lieth with dog, waketh with sneeze.
Phyllis: I've got to somehow warn Illyn not to go down...
Dad: Illyn is what Illyn does. Maybe one day..
Phyllis: No, it was something you said, and it adds up... to bad.

Illyn: Hello?
Phyllis: I've found some evidence that portends.
Illyn: More wasted money on that swami?
Phyllis: You mustn't go down again.
Illyn: Too late. I'm headed for Her mouth now in my cart.
Phyllis: Those hacked-square pine wheels won't get you far.
Illyn: It's Shab takes me. We are suspended above matter.
Phyllis: Always trouble when he's near.
Illyn: Funny thing to say to a man about his driver.
Phyllis: Why not just ride Shab's empty saddle.
Illyn: Then it would be not empty, not Shab. He's under a vow/ curse.
Phyllis: Yes, I know, and he twiddles his legs in empty air.
Illyn: To make it look as though he's running.
Phyllis: But really only the ground is moving.
Illyn: But you called to warn me not to hurl myself into the steaming craw of Mthyuh.
Phyllis: Well? Is it Albino Cannonball again? Flaming Pondstone?
Illyn: They only called me that because my hair was red and it really popped against the stains of sulfur.
Phyllis: I don't know how or why you crawled back up through clods of ash n' dirt like a periodical cicada, but now you're whole again, and...
Illyn: This is not what I call whole or even periodical. What can I own but a body shed and rebroken?



Record of Phyllis (embed)

ZOMBIE BUCKET

They have a lost glass in their grey eyes,
Outer skin of gone nectarine,
Rock-like flesh underneath, mouths
that open into curlicues.

They live but can't see a life here.
They walk grimacing unnoticed.
What they have is what they had.
They want/ don't want each other.

These men, outside the pool of light,
Acting on their last survival nerve,
Trapped in an elevator with other beauties:
They are riding our bucket into space.


Sea Bitch