Sand Trap

The neighbor sometimes mows his
dirt while a pit viper dogs its barrier,
wife standing by with a needle.

Isn't she regal in the torn screen
chatting on a land line? Aren't pretty
hands wasted swatting at dire straits?

We thot we'd at lease have some
body art to show for our aches as
opposed to a paucity of bike parts.

Obscured by Flatus

Juniper is prone to tumorous growths all over his body, inside and out. For a while he'd sprout fingery pink blobs through his teeth he could just chew off when they began to overhang the jowl. Could this gene be harvested and viralized to inhibit precocious speech development in targeted individuals within the branks candidature pools? Then a furred, tightly ballooning sack like a misplaced, second-chance set of gonads bounces pert, just above the anus and contains a hardened mass that no veterinarian will go near. Which gland has sacrificed its own capacity for infectious response or even normal secretion in a real estate so limited as among those dorsal peaks and edges? Another living, blood-pumping agent inside of him which is him-but-also-not-him rivals his spleen in size and neighboring organ displacement but can only be directly verified by enzymatic footprint analysis. Every attempt at imaging so far has been thoroughly obscured by flatus. Up top again, at the base of the tail, you encounter a particularly bulbous and aggressive eruption, black and speckled like asphalt. When he shakes his coat, sharp grains can fly in any direction as if you'd kicked a jumping cholla cactus. Your bare legs may be fairly peppered with the gummy, reduplicative particles. This is another way that Juniper expresses and sheds his cancers.

Shaded information bar insert, p. 15.
Chapter 4: "Dogshiv!"
My Boys and their Bitches
Dr. Donna Thong

Door Prize: It Hits you on the Ass

Corporation: OK well I'm the great big corporation. Think I can do what I want? Well no. I'm just a hallucination: you are me. The individual. Without your support, I'm nothing. Never heard of a Thousand Holes that are Tight? It's everyone pulling together to co-sign my Right to Plow.

Individual: Ooo lookie me I'ma little diddly noo-body who can't even pee without buying a contraption from some kinda capitalist. You'll arrest me if I just let it flow. You say I'm gay if I don't have a mug with your pig logo.

Hoolie drinks a lot of wheat juice and tries to explain getting fired to what's left of the disciples.

Art Fair Rapist

In my fifties, bare aesthetics will turn to hungry assault.
I'll have less self-control, in proportion to attractiveness.
At a salad bar just the other day, a German tourist near
-ly brot me to my knees on the plastic runway protectin
-g the rug. I was on my first beer, but I could have slain
his frau and drug him home by the hair with a second m-
ug. I vow to haunt art walks, retrospectives, book fairs a-
nd lame conventioneers who are paid to stroll their carne
between miracles of the marketplace and crudités variés.

Promo Script:
Dr. Thong's 10-Minute Day, with No Workout

After No-Shiv

Peg just home from Pharmsupply Focus Group would squat and pee if you even touched her collar. We finally got it and threw it out. She seemed liberated. Our reign would be one of logic. At first a butter-soft Gucci leash gently looped behind the neck did the trick in that she limpingly obeyed as in mock Stations of the Cross. It was Pathetic.

Now all Syl needs is to loll the thing against her thigh and Peggy knows what it means. To bed. To your den. In a cave.

She'll be back to fully verbal soon, and on to childbearing. We feel she wants to whisk the ones she's got off to a cliff nest and wish them well. She must be stopped.

Living as a Career Bachelorette

Last night's doggie-bag salmon with safflower mayo, squeezed lemon, romaine, salt, dill. Downed with a cold $5 sav-blanc. I got the wrong fork, I know!

2nd course: Reheated spinach linguini. It looks so yella cuz I'd added a ton of turmeric to the bottled pasta sauce along with ground sirloin, fennel, cayenne. Topped from a tiny bottle of Kraft parm from the AM/PM Mini-Mart.

All still welcome at the fortnightly Endangered Foods Summit and Pot-Luck.
Mthyuh Preservation Society HQ, Ritual Death Salon, Partition IV.
1st and 3rd Wednesdays.

Donna

K Coming

Peg heard herself remark as she woke up on her fancy hovering cushions:

"That's the first time a living bone creature in my hand ever proposed marriage."

Crisp sky blue sheets were her universe. Without the kids, life was a cockpit.

Raiding villages in her flying F-suit brought flakes to their knees.

Her turds boiled in outdoor mess cauldrons fetched a hefty consolation for the burns.

We must Hide our Joy

There were survivor barbecues while some of the neighbors walked in thirsty death circles. There'd been no news in weeks that anyone could get. That funny couple the chick with the spindly head and the albino, they showed up around then. She was telling him what to do but also worshiped him with fruits and song. He had a red afro.


Tri-Tip Toaster Oven Cookout

bottle of chili sauce
1 lb meat chunks
Worcestershire 1T
many bay leaves, whole
child's fist full of cloves
head of garlic: teeth are cut free but unpeeled
extra-thick foil

at least 1 hr @ 300
better yet, crok-pot it with a whole pork roast and more of everything, 4hrs high
squish the garlic teeth onto the roll before the meat
do not use the bay leaves out of one of those xmas laurel wreathes
mush the roast into the sauce with a potato masher whatever right there in the crock leaving a variety of chunk sizes for slopping into fresh bread. Makes you want zin on ice.

Other Body

Boy, child, lord, what am I?
I ask as the world, not myself.
Sneaky? Guardian? Lovely?
Yor expectations go this far.
Ambling, I may swing my fists.
Will you be there?
Nipple, chest, font.
Ship. Net. Ribs.
Together, we're a knot.
Two are untrustworthy.
I'm on my own now.
I'm seeking another body.

Ass-assination of Amygdala Jones

If you can remember what it was like to be an organ in a wurl without bone around you;
If you can imagine your own medium, what you breathe so to speak, doubling as armor;
If you could see in every direction only by manipulating basically the optic nerve alone;
You would begin to resemble our homegrrl, Amygdala Jones.

You might feel bottom-heavy, like you want to scream, "Don't pick me up!" when he greets you at the airport, knowing yud break. And it's hard to move 2 pair of lobster claws across a polished marble floor with so much weight. Some would call you paranoid. But you're misunderstood.

When yor skin is soft as a toad, the body a shapeshifting load, and your interface, peeled grapes on noodle stilts, is all over the place, you begin to crave solids. Like vasa deferentia, you may only be able to make a difference with a second opinion and the help of additional fluids.

Cumulative parables such as these beg the wisdom of unconditional evolutionary confidence. Amygdala Jones couldn't help putting feelings at the top of her tdhu list. When you haven't any lids and there isn't a drink in sight, one can only hope that tears are general throughout the hood.

Fragment, "To the Student"
Sin-Gaberra Ms., shards 6a-d.
Ass-assination of Amygdala Jones: Princess or Goddess, It's the Same

Forever was 13 Years

This morning I couldn't sleep because flies kept stinging my cancer scabs with their maggot splooge.

Our own planet's outer persona was being popped open and violated by too much light.

Lysis

They rip off your face and you hemorrhage the slime what kept you alive.
Phages sweep by and recognize exactly where you've folded the antennae.
Apoptosis is even more horrifying because everyone just stands by smiling.
They think they blebbostatins, panaceas, can contain yor diasporic flotsam.

Skin and Clay

Skin and Clay walk down to the corner, where there's a street light. Maybe something's happening there. Skin: Looks like it's just you and me. Clay: It doesn't matter. I can't see.

Skin and Clay goindu a morgue. Clay: I am the flowerpot he left behind, spun by the contours of his hands. Skin: I am his orphaned leather backpack, flesh colored, ink stained. Skin and Clay [together]: Are we museums or are we raw materials?

Clay and Skin weigh time against moral capacity. Skin: I'm the one who can go bad. Clay: It takes me 10,000 years to neutralize yor shit.

Skin and Clay go to church. Clay: He who's got a blessing's got a curse. Skin: An both those guys are better off than you.

Clay and Skin decide to commit a sin. Clay: What do we do first? Skin: Nothin. Clay: I am doomed.

Skin and Clay become filthy lovers. Skin: You are a little gritty. Clay: That's hot, Skin.

Taco Party

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

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

Static Adventure

I leave the sands on the floor of my home

so you can swish through in your sandals, or

bare footed in the granules, pick at stones.

I have the shades rolled, carpets up, brother

because the winds then can have a handle

to drag us on the dunes as they wander.

For we virile khans of unfastened stakes,

time can’t end murdered by jealous princes.

This ark is a mill which grinds its own wake.

Amygdala Jones

Was that her under the avalanche of gratuitous accessories and empties at the sidewalk cafe?
Did she never become that buck-tooth, saddle-shod shooter from whom we all long to flee?
Was her rearing not overdetermined by scripture, her apocalyptic destiny given us to slay?
With safety in righteousness, patrimonial soil, swarm this story for your spleen, worker bee!

She shall be known for whatever it is you call a curse which is a name: Malediction?
Since she is technically a goddess, leadership nomenclature splatters out of her everywhere:
"I hold out both my hands, like giving anal polyps: fingerless but ready, fertile, present.
"Imminent, I hold you in my balls, which are fists. My arms, living tubes, can be dicks to you.

Sighing, Peg took off her ridiculously large and fake sunglasses frames, palm rolling a sweaty 7/7 across her forehead for clarity. Listen to that clinking. Sears is going to be here any minute. Shd I try and cram in a nap and say I'm just groggy from dreamin? Or might I go ahead and ride this current/wave of Violade like a Mayfair lady in a white sateen and foxtail cape?

Partial Ch. 4 and notes.
Sin-Gaberra Ms., shard 4c.
Ass-assination of Amygdala Jones: Princess or Goddess, It's the Same

Pioneer Woman

It's witchy and good!

Bottom of an open hot pressure cooker, in this order:

• puddle olive oil
• big red onion, chopped or whole
• washed and sorted bag of blackeyes
• meaty red bell, cut big
• cumin seeds
• celery seeds
• salt
• white pepper
• cayenne, but a lot
• gurgle of vine
  
• any kinda sausage or wiener

Fill way past the top of the mound with filtered water;
30 minutes, high.
Meantime, we made brown basmati with butter.
Leftovers: (x2days) broiled crisp under CA sharp cheddar.

They can Go Back to Hurt you

An agent of anything steps into your life and shows time for what it is: a lie.
Let's take the bullet holes along the side of Ken's sedan.

Pick any vertical line to indicate "now" (Her). Let's say the long crease of the driver's door.

Punctures to the right and left are future and past, for a lack of better tautology.
Inside each dark opening, poorly-captured moments flicker.

On the left, they are ripples of attention. Starlene's prism black lights the steps in hot retrospect:

• Oh what a pommeling he gave that love. He was brown nosing fate.
• Showers ruined the yard sale. Now we know why he sought that.

On the right, they are ripples of motion. Starlene's gravity stones past the splash, dropping wet:

• Must have been some undercurrent make him call his mom the next day: eddy pull?
• In less than a year they've got him surrounded at the Club Martinique-- surprised?

Sin-Gaberra Chank

This is the chank at Sin-Gaberra.

Monument and Maiden

From the cut of his pants, Ken's buttocks and thighs must have had to swell, yes freakishly, in order to align themselves with a naturally swinging bat. His skull was a granite helmet carved to cover optimistic projectures for the tightest fill of any bronze head.

She took him easily, mercilessly, like a retarded kitty. His spine implants and hours squatting proved no match for sequins and bottomless limitations. Even so, her painted zygote fingers at one point tried to claw at heaven for more success juice. Her wizened silhouette, thrown unflatteringly there against a disintegrating wall of memorabilia, besotted life for him, starting then, both back and forth by calendar.

Or had they form changed by trading lyric go-go cages at the height of their passion as a way to be truly all over and up inside one and with the other?