Queen's Ass

Had three docs look adit. One was this Tattooed Urologist called Don out on Red Light Highway. Claimed to be an operator. Said my prostate was too small. I gave him The Slip, Dad's Toilet Kit Gaping behind the Front Seat.

Second was a Happy Orphan fraid he'd find an Archetypal Angry Parent if he asked me to Drop Trow. His contribution was Advisement to Do Nothing, but that only Makes Time Stop; A Man Has to Act.

I listen to the little voices inside me for when I really Want to Cream: My Dead Posse.
They said check out the Queen in the Filling Station. They moaned her name into their hats.

I'd Like to Hold You Once

Apparently, women really
want to have sex.

But you and I, no
one will suspect.

Let them strut their
glossy trappings

While we steal a
caress and longing.

Brash fruits drop, ho-
llow in our ear;

We mutually suckle
underground.

Would that my
branches could

Find you in air, in-
hibit yor career.


I'm y' baseline, baby!
Kev

Reliquary of K's

Every time his head surfaced, he'd scream at the cameras, "How do I kill it?! How do I kill it!" and it would again twist him under the muddy foam. They were rolling, and the beast's plastic branks had come off in the scuffle. Kevin would have been crying if he had not needed to maintain, to save his life, a fierce persona. The electronic eyes became absurd to him then. He had to squeeze these prehistoric lips together in a lovelock and keep it shut until emergency services could hooptie on over. Publicity may have been his job, but he felt he had already stretched his adventure comfort aperture nearly to snapping.

Meanwhile a family of K's coasted about 250 rods above the desert floor. While they appeared to be a team, each one was searching, lost in its own way. Parents and chillun. Their bodies knew to fly to the left of another's wind, but that was all. Then they heard Kevin Reynolds's horrific squalling.

They turned as one and on a diagonal, calm as death, swooping low enough to take him. There was no question which. As deity, a mother must step forth to challenge the moral capacity of any contrary life form.

The sweat from the back of Kevin's neck began to pool under Peg's tongue.

Clipped in her beak, flanked by her significant others, Kevin wondered if they, now, might eat him, removed from record on a windy chank cliff, solemnly, as if picking through a reliquary.

Odd Day

took dump at courthouse
and left

pool had checkered grid waves
like a denture cleaner

true identity of a co-worker
dawned on me

saw self at center of relief map
and sighed

asked for guac when I wan-
ted bleu

pictured you as really
gone, Tom

eyed my own back fat

dogs got early bones

felt a ghost pain that
couldn't be

Love, Syl

Odd Day [the Mp3]

Tarmac

Tarmac, landing area, sweet spot,
Organ, plain, coat;
Spread out across infinity;

Leather map,
skin forest,
stretched on a drum,

Mother, blubber,
road, with runoff,
beading water;

Acceptor, shield
of welcome,
lay of tar:

you cook yourself,
you get hard,
and you crack.

Black as black is
Black as blackety
Black black:

You ready for a
visitation, but soft
as a glove, Jack.

Sticky membrane,
Dusty eye,
interceptor.

--Hoolie
"Life on a Park Bench" folios

Monkey on a Swag

Nobody Cares to Be My Lover

At least not who matches
My Ideal Opposite Gender.

The pain was waking me up in the night
N' giving me Circles All Day.

They called me La Llorona.
Now I spell relief: a_d-r-e-a-m_d-e-f-e-r-r-e-d.

My Blood Plug: worthless?
...and comfortable, like a pair of Curly-Toe Slippers.

My Grandiose Ideation may sound much
like a Monkey on a Swag, in a smoking jacket, tho

I tell you Pharmlife is always longer than no life because it's
Costlier. Your living cells have Employees and Stockholders.

Smokers Don't Need Fireworks

Tomorrow we're having meat laid on red-hot steel bars over the cinders of aromatic junk wood and brush. We soak it in vine and sear it this way until it is white with pain. Upon removal from its host, we nearly always receive thanks. With those nerves and tendons gone, it can go about its business faith healing and puking on bartops.

Guyz Like to Pray Rocking

Guys like to pray rocking
because it pumps their prostate,
and it gets them off
even if they're not hard.

Before you eat chips, or
in a stadium seat at
a summer pogrom,
let us be 1 body.

Part of your hotness is
the way they have you dangling
over a pit of
fiery death reminder.

High-End Wig Shop

Donna was force fed Jive linguistics in cement school. She had come to respect at least the magic, but could never reproduce the spell, never get past the affective filter of girls with half her education but twice her size fresh in from the diaspora of urban public housing reform. These chicks were ball players and tight with no one but the school mascot, Jesuit. Donna took to wearing big glasses and a checkered Georgie-girl cap, like a cabbie, just to protect herself from their wrath by being her own teen with a strong sense of personal style. Later, headbands that involved dyed chicken feathers and suede, hoop earrings, shiny colored-plastic blob pendants and bug brooches, midriffs and lowriding, dayglo borgana sleevecuffs and shoes with pearls on them catapulted her all the way through pharmcamp and into her own clothing-optional tropical disco resort and snake vaccine consultancy.

summer crotch n' cotton

bird chirps at night
three dogs listen

candle in a pot
spewing lemon grass

lights on in house
mean safe outside

stanky sof cotton,
nachrul melody,

we peel it off
while ogres sleep.

To: Mike
From:
Dr. Thong

"I'm Yo Scrip, Baybee!"

Lush in a Poo

Mike's Swimming Blog: Summer of WD: Endless

I've never seen anything like it: Dr. Thong becomes this water satyr when in contact with water. Earlier, almost drowning herself, she back paddled out to the middle with a glass of vine held high above the surface like a liberty torch. She then to the tune of a number of imagined tom-toms proceeded to execute a series of very geometric, 70's tribal bonfire dances using the grail, its ruby contents, and the tension of the deep end against her musculature as props. An entire victory lap of sorts was then devoted to what she called her "pig-dolphin movement," a super-undulation of great strength, gall, and poor taste. Coming to an abrupt though not unwelcome stop, she had her hands on her own raw hindquarters as if for the first time. "I can no longer bruise my pelvic shelf," she marveled; "my ass is now so big I can't feel any of the bone directly. I have a big ass, so I'm going to use it," Donna continued, still out of breath from her last performance while gaining emotional momentum. "I can... watch this..." Donna banged her hip up against the side of the poo as furiously as she could underwater. "I can throw my ass around and bang it on cement and it doesn't even hurt! I have a big ass. Yeah! It's big." Dr. Thong continued, banging ass violently and sipping carefully from her plastic goblet. Then the wind started to pick up.

Bandanna Bandito

There's a restaurant attached to a motel at the edge of town that gives onto a convalescent home across the highway, Chalk Chank Manor. It was shut down for a reason that's mysterious in a town whose most powerful most always get a pass in the press. The Manor is the last real estate that's not pharmland or plain sand from there to Chukka, way beneath the turn of the horizon. The road takes a deep dip also, at the bottom of which there's a mannequin who looks like a bandanna bandito selling junk wood. Kevin has evening meals

there at Finister's, flirting with bologna-face truckers, cement miners and horny carpetbaggers. After a quick dip at the newspaper machine by the door, he'll walk in and spread the Sports N' Alleged Sex Crimes Bugle across the chilly tabletop of the booth with the best view and look out on the dusk. The dead palms at The Manor have radically U-turned, their fronds upside down. The blacktop between is untrammeled enough to be a runway of sorts. Enterers see Finister's and The Manor and Manor Motel as their de facto introduction to the Low Chanks.

Intergenerational Bitch Fight

La-La and M'Lady went at it after a dispute Kevin says over somebody walking by outside the fence. But they were fighting over him. A lot of blood spilled on the patio and up against the stucco. I was trying to wedge apart their muzzles with a plastic lawn chair, Kevin was hosing them down (I said Kevin get the hose as he just stood in stupor), and I was kicking La-La in the ribs since she had her cuspids sunken firmly into M'Lady's upper gingiva. In the guest bath, M'Lady was spurting blood onto the double folding linen closet doors. La-La hid behind a giant white flowering Nerium oleander "La Comodona" where she also goes when I yell. M'Lady looked worse with the facial swelling, but La-La can hardly walk and bleats her whistle-cry with each step. Now I'm wondering should M'Lady be put to sleep. It was she who attacked her own daughter, who was being brushed by the deadbeat daddy. He only there once a week, and La-La growl when M'Lady try an get up in the bed with them. There was even a chunk of fatty tissue on the wet cement and La-La come back before the pain set in and lick it up along with a small puddle of her own mother blood.

It's a mistake to let them work it out between them who's top bitch. Who will cuddle in his bed? Eat from his plate? Sit shotgun in the pickup? Because K. won't step up to the plate and show his strength, put them down, they try murdering for fate.

One Blessed

Connie slumps as a broken yoga nude on office chair stuffing and horse hair.
Lolling splayed with the public oracle dispenser as primary light, she can see
her role has become guest, prisoner, client to negotiate. They have to keep
her alive. She will always rub their face in that; her loins are still soft enough
to snatch cock from any nest; her brain can scramble eggs on flat rocks; her
love is like a burning hot smokestack. As she wisens into chaff, she meditate:

As the Flounce Girl, I made my fortune young and almost forgot the sufring
of my peoples. We small, blond and humble, not without cultural misgivings.
Out of control with the free breath of living, I garnered envy n' persecution;
there was no one in my tree of friends and famly that could withstand to su
-pport my idle woes a drumbeat longer. When another is illin, you'll explain,
"oh how we make our own way, own troubles." With grace go I, one blessed.

1blesit, the Mp3

That's a Fine Boutique...

Years later, Peg has opened an understated dress and fingertip vibrator shop in Upper-West Seersucker Chank. Ted stumbles in on account of a bad map. He can only see her butt as she re-stocks some Pinky Nuke, swinging expertly on a rope ladder. He exits immediately back through the heavy, treaded mudflaps and with a hatpin noiselessly scratches this grievance on the sandstone mouth of the establishment's windward entrance.

...but you think it's time that sweeps us? No, because stasis mocks time and still creates its own results. You think time always liffs the upper hand and therefore exists. Just because you always lose does not mean the victor is abstract. That might even be psychosis: not able mentally to embrace any oppressor as solid. In time's case, it's a setup: a supposedly moving target that's too profound to be understood. Booshia. How do they tell your speed from a traffic helicopter, for example? Paint lines and watch you move across them.

You been scratchin' lats in my path baby? Are you a woma with not much to do but see me spin my wheels in distress? Am I a hooptie tryna tess the curve on a invisible rail chall? You don't think I'm for real? Youda onee one who ever raised a fiss. To me, time is met you knew you lost you crazy kulat-wearin' ruttin' like a hound, afro-grabbin' slag-mammy.

I love you,
T

Phuket, I'm Goinda Thailandia

Whereas once Connie rose an impunate clamor carrying on in a flock, something about the way she shows up late in life and alone with the same old antics gets her sent more often than not to jail.

Whereas her age peers with higher-up roles in the global economy behave even more shamefully, no one sees how it's her prerogative to shower her wurl with boutique critical commentary, especially on a bender.

Whereas all the other seats at the bar are also occupied, those drunks have the presence of mind to shut up. "It's righteous what you say, girl-- but more so that they haul you away," says a skeleton.

"I'm just husband hunting, Jay," sasses Connie, heavy lidded, to a lady strip-search cop. "Thas whut you get for poking around wair you don't belong," retorted Chama, a goddess in policewoman's garb. "Youda nosiess dyke I ever saw."

No One is Innocent
by Connie

I'm impatient and
I jab at things and
I hurt myself.

I'm innocent and
think the hol wurl want
my prolongations.

Ery time I stick
my neck out, they hack
it. Phucking bastards.

It Lived

Even the Chukka Chanks Chain rejected
me. They said "yor not Chukka, yor a ba
-stard; you have minerals on your moth-
er's side sure, but that many times rem-
oved? We were going to invite you to C-
hukka Nite. Don't think yor offending u-
s with the Chuk lights in the front wind-
ow. We love our symbol and wish you p-
eace. But saltiness doesn't a stone make.
Fresh goes as earth does and we make i
-t grow. Stone love is stone is and love i-
s stone, Joe. Stone is love, stone is stone

is." They sang this clacking and chipping
at each other. Up Mthyuh way there was
a slab of granite near where I'd pee on c
-amping trips. I thought it literally recoi-
led at splashing urine. Once it seemed to
moisten itself on some moss. I was hon-
ored it would be so real like that in front
of me. It was a granite slab animated, b-
ut not a cartoon. That was before the shi
-v when hallucinations were rare and or
-ganic. What I encountered was rare an-
d inorganic yet able to shapeshift expres
-sively. I won't say poignantly, but it lived.

Joe [the Mp3]

Low Star

Low star, pull your pants up
Low star, slippry and dense
Low star, walk the rooftops
Low star, impervious.

Because Kevin Reynolds experienced the miserable smoking child cardiologist as a deity, he overcompensated its malice with allowances, which were tithes. The meat divinity could slip along the gums of the spa mouth, a critical tongue clucking a roller-coasting ticker tape of praise and affront, while Kevin stood locked and branked in one spot twixt therapeutic jets and offered up a stance which looked relaxed (on a commercial for a 900 number or a mustang ranch).

Low star, a mud bottom
Low star, or a searchlight
Low star, banana trees
Low star, not high season.

Kevin looked like a statue in a grease fountain lamp, with stray dog hair, hanging on a chain. Stitching through conversation and anaesthesia, the skin-masked and sterile stethoscope imp had trapped him in a crib of adoration and scorn. The bars were taut suture wire, twisted like candy canes or stripers on poles, down which the serum ran in dizzying regular spiraling drips. A suffering physician took Kevin Reynolds's needful swell under advisement with the assumed entitlement of a faith healer rigging a magic trick or something you could plug into a cigarette lighter.

Low star, where are you now
Low star, surface drifter
Low star, moth ball in pop
Low star, gravid ardor.

When he awoke afloat in four-hundred-thread-count sheets, the message indicator on the telephone flashed like a red lighthouse beacon. There was pea seed in his hair, and the oracle was still ignited, drumming out that morning’s urgent crisis. There seemed to be no air, just a tobacco-y sealant which even caught the future and held it still. The Other Presence had left this disco-cabana world reemed and vacant as a church. Kevin Reynolds was once again a gentleman alone in society, but his manhood was broken in two.

Low star, you were fragile
Low star, melted cupcake
Low star, bloody s-curve
Low star, meanderer.

Auspicious Battery

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

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

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

Inevitable Blanket of Shunning

Inevitable
blanket of shunning

bunched up in my groin,
I wrote these verses

on an envelope
with a broken dick,

and to repair it
will cost me an inch.

The ban on grafts is
a way to maintain

community de-
stabilization.

We must appear to
be daft: writhing in

pain to a thing you
got immunity.

You Better PharmSupply

If you can't take the shiv, then you can't
take the shiv, but if you take the shiv,
then you can take the shiv and live, Hank.

Firstable Co. Initial Campaign
Seersucker Chank
"Prop-a-Nishitive"

Hank [the Mp3]

That's Cashed

One feeding cycle to the next, doesn't the species try to breed against you? How can its archetypal memory not spell out, "We are meat," and that there is horror in swine, goat or cow? One could develop a bad taste, or wings, or rather, one did. It tilts before you, leans on a fingery rat-color feather, beaten as straw, as a cane. Your neck must crane to let its eyes' receeded glow cast their moon tricks across your face. That bedevilment, tragic waste, towering mhegamolith? In flocks, they wr once proud. It is time to cash, to nobilize, to seal with plates and electrodes. By the time
they get to this state, one cd knock them over with a bulldozer.


That's Cashed [the Mp3]
Better Pronunciation, Less Soul
Lady Voice

Methuselah Much?

Men become less ideal as men's ideals become more.

We were history's first two inter-dimensional pen pals;

I couldn't let you seed another void across my entrails.

Each time that we meet, another desperate incantation:

As Mthyuh churns up her bones, I see your flesh in stop motion,

Breaking up under life's radiation, which is no bigot

Toward styles of bright searing light, or whatever it is you got.

Men become less ideal as men's ideals become warm.

The World Once Resisted

The world of numbers is only a hideous grease through which we dragged our thongs and lay.
Now that the lie of time has made us acrobats, taking charge of space and raising kids is easy.
Bonded in disfigurement, every zygote knows its trail, forward and back; it's a rutted trajectory.
Rubbing on stones or any kind of friction can make us wistful, reimagining a world that resisted.

Minx, Manx, Monx

Hi Everyone:

Today I hosed off the front porch in some very skimpy trunks and thongs, nada mas. This was to send a signal to all the wives driving by in SUV's with big sunglasses, sellulars and Slurpees that indeed, there is a fit and permanently sangle hottie in the hood. I would love to tangle with one of those minxes. It would be fun to catfight with their ladies as well. What else will we decadent cement executives do in a worl wair we can't get serious about grafting? I'll read it to you square: give me my rights back now or your husband is mine.

Peg, and I'm Serious

Crater or Boil?

I want all the tiny boats to make a suds and lift me into
Sucking range of a big-lipid party wagon called Cynthia;
She make my worl rock like a hagwon on the Tower o' Babel.

I want my life to be like this until I die in Saturn's arms;
It's hairy but at lease he have a touch that take me awda way;
Riding porn in yor office chair is the chance to greet a hot stud.

I want prissy angels with Vicodan surrounding me till then;
Even to meet God, I think I'd be in drag just in case he straight;
Get me a styrofoam box for all this sheea foe it too damn late.

In Spite of your Religion

in spite of your religion, free radicals show the peace sign;
no matter what you say, my bitch got the soffess hairy butthole;
including discounts for malaise, nobody cheaper than this ass heeyah;
even if today a calendar day, we off menses for gentses, baybee;
whenever you want to cleeyah, focus on the natural way, padre;
if you don't want to create, let's negotiate a state wair you pay, Jack;
Cuz in the sack yo funny bone don't drive me home less I blind.

Chang K. Chang Chank Tank Chain Gang Grain Bank

On behalf of da Chang K. Chang Chank Tank Chain Gang Grain Bank, we grant you passage through R Bowel. U have bled yor Ked's in da bed for some bread and accepted a towelette, Jim. Now it's time to liven up to yor debt an swim.

Chang K. Chang Chank Tank Chain Gang Grain Bank [the MP3]

MEAT NEST

It sat in siege and stared across a beige and smooth-as-fungus plain. Like a Tropic of Ombligo, you couldn't rilly tell in or out. This was a consciousness in a petri-disposal bin who'd wriggled thru a Crack. Light from a microscopic phosphorus fire temporarily daylit the toxicity.

Minds of K's are cultured and ferment in avian jetsam that's dirty and fecund. They Know before they are even a cell. Their smells had already been borne across millenia of yore. Soon they'd charge up and into a vat of synthetic porcine marbling and self-aspirate for tissue injection.

An awareness with carnal senses and a bird brain: a cloned consciousness is only inauthenic for the first moment, tho mem'ry snot installed at any stage. "There is only one memory, one authenic moment," warble the K's: "that horny feeling pumping into flesh."

Miserable Smoking Child Cardiologist

I have to tell the babies when they're dead;
It's all the universe needed me for.
It's like bending horseshoes into poodles.

I find survival with access to jets.
Clown white before complementary drinks,
I take my hotel suite and sob and sleep.

I am totally hypnotized by cock.
The Pharmers pay me all in stock,
But I tremble at the size of their teeth.

How could I cart a young husband around
Near parents glowing with hysteria--
Explaining that he's just my Playtime King?

PROFESIONALISTA

CAP'M: What's caused you to loathe the careerist poets so?

PEG: They snotty. They guard a sidewalk dime as a bitch on her rib bone.

CAP'M: Are you a fella or a man?

PEG: No.

Yes, Girl

"My sane mind said ok I'm gonna go ahead and take a walk up that hill. There was sage and signs of an old burn. I had the choice then to follow him off trail, up through the hard lichen and loose dry sands dirty with life and its wastes.

Yes Girl, he wants you to go with him.
Yes, it's he, he's caring, and slim and
naturey.

"Either he needed to be babysat, or I'd just let him take the heat for a little pleasure ride if there were consequences, some rough moments. Now here we are and it's sort of like surfing a city bus: the bumpiness and having to strain to enjoy sights a man wd rarely see from such a wide angle.

Yes Girl, he wants you to go with him.
Yes, it's he, he's driving and tight and
detouring.

"It remains to be seen, then, where we'll end up together; maybe the law of hostages has taken over; we are committed now because it hurts more to jump than hold on. But he is pulling me along so hard, and he's so strong.

Yes Girl, he wants you to go with him.
Yes, it's he, he's caring and slim and
crazy.

*****
Call and Response
Shiv Pageant of Minor Deities:
Maundy Connie

Yes, Grrl [the Movie]

Fire Ants Led to Warts

She began feeling as tho she shdn't even be doing normal everyday things like taking her film to have it developed or replacing the filter of the forensic bucket.

Since she'd not had to renew her Waiver and Acceptance of Social Toxicity Estimate, it still felt like a marked worl. Her society wd never regain her trust.

It had been a healthy communal impulse to stand in the front yard with a hose. Nodding. To neighbors, passersby. Fire ants are so tiny and light that you don't feel them coming, but Connie felt the mist of a spurting rubber leak along the fronts of her ankles.

They kept biting and biting and pushing their announcements sub-cutaneously. Connie remembered a documentary about Africans who went insane and fed themselves to muddy river crocs at the itching created by some parasitical worm. It wd hypnotize cobra like before attaching to the neck or rectum and pumping its load of larval serum directly into the esophagus.

Connie looked down at her bloody fingernails in the observation room at Pharmsupply. She'd been clawing at her ankles and forearms in a blackout. Then she looked up into the unforgiving Diagnostic Mirror. The insects were gone, but a single HPV wart had been able to spore across her entire hide in sprays. Infinite beige ellipses, slightly raised, now monumentalized a paroxysm of histadelic rage.

Bio-Weaponization of Nuisance Anthroballistic Siege Virus

Mthyuh Preservation Society Garden Club
Announcement of Live Public Oracle

Each of us will bring a dish: the dish must make use of as its primary ingredient one of the endangered food growths in our valley. Participants will also bring unmarked packets of viable seed stock if available, and it's not funny when it turns out to be human sperm-- someone already thought of that many WD's ago, and again just last, so relax.

Because our mission on this night is gardens, nor shall we partake of blood spirits.

As we sample, in bibs, our legacies, the member will recount the hist'ry of each vittle and its plight, though by now we must surely know what's in store for all that is life in the Chanks.

Genital Anomaly

The Pegyuh and Chamatilly stand panting facing one another in a gray sunset with hunched-over shoulders and pushed-out bush, naked cept for headbands over their afros after their epic battle to end all preliminary warfare. Their eyes simultaneously drift downward, out of gravity or fear. They get a fix on one another's normally private parts in the blacklight.

"Has it happened to everyone now?"

"Yes, I believe so," one says to the other.

Pan out to planet view. Surface has been fundamentally changed as by a spray of synthetic HPV growth transcontinentally.

After a pause, one of the voices scolds, "While we agonize in our bodies, the planet dies."

Planet chimes in: "Since I'm under your boot, I get to not respect you. Whoop-ee."

Chama and Peg are ashamed in their fatigue, impotence, and malformations.

"At least I know I am moral after all. I am still a moral consciousness, I burn with a moral fire," says either Peggy or The Chama. They catch one another in the eye once more like a pair of savagely handsome young sires who know they fine.

Chang K. Chang Chank Drunk Tank Chain Gang

We, busting flynt an slinging paint, are co-captured pissanteros in the Chang K. Chang Chank Drunk Tank Chain Gang. If you could help us from where you sit, sure as dark, you'd want to get us out of it. But try this on first: we are only re-animated flesh, like a jerky. Not a zombie, silly. We a system under control, and we are fresh. We can accommodate every challenge because we also have a will, thanks to PharmSupply. New-Crop Shiv is the way to go when you're feeling watery. Got something to give? Don't just mourn it. New Crop is a dead cell's opportunity to live and even eat life, with a conscience and a spunk that's engineered. We on the Chang K. Chang Chank Tank Chain Gang piss in the Trough of Our Fears and take another step with cock-suredness wrought from a thousand WD of inter-miscegenation, sodomy and flight.

Time Crack

Legend and truth overlap in the parking lot of Chang K. Chang Chank Memorial Hospital. Howling, at half moon: birthers jamming at a Vaginal Borderline for their generations to pass. Wanting, not waiting: screaming, clawing blindly through a rat tunnel of pain toward the Crisis of Being. Mother, you hang in first-world maternity from a nasty Time Crack. You are the Bloody Poop of Creation.

How can I not love your babies? Until three decades cross,
They eyes wide with fear, or a Shadow of Medicine over Nothing.

They skins, pimply or clear, are oil of your Love and Care and Brutality.
How can I not adore these Puppies Smudging Up my Rug, bitch?

Peg Thinks Hard, and Spits

This desmadre has been censored by the Mthyuh Preservation Society due to a redundancy of phrases such as open farts, devil's whoreshop, and holy skank hoar.

Trukk Stoppe Ho

Truck-stop Ho:
Truck-stop Ho:
Truck-stop Ho:

Yor aways mad when I leave you or upset when I didn't need you
Little Rembrandt of a paisley weasel, you are a slime right where a
man seeks some lube, chall. When I rent you, I feel all I get is a m-
-all! o' wheezing crine, Tiny. Anchored in whatch-u-whan! (a meal).
Truck stop ho. Truck stop ho. Truck stop ho.

If we can both just agree that you with me, lady, Mother of Evening,
you can leave aside your pleading, rise up and serve me, Muthuh W
-heel. You roll the dough, but someone rounded off the dice, Lucile;
Muthuh Wheel, give yor nights off such a feel, like the bride o' krais,
Muthuh Wheel, Truck-Stop Ho, Muthuh Wheel.

Here in this rain-po puddle, a man can meet a thousand jet-setting
sangle, from all seven corners o' the building; but then what is he h
-olding but his own butt in a butcher-shop case. When in Boulder, h-
ook up with the look-up king of older trade names: The Roller. He a
-ck laik he on TV bowling when he rilly in the gutter.

Trukk Stoppe Ho:
Trukk Stoppe Ho:
Trukk Stoppe Ho.

Trukk Stoppe Ho [the MP3]

Break the Law and Die

Drink grog, gorge all winter, go sleepy.
Then somebody when they go to pee
spot a meat spirit silhouette top a hill.
Tribe, there are meat spirits moving.
I'll make coffee. Slowly to get up, but
then with throbbing imploring, break-
fast is all about calorie packing into th
-e body so you can run, hunt weep la-
ughing. Force Nature to your will, Na-
ture. Emotions held us drugged hosta-
ge of emotions for survival in a cave. P
-harmSupply and each one of your cu-
stieServ agents would like to inform y-
ou that we are your Natural Chemical
Brain Regulator. Just as Braino hisself,
in partnership with nature, used to, w-
e now hold the golden key to your slee
-p patterns and thought affect. Would
you suggest we give it back to Bigfoot?

Easter Stilborne

On Sunday we had a baby, we call her Easter Stilborne
Because my husband went down to the gym for the first time in a year,
And it was closed in observance of the Holiday o' Hope, or outta fear.
So he went instead to the Filipino place next door
For some homemade chicken-noodle soup, pork adobo, and a beer.
When he got back, I was squatting in the flower bed
Where some lily blossoms had suddenly unfurled
As if to anticipate the death of our little girl.
Now on the highway, ery time we see a 4x4 with the symbol of a fish,
We pass the assholes, give them the finger, think of Easter, and make another wish.

Connie Soda
"soupa-stishiss!"

intraceptive missionaryism

NO SHOW OF BLOOD CITING.
We noticed as we swung by to check for blood on your door
that there was none. and now, in the light of our torches,
you seem quite agitated, maybe insane. we are afraid for y-
our soul. we are afraid of what our God might do to you if
we decide it is appropriate. He may cause us to harm you
badly, and your family, and your future generations. we are
here to perform an intravention to protect you from any
further danger. Do you have a knife, or have you lost it?
Where are your lambs-- or have you failed to fulfill even
that most basic of norms? You are harming everyone by your
non-conformism. You are attacking our way of life, and we
are tired of being victimized by your mocking, obscene exi-
-stence which is only meant to cleverly highlight the futi-
lity of our Reproductive Circle.
...
UNAPPROVED DISCONNECTION FROM COUNTY FILTER, GRID, OR DISPENSER.
FAILURE TO COLLECT PROSCRIPTIONS.
We noticed as we scanned your home that you have taken the
dangerous step of disconnecting from your county's Filter
of Loathing. This will mean that the intended effects of
the drugs we have proscribed for you which were meant to
counteract the sickening effects of the pulses will spiral
out of control with nothing for them to heal. In addition,
the local Pharmsupply has informed us that you have not e-
ven picked up your proscriptions for several months. We h-
ope that you have not engaged in this type of antisocial
behavior as the result of financial difficulty. We care a-
bout the wellbeing of all members of our community, so we
are generous to remind you that discontinuance of a manda-
ted service or medication does not constitute release from
responsiblity for payment.
...
[Text of two ancient tickets found in Peg's glovebox, clipped to the back of an expired W.A.S.T.E.]

When is he coming back?

I used to ask where is he, does he beckon.
But now I know that gone is just a wash.
Now I want to know but cannot reckon
If Ilyn's coming back, or is he lost?

One sighting happens ery WD,
but never all up in a bed with me.
No chance because he's uglier than shit
the danger of a shoe that doesn't fit.

My Ilyn sends his pow'r of gravity
to meet the Goddess of Infinity
who reaps his tenderness as an hors d'oeuvres,
and vomits his remains into an urn.

The urn is dumped each Friday on some rocks;
Then, as from an undertaker's table,
And soon he is quite able, Ilyn walks,
Hideously marred by private journeys

Through intimate Halls of Our Intender.
Where there is scalp, red hair grows back. Where a
Crime left sin, a hymen fills in. You say
Wheel of Life; I say Vortex of Gender.

Maundy Friday

Won't even roll over when I shuffle into the room, but they on they knees bathing my feet when I stoop to weep. Go away, M'Lady; go away, Missy La-La. Gonna put you bitches to work one day. When I feel depress, you shake your tails like a single kaleidoscopic Goddess of Asses. I want to turn your force on my enemies. Stanky bitchcunt of infinity. Love weapon. Merciless forgiver. Virgin of recycling. Inundation. Burning saliva. Breath that cuts and scars in rosettes. Christ command me! How much time have I spent in bed? It's a Maundy Friday.

Two-Kleenex-Box Altar

kleenex boxes flowered and shed
cascading trills of snotted buds,
their tissues ripe with wet evacuation.

kittens picked their way lightly sniffing
where dogs the salty offrings shook in vain;
all organ product laid before bitches is meat.

Dog-Like Sick

unease around foreigners
suspect they digestive system
revolted n' curious as a bitch

Below the border, you swing upside down;
In a crack, they walk over you.
A million futures monetize in your groin.

back and forth till we dog-like sick
sky-chanks popping where they speak sang-skritt
mthyuh's bowel, rock-cum-flesh, eat me now

Connie Soda

No one remembers me, I am a sister.
Sometimes they call me Commie Splices.
Bearded Lady, Zygote Birther, Goddess of Propriety,
Muff of Fur, Topless Coal Walker, Native-American Squaw,
Mucky Muck, Two Decades of Feminism: Dual Tank Treads;
Food Covetor, Wisdom Mist, Virgin, A Sentence Said [A.S.S.].

• I could have made my way up. There have been investigations.
• I got left aside, maybe the story strangled me in its turns.
• I have a weight as a One Crossed Over, but even the boatman trumps.
• I have no control over the situation beyond the sweater I was wearing.
• Ted found me dead weight or weightless on a very good mattress.
• My first husband was a scoundrel like all Southern men.

Father bleated on preaching of coin-slot plotters and drones,
They impeached him in the middle of a Period that was Misunderstood.
Show respect for the drifting cadres, growing, of Robed Men sifting in
from the forests and deserts and Fallowed Lands.
If you see a One called Ilyn, with a Red Afro, tell'im I'm his chillun.
Somewhere along the road, I could be Born Again like an albino I know.

Someone has to Occupy the Boundaries

We're not here to fight the other side, but rather
to stretch the leash of Our Own as taut as can be.
Someone has to occupy the farthest bound'ry
in the paradox of interdependency.

But they are turning us out, Syl, unencumbered--
Free to wander like meaning seeking a structure.
We could make a human chain to hem in others
like a padded room where they ricochet in fun.

Nothing's holding us back now that the kids are gone.
We take to a panting tourist road, The Driven.
Forward and Backward are twins in our time mirror.
How'd we win a life beyond our own destruction?

It seems to Have a Will

An individu'l, prone to corruption
As opposed to a state of the people
Becomes a criminal of loneliness,
And to Chaos of the Senses, a bride.
Under these conditions, I spawned a K.

Tissue structure in mummy flesh is real.
Plugged into this, with blood, is how we feel:
Not some Frankenstein, but a Pavlov's dog,
Responsive as nudists in soft meadows.
One mind can drive multiple bags of meat.

Este tio lleva sus cojones
Como mola porque si que puede.
Chango toma nubes de tobacco,
Mono lo que pasa'n los pulmones.
Come las cabezas de sudacos.

Sylvia has Second Thoughts

Worse than meaningless, I am destructive;
What dogs must track my unrepentant path?
What raptor soars at my back, designing?
Yet a conscience watches zen-like or gagged.
Consciousness. Damning participation.

At the beginning of this, I bought it:
having to count on my fingers one to...
oops, ten. Now I am a mature woman
With flow'r-print house gowns and a dishwasher.
I help my husband distribute poison.