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?

Swamp Baller

Hoolie finds work at a reform school in a swamp for jaded chillun. It is too late to go backward, for any of them. They can grow tho.

First, two bombshells of 14-- opposite race, but like twins-- receive him in the palatial Atrium of Thinkers. They show him the way to his cot, freshly splayed, between two metal filing cabinets hanging obscenely with padlocks and combination cylinders. It was the medications.

Dinner that night includes an equestrian-themed ice sculpture and cruise-like buffet for 80. If you had recently fired yourself for wanton / self-harming behaviors or gone truant from one cinderblock apartmentchank nightmare to the next, you could still join in song, partake of the table, and be limited to no special fruit. Of the few punishments allowed, money and higher society were two.

Tho one night a red-headed, wide-pupiled chick or twink, ruddy with astyptic bloom, play hooky big time in the apt-4d sugar shack of latest re-hiree and retired pro-baller remembered for having pulled in to the compound with bullet holes all alongside his Charger. Ken, until now, has never been identified as either black man or monster, except while toying with himself, among characters to whose points of view we've not been privy, and by his own mother.

Mountains Signal Disturbance

This is how much I am willing to channel everyone's jagged waves: they will chew me as on a spit until I can regurgitate love for each one of you, my enemies.

Alternately, I stand and piss a long and dirty fable, as I am unable to abandon all the crammed-in tackle I've been pulled into an angle with: there are those who need me.

Unhooked, some fish with ripped lips just truck upside down. Ery tam a gal stand up an shake her fleas, pups come crying with concussions and they bobbing requirements.

Giant Cranking Engines

Wind makes the hills shimmer with light be-
cause 150-ft turbines crank their shells and
spill friction into every living room and den.

Their howl is an avian or canine call, a harm-
ony of inter-special gaiety. The low one drones
to all: "Hear my prolific growl. Take my free

issue." Others ring shrilly, morbidly inviting.
Jangling crickets tamber nature's consent, ig-
norant. All-night criminal traffic now wafting

in from the 10. Bitches stretch in the sand, ne-
ver yet having met up with a scorpion. Lit ho-
opties creep by to the petrol stand, buffeted.