Microsuede Reptile and Immersion into Senility

I danced with father and mother until I drowned. My breathing time behind me, I became stronger, with good claws to mutilate the Earth and fashion a fine underground lair.

I shelter my morality and language here to make school lose its musk. What you may see is just what it is, am excellent buried pickup truck cell.

When doctor fell asleep on me I was only a nude guy without a single pixel of clothing to my name. I lashed myself to him and eventually our similar penises fused umbilically.

Moving and speaking spiky ivy grows thick behind the lab. We have an entirely valid relationship as a single consolidated person.

At yellow creek, the nudes we sell to cruel guys in prehistoric blazers give us a sense of bravado. Their purchases earn them points which they can redeem for music or cash.

Cephalic Embrace

In the mask they offered us a chance to resign. I've never eaten and I was inclined to accept the offer. So I did.

Next, I bought a large bag of drugs from my former step-father (as an aside, I wish there was a less awkward way to refer to a step-father your proud and willful mother divorced). It was time to make plans for oblivion.

The orcs on their leashes at the leg meat cafe sounded like mesh rash, their friendship dissected and laid out like items on deep discount. Jean said she would have to edit our green simulations of ecstasy. I concurred.

Still, I wait

I Hear the Faucet Song

My family lived for corrugated lipids and weak gelatin. We awakened to the inhospitable presence of medicine, one by one until we each possessed our own distinct odor.

Eventually the worship ritual felt rather self-reflexive, a form of respect paid to the memory of a permanent flattery rather than to the horror of inertia.

None of these Hams are Fine

Crispy golf lady feeds lip noodles through a surprisingly bouyant plastic appliance that turns them into moist wads. Lip meat makes great jewelry for a stranger's husband or, if it's mushed together into a large enough lump and bronzed, a unique paperweight.

When she finishes the wads she tosses the appliance into a water hazard and indeed it floats.

Hamper on the Deck

Spirited, frisky, flirty, and polished to a blinding sheen, this is my mother. My mother! She pounds on her kettle with a heavy oblong utensil, her hands stained black with soot from the fire she pulled it from.

I am punctured by the ancient island spirit as the miniscule orbs in my blood swell and vibrate and the sound attracts someone: my father. My father!

He extracts a gleaming silver needle from his fake hollow ass cheek and uses it to write music notation on my chest. A super football jock but also a nerd, he possesses the harsh guttural voice of a sulphur stork.

Her Adhesion and Ours

Brave undressed people in sealed bags flit around wetlands eating eyes. They experience a eureka moment when they pick up a few knotted ornaments in the puddles. When they toss these things they found into the proper receptacle, they hear a sexy kind of guitar sound, like damaging cosmic radiation.

Now scientists say the people could have been behind a vast array of colourful atmospheric changes.

Won't Wish for a Block Patty

Lose the buff lady pants and then we will talk. Drop that huffy huff persona if u want to be my perfect friend. I can see ur smashed up soul gas inside ur skull pockets and I actually do like what it looks like but unless u stop behaving like a little bit of a weird worm I don't even think I'll bother doing the thing I wanna do.

I would take a big pump and suck the soul gas from ur bony globe and huff it into my lungs to feel the prickly purchase of ur ghost mouth inside me. U can't probably figure out how to escape my organs.

Tilt Away From the Blade

Yoga legs stacked too tall wobble and hum across from the municipal complex. Threatened, strawberry jam guys lope in the new medieval fashion. Potential coital participants color themselves duly impressed.

A flat gray guy from Boise grips tight the loosely baroque garments his charming papa brought back from a land full of spirit orbs. Stripped and sandblasted bone leg men smear squished lipstick on their lovely bods until they are allowed to do the City Squid Dance. 

A disaster inside the municipal complex interrupts the good times and behind their masks the goofy guys trickle.

Cure Your Garments

As soon as father dies, we will gather with the rest of our seven siblings to perform a song he wrote. None of us has the complete musical notation, only fragments sealed in coded cylinders held as pendants on our chests. 

The lyrics will be conveyed during the reading of the last will and testament. The lawyer, a kind-eyed woman of Portuguese descent with a taste for leather and gleaming hubcaps, will mostly not cry during the affair. The throbby luminance of a bleeding plastic gum steak will finally meet us, eye to eye and reeking of hubris. 

The Backwards Nozzle

Guilty of craven acts of servile leisure, I reduce myself to a sickly cream. A bruise on my hot curvy ass reminds me of a cranky lover. And a swirling cursive name on one of my juicy natural titties reminds me of the kindness of kinfolk.

I find myself a new name. Now something in me trembles. I am literally foam. 

Six Hissy Fits Before the Soap Release

Gush and fume in a drawer. 

Hunt for a few bronze wafers in a long silent romance. 

When the charred hair whispers, slip away from your relations and teach yourself fake spells from a self-published fantasy novel. 

Then soak your own brain in ostrich egg albumen and watch your black eyelids flutter to the carerra marble countertop in this contemporary kitchen.

Clustered Dashboards

Striped papers indicate a habitual grip on actual pathogens. Stinking oily banisters indicate a cessation of fabric mergers. Everything else is quite simply, prismatic metallurgy.

Free and twitching, my inheritance is slipping between some other guys lips.

Mesh Prep Liquors

Ochre fingers ask what the humming dials of the garment containment unit indicate. Their peculiarities hold us rapt.

Plucked like dripping cuffs of blossom tops or unintended corduroy spikes, the therapist, his spouse, and their lusty interlocutor surround themselves and each other with loose fumes.

Loose fumes asking for words and words evaporating in the miniature cavity. Not stopping anytime soon, I'm afraid.

Agreed on Fluorescence

Father reconstructed the conical structure, complete with the jaw-shaped indentation in the floor. Basically he remembered all of the features and created it in a fashion that we feel possesses some measure of fidelity. His resources are considerable so it's not surprising, what he's done. I guess that pretty much the way we justify our endorsement is that we respect hard work and the will to complete a complicated task.

The ultimate tribute will be a book of high-resolution photography. Exterior, interior, schematic diagrams: all celebrating in sensual colour the nature of the conical structure that both terrorizes and comforts us. The surprising hexagonal tiles, the fish scales hung on minute threads of equine follicles, the thing with the mammal inside. All of this adds up to a portrait of a man seen through a mirrored funnel. Occasionally cannibalistic, the gathered siblings compliment each other in earthy pastels.

Clawed Eclairs

There's a net made of guitar strings in the yard. There's a lot of bent staples that were pulled out of some city reports. There's also a bogus book of sheet music that isn't an heirloom. In blue phones, eyes closed, I can actually feel the hair getting longer in my face.

PHP Pointers at Hardee's

Wobbly on desiccated legs, a proud father of three dictates his grocery list on the grand veranda. Potted trees hung with opals - the most magnificent any of us has ever seen - rotate on unseen mechanisms behind him. Occasionally a child throws a bushy little mitten or decorative writing instrument over the edge, and it falls into the mostly ineffectual moat below.

Fiddlers and trumpeters recline on salvaged comforters on the lawn, awaiting their moment to raise a joyous noise. Wistful in poultry waste, a music expert balances on a sycamore log, forming a capital G with her beastly body.

Interior Wand

The young women next door communicate with each other by way of rocks, painted with intricate patterns and left in designated locations in the yard. I have discovered that the content of the messages is determined by a number of factors, including the colors and shaped used in the pattern, location in the yard, orientation of the rock, size of the rock (ranging from the size of a plum to the size of a grapefruit), and taxonomic identity of the rock. 

My efforts to decode the messages these clever young women leave each other have been fruitless. I applaud their ingenuity but gravely fear the intent of their clandestine communiques: too often, I have observed, such extreme measures are only used by the most nefarious individuals!

The Best Socket

We have been commanded to make a specific soup recipe, a flat soup with caustic fibers suspended in a brash peppered broth, topped with a mixed-starch crust.

When I say "commanded," I do not mean that some fickle Earthly authority has issued a painfully-worded dictum from the musty den of a tiresome bureaucrat; no, this command comes from that great ineffable presence we all are subject to, and whose presence you yourself may have grown increasingly aware of in the months since inauguration.

The soup is offensive to all but the most finely-honed palates, and I am personally honored to be among its most vociferous proponents. Sir, will you crack the crust with your preferred oblong utensil and verbally communicate your reaction?

We Hung the Dinosaur

Cantankerous, the author must attend church. His lapis lazuli finery and porridge-colored briefs are admired by 33% of the parishioners. The other 67% feel threatened by him, so they pack heat in the form of really good and powerful handguns. 

Fruit and free chewing gum fills the collar of the grunting book writing guy in the back pew (stained as it is with greasy exhalations of five decades' worth of Christian rectums). But when the bad kids come around they get their fruit and gum. Because two thirds of the congregants value their childrens' pleasure, they refrain from shooting the novelist in the face, thighs, breast, and wormy dick.

Trouble with the Thick Stencil

My pet, on the end of the waxed rope, a heavy head like fly agaric, deposits scraps of itself along the scarred walk. Occasionally a business owner or driver attempts and fails to guess the pet's name.

Along the canal, abandoned toys prove to be an alluring prospect for the pet, and more than several times I'm forced to wrestle a worthless thing from its mouth. 

I throw it hard into the water and they are carried slowly down stream. They pass the cannery and metallurgical academy. They pass the fictional mausoleum. Eventually, inevitably, they're pulled into the eddy and pile up under the scenic overlook where estranged families attempt and fail, usually, to reconcile.

O! Off Their Moult!

Family means writing and rewriting the rules for cooperative sports and playing word games until the distant scent of the beach seduces the elders. I thank God for hobbies: climbing a lot, tumbling by myself, coming repeatedly for the perfect man. Why doesn’t he love me?

Anthony is ready to bring girls to Chicago, letting me live in their world. Letting me notify God of my new arrangement. Letting me play alone in the garage. Anthony is on God’s phone.

I can't see the cat in my mind these days. There was a blue sheen to its fur that seemed possible, if one had the privilege of ecstatic product.

Going to Flaccid Golf World

Verification of slop! Yucky goo in the pocket and weeping ooze in the cone under the porch. Ouch!

Just a Blissful Renal Strategy

I was allowed to lounge beneath the static sizzle for most of my forties: patient like a meal uneaten, dull to anxieties, promised to the gentle pull of entropy. I was seen or unseen by relations and colleagues and strangers, an occasional reassuring reminder of existence. 

The throbbing didn't begin until the lichens had gained purchase, transforming flesh into vapor and light into flesh, transforming ambition into a gauzy sense of retreat upon its fresh exposure to the electrochemical background noise of the home neighborhood. Standing erect, the concrete was hot white foam and the fiction crackled like ribbons of ceramic.

Pre-sensitized Succulent

Upon graduation, I grabbed a pumpkin-shaped hand and it took me somewhere new, the dominion of odorless doctrines. I found most of the relevant equipment there defective, most of the tissue friable and pale, most of the beverages inoffensive and listless. I let go of the hand after several days of purposeless chaperoning and fell immediately into a shallow trench, where I was allowed to have sex finally. Great sex! Certified, I plagued the starchy citizenry with strident requests for clean garments, none of which have, as yet, been granted.

Emil "Slab" Chastain

The sugar bear is my spiritual mother. The luster of her fur dazzles passersby while she naps in the town square. I buy buttered bread and eat it while I recline on her heaving sparkly body. She smells like ginger. I will buy her a cool digital watch.

Real Plastic Biscuit

This thing I found has tendrils, hirsute vining threads that leave welts. I cover them with gloves, but then I'm wearing gloves, and people ask me about the gloves. Is it an affectation? No, I  hiding the welts I got from handling the thing my living mannequin friend sent me via UPS.

Crumbs of a Jewel

A green face witch questions my choice to wear two aprons: one in front, one in back. But I have been told that a mess can sneak up from behind. I listened to her counsel and removed the front apron.

This left me with an extra apron. Which I sold to a duckfoot gnome under the pier at Golf Beach. With the payment (seven striped crab carapaces), I purchased my own swift little wooden scooter.

Slathered in the Heathen Goo

As a current hunter and science fiction fan, Joshua is always ready to become extinct. The governor of Nevada will survive if he has life changing allegiance. Going ahead with his plan to quit smoking or die, the man behind daytime television series dated both of my parents. That is unbelievable!

I was inadvertently involved with a serial killer when I became a bounty hunter. The casino workers didn’t cooperate with a policeman. The “cowboy” was a rookie police officer, the son of a powerful father. The catholic priests that murdered the youngest mayor in California had lots of enemies. If I didn’t cooperate with a crooked cop, I would have grown up an only child!

Characters in a Teal Box

Chime and we fall theatrically. Rubber snakes on concrete, startling the occasional passerby for a moment, but we're quickly forgotten as they walk, the next place and the place after that. They might hear the chime themselves, but they don't know.

We fall as we do and let the things on the ground traverse us. A hand might fall on a calf or a finger might attract a sourceless trickle of blood. A tuft of killed plant (maybe a sweetgum seed) might sneak under a sweatshirt or blouse. A gaze might line up with another gaze and the exchange will never rise to the verbal like a plunged thing desperate for the surface of the water. The chime, the specific type of fall, and then silence for the allotted time. Sometimes things fall on us. Insubstantial, usually.

The things on the ground learn us and ignore us again. The people come to scoop us up, load us into the truck. And eventually we'll find our way back here, or another place, form another clot, hear the chime, fall in the customary way.

Four Tin Sticks

Throttled by hubris, disastrous husbands careen towards middle age with gross burgers in their glove compartments, with lubricated condoms. Under their flatulence-soaked bucket seats: cigar boxes full of dog tags they never wore. Their guitar string thongs and suede ponchos and pepper pelts inspire revulsion among anyone with minimal cognitive ability. 

Vomit. Bile. Tree bark elbows, broken toothpicks in our heels. Ducks' heads in a circle on the floor under the throbbing bed. Paper cut mouths in N95 shells, sucking at themselves. 

Stained thermoses of something bituminous, rolling on the corrugated rubber. Patches and emblems and insignia shaped like shields because that's exactly what they are. 

Crooked shopping carts, gritty citrus soap, screw broom on pegboard, smelt. Nets. Tents. Denim. Scattered beads, not beads: popped baseball cap pegs, everywhere.

Accepted Cookies

You have learned to honor the chieftain with sprigs of dill behind the ears, bearing eggs of swallowtails. Jellied jewels of possibility. Behind the scaffolding of your waking ambitions, a stuttering mist in the vague form of a child projects an unheard song. It's picked up by keener instruments than yours, and you'll mistake the hunters it beckons for half-mothers.

Hi We're Flotsam

Big Buck kicks a brown ball to Kyle Gray. Rye bread morning breaks into platinum blonde afternoon. Kyle Gray, generous sniper, architect of misfortune.

Aunt Rosalee lifts the oblong trunk, leaves grease fingerprints on the lacquer. Leaves footprints in the dust. She's been pranked by cotton faced Big Buck. There are no vintage costumes in the trunk, but she will find a dead crab for the Christmas wreath.

Kyle Gray pumps a bubble of groovy scrap talk in the side yard when he sees the great crab in Aunt R's brown basket. Pilfering tiptoe titty skips, she laughs like a plain scrambler on her way to the wreath barn.

Raggedy Harmonica Sack

In the rock and roll graveyard, she learns the astronomy of insects. The great motorcycle sculpture, looming above the troubled population of this town, her birthplace, ignites its headlamp for the first time in a generation. Bandanas and fairy shawls drift to the ground, crystals of frost reaching up to catch them and pull them into the organic substrate.

Cherub with Goals

A fifty year old bachelor will give you plenty of ideas for a singles weekend, and serving a healthy realization of those traditional flavors. Teenaged boys of his interesting and unique conspiracy will want to turn to tough guys, and deceive him with sometimes decadent brunch recipes. He defies them with a quick breakfast. Whether you are looking for a powerful photographer or not telling his wife what they were looking for, his pipe collection is your source for what they were looking for.

Diagonal Nicotine Park

married to a dentist

graduated from the New Age

the first wedding, thus   

took one of the ribs

the same word used of a potter

after divorcing she practiced

years of seclusion, being

his gratification or his flesh

the first use of anesthesia

Glib Apple Conveyor

The devil tried fiercely to run from government agents, but he's living under limited information. The Palm Reader is a world-famous boxer whose praise and worship accidentally reveals tortured bounty hunters. Now they're both taken to jail on national television and they'll either have to sabotage an implacable curse or, through a dream, die in the traps of the wizard!

Ruthless Civic Lawn

I knew of a boogey man in my neighborhood, a crooked little frozen mouse-eyed gentleman if you believed the accounts and reenactments of the older boys in Judas Priest tees. Once, this subdivision was a farm, and once the dead tree just past the border was a good tree for climbing, but a boy fell. Slowly died, so slow he still had life in his eyes when the scavengers arrived.

One night I would visit dead tree and piously wait, and if the clouds were just right the boogey man would announce his real-life identity with a cracking shuffle in the shadows. 

I would clutch the knife in my hand to defend myself and vanquish his hell from the cul-de-sac and when he came for me 

I would bargain for reflex and observation but the knife is a comb

it's the one my older cousin put in my stocking last year

he's in the air force now

the boogey man's quick sharp feet dance all up and down my skin and he knows how to grab the moon

he brings the moon crashing down

on my head shattering like a fluorescent tube shatters

the shrapnel hits me

enters me there's no pain at all

a sort of fleeting rush 

I'd chase it forever, my fumbling adulthood

There I'd meet it and fall into the fir tree in the median the neighbor family dresses up yearly in multi-colored strands of lights.

Linguine Rumble

Dog bark morning, the photographed man carried off a wrist-thick scarf of horse. He knew the teacher, swindled as he was. Felt reined and loose, a thing that fits wickedly in one's lap.

The man spoke of accidents, dyed memories of false rogues banned from boats. No friends, not the kind one speaks of at the holiday table. 

Horse wrist trees climbed by students in the criminal's graveyard, the hounds' playground. Punctuated by masts repurposed.

Astride My Goiter

How does this fixative strike you? My partner in suspicion disappears with mist and low held intelligence. The way in is the extinguished wound, but it is a dead end. The duct tape residue holds whisper rags, a kind of evidence of doubt.

Progressive Car Insurance

Pinch the streetwise tea kettle in the glass display box, come alive in the ecstasy of the transgression. Twist your jelly bean toes in their sockets as you glide away, an otter through this dissected throng. Emerge like an embolism in the starlit avenue where the inflations of powdered bards hang: they collect themselves into the breath of invented megafauna. In the overturned wash basin you'll find me and the things you covet.

Otis Saw the Mouth Slats

Trombone head, please come back to the booth. I've wiped clean the old menu. Apologies, but they haven't any newer ones. So the best we could do was to tape that flappy old laminated corner. It's functional, if admittedly below your standards in "visual victual communication media."

Trombone head, pass the framed bacon and hard gum globe to rejoin me. The humbled staff will surely acquit themselves with admirable diligence and tidy cordiality.

Trombone head, we can mourn our agency together over a mediocre repast. The tableware will at least be clean. The sky will at least carry on its chromatic duties and we'll exit into a comforting dishospitality.

Falsehoods of Spiked Misery

If only I wasn't required to raise my arms, speaking servitude in this room upholstered with a woman's mischief. If only the heart in my chest was a fully synthetic thing, a petrochemical invention which, if discarded and buried, could conceivably be found by future scavengers — or, more optimistically, archaeologists of high ethical standards and unfamiliar colloquialisms.

Also conceivable is that such a fine cardiac instrument, once invented, will find its way into my chest like an intruder. And these desperate diggers or scholars of distant cultures will find such a thing in a bone lattice, in a box dripping with velvet like tattered flesh.

Roses of the Infirmary

Epic red banners in a good boy's bedroom drip rehydrated dream-cum into the pillow, fermenting acrid visions of tennis court massacres, detailed spreadsheet forensics, fisted eel parties, wholly rejected careers. Tooth gray sea songs from the gazebo outside promise something else, an alternative doom. But everything hinges on the half-life of gratitude, undetermined.

The Wife's Mantis Puppet

Help to make equal the arrangements of the festivities. Your eye for relative quantity, trained by years in the retail killing fields, is as renowned as it is a curse. A soda-colored burden pressing stiff knuckle hands into your each day's efforts in the realm of enjoyment.

Quick, various measurement, fatigued convenience. Steady dependence upon the judgment of temporary shepherds. A rinsed and scraped mind, an abraded sense of pleasure. Tilted back on your heels by this imaginary wind.

Raid Pinch Rush

Mold breath couch beside kneecap indentations, and Stereolab, maybe Sonic Youth. Probably Sonic Youth. The tunings twisted, improper, like my ambitions here — I'd like to say — but I can't claim that intention. Someone else monkeyed with my guitar. If only I could keep the steady synth throb in my chest, if I could capture that and implant it I'd avoid so much of what's coming.

Most of the land is industrial, but an above-ground pool is a pretty good luxury to pick. Acting like a cable installer, because I lack the foresight to aim for the wine repository.

In 12 years, Thurston two-times Kim. Lee seems alright though, stick with Lee.

Against the Snake Truck

A green fabric swatch holds a single egg representing fertility or imagination (perhaps fragility or refrigerated psychosis). Advertisement-grade models parade themselves around it with phone lenses trained on the vertex. The gathered footage is collected thus by sheepfaced women and men who edit it together, intercutting and splicing to find evidence of the marginal viewer. And their sheepfaced offspring are charged with the task of sweeping up the chitinous rubbish left behind, the exoskeleton shards and dismembered elytra once belonging to involuntary invertebrate participants in this dance of futility.

Gumbo with Young Red Cheese

Glen raises goats at Gas Pot Downs. Willie, age 8, scoops licked bead mix from the trench into a converted PVC violin pool. When summers are wet, you might see Clara and Hettie hugging in the makeshift alley where the blight cannot see.

Bracketed by musk jars, the goat bone tower tells the date and time to Willie's potential guardians. Goat skull pavement shines in a drenched musical kinda way.

In drought months, Clara cakes goat tummy drums with Glen's stashed bills, floating baskets made of bead mix scoops lashed together with goat rope in the cistern, as a way to celebrate fungus nutrition and distant goat vision.

Handsome Guitar Mermaid

Below the neon barrel, where eel men strangle their fears, a golden weaseled friendship reaches its final curtain. Greasy streaking blue white clouds spread sickly in a second sky.

At last, intimate operations deliver a satisfying fullness to the gathered participants.

I sweep the blue streak from brow to nipple, iron teeth harnessing ambush tongue. A stomach full of rags. A throat lit up with static.

Cranky Ol Possum

Spilled into the heart shaped tray, mother's pearls melt into goo, entering the next state. I squeeze the oblong utensils in each of my hands, vibrating with rediscovered glee — reborn, unborn, reborn and on and on. 

The seeds in my hair will remain dormant until I pack my head into fresh compost. The flavored lotions I applied to my calloused feet, made from said seeds' place of origin (fruit from XXXXXXXX trees), leave prints on the floor; though the manufacturer of said necessary plane counsel hasty remediation of such blemishes, I will leave them. I appreciate a well-discolored floor.

She Saw Me Bite the Tail

Longtime ambassadors of the opportunity church walk into the square diner on the corner of streets named for exotic plants. Hair like ultraviolet phone cord, the sandwich person hangs on the metal tool rod and coughs a cordial greeting.

Under the maple table, a crowned child stuffs banned materials into the void cushion. The ambassadors ponder their parental surveys, increasing my understated glamour.

Reflected Poop Ball

Ice colored like cloudy fish soup squeaks between the garden orbs. There's a dead patch where a chair faded into clammy mist last September. When the neighbor smokes long on the step, I effortlessly ignore him, his orange blaze, his knife hat.

Your hair lingers in the drain.

Foggy Scissor Bottle

One mascot crimps the cosmetics while a second winds a line of dog ornaments around a synthetic column.

Watching, eating Oreo cookies, Mrs. Pool pranks haughty ass air on the stained porch. Old planks of shredded dough crack like dung boards invented accidentally. This is how an afternoon's leisures are forgiven.

Extra Powdered Sauce

A couple under a castle (or a bridge?) stoops down for hand cup water. Eyes to the worm cloud, he feels the same as a decaying vine lost to its roots. She forgets the only trap she ever fell for. They look through small tubes to find a communication from the contractors they hired to bend the incantations of their legal advisors.

Slash Cloud Gumbo

Flush like drizzling breakfast sauce, we climb deliberately up the limestone face, wind from the north wasting us one by one. As the crystal sap sings subsonic instructions to the sun, tattooed languages of hunger fade, with resurrected ache. Drained of desire, we submit and drop. We find a place of stasis.

Cola Pratfall

Cranky comic book brat curls her hair with dreadful creamed potion, sulking over the loss of another delicate companion. Her eyes braided, she swaps relics with a neighboring slipper-soled stick figure. Soon, the uncanny twitch will begin again and she will ooze into the office, knowledgeable but not sure. Not yet.

It's Tuesday in the Hot Barn

Soaked and poked with the tar prod, you conjure a sensation of shriveled lust. How glorious were the slappy twistings and livid palpitations of your years in service. Diagonal shadows on the tiles, wheezing whispers from under the door.

You are chapped here, stepping gingerly between the cardboard-shaped plant stumps in the courtyard. You think you can hear the rustle grind of bean parasites, but it may only be the ceiling fan.

Spring-tail Honda Car

Our neighborhood was a clam's breath in an old pot, houses like unpopular candies tasted once and discarded. The gourd shaped rock in the middle of the cul-de-sac stole ambitions and curiosities from us.

My neighbors owned wagons and boots, hoses and saws, blades for flesh and turf. We read each other's diaries.

I was sent away in a cold carriage with a tissue scan drive under my seat. I had a little bit of everyone. 

Knife Puck

I found my chin in the seaweed pile on the corrugated metal. It was poked by spare wristwatch hands and looked good for its age, but gnawed and corroded all the same. A priest gave me a trifold brochure for a clinic where I could have it replaced with a hungry man's heel.

The sea bird cried about its pretzel. Still, the towers of crates in the warm light made everyone feel easy, chosen. I strummed the ocean membrane and ate the seeds I bought. 

A Chap with a Tape Measure

A turtle ate an entire tree in one meal this weekend. Everything went in, lichens and railroad spikes and kites and baby owls and old empty nests. A turtle in the weather of the weekend made one whole tree its meal. 

The guy watching the turtle eat the tree sat atop a gold Ford Bronco with a towel under his butt. His girlfriend Laura arrived at night with bags of jingling spice wafers.

Laura opened a bottle factory with a large inheritance when she was a college undergrad. The bottles full of soap spill premium good liquid on the blue fake shoes her boyfriend wears at work. 

Laura taught positive attitude to dancing parents, stifled in linoleum crust and hidden like digital fly wings. Now she can relax while a turtle devours a whole tree.

Shadow of the Crinkle-Cut Fries Bag

None can see the junkyard in this olive colored light.

Only three former mayors of this city have been divorced. And they dine together, weekly, at the Momentary Summit Family Restaurant.

From there, they see the chooglin sprawl of the trashplanes. They see it just fine.

The big guy with the tray of prepared meats has been paid for this work for seven years and he spends that money on corn colored pants. Corn is cooked by the chef too.

The chef wears fake blue shoes and has been doused in zigzag condiments — part of his education, you know.

A fading airman loses his lunch and the control panel lights up like Independence Day seen from a high drone. The sky loses its grip on the fine homemade plane.

Now the fields of rubbish suck in the doomed vehicle and its addled pilot, smack of aluminum slap rot in the milky humid night.

Up in the two star restaurant the gathered mayors and the big meat tray man in maize trousers watch the desperate descent and the ensuing fluctuation's easy glow, but feel that it is theirs alone — their private tragedy, their delightful pocket death.

Brushed Nickle Ass Plug

The wasp is exhausted, but steps softly onto my fingernail. Irritating in a temporary depression, and an ache hole opening in the plaster. The wasp will be there forever. I try not to take things, because of the tolerance I gain. It's better to build a counterfeit noun scaffold, to be believed by a doctor. To get pulled into pain.

Balsam Tree Disaster

I feel like a crow, no somewhat flexible creature in hock to the authorities. I have no title or case full of high fidelity video. Something that happened, you know, an apology to an abuser. Everything is sensible. It still happened.

It still has a quality, an availability. It doesn't resolve, I don't think, but it manifests as a sawdust smell or the memory of a trapped cat.

I'm Sippin the Paste

Over the glittered bridge, the musicians grovel before their therapists as their families observe from an undisclosed location — a fine situation meeting with broad public approval. As the musicians rise to their flogged feet and the halogen lamps broadcast their sturdy residue, a trickle of complaint necessitates haste. Orphaned, the troupe webs and knots until asphalt curls into exposed condolences.

Pierced in the Knuckle

Well, the snowman shits himself silly. Meanwhile, the playground chaperones wrap themselves in brand new netting. I wave, but my acquaintance is inside a swollen nose.

Where did foolish Brenda buy the grey tubes? If I find out, I'll have to spin a mint lamp holster. Crap.

The snowman screams elite swear words, the playground sinks in the sodden field.

Bubble Eagle Fork

Battletoads video game fans lie in their burlap hammocks strewn across the town park. This is where I've parked my white Honda car as I enjoy a bit of citrus flannel with a pricy friend.

Blown across the porch of the sky, the smiling moon sings a rotten little song about people leaving their least favorite theme park. Shot with stone marbles, the moon drinks wormy taco juice.

Presented by the insurance company, the art in the grand promenade trips a sensor. My wrinkles leak the warning. I've seen burglars crease the soil until the old halo ejaculates. This is my impression of the installation. 

Simplified for Nurturer

The diplomat's kiss transports me to the wagon showroom where blackberry hat salespersons console each other in the wake of the horrid deflation of the city memorial. I sneak to the office of the showroom manager to steal one of those lacy little mints shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

When the procession begins, freezing glue weeps from the cracks in the walls. The dry nerves reach up from the butter tanks, gripping the ankles of the blackberry hat people; they stumble and go red-legged and powdered — like a very rich weave of spotted nut rind.

Tan Mug

Cramped raisins in the tub, Mr. Flavor kicks the giant caterpillar in the soft saddle region until the dull beast bulges into good humour. Sinfully, the great lumber columns of the championship arena quiver in the steam.

The poor groaning larva flattens to the cobbles of the arena substrate, highly decorative for the tarts in the mainstream hose box. Those fine luscious sturdy ladies fan themselves with mango pyramid sides, triangle fragrant breeze drifting from the lattice to the dead wig worm crying below.

Orange Memo

Make the shoe, chucked with thick coin syrup and sticky spoon creme. Don't want it lumpy, a scrambled wet element in the left hand and a devil's tee shirt in the right (oily and laughing). It's not half happening.

The crammed hard body is the seedless business. Puree the salt and mix with a chilled tube: floured like one's roommate, but not clapping like clamped yogurt.

Tastes good. Terrible flat piss trampling my biography. Lingual twitching as I dip the timepiece into peas.

Alone with Cranberry Dad

Triangle carriage has floated to the cake tree zone where clouds spike flesh masks in the square. A rubber hot flake of a pasta toy falls from the mistress's map tube. That is when the rope man twinkles into the market of oils. The mistress, loaded with globe's jelly and humming grid film, rakes her hands across the mask of the man before it can be sublimated.

Fritters in the Dark

At dusk, the slim gross teen boy takes a jacket from his nephew. The jacket is patched together with varied denim, stapled strips of even older jackets. There are like eighty or ninety jackets in the mix. Blueberry wood spikes in the breast pocket, a photo of a mousy dog in the inside pocket along with a piece of hickory gum. Now alone, our teen with his jacket spies an abandoned canoe in the parking lot and paints himself like a hyssop flower.

Gilded in the Maze

The house shaped like a fiddle smells like frozen egg yolks. The flower pots have faces painted on them. Miniature statuary, vulgar, bought from an estate sale, lurks in the foliage. Puddles on the walk blink with lonesome heat. The Realtor ® speaks with a cockney accent when he's making his wisecracks, and while I'm not yet seduced, I am waxing my fingertips. I am slipping discs of paper in the gap between the wall and the shabby wainscoting.

2021...

... shall proceed thusly:

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and finally, a festive 359