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.