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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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!
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.