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.