Shall We Flourish?

I make quesadillas. It is a service I provide. I've purchased the latest stovetop from a reputable manufacturer. The same goes for my skillet and the rest of my utensils, which probably doesn't interest you. Why should it? Once you taste the quesadilla I serve you, your questions about my process will be irrelevant. You'll feel a profound gratitude for my abilities and generosity.

I will, however, regale you with the story of how I obtained the unique apparel I while preparing the victuals upon which you are presently feasting. This is convenient, as it relieves you of feeling obligations of conversational reciprocation, i.e. saying stuff to me, too.

Upon Senator Hill, a lovely Lesbian Woman who drives a Dodge Ram has taken up the pastime of leathercraft. After seeing her wares at a local arts festival - of which I am a perennial attendee - I set my mind to the purchase of comfortable britches, a belt, a tunic, a jacket, and a heavy apron to protect the rest of the ensemble from the messiest of the foodstuffs with which I must contend. I've commissioned a cap as well, but this final element is not yet complete, and to be perfectly frank, I grow impatient with the excuses I hear, week in and week out.

I just really love quesadillas.

Egg One

Roll down the face. Tumble headlong down the slope of that greasy nose. Hold tight the precious eyelash in your pink fist. Feel your foot smack a balmed lip. Strike the bearded chin.

When you land in the giant's soft lap, don't hesitate to still your mind and catch your breath. Scramble down his pants. Don't lose the eyelash. If the giant's cat harasses you, there is a bazooka hidden behind a potted plant. Shoot the cat in the face and run. Actually, shoot it anyway, harassment or no. I hate that giant's cat. Hurting it will distract the giant.

Don't lose that fucking eyelash! I need it.

Succor For Tormented Fathers

There was a long night of fog and light during the final days of our sickness. In the damp heat, you slept like a sloth in the jungle time, the diffuse light rippling across your mossy integument like star fingers. I watched the fabric of my fashionable slacks undulate with cnidarian logic. I watched the telephone’s cold weight on the pressed wood bedside table, silent next to the swollen circular trace of some other person’s ice water. Like a whimsical ichnologist, I imagined the water’s entry into the patient’s body, to be greedily claimed by its cells, to quiet its sensation of thirst, and to be eventually excreted, completely alienated from the ephemeral form the glass had lent it. I knew that some small trace of that water had found its way to me. In the wild haze around us I watched you in your bed, secretly alive.

Ha Ha, I Wrote the Poem

That dog is gone. No doubt it got chased away from the house by friendly women with hot paychecks in their pockets. Those are the women who don't carry purses. And you know, that's okay. They don't have to carry purses. They like that fast-moving feeling you get with running with a sweaty brow and teeth full of fierce visions. So they don't need heavy purses. They sink battleships, and as previously noted, they occasionally chase dogs away from houses.

When I was in a funk, I sold purses on the boulevard. I knew three brothers with different knives and big antelope colored faces. I never fought anyone and I never let people insult each other. By that, I mean that I spoke up and registered my disapproval when I heard one person insult another person. That's the best you can do. You can't stop people from insulting each other. You can't stop some friendly ladies full of ancient worries from chasing these dogs away, either. You just wish it wouldn't happen so much.

Faux Pas Dudes

Lying on the car with the young woman, I was obliged to speak poetically. This is one of those things a young woman kind of expects. Even if she thinks her fella is a real dim bulb, every young woman has been given a thought by her mama that a poetic soul is in every man, and it is up to she, like a sort of psychic key card, to activate it.

I said, "young woman, I think of the pleasures of holding my breath underwater when I see your comely visage. It is my habit, when swimming in a person's pool, to hover weightlessly, curled into the fetal position, submerged where I only hear the throbbing sound of the filter pump. Don't put a pool near an oak tree because of the acorns."

That young woman wasn't too impressed, but didn't turn me away when I offered her smooches, heavy petting, and a nap. So I hope that she might oblige me with something really frisky next time!

Astute readers who are knowledgeable about my biography may look askance at this story. I was raised by two homo papas. Well, I still got to learn a lot about what young women are raised to believe. I learned it from their fag hag. Her name was Chrystol.

Snow Kone

I yelled at the boys "don't slip on the slippery leaves," but they ignored me and didn't fall down. It was stupid of them to run down a rainy hillside on a mid-October afternoon, but they did it anyway and they didn't slip. They were laughing. I wanted to beat up the happy boys.

I am a smart guy who can understand that my impulse was weird. I was angry at them for engaging in potentially dangerous behavior. I didn't want them to hurt themselves. But I wanted to hurt them.

I discovered that in my heart I want to be the only one to hurt people.

Mango Lassi Enema

It is crowded, and the only thing on my mind is new ambition. Free of cares, I desire so strongly to be the face on the comedy movie poster. Above me, a collection of words honed by a diverse assemblage of young, underpaid writers. Behind me, a radial gradient in a primary color, because it's what we do now. Below me, a roster of prideful men and women who, years later, will cut the eyes out of their own copies and beg their domestic partners to forcefully engage them in coitus.