----- I died on Wednesday. By turkey his nativity was bucktoothed. Like a walrus butcher, I cried out as they cut off the penis head. The thing looked on, speaking in tongues through a liplocked fingernail. I got out of that old house. I wanted my toothbrush vaccuumed out of my grey. Lambchops. An erection for a parade of pickles. Skinny as money, the cows took out their earrings. I sat on her hair masturbating a quick piano sandwich auto wreck inside of crevice smiles. Sat up in the dead carton of threaded skunks and whistled whiskey. Half of the time, my eyebrows would tell me to quit smoking. Mother always made a scene at the restaurants; eyes bulging and pronouns being thrown around like disposable forks. I sit behind the counter now, wishing I knew what to do. Sleep in the car on the way home. Wrap it all around a telephone pole. Take out the highway. Afros on a one-way street whisper softly my name like spinach for slobber before the ice cream wagon could get in reverse. Automobiles seem to be the hot topic of the day. Meanwhile, I'm having sex to visions of weight benches and phone breath. I also imagine I'm skating on ice with violins for intestines and cartoon mushrooms waving niacin eyebrows. If it's going to hurt, please insert it with vaseline gum. Is she old enough to get away with a fart? surllama 3113 Bernadette Lane Sarasota, FL 34234 ----- In science, on the whole, physical cause dominates. Indeed, as astronomy and physics emerged from the shadow of religion, no small part of the pain came from discarding arguments by design, forward-looking teleology--the earth is what it is so that humanity can do what it does. In biology, however, Darwin took a dump. My hippie war machine played with ice cream headache last night. Perhaps as a little annual rememberance I shall eat a turd on every anniversary of his death, but more likely not. Actually, my first introduction to sex was watching farm animals fuck. surllama 3113 Bernadette Lane Sarasota, FL 34234 ----- Nothing. You're staring into a blank wall. You're brand new. You're soaked with baby spit bathtub and feels like jelly feather kneeling so with kneecaps catching the rain. White thunder reverberates through glass echo mouse death on a pinwheel in some god's shit-strewn jail cell. Mosquitos call you brother from the window of bars listening to old love songs from that vaccuum in the seventies. For supper it's sogged crust and whatever fell from the ceiling in the night. Zombies shaped like hot dogs on pogo sticks read you bedtime stories but you don't like bedtime stories cause that means it's bedtime soon so you would rather make tools out of their esophagi and they don't really mind. All of a sudden a screaming from the bathtub and alabaster hair follicles toothpaste themselves to a rush hour and eye follicles gleaming at a traffic jam and nubile gas attendants ahem. On the floor roll away the carpet turn on the hose it all goes down the drain and that's not a metaphor projectile vomiting barbie dolls spout fascism religion from penis microphones in spandex fuming cherubims in xerox background filtering the empty for erection the hot popping night of never moving next to a bowl filled with dinner before and after. Teeney weeney bugs are everywhere. From somewhere you hear the clatter of a bat. The spit of a design. Then slap and you come out of coma to Mr. Fantastic in your shorts digging skin gravy underwear hey! get outta there and drool drool not because you just met a famous person but because you just woke up in a long time. The floor's a belly of skin on a train ride of cement. Lips shaped like tweeters and twats all hairy and speaking through monoxide. Hyperspace. Where's my bandana?? Silently the crust refolds and another woodstock reunion and the chief of police with a lollipop and waffles taste the same but not so memorable without a twat in the way of the syrup and greasy in a car full of stinkbugs fucking while flying splat on the windshield, ear, steering wheel, crunch! as I grab a copulating few in my teeth. Drugs clog my sinuses and I go "duh" alot. surllama 3113 Bernadette Lane Sarasota, FL 34234 ----- I made a special trip to geezer city for a feast beneath the swimming pool. While eating, I was careful to keep my eyes in my pocket. I yanked at the bones after peeing onto the crust. It was "getting back to nature" night. I kept my eye on the dumbwaiter. Signed a few autographed pictures for the family at the salad bar. Overheard something about a mongoloid monk research agency resurgence in Dallas. They were all out of tomatoes. Got a good look at one of the desert hags. She was of inbred Quaker origins. You could tell by the see-thru bra, the UPC code, and the white roses. Found two fingers clamped around my penis. Called Billy over to draw me a picture of our dog, Roach. ----- Killing nuclear contamination gas-masked clamcakes with negativity, I stole my way to the junkyard for a glimpse of the car accident. Dinosaurs cross the quicksand like steam shovels as the mafia munchkins twist on their wooded hands before mowing down pot-bellied pigs at a bumper poll saloon. My crust from a pipe bomb in a ring of men's lingerie. Dogs sit among the merry-go-round slapping happy; eating food wrappers and shooting AIDS patients; pissing onto a conch triangle. Without a doubt, the most fun I had was being stuck in a bathtub with all the other atoms, jumping up and down, sweating on strangers, and falling over the fence on our heads or into the hands of bouncers. Authority figures. Dragging my weight along a cold steel background checking behind me every fifteen minutes for the half-life of a burrito through a hydraulic microscope. That was the first day I discovered with a bar of soap that my anus was a hole, not a crack. I mean what's a crack worth? Men in drag or just at a Yiddish log rolling festival? I almost got the mystery product. Open your eyes and find the one that gets the red out. For a snack on a very hot day in your condo, drink lots of sour cream made out of delicate, sheer fabric. I call up the home shopping channel for a butterfly wreath maker which makes beautiful decorations out my licking earphone. Not my swami thyroid. Scared of the static, I cling to the profuse celibacy of a hypothetical human invalid just as a Sinatra slithers by on the way to the port-o-potty. Orange juice underneath and mop bucket for a head; upon reaching out to several ballistic schoolgirls smelling of frankincent ether and sogged thigh sweat. Little nubile red riding hoods. Umbrellas as parachutes. Toughskins in field hockey uniforms eating chocolate mousse with their giggle toes. Out comes a strand of green diarrhea. Hedgehogs emitting noxzema through a quilted straw. Quietly romping through the daffodils in search of equestrian post office mobiles. surllama 3113 Bernadette Lane Sarasota, FL 34234 ----- The thieves in their stockings living with my toupee in the stage audience at the back of the ghetto. The bees from enamel cottonballs whizz by on a 24 hour express from her smelly butt cheese. She wants me. Her breath smells bad, though the factory is smokeless and deserted. Way up like a chimney video recorder dressed in black paint. The droopy toothpaste made for loops; Conan swinging through the balconies on fried bacon baseball caps. Liplocked in the wedge of nursing school scissors on an orangutan earlobe, red with jingle bells!! My breath hits me on the ol' head. Schnauzers with rifles made of ginger. Snapping a dislodged finger and there isn't. Huh whazzat? My skin ropes coming out of the whale water, I describe my holographic lifeline to lip synchers on Ed McMahon cigar commercials. Lollipops of waste engineer nematode peculiar towards rythmic K-Mart shopping cart underwear. Waxing obesity on a non-stop butter pancake airplane drink, hating the way my pants grind against me so often of late. Then, sticking to the windowsill dizzy from so much drying, fluke bugs aflame like Corn Flakes, or any other cartoon without a budget or president who sucks himself in the name of morality. The past is sifted through dreams of sex by modem and then the real thing is too much touching and no rollercoasters; I was in jail for a couple of days. My pantyhose tasted of pickles and pastries. A newborn baby smashed right onto the sidewalk with teddy bear for brains, yogurt barf and maggot toes and a place oin the photography shelf of my bookstore. Homeade chicken potpies horseflies of a swimming lesson reflection. A crowd gathers around outside the liquor store. Celebrities crawl out of the gutter with triple chins, chains through the palm on the way to a circus with a nail through the nose. So I ordered some tapioca pudding, a big tough guy eating pudding, outsmarting the restaurant mafia, ordering more fleas. I'm low on gas and she needs a jacket. More shishkabob than I can handle at once. I lose my nerve. I want to be stuck inside a pussy forever, or take coffee internally at the hospital with a bedpan grin in my smock climbing a silver ladder to the furry gates of oxygen. It sank into the bogg lifting a violent snack. My squish felt a squid. Instead of instantly, the nebuluses ran a cross-pattern and landed in the ozone whereas nobody won, not even the martians. Sword swallowers dressed like Darth Vader went to the beach to show off their new plastic spacesuits which tasted like cigarette lips and smelled like cold in the downtown mob, it takes a subway of oven mitts to stop up the toilet; or a 30 hour trip through concrete. surllama 3113 Bernadette Lane Sarasota, FL 34234 ----- Texas A simple scene involving a railroad and some bladder infections. It's time to meet your producer. The homosexuals all bunch up and float out on the sea of rink-a-dinks, whatever that means. Skyscrapers in the distance strutting their diamond lights through a cataclysm of heroin graze. In the bathroom fighting over the clearasil. Little girls with stinky mommies rehearse the spoon, the needle, the toilet slumber...the train keeps running by, running by, the lights keep shining, heads nod, slobber falls, kings ignite...my dick grows big. My dick is a forever construction site made up of four rings. One lane is always blocked off for renovation. The wheels come down hard, almost breaking the silence of mountains in exile, or my body shifting on a bed of redness. Waves of red rolling out of sex. An apartment complex filled with guns, brimming over with weaponfare and bad soundtracks, has been funded by the CIA for population control on every block. Nobody cares. Nobody pays attention, when looking through a keyhole, seeing deformed mailmen slinking under the cleaning lady for today's boxcar gossip. People monitoring cameras at bank machines write a book on behind-the-scenes psychology and intend for you to be infiltrated. You sit down at the table with your sausage and potatoes, and other than being without sex for an unnatural period of time, or purposely celibate and perhaps a danger to society due to the number of bumper stickers on your automobile, you make it a habit not to pay attention to external attributes, and at the same time are flooded by sitcoms biting through your pores on a broken-down rollercoaster ride to your, black like your lungs, excuse for, on this earth, a clearasil soul. On a less sympathetic note, sluts slink by on their way to the arcade. If you're lucky and your car doesn't break down on the way, they still don't think of you as you infiltrate them. Think of a virus. Think of Little House on the Prairie. Meld these two and you have the countryside, which signifies freedom (w/0 of Farm-Aid) made out of self-replicating tractors and machine gun fire instead of roosters; Farmer Bob puts poison in your chow and worships Jesus to the tune of "Mexican Spaghetti". Bow down to the pope of Alcatraz and maul mules for any four-eyed pagan priest in spurs with a slew of racial jokes for the squeaky clean, boxed in and safe. surllama 3113 Bernadette Lane Sarasota FL 34234 ----- winter Something burning inside the paramedics across the street women with hardons shopped many bumpy feet pounding through the narrow crack of his skimpy nightshirt warm brown and wormlike teeth flashing priesthood halos in postmortem chicago. One spasming playboy bunny stepped out into the snow like a real estate broker reaching for the cordless phone through the top half of her legs lamplight swallowing the kingsize bed before the tiny part of a truck rained in sharp dried apple belly mood standing in the middle of a painted glass spike puppet. Scalpels dragging the road back toward the highway silence crackled by the icy flatness fingers swerving to avoid a whitewashed ditch muddy blood a thin strip of lungs firecrackers knees snapped by thick trunks of shade. Slimy pockets saying in lean rubber gloves for a world burdened with flesh blowing in the wind back from hoods a grimace broken twigs dead cars bent around each other orgasms sniffling in the wide wind. Plastic birds breathing gin stuck to an insulated sky babies being barbequed in tin cans pale grey eyes the size of a dozen splattered eggs stiffening along the curb. Yellow clay ordinary mortals dressed in goose pimples filled with whipped cream march facedown begin to mold the city refrigerator existence out of the brass bile ankles of no sense of direction a shotgun horde at noon pushing like a steel leech probed by massacred bug parts wading down through the asbestos air to commemorate the mayor for the new installment of robots and mandatory laxatives at basketball games. surllama 3113 Bernadette Lane Sarasota FL 34234