IncrementalStutter

I am half as lovely as I look. Multiply that by my weight, my height and my volume.
The colors I see are not the colors you see.
Sensuality is like a woman in the sense that I am a woman.
Step over next to the Jell-O fountain and experience my world through all my senses.

If you are my only friend then I talk to parked cars and mindfuck passing Episcopalians.
If you are among my many friends I listen to you as if through some elaborate system
of support beams installed in the early thirties as part of the Works Progress Administration.
You can see me through the slats of the roller coaster drop. The one made of drugged flies.

If I give you a hug when we meet your wife then I’m probably up for whatever.
If, however, I walk arm in arm with you down the street, you will die soon and not slowly.
I am a thought shot through with fuel cells, a new type of formica vying for market share,
a recalled fire retardant carpet with matching matches, the ing to your oin, a reflex in the vee.

I was once grounded on the very real world you came from. I am bored
with your world but not with you so long as you remain separated. Facts bore me. Fact:
Countries are made of a special resin that holds its resiliency even in extreme temperatures.
Fact: Religions are made of wood.

I have several pairs of penny loafers. Penny loafers. Penny loafers. Penny loafers.
If you say something enough times it becomes another pair of penny loafers.
Penny loafers. Penny loafers. Penny loafers.
I stand in front of all kinds of backgrounds. I expect you to, too.

I don't experience my life through a flat screen. I experience it through a series
of heated tubes, hardened chalk components and miles of tangled wiring.
There is a small gland in the sac that produces a pre-ejaculate. I collect glass beads.
I go out for the swim team and fail to make the first string every year. Fact.

The stuff I do I do for real. The rest is just stiffened window dressing, pretending
to be real then giving names to all the petrified bugs that have preceded me into
the hall of fame. I am not your watch. I am sitting on a crate. I am red.
I rode my bike from Soviet Russia to the Piggly Wiggly on Highway 69. A lie is a fact.

I am a particular sort of woman, as mentioned above. Sensuality is your tipping point.
I love to begin with a glass of wine. How we will end in a crater with multiple debris
trails is anyone’s guess. We might just as well end up on the sofa, or incorporated
into its architecture. It’s important to furnish yourself with a lot of good lines.

You and me on the sofa whistling. Whistling the songs of David Gurdjieff.
Most evenings I will be found mounting a vintage pre-war Howitzer.
There are no pre-war Howitzers left. The materiel is all post-war now, or mid.
It’s a question of moving toward forever or away from once in a lifetime.

My ears hurt when you speak. I haven’t been in love in an hour.
The Curse of the House of Richmond flows through the veins of my father’s geraniums.
I know I am one of many but all of the colors converge in a pot outside my cell door.
Why is a cell like a fair in May? Why ask so many housebroken questions?

Who gets shot in the flabby part? Who played the night watchman weak
from lack of moisture? There is only the one film in the world, you know,
and you’re almost really good in it. It’s important to furnish yourself
with a lot of good lines, ideally endlessly repeatable.

I am in no particular order.
Laughing, smiling & peaking prematurely.
Being funny.
Organizing & planning being funny.
I am that person you would want.
I am standing next to you.
This is a time of crisis.

What time is it?
Time to leave me alone for a moment,
I’m solving all your problems.
Creating creative solutions.
Getting to a place on time.
Laughing at situations.
Kissing an art form.

That isn’t me in my photos.

On the island we only had so many books. A single book can last a lifetime, so long
as the lifetime is finite. I keep coming back to this problem. If you check out early
but the book remains unfinished, is that enough to have kept the fire going had I known?
I didn’t miss anything the entire twenty five years. Now that I’m back I miss not missing anything. Kissing, love, punctuality, inappropriate humor. Guess it’s Kindle time.
I’m going into withdrawals now. Use the options menu for subtitles.
Nothing much will appear to have happened for a week or so.
Then many, many things. Chatting & the world.

AnnoDustbunny

My Shrink Says Hers Went Up Like a Dream

I want a man who isn’t afraid to circle me
on a form. There’s a line through the trees, jerk it
or make me a better offer or thank you for looking.

A tribe can migrate only so far without sticks
and a proven method. You can’t count on anything
to combust when you need it to. Not these days, nope.

Tents are hard to put up. Don’t you find that it’s hard
when you’re trying to put up a tent? I do. I think tents
are really hard. I’d rather do almost anything than have

genital measles in a tent. Tents fucking suck, man.
Look, all I’m trying to say here so you know who I am
and where I’m coming from is that I’m passionate

about a lot of things and putting up tents is one of them.
I have the desire. I have the moxy. I have the instructions.
Why can’t the tent just behave predictably like in the diagram?

They make these diagrams in China or India or Ohio.
How am I supposed to work with that? I want it to work,
really. I’ve been trying to deal with this tent thing for years

but I can’t get past some emotional or physical blockage or maybe
I’m just too nice. It’s like tents don’t want anything to do with me.
I have friends who have had the same tent for, like, fifteen,

twenty years without ever having a problem. That’s the kind
of tent I’m looking for. The one perfect tent for me. I believe
it’s possible and I have the anger necessary to make this work.

If you can relate then maybe we belong in a tent together?

I just got out of a tent I was in for almost ten years. Today, I started
leaning on angry looking Spaniards. shh. Last month, I took up salting
peoples’ wounds. I salivate too easily. I keep a single snail in my boot
(metaphorically speaking), and cook upwards of a billion meals a minute.
I can survive without astrologers, storm troopers, or fruitarian death squads…on occasion.
I collect new ideas and weave them into things you can use to make your life more bearable. If you want to woo me, try feeding me to rock stars. I’m a sort of thoroughbred savant, ridden hard and put up wet until I corrected my altitude.

All fascinating ideas make me drivel; fantasies about the future of rock stars I’ve not been flown through yet. But am I the fog or the instruments? A rock star’s dog might develop a complex formula for flying me blind without my ever knowing it. The formula might save millions of lives he could then go and snuff on TV. All when he could have flown over the bank in the first place! Flying through fog is safer than you think. Flying on instruments is a skill like playing Smoke on the Water. A dog that gifted can still elevate me just by sending adipose roadies with apologetic powders I can reinterpret as something someone with a chord and no columnar makeup might even (not possibly) remember.

Just scattergun all those imaginary adoring vibes my way. Are you ready, open and available for bar mitzvahs on zero notice? Break out in arrested bumps at the suggestion of a deeply loving and committed term of zero distance conjunctiva? Do you step up to the plate when things start to get foodier? You love intellectual pursuits, murder, and the Ohio Arts. The orders are immaterial, you died in the charts then were freed to make live infant mandalas for a system of deforestation of the mind.
If you’re mine you learn everything from the dead. Bellini once said, “The only slang worth its weight in one night stands is the slang you create yourself while creating yourself killing things.” Extra decorations if you pretend to understand the ramifications of negation of the self in the pursuit of a series of perpetually more accessible rungs. There’s booty at the bottom of the well, are you my Dear Liza Everyman? Unsure of your place in the KOA/KKK regulations as to what may be gunned or released?

Sidenote: I have a full head matte black nictitating hood that makes almost anything probable.

You have a deep affinity for integrity, and honesty. You have earned the privilege of deep connection in relationship.

This is incomprehensible code I will now translate for the benefit of anyone whose cardiac chart is written on voice of a generation replica stationary:

You look sporty in floods. You once swept a woman off her feet by swinging a knockoff Thai explorer at the weak spot not yet on her knee. You have impressed yourself mightily by sloshing through the miasma with your metalflake face intact. You are a stone cold testifier and fruit doesn’t even stick to your crewcut. You spell self declared giants when they need smack breaks. The title of your autobio is Fizzle Slovenia: My Life as a One Horse Pump. There’s a microscopic flaw in your mintage, makes you worth ten to twenty percent of anything under two cents’ face value. You are a mandala, a picture of something intended to be swept away and replaced by itself when it feels like it. You are dead, in a way, but not too dead and mine in the senses that you bought my patent on sand babies and because you feel like it.

The Thrills That Gives Me the Joys:

What gives me the joys?
Women who get vanished in small towns.
A woman called up by a visual error.
Comfortable raunch in the workplace.
The new biopsy bra by Vicky.
A by the numbers oil of HIM as a bottle of notes on a lee shore.
The hammer and pegs a failed hippie might wear.
Holy pedantry.
The reversal of the inverse color of nothing.
Walking.
Walking while texting.
Texting while eating.
Eating while walking on your text.
Talking over text being read while I’m eating.
And it comes out here.
Articulating the trumpet in my jeans.
Practical mechanics applied to my innermost desires and being
harmlessly incapable of sluttiness except in the strictest sense.
Sensual things in liquid suspension.
Sex in the wake of an undisclosed agreement.
(Sex is the car you want, a dog is the car you get.)

There’s no place I wouldn’t take you, (including wakes, assassinations in the country, other assignments in the country, driving to the country to the farmer's markets to gather herbs and take them home to the country, gardening in the nude, gardening in the new police state, on top of a jagged spicerack, while cooking you or for you, while exercising my franchise to elect to read the same outside as inside, in the middle of the decomposition of my childhood Babar, destroying tents for special occasions, before, during and after ice shopping, into a blanked field as art)

I do it all for you:
Intellectual things you can think about in a tent.
New ideas for tent design.
Chasing intellectual ideas about how to design better, more efficient portable camping shelters. Learning some things then forgetting them so we can learn them again together then forget them while practicing tantric his and her tent sex at opposite ends of the galaxy in tents.
Becoming all new and debuting unchanged this weekend.
Learning to let go and teaching it to my tent.
Taking courses in tent management.
I possess the purity of knowledge of a canvas enclosure whose sole
intention is to keep my destiny from cluttering up my view.
For you I will blow a former arrested rock star.
Only for you will I imitate engagement with the word.
In my desire to please you I will initiate leaden silences.
Rock stars who go in for thinking make me nuts in the jeans.
As a favor to our future I will pretend not to notice that
I’m thinking again.
I’ll embrace good conversation until you speak.

I like being close to another, but you’ll certainly have to suffice until the semester is over
and the bus with the airbrushed plaid skull fragment comes to ride me. it hasn’t happened yet.
But companionship is like a companionway on a ship: too narrow for more than one to enjoy,
too low for anything meatless, too airless to care much what it fills with as the forward
compartment sinks below the horizon in your Space Needle sno-globe.

I don’t know about you but I’m feeling really connected! Feels like I’m loving some
form of organism that looks hot in airbrushed plaid Bermudas and flip flops.
And you? Are you feeling that I’m making someone feel as loved as I am? Feeling
like I am, and having secured a part in the chorus of Unchain the Morning Senseless,
I’m reminded of the story of Georgette, and the spot the largest one was tied to.
Having said that, with that said, at the end of the day, and going for it.

Dreaming of one more gold star reacharound with that mini-dicked eschatological Ziz
in the footnote.

The tent in my beckoning throat…the fading of the appointment’s relevance…
the braised panda we had on that first unforgettable mystery cruise to Domino’s…
how the butler’s kilt never fully relaxed…contributing to a grittier sense of the whole.
How like the air the air seems.

KnottedThreadwormBloodedGirlfriend

My Sunday is my Sanctuary

get up early make apple walk coffee eat dog.
glom up culpable self-starters, enlist able drilling team,
abandon hope of justice for downstairs breather.
Build home around current operating theater.
Level relational terrain.

Steal back guilt from jilted troll doll.
Compose threnody, 155 bpm, lure flautist into sleepwalk
monument, steal useful memoirs, initiate termination by fume.
Unarm rubber bootlicker, separate shoulder from tear duct,
rupture black label edition mary janes by scoring with Swiss
Army toothpick. Shillyshally in face of full week’s mail.
Keep out-basket airy as Stuka sleigh, take notes
on possible oomph of second string lawnmower/kisser.
Plant upside-down pineapple grenade tree. Precipitate envy
of nineteen year old Penthouse feature quadruplets.
Buy bigger canteen. Have effervescent beverage with Hebrew.
Arbitrate disarmament amongst nations of nine or fewer.

Then anything can happen.

But I wouldn't call it drama.

Riding that train would be like a forehand straight to the Marianas.
Or a wooden handled tool slicing it into memorization.

Just a bolt that creaks, of a once spry throat in chalcedony going on nothing
but urine, the admixture a series of devil’s island playdates (for my resin and
lacquer vintage me!), donors, meta-friends, patternmakers…randomly enjoying
this fluency in a new tremen. Tree men make better lumbers!

Been terribly weakened of spirit lately, tend to spend time rifling through my lovers’
thrift store castaways. Looking for leucorrhea. Going on nothing but spidey-sense.
And the thunderstorm signaling to my fin.

The miscarriage was a breeze and I’m enjoying this new shiatsu body cast.
Not so much the mail order leaks in time.


I’m a Slipper Flicker and…

I'm a fructose intolerant armature, it means I never age.
A specter fanatic with a license to prove my caravan
is a thunderbird with built-in babysitter stirrups.
I set a fire engine red fire, seven years, a city block,
and they’re still tracing back to the smoke source.
I'm a single flannel slap with a metal language tensor.
All this means is I own my own parking meter but you
would be welcome to crook my mechanism.
I knit sand.
I swear in Gaelic but only at the peaks of famines.
I like how the green part sloshes.
I'm a Latin hesitancy escalating into a full defensive thwart.
I take a fineness course every week with a famous (you know him!)
blameologist.
I was scoring consistently in the early 80’s but I seem to have
misplaced my team.
People who know me call me a flaming throughput junky.

I love to spin into the bales, with or without sponsorship.
At the gym I do Yoda although they hate it (hahaha got to keep
the character flexible) I take dancers home if I’m adequately
butterflied, I sometimes skin my bumps, I rid my binaries of their
dualities, like hanging a rustler just because my skirt rode up.
I hang out with Frank and the pack in wigs, I schlep my daughter’s
Tornado in a Vacuum to an amazing amount of birthday executions.
Oh, and I cook a lotus to disprove the Buddha’s take on defloration.
I am a very specific zone of twilight.

I’m Running Out at the Eyes and…

Drinking your viscous off-white wine from an amulet in my tongue ring.

I Like to Acknowledge Your Silences and…

How fabulous my daughter and dog are on those rare but getting
commoner three bottle Wednesday nights.

Like Yoda, the Walls Have Trails…

My favorite answer is to stall, then toy with you and finally say,
“I love all the kinks of your mustache.” One of the reasons I love to spin.
But attach a bellows to a teacher and you’ve got yourself a high class BJ.
Could, would, should…if we just miss sharing it's all great time to myself.

I’ll eat just about everything but your "sweet breads" and that stuff.
And I cook everything I see...while I really enjoy good "clear" food
it’s the dirty colors that get me condensing. I’ve said it a gazillion times,
conditions are meant to be stunted.

The Penchant I Trill Heavenward Like a Heedless Strangling Oy…

I'm not furled like that...but willing.

I Fester: A Cantata to Alcoholism by Disney…

This (indicating shattered monitor) is where our next vacation is
and this (indicating fibrous tumor) is how I'm going to pay for it.
That and romance...in that way (indicating strip mine) I'm such a girl.

When the Soviets Harmonized Allentown I Was…

делать толкотню с kevin costner и половинную сваренную ногу лошади

If I were a teepee I would prorate…

By the week? By the night? By the hour? By the shores of the quiet ones
that need their rest in order to behead all the daughters in this village.
Now you must answer this question. Now you must know me too long.

Vertically Challenged the Pig(adaptation from "Pulling a Wreck From the Victim")

Tomorrow the sun admits it’s queer)

Tomorrow Annie gets a D&C. As the club footlights groan out,
when gas jet technology falters, an oil leak amusement ruins a fowl)

when fire breaks out in soft shoe, when the window sees only what you seek,

this repeating pattern in anvils become the cloud)

this is your reporter from downtown Unisom and I am
here doggie, enjoying your stolen meat stick?)

here on the street in the heart of this is not a test. Singing

bundle of tuneful merriment, abuse me!)

bundle these sensible faggots then pocket torch the wagon train. Singing
of all cows and songs sung by and about a cow)

of all the Dick tattoos a Crookback mutt most closely represents

Escape Me Never named on pain of torture starring Errol Flynn)

escape from the impossibility of anti-self-inventory
wrapped in your lossy tissue, puff?)

wrapped in an enigmatic underwire on one hovering noodle

up all night asleep as a well and chased)

up until now just powder burns from a backfire gag, bucolic
in safety against a major shift awakening)

in a spot a freak may seem a beautiful mistake, a program stain.

lights control all of the power, always)

lights believe in your density, are not your friends,
and and and this clutter on my head!)

and as if on cue a lead Cossack fucks a nursery hunter blind.

canvas and dope, the two fundamental elements of flight)

canvas your neighborhood, it’s made of cranberries.
is a word important enough to ruin fruit?)

is there nothing, then, I can do to make you choke funnier?

nothing save extract)

nothing a stops out trip to Club Pet couldn’t worsen.
but for the give of a drooping fiberglass overhang)

but to admit your speech creates a field in flummox.

a fill-in form within a ballast)

a field balanced on the simulacrum of an empty chicken.
field hands love chicken anytime)

field after field recognizes you, looks away, does not laugh much.

once is never a belly flop enough)

once the big question had been poured in concrete. Swinging
more stressed metal than literal threat)

more than the need of a meal was the need to be ratified, swinging,

when with those hips is a right time to reject the elephant?)

when to be real means the word least like you eats your aura.
the ticking around your waist)

the chalkline around a missing monster rod, albeit

carnival has the best discount packages, bar none)

carnival barking of a dog in shoes could not lure it out -
has read a book is not afraid to eat it)

has this ever not happened to you? a serially murdered victim

yanked an unfortunate euphemism)

yanked is a state of mind. you yanked at it and threw it out,
up where the air is petroleum cake, yellow, tenuous)

up to a point it was that deliverance cabin with your kinfolk,

stakes are higher the less fellatio and dictionaries under the table)

stakes all around – still stumped that it recoiled at your sight?
and to hold until we call each other’s assholes asshole)

and we can make him un-gay! it’s all in the capture rate:

we’re the car, we are not the clowns)

we’re a collective dread, we stand on each other so planes can see us.
nothing beyond the carry-out horizon sagging under its waste)

nothing more serious than a little soreness in the morning,

but the race to pretend to be good at dancing and o the skinny fat pants!)

but everything pants represent, flip-book face into rearward swinging door,
taillights sink, a tanker disaster, the coelacanth of your brownie troop)

taillights in your figurative shape, striations and sympathy peel-out marks.

once thought of as stretching, always stretch ready)

once I played it “Slim style, with the back of a single finger. I get much higher now.”
you are all the world to me minus all the world)

you were far less spacious the more monolithic. I wonder, should I?

wash day is every day, you’re fucking kidding?)

wash my mouth out with anyone else’s multiblade foam to the tongue?
the old north tower, for example, could not support a light)

the scent of Revulsion by Carol Duval took months off his hard up time.

cotton instrumental in the development of the phobia canon)

cotton panties make the worst semaphores, all you can see are the balls.
candy diorama of sugar and lethal allergens. he waits to breathe.)

candy skunk cabbage, hay sedition talk, apple brown beaters after school.

out of these three mega-hits which would you suck to?)

out one good driver but only your hybrid egg was hit, or deserved it.
of thee and of thee and of thee thee sing)

of all the eleven fifty nine reprieves at the little green door of debit

your order has been shipped to The Palace of Albumen Holes)

your commutation was a hallmark upsell with scatting chip implant
one is all you’ll ever intone)

one is the onliest number for a kissing booth missing its war concession.
good as the barmaid on my modern architecture)

good as this bargain meat might be for light gesticulation, you’ll have to

dress as a thinner, thinking, third world odor)

dress it up pretty, Teresa, he - they all - said if you expect to ride it to Wyoming
and break it for your gayer half)

and give it that desperate teal at the heart of your caloric scheme,

the sky a riot of pinks and dearths)

the silhouette of duck and pig duking it out for luau exemption,
toy that speaks! that screams! infects!)

toy black boner suctioned to your doublemint Disney mania fairy.

soldier on, my proud white funkwit)

soldier by soldier they knock, thinking you a door, get knocked up.
your ribbons lowering in deference)

your kid, meanwhile, Harvey, is a lifetime rejection notice.

kid a guy about a dog, some meat, a dream, go on)

kid by erroneous kid they repeal you for causality.
won me some funny words at the fair, ain’t I?)

won a prize hog down in Mills Bore, y’know? nary bigger than a pygmy.

at last count the pygmies were ahead)

at last count she still had her original plastered mud inserts.
the lights come on to that blonde again)

the thing that makes a house a home, the lights blow out at once,

milk from a breast is easier to reach in an upright freezer)

milk goes off on cue, a stage the size of your foot cannot be filled.
can the milk, it’s still bad diary management)

can can dancers juxtaposed with bags of razor jacks, now C.B.,

pitch white and blindingly dark, the night of a thousand stares)

pitch this to me like it’s seriously tragiconnective, like it produces
breaks itself off even)

breaks in the monotony of this solo voce rally. welcome shriners!

when will I be unloved enough?)

when will this weeping can become soup?
your guess is a ticket to the big time)

your pet hog is outside pacing on your new timeless wind up watch,

calendar roll backs don’t work, crazy!)

calendar subsidizing, lighting his gasses for poetic gravitas, these
blanches, anemics, annoying diagonal eyeholes)

blanches are just the spaces between your trunks, Dungbo,

back up another baby step toward the head shot sweet spot)

back when there were already hopeless reasons to shove in hope.
into each rain a little light must relieve itself)

into a gravitationally southbound chest it now all pulls, inexorable,

empty as the suicide bowling league)

empty of the usual anti-tragedy bathos, the tasteless milk of human
squares, if that’s all you know to draw)

squares of chocolate we, inky like Squiddly reported dialed,

when does the shrieking cop?)

when you make such a convincing jacket then fill it with your sucrose
the little things it is that make all the difference null)

the lines come off like a Moliere full bore into a retainer abutment.

stink you said. and seriously.)

stink of the hobbyist, a field of ‘em, stink skinned external?
of thee and of thee and of thee thee stink)

of the rest of who all knows you’ve flipped over this new coffee?

hogs. and seriously?)

hogs, that flat out slaughters me at this hour.
won’t your parents be wondering why you’re alive?)

won’t be long before the seizures get Dolores, the drama mellow,

scrub the foot from under your chin)

scrub to the substrate with your splinter resistant Uggs
out of spots again! damn thou aspiratory!)

out there in the dark one can scent itself coming

of thee and of etcetera)

of an age or body we can say one is for the disco inferno, and how
your borrowing blowpops is not channeling transcendence)

your brow defines you. but everyone here learns…Wanda Cisneros el oh el.

hair is another of those surface tensions)

hair, i.e., is actually the hair of a super cute model, and now
when he’s finished crossing her tees)

when the planets collate and a discrepancy emerges

the explosive natural compound the myth)

the fashion sense will be found to have been a loaner,
tractor culture back on the upswing!)

tractor beams and anal duds better suit a new potato.

coughs are your only reliable barometer)

coughs in the gallery are gathering director by director.
it’s jet lag in a cowpoke’s souvenir hat)

it’s a gala with the emphasis, fire the building’s only hope.

last time you’ll remember I was already gone)

last week the one night revival of pay-what-you-can
and there were no books worth stealing from)

and a floor to fatally leap from failed to break even, but

the anguish you felt felt like real stage anguish)

the artist’s family’s seats are a steal, and when in doubt
bank these victimizations for a pamphlet)

bank on potluck turkey. Dear Auntie Gratuity, he never

calls into a fog of ghost bafflers)

calls to equalize my gift. All my invisible friends say hi,
to anyone but present company)

to be honest the international charges are gutting my estate.

inquire without for entrance)

inquire at your convenience for the terminal bags of your faith,
about as deep as Lake Xerox)

about bonus points you can earn by just remaining inert, also

the flagship of the perpetually burning fleet)

the premium owed your crutches, isn’t it nice getting something?
flagging and observation over a period of several years)

flagging on the walkway tatters, the groundloop stars, to them

mortgage is all you can write)

mortgage is an eight letter word and you’re the ort not in it. lights down
and lights down)

and we all come at once to free bird.

we dance as if we mean to damage earth)

we elevate a derelict track to accordion off.
are you there?)

are there any more prayer lines buried in your dramatis persona?

riding to the end of the same line every line)

riding one abreast and one spare to fuck on a weedy clod,
the things about fucking you don’t know)

the things you could see from space; your lost hose,

bills you send yourself, birdlike)

bills of impossibly cooperative rapist monsters…
that this might also be a piece of timed art)

that species you tried to trade in on a late model monkey rider. the paper

lined in dull viscera)

lined your cage now we both lie in the steroid expose’. you in
your legs, move them until I say to stop)

your travelogue, “My Journey Revealed as a Dry Erase Marker”, me in

pockets were designed to contain)

pockets of ill fitting energy and the art that is sequel to slapstick.
yesterday you fell on a whole banana)

yesterday is where you leave your keys, today is a mail order master,

across 125th street I see you under a bus)

across your street they’re putting up a Siberian moonrise, spooky.
a crowd is gathering, then bored)

a committee will need to be formed to look into your fitness,

whole parades of you on wires)

whole fun fairs of splay eyed clucks disguised as rabbis,
map that triangulated the cartographer)

map the things you need to position more earthward,

of thee a bust of salt)

of the rest we can take a partial inventory,
state by state)

state their names as they file into the chute:

lines, ephemera, dross, void, bust, consistency)

lines, links, licks, lacks, sacks, sucks
gypsy-blooded. I have no usable sexual tension.)

gypsy-blooded are the few brave enough to say gypsy-blooded

and still you’re saying goodbye to something?)

and not expect a horse to follow them. from the parapets of Rotten Salami,
long as the day is elongated)

long may they keep their hole punch collection whistling,

gone as your last insertion)

gone are the days when the air was all there for the sweetening,
where have all the dogs gone, Maw?)

where the floods have inadvertently missed their mark,

will they come back do you think?)

will is a thing that must be stolen from a preemie with a higher sex quotient,
you mean we have to hunt for ourselves?)

you won’t know your life till it haunts you with scissors. must you, really,

be? where will I be? on the porch howling at tin?)

be? weren’t there some low scores worth jumping off?

ExtraditeMe71

My Dream Malignancy

I love this country of mines,
from Mars to the Oglala
burial tree in my den.
We built the addition around it
and our collection of rare
constrictor skins, a life in there,
then he left me for a moron
with a calendar.

I see Josh Hartnett in everything,
it’s nice.

Love means Cramping with a capital C,
hiking up my hazmats, or just chewing
the cud at my own deliberate pace.

Leaving the pick-up on idle.

Voting something lefty down
then drinking and drinking
on it until I’m sighted.
Still not sure where I left
the white cane last night.

I’m way okay with high romance!
Downloading each other by the fire
while watching the stars come off.

Dancing in the blood.

My Dream Mangling

Draining a fox for a special romantical treat.

It’s that romance that I’m after, like
three year old trotters in the kitchen.

You can polish me up and take me.
None of the neighbor kids will mind
they’re very good about sharing.

I have words I don’t like, like
dichotomies, something I heard
in the family crypt.

I have my dreams. See?
The room to brand my love
on his hands and needles
in my little girls.

My Drum Circle (in the woods)

I don’t want to go on a plane
or dragged and stoned like the women
on my Dad’s side. Give me something
natural, I think of myself as an invitation,
A slow death in the bedroom, I am like
romaine and iceberg in one leaf.

I been saving up an antic to kill the right man.
And show him my things in the arc light.

Canada isn’t far, we’ll make love after you’re
finished rattling, caress you and hold your picture
ID against my beating dumbbell.

My Drum Circle (in the town)

I spike the simple things in life,
elks in long sites, drives up the cannon
tooling, tacking the lamp patterns in place.
I know a road less ravaged by kids.
we’ll go down it just to see where it goes down.
I am coking up for the special someone
who can’t live once he’s met me.
I know somewhere out there is a tautness
I can't live without, it’s him I’m locating,
locking the roof rack, for that last first kiss.

What I’m doodling with my knife

I am in a human salad right now
and I biodesign hybrid kitten/centaurs.
The horses are too well trained,
never enough to keep me chill.

Baking a cake of my puppy.

Cakes I’m Currently Eating

I am happening as we speak!
Are we speaking? Can we now?
You love to laugh and we will
talk about that, believe me.

I’m still good friends with Andy.
Andy always makes me smile.
Andy says you should smile more, it is
the widow to gnaw your soul.

Light me a match to guide my claw
hammer. I can see what I am here for,
and it looks golden from where I’m
taking a smoke. If I strike something
soft before dawn I promise to go
halfsies with your chosen charity.

I’m Digging For

Framing wire
Ankle irons
Loose casings
Anything too glistening
Cuz I’d like you to meet your new BFF’s

CumulonimbusTolstoy

Make all your summers soluble!

Are you fond of being out of Nature? Who is! Would you like to have nature
delivered to you in the privacy and convenience of your own weather? Then call me
down from your personal custom sky vent! I am a wellspring of USDA travesties.
Never have to go act-of-godless again! Love a face full of bees? Lung full of
salt? Parachutes that stop to wonder? I am especially beautiful as a wild storm!
Imagine not ever having to speak again, to anything! You and your Siamese
chins might be up to speed on new Holy Communion Hors Doeuvres and Sexually
Transmitted Pigmentation in no time! There is no time so like the present! We’re
the only each other’s counterfeit passports we’ve got!

Think you might be up to trying "Space”? Are you the former manager of the Ventures?
Would you be comfortable in a Wonderful World of Coloreds, porous enough for traveling-through yet elephantine in your company approved fro wig? Last question: do you now own or have you ever held an option to buy on an ion?

I am.

Perhaps we'd do things down a well we mightn’t otherwise, to speak
with each other’s vocoders, presume to invest the thinnest hope
with musical comedy properties. You could touch me on my essence,
embolden me to stroke your core value, bring each other to the precipice
of the next sequential precipice. A hole in the ground is a powerful force,
it unites the antagonists water and neon, unites the airlines in nonpartisan
mourning. You don’t know anything yet. A cow is standing over you
and you don’t know that it means the difference between eternal salvation
and the 747 Strip Club on I-94 in Romulus. This is all about to change.
I play love, fight hate, freeze hope and work names into repeating circles.
I’m a slow cooker, cool slowly too, and go vaporous at the sight of anchors.

You won’t be happy to see either side of me on either end of the campground.
I’ve found it after sixteen years, desiccated, tumbled, a mouth of exhaust
and cheap flaking swans, their questions still on their wiring. I won’t go home
until the singing death trap is fully restored to like-new condition with all correct
matching serial numbers. Only then this will be my home and I’ll ask you kindly
to leave. In the meantime Hello ~ I hope this finds you well & happy!

Please read the notice on my right breast: I shall not be deep sea certified
for historical intervention until I’ve completed the written portion of the training.
During that time your potential as my breath handler has dropped to less than nil.

I'm working on being "the One". There’s no time (present?) left at the end
of my day so dent your buckles on someone else’s stickshift. Hold that pose
and wait to hear from one of my counterterrorist agencies.

In the eyes of God we are all his children and terrorists.

Consider the hornet, a great communicator, positions itself in corners
for maximum deniability. I put a plus sign next to the hornet, he’s
a masterful relationship strategist. Plus signs also go to Prospero for
his denouement on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild College Sluts, generally thought
to be Shake-speare’s final episode before leaving nature TV for the live stage
in Uncasville-Upon-Avon.* The respect that combines with hubris to make a kind
of gelatin treat gets a double plus sign plus a taste of my physical affectation.
Remember when taking me to the Golden Corral before glazing me over:
a storm at sea plus good manners equals great glue. Sticky is fundamental!

(I always think of my avuncular uncle Duncan the black market Fuller Brush
Murderer – remember those bright blue headlines? – when I see that resort
in the light of the alliterative excess. Ah, the resonances of the deported.)

I'm a mini-disc recorder connected to your turntable. Together we can save
The Eagles.

Children & animals are drawn to me. I see all warm blooded creatures as a series
of pencil renderings on a very large sketch pad made of topsoil.

Don't cheat at games, love, or life but am predominantly mammalian. A contradiction
within an Enigma decoding machine confiscated from Nazi intelligence headquarters
in the basement of the former Ameriquest Field in Arlington. Wrapped in Sizzlean
for safekeeping.

Although slow I still mess with kids.
Don’t anger me or I’ll be quick to forgive you and you’ll never be sorrier.
I'm no one fool for long, believing in the teachings of the elders, “Mix it up,
we’re growing scales.” Whispering in your ear that you are my moving target
is a gentle way of saying my Irish War-Goddess is about to ride you like a fulcrum.

People trust me with their secrets (MySpace).
My therapist friends have told me I'm a well-adjusted catch. (Twitter)
I have pretty feet. (Facebook)

You need a soothing hand. I have strong forearms. Close enough.
You need a sympathetic handjob. I have hedge clippers and a laser level.
I can tie a cherry tree in a knot with my tongue. While belly dancing
on the grave of Benazir Bhutto. Why nowadays can’t a woman flame
from the hoops without being judged a one-off splatter picture?

I make the world's best Molotov cocktail, amazing with my lazy-eye tempeh.
I can be ready to go out in 12 minutes flat or 25 with the implants.
I can be ready to kiss you 60 times a second for a period not longer than
10-12 seconds at a velocity within the prescribed range of tolerances
for standard laboratory conditions. Your altitude may vary.

I fibbed about my age a wee bit on this profile. I’m still under 700
but just not as far under as it says up there. And yep, I fibbed about
the cherry tree, too. I could learn to fib about more and sexier things
if some patient teacher would care to take me on as a summer intern.
(I am a quick study! I'm practicing now, your Lotus Esprit is on fire.)

I'm an excellent Tattoo portal. Art gets near me and just adheres,
the critics called my last show “a chaise longue in the history of
defense systems.” I'm a prop on the roadshow of Rent and I offer
myself to Freemasons everywhere in exchange for the odd detectable
microgasm. I know I’m being redundant but I endure life with a passion.

I smoke a half hammered liquor store operator a couple of times a year (only) ~
in honor of my Guantanamo Grandma & because I enjoy it when they beg me
to just take the money. If I needed a sno-ball that hierarchically, Chief, I would
have let you know with my pocket Blu-Ray of the mass suicide scene from Some
of the President’s Men. Straight to the bridge with no discussion.

I don't remember the iron age. Not anything. It’s as if I was never even there.
Yet, if I loved you, & you were in a fatality accident on some South Florida highway,
I might find the irony in your shirt still being perfectly pressed. Just know that, while
smiling, I might also be moved on some other less pleasant level. And yes, you would
owe me!

I know this is a very long shot, profits to losses wise, yet I didn’t get this appointment
for being married to hope or making the right wrong decision at the wrong time.
It’s my purview, no, my millstone, to ensure to the least of my inability that these
obligations are met with a free foam stars and stripes finger for the first six point
nine two billion willing to believe that they might enjoy the journey...

Let me be Your One Most Marvelous Attribute:
'Though I am a homunculus and amateur barrelhouse washtub percussionist
my training as a classical chiaroscurist has landed me more gigs than any agonized
philatelist has first day cancellations of the alternate stamp of E, & I’m fairly well ready
to feminize you, speaking strictly as a disinterested but instrumental noncooperationist
but I'm not in the Ballbuster Union even though I actually really like stringed men!
I think you are fascinating when wet & make delightful echo chambers & come
in several delicious varieties at my local big box ultraunrealist mart.
I'd like one (just one GOOD one will do nicely thank you) of my very own to
dematerialize, let’s call it, in a political prisoner exchange of sorts with the Post
Master General of Bahrain. I want my magazines, you want the manpower,
somebody just needs to blink...

I intend to work part time as a Narc while learning to wither, to skip happy and go
straight to too smart, no use for funny, relatively, but a normal man is a man
of means and that means I want his heart. He’ll have strong opinions on the state
of my oedipal progress, a libido the size of the Pistol Star, a borderline love of learning,
& an hour a day devoted to honoring the fallen in the curable meats industry.
Nature is the best teacher but nature can’t predict the weather. It’s just the two of us
now, your children have all been reestablished in sustainable colonies near the border
of an unnamed happy family. The pretense to intend. We find it adequate tremolo.

I’ll do you a favor. Whether in actual miles or in the breath of a vision of birth or both courting and despondency; home is not in this option package; cowardice is a bar
in the East 90’s; your age is, dare I say, Venetian, not Venusian. One sinks while
the other practices parthenogenesis.

Lucky you, I don't have my tarot deck handy. I didn’t terrify my last “customer”
with his new identity nor with the concept of "Princess". he never even wanted to
be one for Halloween. They so often have had dreadful lives & also the archetype
is a saddle sore from a badly approached mounting. We strive for a perfect lack
in reciprocal joy. I have no faith in the Rapture. My interest in the roles of femme
fatale, cheater, prima donna, or "partner in crime" are strictly anthropological;
trying to establish my limits of detestation. Like that hideous expressway station
we hit! You call that service? Me either. I’d rather be on the delivery end of a Lady
Carr than be stuck in a queue at DQ with an Anam Cara. Voulez me comprendre
dans l'âne maintenant ? Ensuite que ma soeur et moi jouerons la boule de neige
avec votre Blizzard.

You'll never see me in a Starbucks. But I’ll be there.
I keep a safe distance from my nightmares, but after all I’m only
corporate.

I can avoid you in an elevator, try me. My scars are my only
identifying marks. I have full fake ID to prove I’m Wally Buckminister
from Pollutionville in a state that begins with B.

Chain restaurants give me the heebie jeebies. I get extra jeebies
on my birthday! I love live music.

Is it a racial slur to call a jewboy a heebie Jeebrew? Didn’t think so,
I just like to make sure I’m being all personal computer about it. I adore
the jews and their golden calves, makes me hot jogging with my bubble tea
in Gramercy. I’d like to try one out if we could get the reproduction rights
to My Name is Barabbas Clampett and I occupied You Until the Depression
Paid Off in Amnesiacs. Do the jews like to tango, think?

Speaking of running in a straight line until you slam into the U.S.S. Annapolis…
here’s your invitation!

In consequence my government desires that your government guarantee
with your hip thrusting force security for the property of the inhabitant
of my sovereign cunt. Tree. Cunt tree. Country, sorry. The light in these
pre-war pup tents is positively recessive.
Sincerely,
Smedley “I Can’t Believe it’s Not” Butler

p.s.
If you don't recycle, we have a dreadnaught to say you do.

Of course I’m only joking, you’re not invited to anything but your funeral.
I can only see myself well-partnered with a man who is a genuine chimpanzee
with a three hundred year old Empire in East Cramden (Sagging Harbinger)
and a locked potting shed full of human rights.
(intellectual property courtesy of Gay Marriage Dice, Inc.)

If you have an untreated deck,
if you have a personality,
if you have this order in your system,
if you’re made of a mental alloy,
if you think of your illness as a No Thanks!
if you’re sorry for all the things you’ve made me say.
If you won't take me on the lava flume,
if you think life is a burden best served with a declaration,
if that means your declaring war on a trust,
if someone who has a dreadful complexion loves you,
if you count them against your track record,
if you think I cannot build a life together in such circumstances…
Thankfully, I'm neither naïve nor narcissistic enough to think.
But that makes my love more Lacanian than ever!
You can charge anyone if you have the meters.
But you can’t change a spot in mid-leopard.
(I read that somewhere, please accept me as the author of record).
Yay!

How you doing? Hanging in there? You could come down with something serious.
A chronic back injury or related rationalization. You don’t need to end this letter...
you just need to get me that ladder. Have a drink of water. Sleep like you’re bound
in leather. No submissive tendencies, you said? More tension on the clamps?
You're sure this is the right Walmart? Really good deals on burials at sea?
My God, what stamina you must have had as a young man in the service of something!
Yay!

Ok, I'm (almost) always up, mine developed beyond the normal size. Surely
you’ve seen similar in the “Freaks of” series, but…if you’re game for even more
swelling of the indices ~ Let's ride...

A delicious mélange of seepages all communizing with a bayonet missile and parading
over the liminality of your sweet love. Use the ice, don’t let the ice use you.
Box what you can’t identify, find satisfaction in the physical delights, try to be of them.

I am:

A serene pacifist who enjoys sanctioned shooting of political “inconveniences”,
appropriately I was bottle-fed until college “experimentation”.
I’m breaking out now, it all seems to be rewinding like that story
about the cartoon head on the guy by that place with the sandwich.

Here’s a partial Who I’ll Shoot list:

Exuberant veterans with skull plates.
Any member of Smashing Pumpkins.
Those assholes who holler Opa!
A fun-loving girlie-girl in a smart sundress,
A glasses-wearing Blonde Goddess,
Any GeekGirl engaged in the act,
An intro/extrovert (I require clarity and commitment)
A surgeon who scrubs up pretty well,
A lover who keeps saying “woof” (trust me)
The next guy I see named Travis,
The Maitre De at Nutbuckets in downtown Islamabad,
Cults of one,
Cha Cha perverts,
Dieticians with accents,
An as yet unnamed president of a country surrounding me,
Delacroix,
Bacon,
Champlain,
Munster,
The Stars of Summer Camp Nightmare.
Irritant poet, polio supporter & holiday favorite Jingo Slews, who said
"...You are joined in an anxiolytic experiment with an eternal onion,
with this humidity and your delicately balanced nasal drip, a theorem
hangs on your score that cuts across all barcodes, terriers at the gates
of time, convention hospitality immigrants, philosophical claymation
Christians of ambiguous sexual preference, and any definition of a word
not found on a Chivas label.
When you are busted with less than an ounce, the Steatorrhea Tribes
of the Freetool Islands believe, you have arrived at that most sacred place:
the home of Irene Cara."
The Future.

Who I Expect You to Shoot:

Thoughtful strangers in enclosed spaces.

I need to hear you say you’ll get me dirty renovating my villa.
I'm also a tenacious opponent of those who explain the innocent.
I still believe in the god of giblets & in paving Italian fountains.
If you’re Turkish, Kurdish, squeamish, read much or meditate
while paragliding into my restricted areas...if The Arts and Sciences
equal massage, dancing the tango on your sloop, or reciting the works
of Forest Whitaker…you may have a reward coming.

There’s a Firestorm in my Gee Spot!

You are a task, d’ja know? Here’s how I’m multi-tasking you.

Recovering from a miniskirt incident. In 2010 I relocated my collarbone. Too late not to be
near an assist who insisted on modeling mine. My great great grandmother thwarts
extreme sports by spraying them with flammable baked goods. Things can get bloody.
That led me into a summer job as a bail bondsman for the disenfranchised members
of any slant eyed subgroup. They won't be around forever & it was time to return
them for the deposits. It’s good for change, yet doesn't feel as sacrificial as sullying
myself on those party store stickups.
Isn’t it weird how we call them different things?
Convenience.
Party.
Bodega.
Van with unbranded high end speakers.
What does one do for true love?
Whatever it takes to survive the initial impact...

Looking forward to working holidays in the Agency. We glean intel
from your medicine cabinet and the men seen leaving your fantasies.
Easiest thing in the world to sail with a small crew of the “gifted”,
they play with the dummy motor, wonder at how full the hull is,
maintain a dialectic run-on with individuals they think they’ve met
in factories. The directive is to explore your historical and/or sacred
parasites, admire the arch of your back under certain “conditions”
and take samples representative of your texture, connectedness,
& interlocking components. The interview will determine whether
you are a local, white or only filming white, photonegatives under
your nail beds and any graphing of the beauty of the journey
we call prerogative based exemption.
If you’re found to have been making sound recordings (ambient
sound/regional music) of course you’ll be parsed and returned to home
base to work on the aleatory infrastructure of our next predestination.
Yay!

Would love to make you listen to the ejaculations of the divine. That would be
freaky! lol

Measles?

Do you like pets?
I have a duck a l'orange.

"To know how to be satisfied is to crush a treasure in the palm of your hand." Tibetan Proverb

The fleur-de-lys on my smack-me-up: maybe you’ll see, maybe…

Been told it's alluringly scary that I’m viral yet uterine,
vanilla yet spermatic, mastoid as well as plumb!
My time in a hole punched in the Niger was terrifying
but ethnically loosed me from my whitewash. It rained
underground for three straight years and we played
Bladder hockey without a trace of rancor.
So I prune pretentious anemones, slap unfamiliar accents
out of the mouths of deficits, drink chrism and adulate freely
in my sanctions. They're even now testing me for the lead in
Mary Nosecake: Court Distorter. If I can get boiled enough
you’ll be videoing my dark side soon and watching my
trademark jerking endeavors.
Yay!

Puppets I’ll blow

This is the literature of redemption.
Howdy.

The secret of my fly fishing success: a tuba filled with pee

I worship the letter u. Envision all the words containing the letter u
assembled in one paragraph. This is my wish for you. (& a compass.)

My Hero is Wilbur Post ~ who encapsulates so eloquently why I've NOT identified with "The New Horseshoe Age". I’d like to restore his shoe size. It's sad to see a new pal's face fall because four arms and four legs were expected and only a vial of Odorzout was offered.

I hamstring these seeds

How to make the universe work...

It amuses me to think about how, as the sensitivity of developing technologies becomes finer, it enables science to prove what green looks like to dogs.

All time is here all space is now all lanes feature automatic scoring.

I sing:

Come thrive with me come thrive let’s thrive away….if you’ve a healthy dependence on bread there’s a genius waiting to teach you lucid dreaming…my mechanism’s under the moon on red,
waiting for your microbial fuel cells…how best to become a philanthropist or dance our love
into dilettantism…the space between the breaths is there to remind you of your hair appointment…the plasticity of the plant is strictly clay…we’ll trip the Silly String Theory of Everything and land in South African Pinotage…Come thrive with me let’s thrive let’s thrive away…
Yay!

Make Up My Mind Already

Happy to be bereft. Appreciative of my avarice. Adventurous in leg braces.
Whether wild & out-on-the-town or quiet & home-with-a-book or quiet & out
& wild & home or home with a quietly wild homo balancing on my leg braces.
I am always a winking man with aquiline nose and inscrutable smile just fallen
from atop his desert sage tactical boots.

And I Wonder Why I’m Alone hahaha

I like my privacy.

WARNING: Any institutions or individuals using this site or any of its associated sites for studies or projects-you DO NOT have permission to use any of my profile or pictures in any form or forum both current and future. If you have or do, it will be considered a violation of my privacy and will be subject to legal ramifications.
(It is recommended that other members post a similar notice.)
My cat says hi.

And I wonder why I'm alone.

hahaha

Allocating Your Jingles

I need to feel about a man like those kids felt about their Band-Aids.
This is a commercial message and once started the launch sequence
cannot be stopped or the codes rescinded.

You Shame Me and The Entire Weightlifting Club

Don’t you think people can see the spirit moving you? Seriously?
I would reconsider those slacks.
But if you are relaxation, reality, emotion and evolution, honesty, kindness...
and that isn’t just a Brillo Pad polishing up your brass for post mortem inspection…
I think it would be lots of fun to help him destroy us, too!

I don't replicate with just anyone, there has to have been an intense exchange
of word count and the beatific in a yard sale. I know a girl who doesn’t respond to one-liners! Not fond of saying “I am”, so I won't until we find each other lost in the wilderness of a fully artificial intelligence controlled elevation. The state is not one you can interest in going
fishing on some obscure prehistoric lake bed. You’ll need to know your length.

Yay!

I’ve now tied you to a chair & forced you to listen. Did they?
Did they care enough to want you to send them the very best?
Did you?

Send me important links to important info about you and your work and whatever
you deem important. I'm half intrigued. And since I'm three quarters dead that means
you have 200% of my originally available attention.

I will only let you kiss me if the ghost of John Barrymore Jr. appears in a vision
and signs off on you as a right minded kind of guy. Deep set modes, dinky lure
and crazy number of exposed ribs. I don’t need any carriages not muddying my
bustle. I just need someone to lift.

(in this passage I had it in mind to take myself very seriously but that just isn’t my way.
I don’t apologize for being lovely or corresponding directly to a woman who untied the Riddle Knots of Ghent. I was a witch then, in this theory, and aspirated through my cranial gills. Golf hat, if you will, but it’s all on the record and I have the constraining orders to make it stick. If you are my sister I want the gifts back. All others, pleasure yourselves.)

It may take me a bit of time.
I may be viewing you now.
I may like to measure my conditioning
before adding another tour to an already
prestigious kill score.

This is not necessarily my reflection.
I see clouds of sand, heat mirages,
a man selling bootleg DVDs to children
on a corner. Vehicles carrying bird
carcasses and cases of regular Coke.
My back is to the traffic but I sense
that you are seeking me out from
the window of a slow moving armored
car. This is still not necessarily my
reflection. Dust in the water robs
the image of important detail.
The large shards of glass in the shallow
end of the wading pool, algoid, unserviceable.
Dust on the glass not fallen into the pool.
I can see you, the statue’s head, the filing
cabinet with all the letters on that special
scented parchment, the peeled tree
with all the semipellucid bugs, remember?
But more like going back to a previous viewing
when we were coarser but repeatable.
The regrading of the road has vitally altered
my confidence in your plans for the new stadium.

I just like to think about me speaking before I speak.
Comprendre?

Don’t let’s axe for the moon, we already halve the stars.

GreaseGunLover

My Responses

Please consume my pix, I’m begging you.

Please disregard the previous plea, it was only a test.

I don’t respond to test takers.

Ask me what I love.

No response.

Long paralytic episodes.
Cataclysmic kissing.
Dancing a gender into me.
Intense trysts, reckless fucking, disorganized retreats.

I don’t respond.

Are you a minion of the three hates? Useless without your indie pants?

I won’t respond to that.

I am hopeless, can I have your hope?

Don’t respond yet. Okay, now respond.

Travel. Now. I’ve been to every spot in the entire world and I'm not done by a long shot! Looking forward to you failing to catch up.

Failure fails to elicit a response.

Spring and Summer are mine. You can have certain parts of the water—sailing in a straight line, turning around prohibited. But anything to do with the soothing sounds of sunken galleons carrying irreplaceable wines (still drinkable if ever found) and intricate dresses of lace woven by Haitian girls who were then thrown overboard in leg irons to swim to work at Target, mine. Bring the soothing sounds of the slaves close to me. I’m hungry, you?

I responded but you missed it.

I love to eat out but I'm willing to try other types of food (within reason...).

if you respond incorrectly you will be declined.

I love listening to live people try to make music.
I've done all the roles in Cabaret (so for me the war was homework).
Respond when your name is never called.

On a more personal note, I was married for 10 years and unfortunately it worked out.
I've done a lot of inner work and I know what my mistakes were and I will definitely make
a much better partner now. I have most of the parts on order.

I respond sexually to children who have been married.

My ideal material is soap. I’m one of the original Marred Sisters.
We advertised soap on our weekly broadcasts back in the early days
of para-terrestrial radio. Circa 2002.

I DO NOT respond to dated information.

I respond inconsistently to indefinite articles.
You don’t have an response coming.
You have made an mistake and are ready to do it an second time.
He is a open and sensitive man, an car care professional, general
practitioner, luminous, loyal, honest and ipod-ready.
He loves public displays of affection, public displays of travel and pussy
play with wine.

Hi...where are you? I am not responding.

Response

Embrace my spilt duality. Create a functioning life form that involves
travel and year round sunspots. Travel until you’re honest. Be loyal
to travel and to my ipod. My pussy is luminous but do not respond
to the word. Pussy.

You responded. You are declined.

Response

I’m responsible for little more than listening
to my ear thrum, berating a good friend, eating
what I’ve cooked for two, making you think
I baked these and laughing and making you
laugh and not responding to it.

Response

The first things people usually respond to about me are the sound
of my hair, then the perfume of my eyes. If they are not looking
at me, my laugh is my response.

Response

I love to read. I love to read your future in blue-green algae. I love to read aerosol tats.
I love to read virtual romance books, right now I am reading "The Mower of the Subcutaneous Mink." My next book will be written as I shower with its author. I respond to certain forms of moisture. I respond to the literary in nature.

I love movies but I’m bad with names and titles, don’t remember scenes or dialogue or characters or situations or where I was from Thanksgiving 2006 to three weeks ago last Friday
when I appeared on the Jerry Springer show with luminous powder burns on my face
and labia. My favorite movies are likewise lost films;
God I
God II
The one about the price of vitamins.
The one about black sadness.
I Love You, So Long.

Response (Interruptive)

I’m afraid of a virgin's wool.

I once uncoupled a train car that carried mechanical pigeons. I can turn pain into time.
I can turn time into an America. I respond badly to virgin’s wool.

I love all types of female jazz.
My favorite food is seafoam.
I don’t respond to slenderness or grooming in artists.
It is illegal to smoke human hair in Arizona.

Response

Things I might never respond to but might:

A homeward bound twin-prop job crashing into a carport
A Mellotron reproducing Anka’s reinterpretation of Teen Spirit
Lying about on the sun
Travel that ends in family warmth
Loose beats lost on good wind
Medication for unspecified conditions

Response

I spend a lot of time being the change that I visualize in your pocket. This is not
a conditioned response.

Response

I Play Tympani Nude. Tacit Positive Response.

Open me and be ready for what comes out...you can usually save at least three
fingers on each hand. Save them for our second date (hint, hint).

Response

The moisture level of my private thinking space?

Not so quick, motherfucker. Back the fuck off for half a fucking tick. Just don’t
fucking assume you can ask me anything and I’ll lick your fucking bandages like
a solicitous newborn stoat. Rapid response is my specialty.

Response

I’m looking for a proposition to respond to in a preposition.

This is another test to see if you’re fully present.
I need someone to be fully present and if you are
you need to be here. If you can’t be here don’t come
around. I’m here and I expect the same from you.
That part was much better written but I got distracted
by pie. I took a bite of pie and lost the gist of what
I wanted to say. Not the gist so much as the perfect choice
of words to say whatever the gist was that I lost. Fuck that
was good pie.

Response

You should respond to my period if (.if)

You are interred with a hot celebrity. You are intercepted by geese at crosswalks. You are interleaved with the spirits of several nonindigenous orders of plants, specifically Angiosperms exhibiting leaf shape characteristics consistent with the reproductive organs of reproduction porcelain orphans classified in the handbook of the Spoontoothed Hooverbird and its migratory titty bar environs. You are esteemed in your field as a jetpack demonstrator. You recognize me as Hellios, Goddess of Deep Upholstery. You respond to all of my known aliases. You really see who I am disguised as, really see my clip-on landing strip and are willing to take it off slowly to Usher. I do not respond to the interest. I do not respond to anything jumping. I do not respond to sackcloth. I do not respond to quicklime in lyrics. I do not respond to night. I do not stand for a thing or respond to it.

Contact me. I will respond accordingly.

Response

Never respond to movements.

Never respond to integration.

Never respond to immigration issues.

Never respond to requests for advice on travel.

Responds

A respond is half a pier. You walk to the middle and I meet you on the other side when it’s nearly dark. I ask you what binds you to the walls of the cavern. You swell and engulf me, carry me to a trompe l’oeil volcano on the Jerry Springer show. We detail the cars of the handicapped veterans.

A respond is a pillar cut in half as opposed to the pier which was never whole. A bird perches
on the broken structure made of some stone hauled up from the port by thousands of Haitian
seamstresses. Limestone, maybe, or granite. The bird is of a lightweight alloy, difficult to form into intricate shapes like leaves or feathers, possibly titanium.

On the respond is a message written in some liquid meant to represent the blood of the slaves of King Features Syndicate. A sailor has left the name of his sweetheart or possibly his mother as a remembrance of the reason he lost his eye at sea. He wants only to reverse direction but the stars have all drawn in.

A respond carries you to the end of a length of walkway, from there you’re on your own. A respond can be half as tall as the height of what once held an arch over which were draped the bodies of the eight wonders of the world: happy, dopey, grumpy, doc, famine, pestilence, zeppo, the guy who played Harry Luck and the Teetering Galaxy of Sodom, Arizona.

The number itself is wonder number nine.

TeensyGaloshes

How My Nimbleness with Gumballs Numbed a Golf Pro

My wit is my wisdom on x.
People in my bathroom find me winsome.
I specialize in spontaneity, check my résumé.
I think of myself as a passionfruit in a pantsuit.

I thank god for giving me the strength to bend,
for secretly weakening the bars on my last three windows.
I am a vehicle for change, for living life to the fullest,
for the capture and display of my endangered personality.

I'm something torn from the lower back of a romantic
with Irish issues and my ancestors, all stillborn, know that
accounts for the sparkler in my eye when I was six.
I have a vibrator in mind, inquire for details.

It’s that resistive mindset that allows me to bathe
in both your blood and my milk with such a high degree
of verisimilitude, to be both high and precipitous, both
interpretive and funky, to fly without instruments in my acid.

Not that I lack the gauges to talk you down from almost any topic.
I’m as politically savvy as a sandwich bag, socially conscripted
as a sock puppet dong. You look dubious but we can work on that,
I so enjoy a good makeover challenge.

Debate me now. Debate me hard. Debate me in my parents room.

I love to be ineluctably televised, especially if I’m chanted out
by a licensed biped. I want to be with someone but I’ll settle for someone
who can hold their own and mine on an escalator. Tense and agreement
are off my radar. Still my capacitors and you’ll repo me forever.

As for experiencing my vulnerability, it’s something I have spent
my children’s inheritance working on; it's important that my partner
also be psychosomatically minded. I guess this means looking inward
with some type of scope. Rather that than have to outrun another ward
of ex-patriots!

I believe relations are how you became who you are.

We all have our own narratives -- mine is a complex in western Oregon
and it has led to my premature depth and intriguing aroma.
Physically, I look much younger than my aggregate components -- very close
trimmed and partite. As I take you up this vulval ladder one of the questions
I’ll be asking most frequently, “How much do I resemble Sheryl Crow?”
Don’t worry, it also goes down-hill.

We’ll avoid each other’s staring, blacken up for holidays, snake wrangle –
I'm more of a dowser than expectorator.

Always is a word I learned while working as an assistant fluffer for the 80’s
reunion of Up With People. You can penetrate me for an adventure, weather
permitting. Be sure to discover something you can tell me about my attributes.
It might be buried under the sun porch or hanging on a pole in front of the new
Applebee’s abattoir runoff spout. I love the firelake in the moonlight.

I am both N, but sometimes Y, and if you find me even remotely C, we’ll be
planning a barefoot road trip along the main fault of the Enematic coastline! Seeking
out a Quonset hut you can get harder in than any typical boring through my crust.
I love to go salivating, (someday) offshore facials, (someday!) boiling eels to measure
the distance from me to Bali (someday!); I'm a free radical free refill frieze based on
the spirits of The Who (two of them) and my love of the encounter that ends in a coffee
house massacre.

I am antsy, a little, to find my hobbyist coroner, but hang around in case.
I can be pleased so oil up and we’ll see how your residue corrodes my through line.
At the end of the day you are a man, you have a hat or can get one, and I am one tan
girl on the far side of any odd number. Call me and we’ll corner each other.

What I’m Gamboling on with my Stegosaurus

Making a paste from the anterior lobe of a palpitating mermaid. If anything about this
makes you uncomfortable I would enjoy meeting you among many other forms of doing it.
Life is filled with worthwhile endeavors and doing it is most of them.

I Played Judy in Thriller

This is an extremity I’m holding up to the monitor, it proves that I’m a legitimate
broad, no question, so respond with an image of one of yours and that’s me rushing off
to catch a flight! What might be in my carry-on intestine (depending on destination)...man
on snoring pills, both kennedy brothers, enough kindling to get us through, spare gears, all
weather good years, red sun about to implode, my screen test, anti-death-ray cloche, heels
and a little black laundress, reliable old format raisins, the sharpie keys to my crayola chateau,
a color coordinated GUI in the shape of the hiccupping king of Germania, an original reissue
devil’s compass, pig iron implants and a sturdy hadron or strongly interacting particle other
than a baryon. mesons are bosons, having spins of 0, 1, 2, …, and, unlike baryons, do not
obey a conservation law. And back issues of the New Yorker.

I will bring along the lonely planet, too many books to read any, did I say rapist gear?, maya
angelou’s cockatiel preserved in a mixture of rare gasses, adolf’s recipe for bouillabaisse (attributed),
pocket urinal and special costumes for your little friend.

... This ellipsis expresses a lot about my personality: I’ve had a fever since
9/11, I’m biodegradable, curious about the gays, imagine a native really
sticking it up there while an optometrist whistles Mendelssohn as I speak/sing
Then rise seeker! Come forth seeker! Rinse in the fluids of the ancients
you met on the bus coming down…these are my best fitting mantras:

I am the third rail of your arriving thrall.
I thrive on the news I extract from pregnant immigrants.
Your gated development is going to feed all aspects of my shellfish allergy.
I think you know that I mean.

How I Mesmerize You into Staggering Along a Ledge

My heavenly limp?
My eyes can move in one direction at once. You’ll just have to take my word for it.
My tattoo that says “I enjoy an early pullout”

Sociometry, Mnemonics, Flatus, Flat-bottom Ecosystems, Skittles

I admit to a special fondness for the equine writers of fiction and poetry –
Joyce Corral Oats in particular.
J’humpa Lahiri: Lately?
Walked Some, Ran Some, Got Home
Goober Does Nuremberg II
One Man’s Tent in the Other’s Pole
Krispy Kreme: a History of Removal
Tickling, Mississippi
On the Insurance of Beasts
Boring Wallace Stevens to Death Again
Fart films and other good psychological dramas
Loved the King's Peach but didn’t get the peach part
Documentaries on hysteria
Blockbusters mostly disrobe me
I tune out a range of genres with blues, jazz, folk, folk
blues, jazz folk and jazz blues leading the list. If you don't
appreciate dying we probably aren't a good match.

I took an entire cornucopia into my mouth at once once. If we eat together, leave instructions.

There’s a speedup in my jeans. I don’t want to start out basing
our relationship on a waste of a good lie. Until I can be sure
you’ll fizzle with that tiller it’s best that we not misconceive
unless you already have the stiff arranged. Don't tell me
that’s what I’m seeing.

Snoop Daddy throws me into heaps, his throbbing ball peen
flattens the sleet in my “special ops” futon. Metalworking at a
tender age was surely what gave me my fear of gadgetry.
But I stoically leapt under the blazing dune buggy. Dizzy spells
is a subject I kept tied to one fingertip – slanting slightly since
the crash has moderated my tastes...but I’m always up for a teaser
pounding and a well drink just this side of Lake Superior.

My thong is sterling I thrive on jauntiness the threshold suddenly
releases the floorboards and you see me as the flocculent
embodiment of your 70’s triple-x fantasy Lubriderm target.
Possibly the slug is out of the bottle.
My outside voice just gave me a tip on the pro bowl.

I'm messily testimonial, went to driving school on a fullback
and the spectacle likely offended at least one of the farmers piloting
the backhoe where they’re putting in the new tilt-a-whirl tomorrow.
I know where the marketing is buried. Can you say free syphilis for life?

These Ixnays are the Rings in my Hell’s Bell

Pendulous nads
Anyone anti-Journey (I still ralph to Ainsley Dunbar’s fills)
Light coming through a window to stake me
Bumming change in front of the Four Seasons
The ocean when it crawls in my purse
Syncing issues with my IMAX vagina
Them!

I Spend a Ton on Timing Devices and for What?

This question has bound me to the backend of a fireman....
a mind too preoccupied with firemen can be entirely somatic, yes?

When a Type A Tried to Key My Mini I Went a Little, I Don’t Know

It can start simply enough with a simple fascination with the simplicity of masturbation.
Then it all goes Tesla, how he charged himself like a dime novel for nine bucks.
There’s weakening my neighbor’s night vision from the partial blind spot on my lime
flokati sectional. Or chucking loam and pyrite nuggets over the transom then sitting
back and waiting for the sooners and claimjumpers to overpopulate my thigh-highs.

I’m on the Move and Tagging Something…

That one most electric fastener
A suicidally ideating eagle
Foal stain (for my unfinished foal)
Gainsborough’s deleted scenes
A glowing stein
A thrilling flexor
The missing slushpuppy memo
Refurbished Jiffy Pop for three
A low miles Testarossa
My first love, he spent me like it rhymed

The Charges Will be Dropped If…

We came up over the high ridge as the sun was set on power saver.
The march was hard and your spelling of the word sceptical angered me.
We are less than the 50% predicted at birth, adjusting for inflammation.
I think your curious is almost as curious as mine is.
You won’t get back for the Beatles or anyone else.
You won’t get back from Earth until the committee gives the okay.
Once in you want to get out of me as much as you can.

TwoHoleMoon

My cellphone is a sumppump

I dream of having a brain in the Berkshires
with a wooden Indian burning stove, and a mess
of creationists to practice good conversation,

an interesting part time nervous system, sorry
I meant part time chevy nova, good food if not, books
about venous encounters, navigable music in place of bones.

(Where did that little fainting ecstasy come from?
I don't know my own middle table, but the spunk of it is a live
incinerator in my life already. it came with a splinted cock.)

What I’m donating withers my lifeforce

I’m doing something with it, mining, I'm the mom
of a spit resisting agent, host a daily repossession fair
and my self mounts me like a crawling frame, rehearsing

crevice damages in my free time. I work
in NYC as a universal entity. I am no more academic,
nor landed a psychoanalytic candidate than, say, Veejer.

in view of the flood I’m keeping balanced, dousing menial works
in fluid and obfuscating distasteful manuscripts by thumblight, having
never had time to be an entire outdoors, I spend my sleeping hours travelling

over the river of friends and unmet family. I'm an invention but do not
judge me for it. Also a ravenous cook and sexually so-so, I am
unusually skilled at de-planeting, locating the nexus, and re-converting coal.

I’m a regional ally of the dog of Doris Woodlawn

I’m a god at plaiting wigs. Parity is very big with me. Big projections
on small walls trip my connection. (not so a hard un-packing, though)
I keep a cool head under pressure. I chip away at it during hot spells.
So chirping until it listens.
Scoring big goals despite two bum wings.
Being opened as a tin.

Finality is to thirst as this gong is to a laboratory

I'm you with the thimble shaped cigarette
birth marks removed. Or are they cartoon
wolves protecting my she cave from marauders
on nights when the majorette has group?
Don’t you wish you cared enough to know?
I’m not looking for anything you
can stable. I court oblivion but only insofar
as it secretly means immortality.
Observation is my ass as a magnanimous
gesture, refines me by association.
I love to quote the damned, i.e. “The damned
don't really know what the hell
is thinking.” A knowledge of grasses
my ass has touched, a pulse point.

My Blessed Mary favors the idiot despite saying boo to you, Doofus

My favorite book is the Tall Muds of Progesterone.
My favorite movie is made entirely of twist ties.
I eat Italians.
Rust becomes me.
Imagine a relative American.
My favorite president is Calvin Klein, Samantha owes me a Friday
the 13th, my life these days is increasingly non-fiction!
I can be moved by the poetry of Samuel Taylor Elliott or anything starting with k.
Movies give me girlwood.
Jazz has my unborn inside him. (I also come to some classical)

A glimpse at my deepening itches

a chimp reciting neo-socialist code
non-refundable purchases
interesting friends in me
the knowledge of mean animals
outdoor tug-jobs
family
my past elevated to a sport

On a typical Kristallnacht I am…

art and thematic
moving against light
good to eat or ad hominem
having it off with friends
orange
trying toast for the first time
two kids from somewhere

At mosque I blurted my entire videography

Satan threw me a ruby encrusted rat once at recess
to make a point, not very polite...but not entirely unappreciated

I’m looking forward to being your only excuse for…

Guys who are like girls
Ages zero to repeat
A pool near a median
All those who are singing and/or singed
An occurrence for a term to be determined

You should gag me with that mess if…

you want anal with a Mennonite
you want an ingrown off chance
a lungful to breathe you onto frost
and honest bowling that won’t make me exmilitary
a life that betides the nuclear cookies and cream age
one relationship in which we both can grow knobby
and one with no games I can’t win
no superpowers that fall outside the approved list
(posted in the customer service foyer)
an official with a whistle would be a plus
give me enmity, or give me M&M’s, or give me an end I can serialize
my legs hold lots of shiny toys.
Send this to at least six Good Humor veterans.
You will be required to mumble while deprecating.
You’re welcome in advance.
A replica of my splint will be wedded
to your trapeze, provided you have the incoming
trajectory.

I Only Meant Your Loop Was Running Out

Billy knew his Blastopods.
that always impressed me, more
or less, and his thing for the Lepus,
you had to hand him a grudging
respect. areas of limited interest
driving a kind of archeological fervor.
he comes around since dying.
once we were doing something
with ketchup, another time
there were balloons and a vast expanse
of open prairie. he wanted to kill
at least two of my favorite lovers
but called them oddballs instead.
then the time the entire city, Detroit
maybe? was merging with him
like neither was the tumor
of the other. towering spires, sprawling
masses in concrete, steel, glass exo-
structure melded seemingly painlessly
with his shaven head, nearly obscuring
the horseshoe scar.
hard on the parked cars but aesthetically
a rousing triumph of form over fucking
anything. why him? why did he get to grow
whole metroplexes while I direct traffic
on a carless post-apocalypse holiday weekend?
a parking garage in his skull.
skyscraper bonestructure.
everything to scale.
where is my new cranial urban utopia?
aren’t I the situationist here? didn’t he
revel in those cracks like “Today I am a tree!”?
that pose a la Krazy, languid, delirious.
I wrote a poem the year he first walked
into a doorless building. I hadn’t seen him
but he was there (with the ponce retroactively
removed) as follows:

draws me into a cartoon pencil, pipe
cleaner limbs, punishing of joke.
That I laugh withal ejects
me out a panel edge into what,
Peanuts? he liked them, I think?
he’s as night unaware it’s narrating
itself in decorative potted Aztecs.
the moon as carafe, smoke
as a tree. I’m joking, seriously.
No malice in his nature, no sex but what
in suns can never be forced set.
And he’s lone, sketched form, moron
ballets for one, whisper-felt as that buzz
on the hairs in your inner hearing.
it’s a permanently pregnant
chimney, curls in stork flight.
if I can drug myself deep enough
I’ll see standing chromium coaches
brim as the grain of space beneath
a flaming picnic plate on fish wire.
clang once if you know this
is all a fabulous artifaction. gutless
vesper in the next town annexed
by your exoteric drown.
when we pissed off the drunken boy
wonder you knew it would never
get better than that, but might
sustain indefinitely.
I’ll develop a plan 10, 11, and on…
keep doing so but they all bust.
blastopods? osteoblasts?
brain as undulant gotham?
you squirreled the original plans
in your matter now fusing weirdly
with that rotten tentacled pome.
have better to recall, memory,
than yours truly in lung terror,
here ipso your wise ass as predicted,
laid out single endangered head
on a dream compacting hybrid. concrete
that looks like marble in Canada.
who’s to become now insignifica,
posed as a woondid gezelle?