Saturday, February 26, 2011


‘Boaz is normal.’
Looking out the window, saber-toothed.
‘Doesn’t look normal. No, wait. His dentures look pretty normal. I want my money back.’

He looked like a man who would promptly secrete an alter ego from toothpicks, turn his back to his own hideous creation, and when sometimes scrubbing his toes it was always like doing heavy somersaults.

Don’t let the band get the better of you. Fairly traditional survival list on the counter: It says so.

Page 1
‘Fairly mediocre live act. Not plugged in yet – mind – not really ‘unplugged’.’

Page 2
‘Tip your head back, girl.’

Page 3
‘Everything skirmishes in its own way.’

The live band didn’t play. It stood by. The air around it merged with the influx of other air. Probably from outside. Yeah. A cheap engagement ring shrank from the anticipation, probably also because it was on the finger of the tubby one. Adrenaline did more harm than good. Gangrene was the favorite flavor of swarthy in the viciously crossed leg. Gross comfort toys (you remember those?) forgotten in one fell swoop – i.e. pizza snuggles. Hangover cyclotron! At least for the moment. Air-conditioning.   


  1. God, this reminds me of shows I've been to. There was this one time this dude came up to another dude and just ripped his earing right out of his ear. Dude Two got hysterical. There was blood. I hate when people leak their fluids in my environs. It is so unsanitary.

    I am very tired right now, but this story poem thing you have here, it is awesome, so I wanted to comment and say so.

  2. Appreciate your saying so.
    Sorry for triggering violent images just before sleep. Or of mens earrings that called for getting ripped out. Both are uncomfortable luggage to carry off into sleep with.


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