Tuesday, July 5, 2011

THE ACTUAL SIZE OF MY TIE

That side of the rural matrix (that farm plexus – nearly indistinguishable
from the stretch of land on this side of the fence) – is mimetic wax.
Droplets rolling down a solar panel - like the necks of Muppets
craning peculiarly – surge, and form leaning grass.
The gurgling craters in diarrhea serve as a model for the parallel
universe of suckers on my ass.
From your hair a creature arises, a creature with glowing eyes,
and raising his palm to his forehead, he says to himself:
Paint job with fiber-optic syringe goes here.”

Doing Pilates
covered in a
resin that
is prayer
repellent.

Strange
moth
in my
Nutella –

the intensity of whose yells are measured
in Fahrenheit, the toxicity of McNuggets in terms
of glare, and Ikea:

porousness.

The average intelligence of the animals in the zoo goes into
the semiconductor, tries to escape – then finally emerge
from the loudspeakers:

as hillbilly voicemail.

Lobsters do successfully remove sleep from their eyes with their claws.
Constant pain does incubate hot dogs.
Jason goes down to the very acme of the Periodic Table, where
in an eating contest he gets his tie tangled with a woman
twice [the tie's size].

DAMNIT!

There must be a pie chart for the emotions of EVERYBODY –
not just for the few lucky jars of 
undernail collectibles 

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