Wednesday, November 30, 2011


Dominoes falling backwards emit a weedy rustle.
To measure this burden, we arrange the posse of false idols
on a bathroom scale.

The voice of God floats in the sound of fire,
of the cirrus-white stretchmarks – formed via harsh
environmental stresses – in crime scene tape,
in that uselessly genius region of the mind that,
for shits and giggles, categorizes
postal codes according to number of horns.
Only when postal codes are deer-bodied.

A salty, perspiring sound that makes the Alien facehugger
quiver with vulgar oyster delight.

In Kermit the Frog's exquisite keyhole eyes
can be seen a dangerous bent toward introversion,
self-perception delightfully pervasive in
that part of the frog brain that controls
obliviousness – self-worship trained as a submersible cork.

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