My Uncle's Voice In Morse

It looks a bit creepy but this minivan is a particularly
sentimental hand-me-down from my pedophilic uncle.
I’m parked in my minivan in front of the Shanghai expo
where folks sound more like cicadas or firearm-carrying
nanoelectronics than backpacked, sandaled, bespectacled
expo-goers. I’m a man in the paradoxical position of
needing a backhoe to uncover the cemetery under his house,
when the cemetery under his house houses skeletons. No shit,
right? But what if you were a stainless-steel time machine
(you can get those here, too, at the expo) and you needed to
travel to a time where you got eye-tasered (you get taser guns
here, too) if you didn’t say yes to fashionable exo-plumbing?
(That liked gutting itself over your blipping technology and geeky
stainless carapace, literally spraying it with brown gut-gunk?)

Let me tell you something about plumbing that worships
itself for spraying shit from the joints just to emphasize
the moral superiority of plumbing that thinks it has nothing
to hide: it has an even greater bunker mentality than scowly
pedestrians that fail to draw distinctions between a ladybug – or a
sky that looks like a ladybug’s humped, dotted back – and some
horrible chemical aftermath; with a bunker mentality – unless
my uncle’s ostracism can’t disguise itself like a lucky sky and
cramped, bunkeresque beatings is all he can look forward to –
victims paint black and white dots all over black and white-
dotted skin disease. Currently missing a loved one? Or a pet?
You can rate your victimhood according to how much that
nocturnal tapping from the plumbing sounds like happy Morse.

In This Corset Mowed Down By Window-Shoppers

In this corset you forget you’re in a hospital,
or that you’re pissing like a monkey mid-edge
disembarking from the bed.
But never mind that, because you’re at a science fair!
And the science fair is held in Starbucks!
Your favorite place of mind-control, your favorite knot
in advertising cables. 
In this mind-control is embedded a temperament of
intricate – but very tough – fiber-optic lifespans, so you’ll hazard
registering your invention: i.e.
a corset facilitating non-shameful pantomimes
illustrating your insecurities (with PowerPoint running ditzily
in the background) during singing competitions –
even though this is a corset in which you can also eat kids, 
kids made in dark factories, where you had been made, eaten
by the corset so screw the competition,
it’s the facial flaw that comes on as you put
on your auto-hug in the window display, affection
you share with us publicly
but this is as mechanical
as that – standing there doing your monkey-piss dance on the edge
of the bed – is spontaneous.

But back to the science fair!
Without scarring or bunion-formation, you strap on these
wooden ducklings come waddling in past and sort of
just presenting themselves as bespoke science
shoes, and strapping them on
they become your feet, and it feels good, and their feet become
your nipples, and all sorts of other wicked imprints
appear – like your eligibility at this science fair
as that ultimate embodiment of perfection: i.e.
Heidi on 4chan. In lie-detector gear and snowcapped
by your porn name: ‘Hazard Heidi.’
Each of the other contestants in Starbucks
somehow think the hottest gimmicks harness photosynthesis!
Strictly speaking, you’d walked too long in electrolyte-diffuse snow
and Peter had taught you bad stable
manners; but other groovy science experiments
have strutted their stuff with electrolytes before,
ranging from grape to apple to Vodka flavors, so
maybe it’s not wise – nor original – going down this route again.

We’re Here To Save You From Extinction

Only later did a few of us realize how awfully homegrown
the cult really was, how wrinkled and straw-haired the
spokesman – a sunburn wrapped in three layers of
healing cheese – looked in the video, and what spurred a wave
of paralysis among the police detectives was arguably
justifiable within bounds. Eyewitnesses later said
when the cult members took the new guy’s head between
their hands and spoke invasive (literally invasive) insults to it,
a breeze rose up: but these eyewitnesses were far more
intrepid than the cops watching the thing from the comfort
of their sleazy office chairs.

On the cult grounds bearded men held the hands
of white hairy women, and the breeze was almost
devastating – so attracted to the cracks in the inductee’s skull.
Whatever it was, and whatever it did, it knew it couldn’t
be a wind – it would never lift its arrogant collar
and turn from a breeze into a wind – it couldn’t be particle physics
that turned clouds into dark columns of … Lacrosse testosterone!
Unless it was furtive and clever, unless it gave condolences to
victims of banality, victims of failure and pariahdom and bullyhood.
Of whatever it was that drew people to these rural outbacks.

Octopus Ink On The Pavement

it's always been fun feeding pumpkin seeds into your gorgeous nude jaw and then watching your brain kill everything    pumpkin seeds are the poorman's fibrous bullet because we neglect certain diseases like prehistoric fishbowl patterns, which is ok    we'd rather sit curbside scratching our germs in the urban heat like in a vortex of tv-abandoned airwaves, scratch-to-win ringworm tickets    flaking scalps    tell jokes – with our dirty toes squeeze schistosimasis from the bubbling tar    'i ate coke    i poured urine down the gutter    i educated ink    i sat pretty on the evil nubbin carcinoma'    i retraced my steps into the cafeteria across the sooty pavement    i ate rhabdovirus which resembled an evil robot's dick from a crisps packet that also resembled evil space storms    with some degree of trepidation i returned to the arcade game standing there in a black octagonal squat with a smattering of useless tentacles and red half-moon eyes menacing me    i prepared to better my old score

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How Jagermeister Resuscitated Buck Rodgers’ Soul

Those wooden rickety pillboxes
that stand about the woods under mossy
shadow-canopies scare me.
Half-demolished by Ewoks, two-legged
Imperial stompers that creak drunkenly
among the trees, shooting twin lasers
at furry animals, they merely just
STAND there. I mean…
But a type of Buck Rodgers that lost self-awareness
masturbates in there to kill time,
and to fondle the deer tail
that used to be attached to the hypersonic glider
folded at his feet. He will be lifted up

before the Jagermeister crucifix
dawns shimmeringly on the open field,  
before his bloodlust starts smelling
like moldy armpits, and be soft like
the stuff growing under his toenails. Which
is why those wooden pillboxes
scare me. Folded inside of them, in
addition to these hunters’ coffee
percolators and the blueprints to
Elvis impersonations they don
to stun dumb animals with humor,
is everything you don’t
want to know about.

Those Shorts Won't Like Our Brutal Urban Doorsteps

I dislike the eye drowning in Bigfoot’s assprint.
In the lush grass in that deep crater,
secular sex’s demise –
in addition to not being an art –
has no clue how bricks work.
But that was how our village looked, there were no
bricks – only crooked, twirly chimneys – and all our witches
did all day was look for the serpentine sandal.
They didn’t question why the tree line around the assprint bent
into the shape of huge checkered shorts,
specked with grass leaves and unscuffed by mortar –
erratic movements spreading beyond the hemline:
then quietly strangled.
But when do serpentine movements turn into belly dancing?
When do they become gaga, as it were,
as in the early evening with petroleum poured on the joke –
which witches find SO gross.
Then with white knuckles they pried open
the meat but the suburbs on the sparkling orbiting
postcards that slipped out were SO posh:
by our tradition we considered it criminal having ass-killing lawns
like that.