WHAT SHE’S MADE OF THEY MADE HER OF

Anatomical wind chimes is what male thought
made of her by entering at just the right speed. 
A marionette with a degree in knots, her PTSD
gestures constituted the money shot. Check out
these shameful reunifications: anti-gravity syndrome
gets it from brothel acupuncture’s gilded pogos.
Who patented the painkiller output? She was not
really fooled by the crap in the mail, by
yuletide berserkers and 5-minute jerkers,  
sitting on a cocoa throne with points of view
like a flurrying leak. On the bright side of the caribou,
there was a real woman, although lesbian jazz –
clenching the horns between its jaws – still
cheers me up. I’m a tidal load of strangers loaded
with strangers – orgasm flakes the zeppelin would
easily trade for the laser cab mistletoe.

YANK THE DROWNING UP BY THEIR WOODEN HANDLES

The lifesaver is nowhere near
as baroque –it takes over
empty journeyings, rubber
purse sent out on a motor
to the drowning –
and will be back inside you
to strike someone else’s genes
through with (your)
backwash. Snow will be launched with
the slings. 

Give loitering in patterns a shot,
inside out hot tubs un-
masked and prepared a place
in the dungeon of the limited edition

butterfly, the fretwork
with the joke taken off.

EYESORE ATTRACTION

There’s more, some not as exposed as others – kitsch lightening gummed to the poster cortex. What do you see after stepping on an egg? How do you know you’ve tripped on the sadistic capsule? Is what rolls out and over porcupines in bleach? A slippery spectrum – white-tipped, a dark kept with tent pegs from lifting – is rekindled. A model for: ‘I wish I had bypassed’ – a thought gone horribly wrong. Unexpected benefits so awesome, they’d laugh in your face when you turn to them and say, dismissively (you plan to take a mushroom and set up a polkadot under its poisonous awning), you’d been around the sides of so many elbows.

BUY MY BOOK

I would love to lose my heart, but above all I would love to lose it to the faces of lice I’m expecting to ooze out of here, the gush of them which to my sweet-toothed heart would be like embracing cotton candy. A reassuring picture from the vaults. When you buy medicinal raffle tickets, your mind stands a chance to win those arrested sirens in the scary loft. The heady healing of storage. The vaudeville bounty hunter crouching under the damaging steam, arms fanning out postcards – he’s losing it by mistaking them for antique versions of latkes. We’ll be licking espresso foam from the corners of our mouths before this stairwell has ended.

INCREDIBLY INSPIRED

The frothing violin is causally practically conjoined with the Nam flashbacks he gets whenever his instructor raises her voice in a little panicked chirrup when he has swung his arm wrongly or squeezed a string not lovingly enough. Or hatefully enough. In swimming class he often begins to panic as it seems to him he’s in the middle of a shipwreck. He feels himself floundering, and clutching at a fat thigh he thinks blubbering in his hand is instead wood pulped against the rocks, and he hears a loud cracking sound as of a big tree falling. His violin instructor can’t figure out what the heck is wrong with the violin, although she’s quick with the hosepipe and sprays him and violin simultaneously while letting out a distressed and haunting cry. That also sometimes reminds him of Nam. Pity she’s such an attractive woman in a housedress and has such attractive, clean arms – this bit doesn’t jibe well with the flashbacks. But never mind.

He loves over-filled garbage. It makes him feel muscular. He sympathizes on a deep literal level with inanimate objects and to him these things peeling out of the bins are evocative of liberated strength, and his sympathies are spooning this up in great greedy swipes. In the great filthy deluge muscly garbage his old arthritis pains, the most potent signifiers of infirmity, are greatly reduced. 

He does for a fact know that he is in fact still Burt Reynolds, and on a warm evening beside a river bubbling with Napalm had once ejected from a Daiquiri, drunk and happy, singing an eulogy to a dark-skinned pimp who’d saved him a mild amount of humiliation somehow. He felt like an invisible olive. With a  mullet. Still clutching at the advice of the pimp, even two-hundred feet up.

‘Will you, with your mutant discipline, smuggle me into your wonderful land? You can have this young girl’s beaver. You people do like beavers, don’t you?’

‘We have them in Canada. We’re fond of them, yeah.’

‘Oh please! You again slept through the bonfire ceremony. I told Clive not to roll you and your sandals and the bamboo mat you were sleeping on and the hissing embers near your toes into one and smoke you like a cheroot, and believe me it took a lot of pleading, more than I’m doing now, which I can see isn’t effective, so perhaps there is something in my shorts or in my hair or underneath the fold-up director’s chair my soul is sitting on that’s crimping this ability, because usually I have it in spades.’ [Looks down with pinched mouth at dirt + holding chin thoughtfully.]

You slept through the whole thing, Burt. The war. Your grandchildren’s births. You even slept through the time you roamed the streets in search of garbage spilling from dark hidden dumpsters. The bigger and more ogreish the dumpsters the better. You slept through your arthritis pain. The song you sung to your pimp all the way up there in the air was incredibly inspired, is all I can say.

EVIL - ANOTHER MUTATION

The wild pack of dogs running across the yard: was the feel of it as al dente as it looked? I was on quite a good windowsill there. It felt really paradisiacal, like the orphanage I grew up in. I understood my feelings, was comfortable in my carbon fiber wrap. Bunny intricacies lip synced my clever explanations of what I thought them to be up to, as though they didn’t understand themselves. I had to take what others didn’t want. The stuff I regurgitated while holding the large black controls to the remote control plane that was busy crashing and which I knew was busy crashing. I handed over the controls and continued eating my present. The happy sock turned and followed the plane’s emergency landing. I was glad no one wanted my regurgitations and that I didn’t have to sit with a broken plane I loved very much. I don’t want to love people too much. That’s why I continued chewing and it tasted the way I always imagined the butts of cigarettes tasted like. Those were good times. They felt like my mother’s pasta. My mother was the orphanage. My father was the pack of dogs. All of them had just the right consistency.

WE WANT YOU OUT OF HERE

Based on a mixtape loaded with incriminating teenage angst-inflected, self-important schlock music, Interpol sought a warrant to forcibly remove Nessie from the Hudson River where it had been sticking its slick wet otter head out for centuries producing blurry pictures on living room mantle pieces and desktops of office cubicles. The main challenge still lay in proving that the tape belonged to the monster. A positive finding would outright nail the creature but Interpol had an appetite for a good red herring still, and thrived on their exquisite knack for wasting everybody’s time. Interpol loved this. And hoped fervently that the Loch Ness Monster was some sort of con job or, on the other side of the spectrum, a poorly understood scapegoat-like loner that simply was a magnet for trouble. They’d pursue the case until it finally rendered full proof that the mixtape with the teeny tunes on it didn’t belong to the monster and get that sweet sick thrill of running the full length of a dead lead and coming up against the sickly orgasmic climax of such a concussive disappointment. Interpol thrived on this sort of thrill still. After all these many years. Never tired of it. Sticklers for failure.

But the townsfolk still wanted the monster out of the Hudson because its body mass displaced a great volume of water, and with it gone, they were sure much of their belongings which they’d somehow lost in the river, now stuck in the mud below, would in Christmassy fashion materialize. Old shoes. Bath toys. Computer parts. Memorabilia. Kitchen utensils and garage tools. Garden furniture. All would half-poke out of the mud in the water’s displacement by the monster’s removal from the river. The tape did belong to the monster. It liked that kind of music.