KEEPING CROSSWORD PUZZLES IN THE FRIDGE

Spanning across short finger parts, Lycra makes for an awkward park bench.

So does even the most genetically modified armadillo.

We shall rather find comfort in coming over to your pad and stroking

your fridge – comfort in the release of soft tissue noises from its casing.

It harbored the mango aesthetic our alphabet uses to lay foundations

at the bottoms of crossword puzzles; unfreed, a trillion snorkels

in the mouths of near-drowning dust mites would tickle – with

their sharp burbles – the soggy carpet on the fridge's rack

that would in time grow from it. The next phase is shape-shifter slime

you'd reprimand your children for taking to every goddamn show and tell.

I've always known that behind every magnetic field sits a hamster.

And that the Milky Way wouldn't exist in its current form if not for this fact.

And that the Victorian-era dildo splits into its myriad components

via pulling a lever with your tongue – a form of deconstruction clowns are

particularly good at making terrifying.

THE TAPERED ELEPHANT

Can't figure out what to do with

this dead animal. No stove big enough

remains above sea level.

The wise elephant tends to want to

power nap – next to its head

the reading lamp breaks all sorts of patterns.

It starts off looking like hundreds of fingers eating

out of the same take-away box, to grain rippling

from the impact of a split atom.

To a split atom

that merely runs on air.

Oh … to a polygraph's icky overflow

after reaching a sweet spot in

the green fetal homunculus

in the midst of convulsive inspiration...

Not-enough-light

syndrome, stuck on flashing. What a

sad waste of photosynthetic dew-snot

by the carnivorous.

Usually charmed by anything resembling

CPR with tweezers on a gazelle's lymph nodes

or on a groin tumor – their superstitions rubberized,

a quick bollard alignment on their reverse flight –

lions have nevertheless continued to stare at your tusks.

When living in the former USSR,

just how many apocalyptic tonsillectomies

did you perform?

BONER-INDUCING PACEMAKER

This is a scrapyard.

Where the scavenger had picked up a pacemaker.

A mole was growing on his chest above the

location of the pacemaker. It had once been so comfortable.

It was my boner in the clouds.

He'll only be able to reverse this amputation with magic or

with a cunt. Occasionally, you'll see the faith healer who'd told him this

on his pedal-cluster – like he's driving a complicated vehicle when he's

healing you. Although now he's more into golf.

Fucking with you as if by magic.

On dope, the scavenger is mystified by the beam – a concept, not an

hallucination – parked on the scrapyard's sociably organized lawn furniture.

[Although] being on dope equals my operating system filling up with leaves.

The Ghostbusters had once passed through here to do battle with

flesh-eating medical equipment, and Hoovered the beam up. The

Disney trail now presents as a black streak. 

 

Now it's getting a little annoying.

Some rats, an elusive theorem that evolved out of a shitheap of nuclear

waste made them into nicer vermin. Wild chirpy emoticons,

so distinct from the rest of the junk, the least labile and the least

possible to shoot in the junkyard, wearing cute, bulletproof makeup,

and chased after by a golf club-wielding sham healer, on and off exist

on this timeline.

The leak, neon green and possibly hazardous, looks stupid where it is.

It is where the mole has been. The faith healer works his bunch of pedals. 

Fool.
  

In a helmet of talcum, you cannot beat a germ unconscious.
In a splash of talcum, you cannot recognize a rash.

ZOMBIE BELOVED

Weeping can have this suitcase.

The PEZ accident that is the world's

collective weeping. Wild, random side alleys explored

in tragic wake of memory's implosion. Can

have this suitcase. 

 

Temperature ensues from the

tip of the synapse – follows the nose bleed's

slight incline.

Cry with a dismembered foot in front of your face.

Grunt. Click. Immune response of weak tea, trying

physically to get its sandpaper on, figuratively spills hot hives

over foot. Telepathy with loved one is now so candid -

grunt, click, gugg – the air chafes, grenades into thrumming wax.

Also, you've pissed yourself.

In natty hospital gown,

plainly thyroiding into Steve Buscemi – hybrid sexy.

From puddle of staples to spider dampening.

Going in for the kill. 

 

When the Tardis eventually stopped working,

interstices between you and the other side fell into decay.

The Velcro was … “episodic in nature.”

Didn't, however, thwart the beautiful perseverance of the rainbow

that vivisected the small bubble rising and falling in

the Walking Dead's mouth-breathing.

THE SLUMLORD'S BELLYBUTTON

Telex six-shooter. My information a shower curtain rolled up

in one silicone chip. But I'm just not getting through. I'm an amputee squirrel

wanking with its phantom hand. 

 

A patina of stomach acids and Froot Loops, growling in a dish.

The dryer applying a natural density to the wig.

The microwave applying a natural sparkle to asbestos.

This time the slumlord can feel it really sinking in.

Quicksand up your house, brother.

And drive so slow, weeds blind the cops behind.

Vicodin uplifting his spirits, like taking the plant off to clean his bellybutton.

ANT FARM

it brought back unpleasant memories when my ant farm organized its own high school football team

and built a hot air balloon to honor its new deity

to whom they sacrificed a shrimp

and pulled the arms out of the sockets of the shrimp, during the sacrifice

they are sometimes invisible to me – but

I sometimes hear a pathological ring tone emanating from their mounds, like someone's cell phone's left ringing

the continuous, in out in out in out – and

I wish for my dishwasher to divert its pipe to one of their entrances instead of having to be switched off at all – same counts for all my apartment's other taps

their deity is a skeleton astronaut that drifts perpendicular to our universe

to give you context, this guy sees in terms of 'spectra,' and every 'spectrum' is fringed with lost drifting gingerbread – and to this 'god' it would be 'pleasant' to 'eat' the gingerbread

they built a cyclotron and I don't know they must've screwed something up because in parts it froths

of course they lick it

in an abandoned amusement park (it must've come out of the ground, the same as a small dirty mannequin that one day came tottering in stops and starts out of the ground, pushed from below) ant robbers were attempting to rob a stationary strain overgrown with weeds

by the time I got to know the colony, this performance seemed prosaic to me

a cloak of invisibility was once again draped over that area of the ant farm

I think of mass absorption when I look down into my ant farm

I think of oxidized metals, gall lying in a pit

I think: my dog does fit in there...

what was really terrifying, was when I dreamed I had taken up

killing them off one by one by shooting them with a rubber band,

and in the dream as the rubber band stretched from the

tip of my finger, suddenly I could see the molecular structure of

the rubber band, and somehow that caused me to wake up

with a start, sweating, panting

THEY KNOW

THEY KNOW MY WEAPON

would be wonderful to be a little ant and go up in a hot air balloon

instead when I see theirs, constructed in honor of their deity,

horned pottery comes to mind

WHAT ONE CAN LEARN FROM SPOCK

By day a ghoul, by night also a ghoul but admitting with a sense of

defeat that it's time for bed. Making an honest living

even though it's hard to realize, just before falling asleep, that

his profession is just another form of burrowing and digging

for significance. In rhinoplasty, before you get to the meaty bits –

consciousness, a tie-dyed sun – there's just cartilage and bone.

The organic undersmell of the rubber yoga mat that stores its subterranean

alien code. Meditating (and yogaeing) on this surface is nice,

but at a certain point one pukes. Really pukes – what looks like something

grown in a lab.

The ghoul had once thrown up an antique urn and placed it on

the mantlepiece and still mourns its contents, whatever that may be.

The urn is also a spaceship, and after many years parked on

the mantlepiece slobbered dirgefully over it has, not surprisingly, taken off.

Its transcendental edges inside digging into the backs of its pilot's legs.

You're going pretty fucking fast when things begin stalling around you.

Zen sick – bits of pizza dismantled by a beer.

Sliding in under the curtain or hiding as 3D constructed flakes.

Concealed in a sloth's social behavior. The spring-loaded stripper

behind the curtain offers only her toes as a clue – but then the

chimera scrunches unloading millions of years of stored recoil;

the small new frisky satellite the ghoul had also dug out

of someone's face and placed in a showcase plows through

the dandruff explosion. Flipper heat in its wake.

In one episode of Star Trek, late one night when he couldn't sleep,

the ghoulish surgeon had seen Spock leaving it up to jive-ass emoticons

in his emails to articulate his heady emotions. And that might have been a

valuable lesson! The resonant blat of good viscera isn't produced by

aiming cat food at a harp. In control of one's own actions.

(Don't dodge their consequences too late. And one day suddenly just

falling off the wall and jerking entertainingly on the floor.)