NORMAL EXISTENCE

The structure that houses a wedgie

at times blocks an important view.

The beta version merely bites your tongue.

An MRI of Velcro looks more springy and seems

to apply to the tongues of all human beings.

The schnoz's hoovering never ends.

One person is lead to another by a swath of cab smell.

So, are they like-minded?

Have they found a platform with the

same amount of air bobbing on it?

Being square in appearance is mainly

what has muddled normal existence.

Stumpy Adonis. Contracting more of your pattern from his goiter.

A complete coronary exhibition is the big version of smaller bottles.

You can't drink the blood of reindeer when it keeps flaking off.

PERVY HOUSEPLANT

I am able to bludgeon a tetherball if I know exactly

where it's swinging or hanging. I am able to retrieve

peanut butter from a jar virtually without looking.

I have it good.

She doesn't have it good.

Her cactus houseplant is constantly putting out.

Its stalks are constantly dripping earwax, brooding.

In trying to get away from it, she has

already once hit her elbow on the ceiling fan.

Her apartment is really mean-looking.

Strange noises. A plumber visits her apartment

every day of the week. The water pipes in my apartment

are clement. My constantly pacing up and down

when I feel overjoyed and/or fortunate only pleases those

who live below me.

Her restless pacing shapes no other message

than 'Fuck you' to the people who live

below her and who understandably don't like

her pacing.

She's unlucky. Pervy house plant.

Non-understanding neighbors.

Ceiling fan.

She should replace her cactus with a potato.

See, this is why we should meet – I could give her

some of my luck and lifeskillz.

DONNIE DARKO – ANOTHER MUTATION

Time burns a match

longer than a match

would normally burn.

The oldest ones lean,

breathe, dampen, lose screws.

Once it had parachuted

like a proud waffle.

Darkly wide. A noise had

telescoped noisily,

forming a hole in my

shirt, a larger vivisection

for greater comfort.

The edges of that hole

had since crystallized.

EARTH TONES

The labyrinth stretches 9 minutes fast.

You can not remove the transparent clockwork

from its busy hair.

No live hound has ever sat here before.

A sort of Times Square but one that doesn't

consume what you tell it to. An indicator of flatness.

Windy worthless lights hang from paperhangers.

And yet you end up tracing a seaweed-like trajectory into the

holes of passing faces. The geometric palette of

any cognitive undertow. Heatwaves from the robotic

house plant's left brain.

Earth (i.e. dirt) is very easy to deploy (e.g. throw)

and, when stacked high, knock down.

Eliciting emotion.

A GOOD SON IN LAW BUT A BAD HUSBAND

On the sides of our mobile home

my precious bug collection gets its stew on.

Looks like it might cause corrosion

as well as being unsightly. Wigged pinheads, etc.

Such an effect takes time to dissipate.

I so like the numbers that emerge from

everything's life cycle, although some

could be softer, some bits.

The enema ladders a Happy Meal.

Molds beard from turd death.

Medical waste necessitating the purchase

of a diaper that throws you to one side –

gives a numb leg!

Designing more from within its design

rolls my melt from a lock.

Especially on an electric chair, juddering.

A snowflake's fat-shadows need me.

A nightmare blocks my skin.

Talking about myself when talking about myself.

Never done that before. A slicker technology.

From the time of the release of the condom

to the time the lumps appear thereon.

Like a foreign body underneath my scalp,

burns alive. Never done that before either.

My suitcase's cannibalism restricted

by suddenly relaxing the stapler.

UNDERGROUND STATION

Full exposure is impossible. The tissue is eyeless.

A rubber gimp chewing off a mind. Its receptivity

spreading across the yard, gathering in the seals

around the window. Starting to drip in.

A plastic bag needs sincerely to gorge. You need

small hands to gargle. In the future, you will not like snow.

Any curse stems from heavier material. Some miracle mist

that impedes city sewers. Displacing the warp, as death

intermittently feels the urgent need to change.

Its cues are not carried over from the front

of the pitchfork to the rear. Hovering. Interstates transition

from luxurious stitching to orange peel.

Rust: that ancient precursor to the non-retractable pizza.

Ted Bundy appears offset. Death turns too close

on the same side of the road as that old armadillo. Both

know that, per whim, one can feel synchronized.

One can hover. Gargle. Gorge. Have small hands.

No eyes.

CASTRATION BLUES

I bore no resemblance to a heap of bones

after my castration via jetpack-fail.

Airlifted on my kinetic hoof.

With like arachnid tubes swinging

tautly through gross lapses, like

a ponytail's metabolism retailing

the smell of used floss. Steal until I

become three reeds of light bending through

a speck on the display window; sound

unhealthy while leaving the planet; and look

like an anus, with like giggling larvae in situ

acting abashed. Your beak is your locator,

but suction cups are still advisable. Unquote.

Though some areas of the fantasy world

radiated by booger-oil cannot be climbed;

some areas vibrate as if dry. Bits of worried

fishbowl indicating the bathroom is occupied.

It's Vader becoming molecular for a few minutes

in there. The feeling he gets like it's all over,

everything. All over. Makes love to Edison's

delicious portable intensifier: a ray gun that

shoots plaque. There's an annoying pause as he exits

his flip-flops. And sound. Wind-up dispersal.

Why must disintegration be so manifold?