CHICKEN IN A CAN

unless because of the tension between

my computer mouse and

the common ambulance

its earlier anatomy removed with medical science

from the assembly line

to restore the former grass

and now I'm very excited about its geology;

as I always thought, the self-aware farmer is the

most realistic mechanical grime, his Dalek body type

completes the social awkwardness

and when braces are rendered obsolete

his nose-circuitry will be thrown into relief

waterproof the broken cave

like an elevator that includes an embrace

one's deepest tissue heartbroken in a can

Having Dissected The Inanimate To Complete A

Cellphone's Grisly Transformation; advertising's

inevitable fragmentation after ceasing to

relentlessly document the puppy's abduction,

culminating in an optical illusion of either

Culture, Our Companionship, or A Burning Space Shuttle

WHAT REALLY CRAWLED OUT OF CHERNOBYL

cut evaporation

around trousers

if the ground

would crack

the

perfume inferno

ill-edged

normal spawn

in the photo

booth

pocked, greasy

interference

of the

death ray

technically this

genie is

self-sustaining,

aloof

spud du jour,

not accessible

while buffering

like smudged

lightning vertebrae

swinging

in time

to corpse

on monkey bars

UFO tears on strings;

my jar

parked adjacent

to my cum,

once a boarded

up fire hydrant

in Jurassic Park,

now an

unchained cripple,

loud

Chernobyl created

ESP to smuggle

bones crooked,

pruny, and then

theatrically feathered

HOW A GROUP OF DESPERATE PEOPLE ENDED UP LOOKING FOOLISH

The snack wakes up on the table. There is no plate beneath it.

The table cloth is recumbent, asleep still. The snack blends into bits of it.

Why does it feel so uncomfortable resurrecting?

Exiting from a vending machine feels like jugular buggering if you exit straight into someone's waiting open mouth. It almost happened, once.

I think the local plantation, at stem or perhaps root level, feels itself part of some sort of planetary groceries system. It is complacent, though. I would be scared.

The queue bent itself labyrinthine with need and haste, and couldn't find itself, got lost in itself, looked foolish. The donor's kidney was just a lump of detailed fat in the precise center of her body. Moreover, it was infected with a computer virus.

Barbra Streissand lyrics played backwards speak of children's kites that have flown so high and are now deteriorating in space like rotten bat wings.

Played forward they speak of a green scum, a murky fish eye, creeping across the ceiling of a sex shop seeming at once far and very near. Seeing common objects impales it, seeing dildos stimulates solar eclipses.

The couple was vulnerable to the real estate agent's fungal cologne. They would catch a cold every day in the apartment starting the moment the agent moved out of view, but never truly away.

Curious radiation at TSA checkpoints makes Ewoks look like cockroaches in excessive bling. Direct the tiles of your identity back into the correct squares after passing through, please.

In philosophy classes, they keep score – glaucus halogen numbers appearing on the blackboard with the names of students corresponding with the numbers. For centuries philosophy departments depended on this horrible system, and it curiously hasn't hurt anyone.

Neither has always talking to myself while spring cleaning. Though it's lead to my thoughts usually being completely scrambled once I stopped talking to myself.

CARCASS HEAVIER

The zombie's tragic accident with which detonator

its butthole gained a different arthritis high resolution,

narrowing the mall multiverse by a slaying terrible at bagels,

knots air, at random skeletons, rolled bald high onto the

dispersion of locations, less acceptable bubbles from

clubbing baby seals than from mere handling with human hands,

Soviet-style delving the abandoned wastes of rodent equality in

my fire-breathing mobile home, its burps nail flowers,

and that the prostitute with me is a Pokemon is not a factor,

a post-apocalyptic marionette, a carcass heavier from eating

the dead space before it, gymnastic cattle that can only be

decapitated impractically, in the adjoining kitchenette.

HORSESHIT DIVINATION

I chose to have my mail-order pet reach me frozen,

Eluding one of life's terrifying special effects of

Everything, including eyelids, tails,

Skin, reaching me crawling,

An act itself inseparable from a bonus special effect:

Flies like distorting:

Pepper like dissolving:

Rubber like perforating:

Chernobyl bubble wrap with no

Interior or exterior, with no light or color but

With exactly the same volume as a room in Ikea,

An air of isolation encapsulating the

Muppet hologram found masturbating in there, the squarely facing

Head turned 180 degrees, what's basically a

Promo gimmick now scaring voyeurs directly behind it as the

Trashcan directly in front of it takes one in the eye.

What you shrimp will spill its putrid haze.

Wobbly stuff will kamikaze for awhile,

Sick pneumatic density embroidered, concealed in this

Life-like hotel sick with its density.

Beware of its disturbing divination:

“I am tired of the shower” is Optimus Prime rusting in the shower with you:

A smell coming down the stairs:

Hamburger fringe's lasting effect on the nurse:

Horizons sutured:

The mall cop intricate and Victorian.

ROSEMARY'S BABY – ANOTHER MUTATION

“Receptacle, help me,” said the baby. That's what it said to its cradle.

Screaming typed behind on an inflatable wave shape.

It looked like a form breaking out of a spreadsheet.

The scraping casually fizzed. A TV pulled from meat's

prolapse is a reason for salads. On a Ghost Ship,

the unintentional transition from a man working at

his desk to odorous sludge on his office chair, “some loose

ends, baby, I'm just really really relishing surrounding myself with.”

Surround yourself with going away – a means of being stored.

The coma's farawayness, which soon mounts further into a

Jenga coma of storing dropping and dripping blank centrifugal effluence.

“All the faded languages in our Junk Mail would have themselves

eroded indoors on the ocean floor.” Transfusion bodily, from the

chair to the door as a combination of collecting bits of burn and

the imminent talon on the doorknob: maleficent nerves hacking away

at the heart of a paintball. The ocean tasty from corporate littering.

Look out over it: a canvas on which the painter couldn't have

better depicted hungry scrabbling rats motivating the movements

of an exotic robot dancer ... Also – if you look further, wider – a potato,

cracked by the spring inside a daemon.

COUNTY FAIR

Old age and limited maneuverability yellows the floor under my lemonade stand in the cellar. As a child, some unexpected adjustment to the pivot under my Skylectric rendered its new perch on the edge of the track, facing the wall, the open door where the butcher stood, the trepan opening of the chimney, the bricked-up window, nerve-racking. It never fell. I reached past it falling. Still life, like my own - feathers fail the birth of a plastic knife. Meanwhile, the bong squares all my veins before the county fair's pearly gates.