THE SHEET

The sheet marks by contact with other areas of the same sheet.

It is metamorphic not because it is sensitive or marks easily;

it just has that kind of peculiar irreversible elasticity.

It can be rolled into soulless barrels of cattle.

It can rear up at passing ankles in the anatomically correct guise

of Garfield. Or a battle mech.

I am highly suspicious of it.

The sheet crystallizes when I pour Kool-Aid over it, the latter

slaloming through cartilaginous termite mounds sprouting up all over.

The sheet has begun to talk to itself. Muttering something about being hungry.

I give it a burger. I hold the burger in my hand a while.

I am so aware of the sheet's focus on the burger. If I were to stretch

the sheet and bring a scalpel to it, would it noisily ricochet

against my hand? I turn my head and follow its gaze back to where

the sheet is identifying something other than a burger, something

devoid of movement, even in my shaking hand. But it is a burger.

FORENSIC YARDWORK

Who can fuck up any honest depiction of a pretty girl

picking bones from a hot cooked fish with her fingers?

For instance the squelch you're hearing – is it actually from

the wooden propeller that's manifested itself in your awareness?

I smoke too much pot to be able to distinguish between the

squelch made by the palms of those gathered at the scene

of some crime or by a farm tractor given an industrial emetic.

For scientific purposes, Mothman lets his dust devolve into

mere mounds. And with me, the doctors almost sewed on

a complete different tail because my parents almost didn't pick

my tail because it was the runt of the litter.

Stage magicians replicate these events all the time, and at the end

reverse-shunt modeling glue through their invention.

Dark and evil forces almost bullied me out of having this

tail, now.

But I am not sufficiently thankful: I still wish I could form myself

into a monocle hovering above a flea's gaping butthole.

Endlessly, I know, that image would nurse a propensity for spitting

right through me. The damburst's vectors align and flies fumble in

the dark trying to find the hole – trying to nudge the gangrene

more dated. Suffusion as trademark aesthetic of a fungus. Rubber as

adaptation to alienation. Don't magneto up close. Ebola is not irresistible.

The truth is, the wholesome, excitable electromagnetism in

pawn shops lets a part of you paddle around, systematically.

You'd be surprised at the least convenient thing Julio Iglesias

ever mounted – that which doesn't fail to manifest is, he'd found,

as mantis-chested as daylight.

SLOW WHEN DISTORTED

Tracing a steak's journey from the eject chair into

being something floral, that poses unbroken except

for a broken back.

The way everyone stays safely visored behind

anything deforming its colors back.

Or rotting its rat a membranous velor.

Just in the normal course of need, wheeze from

spitting too much radar. On the leaf so many

bloodsuckers forge from commonalities

they themselves are leathery to – to, when naked,

represent the ultimate ghetto of the

Grand Guignol tangible.

Dragons scrape behind the processes,

like chemo flitting through a lot of rare Santa beard,

haunting the instrument a narrow junkie's bum

is needed for. The culmination of kitsch

plastered corpses closer up, and callower than expected.

No rush at all, human head.

Now that the place has been caught distorted.

WHITEOUT

Unlike most people, I actually like our local grocery store's

association with offal. Couldn't get the plague mobile

so my feet cured themselves on rakes. I also like

Bed and Breakfasts. I'll check with friends if double-sided

adhesive tape is similar in outline to how I make my bed.

DIY stands for reinforced spore, because we're creating.

Full rotation of the switch passes unexpectedly beyond

spastic lemon. Survival by going limp in your arms.

Quite antithetical to its usual, odd lotus. Before inception.

Before the pump added such a horrible style to yoga.

A relic of tie-dye medical bills goats into a lover's knot.

Cautionary slush: what a good shit functions as.

Neutral, then paranoid. Then promptly enfolding hell!

The hunter had fallen for a diorama of Bambis

reverse-engineered from chemical yawning,

like a supercomputer throwing up a motherfucking beach

from low grade tea optics. During this interlude, he

said, I shall excuse myself in the most offensive – but viable –

manner; I shall turn off the street lamp to uglify it and

everything in its path, every half or overdeveloped mosquitomoth

on its mind. Don't you like your local natural history museums

natural, son? I.e. unencumbered by the usual plasticity?

Then you'll love the Loch Ness monster as he's actually just

a 10 gallon tank, missing a cap. Are you disenchanted by your

local car wash? Who would you most readily obscure with

whiteout?

COTTONMOUTH (SPACE, PART II)

A gingerbread man zoomed past every half an hour on the

conveyor belt. The last one had sodomized the adjoining

10 yards of nothingness with slow urethral steam. Space/nothingness

replied: from the serrated trunks of black speech bubbles,

quasi-verbally, bulbs leaked. Space should rather be on board

a space station. There, there is real cottonmouth, for space

holds on to any hair and small particles. There one has absolute

control over scratching one's own ass. In space, farts become opium.

There, there is enjoyment of resistance to erosion. McDonald's loosens

surplus promotional material from formica. One limbo per egress.

Craw, instead of something wearable. Medical center chic.

The impersonal unopposed to the personal.

NASA'S COLORING BOOKS

Weirdly, NASA's latest training program introduced coloring books

and found the three-toed paw of the chameleon underlying

each astronaut invariably transmits to the remaining corpus

the texture and color of “burnt-out bath salts.”

Astronauts appreciate the worst parts of (even the most

tragic) coloring books. The bubbling skin of a

toy action figure exposed to radiation

is colored in with the loving, doting peck

of perfection's chicken beak.

They treat each pencil as a bone saw.

They treat each line as a marking they'd

made themselves with a sharpie.

Space is toneless to an astronaut.

Anything that separates its pieces from

the center outward is indifferent to adhesion.

Does this strike you as a happy place?

Well, it is.

Ever heard the sound of an astronaut lost in space's

self-satisfied smacking of lips?

KING KONG – ANOTHER MUTATION

I find King Kong to be so great. The long rubber glove of

dawn inverts orange fingers all over the grass simply

when Kong moves out of the way of the weak, distant sun.

The whites of his eyes fragile against the lid's wink, clunky.

Old movie-prop yolk like Pringles breaking past the pupil,

i.e. a brown elephant rib in the middle of the glass eye

shaking off after-shadows gray-haired and diminishing

in the incoming stream.

Back at the studio's warehouse, they'd reclined the large disembodied

tongue in a trough of bacon fat. Live electrons came out of their hiding

places to visit it. So a movie prop tongue like the one used

in King Kong could be a true monstrosity: a taste-nest of thimbles

somehow given to expanding and contracting when touched,

mechanically. The tongue couldn't possibly think: “I am a reasonable

stone.”

Kong's roar supposedly always comes from a tape recorder

although I think it comes directly from the beast himself.