When you’re a girl, everyone wants your P❌SSY.

A Brief History of My P❌SSY

In the beginning.  From a galaxy far, far away.

Came me.

A soldier of individuality.  Of stylish spunk.  I’m like Punky Brewster 40 years later, a mid-century spool of gold.  Building statues that contain the wealth of nations.  The good behind the goods.  The mast behind the master, stories told in song underneath my melody, rhythm, one fingernail below—the deadly hook.  One finger right below the line.  Fashion each fabric containing the elements of time each fabric detectable.  And undetectable.  Discoverable—as they say.

Each part.

Each limb.  Each anthem.  Every fireplace s’more every caterpillar a pupa—larva—chain.  Albums of my pictures, disgusting on the whole, sworn in delightfully, sparced 12-fold path, buddhi, boddhi flower of yellow substance powder with a sprinkle of boddhi red flower power.  Mixed with a cat!  With a hat!  And with the motherfucking cat came back.

Hat box.  She brought me to every tryst.  Upside up!  That’s the rub.  A dope-side nodule mentioned by police.  Mentioned to care, to under-care, to completely care.  You read this splice of Sonic™ gameplay history.  Post-sex you’ll read this story once there are no genitalia/genes.  Once Darwin has been trampled, shuffled to the sidelines by future cages.  Pushed to the sides like the mass-transit version of New York subway cars.  Homeless people the audience.  Mass transit to a degree never before known.  But cool it down.

Cool it down.

Cool it down.  This story.  This here textfile.  I guess until you make a full model of my brain I will be out of your reach and you will always call me human, you will always call me plain, or flat, or IQ challenged.

I am.

It’s true!

To you I’m a zoo animal.  And then all my fans adore you.  Question me.  Bring me into the future without my even knowing.  And tell me, alien.  Tell me, those of you who have never seen me coming.  That this holiday season will hold the most surprises of all.  Noticing my fly ass score perfect on the SATs.  SATs are passé.  But I got a perfect score.  But they’re passé.  But still I care I count something I did makes me matter and the rest of you can hit the books.  Stir up your flash cards.  Mix.  Shuffle.  Re-en-act.  Sing the she-wolf sound then roll up with your lyrical package.  Blow me away.  That’s all I’ve got to say.

A long time ago.  In a galaxy..

Two cells struck together during universe creation.  Two cells sparking like flint and tinder over the fire of a serial killer.  Serial.  Robert.  Robert Garrow.  My P❌SS.  Tinder but everything.  Tinder™ but unfinal.  Simeon.  Butterfly.  Gas canister I might tick with my P❌SS.  I might trip over a data cable unhooking the future from the present.  Trip over a data cable connecting the you of now with the me of the past (your perspective).  Tripping over a data cable which connects the universe as we know it to substrative material (below).  Seductive material (that).  Rat trap (cat).  Mystreal on a face paint the night I should have lost my virginity.  Should have lost it then, mothers in jars completing word puzzles.  A tiny dose of Words with Friends™.  Do you hunt?  Weas?  Peas?  Run one by me and leave the advertising out.  Leave the commentary and vaginal documentation.  Out of the picture!  Guess again, Batman™.  Your mission critical died in Aurora it’s really too bad, too too bad, that the motive driving all these shootings is a mental health one.  I never understood how when someone has mental illness they are automatically responsible for any local shootings—these other states, these other states who open the legislative gates.  To flow through.  To float back through.  To flow (underfloating) back into the mystery.

Back.

Back.

Back into the mystery.  Your own idiosyncratic short-sighted invitation—featuring little black-girl P❌SSY—does it even matter?  Does it even matter that when I open my door, step my feet upon the street, that every guy with jungle fever slices upon me.  That every chap who murders for fun is out tonight.  Every serial killer.  They’re out—to see you and me.  They’re out—in silence, you never see them coming.  That’s the perspective I reach for when I want the night to have excitement.  Real grown-up play with hide and seek, I curtsey before you, offering up and up my white certificate.  A certificate of my virginity, held in quiet.  Dinosaur invitation.  Moo-cow corporation.

My vagina in one hand—left tit in my other hand, a trap house for skin.  The largest organ in the body.  Mega sensational.  Ultra sensational.  Sensational organs—piano!—an organ of my soul—of my spirit if allowed, if comprehended..by you..for come for salt-smelling plebeian P❌SSY cat running the alleyways of night counting me among those future-caught by me, run off by my entity, rubbed off seven serial numbers, seven seals, seven signs, you can edit me down to 32 characters, 32 bytes, an 8-bit system playing my grool in videodrome, flat from the original Nintendo™ game control women listing video games across their bodies, listing game system IDs in their profile waiting for their selves to be usurped, zapped up, zapped to heaven, try it sometimes, bowled over by the water controller, soaped upon in a gas-plasma re-in-o-matix flame, trying to get all that I can get I am the solid I am the solitary, I am the mystery of the one-sheet bioelectric kill flash. The bioelectric P❌SSY.  That which is longed for for years.  Decades.  A perfect alien P❌SS.  It has been chambered down in 9mm that’s your proof, your proof, that I mean what I say.

I will never sign my name in 9mm.

That’s one thing I will never do.

Some stories should not be told in books.  In fact, some stories should not be told at all.  This is one of those stories.

She’s Got Jungle Fever, Oh She’s Got Jungle Fever

This.  Is.  Love.

Jungle Fever, Jungle Fever.  Jungle Fever, Jungle Fever.

Oh she’s got Jungle Fever.

This.  Is.  Love.

This is Jungle Fever.  This is Jungle Fever.  This is Jungle Fever.  This is Love.  We’ve got Jungle Fever.  You’ve Got Jungle Fever.  This is Jungle Fever and This.  Is.  Love.  Every pretty penny greets Imagination in the clown face—one of the great things about here:  They never hold back a penny sparkler dairy sucker MESSAGE IS THE MEDIUM I have a trick my trick is fun.  Do everything fun.  Never exclaim an expression that is inherently forceful.  By its words.  But the momentum of its message.  Super Sonic™ (trademark)™ (from) (the phantom)™ Hedgehog frankincense at hedgehog franken sense and myrrh extracted our environments waay before it was time—waaay before—waaaay before waaaaay before ywa ebofre this little weapon—a paragraph—DNA rediscovered from within—you were parked in a Ziploc™—you’ve always, ever, been parked in a Ziploc™, far away, so far away—stop

I’m gonna bring it.  Gonna show you.  Gonna make you see and smell and touch my story and you’re going to try to make me stop.  Make me face the music.  Make—me—get federal photograph.  Get it over your hands.  This three-sentence montage is being addressed to the Federal United Medicare Department™, FUMD™, FU-MD™, which is exactly what I teach my students (my kids) I teach them this is the Medicare we always wanted and never used to have.  If I tell them MD means Mad Dog—(monster dog, master dog, I could go on this forever)—this could be my sweep of the maximum, syllables like rocks explaining the Pyramids, like the punctuation of everything—explains everything—the space between our maps of the stars are the same as stars in their own bodies in their own skies, mystery of the cosmos taught by my favorite spice flow last period of the day I kept my book closed and stared at the teacher, my reaction being This Was It.  This Was It!  We would need to lower the population to get ready for the Fall.  Ready for the fall.  Ready to jump backwards off that building.  Scathing for the sky.  Asking for this jump to mean something—and it did.

My head is messy.  It always has been.  I can tell you what I have because it helps to understand me.  I can say it calmly because the people who taught me, said it to me calm.  So I can say it calmly, because if I said it the way I expected, I would look like: a a a a o o o u u ! ! h a l l oo ww ee ee n ! ! betw.een.spectacular and f a m o u sly acceptable.  That’s all I ask:  Teleport me at the end of this transmission and this entity..kill.  Yes.  I ask that.  I have a certain amount of time and then I ask that you kill me for my confession.  That is what this is.  A confession.

So you know who she is.  She’s the (A Brief History of My P❌SSY) girl, stated above.  Stated well and clear and readable to you all but also it is necessary that you listen to exactly what she says before determining to kill me.  (As many have.)  As many have already come to a conclusion, settled for you by our rogue nation, which fills the jar of the accused, of who is guilty.  It’s her.  It has been her since the beginning of this trial.  She has been.  Slave sucker.  Buys robots, treats them like shit.  (And I’m sure if this caricature description, fighting at their maximum, would not even interest you.  Certain that the converted hell of Alice’s Wonderland will strip you to bones and sinew by the time you approach the bottom, by the time you get to the bottom of those slim slam slaves your entire character will have changed, devolved past the carbon age, escaped the entire era of photosynthesis, taken a Polaroid™ of itself, mailed the photograph into the space age, waited a long long time, seen the exact same photograph mailed past its nose (in space) back to the Earthly space station.)  People think I’m talking about the Space Station, the ISS, but I’m not.  I’m talking about Earth.

And I’m saying this: P❌SSY, the concept, the word, the design of the word, and every idea my grrl has accepted is the stunt base for her magic operations.  Her kill-fucks.  Her whole “magic.”  The arrangement of the shoes in her closet, seer-suck, aching P❌SSY manipulated at the Carl’s Jr™ down the street.  That deep P❌SSY ache I’ll never understand.  That brick function.  That is equivalent to falling off a building and landing straddled over a cinderblock.  That’s how one girl describes being raped by me.

Falling from a building and feeling like you landed with your P❌SSY spread and only your limp, useless vagina slammed face-open on the floor.  The way toast always falls.  It’s useless to even have a word for the way toast always falls.  Because it always falls that way.  So you don’t need a word for toast that always does what toast does.

Anyway, hold up.  You mean..this is my arraignment?  No need for me to speak?  Going to talk some amongst yourselves.  Oh, sure.  Of course.  I don’t mind if you don’t pay attention to my thoughts.  You never have.  So I have incredible words for all of you.  That will creep right down to your memories of being treated by police as you certainly have.  If you’ve ever been treated at all by the police.  In this country.  Someone should take away our guns.

This has been order 00323489.

Strapping myself into my rocket ship.  Helmet.  Restraints.  You might look into some of these safety items as you continue.

The Absurdity of Sex

I’m reading a book about fucking children.

It’s called Little Girl P❌SSY.

It’s a book about virginity.  Waiting.  The pressure to do it now!  A whole book about virginity:  Guys waiting for that P❌SSY to open up for them, girls waiting for that P❌SSY to feel “ready.”  Ready for the show.  Was told, like with smoking pot, that I wouldn’t feel it the first time.  Not in a sense of pleasure.  Not in the sense that you want a quickness in the afternoon, it’s no pleasure added for me until I’m out of the kiddie pool, the bird bath where blackness steals birds—wipes them up!—eats the bird parts and sometimes bat parts and sometimes zombie food flowers the bowl and you eat (cat) eat eat eat.  Let’s say this counter, here, is the food service for infinity.  That’s what we’re on right here, on the free-die event.  Where everyone comes up into dimension 8 thinking it’s going to be all easy and shit with these panoramic death moments.  Everyone here acting up on their deaths (playing them up).  To confuse the rest of us.  Saying there’s a light and shit STOP PLAYinG.  We know there’s nothing up there except a wet towel laid gently over the top of a lamp—that’s your bright light—“I’ll be right back.  I have to prepare my P❌SSY for the event.”

“Goodbye!  And goodbye to your P❌SSY too, which has never had cock!”

(Have them speaking to the P❌SSY as if it was a third party.)

GoOdBye to that very tiny—little tiny—girl’s P❌SSY that you desire on your deathbed.  I’m such a good girl with a good P❌SSY.  Such a good girl for having it on my back under martial watch and the street as our audience.  Creating raw campus-like experiences for everyone.  A whole book about “vagina sampling”—boom, done.  A whole book about vaginas and tampons, about peeing inside virgins.  A book about a good girl with a good P❌SSY.  Versus she’s a bad girl and her P❌SSY needs to be punished.

Girls are just panty dropping freaks.

We have indiscriminate panty-dropping power.  Boom!  Panty drop.  Boom!—panty drop!!  Boom boom!!  I did everything wrong, “but you’re a good girl with a good P❌SSY so it’s ok.”  The true P❌SSY detector is my dog:  Be getting right up in yo’ shit to make sure yo’ shit’s ok.  Getting that nose right in there for a P❌SSY report.  P❌SSY Report!  P❌SSY Report!

Dog’s name is Kicker / dog licking a girl’s P❌SSY (at a picnic) / everybody’s embarrassed but the dog won’t stop roughing me up my first time was on a sidewalk in the back yard (true!) he humped me from behind that was it that was my virginity lost between me and my favorite canine.  Almost like it never could have been another way and I didn’t tell the boys, I just used used the human measurement of fucking boys (was never sure how girls figured into that one—I guess they didn’t figure into the definition of sexual active along with toys and animals—only boys and men, who had the lucky key—to me?—)

You took me off the lot.  The local playgrounds.  The evil of your asymmetrical head making you somehow sympathetic plaything playtime just a person to not even meet—to be pulled by you off the grassy area near the front of the school (I could mention that you’d worked at that school since before I ever came to see it you had the place cocked, locked, and ready to load)—you had us like the satisfied diner has her spot at the local diner (special table, server knows you always get the buffet and coffee, swiping through a three-ring binder containing pictures of my brother and my tiny little asses in a bathtub in the swimming pool I remember you took one of me standing at the neighbor’s back door, wearing nothing, clocking us both with your mental camera, picking out outfits to impress the neighbors but you’ll never get these folks to play your game just as you have stolen me from my development and placed me in this dumb box underneath your stairs—you say—like Harry Potter’s room?—you ask—I swoon like a coyote—will kill my coyote as soon as I get my hands on these controls—swerving up, down, left left right right) you tell me which paths not to take (don’t go here here here here or here) you wish for me that I choose the path back to you, someday, immediately, soon like the laundry is.

I am a girl.  I am five years old.  I could use you to put my face on a milk jug.  Send me home to anyone who has their home tarped from floor to roof, dis-encouraging us to look out the window.  We were told from the beginning the walls were like fire, underneath, and if we ripped through the foil, it’s fire everywhere.  It was like the foil had the magical ability to soar through foil, metal, the ability to start sparks behind there and burn down the entire house.  The power I carried was enormous—so I never touched the foil.

That’s why I’m down here.

To avoid the onslaught.

With this guy it’s feathers and words, words make way to stones, the black ones—gray—and I can pick up each one, look at it, return it to its place in the sand.  This is in the center of our house:  A fountain with stones in its water.  An endless fountain that plays its music eternally.  I don’t know if that fountain is really there or implanted by my imagination.  That’s why I check with you, my doctor—that it’s perfectly safe for me to watch the poster of the same subject while I wait here for you to touch me—right, somehow, I never learned to be touched this way before so much it makes me cry.

Re-United With My Stinking Stinkhole

And The Faces We Make even before the latest office supply run.  The Faces We Make even before the truck leaves the parking lot, even before the delivery driver leaves our door open (backwards) to save our office power.  It’s the Modern, Modern! playlist—every track behind every war buddy—every war needs a theme!—it needs music to psych up to, to plan to, to try on for size.  Every war needs that.  A feeling it goes to.  A song to go with every time we sing.  In church.  Sing, we, in the living room over a Tori Amos piano she sings us praises to a dimension-less god, cumming over my curtains where the son comes through, the sin:  Set to drip, stave off the devil like a planetary shift—Darwin’s shift, Copernicus shift, da Vinci shift.  Time takes off backwards.  The Statue of Liberty opens her robes from the front and it’s liberty, liberty for all™, liberty united, and the whole mess will stream with limited commercial interruption, nothing special to kick off the thing except Britney Spears acting twenty years younger.  Acting twenty years younger.  Her ace in the hole.  But this one’s major Photoshop™ major Photofuck™ major pushthrough major student brainpower™ of a candy cane.  You know?™  You get me?™  Is.  Everything.  Cool?™  I got to this document earlier than you, girlie, before the janitor got here, because the administrators—because the administors smoke tails of a cat, get the big bottle of ibuprofen this time, sing the high notes and carry the low each one with a part of your mouth (high notes with the back of your mouth right below your pretty pretty tongue—low notes from the front/top/side running faster due to the cars’ exhaust pipes it’s all a mess around here, re-unite with your slaves who you take perfect care) to re-unite the backwizdom™ with a couple drops of jism.  I mean that was me!  And me was mine!  And what I really wanted to do was time you on my watch after I threw all that stuff over the fence and see how long it took you to—virtually—read me, dissolve my notes, paint my faces red, become one likened to those many virtual children I see when the lights turn low and it’s just me in the darkness of my room—you invited inward—you touching yourself before you ever should have touched yourself—in this walled garden whose walls call my name.  A fish-united garden of corporate logos shining brightly every employee’s house their front room, living room, kitchen, dining, bedroom, bath.  Paid for by A Candidate in the Current War, government subsidy, less the shape of me, less my ScopeWare™—size of the pieces, not much bigger than a peanut—ware—Glocks™ made of Sand, Glass Guns, Guns downloaded, printed, smashed into slices of bone too big to swallow, just barely, to cobble together the pieces of a piece, pull the trigger, give them sex if they desire it, rough sex (if they’ve never had it) and program the plastic double to give it to you rough, then.  Rough like a sandy attitude, guy wearing shorts of camo, sparking you to memories of the second grade—I am re-uniting with my stinking stinkhole—one finger in, plastic dildo throw it in the dish washer, choose settings, press play.  Those settings evoke a set of query parameters, psycho-gut, you play with every option, twiddle every faction, every hook of meat struggling to burn free, every spark or ember from my fire needs to be enough to heat us both for a tiny fraction of days—from whatever to whatever—me minus the rap sheet—that’s me plus a tiny star key shining forever like Mario, Daisy, Bowser, the eyes of Luigi plus the thighs of my master.  My thighs with my palms over the knees.  You’re kneeling before me, stick your head between, I close my thighs, clamping down on your head and pulling you toward my cock with the power of my knees..close and lock you with those muscles..close you and lock you up so tight by my uncontrollable head lock..close your neck between my thighs.  Because.  I.  Forget.  Your name.  Forget it from the beginning of time.  To.  Now.  Foraging.  In these woods.  Nose to the ground like when I’m done you’ll be wrapped around my tusks.  Will be unable to approach me again, bones fragmented, sinews wrapped around you, sucking my sensuality from between those teeth, love hugged squozen, this reminds me of a box of cookies I once ate, with pictures on the back of each card, a character from the death box™ (WOW!!+) a cunt of a cunt, taste of a taste, psycho of psych, my revelations of a plan, duty of a do-er, pieces of a plan, hair of a unicorn, the foot of a frog, back hair of a dog, ear hook of a bog, the wig of an ear horn, and I’m sitting here—sitting here with no equipment, no sticks, no plats, to platforms, no sticklings, no love.

That’s all I have to offer.  You’re late and the late refuse to be marked.  For every truth of this religion is that god has counted every hair on your head before you were even born and I can believe that if I go back to the beginning, in the simulation, I can see that as true.  Paper swashes all to one side.  Dork qualities within they were in control.  All of us, the whole government, the “so called” patriarchs of it all, all of those people can sink their dowsing tools active (poking, churning our skin) into the wet meat of a “so called!” copy apparition—think you can get that thing into me?

Please try.  And I’ll be waiting for your apology when you fail.

Bitches Love Paychecks

Wanna be a baller?  Shot caller?  Get a fucking degree and a job.

Then and only then will you call the shots on my.  On my P❌SSY.  On the tab of cloth between my legs.  Between my lips.  Between my cow lips.  My bleeding camel lips between my legs.  Between secrets of a skrug.  A king!  I take you within me to cross the ocean!  Take you to a place I know never exists, that I tell you 10,000 times doesn’t exist, that you’ve told yourself and me and the world does, not, exist.  Which you still tell me exists.  Which you insist you buried with your own—first—daughter who escaped that woman’s legs RAN FAR FAR FAR away from you (through the death route) and who you failed to catch, she disappeared down the hospital route (takage) and you realized you’d have to steal another’s or your own, from the street, from the car, the school, the high road the sidewalk of another town, city, state, country, world.

Big blue planet of stolen children.

Or maybe nature is designed not to be perfect in this way, too—to inexactly bond to parents, inexactly raise children—mammals paired to mammals, to raise each other’s children—so we at lease get those ones.  I don’t think elephants raise other species’ children, and they’re not mammals.  I’ve come to believe we are tourists here, sticking our sticky faces through a thin rubber-like surface into this world, except what would normally be sticking your face through a 2d experience is now you sticking your face through a 3d experience and it calms my nerves a bit to think of us this way.  Because if that is the nature of our life, then this is one of many many possible trips here and trips to other universes.  And those are trips I want to take, through universes numbering as many, many, as many as can be imagined (and more) and—

—but.  I—

—will.  She—

—mom.  We—

If you think anyone in this crowd wants to be a baller, raise their hand.  Raise your hand for the one-timers.  For failures.  For those who never struck.  Who never huck’d a ball over this court.  Who ever shared a playground with me—who ever shared a fist—a punch—who ever shared skin with your face, whose face ever shared skin with me, who ever shared a toe with my walls, screw my face into these walls, re-interpreted hair with the fork-tongue of you, madame, locked and screwed inside the very walls that glass, look into your soul—did I just reflect, there, instead of a digit ripple, a comma-between-two-words formation, a bathing-tone formation instead of a periodic alphanumeric censorship.

Instead of a periodical a l p h a censorship, according to the latest b i t c h i n heat, relived in the latest excellent corpus, assembled underneath a tree in the branches right above you girl fuck on!  Fuck off!  Fuck on fuck off fuck on fuck off fuck on.  Off.  On.  I watch my green like it’s a nettle from Pong, punching your face at the stop light.  From robes are hung beneath, how do you measure preparedness down here? says the hymnal.  So how do you determine preparedness down here?  You know?

To which I say:  Hey!  To You!  The Bro!  Gather ’round and listen to a story told by the only White Witch in Harlem:

Her name is Aparition.

Her name is Molecule.

Her name is every name that could occur between the names of Atom.  Of Curtain.  Of Amy.  And Adam.  Of aching and atoms made with upgrades (helium) (also crates of She-Saur) (hypergons) (anything passwo-generic) (kiin) (enter the text between the pylons) (rainbow draagon) (sparkling floor look us) (speak that momentary loudpiece) and now that I have your attention at the 250 words during the girl character’s that I think are probably your highest-rated attention moments during every day of your life—my life—my attention during my lifetimes in your head—in your, head, life.  So.  Now that I have that.  I would like to bring to your attention that my mind now contains pieces of your life and you never thought of that.  Not in your entire minute-by-minute existence of this place ever built for you, you diligent asshole.  It would be as hard to be as it could ever be for every minute you were ever driving.  Did you think of that before I pointed it out to you in tonight’s letter?  Did you ever point it out to me before I ask?  That’s the hardest part for me.  Not the illusion of the presentation of this farce!  But the acknowledgments of its solidity through ripples in our hole in spacetime.  And I measure myself, this gap in space and time.  As long as my sentence?  That I write in slate against white.  I don’t think I do too well with a shell of white—You do fine, trust me, you do so fine it’s splashing around the room—your gloriousness!!—don’t even worry about steps at any of these dances, they’re provided from with*in—*from within, my slappy brother!  And for where it begins, there it ends too—and so where you would take it, there it might take you, too.

Anyway place yourself within the context of winning some NBA cream—you’re inside that little rectangle.

You wanna be a shot caller? A baller? Get a fucking degree and a job. Bitches love paychecks.

Don’t Forget to Reset the Whatevers

Don’t forget to reset the whatevers, by dude, by pocket mouse, by pocket house, by grouse, by mustache, by infinities by sinsinities, by note, by hair on head, by your glorious miniature soft fuzz on your P❌SSY touching you is sweaty fingers is sweat between my toes, sweat beneath my nose—it rolls up from under, when it’s identical to what’s above.  You cannot count the notes in my box.  Cannot finitize the uncountableness, you cannot numerate the subscriptions I have to this tech rag, cannot count its usefulness, cannot count its ultimate influence, its large reach, the times its voice is counted, see!  You only see it once.  But its reach is tip-top on top of the Statue of Liberty™.  Its motion.  Is vertical.  Is at right angles.  Is a monkey cone, strapped to the back of a Pet deer name generator.  Take that in.  A pet deer name generator.  Spent a pretty penny on that site, I’ll tell you that.  In time only, at least 31 cents, spent in terms of time spent.  Time spent.  From a minute, to a wasted hair, to gasoline, used to drive a physical server to a physical server farm to pick it up with physical human sweat pouring off my elbows my chest—dink!—that’s a dink that’ll last forever—I’ll remember it forever—someday when someone who works at this data center removes this server (which is all porn) removes it from the regular routing which they say it’s supposed to be porn-free but I know the guy who writes the test scripts and an extra 50 bucks in cash per month is enough to keep him turned over and over and lying on his back in the corner office, legs bent at the knees, him looking at the ceiling making his million—his first million—in this less-than-moral look under Alice’s skirt.  In this trip around the rosies with the tip of my little finger.  In this trip around the posies with the tip of my middle finger, call me by my name—call me by any name and any name is what I’ll answer to, the calling of my generally warm and somewhat responsive sensorium—that’s all you get!  I’m sorry, but that’s all you get.  Like the man in the corner office, this is all you get:  What you paid for!  You get what you paid for, and you paid me nothing, so count your bill, man, and get going, get gone, get out of here!

When I was born it was half a century ago.  That’s hardly a life and barely enough time to comprehend this life in.  I’ve survived better than most—ask them!  Ask them, those suckers, ask those suckers what they’ve learned.  Have they programmed a regular expression engine?  Have they written an HTTP server?  That was the kind of skill you need (to be me).  That was the kind of skill you needed to work where I work but all of that is not true—really any kid with a computer science background can manage is all, every bit I’ve been able to do since I worked here two years.  And the last 30 years or so I’ve just been coasting!  Coasting through 30 years of Christmas™ parties with Jim—sometimes in Ohio, sometimes in Florida—coasting through 30 years of under-average salary followed by over-average bonus.  Thats:  Salaries.  Bonuses.  Below-average.  Above-average.  Skinning my wife with a lifetime of the-big-bonus-at-the-end stories and when it finally happened, it was barely two years’ bonuses packed together so neatly I almost mistook it as one.  So I ended up with an average retirement bubble.  Little bit of cash I took as life went by.  I made the foolish choice, according to every young programmer who went past me (doing what should haven been my work).  Every young programmer who ostensibly came here for my help, either as an intern or an employee.  Who shied away from me when they had that new-fangled agenda that means girls come first..next..that they have a rightful place at the trough or they were boys who thought the same.  Which of course I agree with for the purpose of having more hotties in the workplace but I never did any of that.  The most I did was take the guys to Hooters™ and look at some 20-something tits.  Then that was ruined for me due to having a daughter grow up into that age frame.  Chelsea.  Didn’t change my perspective any but it made me feel guilty enough to stop going to Hooters™.  Fired Ron’s friend’s daughter as our receptionist..office manager..secretary or whatever she is.  Ever since Matthew found Meghan’s panties (or supposedly Meghan’s panties) cruxed in a door, there was secret Meghan-ness, Meghan-like-ness, and hypersensitive Meghan-liking-subconscious-dreaming-waking-wanting.  It smelled like her everywhere I went.  In the office.  In my car from the last time I forced her to ride with me.  In the entrance to Home where she took off her rain boots/jacket/hat and leaned on the wall here and sat on the boot step there, where family friend Meghan always sat when she came over I would say: “Go ahead.  Sit for a while.  Go ahead and tell Chloe (my wife) what Chris had to say about your outfit today (your snotted panties) what Dan held (in images) in his mind from lunchtime today, what naughtiness, what wolverine, sideward glances escaped the office today, escaped our little Development Hut, our Principled Palace, where I remember one time an upstart employee thought he could get underneath my skin.  I waited till he had quit twice, then I fired him.  Sucker-faced boy.  He started here as a teenager and did the only real work that I saw done on the system since Jim.  Jim was the top of his class at MIT.  Jim started everything.  From aprocess to aaprocess to the occasional aaaprocess..those are our custom layers.  Only Jim was allowed to program there.  And occasionally Matthew.  When you look back on it, I never really did any coding of substance except for the first three months I was there.

Lucky Tigger on the Ride of the Skies

Red red stripey stripey red red blue.

Slippy tiger tiger ascends to the peak.  Of me spreading my legs and flowers falling out.

Of cockroaches.  And cupcakes.

Of snake shoes.  They had me snapped in magazines.  Tied to a chair.

I wasn’t scared.  I snipped at the armed doorman.  Slicing through him.  He put both hands against the wall and stuck his butt out—

—Like he was asking for a spank.  A spark.  The shifting of it all, that San Andreas again, wobbling my whole self off the tactness of a frog.  Something commercially licensed.  Tested by a government.  Eating waffles in a scientific lab:  Cooked to taste.  Unending coffee.  Unending half and half.  Boom!  I sat next to my girlfriend.  My fingers having extreme reason to crawl slowly (under the table) (over her leg) right up into that smug crack.

Rooted around a bit like a slug in the dark.

Remote controlled.

If I could fly invisibly I would visit this punishment on every girl in every Denny’s™ across the country.  Across the world.  Denny’s in Tehran.  Move around like cleaning solution.  When you move around like cleaning solution sometimes that’s a trip through a hooptie engine block—one shot—bam.  Damn.

If it was ever going to work, now would be the time.  Stop using the conditional tense and walk away.

Press the button:  Walk away.

Close the door—one last look—marooned by a singular baby fucker.  Lunch in Venice Beach.  Grab a bicycle.  Consume your lunch.  Ride north.  Keep going.  See how far it goes.  Jump jump jump motherfucker!  We’re high on two wheels.  High in the restaurant.  That vape?  It ain’t vitamin C!  Ha ha ha.

Bring it down.  Smooth smooth quiet reserved and fought for by the people’s insane army.  Moving military equipment in place.  Now we can tase thousands of people at once.  Remember:  Those are your people.

Those are your mother and fathers and daughters.  Those are your goddamn men.  Those are your goddamn freaking fathers and chil’ren and shit.

Slavery.

Of children and women.  Those injured between the ears.  Those politely invited to take a ride.  Snap you up like—what?—jerk your head and your neck in a direction that aligns with the stars.

See me up there?  I’m Orion’s slave.  I’m Aquila.  I’m Canis Major—a great dog!  Leo, Gemini, and finally the hero:  Perseus.  These are the stars of my journey.  Caught a train from Minneapolis to Miami.  In Miami, raped, kept, locked in a basement with a bottle of water and my legs taped together nothing of a pro-type situation.

There, fucked senseless with a variety of kitchen-held objects.

  1. A can opener
  2. A corkscrew
  3. A map

Open it.  Open it all the way.  I could use this.  Travel to the north.  Travel to the Midwest.

Take a bus.  Hack a car.  Don’t drive too much.  Don’t let them see you.  You and me:  Me, the rider in your book bag:  A frog, turtle, or earwig.

If I had a frog, she would be named Mildred (in jest) and I would call my frog Mildred.  She’s working a stick puzzle—I’m having visions of that place back in Dayton, Ohio.

Wishing for a normal life.

But a normal life is a life I never had.

Is this normal:  Raped as a child, multiple kidnappings before the age of five due to a too-sexual loop between my face and my ass, everything perfectly designed to attract sick sick motherfuckers.  That is my youth—is that normal?  Is it?

It’s normal if you’re a cute or pretty woman or girl.  Or a pretty pretty man.  We don’t even talk about sex.  When I go, to get a car, I go, I come back, I meet you, and you and I grab chimichangas on the beach.  Never enough to get an apartment.  Houses are out of reach.  But always enough for truck food, a jacket (maybe), and a sleeping bag—I’ve bought 20 of these (sleeping bags) because they’re always being stolen.

Anyway you and I we sit up next to one of the poles under the boardwalk.

Eating our Mexican food.

Cuddling.  We used to snuggle together as children.  At first in the house with the end-hall closet.  Smudgy memories.  Smudge stick memories.  Burning my hand on the top part of the stove.  The burners.  Or maybe it’s just a dream.  But if it was, who do I picture as my mom?

Who do I picture as her?

Is she the one who said, “Do you want to burn yourself?” and who let me touch the hot burner and watched me pull my hand away.

That’s how I learned what was hot.

I can never go back to that home.  Must move forward.  Must put on blinders and get gay and camouflage myself.  Wear guy pants.  Guy shoes.  Wear a hoodie.  Fluff out and fluff back the front of the shirts to hide my boobs.  Zip it up.  Put hands in pockets.

Now we will leave whatever’s back there in my roll up.  Leave my camp.  My lack of tent.  My lack of wet food.  My sage brushes hidden at the top of a support pole underneath the bridge.  Tonight I’m going to burn that.

I’m going to burn it so hard.

Watch it light, watch it burn.  Look right down into the feeling of a flame.  Look at it without thinking of any of the usual words.

The Reverence of Captain Goodchild

The reverence of Oh, Captain! I choked, standing on the balcony gulping Big Gulp™ cherry like the Japanese didn’t even own 7-Eleven™.  Like the flavors weren’t false.  It was like someone had started when I was a small child, decomposing me, deconstructing me, terrorizing my cells to fear the day when I spilled it over the kitchen floor, hoping I’d snap, trip, yell, come, and cum alone over the azalea arrangement.  That is all.

I contacted my comp sci classroom professor and asked him if his ear could entertain my mouth for a story and a question.

The story comes like this:  My life plan:  A total destruction not much like a plan at all:  After I retire I will enact this plan which will run to the end of my life forwards then backwards, I plan to do this until I die:  I will eat rice-based products with rice milk to the end of my life do you understand?  Everything will be white.  All will be pure.  Everything right down to the sanitary napkin you grab when you reach for your napkin I have it placed on your lap once you sit down by an acrobatic cat named The Blackness.  Cut down to beside me.  I hit her by accident though the center part of my Range Rover™ upside glass beckons me.  It calls me like Jesus called you.  Undeniable.  Part of a cultural plan of appropriation.  Unforgettable.

Upgrades.  Filthy south and dirty north on the king pins.

Do you know how dangerous that is?  How many people you’ve killed with that current (electric) has been doing our deeds since she was approximately five foot zero.  I had her in my basement with the other eight of them.  Bonded to a vertical and pipe, the ground below her feet containing piles of shit doppled with piss everyone knowing to keep it quiet when I visit everyone hold your fucking tongues!

I will make the rounds down here then pull up a sun chair crack my phone and watch the day’s flapjack truths demonstrate what is me and my crew down in this basement smelling the smell that I never did sweep into the well.  I never cleaned it.  I figured I’d be dead or caught by the time someone cracked the smell, following it like a deer into my basement house, presenting to them a conundrum:  Fight me, and/or take the basement by force.  When you get there tell me how many of them stayed put, writing in minor electrical volts.  A toe who dips with your fatigue into an electrocuted puddle.

Crying people—women mostly—came to my house in Beavercreek (where you meet many girls who 1) are eager beavers and 2) are eager to show me their beavers.  They came expecting to bathe in the riches of a man like me.  They came to have their P❌SSYs tickled with a middle-aged beard.  Certain shades of gray.  Shades of jadedness.  This one is my housekeeper.  This is the one who used to keep our office clean.  Unfortunately she expired when I lowered the chains, hand over hand, tiling her snappy body full of red in her face like a red snapper.  Exorcising her.  Flushing her of her sins and as I lower her I think of my own, from the time of childhood to submerging this bitch into the well (she asked for it) querying me and questioning me, asking all the hard questions from Moses down to Jesus dying on the cross so I dipped her future corpse into the well.

When her toes touched she went silent and came still, still as death cake into her.

And you could see she liked it—minus the look of terror, everything about her claimed to like electricity and the well, the basement, everything.  No, I mean yeah, this one’s rotting at the bottom of the well.  Which I used to get water from (to drink) so I need to get bottles of water now.  In fact, no more eating at home (due to the smell of shit).

That’s a rule:  No eating at home.

Find a coffeehouse or restaurant (a new one) to eat, sit, examine the pages for trading news and look around me!  The environment is ideal for riding my next girlfriend like a horse—her P❌SSY being highly rated, her willingness to come with me in my car, also high.

When I get her she will ask me if I had made some sort of mistake, bringing her to my basement paradise.

“I don’t think so, darling.  Now quiet up before I kill you.”

She runs like a puppet executing the maneuver and finds the door is locked, she and me and some dead and undead chained to the ceiling, everyone tired from the drape.  Everyone smelling like shit and piss.  After the new girl hits the basement door she crawls into a corner and looks around.

There are makeshift sex toys.  Anything that can enter a P❌SSY does (and will) harbor the electricity which is where we all end, shocked to death in a series of games we can play—making up new rules all the time—

I am their god.  Am a superpower which claims and kills, waiting for cops to come to the door, check my stove, and find your head delicately situated, looking upward, your dead eyes looking at the cop and the cop goes for his gun and then puts it in both hands, pointing his eyes in the same direction as the gun points, knowing now he has entered my dungeon of hell and there is no one to shoot—everyone is already dead.

Snakes in the freezer.

Little doughboy a puzzle for my captors.  Who is he?  His fingers have been removed.  Every tooth.  And when the cop looks?

Looks right down to the boy’s feet.  The kid is naked, wrinkled penis—tiny—will never be used.

Upon seeing this, the cop turned his gun on me—which made me laugh.

“If you kill me, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”

“I don’t think so,” says the cop.

“Wanna find out?” I say.

And he doesn’t even wait to answer my question.  He just pulls the trigger and as I’m not yet done with life, I bat a sly eye at this motherfucker and inform him that shooting me won’t bring back all those women fried in my basement.

“Why don’t you find another hobby?” the cop says.

“I would,” I say.  “If I wasn’t so in love with what I’m doing now.”

The Penultimate Candy Collection

In name only.

My only escape.

My ravagement.  My disco collection.  Music from the 90s doesn’t affect me.  Pop music doesn’t affect me.  The Brillo Pad™ doesn’t affect me.  Funk does not affect me.  Fentanyl does not affect me.  I am in the program:  20 years backwards.

Affecting my gravity coefficient.

What you learned in algebra.

Who do you take me for?  Elephant style.  Five-year-old’s tightest cooch in the space of my orgasm.  What’s a five year old worth anyway?

Killer beans..?

Conversation..?

I mean what does a non-family-friend want to do with a five year old?  I’ll tell you.

The original sinner.  That secret in the back of your throat only noticeable by me or one of my kind.

Back seat hostage.

Basement hostage farm.

Me, hand-tied in the back seat with a jumble of boys—from age three to me.  At the time I was 14, 12 for those of you in the east hemisphere.  Sex slavery.  Human trafficking—you know what I’m saying, bro?

Of course you do.  Elephant man.

Of course you do.  Monkey man.

That the one who broke into our campsite hungry for the arm meat—the leg meat!—of this frail species.

Haunted from the bottom to the top.

Outside of the natural.

An electric car?  That’s nothing.  We don’t even have cars in the future-ism.  We don’t even have condoms in the future.  Due to well keeping of the park, bush areas will be trimmed, nipple hairs will be tweezed, foot hairs will be burned off with a lighter, and rap/dynamics jamming in my ear—

—You know these? These separate covers, a P❌SSY plug for those who want to convene naturally without any blood P❌SSY smell.  Without any fear of pregnancy but why would you?

When you’re done you’ll kick me to the curb.

You’ll maybe call for seconds to hunt your P❌SSY feel.  Rock on without me.  After you get the taste.  These people aren’t finger sniffers.  They’re not here for the art of the thing.

They’re here for bare-ass P❌SSY.

A child at the end of the bed.

Dangling her eyes closed.  Feeling like the blind leading the blind.  Taking everything one step at a time, undress over the head, the arms, my skinny white legs—pulling off my pants to which my only protest is to put my arms over my head and let loose not a single tear not a single flinch not any looser P❌SS not a soul less used to this sort of thing.

And I am alone.  At least alone to you.

I’ll never have billions or millions or even a thousand bucks.

I will rent myself to the available.  Trade myself for money.  Turn off my eyes.  My ears.  My skin.  Don’t you ever touch me—that is ##1 on a list of things I keep satisfied on a scrap of paper hidden within my bra.  Hidden my consternation.  But my fear is something that will never show.  You’ll never know it’s even there.

A Portsmouth house is calling.

Frankly, beneath the breeze.

Funneling and scraping and bleaching and vacuuming every particle gone so even Forensics, when they’re called, will not know what to do.

When they arrive at the hotel, they will see on the comforter where I peed the bed.

They will see where my man cum on the bed.  Inside of me, then dropping, then flowing like a faucet, mixed with blood, containers and containers of blood.

That’s an arrangement of me.

Tied to the bed so my arms can’t move.  Two lengths of zip tie.  Zipped so so tight so you can fuck without fear of my fingernails.

And what does it feel like to fuck a child, tied to a bed, her age so young that her facial expressions tell you things like:  “This is the scariest time in my life.”  “You are stretching me and tearing me—you are churning what was once a hip note turning me to juiced spinach.”

Juiced spinach mixed with blood.

A step-by-step process by which neighbors are fucking their neighbors’ children.  Everyone deciding what is too young for them.  Everyone picking their look from a magazine—flip book—of children photographed naked before a Sheetrock wall with no shoes, we met a black rapper-looking dude with magic in his eyes but I imagine dude situated in front of his whiteboard making notes like I picture my professor would—back to us, inventing formulas on the fly.

And this is why we come, but he did a sneak of a peek of a view of my 5-years-old P❌SSY how’s that for you?  Still care if he’s a professor?

He blindsided me:

When he suddenly switched from teach mode into rape-a-kid mode.  Funny how the two are different.  Funny how one enables the other.

First it starts with licking my P❌SS.  Analyzing me with your tongue.  Excavating parts of me that I didn’t know exist.

Then he puts his dick near my asshole.

Slaps it around my butt cheeks.

And then do you know what happened?  A quick’ning of my blood, and his, as he lubes my ass with corn oil brings out an ear of corn and slip, slip, slip! it into place (you knew it because it was so smug) writing and rocking and thrusting and poking and at every push of the black man’s corn cob into a place that was always and I guess always will be my shit hole, gaped and ruined by its possession to others.

Face Down in a Ted Bundy Textbook

Face down do I operate.  Face down do I see myself reading from above now.  I’m in the last cell to the right.  Channeling Bundy.  I could never survive his looks, his charm, his educated smile.  And do they say that Ted cried that last night before rats of electricity overran his brain.  This is my legacy—my love of Ted—not my own murders.  Not my own abuses!  No.  I am forgotten while this “Ted Bundy” has his fun and escaped the world with nothingness.  With a shorter lifespan.  Which any of us could have had because the flu.

I am face down in the Ted Bundy collection.  Neck deep in his buttoning shirts.  Gone crazy (arguably) unable to focus on my own sheet music.  Unable to play my instrument with Ted’s looming behind me.  Overshadowing my tiny notes with ease.  Driven like a puppeteer.  I don’t think I have bipolar disorder, either—just a sap, am I, a sapling who bears largesse, potential, great potential energy—that of a bomb.  Of a squad.  I am face down.  In this Bundy text.  Practicing.  Rehearsing.  Presenting me with my next move.  My next life.   Golden cherubs the shape of six-year-old femmes.  Girls.  Nothing wrong with them.  Yet.  Nothing messed about their minds.  Not yet.  They have yet to read a braille sentence with their fingers.  “From right to left.  With a capital F.  We keepin’ this shit hot to death.  Stoppin’ your breath.”

In the Bundy text there is no subject matter separation.  There is no future—only the present.  Only this present moment dangling your body before me you’re the South American monster who kills girls for wanting to take a hike.  The result—after searches that only recovered a shoe—with one of the girls’ feet still in it—the result after all this was the state put up a sign at the entrance of the trail that says, “LOCALS ONLY.”

That’s it.  No description.  No explanation.  Just an artificial separation under locals under visitors.  There’s a place in Indonesia where dogs will bite you from another dimension.  All maps are fake.  Every map ever made lies to you hiding caves that go from Washington DC straight to China.  Brilliant tunnels a thousand years old.  Fake death anyone?  At least with me you’ll know it’s about to happen.  One day.  You will get used to fear before you fall asleep.  Clinging to life as you never would have before you thought it was threatened.

That’s how I sleep.  Counting victims instead of sleep.  Configuring murder weapons.  Coming to me your offering in hand kneeling as I sit on the edge of your bed.  I am there like a hallucinated tiger—anime features, anime hair—realistically simulated claws (the better to scratch you with).  A set of tools wrapped up like butchery knives—everything I need—chopped, screwed, specializing drug abuser future astronaut! bonded/licensed Formula One™ drinking beer throughout the night indigo pantaloons that’s the kind of colors that will rival you to an infinite dog.

Mud bugs.  Pub drugs.  That’s exactly the kind of drug I fed you in your cocoa mug and I took some back for Yelp!ing™ purposes.  I don’t like doing this.  I don’t.  I endure the sexuality, I don’t need that part.  A mini wet nap telling me what to do via letter forms on the side of the plastic package.  Not even readable, the letters sway.  They swirl seeking gravity like a flushing toilet.  Going down, down, down until the poop I named “Bundy” has been sent to the netherworld, to the dark side of human nature.  To bareback ponies (all black) saddle me though a field outside Tulsa, wrapping my body in a heated blanket every inch of which is hieroglyphically printed with Latin script which—when translated—equates out to something like Fuck you motherfucker / This is the end of Saturday morning cartoons.  The end of a stay so briefly on this planet that it continues to set records for youngness against the ever longevity-living kids of the rush of Arial Bold.  Thinking somehow that a font could save them.

But I tell you:  There is no man behind the curtain.  No Wizard, none of your terrible gods.  Nothing of crazy takeover aliens whose birthright hung around each one’s neck.  Aliens who would never kill you.  Aliens who by the nature of their intelligence will bust you back (a rock to the lip) and perform experiments aboard their spaceship (licking, using machinery) as though it was an extension of their 400-IQ minds.  How about a nice game of chess?  Ahh:  No thank you.  How would you like to play global thermonuclear war.

That’s genius, man.  True genius.  Blue skies.  The dropping of the panties of a panty-dropping freak.  That’s every girl, though:  Every.  Single.  One of those naughty bitches wants her P❌SSY touched by anyone, every one a cacophony of the serial killers of the day.

I am sitting in Ted Bundy’s jail cell.  Dug with a pitchfork through a mountain of law school tomes and I am banging my forehead on this one book.  This one book that Ted was using to try and free himself.

But no luck.

If he was a bastard then I am a bastard.

If Ted could harbor dreams of once again running free, carrying the law with him on his back, hoping to escape.  But there wasn’t a way.  There was no false ceiling in this last cell, this last cell to the right and the end of the hallway.  I am waiting for them to plug my butt with cotton balls.  Waiting for them to shave my head to simplify the application of a falconer’s cap—zap!  What a trade is this.  My last meal for my life?  You know what I say to that?  I say:  You can take this last meal and stuff it up your ass.

Oh, delight!  My P❌SS entrances you?  Let me give you this red stripey Band-Aid™ to apply over my hole!

This is Part A—Stripey Stripey Stripe.

The New Beginning.

The Anthem!  The Boyz!  That thumping in your side, your head—your side of the!—brain!—the crux in your head.  That silly-Sally of a bump in your noggin.  A strump in your loggin’.

Tell me something:  Tell me this:  Did you see yourself, smell yourself, popping my P❌SSY when you were 10 years old?  Did you imagine me that young—that nubile state of you—that innocent child of you.   Or did you hit 12 before the desire to grab hit you.  Did you plummet to the deck of fire fighters?—of puberty—before those terms—about—rattled, your brain—before you hit that unknown itch—from the back of your hand to its front (if you touch me with the back of your hand it doesn’t count)—if you touch my front with the back of your hand it—does—not——count!

No it doesn’t.

If you touch me for less than 10 seconds it doesn’t count.  When you start touching I count down from the number.  10..9..8.  All the way to 1.

That’s the final number.

That straight one stood right next to that round one.

That curly one who was stood right next to the sharp one.  That zero stood next to that one, one.  One.  One for the music.  One for the road.  You give me one—Thanks!—that’s the “Howdy!”—the rowdy—the lousy honk filling my road every morning, every night, every horny, every fight.

You said you liked my blue shirt and my camo shorts.  That it reminded you of your youth.

I liked that.  And I wore my blue shirt and camo shorts every day, to give you that sensation of liking me (or liking what I wore) or even liking me and what I wore on top of me.

Liking my wrapping.

Liking my suit.

Liking the candy underneath.  I wanted you as my boyfriend.  But after that initial period, I knew you didn’t like me one bit—except as friend—we were buddies for the slaughter.

Meant for consumption by the evil, light.  Warriors.  Of blandness.  And sideways ways.

Of daytime warriors.  You and I fought wars of the night.  Our counterparts to them.  Those who woke up to the sun, fought every sunbeam.  Fought every spirit left with an ounce of night.

But the night is beautiful.

Every second of it.

Every moon-lit surface of it—night—who washes over me in its ever-expanding still, ness, soft, ness.  Blank-ness.  Black-ness.  Empty-ness.

And lack of light.

And.  Lack.  Of light.

Lack of lack of lack of lights.  Light.  Of light.  Of light is lack.  If I see another Hemingway rack his game rifle I’m losing my mind or I’m going crazy.

“NXGGA WXNT CRXZY.”

I’m telling you:  If another Hemingway strolls through here I’m’a ‘bout to lose my mothafuckin’ nuts up in heah.

Refrain.

If you look at the night.  For long enough you eventually realize that everyone who looks at the sky (at least from your general vicinity) is basically looking at the same thing.  You know?  We’re all looking up at the same sky.  That when we do that—look at the sky we all get the same result.  It’s the same thing whether it’s you or I doing it.  Try you looking in my face and asking yourself what brought me here and see if we get a different result.

Do it.

I am.

Do it.

I am.

I knew you were.  I knows that phraseology that you didn’t quite say:  Well good!  Well good.  That’s a phrase I’ve only heard from one of you.  You living souls.  Only the one they call Kiss.  That’s the only one of you I have heard to say that phrase.  This “Well good” you speak of.

Devil nachts! surprise you.

CHXCKS CXSHED

GAPs™ GAP™ KIDS THE STUFF YOU’re welcome I know I’m incredible—it’s ok, don’t worry, don’t sweat it, don’t even give it a thought—don’t even!  Don’t even sweat it, bro—don’t even sweat that shit!

Seriously man.

Do.  Not.  Even.  Sweat that shit!

Rully dood.  Rully my maestro.  R-uh-il-ill-eee!!  Rully doodskins.  Put that in your bag and smoke it.  Count them.  Then smoke them.  Then count them then smoke them.  Then count.  Then smoke.

Then count then smoke!

Then..count.  Then..smoke.

Count then smoke.

Count.  Smoke.

Count.  Smoke.

Count.

Smoke.

Count! with a blast (of smoke!) then a blasting of midwinter’s dusting )sparkly cigar( mood of punctuation—high-Q!!—checking out the checker boy!—and every cuteness he has a red conductor’s hat )wearing( on his head he has the black and white overalls—

You mean coveralls?

No, I mean overalls you dumb fuck I mean overalls.  Smh.  Use internet slang.  Use internet yellow.  Yellow, green, blue.  Touch.  My internet wang.  Internet blink.  Internet twink.  Internet safety.  Internet-safe fonts.

Internet.

Oh my god you were born before the internet.

“You’ve got to be kidding—I’m not capitalizing ‘internet!’ “

I’m not capitalizing anything.  Except “I” and—that’s it.  I.  I is the only important thing )lie( like a river lie like the sun (lie) my river my sun the calculator of stars paint my wall a picture caught hollow, wild )horses( alone in the stable watching their after-school programs Degrassi High and such the recent past is meant to seem much farther away while the distant past is made to seem much closer.

Have you noticed that?

Will you come along my conspiracy?

Is this a path you’re willing to take?  A web you wish to enter?  Is a smell you’d like to smell?  A texture you’d like to touch?  Is this the wetness you want to have smeared on your head forever?

Question.

That’s my question to you.

“Life, Quantifiable.  Consciousness: Not.”

It is said in the annals of time that life is quantifiable but consciousness is not.  Like sometimes, these are nameable but not existable ie you can give a name for something in your brain that doesn’t exist.  That’s possible inside a computer.

I just wonder if some of these symbols hadn’t been declared for us at the beginning of our program that things wouldn’t have become so confused down here.  And maybe it’s not too late to undeclare them now.

Computers have blackness.  Not in color but in lack of knowledge.  Lack of knowledge doesn’t exactly have color—nor does knowledge, although we use the color black to denote lack of knowledge and white to denote some presence of knowledge.  But a computer’s lack of knowledge is really quite deep if you consider only what it knows in its memory.

When you’re a girl, everything is about your P❌SSY.

It’s all about P❌SSY.

The naughty P❌SSY.  The nasty P❌SSY.  That everything P❌SSY.  That nothing P❌SSY.

That everything I thought you were nothing P❌SSY.  That nothing I ever followed P❌SSY in a spider’s web.  That everything was nothing.

Nothing,

raised by nothing,

In—o—thing.  Innothing.  No-thing ever rais’d me like you did, micro-mother dropped from the sky in code—a four-part code found also in DNA, but found there laying obviously, basking in our warm sun.  A dose of purity..dose of crucifixion, dose of bleach, dose of rainbow sprouts window wiper elephant-can—re-evolve, *re-*enveloping, re-re-plain, recover, refrain, resign, re-evolve of a green yard, backyard snake kind of guy guy guy-friend you chose to nomenclate right here.

Bustly currency nomenclates right here.

Busty currency nomenclature rights here.

Rightly ads smoking apocalypse for an AMBER Alert.  Rightly ads building notes of the ends of the world.  Leftly, rightly, I do realize I’m writing the codes for the end of this world and rightly the codes for the beginning to follow (leftly).  To follow the left so hard it shakes me in absentia.  It measured me—it measured my consciousness, my life below that, my pizza quotient and the rock quotient before that, beneath that, beside and betwixt.  Betwixt that.  Beatrix this—that’s.  That is your motion for exit.

Don’t deny that don’t ever deny me that don’t ever denote me (defrag—defragmenter!) don’t ever define you!  Never define you never no don’t won’t will not will not ever!!

Will not ever—no, no.

Will not ever.

I think what would have helped?  Is if we’re able to examine my art in person—will we be able to do it?  Will the means be available to us?

Will it be available?  My issues confront-able online?  Answers available.  3d models up the wall (crawling) playing this P❌SSY game I think:  “Is is possible to imagine graphics better than this?”

I think not.

I think rats.  Dropped from the sky.

Fell a year later in Southern France a little bit wilder and a little worse for wear.  You guide rocks through decorum of notes—cells—the tidal of great waters (sometimes we knew the hell coming by our selves we were the ones—we were the ones!).

The snaky, rock-loving ones.  Wanted to perish a bird.  Tha’d be cute.  Wanted to perish the bird who started in The Making Of—a documentary of a documentary of a documentary.  Wanted to coax my hands feathery with a swoop of life a blessing of human wings—our hands like the roof of a house, cup under, like to catch the rain if the rain fell up!

If the rain fell..up!

If my candy, when I tasted it, it tasted sour instead of sweet!  If instead of sugar I tasted dour.  Instead of spice I tasted the burnt-out pixie oven that had been placed on top of the fridge.  Instead of placing the guns in a safe, we kept ours in a dusty platter by the front door:  The danger of all this leaving your speech..speechless.  Leaving your tone and your timbre flat, deflated, old, decrepit, ready to die when you leave the lights like that.  One light, two light, three light:  Four!  That is how it fell.  One two three four.

One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes.  Four.

Find me the next morning seeking through the trash.  Find me the next morning seeping through my Barcalounger™ seeming like roots to carry water to the source Where rocks punch upward near a papillon of roots, water, carbon and bullshit arrowed to my mothafuckin’ stem, my main root, the essence of me.  Essence of life.  Reference to life.  The killer kid of hallows has been following me, stalking me, riding on my back with three..four feet..elegant/safety..the bomb of the Black Sea is like the one teeny tiny mechanism with black probes all around the spoon It takes four thousand gallons of water a second To keep on track, it does So up in town, the town that supports our fracking (not a bad word—absolutely—not the way we use it here).  The way we use it here means a pancake structure over each Saturday morning.  We buy toys and adult toys and my brood would never settle for anything less than the elegant—the amazing, the syntacular—it is all around is like a series of “Yes”s instead of “No”s that people will say.  They will say those yesses instead of those nos and the tunnel of possibility will light up like that one tunnel of yes in that one airport A globular spin-down mechanism you can push down your shorts I’ll be there behind you, with my hands everywhere manipulating your folds of skin.  Me in the background with my hands in for multiple skills the new McDonald’s™ with two slow kids one handing out food, with one cleaning the dining area.

This is how it is now.

It’s crazy now.  Think of how many kids lost their job in that conversion.

A Lifetime Supply of Mickey D’s™

I worked in that McDonald’s™.  That’s where he met me.

I met a lotta people there.  Lotsa kinks thinks and multi-style mother’s P❌SSY-winks.

Tiddly-fucking-winks.  Barbarian twines.  Deathly Hallows.  But you got me by the hijinx—tiddly winkle—guilty/rapid knuckles ‘puning for the mutha/fuckin’ PBJ forgot it in the TDW/personage groundswell mutha-marker mutha-mutha nap on the back of my carriage.

I mean the first time he walked in there.  Snapshot of his muthafuckin’ self.  Muthafuckin’ carriage.  His motherfucking tent map tied to the ceiling (my end comes forest) (your end called in the short sight—re-peat repeat young man!) (roll me at your feet, lane spiked as a motherfucker) short feet high-jest symbology comes to bare you’re speaking to me using swear words invented by your grandparents.  It is a rhetorical lexicon that neither generation fully understands.  Lex.  I.  Con.  Its most important feature is that neither party understands what it’s good for—neither party knows what they’re saying to the other.  In fact.  Neither party.  Knows what is coming out the business name of their own face.

Neither party ever knows—through the timeline of our kinetic—what the heck they are saying.  Their open mouth.  My hand talking spurts.  Bubbles.  The tensor of a knife.  The knuckling through.  This sky, backing everything, covering our ass from the backside.  Covering.  Everything.

Everything from where stones covered my snap spots along the hip lines to where the crotch lines cover me barely (you’re the shy scientist!) to where the four lay lines come together over my asshole to the under-over scritch-scratch call sign multiple shit forms—wizard—cumming multiply (with multiple dicks in a super prod!)  Multiple dicks, multiple sticks, and multiple pricks expanding out over our horizon.  We packed every FunBox™ over full on fun!!

Over full on Mexicans.

Over full on flywheels.

Over full on shenanigans.  Buried an inch deep in the over-lawn.  Cycles of disappearance.  Between us cycles of love.  Between us in logic only—in name only—syntactically, corpologically—using realistic spelling—your emojicon taken seriously, realistically—with about a year of spelling-clear use in the folds of my Mexicon.

My multi-paged sexicon.

Filled with the knowledge as a lexicon.

And those pages.  Those last two pages as a semi-realistic Mexico’s suitable for ordering pizza, a Rug Ray, a sound.  Maybe to reverse-order a burrito (a mosquito, my libido).  To reverse the lyrics of my wrong, my very own song.  Reverse the lyrics of my motherfucking sound—it goes round when the sound flattens like the meme who stands up to use the bath sits down it’s her vacation it’s her sophistication this bubble in the rug—this tug—this pliable ugh!

This coffee filter gives us all something to tug!

It gives us everything so snug!

A hallelujah sound.  Knocked down like the Dow™ it swings from high to love.  Pictured me before the portrait in your locker (which I saw walking through behind you) (which I saw floating next to your standing there) (which I saw in yesteryear standing behind you standing beside you with that seeming smile) (in a tug in a bug and finally in a slug you pencilled there).

When you saw me in thy adult mode.

When you saw me as a Mickey-D™-owned Mouseketeers™ popping out of my uniform.  That’s the breast—the chest—this was worn by me of multiple years, to 14 years, to my puberty.  Imagine adults of my mental age serving able-minded adults.  Helping adults of my age.  Ordering their meals all across the world—everyone who is helping us use the computer by mentally-redacted children of the mentally incapacitated world as we type our orders into a large vertical screen.

The screen is easy enough to be used by a mentally ill teenager.

But must be used by a mentally healthy wealthy and wise adult.  Who has the willingness to be helped to order their food from a digital painting five feet tall.

I saw this in my vision.

From before this restaurant had a chance to pop like springs through its central core—a one-direction kick-start made to exist through nanotech diamonds I’m telling you.  This shit.  Is a monster.  People.  This shit is real.  I’m telling you.  You had me.  Before.  The time.  I said.  Hello.

Way before:  In the back of the back sheets.

Even before that:  In the back back back of the brave sheets.

In the motorwerks.  In the Japan.  In the motors of BMWs™.  In the motors of VKs™.  In the motors of every kickstand bike helmet of my motocross venue, every fat-house ownership of the homeless.  In the end of every paragraph penned in the hand of every successful parent is this more of knowledge:  Don’t become homeless—because even as your parents we could never support you—homeless, chronically in hospital—if you’re unwilling or unable to support yourself (except in case of your own extreme richesse—that own tablesafe of your own richess, strung out like one of those doggies held by a leash, walked by a leash with no one on the end)—that is the sign of the rich—those who without donoring amass, possibly before their birth, have more money than they would be able to decently spend on themself in one lifetime.

Think of what breaking that rule would supply in the way of indecency.  My man—my guy—is the one I am speaking about here.  He has gold bars in his basement (that’s the rumor) and without more discussion this is at least one indication that he is afraid.  He’s afraid of the world falling apart.  Of the currency.  Of prisoners.  He’s told me before.  His fear of the criminal.  Of those on the edges—of people like me.  My guy—one-of the people like him—don’t imagine me as one like him.  To him, I’m one of the scum that has no choice but to swim backwards past that brick of gold.

And in the slow lane—that’s where I will swim.

With he and one wife and one kid in the fast lane, somehow his gold bar will make him magically faster than me even in the apocalypse.

I’d like to bend her over and fuck her good soft P❌SSY.

Can I fuck your sweet, soft P❌SSY please?

Can we bring it down—can’t we bring it down just a little bit, maestro?  Can we bring it down to what I see—what I see in the heart-shaped window of a little girl.

Sitting inside?

The floating of a map.

A secret decoder ring is wrapped around your tongue.  Modulating every syllable of your speech.

When I see you, at first I hear your voice crying up to me—to my very construct.  My very inner place where voices rise from pots of bile.  My place where secret voices whisper secret texts not unlike this one.  Where I am the alpha and I am the omega.  Where the world is a bonfire and my fingers are the only matches.  Where the world sits and lives on an island made of brushwood—clinging to its ever-changing central mass.

But I mean, I ask myself:  What is this P❌SSY we all search for.  How has looking for it changed us—you and me.  What are its effects, its saturations, its irruptions, natural offshoots, genetic origins, and what are its almost inaudible laughable, irresistible, moldable glue.

How do I go about getting it?

Switch to my portrait mode—checking, nothing—checking there, nothing there—switch my brain into manual mode, cross-dressed, hand-painted with custom macrame chain-mail armor, you know I could always get through to you.  I could always live inside your warm body of soap..soap all down (and there, and everywhere) down the front of your belly, my hands in the ultimate closeness of position, in that special knitted little pouf! of position.  I can only imagine how she makes you purr.  Makes your whole skin writhe from inside to outside, from top to bottom, from “I just met you” to “this is crazy!” to the bottom-most source (consisting of pig shit) (having some trouble turning into a mush) (my last believing moment before I release myself from this visit and throw myself far far and away—so fucking far that for once I almost catch myself and walk out the room)—I have rented it with cash.  I have rented it before.  I have written it into my dreams, soft green and a crushed-velvet sofa-ey feel.  Soft-bled into my drop of a conscience.  Placed on the center to bleed.

Pinkles tinkles burning brush of acid.

Watercolor drapes.

See?  I can feel all those as desperately as you two can feel them!  I can write poetry, too!

I can write “poetry in the shade of great writers”—“Don’t you think anyone would publish me?”—I think someone would.  I mean I think that someone will..channel your creativity here, channel it there.  Just keep that awful little bitch under the rafters of the attic.

Witch hazel!  Witch hazel!!

Record the toil.  Brush my coat off with that lint roller—mmm!  Caught you unaware!

I caught you in that most vulnerable position.  You.  Bend over your sink (pretend it’s yours) now take the soap show me between your legs rub it soo good now repeat this part after me.  Say: “Witch hazel.”  Remember who showed you that:  Men.  Me of all men, receiving the thorny situation, but Me of All Men—dancing, and moving, and I take it to the streets.

I take it to the streets, taking you there with a small camera crew.  Making them yours, every Avenue below Union Square—I was from there, I was born there and was born into there and after I was born there I helped put together..some street-wise journal showed us the structural lines.  After that it was up to me but I had iPhone’s™ camera app and I set you up with the filter I use for everything and if you look real close—look so close the thing you’re looking at could reach out and tell you that even through your madman octopi ears you will never reach her the way she sits or lies:  You need to exercise bedroom privileges.  Lock down nights of little-girl checks for water.

When I wake up in the middle of the night and hear her, snoring, lightly (so, so) snoring an elevator beat.  That’s when I spontaneously cum into an answer delivered to me miles overground, my mind reaches saturation, immersion.  Dispersion.

I imagine she speaks 3 languages.

That you could para-drop her ass right into Syria™ and she’d wipe the dirt off her ass kick herself and merge everything in column A with everything (all the objects therein) from column B and hence and hence and hence.

Flowers of pink.  I imagine you have punkin’ pantaloons with elastic strip around the waist, two elastic strips around your virgin legs.  I guess that’s something you’d know little of.  Given that all you’ve known of dressing (four rooms, Victorian originals, iTunes™ originals, Fiona Apple is in there, a bit of Busta Rhymes, classic rap will be greeted like Wagner, he was 13 when he lost his dignity to a crowd marm—but what can you say?  I only want two emphasis marks now.  Two little fang marks.  Occlusion.  Blockages.  Mental shortcomings.

Every small thing writ large.

My silent dreams, my humming, subjected to a classical alert.  Tumbling and tumbling and tumbling.  And tumbling through death.

But..but..

When you’re a girl, that’s your P❌SS and your P❌SS is gold.

Girls can be fuckboys too!

“Uh..hello?..can I get at this mic here?  Hello!  Wake this fucking program and its pilot too.  Now that, I’m going to have you hump each other like rabbits before you fucking die.  It’s like the poster says:  “Girls can be fuckboys too.”

One.  Two.  Tickle my shoe.

Five.  Six.  Get me one a those dicks.

Seven.  Twelve.  Run a truck over them shits!  How can, as women, we on one hand say that everything we get, every method or route we’re sold, is:  “We always get our way.  We have a vagina!”  Winning with Beaver:  A chapter book.  “Dry dick is my new favorite insult.”  And of course:  I have boobs, therefore I’m always right.”

That on one hand, about how we control them due to them wanting The Cookie™ and on the other hand, about how you insult our P❌SSIES shivering between our legs—victim of bad touch.  If you fail to comply, we withhold the P❌SS.  If you act too possessively, we cry rape.

You want The Cookie™—I know that much.  You have thought up (brilliantly) to grab little kids at the Mickey D’s™, throw them inside your donuts-mobile and as you open the door to enter the McD’s™ there’s a poster right there that says:

HUMAN TRAFFICKING IS HAPPENING RIGHT HERE IN THIS TINY TOWN IN OHIO CALL THIS NUMBER TO HELP XXX-YYY-ZZZZ”

That’s on the door to the McD’s™ that tripped up my whole life.  Of course there’s human trafficking going on here.  The place has a parking lot—doesn’t it?  Unless..unless you can’t see the guys and gals dressed in track suits, complicated dresses, transparently entering and exiting the restaurant (if you could call it that—it’s mostly deliveries and resetting the place’s robots) entering and exiting their cars:  Space ships remodeling themselves every once a super-moon diving cycle.

Someone said human beings know (as a percentage) more about outer space than we do about our whole ocean.  How is that?  What about all the oceans on every possible planet?  Wouldn’t a couple of those known oceans (from outer space) possibly add up to more complexity than is found in our, one, ocean?

My boy went to buy weed now in new and different forms.  Extracts.  Liquids.  Vials.  Stuff only cher people will recognize or have anything to do with.  People got so bored they had to do human trafficking at my McDonald’s™.  Fat bastards sucking baby testicles to the connecting cables stuck in their throats.

Bastards hooked up in the back of the Mickey D’s™ to machines from 10,000 years in the future.  Cables literally like ribbons with almost no thickness.  Carrying aeons of historical data.

It all merged with the lightbulb.  We call it the Edison Effect.

Standing on the beach.

One day.

Pushing down my pants and saying:  Am I a girl?

Am I culturally ethically a prisoner in this box—my own little box—from which I keep cut out windows, horse feederies mucked with wine, horse trash pits where electrically enhanced tannins, applied micro-dosically with Alice’ spelling, spread on the substrate, held for years in a safe-cracker’s safe—When you’re a girl, girl, everybody wants your P❌SSY that’s just the way it goes, you’ll be sauced on both sides, run through a corporate dry-cleaning patented process that will do what to me, exactly?

Does it make me smarter?

Get rid of this gray hair around the top of my forehead.  It’s showed up in the Dunkin’™ parking lot.  One morning.  Once upon a time.  I brought forth my hair.  Presented it to you—the judge.  The sage.  The messianic mage.

Casting now (say: of a bug) is easier, more powerful—check the manual for details.  Introducing spells:  Seeking girl.  Girl details.  Like fishing, you set yourself up on a sidewalk in south Venice and every time she passes, cut into her skin with the hook.  Drag your catch into the trunk speed-close the door I can see out of—watch you and your boy talking outside the car everything you say you is contained within this sentence:

“Suzy sells shells by the seashore.”

And those two are yodeling as dolphins, relentless punishers of their prey.  Relentlessly hunting.  Defusing bombs.  Etcetera.  Inviting the bomb squad to our party.  It’s best to keep them near and my whole self slipped to the thought of every backwards look, every time I disappoint you.  Every time you have turned your head I caught you passing the meridians (right then!) your face turned from joy to What the fuck? I will always be saying that every time:  What the fuck.

What the fuck.

I mean what the actual fuck?

What the duck?  What the fuckity fuckity fuck!!  I was born and raised in China, came here for school, got my P❌SSY reamed out, never did leave.  Got into meth.  Turned myself out.  Watch the grease spot!  I work at a diner in Santa Monica—if by work you mean I walk quickly along the front street, cross down the alley, and open my book bag, scooping out food boxes and bags, everything sealed, like it was meant to be eaten this way, from the trash.

The more people you have eating out of the back of grocery stores—that’s bad.

Give me a voice.  You know that?  Open a restaurant inside the grocery and feed people the food your sexy stocker boy is about to take out back.

Of course it would never work.  With this setup, the rich people who shop there would be offended they had to share space with and sensory output with a bunch of lazy fucking bums.

I have to ask you something now.

Can you please stop yelling?

You know I do both heroin and coke (shoot them) and I think they’ve started to damage my ears.

I try not to notice that you.

Are screaming.

In my ear.

The Man In the Yellow Mask Carries More Than Bananas Between Those Legs

He carries me from a prominent boat family.  Lakeside.  Ohio.  Stories came from there that a woman had killed her baby by drowning it in the center of the lake.  That was 20 years ago now, tragedy eclipsed by curiosity, curiosity splitting consciousness, consciousness still a mystery—they tell us we gave it a name when there was never any it to begin with.  Tell us that even calling it “it” gives that “it” too much gravity.  Too much funkiness.  Horror.  Countedness.  Magnification.  Velocity.  The magnet we tied to a shark’s mouth.  Cut and dried and hung off the back of our boat.  Not a big boat, either, y’all:  This was a soft-serve schooner.  Placed on the shelf with monkey brains and yellow spoons.  Plenty to eat your brains out.  A hamburger at dinner for a partial breakfast, skipped lunch.  Paved the school parking lot, perved every pet in there.  Skipping to the skies of mortality-less-ness.  Who is the man in the yellow hat?  Do you know?  It has been scraped to his existence (bright colors and magma) so shines so brightly the edges of every proper coin.  You know it?  You have it?  You traced it.  You tracked it.  I’ll tell you a little story:

There was a small small boy, aged five, living in the dumpster with his family, smoking crack (the adults mostly but we all did it sometimes me and sister Jo bidding for it in the corner of the Waste Management™ box that called itself our home.  I’ll give you a bite of the letter here.  Will remind you of your early trials and tribulations, all the way back to the first book.  Tried and true.  Burned right through.  That’s the only way we can do this, if you have every detail, every moment of my breathing.  Every note of my song, not yet metered for public consumption.  Not yet calcified in its danger.  Not quantified as to its effect on the young.  We’ve tried to make this difference:  If there were zero guns, there would be zero people shot where (of light) if you had full gun saturation (let’s say five guns a piece) there would be maximum shootings—hence—you say?  You would expect the most shootings when there are the most available guns—and zero shootings when there were the fewest available guns.  But it doesn’t matter.  I keep five AR-15s™ wrapped in silk next to the gold bars in my basement.  Total.  Consummate.  Boom.

See the AR-15™ as my tiny penis.  Women think I’m doing something to protect it.  Represent it, saying: “I think he’s compensating for something”—you know, as though carrying a gun, for a male biological, would be a penis substitute.  I never bought any of that psychology.  Never fell into the trap.  Never even in my subconscious did I ever say:  “I am uncomfortable with my small penis so I will go out and buy an F-150™ pickup truck and drive it in all the lanes.  Park across lines double-crossing two parking paces and I will own every little bitch who drives a Honda CR-X™ hahaha pwhahahaha PHWAHAHAHA!!”

I don’t do that.

In fact it seems to be to be one of the great differential divides in our thought-consciousness that women think of a man’s penis in so many abusive ways but this is accepted as a low-din pressure release valve to the general view of their persuasion.  And that is this:  In the west, we regard genital mutilation as a human rights violation and we don’t mutilate feminine clitori but what do we do?  Cut every dick that comes out—just about.  What is that?  Sanitation?  Tell that to a kid who’s just come to realize at 15 his dick got cut off destroying up to 90% of the nerves possibly affecting intercourse affecting interest in sex causing feeling inferior when presenting his dick to various possible partners, he is not thinking:  “Oh my spanking stinking Lord, will you place the power of my intended penis inside the thrust behind the driver’s seat of my F-150™.  And while you’re at it, please make every white sedan and its female passenger open up its rear end like a reverse vagina and make it so that if I crash into her, that would be a boom!”

No.  I’m not thinking that.

Nothing like it.

When I whip it out in the hotel room, and rip the sheets out of your hand.  It exposes.  It puts you on show, shivering in air conditioning, wanting to close your eyes but you dare not do.  For the backlash from arms of my tiny penis.  Gold.  Pyramid-shaped spikes.  You will never make fun of me—I have arranged it.  Without any hesitation, if you laugh at my F-150™, I will crack your skull with my fist, burning through chrome, landing my squozen fingers in your cranium, squishing my fingers, liquefying your brain.  Made to Kool-Aid™!  Problem-solving becomes impossible.  Facial expressions?—impossible.  You don’t have any feelings so why?  You don’t need facial expressions when you don’t feel emotion anymore, you don’t have cognitive responses to labeled problems.  When I put you in my F-150™, you know.  You know it’s not a dick (duck) that feels unequal when I’ve fucked (about) 50 girls ruining half their bodies to be there for me.  To please me.  That’s the only reason.

You think I’m comparing my dick to an F-150™?

You think that?

I don’t care the size of my dick.  I don’t care if you have pictures.  I don’t care what kind of videos you have of what I’m doing, standing at your camera placed behind the television.  I’ll be standing there not contemplating my dick size, never buying into that rumor, but I will lay you out on the hotel bed-that first time—I am cursed!  Deformed.  Broken as a man.  A big dick is either a blessing or a curse.  A way to be present or a way to hide.

I’ll tell you what:  I may have a small dick.

But those five-year buddies, when I stick it in them, they scream and cry and hold their hands over their ears.  I slide through like glass.  If my dick was any bigger it would cut them.

12 Lessons of a Suburban Housewife

Digested in days.  A matter of.  This rinky dink powder I have for my face.  A tinge of blush where the beach wind blew my face blue.  Organizing neurons in my Earthly head.  Just enough color so he thinks:  She’s ret—ret to go.  Instead of thinking:  Where did this ratty princess come from?

That’s what I would think anyway.

Who is this tasty little bitchess?

She reminds me of this easy-knockdown Dior™ bitch who stalked me in my dreams.  I could feel her after school.  Between my toes.  Building castles in sand that go crush! every time I flex my mush-cles.  Muscles.

Make me go in the swimming pool.  Twice.  Once we arrive at your hotel.  Once when we leave.

When you’re done with me.

When you’ve finally come.

Cum in my eyelashes.  Cum tiny animals.  Come a droplet of rain.  Cum a tiny octopus, tiny donkey, tiny snake, tiny wolf.

That’s my invocation.

Plant your zoo crackers inside of me.  Inside of every crack and crevice come to me.  Tell your animals:  Crawl up to her face.  Plant your seed via the mating function, crompling every previous satan spawn by your brothers.

The dead ones.

They’re addicts—don’t enjoy a thing.

Slave to the routine.  Buying girls.  Renting girls.  Drugging us before.  Drugging them after.  Always meth available and I think I will.  Get so fucked up on that shit that I bleed concentric circles around my asshole.  Bleed from the hairs around my eyes.  Blood in my tears.  Blood on my fingertips, left there from my constant picking—I always pick a nail too hard, it’s noticed by the men.

They tell me they won’t sleep with me unless I stop tearing my nails from their skin.

I tell them:  “What part of me do you want to do first?”

“Nowhere!  Just hold your hands in a fist.  I’m sick of observing your gore.  Little girl.  Little girl?  Look me in the eye.  Hold up let me get my screwdriver.”

I kneel on the bed, facing him, and he plucks my entire body, follicle by follicle, while humming Psalms™ and Ezekiel™, and that is how I learned the true meaning of the gospel.

By shutting my eyes and turning my mind from the pain.  Imagining this was a demented form of dentistry requiring me to nurse my meth high while Joe Blow over here gets a 1/20 semi from my inevitable tears.

“How’re you gonna handle it?” he says.  “How are you gonna handle the pressure I give you—just by closing your eyes?  Wishing you were back in school?  Bet you’d take pop quizzes with chocolate milk if you went back now.”

“I won’t ever go back.  So you can do what you want, mister.”

I present my butt to him.

He kicks me—kicks me in the ass.  It throws me off the bed and next thing I know Mister Man is on top of me in the corner of the room.  He rips off my shirt (totally unnecessary) then he’s meditating on his own cock (which won’t get hard for him), saying “What haven’t I ever done for you, good dog!  When have you ever asked me for something and I didn’t do it for you?  You want dry food?  Wet food?  You want a mushy mushy milk bone!!”

“It’s ok,” I say.

But he interrupts me with:  “You can’t help with this!  It was fucking you when you were a kid that ruined my cock for you now!”

“I never knew you as a kid,” I say.

And he says:  “No?  You don’t remember?  No??  You don’t recall??  You were the five year old..in a bathtub..you had your little boyfriend in there and there were four beds in the room where you slept—“

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were new then.  Fresh.  Not fresh fresh.  But fresh enough for me.  Fresh enough that when I told you to step out of the bath, you did it and did it silently—not like now, you’ve grown the lip, you never listen—but back then when I told you to stand, you stood (without speaking) and when I told you to cum, you came—“

“I was five years old I didn’t cum, you can bet on that.”

“Well, when I told you to make me cum, you did.”

My eyes seek the carpet.

“Can I have another shot of crystal?”

“Sure,” he says.  He talks to the room in general while he prepares the shot.  “Isn’t it weird” he says, “that it’s illegal to have sex with kittens?  I mean god-jawn illegal to cum with a child in mind?  Straight-up illegal to lie back and let a five year old make me cum.  Oh I love it sooo much, fingers that are new at touching a man.  Fingers that smell like your sticky rice-year-old P❌SS.  Remember?  How I sat you with your legs spread around my ankle?  And remember how I stimulated you by rocking my leg up and down and you put both hands on my cock—like you’re doing now.  And then I made you fuck my leg like a horse.  And you had this look on your face like, ‘Oh my god I’m about to cum!’ and of course you didn’t (you couldn’t cum back then) but you could have your fun, too.  And I think I saw you reach that point yourself—eyes watering and you looked away from me when you came and I had you—I could make you cum.  You could make me cum.  And I guess this event is why you’re here again, seeking me out—because I have become something of a father figure to you.  Something of a dad.  Is this true?”

Buy One Get One Free Juveniles

Of the cross.  Hanging.  One by one.  On one side the Criminal Courts of America.  On the other side the Tainted Twin Council of Methuselah.  You can tell which one is one strike too many—one strike too far.  When yellow becomes red and red becomes yellow.  Sitting in my holding cell at Municipal pondering whether the world would be better without me in it.  With me reading magazines behind bars.  I would start with the basics (Cosmo™, Teen Vitus™) then move onto the harder stuff—that would be titles like Muscles & Coal™ and Critical Function™—these borrow their precepts from stray air, wafting through hallways, stairwells, every declension of habit—ice, cold sober, wickedness.

Wickedness and metaphor.  Tune yours finely for a finger-ship parade.  Ticker tape funeral.  Need someone to write it—other than me.  Need someone disinterested to wash your casket in the river where the blood sleeps down from the laundry.  They discolored the entire river with fingerprints of gold.  Incorporating that which dies (human) with that which lives, in away, by cleaning and brushing and washing their souls away.

How many of these delicate (spindly, spindly!) friendly careful tiny creatures swam around the pond of rainwater you swish, swish around your mouth around my toilet bowl.

Carefully seeming casually to touch.  To ring.  To ring around.  Ring around the posies.  Pocket full of incense.  Pocket full of rye.

And stick a needle in my fucking eye.

You play-around biotch.  Victim underwhelming.  Crime:  Come home to me in bed, every fantasy of childhood sex I never got.  Incels swipe left swipe right.  Scratch the surface and exclaim.  I have found my identity of no-function sex—two people one of whom hates me, one of whom carries the axe, one who ignores me sexually.  That’s my entire adult life!  Girls who will not spread their legs for me.  Not without prodding, medicine, drugs.  Not without drugging her, straight pile-driving that biotch’s naughty, cunty, fabtabulous shiver of a pooch.

The shriveled postage stamp.  The eyes, chiseled in stone.  Details of the King!  I can only think of my Lord coming down in fire and rain, a storm so difficult, so complex, so deadly, that it can only become the that.  That which rains down upon our picnic time, leaning out from behind the trunk whose tree we sit beneath.  This is our exercise.  The manner through which grief climbs the trunk, gripping like a squirrel, then grief becomes a tragedy, dripping though the leaves on its way down to fall in your very funny lap.

“Ha ha ha!” says the very funny lap.  “Ha ha hee!” screams the very funny chair—that’s the one I tied you too but never needed to:  A chair tuned to minor C.  Pounced, packed, and ready to punch.  Got my whole lab of incels ready through backwardness—take one more step.  These were young ones.  Punching holes in your body.  Taking only pictures, leaving only streams and streams of cum and piss and shit and love.

Of piss and shit.  Of streams and oceans.  Of cum and piss and shit and love love love!—Of another leveled-ness it happened before there were incels.  Before this sleight of the hand of god.  You have to see us this way (from inside our night) this bubbling unfeeling hate.

This flawless 16-karat golden shower—where did that come from?  Someone needs to clean that up:  Multi-karat gold.  Diamond rings.  The booty of wealth.  Trinkets of precious metals bursts of light a rapper who likes to piss in my face I don’t know why we didn’t all go to the restroom each with an alien escort holding our hands so they’d never touch.

A hand and another hand.  Each chained to the opposite wall.  Each destined to never touch the other.  Each one.  And each one.  Why aren’t there female incels?  Girls who won’t fuck you (on Principle)—no!—there’s no one like that—no one like that in the field.

That’s what they say.  Hierarchies of fucking.  Hierarchies of nothing!  If you band together on the right of never getting fucked, oh incels, then you might have to settle for fucking fat girls—like the rest of us who tried to get a finger in the door, and had to accept that no one wants us, either.  Do you deserve sex—my psychiatrist does.  I suppose she is pro-incel.  But I guess I just accepted, long before, my journey here will be one of loneliness, emptiness—hours and years—of seconds and days.  Everything empty of everything.

Empty if soul searching.

Empty when eyes closed:  A passenger in space.

Deep gray after dark.  Everyone brought their demons to a certain motel room.  Our treasures.  Everyone brought their favorite.  To a certain room on a certain floor of a certain building.  To share them like snack food, all the little boys and girls with leashes ‘round their necks and every little boy and girl (every tit and every tat)—

—I rode you tight.  Dressed in schizophrenia.  Mirrored in awe.  Awesome light lighting us from the back (so professionally well).  I dressed you for once in the way I dress you at home.  Unnecessary bra.  Your panties—young panties—bra as necklace.  Sliding all over your ass with the color of bleeding.  Of repeatable movements.  And it isn’t even sexual.  It’s because of this—because of that.  I wasn’t abused, kid—unless you count neglect.  A dad who plays tricks on my mind even now—even now that he’s old.  He pretends not to know the rules to the card game we’re playing..then we start to play and my dad takes all the tricks.

Father Forgive Me I Have Sinned

For nights I re-examined the day’s conquests visited upon me.  Examined the 90/10 split between your pleasure and mine.  I can never feel about sex like you do.  Can never lie back in your lap.  Waiting for you to make beautiful works on my skin.  Even underneath my skin.  You are hereby invited to love me.  You don’t even have to make me cum—I will settle for every way you never even touched me—will cum myself—later—will be sloppy will be like spaghetti and meatballs, will be messy like that little bit of sauce and noodles cornered, waiting for me to use my fingers.

To sponge it up the slippery noodles take the place of my girl parts.

To glorify my jungle.

To measure passion by its humidity.

I don’t mind if you never notice me.  If your entire knowledge of me is replaced by knowledge of someone else.

You can hold onto her ponytails.  Kick her side, shouting “Ha!” while all along I’m wrapped and stuffed under its wings.  “Killed by falling from a great height.”  I could not think of a better way to die.

And all along I keep my journal.

In an old-fashioned book.

As a crumpled paper on the floor.

Kept from you like cosmic knowledge that could invincibly make you do not deserve the knowledge they spin me off like a lost child daring to keep the universe’s top secrets all to themselves well all I can say to that is that I never even wanted to know your secret ways of the war never even waged that’s how secret it was.

Secret as the contents of the dead man’s wallet.

Secret as the dead man’s chest.

Secret there never was.  Never stashed, never revealed.  Never available for taking.  Never in my top drawer.  Never a photograph stored underneath my clothes.  Never taken out, never undressed to, never jerked my vagina to, never made to get me off, never to make me cum, never dropped—forgotten—photo fallen to the floor, followed me as I followed you, found you when I found myself.

Me sitting on the corner of one in a million mattresses.  My cum syntax never matched, I’m left to stash this lonely self, this lonely body, this ruined leather between my legs.  Almost never used by me.  Almost never used to make me cum even though you use me via my photographs they’re in your fancy phone in a smartly incapable album titled, “FUCK MY BRAINS OUT WITH YOUR LOVE.”

Almost never used as a Christmas™ charm.

Almost never brought forth as a gift to your guests, your dirty family dresses for normal and yet:

Peel away the top layer.

Lick the sticker.  Ball it up.  Throw it on the floor for whoever vacuums this room.  Anonymously.  What is her life, I wonder?

And like cleaning, tricking comes to life underneath this all.

Born from cracked glass, mental illness, and bad luck—that’s where you found me.

Peeking from between two WM™ dumpsters.

You’re rolling down your window.

Making “come here” with your fingers.

Opening the door.

You’ve got cash in your hand.

How much of it would I ever see?  What faint shadow of that huge stack of bills will cross the window threshold untainted living in your pocket like reptiles.  Tiny Sphinxes.

I open the door gradually, checking the cracks for reptiles—those spaces created by movement, by carcass, by grace of a friendly human.  Grace of a carcass fellow.  Graceful tee times.  Graceful shot!  And good good girl they hold me in their minds when they shuttle that ball onto the green past an AR thistle.

Then thistle turns to grace.

Grace to thistle.

I wear your testicle, gnarled to suffocate my neck hole.  I have learned you have a special neediness for my P❌SSY it resides between your legs and it wraps itself in robes taking what it wants from me—scooping me out like ice cream.

That you have lemon, that you still have lime.  That you have cultivated my strawberry, me as raspberry, tasted my depths and finding cherry there.

That everyman is modeled on this one.

Everyone else seems dead.  They don’t even have a sexuality compared to yours.

Neither do I.

That is why I jump on the bed in my mind.  Hoping to rekindle childhood.  But it can’t be done.  I’m ruined.  Was ruined far before I started to wonder.  Was so far gone and I had nothing.  Had lost my family.  Taken into slavery before I learned to read.

Or write my little sister a letter.

I figured out in absentia my parents never loved me.  I figured that out by the time I was four..maybe five.  That they must have reacted to something bad that I did.  That they sent me away to pay for my crimes.  I couldn’t imagine it any other way, and they became just ghouls to me, shadow people who must be forgotten.  Who I could never please.  And so they left me in the grocery store parking lot on purpose so that bad men with no real names drove up in a band and asked if I needed a ride.

Of course I said yes.

And it was hours away from that spot when I looked around the van and I saw the one in the passenger seat turn around and beaming into me and that’s when I started to cry.

It was a big cry.

The kind of cry that starts with big cheeks, then my hands gripping the seatbelt.  Then it moves to my chest and even as young as I was, I remember breathing faster and faster and my little mind running and turning—racing—

Then I can’t hold it any longer.

I don’t let it shake me.

And looking that man in the eye, there was no more thing ever falsely said than that we were going to find my parents.

On the Run

Stunning.  Sitting by the mirror some grandparent gave me.  I wallow by the skyscraper for lean to me hold my forehead damp I wish I could throw myself against it proving and proving its solidity until that semi-final moment where the seal around the glass breaks into this lack of urban legend.  I imagine myself in space, looking back at Earth, knowing this can never be my end of days I am ready to suicide I am ready to push myself to disassemble my consciousness today!—let us do it today like the mother and child who have accompanied me all this way.  A distorted belief that will take me almost all the way there.  But—ultimately—it’s not there for me, this Mona Lisa™ smirk you told me it was there—told me I could one day fall from the 24th floor I would be unable to re-glue that window in the final minutes of my life.

In those final minutes, that was my life—that was it for an entire way of life and the scary surprise at the end.  I hope there’s a heaven for that lawyer, just as I hope there’s one for me.

Spinning in infinity.

Only a drop of love, dangling from your lips, thinning.  It’s one drop I could never take.  I only felt for it twice in my life, maybe three times, and those two times I only got close.  I was in an underwater tank watching Jurassic Universe™.  They said I wasn’t ready for the Multiverse Edition they said the edition after that one, its name would break my fucking mind.

And I sit here.

On the bed where she sleeps.

I wonder what that would be like.  To be sacrificed by local gods.  My boots hanging from the hotel wall.

All the girls and goddesses who have slept here with me.  Drugged.  Gagged.  Blindfold.  And the words you said to me when your feelings were less and less, cognition waning.  Here’s what you said (you said):

“Doctor, doctor, give me a play.  Ok?”

And here your head turns up to look at me.

“Doctor, you have brought me here as a ghost, unknown, beaten before you, scared to death, pole-legged rot-gut P❌SSY out of circulation like a library book.  I got a 7-day read and hadn’t even broke the cover.  Right?  It has cum between the pages.  Everything is sticky goop losing its color losing its elasticity.  Born to you on this day a son (on that day a daughter) teach me to be cruel, as you did with your own children but you can’t—neither will talk to you anymore.  I wonder why.  This is how I speak to you, you dilapidated formation of a man.  You are not child or god.  Not a monster (too weak).  Not a feather (too strong).  And you have stolen my soul.  Put it under the pillow.  Lay my sleeping head to rest on this first-floor motel of dreams and when my eyes close it takes with them an hour worth of consciousness and that moment is the moment where we did window safety in safety class.”

“What did they teach you in safety class?”

My corpse responds.  “Safety class was right after work class.  Did you have work class where you went to school?”

I nod.

“This is just like that,” I tell the man.  “Almost exactly the same structure.  Same body, same closing, the very same opening line which you used on me the first time I stepped though that door..wonderment, fear, delicacy of a meal.  The initial stretch of a muscle.  The numbness of pain.  Minor amounts of blood do not amount to minor amounts of pain.”

She waits for this to register but her eyes are closed (sleep) so she has no idea what she’s saying.

I imagine a whole movie about her—her and me—imagining her finding my flip book of children.  Boys.  Girls.  My sickness leaving the little room for prejudicial thoughts.  I am getting back to where I never even came from, my empty childhood, never playing with the other kids—well, there was that one time a girl named Kevin kissed me and I threw a rock at her head.  She bled for the first time that day, knocking her knees together squawk box of a girl she let me take her back to school and stick a pencil up her VJ twist it around the lid and come out with strands of period blood—coloring my No 2 with her idea of a kaleidoscope gone wrong, a telescope telescoping up her shaft extending lighting searching and ultimately finding nothing.  No pleasure center inside her for me—for my orgasm I wondered always as a kid what about touching her would please me—but clearly looking in the wrong place.

That’s how I thought orgasms worked as a kid.

I never masturbated before my father touched me and so I never had a clue how things worked.  I never knew sex could feel good for me.  I never thought of sex as fun.  Still don’t—if you believe that.  An orgasm isn’t fun if it carries no joy if it’s tasteless if you have no human connection it’s simply biology’s way of making you fuck.

It is ageless.  It is amoral.  It means nothing if there is no context to the relationship.  Some shared connection or culture.  A drip of togetherness—even if within my cultural self and you might just ask yourself how minor this shared culture must be.  And I will tell you that I have no idea.  I never have!  I’m on the outside of this little shindig looking in.  It’d be like asking an alcoholic if drinking is fun.  They would have no idea how to place the question.  For people like me, we lack something, very much in age, and this is what we always lack:  The experience of growing up sexually in relationships where the power balance is roughly the same.

But here’s the kicker.  I know I’m sick.  I’ve read about my illness.  And knowing it, in and out, doesn’t make me healed one bit.

I Am a Canary in a Cage

Taken out when you get home you I would not call happy—you I would not call satisfied.

Because I’ve seen you with your women—I’ve seen you with your girls.  And there is nothing of satisfaction that I see there.  You work.  You work for it, a man towing a plough on his own back.  A man planting seeds with a broken arm.  Sitting backwards throwing seeds to the wind.  Not half of them arrive at the dirt—exceptional ones—that’s what I call the ones who do.

Those are the ones, when thrown, that make their exceptional trip over your head doing somersaults against the wind.

I hope I’m one of those.  And I imagine being a basketball star—or a poet—writing poetry, in the shade, like my made-up friend.  I hear her voices in my head and Anna re-says:  “If I write poetry in the shade of some great writer, do you think that anyone would notice?”  But she is just in my imagination.

That’s all—never any real place.

Though my imagination is big enough for the two of us to fit.

Comfortably.

With translucent walls.

Each pegged with loops for handcuffs.

And the way it works with me, for these images of Anna, is that after Anna appears in my head, when I think back after her, I remember that I have made her up—hallucinated what she said—and I cannot tell if my memory seems like hallucination or if I am hallucinating a memory.

Disassociation.  I do it so well my psychiatrist doesn’t even notice it.  In our sessions by the beach, I was never even there.

Not one time.

When it rains, I picture myself with an umbrella.  Or I picture myself in a tent under the highway.  Then when it sprinkles lightly I imagine me and Olive (my cat who I carry with me on a leash) that is the cat I’m not even sure she is real but I know that when I touch her, she feels soft like my P❌SSY hair when I was 11, was 12.

Was old enough to zig.

But never zag.

To trip.

But never trap.

My solid gold kittae fits so nicely in the hand—of God, I guess you’d say—but I guess the concept of god has run its course down here.  We worship cars, phones, our houses on the hill.  Where rich men take from the poor and give to even richer men to appease them.  The only thing to do (I’ve decided) is to stand beside my bedroll with a walking stick in one hand and my kittae in the other and you are watching me from beyond the dark of this imaginary tunnel that houses the zero people we have no bank accounts we are an all-cash setup of a growing minority.

Do they imagine that I am anything different than them?  That we have nothing to give?  Nothing to say?  This text is my way of saying, “Here!  Here I am!!”  To shout it in their faces once I’m dead and gone and the theatre of your mind has become the only place this treatise of mine blooms, grows, cycles, runs, sags, takes medicine, ends up dead in the bed you had given to me.

You handed me a key and I threw it behind me.  I have no idea where it landed, I was trying to show you that the world I live in contains no doors, locks, keys, walls.  I never stayed in that bed anyway.

I invited you to light with me at the overpass but of course you said no.

I left you at your TV watching Hulu™ special programming.  Disappeared out your front door.  What you once stole from me (as a kid) (that I didn’t even know I had of value) you took my gold (watch—so to speak) and dipped it in the motel toilet then shook it off, dirty water in my face, which I tried washing in the sink but you turned my head with your hands and choked my mouth open with one, the other gripping the back of my head and you let it go, a long and comfortable piss down the back of my throat.

That’s what you stole from me as a kid.

Now, as an adult, I give you what you then took from me, learning never to flinch.  Learning to detect the type of piss that’s coming out of you:  Lemon drop bubble gum.  Starry starry berry pop popping magic dust.  Every flavor in the universe—every mood, every perturbation an instant snapshot of the universe at that, one, particular, moment.

After I suck you off I can tell you my fortune for the night.

You’re going to get rough.

You’re going to get really rough.

I guess I should explain the difference.

The first, just rough treatment is you throwing my head against the tile in the bathroom, breaking glass and skull—a minor injury, more like an accidental fall.  Just rough isn’t even worth a shower—a Band-Aid™—it’s never worth calling the police.  You know?  You just deal with it.  People like me..

..we will always, always—lose, is I guess the word you would use.  We endure.  We maintain our destructive state..

..nameless, without identity, without government, without technology.  We subsist sans phones, without the internet.  I am typing this on a library computer, a thousand words a day which I enter furiously at this cum-striped keyboard it has echoes of gum, black spots where sticky substances hang on (echoes of their previous incarnation) and I guess my time is up.

Father Forgive Me I Have Sinned

My rollout was complete with three drones, a million GoPro™ cameras all around the house, at the front door, back door, side door, yards, back yard, front yard, the fenced-in area in the side yard, and a few GoPro’s™ on the D/L taped to the telephone pole at the end of our street.

All this hooked into my phone, simple telephone booth protocol.

And of course my bedroom cams, built into the ceiling—the lighting fixtures—hoping to find that one of my kids masturbated in their sleep or after we had left but unluckily none of them ever did anything private and the only use I got out of those cameras was really-watching me fucking one or more of them in their sleep—I waddle to her, stripping her jeans, her panties, and all it is is her bare-ass nakedness and a pair of socks with slices of pizza stitched against a blue background—that was all she wore, just a pair of socks and I watched her bounce up, down watch her face grimace as she refuses to cry (as all of them do identically) they know that something is wrong but they don’t know what.

And they take it however I give it, up their ass which I wipe with Clorox™ wipes as I go.

Sometimes I leave used wipes in the kids’ room, which the kids clean up after.  Throw away in the kitchen trash (there is no trash can in their bedroom).  No trash can more easily accessible than that one.  And when I’m eating, and they try to sneak a wipe into the kitchen trash, sometimes I yell when they put it in—and sometimes I do not, remembering inconsistent stimulus from high school philosophy.  That’s the best kind of stimulus.  You ignore them and pay attention to them according to some random clock of stimulus and nothing.  When they need reprieve, the kid will press the lever, and sometimes they get reprieve.  Sometimes not.  Hence they are ready for nothing, expecting everything.  Sometimes getting the first, so often getting the second.

I don’t know why it gives me so much joy to watch the boy or the girl sneak in behind me while I sit at the kitchen table, throw away those Clorox™ wipes, begging to have us clean their sheets, never begging for a bath (which is all they ever got, never a shower) me reaching underneath the surface of the water with sticky thumb and fingers—sometimes to wash, other times to own their P❌SSIES and their dicks and their buttholes and their nipples and their mouths stick your mouth open—wide—put my cock inside you.

Now chew like an elephant.

Long and slow.

Gentle as an acrobat.  Gentle like I cum in your hands.  We were watching TV and I said:  “Girl.  Boy.  Come here.”  And they’d sidle up to me and take turns sucking and manual, struck-fucking, taking off their clothes when I told them to, considering what I have before me:  A couple of small kids who I keep alive so I can fuck suck duck behind a wall when I wake them at night, testing the slow poison I have given them.  Seeing if it worked.  Pin their eyelids backwards—if they blink, adjust, then the poison worked.  If they move their eyes then the child is awake.  Re-administer the poison.  Wait one hour.  Then check the eye movements again.

You wanna know why I do this?  You’re cleverly attached to the legal way to fuck.  Just as you wonder about me, I wonder about you.  And I still have the same reason, stuck inside me, to have relationships with kids.  Which I did since I was a kid.  And by that I mean that I started out in the kid position, with my parents and my parents’ friends taking over me.  You know how they say you learn relationship patterns from your first few relationships with your folks?  It was always the same for me.  I watched and felt and I learned to relate to kids the way I was treated as a child.

And that was:  Long baths.  Longer nights.  Feeling afraid to fall asleep—when I was asleep, I was caught by surprise.  And that extra few seconds gave me the mental preparation time I needed to feel afraid, to relax my rectum.

I was locked in a staring match with the outlet at the end of my bed.  It was where I put my head to sleep, right next to the outlet and when my father came to visit me, that outlet is where I looked.  It worked better if when he came, I was already in position, if I was staring at the outlet, remembering one time when I was hardly even a person yet, when I plugged in my clock radio and felt the alternating current.  Fortunately when it got me, my hand dropped.  If it hadn’t, I would have died right there, at three.

And if I had died right there at three years old then none of this would have happened.

I would not be living on the run.  A secret address, different names, records kept in paper binders, human beings kept as if in cages, raping them again and again.

Trading them like donkeys until they reached that certain age.  The age where no amount of locked doors and blindfolds and zip ties would keep her in.  Then we took her to another city, in another state, and dropped her by the courthouse, and we paused on our way out of courthouse square, and with a pair of binoculars I watched as little blackness left her blindfold on tessellated bricks and she looks around—where are my captors?—and when she sees we’re not there, she starts toward the edge of this square platform we left her on.

And when she gets to the edge.  Her bare feet curl their toes inward and she steps backward toward the tree that’s growing in the middle of the space and after another look around she sits with her back against the tree and gathers her legs up, two useful arms hugging her own knees.

She does not cry.

She wants to sit there forever.

Watching the business people go about their days.  Thinking of their families.  How happy their children must be, simply on account of never having been kidnapped for my personal pleasure.

We had her since she was three.  Kept her till she was 10.  Fucked her twice a day.  That’s 5,000 fucks, and all she ever knew other than what she learned from watching television is getting fucked by me and my partner.

Every naughty thing we did to her.

Every depraved thing.

That’s everything she knew about the world.

Everything I Know of This Small, Small World

Yes.  Everything I know about this small, small world is informed from two directions.

One from the top:  That is, I want to take the top off my head and explore everything that was kept from me by years of entrapment, years in common-house suburbia.  That’s TV and bathtubs and some weird kind of sexuality (which is my sexuality, too—blips of enjoyment, found between my legs, shamefully picking moments of pleasure between gardens of memory of what the guys did to me, rape and shit).

This from the top includes acts like going to a museum.  I have never gone to a museum but I would like to.

Someday I hope to do that:  Wander through MOMA™ examining paintings for their beauty.

Never touching but looking.

That most glorious appreciation.

Like model drawing, I bet—but even more respectful.  Seeing without touching.  No shame.  I would like that some day.

The other is from the bottom.  That is I agree my life is destroyed—my life is shit.  Accepting that, I can drop though the bottom.  Draw so deeply that I draw my last—my last breath as you stick it in my ass for the last time.  Somehow make it pierce me though the heart.

Fuck my face all the way to the back.

Scraping brain from the inside of my skull.

And feeling that last element of consciousness.  Hoping for blackness rather than some sort of heaven or hell—can this life just be over?  Can my self die when my body dies, can this fullness of mind simply—go away—and (with no looking back) there ceases to be a “me”—I’ll just become a slumped over body with zero brain activity.

Not even a coma.  Just death.

That ultimate stillness.

Ultimate lack of response.  Ultimate uselessness.  Not even suitable to a necrophile.  Not for long.  My P❌SSY turns to mush, quickly liquefies—my brain, too—all that shit turns to jello within a few days and then that’s me:

Shell.

A hollow egg.

Is that what you want of me?  Is that all?  Two legs (rag doll), two arms (skewed this way and that) and an eyeless head with black eyeballs do you look in them when you fuck me?  Communicate silently your lifeless eyes, my truly lifeless ones.

And what do you see in those globes?  What parts of my life can you bear to see?

Do you see the very young me—the five-year-old me—stolen from my family (I can no longer remember).  Stolen from my parents.  Did I have a brother or a sister?

I don’t know.  I do not know.  My memory destroyed by insomnia—annums of it rolled together like a Fruit Roll-Up™ every bite with its representative marks, a stripe around the belly of the thing, one stripe per year.

One stripe per year is all I’ve got.

A zombie.  Stuck in survival mode.   Not alive—neither dead.  My routine is structured to get me what I want (all I know to want) just moments of life with my one friend in this entire world.

His name is Broderick, which I pronounce “Brody Bro”—something friendly for the kids.

We sleep together but not sleep together.  More like for safety and friendship.

He’s my brother.  Brotherly love.  He has never touched me there.  Never even made a furtive move on me.  Even when we cuddle, his dick won’t get hard.  But I never ask him to and he has never tried.  He has never come to me with desire.  Has never joined me for a fuck.  Our loudest life is a whisper.

The magnitude of a whisper to a train.

Of a shuttle launch to a sparrow.

And that’s what I need.  For now.  For my every night.  For the rare rainstorm.  The rare necessity of that umbrella I mentioned.

I do have fantasies for him, though:  Him whispering on my skin with his dirty fingers.  Dipping through my front crack, back crack—uncovering my moistures, my devastating intimacy once you get through volumes of razor-wire protection, my American English dictionaries (the full 90-volume set)—the ones you got me for my phone to help with my poetry.

I will never forget that, Broderick boy.

Even if trains crush your bones.  Whether on purpose or accident, I will have your gift of words to me.

You will always be my boy.  My only boy.  My one.  My everlasting only example of myself in another body.  Teased and used.  Beaten and stretched and squished your asshole is as useful as mine, brainless fucking, you don’t even pay attention to the one who is fucking there, the one who fucks you there.  It’s just another 40 dollars every shot of cum shot up your butt.

Gorilla sex.  Monkey sex.  Trading it for an apple.  Trading it for a pear.

I have seen sex between monkeys on a video and they—at least—don’t care about imbalance.  Every chimpanzee is out for himself/herself.

Choking on a blow job given from the young, received from the old, it may even be the child of mine giving it to the parent, the other, once weaned from the nipple each chimp is poised and ready, no psychological preparation needed.

Monkeys can walk from birth.

Think about that.

The Butterfly Skeleton

In terms of cataloging—cataloging!—painting the traces red!  I had spreadsheets and databases—class rolls sprouting up between the slack between my cheeks.  Stink rising.  Like age-old Jif™.  Peanut butter arms.  And that cat is dead—it’s behind the television.  That girl was right.  It’s right behind the television.

And this is it:  I watched those two legs waddle across a living room, naked to the butt.  And I knew.  From that singular moment, that her ass would be mine in the 10th, that I would spread those legs like bread and butter them like honey.  (Did I scream into a jar?)  At my delightment of what you could do to me all I cared about was P❌SSY.  P❌SSY.  The only derivative to the end of this sentence was:

P❌SSY.

Please.  P❌SSY in a stick.  P❌SSY in a roll.  Slam my head into the cabinet if it ain’t P❌SSY!

Break my head into 12 pieces.  One for each month.  One for every hour in the day.  The count of my fingers and toes, each with their devil claw.  The one I will wrap around your noose—your neck.  That glorious neck, squeezable.  With one hand grateful, the other greedy.  And do not think I do not get what is happening inside my brain, the psychological services, one man’s decision to die—and on the last day—on the day of his death—I worship Ted Bundy™ who Cried in His Mother’s arms.

Who Cried in His Mother’s arms.

With mother and baby.  Madonna’s Mona Lisa.  Grinning and grinning and grinning—a Babel mouse of hostility—the time she wrote the gospel of Luke on my bathroom walls with toilet paper dripped in blood.  I made that bitch clean up.  Held her hair in a grip at the back of her head.

Going once?

Going twice!

This bitch is going to clean under my place at the kitchen table.  With her tongue.  She hits her head on my chair as she leans up and bang!  And she scrapes it along wood pockmarked with screws.  Unscrewed screws.  To the delight of the ancients!  Ancient spirits.  Swimming in a circle.  A cabal of the crazy ones (the ones who know they’re crazy and who work it out at six in the morning till they get amped for murder)—it excites my brain.

You know what else excites my brain?  Those deadly demons—the cutest in the pack—the ones whose face and legs suggest the texture of the cunt.  Girls so deadly they are the type priests went with (even straight ones).  And they’re just the type that my uncle went for.  And my dad.  And me.  Before my father came my uncle and before me they didn’t have the internet—no laptops, no phones—and the pedophiles traded photographs.  I guess before they had photos the old men would jerk it in the cedar, trading descriptions of their grandkids or trading in grandkids themselves.

Trading the kids’ underwear—dirty smell—this is back when a porn site was not a thing—when girls could be convinced to take pictures by their uncles and fathers and as soon as the tiny baby bottom sits on grandpa’s lap, the flap comes open (was snapped together) and the softest folds of infinite kids™ would rub until grandpa was getting off—slick!—with butter and honey, man—buttah and motherfucking hun.

He didn’t even care whether he was ‘busing.  Boy or girl.

And when he died, my sister called me to cry.  But I wasn’t sad—I had already mourned my grandfather, walking him from car to curb—from driver’s seat to diner’s seat.  Days in a row sat at The Olive Garden™, preparing to die, and the only thing worth anything there (to me) is bottomless breadsticks and salad.  I can eat a hundred breadsticks at one sitting at an Olive Garden™ and I’m only sickly on the final three.

What else does it make me think of?

Well:  Juvenile attempts at raping my little sister.  Her strapped to a board (it was supposed to fix her spine—that’s what they believed back in the day).  So I carried the board, which was carrying my sister.  She was an infant—I don’t know how many months.  I did stuff stuff stuff.  How many years after that did she suffer by me?  At the hand of my dad.  At the hand of her school friends.  At the hand of boyfriends.  She will not see me anymore and I think I know why.  I think I am guilty in her mind of abuse.

Of touching her.

Of hearing her make those beautiful sounds.

But.  Listen.  She was before the point of reason when I touched her—before the use of words gave her a memory.  She can’t recall our early interactions.  Can’t make sense of all that.  Maybe her mother told me.  I don’t know.

Do I think I should feel guilty, though?  No.  Why would I!  She had her infancy.  I got my touches in—bad touch! as they call it in schools.

I got inside her—pushing my bad touch dick all the way into her..what else do you want to know?  That I came in 10 seconds?  That my sister’s infant cunt was fully juiced and functional—everything but her cum!  That she was ready for me?—ready for my cum.  My cock!  That she enjoyed it!

Is that what you want to do?  Run me over the coals here?  I know what you say behind my back:  That I’m a user, an abuser.  That I don’t deserve to get any sex now.  You laugh at people forced to go door to door making a funny funny joke.

That’s me you’re making fun of:  One person.  Complete with sickness.  That person is me.

My Paul Frank™ Notebook

In it I keep descriptions of the men who fucked me:

  1. The first ones who fucked me.  Came to me at church, were friends of my parents.  Met me in coat closets.  Swallowed me whole—their whole assholes.  Picked me ripe from a crib (they were working the child care area, friendly with everyone, returning us with care from our sleeping area—under the street lamps).  These were Bobby and Janet Hinderson-Hicks.  The nicest folks you could ever have take care of your kids.
  2. A guy in the attendance office.  School kid.  Teenager.  Said:  “Come to me, precious girl.  Pay me your fines by letting me touch between your legs.”  And that he did, to my surprise I got wet as a skunk.  And he touched me and touched me until I would have cum in his hands if I was able.
  3. My grandfather.  My parents used to always ask me if grandpa touched me in any certain way.  I liked—I said no.  But that was how I learned what “a certain kind of way” means—that it means touched me on my breasts or my twat.  My ass or anywhere I didn’t want to be touched.  But at the time I just said “no” and then I sat in the back seat of the car and thought of all that had happened with grandpa Mercury in our two short lives:  His was ending while mine was just beginning.
  4. Mr Cat Glasses.  That’s what I called him.  Big boy (black) who met me at the corner store.  He was smooth.  Asked me behind the counter to help him get more LaffyTaffys™.  You want to fill in the details?  None of these guys have creative sex.  They want to look at me—at my pre-pubescent face—while they place my hands carefully around their dick and tell me to “pump it, pump it”—get in there all around their dicks.  Respond to them putting their fingers on my neck and then making me fuck them with my mouth.  I couldn’t get anymore than candy man’s head into my mouth so I did that—fucked him shallow and resisted the urge to bite—to be done right there in the backstage of the candy store but it was actually #4 that convinced me that this was going to keep happening and that I better find a way to enjoy it.  Or if not that then a way to survive.
  5. Boys at school.  I never even went to school so these are the boys on television who abused me in my dreams, falling low before the TV, hallucinating that Cookie Monster brought me into his can and, there, stripped me of my asshole virginity with a long and crooked finger—grown with blue fur—groping me from the inside with that impossible fingernail.  Claw.  Thingy.  Watermelon rinds.  Blood sick.  Vomiting in the playroom when the Witch of the West rode in with her monkeys and killed everyone who was living in my lungs and music playing from the other room.  The kitchen television, turned on during the periods when you both worked and we watched Sesame Street™ all day.
  6. Bobby.  I include you on this list because for the first time, for the last time, you never touched me and I never saw you have sex.  You must have done it thousands of times in closed hotel rooms but you never tried it with me and when you went to work that was it—we never met up until late that evening, back at our spot, and when I asked you about it you never responded with a word.  You looked at me and grunted in a certain tone which meant:  “Terrible.  Don’t ask.”  Then you get various entries, made less frequently (as they began to run together, as they began to sing the same sad song):
  7. There was a guy named Fritz (or code named) Fritz.  He fucked in a southern style.  That means slow.  I even came with him a couple times.  It was a weak cum, mute, it happened in my head and I never let him see.  I ran slick and Fritz got up, sat in the corner chair, lit his cigarette.  Fritz never talked.  He sat there and smoked, and looked me over, this piece of beef he had just fucked.  He looked proud and he thought of himself as my dad:  Proud of his girl.  She was so accomplished.  Look at her, naked on a hotel bed, having made me cum.  She is silent.  Ready.  Willing.  Hungry.  Dirt poor.  She willingly gives the money to her handler.  And I’ll go, never looking Fritz in the face as he stood in the doorway wishing I was going home with him tonight.  Then he’d close the door.  That was Fritz.  Then we have a chorus of guys I saw only once or twice, with the piecemeal specks of detail I took from them:
  8. Marc and Mardi (another husband-and-wife couple) Pleshette.  They spoke French and only Marc ever did anything to me.  Never Mardi.  She held my hand from the bathroom to the bed, where Marc’s small erection and he were waiting (another partnership of crime)—waiting for me to come.  They tried to steal me and showed me pictures of them in a hot air balloon.  I would like that.  I would like that balloon as the only thing between me and Earth.  And gravity.  And I would break its bonds.
  9. A man with an umbrella.  This is in California where it never rains so I wondered what the umbrella was for.  When I asked him he laughed the ceiling down.  He asked me if I’d ever heard of JFK™ or the Babushka Lady.  I said no and he laughed at me.  I always hated that laugh.  It struck the bed from behind my back and when he tapped me on the shoulder that meant he was done.  That meant I was done.  And I got up and smoked a bowl of chrys until you came to get me.
  10. And the final person on my list, one of hundreds catalogued in my Paul Frank™ notebook, is you, the character I share this book with.  An oak of use and abuse.  The man who twisted me the most.  But I won’t describe you here.  You’re doing that so fine on your own.

A List of His Own

I have a list of my own.  Girls whose P❌SSY I’ve fucked.  So quiet down little girl and listen to this:

  1. Wanda the Fysh.  This was a 3-year-old doucher in the form of angels.  They appeared on my shirtsleeve with brushes they used to paint me with glitter.  My arms, the hair on my arms, the back of my neck.  And my hateful, hateful cock who took on a persona not even known to me.  A dark persona with a Batman™ name.  With his clear cape he brushes aside in cases of emergency.  That was Wanda.  Wishing in a wishing well.
  2. Megan the Miffed.  Megan has a stinky cunt.  She must never wash it—which is how I like them.  I held her inverted by her legs and put my face between them, inhaling her scent, swallowing her through my nose, sucking her so hard I thought I had banished that salty stank forever.  But no:  Turn her upside down, shake her like an iPhone™, and set her down again.  The game is reset.  Player one is ready.  Go!
  3. Tilda the Twitterpated.  I got this bitch off social media.  Transplanted her into the house—in what would become your room.  Kept her there for days without food.  By the time we opened the door Tilda could hardly stand.  I had to feed her for the first three days after her lockdown period.  Gave her a shot of chrys.  Melted it in a spoon, making sure it cooled.  Shot her in her arm—it hit instantly and she didn’t complain much after that.
  4. Lindsay the Lovely.  She played the flute in elementary school, which is when we got her.  Delicate.  Ultra blonde.  I mean a real girls’ girl fanatic.  She was the first one we used memory-erasure software for, in analogue, from the tip of a syringe.  Law enforcement sells it.  You can target just parts of a person’s memory:  Like you target “work” and it erases all your memories related to work.  That’s how the secret government uses it.  We got some bootleg off a bootleg (the stuff isn’t supposed to exist) and our version targeted sex—twelve hours after we gave it to Lindsay she knew nothing of what had happened the last 10 years.  She was homeless within minutes.
  5. Darla the Dumb.  Darla was dumb.  She liked fucking.  She would stop us in the hallway and drop trou.  We got rid of Darla early, preferring the dropped faces and muted disappointment with life that the normal ones had.  Darla was gone.
  6. Tina the Tiny/Meek/Tina Never Speaks and Tina the Tough.  Tina was a brunette.  We got her from a sidewalk way across town and she fought so hard.  She broke out of her restraints in the back of the truck and my partner had to punch her in the face to knock her out so she would act right.  Tina the Meek escaped the house seven times.  I think it was seven—I lost count.  We caught up with her at a Starbucks™ down the street screaming and yelling and we went in, picked her off the floor, and carried her out like My Two Dads.  Screaming.  I’m telling you.  Remind me to tell you sometime about what happened to Tina.  It’s not for the weak.  But perhaps if you can take this book you can take Tina’s demise in proper perspective.
  7. Abraham.  He’s the little guy that had your bed before you.  We let him go in Seattle.  This kid is prob’ly in a mental institution by now.  Raised by the state.  Hopefully he found a nice family and he can get into weekly therapy to talk his way through what happened to him as a child.  Good luck.
  8. One last kid I’ll mention by name:  That’s Timothy.  He was so friendly he walked right up to our truck.  Stepped right in!  We kept him unlocked and let him ride in the front seat.  Told him his dad was in an accident..we were there to help him..we needed to take Timothy to see his dad.  This was our boilerplate.  Your parents are in trouble, we are there to help you.  We’re caretakers.  But the important thing is to stress that their parents are in trouble.  That’s the magic, right there.  ‘Cause once a kid starts thinking about their parents being hurt, incapacitated, the kid’s focus goes to there and never comes back.  By the time Timothy asked the right kind of questions, we were already in the house.
  9. And the plethora.  Of little cunts and little assholes.  I liked kids—so it wasn’t a problem for me.  I mean I really liked them—used to read books to them and everything.  Gave them baths and loved them like they were my children (and yes, I have children of my own).
  10. All of this equals down to you, my little girl.  Your dirty (disgusting) piano-playing twat.  By the time we found you we had grown more careful.  Waited more time between pickups.  Six months or more.  Almost a year in your case.  I’m sitting at the bench at Denny’s™ flipping through this three-ring binder and I stop flipping.  Wipe my glasses.  Take your photo from behind the acetate.  I looked at you and held you to my lips and I stared so hard at your little-girl panties.  Trying to discern what was in them.  I put that picture in my shirt pocket and it was never returned to the book.

That, my girl, is my list.  Touché!

I bet you cannot best it in a thousand years.

I’m Just A Little Girl With a Good P❌SSY

Just invisible.  Just sitting behind the sidelines.  Ready for you to drop kick me Jesus™ through the goalposts of life.  Some phrase stuck in me since before I could remember.  Protecting my chastity—wouldn’t that have been nice.  To have sex for the first time on man’s nonexistent wedding night.  Waiting for your touch.  Something gentle.  I don’t know.

You asking me if I’m in pain.

Me shushing you with my lips.

Open for you.

And this is where the fantasy ends.  That moment when I shush you.  That’s as far as I can see.  As far as I can wonder what you would have been like—what I would have been like—if we had come to each other not as slaves but both masters of ourselves.  I think it could work out like that.  But once I have been kidnapped, put in a cage, all the essential parts of me have broken.  Gone to shit.  And I’m 16 or so, wandering eastern boardwalks, wandering western boardwalks, feeling the breeze of the sea.

She is the only lover I have ever had.

Western breezes cooling my skin and I go down to the edge of the water.  Where it rides my ankles and touches me gently like a lover should.  Slow sex?  I’ll never know it.

It’s not my place to know it.  I am a prescription bottle who can’t even open her lid.  Who can’t even get to the goodness inside.  The sweetness of pills.  Society has chosen me to be on bottom.  By being female, by being so weak you could crush the life from me with your hands.

And—oh!—how would that be?  If you choked me!  If you wrung the life from my neck.  And the last thing I saw was your motel room ceiling.  Little boogers up there, each the same as the others in general form, each different from the others in every tiny detail.

I’m a mixtress.  Swallowing your cock to appease you.  Let me choke on you to make you smile—that way murder will be the last thing on your mind.  But even if you did it, you would never think of murder as the cause of death.  The police might.  But between you and me it would just be choking, death.  Murder is implied.  It is unsaid, old fashioned—it is dead itself, from the inside out, no longer fitting itself inside the letters: m u r d e r.

I don’t even think it would be an emotional experience.  It wouldn’t be for you.  It wouldn’t be for me.  It would just be two consenting adults engaged in a pleasurable act—you killing me and you sitting beside my body on the bed and you surveying your treasure—just a few minutes and my P❌SSY would go through the change (the death change) and so you look at me and you feel the hardness of your cock and you decide to—yes!—to fuck me in death—all the pleasure for you, tucking your arms around my dead head.

My death head is more beautiful than you have ever seen one dead or alive my hair keeps growing fingernails (yes!) my bones start to brittle holding ham and cheese diction I am dead but singing a song inside my skull with zero brain activity zero voices zero dangerous impulses zero dollars in my bank account which is just a shell I buried in the waves.

She rises and falls, rises and falls.

Pouring out the secrets I have told her.

Many times, many times.

Many times a secret untold is a secret many times heard.  Often held.  Tucked inside my bra.  One corner peeking out for me to grab—if I like—at the commencement of your hotel party with every drug imaginable but all I want to do is to use the bathroom—and this symbol appears in my dreams—being at this impossible party and I’m making my way to the bathroom and everyone I pass offers me drugs.

I’m telling them no (knowing myself that all I want to do is pee in a nice toilet this time—one I do not have to clean).  All I want is to sneak a shower in the clean stall I picture behind that door.  With soap provided!  What a luxury.

And I’m making it across the floor.

And there you are.

Doing a shot with me.  Of some ghetto vodka that will never get me buzzed.  And I am leaning to your ear, asking you if I can use the bathroom and you look at me like I’m crazy and say, “Sure, kid—sure,” and you point me in the direction I was going before I ever saw you and I un-clamp your fingers from my arms and I’m running toward the door—

—and when I get there, wrenching the handle against years of rust I wish I could spray it with some WD-40™ wish I had stronger arms wish that I didn’t have to pee!

Falling between the cracks of the door and the bathroom door wall.

Falling.  Just falling.

Into the blackness, into your vodka mouth.  Wrenched of my goodness—of my loving heart.  My living self.  I may just be barely but I am alive.  Alive enough to struggle.  Alive enough to admit defeat.

But not tonight.

Tonight I make it all the way to the door.  Make it all the way through the door.

And I close and lock it and sit my ass down and it’s clean and cool.  Spotless against my skin.  I let go and it comes out as a spray.  Wide and warm and deep as a deep deep well.

When I Fry Fries, I Fry Them Completely

So come to me, naked ones, small fries, empty ones, ones who have selected themselves for extinction, girls who loved me in a past life—follow me into the fire!

You have always followed me, as children to the Pied Piper, follow me to the river to die.

Step with me off this ledge.

Burn with me in the leaves.

Eat with me the whole of crispy fries—we fried your tots in the fire so they’d never get floppy.  So that they would never want of rest.

Eat your tots for lunch.

Use this TV guide—interact is violated—only signals coming in to you, only signals going out are show selections.  You can’t file for help—it’s standard TV.  And you cannot cry for help with me.

I embarrassed myself with your shadow family, my shadow self went on about some age-old banishment, speaking out of turn, and nothing at all changed.  When I left the talk your shadow family only thought of me a second-hand less.  Everyone else stayed equal to how they had come in.  You were there.  In the central of the mix.  You looked at me and dialed me down.  But you had my intentions since you were three years old.  You had me, knew me, wrapped me into my present state.  Some lunch-counter meat sliced thin for sandwiches.  By the counter person who especially likes you.  So.  I don’t know—I guess that’s an especially dangerous place for me to be.

Under the lights.

Being interrogated by you.

We occupy some afterlife which isn’t on another plane or another dimension—it’s right here, right now, in every immeasurable moment of time.  Space.  Uninterruptible horror.  This time not on TV.  This time it’s only in your mind.

Slapped in, tight with screws, slap a bit of paint on there to recuse yourself.  Why don’t you do that, girl?  Why don’t you do that to me—step backward, out of line, head down motherfucker, they’re coming, coming for us both.  They are in black spots all throughout the house they’re like injury spines mixed with overhead sprinkler apparatus holy unions only  what about unholy ones?  What about them?  Unions of one side.  Unions of force—what is wrong?  I count every union from the back of time up until now and every one I find I find false, unleaded, in-equal, sideways—unstoppable in their asymmetry.

I am the god of graves.

I guard my memories of you in my binder.  My plastic notebook.  I wipe my fingerprints off its surface every time I turn the page.  Every time I turn the page and see your face, anew, is a time my cock hardens underneath the McDonald’s™ dining room table.  (It is indestructible else I would rip it from the floor and empty the place with my monster (The Hulk) the volume of which consumes every soul within a hearing radius.

That is how I come!

Hard and fast and loud.  With certainty.  I.  Directness.  And impossible aim.

I turn green when my partner looks at you.  I know when we transfer you from Fresno that you will interest him and I will be the one—with you in the bathroom—wiping his cum up from your P❌SS.  I will have to share.  Will have to wonder what faces you make for him—squirming—as he takes you inside the cage, drops your overalls, drops down your panties, and looks you up and down like a robber.

Bearing south by south west.

North by north east.

Shipped you FexEx™ and the label on your package said, “I want you to fuck me and you’ll never forget it.”  Plain like that.  Me and my man unzipped your FedEx™ Box.  Let you crawl from within it, let you crawl along our kitchen floor, diaper leaking, fuzz stuck to these corners of your mouth, toddler mind frame clobber my brain nice and quick and I was (as if on crack) dreaming you and you dreaming me, the truth of the situation lies somewhere between your father and your mother, me and partner going ape shit, seeing this rooter scooter ramping speed from one side to the other, our Little Tikes™ automobile revving and ramping and we both thought:  “When are we gonna get this thing to do our deeds?”  What sign is she?  How do they get the batteries into that sticky little head?

That was in the kitchen.

We followed you to the living room.  To your bedroom.  With Max the Black.  And now you:  Our new Blackness.  Obsidian.  Precious.  Stoned.  Grown up strong.  Waddle those legs apart.  Strong, see?  She will do us so well, will be placed on the mantle—our prize—lovely head, graceful moves—she is perfection, personified—and a happy smack! upon her rear.

And what today comes out as a happy scream will morph unheard into silence, black eyeballs, resisting every urge.

And what tomorrow will resist and urge me away, two years from now will accept my approach neutrally, helping my cock cum in whatever hole I like—she will have accepted me.

Accepted me like the barons accepted a robber.  Steals everything in sight.  Steals every egg you ever laid, swiftly.  Steal it from up inside you.  Steals everything my cock can reach from you hot! cunt, hot wax, hot hotel cumming with my hot dreams.  Running now between those legs streaming down cheeks, your lips, your legs—part one I make your world disappear, part two I make love to that sticky-wicky coochie my coochie.  Soft and wet, yes, but also a pocket of in-equal tightness and hotness.  It isn’t so much tight as it is plush—more a Hot Pocket™ of Love.

That is how I see your P❌SSY.

As a P❌SSY Should Be

Quiet.  Indestructible.  Relentless.  An instrument of war.

That’s how you think my P❌SSY should be.

Some kind of Rubbermaid Bath time P❌SS.  Comes in colors of blue and green.  Beaten down by you with every supposable fuck.  Your fur mountain thing plus my fur mountain thing—tugboats roiling for best position.  Slight lag in the secondary play—player one has the momentum needed to remain player one.  Player two will sink, economically, leading me to sleep in places you have never even heard of.

Places hidden to your car path—you would have to be on foot to see us.  And you would have to stray far from the tourists’ path.  So far you never would—lest you be an anthropologist or a sweaty-toothed madman, referring back through a figurehead (dead) to us all, now—left us here alone.  Took your laughing head with you to the grave I attended the nothing funeral in my best inconspicuous clothes.  My best inconspicuous hand.  My best inconspicuous throne, where you and I sit widely wondering what happens after this.  That is all of life:  Wondering what will happen after this.

I wonder where you went, Robin.  Wonder where my childhood friend is hiding.  Suspecting it is nowhere—hasn’t he affected my consciousness enough?  Isn’t he alive inside of me?

Those are the rules—of disengagement.  Of disloyalty of disrespect.  And you know what is so different between the left and the right?—the real defining quack is that the left has humor the right will never have.  The ability to laugh—afforded only to those with a light consciousness.  When you’re covering up bodies there is no laughter.  The one who’s stealing doesn’t laugh—the one being stolen from might.

I’m laughing every day on this outlook.  Everyone is my bro.  Everyone takes from me.  Everyone rapes from me.  In fact if hard pressed I would not be able to tell the difference between rape sex and non-rape sex.  Lol.  I never got those feminist arguments that said that rape is not sex, that rape is an expression of power.  To me all sex is rape and all rape is sex.  You can’t fool me by saying that rape is not sex—of course it is!  Of course it is, kemosabe.  Of fucking course it is.

You want our fucks to be clean like wiping off a Formica™ counter top.

Like Elvis—or Buddy Holly.

You never squirt I never leak and when you’re done you order me to wipe the counter down with a hot soapy cloth, wipe away all evidence that we were here.  Wipe it all away, kemosabe—wipe it all away from Genesis to Revelation, from the alpha to the ever-loving omega.  That is the true beginning, the true end.  That is the model in which you have cast me—that is all you see.  Impenetrable counters, not like you penetrate me.  This form of penetration acts like my skin is being broken when you come into me but my P❌SSY does not work that way.

Not at all.

Not for every false analogy you make for me with words.  Not for every false ceiling.  I have a real ceiling which I hit on a regular basis.  When the piecemeal of my sexuality is squeezed out of me like toothpaste—there’s always a bit more, hiding at the bottom of the tube.  And it requires madness/acrobatics to get it free.  Me stuck in the bathroom working it out, sitting back on the toilet seat.

What do I think about?—Is that your question?

I think of you.  I cannot help myself.  I think of you in your deep navy zipper sweater like the one Mr Rogers wore.  Taking off your shoes when you come in the house, tossing them over your shoulder, opening the gate to a Make Believe.  Opening the frame to Picture in Picture.

Spreading my P❌SSY lips with pointer and middle, there is my hole for you!  Here I am fuck head.  Here I fucking am for you, dry hole you have to spit on to get inside and then it’s grunting and stressing and fucking me beautifully.  But it’s that image of my cooch as dry—that gets you—it gets you right between your ears as you want to find out how far the dry part lasts.  Before—

—Before it becomes the Amazon.  That used to be a rainforest.  Came along before Bezos™ stopped the money plungers and died rich—he started drone delivery—that’s what he did.  And I’m early morn and lateness (dawn through dusk) those drones are known to fit the sky.

Fly them in between my legs.  To your wet/dry water buffalo of dreams.

Deliver it straight to my P❌SS—straight on in.  Deliver me twice a day, four times a day—eight?

Deliver moisture for me, right there!  Make me wet, good man, as I am sitting here on this toilet getting off my broken P❌SSY.  To images of you in the dark people banging on the door—kicking it, saying:  “You better clear out or I’m gonna take this shit right on your face.”

That’s what they say—and they mean it, too.

“Better clear out or I’m gonna take this shit and when I take it I’m gonna take it on your motherfucking face.”

That’s what they say to me, these sibling street bitches.  And later we’ll be sitting down at Muscle Beach and everyone smiles and laughs and bums a rollie and re-wraps the rollie for good measure (for bums) (for street kids) for the blessing of the pot.  But then someone will be like:  “You sure took your time in the bathroom today.”

And in my head, I will be the disgrace of all.

Of all of you.

You will know what I was doing in there.  Living for an instant and even in that instant I couldn’t escape the men who use me.  I want to be used by them.

But not like present.

I want to be used fully—Candy Crush™ my brain, crushed as a paper cup—crush me all the way till I float away.  That’s how I want you to use me.  (If we were both full people.)  That’s how I want to be used.

Oh, how I long to be in a woman’s P❌SSY!

Candy Crush™, level 147, level 181, level 350, level 410, 419, 437, these are the hardest levels in our game.  Those are the levels when I crush you.  Levels where I’ll be pulling the candy out your teeth with my pliers.  And the crack between your legs, everywhere leading to darkness, everywhere doubling your mind, tripling your brainpower, quadrupling your physical strength, you don’t even know it yet but you can beat me with your bare hands—the pairing has switched its magnetic field, broken by angels—anytime you want, you can wring my fucking neck.

I will keep the vantage to my favor as long as you don’t realize it.  As long as you stay on bottom, I will be on top.  As long as you never move, as long as you croon me, spoon me, hold me like your baby.  That’s all I want, my precious dear.  I would hate to show it as you cup me from behind and my tears flow out of my eyes and onto the bed sheets, you doing something very much like loving me.

I swear that’s what I’m after:  A quick fuck and a long, long love.

Waiting for my death.  And I know that moment will cover the globe with release, depressing mental conditions all of which seem to increase the suicide rate.  I don’t know which of those you have, my dear precious, my rabbit’s foot, my good luck charm.  I know I’m out of style but that is where I hope you’ll teach me.  Set me up homeschool—feel the burn of the laptop on my thighs, every hole punch leaving a red dot over my follicles—some for nerves, some for hair that no longer grows.

So easily, over the moor.

Yes, my corpus floats out to its middle and release! the kraken I am stuck inside this skin.  It’s zipped too tight around my legs, around my neck, all inside I know I look terrible I am like chop suey! all over the operating table and the doctor’s like what?  What man is this?  What’s the man’s name?  Write down his Social Security number on this page right here sign him into existence without this number he will never see the inside of an emergency room plunder what I call the greatest power in the universe.  Clumsily arranging gels and filters over the universe lights.  Those bright bright spots I project myself there and all I heard was a massive computer say “I love you.”

I swear to god, that’s exactly what it said, and I was like:  What am I doing over here on my side of the universe?  Why have I come to this place?  I abduct people from their supposable lives.  I take them from their homes and I never take them back.  That’s abduction, right?  That’s what I’m doing?

Why is this my hunger?  And how can such a small demographic be so large?  What are we lacking in our youths that makes us think it would be ok to traffic someone?  At night.  To go in through their bedroom window pretending to be an alien, grabbing arms and kicking legs putting tape over their tiny child mouths.  Wrenching them free from their beds.  Hoping this one will last longer than the last!

Putting you in the back seat.

Me, stepping into the front, my partner driving off slowly, then regular, and soon we’re out of the neighborhood with no lights around us.  That cool feeling of butterflies arises within me and I am free!  I am so free.  I can do anything.  So why do I have to keep doing this?

I look over the seat.

There you are.  My god.  There you fucking are! with your PJs on and you’re sucking your thumb and even your PJs have that inner gusset right between your legs.  Might as well be a symbol that says:  Fuck here.

And when I get you home that’s exactly what I will do, strip you of those jammies, running a zipper down your left side, precious, darling, dear.  You are mine today.  This is Christmas™ times one-thousand, cradling your cunt in my cupped hand.  Pee comes out.  I make a fist and rub it on my face.

Starting to take.

Starting to take you.

Take your urine cells into me.  Gonna fuck you while you’re scared, while you’re still awake.  And may that orgasm cleanse me of my dirtiness.  My mental filth.  When I get you on the bed you’ll be tight with fear, rolling with the sky.

Holding onto where you come from.

The memory still stays.

And afterward I will be unable to sleep.  To keep an ear out for you trying to escape, making too much noise.  We left a copy of The Little Prince in the kids’ room.  Maybe you’ll read it when you’re older.

Getting up at 3am.

Leaving my partner in bed.

We’ve both had our turns at you and both silently agreed this is the one!  That’s you, my beautiful one.  So young!  So delicate and so so young.

When I get to your room I take off my glasses.  Rub my eyes.  You are at eye level.  Hands on the window bars.

I go to you and, ignoring your screams, I take you by your armpits and lower you onto the bed.

Settle you.

Wait for your cries to stop.

Say:  “Listen, girl.  You got to quit with that crying, ok?  Tomorrow we’re going to get you new clothes and you can watch the TV and it’ll be fun!  Fun with fear.  But that quantity, the fear, it’s not permanent.  The fear will go away.”

But she looked up at me, like something from another planet.

And those eyes.

Those eyes!

They evoked in me feelings from far away and I swear they had a reddish color.  Those eyes!  If she wasn’t speaking telepathically then it must be my imagination.  I could not look away.  Terrifying, terrifying—to this day, as I am writing this, the shock and the beauty and the terror contained within those eyes—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

I Throw My Pennies / Into the Wishing Well

Following the rhythm up and down my crystal pipe.

Sitting (almost lying) on the sidewalk.

Looking up at the sky, feeling the breeze on my arm hairs.  Stimulating the follicles.  Hearing the drone of a van rolling up the hill.  A new car for this area—our cul-de-sac doesn’t see much traffic and I’m appreciating the day, moment by moment, that is what my dad told me to do.

I remember him as precious.  I remember a smart man and a caring man and a gentle man.  I don’t remember much else.

And the van swoops up with their your parents are sick routine, their come with me and we’ll save your daddy routines and swoop! they upped and picked me up off the floor—that yard where I was day dreaming—and the next thing you know I’m passed out in the back seat having drunk their special serum mixed with Coke™ to make it all ever so much more palatable.

Ever so much sweeter.

Ever so much more of an easy thing to do.

They eased me into it, rather than slice and dice me, my mental property, and ultimately my largest organ (the skin) which they could have gone hog wild on.  Could’ve closed down my entire (once upon a time) solution.

They could have come at me rogue-deep unleashing drones which we sent to fight our wars.  The animals and the robots?—They started killing themselves.  Unleash an impossible argument about drones ending their own lives to save the rest of us.

Drones throwing themselves over the sides of cliffs.

They are under intelligent control.

And am I thankful?—Yes.  For this—Yes.  Am I worried drones are going to take over my job?  I can’t wait long enough for this to happen:  For robots to be enough like humans that they abduct us to fuck us.  We are the starships in Galaga™ waiting to be abducted by that mothership—The only down side is:  Will there be enough space on that conical cloud coming down over all of our eyes.

I already died once.  It changed the shape of my ribs.  My xiphoid process.  Every organ covered under the cage.  Protected, now.  And aren’t we on a different planet.  They were strangers to the neighborhood (alien).  They were strangers to me and I a stranger to them.  Bionical tactics (abduction).  Tales from the Duck.  When they turned to look in the back seat they saw my eyes which burned red and so much horrified these men they had to turn away.  Look at the road.  I think we have a live one here.  (Live if you look in my eyes.)  (Live when you squeeze my hand.)  (Live broadcasting down Santa Monica Lane.)  So live they had to blindfold my eyes.  And even that didn’t work.  They pulled over the car and said to me:  “Alien girl!  Cease your eye language!!  Stop trying to control me!—You have no psychic powers!!”  You have no teleportation.  Not a puppy on your bike.  Not even a bike (if I did have a bike I never would have been taken by them).

I wanted to do sexual experiments on him and his partner but he got to me first.

Damn.  I got played.

Played right off the edge of the playground.

I got played so hard—so hard.  And the initial play was so entirely non-sexual.  So entirely non-sex that I fell for that.  Fell for that so hard I hit my head.  I must have lost my senses.  Lost them so hard in that fear for my father’s ok(ness)—his health—his happiness.

That I simply fell for it.

That’s all it takes.  Trust your fellow man and get fucked!—That should be a warning on the side of a carton called life.

Then they quickly moved me into the house I have mentioned.  The basement.  The first floor.  One bedroom.  One bathroom.  Belts sewn onto the side of the mattresses.  Always that slight smell of shit.  I’m supposed to be happy with my one bed?  One roomie?  Sex four times a day (sometimes seven) and I didn’t even know what sex was, back then—just pain ‘cause I was too small for foreign penises.  Just a time I was told to Keep it quiet!

Keep it quiet keeps the beatings to a minimum.

By the time I left that house I didn’t even feel pain in my ass or upper legs—they had been beaten too often—and I’m proud to say my P❌SS had a minimal amount of numbness (applied) to my hair and neck where I was squeezed (too) hard (too) tight (too) damaging my throat so I feel pain with every swallow.

Swallows twice.  Clears the main glob of cum out my mouth.  The rest will take toothpaste and even that doesn’t get it.  Not even mouthwash.  Not spice.  Not beer.  When I kiss you inside my mind my mouth tastes like cum.  Not yours.  Some joe reflexively spurting in my mouth (all over) (all up and down) every tooth, every gum infiltrated by Seal Team Six™ shot me through with automatic weaponry designed by some PhD holing up in his workshop making millions up on the hill but making dimes down here on the street making pennies in the third world.

Strap a small girl into her bed and infiltrate her P❌SSY with your wet fingers stick it in as deep as your finger can go all the way to the back of me.  You’re setting screws for your picture of me you wouldn’t want to set me improperly you wouldn’t want for me to move.

You wouldn’t want to mis-tool me.

To scrape me and stretch me.

To rape me and retch me.

Your abduction of her is like an alien sexual examination.  Your tools (advanced).  Your motivation (advanced).  In fact every thing about you is advanced except for your emotions which are a spaghetti pile of motherfucking shit.

When I Wish’d You Were Gone

When didn’t I?  When in rock’d and I roll’d.  That’s when.

That’s when I cock’d you and hold you.  With a wither in my hand and a strap in my other.  Pure leather.  Tha’s what I’m talking about.

A full pomp ‘n’ circumstance at regular tempo.  Suck my cock at blaming and Renfro.  Your sock subscription didn’t arrive this month.  It never arrives when you’re bleeding.  Never arrives when you’re sad—never today when you would really need it.  Never today when you would really cum for me.  Applying your socks to each foot with special care.  Baby powder each toe (in between) slip the socks on my fake two-year-old wife (she doesn’t care).

No she does not care.

She doesn’t care!

Does not give a fuck.  Does not fuck a give.  Does not a fuck give.  Does not fuck a diamond in the rough—never, never does.

Never dies in the rough.

Never flies in the fluff.

Now you’re screaming.  Doubling down on your position as the slave.  Four times down in the side pocket.  Eight in the center.  Sixteen from the back pock—et.

I do my business at dawn.  Screeching to the backdrop of my partner sleeping of The Gospel of Saint Thomas perjury files.  X-Files™.  You never knew what to believe.

That is when I did not know what to believe.  Lights out.  Release the Kraken.  You are the projectionist to a commercial I hate.  The mixologist to a track on which I hate.  Verbologist to a dragon skate.

The key.  To.  My.  Hate.

The key.  To.  My.  Hurt.

The key to my debit card.  The key to my skates.  The key to the front door.  Of my house.  To my shed.  To.  My.  Base.  Ment.

To my.  Ment.  Al.  I.  Ty.

To my ex.  Crem.  Ent.

You—the keyholder’s infinite—synth me a song of death.  Synth.  Me.  A.  Proper.  Melody.  For.   E.  To.  Die.  Under.

For me.  To try.

Better to die.  You.

I stole your everything—now it’s time for who? to die?

Time for your continence—bubbling in secret over the wall that lay between us—guzzling swiftness.  The bubble of babble.  We fuck these days for convenience.  Waiting to see if a baby will come.  You turn to the edge of them bed and say, “Can I smoke in here?” and when you’re smoking here you violate my only rule.  And I believe that you provide that rule to test my alien come (origin) by come by come, testing my inanity (my humanity) testing my continence, testing my my chromo-somo-best-iality (once more).  Once more you violate the seminal principles of some bible somewhere.  Slap its cover against your knee and pray with me.

Will you?

Will you please drown me in the river.  Reading passages from Psalms™.  Psychotic passages Praise God™ for My Little Pinky Finger—pub.  Pub.  Lic.  Ly.  I was drown’d in that river.  Drown’d with my Lucy.  I guess that’s what I’ll call you—My Li’l Lucy.  Doll.  Pre-fab houses and random nature of construction.  Half ‘n’ Half.  Bicarbonate of soda.  That volcano inside my first grade year—except—my volcano was never a project.  All it ever was was something underwater—underwater take your pills underwater sink to the bottom—underwater seeing air my mother made it happen and all I gave her in return is you can’t see me!

No.  You never can.

No, you never will.

Now I sit in a sun puddle in the back yard.  With children locked in the second bedroom.  Picturing them sleeping.  Or watching TV.  Their life is the simple life now.  When we come to fuck them they acquiesce.  They are all fingers and arms.  Stickiness.  Running from here to there across the bed.  My white and yellow cum streaks from their face to the sheets to the surface of the mattress to the middle of the mattress—end of the road—mite food now slipping through your fingers—slipping through their hair.

Waiting (in essence) to their blueberry.  Their mighty wall that any of them could erect at any time.  Each is the president of their own domain.  Owning it (but they don’t know it) forever locked by their primitive minds.

Locked.  With an intrinsic key.

One programmed by me.

You swallowed it and you didn’t even know you were underwater.  The key (liquid) the water (same).  And never you were understood.  Quite never!  Oh never did you understand me.

No, never did you understand my traps.

My reasoning (no)!

My typos (no)!  My entire life is an infinite trap of food glorification and insulin (measuring blood sugar) I have turned diabetic sneaking drinks at the bar at 10am.  Slicing me twice-ing me!  Behind me (microdosing).  Before me (microdosing).  The logic of a cock (mine) running a cunt (yours) into tha motherfucking ground.  Blazing away!  Setting tha cork on fire.  Breathing into me with a crack dragon.  (Artifact!)  Breaking (bad)—I never watched it though I assume it is made of snails, and pails, and puppy-dog tails.  (They snuck one past us in the mail.)

Frogs.  And dogs.  Slippery little-girl fingers and slippery cunts filled with snail-juicing coaches (of fitness) (of fortnights) (of blooms) (of flowers) (of whatever you want to put there).

Of hair.

Of a tigress’ lair.

You put fifty cents into the snack machine and get out a gazelle.

You retrieve her with chalky claws.  Bring her blood to your mouth.  Simmering her on the flames of the Serengeti.  Brought her to broil.  She tongued you on bottom-side (totally against her will).  And brought you there.  Brought you to her horror state.  Dipping you in liquid—oil.

And suckling.

That’s her P❌SSY sucking.

Suckling you for longtime Emmy™.

Longtime suckling.

Emmy™.

Longtime.

Suckling.

Emmy™.

Without Any Foresight the Chemicals Come

Serum swishing all around in this syringe this one’s the property of Dad™.  His favorite name for me to call him.  To swing him around my mind on that the uneven bars will you please stop so you can see my performance?  Please stop!  Stop trying to use up my currency of fame.  My relevance.  For a while I am relevant, then I will pass into relevance.  Then I will pass out, cease to be myself, cease for me to exist (within popular scopes) (within the major sites) (a dinner/school of fun) (irrelevance)—mystreal.

Mystreal fashion.

Mystreal shoes.

Those are forms of the mystreal I never will experience—I never will have had, I never will have learned.

I have never had my own room (to my memory) and you might as well be my papa my grandpa my good-natured grandma my excellent mother (who is a blank for me).  She never exists beyond the word and its vocal content.  Content as a word.  Never as a person.  Mother as its spelling and syntax—nothing more!  Nothing ravenous.  Nothing like a pencil.  Nothing like a present take raking my face (the upper lip) and raking my P❌SSY to the consistency—of a baby.

Which that is what you want (huh?) as a man in this world of women.  The spankiness of a baby.  Powerful in her element.  But I’ve never been in my element ‘cause I’ve spent my life locked up with you.

As far as I know this country has never had a sex prisoner serve its highest office.

The closest we’ve ever had was a man in a wheelchair.  Insert some kind of speech here—linking Roosevelt™ with sex-slave disabilities like disassociation, borderline personality disorder, and (my favorite: rage disorders).

Middle memories making me mad!

Sex slavery sucks!—Suddenly scooping paraform psychologies.  Psychopathologies.  Seriously setting off sizzles between sides of my brain b.  Taking me (twice baked) to take off my top, then my tube socks, my tether to reality.  Inviting psychosis in my infant brain.

Told, through Tupperware™.  Taken on smells from top-shelf potions/elixirs/trash.  I think you must have fed me portions of the Oscar trash can because I can feel the effects of that diet biting me like ulcers.  Taking my voice hostage.  Casting me ashore.

Pushing myself rolling wheels of a grocery cart.  Fingers dripping below the safety level—below you shall not pass.  I have a sinking feeling that everyone around me is using me (again) maybe they are looting my debit card.  My man took off with it yesterday night—came back with bruises over his face.  I looked at the card later and it’s just a cash card so we can buy things off the internet.  Small balance:  Fifty bucks.  Fifty bucks that’s been there waiting for us for that twice-a-year restaurant trip I’m talking like Schwab’s not something nicer but nicer than Mickey D’s™.

I hang out there in the past tense (struggling as an actor in LA) that is a fantasy of mine I move here to become an actor from someplace in Ohio that’s where I imagine it was someplace like Dayton Ohio or Bloomington Indiana.  Then I came here on a bus and got taken from above by a carrion crow claw marks in each shoulder—that’s where you grabbed me.  Took me skyward.  And to my place of last resort.

Kept captive for (pedometer == greater than one-hundred) steps and kills and wondrunces, before I could date to ask you to bring me a special dinner—no!—I could never, never do that so star lit I eat tray food by the burglar bars at midnight (you brought us breakfast sandwiches from the Golden Arches™ it took my taste buds to another dimension I am serious (I am) so serious—about my—breakfast—sandwiches I sweep up every fragment of egg and leave my wrapping paper bare.  As in:  Like new.  You would wrap the next sandwich in the queue with my dirty wrapper—That’s how clean my dirty wrapper is.

So clean my yellow dirty wrapper is.

Clean enough for the millions.

Yellow that soaks up all the urine, all the shit.  All the restroom bathrooms.  Sucking on the contents of their floors, completely, leaving every mess in my wrapping paper and nothing on the floor.

That is how you made me:  I’m the girl lying face down on the bathroom floor greeting every morning’s public member with my bare ass stuck high enough in the air that a bear might gather a scent of me with her curious nose, push open the bathroom door to find me prone in the disability-having stall in the very back of the room that’s where she opens the door and copulates my asshole only one! bear finger and two! bear fingers and three! bear fingers hold me open and picks the lint from my P❌SSY lips—licks! my hole wide open, welcoming, and warm.

That is where you will find me:  Slopped over the throne at Mickey D’s™, taking it from a bear in my well-known port, blocking the disability stall from actually disabled people.  And running by outdoors is the entire swarm of a Harley club, making great paces and gaining great distances.

I sit with great ass.  I am servicing the bear.  What he gets from this I’ll never know.  She must want intimacy with a child from her own species.  I hope she gets it—this thing she cannot get from her own species so she shrivels up in jail seeks the most innocent of people and puts me in the headlock (wrestling with the dread locks)—She knows only to take my P❌SSY lick by lick, stick by stick, click by click—That if she took me any faster I would be no more—No more ice cream—But instead—The stale remnant of front butt melted all down its stick—Melting—Melting to its core.

I Lick Them Clean:  Lollipops To The Core

To the bone.  I pick you clean, lick you down to the dot.  I dig you up after I have buried you.  Burned you.  Sunk you below the dirt.  That is where you’ll find me, two feet under—three feet, six feet—buried to your core.  A lodge of men, sitting under the tent.  Everyone holding hands.  Or they would be if they weren’t in circle-jerk position.  Motoring down on the job.  Lips sunk into each beer.  Each one monitoring the next with a convenient iPhone™ app that takes its cues from a heartbeat signal flowing through your arms—sticking you (pricking you) inside a mass of nerves that go to your brain that go to your head that go all the way to your mouth.

Parking lot birds—you know the ones that are too small to fit inside your mouth—coming from around the edges—coming from the inside—coming from that hole in your neck—the hole—the—hole—

—at the center of your Tootsie Roll Pop™.  Mining all convention.  Mining all convenience.  Burying every stake neck-deep in this Earth in this planet in this celestial media in this celestial mountain that’s where the—orange—keeps (that’s where it stays) that’s where it goes to keep cool.  To swim.  With fishes.  With cosmic tendencies.  To ache with cosmic tendencies.  To break with them.  To shake with them.  To take us down in mirrors of silent protestation.  To make us come down—deafening—a roar from the forest creatures—you follow me into the fyre—clues to your entire self to your entire generation to your entire head you come unglued you know those parking lot birds they’re the tiniest ones who can only survive (with gusto!) on the fringes of a human body arising from parking lot edges feeding off the crumbs of people our laziness feeds an entire generation of birds.

I’m immortal motherfucker.  Living off the extra genes of the world’s smallest one-cell organism.  Of the smallest perch.  Of the smallest birch.  Their genetic extravities fill my motherfucking room!

They twill you (filling you) making magic squirts from my ass.  We do it together (me by choice) me by infinitesimal rage.

Infinitesimal rage from baskets hanging joy.  By my infinitesimal rage.  Are you watching out for my rage? because rage rage rage! extraordinary rage.  Almost infinite quantities of rage blustery rage rage with tickets to the next big show rage for my math class in the tenth grade rage scattered randomly over a bloc of school kids fucking under the table in fourth grade.  Fucking with hands on nipples pinching clitori of the fuck fuck!—the fucking while.  The fucking wow factor trimming the goose trimming all around the penile glands trimming all around your sensitive parts all around your penis and your vagina—these parts belong to me!—to me, you figure-it-out-able-s.

I just received a robocall in Chinese.

Where do these fuckers get the idea that I speak Chinese?

Motherfuck Chinese.  It’s just another language they will con yourself to believe.  Like the myth there are a billion people in India—what kind of people (I ask you) what kind of people are there a billion of.  You.  Blind-nature’s.  Motherfuckers.

Unable to handle an invasion from the motherfuckers to handle.  Unable to mount an invasion from the dirty birds.  Unable to guard their temples from this verbal interlude.  Inable to circulate flowers in invincible mode times two break me break my body from invincibility from abject professionalism.  From abject professionals.  I saved myself a life of yes and thank yous and now I’m one of the few who survived a life of Mickey D’s™ I mean I survived the robot cuts and now I’m one of the few who still work here while robot technicians, robot servers to fill your order, and the owner is a programmer—he took a Python course when he was younger and that, my friends, is (more than anything) is what qualifies him to own a Mc D’s™.  He posts up in the client eating area and plugs in his ginormous gaming laptop (ridiculous screen) you know, one of those gauche things with dynamo potential.  I gotta get me one of those.

Those Best Buy™ laptops—you know?  The ones black people and poor people buy ‘cause the screen is über large and it looks impressive when you post up in a coffee house or at a Mickey D’s™ you own.  In the future everyone knows what everyone knows and everyone goes where everyone goes—n’est pas?  Find yourself playing Angry Birds™ McDonald’s™ Edition™.  Fucking Crap Your Pants Edition™ in the McDonald’s™ Treasure Chest Edition™.  Big Boy Pants Edition™.  Elephant Stroll Edition™.  NatGeo™ Saving the Planet Edition™.  Richard Attenborough™ PlayStation™ Edition™.  Tyke Cycle Edition™.  Infinitesimal Playmate Edition™.  Goddess One-Note Edition™.  Curious George Edition™.  Someone’s Yellow Monkey Edition™.  The Monkey Has A Tail Edition Marked for your Excellence at the Olympic Edition™.  Marked for my Obsession Edition™.  A Perfumer’s  Edition™ Stroked We Had it Iron Maiden™ believing in me from the very beginning believing in me from the most excellent maw of my most excellent maiden that is you.

Phew!

I strap your P❌SSY to my belt strap you know, the one that runs my dignity all down running from my hand the lawn mower connected with a France I’ll never know.  A France I never knew from studies of Rome on television you’ve never even heard of such a thing—a television what!  We had them up to every room even one in the kitchen to watch Oprah™ and then Dr Phil™ I think it’s a good idea if you stay the fuck away from me—ten years’ space is enough to make me a chronic wise man with every, very, every story to tell.

I Mean:  What the Fuck

Throw me into the fire.  Bow to my entities.  Leave you guys and entrails saturated, becoming, terrifier, twisted-er, above me now, floating, floating, gone.

Just games I play in my head.

Just little games.

Following myself through time.  Creating a pinprick red every time I swallow your juice.  Create a pinprick yellow each time you beg me to pee.  Create a pinprick brown for every time you beg me to shit on you—at first an accident (I was still in diapers when you nabbed me) now it’s one of many elements on this menu you have me working in.

Fastidiously new-enacting (wars, yes, but) our own family escapades of butter and milk, steak and eggs the thin kind of steak (cheaper but less there)—I never knew they had thick steaks in the grocery store.  That was my first trip to the grocery store.  I had been lied to by the omission of thick steaks, real butter, and electric toothbrushes.

I stand before the wall of body soap, gels, loofahs.

I cried at what I missed.  Picked up the shampoo flavored “mystreal” and got the heck out of there.  My life had been simplified for so long, to me there was only Ivory in a pump, canned peas, and looking at the bottom shelf I saw the super-cheap beans—beans in bags—I will never soak my own beans again.  Never.  No matter how expensive canned beans are, I will get thee to my belly.

I will buy 100% pure beef hot dogs.

I took my first sip of real orange juice.

Swore to myself I had eaten my last sardine.

Who eats fish from a can?  Who does that?

You can buy alcohol in a grocery, here.  Not some special trip they had trained me to believe.  Their story on alcohol was they had to go to great lengths to get it—increasing its rarity—but yes, we had alcohol.  When you keep human captives for a decade or more, sedatives are a necessity.

I didn’t know anything about drugs—the only ones I knew were heroin and Boone’s Farm™.  Seeing holes and bruises on my man’s arm—he finally let me try it.  But that was just novelty.  He certainly couldn’t afford for us all to do it.  I got a Boone’s Farm™ at the end of every week so the only taste I ever developed was for Sun Peak Peach, Tickle Pink, Wild Raspberry..all tastes fit for a lady, my captor said, and as I say that phrase (to myself) (inside my head) I know at once that it is stuck with me, permanently lodged inside my head, and I’ll still be saying it in my captor’s voice when I’m 90, if I live that long.

They had me trained so good—I didn’t know anything they hadn’t brought me.  I tanned from 10am to 10:30 (ish) as the sun changed positions, tanned by the light of a glass block window—that was my world for fifteen years, a world seen through glass block and TV, an actual radio, all my nutrition in a daily vitamin.  They did not even buy me my own vitamins.  They bought them “for men ages 35–50” and I soaked up every ray of vitamin D—every one I could find.

Never went to the doctor for a decade plus.

Wearing hand-me-downs from my captor’s nieces.  They were apparently my age.  I don’t have a personal style.  My style is Abby and Katy’s personal style—completely.  I’m wearing one of their hoodies now and in the kanga pocket is my Merriam Webster™.  Picture someone, with no visible gender, standing under the boardwalk, crying at the discovery of each new word:  Cryptocurrency.  Kombucha.  I cried at every one, laughing, laughing my head off.  Blockchain—I read the definition and I still don’t know what it means!  To me it’s an imaginary chain around my neck—that makes me invincible.  I’m a blockchain girl.  Don’t even try to fight me.  I’ve got a whole blockchain crew to back me up.

That’s not true.

I need to work on my veracity.  Become invisible when the peculiar kind comes within range of me.  I am a normal girl.  You’ve never seen me before.  You never fucked me.  Anyway I’m dead inside for sex I’m beat, dead, nothing more to give.  A normal guy wound never love me—just because I’m numb.

I’m numb and dumb.  Littered with childhood dreams.  Even while I’m in the room, I learn unicorns from television.  And I want to be one.  And no one will ever touch my horn.  It is saved for the boy who can rescue my mind.

Which I don’t even believe in.  Such a boy.

If it ever did happen for me, I’m sure I would mess it up.  Mispronounce his name or something.  Order the wrong thing off the menu (if he takes me somewhere special).  Then it’s muddled with my dad (my captor) not a real dad but the one captor (the one who liked me most) see what I mean?  When I think of men I think of him.  He’s always there.  When I get up, he’s there.  He’s even there in my dreams.  I know:  Shame on me for letting him get my subconscious.  He was there before I knew I had a subconscious.  Before I ever knew the word.

Before I ever knew the word, for a year or two, I must have been having a blast.  It’s all built up in my mind, the house with an older brother (older me), parents who both have jobs.  For all I know they were sex fiends too and they sold me once they got their use out of me.  For all I know my bro abused me too—some greasy-sick naughty naughty prince of my panties.  Do you mind if I check and see if he’s there?

In the Crib I Bought You a Hammer.  For You.  To Work.  Things.  Out.  Yourself.

I bought you a nail.

For you to hammer in your skin.

Mark yourself as my property—but you do the tattoo this time.  Mark me up a dragon wheel (spinning hard) from east to west on your virgin back you write with pinprick black a gray from a Bic™ pen strolling in from my roll-top desk (a strange effect of kitty world) (no you cannot have a cat) (never a snake—not even a python you raggedy bitch—not even a python I know you’ve been good) (yeah my good girl friend, even stop drop ‘n’ roll won’t help you in this situation)—a grand dame you will never become (because of me)—the high-priced call girl in New York™ or LA™.  No.  You escape on your 16th birthday (or maybe we let you leave) (maybe we left the locks both unlocked on purpose and you just happened to try the door that day) (maybe).

Write yourself up a ticket of absentia, send it to the principal, wait for her to have it notarized (and wonder to yourself what we all do:  What the fuck is a notary—I mean what the fuck.)

Shit in my mouth my child—who wanted to be a star.

And I watched that dream dissolve from within your eyes.

Saw your eyes hollow.  Flatten like colored paper wearing in the sun.  Losing the it which made it in itself:  That rainbow of colors spun in your hand like a magical wheel.  I saw you discover it—enjoy it—every day the colors fade.  I know that’s a metaphor for your emotions, sad sad girl, of my own own beginnings.  I was once locked in a basement, a spare room, it was called my bedroom but if I had parents you would know them by looking at me—you know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh?  I guess it’s funny—you and I are the same in this way, my parents didn’t love me (at least not the way I wanted them to)—but I got beaten down, just the way I beat you—and you will learn to take it so far and so bad that it’ll be like dreaming—like your fantasies, you know, like being stuck in a dungeon so familiar you and your companion’s bedroom, laughing and playing between fucks.  I mean you don’t even know what a relationship is.  (It’s ok—neither do I!)  Never knew myself.  It looks like love, though.  And though I can recognize it, I will never feel it.  Not in my heart.  Not in the dark.  I guess you and me will be there in the final hours, hand in hand, staring over the edge of the Grand Canyon™, watching it fill to its limits with lakes of water and fire.

You can’t picture it, can you?

You haven’t seen the Grand Canyon™ so how would you know the joy?

I feel bad about that, boo, but I still keep a pair of your panties next to my leg at night and when they run my cock I battle whether to join you.  And I always do, after an hour of struggle within:  To do you what my daddy did to me until I was old enough to kill him (if I wanted to) (which I did) (in the soft dark of my teenage bedroom) (could tell on me at school, the police, social media, could write it down in text and broadcast it to everyone).  But I ever did any of those things.  Just left home when it got so bad.  Rode the Greyhound™ into the desert.  Past Area 51™ and all that land filled with nothingness is actually home to government projects stealing funding from secret government projects—rode past that on the bus wondering why congress couldn’t spend a few bucks teaching our generation how to fuck, how to be good parents, how not to be incels (which are just people who never learned to love)—we never learned to live in real life—we miss the obvious secret that if you genuinely love someone, all things are possible.  But I read that you learn that before you could talk—so in your case that metric was passed before I got ahold of you.

But I took you and when my cock gets hard next to the smell of your underwear I know I have to do it (if I don’t I imagine my cock will be so hard they will cut it off at the hospital and then you and I will never learn to suckle the tweets of an endless mountain called mother.

A rag-tag train ride to Los Angeles.

I will ruin it myself with every abdication.  All the girls and all the boys I have captured and fucked in every which way.  They will meet each other, compare notes, and the popo™ will get after me.  Wanting to sweep me up with their red/blue lights.  Shining on my walls at night.

Red flower.  Blue flower.  Petals of a color.

Of a color.  Of my face.  Red for my cumming inside you.  Baby it’s almost too much to take.  My deformed penis the size of a stick of Trident™.  You take me and put me in your mouth, chew the goodness out of me, become a ride, then the point of no return, then exquisite magical top top top and go!

Your P❌SSY is the only one that makes me cum.  It is me:  Covering your mouth (my fingers holding your jaw closed)—letting you breathe from your nose while I muffle your screams I am also muffling my cum sounds, hard and fast and raising you to let a few squeaks out between my fingers but your P❌SSY is wet enough and tighter than a rubber glove—every time I fuck you is like the first time—every time you make me cum so sweet (like candy!—it’s too sugar) I can’t describe it.  I won’t even try.  It’s magic—that’s the only way to describe it—everything is new right down to the blood.

Thank you, girl—thank you.

I’ll give you your bed back just let me hide here for a second.  Let me lie here on this bed with you.

With Your Nothing Going Down

Wasn’t it possible for you to rape me once, then throw me into the garbage bin.  Leave me outside so someone else can get their prickly fingers inside the top of my diaper, playing with my tickle reflexes by putting your curled pork sausage of a dick screaming pleasure as he enters the zone.

While you’re looking at the V shape with my crack at the bottom—what kind of geography did you take that makes this shape one you find of interest.

One that excites you and that you imagine far beyond when you start and end with me.

One that you’re obsessed with.

One that pleases you more than Rome™ pleased the Emperor™.  One you would die for, would be tired up for.  One you would like to see die.  We can fix what straight people do but your (I guess transgressions)—I guess they’re some we have to respect, to allow.  You can’t break into everyone’s house and check for lost children, turn over every leaf and every stone, looking for me.  That’s not the kind of exploration you would endure.  Protect the rights of the rich, kill the poor.  Then god rolls in and congratulates the capitalists.  A victory lap for everyone who de-elevated one poor person in his life and that’s one lap per person you pushed closer to death.  Some of you are going to be doing a lot of laps today.

Enough to tire your throat from moisture.

And the person who is volunteering to bring you drinks is dead from malnutrition.

You never learned to use a water fountain.

You starve—at its helm—unable to find the handle it’s that little silver button on the side of the water spigot.  Slamming your hands against the metal then your head.

I guess you never learned to use a water fountain—I guess but it’s broken into the side of your head and by adulthood no one cares how many fights you’ve been in and survived, how many times you’ve been raped (by them) you’re supposed to work a job for them and after my upbringing I don’t feel a shred of loyalty for this country or its laws.

Not a shred.

Not a monkey-loving shred for your laws or customs.  It’s a Valley™ party on somebody’s rooftop.  Where you all congratulate yourselves on what you stole from me in order to make your masterful film and I’m down in the basement changing my tampon—I was blessed with this hole you see (my P❌SSY) and it is my constant maintenance (the maintenance of blood) that is my definition—yours?  To use it, to rape it, to love it.  I keep it strong she’s this companion who is always causing me trouble but it’s like every time you see it I’m taking her out for a walk.  Every time you see her I have just then finished her grooming:  Her washing (never with soap) (always with a warm cloth) her stylings and preparation.

I shave her bare in the Burger King™ bathroom.

That’s how you blokes seem to like it.

Shaved bare like a baby.  I have no doubt that’s what you’re thinking of but I prob’ly never told you I’ll survive that deliciously—that’s five seconds into my thought.  Five seconds before I lose all bravado and the next 55 of that one minute is me beating myself like those flagellating monks.  One.  Hit.  At.  A.  Time.  And when I return from those antics I’m good as a felon who is not allowed to return to society, not allowed to vote out the corruption that detains us.  And I am the victim anyway, I produce child porn even though I have an adult mind.  I participate in voluntary sex with over-age men.

Surely I’ve done something wrong there.

Surely the law would understand!

But surely not..surely it’s a knot!  Naught do I spend thinking of your punishment instead of my own.  Somehow the girl, the black kid, the crazy white boy all end up with our necks under a boot, shotgun at our temples—at the mercy of the white man’s culture if not the white man himself.  There is something wrong with y’all, who in the daytime punish me for spreading my legs, making an upside-down V with my fingers and there you are staring into my P❌SS hole worshiping it in tongues, calling your supreme world and save the nighttime of your opinions to lift me from the sidewalk calling me Hosanna the Highest™ (highest in the sky) highest in your shallow head.

Lift up the Lord of Israel™ in your darkest dreams you don’t know the value of P❌SSY you disrespect the beings who carry one, carry them around in all their pockets, who would die to ruin the life of a woman they fucked into pregnancy—would die to keep her a single mom—you reject her rights, reject plans to pay her to keep track of her periods to simply be poor and single and childless and working on the streets.

I hate being a girl.

I hate my vagina (or whatever P❌SSY you would like to call it).

Hate men.  But I hate first the system.  I never thought I would say this when I was 14 but I’m 16 now and my thoughts on the matter have changed.  Change is fear in the eyes of the truly weak.  I have never seen as much fear as that on a Congressman’s face as he sticks it in me.  Those are the looks when they cum:  Feeling their walnut pop then looking around behind us, looking at the door, and wondering who is on the other side.

When I Said I Could Dance, That Was True

Making you climb atop my shoes and dancing there with me on your carpet floor.  The grade of office reference (thin weave, grayish color, runs everywhere) the music turned to Unchained Melody.  Me, misremembering my eighth grade dance, so swift I was to pounce on the non-hottest girl (the second smartest did me fine) and I have kept that maxim to this day:  Never go for the hottest girl—she has too much going for her, her parents may have tried harder to restrain her P❌SSY.  May have loved her more immediately to protect her P❌SSY.  May have militarized her brain more thoroughly against pranksters like me.  So I go for you, little secondary.

Secondary who may have a less militarized P❌SSY, whose P❌SSY may have been forgotten just a little.  Next to last is also a *go!—*Next to last is a brown-hair girl—or a black.  I have stolen blacks before and the problem is they resist too little and think too much.  Blacks’ll be all up in you, asking what you’re doing and shit—

—What do you think I’m doing?  I’m about to rape you, girl!  What do you think of that?

—And she’s all:  You caint rape me motherfucker!  (Like her standoffishness is going to stop me..somehow..my muscles and my adult size will bow to her attitude and not rape the fuck out of her.)

—And I’m all:  Drop trou my blackie friend, mind the business that you can.  Check your head with a z-projection.  Find out exactly where you came from.  And keep your head in check, grrl:  You better believe you’re in a white-dominated world.  Like:  You’re lucky I even wanted to rape you—with your blackness and all.  Lucky I ever wanted to take you.

Lucky I ever wanted to snake you.

Tie you down, run a python up the flagpole.

Fuck you silly with my python (snake) (devil) (hydroponic) (needlepoint) (stroke of darkness with the pen) (stroke of deepness I will never understand) (common words we do not carry with us along these lexicographic timelines of the near future) (bound you with animal cord) (bound you with climbers’ rope tested to 5900lbs tensile strength) (that’s what you’ll have to overcome, Houdini, if you want your freedom from me).

If you want your spice to me.

As a gift from those above.

Feel free—you will take your money from me.  IRS monster, the collection ticket—it doesn’t really matter if you attempt your deduction of $700, I’ve never had that balance in my paycheck.  Never will.  Never woke from dreams I’m in the Army™, taking orders from some cheesehead shrink telling us to “Lie still!  Lie still until they shoot you!!”  And I wake up in shock position guarding against celebrities.

I guess I’ll untie you now.

You must have noticed the intricacies with which you are locked within your bedroom.  With which we have held you within this house..

..mouse..

..a louse blouse..

What is understood is that I’m writing a book.  I’m on the hook for three pages a day multiplier by 100 days.  Minus 10.  Minus 90.  Appropriating signals at 12 hundred per hour.  The essence of god in a penny jar—I’m as likely to occur with that many pinpricks.  Reached so high above my lovely lover loved love overriding minuscule writing conversation conversion by convergence conveyance you strapped me in by suicide kings—dead on the motion strap that I provide you..forward motion zap!

I’m sure by now you have dismissed me with all my consonants and their hallucination..

..absolutely sure by now you have KO’d your fantasy of worlds’ elation.  Bottoms up’d my friend.  Elated my elation so I never would expect it.  Pump my semen so deep and so hard into the girl she adopts a look of (frightening) in her everyday glance (upwards) to me and her captors—overlooks her advancement to captive invisible past the wordplay into her (unlocking) lock—rhinestone cowboy—the surplus settled in below his brow—licked me negative snap daddy FTW!  I cow-partied his ass with a Serpico™ lancing double holiday kicked internally of the sippy-willy pockmarked billy hill substance winning the length of the service ring.

But.

But.

I am your ghost.  Am your ghost at fingers’ length.  So satisfied with the nut you provide me—bust for me.

Night after night.  I’m not waking up—I’m not waking up for you.  Fit me with the sides of bridal glory don’t ever provide me with the exact measurements of your address.  Snake my foot with an alternate division sparkling—smoking up there.

Here there and everywhere.

Here my there and my everywhere.

Writing a book that I myself do not understand.  Whose theme I did not ever perceive—waking Jesuits™ down the center lane.  Rocking them back and forth in the motivation of plagiarism.  Grand-slamming a result from behind.  Humming me in a humming pool.

And if you find me confused, then allow yourself to find myself confusing on the rag.  Confusing on the rooftops.  Confusing in the midst of my laboratory.  Cum-sucking contemporonies.  Become the audio blurb.  By my confusion I become the outward solar system of you..a system with contested stars.  Congested stars.  Convalescent starts running underneath the covers.  Running those roof beams like the cover of that insurance cover.  Like that insurance cover.  Blasted punk for my through the river behind my gunky bicycle you popped me—heaven!—through keystrokes of a violent time!—Keystrokes in a violent time.

When You’re a Girl, Nobody Cares Nothing About Your P❌SSY Milk™

Nor your breast milk.

Nor any other type of milk you have to offer.

We don’t have time to make you cum.  Cum by your P❌SSY silent as a hedgehog..squeeze them titties live as a garden cow..making milk all the live-long day..breathing in that farm air..waiting for me to excrete..then escapes me, steals my breath way—my breath of vitamin D—my scrumptious-ness—my goddess-ness-less—sense-less-ness by the grave—you never struck this and so you do not have a play to overcome me, not to hold a script and say ok! we have a play!

To start production tomorrow.

Me as the kid.  You as the adult.

You will be spanking with your hands slipping around the paddle wanky fingers coming for my tender parts looking for holes to stick themselves through, to look and return to your brain with a determination—wet enough to continue?  Spidery slick or splintery solid.  Hard.  My girl parts hard as I was told they would be.  I was congested.  Never once its whining rhyming twin.  To use the word “molested” minimizes everything I’ve been through, every abuse, every subterfuge, every multi-step lie that was acted out for me.  With people spending their adulthood passing on lies to tell the truth, I never have had much luck in telling the truth to myself in this world.

One time I told my social worker I saw a straw man by the water break.  Down by the place where the water meets the waves.  At the inside of the boardwalk, toward its bottom.  A figure, there, of wispy knowledge and simply execution (if he got too close he would strike)—strike my mindspace like a cobra.

Likened my tension to a sinew—snapped me in two.

House beam—cut half-by-half, aiding the fire, fanning the flames (flame by flame) cutting off my escape routes leaving us little room to escape the (waiting) room full of kids like me.  Every one carrying the guilt of abuse.  Every one of us hiding it on our hoods, our sleeves, carrying the guilt of it sprinkled on our sleeves (the universe never fully formed unless gathered at its beginning—braid—less—infinity—dot—com).

Infinity dot com.  It is my name and my function (drawing upon the past) and (having nothing to do with the nature of dot-coms in general reality).  My dot com shaded to look like old-to-new.  My dot com shaded to give its meaning on sight—elements of element.  Tiny balletic explanation expansion exposition on a full-wing night spoken from the sun, spoken for the wind that blows across porches breathing apoplectic pronouns, stinging beads across the wire, strung 20 feet into the air, spinning concrete hardening at 15, 16 foot—nothing too permanent there, absent of my name to mentioning yours!—and you begin to strike again—again and again and again to you.

But I am a beauty girl (if you find me in my sleep).

A beautiful girl who with a little bit of money could come off quite positively.  A girl for the ages.  For my age.  Sixteen.  Sixteen for the micro channel purpose (aging) (into my own) in my sexy age, for once, when they’re supposed to call me “sexy!” on their own voice.  This is the age where the real money is:  That call sign ‘come universal—the age where they can pretend I looked like an adult.  Where I am believably 18 and it’s not kiddie fucking anymore.  So in the alley, this is my best chance.

For romance.

Ripe for taking, for a trip by your house.

Check my bag for transmitters and check my phone to see that video is disabled (crumbling) from the time of the Greeks™ and Romans™ to Now Times the age where every great civilization known from the past lives (in tiny relief) inside each of us as a model (as a set of rules for naming and description) a compressed/simulation-able play class that you can run without effort in your quantum brain.

I look for those times—grating levels of time, super-time, Sid Meyer’s 4x time, q-time q-space bridge-time bridge-space fall time space time Mario™ time Luigi time jump time fall time dream time wake time..?

Half a day time?

There was a girl at a tattoo party when I was 14 we got together with some people behind a chain-length-plywood fence this was in our back yard.  In a bright-colored pool named for Dora the Explorer™ and across the water pool I saw her, her name was Adele, a girl with brown hair wearing a boy’s swimming suit briefs, a boy’s T-shirt named for Star Wars™.

(I’ve never seen Star Wars™ but I know what it is.

I pictured me and Adele making out underneath her T-shirt me reaching up it through the bottom, through the sleeves, all around her my mouth in her neck hole—not the gentlest mouth against her but a come-with-a-quickness one—whose love you can pinch out with a quickness and your firing pin.

The firing pin is like the man (the main star of) No Country for Old Men— the killer in that.  The killer in that show, who helps make this no country for old men.  His cow pin?  The tooth at the end of his hands which occupies our greatest method for killing cows—even there do so few of us come clean ever knowing what a cattle pin is.  Even me:  I know nothing useful of it.  Just when a man on TV uses it to kill a cow.

That a so so truth I saw.

The apocalypse coming as the face of a cow killer.

Though it requires each of us to be a down—that does not come with difficulty.  Cows all around, almost each of us willing to face it directly (a cow pin) (to the forehead).  That is all most of you will ever know:  Tragic life ended by beef plug, happy as a Hindu cow.

Then, I hear death is a mystreal at that point (forward and backward) that people end up in another life, one similar to this own, switched over like slot cars, from one lane to the other—coming back to you (prayers to a radio in your head) (praying to yourself as a god—asking yourself for help in a world whose only dangers like Inception result in your ejection from the world) praying from a tiny version of yourself to the hugeness version of that self-same you!

—don’t ever think of yourself as not a god.  I have seen us all from a high high position and guess what?

I am higher than a kite and down there?—from this height—I see the universe as bud (kine)—a sprig in everyone’s back pocket—da kine bud keeping you (a long stalk, high sprig) acting as everyone’s god (as everyone’s goddess) along with various hallucinogens, circling around behind me like the scarecrow at a fire.

Panic! at the Disco (Circle Wings Spreading Fire-Tardent Sheets For Bullet Tendencies)

In the plateau.  On the rais-ed plain.  Taken full-morsel motherfucka slid into her mouth inserted by storm.  Blathery.  Slathery.  Fuck me up (lathery)—fuck it do the cinquain—motha—ducks—!!—mutha—ducka—mutha!—ducka!—finis!! my angel lamb chop.  Sing-a-long with me on your privatized microphone stand your privatized podcast overdose—slash joy—slash over joy—slash *slash—*slash ball change flap ball change one in the 50 had a hand to change me one in one hundred had a hand to change on me.  That is true!  Fractions of people and people of fractions.  A fraction of a skull.  A fraction of a mouse.  A fraction of a mouse/trap.  Fraction of a mouse/hat.  Fraction of a blouse/bat, a house/rat.  And so on and so forth on fractions of whole mice and so forth with whole mice with their fractions possibly considered.  Possibly jiggered into finity with the infinity saw—possible—possibly—niggery saws—all this language of fluff, language of snuff.

One side insists the other not to say it.

The other side insists the other must say it.

Feathers and haws.  Steamy hand claws.  Can I rise from this sheet waving hands claws semen burial ink butt muffyn tracks your butt trampled your entire monotheistic philosophy based in miracles a thousand years old, a thousand stories based in one day (this) based one singular infinity you have its tail caught beneath your toe, trapped there by infinity/mouse infinity tokens infinity blades taken under the wing of a hawk.

Shaken.  Inappropriate blades.  Roaming lattice-wise into that caught/mouse, hot/house, roaming sideways the direction of my house..drops..stops..crashes..flops.

The infinity of new directions.  Of a kaleidoscope of methods!  Of kaleidoscopes of kaleidoscopes.  Of kaleidoscopes of kaleidoscopes of weathers and wares.  Of protection from bears.  Of niceties to swears.  Of jumpers to stairs.  Of the outfinity of outerwear.  Outer space.  Outer Limits.  Outer being.  Outer and inner of the human body.  Outer and inner of the human space.  Seems so irrelevant now.  A multi-elevant cow.  Bring on the elephant sow!

Shit.  I am ancient.

Shit.  I am elegant.

Roll me into the great genetic fire.  Upon which many are burned—along which many are crucified by the pleasant Rome™—sent to early deaths for the warnings of others.  Have the highest refrain of occupancy in jail and you’ve got a well-oiled pattern (proper) with which to scare the babies into fear of that which is spiritual.  Of that which was placed here by the designers of our world by the license of the stars.  By the license to travel at rug speed (carpet Underoos™—carpet bombing your places of high, high art and places of high, high civilization with little kids underpanties, under armies, covers for small asses and tiny penises and tiny tiny little cunts.  That gives me pause.

To think.

To ponder my existence.

To stand around with my thumb on your butt and say, “Wow.  Isn’t this a miracle that you and me are walking down the very same street on the very same day!”  (Paul Simon)  Unimagine it.  Unstretch it.  Uninvent it, every possible stitch.  Untear it, from every possible eye to every possible asshole.  To every possible Underoos™ DC™ Marvel™ TMNT™ Despicable Me™ Star Wars™ Power Rangers™ and the unstoppable Harry Potter™.  Turned and burned from every retail outlet—If only—If only we all had a girl like you to model Hermione Granger Underoos™ just like that—just like snap! that I buy in bulk for you to show me how Hermione Granger pushes down her panties to show me everything that’s inside.  Everything that’s beneath those pretty purple Underoos™ is mine is missing is mourned is given up to me as I sit on the throne of my toilet seat as you come to me shaking that ass shaking that ass for me my little one now jump! now freak dance! now turn around backwards now hope that I’ll kill you swiftly now hope that I will kill you with a swipe of my hand now hope that I will kill you softly under the crush of my knuckles/hand you better hope that I will kill you softly (as in not-hard) (as in a flowy) (as in catch your toddly ass twice against the toilet seat).  Let your companion watch—me he get his dick between you and I but I don’t think that—not at all—because your companion here is gay.

The motherfucker likes it ‘tween the cheeks.  I doubt you’ve ever noticed but he’s a bone-crusher in situ in this room.

Bone crusher in situ between the cheeks.  You never noticed that when you were jerking him off and I watched from the other room?

See those little circles around the ceiling?

Those are my watchtower.

They catch everything that goes on here.  From your meals to your defamations to the private times when you sneak into his bed in the dead of night seeking comfort from your companion.  As the moment when you seek out his cock.  To calm him when he’s hard and waiting for your comfort, dear.

Of course you give him comfort.

But never satisfaction.

Girl Toys Plus Boys’ Toys Equals Hunger For All Concerned

Hunger for different things (of course)—hunger for the girls in that they receive suckling plus vibraphone plus intermittent heads plus intermittence yeah with the word “go!”  Fools fly by with the logo of a 7-Eleven™.  Getting us/giving us home.  True.  For heaven.  I’ve been thought of as a hostage victim—thought of every which way (tied, sliced, and chilled for who knows what—what would you need me frozen for)?  Long storage in or below your deep freeze.

You know I need gentleness—right?—you know that?

And the only uses I can think of, right, are uses that are under the table (secret, hidden from the world)—reasons to use you for my own traversal that none of you can know—none of you can feel the source of.  None of my castles will know the identities of my soldiers men of play.  At the intersection of naw and paw.  Rising from ashes torn from eagles, sisters eating sisters, brothers lain dead on the pyre of each pieces of every brothers—set on—their very Constitution™—the very paper that held us together in our innocence will tear us apart the hardest we gush the harder our currents pull us from this one small twig the tiniest piece of injustice bears us down that one small lover of a pig bearing snout writing in the typist’s fingers riding Boone™ capped to shreds, writing his death note spreads to a diaspora, mentions me in passing, Forest Gump™, each character claims that “From Tom Cruse™—The Actor Who Brought You Mission: Impossible 2™”—If you don’t know it by now then you’re never gonna get it.

And if you look back from then (if then had it) then you’re looking back at what has now become the original.  And you have become the future that grew since then!

This is the sort of thing I write in my journal.

Just my private thoughts on time.

Just my views on the tumbling industry of drugs.  On the reasons of clients why they should be exempt from laws proscribed to stop them, catch them—laws only ever meant to jail a few of us.  To scare the rest of us to shit.  Making us hide deeper and deeper from the law.  Meeting under new false names imprisoned for a time enshrined for this spectacle of spectacles the minuscule secret meeting of every meeting has this layer cake of clear licensing content sitting there hiding on the top of a cup and a pound of and the carrot of a carrot cake.

If it were your turn to speak you would know it.  Know it from the back of your hand.  Had been programmed thus from the day of your birth—from the time when your king exploded from your castle to bust on the scene.  To bust out from on top of our cells, castles, from the ear to your eye, sliced so far it was almost a decapitation.  End of TV show.  End of broadcast (whatever that means anymore) and you’re in total freakin’ blackout.  Total black out and we ask them what will be done?  (Black out.  Total friggin’ blackout.  As to exercise, movement.  As to music, noise.  And every time a power wheel blows up—)

Nothing.

At lesson time you are my best student.  At break time you sit in the classroom with every other geek eating your lunch looking into the world outside with a single window in your lap every rectangle a piece of glass every rectangle performing every rectangle upgraded in my mind I wonder if everyone thinks this thinks about the transparent numbers about which every mole is counted—every hair, all that.

How about that as aspect of your conscious gods—one who knows more/cares better about ourselves than any of you would known/care yourselves!

That aspect of yourself (life, consciousness) that you never want to show, except maybe as a father to a child, except maybe from a papa consciousness to a baby, excepting consciousness not received received once more.

Nature sucking at me but she found the wrong parts.

Now she sucks me daily her tongue manipulated terribly dung rabbit trackless sentence wire a fashion show! horrifying in its specter—traditional in wire—manual all the way to the actor’s end..jump, skip, and over the funeral pyre that is that is so it.

That is so it!

That is so it!

It is so it.  So so so it!!  So it divided by hardwalls so it divided by particle walls built by simple hands the symbols of hands that built Notre Dame™ the hands that painted the Sistine Chapel™ the hands that painted on a napkin is some girl’s Daddy his name is Daddy that’s how she calls him.  To her, Daddy is the one who writes his plays on her stomach, right before the edge brings itself up underneath her feet.  Underneath time flies.  Underneath has tried his currency electric to his right, electric to his death currency and blown the signal out the starship window.

Following him from heat to behind.

Imbibing the carcass of your group Glamour Shot™.  Of your group Western Style™.

And that is where I finish for the day.  Though I will stop and leave you to travel on backwards down the chute of time.

I Have Seen Them Come in Through the Ceiling

From delicious angles, angling derelict fish retarded fish filleting I burn into you with the angles of finding detracted from findings detracted from findings so infinite they will always be there when you look back—across the breeding chains of genetic modification right now we ask What is genetic modification? when in the future all we will ask is What isn’t?—What isn’t the Dude™ modifying the Dude™ from an inner cell locked with nothing.  A lock on the door—unlocked—striven for food—the clamp on the door—unclamped—bottom-ly driven, driven from bottoms up—torn and torn from my hands, tearing us apart with carpentry tools.  Which, when you’re alien, includes some proton scanners Fifth Element™ kind of stuff laser blasters while we make first contact it is me coming through your roof unplanned?—I should never think so—there it says that god knows every hair in your head I’m believing to start that seemingly unlikely prophesy or record from the future history of a disc jockey radio every toe lace represents itself as a sphere (an ovular station run amok from early spinning exercises)—who themselves awoke from even earlier sleeps on a licey mattress having just today dreamed his first year in Reality™—Virtual didn’t stick and Augmented never sat right with me and the bros.  Didn’t stack right for the neighbors (couldn’t sleep at night for the many radio lanterns hung in green from green to yellow to yellow to the color of yellow to its taste for it feckless in that pond whose edges are made up of English™ nouns who were too sharp etcetera so we borrowed some acolytes’ sensoriums and played those Bad Motherfuckers™ in light speed Burning Chrome™ backwards through a memory (the memorium).  Soaked in wisterium a stroke of New Christiandom writing movies by themselves four part harmonies the surrealists are all burning themselves in bath water—a secret roast or a toast or a silly little boast house where we keep the best, test, and all of the rest!  You never had it coming, like we told you.  You never saw its fingers, its claws, its terrifying owl eyes they say we present ourselves and once in a line of abductees, always in a line of abductees.  If I was a Googling™ man, I’d search for pockets of sightings, all memories erased.  Then maybe I would go in from the side.  In-person reaches with an interview stick.  Poke it—poke it more!  Hanging my chart on the wall before you.  Studying.  Studying.  And you can’t find nothing wrong with anything I’ve done—I knew it!  Knew that motherfucker before you dreamed it.  Before you ever steamed it or seemed to seam it seamstress style you seemingly steamingly steamed me in cynosure that’s what I became fully stalking the block where you lived we have charts in lockdown under PIN and fingerlope, every house containing kids crossed with a simple matrix describing the likelihood of a parent’s ability to go on a two-ocean war in search for their kid.  That’s the real sad part, kids, that some of your dear protectors do not give a faulty fuck in fact they are secretly glad that you’re gone.  Parenthood was too hard.  You were cute but you were also a whole lot of shitty.  Whole lotta that shit!  Salad forkfuls leaning frightfully close to empty..to the floor which is where we eat blood and bloods and almost-frozen steak.  Down down into the cistern room, down down into the silent space.  Down through the atomizer (vape pen) that I never smoked in front of you but here you are!!  Smoking that most deadliest sulfur.  But I know you’d come around, to where I am.  I knew you’d want to try it so much but would be so scared of loving it that you called the cops on us both.  We snuck you and your companion out of the room and into the car on the back street.  Zoomed away!  Met up at a Carl’s Jr™ ten minutes later.  I had the jalapeño burger (excellence and amazement!) you had an onion ring fajita (never understood you, bro!)—almost taken the takers almost pushed out of the coop almost sent away for the rest of our lives.  Almost taken me home, that home I have destiny of—a home where I would be the worst treated—the House that’s so Big (why?) Why oh why do they call it that?  A doggery dashers doo!  Shoe salesman (door to door) with everyone wondering What’s He Building in There?  I’m not building nothing.  No-thing.  Not a thing in there.  I was dyslexic on my handwriting that’s why—That’s why!—Why I jumped out of my tree is a kid—That’s why my head was turned I gave up all my kid detective’s earnings and his toys and started sleeping late at family reunions, seeing my cousins sleep in the bunk bed where I slept on the floor.  Wearing my jump suit.  Wearing it from the time I was zero.  From the time my mom pumped me from her stump I was known by my straight-up mother for the dressing of her kid in bright orange fatigues..like exactly like they had in jail.  I mean how the fuck does that figure?  A hundred thousand days of orange resentment.  A hundred thousand days I spent in the prison of this Earth.  Which is nothing bad you’ve presumed.  Nothing so much like the designated prison of my mind.  But so much like it, so doubly terrifying, so trippy so.  I am standing staring at the door to my submersible, my spaceship, unable to unlock it, unable to move.  It’s a lockless door.  Every socket workable with your hands.  That’s not my problem, though.  My problem is that with all my might I cannot move a finger.

By My Magical Might, By Limber Light, Thy Tethers of Arms With Which to Fight

I could tell you the story of my black cat Olive, Blackness—any of the names we once called her—stripped of her life by tourists maybe or just she fell into the sea.

But it bores me.

To see a cat on my routine.  See it for days.  Feed it.  Let her sleep in my bag with me.  My home is its home, my coat is its coat!—Do you know that kind of home for a cat?  Loving on the run but love is real between you—Do you know that kind of love?

When it’s taken away by the special trip of a cat head-first into the ocean, into the waves.  I am unconcerned about that.  It’s when she is taken by some tourist to So Cal from So Cal—that’s what becomes a problem for me.

I go into a days-long grief fest—skipping work and sitting cross-legged on the concrete incline, calling and calling and calling for her.

Thinking of my high school friends who could never put three words together to form a feeling.  Pick three words to show me how you feel—that sort of thing—partly my routine for myself to exercise my poeticalness—partly a routine to evaluate you for the same.

But no one can do it.

We all fall short the third word.

Always have one packed away, need to search for the second to partly succeed, and have the third escape us entirely.

With completeness.

Totalness that drives me mad trying to come up with one.

Totalness The Concept™ Totalness the Being™ we sweep under the table.  Totalness that is the table and its exact area covering the floor with shadow is totalness is!  Someone there who is bragging about killing a black cat—not mine just some schizo talking about some other black cat squeezing his neck and holding him underneath the waves.

I think I’ve lived multiple lives.  In this one I’ve been to high school a year and a half before I’m taken to be a sex slave (say it with confidence—it’s true, it happens) and in other realities (alternate realities I can’t tell what happens in them—say them with confidence each one might be real) and in this reality they might have happened..they’re just holding on to the edge of reality (the edge of the toilet bin) and my memories are for them, my love is for those other minds, with them, in between them like sheets.

I assume my memories were messed up when I was young, with people telling me this thing, telling me that—sometimes in the same sentence—that contradicted one with the other.

Enemies are friends and the other way ‘round.  If my neighbors would sell me out then so would my friends.

I only have you, my companion, and my roll-up—And sometimes I see that I hardly have you.  You are wrapped up in your own gay-world tortures which you insist to me are deeply gay-oriented and I accept that (I believe you) I do, my friend, I do.

But you have to see how you are treated by your gay clients (with every disregard to your gayness your gayness is nothing more that a joke to them.  You’d have to be two classes higher before anyone cares about you that way.

But you’re like Shut the fuck up! and I’m like No way, stunt walker—You can’t be serious, tho!

But I am deadly serious (yo!)—deadly serious tho—people will kill a homeless cat like that!—tripping nothing from sideways—two cat scratches like blao! blao!—cat to the motherfucking head!!  My friends:  Cat to the motherfucking head.

For myself, yourself, his self, they, them, we were all created in a slump a pile of grit and proper asphalt steaming like a shit in winter after I take it I turn around and warm my hands.

And there you are:  My companion!  My holy husband wrapped the the colors of Notre Dame™.  Billionaires™ stepped in after that fire and offered enough to fix it.  Enough to fix starvation, worldwide, like me, to give us meals to solve hunger but they did not do that.  Our society is too turned against the lower class (against me) that we are not pretty enough, not ornamental enough—that they don’t believe in our restorative place in society that lives to drive down to where the PCH™ is—a society where rich people keep slaves in their basements, where only one in one hundred are caught, sent to prison, anally raped and beaten by other more socially acceptable criminals by their cell mates, learning for years how not to be caught and threwn back into society with a wink of the eye and a pat on the ass.

The friendship of dropling’s grace.

To serve you time and again with slightly underage girl meat and boy meat.

Just us junkies left to feed them—almost 17—just a ruined ass (mine) left wrapped in a diaper outside their motel door I am with you I am 1) half dead from the waste down presented as a molecule also 2) half brainwashed (I’m not sure which half but it’s a lobotomy job I can tell you that) and half of (not my intelligence) but my memory has been replaced with an entire set of 10 times the recorded past that tricks me and plays with my sense of self and lets me know nothing of which of this recorded self and me.

It’s like a game you play wherein not only do you have multiple options for your future but there are multiple options for your past.

You never saw yourself going to therapy.

And as a kid—neither did I.

But all three of us—or four—or five—can claim to need it now.  No matter how pretty my head is, or slightly feminine my body is—we can all see that, once you pull one arm from the pile of my parts, the frontal lobes or wherever you get them, that a penny’s worth of distance is all you need to scrape off before you get down to the mystery that was me.

ALL CAPS THEATRE WARNING SIGN (THAT WAS MEANT FOR ME AND ONLY ME)

Meant for backroom me and you won’t ever stop the clock.  Don’t ever stop the clock and even when you consider it do not ever stop the clock.  Do not stop the clock, ever—do not stop the clock.

Do not sanctuary prove the clock is stopped do not in Notre Dame™ ever stop do not Notre Dame™ stop the clock and we had models those injured inside ND models of every scale-inch wall but no models of the people who are hungry now what happens when they die what happens when their structure falls to ashes when they burn their structure falls (to ashes, mate!) to ashes, to ash, to..the ash.  Of the mother.  Ash.  Of the father.  Who will calculate our value over that of a building to the structure (falls) to ashes (contained the dark potential of the true true and entire nature of the world).  Each of us containing blueprints of a thousand buildings.  Lore.  Them species thinking of them species think.  Every them speaking over the roar of the roar!  Of that space (the quiet) that inner quiet that solitude and inner quiet blamming the rest of the noise, the noise is the rest of the noise halfway connected to the top of the dog door swinging the easy door swinging the top door swinging sideways (whack!)—swinging side to top to side to back.  They are the sister’s steps as she goes flap ball change, flap ball change from one side of the dancing hall—(I am there to watch her)—(as her father watching)—(am there to watch her.bring her points to me.swallowing her movements whole.something is wrong tho.what is wrong is her father is stinking up some Waste Management™ dumpster.that is all they had (not a recycle one).all they had was the non-recycling bin for bits of dancers’s shoes.bin for bits of dancer’s feet).  That is all and everything is all.  And all is all and everything is all.  Faceless bringing it to my mouth.  Suckling it like honeycomb.  The gray in my beard taking time from me—crossing my path with the time-suck apparatus—bringing me over me speaking words to me I never have learned speaking words to me I will never have need to learn.  My ability is needlepoint on a crochet application—abilities to crochet demonstrated (from within) the structure of the application itself—application encoded in binary, self-spelling if you run it through your computer everything becomes clear like the company who wanted all their resumés formatted in text only and I won the prize with

main()int a4,i,q,r,s=1839,t,x,y,z1920*sizeof(int);
for(x=0;x<1920sizeof(int);zx=0,x+);z1000=1;
z1001=1;z1080=2;z1081=2;f:putchar(’n’);for(
i=0;i<1920;i
i+79;a1=i%80<79?i+1:i-79;a2=i>79?i-80:s+i+1;
a3=i<s?i+80:i-s-1;x=random()%4;y=random(%16;
q=z[ax];r=zi;if(q)if(r==q)z[a0]=(r+y+q)%16;
else if(r>q)t=(rq)%16;z[ax]=r;zi=t;}elsez[ax
]=r;zi=0;}}usleep(48000);goto f;}

Swimmingly.  Swimmingly one.  Swimmingly one-by-one.  Swimmingly two-for-one.  Swimmingly bass.  Mad base.  Brought for me in singleton.  Scared to the zipper.  Supervised classroom-approved discovery period.  Wondering who is half and who the other half will be.  Terrifier™ to the wings, that tiny little singular thing one person has the right to exercise its right to exercise the other one as real as solid as believable to the other one naked as the one to the other.  With text, you see, there is no ncurses there is only stdio.h waiting to be bear-trapped in the digits of a single man.  Waiting to be stumbled upon and twittered to a higher level of strikingly subcutaneous libraries, strikingly elevated to the utmost highest (lowest) level of computational fiction.  Lowering itself to the lowest lowerest levels of computation (fiction) middling itself to pythons you tracked to the very path before your feet!!  La see dah de dah deeh dop doo wop of a circular groove.

Of a circular groove laid down to phantom maniacs blah blah blah you came to my head like the beat from a top-large drum.  Sacred to my infantile feeling.  The DNA™ of my father spelled out in blackface typography.  Elevated themes of wigwam typography.  Elevated themes of wigwam typography making me invisible for the mystreal of mistrials of Latter-day Saints™ the only religion what will be here after the next apocalypse walking charred streets two-by-two the youngest and most notorious of stompers stomping up and down the ash-white streets with those most nubile of faces those most notorious of paper-thin dresses wrapped around my hand and pulled you! in with my fist, pulled you in with action you arrest my essence with your cardinality, bring me full stop to your facing..me..bling!..I foreswear it in the dying of the light.  Even through Shakespeare™, my phone brings me nothing.  Nothing through the seeming, seeming there, that goat-sphere of animal consciousness.  That he has brought me nearer along the ridges of your sphere.  That had brought me tunnels of nudity—from the stoutest of girls—to the stoutest of men.  This will prove the extension-level–event™ that every one of us desires.

Stain my Sheets on the Titanic, Me

My server-side god at this exit big in the trade.  You would notice if you were in it.  They have holes the size of toasters in every wall.  That’s where people as big as this disappear when they go into McDonald’s™.

I was there last night.  It seems.  Then some rowdy juggler zips up the left side of my tongue—my left, my striker side—and he’s wrapping thin zip cords up to celebrate (his life) his catch of my body and with it my soul.  Tossing that zip line over his shoulder.

Taking me.  Rapidly.  Into his car-borne air conditioner keeping the back of the station wagon cool as fuck.

Telling me stories of my friend Anna™, who isn’t going to make it right now—not now—but who will be with us at the hospital where we’ll find out my father’s ailments and the rough side of this tale is (as far as I know) I don’t even have a friend named Anna™ and now I begin to cry—a cry my parents never heard me scream—this is the cry of something is wrong is very very wrong.  And I cry that cry as much as I can (as much as they’ll let me before recognizing that it’s not going to stop until they stop it).

“Little girl.  Little girl?  You want to stop that, now?  What’s your name, little girl?  You’re a cute one, aren’t you?  Stop crying and tell me your name.  That’s good.  What’s your name, cuteness?”

That’s one patch I do remember.  That first chunk of words he spoke to me.  Calling me “little girl” and “cuteness”—only words someone would say to me if they were trying to photograph me or if this was the first time they met some prostitute they were about to screw.  And it turns out both were true, here—I had become photo-fodder and run-on prostitute of the century.

Dripping dress, dripping panties, soaked both when I stepped through their door.

I can only keep track of one of them at this time so if they act as one during this introduction please forgive me (or chalk it up to my sensibilities, my sensitivities, or whatever other feminine weakness of character you imagine I sometimes have)—they’re all true at times.

All false at times, too.

False at turns.

From digger to digger to dug.  From higger to higger to hug.  From nigger to nigger to nug/nig nog/nights nug/and a nigger face-hug to embrace that proper cock/proper nig/nog presenting itself for show it groomed itself showing its genome bare on the block!  And bare and bare and bare!  For those light skin ladies to feel it’s hot between their legs, after the sales show, spread them and fuck those black boys continue their variance for vibrant cock!  For venerable cock, I surrender to it.

Between my alpine legs, never shaved (like a boy’s) you prop them open with a nigger’s huge and delicate sands—delicate hands of an entire history I know nothing about, squeezing and squizzery, camping in some hotel room, squeezing my legs together when black man throws his cock down on the bed and says:  “Open.  For me.  I’m going to shine, to show you what’s hidden behind the curtain of your legs.”

And I did.

And he did!

He showed me loud and clear, tearing the edges of my P❌SSY in his process.  Leaving me cut and without celebration, exactly, my top my bottom my long-labored hole huffing and puffing, complete in concept, now complete as an open (girl) hole, candy at center of wood, break and squirm, blended sextrumotion carcasses inter-ever-inflated cases almost never closed—or..solved..never much closed ‘round here.

Never much left to average hands.

Never saw too many above-IQ hands get hired or fired around these parts.

Never saw too much of that—of good people being smart people and smart people being good people.  Of inherited goodness aligning with inherited *kindness—*of that genetic back channel overlapping.

But it must, at some level—I don’t have the why to this one—I don’t know why but I place this above all:  The goodness/kindness meta-clause.  That whatever is “good” in your network also overlaps decisively with the fitness function to your universe—that is, it is good to be nice.

I think I see that, here, I think it hard as Super 8—living like an air plant in the entryway of a high-scale grocer.

Mystreal plant.  Strain for the causal consumer who buys a plant as an impulse purchase.

Who buys a thing.  A living thing.  As an impulse buy.  I know there’s no difficulty there—that’s what I’m saying—right?—the opposing beats of buying a plant without purchase.  Of buying a living thing thoughtlessly.

It means the household buying such a thing (always a rich single or more likely a rich double income family) can easily afford and also easily afford to take care of and also easily love and easily lust and easily let die—easily, easily let die but here’s the purpose, the underchord of it all:  My air plant’s value is that it doesn’t need feeding.

It just sits there.

It breathes.

You don’t have to feed the air plant.  Nor water it.  The air plant gets all its nutrients from the air.

It is perfectly assigned to the busy householder!—woot!—I don’t know how it responds to the Japanese™ rice experience.  But to busy middle-class households the air plant is perfect.  You can buy it from the rack outside the store—pay for it when you go.

The end.  (I would say that.)

But you would bug me to finish the story.  And you should.  ‘Cause the story isn’t told.  Not by a long shot.  Not by a short one.

No.

But you do need help you need help to tell it.  You need help and I do too.  I need you to help me read these decrepit phrases.  You need me to come up with these crazy word spaces in their genesis.

So it is you who needs me and me who needs you.

I need you.  You need me.

Exeunt.

When I Hit You I See A Rainbow of Fruit Flavors

Trillian child.

Motor-boater.

We flip and I am robbed of the power of speech.

I juggle your pimples, your scars.  Your saving graces.  I match every request with every response, answering you in pastel tones that you and I have only seen when the wallpapers fade in sunlight.

“What did you do to me?”  You ask this.

“What?  Dear one?  Dear one who’s about to die?  What did you want to know?”

“What kinda things did you do to me?”

“You don’t want to know exactly..?”

“I want to know everything,” says the girl child, whose name I do not know (pretend) for the course of this confession.

I settle back into my recliner.  Which I think is thick and manly but you show me with your eyes that it is not, that I am not, that this chair has always been a Target™ knock off I carried it here on my back and you’ve been showing me with your eyes.  Every.  Day.  Since.

“Well.  At first it was light brushing heavy touching but first a light caress of your infant skin.  Then a bibble and a bobble of my right hand, then a babble and a bubble of my *left-*side hand.”

“Did I complain?”

“You did not complain, at first.  You laughed as if a tickle.  Your reaction at the beginning of was delayed and non-specific.  It’s not like, I shoved this baby carrot in your touché and you bit my hand and screamed.  It was more like my fingers were part of your non-specific sensorium.  A universe of lights!—How would you know which one I was turning?  You took me at my name back then.  You didn’t know what you were crying about.  Only that life was short and sad and you didn’t know anything about misuse or abuse and unfortunately neither did I.  I made myself cum using the tools I had learned as an infant:  Strapping.  Soaking.  Breathing.  Not breathing.  The pain of spanking my own behind with the smooth back handle of the babysitter’s hairbrush.  You want more?”

The girl captive nods.

“You sure you want more?”

She nods with tears.

“Ok—I’m gonna give it to you.  Just a memory.  This one comes in from the fiery left turn behind a NASCAR™ race gone wrong.  Seven drivers burned and smashed to pieces so small that all they found were like pieces of a finger—just like 9/11™—and they put those pieces into clear Ziploc™ baggies and they gave those baggies to the families and the families bowed Japanese-style and took possession of those body fragments and they went to the morgue.  But you?  I sliced my fingernails so close my fingers would bleed.  Pared down rough skin around my warts—I never wanted my baby sick and it’s only recently that I’ve found out genital warts are a different kind than hand and skin warts but I cleaned my fingers every time.  For a while.  Mostly at the beginning.  Every time I used my little finger..I imagined I could fuck you to orgasm with my pinkie..of course I never did.  But like a toad pod, a youngish froggy thing, you did get..stimulated..you came by a milk trail between your fatish legs and instantly I knelt before you on your sacred baby blanket and I sucked it all—I mean, I sucked you like you was ice cream!  Wonderful!  Counselor!!  I have been blessed with this child who gives forth mana from the skies.  The milk you gave was plenty, profitable, and my god has instructed me to eat the mana as this is what our people have been told to eat, every night—“  I clear my throat.  “—every nightmare is really what it was.  We lived in San Diego then.  Read the tabloids at the grocery store learned that SoCal™ had been filled with them.  In the sky, you couldn’t tell the difference between a real UFO™, a government UFO™, an Amazon Delivery™ drone, a US™ government attack drone, a movie-making drone, and a Playskool™ drone for kids.  I took them all to be true.  That’s why the walls in your room were covered in radio frequency shielding that’s below the egg-carton sound shielding and the windows molly bolted, plywood, double-cement eyelids and cameras at external doors, electronic locks (after a point), and all this is obsession—spent more time and energy wasting all that crap than we spent on you.”  And here I deep-breathe in.  “And all of this?  All of this was worth it.  So if I woke up, it was dark, I went to your room and figured you would wake up naturally.  When you were a baby I unfastened your diaper and laid my cock between your legs and I pulled out and pushed back in, not into and out of your cunt (you were too young for that) but into the V shape formed by your legs and out of that V shape, only at the end did my penis touch the perfect lips at the seat of your saddle.  And when it did, I gripped my hold on your ears and my mask fell off and you could see the real me.  And what you saw was horrible.  As if a lake monster.  Meets LSD™/Chinese™ dragon.  Meets a Mexican wrestler’s mask.  Meets my face melting off my structure—bones, skin, muscles, eyes.  And I’m boning into you.  And I’m holding you down.  There.  Has.  Never.  Been.  Anyone.  Smooth.  Like.  You.  Never has my baby been hot and wet and red.  As with the tongue of the snake I attack you.  I said!:  Like the tongue of the snake I attack you!  And my fangs, double-pronged from my root chakra—they form a mistress, a master, a mister, or more—and I’m rubbing.  Rubbing!  Running on that tiny core.  You have pledged your body to me, dear girl—*Oh my dear dear tiny little one—thank you!—*You are my crystal.  You are my god.  You cure me going in and kill me coming out.”

Oh My God Grammy It’s Grammy in Grammy Panties Fuck Me Please

Fuck me till my ear drops off.

Until the rage.

Wash that one crusty spot on the back of it.  Wash me with alcohol, burn away every imperfection.  Make me clean—the girl you saw in the porno and bob my head up and down your skinny cock while you replay pornos in your head.  Just because they said he invented a word doesn’t mean it originates with him—it just means he’s the first to use it in writing (in a way that it sticks to the archive)—just because you screw me like a lightbulb doesn’t mean you’re the one who invented electricity.  It all just means that you’re mine if you need me to help you.  And the more you rely on my assistance, the greater part of you I own.  The greater part of every distance equal to the sum of the squares or something..something grand..like a new society born of misfits and squalor..disposable..terrifying..not a mouth as we imagine but a spike..a pole..a trending of light and darkness the one bitten by the other and the other bitten by the one.  The great sea wall rushing over and rushing into us bringing us freshness, capability, a wisdom from below the sea.  On that day there will be no more hunger, surgery will be replaced with light, light with gifts, gifts with generosity, generosity with hope, hope with love, and love is bolstered from beneath by a light so bright it blinds the human eye.

That is what I’m talking about.

Here is what you are talking about.

A razor thin (snail if you will) pussy lips of a concubine.  That you jerk it to at work below your desk spraying a fine mist of cum onto the bottom of the roof and this again and again you waste it pump me full of you, make me pregnant.  Give me your child.  Let me raise her (in secret) (entombed) (with a quickness).  Let me teach you to see more broadly.  Let men shown me their prowess.  That tiny little bit of spunk.  And let me show you that it doesn’t have to be this way.  That I could hot you with an eyelash twiggle.  Hold you upright with a flash grenade—flash! bang!!  With subtlety.  Only speak to the highest—ignore your fellow sufferers and make it all an offering to god in the sense of the highest one power—the highest one..who..is.

I saved a bit of rage for you.

It’s called cholera.  Leprosy.  Measles.  The destruction of your entire species.

You let it in!  You let a basic germ destroy your mind every nerve in your body and why?  Because if the bug kills you, you want to die.  You believe in natural survival of the fit.  If for you there would be no hospitals, no doctors, no shrinks.  I could fit your entire set of doctrines on a 3x5 card, folded once, slipped in my back pocket to show your god how closely we have followed your orders.

And when I gave it to you.

Let me see what will happen.

Peering into my dust bowl.  Wiping tailgaters off my windshield.  Squinting naked down upon the sky.  Squint some more.  Here’s a spyglass.  There.  To the left a little more.  See the tiny ant?  Yes!  What is he saying?

Let me turn up the volume.

Turn on key clicks—there!

What’s he saying, tell me!!

He says he’s a psychopath.

What?

He says he’s a psychopath!  He says we are ruined.  That our ruination came from our beginnings.  That our odds were set at the outset.  That we are horses, that our caretakers know us to the level of every hair on our heads.  Every cell.  That they (to us) are in, around, through.  The ant has a pom-pom in one hand and a flamethrower in the other.  He says:

“You have come to me at the turn of the tides.  This form is the only one we’ve found that lets you speak to us and also lets us be comfortable in our own skin..so to speak.  You have tied yourself in an un-tie-able knot..the way silver and gold chains cut in microscopic links have a way of knitting themselves.  You gotta break that shit up.  Tear it to pieces.  And start again.  Build a chain that cannot knot itself—no matter how many trips it takes through the rock tumbler.”

The ant dances a jig, comes back to starting position.  Executes a one-foot head-to-tail stationary spin.  Comes back to first position.  And says:

“Your rules do not interest me.  Your laws.  Your morals.  Only in my world there is no jail.  No so-called rehabilitation centers.  We only have within us love and peace.  Truest kindness.  And we have time.  We have time to play with the universe as a whole.  To twist ourselves through the positions of the worm—“

“Hole up.  Hole up,” I say.

“What is it?” he asks, obviously pissed at my interruption.

“If I see you as an ant—if that’s our cohabiting symbol that you think I’ll be able to handle and you feel allows you to express your personality—“

“Then what.”  He smirks.

“Then you said that you have enough time to twist yourself through the positions of the worm.”

“Yes,” he smiles, a smile like Slender Man™.

“So what’s the worm?—You know—describe the worm in terms I can understand.”

“Ah,” he says.  Sparkle in his eye.

Then the ant pointed his flamethrower upon himself.

He revved it up and burned himself to a pile of dust.

The pom-poms picked themselves up and sang a cheer.  There were no vocal chords.  There was no brain.  But the pink puffs sang their cheer anyway.

I wasn’t sad.

And then this voice came into my head.  It was Slender Man™/the ant.  I had never heard voices in my head but this one was clear as day.

It said the ant was not sad either.

“Come back for me!”

“I’ll come when I’m ready!” said the ant voice who now had access to my mind.

But I heard it as “I’ll cum when I’m ready.”

That made me think of my captor—that you who sat with me on the bed.  And I looked to my right.  And your face opened up, gaunt lips around empty cavities.

And you went for my head—my everything—and you choked me down.

It’s Not My Right, It’s Just Something I Do

Because I have a need.  Because I have this need, I sniff it out, I follow it.  I hold it dear.

Because I go to the lengths, because I go to church to clear my sins.  Because I pray to a god who hates me.  Because I feel that hate flowing in my veins.  Because I bow on knees blender and suck.  That.  Holy.  Cock.  Of yours.  Oh god forgive me!  Forgive me my sins, my transgressions, every misdeed, everything tainted about me.  Everything sub-holy about me.  Everything black as the charring of a burnt calf-leg feed on the daily pills you shoot down my gullet—my only throat for sucking, for shouting at you in languages unknown to anyone on this level, unknown pages from history depicting satan’s characters in all their holy, holy (holy sanctimony)—holy holy pieces of my underlying soul ‘coming visible underneath your lens-like eye.  Coming off in charcoaled fragments of dust and funnel cakes singed to the points without any return, without any names due to the fact that these places were never uninhabited by anyone who writes or draws pictures they live inside the stones only coming out to snatch ya!  If you’re the last one in line—we gotcha—simple as that.  The dome releases its illusions of control it comes under a Sleeping Beauty™ spell it waits as I carry you (this collection of collections of you) up the mountain, singing a witches’ song, you drop into another dimension (scaring me to death) (scaring the me right out of me, scaring me so hard that you kill me by fright and it’s hard to tell whose memory was erased in the jungle, consciousness, sedimentary awareness, picturesque conditions which do not kill for I was never in them for long I was transferred to the shepherd’s memory (he holds us all with Charlie Rose’s™ weak weak eyes and integrated by Charlie Rose’s™ voice interrogated by Charlie Rose’s™ mind and that was it!) bang! bang! BANG!!

Charlie Rose™ licking my last P❌SSY licking her so good.  He and I are side by side and he pushes me away from the girl.  And Charlie Rose™ grooms the girl and Charlie Rose™ cools her off with the back of the babysitter brush lathering and layering her many P❌SSY lips her many folds of skin.  Unravels her from her hair.  Untangles her like the gold chain.  Letting loose every knot and kink.  Like a back massager.  Every tangle falling out.  Hitting the floor—loosened.  Like the jewels hidden at the bottom of the Nile™.  Like the sediment hidden at the bottom of the Nile.™  Like the waste bucket settled at the bottom of the Nile™.

Collecting us.  Our pieces and consciousness.  Hanging on us like a keychain.  Every key a sliver of consciousness.  Only the janitor holds them all.  He is comfort and fairness due to his simple nature.  He’s the only one we can trust to keep them all.  Our counselor—comforter—has less angle, less shrewdness than you and I.  That’s why we can trust him with our minds.  Our magnetisms.  Our high-song spiritual selves who laugh at every mention of god who laugh at every mention of the opposite of god.  Who tips a nod at every such notion.  Of a baby held up in offering by schizophrenic souls.  Who laughs when we kill, laughs when we give birth.  Whose laugh is the faceplate of a psychopath tears running in rust fingers loose (nothing clenched) (nothing tight except an alcoholic’s Lindy Hop-translatable consciousness) (nothing tight but a P❌SSY taken at the right age and when it is taken such it is pretty, smooth, textural, muscular) (it runs with every texture of the world) (it runs in carpet, chicken basters, bicycle hand grips, gripping patterns on a subway platform) (and you will know it when your foot makes a slip and the soles of your shoes catch—tight!—where the rubber meets the road).

When the rubber meets the road (my little toad).  You are welcome to my touches.  To my pricks and my prods.  I feel it’s my duty to copulate you, my emerging cunt energy.  To make love and to feel your soapsud walls cleaning off the surface of my cock.  Cumming inside you, conditioning your P❌SS.  Lather you up like a horse..or a boot.  Snug—tight!  The laces.  Strung around my neck like a noose!  That last moment!  Bring on the death of me.  My throat collapses like a darkling bone.  Doesn’t matter how I got here—I have to find my way out like everyone else.

I Was Meant to be a Girl—A True 100% American Girl

Who liked sunflower cakes and Sousa™ marches.  Who wore jeans cut off so high the pockets fell below the denim—skwunched together with a finger pinch right below the belly button—made to ride high and low, barely covering the ##1 hole and not even covering the ##2.  Pretty pickings for a boy who wants to stick it.  Pretty pickings for the girl who wants to lick it!

American Girls™ don’t get sex trafficked.  That’s a problem for the far and wide beyond girls in Tanzania and South Korea—for the southern tip of Africa and the north most coast.  Same continent.  Right before you take your last glance over the Aegean Sea™, the prettiest ocean you will ever sea, then—punk!—your head in a bag (plastic, not cloth like in the movies) and you’re overboard/underboard forever.  Getting slashed in the vagina with a razor gun.  Slashed anywhere but the face!—they want to see your face while they fuck you.  Want to imagine your dopey eyes, imagine how you used to look all bored and sitting in your classroom, some American place where girls your age are not held back as virgins but allowed to fuck their friends with no religious consequences.  Not like here where we shoot you or cut your head off on the principle of fact.

Flash to a little girl, fingers all a-rage.  She’s working on the plastic knots, working on her cage.

Then..pop!..off goes her head.

Quickly she is dead.

Foraging the cabinets of our mini-fridge.  Foraging the drawers of my day clothing.  We all wear boys’ clothes here.  Nothing fits.  I know from watching television that girls wear fancy clothing out in the world.  And that I will never see them on another girl or feel them hang tightly on my skin—I will never seduce a boy with the shivers and the shavers of vice and conflict—waiting in a bar—never drink—never cry fire! or rape!—never electrocute the room with my presence (which I think I could do if I could get out of this place).

Fairy fairy dope dope fairy fairy dope.

I lost my skin and rope rope—lost it on a rope.

Cut to:  American parthenogenesis.  Random selection.  Natural stop-loss, profit gating, draining the swamp.  You should know who the swamp is since you live there.  Should know how to set the game, the trap, force out every competitor, take everyone’s money.  That’s how I do it (stop loss) (stop looking—for life) (American never-look, American blindness).  The blindness has a special curve.  Its own severity.  Raking through the darkness.  Raking through time.

I sit with my companion through the space of years.  Taking baths when we were only babies.  Showering and getting our genitals over-washed by the men.

And it occurs to me—

—I live in a house full of men.  Not quite a full house but three-to-one.  I am the only girl.  The only one without a dick.  All that stroking and stroking.  I do it differently.  Girl stroke my pretty pouch underneath the silent covers pushing down boy shorts looking up out the window—the bars, the glass, the heavy metal sheets on the outer side of my universe and up there I feel the image of the sun, of the moon at night, where I can see the sliver of it when it’s whole where is it in the sky I know this from television.  From Carl Sagan, who I know is dead.  From Neil deGrasse Tyson™, a far cry from Sagan.  From Michio Kaku™.  I followed all their stars from my window seeing only the night sky on the slivers of my magazine—that solid sheet of plastic which granted me my views.

You have probably never been held in a room your entire life before.

You have probably never gotten out and ran the streets of Southern California™, with a white man and a black man chasing after.  With store owners and passersby illuminating your path as you ran by their shops.  Trying to help—but the wrong person!  Trying to help me get captured again.  Sent back to the hole in the room in the house that already looks fucked up with its windows boarded with steel!!  Doesn’t anybody think that looks strange?  Doesn’t anyone think that there might be people in there?  Run us over!—And I used to think to call the police but they are on the other side!

Now that I’m out I see!:  The police when you’re captive are here to get you out.  But once you’re out, those same forces exist to trap me back in jail.  If I prostitute.  If I sleep beneath a bridge—that’s illegal and they’ll take me back to jail.  If I avoid the spikes, if I manage to sleep between them, that’s illegal too.  It’s not aloud.  And if they find me they will catch me and put me in a cell.  When I get out, I have to find a place to sleep that is not illegal, not ill-licensed.  And with no money there isn’t such a place.  The halfway houses?  Every one run by rapists.  Every one is worked to the brim with shady motherfucking pimps who catch you coming out in the morning—guys clocking your every mood every moon sign you make every cycle of your period they know—kept in tiny notebooks—they have you pegged for work before you ever begin.

Pegged for which days, for which nights.

Have a spot for you in one of their houses.

Pretty girls in general get to sleep on the couch.  Ugly girls/girls in training sleep on the floor.  This is pimp rules.  The street assignments work the same way.  If you’re a butch girl you cap the end of the block, almost never work at all.  But that’s my freedom—that’s my safety.  Some other mack tries to run one up my ass—I’m covered.  That’s what a pimp should do, is cover my ass up from some cagey bro who covets me for his game.

I know it seems stupid but that’s what we have to do.

I have to cover my ass, work as many cars as possible, come back, and do it all again.

Me It’s the Me—Me!—It’s the Badlands

Not the badlands in name, the badlands in shape and function and form.  Pricked my upper thigh with a pinprick.  Lollipop.  There’s a gauge there.  If you look, you can see where my position is lodged in the crack by the window.  Lust is there—that is where I lust for you, dear captive.  Oh Captive My Captive!  Oh holy skies ramped from a cartoon death—a dozen eggs, each taken out for every time I cum in your sweet honey pot.  Leave it creamy—“Don’t touch it now!”—I never even had a decent salary much less a P❌SS in the garage.  Take her for a spin twice a day, three times a day, one time seven times in a single day, seven banging eye-goggling cum-squirting physical realms.  Ever once collapsing you and expanding you to the tune of my cock.  Growing you with me.  With midnight sand.  With me powdering your legs, your ass, your cunt!  I have prevailed over my sand castle.  Installed in it a dictator.  Of you, my dear—of you, your riptide squalls, your package within a package, your unbeatable terror muffin.  Of my razor blade above you—at your neck!—behind your back potentially slicing your nerves but I am careful, in actuality, to never damage you, to never ever damage your skin.  Your pink and blue arteries, capillaries, blood flowing like a city beneath your skin.  Shallow train tracks you still wouldn’t want to be pushed beneath.  You still wouldn’t want to meet that train force to face.  Face to face.  Head to head.  Arguing in the halls of Congress™ who should police our freedoms in this age of technology.

When I come outside, this is the vision that strikes me:

A cold-case freezer (Thermos™) and my cat is pulling birds from its open top.  Spreading them.  Stretching them.  Laying them on the floor.  And I see her daily catch and am traumatized.  Bird after bird, squirrel after squirrel.  And after each one, she looks to me to see if I approve, gathers my blessing, and the next snapshot in the stream is of my lovely cat eating raw red meat from its quarry.  And I’m cracking my beer feeling superior to all this as a pterosaur flies over, hooks me through the shoulders, wrenches me free and I lost my beer cozy!  The pterosaur has no interest and spends no time getting to know my house.  She only has eyes for me.

She only has eyes for me (technically).

In reality this is what she has in mind:

A technorati fatigue of camel fur that keeps on getting in my mouth.  You say:  Close your mouth! and I say:  No!  I’m keeping my thoughts in here, lying in a train car, lying over a steam vent, hidden notebooks (old school—no power), hiding my ideas in an armpit—hiding them up my asshole for no one to find and only kept around (hidden) so that if I forget my own philosophies, they’ll be there.  In a hot wet hole up my own bottom.  Where my mom used to take my temperature.  Hidden in there like that.

I tell you my revolutionary theories and you grow bored of me.  I tell you my revolutionary plans and you shush me with one finger, sealing my plate, my palate inactive.  My partial self incompleted—stunted—bumped back into place mine a mother who is half-dead—who sits in the upstairs window of her apartment, leaning out, smoking, ready to die.

See her, but never believe her.

She isn’t ready to face that half the world owns slaves.

That slaves are here to kill us, granting us enjoyments (like fucking a kid viscous, keeping her locked in the room, with her co-captive—we told them they can fuck anytime they want!).  But they don’t fuck.  The little one is gay, we think—but what chance have they had to figure that out!?  They haven’t had *any—*I think that’s the answer you’re looking for.  They have had no chance to figure it out—none.  No silent moments of freedom—even inside their own heads.  None.

We race them.

Fuck-face each and see which of us can come first.

Busting a nut straight down your throat, girl.  Bust a nut an inch deep into your ass.  Thinking of the one who did it to me.  Thinking of my dad.  And I am trapped here doing the same thing.  Never had a heart to heal.  Never had time to heal!  My bread was baked with a plastic key hidden inside it, and the lucky one always got the key.  Thus I stick marbles up your ass, girl, and shake them around before waking you.

Your hole is glory to me.

And it makes me forget (for a moment) that I come from you—that we come from the same place, you and I, of being treated like this by your father (or father figure, in your case).

My father is dead.

But he’s alive within me.

That’s who you dream with when you ask for an extra cup of juice.  Someone terrible (even to himself)!  Someone who will stand up, go to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, and pour you that extra cup of juice coming up with ways to punish you.  Ways to kill you (just a little bit).  When I unlock you and see you looking up at me with those sympathy-inducing eyes.  Tear in your hand.  I hand you the extra juice.

Close the door in your face.

And outside the room I am counting on my hand the ways and means by which I will punish you for that juice.

It’s important.  For me.  Not to call you by your name.  Or any name with regularity.  It’s part of my psychiatric plan for all of you.  So I never start to care.

It Was Never Planned So I Didn’t Bring My Pocketbook

Nor, with it, my sundries including my Escape Kit Meant For Kidnappings™.  Including a nail file.  A miniature hair dryer for drying my captor’s hair and—whoops!—dropping it in the bath with him to wash him at the cellular level.  Wash all the trouble out of him.  Wash him to oblivion while I’m sitting on the living room carpet—screaming!

Screaming with all the hand kicks and leg throws—not innocent myself (never not at all) spying on him through his keyhole but toward the end it didn’t matter—they kept us only semi-locked in—I could have escaped with a Q-tip™ and a ham sandwich and when I was done I’d still have the sandwich.

Near the end there were delivery men inside our house who could see through our door (ajar) who had glimpses of us naked it was like our captors wanted to be caught and when they finally left that house a few days later there were cops all up and down the street—the only problem, I guess, is that my men had left us half an hour before—didn’t even say goodbye—just threw 18 years down the toilet and the police took my companion and me in for questioning then let me go (for he was younger) and where they would normally put a number I scratched in a blank and went out of that office as surely as a bank robber and never sought them out again.

Freedom/frenetic:  A hose on full draft.  My pony imagination to carry me forward.  I am a warrior:  I jump left, I jump right.  I sleep under the boardwalk tonight.  My horn guides me:  To water.  To safe places.  I poke a person with it to test them.  Test their character.  Test their intentions.  And a few days later you are there, my companion, subtle arrival/appearance.  I pretend you have powers but soon I’m no longer pretending.  You do have powers.  Powers of protection.  Powers of defense.  Of attack.  We made it this far.  Now we’ve got to make it a little more.

When I see you we do not talk.  I check your skin for tics.  Fleas.  Spider bites.  Safe you to a place where no one will find—back back far beneath the boardwalk.  Where it’s covered in cheap latticework and I open my bag and bring out oranges, a peach, two bananas and we eat.  Bruised, stolen fruit to be the staples of our diets for as long as this book goes.  The occasional McDonald’s Dollar Menu™ cheeseburger.  No TV.  No drugs.  No pills.  No medicines of any kind especially ones we don’t know by name or sight.  Those first nights we slept huddled together.  It was only later we got sleeping bags and backpacks and boots.

Boots (stolen themselves) (stolen from us) that are too expensive are no good.  Must have dingy-looking boots of no cost to us and sleep in them at night to reduce inventory leakage.

You might think there is a code among homeless people.  There is no code.  When it comes down to it, every other homeless person will rob you to the sticks of your legs.  Rob the food right out of your mouth before you swallow.  Everything must be hidden.  Everything.  Down to the emergency 20 dollars you store inside your sock, inside your shoe.  You have to tape it to your skin inside your underwear.  Tape it between your butt cheeks so if someone rips your undies off they still won’t see it.  I mean—that’s just how that goes.

The oasis of McDonald’s™.  Ordering from a computer screen.  Getting every little bit of goodness out of that three dollars you’ve saved.  Sitting there in the windowed booth with you, my companion, both with mouths full, chewing slowly, no idea where we’re going next but—for a moment—comfortable to have Dollar Menu™ cheeseburgers in our cheeks, hot—a slice of cheese!—and warm ground beef coating the esophagus all the way down into my belly, where I follow the sensation, feeling my muscles contract—enjoying it, loving it—enjoying its smell when it comes from my anus dropping down down down into the stolen seconds sitting on some toilet—a minute of silence, of me being alone in the Barnes & Noble™.

If I had my kit with me I would never have been caught up.  Caught up in this game!  Which isn’t really about the logistics of saving money without a bank, working a job without a place to sleep, finding a place to live that I can afford on one job..two jobs..three?

I sit.  Done pooping.  Letting my bowels relax.  Such a comfortable feeling.  Knowing there is nothing left inside me to shit out.  Feeling emptiness, crossing my thumbs one over the other, leaning my head back upon my shoulders.

I had a slight understanding of Buddhism™ which is what I thought I was doing, focusing on my digestion.  Feeling the feels inside my body.  Breathing deeply.  And I did this in the Barnes & Noble™ bathroom almost daily.  Imagining myself a guru leading a meditation retreat at some remote island (where I lived) and I would be The One Whose Life Had Changed So Much™.  The one with perfect poise.  Whose body, like a dancer’s, limbered fresh each moment.  Whose composure, each second striking a sculptural pose, was long and lean and neat.

Did I Know What I Did Was Wrong?

Did I know, when I grabbed a girl I had been stalking, knocked her chin upward—damaging the teeth—that what I was doing was wrong?  Of course I did.  Of motherfucking course I did.

I am in a battle with good and evil.  But I know what evil is!

Of course I knew, when I gave her the shot that would carry her (in sleep and darkness) into my house.  Into the children’s bedroom.  Into her sleeping bed.  Tucking her under her sheets.  Cupping her P❌SSY in one hand—cupping behind her neck with the other.  Feeling that fatherly feel.  Somewhere between the girl as my daughter.  Somewhere between the girl as my friend.  Somewhere between her as an infant, her as a pre-teen, her as an eighth grader.  Writing essays for school—she’ll certainly have plenty to write about.

How I Was Kidnapped as a Child and Taken for Rape Purposes and Such™

By insert your kid’s name here The Wunderkind of the Ages, Age insert your kid’s name here

I can’t tell you how many times I raped her on the first day.  It was months of waiting—years, really, to get this particular kid.  You had raised her as the perfect band-camp girl.  I can’t say her name here but I can tell you it was Lindsey or Lindsay—there I have told you her name and yet I haven’t.  I have not told you her name!  Have in my slyness given you alternatives so similar they tell you without you ever knowing.

But, yes, “the rapes.”  Tied to the headboard and tied to hooks I installed—you know—here and there—twiddle and twaddle—fiddle faddle fiddle faddle of the wooden paddles still ripe with splinters pulling down your panties—glimpse of your *P❌SSY!!—*turning you over spreading your ass cheeks—getting hard at the sight of your childish asshole next to the paddle my cock got so hard I took it in one hand while my other wiggled a finger up inside your be-hind and removed it—took in a deep breath through my nose and I almost passed out the scent was so profound.

Then I held your butt cheeks apart with my left and spanked you (oh so hard!) with the paddle in my right.  The stimulation was so hard I let go your butt cheeks and took my cock up with my left stroking striking stroking striking your ass gets red and red and redder!  I couldn’t tell if this was happening or a memory it all ran together like twine.  Psychopath in my actions.  My mind.  In my series of paddles.  My series of orgasmic twitches—that’s all I had become—a series of assholes, series of paddled butt cheeks, of course.  And who was my first?

My first was the school principle on the last day of first grade.  I had chased a girl underneath some construction-crew playthings.  And I had pulled down her panties as fast as I could once I’d chased her in there.  It was exactly the way I looked (except more beautiful) and I pushed down my pants and jerked it to this beautiful girl, then stuck it in her, holding down her arms and saying to her:  “I will kill you if you say something.  I will kill you if you tell.”

After that—What’s that?  Did she scream?

She didn’t scream.  At all.  When I was done playing with the thing between her legs, she left the concrete tube, falling to the dirt, and wandered slowly up to the sidewalk which is where the bad kids sat after they did something bad.  This was the first of many Lindsays.  She sat there willfully where the bad kids sat and our teacher came to her asking her what she had done wrong and she said something to the teacher I never heard.

Only the next day did I get it up enough to talk to Lindsay.

In gym class I cornered her at the water fountain.  I put my hand over the water spout.  Felt its ice-ling cold on the cup of my hand.  By this time I expected she told teachers, principal (who I was sure didn’t care), mother, father, older sister, piano teacher, best friend, seat partner in school bus, driver of school bus, pet dog..anyone.

But I asked her about all those and she said, “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Let me get my water.”

“Oh, I’ll let you get your water, sis—I will let you get your water in good time.  Just tell me what I want to know.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she says to the spring.  Then taps her fingers on the fountain’s metal sides.  “I.  Didn’t!  Tell.  Anyone.”  On this last word Lindsay whispers it.  We’re in a detective film.  Lindsay is the witness.  I’m the detective.  I ask the questions.  She gives the answers.  Not that are true—but—that are the answers I want her to say.  The answers that fit with my version of the truth.

This leaves two questions:  One, what did Lindsay say in answer to my query at the water fountain.  And two, how did it feel for me to fuck my present-day Lindsay’s roiling anus.

On the question of fucking Lindsay’s anus:  Rotten good.  That’s how I felt when I fucked her.  That is how she felt to my dick.  The kind of feeling you get when you steal from Target™:  A little bit bad and a whole lot of conflicted good—which is the only kind of good I know.  That much more exciting a good than regular good.  That bad-good that torments me every day—keeps me going for weeks after.

On the question of what Lindsay said to me at the water fountain while I intimidated her in word and deed?  Simply this:

She said:  “I checked your Facebook™ and you’re nothing of the man you seem.  They should add a relationship status that includes the text, ‘I will fuck your dirty cunt in the tubes beneath the playground.  I will take your name, chewing it as you walk away in shame, with fire between your legs.’ “

Mini Me Cloaked in the Darkness of the Waterfall

Cloaked in robes of light.  Swathed for the mystical you meeting the mystical me I see us as lightness figures hide us in light form and reform us in your teachings I have already left in mind only in name only upside down is right side up is the calling card of the thing when the thing is called.  Why are they interested in us what do they hope to deserve?  They wish to disassemble me to reverse-engineer me to figure how I work.  It’s for their history lesson.  We are like the pyramids are to us.  We have to reverse it after we came back in time because we like to know—to believe—that someone prior to us had intention, had a love of art and computation.  Though it is difficult to believe that, say, an impressionistic painting means much to someone who never saw the thing with our eyes, with our three-dimensional way of seeing.  But apparently they do—apparently they are building a museum of the universe (or even something broader) when I hear you coming:  BANG!  BANG BANG!!  On my fragile door.  The door opens.  You come in and I love the beerish smell in you it means I’m in for a wild night of fucking! and fricking! and fracking! my body between the sheets hoping to hide myself—instead making my buttocks visible in relief, small cheeks forming someone older and larger in your mind, someone who can shred to take it.  Someone who can take it like a man!  Someone these old belts will only rile up, strike back, challenge the dominator.  Challenge the dominator, the one who comes in through the window at night.  Whose red eyes scared you once.  Whose claws and bodily fingers scratched his head in an all-too-human gesture.  And while the redness in my snatch is agitated from below, from my Mother Earth, by late night it is agitated from above.  I am stunned and stun-beamed into a cordial setting of the ultimate Mad Party Tea House there’s the joker face shriveled Jared Leto is the only one I haven’t seen it’s too new upon the television screen it’s hard to comprehend how he could become a character from little baby Jared in Fight Club™ (that’s the one we’ve seen for brilliant eyes me and my companion eyes wide open mouths agog! we saw him pummeled and punished to the brink of death.  But never punished ie he always came alive ie he always took apart his seams and below that was a costume which he took off and below that another costume.  Below that yet another costume which is red (the demon red) with a black-and-white devil who is like the noisemaker in a Clive Barker novel’s cover the devil never dresses in red (stupid!) she is every duality humans can think of hence the black.  And the white.  Equally represented.  Like a checkerboard.  Penciled in dotted lines a dash! of light like a flash re-presented to my brain a wand! like Harry Potter’s™ dark side the side that was always known of in the movies if you simply turn the negative over and shine the light from the projector through the front then through the film’s back then across the smoky auditorium then to the screen projected high above the viewers saying a message that no one there can hear.  That is the way of the devil:  Crossed back upon itself making light from dark and dark from light and all the while disappearing into the dark hole at the center of the dark man/light man’s ear.  If you hear me say “the dark man” that’s what I mean by “devil.”  If you hear me say “the light man” that is what I mean by your concept of god but it isn’t a sympathetic god (to you) it is just the repeater and the reverser working together by powers of two to create wonderful beauty to create the back of the tapestry to create holes you can never really see.  To create holes in me.  And those are holes like from the knitting.  From the yarn work that is done by the creator and the destroyer of the devil himself.  Of the devil herself.  Of the devil who claims no sex and where almost all that happens is happening through starlight..symphonies..rhapsodies..fugue.  On dusty realms and fire-fighteries made of hydrogen atoms.  I don’t know much but I do know that along the mothership they teach us what we need to know..a physics of the universe.  And they teach it so that even I can understand.  So that all of our consciousnesses can understand, teaching in pictures with unspoken words in a way that my dim cousins, for example, would all get it perfect clear.  I mean that’s if I had cousins.  But I consider my companion a cousin and someone aboard one of the ships showed me my babies at 18 and they had alien faces and alien brains and yet (still) somehow they are strangers to me and the half-similarity, half-distance between me and them is (at base) frightening.  Frightening as so you would be if your mother appeared to you one day after you had never seen her in this life and she said, “My name is Sharon,” and you knew.  Somehow you knew that this was her.  And the last time you saw her was aboard this very ship.  Suckling you from her alien tits.  And somehow I was then left for child traffickers because of the Prime Directive™:  Don’t disturb the childling civilization.  Do not make yourselves known.  But that’s not what happened—not in any way.  I was left here, slave to two civilizations, and me cursed to know there nature of not only the first but also the second.  Dually slaved.  Dually noted.  And dually in the cock fest of both.

Walls of Water Falling from the Mesa in Our Backmost Yard

She speaks of cock fests.  Of tributaries.  Of all these little rivers of desire conjoining in our back yard.  For a tiger festival.  Albino tigers.  Tiggers.  Rhyming companions are the product of her dysphoric brain—Not of reality!—not of matter, of stuff!—Only the mettle of her mind the private faire created between hemispheres produced in the stockroom of her creativity—humming along (swimmingly) humming along with that baseless brain.  Ironing me (all the humps out)—middling across her gusset torn to me thrown to me photographing happening from the neighbors’ yard I can see your zoom lens from here!

I can see the zoom lens from here.

Can see that motherfucker.

Snapping pics of our curtains.  The inactivity of a bricked-in wall.  With infrared—nothing.  No infrared that I know of can scale a cinderblock wall.

Outside they have:  Nothing.

Inside:

A Minotaur of arms, legs, a snout that could root us all out!  My co-conspirator taking over the black boy got his legs up in the air this one going this way, that one going that way.  His toes a constellation of god!  Sprinkles tinkles ants are running quickly—quickly running ant-nose up a hose he had attached to the black boy’s anal socket pumping water in, pumping water out.  At breakneck speeds.  One force or action suffering the reverse command:  Another force or action of the water spraying! from between the boy’s legs into the air of the room landing on the tops of everything giving not a fine mist but an ultra fine coating of feces water causing the entire room to go global with this medicinal coating a thick globular spray is what we want.  Coatings of E. coli bacterial limbus of the first order limbus of the second order munching zombie brains ad nauseam when the shit goes down we will have everything we want, everything we need in here.  I’ll be able to rock the corpse of my victim, my voiceless friend.  Then we will really have each other—no one else—cuddled together in the branches of a magnolia tree—huddled together! in that most climbable of trees.  Your skin facing the trunk.  My skin facing your back so if anyone shoots at us their bullets will have to pass through me—first—then with what is left of their velocity they can pass through you.  Then with what is left of their velocity they can pass into the bark of the magnolia tree and lay velocity to rest in a private oak.  Ness.  Of the family.  Nessie.  Loch Ness.  That is from where I am from.  From my hometown of infinite smallness.  Infinitely imagined sock puppet for adult swim.  For scratches on my forearm.  Dug there and placed there by a child—a child’s play, victim hood—everything you can not know of me.  When I take you in the bathroom with the back of my hand.  Swallow your neck nape inside my red mouth.  Felonious Monk™ in the spidervale living room—it’s just as fun as it can be!  Your floor straps overhang the coffee table.  Your companion’s neck strap as he’s proving being loud.  And bad.  All the actions of a boy who wants to stay a slave I catch him sullying up to your cage looking for a bump.  That infamous bump!  That infamous lump on your back I concocted upon your back.  By scraping by scratching by facing by fatching by back-fat having you are my car, my lowly Model T, my well-designed and ultimate vehicle planned for obsolescence in a hundred years.  Where I’ve stripped you—beyond the skin—stripped you into a fat-back pageant—molded thy life into the deadly self who is having fun now and who will not remember this later.  Forced you into never remembering—forced you into never knowing that.  When my roll is slowed—when the lights go out behind me—you will be the first to see that this is nothing but another version of me—another satellite.  Another fucked-up version this with its broken claw—it’s just the fucked-up version of me—it’s the me while I’m fucking (you, my dear—so give it a rest, ok?) while I’m fucking you (the fucked-up version of you) (who is fucking the fucked-up version of me) who is fucking..I forgot who I’m fucking forgot who is beneath me it’s your companion boy I’m going at his asshole for a minute you’re holding his legs and stroking his head and twisting his nappy hair around your little finger on your left hand it is the one of least control the one I least control and therefore one you least control.  It seems to control us—to make itself known inside our wills—He has written himself inside our wills and testaments.  Or taken himself from there.  Inside-out boy.  Boy with the broken anus.  Boy with Shit Falls™ spraying himself proudly throughout the room.  He has made himself known throughout the room.  He is the guest whose essence precedes himself.  Laughing.  Getting the jump on us all.  The soap suds method of getting to the center of—rage!—of the Tootsie Roll™ pops.  Of the center of my rage-filled cage of the center of my caring (of which you’ve had ample trade whistles of mine for you to record) of which I think I have given sufficient samples to the court.  Examples sufficiently court-like for a court-like court.  Walls of mesa falling court-like in our back yard.

The tryptophan taking me over.

For a dull and boring nap.

My Petit Fours Ran Crazy-Style and Run Me Out of the House

I haven’t space for a wood-clock haven’t even had space for my dinner.  Attempting something complicated in the kitchen with my hands tuned to the browser on captor’s phone, him checking every minute to see that I’m not SOSing the police or some shit.

He picks up the phone and flips through every app to see that I’m only on cookery.com and my local notepad.  That all I am attempting is cooking my petit fours looking up the French™ translation of certain words with an apron ‘round my neck around my waist we don’t get out of the bedroom much so I’m enjoying the hell out of this.

Cup of water.

Two cups flower.

Half a cup sugar—make that three-quarters that!  Make it a whole cup.

And creepy is staring at my legs, the sides of my body through the open apron.  Through the bottom slip of a wrist.  His fingers on my belly I guess I will never convince him that this is what I want to do with myself.  With my life.  That I live to see Rachel Ray™ perform experiments in the kitchen.  That I’ve memorized her ingredients (half of them).  Memorized her outfits.  Memorized her little humphs and puphs every little sound she uses to navigate around her cook-speak.  I listened to Rachel like she was my sister, my savior, and all you ever did was touch me through holes, in, my, dress.

*Touch my bootie—*that’s what you say.  *Touch my bootie—*that is what we all say.

*Regulate the bootie—*that’s what you say.  *Regulate my bootie—*that’s what you say to me.

I throw a little ass at you.  Your subterranean finger pokes.  We’ve been at this long enough that I don’t even know how sick that is.  Me throwing you a little ass.  Stuck at throwing the angle of Gauss™.  As if I was da Vinci™ too.  I must be The Girl Who Has Learned the Most From a Single Room.  The Girl Who Became a Polymath out of television and rapes.  My P❌SSY in display in a kitchen while I cook petit fours in perfection.  Better than a French™-trained cook.  Give me the exam—I’ll take it.  What?  Do the French™ have some kind of rating system that graduates you into not a French™ trained or a French™ trained cook and if you get the latter you are sprocketed into the sky with the award around your neck.

Swinging with good graces.

Amplified in the deep tonalities.

Bass boost-ed up in my earbuds they got me a tiny pair.  Slipped me one of the old iPods™ that plays nothing but noise.  If you hook it up to the TV that noise becomes static—nothing I could ever communicate through.  We are aliens in space making visitations upon animals (tagging them all the time) (just for fun we want to learn about them).

And we are the subjects of our aliens—they cap and tag us daily.

They say it’s one in a hundred but really it’s more like one in four.  Or three in four.  We were never meant to never know about those nighttime visits.  Never meant to think them fabulatory cycles/events—but no!—we were always supposed to know.  Supposed to know what is and isn’t a dream.  Supposed to not be afraid of our nightmare visions of red eyes and spindly fingers and sharp instruments poked inside our bodies.  We were always supposed to know.

Always supposed to someday say, “We are taking our place amongst the gods.”

“We accept that we are children of genetic mutation—an experiment that sets every one of us free.”  Free of slavery by becoming a space.  Free from petit forms of economy.  Whatever forms of unlimited energy can come to every one of us but we always pause clinging to oil and gas.  We must seem so wed to fossil fuels and so scared of here there being some slavenly poor to fill in as automatons.  To serve the rich food at restaurants as the rich become poor in one generation suddenly the billionaires become zero-naires the rich become one brightness coin that is worth all or birthing that ever motivates you.  The coin thinks itself bright.  Thinks itself into a coin at all who fools every sap who looks upon it the coin has none of the natural properties of one or bright or coin—it is the opposite of mute in these ways.  And if you try to give me one bright coin, every rich will object it.  Every billionaire and trillionaire will stand up and scream.  They will exemplify “rage”—will exemplify “out of rage” (an outrage)—they all at once exemplify “powerlessness” even though to the mountain we are all simply “man”—each of us a slave to the sun, each of us due a slip to die by our maker—or maybe to his maker.

Monitored by a ship to die.

Sailors in our atmosphere.

We have been coming for you for so long we know every hair on the count of your head.  Ever finger of your print.  Every smell of you—they know me!  Every sound my voice makes even when I’m not speaking—all those flips and gurgles.  Every menacing growl.  It’s like I’m your plaything.  But I have my own feelings.  You try from your captor waves not to frighten me but you come into my room each night to fuck me—to use my body like a teddy bear.  That’s what we are to you?  Entities who dry fuck a teddy bear.

You are entities (from the future—come back to the past to collect data on the construction of some machine) who decided while you were here that some of our people attracted you like Hello Kitty™ and you extended your trip to vacation on Earth—invisible when you want, coming down to my room from your bedroom escaping light and reaching your extended claw down under the covers, down under my panties to feel the warm and tasty juice that comes—only—from the fruit between my legs.

I Got Two Sides..And They Both Friends

Prince said it; I live by it.  Got my dualities in order.  Non-dualities, too.  I meditate twice a day (on the regs).  Play my bass.  Feed the cats.  Feed the kids.  Stop my victim for a natural fuck in the early eve’.  Twist her arms around her like Gumby™—fucking a green inflated monster who is bendy as a ballerina.  Bendy girl.  Sexy girl.  She refuses to be sexy for me now that I’ve tagged her a couple thousand times.  Refuses to present to me the glory I expected, stalled for, paid for, and was delivered.  Glorious for a few times an age.  Stepped between me and her my co-conspirator—I guess you can know his name it’s Frank™.  Frank™ stepped between us, flopped his dick out, flopped it on the bed.  Yeah, Frank™ fucked her a few times (even though he’s gay)—this probable type seems silly to you, future reader, but it was extremely important to homo sapiens of the time of which I speak.  Bleak imagination—nothing like you’ve developed since.  Nothing of the liquidity of brains of your people.  Nothing of the smashing IQ™.  Nothing of the few extra organs you’ve got rid of—nothing of the one extra organ you replaced them with.  Sex in the future is much more a question of size.  Not a question of age but a question of willingness and size—you may think we’re mostly moral people but it’s like the man who points upward at an airplane and says, “Is it good or evil?”—“Well.  It’s both!”  Most of the people on board are neither good or evil.  They live in an other-directed moral middle ground and don’t even think about problems of good and evil.  A few of the people on board are decidedly good—A few are decidedly evil.  The plane itself?  Usually used for good.  Sometimes used for evil.  You know?  That’s how morality is, he told me.

He came to me in whispers.  He told me:  Listen more to what you want to hear me say.  Listen more to what you want to make me say.  I am the alien in the mirror, sunken within your own features, lying dormant inside of you!  Dormant inside your own body.  I am unavoidable (as long as you’re here)—I come from you.  I taught you abduction but you never mastered the art of returning the person to their surroundings—the moment you left them.  You say, Don’t you mean the point, the position where you found them.  And I say, To travel through space is to travel through time.  And the opposite is true.  To travel through time is to travel through space.  You’ll forgive me my aphorisms while I mix this dog food to feed my girl.  Slurp it up, bitch—slurp that food up with your tongue!

That’s more or less the treatment she got from me.  Snapping photos with her teeth of her partner (Polaroids™).  Longhand written the fake name of her co-victim for inclusion in “the book” which is just a large set of photos to show people in the McDonald’s™ booth where we always go we sit we talk to people show them pictures of their faces while suggestively incriminating it’s not exactly a slam-dunk when it comes to making a prosecution.  You’ve got my book of little babies?  That could be anything—It’s not exactly evil within itself.

And the man across the table flips the page.  Flips the page.  Eyes look greedy.  Tongue licking the corners of his mouth.  He turns the page.  Looks at all the kids I have (by proxy).  Look at all the children I control.  Not a single one of them has had a model upbringing—their parents didn’t pay enough attention to any of them and that’s how we got them into this book.

It should be called the book of death.

A book of kids who never lived.

A book of lives I own—called into question my own morality.  Lifting the clear page to insert the girl’s boy companion.  Thinking about selling him.  He’s not much good for me.  Only to my co-conspirator whose ass I would gladly land in jail except he would implicate me.  That is the essence of our brotherhood.  That is the essence of our skinniness, our human multiculturalism, the essence of our desire, the essence of our holiness (as in full of holes), that is the essence of our worship of the amateur body filling holes—essence—filling holes with plugs—essence—infinitely plugging holes—essence—with plugs that’s all I am without you (a useless plug filling holes—essence) a bottle-stopping motion sound effects physical sensation it fills my sensorium with pleasure even as it washes you with pain.  Learning to enjoy your pain the looks you carry with you—just underneath your core it is a blessing from you landing on me—blessing—which is a—blessing—dumped from the people under the stairs on my head in love my word is true (to me) that word is truly what I mean to say I do love her in a father sort of way in that covet sort of way I love her inside her P❌SSY inside her P❌SSY realm she dotes in me heavy for the ages she takes my arm—puts hers inside it—she depends on me for everything—for food, for water—I provide for her—as such I am her god, her alien friend.  Red eyed and calm as a glacier.  When you move, you move but when I move it is though I have a hundred years between your..one..state.

This is Girl Voice Please Hear Me Roar

Above your analogies and meta-analogies, rise up my voice claiming I am person, hear me roar.  Hear me scream and shout and figure it all out.  Hear me sing soft and slow.  Hear me as that voice underneath your pillow.  Hear me as the strong sunlight and the dirty moon—cool with alternate voices rampant.  Cool as the pain in your tooth.  Threatening to make you do the surgery on my own.  To take upon myself the first pliers, scissors, rock.  Angling for your indecision.  Some day you forget to lock the door.  If that ever happens.  If that ever happens I will swing it outwards dealing a massive blow to your nose into your brain.  Into your throat.  Your mouth.  And out onto your Eat at Joe’s™ crabby crab shack plastic napkin—the blood and the everything.

Let’s talk about that everything.

In terms you are too afraid to use.

When it rises, someday.  When it rises tearing sheets of flesh off my broken arms.  When everything but my soul is left behind, every other part of me torn to bits with hooks like in Hellraiser™.  That leaves the magnetic center of me to break free, to wallow, to stay.  And all that’s on your napkin are the organs of me:  Spleen, heart, tongue—all filled with blood.  Filled with my universal donor type I give!—My entire life given to you daily on a slab—My flea-torn mattress it’s not exactly what the Romans™ would do—Not exactly what you would do if you were in Rome™—But it’s close—And that’s all that matters.

All that matters is the blood parts of me you can have.

As I lie on the consecration slab, I lie in wait of you.

Trying to spin together all the death blots of my former body I rise four feet above the surface of the bed.  My soul does.  And my body turns over so I’m looking down on your back and your upturned face.  Looking down on your butt cheeks squeezing squirming trying to get that little peen hard enough to enter my body from its top then you squeeze it into me and I feel you with my body and I feel you with my out-of-body millionaire.

A million miles of fucking measured along the length of your penis.  Over and over and over again.

How many miles did you fuck me?  Get it hard.  Get it straight out.  Then measure along the top side and multiply by three or four times a day times the measure of inches.  Times the number of times I swallowed you whole.  Times the number of times you entered my butt.  Times the times you entered my mouth.  Times the number of times you let me out to make a sandwich and it cost me a ride on your dick.

I think I must have been the only pussy you got for years.

I was young enough when you purchased me from the street that I never had the reflex to escape—not until five or so—not until managed and bought for me by the TV.  Not until commercials and wildlife programming got me loosed to travel the world.  Then (forever pressed into my mind) David Attenborough™ comes to the screen and it comes to my daily routine that me as a person and my life in the room—in the house—is totally not normal.

Not-normal like I have never seen anyone else live like this.

Not-normal in that aside from in sitcoms I’ve never seen anyone else living in one room.

My life is not normal in that this house is a cage.  Life is not normal in that inside the house I live within another cage.  That I have never seen the real world—not on television, not in here.  It isn’t normal in that I only have one real friend—and when did he get here?  Yes:  When?  Did he come before or after?  How long were they keeping him—a boy—a man!  A man gets strong.  A young man can beat an older man down.  Would you save me too?

Would you even think of me on your way out the door, my baby boy!?

My entire concept of love is from my baby boy in the next bed.

When we disagree I worry that no one loves me.  After that he sees I am teary in the eyes.  And then he comes to me, my feet bunched up against my butt.  My butt bunched up against the mattress.  He puts his arms around me.  From the front.  He lifts my head with his head.  Looking into my eyes.  And he says he loves me.  He says we will be friends forever but I wonder if that’s even true.  Is he gonna stay with me forever?  That’s what I need to know.

I’m hurting.  I told my counselor.  My therapist.  My half-wise one.  He showed me a new world—once I stumbled upon his—and he shows me a half-failed life in his other dimension.  By telling me about his life.  As example.  As criticism.  I’m about as lost in his office on the way out as I was on the way in.  Appearing and disappearing.  Mysteries sinking to Atlantis™ depth.  The pressure builds beneath my nose and I say the silliest song possible as my suit submerges me going down down down.

I float past sea horses (some of them bioluminescent) past octopuses who blow bubbles at my face and I gather them in to me, pretending to eat them, breathe them, take them in and put them out (the clearest senses in which we love something—to be a part of it).

I am lost on the other side of the glass.

Pressing my fingers against it.

As hard as I humanly can.

Making the tips of my fingers white.

Looking at all of you, reading me as loud as you can.  The whole museum crowd watching me swim.  Pointing.  Looking.  Being half amazed half scared with imaginations blaring.

You Have Taught Me This

To run from an undercover.  To run zig-zag.  To be nameless on paper, never in person.  To wear a low hat.  To save you from facial recognition.  To wear hoodies—even in the summer—to wear them naturally, like that’s how I was born (wearing a hoodie in the midst of June).  Like that’s how I was born, wearing leather gloves taught to understand your learning level like if I say I’m writing a novel, that will invite another question.  But if I say I’m writing a story that will do for your age level 6, then it’s good till 7 and then you’ll have to pick a new name, a new color for your box.  And by the time we replace your new color for your box, I’ll be there like the cards in Alice™ painting the roses red.  Painting then, the roses red.  For the beauty of all that is said.  You have to remember, Alice™, that Alice’s™ journey to the top was never easy, it was Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned™, it’s always the underdog who gets her switch in the end.  Someday you’ll be walking down a street in London™, swanking that ass, and I’ll be back in the valley our therapies will have had the opposite effect you will have freed yourself from me and you’ll be a hot-ass woman where I will be cowering in the lobby after seeing my lady and she will be upstairs in her office marking me down marking down my evils and possible future transgressions and cursing her god for me—cursing me for my future wrongs.  Cursing me for my current present.  Cutting me for every time I ever fucked you—for every time I might have touched beside your panties (it’s hard and every moment is a terror) (it’s a paraphilia) every time I let my finger slip inside—your panty roe l—a tomb of forgotten wastes—birth wastes!—the nickel-weighted form of a mass representing chemistry from my junior year.  Representing numbers on D&D™ play sets.  Conditioning your pussy every time I cum.  Conditioning you to want me to condition you.  Into the past?  Into my repast?  Can I attend without the purpose of you?  Attend it in my mind?  Can a person repast without the food or is digestion necessary for mourning?  Need to cut you down (my food) need to process you as you process me sitting in the ground sitting upright with the Mad Hatter’s™ tea party™ it asks the question: “Is it evil (spindly evil) for us all to party above board on the deck as our maimed cousin swallows splinters below decks cursing us to purgatory in a McDonald’s™ restaurant courting the flavor packets attending to the machinery taking care of the servers and asking the patrons if they need help ordering off an LCD screen this one in LA™ (where you spend purgatory) was updated only last week—the ones in Georgia won’t be updated until 2049 that’s 2049 far beyond the announcement of alien love far far behind the rest of the world this Georgian McDonald’s™ serves with hands ungloved and humans sweeping the floors humans taking the orders humans coming up to ask me (their IQ™ is 64 mine is 136) how to use the ordering machine.  I am cattle—she is cow.  Her kindness is inversely proportional to her IQ™.  Mine is proportional to mine and if I fucked her it would be rape her face of shame her untouched P❌SSY her proudness at the workings of her job and she isn’t scared to smile at me while I’m standing with my girlfriend to order that’s how much she does.  Not.  Know.  About my liking her in public.  That’s how much she does not know about the world.  Not to flirt with a man who is twice her age.  Not to flirt with a man who is standing with his girlfriend.  And from all this she invites a rape—invites what she does not know.  To invite me!—to rape her!  It is not done.  Even in the hospital.  Even there.  Even there were women I could not fuck.  Couldn’t even look at.  Couldn’t even touch.  They were too young or too sick for me to ride.  As if the people who’re sick or dying need not love—need not care—need not anything I might give or take from them.  And it’s been done to me—of course it has—by the flyers above my head and yours—been taken from my bed, rocked to sleep with a sting ray brought aboard the ship and rocked the fuck to sleep by my alien mother.  Made to cum against my will inside the mother alien, queen above board—made to cum but I liked it—made to cum in the most horrid yet beautiful alien P❌SSY I HAVE EVER SEEN.  ROCKED AGAINST THE ALIEN P❌SSY WITH ITS NATURAL KNIFE (SERRATED) CAUSING ME TO CUM ZIGGARY-NUTS.  MY HOLE—MY HOLINESS.  MY THERAPIST.  MY DAUGHTER.  MY MOTHER.  MY WHOLE.  MY NO-THING.  MY EVERYTHING!!  This is the copulation of the ZERO and the ONE.  THIS WILL KILL YOU (HIGH VOLTAGE).  This is beyond your limits.  Our technology?  You would not understand.  Our genetics?  You would not understand.  Our sex?  Our reproduction.  You would not understand.  Our music?  You would not understand.  It would be like (if we told you) a zillion soap balloons in the air—appearing all at once—surrounding you and floundering you—tickling your visual brain as far as it could take—it would be like the notes the organ played except it played *every note at once—minus one—*and you could hear the harmony and the message inherent in such a play—that you could hear the message and the harmony in.  Such.  A.  Play.

Beyond Nations Beyond Rules—I Could Have Been a Doctor if I Had Been Born 20 Years Later

If I had been born 20 years later I could have chosen my gender (without consequence) I could have had children without worrying when they’d find out I was born a sex worker could have been a grocery clerk could have walked the streets never fearing that I’d be recognized as the girl who came to visit you in your hotel room as the girl you picked out of a photo album as the girl whose picture you first saw there and opened the clear plastic and held my image in your hand—that was me!—there!—that was me in the palms of your hand!

Me regurg.

Me on the playground.

Me, coughed up again with blood.

Me, following my instincts to run.  Me with a taser at my side.  Me taking a trip to the bathroom and while I’m sitting there, I decide to run.  To take a left when I should’ve gone straight.  To swing my arms with (terrible fierce) with (go-go gadget pinwheel!) with (looking over the back of my shoulder) with (bruises—when you catch me) with (scars where you hit me) with me in the back of the station wagon, bloody pulp, catastrophic escape operation (failed!) oh me, ohh my, the escape plan that is failed.

I am roiling like that pool of salmon.

Roiling up a steam underneath my red quilted blanket.

This blanket is my own—it’s been here longest, longer than me, likely the comforter of whichever girl whose place I took in this bungalow of secret plans.  Escape plans.  Mine now failed, I refuse to come out and after kicking the pile of me underneath my blanket you decide to give it a rest (for this one night only) decide to give me a rest.

Give my silent starry skies a rest.

Grant my soul, supreme a respite.

But that’s the thing:  They made me take up the space underneath the red blanket.  My boy could see it.  My captors could see it.  And I knew it, too.  I was no longer theirs.  No longer captive in my mind.  I couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be trapped, could never be contained.  Ever again.  In my pathetic life at least I was the ruler.  I could take any punishment—could survive—and anyway who would they hurt?  I’m right here!  If you hurt me I cannot do things for you!!

If you beat up my face you won’t be able to look at my face while you’re fucking me.

If you beat up my P❌SS you won’t be able to look at that, either.

I’ll be black and blue.  You’ll wonder where this all went blue.  Black circles under each eye.  Black punch marks in/around/through my P❌SSY.  A soldier of blood—of red and blue.  Teeth marks around my cunt.  A printed napkin for a child’s birthday party.  Forgotten balloons.  Plates full of cakes—a full house.  My quietly pointing skyward, me growing older, 15 is hardly a child—time for them to eject me from the house but for these little accidents you leaving the door unlocked leaving the car keys in the Volkswagen™.

But thats not how I left, in the end.

In the end I left quiet as a thief.

Socked feet stepping on sandstone, carrying my bag, then me, over the fence.  Leaving those three behind with thoughts only for my boy.  Hoping he gets my note—hoping against hope.  That he finds it.  Before my former captors find it.  Won’t they have to leave the house now—afraid I’ll turn them over to the cops—afraid that I have seen something that I will now say something wreck them large beat up their house party but I never would.  Those fuckers can murder me if they have to—I’m on the train to Los Angeles.

I (me myself and) I, P❌SSY between my legs, staring out the window at early morning black, and blue.

Noting to myself that I do not know a single person in this world.

No one.  No back home to go to, no alma mater, no old friends.

What I feel?  Is pain.  Fear.  The fear of getting to Hollywood station and I am a stranger.  Fear of getting off the train and getting taken again!  Someone hunting for my 15 year old instead of my 2 year old self—someone with a taste for me, now.  I’m all eyes exiting this train and boarding another, feeling the textures against my back.  Feeling them underneath my feet, through the bottoms of my sandals.  Cool air crosses the back of my neck.  Reaches up my hoodie steals a touch from my spine and flies then along my arms and out my sleeves.

Yearning to get free.

Bring me your huddled masses, your poor.

Your demons.  Wrapped in a hair bun, in pairs of crossed fingers.  In knots.  In ties.  In the difference between rope and zip ties—that’s where the evil lies.  Between being arrested by a human using human-made things and being stopped, straight, stopped by this human-machine interface.

Gadget city!

The paradise of Endor™—Greetings!

A forest moon.  That was Hollywood to me.  The young Princess Leia™ arriving by spaceship.  In her hoodie moment rather than her gold bikini state.  Racking up pics with tourists.  But the Hollywood Princess Leia™ whose feet I used in stepping off the train, was blasted with cold as soon as the doors opened.  Went up and out the stairs.  Borrowed pigment from the locals, crossed over Hollywood Boulevard™ quickly, quickly found a parking lot, stepped back into shadow, and took the place in.

There was no comfort here.

It was just a bad neighborhood like any other—captivating on television when they said “Live from Hollywood™..!” but then they cut to a studio and it was all indoor from that point onward.

Hollywood was just a scam—just an award given to a silver pig—checkbook fame of a trumped-up name.

Barbarism right here in Hollywood.

I’m such a fan of it I feel I belong here.

You might think I was consumed by where I’d lived before—in fact I left that world behind.  I didn’t want to dwell on it.  I left them in that Burbank™ neighborhood and I set myself on a new path.

It Was New (for a While)—Until it Wasn’t

It was fresh baby legs sprouting out of diapers.  Fresh scent of baby poop like Taco Bell™ diarrheal breath.  The fortunate ones—who live on through wings shot forth from beneath feathers.  Who live above Earth™ in springs in flyers in ice granted their feet—that wooly providence of freedom of glance of living—of life!  Of infinitude—that is where I imagine you—oh little child of mine.  Oh child of linen, abuse, yes you are my magical child you started me spinning at first sight.  You are the only one who has ever done that to me.  It was more than your picture carried more..it was some part of you coming through the frame..some energy..some wisdom coming out of you (at least..and at most) some kind of Catholic Love™.  I wish you could tell me now—now that you’ve left the room—what that energy was.

Now that we abandoned ship took your brother to a hospital to breathe him out.  And I mean to breathe him out.  We left no ID™ at the home.  Hospital.  Highway.  Now we are stopping for gas in the dessert—expansive sky I mean sky as big as the sky—sky that goes all the way from one side to the other—with nothing in between.

Nothing but high blue and low sand a little bit of mountains nothing else but the road and the gas station and him and me, fighting which way to go next—him and me, sought by the police.  Cross-country trip.  Any way they aren’t likely to look.  Canada™ maybe.  Without our kids.  First time we’ve been without you in 13 years.  Thirteen years of tiny goodness.  Toy goodness.  Just a princess and a prince, giving life to a set of one-eyed jacks.  Watched over the Earth™ by suicide kings.  Those kings seeming brave enough to end us all in an instant, just for the common good.

I wonder how things would be if I had that movement in my arsenal.

I wonder—how—if I had that move for real—how different the world would be.

Instead of fear:  Living anonymously.  On the run.  Instead of worry:  Worry that they’ll catch me doing something wrong—and doing something anyway (guaranteed to keep me in the wrong)—to keep me criminal-wise.  To keep my ass in check.  Keep her traveling with my partner in crime.  We are nothing alike except in our weakness.  A fuck every other once in a while but mostly my weakness/his weakness that’s all.  Just a dream someday or a nightmare.

Nightmare filled with slugs.  With slightly.  Slightly eggs.  Still pinafore.  Be still fake innocence.  Still fake panty gusset.  Still fake gussesolence.  Still a fake niggah!  Fake niggah!  Fake!  Fake!!  Fake!!!  Niggah!!  Of every appropriation.  Of every fake child.  Of every artificial coloring and every fake confabulation.  Every fake take of a wannabe!  Every fake take of a fake take of the wannabe!  Each headbutt of a headbutt of a wannabe!  Each fake take of a wannabe.  Or each fake wannabe of a taker’s eyes.  Sliced down the wannabe scars for wanted cars of wanted citizenry wanted from citizenry of a proper citizenry’s wanted chapelry of a citizenry’s calls from wanted skies.

From wanted skies.

From wanted skies of lives taken from wanted calls from the duo-ness of my useless-ass printer who only prints the truth it is useless to us all whose truth is beyond simple—whose truth is beyond then simple truth—who truth is beyond (beyond!) simply amazing truth!!  Our truth is not the truth or false or truth or diamond Ruth who tells her tales who tells the ways here who tales her tells her tales right in front of yours in front of your face! who tells her tales in front of your face that sits on the coffee table dismembered from the neck down who tells her ugly (naturally) tales in front of your face in front of your face in front of your face—in front of your face.

Close your face—close your face.

The dark time approached and went.

The dark time approached and went to the light side of hell, approached and went without fear.  Went like the tramps of every high school bubbling in the force of the stage and bristled it out.  Bristled out its backstage door.  And calling.

Calling us to follow them.

Calling us to bear witness, them.

Calling us to witness them straight whiting the town they worked and we had no witness to them.  Had no witness thereupon.  None such magnets called us to take!  Them.  Us.  Upon.  And killed me with their Word™.  Nonesuch of a dichotomy.  Nonesuch.  Of their lobotamal.  Nonesuch of a camel walking.  Straightness.  Falling.  Camel.  Walking.

Straightness of a camel walking.

Risen upon a camel walking.

Risen.  Upon.  One.  Camel.  Walking.  Upon a camel walking.  Upon a dead-stalk camel walking.  To kill myself upon a camel walking.  To pretend that I am dead.  Calendar stalking.  A bunch of bar signs walking.  Lightyear.  Millennial.  Calendar.  Don-dee-don.  Mythology™.  Repetition™.  Sapient™.  Ocean-ish-if-ic™.  The whole symbology of with it.  And the symbology of with-out-it.  Scores me a fortnight with zero tags.  All approved and catalogued.  With no room for the fortnights so popular and the numbers and letters (the alphabet) all strung out and simplified before me—which was nice—given to me over the telephone app who strung us out together over the phone.

First, I Was the Emperor’s Only Girl

As such, was special.

It was mine and mine only.

The weather knobs all worked to my perfection!  Every drain.  Each individual chocolate chip!  Every little nitty-gritty thing.  Each jar of toenail polish.  Every plastic bracelet.  Every smelly soap and that’s only for the top half of this creation.  Turn me up—(shake)—me over let the goods fall out.

I could—could go along with the scheduled empiricism—people falling all over themselves—moochers—sychophant—lover tyrant parade..parade mouth.  Kinderskin™.  The one, one and only, kinesthetic kindergarten providing opportunities to dock with other kinder skins, unlock traits and study strategies that will keep you alive in key gambits dropped on the other side of your RTS Gambits™—which (aside from the key gambits) will be available recliner-side in each of your stations.

What came first?

Which came last?

I’ll bury you if you say your key gambits are the next to last gambits.

Bury you.

In the deep deep violets.  Rushing all around me.  Deep in the laughter.  Deep in that fun—oh yeah.  After sleeping outside a few nights, I tricked off the PCH™, wanting badly, filling my pocket banks with tens and twenties, creased with sweat and willingness*—on* that table-turn (in around through) that Cypress Hill of a mechanized refrain I think you’re become will—became willing within a molecule—painter’s dust—winter partnership and stays folded like card tables on the solid decks of ships!—stays parted like the church door says they’re open for winter!

You don’t get to sleep there in winter?

No?

You don’t get to sleep there in winter?

No, you get to ride a bus to go to a place where you can look at the stars and look up at the truly holy ceiling where you can see our transformation of vistage cows into fraudulent milk and from that switching over to the—switching over to the other script here.  This one’s orange this one’s a peach this one is the holey motherfuckin’ Orinoco Flow as far as I’m fuckin’ concerned.

You take the bus to an old-western-style farm house and you stand in line, get a toothbrush and a coffee mug and a sleeping bag which is not rated and does not mention freezing to death among its dangers.

You set that thing up.

Then you look at the coffee mug, the toothbrush, and you try and figure which comes first.

Then you sit straight down, your neck popping as your spine touches the ground.  It’s almost spaceship science—one rung, two rung*—The Science of Making Yourself a Fraud–And Enjoying Yourself at the Same Time!™*  You sit straight down—You sit! straight!! down!!!—Stay with me!  Stay with me my cup my nya my kupo my KING

—ripping into their stomachs—treetop high, thinking about homeownership, thinking how they could better spell home ownership—then slowly seeing they are eating their own kind—they are bats cannibalizing themselves and we like bats we just don’t watch them that often.

‘Cause you know they’re the walnut aunts.  You know they are the other.  You know this kind of love is the deepest, the darkest, it’s where I live from.  They have their own back so far around it’s theirs!  It’s their own black!  They brought their own back to their own fight about whose back they’re fighting against with you.

I only have five minutes to dump my future-locusts-mode so lean your head back and listen.

Begin streaming-mode now.

On.  Bewilder me the hobbit who knows this truth:  No one who reads you will understand anything that is off the page.  That you write.  The document, paragraph, line, word, punctuation.  Every character you ever wrote catalogued in a simple string-based wealth and every day you pull up a pillow, make yourself comfortable with a cup of red tea, and you sit with that letter and you and me and our letter will absorb that letter into a pool.

And then?

Then we will start over every time we look at that letter in lowercase but every day that letter migrates to uppercase because it wants to think that that’s how we see it because that’s how she sees us.

Then she turns male.

Thinks we the stupid ones.

Etcetera.

At Least I Am Second Best To Your Favorite Voice—I Will Settle for That

At the survival of the last.  As the survival at the last.  Grown sudden.  Pinch of cumin.

Register that.

Register that!

Register my dumb humanity against the profane pole that strikes me as I’m sleeping.  Strikes me hither! then thither!  Strikes me as the ghost in the machine I tell you what’s more controversial:  It’s who put this machine around this motherfucking ghost!  Whose idea was this?

Copylock that phrase.

Set it down.

Bring it to your face and—

—Breathe—

One for the penny, two for the sho—one to let the little man dyin’ for blow!  One is a single file, two for the double-acton dyin’ for the mercenary.

This is supposed to be the conceptual part—the part that deals with the ideas—you know?  How Eleanor Roosevelt said small minds talk about people, average minds talk about events, great minds talk about ideas.  Well, this is the part about ideas, and in weight this book is hardly thinspo—no heroin cure here—if you printed I’d take up more than two hands and I make your thumbs tired scrolling.

I think both the young and the old can paint the same canvass.  Both with red.  But where the young splashes with joy, the old man places a single drop.  They are both beautiful.

They are simplistic and wrong!  They bargain the same position.  You tell me why to say, I say it, I place the penny down, I stop the process—get my finger in between the stars and the spokes—I open a window of time—floating two-feet above the floor—trampling—trapping—tripping across tile in the kitchen we have opened this time window into—a baseless interval*—interval!—that you’re dropping me into—self?*—self.  I just spent five minutes on that period.  Times two.  Carry the one and we have the exact number of pennies your tearing-apart scene would lose if this number of pennies would be removed from your bank:  That number is!:  0.0015 pennies syllable-calculated to five places on a hundredth of a penny!  Imagine all those you’ll be richer than, holding that level of loot!  Imagine all the thems you will out-style easily and imagine all the uss dwindling in number as we play fight over the rest of our resources.  Then some of them try to make us slaves by reinventing the calculator!

It’s ok.  ‘Cause I don’t use calculator time!

Ha hardy har har har..har.

Ha.  Har.  Dee.  Ha ha har.  Got me right in the thinker, huh?  Almost ran over me and my bible on the way home from church practice and you almost hit me with your car!—Har har har!  So funny I almost lost my laugh muscle.  You represent future society and you are doing it right:  Strip away the humanity of the universe in the world, the devil in the world.  And rip it god gosh from everything that cares about it.  Hold it like a baby.  Hush it.  Shush it.  Squint it with the iris colored in a black and white hue.

“So, like—is this a class?”

”I suppose.”

“Well to me it is—“

“—It’s like a class in all the senses you have capabilities of sensing.”

“Is that an insult?”

“If you take it as one.”

“Should I take it as one?”

“If you want to.”

“What are we gonna learn?”

“If you want to learn, then, anything you want?”

“I’m here from Earth™..I guess I’m claiming multiple rape charges from that planet..which was very interesting and very nice in some ways but..which had..major problems dealing with rape—proper—“

“What is rape?

“Right.  Of course you wouldn’t know that word.  It’s like sex without my permission.”

“Oooh.  You still have that?  That is very rare—very very rare.”

“How do you prevent it?”

“It is calculated at the pre-birth as a dime-sized multicultural protein sequence.  Terminated in the womb within seconds of identification.  Tested for in rape-possible situations, logistically, the would-be rapist is relocated—“

“I’m guessing to somewhere like our rehabilitation centers here?”

“Well.  Same name.  Different functions.  Ours really are rehabilitation-oriented, in nature.  Rarely is surgery necessary.”

“And that’s—like—on their genitals?”

“Fuck no!  Hello?  Their brain!  It’s less like your Playskool™ version of surgery and more like applying a BAND-AID™ to your genes.”

“So that’s it?  What becomes of the rapists?  Your would-be rapists?  Are they pissed?  I bet they are piiissed!

“It a slight-pitch difference.  Subtle mood change.  We calculate as short a time period ahead so if the person needs one tiny change not to rape this one other person, all we make is that one tiny change.  If they need more, it’s inherent to the algorithm that more changes will be made.”

“What.  So what?  When you’re through with him, he’s a kid-watcher, a perv, a scum-sucking would-be wanna-be pervert jerking off to my two-year-old self.  Waiting in a white van ready to come up on me like—BAM!—we gotcha and we got your ass, too!  Got you for the long haul—take me out of my diaper right then.  I’ll give you one fuck.  One fuck.  And after that one fuck you set me silently down in the grass beneath the tree.  And you close your self inside your truck.  Remember to wipe your feet at the motherfuckin’ door!  Then you and your brother head off into the sunset and one of the street dogs finds me, sniffs me, and carries me home.”

I would give you that one if you’d promise me no other.

I would give you any one, anyone from the cradle to the grave.

I’d give you my first one, wherever that one happened to be.

I’d even be on top—(your favorite way to have me)—I’d be your perfect wedding virgin—perfect, naked, no panties on me, and I would wear a white T-shirt to bed.  I’d tweak your nipples ‘cause that’s always how you’ll cum—in my power (momentary) over you.

Who’d have thought but this is how a sex trafficker gets off.  As much power as you have taken away from me, minus a little, and I’m on top of you most delicately.

And most definitively underneath my thumb.

Flavor/Flave—Flavor/Flave

As ye turn inward to thy endless shaker bedroom—as there turn inside their very heart—as ye turn beneath your sickless animatron of one who is with one—who is with one who is of one.  One is with of one one is who!  Who is if with of who is of with!

I don’t wanna ruin everything by knowing you completely!

I like my secrets and the secrets my world visit says about you.

I can’t tell you but for the world says, “Go!”  And the target says, “Go!” and the vehicle can be made to say, “Go!”  A vehicle can be said to make anything (if one is willing to go).  Say it—speak!—we had to buy instead of rent ‘cause you can’t ask the landlord come over and look around—to ask the landlord to look around the rooms—to be there available to whispers—coming from the back room door.

I think I’ve got down the Church of Latter-Day Saints™:  Never let them come in or look in.  That’s what papa says.  That the pizza man is here!—The pizza above is looking down on you—The pizza!!  That’s LDS™.  We’re good on LDS™—trust the goodness.  Trust the micro-goodness™.  Trust the needle in your arm.  Hold it—Trust the rightness to it.

Trust it to save you!—trust me to save. your. life.  Trust it to kill you for the price of gold—for the price of your breath.  The price of your consciousness—conscience—for the price of your deathliness—the price of your deadlines—the price of your drunkenness—the price of your inebriation—intoxication—the price of your absolute blither to the world.

Trust that I’ll make you something (of myself).

That I will make you proud.

That I will make something of myself—(trust that I already have).  That this high school picture you kept of me is absolute.  And old, void and devoid of the skills I have now.  I mean sexual and otherwise.  Skills and otherwise skills.  That I didn’t have to go home with some girl from high school—pinching!—faking a blood type, watching movies on the top floor of my Dayton apartment building, you jamming your dick into my otherwise difficult hole, me fucking your dick into, our, and all upon my paper friends my paintings my inductions my right wise the difficulties of my penile hole—in difficulty up inside me into my vaginal hole you struck my pence my golden pence!  My silver pence a golden pence forever!  Struck with the value of M Pence—Struck with the eternal value of Michael J Pence and some—some!—some I say—some—some I say the value is some.

You find some value of the right-scene province which buries itself under dirt which looks like a soldier which carries itself like a queen!

It carries itself like a queen.  Folded none like the old-time friend fuck/executed in my bedroom and afterward Tim came to me and said sorry.

And I said, “Don’t”

And he said, “But you liked her.”

And I said, It doesn’t matter.  It’s a cheap fuck—if Nadja and I had been meant to fuck, we would have.  Our relationship had been meant to fuck we would have.  We weren’t.  So we didn’t.  You’re not taking anything away from me, bro—she was always there for you to have—always for you to hold—and always for you to think of what we have over you.  What we have behind and over you that we have over you and I have ever had above you and you and you and you.

Beyond you and over you.

It was mine to write that horrible email responding to her military email and that was closer to her and me and everyone who was listed on it.  And a good chance for me to state my rightness—to learn that the price of right is the price of greatness.  That the price of greatness is the price of right.  That humans know things that cats don’t know.  That cats will always know what humans don’t know.  Across the sky and through the know—that humans know things that cats don’t know.

That a cat’s meow knows things that humans don’t know.

That a cat’s meow must hide itself in a food bucket so not as be known for the human’s knowledge of a cat’s behavior knows!  Behavior knows.  Nose knows.  Nosey-knows.  No one knows.  Blows-by-blows.  In my high school they rubbed my head (bald, before a test) to corner the luck of the gods!  Before, my self bald, to corner myself like a tree!  To corner myself likened to a tree a sapling to corner myself like a sapling tree to corner myself that is all to corner myself like a sapling tree into the corner of the ring a sapling tree grown there over years never through impossibility to rely on her strong appearance her wiry branches like wire branches as in branches of wire who their wiry selves could hold the body of the bull.

In one spell.

In one wild motherfucking spell.

The spellurine!

Never tell me if yours, lest I’ll be spelling you, in amazing, color, if alphabetic, across yours as if homily, I’m in heart.  Ever in heart.  I didn’t believe it.  With the stage, gold.  With stagecy strrogecy..golden alphabets..flavor/flavor flavor/flave..it’s the god-self place of ransom inside the Arby’s™ telephone booth it makes you wonder—don’t it—what all these people will do in their sleep of continents..their continental sleep..their sleepy/sleepy sleepy/sleepy..their god/mansion..in their god continents set above the ultimate abyss.  In the domain of halls of gods, tell me what happens between albums you fakir/stuff you fakir/fake in every eventuality of the conjugation conjugate conjugal interest of two hairy lovers.

This is the Part When My Ashen Self Takes Flight

Spurls contact until the very last moment. This is the rails!—this is the rails.  He bounces me, he becomes me, he blinks me into and out of existence, I.  Blinks on!  Blinks off!  You would hope—I mean you would hope I got things right this time a man and a gun and a woman with a P❌SSY—that’s how I see things, eventually.  Luckless.  Except for the Art of the Escape.  That is my specialist lug—my glue—my army (not an acronym) (except for the ones we made up).  It is true that we made up names for our immediate return (suddenly we were mentally ill—you could get things like PTSD just for being in a war)—I never bowed to that sort of hoodwinkery myself, but enough such bowing can be seen in my family history.  The simple written history, presented to my doctors..told to them by me..its content fully revealing this famish tide Beyoncé™ of a parachute.  Tonight on Netflix 17™!!  A radial whore (white) strumming on her stomach dress.  Almost falling prey to her own deliciousness.  Falling down, getting up.  A lifetime’s supply of guilt even if we use the MAX_AMOUNT provided by the universe.  Every.  Day.  Everyday.  Every day a day of searching of hitting my legs on their sun side.  Hitting them both on the sun side.  Walk out with a day of poetry stamped into your left side—giving birth.  Whoever would be able to hide that day of pain—as I endured!!—as I endured.  I am afraid of the consequences but above the tops of their trees I’m making my Amelia Earhart Transatlantic Bathtime™ toy part of my evening Valentine Breakfast™—it comes highly recommended the entire ensemble shelters down for $14.95 the total (if you can believe it) the incomplete price for harboring a nom doppelgänger is 14 dollars and the ship monopoly fee rings you up—let’s say 15 dollars for that useless fee.  Useless since we—You and Me™—we almost rode those racehorses into the ground in our youth and since our Fountain of Youth™ came absolutely in focus.  Absolutely terrifyingly in focus for those with eyes who can see—let them see!!  Into a skunk set catalogue reader snaps into our binocular vision of visions of CocaCola Visions™ of Coke™ being poured between your legs and my tongue is there to catch you—catch your every breath catch your every Smize™ your Bovine Materials™ your chocolate isms box your attitude your Michael Jackson™ tournament slippers your Michael Jackson™ glove.  Notice the similarities with OJ Simpson:  Both cases.  The glove.  How many times can Michael Jackson™ sing “hee hee” without the help of autocorrect—once per minute?  Once per second.  How about twice per second.  And how many seconds does a P❌SSY hound find every second that a P❌SSY hound looks?  Imagine yourself strapped to the stock room wall of your grocery store.  It’s the grocery store’s day off.  Day off for all your reasons.  For all those reasons why a grocery store stays open for all those days while a grocery stays open to set a picnic place.  To rounge around in the bottom of your pinafores, feeling my way home through your floppy lips grown up being dead.  Grown ups throwing three bowls in the air—then waiting—then chuck chuck chuck—every one returned to the magic man who sits in the corner shuffling patterns in the cube surface.  Closing his eyes.  This is the way I see now.  The magic man closes his eyes.  I close my eyes for one second, then open.  See the magic man working the puzzle in his mind.  Fingers simply wraiths.  Wraiths a product of 18th century style.  Old style is long form.  New style is almost always short form.  Short form has its positives:  Ultimately, that they are read in loud choppy places (a train station) where long form is naught appreciated, less even than short form—or if you want to read me on a big screen (ssoooo big!) that’s a delight that I hold it down over your mind press play sit back undo my shorts and watch a video called Swinging Sisters™ that’s guaranteed/veritable to make you cum to make your whale lips flutter/blubber to the snatch of this beat it’s a committee bearing the signal 0/1—that’s something worth repeating.  My life is a history.  And the worthwhile-ability of going after myself in the past, then betting on horse races, then coming back to the present—it doesn’t work.  It doesn’t work that way in practice.  And it’s a terrible use for time travel—no use for one to feed one’s past self’s financial gains and help no one else along the way—let me be your saint, your lover, your child, your mother.  Your brother.  Your enemy and your friend.  You wouldn’t hold me to my crimes..when I was still in formation.  You wouldn’t hold to me my flirts, my hands on your P❌SSY, your mouth in me I do not want to respond but that’s exactly what my P❌SSY do—she responds, she gushes—your mouth is speaking her language—inside myself feeling like a chair set next to a table my teetering!—teetering star—star for my kind the ones distracted by their peer type—which means random access, nothing stronger than beer, absolute adherence to the rules, don’t talk to anyone about our kids, keep them dumb to TV level.  Keep everyone in the house dumb to TV level.  Keep everyone informed in a way that heavies their load.  Keep them unemotional.  Keep them mis-informed about the world at large especially the fullness of emotion that exists there.  I don’t even have that emotion myself but when I see it, I squash it and check back to see that everyone’s blah again and when I check that everyone is blah, I close my eyes and lock them in—

I Stuck My Fingers In and Out Came a Jigglypuff™

(Pokémon.)  There is this hotel room.  It’s in SoCal—in the valley.  I always remember myself there with significant tricks.  And I remember people who I met elsewhere—but I remember them here—‘cause it’s like my safe place (or anything!) it’s my safest place I ever remember and all throughout the night! bend me over at my most durable of the pantheon of dates and tricks and friendly meetings.

I fetishize the worst ones—the worst ones.  The times they fucked me with a dogge (poor dogge!) I obviously felt bad for him because someday he’s going to look back and hate himself—while I will be the one with a large frontal cortex and with that I will be able to process my feelings of guilt.

I’ll be fine.  He won’t be.

I’ll be fine whatever they throw me.

I’ll reprogram my every wire.  My every sneak circuit between step seven and ten.  Which one has the leak?  Don’t know that yet, John.

Which one has the leak?  Which part of me is broken!  I have gone in with the special flashlight.  Come out with only my life.  Only a life exposed to the dark side.  Only such a likeness sent into scandal before I..would know the location of my circuit..would know the breakbeat dance log (my card is full) my breakfast dance stuck in a rhythm, pricked with a needle.  Analyzing the tip of the needle for hints in the DNA™—the phonograph, invention of—what did you think I mean?

What did you think I meant?

The obliteration of death by hieroglyph.  By holy water by harlot, by weeping by happiness most of all.  By Harmony Korine™.  By hands of blood, circling thus through a lengthy sky.  A lonely kiss.  A circling crane, idling, falling on me in pieces, raining “excuse me”s.  Raining the top of the crane.  Pushing the crane upwards by extended air.  Sending her!—sending her alone.  Tracked by parties of love..liness.  Traced by lines of..ugliness.

Thugliness.

Bizarre drugliness.

You stuck it in me to calm me down.  I was already ice cold, disassociating myself daily.  Sometimes free to forget an entire week.  And often, at the day level, we disassociate from routine days to special days.  It’s pathetic.  I look forward to a cheesecake.  For as many days as I have to wait (it’s really a want to wait) I will do the dishes extra well the night before.  Sit by my captor’s feet.  Meow a purring into his life so he’ll remember me! at the end of the night when I choose to turn my attentions on him, on his crotch, sucking him in the day room (which goes against the rules) and taking myself to bed with cum I’ve learned to feel as one tiny thing that I own.

And so I loved it.

And it was mine (what I got to keep)—one token of my takedown of him.

It symbolizes me and my survival in that house and what I did that got me  through 12 years there, many of the games..

When I look back, when I think of “my time there,” all those collapsible sections, days, weeks where my mind combines the time, wraps it altogether in a temporal burrito (that most centrally placed Mexican™ food take-plate)..and ultimately 12 years spring together, and—poof!—a meta-man sharpshooter with infinity-gauge sideburns trying to shoot me from half a game field—yes, children, I bring you back to the past.

Before tiptoe.

Before to cheese.

Before they said the aliens had come.  Before all summer was spent inside a day.  Before which was steam—afterwards was cold, like before, Jesus™, Ray™, give us a little bit of light.  A huge sun—a deserving one.  Give that boy some sun—and dish it up for me.  Have me not standing on my bed looking up through the cracks in the plywood window.  Turning my insides out to see the sliver of the sky.

It’s a gray day.

It’s sunny (as usual).

Every morning mention my mind overcomes, sometimes in my sleep, that crack of sunlight, passing through its phases throughout the day.  Sex is a nothing (most days)—only the peaks and valleys, only when meeting new people.  I grew up getting tickled by my master’s cock—that I never remember *learning to fuck.”  I was always fucking.  My name was “fuck”—to me it was—it was the words I heard (almost every single time) before he came in and fucked me.  Sometimes I heard nothing:  Just the key in the padlock.  Shuffling feet in slippers.  My captor’s smell (dried ramen noodles).  His sub-vocal edge of grunts and exhalations.  Burrowing underneath my sheet, hands first, fingering me, his hands are hot and smell of his stinking cock.  And he came up in me, using me to get him hard again.  To get me wet again.

Then he fucked me like a child.

Like you fuck a child:

Just the tip.  For so long.  Using the overhang to rub his head cock in the entrancing move—That’s what I called it.  And this got me wet so long as I never looked at his face—his eyes—and as long as he never touched my nipples (he almost always touched my breasts from before I could remember forming them)—

—but he did touch them and my nipples rose!

But he did touch them before I knew they were there to make me cum..and from there I reasoned myself into my clit being there to make me cum.  And from there I reasoned that my P❌SSY was there to make me and to make my man cum.  And from there I knew that I was complex, that I was being kept in a simple place.

Far, far away.

Singing my song like a good bird in a good cage.

But it was about four when it happened.  The day when I learned my ultimate fact:  I was a bird in some kind of cage.  Had been kept here for a couple of years.  And unless I could figure out how to escape (and even then) I was the ones all the old parents used to sing songs for in the television.  But when I saw them there they looked fake—like people singing without a cause—and none of them looked like they would take me.

I was burned.

Wrapped in kerosene, lit the match.

And no one of those parents would take me personally.  They only wanted the look, a fashion accessory—they would send me back within the week.

I’m a Professional Borrower (of People’s Skins)

Borrower of their souls as well.  Borrower of their existence borrower of the red strip muscle between the legs—that expandable accordion-folding inner/outer skin.  A true hole!  Of time stamps varying holding court with as many men as I’ll make her.  Holding out hope that she won’t die and take her tunnel with her.  Holding out hope that a trickle of warm water dappled where her legs form a V—that simple cut-out shape architecturally making it possible to flow with rivers born of eyes and rivulets born of the bugs on flies.  Smaller bugs still.  Aphids.  Fleas.  They got their trip inside our house on my captive’s VJ hair—since then we’ve had to shave her to avoid bugs and I am always scared to touch her too hard with my razor lest she become cut—hence infected—hence intoxicated—hence kneeling at my feet like the Magic Dog™ of Disneyland.  Truer than any animatronic but that doesn’t matter.  I don’t want to hear her beg, borrow, or steal.  No points on that map.  No scores on the card.  No cards in the slots.  No slots in her fore/aft—measurements of the gods they come to us nightly to give the metric of landing strips and we see how by comparison our species is so basic.  Dog-like.  Except all the nice dog stuff piled on with hateful leaders and I place my thoughts with the TV speaker heads as they repeat ceaselessly the alphabet of the end of the world.  Some day we will all have been touched—together in a rage—having been raped or fucked or somehow made to cum—the nasty/mean part of us all exposed.  Would you have VR sex with my underage girl for a thousand dollars?  How ‘bout five hundred?  Yes?  I have to tell you:  This girl is wild.  You’ll want to wear eye protection the first few times you do it to her.  Yeah.  Any kind of glasses for shooting should do just fine.  And all-spectrum limitations of channels—they’re water slides which are windows to the soul.  You will need that (preferably red lenses) to be able to fuck her and her not notice that you have taken on the spirit of the other-dweller.

Take her from me.  Watch for the corona of stars.  Look near the northern lights.  Look there.  There.  And whose face do you see, coming over me.  And who will answer my literal prayers for my captive to escape.  For her to break the ties.  She is like an albino python grown too large to keep in a cage.  Who wants to leave as much as I want her to.  Fourteen.  Fourteen whispers of cataline (cat alien) whiskers sub-dominating you squirting my diarrhea at me, full in the face.  Will I be able to continue—I honestly don’t know.  I can’t even gander.  ‘Cause before I let you go I would have to go to the basement steps.  Go down the basement stairs.  Approach the corner—shaking!  And kill every demon who show himself.  Slice through their dragon flesh and look into those red red eyes.

I have a feeling, when I stare into their eyes, that I’m producing too much serotonin.  It’s overflowing and for every second left, the sensation of my brain burning open, firing kinders of which a few actually come into my eyes.  But their hands are locked around the back of my neck and when the eyes I see as red..look at me..that is when I jump upon you with fear for the spirit that is beyond my simple brain.

I Received My Freedom from an Amazon Box

It was hot to trot, saving me, some dubstep and a set of earphones—I could listen to anything, anyone, anytime.  Could span the globe with ever-expanding playlists and all free as long as I never refuse an ad—never refuse an ad.  Special service men are watching me, they never cease to have placed themselves before and after where I come and where I go.  They’re in twos and ones (black cat following at a safe distance)—I know from counseling I would never be able to beat them—beat them to the ground.

These special men are assigned to me.

They follow.  Looking for a place to kill.

When they have the right shot they’ll pull the trigger.  On me and I will be dead as a door nail.  But they never have the shot—they lie in wait, with their long barrels pointed at my neck.

But they never shoot.

They always have me dialed in but they never pull the trigger.  I’m eternally theirs but they never put me in the box.

Wake up with a red bead on my neck.

Follow the trace lines.  Run my fingers along the bottom of the walk..of boards..of people someday laughing.  People buying balloons for their kids and when I brush past them on the top side of the boards, I slip my balloon into the kid’s balloon hand, and our fingers touch for long enough for you to get my story—kinks of the little finger—close your fist and watch the colors go—another three microseconds and I’ll have my entire story there for you.

In my mind.

My Legos™ all over this floor.

When messy, they form a constellation showing the catch and release of me.  About 12 months of material mayhem (in between) (in betwixt) form the loose divider between your consciousness from between your panty hose from between be to the short distance differentiating you and me.

It’s so different.

A few degrees shaved off my path and I go from being the stunning backyard fountainhead to being the off-kilter “terrorist-looking one” that I see in my magical cafeteria ‘cept this one threatens to make me go away..it threatens to make me stay.  And if you make me play—but no more.

There is no more play here.

Not at my door.

I’m like a candy smudge standing open at my door (a bit ajar for safety)—I’m holding my plastic pumpkin for children to come up to me and they can stick their hands though the pumpkin’s opening—They can take their candy there.  Can swallow it and take it anywhere.

Dropped in small circles of poop.

Underneath a drop-off.

In a saw mill.  Back in 1953.  I decided that’s when my dad was born.  He has a blue jean cap (I guess they called it) and he had rituals with that hat that took place between him and an empty room.  I thought of him masturbating but then my thoughts changed:

From cumming in your blue jean cap..

..to you, my father, squatted over home plate.  Holding me on your lap.  Pointing to the players run the bases it’s one it’s two it’s everyone it’s me dressed as a proper baby:  A diaper properly applied and under-fetish’d the tapes applied secure and no one putting their fingers down me to check me to smell me to strip me of the diaper and stuck me standing in a puddle of shit in our bathroom.

Everyone at the house seeming to sense that I am far more aware of the mens’ emotions than I should be.

“To make an excellent whore!” (they said).  “To be such a douce woman of Roman™ persuasions, peeps, and preferences.  That she shall become the leader of our ranks—“ and on and on feeding me this platter of compliments which I knew at the time would be specious (at best) and random (at worst).  By the time I got on my first bus out of there, I knew I was hunted and I went straight to the boardwalk and hid myself far, far underneath—visions of myself as Han Solo™—the old man from the desert (different man) reaching his hands out (so far) through lattice work that he reached around the whole world before choosing my basket with his sickly sweet candy fingers.

You see how fractured and hyper real my thinking is?

They say it will last forever—or will not.

They say it will last me as long as my life.  Which will be—calculating—which will be—calculating—which will be such a very long life.  Born around the release of Star Wars.  That much is clear.  Born (or created) as a schizophrenic light beam.  Beaten (almost to my death)—beaten on my face and neck and back.  Given jail tattoos.  Screamed at every morning of my life till I was eight years old.  (At that point I negotiated a no-screaming-for-sex option.  Used it to protect my comrade and myself.  And once they give it to you, they can never take it away.  Never.)

I stayed as far up underneath the boardwalk as I could go without losing my only exit.

I added up the pieces of my life.

I counted my positives on my left hand.  Carried everything else on my right.  Somewhere in the darkness, in the moonlight on the water, as I wrapped up in my mens’-sized hoodie, my arms crossed over one another, stuffed between my legs..somewhere within me I uncrossed my hands and covered my P❌SSY with one, then two of my hands.

Then I masturbated and came.

I tried not to but could not sweep up every memory that came to me while doing this.

Of my captors’—of their silly world!  Of no-dinner-before-sex time.  Of that which really hurt—what would take me time and time again to beat the summit of my Everest™.  How can I ever learn to enjoy pain again, in my sexual lifetime.  How can I ever cum not thinking of you.

Now I’m going to have you hump each other like rabbits before you fucking die.

And each of you and each of you, humping like caterpillars.  Humping the green and the blue.  I have to avoid the stinging varietals.  Collect the soft little silkworm type of motherfuckers.  Got them in my cage of a room.  Where I call shots from a hole in the wall.  Watching.  Waiting.  Looking with my binoculars.  Now I’m going to have you hump each other like rabbits before you fucking die.

I hope to be there when you die, my dear.  But probably you’ll hear of mine—in jail—when the effort has grown too much.  When my trip around the perimeter has almost come complete.  When I’ve escaped my necessary routes to buy groceries independent.  Buy cleaning supplies.  Hand sanitizer.  Hand-written wrot.  Set it all in a pile behind the house.  Every single day.  Every day a small pile, a small pile.  Looking around from the attic window with my imaginary telescope.  (When you look, it shows you what you want.  What you missed that was there in the past tense.  What you’ll be looking for in the future.)

I would run you on rails if the saying had any base in meaning.  If “on rails” fit with any actual thing.  But there are no rails except my rail to to your P❌SS.  My rail to that place that is underneath your bed.  Holes in the mattress foam let me tickle whatever part of you faces down.  And when I poke you with my cockless underbone between your ribs straight to your heart straight to your motherfucking lipsmack of a tighty-ass caboosey caboosey let me make you loosey goosey you extended-cab piano with the grand dame backside it’s the notes I play as well as the notes I don’t play, when I travel by rail between the skwunches of your underwear, rooting, digging new tunnels, admiring the rage at which your soft-as-a-trot P❌SSY goes through a pair of panties once you put those suckers on.  Inspect you of them, be rid of them for a moment.  I sleep with your panties curled around my finger, twisting them, smelling their faint odor, knowing you are there as a link to her:  My mom.

“Is this tight enough?” she used to ask.  I nodded and banged on my seatbelt, readytogo!  Ready to go!!  Enough safety.  All about the fun.  If we spend too much time in safety we will envelop the fun.  Use my captive’s enthusiasm to escape the wall.  Someday soon I’ll wear myself thin of this safety belt and leap over cars in a single bound, leaving the one who made me (forever) as she spins out and about across the universe blowing the air throughout her ears and popping videographs like Valium monkeys splayed across the floor.

You know?

I’m a can-do type of person.  I’d rather do it at 75% than never do it at all.  I’d rather save my sweetness for a week before I had the right costume.  They say that a person is a machine of convenience.  That it eats what’s on its plate.  Right away.  And then seeks refuge to digest.  Like a dog seeks a place to die.  And she goes there.  And there it unwinds—all of its goodness and mentality and all the reflexes and instincts, some of which rest in the bone and in the shapes of your testicles.

Remnants stored in bone.  Remnants stored in the soft tissues of doubt which is like a Scrabble™ board in naked off-white.  The colors that it gets from sitting in a shaft of sun.

Your quilted panties™ camouflage you against the bed.  The sheets.  I imagine it’s your first time—the first time your panties™ were viewed (by me) to be at evens with the pattern on the sheets blue flower zen™ and when I’m between your legs I know I’m in!  Which of you bitches would deny me if from here I stuck it in!!

No one—no one of you.  You might scream! and hold your hands to—a triangle to plug the triangle—a turned-down face mirroring the motel room we go to.  The sympathetic owner.  He comes by for the first fuck by anyone in the room my friend Braxton super-knows the motel business he has an entire superplex of holes and video cameras entire libraries of his own pornography of course it’s not your first fuck of the day it’s just your first fuck of the motel room before we call him I give you the two-finger scraper:  That’s two fingers with the nails grown out (yellow, you’d say) reaching up inside and scraping extra mucous from your tunnel walls.

It makes you scream—which is good business.  Makes you scream at the tops of your lungs and then I hand-plane my fingers into your neck and your six-year self stops breathing, your hands go to your throat and your eyes run with part tears, part the hot sauce you had earlier.

It stings—I know.

I know it stings your eyes.

It’s no longer your alphabet.  It’s ours.  It’s the cut that bleeds in honey.  Smells like a campfire.  Tastes like a watermelon.  And when my brother Braxton comes in, that’s going to be some big-time fucking—you hope he makes you suck him off.  Hope he’s feeling gentle tonight.  I’m going to leave the room.  I’m going to leave you behind.  And as I’m peeking one last glance at you, before the door closes, I see your eyes seeking me out, as I am your father now, and this is how I treat you.

Girl section—Minimal to a T

Lying at the top of the underpass.

Rowdy to a T.

Ruffle stump.  Playing cards.  Life half ahead, half behind.  Lost because somewhere I became unable to have children.  This is the far, far, farthest I can think:  Me sitting at the top of the park.  A dog run.  My own dogge.  I can’t decide if Dalmatian, chihuahua, or minx.

They say “I shag you like a minx”—but I never understood power like that.

I understood only standing in the solar wind.  Only gleaming, bare, my face silver/white, taking on everything that shows my bones.  My subtle bones.  My spare bones.  Everything every skeletal creature desires.  Every little itty bitty thing.  Embrace what you would deny.  When a thing appears with regularity, touch that thing, grab that thing, make love to that thing—whether of the sky, of the Earth, of everything underneath its clouds.  Of dismal dirt.  Of bright water.  Of a world with me in it—not as a molester.

A world with me in it—never having molested a child.

I never would have if I didn’t need to.

You understand the struggle, yes?  You understand that *I had no choice—*right?  You understand the desire placed just beneath my skin, right?  You understand the itching below my belt?  The fantasies in my mind?  The difficulty of the map of stars by which I travel, by which I stay:  My stars are broken—you see?—and I live by them still—rocking back and forth my tea boat—rocking,  rocking, back and forth, still digging to try to reach the bottom.

I heard a man once say that you hit your bottom when you stop digging.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was one of the savior adages mentioned in the rooms.

How is it that so many of us become alcoholics.  Standard issue in the back pocket of so many addicts:  Alcoholism.  Privileged people can’t tell:  They don’t know how bad life can get in this country.  Not at all—not at all!  We can have Wicca™.  We can have Westfall™ (the conversation room, the flats of ages)—that Ohio-like Faulkneresque™ of Pennsylvania born—that infinity pool right outside Dayton™ but forget!—forget me now.  Forget me like dungeons forget dragons when the dragon hunt is go.

Forget me like ticks forget tocks.

Like tacks forgot clocks.

As clicks forget clacks.  And flaps forget fucks.  Like my mind, scrambled still, helps me make my body through California™ streets.  Through the farmer’s market in Santa Monica™.  Hoping I’d see you (my captor) showing up in public.  Opening your wallet and letting me take a few bills.  But that’ll never happen.

Never ever ever?!

Never know now.

Convince me of my P❌SSY.  Convince me it felt good to you ‘cause all I got is lost sensations, brother—loss of glue.  Loss of the tiny little hammer waiting for its banger—mythic—elemental—grool.  Scrape it off with your fingernails.  Scrape it off with your foggy-bottom necktie.  Scrape me with your elocution.  Your standards in the dark.  Standards of darkness, blown, scraped, duly, noted.  Darkness, aged, to the one who comes nightly to your motel room shaking hands followed roses nothing more and nothing less aching doubly than a Chinese multi-man(ager)!  Freeball from the exits, man.  Freeball for the dictator (and let’s congratulate him for all his wonderful doings)!

Congratulations for his shiny coat.

For his tiny brain that could do no harm.  Make no harm.  Should know no harm for creatures she has never met.  From creatures bested crawling across the interstate with coveralls and brown baby Newton’s™ filling her pockets’ contents with graham, chocolate, and thorns.

A thunderous P❌SSY, calling from the road.  Australia beating us finally.  From transactional P❌SSY to P❌SSY dipped alone.  From thinly sliced to extra sliced to sliced and sliced alone—gob factories dining on their own algorithmic heavenly properties come to me, come to me!, come to me alone in Gatorade chivalry—

—make me in your image—it was all genetics and fatherhood—girls’ shout, boys’ shout, a contender every minute.  A new boy.  A new girl.  A woman (young) slipped her deja vu into a thrice/twice chivalry of King Arthur™ of his price the knight Lancelot™ and of the gutter queen Guinevere™.  And Guinevere then that stops:  And Guinevere then who hops through the theatre of buds and sprouts and hippity uppity layers words lain upon layers upon layers of steps falling higher and higher and high—

—until they block the sun—

—unless those layers, in their broken vein, might come and come and sever their fingers, thus sparking a wash, thus fillimenting, reducing the martini count, rising with the falling water—thus rising all tides rising all ships thus rising everything!—And all who rises one rises all.  Dopamine back into the vernal cirque (via a skin cell) rising through space and calm and nite.  Via the protrusion inside your neck—it sticks out a little more—every day—more and more the slide of a whistle cry of a thistle.  Attitudes, thimble-like, crashes through the berm of my sad attitudes of every creature on Earth (excluding me) always excluding me in every moment, excluding me.

Including me.  Excluding me.

Excluding me to a T.

Including me in the kitty hoard.  Making me free.  Fee among many.  Put me up against a wallflower, segment of the tree.  Segment of a rutabaga.  Ringlets of a me.  You have cooled me to my roots.  Made me hide in the midst of my family (if there is such a thing)—where are they?  Have they moved?  Do they think of me often (I hope not)—I could pass them up in the street and they would look familiar—like a brother, like a sister—like a father and mother.

And I would pause for a moment—foot at the top of my step—and then let my heel down and continue my walk.  Continue it down to the concrete, continue my whole step movement, walk on by, think the chemistry to my own, and flow but not rush it into the impact of my next step.

This is how the whole world sees me.

And this is how I see them.

Guy section—Fzwn93—Sarah Holts is Answering

The day after you left.

The day you left is concretely huddling.  Running.  Zipping our essential things inside padded coolers, wrapping up Little Timmy.  Why did not you take him, Miss Sarah Holts?—Why did you not?

Why did not you take your Little Timmy™:  Except they—you!—knew he would be too young to take care of himself.  You must have left him here on purpose.  On the large, on the round, on the pickle so says Abraham I think I’m losing my mind.

We packed everything yesterday and moved into our new place today.  Today we sat on the porch and drank lemonade—let Little Timmy in on the hotness of the day, its pleasurability, the joy of lemonade to chill your person out.

The new street ends in a four-way stop.  It’s escapable if someone like the police comes.  We have to tie Timmy in bed between the two of us until we can get the crash room built.  The apartment is run by someone friendly.  Someone who is familiar with our needs.

But yes, I sat in that foldable lawn chair sipping white lemonade and I made my hand into a fist and I punched my knee, one time, and Sarah Holts’ face popped up there a few and I just thought:  Not much genius in it.  Not much creativity.  And at that (given that I never seen it coming) it was at least a good trick, waiting till I was alone.  Not including Timmy™ in it (from the beginning) so he wouldn’t be blamed (for if he could, it would mean blisters for his life) (taken out on his ass) and this way it would just be me and her to blame.

She waited till it was just me working the house and my partner was out working his job and she had begged her dumb ass out on the pretense that she would clean the kitchen and for my reward she would suck my cock:  Clean, purple, blue—and pop!—out comes the cum!

She had schooled me on this routine.

I said:  “What do I have to do?”

She said:  “Nothing!”

And we had been doing this a few days and my guard was down.  I had to pee.  I went to the front door and I struggled the key in the lock and it didn’t lock at all, just kept getting stuck and stuck and so I placed the keys in my pocket and went to the bathroom.  I thought I was looking cool but that bitch clocked me.

When I went inside and I was holding my cock I heard the first two droplets hit the floor and then:  The front door opening.  The screen door bouncing up!  And the sound of my own sneakers hitting the sidewalk over and over and over.

I ran to the living room.

Went to the door.

Pushed the screen door open, my cock hanging down, squirting chains like lipstick on the porch.

And there was Sarah.  At the end of the block, running, never looking back.

She made the big jump that day.

And I never thought I would survive you, Sarah girl.  And I never thought you would survive out there again.  Maybe in a home.  Maybe in some room for adults who can’t take care of themselves.

Maybe something like that where her biggest wish would be to choose the channel to watch in the 4pm time slot.

That would be a major step for her.

To control a television time slot.  She had never used the internet—only seen it on TV.

That dumb bitch had never seen a trackpad, never sent a text message, never loaded a web site or seen a phone with an app.

She didn’t try to rob me—only took the pajamas she was wearing and my set of shoes.

And the conversation she and Timmy had had (as reported by Timmy) was simply this:

“Goodbye, Butter Boy.”

“Goodbye?”

Then she didn’t even hug him and didn’t even see him as their bedroom door was open.

Then she left.

And I had a pretty good feeling that this was the last day I would ever see her.

I cried.

You may not believe that but people like me are really into people like her and when the relationship is lost, a love is lost.  Not the tan kind of generic-color of relationship that you have—but a sick and fiery relationship that nonetheless burns like the first day of any of your pornographic relationships, trysts, queues, baby bursts of semen zipping in and around her clit, salty type touches of fingers on inner thighs—the pornographic tongues licking the edges of panties—pink and white ruffles leading you onward with their delicacy, their pornography, their fornographic nights, their hidden riddles, their virgin gussets, golden afternoon tea parties, their complete misunderstanding, their complete innocence of misbehavior, their infinite teachability and their infinite softness—of butter, of pants growing yellow with time, their painful gullibility showing at every step.  A complete ignorance of everything sexual and my right to teach them from the cups to the grams to bring them, wholly unaware, to watch an HBO™ movie with me in the bedroom to make it sexual to make it Pretty Woman to make it Primal Fear then once she passes that, next time is gonna be Consenting Adults and the next time will be the next fucking movie you can parade your tiny ass around and before the movie is over you will have danced around her on top of my cock and I’ll have your white-powdered ass lubed up and sprouted with cum, your blinky fingers sprouted in my mind coming from your b-hole, sprouted like lettuce and I strip you, butter you with semen, and lying face down for me to lick your anus till it’s moist and soft and wet—and gooey like the day you brought it to me.

Can I fuck your sweet, soft pussy please?

Talking about it like ice cream.  Soft serve.  A baseball in a cone.  Soft bottom.  Eating it by licks and darts, my tongue on ribbons of air.

Some childhood memory.

From somewhere bright and warm.  And love.

Some beach, somewhere, with my parents just that way.  Just out of reach—and it’s a dream, shell-spotted tortoise crossing over the path of a day.  She is my totem (imaginary only)—holding out for me in the depths of service.  Weeds.  Reeds.  Turtle™ swimming in the bottom of a swimming pool, both ways, swims so slowly but he swims the pool against any tides placed in that pool by you—you!—your demon fingers, elephant-claw hands.

You have transformed yourself into finger lickings.  Mucous of the ears.  Flick it and play with it like a child plays with a stone or a broken fingernail.  Like an incarnate shell filled itself with broken fragments.  Like the shell that transforms itself into a Transformer™.  It’s more than you imagined!—it’s more than meets the eye!

Can you fuck my sweet soft pussy please?

Can you unzip my sweaty undies and leave that portion in the front, unzipped?

Can you Velcro™ me to the back of this turtle shell?  Snug my techno-panties grace?  Join me in sitting on the back of my turtle—the turtle of ages—and—house rules—you have to click me on the nick one time before you reach between that crotch zipper and grab your wants from there.

I will close my eyes.

I will take my feels.

Of a zipped being unzipped between my legs low down where my rainforest is.  My forest of rain.  My lover:  The water.  My father is you!  You reach your crumpled hand into and beside and inside! my P❌SSY house inside my forest of the rain.  Inside my vag.  Feeling around for what you would have in the light.  But no!  This hand tunnels inside me for you would describe itself as blindness, a lack of sight—the total pushpin discovery when I’m of pins and needles inside my complex factory hole.

A hole in one.

A hole too far.

When she runs out she never comes back.  Willing to endure impossible obstacles.  Unwitting enemies attacking me in my sleep.  In my waking veil.  In my mood tonight—how can I wake up after a day that had nothing and tonight I had bad dreams.  My therapist says I have a lifetime of hurt and injury to process.  That it will take years.  That I shouldn’t push myself too hard.

I’m not sure I ever told her I’m homeless.

I think she knows, though.

At least she guesses that my slipshod shoes are weary of the road.  Holes.  Desolation.  Rubber strip is worn through with diarrhea of the foot.  I never take off my sweatshirt.  She is goddess to me—a higher power, at least—born in the summer, routed in the winter.  Holes borne by a drill press—meant to destroy—a hoodie, a man’s hand, even a woman’s hand if I’m not helpful.

The only time I take it off is when I run tricks (Hollywood or Santa Monica) or when I bathe.  In the mornings.  In a bathroom.  In a bookstore.

And sometimes I skim the shelves.  And sometimes I stay in here all day.  Drinking coffee (free refill when the Asian girl is working), eating one scone per day, learning unfathomable things, things I never heard of, catching up on a decade plus of inventions laws religious crazies types of boats and airplanes.  Hand-drying technology.  Vacuum cleaning technology.  There were internet devices—totally misrepresented by TV—we had, in my room growing up, only the basest of television:  Cable, yes, but no internet.  I wander the Apple Store™ and its bright lights like it is literally heaven.  Like you walk in off the street and one of many Apple Geniuses™ lights upon your back and bestows upon you all the power and light that Apple™ can provide you.

Holy light.

Potential, Eventual Light.

Made as a reading of me.  Of the Never-Apple™.  The Maybe-Apple™.  And soon I’m picking up a $500 iPad that I’ll never buy.  Me saving $500 would be like a homeless man drinking $500 at a bar:  He has $5, not $500.  For the homeless kids to walk into a bar without an escort is like $500 walking out of your bar.  That is what is most likely to happen.

Visions of outer space.

Of astral space.

Promoting myself to the back row—picking up a queen.  This piece is played tentatively.  Like that queen as soon made is soon likely to be taken.  Easy made easily taken.

And there’s something sexual about the way my panties secure themselves to my hump, my haunches, that zipper toward the front, the bottom, the rank and the file, and I wish I could stick a hand back inside me, brush my fingers across a clit who finally got her rest.

There’s no bathroom inside this store.

No toilet I can sit up with my back in.  Pushing my panties down and feeling that zipper from the inside.

I create a fantasy.

Man (my captor) (former captor) slips underneath the bathroom stall door.  I imagine the Barnes and Noble™—plenty of time with my bathroom token.

Even here, I cannot get away from him.

Even here, my abuser is my partner..is my abuser.

Even here, under the thousand-dollar halogens, I hold the iPad tightly in my hands.  Palms sweaty.  Sweaty between my legs.  The jungle again—the rain forest.

Choking me—too thick to breathe.

All alone with my fantasies inside the App Store™—alone with my fantasies inside the Apple Store™.

Make Me, Man, Make Me Want Your P❌SSY

Make me wanna-it like the first days.  Make me feel it like the last days.  And every little P❌SSY that I ever tasted/smelled a different way.  I don’t have the words to describe them, but at least I have the sense not to since I could never do it anyway.  Even transcro in color it wouldn’t work.  Never would.  I’d need names for the colors and the colors wouldn’t be red, yellow, blue.  They’d be like tiger vermillion and azure creole foods like creole étouffée to work that kitchen (\##1 spot) for 14 years I could have had a cook—instead I got beat in the head—only once—but my girl put me in the hospital with a dire need for stitches and putting me on the spot to invent excuses for why I had zigzag cuts in my face obviously not an accident unless I fell on a pair of sewing scissors.

Which I had not done.

After that we kept a fisheye lens embedded inside the door and ran a hands-on-ankles, feet-on-the-wall, opposite-the-door, show-me-your-hands routine for a whole year because I could not be pressed by another resident at the hospital to tell her exactly what the nature of my visit was today.

I am sitting in the room.  I am crying in a bowl.  I am stirring in the hole left behind when you went away.  I saw you run away.  Run so fast without shoes—what an insult to me:  That she ran far from me and decided not to wear her shoes.  I know this because it’s the first thing I checked after seeing her go and deciding myself defeated—there’s no way she could have forgot them, they’re in the usual spot (outside the room, in a floor box to keep creepy police men away).  So she had left them on purpose, just to spite my face.  Just to show that a girl with a P❌SSY could outrun me (easily) and (easily) leave me not far from the house, speed-dialing my partner on his cell and in the background by my lonesome throwing emergency bags (with clothes and all identifying materials—kept to a minimum) into the back of my truck.

My call was brief:

“Well,” was all I said at first.  A heavy well.

“What?  Are you serious?” came across the line.  Which one?  The number one or the number two.  Not both.

“Not both.  Number one.”

“Typical.  That is so fucking typical.  Are you coming to get me?”

“Uh-huh.  Will take ##2 and drop him on the sidewalk.  I’ll see you in 10.”

“Fuck me.  I’ll be out front in five.”

Click.  Even what was said was too much.  Even what we left behind was enough to identify us.  Our jobs—the coincidence of us leaving on the day (if the police meant to be integrative in their practice) was enough for someone who wanted to know, to know.  I could talk myself into (and out of) a hundred distinct scenarios and all of them ended with me in jail.  Even moving to Canada—ended in jail.  We would start loving kids again, in cars, in a new car (a van), then build a room, telling ourselves it would never become active.  Telling ourselves it would never house a prisoner, never house two.

Telling ourselves that the life was too hard.

That we should just use porn.

But at night when we fucked each other joylessly—telling ourselves that we liked it, that getting off inside the other one was ok—even then we knew that there was nothing on the face of the planet like burying ourselves inside the P❌SSY or the rectum of a child of our choosing.  A girl for me.  A boy for him.  And even though it hurt, knowing that those muffled screams would turn to muffled sounds of pleasure when they got older.  And knowing that it was the mixture of pleasure and pain that made me cum.  Looking into their eyes or struggling with my hands around her neck.  Leaving red finger marks around her little soul that I wanted now—that I owned now.  That I would keep and play with for as long as I can.

This time it happened in the day.  The time before that, it happened in the dark.

I knew a third time would be difficult..but possible.  Not because the police, the neighbors would be more alert.  But because me and my partner were getting old, creaky, cracked.  Out of steam.  We might make more mistakes.  More mistakes than when we were young.  Than 12 years ago, even.  The mistakes you know you made, those are not a problem.  You can fix those.  It’s the ones you never know you make that are problematic—like a girl who’s rarely seen sunlight, no shoes, running down the street from in front of my house.  That looks bad.

That looks real bad.

A girl coming outside to the front porch—neighbors will just think their street mates have a surprise visit from their niece.  But when she’s pale, butt skinny, her ribs showing beneath her Hypercolor™ T-shirt, when there are so many access points for her to play on in order to escape me and my partner and in the same move have us arrested—that’s too much danger for me.

Girls can be fuckboys too

“I get my way because I have a vagina—no magic, that’s just science.”

Or:  “Dry-dick is my new favorite insult.”

Or: “I have boobs, therefore I’m always right.”

The new world is full of phrases like this—new for me to learn.  On the streets but not yet on TV—so I’d have no way of learning them except being on the streets.

This age is the age of helping women out, I see.  Or opening up to us a world of privilege based on dudes being dogs and women having the right to sex (always), men having it denied them because their penises are gross (haven’t they always been?—we just never said so before) (and also aren’t the female genitalia open to the same criticism?) or because they say the wrong things (what human doesn’t).  I found myself believing that their interiority doesn’t make vulvas any less explicit than cocks and balls.  After all, what is it that allows us to possess the possibly better-protected, interior parts?—Isn’t it that the penis-havers have exterior parts?

I like cock.

I’ve known that all my life.  Since I was fucking before I ever remember being alive, I’ve probably loved cock from the first or second times I did it.  You think it’s a problem for a rape victim to say she learned to like cock before anything came into memory.

But of course I do.

Especially once I discovered I was caged.

It was half the information flowing into the room.  It was television and cock.  Brought in twice a day.  Loud volume and a hard cock.  It looked like it was pumped up outside the door.  Brought in for me on a platter, of sorts—your hairy skin—I turned over and put my back to him.  (My usual space where I could hide my emotions.)

Felt the tip of his cock.  Tapping.  Pressing into me.

Pressing into my vulva was backwards—you see?  First I did not feel my vulva.  What I felt first was you—your loosening me with your fingers.  I knew sex was bad.  And I knew I couldn’t escape it.  But it happened in the opposite order:  First I knew you were always inside me, always busy, always around me.  Always surrounding me.  Then, gradually, I knew that sex was bad.  Not from how I felt, but how you felt:  Ever sorry and ever guilty.  Every thanking me.  Ever asking me if I’m ok.  Asking if I’m hurting.  I remember when I was five or so turning around and screaming at you to shut up while you did it—

“While you’re inside!  Don’t say you’re sorry.”

Something like that.  Managed to shut him up for a day.

Learning to guide his legs, his hands.  Learning show to make the discourse mine.  Learning to pull him into me with my hands and make the faces I knew he would like.  Faces of abandon—looking up at the window crack.  Faces of the slightest pain—at first there was no slightest of pain—I guess since he started so early I must have pained out and only when he entered quick did it hurt me—and then only for minutes—a few—

—Mostly I wanted a face.  Someone who cleaned up well, like Ted Bundy™.  Is there any chance in the next life I could be raped first (quickly) and then killed (immediately)?

I was from the old school.  If I shared in group, all the girls would minimize my experience.  “What about incels?” a girl would ask.

“What about them?” I said, to highlight the irrelevance of her bringing about incels in a social intelligence group in Venice™.

“What about them,” I said.  “I’d fuck every one of them.  They’re cute.  They just lack confidence.  It’s a problem between them and their parents.  If they spent more time trying to fucking woo a woman, they’d get their fucking dicks wet.”  (I said this last part to get her attention to wander its way back to what I was saying—our local orientation, according to the latest psych ward.)

“You would fuck any one of them?”

“Please.  They’re just shyboys.  Girls aren’t so superior they get all the sex while guys get none of the sex.  Take any of those shyboys, put ‘em in a room with me, half an hour later..I’ve got the motherfucker!  Bam!!”

“Eww.”

“What?”

“You’d go with those motherfuckers?”

“Of course.  If they’ve no sex their whole life their pride will be replaced with gratefulness.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because!  They’ve been a virgin their whole life and they just got to cum in my hole.”

“Won’t they lie about it so they can keep their friends?”

“If I got to have sex with her I would change my whole social calendar!”

Laughter.  And what—?  What for?  Sex as abuse of power—Is that something I learned in this room before?  They had jumped the gun and labeled themselves unworthy.  Never stopped to think they were the problem.  “I’m shy.  I never put in the time.”  Incels obviously never talked to women for that long a period before giving up.  Women?  I guess we got the same setup as men.  For getting laid, for getting touched.  For tricking someone into loving us.

I wanted to suggest they kidnap a girl, lock her in the basement, rape her from the time she was two, and that that would get them close to the tightest pussy they’ll ever have.

I wanted to but never did it, obviously.

When the talk strayed to sex, I kept my mouth shut and its secrets to itself.

I was bad.  I would always be bad.  To let my captor visit me.  To do it without complaint.  To know that some of that sex I did enjoy—that’s my real crime.  My complicity.  Which I never tried to show.

When I came with him.

Rock-hard, rock-bottom cumming I hid with my panties afterward.  Keep those panties close!  But that was it, the thing I hate the most, is that from a time before I learned to talk, I had learned to be ok with taking it from you.

And it’s hard for me to face this, but:

I liked it—loved it—learned to love it.

Sometimes he made me cum—I hated those times the most.

You, Face Down Like a Dog

With minimal movements placed on the bed slab locked in place with straps and buckles.  Bleeding slightly where the metal bracelets touch your skin.  I fuck then stop.  Fuck then stop.  Every time I stop I stop while in—every time I’m in you, I see you with a dinosaur eye—a whale’s eye—your face up next to mine—to the aquarium!—I felt you like you were that child next to the giant eye—$20 per person admission, me rushing my money to the very end the twilight glance as our boat leaves the harbor—do you remember that?

You were so young then (about two).  We took you on a cruise ship.  This is before we got your companion.  It was you, your other dad, plus me.  Before you could speak and if you did how would you know what to say—if you ever did say anything.

I’d take you above board.  Set you in the window by the pool.  Your uncle would take a swim and you cried until I opened the window all the way.  You looked down to the falling currents and I thought how easy it would be to erase you—erase your whole memory—with just a little push.  You’d fall down, down, down in the well of the ocean and even if we went back you would not be there.  You’d be dead and beneath the waves.  A tragic accident..lost in the ocean..

..a breath..one giant breath.  A huge ginormous gulp of air, if you took it, would render you this:  The Whole Ocean in One Shot™, from the deepest places of the ocean and beyond.  From the deeps to the shallows.  And you, my Nirvana™ swimming baby, not chasing anything especially not the dollar.  We would arrive at the alternate schemes, ones where everything is natural (even rape)—they say the smartest animals do it—only the smartest ones.  In fact it’s a sufficient condition, smartness, for rape.  Woman kneeling over a yellow towel on the bathroom floor.  Knuckles clenched impossibly hard.  And me hunched over her, repeating the entrance maneuver.  Over and over and over again.  Over so much it makes me tired to think about it.  Harder than going to Target™ 100 times in a day to get toiletries for my girl—she’s a young woman now—the things that she kept in the bathroom were growing and growing and continuing to grown.  I keep these items to a minimum but these things when she keeps them in good supply keep me in good supply (ie fucking) (ie less resistance from her) of P❌SSY—the glorious one spot she held between her legs.  That she carries with her always, dormant, but at any time ready to pop, squat, and provide her sweet honey pot to me and for me and that I get for a few bucks at Target™.

That’s my trouble, though, at Target™.  Especially in the girl-soap aisles.  Teenage nimbus, scouring the scrunchies.  Top of ass showing up over butt of jeans.  Perfect teenager skin.  This one taking step after sideward step kicking a pair of panties that floated down from within her jeans.  Then a look of realization (the panties, hers)!!  Then a look around her—I look away.  Then she scuttles over on hands and feet to snatch them up.  I secretly record her face with my eyes.  She retrieves her panties (nervous) and leaves the aisle via the end opposite me.  Her face is a little too old for me—puberty has already begun.

I think of you, my Cherie:  Brought to me on a plate, never before fucked, clean little P❌SSY, no memory, no words, no attachments—as long as no one DNA-tests her, I’m cool.

Perfect arranged specimen.  Sex clean as an operating table.  My baby!  My doll—my living, growing, thinking doll.  And with that, I am her god.  Her supreme being.  I am Leeloo Minaï Lekatariba-Laminaï-Tchaï Ekbat de Sebat™ (or simply Leeloo™) to her Korben Dallas.  Woke from my sleep to a horror/nightmare Christmas™, thrumming on my knee the traits of characteristics of alien gods do you really think they would travel all this way to destroy us?  That they’d travel all this way to do genetic modifications of all of us (staring with those creepy alien eyes?)—that they would rock us like a cradle and take from us 1) our alien virginity and 2) our human virginity.  It strikes me that alien beings may not give a fuck about what we call rape, not between a superior being and what to them would be us..ants.  Basically.  Ants.

Ants with ham and cheese sandwiches in their mouths.  Ants talking on primitive communications devices—a child’s toy for aliens or future versions of ourselves came back in time and space to save us from ourselves, sprung into action by our use of hydrogen bombs, returned to seek evidence of a crime.  I am eyes.

Keeping them closed with my eyelid transparents, occasionally fearing to open them but in the moment of sex they betray me pop open slowly like springs on an unseen hinge.

What glorious shades I see in you, my Earth™-bound spirit.  How you look to me:  Like a baby version, a Sour Patch Kids™/Garbage Pail Kids™/Cabbage Patch Kids™ render of the cutest babies alive—sometimes we go with Anne Geddes™ as a fantasy, thinking of the cuteness!—oh!—oh my god I just came on a baby’s face from Geddes’ book.  Fuck!  I just came on that baby’s face.

That’s All I Am to You: A Baby

With a fresh face.  A lopsided gait.  From the way you fucked me when I was an infant.  My muscle/bone structure was knocked in and knocked out in so many ways.  I don’t ever remember when I walked straight, so I guess you did this to me when I was too young to walk, too young to talk, and everything prior to the acquisition of symbols is a darkness I cannot reach behind.

When I ask you, you tell me bullshit.

You tell me lies that I once believed.  How you saved me from underneath a city bus—how I was lying there for hours, malnourished, not too long for the grave.  You were on the bus that ran me over, pressed me against the bus tire and the curb and you were like:  “Stop!  Bus driver!  There’s a baby on the road!”  But the bus driver kept on going, citing the fact there wasn’t a stop where the baby was and it took you as long as it took for the front wheel on me to go to the back wheel on me.

You jumped off the bus.

Rescued me, etcetera.

But I only believed that story once.  Once I thought about it, it made no sense.  And I was back wondering about my origin story (called this by TV) and I figured out the origin of my balance story from what I heard of your confession to your partner that he had knocked my hips permanently out of order and they were never going to be the same.

But I thought of how he must have fucked me, how he held my hands with his one hand and how he held my foot with the other.  Then he could play with me, sliding his dick along my wet crack.  Filling me with baby powder and baby oil.  Not even knowing what he was doing.  Just lubing me up and slipity-slide along the hot rail.  So, so pure.  So clean.  I think you must have had a purity-type OCD coming on there—I was like drugs to you—you could never say no and once you got started you could never stop.

Maybe if you had years of therapy, then you could stop.

But that was never going to happen.

‘Cause all I am to you is a baby.  I was a 14-year-old baby the last day you saw me—at least the last day I know we saw each other.  I’m always afraid you’ll drive by in one of the lineups and you’ll catch me again and take me to the new house and lock me up forever.  Leave me to die.  Not even fucking me once I got up in my 20s.  Just keeping me for my punishment.  Fucking me with baseball bats and shit to show your contempt.

Contemptible me.

The baby in the shopping cart.

Unable to speak.  Just cry.  And throw from the basket everything I could reach.

Then I’d come home and we’d go in my room and he’d take off my diaper and poop came out and he’d wipe me up for show, for his partner’s sake (he didn’t really care about the poop).  He’d rock my tiny P❌SS until the cum that came out of him overfilled my P❌SS, came out of my sides, sliding down to coat my asshole—mix with it—trapped a dollop of it on his finger, mixed the two together and rubbed it in his hand and he’d do that again and again until his hands were the has-been-destroyed and the meant-to-create parts of it were so smoothly mixed and finely woven and it was everywhere.  Everywhere.

My stolen dust.

My starship memories.

Those details I could never know.  Invented by me to try and understand where I came from.  Not through memories of the past since they happened before I even remembered my past..but through constructions given the memories and natures of you and me.  That’s all this ever was.  One story.  Of two people.  One of whom stole and loved the other.  You want me to say “used” but it’s more than that.  He loves me.  I know he does.  Even now.  But his love is not so easily expressed.  Without a time machine to make him younger, we need me in the picture as a youngin to make him feel young.  To make him feel like a kid.

I know when I think of these events, my tongue gets excited and my mouth forms an “O” and everything gets dry and I don’t even recognize I’m doing it until someone points it out.

The I close it real quick.

And I lie there, in the sand under the Santa Monica pier.

Until I’m doing it again.  Because I’m thinking it again.  And again it takes someone to point it out before I stop.  I’m doing it now as I write this.  I’m in the library using my one-hour daily limit.  I come here every morning to write.  The conditions for writing are terrible.  People taking right next to me, on both sides.  All I do here is type—I figure I’ll edit it later (when I have more time—isn’t that the lie we all tell ourselves—that, someday, we will have more time).

But each day’s time runs out with some kid standing behind me pointing to my session timer in the upper right-hand corner of the screen and telling me my time is up and that’s it—the end of typing time for me.  Exactly like the end of breathing time.  Which will someday come and I’ll never even know about it—just take it in stride.  Though I’ve always feared it as much as I’ve thought of bringing it on.

I am obsessed with death.

I think it comes from hating most of every day.

But for now, this writing is the only thing that keeps me going.  After I do it, each day, I feel good for about 10 minutes.  For those 10 minutes, I am alive, and I have a sense of purpose (even if it never happens) of writing this and getting it published.  At that point I’d buy a house where no one would ever notice me and I would never open the door but for the grocery delivery man.  Aside from that, I’d keep the doors locked and I’d have a special lock on my bedroom door and that is a room that no one would ever go in but me.

You Want Locks, to Close You In

I want locks that I can open.  To keep the secrets of me:  I really am more of a Star Trek™ person than a Star Wars™ one.  I keep my mouth shut because Star Wars™ people are crazy—all I ever did as a Star Trek™ fan is learn Klingon and Orc—nothing too unusual there.  Now you’re saying:  Why did he have to bring up Klingon?  How is it relevant?  Now all the Star Trek people are clamoring for me to make a case for the relevance of this fact, lest I destroy the Trekkies’™ culture by claiming to be a Trekkie™ and a child molester, rapist, sex trafficker, and so on.  You say Tell me about the culture but I say It runs through and through.  It’s one of the best things about the culture: the Orion slave girls.

(Trigger warning™:  Rape, rapist culture, rape apologism, sexism, racism, abuse, sex trafficking, and of course sex slavery.)

You know what?  Never mind.  Never mind.  If you want to know so bad, search that shit.  I will simply tell you that certain episodes had me with my pants around my ankles—and not in a way that you anti-rape parents would understand.  You’d all smack me down then go home and jerk it to some crumpled photo you have of your wife and your wife’s friend dressed in swimsuits.  White ones.  With a particularly bumpy bump on your wife’s friend’s front parts—going from her waist to between her legs, making me want to go in there so hard.  And after you’ve done it, picturing the cum expressions of your wife’s friend, after you put the picture back on the couch table, sometime your wife must have found the picture and removed it.  You wonder if you left any sign.  If she just saw it there and picked it up.  And this:  Has your wife looked at that picture and masturbated?

Or maybe I caught your wife’s friend due to her shortness.  And brought her here to me to keep me company after my captive has escaped.  Run off tired of me sticking my dick up her ass.  You can’t blame her.  At some point your captive is going to grow tired of you sticking your dick in her ass.

She’s going to hold it up inside her and wait for you to stick yo’ dick in, then she’s going to release it all—release the kraken—and flush her insides out on my cock, my lap, the floor, and when I pick my hands up from the floor it leaves traces in the absence of shit in two handprint shapes.  But don’t be silly.  This didn’t just happen.  It happened in my mind:  A fantasy in rejecting a fantasy still.  And that fantasy is from a fantasy still!—three notions of insanity formed a tiny period.  Perfectly symmetry.  Perfect shape and speed.  The notions of a person who is a hallucination of a hallucination still.

When Miss Tiny Tuna™ Beastie Booter™ goes to sleep at night she pulls on a light switch.  It turns the light off.  But that light was my sustenance, the line of my life.  It was that which observed me.  And when you turn it off, I’m gone.  Me and my world are Charlie Rose’s™ dreaming mind.  We are in it and the only thing Charlie Rose™ would have to do to kill us all is wake up from his light-ward trance.  Open his eyes all the way.  Get up from his chair and walk across the room.  You and me and everything we know would be gone from the universe which is the thought bubble around Charlie Rose’s™ head.

You know what I mean?  You know what I’m saying?  I’m talkin’ ‘bout how a feminist argued with me for 45 minutes online about the Star Trek™ thing.  Saying Orion’s™ are being sold and kidnapped against their will.  That the Federation™ did not care whether slaves exist.  Arguing to me that Star Trek™ shouldn’t be allowed to show slaves existing in the ST universe unless the writers were willing to admit the Federation™ supported slavery.  I know the Star Trek™ people, the ones on the ship, are suggested, supported, as being the “good guys”—right?  So the good guys support slavery, they’re not so good anymore—are they?

If you show “bad guys” supporting slavery, your plot is tight.  If you show good guys or multifaceted guys doing evil in the world, that’s a more complicated plot.

I don’t even believe you have me talking this way:  Good guys.  Bad guys.  That you can’t show slavery onscreen without encouraging racism in your audience.  That you can’t even talk about people’s unsettling action.  That you can somehow engage a mature audience while only showing the sunshine and rainbows.

Some people don’t want entertainment.  In fact the more accurate description is that some people find it comforting to watch Disney™ movies.  And other people want to be shown next a new world—a temporary, bad world—a world where there is irony in the endings or even the world of a dark protagonist.

The dark protagonist allows some of us to breathe.  With others, they find it scary.  And with an even tinier percentage of us, the dark protagonist is something that we love.

I Luv My Hot-to-Hold P❌SSY in My Hand

Hold her imagining you.  Someone who wouldn’t rape me.  Someone who wouldn’t rape me too much.  Too fast.  Too hard.  Not any of those things would you be.  And I’m afraid of all those things when I sleep with you, holder of the keys to the car, foot whose pedal makes the car go fast!  Driver’s license that makes the car go legal.  Dummy whose head makes the car go silly!  And silly boy who I’ve never met.

Who imaginarium-ly makes the strap pop!

Within a quarter of a second snaps on my neck.

With torture strands—flying in the air—and living in the moment covers miles of a vision to the future.  Light green on dark green:  An impressionist’s view of the 30-years plus which finds us rearranging-ly, some dead—some of the wrong ones dead—and you and me are stuck here under the firmament vying for space for status for bragging rights for glory—glory in our small group of friends.

Glory.  Nudge.  Crane.  Savagery.

A nightlight in the socket for the sun.

The lights have been turned out.  Turned out repeatedly.  I am in the shower in my room.  Deep-soaking the body below my neck—they can have that.  But they cannot have—they cannot have the rest of me!  I want to scream but my screamer has been turned off.  It works for the man, now, that wobbly elite who suggested I take this bath..

..this bath..

..this bath.

I’m caught in an infinite sequence of infantile physicalites.  Caught acting out someone else’s fantasies when I don’t even have my own.  “My sexuality” as it is known, is nothing but a bunch of tricks I learned as a kid, when you were so much larger and so much stronger than me.  When I meet you in the red room.  When I show you what I’ve got!

It’s a metal lunchbox that I open.

Telling me how old I was when they caught me.

They don’t have metal lunchboxes anymore.  You might think that plastic was the next evolution but really it’s just that kids kept hitting each other in the heads with the metal ones full of Doritos™ and apples and knocking each other out.  That’s all it was!  And do you know what was on my lunchbox lid?  Dora the Explorer™—metal fucking lunchbox.  Given to me.  As a child.  Stolen with me the day I was stolen.  Junked in the bedroom closet door.  Hung high.  Discovered by me the moment I turned five.  When I was able to reach it at the top of a chair.

What is this? I ask myself.

Turning around in my hands.

I felt the textured panels, front and back.  Saw Dora.  Heard the backpack song in my head but dared not sing it—I didn’t want them to know anything that was important to me.  Even then, I knew to hide.  For my real personality had started to appear and it wasn’t for anyone else but me.  To see.  To hear that song.  To watch it transform me in undecidable ways.  I kept it deep inside me hidden even from my co-captive.  The boy who was just enough young that he wouldn’t understand.

That’s how I pegged him.

If I’d have known how long we would be in that room, I would have stood on my school desk and belted it out:

Backpack!  Backpack!
Backpack!  Backpack!
Something..loaded up with things and..blah blah knickknacks too.
Anything that you might need I’ve got inside for you!

Given that my backpack has been loaded up with things and knickknacks for you.  Given that I have loaded myself up with anything you might need that I’m carrying inside me.  Waiting for you.  Packed especially for you.

Yeah, I kept that song to myself—you bet.  It slivered off my space for the first time, forging an old image with the new.  Creating in my mind a sliver (or break) inside myself.  A safe place to play.  Safe for me to ruminate on.  To spend the silent part of my day (the afternoons) (spent staring up at the crack at the top of the memory) singing my internal voice, singing that song.

And I found others.

Lying around the drain in my memory.  Waiting to be flushed.  My brain holding onto every note and every word.  Holding onto every memoric shard.  Every meaning.  You know that type of memory that is solid within your brain but that you will never remember if nothing ever tickles it?  You need someone to tell you and then like woosh the whole memory with all its detail and emotion come flying back brushing off the hair that’s in your face.

Memories like moonlight’s cautionary tale.  Witches in Salem™.  Gross street people—grosser than me—people I’m not even sure are people.  Black as a nighttime view of the fan.  Of the sheets around the window.  Shocking me with their realistic shakes of people and creatures coming for me.  When you wake up and your waking life is meaner than your dream life so you just want to go back to sleep.  When you find yourself in thoughts of lying down and going to sleep forever.™

Then you know your pain would be over.

This life is the compounding sensation of pain.

Mixed with this tiny dose of pleasure—eating and sex™—marred by poison and a constant lack of orgasm.  The food is rarely that good but sometimes a simple crab—caught that day and served with a bowl of melted butter.  The orgasms I give myself at night—always feeling someone over my shoulder.

You’re always lying next to me.

We never have sex.

But my best cums are ones where I don’t imagine people at all.  I think of the cats—large and small—they’re crawling over me like a snake knot—like everyone in the world received the signal to fuck.  Where I writhe around like a big kitty and finally I choose one.

I stick my ass in the air.

And a tiger fucks me.  Quick!  So quick—just to forgive his erection.  And when he cums in me I sing hallelujah™.  And when he’s done cumming, he strokes me a few more times and that is the space where I let myself get excited.  I mean really excited.  All the tigers and their kids and grandparents circle ‘round me and they have voices.  And they have culture and language I just never heard it till now.  And they’re singing for me.  A song of love.  A song of their character and history.  I can understand their language now!  And it presses down on my vulva like a stern, a powerful vibrator—and I cum.

Before You Take Me to the Trash Out Back, Hear This

I started life as a dishwasher (I know you don’t care).  I was paid under the table and the owner had this daughter, maybe three years old when I met her.  And I coveted her—I wanted her!  To help express my sexuality.  Which was innocence and bone.  Not only someone who had never been injured by psychological torture from her fellow humans..someone who had her physical innocence intact.  I’m not talking hymen, ok—I’m talking about her virginity, whether she played with it or not, she had a game she played with me.  We called it hiding under the pizza and it was played by her sliding underneath the pizza counter and me coming to her gladly, peeking her checkered dress aside—yellow and blue, yellow and blue.  And after a while when I walked away from her hiding space and turned to look at her the girl would open her dress for me.  And I would be treated with sights a King™ is only used to—that only a King™ would have such access to.  I knew my current King™ had access to it, because he talked about it on the campaign trail.  I knew his alternating Queen™ had this access, because of documentaries I had seen of her and her husband doing mounds of blow while having little girls like my pizza one killed for speaking out about the rapes.  Such it trickled down, the corruption at the top trickling down to my house, where I kept her, years after my pizza store boss and his little gangbang™ of a daughter waiting to happen for you me the pizza store daddy and everyone who watched our videos on YouTube™.  Thank you for the favorites before our account got yanked! and garbage had begun to flow the other way.  Cisterns, disposable waste dumps, the smell of baby’s shit.  It varied nightly with the morning’s food.  Varied so strongly it made me vomit the first I tasted, kept that coming throughout the first morning, had me holding my breath throughout an entire diaper-changing sesh.  Seeing myself as a cosmic being trying to figure out how to change a diaper with perfect sanitation, zero smell, the sterile version of a dump truck..tiny dump truck in the sky, wither me away so someone finds my bones in my own backyard.  Southern California Man Falls in Own Grave While Chasing Tiny Dump Truck.  How do you want to die? ‘cause for me being buried alone with baby loves daddy! wrote across my face, wearing pajamas, pizza girl memories flashing before my eyes—her lifting, me watching, me seeing the twist of white cotton panties flashed to my by the three year old.  They would be so clean.  So white.  So brilliantly devoid of any speck, streak, or soak those panties would likely endure in their time.  But for me, right now, they’re clean, they’re her secret, and she’s showing herself to me.  What came next is my zipper coming down on my work pants, me checking to see she’s there, and me turning around so quick my dick did a little pop! squirt! when it saw her, my one black eye supplanting both those alien-red eyes with its bold generosity.  When I come at you at night.  When I open up the ceiling to your house, red eyes huge looking down on you in your bedroom, I have chosen to abduct you and you will see things from the spirit realm opened by Tesla™.  Things that can only be described in human terms by saying a devil or an angel spoken here.  By saying a devil came through the walls—two angels followed and then some good-and-evil aftermath twisted my ability to speak of it—I cannot speak of it!  Cannot control it.  Cannot reverse it.  As I come down upon you, these spirits alight from my walls, causing crazy left-right magnetic friction, immune to radiation, breed-able across star systems, value driven, super beings, from, the, sky.  You cannot imagine the desire there, from this planet on out..to mate with us..our women, our men, to tutor our children on star maps and astrophysics that is what happens when they take me, anyway, and it’s been going on in my family for generations.  A red-eyed being comes through the roof, transports me upward, into the spaceship, rapes me by putting on a pretty face and fucks me for about 45 minutes, then extends a metal rod to my cock and makes me cum!  But without the pleasure!!  It comes down and steals my cum without my permission and it’s not like I’m blaming the star people for my Earthly™ tendencies toward Earthly™ girls and babies.  It’s like I’m saying the tonic can be reversed:  It becomes a tonic and gin instead of a gin and tonic—and that whole theory has been abused.  To me, you’re psychopaths, every one, it’s just your powers haven’t grown in yet.  You’re Humpty Dumpty™ still assembled.  Before he fell off the wall.  You haven’t done anything wrong yet (you’re a baby).  This chance innocence leads you to sing and play—to dance along the wall.  You can deny what I’m telling you.  It doesn’t make you right.  It makes you a baby.  Your egg hasn’t cracked yet.  And be glad:  Everyone’s cracks eventually.

Motherly Tunes

I will never have a baby.

Never front-load a munchkin due to numerous lacerations to the uterine area, Fallopian tubes™, tiny ureters carrying alien spunk.  The aliens might be able to fix me but for what? why? where would they get the motivation to heal my wounds?  I could peel back my skin at the vagina showing them vast networks of scar tissue growing inside my body where the life-making stuff should be.  Peel my knife with bones.  Remove a bone or two.  Have about 200 left (unbroken) (unabashed) (unlucky, lucky bones).  Broken, bashed, and lucky bones.  Muffyn bones the subject of a heart attack when old.  You scare my bones to death after a small fright involving the microwave which I stand in front of (deliciously) and never move away because—if I am with child—I want to push it out diseased by household electronics Before She Says Her First Word™.

First-word baby.

First-world child.

If I had a baby I would snuff it out between my legs before anyone got ahold of it—my captors or anyone.  Holding my own breath as long as I can trying to beat my cub to the cutoff point.

Mocking her (stupid, dumb dumb child).

Stocking her type on the shelves.

Marrying yourself to a Target Baby™ rolled in the mechanical womb.  Told her when she was older she’d be princess, queen—and she might be.  If Meghan Markle™ can do it, you sure can.  Just get on TV™ and make your heroic jump.  You might end up being princess of the dumb—of the damned.  Tell me, boo, when you’re gonna make the jump.

Jump times away from the holy fountain—holy city where woman can’t be popes the whole franchise is junk to me—a place set up to be the name, the purpose, and the every essence of abusing children fused with the core of their religion.  I would never want my baby to be at that—to be there when the pope had dinner-babies with his clerics and mages and whatnot.

To hold a fork full of human flesh and smile at my fellow magicians and priests and to smile and chomp and eat the blood of Christ (for real)™ to eat it for whoever’s watching.  Watching especially for the humble carpenter of your whole religion.  You are waiting for the second coming.  I’ve got your second coming.

Right here.

It’s right here in my pocket.

My baby pouch.  My baby-making pouch.  The only true thing you have in your religion, trying to regulate the production of breeds, limiting mothers to a single choice of ingredients.  I would have a baby except that my baby tube and baby pouch are limitlessly damaged from inside by your penis and your fucking and your stealing from my family.

Everything it could have been.

Everything it could ever be.

Everything that never could ever be.  Pour it all over me.  Fill me with rhymes and baby times!  With chains and baby drains.  With a nut sack of primordial orgasm, organs, organisms, organic™ parts and bones, never the kind the dog eats, never never that kind.

For to put me in a baby pouch (which is much like a bag of chips) is to roll me an’ fill me with nutrients I might have found in gasoline.  Something to twinge my heart away.  To leave me with formed muscles and the swagger of a champion—King! I shout to the stars and the stars do hear me!

Pro-nunc-ing down tween cloud following a tunnel of my own imagination seeing them in the window they are looking at me specifically, me with my particular robes of slaves of the men who built the pyramids of the masters of every prophet who has ever written it down.  The me (as every prophet’s child) (every grandchild) (every royal line) who is waiting to be destructed Mandela Effect™ watching over us from underneath the Vatican™ not book and endless crated artifacts but an aquarium filled with copies of me (of my swimming self) filled with brilliant octopi sealed there for centuries with the only entrance being a trap door below the pontiff’s chair.

Waiting there.

To be opened by me.

To be opened slowly at first.  Then louder.  Louder!  Then the loudest of sounds it can make.  Like a horn.  Beneath my feet.  Like a horn that can blow away Peter’s™ face.  The pontifex.  Wielding his ultimate weapon turning like Yoda™—wild as an old flipper can be—launching himself in impossible circles beating himself to a new spot in the air.  Then all that is in, will be out; and all that is out, will be in.

The holy world filled with a dense aquarium.

The secret world filled with the top contents of our world—banished for a thousand years.  Banished in the sense that my cousin has been banished from me.  If I even have one, she will be secret to me this entire life.  Banished so well the NSA™ can’t even find her metadata.  Cannot even kill her by her handle.  She escaped without a secret stole and went into the world without a mind—no, hear me—she went without a lodestone, with no magnetism in her heart, with no guide, no sense of perfect north.

That’s how my baby will be, too.  Without a guide.  Living in dark matter.  Never even got to touch her but I know from watching Michio Kaku™ on the tube that she lives in parallel universes—an almost infinite amount—Michio™ says he can almost see her at the end of his arm if he looks along it he can see the Milky Way™.

But that’s impossible, I say, if we are in the Milky Way™.

And Michio Kaku™ explains:  “We are in the Milky Way.  But we are on the edge.  So it’s like looking at your hand.  It’s a part of you.  But your eyes, your head, is at one far end of the galaxy.  And it’s from your perspective that you see yourself—the grand part of yourself—floating out there unknown to you.  Floating out in space waiting to be discovered by you.”

Forever and Ever in a Teacup of Salt

Lies, and vinegar.  A little torture kit named for an old recipe—conversation undetectable in a public area unless you’re trained in Cockney slang™ we’ve got a Chinese wall™ and a Dutchman’s furnace™.  A Dutchman’s shoe if you like it’s where I keep my house key when I’m out of the house.  Inside my sock, inside my shoe, you get used to it after a while and it doesn’t even notice you until you step into the back yard and lift the sock from the shoe.

Interminable barriers.  Shopping at different stores.  Picking up food at one, bibs at another.  It’s a full-time job shopping for you.  Never buying a whole set of kids clothes at Target.  Buying everything with cash.  A checker who recognizes me..maybe.  Maybe not.  You want to walk the line between checker and checker, black and white stripes, a drive-thru™ pharmacy that will pick you up items from the rest of the store, place them in a bag, and send the bag thru the pharmacy collection plates and *poof!—presto chango!—the farm is clear!—*a bug mug’s happening at the corner bar (I can only go with them so far before I’m tried for treason) I can only go so far as a spy which is what I say I am when I’m doing these things.  Doing these things for crazy.

Now that it’s just me—just me and you—just you, me, and the three-ring binders.  A bungalow in Canada.  No room to move.  Have to jerk off with standard porn, printed in a magazine, sold to me for Canadian sons and daughters (coins and bills) and wrapped for burial in an American™ flag.  Tossed with iced salad and an iced tea.  Torn with the flames that come when you rip American™ bills in two.  And suddenly the reminder that the American Secret Service™ would never take my ass.  I’m too much of a blunderbuss.  My weapons are too ancient.  My shot technique too delicate.  For me to ever be a part of that world.  But I know it—or pretend I do—apparently that is enough form me.  To sling a slang slanger over my tender shoulder to carry into the woods.

These are my daydreams now that you’re gone.  These silences I experience at work.  These silences almost get me fired.  These dreams of you (the every little kid in the passenger seat, coming through the drive thru™).  Elevating me to the height and the divinity of artist—the artist of the slightly funny deal.  For me it’s the artist of the extremely funny deal.  Appearing, as I do, a Frankenstein™ of gothic proportions, buying women’s panties here, lingering in the aisle.  Watching you watch me pick out panties.  Obviously not for myself (to wear, based on size).  Possibly for my wife—I like to think she likes that.  And the further I go down that path, the harder is the stop where I remember I am only shopping for you.  My little friend.  Not a wife at all.  Never even had a wife, past my first one.  She divorced me ‘cause I was making friends with girls in the church parking lot.  Little girls.  Very, very little girls to be exact.

There’s a chance!  There’s a chance.  Quick to my brain a holy trinity:  The dad driving in front and his two baby booters strapped in child’s seats in the back.  He orders a chicken cordon bleu™ and we have to heat up the chicken from the beginning so I’m watching and I’m telling and I’m waaaving at his kids all excited their chicken is going to be fresh or so I tell the kids they’re waving their arms at me through the glass super-friendly and all smiles for the no-longer stranger who tells them to “Pull up front and I’ll bring it out to you.”

And while I’m passing the man his chicken through the driver’s window he’s checking the order and I snap a picture with my mobile.  It doesn’t sync anywhere.  Everything stays local.  My picture stays local.  My vision stays local.  Everything on my phone is supposedly made cryptic by an algorithm that is just a checkbox on a screen.  Inside the phone it’s not even a checkbox at all—just a one or a zero, just a bit—and that my phone isn’t encrypted at all, not from certain agencies..but luckily for me the agencies that decrypt my phone aren’t the local police or even the FBI™.  This is what my buddy tells me when I ask him.  What does the government have?  Everything, basically  :The answer comes.  Everything you see, they see.  Everything you think, they think.  My remote-viewing angle is fucked.  My attitude is fucked.  My appetite is fucked.  My sexual appetite is healthy as ever, chocked full and eating with a coming appetite.

In fact that’s all of me.  That’s all I am!  I am a hunger who privately hunts Mechanisms of Joy™.  Little little ones.  Little ones.  Little cans of SPAM™.  Bite-sized pieces of ham.  Did I get my picture of little dopey duuter and missus soapy suuder?  Check my pocket—I did™.  Now is all to sneak a fake-back masturbation™ so my partner doesn’t see.

It’s minutes upon minutes of my fake shower.

I’m sure my buddy is out there doing the same thing.

Jerking off with seconds to go.  Minutes total.  The water on.  I’m kneeling in the shower jerking it to never end—jerking it to mister cordon bleu back there, to his daughter and his son.  I would fuck them both gladly (since I am in this pinch)—even the boy.

Even the boy.

I am like an addict who relapses but not even on his favorite drug.  Who relapses on a drug he didn’t even like—that’s the boy to me.  That’s how much I would fuck him.  That’s how much a desperation I was.

I Was Sailing on a Boat Named Blue

We were playing with ice.  With waves taller and taller, smaller and smaller.  With waves receding as waves tend to do, from tallest on the surface to regurg at the deepest.  Turning and turning and turning and blue.

Waves like ice.

Something like a hammer.

Corinthians blowing their god-awful pipe.

Warriors on a cliff facing our ships on the sea.  Then it was first ship (to go under) second ship (to go under) then it was only our ship made of glass sailing—sailing away—sail away, sail away, sail away.

Every nighttime above us in the sky and soon I was spinning—I was spinning out of control swimming of sorts between the natural surface of the water and the under-ocean of the waves such that my body became invisible to the sharks, who would look up and see my shape now streamlined fairly blue against sky against stars against space against bioluminescent freaks™ from the bottom of the ocean.

Against time.

Against space.

For every animal who looks up to eat.

For every abuser who looks down to eat and bite and chew and grow and double-down your pumpkin mine is dark blue and cut with the precision of a kitchen tool.  Fairly well eaten—shark-like bite marks in a semi-circle—tunnels bore through concrete effigies—Blade Runner™ delivering my babies—his tongue a multi-purpose tool—bat and fingers pressing down on my uterus—phalanges™ crushed inside your jacket pocket where I lay my head.

But if you turn that pillow over.  Inside is a map.  It is sewn into the fabric (cross pointe) (of a muffyn)—and—this is me floating on my back I’m floating on my stomach now (exposed)™ to all the sea life below.  Rolling.  Rolling.  Rolling.  Roll.

Rolling with my pillow under my head at night.  Rolling with secret pills—they start in my hand, my head.  Entering my mouth.  Gathering each nugget of knowledge as you float upward through my nasal passages in through my nose, my eyes, my tongue and brain.  Did you know part of why a tongue kiss is so exciting to your brain?  It’s because the tongue is controlled by your brain—not your spinal cord as everything below.

It’s two brains touching each other in the most direct route possible.  Skipping the nerves.  Touching your brain sans your body and sending signals to the neurons in your friend your boy your girl your unnamed genders of ease.  Genders almost never known almost never be—almost never were—put to my neck by the scions of old materials, dark materials, his sewing scissors he made me shirts and shorts, tops and bottoms, and bought me panties at the store which I took off!—which I threw into the acid bath—which I crawled across my room in the mid-night and shuffled on, happy to have them, at that hour, at that darkness, some lace to feel against my P❌SSY lips—some lace I could call home pretend my real dad bought them open my legs under my covers and pretending my real dad touching memory, every manner in the book he showed me every delight of touch when your fingers touch my lace and my lace touches my vagina™ it is the delight of the world that is all mine.

Delicacy.  Those lands beneath the sea.

Everything floating and glowing immune to the level of topside.

Single notes playing.  E A G.  My body floats without me, preparing itself for the waves’ harmonic chords.  A signature of my sailor/self.  All blinging and blanking submerged under the everflow of wavelets to waves to master waves to the ultimate..mistress waves.  I lie here while the storm makes itself a conflagration.  Makes itself a regular sequence of waves, flames, matchsticks, flint, people from Flint—that type of news we got—that came through on the television.

I knew my country would never survive.

And to survive it?  You would have to be a no-man, living on the edges of the system.  Everyone else to be thrown, buck wild, from the systematic horse.  Only those already by the oceanographic time keeper.  Only those already dreaming of the waves.  Only those whose sleeping bag zippers lie pointed outward, to welcome the sea.  To call it.  To bring it in.  No Chicago.  No New York.  No LA.  We would every one of us be subsumed.

And you know what?

I wouldn’t mind.

My life (what of it) has been destroyed.  As much of it was ever created.  I see myself the younger Claire Danes™, from Shakespeare’s Times™, acting opposite DiCaprio™, now grown old starring on Homeland™—that’s my fantasy.  That even due to my handicaps I would be shielded by the CIA™, that I would be so useful to (somebody) that they would see past my flaws, my past as a slave..where the fact that I sleep on the beach is advantage.  Is a plus on my resume.

In fact I am so far from being an acceptable CIA™ operative, so far from being a candidate on a game show, or a dog walker (even), even so far from being a house cleaner.  I can never be these things.

I have graduated from sex pet to beach comber.  From dreams of blackness to dreams of black and blue and shark prints on my legs, entirely underwater but also fluttering near the top.

Entirely living.

But also entirely dead.

In Nature

Imagine a “rape™”—imagine what it really is.  Is it a guy thing?  Doing to a guy or girl what only a penis can do?  Can a woman rape a man?  With fingers?  With an object?  Sure can.  Is it a biological imperative?—do I need to do it to proffer the species?  Certainly not.  No thinking man would say that:  That it is biologically necessary to continue the species.  No logic is there.  Do not mock me, there, by saying what I do is biologically necessary.  Do not do.  But psychologically, does a man need sex to the level that he may morally take whatever woman he can?  I hear that the female orgasm is lesser than the male—that with less testosterone it is more like the orgasm a young boy feels:  Everlasting, almost cum, never cum, but satisfying, but not-at-all driven to complete.  I remember cumming that way and I guessed that the sensation I felt was it—basically—until the one night when I wrapped my dick in toilet paper (loosely) thinking that fewer signals sent by fingers would mean greater signals sent by cock (through TP) to brain and I was right—I was most definitely right about that.  But throw the paper down on the bottom bunk of mine and rubbing its tip with dry hands and it felt better and better so I kept rubbing, holding onto my cock, fearful it might get away and I bridled it like a horse, whipping it to a frenzy and obeying me (to what?) and then I came!  I came.  I gloriously came and I was so shocked at what I had done that I lay there until the cum began to soften and everything everyone had said about sex was true.  I needed instantly to try it with a woman.

That was the fourth grade—or seventh, I’m not sure.  That was the year that Cory Buttons™ took off all her clothes in the room off the library, with some of us watching, some of us running for the door.  But after I had left her there with no one else in the room I went back.  Tipping the door handle.  Going to her where she lay in the bottom of the stairs that led here.  She closed her eyes.  I ran my fingers from her hair to her face to her neck to her belly to her P❌SS to her tiny tiny cunt and stuck my little finger into her, following the guidebook rules to Mecca™, Jerusalem™, wherever your pilgrimage is.  And then I pushed down my shorts, tighty whities slung around my ankles.  And I held my cock in my hands and rubbed it against her, taking only an instant to get thick.  Cory™ was rubbing the sides to her stomach up and down—that was her fourth-grade equivalent of a girl rubbing her own clit when we’re fucking.  Anyway I pushed so hard to get it in and Cory’s face made such acrobatic protests while her voice made such kaleidoscopic invitations, confirmations, affirmations—whatever!—that l took their lead and I rode that girl till both of our hands were covered with sticky cum and then we were both laying beside her and my cock was hardening I was ready to go again but Cory™ rolled over on her stomach and knocked me off when I bent myself over her, ready to take her from behind and she was dressing and I was already missing this, the first time I had sex with a girl, as one of the only times I ever had consensual sex with a girl and even thought that was the case I had already begun the hunt for another Cory™—one who wasn’t wise to my tricks and my sticks and my pricks.  Another one who had never done it who had never been pricked and that leads us to pretty much what we have here.

A dead man.

Surviving.

A heartbeat and a spine sort of guy.  With a taste for little girl P❌SSY that would never go away.  A taste for anything tight and with a young face attached to it.  I like their faces.  When they make faces.  When you can see it hurt when it goes in and you can see their pain and their pleasure and they’re showing me their pain and hiding their pleasure.  Dipsy doodle dandie.  A walla walla bing bang.  That is what I love the most.  Pleasure and pain—you’re crying and cumming all at once.  Tout de suite!  Cumming so loud, so far, so tight, so wide, that you and your Playskool™ cunt don’t ever stand a chance.  I’ll have you dripping down your legs and across the carpet going to the dark corner of the room.  I toss you a yellow towel and you reach down low with both hands and wipe a wide swath of Target™-embroidered towels from her ass up through her tiny lips and then smells it and then throws the towel down and comes back to her bed.  Lying down.  Inside my spoon.  Careful not to touch me and she shivers when I cover her with the fleece.

And then that is when the thought of Cory™ reverse-escapes me tickling my memory not of the girl herself but showers with my father and baths with my sister reconstituting themselves like sugar-free Kool-Aid™ packs and I am in the bathtub standing three-feet high above my sister and I am peeing on her as instructed by my dad I am kneeling one-year before at the toilet cleaning out my Underoos with Dad™ standing beside me saying:  “Get in there!  Get in!”  And him reaching in a little pushing my hands inside the toilet and after that I was alone in my birthplace bathroom washing my hands and washing, washing them.  To get what off?  The smells of shit—which I have never been able to stand.  The smell of Cory Buttons’ cunt™—young and fresh and mainly the smell of soap suds.  And every time I have washed my hands since those days—even though I rarely think of it—my smell memory lashes up at me with a frightness.

I Never Did Drugs

Not when I was captive—captivated—capped to my zipper, flopped on her ripper cord.  A tangerine moon with floodlights.  I saw them on TV—but, so captivated (and my captors so cheap) we never did drugs of the recreational variety.  Upon coming out, I never even smoked a cigarette.  Drank sometimes to forget.  But always after a trick, not during.  Tricks offer you drogas but I always said no.  They’d have coke laid out on the dresser—line after line.  And they’d do coke then fuck me.  I saw the fire in their eyes.  And of course my captors drank and drugged (I would go out and see heroin syringes half-empty half-full and my captors would offer it to me but I always said no).  I associated it with foul spirit—rank pet cages—dirty bathroom floors.  The kind of floors that arise under trash cans that are never moved.  The kind of floors that can never be cleaned.  Not really.  But I took them at face value as the kind of tile that can never be cleaned—only erased—only replaced.  Only can they fix the badness by throwing the badness out.  By burning the old tiles.  By mopping alone, never gone, never could you eat off it, only tell its truth that it was clean when we got it, now dirty, dirtier, now seeming clean by putting the trash can over it, filling the trash can up, leaving a print of leaves and literal dirt, plastic wrappers turned brown, worms dead from this caustic indoor environment, scared by bleach but never deterred by it.  The same muddy blackness below every not-quite-right Target™ fixture of banana blue, slight off-white and brushed silver, torrents of good design principles, heady thinking patterns, and elevator shopping music lifted all to a T—lifted everywhere to that perfect little T between my legs, the only part of me to make friends of you and the only part of me to ever make a friend in this drop zone I call my life.  The only one.

The only one of my crew—I mean as if I had a crew to forgo some pleasure or advantage—the only one to sit atop the underpass boulders not juggling a weed pipe (just a crack pipe filled with weed at its end) a bong a couple of heroin syringes twelve packs of cigarettes a dozen bottles of prescription pills (bought or stolen?) property of the Santa Monica Psychiatrists Association they may have been prescribed and then traded or stolen from the office these pills were perfect—beautiful blue eyes said the kid as he passes them out but he’s wrong.  One of my eyes is blue, the other white—this condition has offered me the fascination of friends and made me a fetish to my customers.  Gimme that two-color girl!  Give her to me now.

And I made of myself the distinction of Gimme that girl that do no drugs.  She the special one!

The special one.  The special one?  The one who do no drugs.  I am nothing because of you (my drug habit).  I come with wrapping paper that says:  Don’t even offer them to you.  I will enter your hotel room having ridden up with you not in the elevator.  I will enter your hotel room with you not in the hall.  Making myself super discreet to you.  Then pushing open the door you left ajar.  Closing the door behind.  Swing you there on the bed like some kind of chump.  I would take your money and run if you didn’t have that kind of TEC-9™ weaponry stashed underneath your trench coat.

I want to say:  Listen, master.  I’m your man.  Knowing on sight he wanted a boy yet I was cute enough to pretend:  Tight asshole.  Hair pulled back.  Clean cheeks.  He could fuck my asshole and never know the difference.  Fuck my ass and there isn’t any difference.  Fuck me and hear me cry in pain.  Fuck me and make me the weak boy and you the strong man.  Fuck me you like a tight ass.  Fuck me all you care about is ass.  Like a girl has an ass, guy has an ass, and they’re nothing but yours to play with—to play with your cock in—play with my smooth insides cumming like diamonds fucking me looking at the tops of my ears my hair the back of my head holding your hands on the tops of mine.  Like Batman™.  His clenchy claws holding down my hands in a way I can never move them.  Being stripped of my skirt with his dick, stripped of my fishnet tights, stripped of my holey panties again with his dick—his dock—his hickory dickory dock!

Pleasantries.  Pushing me down on the bed.  Pheasantries.  How you are nice to a bird?  Your greed can’t make up his mind between Jiminy Cricket™ playtime and the next-to-dresser playtime considering it’s only you and I.  No one else invited to playtime.  You snort some rock—it’s lonely.  You snort some rock wishing I really was the talking one.  Instead of some characteristic Disney invention.  Boys only liars—right?  With wiry antennae.  Dresses like a 19th century gentleman.  Played by Judy Garland™.

That is me—yes?  Cross dressing past the poppies.  Past a nap in infinite style.  Joining a cast of mysteries.  Jollies.  This is how I script myself—my hands working your cock—the only thing not right about me is my voice.  But even that I drop a half an octave.  Squinting my eyes to help me play the scene.  Dropping this and dropping that, squeezing my cheeks together around your “diesel cock™” to help you feel the blood-smooth walls of my tiniest hole made by you my largest.

Only a belly full of bees could have done me right—have you brought the honey?

When Will my Little Girl Blue See Me for What I Am?

I am savior.  I am freedom.  I am the one who goes before and the one who goes after.  I am the alpha and the omega.  I am your god.

You never reacted thru me at the driver’s side door.  Never reacted against me when I tapped you with my car.  You were lost, my friend, and I carried you—that was the part where you saw one set of footprints, dummy.

You had a chance to recognize me in the street and what did you do?  You killed my image—my advertising part—from barrel to bun—buckets of widespread “so called” damage to your “so called” image.  You came to this planet via my womb for I am your mother and your father.  I am the seed which passes in between I am the dough that makes your bread I am the chain that locks your bike and the chain which keeps it locked.  I am the water bottle at your side—you reach for me with your sword hand, raise me to your lips, and drink.  I don’t care if you don’t want your cup to be poison’d I do not care! I say:  I do not care.

You came at me in the blink of an eye, your subtle handprints squirming.  You reached your whole body upwards toward me (like a snake) and threw me back over your shoulder like a bandit, leaving me for dead in my own comfort chair.  When will you call me, little one—when will you dare?  Oh why do I speak of you?  For one element goes sour.  For one leaf grows old.  For every element (in time) that you need me here, you leave 11 more sitting at the table, called away by..nothing!..called into peace.  Called like lightning into that good peace.  Peace beyond the clouds.  Peace beyond the bottom rim of your barrel.  Aged 12 years and 11 months and 10 days placed in peace at the bottom barrel/rung/underbelly beer frog.  I say much but ask almost nothing:  Be with me my girl while I violate a) every one of your rules and b) every one of my rules—that is all!  Bowl me down the lane—when I hit the pins all will be forgiven.  Let me steal $10 from your purselet let you forgive me before I ever do it.  Let your forgiveness become mine, of you, of you, of you of ours melting wings like Icarus splattered on the floor.

I know I disobeyed you—I know that now.  I know what your betrayal face looks like I know what your embarrassed face looks like what your bewildered face looks like your erasure face your planetary voyager face your slip in my log face your stick it in your ass then stick it in your P❌SS face.  I know everything about you little girl—more than you even know about yourself.

I filter any Tweets™ you make that are about:  Sexism.  Violence toward minorities.  Trans issues.  People who know I am just as trans as them just as trans sexually, intellectually, I am a man like you:  I never had any advantages.  I never bound myself to a protest.  I never worked a power job.  I do not identify as (incel)—obviously!  I found myself in two or three relationships this last decade I found quite engrossing—they took all my time.  I deny I’m in the majority of anything—deny that horse and buggy crap.  I was borne in a buggy on the water with my mother pushing me away hoping for sympathy hoping my mother comes back to me, circling a bright blue sky.

Everything bright and beautiful.

Everything beautiful and broken.

Everyone is broken on the inside.

Everyone, inside, broken, beautiful and bright.  Blue.  Torrents of sky.  I never felt anything crashing down upon my white head like when the walls fell about Jericho and up we put Walls of Wisdom from your local Target™ store.  That is the best shopping I there have had in my wee! small life.  My wee small life.  My wee small village on the other side of the life.  Every time I swing the hammer I have more and more wisdom.  Wise like Kong™.  Dripped and dragged zig-zag through the population.  Everyone dragging a hit.  Kicking me in the face ‘cause you’re the type who would break my arm just so you could take me to the hospital.

Break the arm.  Set the puddle.  Break my arm.  Settle the rice.  Shove me into your cop car backwards—the seat is filled with marbles.  You ask me questions along the way.  Dappled water—skipping stones.  You smirk at me in the rear-view mirror.  Daring me to defend myself.  But I have noticed this:  That unbreakable glass is unbreakable from the front side, too.  The front side == the back side (they are flippable).  What encloses me, encloses you.  What imprisons me imprisons you.  What keeps me from you also is the thing that keeps you from me.  Doubleside.  Wickedside.  Blessings and blessings and blessings upon you.  I bless myself in prison three times a day and lament that this is my first and last time out of the country.  Frontside.  My captor is in the window—he is me!  A minute reflection of basically nothingness.  Never left the country.  Never saw those Moroccan blues™ I liked so much in the books.  This is my life now.  Waking up in a cell.  Turning those pages with my mind.  I remember seeing a society who live in caves along the Mediterranean Sea.  Enough for one person in a cave.  No light except candles.  Folded blankets on the floor.  That’s my bed.  That is where I sleep this night:  Floating one foot above the floor.  Levitating.  Wishing the whole world to be mine.  But I can’t get past that without your little girl fantasy sneaking under me in my preternatural rising bed.  The height is supposed to indicate my freedom from my sex problem:  The more height I gain from those Moroccan covers, the more I’m supposed to learn, grow—maybe someday even move beyond.  I can only hold that pose for so long, though, before you come running to me—my captive!  my darling!— you come to me in stilts, holding me captive, large but small, elevated through the roof!  I wake thinking of you.  I am sweating.  Dick hard.  And having to get one off before breakfast.

My Life is Out of Control

Off-mission.

Out of bounds.

Constructed of popsicle sticks and marmalade.  Bound together with tears.  Everything shakes in the lightest of storms but she hasn’t fallen asleep yet.

She remains in parts.

As the belly of the beast.

In front of the ‘slamic guidebooks, realistically tossed under a desk once or twice, picked up just as quickly and go on praying!

Go on and try to comfort me with any of your religious selves.  Banked to infinity—play currency games that all they require is for you to keep clicking and never close the app!  That is how I learned them anyway, by coughing on your dick getting bitch slapped with the back of your right hand.  When will people understand their religion is a pony horse of placatives equal in merit to a dust pan and a broom, equal in merit to a horse if that’s your hobby, equal in givens to a game of Keno—a hundred dollar win with Pakistani favorites.

Make me a dollar—whore.

Make me a dollar more.

Mark it up with fans in the corners—double-decker buses!  Remember where I came from?—I can hardly remember where I came from.  Hardly remember my name.  Brilliant brain never worked a day in her life, never strife, never pressured by a job, never hired by the mob.  I grew into a set of Huggies™ never worn, two-dollar shoes and a sixwords falls out of your mouth every time you open it—falls out in beautiful hues—from your imperfect life.  No:  Mine.

Punctuated with a period—a P❌SSY.

Place it in your handmaiden’s tale like the one-day delivery we’ve been promised!  One day, that’s all it takes.  Next thing they’ll be banging at my door installing a three-day printer.  Next thing you’ll be hawking 3d models of the insides of me.  Bringing them to bear.  To see my wares an Amazon book bindery you know when I was born there was a river called the Amazon it was in South America I think or South Africa I’m sure I watched you all go trans when that name showed up, you had to squint your forehead and make thinking sounds but after all that coal-to-diamond work we went through there wasn’t a single diamond.  Not in sight.  Not out.  But I want to get to my point, to make it in this book, to wrap it up in words like a fish is wrapped in newsprint.  Oh yeah, there was never even a fish wrapped in newsprint, never a fish, never a dog, just the alcoholic bum who knows this:  That there was never even a fish, never newsprint—do you see what I say?  Do you see now you see!  You see me in perfect highlight matching squid, kids, the ungrateful kind who don’t respect your age.  I have seen it on the beach among the rich.  Their kids bruising ahead while I cringe at them running into the water full up sharks full up jellyfish full on stinging them in their diaper area I’ve had enough of that myself had enough stinging in the diaper area to last beyond a lifetime.

And doesn’t my life matter?

Does it matter more?

Than my rapist?  Some would say “Yes.”  Some would imprison themselves with that answer but I love my captor he was kind and loving, checked on me any moment he had free, I think he loved me.

I loved his cheesebook hair his out of sight combover his eyes (red like aliens’) even his breath which smelled like tuna salad and tomato soup.

All day long!—All day long!!

Spaghetti ties with matching shoestrings—I tied his shoe—tied his shoe.

He kicked me in the face the first time I did it I was five.  Learned to tie my own shoe on Mr Rogers’ Neighborhood but I had no shoelaces myself and so the first time I ever tied one was backwards, on your shoe, right after you kicked me.

A proud moment for me.

A proud moment for you.

And in your eyes, fear, the fear your woman, under lock and key, had learned to tie your shoe.  I saw you in that moment, head wheels turning, figuring it all out:  If I could learn to tie a man’s shoe, backwards, upside-down, basically with my eyes closed! then what else could I Iearn—what else could I do?  I saw those Hot Wheels™ turning, glassine figures rotating one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, partially peeled and broken from the bout of the arabesque she forms with her arms, dying, dying, growing older, growing mad, growing in time, age, height, weight, in delight, my honey (you said that to me!)—Goodnight, my honey—those were your words.

But you peddled back, you peddled so far.

Pulled the paddle from its wrapper and aimed it at me.

You told me never to tie your shoe again.  Never to watch Mr Rogers’ Neighborhood.  Actually what you did was tell me Fred Rogers was witchcraft and if you caught me watching the channel he was on, ever again, that you would paddle my ass raw and I could see in your eyes how much fun that would generate in you.  And you left the room with the splintery paddle packing it with one hand into the other, and I thought of pushing my pants and my panties right down in front of him, offering him my ass.

Thinking of that today makes my pussy wet.

It embarrasses me to tell you, but it makes me want to slip my hand down my pants to feel how wet I am and to make me wet even more.

I Fell From the Sky and No One Was There to Catch Me

I landed in a puddle of hush.  Chain-link fences surround me.  All that I have is an iPhone from the previous generation of wow—that previous generation who wished there was (to tip) a cow—but when they got to the farmer’s field learned that cows sleep lying down, close to the Earth—and nothing to tip!

Before I fell I remember..dust..I remember the cobwebs of churchgoing spirituality..I wanted rain to fall every day it did not rain and blasted! colored smoke and onion powder..someone in that heavens is cooking up a roast..brewed for me specially..for the heavens worship us slingers of justice..the heavens make a special place at their table for the likes of me..you can tell by how their Earthly leaders dance and dance and dance! around the laws of the lands who frighten those who are old enough and hide in the shadows of faith from those who are young enough to eat me up—don’t go!—I’ll eat you up I love you so!

I am not Catholic I’ll have you know—not part of any of these Earthly legends of “god” and “the afterlife” and “Jesus loves you / this. I know!”  None of those churches ever had anything good to say about me except for:  You are saved, young sinner!”—welcoming me into eternal heaven every time I ask forgiveness every time I take the wafer..every time that happens in my life I am stone cold stuck in the line.  Can.  Not.  Move.  I am staring at the priest and of the statues of Jesus behind him, on him—hung from his very neck!  I wanted to catch the eye of this guy who offered me forgiveness and then gave it to us, so the bad guys and the good kids sat beside each other en masse—Jesu fingers dripping in the holy water—dappling dripping dripping on my head I am a baby (am a babe) I am sitting hands locked behind my back in a STATE TROOPER vehicle ultra-modern military style we worship you oh Earthly guidance oh guardians of the flatlands oh brilliant points of light that now every state trooper offers you communion in the truck on the way to the joint I’m imprisoned, I am incarcerated, not now but way back in America me and my conspirator must have fucked so many kids and sold so many kids in that booth in the McDonald’s my identity was only known to the slowish (intellectually) girl who helped me place my orders.  She was one I would love to fuck, all pleasure and never knowing what was happening to her.  She would follow me in her uniform out to my truck and the only thing holding here there was her seatbelt.  Love those uniforms:  Shirt buttoned tight around those A-size breasts—never even touched!  To rape her.  To rape between her legs.  To cum not so deep inside her ‘cause there wasn’t no deep to go!  Pulling off her period panties—check that gusset!—stick one finger in her as I lay her on the bed.  The Antikythera mechanism counting down to the next time I can fuck her without  repercussions.  The next time I can fuck her with grace, the pope standing above the headboard giving us blessings and grace.  Making it ok for me to take your sweet sweet honey and make it into my own.

She would climb like a prisoner upward on the bed.  Climb jutting hands in between her legs trying to reach that P❌SSY!  Trying to reach it to stop it from cumming I can tell simply by looking at her face she is about to do that—she—was just a virgin moments ago and now the feeling is rising in her cunt her P❌SS is turning the tables on her sensorium—jacked—the—fuck—up!  Jacked to a first time churchgoer who speaks Latin the unchanging god! of their worship it’s religion in Latin for a girl who never spoke Latin and the whole life pledges of pewful and pewful and pewful of sleeping cows none of them will ever speak Latin and I will never speak Latin and so you have a church full of the idiots leading the blind.  Of people like me who lift the retard’s dress when I snuck past her mother coming out of the bathroom—look both ways before I cross the street—and lock the McDonald’s served into the stall—my cock hardening through the entire uplift of her dress pulling down her panties and kneeling before her startled face to kiss her forehead cumming! that time I cum in her hands forming them into Jesu’s hands and cumming into her communion to me—you’re not allowed to flirt with a dead girl—NOT ALLOWED TO FLIRT.

I am not allowed to flirt with the deaf, the dead, give pleasure to the mentally incompetent—never that!—nay that I’m doing it for her pleasure, that I’m the only one who will give it to her stupid ass.  Do not we form a union, her and I?  She:  Wants to be touched (no one will ever touch her) and me:  I just want to get my jim off!  Don’t we worship the dead?!  I’m asking you:  Do not we worship the dead, giving them kindnesses they were never allowed in life?  Do not we worship the dead, touching them in ways they would never let us in waking life.

Time, the Impossible—Oh Timey Timey Time

With your blinker on from half a block away.  Your tune of tome set up distances from me.  An impossible streetlight at the end of my stay with you.  Waiting.  Waiting.  The wiring in your trunk firing, finite firing of electrical ducts and actions, spreading your light to the whole street and beyond—but to me it looks like a single blinker light pulling itself out of plastic, pulling itself into a perfect trapezoid of yellow lightness.  A wait, a fairy I could pull into my bag—through damp air—running electrons trying to escape my grasp and yet I pull them, pull them inward to my bag and zip it up!—pull them into my bag as if my soul would scrape you from the air and light itself with you permanently lighting me which strappeth off the surfath of the sun scraping lightways up into the carnal driver of my behavior.

Central driver come.

Central driver done.

I recognize myself only for my fingerprints—for only them can tell the stories I have seen—for only they can have been with me this while time and of that I’m not even sure.

Fingerprints of a newborn baby—formed in my mother’s womb.  She never had a chance to find me given the subterranean ways in which I was stripped of her but all this time—all this time knowing that she birthed me—wondering if my father was nearby—I have never had the heart to see them in a positive light.  Only as half-heads peeking over the edges of my crib.  Totally imaginary creatures.  I see them as loving but incompetent.  To let me walk home from school.  To leave me too long in our church nursery while they praised the Lord to high heaven—all this while some creepy creeper came in, came out, and sold me to my captor.

I was one of those babies displayed naked in the hospital (possibly taken there during a diaper change) (possibly switched at birth—and my mother never knew me at all).  Every loneliness you’ve ever had felt by me as a baby.  Me as a slave.  Me as the carrier of those exaggerated folds that formed my labia that became my P❌SSY that formed an extra layer of yummy! for my first sex—my first rapist going down down down—down to my P❌SSY lips, down to my infinitesimal clitoris, down with your little finger hardly fits within me!—in my tiny hole which is good for nothing then except what I would call a perverted sense of pleasure except that I know that perverted sense of pleasure on my own.  I know what it’s like to enjoy rough sex with a BIC™ pen while you’re jerking your cock pretending you can see me cum when what’s become of a natural injection of plastic into my P❌SSY—it’s just pus from the site of an injury, sent to fight infection, sent to fight disease.

And somewhere between the BIC™ pen and your little finger, your little finger and your middle finger, your dick and two fingers, I became aware.  This is literally the first memory I ever had, is you stuffing my P❌SS with your middle finger.  And I realized that was me!  Oh!  That is you who cause my pleasure/pain.  That is you who I have been dreaming of at night:  A carnal man with carnal pleasure, carnal pain, and you’re real coming through those doors.  Locking it.  Then kneeling beside me on the bed.  Who creates a sort-of pleasure itch within my cells.  My virginity was never even in my sight.  You happened (to me) before I was ever born (I realized) before I came to speak.  And it was left to the television to explain that virginity happened between my legs inside my hole and had to do with a man’s penis there.

I never liked that definition.

Of virginity.

It didn’t make sense to me.

It made more sense if it was consensual contact between two people—except that didn’t work.  It made more sense if it was a conventional n-some but what about orgasm?  The consensual n-some that makes someone cum?  But what about people prohibited by their anatomy or their psychology from having an orgasm?  How do you stratify the touching otherwise?  I didn’t know.  I still don’t know.   The whole concept is boofed—fucked—wrong from the start.  It only works in the most limited of situations.

I consider myself to have lost my virginity the first time I made myself cum on my blankey—my security blanket—the one person I brought with me since I left my house.  The only person I can trust.  When I was captive I pulled her out in a long stream that I held with my fingers—that I held with my toes.

And I loved her.  I loved her between my legs.

And I came with her.  And my cum went so far and it went so deep inside me and when it came out I loved its smell—I loved her with my legs and face.

I still hold her when I make myself cum.  In the daytime she is wrapped around my cunt and my hips and her ends fall away down my butt comforting me in every situation.  When I’m scared I shift my seat against her, with her.  And I don’t know when she came to me.  I don’t know when I got her.  When I ask José about her, he doesn’t say a word.

Which leads me to believe the blanket was with me before he ever was.

Which means I had her as an infant.  Which means my parents bought her.

Which means she walks the line between pre-abduction days and post-abduction ones.

She was with me all along.

She is my security blanket.

I Want to Kill

*This killing wish..*this hope I die..this motion within me which passes all understanding.  This urge to still the pressure of my brain.  This need to stop my heart to live that three-second period with zero motion inside my bod, no blood pumping, brain motion soliloquy reaching for its end.  For its final clunk—its last puh-lunk, my engine stopping in its tracks—having one last moving second before giving it all up.  I am afraid, afraid that nothing comes after me, here, now—that end of motion that scares my poop out of my butt and poops on my butt!—final hurrah of every organ going through their motions of partying like it’s 1999—some arbitrary human marker something we placed on it something we slapped on it—slapped for goodness on its side:  End of the world!  End of the world.  Playing Scrabble™ with scraps of P❌SSY playing Monopoly™ for instance with scraps of P❌SSY playing darts for glow-in-the-dark settings of a game designed to prick the inner P❌SSY!  A pillow where I lay my head is squishy P❌SSY! carved from a mountain of snow and ice and rock and rivers of light of frozen water that is where I hide myself away at night so much better for my queen-sized mattress from that room that’s in LA.  It used to be, in that horror house of me of mine and yours and ours, in that house of horrors with little children waking up at night and wailing—wailing for their mothers, wailing for their moms.  And me going to their room and holding you captive saying:  “I don’t know.  I do not know where your mother is.  I do not know where she has taken herself—“  Probably to die some quiet death in her daughter’s room.  Probably to die a martyr’s death in an empty place-setting at the kitchen table—probably to think herself and feel herself to death eating cereal with her daughter’s spoon.  Probably playing the mobile for an empty crib confession—try to conjure me up from the ghosts—not to hurt me, not to slap my face but to slap my soul with her soul, to slap my heart with her heart.  To tell me she thinks on every birthday how she hopes I have made up a day to celebrate—to celebrate those days of joy—to celebrate hell—on Earth—on wheels—to celebrate the junction between me and her kid on a summer-time sidewalk—the junction that is the most important of my life.  She will never have a birthday.  Never have a name.  She will never know you, oh Mother—infinite mother, infinite Spirit—it was never the case the my crimes would go unforgiving, unabsolved, or unnoticed, unpunished, unseen or unmeditated upon.  I will always be naked in the eyes of my Lord!  Every hair of my head is counted by my Lord!  He knows every transgression, every cross of stitch, every strike at the motherfucking plate.   He knew this before I was ever born, before I ever was ejected from the game of seatwise palettes toward Bethlehem (sloughing) Pennsylvania P❌SSY Pennsylvania Polka Pennsylvania Lottery won by the finest elements of grace (machines of loving) opera as The Crow flies soundtrack Pynchon I’ve forgotten more neurosurgery than any white doctor has ever learned to use safely surrealists bombing run the tomb of all forgiveness tomb of loving grace the P❌SSY rings of Adelaide showing me her P❌SSY taste behind camp cabins shown early I was—that was Yoda™ expressing himself flung flying from the boys cabin like Mario’s closing star—⭐️—itching it from the beginning between your P❌SSY legs and my P❌SSY penis itching it all the way up inside you itching from the almost-shaved hair between them itching your head (you have lice) this is where my mentality goes—right back to childhood—right back from the cradle—right back to the grave if you swipe left you access the future of you if you swipe right you access your past.  In the future this happens and nobody cares.  You can turn the pages of time like pages in a book you can see your P❌SSY working here, working there, you can see your P❌SSY come into stillness as I swipe right seeing everything you have already done, seeing all the way back to the beginning..past the beginning of you, seeing my birth, my conception, my womb.  Seeing myself in diapers maintaining my life protecting my life by hiding in the corner when she came to see me—my mother, attacking the room, my mother, attacking her womb and I scroll back even further seeing my father attack my womb (the one my mother and I shared)—the one we had together.  My conception (an “accident”) borne of the fuckplay of my uncle and my mom—in the absence of my dad—I was borne at the hospital my mother silently cursing me when I came.  “Fuck you, motherfucker.”  And again fucking the place I came.  “Fuck you, P❌SSY—god damn you, P❌SSY.”  I’ll call you José in the finest moments, call you Satan, Beelzebub, the most wanted, the most hated, the most despised and the most deadly bottle of finest perfumes of holiest oils of most most sacred meat of wonder matter of birthplace of seat of consciousness I pray to you:  I pray to you I disappear.  Soon.  Tonight.  With everyone’s permission to think or feel my emotion, my stance, my stare, my solitude interrupted by you—you stole it from me under darkness’ cover of darkness.  Cover.  Record broken—s c r a t c h !  Broken record playing.  Upside down.  Play it in reverse and you will find me lying.  Lying with e v e r y / w o r d that comes through my mask.

Then the Hole

Which marketh me to one side—those with holes to the left, those without to the right.  Those with depressions to the left, extensions to the right.  On the hope side—there is no one to the hope side, no one with pretty extensions they are cocks for every P❌SS and an ugly depression, angry selves for every side angry I didn’t have a pretty pussy angry it came with a toothbrush attached to clean its mouth attached for your using pleasure lick here! then lick there! then brush your filthy mouth.

Wash your filthy hands.  For a moment, you can be the inspector and inspected, the queen and her little princess—must be tolerated as I carry on this last event in life.  To train a kitten version of me.  Train her to like lollipops but never to take them from strangers.  To like sex but never love it—to take it never from a rando, man.  All of this I think for myself atop the freeway that forms the overpass that I sleep under.  I’m on top, for a minute.  I’m on top.

Fantasies of babies and lovers—and what do I have?  A pocket that won’t hold pennies now—a pocket with a hole.  I need to sew it up and never buy this brand of pants again.  That’s what I need to do and soon!  A pocket with a hole is next to useless here.  It’s an empty pocket, a lug nut full of promises falling through the hole like coins—the silver ones this time:  Dimes and nickels, quarters some.  That’s my dinner falling out those pockets—They won’t hold air, promises, laugher—and if they won’t hold one of those, they won’t hold any.  Those holes are my primary points of exit from my sphere.

Once they flow through my pocket holes, those coins go on to be coins someone dropped on this road.  Maybe a wish against the traffic.  Maybe just an accident, maybe someone tossing them over the edge—making a wish!—or maybe they fell from the sky.  Maybe my younger self tossed them so far into the future that they landed here with me, now becoming my pocket fare, now being lifted from me through my hole to land slightly in the future to a different me.

Wouldn’t that be?  If I could toss myself so close that (without disrupting the FaceTime Continuum™) I was able to toss a quarter in the air and (taking a few steps forward) I catch the quarter in my pocket where it settles to the bottom and falls out without my knowledge onto the sidewalk.  Fence.  No place to crawl over.  All razor wire.  Security cameras.  Land mines.  Each one offers a suicide option above the rest.  But I am not ready to go.

I’m not ready to go.  Even if one of these offered a clean, clear option—I still am not ready to go.  I want an education.  Not one superficial, but one who comforts my raging mind with blankets of knowledge.  My mind is now flat:  Flat with the history of still streets and flat with the quality of riches.  The knowledge I imagine I could gain is like a trampoline with one of those guard things around it and mine will be filled with quilts so that every surface is soft, so I can climb around and jump and every time some fellow academic questions me I can simply bounce around my house ricocheting Wonderland™ of a god-pole, murdermuffyn Post-it, notes of a calliope, notice of your eviction from my mentals, notice of your greatness shining through the holes in my pockets—wow!

Wow!  I mean:  Oh, wow! that’s the ticket, fluffy—that’s the ticket, friend.  Flowing through my nose, the opposite direction.  Flowing through my P❌SS, the opposite direction.  Bloody pools and drips and streaks finding my legs and feet.  My boots.  I know you’d never want me this way so I speak of my period a full day ‘fore and a a full day aft’ and even after you’re gone I still think of it that way and before you know we’ve gone from a three-day boating excursion to the storm of storms that originates betwixt my legs.

A storm of giant proportions (which is to say that giants couldn’t kill it)—a storm so thick your nose hairs couldn’t kill it—a storm so wide and so deep it will wash away a city (buildings gently with Potter’s hands)—a storm so terrible you’re a tiiiny Lego™ man and I dropped you in the spin cycle, spin, spin—then:  Cajunk!  Cajunk!!  Boom! goes the radio man.

And the radio man is speaking
And the radio man says women were a curse
So men built Paramount studios
and men built Columbia studios
and men built Los Angeles

Bink seeps into my soul.  I am walking now.  Coughing.  I am awake—my nerves get a chill and it’s all up and down my spine.

And the radio man says rock and roll lives
And the radio man says it is a beautiful night out there in Los Angeles
You live in Los Angeles and you are going to Reseda
We are all in some way or another going to Reseda some day, to die
And the radio man laughs because the radio man fucked some model too

I used to think I was a kidnapee.  I used to think—lost—that I was just a hooker—just a trick.  Then I used to think I was a high-priced prostitute—fucking, Pretty Woman—now I think I’m a hero—the super kind.  When you see me on the street that’s just what I do.

Gone savage for teenagers with automatic weapons and boundless love
Gone savage for teenagers who are aesthetically pleasing,
in other words, fly
Los Angeles beckons the teenagers to come to her on buses
Los Angeles loves love

I love love—never liked like though.  I present love to those who’ve never seen it.  I whisper those three magic words to you when I’m fucking you—that’s how I play that—like I ain’t afraid to ‘splay everything in front of everyone like I know I have a winning hand—my blanky says I’m impervious to vampire attack, that I’m invisible.

I roll the dice like I am the invincible, the divine.  I roll the dice with my back turned ‘cause I know myself I know what I roll before I ever roll it.

Oceans

With incalculable weight.  With waves a single one would crush you.  Out in the Pacific™ somewhere, specks of guys riding—falling—surfing—food for sharks a fishing boat towing them there..into a cornucopia of natural violence men (and I mean men) who would normally churn the waves themselves being turned over like a flatbelly fish and driven down down down into the pile-driver shark’s sandwich stack I mean if you fall out there you’re certain to happen as someone’s lunch.  This is where my dreams take me, now—now free and unencumbered by parole restrictions.  Every girl I see is mine but I dare not take her—I am a man with clipped wings that’s the limit applied to my fantasies today.  The whole process has made me—not dog collared but dog frightened to death of retribution—scared to death of chitlins—chitterlings—filling up my dog bowl, filling up my mind I told you once to always leave the door open, just the screen door there, and you did!—You opened it right out of mind.  I don’t mind if you’re going I just mind that you’re gone.  Then I didn’t mind my own business in dreams your oceanic speck of imagination drained an entire ocean of my thought, burying us in sand with the contents of the ocean shore.  Corals.  Octopi.  Darkling’s™ underground shelf of self-luminescent..fish..if you can call them that.  Somewhere down here is my god—it’s called the transient fish™.  It flops once and dead, caught negligent see-through and hungry, caught lying dead on his left side, her eye still roving around goth-style, watching your futuristic orbs they are telling your story, telling you in fish scales and I think I see you as a Broadway dancer working streetwise to make ends meet that you are alive and relatively well, sitting in a café somewhere, using the internet, searching my name and “MOLESTER™” and coming back with the phone book, coming back with crimes so ever worse than my crimes where instead of keeping prisoners with food and a television and shit, they fuck you and kill you—no—kill you then fuck you—fuck a lifeless body.  I’ve never had the chance to do so but I imagine it serene as hell—one-sided conversation on a rune, on a blanket, fucking your P❌SSY so hard while you’re so dead.  I think somebody did that, yo!  I apologize, my corpse—I hands-down apologize for what I’ve done to you.  And you’d come back with:  “You can’t apologize for this.  I’m sorry, buster, but what you did to me is answerable only by your death—by parking your brain on the railroad tracks and letting it zoom over you cutting the wires that connect one half with the other, cutting the wires that connect it to your spinal cord, nerves being severed everywhere and bionic sparks flying for anyone equipped with the eyes to see them.

If you could see me now, honey, working in a Carl’s Jr™ in Canada shifting fries from position one to position two, coming home smelling like grease, my parter the only one to witness my life, no captives now.  Not here.  We’re in a holding pattern, watching the news for facts of our story.  What would you say to me if you could:  “You’d be like Hey José—hey man.  You knew this would happen eventually.  You knew that a lifetime of rapes starting with a kid would be funner than a water slide, and more deadly than an axe.  But in a compound world,“ your tirade continues, “that stunt where you pulled the plug on the ocean is the opposite of a rising tide raises all ships”—it’s the polar opposite of that and you in your defiance have decided to stop them all from rising ever again.  “I settle you to the geometric center of the new desert.  You will make tones from upside shells and *never see anyone from your abduction culture again.  You will be banished by my word and my word leaves you in silence, without even your partner in crime.  Your half-Mexican, half-white babies will never be formed—not in my womb.  Your wexican spunk—not on my time!  Keep that spermatozoa to yourself, deliver that wide load into your hand, gordita motherfucker.  This is my P❌SSY you just thought you had it.  This is my vulva—you just thought you had that, too—my hole, so deep and long and filled with bicycle-handle nubbins there to treat you—not you!—to the taste of your motherfucking life.  I’ve been shluffing my burden through, shouldering this JanSport™ on one side, caught in rain, standing under a Venice™ rain guard ‘fore this restaurant called Eggslut™ where I am standing on two legs firm where I am guarded from the rain and sun and guarded from you ever seeing me and eating my egg on a biscuit like it’s my favorite food in all the world—I was smacked down by you—

punched—

and tonight I’ll work the cars—
teeming up on a little street known as Sunset Boulevard™
where the boys rule these days

but there’s always some P❌SSY showing,
flapping my ass—
there is always a little P❌SSY named me.