peanut butter and jelly sandwich

prosciutto cotto and prosciutto crudo

i have a drug that kills long goodbyes.

'On the other side,' the brains behind the die job told her body guard. He smiled at me with his asseps. He's stronger than my pen and now she knows. But she's blond and she is blond I thought.

Do not be greedy to me and I won't be greedy to you and I will not be greedy to my hamster.

I think I am that yuppie with the small penis and the huge SUV. When will they make a small SUV exclusively for those with huge penises?

This diet is without question the hairiest butcher job since I fired your mom.

I slurred my words and he slapped me. That hurt, I said. He didn't seem to care and slapped me again. This time my glasses flew from my head and landed at his feet, which in the moment I though was odd because he was standing directly in front of me. Turning my head back to face him I looked down, wondering if he was going to step on them, to really drive the point home. I opened my mouth to speak and crunch. Like the sound at a Jewish wedding.

irruption.

Impunity is my trust fund and irrelevance my appraiser. I bought you out for the price of doing business. Mine is bigger than yours now that you're mine.

starched trophies line the closet in viles for xelophonic necrophilia like name tags - pornographic.

Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get - unless you have one of those little papers that tells you what kinds they are

my boyfriend is an unmarked van. send me a cult leader.

My boyfriend is a cult leader. Send an unmarked van.

yet, i just did.

how vain. i don't want to write anything that will not be attributed to my name.

one day someone someday will take these crooked fingers as their own.

Yes, of course. Maybe.

a kodiak polaroid cardiac arrest -

As sure sir rinse sent tin clouds scenic, blue bombs bought saffron suckling knuckles and thunder stilettos and whites and she just prims on refrain like a fishing portrait blooming kooing and so on, painting lash beds on harvest so sumptuous while eating, the blond sculptor, she purrs and all genius portends like a moon on eclipse a sex sepulcher :

One time I dreamed that I did not have a dream.

This leash mark staples adam apples on a flavor gable perfume. Easy ante's my pleasure to heel. Jab and dart and flick and flare solvin pants lollipop love dog haymaker. Friendship n the like hooks waltz deep throat with this steady sea of incumbent rock and roll in me. Anticipant floats hesitant humble like hemp on an iron alloy rumble for a buoy on your musk and every 'please' and 'thank you.' She's just gas - don't need to tank fool - just roll ogassa farina tak tranquil.

When an addict tells you you're a difficult person, remember that not even bowel movements are easy for him.

i took his heart through the back of course. where the brain can't watch. any other blustersmidt is foolhardy vainglory. gowreck pickleshaver. i dare you with possession you teething breastplate smurf. i suckle your smartest appendage heavy lefty. one handed showfeurer. chartreader i am the storm swallower. my volts ampair. dim to claire bleashed kavitz. valium vroom avian or lodge terraplane. true he know thunder the tonney air pollutes - the sky's falling but the ground coughs in where she dose.

i left my fingernails at your place.

don't you know?

Today I will fight gentrification. By not mowing the lawn.

The fastest way to a man's heart is through his sternum.

oh eve,
there are no restaurants in paradise.

vandalism is always pregnant and

If God lived on Earth I'd break all of his windows.

A ripping bite. Gripping fight. Spewing crumbs. Asking if you considered "a non-issue." Issuing suggestions, but really thinking "warm," and "soft with just enough chew." Remembering how you kneaded the dough. Can't stop until it's gone. Why am I never full?

Vanity of vanities.

It was a dark and stormy paunch of mayo that eyeballed me like rye or rind - as if the bread wasn't mine. It's my damn fridge! The bread was mine and so was the culture. I eat. Somebody dollopped aoli like a terrorist afflicted by decadence confessing his distaste and it wasn't me. I live alone. Her kindness will be the end of my diet. She can't scare me with colorful oily garlic for too long. Is she breaking into Mom's place and planting warm mittens and baby clothes? Maybe their working together. Like the media. It's not love. I don't love her. She didn't leave a note. She left the door open. She's drafting me. It's too early to go outside when she could be hiding in the icebox! Or in the closet! Or outside on the firescape... If I die on the roof it'll be because I fell from hunger and sleep. I'm sleepwalking for food... (Don't look down.) Where did that little buffetteariette go?

eat

If I was as real to you as your last meal you would not be so quick to play without me.

About that burnt side of your reputation you blame on your secret toaster... it's cancerous just like your proud family name... But we vote Obama don't we?

Some mothers teach their daughters to keep their heads held high no matter what, my mother told me to keep my head down, eyes to the floor because that's where people lose things. You won't find anything looking up at the sky except some clouds. It became sort of a game between us when we went about our daily errands with seeing who could find the best stuff, collect the most money, etc. Over the years, I've found rings, bracelets, coins from several different countries, rubber bands, dollar bills. Certain things I won't pick up, of course, but I've notcied them like condoms, used tampons, banana peels. The perspective of the world is different when your eyes have been trained o stay just about your feet.

"saponification of the fish fats"

how to make lutefisk:

start with some fish

drown it in lye for a long time until the fish becomes almost like a bar of soap... or a battery

then put it in water for a long time (otherwise it's lethal to ingest).

then take this new gelatenous "fish" substance and pan fry it over medium heat

it may fall apart on you since it is now of a jelly consistency, so be careful when frying it

serve on a big white plate preferably with a glass of gasoline

dwqd

I'm hungry.

As I was leaving the house I farted, but then I realized I had shit my pants. Some women were looking at me, so I pretended I had just forgotten something by raising my finger in the air and stopping short with a slightly tilted head. I also let my jaw drop open a little, to show that I was startled at having forgotten this thing. Then I turned and walked up the three flights of stairs to my apartment where I took off my shoes and my socks and my pants and left them on the floor. In the bathroom I took off my underwear and saw that they were barely stained, and that the only reason I had shit my pants was because my shit was water. I sat on the toilet and what came out of me was pungent, an odor so familiar and intimate it evoked a memory beyond images. It was a memory of a feeling, of a closeness with myself, as if I was remembering the time I had turned my body inside out, been inside my very own flesh, felt the wetness of my blood against my skin and the tightness of my veins winding around my muscles and the weight of my hot pulpy brain.

It was bad shaving cream, bad for the older black man whom it harmed. I spread it out over one page of the book, covering the words, but as soon as it was spread and thinned it seemed to disappear. It was going to be hard to demonstrate the shaving cream's ineffectiveness to the manufacturer, which was what we needed to do in order to get a refund or a replacement. The old black man came over and looked concerned. "When you close that book the pages are going to stick together," he said. He was right. I hadn't thought about that. We got to the manufacturer and hauled in the glossy coffins. They were seven feet tall and we stood them vertically in the showroom, waiting for the president of the company to come out. When he arrived we attempted to demonstrate the ineffectiveness of the shaving cream. I took out the book, opened it to the page of text covered in lather, and began shaving the book with the disposable razor. The president watched critically, reluctant to admit that there was anything wrong with his shaving cream. When I was done shaving the book he pointed to the billboard high above us. It was an advertisement for the shaving cream that showed a good looking man spraying cream into his hand and getting ready to shave. In the corner of the ad was a little white and red box with a warning inside that stated, The effectiveness of this product is not guaranteed. I lost hope at this point, realizing the shaving cream company had covered themselves. But the older black man still insisted that they give him another can of shaving cream. He pointed to the tall vertical coffins, explaining something. The president nodded and instructed the showroom manager to give us another can of shaving cream, making sure to take back the defective one. Then we left, carrying our coffins, over the wide green lawn, up the hill to our long line of cars. It didn't feel like a victory.

T h e R o t t e n S i d e

We are driving on a mountain over the ocean and all the houses on the mountain are bleeding from the windows. Even near the top, they are carcases thrown up here by waves. Their frames are bones.
You look at them and ask why I never stayed on the same side of our house with you when we lived together.
“It was rotten!” I look down at a house to my right, on stilts over the water. The shore-facing side of it is rotted away. Somehow we are on top of the mountain, and at the same time, close to this house. You gurgle something like a baby horse. I want to die.
“How come you never slept on the same side of the bed as me?” you ask.
“It was rotten!” I say. I want to stab this into myself—for science. Measure the bleed. I see a bed-frame on the unrotten side of the house. It sits in the bedroom next to the only standing wall. The side against the wall, the side I preferred, is rotted away. The slats protrude like ribs from flesh. I hand you the vision in our sight as evidence. My hand demands: “Where could I have slept?”
You vomit onto yourself but don’t seem to notice. The vomit is a little yellow chunky waterfall falling over your shirt like a bib. “You don’t miss me.” you say, not noticing the chunks. The chunky morsels impede your speech. There is a thin wooden meanness. Your face. What is sad is that only I can slap your grace down off of you this way. The muscles above and below my eyes harden. “But not even when you’re sleeping?” you ask. I’m slicing my eyes on the cruel straight water far against the air, the only naturally-occurring straightedge. “Not even on the rotten side of an empty bed?” I close my eyes. Your little mouth pulsates with tiny sad meanings. Do you know what I’ve done to you? Do you read it in my hunted lumbering? It doesn’t matter.
I drive the car off the road and it floats as on cables and I throw back my head and the horizon line is a blade of mercy swinging for my throat.

'wine bar'

someday before we're old and grey
lets dance drenched in the purple rain
got nothin to lose and nothin to gain
one day ill pay
i know one day
but til then lets dance drenched in the rain
someday before we're old
too old and grey

I have never written anything but love songs.

I opened the mailbox on the beach in the dunes, 1 mile from anything, everything eaten by salt. I opened the mailbox and took hold of the hand in the mailbox and shook the hand, 1 mile from anything and eaten by salt.

sat and dreamt about a bottle of whiskey and it was almost as good.

Today was a good day. I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at nisa's house.

be aware of it.

He stands on corners daily and has no fear of cars or eyes. He is the Argonaut of Spandex, a resolute stakeout of color on the gray roadway where the buses he waits for at the bus stops do not stop. There is no evading it: his huge cock forms the fat head of a boa constrictor that travels down the thick of his left leg beneath the sheath of his spandex shorts where it rests in regal indifference. I pass him on the corner of Ponce and Briarcliff, raise my arm in solidarity and scream his name. Dong Man! He turns and waves his wooden cane in my direction, then returns his proud stare to the rush of afternoon traffic, the cars stopped at the red light, the young gawking mother on her way home from work, the stuttering old redneck in his rusting Ford, the yuppie with his small penis and his huge SUV. He looks towards no one in particular, but everyone in general — assessing us. He has been doing this for a long long time. This is Atlanta in the year 2000 and we have lost all traces of God. But we have Dong Man.