Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
K.p’s dad was a Science Fiction author,
While his son and I learned at school.
The teacher talked about planes, bombs, and towers-
Explosions, debris, and jet fuel.
We were poised like guppies, fidgeting with our lips,
Our bodies seemed made of lewd rubber.
Not one of us understood the weight or gravity-
Of one person killing another.
K.p’s dad wrote about a fair United States,
Called: “The Defined Territories,” rather tenacious.
A satire exploring justice with exaggerated sameness-
That most readers found to be tasteless.
His main character was a ‘rookie cop,’
And every skin color was uniform and equal.
Homosexuals gladly aided population control (by not making babies)-
And bullets were designed to be non-lethal.
In the story: a group of smugglers find a stockpile of real guns,
Automatics, ammunition and bombs.
The valiant cop pursues them through page turns and plot-
With sweat budding on his palms.
K.p and I fought over a girl at school,
I broke his nose and we each served detention.
At the end of his dad’s story the smugglers are caught-
Fined $1,000 and given lethal injection.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
Larry, the man who terraformed Mars, has a scar over his left eye.
Maggie, his younger sister, could not make up her mind.
Her brother was a Star Man. She was left behind.
Maggie swam in the ocean
Larry paid a fine.
Maggie liked tequila
Larry was back on Earth.
He liked snorting space rocks
By the basement furnace hearth.
Larry got a parking ticket
Maggie passed out in the sand
She did not feel a single thing
When she was ****** there by a man.
The baby was coming in April and
Maggie went to the clinic
Larry thought about Venereal tides
While he was out having a picnic.
Larry, the man who terraformed Mars, has a scar over his left eye.
Maggie, his younger sister, could not make up her mind.
Her brother was a Star Man. She was left behind.
Maggie swam in the ocean
Larry paid a fine.
Maggie is now a single mother
In the house with a furnace hearth.
Larry never came back down
The last time he left Earth.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
We've taken you from your home. Lush in line, your twins and elders, taken.
You lost connection to the Nexus, put on display with porous candied paper messengers and the consumers of blood, perched from the ceiling by invisible lineage.
We have taken you. We're sorry. We lament. We trade small goods to take you, but its easy.
We take the tools too. The serration, the sadism, newspaper mat lobotomy.
We lament. We are sorry.
We lament and cut sad faces. We cut the undead that spawn from the soil and ****** your innards into the hot room. We are sorry. We too spawn from soil. You feel you've lost connection to the Nexus- with the stringy appendages of chilled gore.
We've taken your insides and given you a new face.
We are sorry.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
(The page is torn on the left alignment)
...And then they would place their pistols beneath their chins and pull the trigger. I would see it as some cylindrical spatter of blood escaping from the tops of their heads, like over exaggerated gore from the adult movies. So what would happen next for them exactly? Blackness? No. That is still something. Perhaps just empty. No. Can't be. Empty has potential to be filled, rendering it not quite nothing. I suppose it would be like before you were born. Do you remember it?
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:38 PM UTC
There is red in the forefront of my family crest, I was told
that meant outsiders were not taken lightly. We would pour tar
over castle walls and then many years later down our lungs.
One technique would take longer to die.
Riding a steam engine with a harmonica attached at my chest to make tips
I double-tasked with a guitar while tar burned
on the vestibule. Keeping those who didn’t like the smell out.
The engine burned killing pixie-dust flecks and turning them into cinders.
To Duluth and back
each mouth mimicked.
We used to abide by segregating those who enjoyed torture
and those who didn’t.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
There is more free space than matter
My zenith is far from touching land
A wing tipped by the ring of Saturn
The orb that many thought unmanned
My zenith is far from touching land
With a silken era of neon speed
The orb that many thought unmanned
The Guardians acknowledged their time of need
With a silken era of neon speed
A gaseous clash of friend and foe
The Guardians acknowledged their time of need
And songs of victory may never know
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
Baggie, tin foil, pizza box that entered much too soon before I had the chance to read the baking instructions.
Tissues, red bull cans, graded busy work that earned it's keep after a professor marked it with a big red "X."
Mummified tea bags drained of every last living drop, miniature candy bar wrappers, a dumb drawing of a cow dressed as Spider-man.
Guitar strings, chewed gum, a news article about the house I burned down.
Love notes, crumpled paper cups, and a used band-aid.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
Hell holds a place
Where I pace in a space
And through glass, I look at you.
Not out of vengeful fury
But for sorrow and worry
As I remain in a dismal blue.
You are not alone
And prone to the light he has shone
With your mate, both head and soul.
I tear at my skull
Hysterically mull, presence null
Misery flushed by eternity’s toll.
Obligatory affection
For the reflection of woman perfection
He has, but I too want you excessively.
The glass will not break
He kisses you for my sake
I famine helplessly to get more than your stare.
You look back throughout his touch
Every time it’s exceedingly much
I fall apart watching you go.
Now in a pinch
I winced just an inch
Convulsing from a dream in the
Windowpain.
No blanket could
Banquet and save it, sadly
I pinky’d my way between lanes.
Petite fingers clasped
Wrapped and entrapped in
Sobbing troubled twines.
My abdomen, held
Felt body bouquet and meld
Love in the most inquisitive of times.
Hell made me consistent
Persistent, I went with it
And caught the eye of the girl behind glass.
Up, she got close
Molecular woes, a lethal dose
With one touch my window collapsed.
No one would think
Gut sink, simultaneous blink
The possibility unconstitutionally in reach.
Things she would say
Meaning to days and astonishing phrase
I would make happy all I needed most.
Had I searched every-earth
Proving worth, providing mirth
I would have found the same you, as inevitably.
Now Hell has subsided
And we reside in what’s been guided
She is the me I like most.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
The bit crusher and asteroid farmer- married at the age of twenty four.
It's a bit tougher as her dad would alarm her-
To be carried in a cockpit evermore.
So decade to decade and a millennium of light speed brought them to a sound of space and time.
An offspring they would bare on winter by a hair of a planet that was
covered in lye.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC