it's all very prepubescent--they'll drag out

a box of toys by its crinkled lip from a hiding

place, & begin to rummage.

as if the box's stomach were growling, the greedy

dig underway.

toys of interest haphazardly make the carpet's cut.

then the remaining box of toys is kicked back into

its Precambrian closet, as with a tentative tantrum.

toy worlds in all phases of creation intersect, collide &

are destroyed--with a handful of survivors combining

shellshocked wisdom.

then even they go their separate ways in Adam & Eve like

scenarios...the prepubescent's *** feels bloodlessly sore.

gets up, retarding calisthenics--leaving behind a mess of

cause & effect.

not dissimilar from the novelty-parasites you may encounter

in relationships.

preternaturally longish grey hair,
acid-yellow buckteeth hanging from the
slathered lipstick of your thin upper lip.
(a wigged version of Billy Corgan).
fixed into a moronically concentrated pucker,
failing at the illusion of fullness.
while garnishing an apartment with the
paraphernalia of a free spirit too stale to beat
to death, a just-so of obsessively repeated
finishing touches.
the remanent rise of ******-***** coziness,
niche/nook/now--you, no...wind doesn't like you.
the very thought of your current routine is as
flotsam as the passion-**** you once dealt.

Cerberus' tri-lapsing time,
wholly materializes at the everchanging
gate of hell's undisclosed location.
three-headed hound: one head looks backward,
one head looks downward, one head looks forward.
watchful as the white candles with black flames.
his constant chain reaction of biting mouthfuls
from a disassociated body--swept with unanimous
agonies.
then viciously going at his faces & necks.
all fours in a multidirectional trounce for potential
escapees.
there's a stench so piercingly foul that it can only be
registered between retches--yet Cerberus' six
nostrils relish it.
are adept at deciphering it from the condemned
that attempt to creep.
the electrically gruff boom of his bark staying their
torn feet.

the earth's twin died at birth.
her twin visits her only when she too
wants to die.
her twin changes geography as if wearing
an equatorial mood ring.
all features forever present, but nameless.
once she stopped, condensing a single
revolution into the sandy pit of a circus
enclosure.
the color of depthless purple, in the middle of
a desert.
enter Noah's henchman--the one who taught
animals to perform tricks.
he wore a top hat & had a seven foot tall
crystalline body.
the ringmaster's pit was filled with serpents,
colorized & patterned as if out of a pineal gland.
he went thru them, snapping them straight into
flaming swords--head to tail.
working them down his throat.
until a wind stood up, swirling against his ring
as if it were surrounded by glass.
when that protective forcefield let off--the
ringmaster vanished into blown continuations
of sand.

one can't be sure how much
transfigurement occurs during sleep.
how often a straight line fudges a crooked
line, so: a/b/c can sequentially light up.
three yesterdays ago today--a legless
Daddy-long-legs was pulled across the
floorboards of my head.
in response to the banging vacuum of
wakefulness.
as a bedroom window isolates what will
be uniformities of rain--shower (cut!),
shower (cut!), shower (cut!)...with a finale
of steadiness?

you find a completely empty picnic area--
showing up dressed as a widow.
black kerchief wrapped around your head--
tied at the chin, a predominance of cheeks
with a buggy-bulge of purple horn rim glasses.
barefoot with a black dress on, obscuring
splatters of sweat: back/*******/paunch.
holding an ice sculpture of a fruit basket on a
ninety degree day.
you spread a white sheet & set it down, as
large ants congregate on this succulently
carved chunk of ice.
you then get naked, save for the black kerchief--
as if undergoing a strip search in prison.
sitting Indian style--chanting the sutras of an
emotional *******, while periodically licking
the melting fruit basket to sate your thirst.
until one of the large ants bites your tongue.

it turns out the other point of our

triangle is worthy of more respect

than you.

don't dare misconstrue this reckoning

as a flattering plea.

walls rumble as they close in, don't worry--

nothingness will survive.

the uniqueness of your scent, rapidly

signaturing fear--with nails bitten off like

sunflower seeds.

as your latest stuffed animal summons the

courage to come to life--just so it can run away

from you.

flawlessly repeating what it was taught.