Which takes us on a direct path to:
THE  INCIDENT.
Say you are a normal man—whatever that means—
But say it’s late June of 1993 and you’re laying on the couch,
Scratching your *****, trying to intuit your LDL level
Based on the two bowls of the Old Lady’s Cholesterol Chowder.
The Old Lady-- you can call her Peg or Mrs. Bundy—
Served it up in her special legacy china,
An assortment of recycled tin foil casserole dishes &
Vintage melmac handed down by your mother-in-law.
You are on the couch giving digestion your best shot,
Still scratching your agates when Peg comes
In from the kitchen with your second glass of
Two-buck chuck and a smoking fatty she’s just ignited,
Miraculously without burning the house down.
The TV is on—the TV is always on because
The TV has had no off button since 1984
You are tuned to the CNN evening news &
A report comes on that makes you sit up,
Snap to attention, straight up and take notice:
"WOMAN CUTS OFF HUSBAND'S *****!"
The media shrikes in Atlanta have your attention now,
Your complete attention;
Your eyes are riveted to the telescreen &
Your blood pressure spiking at 240 over 140.
During the previous night of June 23, 1993,
John Wayne Bobbitt arrives at the
Couple's apartment in Manassas, Virginia,
Highly intoxicated after a night of partying.
According to testimony given by Lorena Bobbitt
In a 1994 court hearing, he then rapes her.
Afterwards, Lorena Bobbitt gets out of bed,
Goes to the kitchen for a drink of water.
According to a journal article in the
National Women's Justice & Defense
League of Psychotic Castrating *******,
While in the kitchen she notices,
A carving knife on the counter & "memories of
Past domestic abuse races through her head."
Grabbing the knife, Lorena Bobbitt enters the bedroom
Where John is sleeping & proceeds to
Cut off nearly half his *****,
Half his Johnson,
In this instance aptly named.
So you have some schnook who’s named
After the iconic Hollywood superstar John Wayne . . .
Now understand something, John Wayne—
The ******* Duke of Earl--
Personifies everything alpha male:
Physique, animal magnetism & a pair of
Huge ***** swinging in his chaps as
He sashays across the screen.
In real life he’s a bullfight & cigar aficionado,
A big game hunter and sport fisherman, &
A hard drinking Hemingway hero
Who spends most of his time aboard
A customized WWII U.S. mine sweeper
******* to a pier behind his house in
Newport Harbor, California.
He’s the proverbial man’s man, &
There’s no one like him in America
Until maybe Eastwood or Willis comes along.
There’s a statue of him out in front of
The Orange County Airport that bears his name.
I have a photograph of him hanging in my garage
Next to a Mad-Dog 20-20 poster.
But I digress.
We return to the Bobbitt story because
It gets better, keeps getting crazier.
After assaulting her husband,
Lorena leaves the apartment with the severed *****,
Drives around aimlessly for a short while,
Then rolls down the car window &
Throws the ***** into a field.
Only then does the loony ***** realize
The severity of the incident.
She stops and calls 911.
After an exhaustive search by
Volunteers from the local Humane Society,
The ***** is located, packed in the ice-slurry of
A banana-flavored 7/11 Slurpee, &
Taken to the hospital where half-**** John Bobbitt
Gets a short-arm inspection and treated,
Mostly for shock and awe.
His ***** is later reattached by Drs. James T. Sehn &
David Berman during a nine-and-a-half-hour surgery
Filmed by Ken Burns and broadcast in its entirety by
WGBH Boston, a stunning illustration of
Your tax dollars hard at work
At the National Endowment for the Arts.
An abridged version later becomes the season premier of
"Girls Gone ******* ******, Manassas!"
Lorena goes on Oprah to explain herself.

Lorena Bobbitt ((née Gallo) was born in Ecuador.
Her maiden name, ironically,
Means **** in English.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Phoenix had this to say:
“Deport the *****. She may have an INS green card
But there’s no way she had a government permit to
Go around lopping ***** off in Virginia or any other state.
Who does she think she is, Janet Napolitano?”
Napolitano could not be reached for comment.
Shortly after the incident, episodes of "Bobbittmania,"
Or copycat crimes, were reported.
The name Lorena Bobbitt eventually became
Synonymous with ***** removal.
The terms "Bobbitt Punishment" and "Bobbitt Procedure" gained
Social cache with a radical break-away sect of N.O.W.
COPYCAT Catherine Kieu Becker, 48 (Garden Grove P.D.)  
Woman Accused of Cutting Off Husband's *****
Pleads Not Guilty/ VIDEO: Watch Jennifer Gould's Report
KTLA News   10:40 a.m. PST, February 3, 2012 /SANTA ANA, Calif.
"A 48-year-old woman accused of cutting off
Her husband's ***** and putting it
In the garbage disposal has pleaded
Not guilty to all the charges against her.
Catherine Kieu, of Garden Grove,
Was indicted earlier this month on
One felony count of torture &
One felony count of aggravated mayhem.
She also faces a sentencing enhancement for
Practicing surgical medicine without a license."
Sign up for KTLA 5 Breaking News Email Alerts
Comments (130) Add / View comments | Discussion FAQ
Happy627 at 10:35 PM January 18, 2012
"So my x-wife is a violent drunken *****?
Never once did I ever think of hurting her
But now I see I was wrong.
Vengeance's is the true answer & payback is hell.
So basically I should put an M-40
In her *** and light the fuse.
I should be acquitted from any wrong doing
Because she was a violent drunken *****.
Maybe all men should do this to their
Violent wives/girlfriends & teach them a lesson.
Cyanmanta at 1:10 AM January 11, 2012
In response to Doreen Meyer:
"So you're assuming that because he was the victim
He must have done something to deserve it
In some small way?
Typical of convenient feminism:
Assume all female victims are innocent &
Pure as driven snow,
While dismissing all male victims
With the idea that 'he had it coming.'
I wish I could pander shamelessly
To the media for preferential treatment,
But sadly, I am male (or as feminists would say)
The Evil Gender."
Westfield at 5:47 PM Jan.09, 2012
She should get her own show on the ***** channel.
(Bravo). KABC radio's John Phillips & his girlfriend
Nathan Baker would love to watch it."
Sluff it off, take a load off, baby.
Take a load off?
“Take a load off Annie,
Take a load for free;
Take a load off Annie, and
Bom bom bom bom
Bom be bom— & Dddddddddd,
You can put the load right on me.”
Send “The Weight” Ringtone to Your Cell

. . . Snipped, fixed, neutered, gelded,
Emasculated, eunuchized, or castrated?
(Castrating Forceps  (www.alibaba.com/
Showroom/castration-tool.html).
Bobbittized!

you are not the pant of promises the night dances me, you
are not the dream my day would sleep for, you are
not the dusk cloying my day into stumbles into trees and over trikes
and I am not the dawn pulling night’s ******* back down.

     I
am
  the ladybug
              in wind upon a stem planet-lit,
      earnest are my chandelierwings.
I am the Blackbird ardent on melting snow. I, the am, the              

             moonwhorler pouring pale blueberry sunshine I slurry
          the rare earth of your core




.

'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,

that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled

Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way

a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,

I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Here a seeing being done, words appearing...

fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?

You should think, you know atoms work, this way.

Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,

but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.

Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.

But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.

I found this trail up from the beach.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?

No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.

Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.

If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.

A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.

'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.

Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...

You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.

There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.

If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.

A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.

What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.

What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?

Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,

Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows

A ****** of crows, an ostentation of peacocks,
a parliament of owls, a knot of frogs,

a skulk of foxes, a siege of herons,
a paddling of ducks, a charm of finches.

This bevy of birds is a vocabulary find,
But what can it all mean,
In the world of human being?

A troop of toddlers, a slurry of students,
a gaggle of gentry, a bevy of boys.

I am of a mind that in naming of kind
Human being is best defined.

(For my old mate Kevin Blackburn)

Bentonite is magic
When mixed in slurry form,
And injected into apertures
Where earth worms are the norm.
The slurry forms a barrier
Which holds the concrete, wet,
Quite apart from earthen surfaces
To give exactly what you get.

YOU GET NO CONTAMINATION
YOU GET CONCRETE DRYING CLEAN
YOU GET SMOOTH GREYISH SURFACES
WHICH COULD BE PARCELED TO THE QUEEN!

So when constructing tunnels
Or massive footings bare
Or reinforced deep piling
Which extends way down to there,
You MUST pour in the Bentonite
In slippery, slurry form
To keep the concrete looking
Sparkling clean, as is the norm.

Then....
YOU GET NO CONTAMINATION
YOU GET CONCRETE NICE AND CLEAN
YOU GET BEAUTIFUL GREY SURFACES
SHINING BRIGHTLY FOR THE QUEEN!

Marshalg
Lurking near the Bentonite tanks
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 June 2011

I put my hand in the hand of the man from galilee

Or I thought I did, I imagined he would walk with me
and talk with me

and help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which i think may have been blind, at one time,

I have memories like that guy, Gold-something
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom. Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but
these, heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made, and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble eclipsed by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tensionpowerloss collapses the bubble?

You should think you know atoms work, like
not a cloud of super positioning, elect-
tric-magi-tech, touch screen at the quantum accounting point,
not that, but
a bubble, powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
What an electron does. It goes,
as soon as any sense can be made of it,
oughtaouta hear
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin must ahapt one time,
but ya'll take no heed, m'fallin angel droppin' in olfren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth found in wines that moved themselves
aright, slurry tongued, but pisstoff

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Who told you I was naked?

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe were forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
No,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,

everything that's old is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the worth of all your eyes behold,

If, if, if you are alucky winner and you arise when I call your name
to come on down
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize,
how do you declare such a thing worthy,

A feeling? What's it worth? Depends. Safe? Priceless. Don't shout.

So we sell walls. We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened by those we make
feel safe.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Workers will work for food and a feeling. And Facebook.
They choose, believe what's easiest, they are told,
you are absolutely co-rectallatime, tekayepeel.

There are such wishes being made, on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters. If wishes were asked for, whatif
connecting to the source of haps that are
all happiness can possibly
consist of...
Oh, consist is a sticky, gluten idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand. Sistere.

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted..
Whatif, nothing is immaterial, as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
Ask the pilot. What if,
asking for help helps? Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea?
Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore, quotheraven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories of all the things that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,
when ya stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.

~ We miss the nights
Filled with starlight skies
Drinking till our words
Are slurry
And are vision
Is blurry
Laughing by the fire
Our thoughts are intertwined
With one another

We miss the mornings after
Filled with moans
And groans
Waking up to a messy hair
Boy on your left
Smiling to the soft morning air

We miss the days
Filled with a summer haze
The sun kissed our skin
Making our lives
Colorful again ~

She dragged a steak knife
  across her forehead.
I said,
   What the **** is your--
Hey, we all have problems.
She killed herself with
the memory
   of a system.
Everyone was begging.
Beg. Beg. Beg.
   Make me a star!!
I want to be
   Kurt Cobain!!
So, they dragged blades
and did smack.
Tweeted lyrics
and took selfies
with a poster of--

But she was never alive, right?
There can't be a her
if there's a me.
But I suppose what it condensed
is bound to
  shoot out into
itty
    bitty
stars.

Good ******* Christ,
redeem the men and women
slaughtering genitals.
Grinding against
  the hole in society.

Are you ******* serious?
  Oh my god,
I will die if he takes off
   his skin!!
What a hunk.

It was all elaborate
and people were saying
  "droll".
That's a thing.
Everyone was ******* lame.

Then, the men stripped.
One, Jupiter.
One, Titan.
And what was stopped
was a hurried whisper,
traveling the confines
of the classroom.
  And the men
clothed. And the instruments
  unused.
Sketches ceased before creation.
Paint without purpose.
What a Greek tragedy.
Boo-*******-hoo.

What I could only imagine
a slurry of too many words
aiming at my brain.
The mention of us all.

You don't understand.
*******.

She dragged a steak knife
across her forehead.
I said,
   What the **** is your problem?

oh, little ones
if I could build you a worthy city
to keep you safe and dreaming
I would crush the hope I had left
into a powder,
mix it
with all the things we grown couldn't be
and lay the slurry out to set,
harden it with sun and air
not hate
forming a foundation
where futures could be built
oh,
but my tools have no power
I dented them in fury and shorted them in tears
before they could be used to build  

oh, little ones
if ever I find safety in this homeless land
I'll wrap you in it
in a heartbeat

Life is like a random array of perfectly sculpted moments.
I stood in a moment of silence reminiscing to the tune of the wind, in the glimmer of the lights in the distance.
My life, is like a photo album of assorted moments :
The first time I met my best friend ; the half afraid,lost baby gazelle look she gave me.
The first time she cried, that big eyed girl.... Tear and kohl stained cheeks, embarrassed eyes and my hushed tone : this too shall pass.
The unexpected confession of a shy person in a soft voice : I had to stalk you a bit for this, she sketched a portrait of me for my birthday.
The awkward hug and we will see you soon, I can still remember my grandpas face red and holding back tears.
The bear-like side hug and a kiss on my forehead, it was an understanding from the older brother that I never had, thank you for meeting me.
The drunken slurry "you know more than most do" from the friend who isn't a friend anymore.
The feeble hug, lingering soft fingers and a goodbye promise to meet soon, from the grandmother I miss a lot.
Those wide eyes,the feeling of respect from the sister who means the world to me.
The all-too-soft goodnight kiss from a mother on a particularly bad night, she stroked my hair an said that she loved me.
And the pat on the back and a tearstained hug , the words "I am proud of you" from the father who is the centre of my world.

1.
What a summer
Such a dream
You’re getting married
And then she is staying until the trees wilt away

2.
Don’t you know
It’s just a present
I’m leaving for good
3000 miles away I’ll stand
But I’ll still love you
Please understand

3.
It’s hard here
It’s rough here
I have not felt much love here in such a long time
The nightmares leave me scared

4.
One time we left
No one knew
Grain creeping between my toes
Salt sniffing my nose
I couldn’t ask for a more beautiful day
Happiness is in the moments, they say

5.
I’ve had far more moments here than there
I can’t seem to remember much from before
It’s blurry and slurry
Like that night in that house
Where he crept in like a mouse

6.
You’ll be happy in this life
I’m not worried
Have faith in my actions
I know what I want
I know what I need
I just wish I knew what I was doing
I wish I knew where I am going.

Deep down
I crave the sacred
Now that everything is
Just a dust mote limping along
The curvature of a light beam
in this dilapidated house

I've winked
At everything but the kitchen-sink --
Although, I do have my eye on it

Cynic
Know-it-all that knows he knows
Nothing
Conflicted

I wish I knew subtlety

Mona Lisa's quarter-smirk
Makes my emojis feel
Sorta slutty --
like they try too hard ya know?

^.^

Heaven:
Rainbow-colored
toothbrush mustaches
And
Killer drones friended by elm trees

Dissimulation is
my religion
Because
it just explains things,
It walks back the big crutch
It makes gods into amoebas

All. I. have. are. words.
******* scribbles.
Stillborn syntactical limbs of whim
Severed at the moment of send

Yet still
I deliver and hold them
Close to me
They are my ex-press
A last confession straight to the quick

The world doesn't spin it screams
We just Van Gogh it with
Slurry nite nite sleep tight's

God, what I would *give

5 shots
vision;blurry
my voice is slurry.
10 shots down my throat,
liquor filled with doubt and woe.
15 shots burning down on me,
drunk of the Hennessy
20 shots and everything is blurry
tonight, im drowning
with 20 shots and counting

The car and I,
we made our way
into the downtown
portion of this Midwest
mini-metropolis.

The sun was out,
snow melting,
and it sounded a lot
like rain as everything,
everywhere
dripped and plopped
creating a slurry of
grey road juice
that hissed under
the tires as we
passed by.

At the intersection
nearest to my friend’s
shop,
there was a refrigerator
box that had been
tossed in the street.

It,
like most things,
was on its way
to disintegration.

The red letters
that were inked to
the sides of the box
had started to run,
making the box look
to be some kind
of suburban roadkill.

I wondered briefly,
as the next holiday
rounded the corner
if the contents of the box
might be a gift.

Or…

Maybe a:
“*******! The fridge is shot!”
kind of unexpected
expense.

Either way,
the car and I
had other destinations
to reach.

So, I let my thoughts
wander still
as the tires turned
underneath.

“What would it be like to climb the steel stairs
on the sides of those buildings nearest
the scrapyard?”

Someday,
I’ll find out.

Surrounded by the steam
that comes from those buildings
doing whatever it is that they
might do,

I’ll smoke a cigarette,
count the pigeons that land nearby,
and think of the best way
to tell you all
about it.
*

-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018

My legs are heavier than I am used to,
Except it feels so familiar,
I think this happens every night when I try to run in my dreams,
And its like forcing each step forward through thick syrup
Hardening wet concrete
A rapidly thickening slurry coating me.

I am weighed down by it, down on my knees now, hoping that grabbing the ground and pulling myself forward will increase my momentum
Ripping out handfuls of grass trying to get the earth to treadmill beneath me
Clay under my nails, more slurry, more layers,

The earth is a part of my lungs now
Wet pink webbing hardening from the outside in
Thin tendrils brittle and breaking off, sun-dried,
Cracking and dusty and making its way up my throat
A river bed of mud consuming the space in my mouth,
I reach in with my fingers and scoop out the muck and throw it but it keeps coming,
Filling and refilling my mouth, faster than my fingers can dig it out
Thick like dentist's putty, coating my tongue and teeth like taffy

The fear is always there
The fear mixed with the drowning feeling, drowning in wet clay,
Suffocating and afraid
That it will still be the same even when I wake up

so many wise sayings of the philosophers, so many maxims noted, and none, none, making it to a tombstone engraving chiseled missing curves of the ten epitaphs of sinai. so you know why the chinese were left budding atheistic, no pictorial with the chisel, but that's why the comic book district emerged there for a mango baton perfect slouch or slurry *****: ****** that *** and ***** in, i went to the classical gallery for the monkey, came out and wondered by the zoological a theology, it was all very strangely slow motion. but imagine chiseling some chinese pictorial into a grave, no wonder the chinese were not ousted with that diabolical proof of failure exposing a people to so many varying non-pictorial representations of the lip tongue and teeth – but as the title suggests… if nietzsche’s motto ‘god is dead’ is really true, then those ten commandments are really just ten epitaphs, and i don’t know who really died on the cross.*

being me, i'm no o'toole, or a richard harris,
my hell-raising stems from
the silence of bookworms gnashing on ink folds,
it's silent, it's "deadly," it's the sort of hell-raising
that accepts the nervous temple tension
of knocking with full blossom of the cracking knuckle;
and when i tell them i put a schizoid
element into my acquisition of the english language
they call my spiritual experience psychosis,
and when i tell them i was almost murdered
they tell me i'm depressed... and then?
o czym ty mówisz, ty głąbie kapusty?
because back "home" my prophetic honour is curbed
by my palette for beer being dębowe prior,
that's at 7%, and not a carlsberg: probably the
best ***** **** in the world;
unlike jesus enjoying all the fun in egypt and not
in babylon from where the magi came,
with old "rabbi" joseph telling him: go back to judea
and mingle with your people, remember what
the egyptians did to us, you dishonourable ******.
and so jesus went back, and the greeks wrote a translation,
while the romans bowed seeing some weather shamanism;
only yesterday it was raining buckets of rippling toads,
i concerned myself with wet clothes in the attempt to
***** up, said it would stop, turned an hour into a minute
and the rains stopped, notorious b.i.g. that isn't an acronym,
only notoriously f.a.t. (remember, the meaning
is in the subconscious, in consciousness the meaning
is scrambled egg & morse & braille).
by way of conclusion - exploring the man masquerading
before his mother, is in no way an assurance
of an abundant biography to testify with saliva juices
of conversation - unless the delusional irony is that
even though i'm not trying to get myself noticed,
i'm also not deluded to the point of not having existed;
but the chinese are safe though, complex pictorial phoneticism,
the latin alphabet took to strain, people went mad,
really wanted to see shaved baboon heads through
the googgles of emptied space after c. columbus
architected the jamaican slum boulevard; or maybe haiti suburbia,
whichever, the world grew smaller, and the universe expanded
disproportionately... on the telly!

not that i'm paranoid, but, my jewish neighbour,
who recently converted
to islam... has...
     god almighty...
   the biggest dumps of information on
         my other neighbours...
in england, you can be employed,
and still be homeless...
so...
           why should i be ashamed
living with my parents?
when i add to the cooking,
the cleaning...
  and the invoice writing
for a self-employment
              partnership?
the "elders" call her a reuter:
yes, the meaning is
there: but in phonetic spelling?
rojter...
    no, not rodge-ter...
  roy-ter...
             me?
   i have her a nickname for her...
mossad...
   in conversation i slip it in:
so what's mossad saying?
   ha ha... and this is a jewish woman,
in her late 50s...
  and she knows more
about my neighbours than i do...
   and all i know is that
her younger son: joseph hates
the heat as much as i do...
and that her elder son...
         ****... can't remember his name...
works for the police...
  and won't tell her what
he does...
  about the conversion... ha ha!
i'm pretty sure as **** she didn't
"switch" sides for the prayer manual...
or the pomp of 5-a-day (not a fruit)
typo for ceremony...
ha ha... she has a name...
   Hilary...
                   god knows what her last
name is...
        but it's an old relationship...
the kind, that amon leopold göth
mentioned...
about king casimir III welcoming
             the jews...
that's how being neighbours works...
you, don't, get, in, each, other's, way...
you, crack, a, joke,
and, get, on, with, it...
you compromise...
   these english natives no nothing
of compromise:
   they know about dictating rules
over properties they don't own...
but to be on equal standing with
neighbours? not a ******* clue...
    i actually hope some Hindu family
moves next to us...
     then we can seriously start
      sharing curry recipe secrets...
yes... multiculturalism,
does work... but only between
                    immigrants...
as long as we can expect to share
the lingua franca...
             but speak native in privy?
ah...
              it's funny...
    there was but one english native
in the catholic school i went to...
i tend to forget that i was educated,
among... primarily the irish,
    with a scottish english teacher...
england... england... england where?!
is that even on the map?
oh... but i went to the Cheltenham
book festival, and experienced
the "heartland"...
     i left feeling -
                sooner i'll land on my ***
in a fist fight with someone here,
now, than allow my foot to step
on this land...
   thankfully i have adapted
and disguised my accent -
or thereof lack of one,
  other than - which bemuses
the local essex folk, as being:
     at worst slurry,
               at best cosmopolitan...
some arab... who went to an american
university of cairo type of scenario...
but how does Hilary (mossad)
know so much about my other neighbours,
i don't know...
   i hear she goes to the local
laundromat...
            perhaps...
                      that's where she gets
all the info.
            - oh, the jewish neighbours?
they're not rich...
         not all jews ever were,
or actually are;
but she's has her weight's worth in gold
for giving up the giggles.

Secrets spill from your lips
In hiccuped slurry speech
That night you learned the most important lessons
Teachers never teach

You're on the fence
But you always tumble in an empty bottle
Trapped on all four sides
Looking up at the light, legs weak and wobbly

And those lines you stood by
Those boundaries began to blur
All that you believed in
Every bridge you charred and burned

Did you find the answers
Laced within those pills?
This self medication will make you numb
To what you must rebuild

Ur ******* crazy
Because your young and I can see the adventure in ur eyes
You don’t do nothin on weekends
Still most confident and withdrawing
Rather ride around on the beach by the water where you live
Than hang out with me, us

I guess I should’ve thought of that before I fell for you hard
Bout how you prefer your lonesome
Let me in
Before I found out how many miles an hour your moped can go
I should probably’ve done something
Need to stop idolizing you

Read me
Take my foot and drag it against your leg
Own me, why do I predict
I’ll be too needy
You’ll take distance and cancel
You’ll cancel and fall in passion with your own mind and soul

Look down at the ground
Bend your endless back
Show me those eyes with your amazingly hopeful smile
Bend up again and talk a bit slurry
Dark dark tones, tender
Let me combine your guitar strings with my aching desire

Aching aching
Desperate for adventure
And all the other ones sit quiet and awkward looking into complete and pure nite
Me and them have already shared our ideas
Empty empty and desperate for action
For love, wondering if this is all we’ll ever be

Put me on to your black motorcycle and never stop
Grab my thighs while I’m behind you to ’assure’,
I’m stuck to you and I won’t fall of
Only if a double decker bus crashes into us
I will fall off
With you

Whisper how you feel
Even if you’re only expressing hunger
I see visions in those dark brown eyes
Tip toe into the bathroom, look in the mirror
Yayo, yes you
I’m always buzzing just like neon

Imagine
Make our souls complete
Join the ones who just are there
Confess loneliness
Slow dance in the dark
Et prends ta guitar

Now there’s one last chance
Don’t reject again
Paris, way to set up but
With our school french group thirty people
Possible freedom with your friends and mine
But only if you touch me with your fingertips

Hi, how are you?

I hope you're having a good day
and you have a smile
on your pretty face
and I wish I would have listened more
to what you had to say

but hindsight is twenty
and vision gets blurry
words gets slurry
when you were scared
and needed somebody
I was out with a friend
getting drunk at a party

I'd blame ADD
but in reality
it's just me
always thinking about me

when you were there
and that would have been better
so I wrote you this letter
to let you know
I enjoyed our time together

I'm going to leave it up 4 a while
so you see it
if you're on the bus
or waiting for a train
maybe you'll read it

and whether or not
a difference that makes
I just thought you should know
I still think you're great
okay, I have to go now
hope you have a nice day

A bizarre evening. Pains in my sides
Bleary eyed hmm

Where is this all going to end?
Asking her desperately
Like the answer was my life blood.

****** drunk slurry black dress
White girl drunk heavy mascara
Strung out crying desperate

Tell me I can be good
Tell me it's not too late to forget about all those stupid existential questions

STOP STARING INTO THE ABYSS
pathetic white boy problems
PTSD feels so selfish but can't get threats out of my head feeling sic

What was that you gave me? Little red pill sleepy yes. Don't look too close I'll see right through you

Eat you up

Muffle the sounds of the loud world (they're in the walls scratching and scraping) It's in the air they're poisoning the water and I'm sure poisoning the well.

The water laced with heavy metals
The food is filled with cancer
But doctors say it's eighty percent genetics
Doesn't mean what you think it means anyways

A living skin, a skein of green briars
where a half-hinged door is wagged by the wind

Good-natured god, decay’s stigmata-stained spires
nettles paint the stairs splotch patterned, olive skinned

Glass window shards grab a slip of silk curtain
pick-pocket beetles engrave brute luck broadside

Chimney thrushes cabined in ash are certain
cynicism’s growing sums are rectified

Blue jays opine time’s cuckoo clock mocking
worms ply enormous copses, scrawl casts of clay

Autumn gusts and rains whirl detritus stocking
flung colors Pollocked, clutter’s chaos array

Hours dissolve the acorns and soft seeds scatter
as grasses grown tall have turned light yellow

architecture’s flourishes are picked off
crumbled valuables filched and turned to dirt

tumult’s passages dug the driveway’s trough
carrion feeders pull black quills from their shirt

slugs smear a rainbow trail and mice scurry
collapsed walls fall to the slush of leaf slurry

Tobacco is slow killer
It is nobody's lover
It first hits the palm of smoker
and turns it brown and darker
At next stage it makes lung slurry
Odor begins to come from the body
Makes difficult to breathe in old age
By Coughing and coughing causes
Ultimately smoker's room is separated from others
Due to uncompromisable health reasons
That room is found always filled with mucus and unbearable pains

Those who chew tobacco
They spit all day
Keep their palm ***** all the day
Make home and public walls filthy
And become victims of disdain
Finally they lose their own jaw, teeth and the mouth skin.

Those who inhale tobacco
They always keeps their fingers in the nose
Keep sneezing all the day without any pause
Turning their nose black as hose
Sneezing and sneezing fills their last days

All the above three types of tobacco addicts
make passive addicts to whom they meet
Those who work in the factory lose their lives bit by bit
It is wise to quit tobacco
do swear to quit tobacco
It is necessary to save us
as well as generation which comes

My eyes are dryin up again. You play with my hair and I'm in heaven. Little girls shouldn't be drinking but I want to feel alive. Anyway It's just for tonight.

The happiness runs in your bloodstream. Your hair in my hands, gives off a gleam. I wanted to help you feel alive your whole life, but it seems I've only been given a single night.

I'm hyped up to a song I don't know. My body's blue cause I'm getting cold. Getting high off your vibes. Maybe I'll give you two nights...

The ambience dissapears, I felt different. My mind and body became belligerent. I was lost in ecstasy from your touch. I was lost on what caused this rush.

Vision blurry and my words are slurry. I don't know if I should drive home. But my parents are waiting for their good girl. I think i need another happy pill. Or maybe just the touch of you. Hands on my thighs send shivers down my spine.

The good girl in your vanished that night. I'd dream of waking up to your smile at first light. My wandering hands could place on a million thighs. But it is yours that it lingers afraid to caress.

Muscles aching for your finger tips. Eyes closed I search for your lips. Legs and arms wrapped up in ecstasy. You and me are at the world's best feeding frenzy.
You're right. The good girl is gone.

Walls dark with slurry
I clamber up the sides, my life in a hurry
But down I slide, ever landing to hard to see
Never will I be free

I beat myself up every day
I cannot climb the ladder this way
They tie me down upon the ground
The shoes they wear, on me can be found

I am the doormat
The bridge for them to step up at
This work just makes me sadder
Why does it really matter

The ladder I wish to climb, is slippery you see
To succeed at life, is a mystery to me
How I wish I could live
Even if they would just give

Give a little of what they have to me
The breads crumbs, I would leave
To the next who climbs the wall
So they would not have far to fall

When you're alone
And life is making you moan,
I know what you can do.
*******.

When you've got worries,
And your speech get's all slurry
Seems to help, I know,
*******.

Every time you come around you're always causing trouble.
Why can't you be nice and friendly?
More like Betty Rubble.

Vicodin.

You think that it makes you feel good.
But it just ***** your brain up.
You've misunderstood.

So just *******!

Don't be afraid to just *******!
Even Ruben Kincaid says to *******!

It's the best use of your mouth.

*******,
*******



Don't hang around
While scratching your ***** mound,
Unless you're willing to,
*******.

Maybe you know
Some other places to go to
But right now you can,
*******.

Every time you come around you're always causing trouble.
Why can't you be nice and friendly?
More like Betty Rubble.

Vicodin.

You think that it makes you feel good.
But it just ***** your brain up.
You've misunderstood.

So just *******!

Don't be afraid to just *******!
You and your PhD need to SHOW ME!

What you can do with your mouth.

*******,(*******),*******,(*******)