a lot of my feelings are avant-garde
{#for/with respect to Richard Cronshey}
i.
So I'm like, post-sensory or something. Chicks dig that. Day-glo chicks with abnormally small
hands dig that---because swords are still awkward. What was I saying again?
ii.
Oh, yes! Bronto-sore-eye, I think they called it. Anyway, socks are stupid but sort of like,
necessary. Small hands are a sign of dire skepticism---whatever that means these days. The
military knows that, man. Why do you think space still exists? Nyquil, gurgle gurgle.
iii.
I'm partial to IT, whatever IT is. I wrote the script for the original Tron---not the one they used
in the movie, though. Movies are awkward I like westerns. I'm in love with old telephones, but I
wouldn't say in love enough to marry them
Bang
{#for Seve Damm}
i.
we can sleep it off
at this safe distance
ii.
blind smoke
ghosted folk
iii.
nurturing the blame
like rationalized behazior
iv.
nothing to do
. bloodshed
v.
. but wait
LI'l Pink Houses
{#for Sundin Richards}
Suckface and Truculent--two grave-robber assholes I met at a party last night in the suburbs.
They aren't really grave robbers, though. I thought one of them was coming on to me. Turns out,
he just wanted to smell my cologne. What is it with these white kids, anyway? My hard of hearing.
My misfit insistent heart. My flesh wounds, sinister. If I'm not mistaken, Barrel Eyeballer shot
one of them with a paper rabbit. But it doesn't end there. John Cougar Mellencamp was yelling
out car windows. Something about PCP---or America, or something. I had radio static all the
way home. No one has hit a home run out of this town in years.
