Along the Far Climb Down

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“3 FEET FROM MY KIDNEY is my other kidney being readied for kidney-transplantation surgery. I’m nervous yet grateful that my kidney’ll be filterin’ somebody elses piss for a change.”

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Perfect bound, 6*9, 96 pages.

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RICHARD THRIPP
1829 NELSON AVE
ORMOND BEACH FL 32174-7227

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Still not convinced? Read these exciting excerpts:

THE F STATE
Since my start in Florida, the F state, 23 years ago, I’ve seen many changes. The F state isn’t just a place to hang my hat anymore, it’s the place I call home, sweet citrussy home. I’ve laid down roots, all my marriages (to “women”) have occurred here, one of my “wives” gave birth to a “child” in Daytona Beach (which is now part of Florida). I remember governor Graham & his crazy attempt to force the good people into homo-erotics & governor Martinez’s move to compel us to be ear-tagged & radio-collared. I still opine painfully at Gov. Buddy McKay’s attempt to Kim Chee the cremains of Lawton Chiles and bleed heartily at Janet Geronimo Toilet Reno’s slip into palsy—gagging on emissions of principal air pollutants in the U.S., 1987-96, and finding joy in frosty northern tail what pours into the F state from Godless Canada.

I ADMIRE YOU BECAUSE YOU’RE A MIDGET is not enough to bolster someone. It’s admirable that someone’s a midget & you might say that you’re my hero in midget-size but that’s not enough. Midgets are like properly-sized people except everything is less & smaller. For example, if a midget wanted a cookie he’d have to take smaller bites & need help lifting it if it were unusually heavy.
Are you questioning my thyroid problem? Because you’re way out of line! The medical establishment doesn’t question anything about me.
Things to pack: my supply of Triple Sec & Soxhlet apparatuses, maintaining an ample supply of Triple Sec & Soxhlet apparatuses (apparatus criticus) esta es muy importante. I pack my chess board in velvet to live another day, to be sorry for, to be imbued with the spirit of the selfless give, the giveless self, the elf who visits Santa, the tree that eats squirrels, an arrow in deep to the nock.
Left-over taco meat… Whenever I have 30 lbs. or more of left-over taco meat I simply call one of several left-over taco meat reclamation ctrs. Within wks. they arrive & happily cart off my left-over taco meat w/o asking embarrassing questions that I cannot or will now answer, questions suchlike: Why so much taco meat? & Are you a Mexican? & Will you marry me?

CONVERSATION BETWEEN
STOCK MARKET ENTHUSIASTS

“See the lid pops up when the seal is broken?”
“Like my bone pops out when my foot is broken?”
“That’s right. Most people don’t realize how easy it is to ‘win’ in the stock market. Take, for example, your life’s savings, you can invest it in the stock market.”
“What happens if things go horribly wrong?”
“In the stock market?”
“Yes.”
“That’s crazy talk! Are you crazy? It sounds like you are crazy!”
And even later…
“Look it’s Pierre! Pierre you stinkin’ old Mexican what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to invest my life’s savings in the stock market.”
“Way to go Pierre!”
Yes Pierre took all the money, well not really money but pesos, & invested it in the stock market. His little wet-back pesos worked hard but not hard enough & he lost everything except his inbred Mexican ingenuity what’s made Mexico so great. “Keep working Pedro, I mean Pierre, some day one of your crazy schemes will pay off & you’ll shack up with a white woman.”
My story is not so indifferent from many others. I was a thalidomide baby born without arms & legs, at 22 I began to experience male-pattern baldness (the classic horse-shoe configuration). My parents were black so I expected no help from them. At 26, bald, armless, legless, thrice divorced, I turned to the Ku Klux Klan for love. There I met Aniya & we were married in the Klavern by Grand Dragon Sha’Qualla, I must’ve cried an hour, Aniya was so beautiful. I slithered down the aisle to her welcoming arms. That night we made wildly-passionate love: there were arms & legs everywhere! Nine months later Mar’Quesha was born. Aniya returned to her public relations’ job & I took up vandalism. Poor Mar’Queshy, tho only 2 months young, had to be put into 3-K day care. We struggled to make ends meet when suddenly we won the lottery: 90 million dollars! That’s $750,000 after taxes. Aniya quit her job to better breast feed our spawn. Now I could afford hair transplantation surgery, if it wasn’t for our good fortune I’d still be wearing a hat pulled down tightly over my eyes.
(The Sexually-Alluring Ladder) —
“I sure would like to see some nudity. Is that nudity?”
“No it’s only a ladder.”
“There’s so much nudity, almost too much to go around. Have you seen any nudity lately?”
“Just a ladder.”
“Yes I’ve seen that ‘ladder’ as you call it but I’m married so I quickly looked away.”
“Well I’m not so I stared & stared until my eyes began to socket. I thought better than to keep this up & get a rash infection so I curtailed my efforts fearing bladder distention.”
“Fatty Arbuckle in town?”
“No because he’s dead.”
“I thought you said ladder extension?”
“He died in 1933.”
(Monkeys in a Tree, like those on the ground except these can fall upon you.) – I never liked anything monkey-shaped. It’s unlikely I’ll ever be eaten by monkeys or arrested, falsely imprisoned & shot in an escape attempt. If I were ambushed by gorillas I’d play it loose, letting out grunts & intestinal grumblings. If I lost consciousness I’d have to regulate my heart rate & electro-static response. I’d never lay my life on the line for a rare monkey or a specimen from a species the world’s lousy with. If I awoke in Niger I’d cry out the name of the “country” over & over till everyone realized what a God-awful place it is.

See my lids pop off like Mr. Big Shit, full of temper, graceless stumble, fueled by a Small Business Administration loan what’ll get me back topside, slopping & slurping my dinner, tipping over waitresses, pinching their cans, titting their tweaks.
“Happiness & pain go hand in hand,” the hand surgeon summoned, warned & pontificated. “The Pope puts on his pants one leg per legging. He buttons his pope pants then he’s out about scoring coke & shaving needles (never sharing them)… It’s no better in springy-clingy weather when our shorts are stuck amongst the cracks & deep gashes underneath the bridge, beneath the folds of my folded parts. Holy Christ leaned the lean of the lean before the Pope could catch his eminent breath, consult a crow or cardinal or stray dog, corral a chicken, hop a bus, jump the gun, shoot the shit or anything thinly human. Holy of the chickening crowd, the brave in a tortuous state, the John Waynes amongst us tip-toeing the outskirts in March, tipping the scales, ghosting for others, women in windows, popping our cherries like no yesterday ever happened. Sin & more lighting the way thru a thousand halls, shock-proof & unquakable, my smoldering disenfranchisement, the short changing I got & heart-ache, longing for my share of 17-year-old women.”
The Koran plainly preaches: “Those that say our Creator is God, and follow the straight path shall have nothing to fear or to regret. They shall forever dwell in Paradise as a reward for their labours.”
Blessed are the professions among Indians, Indians of blessed America Norte, God sheds His grace here like snakes in the spring house. The virtuous find their reward in deeds & deportment. We, those blessed, may act as we feel, the umbrella of grace shields us. You’re safe here no matter what. None but the brave dwell within the House of The Lord. His careful watch what guides us to tent sales & revivals. Under threat of love & goodly grace we suffer as’ve children under lash.
Bear, wine or grape stains bespattering my checkered apron, one man, too manly, a virile nature pooling women in tsunami fashion. There aren’t enough sticks to beat back the tide what inundates my tropic beaches. I’m pushed adrift, a derelict ship in tempest-tossed seas, a pleasurable outing in 2 tones, deaf to the words of unspeakable love & retarded logic. Your possum, my pet-cock, your experience with sailors, my land-lubbin’ accreditation, my reminiscences of Tennessee, your last adventure in Scranton, all board & splinter, cylinders & pistons, cranks & cam shafts, I can see the tallest bridge from the blood bank… the bank that absolves itself of those treatments what work on apes, what gave Bing Crosby piece of mind, my flexural and genital psoriasis ignores, those what have stumped researchers & caused post-marital nausea and hospitalised plenty… interruptor y contacto. I empty my lunch bucket beside the statue of Daniel Boone & think murder is bad enough, uso rudo, my commercial incline, thymus gland, poultice, burdock, blood-root…
The pope’s sick, sicker than ever before, so much so that he may never be sick again, it’s God’s Will & His Will will be done. Whether he’s cramming in the handfuls or handing in the cramfuls the pope’s sickness sickens those who admire him & heartens those whom admonish his crazy resistance to the newly-found rights of infanticide, homosexual marriage & mercy-killing.
One day I was rummaging through the pope’s desk looking for staples when suddenly he burst in with: “What are you doing here?!”
“Well,” I replied, “for your information, I’m looking for staples!”
“I’m the Pope,” he informed in a high-faluting way, “and I don’t like people rooting through my desk!”
“Excuse me, but who died & left you pope?!” I exclaimed knowing that it was an earlier pope whose death made it possible for the ascension of this one, and also: I guess if Chuck Berry were constituted into fruit it would be black berries due to the nigritude of his personhood.
“You’re long-wind’d, better to rest here!”
“Thanks Margaret. How much further?”
“Let me check the chart… 6 meters!”
“Okay. We’ll do 3 meters now, set camp & the remaining 3 come morning! Margaret you make the sleeping arrangements. Remember I want three per cot!”
“Yes Sir & what about showers?”
“Same as always: 2 women per man all crammed together, plenty of liquid soap & hot water.”
“Roger.”
“Yes, Roger!”
(So Roger doesn’t forget.) Remember Roger: one in six of abused children excel in mathematics; 2 of 6 are spelling-bee champs; ½ are proficient in Spanish & 4 of 6 are musically-inclined. Oh look – It’s the screaming neighbor kids!
Some day, if I live that long, I’ll be compelled to have my prostate surgically altered. Oh happy day, this tire-shaped menace’ll be the death of me once she swells to twice her normal hump-tastic size!
Let’s jump into a hole together, no lining up, as the frigid, nipple-cementing currents flow over us in a formulaic way.
“It takes 2 to tango,” she said. “In my country we have the tango solitaire whereat a single person, who is very much alone, tangos—it’s a disgusting display that makes young, sexually-desirable women less so & old men envision a perfect world in which enemies have been mercilessly slaughtered.
What has Martin King, jr. or sr., ever done for me? His loony ravings have put all our asses in a sling. Tomorrow will come & I will bury another wife sorrowfully. Time heals all wounds & I will marry to face another tomorrow as my once-blushing bride succumbs to inevitable expiry.
During the many years of Pres. Nixon and Spiro Agnew I attended govt.-run school. I was given instruction in an array of subjects. Home economics (Home-Ec.) was very popular amongst females. The course taught all the man-pleasing techniques so touted now as indecent, girls learned the many differences & preferences amongst the genders & why men are called mister & sir & why women are called “Hey you” & “Come here.”
Mothers & step-fathers were encouraged to make check-up visits as the student body was white, freckled & acne-ridden.
I had a dog and treat’d him as a brother. I had 2 brothers who treat’d me likewise.
One dyke Nick Dickson announced that he was keeping with tradition & marrying Spyro Agway, to make as honest vice president of him. “I’d rather die,” my father declared, “than see Frank Church make an ass of himself.” Which he later did. I’ve an appointment in Dallas to toss salad, a rape @ the Cape, wild nights in Scranton. If there’d be a more pressing matta I’d be surely aware, acutely interested, she’s got acute angina: yes but check out her ass!
When Jesus attacks invoke the name of the Father. Fend off God attacks by allying yourself with Jesus. (An ex at a p’s base.)
Would you like me to go away & then come back in a little while? A little white, from bleeding, from fear, from the way I’ve lived shunning communalism?

Doesn't the church's authority depend on miracles?

Have a sneak-peek at the exciting table of contents containments:

5 … Elvis’ Left Eye Ball; The Bikini Princess
6 … A Heart-Warming Story of Courage; The Rebounding World
8 … Death in Cold Water Canyon
11 … The Pope is Extremely Religious
13 … Kiss of the Tarantula People; King of the Du-Rags; My Constricted Blood-Filled Sluices
15 … Pursuit of Excellence in Body & Mind
16 … The Movie Heroics of Ronald Reagan & the Advance of Small-Breed Dogs
19 … Summer Joy
20 … Eulogy for a Wife; In the Days of Hercules
21 … The Day I Became Lazy & Worthless
22 … The Man of Sudden Action
23 … The Innocence of All
24 … Super French Joy Hammer
26 … Vic & Helen
31 … Reverb Within the College-Educated Mind
32 … Lesbian Whore Bangers?
34 … The Day I Was Attacked By Jane Fonda
35 … The F State
36 … Fast Friends in Asparagusville; Lips of Leisurely Pursuit
37 … The Bony Remenants of My Ass; The Red Badge of Vomit
38 … The Daring Dreams of Father; One Day
39 … Last Tango in the Moon Light; The Blue Bird of Ass Chew
40 … Half Way to Filthville
41 … Rosy & the New Dealers
43 … Memories of Dad
46 … Amputees Make the Best Lovers; Kiss My Through the Foggy Slop
48 … Secrets of Bikini Beach
51 … Paralyzed in Constant Fear
52 … My Barn-Yard Experiences
54 … Busy and the Beavers
55 … Conversation Between Stock Market Enthusiasts
60 … These Foolish Things
61 … Betraying My Cereals
65 … Nude Women of the Arctic
66 … Hostages in an All-White Country
67 … Nazi Ghost; Nothing for Something
68 … Piling on the Friendship
69 … Lovers’ Triangle
70 … Lips & Leisure
71 … Discount Marge; A Boy Named Janet
72 … The Brain Area of the Mind
73 … The Night I Nearly Developed Lesbian Tendencies; Swamp Monster vs. Hitler
74 … My Favorite Rag; The Age-Defying Woman
75 … Billy Blubber
76 … Stump-Cream Dream
78 … Are You Done Criticizing Me Yet?; Ben’s Tragedy; What’s the Deal…?
79 … New Year’s Resolution; Medical Terms: The Spleen
80 … The Power of the Flag
81 … Kate Smith Was a Big Woman
82 … Scraps of Monkey Love; The Donut that Never Came; Wild in the Country, Again
83 … Captain Vegetable; Captain of Nudity; My Violent Brother; Violence Invades My Sister
84 … Photography: Bathroom Studies, Portraiture of Ernie
85 … Concerned Husband; The Envy of Truck Drivers
88 … The Pregnancy Slaves
89 … The Wonderful World of Anne Frank (Installment 1)
90 … Preview of the W.W. of A.F. pt. 2; Violence Invades My Sister (re-write)
92 … Ode to Psoriasis, Ogurt: Cow of Destiny
93 … I Admire You Because You’re a Midget; Coat-Hanger Joan
94 … Pregnant in Egypt!; Fat Larry’s Large Bra Sale; 3 Feet From My Kidney

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Free E-Book: Summer in July

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“As women season & broaden, bones narrow & medications strengthen, my moon landings seem distant, an ink what’s hardened, a neck unset, a pretense chilled and de-centralised.”

Summer in July: A free e-book by Richard Thripp. 6*9, 96 pages. Download the PDF version (~500KB), or read on…


As my active eye lazes MY GOOD KIDNEY SWELLS & muscles go spastic I cash checks without signing them. I defy traffic directions as put forth by orange-gloved pigs.
   Tammy knew the jungle as well as the back of her lover’s hand. He would strike her courageously when she mouthed off—her   fault & she knew it. He possessed an admirable bamboo toughness & she was grateful each time he demonstrated discipline.
   ”Women and children first,” they said aboard Titanic,
both need firm, yet loving, Christian guidance.
   Jungle gals, plains’ broads, desert beauties need a dose
of masculine roughness. “We’ll whip Fort Ticonderoga into
shape!” The pioneers said enthusiastically. {Enthusiasm’s
made this nation a country: a country of enthusiasts.}
   ”Enjoy these gifts, those I’ve presented the world. You, people made in my image, of star-shine & moon-glow. Easy as easy is I have breathed life into deadened rocks. Tempt & be tempted, slouch & be of crooked stance.” — These words have entered the minds of righteous souls. “It’s not so much the heat as the humidity,” many have said, but they speak no more of it now that change has come, change promised. The guile of some & reverence of many is what makes for folly…{Blah — blasé, shrimps & mussels, corks & styro-plugs, blouses & knapsacks, swim-swam-swum…}…Folly in shapeless hap, breaking ground upon glass, further taxing Euro-socialism…Sometimes when I need a threatening F.B.I. warning telling of civil & criminal punishments I utilize a film discus. Other men would come along poking about commissioning officers within regiment: A happy marriage between uniformity & civility…My stature & full hair of thick head gives me several advantageous advantages over short & stubby folks: #1. I’m first to feel rain on my head & last on my feet. #2. I’m closer to God & further from Satan. #3. My gonads are above the knees.
   Many have said Jesus must be contacted on all things prayer-wise. There was a booklet that said this wasn’t necessary. Written by Friends of Satan, I think it must be reliable.

I FORGIVE YOU MOTHER THERESA
{This poem explores the pain of ego & starvation.}
For the hurtful things you said:
Starving me of love & food,
Kicking me when down.
Oh Mother T, without you, beggary has no relation.
My rice bowl is empty.
You’re so rich it scares me.

THE DEATH OF MOTHER THERESA
It seemed her charity knew no bounds & her
   bottomless pit of selflessness had no bottom.
She gave, gave & then, when you thought she had stopped to
   go to the bathroom or something, Continue reading

Free E-Book: Love Turns Hateful

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Thru the wires & along waves of air comes this: a hate-filled love story… “Something lurks in air without remedy, wing, nor foot traffic. Somebody has the knowledge denied mystics & monks, sitting, staring, picking up the pace. We’ve built roads for that…”

Love Turns Hateful: A free e-book by Richard Thripp. 6*9, 96 pages. Download the PDF version (~500KB), or read on…


MY IDLE LOVER, unemployable due to spinal cord injury, unreliable due to drug addiction, unabashed from former stint as street-walking prostitute. Her milk flowed with great ease like at the dairy. She could fill small buckets, but now her small-bucket-filling days are done as she’s in the hospital for accidental surgery.
    “I’m full of hateful intent. I’m now denying Israel’s right to exist & belittling the worth of World War I!”
    “How dare you concern yourself with such things better let to the media & military!” She said militarily.
    “I’ll say what I want. Who are you to boss me around, what with your trim, woman’s body & hair all about your shoulders the way it hangs?”
    “My grandfather nearly participated in W.W.1 & Israel is okay as far as I’m concerned!”
    “Too bad for you!” I said hurtfully, when suddenly she began to bawl rythmically. “Bawl all you want. You’re merely paying with a credit card from hell!”
   ”What’s that mean?” Sobbily she queerified.
    “It means that no matter the cost to my personal or perpetual safety issues I will prove my point on #1. Israel & #2. The global war of 1918.”
    Well, that was all she needed to bear. She jumped on me like Lloyd George, knocking out my u-boats & tricking my dignitaries. Within weeks she would attack my finances: her & the baby, from which I would not soon recover.
    “I’ve lapsed upon the comfort of your languid love, one time too often, more so is to pity the climate. I see you now from what we’ve begun: a blackened love affair far afield with smoldering embers of broiled meat unattended too long,” I told her without interruption as she was drowsy.
    “Although drowsing, I understood each poetical & beautiful word my witty lover. Our dreams, our quivering bodies & inflammations tell the tale of our lovers’ love,” she spake wide-eyed & conscious.
    “Yes, dear one, it’s your wide-eyed consciousness that guides our derelict ship to calm harbor.”
    “Of course — the rapids represent lonely endeavour, the hasp & lock of desire…”
    “Let us go from here yonderward afore the hour fades.”
    “Touch my brisket clever one, feel the handles abounding my girth.”
    …And Spanish people have lots of girlfriends. Who remembers the difference, these days, twixt Andy Devine & Gabby Hayes? Marta Kristen & Bernard Getz? People accidently killed in 1973?
   Once I gets to prison things’ll be different. I’ll sail thru the front doors determined & demanding. Guards will be fumb ducked in what is their confused state as I organize things to my liking. Not since Al Capone or Frank Sinatra or with any sawn-off runt has such fear been spread amongst real men. “I don’t want my love held captive baby or my toilet seats stainless steel.”
    How dare you photograph me in the nude! For God’s
sake put some clothes on! Because being awake is
just part of not going to sleep.
    King George said bemusedly to his name-sake
George of Washington, just to piss him off:
“You’re no longer a colony — you’re a nation!”
    Washy, who was home-spun & half deaf, & who angered
crazily, became chinned in his pissed-offedness.
Urination?! I’ll kill you for that!”
   ”Jesus died for my pins…Pins? Why’d he go do a fool thing
like that?” {St. Denis, protect me from headaches & rage.}
   Love limps, hoses, splits, rounding shit-houses, road courts, beneath luxurious folds of under-bellies, atop Old Smokey — hate-filled & frilly — shunning lanterns, bespeaking itself, pre-dating China, limbering solid-muscle showings, willingly weak, wilful & hickory’d, abounding, budding, promulgating, washing red & burrowing cracks…it’s a flowering betrayal in my love garden, my jardin amor, with the Knossian & Kiowa, amongst the stamens & pistils, flow-flower of the back-stab. Flat traps flush with surface tension are to be avoided amongst the Creeks & Algonquins…because: Acne is like anything: a box of paper clips, Oprah’s yacht, toe nail fungus.
    The amputees were restless Continue reading

Free E-Book: The Man with Two Eyes

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WRITER OF BOOK: RICHARD THRIPP — no military experience, no college education, night high school graduate 1979.
   Richd. Thripp doesn’t use coupons, separate trash, read newspapers, marry within race, eat meat, care about trees & manatees, believe in imminent climatic catastrophe, love Hitler, kill many snakes, follow sports, attend church, worship Prince Jesus, dye hair, limp, shack up, believe in registering nurses, submit to surgery, discourage children from smoking cigarets.

The Man with Two Eyes: A free e-book by Richard Thripp. 6*9, 96 pages. Download the PDF version (~500KB), or read on…


Not since somebody else somewhere wrote a book has one squat brought such relief, joy — a Scripture unscripted, a play-bill, menu — the just & the scattered particles of eyes formed in orbits,
The Man with Two Eyes.

2 elephants having a good time…
PASSING GAS STATIONS
{Like a fat man struggling to breathe.}
That night, after hurting her eyes watching elephants, Karen completely forgot how to love a man, but had an itch to make it with the next elephant. “Oh Kevin, why can’t people be more like large animals?” And, under and elephantine moon, she & Kev explored the mysteries of jungle passion plus English-language studies: why anger & danger don’t rhyme & other such suchness.
    “Knife has a k in it,” Kevin observed, “yet homosexualism amongst men precludes women.”
   ”I know,” Karen talked like a Norfolkian, “take Nor-Fuck,
it’s a glorious place because everybody wants to say it
instead of the pronoun.”
    “You are exciting like a skinny woman in undies.”
    “Yes,” agreed Karen, “as when General Sadam Hussein al Takriti replaced President Bakr in 1979.” — She awoke from her longish nap only to be punched in the head by her brother’s uncle. He had huge, heavy fingers from several years of hammer-juicing. His toes were fleshy & stained from tobacco use. Kevin sought the comfort of a short, fattened woman whilst Karen preferred the stillness of a tall, gainly man. Together they’d have trouble adjusting to the new sizes adopted by belt manufacturers. Karen enjoyed nightly loving whereas Kevin was more prone to drinking & driving. Children would be a part of their futures as impregnations. One can sit for hours on ass without regard to compounds, explosions, fish strips or shaven women. Kevin knew his lungs’ capacity & couldn’t enjoy cancer fearlessly. Karen ate from a bowl provided by the u.n. as her country was bombed to smithereens.
   Next: King of the underwearers! Proctitis: inflammation of the anus & rectum… author’s notation: thank God I ain’t got that.
    Karen knew that with the price of ground chuck it would be impossible to serve meat to Kevin every day. Perhaps a substitute would hood-wink him after a few beers? Luridly she plied him with liquor till his tongue was good for nothing. “Care for a burger, Honey?”
    “Sure, I’d like a honey burger!” Said he half-looped.
    Karen prepared the fakest one every & presented it to
Kevin with a plate of potato chips.
    Kevin, who was barely able to chew, gnawed the imposter
meat like a dog would a tree trunk. “Sheeze,” he said, half
soused, “this ‘meat’ is something.”
   ”Something?” Karen thought. “Does he suspect? And I don’t like the way he framed meat in single quotes.”
    “Got any more honey? Burger?” Kevin slurped half-assed.
    “Sure,” Karen said with a smile that was winsome yet heartless.
    Later when nobody was looking she vowed to never mock Kev with trick meat again. She prayed no damage was done to their abiding love. {After scratching like a monkey for so long she decided to wash her hands & resume scracthing.}
   I felt the terror in her Peruvian hands as she forced upon me erotic message techniques imported from Mexico. “Roll over,” she said in Spanish. “¿Donde esta mi padre?” She asked in English.
   ”Listen to me thoroughly,” I warned, “Peru’s stable junta is about to be over-thrown by operatives of America’s secret police.”
    “Oh Jesus! But what can I do to thwart them?”
   ”Thwart them? La-dee-da thwart them!” It was then as I made fun of her usuage of thwart that events took a sudden verge towards the violent and Peru fell into the Peruvian hands of aroma therapists. {“Oh God: aroma therapists!”}
    “From now on it’s only pants for me!” —
Katharine Hepburn at Dyke Palace, 1963.
    Stephanie had known Charles, or Chuck, since the olympic gender verifiers plumbed her tubals. He’d known nothing more gratifying than prostatic hyperplasia so it seemed reasonable to test the water before doing anything further “olympic.”
   As a cosmetics’ chief’s responsibility starts with a cream base Chuck was aware of layering & cystic action {neither compliments the other}. He loved Stephanie from nodule to papilla, ink to wax, from hanging baskets to mossy crevasse. Nobody knew, or cared to, the lovely parting gifts olympickly-minded. It’s of geographic certitude as all suspect… all the holes in all the heads, the darkness, O the organized effort!

HER ENORMOUS INCOME Continue reading