Free E-Book: The Man with Two Eyes

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 {Able-bodied man seeking able-bodied woman for procreation. Candidate must be fecund.}
I remember working @ a job 5 years & being barked orders by someone hired a half hour before. {It’s Bermuda’s public traingle repeated: internal editing mechanisms, clock-works, running through women’s underwear in a silly mood.}
   I remember going to a night club that was packed w/ whores. “What’s this: whore night?!” I asked the manager.
    “Cop’s retirement party!”
    — I remember when I was a cop or caught speeding. Ah, a cop’s life… U-turning, no turn-signaling your intent to turn. And don’t let’s forget a cop’s wife: shaving legs, crotch, pits & for what? Shooting the crap w/other cops’ wives, eating from a sauce pan, killing roaches with a high-heeled shoe… {Her nipples were exquisite & she made use of them when the milk man was on vacation to supplement her enormous income.}
    “How much does this job pay?” Pedro Diego asked, hoping to scrape together the pesos for a taco or something better: a tamale!
    “68,000 pesos an hour,” the clerk warned.
    “68,000? That’s barely enough to wipe the spit off my
stinking ass!” Pedro Diego said, summoning internal
strength in a final act of Mexicana briefness.
    “Listen,” the clerk asserted, her ass’s rhythm alining
itself with Pedro’s throbbing hombreness, “let’s go
somewhere so we can be alone if not together.”
    “Sounds good,” Pedro said as he limped from hunger.
    “I know what you need,” the clerk whimpered, “a tamale!”
    “Do you remember when we first kissed? How the fire of it burned into my soul like St. Louis Slugger is into a baseball bat?”
    “Yes,” she said, half looped from the pain
pills, “a fire that can kill or heal!”
    “Oh you’re so correct Patsy! Hang on to what little chance you’ve got to live into a new day,” I cautioned.
    “Is it really that bad?” She asked forlornly.
    “Dope addiction is our nation’s scourge & we must
have zero toleration, same for tax cheats!”
    “But what about extenuating clauses?”
   ”Patsy,” I said, my mind thousands of kilometers ahead of hers, “it’s your stupidity that sizzles my underpinnings!” It was then that I re-vowed to continue my thankless search for America’s scoff-laws and non-filers, for those of full, pouty lips & bosom.
    “I keep my cat under the stove!” Patsy claimed.
   ”Goll! I love you like Lincoln loved his territories blackless!”
I retorted as if I had torted previously… as with my length
between openings: We surrender our children to the
accomplished hands of perverts.
    It’s the hidden desires I keep secret, those secret that remain hidden. It’s physical proximity & gravity, the helpless state of infirmity, lost youth & taxidermy… Love astray directed southward at territories blackless… She sang her preverse verse: “I’m in the nude for love, simply because you fear me & it’s because you fear me, I’m in the nakedness of my base urges.” She hampered my winning image & stoic malcontention. I loved her like a train does tracks or a buffalo surrendering to savages who maintained extreme environmental love if not savagely. {It’s the black-balled niggardliness what flays my pop-corn shrimp, taut findings & proof that demands a verdict.}

WORLD OF ANSWERS = Nudity in the hands
of the clothed is a danger to the uncovered.
Constitution-loving Lincoln — he loved the world so much he gave a million sons. His mention was ca-ca on the lips of the lame. A head: too big for cannon; a brain melon, slime ball, rail-running, roasted-duck eating chill monkey, Lincoln as laxative: You’re asking too much of every prescription. Only war can assay the war-weary, placate them within their hovels, teach & inform.
    “Look Steve,” the admiral said, “there are 50
midgets blocking your exit! You can not escape!”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Steve said, addressing the admiral in a manner reminiscent of the time Steve had jumped over 50 midgets to freedom six years before.
    “I know what you’re thinking,” the admiral reasoned,
“‘can I do it after 6 years?’ I say you can’t.”
   Steve let out a karate-type Hi-ya! as he farted
towards the blockage of midgets.
    “No Steve! Don’t!” The admiral begged.
    “Too late!” Steve replied as his feet left the ground in a tremend-ous leap of midget-clearing freedom. {Years would fart by & his confidence would swell to the point where he’d jump dwarves & elves just as unhesitantly.} + {Either I’m swelling up with pride or just swelling up.}
   I Can’t Visit You in the Hospital Because I’m Committing Adultery with a Nurse’s Aid, starring Loucindy Tiheria as Hosea Keleli, Maralene Hardsclaw as Jwaundalyn Tomonta & Idivine Shakemma as Meko. Our story begins in the bedroom of a big city hospital. Loucindy & Maralene are humping like Presbyterians when in farts Jwaundalyn just back from a small-town hospital. “What’s going down?” She asks whilst our lovers are digging in for another go. Just then there’s a thunderous quaking as California splits open to reveal God’s vengeance, “Oh God!” Loucindy exhorts. “Our sexy behaviour has caused tectonic plates to shift!”
    “No it hasn’t!” Maralene, unencumbered by regret due
to Unitarian stand-for-nothing church upbringing, informed.
    California was lost yet Nevada, which is
a dishonest state, remained intact.
    Good shits are planned they don’t just “happen.”

STRANGE WORLD OF CONVERSATION
“What’s that on your face?”
    “It ain’t no fly-magneto!”
    “I think it is!”
    “My God!”
   ”Is that your lawn mower?”
    “Yes, I use it for lawn mowing.”
    “Have you ever considered prostitution?”
    “Not while I’m using this whore!” {Speaker points at mower.}
    “You are the envy of everyone!”
    “Including dentists?”
    “Especially them!”
    “Every fucking thing learned about fucking has altered nothing in regards the universe, science helps manly & mainly itself. All contents of folly & encore, roil & spatterwork, port & aft, a million intrigues rotate with us, enriching & impoverishing.”
    “She provoked pagan fury in me I’ven’t had
since the olympic-disease incident.”
    “What’s that? A face?”
    “Face a face with this face?”
    “Stand pat Patton, I’m in a face-slipping moodiness!”
 
Must DESTROY CENTRAL CONGRESS
Chances’re dim that U.S.A. will return to constitutional
Chief Magistrate, judiary & bicameral legislature.
   Light trails of music, exorbitance in fuel, stealthy work across oceans, busyness as proposed…Living in buildings, building your lives whilst in buildings…amongst the pulsing orbs, quasars, things what thump & swell, a donut, a cheerio, a welt across one’s fattened ass, a republic in shambles, a once-proud group of groupers swimming up-stream, streaming down the shallows as we whisper to each other after church has fallen to nothing. I admit to what they say, I sail to a concluding mood…I reach for my knife, I run for a gun, a board with a nail sticking out of it, a fly swatter, ice water, a birthday card wired with an explosive device. My wires {& wages} are attached, it be a scheme I tells you, a black hand, a cold-hearted, whore-mongering hatchling that makes one pray, it be: grill or be grilled.
    Light mails of exedra, exegesis, warted trolls…there’s
public indebtedness & then there’s generosity.

STRANGE WORLD OF CONVERSION = Performance + tested & buttered bread, nothing’s going to touch upon the slippery & oiled partings. Lord no! Oh Lord, yes! Gimme amen, gimme sanction, gimme toast & cheese. It’s the calling of French oral surgeons to help those with ornamental tongue jewelry live to acquire add’l piercings.
   It’s the onerous task of army flunkies to fight logical appointment, follow the paths of least resistance, eat in formation, shower in 3 minutes. It’s a difficulty what lacks worthwhile session, a traipse minus sashay, a point without puncture, a book without measure, despair lacking regret. It’s 2 eyes, a binocular outlook, an alignment perceiving depth & contrasting starkness. It’s one with two & 4 with 8… it’s him: El Hombre con dos Ojos.
    [Allow me to drain naturally upon your sheets & pillow slips, let me pass freely amongst your pipes, receptacles & china porcelain. I shall partake in your crunchy treats, witness ablutions, participate in diurnal discourse, rifle letters & test your hygienic products.]
    [Here amongst the warted I lay down my life-defending battle, my arches have fallen, my lips have curtailed a furtherance of kissing comrades, cohorts, soldiers in general. I await my ephemeral awards heavenward. If the Lord can stand it who am I? --- The nurturing drain is entirely naturalistic as sun-
exposing our wieners to porch lights, as sure-
footed, as rewards-worthy & dietetic.]
    [Cystic drain coming down a flow: Johnstown 1889, whenever, whether, safety in numbers, street-lined trees, sanity in traces, willows, Walden inversions, women, Lordly women. Oh God, women! Here plot they, here tree-climb they, here stride they, here pixie-plied, swoll, bursted blooms. I prefer my sex fans unregistered, damn it all...]
    Mr. Blood Drivel asks: Are you sure your blood’s as untainted as Godly possible? — That John Wayne, he sure pissed me off when he said he was bigger than the Beatles who were bigger {at the time} than Jesus, meaning John Wayne was bigger than Jesus & the Beatles! Impossible! Because Jesus is more important than John Beatles & the Waynes combined! The Bible is laid amongst the brethren…

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.
   Must I suffer ass-agonies upon the pointy rocks of Juan Ponce de Leon’s jetty? Recoil in horror at the peace offerings of peace officers who are just like you & me save the pigs’ blood, or the comparable visages of Van Heflin & Vic Morrow. I feel I’ll be always available nites & weekends. Ready-set-go, blowing up balloons, reeling in line, impersonating Ray Milland as he appeared in 1935’s The Gilded Lily, improvising for my life’s worth {save when doing Ray Milland}.
    Richard Thripp marries cyclically: 4 to 7 years.
Women wear @ differing rates of exchange.

PREVIEW: COMPUTER-CRAZED WILD ASS
Her passivity reminded me of some hot chick I used to date
on the inter-net. I was adjusting my web browser, scrolling
in 5 dimensions on-line, checking out my e-mail whilst
listening to a c.d.…
    The linguini strap barely holds my bikini bottoms up, let alone on. I’m stuffed in, if I made a sharp right it’s all over. I’m not well-covered & perfect bladder control’s a prerequisite. “Keep that gravy at arm’s length! I’m in a bikini!” or “God no! These winds are whipping up to gale force!”
    To be small where it counts & big where it matters, that’s the ticket because millions of Mexicans are on their way here now! Welcome to the United States, Mexicans! In the U.S. we speak the English language! Our beaches are loaded with oiled white people in undies striving to become dark people.
    To be passion-weary during passion-heavy days {& smallish,
biggish & love-starved} is what loads our beaches & caves
our balconies. We impassion our hot chicks beyond
reminder — outfitting them in supportless swim
gear, spreading lies & spending fortunes.

BONE-CRUSHING FORCE
I was being examined by a registered nurse, because the unregistered one was vacationing in Hawaii, for a routine once-over. “Bend forward that I may check your groinals.”
    “Okay, as long as you don’t use b.-c. f.!” And then: my ass bottomed out. I was cruising the mall, for a variety of reasons, when my ass bottomed out. It seemed plankton wasn’t good enough for my whale-big wife as she wanted solid food. I offered to cater & catered to offer her: the meal of her fat lifetime, if only she consented to: lose 150 pounds. Her resistance was weighty. I’d never seen a porpoise with such purpose & came to admire her: beyond my physical powers.
    “It looks like a flat tire to me,” the mechanic said.
    “What might I do?” I asked completely confused.
    “First,” said she, a female mechanic, in a motherly
tone, “let’s get you into a warm bed.”
    “But? —
    “No buts, the sooner we get your clothes off
the sooner we can get you back on the road.”
    “You’ve caused more property damage than
Godzilla,” I observed, when she least expected it.
    “That’s the work of Mothra.”
   ”Mothra? But he’s on our side.”
    “Don’t be so sure,” cautioned she, removing all
her mechanic’s duds to reveal a glossy 2-tone body.
    “Wow! You’re really souped up! How fast can that go?!”
    “I’ve been accepted by the National Car Builders plus I’ve had several minor surgeries & I can really get rolling once warmed up.”
    Withing short shrift we exchanged stats automotive. I
obtained a drivers’ license for reasons utilitarian & romantic.
   Next sentence, choose only one: A. She experienced my
shaft as I footsied her clutch. — B. Her high beams were
luminous as I fingered her mud flaps.
    I’ve realized for quite awhile that my electric, phone & insurance bills must be paid or these svcs. {except insurance which is a pyramid scheme} will be denied to me as a form of vengeance by these powerful & insensitive conglomerations. Log on now to PAYRICHARDTHRIPPSBILLS.COM & contribute $10, $25, $50 or more. For every $100 contribution receive a free gift, {Of course all gifts are free, they wouldn’t be gifts if you had to pay for them.} a key ring {wholesales for a penny}, a note pad {3 cents}, etc.
    Let’s teach those fat-cat lesbian African or * Native American gay-hating meat-eaters @ the phone & electric companies a lesson. Let’s pay my bills with an in-your-face attitude that will get them to think twice before cutting me off!

* Logically-speaking everyone born in the United States is a native & an American & thus native to America or native American. Not to be confused w/the Native American political party of a century past. Ironically, the whites of colonial America considered themselves British subjects to the king & referred derisively to the savage {un-Christian} Indians as Americans.
— My love for you is sure, sure as ocean salt, foggy clouds & cloudy fog. Let me count the ways I love you! I love you with every molecule of my body, each atom of my love cluster. If I were a midget I’d love you from a lower place. My short legs would run to you, to be near your tall, muscular body! {The ocean we view from our stations what support such viewing. I run your way with stubby legs.}

YOUR LOVE DENIED
Your love denied is a nail pulled out backwise, a finger where
it does no good, a weather report from Guernsey.
    Your love granted is a nail pound tight & trim, a finger
dexterously laid, a weather summons fro Washington.
    Love anywhere near a mattress is romantic. Never take
your sister to a bed factory & lament “if only things
could be different” or “society more liberal.”
    — All that’s left, after the cops raided the street
to arrest prostitutes, are a few prostitutes.
    These are my friends, these are my prostitutes & here are their amazing {not really} stories. Meet Morgyn, a prostitute by day & mortgage broker by night. She can get you the financing you need. And Scottesha, a shapely prostitute who loves the college scene, baby, & knows how to please & finance a mortgage with Morgyn’s assistance. They are just 2 of the 1,000’s of whores you can’t deny, can’t love without measures of regret. Is there nothing left of Moslem charity? To save? To muster? Must we bathe in the light? I love my woman @ current market value. It would be keen to trade up to a newer model, fit & beguiling, wobbly never, able to walk & balance without tippage. Foaming up for a bubble bath because cleanliness is next to that, that in which is Godly. God gave a Son & the Son gave the region religion: a religion that captivates the world = A Christ-born creation in image: beards, sandals, coarse clothing, arid wastelands, that’s why we live for church, Christianizing, Maria, Maria…
   Are you unable to climb telephone poles because you were shot in the leg? Kill whitey! Are you afraid to remove your shirt because of blood blisters? Kill whitey! {I help lawyers maintain their untarnished integrity.} & also Kill whitey!
   The 21st Century’s new mission of the United States: crash land a man on the moon. {Don’t love cup butter disease your cap tabs! Regale me with typhus as you loosen my lug nuts! Even in death — Kill whitey! —your love plus action slogs through an impersuasible longing for Quaker Oats!}
   What is the United States? I fear its decimation by century 22. Chapter one: The Fear bone of Charity: Thru constant egging by U.S./United Fruit Co. interests Guatemala was turned into a slaughter-house. A million storms rage within the continent dripping south & plowing coastal basins. Over 10,000 centuries hurricanes have bowled the Mexican Gulf as if by clock-work were just that, by numbers, etching furrows & leveling high ground…another illustration of my magnetic appeal of gravity or the gravomagnetc appeal of my deep concern. Out of the sweltering slums of Shit City, a negating world of dual-eyed personas, feeling their way like unwhiskered cats, people with compassion, that which affords them control over the wages of others, raise their station, prestige & gene pool. A million-trillion engagements afforded the weakly-willed, stamps & purse straps dog my shin skin, hairy mole & postulating sacs.
    Our neighbor’s dog is one you can really
clamp your ass around — whatever that means.
LIZZIE BORDEN’S CRAZY PUSH
What pushed dyke Lizzie Borden to kill, by hatchet, her elderly father & step-mother? Let’s listen in to what seems like a harmless conversational snippet. Here’s Lizzie confabulating with a gentle homo-sexy cohort called The Dark Muffer or D.M. for shortness.

   D.M.: Hey Liz, there’s a big muff divers’ party on The Hill tonight, wanna go?

   Liz: Holy Pope, I’d like to, anything to get out of this mansion for the night.

   D.M.: So why don’t you?

Liz: Pops & Smother {her name for step-mother Libby} are against me being out passed 8.

   D.M.: That’s absurd! You’re a mature homosexual!

   Liz: I know. I know.

   D.M.: Well, why don’t you get permission?

   Liz: They would never.

   D.M.: Why don’t you ax them? I mean, after all, there’s no harm in axing them.

   — Close friend Bob Hope’s suicide was a wake-up call to Dutch & Nance Reagan — no more Russian roulette, no more stink finger. It was the end of Hope, the end of rhubarbic innocence. Dutch was rocked by other tragedies: the unreleasability of his most important films onto D.V.D. format: Tennessee’s Partner, Hong Kong, Naughty But Nice & Juke Girl. America’s future was being challenged, again.
    Whitey owes us — kill whitey! It’s the way we want it yet we can’t have both. I can be ignored but never exalted. Jesus loves the little children worldly-wise. He’ll be very helpful in my plan to hold them hostage. His faults have been papered over.

THE DAY MY KNOBS WON FIRST PRIZE in a local knob contest…I had entered The Beautiful Knobs’ Contest as a joke never expecting to win even honorable mention. The room was packed with beauty queens, most with ample knobs. Yes, when the Lord was handing out knobs this group got the big ones. I was sweating profusely, which only made my knobs wet & more dazzling, when the winner was announced. “The winner of The Knob Contest is —” And then when he said my name I thought my knobs would explode.
    Back during World War #2 when bathing wasn’t so wide-spread & Nazis were propagating all manner of lie & disinformation, Vice President Wallace held down the proverbial fart as president of the senate & chief cook & bottle washer to his wife what’s-her-name, a slappy little wench full of raw nerve & disinfectant.
    F.D.R. would hobble ’round the executive mansion, alone, withdrawn, with no woman to fill his days with passion & nites with anti-septic. He hated polio-myelitis & his wife & vowed thru one thousand secret meetings with Satan to get even with both.
    Be mindful of the 2 types of dairy cattle: the type that gives milk voluntarily & the type that must be forcibly milked. Read: “Why I Drink Milk,” by Garret Hobart. {He would’ve become president if Wm. McKinley had been assassinated 2 years sooner.}
    Some morons have so much lawn you’d need a goat to keep it mown, or better, a riding goat.
    Melvis unhitched his 48 waist-banded trousers & settled down with his former wife Vanessa for some blubber poking. Never, till recently, in the abridged history of meteorology has such ferocious storm activity been measured. Vanessa, who was no stunt double herself, didn’t understand & couldn’t under-estimate such doings. “I’m in love with cream cheese,” she exhorted. Melvis stared blankly at her reflection on the toilet seat which had been spit polished to resemble Louis the 16th porcelain”We must eat regularly,” said he, “else’n we die of anemia.”
    My middle finger can be used to insult or to express deeply-romantic love.

THE CONSTANT ASS-HOLE STUPID {It’s as
natural as a congressman taking shits.} and
{The fast-track to jail is the telling of the truth.}
The winds o’ change were a-blowing as the jobbers wrestled the last of the manure into the limousine. There was a big congressional party replete with cock-suckers & cocaine that evening and everybody who’s any buddy would be there: the majority whip, the minority guy & tons of prostitutes. Chicken giblets would be served & a study conducted to see if giblets could forsake chickens and still remain active.
    “I never had chicken nuggets, I wonder if they’re like teamsters?” & later…”My Brazil nuts are large & warty.”
    Oct. 7, 2004: Simchat Torah, a time to visit with my scads of Jewish friends & eat worms. Yes, in this wormy world it’s college-obtained skill that makes the difference. Are you college-educated? I sure is! How much so? Oh, I reckons I’s as much so as the next guy. Yes, let’s all go to college why don’t we? What about hypocrisy? What dat? Do not toy with the college-educated. I was shocked by the live wire.

SNIP AHOY = VASECTOMY CLINIC FOR SAILORS
“Look Mom it’s Snip Ahoy.”
   ”Snip Ahoy?”
    “Yes, it’s the sailors’ very own vein-severing out-patient center.”
    “Do sailors like vasectomies?”
    “You betcha Mom, sailors enjoy a good
de-nutting especially after 6 months at sea.”
   ”Can I become a sailor Son and have myself de-nutted?”
    “You betcha Mon I mean Mom! De-nutting isn’t just for
land-lubbers anymore! Let’s watch as a sailor emerges
now little more than an animated corpse.”
   With the power of my butt behind me & my directional appendage pointing upward & slightly left I began my trip to The Home Land. I can still hear my son: “Daddy, will we ever return to The Home Land?!”
    There’s a hole thru the moon whereat people may enter a
moon mine. There’s a method of the moon for extracting
minerals that Earthen men cannot, due to the extreme
gravitational problems present on this sphere.
 
I WAS SO SEXUALLY-HARASSED I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. I’m not used to such a high degree of sexual harassment. My hands were wet with frustration as the sexy harassment took on a life of its own. I visit with it now & again, re-affirming my distaste for such things as wienerly as sexual harassment. Sexual harassment secretly is still telling. Tinkle my horse teeth, pluck me my strings—all forms one way or other. Into the bone-yard I search the dominoes. I’m a bow rubbed about the cat gut, a bloomer in springy weather. Shadows of my fattening ass arouse & confuse, my marsupial pouch disavows medieval intent.
    If it be donated nipples from a champion of victory
distributed by Slanderville’s lost angel then so
much the better for dry hands betray no one.

IN THE FUTURE WE’LL BE ABLE to tell when food’s gone bad by how sour-smelling & moldy it is or by the stultified condition of our swollen neck muscles. There will still be, or course, many scientific methods that involve the college-trained minds what bolster these united states in America, that determine things beyond what’s likely with trades’ men.
    Frank Sutton {Sgt. Carter from the “Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C.” t.v. show} had barely been croaked 3 years when Elvis died. {Elvis would’ve wanted it that way we now know.} Houris abound in heaven, F. Sutton’s got one—Elvis has several. There’s no rhyme nay reason beyond gravitational influence I think. Midgets help with short trips, the short haul, short runs, shortness of breath, I’m a little short is no time to shoplift.
    The dangers of odds {opportunities} of sitting on a lit olympic torch are smallish…the olympix celebrate chicanery & bribery. In the first series of Greek games the perverts were naked, now they wear spandex. Whether in clingy shifts or with pubic hair gone wild these “games” have come to symbolize wrong & deluded thinking. Fat Larry’s Prostitutional Service {When it’s a prostitute you need think of Fat Larry!} Remember: Strong prostitutes = strong families {of prostitutes}.
    Every one of Fat Larry’s prostitutes are tested in reading, writing & math. Fat Larry knows prostitution! Raised by prostitutes he grew strong & fat. He made his first “friendship” @ the bum-killing age of 16. Back then prostitutes were tall & slender. “Bring back the old days!” Says Fat Larry.
    “Why prostitution?” I asked Fat Larry.
    F. Larry: “Prostitutes have always been there {on the streets} for me. When I was trying to master the times’ tables to 9 a prostitute stepped in & helped. Once my car ran out of windshield washer fluid & a prostitute came to the rescue.”
    Reporter/prostitute: “Do you ever worry about disease?”
    Fat L.: “Yes I do not. Prostitutes of today are tested
periodically in math, reading & writing as well as
social studies & consumer economics.”
    Rep./pros.: “Have you ever been arrested
by the pigs for being with the police?”
    Fart Lary: “Once when I was no bigger than I am now.”
    -Centralisation of Western Europe, as it had for the Eastern
Bloc, obliterates competition & any need for innovation
amongst nations once sovereign.
    I went to a doctor because I had such pain in my joints I could barely move. “Shut up you pansy! Everybody’s legs hurt!” He said.
    I’ll never forget, so far anyway, the time a school mate of a woman I was doing was hurt, perhaps paralyzed, on a trampoline. She probably wished she’d never got on the damned thing, but we can’t always think that way. You could just as easily break your neck whilst jumping from the toilet to the bath tub…or whilst washing the mistakes out of bed sheets. Would you love me more if my name were Piston Face? And people who know me thru my work with the u.n. would say: “Look, there’s international Piston Face!”

I’ve got no control over my gun — it kills whom it pleases. My gun ship represents all that’s good in Mexico. My Mexican-flavored tasties & my love for Selena {the late, full-bodied singer} are no secret IN THE REAL WORLD…
{”Jesus, what time is it? Jesus, what time is it?!”
    — No sense in asking Jesus because he’s been crucified.”}
    Look at me I’m high as a drug on kites! — She woke me with the Heimlich maneuver…what a terrible way to wake someone up! It’s 10x worser than boiled urine…Next: Burning desires: the olympic torch versus venereal affliction. {Good shits are planned, they don’t just “happen.”} She awoke pagan fury in me I’ven’t had since the olympic-disease incident. She lit my venereal torch & scorched my Jesus faith, trapping my Lum & Abner love in a bag…{Recalling the similarities twixt Rip Torn & Martin Landau in 1975.}
    One day I had 6 pounds of almonds. Two pounds I gave to my brother & 2 pounds to my sister, the rest I flushed down the toilet for they were rotten with maggots & I don’t mean nuts.
    One day I was eating a cookie that was full of raisins, at least
I think they were raisins, at least I’m sure it was a cookie or am
I? As if I were 6′ tall or more & loved to weigh 65 lbs. or less.
I’m not alone which means someone is there with me. I’ll tell
them to leave.
    These dimes within my penny loafers are all I have now. They represent everybody I’ve ever loved, journeys & regrets, niggardly times thru an era of great bounty far & afield. My wives I hear off in their distant pig sties whereat they wallow. These dimes are 20 cents of victory, 15 of valor, for a total of 35 cents. I skate about the rink w/police chief abandon, not a lawful care in the world.
    Way off in the distance of yonder I await you with smothered hands & unbridled horse face. Here within the valley of death, or Death Valley, I turn my sun-frosted cheeks upland. Each new day I confront with a renewed vigor unknown since my days @ Mortis & Tendon. Bar maids’ tips are contingent on bar maids’ tits. Don’t let my softly conical & pinkish nipples fool you — I’m a battle-hardened, army, fag-proven pensioned killer.
    “Aren’t you Lauren Bacall?” I asked a woman, large
because of a glandular condition at the pig farm.
    “Yes I am. Most people don’t recognize me unless
I stuff my bra with sorghum.”
    “Not me,” I said, I’d know you no matter what!”
    The best way to quit smoking cigarets {also works on cigars} is to coat your face, lips & mouth with a volatile chemical. When a lit match or cigaret gets within 2 feet of you your face explodes in flame & terror.
   Every time I whomp the wife’s wing nuts it’s till death, look at her: till death, talk to her, avoid her, consider her: till death.
    “Oh you’re so prestigious! There’s so much prestige being around you! How did you gain your prestigeful mannerisms?”
    “It wasn’t easy fuck face — oh, mind if I call you that?”
    “I don’t mind @ all!” {and} “I would be honed!”
   ”You mean honored.“
    “You’re wrong fuck face!”

Here I am laying a deposit with an order, traveling Paris with my wig off, molting with strange birds, experiencing a passionate moment with the mail man becoming somewhat MORE THAN INSIPID — My pagan lover loves the paganism that’s such a part of my paganistic outlook, yes if not for gothism, satanism, witchcraft, catholicism or the 2-party system that’s served us so well, I don’t know where, o mythical prostrate, I’d be now.
    Like 2 shits that crap in the night or rubbing my elbows against sharp things, I love the lover of all things, all rot accumulated, all matter of pus & drainage…she awoke me in a blemish of wide-spread attack…Whenever I’m eating a banana or washing pickles, lubing a neighbor woman’s chassis or training a dangerous monkey I think of our paganists’ roots, our clever use of talc — One day I’ll marry with a beautiful nigger lady & we’ll live in the country far from the touchy-feely hands of nigger-lovers…and 3 Bones of Fear: Fear Bone #1.: The Marvin Kaplan bone {for actor Marv Kaplan}. F.B. 2: Collectively: the bones of the neck: easily broken, often ignored. Fear Bone 3: The actually bone: the voice box bone that compels people to say actually 7 times a minute.
    In case I suffer an attack of the vomits, peer into the future & no one’s there, lose the will to give, or the power of suggestive contention, I mourn will-lessly without the books to refer & the pens to record. If Spencer Crump were here & he forbade me rail travel I’d tell him a thing or more about how Jesus committed suicide, framed the Romans & declassed the Hebes. Spencer would admit nothing even by default. I’d have my way with his daughter which would be a beautiful & picturesque entertainment event. Careful, the minors they must be under the age of eighteen Earthen revolutions.
    The moon tells nothing of its parents’ trials. Was
it a hunk of oceanic floor base? Will it break
terrestrial orbit as in teevee’s “Space 1999″?
    “I hate you, like pigs hate Jimmy Dean!”

I’ll never forget, until I don’t remember anymore
THAT STRANGE CHRISTMAS
Me & the family were sitting around eating lunch meat,
talking about shoe inserts & cleats in the back yard when
a great streak swooned across the foggy night sky.
    “What the Frank & Lyle Waggoner was that?” Said we in unison.
    “I don’t know,” brother replied, “it could’ve
been a tampon or a hearin’ aid for all I know.”
    “A tar brush or a gear inlaid?” Mother
questioned, having bad ears.
    “No, it was a flying steam shovel,” hefty sister exclaimed,
“like the one Teddy Roosevelt rode at the olympics!”
    “Yes I believe you’re right Sis,” I said. “Jesus you’re so fat
I don’t know how you keep from exploding!”
    Margy knew her lover like the back side of her body: thru mirror-image only. Bob was a strange man & greatly involved in Florida’s vibrant political struggle. He knew the governor like his wife’s rear quarters. Once the lt. gov. attacked him with a chain saw, an attack he repelled expertly.
    “If you ever attack me again with a chain saw you’ll be sorry!”
He sternly yet compassionately warned the 2nd governor.
    “I’m sorry,” the lieutenant said as he returned the chain saw to
the handy, easily-carried chain saw case. “Help me!” Cried
the lt. gov. in a way that was shameless & shameful.
    “Oh I’ll help you,” Bob said in a tone that was sarcastic & sincere, altho he never did — help.
    “You have total power over the reliance of my soul,” squawked the bureaucrat, “so total it makes me vomit.”
    “Well don’t vomit here,” Bob wept, “because I can’t handle it!”
    The election cycle was approaching as Bob & Marge prepared to welcome another baby into the family because Marge was pregnant again. Now her abortion training would be greatly tested as she kneeled to pray before graven images of her pagan gods.
    “I had no idea you were a pagan!” Bob lambasted,
as he stumbled upon her paganistic in prayer.
    “Yes,” Marge lamented, taken aback by his rough coarseness, “I was born this way & I’ll die trying in ways you can never fathom!”
   Realizing that her “religion” was important to her, Bob probed a guiding finger up her ass to bring her back to reality. “I hope that by special use of the finger,” Bob instructed, “that you’ve learned what you need to set you on the course to spiritual lamentation.”
    “Yes,” Marge whimpered, still smarting from the county-
jail treatment. “Perhaps I can play teacher for a welcomed
change?” She begged.
    “Sure, what ya have in mind?”
    “This!” She gushed, using a several-finger-
probing method on old Bob.
    It was the next Wednesday when the olympics were
in town & Bob wasted no time in securing tickets.
“Say Mangy, wanna go to the olympix?”
He threatened.
    “Sure,” she said her ass half taped in cellophane tape, “I’d
love to experience the loving communing affected by the
smarmy oneness of idolatry olympus.”
   ”Great, get your pants on & let’s go!”
    “Oh Baldy, love me like an orangutan!”
    “Yes my orangutan-love loving monkey mama.”
    Later, when the sweaty nature of olympic/orangutan
lovingness had past, Bob suggested they try love as
experienced in the international friendship games.
    “I’ll wash all the ketchup stains from your picnic clothes!” Mange promised lovingly. She was a good wife & Blob knew she had chained her pagan-drenched romantic thoughts concerning the U.K.’s queen, I.M.F., Namibia & the Alliance of Progress.
    Burb blurbed: “Like burger lessons @ a hot dog stand I’m not eating your wieners!…Well, you know what I mean!”
    She knew exactly except for the burger & wiener parts.
“Oh Bib, can’t you release the anger what’s tightening
your shoes? Look, your waffles are all binded!”
    Bob looked, yes he was bound & his shoes were
unremovable. “Merge, you’re right, you seem to
know always what is best for me.”
    Morgue sat & tried to scum to an agreement for
once with: “Boor, since our wedding I’ve been trying
to penetrate the latent end of your femininity —
    “Say no more,” intercoursed Borriso gently,
“or I’ll ram you with the Dodge.”
    “I stepped on a turd,” Berndt said, and: “J.F.K. was
responsible for the mess in Viet Nam up to his adrenals.”
    “I agree whole-heartedly,” Mag puked, “K.J.F was a fruit basket.”
   ”And a wet noodle,” Burst assailed. Later when nobody was paying heed he attacked the U.S.’s central government jingo-istically, countermanding 90 years of the secret police’s crappola. “It only goes to show you,” Burst reacted, “what wieners are & no God of heaven or hell can change that basic fact as shot they are out in the hundreds — it’s one car wrecking into another.”
    Sally just looked at him shunned & bespeckled. “Oh
Bert you can’t mean it? Watch me unbuckle my
restraints to love you with renewed nigger.”
   “Vigor?”
   ”Okay, vigor!“
    — Kill me once — Shame on you. Kill me twice and
you realize I’m more like Jesus than you thought.

CONFABULATORY SNIPPET BETWIXT
OLD MAN & DAUGHTER
“I had insurance, no cancer & decided to beat the odds.”
    “That’s why you went to Ohio?”
    “You betcha!”
    Next: Amongst morons…
    “Oh my recalcitrant lover,” spake the moron sweetly,
“let me kiss you as one fag kisses another!”
    “No!” Protested the other moron. “I will not be handled
thusly. Toss aside your minuet, weep from the stables
of high, yonder horse farms!”
    — Being fond of grandmother when grand-daddy ain’t a-lookin.’
    “Oh Grainy you are every scrap dealers’ tare weight, every
hump on the camel’s back, the milk man’s foil lid
& Steve McQueen’s queen part!”
   — I remember when a.h. L.B.J. announced he wouldn’t run for election in ‘68. I thought: “You interrupted Gilligan’s Island for this? And when Nixon quit: “You pre-empted Kung Fu for this?”

THE ROMANTIC {How sex-mad does one dare
be upon the points of soldering nipples?}
“Oh romantic you are so full of romanticness!”
    “I know, it comes from my brother’s side of the family. He
too, before losing a finger to a band saw, was a romantic.”
   It was wax day @ the wax ofc. & our hopes were pinned to young Steve the romantic. Let’s listen in as he softens a desirable female with romantical-smooth talk…”Hi, your name’s Steve. What’s my name?”
    “Jantrice Latrobe. Are you new around here
& don’t I know you from someplace?”
    “No! And no!” Steve yelled ultra-loudly.
    “Okay, okay!” Latrice Jantrobe ultra-yelled back.
“You don’t have to burrow up my ass you know?!”
    Steve’s voice was muffled as he replied. He could almost
not be understood. “Help, I’ve dropped my flashlight!”
   Ap-nada: I held her in my arms like Lassie {the M.G.M. bitch collie, tho male} …Is your face important? Constant washing can cause you to miss important phone calls from mortgage brokers. Wash less — answer the phone more often.

THE DAY I WAS THREATENED BY
THE GRASS-CUTTING MAN
“Shut up or I’ll mow your head off!”
    “I want to live life in a meaningful way Nancy,” I told Ann.
    “Yes,” Ann agreed to that, “you want what many
of us don’t have the balls to dream for: purpose!”
    “You mean because you are a woman
& therefore do not have a scrotum?”
    “Yes,” Nancy Ann admitted sorely, “it’s what
I lack that makes me more female than otherwise.”

BRIEF MEETING BETWEEN
SNUFFY MORTON & ANGELA ANTHRACITE…
“Oh my God who are you?”
    “I’m Snuffy Morton.”
    “Please to meet you Scruffy. I’m Angela Anthracite.”
    “What, like hard coal?”
    “That’s right: hard & firm just like my knockers.”
    “You mean your breasts?”
    “I sure do Stuffy, that’s exactly what I mean.”

FAT OF THE LAND — Nervous women loving me frantically, frantic women loving me nervously…Only a tornado could take away what I’ve made of wood over the years, knocking out by the knees me a tree rootless, a fruit fruitless, a coot stupid, a hook hornless. Nervy women flinging their whole grains, investing wheat germ, inveighing me amongst buttercups & lingerie.
   It was a large & beautiful afternoon as the sun had risen earlier. Young Wilbur had lived on a farm for so long that he didn’t know anything. He couldn’t swim, eat grapefruit or untangle any kind of mess if knots were prevalent. Once when his father was tipping a waitress Wilbur’s wrist slipped into a urinal. He’d never forgot that watch, never! His father beat him with a bull whip but it wasn’t the same. Wilbur had lost all confidence in urinals. How could he ever look at one the same again? People may well question my stock mkt. movts. & how Fess Parker could be Daniel Boone & Davy Crocket & why the Beatles never did an after-shave lotion commercial, but they can’t deny my nugacity. No, not ever that! Don’t worry about me none I’m eating for 2 now!

My review of WOMAN OF THE YEAR
This 1942 “film” stars Spencer Tracy & his pretended real-life mistress Katharine Hepburn. Who gives a fit of shit what this crapper’s about? It likely follows the same dog-tired toilet-line that the pants-wearin’ bull dyke Hepburn is normal. I rate this film 2 hose clamps & a half a yarn ball.
   DESK SET: This 1957 “film” features Spencer Tracy & Kate Hepburn w/Spence doing the “acting.” Pre-homicidal Gig Young makes an appearance, same for Sue Randall — who’s murdered many but hasn’t been caught. Look for Hepburn {Hep-} slinking passed the crew so gaily it’ll make you sick. I rate this romp {thru homo land} 2 sticks, one crow bar.
   ADAM’S RIB: This 1949 “film” features the beloved Marvin Kaplan & obligatory perverts Katharine & Spencer. In this 100-minute crap fest d & d {drunk & dyke} pretend to be “lawyers” if you can believe that! Consider those 100 minutes irretrievable, never speak of them or the effect will cascade precipitating the loss of 100’s more…2 hose ports & a diaphragm.
   PAT AND MIKE: This 1952 “film” joins Hep & Tracy chucking in Chuck Connors & Alfalfa for kicks. Pat is a rough-trade muff diver trawling the docks whilst Mike is a slow-talkin’ wino always in danger of asphixiation vomitus. Look for Charles Buchinski {the future Charles Bronson}, who vainly attempts to change Hep & her evil bend…a.k.a. 6 Weasels & a Saddle.
    — Related belated: Ginger Rogers died piece-meal.
Her dog wagged his last, Fred Astaire spat his final
spat. There were days when Ging’ sported a long
pair, others nothing but combat leggings.
   These deprecating lives selflessly selfsame — holding the line as Anna May Wong is damaged by Yasha Bunchuk & his Cossack Choir, Arline Judge, Roscoe Ates & Fatty Alexander. Look for stylish dance numbers! Sing: “It Had to be That Way.” Read: Along the Far Climb Down. Join Pat, join Mike, give Eve: Adam’s rib, turn downside up a thousand civilized centuries. Coming: How to tell real from artificial nudity. — I’m not used to being judged, but I guess I can.
ROMANTIC STEVE KNEW his lover’s face like one knows the backside of things except when a head-on collision sends people crashing through windshields. He was nobody’s rag hanger, no job was good enough & you couldn’t pay some people.
    Nancy was a page-turner, you couldn’t punch her in the face without feeling guilty. If she fell off a bicycle you’d want to steal that bike. It seemed unavoidably inevitable that Steve’s persistent use of anti-deodorant would pay off big time.
    Rolls of flab, mud so thickset like concrete, jelly jars without preserves, trials jury-less, smiles about the table, hapless nights, accidental sorrows — kicking our buckets on newly-purchased farm properties = these busiest days of the twenty-first century are enough. I can’t bend over anymore, nor touch toes from standing, tell pale from light green. Women trick me, it’s easier for them now — they’ll have their day. I can’t fight back. I can’t move hurriedly. People 45 are bragging about walking & lung capacity. Rolls of thickly-caked blubber & trails w/o marker posts, sharing the phone in an emergency, remindful of light play & dark momentums. She’s silky smooth below & otherwise like velvet under sills. I’m fog-bound & chewing my vegetables w/teeth. A grip I’ve gripped on sane thoughts, sun-filled days, weakly-matched mixes.
    Good God: resourceful measure, mindful guidance, give us this.
    “Hello stranger, you have a kind face. Is there anywhere
in this town I can change my underpants?”
    “Well let’s see — there’s the bus stop, that’s used by a
thousand people every day, the display window at Sear’s
— 15,000 people pass by that or the corner where
reporters are filming — tens of thousands of people —
    “No no! I mean some place where I’ll be unobserved,
after all I will be down to my shaft & bearings.”
    “You might wanna try the stadium — big
game tonight — thirty thousand capacity!”
    How to lose a hundred sixty pounds is as simple
as taking your wife to the Grand Canyon.
    “It’s going to be a troat {a cry in rutting time — used esp. of
a buck} that drags for days — better take a bowel stabilizer.”
    “A bowel what-a-lizer?”
   ”Stabilizer, it’ll ensure stable bowel moves!”
    “Listen you!” I exclaimed to the trail guide. “Tho your concern for stability of my bowels is touching, touchingly pathologic, I will take a bowel stabilizer when, & if I see fit!”
    “Alright,” he said, “let’s have a truce. I won’t bring up the
subject if you turn around whilst I adulterate your canteen’s
water with an unknown medication.”
    “Is it a bowel stabilizer?” I asked.
    “Yes,” he admitted.
   ”Full steam ahead!” I said. I felt as if every inch of mustard had been squoze from my condiment! If my undies could just make it another 100 miles {or kilometers In E.U.} then I knew I’d be safe! My new girly friend seemed uninspired. She would sit for hours musing over bikini’d measurements of her friends @ Hawaiian Tropic. ”Put down those glossy coloreds & help me with my problem!”
    “Just what’s that?” She’d question more so like a saggy
old girl mate than a bouncy, tight, new one.
    “Never you mind Missy, we’ve got miles
to go before we sleep…together.“
   ”To-what? But I barely know you. We’ve only
scratched the service to life-gone commitment!”
    “Scratch nothing! Here’s a million dollars
to wear down your phony resistance.”
    I have never traveled well with women what with their
womanly concerns, veneer of lies & showmanship.
   Friends do let friends drive drunk especially if
you have so many one won’t be missed.
    Dr. Walton Forsythe & his wife Fluffy Peyton moved to Petticoat Junction to escape the hustle & bustle of Hooterville. He’d been invited by Sam Drucker, the general store keeper, to set up a practice behind the out-house near a series of large holes dug by a mysterious phantom. “Oh Sam, you’re full of fecal matter,” Dr. Wally would chide.
    “You can chide me till my ass purples,” Sam
retorted, “& it won’t change a dang thingy!”
    “Sam,” Pluffy Feyton spake, “have you ever made love to a real woman?”
    “Once,” he hawed, “but that was many
months ago when I had sunk injun-low.”
    “Do you think you’ll ever hanker to pervert yourself
unkindly in the state of mass requiem amore?”
    Sam didn’t speak Urdu & brushed off Puffy Fleyton’s
remarks as one would fly specks from a tooth brush.
    “Listen Sam I don’t mind examining patients in the shit-house
& walking mindful of the holes everywhere but I won’t tolerate
you making sexy advances to my wife!”
    Sam was dumb-fucked. “I never,” he murmured,
“meant to give the impression that —
    “Never mind!” Wally butted. “Muffy Blatant, it’s
time that we got back to the Shady Rest Hotel.”
    “Yes,” she concurred, “as for you general store
owner Sam Drucker, I’ll return after my husband
falls asleep to give you a piece —
    “Of your mind?” Sam rejoined.
    “No — just a piece,” Fluffy informed with a wink &
a wiggle that made her bum move in 7 directions.
    Deprecating humor brought to you by the deprecating-humor boy. He’s deprecating every which way, righteous deprecation, pious elopements, wigless summers by the chicken coop. Things run amok amongst the untied, they’re untethering each other bound for Florida’s points east — headlong into adventure is where I’m head-longing as my head, that’s long, longs for enticement. Envision with me now a sinless world of hope elusive. A real girlfriend would round me about my adventurous areas, never questioning my hidden prostitute…
    Hiroku knew Hong Kong like the back of someone’s ass who had constantly sat in front of her in Japanese school. The city had changed little: same twin mounds with double crack. Once when prince fag Charles came to visit Hiroku, or Nancy as she was never called by anybody ever, moved in close to get a view of the rube. Look at those huge ears, bald scalp & horse teeth. What part of Mississippi is that hick from? But he was from queer old England & mother & father were bro & sister. Hiroku was scared shitless conveniently right after her pants were scared off.
   Disastrous shit happens thrice, everybody knows that. The whole Western World & all the losers know it: East is least; West is best…Imposing all manner of strange government upon us. — Who died & left you koenig?
    Oh Confucius: Teacher of Ten Thousand Generations, why
have you not revealed yourself? At first we were just
casual acquaintances, then friends, then soul brothers,
then kidney donors & then chain smokers. Closer
than uncles we vowed a solemn compaction.
    I want people to love me for me not just my acid burns. One day I’ll be so intellectually superior as to out-grow my need for underpants. {There’s an arrangement of women along the turnpike collecting discretionary funds.}… Some day I’ll live in a shack with my shack-up & we’ll produce shacklings. During a bitter knock-down, shack-up attack with a judge’s order, I countered with a machete.
    “You’ve damaged my restraint with your sword!”
    “Yes, look out for my neck!”
    Big date, better days, this weekend with a married
woman — better days a hundred twenty-six pounds,
    “Are you my father?” I asked the truck driver who had
spoken fancifully to me upon his last time-pass thru town.
    “No, I’m sorry son but I’m not.”
    “Ah-hah! Then why did you call me son, dad?”
Look for the answers upon the churning seas of acidic milk stomping my tongue buds flat, destroyed in consumptive smoke, a choke weed snuggled about my legs & Arctic zones, arid Arizona from where I budded so long ago when a boy could be grafted from juvenile tissue in a lab jacket smuggled out side-ways, shifted a boot length. Nobody believes the shawled, the ricks in farm-felt fields, harmers to farmers, charmers to future craft-burning seeds, love in meadows of bravery, a slaughter too soon forgotten. The Europe I’ve not dealt fairly with, the Japanee, the Chine, the slap-dash fashion as we wear our rugs to breakfast & beard up for winter. People will clap when you proclaim a marriage of 20 years, shatter the night’s silence when beer’s proffered, ridicule their betters when immunity’s promised, fail beneath the discipline of a gas station job, shattering a cracked toe, ragging the weekends, ratting out neighbors, remaining slight, silent & contemplative. A man’s woman can take so much ambush in the ambush department anyway. Join Pat Priest, Beverley Owen & handfuls of plumbers who can’t change a minute to come, a time passed, a word uttered, a threat carried, a man unfashioned from dirt. Nudity is cool…its cooling affects between the traffic lights’ poles, bruising pats & attention-getting details are Spanish in the ears of Mexicans. It’s where rubber & flesh meet the road, the ends of abutment, scads of pipe layers, layers within a section of pipe unbent by kill-joys…or: How to tell real friends apart, Real f’s hug tightly, art. ‘uns hug & poke. R’ ones sop gravy w/bread, others utilize a straw like a vac hose.
    The rain put out my passion’s fire, a torrent of landlord-dashing strength, spiraling, coiling, weave-wrapping colosseums stuffed with Romans eating lasagne — it’s how to tell the genuine from the not-so. Some toilets flush automatically, others demand pleas & extra water, care & snakings. “Be like that Cristabella! Dance naked about the fire. Dance a slow one, pull a fast one!”
    The {poesy extract’d} Federated States of North America: attn.-starved N. Am. cha-cha Yoshiwara girls! Along the precipice where the women climb down to the men of the bosk, what with their forest-loving ways, spillage concerns, slopes & interstices, extirpating good for goodness. God from god-son, constant ruminations & summer love around the corner. Tank up with an extra tank! There’s no better time to get in on the action…with its red, ragged, green, whitish purposes, coal-dusted blackening holes plugging up puckered cases. I raise my worms in coffee grounds & peat. If another world attacks or beckons I’ll marshal forces as has crazy Ike who was well liked enough they say. They run with winners, they die by the roadside, they exact, extort, exhort all manner of hep & hazard. Burning up feverishly. There’s no one above murder given the chance. It’s big Bing Crosby: 6 feet 2 inches, 250 pounds of raw nerve & courage & singing “Between the Devil & the Deep-Blue Sea.” He had a rough, rugged coarseness like wood chips, glass shards & iron shavings in suppository form…too much peace & not enough violence.
    King Authur had new boots. “Come see, I just got them!”
    Cautiously I moseyed. He lunged. I knew he intended to kick me with the pointy part in the groin. I trust no one especially royalty…greasy Romans roaming greasers…
    “Where is my baby?”
    “It’s alright, I sold him to a baby collector.” {In my youth I’d
take any job: delivering dishes, washing newspapers…}
    Here then there’s violence upon the downwardly
immobile = Along the Far Climb Downward,
enviously-violent prayers composing duets for
strings…part groin, part Indonesian chum bucket.

HER INTENSE BOREDOM confused the operations’ officer, He’d known boredom, melancholia & all that too. Now they were trapped in a raft upon the swells of heaving oceanic waves. “Better hold on to anything flotational!” He warned. “Only love or the Coast Guard can save us now!”
    “I vote for the Coast Guard!” Said
she between her drowning teeth.
    “I’ll never floss again,” he threatened.
    Hours would pass like peas through pea-sorting
machinery. “Got any cigarettes?” She asked.
    “Sure,” he said handing her a filter-tipped smoke.
    “Thanks. Got a light?”
    “You betcha…”
    They would each enjoy their cigarettes. The flavor was
delicious reminding him of the army, her of a father’s love.
    “I’ve never loved a ‘man’ before,” she admitted.
    “Me too,” he said, tho he didn’t like her
single quotes around the word man.
    “Ever been to Mexico?” He asked just to shoot the shit.
    “Once when I was a teenager. My
sister was the mayor of Juarez.”
    “Wow, that’s hard to believe.”
    “I know. I still can’t.”
    “Did she rule with an iron fist in a velvet glove?’
    “You know it! She turned Ciudad Juarez into
something Mexicans could be proud of.”
    “I can’t smell, my nose hairs are drenched!”
    “Look, there’s the Coast Guard!”
    “We’re saved, our long ordeal is finally ending!”
    “Yes,” he agreed, “soon we’ll be relaxing
in the comfort of coast guarders.”
    “My intense boredom has disappeared,” she announced upon rescue & over the public address system could be heard: “Call from the former mayor of Juarez!” She knew it was her sister.
    — Her intense curiosity perplexed the plumber’s assistant who knew nothing of her sisterly connection to Ciudad Juarez’s ruling class. It was no secret around the scrap yard that she put muscle into everyone she did. Once when President Truman had his bony back turned Barkley ducked out for a smoothy. Maybe Viet Cochin China Nam would’ve done better unbombed, its several million alive & hoppin’ about 2-legged.
    “What you got there Son?”
    “A copy of God’s original schematics
to human reproductive systems.”
    “Why so large?”
    “It’s for proto-people averaging a linearity of 9 feet.”
    “Jesus!”
    “Of course.”
   — Her wet butt flaps clapped in the sub-tropical breeze. July had come & she felt the toasty heat yummy on her tips & sprocketry. “If only Da’Brealle, Ja’Shantia, Ja’Neah, Ti’ana, Tre’Shaud, Keo’Sha & Da’ouin could be here!” She thought, each with an apostrophe in their name & a song in their heart…in Stink World’s Used Toilet Seats: All seats stained from years of abuse, many gashed & cracked.
   Vic finds himself crash-landed in remote Mexico, unable to make heads or tails of pesos & Spanish, he lulls away the afternoons lazing beneath a large Mexican woman. He could ask “Where am I?” all day & it wouldn’t make a taco’s crumb of difference. But would it? And, is this any large Mexican woman? The answers are everywhere tho hidden beneath filth & contempt. Mexico’s pure constance, geologic proximity & abundance of woolly inhabitants makes it the envy of El Norte.
    I’m a stroke shy of dragging my left leg, a bag
of weed from bathing amongst 500 prisoners.
    In the world every 38 seconds a snake
eats a snake. How long can this go on?
    It’s been proven that an unarmed John
Lennon is no match for an armed fan.
    One day I set up a romantic encounter with a sexy cop from an inter-net chat room. I arrived at the motel at the agreed-upon time
only to be met by a 14-year-old girl, seems she had been
masquerading as a 52-year-old police man.
    “Is the United States’ Constitution a self-repugnant {inconsistent} document? Meaning: one part defying another?” She questioned.
    The judge looked at her fuck dumb. He’d been in his evening gown 30 yrs. too long. His mind was a slime ball, his wife & bastard children too. Her intensified boredom allowed for a continuance. The judge changed back into civilian undies. The clock struck 7.
   When scared I write a children’s book… “Look Agnes:
dogs eating a bird!” Agnes looked but was unimpressed.
“Those dogs must have lost the will to live?”
    “How so?” I asked.
    “Because that man is a police bird & has dangerous weapons.”
    “Holy Ireland!” I reeked. “Should I alert the dagos?”
    “No, let them stew in their juices, let them bite the
apple of malcontention, let them like the mighty horse
shoe: toss in an end-over-end fashion.”
    “You are as passionate as you are flabby & inactive! Go
Agnes & prostitute your swollen nays no more!”
    Mr. Organ Transplant reports: Your ass hosts more
bacterium cells than your groin & arm pits put together.

FAT LARRY TEACHES CHILDREN ABOUT
DEATH “Look Mommy it’s Fur Ball the cat &
he’s come back to live with us!”
   ”Oh Samaire that’s impossible! Fur Ball has been infested by worms!”
    “But Mommy I can see Fur Ball & he’s
shitting in the middle of your bed!”
    “Holy Moses you’re right Samaire! How in the world of
righteous indignation, a world in which Van Heflin & Vic
Morrow appear so much alike that I’m hard-pressed to
tell one from the other except for the hammy acting
& I’m not saying which, could such a thing be?”
    “Look out Maw, Fur Ball has a gun!”
    LATER: “Ma, it’s Ted the uncle & he’s
come back to sponge off us!”
    — I’ll never forget when John Wayne claimed to be bigger
than the Beatles ergo bigger than Jesus…John Wayne
versus Jesus & Jesus wins.
    I think I’ll grow a little mustache, just a little one not a
big one, to disguise my appearance don’t’cha know?
    In heaven all “men” are berated equally, sustaining themselves
without Earthly compassion, threat of demise, quail tail.
Conversations of ephemeral quality, thru whispers, vespers,
thru some things engineered by God. One can find
little of substance, of meaty marrow. There be there
no rug, no rug & room de-odorizer {in heaven}.
    I was so disgusted with the racial prejudice & intolerance spouted by the hateful group that I lost composure. “You poison-filled, nigger-hating bottom feeders!” I yelled. All activities halted as I faced the nigger haters alone with little more than my Bible & machine gun to fortify me…”Your hatreds grow like weeds in my garden of love! Never, except between R.F.K. & Kenneth P. O’Donnell, are our brothers, united in agony, to that thing: all men created equally. Now we are met in the battle fields of that war…
    The Bible is laid among the brethren, unified in agony, glorified in rage, set in stone, pieced to one another, cobbled within charges.

WORLD WITHOUT PSORIASIS
{Legs lengthened for sexy wrap-around effect…}
It’s the smallness of her dogness, the halo glow & the hokey-pokey of her endangered species aggregate that drives the boys from men’s town wild into scrotal-stick enrichment. She’s nobody’s tool bucket, no George Washington McLintock. She can be rode wet & put back hollowed. It’s trucking what keep the weigh stations chaotic.
    “I’ll meet you at the actors’ studio also
known as the fucking court house.”
   ”Must you use that word…actor?”
    “Actor, pretender, mugger, what’s the difference?”
    “Say, why do rich people eat beans with so many
choices out there amongst no-bean entrees?”
    “I’ll see you at the back door, you’ll be smoking &
I’ll be ambivalent, in curious detraction. Don’t offer
— I’ll not accept, the absence of tattoos amongst us
sets the mood…in a world without skin, people molded
into reason, a strap sets pace — macro ampoules.”
   This just in: During the Cuban missile “crisis” the Kennedy brothers tried to ream me. During the Cuban brothers’ {Fidel & Raoul} “crises” {plural} Castro tried to Fitzgerald me. {Let’s see: 45 boxes times a million is 45 million dollars!}…Ipso facto: Kennedys are schlongs. Virtuous actualities, the turds are piling beneath storeys of piled-upon, chicken-holding crates into shapes of R.F. Kennedy, a cuck cut short: wasted time all hurried…Hurry up slowly!
    And with your India-Indian accent: “It is my terminal, going-to-surely-kill-me disease you are enquiring about? Are you trying to make a connection inside the area that is my mind?”
    The news business is very complex with 1,000’s of people trying to continually jump into bed with me. My shower time is limited. I can no longer enjoy numbers one thru two simultaneously as it takes too much time…
    Millions of people spit every day. The u.n. reports that spitting amongst chartered member nations has held steady since 1972. That still doesn’t stop u.n.’s forces from invading non-member nations for some reason. Will my country be invading any countries this week? The horror & terror of it all horrifies & terrifies me richly.
    My family was so poor we had to wipe our asses with money.
   ”Help, that titty dancer brushed my nigger!” — Speaking in
Code by A. Nell Nixon…Would you rather be nibbled on by
small dogs or small fish?
   All the time before & some of the time after, I’ve searched the burnt-out rooms within the mind’s reach & turmoil…Sticks beneath my dentures, the palatial confines of in there. My fish dinner is cooling on the table as my spit glands rev up. Revving @ twice the normal out-reach, spilling & sloshing about the wharves, reeling & unleveling sailors & homogenial sexuals. They’d rather nipple in fondly-tuned nuptials configured statewide, not a pill of ingratitude, ye a vice of strenuous conventions…Look at me drinking a cow’s weight in milk, a chicken’s worth of eggs & a feather’s fill of pillows. Along with nothing to chase or smooth, to wrinkle my investitures, trato hecho & be done with it. It’s all time coming previous to now & something mentioned afterward.

Beat your meat THE U.S. AMERICAN WAY
with U.S. American Meat Beaters
“After a long & sweaty day of meat-beating, I like to sit down in a cold beer surrounded by meat”
   Have you never wondered how Larry Welk paid his employees? He did it with meat. And what about Ronny Reagan? The same way! Now you can be a big wig like either of them by meating your obligements. Before you have another thought experience life with some meat.
    A casual meat enthusiast says : “I can’t wait
another minute. I’m full of anticipation!”
   If I could have something truck drivers lack: the luck that befalls the untalented, the gambling knowledge of Amerindians, I’d be able to accept the consequential nature of things American. As it’s now random & courseless I’m easily troubled by things general to the public — to the pulsing of a pulsing gland, to the drowning of drowners. — When drowning use a banjo, brief case or umbrella as a flotational device, esp. during rough seas. If only the scholars on the Titanic had had the wherewithal to utilize dinner trays, hinges & rigging, they could still be afloat to this day — many decades later only to die of God-given causations as the Lord of Hosts had intended.
    Fred Wilson was no stranger to trouble — he had played the board game thousands, if not billions, of times. His mother, Mrs. Valerie Pooptown-Wilson was a craggy, pencil-nub-worn crow with bulging eyes & crayon-blue lips tinged in mercy & misery. “I had a difficuly time birthing Freddy,” she told Detective Sergeant Special Agent Chief Inspector Roy U. Acuff {no relation to Roy D. Acuff}. “Freddy hung on like a hag to a bingo card.”
    “Mrs. Wilson —
   ”Pooptown-Wilson!”
   ”Oh, alright: Pooptown-Wilson! You dumb-ass broad, you had your chance to dump Pooptown & what do you do? You hyphenate the offence!”
    “You listen here sonny,” P.-W. spoke up, “we Pooptowns
are proud though financially strapped.”
    “I beg your pardon,” Roy cried, overcome with
the raw-cop emotion that’s so popular.
    “What do you want anyway? Has something happened to Freddy?” She asked, uncrossing her legs to reveal her goods.
    Two can play this sexo-politico game, the pig reasoned as he spread his legs so far they popped from their sockets & fell to the floor.
    “Aw shit! Your legs fell off!”
    “Never mind that,” Roy Urgent Acuff said, “that could
happen anytime to anybody anywhere!”
    “Valerie was stunned by the stun gun & could not
negotiate from a stunned position.
    “Just in time!” Roy’s partner-in-crime said.
“Another minute & we would all be dead!”
   If a donut factory can produce 10,000 dozen donuts per minute, the moron population of Canada is 34 million, Mexico’s national product is 65 billion pesos {roughly $8,000 U.S.} then how long might it take to slip into some clothes more comforting? We’ve all dated women who have clung to outmoded notions of language enhancement, these are the feminine genii Hitler praised: the ones fitted for nationalistic labor fronts. All heil the panser divisions, Finlay Currie & the push for zero point {gravity}.
    “Ask me anything,” said the cherry blonde.
    “How long have you ever gone without a shower?”
    “6 months.”
    “Brushing your teeth?”
    “3 weeks.”
    “Wow,” I said, “I’d ask you to marry me if I weren’t previously so.” This in a country where people are so hard up they’re going to God-forsaken corners of the Orient to buy children, the most important question to be posed to a judicial nominee is: Will you uphold infanticide? I asked her, forming words by positioning my lips certain ways, “are you in child-bearing condition?”
    “Only a judge may decide.”
    — Racism? Whatever that is, perhaps it involves restricting
the language of a people because of skin color.
    If I ran out of frozen cat meat which
of my frozen cats would I eat?”
 
LA HOMA
{I’ve got a feeling that for now on everything I do will be legal.}
“My kid’s going to public school so that one day, when grown, he can kill his public tormentors,” she, the lead whore, spoke proudly.
    “That’s all well & good,” Oke, short for Oklahoma, said.
    “Are all you people {meaning cowboys}
named after states or territories?”
    “Pretty much. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to tinkle.”
    “Of course,” said she understandingly,
“the piss shelter’s in the rear.”
    Oke carelessly undid his goodies for he couldn’t
wait another minute to hemorrhage his lizard.
    “Better?” The whore Cathy asked.
    “Yes,” Oke said, “what a relief to whiz so abundantly.”
    “You’re a weirdo that’s for sure,” Cathy
observed. “Are from ’round here?”
    “No,” Oke, or La Homa as he preferred, answered sweatily.
    “Well Oke —
   ”Please call me La Homa.”
    “What a beautiful, manly name! Will you be staying
at the whore house long?”
    “3 weeks then I’m off to Washington
to blow Lincoln’s brains out…”
    “I see,” Cathy said bravely, not wanting to show her yellow-
assed cowardice to the face of La Homa. “Killed many
presidents have you?”
    “No,” La Homa drooled patriotically, “haven’t had the
time, wish I had more to kill America’s enemies.”
    “Yes,” the whore agreed, “America has innumerable enemies.”
   ”Innumerable?” La Homa questioned.
“You talk like a college-educated whore!”
    “Guilty!” Cathy giggled teasingly or whorishly.
“I have 2 years of college-training.”
    “How did you become a whore?”
    “That’s a long, sexually-stimulating story full of indecencies.
I was just flowering into young womanhood when —
    “Tell me some other time,” La Homa
interrupted, “I gotta take a crap.”
    “Jee-zus Lou-eeze, you sure spend
lots of time in the shit house!” Cathy lamented.
                                                The End.
    Observation: Every cowboy story has a
Slim, Tex, Duke, Buck or Red.
   Then La Homa somehow hobbled to the bar. “A small ass of hissy,” he ordered. The bar tender, a tough & honest man, knew what to do & proceded to carefully pour out a small ass of hissy. La Homa downed it in 2 gulps, the first gulp represented fortitude & so did the second one.
    “You need a doctor,” the bar man said.
    “No!” La Homa declared. “Hissy!
Just give me another ass of hissy!”
    It was later discovered that La Homa was really Frank
Jenkins of Provo, Utah: real estate agent, transvestite.
   In one scene La Homa & his posse ride into town sporting tall & gangly mutes, a terrible gun battle ensues & many are shot dead without a chance of returning fire! They Died with Their Mutes On is the picture, one so shocking, so historically accurate, it’s as if it were torn from the diary of a tall & gangly mute. Join Oklahoma, La Homa to his friends, a tough, masculine cow-poke who knows how to bed a woman — “Oh my God, we’ve got to get you to a hospital! You’re bleeding!” — “It’s alright La Homa, I’m having my menstrual period.” — “Your minstrel what?”
   Meet Stevie, a young, handsome mute who looks to La Homa for paternal advice {paternal what?}. They often ride piggy-back. Yes They Died with Their Mutes On is a movie made for everyone! Experience it & feel important like somebody who works in a hospital. Like cars wrecking into one another.
    About this “author”: Richard Thripp was borned, educated expertly in govt. schools & am righting this all by hisself. — We drive ourselves to behoove, out there amongst the wild shit.

A MERE POEM {Merely a poem, a
drum’s beat, a pork in the scum nuts…}
When you beat your turnips — I wash my flail nuts
When you wash my flail nuts I relax my hep points
It’s a far cry from Akron, a menace & fish gut, steaming poodles —
    Living the life of a rich millionaire {A natural, defensive
    crust of    resistance coats my off-spring, my daytime
    nap-fests, roll above the button…}

A FEAR POEM
I fear being near you when you’re angry
When your eyes turn squinty & knuckles white
As the hair on your neck & acne cyst rise & stinken
It’s enough to make me use the toilet unnecessarily
Enough to cause basal-cell cancer to form from nothing
My precious maniac, why can’t you see?
Your violent nature is destroying our love of the jungle
Remember when you were in a coma?
Remember?

THE SCRUTINIZER:
“How dare you scrutinize me so intently!” I said.
    “My business is scrutinizing Bub!” She replied.
    “Well then we each have a business interest la-de-da. Maybe I should tie a board across my ass for all the good that’d do.”
    “You’re a weird sort you are! If it makes you happy
I’ll stop scrutinizing you!”
    “Thank you. I promise to be more
attentive to your feminine desires.”
    “It’s about time. I’m as prickly as a pear.”

RESPECT AMONGST YOUNG & for ladies: kindly talk, wordy references, linking verbiage. No mention of flakes & crumbs, beds, bedding, warts, lesions, rashes…Maybe a clinic has the answers to my problems making my answers clinical by nature. If a clinic can’t diagnose my problems’ physicality then it’s off, by way of public conveyance, to the dog kennel..
    “Mind if I scrape my shitty boots off on your face?”
    “No. Take my property & skim my
wages whilst you’re busily at it.”
    …Respect amongst the endeared from a man with 2
working eyes, causing threats, manifesting lonely
rejection, pluviometric/pluviographic intricacies.
    Get that buddy-cop feeling without being a cop, buddy. Cops are like little children, mentally-retarded ones, & must be smacked about the face & genitals because that’s the only way they’ll ever learn. Tough & brutal love is the ticket that’ll admit you to: The Loopy World of Cops. Wafting pig shit stench fills the air with regular frequency & regulational/relational slop pertaining to the clean, non-clannish & unorganized non-pig poop.
    Stretch your hairy legs it’s time for sloppy-coppy fun antics:
hand cuffs & electro-shock — ruling the world with
pig-headed stubbornness & recalcitrant longings.
    I skulk about like a lodger, out nights on the prowl, looking up friends, hacking down drifters, adopting stragglers. Here comes the goose, what’s good for the goose? Let’s gander at the goose awhile. Let’s visit Euthan, it’s in Asia. Never edible skunks’ ass always availed: He’d eat the ass-hole out of one.
    “Hi my name is Richard & I’m a district management regional supervisor for McDonalds’ International. I’m in charge of 37 stores in the Atlanta, Georgia area…”
    “Really?”
    “No, I’m just pulling your leg, but I do sleep in
a wrecked car in the woods behind a McDonalds.”
    To hell with artificial nudity! It’s worth less than stubbornly-
recalcitrant forebodings, value-lacking & not so slippery.

LAST TANGO IN SHIT LAND {It’s a
general pulsing of my pulsing glands.}
“Shut the shit house door,” advised the toilet
inspector, “if you want to pass inspection.”
    “An open-door infraction is something I can currently ill-afford.”
    “Also you’ll need to get that vent fan working.”
    “You’re right,” I said, “heaven forfend
we should have an explosion in there.”
    Buck, the cowboy, was peculiar, he’d just assume cowboys’ rights when none existed. His pal Red likewise. Once they were together making sweetly cowboy love when the phone service rang — it was Red’s homosexy lover-husband Slim. Slim had suspected Red’s infidelity, the kind of which made a mockery of homosexual marriage juat like babies.
Let’s listen in to a lovers’ quarrel between men.
    Slim: “Have you strayed?”
    Red: “Yes. I’m having a love affair with Rex, I mean Buck!”
    Slim: “Who is this Rex-Buck & do I know him? Is he
more gay, more queer, more homosexy than I am?”
    Red: “Yes, he’s all that & more!”
    Slim: “I see. Are you going to divorce me & have
a homosexual wedding with him?”
    Red: “Yes, I am & as soon as possible.”
    Slim: “I’ll never forgive our first night together
as husband & husband, will you?”
    Red: “No. Never.”
    — All the good people who remember how it used to be are dying, dropping dead, cutting corners, pissing off their agitators. Cold-clam chilly welcomes await them, gas @ extraordinary prices, oil slippery & friction-inhibiting distributors of temporary power disruptions at the post office where stupidity is king. Home to fascists & confusion & wildly-disgruntled ex-employees. Mail men: followers of Karl Marx, the anti-popes & Jesse James of all people…
    Valerie was stunned by the stun gun & could not negotiate from a slumped position. Her love for Fred had turned hate-filled like a jelly-filled doughnut’s jelly filling that has turned to a jellied hatred. “Oh, I’m in love with hate,” she hatefully laminated herself to the cover that covers her lamination of hatefulness. She hated the dentist but loved having her teeth assaulted. Nobody knew the trouble in ditches when a woman & a man find themselves ditched together. A world without the loving, a loving hating denies us. It like 2 cars wrecked, 2 cops loafing, 2 beds pushed together to hold man, wife & baby-sitter.
    “Yes I’ll remember as soon as possible what others have said & done along the roads of lifespans. Once I was young & vibrant, full of vengeful intent, ready to join the air national guard whereat I could serve my country just 2 weekends a month.”
    Fred turned savage reminding her of Fred Savage.
“I’m going to solve your problems in one murder!” Said he
murderously. He was a pretty boy & used to having his way.
    Slim, Fred & Valerie greeted each other at the breakfast table that in just 6 hours would be the lunch table & 2 hours before that, possibly, the brunch table, that is if any big shit, high faluting society-type snobs park their pile-driven asses {pardon the cussing} about the table.
    “Pass the cream of wheat,” Fred commanded.
    Slim did, as Valerie stared blankly out a window.

I’LL GIVE THOSE CHILL-MONKEYS IN THE
DUMPSTER SOMETHING TO HOWL ABOUT!
She knew what “he” wanted, there was no mistaking that.
She had felt Pittsburgh’s cool winds — she knew passion, he
knew better. “Oh Ryne, won’t you love me wildly?”
    Ryne remembered vividly the first time he saw Daneen,
dancing nudely by the humane society’s rescue tent. He knew he
could never stoop gloving her, wobbling, stacking gross bi.
“Daneen we are two differing people. I’m a ‘man’ & you’re not.”
   ”What does that mean? She asked, confused, forlorn & then on a lighter note {for he was community-minded}: “We could move to Virginia & intentionally mis-say Norfolk as Nor-FUCK.
    “Yes. We can say fuck every day —
without anger nor harm to the mail man.”
    “The mail man is our buddy. He delivers.”
    “I’ll say!” Ryne agreed gaily in a way
that betrayed his homo-sexiness.
    “You’re not one of those?” Daneen queried limp-wristedly.
   ”I’m a viking amongst ‘men’!” And a sentence later: I’ll give those chill-monkeys in the dumpster something to howl about!”
    — He’d awoke on the wrong side of the cultural spectrum & needed someone to blame for his failed marriage & belligerent children. I’d known Mart Luke Kaiser since I was pee-high to an elephant & had groan quite oddly at his shafting bend. Too many food preparers despoil the fun behind the boiler.” — Fr. “The Day M.L.K., jr. Decided to Make an Example of my Ass.” and…”She’s a monkey my nut can’t crack…”
   Coming soon, as soon as the next thing: Fire Balls! Ah yes:
Fire Balls. Fire Balls will have you opining for Poland:
Queen Jadwiga, the Battle of Legnica, the inventor of
ice cubes’s death causing its formula to be lost — that’s
why there’s no ice in Poland…& related jokes.
   Fire Balls possesses raw power & emotion that’s powerfully emoted & emotedly powerful! Don’t miss Polish Fire Brigade! They start fires & change people’s lives in the so-doing.
    Upcoming: Fire Balls: quick @ night, smashing vegetation…
as exciting as having a large dog lick something off you.

FIRE BALLS: Quick as the night F.B.
lashes out against oppression.
Bells’ Balls {Video release Hell’s Balls in Heaven, Honky Scope}: Long-dreaded sequel to Fire Balls. Our instigator: Dr. Civilisation, resumes his diabolical plan to take over Venus. Kippy, Tania Lamb, Keleli & Tomonta are disorganized if not determined, to impregnate the doctor with “Fire Ball”: a wondrous device that can turn any man into a Hungarian. Rating: 6 Kevorkian-style murder machines.
    Quickly, like swimming pool water greens, I polished off
the last touches of Fire Balls. Six murder machines & a
collapsed chest won’t stop any doctoring. Sue me Suzy
angel, above the chin marks & foot entrapments,
the hedge-rows & white crosses…
    Preview: Smells of 1968
    “Is that pot?”
    “It sure smells like it!”
    — My purpose in life is to capture tax cheats & torture them
to death. Another of my purposes is to stomp out injustice
by stomping on the unjust. I shall stomp them to death as
I would the average tax cheat.

LAST ANGLE IN SLANDERVILLE
“Shit the shut house door,” advised the short guy, no good for nothing, no taller than most short shits: lacking manly accompaniment, unable to frugal a hag or delay inspection. Escorting tallish women to movies like The Bra Factory Caper, directed by Fred & Gary Halter Top, 105 minutes. — Waynesburg in Pa. is a crappy, class 2-A borough known for coal & incest. On its southern vector stands Waynesburg’s largest bra factory: seedy, seamy, resistant to gale-force winds. One night internationally-based terror cells invade complex bldg.-1: Bras are stolen. Kip Newberg, chief investigator for Pennsylvania’s state secret police, is called down from Harrisburg. Immediate action & reaction is pending as Kip & his girl-Friday De’ana crack sassy engaging the support of ne’er-do-wells: Kenetha, Eolia, Killrain, Treemayne & Jaylon. Look for surprise appearancesof Shawndrea & N’Bushe Wright in establishing shot.
    Rated by 4 tattooed skanks: twenty dollars & 2 joints.

CHAMPION OF VICTORY: One fatal mistake = death.
“We’re compelled by God to eat garbage,”
the unwashed girl child stated unabashedly.
    “And wipe our gnarled asses with money,” the grizzled grandfather spake.
    “Still,” the comely woman of 17, sister to dirt-girl, lamented, “one can do little but lament.” And lament they did, combing finely what was once ruffled, rifled, niggardly cheap & hard to insure.
   ”Insurance is a hard lot,” the oldster barked like a lock-jawed dog hired by the telephone company to urinate on customers, to lift leg like a champion, a champion of victory! {Do I like it straight-wise or side-long? Nice plaits, few pleats, snooping ganglia…}
    “Get out of the way hoser, I’m living @ the White House now!” {And having prolonged physically-romantic relationships with some higher-ups!”}
    I love my wife w/ 75% of my heart. I need 25% to keep my blood circulating so that I don’t die. With what I have I can’t move farts beyond a shuffle. I don’t engage in aerobic exercise & mountain climbing is right out.

DONATED NIPPLES
“Where are my nipples?”
   ”I donated them to The Nipple Care Clinic in Scranton, Pennsylvania.”
    “My God Helen, why?!”
    “Because there’s a great need for nipples out there!”
    “What about me? Don’t I need nipples?”
    “No because the Lord blessed you with superfluous ones.”
    “Hey, you’re right! Even though I’m missing 2 nipples I still have 6 to spare!”
    “That’s very true! And don’t forget: the Lord works in mysterious ways.”
    “You mean by giving me nipples in abundance?”
    “Exactly!”
    — Meet me at the fish house it smells like shit. — “Look at my balls, they’re microbic!” Exclaimed the microbe.
    “What’s wrong Stephanie?” I asked deeply concerned for
she had barely touched her eggs. “Is it egg-related?”
    “No,” she said soothingly, “I’ve got no complaints about the eggs.”
    “Do you want to commit suicide?” I asked understandingly.
“Because if you do, I’ve been there.”
    “No Chuck, it’s not suicide either.”
    “Are you planning on relaxing in a warm, soapy tub & slashing your wrists?”
    “No Chuck, honestly, it’s not suicide, so don’t worry.”
    “Oh Staph,” my nickname for her, short for staphylococcus.
“I’m always here for you & if not I’ll be over there,” said I
reassuringly while pointing to another place.
   ”Chuck, you are an angle like the cake.”
    “Yes, I’m beef meat.”
    “If I were going to kill myself I’d put a bullet into your spine first.”
    “Oh Staph I love you.”
    “Chuck our love is bereft of holes!”
    “Not only that Staph,” he mooed, moved beyond all reason jerky, “if old, crazy Ronald Reagan were here today his hair would be pitch-black!”
    She had been at the Dictograph all day & her lips & lungs were exhausted. A secretary’s work is never done and at 5:15 {15 minutes after her shift ended} the phone rang a second time. “There’s someone trying to contact the office by phone,” she reasoned. “Either that or it’s a small child at home on a voyage of discovery,” she reasoned again.
    “Helium!” The disembodied voice exclaimed.
    “Helium?” The secretary queried.
    “May I speak with Mr. Wet?”
    “I’m sorry but ther’s nobody here by that —
    “Helium!”
   Suddenly Mr. Vet entered. “Oh Mr. Vet, some hoser here asking for a Mr. Wet, shall I have the caller traced & incarcerated?”
    “Better to develope a wait-&-see attitude.
I’ll take the call as I sit on the toilet.”
    The secretary handed Vet the phone & resumed shut-down protocols.
Soon the office would be devoid of her as she drove away
in her automobile. An automobile that allowed her to travel
safely & comfortably without knee-scrape.
    “Donor nipples are hardened to come by.
I had a rash lasting 3 weeks, no doctor wanted to touch
it & nurses were apprehensive like you wouldn’t understand.”
    “But the rash cleared by its own accord?”
    “Sure, there’s no evidence of its presense. I’m not one to bond out before arraignment & heaven knows I can’t bowl from a locked trunk, but there’s more to a fish-kill than tainted water.”
    “What about donating a nipple to scientists? Make scientific your nipple?”
    “There’s room for everybody on the planet’s surface
not including people in boats.”
    “You are wise beyond nipple-consigning wise.
I love you more than turkey in gravy.”
    “If only the mafia could be here now! Perhaps
they’d share their lucrative porno biz.”
    “Chuck, you know I’d chuck it all to be more than I am, an army of one, a few good men, in not just a career but an adventure!” Staph was unapologetic: “Chuck I need more than dental floss & rinse, brushes & dentifrice! My teeth are buried to the gum in the meat of survival!”
    Chuck waylaid her in the darkling, plumbing deeper
than ever into the core balance of her bitchery. She was esteemed
by truckers yet hated by pilots. He was going to plug her latent features & uncork her mysterious nature, if not then, in the least: get to the bottom of things, the bottom of dog-hot excitement.

BACK FROM MEXICO {Turn your street pig into a road hog.}
Lastly = death, a descent into pastels, limpid pools of higher leverage, revolving heads on platters, languishing on the rocks of diabetes — I’m diabetes-dependent on insulin, banished to the wharves at the hands of dock workers: a free ride, no excise, no term limits, no grudge-bearing, jagged tears exposing bone & skull plates. Poetical crappola bound to scare, removed from smear pack, dendrology, monitor of bigots, handle bars gone side-long substitute my fare-the-wells for garage-door parts. Back from Mexico, my Mexican junket, a successful Mexican rolly-polly. I scored in Mexico & my Spanish was paid attention to. Enough for everybody: oil, tacos, pesos.
    Special care for your hundred-year-old husband. Hundred-year-old men have different nutritional & romantic needs than 90-year olds. Many centenarians have found a waning interest in their wives’ “nocturnal”
wants, as one put it: “Her what?”
    A diet rich in chicken fat & boiled turnips will put a nice, glossy sheen on scalp skin. Pornography is no help to the special-needs man, nor is rolling around with wealthy women in their Beverly Hills mansions. The active 100-year old is no match for the virile, caboose-riding 95-year old & the 85-year young malcontent who finds nothing worth the dying for but a massive kidney malignancy.
    During World War II & there ’bouts, many peoples’ problems were World War II-related. Marriages {men to women} still rested on the time-honored man-@-work, woman-@-home philosophy common amongst rational people. The woman-wife, as opposed to the newly-realised homosexual man-wife, assumed the role of mother thru the delivery of un-aborted off-spring. Once born these children, w/o aid of mood-altering, behavior-arresting medicants, matured & had infants, these grew up to be slack & hippified.
   I see white people climbing mountains, plumbing oceanic depths, blacks throwing pneumatic orbs @ hoops, dragging their feet across the pavement, yellow people butchering cats, operating restaurants. Y ahora: Donatia: the donating woman, pass her around to save human lives.
    “But Ton-Hole you don’t understand! I need my
flounders or else the fish fry’ll be ruined!”
    “You listen to me, until I get paid, these flounders are stayin’ put!”
    “All right! I’ll get your money some ways. Can I have a peak at your cones?”
    “No! No money, no cones, no fish!”
    Later, when nobody was aware of nothing Ram-Rod poked Ton-Hole with his gigantic swimming pole along the banks of her septic pool. Beneath her clothes was the naked body of a woman, he guessed, but with no proof it remained a theory.
   Later, not wanting to distribute anybody, I awoke with my head full of knocks. My wife had listed 3 deaths on her friend’s certificate & knew trouble from a distance of 6 feet. I unsaddled my hose & prepared for horse lessons at the fire squat. You can’t ignore a college education what re-plants the bricks of ignorance. Later, not disturbing to want anymore, I revved my Nigels like a breadth of flesh care.
    Active in the Mexican pig trade for many years I find myself in 5 minutes.
   Both my teeth are active in international affairs like the bottom’s broke out, the pie’s unstuck, the pan’s warped, I’ven’t a car-care in this world — A return to Mexico if Mexico’s ready. Mexicanos eating what’s left of cream cheese. Shallow tunes sang in Spanish, a loving entanglement, the settlement truce & the age of pickling everything. Slits, clits, chits, mitts, blitz, little bits, perfumed traces amongst the raped, ravaged armistices & what’s become of great wars lost. Books I’ve yet to configure lie about the brain’s hair-line cracks. No more of white women, tallying the differences, mocking my bones, hawking my wares, reducing a nose’s length from the out holes looking inwardly. Reach in my snake bag & pull out a cup cake or a snake — something in me from years ago.
    Later the changes for better happen upon you sitting still. Caps don’t come off, dress-tights are too much so & your throat constricts, appendix & 3rd set of molars appear out of no place like Mexico.

NECK STOP MEXICO
“You’re cock-sure!”
    “I am not!”
    “You’re more cock-sure than usual! Your cock-assuredness makes me believe you should purchase comprehensive cock assurance.”
    “I’m not liable.”
    “But are you cock-sure of it?”
    — Plain & desirable, I feel uncomplicated, forlorn, singed by the Iroquois Theatre fire of 1903. My brain area is behind bone, unopened till Christmas when Jesus was young. Plants & fish farming tantalize the panty zone above these froggy legs.
    “You’re as cock-sure as is modernly popular.”
    “I am, ain’t I?”
    “You surely is…You’re the Mexican stop neck, the Tijuana question & stuffings suchlike.”
    “I’ll always thank & respect what you’ve done for man.”
    “Thanks,” she motioned to Mexico before I could neck her.
    Appearing within page-shot: “The Mexican Scrutinizer”!
It’s like being scrutinized by a Mexican!” I’m not certain but
I think that Mexxer scrutinized me!”

THE MEXICAN SCRUTINIZER
{This summer I will scrutinize 3 señoritas.}
I’ve known scrutinizers & I’ve been to Mexico {Juarez} but not long enough for thorough scrutiny. Within scrutiny you have screw {scru} & tiny, sounds like fun with a midget can’t be afar. Necking with one {a midge’} must be like visiting Niagara Falls with an uncle.
    The Mexican scrutinizer is on the job,
scrutinizing far & wide, accomplishing nothing yet
winning the hearts of all Mexicans from Paco to Pedro.
   Experience Butt Rhettler as Clerk Fable, Red Sovine as Ginger O’Hara in Calm is the Wind…The American squabble over free trade is the basis for this battle-ground romance. Georgia’s own Butt Rhettler has a mustache & he’s determined to plumb the fallow fields of Ginger O’Hara, but she’s got a few fish to fry! See a physical fight between 2 men over a woman! The rope-knotting intrigue of assessed taxes before they’re due. Calm is the ocean, calm is a cough quelled & calm is the wind. Perhaps he’s more desperate to plow her fallow fields? Who can care to say why she’s fallow & not fertile?
 
BRIEF LOVE {Love in all its brevity.}
I’d like to crush your skull with a bat.
I’d like to kill your uncle.
I wish we could get along.
There’s too much violence in the world.
To know God is to know love.
Forget about that stuff about the bat…and your uncle.

I’m in trouble? More like URINE TROUBLE!
I know what I can do: I’ll boil urine & throw it on people who pass by our house…unless, I come up with a better idea. When the pigs shoo in I’ll pretend that I never heard of such a thing & then as soon as they step away I’ll throw boiling urine on them, just before that I’ll report a U.F.O. to get the Air Force involved, secret svc. & A.T.F. so that there will be a pig farm of uniforms dancing around, many scalded with urine.

SLEEPING WITH MISS AMERICA…
holy Jesus I swear that’s all we did!
During the pageant, the M.A.P. {Miss America Pageant}, I was restless with gnawing desire. I got it into my head that what Miss America needed, other than talent, was me. I made plans to “sleep” {usually a euphenism for staying “up” all night} with the lucky winner. During the party-after I approached her with careless abandon: “Hey Missy,” I said in a casual I’m-up-to-my-chin-in-hot-chicks way.
    “Hello.”
    “Hey, what say you check into Motel 6? I’ll sneak in later.”
    “Oh God!” She exclaimed. ̶