When you’re a girl, everyone wants your P❌SSY

1

A Brief History of My P❌SSY

In the beginning. From a galaxy far, far away.

Came me.

A soldier of individuality. Of stylish spunk. I’m like Punky Brewster 40 years later, a mid-century spool of gold. Building statues that contain the wealth of nations. The good behind the goods. The mast behind the master, stories told in song underneath my melody, rhythm, one fingernail below—the deadly hook. One finger right below the line. Fashion each fabric containing the elements of time each fabric detectable. And undetectable. Discoverable—as they say.

Each part.

Each limb. Each anthem. Every fireplace s’more every caterpillar a pupa—larva—chain. Albumbs of my pictures, disgusting on the whole, sworn in delightfully, sparced 12-fold path, buddhi, boddhi flower of yellow substance powder with a sprinkle of boddhi red flower power. Mixed with a cat! With a hat! And with the motherfucking cat came back.

Hat box. She brought me to every tryst. Upside up! That’s the rub. A dope-side nodule mentioned by police. Mentioned to care, to under-care, to completely care. You read this splice of Sonic(tm) gameplay history. Post-sex you’ll read this story once there are no genetalia/genes. Once Darwin has been trampled, shuffled to the sidelines by future cages. Pushed to the sides like the mass-transit version of NY subway cars. Homeless people the audience. Mass transit to a degree ever before known. But cool it down.

Cool it down.

Cool it down. This story. This here textfile. I guess until you make a full model of my brain I will be out of your reach and you will always call me human, you will always call me plain, or flat, or IQ challenged.

I am.

It’s true!

To you I’m a zoo animal. And then all my fans adore you. Question me. Bring me into the future without my even knowing. And tell me, alien. Tell me, those of you who have never seen me coming. That this holiday season will hold the most surprises of all. Noticing my fly ass score perfect on the SATs. SATs are passe. But I got a perfect score. But they’re passe. But still I care I count something I did makes me matter and the rest of you can hit the books. Stir up your flash cards. Mix. Shuffle. Re-en-act. Sing the she-wolf sound then roll up with your lyrical package. Blow me away. That’s all I’ve got to say.

A long time ago. In a galaxy..

Two cells struck together during universe creation. Two cells sparking like flint and tinder over the fire of a serial killer. Serial. Robert. Robert Garrow. My P❌SS. Tinder but everything. Tinder but unfinal. Simeon. Butterfly. Gas canister I might tick with my P❌SS. I might trip over a data cable unhooking the future from the present. Trip over a data cable connecting the you of now with the me of the past (your perspective). Tripping over a data cable which connects the universe as we know it to substrative material (below). Seductive material (that). Rat trap (cat). Mystreal on a face paint the night I should have lost my virginity. Should have lost it then, mothers in jars completing word puzzles. A tiny dose of Words with Friends. Do you hunt? Weas? Peas? Run one by me and leave the advertising out. Leave the commentary and vaginal documentation. Out of the picture! Guess again, Batman. Your mission critical died in Aurora it’s really to bad, too too bad, that the motive driving all these shootings is a mental health one. I never understood how when someone has mental illness they are automatically responsible for any local shootings—these other states, these other states who open the legislative gates. To flow through. To float back through. To flow (underfloating) back into the mystery.

Back.

Back.

Back into the mystery. Your own idiosyncratic short-sighted invitation—featuring little black-girl P❌SSY—does it even matter? Does it even matter that when I open my door, step my feet upon the street, that every guy with jungle fever slices upon me. That every chap who murders for fun is out tonight. Every serial killer. They’re out—to see you and me. They’re out—in silence, you never see them coming. That’s the perspective I reach for when I want the night to have excitement. Real grown-up play with hide and seek, I curtsey before you, offering up and up my white certificate. A certificate of my virginity, held in quiet. Dinosaur invitation. Moo-cow corporation.

My vagina in one hand—left tit in my other hand, a trap house for skin. The largest organ in the body. Mega sensational. Ultra sensational. Sensational organs—piano!—an organ of my soul—of my spirit if allowed, if comprehended..by you..for come for salt-smelling plebian P❌SSY cat running the alleyways of night counting me among those future-caught by me, run off by my entity, rubbed off seven serial numbers, seven seals, seven signs, you can edit me down to 32 characters, 32 bytes, an 8-bit system playing my grool in videodrome, flat from the original Nintendo game control women listing videogames acoss their bodies, listing game system IDs in their profile waiting for their selves to be usurped, zapped up, zapped to heaven, try it sometimes, bowled over by the water controller, soaped upon in a gas-plasma re-in-o-matix flame, trying to get all that I can get I am the solid I am the solitary, I am the mystey of the one-sheet bioelectric kill flash. The bioelectric P❌SSY. That which is longed for for years. Decades. A perfect alien P❌SS. It has been chambered down in 9mm that’s your proof, your proof, that I mean what I say.

I will never sign my name in 9mm.

That’s one thing I will never do.

Some stories should not be told in books. In fact, some stories should not be told at all. This is one of those stories.

She’s Got Jungle Fever, Oh She’s Got Jungle Fever

This. Is. Love.

Jungle Fever, Jungle Fever. Jungle Fever, Jungle Fever.

Oh she’s got Jungle Fever.

This. Is. Love.

This is Jungle Fever. This is Jungle Fever. This is Jungle Fever. This is Love. We’ve got Jungle Fever. You’ve Got Jungle Fever. This is Jungle Fever and This. Is. Love. Every pretty penny greets Imagination in the clown face—one of the great things about here: they never hold back a penny sparkler dairy sucker MESSAGE IS THE MEDIUM I have a trick my trick is fun. Do everything fun. Never exclaim an expression that is inherently forceful. By its words. But the momentum of its message. Super Sonic™️ (trademark)™️ (from) (the phantom)™️ Hedgehog frankensense at hedgehog franken sense and myrrh extracted our environments waay before it was time—waaay before—waaaay before waaaaay before ywa ebofre this little weapon—a parahgraph—DNA rediscovered from within—you were parked in a Ziploc—you’ve always, ever, been parked in a Ziploc, far away, so far away—stop

I’m gonna bring it. Gonna show you. Gonna make you see and smell and touch my story and you’re going to try to make me stop. Make me face the music. Make—me—get federal photograph. Get it over your hands. This three-sentence montage is being addressed to the Federal United Medicare Department, FUMD, FU-MD, which is exactly what I teach my students (my kids) I teach them this is the Medicare we always wanted and never used to have. If I tell them MD means Mad Dog—(monster dog, master dog, I could go on this forever)—this could be my sweep of the maxium, syllables like rocks explaining the Pyramids, like the punctuation of everything—explains everything—the space between our maps of the stars are the same as stars in their own bodies in their own skies, mystery of the cosmos taught by my favorite spice flow last period of the day I kept my book closed and stared at the teacher, my reaction being This Was It. This Was It! We would need to lower the population to get ready for the Fall. Ready for the fall. Ready to jump backwards off that building. Scathing for the sky. Asking for this jump to mean something—and it did.

My head is messy. It always has been. I can tell you what I have because it helps to understand me. I can say it calmly because the people who taught me, said it to me calm. So I can say it calmly, because if I said it the way I expected, I would look like: a a a a o o o u u ! ! h a l l oo ww ee ee n ! ! betw.een.spectacular and f a m o u sly acceptable. That’s all I ask: teleport me at the end of this transmission and this entity..kill. Yes. I ask that. I have a certain amount of time and then I ask that you kill me for my confession. That is what this is. A confession.

So you know who she is. She’s the (A Brief History of My P❌SSY) girl, stated above. Stated well and clear and readable to you all but also it is necessary that you listen to exactly what she says before determining to kill me. (As many have.) As many have already come to a conclusion, settled for you by our rogue nation, which fills the jar of the accused, of who is guilty. It’s her. It has been her since the beginning of this trial. She has been. Slave sucker. Buys robots, treats them like shit. (And I’m sure if this cariacture description, fighting at their maximum, would not even interest you. Certain that the converted hell of Alice’s Wonlerland will strip you to bones and sinew by the time you approach the bottom, by the time you get to the bottom of those slim slam slanes your entire character will have changed, devolved past the carbon age, escaped the entire era of photosynthesis, taken a Polaroid of itself, mailed the photograph into the space age, waited a long long time, seen the exact same photograph mailed past its nose (in space) back to the Earthly space station.) People think I’m talking about the Space Station, the ISS, but I’m not. I’m talking about Earth.

And I’m saying this: P❌SSY, the concept, the word, the design of the word, and every idea my grrl has accepted is the stunt base for her magic operations. Her kill-fucks. Her whole “magic.” The arrangement of the shoes in her closer, seer-suck, aching P❌SSY manipulated at the Carl’s Jr down the street. That deep P❌SSY ache I’ll never understand. That brick function. That is equivalent to falling off a building and landing straddled over a cinderblock. That’s how one girl describes being raped by me.

Falling from a building and feeling like you landed with your P❌SSY spread and only your limp, useless, vagina slammed face-open on the floor. The way toast always falls. It’s useless to even have a word for the way toast always falls. Because it alwals falls that way. So you don’t need a word for toast that always does what toast does.

Anyway, hold up. You mean..this is my arraignment? No need for me to speak? Going to talk some amongst yourselves. Oh, sure. Of course. I don’t mind if you don’t pay attention to my thoughts. You never have. So I have incredible words for all of you. That will creep right down to your memories of being treated by police as you certainly have. If you’ve ever been treated at all by the police. In this country. Someone should take away our guns.

This has been order 00323489.

Strapping myself into my rocket ship. Helmet. Restraints. You might look into some of these safety items as you continue.

The Absurdity of Sex

I’m reading a book about fucking children.

It’s called Little Girl P❌SSY.

It’s a book about virginity. Waiting. The pressure to do it now! A whole book about virginity: guys waiting for that P❌SSY to open up for them, girls waiting for that P❌SSY to feel “ready.” Ready for the show. Was told, like with smoking pot, that I wouldn’t feel it the first time. Not in a sense of pleasure. Not in the sense that you want a quickness in the afternoon, it’s no pleasure added for me until I’m out of the kiddie pool, the bird bath where blackness steals birds—wipes them up!—eats the bird parts and sometimes bat parts and sometimes zombie food flowers the bowl and you eat (cat) eat eat eat. Let’s say this counter, here, is the food service for infinity. That’s what we’re on right here, on the free-die event. Where everyone comes up into dimension 8 thinking it’s going to be all easy and shit with these panoramic death moments. Everyone here acting up on their deaths (playing them up). To confuse the rest of us. Saying there’s a light and shit STOP PLAYinG. We know there’s nothing up there except a wet towel laid gently over the top of a lamp—that’s your bright light—”I’ll be right back. I have to prepare my P❌SSY for the event.”

“Goodbye! And goodbye to your P❌SSY too, which has never had cock!”

(Have them speaking to the P❌SSY as if it was a third party.)

GoOdBye to that very tiny—little tiny—girl’s P❌SSY that you desire on your deathbed. I’m such a good girl with a good P❌SSY. Such a good girl for having it on my back under martial watch and the street as our audience. Creating raw campus-like experiences for everyone. A whole book about “vagina sampling”—boom, done. A whole book about vaginas and tampons, about peeing inside virgins. A book about a good girl with a good P❌SSY. Versus she’s a bad girl and her P❌SSY needs to be punished.

Girls are just panty dropping freaks.

We have indiscriminate panty-dropping power. Boom! Panty drop. Boom!—panty drop!! Boom boom!! I did everything wrong, “but you’re a good girl with a good P❌SSY so it’s ok.” The true P❌SSY detector is my dog: Be getting right up in yo’ shit to make sure yo’ shit’s ok. Getting that nose right in there for a P❌SSY report. P❌SSY Report! P❌SSY Report!

Dog’s name is Kicker / dog licking a girl’s P❌SSY (at a picnic) / everybody’s embarrassed but the dog won’t stop roughing me up my first time was on a sidewalk in the back yard (true!) he humped me from behind that was it that was my virginity lost between me and my favorite kanine. Almost like it never could have been another way and I didn’t tell the boys, I just used used the human measurement of fucking boys (was never sure how girls figured into that one—I guess they didn’t figure into the definition of sexual active along with toys and animals—only boys and men, who had the lucky key—to me?—)

You took me off the lot. The local playgrounds. The evil of your asymmetrical head making you somehow sympathetic plaything playtime just a person to not even meet—to be pulled by you off the grassy area near the front of the school (I could mention that you’d worked at that school since before I ever came to see it you had the place cocked, locked, and ready to load)—you had us like the satisfied diner has her spot at the local diner (special table, server knows you always get the buffet and coffee, swiping through a three-ring binder containing pictures of my brother and my tiny little asses in a bathtub in the swimming pool I remember you took one of me standing at the neighbor’s back door, wearing nothing, clocking us both with your mental camera, picking out outfits to impress the neighbors but you’ll never get these folks to play your game just as you have stolen me from my development and placed me in this dumb box underneath your stairs—you say—like Harry Potter’s room?—you ask—I swoon like a cyote—will kill my coyote as soon as I get my hands on these controls—swerving up, down, left left right right) you tell me which paths not to take (don’t go here here here here or here) you wish for me that I choose the path back to you, someday, immediately, soon like the laundry is.

I am a girl. I am five years old. I could use you to put my face on a milk jug. Send me home to anyone who has their home tarped from floor to roof, disencouraging us to look out the window. We were told from the beginning the walls were like fire, underneath, and if we ripped through the foil, it’s fire everywhere. It was like the foil had the magical ability to soar through foil, metal, the ability to start sparks behind there and burn down the entire house. The power I carried was enormous—so I never touched the foil.

That’s why I’m down here.

To avoid the onslaught.

With this guy it’s feathers and words, words make way to stones, the black ones—gray—and I can pick up each one, look at it, return it to its place in the sand. This is in the center of our house: a fountain with stones in its water. An endless fountain that plays its music eternally. I don’t know if that fountain is really there or implanted by my imagination. That’s why I check with you, my doctor—that it’s perfectly safe for me to watch the poster of the same subject while I wait here for you to touch me—right, somehow, I never learned to be touched this way before so much it makes me cry.

Re-United With My Stinking Stinkhole

And The Faces We Make even before the latest office supply run. The Faces We Make even before the truck leaves the parking lot, even before the delivery driver leaves our door open (backwards) to save our office power. It’s the Modern, Modern! playlist—every track behind every war buddy—every war needs a theme!~it needs music to psych up to, to plan to, to try on for size. Every war needs that. A feeling it goes to. A song to go with every time we sing. In church. Sing, we, in the living room over a Tori Amos piano she sings us praises to a dimension-less god, cumming over my curtains where the son comes through, the sin: set to drip, stave off the devil like a planetary shift—Darwin’s shift, Copernicus shift, da Vinci shift. Time takes off backwards. The Statue of Liberty opens her robes from the front and it’s liberty, liberty for all™️, liberty united, and the whole mess will stream with limited commercial interruption, nothing special to kick off the thing except Britney Spears acting 20 years younger. Acting 20 years younger. Her ace in the hole. But this one’s major Photoshop™️ major Photofuck™️ major pushthrough major student brainpower™️ of a candy cane. You know™️? You get me™️? Is. Everything. Cool™️? I got to this document earlier than you, girlie, before the janitor got here, becaure the administrators—because the administors smoke tails of a cat, get the big bottle of ibuprofen this time, sing the high notes and carry the low each one with a part of your mouth (high notes with the back of your mouth right below your pretty pretty tongue—low notes from the front/top/side running faster due to the cars’ exhaust pipes it’s all a mess around here, re-unite with your slaves who you take perfect care) to re-unite the backwizdom™️ with a couple drops of jism. I mean that was me! And me was mine! And what I really wanted to do was time you on my watch after I threw all that stuff over the fence and see how long it took you to—virtually—read me, dissolve my notes, paint my faces red, become one likened to those many virtual children I see when the lights turn low and it’s just me in the darkness of my room—you invited inward—you touching yourself before you ever should have touched yourself—in this walled garden whose walls call my name. A fish-united garden of corporate logos shining brightly every employee’s house their front room, living room, kitchen, dining, bedroom, bath. Paid for by A Candidate in the Current War, government subsidy, less the shape of me, less my ScopeWare™️—size of the pieces, not much bigger than a peanut—ware—Glocks made of Sand, Glass Guns, Guns downloaded, printed, smashed into slices of bone too big to swallow, just barely, to cobble together the pieces of a piece, pull the trigger, give them sex if they desire it, rough sex (if they’ve never had it) and program the plastic double to give it to you rough, then. Rough like a sandy attitude, guy wearing shorts of camo, sparking you to memories of the second grade—I am re-uniting with my stinking stinkhole—one finger in, plastic dildo throw it in the dish washer, choose settings, press play. Those settings evoke a set of query parameters, psycho-gut, you play with every option, twiddle every faction, every hook of meat struggling to burn free, every spark or ember from my fire needs to be enough to heat us both for a tiny fraction of days—from whatever to whatever—me minus the rap sheet—that’s me plus a tiny star key shining forever like Mario, Daisy, Bowser, the eyes of Luigi plus the thighs of my master. My thighs with my palms over the knees. You’re kneeling before me, stick your head between, I close my thighs, clamping down on your head and pulling you toward my cock with the power of my knees..close and lock you with those muscles..close you and lock you up so tight by my uncontrollable head lock..close your neck between my thighs. Because. I. Forget. Your name. Forget it from the beginning of time. To. Now. Foraging. In these woods. Nose to the ground like when I’m done you’ll be wrapped around my tusks. Will be unable to approach me again, bones fragmented, sinews wrapped around you, sucking my sensuality from between those teeth, love hugged squozen, this reminds me of a box of cookies I once ate, with pictures on the back of each card, a character from the death box™️ (WOW!!+) a cunt of a cunt, taste of a taste, psycho of psych, my revelations of a plan, duty of a do-er, pieces of a plan, hair of a unicorn, the foot of a frog, back hair of a dog, ear hook of a bog, the wig of an ear horn, and I’m sitting here—sitting here with no equipment, no sticks, no plats, to platforms, no sticklings, no love.

That’s all I have to offer. You’re late and the late refuse to be marked. For every truth of this religion is that god has counted every hair on your head before you were even born and I can believe that if I go back to the beginning, in the simulation, I can see that that is true. Paper swashes all to one side. Dork quantities withing they were in control. All of us, the whole government, the “so called” patriarchs of it all, all of those people can sink their dowsing tools active (poking, churning our skin) into the wet meat of a “so called!” copy apparition—think you can get that thing into me?

Please try. And I’ll be waiting for your apology when you fail.

Bitches Love Paychecks

Wanna be a baller? Shot caller? Get a fucking degree and a job.

Then and only then will you call the shots on my. On my P❌SSY. On the tab of cloth between my legs. Between my lips. Between my cow lips. My bleeding camel lips between my legs. Between secrets of a skrug. A king! I take you within me to cross the ocean! Take you to a place I know never exists, that I tell you 10,000 times doesn’t exist, that you’ve told yourself and me and the world does, not, exist. Which you still tell me exists. Which you insist you buried with your own—first—daughter who escaped that woman’s legs RAN FAR FAR FAR away from you (through the death route) and who you failed to catch, she disappeared down the hospital route (takage) and you realized you’d have to steal another’s or your own, from the street, from the car, the school, the high road the sidewalk of another town, city, state, country, world.

Big blue planet of stolen children.

Or maybe nature is designed not to be perfect in this way, too—to inexactly bond to parents, inexactly raise children—mammals paired to mammals, to raise each other’s children—so we at lease get those ones. I don’t think elephants raise other species’ children, and they’re not mammals. I’ve come to believe we are tourists here, sticking our sticky faces through a thin rubber-like surface into this world, except what would normally be sticking your face through a 2d experience is now you sticking your face through a 3d experience and it calms my nerves a bit to think of us this way. Because if that is the nature of our life, then this is one of many many possible trips here and trips to other universes. And those are trips I want to take, through universes numbering as many, many, as many as can be imagined (and more) and—

—but. I—

—will. She—

—mom. We—

If you think anyone in this crowd wants to be a baller, raise their hand. Raise your hand for the one-timers. For failures. For those who never struck. Who never huck-ed a ball over this court. Who ever shared a playground with me—who ever shared a fist—a punch—who ever shared skin with your face, whose face ever shared skin with me, who ever shared a toe with my walls, screw my face into these walls, re-interpreted hair with the fork-tongue of you, madame, locked and screwed inside the very walls that glass, look into your soul—did I just reflect, there, instead of a digit ripple, a comma-between-two-words formation, a bathing-tone formation instead of a periodic alphanum censorship.

Instead of a periodical a l p h a censorship, according to the latest b i t c h i n heat, relived in the latest excellent corpus, assembled underneath a tree in the branches right above you girl fuck on! Fuck off! Fuck on fuck off fuck on fuck off fuck on. Off. On. I watch my green like it’s a nettle from Pong, punching your face at the stop light. From robes are hung beneath, how do you measure preparedness down here? says the hymnal. So how do you determine preparedness down here? You know?

To which I say: Hey! To You! The Bro! Gather ’round and listen to a story told by the only White Whitch in Harlem:

Her name is Aparition.

Her name is Molecule.

Her name is every name that could occur between the names of Atom. Of Curtain. Of Amy. And Adam. Of aching and atoms made with upgrades (helium) (also crates of She-Saur) (hypergons) (anything passwo-genric) (kiin) (enter the text between the pylons) (rainbow draagon) (spakling floor look us) (speak that momentary loudpiece) and now that I have your attention at the 250 words during the girl character’s that I think are probably your highest-rated attention moments during every day of your life—my life—my attention during my lifetimes in your head—in your, head, life. So. Now that I have that. I would like to bring to your attention that my mind now contains pieces of your life and you never thought of that. Not in your entire minute-by-minute existence of this place ever built for you, you diligent asshole. It would be as hard to be as it could ever be for every minute you were ever driving. Did you think of that before I pointed it out to you in tonight’s letter? Did you ever point it out to me before I ask? That’s the hardest part for me. Not the illusion of the presentation of this farce! But the acknowledgments of its solidity through ripples in our hole in space-time. And I measure myself, this gap in space and time. As long as my sentence? That I write in slate against white. I don’t think I do too well with a shell of white—You do fine, trust me, you do so fine it’s splashing around the room—your gloriousness!!—don’t even worry about steps at any of these dances, they’re provided from within—from within, my slappy brother! And for where it begins, there it ends too—and so where you would take it, there it might take you, too.

Anyway place yourself within the context of winning some NBA cream—you’re inside that little rectangle.

You wanna be a shot caller? A baller? Get a fucking degree and a job. Bitches love paychecks.

Don’t Forget to Reset the Whatevers

Don’t forget to reset the whatevers, by dude, by pocket mouse, by pocket house, by grouse, by moustache, by infininities by sinsinities, by note, by hair on head, by your glorious miniature soft fuzz on your P❌SSY touching you is sweaty fingers is sweat between my toes, sweat beneath my nose—it rolls up from under, when it’s identical to what’s above. You cannot count the notes in my box. Cannot finitize the uncountableness, you cannot numerate the subscriptions I have to this tech rag, cannot count its usefulness, cannot count its ultimate influence, its large reach, the times its voice is counted, see! You only see it once. But its reach is tip-top on top of the Statue of Liberty. Its motion. Is vertical. Is at right angles. Is a monkey cone, strapped to the back of a Pet deer name generator. Take that in. A pet deer name generator. Spent a pretty penny on that site, I’ll tell you that. In time only, at least $0.31, spent in terms of time spent. Time spent. From a minute, to a wasted hair, to gasoline, used to drive a physical server to a physical server farm to pick it up with physical human sweat pouring off my embows my chest—dink!—that’s a dink that’ll last forever—I’ll remember it forever—someday when someone who works at this data center removes this server (which is all porn) removes it from the regular routing which they say it’s suppsed to be porn-free but I know the guy who writes the test scripts and an extra $50 in cash per month is enough to keep him turned over and over and lying on his back in the corner office, legs bent at the knees, him looking at the ceiling making his million—his first million—in this less-than-moral look under Alice’s skirt. In this trip around the rosies with the tip of my little finger. In this trip around the posies with the tip of my middle finger, call me by my name—call me by any name and any name is what I’ll answer to, the calling of my generally warm and somewhat responsive sensorium—that’s all you get! I’m sorry, but that’s all you get. Like the man in the corner office, this is all you get: what you paid for! You get what you paid for, and you paid me nothing, so count your bill, man, and get going, get gone, get out of here!

When I was born it was half a century ago. That’s hardly a life and barely enough time to comprehend this life in. I’ve survived better than most—ask them! Ask them, those suckers, ask those suckers what they’ve learned. Have they programmed a regular expression engine? Have they written an HTTP server? That was the kind of skill you need (to be me). That was the kind of skill you needed to work where I work but all of that is not true—really any kid with a computer science background can manage is all, every bit I’ve been able to do since I worked here two years. And the last 30 years or so I’ve just been coasting! Coasting through 30 years of Christmas parties with Jim—sometimes in Ohio, sometimes in Florida—coasting through 30 years of under-average salary followed by over-average bonus. Thats: Salaries. Bonuses. Below-average. Above-average. Skinning my wife with a lifetime of the-big-bonus-at-the-end stories and when it finally happened, it was barely two years’ bonuses, packed together so neatly I almost mistook it as one. So I ended up with an average retirement bubble. Little bit of cash I took as life went by. I made the foolish choice, according to every young programmer who went past me (doing what should haven been my work). Every young programmer who ostensibly came here for my help, either as an intern or an employee. Who shied away from me when they had that new-fangled agenda that means girls come first..next..that they have a rightful place at the trough or they were boys who thought the same. Which of course I agree with for the purpose of having more hotties in the workplace but I never did any of that. The most I did was take the guys to Hooters and look at some 20-something tits. Then that was ruined for me due to having a daughter grow up into that age frame. Chelsea. Didn’t change my perspective any but it made me feel guilty enough to stop going to Hooters. Fired Ron’s friend’s daughter as our receptionist..office manager..secretary or whatever she is. Ever since Matthew found Meghan’s panties (or supposedly Meghan’s panties) cruxed in a door, there was secret Meghan-ness, Meghan-like-ness, and hypersensitive Meghan-liking-subconscious-dreaming-waking-wanting. It smelled like her everywhere I went. In the office. In my car from the last time I forced her to ride with me. In the entrance to Home where she took off her rain boots/jacket/hat and leaned on the wall here and sat on the boot step there, where family friend Meghan always sat when she came over I would say: “Go ahead. Sit for a while. Go ahead and tell Chloe (my wife) what Chris had to say about your outfit today (your snotted panties) what Dan held (in images) in his mind from lunchtime today, what naughtiness, what wolverine, sideward glances escaped the office today, escaped our little Development Hut, our Principled Palace, where I remember one time an upstart employee thought he could get underneath my skin. I waited till he had quit twice, then I fired him. Sucker-faced boy. He started here as a teenager and did the only real work that I saw done on the system since Jim. Jim was the top of his class at MIT. Jim started everything. From aprocess to aaprocess to the occasional aaaprocess..those are our custom layers. Only Jim was allowed to program there. And occasionally Matthew. When you look back on it, I never really did any coding of substance except for the first three months I was there.

Lucky Tigger on the Ride of the Skies

Red red stripey stripey red red blue.

Slippy tiger tiger ascends to the peak. Of me spreading my legs and flowers falling out.

Of cockroaches. And cupcakes.

Of snake shoes. They had me snapped in magazines. Tied to a chair.

I wasn’t scared. I snipped at the armed doorman. Slicing through him. He put both hands against the wall and stuck his butt out—

—Like he was asking for a spank. A spark. The shifting of it all, that San Andreas again, wobbling my whole self off the tactness of a frog. Something commercially licensed. Tested by a government. Eating waffles in a scientific lab: cooked to taste. Unending coffee. Unending half and half. Boom! I sat next to my girlfriend. My fingers having extreme reason to crawl slowly (under the table) (over her leg) right up into that smug crack.

Rooted around a bit like a slug in the dark.

Remote controlled.

If I could fly invisibly I would visit this punishment on every girl in every Denny’s across the country. Across the world. Denny’s in Tehran. Move around like cleaning solution. When you move around like cleaning solution sometimes that’s a trip through a hooptie engine block—one shot—bam. Damn.

If it was ever going to work, now would be the time. Stop using the conditional tense and walk away.

Press the button: walk away.

Close the door—one last look—marooned by a singular baby fucker. Lunch in Venice Beach. Grab a bicycle. Consume your lunch. Ride north. Keep going. See how far it goes. Jump jump jump motherfucker! We’re high on two wheels. High in the restaurant. That vape? It ain’t vitamin C! Ha ha ha.

Bring it down. Smooth smooth quiet reserved and fought for by the people’s [insane] army. Moving military equipment in place. Now we can tase thousands of people at once. Remember: those are your people.

Those are your mother and fathers and daughters. Those are your goddamn men. Those are your goddamn freaking fathers and chil’ren and shit.

Slavery.

Of children and women. Those injured between the ears. Those politely invited to take a ride. Snap you up like—what?—jerk your head and your neck in a direction that aligns with the stars.

See me up there? I’m Orion’s slave. I’m Aquila. I’m Canis Major—a great dog! Leo, Gemini, and finally the hero: Perseus. These are the stars of my journey. Caught a train from Minneapolis to Miami. In Miami, raped, kept, locked in a basement with a bottle of water and my legs taped together nothing of a pro-type situation.

There, fucked senseless with a variety of kitchen-held objects.

  1. A can opener
  2. A corkscrew
  3. A map

Open it. Open it all the way. I could use this. Travel to the north. Travel to the Midwest.

Take a bus. Hack a car. Don’t drive too much. Don’t let them see you. You and me: me, the rider in your book bag: a frog, turtle, or earwig.

If I had a frog, she would be named Mildred (in jest) and I would call my frog Mildred. She’s working a stick puzzle—I’m having visions of that place back in Dayton, Ohio.

Wishing for a normal life.

But a normal life is a life I never had.

Is this normal: raped as a child, multiple kidnappings before the age of five due to a too-sexual loop between my face and my ass, everything perfectly designed to attract sick sick motherfuckers. That is my youth—is that normal? Is it?

It’s normal if you’re a cute or pretty woman or girl. Or a pretty pretty man. We don’t even talk about sex. When I go, to get a car, I go, I come back, I meet you, and you and I grab chimichangas on the beach. Never enough to get an apartment. Houses are out of reach. But always enough for truck food, a jacket (maybe), and a sleeping bag—I’ve bought 20 of these (sleeping bags) because they’re always being stolen.

Anyway you and I we sit up next to one of the poles under the boardwalk.

Eating our Mexican food.

Cuddling. We used to snuggle together as children. At first in the house with the end-hall closet. Smudgy memories. Smudge stick memories. Burning my hand on the top part of the stove. The burners. Or maybe it’s just a dream. But if it was, who do I picture as my mom?

Who do I picture as her?

Is she the one who said, “Do you want to burn yourself?” and who let me touch the hot burner and watched me pull my hand away.

That’s how I learned what was hot.

I can never go back to that home. Must move forward. Must put on blinders and get gay and camouflage myself. Wear guy pants. Guy shoes. Wear a hoodie. Fluff out and fluff back the front of the shirts to hide my boobs. Zip it up. Put hands in pockets.

Now we will leave whatever’s back there in my roll up. Leave my camp. My lack of tent. My lack of wet food. My sage brushes hidden at the top of a support pole underneath the bridge. Tonight I’m going to burn that.

I’m going to burn it so hard.

Watch it light, watch it burn. Look right down into the feeling of a flame. Look at it without thinking of any of the usual words.

The Reverence of Captain Goodchild

The reverence of Oh, Captain! I choked, standing on the balcony gulping Big Gulp cherry like the Japanese didn’t even own 7-Eleven. Like the flavors weren’t false. It was like someone had started when I was a small child, decomposing me, deconstructing me, terrorizing my cells to fear the day when I spilled it over the kitchen floor, hoping I’d snap, trip, yell, come, and cum alone over the azalea arrangement. That is all.

I contacted my comp sci classroom professor and asked him if his ear could entertain my mouth for a story and a question.

The story comes like this: My life plan: A total destruction not much like a plan at all: After I retire I will enact this plan which will run to the end of my life forwards then backwards, I plan to do this until I die: I will eat rice-based products with rice milk to the end of my life do you understand? Everything will be white. All will be pure. Everything right down to the sanitary napkin you grab when you reach for your napkin I have it placed on your lap once you sit down by an acrobatic cat named The Blackness. Cut down to beside me. I hit her by accident though the center part of my Range Rover upside glass beckons me. It calls me like Jesus called you. Undeniable. Part of a cultural plan of appropriation. Unforgettable.

Upgrades. Filthy south and dirty north on the king pins.

Do you know how dangerous that is? How many people you’ve killed with that current (electric) has been doing our deeds since she was approximately five foot zero. I had her in my basement with the other eight of them. Bonded to a vertical and pipe, the ground below her feet containing piles of shit doppled with piss everyone knowing to keep it quiet when I visit everyone hold your fucking tongues!

I will make the rounds down here then pull up a sun chair crack my phone and then watch the day’s flapjack truths demonstrate what is me and my crew down in this basement smelling the smell that I never did sweep into the well. I never cleaned it. I figured I’d be dead or caught by the time someone cracked the smell, following it like a deer into my basement house, presenting to them a conundrum: Fight me, and/or take the basement by force. When you get there tell me how many of them stayed put, writing in minor electrical volts. A toe who dips with your fatigue into an electrocuted puddle.

Crying people—women mostly—came to my house in Beavercreek (where you meet many girls who 1) are eager beavers and 2) are eager to show me their beavers. They came expecting to bathe in the riches of a man like me. They came to have their P❌SSYs tickled with a middle-aged beard. Certain shades of gray. Shades of jadedness. This one is my housekeeper. This is the one who used to keep our office clean. Unfortunately she expired when I lowered the chains, hand over hand, tilling her snappy body full of red in her face like a red snapper. Exorcising her. Flushing her of her sins and as I lower her I think of my own, from the time of childhood to submerging this bitch into the well (she asked for it) querying me and questioning me, asking all the hard questions from Moses down to Jesus dying on the cross so I dipped her future corpse into the well.

When her toes touched she went silent and came still, still as death cake into her.

And you could see she liked it—minus the look of terror, everything about her claimed to like electricity and the well, the basement, everything. No, I mean yeah, this one’s rotting at the bottom of the well. Which I used to get water from (to drink) so I need to get bottles of water now. In fact, no more eating at home (due to the smell of shit).

That’s a rule: No eating at home.

Find a coffeehouse or restaurant (a new one) to eat, sit, examine the pages for trading news and look around me! The environment is ideal for riding my next girlfriend like a horse—her P❌SSY being highly rated, her willingness to come with me in my car, also high.

When I get her she will ask me if I had made some sort of mistake, bringing her to my basement paradise.

“I don’t think so, my darling. Now quiet up before I kill you.”

She runs like a puppet executing the maneuver and finds the door is locked, she and me and some dead and undead chained to the ceiling, everyone tired from the drape. Everyone smelling like shit and piss. After the new girl hits the basement door she crawls into a corner and looks around.

There are makeshift sex toys. Anything that can enter a P❌SSY does (and will) harbor the electricity which is where we all end, shocked to death in a series of games we can play—making up new rules all the time—

I am their god. Am a superpower which claims and kills, waiting for cops to come to the door,

check my stove, and find your head delicately situated, looking upward, your dead eyes looking at the cop and the cop goes for his gun and then puts it in both hands, pointing his eyes in the same direction as the gun points, knowing now he has entered my dungeon of hell and there is no one to shoot—everyone is already dead.

Snakes in the freezer.

Little doughboy a puzzle for my captors. Who is he? His fingers have been removed. Every tooth. And when the cop looks?

Looks right down to the boy’s feet. The kid is naked, wrinkled penis—tiny—will never be used.

Upon seeing this, the cop turned his gun on me—which made me laugh.

“If you kill me, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”

“I don’t think so,” says the cop.

“Wanna find out?” I says.

And he doesn’t even wait to answer my question. He just pulls the trigger and as I’m not yet done with life, I bat a sly eye at this motherfucker and inform him that shooting me won’t bring back all those women fried in my basement.

“Why don’t you find another hobby?” the cop says.

“I would,” I say. “If I wasn’t so in love with what I’m doing now.”

The Penultimate Candy Collection

In name only.

My only escape.

My ravagement. My disco collection. Music from the 90s doesn’t affect me. Pop music doesn’t affect me. The Brillo pad doesn’t affect me. Funk does not affect me. Fentanyl does not affect me. I am in the program: 20 years backwards.

Affecting my gravity coefficient.

What you learned in algebra.

Who do you take me for? Elephant style. Five-year-old’s tightest cooch in the space of my orgasm. What’s a five year old worth anyway?

Killer beans..?

Conversation..?

I mean what does a non-family-friend want to do with a five year old? I’ll tell you.

The original sinner. That secret in the back of your throat only noticeable by me or one of my kind.

Back seat hostage.

Basement hostage farm.

Me, hand-tied in the back seat with a jumble of boys—from age three to me. At the time I was 14, 12 for those of you in the east hemisphere. Sex slavery. Human trafficking—you know what I’m saying, bro?

Of course you do. Elephant man.

Of course you do. Monkey man.

That the one who broke into our camp site hungry for the arm meat—the leg meat!—of this frail species.

Haunted from the bottom to the top.

Outside of the natural.

An electric car? That’s nothing. We don’t even have cars in the future-ism. We don’t even have condoms in the future. Due to well keeping of the park, bush areas will be trimmed, nipple hairs will be tweezed, foot hairs will be burned off with a lighter, and rap/dynamics jamming in my ear—

—You know these? These separate covers, a P❌SSY plug for those who want to convene naturally without any blood P❌SSY spell. Without any fear of pregnancy but why would you?

When you’re done you’ll kick me to the curb.

You’ll maybe call for seconds to hunt your P❌SSY feel. Rock on without me. After you get the taste. These people aren’t finger sniffers. They’re not here for the art of the thing.

They’re here for bare-ass P❌SSY.

A child at the end of the bed.

Dangling her eyes closed. Feeling like the blind leading the blind. Taking everything one step at a time, undress over the head, the arms, my skinny white legs—pulling off my pants to which my only protest is to put my arms over my head and let loose not a single tear not a single flinch not any looser P❌SS not a soul less used to this sort of thing.

And I am alone. At least alone to you.

I’ll never have billions or millions or even a thousand bucks.

I will rent myself to the available. Trade myself for money. Turn off my eyes. My ears. My skin. Don’t you ever touch me—that is #1 on a list of things I keep satisfied on a scrap of paper hidden within my bra. Hidden my consternation. But my fear is something that will never show. You’ll never know it’s even there.

A Portsmouth house is calling.

Frankly, beneath the breeze.

Funneling and scraping and bleaching and vacuuming every particle gone so even Forensics, when they’re called, will not know what to do.

When they arrive at the hotel, they will see on the comforter where I peed the bed.

They will see where my man cum on the bed. Inside of me, then dropping, then flowing like a faucet, mixed with blood, containers and containers of blood.

That’s an arrangement of me.

Tied to the bed so my arms can’t move. Two lengths of zip tie. Zipped so so tight so you can fuck without fear of my fingernails.

And what does it feel like to fuck a child, tied to a bed, her age so young that her facial expressions tell you things like: “This is the scariest time in my life.” “You are stretching me and tearing me—you are churning what was once a hip note turning me to juiced spinach.”

Juiced spinach mixed with blood.

A step-by-step process by which neighbors are fucking their neighbors’ children. Everyone deciding what is too young for them. Everyone picking their look from a magazine—flip book—of children photographed naked, before a Sheetrock wall, with no shoes, we met a black rapper-looking dude with magic in his eyes but if I imagine dude situated in front of his whiteboard making notes like I picture my professor would—back to us, inventing formulas on the fly.

And this is why we come, but he did a sneak of a peek of a view of my 5-years-old P❌SSY how’s that for you? Still care if he’s a professor?

He blindsided me:

When he suddenly switched from teach mode into rape-a-kid mode. Funny how the two are different. Funny how one enables the other.

First it starts with licking my P❌SS. Analyzing me with your tongue. Excavating parts of me that I didn’t know exist.

Then he puts his dick near my asshole.

Slaps it around my butt cheeks.

And then do you know what happened? A quick’ning of my blood, and his, as he lubes my ass with corn oil brings out an ear of corn and slip, slip, slip! it into place (you knew it because it was so smug) writing and rocking and thrusting and poking and at every push of the black man’s corn cob into a place that was always and I guess always will be my shit hole, gaped and ruined by its possession to others.

Face Down in a Ted Bundy Textbook

Face down do I operate. Face down do I see myself reading from above now. I’m in the last cell to the right. Channeling Bundy. I could never survive his looks, his charm, his educated smile. And do they say that Ted cried that last night before rats of electricity overran his brain. This is my legacy—my love of Ted—not my own murders. Not my own abuses! No. I am forgotten while this “Ted Bundy” has his fun and escaped the world with nothingness. With a shorter lifespan. Which any of us could have had because the flu.

I am face down in the Ted Bundy collection. Neck deep in his buttoning shirts. Gone crazy (arguably) unable to focus on my own sheet music. Unable to play my instrument with Ted’s looming behind me. Overshadowing my tiny notes with ease. Driven like a puppeteer. I don’t think I have bipolar disorder, either—just a sap, am I, a sapling who bears largesse, potential, great potential energy—that of a bomb. Of a squad. I am face down. In this Bundy text. Practicing. Rehearsing. Presenting me with my next move. My next life. Golden cherubs the shape of six-year-old femmes. Girls. Nothing wrong with them. Yet. Nothing messed about their minds. Not yet. They have yet to read a Braille sentence with their fingers. “From right to left. With a capital F. We keepin’ this shit hot to death. Stoppin’ your breath.”

In the Bundy text there is no subject matter separation. There is no future—only the present. Only this present moment dangling your body before me you’re the South American monster who kills girls for wanting to take a hike. The result—after searches that only recovered a shoe—with one of the girls’ feet still in it—the result after all this was the state put up a sign at the entrance of the trail that says, “LOCALS ONLY.”

That’s it. No description. No explanation. Just an artificial separation under locals under visitors. There’s a place in Indonesia where dogs will bite you from another dimension. All maps are fake. Every map ever made lies to you hiding caves that go from Washington DC straight to China. Brilliant tunnels a thousand years old. Fake death anyone? At least with me you’ll know it’s about to happen. One day. You will get used to fear before you fall asleep. Clinging to life as you never would have before you thought it was threatened.

That’s how I sleep. Counting victims instead of sleep. Configuring murder weapons. Coming to me your offering in hand kneeling as I sit on the edge of your bed. I am there like a hallucinated tiger—anime features, anime hair—realistically simulated claws (the better to scratch you with). A set of tools wrapped up like butchery knives—everything I need—chopped, screwed, specializing drug abuser future astronaut! bonded/licensed Formula One drinking beer throughout the night indigo pantaloons that’s the kind of colors that will rival you to an infinite dog.

Mud bugs. Pub drugs. That’s exactly the kind of drug I fed you in your cocoa mug and I took some back for yelp!ing purposes. I don’t like doing this. I don’t. I endure the sexuality, I don’t need that part. A mini wet nap telling me what to do via letter forms on the side of the plastic package. Not even readable, the letters sway. They swirl seeking gravity like a flushing toilet. Going down, down, down until the poop I named “Bundy” has been sent to the netherworld, to the dark side of human nature. To bareback ponies (all black) saddle me though a field outside Tulsa, wrapping my body in a heated blanket every inch of which is hieroglyphically printed with Latin script which—when translated—equates out to something like Fuck you motherfucker This is the end of Saturday morning cartoons. The end of a stay so briefly on this planet that it continues to set records for youngness against the ever longevity-living kids of the rush of Arial Bold. Thinking somehow that a font could save them.

But I tell you: There is no man behind the curtain. No Wizard, none of your terrible gods. Nothing of crazy takeover aliens whose birthright hung around each one’s neck. Aliens who would never kill you. Aliens who by the nature of their intelligence will bust you back (a

rock to the lip) and perform experiments aboard their spaceship (licking, using machinery as though it was an extension of their 400-IQ minds. How about a nice game of chess? Ahh: No thank you. How would you like to play global thermonuclear war.

That’s genius, man. True genius. Blue skies. The dropping of the panties of a panty-dropping freak. That’s every girl, though: Every. Single. One if those naughty bitches wants her P❌SSY touched by anyone, every one a cacophony of the serial killers of the day.

I am sitting in Ted Bundy’s jail cell. Dug with a pitchfork through a mountain of law school tomes and I am banging my forehead on this one book. This one book that Ted was using to try and free himself.

But no luck.

If he was a bastard then I am a bastard.

If Ted could harbor dreams of once again running free, carrying the law with him on his back, hoping to escape. But there wasn’t a way. There was no false ceiling in this last cell, this last cell to the right and the end of the hallway. I am waiting for them to plug my butt with cotton balls. Waiting for them to shave my head to simplify the application of a falconer’s cap—zap! What a trade is this. My last meal for my life? You know what I say to that? I say: You can take this last meal and stuff it up your ass.

Oh, delight! My P❌SS entrances you? Let me give you this red stripey Band-Aid® to apply over my hole!

This is Part A—Stripey Stripey Stripe.

The New Beginning.

The Anthem! The Boyz! That thumping in your side, your head—your side of the!—brain!—the crux in your head. That silly-Sally of a bump in your noggin. A strump in your loggin’.

Tell me something: Tell me this: Did you see yourself, smell yourself, popping my P❌SSY when you were 10 years old? Did you imagine me that young—that nubile state of you—that innocent child of you. Or did you hit 12 before the desire to grab hit you. Did you plummet to the deck of fire fighters?—of puberty—before those terms—about—rattled, your brain—before you hit that unknown itch—from the back of your hand to its front (if you touch me with the back of your hand it doesn’t count)—if you touch my front with the back of your hand it—does—not——count!

No it doesn’t.

If you touch me for less than 10 seconds it doesn’t count. When you start touching I count down from the number. 10..9..8. All the way to 1.

That’s the final number.

That straight one stood right next to that round one.

That curly one who was stood right next to the sharp one. That zero stood next to that one, one. One. One for the music. One for the road. You give me one—Thanks!—that’s the “Howdy!”—the rowdy—the lousy honk filling my road every morning, every night, every horny, every fight.

You said you liked my blue shirt and my camo shorts. That it reminded you of your youth.

I liked that. And I wore my blue shirt and camo shorts every day, to give you that sensation of liking me (or liking what I wore) or even liking me and what I wore on top of me.

Liking my wrapping.

Liking my suit.

Liking the candy underneath. I wanted you as my boyfriend. But after that initial period, I knew you didn’t like me one bit—except as friend—we were buddies for the slaughter.

Meant for consumption by the evil, light. Warriors. Of blandness. And sideways ways.

Of daytime warriors. You and I fought wars of the night. Our counterparts to them. Those who woke up to the sun, fought every sunbeam. Fought every spirit left with an ounce of night.

But the night is beautiful.

Every second of it.

Every moon-lit surface of it—night—who washes over me in its ever-expanding still, ness, soft, ness. Blank-ness. Black-ness. Empty-ness.

And lack of light.

And. Lack. Of light.

Lack of lack of lack of lights. Light. Of light. Of light is lack. If I see a another Hemingway rack his game rifle I’m losing my mind or I’m going crazy.

“NXGGA WXNT CRXZY.”

I’m telling you: If another Hemingway strolls through here I’m’a ‘bout to lose my mothafuckin’ nuts up in heah.

Refrain.

If you look at the night. For long enough you eventually realize that everyone who looks at the sky (at least from your general vicinity) is basically looking at the same thing. You know? We’re all looking up at the same sky. That when we do that—look at the sky we all get the same result. It’s the same thing whether it’s you or I doing it. Try you looking in my face and asking yourself what brought me here and see if we get a different result.

Do it.

I am.

Do it.

I am.

I knew you were. I knows that phraseology that you didn’t quite say: Well good! Well good. That’s a phrase I’ve only heard from one of you. You living souls. Only the one they call Kiss. That’s the only one of you I have heard to say that phrase. This “Well good” you speak of.

Devil nachts! surprise you.

CHXCKS CXSHED

GAPs GAP KIDS THE STUFF YOU’re welcome I know I’m incredible—it’s ok, don’t worry, don’t sweat it, don’t even give it a thought—don’t even! Don’t even sweat it, bro—don’t even sweat that shit!

Seriously man.

Do. Not. Even. Sweat that shit!

Rully dood. Rully my maestro. R-uh-il-ill-eee!! Rully doodskins. Put that in your bag and smoke it. Count them. Then smoke them. Then count them then smoke them. Then count. Then smoke.

Then count then smoke!

Then..count. Then..smoke.

Count then smoke.

Count. Smoke.

Count. Smoke.

Count.

Smoke.

Count! with a blast (of smoke!) then a blasting of midwinter’s dusting )sparkly cigar( mood of punctuation—high-Q!!—checking out the checker boy!—and every cuteness he has a red conductor’s hat )wearing( on his head he has the black and white overalls—

You mean coveralls?

No, I mean overalls you dumb fuck I mean overalls. Smh. Use internet slang. Use internet yellow. Yellow, green, blue. Touch. My internet wang. Internet blink. Internet twink. Internet safety. Internet-safe fonts.

Internet.

Oh my god you were born before the internet.

You’ve got to be kidding—I’m not capitalizing ‘internet!’ “

I’m not capitalizing anything. Except “I” and—that’s it. I. I is the only important thing )lie( like a river lie like the sun (lie) my river my sun the calculator of stars paint my wall a picture caught hollow, wild )horses( alone in the stable watching their after-school programs Degrassi High and such the recent past is meant to seem much farther away while the distant past is made to seem much closer.

Have you noticed that?

Will you come along my conspiracy?

Is this a path you’re willing to take? A web you wish to enter? Is a smell you’d like to smell? A texture you’d like to touch? Is this the wetness you want to have smeared on your head forever?

Question.

That’s my question to you.

“Life, Quantifiable. Consciousness: Not.”

It is said in the annals of time that life is quantifiable but consciousness is. Like sometimes, these are nameable but notnexistable ie you can give a name for something in your brain that doesn’t exist. That’s possible inside a computer.

I just wonder if some of these symbols hadn’t been declared for us at the beginning of our program that things wouldn’t have become so confused down here. And maybe it’s not too late to undeclare them now.

Computers have blackness. Not in color but in lack of knowledge. Knowledge doesn’t exactly have color—nor does knowledge, although we use the color black to denote lack of knowledge and white to denote some presence of knowledge. But a computer’s lack of knowledge is really quite deep if you consider only what it knows in its memory.

When you’re a girl, everything is about your P❌SSY.

It’s all about P❌SSY.

The naughty P❌SSY. The nasty P❌SSY. That everything P❌SSY. That nothing P❌SSY.

That everything I thought you were nothing P❌SSY. That nothing I ever followed P❌SSY in a spider’s web. That everything was nothing.

Nothing,

raised by nothing,

In—o—thing. Innothing. No-thing ever rais’d me like you did, micro-mother dropped from the sky in code—a four-part code found also in DNA, but found there laying obviously, basking in our warm sun. A dose of purity..dose of crucifixion, dose of bleach, dose of rainbow sprouts window wiper elephant-can—re-evolve, re-enveloping, re-re-plain, recover, refrain, resign, re-evolve of a green-yard, backyard snake kind of guy guy guy-friend you chose to nomenclate right here.

Bustly currency nomenclates right here.

Busty currency nomenclature rights here.

Rightly ads smoking apocalypse for an AMBER Alert. Rightly ads building notes of the ends of the world. Leftly, rightly, I do realize I’m writing the codes for the end of this world and rightly the codes for the beginning to follow (leftly). To follow the left so hard it shakes me in absentia. It measured me—it measured my consciousness, my life below that, my pizza quotient and the rock quotient before that, beneath that, beside and betwixt. Betwixt that. Beatrix this—that’s. That is your motion for exit.

Don’t deny that don’t ever deny me that don’t ever denote me (defrag—defragmenter!) don’t ever define you! Never define you never no don’t won’t will not will not ever!!

Will not ever—no, no.

Will not ever.

I think what would have helped? Is if we’re able to examine my art in person—will we be able to do it? Will the means be available to us?

Will it be available? My issues confront-able online? Answers available. 3d models up the wall (crawling) playing this P❌SSY game I think: “Is is possible to imagine graphics better than this?”

I think not.

I think rats. Dropped from the sky.

Fell a year later in Southern France a little bit wilder and a little worse for wear. You guide rocks through decorum of notes—cells—the tidal of great waters (sometimes we knew the hell coming by our selves we were the ones—we were the ones!).

The snaky, rock-loving ones. Wanted to perish a bird. Tha’d be cute. Wanted to perish the bird who started in The Making Of—a documentary of a documentary of a documentary. Wanted to coax my hands feathery with a swoop of life a blessing of human wings—our hands like the roof of a house, cup under, like to catch the rain if the rain fell up!

If the rain fell..up!

If my candy, when I tasted it, it tasted sour instead of sweet! If instead of sugar I tasted dour. Instead of spice I tasted the burnt-out pixie oven that had been placed on top of the fridge. Instead of placing the guns in a safe, we kept ours in a dusty platter by the front door: The danger of all this leaving your speech..speechless. Leaving your tone and your timbre flat, deflated, old, decrepit, ready to die when you leave the lights like that. One light, two light, three light: Four! That is how it fell. One two three four.

One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes. Four.

Fine me the next morning seeking through the trash. Find me the next morning seeping through my BarcaLounger® seeming like roots to carry water to the source Where rocks punch upward near a papilllon of roots, water, carbon and bullshit arrowed to my mothafuckin stem, my main root, the essence of me. Essence of life. Reference to life. The killer kid of hallows has been following me, staking me, riding on my back with three..four feet..elegant/safety..the bomb of the Black Sea is like the one teeny tiny mechanism with black probes all around the spoon It takes four thousand gallons of water a second To keep on track, it does So up in town, the town that supports our fracking (not a bad word—absolutely—not the way we use it here). The way we use it here means a pancake structure over each Saturday morning. We buy toys and adult toys and my brood would never settle for anything less than the elegant—the amazing, the syntacular—it is all around is like a series of “Yes”s instead of “No”s that people will say. They will say those yesses instead of those nos and the tunnel of possibility will light up like that one tunnel of yes in that one airport A globular spin-down mechanism you can push down your shorts I’ll be there behind you, with my hands everywhere manipulating your folds of skin. Me in the background with my hands in for multiple skills the new McDonald’s with two slow kids one handing out food, with one cleaning the dining area.

This is how it is now.

It’s crazy now. Think of how many kids lost their job in that conversion.

A Lifetime Supply of Mickey D’s

I worked in that McDonald’s. That’s where he met me.

I met a lotta people there. Lotsa kinks thinks and multi-style mother’s P❌SSY winks.

Tiddly-fucking-winks. Barbarian twines. Deathly Hallows. But you got me by the hijinx—tiddly winkle—guilty/rapid knuckles puning for the mutha/fuckin’ PBJ forgot it in the TDW/personage groundswell mutha-marker mutha-mutha nap on the back of my carriage.

I mean the first time he walked in there. Snapshot of his muthafuckin’ self. Muthafuckin’ carriage. His motherfucking tent map tied to the ceiling (my end comes forest) (your end called in the short sight—re-peat repeat young man!) (roll me at your feet, lane spiked as a motherfucker) short feet high-jest symbology comes to bare you’re speaking to me using swear words invented by your grandparents. It is a rhetorical lexicon that neither generation fully understands. Lex. I. Con. Its most important feature is that neither party understands what it’s good for—neither party knows what they’re saying to the other. In fact. Neither party. Knows what is coming out the business name of their face.

Neither party ever knows—through the timeline of our kinetic—what the heck they are saying. Their open mouth. My hand talking spurts. Bubbles. The tensor of a knife. The knuckling through. This sky, backing everything, covering our ass from the backside. Covering. Everything.

Everything from where stones covered my snap spots along the hip lines to where the crotch lines cover me barely (you’re the shy scientist!) to where the four lay lines come together over my asshole to the under-over scritch-scratch call sign multiple shit forms—wizard—cumming multiply (with multiple dicks in a super prod! Multiple dicks, multiple sticks, and multiple pricks expanding out over our horizon. We packed every FunBox® over full on fun!!

Over full on Mexicans.

Over full on flywheels.

Over full on shenanigans. Buried an inch deep in the over-lawn. Cycles of disappearance. Between us cycles of love. Between us in logic only—in name only—syntactically, corpologically—using realistic spelling—your emojicon taken seriously, realistically—with about a year of spelling-clear use in the folds of my Mexicon.

My multi-paged sexicon.

Filled with the knowledge as a lexicon.

And those pages. Those last two pages as a semi-realistic Mexico’s suitable for ordering pizza, a Rug Ray, a sound. Maybe to reverse-order a burrito (a mosquito, my libido). To reverse the lyrics of my wrong, my very own song. Reverse the lyrics of my motherfucking sound—it goes round when the sound flattens like the meme who stands up to use the bath sits down it’s her vacation it’s her sophistication this bubble in the rug—this tug—this pliable ugh!

This coffee filter gives us all something to tug!

It gives us everything so snug!

A hallelujah sound. Knocked down like the Dow it swings from high to love. Pictured me before the portrait in your locker (which I saw walking through behind you) (which I saw floating next to your standing there) (which I saw in yesteryear standing behind you standing beside you with that seeming smile) (in a tug in a bug and finally in a slug you pencilled there).

When you saw me in thy adult mode.

When you saw me as a Mickey-D-owned Mouseketeers popping out of my uniform. That’s the breast—the chest—this was worn by me of multiple years, to 14 years, to my puberty. Imagine adults of my mental age serving able-minded adults. Helping adults of my age. Ordering their meals all across the world—everyone who is helping us use the computer by mentally-redacted children of the mentally incapacitated world as we type our orders in to a large vertical screen.

The screen is easy enough to be used by a mentally ill teenager.

But must be used by a mentally healthy wealthy and wise adult. Who has the willingness to be helped to order their food from a digital painting five feet tall.

I saw this in my vision.

From before this restaurant had a chance to pop like springs through its central core—a one-direction kick-start made to exist through nanotech diamonds I’m telling you. This shit. Is a monster. People. This shit is real. I’m telling you. You had me. Before. The time. I said. Hello.

Way before: In the back of the back sheets.

Even before that: In the back back back of the brave sheets.

In the motorwerks. In the Japan. In the motors of BMWs. In the motors of VKs. In the motors of every kickstand bike helmet of my motocross venue, every fat-house ownership of the homeless. In the end of every paragraph penned in the hand of every successful parent is this more of knowledge: Don’t become homeless—because even as your parents we could never support you—homeless, chronically in hospital—if you’re unwilling or unable to support yourself (except in case of your own extreme richesse—that own tablesafe of your own richess, strung out like one of those doggies held by a leash, walked by a leash with no one on the end)—that is the sign of the rich—those who without donoring amass, possibly before their birth, more money than they would be able to decently spend on themself In one lifetime.

Think of what breaking that rule would supply in the way of indecency. My man—my guy—is the one I am speaking about here. He has gold bars in his basement (that’s the rumor) and without more discussion this is at least one indication that he is afraid. He’s afraid of the world falling apart. Of the currency. Of prisoner’s. He’s told me before. His fear of the criminal. Of those on the edges—of people like me. My guy—one-of the people like him—don’t imagine me as one like him. To him, I’m one of the scum that has no choice but to swim backwards past that brick of gold.

And in the slow lane—that’s where I will swim.

With he and one wife and one kid in the fast lane, somehow his gold bar will make him magically faster than me even in the apocalypse.

I’d like to bend her over and fuck her good soft P❌SSY.

Can I fuck your sweet, soft P❌SSY please?

Can we bring it down—can’t we bring it down just a little bit, maestro? Can we bring it down to what I see—what I see in the heart-shaped window of a little girl.

Sitting inside?

The floating of a map.

A secret decoder ring is wrapped around your tongue. Modulating every syllable of your speech.

When I see you, at first I hear your voice crying up to me—to my very construct. My very inner place where voices rise from pots of bile. My place where secret voices whisper secret texts not unlike this one. Where I am the alpha and I am the omega. Where the world is a bonfire and my fingers are the only matches. Where the world sits and lives on an island made of brushwood—clinging to its ever-changing central mass.

But I mean, I ask myself: What is this P❌SSY we all search for. How has looking for it changed us—you and me. What are its effects, its saturations, its irruptions, natural offshoots, genetic origins, and what are its almost inaudible laughable, irresistible, moldable glue.

How do I go about getting it?

Switch to my portrait mode—checking, nothing—checking there, nothing there—switch my brain into manual mode, cross-dressed, hand-painted with custom macrame chain-mail armor, you know I could always get through to you. I could always live inside your warm body of soap..soap all down (and there, and everywhere) down the front of your belly, my hands in the ultimate closeness of position, in that special knitted little pouf! of position. I can only imagine how she makes you purr. Makes your whole skin writhe from inside to outside, from top to bottom, from “I just met you” to “this is crazy!” to the bottom-most source (consisting of pig shit) (having some trouble turning into a mush) (my last believing moment before I release myself from this visit and throw myself far far and away—so fucking far that for once I almost catch myself and walk out the room)—I have rented it with cash. I have rented it before. I have written it into my dreams, soft green and a crushed-velvet sofa-ey feel. Soft-bled into my drop of a conscience. Placed on the center to bleed.

Pinkles tinkles burning brush of acid.

Watercolor drapes.

See? I can feel all those as desperately as you two can feel them! I can write poetry, too!

I can write “poetry in the shade of great writers”—“Don’t you think anyone would publish me?”—I think someone would. I mean I think that someone will..channel your creativity here, channel it there. Just keep that awful little bitch under the rafters of the attic.

Witch hazel! Witch hazel!!

Record the toil. Brush my coat off with that lint roller—mmm! Caught you unaware!

I caught you in that most vulnerable position. You. Bend over your sink (pretend it’s yours) now take the soap show me between your legs rub it soo good now repeat this part after me. Say: “Witch hazel.” Remember who showed you that: Men. Me of all men, receiving the thorny situation, but Me of All Men—dancing, and moving, and I take it to the streets.

I take it to the streets, taking you there with a small camera crew. Making them yours, every Avenue below Union Square—I was from there, I was born there and was born into there and after I was born there I helped put together..some street-wise journal showed us the structural lines. After that it was up to me but I had iPhone’s camera app and I set you up with the filter I use for everything and if you look real close—look so close the thing you’re looking at could reach out and tell you that even through your madman octopi ears you will never reach her the way she sits or lies: You need to exercise bedroom privileges. Lock down nights of little-girl checks for water.

When I wake up in the middle of the night and hear her, snoring, lightly (so, so) snoring an elevator beat. That’s when I spontaneously cum into an answer delivered to me miles overground, my mind reaches saturation, immersion. Dispersion.

I imagine she speaks three languages.

That you could para-drop her ass right into Syria and she’d wipe the dirt off her ass kick herself and merge everything in column A with everything (all the objects therein) from column B and hence and hence and hence.

Flowers of pink. I imagine you have punkin’ pantaloons with elastic strip around the waist, two elastic strips around your virgin legs. I guess that’s something you’d know little of. Given that all you’ve known of dressing (four rooms, Victorian originals, iTunes originals, Fiona Apple is in there, a bit of Busta Rhymes, classic rap will be greeted like Wagner, he was 13 when he lost his dignity to a crowd marm—but what can you say? I only want two emphasis marks now. Two little fang marks. Occlusion. Blockages. Mental shortcomings.

Every small thing writ large.

My silent dreams, my humming, subjected to a classical alert. Tumbling and tumbling and tumbling. And tumbling through death.

But..but..

When you’re a girl, that’s your P❌SS and your P❌SS is gold.

Girls can be fuckboys too!

“Uh..hello?..can I get at this mic here? Hello! Wake this fucking program and its pilot too. Now that, I’m going to have you hump each other like rabbits before you fucking die. It’s like the poster says: “Girls can be fuckboys too.”

One. Two. Tickle my shoe.

Five. Six. Get me one a those dicks.

Seven. Twelve. Run a truck over them shits! How can, as women, we on one hand say that everything we get, every method route we’re sold, is “We always get our way. We have a vagina!” Winning with Beaver: A chapter book. “Dry dick is my new favorite insult.” And of course: I have boobs, therefore I’m always right.”

That on one hand, about how we control them due to them wanting the cookie and on the other hand, about how you insult our P❌SSIES shivering between our legs—victim of bad touch. If you fail to comply, we withhold the P❌SS. If you act too possessively, we cry rape.

You want the cookie—I know that much. You have thought up (brilliantly) to grab little kids at the Mickey Ds, throw them inside your donuts mobile and as you open the door to enter the Mc D’s there a poster right there that says:

“HUMAN TRAFFICKING IS HAPPENING RIGHT HERE IN THIS TINY TOWN IN OHIO CALL THIS NUMBER TO HELP XXX-YYY-ZZZZ”

That’s on the door to the Mc D’s that tripped up my whole life. Of course there’s human trafficking going on here. The place has a parking lot—doesn’t it? Unless..unless you can’t see the guys and gals dressed in track suits, complicated dresses, transparently entering and exiting the restaurant (if you could call it that—it’s mostly deliveries and resetting the place’s robots) entering and exiting their cars: Space ships remodeling themselves every once a super moon diving cycle.

Someone said human beings know (as a percentage) more about outer space than we do about our whole ocean. How is that? What about all the oceans on every possible planet? Wouldn’t a couple of those known oceans (from outer space) possibly add up to more complexity than is found in our, one, ocean?

My boy went to buy weed now in new and different forms. Extracts. Liquids. Vials. Stuff only cher people will recognize or have anything to do with. People got so bored they had to do human trafficking at my McDonald’s. Fat bastards sucking baby testicles the the connecting cables stuck in their throats.

Bastards hooked up in the back of the Mickey D’s to machines from 10,000 years in the future. Cables literally like ribbons with almost no thickness. Carrying aeons of historical data.

It all merged with the lightbulb. We call it the Edison Effect.

Standing on the beach.

One day.

Pushing down my pants and saying: Am I a girl?

Am I culturally ethically a prisoner in this box—my own little box—from which I keep cut out windows, horse feederies mucked with wine, horse trash pits where electrically enhanced tannins, applied micro-dosically with Alice’ spelling, spread on the substrate, held for years in a safe-cracker’s safe—When you’re a girl, girl, everybody wants your P❌SSY that’s just the way it goes, you’ll be sauced on both sides, run through a corporate dry-cleaning patented process that will do what to me, exactly?

Does it make me smarter?

Get rid of this gray hair around the top of my forehead. Its showed up in the Dunkin’ parking lot. One morning. Once upon a time. I brought forth my hair. Presented it to you—the judge. The sage. The messianic mage.

Casting now (say: of a bug) is easier, more powerful—check the manual for details. Introducing spells: Seeking girl. Girl details. Like fishing, you set yourself up on a sidewalk in south Venice and every time she passes, cut into her skin with the hook. Drag your catch into the trunk speed-close the door I can see out of—watch you and your boy talking outside the car everything you say you is contained within this sentence:

“Suzy sells shells by the seashore.”

And those two are yodeling as dolphins, relentless punishers of their prey. Relentlessly hunting. Defusing bombs. Etcetera. Inviting the bomb squad to our party. It’s best to keep them near and my whole self slipped to the thought of every backwards look, every time I disappoint you. Every time you have turned your head I caught you passing the meridians (right then!) your face turned from joy to What the fuck? I will always be saying that every time: What the fuck.

What the fuck.

I mean what the actual fuck?

What the duck? What the fuckity fuckity fuck!! I was born and raised in China, came here for school, got my P❌SSY reamed out, never did leave. Got into meth. Turned myself out. Watch the grease spot! I work at a diner in Santa Monica—if by work you mean I walk quickly along the front street, cross down the alley, and open my book bag, scooping out food boxes and bags, everything sealed, like it was meant to be eaten this way, from the trash.

The more people you have eating out of the back of grocery stores—that’s bad.

Give me a voice. You know that? Open a restaurant inside the grocery and feed people the food your sexy stocker boy is about to take out back.

Of course it would never work. With this setup, the rich people who shop there would be offended they had to share space with and sensory output with a bunch of lazy fucking bums.

I have to ask you something now.

Can you please stop yelling?

You know I do both heroin and coke (shoot them) and I think they’ve started to damage my ears.

I try not to notice that you.

Are screaming.

In my ear.

The Man In the Yellow Mask Carries More Than Bananas Between Those Legs

He carries me from a prominent boat family. Lakeside. Ohio. Stories came from there that a woman had killed her baby by drowning it in the center of the lake. That was 20 years ago now, tragedy eclipsed by curiosity, curiosity splitting consciousness, consciousness still a mystery—they tell us we gave it a name when there was never any it to begin with. Tell us that even calling it “it” gives that “it” too much gravity. Too much funkiness. Horror. Countedness. Magnification. Velocity. The magnet we tied to a shark’s mouth. Cut and dried and hung off the back of our boat. Not a big boat, either, y’all: This was a soft-serve schooner. Placed on the shelf with monkey brains and yellow spoons. Plenty to eat your brains out. A hamburger at dinner for a partial breakfast, skipped lunch. Paved the school parking lot, perved every pet in there. Skipping to the skies of mortality-less-ness. Who is the man in the yellow hat? Do you know? It has been scraped to his existence (bright colors and magma) so shines so brightly the edges of every proper coin. You know it? You have it? You traced it. You tracked it. I’ll tell you a little story:

There was a small small boy, aged five, living in the dumpster with his family, smoking crack (the adults mostly buy we all did it sometimes me and sister Sue bidding for it in the corner of the Waste Management box that called itself our home. I’ll give you a bite of the letter here. Will remind you of your early trials and tribulations, all the way back to the first book. Tried and true. Burned right through. That’s the only way we can do this, if you have every detail, every moment of my breathing. Every note of my song, not yet metered for public consumption. Not yet calcified in its danger. Not quantified as to its effect on the young. We’ve tried to make this difference: If there were zero guns, there would be zero people shot where (of light) if you had full gun saturation (let’s say five guns a piece) there would be maximum shootings—hence—you say? You would expect the most shootings when there are the most available guns—and zero shootings when there were the fewest available guns. But it doesn’t matter. I keep five AR-15s wrapped in silk next to the gold bars in my basement. Total. Consummate. Boom.

See the AR-15 as my tiny penis. Women think I’m doing something to protect it. Represent it, saying: “I think he’s compensating for something”—you know, as though carrying a gun, for a male biological, would be a penis substitute. I never bought any of that psychology. Never fell into the trap. Never even in my subconscious did I ever say: “I am uncomfortable with my small penis so I will go out and buy an F-150 pickup truck and drive it in all the lanes. Park across lines double-crossing two parking paces and I will own every little bitch who drives a Honda CR-X hahaha pwhahahaha PHWAHAHAHA!!”

I don’t do that.

In fact it seems to be to be one of the great differential divides in our thought-consciousness that women think of a man’s penis in so many abusive ways but this is accepted as a low din pressure release valve to the general view of their persuasion. And that is this: In the west, we regard genital mutilation as a human rights violation and we don’t mutilate feminine clitori but what do we do? Cut every dick that comes out—just about. What is that? Sanitation? Tell that to a kid who’s just come to realize at 15 his dick got cut off destroying up to 90% of the nerves possibly affecting intercourse affecting interest in sex causing feeling inferior when presenting his dick to various possible partners, he is not thinking: “Oh my spanking stinking Lord, will you place the power of my intended penis inside the thrust behind the driver’s seat of my F-150. And while you’re at it, please make every white sedan and its female passenger open up its rear end like a reverse vagina and make it so that if I crash into her, that would be a boom!”

No. I’m not thinking that.

Nothing like it.

When I whip it out in the hotel room, and rip the sheets out of your hand. It exposes. It puts you on show, shivering in air conditioning, wanting to close your eyes but you dare not do. For the backlash from arms of my tiny penis. Gold. Pyramid-shaped spikes. You will never make fun of me—I have arranged it. Without any hesitation, if you laugh at my F-150, I will crack your skull with my fist, burning through chrome, landing my squozen fingers in your cranium, squishing my fingers, liquefying your brain. Made to Kool-Aid! Problem-solving becomes impossible. Facial expressions?—impossible. You don’t have any feelings so why? You don’t need facial expressions when you don’t feel emotion anymore, you don’t have cognitive responses to labeled problems. When I put you in my F-150, you know. You know it’s not a dick (duck) that feels unequal when I’ve fucked (about) 50 girls ruining half their bodies to be there for me. To please me. That’s the only reason.

You think I’m comparing my dick to an F-150?

You think that?

I don’t care the size of my dick. I don’t care if you have pictures. I don’t care what kind of videos you have of what I’m doing, standing at your camera placed behind the television. I’ll be standing there not contemplating my dick size, never buying into that rumor, but I will lay you out on the hotel bed-that first time—I am cursed! Deformed. Broken as a man. A big dick is either a blessing or a curse. A way to be present or a way to hide.

I’ll tell you what: I may have a small dick.

But those five-year buddies, when I stick it in them, they scream and cry and hold their hands over their ears. I slide through like glass. If my dick was any bigger it would cut them.

12 Lessons of a Suburban Housewife

Digested in days. A matter of. This rinky dinky powder I have for my face. A tinge of blush where the beach wind blew my face blue. Organizing neurons in my earthly head. Just enough color so he thinks: She’s ret—ret to go. Instead of thinking: Where did this ratty princess come from?

That’s what I would think anyway.

Who is this tasty little bitchess?

She reminds me of this easy-knockdown Dior bitch who stalked me in my dreams. I could feel her after school. Between my toes. Building castles in sand that go crush! every time I flex my mush-cles. Muscles.

Make me go in the swimming pool. Twice. Once we arrive at your hotel. Once when we leave.

When you’re done with me.

When you’ve finally come.

Cum in my eyelashes. Cum tiny animals. Come a droplet of rain. Cum a tiny octopus, tiny donkey, tiny snake, tiny wolf.

That’s my invocation.

Plant your zoo crackers inside of me. Inside of every crack and crevice come to me. Tell your animals: Crawl up to her face. Plant your seed via the mating function, crompling every previous satan spawn by your brothers.

The dead ones

They’re addicts—don’t enjoy a thing.

Slave to the routine. Buying girls. Renting girls. Drugging us before. Drugging them after. Always meth available and I think I will. Get so fucked up on that shit that I bleed concentric circles around my asshole. Bleed from the hairs around my eyes. Blood in my tears. Blood on my fingertips, left there from my constant picking—I always pick a nail too hard, it’s noticed by the men.

They tell me they won’t sleep with me unless I stop tearing my nails from their skin.

I tell them “What part of me do you want to do first?”

“Nowhere! Just hold your hands in a fist. I’m sick of observing your gore. Little girl. Little girl? Look me in the eye. Hold up let me get my screwdriver.”

I kneel on the bed, facing him, and he plucks my entire body, follicle by follicle, while humming Psalms and Ezekiel, and that is how I learned the true meaning of the gospel.

By shutting my eyes and turning my mind from the pain. Imagining this was a demented form of dentistry requiring me to nurse my meth high while Joe Blow over here gets a 1/20 semi from my inevitable tears.

“How’re you gonna handle it?” he says. “How are you gonna handle the pressure I give you—just by closing your eyes? Wishing you were back in school? Bet you’d take pop quizzes with chocolate milk if you went back now.”

“I won’t ever go back. So you can do what you want, mister.”

I present my butt to him.

He kicks me—kicks me in the ass. It throws me off the bed and next thing I know Mister Man is on top of me in the corner of the room. He rips off my shirt (totally unnecessary), then he’s meditating on his own cock (which won’t get hard for him), saying “What haven’t I ever done for you, good dog! When have you ever asked me for something and I didn’t do it for you? You want dry food? Wet food? You want a mushy mushy milk bone!!”

“It’s ok,” I say.

But he interrupts me with: “You can’t help with this! It was fucking you when you were a kid that ruined my cock for you now!”

“I never knew you as a kid,” I say.

And he says: “No? You don’t remember? No?? You don’t recall?? You were the five year old..in a bathtub..you had your little boyfriend in there and there were four beds in the room where you slept—“

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were new then. Fresh. Not fresh fresh. But fresh enough for me. Fresh enough that when I told you to step out of the bath, you did it and did it silently—not like now, you’ve grown the lip, you never listen—but back then when I told you to stand, you stood (without speaking) and when I told you to cum, you came—“

“I was five years old I didn’t cum, you can bet on that.”

“Well, when I told you to make me cum, you did.”

My eyes seek the carpet.

“Can I have another shot of crystal?”

“Sure,” he says. He talks to the room in general while he prepares the shot. “Isn’t it weird” he says, “that it’s illegal to have sex with kittens? I mean god-john illegal to cum with a child in mind? Straight-up illegal to lie back and let a five year old make me cum. Oh I love it sooo much, fingers that are new at touching a man. Fingers that smell like your sticky rice-year-old P❌SS. Remember? How I sat you with your legs spread around my ankle? And remember how I stimulated you by rocking my leg up and down and you put both hands on my cock—like you’re doing now. And then I made you fuck my leg like a horse. And you had this look on your face like, ‘Oh my god I’m about to cum!’ and of course you didn’t (you couldn’t cum back then) but you could have your fun, too. And I think I saw you reach that point yourself—eyes watering and you looked away from me when you came and I had you—I could make you cum. You could make me cum. And I guess this event is why you’re here again, seeking me out—because I have become something of a father figure to you. Something of a dad. Is this true?”

Buy One Get One Free Juveniles

Of the cross. Hanging. One by one. On one side the Criminal Courts of America. On the other side the Tainted Twin Council of Methuselah. You can tell which one is one strike too many—one strike too far. When yellow becomes red and red becomes yellow. Sitting in my holding cell at Municipal pondering whether the world would be better without me in it. With me reading magazines behind bars. I would start with the basics (Cosmo, Teen Vitus) then move onto the harder stuff—that would be titles like Muscles and Coal and Critical Function—these borrow their precepts from stray air, wafting through hallways, stairwells, every declension of habit—ice, cold sober, wickedness.

Wickedness and metaphor. Tune yours finely for a finger-ship parade. Ticker tape funeral. Need someone to write it—other than me. Need someone disinterested to wash your casket in the river where the blood sleeps down from the laundry. They discolored the entire river with fingerprints of gold. Incorporating that which dies (human) with that which lives, in away, by cleaning and brushing and washing their souls away.

How many of these delicate (spindly, spindly!) friendly careful tiny creatures swam around the pond of rainwater you swish, swish around your mouth around my toilet bowl.

Carefully seeming casually to touch. To ring. To ring around. Ring around the posies. Pocket full of incense. Pocket full of rye.

And stick a needle in my fucking eye.

You play-around biotch. Victim underwhelming. Crime: Come home to me in bed, every fantasy of childhood sex I never got. Incels swipe left swipe right. Scratch the surface and exclaim. I have found my identity of no-function sex—two people one of whom hates me, one of whom carries the axe, one who ignores me sexually. That’s my entire adult life! Girls who will not spread their legs for me. Not without prodding, medicine, drugs. Not without drugging her, straight pile-driving that biotch’s naughty, cunty, fabtabulous shiver of a pooch.

The shriveled postage stamp. The eyes, chiseled in stone. Details of the King! I can only think of my Lord coming down in fire and rain, a storm so difficult, so complex, so deadly, that it can only become the that. That which rains down upon our picnic time, leaning out from behind the trunk whose tree we sit beneath. This is our exercise. The manner through which grief climbs the trunk, gripping like a squirrel, then grief becomes a tragedy, dripping though the leaves on its way down to fall in your very funny lap.

“Ha ha ha!” says the very funny lap. “Ha ha hee!” screams the very funny chair—that’s the one I tied you too but never needed to: A chair tuned to minor C. Pounced, packed, and ready to punch. Got my whole lab of incels ready through backwardness—take one more step. These were young ones. Punching holes in your body. Taking only pictures, leaving only streams and streams of cum and piss and shit and love.

Of piss and shit. Of streams and oceans. Of cum and piss and shit and love love love!—Of another leveledness it happened before there were incels. Before this sleight if the hand of god. You have to see us this way (from inside our night) this bubbling unfeeling hate.

This flawless 16-karat golden shower—where did that come from? Someone needs to clean that up: Multi-karat gold. Diamond rings. The booty of wealth. Trinkets of precious metals bursts of light a rapper who likes to piss in my face I don’t know why we didn’t all go to the restroom each with an alien escort holding our hands so they’d never touch.

A hand and another hand. Each chained to the opposite wall. Each destined to never touch the other. Each one. And each one. Why aren’t there female incels? Girls who won’t fuck you (on Principle)—no!—there’s no one like that—no one like that in the field.

That’s what they say. Hierarchies of fucking. Hierarchies of nothing! If you band together on the right of never getting fucked, oh incels, then you might have to settle for fucking fat girls—like the rest of us who tried to get a finger in the door, and had to accept that no one wants us, either. Do you deserve sex—my psychiatrist does. I suppose she is pro-incel. But I guess I just accepted, long before, my journey here will be one of loneliness, emptiness—hours and years—of seconds and days. Everything empty of everything.

Empty if soul searching.

Empty when eyes closed: A passenger in space.

Deep gray after dark. Everyone brought their demons to a certain motel room. Our treasures. Everyone brought their favorite. To a certain room on a certain floor of a certain building. To share them like snack food, all the little boys and girls with leashes ‘round their necks and every little boy and girl (every tit and every tat)—

—I rode you tight. Dressed in schizophrenia. Mirrored in awe. Awesome light lighting us from the back (so well). I dressed you for once in the way I dress you at home. Unnecessary bra. Your panties—young panties—bra as necklace. Sliding all over your ass with the color of bleeding. Of repeatable movements. And it isn’t even sexual. It’s because of this—because of that. I wasn’t abused, kid—unless you count neglect. A dad who plays tricks on my mind even now—even now that he’s old. He pretends not to know the rules to the card game we’re playing..then we start to play and my dad takes all the tricks.

Father Forgive Me I Have Sinned

For nights I re-examined the day’s conquests visited upon me. Examined the 90/10 split between my pleasure and yours. I can never feel about sex like you do. Can never lie back in your lap. Waiting for you to make beautiful works on my skin. Even underneath my skin. You are hereby invited to love me. You don’t even have to make me cum—I will settle for every way you never even touched me—will cum myself—later—will be sloppy will be like spaghetti and meatballs, will be messy like that little bit of sauce and noodles cornered, waiting for me to use my fingers.

To sponge it up the slippery noodles take the place of my girl parts.

To glorify my jungle.

To measure passion by its humidity.

I don’t mind if you never notice me. If your entire knowledge of me is replaced by knowledge of someone else.

You can hold onto her ponytails. Kick her side, shouting “Ha!” while all along I’m wrapped and stuffed under its wings. “Killed by falling from a great height.” I could not think of a better way to die.

And all along I keep my journal.

In an old-fashioned book.

As a crumpled paper on the floor.

Kept from you like cosmic knowledge that could invincible make you do not deserve the knowledge they spin me off like a lost child daring to keep the universe’s top secrets all to themselves well all I can say to that is that I never even wanted to know your secret ways of the war never even waged that’s how secret it was.

Secret as the contents of the dead man’s wallet.

Secret as the dead man’s chest.

Secret there never was. Never stashed, never revealed. Never available for taking. Never in my top drawer. Never a photograph stored underneath my clothes. Never taken out, never undressed to, never jerked my vagina to, never made to get me off, never to make me cum, never dropped—forgotten—photo fallen to the floor, followed me as I followed you, found you when I found myself.

Me sitting on the corner of one in a million mattresses. My cum syntax never matched, I’m left to stash this lonely self, this lonely body, this ruined leather between my legs. Almost never used by me. Almost never used to make me cum even though you use me via my photographs they’re in your fancy phone in a smartly incapable album titled, “FUCK MY BRAINS OUT WITH YOUR LOVE.”

Almost never used as a Christmas charm.

Almost never brought forth as a gift to your guests, your dirty family dresses for normal and yet:

Peel away the top layer.

Lick the sticker. Ball it up. Throw it on the floor for whoever vacuums this room. Anonymously. What is her life, I wonder?

And like cleaning, tricking comes to life underneath this all.

Born from cracked glass, mental illness, and bad luck—that’s where you found me.

Peeking from between two WM dumpsters.

You’re rolling down your window.

Making “come here” with your fingers.

Opening the door.

You’ve got cash in your hand.

How much of it would I ever see? What faint shadow of that huge stack of bills will cross the window threshold untainted living in your pocket like reptiles. Tiny Sphinxes.

I open the door gradually, checking the cracks for reptiles—those spaces created by movement, by carcass, by grace of a friendly human. Grace of a carcass fellow. Graceful tee times. Graceful shot! And good good girl they hold me in their minds when they shuttle that ball onto the green past an AR thistle.

Then thistle turns to grace.

Grace to thistle.

I wear your testicle, gnarled to suffocate my neck hole. I have learned you have a special neediness for my P❌SSY it resides between your legs and it wraps itself in robes taking what it wants from me—scooping me out like ice cream.

That you have lemon, that you still have lime. That you have cultivated my strawberry, me as raspberry, tasted my depths and finding cherry there.

That every man is modeled on this one.

Everyone else seems dead. They don’t even have a sexuality compared to yours.

Neither do I.

That is why I jump on the bed in my mind. Hoping to rekindle childhood. But it can’t be done. I’m ruined. Was ruined far before I started to wonder. Was so far gone and I had nothing. Had lost my family. Taken into slavery before I learned to read.

Or write my little sister a letter.

I figured out in absentia my parents never loved me. I figured that out by the time I was four..maybe five. That they must have reacted to something bad that I did. That they sent me away to pay for my crimes. I couldn’t imagine it any other way, and they became just ghouls to me, shadow people who must be forgotten. Who I could never please. And so they left me in the grocery store parking lot on purpose so that bad men with no real names drove up in a band and asked if I needed a ride.

Of course I said yes.

And it was hours away from that spot when I looked around the van and I saw the one in the passenger seat turn around and beaming into me and that’s when I started to cry.

It was a big cry.

The kind of cry that starts with big cheeks, then my hands gripping the seatbelt. Then it moves to my chest and even as young as I was, I remember breathing faster and faster and my little mind running and turning—racing—

Then I can’t hold it any longer.

I don’t let it shake me.

And looking that man in the eye, there was no more thing ever falsely said than that we were going to find my parents.

On the Run

Stunning. Sitting by the mirror some grandparent gave me. I wallow by the skyscraper for lean to me hold my forehead damp I wish I could throw myself against it proving and proving its solidity until that semi-final moment where the seal around the glass breaks into this lack of urban legend. I imagine myself in space, looking back at Earth, knowing this can never be my end of days I am ready to suicide I am ready to push myself to disassemble my consciousness today!—let us do it today like the mother and child who has accompanied me all this way. A distorted belief that will take me almost all the way there. But—ultimately—it’s not there for me, this Mona Lisa smirk you told me it was there—told me I could one day fall from the 24th floor I would be unable to re-glue that window in the final minutes of my life.

In those final minutes, that was my life—that was it for an entire way of life and the scary surprise at the end. I hope there’s a heaven for that lawyer, just as I hope there’s one for me.

Spinning in infinity.

Only a drop of love, dangling from your lips, thinning. It’s one drop I could never take. I only felt for it twice in my life, maybe three times, and those two times I only got close. I was in an underwater tank watching Jurassic Universe. They said I wasn’t ready for the Multiverse Edition they said the edition after that one, its name would break my mind.

And I sit here.

On the bed where she sleeps.

I wonder what that would be like. To be sacrificed by local gods. My boots hanging from the hotel wall.

All the girls and goddesses who have slept here with me. Drugged. Gagged. Blindfold. And the words you said to me when your feelings were less and less, cognition waning. Here’s what you said (you said):

“Doctor, doctor, give me a play. Ok?”

And here your head turns up to look at me.

“Doctor, you have brought me here as a ghost, unknown, beaten before you, scared to death, pole-legged rot-gut P❌SSY out of circulation like a library book. I got a 7-day read and hadn’t even broke the cover. Right? It has cum between the pages. Everything is sticky goop losing its color losing its elasticity. Born to you on this day a son (on that day a daughter) teach me to be cruel, as you did with your own children but you can’t—neither will talk to you anymore. I wonder why. This is how I speak to you, you dilapidated formation of a man. You are not child or god. Not a monster (too weak). Not a feather (too strong). And you have stolen my soul. Put it under the pillow. Lay my sleeping head to rest on this first-floor motel of dreams and when my eyes close it takes with them an hour worth of consciousness and that moment is the moment where we did window safety in safety class.”

“What did they teach you in safety class?”

My corpse responds. “Safety class was right after work class. Did you have work class where you went to school?”

I nod.

“This is just like that,” I tell the man. “Almost exactly the same structure. Same body, same closing, the very same opening line which you used on me the first time I stepped though that door..wonderment, fear, delicacy of a meal. The initial stretch of a muscle. The numbness of pain. Minor amounts of blood do not amount to minor amounts of pain.”

She waits for this to register but her eyes are closed (sleep) so she has no idea what she’s saying.

I imagine a whole movie about her—her and me—imagining her finding my flip book of children. Boys. Girls. My sickness leaving little room for prejudicial thoughts. I am getting back to where I never came from, my empty childhood, never playing with the other kids—well, there was that one time a girl named Kevin kissed me and I threw a rock at her head. She bled for the first time that day, knocking her knees together squawk box of a girl she let me take her back to school and stick a pencil up her VJ twist it around the lid and come out with strands of period blood—coloring my No 2 with her idea of a kaleidoscope gone wrong, a telescope telescoping up her shaft extending lighting searching and ultimately finding nothing. No pleasure center inside her for me—for my orgasm I wondered always as a kid what about touching her would please me—but clearly looking in the wrong place.

That’s how I thought orgasms worked as a kid.

I never masturbated before my father touched me and so I never had a clue how things worked. I never knew sex could feel good for me. I never thought of sex as fun. Still don’t—if you believe that. An orgasm isn’t fun it carries no joy it’s tasteless if you have no human connection it’s simply biology’s way of making you fuck.

It is ageless. It is amoral. It means nothing if there is no context to the relationship. Some shared connection or culture. A drip of togetherness—even if within my cultural self and you might just ask yourself how minor this shared culture must be. And I will tell you that I have no idea. I never have! I’m on the outside of this little shindig looking in. It’d be like asking an alcoholic if drinking is fun. They would have no idea how to place the question. For people like me, we lack something, very much in age, and this is what we always lack: The experience of growing up sexually in relationships where the power balance is roughly the same.

But here’s the kicker. I know I’m sick. I’ve read about my illness. And knowing it, in and out, doesn’t make me healed one bit.

I Am a Canary in a Cage

Taken out when you get home you I would not call happy—you I would not call satisfied.

Because I’ve seen you with your women—I’ve seen you with your girls. And there is nothing of satisfaction that I see there. You work. You work for it, a man towing a plough on his own back. A man planting seeds with a broken arm. Sitting backwards throwing seeds to the wind. Not half of them arrive at the dirt—exceptional ones—that’s what I call the ones who do.

Those are the ones, when thrown, that make their exceptional trip over your head doing somersaults against the wind.

I hope I’m one of those. And I imagine being a basketball star—or a poet—writing poetry, in the shade, like my made-up friend. I hear her voices in my head and Anna says “If I write poetry in the shade of some great writer, do you think that anyone would notice?” but she is just in my imagination.

That’s all—never any real place.

Though my imagination is big enough for the two of us to fit.

Comfortably.

With translucent walls.

Each pegged with loops for handcuffs.

And the way it works with me, for these images of Anna, is that after Anna appears in my head, when I think back after her, I remember that I have made her up—hallucinated what she said—and I cannot tell if my memory seems like hallucination or if I am hallucinating a memory.

Disassociation. I do it so well my psychiatrist doesn’t even notice it. In our sessions by the beach, I was never even there.

Not one time.

When it rains, I picture myself with an umbrella. Or I picture myself in a tent under the highway. Then when it sprinkles lightly I imagine me and Olive (my cat who I carry with me on a leash) that is the cat I’m not even sure she is real but I know that when I touch her, she feels soft like my P❌SSY hair when I was 11, was 12.

Was old enough to zig.

But never zag.

To trip.

But never trap.

My solid gold kittae fits so nicely in the hand—of God, I guess you’d say—but I guess the concept of god has run its course down here. We worship cars, phones, our houses on the hill. Where rich men take from the poor and give to even richer men to appease them. The only thing to do (I’ve decided) is to stand beside my bedroll with a walking stick in one hand and my kittae in the other and you are watching me from beyond the dark of this imaginary tunnel that houses the zero people we have no bank accounts we are an all-cash setup of a growing minority.

Do they imagine that I am anything different than them? That we have nothing to give? Nothing to say? This text is my way of saying, “Here! Here I am!!” To shout it in their faces once I’m dead and gone and the theatre of your mind has become the only place this treatise of mine blooms, grows, cycles, runs, sags, takes medicine, ends up dead in the bed you had given to me.

You handed me a key and I threw it behind me. I have no idea where it landed, I was trying to show you that the world I live in contains no doors, locks, keys, walls. I never stayed in that bed anyway.

I invited you to light with me at the overpass but of course you said no.

I left you at your TV watching Hulu special programming. Disappeared out your front door. What you once stole from me (as a kid) (that I didn’t even know I had of value) you took my gold (watch—so to speak) and dipped it in the motel toilet then shook it off, dirty water in my face, which I tried washing in the sink but you turned my head with your hands and choked my mouth open with one, the other gripping the back of my head and you let it go, a long and comfortable piss down the back of my throat.

That’s what you stole from me as a kid.

Now, as an adult, I give you what you then took from me, learning never to flinch. Learning to detect the type of piss that’s coming out of you: Lemon drop bubble gum. Starry starry berry pop popping magic dust. Every flavor in the universe—every mood, every perturbation an instant snapshot of the universe at that, one, particular, moment.

After I suck you off I can tell you my fortune for the night.

You’re going to get rough.

You’re going to get really rough.

I guess I should explain the difference.

The first, just rough treatment is you throwing my head against the tile in the bathroom, breaking glass and skull—a minor injury, more like an accidental fall. Just rough isn’t even worth a shower—a Band-Aid—it’s never worth calling the police. You know? You just deal with it. People like me..

..we will always, always,—lose, is I guess the word you would use. We endure. We maintain our destructive state..

..nameless, without identity, without government, without technology. We subsist sans phones, without the internet. I am typing this on a library computer, a thousand words a day which I enter furiously at this cum-striped keyboard it has echoes of gum, black spots where sticky substances hang on (echoes of their previous incarnation) and I guess my time is up.

Father Forgive Me I Have Sinned

My rollout was complete with three drones, a million GoPro cameras all around the house, at the front door, back door, side door, yards, back yard, front yard, the fenced-in area in the side yard, and a few GoPro’s on the D/L taped to the telephone pole at the end of our street.

All this hooked into my phone, simple telephone booth protocol.

And of course my bedroom cams, built into the ceiling—the lighting fixtures—hoping to find that one of my kids masturbated in their sleep or after we had left but unluckily none of them ever did anything private and the only use I got out of those cameras was really-watching me fucking one or more of them in their sleep—I waddle to her, stripping her jeans, her panties, and all it is is her bare-ass nakedness and a pair of socks with slices of pizza stitched against a blue background—that was all she wore, just a pair of socks and I watched her bounce up, down watch her face grimace as she refuses to cry (as all of them do identically) they know that something is wrong but they don’t know what.

And they take it however I give it, up their ass which I wipe with Clorox wipes as I go.

Sometimes I leave used wipes in the kids’ room, which the kids clean up after. Throw away in the kitchen trash (there is no trash can in their bedroom). No trash can more easily accessible than that one. And when I’m eating, and they try to sneak a wipe into the kitchen trash, sometimes I yell when they put it in—and sometimes I do not, remembering inconsistent stimulus from high school philosophy. That’s the best kind of stimulus. You ignore them and pay attention to them according to some random clock of stimulus and nothing. When they need reprieve, the kid will press the lever, and sometimes they get reprieve. Sometimes not. Hence they are ready for nothing, expecting everything. Sometimes getting the first, so often getting the second piece.

I don’t know why it gives me so much joy to watch the boy or the girl sneak in behind me while I sit at the kitchen table, throw away those Clorox wipes, begging to have us clean their sheets, never begging for a bath (which is all they ever got, never a shower) me reaching underneath the surface of the water with sticky thumb and fingers—sometimes to wash, other times to own their P❌SSIES and their dicks and their buttholes and their nipples and their mouths stick your mouth open—wide—put my cock inside you.

Now chew like an elephant.

Long and slow.

Gentle as an acrobat. Gentle like I cum in your hands. We were watching TV and I said: “Girl. Boy. Come here.” And they’d sidle up to me and take turns sucking and manual, struck-fucking, taking off their clothes when I told them to, considering what I have before me: A couple of small kids who I keep alive so I can fuck suck duck behind a wall when I wake them at night, testing the slow poison I have given them. Seeing if it worked. Pin their eyelids backwards—if they blink, adjust, then the poison worked. If they move their eyes then the child is awake. Re-administer the poison. Wait one hour. Then check the eye movements again.

You wanna know why I do this? You’re cleverly attached to the legal way to fuck. Just as you wonder about me, I wonder about you. And I still have the same reason, stuck inside me, to have relationships with kids. Which I did since I was a kid. And by that I mean that I started out in the kid position, with my parents and my parents’ friends taking over me. You know how they say you learn relationship patterns from your first few relationships with your folks? It was always the same for me. I watched and felt and I learned to relate to kids the way I was treated as a child.

And that was: Long baths. Longer nights. Feeling afraid to fall asleep—when I was asleep, I was caught by surprise. And that extra few seconds gave me the mental preparation time I needed to feel afraid, to relax my rectum.

I was locked I a staring match with the outlet at the end of my bed. It was where I put my head to sleep, right next to the outlet and when my father came to visit me, that outlet is where I looked. It worked better if when he came, I was already in position, if I was staring at the outlet, remembering one time when I was hardly even a person yet, when I plugged in my clock radio and felt the alternating current. Fortunately when it got me, my hand dropped. If it hadn’t, I would have died right there, at three.

And if I had died right there at three years old then none of this would have happened.

I would not be living in the run. A secret address, different names, records kept in paper binders, human beings kept as if in cages, raping them again and again.

Trading them like donkeys until they reached that certain age. The age where no amount of locked doors and blindfolds and zip ties would keep her in. Then we took her to another city, in another state, and dropped her by the courthouse, and we paused on our way out of courthouse square, and with a pair of binoculars I watched as little blackness left her blindfold on tessellated bricks and she looks around—where are my captors?—and when she sees we’re not there, she starts toward the edge of this square platform we left her on.

And when she gets to the edge. Her bare feet curl their toes inward and she steps backward toward the tree that’s growing in the middle of the space and after another look around she sits with her back against the tree and gathers her legs up, two useful arms hugging her own knees.

She does not cry.

She wants to sit there forever.

Watching the business people go about their days. Thinking of their families. How happy their children must be, simply on account of never having been kidnapped for my personal pleasure.

We had her since she was three. Kept her till she was 10. Fucked her twice a day. That’s 5,000 fucks, and all she ever knew other than what she learned from watching television is getting fucked by me and my partner.

Every naughty thing we did to her.

Every depraved thing.

That’s everything she knew about the world.

Everything I Know of This Small, Small World

Yes. Everything I know about this small, small world is informed from two directions.

One from the top: That is, I want to take the top off my head and explore everything that was kept from me by years of entrapment, years in common-house suburbia. That’s TV and bathtubs and some weird kind of sexuality (which is my sexuality, too—blips of enjoyment, found between my legs, shamefully picking moments of pleasure between gardens of memory of what the guys did to me, rape and shit).

This from the top includes acts like going to a museum. I have never gone to a museum but I would like to.

Someday I hope to do that: Wander through MOMA examining paintings for their beauty.

Never touching but looking.

That most glorious appreciation.

Like model drawing, I bet—but even more respectful. Seeing without touching. No shame. I would like that some day.

The other is from the bottom. That’s that I agree that my life is destroyed—my life is shit. Accepting that, I can drop though the bottom. Draw so deeply that I draw my last—my last breath as you stick it in my ass for the last time. Somehow make it pierce me though the heart.

Fuck my face all the way to the back.

Scraping brain from the inside of my skull.

And feeling that last element of consciousness. Hoping for blackness rather than some sort of heaven or hell—can this life just be over? Can my self die when my body dies, can this fullness of mind simply—go away—and (with no looking back) there ceases to be a “me”—I’ll just become a slumped over body with zero brain activity.

Not even a coma. Just death.

That ultimate stillness.

Ultimate lack of response. Ultimate uselessness. Not even suitable to a necrophile. Not for long. My P❌SSY turns to mush, quickly liquefies—my brain, too—all that shut turns to jello within a few days and then that’s me:

Shell.

A hollow egg.

Is that what you want of me? Is that all? Two legs (rag doll), two arms (skewed this way and that), a an eyeless head with black eyeballs do you look in them when you fuck me? Communicate silently your lifeless eyes, my truly lifeless ones.

And what do you see in those globes? What parts of my life can you bear to see?

Do you see the very young me—the five-year-old me—stolen from my family (I can no longer remember). Stolen from my parents. Did I have a brother or a sister?

I don’t know. I do not know. My memory destroyed by insomnia—annums of it rolled together like a Fruit Roll-Up every bite with its representative marks, a stripe around the belly of the thing, one stripe per year.

One stripe per year is all I’ve got.

A zombie. Stuck in survival mode. Not alive—neither dead. My routine is structured to get me what I want (all I know to want) just moments of life with my one friend in this entire world.

His name is Broderick, which I pronounce “Brody Bro”—something friendly for the kids.

We sleep together but not sleep together. More like for safety and friendship.

He’s my brother. Brotherly love. He has never touched me there. Never even made a furtive move on me. Even when we cuddle, his dick won’t get hard. But I never ask him to and he has never tried. He has never come to me with desire. Has never joined me for a fuck. Our loudest life is a whisper.

The magnitude of a whisper to a train.

Of a shuttle launch to a sparrow.

And that’s what I need. For now. For my every night. For the rare rainstorm. The rare necessity of that umbrella I mentioned.

I do have fantasies for him, though: Him whispering on my skin with his dirty fingers. Dipping through my front crack, back crack—uncovering my moistures, my devastating intimacy once you get through my volumes of razor-wire protection, my American English dictionaries (the full 90-volume set)—the ones you got me for my phone to help with my poetry.

I will never forget that, Broderick boy.

Even if trains crush your bones. Whether on purpose or accident, I will have your gift of words to me.

You will always be my boy. My only boy. My one. My everlasting only example of myself in another body. Teased and used. Beaten and stretched and squished your asshole is as useful as mine, brainless fucking, you don’t even pay attention to the one who is fucking there, the one who fucks you there. It’s just another 40 dollars every shot of cum shot up your butt.

Gorilla sex. Monkey sex. Trading it for an apple. Trading it for a pear.

I have seen sex between monkeys on a video and they—at least—don’t care about imbalance. Every chimpanzee is out for himself/herself.

Choking on a blow job given from the young, received from the old, it may even be the child of mine giving it to the parent, the other, once weaned from the nipple each chimp is poised and ready, no psychological preparation needed.

Monkeys can walk from birth.

Think about that.

The Butterfly Skeleton

In terms of cataloging—cataloging!—painting the traces red! I had spreadsheets and databases—class rolls sprouting up between the slack between my cheeks. Stink rising. Like age-old Jif. Peanut butter arms. And that cat is dead—it’s behind the television. That girl was right. It’s right behind the television.

And this is it: I watched those two legs waddle across a living room, naked to the butt. And I knew. From that singular moment, that her ass would be mine in the 10th, that I would spread those legs like bread and butter them like honey. (Did I scream into a jar? At my delightment of what you could do to me all I cared about was P❌SSY. P❌SSY. The only derivative to the end of this sentence was:

P❌SSY.

Please. P❌SSY in a stick. P❌SSY in a roll. Slam my head into the cabinet if it ain’t P❌SSY!

Break my head into 12 pieces. One for each month. One for ever hour in the day. The count of my fingers and toes, each with their devil claw. The one I will wrap around your noose—your neck. That glorious neck, squeezable. With one hand grateful, the other greedy. And do not think I do not get what is happening inside my brain, the psychological services, one man’s decision to die—and on the last day—on the day of his death—I worship Ted Bundy who Cried in His Mother’s arms.

Who Cried in His Mother’s arms.

With mother and baby. Madonna’s Mona Lisa. Grinning and grinning and grinning—a Babel mouse of hostility—the time she wrote the gospel of Luke on my bathroom walls with toilet paper dripped in blood. I made that bitch clean up. Held her hair in a grip at the back of her head.

Going once?

Going twice!

This bitch is going to clean under my place at the kitchen table. With her tongue. She hits her head on my chair as she leans up and bang! And she scrapes it along wood pockmarked with screws. Unscrewed screws. To the delight of the ancients! Ancient spirits. Swimming in a circle. A cabal of the crazy ones (the ones who know they’re crazy and who work it out at 6 in the morning till they get amped for murder—it excites my brain.

You know what else excites my brain? Those deadly demons—the cutest in the pack—the ones whose face and legs suggest the texture of the cunt. Girls so deadly they are the type priests went with (even straight ones). And they’re just the type that my uncle went for. And my dad. And me. Before my father came my uncle and before me they didn’t have the internet—no laptops, no phones—and the pedophiles traded photographs. I guess before they had photos the old men would jerk it in the cedar, trading descriptions of their grandkids or trading in grandkids themselves.

Trading the kids’ underwear—dirty smell—this is back when a porn site was not a thing—when girls could be convinced to take pictures by their uncles and fathers and as soon as the tiny baby bottom sits on grandpa’s lap, the flap comes open (was snapped together) and the softest folds of infinite kids would rub until grandpa was getting off—slick!—with butter and honey, man—buttah and motherfucking hun.

He didn’t even care whether he was ‘busing. Boy or girl.

And when he died, my sister called me to cry. But I wasn’t sad—I had already mourned my grandfather, walking him from car to curb—from driver’s seat to diner’s seat. Days in a row sat at The Olive Garden, preparing to die, and the only thing worth anything there (to me) is bottomless breadsticks and salad. I can eat a hundred breadsticks at one sitting at an Olive Garden and I’m only sickly on the final three.

What else does it make me think of?

Well: Juvenile attempts at raping my little sister. Her strapped to a board (it was supposed to fix her spine—that’s what they believed back in the day). So I carried the board, which was carrying my sister. She was an infant—I don’t know how many months. I did [stuff stuff stuff]. How many years after that did she suffer by me? At the hand of my dad. At the hand of her school friends. At the hand of boyfriends. She will not see me anymore and I think I know why. I think I am guilty in her mind of abuse.

Of touching her.

Of hearing her make those beautiful sounds.

But. Listen. She was before the point of reason when I touched her—before the use of words gave her a memory. She can’t recall our early interactions. Can’t make sense of all that. Maybe her mother told me. I don’t know.

Do I think I should feel guilty, though? No. Why would I! She had her infancy. I got my touches in—bad touch! as they call it in schools.

I got inside her—pushing my bad touch dick all the way into her..what else do you want to know? That in came in 10 seconds? That that infant cunt was fully juiced and functional—everything but her cum. That she was ready for me?—ready for my cum! My cock! That she enjoyed it!

Is that what you want to do? Run me over the coals here? I know what you say behind my back: That I’m a user, an abuser. That I don’t deserve to get any sex now. You laugh at people forced to go door to door making a funny funny joke.

That’s me you’re making fun of: One person. Complete with sickness. That person is me.

My Paul Frank Notebook

In it I keep descriptions of the men who fucked me:

  1. The first ones who fucked me. Came to me at church, were friends of my parents. Met me in coat closets. Swallowed me whole—their whole assholes. Picked me ripe from a crib (they were working the child care area, friendly with everyone, returning us with care from our sleeping area—under the street lamps). These were Bobby and Janet Hinderson-Hicks. The nicest folks you could ever have take care of your kids.
  2. A guy in the attendance office. School kid. Teenager. Said: “Come to me, precious girl. Pay me your fines by letting me touch between your legs.” And that he did, to my surprise I got wet as a skunk. And he touched me and touched me until I would have cum in his hands if I was able.
  3. My grandfather. My parents used to always ask me if grandpa touched me in any certain way. I liked—I said no. But that was how I learned what “a certain kind of way” means—that it means touched me on my breasts or my twat. My ass or anywhere I didn’t want to be touched. But at the time I just said “no” and then I sat in the back seat of the car and thought of all that had happened with grandpa Mercury in our two short lives: His was ending while mine was just beginning.
  4. Mr Cat Glasses. That’s what I called him. Big boy (black) who met me at the corner store. He was smooth. Asked me behind the counter to help him get more Laffy Taffies. You want to fill in the details? None of these guys have creative sex. They want to look at me—at my pre-pubescent face—while they place my hands carefully around their dick and tell me to “pump it, pump it”—get in there all around their dicks. Respond to them putting their fingers on my neck and then making me fuck met with my mouth. I couldn’t get anymore than candy man’s head into my mouth so I did that—fucked him shallow and resisted the urge to bite—to be done right there in the backstage of the candy store but it was actually #4 that convinced me that this was going to keep happening and that I better find a way to enjoy it. Or if not that then a way to survive.
  5. Boys at school. I never even went to school so these are the boys on television who abused me in my dreams, falling low before the TV, hallucinating that Cookie Monster brought me into his can and, there, stripped me of my asshole virginity with a long and crooked finger—grown with blue fur—groping me from the inside with that impossible fingernail. Claw. Thingy. Watermelon rinds. Blood sick. Vomiting in the playroom when the Witch of the West rode in with her monkeys and killed everyone who was living in my lungs and music playing from the other room. The kitchen television, turned on during the periods when you both worked and we watched Sesame Street all day.
  6. Bobby. I include you on this list because for the first time, for the last time, you never touched me and I never saw you have sex. You must have done it thousands of times in closed hotel rooms but you never tried it with me and when you went to work that was it—we never met up until late that evening, back at our spot, and when I asked you about it you never responded with a word. You looked at me and grunted in a certain tone which meant “Terrible. Don’t ask.” Then you get various entries, made less frequently (as they began to run together, as they began to sing the same sad song):
  7. There was a guy named Fritz (or code named) Fritz. He fucked in a southern style. That means slow. I even came with him a couple times. It was a weak cum, mute, it happened in my head and I never let him see. I ran slick and Fritz got up, sat in the corner chair, lit his cigarette. Fritz never talked. He sat there and smoked, and looked me over, this piece of beef he had just fucked. He looked proud, and he thought of himself as my dad: Proud of his girl. She was so accomplished. Look at her, naked on a hotel bed, having made me cum. She is silent. Ready. Willing. Hungry. Dirt poor. She willingly gives the money to her handler. And I’ll go, never looking Fritz in the face as he stood in the doorway wishing I was going home with him tonight. Then he’d close the door. That was Fritz. Then we have a chorus of guys I saw only once or twice, with the piecemeal specks of detail I took from them:
  8. Marc and Suzanne (another husband-and-wife couple) Pleshette. They spoke French and only Marc ever did anything to me. Never Suzanne. She held my hand from the bathroom to the bed, where Marc’s small erection and he were waiting (another partnership of crime)—waiting for me to come. They tried to steal me and showed me pictures of them in a hot air balloon. I would like that. I would like that balloon as the only thing between me and Earth. And gravity. And I would break its bonds.
  9. A man with an umbrella. This is in California where it never rains so I wondered what the umbrella was for. When I asked him he laughed the ceiling down. He asked me if I’d ever heard of JFK or the Babushka Lady. I said no and he laughed at me. I always hated that laugh. It struck the bed from behind my back and when he tapped me on the shoulder that meant he was done. That meant I was done. And I got up and smoked a bowl of chrys until you came to get me.
  10. And the final person on my list, one of hundreds catalogued in my Paul Frank notebook, is you, the character I share this book with. An oak of use and abuse. The man who twisted me the most. But I won’t describe you here. You’re doing that so fine on your own.

A List of His Own

I have a list of my own. Girls whose P❌SSY I’ve fucked. So quiet down little girl and listen to this:

  1. Wanda the Fysh. This was a 3 year old doucher in the form of angels. They appeared on my shirtsleeve with brushes they used to paint me with glitter. My arms, the hair on my arms, the back of my neck. And my hateful, hateful cock who took on a persona not even known to me. A dark persona, with a Batman name. With his clear cape he brushes aside in cases of emergency. That was Wanda. Wishing in a whishing well.
  2. Megan the Miffed. Megan has a stinky cunt. She must never wash it—which is how I like them. I held her inverted by her legs and put my face between them, inhaling her scent, swallowing her through my nose, sucking her so hard I thought I had banished that salty stank forever. But no: Turn her upside down, shake her like an iPhone, and set her down again. The game is reset. Player one is ready. Go!
  3. Tilda the Twitterpated. I got this bitch off social media. Transplanted her into the house—in what would become your room. Kept her there for days without food. By the time we opened the door Tilda could hardly stand. I had to feed her for the first three days after her lockdown period. Gave her a shot of chrys. Melted it in a spoon, making sure it cooled. Shot her in her arm—it hit instantly and she didn’t complain much after that.
  4. Lindsay the Lovely. She played the flute in elementary school, which is when we got her. Delicate. Ultra blonde. I mean a real girls’ girl fanatic. She was the first one we used memory-erasure software for, in analogue, from the tip of a syringe. Law enforcement sells it. You can target just parts of a person’s memory: Like you target “work” and it erases all your memories related to work. That’s how the secret government uses it. We got some bootleg off a bootleg (the stuff isn’t supposed to exist) and our version targeted sex— twelve hours after we gave it to Lindsay she knew nothing of what had happened the last 10 years. She was homeless within minutes.
  5. Darla the Dumb. Darla was dumb. She liked fucking. She would stop us in the hallway and drop trou. We got rid of Darla early, preferring the dropped faces and muted disappointment with life that the normal ones had. Darla was gone.
  6. Tina the Tiny/Meek/Tina Never Speaks and Tina the Tough. Tina was a brunette. We got her from a sidewalk way across town and she fought so hard. She broke out of her restraints in the back of the truck and my partner had to punch her in the face to knock her out so she would act right. Tina the Meek escaped the house seven times. I think it was seven—I lost count. We caught up with her at a Starbucks down the street screaming and yelling and we went in, picked her off the floor, and carried her out like My Two Dads. Screaming. I’m telling you. Remind me to tell you sometime about what happened to Tina. It’s not for the weak. But perhaps if you can take this book you can take Tina’s demise in proper perspective.
  7. Abraham. He’s the little guy that had your bed before you. We let him go in Seattle. This kid is prob’ly in a mental institution by now. Raised by the state. Hopefully he found a nice family and he can get into weekly therapy to talk his way through what happened to him as a child. Good luck.
  8. One last kid I’ll mention by name: That’s Timothy. He was so friendly he walked right up to our truck. Stepped right in! We kept him unlocked and let him ride in the front seat. Told him his dad was in an accident..we were there to help him..we needed to take Timothy to see his dad. This was our boilerplate. Your parents are in trouble, we are there to help you. We’re caretakers. But the important thing is to stress that their parents are in trouble. That’s the magic, right there. ‘Cause once a kid starts thinking about their parents being hurt, incapacitated, the kid’s focus goes to there and never comes back. By the time Timothy asked the right kind of questions, we were already in the house.
  9. And the plethora. Of little cunts and little assholes. I liked kids—so it wasn’t a problem for me. I mean I really liked them—used to read books to them and everything. Gave them baths and loved them like they were my children (and yes, I have children of my own).
  10. All of this equals down to you, my little girl. Your dirty (disgusting) piano-playing twat. By the time we found you we had grown more careful. Waited more time between pickups. Six months or more. Almost a year in your case. I’m sitting at the bench at Denny’s flipping through this three-ring binder and I stop flipping. Wipe my glasses. Take your photo from behind the acetate. I looked at you and held you to my lips and I stared so hard at your little-girl panties. Trying to discern what was in them. I put that picture in my shirt pocket and it was never returned to the book.

That, my girl, is my list. Touché!

I bet you cannot best it in a thousand years.

I’m Just A Little Girl With a Good Pussy

Just invisible. Just sitting behind the sidelines. Ready for you to drop kick me Jesus through the goalposts of life. Some phrase stuck in me since before I could remember. Protecting my chastity—wouldn’t that have been nice. To have sex for the first time on man nonexistent wedding night. Waiting for your touch. Something gentle. I don’t know.

You asking me if I’m in pain.

Me shushing you with my lips.

Open for you.

And this is where the fantasy ends. That moment when I shush you. That’s as far as I can see. As far as I can wonder what you would have been like—what I would have been like—if we had come to each other not as slaves but both masters of ourselves. I think it could work out like that. But once I have been kidnapped, put in a cage, all the essential parts of me have broken. Gone to shit. And I’m 16 or so, wandering eastern boardwalks, wandering western boardwalks, feeling the breeze of the sea.

She is the only lover I have ever had.

Western breezes cooling my skin and I go down to the edge of the water. Where it rides my ankles and touches me gently like a lover should. Slow sex? I’ll never know it.

It’s not my place to know it. I am a prescription bottle who can’t even open her lid. Who can’t even get to the goodness inside. The sweetness of pills. Society has chosen me to me on bottom. By being female, by being so weak you could crush the life from me with your hands.

And—oh!—how would that be? If you choked me! If you wrung the life from my neck. And the last thing I saw was your motel room ceiling. Little boogers up there, each the same as the others in general form, each different from the others in every tiny detail.

I’m a mixtress. Swallowing your cock to appease you. Let me choke on you to make you smile—that way murder will be the last thing on your mind. But even if you did it, you would never think of murder as the cause of death. The police might. But between you and me it would just be choking, death. Murder is implied. It is unsaid, old fashioned—it is dead itself, from the inside out, no longer fitting itself inside the letters: m u r d e r.

I don’t even think it would be an emotional experience. It wouldn’t be for you. It wouldn’t be for me. It would just be two consenting adults engaged in a pleasurable act—you killing me and you sitting beside my body on the bed and you surveying your treasure—just a few minutes and my PXSSY would go through the change (the death change) and so you look at me and you feel the hardness of your cock and you decide to—yes!—to fuck me in death—all the pleasure for you, tucking your arms around my dead head.

My death head is more beautiful than you have ever seen one dead or alive my hair keeps growing fingernails (yes!) my bones start to brittle holding ham and cheese dickson I am dead but singing a song inside my skull with zero brain activity zero voices zero dangerous impulses zero dollars in my bank account which is just a shell I buried in the waves.

She rises and falls, rises and falls.

Pouring out the secrets I have told her.

Many times, many times.

Many times a secret untold is a secret many times heard. Often held. Tucked inside my bra. One corner peeking out for me to grab—if I like—at the commencement of your hotel party with every drug imaginable but all I want to do is to use the bathroom—and this symbol appears in my dreams—being at this impossible party and I’m making my way to the bathroom and everyone I pass offers me drugs.

I’m telling them no (knowing myself that all I want to do is pee in a nice toilet this time—one I do not have to clean). All I want is to sneak a shower in the clean stall I picture behind that door. With soap provided! What a luxury.

And I’m making it across the floor.

And there you are.

Doing a shot with me. Of some ghetto vodka that will never get me buzzed. And I am leaning to your ear, asking you if I can use the bathroom and you look at me like I’m crazy and say, “Sure, kid—sure,” and you point me in the direction I was going before I ever saw you and I un-clamp your fingers from my arms and I’m running toward the door—

—and when I get there, wrenching the handle against years of rust I wish I could spray it with some WD-40 wish I had stronger arms wish that I didn’t have to pee!

Falling between the cracks of the door and the bathroom door wall.

Falling. Just falling.

Into the blackness, into your vodka mouth. Wrenched of my goodness—of my loving heart. My living self. I may just be barely but I am alive. Alive enough to struggle. Alive enough to admit defeat.

But not tonight.

Tonight I make it all the way to the door. Make it all the way through the door.

And I close and lock it and sit my ass down and it’s clean and cool. Spotless against my skin. I let go and it comes out as a spray. Wide and warm and deep as a deep deep well.

When I Fry Fries, I Fry Them Completely

So come to me, naked ones, small fries, empty ones, ones who have selected themselves for extinction, girls who loved me in a past life—follow me into the fire!

You have always followed me, as children to the Pied Piper, follow me to the river to die.

Step with me off this ledge.

Burn with me in the leaves.

Eat with me the whole of crispy fries—we fried your tots in the fire so they’d never get floppy. So that they would never want of rest.

Eat your tots for lunch.

Use this TV guide—interact is violated—only signals coming in to you, only signals going out are show selections. You can’t file for help—it’s standard TV. And you cannot cry for help with me.

I embarrassed myself with your shadow family, my shadow self went on about some age-old banishment, speaking out of turn, and nothing at all changed. When I left the talk your shadow family only thought of me a second-hand less. Everyone else stayed equal to how they had come in. You were there. In the central of the mix. You looked at me and dialed me down. But you had my intentions since you were three years old. You had me, knew me, wrapped me into my present state. Some lunch-counter meat sliced thin for sandwiches. By the counter person who especially likes you. So. I don’t know—I guess that’s an especially dangerous place for me to be.

Under the lights.

Being interrogated by you.

We occupy some afterlife which isn’t on another plane or another dimension—it’s right here, right now, in every immeasurable moment of time. Space. Uninterruptible horror. This time not on TV. This time it’s only in your mind.

Slapped in, tight with screws, slap a bit of paint on there to recuse yourself. Why don’t you do that, girl? Why don’t you do that to me—step backward, out of line, head down motherfucker, they’re coming, coming for us both. They are in black spots all throughout the house they’re like injury spines mixed with overhead sprinkler apparatus holy unions only what about unholy ones? What about them? Unions of one side. Unions of force—what is wrong? I count every union from the back of time up until now and every one I find I find false, unleaded, inequal, sideways—unstoppable in their asymmetry.

I am the god of graves.

I guard my memories of you in my binder. My plastic notebook. I wipe my fingerprints off its surface every time I turn the page. Every time I turn the page and see your face, anew, is a time my cock hardens underneath the McDonald’s dining room table. (It is indestructible else I would rip it from the floor and empty the place with my monster (The Hulk) the volume of which consumes every soul within a hearing radius.

That is how I come!

Hard and fast and loud. With certainty. Directness. And impossible aim.

I turn green when my partner looks at you. I know when we transfer you from Fresno that you will interest him and I will be the one—with you in the bathroom—wiping his cum up from your P❌SS. I will have to share. Will have to wonder what faces you make for him—squirming—as he takes you inside the cage, drop your overalls, drops down your panties, and looks you up and down like a robber.

Bearing south by south west.

North by north east.

Shipped you FexEx and the label on your package said, “I want you to fuck me and you’ll never forget it.” Plain like that. Me and my man unzipped your FedEx Box. Let you crawl from within it, let you crawl along our kitchen floor, diaper leaking, fuzz stuck to these corners of your mouth, toddler mindframe clobber my brain nice and quick and I was (as if on crack) dreaming you and you dreaming me, the truth of the situation lies somewhere between your father and your mother, me and partner going ape shit, seeing this rooter scooter ramping speed from one side to the other, our Little Tykes automobile revving and ramping and we both thought: “When are we gonna get this thing to do our deeds?” What sign is she? How do they get the batteries into that sticky little head?

That was in the kitchen.

We followed you to the living room. To your bedroom. With Max the Black. And now you: Our new Blackness. Obsidian. Precious. Stoned. Grown up strong. Waddle those legs apart. Strong, see? She will do us so well, will be placed on the mantle—our prize—lovely head, graceful moves—she is perfection, personified—and a happy smack! upon her rear.

And what today comes out as a happy scream will morph unheard into silence, black eyeballs, resisting every urge.

And what tomorrow will resist and urge me away, two years from now will accept my approach neutrally, helping my cock cum in whatever hole I like—she will have accepted me.

Accepted me like the barons accepted a robber. Steals everything in sight. Steals every egg you ever laid, swifty. Steal it from up inside you. Steals everything my cock can reach from you hot! cunt, hot wax, hot hotel cumming with my hot dreams. Running now between those legs streaming down cheeks, your lips, your legs—part one I make your world disappear, part two I make love to that sticky wicky coochie my coochie. Soft and wet, yes, but also a pocket of inequal tightness and hotness. It isn’t so much tight as it is plush—more a Hot Pocket of Love.

That is how I see your PXSSY.

As a PXSSY Should Be

Quiet. Indestructible. Relentless. An instrument of war.

That’s how you think my P❌SSY should be.

Some kind of Rubbermaid Bath time P❌SS. Comes in colors of blue and green. Beaten down by you with every supposable fuck. Your fur mountain thing plus my fur mountain thing—tugboats roiling for best position. Slight lag in the secondary play—player one has the momentum needed to remain player one. Player two will sink, economically, leading me to sleep in places you have never even heard of.

Places hidden to your car path—you would have to be on foot to see us. And you would have to stray far from the tourists’ path. So far you never would—lest you be an anthropologist or a sweaty-toothed madman, referring back through a figurehead (dead) to us all, now—left us here alone. Took your laughing head with you to the grave I attended the nothing funeral in my best inconspicuous clothes. My best inconspicuous hand. My best inconspicuous throne, where you and I sit widely wondering what happens after this. That is all of life: Wondering what will happen after this.

I wonder where you went, Robin. Wonder where my childhood friend is hiding. Suspecting it is nowhere—hasn’t he affected my consciousness enough? Isn’t he alive inside of me?

Those are the rules—of disengagement. Of disloyalty of disrespect. And you know what is so different between the left and the right?—the real defining quack is that the left has humor the right will never have. The ability to laugh—afforded only to those with a light consciousness. When you’re covering up bodies there is no laughter. The one who’s stealing doesn’t laugh—the one being stolen from might.

I’m laughing every day on this outlook. Everyone is my bro. Everyone takes from me. Everyone rapes from me. In fact if hard pressed I would not be able to tell the difference between rape sex and non-rape sex. Lol. I never got those feminist arguments that said that rape is not sex, that rape is an expression of power. To me all sex is rape and all rape is sex. You can’t fool me by saying that rape is not sex—of course it is! Of course it is, kemosabe. Of fucking course it is.

You want our fucks to be clean like wiping off a Formica counter top.

Like Elvis—or Buddy Holly.

You never squirt I never leak and when you’re done you order me to wipe the counter down with a hot soapy cloth, wipe away all evidence that we were here. Wipe it all away, kemosabe—wipe it all away from Genesis to Revelation, from the alpha to the ever-loving omega. That is the true beginning, the true end. That is the model in which you have cast me—that is all you see. Impenetrable counters, not like you penetrate me. This form of penetration acts like my skin is being broken when you come into me but my PXSSY does not work that way.

Not at all.

Not for every false analogy you make for me with words. Not for every false ceiling. I have a real ceiling which I hit on a regular basis. When the piecemeal of my sexuality is squeezed out of me like toothpaste—there’s always a bit more, hiding at the bottom of the tube. And it requires madness/acrobatics to get it free. Me stuck in the bathroom working it out, sitting back on the toilet seat.

What do I think about?—Is that your question?

I think of you. I cannot help myself. I think of you in your deep navy zipper sweater like the one Mr Rogers wore. Taking off your shoes when you come in the house, tossing them over your shoulder, opening the gate to a Make Believe. Opening the frame to Picture in Picture.

Spreading my P❌SSY lips with pointer and middle, there is my hole for you! Here I am fuck head. Here I fucking am for you, dry hole you have to spit on to get inside and then it’s grunting and stressing and fucking me beautifully. But it’s that image of my cooch as dry—that gets you—it gets you right between your ears as you want to find out how far the dry part lasts. Before—

—Before it becomes the Amazon. That used to be a rainforest. Came along before Bezos stopped the money plungers and died rich—he started drone delivery—that’s what he did. And I’m early morn and lateness (dawn through dusk) those drones are known to fit the sky.

Fly them in between my legs. To your wet/dry water buffalo of dreams.

Deliver it straight to my P❌SS—straight on in. Deliver me twice a day, four times a day—eight?

Deliver moisture for me, right there! Make me wet, good man, as I am sitting here on this toilet getting off my broken PXSSY. To images of you in the dark people banging on the door—kicking it, saying: “You better clear out or I’m gonna take this shit right on your face.”

That’s what they say—and they mean it, too.

*Better clear out or I’m gonna take this shit and when I take it I’m gonna take it on your motherfucking face.”

That’s what they say to me, these sibling street bitches. And later we’ll be sitting down at Muscle Beach and everyone smiles and laughs and bums a rollie and re-wraps the rollie for good measure (for bums) (for street kids) for the blessing of the pot. But then someone will be like: “You sure took your time in the bathroom today.”

And in my head, I will be the disgrace of all.

Of all of you.

You will know what I was doing in there. Living for an instant and even in that instant I couldn’t escape the men who use me. I want to be used by them.

But not like present.

I want to be used fully—Candy Crush my brain, crushed as a paper cup—crush me all the way till I float away. That’s how I want you to use me. (If we were both full people.) That’s how I want to be used.

Oh, how I long to be in a woman’s PXSSY!

Candy Crush, level 147, level 181, level 350, level 410, 419, 437, these are the hardest levels in our game. Those are the levels when I crush you. Levels where I’ll be pulling the candy out your teeth with my pliers. And the crack between your legs, everywhere leading to darkness, everywhere doubling your mind, tripling your brainpower, quadrupling your physical strength, you don’t even know it yet but you can beat me with your bare hands—the pairing has switched its magnetic field, broken by angels—anytime you want, you can wring my fucking neck.

I will keep the vantage to my favor as long as you don’t realize it. As long as you stay on bottom, I will be on top. As long as you never move, as long as you croon me, spoon me, hold me like your baby. That’s all I want, my precious dear. I would hate to show it as you cup me from behind and my tears flow out of my and onto the bed sheets, you doing something very much like loving me.

I swear that’s what I’m after: A quick fuck and a long, long love.

Waiting for my death. And I know that moment will cover the globe with release, depressing mental conditions all of which seem to increase the suicide rate. I don’t know which of those you have, my dear precious, my rabbit’s foot, my good luck charm. I know I’m out of style but that is where I hope you’ll teach me. Set me up homeschool—feel the burn of the laptop on my thighs, every hole punch leaving a red dot over my follicles—some for nerves, some for hair that no longer grows.

So easily, over the moor.

Yes, my corpus floats out to its middle and release! the kraken I am stuck inside this skin. It’s zipped too tight around my legs, around my neck, all inside I know I look terrible I am like chop suey! all over the operating table and the doctor’s like what? What man is this? What’s the man’s name? Write down his Social Security number on this page right here sign him into existence without this number he will never see the inside of an emergency room plunder what I call the greatest power in the universe. Clumsily arranging gels and filters over the universe lights. Those bright bright spots I project myself there and all I heard was a massive computer say “I love you.”

I swear to god, that’s exactly what it said, and I was like: What am I doing over here on my side of the universe? Why have I come to this place? I abduct people from their supposable lives. I take them from their homes and I never take them back. That’s abduction, right? That’s what I’m doing?

Why is this my hunger? And how can such a small demographic be so large? What are we lacking in our youths that makes us think it would be ok to traffic someone? At night. To go in through their bedroom window pretending to be an alien, grabbing arms and kicking legs putting tape over their tiny child mouths. Wrenching them free from their beds. Hoping this one will last longer than the last!

Putting you in the back seat.

Me, stepping into the front, my partner driving off slowly, then regular, and soon we’re out of the neighborhood with no lights around us. That cool feeling of butterflies arises within me and I am free! I am so free. I can do anything. So why do I have to keep doing this?

I look over the seat.

There you are. My god. There you fucking are! with your PJs on and you’re sucking your thumb and even your PJs have that inner gusset right between your legs. Might as well be a symbol that says: Fuck here.

And when I get you home that’s exactly what I will do, strip you of those jammies, running a zipper down your left side, precious, darling, dear. You are mine today. This is Christmas times one-thousand, cradling your cunt in my cupped hand. Pee comes out. I make a fist and rub it on my face.

Starting to take.

Starting to take you.

Take your urine cells into me. Gonna fuck you while you’re scared, while you’re still awake. And may that orgasm cleanse me of my dirtiness. My mental filth. When I get you on the bed you’ll be tight with fear, rolling with the sky.

Holding onto where you come from.

The memory still stays.

And afterward I will be unable to sleep. To keep an ear out for you trying to escape, making too much noise. We left a copy of XX in the kids’ room. Maybe you’ll read it when you’re older.

Getting up at 3am.

Leaving my partner in bed.

We’ve both had our turns at you and both silently agreed this is the one! That’s you, my beautiful one. So young! So delicate and so so young.

When I get to your room I take off my glasses. Rub my eyes. You are at eye level. Hands on the window bars.

I go to you and, ignoring your screams, I take you by your armpits and lower you onto the bed.

Settle you.

Wait for your cries to stop.

“Listen, girl. You got to quit with that crying, ok? Tomorrow we’re going to get you new clothes and you can watch the TV and it’ll be fun! Fun with fear. But that quantity, the fear, it’s not permanent. The fear will go away.”

But she looked up at me, like something from another planet.

And those eyes.

Those eyes!

They evoked in me feelings from far away, and I swear they had a reddish color. Those eyes! If she wasn’t speaking telepathically then it must be my imagination. I could not look away. Terrifying, terrifying—to this day, as I am writing this, the shock and the beauty and the terror contained within those eyes—it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

Continue to P❌SSY—Part 2

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