Memoir One

Before I was at school all day, my mom took me to a neighbor's house. A woman who lived there looked after a group a children while their parents were at work. I made my first best friend there. I had my first crush. I talked about strange things with other children. I went to petting zoos. I tasted my first green apple there. I fell out of a hammock and bumped my head on a stump. I swung on swings that were too small with an older boy. I learned about black widows and saw one. The red hourglass on its belly was trrrrrrrrrrrrrannns heat. I liked her face. Her name was talyor her hare was blond. I new a younger boy named chnadler, i tot him how to blow his lips like a chainsaw. I wanted to kissssss her.
Some times kids us threw rocks. walking and disobeying was fun, to argue with adult to know we were knwong more then they knew.

a little plastic house. Playtime, tag chase, leaves everywhere big trees big yard, porch swing, toy room. secret maliciousness. good granola bars.
SHe is dead now, i heard.
ive seen her husband driveing
He likes jesus. he probably thinks his wife is in heaven and hell see again soon.
fish tank, there were fighting fish maybe, my friend later had one at least, his house was cool. I touched a boob the first time, teenage girl at a fire on the side of the yard. Then once more i jumped for her chest playing hide and seek and hit my shin on the bed on a truck.
Jacon

3D

Oh me. I've taken me out. Do look at these legs. O my gosh. Mine is a bent image. My figure is out sketched. Longly living, dog-headed pigs can fight their tally men. Over moon over, cats licking fingers on faces. Eeking protruding side of my fingernail. Necklaces hurt. Fried eggs boil in my tummy. Nickage fabulous art cheese foreskin bully homo shaved Nicklace, presbyterian oaker label Facsimile machine.

Oh mother, time ain't right. The time of night to clip off sections of grown myself. Figure out my math questions. Time is now. On motherly loving, suitcases of toddler piss open and spill like horses down shiny floors and their guts spike foremen with foreceps on singular shingle applesause snack desk maker fellow.

Hello, biddy. A fine brain you have cooked out. Nice world behind the shades of insistance, buckeroo. Taco beatle, my malign tongue stowe Tacoma, when why locate. Practicer practical, MOMA, flick it. Shimmy ocular peeper, Nipple Ouch AMOA sackrace temple bob tap dangle power throb. Actual tie freezer zits impress knowledge. Sacksual to mean moderate too tuneup. In tomes, lying forceful bunks, laptop ear wipe

Secondary near bonding, a life full option. This faded little more

When Then Was Then

Go to Germany to learn how youtube works,,, it doesn’t work

The internet is small.

im small.

Go to bed sleeping in still

Sill steeping all ways in the friend horn.

All ways sleeping still in the frend hornsch

Always still in the fweeping still horn

We feel wee fweep in sweeping still always horn

When fwend was still sleeping in the winder still was always sleeping he window swill

When wind was, he was a sleepin, aye was dee, and the was dreen in always sleeping

Was when was when

Then was then was

Wasn’t away, when then was never then

Go away when then was never sleeping, when was when, I was wever sweeping

Then I was when, then then was then, I was away never sleeping, then was away,

we was going away always sleeping

Languidge

I slip the word onto my foot. The word lies taut under my back. I don’t anger run run run run run pumple pumple pumpel rangel. I need like the saw, a weed whacker, a hedge trimmer? That’s it! Hedge TRIMMER! And it sparkles in the sky over adoring eyes :: Bits of the structures of letters drift away toward the window. We had them, but we had no need to keep them. We disassembled them, and they migrate languidly to find new homes, for they are the essence of structures and have no need to settle but do so as they are needed by ones such as us. The black marks clump and stack, building recognizable order. We can clump and stack to make messages on the window, or we can drizzle wet sand from our fingertips to form crooked, fragile monuments to idolize our idleness :: Thin trumpets proudly show off their kindergartener’s back surgery finger paint… Over lazy hills more morbid pigs slide landscape luge lessons into our dreaming screen face. Impressive was the counter suit. And it all tumbled out, fractions and hypotheses, unfinished experiments, and a Finnish carp lode instructor. Poring water over it may help. Bleeding reflexes own our afternoon awning. Independent nose lender peeping through holes of our conscience, leading us into barking alleys where brown justice reeks sup to the sky… and squeaks… crushed by thousands of tons of what(ever) matters as Earth swallows, implodes, caves in, envelopes and eats ourselves. Tasty wish to seem like I ever always want to seem and remember how I want.

Airport Birthday

 1 [~2006]

My name is a love Christian Billy Munday

He waited by the wall.

The buried soldiers risen from the graves came up through the floor and had nothing much to say.

Billy Munday sacrificed his younger sister to have a turtle action figure doll.

All over the gray place the sound of busy people and moving machinery happened.

Billy Had Had Two Birthdays With Out His Father(Jim) Since He was Five, and Three Before That.

This One Would Have Been the Third after Age Five and The Second In a Row.

But Very Special Arrangements were Made By His Mother Father And The Very Nice People Working At the Airport.

When I pictured it, I saw green walls and fantasy painted charters like from alice and wonderland that mommy read me last week (Two Weeks Ago and A Day)

The fire extinguisher red makes me reminded of the happy fire man in the dream(Fantasy) He was fast and jumpy…

(Didn’t Make much Sense Even For A Seven Year Old.)

Colelius Eusthanasian stands in the runway being peaceful watching the window into the party, His Ghost Eyes See More Than I can Describe.

The Planes Don’t Worry About His Body Because It is not There And The Air Plane Will Not Kill Him Be Cause They Go Through Him.

Cole sits on a step near the metal wall of a 100 feet building like a curb.

His Ghost Brain Thinks Of A Girl of Euthanasia, Whining in The Woods.

Her blown Bronde Hair Seems Of Sounds And The Smell Look Of Trees Thin And Wood Coloured Grey and Living Yellow.

The flesh was wet.

I skinned the skidded words on the Highway of my mind. He thought of The road in movies to California.

The Skin Peeled off On the Roadway.

In His heart the Burning Road Red Like In Billy’s Mind The Character Of Red Hot Mad man Bouncing in the dream.

He looked at the wall in boredom,

Was there nothing more I could do for Him?

“What did ya wish for Bill?”

He was slow to answer, “Uhhmm, I’ms wasn’t spose to tell, was I?”

I felt useless and Arbitrary in his life and My Own For that Matter.

I forced the stupid Must-Need-To, “Ha, You got it boy!”

The sky outside seemed red over the dark and grey and menacing.

I had to get out.

… In a pause and moment of desperation, “emm, Well, I hope it comes True”

Being Myself, “But Don’t Forget to Go after It With All Your Best Efforts”

I was Proud…

“I gotta go son,” making my way over the purple blue grey carpet and dead civil war souls in the dirt far under(~100 feet) I kissed his forehead sweet and warm, going through the motions.

His mother was just coming back into the room, “Leaving?” some what scared, exasperated. Her face passing my eyes, Yeah.

Stopped me pulled me in soft cloth sweet smell. Bye, Have a safe trip, All right Bye.

The Gate looked far away, and lonely.

2 [~2015]

It was Billy Munday’s seventh birthday. His mother drove him and four other children in his class to the airport just after one in the afternoon. It was a rather calm fall day in South Carolina; the sky was a shifting array of gray colours. The mother and children got out of the SUV, formed a pack, and walked to a room near gate 11. An airport staff member received them and helped Billy’s mother seat the children in generic, plastic and metal, dark gray chairs around a generic, plastic and metal, light gray table. Billy’s guests joked around about some childish things. They gawked out the two walls of windows and were amazed by the planes taxiing.

One hundred forty years earlier, during America’s civil war, a now-forgotten battle was fought below the spot where Billy’s seventh birthday party would be held. Some of the fallen soldiers were buried there. Secretly, they held a presence in the dirt, barely felt at the party, because there was a lot built on top: concrete, rebar, long, wide floors and walls and ceilings, insulation, plaster, and purple blue carpet; all between the bones and Billy. One particularly restless soul had the name of Cole. He died at the age of 19. Cole had one perfect memory. He had been with his only love, Iswa. She spun and pranced between birch trees, gleefully giggling. She wore a loose, weathered, nightgown-like white dress, which seemed to be made to cover her loving skin every day of its and her existence. She had straw yellow hair that floated as she moved; the birches’ bark was a dull white, but where it was broken, it revealed a pale green flesh, then, deeper, a glistening, translucent, striated blond. Verdant grass flowed below them, and above the sparkling leaves was an ocean of radiant, cloud-filled, impenetrable sunlight. Back in the present day, life seemed to be a chaos of infinite distraction, huge jets rolling smoothly, connecting to bridges, and roaring mercilessly.

Billy was underwhelmed by the scene at his party. In his wild excitement, he hoped his party would be like his recent fantasies that were sparked by and involved characters from Alice in Wonderland and a fire department demonstration at his school. He imagined walls of jungle where insane, short men jumped around wearing bright red hats. He mostly kept quiet, looked at the fire extinguisher on the wall, and waited. Billy’s father was rushing to make the party before catching another flight. His wife just finished arranging the presents and cake and setting the children’s places at the table, when he came to the door. He hugged Billy quickly, then stood next to the mother. She lit the candles and switched off the lights.. a quiet, dim moment of peace. Singing children and laughter...
As the kids ate the store-bought, heavily iced chocolate cake, Billy opened his presents with tiredly forced enthusiasm, looking back at his father each time after thanking the gift giver. Neither knew what kind of face to make when making eye contact, but they settled into a complacent, sympathetic gaze when Billy looked at his father for a longer moment, after opening the last present, paid for with his father's money, but picked out, purchased, and wrapped by his mother.

The mother gathered all the trash and, noticing there was not a bin, set out to ask someone for one. No one at the party could imagine all the imaginations of the people coming and going from that place or all places they had been and were going to be.
“What did ya wish for, Bill?” the father asked.
“I dunno. I'm not aspose ta tell, right?” Billy slowly answered.
“Ha, yeah, yeah, you got it!” his father forced out, then he had a worried look. “Well… I hope it comes true,” then quickly adding, “but be sure to go after if [and it] with all your best efforts.” He looked distant but satisfied. He ruffled Billy’s hair then kissed his head, smelling his salty skin. He quietly remarked that he had to go.
“Mmkay,” Billy said. The other children were busy with cake, utensils and presents. With his hand on his son’s head, the father stared at a wall, breathing still, and almost thought of crying. He turned and grabbed his luggage. His wife came in with a surprised and exhausted expression.
“Leaving?” she asked.
“Yeah.” They hugged, and he relished her blouse’s soft collar and laundered smell. The atmosphere became almost foreboding. He pointed himself toward his gate. The queue of passengers looked like a relief, a destination, a lonely little planet where he needed to be.

Patriotism, for Alex

Even eagles cry, and nary a shrew could spill his guts over the boiling Texas blacktop stretcht out like a snake skin over radiator bowels. Nocturnal emissions for you my sweet love, for this Saturday is too jumbled up in my prophetic memory glands, sorting out the hormone files for the kiddys who learn on the other side of the stockyard. The hay’s piled up like a fort for the testimony repeaters, wind in the rifle, after shock of public indecency. Playing the flute in the treetops, Mama shun sine coasts through the demon ages picking up loose static and prickly pear petals building an earth far more mundane and integral to the side of the residential complex where tiny glowing eyes peep out of insex and starving social bugs, named Austin, Winni, Peg, Suiza, Nacho, y Pueblo.
Kill the sox, Montenegro, We loons need utter peace, sawed-off eyeballs, quenching fluttery murals of paint streaked as if life itself slapped the face of Mary’s daughter with a hand made out of corroded white cheese, in the early darkness of the village serial rapists of the lands, hot springs kiss the dirt of the placid star-spangled eerily eternal fabric of a cloak that wraps us all in intangibility and Crisco bloody dough moods falter and I kick the business with a toasted frankfurter

The Non-Asian Male 20 % Club

[an early to mid-2000s monster.com television advertisement, Dream On - The Chemical Brothers]

All of the worlds and I had to come to a settlement. “If I can agree to be walked upon… the fellow plants and animals may be at peace and find a simple way to be walking always, for a high concentration of anyone, two, or five will spoil an entire eternity’s worth of reactions to reactions. Male, 2 eyes, 4 limbs, 1 torso, necessary and unnecessary organs, necessary and unnecessary thoughts, future deprived, past undetermined.

7:43, awake, the last signal. Press, smoke, rest, spoke.
“All right, Nine-gold Thomsons, Maybe down, left of the lane this is how we play with the other tool boxes, but over here, never, NEVER, we sell our fine brothers short, don’t sell them shorts, don’t tear their shorts… Interesting? No! We have loved this wager under dark skies and loud orders, we never forgive the last order, it’s an indication, it’s all too superlative, The Last Four… it happens to be a way impassable.

Traffic lights turn from green to yellow to orange to blue and back to yellow. The straight and high buildings cover the little roaming hair-covered heads. He and she cross paths, and silently go back to their blank minds, directing the asphalt and pavement with their four feet. Spread out over the earth… are all of the … these … and there is me. In all my forms, I travel to secret and public locations, my body moulded to fit the obvious layouts of contexts and spiked soup of primordial glistening chaos, attached to no one, succumb once and for all to the blank, the bludgeoned performance, the overstated here-for-now, going for a quick one… Yes, and then we said it has to be the only fully exercised diet since we began enrolling the sold out jack hoping the nuisance would piddle and the grain would forewarn.

Take off the glasses, the deep, deep puddle. The oligarchic king’s crown is castle-shaped. Falling off is the best way to get back on. Intense, the courtyard’s park of the 9318 Century Elite building est. in 2002, the people meshed like cotton bags slowly euphorically sending signals that estrogen tablets were trite and TV news programs disintegrated ultra-violet consistency in the evermore-appreciated cosmos of weird wonder-filled beings beginning by belaying birth

Some days and months ago I read a children’s book in my mother’s library. It was about God and his creations. The question was where is God. Each element of creation argued for why God was with it. The wind said God is with me; the water said God is with me; different animals say God is with us. Then people come along and say we look like God. Then a giant tortoise comes along and tells everything the way it is. People are getting careless or forgetting or something. I think the illustrations are watercolour; they looked Chinese or Japanese. It has a happy ending maybe, or it tells a valuable message probably.

The End.