The penis and vagina were very happy. Everything seemed to be going their way.
The wealth multiplied the penis’s desires. Suddenly he could have anything he wanted: boats, jets, penthouses, islands, diamonds, tigers, Aston Martins, cocaine. He purchased eight sports coats that together cost more than the average middle-income home.
The vagina warned the penis not to get swollen, to remember their humble beginnings.
The penis basked in his celebrity. He held big parties. Agents emailed agents to get on lists. One time, after a night of partying, the penises and vaginas woke to find a boat marooned on the beach. Nobody knew how it had gotten there or to whom it belonged. The penis had the butler rig it with explosives, then sat back and watched it get blown to pieces.
There are three taps bearing water from which knowledge pours that awakens you upon drinking. The water in the first tap is made from anything and tastes delicious even if it’s terrible. The second tap is an army ready for war and the third tap is a hat you’ve never liked. There is a spring in every town that produces these three types of water but nobody’s ever satisfied. Everybody says they know better. So now, in the world in which we live, there is everything good and terrible depending on how it tastes, armies ready for war and the hat-wearing population. Those in the armies ready for war are also fond of hats. A terrible thirst slakes the nation and hats are growing ever larger to compensate for the vicious rays of the sun. It is in this day and age the old ones find respite in the fact that they thought they’d destroyed everything but had forgotten about themselves. And my sister and I continue, picking beads off curtains and metabolizing the plastic they contain, while the rays of the sun grow ever stronger in this knowledgeable, thirst-slaked land. We’ve tried all the waters and it’s true, nothing works. But everything is beautiful or tries to make sense, which is the heart of knowledge. We watch an army of ants ready to eat a beetle. Like them, they are like us. We are taking the path to town through the hard-walked sand, which I love to walk. The army of ants will be here when we get back. The wars have yet to begin. Life on the brink, I say aloud, stepping slowly, careful not to kill anything yet. Everything is an invasion. We disappear into the horizon finally. The sand is hard like clay and moistened nightly, then packed down by tiny steel robots that weigh tons. It’s a special kind of steel. To be heavy enough I mean. The swamp glows before us in the distance. Once we’ve reached the end of the hard-walked sand we will tie rocks around our waist and walk out into the muck.
Their pin numbers invent me middle-aged.
Bored of the light and bored of the dark,
I’m the bore mannequin fist bumps defend.
Under a bulb made of sandwich,
Every hair on my head is a medical helicopter —
A ghoulish palm tree on a nuked-blue beach.
Noses nailed to feet
Gonna listen to my urine pretending to be a monkey.
This motherfucking prison of Saint Augustine!
The very little food left in the world
Shows what I’ve been looking for all my life.
Great is what repeats me mannequin-aged.
A thot, a thick thot arises.
“Let’s put it in the gallery.”
As tho the unknowing weren’t enough in the tangentry grown into a fog, the ellipses, they all embedding itself into the sanctity of a glitch in our wall, and mine the immediate face of it, all but invisible apart from the insurance of its accountability as a thing that could be held, for its department, as prisoner to the actions of others, their grubby digits and the like, the desire to fingerblast the totems of so-called culture on a free day, the paths we like caged tigers pace for the many minutes ‘twixt the rotation of days at a time.
I recently recalled an image from my childhood.
Initially, I was not sure if the image was of a figure whom I had often imagined or if the image was an actual memory. What I remembered was the image of a middle-aged man standing on the side of the road holding a sign that read:
“Bomb The Whales.”
I asked around to the other (now grown) children who lived in my hometown and they confirmed that they too remembered the man.
People hated him.
He was often stationed across the street from the local Whole Foods.
Drivers with pro-peace/hippie/liberal leaning bumper stickers would drive by and honk their horns and yell “fuck you” or “go to hell” but he was not deterred by this.
He got off on it. His smile would grow wide and he’d wave as if he had been complimented or the drivers were simply saying hello.