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Grown Awesome in the Deep End

After the fire, the stinging amber of its broken flame, the old house sits and it creaks a lot like a little joy. It's the day after the water has melted apart, when there are sandcastles everywhere but not near enough. It's the day when I remember the night that everything nearly opened up. The night that I sat up in bed, both of my eyes were filled to their depth with an impossible panic. I couldn't feel the sheets anymore and I couldn't think of Elizabeth's name either. Instead I heard the deep and heavy trucks. The crackle of bull horns that slam into the indecent walls of brick and lumber like they're whiskey finding a good wife. I look off into space. Between us, I know my hand is sitting there. I look at the glowing door and I scream like I'm a hot little girl burning up from too much heat.
"It's all, touch me. It's touch me if you can because I'm being silent now," she says to me. I can see her sitting at home, agape in the ri…
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Mirth if by kind sense, a laugh

This winters only bone magnet, white and shiney like a smooth lamb of the shore. It's solid and it has some heft to it. Though I wouldn't want to smash a walnut with it or flatten someones beak, I'd say that it's right good enough for opening a door or making a tight shoe fit. This winters only spring is on us like a suit of dusty larks. It's a singing song that's worth its time under the warm but distant sun. I'll lay my coat down upon the ground and smooth back my hair. The clock will wait for me to find my comfort in this dust. It'll wait right here while I do. With my ass below me and my pockets full of juice, I can wait for spring all day. I'm a wonder in the flat of this grass just watching while the clouds roll by. Just sitting on my ass in the grass.

The disordered incontinence of a certain puddin like substance

Fox loud, fox loud, come home at once and often more. Come home and sit here upon my knee. Come, make me an answer and make it quick. Come home to me and sit at this table. I am here and here to quote, Latins, Proverbs and the Lay of Sympathicus too. We can speak well of them and talk about their style. We can sandwich in the rain. Then I'll warm my hands. Then I clear the drawer to make you an offer before bread, an offer of cheddar soup and good strong beer. Will you sit here on my knee? I'll make you an offer that's bitter and dark. Will you sit on this knee?
Come home and we can dance because my table is flat. We can smash it and we can thump it and we can really tie one on. Come home with me and we can show them how it's done. I'll make you an offer of, rhymes with spoon. Then afterwards I'll make you that offer again. You can tell me that my hair looks wild and I'll say you frown too soon. Come home with me and sit here on my knee. We'll have bee…

A graphical interface, the narrative of Ms Brave and Ronco

This is the Splash Page: Located visual center on a white field is a black circle with a simple white thought balloon at its center.

In bold text (no caps) wrapped around the black circle: ms brave qu'est que c'est ms brave she knows this. The thought balloon's interior text reads (all-caps, distorted and bunched up tight, it's stacked 2 over 1): DAMN YOU RONCO
Pages 2 and 3: A spread with a long black line that runs across the bottom of both open white pages. The first page is empty with the exception of the line while the second page has a series of interlinked horizontally oriented black rectangles with rounded corners. They'll be stylized word balloons that should have varied line weight. Sitting on top of them is the following naked red text dripping from the bottom justification (all caps) CHAPLAIN /AMERICA /THE MIGHTY /MECHA /SCHISM (tall blue, no outline, all caps, well formed, vertical character ). The overall effect of the text should be a bloody red and…

Who's Zoo?

Let's turn in early, in the corner where our bed is made, there are Pickles and there is pie and maybe soon there'll be some more, Write it down and say it loud, O fishing fable eating names, breathing then and breathing more, Let's trumpet trumpet, Let's blow on it, Then bury me under the door, Then bury me a house for my money and sing me a song when it's gone, Then sing it once again, This time sing it for Mary and then sing it again for the world, Our bed's in the water and barely turning, Burning like flames in the basement, Burning like eggs full of ape shit- This Long Old Song We all call out to Sister Susan, to Henry and the troll of trolls, Abe "the sparkle king." We call out to them lounging on their rock, beside the spring, "This is not yet a question of radical memberships or normalized narratives. These are not like your flowers at all. We have to renegotiate the roles of these entities much more better then they have been. They won…

A simple folded flyer (an excerpt from, Fresh Diamonds)

The low picnic tables that are under the elm tree are also brown. They’ve been scuffed up and scratched with very much sorrow and too much lament. What grass is around them is frail and burnt. But the dirt, that's just mud and it's full of ash and sharp nasty glass. Only the older kids play here. They kiss each other and then they go to school where they learn about the lines that separate each of the poorer states in our union from all of the other states. It's so cool and so sad that this very modern age of agony knows itself so well.
"Like a palmist being read her nightly news knows, the nightly news is the heavy news. So let's set this little whistle up, you can tell me where or when it hurts. After all this whole century smells like art. So much so, it's all the way up in our eyeballs now,” WSBill spits into another glass and snaps his towel like he's a dessicated golf pro.
"I’ll bet that Canada knows us more better," The Captain smiles. WS…

failing upwards

Here's what my crane of the march thinks of it when there is shade enough for thinking. It thinks that, the bench of my boat stays wet while my ass sits steadfast in the sand twitching and indifferent to it's breakfast of salt and knob knees. Here is what I shall feel today, I shall feel like, young. I shall feel like, must. I shall feel like, short pants, an old clock and a sharp eyed rebuke from a small and box like stage. Today I shall feel like a Chiclet that's been rolled in snot, that's been deep fried and chewed up by a small table saw. I'm tired today and my chest hurts. It's cold in my room and my nose is runny. Everything smells terrible everywhere. My olfactory range is limited to astringent and sour things or florid musk's. It's like being surrounded by old milk and Chanel number hell. I'm back at work which means I'm unhappy and angry just walking through the side door. I feel like I'm going to grow old here because I've ba…