The Numbered Girls

Facing west, at the end of hall is for evil

Suze's folding chair is cold, it needs some tactile assurance otherwise it could fold into itself completely or it might just flip over. She's having a hard time of it, Suze is. She laughs and holds out the musky boot she was adjusting. Girl01 come's back inside and there's a broken little bird like dog in her hands. Dark chunky tears as black as Girl03's boot run down her face. Girl01 stops and holds the dog's body in her skinny suburban arms. It's reflection along with the reflection of that reflection are being reflected simultaneously back into their eyeballs from a dozen other mirrors. With the small still warm body of the dead dog in Girl01's hands the effect is radical, profoundly so.
There's a tool and die shop next to the service station that isn't the Clark Station. Randy Samwell owns it. He makes video's for some of the local kids and their bands at a nearby dance studio. He does it because he likes the kids and he likes their music. He has them jump up and down and shake their heads. He tell's them to stamp their feet like they mean it. Girl03's friends show up in some of the videos. They'll get to be girl-number-1, or girl-in-mirror for a day. They tease their hair and wear band t-shirts that they borrow from their brothers.
Suze didn't know what to do. Girl01 didn't know what to do. Girl02 was in the bathroom collecting mounds of tissue for later and Allen had left for his other job already. Randy stopped with a white rubbery squeak. He pivoted and went straight to his camera. He laughed out loud saying, you perfectly brave mother fuckers I'm pressing the button right now.
Girl02 brought an extra WASP shirt, just in case. In back of the studio she found a package. It was addressed, c/o Nancy with some other boxes that were flattened and left by the door. She was tossing out a sticky wad of tissue. The dog just lay with it's eyes rolled back.
The brown terrier was barking at the end of the second set. Suze wasn't a Girl at all, she was just the hair dresser. It wasn't easy explaining why she stopped calling herself Boone, so she didn't. She brought the raggedy fuzz-dot in after a cigarette outside and it shit itself when Randy came out of the bathroom. Like someone flipped a shit switch and off it went, a long snarling fecal smear across the fake parquet. It didn't stop like it couldn't stop it kept going and going. Girl03 started singing, Like a poop machine, get on up.
Allen the guy they hired to move the batteries around ran outside. When I saw him at the store later he said he was really really wasted. He said he was so fucked up that he just had to get out of there. Then he asked about Girl01, She's tits.

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

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