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.

Got a dog in my earring (an instance of 3)

H' after everything is a mailbox stamp knows. Don't, it's all bad. Like a captain bad.

Own Mah Own Rose

What say the fallen in the Vestibule, late to dinner Warm as a garden chair Yes to that, to tea and all in the green as pale as peaches will get

Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet. Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot. Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss. Fontso: Onion thugs, yello…

In fashion, passive is to envy the figure smote.

Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's alr…

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