given the times we live in

given the times we live in
I will not be attending any ill-conceived construction sites
nor will I demand an accounting for overdue invitations
is this not the moment of reduced capabilities?
am I to be forever excluded from my own fantastic clock?
glass cutters and box cutters litter the gutters
yet we pay little attention to the ruminating street sweepers
I can’t abide by the overblown obstructions
fried spices and chemical compounds with which all meat is encrusted
the flavour of perennial disappointment weighs heavily on the tongue.

given the times we live in
I guess I will forgo all my dreams of finding solace
from an amorphous, amoral, a-bombed birthstone
where in god’s name will we find that furnace fuel?
the carrier pigeons all chucked their cargo
and flew in unison into the jet engines of the twenty-first century
welcome to total personality failure,
welcome to your catastrophic psychological event.

when will the dinner bell chime for china?
when will it’s potential as a world-class drunk be realized?
the magic that has been force-fed to us is real
but it has lost it’s ability to inspire even tacit approval
in the halls of Olympus and the malls of America
all the animals that have ever hung in the windows of our homes
and all the priests of precision and just-in-time physical fulfillment
have returned to the sprawling factory of the heartland
to be properly executed and repackaged for unconscious consumption.

paris, I cannot include you in my sphere of lunacy
I will protect you by avoiding you, I will avoid you by Thursday
this is the picture as I conceive it: there is no sky, there are no planes
there is nothing but a tower of granite fallen on hard times
happy birthday, baby, I’m glad you could make it
but you’d better not buy that flat screen television set
the world is round, so why fight it?
we’re sailing off the edge of something else entirely

well now, am I allowed to say ‘bomb’ any more?
as in: “I would like to get my hands on a BOMB?”
in this third-party, third-world delicatessen
of sixty-watt light bulbs and dusty cold cement
dripping water booby trap, midnight express line
there are eight items or fewer left in your limited life

given the times we live in
I’d like to settle down soon in a quiet suburban burglary
suspended like a counter on the celestial abacus
a wire through our hearts, one for you, one for me
how many chocolates can you consume in one sitting?
how many suspicious pet suicides will the community tolerate?
a broken series of clandestine intrusions
will reveal itself only through the absence of discomfort
and that is precisely the time to introduce the wolf to the chickens

given the times we live in
you can be sure that soon a black caravan will be seen
driving slowly through the Brandenburg gates
a jeep loaded with digital-age weaponry
will bounce along a back road, on its way to paradise
general jackson’s crackerjack joystick
will be maneuvered in such a way as to defy all observation
beyond the reach of the paparazzi, the eyes of mankind,
with a guarantee that all homes outside the delivery area
will be subject to a surcharge of global proportions.

and that is why, given the times we live in,
you will gladly subject yourself to a public inquiry
a thorough scrutiny of all cretinous blasphemy,
personal and financial,
sexual, psychotic and historical
let’s start by opening that intriguing bank account
was the interest collected reported to the collective?
were cheque stubs filed systematically or sarcastically?
if you must fix your hair, please do it in the bathroom
where the lighting is better for the combs and cameras.

naked

my skin has left me
holding my heart
what else can you do?
(lying)
when 5am comes
the room is so cold
the air, the sheets so thin
i never felt so naked
as i did the moment i saw it.

jeremy n0thing's first epistle to mary magdalene

magdalene, money pit
how does your inheritance grow?
when an empty rifle smokes in the window,
when the cameras won't do justice to a widow of a giant,
cast your stones into the world.

the rags you wear hang from your shoulders
like moss dripping down from a jagged ledge
your sunken eyes crawl up and you
breathe in the dust of their retreating steps,
it's you who casts the first stone
dragging the rasp across your throat,
throw your hands down and take to the street.

magdalene, there's a bomb in your arms
let it go tonight in the face of all who scorn you
give them your hair like a rocket to the womb,
the birthplace of dynamite was drowned in chewing gum.

magdalene, mother of assassins
fill your mouth with sticks and gravel
fashion a complaint against the mawkish machinery
that sells your face for lipstick and cigarettes
tear your heart from their prowling hands,
drive nails through the sand until it comes up wood.

cloth is stripped and hung from branches
limp in the wind like flesh in the grave
yet all the while you're crying through
with arms outstretched, poised on your triggers
magdalene, you know who it is you must murder,
rise from the floor with your fists ready.

two lost sparrows

unnoticed

The rain became a cold mist that hung over the stubborn field,
while the grass at my feet, trampled by the crowd, got muddy.

The wet of the canvas shoes reached my toes, and I wished to sit,
but then in your dirty jeans and damp hair you came out, yes.

You were leaning forward, swaying and singing andy warhol,
strange and beautiful like dying leaves, yes, like wasting away.

Unnoticed, the hard october wind arrived and blew upon you,
sweet ruddy skin and bare feet, and me, shaking in the cold fall.

sweet december snow fell

sweet december snow fell baby
down white feathers (falling)
asleep in soft arms (sighing)
in black branches (waiting)
in the laneway
for my ride.

three or four landing on your
hair (soft bangs), forgetting
I brushed them away
with my fingers (gently)
falling in your eyes
dark amber glass
and fire.

Get onside

“Hey everybody! We’re starting a cult! It’s gonna be awesome! You gotta join! C’mon!”

And that was how some great new kids, with some great, fresh ideas enthusiastically embraced and promoted a new way of looking at life. A kind of ‘together’ way of looking at things. And it is indeed awesome.

I’d like to tell you a little bit about our community.

Visitors are met by Greg himself. He’s good-looking, and pretty bright, too, so he has a ‘way’ with both those who are educated, as well as those who, well, those who just like good-looking guys. To get to know how you think, he tries to get inside your head and poke around a bit. Each visitor is kind of ‘paired-up’ with Greg for a while. Lucky visitors! This gives Greg time to assess each newcomer’s potential. Potential for what, you say? Potential for awesomeness!

As Greg says, “A quest for purity in an impure world, that inward desire possessed by only the most ‘special’ among us, is the heart and soul of our society. And what could be more pure than unified thought? Unity is purity. Unity is lack of discord. A thought that unifies, purifies. The only thing that stands in the way of purity is even the smallest discord. Purify. Join us. Get onside.”

Hey Greg! I’m there, my brother. I’m so onside, it’s not funny.

We’re all planning for tonight. It’s time for another ‘Five-Nighter.’ It’s gonna be the best one ever! Five-nighters are what we call our bi-annual five-night spiritual education sessions. It’s really great.

We start by putting together our provisions for the ‘trip.’ We pack our toothbrushes (“a clean mouth is a clean heart, a filthy mouth defiles god”), our towels (to dry off after spiritual cleansing), and our notebooks (so we can write down things we learn about ourselves, and about Greg). We are not to pack a change of clothes. Why worry about physical comfort when we are there for spiritual training?

Tonight, we all are brought into the gym, and they lock the doors. No one leaves until we’re all spiritually clean! Boy, that’s gonna feel great! Then the servants roll in the coffee cart, and we all line up for our extra-large cups of strong black coffee. Two each! There won’t be any food until tomorrow, but there are jugs of sugar water for when we want to stave off any hunger pains that might unexpectedly arise. Bad, distracting hunger pains!

After about an hour of waiting (but they let us have some more coffee!) the doors suddenly swung open, a rush of fresh air flowed in, and in walked Greg. Greg! They shut the doors again, and we all were silent, but with beaming faces, as we looked upon Greg and waited for him to speak. He slowly looked around at all of us, smiling his great smile, and made sure that he made eye contact with each and everyone of us.

I love this moment. The anticipation that is building as we wait to hear his comforting voice. You can feel the energy rising in the room with an almost audible swell.

“Welcome!” Greg shouted, and we all broke into rapturous applause. After a minute or so, the servants raised their arms, and we all quieted down. “Welcome to the Five-Nighter. I look forward to your growth in knowledge and wisdom. And our growth in purity, in this community.”

“Purity, community, purity, community,…” we started softly chanting.

Over the steady rhythm of our collective voice, he continued, “I sense a little discord in you. Not a great amount, but small seeds. The goal of this Five-Nighter is to find any seeds of discord in yourselves, and crush those seeds into fine dust, and blow that dust away.”

“Purity, community, purity, community,…” we continued.

“That is your goal. Reach for the goal. Attain the goal!” And with those inspiring words, Greg turned his back to us and walked out the suddenly re-opened doors. The doors were then shut again, and locked. What excitement we’re all feeling!

Can you believe it? They brought out another coffee cart. This must be the best night ever. We all got another coffee, then we were broken up into groups of five, and we began our ‘connecting and correcting.’

We sat on the floor, cross-legged, taking turns speaking on different topics. No ‘pass’-ing. ‘Everyone talks, everyone wins,’ as you-know-who says!

We started with what we like most about Greg. Everyone always says the same things! Stuff like how wise he is, how kind he is, how smart he is, how good-looking he is. I always try to think of something new. To show how much I understand Greg. This time I talked about how brave Greg is. It’s hard to have so much responsibility, the way he takes care of all of us. It probably gets discouraging for Greg, the trouble that we sometimes cause him. So I think he’s brave to put up with us.

Next we talked about ways that each of us might have disappointed Greg this month. I said I think that Greg is concerned about the way I sometimes crave sleep. That must be disappointing for him. I’m trying to sleep less, as Greg suggests. ‘Less sleep: Awakened is a state of mind AND body.’ I have to try harder.

All of a sudden, the whistle blew. It was so loud, we all jumped! “Spiritual Cleansing!” the servants started shouting. One of them kept blowing the whistle. We all ran to the back wall, the wall where the drains had been intalled. In ran servants from doors on either side of the gym. Two servants on each side carrying the fire hoses. “ON!” one of them shouted, and suddenly we were being blasted with cold water. The force of the water coming out of the fat canvas hoses was so powerful. It was hard to stand still when it hit you. But it felt so good to be spiritually cleaned! We all were given a good soaking, then the hoses were turned off, and the only sound was the water trickling down the drains. After five minutes of ‘silent drip-drying’ in the now air-conditioned gym, we were allowed to get out towels. We were all shivering by then, so it was nice to dry off a bit more, and to wear the towel for warmth. I sat there quietly thinking, “this is so awesome!”

Now it’s time for Self-Slapping.

I sit in concentration, with my eyes squeezed tightly shut. I imagine myself perfectly following Greg’s ‘precepts for pure living,’ never making a mistake. I imagine how pleasing that must be to Greg – for him to see that his efforts at helping people are really having a positive effect; that his hard work is not in vain. I picture Greg’s face smiling.

Now I do what only community members who have made it to level three are allowed to do (this is dangerous work, so less experienced ones are not allowed to attempt it yet). Still with my eyes closed, I imagine myself disobeying Greg. Here, you have to be truthful to yourself. You have to imagine an actual time that you didn’t quite live up to Greg’s expectations. I recalled that time last week when I looked upon a carrot with ‘food lust.’ I was fasting at the time, so to even imagine eating something was as bad as actually eating it. I brought to mind that desire I had to eat the carrot. The way I thought how sweet and crunchy it would be. The way I thought that I actually needed to eat it.

My arm flew up and I open-handed slapped myself across the face as hard as I could. The stinging in my cheek and eye felt liberating! Warm, throbbing justice. I slapped myself again. To think that I craved a carrot more than Greg’s approval! Sometimes I don’t know what’s wrong with me!

Now the sweet reward: I imagine myself again doing everything perfectly, and Greg’s glorious smile beaming down on me. I put a hard candy in my mouth, and sucked on it hard as I visualized Greg’s happiness. I sucked on it no more than five times, then took it out and placed it back in the Bowl of Wisdom in front of me. Then I focused on my next transgression – really felt it – then brought my other hand across the other side of my face. Sweet stinging relief!

We all sat there slapping ourselves for quite some time – alternating visualizations of pleasing Greg, and displeasing him. To be honest, I ran out of transgressions that I could bring to mind. You’re not allowed to repeat a transgression. Greg knows that if we were allowed to repeat the visualization of transgressions, some ‘weaker’ ones might just keep going over one single mistake, and not address all of their mistakes, and avoid the areas where they need to really work. For most people, two hours of self-slapping covers all your transgressions. We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t trying our best to make Greg smile!

So when you run out, you have to start focusing on your weak nature, and how you could be drawn into displeasing Greg, if you weren’t vigilant. I thought of things other people did, like when Alan actually yawned while Greg was teaching us. How rude! I mean, I don’t care how tired you are; you don’t yawn at Greg. So I imagined myself doing such a disrespectful thing. I really let myself have it that time. My hand cracked against my cheekbone, and my fingertips bull-whipped my eye. I had to muffle my cry out in pain, and I did feel a bit dizzy. That Alan made me so mad! My eye was tearing, but I wasn’t crying.

If you really cry during a five-nighter, Greg has a private meeting with you. But it’s not a happy meeting. That’s the one time you don’t want to be talking to Greg. After a Crybaby meeting, you have to wear a sign around your neck for a whole week. That sign says, you guessed it, ‘Crybaby.’ No one is allowed to talk to you, and you also have to wear a rope around your neck. If ever I was a crybaby, I don’t know what I’d do, I’d be so ashamed. So I quickly wiped the tears away from my stinging face, and smiled up at one of the servants watching over us. “Greg is pure,” I said.

“May we all be as pure as Greg,” he replied.

The Five-Nighter continued with all the regular activities: ‘I could be better’ role-playing, vomiting over bad thoughts, EWEO (Eating with Eyes Only), humiliating the sleepy. By the last night, I was feeling great. I was kind of surprised that it ended so quickly. You always lose track of time in the middle of a five-nighter, partly due to your intense spiritual concentration, partly due to the absence of natural light and the 24-hour fluorescent lighting throughout the training.

I thought that maybe it was day three, day four at the most. Then all of a sudden, Greg’s voice came booming out over the PA system.

“Hello Five-Nighters!” he exclaimed exuberantly. We all erupted into tumultuous cheers and applause. There were a few off in the corner that appeared too dazed to know what was going on, but the rest of us understood, all right!

“You have been on an exciting journey, my little ones,” he continued. “It’s time now to come home.” You could have heard a pin drop, it became so quiet.

Click, clack, a door was unlocked. With a slight creaking sound, one of the doors to the gym opened up, and in walked Greg. He stood in the black circle of purity that was painted on the gym floor, and one-by-one we moved into a single line that began exactly ten feet from Greg. A little bell chimed, and the first one walked rapturously into Greg’s arms. You could see the warmth in Greg’s embrace as he held tightly onto each five-nighter, as they were brought to him by the sound off the little bell. He whispered words of encouragement to each of us. When it was my turn, I felt so proud! Greg took me into his arms and said quietly in my ear, “You are one of my favourites.” Oh…my….god! Will I ever stop smiling??

Now, I bet you’re dying to hear more about the cult! I’d like to tell you more, but I have a lot of work to do, so I better get going. You know what would be great though? Why don’t you come hang out with us a bit? You can meet Greg! It will be awesome!

Purify! Join us! Get onside!

Bill sells books

Discounts drop,
A woman pretends to enjoy the books,
Bill licks his lips.

Fluorescent-lit dim books in racks,
Bad font in plastic wrap,
Bestsellers flop.

Another one walks into the shop,
Leaves fast but takes a list,
Bill licks his lips.

Bill looks up, adjusts his specs,
Takes an order with smiles and grunts.
Synapses pop.

"I'm staying ‘til the last one leaves."
(No one knows the life I've led)
The door creaks.
Bill licks his lips.

The family that operates a convenience store together, stays together

I decided that I needed an energy drink to pick me up, so I walked over to the convenience store that is in our neighbourhood. It had recently been taken over by a new family that were all quite short, and of some hard-to-define nationality. Middle eastern? Eastern European? Could be either. Or neither. Anyhow, every time I walk into the store, there’s this short little woman with a strange accent behind the counter, standing at attention. She’s always polite, but I wouldn’t say exactly friendly.

So I was doubly surprised to walk in and, not only see someone other than her standing there, but to see that it was the guy that is usually behind the counter at the Esso station/convenience store 30 kilometres outside of town. Like the little woman, he’s always polite, but not particularly friendly, even though he sees me all the time when I stop for gas or a drink during my daily commute. I realized that he might be related to the little woman who is usually there. I said Hi to him as our eyes met, and I walked to the back of the store. As I was deciding which energy drink to buy, I started thinking I should say something to him like, “Hey, I usually see you at the Esso out on the highway,” or something like that, just to acknowledge that I knew who he was, as a gesture of friendliness.

I picked out a ‘reduced carb’ energy drink, and walked up to the front counter to pay for it. All of a sudden, three people, apparently all his family, but no one I had ever seen before, came bursting through the front door, and quickly filed behind the front counter. One of them, a pre-teen girl, was crying uncontrollably. A woman, presumably her mother, was yelling at her in foreign language. I think she was also directing some of her yelling at a young boy, presumably her son, who didn’t react in the slightest way. Then the Esso guy started yelling at everyone, and I was just standing there, waiting to pay for my drink. Saying Hi no longer seemed like a good idea.

They continued shouting for a bit, with the girl bawling her eyes out, and the boy completely expressionless. Pretty soon, the Esso guy decided to pay me some attention. He rang in the drink, the cash register calculated the tax and displayed the total, then he said the total out loud: “$3.38.” By now, the girl was sobbing noisily on a stool at one end of the space behind the counter, while the others stood on the other side of the Esso guy, with the mother continuing to berate everyone, including the Esso guy, who was probably her husband. I gave him $3.50, which I extracted in a painstakingly slow and awkward way from my pocket, fumbling with the coins to avoid including a large piece of pocket lint, and handed the money to him.

As he dug through the change in the cash register to get me my twelve cents, and as the yelling continued, I thought, ‘aw, what the hell’ and I said to him, “Don’t I normally see you at the Esso station out on the highway?” All of a sudden, everything went dead quiet as they all stared at me in silence. His hand stopped moving in the change drawer, as he seemed to forget how much change he was getting me. I looked at him, and then I looked at the rest of them, kind of surreptitiously. The young girl sniffed. “Never mind,” I said, “keep the change.”

As I walked out of the store, the woman started shouting again, this time much louder, the girl started wailing pathetically, and the Esso guy started shouting, too. The boy remained silent the entire time. I stood out in the parking lot, sipping my cold drink, and smelling the fresh air with wide open nostrils.

global zero

hot as iron, the morning star
hung from the night like an icicle, breathless
everything melts, there can be no doubt
mountains, oceans, candy and hearts
ready or not, here we come
with backpacks full of toys for the children
boots on the ground go stomping around
echoing down streets like slapping faces
hoot and holler, hold onto your life.

a new day dawns when every eye opens
those that don't are pulled wide with hooks
i grew up under the threat of the sun
delivered on the backs of innocent birds
a scattered flock spreading out in the sky
like a flower breathing, in hope and trust,
determined to find food as it delivers its soul.

two poems

molar

orbiting tooth
that
never left the mouth

tied to the earth
by a
string of white blood


olive and pear

olive sheds a coat of black glass
rebel child of the dark sun and sea
skin of salt pierced, that plump leather
liquid cells bursting with light
collapsing and breathing oil into the blood
rich velvet heart of meat like layered rock

pear sheds a sweet paper coat
wet with nerves of sugar
and freckled with earth and wood
tracks filled with pools of juice, crisp and soft
heavier than earth and softer than snow
a fat world perfumed by the scent of baby grass

let the weight of the great sea
roll over your tongue
and the hot blue sun
let the wind sizzle in the leaves

olive and pear, moon and earth,
bodies pulling on each other

fishing

I found him on a great rock
at the edge of the sea.

He didn’t know me,
I asked, “Are you a fisherman?”

He spoke through lost eyes,
“It’s all I’ve ever known.”

I followed his gaze, “What do you see?”
“Green sharks,” he said simply.

I waited a few moments,
then I said, “It’s time to go.”

“But I haven’t caught a thing.”
“You’ve had enough.” (he started to cry)

“Ssh!” I said gently,
and slipped a hook in his mouth.

three poems

fizzle puzzle (stream o' consciousnuzzle)

fizzle puzzle, candid stasis
questions of arrangement
followed like the fortunate fifty
broken down to the nearest digit
swallowed whole, identical numbers

free-range pesticide taken to the lungs
straight like a cannon shot or crooked like a tunnel
back to the oily cardboard
damp pavement overlord
by-product: birth control of biblical proportions

rust-free
bottlecap

wasted time
free crap

rip your coat
bubblegum

sunken eye
bingo

struggling with utensils, the yellow jacket authority
questions the utility of sending
a school-age rockstar to hell
dimes with ridges, thrown from bridges
when the catalogue clock strikes three:
fistfight in the morning.


before the sun

peace, sweet peace
before the sun
the snow stopped falling
to sleep

the dog got up
then went back to bed
belly full and dreaming
of another breakfast

my son awakened me
when he crawled beside me
frightened by the horrors
he knows are in the world

but now he sleeps
beside his mother
while I make coffee
before the sun


Instructions to be followed closely

Find a boat with willing sails and put yourself upon it,

give the boat a secret name but never write it down,

test the air with unbendable finger licked by resolute tongue,

drift out over bottomless water, away from all you know.

Cross the sea with skill and care using only wind and stars,
throw the radio overboard and with it all your charts,
after a time when land appears be careful where you choose,
(many adventures end in ways no captain would have wished).

Anchor the boat within a bay while the village is asleep,
slip from the starboard side at dawn, swim silently to the shore,
wander past the darkened homes until you find a path,
follow it to a field beyond the reach of human eyes.

Sit down underneath the sky that’s darkening above,
know that you were never more than everyone you loved,
this is where you’ll ever rest, the world won’t be the same,
lay your heart down in the grass and cover it with rain.

Prophecy

soon

soon one morning without warning
everyone who is chosen
will be flash frozen
with their eyes
wide open
...
.

Three Poems

nitroglycerine

by hacksaw and hammer,
a crude heart keeps pounding out a rhythm

this four-ton slave is a living slave
whose deep long beat has broken free of time
a second-rate machine whose living murder
is a flexing muscle countdown
the punch clock pitbulls by the hour
got bass and baritone hung by the heels
no skull of a heart is a thumping rock

the wind blows through and whispers in the branches
(the code of silence was written for suckers)
nervous leaves rattle bones and chatter

the beat works with its own echo
it feeds on itself, consuming blood
bubble and froth, picking up the tempo
slamming doors shut:

let the heart attack


looking for users

People are turning up dead
they’re finding them on the pavement
in dark alleys and church parking lots
there’s a new god on the streets

a stronger one
that users aren’t used to
no one knows how to
work out the dosage

some say they’re confusing it with another god
but some of the dead knew what it was, all right
they were just expecting it to be cut
with candy or disney glycerin

this god is never cut
pure from the source it is the source itself
with this one
you’re tapping right into the sun
a thermonuclear spike to the neurons
that no body can absorb and stay whole

no need for dealers,
this god itself is self-pushing, self-rising
it calls for users with a small voice
pleading for mercy,
offering release,
demanding an audience,
looking for a temple
to explode in.


eyes pop open

eyes pop open, ovens pop open
this psychiatry sews up openings

in slips needle out comes horror
open drain; cake comes after

rub away that funny feeling
warm food served with plastic cutlery

sprinkle sugar on incisions
scissors dance with sheer abandon

snip or stab, it's with precision
oh your hands are cold like popsicles

Two Poems

Apollo

When men first stepped onto the moon
in the stone black womb of cold space
among the lifeless rock, boulder and crevice
they found a human baby covered in dust.

Removing their gloves they knelt down in the stillness
(the vibrating moon groaned softness)
radios switched off despite houston’s pleas
they remained so for thirty minutes.

At the centre of the universe, in a tiny box
a piece of metal turns slowly on a thread
it reflects itself through an unstoppable reaction
but a chiming peal from it escapes through the void
like a stream of milk from a beating heart
riding urgent waves of electricity,
spilling through space at the speed of light
into our galaxy,
where condensed by gravity
it reaches us like holy breath:
the music of infinite emptiness (of the dark)
whispering, curdling in our ears.

Resuming contact with mission control
the astronauts collected rocks and dust
planted flags and posed for photographs
while the baby sank into the moon
beneath the prints of the astronauts’ white boots.


Knife fight

It’s no fun feeling
no fun,
you’re always starting
a knife fight.

I always wake up choking
a problem down,
pressed to my forehead,
the metal grip.

You were born to explode,
forever igniting, atoms splitting,
always reaching for something
inside your jacket.

Bad Chicken

A chicken was born recently (or should I say ‘hatched’?) on a local farm. Being born with a full head of hair, it was rejected by its mother. It was thus doomed to walk the world alone, chicken among roosters, trying to scratch up a little chicken feed for itself here and there. As you can imagine, it developed a little attitude.

This was a chicken with a real in-your-face approach, with more than a little chip on its slender chicken shoulder (or should I say ‘clavicus ornithus?’). Did I mention the aggressive pecking? Oh sure, the chicken pretended to be snapping at the ground at some imaginary grain of who-knows-what. But when its razor-sharp beak sheared a thick slice of meat off my ankle, dropping me to the ground like a sack of potato salad, followed by some painful squeezing of my face with its claws, I began to suspect something was up.

Someone had to change, me or the chicken.

At first, I thought it was me. But after several sessions of therapy, I realized it was the chicken who needed some major help.

I organized an intervention. And by that, I don’t mean what is usually referred to in agricultural circles as a ‘chicken intervention’ (i.e. the lopping off of the head). No, this was a real, honest-to-goodness gathering of the chicken’s closest friends (i.e. me and the undersized, dreamy-eyed chicken who only walks in concentric circles) with the intention of appealing to the chicken within. To help it see that it has all the love in the world in support of its healing.

The intervention didn’t go as planned. Licking its lips after having polished off its slow friend, the chicken turned its attention to me. Fortunately I had brought some back-up, and I quickly skewered the chicken with three pitchfork prongs, pinning it against the wall of the chicken coop.

And that is where its body remains today. Pinned against the wall of the coop, it will stay as a warning to all the other would-be chicken punks. Don't mess with the man.

mattel

my new world disputed the packages

didn't ken come home and break the dishes?

didn't barbie throw up from her nervousness?
and both with the sun and moon in their faces?
barbie’s little sister’s disadvantages
were manifested as malfunctioning platelets

the sun 'n fun buggy was in a road rage collision
the very same day as the
malibu beach house
dream home invasion

god wanted

non-smoker preferred
experience not necessary
experience may be considered
a handicap
must have good communication skills
must be innovative and willing to learn
must apply in person