return to images
      Hands in yr eyepits. Babylon is calling, with an X mark on the spot, look who's reading fiction and look who's reading not. Each chapter produced through a haze, various characters appear in and out of the high and mighty realm of smoke. The struggles with the keyboard, the fountain pen, the bic pen clotting on yr fingers. Then the phone rings. Light up.

Girls are giggling dumb high noises into the phone machine. I want to complain. Why don't they leave a message or their name, but I guess I know who it is and that's the point? It's summer in Hollywood, the heat is bordering unbearable.

My name is Allison McKenzie, May Camille O'Fitt, Bernadette Kalleckta, Running Deer, Stoner Mom. Crawling around in the back garden deciphering undiscovered mysteries, Holmesian steps are required just to get the back fence. It was the return of the wild parrots, screeching overhead, when I realized I hadn't catalogued the newest mushroom specimen under the rotting grape vine. Yr right, everyone knows it's too hot for a mushroom spore to gather one iota of moisture and multiply. That's what was so amazing. And it had a mango mustard dusting in the inner spore cap at that. I didn't want to pick it yet, so I went back inside, giving the parrots a last laugh, to fetch Miller. Not that Miller is the best to verify with, but it's a good beginning. It helps clear the smoke outta yr head.

Instead I decide to peddle up towards the Hollywood sign on my bicycle. The air is heavy with smog and I don't think I'll get up to the top. Ride over to the video store instead, drop by the library, see if the head librarian is gone so I can apply for a library card. Do normal stuff. Let events unwind themselves, dust collide in the nostril.

There's a public menace growing in the nature strip. One of those date kind of palms, no one even considers to harvest them, the seeds become the fruit, plopping to the ground. Riding a bike over them is tricky, either they ricochet in all directions at speed of lightning, or they cause a spill. Either way, it's a menace to deal with as I peddle out into the street. I'm looking down at the orange pits, instead of oncoming hunks of steel and acrylic. Ready to eat me alive.

Eat it Raw. I stand in the bathroom, looking at my feet in the tub in the dim light. We used to live in rooms smaller than this. It was more than ok. It was life. Soaking.

Eat it Raw.

CONCH

1 Lb Conch           2 Tbs garlic vinegar

1 cup sliced red onions        1/2 cup oil

1/2 cup bell peppers         1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp hot pepper           vinegar

Cut conch into thin slices. Chop slices. Pour chopped conch in a bowl. Cut onions and peppers into thin slices. Add to bowl. Mix well. Add oil, vinegars, and salt. Mix well. Serve immediately. Here we go.

return
I was standing in thin shadows that drew the spiral figure of a staircase onto the lawn. My body stripped by the iron. Remembering how the sun on the beach left no one to hide, how he slept, how I had only a camera, a bottle of beer, a ghetto blaster, a blue and orange plastic bag with a warm, wet baggie full of cut carrots. I see him walking past big trees, looking contained, coming home. He is a messenger.

We were living at the Alamo, the staircase now covered in stucco, was a familiar location in grade b movies sometime back. He always saunters. Up the dry summer lawn, to my shadow striped body, eyes locked, we kiss like he has been gone a year, not 6 hours.

This is over 12 years ago when we drank vodka mixed with kool-aide.

This is now the short hours he's away, seem like decades.

This is about feeding, it's about internal changes, that occur during a life time. I am attempting to put my finger on the second the wound was properly nursed, when the introduction slips into full verse, where something gets into a cel and multiplies, the cartoon jumps into animation. I don't know if I can define that split atom. I can try, for what ever it's worth, perhaps nothing. I know it happened, I know I'm standing on the spiral, there are moments when the raw iron leaves a shadow on my hands.

Strip: Thong of a whip-lash, purse-string, etc. A long narrow tract of territory. A narrow portion of surface, bounded by parrallel lines. Some piece of armour. An ornamental article of attire worn, chiefly by woman. An ingot prepared for rolling into plates. Tobacco-leaf with the stalk and midrib removed. To unclothe, denude. 'Se despouiller avant que se coucher'. To deprive of armour. To discharge. To skin. To empty, make bare, clear out, take off, to doff. Of bark membrane. To roll up a sleeve. To rip off the screw thread of a cannon-ball. To draw something between the fingers or teeth. A running stream of liquid. Stripped: That has been stripped, in the sense of a gallop given a race horse when 'stripped'.

The split atom. Begin at #1 (see diagram). Activated by movement in the Triangle ( A to B, see diagram), it begins a disfigurement, see #2's. Proceeding to #3's, as the Triangle shifts from B to C. Another shift puts it back to #4. This split atom, is unconsciously moving from the acute angle to acute angle. It began from dead center (see diagram #5). What is it that drew it to the corners? Or is it still there? It it a three way split (see diagram #6).

The cartoon continues to spit out cels into the dark abyss. Flickering to the tune of "Speed O' Light". The images bright with color, rust won't sleep here. Wave yr fingers in the cone of projected light. The fuzzy shape of yr index finger blurring the image. An image made up of a flicker of cels, gone (see diagram #7).

Here's the open wound.

Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it. Nurse it.

A few years ago, the owners cut the massive palm trees flanking the Alamo entrance, down. Since we moved, and live around the corner, I check it out now and then. Last time I was walking by, I peeked in the window of Karens' old apartment and saw a couple having grinding sex on the couch.

Nurse it. Nurse it. nurse it. Nurse the wound.

return
Hands in yr eyepits. Was it the reefer twisting my brain?

I drove slowly home, biting my nails for good luck.

Left to defend my basic human instincts. My eye is inverted.

Just be still, let all the insects know yr not going to kill Them.

Over and over I roll in the night light bulb, it just wavers when I go under.

Insert the decisions of another mind. Let them roll around in yr used brain cells,

mesh with yr own. Then you realize, your not using all you got. At this point could use some sleep.
Crawl into bed
and let the crickets lull me.

Babylon is calling
or was it general lack
Comatose in the dining room.
There is no

shoulder but escape. Tonight, tonight, I
looked at the moon. There is a kangaroo

Don't ride a bike when your too drunk to drive, don't write a book

when you want to be interrupted, sometimes it seems so easy,

I'll just take my sweet time and do this and this,

but the phone always rings, the kids are always alright

Forget the Formosa, forget the phone calls to Australia,

forget a 100 grand in the hole,

just fill my hole with love. Screwing in the car sex is fun.

Wake up time.
Step out the front door, look up and down the street, past the palm trees, past the Hollywood Hills,
past
think of all the places you could be now.
the ocean
like a dam, the water trickles in,

gathering,
then breaks, the sudden rush of
water coursing through yr brain.

Then yr dry.
The summer heat gets rid
of the evidence.
There was a time
there was a time
was a time for
demand the return
that time
subside.

Here we go.

return
The struggles with the keyboard, the fountain pen, the bic pen clotting on yr fingers.

Light up.

Es Loco?

The Alamo. The Bunker. Spanish stucco baking in the stinking heat. Full of Actors, Artists, Musicians and a Kung Fu Instructor who collected velvet Elvis paintings and Samurai Swords.

The charactors flew in and out, bats in the night, composing fragments of melody. We filled in words, changing the chorus' to the latest Thompson Twin single. We made love on Halloween.

The yellow Wattle, attracting hordes of bees outside the bedroom window,

the orange carpeting, the Hibachi fused to the linoleum hallway outside the door.

Bryan was doing computer stuff by now, I was a prototype maker for a mad inventor.

Our income soared to eight hundred dollars a month. We did not have to collect pennies to put gas in the old grey Viking.

Then we saved a thousand dollars and purchased a Tascam 244.

The Machine.

The Hull thing. When I listen to these early tapes, I recognize it's embryonic dark beat.

Row, row, row heave ho. Fog horns in the blow.

I got on, plastic lipstick
I got on a plastic blue wig
I got on, plastic pink boots
I got on, PLASTIC
Only the good elastic gets stretched
Only the good elastic gets stretched
Only the good elastic gets stretched
Only the good elastic gets stretched
Plastic music, plastic things, plastic drum kit, plastic panties, plastic sushi, plastic teeth, plastic rabbit, plastic pen, plastic towel, plastic books, plastic nails, plastic things
Only the good elastic gets stretched
Only the good elastic gets stretched

Es Loco?
The Hull thing.

return
pen clotting on yr fingers. Light up. reconize it's embronic dark beat. The Hull thing.

Hands in yr eyepits. Somethimes,
getting lost is as singular as laying
stoned on the
dry crab grass. Shut yr eyes, the sun
red as blood on yr lids.
The grass tickles the
exsposed edges of yr face.
Then the phome rings.
Reach out and disconnect.

I get lost sometimes. Crawling around
the back garden. There was a small
nature strip behind the Alamo. I would
investigate it when I felt a need for
nature. Weeds. Old tires, of course.
Remnants left over from other tenants,
unmatched socks thrown out of the
laundry room, sculpture now, caked with
mud from the last rain some time ago.

Black out.
The high dry weeds slap at my knees. No
one ventures back here to see the seasons.
Black out.
Crawling around in the back garden, looking for something. Avoiding the present.
Black out.
Avoiding phone calls, pretending not to hear the machine click on. The Alamo tosses an anchor. Memory serves.

Cantus plagal
Black out.
Cantus choralis.
Black out.
Cantus planus.
The treble is played with a Geiger
Counter.
The bass Clef is played with a Rasp.
Memory serves.
Touch the dry grass, lay face down, the dust enters a nostril, the seeds swirl like smoke up into yr brain.
Black out black.
The Hull thing, the tune is stuck in my head. It is the tune that I was born with. It sneaks out all the time. When my body returns to the earth, I will vibrate the tone outwards, the rhythm, create a new mushroom species, leave my mark, the Hull thing.
Cantus planus.
black out

We all have our own tunes. They are always with us. Laying in the dry grass I can feel the other odd rhythms, vibrations, playing the symphony of life, one sequence after another, in destinations harmony. Some days the crescendo roars. Sometimes it warbles. Some times I think of India. The Buddhists, the Chanters, the Ganges, the filth and belief in Gods.

I believe in Us. Our separate tunes mesh, the notes arranging themselves in our symphony. No one but Us hears. Standing in the afternoon sun, waiting for you to come home. I flick an ash onto the dry grass and watch it crumble to Babylon's song.

Memory serves.
For a second, the dust arranges itself onto sun ray clefs, my finger feels a pulse, the tattoo slips by as a butterfly sweeps past.

You find me here, with a Cabbage Moth

between two fingers.

X MARK ON THE SPOT

[This bit is not in the book, but I like it.

X Mark on the spot. I'm lost. The anchor not catching the bottom,
drifting aimlessly, the salt stings my mouth. All the years from then to now, always the palm trees swaying in the wind. I can see the bottom of the spiral, and the place where I am standing,
the cold of the metal rail, the center hole that goes and goes on. Touch the dry grass, lay face down, the dust enters a nostril,
the seed swirls like smoke up into yr brain.]

return
On tuesday mid morning, there were two dead jays in the bird bath. A few hours later, I noticed an unusual pile of

(Babel) leaves In the corner of the garden. On inspection, it was a haphazard pile of dead sparrows.

(Yea.) Mr. Dick wrote about air quality in 'Do Electronic Sheep..'.

I thought about it as I smoked a cigarette sitting on my bike. I had taken a ride around to look at piles of leaves, I only found piles of leaves. But later on, towards the end of the day, I saw two dead dogs in the street.

This is the city. Do or Die. Be Here Now. Get Out of Denver, Baby. I peddle past the Alamo. Two places for rent, a well manicured green lawn, and a new Magnolia shedding petals of lavender, in the air bees are not buzzing.

My heart is clutched in panic. Will you ever get home? Or will they open the car door and drag you around like an old mattress, stain your face.

Forget the terror. Bury the Jays and Sparrows, feel an emptiness for the empty air, Silent. The terror creeps into movements. The bus has been burned. The birds are not here.

There is no more control. Only what we are told to do, we are strong, we do what we want. Even if we are starving. Who can see the insides of a stomach, if it has shrunken so much it will no longer accept tap water. There is not a brand yet, to burn into our foreheads. This flesh only takes alcohol.
This flesh only eats coffee grounds.
This flesh will eat another animal.
This flesh sucks dick.
This flesh is a mere open hole.
Let the Tattoo say it.

My hand is on my kneecap, in my dreams my hand was grasping the door knob. Open yr eyes to the sunshine. Plan out the day. Find new places to bury the dead birds, the yard is full of ritual mounds. No one has noticed the Silence. I keep Silent too. The Morning Bird is still singing, oddly.

This is now.

We read mindless stuff
we drink vodka
we Refuse It.

(Who, in the moment
appeared in depth
immeasurable phalanx
of flutes and pain
Bleeding in Silence
they stand
in dazzling arms.

For who can yet believe
it led from us
for Who can fix
the same place

There stood a hill
unnumbered misdirected
envisage the center
Of Babel.

And then, liquid cells of
liquid fire
A fact mote, a sound Greek
still, opening the crib
the ascending pile
porches wide
the same,
in clusters to and fro
Earth's arrow, fountains
we do the dance at Once
in the smallest forms
the shapes immense
and from within,
in their own dimensions

Silence      Silence
(Babel)      (Babel)
Silence      Silence
(Babel)      (Babel)
Silence      Silence
(Babel)      (Babel)
Silence      Silence
Yea         Yea.


In clusters to and fro
Earth's arrow, fountains
drink
and dance
at once the smallest forms
their shapes immense for within
Inner Dimensions
Silence.
Like heat against
Silence
like heat against
Silence
Babel.)

return
On Tuesday, when my addiction reared it's ugly head, I was replicating. Being the being of Caught in the act of the fix, IN THE DISGUISES IN WHICH THEY WERE CAPTURED. surging; I said here, Here, Pick the orchid off it's limb. Noisily, through a bean patch I'll call my mind, float nickel plated obsessions; singular events. Among torsos of the believers basking in warm delight, I bask and preen and pet my slowly beating heart. Pick the orchid off it's limb. Surging, here. The web of intention Senseless acts.
You look like Fang's hairy butt.
Refuse it.
The Dogs in Drag baby.
break onto to the other side

I found a dead lizard on the road the other day. Two homeless guys were standing over it, they picked it up for me, and put it in an envelope I had in
my pocket.
It was kind of alive. But it finally shut it's eyes, on a bed of grass cuttings in a bowl. I kept a highly trained eye, after that, on my two dogs. Things were dropping a bit too fast. Things were missing.

And then, the Pothunter arrived. Running up and down my
guts,
shooting my arteries with buckshot, reeking of gunpowder,
chasing
off any traces of my own self happiness.
How simple it was
to
get 'rid of me'. No one notices, or they do and stay away. Eyes, inky caps, melting away.
The Pothunter brought a Poker on it's back. To teach me about pain. The lessons begin in the curves of
my intestines.
The fun guys escape. Soon, I'm learning lessons I never wanted to know.
The Poker blows all things out of proportion, it poisons
food for thought.
Words stop working, dreams take over.

Parania. Derangement by delusions.

The mould rising through the water
catching fragments of my pain
shaking the fibers
aligning my aches
Couching
softly pushing, flat
fall from the rack
onto the physical me
soaking the sweat up
breaking the paper into fragments
the aches matching aches, the
fibers wrapping my pulp
The mould comes up through the water
shaking the strands of my aches
into Order
matching my fibers
Paper drying my clammy skin
placing my pain
in a cardboard box

return
Reading a magazine, maybe it's a fashion issue, full of
brightly
colored advertisements. Leafing through, I notice small
spots of
color begin to go missing, getting larger, the clues have
been
erased. The blank shapes begin to resemble frames around
speed
drawings. It becomes necessary to find the drawings and put
them
in the right spot, find the clues. Then I see the light,
EMSH illustrations,
I don't know if I have enough paperbacks to fill in the
frames, it's an
infliction, I'm snow blind.
A Sci-Fi moon is in my stomach. Weird germ wars, weird
foods are
marching (i.e. a lamb sandwich in bloodied wool uniform).
Rocket Ships
launch an attack on food. I can see the round neon light
glowing through
my skin. It's painful.
Days and nights. Suffer (he he), paranoid dreams, the heat
in my head
could fry an egg. I have been poisoned by arsenic. Anyone
could have
wanted to do it. My character is flawed, aggravating
sandpaper, beyond
repair; or, does it not fit into the pulp mould? Something
(the Pothunter?)
has made the decision without my vote. (We fight for Democracy, not practice it).

Pain. A primary condition of sensation or consciousness
inflicted by suffering
or loss of what is felt or viewed as bad or abhorred.
Pain. A primary condition.
Pleasure. A condition of sensation.
Pleasure. The condition of consciousness or sensation induced by the enjoyment or anticipation of what is felt or viewed as good or desirable.
Paranoia. Mental derangement characterized by delusions or hallucinations.
Paranoia. Derangement by delusions.
Pathetic. The mind.
Pathetic. Pertaining or relating to the passions or emotions of the mind.
Pothunter. A parasite.
Poker. A demon.

I did not let the Pothunter in. I can't control it's
pathetic little Dr. Suess-like
Poker, zipping about in a black top hat. I could cut my
wrists and let them
both slide out.
The pain is old hat, I'm looking for a new teacher.
Instead, I stick my finger
down my throat and let them tumble out, into a zip lock
baggie. The blue seal
turns green, I toss the slime, mingled with bloody bits of wool, into the freezer.
Leaving pain frozen
(there is still a finger in it's pie, the ugly metallic taste of pain pie),
leaving inflicted pain behind, I sense how far down I have gone. Monkey level,
my knuckles are raw. Lever my spine in jerky mechanical movements by a
piece of cotton thread dangling from my sleeve. Pathetic paranoia inflicted
by a Pothunter Poker.
Refuse it.
Kick out the Jams.

return
Only a smile from you, please please me to induce the Will, there is something to crawl around for. The lawn feels dry on my knees.
A Santa Ana wind is rustling the palm trees, lifting my hair in thermal layers.
I can see a sauntering figure at the top of the road, crossing the blacktop, shifting a brown bag from left to right. You will be here soon.
It's always there. With no eyes. Just instinct, looking for the open wound
going un-noticed. So many gaping wounds, unbleeding, the broken nail,
the chewed cuticle. A nervous tic is a Big Red Flag. It's always got two
bony fingers in yr pie.
Lock yr soul into an iris and stare hard.

Stand tall with a question mark glued on yr lips.

If we self inflict, we can self induce. I lied about the dead birds.

Moving very slow. Don't disturb the ancient pyramids housed in my body. Don't wake up
any left over trace of the Pothunter. Do Pothunters replicate? Is there a small egg nestled among the folds of my intestine? I know I should refuse it. I know fragments of paranoia are floating worlds. I'll keep my orbit small. Don't stretch too far out, as much as a vigorous
movement could be uplifting right now, the lesson was taken. I do not want
to know any thing more about pain.
Time is dripping on, do I wait for the Poker to rear it's ugly head?
Follow the sheep along the road side. Slowly raise my head to catch a stray inky glance into the meadow. I have replicated. One of me says Be Still. Do as others do. Walk like an Egyptian. Purchase on credit. Eat out of a micro wave. Go to the gym and be one with the machines, let the muscles get hard through grey tones,
let the body clone with glossy billboards. Cry when the red light says to,
clap when the light shines blue. Grey sweats, yellow head band, pink lipstick.
Spit the Poker into the blood bank, give the Pothunter road kill. Walk around covered in cellophane, with a big ax in your hand, grind and gnash yr teeth,
spit out the extra bones, let the dogs fight over the scraps.
Lay in bed and moan in ecstasy, while the sirens wail, nights sit com.

Conversation comes to an abrupt halt when the electric power lines are all blown
down during a strong attack of Santa Ana. The other of me says Fuck it.
Candles cast alien hues on the wall. High heels, matching elbows, and feet run through the streets, fists pound on the door, begging for shelter. Let the fires erupt, carry a baseball bat,
wear iron knuckles and sneer as they ask for kleenex to wipe their bloody noses.
Fuck It.
Don't come near my Pyramid baby, or I'll burn your little Toyota.
This is now. Sewing the two of me together (#6 needle, pure irish linen thread), using a rubber mallet to pulp together my flesh, leaving no bruises, waiting for the molecules to align themselves. I'm leaning towards Bermuda triangular shaped molecules.
Rolling in the grass, I catch a glimpse of the sky, clouds in mushroom
formations, with silver linings, I guess it's going to rain. Did he take the umbrella
with him?
All that was missing was Rasputin.
When am I gonna relax? When will this buck shot gut wrenched feeling pass?
I checked the Pothunter and Poker out of the freezer and sent them in
an un marked brown manila envelope to Golds Gym. I know, Cruel.
I wonder if anyone will open it.

Then I did some self induced pleasure with my left hand.

return
The winds blew everything into the grey ash concrete mass burial pit.
When it was dug originally, it was meant to grow hops in, but the thrill
of a PIT took over. Bones and discarded coke bottles of all eras were
unearthed. Then the summer got into full swing and a barbecue pit was
needed, for cooking huge pigs, hence the concrete lining. Note: It could
have also been a swimming pool.
The summer heat, unknown to us at the time, was a breeding ground
for maggots, wearing cool outfits and drinking out of bottles. We didn't at first
notice the slimy skin through the billowing smoke from the Pit.
Maggots don't touch, really. When you see them rolling around in the rot,
they are not touching, they are working themselves into symbols. They
don't know they are swimming around in a million exact replicas.

By the time we saw our predicament, the only alternative thing was to throw them
into the pit. Then the winds came up and blew some leaves and garbage
over the entire smoking stinking crawling mess. The idea of maggots living in rot makes my head spin. I have made a point
of keeping clean, and I worry about my ass. When am I gonna relax.
Step on it.
Wear reliable shoes. Learn how to laugh as an adult? Sometimes days go by without a relaxing breath. Keep making tea,
sitting in a soft chair with smoking gear strewn around, maybe a crossword,
still tense, it goes on an on.

Till some bird, in the ceramic plate on the mexican pot stand, does a dance
I saw in some club about 15 years ago.
The hunger gets so obscene, you could eat a horse, instead you bite a dog
right on the shoulder.
I have ideas about a six beat rhythm, slowly I dance around the blue couch on
a polished wood floor, pulling my t-shirt off to feel my breasts. Alone, I
remember duet thoughts, I know you are thinking of me. Soon, you will be
home.
There's looseness in the limbs. Go from A to B to C for sport. Base hit.
A solidarity to the eye, going over the bleachers. Count yr fingers. It's all
spinning with new found formulas, abundant caffeine energy. The hunger is so obscene. The potsticker has cleaned yr guts out like a
piranha aquarium in Iowa. Pick the orchid off the limb and spell question
out loud.
Run.
I have only wanted to laugh every day.
I have only wanted to touch yr neck with my lips.
UPSET NOISE

Pick the hair from yr teeth.

The hunger gets so obscene, you could eat a horse, instead you bite a
dog right on the shoulder, wondering down yr street.
Poor dog.

Keep saying it's an A.
Keep saying it's an A.
When the guitars stop crashing around in yr head, and the chords
become separate crystals, the A finds a body.
Yr in shape buddy.
Clearly. Clearly Clearly in the wind. Just a whisper.

The inkling of winning, rather the inkling of the virus grows another
arm and leg. The spiral staircase is not so cold, the rust is just another
yellow stain on yr fingertips, it's not memory served, it's
memory deserved.

In a cellophane cruise through yr brain, the song is clear. The parrots are flying over head again. Hands in yr eyepits, feeling
the morning fog damping through yr jeans. Mist covers the dry lawn,
soaks through at the knees, wet fragments floating on the surface,
clinging now to yr fingers. Search the grass tips for signs.

Mushrooms are making a stand under the apple tree, this year they will
suck the life out of it. Blue sky past the low mist. In yr ear, the whip crack of Babel is just a whisper in the wind.
The phone rings. The machine kicks in. There is no difference between
the color of fog and smoke.
Silence.
He has guitar shaped lips.

Blue sky past the low mist.
The phone rings.
fog and smoke

return
We moved away from the Alamo in 1983.
We moved on. The atoms split and multiplied, floating worlds spun, dust colliding in the sunlight. Iron rust staining our palms.
It's a cat walk up the spiral, hold on to yr hats, when the music stops jump on a number and claim yr cake. Icing on yr fingers, slowly lick and twist, slowly jump start my bleeding heart. Lick and twist. Feel the flannel balls on yr cheeks. Lick and twist free. Pull the throb, feel the icicles breaking away.
We moved on. The train pulled out of the station. We listened to the various movements, the ins and outs, the Alamo, and I do have a habit of walking on by. Last week I noticed some mushrooms growing on the now, new landlord carefully manicured lawn.
On my knees, nose to the grass, genuflecting the decayed Palm tree roots. (No one knows who I am).
Natures Hindu trick. Coprinus micaceus. Fungi.
As I stood up, knees wet, I started to put my foot down hard on those Inky caps, but that split second of cel animation passed, and I made a fast turn to the south, sashaying home, feeling the spores slide past my cheek, floating on the Santa Ana.
Blow Blow Blow. You are like a hurricane.
Pass the salt.
Virus. Nurse with wound.
Bacteria. Controlled bleeding.
At last, a movement of sound. He's home. A bouquet of Iris' for Me.
Eyes of blue.
Deep blue.
Take my hand.
Pass the salt.
Nurse the wound.
There's no one but us. He licks me clean. Natures Hindu trick.

Lets dig a hole to China, Baby.

return
So the Big I Love and Thank You from my ever blood simple heart goes to:
Bryan I refuse it Matthews.
Cheyenne. The Real Mistress of Collage.
Mad Machinist Dan Owens.
Marie. Incarnate of Lou's amp.
Frank wherever you are gilding Lehmann.
Pana Dan Donavan
And Stoner Mom.
VIRUS By Charlene Matthews

Notes on the Binding

This is my first Concave spine. It is the only spine treatment, I figure, that will take the weight of two (135mm front, 138mm back) Tiffen Lenses, without causing the sewing thread to slice through the signatures. The boards are split construction, wood paneling on the outside, card board on the inside. The black leather on the covers is Kangaroo. There is a variety of paper used, manufactured and handmade. All the collage work is from bits and pieces found around the house. The bulk of the collage work was formed prior to the writing, some during the writing, and a bit afterwards.

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