where the writers are
April 2009 fragments
  • who wants some potbelly popeye chicken anyhows? mofuckin rice and breans and gahlick tost, put some hell in my belly, freeze! eat bones and gristle and no hamhock known to man, do I dare say, can outshuck even dem best and boastin shuckers of corn down South ... not to mention cowbell clanging mofuckin erster shuckin bastids not gettin right with gawd till way too late and they lefts only to buy bags of popeye mofuckin chicken.
  • who needs training skills to speak? are you a fish, chicken hawk? and must you ravage the memory of all the peterbeaters who've sucked the barrels of pistols in their own quiet ways, thinking of deep shadowy forests and emerald lakes windswept and dear, just to show us a fucking redskins or nationals hat, whatever that is atop yo mop? 
  • god help the exposed secret gardeners, the ones being men to boys, and ankles to skulls ... it's all lost to us now. oh lost and the wind-grieved ghost!!!!!!!!! 
  • Ben? 
  • Ben? 
  • Ben!!!!!!!!!!!!
  • Just become a huge slob. Or a huger slob. Or just live in a clear plastic tube filled with air. 
  • I dunno. 
  • Move in with a clean-freak, an OCD ballerina who does dishes to come down off a coke binge; open your windows during storms to let the dust blow out (or in), place a 55-gal drum in your living room and burn trash as it accumulates, cook dinner with your mind and let ESP do the dishes; bathe in ashes and sea foam and gently scrub your feet with delicate baby hair collected during your work breaks.