Friday, August 29, 2003
A pulley system is in operation to lift my space over the fetid pot. I splash. My sheets crackle and are not soft but practical. I like when the nurse applies the cream to mine aired hole. Stinging cold. They say a week. Mom showed me my new chair. It is red white and blue to mine eyes. I ask Mom for finger paints and I stroke the spokes. Now they are really. When the nurse comes with sponge, I show her my spoke too. Red and blue shafted like a Bush barber’s pole. Mom is unpleased but I am smile when the nurse touches it to remove it from sight. White.
Later I unplug myself to see what it is like to be dead. The flatline is familiar and I notice that I hear it always. Doctor says it was the knitting needle, but there was beeping before that, I should be dead twice. I am a ghost people can see and touch and smell and tell what to do and I can’t walk through walls or fly and I have to shit and cockjoint my tool myself and I am not dead and I have only 23 hours and my sheets are too stiff to hang on me.
Nurse takes away the banana I used at arms length. It was under my pillow, with the others. On TV there is a show about me, it says. It asks for $15 and I will be ALIIIIIVE! again. I don’t want to be. Mine ear ringing drowns out Dr. Spinach who tries to get the mirror into my room but it won’t go through the doorframe unbroken. She muffledly asks me to recreate my flagstick with a shard of the mirror in hand so I can see myself. I play my leg wires like a banjo instead. I look sidelong. Outside a kid is playing in the trees. He looks like Mikey and I hurl a handful of pillowmuck towards him. White walls browned. He doesn’t notice and Dr. Spinach leaves disappointed, sweeping broken mirror bits with her pumps and closes the door behind her. I think I hear her cry, but it might be the screaming.
Later I unplug myself to see what it is like to be dead. The flatline is familiar and I notice that I hear it always. Doctor says it was the knitting needle, but there was beeping before that, I should be dead twice. I am a ghost people can see and touch and smell and tell what to do and I can’t walk through walls or fly and I have to shit and cockjoint my tool myself and I am not dead and I have only 23 hours and my sheets are too stiff to hang on me.
Nurse takes away the banana I used at arms length. It was under my pillow, with the others. On TV there is a show about me, it says. It asks for $15 and I will be ALIIIIIVE! again. I don’t want to be. Mine ear ringing drowns out Dr. Spinach who tries to get the mirror into my room but it won’t go through the doorframe unbroken. She muffledly asks me to recreate my flagstick with a shard of the mirror in hand so I can see myself. I play my leg wires like a banjo instead. I look sidelong. Outside a kid is playing in the trees. He looks like Mikey and I hurl a handful of pillowmuck towards him. White walls browned. He doesn’t notice and Dr. Spinach leaves disappointed, sweeping broken mirror bits with her pumps and closes the door behind her. I think I hear her cry, but it might be the screaming.
Thursday, August 28, 2003
Between the headaches I can see.
I see my bolt removed, my legs casted, tractioned.
I see Mom and foot with grapes and smiles for eachother
I see Dr. Spinach, but I can’t hear her.
I see Principal Ear and Mom back handing his torso.
I see my door is locked from the outside.
I see my reflection.
I see mine ears 1 and a half, my teeth, 11 top, 13 bottom.
I see my face scrapes.
I see Bush wagging and the gape of his mouth through my tears.
I see the spot where she should be.
I see how it has all gone wrong.
I see my bolt removed, my legs casted, tractioned.
I see Mom and foot with grapes and smiles for eachother
I see Dr. Spinach, but I can’t hear her.
I see Principal Ear and Mom back handing his torso.
I see my door is locked from the outside.
I see my reflection.
I see mine ears 1 and a half, my teeth, 11 top, 13 bottom.
I see my face scrapes.
I see Bush wagging and the gape of his mouth through my tears.
I see the spot where she should be.
I see how it has all gone wrong.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
At school, Petrol Alan’s wrinkly baldness reminded me of my genital bag. The flickering flourescence above him glinted from his top through mine eye and speared my nebula. I thrashed against the wood. In the closet, in the dark, I heard them singing “Somewhere under the toenail”. Alan gurgled as he does and Howie was out of key. I twanged my hinge like a kazoo. They let me out.
That was Monday.
I was set go earlier to see Dr. Spinach, you see. They held me aloft and slid me down the back rail, Principal Ear keeping watch. No kids saw me Monday.
My brother’s picture sits with the other ex-students' heads who went to war, just above the exit in the assembly hall. That is my place, where I listen to them pray to Bush. The brown corner. With my new head brace I was deemed safe for assembly. They drew a chalk circle about my perimeter. When Spinach drilled the hole I felt something. Her rubbered fingers in mine temple felt like Mom’s in the back-drain when I shower. The thrashing has stopped. But nothing else. This was Tuesday. On the door of our room that day was written “Jenny fucks gals”. Underneath was the balls picture, printed from the internet. My grainy gland exposed from the pixelated half leg. In red lipstick it said “wellcome back" (sic).
Inside Philip the masturbator was involved in Lou’s hairy thong. We were set go early again. They got the scissors. This time I went home and found Foot hip deep in Mom. Mikey played in his treehouse, but with no depth perception missed the branch again like a jaded baboon. I heard his cries cock wise.
This is Wednesday.
This morning after the Station, after assembly, after speech therapy, after toileting, after cleaning the bolt, after a cock wash under the janitor’s bucket, after snarling at Howie, after counting 123, after liquid lunch, after mine bowels betrayed their silence by the girls gym class
I decided to fly.
That was Monday.
I was set go earlier to see Dr. Spinach, you see. They held me aloft and slid me down the back rail, Principal Ear keeping watch. No kids saw me Monday.
My brother’s picture sits with the other ex-students' heads who went to war, just above the exit in the assembly hall. That is my place, where I listen to them pray to Bush. The brown corner. With my new head brace I was deemed safe for assembly. They drew a chalk circle about my perimeter. When Spinach drilled the hole I felt something. Her rubbered fingers in mine temple felt like Mom’s in the back-drain when I shower. The thrashing has stopped. But nothing else. This was Tuesday. On the door of our room that day was written “Jenny fucks gals”. Underneath was the balls picture, printed from the internet. My grainy gland exposed from the pixelated half leg. In red lipstick it said “wellcome back" (sic).
Inside Philip the masturbator was involved in Lou’s hairy thong. We were set go early again. They got the scissors. This time I went home and found Foot hip deep in Mom. Mikey played in his treehouse, but with no depth perception missed the branch again like a jaded baboon. I heard his cries cock wise.
This is Wednesday.
This morning after the Station, after assembly, after speech therapy, after toileting, after cleaning the bolt, after a cock wash under the janitor’s bucket, after snarling at Howie, after counting 123, after liquid lunch, after mine bowels betrayed their silence by the girls gym class
I decided to fly.
"Hey, it's the balls kid," they all shout.
Mine head hangs low. I wish I was dead.
I am broughten to a desk full of towels and given one for the bleeding. Mom has been called for in the bed of her lover Foot to come retrieve me from the police station. The cries of her come through the phone, and everyone near us stops to listen. They see me in a new light.
"Son," the officer waits for the right word to tell to me, "frankly, we don't want to see you anymore." His lips have flakes of white stuff that are interesting to me.
"You're scaring our officers," he says. One of them whispers that he wants to beat me. I find this reasonable.
"Can you just, I don't know, try to straighten up and fly right?"
"I have flown," I say. He shakes the head of his body and stares at me and walks away. I shout after him, "Will I see you in school?"
I sit alone at a desk full of towels. One day I will fly right. Maybe school will help me.
If only I'd gotten that digital camera.
Mine head hangs low. I wish I was dead.
I am broughten to a desk full of towels and given one for the bleeding. Mom has been called for in the bed of her lover Foot to come retrieve me from the police station. The cries of her come through the phone, and everyone near us stops to listen. They see me in a new light.
"Son," the officer waits for the right word to tell to me, "frankly, we don't want to see you anymore." His lips have flakes of white stuff that are interesting to me.
"You're scaring our officers," he says. One of them whispers that he wants to beat me. I find this reasonable.
"Can you just, I don't know, try to straighten up and fly right?"
"I have flown," I say. He shakes the head of his body and stares at me and walks away. I shout after him, "Will I see you in school?"
I sit alone at a desk full of towels. One day I will fly right. Maybe school will help me.
If only I'd gotten that digital camera.
Thursday, August 21, 2003
I shout, "Cock mine eye."
They say, "Are you alone? Give us the boy, and we can talk."
Mom's knives grind in the sink behind me. The curtains are covered with blood and pesto and the shit of me. My fingertips have something stinging in them. I am Matty One Leg. Nice to meet you.
In the linoleum of my kitchen I have carved words with my knee bolt. I have written for the masses: "I am revolutioned in Hookstra's left boob."
"You are surrounded," they say. "Give us the boy, and we can talk."
"I am Matty One Leg. This kitchen marked by the anus of me is free."
I hear pounding on the door. The warriors of the kitchen revolution have heard me and now come to hear mine words. I am ready for them. I have set the table with the plates mom cradles when she talks about grandma. They will like the blue farm scenes when they eat. I have served for them toothpaste, white bread, the sperm of my cock and a potato to share. Revolutioners must be healthy like the Fonz.
I see them now running up the stairs. They won't like what they see in my bedroom. One comes back down shaking and cursing. He believes in God. The other sees me next to the fridge. I am in my brother's uniform with my cock in mine hand. He comes near.
"Did you bring the Whip 'Em King?" I ask.
He looks over at the table and the candles and stares at me forever. He is not a warrior after all.
They say, "Are you alone? Give us the boy, and we can talk."
Mom's knives grind in the sink behind me. The curtains are covered with blood and pesto and the shit of me. My fingertips have something stinging in them. I am Matty One Leg. Nice to meet you.
In the linoleum of my kitchen I have carved words with my knee bolt. I have written for the masses: "I am revolutioned in Hookstra's left boob."
"You are surrounded," they say. "Give us the boy, and we can talk."
"I am Matty One Leg. This kitchen marked by the anus of me is free."
I hear pounding on the door. The warriors of the kitchen revolution have heard me and now come to hear mine words. I am ready for them. I have set the table with the plates mom cradles when she talks about grandma. They will like the blue farm scenes when they eat. I have served for them toothpaste, white bread, the sperm of my cock and a potato to share. Revolutioners must be healthy like the Fonz.
I see them now running up the stairs. They won't like what they see in my bedroom. One comes back down shaking and cursing. He believes in God. The other sees me next to the fridge. I am in my brother's uniform with my cock in mine hand. He comes near.
"Did you bring the Whip 'Em King?" I ask.
He looks over at the table and the candles and stares at me forever. He is not a warrior after all.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Matthew Kennicott
125 Flagjoint Road
Albuquerque, N.M.
Mr. George W. Bush
President of the United States of America
The White House
1600
Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington D.C.
Dear Mr. President,
I feel you are now the only one I have left to speak to honestly as a human being, though you sneer and scratch and mine leg and inadequacies like a thirsty hound. And that makes you closest.
When Dr. spinach asks me to take them down these days I do so. I jiggle and whirl and screech just to show her I am Matty. But when I bang myself I think of my country. Of you. Mom doesn’t appreciate my revolution, but Jefferson would. The linoleum torn, like those Indians from whom we won freedom. Now you and my brother fight the Indians and I cock wash my filthy torso. For you. You tear them from harmdoing and I tear at the selfish hole.
Mr. President I am Matty. My mom fucks a man named Foot. I have one good leg and I feel like I may be a little sick. Her 24 hours knob my lubes, bitch. My brother is a hero, and I watched his parade from the beastly corridor. The general is burned, the mattmobile broken. I hop limp roll to the store and only you are there leering at my erected digit.
On Monday I start to schoolin again. Principal Ear says I have a room to myself “with the others”. I know that includes Phillip the masturbator, Howie, who is only 5 in his skull, Lou the hairy girl and petrol Alan. On the door is scraped words about them.
Mr. President. I am Matthew Kennicott. I wish I was dead.
Matty One Leg
125 Flagjoint Road
Albuquerque, N.M.
Mr. George W. Bush
President of the United States of America
The White House
1600
Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington D.C.
Dear Mr. President,
I feel you are now the only one I have left to speak to honestly as a human being, though you sneer and scratch and mine leg and inadequacies like a thirsty hound. And that makes you closest.
When Dr. spinach asks me to take them down these days I do so. I jiggle and whirl and screech just to show her I am Matty. But when I bang myself I think of my country. Of you. Mom doesn’t appreciate my revolution, but Jefferson would. The linoleum torn, like those Indians from whom we won freedom. Now you and my brother fight the Indians and I cock wash my filthy torso. For you. You tear them from harmdoing and I tear at the selfish hole.
Mr. President I am Matty. My mom fucks a man named Foot. I have one good leg and I feel like I may be a little sick. Her 24 hours knob my lubes, bitch. My brother is a hero, and I watched his parade from the beastly corridor. The general is burned, the mattmobile broken. I hop limp roll to the store and only you are there leering at my erected digit.
On Monday I start to schoolin again. Principal Ear says I have a room to myself “with the others”. I know that includes Phillip the masturbator, Howie, who is only 5 in his skull, Lou the hairy girl and petrol Alan. On the door is scraped words about them.
Mr. President. I am Matthew Kennicott. I wish I was dead.
Matty One Leg
Zampese is still talking about the kitchen revolution. I hear him in the other room say to us there's no more need for knives. I don't go for peace and love hippie crap, but he believes in the Whip 'Em King, and I believe in kitchen revolution. I feed mother's knives into the garbage disposal and flip the switch. I find the expensive plates she cradles when she talks about grandma and ejaculate on them. In the fridge there is cheese. I will feed my hungry anus.
The light of day comes too soon. I am dripping cheddar from me. From my mouth come the words of people everywhere like Matty, and I say, "Eeennkch. Witness me, living in the body of me. Runrrnnph. Soup of my day stays here. Cock this wash. Washington."
The light of day comes too soon. I am dripping cheddar from me. From my mouth come the words of people everywhere like Matty, and I say, "Eeennkch. Witness me, living in the body of me. Runrrnnph. Soup of my day stays here. Cock this wash. Washington."
I lay on the kitchen floor in the darkness. My awakeness is coming back to me. The cool linoleum relieves the itching of my scrotum, and I push myself forward and back because I like the way it feels when it peels off the floor. It arouses me. Tonight I am reborn.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
I still do not sleep. It's been days of my life and I feel to losing it. In mine eyes that are closed before the sleepness, I see mother in my chair there. She has a paint brush and paints me black on the body of me. Her fingers crawl all over, and I feel the know that she is not the paralyzed like the me. I do not sleep. I have not sleeped in what they say days, do I say. Instead I watched seven hours of Old Dusty Maverick repeats. It was the marathon for the Veterans Day holiday. Still, mine eyes stay open here at the 4 a.m. TV show they call Domestic Futures, with Bill Zampese and Jeannie Hookstra. Hookstra laughs at me as Zampese hides his bald spot with an odd head angle and talks about a machine called the Whip 'Em King. He tells me it can revolutionize my kitchen life. Mother forbids me from going to the kitchen. I remember this. I have not lived the kitchen life because mother fears the revolution. I will defy her. Mine eyes flutter, and I fall from the chair. I lay flat and the guess of my brain is that the kitchen is the length away equal to the length of four of the bodies of me. I crawl in that direction, and my knee bolt scrapes lines in the new, oak floor paid for by mother's refund from the government for raising me. In the kitchen on the floor on my back I feel more awake. I raise my legs into the air and try to flip the light switch with a fart. It is still dark. Mother does not want me here. I am in one of mother's forbidden places. I feel so alive when I act this bad. I will survive.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Dr. Spinach told me if all else fails to find the Bible. I have been home for five days now, and I sleep in the bed of my mother. Mother sleeps at Foot's. I still have the dreams of her naked in my chair, and I stare at her Terry Jacks poster to keep open mine eyes. I dance the dance of weddings and rip open the pillows with my knee bolt. There are feathers everywhere. I think of dead animals.
At 4 a.m. I find mom's Bible. All else has failed. There are 10 things I shouldn't do. This is one of them.
I have failed.
At 4 a.m. I find mom's Bible. All else has failed. There are 10 things I shouldn't do. This is one of them.
I have failed.
Friday, August 08, 2003
At physio therapy I wear shorts that chafe my noodlebag. Sometimes I am out the side of them. When Trotter pushes my leg downwards, it springs upward back like a semi blooded cock. Without the bolt he rotates it and lets it spin to place. Trotter wears army fatigues. Tight. He has oil on his face, but there are no cars or anything nearby. When he punctures my blowhole with his big toe he says the shower head has caused distending. I chin my pant. Dr. Spinach observes but sighs Oh Matty when I am pink out the side and purple over the top of my small white shorts. Tight. She looks away.
My new chair I’ve painted black with a batsign on the back. I put bottle rockets between the wheels for rocket repulsion. My cockvein retreats and I am placed back into my brothers old uniform. Today I’m in the Mattmobile to town. I have pork on my belt like Iraqi ears and my catheter is a cigar. As Dr. Spinach leaves the center I slap at my torso with my wrists and bite at mine eyes. I light the rocket booster. The bottle rockets come undone and shoot upface, melting my ass’s place. I hang, my distended anus poking through my burnt panthole. My knee bolt touching my eye and my foot skyward, I set off to town where our boys are returning today.
At the parade the police man has a picture of me, the one with the balls. He says I am not allowed into Main street. Sheriff, Mayor, and Mom’s orders. “C’mon, Matty one leg,” he says, “We all remember the spit flag incident”
I look around my leg at him and say this, I say “Whhreeennngggrrrrraaaaa” and phalange my cheek, forehead my bolt. He wheels me to the hill and lets go. I hear the cheers as my brother drives through on a float just for him. I am so proud and I am lying face up in a sewer of my own piss and the shit of the town.
My new chair I’ve painted black with a batsign on the back. I put bottle rockets between the wheels for rocket repulsion. My cockvein retreats and I am placed back into my brothers old uniform. Today I’m in the Mattmobile to town. I have pork on my belt like Iraqi ears and my catheter is a cigar. As Dr. Spinach leaves the center I slap at my torso with my wrists and bite at mine eyes. I light the rocket booster. The bottle rockets come undone and shoot upface, melting my ass’s place. I hang, my distended anus poking through my burnt panthole. My knee bolt touching my eye and my foot skyward, I set off to town where our boys are returning today.
At the parade the police man has a picture of me, the one with the balls. He says I am not allowed into Main street. Sheriff, Mayor, and Mom’s orders. “C’mon, Matty one leg,” he says, “We all remember the spit flag incident”
I look around my leg at him and say this, I say “Whhreeennngggrrrrraaaaa” and phalange my cheek, forehead my bolt. He wheels me to the hill and lets go. I hear the cheers as my brother drives through on a float just for him. I am so proud and I am lying face up in a sewer of my own piss and the shit of the town.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Foot prays on his knees before those TV preachers. He weeps into his hands. Foot says God hath not made him ideal and begs to be fixed. I spy on him from behind the curtains.
At my next visit I tell this to Spinach, and she asks why I have to ruin everything I'm given. She smiles at mom.
I've never seen Spinach smile.
At my next visit I tell this to Spinach, and she asks why I have to ruin everything I'm given. She smiles at mom.
I've never seen Spinach smile.
Friday, August 01, 2003
Foot’s got a shower and the head is attached to the wall. He has no stepladder. The bruised girl saw me there, my ass in the air on my hands. I couldn’t reach. I eventually sat in the sink and lapped water against my ass face and fingered the water.
She saw me through the wall. She watches that way.
Had a session with Dr. Spinach today. She had me stand by a window and shout my name followed by something good about myself. I shouted “I am Matthew! I am 24 Hours when I cock her smell!”
We tried something else.
She saw me through the wall. She watches that way.
Had a session with Dr. Spinach today. She had me stand by a window and shout my name followed by something good about myself. I shouted “I am Matthew! I am 24 Hours when I cock her smell!”
We tried something else.
Between the headaches I can see. I am Matthew. I wish I was dead
