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Wednesday, February 14, 2007

“This way” came steamy cold from One, left over the swinging shoulder, floating to mine prickly features as Foot’s truck through the Albuquerque mist (nights off hunting, high beam and badger slung, broken duck and blood crate rolling Mom-bound home). Jab and poke to mine spinal line “Move” from Two, back arch jittery and blood tooth the lip, stumbling forward and down, down to the blacky shell of mine new place where they left me, sullied and prying fierce through the meshy pane. That was then. Where I stand. One and Two, Special Friends, unnamed attendants of mine new fate.

Mine dreams here are of Day 1, Happy Way Apartments gone. I glee and yip, spin spitface and bang the space in front. “I AM MATTHEW! Matty lip flip window down, “COCK MY SMELL!” and Father Lip door grin sigh and sidle by. “Curfew at 8 Matthew”. Mine bed, cornered, clean, muck free and waiting. Matty curl and laugh and sleep and mine dreams there were of HIM and mine 24 hours and of Spinach and Weasel and the colors of all I lost, blinding in the hind-eye of mine tangled medulla.

Now God looks me down, firehead and no-tear halo, forky beard floorward and vaginal open hands filled with the gaping flush of his own center, exposed to cure me of mine, and save mine from me. And I am blinded more for the lost color of the Happy Way.

Friday, February 09, 2007

Through mine twitchy fingers, where I peer, the Special Friends Center for Higher Learning in God, Tucson Ariz., is a blurry pink and fluffy fortress of skin gap and vein, and not to be worried over more than daily brain pain, but when I see, full beam, open and clear, it is a rocky prison crevice, a inescapable cell of Matty exile, another Phutures now, a Spinach spectre from mine forgotten past, and I am tied-bound, back seat and helpless, transported as a glue horse for melting down. I brown the spot and weep.

Mom and Bruised Mom done left did long since, Matty deserted and bye bye, Matty, by bye. Mine home is Happy Way Apartments, where I live, the terrible Father Lip mine Moms replacement, slimy grin, crucifix dangling and sweaty. We pray. For the grace of god to take mine “evil devices” mefrom. Foot left green for mine upkeep when he croaked out, you see, face wrapped about the bloody sofa, I remember. “To my son, Matthew” Foot said in his passing document. If Foot was mine daddy then who was HE? The GARIBALDI, mine ghostly pater-friend. I saw them joust for the Matty me. Hairy Lou tours this earthy sphere, tresses dreadlocked into a soupy gangle, on display for paying punters, they say, roll up roll up. 24 hour girl now does only 35 per week. I visit regularly at the Bank of Albuquerque and run mine craggy nails across her beautiful name plate on her left one. I slap and beg and hug the guard whose name is Hip as flung there-from ground-to. Every Tuesday at 2. The tricky brother went to a rack and never came back, chopper ditched and blown, so goes.

And now Lip wants me god-schooled since I am the devil borne of man, his words. They will break me of it. I shiver and prong the gap drippy when I think. There are no more tear halos, only blobs, for mine spinning and yips are gone. Through the headaches I can see, until I bang mine eyes to stop.

Between the headaches I can see. I am Matthew. I wish I was dead

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