May 2003 / Volume Four / Issue Two
Jason Floyd Williams
shrill bark. not described.

Iíve already tried to romance you
with such- when
Penthouse
takes over
Hallmark - lines
as:
Even if you were covered
in new-born calf-film, Iíd
still lick  you.
Iíd walk over broken-glass,
barefooted, baby, to answer
your phone-call.

The Florida hard-on was
shoplifted from
Fisher King.
You told me that.

But I havenít said
the important things-
Like, each day I replay our
various moments- a parolee
whoís sleeping w/ the parole officerís
sister- worrying,
stewing ulcers, Louis Armstrong
piano-string strangulations, that
I mightíve done
something wrong;
that this could be
our last night:
The freshly emancipated pooch
from the pound that squats
on the infantís head.
Or that for several hours
a day- when Iím not distracted
by customers calling:
Do you have Remco tigers?
No.
(A grilled-steak pause.)
Are you sure?
Yes.

(Perch out of water for
3 minutes pause.)
Do you know what they are?
Iím hoping for telepathic advancement/
evolution -
The Village of the Damned,
blond, mod-squadded kids to give
me their secrets,
their frontal-lobe talents-
So I can let you know
exactly how I feel
when my words fail
and turn into
Kamikaze fragments.
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