The Angry Crab Sand sculpture week at the beach. Apparently there are judges but you never see them, or the artists. All you see are sad looking people in ill fitting shirts, a pasty white sunblock line over the nose, trying to forget work, wives, husbands, kids, bills, cancer... trying really hard not to think about how much this little holiday is costing, meals and accommodation and film for the camera and gas, trying with limited success to forgive the oil companies for colluding during the August long weekend (again), choosing to marvel at the giant sand sculptures instead: the castle with turrets and moat the winding dragon the angry crab the Taj Mahal... aren’t they just marvellous?, some fat lady of swoons just marvellous, answers the even fatter man beside her. I loath their sweaty cellulite delusions. I look away. Away from the ribbons and empty roped off praise to the sandfleas biting small children above the water line. To state an accepted truth, is to state nothing at all. Though I must admit, I quite like the angry crab. He seems to be the only one around not trying so hard to be happy.
Thirty Miles Outside Cleveland
The trucker thirty miles outside Cleveland put on his indicator and pulled onto the shoulder. A young Hispanic boy - maybe 14 or 15 - thanked the trucker for stopping, slung his sack over his shoulder, and jackknifed up into the cabin. You=re not a serial murderer, are you?, asked the trucker. Not unless you're a sexual sadist, replied the young Hispanic boy.
The two shared an uneasy laugh before the trucker turned up his Townes Van Zandt and the young Hispanic boy offered to pay for gas.
Then the trucker smiled put on his left indicator checked his mirrors pulled off the shoulder
and began towards Cleveland. Piss in my Mouth
We were sitting around after a nice dinner together enjoying our coffees when she said it: Piss in my mouth. What? Come on, it’ll be fun, piss in my mouth. She tied her hair back in a ponytail, got down on her knees between my legs and started to unzip me. I don’t know about this, I mean, Jesus woman, this is highly irregular, can’t I just cream in your mouth like normal people do? That’s no fun. I hear it can be. Come on, forget that. She pulled it out and let it rest against my jeans. It looked flaccid and sad like a deflated tire. Don’t even think about it, pretend my mouth is a urinal, or something. Right now, right this moment? Of course silly, I’m ready now, come on, piss in my mouth. She opened wide. I could see the strain of her jaw line work its way up to her lightly freckled forehead. She looked very beautiful. Nothing like a urinal. I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, my dear. Come on, I’m ready. But I don’t have to go. She started to get angry with me. What can I do?, I asked, a man only stands in front of a urinal and goes when he has too, the rest of the time he shops for pears or puts on socks or checks the glove compartment for maps of upper state New York. You’re no fun. She got back up to her feet pulled her hair out of the ponytail walked into the bathroom and closed the door. Leaving me cold, limp, and dangling in the kitchen, wondering just how many a man had pissed in the urinal I would have to kiss goodnightlater. Her Name was Nancy, I Believe
There is not much difference between Man and elephant, it seems.
Fed up with torture and confinement a Female circus elephant in Oregon escaped last week and went on a parking lot rampage.
Crushing cars and people alike.
It was only slowed down when other elephants were employed to corner the rebelling elephant against a wall until it could be shot dead and dragged away.
The other elephants could have escaped. They could have joined ranks and rebelled as well, but like Man they chose to silence the lone dissenting voice and go on forever balancing balls and being lead around like cattle. Only Greek Gods should be Worshipped from Behind
candles and an altar
should suffice for the rest.
The Egyptians are into bondage with all those wrappings
but not all the time
and the Etruscans are centered around pleasure, but of a wholly different kind.
Only Greek gods should be worshipped from behind.
You can probably fit all the rest into a single Sunday of general penance.
A collection plate of clanking Vishnus extolled from the gardens of passing pocket lint and old receipts.