olive juice

dancing
spinning
swirling

you were once stuffed
almonds
capers
jalepenos
garlics
onions
pimentos

the pit replaced
by contents all too small
they've left you and
loiter at the bottom of a jar
with a fancy label
you are soaked in gin

all the swords are broken
the toothpick makes its own hole
dance till the liquid is gone
you are next

with love and tragedy,
johnny *heart* sweatheart

Perpetual Left

I have been sent from my new sleep chamber to a far Northern galaxy. This latest mission is met with much apprehension as my shiny unconscious platform configuration leaves me craving it every time I blink. This blink pattern is something I am not accustomed to and each time I close a lid I have to voluntarily open it after .09 milliseconds. Sometimes, when there is much to process at once I will close and open in a rhythmic fashion, much like an indicator on the backside of a clunky grey caprice classic. This is but an infinitesimal nuisance compared to the challenges I face every waking flash. The alarm sounds and I am sucked out of my lucid movie….It’s a rerun of “the tornado” playing at the drive-thru in my database. The funnel jumps out of the screen and pulls the sound posts straight out of the ground. Right before it sweeps me up I am grabbed by my legs and yanked out of my unconscious lime colored convertible into wake mode. I clutch my bed sheet and the both of us end up detached and frazzled on the floor. “You win…I am here.” Next time the tornado will devour me and I wonder if the consciousness police will be able to find me. I imagine they will (they always will) on top of a tree with a macaw perched on my shoulder. We’ll both be humming, reading a rummaged newspaper article that has smacked against my cheek…and we’ll both be wearing fake handlebar mustaches and faker looks of indifference so as not to be discovered.

hemorrhage hula

My data bank has become dangerously overloaded. I decided that it was time to empty the trash and recalibrate. After an afternoon of whistling and shredding mental paperwork I deduced that it would be best to detach the info box entirely and float for a while. This, it appears, has not only done wonders for my complexion, but also for my central and south central nervous systems. I have a backlog of projects waiting to be processed and complicated but for now I will let them continue to pile up, one on top of the other. Once it gets high enough I will climb the precarious stack, set up my lawn chair and continue to tap my oversized animal head slipper as I sip two straws attached to a fishbowl filled to the brim with body numbing liquid juice. Every once in a while fish faced killah pops out of the tank, removes his goggles and asks that I please refill his tank with liquid oxygen. "Soon." I say. "Soon." What's the hurry? Eventually I will remove my feet and attach the wheels, repower the jet pack and send myself back into orbit. Until then, I just found a yo-yo.

...and it lights up.