Let's See Where This Goes...

Forgive me for the joke I'm about to pass on: 

you're just guessing. put some bait on that hook

wait, let me. how strained into strange are you to receive 

my fonted letter, envelope with red foil, were you thinking page 

would be some instrumental act of word, not imagining scented 

from what the phallus pulled out on itself. do you recognize who?

and excuse me for almost greeting with:

put a stitch on is all I ask. 

me the khakied mime handing you back emperor's clothes 

slung over forearm, face with a sheepish gaze long as yours, 

bold as your turn away as I hold up a pause hand, 

fish from my jeans pockets your socks, and receive a gift 

of a blush, your swung step a little different. 

no two griefs or loves are identical twins. no flushes are straight heat 

of day when we share air of one room, my head tipped to the side as you enter

conversation with him. snowballing we shared him, each other. anvil torsos,

tongues, always so many pokers in the fire he is 

swung over the chicken flesh of sack, the curve of each hair teased back

by tender and tug until he welds air

feel throat and nose and eyeballs dry; all else slides

I tried to obscure gawk with rubbing a crick in my neck, pushing off 

the worst of the sweat with a blade of hand. that unconscious mind

that I can't take anywhere, can't live with or without. 

the hands that brush the hair from your eyes you only think

are your own, but mine echo. hair is not feathery but feathers, 

red, lift like desert sandstorm, will settle into the curve of my palm, 

my waist, we'll spend baths in the dry heat turning it to mud

from what pores we pore over, each follicle a litany.

were you confused at my outburst, my demanding 

that formal dress be required for tonight, each night. 

the blank of their faces filled with inprontu turning away

to make up a task to occupy themselves with    over there

sorry for the friends awkward amusement looking over you

the sound you made in the small of your throat

I check out the drape of cloth over your navel, pray for a sidestep under

incandescent pot light so there will be a rake of shape to

make out probability of accuracy of that lime juice dribbling

washboard draining to the burrito below. dreamesque rolled

flatbread around the softness of raspberry glans. crispy foreskin a phrase

and sensation gifting my waking lips, carried between nips.

my memories are invisible as wind but you see behavior, window glass 

bows, cheeks puffed with the gusts, what is overturned and spins past.

5 Word Challenge, Urban Dictionary Special: bezerk, frisbeetarianism, staycation, shituation, fud 

"BS at work is to be expected and tolerated. What makes a job intolerable is the UBS--Unnecessary Bull Shit." – Sophie

No money, no funny...hmm... (checking bank balance)... I can't see any flight but fancy taking off with me on it, anytime soon.

Sure, Copacabana would be nice about now, but my religion – frisbeetarianism – doesn't promise any glorious sunny paradise when I die of overwork, and job doesn't allow any decent length of vacation to allow me to chill out before I do keel over... 

Maybe tomorrow a good (cough-sputter) staycation with cat – stress leave (ahem) sick day – don't tell the office – just me and a bit of tetris and brownies, keeping the fud-slinging media turned and tuned out.

The phone'll be unplugged (shhhh, fever and migraine y'know) against whatever bezerk shituation flies at the work...it will just have to fly solo without my catching it. Maybe it will die quick and dull, like a summer fly, and drop without my swatting a sweat at it. 

in the paper one farm says 50 workers will be kept on in the scaled back operations since those are all unemployable otherwise, due to handicap. charity cases or niche work? giving or taking advantage?

- Living out loud, man. Who we really are. There's no sweeping our true coyote natures under the carpet.

- Carpet tunnel syndrome wouldn't look like such a bad option from here.

- Wah, another cheesy joke? can't we curd this habit?

- No

- Where there's a will there's a whey.

- You know me. I've got to take everything whey too far. It would be a fusilli effort to even try to make me stop.

- So you're saying we're pasta point of no return?

- You're killing me.

- Judge, jury and executioner – we're understaffed as any charity case.

- Amorphous claim. 

- Shapeless as fish, battered 

- and feeling fried.

Sure, there's time before your meeting....

now that's a nice boost to the day, the corner of eye look my way (or more specifically, down my cleavage then up to my eyes) as painter dude got out of the elevator. nice butt on him.

What are your first thoughts upon waking?
Submitted by Cher Cabula.

Serial waking.

sorry. (apologizing to groan, vague memory of stretching and popping my knuckles on my skull. Am I culpable? I wasn't even conscious. Can blame start before I'm awake?) [need a better start than this, try to return to dream, sleep]

Get off my bladder, cat! Off, off. [rolling over, sleep]

Daylight, again, so soon, huh. [rolling over, sleep] 

No music but cold bed. Where's he with his earbuds? [rolling over, stay in warm sheets]

Quiet cat!  [getting up]    

There ain't no original folks. We're all faded dittos of the great replicator which prepared us and every other animal and plant, fungi to ant, and continually remakes the thousands of species we house. We are parasites in symbiosis to memes. The intentional is illusionary. The concrete a dream. When you dress, when you speak, when you buy, when you take a leak, you do it in the fashion the meme, the idea, preordained by the iteration and change and repetition you inherited. You are mere drops  from a surf and you imagine you are each the whale and and the sea and Jonah and can teach them all to sing, and hear them ring meanings and significances to guide you in a divine drama that is a mere randomness. The comedy is what you can manufacture from the data. Laughter is all one can grasp to make the fatigue leave inside the convulsion of breath heaved before brain stem snail inside that fragile bit of calcium takes back the default pace automatic and as out of your control as any other thing. Ride the air.