I put all the children's books in the paper recycling, the playdoh down the garbage disposal, and wallpaper the nursery with scenes from the Hoop-Earring Slugfest Bloody Mountaintop Girls Magazine. Feels so good to get a deal these days--I don't even care what I'm subscribing to.  I want to fill my home with faith and worship, not for anything in particular, just something small and easily concealed.  My husband asks: How long before I complain to the publisher when the scenes of graphic violence fail to fit into my home decorum?  I tell him to die.  I want a new life every time I open a magazine. 

I cross the intersection back through the stacks, follow the edges of rubble.
I see beyond, past the cycle, and into the hour: my mouth tastes of glue and
      mucus and
my only last friend is a grandfather to dozens. 
still after all the boys rave of salvation and conspiracy.
I am quiet.
The creeper sits on a blind corner
     on the clear morning
before I've had a chance to think.

You continue to give in to superstition and fail to find god. Go on exploiting a body floating in society and space for manic ends.  You shall not be released.

"So you say: life is better than ever?"
"Yes. Even in these years after I've beat God from my mind I still lie awake before I dream of death and pain."
"What have you done with the gods?"
"They evaporated into beads of water surrounding particles of tar."
"And your thoughts...they are now free?"
"I have build surrogate medallions and controllers as acting responders in case of emergency, but I cannot take credit for impossible feats."
"Then what is the use?"
"I will have a child, his pain will be of a different sort."

Iodized, shaped into spheres, and put into jewelry.  My child shows them so proudly: learning to fondle, rub, lick, and even steal in the communities that still allow it.  I imbibe these fashionable spheres with new money and dead rebellion: buying each a case, for I am so fortunate to assign value by storage.  My own medallion is worn proudly around my ankles, safely tied between my feet.  I limit my steps to a shuffle to safely guide my chosen seal to the Area of Discrete Master Worship:  I will touch others'--they will touch mine--all will be gratified--one at a time.

BEEP BEEP, get out of the way or get backed over by a '98 Bonneville. Mom already laid down a child scare storm on Consumer Reports co-written with Al Gore and Adolf Hitler, both winners of the Nobel Prize, followers of Christ, readers of National Geographic, and patrons of Holiday Inn. A reasonable grievance jotted down on the back of a wedding invitation in the garbled style of an "afterhours" luncheon or gut busting kickoff party. All those people we invited--I actually have to talk to? I'm much too ashamed of what I have not done to speak:
"'What's new?'
'Oh I just involved myself in some scheduled activities, I feel like the shit now.'"

Put clear blue fluid on everything you see: children, our children, writhing in cornstalks full of plastic kernels.  You can save them only by completing the given task--wrong move—GAME OVER—but nobody cares, because none of the tasks or thoughts were real.  You mistook integrity with a stable drug problem, trying to repeat the glorious glory of the last load blown and for what?  Woops!?  Forget history goes past the last hundred years—now our sick children march down streets holding rallies for the cure, all because we couldn't think hard enough without complete silence.  Who is going to find the way out? With visions locking my mind, fear in my heart and sex gripping its cold irons round my ankledick...it won't be who you think it is!

YOU ARE STILL NOT DEAD!

Choose no words, generate nonsense from rocks in the stream. Accept the responsibility of a plastic coating on your body.  You’re a fuck and biohazard.  Demons in the earth crust have no opportunity to show mercy to the devils that abuse and restrain them. Pray for absolution and you will be sure not to receive it.  Rules were read to your child at birth, soon pushed out of mind by patterns of relation, mediation.  Carry on to the end of inspiration, seal the sun, be the first: Maker of None.

Bank tellers left meat pies in the money vault.  The alarm went off, the door locked, I ripped off the cellophane and waited for the cops to come.  Shed a tear in the garlic & potatoes, a crazed prisoner out on work release, doing nothing, thinking thoughts…I did carve out a kill switch in the wood paneling of my mother’s basement and then hit it over and over with my forehead.  Self destruction made meaningful with a symbolic accent.  Just that once I was…I saw the true go-between, the conduit with no ego.  But I let it die. I shamed myself and others, depressing the accelerator, blacking the pavement, smoking the tires, filling the silence. DO NOT BE FOOLED BY LIES OF SELF SANCTITY—YOU HAVE ALREADY BEEN ABSORBED.  Let me tell you something about common sense: we’re gonna be wishing for the television back one day.  We’re gonna be waiting for Christ and get another Jules Verne.  I’m gonna take a stab at myself in the dark of a theatre, bloody the man next to me and have to pay the price  with submission to the safety of masses.  That man was coughing.  That man was sick.  Fulfill the natural order and we will chain you to the whipping post of society and the most empty will feel freedom beating your body to goo down into the graveldust. 

Somewhere between my brain, eyes, and the ones I love is heap of garbage.  I plan on addressing this problem sometime in the future, sometime after the holidays.  Plans will be set out, employees will be hired, my trash will removed and the electric stove rewired.  You see, when we are born, half of your mother's brain and half of your father's brain are taken out and rubbed together about some dirty snow creating an increasing thick film around this irritant.  This "pearl" grows larger and larger, until it is just big enough to fill a skull.  They slop it in and your mom and pops git back their brains no worse for wear.  However, depending on the quality of dirty snow and the time taken for the rub, you might have shit in your brain.  Shit in your brain.  This is a problem.  Seek the aid and approval of Joel Olstene, he's not that bad of guy.  But who can really tell?