skinned my knee on the spa

[Mao Tse-Tung]

Children in mildred doworthington shackles, mostly with herpes, paid one
another hundred year-old Confederate currency to slam down the free
half-ounce samples of Clorox that the dusty man with the derby and the
leatherette and the card table apathetically gave out to anything which
would remove the 30+ samples from his cold November office on Drohen
street as he sat thinking anti-semitic thoughts and longed to leave the
rotten, sodden cane seat which wore ever so harshly on his swollen,
impacted bowels and the rain that seemed to have come right from
Paterson or a dingy rust-colored wheelbarrow dew-drop puddle or over the
head of an aging man ruminating over some very old pictures writing
ineffectual imagist poetry (this is starting to look like a
Wittgenstein-caliber sentence-length.)
I bought a pair of spats.
Running his greasy thumbs through his decrepit, 89-cent wig (a Mamie
Eisenhower original), the misplaced Bobby twirled his lightning staff
and whistled his agony over the translocation of his genitals to a
rather inopportune spot at the base of his spine.
A drunken, sodden, street-rat of a man swaggers onto the pavement,
dropping casually a cigarette lighter which immediately strikes upon its
striker, with the precision of a hand grenade a quarter and one-fourth
of a stick of dynamite according to an obscure and meaningless study,
exploding in a brief plume of blue-tangerine flame, noticed by everyone
as if in a shameless cartoon where transparent eye socket replaces
You-Know-Who's aged, diluted, meaningless metaphorical eyeball.
in a song of nurturing wealth and wearing grease-coated shoes, a
turban-bound woman spills her newly-sharpened icepicks from the
terra-cotta garden towel onto the
Oi! We'll have none of that, here!
A greco-roman iceberg lettuce wrestling statuette glimmers briefly in
the No-Nails desert, a ghastly remix of the Cracklin' Oat bran (actually
dog food) commercial from late 1988, misplaced in time.
A gigantism-afflicted grackle awkwardly flails its way towards Siam,
never making it past the 3rd-and-Dong corner whore store, where business
has dropped off, but, if I can only put that damn cat-sized grackle's
unseemly-large eye between the crosshairs, we'll eat tonight!
A man heaves a perfectly good rasp towards the rough, almst white gray
concrete curb, where, as if in a median and not a sidestreet, it meets
the wet green grass right at the edge without any sidewalk, the rasp
twirling end over end to hit first soundlessly in the grass, then clank
its other amiable side onto the concrete curb.
A young child of indeterminate gender masturbates while the fifth rerun
of the Amityville Horrors programme is played on the eight-track VCR.
Two trellisworks mysteriously collapse on the tops of as many pergolas
covered with metallic ivy at the League for Blinded MArsupials on
Jaycees (John Wayne Gacy) street. The gas line bungs up with
rats.............,