Selections from The Surrealist Explains His Smile by Michael Pingarron
thru experiment The experiment seems to have worked fine, for the doctor. For me, a lesion. A kernel of all I hate and love fastened to my feet, my baggage. I’ve carried it around for months, a man condemned to quicksand. I pop the analgesics, a fatman eating bon bons, a cadillac on a drinking binge. Nerves a plate of jello dancing a mambo. Nightmares done up in drag: my mother, my father, my lover, her lover, prance around me like a Maypole. I consume the carcass of a flower. I speak a dead language. I am the tornado’s eye gone blind. counting the bones
words come with wind asking to be heard. they shatter windows. they crawl into bed and try to sleep. I watch her flee the premises, the clouds of a running storm. I coil the world, a swollen snake. I prospect the hidden gold, the wholeness that hides in my closet. I wear it, not ironing out the wrinkles from weeks without use. I murder fleeting moments with dreams because I know what will happen at dawn. I work at counting the bones. the surrealist explains his smile parables are the knives of the tongue with hidden teeth– they bite, chew and break down everything to seeds of the home we grow from with silent hands\ and eyes that bumble and drool like rain. we buy band-aids to bind our leaking credit cards. their blood’s a practical substitute for what we breathe– they’re demanding names at the gate. have your social security card ready. bring toothbrush and toilet paper, remember deodorant too– it gets hot in here!
chicken flu
the price of poultry has risen. so has the price of its eggs. at first a paranoia: poultry farmers found out my like of chicken and wanted to put my stomach out of business. force my diet to a standstill.
then I heard of the influenza that had stricken them, a genocide—mass graves full of one hundred thousand bodies of feathers.
tonight I’ll eat black beans and rice, typically Latin American and high in protein too.
somewhere in some heaven the chicken-god is angry at his people.
a dictator a dictator lives in a den of wolves and feeds them with luscious parts of his body once they’ve got the taste he unleashes them on their own country which they chew up with teeth gnashing ripping the heart from every body that refuses to hear his doctrine scratched on a sacred scroll of death this land of great distractions there’s always a movie a comedy of errors that distracts us from the truth perilously passing by I cry you cry and all of us die parched dry nameless sticks of meat sold at a local bodega managed by illegal aliens who hopped over a rundown wall somewhere way down south who cares we’re witnesses protected by a National Guard trained to aim an AK47 down a baby’s throat who never gets milk for breakfast lunch or dinner
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