| My Dog Rubbed Her Whole Buddy In Goose Shit
If they sing much more their vocal chords will be sawed in half. Their throats will open to the summer sun and within them there will be: corn, goose shit, Grant Wood paintings, old honky tonk desperation, empty pop bottles, six bottles of wine, glass table, detuned guitars, translucent poets, pantheistic debates, eyebrows, and stories. Their throats will rise in protest. Gurgling, Nam Myho Renge Kyo Thus spoke the buddhist sitting on his hands but still painting necks, painting esophogi, painting eloi, painting adam’s apple, painting holes upon holes upon holes. And what pray tell does hole rest upon? Turtle shell, upon turtle, upon turtle, humpin tortoise in the Des Moines Zoo. All the throats tuned to the guitar. The blond girl in her lap even rising her own adam apple-less throat. These are rites of passage. Mites into flies. |