I was drawing. The six-year-olds raised their eyebrows. “Donald Duck’s friend,” I explained. My marker drew a big fat bow instead of the spiky hairdo of a duck.

“That doesn't look like Donald.” They went deep in thought, “Oh yeah, his Girlfriend!” Malone grinned her whole fat face. “Draw him kissing her!”

I started to draw him on one side, his beak able to kiss her cheek. “NO! Draw him on the other side, kissing her.”

So I did, beak-to-beak, with two cautious centimeters between. The six-year-olds went crazy. A block tower tumbled to the ground. Someone ate something from their pocket. All faces flashing with the chant, “KISS-ING! KISS-ING!”

“They are thinking about if they should kiss. Make a thought bubble and write ‘Should we kiss or should we not?’” I drew a thought bubble that said just that, in my sly handwriting. They were screaming they were so happy. “What should Donald be holding?” I asked Ash.

“A picnic basket!” She was right. Donald was always carrying picnic baskets. Wherever he went it was always good picnic weather, or else threatening to become good weather. It might be thundering and lighting and Donald is shivering in a blanket, but the sun, his sun, always wants to join any sort of party, his weather wants to sing. Ash thought Daisy’s dress should be flowers, so I drew it as flowers.

“Make Donald black,” said Rolly. My hand reached for the brown. “No! Donald’s not black,” Ash said and Ash was black. “Donald is blond,” Malone agreed. “Black or blond?” asked Rolly. Ash swore he was blond. Donald and Daisy looked back at me desperate and foolish. They were very close but not touching. They had a picnic basket, but nothing else to do. Their world was blank and temporary.



A fly was soggy on the cantaloupe.  She had long eyelashes that clung to her face.  She stuck to anything that touched her.  

She was without bones.  She was a black more solid than darkness.  Her face was hard to tell from her body. Her legs were folded in and splayed out.  

People could barely see her.  She was a lump and no longer alive.   A person's finger nudged her, to tell what she was.  She kept falling back to the cantaloupe, and it was sexy, cause she had long eyelashes.  Her falling to the cantaloupe was like a women collapsing into bed, over and over again, except she was dead.  

A person's fingers tried to get her from the cantaloupe.  The cantaloupe was in pieces, was rounded from sitting in itself.  It was in a glass bowl.  It seemed very domestic.  The fly stuck to the finger and was wiped onto the Ceran wrap.  

The wrap was clear like a dream.  The wrap got caught on itself in a way that made a sound. When stretched taught, the wrap felt proud like a drum.  The wrap knew what it was doing.  

The wrap was not without pride, but days later it clung to itself and smelled like something else, then was gathered and balled and tossed in with the trash.  The sexy fly laid on the wrap and did I mention she was wingless?



Roy wished he had a drug problem, so his family could sit around him solemnly and talk, and he could get teary and listen, and then agree with sincerity, the whole thing a success! He had no addictions and was afraid to start any. If he was moody his friends gave him pills, and his girlfriend brought him back a drug on vacation, a rare one, a good one, but this he kept in a wooden box with secret compartments that were obvious and easy to open.

Once he was an artist and his girlfriend, (an earlier, sterner one) told him that artists were just people who wasted time with fake worlds. She was a realist. She thought artists created problems in fake worlds so they didn't have to live in this world. Roy agreed, but didn't think it bad. He'd paint a weirdo with five legs and five feet, and then he'd sit back and mull. This weirdo would have to have special pants, Roy would all-a-sudden know. Pants would get painted in an exhausted heap on the bed. Weirdo pants with five legs. This was the problem solving of an artist.

His earlier girlfriend was a purist, he had thought. But then he thought of another friend who might be a purist. And then another. He could argue all his friends as purists in one way or another, each personality had an extreme effect on the life of their body, but that wasn't purism, was it? No, that was different.

At the corner store a young lady had spilled chocolate milk all over the ground and was sulkily cleaning it up. Roy wanted to help and ripped open the plastic on a roll of paper towels. He was resourceful and the clerk yelled at him, which made him rebellious. The young lady was rebellious also. A carton of chocolate milk had gotten in her way, and she had messed that carton up until it was an ominous spread on the floor. She'd destroyed it. It looked like shit, but Roy could smell it, and it smelled fine.



"Hey what was that album? Red Hot Chilli Peppers write home unhappy?"
"It feels like we're on a road trip during war time!"

That night every ball I hit went flying. The striped green reminded me of a frog, and I'd never thought this before. The music was rubbing off so I didn't finish, but briefly, I thought it would be good to go through making up symbols. Like solid blue is the great lake, and me and you could call them this, and strangers would be interested. Solid yellow would be golden ticket, or bumble ball, or the sun.

This here's a combo, I'm going to hit the blood drop into the frog and the frog to the emptiness, and the emptiness into the grassy knoll. But I didn't finish this. All the songs that played were authenticating, for fifty cents I could keep up and it was worth it. If you used the eight ball to hit in your ball, it meant you weren't afraid of dying, and during the course of the game you'll notice I did this many times.

I was born one gender, but a pair of jeans could switch me like that. I could fall in love with girls like all of modern culture. If I got lazy at Hoolie's, he'd do some magic tricks for me. Diving after the cards, desparately, like this was in an asylum. Friends entertain for free, I never feel conflicted about having friends, friends is one good thing. Nature is so cool too, it doesn't bend itself or care. I look at the window and think Nature is my secret role model and I'm not going to tell anybody.

This was in the middle of a breakdown, but my breakdown kept taking breaks, so I had these wild fun times wherever I was, strangers included, weather permitting, a movie theater couldn't tell me what I could or could not bring inside. I would stroll in with a pizza, outside food, and when they adressed me, I'd say, "Hey, this here is your life, and this over here, is mine, let's just live and pay none." Or more like, "Yeah man, I know, let's not spill our moods you know? We are in the same exact room right now." Not that. None of that.

I'd be talking to everyone and think it was lucky our skin was so intact and keeping with us, that it was a privilege in a way, that even though some bad stuff had happened, it hadn't yet ruined us into little epitaphs we'd give after the person left. Maybe someone had a problem or two, but it enlivened our old city, a problem brought incident, the incidents brought order. Whenever I felt bad enough to live filthy, I told myself it was time to cut an album.



Keith had locked me in the storage, so I was gonna make the best of things. My ma'd pack'd me a sandwich and I dented it with my thumbs. Dumb sandwich, I thought. You are soggy, a mush! A messy mass, you are, you fucking sandwich. I took a bite. Bleh. Bleh. I took a bit in my fingers and made it into a cube. Perfect sandwich cube! I said. Please teach me your ways. Bleh. Bleh. I ate the sandwich cube. The sandwich had smeared jam in the bag. Fucking messy ass bag, I thought. You look dispicable. You are uglier than other bags I've seen. There was a weird sticky dust on the ground and it stuck to my jeans. Weird sticky dust, I thought. Where are you from? What causes You?

There were big piles of cardbaord boxes all around me. They inspired me little. Keith was a moody worker. He didn't have anything to lose. Everyday he walked in with rythym and had little or nothing to lose. He wouldn't let anyone see his car. He parked it far far away from the warehouse and came in sweaty everyday. I saw a moth, but had nothing to say to it. Keith once scared me at the water fountain and I got water all on my shirt. I heard mice in the corner and went to check them out. My footsteps echoed like a strangers. The mice made little mincing sounds and I couldn't see where. Oh sandwich cube, I said once more. What ever happened to you?