This was written by a friend and myself. We switched every sentence. Originally done on a typewriter. I'm posting it replete with typos and errors ( Read more... )

Experiments in Typing

Only moon-people land in sentences
Everyone else comes in phrases
The trick is to see them before
The period.

A colon is the sign of the Vesuvians
They lack the sophistication of
Puncuation we bipeds have.
What barbarians.

The spaceship Prepostion has landed
They seek our independant clauses
Only he has been impeached
By

One word is a finger
A phrase a pair of legs
An entire system of functions and sequences
in a sentence
Everything comes to an end at the right hand
it all falls
This great stack
This tower of characters
These backbones
This kingdom of lines
All smoke and mirrors in the press of a
woodblock

            “Bill, I still don’t get why you told me we was getting dog food when we ain’t,” Frankie said, “You ain’t ever lied to me bout where we was going any other time. Why you lying to me this time?”

“Will you give it up on the damn dog food Frankie, Jesus. Why the fuck does the dog food matter to you so fuckin much? Do you really ( Read more... )

            “Shit Frankie, I didn’t ask for no sidekick, you were just some guy I picked up off the side of the road one day and never thought to tell ‘get the fuck out’ to. Not that I mind you riding with me, yeah I sort of grown to like having the company, but you ain’t my fuckin side kick.”

“Come on now Bill, you don’t mean that. ( Read more... )

        “Wait a minute,” Frankie said as he pulled another cigarette from his crumpled pack, “Alice don’t have no dog Bill, right ( Read more... )

        I drove out on the red Mojave desert. The wind blew sand against my face, setting the deep grooves of the road in leather on my brow. Frankie the Mulatto sat shotgun and smoked a cigarette. His hazel skin glowed in the heat. We popped something real smooth into the tape deck of my old blue Lincoln convertible and let the song roll along ( Read more... )

        A little bald man stands behind a podium. Scratching his snowman’s beard, he jerks around shouting, “The ants are stealing the eggs of washed up cunt ” in a robotic fashion as if bellow the podium sits a massive clockwork skeleton. Pink flesh wrapped around cold steel works through his tiny frame. Eyeballs are eyes for the machinist pulling ( Read more... )