A newspaper lists the names, a golden stammer to choose upon, crazy steelers drive into quarter dollars for legal purposes. Tap, tap the faucets for gold bullion pouring through the nozzle in mistake, salads turned yellow in the bowls, bejeweled candy matching quarters and dimes; Power Tools needs that, and expects it to happen at any turn of his wrist. He's ready. Got it all planned. Lincoln chauffeurs and condominiums, investing in fucked up deals he hopes will be more gold finds.

 

        Got his fingers pointing in two different directions. I don't go near the shower for weeks, no one notices. I smell my skin and especially my chest smells faint of sweat. Lovers go wild when they get a whiff. Real thought-provoking. They have gnats growing bigger in the hair on their bodies, digging me up. Wild frankincense are jammers in the room I pile nothing on to hide it.

 

        If I especially hate the victim I'll put my gold finger rings into his back playfully, they thing it's love. Brutality is love. That is the only thing I learned to be true. My rings do not represent love. Picking at his body for cubicles of loose dead cells to throw off onto me, they fuck their spatting crap at me and I drive and they think it's love again.

 

        Clandescent molds fit the patterns, I give up. The ballet quartet fixes a brunch. My grooves are normal. I wear nylon stockings and old ladies shoes. What I've worn for a long time. Seal the blubber from the walls for me, I try to appreciate it. Tarpoles grafted naked on the purple balloons made me feel good, organization facilities at common stops in the order in which they are presented. A fever turns me red. I sweated heavily. Why do these things have to happen. I wanted to vomit or cry or both. I thought of the way I would get looked at for trying it and forgot the idea.

 

        Hold it in. Don't look around. Hold it in. Do it because that is the way it goes. I was taught that way. I resent a few ways. Don't be gay, be straight, god'll hate you if you don't do what I say. The whole goddamned patronage. Criminal crap.

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        I hate it. I hate it all. And I know that the bottle of tablets is near to me if it's as impossible to get through the day or if I don't want to get through it. The shit explodes me. I can't do anything. I can't speak, I can't even throw up on the faces that tell me this. A criminal sentence for me because I am a person. Shit, shit, shit.