the cheesesteak rationale
you ever taken a shit in Pennsylvania
no he says what the hell difference
would that make anyway hahahaha
ha oh man she replies you gotta do
it you haven’t lived till you’ve dropped
a fat load in that treasure trove quit
yankin’ my chain you lunatic no man
I’m serious you’ll feel the difference
instantly just like cruisin’ on cloud 9 and
all that look meet me in Philly next week
and I’ll show you well hell he declares with
a grin OK I accept the challenge why the
hell not if nothin’ else at least it’ll make
a damn good excuse to have a primo authentic
cheesesteak or two
dandruffflake1
anyhoo barnaclebirthpopcorn
burning over said membrane
notion, shitcan probabilities
scroungingly I flunked
Junk World
man what a world we live in what a weird freakedout junkedout world it is unto itself in the middle of the day at the beautiful glittering corner convenient store junk world with the piles upon piles piles mountains of junk food junk drinks junk magazines junk trinkets colorful screaming junk advertisements screaming howling fortissimo right in your face to extremely buy buy this wonderful junk needlessly forever ever ever and the radio screaming with the newest and most beautiful junk from the newest bands of junkies and you get the impression that it’s all the latest pre-fab pile of junk from the most beautiful rancid ass of some cheap plastic puffed-up corporate warthog and in the swerving line some giggling French couple talking about the Kardashians or perhaps last night’s kinkiness and then some twentysomething woman with hoop earrings too much makeup and a T-shirt boldly advertising her favorite brand of athletic gear and she’s got her phone on speaker full volume so we can all hear the conversation she’s having with her therapist and the therapist is screaming back at her to speak loud louder because he can’t hear her over the cacophony and meanwhile behind her a young man snickering and complaining loudly to no one in particular about how the store doesn’t have his preferred brand of ice cream sandwiches and some pale thin old man fresh off the golf course carrying a junk romance novel and wondering how much the jackpot is and what lottery tickets to buy and some dressed-to-the-nines teen rich girls with bleached hair in a heated argument about the question of the hottest actor and me with my cheap sweaty clothes scraggly unshaven face and unquenchable addiction to sodapop remarking again and again to myself on what a weird freakedout world this is and at the register there’s some guy with really thick glasses and a really tight constricting tie bitching and moaning about his junkedout maxedout credit card and he asks for a pack of the cheapest cigarettes but has to repeat himself three times before the clerk can finally locate the particular brand of choice and after all that he pays with a pile of dimes and pennies and the clerk is counting counting well maybe from here I’ll go to some cheap greasy speedy burger joint and again just buy constantly more more of our sexy beautiful vivid trashedup vapid junk
Mary Jane and the Toad
whence came yon fateful day out on that corkscrewy
dustdevil road didst I promptly chance upon a giant
turquoise/charcoal toad who said hey you get over
here right now and help me smoke this big sweet bag
of Mary Jane that I just scored, it’s damn good stuff!
and I said only if you let me take a massive shit in
that there outhouse you got, cause you know I gotta
go real bad and he said fuck no man, that outhouse
is my sweet pad, where I crash out every night in
front of the blithering idiotbox after a long day of
doin’ absolutely nothin’ and whatnot but then I said
no shit no smoke buddy, final offer and he said damn
it motherfucker OK you got me but just this once and
make it snappy but then I suddenly somehow knew
that he’d been a damn liar all along and didn’t have
jackshit to smoke (and I wondered if he’d figured out
by now that my bowels were perfectly serene and in
no danger of stirring anytime soon) so without another
word I just took off runnin’ away down the road as fast
as I could around the ragged curve and over the grimy
ridge the whole time with him shoutin’ after me hey get
back here get back here right the fuck now you shitty
butthead and be my friend
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Amidst the wooded hills and lakeshores of Western New York State, Neil Flory perceives freaky sodapop probabilities in the bedraggled wreckage of condemned motels. He’s readily convinced by the rationale of burned popcorn over barnacles, yet continues spur-of-the-moment conversations with a grand piano indefinitely, as if never fully convinced. He has an arguably misguided habit of drinking chardonnay while standing blindfolded and helmetless in the path of blistering lightspeed fastballs in the center of the homeplate bullseye. Trumpeting accents of geriatric bathtubs, Flory is the author of mudtrombones knotted in the spill (Arteidolia Press, 2023), and his work has also appeared in an inexplicable scattering of literary journals.
Image generated on Magic Studio
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