A muppet doctor has a golden stethoscope. He drools peacefully into a concrete pool above a dead frog sleeping, forgotten in the frozen mud. He thanks god for his leaping body. He dreams of a beautiful lady, undressing in a turquoise room. “Here, in Singapore, the prostitutes are better educated than most American business men,” the frog says. “There are rusted tractors in a burned down barn yard somewhere in Nebraska. Mark my words. Donate blood.”
I folded tiny cactus printed fabric into a make shift square and she smiled with her perfect cheeks and crooked teeth. There were freckles on her pale gold skin. She bounces when she walks. I can hear an instrument only the Pharaohs could afford. Have you ever seen a Pharoah’s sandles? Go and have a look and you’ll know what I’m talking about and how.
I don’t care about the dark web anymore. Mathematicians who like pornography so much are boring. They have grave stones on their birthday cakes. I have black mascara dripping inky tears down my face because I’m the last black witch. West Virginia is a song by a man who died in a plane crash and was friends with kermit the frog.
Where in tarnation are my pruning scissors? Say something provocative and pray for the firing squad. For if you are granted a miraculous last minute reprieve, that’s how you write a masterpiece. I’m going to teach a class like that and almost everyone who takes it is going to die. It’s like that, people praying to win the lottery and winding up with powdered donuts.
Japanese travelers watch the dish soap rain drops fall into a field of wine glasses, spread out in perfect rows across the well worn floor of an empty, wooden room. The poison toad escaped the pet store and passed out under the air conditioning unit of a Tucson hotel. The drug mule had a tattoo of every Jimmy he ever knew. And then he said “those are all the Jims I can remember. I’m done now. My teeth hurt and I have to pee.”