this here is a genuine Mississippi mudslingin' dog

be careful now, that right there is a genuine mississippi mud slingin' dog, and when half the goo-chassis is out, he hops, bucks, and twists, and tosses the offending member right at your feet, an erstwile brown mouse for your how now old house..

a beast rides

the camphor'd es

and a herm hides

in the christmas tree fringes

of the pre-programmed

clear cut.

there is a gnarl,

an enlightened snarl between us,

a truth gap, an oracle, Charles,

so that arguing with you

is like watching you

smoke cigarettes through your nose

with your head stuck up inside

some distant blue

alien aquarium parallelogrammar:
"let us tissue"
"lettuce bowl"

bright lights big city

the medieval chin imp of beau brummel 

just adores

being bathed to live music

on a stage stacked with chicken cages

and now that we vestal virgins

now follow the holy mother

Helen Keller

bunnies in pink sacks

and rock and roll

in painted brick basements

there's a noise

like bananas 

in a chicken cage.

Laocoon!

Laocoon on lead guitar!

I'm not wearing

a painted chicken pelvis, Charles,

when all you're carrying

is a svelt clean hyphen

to ford the forbidden naming

of ultimate conduitry...

suit yourself, Marsha,

but you are still the top half of the es,

and I

the bottom.

bathos is no pedestal

for gnarl, and 

madeness

mad

for all.

On the great balconies of Capri's,

there need never be

any arguing the canon

among the penultimate punctum

and palm,

these indigo pillows

for bent and extruded

grid chess

set to confer.

do you still not recognize

how hot on the heels 

over multiplicative mandalas

my canonlessness

can argoo:

this sentence is all blue pillows

made into chair pads.

the social

is a gnarled balcony

said Edgar Allen Poem.

our goo remains

the essential integument,

though no semicolon,

or neocanon

can separate our gnarls.

We enter

Sparta's blue.

now that you've gone,

I find myself,

taking your side

in every argument with myself.

and though I replace

you,

you are goo,

immovable.

are visible

as an indigestable remainder

at the bottom

of our screens.

Everything gets digested

by the canon.

Now that you are gone,

and its just my hyphen and me,

I realize,

that the empty headed

and architectural es

is just a beautiful white donkey

wearing a black saddle

carrying a roughly hewn rider.

Jesus,

like a painted chicken pelvis

entered old Jerusalem

in search of

bright hound's tooth garments

to lay at the feet

of holy mother

Helen Keller,

and her book

of hells.

as a military sleepwalker,

i smeared my skin

through the great canon

of maps and places,

until at last I arrived

in the city

of Laocoon.

This used to be somebody's

squid costume.

Our goo is the night.

and no one may argue

its fewrtile

canon.

Ernst Haeckel

was here...

and at the end

there was only one;

a last and final

earnest heckler

who called our great canon

furniture

and then called our furniture

syntaxis

and then named our syntaxis

THIZGOO

argue!

pull open the blue tasselled drawers

and drawings,

move the brass teapot around

on the great forehead of gnarl

and call it

flower.

of strings and quarks

and gambots.

The Letter of the Law

is the shaping of the goo.

And the goo

is like a city

of laws nested in rules

nested in laws

and sideburns.

I'm not sure I can do much for you.

An enamel ovum, or period of white noise

has followed you here

from another narrative..

Is there something like a table

you aren't telling me?

I never thought I'd find

the author of all that drunkeness

in a mystic knife.

I would do anything for the canon,

but its blindness

has rendered me 

as wholly other

a holy mother.

I am Brandy Keller.

(another Chivas please..)

Instead of meditation

we eat.

She's military and asleep

of course.

We red everything through our cell phoems.

come

break 

bread

in the 

see

o

pop

chrome

mandala

puncta.

sometimes

I forget about Zarathustra.

Sometimes

I can't find

hellenic killing.

Sometimes

the canon smokes a hyphen

and burns your face off.

Mudslinging is holy!

Mudslinging is holy!

O lungfish!

O broom-tilde!

If the word harlequin does not chase the image harlequin,

surely the ARRGG cannot GOOO...