fantasticdamage

STOCHASTIC VARIABILITY *i know, kinda long

life is not a box of chocolates;
it's a rollerball sweatsock
after exiting the octagon
and i'm on my way back from the factory
(we manufacture silicon salamanders for kids)
but my vehicle's stopped
(a rocket's passing through)
though if you look closely
you might see a comet
somewhere by the horizon.

i'm slightly irritated
about the women i date -
divorcees with tumi bulletproof baggage
jamming the x-ray conveyer belt.
marriage failure rates are eighty percent
and i refuse to bear the weight of the deranged -

a stepson gunning for me, itching
to crack the link
between his mother and i; or leave
it out in the wet, let it rust
over until pedals act static
and there's not even a halt
to grind toward;

or a vengeful ex-husband, techologically savvy
with hacker capabilities, aware
of my finances, tendencies -
coffee routes and pit stops -
sneaking in alleys with sonar binoculars.

the optimal is not this;
my definition of ideal is anything opposite.

these women appear glossy, pristine
with dreams to conquer
and a space for me within them,
cooking skills, lovemaking expertise.

last night we took a bath;
fiber optic candlelit
with old wave music -
slightly mournful, pessimistic.
the faucet yawned, sputtered
a few last drops, echoing through the room.
i pressed my thumb to her thigh,
began to lather it with thick white foam -
going upward, farther to the crevices,
the v-shaped bend. i grabbed
a razor, traced soft brushstrokes,
covered her entirety. i was thorough.

a door slammed: her son and friends
making some noise. she sprung
like she'd been coiled, quickly robed,
stepped out from the tub. i reached
for her leg and touched stubble.

i was born in a hovel
patched together with the remnants
of skyscraper rubble. now i fly
over it and imagine a neutron bomb
dropping, bodies cataclysmic
with shrapnel ejaculate. i wish
i could wiggle my hand
and send lightning bolts,
throw down to those unworthy -
the dirty, the sick,
those incapable of change.

we're approaching the firing range;
this one specializes in laser training. i'm unfazed
by public executions, am very supportive.
i could press the abort button
and parachute out to somewhere.

what are they building over there?
looks like a new CERTAINTY WORKS -
the first of its kind, now
a fine conglomerate. they ensure
a holocaust on chance,
the elimination of kinks,
perfect synchronization. plastic
ants march and clean up whatever.
once, i fell in love with a bedwetter;
now we're all better off.
the ants carry on, robotic,
remote-controlled by the hand
of an employee. amputees
came back from the war
and one suddenly hard the urge
to jerk himself off. no more.
risk is just a board game
out of print.

maybe when it's finished
i'll hire them to remove
algebra from the equation - her offspring,
polluted by paternal refuse; infiltrated,
oxidized, boiled and hardened
to likeness: a plaster paris cast with graffiti
scribbled diagonally, counterclockwise.

it covers, and inside
the body festers; toenails curl
and skin flakes shed, breathless,
inhaling years of mal-content, ill-intent.
there is no one to repent to.

soon they'll open their doors,
saw it all off. the rotation of a blade,
circuitous, whirring that faint hiss
like a snake, vehement,
gasping for flesh to inject.