trinity (the first 21:33 min. of the piece): george flynn

passing through the hallucinatory project---the hallway growing darker, deeper---clothes snagging on the sides, the broken nails pushing out from the wall sides, the bugs cackling along the slick floor---malt and stale fart filling the area like raw sewage on a wednesday, too late for garbage day and now days and days to go until another pickup---and the neighbor across the road is watching through the cracks in his aging blinds---and his wife is away, so if he sees the silhouette of a young fem out across the way he can strip down and Vaseline up & jerkajerkajerkaJERKA and after he splooges all over everything, he picks up a warm towel, wiping up his mess---taking the towel downstairs to the blackened charcoaled shadowy basement, without a flashlight---on the way he rubs Massacio’s 1425 fresco all over the wall & that holy trinity comes out with it---no doubt the passers-by will find something new and astonishing with its leftover remnants like they do every time that they swear that they see jesus’ face in a pile of dirt or bowl of alphabet soup.

 

it’s quiet now and everyone is asleep presumably.  it’s that place in the night where you swear that if you blinked your eyes twice that you would disappear from all record---сколько дре�™есины может сурок Чак если сурок может патрон дре�™есины---you cross the street and look down both ways afterward---no one here to listen to you if you feel the need to scream, and above all else, you do.  spreading your arms you stare up into the star-ridden sky and scream the loudest scream that there ever was and probably ever will be---glass shatters and sprinkles down the side of the buildings all ricocheting off the fire escapes.

 

voyages quelqu'un et tombe, le fractionnement de leur front sur le sol au-dessous --- vous regardez en bas de votre fenêtre et le débat si le temps froid et il est assez pour vous empêcher de l'arpentage de la situation.  and beyond all that is rational, you through on your trench and guided by the railing out and onto your front steps you make the way down tip-toeing like a ballet dancer on crystal meth---with each ballet step comes the sound of a tap dance and it confuses the audience watching---they are making their way onto their prospective lawns after all---here in suburban bla bla bla USA---and that’s all there is.

 

stumble after stumble the rain breaks through and there’s nothing that you’d like more than it to happen to you---and there’s a werewolf in the coffin and a breaker in the office---and a loiterer in the paddy-wagon doing his best not to break character---something is new though, not quick up to par---the boat that passed the range is barking on the sonar---there’s a huffy on the biscuit waiting for its wage to raise today---past the coffeemaker being taken back because bessy didn’t get paid---there must be a way to refund the dumb pun on a 3 day lamb with the monk fleeing the nuns---there’s no proper punctuation---there’s no stop sign on the road---there’s no place to lay your head while your sex organs explode---and the people spending time writing all their query’s and their perfections have been ousted from the block by the internet infestation---pikachu, pikachu, baker’s man---fix me up a shake as fast as you can---make sure it’s protein-a-fide and basked in the baskin’ and robbins---while the pasternack double is all that’s on on CNN.

funnel out all the people you’ve been asked to deny---and pick up all the pieces left when the fifth segment cries---whippoorwill, whippoorwill---it seems i’ve lost all hope---i have been waiting on a chain and all i got is a rope.