a detrimental & detoxified december w/ Jason Neese (.1)

-The cocktail party and the group clot.-

Here they are!

he is a re-purposed southern baptist
a masturbated clot of asshole sitting squarely inside a self-confidence
put together by a flash pan.

she blows him every night as they renew their marriage. God is in her mouth.

over there a man masquerading as a robot
tours the room with his eyes trying to find his island.

circles form like teeth.



you enter the room like a blank statement, your face surprised like test results

everybody keeps looking
smiling,
looking,
smiling.

we all drink slowly, reclining on the couch, or holding walls up,
flamingo standing on one polished heel
pushing orange slices around with our tongues
as the inevitability of what this is, hit.
a waste
of fucking
time. but not real time. real time is reserved for those frozen in the open mouth scream
that doesn’t take place at this party.

the himmler of the group smiled
shooing away positive thoughts with his mustache

the receiver of the table pulled both cheeks apart as the tab is inserted.

the keeper quietly gets drunk, acting unaffected by the entire event.

the shifter shapes our game plan into a toilet bowl and shits

the helper, helps us fundamentally understand how we are going to fail through the sharp filter of august heat

the healer retires and leaves a note in the corner

he sets up a trust fund for our future,

the victim continues to end every three minutes with a sip of his drink.

we hurl around the universe in place and we smile.
whole countries of people die and we smile
the waiter forgets the twist of lime and we don’t smile.
we kill, we kill with disapproving looks tucked under our noses
and then we smile.

throughout the talk edgy comments are made
and then waved away and then re-justified with passive attacks
on the other’s knowledge of the topic,
which is then tossed up, volleyed back, debunked, reconstituted
and finally helped along its way to ruin sum other subset of the next generation.

everyone is pleased

that this will keep happening.

a million of these moments are happening right now.
a billion of these moments happened right then
a trillion of these moments will happen right soon
and we smiled.

I don’t know what I was then or am now, but the view
was wonderful.

And the clot of our group unraveled while we ordered more drinks.

"Hot Dog Bitch" by Newamba Flamingo

When I was 15, my friend and I ran into this really hot girl on the street. My friend sort of knew her, but I didn't. A couple days later, he called and told me she wanted my phone number. So I gave it to him and he gave it to her.

The girl and I started talking. She lived down the street. Pretty soon we started seeing each other, going over to whomever's house was parent-free.

We'd listen to Cypress Hill, smoke weed out of her tiny glass pipe and then make out and fuck. She had amazing tits and gave the best handjobs and blowjobs ever.

I quickly fell in love w/her. She really was beautiful. Looked sort of like Angelina Jolie. Even though her teeth were kinda rotted from bulimia and she had a pacemaker because of some sort of heart defect, she was still so perfect to me.

However, I wasn't her only admirer. Found out later she'd been w/almost every guy in the greater Miami-Dade area. Same routine, too, smoking weed w/them and fucking.

I was hurt at this revelation. But I was still in love. So I called her and told her I loved her. Told her I wanted her to be my girlfriend. She turned me down, though, saying how she'd just gotten out of a relationship and only wanted to be friends right now.

We saw each other less and less after that. Then I started hearing other things about her. Bad things... Really bad things...

First, someone told me she had HIV, but I didn't believe it.

Then I heard that she'd been at some party and these crackheads she hung out w/ had tied her up in front of everyone, like 50 people, stripped her naked and poured maple syrup over her and licked it off her naked body.

They'd also fucked her with hot dogs, stuck two up her pussy at the same time, and she'd moaned and squirmed and apparently enjoyed the experience.

Shortly thereafter she became known around the city as the “Hot Dog Bitch.”

I'd laughed upon hearing the whole tale and joked about it w/friends. But underneath, behind my smile, it really burned me up, thinking of her on that table, at that party.

I couldn't bring myself to return her phone calls anymore or even say hello when I saw her in the neighborhood, and a little while later she moved to another part of Florida and I never saw or heard from her again.

Until 15 years later, when she found me on Facebook and wanted to be friends. In her request message, she said that through the fog of adolescence and drugs, she couldn't remember why we stopped talking but that she remembered really liking me.

I lied, and told her I couldn't remember why we stopped talking either. I accepted the request and every so often we chat online, usually about politics or traveling.

She's become quite an interesting person now. She lives far away, in the Pacific Northwest, deep in the forest, and has become a wine enthusiast, organic food grower, and vegetarian. She has lots of tattoos, reads tons of books, and is married with two young kids.

But, as much as she's grown and as long ago as those high school days were, whenever I see her profile pic, there’s really only one thing I think about.