Both need electricity, a vein from elsewhere that promises shocks, a buzzing sound that signals the end of sleep, when the container is ripped from reality, prying light from darkness, letting in air, answering with the promise of toast, fish, or a sweet song of jelly, mad marmalade, tomato thoughts salted, extracted, and garnished with garlic?

Ignoring potential prophets, garrulous gurus—we go for the place where meals are made, where the Maniac's menus are often assembled, where the righteous recipes (leading inevitably to naked fools and fancy snakes!) are realigned for a Rebellious Reality.

"Kill the Landlord before He evicts you! Eat the snake that bears the fruit!"

That First Light was nothing more than diarrhea motivated by a bad meal of Ambition and a Longing for Servants—an Audience to worship a foolish Whim, a bedpan waiting to hold our dreams.

Exit that all-too-common Theatre, shout "FIRE!", scare angels, watch them trample black-baked wings as They head for the exit doors of newly constructed Eyes and Ears!

(That is The Gift!)

Everything that has come before is but a lullaby for dead babies. Remove your lips from electric breasts, return to the can-opener, be Not Afraid to push the button—release the fire—that distant stream of electrical impulses which whisper on the shore of a pantry filled with Paradise.

Oh, Can-Opener! What can you tell us!?

Peel back the sheetrock, hammer home the cranial connections, bring your trowel and taste the time; smooth the mud that accumulates on a wrinkled brow.

(Picture frame: "Eat Me!")

My nails are metal now. My nails are destined for the palms of God — that crazy Chef whose recipes run with corruption the moment an author attracts common sentences like flys around a dusty rotting corpse.

MENUS:

Morning – sunlight, the songs of a sad bird singing for a lost nest; the eggs of longing, the crash of wind that beats the shells, skinned, sunburned, salted, sad—emerging with tired eyes—hoping to avoid the Predator's glare.

Noon – three beers away from sunrise.

Four beers away from a pornographic parade of dull zombies knitting words and wings. Five beers away from the arrival of angels—a hot tub filled with jealous vaginas, three sisters lining the lungs of a lamb.

The lungs retreat, a trinity of teachers—who drill the dying A-B-Cs—such a common killer caught in the distant dream of The Day—which, to my eyes, is the only sexual connection sealed in wax and Man's impatient waiting.

Dinner – the corpse of a swan bearing an anvil—the heavy hammer of a winged Prick—throbbing to settle The South, fleeing the weight of Winter.

Migration – Our Destiny
Vinegar – Your lips
Salt – Your blood
Sunrise – Your answer to My Insomnia—a coffee cup into which The World is Poured, the inevitable activation of my Ripe Recipes.

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