Three Special Ingredients on Rice

From Plastic Tub

(transcribed from original manuscript, 1994)

who isn't without the yellow ear mark? who hasn't

given the rub and glub on the slim who isn't aware of the

importance of distraction?

he is in the qualms of wintered discourse

the meats step over his angled shoulder, his eyes leap

off the page, sitting next to the miller high life.

whose chinsee grand ma?

have you seen her?

-------> 1/2 cup soup, any variety

-------> 1/4 cup sugar reed

the pointed cap revolves

over the meadown, in a dirigible outfitted for the

duration, he gazes out at the cut of the land ... and cut it is.

into parsects, into homesteads, into pocket-sized giblets

that wail at the onset of the heel, the shoe and the leg that

parts it.

crumbling half-wit sons that are vying in suits for the

throny potato, who hasn't whipped up in bed, who

isn't going downtown on the E train? sit next to the

masticated skilllearner, his timorous act is a transparent

truce, jingo!

his ruse, it's sexless adaptation, makes her the shuttle to

befuddle.

kasparov hunkers down with the enormity. he kills

the jaywalkin' fool. inner outer around into the chant

chamber, bewail into the early morning.

squinted chinee, speak in this fat and sleek auto, sell

me a single stalk of asparagus, and later, i'll regret my

gruff demeanor, i'll regret the insistence, despite your

protestation -- you charged me 33 american pennies for this elegance,

this pulping rod, and it's funny too.

and the night previous, i eat tomato in cold wind, is

chilly. i eat hearyt toma toe. it big. roun. red like some

mysterious organ. it drippy.

want to have the council sit in the steam room, maybe

they'll burn off some of that full-on-crap they're always

leaving around, clinging to microphones, stinking all

smaltered on the lenses of cameras. dirty pieshells in the

midland brimming with flowers. floating in the water

contained by a vodka bottle.

the illustration of a tooth, tongue happer boar

gritty mouthed daemon, my teeth are like yours.

dental dreams, a big breasted blonde, with dark roots, her

seat makes her look happy, dark eyes, and heaving

delicous. rolled-up sleeves, diggin' in.

and then i stop to write, i go to pee. see old man wash

cup, red cup plastic cup washing. o'er and o'er he does.

droopy man. look like the crook of withered cannister.

new york is like a little baby, it needs to be burped

and chortled upon. mexico city is more grand. i have seen

it on a postcard the size of texas.

no love in the lump of brick. watched it like a kelp

bed, or dice roll without inky fingers.

opulace of dirty car

the man in all checkererd polyester

the recurring not the arab chap chatting to the

newspapermen who laugh with great tempo . . . or the

woman with the really large boots, that have insects

becovering, the chinese woman speaking in darts, broken

english, she even told me that south china is fish.

the coin operated love affair, the undulating

manticore, the beginning of helping and sharing and undre

the standing, and bowling lop lops, in joints of fur, rolling

bowling like energetic dung beetles in glee, tiny, round,

full-binned, ballsdown the lane, or alley, or the yes men

will come-over, clapping facelessly, grinning in the

impossible light, which is dim at best, even in little

magazine stores, which also bend cigars, the machine