a look at the origins of success
"Better Dishonor Than Death" a punk said
as he flaked off his shirt and revealed
his bald chest to the opposing gang, The
Hairy Boobs. The punk did not cry, and
after a time, smiled, as he was proud he
looked like a little girl. The boss of
the Boobs laughed as he grabbed a broken
Rolling Stone bottle and sliced the word
that means bitchy death into the void on
the punk's chest. The police never came.
No worries. The story would be told later
in a dull show that would make the off-
Broadway stage and then fall into quiet
ruin. Ages would pass. Someone would
turn the phrase around (probably some
damn English prof) and the show would be
renamed to "Better Death Than Dishonor."
The punk would be cast as a handsome dude.
The gang as villains. And life would go
on. And old life, fun life would go on.
In nature, all necessity pertains
to the positions after. That birds,
never isolated in data, are inherent.
Definitive states are in processes,
and the turtles never question
them. All integrations are related;
all fornifications, after a slow,
lumpy time, reach equilibriums.
So, goes move. In the ditches,
worms feed. In the air, the birds
fly. Within the mucks of winter
the turtles lay and don't speak
words the whole season. Necessities
have exogenous origins. All slopes
are eternal, as far as time can tell.
The only conclusions in this environ-
ment are that fat deaths are desirable.
Skirting The Subject of Sadness
In grandma's cabinet is
a silken piece shot full
of holes with tattered
edges. An old boyfriend's
photo lies underneath.
She sits watching tv. She
has never brought up why
her boyfriend is under silk.
His black and shiny hair
is kinky. Smile ruthless.
The cloth is soft to touch
if you do not look at it.
One day I asked, "What are
those things." She moaned,
"Pieces of past amour, and
after that, well..." Then
she peeked at the ceiling;
coughed as I think she saw
the lustrous fiber of war
lying upon ashened virility.
--Daniel Gallik