My BIO | My Books

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JOHN DEGROOT    Part of my Bio must be,as I believe, autobiographical as most writing must be inseparable from the writer as the dancer must be part of the dance. In a word, "anger" releases the cathartic muse in the happy poeting. Well, this writer has had mom dragged from her living room by four of Canada's finest stripped because an illegible four lines written by Dr. Sin has dispossessed the dear with the alledged hint of incapacity (word "cognitive" used with word "impairment")assessed by his one minute patting of her upon her back. She clung while being dragged out onto this son of a writer's lower leg. Government took her estate. This episode occured shortly after this writer's release from injust/mistaken US INS detention of two months of walking in a circle with constant lights and fooze-ball clammer and banging. I have no children because my daughter has become adult much sooner than her father. Let us peruse this honest resume for my self.John Albert deGroot R.R.#2 Roblin, MB. Canada R0L 1P0 Home Phone: 204-937-3736 or 204-571-6105 daughter (message) johdeg@mts.net Personal: Born: Winnipeg, MB, Canada. Divorced (daughter, Athena) Education: 1970-1972 Diploma, Effective Supervision in Production, Red River Community College, Winnipeg, MB., Canada. 1970-1972 Undergraduate hours, English Honors, University of Winnipeg, Winnipeg, MB., Canada. 1975 Diploma, Beef Production, Assiniboine Community College, Brandon, MB., Canada. 1976 Diploma, Farm Management, Assiniboine Community College, Brandon, MB., Canada. 1985-1987 Diploma in Agriculture, University of Manitoba, Winnipeg, MB., Canada. 1991 Diploma, Licensed Practical Nursing, Keewatin Community College, The Pas, MB., Canada. Registered Nursing, Keewatin Community College, The Pas, MB., Canada. 1995 Bachelor of General Studies, University of Brandon, Brandon, MB., Canada. !999 Master of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies, English, Psychology, Sociology, University of Texas at Brownsville, Brownsville, TX., USA. Employment/Experience: 1974-2002 Sole Proprietor: Cattle and Grain Farms, (500 acres), Roblin, MB., Canada. 1975-present Manager: Owner/operator/outfitter/guide Motel Business in Parkland Intermountain District, (Eastway Motel), Roblin MB., Canada. 1978-1985 Derrickman: Narural Gas and Oil Well Drilling, Alberta, Canada. 1987-1989 Educator: Agriculturist (training other instructors), INS Kampus, Kayutanam Indonesia. CUSO 1992-1993 Nurse: Maternity and Pediatric, Joe Hildes Northern Medical Unit, University of Manitoba, Churchill Health Center, Churchill, MB., Canada. 1996 Court Bailiff: Provincial Court (British Columbia), Prince Rupert, BC., Canada. 1999 College Instructor, (writing and college success), South Texas Community College. 1998-present Self employed writer and motel owner manager 2002-present Session instructor, (writing) Brandon University (BUNTEP) Courses Taught: Developmental Writing, College Success, Written Expression, More Written Expression, Traditional Appropriate Agricultural Methods, and (recent Master courses for) Conflict Resolution Officer with court level arbitration potential and Problems in Health Care Systems. Volunteer Experience (NGO): Cuso (Sumatera Beret), nurse, Mexican flooded city, Matamoros, counseling, Canadian Arctic Languages: English, Bahasa Indonesia (Malay), French (limited). BOOKS PUBLISHED: Forward to Happy TatTtoes: The nineteen sixties spawned much vitalization in many social and personal concepts of liberation. Thus certain movements were “coined” and labeled as freedoms. These “awarenesses” of liberties and freedoms seem rather romantic, as they were then, and, perhaps still are (although taken somewhat for granted now) now. Yes, I am referring to environmental, women’s, peace, animal rights and racial movements. And there are others of the sort. This is a post-OJ and post-Clinton world of the next millennium and I am damned-sure that it is time for men to take themselves by the balls and stop letTting themselves be “run”. Happy TatTtoes is a story about a fated woman who consumes herself with her sacred divorces of husbands and she taints herself in a pleasing way with her cross gender relationships that we may call “affairs”. Many are her appetites and many are her men and many are her tales and many are her “missings”taken. Dear male reader may please glean the irony of her escapades for insights into a new male liberation of spirit and identity. To put it plainly: relearn just what it is to be a man. Our heroine is Cass; she will teach men what her perspectives of what a man should be are, and the befuddled male reader may pattern himself to be other than what Cass identifies as a man. “Asobeit.” Why was and is there a need for stages or degrees of female liberation? Answer is: because women have lost the knowledge of female identity; they are feminine in male ascribed terms and conditions or qualities or whatever (Springerite) caption available for their sad gender identity lacking, licking and liking that has been put upon them. Once a deficiency has been noticed then a assail or pursuit is travailed; females have been noticing their shortcomings in society and themselves. Some are yet to gain cognizance of shortcomings and few women are devoid (yet some maybe devoid although this writer is yet to endure these flowers) of femininity of the female confidence. Some men are “run” by these liberated “Casses” and these men see themselves as on the “run” by and from these “Casses”; therefore these men are equally in need of male liberation as women are needy to find what it is to be a woman by a woman in the term of their own nature. Our forthcoming plots are rather Swiftian bastardizations of literary style and presentation. Plato deemed female and male minds to be identical butTt merely trapped in different sacks of illusive flesh. I wonder if he was right, hard to know. Please, dear reader, try not to remain too rigid of interpretation; but at times the truth is self revealing and plain so a multi-layered read will be of no need at those lines; and often it is best to draw your own water from the well of conclusions. Be these surmises (sir-misses) male or that other gender, (or is it another whole species of human?), female. I do allow that each “type” of eyes will be following the following lines. Awake! Sir John, awake and be a man. An inaccurate reference to Essay on Man by A. Pope previously beginning this paragraph is a call to philosophize. I call for more. Now grab those balls. And be a man. Happy TatTtoes The loaf of bread is heavy with coarse grains and Cass is proud to pass it sliced to her communal companions because she has mixed, kneaded, steam raised, and baked it for the first time by herself.. Cass has had no mother or father. Sadly, she was raised until her early teens by various relatives who were called by Cass as being less than loving. I think the bread is a symbol for her reaching of an accomplished age. She is young too young to have had more lovers than she can remember their names; and indeed some of them she may not have know the names. Cass chose a cripple, of immobile limbs, who was much older than her, for her first sex. He was discarded by her the same summer. She then went to a distant city and she became the birthday present for a departing Spaniard. She returned pregnant and lost “IT” somehow. Now, a few years later Cass, has me, John, sniffing my virginal nose around her and her pack of lovers; some of whom she is about to break bread with now with myself, a yet to be lover of hers. I get the slice and some nice stares from her large round green eyes as if these eyes were imploring me to take the piece. And I do. And it is good so I say so. Cass returns the compliment with an announcement: “I have decided that we should all go swimming, nude of course, at the lake or at the stream. We will dip and them warm on the sun warmed-up rocks. OK?” There is the horde of full-mouthed bachelors nodding a hardy yes in unison. Next day I visit Cass at the communal garden. She is topless with her male friend. I am now living in the same house as Cass so I extend an invitation for her to go dancing in the nearby village. She accepts and we go. We have little time to be together as Cass is busy being twirled. Due to many distractions I deem it in my favor to remove Cass from these distractions of the male dangling on exemplar; I assK Cass to go on a long voyage with me and she immediately and nonchalantly replies a simple: “OK. When?” I, without having to think, reply: “Tomorrow.” And the timing is accepted by two nods of our heads, one nod each per head, as an old team of horses might do when they halt in the yard after a long hard day of pulling together in harness. I smile to myself and I rush off for arrangements. The trip begins easily. We are crossing borders and chewing hashish. At the end of our first twenty-four hour day we stop the voyage for my losing of my virginity at an institutional-like home for the elderly. The old farts are very amused to have us there and I can not stop praying silently after my graduation into manhood for more sex and less sin. After a Sunday rest we leave for exotic places. Our destination is vague except that it must be south as far as we can get on so little money. And we ultimately stop traveling. We stay at a Mexican beachside whorehouse. Cass is saved by me from a drunken rapist who is the town cop. “I want you to tell him that we will tell his girlfriend if he does not let Cass out of that room now!” My anxious interpreter does just that and holy shit it works. Cass is flustered and she hands me the little note in broken English printed with pencil probably broken too. It reads: You are beautiful I want sleep you. The cop chases after us so he may retrieve the note so he may try again on some other victim. I hand it back to him; after all it is probably difficult to find the right minded bilingual school girl or boy to duplicate such a forbidden passage of romantically inspired text. Another dance is in order upon our return home to our communal household. Cass and I go but she does not come home with me. The next day, early morning, I find her dripping, staggering out of his shack, going for a pee on the ground and I say: “Get in the truck we are going home to my distant parents.” “Wait I will get my bag.” Cass is only a second and she jumps in the truck and she is still dressing on the way across this big land of homeward bound. On the way Cass is pregnant. On our arrival I tell my mom: “She is going to have a baby.” “You must get married now.” Mom says. And I ask Cass and she says: “OK. I like your family.” Babe is born, premature, and well loved. Baby Birth Ring of crown stretched the limit Changing head appears balloon Biggest groan shoulders free First cold world turn rushes rains extremities red gush Moored on mummy tummy Pain oblivious with Xtacy Snip I am of her no more Breath unlocks the pink from blue First remains re serve the last Chaotic waters spill atmosphere Passages clear tube in tube Real squeal reveal personality Seventeen years of John bliss proceed with Cass and her of the joke: “I have no children; she is an adult now.” I have never cheated on Cass and I do not ask, but at the early time of years of marriage I suspect that she may have cheated on me, but at this time I may say that Cass has never cheated also for these seventeen years. Then I return from a motorcycle trip of illicit love and the small town neighbor has whispered something to Cass to make her eXclaim in interrogative of statement: “You were seen you were seen, how could you? Tell me.” Being an honest man I paid the price of telling the truth because one year later, on the telephone, Cass informs me with her nonchalance: “I am leaving you.” I have not been in her presence since and maybe never will. Divorce or a die voice comes over Cass. She has paid her female shark of a lawyer to give John what is unheard of, for this same large diamond wedding ring-wearing-marital-frenzied -feeder of a lawyer (she would be another whole story), an easy divorce. Yes, John did not even need a lawyer of his own. Cass wanted her freedom and she got it and she took about ten thousands of dollars of John’s money by fraud also. Cass is not without remorse for her successful marriage to John ending. As it seems that she very much regrets missing the excellent sex that they enjoyed as regular meals every day and during their nights together. Sex for John had been deprived by him for his long period of virginity as opposed to the short term of the virginity for Cass. Therefore John has been ravenous for the sex of Cass and he never did cease his quest to be sated. And Cass loved this about John but she never loved John. Or, as she puts it: “John, “It” stopped, you killed it. John quizzes Cass with: “Did you love me when we became married?” “No.” “Did you ever cheat on me?” John pushes the point to her answering: “No.” “You were so promiscuous in your young days and now, that I am so much older, I fear I shall never “know” a virgin as I have been faithful to you for so very long that I needed to “know” another woman.” Cass has no use for excuses and she feels that John is lucky that she waited one whole year after he was seen before she gave him the big phone call. Yet as a consequence of their athletics of extreme sex, especially after about ten years into the marriage when Cass started enjoying putTting the frog sex position on John so very frequently (helped keep her thighs muscular), Cass developed a degenerative bone disorder of her knee and its cartilage in her Right knee to the point of eventual amputation about the same time as her divorce decree became final in John’s absence. It seemed to her to be almost as a punishment from John posthumously for her lower leg limb’s loss. She still feels the amputated portion of her Right lower leg below her knee as the phantom limb as if it had never been missing. Cass secured a prosthetic Right leg that she never would, under any amount of encouraging, put on backwards while she was dancing with one of her many new suitors that she would proclaim that John, during their marriage, had been keeping her from. Many of her lovers would insist that she reveal her stump by removing her artificial-ness prior to and during lovemaking. The awkward staring of her beaus at her stump became embarrassments of scar-scaring for Cass. The stump itself, although the phantom leg felt fine as if it were still there but with the feeling of rotTting in heaven, was and is yet super hypersensitive to pain and pleasure. Cass also refers to these sensations of stump as another punishment of pain and pleasure from John. In a desperate ploy to relieve her embarrassment and for her to experience some of the same intensity of tactile explorations that she and John enjoyed during their physical exploits Cass comes uP^ with an idea. I shall have a portraiture of the countenance of John in the form of a per-man-ent inked tattoo performed on the whole area of my stump, and when I am raising it to revelation for my new sex-partner or partners I may say: try to sir pass THIS man. Finding a willing artist for the job of tattoo for Cass is becoming as a quest for the Holy Grail for Cass. None, no one, not one of the many approached by Cass for the job (even with promise of her sex for payment of the job) will contract with her. They fear the duty as a taboo tattoo. Fortunately, while seeking the artist, Cass lands uP^ in the Indian North of the Cree. It is the Saturday night closing time at the packed saloon where one end of the facility is tables of white and the other end of the large rectangular room is black with faces of dimly lit red men and women of the local Cree reserve. A number of the dance partners of Cass are paying court to Cass in their hope of a late one-night-stand (they do not know what it means to stand for Cass) when, standing by the juke box and cigarette machine, a tall lanky Indian who is known to be a lethal kick boxer of the white-beating kind who is feared by all unless they have the back-uP^ of about six calls Cass over to him with his glance of eyes at the time of last dance interruption while Cass is dancing with her chosen. Cass comes over to him at once dropping her partner into the town of Oblivion Canada next to the Indian reservation he and she have made with their meeting eyes. “Hi, they call me Joe but my real Indian name is Toobluetattoo.” Joe greets Cass. “Where can we go Joe and what do you know?” Cass wastes no time. “I, Joe know you been seen around here looking for someone who knows tattoo and I do. Learned in the joint. I used to us the ink of the blue Bic pen then they called me “Tooblue” so I switched to the black ink of the Bic pen in the pen and then I became revered throughout the joint and the Res as “Toobluetattoo” but I like the name I have given myself: “Toobluetattoocandoanytattoo” because I can do black and blue tattoo I call “tatTtoes” or I can do a black tattoo or a blue tattoo butTt some time I do do a tatTtoes with too much tattoo blue ink of the pen Bic.” “Like I said before Joe where can we go?” Cass is growing impatient because if Joe declines to do tatTtoes for her then she may miss her awaiting dance white partner in lieu of Joe. “Why you want go Joe white pussy? You no afraid of crotch cricketTtes?” Joe knows it is tatTtoes yet he asks Cass anyway. Cass has the favorite picture of hers, it is of John who is sitTting and smiling on his beloved farm tractor while he has stopped for her to hand him uP^ a sandwich on the go for a few more rounds until he would come back into the old log farmhouse for some clean sex with her and field dirt that smells like diesel fuel and a diesel fit of orgasmic pleasure for sure in an incomparable way, clutched and crumbled in her pocketed hand for Joe’s artistic recognizance if Joe would only take the job. “I will do tatTtoes for you but you must become my blood brother now.” And Joe bites into his Right wrist’s close veins letTting loose a fresh spurt of blue turning to red of redman’s blood and he says before the spatters hits the floor: “Now you same and we mix.” With less vigor but like speed Cass complies with Joe and they leave in the beer induced swaying of the bodies tightly packed as they crowd through the exit door into the parking lot of hoots of where’s the party and follow the cars you dumb ass. Everyone is careful not to follow the wrong car as the bar is segregated so are the after hours parties; that is everyone but Cass. She is driving Joe back to the Res party for a late Right wrist bandage-ing with the band of nitchie bros followed by her super exhilarating tatTtoes of the face of John and then a negotiating payment for Joe of beer money and sex just after revealing her stump with its new tatTtoes and virginal challenge of sir pass THIS man of tatTtoes, John, if you can. Joe does a fine likeness of John but he is unable to sir pass. Joe wants a future chance of sir pass so he, as he re-buttons his filthy leather buckskin kick boxing pants sans underwear, gives Cass the offer: “Anytime you , bloodbrother Cass, wants more tatTtoes I get another chance to sir pass. OK?” Cass wiggles into her false leg and answers yes to Joe’s eyes with hers as in their first meating. Cass has never felt so good and all because she has divorced. She and Joe had good sex while she was in control of the frog position that she can still perform even while being singularly stumped. Her Left leg became a might sore at the knee during and post sexual-frogging butTt her thighs are as taunt and strong as ever. While in the El Norte Cass decides to take a few lovers so she may try her tatTtoes revealing posture. Who knows she may even marry a lover if and when she needs to marry. Reverting to her past youthful premarital splendor of selection being any satisfactory man who can say “let’s go.” Cass sits at the outskirts-of-town cocktail bar in the only Chinese restaurant of the small northern town until a brute of a trapper comes in to buffet feast after many days on his trap-line. Still stinking of skinning his pelts he seats himself with a hardy grunt at the bar close to Cass while he waits for the family groups of tables to clear. “I like wanton soup. Don’t you?” Cass gives him the opening line of conversation as she slides uP^ on the stool next to his bloodied hunter’s overalls that she almost imperceptibly lets her ass brush as she twists her torso and screws her bottom onto the swiveling barstool. “Yeah want to join me?” he grunts at her between slugs of his rapid disappearing sudsing of donkey piss. She finishes her whiskey sour with one breath and says: “OK.” “Let’s go.” The magic words are incanted. “There is a table next to the potato salad tub.” Cass is eager. The bill is paid in quick advance of finishing their meal so they may go. “ They call me OtTto and “this” otto be good.” OtTto says as he peals his overalls off his broad shoulder while Cass is dropping her final attire of fake leg and she hops and slams her ass bouncing on his creaky filthy bed. Noticing her elevation of the tatTtoesed stump OtTto giggles at her and jumps out of his coverings sans underwear and says softly: “So, I see you know Toobluetattoo.” “Yeah you will be my second, he, Joe, could not sir pass this man, John, of black and too blue of my tattoo so let us see if you can.” They try and try and OtTto is discouraged by Cass’s moans of “I miss my John.” They frog and frog the frog sex position and it has failed to sir pass and her Left knee creaking is paying its price of use it and lose it. Cass hardly feels her knee’s super-extension-ing as she is focused on her stump’s hypersensitivity of both pleasure and pain. Whether it is nervous twitching of epidermal elastic stretching as she suctions her fake leg back onto her Right stump or magic butTt OtTto notices while spying at Cass beaver that hey: “His ears are wiggling.” “Yeah right. Take me back to the cocktail lounge and then bugger off.” Says the unbelieving Cass. So intense is the tactile experiences of her stump during her session with OtTto that Cass can not remember what it was like not to have these feelings but she losses these thoughts by the nagging of her phantom limb of lower Right leg. As she is reminded phantasmic-ally of her lost wholeness her reclaimed barstool’s vinyl covering slowly begins to dry uP^ as a newly deep fried and cooling glazed donut. Cass is waiting again. El Norte’s vast primitive-ism is having an effect on the affect of personality of Cass. One might say that Cass is becoming in state of nurture as one of the locals. She is not Cree and she, now in her transformation, is not entirely white either. The miss-placed peoples of El Norte can be identified with the name of Metis. Maybe she is not genetically Metis butTt she is unconsciously slowly behaving as a Metis. She was nonchalant during her wrist biting and blood mixing with Toobluetattoo and it does not matter whether she realizes or not butTt she then at the time in front of the juke box Cass is a nitchie blood bros (OK sis). Then along comes Danny in his hot rod ‘69 Chevelle. He has noticed Cass through the parking lot window as he pulled uP^ and skidded to a stop and he flings his car door to a slam and he scoots right over to her and says: “Like my car?” He saw her seeing. “Want to ride? Let’s go.” “OK. ButTt I have a challenge for you and it will take a lot out of you.” “What?” “You will see.” “OK, let’s go.” Danny has said it twice. And they do go. Cass Climbs aboard Danny’s responsive prone manpole after her display of stump. Similarly, as OtTto, Danny is dumbfounded to pay homage to the artistic talent of Joe, Toobluetattoo, because he drinks at the same saloon that harbors many nitchie of the joint background of correctional center. Danny has been in. Cass could care. The games begin with, of course the frog, with Cass in control of frog leap and bounce and squirm to the favorite spot that sheeeee knows John has always known butTt no other has yet to find. The games become Olympic, heroic, and never the less the eventual outcome of Danny’s dick is Cass’s bemoaning sorry Danny you have not sir passed. She is in a predicament of Danny’s dick that can only make her home sick for John. And she tells a white lie to him: “Get that Chevelle motor running, Danny, I have places to be and they are not with you.” The night’s clearer than clear crystal sky is flooded with stars as a compensating bonus for being in such a northern cold remote small town place. Cass yearns for her adventure restored instead of her being bored. Yet there is a new feeling arising in Cass that commands her to use her ailing limb and false foot to negotiate the new snow of the new winter’s barely covered muskeg paths at the edge of town by her Spartan-like apartment. Her pocketed fingertips tingle to the tingle crescendo of her stump tattoo of John’s face in similar sensations of mixed pain and pleasure. The Metis is calling you who who who Cass. In the visible darkness a male figure approaches on his return from the end of the path that Cass is yet to arrive and she senses that she will never arrive at the end because as he is about to meet and pass her coming toward she blurts out: “Wanna come over for some hot coffee?” He looks at her cold redden face and he accepts her invitation: “Sure, let’s go.” “Will you hold my hand? I have no mittens and my pockets are too tight.” “OK.” And he does. Cass makes small talk with the stranger as she has not talked these unfamiliar topics before. She praises the night and the sky and the new snow and the stunted swamp pines and and and and the joy of her being able to blend with the Native culture, that is newly indoctrinated in her with her southern urban beginnings. His name, she has asked, is Al. Am I safe with you?” She is half joking with Al and he knows it and he replies the truth: “no”. He tells her that he is married butTt he is on a hiatus from his far away wife due to his recent educational endeavors. She tells Al about her recent divorce and she implies a dismal sex-life for herself at present. She confides in Al of the lack of sir passing in her bold sexual encounters. Al thinks of picking up the presumed by him gauntlet. Cass’s sparse apartment has a focal area of her large unmade bed on the edge of which Cass and Al sit sipping instant coffee. Al observes a corner of a fabric partially uncovered between two bed sheets and he playfully pulls it out and he discovers, as he hold it uP^, that it is a pair of male cotton underwear about the size that fits a young boy. “What is this?” Al knows but he wants Cass to squirm. “I do not know, so that is where those went; oh, must have been caught in my laundry from another tenant.” Al does not know Cass well enough to tell subtle lies from her truths and his suspicions about her begin to form in his lustful mind. As if she were bedding with her long time X, John, pre her loss of limb and pre her gain of body art, Cass dismounts her walking apparatus, she slips out of her clothes while Al has advanced her in his mutual disrobing. She turns to Al to see that he is ready in her most important way and she jumps onto Al’s quivering proneness with her sturdy stump planted in its bed and her Left leg bent as so is her torso bending forward over Al with her fleshy fine hanging artificially enhanced breasts bobbing and hanging in rhythm to their amphibious bouncing. The creak of the bed is more than what is creaking and the sounds overshadow the creaks of the crook of Cass’s Left knee as Cass is in control of all sexual driving other than her thoughts which roam about John and a mystical frog in a creek. The Metis say that winter is not over until the frogs awake and sleep three times corresponding to three cold spells of freeze and thaw and Cass has a long way to go since winter has only just begun.. Al is meating and meeting the challenge of Cass to sir pass butTt he comes, again and again, a little short. In a flood of mutual sex-athletic-sweat the line of finish is drawn with the collapse of frog on the chest of Al. The post revelry chatting is had with Al exploring Cass anatomy. He does not mention if he knows her tattoo artist. When Cass describes her stump sensations of a blend of all sensations of hypersensitivity Al concludes a prediction: “You can use that small pair of boys underwear to keep your stump warm in bed. Is that it?” Cass tells another delicate lie. “I told you about miss placed laundry.” Cass is well pleased with Al’s performance as he is married and he behaves like the sexual experts that married people are expert; Al reminds Cass of her X. “See you again?” she says to the echo of her voice heard in Al’s voice in uni-son: “See you again!” “Let us walk the path again tomorrow same time.” Cass arranges another Metis-like encounter for the now new now-a-couple. The end of the path is again unattained next day by Cass as they are eager to play frog before it goes to sleep for the winter. They go to Al’s small apartment as he lives there to avoid dormitory and student gossip that may lead to his wife saying you have been seen or I have heard. Al chooses to have a secret relationship with Cass thus being too public is a hazard for him. The covert-ness is fine with Cass and secluded walks are fine with Cass. She feels more Metis and displaced as they are neither white nor red. Al’s wife of far away is miss-ing Al and a command performance are scheduled for the weekend. Cass is not bothered by Al’s plans as she sees this week-ending time as good for finding another man for sex. And she does find. Even before Al leaves for a couple of days Cass has been telephoning and receiving calls from a good-classmate-friend of Al. She cares not to what his name is butTt she does care that he is available to meat her sum mons as her stump has been superbly tingling for hyper-tactility that comes with frogy-ness. Good byes are said and Al drives off to the other town of wife and Cass rushes to meat trailing her phantom limb behind as it can not compete with the rapiditTty of her artificial. Let the games begin and play ball. John’s daughter opens her door to find her unexpected dad standing in the unkept hallway. He has been drinking as he should and can so he does drink. His drinking limits are all ways within tolerable functional limits. John likes to think that of most Nobel prizes for literature are given to authors who are alcoholic then he too as an aspiring writer should flirt the edges of the same affliction without harming himself or anyone else. And he does not harm other than small warm harm for those he cares enough for to risk their love as with his honesty that lead to Cass’s die voice of their love for her butTt John has never divorced. John, more than a year since the call: I am leaving you, click, is having a difficult time accepting his losses. “Dad, so nice to see you, come in. What are you doing here? Is something wrong? You look, well, pretty raunchy. I do not have very much right now. See I am pretty skinny, money for food you know.” “Hey dear sweetie.” John sinks to his knees in front of his daughter, and he begs. “Please dear do not put me out as your mom did. What I did to our family you will grow to understand as you get older. It can happen to you that you will love more than one.” John is a most romantic but deluded individual. He wears his love like glasses that he sees the rest of the world through. He thinks that if he does no harm then no harm will come to him and Cass has shaken that tree and his fruit of miss taken beliefs has fallen for John to consume and he is choking on it. John is learning that everyone does not love him as he does love the world. To be near to his daughter John takes an apartment atop an old large house across the street from her. Al ‘s return to his home and his wife that was far away is blissfully guilty for him. He learns that she, his wife, is pregnant and he is rather perplexed by this news. It is not that Al does not want children; he does want a son especially, butTt the time-frame, the dates that is, is not not exactly within Al’s reckoning. He had last seen his wife on Veterans’ Remembrance Day, November the eleventh, and now is days before Xmas. And she just miss-ed her period now. Al thinks that it is in the realm of possibilities of conception creation for him but there definitely is a time window of doubt and opportunity for another or indeed others. Al does not push the issue of when and how with his wife because she would raise similar issues about the opportunities provided with Al’s absence from her. And what Al does not know about his wife he surly knows about himself and his consequential guilt. They romp in the water of their large apartment building’s swimming pool. Al grabs his wife’s ankles as she floats on her back and he swings her round and round on the sir face with her tummy protruding out of the meniscus of calm center of the swirl of wave turbulence that surrounds them to the very edge of the pool. Her navel becomes and is the center of this aquatic world just as the embryonic fluids are the calmness of the, hers and maybe his, product of conception. Al stops the motion and the lag time of the waters stopping gives more slowing speed to his wife as Al musters uP^ all the confidence in his voice that he can: “I am very happy that we are going to have a baby, I hope it is a boy.” She is not convinced as she stands, mostly sub merged, to embrace her husband in a deceptive kiss. “Let us go upstairs and poke the baby.” She jokingly insists as Al is thinking that maybe the neonatal term of time is longer than she is letting me think. Al has heard about spotting and how, in early pregnancy, spotting may be miss taken for menses. They slowly withdraw from the water as a young Indian overweight couple enter the pool. “Time to leave.” Al’s wife says to the new comers. The towels are dropped first as they enter their sky apartment and then they strip the skin of bathing suits off. The dry towel is passed from her to him. They sprawl across the brass four-posted bed with hanging white canopy of see through material. The bed is a recent acquisition for Al’s wife and this is his first time approving of it with his laying presence. His guilty conscience asks himself the question: has she all ready tried this bed out. And her guilty conscience is wondering: I wonder if he thinks that he is first on this new bed. “He’s gone. Come on over.” Cass waits about the time it takes her to pee before she conscripts Al’s buddy toward the front. “MMmmmm he applauds Cass’s being as a humming on a muffin and they are locked to get her in clutches and grabs as they stumble toward her bed. The tatTtoes are examined and the stories about best she ever had and fulfillment of hypersensitive sex derived from John and nearly recently from Al are told by Cass. Al’s classmate is too involved to pay much attention and that is one strike against him in the anal sizing of Cass to her sexual standards. The fact of sex and orgasm being ninety percent psychological and only ten per cent physical is a maxim adopted by Cass butTt with her attainment of the hyper mode of tatTtoes the bodily world for Cass is extremely enhanced especially within her extremities and especially again in her extremity of tattooed stump scar. Never the less Al’s friend and Cass have a let us go at it and the frog in her comes out of hibernation one more time. The slow sex in the command position is exceedingly strenuous for Cass’s left knee of most of her weight bearing sex-stance. Of course Cass is in the northern town of Oblivion right next to the town of Vain attempt to sir pass. And the friend of miss-ing Al joins the ranks of the dismal in the sex life of Cass; butTt he will do till Al comes in me a gain for my quest of the legacy of euphoric hyper of John and her memories of his full filling that never misses to climax simultaneously to the place of nevie-nevie-land somewhere between her heaven and the litTtle man in her canoe. Yes, Al will do for now and when he is not here to do then his friend will do or as the Springerites say: “I can get behind anything”, butTt for Cass it would really means I can get frogy on any body. And for whose baby is it? Well, do you think she has eyes in the back of her head. There will be no more off spring from the activity of frog for Cass. As her daughter was and is unable to secure attentions from her mother when, as all of Jerry’s guests proclaim, she was and is not there for me. So why should she have another child; they turn adult. Cass has installed deep within her cervix a murderous secret coil of fetal piercing capacity and function of utility of no more kids. She never told John and that was one reason that he obsessed with being sated to the point of her seeking sir passing now. John was trying, trying hard, for the fabled sacred male heir; alas, unbeknownst to him, Cass had nixed that idea of John carrying on his lineage for eternity with her secret coiled prevention device. The phone is well guarded by Cass lest her numbers and answers are miss- interrupted by any of her eavesdropping visitors. Al’s friend must leave now because Al has called to say hey let us go. “Al is on his way.” Is all she needed to say to the friend of Al, the friend who recently failed to sir pass and now he is miss placed in his assigned order being when ever she orders him to appear, is as a rare steak in things. “Hi! Lover, how was it?” Cass is playing the only the lonely. “I think my wife is cheating on me.” Al is near tears and he desires Cass consolation for his uP^-lifting in the form of vaginal suction of his member in the under the frog placement. “Ooo Oooo Oo you nearly got me there; you nearly got me know, I do onto if I can, Ooo one more and , if I can and Ooo Aaahhh.” She makes her final plunge into the steaming depths of where the two mounds join. “Yeah! Oh! Yeah!” You really got me let us going, OoooHhhh. An involuntary slump comes over Cass in her fit of hyper O. The quivers of all thighs distract Cass from the real reason for her collapsed torso uP^on Al: her Left knee has detached from her lower leg in the same fashion as a lizard is able to discard its tail when in danger of grab as a means of emergency escape only to have the tail rejuvenate at a later time butTt until then, having used the escape mechanism, the lizard is at increased danger because of the time span needed and danger heeded for re-growth. The tatTtoes of John has its eyes shifted to the Left where as before these eyes of tatTtoes stared straight ahead. Al wraps the nude Cass into the cover sheet with a large knot tied around the lower femur where her knee used to be so that its mass my soak the blood of Cass and it is off to the surgeon they dash with Cass in the arms of Al and her Right prostheses dangling by its binding in Al’s teeth and slung over his Left shoulder and her separated Left lower leg kicked onto the bathroom floor to rot in peace. Al seems to be strengthened by proximity of interior false leg smell that rests so close to her tatTtoes as it is the first time for him to have placed his face or rather nose so close to this Cass foundation. Al is liking the dash. Cass is reeling in her prolonged fit of orgasm in oblivion of loss of her limb. Al is sure that he has sir passed butTt Cass is not yet in a state to confirm his aspiration. After the surgeon has filed the bony prominence tapered and round and stretched and pulled down the lower flesh of her Left thigh and fashioned for Cass a stump of an attractive becoming a scar sir face he discharges Cass to the care of Al. Fast flesh healing is had by the now even more hypersensitive lass, Cass. The fact of sir passing is disputed by Al and Cass as Cass wishes for John alone to have the honor of no other can sir pass butTt she can not dispute Al’s claim: “I blew your fucking Left lower leg right the fuck off! Did I not did I not? Even your X, John, did not accomplish that. Did he? You wore your Right fucking frog leg off the first time you got hyper O-ed.” Al is in error, Cass is thinking to herself and she dare not reveal to Al: that it was not until she got her tatTtoes from Joe, Toobluetattoo, that she became super-sexed to the max. Now she silently feels incomplete and she craves the art of her Metis on her Left what is left of her leg, the Left hypersensitive stump with its phantom lower leg that follows in cadence the Right one and both stumps and phantoms crave for the ink of black and even more blue from the pen of Bic in the hands of bloodbros you know who, Toobluetattoocandoanytattoo. Cass wants to punish Al for his sir-mise-ing sir-peer-I-or-ity over John of Cass past so she says. “I had sex with your friend when you were with your wife. I hope you did not want to hear that and I hope the news bothers you. I am glad that your wife is cheating on you and if I find out who he, her lover, is, then I will give him the let us go opportunity to sir pass. Do you not realize that the Right is best in selection of both God and Hitler of the goose step that was very hard on knees. No one can frog like me and I dare for you to find someone who can! Even on stumps I am not hindered during super-frog-sex and you will probably never find out.” Cass is nearly foaming at the mouth like a cur in heat humping its bitch as she tells Al where to get off in his ego-comparing with John’s super ego. It is closing time at the saloon and the dance-idle-yet-available Cass is waiting and staring at the juke box and cigarette machine where the boldest and best kick boxer of a Metis likes to hang. He is not there. The cocktail bar at the Chinese buffet palace is still open and maybe OtTto otto know better where her talented bloodbros be’s; or maybe Danny, that uP^start barely a fuck unable to sir pass any more than OtTto was unable to sir pass, knows the party place of Tooblue. It is worth her slipping over there in the now, for this time of year, deep snow and ice. If she hurries she will make last call of last chance for dance and where is the party and if Tooblue is not there then at least it will not have been a wasted trip since she could all ways get fucked by other than Tooblue who takes partial tattoo-payment in sex. “Weese Krossing no got food now.” The proprietor at the Chinese buffet seems to not want Cass here for wantons. It is well known that the cocktail lounge here is an after-hours bar. “Just bring me a Brandy and do shut uP^ I will be at the bar.” Cass is in need of her arm lifting of her sumptuous ass as she is still a might tender and wobbly on her second acquisition of fib and tib and knee and foot fakery device. She must remind herself via unconscious scolding of her phantom limbs to stop giving her such realistic input of foot so she may concentrate in her drunken state on her man nipple-ations of her equipment. Arms placed firmly on the bar and back of barstool, one arm and palm placed on each, she does a sort of upper body raising lower body push uP^ until her assets raise above the level of stool seat and she sets these same assets right on down to be seated with a half swirl of swivel seat to confront her tummy with what is termed as “belly uP^ to the bar.” Now she affords the opportunity to look around at the patrons for Joe or some meating of her choice. What luck Cass thinks if it isn’t that never do well at sir passing what is his name with the yellow hot rod Chevy. “Hey race car driver! You seen Joe you know Toobluetattoo tonight? Tell me where that Metis mother is at!” Danny wants no part of Cass this time one time was enough. She can take a cab; she is not getTting in my Chevelle he thinks while grinding his teeth. “Maybe he is at the hotel Saloon.” He says without coming over to her. “I have just come from there and he was not in his spot.” “Did you try the third floor? It is derelict and a lot of the “skids’ rubs” in town break in there through the back fire escape at the top door and they drink homemade bean juice that they do not leave enough time for brewing and they drink it anyway, with some Lysol, and it gives them the belly swelly and they either lay there or they get dragged into the hospital that is right next to AAA foundation so they can get repaired physically on one side of the street and they can get repaired spiritually on the other side of the street and then they can come back and do it all over again; you know the revolving doors of our fair town. If he is not there he is on the Res and you do not want to go there. Or, he is back in the joint.” Feeling like he has assisted Cass Danny looks to the bottom of his glass. “Waiter, bill. And call me a cab.” Cass is going to that top door if it kills her. GetTting uP^ the back fire escape is a real triumph for the no-legged beauty. Sure enough the top door is kicked the fuck in. Cass opens the remnants of splintered door with a groan noise not the familiar creaking of rusted hinge butTt a groan not unlike a drunk awakening with super hangover type noise. Maybe it was a drunk making the noise and it coincides with the silence of the door opening. Cass could care because she does know that there are some pretty nasty drunks in there. And there is. It is all black inside. It is even more black that that far end of the saloon. She drags her four feet, two really fake and two not really there but sure feels like they are there, as a precaution of stumbling on top of some prone crony laying drunk in her path; not that that would be so bad; Cass is hypersensitive and hyper horny by now. Some of the doors to tiny at one time hotel room are open with a moonlit window and Cass peruses the sights of depths to which men and woe-men can sink uP^ here. Some occupants seem dead, some seem to be fornicating with themselves or something of an unseen gender or breed or genus, some sit mumbling incantations to the dark, and at one door way a sudden flame is lighted: “I gots me a Bic lighter and two pens of Bic, one black and one blue with much ink.” “Joe is that you?” “Yeah, little white pussy bloodbros, you know Joe and you know the deal of squeal you my meal and we’ll see if I sir pass this time.” “Look, get that Bic lighter over here, here is a wedding photo of this fucker here, not the woe-man you dumb shit put the flame next to his face. He is Al, do you know him Joe?” “No, he bees from that utter place.” “That’s right he is here for college, dam him.” “I have a new stump of leg for you to tattoo tatTtoes for me same deal some cash and a try to sir pass. OK? I want a real good job Joe because this tatTtoes is going to be my wedding present to him since he does not yet know he is going to marry me although he is still married butTt we know what happens to that arrangement. Right Joe?” Cass has already telephoned Al’s far away wife and put the doom on their marriage with the expectant brat of who knows who and all. She, the unfaithful spouse of Al, took the news of Cass and Al well. She could give two shits as long as he pays through his fucking nose as she puts IT. Cass is in X-tacy with the mix of pain and pleasure and ink and blood from her ongoing tattooing of tatTtoes by the light of lighter Bic and the ink of pens both black and too blue of the same, Bic. Joe is beside himself with power of putTting the X-tacy on Cass and he thinks just wait till I get paid with her mound of flesh sprinkled with some Cass cash. Joe needed only a glance at the wedding photo; to him they are all similar whitemen and he considers himself telepathically linked to Cass as a feature of their bloodbros Metis. So, he uses her recollection. “When you stop your O and oooo then have a stump look of tatTtoes new, white puss, now reveal and squeal I want my meal.” Joe whips IT out. Cass raises both stumps and her phantom limbs begin to paddle as Joe parts the waters. “Al is better Joe go blow!” And he does in hum of she will be coming round the mountain when she comes and even this doctoring fails to sir pass also. “Remember our deal little half nitchie: more tatTtoes more tries to sir pass for Joe Joe know you will be back for more.” The wedding is completed at about the time of Al’s die voice. The crowd of healing has gathered at the AAA across from the saw bones dinosaur hospital for the service of sneaking-in some bean juice that results in revolving relapses for all Al’s guests and Cass has no friends to attend. Al leaves immediately, his nuptials fail to sir pass for Cass as there is no betTter than John and she has lied to Al about being on penis par. He goes to see his X far away and whose ever son it may be, whom she calls Kaz. Kaz has arrived early and his “premie” popping out has further complicated the investigation with calculation of his conception dating. Al has a slice off the loaf that no one will miss and he gargles a few spurts and sucks of his latch onto her milk of human kindness and he blows town to return to his new wife, Cass. Town in El Norte is a strange blend of white and red. Across the bridge is the overpopulated reservation that owns most of the town including the whiteman’s grave yard that the whitemen stole from the redmen. Many land claims of the tribe has lead to much punishing on both sides of the bridge. As the nitchie Cree walk across the lengthy span of high steel the whites will drive by a high speed and stick a broom out of the window and thus broom an Indian. Some have been swept over the railings. A strange Metis fellow would sit atop the high girders and watch the sport. One particularly bad raping to death of a young Indian girl was performed by a fine young gang of white men of the town fathers and the death was hidden by the town, not the res, to this day. The Metis blood in Cass’s half Indian side is being rather offended as much as it is possible to offend Cass which is not great. Cass hardly recognizes what deep nagging is gnawing away at her newly arising psychological nature of Metis makeup. She is barely aware of Joe’s effect on her affect. The flaw of gripe is a sorrowful coupling with her frustrated quest for sir passing the missing of the sex of John. A trip South is slowly planned by Cass and she does not want Al to accompany her on her scouting expedition of lower latitudes. Her daughter can be her eXcuse. Her daughter will receive a visitatTtion. John is sure to be in hiding when she gets there as a warning of her forth coming will precede her and he is sure to purge himself of any trace of her face. If things go well down there then she will make a more permanent move to parts unknown to Al. “Let us go dance, Al” Cass insists from their white end of the saloon. Although the gait of Cass is lacking she compensates by saying: IT is all in the shoulders and hips; that is what dancing is about. Cass even thinks she can dance from a chair and she often gives new meaning to lap dance. Her arms rather hang by her side when dancing as she saves their strength for more frog sex supporting posture needed after closing time. Al obliges Cass in dance as he must if he desires to be a credit to her Left tatTtoes leg-acy. During the absurd gyrations on the saw dusted dance floor Cass sows the seeds of her southern scheme: “Darling Al I so much miss my fruit of my womb. Soon, maybe I could seek out an invitation from her for me to visit. You would have to stay here, sad to say, because she is poor and she has no guest room and even I would sleep on her couch.” Al is wise to Cass’s scheming butTt he gives no shit; in fact Al begins in his mind to look forward to suckling his re-marriedX as he still has a faint taste of what he last got when he went to look at that Kaz kid of some one’s see men. Yum yum yum Al is thinking that he had better get some while she still has it and before that brat takes all the let down on Al. Al knows: my X never says “no”. The train from El Norte has a resident black man porter in the sleeping car of Cass. She is delighted. It is rumored that he has fathered all the half blacks of El Norte and this gossip is well known to Cass. MMMmmm oOoowwweee thinks Cass as she reveals her stumps to the train man of coal. He appreciates the art with the comment: “I see all four eyes of both stumps are buggering out of their sockets.” Cass pays no attention to what he has said by virtue of her mesmerization at the unrolling charred log that she soon will try to make disappear in her firebox. The porter shares the formidable task of sir passing the duty placed by face of John on the right stump butTt he comes uP^ short even for the chore of meating uP^ to the expectations of sir passing Al’s likeness of the left stump. “It bees dat dar bumpy track between El Norte and here dats puts me off my plunging. Dis bees wise mees donat sir passes. May bees uns de rat turn tripsy wees bees doin IT ugain.” “Yeah sure porter, now slink that long black thing back where it came from.” Cass rates him a mental-“B” for effort and she frets a little about the porter’s being down right dangerous if he is fathering every so many trips. She hopes her little coil of fetal mother fuck murder is still sharp after so much wear and tear of late. “Holy shit, you mean she is coming here, right across the road from me; she will be here.” John is alarmed as his daughter tells him of the schedule of her mother-induced invitation. Quickly John runs back across the street back from his daughter’s place. He puts on an old lady’s long old fur coat with its large collar put uP^ to hide the sides of his real face. He wears sun glasses and pointy toed lady boots stolen from the foyer and he bolts in panic and he does the occasional splits in the early spring melting slippery snow away from his residence to find a place to hide in fear that the X may already have arrived. “Hi dear. You will have to meet your new step dad some day. I can not stay long. I must be off to the big city; IT is calling me to better things.” Cass is making her token effort of maternal obligations with her daughter. “I wish you could be closer to me mom.” The plea of her daughter seems to be a faint decreasing echo of all their absences and the sounds from the poor dear miss-ing her mom reverberate through her soul of longing for the feminine side of her origins being Cass who is trapped in her own mind in Oblivion. Just because the mother has been orphaned, Cass’s devotion to family and products thereof is less than present. These natural commitments of lineage and attachments are of the same territory as her place of mind, the big O. Perhaps her formative years had unformed any form of family ties. The tearful daughter is accustomed by her mom’s past behavior to acceptance of delinquency of bonding. John is more available to her, his sweetie, even though he is also traumatized: by the decreasing of bodily stature of Cass and the reason’s for her losses and all of the X’s ram if fornication’s out comes. The female wonderment of the daughter are intact while those same incitements of the experienced life-giver-and-loser are diminishing similarly as her joints drop their load of lower limbs. After a supper and a sack out Cass re-boards the steel snake drawn by loco-motive for the big city. IT has been much time since Cass has cruised the night’s life of multiplex megalopolis and she fully intends to pig-out. The afternoons are for awaking after the late hours kept by the sex-scout Cass. She eats little during her day as she expects her new male pursuers to wine, dine, and climb her in clubs of debauchery later in the late day and all night long. Her appetites are beyond those for her organic die-gestation: they are of a hyper-sexitive-pain-pleasure motif. The Scandal lounge is a working man’s after work strip club until after supper hours when the same arena becomes a dance pick-uP^ sinbin. The place is close to a Mecca of hormones and whore moans, the university. Huey is a married instructor of variable topics at whatever learning institution that will have him. Huey spies the unusual dance style of the unusual Cass and he thinks she is the fashion that he has yet to have and he finds this peculiarity of her’s worthy of the hunt that rhymes with another word beginning with the same letter as her name begins, Cass. And that is how she is named. The “C’ for that rhyming word and the remaining portion of her name for that very thing; just a hint: Christ rode one on Palm Tuesday. Please remember that her tits are as her replaced legs, fake, or her name would be “CasstTt”; that is if she had any real tits worth mentioning, butTt what she does have looks and feels good to others such as Huey is bound and determined to find out.. “Hey babe take a walk on the wild side?” Huey puts his arm on Cass waist that is bellied uP^, with ass protruding to the crowd behind her, to the stand uP^ bar. “Where is that that I have not already been seen walking, crawling and running? Catch me if you can>” Cass Pivots on her mechanicalisms of mobility and skids to a stop on the center of the dance floor and beckons with her two middle right hand digits of her personal masturbation method for Huey to join with her is pre-sex appetizer of dance. Slow and slinkily Huey shuffles over to her and whispers in shout over the soul train refrains of loud speaker blast: “OK, let us have a quick dance and then let’s go>” Cass nods a hearty yes by flopping her ample saline filled enhancements at Huey in approval of his offer. Phantom feet circling the beat butTt her visable ones are planted, Cass dances with pelvic and and torso sir come volution. “Hey Huey, there is a nice steak and lobster place called the Cock and Bull Room at the tall hotel on Oz street take us there for midnight snacking and at closing time we do not have to drive by leaving because you can get us a room.” This treat for Cass and him was not on his agenda but Huey does not want to rock the canoe causing the little man to fall out so he complies to the Xtravagant wishes.” “Do you like an aperitif?” Cass is attempting to be classy in her tempting of her less than polished brute. “Huh? A what?” “You know a lickyour with shrimp cocktail perhaps. Waiter. We will have two DOM and a dish of caviar, now.” “Sorry my lady those are not on our men you. Anything else if you care to scan our drink list.” “Well, I guess we should have gone elsewhere; bring us two bloody Marys. You do like them bloody don’t you Huey?” “Huh? Ok, anything is fine.” Huey is getting anxious for bed. “Your finest steaks, medium, and a bottle of your best red wine.” “It is nearly closing time my lady and at that time we have to stop serving and remove wine from the table so I doubt that there is time left for you to drink a whole bottle of our finest. May I bring a glass of the house table wine?” “The bottle please.” Huey looks at his watch and he calculates that there is only scant time remaining until closing and the wine is yet to come and he still has a half glass of bloody which he gulps. The steaks arrive and Cass pushes her fork into the center and says: “Won’t do, waiter.” He comes and explains that the chef has just put his overcoat on so no demands are possible on him.” “Well, Huey, you can pay the bill, leave no tip and I will meet you in the lobby where I can make our room selection.” “Waiter, I am sorry but we will be leaving. May I have the bill please. And, do I have to pay for the wine that we did not drink?” “I too am sorry, but IT is so late and we have already opened the wine so yes you will have to pay for IT. “OK, if that is the rules then I will pay.” Huey glances at the bill with a frown to see $287.37 and he holds his breath while he counts out the money plus a twenty dollar tip for the waiter and he gives his salutations by saying good night and I hope the staff enjoys the wine after I leave. The elevator to the top floor Xpensive suite stops with a bounce that seems to start the water bed action of Cass’s saline pouches in a rippling jiggle, Xtending from chest to nipples, of decreasing intensity until Huey gets the key in the door. The same wavy pheno men a is repeated when Cass smacks her bottom on one of the huge beds and says: “I guess this will do.” Huey is thinking about where and what he would be doing with his wife at this time if he where only there with his cash intact; yet he also hopes to get his money’s worth in putting a few miles on the speed-O-meat-her. Huey readies himself as the pile of laundry builds on the floor in anxious flurry of flop. The two prosthetic legs with knees attached thump from stump onto the floor as well. “Now I know of your dance style.” Huey remarks and then notices with Cass’s raising into her revealing projection of her art on dis play. “These are tatTtoes tattooed of my X, on the Right and my nearly placed and nearly X-ed on my left.” I have them suck the sheets while I climb to frog you to hell.” Huey takes the hint and stretches out on his back and lingers while Cass mounts him in a jungle swing of ass over his hips afforded by her weight bearing forearms the Right one of which strains in the needed rotation of elbow causing some cartilage, tendon and ligament peeling and detachment that is overlooked due to her zealous effort. “Give it your all Huey and you may sir pass the jockeys of tatTtoes. Leaning on her palms’ support in the front of her front and then the back of her back Cass greedily consumes more and , more of her hyper-sex-sensitivity of her pleasure and pain as she splashes around in the swamp of their loins’ groins. They groan in uni-son and Cass relieves her elbows with a frog slump of X-tacy on the heaving male chest. She whispers into Huey’s turned ear: “You all most got me there. You can take me for breakfast and I will give you another chance tomorrow night after we step out.” Huey nods to himself in affirmation of come pelling invitation as he begins to scheme silently in prayer how he may deceive his wife two nights in a row and how is he going to get more cash from her cookie jar. At the tallest hotel in the big city the two new lovers eat a hearty repast at a champagne breakfast buffet where the rich mingle while filling their plates under a eighty story high placed hundred foot long dangling crystal chandelier surrounded by ten glass elevators of viewing potential along a, the, building length glass wall. Cass wants to be seen around town; she promises herself to go to every offering of nightlife that this city’s men can afford and there are enough men so she may frequent all the establishments. She has decided to use as much of Huey’s funds and future earning potential realized as she may care to until betTter comes for her come around. “Tonight there is a great fashion show event that will get you in the right mood. It is a bathing suit fashion show spring indoor beach party, with sand for dancing, many models, male and female, and the crowd is invited to dress and undress appropriately. We must go shopping before going so you can buy us some beach attire. You do have a gold card do you not? Let us go.” Strawberries are the theme for Cass’s selection of beach fashion for him and her for the night. A good spring tonic is her reasoning. The club is well decorated and many seductive patrons line-uP^ to change from their street clothes to their beach party clothes behind back-lit see through curtains. Stationary dancing that resembles posing is had by Cass while Huey kicks some sand around in his contemplation of what comes next later at closing time. “We can go to an after hours spot that I heard about for a night cap for our long cold night to get her. Go and get our coats from the check girl and give her a big tip ‘cause we had fun. I have to find my shoes.” Cass does her subconscious mental slip as she is wearing shoes; it is her phantom toes that have the sand between them. She looks down as Huey looking and says with a tone of hiding embarrassment : “Ahim ahim, there they are on your, ahim, ahim, “feet”. “Get my coat, silly.” And he does. The late hot spot is an imitation style of an European-like Blue Note Café. There is a long line-uP^ to get in. “Give the doorman some money, Huey, I can not wait to sit.” And he does and they sit next to a smooching Lesbian couple that is in Oblivion that place next to Vain. Cass is getTting wet watching them while Huey tries not to look and their bold row man tick antics. When they stop serving drinks Huey pays and they scoot over to the closest hotel room of Cass’s choosing that they can find. The tatTtoes are X posed in Cass passion. The elbows are two to putTt to Cass-test of climbing the mounting peak of Huey. “You came a litTtle closer this time, my dear, you can pick me the same time tomorrow night.” Huey is breathless after logging so many miles of trials and he can only object in silent man infest station of guilt of miss representing more X cusses to his patient wife. He will’s to be there. “Is she gone, is she gone?” John has sneaked in his drag disguise to his across the street daughter’s dwelling. “Dad you look so funny.” “Yeah but it is better than being seen. “Yes, mom has gone to the big city. She only stayed here overnight a few days ago. What are you doing?” “Well, you know I have been struggling for cash since your mom put me into financial disaster of divorce. I am going to have to sell my ’55 Chevy for any price that I can get for rent and food money.” “I would like to help but this is a bad time for me too.” “I know dear. By the way, I am getting a new black Labrador puppy of the biggest breed in town from a friend of mine. I will bring IT over later for you to see.” She smiles and says: “I hope it is house trained.” “No more than me.” John laughs and leaves with fur collar down so he is not side-blinded crossing the slippery street of spring morning yet to be melted ice. Adventures of Brutus (the destroyer) Blake could not have imagined this dog eater of roof of house of all I like and smile because Him I still like and then crawl an inch at a time thinking I didn't notice when I did onto my lap until he had his face around my neck and hind paws clinging to my kneecaps the day coldest ice streets Nova on two passenger side wheels at hundred miles per hour in short city passage to the next bar where He ate the interior waiting in parking lot before I arrived chased by bouncers told to Fuck off retreating at the sight of the blacker than black eater of missing seat headliner and dash pad he left the driver's seat he needed somewhere to sit he was happy to see me and I him I just bought that seat I needed a new headliner anyway his brother Sam stolen aged three months was impetus for Brutus purchasing breeder cherished and reluctant to part due to grand size and purity of black everything but teeth negotiated home stair boards loosened by paws pounding three trips excited to my one ascension amidst thunderous arrival and his impatience and wonder at why I had to unlock a door that he could easily eat a hole through beats me in every time paws scrambling traction-less on hardwood floor check out his empty pre-chewed-daily-replaced-pot-for-food need another pot for tomorrow ah there is one of left-over-spaghetti spied as a grab of beer out of fridge light stringed pulled to reveal returned ring of gift with note don't want a piece of your heart read as slow slump on bed is joined inch by inch in sureness of light stringed second pull brings all black and Brutus Huey enters after a number of raps on Cass’s hotel door and he is greeted with high-pitched whines of insistence: “You know how traumatic shopping for make-uP^ can be. You will have to take me now; I simply couldn’t bear to go alone. I hope you dipped into your wife’s cookie jar again. I have big plans for us toni The UN-HOLY TRIBUL John deGroot Version (one true version) The Future Testament of Prophesy The first book of John, called Nemesis At the End, as the BIBLE grants reward to the deserving folks with their right to the tree of life and right of the book of life and grants to those without this right of the tree of life to be written out of the book of life, I am writing these DOGS from the book of life with John, the mighty bad. As for the blessed: the grace of God be with them and they have no need to read the TRIBUL and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen. The TRIBUL is the unholy word of John that is the future condemnation of John for the liars, pimps and sluts, murderers, and idolaters of the black magicians’ technological, financial, industrial, entertainment, and the generally hedonistic worlds. And it, condemnation from the mighty bad John, will come to pass in the unfolding of these stinking wretched pages. At the end of now John created the pissed-off-ness that pisses-off those of the world and the underworld. Some of these pissed-offers call themselves the good and some of these pissed-offers call themselves the I’m bad and they are all ugly in the comparison to the unholy John. And the electricity flows across the appliances of utility and amusement of every day consumer. John says let there be bringing of false warranty for the purchases of the prosperous buyers and sellers. Now there are many line-ups of the dissatisfied at the Walmart alters. And John is pleased. The parked cars of the lot of parking do not start so the feet of the refunding sojourners, that are unaccustomed to treading the concrete paradise, become swollen as the glans of the sell-a-butTt. The tears of the cheated bespoil the facial make-up of the many with only the replacement of foul slime. The children of the whine of shopping mall fear for the scoff of their fellow classmates for the inadequacies of the self-gifts. The agony of disgruntled shoppers is seen by John and He has mercy on these goodies grabbers to no avail. John provides a benevolent libation of beer for the un-satisfied; but they, being of higher mindedness than John, want to convict and fine; they only drink the foul waters of bottled. And John says Let us slug beer and party hardy but the spenders say, what no DOM, no Drambuie and Pinch, no Crown Royal, no Canada Dry; so they heed Him not and limp away to search for sympathetic refund-givers at the temple of Walmart and they search for un-needed items that may out-live the time of false warranty. This is an improbable and futile quest for the non-beer-drinking-finger-pointers-of-disgust-for-John; meanwhile, John is happily staggering and beer-burping with reverence for the foaming beer Vat. There remains a few still functioning electronics and appliances of entertainment and labor-saving and the multitudes of users and networks of informed users gather in heaps of sexual HORN-y-ness while forsaking the freedoom of beer as gifted by John, the mighty bad. The level of their mesmerization of flash is saddening for the John of the garden and John decides to admonish and punish these trendy hypnotics with His increasing the swiftness of the terms and times of fashion thereby causing immediate un-coolness for all. And they disperse from their places of partaking for fear that others will notice the sudden plain style of out-of-style. Each hides in solitude and shame but they cling to their hopes for future progress and improvement in all the realm of purchases. At the end of the great parking lot is a large void of wasted land of fertile soil and this place is avoided by the non-manual-labor-shoppers. It is here that John creates a garden of unpacked, unwrapped, unbottled, unfrozen, unprocessed plants. And they know not what grows here. It is here that John domesticates animals and fish and birds that are unground, unmarinated, undyed, undried, unpackaged and uncanned, unrotisserried, non-dellie, non kosher. And they fear these animals as being smelly, dirty, and cute non-pets. John, the mighty bad unHoly, lined the perimeter of expansion between the lot of Walmart parking and the boundary, attached there-to, of the garden of unwanted fertile soil that requires the labor of manual (who is not the president of Mexico) and garden of domesticated creatures with eternal burning Xmas trees. These impassable flames die-rect the welcomed shoppers to enter the Garden of John through the one and only entrance arch above which a sign reads Free. The shopping multitudes of wise (now) unfashionable browsers that are ashamed of their plain-al-ity say no cover charge, no line up, free, this can not be good to enter. And they do not tread therein the lushness of flora and fauna of unHoly mighty bad John. John luxuriates in his solitude and solace of His place. The mall wanderers singularly tramp the concrete with moRnful slapping of their slow lazy soles of unstylish shoes in protest to their poor warrantied purchases. The dejected buyers and sellers of bum items are consumed with the worry of how will we survive the imposed poverty of new possessions. And then there is the mounting mountain of bogus credit card charges and sir-charges, and phony late fee charges and excessive over-limit charges, and contrived handling and shipping charges that John mighty and unHoly bad has freely gifted to the non-followers of every body but His. And John sees that this is good. And the plants and other creatures of the garden of John resound with advertising ditties in quick paced chorus, I need you you you, every body needs some body, I need you you you, some body to love, I need you you you. But the ears of commercial lovers are filled with the elevator and mall music of The Girl from Ipanema, tall and tan and young and lovely and they do not hear the song of the garden. Meanwhile unHoly John is singing I met a gin-soaked, bar-room queen in Memphis--- she tried to take me up-stairs for a ride. And the mall and elevator music has no effect on the affect of John so He further curses the want-to-be-shopping-again-for-good-goodies-shoppers with endless strains of Moon River. And John is pleased to have His funk of early Stones. And John decides to replace the “Garota” and Mercer/Mancini with some My Way Paul Anka if only one wanderer would enter the gate of Free; but NO. So let it be Ahhh and wider than a.... Many periods and terms of false warranties pass while the unHoly mighty bad John allows Himself no mercy of relief for the deviant commercial consorts of Walmart congregation. Gluttony of hedonistic Epicurean gorging of food delights is now sought by the disappointed buyers now attempting to cope with their frustrated imposition of plain styles and bum exchanges of doubtful currencies for deceptive guarantees of defective items. The food courts of mall proportions are next to be defiled by mighty-bad-you-know-who. The ice-creams are running a race down the sides of the cones; a race that the liking-lickers can not win thereby causing sticky fingers of a fishy aroma that is not unlike the female fragrance that the now defunct feminine hygiene products and monostat-cheese-fighting products are helpless to disguise. The pizza slices become slivers of crap crapped-out by a sweating pizza oven perched greasy Greek pretending to be Italian; the crust is sloppy mush and the toppings are not to be identified in their micro-portions. The imitation Chinese buffets of fifty plus different dishes of who knows what wrapped up in a fried dough ball of soaked-up rancid rendered animal fat layer become, under the unforgiving command of John, a collection of ingested belly swelling gut bombs of indescribable power of mass destruction of appetite, appetite that is replaced by gagging and dry heaving to near death that is compared to the turning inside-out of week-long-worn sniffed sweat socks with the turning inside-out of the guts to the level of the buchal cavity of mouth-i-ness; then these puked vile contents are regurgitated back to the inside-in. The gorgers want to drink something that is soothing so John of the garden has a plan of quenching also. So, they want something to drink John thinks to Himself; He decides that the carbon of carbonation of soft drinking watered drinks is replaced with sulfur that makes rotten eggs seem like candy. The caffeine beverages are substituted with liquefied and puréed liver toxin sweat of countless alcoholic ascites sufferers. Trust of solid and liquid food is now mistrusted by all and John is pleased. The big bad thinks maybe they are ready for the mercy of entrance into the garden of real food of raw and cooked realities that are new and previously rejected by those wanting to be served. But alas the waiting and seated of food court decide not to respond to the chow bell calling of John’s host table; they decide to repel the hunger for food with the hunger for illusion of sex and violence as shown in the Walmart-attached multiplex of theater screens. Let us go to the show to forget about our continual growling stomachs. This plan of entertainment-seekers is foiled by the unHoly John with His replacement of the recent movie hits with old classic movies of intellectual significance of content that none of the goers can mentally fathom because of the loss of the depth of thought that is required for following of plot: because this preponderance has long been long-time-lost through a steady supply of superficial slock that these ticket buyers are accustomed. All viewers are stupefied by the superlative of quality of production of old classic movie (never before seen by these recent release releasers) and they are pretending with stress to be intellectually occupied beyond the level of required attention needed to watch Flinstones II ; the feigners of understanding show no visible or spoken signs of their communal public darkened deceit of false internalization of external pictorial and audible illusions. The film is one of the long day long life of mighty bad John’s favorite of unHoly, Casablanca. John likes the whitehouse as a symbol of destination of destitution. The mass dejection of Walmart-ites, that are lingering until they can get to their comfortable homes to emulate the high moral standards as displayed by the twice a day TV sermonizing of Springer-ites, caused by the false warranties, caused by the less than functioning items of hey man you fact true-ing, caused by growling Epicurean hedonists’ organs of digestion of foul snacks, slimes and absurd cravings, and melancholy caused by the swollen stench-mystifying mall trodden feet of imposed bipedal mobility as a result of mass vehicular disintegration of working components, and finally, the despondency came from the over-powering of self-intellect needed in Vain, USA. Walmart mall and lots of parking, for the sustaination of perceptual coping of unaccustomed visible and audible input of artistic value. THESE FUCKERS ARE DOOMED by the mighty bad John of unHoly testament of future prophesy. Yet they do not enter the arch of free entrance to the garden of John. But there does a lingering by the garden gate of the one of the less disgruntled and one of the curious of culinary experimentation, let his name be Henri of Chez-Henri. One is more than none John decides to punish the obvious and oblivious to other than AC AC-lovers. Let there be no conditioning of room and /or outside of the room atmosphere of gaseous state. There is fluctuation of temperature Fahrenheit in an increasing number on the scale of symbolism for the actual surface temperature of layer of air touching the skin of the shoppers and they snap their crayons in total and absolute despair and loss of hope for escape from the demon sweat. So sweat they do and do and sweat they do do more and more and sweat they sink into a heap of emptied and cursed useless BO de-odorant balls of applicators and the heaps of feminine hygiene purse-sized bombs of piss flap spray . The loss of AC has snapped the mental crayons of Walmart patrons at last and for all but the one Henri of personal non-caring of his self’s fragrance that increases in potency of aromatic strength with his corresponding elevation of next to his body’s temperature in degrees Fahrenheit of the outer body’s layer of atmosphere’s surrounding temperature in those same degrees of measurement. John merely calls this fluctuation of temperatures both cool and warm weather. It is fine weather in the garden of John this one day long. The pile, of disappointed in their smell prevention and protection from smell, is amassed as bearings of balls in their races being metamorphosed from ball eggs into worms that are crawling slowly and steadily into the shallow bowels of earthen Hades of top soil in which these worms help to cultivate the tilth and fertility needed to sustain the grass from which is all flesh including that stinking flesh of which feeds the one Henri who is one survivor of liking his own smell so he is saved for his possible making of an entrance into the garden of John. All others, except Henri, of Walmart and surrounding lots of parking and malls of strolling are consumed to over-lived usefulness of bodily non-warranty, DEATH. It is death by AC deprived sweat producing sebaceous cell smell with the related associated diagnosis of psychosomatic embarrassment unto irrecoverable hiding of life unto DEAR DEATH. John sees that all is good with the singular survivor, Henri, who is about to come on down and take a little take a little step off the lot of hardened top surface onto the soft spongy tilled soil of plant-growing-conditions. Shall Henri come in? Come on down says John the mighty bad and unHoly. Enter the garden Henri and you may drink a free beer from My giant Vat. I have barley and hops fermented to the ancient recipe of societal-sobrietial-stimulational of human life-spice. No one wants this libation for any other purpose than to fine and convict; thereby earning coffers for the lawyers and their compadres. Income from beer fines helped to feed the registers of Walmart cash. There is no fear of beer crime conviction because the piles of body smell haters of potential finger pointing have stunk themselves to death, rather than their enjoying of their selves by their selves in all their bodily glory of ethereal, liquid ( both piss and sweat) and solid excretmentations. The most harmful of these excrementations was the slanderous words for unHoly beer-drinking John that these now dead had said against His unHoly and mighty bad person. Look at Him stagger. Listen to Him slur. He is drunk I can tell the smell of beer domesticated and unfit for our cellars. Cool man I will come in the garden of John for a cool brew Henri replies with a smirk and while he is thinking that this dumb fucker has no idea how much I like and can drink beer. John, with His heightened beer soaked senses, pre-knows and admires the passion of the consumption rates and quantities to which Henri devotes himself in his love of beer-drinking. Let Henri enter for free and free beer will be the reward for this final stroller and staggerer of the floors and surfaces of the Market of Wall. John predicts that the excesses of indulgences of Henri will cause his inevitable expulsion from the garden of John and that this exXxodus will spawn the future creation of the new and improved temple of trade transactions, Mart of K and Super. The omni-powerful of stupefied suds induced mental cavity douched insights of John is determined previously in His cognition that the future and as of yet unborn mall-peops of the Henri inspired, created and populated Mart of K and Super will be DOOMED to the similar fate of Walmart. They too will worm their ways into the dark soil of top layer of His planet Earth of the garden of John the mighty bad and unHoly composer and transcriber of these beginning words of the unHoly TRIBUL ..... The Second Book of John called, Second Coming of Mall How do you like My Vat, Henri? John is baiting the future originator of commerce, Henri, with His friendly invitation of slug. Over consumption is desired by disciples of beer and all seeing Cassandra-like John wants the genetic lineage of beer-gluttony within the make-up of the future Mart of K and Super shoppers. John likes to offer the forgiveness of His garden and Vat to the future K and S entrants of free toll of arch-hovering entrance-way to the eternally burning Xmas trees encapsulating with a in-penetrate-able wall of flames that surround the garden of John who is both unHoly and bad in a mighty calibration; that is a calibration that is more ass-in-mine than divine. Drink beer with Me Henri, says John in a snake-like-imitation of voice and body language. The top, the middle, and the bottom layers of your Vat’s contents are very mucho gusto por y para mi muchachoes and hasta la whatever the fuck says Henri with his best spanish learned at the notorious mall-bar Los Nada Amigo-ers. John knows the sadness mixed with happiness that Henri involves his emotions. He is happy for more than his share of beer while he sadly misses the cronnies-ness of having fellow guzzlers around him, guzzlers that never really listen to you but they are all always angry for not being heeded by others. Ahhh John thinks and John thinks of Henri as thinking (also) “Ahhh” also; Henri, a man of mixed emotions is what the new mall decided-ly (telepathically-linkKked decision between John and the beer-buzzed Henri) needs in market of K and Super for future occupants; these yet to be created future profiteers and bargingeoisoise-es need future dispositions during mall-time as mixed freely reasonable emotions for freely entering and exiting the one singled arch hovering entrance way guarded by eternally flaming Xmas trees of hottie plumes, the entrance way THAT leads to and fro the hHhardened top surfaces lot of lots of parking parking and the soft tilth of fertile soil of garden of John that may very well be being underground-ed-ly cultivated at this very moment by the worms of newly-metamorphic form from the transformation of the previous Walmart-non-entrants-to-the-garden-who-had-died-of-their-own-self-stink-r/t-AC-failure (John induced). K and S peops need variety of mobility between the floating arch. In and out, in and out, of life, of life and shopping, must be the fabric of ass-similar-nation over both sides of the wall of flaming symbols. Yeah, John plans the blend of absurdity required for the mental character of Henri-like-potential-recreations on mighty bad zapp-it-titTty-tude of unHoly-ness of future mall and garden inter-mingling. Yeah, John is pleased with Himself, He thinks let them be as fickle of time, place, social position, even sexual-social-position, as fickle as Henri is fickle. And the day will come of Zapp-it and titTty-tude when market of K and Super shoppers will freely flow to and fro the Vat’s beer appeal. These wanderers of impaired judgments resulting from not having enough Vat slugged enough beer will of credit managed card of Bob Weaver and they will bob and weave from the markets of K and Super, ad lib, across the vast volume of cars parked and spaces spaces assigned just for that future parking back to the garden for that last determining slug that so fairly impairs the judgment into saying from the shoulder of the would-be-shopper-of-buy and sell: I do not want to deal today. The time comes and came and is gone for ever when the Henri-like-re-created and Henri himself, through their final last good slugs of good good-decision-inducing-good-beer from the Vat of John, when they with slurred words say Yeah, I do not want to deal today. And they all die from their intrinsic bro-keen-hearted-ness-remnants-of-walmartitTitTty; sort of like caging a wild animal that is too old to ad-just-to-his-cage, this sadness is and will be from mall withdrawal unto DEATH, DEAR DEATH. Bye Henri. They will all crawl through the openings of the Earth’s crusts that affords them the least labor of Manual E Forte of the sexual Fortes of Vain, USA., that adhere to their local saying of man you all well with our labor. These easy portals of entries brings the K and S to come on down come on down to the place of walmart-worm cultivation of soil for the roots of growing in the garden of the mighty bad and still unHoly John. John sees and says good but who the fuck is left or who was ever there to narrate and say what the fuck John is doing anyway? Or is John doing that observing too? John now has two worlds of mall tickling his plants’ eXtTtreme-me-I-tTtitTties. The Third Book of John called, Ssscrutinyscrunt After the now future of whenever the fuck some times pass through the slop of John’s mind He sees Himself alone being born alone because His mom had yet to de-live-her-own placentia with her one strong sucking bite on His exposed to the world cord of Fetal nutrition. So. So, fuck. So: fuck it. Go ahead and bite mom. Then which one is Me or you? Let us say, John, for the sake of future confusion that for the time being long time never to happen in the future of the futile futures, that the little Fucker is You and the one doing most of the work is that fucked idiot, your mom. Go ahead and bite mom. John is about to re-people the residuum of the outside-needy-of-invitation by Farmer John. The Henri of the ancient times and markets of K and Super was no fucking good in the great Plan of mighty bad and so far to this time of notions of unHoly John for the re-creation theme and chore; Henri had too much mutated shoppers’ crazy glue in his lock of unlocking of the remembering the lost Walmart-I-titTties. The worms must eternally remain worms and the K and S must eternally co-tickle the tips of roots of plants of the garden of John with the pre-tickling of the self-stunk to death by their own AC inhibitor of inducement of stank, the Walmart-I-like-those-titTties. John must now be the father to father on some fucking mother. He will go forth and multiply so... John wonders to Himself... How do I got the funk this world of time and times again?... Hhmmm...There is only Me so I must be that fucking mother that I need to be father of my father; so just as My sex-genes are coded (other than my bar-code for the cheapest beer I can produce) with exactly half of mother of fucker and half of father of fucker with respect to numbers of parental core-responding genes, and there is none of that crazy-glue on my strands of desirable and undesirable genes of the garden and in formation thereof : the garden and Me has much in for man at I on horticulture and husbandry. So fuck Myself. But where do I put it? Want a wad where? The waving palms, painted on the walls of the pre-historic jail of the twenty-first century trials of un-fair-necessity for the inside of the jail peoples’ benefit of depravation of real garden Nature, wave only in imagination of saying bye-bye in the slop of John’s mind as He re-remembers His millenniums of origins as the mere bad who used to be good until He was forced to reform by the personalities similar of motive as those wall palm innovators. Thanks for the mammary-ies sneers John as He lets loose a load that will poop you late aborted mothers and the rest of possible civilizations needs for peops for the following eons or for as long as John wants those palms waving bye-bye in his struggle of re-re-remembering. And what a member it is! Self fertilization of titTt-I-EEE-tude is prophesied by the mighty bad lingering at unHoly-i-ness lanquishing at the use-less need of Hole when John has such tiny little cute nipples of dribbling microscopic whole peops for future; a future of questionable reality of quest. I say this about My dribbling simply because I know certain dumb-fucking-founded are going to ask, future what. The new born male of witch’s milk sees His own birth of His fucked up-self-of-bi-parenting/confinement-of-dual-gender. John sees His drop by drop dribble of the milk of His human kindness. With magnified vision John scans the multitudes of worlds in caps soul lated within each drop expressed at a rate of fifteen drops per minute per side if His nipples are left un-touch and at a rate of steady flow of squirt for five seconds for each time His nipple is squeezed with pinching fingers of thumb and index. I had better stop the self-breast-man-I-pull-nations or we will have those principles of Malthus. Some of those little suckers even look like Me says John as He turns away His mighty telescoping vision from the micro-born-products-of John-conceptions into focus onto just where will He put these new buggers: In or Out, Up or Down town of where ever Vain, USA, I guess we can decide after the party at the end of main street being the only street I will end for the sake of party. John will decide for all if He can give Himself the time to give a fuck. John will have the TV pre-view of the same old programmed re-runned themes of world annihilation in His pre-knowing that these new worlds are going to follow the TV-ed program of destruction of worlds by you name it: the military, the scientists, the virus, the psycho-blondes, the generalized global hatred of all races that all need cleansing, the killer Tomatoes, and oh yeah (John perks-up on this rat-in-all) cancerous and ruinous gossip. The appliances of old are revving for a re-cursed hum of regenerated flow of electric-city but John says No; there will be none of that. And, He adds, still no deals. SO THUS ENDS the Ssscrunityscrunt. Do any of the party-ers got the funk? Did any scrunt find what to question the quest? John thinks not. Save the worlds from the TV-ed doom is one scrutinied feature of TRIBUL that John avoids in a void in His mind that should be immediately cavity-douched with the contents of mighty big Vat. You got it. John is born pregnant of nations as a sort of assortment of preg-national oozes of witches milk accompanied the mighty bad and unHoly as usual John. John knows of the pre-doom from free-doom of which all future worlds are doomed and He is free from saving the doomed from the free. John “moRns” the ancient sign of welcome FREE on the hovering arch of the entrance to the garden of John that no Walmart tities entered and that only the predictable Henri of contaminated genetic Walmart crazy glue stranded information has dared to enter for a slug from Vat. The tickled root lushness of plants are enough appeasement and pleasement for John. John wants not future fuckers of the world so He will let them all fuck themselves in the dome of dumdumdoomdom ( in all manner that TV prescribes); afterall, Did not John fuck Himself in all their HIMSELVES? John will not save. John will watch with indifference toward the future people world/$. The Third Book of John, called Colloid Ooze of life essence of John pervades all of all and all are pensile indefinitely; things of creation are divided parts hung as universes of universes as of flies trapped on cosmic flypaper. Body of John who likes His own smell (unlike the lost transformed to worms of ancient future generations as from the Wall and K and Super) is such a trap as the sticky doom of the fly-like colloids. Life stages, of human production of rotting corpses devoured by our-own-body-devouring-worms that are turning from maggot-like existence toward the freedoom of flying the Heavens as flying flies, are fooled in their suspension within the sticky ooze of the life essence of John. These flies fly in collision and the fly-like colloids bump into each other thereby causing and effecting things of union (some in harmony and some in chaos; thereby (for example) making of a beer burp of John, or (another example) falling star is a slight light refraction off of the bubble of bottom of the beer foamed drool of John as He speeds off to the Vat. Once upon a future time, the colloids formed to form the art of a tattoo on the inner thigh of a very physically attractive fly hatched from the debris of dead body of a truckers’ stop location on the ancient lot of parking of mall fringe welcome sign of hovering arch of the singular entrance way to the garden of John. The dead body was that of a fifteen year old black girl cracked-up ho who used to work the lot of high way truck sleepers. Her tattoo was similar to the colloid-ic re-pre-sent-nation of colloids that recently formed their arrangements of bumping into each other into the inspiration for the art of the re-sir-erected tattoo. It is a tattoo of the satellite created mapped image of the United Snakes of America. And the map is alive with its millions of consumers, of all times and all times to be, of the products of the rest of the planet . The fly scratches between its thighs often and thus causes travel for some of these united snakes. So attractive is this fly that its sexual wettings raises and lowers the levels of all water of the underground and surface of the tattoo nation of USA. Are you getting it? Ahhh a bit. YES A BIT IS A COLLOID. But the content nations of the continent of A Freaka untattooed are dried-up to consumed consummation of USA consumers of these dried areas. A Freaka is on the dry region of fly buttocks that are not slapped with splashing of the sexual wettings of this fly and the re-sir-erected tattoo’s original de-sign-ed wearer’s past skin of the crack ho. Dry AID for the drought lands of A Freaka comes in the oral re-hydration of the plungers of utensils of injections for anti-malarial injections that expatriate snakes sneak from the too-poor-to-buy-anti-malarial-drugs-malaria-infested-local-A Freakeans. The dead and dying A Freakeans have little to do but create their own sexual wettings as they are too poor to do little else and they have not the free doom of expression of juices with which to splash back upon their land post drying consummation of the snakes. So sustenance of life giving dampness must be of musty places and the more places the bet on her and the A Freak count her act as dry the fuck up with frequent cop you late nations. You give us sex as the final entertainment left in the life of the drying dying and we will give You the recompense of disease and the die ease of Manual E. Forte. The tattoo is fly-scratched again and the land of teaming snakes in union send an itching emissary into another region of travel and potential eruption of global endemic colloids of festering fatherhood. I did not say no. I did not know. That is a start. You can make this right. The fly’s tattoo is more than just one drunken night gone wrong in the formulation for form a nation of a tattoo. The dead debris of the dead ho was able to diffuse in entirety of eternity, all, ALL, except the colloids of de-sign used for the future fly-tattoo of traveling similar snake liar of cunt try to scratch more than you can put a finger on or put on a finger. Wedding is a crime that we cannot commit as it is a true dunking in the Vat. The Vat is in the garden of John. Henri’s expulsion from the garden and the return of his K and S in the root-tickling crawling joining of the WalmartitTties’ life stage was the last final chance of entrance to the garden and therefore access to Vat is for John solamente. The colloids, being stuck to the stunk of the ooze of the essence of life of John, participate in ghost-like participation of cronnieness of beer slug every time John has another slug. The colloids love to jump into the receiving mouth of beer receiving of John as He has Vat visitation. Yes, finally W/we all drink. The colloids have the god of the godless and John is indifferent to all of His parts. John is lonely in the Garden of John and His beer guzzlers are of His own making in the foaming effervescence of mouth flora, the one mouth that is bad and unHoly. The ignorance of the colloids of their in dependence, achieved through acceptance of invitation rather than sneakiness of beer sharing in ghostly spiritual mouth of John jumping, has saddened The Bad One. I will cast out My sodomized parts of My hole that offend My whole. Who re-sir-erected the crack ho de-sign of the map of serpentine emergence that dehydrated A Freaka to the point of die ease? Let there be sexual wettings that wet the front and back and distal extreme-me-I--tTtitTties of the universality of all colloids that have bumped into the harmonious congregations of fly crystallization. More than the union of snakes must have the risings and sinkings of the lands’ and the waters’ (shores if you will) levels of depths and shallows. A Freaka is dampened as the fly wipes its crotch from front to back instead of back to front post sexual act nativity flooding. The Fourth Book of John, called Owwwwooo The tiny princess steps from star to wet rainy parking lot of the same star’s reflected image of her stepping in the star lit still puddle of late night parking lot vacancy. Owwwwwooo the revealing splash of her little footed shoe shows the upper mirrored slash of panties-less pomp. The dear has fear of her first being here. The flattened beer bottle cap of many unfortunate cars’ passing upon it serves the new arrival as an island of a momentary relief from wading in the knee-deep-for-her pool of rained water. Where have all the shoppers gone, long time passing, the old folk song lyric helps to calm the feminine royal. And she silently sings to herself. She has never shopped. All is hers so why shop? The big star step has been an experiment for the princess; she needs to know where the FREE sign hangs and legend tells her her story of having to voyage from star step to Isla Metall and then across the brief relief of alpine highland, speed bumps of a whole lot of parking spaces for cars to park but they have been a long time emptied. She waits and then wades on from her beer bottle sqashed cap sanctuary of Isla Metall. As the darkest time of night comes, she stumbles on the range of escarpment called speed bumps that are not to be miss taken for angular curbs. The long path of drier footing atop the structure ends near to the edge. She waits again. She fears losing her way as she needs the propulsion of the Vat to locationally regain her star stature and status. She waits for the creeping light of daytime star so she may scan the horizon’s brim for the hovering arch of display for FREE. The distant glow of eternally flaming Xmas trees trick the diminutive princess for a moment with its skyward barrage of hottie plumes and sparks. She thinks am I at the terrestrial sphere of the puffed up tip of enjoyed cosmic merRry I wanna joint. Ahhh no, she recollects a bit of ancient His story and she barely debates her re-collective powers with her desires and she re-signs that the FREE sign is on the border of flames of the garden of John, the place of Vat inspired propulsion, that would glow at night in the distance. No it is not the birthplace of the Token luminous bodies of Heaven it is the garden of John she concludes with her self assurance of waiting atop the mountain of speed bump until the revealing light of the local day’s light star comes. She hummms in her mind while standing arms akimbo by hips as she nearly commands the morning’s day to come. And they, light and day, do come in one upward motion of her eyelids that are caught in a blink . The new day sees FREE as the princess skips in timeless effort not known to Manual E. to her standing precisely under the sign. Do not come any closer John whispers telepathically at all times to all (and none) receivers’ cognating receivers of tell apathy. Princess stands still till her neck aches with the posture of cranes that look straight up to sky and sign of FREE; then she steps forward to realize the tacit warning of John, do not come any closer. Her tiny feet fall into the worm hole like spaces between the colloidal particles of the ready for planting soft tilth of the fertile soil of the garden of John; she can not move and she cries for John to hear and hear He does and here He is here flipping her an ancient car-squashed beer bottle cap that lands island-like-for-her at her place where her feet would be if they were not stuck in the worm-like holes of garden of John cultivation. Get on and rest and soon I will take you to the Vat for a free one of free John offers to the never been pissed-off sweetie. She slides up her round royal rump onto the island edge of squashed-cap; she pulls her lower extreme-me-I-tTtitTties out of the worm-like hole of soil respiration and she tosses them up onto the cap also with a demure sign, ahhhhh....., and says ok. Rest is had for the time as the beer bottle cap can serve no better life in its death. Well. Well. Well. Well. Wake thee well is the prayer of the wee dear and the mighty bad. The time of Vat visitation is not of the clock but it is of the all ways for the always deserving of beer quench thereby making the time of Vat visitation as soon as she slips from her threshold of: waking and sleeping and dreaming and forgetting; and then she will step from the star’s light star of reflected light refracted from the drip of beer foam drool of John, the drool that all ways derives lives from the slug from Vat, and consequently this is the only sure way to arrive alive at Vat. John drools and she is here where beer be of Vat and not of the commercialized profit making container of capped bottle (do not even recall the aluminum containers of beer; no one should ever have used those cans because how can we see if any cigarette butTts are pre-enclosed before the beer and not after the beer is dearly de-parted from its home of can?) . The princess is delighted to wake at the propelling place of Vat. She slugs. She drools. She steps unto the reflected star of star light of light of this day’s light star that is born of the sparkle of her very own beer foam drool drip and she steps off the miniature star bus at her home place Palace of her origin. John, the unHoly smitten by sweetie, knows not of the un-knowing no way to be FREE from not being FREE with her at Vat. Time is lost. Panties-less princess petite is lost for John. Maybe if I drool more drips thinks John she will return to Me on one of the stars within refracted to this place and no time for waiting. John sticks His Head deep into the Vat and He fills UP and He has no breaths left for burp. John says Let my lower lip be limp for drool and multi-starred drips. Slowly His lower lip relaxes into a sagging hanging lifeless gravity compelled shape of spout for drool broken into drops for dripping beer foam rather than spilling streams of beer foam , the only proven for Him method of princess star stepping. John is sure she has other star gene-her-ate-hers but what is better than beer for a place to be here? Lonely John expels all of his buchalized star-refraction-light star reflection princess star-stepping drips of drool of beer foam to no additional princess-presence-inducement. The saddened lonely John re-sub-merges His head in the ever full of beer Vat for another attempt of panties-less petitetitTtie princess invitational drool. Owwwoooo. The First Book of Clarence called, Why. Lies are wise “whys” are why the ledgers of all allegations are confirmed by the court’s chronicled truths of the past corruption of established truths are lies during that previous time of nifty sear in the days of our long gone unHoly and mighty bad. The future now sees the future, from the past blasting of dollar-seeking legalities, as a divine duty of devotees for the differences for that past. The God of the future is non-monetary. The God of the future is not life-style. The God of the future is fucked over by human ascendancy of representatives of Himself so He is no longer indifferent to all of His creations as the Humanists’ (beginning with pre-Socratic and beginning with the worship of pre-prehistoric pantheistic and anthropomorphic deities) have time-less-ly pro-confounded. These re-presenters of God, in apex, are: Pope-like, world leaders, clergymen, judges, and so on in a hierarchy of human social acts of governing. The future of future now will have a busy God, busy in all aspects of all governing. God will DAMN; really damn in person with His own presence. WHY? Hi, I am God. Anything I can do for you Mr. Tiger? Let Me tell you not to eat any of those bi-pedal mouthing gasps of air for (can you believe it) , words, you know, those ugly-like-moneyetes, not as good-looking as Ape$, Youmans. Those damned things will give you a hell of a belly swelly. The Youmans come from descendants that ate crap from grocery stores until they wormed out for the Farmer’s tilling of the one ancestral garden of some unHoly drunk with My future spirit. Gggrrriiilllwwwwggg the feline licks the lovable little God with admiration (for His concern with pollution) upon the side of his trailing antenna’s tail. I know I gobbled up one once in the superior gender of freemale that evolved from that same drunk Gardener’s dropping of sperm bombs on the starry drool of the universal place of star birth, beer mouth full of contents of Vat. The Gardener (what the fuck is his name?) did the accidental deed of fertility while drooling beer foamed drips while He was jerking one of His smaller centralizing located eXtreme-me-I-tititTties while this Pastoral dude, His name is long forgotten, was imagining His shrinking to the nuptial-possible-size of some new acquaintance of His of a delicate and beautiful princess of no underwear wearing. I guess she got splashed by His climaX-sick reward while she was star stepping in the same place as Vat and Him. She, youman, digestion nearly made My precipitous projectile puke blast the future past right the fuck off the catalogue of male shopping; but no; we can still shop for males; just never eat one of those, or do if you can tolerate youmans, but if I could not keep her down imagine what the large of physical stature of the species would do to your tube within the tube. The Tiger leans with force against his new friend of divinity’s power of ONE in the form of whatever form He wants to be in at the time and place that He wants to be. Yeah, I am pretty fucking pissed off by the creator of pissed-offed-ness-and-offers (of forgotten name) for His contriving of such an undelectible morsel even its conception and confinement was affected by His, I still have lost His name, accidental spattering spurts of jerk and pulsating climX-sicking centrally located eXtreme-me-I-tititTt. Yeah, OK, tanXs God the Tiger says casually as he crouches in pounce-able posture for preying. It is crying time again I am God. I can see that far ahead that I know the worlds have died. Being omni-every-fucking-thing and no longer indifferent to youmans and all other the ever what makes me think of the stink that what is his name liked of himself (yeah there was a self stinking and liking it Henri; butTt that other guy) but the self-stink of no AC sent the Walmart-I-titTties and the Mart of K and S to worming cultivators. Well, God wants the ascendancy of His animal creature creations to evolve from the bottom being: self=loathing-stink, unto, the supreme being: the OWL. of HOWL of a highway-like sound of a fucked up rearend differential of a primitive truck of a half of a tonne in ancient metric symbols of calculating. The Howl Owl really gets the youmans thinking about their heritage of the past drooled stars with the hoot hoot hooting of who is at the party at the street that ended end that the what the fuck is His name made for the giving of a shit. These sad re-collected thoughts of a wiped youmans’ minds about the Owl who howls hoot makes these fallen buggers depreciate their genetic genesis of accidental holocaust of sperm bombs from that guy God forgets to recall His name. The pounce is made on prey and God now knows the tiger is busy. He, the eater of most everything that finds its way into its jaws of fangs, both upper and lower, nibbles on the lesser gender of youman. To the tiger’s taste the meaty portions of triumph are too hot of abdominal pain of richness. God’s antenna tail twitches with the news of the far off bloating belly of tiger’s dinner. I warned him. I am good godly giving of advice seldom heeded. The owl hoots overhead in communion with its creator: Why do You not take another form God so the tiger might be chased as it needs to run in order to cool off its dinner of hottie. Who shall I and what shall I become God asks of the Hooter? Why not chase Tiger by Your form of an Islamic genie; You may float an inch above the ground for increased zooming? Yeah, smart of the smart beings, I am in the midnight rambling moomood and it is nearly closing time at the Vat so soon I am as weightless as the left over space inside the self replenishing beer of Vat foam bubble. A genie it is. And God, in His time of Tiger’s speed, makes the Tiger speed to the oblivion of leaving of its youman of lesser gender’s induced tiger pain of digestion of the rich meat. See that you cannot see that My feet are not touching the ground is the feat that will beat the spPpeeeeded feet of the now cooled belly dragging Tiger. The Owl responds to God with the smacking of beaks upper and lower yeah I flew over the dust cloud of Tiger tramping tootsies and there was not a dirt speck disturbed by the genie zooming. I, God of good deed, could hyper-sensitize the growing coolness returning to Tiger tummy. Yea God is goodly pleased with the heed less that the heat warning God of His own previously having eaten youman of the superior gender. The Tiger’s fangs filled with length long needle-like holes as a reminder of tastes too hot to eat and Tiger lets the cubs suckle too often for the calcium refilling of the holes thereby affection of the defection will be awaiting the weanings coming. I was born in the storm of flying carbon ejected from the pipes of fire of the rolling wheels. My Father would fuck the Mother Earth with his turning pipes until She pissed the fluid of go go fire. Curious little demons climbed upon the storm-tossed platforms for their arrivals at the land of hardened surfaces for the parking of shop. One day the asphalt cowboy of what the hell is his name left the spaces filled and vacant of rolling platforms and zappitTtity there came a lonely garden with the nicest of fence, arched entrance, and sign of FREE. Soon, My work began by My indifference to My previous indifference. Now I care. Genie-form of transformation helped Me cool a potenial hot Tiger stool. Now what, yeah the Parrots sing in chorus. God shifts His shape to a small tree and then He presents an appropriate twig onto which the Parrots grip with their curled clawed hand-like-feetsies; so, He may listen to these nearly as wise as the Oul related mutated flying creatures of His. How is this for what now yeah eh??? Parrots? God quizzes His squadron of flying friends. Let us hang today and play with You God; they begin chewing tiny pieces of bark which they immediately let fall as if the purpose of the chewing is merely to tickle both both beaks and the nutrient laden outer layer of bark of twig of God good tree. They are not hungry and they would never presume to eat the wood of God. Mom and Dad of Divine God of now Tree regret the public fucking and consequent pissing of the juices of go go that fed the economies of shop and mall that has destroyed the worlds during their indifference period. They are now pleased to see Him being active in all and every realm/s of all of THEIR creative amusing. See Him, how close He is to His. He allows the bark tickling pecks and bites. Let us play too with God says Dad to Mom; Mom divine and Dad divine smile a co-incidental uncontrollable joined in the same time smile into EACHOTHER’S divine countenances. Let Us let Him know not that We are playing with Him. Good says Mom; I have an idea, We will join the flock of parrots. Let Us land now says Dad and They do. The twig of God is well laden with parrots. Tiger. tired from his running of coolness, rests in supine position with paws in air and with his mouth opened, under the shade of the Tree. Mom and Dad growl, They beat Their wings rapidly, and shout loudly at the Tree in the rounded tube-like tongue of Parrot’s non-telepathic communication. Tree understands the sounds but He is prevented from knowing the true playful source of Mom and Dad. Translated by Tree They say to Him: send a falling leaf of Yours on the strong and distant winds as a spy to the gate of the Free to see the lonely gardener what is his name and then you may request delivery of bountiful slug of beer from Vat for Tiger gastrointestinal douche. Mom and Dad are playfully wanting the Tiger to assume the disguise of Bob Weaver in quadratic footsie mobility; they want Tiger to bob and weave for their comical entertainment of watching from Twig. Gasping, for air for accommodation for another beer gulp from Vat, John all but inhales the wind driven leaf at His gate of Free. Picking the leaflet off of his sticky uvula John is not super surprised to pick up the telepathic whisper of tree twig of God: Tiger needs a slug, Tiger needs a slug, “B” “I” “G” belly swelly slug of resurrection of Bob Weaver imitation. Flipping the soggy leaf back onto the wind John spews a foam cloud of his next slug of beer from Vat. The tiny cloud is caught in the same turbulence as the leaf; its destination is its hovering over the back laying Tiger’s open mouth; its commanded function is downpour of welcomed slug. Yukyukyuk Mom and Dad and other parrots sing in unison Yukyukyuk in three stooges tradition. Tree joins in with rustling of foliage. Tiger rolls over, he struggles to rise and he staggers the living impersonation of Bob Weaver. John gasps again. The sky is clear now. Mom and Dad are reminded of God’s Infantile suckling of sooochsoooch sooochsoooch in Their knowing of the gasping of what the fuck is His name anyway. The Second Book of Clarence called, Be. The Tiger’s tummy cooled of racing, racing that was gifted by God as genie, and resting Tiger’s same tummy, cooled by downpour of slug, that was gifted by what is His name, takes a turn from the supine position to the usual hanging poised up-right position and the heat returns with the retribution. Tiger slinks away from the tree of parrot perch. The footsies step with each increment of increasing never ceasing of intensifying megacaloric units of temperature climb. The slug of downpour of beer of beer foam cloud is dissipating. Soon the giant cat of holy fangs of holes of heat meat induction that will not fill (related to lacation) can go no longer. Tiger hairs burn at the roots. Brown patches of stinking flesh appear where the pasty clumps of striped fleece flees to the grass that covers the subterranean home of worms of worth a fuck of a lot more than those that used to shop. Tiger’s paws flail in quadrant directions. To his tummy he flattens his torso to the ground. Tiger dies. Her cubs self-wean. The bouncing in the atmosphere shiny ball, of shinier than chrome silver colored surface, bobs and weaves just behind and above God in the presence of Him in the form of Him that He is in at the time and all His time. The ball’s size conforms to the relative size of God. If God is flea size the ball would be pin-head sized; if the ball is the size of Pluto then God would be the size of Jupiter; When God has colossal knowledge then God knows not of what, why, and how of the outer surface or inner reality of the mirror-like surfaced ball. Mom and Dad of God do know all of the ball but They do not divulge or disclose at all. The interior of the ball has REALITY. God wonders about His ever-present spherical companion. Mom and Dad want God to play ball. Clicking of the keypunch with the one crushed finger distal extreme-me-I-tTtitTty on the right hand that touches first on the reach, grab, caress, slap, and hold-surrounding-fist, stops typing as its attached-possessor is asked want a cup of coffee. Tale is reality. The Tribil , unHoly but of potential conversion, is future reality typed now. All that is thought can BE merely because it is thought; thinking it alone gives it a certain existence. More existence is attached with its becoming more of a reality. Thus, the ancient maxim of who the fuck knows: all things are possible. Imagine. The horse pulling the buggy escorting the bouncing shiny ball imagines the future transporting of beam me up and star-stepping and zapitTtitTty-tTtude happens and the future reality is really pre-horsed. Mom and Dad smirk at eachother and wink one parrot eye each at each other parrot eye while thinking in unison with Eachother: yeah we all make our own realities. Mom and Dad fly off the tree twig that is God and they become static sparks of electric attraction and repulsion of all material that matters. God switches from the form of tree to the configuration of cosmic ooze, sky blue in color, that drips off of the edge of the world that collaborates with universal forces to make the birth place of heavenly bodies. The remaining flock suddenly, in startled flight take-off, fly away while they are all of the same thought of where did those other two Parrots go; Mom and Dad like zapitTtitTty. Planets of thought begin to BE new. When some globes start they think; and when some globes start they stop thinking. God has been oozing the blue new of both archetypes of globes of thought planets. Revive a gain. See how high some titTties stay. See how far some titTties fall from where they were high. The cubs will now suck any dispenser of any liquid state since the loss of their mother. I am not saying what I am thinking. I am not saying I am God. I am fond of blue. These newborns are of the blue ooze womb of the edge. Some creatures of superior sin to get closer to others. Sad that this is love. Stop belief and understand with respect that life has continued but one great good has stopped to be a dirty truth. How much does a soul cost today? How far can a worm burrow in cultivation by consummation and excrementation by its tube within a tube? No body is good. No rock is good. No globes’ coverings of every space is occupied is good. Monsters are microscopic and gigantic but the worst monsters are microscopic giants of the microscope’s slide’s contents magnified by overhead projection on the backdrop of the entire sky. The preacher, that sits on the fat ladies laps, risks bulging eye bulbs of these cushioning receptacles of his sedentary mission. Nasty puntang. A Freakeans drop in life span expectancy to one third of their former time because of liars that say they did when they did not wipe from front to back. Let it BE. Love their hate. Lie to Be true. Somehow twins seem to look the same is two BE............................. The First Book of Hers called, Song of Drop of Blood Landing on Her Bare Foot The dog barks. The poles are raised in N and S. The bat falls with force for yelps. Delicate fingers finger the tattered edge of the blanket of synthesized cloth in nervousness of what will be the outcome of this entry that she is now feeling; cursed sex begets her need for doctor John. Sleep well butterflies of faces. Godless and guilty she blames all for all with insights of none. Suns for hair and moons for eyes and hell-hole for boiling mouth are her scary assets. Smile lasts the while her spot of fallen red bled shed for uterine lining new deceives you. Fur tile of crutch crotch of fertility days between the slough sump of fundal interior wall paper for fetal living room is about to be invaded during the beatings of breasts against breasts. The tiny princess jumps the star of frost crystal of window pattern lit with moonlight. She watches the jarring impact that prods the amorous moronic couple into the hazard of reproducing more and more and moremore. So love comes in breaking the window of the souls’ home of homemade sex-soup she queries in virginal curiosity and growing love for the giant gardener who saves her with his tossing, for her rescue, of antique squashed caps of bottles. Slashing knife has daughters fleeing. That was enough for me. Sons’ impacted sausages of shit are pal-pate by upside down lovers. That was enough for me. Thoughts, of why and how for who, dance with the growing spider web of hoarfrost in the little ones pretty glowing mind of missing her love while watching. That is it for me. I am paining with grief of now not seeing tomorrow with my love’s sorrow of trying to re-pair with John, my gardening savior, is what the peeping panting panties-less princess is dreaming during her gaze into the lust unfolding within the wintry home of her window’s vantage of view. Thanks for watching the telepathic message is sent during orgasmic soaring to the frost star traveler. She departs on the next moonbeam suspended spark of static electric attraction and repulsion that Mom and Dad of the blue oozing ooze of empyrean formed God has gifted to her for her travel and potential re-pairing with her lover of Vat and beer contents of contentment. The desirable John is here in the garden but can the princess navigate the earthen holes of worm burrowing without benefit of platforms of tossed squashed caps of bottles so long emptied? John unHoly-ill-ly and mighty bad slugs from Vat in constant hope of in-coming fair and free. TanXs Mom and Dad of God for the repeat passage to the gate of the hovering sign FREE the princess prays. Reflected in the shinier than chrome ball blue ooze God sees the safe landing of the heart-sick sweetie. The sphere, filled of all REALITIES, deviates from its constant rear right shoulder of God, now blue ooze, toward the edge of old lot for parking. This is the first time for God to follow (shiny ball) instead of being followed. He, having birthed all the heavenly bodies that He cared to birth for the time, swaps His shape for that of Johna, purely all in all that John would ever want in superior gender figure and face. The test is on for John and His disembarked soon to be garden quests. Lifting His drooling face out of the Vat, John senses that the loneliness of the garden is changed by the need of the role of a Host, John. In the reflected scene on the outer surface of the shiny ball John catches sight of a sky view of the top of the princess’s pate at the gate of FREE. As He looks down, to verify the tiny vision in the grounded non-illusionary reality, John sees Johna strolling across the primitive lot of vehicular accommodation toward the gate of FREE proximity. God Johna is welcomed by an elevation of roar of the plumes of flames of the fence of eternally burning Xmas trees. The princess fears to step, from her speck of a frost replaced divine gifted electric spark star, unto the worm burrowed hole-ly terrain of tilth enhanced garden of John. John immediately tosses the life preserving bottle cap of long time ago squashed by shopper’s car (probably flattened more than once). The princess loses all her fear. Gratefully she slides her bare ass, beneath her lifted gown, up and across the surface edge of the island-size-for-her-cap. She patiently awaits a greeting from John. Before swooning at her presence, John is approached by His, the same, species-form ( her opposite gender being superior ) Johna, God with the shiny celestial globe filled with all REALITIES, of relative dimensions, following up and to the right behind. John thinks there must be a few fornications left in me after the millenniums of being sell-a-butTt as the dead fifteen year old black crack ho, of highway truck sleeper truck stop parking lot adjacent to the lot of parking of the Wall of Mart, that had the living map of the United Snakes of America tattooed on her inner thigh that was transmuted unto the fly’s inner thigh so very many future generations later after her sad but necessary death. Hey babe take a walk on the wild side? God Johna tempts John with a sexy test. Lucky thing is that the princess is panties-less as she pisses herself in anxiety about the seeming insurmountable competition, in the form of Johna, for John’s affections. Welcome back my tiny dear. How was your star step? John fondly greets the princess and then He glares, in disgust at the boldness of Johna, at Johna who returns the stare with an enticing shimmy of Her nearly-let-loose-dangling-like-clumps-of-giant-grapes-thirty-eight-D’s. With eyes bugging out John has passed His first test. Fine, it is nice to be here with you the princess replies to John’s polite salutation for her. The Second Book of Hers called, Blank as Her Mind Take a brief interlude, dear reader, it cannot be easy to read that which has never (blank as white without the black squiggles) had a pure thought on paper; thought that is a little more before words came to mind, and for Her . The Third Book of Hers called, Maintain Debut In the tradition of the ancient roadhouses of the early United Snakes of America, as their signs said: : : : ::: ::: :, Ya’ll come now you here, John says to princess, ball and Johna: Ya’ll come now you here; He bends over to direct a beer foam drool drip for star reflection for the princess to star-step on to the brim of Vat while HE and Johna with ball companion happily skip with zig and zag to the same place for party hardy. Ball plays music of the Spheres here at the place of Vat. Princess dances on the highway-sized-for-her curving brim of Vat. John’s eyes follow the titTty heaving of Johna with metronome accuracy of not missing a beat. Johna politely pleads with John for Her to be allowed to put Her face into the Vat for buchal cavity vacuuming displacement of beer from Vat to Her swelly belly. Sure says John as they Both, simultaneously submerge Their faces. All these years I have even loved your love and hate the princess thinks of John’s partaking with Johna and she slurps up the drool drip of beer that reflected the light for star upon which she has just arrived at the brim of Vat. How can you live without the superior gender Johna asks of John. Child of God asks of Child of God. Proud princess awaits the overheard question’s answer as she intends to overhear the answer as she has overheard the question. My life is but the harmony that makes all virtues last in the congregations of the arrangements of the colloids of which all is collected to get her in collision; perhaps even breasts beating breasts are some of these collisions for Me. The superior gender is but another patient orchestration that may or may not be harmonious. For Me, all of that gender was lost in the corruption and transforming of shoppers to worms and then those peops that evolved from My own drippings of expressed and volunteered witch’s milk are but more of Me. The superior gender has long time been absent for Me until the tiny one came and now you are here, Johna. The floating ball’s interior of all REALITIES is unrevealed. I live now with the first time that I have had a garden visitation of superior gender of you, Johna, and you, princess. John silently recalls the failed poop you late nations of Henri-clones of K and Super shoppers. Johna’s style of tempting has much power as the princess fears that her lovely John may cave to slave for superior Johna. The accidental splashing of the sperm bombs of John, that created the princess fertility and conceptions of the youmans, still leaves the princess virginal and disparaging with differences in nuptualizing-size between John and the princess; this leaves them both sexually frustrated and longing for mutual compatability. Johna, being of suitable dimensions for copulation with John, is less than attractive for John since the superior gender comment of Johna, take a walk on the wild side, is offensive for John who has committed Himself, long ago, to make no deals and for Him the garden of John is tame and the wilderness is of the vacated worlds outside of the flaming fence. The Fourth Book of Hers called, Core Tired of eternity, for a while, the pre-ball-shaped of void-it-tTtitTtity shiny ball leaves the abstract for the dawning of its shiny outer smooth crust that gives it its ball shape that is perfect in roundness and perfect in reflect. The universe of universes within the void-it-tTtitTty has a central core of a kingdoom that has lost its tiny princess to the outside of its crust. She

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