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Come, we have to clean the house. The television set is dusty and filthy
and the flys are sipping at the spoiled milk. The milk carton unfolded on
the kitchen sink. I smacked one fly by the mirror in the bathroom. We have
to clean all those toothpaste marks on the chrome sink and spout snd the
K-Y Jelly stains on my bed sheets.

No, John, he never made it through puberty. He still goes to his shrine at
home and masturbates to the playboy magazines and gives himself sugar
disease. He is sad. No, John, you can not go to the nurse.

Why must I peel away my skin and show you my cleverness or sadness or
holiness or calmness or secrets or desires or falseifications or horrors?
Why should I open the door and be a fool and dig you a hole in my garden?

Ive got a ton of chores to do but haven't been payed my allowance. Swimming
in the water pool and bands from Australia play on the outdoor radio. Iım in
shades, but not myself today. See my reflection in my glasses and smell the
hot dogs and pure beef burgers on the grill. We sat on the bench with the
peeling and chipped red paint. The old rain-soaked wood bearing through and
sticking to my legs. The brook aside trickles underground to where our gang
spray painted on the walls of the tunnel of love. That dog used to bark at
us all the time and one time I ran and ran and my head bled and gushed my
hands covered in burnt blood dry and thick. But now Iım afloat, adrift in
chlorine feeling the heat, but not myself. Not today, maybe tomorrow, lets
play catch, Iıve heard that tune, but not that tone now forever now always.

The photoraphs are lovely. Pornography. Every word, or association. Yes, I
belong to the club. Did you see that comedian? He wouldnt sign. No
religion? And no war?

He drove us to see Egg Bert in his old dark green Nova. She with her blond
hair, Iıve got my blue eyes from her. I once locked the door and cried but
Scooby Doo and my fruit roll-ups after school always soothed the sadness of
Lalla and Jocelyn that never formed. She and I always sled together and had
Dad build igloos for us. I never got to drive the Volvo or the orange Vega.
Ive seen the Volvo, now and again, it sounds like a television show.
Perhaps that one that is all dusty and filthy.

One more, I turned around, tickled, I kicked his ass, I loved it from her.
She can tickle me over and over and over again. We smiled, held, the mirror
knew. Too bad I counldnt fit or be or even draw or tell hot from cold I
knew the yellow-eyed loved.
Black and white view was the best, even climbed, never failed and always
slept. I hope he dies in my arms and not yours, beast.

İ 1999 David Greg Harth @ 296 New York City @ 296 New York City