Himself Rustic Breath by Solo Hawkins
They tell me I am sick and in need of much assistance. Here drink this gasoline for your youth you'll feel better. They say. This guy dies right next to me and I am licking him off his breath as he evaporates on my tongue. My living is to live. They try to give me something constructive. Can't have me sitting around with my thumb up my ass for too long. Now I turn lawn ornaments into sexual aides through photosynthesis. I put little spherical hearts on the sides in order to give the lifeless the necessary love they deserve. Remember the small things. Brothers on the turn giving five dollar facelifts to the prestigious gents of the Brotherhood. Afterwards I further my digression towards nature. The privates swarm around the streets in white petticoat overalls trying to prevent craziness. I explode from within. Turns my eyebrows white. Ever since. I know God is bald and he's the infinity. I know that when I die I'll be playing chess with the ability to read minds through my little pawns. Ah the power reminds me of moose. Then I realize that the contagious feelings are rehabilitating the deficiency towards not being able to conform or cope. The losing is on the west and the knowing is under the contradiction. I feel sensitivity malfunctions and I can go hours without blinking. Condensation of thought is melting. I don't know your names but the people keep asking so I pretend by shaking my head up and in. Second rung of followers doing their specified job right down to the tooth. Pearly white gleams down
the strip flowing with alcohol. Understand the improvement. They say. But no one is listening. Instead we are all studying their habits. For some reason their movements are all quick and vibrating. Every single step they protrude is bouncing off the walls. These rules are undertaking a few obligatory improvements. Bound on report. They say. Listen through your eyes...and then we are off to the shit races. With windmill hats blowing in the sand and saggy tits. Tails between our legs. Screwing the earth. The prejudice juice is figuring on refusal and typical misunderstandings. The neophytes start laughing in our faces. Then the hacking starts and testicles are being sliced off with rusty coat hangers. Dress the composure. Break the face. Touch our toes with this prescribed public masturbation and the black intrusion of penises becomes a disturbing annual event of demonstration. I am afraid I have no control over it. They say. Come here small boy in tank top white bean soup pants. Come here. We don't fear the waves of condemnation. Come here.

Then everything freezes and I'm ripped out of context and reinserted into some kind of cabaret aristocrat theatre. With a vaudeville routine displaying. Combined with fully functional minstrel shows, dime museums, literary burlesque hand puppets, and hypnotic outer space freak shows. Little and tall genetically mutated things hobble across the stage and in the crowd climbing up people's legs and sitting in their laps. Naked musicians running around with guitar wire wrapped around their penises trying to fuck the conjoined twin dancers. Comedians pulling their own teeth out to get a laugh. Magicians vanishing from one place to another and birthing trained animals out of their asses. People with both male and female secondary counterparts perform acrobatic stunts on the ledge of a water tank filled to the top with radio active pool water. A giant great white shark keeps peeking his head out every once in a while trying to nip their legs. People in blackface are riding a cow and trying to milk its utters. The cow shits everywhere and a third generation pop star from long ago steps in it slips falls breaks his neck. His grandma comes and drags his body off to the side. His head bounces up and down like a seal's ball. An old time rusted reel flickers someone masturbating in a bath tub while humming, "The Cutty Wren". It hits me hard in the mouth and I find myself tripping in darkness and wonder how in the hell I got here. Then suddenly the stage lights turn red. Everyone revolves and becomes silent and the performers shoot off the stage. Then out of nowhere a beaming light from the ceiling spits down an albino extraterrestrial transvestite clothed in random male female collaborations. Behind its body is a giant spectacle of lights that comes streaming down and materializes the title, The TRANS. They flash and blister and the light rotation turns pink and blue and splashes until your eyes are beating and you can't see anymore without seeing that same pattern of lights everywhere you look. The Trans starts to laugh and then sticks it's arms straight out. Fingertips float in the air like white clouds barely coming into view. They start choosing people from the crowd. Like orchards. Strange animals with spines rivet and break in two. They levitate through gentle ease acquaintance. Then The Trans starts to speak in a fake American-British accent. Saying things like. "I luv ooha. Lesss mayta." And. "Holee meh closa babay." Received rightly by Pentecostal voices that bing light out of their heads like rattling misfortune machines. Then a giant square sign above flashes in bright yellow letters. It reads, criticize. Everyone reaches down and pulls out small bushels of fruit from inside their pants and start throwing them at The Trans. Everyone's into it. Belting The Trans right in the face. The Trans acts as if nothing has happened. Then a rotten nectar orange goes right through its torso. Cleanly. Everyone gasps and realizes The Trans isn't even there, but living in a projected pixel hologram from some distant location. No one pays attention. They grab their throats slit them with hunting knives flop on the floor like opah and then start dancing and the rest of the performers come back on stage and the swarming colossal shit storm resumes. High pitched noises hit and ricochet like birds. Feelings warp back to the first nuclear war. Back in with prehistoric animals that feed on each other and smoke peace pipes. I pass the torch duck the fever run out the back and wake up in a field of pineapple spasms removing themselves like chocolate stems.
Noon by Brenton Rossow