World Cup 2010


As Seen from In-Laws' House


"You have to choose a team.  That's the trick."  The TV makes this buzzing.  She puts hot sauce into her coleslaw.  The fireworks are dead or she is dead to the fireworks.  So independent she goes to the car/slams a beer/goes to the car/slams a beer.  Where you been?  I have been on the moon (it is a paper plate of baked beans), as into the bathroom, crushed a Ritalin to dust and snorted it way up inside my gray mass/bright eyes/exhaust dark/mixed bark of that annoying lap dog:  I mean to say outside to catch my rightful breath of air.  Where have I been?  Right here, on the moon.  She chooses Slovakia while rifling the medicine cabinet.  Slovakia because it used to be . . . and then now it's the smallest . . . and all those tanks rolling in . . .  Now Ritalin rumbling all over her skin—she offers her husband 500 blowjobs if he'll run around his parents' house right this moment, naked.  He sighs.  He says, "Just try."  To the car/slams a beer.  Steps in dog shit.  A boy is throwing firecrackers into a kiddy pool.  Ignite, toss, fizz.  Ignite, toss, fizz.  "You are one stupid kid," she tells him.  She sits on the steps and pets a yellow cat.  Lady Petting Cat—this is what her husband sees, an oil painting framed up in the window; the image gives him pleasure.  Tucked in the shadow of her calves, a sweaty Budweiser.  Her father-in-law slips out the door, coughs, cups in his hand a quick smoke.  "Zero to zero tie," he says, shaking his head.  "How can anything end that way?"


As Seen from Tuscaloosa, Alabama Bar


Curl of tongue smoke.  He drinks a beer.  If I fell down I would get back up.  Like an alien, that lonely.  Like his body is made of distance.  Is that tea in it?  I'm pretty sure it was a girl.  No one to talk his language.  Take it easy man.  Can you bet on it?  He drinks a beer.  He drinks a beer.  Sunshine was the big winner.  Jason, what are you doing?  Man you guys are on a roll!  His wants are simple, but where are they?  He drinks a beer.  She had two DUIs and her dad died.  Your shot man.  Turn that shit off!  How are you, neighbor?  He drinks a beer.  He drinks a beer.  His knees go sailing off.  He slides incredibly far on the greenest grass—how exactly do they slide that far?  Or maybe slow motion elongates everything.  His knees are gone for good or possibly in heaven.  His knees are paint cans full of ping pong balls.  His knees scribble the names of women on the ceiling.  Do me a favor Brandon.  He drinks a beer.  He drinks a beer.  Later on man.  He don't like nobody.  Now the jukebox flaps and spins.  Now the jukebox paces and mutters.  One thing does not follow another.  He drinks a beer.  He drinks a beer.  He drinks a glass of water.  His ears ring.  It is very late.  How late?  Depends how you live your life.  Maybe.  He drinks a beer.  He wouldn't dig a ditch for nobody.  I wouldn't sell it now.  Are you alright?  I can make 400 sitting on my couch.  Can you hit me hard?  I can hit you hard.  Hey.  Who's even watching?


As Seen from Hotel Floor


Enormous, yet firm.  I deduced from the morning sun.  Ceiling hiss/cackle.  I am losing.  I am losing track.  Ah, you're clothed now.  It builds, it builds . . . wait for it.  The date (?) lay splintered; shadows unhinge from thickened air, window smudges of day to overlay a waited-on car horn libido.  Thickened?  That sounds like a goddamn poem.  Or fake grass.  Or: Thank you for being you, and not someone legal.  Goooooooooooaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllllll.  Oh I have more than a girlfriend.  Lapse near me, will you?  A tongue is basically amazing.  Talk, eat, taste, suck.  You have a ghost phone and I have a ghost phone so now I feel less lonely.  Less kept.  Less like the empty cavity of a ball, a lopped lozenge, a curve of kneecap.  Quit flailing around, you sissy!  Get off the fucking ground!  Wait.  Are we in the pool?  Will you: destroy the tape?  Will you: unseal that wonderfully brown quart bottle?  Will you: pretend we are actually turning ourselves into ourselves?  You pitch.  You nil.  You slide-tackle.  I am a big fan.  You say, "Football is forensic."  That sounds smart, but I don't get it.  "Like art, dumbass."  Ah, you're unclothed now.  Still-life: OxyContin, coffee filter of Cheetos, tattoo of a blue fox (or wolf?).  Stoppage of time.  Here we go again: vuvuzela.  

Copyright © 1999-2017 Juked