Bowl of Face

Her husband’s face floods with water and empties itself into a bowl.

The wife places the bowl in her freezer.

Once the body starts to turn, she files the proper papers and has it disposed of, but keeps the bowl.

Each morning she takes the bowl out, lets it melt, and then stares into it, hoping to see her husbands face – but she only sees her own reflection.

One day she takes the bowl out with her into the garden.

Halfway through her weeding, she hears the phone ringing indoors and leaves to answer it.

A stray dog comes into the garden and laps up all the water in the bowl.

She returns to find that the dog’s face is now her husband’s face and screams with delight, “Truly! Why if this just isn’t the best of all possible worlds!”

But the dog runs away and she spends the rest of her life searching for this unique animal.

Metaphor During a Time of War

The breeze solidified into a bar of iron.

The men came and took the iron for the war.

Other men came and threw her in jail on the charge of
hoarding materials deemed essential to the war effort.

Thus, one makes metaphors during a time of war
at one’s own peril.

Dialogue Between The Woman Without a Face and Her Boyfriend Who Lacked a Body

“I wish I had a face,” said K, rubbing her body.

“I wish I had a body,” said L, rubbing his face.

“Nothing’s ever simple,” said K.

“If only it could be as simple as Jack Sprat and his wife.”

“Huh?”

“You know – Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean.”

“But you know I can’t eat!” shouted K. “You know I can’t eat. You know I just have a hose, and yet you’re always mentioning eating. You really are a passive-aggressive fucker you know that?”

“Oh. Sorry, Miss Perfect” said L, sarcastically.

“Go get fucked!”

“Now who’s the one being passive aggressive.”

And K rubbed her body.

And L rubbed his face.

Criminology

The nanny scrubbed the baby with such force that she scrubbed him entirely away.

In a panic, she began scrubbing herself with such force that she scrubbed most of herself away as well.

By the time the baby’s parents came home, only the nanny’s arm and shoulder were left.

Detectives declared it a murder-kidnapping.

Over thirty years later, the case remains unsolved.

Thus, we have even more proof that criminology is an inexact science.

What We Don’t Talk About When We Don’t Talk About What It Is That We Talk About When We Don’t Talk About The Thing We Don’t Talk About

You say through our eyes,
“If you’re awesome you will go up this big hill.”

I say through our manservant,
“You can’t yet says the words
I wants to hears from my own mouth.”

You say through our hole in our final French cruller,
“I think I will able to function just fine
spending the majority of the day
on a plank laid across a wooden box.”

I say through our cord to our sewing machine
wrapped over and around into a bow,
“Sitting at a single horseshoe table, you make
a pattern of raspberries and blueberries
that looks vaguely like a crude airplane, but
then add a steering wheel to each of the children.”

You say through our curl of our long strip of paper on the floor,
“A carpeted ding-dong feels good on my toes.”

I say through our cigarette burn in our laminated,
cigarette-burned map of Southern Ohio,
“There are 37 ingredients in Twinkies and
14 of them are made with Federal subsidies.”

And so it goes.

For this is what we don’t talk about when we
don’t talk about what it is that we talk about when
we don’t talk about the thing we don’t talk about.

A Couple of Years Ago Jane Austen Landed in My Yard

A couple of years ago
Jane Austen landed in my yard,
compared to the size of the Earth
to the size of my eight-year old daughter,
then told us an old dream she’d had
when she was 9:

“I glided toward my neighbor’s front window,
then into the wall, bounced off, and landed in
Mexico, near the shore where a channel
should have by rights existed (it did not).

I did not like the prospect of relying on my
classroom Spanish for the rest of my life so
I prayed to St. Jude and soon I was in the
Ozarks atop an Arkansas horseback riding
horse going through a passage so narrow
that the brambles on either side tickled my legs.

We rode until we came to a clearing where
I saw my ancestral home and I cried out
‘Thank you St Jude for helping me!'”

She then told us that when she awoke
Emily Bronte had written the first chapter
of Jane Eyre in a beautiful spiral of
tiny cursive down her left leg,
ending at the tip of her little toe.

We left her praying in the yard to St. Jude,
and when we looked out the next morning
she’d been replaced by 5 ducks – true beauties.

We shot them immediately and feasted on
fresh duck for a week.

But it wasn’t just dumb luck that got us those ducks.

We were survivalists. We had the forethought to plan
for a post-apocalyptic future – one in which you might
need to be able to shoot ducks from narrow slits in a
hollowed out oil tanker in which you made your home.

Invariably, during each meal that week
my eight-year old daughter would look up
from her plate of duck and say to me,
“This duck tastes so much better than
Jane Austen would have,” and each time
I’d weep a little on the inside, for those were
difficult times in which to raise a daughter,
let alone raise a daughter as a single father.

And two years later – they still are.

Sailor=Baker=Soldier=Miner=Singer=Tinker=Spy

my sailor was a tailor
the first mate was irate
whenever they unfurled the sails
he’d cut from them a suit

my baker was a faker
the cops they blew their tops
whenever he made donuts
he used a pound of mulch

my soldier was a Folger
his major was enraged
when’er they charged the enemy
he threw them coffee beans

my miner was a Shriner
his boss was at a loss
whenever he worked in the mine
he wore his little fez

my singer was a ringer
his band would curse the land
whenever they played “Freebird”
he slobbered on his horseshoes

my tinker was a drinker
he gave the midwives hives
whenever he made housecalls
he passed out on the stove

my good spy was a small-fry
his gave the spy chief grief
whenever he played baccarat
he wore peppermint stilts

To the parent:

This activity will develop
your child’s ability to
give fire signals,
light the fuses
and blast things,

as well as increase her confidence
in her ability to make things
on a piece of sandpaper
that is pinned in a convenient place
on the inside of her coat.

It also provides an opportunity for
your child to feel
on her bloody, throbbing shoulder
a long cut rather than an open bullet hole.

The machine is
placed in the former boxes
to cut
at a minute’s warning
the long night
and the very next
child.

After bleaching
clamps are then placed in position
for seven days. In that time, you will know
some unspoken signal
nitration through animal charcoal or Fuller’s earth –
or naphtha washings.

When a neighbor comes in to borrow
seven coats of wax or
one thousandth part of a pulverized room
with a glass roof or numerous skylights,
look for the rest of the road
and at the moment you see the rest of the road,
start walking.

“Why Don’t You Try Vacationing Inside of Mahatma Gandhi?”

There is an island inside of Mahatma Gandhi offering a breath-taking underwater view of turtles, fish, roots and jack fruits.

By snorkeling inside of Gandhi, one can enjoy the under-water marine life and view the rarest varieties of corals.

You can also watch hundreds of fish nibble away at the vestiges of the British colonial empire.

***************************************************************************
EXPAND YOUR MIND:

Did you know that Mahatma Gandhi founded more than 1200 species of fish and 350 species of Mini-Turtles?
***************************************************************************

Near sunset you are very likely to spot Gandhi on the beach weighing fish larvae from Cuba.

Visitors are encouraged to talk to him, capture him and gut him, as Gandhi himself makes for delicious eating.

He can be poached, baked, broiled, or fried – though he is most commonly served as a sandwich on rye bread

***************************************************************************
THEY SAID IT:

“The bad habits, like eating the other dogs, are the prerogative of the brave.”
– Mahatma Gandhi
***************************************************************************

Although Mahatma Gandhi is a terrific tour destination for families who want squat on the ground and learn how to perform medically unnecessary operations on Australian Cattle Dogs, a new version of Mahatma Gandhi – tentatively titled Manhatta Gandhi – is being developed.

The new Gandhi will be better equipped to play online hidden object games; provide more than enough authentic Siamese kitten names; and feed on fish, seals, turtles and other marine carnivores like crabs.

***************************************************************************
DID YOU KNOW?

Because Gandhi could not eat meat, he subsisted exclusively on cartoon puppies.
***************************************************************************

If you’re fortunate, you might see either Gandhi come ashore to lay their eggs near a spinning wheel serving puppy chow, then go off to the Physical Fitness Centre.

If you are new to Core Knowledge, as you observe Gandhi doing incline flyes you may be tempted to ask your tour guide questions like “Are all those tubes really necessary?” or “What would happen if you removed them one at a time?”

But these questions are answered already in your guidebook – so don’t be a schmendrick and ask about the tubes.

To An Angel With Wings Only I Can See

You are an angel with wings
only I can see.

When you sleep
I caress your wings.

Sometimes I write poetry
on them – gently crafting
love poems to you
that disappear in a tiny puff
when you stir or awake,
as I prefer to write them in
a combination of soot and spit
a la James Castle.

Sometimes I rub them with
something called
FeatherSoft n’ Shine
I picked up at Sam’s Club for Angels.

Sometimes I paint pictures on them.
Nothing dirty or obscene.
Lately I’ve been painting pictures
of seamen inside purple sea-monsters
gently swimming into a cave.

Sometimes I put my face in between
them and shake my head and go
Brrrrrrrrrruuuppp! Brrrrrrrrruuuppp!
Brrrrrrrrrruuuppp! Brrrrrrrrruuuppp!
as if they were the breasts of a stripper
but feathery.

Sometimes I pick a feather from
one of your wings and proudly wear it
out and about on my forehead in a headband.
This is the true answer to your question
“What’s the deal with you and headbands lately?”

Sometimes I’ve picked more than a single feather.

I’ve picked enough feathers that I lay each night
with my head resting on a pillow lovingly made from them.
So when you recently made the observation
“You know you’re sleeping on pillowcase without a pillow in it?”
and I responded, “It’s something I read on the Internet
about a new way to cure sleep apnea,”
I may not have been totally truthful.

If only I had stopped there.

I have also been selling Native American headpieces
“made of the feathers from an angel’s wings”
on E-Bay – a lucrative venture in terms of units shipped,
and yet, troublesome, in that I have received
numerous complaints from dissatisfied customers
who claim to have received only a barrette sans feathers.

This would also explain the mail I have been receiving
from the Pennsylvania Attorney General’s Office
and the Federal Trade Commission
and that prominent criminal attorney who advertises
on late-night re-runs on the X-Files.

He wants me to plead insanity.
But I tell him there is only one plea I can make

“I plead love
of an angel with wings
only I can see.”

And he seems to be quite pleased with this.

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