by Wiley Wiggins
Once upon a time there was a diamond anaconda penguin who said, "prisoners were herded onto ships in single-file lines." This Diamond was rusty with disuse and lost in a little girl's sweater pocket along with a love letter from the little retarded boy who sits in homeroom isle C, under the watchful eye of a large Bengal tiger. On the playground she blacks his eye and thick mucousy secretions slick his face, but secretly they communicate like flowers have sex: on the wind and on the filmy wings of insects. Plans are laid out in bold reproduced photographs, blurred and sharpened into black geometric designs that have little to do with the original ../../images. Stretch back a tiny spine and sleep all day in the sun like a cat. Green metal fingernails of the mommy-robot awake larvae at 9:00 am with digital alarm-clock eyes and grubs begin feeding, still in the dark since they do not yet have eyes and the mommy robot sees by infrared. Heat signatures of the larvae show their gender and age as they slurp regurgitated protein with soft translucent mandibles. The retarded boy got his back cursed in a game of tug a war and now his skin is rotting at such a young age, he looks so becoming in his safety helmet... The secrets of Mexican cooking so close at hand. A man with iron-straight pant-legs like PVC pipes cuts names from roll-call sheets. He is an island of dignity in a hive of rotting, mutated children and grubs.
The man owned sixteen chickens at the time of his arrival (in this country, that's a fortune!). A chicken wonderland. A chicken fiesta indeed. Now he only has eight chickens. The children are to blame, they take his chickens and devour them live in the public bathrooms, then smear graffiti on the walls in chicken-blood. Gangs of roaming, drug-frenzied children soaked in chicken blood, break-dancing or whatever it is that they do. Secret signals are sent out over iris-emitted pattern rays... It looks sort of like a mottled icy beam of light, but it flickers only for an instant like lightning, so sharp like thread.
Love is real but no one deserves it, is the special message on headline tickers at 6:00 PM and the coffee is cold in the lunchroom. Lupita the lunch lady watches civilizations form on the surface of the black liquid. A great war rises. The Kings of the east send out war parties into the southwest, where the clans of the beastmen draw heat up from the iron underneath in their telemetric heat-wells. Flickers of light dance on the surface of the coffee as the world cools and dies like stop-motion mold growing dead-white in god's eye time. Lupita gets bored and lights a cigarette. The man will come back soon for his sup. Pollo, pollo, pollo!
Huggy like a teddy-bear made out of lovable busted glass, "I call him crunchy." Children without teeth crawl across the plaster ceilings and suck fluorescent gasses out of light fixtures. Don't ask me how they do it, man, I'm an "idiot." Fingernails penetrate the sticky rind of an orange and various undergarments swirl screaming in the porthole of a dingy grey-green dryer. Punk-rock lipstick on a middle-aged elementary school teacher. Vomity.
Tape recorders slide out of the walls on coral stalks, regarding parents who are coming in to vote, taped off from the children like a crime scene. The most beautiful woman who ever lived buys a candy bar and picks her nose, checking her finger to see what color it is. Children crawl through the air ducts and make secret pacts in the wall-spaces. Go figure, I'm sick of getting psycho-analyzed by sixteen year old girls who think Tori Amos is some kind of visionary artist. Now the Hitler-Jesus-Dumptruck-Transformer; there's a visionary artist. Not only am I going to kick in your television set, I'm actually going to brutally fuck it while its still plugged in.
Swirling glow in the dark rosaries and spider-legs in raspberry yogurt fuels jet planes that will never fly. Air force pilots snort speed in the cockpits and cry about how they'll never see another episode of Three's Company. Don't worry, I'll never let it all hang out again. From now on I am a dried out pimple. A forgotten patch of discolored skin.
An eye peeks through the blinds across the street. A truck pulls up a cloud of dust behind it, bright swirling brownian motion materializing sunlight. Make it rain please, make it rain. I will do a little stupid rain dance out in the front yard and all the neighbors will stare at me and I will make weird indian noises, just bring on the precipitation for fuck's sake? Huh? I want a torrential downpour in broad daylight, sun still impossibly shining and a million tiny delicate full-circle rainbows no longer vague and fuzzy but now completely tangible and suddenly a little sinister. Flowers wilt and it rains insecticide, the sky is a shade of diarreah. It rains warm, flat, cola. It rains sticky coagulated band-aids. It's hot. Outside it's like the crotch of an eighty-year-old prostitute in Mexico in august. A chipboard ceiling forms over the surface of the world. The Family Channel and Disney suddenly advise suicide. The president comes on television to say "fuck-it, we're doomed," and lights up a pipe of crack while the first lady beats the first daughter to death with a golf-club. The world's population of bumble-bees return from Alaska, but now they are made of some sort of red metal and they can speak all of the languages of the world.
"Humans," they say.
"We're going to start killing you now."
And so they do. The children and the escaped mental patients form tribes of barbarian warrior-preists, wearing pieces of sporting equipment and draperies. They kill and eat anything they see and hide from the bumble-bees during the daytime. The man with the slacks straight like iron bars hangs himself in the laundry room next to Lupita's spinning panties. The remaining three chickens are put to nest and soon everyone will paint easter-eggs. That will occupy the children.
As for me, I'm still here. I'm not sure who I am or what exactly I am doing, but I'm sure it all must be in good order. If something were amiss it would be noticed and handled by the proper diamond penguin.