Dead Refrigerator

My refrigerator has stopped working. Things are rotting in there. My perishables have perished, a buffet for microorganisms. I still open my refrigerator from time to time, even though it's dead. Nervous habit. It's insides, lit with yellow light and covered with moisture, reek like the river Styx that sometimes flows between my crotch and thigh.

A shorn Scrotum

There is nothing more unnatural than a scrotum without hair. Sexy ... I think not, more like a soft wad of freshly chewed gum. To shave one's scrotum is to strip a lion of his mane.

Time for Making Business

Late to the office again. I have to get back to David about the Final Documents on the Peterson transaction; Richards will have my ass if that doesn't fly through Finance Committee.

To Do:

1. Follow up with David.
2. Fire Helen.
3. Lunch at Pastiche
4. Tickets to Borneo

Renaissance

I awaken this morning with the sun and the cocks crowing at the purple sky. The faucet is on in the bathroom. I turn it off and sit down on the toilet. I can see myself in the faucet's chrome hardware, hunched shoulders, stoic growl. I move my body to alter the shape of my reflection. It's uncanny how malleable we become, superimposed on mass-produced plumbing fixtures, mirrors into drugged out worlds and early morning thoughts. These are the every-day muses that support human introversion, echoes on bone and sinew.

I fart out a fist full of shit and again my classification is obvious, a generitype covered in geometry and equations, surrounded by sharp corners and cold tile; time will not stop for my thoughts. I turn the faucet back on so as not to interrupt the flow.

Calling in take-out

Why the ordeal every time we order pizza? There's just no need. I hate to call; you hate to call. We have established this. Why struggle to cross an infinite abyss. Pizza is delicious and you taint it with your selfishness. The word is pompous if you live in Utah, it may be idiosyncratic anywhere else. But I digress. Tony Pepperoni makes a pizza worth giving everything for. His pizza forces atheists to their knees, so clearly was it birthed by a higher power, too perfect are its sausage foothills and pepperoni basins.

That's it ... I'll call. Oh, you called already. I claim victory. I am a firey hot warrior.

Prophecy

A storm in the sky is less than a half gallon away from a cyclone in the toilet. There are Japanese people out there. Hunker down young soldier; the world is a matchbook covered in black grease and stale breath. Search for Souza, the gay wizard, two tablespoons of fossilized blood closer to a manimal than science can prove.