And now for something completely different...a prose poem called "The Munchies" that I wrote during Week 1 of Octsoberfest. Self-publishing here because I haven't found any markets for things this weird.
He wasn’t particularly hungry; he just had the munchies. Which is why, when he finished the family size bag of Doritos, he plucked a button from his shirt and popped it into his mouth. It crunched between his teeth and tasted like a coffee bean. Next he sucked on shirt cuff. It melted on his tongue like marshmallow. His slacks, he discovered after several minutes of gnawing, weren’t edible at all, but his shoes were raspberry fruit leather. Once he’d eaten his clothes, he stuck his pinkie in his ear and dug around. The earwax he sucked off his finger was like a lemonade jellybean: a bit tart, a bit chewy. He reached up and pulled out several of his hairs: black licorice. Then he plucked out an eyeball. It was salty and gooshed like a ripe cherry tomato. Grossed out by the texture, he swallowed it mostly whole. His finger came off with a satisfying snap and tasted like a cross between celery and carrot….
And here's a prose poem I wrote earlier this week. It's called "The Break-Up." Again, too weird for the journals, methinks.
As you let the last word slide off your tongue--slippety slip-slide like a rainbow drop--and fall to the floor--a plash of multi-color against the dark-grained wood--and the roundhouse kick you meant to deliver never comes--it languishes in the river of forgetfulness--Lethe or Styx, I forget which is which--instead your eyes become all buggy but there's no yellow fringe on top just your crusty eyelashes stiff with sleep-gum, sleep-gizzum or sleep-juice--whatever, you crusty, buggy-eyed, open-mouthed monster with your tongue hanging out like it's got a hold of you rather than the other way 'round, which is what gives me the idea to grab that tongue and give it a good shake and your whole head shakes too and you say "Outh" and look like you might crap a red Camero but you don't do that either because you're all talk, all talk, all talk, all barky-bark-bark and no bitey-bite-bite, not even a prick, so I let go and snow starts to swirl around me, an invisible wind lifts my hair--you'd think I was Storm from X-Men except you know I'm not--but what you didn't know is that while you have last words like rainbow drops I have some kind of swirly magic that swirls my skirts with snow into a blue-green-white blur and blinding and when that wind dies down I've popped off to a magical fairy land, leaving you with wet colors on wood and a few spring leaves and a little pile of snow melting on the floor. And it's freezing-ass cold in that room now and your thin sweater ain't gonna cut it, buddy.