A Jizz Moment Can Mean So Much

I was obtaining a kielbasa treat at a popular gas station/convenience store near a big grocery store in a part of town that is like a baboon's ass.

Am I distressed it is ugly as a thirty foot column of dog shit?  No.

The condiments there are excellent and diverse, canned sour kraut and relish in institutional style serving fixtures, the chili sauce dispenser, the cheese jizz dispenser, upside down plastic dispensers of sauces people didn't know of in 1998, as if people less than age twenty five could die of substance abuse without exhausting all his/her food choices, and the coffee there is outstanding.  I will attest of great sanitation, weenie buns cum in a safe-like oyster case, the cock shaped kielbasa units are always fresh and flavorful, fuck it all, that convenience store/gas station is a motherfucking lark.  I was riding my bicycle ten miles plus outbound followed, right the fuck then, with another ball buster in, when it got to be kielbasa time.  That mini plaza, ugly as duck shit, is an oasis.

Twas there that my best moment of the day, of the week, of how ever long I wish to claim it's giggling giddy memory, that two cashiers made my day.  As one lithe exotic beauty was ringing up my weenie purchase, so heavy with kraut, chili, lots of other garbage, her comrade cashier and she conversed in sweet voices, sweet, sweet laughing, feminine voices, the woman to the left saying, as I approached the check out, "they must get a lot of nookie in the back seat of them things."

As the other tall woman tapped the cash register keys, she smiled so radiant, so priceless,  glory of  pulchritude working like a one armed paper hanger, "Yeah.  There was jizz all over the apholstery."

That was absolutely all I overheard of their conversation, and it made me laugh.  It made me laugh most of the way home, which was a hairy six miles, if I felt like pushing the bike, but I lucked out superbly, decided to use the bike rack on the bus, caught the thing, and glory be, the cash box wasn't working so I got a free ride home, with the bike safe as milk on the carrier.   I guess I will content myself they were talking about a limosine, or other public, or private, conveyance, vehicle, bus, car, SUV, Humvee, who cares.  Any vehicle that has jizz all over the seats is living proof of vitality, of one kind or other. Or else there may have been a sex crime, and of course I hope not, I abhor that brand of misconduct, but as long as it was consensual jizz, I'm happy for everyone who had fun.  It can be wonderful to have sex while driving.  And it can take  two cashiers at a convenience store/gas station to remind you.  What could possibly be more life affirming?   A free bus ride, some rip-snorting good kielbasa, and edification.   The North Side.   No where else.

Edification Can Be A Real Big Pill

How concepts wander on the low chaparelle.  Like a bunch of fucking crack heads!  'Twerking' is an internet meme, some famous Barbie Doll either invented it or did it on orders from the Stalinist/Satanic West Coast leadership, and I had hoped not to hear of it again.  No such luck.    It's buttock emphatic, with practitioners hunching forward, ass out, working it.   Initially, it was done to music, but eventually people were able to eliminate expensive and inconvenient sound production.   Screaming and breaking windows is cheaper and easier than playing Bach on your digital cello.  Extending a huge monumental ass and shaking it to and fro is called 'twerking,' and it is growing in popular usage.  I was watching the Jerry Springer Show.

Transgender women were beating the fuck out of each other on stage.   One of them was scary large, another one lithe, over-confident and vicious, but they would converse about daily life, with the security staff at ready, then they would set to slap boxing.  Also fists.  The larger of the two women had a boxing stance unlike most professionals, but was fantastically intimidating.  Heck, I'd pay up if she said to me, "Where's the money, milkhead?"  Security staff had to intervene often.

Finally, it was time to get some audience participation going.  It was a relief.   Some wise soul suggested into the hand-held phallic microphone that the two combatants settle their differences with a twerk off.  The two individuals agreed!  Winston Fucking Churchill couldn't have worked this the fuck out one fucking teensy weensy bit better!  The two fine ladies needed to prove to themselves, each other and the world that their ass was as real as any woman's ass was.   They were women.  Not men dressed like women.  And the truth was in their ass.

They turned away from each other, then back stepped carefully, each leaning forward, hands on the knees, the ankles rollicking to a drum beat.  The two asses engaged at center, no talking, no senseless debate over ethics.  They both worked their ass, cheek to cheek, with comparable conviction and power.   With equal gender experience.  Parts of the audience was overcome with sensuality.  They remained locked at the buttocks for a full minute, both working their ass, nay, I say, 'twerking,' now that I'm ready to call it by its rightful name.  The two transgender individuals were twerking, and when they finished twerking, I felt certain they would be able to resolve their differences and become better transgender women who twerk.  And I'm glad I saw it all happen.  Thanks for reading.

Poetry Corner: Screwed and Glued

Screwed and Glued

oblique and sparking on a power line
the aluminum siding crackling
smoking like a party girl
the gutter helmets at liberty to walk downward
the mailbox porcine and lazy
holes in the roof let rodents in and out
some so large they block the moon light
the penumbras are never on kilter
even cosmic rays here are uncoordinated
you have to keep reminding them why they are here
'you are a particle, you asshole,' I have to shout
'you have cosmic authority to act'
no use
they hate they way I talk

poem: Seismic Pain

Seismic Pain 

wango desperation interior bongo
hermit zipper stay up for another few hours
him taken in with the news
he keep hands still hearing ice cubes melting
the Marsh Wheeling stogie burning a hole in the fabric
Charybdis whirly up from cold war era cushion
Old Crow sideways on ovular throw rug
thick glass bottle neck pointed like he needs to kiss something
his eight foot taxidermy bear looms over his health status
a water buffalo head on a plaque is tipping forward
the man's myriad antlers chatter in the low grade earth quake
all the kings antenaes
most of the jack-off's knick knacks
rattle and talk to one another on the oak shelves
the guy's dentures talk fluent English