static

this head is a rusting cauldron of negativity. filled with melted sour candies.

this tongue is slow, lazy, and numb. there used to be a canker-sore on the tip until i bit it off. someday they'll say there used to be a tongue in this skull. until i bit it off.

these hands are inactive. a lot.

this stomach wishes it was always filled. never sick. never the harbinger of liquid shit. never knockin' on your door with a fart that leaves a permanent stain in your unfortunately designer labeled tightey-whiteys.

this liver holds nostalgia to some fun memories, and a lot more truth to the blacked out ones.

this pancreas is a myth told in biology textbooks. read it to your kids at bedtime.

this hair is a mullet. potentially. most of the time it is either too long, too dry, to oily, too poofy, too flat, too much in my face, too much in yours. long hair can mean you're a caveman or a supermodel, a fag or a queer, the villain in a chinese martial arts movie. it suits me. sometimes.

this skin tells you that my ancestors are from islands. and ever since they invented the yo-yo it's been a ongoing sad story for them.

this toe is stubbed. the toenail is ingrown. and bloody underneath.

these eyes should be closed, with maybe a little sporatic flicker here and there to indicate a deep sleep, but the brain connected to them is maladjusted. like an immgrated family. like a jet-lagged businessman. like a disgruntled postal worker. like a baby elephant whose mother was killed by a poacher for her ivory tusks. like a guitarist who was forced to play the drums because the band needed a drummer. like photographer who hates pictures. like an eskimo that sucks at fishing. like a social worker who doesn't care if you're molested. like a wigger. like a high school teacher. like a platypus. like a transvestite. like a first-year college student.

this penis' biggest fan is me.