By Aaron Suranofsky
Everyday I live, I feel like this ditch puddle frog-fart boiling on a dirt trails grass-patched armpit. Turtle-shitish moss scums the sun x-rayed skin, like blehhing in bed, blanket-tied, stank greenhouse of myself. Mosquito eggs breed the pool’s heart pumping a mindless squirm; like getting up, parasitized by the instinct to survive. Algae ulcers the muck stomach lining from a diet of rotted remains and sporadic rain, like routining my day gassed with animal crackers, caffeine, and breath. Brown pubic weeds float greased with newt piss and moist death, like "When was my last shower?" And "I'll just wear that again." Until it’s bombed open– brown dog named Brook; Rolling the scunged skin clear, beating paws to the slimy heart, feeding it with barking excitement, trimming the grease weasel grass at the roots. Unstagnating everything, paddling splashfuls of life with momentum But I don’t look forward to washing her when we get home.