THE OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE
ZIPS IT UP
Like peas in a pod is all I can say: something just above my eyes opens up like lips and out they all pop: 1,2,3,4... Fibonacci. Oh I know what you're thinking, What happens when they're all spilling out on the streets like delinquents, which is what I keep hearing from Mrs. Andersen, one of those no-nonsense Planned Parenthoods with her four-color diagrams on SEXUAL REPRODUCTION IN THE HUMAN SPECIES which to tell you the truth look like your average Tommie and Tillie standing naked with their hands at their sides in a tanning salon except he's got this droopy little pudding nestled between his legs and she's got all this dotted plumbing like little elephant ears blooming between hers and they both have these dotted lines down the center of their bodies like they were fuselage diagrams for a balsa-wood airplane and all the time Mrs. Andersen's moving her pointer back and forth between the pudding and the elephant ears like she's explaining the floor plan of one of those Palo Alto split-levels I should be dying to move into what with the wet bar and the 2 car garage and the separate bedrooms for each of the 2 1/2 kids, but the whole damn thing reminds me of one of those rocket-launching sites at Peenemunde which gave us the V-2 and then Werner Von Braun who gave us Voyager II with its fuselage diagrams of Tommie and Tillie showing us their pudding and ears and which I hope to God comes around again in a couple of billion years and lands in the middle of Levittown like something out of Stanley Kubrick because like I say the lady could go on forever and always come back to the
(con’t.)
same place, so I hope she doesn’t mind the next time around if I give her a smack to remember me by, then unzip the lips and crawl back inside with Tommie and Tillie and all of my shitty, tit-sucking kids.