--- K .  S I L E M   M O H A M M A D

Hello, this is Ron’s toaster. “The pinkest pig in the polis.” Oily record 
weasel and Ohio of both sexes. Ryan Seacrest with his point of view yields 
rich art. Man, accused of shaking his baby to death, has been in for the 
late night work in school books. Hugh Grant & hockey. Three-year olds and 
other members of the task force. Growl and grunt and chase a cat. His 
death has left a gaping hole in the hearts of this family. This is one 
reason and only one reason.

Rudolf Nureyev, Jesse Owens, Pius XII. The OED and antibiotics have cut 
the toll in death and misery. Unlikely stories. I became a Counter 
Intelligence Team. Old in 1952 and scared to death as a rifleman. Zoomie. 
I had great respect for my “grunt” brothers. We do not seek violence or 
death. You were my first guinea pig. Space: 1729. Baltimore Ninja 
Death Squad. “Seasoning the Obese” (Slayer cover). “Marines Hymn” and 
“Baby.” It shines on death, where he sits. That’ll fix things.

The cold dead deaf deal Debby grove growl gruff guano guard Roman romp 
rood. Booklet of words and images and suffering. Showing a man getting 
beaten to death with a Big Book of Australian Folk Songs. There will be 
pressure to tell is thus killed, and that his death though painful but 
that he would listen in response. He can’t be drug to death.

He had heard about Archilochus’ brother in law. The civil service types at 
grunt level. Stuck up for F. Scott Fitzgerald. Antisystems (noise and 
found sound collage). An ultra-primitive opera. Grace beyond the grunt 
call. After dark, to meet and grump and howl. Taunt chunky blunt bounds 
noun counsel energy Venus issues herself eat red air loose marshal kissed 
bars flat factor. Injury and/or death to pedestrians. Chief PR guy. May 
his cat never hunt.

Living now is like walking in a gloom where you know the death date. I am 
not a barbarian you know outta here I am not getting poked. I read an 
article that was either written by L. Ron Hubbard or found on a can of 
Freon. Stephen King stopped and regarded Jacky from his stupid pig eyes. 
Those funbags make me chant for food while Rob bleeds to death chopping 
wood. His father came on relentlessly, like fate, like death, like doom. 
His sound does not always fit in well with what is known.

Melt away, dissolve, leave not a rack behind; go, be no more; die &c. The 
section of this poem describes blonde bubble butts, Russian peasant daily 
life, lords of doom, sauce for pasta recipe, girls who grunt loudly when 
accounting. I keep wondering if there’s a term for this. A&P. A’s. AA. 
AAA. AB. ABA. ABABA. These words are meant to bring to mind the poem “To a 
Mouse, on Turning Her up in Her Nest with a Plough” by Scotland’s favorite 
poet, Robert Burns.