CRN# 12309


The Terri Schiavo Poems

She feels my balls against her cheek, I’m sure.
I stand my cock straight up and touch it there
Against her face and wait. Her eyes are pure,
Without regret, and misty, but look to where
My dick is not. Beyond the world of men
Where life and death are both the same,
Two awful sides enjoined to see which can
Oppose a moment’s stillness more, a game
Whose shrieking shrillness ends in quiet stares
And open mouths alone. In mouths like hers.
And yet my dick and she are free of cares
And very much alike, since both have sores,
Are velvet soft, and never will succumb.
I strike my dick across her teeth and come.

Epistle to Terri
Between you and me, Terri, the world outside
is hardly worth the effort. Those who’d matricide
you, I mean, infanticide you — since like a baby
soft and pliable, you bend, like a turd, maybe,
in supple hands, a pale albino turd — they know
you spend much too much time at the window
and never will put it all together. Two plus two
is four, so Terri, this means — this means you.
A while ago perhaps when beauty still adorned
those smooth, retarded cheeks, when forlorn
and forsaken your poor husband discovered that
he’d never hear you bitch at him again and sat
mercilessly down in front of your wheelchair
and wondered aloud if he would ever put it there
between those thighs again and breach that pussy,
well, maybe it was easier to keep you alive to see
just how it’d all turn out. But you sure fooled them, Terri.
That pert, spiked nineties hair gave way to hairy
dry lips and underarms. Your arms curled up. Nary
a dick could fit within those palsied hands, I’d say,
though I’d try it since as Jesus says, love’s okay
and I’m the only one who takes him seriously.
I don’t care if you’re brain-dead, Terri. Mysteriously
enough, we’re a lot alike. Only you’ve got the eyes
a goldfish has. I keep my eyes cauterized
and pointed downwards since we’re surrounded
by enemies who don’t think they’re enemies, who act dumbfounded
if you don’t laugh when they laugh,
and who stare sometimes as a frightened calf
would stare, a retarded meat-machine
with eyes as far apart as yours. I mean,
just moments before, they lashed out
like little children, twisted-faced, that sneer and shout
and gurgle piss through squinty eyes when there’s
not a dick to plug the hole. But where’s
your hole, Terri? God above gave you another.
No, that’s the one that came from Mother.
The one right there that’s in your throat,
upon which, like a husband, I would dote.

Why, that is it, my little dolphin. —Is it sore?
You know, that bright red blowhole is where I’d pour
all my affections, if I could, making love
to that hole, slipping my fat man in with a shove,
inside that extra hole that makes you extra woman.
I’d climb bare-assed onto your chair, its wooden
arms breaking. Naked below the waist, I’d squat
and find my way to that new Hippocratic twat
installed by Christ Our Loving Lord, your doctor.
But he would not be there to act as proctor
to our experiment in love, I’m afraid.
Some time ago, he got betrayed
by fat religious girls with mean, slanted eyes
and faces like Daddy. They know how to sympathize,
but do so in a quieter voice than when they condemn.
Religious girls keep their undies on longer, a gem
of wisdom from Jesus to me. You never see
a hundred-pound religious girl, do you, Terri?
Was Jesus there at the bottom of the bowl
when you tossed back that filet of sole
through wired teeth? Jesus, the fisher of fishes
Probably caught that one, too. I’m a believer in wishes
and think that had you used that last birthday candle
on something other than the toilet handle,
your brain might not have vegetized completely.
But you’ve become a votive candle so neatly
that those outside have hardly noticed that prior
to becoming a cabbage you were a swinging girl on fire
with B-cups only minutes away from exposure
at any time. And yet, all the world seeks closure
in pairs like those. Especially now, since with no bra
these many years, they’ve drooped and sagged. Or so I saw
on CNN, just minutes ago, before I started to write
this note to remind you not to give up the fight,
but to keep going on, the way you are. You and me
are one-hundred percent vegetable-free.
But let them keep thinking they’ve got us in a pickle,
then I’ll show them mine, and get out the sickle,
and harvest the wheat between my legs.
Angels go downward; God gets the dregs.
Then you and me will pull a Thelma and Louise
and enter the Special Olympics. Chinese
checkers will be our sport. You can read minds,
and I’ll pinch some of the gymnasts’ behinds.
Then you’ll compete in the spelling bee.
To pull the plug, they’ll have to get though me.

Formulas and
involved in the
Resuscitation and
Resurrection of
Terri Schiavo
I poke the roof of your mouth with the head
of my dick.

This suggests dentistry, dental dam, which is Colorado Dam.
Dams are for beavers.
I squeeze my dick into your feeding tube hole.

This poses a particular problem for the concept of virginity.
On the one hand, it is clear that here is a hole that has never
been punctured before. On the other, it is a hole that is
already open. Given the former, a feeding tube hole can only
suggest a virginity par excellence. The latter, a hole with an
empty virginity.
Good thing it hasn’t sealed shut yet.

Women’s liberation can only reach its acme when it achieves
the total control of anatomy. Breast implants, collagen lip
enhancement, and plastic butt contouring are only baby-steps
in this regard. Women will have achieved equality only when
they can seal up their pussies and reclaim their virginity.
Your face doesn’t change.

The implacable serenity of the visage here can only mean
Goethe’s Eternal Feminine.

I mount your chair, knocking over an IV,
and stand on the arms of your wheelchair
my ass in the air.

Love is being exposed. Soft fluttering of doves,
the high exposed ass is tenderness symbolized, the martyrdom
of the rectum, the rump, the derriere. Only a man who would
expose his ass to Terri Schiavo can be said to love her,
since in indicating his passivity to a vegetable,
he indicates the ultimate peaceful salute of open hands.
I fuck your broad open mouth.

The mouth that never closes is the perpetual affirmation of life.
Amor fati. The mouth that says ‘yes’ to all.
Your eyes never change.

Like Heraclitus’ stream, the mouth that takes all comers is also
the pair of eyes, unchanging, that remains adrift.
You ought to have a Playboy spread.
Only it’d be two panels, instead of three.
Because of the wheelchair.

It is unclear whether Terri Schiavo had a wheelchair,
since she never went anywhere.
But when she appears in my dreams,
it’s always on top of wheels, it seems.
Who the hell hooked that car battery up to
Wasn’t me.

It’s possible that for years, the love of my life
went without underwear in a demeaning exercise
that could only have contributed to the decline in her
spiritual health. To make amends, I am having her stitched
into a corset right away, strapped and tightened like a nut
into a cotton cockpit.
Some people think to keep you alive who think capital punishment is
no big deal. I see no contradiction myself, but can resolve the problem
in the following way: I’d give you the electric chair. We’d slip that
metal cuff down over your head. Your misty eyes wouldn’t blink.
Then we’d watch those eyes burst and plop and bubble over.

If we can start giving people in a persistent vegetative state the
electric chair, then we’d have people in a persistent sauteed state,
and it would cure hunger.

q*[1-exp(-x*t)] / [1+exp(-x*t)]

baboon’s heat
can you see pink
in this optical illusion
the illustrious sign
of the closed Illuminati
priestesses who gaffe
in a way
John Holmes
was not a giraffe
but a poor fellow
whose grandfather
was a dowser

The self-delusion is so complete that it is now
possible to affirm a thing in its entirety and
effectively promote its opposite through one’s
behavior, hoping all the while that the thin tissue
of lies that sustains one’s own abject poverty
remains absolute.
But what do we inhabit if we inhabit a thing in
such a way that we kill it while we are there? In
other words, what dignity has the Word if as a
pre-conscious object we allow it to ignite a blind
immanence wherein the nervous enemy is shibboleth to our own fears?
The deaf and the dead are not the same.
One may still speak to the dead.


# Mass of the pussy P = (weight in ounces)/16/2.2 = (1.2+0.7) / 16 / 2.2 = 0.05398 kg
# Area of the pussy A = pi*r^2 = 3.14*(0.5*0.976/12*0.3048)^2 = 0.000483 m^2
# Compute resistance factor: k = 0.5*rho*Cd*A = 0.5*1.2*0.75*0.000483 = 0.000217
# A four-inch penis has a nominal impulse of 10 N-s and thrust of 6 N. The “rating” cited
applies to the thrust, giving a scrotal impulse for a Caucasian four-inch of 10*90% = 9 N-s.
# Compute the bum time t = I / T = 9 / 6 = 1.5 sec.
# The gravitational force = M*9.8 = 0.05398*9.8 = 0.529 newton