SUPERMILK

May 7, 2007

Narvaez's Lunch

so i flexed my gold-medal-award-winning ass into the joint and found me the fattest, greenest, leatheriest, barber chair you could possibly imagine, it was all fuzzy in this, sort of, primordial cave-dice way, like a swolled up aorta-chair with a fine moss covering, well i sat me down on that fig-brain-water-mount and said i want you to do every fucked up thing to my hair you can possibly imagine and the girl with the long, long scissors said "excuse meh?" and i said i want you to cut a hair here and angle a slice there and i want to walk out of here with the most fucked-up, zig-zagging, frayed-end, bob-lookin broke-down haircut you can conceptualize and she just stood there as i eased my ass into the baseball-glove like grip of the sofa-chair.

there was a black light which spun little sparkles off the tips of my teeth, and because of this, the girl would not move. "but maybe i could just take a little off the ends—" she began, and i unfurled my miniature flag of spain that i would keep tucked away. it's time for narvaez's lunch i said enigmatically, with my eyes closed and a long sweep of black hair hiding half of my face. now slice. and shred. and leave me no dignity, woman.

but she refused. i thought i heard a sob, but when i dramatically swung round my red satin hood and matching sleeves, she was gone. i had no choice but to carry my beautiful locks out with me. still attached. to my head.

SUPERMILK is an expert Squeezer of Lemon, Thumber of Nose, and Navigator of Moronity. His mark can be found on the Bedpan of Hammurabi, the forehead of Dagonet, and the office stationery of Jorge Bourgoise. He dreamed up this cluster of unabashed letterology at 5:37 PM | (0)

April 15, 2007

The Sour Return of SUPERMILK!

This blog has been dormant far too long. Now, like a chicken bustin' out his egg, I bring the wet fur and skinny legs and tiny mewling sounds. So bring a gallon of sweet n sour and the sesame seed bun, billy-jo, because SUPERMILK is back and we is bringing tha' cluck!

Yeh, so. For the next day or two, I will be fixing up styles and nifty snazzy things that don't involve words. But don't get too comfy. It's almost time to rumble. Or crack.

December 7, 2005

A Multitude of Gracious and Prevaricating Fornicators

O, THE RECORD RELEASE PARTY WAS A LAUGH RIOT, what with the huge headless woman cavorting constantly and me, prancing right along with her, but I was only trying to calm her twitching aorta, well, and my nerves at the same time. I had to keep her breathing until we reached the third Act, and I did it in 4/4 time, as you'd expect. She kept telling me there was something spectacular waiting there, and who was I to argue? What's a little neck-grease on your fingers, if someone's handing you a divine promissary note?

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November 10, 2005

I Am Gradually Seducing My Neighbor

I am gradually seducing my upstairs neighbor by cooking up lovely pans of garlic, peppers and eggs, and placing them under the fan in the wall that leads upstairs, the one that filters into her quiet living room. I do not eat the meal, but only let it sit and cool. Often, it is quite cheesy.

I know she sits quietly and expectantly every evening, there, on her green velvet couch. I know she keeps her eyes closed, and gently samples sniff after tentative sniff. Each day I make my gestures of reverence. I speak to her in the language of peppery buttery linguini; in the tongue of tart raspberry jam over hot corn bread; in the lexicon of baked butternut squash and cinnamon.

As I cook, fluff, simmer, or fry each dish, I think of her, waiting. I move quickly, but not so quickly that the recipe is compromised. I know she would expect nothing less. I know she values my dedication to quality, and I know she wipes a tear from her eye as I shuffle across the floor underneath her, carefully navigating my hot pan of marinara under the vents. I bake for hours, simply for those ten or fifteen minutes it takes a pan of cookies to cool down and send chocolatey oatmeal ribbons of scent upward, toward the sky, toward heaven, toward Mrs. Woo.

September 8, 2005

You're My Sliver of Baklava and I'm Your Ticklish Scar Tissue

oh, the memories. everytime i look at the sore under my lip i think of you. like my love feelings, it now has become like a scab that i cannot resist. it's the phone, when i reach for it, and saying hello is like peeling up the purple plate and peeking at the pale skin like pupa, moist and unformed.

actually, no. it's not become like that at all. things are still groovy, and ever since measuring you for hand balloons, i've not been happier. i've taken up whiskey, in place of your fake sympathies. it's working out well. i wake up filled with cheese, and i hardly need to shop for food anymore. i'm unbecoming human, and it's about time.

by the way, chances are slim to excellent that i will begin ignoring you, as my relationship with your best friend deepens. i may even pretend i don't see you on the street. in my mind she'll be the reason i even met in you in the first place. but don't take it personally. in fact, i don't even know why i'm explaining to you. it's all water under the bridge, fire in the pants, whatever. so what's a little spilled tapioca pudding in a crackhouse? as my nana was fond of saying. ah, nana, sweet nana. nana with the blistered lips and the hollowed-out eye sockets. you had to grab the damn pipe out of her hands.

there's something extremely comforting in knowing that your stomach acids can dissolve a live frog. there's something very disquieting about feeling those acids work on your own stomach. finally, there is a grotesque sort of joy when you actually swallow a frog, and feel it happen for yourself. but that's life, right? in the end, it's either dying on the long highway, or in someone's belly. we're all -- you know -- frogs in the wind. just cracked-out frogs in the wind.

August 19, 2005

Schaincöer Raga Pouch

now my hunger is growing claws. it has become a sort of fascination for me. something i can stand apart from, like a naked almond-girl with a really smooth ass, and say, "good lord, that is a nice slab of buttock there!" you know, as if i were standing apart from it. from her, that is. the naked girl. as if she were my hunger. so what i am saying is that my hunger is like a naked girl. i hope that makes sense to you because i've got an itch and i'm about to tear out my fingernails to reach it. i think i want her skin to brown slightly near the creases. in this way i can know there is true butter involved.

god i'm hungry.

i begin to feel both faint and as if someone is shoving a huge steel spike through my gut. i'm nauseated and all images of browning nakedness dissolve into greasy limbs of double-crispy chicken, actual hallucinations o'ertaking me (everyone should use that contraction at least once) as i stumble into the bathroom to cool my head by dunking my face in the toilet. ah, cool, pulpy water. i exhale happily, my lips vibrating and sending a delicate spiral of small bubbles to the surface.

as i make my way through the living-room, i exaggerate my walk so that all the sausage in the house plumps at once, and as i am quite aware that fourteen pairs of binoculars and three bb-guns are trained on me, i pass by the plate-glass window more than a few times. in the green shawl.

i frown quite obviously so that the people across the street are quite aware that those growls are not my stomach, but are, in fact, the sounds of large cat trapped in my closet. i shake my head at them, conspiratorially, as if to say can you imagine? these cats we all have to put up with!

August 10, 2005

A Good Guy to Sniff a Tube of Glue With

I've often heard people say "Now there's a guy you could drink a beer with!" about our President. You know what? I have to agree. Dubya is a damn fine man to have a beer with. And that's not all! How do I know this?

Well, I just got back from Crawford, Texas, and man did I get loose! I"m not really supposed to be blogging any of this, but I can't help myself. Hell with it. Later, if they grill me, I'll just claim that I heard it all first from a reporter. That's known to work in these types of situations.

Well, good ole Dubya had one hell of a bash down there on the ranch, and just like ole Condi, I did my "ranch time." Tell ya what—I had no idea what that entailed until yesterday! Hot Damn, as george likes to say, grabbing his crotch—hot damn.

I know, it's somewhat unsettling to think of, but you should see the man when he gets trashed. now that is something. I hate to say it, but he does get sort of obsessed with horse penises, and it really tended to make everyone uncomfortable. I mean he is the president and all. Nobody really wants to confront him. But after the third bottle of tequila (I think it was right around the time that big fella with the happy face painted on his beer-belly was handing out those little green pills?), Dubya led us all into the stable and was just making the biggest deal out of the horse's member. He was like pulling it out, like stretching it out and just making the strangest noises. Sort of like a "WHEEEEEE" type of sound. He'd tug it until it was stretched, and then let it go, so it bobbed all over, and then he'd crack up like it was the funniest thing in the world. Seeing him there, all leaned over and pulling on the horse schlong, well, we all just laughed and laughed and laughed. You know...in that "Jesus-Effin-Christ-How-In-the-hell-do-I-get-out-ofthis-one?" sort of way. When he started up with the whole "Watch, here's the Rove leak, get it, the Rove leak" thing, it got really weird. Finally, somebody started talking about war or death or terror or something, and that distracted him. Rummy threw big Dubya a horseblanket to wipe up with, and that was the end of the whole leak joke.

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