Oh Jesus, the White Woman Is Loose


The white woman—-the whale woman. She is obese and she is loose. She is yellow and sordid and base. Squids! Oh, dirty beast clean yourself. She squats on milk crates and makes monkey noises. She wears styrofoam earmuffs and she moans: "Roo!Roo!Roo!" In this bodd dawn, it is flat. She plays marbles with her frozen feces and makes nooses out of dog collars.

Soon, there come roars from the woman. Unlite, there come roars from the woman-—she occasions to breathe in and out and pant: let me pant child, she thinks and frets and thinks her woman-pieces. She fidgets with her rolly rolly polo fingers. She is embarrassed and frazzled and ashamed. She looks like a broken vacuum cleaner. On the television, two men in white suits climb into a rocket and shoot themselves into the blackspots of the sky. She doesn’t roar anymore but she thinks, then, that her hands are like tiny planets.

The government poisons her skin and her breasts. She soils herself and her little girl that is now not so little. The child is yellow and large. The child is being queen and not seeing queen and not knowing queen: she is queen. The child is twenty-seven and munches the loose wrappers in the dumpsters because the child is a loose piece of trash. She squats and bobs behind a glory-hole motel. She stutters and clasps-—gape, gape: they are not real! She has breasts and she has breasts that are like tiny spaceships that shoot into the sky like thin happy arrows.

The men, inside, take pictures when she worms: they pretend to gawk. But it is boredom, monotoned: car mechanics, plumbers, janitors, monotoned. The gray skinned coat of moustache and tobacco turned, lated: early in autumn. It is not highschool. Grim and ghasted and she is fat and loose and it is let again to the sick. They pour milk in her hair and she spirals and coughs and vomits.

“Swiss woman: Sing.” They say. They have flat eyes, tall circles, half shaved: wade and walk the wait to death. The life is lifted and golden and then loosed and off-beat and yellow. In the trailor homes, there are the overweight and the underweight: the others, finaled, deceased and diseased: enter, python fingered—I have neck tattoos. At the very least, perhaps, the deathless marked men are not alive either. At the very least, perhaps, the off-beat descent should destroy itself in its own satisfaction and desire for empty clutter and dissatisfaction and imperfection and flaw.


They should call her Swedish. Or Polish. Or English. She has English hands and English teeth. She smokes and looks like a hooker but she doesn’t get paid because nobody really pays her and she likes to put out because she is a spaceship: pow-pow-pow-pow. Later, she shoots Mastiff in the head because Mastiff says that he took the head of Jesus and put it in his cornfield. Pow-pow-pow-pow.

The priest gives mass below a crucified Jesus that has no head. Now the catholic men and women have nothing—-oh nothing!-—Oh Jesus! It is sad to watch Mass without a head. It is sad to take communion from our savior who has no head. Pow-pow: caw-caw-caw.

She gonna start her crying and bawl like a little nun. She gonna start loosening her straps, she gonna hit someone, or stick someon, or maybe fuck someone really hard tonight. She fittin ready to tear herself or hisself to pieces.

The men in police cars come and arrest her and one of the men has sex with her in the back seat of the cruiser because she looks homeless and smells like urine and alcohol and nobody in the police department cares about the homeless girls that smell like urine and alcohol and go behind the barns with the ribbed skin men, the webbed feet tramps: Oh, the in and out, the up and down. Beast! Clean yourself!


She shot Mastiff because he crossed the picket line at Wall-Mart and she got fired. She got fired because she was fat and she had yellow skin and black teeth and when she smiled the little kids said ‘Monster! Monster! You fucking Freak!” And ran out of the store and down into the parking lot and once one of them got hit by a speeding blue dodge pick-up that had just robbed the SuperSeven and was making its way to Highway 70.

The truck was going too fast, the woman was too fat, and the little girl who got hit was too stupid. Still the fat girl shot him in the head and went into the bathroom and did some crude fat girl dance on the toilet and played with her feces and said “I am the most disgusting creature and so I should eat my disgusting mess and tell them that they can’t make me anymore disgusting.”


The Father killed Mary and stampeded into town with her head in his hands. He had blood on his chest and his hands were in shakes and his eyes were hallowed and hollowed and deep in the stomachs of the animals there was heat. Her eyes were not closed. The father wept with her head—he said Satan had come to Murtle. Murtle is our town. He said that Satan would come into the closets, would come into the closets at night. The police men were drunk and laughed. They told the Father to sleep it off. It should all rot like wet wood.

Yellow and Orange are fall colors.


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