supported by
  • Streaming + Download

    Includes high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more. Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app.

      name your price




A collaborative studio album encompassing influences from many people & genres. Spoken word with a taste of everything.

"Don't Know Shit is an erotic and violent picture of our current Central America/North America situation, using real characters, real features, and real music to discuss this actuality. Love it... hate it... whatever. You've got to hear the whole tale once you've heard a slice."
- patrick mckinnon


released April 10, 2013

LEAD LYRIX by patrick mckinnon
RECORDED & EDITED by Bill Bailey
EDITED & MASTERED by Dana Bailey
ARRANGED (in majority) by Bill Bailey & patrick mckinnon

bill bailey - drums / synths / vox / mix
patrick mckinnon - lyrix / vox / harps
howlin' andy hound - gits
dana bailey - keys / synths / mix
vincent cadillac - gits
melvin johnson - bass / gits / vox
jordan (deathhook) bissell - vox / lyrix
kate (illy kay) harrison - vox / lyrix
p.j. tracy - piano



all rights reserved


poetry motel Duluth, Minnesota

contact / help

Contact poetry motel

Streaming and
Download help

Track Name: The Beginning Of The End
1) Beginning of the End

Striding toward me through the airport, the customs man is smiling. Most of me is still arriving from Belize City, Belize, though my body is definitely here in New Orleans, now.
Bag in hand, I stand. I watch him come.
& I don’t know shit about the end of this story...we just got here, only been living three weeks in Belize. Mary-Beth-North-Dakota-wife, is going under from the heat, & I’m her Johnny-James-sound-engineer who loves saunas & is only tired from installing Mr. Gorilla Burns,’ “Most incredible sound system in all of Belize! Best dance halls! Best ever!”
He’s thrilled they’re done, three night club bars, & all I have to do is run them, explain to Belizeans how this shit works. Belizeans, who are busy watching community t.v.s, adoring the glittering cities they see & the beautifully famous, the all-stars, the upper class. There are pitiful beggars in polyester rags who insect up to my staircase where I smoke. They think I’m one of those U.S. television wonders. They ask me for my lie, “No, I haven’t got any extra money, man.”
On the balcony, our children fool around with the pickny (the kids) they are meeting. They laugh over Lego’s, throw them from the railing. They clap, clap, clap, clap, clap as they fall.
Track Name: Orange Walk Town
2) Orange Walk Town

& I don’t know shit about mad adventure, but Friday I find myself in Gorilla Burns’ Grand Marquis with Mario & Snitch. Me & three Belizean pirates. We’re nearing Orange Walk Town, halfway north to Mexico.
Mario tells me later, “Gorilla land him planes right upon the highway. Keep cutting down them telephone posts the government put in along the road. Him close it after midnight, chop them poles then land him planes there & Orange Walk Town is no place for whities, Johnny. Them hate you. Maybe kill you for joke, if Gorilla no here, if I gone. Hell, maybe them fuck up Snitch, too.”
Gorilla Burns is a frightening celebrity, mid-30’s, humungus 400 lb. offensive tackle, Baby-Huey. Hundreds of hundreds always in his wallet. Rudeness his calling card, a wicked, toothy grin.
Yesterday, Snitch tells me, “Gorilla B.’s an enforcement agent for the United States when it doesn’t interfere with being a smuggler.”
Which means every so often he calls & squeals on the stray he has flying to Texas or Miami with a load of mostly flour duct-taped to his stomach, like poor Limey-Neil, such a boastful whitie, went to Houston & never returned, ‘cuz Gorilla wanted Limey’s sexy black wife.
& he got her.
“Gave it to her so tough we could hear their beer crates crashing & her bawling like a bitch,” Mario laughs. “It drown all conversation at the bar.”
& I don’t know shit about business, but Gorilla B. is looking for chicks to dance at his discos in Belize’s only “city.” We stop at bar after bar, seemingly getting nowhere, finally end up at the Orange Walk whorehouse, four kings on horses of gold. I’m young, happily married, & don’t understand that we’re here ‘cuz these ladies are going to be Gorilla B.’s dancers, but they won’t come with us until Johnny-white-guy fucks one of them to prove he isn’t some kind of agent.
& Gorilla Burns secretly needs to know if I am disposable, ‘cuz the disco systems are in, so now he can steal my wife, Mary Beth, Scandinavian like Belizean’s only see in magazines & on television, lovely, intelligent, easy-going. Unlike his wife, Dominating-overbearing-Sybil-blondie-dye-job-from-North-Dakota-also, which is where Gorilla Burns & I met in the first place – “Johnny James, Sound Engineer,” now serving Belize. “Too white,” & who’s to say, “too reckless.” I’m the only one who’s ever done it.
Many nights transmogrify Gorilla B. into an accessory for his wallet & he gets massively animal-wild drunk. Often he Rambos up, 6-foot-4 & grabs me across dented bar mahogany, lifts me off the ground by the front of my shirt & shakes me like rags. I’m gagging & helpless & he’s barking, “I’m calling immigration tomorrow to have your shaggy ass thrown out of me country & by god you better stay clear of the whorehouse here ‘cuz I don’t want none of your mother-fucking AIDS! You’re nothing but a ragamuffin! Worse than one Chinaman! Worse than a coolie!”
Whiskey is a screaming waterfall down his throat & none of the other guys ever try to stop this. Yet every few weeks, Gorilla B. sends over a grocery bag – a gift filled with indica bud so tight & resinous I have to cut it apart with a steak knife. My family often dines at his house (big honor), & he takes me on road trips to Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, & tonight, he tells me to go into that Orange Walk whorehouse bedroom, “& wait for Corrina. Brah, nah fuck dis up.”
Track Name: Corrina-Hornerina-Povertina
3) Corrina-Hornerina-Povertina

So I go. I wait. No choice. & soon, in struts this scantily-clad Honduran. Looks me over, runs her hands up her orange/lime shirt, long, violet nails. Her poochy waist pulses to some Mexican music. She sashays to the bed & raises a lemon skirt, exposing plum panties.
& I don’t know shit about absolute, extreme, unending poverty but find out later from Snitch that she was ensnared in the Honduran capital city, promised all she has to do is work in Orange Walk Town two months. They’ll feed her, clothe her, house her & then get her a green card. “We’ll even fly you to California!”
When the wicked knock at your door, don’t answer, but Corrina-povertina & the other girls do, are driven to Orange Walk in Gorilla B.’s motorhome & once inside Belize, they’re told exactly what “work” they’ll have to do & Gorilla fucks ever single one of them ‘cuz his wife doesn’t even know he owns this place. Tells those teens how they’ll perish if they refuse.
& I don’t know shit about immigrant hookers. I’ve never had one & I don’t want Corrina-roundy-moundy so I begin the half-hour pleading, non-conversation. She speaks no English. I speak no Spanish & she’s getting scared, lays on the bed, tugging her shiny underwear, slipping it aside ‘cuz fear comes strongest to those who worry, to those who worry.
& if she can’t get me, she’s in deep shit. & if I don’t, I suddenly realize, I’m fucked, too. & so is Mary-Beth-clueless & so are our kids & knowledge cures everything.
Corrina-full-belly flips over, props onto all fours, begins sweating & swatting, looking at me girlishly. There’s fire in her eyes.
& I don’t know shit about hitting women, never had one want me to, but I figure everybody’s high on something, so I start slapping her cheeks lightly. It makes her whinny & clutch. I slap stronger each swing till they’re stinging bees. She shimmies, peels panties down to one ankle, widens slender legs apart, reddening, begging for more.
& I don’t know shit about adultery, but Mary-Beth-steady-freddy loves to screw “normal style” once a week so I slip a finger inside cantaloupe, wiggle it around, in & out, land fresh prints with the other hand. She’s squiggling. I pull out, slide one arm under her t-shirt, tweaking her huge. She stretches out farther. I crack her greedy seat full blows.
“Aayyyy!” she cries. “!!!!...”
We’re both grunting as we breathe. Quivering, I stuff my head under her tee & suck tiny points, first one, a nibble, then harder & harder until she’s trying to draw back. I’m slaying firm flesh, her welted hinny rioting beneath my blows.
I suck little righty like I want to swallow it, pushing a thumb up her slit. She cannot get free, only pretends to want to. I slide my face between her thighs. My lips play with greasy, rocking pelvis. She massages my mouth, slathers her sugar onto cheeks & jaw.
When she runs into me next week, she is thankfully dancing at Gorilla’s Belize City Disco. She will rush me, enrapture me, call me my nickname, pierce me with brown eyes. I’ll spank her Levi’s & she’ll laugh, “Si, si,” have her friend, Angela, ask me if we can all go somewhere & fuck right now, please. & even with a family to protect, I’ll stutter, “Yes,” ‘cuz tonight my tongue is inside sliced-open periwinkle & Corrina-young-girl-crying-out one dream-come-true.
& I don’t know shit about sex like this, never considered getting naked with a red-cheeked runaway. She disconnects & lies beside me then drags me on top. I’m wondering why my cock won’t go inside her all the way. I look into what’s left of her eyes, Corrina-satisfied. I guess this is all the kumquat she has. Waist to waist, stomachs kissing.
I’m forcing her shoulders into the bed, then pulling her hair, full-chest together, heart to heart. I am trying to punch her body through the mattress. She’s spanking & moaning & jerking. She’s gripping my back, biting me, yanking me into her as roughly as she can, slicker every push. This tiniest, delicate clam. Unbelievable! (Corrina-smolder-spanky)
& I don’t know shit about a girl this young making the squad ‘cuz I never had anyone this age, even when I was this age & now she can dance at discos, believes she’s gonna just-about get wealthy ‘cuz there’s rooms in those discos where guys can doink her & the others (for 30 bucks a crack) & Gorilla B. will pay each of those little chiquitas $5 a screw, & when they get that money (they’ve been profoundly impoverished their entire lives), they feel rich, ‘cuz even cattle raised for butchering get to live for awhile. The first law should have been – no money.
But she’s hugging me like raw gold into that dripping cherry. I am purely senseless. We are swimming in sweat. I refuse to come, want this miracle to continue. I lightly slap her face surprised, then roll her over again, ram two fingers in. She winces. I pump them in as far as they’ll go, pulverize tenderness, crush her into the sheets. Looking over her shoulder, she has this insane sneer. I pry her legs open wider, dive my tongue into perfume, tease that fat trembling head, already swollen full & standing strong when I get there. I’m touching it like I’m going to suck it, but I don’t. I stab it with the tip of my tongue. Tip-stab. Tip-stab. Tip-stab. Corrina-mumble-scream filling the room. She’s erupting lava into my smile.
& I don’t know shit about ending great experiences, see no reason to end this one & neither does this refugee ‘cuz who cares what kind of cretin she’s going to have to fuck next, now is the only time it’s ever been like this & waiting is fine unless you wait too long. She can’t take any more tip-stabs, is gasping, tumbles over, grabs my head, connects our mouths, stuffs me inside of her. She’s saturated & the grip is going. She’s mewing, staring through me, pleading, do something wild!
I aim her legs up toward her chest, & press myself into one accepting asshole. Wide eyeballs, all pupil, no color left. She’s whipping her thighs & growling. I’m growling, too, her blazing pelvis crushing bone against my groin.
& I don’t know shit about anal sex & how Gorilla B. won’t let anyone fuck his girls in the ass at his discos ‘cuz it’s “sick & unchristian,” but I can’t figure out why I keep hitting this tight spot. Makes her twitch & release, whine out noises I’ve never heard before, though I know she’s howling, “Don’t stop! No one has ever gotten me like this! No one has ever fucked me like this! No one has ever caused tears while I came! No one has ever found this spot! No one even knows my lust lies here!”
I’m a strong wind at the right moment, turning this sagebrush into a Roman Candle. Corrina-continual-orgasm, yelping Spanish, whopping the living shit out of herself, grasping me full fingernails, flexing as wide as she can. We are two crazy storms. She looks up, all purity & hope.
Track Name: Mistah Fuckah
4) Mistah Fuckah

& I don’t know shit about cages or snares, but on Tuesday, using neither weapon nor trap, Mario catches a young alligator at Gorilla B’s farm near Altun Ha, then he & Sybil-Gorilla-wife, take that tied-up gator over to Burns Resort where Sybil-blondie-dye-job wants to build a caged-in pond, ‘cuz Sybil-flabby-gut-wrinkling-forehead-deteriorated-beauty wants to have herself a one-animal zoo. Sybil-lonely always gets what Sybil-always-horny wants.
The station wagon has a cargo-hold in its flat-bed rear. Mario dashes bloody gator in upon a jack, tangled battery wires & the spare.
“We got we one alligator oven,” he chuckles, & 10 miles of pot-hole road to the Belikin factory in Ladyville (have to pick up beer for the resort).
Sybil-in-her-daily-black-clothing-black-lipstick-black-fingernails-black-toenails-black-attitude shows her catch to the pleased, company men who bottle the Belikin Beer.
& I don’t know shit about animal affairs, but Belizeans really enjoy an alligator in a bad spot, so they like this one. It’s body steaming with battery acid, one of its eyes banged shut, dripping a long, blood tear. Sybil-who-has-Gorilla-B.-by-the-throat-in-some-way-&-throttles-him-for-all-she-can-get, cacklingly says, “My gator needs a beer.”
She pours one over its face. It doesn’t move & everyone laughs ‘cuz alligators are goddamned dangerous! Gorilla lost his dog to one last year.
Behind the resort, Mario dumps the young gator into an overturned freezer, boards & screen for a lid. Nobody bothers to name it as it waits all day for meat, ants crawling across its cobblestone face, eating at its wounded eye.
& I don’t know shit about recovering, but Corrina-povertina-hornerina licks her palms & begins gliding Mr.-floppy-droppy between minor-league tits & eating him as he arrives. She shoves me onto the bed, re-skirts herself, tip-toes up to where I’m lying, dancing her hips. I reach out, raise the hem over damp candy, softly swat till I see driblets. I swipe them & run them up her groin to her belly-button, fill that fatty well. She leans over me, buries her breath into my ear. Her scent, ripe pomegranate.
“Si. Si. Si.”
Then yanking away & swaying back upright, almost leaping, she straddles my face. I’m buried under her skirt. She fondles me, trying to resurrect stiffness with hot spit. She wants more. She wants more!
She’s grinding onto me & groaning, my gunner in her mouth, standing & ready to march. It takes 45 minutes of all the slut Corrina-teena has to bring me off a second time. Won’t take me out of her mouth, smothering me beneath her yearning crack & she is having another choking, bellowing orgasm, won’t release me, keeps flinching & squirming & gripping my skull between her legs, her hips, her thighs. This moment is the only one we have, dear Corrina-looking-for-the-future.
& I don’t know shit about enslavement, but Snitch tells me that the day before these girls are going to get their green cards & fly to California, Gorilla makes a phone call, has them all arrested & deported. New “freshies” arrive the next day. One profitable old-school, company-town style business.
Mario says, “Like the Jamaicans I drive to Mexico. Them pay $1500 apiece, get left in the middle of the biggest city in the world to wait for the plane to The States. But never no plane, sorry Jamaica-donkey. Never know what happen to them, Johnny-boy, ‘cuz none of them ever come back for tell we.”
Finally, Corrina-first-great-fuck & Johnny-first-great-fuck emerge from that room. We’ve been in there an hour longer than Gorilla B., a half-hour more than Mario-slow-come. Snitch probably took ten minutes, if that, but she & I look like we’ve just had our wedding night. Struggling to walk, we’ve made it to the couch. She’s holding me possessively, smashing my, kissing my dimples, my neck, my jaw, telling me softly, “” Sheesh, I’m getting thick again.
& I don’t know shit about reputations ‘cuz I’ve never had a good one till today, unwittingly winning the “Best Fucker Award.” Johnny-James-full-throttle-speed-boat-outta-dense-fog. & this is a huge deal among Belizeans, many of whom would fuck constantly if they could. & it’s even bigger among Belizean pirates who look upon fucking as their sacred duty to the women of this planet.
& I don’t know shit about smuggling people or money-running or stealing pre-Columbian artifacts for millions & millions of dollars, but today I get myself a name from Mr. Gorilla Burns.
“Mis-tah! Fu-ckah!” Paid to run sound here as long as I want to.
“Mis-tah! Fu-ckah!!” Respected by all for my long-lasting style, & no former-British-Honduran will ever rape or steal “Mis-tah Fu-ckah!!!”’s vulnerable wife or his charming children, safer than safe.
& they don’t know shit about any of it.
Track Name: Whitey Babies
5) Whitie Babies

May Lee is bartending at Gorilla’s Salty Dog two days later. She’s never bartended there before, so I ask, “Where’s Mission? Why isn’t he working today?”
She looks like she’s been waiting for me, wearing a boob-showing blouse & high-cut shorts, coos, “Mission who? Come here, I get something fancy for show you in the liquor room,” smirking impishly, ‘cuz the most dangerous thief is the thief who’s a hotty.
May Lee is Mario’s 23-year-old sister & Mario is much of the reason my family & I can live in this city. He saved my sorry ass on many occasions. He’s becoming my buddy & he’s my body guard, refuses to call me anything but, “Johnny-boy,” & I’m about to find out that Snitch told May-Lee-licious everything Corrina-teena told him. I bump into her as she stops, spins around, slides one thin leg from her frayed shorts & she is grinning. Decrees, “Come, come, Mistah Fuckah. Spitty-spit inside I. If you no, me tell you wifey about Corinna-shitty-itty. Juke I Belize-kind. Me bet me could.”
I’m wondering who, what... She points to the window. There are half a dozen dollies looking in at us. The most beautiful one blows me a kiss. May-Lee-bony-hip-actress is pulling me toward her, sits atop a stack of Belikin boxes, opens a tunnel I shouldn’t enter.
& I don’t know shit about using condoms, but I don’t believe there is a condom in their language, much less their country, so I’m inside May-Lee-kitten-strawberry.
“...God...,” she purrs, “...big batty...mmm...”
I hear the window-dearies squealing. She grabs my hips, thrusting onto me, sighing huskily, “ God...ooie-ooie...”
Her eyes are flames burning me alive. Her slim stomach is sweating. Mine is, too. She takes me out, rolls over, confesses, “Me bet triple, me get this...Corrina-pooie style...”
“Pooie-pooie, Mistah Fuckah, or me tell Mary-Beth-hoggy.”
I hope Corrina-spanky didn’t mention the slapping. I’m a man – I do it full-power. She’s bucking & grunting.
My knees are wobbly. She jerks off & slams me back into her toothless barracuda. I blow rockets. The window-girls are clapping. May-Lee-fakie-virgin barks at them to stop, kisses my throat, enraptures me, won’t let me rise, whispers, “No movie...stay, Fuckah-yes-boy...” Her gate is locked, no key. “No leavie...mmm...Mistah Fuckah baby...we jukie-juke again tomorrow. We jukie-juke again tomorrow.”
Eventually, I pull out, turn around & there’s Mission, the regular bartender. I wonder how long he’s been watching us. His grin explains – long time. It seems he & May-Lee-baby-talk have made a little deal, something in it for both of them, a workable plan.
“Mission,” I say, no hesitation, “$100 right now. I ever hear anything, well, you fill in the blank.”
Mission’s staring at May-Lee-slutty, lying there tickling herself, humming some love song. He thinks a minute, then replies, “200, Mistah Fuckah-head.”
So that’s how it started, Mario’s sister & one of the window dandelions who pleaded to be next & it was now May-Lee-fresh-flower-field’s job to make that happen.
& I don’t know shit about choosing a partner, but May-Lee-impregnate-us-all tells me, “The girls want Mistah Fuckah whitie babies,” ‘cuz skin color is status in Belize, the whiter, the more upper class. “Spitty-spit I & I eekies or else I tell Mary-Beth-momma.” Kid smile. Kid smile.
I’ve never been gladder about my vasectomy, want to inform her, but can’t. Instead, I stretch my thumb to her crease & push into juice, tell May-Lee-cutie-bubble-butt, “Fine, but only if they wear their very dinkiest panties, like the you wear...delicious May-Lee-lace...”
She smirks, “Yes-I!”
& some of the girls who don’t get pregnant, rally May-Lee-porn-director for more opportunities.
Track Name: 8 Ball
6) 8 Ball

& I don’t know shit about reputations, but I never lie to Mary-Beth-honest until I absolutely have to. Decide I need another reputation in order to hide this one. Some way to make my new nickname elsewise explainable. She hasn’t heard it yet & I need her to hear it from Mario first like he just made it up. I need her standing there with us when it happens...
The patrons of the Salty Dog are terrible at shooting pool so I suggest we have an 8-ball tournament, but fail to tell them I’m a 9-ball shark, say, “Gorilla, why not? This bar’s dead on Monday nights.”
There’s never been an 8-ball tournament in Belize before. The entire neighborhood comes & we have drink specials, thunderous music & Rosa-the-Spanish has boiled up some vegetables for hors d’houvres. Everybody wears shoes like we’re back in colonial days when this city’s canals were pure enough for drinking & the only pool tables belonged to the British. Everyone keeps saying, “This is just like The States.”
Each Belizean has a personal nickname for every other Belizean they know. But this event is a formal affair so all the men sign up using their actual Christian names, creating this weird registration board showing all these players nobody knows.
“Who in the fuck is Gerald Panting?” Gorilla hollers through the bottom of his beer glass. “& who in the fuck is Michael Henderson? Who in the fuck is William Faber? Who in the fuck are all these people?”
I tell him, “Gerald Panting is Hap. You know Hap...wears a beret...rides that rusty blue bike.”
“Oh,” he says, “Sadsack...lives with him aunt over in Yarborough Square.”
“Yeah, that’s him. & you know William Faber – ‘Big Buffalo’ – hangs around with Dr. Corn.”
“Who in the fuck is Dr. Corn?”
“I don’t really know much about him, Mr. Burns, but I’m willing to bet he’s shitty at pool.”
& he is.
They all are.
Except for Big Buffalo & Spy, the only two Belizeans I’ve ever met who know anything at all about 8-ball & in order to win, I have to beat them both. So, for the championship round, I add some extra rules to make them both nervous, & use every pool-shooting trick I learned from this hustler, Fat Eddie, in Williston, N.D. I play better than I’ll ever play again, beating Big Buffalo 3 games to 1 & Spy 3 games straight, winning myself 100 bucks & a pool-slayer reputation for my new wild name, ‘cuz when the last 8-ball sinks, Mario cries out, as though he & I haven’t planned this all out, as though we are surprised I won the championship, as though we didn’t plant Mary Beth right beside him, as though he’s just thought of a great new name for me, “Mis-tah Fu-ckah! Johnny-boy, fresh name – ‘Mis-tah Fu-ckah!”
Mary Beth can’t help but smile ‘cuz she’s proud of her, “Mister Fucker,” the pool champ, though she never tells this story to her mother & continues to just call me, “John.”
Mission-barkeep is pissed at me for winning & for getting so popular & fucking dear May-Lee-cinnamon-girly-moustache whom he desperately wants to screw but she’d rather vomit than touch him like that. I’m laughing at Mission ‘cuz this is what pirates do to losers when we win. I’m laughing my ass off until over my shoulder I hear Snitch saying, “Listen here, Mistah Fuckah. Give over one flask of Durly Rum, yes-I.”
The mirror shows a crowd of my new Belizean friends merrily gathering behind dear Snitch, all these empty glasses, all these big fat grins. This makes Mission’s copper tooth flash in neon beer-sign light off of his newfound smirk.
Track Name: Blackberry
7) Blackberry

& I don’t know shit about genetic engineering, never have a girlfriend till I’m 21, get laid 5 times before my marriage, none of them memorable, nothing wondrous. I am that small, weird, non-athletic, ugly kid who the large, strong, handsome boys in school always beat up, always belittle, and always slay, yet the next day, May-Lee-hostess-skin-tight-cheetha-shorts-showing-half-her-curvy-ass-that-desires-only-former-loser-boy’s-wood informs me there’s some killer pot, “at Kristi Blackberry house. For real, she middle name, ‘Blackberry.’ So, Boy-boy, make we go smoky-smoke.”
I follow. She holds my hand, singing the whole way & smooching me. We walk into a district I didn’t know existed, are met at the door by the world’s smallest, string bikini. I can’t decide how the top stays on. It reveals much more of Miss-skinny than it covers, obviously no pubic hair, barely covers her tooshy. She has stunning, blue Belize? & hardly any waistline where her stomach should be. Holy shit, she comes across so dainty & gentle. I mean, how can this immaculately pure-seeming woman be friends with this other woman who’s so very, very different? Instantly, I’ve forgotten about pot.
May-Lee-tip-toe-walking strips herself, then strips me & insists I, “Stick Kristi, or I tell Mario that you rape I yesterday.”
“Hey, no problem there,” I snap, eyes lost in Kristi-blue-awe.
May-Lee-clingy-here-comes-some-payback lies underneath Kristi & unties Slim-slender’s bra & thong, twinkles her identical-tit nipples, insists I, “Bite she nookies...Miss-prettiest-ever...bite she...good...Fuckah...good...”
She is the flavor petals would have if you could only eat them. I never want to stop teething, but Kristi-dainty pushes me off. I stand back, gawking at Blackberry-hairless-bliss. I’ve never seen one like this. I reach out & help May-Lee-grabber pry that sleek petaluma wide, gouging & stuffing our fingers into its slickness. Kristi-smoothie is moist & perspiring, but freaking a bit, too.
“Stick she fighty, Kristi-Kris.”
I’ve never felt pussy like this before, didn’t know it can be so glove-like & so inviting.
“Harder!” May-Lee-bitch shouts. “Harder!”
I’m glad to pound Kristi-pussy-shaver as long as I can.
“Wait, no spitty yet! Stick she boy-stealing’ pooie! Gator Beauty-queen in she pooie!”
My cock has to wedge open Kristi-protest-butt, five good jams to get inside.
“Strong...Mistah Fuckah...strong...hurt this bitch...”
& Kristi is crying, has been, streams running from her eyes. She is not trying to get away. May-Lee-wrestler’s using all of her grip, cusses her out, “You scaredy baby! You ishy cunt! Open you pooie! You no get free! You told I you wanted this so bad! No pissy-spit for you, Kristi-whiny! Stop trying for get free, you boyfriend-robbin’ slut!” Forces me to fill that squirming, flinching cave, swears I have to gush only in there or she will talk story with Mario & Mary Beth.
& I don’t know shit about rape & what the conflict is between these two, but I yank out, fill Kristi-wonderland vagina with tremendous squirts, sputtering, “’m sorry, she made me...”
She quits struggling, transforms, wraps soft, wiry arms & legs around me, her crotch so tight, drying her cheeks on mine, whispering, “Strong for you...strong for you...” Kissing & hugging me. “...this lee gal, she strong for you, Mistah Fuckah...”
Meanwhile, May-Lee-jealousy’s bitching, “You bastard! You fuck! No spitty in Kristi pissy, you yucky-yuck donkey-fuck! Never no more, Kristi-bitch-thief-slut-whore!” She’s slugging my sides & my back, so I ease out of Kristi-sorry & slide into May-Lee-screamer. “” She shivers, devours me. “...ooie... lovie-lovie...yummy-yum...slippy slidy...ooie-kooie...”
I’m lengthening already, Kristi & I crushing May-Lee-muffin into the wooden floor. K.-Berry-body, presses intensely into Johnny-J.-body. Legs wrap aggressively around Johnny-waist-desire. She’s whimpering, “...strong for you...strong for you...”
I whisper, “...o, tasty Blackberry...strong for you...”
& I don’t know shit about deception or jealousy, but I’m growing quickly.
May-Lee-teaser huffing, puffing, “...big bad nasty...fill me piss-piss...yes...spitty I...spitty I ooie...”
Takes twenty minutes of speed-metal demolition, Kristi’s groin & belly stuck to my stomach every stroke, before I have to fake detonating again, pretend to fill May-Lee-hunter with my sperm. Never lie until I absolutely have to... She’s satisfied, so I slide out & enter Kristi-heaven-slice again. She pants. I pant, softly purr into her ear, “Kristi...pickny for small kiss can start a generation...”
I push as far into her suction as I possibly can, both of us moaning & kissing atop May-Lee-jealous-ha-ha-fake-you-out-pussy-full-of-nothing-but-Mistah-Fuckah-sweat-‘cuz-this-secret-is-a-blindfold-you-are-too-blind-to-see-passed-out-cold-already-dreaming-of-the-babies-you-cannot-get-out-of-Johnny-James-vasectomy-Brown-exhaustion.
“ Fuckah...”
“ want to do you every time...fuck the rest...Kristi...Kristi...”
I cannot stop breathing her name. We collapse, a nude pile of humans, screwed stupid, two of us together, slobbering toward sleep, one beneath us, our squishy, squashy, zoned-out mattress.
& I don’t know shit about choosing, but this room cannot really be in Belize, ‘cuz one wall is all bookshelf, loaded with books.
”Fuck,” I think as I’m fading away, “Kristi-figurine is one strange Belize girl. I mean, she likes to read & who’s ever heard of that here before?”
Track Name: Window Dandelions
8) Window Dandelions

All May-Lee-outie-naval’s friends want their chance at Mistah Fuckah. He’s rich. He’s white. & he’s Mario’s best friend, Mario-most-handsome-lips-so-large-&-red-&-incredibly-suckable-looking-even-men-get-the-urge-but-they’d-be-destroyed-if-they-ever-tried-to. One rock-shrine-body of a man, & May-Lee-mate’s always there, hornier than a rabbit, completely nude, running it all, screwing one girl & one Mistah Fuckah, too.
& of course, soon enough, Mario finds out, ‘cuz this much nubility & every Belizean hears. They call it, “Say, say, say.” But they never tell my likable, friendly wife, know I am Gorilla Burns’ Rambo & a Burns-I is not a good guy to mess with & Mario wants some of this action. He’s known already as a prodigious spunker, 27 years old, 23 children, 900 girlfriends & the woman he always screams at from his pick-up truck whenever he sees her without the kids in tow, “Go home, bitch! Go home! No make I drag you home, bitch! Where you fucking kids?” His dumpy wife, Marlina.
& I don’t know shit about doing a guy’s wild sister right there where he can watch, but he doesn’t care that I’m fucking May-Lee-his-silly-sister. He isn’t gonna. He wants the other imp, says, “You doing one fine thing with this name, Fuckah-Johnny-boy.”
So now May-Lee-Barbie-on-whooping-gas-with-friends is bringing two sweet persimmons to every slam-a-rooski & May-Lee-tweaky digs lying on her back under the girls, tugging off Patricia-thin-skin undies & fondling Debbie-nipples-but-no-tits, chewing Sue-Sue-lemon-thong-rabbit-tooth-never-says-a-word-I-ever-hear-but-moans-&-groans-&-oohs-&-aahs-&-giggles-throughout. She also digs lying F.M.-built on the floor & driving her own hot crease onto F.M.-suck-mouth, May-Lee-facing-me, jacking off F.M.-squirm while I muscle crane into F.M.-pin-hole. Gets mad when I start calling Patricia-lumpy,
“Kristi! Kristi! Kristi!” May-Lee-fuck-that-fucking-Cinderella-stealing-fucking-Kristi-bitch-always-wants-to-come-back-say-you-she-wish-come-true-me-hate-that-slut-man-doll-always-steal-I-boys-from-I! I quiet her by stabbing into her grease.
She really digs peeling apart her girlfriend’s cheeks. One hand helps stuff me into them, asks them, “How’s that feel? Him give you one thick, batty-pricky, no true?”
& I don’t know shit about group sex, but Sue Sue always wears a micro-mini, no panties, carries thongs in her purse, every color known to man, pouts at me. May-Lee-tell-ya-what-to-do, makes me slowly slip a pair onto Sue-Sue-slick-tickle-clit-revealing-hem-line, then commands I pierce them both, Sue-Sue-still-in-body-tight-micro-mini, ‘cuz, “Sue-Sue-thong, she shy.”
May-Lee-single-bed, beneath her, spooning & pulling the sequined thong away enough for cock-attack.
“First one in Sue-Sue-thong, next one in me...May-May... Sue Sue...good!...good!”
Sue Sue, “ughs!” after every stoke & never comes.
“Me-me...Thong-thong...Me-me! You have to & you know why!”
& I don’t know shit about secrets, but she is not who I’m worried about. See, I am worried about Snitch ‘cuz Snitch is an idiot who crucifies truth for a profit & he appears to be itching to tell Mary Beth. Mario says Snitch is jealous about May-Lee-continuous-fire-trying-to-last-for-a-lifetime-who-so-often-demands-I-only-shoot-into-May-Lee-spithole-gobbling-snatch-holding-me-inside-her-no-release-no-removal-giving-the-other-girl-no-spitty-spit-at-all. Like she tears me out of Patricia-vast-unspewable-swampland, takes my whitie egg-breakers inside of herself, saying, “ already married, Patricia.” Has me lick Debbie-cheekless-ass-swollen-labia while she grips Debbie’s nose-bigger-than-her-face into her pussy. She stares at my eyes as I fuck but, “No come in Debbie, Mistah Fuckah. Shoot in May-May, boy.”
I switch stations. Debbie-not-even-90-lbs. is pushed off & I’m stuffing May-Lee-floor-mat. I sigh, “...Kristi...Kristi...”
“Fuck Kristi, Fuckah! Stop you talk! You poking May-May, boy! Kristi-thief-skinny-bitch! No teary-teary, Debbie. You too young for pickny, Debbie. Nah, nah. Hush up, Pigtail.”
Debbie-ripped-off is sobbing...cripes! I jerk out & cram it into Debbie-swollen-tiny-baby-maker-surprise-claims-she’s-18-fine, & I fuck her cunt rapidly, expelling come grenades, rocket-launcher style, crying, “Kristi...”
I don’t care how much May-Lee-envy slaps me, screams, “I call Mary-hoggy, you no stop!”
I’m right back at her, “Call Mary Beth & no Mistah Fuckah babies for you, May Lee!”
I stay hard & only finish thrusting once Debbie-no-ass-at-all-just-legs-going-into-her-back is limp & belly-smashed, unable to move her ropy, spindle legs & I am empty.
Track Name: F.M. Dial
9) F.M. Dial

& I don’t know shit about repercussions but, “Mistah Fuckah, so many pissies want you spitty-spit! But, we only fuck F.M. alone. No laughy, Fuckah. & no call her that other bitch-name. You know which, ‘cuz I you missy-baby-doll, but I’m F.M.’s missy-baby-doll, too & I no share F.M. pussy-ooie with nobody. No ooie!”
My boys understand how to run the sound systems by now. I only have to pretend I am working, so I say, “Sure, little ooie, I got all the time we need.”
She leads me to F.M.-long-paste-on-lashes-two-hours-worth-of-make-up’s shack every couple of days, & that’s fine with me ‘cuz F.M.-high-heels is well-hung everywhere, always in bra-less tanks & bright rubber bikini bottoms. F.M.-busty always powders me up good, ‘cuz she, “No want you stinky-icky man-smell...pukey!”
Today, May-Lee-miss-one-street-could-go-anywhere-but-never-does-&-only-fuck-F.M.-in-she-pooie-not-she-girls-only-ooie-(I try ooie once & Miss-rubber-butt elbows my ribs so bam!-bam! I stop ‘cuz I can’t breathe & think she broke at least one) leans herself against the wall, face-on-face with F.M.-weight-lifter, hauls F.M.-puff-bum’s yellow tighties down just enough so I can squeeze in. The women are hungrily mouth-to-mouth, have me give it to them standing up. Soon my dick lifts F.M.-glass-clear-high-heel-feet off the floor, crushes her. & up & down are always straining toward each other so I just hold that writher there. She squirms insanely & May-Lee-slimy-slash-guzzle-long-skinny-snake-tongue is clutching & heaving. We raise F.M.-backbone-length-hair even higher.
& I don’t know shit about pissing your swimsuit, but that’s when F.M.-pisser usually does it...slack, full-flush. May-Lee-pissy-piss calls it, “Sexy,” & I’m gripped with F.M.-muscular inside her sopping, rubber bikini, ‘cuz, “Rubber the only kind I own.”
Her hanging humps convulse as I pump & pump & pump, then we squash her like lunch meat. At last, I set her down, spewing May-Lee-me-second’s pussy.
I always want one of their kisses, but never get one.
Track Name: Snitch
10) Snitch

Mario says Snitch wants in on this, too. I realize it’s safer if we let him, so I tell May-Lee-hustler, “We need three Miss-skinny-thongies on days we decide to let Snitch have some.”
Which isn’t often ‘cuz, “My friends say Snitch. Him ishy...”
& I don’t know shit about personnel decisions but the day after one of our Burns-I boys suddenly dies, Mission sees his big chance to fuck Fuckah over for good if he lies really theater for an audience named Snitch, so Snitch comes to my house to kill me. His girlfriend, shy & strangely interested, in the background, here to watch. Mission has convinced Snitch that I murdered our Burns-I dead boy with some toxic, snake-venom poison I slathered on his steering wheel, causing him massive heart attacks every couple of minutes until he died, & for that, Snitch has come here to kill me in front of the kids & Mary-Beth-shocked.
He has a gun.
No one in this city ever carries a gun, ‘cuz that’s, “Chicago-shit,” but Snitch is completely fucked up & he does have a gun. He slams my head against the concrete door jam. Stars in my vision & still I consider pushing him over the balcony railing, but he’s too hammered, will bounce on his neck, break nothing, quickly arise, roar up the stairs then kill us all for sure so I begin talking rapidly, non-stop, on & on & on. Get him to sit down on the bench with me. Eventually convince him that whether he kills me or not, “Gorilla’s gonna come after you, Snitch. & he will find you. & the rest won’t be pretty. You’d better start running. Don't worry, I won’t tell anyone, no, ‘Say, say, say.’ You better start running, now!”
Enlightenment occurs & he does run, but it doesn’t save him. He’s caught, off-guard, outside a club in L.A., is turned into Snitch-feed-ocean-corpse. Yes-I.
Track Name: Prison
11) Prison

I’m getting cocky, tell May-Lee-always-in-charge-of-the-sex-we’ve-having, “Mario & I aren’t doing any more Miss-chicky-babies with hairy snatches & that includes you, May-Lee-bush. We want pink filling ready to eat, makes more spitty. Otherwise I’m gonna find Kristi-smooth-fat-pussy-lips again & fill her perfect-fit ooie with my pickny.”
Mario can’t believe it, but May-Lee-buzz-buzz agrees, has me shave her that afternoon, tweets & giggles, hates the thought of losing me to, “Kristi, the bitch!” & she personally razors any of the unprepared. “Shushy!” she bawls, “Mistah Fuckah style.” Sue-Sue-blueberry-speckled-thong, “ movie, eekie!” Lizzy-helpless-me-no-care-what-she-do, “ kinky hair!” F.M.-please-May-Lee-leave-a-teeny-stripline gets this minor exception. May-Lee-slicky-happy shaves me, too. Chuckles, “Mario’s on his own.”
& I don’t know shit about controlling lust, but Mario & I are joyously thriving into two eager, sleekies. Mine, Lizzy-whipping-post, has strange scars that run all the way up her back, keeps wailing, “Shit...shit...ah...oh! You’re hurting me! Owie! Ouchie! Ow! Ow! Owie! Owie!” but shoves herself more intensely onto each bust.
Suddenly, Mario-pumping-Carmella-howler-on-the-other-side-of-the-table, thinking it best I know, confides, “Gorilla’s wife, Sybil, tell I Gorilla madly in love with Mary Beth.”
Unprotected, unsuspecting Mary Beth, & then Gorilla B.-Mary-Beth-nightmare arranges a bust. Mario is supposed to be released. I’ll die in jail. & Mary-Beth-helpless will be Gorilla B.’s, however he wickedly uses her.
& I don’t know shit about any of this plan ‘cuz Mario believes it’s more dangerous if he tells me very much. He doesn’t want me dead or Mary Beth raped, so that night he invites her to come dancing with us, but North-Dakota-mother-has-marvelous-kids-all-the-time-day-&-night-child-rearing-Mary-Beth never has gone out with us before. It takes Mario an hour to win, but he’s cute & she’s changing & he does.
Gorilla assumes she’s at the house with the kids, like always, but, no, we drop them with Sybil, at Gorilla’s house, ‘cuz Gorilla’s never there & Mary Beth is partying with Mario & I, nearly the first time since our party-free marriage. Hell, she’s a northern woman, no need to party once you’ve got the husband.
We run into May-Lee-bunny-girl, F.M.-roller-derby-high-heel-magazine-make-up-girl, Patricia-where’s-her-husband?-fat-belly-big-bum-girl, Sue-Sue-silent-rabbit-tooth-shy-tiny-thighs-micro-mini-skirt-snakeskin-thong-no-thong-have-to-squat-down-to-tell-girl, & Kristi-2”-eyelashes-girl. I swiftly wrap my arm around Mary-Beth-possible-divorcé-girl’s waist.
& I don’t know shit about female propriety but those baby-hunting nymphs just laugh & squeal & chitty-chat with Mary Beth.
May-Lee-sneaky says, “Ooo, Mary Beth, you need step out more. You need party with F.M. & I.”
& Mary-Beth-kinda-drunk, agrees, “Sure, that sounds fun. We ought to.”
Now I’m freaking out ‘cuz just recently, Mary Beth has started wearing make-up again & cute, slightly revealing clothes, has even taken that in-the-way-hair-out-of-my-face-child-rearing-ponytail out. Fuck! She’s starting to turn Belize. Holy miracle shit!
I’m now gunning my May-Lee-brat down, but she won’t look at me & Kristi-light-blue’s won’t look anywhere else. I think, “Good silence, Mario. Good silence, John.”
Peace is only given by those who keep it. I heartily pray that these hootchies will take off for somewhere else, which at long last, my averted-disasters do.
& I don’t know shit about being arrested, but this night, we are arrested, Mario, Mary Beth & I, in a totally phony bullshit drug set-up. None of us had any drugs on us at all, no matter...
The three of us go to jail &, against Gorilla Burns rules, Mario sticks with us, shuts every chanting convict down by telling them, “That girl – she mine! This boy – he mine! Mario-tommy-goff-killer bring him own shellfish! Fuck with that, you fuck with I!”
Mary-Beth-benumbed doesn’t know why he loves us so much, but I do.
Gorilla-B.-Mary-Beth-luster is forced to come & spring us from that prison, immediately. Pays our $30,000 bail. Loans us his lawyer. Signs over one of his farms as a surety ‘cuz he can’t lose Mary-Beth-potential to that beastly prison, even with fuckhead Mario there to guard her.
& I don’t know shit about a beast in love with my wife, but
eventually, he’ll brutally murder Mario, ‘cuz the pirate rancher makes the laws his pirate animals have to live by. & Mario fucked up his great Mary-Beth-twat-rape plan, cost him capturing my unsuspecting, “Lee-poky-poke.”
& I don’t know shit about killing a man, but this is pirate law & order & Mario has also been robbing Gorilla for years, a million dollars or more, as well as slyly fucking Gorilla’s collapsed-mondo-boobs-each-larger-than-Kristi’s-whole-ass-lonely-wife-Sybil for even longer, up at the Altun Ha farm, so Mary Beth is not Gorilla’s entire reason for this butchery, & the last thing Mario says before his heart attacks begin is, “Fuck you!”
He is raving at May-Lee-sister-sis for never letting him screw that, “F.M.-rubber-butt!” He is yelling viciously at May-Lee-holy-shit! when the words, “Fuck you!” come out, the poison kicks in & the heart attacks begin. Later, in the hospital, just before he dies, Mario raises his head.
& I don’t know shit about last wills, nor testaments, but Mario tries to say some different last words. I guess he isn’t satisfied with, “Fuck you!” Or maybe he likes, “Fuck you!” so much he wants to say it again. His mouth gets fish-feeding like he’s beginning a sound. His sister leaning toward him, desperate for these new last words which are bound to be better than the other ones. Mario’s face & throat strain to cause some sound but nothing comes out & he begins to sweat. The snake venom Gorilla-B.-deadly had wiped upon the steering wheel just before Mario got in is now causing its fourth & final heart attack. It crawls right down Mario’s throat, sucks out all his oxygen &, “Fuck you!” are the only final, loving words from Mario-bro that May-Lee-sis will ever receive.
Track Name: Gorilla B.
12) Gorilla B.

& I don’t know shit about carrying on, but for nine months, prior to those lethal heart attacks, Mario & I are balding & scalding every koochie May-Lee-tricky-giggle-drippy-peeled-tasty-oranges-oozing-apricot-creases-in-waterlily-perfume-greedy-for-my-deliveries will allow into our baby-making parade. I always hope she isn’t charging them, but can never quite bring myself to ask her if she is. To North Dakotans, this is perverse, disgusting, but who is wise enough to be a judge? Who can tell Johnny Fuckah the history of the universe? Johnny is not from North Dakota. Johnny is in Belize & in Belize, it’s called style, & a man with style walks free like no one else ‘pon Creole nation can.
“Make them boys pass, Mario & him one, Mistah Fuckah.”
Style is Belizean religion. Style gets shimmering twat. Style has an asshole’s grip. Style just won’t let go.
I don’t know shit about the end of this story, mad adventure, business, absolute extreme unending poverty, immigrant hookers, hitting women, adultery, sex like this, a girl this young making the squad.
So now, Mario-body-guard is dead & Gorilla B. wears this wicked look in his eye like I’m-gonna-take-that-bail-you-out-of-prison-gift-back-by-raping-your-wife-like-I-raped-that-pig’s-wife-in-Guatemala-&-made-him-watch-remember?
Oh, I was time for revenge. I’m not even sure, revenge for what, but Mario tells this massive Guatemalan policeman that Gorilla B., this even more massive Belizean, has gone to policeman’s house to fuck policeman’s wife. Burns-I boys all thinking they’re just here for a beer, but no, it’s way more than that...the Guatemalan cop is off like his house is on fire & the rest is brutal larceny. Gorilla-B.-hider drills the cop as he’s rounding a corner, been waiting with a huge rod of ladystick, beats on the downed man’s knees until they break.
& I don’t know shit about weaponry but ladystick is every Belizean’s favorite ‘cuz it crushes bone & tendon without leaving any outward, visible sign. A man may be beaten to death by ladystick, & no one can tell how, or why he dies, unless they see it happen. The cop is completely disabled & wailing horridly.
Gorilla B. drags his body into the house. “Fucked my Sybil, did ya? Fucking pig! Never thief Rambo-Burns-I!”
Ties his begging, bloody-faced skeleton to a tin chair & severely rapes the terrified woman, slugging that cop jaw any time he catches him closing his eyes, looking away. “Fuck with Rambo! Maybe I kill you both! Burns-I!...”
...ending great experiences, anal sex, cages or snares, animal affairs, recovering, eating sperm, enslavement, reputations, smuggling people or running money or stealing pre-Columbian artifacts for millions and millions of dollars...
He misses border-closing deadline by hours, but Gorilla B. doesn’t give a flying fuck. Charges the F-350 through that locked crossing gate at 45 miles an hour, collapses the entire thing, Guatemalan guards firing machine guns, so David slams himself face-down, freaked out, onto the bed of the truck, doesn’t realize the guards aren’t trying to hit anyone ‘cuz, killing a Belizean who’s inside Belize, will get the guy who did it killed mean-kind style; so David’s new name is now, “Belly-duck,” for being afraid & hitting the deck.
& I don’t know shit about humor, but this story makes Mario & Big Buffalo laugh like mountain monkeys around a pot of Durly’s. So I send our kids & the Mary-Beth-target back to The States this week. But I stay. I’m in no hurry to leave this fuckfest.
...using condoms, picking a partner, reservations, genetic engineering, breaking what the conflict is between these two, deception or jealousy, choosing, doing a guy’s wild sister right there in front of him, group sex...
Gorilla B... Gorilla B. is now pissed at me, his thievery stolen. I know he’s ready to crush my sorry whitie ass, so I have May-Lee-cherry-tart invite him to one of our smutty sessions with her friend, Joy, her Johnny James, herself, Miss-I-moving-into-you-place-Mistah-Fuckah-‘cuz-dumbo-Mary-Beth-donut-gone-bye-bye-&-we-ooie-all-day-all-night-&-doll-girl-Kristi-come-ooie-&-we-ooie-she’s-nice-Kristi-sleep-in-we-bed-you-hug-she-nookies-&-play-with-she-pissy-she-butt-cheeks-you-nose-in-dear-smarty-swirly-hair-you-spitty-spit-she-nudie-ooie-all-night-say-Kristi-Kristi-Kristi-&-licky-she-bulgy-pissy-&-me-licky-F.M.-&-F.M.-can-move-in-with us-I-love-F.M.-&-F.M.-love-I-&-F.M.-love-you-thicky-pokey-bring-she-shiver-pee-pee-in-she-swimmy-swimmy-rubber-wetty-F.M.-love-you-I-say-‘no-F.M.-you-cannot-marry-Mistah-Fuckah-you-my-pissy-wife’-please-Fuckah-please-teeny-stringy-‘kinis-baldy-ooies-polka-dot-panties-yearning-ooie-pickny-wanting-princess-of-all-time-May-Lee.
I get mucho pictures of Gorilla Burns shoving it into May-Lee-trickster-traitor-nightmare-will-be-ended-if-Jupiter-turns-into-a-sun’s friend, Joy, who Gorilla B. doesn’t know is his fiercest enemy’s youngest daughter, all pubed out now, nude & shaved, splayed on the table beneath him.
...repercussions, making decisions, religion or sodomy, police enforcement, weaponry, invisible forces, humor, envy, unity, writing stories, lost wills nor testaments, community building.
Next day I tell him who Joy is & charge him 3000 fucking U.S. for the negatives, ‘cuz solutions only come to those who understand the problem. He gives me the money like a knife in the chest, so I say, “I’ve kept a few photos & don’t try to find out who’s got them. You’ll never guess. & if you fuck with me, they will be delivered.”
& I don’t know shit about noosing a prowling jaguar with latch & leash, yet boldly proclaim, “Your fate, dear Mister Gorilla Burns, is not your choice, but how you respond to Mistah Fuckah, most certainly is.”
Track Name: 4 Square
13) 4 Square

& then I waltz over to Kristi Blackberry’s house. No more May-Lee-circus ‘cuz it’s great that fire started, but it’s even greater that I put it out & Mary Beth is gone so who ya gonna tell, Miss May-Lee-secrete? Dead Mario? Maybe I oughta tell on you! Decide that Kristi-pure-angel is the only Belize girlfriend I desire. If she’ll even have me, that is...
Kristi Blackberry Burns is Gorilla Burns’ youngest sister & quite surprised to see me. When I smilingly say, “Strong for you, Blackberry,” she giggles & tosses the book in her hand onto the couch. Some Russian guy wrote it, Fido-Dufusesky-Whatever. She leads me hand-in-hand into her bedroom, ignites a dance-hall-music disc, big grin, “Mistah Fuckah, me no can believe you here.”
“Sweet Kristi, Fuckah haul for you.”
There’s a rainbow connecting lit-up faces. Her swaying body is a luscious bomb aimed right at me.
& I don’t know shit about truth anymore, but our future lies in who we let lie in our bed. She’s slithering along my fingers while hers are combing my hair.
“Me so lucky, Mistah Fuckah. Me so lucky. Me love you, Fuckah. Kristi love you long time. Lucky, Kristi. Lucky, silly-Kristi. Lucky lady.” Beauty that remains humble can love more than just itself.
“O, tasty lover,” I sigh, “I worship you, worship.” (& I also have kids I’m going to have to get back to as soon as I can force myself to abandon this.)
Kristi-shavie & I go on a nirvana experience everyday & I’m glad to go visit her mother & her aunties, love our trips to Belize Island, her teeny-weeny bikini lusciousness, her rose-petal mouth. We drink up ocean symphony, us the dancers, so content.
One day, I ask, “What kind of books are those ones on your bookshelf.”
“Novels. You want to read one?”
I chortle, say, “Kristi, North Dakota men don’t read any of that shit, just sports & ‘Playboy.’” I wonder how, in such pleasure, I will ever go back to being John-small-time-Midwest-sound-donkey, ever resume a normal, “yawn,” marriage. Hell, I’ll even start attending Mary-Beth-religion’s church in Middle of Nowhere County, North Dakota, where they’ll all be glad I am “home,” as long as I lie about what I did in Belize for the rest of my life, especially to my kids who will only be grossed out by the story, a story I can only tell in true fact on my death bed, not speaking any of it in Creole ‘cuz only Belizeans & I will understand it like that & if I die in North Dakota, the bison-heads there who hear me profess this tale will all call me, “Delirious.”
& I don’t know shit about last days, but May-Lee-why-you-no-love-me-&-F.M.-Mistah-Fuckah-need-your-pickny-always-hitting-on-me-constantly, will not stop coming over to my much that I’ve quit going there, tell Gorilla B. I’m taking three weeks off, a vacation, then truck over to Kristi-charity’s & say, “We’re going to Cozumel, the coolest beach with the most intoxicating beach-goofies & we need to buy you a bunch of new topless bikinis so you can scare all the boys & be the sexiest babe there & you can buy new books & read them in tree-shade near whitie-Fuckah-sun-bathe & we’ll eat at restaurants & swim until we’re tired & live in a surf-side motel & whoopee as many times a day as we can & take boat rides & run the bars & party our silly, laughing asses completely off!”
“Oh, Mistah Fuckah, when?”
I say, “Now.”
Stunned for a few seconds, she rushes to pack.
Three weeks of Kristi-princess & Mistah-Fuckah-hard-the-whole-time. She can’t quit saying, “Strong for you,” & neither can I. & once this tremendous vacation is done, I’m back home less than an hour, & here’s May-Lee-I-just-never-quitty at the door, no knocking, just click, walk in, F.M.-rubber-bullet-eye behind her, both wearing virtually nothing, silk shorts, puny-expose-those titties-thread-woven-tops, high heels, & May-Lee-eager starts in, “Oh, Mistah Fuckah, missy-missy you...” & on & on & on, stripping me nude & stripping herself, F.M.-furrow-brow licking my balls, May-Lee-argument never ceasing, “You know you love know you love F.M.-pee-pee...,” licking my growing shaft, both fussing & whimpering & grappling me, lick, lick, lick, & finally I’m up F.M.-rubber-150-lbs.-75-has-gotta-be-ass. Yeah...more time in her swimmy & there’s blessedly not enough room for both of us, May Lee clutching F.M.’s waist & holding her up off the ground.
We cannot help ourselves. We just cannot help ourselves. She’s right. & I don’t know shit about decisions, but I need to move in with Kristi-twin-tits & still keep some time open for F.M.-gravity-free-twinkIe-slice-clenched-jaw-broom-stick-rider, ‘cuz she comes so dramatically it’s never worth missing.
I tell May-Lee-schedule-less & F.M.-waterfall, they now have a place to live if they want it ‘cuz, “I’m in love with you, F.M. & I’m in love with you, May Lee & I’m still in love with Mary Beth. But I’m deep-deep in love with Kristi & I need to live with her, so you & F.M. take this place. I’ll come see ya every Sunday night (though Kristi tells me later to do it on Monday & Tuesday nights, too. Tells me she has to have some time alone or she’ll just die!). This place is free, ‘cuz it’s part of my pay & I’m not gonna need it anymore.”
I think May-Lee-trio will complain, but she’s thrilled to have a nice house to live in with F.M.-brawny-biceps-thick-legs-wavy-hair-bow-wrap & still get to ball Mistah Fuckah. She races to me, jumps, lands in my hands, celebrates, “Oh, dear Fuckah-spitty-fuck, I love F.M. & I love you.”
Track Name: The Deal
14) The Deal

& I don’t know shit about affairs, but a week & a half later, Kristi-eeny-‘kini & I are having one of our numerous great times. The stereo is blaring Los Van Van Cuban music. I’m naked on a footrest, cock straight up & she’s dancing her sleazy self slinky. Velvet, heart-shaped bottoms. & topless, ‘cuz she’s given up bras since those peep-show, Cozumel beach days. She’s swirling & twirling & swinging her stringy works up her seam, splitting two thick lips. Now, she’s above my groin, straddling the footrest, starts sliding her panty-pushy lips onto my hard-on. I begin easing slowly in, get about halfway. She’s trembling & I’m all dick veins. Then suddenly, she stops, gasping, staggered by something behind me.
It’s Gorilla B.
Hands on hips, he bellows, “There you are, Fuckah. I been looking for you. What the fuck is going on here?” Staring hard at his all-but-naked-little-sister, then at me, then at her.
She’s dressing as fast as she can.
I’m not, answer him back, “Kristi’s my girlfriend. Look at the ring.”
She nods her head over & over, trying to slip on a sunflower blouse.
& I don’t know shit about speechlessness, but Gorilla Burns does now. His mouth is hanging there, trying to do something other than just look ridiculously useless. Kristi-busted turns the stereo way down. At last he comes round.
“So why are May Lee & F.M. telling me that house I give you for your sound-work is where they live now & I am not allowed in it?”
“’Cuz May Lee & F.M. are also my girlfriends & even though I now live here with your sister, Kristi, that house is mine to use as I like & I don’t want you in it either, especially on Sunday, Monday & Tuesday nights.”
I don’t know shit about envy, but the envious tend to hunt those who succeed, so I tell him I’ll set it up so he gets some May-Lee-thong-romp, but no Debbie ‘cuz, “I still think May Lee is lying to me about little Debbie being old enough.”
Gorilla B. keeps looking at his sister until she blurts out, “He Mistah Fuckah, Gorry. Why you fuck with he? I love this boy. Kristi, you sister, love Mistah Fuckah.”
Gorilla turns red, turns around, stomps away, slams the door.
& I don’t know shit about unity but May-Lee-glad-to-have-Mistah-Fuckah-again-&-F.M.-&-a-free-house loves, “Sunday-Monday-Tuesday-fun-lifty-F.M.-shitty.” & Kristi loves these nights, too.
4 months of absolute Kristi-May-Lee-F.M.-sex-carnival & I call Mary-Beth-record-skip, say, “Honey, I’m coming home. The work’s all done. See you next Saturday.”
She’s glad & the kids are glad, too.
Then Kristi-sly & I go find Mr. Gorilla Burns, tell him I’ve got to go home to my family, but here’s the deal – I can put all this shit on digi & satellite & operate the whole thing from North Dakota. You can get rid of your soundmen ‘cuz no need for them. You can even tell me everything you want me to play & if anything goes wrong, you bring me right down to fix it & keep paying me same as you have been & that includes my May-Lee-F.M.-house.”
He can’t say, “No,” ‘cuz no one else in his life knows how to Johnny James, Sound Engineer, & no one else is the lover of his sister. & I don’t know shit about duality, but I promise to set it up this week before I leave. Now I can make anything at all go wrong with his sound system & I can do it from North Dakota.
It’s Kristi-genius’ scheme, & she suddenly pipes up, “ & Mistah Fuckah...we engaged.”
Oooo...she wasn’t supposed to say that. Long, Gorilla-B.-dreadful-face silence. He has no idea how to reply.
& I don’t know shit about here I go again, but tell him, “Look, Gorry, or should I call you, Mistah-Gorilla-Mario-killah-Burns? Or maybe, Mistah-Sybil-adulteress-got-Burns-by-the-nuts? Or maybe, Mistah-balling-his-worst-enemy’s-daughter? Or whatever, G.B...just remember those photos, & let’s all be one, big, happy family, alright?”
Kristi Blackberry nods, hugs me, squeals cheerfully, “Yes-I!”
Track Name: The End Of The Beginning
15) End of the Beginning

Gorilla B. is at my front door with a few lbs. of black calle buds, has even packed it in a businessman’s suitcase, says, “Here’s a present to take to The States for heat in that icy North Dakota & do not worry about customs – they’ll let you in.”
So we party all night & deep on toward morning, a lot of the district circling through, no cracked up sex, just pot smoking, beer drinking, dancing, lingering, farewell.
“Gorilla B.,” I think, “I have no treasure for you,” so this morning, I give what’s left of the herb to Kristi-blue-eyes, say, “Bring some to May Lee & F.M., O.K.?”
“Sure thing,” she promises.
& I don’t know shit about trusting others, but this woman’s promises are made to be kept, never to deceive, & the uniform coming toward me at the New Orleans Airport has a nasty secret in the pit of his eye. Says in a voice that seems too loud, “Mr. Brown?”
I say, “Yeah.”
He says, “Please, sir, follow me.”
So I do, feeling extremely glad I’d left that suitcase with Kristina. Uniform marches me beyond the x-ray & asks to see my passport. Meanwhile, every other passenger from my flight is having baggage searched, purses & pockets searched, attitudes searched. They are even looking inside people’s hats. I almost blurt out, “I know what you’re looking for, but I already got rid of it ‘cuz I’m no Limey-fucking-Neil!”
Uniform briefly glances at my photograph, says, “Thank you very much, Mr. Brown, sir. Your connecting flight to Minneapolis departs from gate 7 in 25 minutes. Follow me, sir. I will escort you there.”
& he does. Then, he walks quietly away.
Two weeks later, F.M.-rubber calls & Mary Beth answers. I’m just standing, listening, throat a-grip like I’m catching the flu right now. They laugh & chitty-chat & say they miss each other, “Oh, the kids are great. I’m glad to have John back home. How are you all? What’ve you been up to? No, the snow’s all melted.”
I’m without air now, waiting for disaster to occur, but it does not. Ten minutes of howdy-hi-girls & Mary Beth hands me the phone, pleased to have had a little Belize memory.
F.M.-rubber-clubber-nubber needs $800 to get Corrina-slap-slap-lost-&-found across the border in El Paso. Says Kristi went & found her with help from Gorilla, but Gorilla doesn’t know that he helped her.
& I don’t know shit about immigration, but I put it on a credit card, tell her, “Bring Corrina-povertina over.”
“O, Mistah-Fuckah-sweet-boy. May Lee say hi & come home soon. We love you. We ready!” & that’s when she tells me that Gorilla B. is at Marlin’s Side Street Bar with a patio built above Haulover River when he hears the joke of how I outsmarted myself with his customs man at the airport in Louisiana.
According to F.M.-rubber, Gorilla B. laughs so hard the whole deck is shaking, just keeps shrieking, “...donkey Fu-ckah!...donkey Fu-ckah!...” & he’s pounding his fist through coughing fits, shatters the glass table-top. His chair capsizes, pitches him into May-Lee-bye-bye, & Bye-bye, all flailing,
beer still in hand, explodes through the railing, flies backwards off the ledge, her shoes now birds a-wing, still trying to guzzle the beer as she falls.
“When she body hit that river, Mistah Fuckah, it throw up one, crazy girl splash!”
& I don’t know shit about families, but the last thing F.M.-birdie-chirp tells me is, “May Lee, me cousin.”
“Sue Sue, too.”
“Sue Sue?”
“& Patricia & Lizzy.”
I’m stunned, need to take the rest of this no-Mary-Beth-ears conversation out to the backyard.
“No, Debbie, me sister.”
“Sister?” I cry. “So, what about Kristi?”
“Kristi me niece.”
“Niece? F.M., you’re two years younger than Kristi!”
F.M.-rub-rub, loudly twittering now, replies, “Welcome to Belize, Mistah Fuckah. Gorrila B. is me & Debbie’s nephew.” Cheep, cheep, cheep.
Track Name: 22 Years
16) 22 Years

& I don’t know shit about generations but Gorilla continues to purchase the newest, fanciest gear, then bring me down to get it all working. If it takes a week, I make it take a month. If it takes a month, I make it take three ‘cuz I need to spend as much time with Kristi-fragrance as possible.
We’re married in a Belize church, official enough for Belize, ‘cuz her entire family comes. Gorilla’s my best man & May Lee’s her maiden-of-honor & my Belize marriage certificate names me as, “Mistah Fuckah.”
& I don’t know shit about genealogy but this is my life for the last 22 years now, half the time in Pirate-ville, the other half in Calm-akota, the kids grown up into self-propelled adults, both wives, pleased with my wonderful behavior, both girlfriends, too. Mary Beth never wants to visit dangerous Belize & the Belize-ies don’t want to go to North Dakota. Who would?
A couple months in & I confess to May Lee/F.M.-lovelies why the three of us will never have children. May-Lee-puncher is drilling me, throws me out, won’t speak to me for a month.
Kristi-crowded, furious I’m not gone three days a week, cries out, “I cannot get a fucking thing done with you here all the time!”
Finally, F.M.-rubber-swimmy insists I return, ‘cuz F.M.-leverage can only, “Pee-pee so crazy with you & Mistah Fuckah, May Lee!”
& I don’t know shit about property, but a few years later, Kristi-I makes Gorilla B. give those girls the house for free, put it in both of their names. They fix it up all frilly inside.
While I’m gone, Kristi reads & dreams & sleeps alone. Spy, Gorilla B.’s new Snitch tells me so. Gorilla B. pays Spy to, “Watch she, watch out for she,” when I’m gone north, make sure my Blackberry wife doesn’t play around. I tell him, “Gorilla B., you should have Spy watching Sybil-blondie-so-single-now-that-Mario’s-gone instead,” ask Kristi-tighty if Spy bothers her.
She says, “No, I no care.”
& I don’t know shit about community-building, but of course, Kristi-gentle & I never have kids, nor even adopt any ‘cuz she says, “The spirit owns the body, Fuckah. Not the other way around. I never come for you babies. Me no want babies.”
“But you came with May Lee. You begged.”
“Just for get you, Mistah Fuckah. Just for get you. You no remember, I meet you with Gorry that first day you get off that plane. & so quick I fall in love with you. I don’t know why except you carry serious Belize-I style & now we are together &, ‘I love you,’ sounds so nice let’s never add the ‘d,’ never make it, ‘loved.’”
& she’s fine with Mary Beth & May Lee & F.M., knows I love them all & they love me & besides, Kristi enjoys the time alone, says she needs it & is happy things are as they are.
& I don’t know shit about writing stories ‘cuz I’m just Johnny James Brown in North Dakota & Mistah Fuckah in Belize. Either way, known for other things than words. So of course, the tale-teller here is not Johnny James Brown. It is, “Kristina Blackberry,” Kristi-I.
& she don’t know shit about saving the world, never thinks it’s necessary or possible, but this morning she gets a letter from Corrina-now-in-Texas, who’s learning English & working in a factory & wants Kristi-savior to thank that incredible Mistah-Fuckah-saint when she sees him again.
Oh, Kristi most certainly will. He’ll be back on Thursday & one fine, special thing about Dear-mister-two-lives is that his flights always tend to arrive exactly on time, & Johnny-James-Mistah-Fuckah’s fate, same as everybody’s fate, is not his choice, but Kristi is so proud of this man for responding Belize-I! style, rather than North Dakota, & will easily convince him that it’s high fucking time he sent a thousand bucks, “Today & often,” to former-slave-pirate-creator-Corrina, “Cuz you owe Corrina...big-time, boy. You owe that girl good. Yes-I!”