A Civil Toilet and Frank Sauce's Crotch


A toilet in Iraq that's different then our toilets here

Baronesses always whiz-giggle me and even fellows do in the civil toilet!

Well, now I giggle at them, because I took Megonadsrock
for 6 months and now my dick is more immensely bigger than civil.

Civil dick?

Civil war in your crotch?

Self-same song and another red-eyed dawn with a new sun.

We're stuck with the same sun here; it's impossible to change that fact, the sun will burn us to oblivion eons before it dies

This is half-n-half.

Frank's sauce for this is gone.
"This is my weapon, this is my gun. This one's for killing, the other's for fun"
Another little section of this poem done.

Instant Fiction


Frank's Sauce on the Problems of Fiction
Meta body turned trip lipped plank, when we forgo the frigid air in the drip of a Portland summer

this instant fiction kiss

You wrote, "two swords were better than one . . ." and I didn't understand
Now I understand what you meant but didn't actually write; only for a moment and now it's all non-sense again because there is no context to the phrase you wrote

We all dream.

I haven't brushed my teeth since last night and everytime I breathe it feels like a few forgotten dreams and a several cups of coffee go in and out of my mouth with each breath

We had you, but you left us

Now, someone else has you

I swear

The gumball drops and we're mad at each other again because only one of us gets the prize that's inside

Peace Home: War Abroad


Books of People in War-Torn Bagdad
In this time of love for the peach and the dove that creep behind the peace of our days and the war for oil and vengeance, we still feed our children and breed a proper prosperity to stifle starvation that emulsifies our will to change.

War for food is justifiable.
War for peace is preposterous.
War for soldiers is inevitable.

Who will write "The Art of Peace" and who will own it?

Further is Farther then Too Far


Further than the Farthest

This weekend, I went further than too far.

On a gravel road in Bumb-Fuck-Oregon in the coastal range on the edge of The Burn there was a sign. The white sign read, "you've gone too far!" in bold-red letters. I ran over the sign with my right front wheel and veered back onto the road.

Then I drove further. I tried to drive off the map that was in my lap, but wasn't successful, so I drove home in the dark, drinking whiskey that I found at an abandon campsite.

That was my Friday night as far as I can remember.

Frank Sauce

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