Mark Yakich Cannibal Lollipops Folks begin complicated and only end When they get sampled.              * Let me pair a phrase: the curls On your face or legs aren't of the same person who first shaved with daddy's razor.              * Sentiment is lovely (no!); But suicide won't bring back your fink husband.              * As a student of pigeon-kicking, I've never met a widow mourning who didn't look good enough to eat.              * (One must at least attempt to poop and talk Shit at the same time.)              * You see, I am the root and you are the stem. Or, I am the manure and you are the bottom.              * (Don't doubt a free mason's Spandex.) Have you never licked the bee to get to the honey? The Demographics ultimately boil down to a finger on the zeros. Dialing O Dialing O Dialing O the number of dead bodies at the end of a tragedy is absolutely controlled by the curtain. Because you need to have enough living people left standing to carry the corpses away. But after the audience leaves there's still more loss. Not a London - to - Paris perfect loss either. Or an easy IOU some extra-slaughter. Because to adore an enemy's dog is just plain courteous; gangly is often the foot-long sausage; tasty, once again, is the asshole-shaped bagel. I know, because I have walked a mile in wooden clogs only to get to a young man's heart where he was licking up a spilt martini, not because it was the thing to do but because I was the thing undone. Decades of daily napping led to this superb visual: It's spring genocide again! And by using the popular cross-eyed method (to be in love is I's exchanged), you can see sunken mountains, raised rivers; you can see numbers become figures. All at once you are bride and widow, fucked and re-flowered. In this world, in this crib, no stone goes unthrown, no heart unnerved. But when, I ask you, did tragic figures become numbers? about Mark Yakich