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Max and Maxine
by Skip Fox

742. Adventures of Max and Maxine

Maxine got a job gratifying a very important mountain gorilla at the
Metropolitan Zoo. She was a "live in" and didn't get much sleep the
nights they fucked because he would playfully punch her and say
"Yaka-Yaka" all night as though he had learned the language, and she
would punch him back, saying "Yaka-Yaka" as though she really meant it.
Now in the same cage were other apes but only the silverback and Maxine
got their own room to sleep and fuck in. After a few months, Maxine was
able to convince Zoo officials to allow Max to also live in the cage
with them but he had to watch out since some of the younger apes didn't
exactly have it in for him but he was the only stray in the neighborhood
and kicking the shit out of him would be more interesting than doing a
number of other things like patrolling the yard or watching gawks. Max
soon learned that the silverback would protect him so he took to
sticking around the great ape and Maxine or staying just outside their
door. For awhile, it pained him to do this for he would have to see the
silverback's finger or cock going in and out of Maxine and Maxine really
made it look like she liked it and Max was beginning to more than a
little suppose that she did, but he was willing to make the sacrifice to
save what was left of his face and teeth. Of course he also got to see
more of her as well although she often looked as though she didn't know
he was even there. When he could, he'd blow her a juicy kiss deep-fried
from his heart, and when she'd notice him, after the recognition tinged
only with the slightest hint of irritation at first, she would smile at
him as though she meant it, all of it, To thine owne self be true, the
one about the cowgirl in the Rockies, flannel shirts and apple tits, so
fresh she could shit biscuits, and made mistakes only in the depths of
     Max took to jerking off for the tourists. He would make them throw
peanuts and get their cameras ready, then he'd squirt a floppy wad of
saliva in his hand and pump his cock as long as he could. Of course
he'd get sore, but what would you do for love?

745. And all the temperature changes

Now well within whistle distance of the mills' clamor and soot filled
the darkening sky, Autumn is what the 3-year old asked for her
with its "pearly" leaves and swarm of leavings. The
silverback took to staying out late, hanging with the guys (about the
tire swing), pushing Maxine away as though she was a bad joke or the
prize you got for reading so many books over the summer. Besides, she
wouldn't understand. Yaka-yaka. So her smiles to Max came increasingly
ready to her face, she grew less mannered or, at least, achieved a grace
that Max, given his isolation and desires, could believe accurately
portrayed the disposition of whatever being resided in or beneath her
face. "I was the dreamer they took to the Nazi prison," he sang.

819. The Adventures of Max and Maxine, Canto the Opposite

The next time he came, his head shot across the room into a store,
EVERYTHING ON SALE EVERYDAY, the Vale of Remembrances, soft bottomed
lunch punching back, "I think steel buildings catch the sun like taxi
cabs," as Mayer saw those giants striding across the land, I think of
all the batting orders of my favorite cartoons and handicap my dreams
with tiny prepositions hanging about their waists waiting to take them
bounding like Yellow Cabs through the broken streets of mid holiday
before vacation, but softer like Glen Gould. I swore it blew her head
as well as she was stamping into saffron like Marines plowing across a
stream before the jungle explodes, her soft little boot like a bandsaw
taking him apart and welcome to it, leaving those little kitty like
things flopping all over the studio apartment, a bitch to find in
Laramie, and the halo around her little barks was criminal the way it
tensed like it knew the damned straight-forwardness of everything, snow
over ice, why you are alive, yet could so create in a leavening of
vision the 39th state of existence as though it were but one nudge and a
step out of the neoteny of our sleep. I.e., the little hat was on the
man, the man was on the train, the train was on the earth, but the earth
was on fire. It was a tiny hat. The next time was even better.

842. Adventures of Max and Maxine: Nights and Their Conversions

I dreamt you were hired to service a great ape and woke alone to the
noise of scratching which generally faded to read your note. Starting
my new job. Wish me luck. Hugs and kisses. M. Thus began my odyssey
with the double delight of massive organ failure each time you squirmed
in his hairy arms with your tongue, your nipples would stand up like
little squad cars roaring through the Bronx and you would squeak, packed
into his chest, as a leathery digit probed the mansions of your inner
quick. What delight! A man cannot live on fruit and leaves alone.
Though jerking off for tourists leaves little to be desired, that little
is you. Like a hole I could slip through and would. Even in my dreams
I try to fall back to sleep.

867-940, passim. Max's Song, of which the Zoomaster complained.

While stroking his dick and doing Reggae moves across what he took as
stage, actually the pit but working the crowds nonetheless, and before
long some kid got wise, brought a boombox, pulled Marley freshly alive
from his grave, while Max would cast another wad into his hand, break
grin from toothless, broken face, and sing:

What could this be
                             the feeling of remembering
the causes in her face upbound as flowers now
as sleep now a florescence waking the peace
beneath the surface down to hands and
feet like headlights on a clown from which derive
the fortunes of the sky, silver encased, her face
the disquisition
                                   What would this be
                    Would this be love
          What is love and in its hour
What could this be
                              the memory of inside in-
side a sheath, within the nearest verities, enriched
neural weave -- a casket blossoms! -- her hand at the base
of my spine decried a radiance within the syntax of
the senses where even language is redeemed, the inner
arguments of verbs supplied, and words like letters living
pictures of speech, and where therein she brought me
to the emptiness of what happens
                                     What would this be
                    Would this be love
          What is love and in its hour
What could this be
                              could anything be more in-
volved than down here amid the loosening gravel
of thought without a metaphoric bed where she arrives un-
bidden enters the house in a fullness of light as
shadows beckon, Not everything will be
appeased, but of this one thing you can
be certain above all others as to yourself
be true, as though she sang beneath
                                      What would this be
                    Would this be love
          What of love and in its hour
What could this be
                              the reinvention of an effect
by powers long exiled, without climate, attenuation of
the permeability between remembering and letting be, doors
of the heart and hand restless between two trees touching
a pond with a finger, looking back at our person from
beneath the surface, the face wavers
                                      What would this be
                    Would this be love
          What of love and in its hour
What could this be
                              stirring the water beneath the
dawn of chest and eyes, "a mere selvage woven upon
the fabric of wilderness," waking, picked up by the
sky, given to rain, to winds and breezes which so-
ever bind and in their binding run away
with my life
                                      What would this be
                    Would this be love
          What of love and in its hour
What could this be
                              the ghostly sheaths of cats, for
indeed they have a new grammar, as the residuum of an
odor, the peripheries alive in the smoke at the center now
lost in tributaries so long I wonder if it existed as though
I'd never seen nor heard nor did a single thing that was not
likewise informed by her presence
                                      What would this be
                    Would this be love
          What of love and in its hour
What could this be
                              the man who gave his life to live
with animals, that look in their eyes, as an orangutan's, listening
forms and shadows, he was convinced they know something
we don't, weight of sunlight in its seasons, parts of soul
contained in body, imperfect except they unfold, the artistry
beneath mortality, breath pouring out of flute, or as though
a woven song was only natural, melodia of voice and its
companion every morning of the world
                                      What would this be
            Would this be love
What of love and in its hour


951. Song of Maxine (entered his memory)

I'm always losing the thought
as I find it you're my companion
something about a cliff at 3:15 a.m.
lays down in predawn's treeline
like a body next to mine, rush
of its flesh was like to
fuck and I'll never love
Also this morning my cat performed
an illogical function, she tracked a
wounded cockroach back to its
lair, if cockroaches can be said
to have a lair, and finished it off
with one to the head, I'll never love
This morning as well the crooked
face of dawn laid upon your arm
a dream like no other, contained
your imbalances, funneled in my
ear, poised upon my hand,
no, I'll never love
another man.

Skip Fox teaches in Lafayette. In spare time he manufactures designer colostomy bags and write laugh tracks for snuff flicks.


Two books available through Small Press Distribution (Bloody Twin Press), another (OASii Press) free on request.



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