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Saturday, June 30, 2012

A Clear February Night

Exploding out of the trees at 125 mph
Seemingly not touching the ground
All four wheels weightless
Beginning the sweeping descent down the long hill

Spread out ahead
Like a contoured map in a museum
The shoreline curved gracefully to the right
Marked by the streetlights
On the road running along Marquette Bay

Off in the distance
Perhaps fifteen miles away yet
The city shone brightly
Like Emerald City
But with a bright yellow light instead of green

The old Chrysler was WFO
My foot had scarcely let up on the accelerator
This whole way across the Upper Peninsula
Since crossing the Mackinaw Bridge

Straight up from the bridge
Then turning left onto 123
Blazing into the February night
Brightly lit by a three quarter moon in a cloudless sky

Through Hamlets and Towns
Sometimes not even realizing I was in one
Until I was almost out of it
Pressing hard on the floor
Keeping the carb's butterfly straight up and down

Left onto 28
Quickly entering the Seney Stretch
Those twenty odd miles
Passing under my tires
In just over ten minutes time

Are those headlights ahead?
Is it the police?
Who fucking cares
Nothing can touch me this night
Not the law
Not wandering wildlife
No hazard can compete
With the little bubble I've created for myself
Ensconced within the forest green cabin
Of this errant Land Shark
Nosing it's way through the night

Or it might die
Moving quickly
Seeking to fly

Almost wishing this journey would never end
That twenty gallons of fuel could run through
Fill up
And run through again
Never stopping in between

Red toothy mouth open
Sucking in the stars
Eyes piercing the night
Staring it down
Pushing the bubble forward
This alternate reality

Where all things
Are as they should be

Friday, June 29, 2012


It's too far
Don't even try
You'll fall down
Your dreams will fry

Yet I leapt the flames
Despite your cautions
Your maternal impeding

You fat fuck
You'll never get a date
Why are you learning to dance?
Do you really think that you have a chance?

Things are the way they are
Why do you even look at things you can't gain?
You know you'll never get them
It will all just be a huge disappointment again

I turn my pleading eyes upon you
"But I know I can do it
I can get there I swear
I just need to get to it"

You sneer at me down your pert little nose
"No you won't", you assert
"You'll get started then quit like you always do"
As you drive your knife in for the hurt

Numbly I get on with my life
Supporting the status quo
Breathing in and out to get through each day
Your eyes following me as I go

I name you Dreamcrusher

And Fuck You

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Big Pie Little Pie

Big pie little pie
One full of apples numbering a dozen
The other
Full of apples numbering one

One for serving to eight people
Sitting around my table tonight
The other just for you
Packaged small for traveling light

One in a fancy nonstick tin
The other a white crockery affair
With raised designs upon the sides
And a mere one-eighth the size

Golden brown criss cross
Of crusty flaky brown
A basket weave of pastry
With cinnamon and sugar all over sown

I knew you were coming
I saw it in my crystal ball
I baked one for dinner tonight
One for you when you call

Take it with you
On your journey today
A warm little package of apple warmth
The big one will sit here and stay

So tonight we can share my apple pie together
Even though you are a thousand miles away
And think apple pie thoughts
In a big pie little pie way

(Photo inspiration credit: Zooey Deschanel)

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Oliver Number Nine

They were like little white stop signs
From a long ago age
Stamped with familiar QWERTY markings
But still strangers to me

There weren't quite enough of them
Numbers and symbols crammed on letters
An affront to my modern keyboard thinking
But it still called out to me

It made my fingers itch
To touch the olive green chassis
Down-strike mechanism standing tall on either side
Like feather tufted sentinels holding spears with pride

This Oliver No 9 Standard Visible Writer
It haunts my steampunk dreams
As I ride on copper piped Zeppelins
In brass clockwork skies

I want to write orders for generals
That one great novel
A perfect poem
A humble pure word

All upon this mechanical monster
This thing from the past
Weighing fifty pounds surely
And by gods built to last

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

What's In The Can, Man?

I was on a simple mission
Looking for a snack for myself
When I happened upon a mystery can with no label
In the dark recesses of seldom visited shelf

It had the appearance of a tuna can
But then again it was a bit too tall
Even for the extra large kind
So it might not be that at all

Could be some pineapple
But it still wasn't quite right
Not for Dole or for store brand
Now that I held it up to the light

I shook it gently
And imagined what it might be
It could be a gateway in time
To another long ago century

I had only to pop the top
And a little wormhole might pop out
Drawing me in
Tossing me about

To land who knows where
A man out of time
Wrong clothes wrong hair
To be tried as a witch or for some other crime

Probably not one of those
So I wiped off some ooze
And I scanned the ink stamps upon it
Trying to gather some clues

A gobbledygook of numbers
In a wobbly line
I squinted and squanted trying to read it
Feeling as if I'd drank too much wine

There at last
The first I could make out that I'd seen
An expiration date as clear as day
My deadline appears to be in 2015

I have at least that long
For the planning of a plan
To try and figure out
Just what could be in the can

Monday, June 25, 2012

Social Suicide Note

I can't believe you did this to me
You judged me
You trolled me
You argued with me

When I wasn't looking
You posted inane things
That I then looked at
I was enraged

You liberal conservative commie bastards
I don't support guns
Or the lack of them
Or the not having of them
And religion
Don't get me started
Down with it!
Up with it!

And what was that?
Is that a NIPPLE in that photo?
It makes me want to vomit black bile
Then go touch myself for awhile

It's simply too titillating
Unless it's a male nipple
Then it's ok

You call that art?
First graders could do better
Polluting my stream with that shit
I've had it up to here with you
I'm leaving
I'm never coming back
Don't try to talk to me out of it
I'm gone

Fuck Facebook Twitter Google+ Pinterest MySpace
And all the rest
I'll be just fine without you!
Better, actually!

Tick tock

Hey, what's going on?
I miss you guys
Can we maybe
Circle each other?
Friend one another?
Your choice?

I'm lost without you

Sunday, June 24, 2012

For Want of a Drink pt4

I adjust the new poster on the wall
"Drink Responsibly" it advised
A picture of a cheerful vampire
Holding a glass of maroon liquid

It's gotten to be almost as bad as the living
Vampires out of control drinking the undead
Undead Anonymous groups being organized
To help those of us who just can't get it under control

Makes me wish I hadn't done what I had done sometimes

Don't get me wrong
I wasn't the first of us to try drinking from the undead
But I was the first one to commercialize it
And for awhile it was pretty good

I set up a bar in San Francisco
It was kitschy and clean
With a distinct steampunk vibe
I was very proud of it

An antique bar with a long brass rail
Booze for the human patrons
And walkers for the vampires

Here's what you'd see if you walked in:
The huge bar
A large mirror in the center section behind it
On the left side were shelves of high end spirits
On the right were three brass racks
With restraints for human shapes
Formerly human shapes specifically
Some coppery looking tubes running up to them
Attached at the lower end to some taps

The staff would venture out to the uncontrolled areas
Early in the morning
When the walkers weren't at their fastest for some reason
And we'd capture about a dozen
Throw them in the van and make our way back to the bar

About noon
We'd take three of them
Clean them up with the hose and scrub brushes
Dress them in a black one piece
And put them into the restraints over the bar
And plumb them into the drink delivery system

When one would run dry during the evening
It had turned into quite the show
As we changed out for a fresh walker
With all the patrons chanting encouragement

At first though
Business had been slow
As vampires were a little tentative about trying it out
But as word spread
More and more came
Then other bars sprang up
Revitalizing the area

At least for a time
With humans and vampires laughing and drinking together

But things got out of hand
The government stepped in
Like they always do
Passing laws
Keeping fun in check

Now it's all regulated just like alcohol
It's not much fun anymore
But it's a living
I reflect as I polish the bar with a towel

All for want of a drink

Saturday, June 23, 2012

How Do You

How do you look when nobody is looking
No eyes within range to see
How do you act when no one's around
No big brains to haughtily judge
What do you say when none can hear you
No ears near to hear the sound

Do you dress as you wish
Or maybe not at all
Stalking nude around your encampment
Hoping the neighbor will not call

Do you swing your arms
Without a care in the world
Cherish your tics and mannerisms
Let your freak flag unfurl

Do you sing out loud
Your voice a thing of beauty
Even if it's to nobody but you
Nude strutting all crazy and shaking your booty

Perhaps you are one of the lucky ones
Who act without a care
As if there are no ears brains or eyes
To stop listen judge and stare

Be one of them
Don't worry about a thing
Be who you are
Not some cookie cutter dingaling

Friday, June 22, 2012


You don't walk with a limp
Or roll with paralyzed legs
You aren't fed from a tube
While choking on the dregs

You aren't mentally challenged
To say nothing of retarded
But you still can't do something simple
Like finish what you've started

Using two canes to get around
Your generosity is pretty stunted
You promised to help someone in need
But as soon as you could you punted

You drive your cripple car
All your badass tattoos proclaim your fame
Knives and skulls and clever sayings
You play your crippled game

Putting on a good show
Saying it's true love and other lies
Then leaving them as fast as you can
Almost before your cum even dries

You make me mad enough to almost do it for real
Take a pipe to your spine
Let you lay there unable to move
In a growing puddle of your own urine

But I think it's almost more cruel
To let you go on the way you are
Thinking that you are whole
Thinking that you're a star

While all the while
You're dead inside
Surrounded by glitter
No conscience to guide

Just another fucking cripple

Thursday, June 21, 2012

For Want of a Drink pt3

Carbonated maple syrup

That's the only way I can describe it
It felt like heaven on my tongue
I sucked as hard as I could
So eager was I to taste just a little more
Just a little more

She stopped moving under me
Stopped struggling against my arms and legs
Her undead body drained into me
And for the first time since she died
She actually seemed dead

I could get no more out of her
I released her and stood up
Or rather tried to
Because I fell right back down

The buildings around me were spinning
Clouds in the sky mixing into a white milkshake
My reality closed down to a small point
And opened up to the heavens
All at once

And I flew
I flew straight up
Until the air was no longer air
Until stars surrounded me
Until I rode the moon like a giant Hippity Hop
Squashing suns and planets with every bounce

I couldn't stop laughing
I couldn't stop vomiting
I was a pinwheel sprinkler of mirth and mist
Then I knew no more

There was something poking me in the back
And my butt
My head hurt
Fuck if it didn't feel like a hangover
I do remember what those are you know

The sun through my eyelids was painful
I tried to sit up
And only succeeded in vomiting on myself again

I was up on top of a warehouse
It's metal roof hot and hard on my naked body
Well shit
Where are my clothes

I stood
I stretched
I wasn't hungry anymore
I felt as nourished as I'd ever been
I felt like a brand new vampire

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

For Want of a Drink -pt2

Drinking from the dead isn't good
It's one of the things that can kill my kind
For some reason the blood becomes like poison
And no, it's not like the movies
The blood doesn't turn to poison the second someone dies
Any more than mayonnaise turns to poison when you cook it

But the blood (and the mayo for that matter)
Start to go bad from that point on
Rather like milk at the grocers
You could pretty much put an expiration date on a dead person
Refrigeration helps just like you'd think it would

But still

I think about these facts as my stomach growls at me
As my tongue rolls around my mouth
Missing the taste of food
And my eyes watch a walker
Quite apart from the rest of the herd
She doesn't look like she's been dead that long
Or undead
Or whatever the fuck she really is

You could still almost call her pretty
With long blonde hair
Only falling out in a few places
Fine high cheekbones
Still having all her teeth
Her shambling gait rocking her body steadily
Tits bouncing in time with her draggy steps

But then
I didn't want to fuck her
I wanted to feed from her
Surely a small taste wouldn't hurt
Just to see if she was still semi-fresh you understand
I don't normally go around feeding off dead juice bags

But what's normal these days?
Nothing, that's what

I climbed down off the roof
Jumping down the last few feet
To land as softly as I could behind her

She didn't hear me
Like most of them
Her hearing wasn't what it was when she was alive

Her tight jeans made a perfect heart of her asscheeks
At that sight
I actually did feel arousal
But it was quickly squashed by seeing her left hand
Hanging idly at the end of her slightly swinging arm
It held what was left of a human skull in it's fingers

A snack for the road I suppose

Looking around to make sure there were no others around
I moved up behind her
I zeroed in on a mostly clean spot on her neck
Right where the artery should be

Wrapping both arms around her
I took her down to the ground with a soft thud
Holding her tightly with my arms and legs
I sank my teeth into her neck
Tearing at the flesh to get at the artery
Flicking my tongue inside the wound
For an exploratory taste

She groaned along with me
As her flavor washed over me

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

For Want of a Drink

Gods but I was hungry
Nothing to eat for miles
I could tell
As I'd looked and hunted for scent for days
Just more of these things
All shambling around
Easy to avoid unless I stood still for them

I'm not immortal
Contrary to popular fiction
And while these things couldn't change me to be like them
They could kill me in other ways
Four of my brethren had been torn apart not long ago
They got complacent and sloppy
One fell asleep with some fresh blood on his shirt
And that's all it took

During the day
The shambling rambling walkers had sniffed them out
Maybe it was something that passed for rage
In what was left of their rotted brains
That made them destroy what they couldn't turn or eat
Childishly primitive any way you look at it if you ask me

My stomach woke me from my reverie
Turning and tying itself in a knot
Reminding me how empty it was
I scanned the town streets from my perch
High on top of the old Fire Hall

Nothing alive anyways
Lots of dead
And lots of shuffling not quite dead
What the hell was I going to do
I'd start to get weak soon
Then the only way for me to survive
Would be a forced hibernation

I didn't like doing that
Finding a safe place
Usually a grave
(That's how stories start!)
And holing up, literally, for years on end
With the hope that things will be better then

I wasn't feeling sanguine about those possibilities at the moment
Too much death
Not enough life
Maybe other places were different
But I'm so tired of traveling

So like I said
What the hell is this lone vampire supposed to do?

Monday, June 18, 2012

Erwin Schrodinger Was a Naughty Boy

"Erwin! Have you seen the cat?"
I try to hide my lie as I reply
"No mom, I have no idea where it's at"
All while waiting to see if the cat will die

Currently the cat is neither alive nor dead
At least according to this thought experiment
Though having actually set up the thing
I'm not sure where the 'thought' part went

The list was short and simple
One cat
One Geiger counter
One bit of radioactive substance
One length of wire
One electromechanical release
One hammer
One nail
One bit of wood
One sealed glass flask of hydrocyanic acid
One sealable steel box

Ok so the list isn't so short
Or so simple
But the whole thing is making me smile
I take a picture with the box and show my dimple

It's been almost an hour
No less no more
In a minute I'll open it up
I'll know the score

I'll lift the heavy lid and then I'll know
Will it be cat - 1 and acid - 0
Oh I can hardly wait
Or will acid be the hero

The cat is alive and dead
My mind is reeling
I might have a fever
I'm losing all feeling
On the edge of knowing
A precipice of thought
Though the cat is the one paying
For whatever the result has wrought

"Erwin! Did you put the cat in that box AGAIN?"
Oh crap, good thing the timers almost run out
"DING!" The bell jingles
I open the heavy lid to see who won this bout

And my face is laid open
By the cat on it's way by
Just as the geiger counter jumps
Letting the hammer fly

I let go the lid in the nick of time
Muffling the sound of the glass shattering
Keeping the poisonous gas inside
I wrap a rag on my bleeding cheek not looking forward to mother's nattering

Because for about the tenth time
I've done this experiment on her cat
Even though I've promised I'd stop
Leaving my research right where it is at

With the knowing that the cat is safer for me
When it's in the box unable to use it's claws on my head
Nice and safe or not
And both jolly alive and stiff as a board dead

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Father's Day Education

"Happy Father's Day!"

My kids exploded into the bedroom
Marching in time with one another
The first carried a tray of 'breakfast'
Consisting of burned toast
With ironically unmelted butter
Some questionable looking eggs
And some hopefully safe orange juice

The tray arrived without incident to my side
On top of the old quilt

The other two kids carried a box
In large Sharpie marker on the side
It said "DAD"

"Good morning my chipchunks"
I say with a smile
"What's in the box?"

"You have to guess"
They all say
More or less in unison

I poke at my breakfast
And sip my orange juice
Pondering the enigma of the box

What could it conceal?

I ask a series of questions
And get some answers in return

"Is it alive?"

They all look at each other and giggle

"Is it furry or scaly or slimy?"

My youngest answers
"It's furry, mostly"

"Is it a cat?"

They just giggle

"Is it Schrodinger's cat?"

They look confused

"No daddy, it's for you!"

And my oldest pulls the top off the box
Exposing what is inside to my sight

I recoil in mock horror
Throwing my hands up to ward off the evil

It was Ming
Our old cat
Looking up at me with annoyed eyes
And a red bow around his neck

With a little 'mew'
He jumped out and looked around
I laughed
The kids laughed

Ming took an interest in my buttered toast
Thereby relieving me of the duty of eating it myself

I decide that first off for the day
While I have everyone here
I'm going to explain the whole deal
That happens when you put a cat in a box
With a decaying radioactive isotope

Oh the things that they don't teach in today's schools

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Again With Nanor

But that's how it goes
Now where do I know that from
Some catchy song I suppose

I hum a tune that might go with it
As I get back to my work
Sawing at the left arm
Severing tendons where they lurk

Tough little buggers
I think as I reach for the diagonal cutters
"Oh god no, please...."
The thing inside the bag mutters

I grab my hammer
And give it a few more whacks
Until no more sound comes out
I can't deal with a guilt that attacks

The good news is
The freezer is almost full
Almost all stocked up
Sealed in bags and artificially cool

A few final stokes of the cleaver
Through the meat
Into my imported butcher block
Then into individual freezer bags oh so neat

Now it's time to pull a Dexter
The black trash bags come out
One part whomever this is
Plus one part rocking out

It's to weight it down
And keep it down
In the deepest part of this great lake
With the sand and muck so brown

Never to see the light of day again
At least until I myself am dead
Then they can bring up all the parts they want
They're welcome to prosecute my corpse instead

With a final twist and tie
I think I'm done
Done with this messy necessary business
Make no mistake, I don't find this fun

My God requires human sacrifice
And I've found he doesn't mind frozen
So when tourist season hits I stock up
So as to use them as I need them

Or rather as He needs them
Who is this God that I ascribe to?
How could you have forgotten
He of the mighty human gumbo stew

Of all the gods I could serial kill for
Of all the gods I could burn human flesh for
Of all the gods I could commit this crime for

I had to pick Nanor the Fussed!

Friday, June 15, 2012

No End Destination

Three rails a-gleaming
Laid out in front of me
As far as the eye can see

Electrified with a ZW
Simple one hundred ten volts
But it's the Amps man
It's what really torques my motor

Made in 1955
Screwed into my Lionel chassis
With my choice of bodies
I chose New York Central grey

My white lightning stripe pointing the way
Illuminated by a small scale headlamp
I'm the terror of Grandpa's train room

Around and around
Chasing my observation car
In a desperate attempt
To get to the station on time

The station that isn't there

Left in the dusty box under the table
The semi scale Rico Station
Will have to wait for another day
Another set of hands
To place it next to the triple rail tracks

Only then will I have some semblance of completion
A place to stop
A place to rest
A place to take on fuel-cargo-people

For my next imaginary run
Around the endless Circle of Ouroboros
That is the Lionel loop
In Grandpa's Train Room

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Wannabe Pooh

Oh bother
It's one of those days
Where I could curl up inside a hunny pot
Swim around in the sticky stuff
Eating and just enjoying the feel of it
Not climbing out until I've had enough

Until I'm a new person
With a money back guarantee
A limited time offer
A look in my eyes that invites to come and see
Me in a Winnie the Pooh suit
A furry without a worry
A "G" rated little fat ball of fury

With my luck though
I'll do it to the nines
I'll get stuck in my front door
And with no Rabbit to read to me
I'll be ever so bored
Until I shrink down far enough to slide out

Sneak out for more adventure
In my own private area
Not so large as
But every bit as fun as
Any Hundred Acre Woods

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Book of Monsanto 3:11 - A Tale of the Wrench

And on the fifth day
Monsanto did create the Skydrol
To resist the temperatures of the fire
And inhibit the corrosion internal
Of all aviation hydraulic systems

At that point
Monsanto should have saw that it was good
And called it a day
But having a great rage towards maintenance technicians
Monsanto did cause the Skydrol to be cruel

"From this day forth
Wherever there be aircraft
Let the maintenance technician suffer
When placed upon the skin
The Skydrol shall produce a burning sensation
And itchy redness
When the Skydrol makes it's way to the eyes
Let it feel much like acid"

Thus spake Monsanto
And thus it was so

To further their betrayal and cruelty
Monsanto did cause the Skydrol
To eat most things made of rubber or plastic
Thus shall shoe soles and tires upon wheels
Be turned into an intractable goo

Monsanto did then cause rumors to spread
About how to treat the Skydrol
When it is on the skin or the eyes

"Perhaps bathing in 2% milk will help"
Monsanto said with a smile

Thus did Monsanto laugh
For it well knew that oil of the castor
Was the only hope
For even a half solution to exposure

History does indicate that Monsanto did feel shame
After over twenty five years of the making of the Skydrol
Solutia was born to help hide Monsanto's shame
Taking the SkyKleen with them also
Solutia did remove the yoke of the Skydrol
From the weight of Monsanto's burden
Freeing them to further degrade our world
In new and genetically repugnant ways

This is the Word of Monsanto
Thanks be to Monsanto

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

If I Had a Freeze Ray

I'm no Dr Horrible
But I have one thing in common
I wish I had a freeze ray
So as to hold fast
My short time with you

Every day could be a year for me
Every moment a snapshot
A museum gallery
To take in every possible angle
Of your face
Your hands
The curve of your hips
A linger upon the taste of your lips

I could amuse you
With my ability to grow a beard
In a split second's time
My seemingly magical ability
To make your wishes come true
Knowing what they are
Almost before you do

A freeze ray could be like that
Though eventually I'd have to fess up
My age would start to show
White hairs creases and wrinkles would pop up
You'd have a hard time reconciling
How we're the same age
Yet it seems as if I've aged ten years
In the months since our first date

Your subjective time with me is short
Though I'll have enjoyed a lifetime with you
Some might say it's not fair
And from a certain perspective it's true
But I see things in a different way
Masterworks hang in museums for all to view
Too precious to keep hidden away
You are the same to me
Though the months that I had you were precious and few
I'm now putting you back up in the gallery
So others can appreciate you too

Monday, June 11, 2012


In the twilight of my eyes
I bore witness
To the greeniest green I've ever seen
Lit high upon the treetops
Brought low to the ground
Upon the roofs of the rental cottages
On the singing quartet of mailboxes
The green was everywhere

A 1978 Chevrolet truck
Done in backyard camouflage
With those real life leaf stencils
That you might remember from grade school
But on this truck
Work just as well

A squinchy squnchy worm
Hanging from a thread
Seemingly there hanging in the air
To snag upon your hair
As you pass under
To decorate your summer outfit
As the finishing accessory
To make you 'Eek!'
When you notice in the mirror

The almost fakery green
Of the golf course
The one you hate
Perfectly flat eighteen holes
The only variation to straight
Being a dogleg in the ninth fairway
Just to keep you guessing

But my favorite
The explosion of green
Upon popping out of the forest
Unexpectedly into the bright sunlight
Green to the point of obscene
In uncountable hues
A chlorophyl overload
Enough to give me the shakes
Enough for me to get my fill

Sunday, June 10, 2012

The Four Horsemen

I am a theist
I believe in my chosen deity
I follow a set of practices
I go to worship daily

My god does many things
Some of which I don't understand
But I trust in his divine vision
As much as I can

I am an athiest
I believe in science
Everything can be explained
My brain is my only reliance

My theories sometimes are disproven
But I don't lose much sleep over it
I acquire new knowledge and methods
To see if new theories might fit

I am an antitheist
I actively oppose religion
I place detonators in faith
I drip acid upon devotion

I don't believe a thing
Unless I can see it feel it taste it smell it
And even then I have my doubts
For if I believed, I'd have to disprove it

I don't give two shits
I let everyone do their own thing
I propose no theories
And bend no knee

I sit up in my treehouse
Seeing what I can see
Is that rain you feel upon your face
Or is it just me

Taking a pee

Saturday, June 9, 2012


Tap tap tap
My red Chuck Taylors
Tap a beat softly
As you pour instructions at me
Give me task lists
Slyly slip me innuendos
Blink seductively
Promising more

I am your pool boy whore

I perform my duties with grace
Getting dirty
Staying clean
Whatever you ask for
I'd even tie myself up for you
But at the end of a long sweaty day
You enjoy doing that yourself

Now that you've broken me
I find that I even like it

Friday, June 8, 2012

Dentistry Still Life

I may as well be in the Ministry of Love
Strapped down to a chair
A cage fastened to my face
A little door in it
Ready to release hungry rats on me

I'm in the dentists chair
And we are currently posing
For an old fashioned photo
A sculptor working in marble
Playing red light green light
And someone just called red

Frozen in motion
A still life
The doctor driving an oversize needle
Directly into my upper jaw
Through my skull
Into my brain
Pinning me to the headrest
Mouth wide open in a silent scream

In that pose that most of us know
Hat on the ground
Won't you throw in some change
For our fine performance
As living

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Playing at Survival

Some of us hide
Put our heads into holes
Pull the covers up over our heads
Behind the rocks and trees of the wild
Under the water breathing through a hollow reed
Camouflaged with mud on the riverbank
Nothing showing but the slits of our eyes

Some of us run
We sprint towards the sunset
Never slowing with furtive looks behind
Racing in a car as fast as it can go
Barreling downhill on our bicycle
To build up a head of steam
Hoping that speed will keep us ahead of things

Some of us play possum
Lie upon our backs
Arms and legs stuck straight up in the air
Tongue lolling out
Scarcely daring to breathe
Smeared with our own shit
To give the stench of death
In case the enemy sniffs us
Just to make sure that we are dead

Some of us stand strong and fight
Swinging our battle-ax with all of our might
As to hew a mighty tree
We swing in a blind rage
Cutting at the enemy's knees
Blocking blows with our shield
Stabbing with our knife
Going hand to hand
When all else fails
Determined to win or die trying

Some of us
Live our lives
Observe our surroundings
And adjust to things as they go
Sometimes coming out ahead
Others times not so much
Aiming for the wreck
On the theory that it will be gone
By the time we get there
Bobbing and weaving
Keeping a steady pace
Playing the game
Changing little
Leaving a light footprint

How do you survive?

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

SFO to IND - A Tale of the Wrench

Usually I slept sitting up in the back of the cockpit
Chatting with the crew
Looking at all the instruments
Staring out the window
On one of the sheepskin covered cockpit jump seats
But this trip wasn't about me being comfortable
Or happy, apparently

It started off fine
I was coming off of twenty days in San Francisco
Helping out on the flight line while some guys were on vacation
I'd had a marvelous time for the most part
Took a day away to San Antonio to fix a thrust reverser
But overall a very slow work month

Now time to head back to Detroit to start my week off
I was hitching a ride on a company DC-8
Not posh by any standards
But I was confident that it would get me home safe
A DC-8 just inspires that kind of feeling

At the last minute
Two young guys from the outstation were put on the flight
They were both heading to Detroit for some company training
There was some excitement at the prospect that they could ride in the cockpit
So I bowed out, and opted to ride in the back
After all, I remember being excited too
When things were new to me

The area I was to be sitting in was right behind the closed cockpit
I guess you could call it the entryway area
About eight feet wide
Maybe four feet long
Occupied by a triple coach seat unit
A life raft and some maps in boxes
A camper potty toilet
And me and my bag

The three crew members came aboard
The two young guys set up the jump seats
I flopped on the triple coach seat set
Right next to that camper toilet
No partition of any kind around it

I decided that if someone needed to use the bathroom
I'd retreat to the cargo area for a little while
Being in there at the same time would be too close for comfort

Takeoff was as exciting as usual in an old DC-8
All the shaking and roaring that routinely occurs
This time though
I didn't have the fun of being able to see out of a window

There's no windows in the entryway
Unless you count the little six inch porthole in the entry door
Which was about five feet away from me in any case
And I don't count that as a window
Neither should you
It's really only enough to tell you if it is day or night outside
Though I did try to look out of it once we were up and away
It just gave me a headache though
Being that it was all scratched and distorted

The cockpit door was closed
No window to look out of
It smelled like camper potty

I decided to try to read my book for awhile
We were actually flying to Indianapolis
From there I'd have to drive home
I figured that since it had taken about five hours to get to SFO
It would take about the same amount going back

But I wouldn't realize the extent of that until later

I got bored with trying to read after about an hour
There was mild turbulence
And the lighting was shit
So I decided to try taking a nap

A few minutes later after I decided that it seems
The two jump seaters came back
And passed right through into the cargo area
I didn't think much of it
The main cargo deck was the unofficial smoking area

While they were back there
I poked myself into the cockpit to say hello
The crew told me we had a strong headwind
This would add an hour or two to our trip
Which kind of bummed me out
I'd have to kill that much more time

The two other guys showed back up
They smelled more like booze than cigarettes
But the captain didn't say anything
So neither did I

We divvied up the sandwiches
I sat down in my back area
Eating the sandwich killed another ten minutes of so

It was time to seriously kill some hours
I pulled out my pillow and laid across the seats
Paying no attention to the proximity of the toilet
The airplane's constant noise put me to sleep

I was woken up the first time
By the two young guys
One of them had stumbled into me
They were going into the cargo area
For about the umpteenth time
They were pretty well in the bag

I cursed and pulled the blanket up over my head

I was woken up the second time
By the sound of running water

I thought, "What the fuck?" to myself
And I opened my eyes

It took a second to comprehend what I was seeing
About a foot from my face
Was a penis

It was the first officer taking a piss
The way I was laying
My head was over by the toilet area

The first officer looked down at me
I looked up at him
For the second time that flight
I pulled the blanket up over my head
And pretended I was somewhere else

I woke up again a few hours later
Just from the sheer discomfort of my bed
The two armrests in the middle of the seat
Had made permanent dents on my spine
Or so it felt

I checked my watch
There was still a couple hours to go before I could expect to land
I just couldn't sleep anymore
So I got up and paced my area

Five feet over to the entry door
Five feet back to the seats
After doing that a few times
I ducked through the narrow opening on the left side of the fuselage
Stepping into the main cargo area
There was a huge pallet of stuff
All wrapped in plastic
It was in the number one spot
Leaving about a foot or so in front of it

So I walked over to the other sidewall
Between the pallet and the 9g bullkhead
And back

I did that a few times
Then sat down on the plastic wrapped pallet
At least it was different than sitting in those awful seats
But it was just as boring
And it smelled of cigarette smoke and whiskey
Kind of turned my stomach
Things being the way they were

I went back through the little doorway to the entry area
Sitting down in my seat again
Swearing I wouldn't be able to fall asleep again
So of course I did

The next sound I heard
Was the old fasten seat belts chime
With the accompanying 1960's era sign lit up over the cockpit door

When the tires touched down
Marking six and a half hours of flight time
I said a quiet thank you
That the seemingly longest
Most boring
Flight of my life was over

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Malfeasance Monkey

Malfeasance Monkey sees you
As you award contracts to your friends
As you gerrymander the districts
As you help yourself to the dole

Malfeasance Monkey sees all
He takes notes
He eats a banana
Because that's what monkey's do

You think you're so sly
In your back room meetings
In the Capitol basement
Near the old Senate Bath
Now an outdated boiler room

Malfeasance Monkey lurks in the shadows
Just over there
Wearing nothing but a towel
Nobody told him the baths were out of service
But he is watching just the same

As you arrange your Job After Congress
Malfeasance Monkey knows
That Bill you introduced "for the good of your district"
Really is only for the good of you

Malfeasance Monkey will bide his time
Until you've dug a hole so deep
Then he will file his notes with the appropriate office
The Archive Chimpanzees

Of course nothing will happen
But just so you know
Malfeasance Monkey is watching you
Everywhere you go

Monday, June 4, 2012

With Her Strings Cut

Sitting on the stoop
Head hanging low
Hands limp betwixt the legs
Knees knocked together
A marionette hanging limp
Strings dangling short
Link to a controlling hand cut

Who is this puppet in front of me
Long black hair covering her face
Long white stockings pulled up over knees
Showing a couple inches of thigh
Before the tidy navy jumper begins
Sitting so still
On the stoop

What dreams go on in this golem's head
Dances and plays all acted out
So used to traveling to places far away
Usually tucked in a travel trunk
In the baggage compartment
Along with the Royal Mail

I want to brush the black hair away
To reveal her hidden face
To see what there is so see
But I remain rooted in my place
The mystery must remain
The larger part of me agrees
Thus staying my hand and anchoring my feet

I look all around
But see no higher power
No operator
No handler
No larger puppeteer's angry glower

I leave her there
On her stoop
In her pose
And when next I pass by
She is gone

So the mystery remains
Where did she come from
Where did she go on to
What adventures is she playing out
Now that she is in control of her own fate
Her strings pulled by none but herself

Sunday, June 3, 2012

It's Not Me, It's Everyone Else!

Do you slide through the water
With the greatest of ease
Like the sharpest of knives
Through a thick wheel of cheese
Not leaving a ripple in your wake
Hearing of a starving peasants distress
And telling them to eat cake

I know you
You think you can do no wrong
And who knows
Despite the incoherent song
Perhaps you are right
Maybe it's all the rest of us
Who are barking madly at the night

You are the only sane one
With your head made of glass
Brain pulsing like Brainiac
Propelling you to the head of the class
In most everything you do
Except that one thing
The thing that will be your rue

It's your blindspot
Your Kryptonite
Your impossible knot
Keeping you up at night
Don't look to me though
I'm one of those barking in the moonlight
Jumping from hedge to row

You scribble in your journals
To pass the time of day
Calculating and writing is like breathing to you
It's on those social cues you lose your way
You never say the right thing
At work or at play
Good manners (if you had any) deftly take wing

You are hopeless
As you are mad
The tables are turned upon your scenario
If only you knew you would be glad
For the thing that makes you crazy
Is thinking you are the only sane one
It trips you whoopsie daisy

I'm here to reassure you though
YOU are the mad one, not us
And though I've tried time again to tell you
You wave me away like an ornery cuss
So for your own good I'm locking you away
And the darndest thing is that you didn't even notice
You're in your own world so far away

Fighting fantastical battles
Against enemies in your head
Solving riddles of the universe
Raising all your dead
You are happier thinking we are the crazy ones
In your glass house
With your dangerous pile of stones

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Meet Me In Memphis

Meet me in Memphis
On top of Elvis' tomb at midnight
Don't worry
Nobody will see
Pay no attention to all the security cameras
I'm sure nobody is watching
As the moonlight
Turns your porcelain skin a shade of blue
Your wrap shrugged off
Revealing the nothingness of your clothing
The goose bumpy softness of your skin

Meet me in Memphis
On top of the King's tomb at midnight
Get there a minute early
Put on a blindfold
Don't ask why
This is me talking
You know what will happen if you do
A blindfold of black satin
To contrast with your skin
And your strawberry hair
Flowing down your back in a waterfall

Meet me in Memphis
Upon the tomb behind the musical gates
Arch your back to my touch
Nobody else in the world except me
Running fingers up and down your limbs
Lingering upon your paintings
Your line drawings
Your proverbs
Deep in your skin
I kiss each one in turn
A reminder of the pleasure pain
From when each was etched in

Meet me in Memphis
Where the ghost of Elvis Aaron lives
Cold metal upon your bare back
Hot touch between your thighs
Penetrating your loins with but a thought
Nipples crinkled
Eyes veiled
You don't even know if it's me
You bite your lip at the thought
Drawing a drop of blood
I lick it from you gladly
A small gift for your lover
Whomever that may be

Meet me in Memphis
The King's name being imprinted into your back
By my weight upon you
By the kiss of the night wind
My teeth close upon your skin
Your back arches you into me
Raised letters upon the metal tomb tear at you
Little cuts appearing on the mirror image imprint
As you reach your peak
As you scream my name
"Fucking Elvis Presley!!!!"
I whisper in your ear what I want you to do
Before I leave you once again
You'll do it
I know you will
You're obsessed with me after all

You met me in Memphis
Upon my tomb in the moonlight
Now not a half hour later
You're face down on a table
On Beale Street in Memphis
The artist looking at your back in shock
As your lips tell him what you want him to do
From your shoulders down to your buttocks
Is the mirror image of Elvis' metal tomb
Imprinted and cut into you
Now to be needled permanently by this man
As proof that you love me
As I do believe that you do

Friday, June 1, 2012

Chickens Can't Fly!

That chicken couldn't fly
No matter how hard it tried
No matter how hard it flapped it's wings
Or how high it jumped off of things
It always dropped like a stone
And was lucky it didn't break a bone

In more ways than one
Else it would have been my supper

But I still felt obligated to help
Since it was my chicken and all
So I applied my brain
Drew up some plans
And had a few chicken recipes set out
Just as a backup
Wouldn't want anything to go to waste

First I started simply
By grabbing the chicken and throwing
In different arcs
And different ways
None of it helped
Though I did get a good workout

Next came the catapult
In which the Chicken nestled
Safe and sound
Until I chopped the rope
Then flung high and wide
Right into the pile of target hay
But no flying
Despite the mad flapping
And the mechanical launch assist
There must be another way

That's when we made the cannon
Out of thick PVC
We put our brains together
And determined that propellent was the key
The chicken climbed in
On top of some cotton stuffing
I applied butane liberally to the breech
And it took two months
Until the chicken's feathers grew back

I was in a state of dismay
I figured it was all a waste of time
That was before I caught the chicken
Watching Discovery channel
And sipping my fine wine
It was a show about a flying wing-suit
The chicken thought this was just the ticket
And it planned carefully
As it chewed thoughtfully on a cricket

In yet another month
All was made ready
And on a sunny Sunday morning
A hot air balloon ride was arranged
The chicken in a custom wing-suit
Although I did tell it it looked rather silly
I offered the chicken a backup parachute
But the chicken would have none of it
Off in the balloon that chicken went
Giving me the wing and telling me to get bent

That's kind of how I've arrived here
Sitting at the kitchen table
With a fine roasted chicken center stage
Complete with all the fixings

The chicken went up
The chicken jumped out
The chicken tumbled and fumbled about
The chicken landed with a thud
Amidst varied cries of "Watch out!"

It seemed a shame for the chicken to go to waste
Especially after it had drank all my wine
And so I gave thanks that it had landed on my property
Thus offering such a tasty opportunity to dine