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Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Seven Heavenly Virtues - Charity

I like to think of myself as Robin Hood
It doesn't matter if my name is Goddard
And the people seem to agree
The newspapers only helping me along
As headlines blare

"A Modern Robin Hood!"

In the end
It doesn't matter what they call me
As long as my agenda is pushed onward
And it is simple
I'll break it down in Robin Hoodesque terms

I take from the rich
I give to the poor

I murder the rich
Then I take all their stuff
Which gets delivered to various charities
Or passed out in the inner city

I'll admit
The first time was the hardest
About two years ago
I first ding donged that McMansion's front door

"You, have been chosen to donate to the needy
By the National Organization for Economic Equality"

I was particularly proud of the name
It took me several days to come up with it

Immediately after saying that
I put a bullet in the head of that stay at home wife
Then ransacked the place for small valuables
Things appropriate for sharing with the masses
And ended up finding a stash in both the master bedroom
And the basement

That evening
Every church in the inner city got a double fistful of gold and silver
Square in their collection boxes

I made massive donations to the homeless shelters

After that
I had no trouble finding volunteers to help me
Now there are Robin Hood branches of the NOoEE
In ten major cities of the U.S.
Although, at this point
It is getting harder and harder to find rich people
They've all started moving out of the cities
Into enclaves in the country

I can see it's time to step up my game
Tonight I'm on my way to Montana
To scope out just such a community
Where the wealthy of the midwest have moved
Which in my opinion
Has only put all their glittery wealth
Into one big basket
For Robin Hood to find

Don't you judge me
This shit is Charity 2.0

Monday, July 30, 2012

Seven Heavenly Virtues - Patience

In seeking a solution
An antidote to Wrath
I spoke to many a guru
Until I was set upon the path

Now I seek peace at every turn
I take the turn the other cheek
To a new level of forbearance
Outlasting adversity through endurance

Divinely inspired
Always required
To keep the coals fired
To achieve the heights aspired

Without a compass to guide me
I'll need this trait
To keep me on the path straight
It's the long game of wait

After all
As nothing is achieved overnight
Evil still blossoms in the hearts of many men
And though many do, I never cower in fright

The Shadow knows
And so do I
That what gives lift to most other virtues
What sustains and makes one's soul fly

Forgiveness for my enemies
The one's who have done grave harm
Revenge pushed away
In exchange for justice's long arm

With pinpoint accuracy
Was the evil extracted
Pulled from the innocent
Judged guilty and redacted

Placed safely away
To serve a penance
Helped by the very virtue that put it there
Sustained by Patience

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Seven Heavenly Virtues - Diligence

Three pens on the left of the calendar blotter
One black
One blue
One red
Each with exactly the same amount of ink
Each with the pocket tab facing left

My computer monitor
Angled at exactly twenty degrees
Wires tied and pegged in precise routes
Even out of sight
Where no one could know
Everything is just right

I type exactly two thousand seven hundred words
Exactly two times a day
My twice a day blog is updated every twelve hours
On the dot

I run exactly six miles every morning
On the same exact route
Leaving at the same time
Finishing on time as well

I pay all my bills on the same day every month
My bank book will always balance
Figured to the penny
Nothing must be left to chance

I work hard at my job
Organizing odds and ends
Gizmos and gadgets
Neatly and tightly packing them in boxes

Creating order out of chaos
Unseen by most other eyes
With a work ethic like mine
There is little to supervise

Others need people watching them
Bosses checking their work in constant vigilance
For their work is driven by passions and distractions
While mine is driven by Diligence

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Seven Heavenly Virtues - Temperence

Marching in my one woman protest
I hold my sign high
Shouting out for moderation
Never bothering to ask why

My Mommy told me so
My Daddy did the opposite but said so too
My preacher taught me temperance
Even as he slid his hand up my thigh
Proclaiming, "Jesus loves you"

Loose fitting blouse
With a tight starched collar
Nothing to hint at sex
Though it's hard to draw the breath to holler

Too many slogans
Too many things off limits
No drugs no booze no sex no fun
No solution except to live as hermits

Out in the wilderness
Rubbing blue mud in our bellies
Telling oneself that is is so virtuous
No one to hear really except the birds and bees

Today I'm marching in front of a bar
With my black ankle length skirt
My simple metal buckle boots
I am certainly not here to flirt

A bride of Christ
Though I've taken no vows
Just a simple pledge of Temperance
With all the faith and restraint I espouse

Temperance will save you from yourself
And all the horrible consequences
Of living without limits
Without the necessary fences

Temperance now!

Friday, July 27, 2012

Seven Heavenly Virtues - Chastity

My bronze codpiece chafes me often
I go through pounds of lilac baby powder weekly
It all makes me a better person though
When the time was right I submitted meekly

In a bright ceremony at the local church
Friar Tom applied my chastity belt solemnly
He accidentally brushed my penis though as he did
Causing me to blush and it to swell voluminously

LIke the pro he was he deigned not to notice
Performing the ritual like he had a thousand times before
Though that was ten years ago now
I remember what it was like to have someone else touch it
And I wistfully wish for more

And that's exactly why I wear this thing
Along with everyone else my age
We wear them for fifteen years
All decided by elders wise and sage

During that time we grow to manhood
We learn our chosen profession
We even woo our future wives
And wrestle to vent pent up aggression

I have five years to go
It will be nice not to have to pee through the mesh
And clean down there with a pressure hose
It will contribute greatly to my smelling fresh

On that day
On my twenty fifth birthday
I'll be ready to get on with life
Armed in body mind and soul to find my way

As it is now though
I give the locks on the sides a wiggle
I'd give a fortune for a good scratch down there
Or just to grab it and give it a jiggle

But this is how things are to be
It doesn't matter I'd do it differently
I gaze at the hard metal bulge ruefully
Such is the price of Chastity

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Monster Under the Bed

There was a monster under my bed
I knew it
Just like I knew there was air
Unlike air though
It only lived there

At least that much was comforting
That I only had to worry about it grabbing my legs
Whenever I got into
Or out of
My just-a-little-too-high bed
With my just-a-little-too-short legs

I used a flashlight as defense
The monster under the bed
He didn't like that
It illuminated the dust kitties
And other assorted dirt bunnies
In a beam of holding at bay
Whatever it was that was held back

It never took a cohesive shape
One day I thought it was hairy
The next it had no hair at all
Just existing as a pink armless slathering worm

Reaching out for me with a tentacle
Which I only just avoided
By millimeters
When I swung quickly up into bed

My heart always beat with relief
As I lay there
Almost laughing at it's frustration
Knowing it couldn't get me
Because I was on the top of the bed
While it was restricted to the below

Now that I am grown though
I don't pay the monster under the bed much mind
I've moved on
To bigger and better things

I now know
That the monster under the bed
Actually lives inside of me

And no flashlight
Or quickness of feet
Or top of the bed
Will protect anymore

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

We Know Pain

We know pain
In all it's varied hues
With oranges greens violets
In reds yellows and blues

We know pain
Whether inflicted out of love
With a barbed whip or quip
Or massaged in with deerskin glove

We know pain
Or we think we do
From the first time we step on a Lego
To when a loved one is taken from you

My name is Pain
I'll be your companion today
As the Grand Inquisitor works his magic
Pulls out your fingernails
Made up of your dreams so tragic

Oh we know pain
Whether we run from it
Or embrace it
It just kind of makes us feel like shit

Ding dong! Pain is here
He wants to know if you want to come out and play
Submit yourself to his sadism
So what do you say?

It can go fuck itself

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Mad Tea Party

A black velvet tri-corner hat
Perched jauntily on his head
A teabag hanging from it's string
Dangling six inches from it's edge

"We're all mad here"
Proclaimed this chairman of the party
And quaffed his oversized cup of tea
Then tossing the empty cup into the sea

"Without representation
All the china goes into the drink
To swim with the dead Democratic Communist babies
Awash with their free healthcare!"

Lips painted red like a fire engine smile
A puffy Botox lipped snail
Showing one capped tooth
With a golden Benjamin Franklin in raised relief

A Paul Revere Coat
Over red flannel shirt
And new American blue jeans
Standing upon snakeskin cowboy boots
Complete the look

This Mad Tea Party Representative
Born on the Fourth of July
With a corn dog in one hand
A Budweiser in the other
Suckled at the tit of liberty
Belching gas of intolerance
A tarnished Roman Catholic cross on a chain
Resting in the sweaty chest hairs

The sweaty chest hairs of freedom
Which you can have
When you pry them from
Our cold dead hands

O, This land was made for you and me

Monday, July 23, 2012

It's Called Satire, People

The sweaty chest hairs of freedom
Reside upon my chest
Collecting sweat and grime
As I perpetrate my crime

I'm cleaning my gun
Which is a helluva lot of fun
Even though it's illegal now
To even own one

I speak to you now
From the far side of 2019
From inside my arsenal
The best you've ever seen

Over here I keep the body armor
All the better to get shot in
It deflects most shots with the vest
My body odor taking care of the rest

A few more steps inside
Your eyes will open wide
As a swath of guns fills your vision
Bookended by a pair of Harley Davidson Ultra Glides

I have a collection of cowboy hats
Just over there
Upon the heads of designer mannequin
I wear a different one most days
Staying the portrait of fashion

On this rack here
Two hundred handguns
Of all shapes and sizes
Preserved and ready to go
Just as the manual advises

In these boxes
Is the tear gas supply
It's crowd control at it's finest
And a joy to make small children cry

Now that you've seen it all
Let's just take a short walk down this hall
Yes that door there
Don't worry and mind the glare

Yes those floodlights
Are mostly to distract you
As you fall into my lime pit
Didn't you know?

I can't take the risk that you'll tell
Because having all this stuff is a capital crime

Oh that smell?
That's the last guy they sent
I know you know him
Don't lie
And don't bother to ask why

You've come for my guns
I know you
Your blue peacekeeper helmet gave you away
And you'll be getting my guns
When you pry them from my cold dead hands

Oh shit, sorry
You died before you heard that last bit
I'll save it for the next guy

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Needles and Pins

Too long have I lingered
Upon this magic water stool
This commode
This toilet-y throne of porcelain

Just one more page
It's what I told myself
And then just one more
Until I'd read a whole chapter
Maybe more
I'll never admit

Now I'm in trouble
I've got a dead piece of wood
It's stuck to the end of my right leg
Right where my foot used to be

I raise it up slightly
I set it back down
I bump it on the ground
Somewhat forcefully

No response
It might as well not be attached
So I finish my business
Cleaning up after myself

Then raise myself up by my left leg
And stand there
Ridiculously shaking my right
Like in the Hokey Pokey

Putting the right one in
And shaking it all about

Gradually it comes back to life
After the third day
Rolling that rock aside
Miraculously rising from the dead

What a relief
But that exclamation is premature
The consequences are not paid
Not yet
For sure

Pins and needles move in
Both tickling making me laugh
And torturing
Drawing a grimace

And not the kind that loves hamburgers

Laying on the couch
Right leg up in the air
Laughing and groaning

My cat looking on
His head cocked
Thinking what a fool I am

Saturday, July 21, 2012


One seed
One lonely seed
In one lonely hole
One finger's length deep

One sprout
One lonely sprout
Green as a new promise
One finger's length tall

One plant
One solitary plant
Spreading leafy sun receptors
Knee high on this fourth of July

One ear
On the one plant
Ready to harvest
Ready to store away

Tucked somewhere dark and dry
Hardening in the circulating heat
Almost downright decorative
But meant for something to eat

Now put in a machine
Kernels stripped off clean
Hard little pebbles of golden corn
Funneled into a sack

Taken into the house
Where a movie is showing
The "Cannonball Run"
For the hundredth time

Into a pot on the stove
Stirred constantly
In a bath of butter
The heat building to a head

One golden butter wet kernel
Jumps lightly into the air
Unseen inside the hot stirring pot
Bursting from the inside
To ten times it's former size
White and fluffy
Waiting only for it's mates to do the same
And some sprinkled salt

Purpose fulfilled


Friday, July 20, 2012

No Rescue

Your mother weeps upon the toilet
A pitiful sight
Breaking my heart
Though I try to hold it together with all my might

Little pieces break off
And fall by the wayside
One of those pieces must be you
I bite my thumb else I would have cried

It's not the right time
It would be just too much
We already have a family
Those thoughts do not comfort as such

They are half truths
Brought on by the trip to Planned Parenthood
Past the protestors
And their grisly signs
Through the unmarked back door
A signature on the dotted line

Is it fine with me?
Well shit how should I know
I spray my sperm all over the place
Doesn't seem like it's someplace I should go

Her right to choose
Roe v Wade
Doesn't seem so glamorous now
As clots drip out of her cunt
Into the water below

It's all idealistic
It's all so tidy
Until it's in the form of a horse pill
That you have to swallow

I imagine a fully formed miniature baby
Drowning in the bloody water
Hidden from sight
Protecting my gentle sensibilities
And later that night
When all the outside is still
Frogs in the back swamp gone to sleep
Silence the only thing on the bill

I creep into the bathroom
I lift up the seat
I kneel down next to the stool
Resting my chin upon my forearm
That itself rests upon the edge of the bowl
I stare at the water
With my other hand I reach in and dabble at the water
As if there may be a little hand
I could grasp and pull up to safety

As if that unformed lump of cells
That only a few hours ago
Held a question mark as it's identity
Was actually a fully formed baby

I rise and go back to bed
Telling myself over and over
That a baby
Is the one thing
That you
Were not

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Baby Killer

I proclaim you unwanted
I force upon you my will
I hold your mother down
Force her to swallow a little pill

Hand clamped tight over her mouth
So she can't vomit
Can't undo the undoing path
I've placed inside her digestive tract

I peer inside her body
With my x-ray eyes
See the pill breaking down
Watch it undo all the lies

The lies of beauty
The lies of promises
The lies of fairy tales
The lies of fulfillment

I gaze intently
As the lining of her womb give way
Shedding the lie
The lie that is you

I watch your little stubs
Stubs that might have grown into arms
Wave in an uncanny way
As if you knew what was happening

And if only you had finished
Growing those arms
And the hands at the end of them
You could keep yourself from harm

Could have used your nonexistent fingers
To hold yourself fast
To keep your life intact
Against my wishes at last

You who are unwanted
You who are undone
You who are the waste of my seed
You who would never fulfill my need

I use the rusty coat hanger
In the form of this sweetheart pill
Urge you from her body
Flush you into the septic hill

I know I'm better off without you
I'll leave your mother wracked with cramps
As her body rejects you now
I've got a Lazy Boy calling my name
A new magazine
A beer
And a re-run of a television show

Wednesday, July 18, 2012


There you are
At the other end of the room
Regarding me with fear
Sweat beading on your body
Though you are only in a king size diaper
You feel the heat

There I am
At the opposite side
Wearing thigh high black latex boots
A shiny rubber corset and bustier
A black leather studded thong
And very little else
Except my attitude

Maybe an excess of rouge
To match my over the top red lipstick

In my hand
The Johnson & Johnson baby powder
Is held at the ready
The sprinkle top is twisted open
I squeeze it lightly
Sending a puff of powder out into the air

That's when you cringe
I take a step forward

"I'm going to get you"
I say with conviction

Your knees go weak
A tiny bit of urine squeaks out of you
And you whimper

I take another exaggerated step
Puffing the baby powder again
The small cloud of white hanging
In the air between us

"I'm going to GET you!"
I say with more force
Mostly on the 'get' part
Trying to dig my high heel into the floor

A tear rolls down your adult cheek
Your hands grasp the top of your diaper
The large blue diaper pins holding the flaps
And you cower against the wall
Wailing a small wail

I take several more steps towards you
Now halfway across the room
My eyes large and blue
Piercing your own
Dominating your psych

I squeeze the baby powder as hard as my cruel hands can
Obscuring our view of one another momentarily
Before I charge four more steps
Closing the gap to a couple feet
Yelling as loud as I can


You collapse on the floor in hysterics
I stand over top of you
Placing my right boot on your chest
Telling you with total certainty

"You've been such a naughty boy, haven't you?"
Cruelty dripping from my tone
I lick my lips
Pointing the baby powder at you
I hover it a foot above your form
And squeeze it repeatedly
Coating your upper body in lavender scented softness

I kneel next to your frozen body
Stiff with anticipation

Brushing your ear with my soft red lips
I whisper in your ear breathily
"I got you motherfucker!"
Biting your earlobe as hard as I can
Drawing a tiny drop of blood to my tongue

Your body convulses in ecstasy
As you cum in your diaper

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Rubber Cocoon

Wrap you up in rubber
Tight as tight can be
So tight you can barely breath
A little tube in your mouth
So you don't accidentally suffocate

Smothered in body butter
Beneath the rubber sheathe
You squirm like a larvae in a pupae
Struggling to give birth
To change your stripes
To morph your form
To become a butterfly

Or some other adult form of your choice

Though I maintain that growing up
Is highly overrated

Monday, July 16, 2012

Change to the Change

I'm not the same person I was a second ago
And neither are you
We have transformed together
We are both a little less and a little more too

Perhaps a hair fell out
On your head or elsewhere
Certainly a handful of skin cells
Have sloughed their way somewhere

Cells have divided and died off
Thoughts have progressed
Even if you can't discern it
Things up there are a little more or less of a mess

Our lunch is a little more processed
In the depths of our digestive tract
Not mentioning what it does become
This is polite company and I know how to act

But mostly on on the surface
Nothing has changed
Though by this time in our narrative
More things have transformed than I could name

And to make it worse
I'd never catch up with the list
The changes multiply
I can only touch upon the gist

That you aren't who you were before
Before when? Before just before now!
So there's no reason to stick to old ideas
Evolve the right ones discard the wrong ones
Transformation of this sort is only just beginning

When? You ask
Why, just then
My friend
You just missed it
It's changed though
I can't even tell you what to look for
It's something totally different now
I love it
Let's change some more!

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Here in Hangar Eighteen

Hangar Eighteen
Is where all the good stuff is at
All the captured UFO's
All the stored Doomsday Devices
All the mind blowing goodness
Is in Hangar Eighteen

The reigning hangar queen
Of Hangar Eighteen
Is the Roswell spacecraft
Once flown by little green men
Who are now stored in large sample jars
Somewhere in the back

On some days
That spacecraft still sputters
It wiggles in it's mounts
It arcs a bit when jounced
It's never wise to stand too close
To the artifact numbered as "1"

Once while cleaning up some broken stuff
I bumped one of the sample jars
You know, the ones in the back
And I could have sworn
That a little black eye
On a little green man
Blinked at me
So naturally I spooked and I ran

I got laughed out of the break-room for that

One day just like any other day
We brought in a keg of beer
All the supervisors were on vacation
So the timing seemed right for a bash
We drank until everything there almost made sense

The night culminating with opening a few crates
Marked clearly as "Death Ray: Do Not Touch"
"Zaaaap!" went the keg of beer
Then before we were through
"Zaaaap!" went Sam Goldstein

We put the steampunk death ray away after that
In the weeks that followed
It was assumed that Sam had quit
And we never spoke of him again

But you know what?
I personally don't think it was a death ray at all
Because things have started happening ever since
Cryptic messages written on the coffee table
The fridge letters arranged in angst

I think it's Sam myself
The others think it's just a ghost
But you tell me
Who else would write something like:

"You idiots, it's me, Sam.
I'm in a parallel dimension
Where I've met the makers of all those cool things we have
I can tell you how to get me back
Just get out the damn "Death Ray" again!"

See what I mean?
We have all the coolest shit
Here in Hangar Eighteen

Saturday, July 14, 2012

When a Book is Not a Book

Musty light brown brittle paper smell
You know exactly the smell I mean
You smell it in an old used bookseller
In an archive room at city hall
In your grandparents attic
On a hot summer's day
Over near the boxes of books
In the Kellogg's cereal boxes
Safely tucked away

So old and safe
That even bugs and mice leave them alone
No nutritional value left
Too crumbly to shred up into a home

These are books
And I use that term loosely
For what is a book
After all?

It tells a story
It passes on knowledge
It is shared
Most importantly
It is read

These things though
That assume the shape of books
Are really not books any longer
Though there are still words on pages all in lines
They are ghosts residing where books once were
Their titles looking dully out from the spines

Original printings
Second printings
Anthology sets
Representing the best
And sometimes the worst
That an author has to offer

Collected by great grandparents
Sold by traveling salesmen
Who insisted that simply EVERYONE
Had to have this collection of Mark Twain's works
Or James Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking tales

Now over one hundred years old
Dried out and forgotten
In attics, basements, and dusty parlors
Their covers not cracked open since they were new
They've given up hope of ever being read
Then along comes the optimistic you

Who have heard of so many of these books
Often said to be "must reads" by everyone else
You pick up a likely candidate
And sit down upon the bare floor to read

Opening the cover
You're confronted with the smell
Making you sneeze
But you press on
Finding a loose swatch of wax paper
Covering an engraving
An illustration
Showing an interesting scene from the book

You fall in love
With this bygone depiction
Of this story you've only heard about
You tear into the text with conviction
Turning pages oh so carefully
But not gently enough
As they crack and fall apart
At your soft modern touch

You read through the book all right
Getting the story
Which is just as good as you were told
And when you do reach that last page
Looking up you've read for eighteen hours straight
With a growing pile of paper dust upon your crossed legs

Painfully standing up
Brushing off your legs
The remains of the book all around you
You grab a broom to clean it up

Reflecting upon the other books around you
All with the same ancient library feel
All willing to give their existence to you
For one last read

But it seems these aren't books any longer
Though they do fulfill their job
One last time
Telling their stories to you at last

Crumbling away with their last breath

Friday, July 13, 2012

Alchemy For Dummies

Alchemy For Dummies
Lay open on my bench
Displaying yet another formula
Yet another procedure

Turning lead into gold
Isn't as easy as I had thought
I've been spending months on it
And my patience is getting thin

Hundreds of times
I've set things up just so
Applied technique
And had nothing to show

Except nineteen pounds of lead
Which is one pound less than when I started
For one of the times I'd run things through
I'd vaporized a pound of it

Lead's boiling point is 1750 Celsius
I'd like to throw up my hands and say "Who knew?"
But that'd be silly because it's no mystery
What IS a mystery is how I keep mixing Celsius with Farenheit

This time though it will be different
I can feel it in my bones
I've taken some theories of Zosimus
And tweaked a thing or two

I check the temperature of my concoction one last time
Satisfied I grab a one pound ingot with my tongs
Swinging it over the small cauldron
I bump my rack of chemicals

To my horrified widening eyes
Every single one of them fell right in
To join my already bubbling mixture
Causing me to cringe

With no warning after that
My cauldron detonated like a bomb
Covering me with the new mixture
Along with everything else in the small room

So that's where you'll find me
Standing alone in my ruined lab
Still shielding my face with my arms
Frozen in a golden pose

Everything around my golden statue form
Glittering in golden glow
My face still reading the fear of that last moment
A monument to my accidental accomplishment and stupidity

Someone is going to be rich
When they do bother to look for me

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Band Room Blitz

Hey mambo
It's a predictable progression
Of majors and minors
Stepping on each other in total transgression

It's a musical clash
Of titanic brass and steel
It's horns agains woodwinds
They're out for blood for real

The brass blats a challenge
Answered en masse with a breathy chord
From a trio in the third row
Six drummers laze in back looking bored

The first chair flutist
Performs a chromatic run
So fast it was impossible to follow
Now a drummer perked up and joined in the fun

Swinging mallets as fast as light
Xylophone mimicked the flutes frantic flight
Driving to the stratosphere
Hammering with all his might

The percussion equipment started smoldering
As the rest if the section joined in as one
So six trumpets turned in their chairs
Blowing supporting notes to put out the fire until it was done

The flute section looked shamed
And played a conciliatory tune
But halfway through finding their mojo
And whipping up a medley of musical ruin

But then everything froze
Hit by the terror of a particular sound
The turning of a doorknob
It's brass mechanism turning round

The conductor entered the room
Seeing everyone silenced in mid note
He climbed his podium
Raised his baton and cleared his throat

"Page two of the overture if you please"
And motioned the entry rhythm
The band shifting gears to keep up
Starting right on time

But there was a glint in everyone's eye
That promised more mayhem
The next time the opportunity arose
And the conductor took a bathroom break again

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

In My Hobbit House

In my Hobbit house
The doors are round
A fire is always burning
The smell is the best around

Not musty or dusty
Just clean and earthy
Come in come in
There's no need to worry

I've a kettle of stew
Hanging over the hearth
Help yourself to a bowl
You'll soon taste it's true worth

As it fills your body
With warmth most relaxing
We can sit back and tell tales
But nothing too taxing

Firing up a bowl
Blowing smoke rings at one another
Our hairy feet propped up
Each toe more hairy than the other

Being a Hobbit in my Hobbit house
It's a life of labor mixed with leisure
Most things revolve around food
About eight meals a day for our pleasure

In my Hobbit house
We quarrel for fun
Over flagons of mead and beer
Sometimes until up comes the sun

But it's always a laugh
For always in the end
We're grateful our lives aren't as exciting
As that poor bastard who lives at Bag End

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Sex Mashine

Sex Mashine prowls the night
Inspiring fear
Inspiring fright
Inspiring a thousand fantasies
Driving sanity from sight

Chugging like a rail bound steam engine
Cylinders and pistons driving rods
Rods and pins driving wheels
A standard road engine plus a few mods

Some of which being
A standard cybernetic intelligence unit
Placed just so and adjusted to the 'male' setting
What? Did you expect it to be a eunuch?

Arms for grasping pushing and pulling
Delicate fingers good at probing and polling
Trained by the brain for a myriad of tasks
Padded and soft for firm but gentle holding

A voice modulator
For laying on the honey
For drawing you in
And trust me it doesn't want your money

On any given night
Sex Mashine can be found on the prowl
Buffed to a shine
Extra sexy brass fittings shining on it's cowl

Seeing you alone in the evening Sex Mashine sidles up to you with purpose
Showing interest in your feelings, hobbies, dreams
Offering to walk you home
Though not all is as it seems

I haven't mentioned it's most interesting modification
Bought on the black market
Installed in an underground sex shop
Carefully aligned, calibrated and tested

Too late you find out about this important part
But by now you've been seduced by Sex Mashine charm
And succumb without a struggle
Opening your legs to him without any harm

Grasped gently by Mashine man hands
Held at just the right angle in the cool night air
Sex Mashine rumbles just the right words in your ear
As Mashine's phallus appears you can only stare

At it's perfect shape
Anatomically correct
Laser analyzed and designed
From a quick scan of your cleft

Far from frightening or intimidating
It's just the perfect size shape and hue
Sex Mashine is a clockwork that knows
Knows what you want inside you

Driven by a smaller set of cylinders and pistons
Connecting rods and pins
A small shiny wheel to give repetitious motion
Sex Mashine gently inserts it within

Reveling in the sound of your gasp as you comprehend
That no other cock could ever compete
With what Sex Mashine has given
With how Sex Mashine has made you feel complete

Streetlights reflecting and glinting
From chrome and brass polished casting
Your amazement at how this feels
At how long you would wish for this lasting

As it pistons out then in
Filling you up from within
Mechanical Sex Mashine gyrations
Endless in their variations

Thrilling your nerve endings
Curling your toes
Causing you to struggle in his Sex Mashine grip
But not to get away
But to draw him in
To never let him go

Rumbling his bass lover's words
Like a version of Al Green you've never seen
Sex Mashine fucks you
Sex Mashine loves you like you've never been

Monday, July 9, 2012

Welcome To Monsanto Farms pt3

Dust blown around by the breeze got in my nose
Making me sneeze
I tried to shrink myself small as I sat eating lunch
To huddle as much of myself as I could in the shade
The shade inadequately provided by my broad brimmed hat

The sandwich I ate was decent enough
But my thoughts weren't on it
Not because of the conversation
Most of our group was tired
Too tired to have long conversations

Several people had already finished eating
And were laying down
Their hats over their faces
Trying to nap in the one hundred degree heat
Not a cloud in the sky to provide relief

I had other things on my mind
I wrapped my now empty lunch bundle back up
Drained my water cup
Water which was disappointingly warm
But it was wet
I was thankful for that

I stood up and stretched my legs
Trying to look innocent
Not that I was doing anything wrong
I just didn't want to look silly

Because what I was doing did verge on silliness

I pressed my hand briefly to my side
Feeling the book wrapped in Saran Wrap that was there
Then set off on my short mission
A multipart mission
Which so far had taken a week of my time

I walked quickly
As I had about a hundred yards to go today
Though I felt I had plenty of time until the distant whistle blew
Signaling us all to get back to work
I didn't want to spend my whole lunch walking either

Six days ago it had started
I'd found a book in a row of plants
It was George Orwell's "Animal Farm"
I'd seen it
Blinked several times
And looked again
But it was still there
Lying in the sparse shade under a strawberry plant's leaves

Worn and tattered
This copy of the book had seen some mileage
I assumed someone had dropped it
So I'd paused my picking long enough to pick it up
Open the front cover looking for a name
Finding none, I tucked it into my shirt

That night I'd asked around the housing
Even venturing out of our little compound into other units
But nobody had lost a book out in the fields
So I read it

It was marvelous

And making it even more interesting
Was the fact that someone had made notes in it
Mostly questions
Unanswered questions

So I had tried to answer some of them as best I could
Most of them were of the "What do you think of this idea?" variety
I'd written my thoughts next to the questions in the margins
Sometimes asking around the housing for other opinions
Sparking some interesting discussions along the way

When I was done with the book
I'd taken it back to the fields
Thinking that perhaps whomever had left it there
Had done so on purpose
Hoping to communicate in some way with me
Or someone like me

I'd left it right where I'd found it

The next day I looked again
But it was gone

I decided that I'd guessed right
That someone was doing this on purpose
And I looked again on the next two days at lunch
But nothing else presented itself

It was then that I'd had an inspiration
On the day off
I'd walked the mile or so into town
Detouring from my usual stop at the Post Office
Where I"d go every week to mail money home
I stopped at a used bookstore

I talked to the shopkeeper
I asked for something that might be a good follow up
After reading "Animal Farm"
Another Orwell book was recommended
"Coming Up For Air"

I bought it for a quarter

It was this book that was wrapped in the plastic wrap
Under my shirt as I walked

I reached the row I'd been looking for
Knowing it by the small arrangement of rocks I'd put there
Turning left I walked in fifty steps
Which is right about where I'd found the last book
And where I'd left it when I had finished with it

I took the new book out of my shirt
Unwrapping it gently and stuffing the plastic wrap in my pocket
My fingers fanned the pages briefly
Exposing notes in the margins
And questions
Things I'd written there when I'd taken the time to read it over the last few days

I figured that whomever was doing this
Might be game for more Orwellian thoughts
Might be interested in more interaction

I placed the book on the ground under the plants
Without looking back I walked back to my group
To finish the day in it's usual way
With increasing back pain
More blue baskets
More cups of water
Until the old green dusty flatbed truck came around to get us
Signalling that it was time to go back to the housing

As we all rode tiredly in the back of the truck
Bouncing gently with the suspension
Approaching that metal arched sign over the entrance to the farm
I thought about the book
I looked forward to checking tomorrow
Hoping to see it gone again
Hoping to get it back sometime soon
Hoping to see interesting things written in it again

The metal sign passed overhead as we drove under it
Marking our transition from the farm proper to the buffer area
The buffer area between the farm and the housing area
I looked up and back at the sign
Lit orangely from behind by the setting sun
Bidding it goodbye for another day

"Welcome to Monsanto Farms" it cheerfully said to me

I hung my head back down in fatigue
Staring at my dirty shoes
And the empty lunch sack between them
Letting my eyes close as I dozed half heartedly
To pass the time before we could get off the truck

Back at the farm
Past the cheerful welcome sign
Out in the fields of strawberriy plants
The book lay under the leaves
Golden orange sunset kissing everything in sight

A trio of green tendrils reached out
Wrapping themselves around the book
Pulling the book along the ground
Deeper into the area amidst the plants
All the leaves rustling along the row
Though there was now no breeze to move them

The last sliver of sun disappeared below the horizon
Monsanto Farms tucked in for the night
Quiet nighttime sounds fill the air

And if you walk down a certain row
In the experimental strawberry plant section of the farm
You can hear a soft familiar sound

The sound of pages turning

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Welcome To Monsanto Farms pt2

The dusty green flatbed truck squealed to a halt
At the end of some rows of strawberry plants
We all piled out of the truck
Which moved on as soon as we were all off
Leaving us standing there for a moment

But we all knew what to do
As a crew we would be paid as a group
Our total production for the day split equally amongst us
It worked well
Some of us were young
Some of us were old
So the average seemed fair

We all lived as a sort of commune back at the housing
Everything got shared there too
Most of the money didn't stay with us
As it was sent home to our families

I was helping to support my mother and siblings
Others had different priorities
That's just what I did
Someday I'd return home

For now though
I walked over to the pile of containers
Identical blue plastic baskets
Hundreds of them
Stacked neatly at the end of the rows in this area
Everyone else came over too

We all set our lunches down
Next to the water barrel
We all picked up a few baskets
We all faced the days work
Rows of strawberry plants
Stretching to the horizon
Or so it seemed

I walked off a few rows and got started
Bending low to gently grasp a ripe berry
Plucking it from it's plant
Turning it in my hand for a quick inspection
Placing it in the basket
Soon joined by another
And another

I soon found my rhythm
Before I knew it I had several baskets full
A younger person in our group ran a short stack of empties to me
He picked up the full baskets as well
Depositing them neatly at the end of the row
To be picked up by a company tractor as it made it's rounds
Towing a trailer with special racks
That would handle all the blue baskets
Without letting them squash the fruit

I started to get a little thirsty
And I eyed the fruit I was picking
Imagining how good it would taste
But it wasn't hard to resist the temptation
This fruit wasn't natural

As a matter of fact
I had no idea how unnatural it was
This was genetically modified fruit
Made to resist pests
Made to last longer after picking
And actually allow us to pick it when it was riper than the usual
More flavor from the vine and all that jazz

I knew of the past Monsanto Farms strawberries
Modified with some fish genes
Of all things
I hadn't liked the taste of those

This particular batch was a new variety
And I had no idea what it was
It wasn't approved for human consumption yet
As we'd all been lectured
So like I said
It wasn't hard to resist the temptation

I would wait for the young girl to come around with the water

In my dreams I had imagined the previous modified strawberries
They had been aquatic berries
At least there in my dreams
They had swum around like fish
When washed off in a sink of water
And had to be plucked back out of with little nets
Like minnows at a bait shop

But that was just a dream
The typical kinds of dreams
That I had these days
While working on Monsanto Farms

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Welcome To Monsanto Farms

The old green flatbed truck
Rumbled it's way down the smooth gravel road
Twenty people in the back
Surrounded by the three foot sides
Sitting on dusty benches
Sacks and bundles piled in between
Down the center of the truck bed
Held in place by twenty pairs of dusty footwear

I was one of those twenty people that day
And while I cannot speak for anyone else
The bundle between my feet
Held my lunch
And a book

We were almost to the farm
I could crane my neck to peer over the cab of the truck
Getting nearer and nearer
The gates of the farm grew larger
The arch above the road at the gateposts
Looking just like they always did
When I had first seen them
And read the words upon them
Almost six years ago

I had been full of hope
The words represented a future for me
And a future for the rest of the world
A better place for my children

As if I'd ever have any now

We drove through the gates
I looked back at the metal framework sign
Still arched above
But not facing me anymore
Reading in it's now backwards letters
"Welcome To Monsanto Farms"

I snorted in mirthless dark humor
"Welcome" indeed

Friday, July 6, 2012


"Ooooh, those tumbling tumbleweeds..."
I sang it out loud
Trying to remember the words
Not worried about being proud

Why bother after all
There aren't people for hundreds of miles
Scrub desert all I could see
Sand, rocks, cactus
And tumbleweeds

They blew all around in the evening's stiff breeze
Rolling about with the greatest of ease
It was relaxing to watch
I lost track of time
So hypnotized by the tumbling tumbleweeds

Soon the sun disappeared
Behind a distant mountain ridge
Throwing another log on the fire
I straightened my sleeping bag
Stretched out on the softest sandiest area I could find
Right next to my motorcycle

Some rustling and bustling caught my ears and eyes
Looking around I saw it was only some tumbleweeds
Having gotten caught up in a nearby scrub bush
Being pushed and pulled by the breeze
Trying to make their way back out into the open desert

I paid them no mind

Stretched out next to my bike
Soft sand under the sleeping bag conforming to my shape
Warm fire burning low a few feet away
Keeping the chill of the evening at bay

The stars stared down at me
I stared up the stars
My eyelids drooped
Again and again
I struggled to stay awake
Just for a few more minutes
Taking in all the beauty of the night

Some more rusting and bustling from the tumbleweeds
Sounding a little closer this time
But I didn't care
Nothing to worry about from some tumbleweeds
Silly things

My eyes closed
Sleep enveloped me

A crash of thunder and pain awoke me
It felt like a hundred little spikes were being drilled into my head
Lighting flashed
I saw a tangled mess of dry twigs before my eyes
All of it moving like no twigs should
Almost like living appendages

I screamed
The tumbleweed was doing something to me
Struggling to pull my arms free
Finding myself restrained by a dozen more tumbleweeds
I heard a cracking sound

That wasn't thunder
I numbly thought to myself
A cold draft chilled the inside of my head
My eyes closed
I fell into nothing

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Short Attention Span

Your lips are moving
I know there must be sound coming out
But I wouldn’t hear you
Even if you were to shout

You lost me by the second sentence Now all I hear is a wah wah trombone Like Charlie Brown’s teacher
You’re boring me to the bone

Instructions of the utmost importance
Might be passing through your lips
But I’d never know
Though I look attentive with hands upon hips

Don’t let it worry you though
I swear it’s not you it’s me
Your scintillating words
Just seem a terrible drudgery

Oh I’ll come back around
You just carry right on
Before you get to the end
I’ll tune your sound back on

Though I confess
You’ll probably find out
As the first question from me
Will declare what I did with a shout

Then if you feel it was important enough
You’ll start again at the beginning Where once again I’ll tune you out
It’s a song I just can’t stop singing

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Burning Rubber Smashed Rotten Garlic

My little red car thrumming along
Driving north to work
The road wet with a recent rain
Tall clouds all around
Lit in unusual ways by the rising sun
Unseen but illuminating everything
In a half light kind of way
The occasional lightning making an appearance

I listen to the radio
And the sound of the tires
Wetly tracking along the pavement
At a sedate 55 stay alive rate
Everything is not right
Everything is not wrong
Everything just is

In this way
I smell it
Almost the same time as I see it

A skunk
Lying dead in the road
It's intense smell permeating the world
Burning tires
Smashed rotten garlic
Whatever it smells like to you
That's what it was
Turned up to "10" on the amplifier

A memory runs to the front of my mind
A memory I try to push back
I push it back halfheartedly with other ones

I think of a time fifteen years ago
Not far from this spot
A lonely country road
An empty small farmhouse
With a white picket fenced yard
Right up next to the road
Overgrown with grass and wildflowers
Containing nothing more amazing
Than a baby skunk
Rolling itself in the grass and flowers
Looking for all wonderfulness
Like a scene from a Disney movie

We had stopped and stared at the little thing
So obviously enjoying itself
And taking no note of our presence
A small selfless joy
On a hot summer day

But my dark memories drive me
And drive that nice skunk memory out
Bringing the three ton door set with it

Stacked and rolling
On solid steel wheels
Driven by chains
Hooked to electric motors buried in the base
The Pratt blue hangar doors rolled
Slowly and accompanied by a loud buzzer
Opening the hangar wide
To allow the exit of our Boeing 747
All set to fly on this summer morning

I was walking slowly at the door's pace
As it slowly covered the sixty odd feet it had to go
When the smell started
Burning rubber
Smashed rotten garlic
And strong
Like right next to me strong

It had me looking around
There HAD to be a skunk around here

The door soon revealed the source
When out of the end of the door
Right next to where I was walking
Holding the 'travel' button
The three ton steel door gave birth
To a shiny red wet creature

It slid out at the pace of the doors movement
Not too fast or too slow
It looked like a fat red bloody rat
And attached to it's long tail
Was something.......

It was a pelt
An inside out black and white furry pelt

Burning rubber
Smashed rotten garlic

The creature was making a noise
It's mouth was open
Lidless eyes staring up at me
Making a soft breathy little scream

I took a step back
My heart skipping beats
Horrified at what I was seeing

This skunk had been nesting inside the door
It had gotten caught up in the chain drive
And the relentless force had skinned it alive

Burning rubber
Smashed rotten garlic

I felt panic for it
I looked at it laying there
Looking at me
Making it's screaming noise
Laying right on top of the steel rail that the door rode upon

My eyes started to water
It must have been from the smell

I took a step back to it
And pushed it's little head so it rested on the steel rail
With the toe of my boot

Then I stomped on it as hard as I could
Then again
And again

My horror at seeing it like that
My knowing that there isn't any coming back from something like that
My having to do what I did

Burning rubber
Smashed rotten garlic

My eyes smeared up
It's the smell dammit

I finished opening the door
I watched the wing as the plane was pushed out
I went and got a shovel
I took the skunk across the ramp
I dug a hole
I buried it
I washed down the rails and the concrete with a hose
Trying to wash it all away

The blood
The burning rubber
The smashed rotten garlic

Though it was the wrong time of year
I couldn't get it out of my head
What if it was a female?
What if there were babies in that door somewhere?

I grabbed my tools and removed the access panels
I looked everywhere I could with my flashlight and mirror

All I found were some scraps of skin and black and white fur
Stuck to the chain
Stuck to the gears

And more of that smell

Burning rubber
Smashed rotten garlic

Tuesday, July 3, 2012


Time to put the canning away
Snug on wooden shelves
Safe in the cool dark
Earthen walls rounded gently
The occasional root and worm waving hello
Everything perfectly normal
In it's normally perfect way
In the dark cool comfort
Of my cellar

But halfway through my chore
With all the jars on the shelves
While I pondered relabeling and more
There came a scuffing and a clunking
A huffing and a grunting
From beneath the boards of my cellar floor

I jumped back with a start
Snuffed out my light
And stared hard in the dark
Towards the sound
Which sounded like the breaking of wood
Coming from my cellar floor

Slowly little rays of light appeared in the dark
As the boards gave way
To what was picking at them from below
I held my breath waiting to see
What was going to pop up
Like a horror movie jack in the box
From the floor right in front of me

Turns out it was a hobbit
Or a dwarf
I'll say, "A gentleman of small stature"
And leave it at that
But he did look like something out of a movie
What with his beard and hard hat
His overalls and pick axe

He was a real sub cellar dwellar he was
Dirt on his face
Eyes darting all over the place
Like he didn't trust this rarified altitude
I almost felt bad until he swore quite rude
But it was because he saw me
So I kept my mouth shut
The sharp pick axe may not tolerate a rebuke

Our eyes met for a full thirty seconds
And just when i'd decided I should say hello
He jumped back down his hole without a farewell
Leaving me flummoxed and flustered
Peering at where he disappeared
Now already filled in behind him
Leaving me with nothing

Except an empty cellar
A torn up floor
And scratching my head

Monday, July 2, 2012

If My Basement Had a Basement

If my basement had a basement
It would be fifteen degrees colder yet
Than the basement that I think of
That I don't go into in the dark for a bet

I run for the top of the stairs
After I pull down on the string of the light
My feet pounding the two by eight treads
No will of mine to put up a fight

I think it would go doubly so
For the basement of the basement
The horrors would be doubled
Apprehension too as down those stairs I went

You say nothing is there
But my imagination begs to differ
The lurkabyes and monsters underbed
This is where they vacation just to make me quiver

Their eyes upon me from every dark area
Where the two bare bulbs shed no light
I quickly do my business
Grabbing two jars of pickles before running away in fright

Reaching the regular basement
I laugh in relief and fear
And pull down on the light string to go
The instant darkness only puts me in high gear

As apounding up the old treads I run
Pickles clutched in my arms where they belong
Grandma at the top of the stairs
Wondering what ever took me so long

Sunday, July 1, 2012


Skin slowly tightened
Just fast enough to watch
Like a Shrinkydink in the oven
I watched with a tinge of shock

Then there she was
The woman I once knew
Now with skin two sizes too small
Stretched tightly across her skull

"Am I beautiful?"
She asked me earnestly
Her jaw moving in a horror show way
I vomited quietly into my shirt

I tried to find words
Her Skeletor face waiting
Waiting for approval
Waiting for my verbal erection

But it wouldn't come to my lips
Desperately I searched for some mental Viagra
Anything to inspire my arousal
But nothing would come

"You look quite......."
Her eyes implored me
Her lips pulled back
Revealing white teeth she could no longer hide

I finished weakly
On on upwards tone
A question mark real and implied

This skeleton princess
The love of my life
Now unrecognizable
Her eyes dissecting me like a knife

Anger gathered within her
Her trampoline tight skin cracking
Blue electric lightening escaping her face
Spreading as a wildfire
Enveloping her head
A mockery of Nick Cage's Ghostrider
Her voice starts a low wail
Now rising in pitch
Growing in volume and intensity
Louder than a jet engine now
In alarm I clamp my hands to my ears

"I did this for you!!"
Her banshee shriek fills my soul
I implanted my tits
I lipo'd my hips
And puffed up my lips!!

I trimmed my labia
I colored my hair
Capped my teeth
I changed myself everywhere!!

Her voice finally cracked
Her electric fire went out
Her visage collapsed inward
Her plea became a doll's shout

"I just wanted to be perfect for you"
Those beautiful now protruding eyes cried
Causing my own to well up with tears
Because like I've told you before
At every 'beauty treatment' juncture

You were perfect
You complete me as you are
No changes are necessary
None at all, not by far

From the minute you wake up
With not a shred of makeup on
Your are what I've always thought of
When the word beauty comes to mind

With every beauty treatment
And every surgery you take
Every change you pay for
Your beauty is less and less

And I don't speak of just the outside
All this seems to be eating at your soul
Turning it black
Looking for approval
From who
I do not know

You who are not the one I fell in love with
For now there is nothing left
I wash my hands of you my love
For that is what you'll always be to me
At least the you from the past
The you that lives on only in my head