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Friday, November 30, 2012

Republic of Walmart

There are no Kroger stores around
So no double coupon days
Nor triple
No gas discounts
No Kroger deli
No Kroger store

And I'm not sure why it matters

My groceries from Walmart seem too ghetto
Even when I get a hoity toity brand
Not to mention the horrid GMO's
It fills my belly
Expands my fat cells
Which is ok
Because I noticed they recently increased the maximum size jeans they carry

Groceries from the 'better' store in town
They are one third more expensive
But it's smaller and tidier
More organics are available
And there are far fewer Walmart shoppers
If you know what I mean

The class warfare in this small Northern town
Is plain to see
The lines are drawn
If you feel poor
You go to Walmart
If you feel rich
You go to the other one
Which in turn makes you feel poor
Thereby sending you to Walmart the next time
Which disgusts you
Sending you back to the deluxe muffin tops place once again

Eventually there will be only one store
Which will have little apartments and villas
For all the Walmart shoppers to live
It's the only place we will be able to afford

And in the far off future
In this country called The Republic of Walmart
We will all pledge allegiance to the winking smily face flag
We will die to defend it

All for the love of lower prices

Thursday, November 29, 2012

The Road to Dunlapp

It felt like I had needles in my feet
Down on the floorboard of the old Plymouth had to be the coldest part of the car
I'd worn my better boots
But they were no match for the ten below outside temps
The weak sputtering fan of the defroster could barely keep the inside of the windshield clear

My radio started losing the station from the last town I'd passed
A one horse type of affair
With a shuttered post office
The only lights I'd seen on had been the gas station I'd filled up at
Finding that the car was only getting eleven miles per gallon
Had only added to my bad mood

I grasped the chromed plastic knob with the black center
Turning it slowly through the whining static
Until I heard something like music
It was christian radio
So I kept searching
But that was the only thing that came in

So it was to the classic strains of "My God is a Rocking God"
That I rolled past the Welcome to Dunlapp sign
Which proclaimed them to be the 1994 State Spelling Bee runners up

Good for them I thought

Fresh snow covered streets greeted my headlights as I turned off the main road
Vort Street
Now that's a helluva name
I was looking for house number fifty three B

About halfway down the street there it was
Looking perfectly ordinary
This place that Craigslist had sent me

I kind of half wanted to turn around
Was this going to be one of those urban legend stories?
Where I walk through the door
And the next thing I know I wake up in a tub full of ice missing a kidney?

Who can say

But this guy advertised a time machine for three hundred bucks

That's why I'm here

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Ol' Wifeliss

I worked the engraving knife carefully
It was just a hobby for me
But I took pride in it
Nothing I ever did turned out as nice as the Colt engraving shop
But it was far better than a two year old's work
Take that as you will

The brand new cast iron frying pan weighted down my lap
A reassuring press down
Pressing down my emotions
Providing me a center of focus

My knife slowly worked a "W" into the metal
In classic Old English style
Moving on to an "I"
Then an "F"

My wife sat on the other side of the coffee table
To my left
Past the ugly dark wood turned lamp
With the tape patched shade
A pink box of Kleenex
Dozens of used tissues collected around it
An apple core
Browned
A red solo cup of wine
Trashy

Both of us facing the old RCA console color television
Kept alive by prayer to Baal
Some judicious repair work
And a government rebate provided digital converter box

Local programming wasn't anything special
But at least it gave me a break from HER

Steady hands worked an "E" into the virgin metal

One ham hand brushing greasy black hair out if her beady blue eyes
My wife kept talking
I tuned in for a second just to see what she was saying
She needed a grunt if assertion now and again
It made her think I was paying attention
Kept some arguments from happening

".....and the dentist says Joey's braces can be paid for on a payment plan
Which is pretty good
We could have them paid off in a year
Then Suzanne can get her braces
Which she really needs in my opinion
It might help us win some pageants
She hasn't been finishing higher than fourth all year
And I think it's because of her teeth you know....."

I grunt an affirmative
Because what else am I supposed to do

The letter "L" forms itself under my fingers

Just then Steve and Bobby tumble into the room
A whirl of dirt and motion
Like something out of a Warner Brothers cartoon
Bobby is dripping blood from his nose
Further staining the already ruined ten years ago office beige carpeting

Steve was yelling about his little brother
"Bobby started it!!
I didn't mean to hit him with the stick
It was his fault!"

A letter "I" took shape on the pan

Bobby for his part was crying uncontrollably
Adding tears and drool to the already copious amounts of fluid
Dripping from his face to the carpet
Making abstract shapes on the carpet

I nodded over at the wife
Who was sitting slack jawed now
Dried lasagna sauce from dinner collected in the corner of her mouth
Something stuck in between her top center teeth
Half trying to peer past them at her television show
Half pretending to be concerned about Bobby

"Talk to your mother"
I couldn't be bothered
I was now making a pretty letter "S"

Bobby ran and smashed his messy face into his mothers breast
Wrecking further her food stained T-shirt

From the next room
Baby Alex started crying
Having been woken from his nap

I let it all happen for a minute
While I finished my last letter
"S" finished off my immediate project

My eyes took in my work for a moment
The word glinting back at me
Shiny against the dull flat cast background

"WIFELISS"

I got up
Set the pan lettering side down on the coffee table
And went to hold baby Alex
Who probably smelled of wee

But at least had other redeeming qualities
One of which being
That he didn't look a bit like my wife

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Time Machine For Sale

And this can't be any old namby pamby time machine either

I don't want to have to go in the nude
Because, well, that's just wrong and I won't do it
What was good enough for the Terminator
Just isn't good enough for me

It can't be something that only transports my consciousness
Because, why bother?
It could all just be a mad paoti dream if that's the case
Might as well be some cheesy hollywood movie from the 1980's

No, only the real deal will serve my purpose
A purpose that is painfully simple:
I want to go back
To the point a few minutes before I met my wife ten years ago
I want to sneak up on myself
And clobber myself over the head with a frying pan

Thereby ensuring that I won't meet my then future wife

I'll be home free
No wife
No kids
Just an awesome life

I should probably compose a note of some sort
Instructing myself to stay away from committed relationships
And a vasectomy
Definitely get a vasectomy

Don't want any hungry heirs to have to tend to

Where to find such a creature though?

I walk past the complaining wife
And the squalling squabbling children
Into my man cave
I lock the door behind me

Just me, brown shag carpet, all my books, and my computer
Where Google search is the logical first place to look

"Time Machine For Sale"
<Enter>

Monday, November 26, 2012

Modern Dysfunctional Love

I love thee!
I cry out in wretched ecstasy
Tortured by my muses
Which is shown by heart shaped bruises
My heart pumps out it's love juices

For you
As you know
Because I say

If you do deny me
I will suicide me
And you shall be left sobbing over my corpse
Wondering what could have been
Though at that point I'll be wondering when
You might feel sorry enough for me
To actually cleave to me
And I can sit up and stop pretending to be dead

Because I'm not stupid
You're just a chick
There are other fish in the sea

And then to prove my point
You run away from me
As if I never mattered
As If our relationship was all in my head
And I was just a creepy stalker standing over your bed
Which was never proven in court
So you have to stop saying it
My lawyer says so

I drop som acid to break my rhythm
Creating a new brain partition
From which I can boot a new love
For the next chick that happens along
But in so doing
I'm starting from scratch once again
Any lessons I learned from chasing after you
Will just have to be learned again
Becoming an endless circle of idiocy

You said people like me shouldn't breed
And maybe that's true
But a man has his needs
And at the time I needed you
Now I've forgotten your name
Moved on to new game

It's called internet porn
Stand back as I spill my man goo

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Frying Pan Solution

The black cast iron frying pan feels heavy
And I know that it IS heavy
There are a couple dent's in my wood flooring to prove it

All the caked on crap from yesterdays omelette is slowly coming off
But not easily
Not happily
But then again that might just be me
Projecting my feelings onto a goddamned frying pan mess

You see
I couldn't stand her anymore

I used to love her
But I had to kill her
Just doesn't quite cover it
Mostly because I'm not dumb enough to do that

Besides
I don't really want to kill her
I don't hate her
I just don't want to be with her anymore
And I don't see any way out of it

Six kid's worth of child support would be no fun at all
Not to mention alimony
And the fact that I'd lose everything
Everything that means nothing really

I'm a coward anyways
I'd never have the guts to leave her
I just wish there was a way to change the past
To make it so that I never would have married her
To make it so that I could continue to be happy

And I was totally happy
I remember that
Just me and my two dogs

I even thought I was happy when I first met her a decade ago
The first year was awesome
It was disgusting in a "You complete me" kind of way

Fuck!

I always do this
I roll things over and over in my head
Never coming to a solution

The pan is finally clean

Setting it on the edge of the countertop
I grab for the towel
And I bump it
Sending it falling onto my foot

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"
I hop to the couch in rhythm to my repeated cursing
Plopping down onto the broken down cushions
Cradling my throbbing foot
Which didn't seem broken
Just bent

And the heavy black cast iron frying pan sat there
Right on the floor
Still wet
Still heavy

That's when I had the idea
A frying pan solution
If you will
To all of my problems

Now all I needed was a time machine

Saturday, November 24, 2012

Transgenderland

Transported to Transgenderland
I was transfixed
As I saw sexy hairless men sporting breasts
Masculine women with beards and strapped down tits

I was absolutely gender bendered
I didn't know what to do
Should I kiss the boys who looked like girls?
Or make out with the chicks who looked like dudes?

My upbringing had not prepared me for this
I felt deranged and overly wary
As if each person I met had a hand grenade in their pocket
Which could go off at the slightest interaction

Then someone bought me a drink
Shared a pizza with me
Told me I was cute

I found myself attracted to them
And only after I felt that
Did I stop for a second
And think about which genitalia they may have

I realized it just didn't matter
And we have a date tomorrow at eight

Friday, November 23, 2012

Black Late Thursday Into Friday

Polishing my mottled metal mold
Pouring melted molten gold
I've got plenty of ingots
Scarcity isn't the issue
I've been farming for months
Harvesting fish never-ending
Making the same big circle
Around the same big mountain
Mining ore to be smelted
As fast as it regenerates

Finally all the coinage is minted
Cooling on the racks in the back
The symbols upon them in sharp raised relief
From dies so carefully shaped
All in preparation
For a yearly celebration
Of wretched excess and gore

In addition to the shiny new money
I'll be packing my axe and shield
As things often go awry at the store
More often than not if you're keeping score

And to top it all off
It's starting earlier this year
Not that it hasn't been creeping up
A few minutes there
An hour there
Now it just starts the day before it's namesake
Which only pumps me up a bit more
As now I can go to town
And get my business done

Performing the sacred ritual of Black Friday
A little bit early
Call it Black Friday Thursday Night maybe
No?
Well I'll come up with something better I assure

I run the hone down my axe a few more times
Scoop up all of my gold coin
And head down to Wal Mart
Armored head to toe
Ready to make battle
Ready to capture door busters
No matter what the cost
No matter the holiday spirit that may be lost

I line up with everyone else at the door
Pumping five hour energy drinks
Red Bull and Vodka
Swaying lightly
A firm grip on my weapons
The clock ticks down

I charge with a battle cry
Crushing the weak beneath my feet
Slashing the slow out of my way
No compunction to whom I slay
As I grab limited deals and throw them in my cart

I will conquer this day
All the sale items shall be mine
Upon this Bloody Black Friday

Thursday, November 22, 2012

A Modern Thanksgiving

Once graceful mechanical hands come together
Forming the classic steeple prayer form
Once painted with colorful enamel paints
Now chipped and sporting flecks of rust
No telling what color they were at one time

Behind these hands
A face of sorts hovers silently for now
Photoreceptors with yellow glowing edges
Arranged in stereo fashion
Right about how a human would want them
From a time when it mattered
From a time when there were humans to see

Through a chrome grill of fine stainless mesh
Placed right where a mouth might go
Comes a perfectly pitched voice
Belying the corroded and rundown condition of it's outer shell

"We are gathered here today to give thanks
Thanks for the breakthroughs that made our existence possible
Thanks for the humanity that we once had
Thanks for the beings we have become
Thanks for undercoating, spare parts, and rechargeable batteries"

All this said to a room devoid of other life
Of any kind

Said to a table with fake plastic food
A perfect turkey centerpiece
A perfect mashed potatoes and gravy
A perfect green bean casserole

All perfect looking
For a creature that cannot eat
Sitting at a slowly rotting wooden table
With cannibalized mechanical carcasses sitting in the other chairs

"Thank you for the last six hundred and seventy three Thanksgivings
And the wish for many more to come"

The mechanoid's eyes flicker as it accesses memories
Memories of long ago
When it had humanity
When it had a soft fleshy body
That could eat real food
Real Turkey

It played those memory videos in it's head
Reliving happier times
When it wasn't surrounded by dead relics of it's past
When it wasn't alone

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Bob

The unicorn brought world peace
It's shiny horn a beacon of hope
To single moose and gathered meese
Compressed for the masses upon a soap on a rope

And so Bob attacked it
The unicorn didn't like it
Bob claimed he was faking it
The unicorn was dubious of his denying it

It
Became irritated at being called 'It'
"I have a name goddamned it!!"
Then was silent
Letting our poor ears ring
As it realized
That it had done the same damn thing

The spider observing this
Who was so fucking big he was smoking a cigar
Was shellacked with emotion
No wait
That was actually because of the housewife
She had tried to kill him with furniture polish spray
But had only made him shiny and water resistant
Causing him to say

"Bitch please
I am exoskeletally certain that that shit
Just can't kill me"

But then Bob attacked him
With the soul of his shoe
Doing two things in that act

Proving the existence of a 'soul'
Annoying the cigar smoking spider

Who turned on Bob for attacking him
When he was just minding his own business
Smoking the cigar
Making amusing smoke rings
Out of whatever orifice that spiders use for such things

So the spider rode the unicorn off into the sunset
Leaving Bob behind
And all of his antisocial ways

Don't trust him no matter what he says
Bob has issues

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Smart Ways to Die

Sometimes you just don't want to die dumb
No matter where it is you are from
So here is a list of the best and brightest
Six smart ways to die

Driving in your Smart car
Getting rear ended by a semi
Your remains so few
They are committed to the earth in a jar

But you were saving gas and leaving a tiny footprint

That's a smart Smart way to die
There's just no way you can deny

How about a duel to the finish
With a professional telekinetic
Leaving your bones crushed
Beyond the reach of any orthopedic

Hey you can't deny they were both using their brains

So that's another smart way to die
Though the pain's enough to make you cry

Saving all his life like Scrooge McDuck
Only to die in two consecutive money counting avalanches
Smothered under piles of tens and twenties
Surrounded on all sides by his riches

Smart with his money and it grew so big

It was a financially smart way to die
Too bad he couldn't learn to scrape by

Hoarding for the apocalypse
Whether zombie or nuclear it doesn't matter
Her stash caught on fire
And she was killed in a flash

Preparing for emergencies is smart says the Red Cross

It was a cluttered way to die
A fire hazard house that was such a sty

Studying hard for the big test
Stressed out and on stimulants
Until a brain blood vessel burst
And we can assume the worst

Cramming all night to stuff the brain with smarts!

That's such a brilliant way to die
Pushing so hard that the brain does fry

Fasting to connect with oneself
Can be taken to extremes
After a few weeks of it
Leaves you wasted and obscene

Though he did align that last chokra

Such an introspective way to die
He always wanted to be a wise guy

So many smart ways to die
Too bad it's all just a lie
There's really no way to justify
All the supposedly smart ways to die

(They're all pretty dumb)

Monday, November 19, 2012

Beer Run

Roaring along in top gear
The tractor raced by
Trailing 10 shopping carts full of beer
The flannel clad driver ignoring me
Like I wasn't even here

Dropping the squad car into low
I pulled out behind him going slow
Lights on flashing red white and blue
Perhaps he took that as a sign he was a patriot
I can't be sure

He hung a sudden right
Going straight into Lazy Acres Trailer Haven
Almost tipping his shopping carts over
Which would have been a waste
To spill all that beer
I had plans for it already
To take it back to the station
For our annual cook out

Wouldn't anybody?

But for now
The chase was on
And that driver knew I was behind him
I caught a few furtive glances
As he tried to see if I was still there

He made a zig zag pattern in the road
Trying to lose me I suppose
But all it did was make his carts sway
They fishtailed and railed against each other
Surely shaking up that beer like no tomorrow

People sitting on their trailer steps
Waved and called out to him to stop
But he ignored them
The same as he was ignoring me
Heading for his goal
Which I now could see

A bonfire in the clearing
At the back of the trailer subdivision
Filled with other rednecks
Probably in a dry disposition
Depending on this beer run
Pulled by a Cub Cadet
The driver having lost his license to a DUI
Or at least that's what I''d bet

Finally he stopped
Just next to the fire
A little too close I was guessing
But he was sauced
He didn't care
And he wanted to be the center of attention

All his redneck friends
Stood up as I came to a stop
Getting out the car with my hand on my gun
I certainly didn't see any of them run

So I gauged the situation
And decided that discretion was the better part of valor

Walking over to the last cart in line
I grabbed a case of Bud Light
Holding it up as if it's all I wanted
I called out to them all

"I'll be taking this beer right here
And everything is going to be just fine"

I backed away slowly
Threw the case in the car
Threw it into reverse
And hoped I hadn't started a war

But I needn't have worried
For before I was even out of sight
Beers were cracked open in a flurry
As the drinking started up again for the night

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Indian or Indian?

I peered at the newly unfolded paper in front of me
"It says Indian, French Canadian, German, and Polish"

My friend looked at me
"Indian with a feather, or with the dot?"

I look at the paper again
"I don't know
And, that's kind of rude"

"Whadayamean?"
He asks me, taking another swig of our cheap beer

"The 'feather or dot' thing
That's what"

He belches in response, adding
"Whatever
So what do you think?
You don't look part Indian from India
Or American Indian
Which do you suppose they mean?"

I didn't know then
And I don't know now
Nor will I probably ever

The folded piece of paper
So fresh and new twenty years ago
Is now flattened and in a file folder
Occasionally taken out and looked at

The same question pondered again and again
That small bit of information given by The Friend of The Court
A pedigree paper of non-identifying information
Making more questions appear than it had expelled

Given that I had been adopted in 1971
The word 'Indian' leads me to think Native American
As that would still have been in fashion to say
But what do I know?

I'm just the guy who paid twenty-five dollars to the court
For a piece of paper
That told me everything that was on my birth certificate
Plus the fact of my birth mother's and father's ages
18 and 19 respectively at the time of my birth

The news that they had both been in college at the time
And that laundry list of ingredient-like nationalities
That are the recipe of my genetic heritage

More is not for me to know
As the simple question of
"Where did I come from"
Is sometimes too simple
And too complicated
To ever be answered

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Plushy Panda Wants You To Succeed

My soufflé was looking pretty good
Peering through the oven window at it
The oven light illuminating the puffy concoction
I smiled and stepped away
Turning to my right

And almost running into a wildly gesticulating Giant Plush Panda

He's my mascot
And I can't get rid of him

Seeing my pleasure at the success of my soufflé
Giant Plush Panda Mascot does a jumping cheer
Waving his arms
Patting me on the back crazily
In a mad exaggerated fashion
As if he were playing to a stadium of people
Instead of just me
In this little kitchen

The floor shakes beneath my feet as he does it
In my head
I hear a cartoon deflation sound
Like when the balloon is flying around the room until it's empty

And I know that the soufflé has collapsed
I don't even have to look
But I do anyways
And the Giant Plush Panda Mascot hangs his head
In exaggerated sadness
Putting both paws on the sides of his giant head
Shaking it in grief for my failure

I get angry
I point to the door
I tell it to leave
That I've had enough of it's crap

The panda does a dance instead
Followed by laying on it's side
Chasing itself in circles
Like an oversized plush Three Stooges Curley

I kick it
And my foot just bounces off
I can't even tell if anyone is in there
It may really be an enchanted plush panda

I peer closely at it's giant plastic eyes
Creeping me out
As they are unblinking
Spread wide
As big as my whole head

But I see nothing buy my own reflection in them

I get ready for bed
The panda cheers me on
In pantomime motions
Both short and annoyingly long

On my way to my bedroom
I smack it's big stupid head
Which spins around like it's on a pin
But just ends up facing me again
With a big silly panda grin

Doing my old man bedtime ritual
Putting lotion on my feet
Picking at my beard
The panda mimics me
With frequent thumbs up
From his ridiculous black padded paws

I'm exhausted and I lay down
The Giant Plush Panda Mascot
Stands sentry by my bed
His head cocked to the side
Pretending to rest upon his two clasped paws
Encouraging me to sleep
Like a good mascot should
A plushy cheerleader for daily things

I think tomorrow I'll try to push him in front of a bus
And that thought makes me smile in a haze
As I drift off to sleep
Under the baleful unblinking huge plastic panda gaze


Friday, November 16, 2012

November Hunt #75

In the haunts of November
Who wants to remember
The swirling fog of the dog
Sitting in this hut made of timber
Stifling the winds of soft slumber
With thick smoke off yet another log

Lying horizontal
My view a ninety degree portrait mode fail
The flames licked towards the extreme left
Which made sense when you think on it
As gravity pulled hard on me
Squashing my right side
Conforming with the contour of this cot

Another hunting season is here
And two days have gone by
But I haven't gone out yet
There could have been a dozen deer at my spot
My empty tree stand is not threat however
As what it is lacking is the hunter in me

No father this year
To accompany me here
To the family hunting camp up North
This late fall season
He is weathering the weather
In his semi air tight funeral vault

I'd considered not coming
But this family tradition was running
At almost seventy five years and two days
I didn't want to break it
My enthusiasm for it faked
As only one moon ago I was at his open grave

It has been therapeutic
Waking up here alone
Heating up coffee for one
A couple eggs and toast
Stepping outside to greet the sun

But after a brisk walk
I just step back inside
Going over the old camp diary journals
Picture albums of times past
Seventy four hunting season memories

Tomorrow I'll pack it up
Take a couple self portraits for the album
Write a page in the diary journal
And head South for home
I'm not in the mood to hunt
I didn't think this time would be much fun
It was just a tradition
But perhaps next year
I'll bring my thirteen year old son

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Beardslayer Cometh

Ssshick, ssshick, ssshick, ssshick

The soft repetitive noise came from the old cabin
Most of the trees still standing nearby
Looking as dead as the cabin itself
With it's torn moldy curtains and broken windows

Ssshick, ssshick, ssshick, ssshick

The noise has been going on for almost an hour
All other sound in the woods has stopped
As if all the creatures and even the wind
Has stopped to listen
To ponder what it might mean

The sound stops
And it starts raining lightly at the same moment
Various rustling sounds fill the air
As if all the waiting listening animals
Suddenly remembered what it was they had been doing

The front door to the dirty old cabin opens
With a creak
And the sound of booted steps
Coming out of the dimness within
A figure appears

There is no way to tell if it's a man or a woman
So covered with hair and odd bits of clothing as it is

Coming out into the light that streams down in columns
Lightly illuminating areas through the light misty rain
The figure comes more into focus
In it's right hand is a large pair of scissors
In it's left is a basket
A basket full of hair

Hair of all different colors and textures

With a purpose the figure strides to the edge of the clearing
Finding a lightly worn path that leads to the main road to town
Where many men should now be frightened
If they but knew what was coming their way

For the Beardslayer cometh
And will have it's pound of hair

Ere it ever peacefully retires
Back to it's dusty cabin lair

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Movember Mike

Movember Mike
Made his way through the month
Growing his facial hair
Raising money for a good cause
Not even shaving it once

It started out scraggly
Looking out of work and shaggy
Once while standing outside drinking coffee
A stranger put two bits in his cup

Mike lectured him on assumptions and appearances
But kept the two bits as a teaching fee

Movember Mike's facial forest
Soon filled in quite fully
And was a daunting looking thing indeed
Some saw him as Machiavellian
Others saw the potential for a real beard Santa

All agreed it was looking quite epic
And pledged more money to the cause

Towards the end of the month
Movember Mike was looking pretty bushy
He was basically a beard with feet
It had grown out so fast
He looked rather like Grog from B.C.

At the end of the month
Movember Mike's pledge sheet was so full
It had additions and addendums taped on
It was rolled up for convenience
Though when laid out was almost out to six feet

Finally Movember Mike shaved it down
And such was the pink skin that he found
And so youthful were his 'new' looks
He got carded at Seven Eleven
And couldn't even buy himself a celebratory beer

With that in mind
Movember Mike has promised to never shave again
At least until this time again next year

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Korean Jesus

Ultra high low tech transforming Jesus
Responded to prayers
By the faithful and the faithless alike
For there are no atheists in the storm

Kim Lee Park
The commonest of Koreans
Found himself overturned in a ditch
His old tractor pressing down upon him
Kim Lee Park suddenly found Jesus
And prayed to have his weight lifted

And so Jesus donned his Korean face
Looking as you'd think he would
Appearing and kneeling next to his lost lamb
In the ditch half filled with water
Along that deserted country road

"Save me!" cried Kim Lee Park

"Your soul is held in my embrace, my son"
Jesus had nothing but love for this man

"No, asshole, I mean lift the goddamned tractor off me, will ya?"

You have to imagine all this in Korean
It's gripping dialogue in it's native form I assure you

Jesus was taken aback by this demand
And despite himself
He tried to lift the tractor off of his new friend
But his spirit Korean Jesus hands just passed through the tractor's metal frame
Having less effect than a butterfly's wing upon it

Jesus knelt back down with Kim Lee Park
And gave him his Jesus patented Soul Hug
Which gave the man a warm feeling
Much like peeing in a cool water filled bathtub
But little else

Just then Korean Jesus heard a truck at the crossroads
Three hundred yards away at the crossroads
It wasn't coming this way
But Jesus knew he could help

Jesus appeared in the road
Right in the center of the intersection
And pointed over the little rise in the road to the left

Almost hypnotized
The truck driver went that way
Which is the kind of stuff that Jesus is good at
Guiding you Hypnotoad style

Don't be critical
It gets the job done

Truck driver sees the tractor accident
Helps move the tractor off Mr Kim Lee Park
Who predictably turns to the now fading Korean Jesus
And tells him

"Thanks for nothing buddy"

Jesus is used to being discounted
Jesus gives Kim Lee Park another quick soul hug
Saying, "I love you too"

Retiring back to the Green Room area
Until he is needed again

It's tough for a Jesus to get any respect

No matter what face he wears

Monday, November 12, 2012

Soiled Supe

Surveying the cityscape
Our protagonist stands Superman
His hands on hips
Eyes squinted slightly
And a mild purse to lips

Feet at an odd angle
Hanging on with microfilaments
That Spiderman would be jealous of
Perched firmly atop the Empire State Building
The site of many a lost love

Perplexed at the amount of criminal activity
That this metropolis seems to produce
To go after the looters in uptown
Or the grifters in the mid?

The hero's eyes look upwards
In hopes that a cosmic threat will appear
That he can fly straight up and stop it
Placing it gently on the ground in Times Square
To much adulation and deafening cheers

But there is nothing
Nothing out of the ordinary for this hero to do
He has no Lex Luthor
Or his real life equivalent
Though he has waited patiently for years

Hero flexes his legs uncomfortably
Within his red and blue tights
His uniform dujor
It's expected
A part of the hero sights

A most un-hero-like cramp
Grips Mister Hero's guts
And he knows he should get down and take care of business
It's not hero stuff
But of the utmost importance nonetheless

In a fit of hero madness
He tries to seek temporary relief
Said relief turns to instead horror
As he realizes that he just sharted in his briefs

So there he stands in embarrassed silence
Looking for danger till the end of his shift
Standing Superman atop the Empire State Building
In shimmering hero tights of red and blue

Soiled

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Veteran Mentor

Principal Diggin's chubby jowls jiggled as he talked

"Being middle schoolers now is a big responsibility
We consider you to be our veterans
And now that you are in sixth grade I expect more of you
One of your new jobs will be to mentor the elementary kids
So I expect you to take them under your wings and help out"

With that short speech in mind
Is how I found myself on the school bus
In the second to last row
With a fourth and a fifth grader
Discussing swear words

I was trying to correct their misconceptions

"No no no, hell really isn't a swear word
It doesn't matter what your parents say
I'm here to tell you"

I tried to look all knowing and veteran-y

"What you've basically got
Is a swear triangle
On the corners of your swear triangle
You'll find the base words that you work with:
Shit, Ass, and Fuck
You go ahead and build off of those for most anything
Adding words or phrases in front of or behind them
Understand?"

The two younger kids looked at me with wide eyes
Impressed, no doubt, by the knowledge bomb I had just dropped

So I sat back and bounced along with the bus
Watching and listening as my two students tried out words
I smiled and nodded at their phrasing
Not really shocked by any of it
Knowing they'd get the hang of it

Just another day in the life
For a veteran like me

Saturday, November 10, 2012

Welcome to the Fourth Grade Level

I've read your assessment
It doesn't jibe with my perceptions
You say my words are at a fourth grade level
Well I've got news for you
That's the demographic I write for
And even that
My friend
Is past your limits
I know what they are
I was eavesdropping the last time your mistress made you her bitch
So don't tell me I don't know what they are
I even know your safeword

It's Pineapple Jubilee

Guess what?
That's two words
So right there you fail right out of the gate
If I was her
I wouldn't respect that shit
I'd keep on flogging until I saw bone
Your skin hung in tatters
Over top of your neo kinky form
Padded handcuffs tight from supporting your pussy ass weight
I'd pop some popcorn for that show
I'd risk my curfew and stay out way super late

Here's a fucking funnel
I'll jamb it into your left ear
Pouring my words into you like hot oil
Filling up every crevice until you are full
Of the words that are me
The thoughts that come out of my dick like piss
Raining down on you like a golden shower of shit
Fourth grade level words for your padded reality
Wrapping you up in a canvas and leather jacket of my own design
Dropping you into a tank of your own shortcomings
Sitting back to see if you can perform the escape
Inverted and bound in my reality on this page

That's how Houdini died I heard
Drowned in my words

That's how epic this shit is

Here I'll rope some Doctor Suess for you
I'll rhyme it like a hammer
Stand the fuck back
And turn on the radar jammer
As I fly by that state trooper
That's hiding in the weeds
His gun on automatic
As he jerks out to some mobile porn
Xhamster on the public dole
Doing it stranger style with his left
Because his right is feeling worn

Black belted Brown Betty bugles
Battled it out in the mucus
Singing fancy fuego fun fugue feugels
Crunched by cocky clown clad clappers
Enamel angels after all the esther adders
Till time told them to tower in terror
And slide slippery slopes slithering
Till digested diggery dogging doo
They ran their course to be ejected as my poo

Boom

Friday, November 9, 2012

Warring Pot Stock

The beans didn't like the corn
The sauce wasn't in love with the meat
That's all I can think of
If true
It ties it up quite neat

The tensions between them all
Must have finally come to a head
Exploding my silver crock pot
Putting my meal on the ceiling
When it should be on my plate instead

The beans had history with the corn
Two generations back
There was an arranged marriage that failed
And the two clans had been duking it out ever since
"Why hadn't I seen it clearly before??" I loudly wailed

And the meat
Don't get me started
Has been taking advantage of the sauce
Since about the time that time had started
And the sauce was done with it
The commotion that ensued was so frightening that I sharted

That must be how it went
The ingredients had problems with one another
Totally outside my control
For it just couldn't have been me
I just can't see that I had any role

This chef is throwing in his hat
And making a TV dinner
Far from admitting fault for all this mess
I'm declaring myself the winner

I'll let the maid clean it up
Right after I let her eat cake

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Darkness Dealt

When dealing with the blackness
It is always best done
With a thimbleful of rum
A pinch of salt thrown over the shoulder
A stitch in time to go with the ongoing knitting
Which is being minded as your own
As it should be
As it was advised
For minding other's clicky clacky knitty knacky
Is deemed by the elders to be most unwise

Like sticking your nose where it does not belong
Which is hard if one is Pinocchio
And lies are all that come
The nose grows and pokes and goes
To places that it has nary been
If indeed those nostrils them had eyes
And those boogers could have seen

But then again
It was in fact made of wood
Which had a grain that was planed
As all good carpentry should
This Geppetto surely did know
As he fashioned his disturbing puppet
With pedophile fingers
No longer allowed around real children to go

In that situation
A handmade Real Doll just had to do
With strings to pull
So that it felt like a stranger was doing the work

And that's how Geppetto dealt with his darkness
His little bit of rum
Some pinches of salt
The minding of his own knitting
Which was more than a dash of carpentry

To that we add knives and paints
Framed pictures of saints
A tiny cricket dressed up in creepy clothes
A high seas adventure
Some kinky sea creature ingestion
And there you have it
A lovely bedtime story without question
Guaranteed to create nightmares
In any given girl or boy
Catching their sensibilities unawares
As the nanny giggles into her sherry
Turns off all the lights despite the protests

"Shut up my pretties, maybe you'll be comforted by a fairy"

Followed by victorian boot clomps down the hall
To her own room
Where every night she deals with her own doom
Her very own brand of darkness
Her very own demons
To which she must confess

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Birthday Girl

Timeless party girl
Carved out of a gourd
Triangles for eyes and nose
Only two teeth that show
A fresh candle nestled down inside
Where the brain should be
Keeping the light alive
Sheltered from the winds of fall
That swirl the crunchy leaves

Happy Birthday birthday girl
Keep on lighting the way

Vote Box

My vote must be made of meat
From the looks of the collection box
The way it's peering at me eagerly
Pointed teeth glinting in the government issue lights
Winking at me past the "Vote Here" placard
Like it's my friend
Like it's perfectly safe

But it can't fool me
I was here when it took the arm off that old lady
Just scant minutes ago
She was led one armed and screaming
"At least my Senator Mussinfuck will win!!"
Then muttering to herself
"Worth it, it was worth it..."
Flat on her back on the gurney
Blood staining the thin sheet over her
Getting shoved into the back of the bright flashing meatwagon

Now it was my turn
My votes filled in carefully
Just like taking a state mandated standard test
Each bubble filled in completely
With my number two pencil
A glance at the clock
Because I forgot where I was
And thought that Mr. Smith was going to tell me
"Time's up! Pencils down!"
Without any warning

This time
I'm going to outsmart that voting box
On the downleg to my walker I've go my special tool
Three feet long
With rubber tipped gripping fingers on the end
I use it to grab things up high
Or just nearby when I'm too lazy to get up

Placing the ballot firmly in it's rubber fingers
I reached out with the aluminum limb
Slipping my precious paper into the gaping maw
Which clamped down without warning upon the stick

And it was a struggle
I'm pretty sure I chipped the cursed box's teeth
But my ballot was consumed
To be passed and counted at a later time
My mangled reaching stick once again strapped to my walker

Step - shuffle - shuffle - step
I make my way back out to my car
Voting is a privilege
Made even more fun by having to outsmart the savage vote box

The Vote-O-Matic 10000
A pox be upon it's name

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Election Day Contest

Always so predictable I lamented
For on this Election Day
I saw the same old show
The same old way
No unique votes to throw

The Democratic incumbent
A handsome enough steed
Clip clopped in all his donkey glory
Onto the gridiron today

To face off against the challenger
That classic dusty old elephant
Strong in so many ways
Yet in others so not

Oh there are other parties involved too
Mainly supporting the action though
The Green Party graciously laid down
And provided the lovely grass playing field

The Libertarians play as coaches
Yelling encouragement to the main players
Whispering into mics and listening on headsets
Lest any vital plays someone could steal

The Justice party suited up
In their zebra striped pajamas
And are refereeing this contest
With rulebooks in the hand of all line judges

On the opening play
The Democrat opened his mouth impossibly wide
Vomiting a rainbow fifty yards long and filling the field side to side
But the elephant knew it was coming
As that was last season's play
He tempered the colors with Republican conscience
Turning it all into various shades of gray

The contest went on like that
Roaring up and down the field
Seemingly no end in sight
As neither side would yield

But eventually the crowd won out
Made up of you and I
We stormed the field in confused rage
Tearing up the turf
Setting fire to the stage

Until the dust finally settled
Sometime later in the day
What we had left as the apparent winner
Was neither elephant or donkey
It looked like something a mad scientist would make
Out of bits of each
Some elephant legs upon a donkey body
A strange looking head that actually had a beak

Nobody knew where the beak had come from
But there wasn't any going back now
We just declared this strange hybrid creature the victor
Gave him his spoils and went out to Denny's for dinner.

Monday, November 5, 2012

Fifth of November

I failed to remember the fifth of November
So when I awoke to the wails and the smoke
A feeling of genuine surprise was evoked
I'd prepared nothing for this anniversary day
But I need not dismay
For upon my front porch sat a brown wrapped box with a note
It said simply "Join Us"
And when I unwrapped what was inside
I found something perfect in just my size
A shiny new Guy Fawkes mask just for me
Which I donned with great pleasure
And made off to take my measure
Against the bastards who'd chop us all off at the knees
Don't wait up for me and let the cat out at ten if you please

"Remember remember the fifth of November
The gunpowder treason and plot
I know of no reason
Why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot"

Eat at Krill's

Bill is a krill monger
And being someone that sells krill
And is called Bill
He is most often called Krill Bill

Krill Bill owns an establishment
Located upon the sandy bottom
Of the deep blue sea
Where on any given day
You can find my whale and me

Whether it's choppy or calm
We go above and beyond
For the joy and the thrill
That is the cuisine of Krill Bill

Monday is Sour Krill night
With little grilled creatures that make one pucker
Followed by a side of mayonnaise
And complimentary dessert of a Tootsie Roll Sucker

Tuesday's are spicy
With a sauce oh so green
It tastes sweet going down
But then really turns on the steam

Wednesday's are for lovers
With an unwritten rule to bring a date
The krill are served unadorned
Arranged neatly upon a heart shaped plate

Thursdays are for fun
There are board games at every table
Krill are used as game pieces
To be eaten at random
Then replaced when the wait staff are able

Fridays are Thank God It Is night
With imported krill of dark complexion
Served with rye bread and honey cakes
Lined up at the bar for easy inspection

Saturdays are for drinking
Not many krill are actually digested that evening
They get eaten just fine mind you
But when mixed with the copious amounts of alcohol
That seem to magically appear at one's table
It's just a deafening vomitus scream
From most of the patrons if you know what I mean

Sundays are for recovery and confession
For pledges of sobriety
And a reestablishment of our krill obsession
As piles of fresh little kills
Are added line by line to our bills
Which week by week gets bigger and longer
With no appreciable regression

Then the weekly routine starts all over
With all the highs and lows that it does offer
So allow me to recommend to you
I'll not force you against your wills
If you're in the neighborhood of the Great Ash Reef
Take advantage and eat at Krill's

And don't forget to say hello to Bill!

Sunday, November 4, 2012

The Censor, a Dirty Picture, and Some Words

I'm sorry
Did that dirty picture distract you?
Were you standing Superman
On top of the eightieth floor on Tenth Avenue?

But forgive me, I know
You were freeing all the diamond mine slaves
Transplanting them somewhere nicer
Giving them jobs of living wage

You were writing a new Middle East peace accord
Where people of all faiths
Would surely join hands
With no regard for race

Now that you've flagged this smut
That threatens the very fabric of our society
You can get back to more important things
Like rambling about Apple's impropriety

Or maybe now your thoughts are contaminated
A little cocoa wandering in your cream
Darkening your thoughts just a shade or two
With the added danger that once you go......
You'll never go back, if you know what I mean

Thank you oh mighty censor for protecting me
From images impure
Keeping me clean
And so demure

I suppose next you'll save me
From the seven dirty words at least
Have you forgotten what they were
Here's the list, for your eyes to feast:

Shit
Piss
Fuck
Cunt
Cocksucker
Motherfucker
Tits

Save me mighty censor!
From myself first and foremost
Then others from me
Whose morals I've turned to blackened toast

Then you can return to your needlepoint
Or fucking choirboys
However it is you pass the time
Even standing Superman
High above our playground
Your mind nothing but white noise

Saturday, November 3, 2012

One Thru Five

One is the loneliest number
When that's how many days I've been clean
It's a minor marker on an uncertain journey
While I'm feeling more strung out than I've ever been

Two is the number it takes to tango
A minimum number to cooperate
A buddy to help hide the body
A fellow soul to share one's fate

Three gives you a triangle
Either in love or geometry
Three degrees is damned cold outside
As well as a very shallow trajectory

Four is the common quadruped
Loping along the foursquare savannah
Tweeting his thoughts to the world
And the fact he's being stalked by Jack Hannah

Five is half a decade
The anniversary needing a gift made up of wood
A very pretty buffalo nickel
Which is no longer able to buy anything very good

Now you can count to five
Thanks to these silly rhymes
Breathe in breathe out it's no big deal
Come back tomorrow around this same time

Friday, November 2, 2012

Fake Factoid

In my head are enough facts for a lifetime
Put there against my will
In state run education farms
Force fed a gruel of sponsored knowledge swill

Some of those facts
Are in fact facts
Whereas others are simply assumptions
Following closely by invisible bias
Which things we'd be fools to let guide us

Now in these more modern times
Where plot devices can be foiled with technology
Facts can be double checked
With results of varying variety

I still learn things occasionally
And sometimes they are even true
But sifting through all of them
Is just too much trouble
I'll leave that to you

What's in there is in there
Speaking of my head's factual throng
I don't let it out
Even when it's in the wrong

Too much trouble to Google
Can't afford the effort to Wiki
Let alone look inside Wolphram
The Alpha of the group

My preconceptions preconceived
Growing in the womb of my head
Safe and sound in the same neurons
Into which they were fed

Sometimes it's strange words
Different spellings
Different meanings
Meaning a myriad of things

Dates and names
Facts, events and claims
All swirled together for convenience
Mine not yours I assure
Thus keeping my thoughts shiny and pure

So when you think I'm wrong
Or even a shade mistaken
I'm afraid I'll just stay my course
My faith in me not a bit shaken

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Dead Aircraft

On this day
Aerodynamics ceased to exist
All things aerospace failed us
Airplanes dropping to the ground mid flight
Fluttering downward like so many leaves
Already a famous day on it's own
Now an additional addendum to it's title set in stone

Dia De Los Muertos De La Aviacon

Watcher of the Bones Watches Me

All the little white painted faces
Decorated in every color
Floral patterns and curley cues
Both natural and artificial hues

My blood sugar is spiking just looking
But I want one anyways
I ask if these are the kind I could eat
But my spanish sucks
And deciphering the shopkeeper's reply is an impossible feat

Two sugar skulls bump lightly in my sack
One with red petals all around it's eyes
The other with delicate blue patterns
Much the same color as the sky

At home I set them on the table
Ready for November 1st
The Day of the Dead
With two days to go I was thinking ahead

On the next day
Only one day to go if you're keeping track
I picked up the blue one and smelled it
I even licked it a little before putting it back

Maybe I shouldn't eat it
After all, the decoration could be poison
But I can't get the idea out
So I locked in the mental box that all the rest of my bad ideas go in

The Day of the Dead dawned clear
And the idea was out of it's box
The sugar skulls staring at me
All the while I was putting on my socks

I wasn't going to wait any more
I could taste it already
Before I knew it the blue one was in my hand
Heading for my mouth straight and steady

A crunch and a brief sweet euphoria
Followed by the room spinning
The floor impacting the side of my face
As the remaining skull sat there grinning

I was dead
All my flesh peeled back
Laying in my apartment
Lights dimmed with all decorated in black

A spirit hovered over me
Her own flesh gone as well
Skull tilted back jawbone open wide
Sucking in the stars
Fuel for this atomic bone bride

Empty eye sockets regarded me
Speaking into my spirit
"I am Mictecacihuatl"
There may have been more
But my fleshless white boned terror censored it out
And I ran from the after life seeking the comfort of my cold hard floor

But that's not what I found
As I realized where I was
Laying in state in a room wrapped in a hospital gown
Alive and well
As well as can be
After eating a toxic sugar skull on Dia De Los Muertos
Having my stomach pumped
And living to tell
Of the bone spirit who watched over me
Sucking in her stars
Watching me with empty eyes that could not see