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Sunday, December 28, 2014

PTSD Jesus

The son of God finds it hard to get out of bed these days
Though his dad bangs on the kitchen ceiling to call him to breakfast
Jesus takes one look at the cold hard floor and shivers
As the polished wooden planks turn to water before him
Flooded with memories of walking upon it as he once did in Galilee
Which gives him nightmares now
As hungry things not seen since the dawn of time
Swim up to see what the soles of his feet might taste like
If his faith were to fail him
And natural laws reapplied

Mary tries to comfort him
As only a mother can
Applying a gentle cold washcloth to his forehead
Upon those too frequent times the night terrors bring on the sweaty shakes
Fanning him softly with cool night air
Saying soothing things
"It's okay
They can't hurt you anymore"
While gently kissing the scar upon his side with her fingertips

She can't help it
Anymore than he can
Cringing from her touch
As if it were a short Roman sword

Loud noises freak Jesus out
To say nothing of large crowds
For in his head they are screaming at him
Some begging for blessing or healing
Others calling for his head
Crying out that he is a demon

There are no stylish or functional hats for Jesus anymore
A baseball cap feels just like a crown of thorns to him
As much as a Stetson, a scarf, or the real sharp bloody thing

Sermons don't leave his lips as they once did
Now they are spoken haltingly
To small groups
Who know to give him some space
And truth be told those gatherings are attended out of respect mostly
Since the words have lost the fire that they once had
Now that Jesus is riddled with self-doubt and fear

It was truly a double edged sword that the Lord forged when He made Jesus a common man
Both as capable as great things as the rest of us
And as vulnerable too
Jesus now wears his worst scars where none can see
Trying to work things out with a therapist who specializes in PTSD


Sideshow Shafted

Can one reach the brass heights of the bell?
With the Strongman breathing down your neck
A heavy long handled hammer clasped in both hands
Colorful stripes on the shaft worn away by countless sets of other sweaty hands
Impressing their girlfriend
Trying to win the stuffed pig
Proving their manliness
Justifying their existence
Pounding a mushroomed hardwood head into that silly levered platform
Sending weighted slide up a worn metal pole
Higher and higher it climbs
Past 'Baby'
Through 'Wussy'
Up a sideward glance at 'Awkward Adolescent'
Until it stops at 'Not As Good As You'd Want To Be'
Showing the world that has joined the Strongman at your back that you really aren't good enough

The Strongman wipes the sweat from the top of his bald head
That had accumulated there just from the effort of watching you fail
Grabs that worn handled mushroom headed sledge out of your spidery fingers so frail
Nonchalantly flipping it around with one hand
Into the flapping tongue board lever labeled as "Hit Me"
Sending weighted slide up a worn metal pole
Much too fast to read any of the horrid monikers for the weak and wasted
Straight up into the old clanging sound of a rusty cowbell
Proclaiming the Strongman as strong
Denouncing you as not
All the blood leaves your face
Pale and dry you drift to the ground
To stare numbly and horizontally at the suddenly fantastically complex levered platform that the now at rest weighted slide sits upon

Exposed to your vacant defeated gaze is a compendium of compound complex lever action
With springs wound with werewolf whiskers
And gears cut of crystallized giant's tears
Revealing that this was no ordinary operation
But a shameful shenanigan in the making

Seeing the lie for what it was
A film fell from your eyes in a disgusting slough of cataract flavored skein
Displaying surroundings vividly glowing as if from within
Showing truth

The Strongman shaved his head and never could grow a proper beard
While popping steroids have left his gonads shriveled and weird
He worries about his money problems almost every day
And flays himself nightly over fears he may be gay

The goldfish in their bowls at the nearby ping pong ball toss
Have clearly been trained in jujitsu and lacrosse
For with every throw of the light white balls that occurs
One golden scaled blur leaps from water to air above bowl
Tail-whacking that ball just off its course
With a derisive sneer that only a domesticated aquatic could manage
Before dropping with a sploosh to swim in circles looking innocently contemplating more damage

The rings were too small for the posts at the Tossing Off contest booth

The Guess Your Weight game was rigged with random integers

A Pop The Balloon! shoot'em'up that used only porous balloons

This whole place was crooked as a politician's spine
Though the knowing of it did absolutely no good seeing as how you're stuck on the ground still
As that is how Almost Adolescent, Not As Good As You'd Want To Be's often spend their time



Thursday, December 25, 2014

Krampus Declines Your Holiday Woes Today


Strains of Christmas' past ring in the ears
A false echo that stretches the years
Fading a little bit with every reverberation
Becoming more what you want them to be
With the passing of each yearly celebration

The stuffed bear I got when I was three
Seemed big as a mountain to me
It looms just as large or more in Polaroid recall
Smudged along the edges
Because shaking that Polaroid picture only mucks up the developing process

Another holiday I trekked miles on a scavenger hunt
From town to town
"Uphill both ways for days"
Is what I'll say when my kids ask
Because memories do that in a way
Downhill becoming uphill
But an adventure, a lark, and perfectly okay

The papers I've unwrapped in my handful of years
Could cover the countryside in an unrecycled apologists idea of abstract Freudian fears
Soothed by a liberal binding of all the associated Scotch tape as well
Wrapping up the world
Stopping up its spin
Confusing all instincts
Butterflies ending up in Antarctica
Penguins in Pago Pago
Belugas in Boston Harbor

I wrote a letter to Krampus
Begging him to take me away
But he only wrote back
Explaining in a pretty sad way

"I don't take those who know they've done wrong
And long for release
Those I punish by leaving behind
To find no more peace

Rgds:
Krampus, et al"



Saturday, December 13, 2014

Paul Is Dead

The grooves on the record sound something like this
Fine lines pressed in black vinyl
Labeled marked and sampled
Until the sound is found to be final

Backwards

the grooves on the record sound something like sith
Strange to the ears with rhythm in reverse
Foreign tongues slide out some sly flattery
Spoken by the devil from that needle so chattery

When your dad slaps your ass for being so stupid
Wrecked a ten dollar cartridge hearing a devilish sequel
A sticker on the front of the album had warned you
Don't listen to the words squarked out in backwards time
It'll bend your diamond tip out of line
And etch new grooves to skip and robot dance too
All the while listening to your daddy whine

Saying you've defied the lord and broken the notes
All hooked up wrong
Same old song
With nothing really evil to say
Just the sound of borken-be-forkin gibberish number nine


The Common Brown Breasted Tip-A-Worry Finch

There was a call in the trees
"Twipperwoolree!"

And an answering call from inside the stone home nearby
"Twipperwoolree!"

A grey brown bird hopped from branch to black barked branch
Yellow orange scaled feet gripping and releasing in rhythm to the movement

A young boy with bronze skin and black hair appeared in the second story window of the home
Resting his hands upon the stone sill
Hands feeling the warmth of the sun still high overhead

Yellowed grey brown bird eyes met golden eyed bronze skinned boy's
And the bird ceased his hopping and spread broad wings
Falling forward into the air for a short glide to the same second story window the boy was at
Alighting a little heavily and cocking its head as it asked
"Twipperwoolree?"

The boy laughed with a flash of teeth before asserting
""Twipperwoolree."

Retreating into the home and climbing down a wooden ladder to the main floor
The boy chatted with his mother
Telling her how the bird was back again after being elsewhere for the winter months
Expressing suprise that the bird still remembered the words the boy had taught him last year

Returning up the thick wooden rungs carrying a small dish in one hand
Boy met with bird at the window and told the bird
"Twipperwoolree."

Who received this new bit of news eagerly
Attempting to lunge at the bowl with black tipped red beak half open uttering
"Twipperwoolree!"

With a chiding 'tsk tsk' sound the boy held the bowl away from the bird
Instead reaching into it with three fingers to grasp a few of the crushed morsels of grain
Offering them to the bird in an open palm

That beak moved almost too fast to see
Stopping a hair's breadth away from puncturing the skin
The skills of the hungry bird could not be denied
For no food would be forthcoming should there be an injury
With the boy putting one in his own mouth from time to time as well
Chewing thoughtfully as he watched the bird eat

This was same daily routine which had been established the previous year
Now resumed without any admission of time past
Punctuated by a call in the form of a question or exclamation from one or the other of them
"Twipperwoolree!" or "Twipperwoolree?"

Always with the same answer
"Twipperwoolree"

There wasn't much variety to their shared language
But they managed

These days stretched into months
And the months into years
Broken up only by the changing of the seasons
And the bird travelling for the coldest of the months far away from the boy
Who was now more of a man

At some point the grown up boy realized that the bird was not the same bird he had taught to speak when he was small
The grey brown was a little more brown than grey
And the black tipped beak had a tiny yellow streak on one side
Though the intelligent yellow eyes still danced whenever they interacted
With insistent calls of
"Twipperwoolree!"

So the bronze skinned man with the black hair that had a tiny bit of white in it now
Answered as he always has
"Twipperwoolree"

Time runs and rolls downhill like water from a spring upon a mountainside
Past rock homes and bronze skinned black haired men and boys
And all around grey brown birds with black tipped red beaks which gleefully called out
"Twipperwoolree!"

Until one day the sun rises upon a new spring day
Warming the same stones that used to line a certain windowsill
Though now they are part of a pile of rocks barely protruding from the undergrowth of the forest that has grown all around

There are still bronze skinned boys and girls, men and women
They no longer live in stone homes for the most part
Nor do any of them answer when any one of thousands of grey brown birds calls out
"Twipperwoolree!"
As they so often do
To the point that those birds have become known by that call they make

The call that was taught to that one bird so long ago
In a language that is no longer known
Which was taught to that bird's chicks
Who taught it to their chicks
Until all the grey brown birds with black tipped red beaks and yellow eyes called out
"Twipperwoolree!" to one another
No one bird ever wondering what it meant
Nor any boy, girl, man, or woman thinking there was any meaning to it either

A simple call of trust and friendship
To share a handful of crushed grain


A Misspelling

"Wither and die
Weather to try
Souls sand dry
Harsh as lye
Soak the tears she does not cry"

Wand tip taps upon the archive glass lightly
Once
Then twice
And after a pause of looking around for results
A third time with a little more force and an audible "Clack!"

With a derisive snort
Grand Wizard Gilly Grundlestein rubbed his forehead and bent back over the grimoire
Re-reading the spell
Looking for an inflection he may have missed
For clearly he had missed something
As what he had wanted to have happen
Had most certainly not

Though half a world away
On a continent yet to be discovered by the depravity of man

A family of beaver  stepped cautiously out of their lodge
Onto what really ought to at least be wet muddy bottom silt
From the lower entrance of their home
That traditional home of all beaver everywhere
Which ought to be sitting in the center of a well stocked beaver made pond

The water was nowhere to be seen
With no trace to be found even if one were to dig down into the river bottom
As one intrepid river otter tried to do just now
Coming up frustrated and dusty
Like a refugee from the all-animal cast of The Road Warrior: The Musical

Salt water flowed backwards into the river mouth many leagues away
Till it finally reached the foot of a formerly great misty waterfall
Now just a rocky cliff face stretching up eighty-five feet
With a lone bear cub peering over the edge
Chewing on a dried up piece of salmon

While high upon the side of the tallest mountain in the distance
Goats walking sideways upon rocky flanks
Nibbling delicately upon mosses and lichens
A blue-white glacier stood literally frozen in place
All movement stopped mysteriously
The constant surfing of gravity upon the mountainside halted

Ice at the lower end down in the valley below stoically braving the sunshine
Weeping no more upon the smooth rocked streams projecting from it like veins to an artery
Cold and uncaring
Giving no more to the earth before it


Sunday, December 7, 2014

Carbon Black Dated

The book report I wrote in fourth grade
It reeks of disco
Like a smoke filled room of sweaty hairy men
Wearing butterfly collared polyester suits
Hitting on bohemian ladies under the glitter ball
Upon a light up dance floor in Studio 54

That paper I penned in eighth grade
Smells like Miami Vice
Old Spice soaked T-shirts under sport coats
Cocaine dusted Hungry Hungry Hippos and nothing else nice
Sidling up to you with wads of Wall Street money
Begging to be noticed not once but thrice

A certain five paragraph essay from my senior year
Wears an open flannel shirt over a tee that proclaims "Fuck the Man!"
Blasting out grunge music from its favorite garage band
Driving cross country in a land of make believe IROC-Z
That's really just broken down Astro Van vanity
That last gasp of childish glee before drowning in the ills
That come with grappling with grown up reality

Papers came and went with regularity
Sliding through greasy childish fingers at first
Pocked with almost legible pencil and then pen
Rolling next smoothly through the rollers of a grey Smith Corona
And then pushed pulled and daisy-wheeled by a serious BDSM Selectric IBM
Dot matrix and ink jets with cartridges refilled by the hippy down the street
All to illuminate pages with characters and their times and places
A rhyme here a plot device there with little substance to either

Dated by the times and technology
Ideas contained in each wood pulp time capsule
Doomed to crumble away along with each bit and byte in the ether
All forgotten by the end

The old rusty Oliver number 5 typewriter hanging on the wall mocked me as I wrote those words that day
Smugly rusty dusty and sure that nothing would ever come of anything I ever did
Just like every other time I swore off the booze or the women with fast cars and the gambling
Followed in short order and in no particular order by a long parade of faster women in quicker cars with their ruby red lips an inch from my ear as they leaned over my shoulder at the craps table tickling me with their whiskey sweet soaked breath "Let's go get another drink"

There's nothing worse than being a one trick pony in a no-ponies-allowed town
Looking for clues in the hues of the flickering ten position animated multicolored neon lights
Until you've collected sorted and decoupaged enough of them upon the walls of your rented flat's living room that everyone can see it but you
The image of an answer that a flatfoot from downstate like you just doesn't want to see
So you just keep looking

~Mist rolls in upon the forlorn figure in a disheveled suit and hat, as he slowly disappears center screen to the sound of his own fading footsteps on the concrete, credits coming up, and the house lights rise~


Saturday, December 6, 2014

Waypoint 17

Tumbling randomly in place
A slow motion demonstration of grace
Fragments of rock and metal orbiting lazily
All in dead silence at an empty spot in space

Merc*** **out keeps a sharp lookout
Words white emblazoned shouting an identity out
Specifics fractured forever by a chunk of missing tin
Five missing letters help to keep this mystery within

Five meters long with a sleekly designed nose
Empty sockets dotting a smooth fuselage
Length ending suddenly in a sparkling jagged rose
Surrounded in a sparkling halo of ragged metal bits
A beautiful curtain of vacuum suspended deadly snows

Sixteen meters further away gently floats a small contrast
A short section of structure that looks quite similar
But one end blunt with the other a now familiar flowery gash
Within the open end an empty half spherical area gaped wide
Tiny stenciled lettering saying "Caution: Memory Cache"

Nothing orbited this lonely piece except one long slender item
Glinting in the faint starlight as it went
No marks of any kind to identify kingdom or phylum
Unknown to any who would see it
Floated this shiny lost piece of a random tech system

Not far away taking up about ten square meters of space
Past a few ponderously moving bits of rock
Was a sight classified extraordinarily
Liquid and solid all at the same time
Organic matter and water coalesced tightly
Afraid to let go into the unknown
Though quickly outgassing quite mightily

A mysterious place seven light-years past sixteen
With soundlessly sucking surroundings
A simply terrible place for a rest
Waypoint 17 was no place for any race
Less rejuvenation and much more of a test




Thursday, December 4, 2014

Thankful

~SCRIPT SECTION XXX - seven hours post collision- START~

Thankful for the dirt beneath me
Though it might not feel like dirt I'm told
More like crushed glass perhaps
But in the circumstances
I'll not be detaching my gauntlets to find out

Grateful that the asteroid did not kill us all
Only what senior staff has stated are:
"Acceptable losses"
I myself would like to hear what the captain might opine on the matter

From two hundred feet within the floating rock that has merged with us
He wouldn't hear me ask
And I'd not hear him answer

I'm beholden to a deity no doubt
For the fact that the ship did not blow apart
This being the first observation of massive object merger that has been recorded

When done in controlled experiments
The fold craft emerged upon an existing object with great force
Such that the only measurements taken were from one hundred kilometers away

Nope
I am much obliged that we are still here
However adrift in a vast emptiness we may be

Three out of five reaction engines are still operational
Food stores were untouched
Life support can be maintained now after some repairs

Yep
I am certainly appreciative for this chance to sit here
Wherever here is
For the four months it will take to go through our supplies

With us gone
That will leave the two thousand or so people on Venus
Who in turn have projected survival being a negative prospect after another eighteen months without Earth there to send crucial supplies

I release my hold upon the jagged ended tube I was holding on to
Letting inertia slowly tug my body out to the end of the seven meter tether

There I hung for awhile
Feeling bloody sorry for my species

Perhaps the Galaxy will give thanks when we are gone

~END SECTION DRAMATIZATION~



Saturday, November 29, 2014

Black Days

Sharpened bayonets did not glint in the sun that day
As the sun hid behind condescending clouds
Keeping its warm rays to itself
Wanting no part of things such as these

Dirt caked rifles sported specks of rust
Despite cleaning twice a day
The rain that had hung unfallen in the air for months
Worked its way into every nook cranny and metal grain
Expanding everything
Making for ill fitting comfort
The wood handles and stocks
Dirty underwear and socks

A cry went up suddenly from down the line
But it was cut short mid-yell
And the message was clear

The enemy had infiltrated us

Lips curled beneath a once-waxed roaring mustache
The Sergeant's voice gave order with a mouse's squeak
"To Bunker Sixteen! Go!"

And he was up and out of the hole that passed for a trench these days
Pounding the mud with boots the same color as his uniform
Which was the same color as the mud
And it all matched the sky
Grey invaded our very souls as we followed him in a killing frenzy

The Hun ran next to the Brit
Not much to tell the one from the other
Except that each was trying to kill the other

Now multiply that by a thousand
With cracks of metal upon wood
An occasional gunfire shot
And the sound of boots in the muck
Pounding like angry winemakers upon the worst of grapes
The ones that deserve angry stomps to wring out their best
Leaving nothing but limp skins and seeds behind in flattened fruit meat

Bunker sixteen loomed large and near
Less than half of us left now
Still fighting and full of fear
There was no enemy or us anymore
Just a goal and people in our way

Hands on the prize at last
First Lieutenant Brandt turns
Showing a smile that is missing two more teeth than last time through split lips

"ALL STOP
CHANGE AND REVERSE
BACK TO STARTING POSITIONS!"

Almost invisible puppeteer's wires pull up to the heavens
Taking our weapons and uniforms with them
Replaced by clean civilian clothing
Our skin scrubbed of that mud at last
As that memory becomes more of a dream than anything else

Harold Brandt's fingertips slowly left the box of the last flat screen television in the store
His bloody smile with not quite enough teeth returned to a grimace
The final lunge to the prize reversing in midair
As we all retreated from the prize at the end of aisle sixteen
All assholes and elbows in negative motion
My own fist flies away from a teenager's face
His hands going away from me
As I fall back up to my running position

Back to the front of the store we went
Mad jackals the lot of us
Whooping in unintelligible earsplitting noise
Sale flyers fluttering madly in hand
The fallen shoppers being untrampled as we went
A woman got unpunched in the ribs and started smiling again
Resuming her earlier optimism that she might get a cheap video game system for her son

An infant flew through the air feet first
Back to her mother's arms
Away from the soft bedding pile in which she had ended up
Until the fear left her little face
And mom clutched her closely
Assured that she could never be tripped up and drop her precious little girl

Back past the pile of doorbusters
Those same items that had claimed the unwary on the way through the first time
Tiny tin toys unexploding from boxes that came back together as they were unstepped on
With an  uncanny valley crying
The latest Peeing Peggy dolls cried like little foreign babes
Cries going in opposite pitch from what they should

Until we were all back through the doorways
Glass panels swinging closed upon us
A security guard yelled out that it was almost time
Hands and faces pressing against thick glass
Watching phones and wall clocks
Counting back from 6am
Noses pressed distended against glass
Snotting things up in steamy suspense
Wet slushy snow all around

All the frightened pigs in the early winter cold
Greeding for shiny things glittering in the grey of the predawn
Awaiting the start of yet another Black Friday


Gypsum 4 Sale

I've got Gypsum!
With a capital "G"!
And that rhymes with Brie, and that's a kind of cheese!
Oh I've got Gypsum!
With a capital "G"!
And that rhymes with Knee, and that's how high my mile wide pile should be!
I'm up to my knees in gypsum, friends!

So come on down to Fritzy's Gypsum Emporium
Where we specialize in Alabaster grade high quality stock
No limit on the amounts available for the right price
(Lead time dictated on length of time needed to reopen the mines)



Thursday, November 20, 2014

An Unwilling Thanksgiving Unturkey

The tofurkey ran
Chased by a fat man holding a fork
Upon wobbly boneless legs it flew
Barely touching the ground in haste

Until at a crossroads it found itself
With no head nor brain to suss a direction out
It lingered and wavered
Over which fork to take

Until the fat man pierced the place where it's heart should be
Were it a real turkey

With a cry from oil-shiny sweet potatoed lips
"You'll take MY fork, or none at all!"

It was with defeated tofu sweat tears that it succumbed
With dreams undreamed and wishes unyearned
And a quiet declaration of purpose at last:
"If I cannot get away, I hope to at least give him heartburn"


Dated Colours And Creeds

Orange shag clashed with avocado green
Fighting with sharpened colour wheels
Sharpest ones I've ever seen
It was a crayola gangland clash
A DuPont sponsored vivid life colorized
One to one scale declaration of "Hulk Smash!"

All the seventies colors
Ganged up on all the eighties style
Till the nineties cranked up the flannel grunge
Beating them to the new millennium by a country mile

Numerically it had to happen that way
And mathematically it absolutely fits
But when I proposed this logical structure
I found that Professor Chaos didn't give two shits

Her inbox was full of Gamergate
Her comment thread full of hate
Shirtgate made her light my 1950's martini on fire
She knew all along I'd been a liar

My face turned to a shade of brick red
Before melting before that heated gaze
Running off in liquid wax form
To conform to new surroundings in any of a thousand ways

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Other Big Dreams I Forgot To Tell You About

When I'm a hippo ballerina my tutu is so tight
A hippo wearing stretched pink nylon
When balanced upon toes such a frightening sight

Position one is pretty easy
And so is number two
But when I go for four
Let's see
Falling down is just about right

Getting up again as all good ballerinas do
I can't help feeling oddly constricted somewhere
But the next vertical extension of short hippo leg
Produces the soft sound of a tear
With instant relief as my curly grey tail now flutters freely in the air 

Now for practicing some bounds across this old wooden floor
This hippo has to do several in the middle of the show
I sure hope the builders reinforced it well
Wish me luck here i go!




Monday, November 17, 2014

Random Rhyme Generator

I fed the beast as it was needed
Shoveling in wood and coal
For the burning and the churning
The pistons sliding and flywheels flying

As it worked up a sweat
Raising the temperature in the room
To the point of unbearable doom
Until the thermometer popped wide open
Spilling its silvered soul upon the coal
Forming a mad abridged carbon-quicksilver hybrid

But the shoveler kept right on shoveling
Stoking the fuel and scraping the coke
Spreading the heat evenly
As every corner should experience the hell equally

Still the machine turned wheels gears and belts
Running to and fro from spindle to shaft
Turning machinery far away
For purposes known only to itself

My shift wasn't done but we ran out of coal
With both wood and fresh trees turned to ash
I started feeding the machine the walls of the building
Ragged wooden planks filled with nails
Concrete block with both red and brown brick
Tossing as fast as I could into the now cherry red lipped maw
That cried out for more to burn

More to incinerate into mechanical energy
The kinetics of which were abstract to me
With forces arcane and strong
Pushing pulling turning whirring
Doing everything except staying at rest

The mouth of the machine ate  everything in sight
The leather belts reaching to the rafters
The steel wheels and shafts sitting in their bearings
Even other machines fed the ravenous appetite

Until finally everything was torn down and burned away
With nothing but the machine upon a barren plain
A fireman standing near and no fuel which to toss
Filled with dread that the next thing to burn would be me

Feeling at a loss, I said so clearly
Voice held high though it cracked and it cursed
Which supplied a solution as unlikely as any
As my words tumbled into the flames
Raising them higher
Pushing the temperature close to the red
Straining the steel wrapping the boiler
Steam whistling out all the relief valves from which it bled

I was no fool and decided to continue right on talking
Supplying the fuel for the hungry machine
Power for the monotonous nonstop motion
Work clearly being done but no product to show

As words tumbled off my lips I felt I must be shrinking
Even as the machine seemed to be growing
Expanding in every dimension
While I felt minuscule past mention

An hour a day and one hundred years passed in a blink
Every story I knew contributed to make heat
When without any warning a red light lit up upon an unopened port
My eyes grew wide as the metal door slide open wide
Revealing the result of the destruction we had wrought
I reached my last reach for the thing sitting within
The speck that was left of me disappearing in a shrink and a wink

An almost audible sound that was almost heard
By the beast of a machine sighing to a stop at last
All fuel expended for the task now ended
A many layered thing created for the last time

It was a book, a book, a mighty book!

A tome for all the ages with none left to read it
All leather and gilt spelled out with guilt
A bed time story to lull brats and bastards to sleep
A string of words that must now last for all times
Put together in flames, desperation, and madness
This hot steaming Book of Random Rhymes


Tuesday, November 11, 2014

The Leaving of Vladlina From Venus

She ran far away
From fields of gold
A mortgaged satellite
All other worlds were sold
Looking so far into the past
So as not to duplicate
That the future was last
And the present
Was just one more date

Vladlina rode the shimmering ribbon into the clouds
Never to return again
At least not in quite the same way

Leaving behind the sweltering humid heat of the Venusian jungle swamps
For the conditioned dry air that is the only kind you can usually get in space
Unless you're unlucky and get the kind that is contaminated
By odors most foul
The smell of burning wiring
Rubber seals smoldering
Hot metal outgassing

Worse still will be the smell of desperation and fear
That leaks past everyone's psyche just a tiny bit
When encountering the endless black of space
Much emptier than our eyes led us to believe
While safe and gripping our home planet's grass with our monkey toes

Fighting the centripetal force to hang on to our homes
Yet knowing that it won't last
Finally letting go and floating up
To tickle the strands of curiosity with long nimble fingers

That tendency that seems to always get us in trouble
A consistent constant in an ever changing universe


Sunday, November 9, 2014

CPI-TS-7ZP165

Electric blue feathers ruffled lightly in the breeze as one dark eye
And then the other
Blinked and tracked the small silver fish just below the surface of the slow moving water
Which were vivid in stark contrast to the black sand making up the stream  bed

With clawed feet moving slowly moving about
Clenching to grip the narrow branch dotted with green spring buds that was the Kingfisher's hunting platform this morning
Small prehistoric legs flexed slightly getting ready to launch outwards from the branch
In a gravity assisted dive to a specific fish which looked especially tasty

However all previous plans were dashed upon the rocks as a man came into view walking along the water's edge

If this man had been wearing a convention name tag
It would have said "Hello, My Name Is: William Gregor"
Which meant that if we could zoom upwards in the sky
To view the Google Earth labels
Then this portion of the world would be labeled as CORNWALL
Which in turn would reveal itself upon further turns of the scroll wheel to be a part of Great Britian

These facts lead us back to that black sand in the stream bed
Which turned out to be common iron oxide
While some less obvious white colored particles in the same area
Well that turned into the discovery of the element called Titanium (Ti)

Unfortunately, another man named Kraprock, or some such
Also discovered the element only months later
Which is mostly only important because he decided to name it after the Titans of Greek mythology
Thereby robbing William of one of the great pleasures of discovering something
Which is to name it

In a semi-direct way this leads us to CP Industries
Founded in 1953 and riding the post-war optimism in America
And with the help of some repatriated German science
The founders set out to define the Titanium industry
Soon dominating the field to such an extent that their restriction of expansion was written into certain prominent trade treaties of the 1960's

By the company's centennial
Vintage and retro themes had been the fashion for more than three decades already
Allowing the older firms to flaunt their longevity with vintage labels and commemorative signs all around various corporate headquarters

And so it was that CP Industries decided to expand their initials back to their full name of Creed Parish Industries
A long ago nod to the long ago Vicar of Creed Parish, in Cornwall
Who discovered the mineral that would found their company
But wouldn't be able to name it

But on the high end fastener lines
The abbreviation was still in use
Mostly for the simple reason of space

As there isn't exactly much space on the top surface of the head of a 7 mm fastener

And the machines were humming night and day
Working on the largest aerospace contract in living memory
Sending row upon row of fasteners spitting out of the industrial robotic lathes
After they turned down the titanium alloy rod stock
Forming the tension head and fat shear shank design
Tapering at the 165 mm mark slightly for the threaded portion transition

Shooting out of the machine like a long projectile
Caught deftly six meters away by rubberized mechanical hands
To be placed in the marking machine jig
Which always started the part number marking sequence with the companies initials
Followed by the type of fastener
Which in this case is the Tension Shear variety
Then the diameter combined with the surface coating code
A very special coating to be put on these particular ones
As it was designed to both protect and lubricate the metal
Called Zephrom Pearlite
Another Creed Parish Industries exclusive patent
And it all ended with the grip length of the fastener

Altogether those code groups connected by dashes formed the unique part number for these bolts

Bolts having been ordered up by the Weightless Assembly Co
The largest contractor on the assembly team for the project
Then created at Creed Parish Industries to spec
Packaged in vacuum containers
Shipped to the Chimborazo Catapult Complex in Ecuador
Launched to the working orbit of Unit 52.5
To  land finally in protective gloved hand
Inserted into perfectly prepped hole
Through outer meteor shield, insulation, hull alloy, infrastructure tab, and attach rib
Torqued down with a silver plated locking nut

Just another pinch point in the assembly
Forever known only by part number

CPI-TS-7ZP165


Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Sonnet Will Sing For Supper

My sonnet doesn't sing to me anymore
Afflicted as it is by conditions sadly dire
The pope took off its lips
Vocal chords stolen by the choir

I offered it prosthetics
Of titanium and carbon fiber
But it declined most graciously
Though silently as it were

And there it sat for seven moons turn
Until it arose as the Phoenix
Bathed in ashes smoke and fire
At least that's what it thought as it sat up a quarter past six

Being so early
No one saw the conditions of resurrection
So we just nod and take its word for it
Annoyed and shrinking our eyes from the rising sun

Tis true that this sonnet could sing once again
But I'd put the clause 'after a fashion'
As a follow up to the broad statement of song
For it was only the miracle of auto tune that brought about such a resuscitation 

So all of us applaud politely every time Sonnet sings
Because we know darned well things could be worse

Everyone saw the melodic haiku waiting in the wings

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Dirigible Safety Card

Sailing through the air with silver skin
All cotton fabric doped with powdered aluminum
Proceeding at a leisurely pace to take it all in
There's no hurry
There's no haste
It's all about the ride
Come for a fly now don't you wait

But first lets read these pretty safety cards

No don't strike that match Jack!
Don't smoke that cigar
Don't play with your steel and flint
Keep away from those hydrogen bags!
There's a life preserver under every wicker seat
With a life raft in a cedar chest both fore and aft

We may go down gently
Or we may really not
But if your legs are not broken by the landing
Make your way to one of the exit doors
They're not well marked so good luck to you chaps
It's women and children first in this evacuation tango
So toss out your women then jump into their laps!


Saturday, November 1, 2014

Sir Muttonhead of the Wintry Fall

The cold came early this year
It overstayed its welcome last year past
Freezing all the lakes over
Fish holding their breath to the last gasp

This isn't what was wanted
It won't do at all
So a warrior donned his dull armor
And ordered this new winter to turn back to fall

Of course it didn't listen
As seasons tend to not
But the armor isn't the only thing that's dull
About this unmounted clanking knight errant

There was no other path
Than to challenge the chill to a bout
The loser of which would change
The most basic thing they were about

"I call thee out!!"
Came the slightly muffled call
Sounding as if projecting from a sewer pipe

In answer the weather produced a small squall

Sounding the charge our knight drew his sword
Clattering the scabbard as he tripped and staggered
Crashing to his knees with the sound of a cymbal
This hero was certainly not nimble

But now with his dander up he charged to the wind
Slashing and hacking though a target was lacking
Never stopping for bothersome details of logic
This palidin only slowed down eventually to be sick

With a wretch and wrench of muscles contracting
He threw his armor off in a supersonic explosion
With expletives flying most un-knightly like
All the steel was surrendered to nature's slow corrosion

And that's where you can still find him
Our once gallant gentleman of chain and plate
Now a simple coward in homespun cloth
Tending potatoes upon a borrowed estate


Friday, October 31, 2014

Preppy Rabbit Caricature

Butterfly collars popped up to here
Layer upon layer of Izod veneer
Tall grey fuzzy ears still dripping with beer
How this Halloween went wrong is far from clear

It could have been the costume choice
That of a fluffy grey bunny rabbit
Complete with white cotton tail and overlarge feet
A head to toe furry suit that smelled funny
And white prosthetic real faux ivory buck teeth

That combined with the choice of overwear
For this was not just a grey furry rabbit getup
This was a very preppy grey furry rabbit getup
With fashion sense to match
All those multiple three button shirts
The horror of the embroidered alligators
The smell of Calvin Klein
Seen through smoked lens Ray Ban Wayfarers

This wet rabbit is run out of time
An Eighties refugee who failed to moonwalk out of here
Gotten in a fight and gotten the better of
Another costumed cartoon critter in a full coat
Pounded down the Preppy Rabbit Caricature
Then finished him off with the dump of a pitcher of beer


The Fright of Approach

Moonlight flickered off the shallow cups of wavelets upon the surface of Lake St Gunnigan
Giving a light twinkling effect
Like the mirrored dance ball at a low rent club
With some of the mirrored facets missing
Having fallen to the old wooden dance floor over the years
Ground to silica dust by thousands of hard heeled shoes
Out on the town for a good time
Not mindful of anything else

Grim dark eyes ahead were a marked contrast to the lake behind me
Pasted crookedly upon a crumbling red brick facade
Advertising terror it would seem
Since the peeled white paint of the door between those black window eyes
Resembled nothing as much as a pale mouth ringed with jagged misshapen teeth
Inviting me in with no sweet reassurances
An RSVP that I will not send back

A small sign next to the slightly weed infested gravel drive pointed to the left
Proclaiming that the "New! Main Building Around Back!"
Was a-thataway


With one eye watching the over the top frightening looking building
Which was directly in front and far too close now
I gently veered left
Passing through a veil of weeping willow branches
Which slowly performed a gentle scrub upon the roof and sides of the car
I was reassured to see the glow of lights ahead
Telling me that there was someone here after all

Just as I was about to clear the side of the haunted front building
My one eye that was still keeping a close watch upon it thought there was movement
A ghostly undefined shape flitting along the wall

Foolishly I stopped the car to get a better look
The gravel giving a final half hearted crunch sound as the wheels stopped

But my foolhardy action was a reward for the skunk that crossed my headlights a moment later
With zero regard for his or her well being
Sporting an inverted color pattern of mostly white fur with narrow black markings down the back

Pausing at the edge of my illumination
I got a brief glance of skunky contempt
Accompanied by a tail flick
Which seemed to be the equivalent of flicking a booger at someone
Since the smell the wafted in soon after was definitely a fairly rude gesture

With a dainty retch I dropped the car back into gear and continued around the building to a central path to that fabled new building around back

I was not comforted by not having the flickering moonlight off the lake in my rear view anymore
Nor by the abandoned junk cars haphazardly parked along the road

The cars I first encountered were mostly late models
The grass beneath them was still alive
The grass immediately surrounding them was not terribly long
But the further I went
The more the opposite became true

The cars got older
The grass under them became bare dirt
The grass around them was wild and tall

I stopped dead again at the sight of a familiar car
An early Seventies Chrysler
Dark green in color
Looking almost like it had been parked there a few weeks ago

The road was a foot or so higher than where the car was sitting
And I could just see over the window and into the car
There seemed to be a set of keys hanging from the ignition

What a find

If I could conclude my business on a good note
Perhaps I'd inquire about it
Maybe work it into the deal

I looked up and ahead
There was someone standing on the porch watching me
Still probably sixty yards away
Their details were a bit fuzzy to me it seemed
My eyes felt a bit strained

Right hand reaching for the gear lever one more time
The movement seemed to take forever
As I went right past the handle and stubbed my fingers on the center floor hump carpet
"Ow!" I mumbled into the steering wheel
Which was currently smashed up against my face
Making my nose take on incredible silly putty shapes

This just doesn't seem right
I thought to myself

Then I dreamed
A long dream of cream cheese bagels
And the wolves that always chase after me


Monday, October 27, 2014

Trick-Or-What-Was-That-Now?

This Halloween I'm going as a smile
No masks or fancy get-ups
Just teeth and a grin
Every costume contest I'm bound to win

I'll go as naked as the day I was born
With six pounds of silly putty strategically placed
To smooth out the naughty bits
Like a nude Ken doll about to be shot into space

And just like that I've changed my mind
As an astronaut is what I've always wanted to be
Endless cartwheels inside the station
Sleeping strapped to Velcro and re-learning to pee

There'd be all the astronaut ice cream I could eat
If I were a trick or treating spaceman
Strawberry is my absolute favorite flavor
I'd be my own biggest fan

So scrap that astronaut idea and paste some airfoils to me
One big one on each arm and leg
Balance me upon a post and spin me around
Spreadeagled I'm now the biggest ceiling fan you've ever found

Maybe part of an off beat circus act
We could walk around town as you spin me like a plate
Upon a wobbly wooden rod at ten thousand RPM
Though now that I think on it the time is getting late

Since I'm forty-three years old these days
And I got such stares last year when I dressed as a toddler cowboy
Which you'd think was okay
But maybe it was the oversize Toy Story diapers that got in the way

Okay
I'm resolute
To try something new I'll stay home this fall
I'll hand out candy like a normal person
I'll.......oh holy crap that giant sphere would make a great giant hamster ball!

Now I just need to find a furry outfit


Fat Bear Blues

The great fat bear played guitar all night long
Picking notes with his long nails
Dragging down the wound strings with force
And trying to sing with a bellow and wail

I was trying to sleep of course
Stuck behind walls of fall leaves within my house
Looking like a child's leaf fort after eating Alice's cake
With a crunchy rustle I opened the window ready to grouse

The noise was worse now coming in the open air
Inhaling sharply I called out crossly
"Just what in the Sam Hill are you trying to do Bear??"
In response he just seemed to try harder

I could feel the wood of the neck flex in the notes
As all 800 pounds of bear tried to play
But it still just wasn't great
It was unrhythmic and harsh all the live long day

There was just one thing to do
So open went the access to the attic
Into the spider-webbed darkness I plunged
Returning with a battered old Ludwig Junior drum kit

Gathering a few sets of sticks and tying the kit to my back with bungee
I steeled myself for a leafy assault be the front door
Sufficiently pumped up I threw the door from its hinges
Diving into the dead deciduous solar receptors with gusto and gore

Making my way to the clearing battling autumn all the way
I found the great fat bear still on his log trying to play
And he never stopped to wonder why I was there
But he stared as the drums dropped from my back
Accompanying my movements with sick notes from his axe

Set up and ready I started to pound
Until a sort of rhythm was found
Revealing a stink that was nothing but rude
That fat bear farted then fell into the groove

All night long we sawed and we hacked
Notes flying about like wood from a drunken lumberjack

But it still wasn't quite right
And we both knew it
Though we kept right on playing our fingers and paws to the bone
When just as the dawning sun started to break
Just what we needed appeared in the clearing

A cool blues gazelle carrying a silver saxophone



Monday, October 20, 2014

[Silence On The Line]

The sound was deafening
Cutting through me like one long pin
Piercing skin and maneuvering past bone
Straight through my left ventricle
Penetrating spine and nerve bundles
Electrically shorting me out
Till I hang from my puppet strings limply
The will to listen to it anymore long gone
All I want is words
But all I get is

[Silence On The Line]

Slamming down the old black receiver
Ma Bell's best outsourced handiwork in Bakelite
I contemplate ripping the dialing wheel from its face
So as to wipe that sneer away
That smug 'Oh look at me, I'm a fucking telephone' attitude
But I shouldn't blame the phone
The phone didn't call me and not speak
Leaving naught but random clicks and taps
I'd kill for some heavy breathing
To break the monotony of the

[Silence On The Line]

Sinister in an old glossy coat
The model 500 called out with tinny bell
Rang incessantly by tiny electric hammers
No doubt run by even smaller electrical gremlins
And so I stared
Watching the almost imperceptible quivering
That was the soundless accompaniment to the sound
Wishing that the little rubber feet on the bottom were not there
So as to see the infernal machine vibrate across the table and onto the floor
Where no doubt it would land unscathed
Courtesy of an overbuilt undercarriage and shell
But that wouldn't happen
Nor would the ringing stop pinging throughout the room
I grasped the receiver once again
Putting it to my ear
Ready for the painful

[Silence On The Line]

Before I even heard the nothing that came through loud and clear
My physical form imploded into dark matter
Sending the now untended receiver clattering to the floor
Allowing me a moment to take advantage of my new form
Condensing into dark matter impulses
I dove into the microphone input end
Through those sexy circular holes
That have seen hundreds of lips brush them by
Imprinting their feel upon everyone's brains
Even if we have consciously forgotten
I chased down the spiraled copper wires
Into the Western Electric stamped frame area
Then back out the backside
Into the wall plug
Using dark matter instilled senses
Which nobody can prove do not exist
To run a hunt and a chase upon the

[Silence On The Line]

Down the wires I flew
From pole to pole
Riding the roller coaster arcs
Point tension to gravity sag
Disturbing the directory assistance
Dropping long distance calls
Coming at last to the central exchange
Where my search ended at last
With the sighting of a bio-electric switchboard operator
Moving ghostly hands and fingers
Connecting calls that were never made
Open lines of silence
Clicking and ticking
To a symphony of cries
"Hello?  Hello!  Is anyone there?"
Sung to me like a choir
Drawing my microscopic ire
An anger that must be quenched
With a dark mattered limb that formed as I thought it
Moving at near light speed
To tear into the living electrical gremlin
Shredding its being
Begetting a roar of triumph from deep in my compressed soul
Sounding more like a near imperceptible squeak
As I murdered once and for all

The [Silence On The Line]


Friday, October 17, 2014

Awaiting #2

"And now
In the center ring
Comes 
-The Thunder From Down Under
-The Brown Streak You Thought Was Just A Leak
-The Log That You'll Blame On The Dog..........!!!"

From within the white porcelain bowl
A pitiful sound echoes quietly
~pthfffffffffffffft!~

You hold the box of ExLax in your hand
Reading the label once again in disbelief
At this taunting tease of relief

"Fast Acting, Guaranteed"

You snort disgustedly 
Throwing the box into the corner of the bathroom
To mingle with the refuse of a small trapdoor spider who made his nest there months ago
Pull up your pants to resume an uncomfortable pose on the couch
With a marathon of Breaking Bad to keep you company

Waiting for Number Two


Monday, October 13, 2014

Fritzy's Sock Puppet Theatre Presents: The Ebola Tour 2014/15

CONTINUING ANNOUNCEMENT TO THE TOUR GROUP:

"The Ebola virus is an uncommonly large and rare life form
Much too large to be spread through the aerosoling of bodily fluids
Such as when one sneezes
Or pees into a spray bottle
And spritzes one's mates for laughs

The Ebola is a sickly flu-carrying parasite
That actually attacks the host organism
Through the use of both tooth and claw
It is thus that the signature profuse bleeding is produced
As pointed out in your Ebola Tour 2014/15 vacation brochures

Thankfully
After a short period of time
(The typical store bought Ebola)
Displays an ignorance of its surroundings
Quickly drowning within the blood and other fluids
That it has caused by its very actions

Now
Those of you who signed up for the Platinum Package
Please follow me through door number one
As we will get you fitted for your HazMat suits

Everyone else
Follow Eloise through door number two
Where we have piles of dust masks and cheap rubber gloves
Remember you were supposed to supply your own eye protection

We'll all meet back here in half an hour
For finger sandwiches and hand squeezed lemonade
Courtesy of Ramone over there"

~Ramone waves and quickly covers a sneeze with the other hand~
"Achoo!"

"Bless you Ramone
Get going on those sandwiches and juice!"


Sunday, October 12, 2014

Fifty-Nine

Ensconced within your ruddy '59 Cadillac
A chariot to the stars of old
The Cleopatras of Hollywood
On their way to The Bowl

But this four-wheeled carriage's best days are behind it
With fenders flapping
Edges ragged with brown rust
Not the ideal complement to the faded black paint

Peddling a tattered three inch thick screenplay
Going from door to fancy door
Agents, producers, actors all backing away saying "No Thanks"
Leaving you to drive away topless in a rainy downpour

Oh the poor old Biarritz tries its best
But a power convertible top
That consists of scraps of white fabric clinging to black metal frame
Can only do so much to keep the weather out

And so the water soaks into the premium leather
The kind that they just don't make anymore
But bringing back that faded black paint just a bit
Now looking a bit less like a dirty garage floor

Same as it soaks into you
Your flannel shirt and white tee
Long black beard and dungarees
Giving you that shiny wet look
Sort of clammy ghetto glamorous
Like an old sheep dog's fur that needs to be shook

Quite the pair the two of you are
Both born in nineteen fifty-nine
Still trying to live the good life
And just a little bit past your prime




Saturday, October 11, 2014

Anchors Away

In the beginning
Before you knew that you were you

There was you

Floating in the fluid
In the dark
With your own thoughts
An anchor to yourself
Knowing what this world was all about

Then everything changed
What was warm and wet
Was not cold and toweled dry
This was no longer the world you knew
Things had changed

And so it went
From one change to another
Meeting new people
Drifting away from others

There were those you were certain you could not live without
But you found that you could

There were those who said they could not live without you
But they found out they were wrong too

Of phrases heard along the way
"You are my anchor"
Or
"You are my rock"
Are things people sometimes say

But if they are so adrift
You should likely stay clear
Lest that anchor slip free
Or rock shift and crush something dear

In the end there is just you
As eyes close for the final time
Heart stops
Brainiac electricity peters out

You were your own anchor in reality
As it really must be
A rock to built your reality upon
Sailing the open spaces around you
Free to be the finest version of a "Me"


Friday, October 10, 2014

E.XX.X Series Technical Bulletin #4276

Regarding the Gravity Engine Servo System (GESS)
And the Orbital Sensor Tether System (OSTS):

The recent malfunction of the OSTS
And the resultant loss of four orbital Sensors
Cost the Company sixteen hours of downtime
Over the North American quadrant

A relentless root cause committee has determined
That contaminated re-supply containers out of Birdling's Flat Catapult were to blame

As a result
Approximately 112 Vespadelus Vulturnus (Little Forest Bat)
Were unintentionally released in the Central Maintenance Area

Said bats found refuge in the narrow slots along the root anchors of the OSTS
Fouling the mechanism with their guano
Which caused the emergency release mechanism to sense an overload
Releasing the four tethers on that root section

Engineering was contacted and blamed
However
They explained that bat guano was not something that was in the design specs
Therefore blame must be transferred exclusively to the resupply handlers on the ground

This portion of the investigation is still pending

As a stop gap measure
The eatery previously known as Sally's Forth 
Before the disastrous fire from two Christmas' past
Will now be used as a sealed area to receive inbound cargo

Cargo will be moved piecemeal into this area
Blast doors will be lowered
And only then will the Level 1 maintenance crews open the containers

If contamination is found
It can be vented to vacuum easily
With only trivial losses of any perishables within that single container
And one low level four person crew

If you have any further questions regarding this issue
Please reference your employee handbooks
As well as your employment contract's expendability clauses

End of E-XX.X Tech Bulletin #4276

Wishing you a pleasant day

~ Compiled and approved by Bureaucratic Computational System v.64.8734a ~


Monday, October 6, 2014

An Obligatory Poem For Your Wedding

So it's your wedding day
And you are the loveliest bride I've ever seen
Don't let anyone tell you any different
Whether true or a lie nobody would be so mean

What's that?
No, seriously you look wonderful
It's your day so I have to say
There are rules, I checked

Your beau to be
Looks cut out of a magazine
His teeth could cut glass
Not to mention his abs and ass

So don't let yourself go girl
Because he looks to be a player
If the way he's chatting up your bridesmaid there
Is how he thinks is playing fair

Shoo you, now go
The music's starting up!
Oh here comes the bride
With tears on her cheek
A stranglehold upon her bouquet
And a chain wrapped about her feet

I hope you like this obligatory poem I wrote for you
My exquisite white mother requested it
She said if I did it I wouldn't have to buy you a present
Because as we all know
Bad poetry you never wanted is truly heaven sent


Etiam Facere Sanctis

I'll not make the same mistakes
I won't dunk the persian cat in the toilet
Nor will I stuff my homework into my desk undone
I'd do all the hard work
I'd shirk most of the fun
When it comes around again

I'll travel the world
And not just for business
I'll see all the postcard places
Learn some new languages
Explore some Siberian open spaces
When it all comes 'round again

To do all this I'll need a time machine
Or maybe a new religion
One that doesn't just reincarnate into something new
But to do a hard reset back to zero
With a life's experience as a bit of extra weight
When we get to go around again

I'm sure it would just be a niche
Since walking the same path can be a bore
Though exploring the paths not taken could be exciting
Study a different major subject
Don't run from that bee and just take the sting
When I put those smaller shoes on again

Since the thing I need isn't there yet
I think I'll invent it as I go
Our idol will be a god with strawberry hair
With the grand prize for a mostly moral life
A do-over most holy with a breath of young air
When this new path leads me back to me again





St. Gunnigan's Home For The Insane

Oh, at Gunnigan's!
St Gunnigan's!
Here at St Gunnigan's home for the insane
I rattled off me name
Oh I rattled off me worth
But I weren't talking to Christ
I found I was talking to dirt!
(Oy, a great bloody pile of it!)
At Gunnigan's
Oh, St Gunnigan's
St Gunnigan's home for the insane!

It all started one day
As I set out for work
I saw a sad hamadryad
And I started to flirt
Till I thought things were going well
Went in for a kissing spree
But wouldn't you know it
I got a mouthful of bark
As I learned that she was a tree!

Oh, at Gunnigan's!
St Gunnigan's!
Here at St Gunnigan's home for the insane
I built me a castle
It were a home for a king
But turns out I'm no builder
T'was just a wad o'sticky wet string!
(And a fookin' mess it were too!)
At Gunnigan's
Oh, St Gunnigan's
St Gunnigan's home for the insane!


Saturday, October 4, 2014

Rolling The Bones Upon Bended Ne

Come on you neon burning light
Tube'o'gaseous excitement abode
We are bathed in your orange glow discharge
Rooted down next to the cathode

Nixie be my pixie
Blow on my dice for a luck most unsound
Count down to the underhanded throw
I'll hold my breath until the rebound

Seven come eleven
Sip on the complimentary Chablis
Count down and blow for all your worth Nixie
Or I'll replace you with an LED


Friday, October 3, 2014

Dichotomous Sea

Have a drink and heave your cares
Just come and sit down with me
As we toast and watch the sun set
On the shores of this dichotomous sea

With a name like that
You'd assume it was split in two
And for once your assumption is right
With one half blue and the other one too

It's hard to see the dividing line
Though I assure that it's there
Just look out to the horizon
It can be shy so try not to stare

Still can't see it?
Let me try to explain then
I'll just start talking
You raise a hand to say when

You've got elephants and oliphants
Tigers and Tiggers as well
Fish dancing with Phish
A turtle doing the hard sell upon his soft shell
All surrounded by swells as crystal blue as a bell


Saturday, September 27, 2014

A Crayola Kid

Once a year I get a new box of crayons
The week before school starts in the fall
I hoard their perfection like Charlie Bucket and his birthday chocolate
Cracking the box a little at a time to smell the new wax
Till finally I open it wide to access each creative color rocket

Black is for the nighttime
It's easily my favorite crayon
Because at night all the details are blurry
Which suits my drawing style perfectly
As it is lousy and in a hurry

Yellow is for the sun
Because who has time for shades of red and orange?
All my suns are the same
Shining like great dandelions in my skies
A crying unimaginative shame

Blue is for the skies
Except for when they are grey
But my grey crayon got eaten by Stu
I got mad at him but it did no good
So till mom can go to the store again my skies are blue

Flesh tone is whatever it is
I kind of hold up the crayons along my line of sight to judge
And by the second week I've torn all the labels off anyways
The whole thing started an argument once
But dad says I don't have to give a damn what some racist shirt-tail uncle says

My red crayon is my favorite though
I save it for special things
Fire trucks, bloody cuts, and Ferraris
A shade of those horrible apples we get for teachers
And blossoming red algae blooms in stormy blue seas


Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Ehlers-Danlos Seeks Fulfillment: Apply Within

Your transparent skin hides nothing from me
I see the heart of you
And what you had for lunch too
Your soul itself is on clear display
Your blood rushing around making way

You are see through to me Princess Rubbermaid

If I had one thousand Lego pieces to store away
I'd call on you for sure
So I could put them in and seal them up
Set upon a shelve with ten other convenient containers
I could always tell which one was you

You would be the one full of my precious blocks
Oh, my Queen of Sterilite storage solutions

The one thing I'd never do
Is give my heart to you
Because your motives are see through
Your skin is fragile as glass
And my heart would be as vulnerable as can be
Trapped inside with your intentions
Doomed to be just another honorable mention

Vulnerable to any old joker with a hard object
Your top may be hermetically sealed my precious Baroness Ball Jar
But I know just what you are
Being just another empty vessel
Awaiting me, myself, or anyone
To come along and fill up You


Monday, September 22, 2014

Three Things We Can All Agree Upon

It's like that dream everyone has
Where the bathroom's small
And the porcelain bathtub is a dirty pink
With a built in area at the end
To prop up Aunt Minnie's mummified remains
Her cracked and crumbly lips moving to a whisper
"All this moisture eases my pain"

Or when you find yourself a tiny clawed larvae
Swimming inside a puddle of condensation
Atop the chocolate upper layer
Of a piece of six week old Christmas candy
The only words upon your mushy white lips
"I deserve to have my dreams come true!"

Then sitting in an old grey metal Steelcase office chair
Feet searching for the matching desk
To prop themselves up upon
A cigarette of the brand recommended by nine out of ten doctors everywhere
Lay writhing in hand
As it skillfully avoided the lit wooden match
Evading it's clear destiny
Crying out from dried tobacco stuffed end
"I think
Therefore Shazam!"



Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Thick Lizard Fashion

Big fat lizard called Jake
Legs too short to reach the ground
Had to wiggle like a snake
Just to get around

His owner pondered this problem

Finally an ideal solution was found
Much better than a light diet of fruits 
The best way for Jake to get 'round
Was to be turned into a fine pair of boots 

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Sous-VĂȘtements Vivant

The old dirty torn underwear stood up one day
Climbed onto a window ledge forty one stories up
And announced an intent to see the world

But before stalking off in a stiff fabriced march
It gave some context and thoughts

A brief spurt of soliloquy

"I have lived long
And been worn longer than I should
I've seen skid marks by the light of a new born moon
A wedgie so tight as to test the atomic bonds of cotton
Once I hung thirty feet in the air
From the branch of a two hundred year old tree
While all the universe was ablaze above me
Rotating about the North Star

At least from my perspective"

The fruit of the loom paused pensively
"I want to see more"

Then turning to quickly leap into the gap
Never to be seen again
An old crusty pair of underwear up and run away
Just as mother always warned me they would


Friday, September 12, 2014

Wet Dream

Shiver into me
As I drag my nails along your limbs
Stutter my name
With four letter interjections
As rouged lips wrap your shaft
Eyes closed
A moist spot upon a tented sheet
Awakened alone by a chill draft

"Dream come back to me"
I cry in vain

For even now your form fades from my memory
Just a ghost from a dream to me


Sunday, September 7, 2014

Hamsteak

I tumble to your desire
You glorious bastard
With my skin on fire
Nerves as tight as a garrote wire

Serve me up crisp and steaming
Upon a plate of your leavings
Rotten apple in my mouth
All wits long since gone south

But this isn't about you really
It's just that I'm a submissive piggy
Kinky to the end as you take your seat
Ready to carve up the other white meat



Repent!

How much penance should one woman do?
A hand dug ten mile ditch
Paths roads and bridges
Mountains moved
Tithes for the church
Alms for the poor
Prayers repeated
Like Bart Simpson after school

Bloody knees leaving a trail
The word "Sorry" hanging from lower lip
A cold sore that simply won't go away
Even when nothing was done wrong
It's always "I'm sorry" this
And "I'm sorry" that

Don't call Sorry Sally
That's the word on the street
For Sally is sorry all day long
Bring a lunch
And watch her carry on

Whipping herself in the square
Topless not for titillation
But for the sake of despair

Oh, Sorry Sally
What ever did you do to deserve this?

"Nothing"
Is all the answer she will give
Though "Everything"
Is closer to the truth


Saturday, September 6, 2014

Stories & Time

So many stories
So little time

Finding a world full of chipmunks
Propelled by steam and steel
Obsessed with oak oil, acorns, and wood
Endgame completely unknown
Going about their business
Tails twitching nervously

To weep for the loneliest android
Trapped within a crumbling factory complex
Accompanied only by his programming
Learning the concept of love
Surrounded by emptiness and ruin
Exploring his realm
Recharging in his maintenance chair
And repeating endlessly

Cringing at a world full of mutants
Created by a company's greed
From a time when ethics failed them
Catalyzed in the Armenian Incident
Spawning the Merman of Lake Shorzha
And crippling deformity that spread like a virus
Until Homo Sapiens were but a fond memory

A painful frying pan solution
So simple in plan
So complex in execution
In search of a TARDIS
With which to change not the whole world
Just a small sliver of it
But the quest itself causing a change of heart
Too little too late
As the gears of time have ticked past what was to be
Onto the track of what is
Creeping tears through clenched eyelids
A torrent of salted water for what is lost

So many stories
So little time