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Showing posts from November, 2019

nothing changes

in the sandbox, what were dreams? Mike Mulligan & his Steam Shovel. The Silver Star of Deadwood City . The Meddling Kid who Unwrapped the Mummy. today the monkey bars, tomorrow the world. big talk from little people. couldn’t reach the steering wheel without the Yellow Pages. couldn’t pay for Chicken McNuggets without Grandpa’s pocket wages. a little further down the lane, the marks on the wall continue their slow advance towards the ceiling. with an aura of invincibility (in overdrive), we plot and nauseate and agitate once-calm waters. Johnny Rebel holding four aces, betting our clams on the dolphin races. sometimes dreams could overwhelm, smash you. leering. hurtful. dreams born and died as we slipped on the banana peels that recent generations have callously dropped on the floor. sources of potassium settling the score. a time of great vanquishing. torment. exorcism. Glass Joe is down. dreams put on crutches. hobbling. crippled...

methodology

no, I cannot answer your questions of “how are you?”, not at this time. I am busy learning How to Die in Oregon , How to Be a Smart Consumer in New Jersey , How to Throw Away the Bad Apples and keep the porch rockers a-creaking in the crossmaze of ocular incrimination and thoughtful fly-swatting all before “American Idol” begins. I am a crusty yak, and I must scritch, screech, snort, bang-bang-bang, Billy, make ‘em dance. this lesson is sponsored by Jarmusch & Young, practitioners of epigram as confessed: the growl of the ill-fondled scripture is more vociferous from the storyteller’s end of the Winchester . composed by chambers of reticence, palms scorched by agonized horizon, this icicle of man aligns his zeroes and his misdemeanors, stacked like hair salon Redbooks that insinuate tones of Diet Rite acid rock, the onomatopoeia of in-a-gadda-da-vida, and Ursa Major’s celestial Valhalla , oh, and if you are being summoned by a plank that nee...

source of encouragement

Really, the story’s very simple, a blood sample from an epic: Rodman was the pointman. He dropped the axe into the leaves and woke the wildcat: “is this where the white women are at?” Monday morning’s when I refine my keyboard strokes. the vein in my brain goes beep beep beep beep beep beep KAPOW! smithereens of Mozart, please take a bow, for this cockfight’s colder than the chamber of commerce; Paul Newman is cooler than the hot flowing java in that volcano movie. The Pink Wedge in Trivial Pursuit tapped out too quickly; send me the bill. Where are genies hanging out nowadays? in VCRs and answering machines? in the revenant retail rummage of Korvettes and Bamberger’s? it’s not happening, it’s not coincidental, it’s not in the textbooks under “Parliamentary Incidental”. it’s your first real, true, hard look at the bait on the hook. Man, dig that death wiggle, that death dance in the spotlight, in the streetlamp, live feed of war, rocket point of view. ...

the rising action of togetherness

fasten your seatbelts, aqua-kids, and prepare for unbridled power and my machete to create an unforgettable quinceañera. step 1: Russian Super Tuberculosis. step 2: licking things to claim them as your own. step 3: profit. take a knee. the chimpanzees have evolved their own rain forest rendition of the Quesadilla Explosion salad from Chili’s. I am tempted to believe that, in the future, we will pay for goods and services with tasteful sideboob. Gentle query as you await your croissant doughnut manifesto: how many have worked so arduously towards the refurbishment of the Cleveland Indians only to have the war paint seven-second-delayed by Child Protective Services? read all about it: David Blaine’s most difficult stunt as-of-late was his escape from eight ounces of sweet Mexican black tar heroin. what can he do about the flying sex snakes in my Happy Meal? next time on Dr. Phil: how to talk to your child about the Hamburglar. Miley Cyrus strugg...

infernal and lucid

headless animal crackers resemble letters of the Hebrew alphabet. A decapitated zebra is a chet, and a lion without a mane is a dethroned tav. look closely, fraidy-cat, it gets worse: the Great Old Ones subsist in the menagerie, dormant hibernation in a sandwich bag, and your nescient extrication into the mid-day is a call for the darkening of skies, the aperture’s purgation, the roll call of the uncuddly nasties and the cord yank of the death-choke machine crank ‘er up. it’s not a good day to run out of cold cuts. I should’ve put the deli on speed dial. I’d better make the egg cream last.

ramadan isn't the problem

It took me 25 minutes to get to work today, Mom. Why? Ramadan. Oh…sorry. Ramadan isn’t the problem. It’s the route. I got to Fuji at 8:35 and walked in here at 9:02. That first cop was ridiculous. One at a time. Who ever heard of such a thing? Here’s your eyeliner. Well, thank God. Or Allah or Jehovah or whatever. Now my scrambled eggs are cold.

do you feel it?

On May 19, 1780, a Canadian conflagration brought a dark day over New England . The moon was red, and the cinders collided with the clouds to cloak the shoreline from Portland to Rockland . Although an empyrean upheaval was the prognosis for the nimbus that challenged negation (a run in your stockings? Yeah, that really doesn’t matter…), the inevitable clarity of blue-skied happiness pacified the congregation. Inevitability (noun): a convulsive John Belushi adorned in a Hartford Whalers jersey releasing an eructation (he’d probably headlock me until I change that word to belch) from the bouncer’s square at the entrance of CBGB in 1979 that reverberates backwards through the temporal helix 200 years to eradicate the pseudo-religious calamity. His is the raised fist response of the righteous and the raucous, from black sky to Black Flag. On May 19, 2015, the ghosts of Belushi and his Whalers are with me in my recumbence as Rod Serling shakes and stirs his la...

chosen

save anybody. reach out your hand and see what connects. the water’s bound to become more turbulent. the planet will thank you later. draw chalk outlines around the living. they pass by you in force fields. think about the marketing. one out of five finds a halo in a dumpster. when you’re due for an upgrade, honk the horn. whistle for Lassie. cheer for the joy of indie cinema and the baggies of dried fruit. your intuition is a thoroughbred. if you find a lightswitch in an Aztec pyramid, set the bait. perhaps the Energizer Bunny wore rose-colored glasses, perhaps it’s not that big of a deal. perhaps the love pangs are an aria of regret. don’t be a dumbass. throw a ball into the cup and make him drink. I’ll call for your chariot.

Hades, after the eyelid removal surgery

is that an eyeball in the toilet? no. it’s Cro-Magnon man. shut your eye, Shuma-Gorath. why so blue, Sylvia Plath? didn’t you know we’re in the spirit world? Earth happened when the explosions went off the script, like, totally Clinton Health Care Plan ’93 Teleprompter FUBAR, like, TOTALLY. nonetheless, the koi continue to swirl in the pond. another recipe of the anarchist’s cookbook, in my day, it was called Carson ’s Cue Cards. sometimes, the greatest story ever told is marred by the shadow of the boom mike. I know worry. my paranoia can move mountains or, at least, re-locate them for a while in the Witness Protection Program, moderately concealed as a lumpy plateau in the South African Highveld. I’ll wave my magic wand as the levee breaks. we grew apart, Steve Miller. what can I say? all the answers you require are tanning softly in my Chevy Chase hairstyle. it was my understanding there would be no math. genetics kicks the field goal. now that S...

cane toads

parents on a back porch smoking cigarettes in the presence of their child, a shirtless boy sucking on a Twizzler I immediately want to attack, to jump the several balconies and tear apart the parents into chunks of loose meat and carcinogens I am the baneful cane toad leapt into western Australia in the 1930s to devour the cane grubs statues in my honor built beside credit unions I see mother’s face in the grass she acknowledges me placidly, and my mouth opens slightly in awe I feel I’ve gone one step beyond I live for these moments shouts from inside: wife and mother-in-law see a moth I am stridently summoned to the role of reluctant executioner I am buckled by the pun of mother nature, my tissue-fisted and half-hearted charge permits the prey a providential escape, but the gladiator takes his lumps for his lethargy outside, mother’s face is gone but in the branches a deviant image part Big Boy, part Howdy Doody, part Colonel Sanders, a...

Pontius Pickaxe and the Okladelphia Thundersixers

eight Cheerios away from the bottom of the bowl, the last action hero walked to the edge and hard-swallowed Tylenol because his bravado and dash and soundbite bad guy write-‘em-offs never outlived his one dead second every morning of spasmodic extinction event, stretching his palm to moondream trying to share a quiet moment with a hurricane, and he’d imagine advancing into the depths, falling, thinking about his walk: too weak, old lives: too narrow, the blood flowing into the straw the rivers changing their course and breaking against all nature but not this day and perhaps never this day, for children, raise the day for the next and the next, and hero, turn from the edge and these vespers of direful asides ‘til the next convenient passage, ‘til the storm and its disquiet yield to the genial sureities and we can put this all behind us and enjoy that coffee roll

pivotal

true story: in October 1991, I was hurled over the handlebars of my dad’s ten-speed by Pangaea the Pothole because a dead squirrel looked like Chewbacca. Limped home six blocks and accidentally sat on a beehive. Wocka wocka wocka. Absence makes the Henry Fonda. A void created by an angry man. All the young dudes express their sympathy. the ignominy is the axiom. you introduce catastrophe when you marry the watermelon with the Crate & Barrel bedcloth. I like piling the blankets fourteen high and folded in thirds atop my legs: Gravity and the Dead Sea Scrolls, neither of which could prevent the sting(s). I’m okay, but I’m surrendering to my delusions & demons, tumbling back into the cat’s eyes. To err is human. To forgive, feline.

the black and unholy stomach

and why do the stars shine so brightly over Burger King? the answer is the difference between astronomy and cosmology. astronomy is a hamburger. cosmology is the inestimable elation of the next hamburger. eventually, the stars will tire, weighted by our wistfulness and our fast food fight club, dropping through our atmosphere, crashing atop the Burger King, crushing one deep fryer and one assistant manager when you’re standing behind the police tape that cordons the regicide, your stomach will growl as both honorific and reminder that rapidly rotating pulsars are the windows to the Next Level, The Intangible Level, Potentially The Most Outrageous Conclusion, that the ends of your galaxy are two sesame seed buns.

jitters

After I cleaned the litter box, I watched a horror movie. No. It was unsettling and surrealistic but not horrifying. I know horror. I’ve travelled north along the Meadowlands on a weekend eve, locked the doors and didn’t breathe (or grieve) as the traffic stampede, pitiless, rejects Hague 1907, death race Delaware to Ridgefield Park After I cleaned the litter box, I watched an unsettling, surrealistic movie. The only words spoken were a weary “Hello?” to the rousing ring of a red telephone (I thought about the Batphone) and “The TV doesn’t work,” one woman says to another before feral mauling. The director was up to something. Twenty seconds of film went to a tight close-up of the mauler’s planetary eyes, malachite and merciless. I asked, “What is this guy trying to do?” When I seek understanding, I step to my balcony and I talk to the railing that protects me from a two-story drop. I knew the mauler. She held a thin re...

worrylines (inspired by "Escape from Alcatraz")

Tense, tightly-woven, meticulously orchestrated dramas explode like cannons from your pores every day of your midlife crisis. Prescription: Morrissey through a Walkman. The lies told at the beginning of the week maintain a rigid efficacy. Ziploc your soul twice, avoid the moribund effigy. The only feasible path into a semiconscious mess starts with thirty seconds of fearsome foreboding when the good guy goes black. Will you waive the rewinding fee for my history of violence? Pretty please? With sugar and toxic rest in Angela Lansbury’s life? The mystery writer’s purse always hides the knife, enough smart handbags for a twelve-year killing spree, helluva slide show for the family, and in Philadelphia , the crossing guards are polar bears with stop signs and prosthetic claws. What if Steven Spielberg (censored verb)? I can think of scarier things: Sarah Silverman’s wedding rings. 1010 WINS rarely reports on the congestion on the Tappan Zee . What is there to s...

the idle instruments

Woman with stroller, point. who is at the second story window? My grandfather devoured by hipsters, yeah, hipsters, horrifying! Jason Priestley’s wife is decomposing, and Frank Poncherello cha-chas in pleated trousers, this sciamachy is tinted with beige. Is anyone wearing Justine Bateman? I hear that chick’s the rage. All thumbs play that beatific organ, dig that daily badumdumdum! pigeons oscillating ataraxia and zugzwang; it’s a full count for Fisk, Munson knew the risk. The intentional walk is never assailed by Budweiser. I regret there are more fools among us in this cavalcade as I collect spores, molds, fungus, and accolades; we be fast, and they be slow. Luchadornado! Masked Mexican whirlwind, mesmerizing your girlfriend, removing her clothes with rolling RRRRRs and banishing you to a triangle of timberwolves: one-man performance coup de grace with no assurances, no weapons, no monkey’s paw. Do you plan on attending the war heroes’ rodeo? Invert the lari...

to a soft blur

you and me and the mist and the midst and the missed and Psychotronic Man and the Riddler and the Mind and the Matter and handsome ambiguity and ferocious ephemeral disorder have carved our initials into every love poem we’ve encountered since the girl from Hillsdale we only dream in puzzles and detours, letting the imagery fall as those fallen from the crest. we dream in illegal downloads and proverbial letdowns, grandiose and cocksure like Gulliver bounding the hurdles. we dream in the lungs of the tollbooth at the cliff of our gravitas. we dream as the bacon fries in the skillet of the working girl in downtown Denver , sizzling the Garden of Eden and programming her database to erase Another Face She Doesn’t Care to Remember. in faith, we so pounce as the battle rages on and the song remains the same and every pudding has its due date: only a suggestion, never a law.

crumbcatcher

if it doesn’t make sense, let it lick you in the face until you fall in love, then give it a shove. watch it fall. love is believing it’ll never hit the ground, just picks up speed until it becomes a solar system and blows you a kiss.

gift cards

the New Age section of the Barnes & Noble is the most discombobulated. (breached lucidity) oh, good – you bought me “On Bullshit” by Harry B. Frankfurt. I’m so relieved; now the philosopher can recline. (co-morbidity) I have Kohl’s cash. How many Politically Exposed Persons can I buy? The fabric is impure; look at these threadbare seams. you force the haggle. you’re getting the manager? your white flag is corroding. there is a whisker and a dust bunny in my shoe. occupancy: two. they’re suffocating in the emerald mist; only their undertaker escapes contamination. everyone, just sit still and wait for Aesop. he has a stapler. soliloquy by Orson Welles: “the cruelty of the gamble, the quintessence of the vipers, the maelstrom of scorn and censure, self-objurgation and Pez dispenser, the cranes overhead in Dallas ’63 fly through boiling atoms of generated congress and soft leaves of peppermint, dear friends and vermin, this has all been so enchant...

parlance and mockery

the night past, I worked in shining crimson, were the words: Hob Anagarak. a wholesome start to any aroma or scent, jelly drip, nicotine phantom, or tumorous rend. never have I known this overblown. It runs through my toxic Les Miserables mainframe like Sweaty Junkie #24601, weeping weasel for setting sun. lately, chaos has been a dizzy Foot Clan flunkie. the vapors are iridescent. The sludge slides down the crescent of penumbra into Chinatown . The lumberjack saws through the invisible man, so bring your ID for principal scan. yeah, Bill Murray is a bitter tonic, and those Special K protein shakes are vile. Will a bottle of Royal Crown smooth the Miracle Mile? I recall the previous pole vault into La Brea; it was kind of a bumpy landing. in valleys we task our elbows on strata. Casey Jones and the day after tomorrow play the violin in astrological penance. Blacksuited Spidey on a Friday night, dateless and outta web. With great responsibility comes death ...

creation

In a town named War, the Man exhaled into the palm of his hand and declared Panic. On a pothole of a planet, the monsters of my briefest temptations will carry steel folding chairs. For every stoic, there’s a frantic. Isaiah’s first yawn was like dropping a hockey puck into the maw of an engorged wildebeest born into a reservoir of city-wide sewage. The cracked earth’s cheers for the rugby squad fills the streets. I am a real heart-braker. Psybient Vince Vaughn All-Threat Dub. whoa, slow your groin, He-Man, you’re a Faker, your love of glowing eyes slippery to the undernurtured. she’s a banshee, Pete; set phasers on scrub.

the visitor's ashtray

he was born amongst fixtures, tilted all portraits of rosemary Cain. scalding chamomile rinses the brain (lavender, leather, turkey, nickels) of all mid-week corruption. soothing alibi is cleric. grieving toe of Rodan is esoteric (teeter, fray, begone, winsome) yet the digits traipse the white lines surrounding the coliseum of Makhai. the crook of feast and fry (spinerifter, shadowhand, moneyfaker, murdersmock) coincides with the zealous hourglass, all grains tumble into form of ABC Movie of the Week, so sleek (wildcats, skyway, Lizzie Borden, Dorian Gray) and inspirational, the lounge lizards merging with the incidental infinite, stroll black hole indefinite; (biker mice, beetleborg, samurai, luchador) thank you for not being a psychopath today. persona non grata gang aft agley.

the cavalier of less brilliance

I stand for the ethical treatment of paper clips. This is not a head trip. In my cadaverous grip are coupons for cream cheese and oregano. If your demitasse tastes of cedar, you might be a cosmopolitan lumberjack, headed to the Brian Pillman Memorial Show. Take off your hat and shield your eyes, as the gallows are aglow. Barbarians, you’d better self-assess your civility index. Russell Crowe’s tenderness can bruise a Leviathan, busted lip on Deep Star Six, nailed Mer-Man to a crucifix. I’ve never met an intangible who took a dart to the New Mexico of the anatomy and screamed muchos gracias, muzzled for Salma Hayek’s pleasure, stroking fantasy of Cheshire . I set the lure for the Lost Kowalski of detached mechanism who may dine on hot fudge sundae missionary blitzkrieg during his rendezvous with the Bride of Match.com. His Lord Inchworm is no longer than the lifespan of John Doe. Hey, cupid-cum-astronaut – your spaceflight manual has nudity and espionage. Th...

the rhythm of the caribou

the quiet of new days, eyelashes in honey glaze. the Bratz are stretching Jack Nicholson until he snaps into Christian Slater Smithereens – close shave for Arkansas Dave, high noon for Henry Lloyd Moon. the cramps occupy the crawlspace, malaise for the Magnum, P.I. revisionists. crank the air conditioner, or the Bull Moose Party will thaw. pilot your zeppelin over the field of cacti and parchment. Only Shatner believes what I saw. the echo of dopamine resonates through a Fake Food World. Tom’s Big mom was Mercedes Ruehl. Vel and Daph excel in the art of the foiled crime, but good penmanship is the sign of a soiled mind. The restless Mohawk rattles Gotham City . he is the white buffalo whose subway tokens are expired. We will apply the mercy rule if you were one of the actors who played Howard the Duck while Lea Thompson ran amok. ’86 was a good year – you must be tired.

the 2011 zippitydoodah reaction

(thank you to the band Autograph, the backwards tears that retreated to the ducts, and my Justice League pajamas) if, in the morning, Genuine Affection has snuck away without leaving a note, reflect sound praise, howl to archangels, don the Korean house slippers, for your internal solidarity remains unimpeached moonlight requisition and Perry Como, keep it mellow, live in slo-mo the difference between a stuffed penguin and a loving husband is a spinal column. I abandoned my undergrad misery on the slalom. Remember: Hot Dog was a Movie, but Hamburger was a Motion Picture. (cue musical interlude, this one goes out to the mumblecore – baristas, start your interior monologue! VRROOMM VRROOMM) “so make me a shitty cup of coffee and give me paper cuts across the face, punch me in the brain with your rejection, I’ll gladly disappear without a trace! (louder in Poughkeepsie !) make me a shitty cup of coffee, give me paper cuts across the face, pu...

exchange

shot and I’m cold, a new day unsold friendly and betrayed, formerly I laid in society, behaving in moments, asking, “what was the morning’s design?” can’t play on the hill as there is no gate, a figure passes, marked as prosperous, he did so assist me, especially, thoroughly, remarkable that the terminated man is continuing (raspy, dry soul on the dashboard) removed, he wrote “shy” but also wrote “marry”, matter be my wisdom should crypt basket be ample, arise at time appointed by the goddess of canned laughter, alone in the fruit bed, no opinions answered (for felicity is not so hastily resolved) and insipidity is insufficient, an instrument chatty in extent and effect, small and many are the chieftains dispatched, insensible, melancholy, boisterous, dissimilar, the parish tastes of vain distrust and affixed cordiality in inquiry, for the wicket sweetens the gentleman of piqued favor at length, abroad, collecting in imprudence (a morsel for the w...

thoughtful arrangement

if Stonehenge had a photocopier, all secrets would be revealed. the story of civilization would lose the spiritual equivalent of oxygen: ate the paste, burned the CD, burned the roast, burned the highway. honesty is my brother-in-law, the murderer. who do we know in Larchmont? all the beasts of burden: truncated, drooling, astray. do you think you had the rumgumption back in ’88? the veiled Lorelei of the ramshackle love asylum of anautarchia can’t be the hairsprayed vixen you took to the demolition derby. she could hear a locomotive whistle in a glass of milk. a year later, her charity drummed the Bay, rattled Fay, briefly bolstered Shea. the soldiers love Anchorman, but the satellite’s warped. with clap of hands, you thought you could become Forever Man, but please, hold your celebration of the collapse of Rome . Snap, Crackle, Faustinus. Here comes your knight in thermal underwear, astride a horse of germ and blight. now it’s in your head, and there it’ll sta...

find a corner

This world is full of people who mostly have nothing to say to you. They would appreciate if you’d listen, but you could also be a cactus. You could be a cactus on the periphery of a Jackie Chan movie, but you’d also be dispensable. There’s always another cactus waiting. Consider the life expectancy of a letter in a Microsoft Word document due to be deleted. You’ve been backspaced from a living will and re-born in a Bucknell University College Application Essay. You’re not paid to think; you’re paid to hover. In the interim, have something cool to drink and get your vitamins. Let a man his tomato juice if tomato juice be his rod and his staff. However, he still won’t be very interesting.

can we speak off the record?

Merle Haggard’s Leaned-Upon Loves is closed, as I caught the left leg of my workaday khakis on the snarl of daybreak, (Dockers slacks are creativity kryptonite), and the laces on these Marc Anthony loafers never stay together. Before ‘Bama bails us out of upside-down homes, let’s bring Pluto to the good people and tell them to take turns walking the dog. Ricky Steamboat had better bleed and run, for I tax my brother the wind for his oblivescence & obliquation of the blades of grass, their obstreperous obligation to the moments that pass would make the Kardashians put their pennies in the wish jar. Happy Harry Hard-On’s Busted Tiki Doll is retired, as is your leather briefcase in which you “displayed” your Star Wars action figures, Spiffzilla & Gatzuketastic have pumped up the jams, threatening vernacular Saturday morning spectacular Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel – I guess I’ll just pretend I’m not in Hell. Forget platinum; Metallica’s just...

adventures have time limits, too

daydreamer, swashbuckler, nonsenseburger cavalier in corduroy, lightly jaded robot cowboy, pick-up-stix and parlor tricks, can you build a life through imaginary text messages to a glass Italian octopus with a broken tentacle? (“sanitize your octopus” is not a euphemism) maximum wage hooligan, you’re brave for living outside of alakazam Alprazolam when the storm keeps Ragin’ Cajun Redneck Gator in every nook and cranny of your substance. if you’re feeling all peanut-butter-and-jelly about the scheme, about the cultural illusions that sound and sting like Sylvester Stallone, (“I’m not trying to be hyperbolic”, muttered levity) then funny how what separates an angel from anger is merely five letters. M-N-O-P-Q. it is a prescribed order. before a jump into the hula hoop of Charybdis, neon green and yellow scream, bind your leg to the unsteady, wooden bridge and prepare to meet Khali. If you’re dismissed because your Fedora is sullied, those Harry ...

accidental galaxy

the patron saint of Cats Who Wish to Be Left Alone was watching muay thai kickboxing on ESPN during the construction of Dante’s Divine Comedy. The children are out of macaroni; the number of circles has been reduced to five. from happiness letter #1, re: lectures on astronomy, the notion of an abbreviated education. The apprentice sweeps Brooklyn free from hobgoblins during the Subway Series. Grandma and Steinbrenner are still pissed about Mattingly’s hair. Billy Martin wouldn’t care. Josh Hutcherson has clout, enough to accelerate through the sticky exposition of the Saw Franchise. Your inner peace has learned how to untie the knots, swimming underwater the length of the pool. Did you read the Times? The crack is worse than the pterodactyls. First paragraph goes to Serpico. The off-hand ghouls that creep through Edgar Allan Poe’s Progressive Headache emit tortured bellows from the elevator shaft, from the throats of coarse louts the Tower of Babel calls ...

the first writes the last (6-6-1976)

congratulations, it’s a boy. it’s a reaper. it’s the black death of your Catholic faith. care to cut the cord? well, work it out. but first, we’ve got to get the Hell out of the Bronx . wrap it to go. we can only cross the Bridge once.

firecrackered

pistol-whipped cowgirls are honed from hatred and hot lead. Polynesian princesses keep hammerheads on the payroll with bánh tai heo. The Aloha, Tombstone Urban Dance Squad is gettin’, is gettin’, is gettin’ kinda hectic. The Other Solitary Sunday Man forgot to take a Pepcid. sure, Pier One Imports can manufacture headbutting mirrors, trimmed in coils of Graboid and lamprey eels, but who will handle the medical bills of the comatose supermodels? Blue Cross does not cover When Furniture Attacks. (the façade is topped by a row of bronze baboons) the dryer lint and the kookaburra have an 11 AM appointment with cataclysm, sinful that you keep wishing for a blind date with Information Floating Around Cyberspace while they’re dining on cole slaw from a kit at that giant pajama party in Ocean City . enviable levels of suave, the man is overcome by the historical significance of mental math & the curious by-products of invented adjectives; mid-morning cons...

brief encounter in a field of poppies

I remember her eyes – pale vacancy, aggressively hands-on-hips Wonder Woman, trying to pick my pocket for What’s Left of Me, stabbed into fondue. recall the artistic insensibility of her mouth, robins with lava-splashed wings, chained to Earth by licorice, the exclamation point for all gathered wool. conversations were catapults to the rooftops of suburban Existentialism, through the Fourth Wall, I’ll be the Davey to your Goliath, and we’ll convert the world to the Church of David Bowie . our first dance was the Beastie Boys, our last chance was Sinatra; we can’t climb mountains on Mars without our space helmets, but we can’t wear our space helmets and breathe. I kept forgetting to replace the batteries of that mechanical nothingness that trapped us in bubbles. so much trouble. that thoughtless rubble never paid a compliment to the ashes of our Properly Controlled Forest Fires. The late 1990s. We looked sideways, you threw me a key, moved to Ten...

scrupulous

scrupulous lemur, you’re a peanut. shine my moccasins for a banana. Do you know what spins the ballerina? A shotgun wedding. don’t veer from this heading. destiny tambourines for you. Bongo Comics on the barber’s chair, not in the sleeve. Should I grieve or loudly concede? let’s wander aimlessly into the stolen streaks of wild midnight. If we’re passed by a Japanese banshee, I’ll inform the loup- garou. Count the number of the disenfranchised prostrate before the renovated Alicia Silverstone. The tiramisu really did pick me up and carry me home. I love you, Mischa; I’ve lost you, Abigail, drowning in Tweets from Sulu.

ran

Your honor, Ol’ Dirty Bastard is here to represent the defendants, Cocktails and Moses. (wish to end all future messages by vigilante nation of caped mercenaries) before you die-hards run me out of Dodge, please read the vertical response: “you know you’d love a new ride – cars, trucks, SUVs, convertibles, and Christ; which will you choose?” the new irrational exuberance trading policy is a cobwebbed testament to the old Pantera kids who would just throw each other electrical auto-cadaver engineers struck dumb by the sight of roast beef Arizona cottage, alive with the voices of Taipei , part-time equinox in a retail shop magical downtown adventures and the flattened hearts sprinkled over Fifth Ave (should’ve gone to Newark , less is more) marijuana snowballs (keep ‘em! trade ‘em! collect ‘em!) and polished jawbones of Andean llama breeders the stupid syringe is broken dateline: Benghazi – rounds are fired into the atmosphere, stench...

Conversation at Carlo’s Pizza 10/11/2003 (About as Close to a Baseball Poem as I’m Ever Gonna Get)

The Boston Red Sox, man. The pizza sucks in Boston . Can’t find love in Boston unless you bring a credit card. You ever been to Baltimore ? No? Then what the hell are you talking about? Ah, garlic knots. The weekend’s here.

friday morning superpower

  “M*A*S*H was a movie? Those don’t look like the regular people.” At that moment of bland confusion, I discovered my Friday Morning Superpower: the ability to mentally materialize a soaking wet sponge, dangling in air, dripping on the carpet, the kind of large, prehistoric sponge you would use to wash your Subaru Outback before your August jaunt to Lake George, the kind of waterlogged monstrosity that could introduce a loved one’s weekend with a scurrilous SQUISH. As she dried her hair with her overpriced Ikea towel, she inquired: “Isn’t boxing really like wrestling, anyway?” She’s gonna need a bigger towel.

get it right

extortion and bureaucracy are not as Lemmon and Matthau as once perceived. The sycophants chirp twang zap in bellbottomed pants and actual retail prices but don’t sweat the technique. Power Man and Iron Fist hold the claims in this Rio Bravo , this ambuscade, this make-believe. The fireflies augur psychosis; advance all failed devices, desperate and weak, gimme a beat. Buckaroo Banzai is bleeding, his deputy’s badge tarnished like razors distributed by Wes Craven on dull days of horror, rats and snails and crisis, bad mojo bubblin’, simmer, then eat. Modus operandi for mourning will be silent cerebral cave-in, red velvet sin, Angry Irishmen, molten raindrops upon old man’s hands, nailed for his vices, tappin’ his feet but parched from the heat.

360

Today is a good day to fly a kite, although we are here at the end of our world. I’ve been waiting all summer for a nuclear breeze to blow dimly through desolation. I feel I have the proper length of string. Oh, but my spoon seems to have melted. I will have to resort to eating my yogurt with my fingers. I don’t suppose I’ll be judged for that, as long as my kite remains close to the sun.

fuzzyhappy

For five minutes, a Nutter Butter is a really good (warm) coffin. Until the rats come. And the flood. And the Earth Mother arrives with the balls of light in her hands and asks you to choose. Next to gasoline and garlic, peanut butter is the most recognizable (loose-fitting) scent. Finally, the great comfort. But remember the five minutes.

one cold trick

there was a knock on the devil’s door. ‘I’m busy!’ the visitor was persistent. ‘I wish to rent your wasteland.’ the devil dropped his eskimo pie and opened the door a crack. ‘say again?’ he could not perceive the visitor, who had turned his back. ‘I wish to rent this space for a while.’ the devil opened the door and contorted his face. ‘for what purpose?’ the visitor who turned to face the devil wore the devil’s face. ‘ Woodstock ’, he replied, I’d like to have Woodstock in your space.’ the devil fainted and relieved himself on his doorstep. his visitor, the imposter, removed his mask and laughed at the unconscious dark overlord. ‘putz’ God said.

my date with Dharmageddon (1-25-2001)

last night, I dreamt Jenna Elfman was eating apocalypse, taking it in, strands of spaghetti, twines of divine, DNA of day-to-day. she didn’t break eye contact with me as I finished her chalice of iced coffee. I was hired to direct her in a Prudential commercial, but these TV stars can be so loud and controversial. such divas for disaster. “Can you eat a little faster? I have another engagement.” I will admit she had such charm as she lustfully ingested Our Final Days and requested: “come back tomorrow.”

havoc in the hardware store

a human interest story… today, a madman won a shopping spree at the Home Depot. this is the same crackpot who thought he could get rich by writing a book about roadkill. those who know him well — call him ally, comrade, or kook — said that needlenose pliers and Thompson’s Water Seal were high on his list. spectators claim all he took was glue, enough Elmer’s to fill the bed of his Ford 250 pickup. what all this glue is for, one can only speculate. various accredited upstarts theorize with wrinkled brows that the madman has some sort of fetish. this activity does not coincide with the local weather report: mild, breezy, amiable, chance of crazy – 5%.

a nursery rhyme for a padded cell

biddle-le-dum-dum, biddle-le-dum-dum, the cuckoo clock on the wall biddle-le-dum-dum, biddle-le-dum-dum, thinks he knows it all biddle-le-dum-dum, biddle-le-dum-dum, every hour on the dot biddle-le-dum-dum, biddle-le-dum-dum, all I need is one clean shot.

religion soup

in 1977, I professed my love for God. 30 minutes later, I was in the emergency room with my wounds being mended by a doctor wearing a yarmulke. in 2013, I fell asleep at the Passover Seder. simultaneously, I dreamt Ben Stiller was trying to drive a stake through my heart. if you’re looking for symmetry, east to west is always best.

the answer to the question

I asked a fifth-grader to answer this question: “How’s life?” He unzipped his backpack. I got my answer. “morning breaks, night falls, afternoon staggers like Quentin Tarantino Before His Daily Fix, and I am doing somersaults just to get through the day.” If you ask a fifth-grader to unravel a riddle, make sure he’s first finished his lunch. Hunger pains leave deep bite marks.

lunch

‘squeak, squeak’ said the window, ‘i must feed from life!’ said the door, ‘can’t hear you’. said the ceiling, ‘keep quiet!’ said the carpet, ‘too loud, too loud!’ the window, she wept. the screen, it mumbled, ‘i’m too old for this sh*t.’

sirens

I shouldn’t hear sirens when I’m ordering pizza. Sleep in heavenly peace on cold linoleum tiles. Minds will die as diamonds purr. Crystal folds around timber. Electrical outlets have never held my attention for more than thirty seconds. Sobriety’s an abductee. Even the most hideous creature wrapped in the skin of man can take a handsome photograph. Not so ugly for a second. I shouldn’t hear sirens when I’m ordering pizza.

showtime

on the banks of the Amazon, the rhino and the hippo were set to duke it out over the last vanilla wafer. this was no ordinary wafer. it was made from happenstance, mayhaps, and insecticide, the finest ingredients on Earth, so it was worth fighting for. a rattlesnake slithered into view, got a ringside seat. now, the hypnotic powers of the vanilla wafer are vastly underrated. the history books don’t like to mention this, but the course of human events has been greatly altered by the time-traveling vanilla wafer. Booth. Oswald. Spot on. Hinckley . even the wafer has an off day. success can only be measured by the tools that one uses. the rattlesnake’s attention was fixed upon the wafer. he understood immediately. he has always enjoyed a puppet show.

patronage

Skeleton! The shot glasses! A warmth of waste, if you please! The urge is tight for endgame, the tongue is ripe for disease! A swallow for tender mercies, a slug of salty bane, a tragedy of abstract, life-rending, bending strain! An ounce of slushy knockout, a drop of gremlin’s tears, a whispering by child of dear ol’ teddy’s petty fears! A heavy metal sundown for the soul of rock ‘n’ roll, a slice of twice-baked sunlight for a bridge-forsaken troll! An epitaph for gargoyle – go on, man, pour the gravy – the signal’s off, so this caped bat is going back to the bat-cavey! Oh? You say the bottles are empty and Pepsi’s all you’ve got?? Hey, Dracula, are you aware that stuff is spirit rot? Well, the clock says, “no complaining”- time has talons of oily grip – and the sorcery’s a dragon for passage out of this strange trip. So, barkeep, do your worst – pour the drinks, man, line ‘em up – but, hey, buddy, would it have killed ya to have stocked some 7-Up?

at the grave of the laughing man (8-8-2010)

flowers by the grave of the laughing man were spray-painted orange and purple. flecks & spatters on the headstone were arranged like aerosol constellations of deities exiled from Olympus who now drive taxicabs through the ruins of NYC. I stare helplessly, tears pushing through my eyelids like salty Wal-Mart shoppers on Black Friday. departure of the laughing man on bus number nine was delayed by the shattered remains of fractured youth, littering the thoroughfares with their pop music debris. ke$ha on the bottom of my left shoe. yu¢k.

the doom that came to orange county

heed, ye students of wit discerned, closely to this lesson learned: for every page of Lovecraft turned, a Real Housewife’s soul is burned.

how he feels

I was once bitten by a dog named Sarcasm. As I soaked up the blood with his adoption papers, he stared at me and declared: “I am beautiful.”

ground

how high and outside such joy of escape into air and belonging this embrace by nature by world by stars could positively crush me.

father-daughter discussion (in the shade)

The Devil said to his daughter: “Go out to the world and grab it. But whatever you do and wherever you go, don’t be a creature of habit.”

spilled

oh, my what have Me on My face… pen? pencil? no… …the human race.

geekboy (prequel to "krypton '87")

there is a theory made by a scientist a long time ago that what goes up must eventually come down. well, see, here’s the thing: geekboy’s at the top of the stairs with his favorite blanket tied ’round his neck, and he says that a scientifically proven law of nature means nothing to the Man of Steel. “the night of the tupperware party”, his mother says, “that just makes too much sense.” it’s not everyday that Superman makes an appearance at a tupperware party… …and nobody knew that he wore Cookie Monster slippers, either.

krypton '87

the caped boy landed with a magnificent whooooshing flourish in the parking lot of the local cinema. he observed the marquee with an enthusiastic Kryptonian grin, purchased a ticket, and entered Theater #3 to see “Superman IV: Quest for Peace”. (100 minutes later) the boy quietly discarded his cape in the nearest trash receptacle to the alleyway exit of the cinema. he walked home.

I'm not lonely today

on my asteroid, I tend to my true love’s heart with a screwdriver.

the road

There were 120 days between June in May and Johnny in September. I spent the summer listening to their music, but there is more to remember. It had been five years since my knuckles started bleeding and smearing the names of my references on my job applications, when I started punching walls, punching romance, punching telephone numbers to Ohio, to Texas, to Vermont, to any vagrant female of collapsed sexuality who needed to forget their fucked-up youth for a few minutes, small-chested wah-wah pedals, unmolested garden petals. Then I stuck my head in the toilet (ebb and flow of aphorism) contemplating the crabbiness of the immortal. You were there for the beginning of the blur of optimism, for the end of the slur of pronunciation, you saw it all, from tottering climb to glue factory fall. I thought I saw a light, I thought I saw salvation, naked and rippled. Is the flesh obsessed with the soundless thunder of gog and bate, solid wooden hollow of splendi...

LV-246 (Ode to "Aliens")

Twelve little Marines decided to get their kicks Huntin’ down some nasty aliens on LV-426. Ripley tagged along to spill some acid as she waits for “Ghostbusters II” to start to film in 1988. They brought along an android to do the dirty work and comedian Paul Reiser as a greedy little jerk (bummer for the funnyman, as his loyalty’s misguided and because he plays the asshole, his fate has been decided). Ray-Banned Corporal Ferro dropped ‘em in the pipe, five by five, twelve little Marines, but how many will survive? Touchdown on LV-426 with the Marines taking their route and meeting the lone survivor, the silent child nicknamed Newt. Then Dietrich met an alien who wanted to hold her hand, And their love released a kiss of fire that torched her fellow man – Private Frost was cooked alive and dropped his bag of boom, Exploding into fire, hurling Crowe across the room. Wierzbowski hit the panic button and screamed all bloody heck, as he was killed off-screen (we think?);...

stability rings the doorbell

at the Mobil in West Hartford, I was too tired to lift the squeegee, so I tilted my head to the clouds and watched the birds and swiped the Speedpass and this is how it all went down as I awaited a full tank of gas when I found myself at the crossroads of an unresolved metaphysical cliffhanger. the Camry from Texas arrived quietly, and the Pittsburgh Pirate with the Hollister tee left his car, stretched his limbs, revealing a flash of hairy midriff and a medical scar, then answered his cellphone with a strident ‘yallo!’ before declaring he’d rather vomit than eat pickles. the Hyundai from Tennessee drove past me and screeched to the adjacent pump. the young, fair-haired driver with the bangs unbuttoned his gray blazer, wiping Dorito flecks from his jeans, then his feet, then asked his passenger, ‘where’s my parka?’ before opening his wallet to see he hadn’t any fives. the Dodge Ram from South Carolina howled of flirtation with the devil, but the...