Pounding the cement the persistent throb of my toe, rubbing in yesteryear's sneakers, gives way as the mile, then the miles go by. Roger Miller strums and croons idiotically then Eddie swings his ax, a riff and a beat drown away civilization's notes, the internal combustion engines that I run beside. Thrumming rubber rubs out birdsong and the winds that push branches aside, that whisper over shingles, in and out open porches, percussing unashamedly with storm doors and loose shutters. The cliche dog barks in a rude city where pockets of green cost more than the winter sun can give, it pierces the void, reigning under cotton candy skies. How difficult can it be to channel the jaguar, to hallucinate away the street lamps and naked limbs, hanging heavy with fruit only for a time, waiting the ravenous flocks to alight and greedily feed, to picture the plain sky blotted out by lush jungles, the pavement by fern and decay? Only pitfalls remain to the frozen footfall, freezing under December's dying season, threading a course over curb, crack and stoplight. Why does one climb a mountain, or run to winter's end? Because it's there.
try this on for size
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Tom And Dinosaur Hand, movies!
Tom: Me and Dinosaur Hand decided to watch a few movies, including one western called Duck, You Sucker. It's better known as A Fist Full of Dynamite...Dinosaur Hand: Yeah, but I've never seen either that or this!
Tom: Right, they're the same movie; that's what I'm getting at.
D.H: Oh. Well there's one hell of a big explosion at 2:20. This is a godawful long movie.
Tom: Did you enjoy it, Dino? There were several explosions. Going into a movie called A Fist Full of Dynamite, I guess one would expect that.
D.H: But it was called Duck, You Sucker. We didn't know about the dynamite. Bonus!
Tom: This film was directed by Sergio Leone and stars James Coburn...
D.H: Who was awesome! What a mustache.
Tom: ...and Rod Steiger.
D.H: Was that guy in The Great Escape? Because I loved that movie. Not so many explosions, though.
Tom: Everybody was in that movie.
D.H: Not the Terminator....he wasn't in it!
Tom: I sorta kinda liked this movie. It had a weird soundtrack, but actually got some good reviews in that area. There's an entertaining write up on the movie here. If you're a fan of the Clint Eastwood trilogy, then you'll like this movie, too.
D.H: I say, eh.
Tom: Next up is a more recent thriller called Limitless, starring Bradly Cooper, and some guy called Robert De Niro.
Dinosaur Hand: I like the idea of taking a pill to become smarter, but I always have trouble swallowing them...
Tom: Do you mean swallowing pills or the slightly inane plot of this movie?
D.H: Are you making fun of me? Because, I guess because I can't take the pill, maybe I'm not smart enough to know this movie is dumb? It's a freakin' conundrum!
Tom: Alright, don't get me wrong; I did enjoy the movie, and I liked Cooper in it, and it was shot beautifully with some really cool scenes and great characters...but it had problems.
D.H: ..no car chases or explosions...but a couple cool fight scenes and...ta da...murder!
Tom: Ooh, the plot thickens. If you want to watch a fun thriller, then I'd recommend Limitless.
D.H: Why not?
D.H: Hey, I watched my first Korean movie today!
Tom: Ha. Me too – Castaway on the Moon. It's a S. Korean movie, a comedy/love story about a guy who has lost everything and decides to end it all.
D.H: Only he lives, and winds up on a deserted island, in the middle of the city. Weird. And there's this weirdo girl, too. I kind of dig her.
Tom: She's a sad case. There's a real bond that forms between them. How? Y
ou'll have to watch it to find out. I really liked this movie. It was funny, sad, clever, joyful, inspiring...D.H: Would you say it's a combination of Robinson Crusoe and Castaway? And also maybe Diehard?
Tom: No. You're an idiot.
D.H: I'm a hand. Rawr!
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Dog versus Cat kind of Christmas
having a wonderful Christmas, and wishing the same for all of my blog friends.
Time for some tea and a cookie...enjoy!
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
notsomuch
microsnoz components piss me offthey're too small, they never piece together
right
the instructions are in English
olde
and the diagram
when folded in three
then spread wide like a flapping accordion
depicts the grand history of Peter D. Smeek
door knob salesman
.
plastic nozzles
the small round ones with teeth
get stuck in unfortunate places
in cracks
in hoses and tubercles
and nooks and crannies
they make noises
confounded blurts and hiccups
when the winds blow up along
the floorboards
.
these components
stamped
made in China
manufactured and sold to the highest bidder
they come with a guarantee
and a solid state home engineer
well oiled
coiffed to perfection
it sits on a spring ready to tidy up
.
the user fee is enormous
.
everyone ought to have one of these
microsnoz components
they fuel the planet
with round incompetence
and everyone agrees
what the world needs
.
is more of that
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
these things will happen...
“Can't you see the margins are too wide?” he yelled at the walls. The walls cringed back from the abuse, or so he imagined, being a short man and nearly bald. At least the walls should fear him, if nothing else did. He sat on a stool and ate his soup. A wee mousy peeked out from its bed of tatter in a corner, under a broken shelf.
Two men looked through a port hole down at the captive man. “What is he doing now?” “He is yelling into the air. And waving his arms.” “Let me look. Oh, he is eating the soup.” “Fantastic.”
The little man was a throwback. Some officials from a division across the ocean had found him wandering in the streets. He didn't speak the updated dialect of the reset language. His speech was archaic, at least two or three hundred years ancient. Some of the locals had been throwing bread at him and the little man was growing fat, sitting against monuments, shouting at the birds. They finally crated him up and sent him to the research institute.
“Where did he come from?” “Maybe an aberrant time shift.” “Aren't they all regulated?” “Sometimes one will get away...”
The rodent was agitated. A colored light started flashing from the ceiling, twenty feet overhead. The little man saw the mouse chittering and scrambling in the corner. He started muttering at it.
“I suppose you will be wanting some of my soup. Well I ain't got any crackers to go with it even. What kind of nitty natty place is this anyway? No crackers, pfaw!”
The two men exchanged looks. “Is it working?” “I think so, it is starting to. I wonder what he is saying?” “The transcripts will tell us, if the program can decipher them.” “Certainly. Oh look, the mouse is going forward with our plans.” “Excellent.”
The colored light was blinking and the mouse began running circles in confusion. The man put down his bowl and stood up to get a closer look. He slapped his hands together and laughed. “Dance mousy, dance dance dance.”
The mouse darted across the floor right at the little man, who came from a time familiar with mice and hadn't any fear of the creatures. He knelt down and put a hand on the floor for the rodent to climb onto. The mouse was incensed, and bit down on the man's little finger, then ran up his arm and jumped onto his head, started rummaging around the only tuft of hair it could find and hunkered down, breathing hard.
“Freakin' little shit!” howled the man. But he didn't jump up and slap the mouse away. He settled back onto his stool and leaned into the corner.
“He's sleeping. With the mouse in his hair!” “Astounding. But will it work?” “The contagion is taken from storage, who knows?” “Well, time will tell.” They watched for an hour, taking turns, until one of the men started to see a rapid progression from the mouse induced serum. “He is changing!”
Three days later, the man got up from his stool, walked to the door and entered a code into the glowing blue sensor from his enlarged frontal lobe. He looked back into the room with his left eyeball, and into his mind with the right. He was eight inches taller, equipped with a flowing manly mane and the mouse on his head had grown veins that spread from forehead to the occipital.
The two men rushed down from the loft and watched as the man walked into the glass assessment tank. A simple diagnostic program pushed air around his body and inserted microscopic aluminum viruses into his veins. He stood on a polymer disc that rotated and his hair stood wholly on end. All checks complete. Integration formalized. Modern man fully functioning. They grinned and opened the airlock.
“How do you feel?” “Do you remember anything?” “What was the world like three hundred years ago?”
“I feel like a god. I remember eating steak, sipping wine, and loving women. It was great and you are the two butt ugliest mother effers I've ever seen.”
“Oh.” “Well, do you have any questions for us?”
The man thought about it. His mental processes were amazingly fast. He could
do computations in his head that only computers could accomplish in his time. “Only one. Are there jetpacks yet?”
Two men looked through a port hole down at the captive man. “What is he doing now?” “He is yelling into the air. And waving his arms.” “Let me look. Oh, he is eating the soup.” “Fantastic.”
The little man was a throwback. Some officials from a division across the ocean had found him wandering in the streets. He didn't speak the updated dialect of the reset language. His speech was archaic, at least two or three hundred years ancient. Some of the locals had been throwing bread at him and the little man was growing fat, sitting against monuments, shouting at the birds. They finally crated him up and sent him to the research institute.
“Where did he come from?” “Maybe an aberrant time shift.” “Aren't they all regulated?” “Sometimes one will get away...”
The rodent was agitated. A colored light started flashing from the ceiling, twenty feet overhead. The little man saw the mouse chittering and scrambling in the corner. He started muttering at it.
“I suppose you will be wanting some of my soup. Well I ain't got any crackers to go with it even. What kind of nitty natty place is this anyway? No crackers, pfaw!”
The two men exchanged looks. “Is it working?” “I think so, it is starting to. I wonder what he is saying?” “The transcripts will tell us, if the program can decipher them.” “Certainly. Oh look, the mouse is going forward with our plans.” “Excellent.”
The colored light was blinking and the mouse began running circles in confusion. The man put down his bowl and stood up to get a closer look. He slapped his hands together and laughed. “Dance mousy, dance dance dance.”
The mouse darted across the floor right at the little man, who came from a time familiar with mice and hadn't any fear of the creatures. He knelt down and put a hand on the floor for the rodent to climb onto. The mouse was incensed, and bit down on the man's little finger, then ran up his arm and jumped onto his head, started rummaging around the only tuft of hair it could find and hunkered down, breathing hard.
“Freakin' little shit!” howled the man. But he didn't jump up and slap the mouse away. He settled back onto his stool and leaned into the corner.
“He's sleeping. With the mouse in his hair!” “Astounding. But will it work?” “The contagion is taken from storage, who knows?” “Well, time will tell.” They watched for an hour, taking turns, until one of the men started to see a rapid progression from the mouse induced serum. “He is changing!”
Three days later, the man got up from his stool, walked to the door and entered a code into the glowing blue sensor from his enlarged frontal lobe. He looked back into the room with his left eyeball, and into his mind with the right. He was eight inches taller, equipped with a flowing manly mane and the mouse on his head had grown veins that spread from forehead to the occipital.
The two men rushed down from the loft and watched as the man walked into the glass assessment tank. A simple diagnostic program pushed air around his body and inserted microscopic aluminum viruses into his veins. He stood on a polymer disc that rotated and his hair stood wholly on end. All checks complete. Integration formalized. Modern man fully functioning. They grinned and opened the airlock.
“How do you feel?” “Do you remember anything?” “What was the world like three hundred years ago?”
“I feel like a god. I remember eating steak, sipping wine, and loving women. It was great and you are the two butt ugliest mother effers I've ever seen.”
“Oh.” “Well, do you have any questions for us?”
The man thought about it. His mental processes were amazingly fast. He could
do computations in his head that only computers could accomplish in his time. “Only one. Are there jetpacks yet?”Sunday, December 4, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
skin tight
I see it now, my body parts laid across a table and displayed, grotesquely in a pattern of fillet and general dismemberment. Even the muscles are open for all to see, pinned and labeled. All given a formal name, more distinguished in part then I ever was whole. Backing up, I can see the whole, more than pieces and what I see could be nothing less than human, whereas in parts who knows...a sort of squidtopus or limp mollusk from another world?
Who is to blame for this thing done to me? The foul deed needs a villain, be it Asian mastermind, a scribe with his quill. Or maybe a simple musing heiress with the devil on her shoulder, whispering vile deeds in the guise of sweet nothings.
The student artists gather round now, recording my despair, brush stroking canvas. The squares rest upon an easel, translated into geometrics or self serving self portraits, all knees and elbows, laid open for admirers and critics alike. How does this slight woman see in the monstrous display an engine cut in twain? Why does one ask? She sits astride a tricycle invention with a planetary globe to hide her features. She seeks anonymity in the whole, giving my parts new life and a noble function. If only I could tarry and discover my new name; alas.
Even now I feel this will all be arranged upon a parchment, bound and distributed to any who care. What have I become if not some diversion for the masses? If so how will it differ from a postage stamp licked and stuck on preposterous correspondence, what is so unique about my bit of flesh next to an etching of a pretty girl who admires her form upon an ebony reflection? The scribe scribbles furiously to keep pace with my reproof.
I would sooner hold in my hand a blackened sun then paste morbid anatomies onto my library wall. My only recollection of her reveals her bound in foil, dancing in the desert with its alien trees, arms like clubs raised to batter all who approach. She took me into a corner room and sat across me on a chair folding her arms into each other like an optical illusion. She bowed and her neck was smooth like porcelain, white as the naked hands she laid upon her knee. We met in the middle and now I can see in retrospect there were two of each, she and I, leaning in for a kiss and reflected upon each window in the corner room.
The only way out was to go further in, for to retreat was to smash the facade and break apart like ceramic figurines in a play about love and loss. I wasn't willing to sacrifice what we had. I would have given the world, or run wild in the abstract cloth of a wild Ubiquitous before I relinquished the gift she laid upon my brow. Now from my ethereal stance perhaps my sight is clearer. She is behind the easel, painting a tilted square, relegating my lost soul to mathematics. Our love was a magic act, I was the skeleton in the portrait, eerily laid to rest.
Even as a child I found it difficult to learn, resting my head on the desk in a plaid universe. Then, I felt like an animal in a zoo, one among many, a naked procession of muddied specimen chained for perusal of the elders. A chosen few were braided and set into collections, ogled on from spectators on goggled shelves. If we ran it was only to fall into a gutter and lay there dreaming of vast tentacled atrocities and tiny words that only twins with superior eyesight used in tandem could translate. Even then I could see her, smiling with a hand upon her hip, leading me unsuspecting into the maw of an ancient subterranean, with only my tibia to ward off evil spirits – how was I to know?
No sign could have been more apparent than the one she herself held, but I only saw the white sand, not the tug of war between the inhumane and heinous alike. I rode into their midst and they squeezed me like a ham, dripping in agony, in ecstasy, foreshadowing my portrait in advance. I was with her when she reclined, open as could be in a mesh wrap, she said my time was numbered and the number was two. There was no doubt, it was written on my skin. With the right illumination she could count my teeth, the only bones to see the light of day. And the string around my fingers, and the moths alighting, buzzing and hoarding precious space upon my pate, all told the tale of my life, of my loves, my failures and my conquests.
I couldn't see then what I see now, her easy way and beauty, hidden by a strange light that cast a shadow on her face. Was it a cricket that only a pinprick, a ray of sun, would clarify? Was she a fancy contradiction in a soda glass dressed in frills? She was abstract and two faced – one face born out of another – graphed and charted, lips in a vast circle of conspiracy. I thought I was in color, but now I know she is black and white, born of serf and pecked by raptors. Amalgamous, obtuse, two in an envelope and poured viscous onto black tile.
My time has come, a meal unto itself that only a relevant slug could fathom. My eyes are in the palm of my hand, a receptacle of sight. I have but one skull, but two empty sockets that will never see another beauty bound, no sumptuous crustacean or chariot on the wind. My bones lie stacked, floundering in a vortex, riding a blank highway on flaccid wheels that tell no stories, no tales to be mowed into the lawn or etched upon a virgin's captive flesh. She sold me out for a star atop a verdant green. She stole a bauble for my soul, and many hands together and many feet in unison and couples stretched as one touching skin in skin will never touch her empty breast that I once believed teemed in color. There was no truth in the fires she wrought and her grin lies naked to the netherworld I dwell. My reach is powerless. I am nothing now.
Who is to blame for this thing done to me? The foul deed needs a villain, be it Asian mastermind, a scribe with his quill. Or maybe a simple musing heiress with the devil on her shoulder, whispering vile deeds in the guise of sweet nothings.
The student artists gather round now, recording my despair, brush stroking canvas. The squares rest upon an easel, translated into geometrics or self serving self portraits, all knees and elbows, laid open for admirers and critics alike. How does this slight woman see in the monstrous display an engine cut in twain? Why does one ask? She sits astride a tricycle invention with a planetary globe to hide her features. She seeks anonymity in the whole, giving my parts new life and a noble function. If only I could tarry and discover my new name; alas.
Even now I feel this will all be arranged upon a parchment, bound and distributed to any who care. What have I become if not some diversion for the masses? If so how will it differ from a postage stamp licked and stuck on preposterous correspondence, what is so unique about my bit of flesh next to an etching of a pretty girl who admires her form upon an ebony reflection? The scribe scribbles furiously to keep pace with my reproof.
I would sooner hold in my hand a blackened sun then paste morbid anatomies onto my library wall. My only recollection of her reveals her bound in foil, dancing in the desert with its alien trees, arms like clubs raised to batter all who approach. She took me into a corner room and sat across me on a chair folding her arms into each other like an optical illusion. She bowed and her neck was smooth like porcelain, white as the naked hands she laid upon her knee. We met in the middle and now I can see in retrospect there were two of each, she and I, leaning in for a kiss and reflected upon each window in the corner room.
The only way out was to go further in, for to retreat was to smash the facade and break apart like ceramic figurines in a play about love and loss. I wasn't willing to sacrifice what we had. I would have given the world, or run wild in the abstract cloth of a wild Ubiquitous before I relinquished the gift she laid upon my brow. Now from my ethereal stance perhaps my sight is clearer. She is behind the easel, painting a tilted square, relegating my lost soul to mathematics. Our love was a magic act, I was the skeleton in the portrait, eerily laid to rest.
Even as a child I found it difficult to learn, resting my head on the desk in a plaid universe. Then, I felt like an animal in a zoo, one among many, a naked procession of muddied specimen chained for perusal of the elders. A chosen few were braided and set into collections, ogled on from spectators on goggled shelves. If we ran it was only to fall into a gutter and lay there dreaming of vast tentacled atrocities and tiny words that only twins with superior eyesight used in tandem could translate. Even then I could see her, smiling with a hand upon her hip, leading me unsuspecting into the maw of an ancient subterranean, with only my tibia to ward off evil spirits – how was I to know?
No sign could have been more apparent than the one she herself held, but I only saw the white sand, not the tug of war between the inhumane and heinous alike. I rode into their midst and they squeezed me like a ham, dripping in agony, in ecstasy, foreshadowing my portrait in advance. I was with her when she reclined, open as could be in a mesh wrap, she said my time was numbered and the number was two. There was no doubt, it was written on my skin. With the right illumination she could count my teeth, the only bones to see the light of day. And the string around my fingers, and the moths alighting, buzzing and hoarding precious space upon my pate, all told the tale of my life, of my loves, my failures and my conquests.
I couldn't see then what I see now, her easy way and beauty, hidden by a strange light that cast a shadow on her face. Was it a cricket that only a pinprick, a ray of sun, would clarify? Was she a fancy contradiction in a soda glass dressed in frills? She was abstract and two faced – one face born out of another – graphed and charted, lips in a vast circle of conspiracy. I thought I was in color, but now I know she is black and white, born of serf and pecked by raptors. Amalgamous, obtuse, two in an envelope and poured viscous onto black tile.
My time has come, a meal unto itself that only a relevant slug could fathom. My eyes are in the palm of my hand, a receptacle of sight. I have but one skull, but two empty sockets that will never see another beauty bound, no sumptuous crustacean or chariot on the wind. My bones lie stacked, floundering in a vortex, riding a blank highway on flaccid wheels that tell no stories, no tales to be mowed into the lawn or etched upon a virgin's captive flesh. She sold me out for a star atop a verdant green. She stole a bauble for my soul, and many hands together and many feet in unison and couples stretched as one touching skin in skin will never touch her empty breast that I once believed teemed in color. There was no truth in the fires she wrought and her grin lies naked to the netherworld I dwell. My reach is powerless. I am nothing now.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
shoedoom
From afar it could be seen. Flames licked the sky over New Old Brumpton.
She decided it then, when the house burned down, then blew over, and her neighbor's dog came out of nowhere and bit her. She was standing in the street, random bits of newspaper piling up at her bare feet, her cold bare feet. Cars were whizzing by and she almost got hit, even as the flames reached out from her sunken living room and tickled her naked toes. Enough is enough, thought Marjorie. All of her stuff was on fire, including her mother's asbestos orthopedic pumps. Enough, she wept, again. And this, which she said aloud to no one in particular, but the dog may have heard it and used the defiant tones as an attack cue: “I am going to destroy this world!”
It was a new dawn for Marjorie. All her life she had been stepped on and used. Her family only called when they needed a car to haul dirt in. Her coworkers used her desk, which was really just a shelf, to store the coffee maker and supplies on. And her boyfriend, who moved all his junk into her living room but lived with his secretary because she was one block closer to the subway. He was really going to be upset when he learned his 70's album collection had melted. Marjorie was not going to take any more shit from anyone, especially not this fire thing. “Fuck you fire. I'm going to find out the source of all your power, and I will take you out!” Then with her new found power of rage, Marjorie smote down her neighbor's dog. They watched, horrified, from the kitchen window as Marjorie walked down the middle of the street, their pet pekinese turned inside out and spewing internal gunk onto the fire warmed sidewalk.
The morning news told the story from several eyewitnesses. Calls went out late, as the neighbors didn't bother to phone emergency services until they realized her burning house might effect their ability to collect Marjorie's morning paper. The firetruck didn't come down the street until the fire had thoroughly done its job, and Marjorie met it at the corner. The driver saw her at the last instant and swerved, took out a telephone pole then came to a shuddering halt. Marjorie stomped up to the door and ripped it off the hinges. She pulled the captain down from his seat and consumed him in one gulp. Then she slammed her hands down on the truck, sending it rolling up the hill where it bowled down a large estate and came to rest in the garden fountain. The butler and several ornamental carp were instantly killed.
Marjorie was not a particularly pretty woman, but she did have a normal human human body with all the usual lady parts. Damnation, she was sick and tired of sitting alone on weekends wondering if Hank would come by to put a needle in her record player. A reporter from the Daily Flop got the scoop from Gentleman Erv's Bar and Swill: 'We heard this ruckus from out the door, you know. It was a kaboom, like some big ole cannon, and then the door is stoved in and this lady glowing with righteous indignation comes a'barrelin' in and she screws every guy in the place.' Apparently Marjorie then drank a keg of the best stuff and proceeded to dismantle the building with her breasts. 'When she left we cried. She was the best **** I ever had.'
Helicopters and army reserve tanks followed Marjorie for two days as she walked around the town swearing at sign posts and looking under hills for the source of fire. She entered the local Family Grockery and Condom Hut to pick up a six pack of Dr. Pepper, and when they refused to give her a rain check, because they were out, Marjorie poked holes in all the shrink wrapped hamburger and wove 200 shopping carts into a sculpture of Wink Martindale. She ate the brains of the stock crew for a snack, and found them wanting. So she drank from the tear ducts of the teenage cashiers and found them remorseless. “What kind of world is this?” Marjorie lamented.
Finally, on the third day, the president came to the town in Air Force One to survey the damage, and to appeal to Marjorie's better senses. He flew in with a full retinue of congressmen as well as a family of lookalike stand-ins. By that time Marjorie had dug a deep hole into the side of Mount Receding Hairline and was piling boulders onto Main Street. “I am a glacier!” she shouted to the blackbirds. Everyone else had run away.
The president protected by a force field neared her, and then he spoke these words that he himself had written just moments early, “Marjorie. We wish you would stop being such a bitch.”
Marjorie heard these words and she thought about the words carefully. The president was elected by the people, and he was wise. Marjorie thought very hard, then she reached up into the sky and pulled down every blackbird. She tied all of the bird feet together making them into a conglomeration of winged fury that could transcend the universe, then she attached them to the president's force field with a piece of ire-fused hosiery and lifted the entire mass into the atmosphere, where to this day they circle the cosmos.
But the words struck a chord in her, and she wondered about the fire, and how it had destroyed her home, and how it burned to the ground, leaving nothing but a charred shoe. A shoe.
“Marjorie?” It was the tiny voice of a girl, the dwarf daughter of the President of the United States, the first reluctant astronaut president. She was by a newly enacted 28th amendment to the Constitution now the President of the United States, being the first born of a reigning President who somehow begins orbiting the Earth. “Marjorie, I know how you are hurting,” said Queen President Agnes, “and I would gladly give all of my newly bestowed powers to right this wrong, this horrible deed that has befallen you.”
Marjorie sat on the lawn with her splayed legs pointing east and northeast. She thought about being six, and her doll. And sandwiches.
“But Marjorie,” continued Agnes in a strong voice, “I won't do that, because I want you to be my vice president!” Agnes held up Marjorie's smoldering shoe and fell to one knee, presenting the charred pump to the fury of New Old Brumpton.
She belched as she received the shoe, then smeared the entire retinue over the blacktop with a solid backhand. And with her one shoe and a limp, Marjorie proclaimed for all to hear, “To hell with that, I'm going to eat the world.”
She decided it then, when the house burned down, then blew over, and her neighbor's dog came out of nowhere and bit her. She was standing in the street, random bits of newspaper piling up at her bare feet, her cold bare feet. Cars were whizzing by and she almost got hit, even as the flames reached out from her sunken living room and tickled her naked toes. Enough is enough, thought Marjorie. All of her stuff was on fire, including her mother's asbestos orthopedic pumps. Enough, she wept, again. And this, which she said aloud to no one in particular, but the dog may have heard it and used the defiant tones as an attack cue: “I am going to destroy this world!”
It was a new dawn for Marjorie. All her life she had been stepped on and used. Her family only called when they needed a car to haul dirt in. Her coworkers used her desk, which was really just a shelf, to store the coffee maker and supplies on. And her boyfriend, who moved all his junk into her living room but lived with his secretary because she was one block closer to the subway. He was really going to be upset when he learned his 70's album collection had melted. Marjorie was not going to take any more shit from anyone, especially not this fire thing. “Fuck you fire. I'm going to find out the source of all your power, and I will take you out!” Then with her new found power of rage, Marjorie smote down her neighbor's dog. They watched, horrified, from the kitchen window as Marjorie walked down the middle of the street, their pet pekinese turned inside out and spewing internal gunk onto the fire warmed sidewalk.
The morning news told the story from several eyewitnesses. Calls went out late, as the neighbors didn't bother to phone emergency services until they realized her burning house might effect their ability to collect Marjorie's morning paper. The firetruck didn't come down the street until the fire had thoroughly done its job, and Marjorie met it at the corner. The driver saw her at the last instant and swerved, took out a telephone pole then came to a shuddering halt. Marjorie stomped up to the door and ripped it off the hinges. She pulled the captain down from his seat and consumed him in one gulp. Then she slammed her hands down on the truck, sending it rolling up the hill where it bowled down a large estate and came to rest in the garden fountain. The butler and several ornamental carp were instantly killed.
Marjorie was not a particularly pretty woman, but she did have a normal human human body with all the usual lady parts. Damnation, she was sick and tired of sitting alone on weekends wondering if Hank would come by to put a needle in her record player. A reporter from the Daily Flop got the scoop from Gentleman Erv's Bar and Swill: 'We heard this ruckus from out the door, you know. It was a kaboom, like some big ole cannon, and then the door is stoved in and this lady glowing with righteous indignation comes a'barrelin' in and she screws every guy in the place.' Apparently Marjorie then drank a keg of the best stuff and proceeded to dismantle the building with her breasts. 'When she left we cried. She was the best **** I ever had.'
Helicopters and army reserve tanks followed Marjorie for two days as she walked around the town swearing at sign posts and looking under hills for the source of fire. She entered the local Family Grockery and Condom Hut to pick up a six pack of Dr. Pepper, and when they refused to give her a rain check, because they were out, Marjorie poked holes in all the shrink wrapped hamburger and wove 200 shopping carts into a sculpture of Wink Martindale. She ate the brains of the stock crew for a snack, and found them wanting. So she drank from the tear ducts of the teenage cashiers and found them remorseless. “What kind of world is this?” Marjorie lamented.
Finally, on the third day, the president came to the town in Air Force One to survey the damage, and to appeal to Marjorie's better senses. He flew in with a full retinue of congressmen as well as a family of lookalike stand-ins. By that time Marjorie had dug a deep hole into the side of Mount Receding Hairline and was piling boulders onto Main Street. “I am a glacier!” she shouted to the blackbirds. Everyone else had run away.
The president protected by a force field neared her, and then he spoke these words that he himself had written just moments early, “Marjorie. We wish you would stop being such a bitch.”
Marjorie heard these words and she thought about the words carefully. The president was elected by the people, and he was wise. Marjorie thought very hard, then she reached up into the sky and pulled down every blackbird. She tied all of the bird feet together making them into a conglomeration of winged fury that could transcend the universe, then she attached them to the president's force field with a piece of ire-fused hosiery and lifted the entire mass into the atmosphere, where to this day they circle the cosmos.
But the words struck a chord in her, and she wondered about the fire, and how it had destroyed her home, and how it burned to the ground, leaving nothing but a charred shoe. A shoe.
“Marjorie?” It was the tiny voice of a girl, the dwarf daughter of the President of the United States, the first reluctant astronaut president. She was by a newly enacted 28th amendment to the Constitution now the President of the United States, being the first born of a reigning President who somehow begins orbiting the Earth. “Marjorie, I know how you are hurting,” said Queen President Agnes, “and I would gladly give all of my newly bestowed powers to right this wrong, this horrible deed that has befallen you.”
Marjorie sat on the lawn with her splayed legs pointing east and northeast. She thought about being six, and her doll. And sandwiches.
“But Marjorie,” continued Agnes in a strong voice, “I won't do that, because I want you to be my vice president!” Agnes held up Marjorie's smoldering shoe and fell to one knee, presenting the charred pump to the fury of New Old Brumpton.
She belched as she received the shoe, then smeared the entire retinue over the blacktop with a solid backhand. And with her one shoe and a limp, Marjorie proclaimed for all to hear, “To hell with that, I'm going to eat the world.”
Sunday, November 13, 2011
election day
There are no Stragglers on the moon. Yes, I know. Everyone has seen the hundred foot view screens across the facade of their local EZ Shoppe. I myself have witnessed the gritty footage shot with hand held wrist cams. I've seen oxygen hoodies ripped from the innocent heads of nuns and orphans. But listen – I am here to tell you it's a hoax. All you have seen is staged to propagate inherent fears of moon invasions. Remember the 50's and your great grandparent's fear of UFO's? Or the the Y2K bug? Did your mentors not program into your Flixon Roll-ups the Martian pebble virus of twenty ten? Well, did any of that come to fruition? No, that is not an artificial snack made of colored beet paste! How many casualties have you heard of in the war against UFO's? Did anyone actually get even a head cold or throat tickle from that Y2K bug? No! And the Martian virus, just like the current Straggler Invasion, was a farce. Has your sister ever seen a Straggler? Do you really fear that she will fall to their smarmy come ons and bear toothy big heads? Grow your own cerebral cortex, people. Come out of your illuminated tunnel towers, put down those vegetable cake forks and realize that carrots do not naturally taste like chocolate. For heaven's sake, vote down proposition 99/3. All the 99s are crap designed to keep you and your children under the thumb of Moon State Tech. Maybe everyone you know works for MST. That doesn't mean you have to allow them to tell you what to think. You sir, you can hold your own dick while you pee! Ma'am, you have the right to choose your own brand of spermatozoa! Go for natural instead of prepackaged. Kids, you're old enough to vote – stay out of the pleasure tents on election day. Don't you know that they're only open on Tuesday because that is where your leaders want you to spend all your eligible electing hours? I repeat: vote against proposition 99/3. There is not one shred of evidence that a straggler community even exists on our moon, let alone the idiotic thought that they would have any inkling or ability to invade Earth. Look at our defenses, the stars are so diffused by the curvature of the deflection tiles that we can barely see them anymore. For crying quietly in a hat, how would an invasion force even navigate the criss-cross beams from orbital solar disks? When was the last time any of you even saw a worm or common black ant? Our soil is bankrupt, who would want to invade a sterile planet? The moon has more oxygen and water than we do. The dust there has been converted to loam where pork chops grow, polar ice caps circulate frozen water through self serve tubes that can be heated in a pot and served chilled, or mixed into powder bags for easy nutrition. The Moonies have everything we used to have, and they hold the record for most consecutive flips during free fall. Their government is doled out via vending machines! Put your hand into your pocket. You sir, what is in your pocket? A dime? Remember when your government printed paper money and you didn't have to weigh yourself down with a roll of dimes? Isn't gravity hard enough without plastic coins? A dollar used to buy enough beansteak to feed you and your issued child for an entire day, now it takes twenty dimes to buy crustless boodle. And the defective stitching in your trousers, those same pants bought with your dimes from Moon Tech, causes such an enormous loss in civilian coinage that any ground hugging weasel on Main Street can become a hundredaire in a week. They collect your fallen dimes and flip them into Klantien fiber for their space needles to the sky. Ha! It's the moon that should fear an alien invasion, not the other way around. So what will you do on Tuesday? Dip your feet in a suspect pond and wiggle your toes at the minnows that your leaders manufactured for your so called “good”? Come on men, take off those helmets, the fog isn't really tainted with germs like you're told. And that murmur pumping through the speakers might boost your self esteem, but from the outside you look like blundering mushrooms with twitchy fingers. Everyone, all you women and children, all of you transplants in wheelie terrariums, don't let the authorities steer you toward a fake voting capsule. Do your homework, every organism on this planet is entitled a vote. Bring your cats! Even that pill bug family at the bottom of your nano-compactor is eligible; see amendment 2564. The DNA skirmish at the turn of the century wasn't for nothing. Look up, if you can move your necks. Are those orbiting tombs of the fallen nothing to you? They fought for us all, for you and all your ecosystem. We live on this planet, you and you. And you! Do not fall for any shenanigans, put down proposition 99/3 and tell Moon State where to stick it.
This has been a counter message from the Society to Quell Nonexistent Threats Division of Moon State Tech. It is our duty to air our lies, and your obligation to be informed of these lies. This message will be displayed for an average time of twelve minutes every day starting today until tonight until every organism on the rotating planet of Earth has had the opportunity to view it. And so it goes, amendment 2465: There, you had your chance (you probably blew it).
Message over. Thank you. Vote for proposition 99/3.
This has been a counter message from the Society to Quell Nonexistent Threats Division of Moon State Tech. It is our duty to air our lies, and your obligation to be informed of these lies. This message will be displayed for an average time of twelve minutes every day starting today until tonight until every organism on the rotating planet of Earth has had the opportunity to view it. And so it goes, amendment 2465: There, you had your chance (you probably blew it).
Message over. Thank you. Vote for proposition 99/3.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
#5: Of the Treason of Hastius X.
Now, emerging from a delicate spurge
Thronging the disquiet
So dispassionately dismissed an age beyond
From the union of said disquiet
And mossy stump,
Forthwith emerges the bane of Hastius X
He, X, who then did doth his cap to Aardvark
Once glorious king to Pestilence.
Then he did dispatch of Him
To the disquiet what then did hatch an egg
From the conglobation of the Three
Presented thusly to their liege
In a letter writ and sealed
The disposed King of Pestilence -
Measure for Measure - who haunted He, X
And closeted Miffla with regret of her daughter
Unnamed, the witch.
~
While it then ravaged the land of Pestilence,
The colossus of X, his surly spawn the witch
Who hath taken on a name upon herself
Fatalya
And to her breast this loathsome, winsome wretch
Gathered to her the maid of another house
Crocus, whosoever looked upon her
Shuddered, befallen in perpetuity with a kind of lust
A wild kneed reproach to life
Sated solely by a kiss from the flower.
And Fatalya stroked her hair and whispered spells
Into the golden braids, then set her, Crocus
Upon a dais of the Chaotic Wellsprings
The view from which his Castle, X, aspired
And He who did burn the fields of Pestilence
Under the great toe of the maladroit
Pined from a window for the lustrous Crocus
As did many
And the battle was begun.
~
Not to be outdone, Torquemala, orphan son of Pasty -
He who lay quiet, inflicted morbidly by betrayal, nether dirt
By X - stirred his spleen for revenge.
Marsha Queen of the Pie Plates who unbeknownst to herself
Or others, the exception being the witch, Fatalya
Arranged travel for Crocus who had an eye on Torquemala
Unto the witch, who said to she, Marsha
I will cast on this flower a spell to quiet her hungry eye
Which the witch then did, but heaped upon the spell
A plethora of incantations that could lead only to
Passionate treason in the Pestilent realm.
here be more, the history of Pestilence, one to four.
Thronging the disquiet
So dispassionately dismissed an age beyond
From the union of said disquiet
And mossy stump,
Forthwith emerges the bane of Hastius X
He, X, who then did doth his cap to Aardvark
Once glorious king to Pestilence.
Then he did dispatch of Him
To the disquiet what then did hatch an egg
From the conglobation of the Three
Presented thusly to their liege
In a letter writ and sealed
The disposed King of Pestilence -
Measure for Measure - who haunted He, X
And closeted Miffla with regret of her daughter
Unnamed, the witch.
~
While it then ravaged the land of Pestilence,
The colossus of X, his surly spawn the witch
Who hath taken on a name upon herself
Fatalya
And to her breast this loathsome, winsome wretch
Gathered to her the maid of another house
Crocus, whosoever looked upon her
Shuddered, befallen in perpetuity with a kind of lust
A wild kneed reproach to life
Sated solely by a kiss from the flower.
And Fatalya stroked her hair and whispered spells
Into the golden braids, then set her, Crocus
Upon a dais of the Chaotic Wellsprings
The view from which his Castle, X, aspired
And He who did burn the fields of Pestilence
Under the great toe of the maladroit
Pined from a window for the lustrous Crocus
As did many
And the battle was begun.
~
Not to be outdone, Torquemala, orphan son of Pasty -
He who lay quiet, inflicted morbidly by betrayal, nether dirt
By X - stirred his spleen for revenge.
Marsha Queen of the Pie Plates who unbeknownst to herself
Or others, the exception being the witch, Fatalya
Arranged travel for Crocus who had an eye on Torquemala
Unto the witch, who said to she, Marsha
I will cast on this flower a spell to quiet her hungry eye
Which the witch then did, but heaped upon the spell
A plethora of incantations that could lead only to
Passionate treason in the Pestilent realm.
here be more, the history of Pestilence, one to four.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
titanic lethargy
it means that the howling is unending
the plaintive rush of icy air
a flow of tentative fingers filling our pockets
wrapping tendrils of muted light over pursed lips.
Now it bulges, grows completely filling every space
even the obscure creases where we hid secrets,
but they're safe,
blemished, warped with age and depraved silence.
Chromium steel, tinged with radiant orange
builds from pitted woes, awed by a new sun.
The old lies rust in effigy while ancient laws reborn
defy gravity
hurl concentrically amid wagon wheel spokes
and burrow into the fruited lives of our elders.
Bestill, only the dust lives forever
even it swirls on an axis
of an others design.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Cheap thrills, cool cat
Tun-dun...dun dun dun...(and cue the typewriters clacking).
Today's Top News Story, by Mrs. Cleaver's brown Cat, on the Ten O'clock nightly news, with Sirrahn Rap.
“First, Meow!”
“Second, we have been led to believe that only on Blueberry Hill is there to be this thing, and we shall name it 'The Thrill', but this is perfectly insane.” editors note: this particular cat cannot say “preposterous”.
“Next” this cat it can also be said will not, because she is a cat, count higher than two. A dog, of course, can count to at least three, or sometimes four by mistake. Cat counting is unlimited, especially in multiples of mice. “There are thrills to be found in droves, by swatting flies.”
“After that, one must lick constantly. We in the supreme being world call this preening, and it is all everything, after snacks.”
“Thrills are overrated. Calm is to be expected and is the greatest joy in life. Blueberries are blue, and horrible, and hills are just too vertical.” This cat prefers carpeted scratching posts and feathers.
Tonight's editorial has been brought to you by Trixie Cat Bites and The Sun. Remember, The Sun will be going black for an hour tomorrow for technical upgrades to its Chromosphere. Plan accordingly and please dress in layers. This has been Sirrahn Rap with the Channel Ocho-Cinco Nightly News, have a bueno nacho.
Today's Top News Story, by Mrs. Cleaver's brown Cat, on the Ten O'clock nightly news, with Sirrahn Rap.
“First, Meow!”
“Second, we have been led to believe that only on Blueberry Hill is there to be this thing, and we shall name it 'The Thrill', but this is perfectly insane.” editors note: this particular cat cannot say “preposterous”.
“Next” this cat it can also be said will not, because she is a cat, count higher than two. A dog, of course, can count to at least three, or sometimes four by mistake. Cat counting is unlimited, especially in multiples of mice. “There are thrills to be found in droves, by swatting flies.”
“After that, one must lick constantly. We in the supreme being world call this preening, and it is all everything, after snacks.”
“Thrills are overrated. Calm is to be expected and is the greatest joy in life. Blueberries are blue, and horrible, and hills are just too vertical.” This cat prefers carpeted scratching posts and feathers.
Tonight's editorial has been brought to you by Trixie Cat Bites and The Sun. Remember, The Sun will be going black for an hour tomorrow for technical upgrades to its Chromosphere. Plan accordingly and please dress in layers. This has been Sirrahn Rap with the Channel Ocho-Cinco Nightly News, have a bueno nacho.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Somewhere, sometime?, in the past few days I found myself maudlin up to the point of an irreversible trend toward the point of no return. Indeed, at one juncture I did find myself turned aside momentarily, askew to the perpendicular, but my wit took me into its corner and whispered these things in a thick vapor of salt upon my reluctant senses: don't neglect your present course, you must ride it to the end without reservation. Do not be swayed by the sights and sounds to your left, or tastes and textures to your right. A soft belly cannot reason, a feckless mind will not rebel. Grab hold of this flaming torrent and paddle through to the climax, where all will be gained. There is a calm to be met in the flux of an inherent universe, a place one can delve into benign avenues and be seen as all-everything but above it all, a space so low that looking up is akin to flowing into and around, or so high that seeing is an exercise of diffuse light. Interpretation is the key, and spinning gains disciples of truths and the lies they'll swear allegiance on. The turn of a poetic phrase strikes a fetid pose, wherein dark and light mix in a slurry of pent up aggression, spilling out in a gaping froth of cacophonous ire to flood and overwhelm your contrived masses until they succumb to the unholy tide and swirl in the ceaseless eddie
s of a contorted soul.
s of a contorted soul. Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Willow's Ball
Hurray, today is the day, the day some of us have waited for all year - indeed, been waiting on since the moment we woke up last year (the day after the night) in the shrubbery outside of Willow Manor. No, I could not remember how I got there, only that my date (Lady Gaga, I guess, but that may only be a vicious rumour) had left me for another, perhaps Don Knots or, wait, now I remember. It was Sir Anthony Hopkins, wearing a mask, sipping Chianti through a straw. They made such a cute couple. The scoundrel!
I believe at some point I heard there was yurt around the premises, but in my wanderings I only managed to get one pant leg soaked from wading drunkenly in the Scioto and possibly I hugged a Ginkgo tree. Don't tell anyone. Dinosaur hand must have come to the rescue and found us a nice dry spot to lay down beside the porch.
I loved her long, wavy hair, too.
Somehow this blind date persuaded me to meet her at a robot convention. I guess she didn't care for my tubes.
My first real choice had a previous engagement
So, I guess I'm coming with a starlet on my arm. She wasn't too busy directing movies, and guess where I met her? An AA meeting. Ida's been clean and sober for 12 years, so I hope you've stocked up some ginger ale.
I believe at some point I heard there was yurt around the premises, but in my wanderings I only managed to get one pant leg soaked from wading drunkenly in the Scioto and possibly I hugged a Ginkgo tree. Don't tell anyone. Dinosaur hand must have come to the rescue and found us a nice dry spot to lay down beside the porch.But, this year will go better, and I made Dino promise to behave himself. He has decided to come to the ball dressed as Micheal Jackson's glove. I'm fine with that, as long as he stays waaaay north of my crotch. Just to be safe, I'm bringing a pair of handcuffs and if need be, you'll find us sitting at the base of Willow's magnificent staircase. Please refill our glass often.
So, I didn't really want a repeat of last year, so this year I started looking early for a date. You know, someone who might want to hang out all night with me instead of disappearing into the wine cellar to hide behind boxes and freak out the waiters. I put an ad in the paper, then met up with some willing, perhaps desperate, dates.
I loved her long, wavy hair, too.
Somehow this blind date persuaded me to meet her at a robot convention. I guess she didn't care for my tubes.
My first real choice had a previous engagement
So, I guess I'm coming with a starlet on my arm. She wasn't too busy directing movies, and guess where I met her? An AA meeting. Ida's been clean and sober for 12 years, so I hope you've stocked up some ginger ale.
She'll be wearing technicolor and I'm in a tux made of the pressed leaves that have fallen from my Autumn Purple Ash. I'm told this is the perfect attire for a fall event. Shortly we'll be coming up the lane in my red Tracker, or fording the creek, because I told Dinosaur Hand he could drive.
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