Monsters!
unQuotable (click on to ultradimensionalize)
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
stoned
On my hands and knees I scour the earth for hidde
n treasure
only to stumble upon vast and glorious pictures of yesterday
in the form of mineraloids and dust coagulated by tons of pressure
into the lowly rock
and or rocks
come together pleasantly in the company of dirt, plant, and mulch
n treasure
only to stumble upon vast and glorious pictures of yesterday
in the form of mineraloids and dust coagulated by tons of pressure
into the lowly rock
and or rocks
come together pleasantly in the company of dirt, plant, and mulch
inside the very walls of my own universe.
Slurm.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
sequential
Organized chaos in the blink of an eye
came fast and left
easy as cake – piece of pie
we tried but came up blank
sitting on a raveled unrug
plied with candy and cigarettes
preening beavers in a hedgerow of planaria.
Yesterday won't do, tomorrow is too soon
Monday moons of marbles and Cheeseday reeks of teeth
the days of the week should be chocolate
or rhyme with steak
and the months should melt like cool jazz
over a pan fried steak
accoutremental
experidental
potato
potato
butter
peas
came fast and left
easy as cake – piece of pie
we tried but came up blank
sitting on a raveled unrug
plied with candy and cigarettes
preening beavers in a hedgerow of planaria.
Yesterday won't do, tomorrow is too soon
Monday moons of marbles and Cheeseday reeks of teeth
the days of the week should be chocolate
or rhyme with steak
and the months should melt like cool jazz
over a pan fried steak
accoutremental
experidental
potato
potato
butter
peas
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
s-s-sunday comix
okay - i need to break open the sketchbook, 'cause i'm fresh out of these.
'nuf dawdlin', get doodlin'!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
god undertoe
From the dark, outside in a car, snuggled in layer upon layer like an infinite scene between mind numbing reflections, I see her immortal face. She is at once naked in repose while standoffish and cornered like a froufrou poodle bag hung from a hook on delicate chains. Now her impossible motility, unlikely as pendulous giraffes dowsing in a broken stream, bombarded by boulders and the remnant footsteps of flimsy bygone behemoths, have me thirsting for knowledge not available in any story book of leaping hounds or grandly feathered divas. Abstract fleurs melting, rising out of artificial holes governed by lieutenants bearing their badge on wheels, are displayed like archaic skeleton keys that rise in bespeckled currents shod in pink party dresses until they hang in stasis like poems constructed by Robert Indiana in a Vonnegut guild parlayed with gold parquet. Now from within out she lays harbor to a flat surface heeding no warning as she has over many midnights now, playing her games, her dance upon the chessboard as a porcelain pawn waving and pivoting away the shadows. Her erstwhile god, in a pallid room, taps a timepiece and weighs his options, a heavy eye upon the tripping beauty who applied for the position.
Her winsome visage and form grace his studio on clapboard easels while his conclusions are as labored as the palpitation of recalcitrant snails ridden in mobius figure eights by scantily clad waifs doubling as dim muses hanging beneath clever word balloons. An icon in dark glasses, he wears a skinny black tie and draws his lightning power from pointillism and the ordinary tin can; the god fingers his chest, a flesh weave of cardigan and taupe. His student, she, is statuesque and worthy of apprenticeship. He might command a genius to sculpt her in marble then remove the artist's hands for touching unattainable beauty. She is voluptuous, lithe, winged and envisioned as a ferocious goddess with the head of an angel and the body of a chicken. The smoldering Rorschach spheres will cast its vote while blue twin bitches wearing the fur of turquoise ovids look on with distaste. So does a former mermaid in a triangle bikini and pie cut Afro acquiesce, believing that somewhere her novice leads a wanderful of sheep around a pole and will likely be doing so long after the colored pins drop from her map of Nirvana and points without.
The moon is rusting and held in the sky by twine, lecherous mutations abscond with earthly nonpareils, men kneel to buxom maidens or flail at their snubs, dropping from unforgiving heights, falling upon their swords, delving between the jaws of crocodiles when the guilt of grief dissolves their bodies into the crust of loveless airborne dust.
Behold the being that I will create by dabbing my nib into the well, at my leisure. I will forge this document melding sunfire on my naked breast, sending legions, sacking cities, and engraving upon her grimace the web of godhood. Swifts will deliver at her doorstep a procession, warped in satin, enthrone her like a madonna in a great birds nest, on a gathering post as handmaids, stuffed heads and the shrieking Lucretia worship her willingly. The trinkets of refuted candidates parade in shadow boxes upon my wall.
Patterned lemur of zigzags gathers its leaf, lays the frond beside awesome murals and carved pebbles from the nude green starlets. Inside this Dome of Radiation all see the architecture within one another and their spirits soar with the white doves as cloudburst memos rain down begging for the lord's willful ignorance. Her eyes become a mosaic watching disguised concubines led over trails of flame lined with the lustful emanation of Tiki stones. The fuscous god, i, looms afloat and sees through wafting shades of purple, his pencil headdress courting circular steps, loading a pixelated image of the successor.
No more is she a gewgaw on a checkered board, but bejeweled unto the shade of a beached monument, inked upon pages of myriad tomes. Legions will name particles and planets for her sons, shift their postures in deference, defeat untold foes with weapons of inferiority. Mighty men digest ocean worms and stare into the fiery eyes of demon kings in her name, as her god before her lays beneath her stiletto foot, beguiled then betrayed by the oils he splashed onto the white canvas, soiled by his vision.
Her winsome visage and form grace his studio on clapboard easels while his conclusions are as labored as the palpitation of recalcitrant snails ridden in mobius figure eights by scantily clad waifs doubling as dim muses hanging beneath clever word balloons. An icon in dark glasses, he wears a skinny black tie and draws his lightning power from pointillism and the ordinary tin can; the god fingers his chest, a flesh weave of cardigan and taupe. His student, she, is statuesque and worthy of apprenticeship. He might command a genius to sculpt her in marble then remove the artist's hands for touching unattainable beauty. She is voluptuous, lithe, winged and envisioned as a ferocious goddess with the head of an angel and the body of a chicken. The smoldering Rorschach spheres will cast its vote while blue twin bitches wearing the fur of turquoise ovids look on with distaste. So does a former mermaid in a triangle bikini and pie cut Afro acquiesce, believing that somewhere her novice leads a wanderful of sheep around a pole and will likely be doing so long after the colored pins drop from her map of Nirvana and points without.
The moon is rusting and held in the sky by twine, lecherous mutations abscond with earthly nonpareils, men kneel to buxom maidens or flail at their snubs, dropping from unforgiving heights, falling upon their swords, delving between the jaws of crocodiles when the guilt of grief dissolves their bodies into the crust of loveless airborne dust.
Behold the being that I will create by dabbing my nib into the well, at my leisure. I will forge this document melding sunfire on my naked breast, sending legions, sacking cities, and engraving upon her grimace the web of godhood. Swifts will deliver at her doorstep a procession, warped in satin, enthrone her like a madonna in a great birds nest, on a gathering post as handmaids, stuffed heads and the shrieking Lucretia worship her willingly. The trinkets of refuted candidates parade in shadow boxes upon my wall.
Patterned lemur of zigzags gathers its leaf, lays the frond beside awesome murals and carved pebbles from the nude green starlets. Inside this Dome of Radiation all see the architecture within one another and their spirits soar with the white doves as cloudburst memos rain down begging for the lord's willful ignorance. Her eyes become a mosaic watching disguised concubines led over trails of flame lined with the lustful emanation of Tiki stones. The fuscous god, i, looms afloat and sees through wafting shades of purple, his pencil headdress courting circular steps, loading a pixelated image of the successor.
No more is she a gewgaw on a checkered board, but bejeweled unto the shade of a beached monument, inked upon pages of myriad tomes. Legions will name particles and planets for her sons, shift their postures in deference, defeat untold foes with weapons of inferiority. Mighty men digest ocean worms and stare into the fiery eyes of demon kings in her name, as her god before her lays beneath her stiletto foot, beguiled then betrayed by the oils he splashed onto the white canvas, soiled by his vision.
Friday, August 5, 2011
night repairman
Tricky parts, these Ecronoids, they got pieces in places no sensible appliance oughta. But hey, got screwdriver, will travel. So the shop rings me up and I answer, yo. My earpiece is a bit clogged with wax 'cause I've been sleepin' on it for a week. And there's a bit of water and shampoo residue as well. Jeez, I really need to get more sleep instead of coming in at four and crashing face down on the couch. Too many jobs and good appliance repairmen are few and far between. Maybe I should take less work and charge more? Nah, not my style.
This model has tiny little screws and I keep dropping them into the carpet. What a crappy old room; most of my clients have hard woods, or newfangled industrial surfaces, not Evelyn. “Hey Evy, what's up with the shag? Get with the times.” She can't hear, she's in the shower and singing to boot. Barry Manilow! Talk about oldies. The unit shifts a bit and I lose another screw. Shit the bed! Got more in the levtruck. Screws up the wazoo.
Last night was a humdinger. Nasty piece of work called a Pentapoint V-5. Talk about redundant. Gack. I hate the casters on those damned things, took me three hours to disassemble just for a two credit part. Of course the mister was away so I was payed out of pocket; out of pants more like it, hence the late hours. And here comes Evelyn out of the bedroom wrapped in a towel wondering when her little discount all purpose appliance will be up and running. Oops, another screw. Ha, did I just say that? Not out loud I hope. Many more nights like this and I'll have to take a vacation.
“Twenty minutes, best guess.” Evelyn sighs and retreats to the bedroom. I hear the viewtube switch on and ask for preferences. My preference was to pull the AI switch, frankly to hit the kill switch. Can't stand to walk into a room just to have the wall start to flash random images and incomprehensible daily mutterings. A little peace, is that too much to ask for? My thoughts, want to hear them? These crazy housewives have every thing in the world right at their fingertips. Information, home deliveries, viewphones, massage showers and spas. Tacky little gogo appliances to fetch them frufru drinks and style their hair. They have no good reason to leave the three hundred story sky rises they're holed up in, and who wants to take a three minute express magnarail ride, so they break off pieces of their plastic kitchens and sprinkle them into appliances to gum up the works, then call for a serviceman. Really, it's just a big joke in the industry anymore. Sure, we need to know a standard bleck from a Phillips head, and a magnetized screw bit always comes in handy, but sideburns and a gnarly tattoo are the real prerequisite. Man am I tired. I'd ask the store router to give me a legitimate job, but hell, they pay half rate, so I hate to complain. And the tax man can't legally force me to claim 'tips', so so; buck up, switch on and socks off.
“What the hell?” This little dude has a crispy filament and a noticeable wobble. “Hey, Evelyn.” She pokes her head out the door. Her hair is in a styling globe. “Hey, how long has this little dude been acting up?”
“Couple days, I guess. Maybe more.” This was a small gogo unit and depending on the client they did between no work to a hundred hours weekly. I've seen 'em run off their rollers with wear, but this one is fairly clean and looks to have factory fittings. It's an O-8, so at least a decade old.
Now she's out in the kitchen looking through some drawers for a nail file.
“Ah, looks like a wire. A bad wire. Got one in my kit here. Another minute or two...”
“Good. My date is waiting at the midlevel express. Another twenty minutes and he'll be polluted.” She smooths out her way short mini with half bent knees.
I snap the lid on and pack it up. “You'll get the bill electronically, probably business hours.” Evy sees me to the lift and taps a bonus ten spot into my personal meter. “Want to share a ride? We can put it on slow-mo and flood the cabin with mood atmosphere?” Evelyn flutters half inch pink pindrop eyelashes at me and strokes my scruffy cheek.
Best offer I've had all week, but to tell the truth, I feel a bit low on oil. “Oh, ha ha. I've got a call over the span in your sister building. Ha ha, you know; no rest for the wicked.”
Evy winks at me wickedly. “You scoundrel. Don't be surprised if I don't drop a counter top on little winky next week and ask for you personally. You hear me?”
I beat a trail to the next building and called it night. Even let the wall talk me to sleep. Drone away, you crazy stupid viewtube. Drone away.
This model has tiny little screws and I keep dropping them into the carpet. What a crappy old room; most of my clients have hard woods, or newfangled industrial surfaces, not Evelyn. “Hey Evy, what's up with the shag? Get with the times.” She can't hear, she's in the shower and singing to boot. Barry Manilow! Talk about oldies. The unit shifts a bit and I lose another screw. Shit the bed! Got more in the levtruck. Screws up the wazoo.
Last night was a humdinger. Nasty piece of work called a Pentapoint V-5. Talk about redundant. Gack. I hate the casters on those damned things, took me three hours to disassemble just for a two credit part. Of course the mister was away so I was payed out of pocket; out of pants more like it, hence the late hours. And here comes Evelyn out of the bedroom wrapped in a towel wondering when her little discount all purpose appliance will be up and running. Oops, another screw. Ha, did I just say that? Not out loud I hope. Many more nights like this and I'll have to take a vacation.
“Twenty minutes, best guess.” Evelyn sighs and retreats to the bedroom. I hear the viewtube switch on and ask for preferences. My preference was to pull the AI switch, frankly to hit the kill switch. Can't stand to walk into a room just to have the wall start to flash random images and incomprehensible daily mutterings. A little peace, is that too much to ask for? My thoughts, want to hear them? These crazy housewives have every thing in the world right at their fingertips. Information, home deliveries, viewphones, massage showers and spas. Tacky little gogo appliances to fetch them frufru drinks and style their hair. They have no good reason to leave the three hundred story sky rises they're holed up in, and who wants to take a three minute express magnarail ride, so they break off pieces of their plastic kitchens and sprinkle them into appliances to gum up the works, then call for a serviceman. Really, it's just a big joke in the industry anymore. Sure, we need to know a standard bleck from a Phillips head, and a magnetized screw bit always comes in handy, but sideburns and a gnarly tattoo are the real prerequisite. Man am I tired. I'd ask the store router to give me a legitimate job, but hell, they pay half rate, so I hate to complain. And the tax man can't legally force me to claim 'tips', so so; buck up, switch on and socks off.
“What the hell?” This little dude has a crispy filament and a noticeable wobble. “Hey, Evelyn.” She pokes her head out the door. Her hair is in a styling globe. “Hey, how long has this little dude been acting up?”
“Couple days, I guess. Maybe more.” This was a small gogo unit and depending on the client they did between no work to a hundred hours weekly. I've seen 'em run off their rollers with wear, but this one is fairly clean and looks to have factory fittings. It's an O-8, so at least a decade old.
Now she's out in the kitchen looking through some drawers for a nail file.
“Ah, looks like a wire. A bad wire. Got one in my kit here. Another minute or two...”
“Good. My date is waiting at the midlevel express. Another twenty minutes and he'll be polluted.” She smooths out her way short mini with half bent knees.
I snap the lid on and pack it up. “You'll get the bill electronically, probably business hours.” Evy sees me to the lift and taps a bonus ten spot into my personal meter. “Want to share a ride? We can put it on slow-mo and flood the cabin with mood atmosphere?” Evelyn flutters half inch pink pindrop eyelashes at me and strokes my scruffy cheek.
Best offer I've had all week, but to tell the truth, I feel a bit low on oil. “Oh, ha ha. I've got a call over the span in your sister building. Ha ha, you know; no rest for the wicked.”
Evy winks at me wickedly. “You scoundrel. Don't be surprised if I don't drop a counter top on little winky next week and ask for you personally. You hear me?”
I beat a trail to the next building and called it night. Even let the wall talk me to sleep. Drone away, you crazy stupid viewtube. Drone away.
Monday, August 1, 2011
uncle!
who's next?
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