Vegetables suck !

Animal, mineral or vegetable?

I was a wee lad, just a boy, and my first recollection of any kind was of a terrible vegetable, the turnip.
To this day I don’t know what a turnip is, except that it is cruel, and white, and it lingers in dark places.

It has a friend, this turnip; it is something vague and leafy. What it is, I’m not sure: be it kale or spinach or another strange variety of green; who can say. This I know, it is green, but not in a good way.

Peas are things straight out of a nightmare. Green, and round, and worse than that, they are from a pod!
Contained, they are not to be feared; they lay thus, quiet, impotent in their shells…You can imagine the rest.

Any legume is a litany in boredom. Z’s compound daily and form a soup of mottled green and brown and spotted legumes. Plus it is a funny word designed to confuse or incur violent oaths. Like “Great Sprouts!” or “Garbanzo!”

Then if not that is bad enough, we have the knot heads arguing over the vegetabality of the tomato. E freakin’ Gads! Is it a fruit, or is it a vegetable? Who gives a rip, get that red squashed runny thing off my plate. Gorgs!

This being said, nothing is better than a great steak piled high with onions. Onions! The scariest of all vegetables: White as a ghost, pungent and foul enough to bring a man to tears. And their rag-tag hang about cousin garlic. Such a combo is unheard of, unless you count fig and newton, but they are just a myth.

Beware, then, the Vegetable…and believe what they say (who is this ‘they’), You Are What You Eat!

Noddle thy conformities thus: + A Hobo Poemathing !

Two more of no Consequence:

Noe/eno/oen/neo

Dots meant…

Diffuse in a dire mix
A pieful of shadows

And spoon a trickle
Of sand: plunge low

w/bell @knock &whistle.
While a pique spring

Out sockless, a pokey
Face; do zodiacs beam,

Refract the dust?
A lately swirl caused this

Skirt twist and “thus quote”
Baleful bongo drums

Made a carol, sweet
Rhythm for a twitch nickel

To hiss auspicious tomes
And quiver, nicotine

Nerves,
Frail frayed drunk frantic

Spindle the turn, sparkle
Listen dance spill the

Spigot drop and
Flame the burnt ash/ache.

Wot/two/owt

This spackle expands,
It fills the frivolous void

And spurns the empty one
That pushes to

Proclaim dominance.
This spackle will

Not fight
Or resist

Just sparkle and burn
And exist infinite.

In a dither the void
Rushes to

Never gets fro
Becomes less than

Before
Creating

An adhesive
To bond with the spackle

A foundation born of malice
The stratagem of spackle.

The Scourge

The angry clouds persisted for weeks, they were relentless and frowned down at us refusing to yield.
Neither did they ply us with their burden, but held it aloft overhead, beyond our reach.

The weeks stretched tenfold and soon communities combined their resources; an attempt to scale the distance was erected, but fell short when the angry clouds whipped at the groaning tower and threw it over. We became peasants and stole the bricks and the beams to build our own little fortresses against those who had even less.

The clouds teased us with sparse drops; they gave just enough to keep us alive; they taunted us over the long dry nights with electric shards that fractured the sky and cut us off from neighbors. The rivers were now agonizing trickles that only the longest roots could dig into. The trees were untouched by us; somehow we knew they were favored by the clouds.

Slowly we uncluttered the lands around us, humbled by the clouds that would shade us from the hot sun and send us small gifts of water. The landscape was sparse and arid, but still we made it a garden and the trees stood as monuments to the clouds and became guardians to us meager souls.

Scientists came to us from beyond the wastelands, they said the world beyond our borders was nothing but rock and dust. There the people had rebelled against the clouds, had sent rockets into the skies and hurled insults with a terrible result. Those people had even toppled the great trees and now there was no grass, and no green leaf to be seen. Somehow the scientists had survived the wide distance and had come to us.

They brought seeds; they brought nuts; they had kept a lone sapling alive, letting those of their own caravan to die, while keeping the small tree alive. Every one of them would have died of thirst before they let this sapling wither.

The angry clouds saw this, and they let the scientists through; they needed the scientists to complete the next step.

There had been a blight on our world before the clouds came. It was a heavy hand that pressed down on the world, wounding our mountains and hills; felling our trees; ruining our rivers and the ocean. The greatest of us, the gentle swimming leviathans of the deep, were dying, were asphyxiated. The flocks that swarmed our skies were dwindling, were extinct.

A Scourge had fallen on the Earth and spread to every corner.

Now everything had to die, or almost everything; that’s when the angry clouds appeared.

The clouds collected every drop of water and hoarded them; their bellies were full and groaning with the weight. The Scourge howled with hate because it needed the water to spread its veins into every crevice of the land. It heaved and bucked and it crept into our souls and turned people into misshapen craven beasts that danced and cursed and threw rocks and spears into the sky.

Nothing worked, the clouds stayed angry and held the arsenal in their bellies. The Scourge retreated and hid, quiet in dormancy. It thought if it lay still, it might be forgotten.
But we didn’t forget, we remained faithful and our scientists worked with the trees, spoke with the clouds and were wary of the scourge.














Leaves
are falling somewhere
in the hills
And the trees that seem to die
Over the dark season
Wake in the spring

They wake
But in this new climate
Refuse to speak
Or move

Now the aspen needs a new creator
A lord that comes with plugs
And lever and pumps
To feed and warm his roots

A sentinel will remain
In place
And with its creatures
Will tend the trees
For a time
Until this Scourge retreats

Big Miopic Goldfish !!!

We never had a dog growing up, or a cat... but among the pets i kept were:
lizards and pill bugs and spiders and toads and polliwogs and frogs and the occasional worm. First thing I thought of for Animals was doing an interview with the crazy Muppet, Animal--but he was unavailable...out partying too late i guess.

Here is something i transported from http://the-clever-pup.blogspot.com/because i am lazy this week...this lagging winter is bumming me out.

as proud as an ant, nearly squashed but showing great agility by dodging between the treads of the running shoe.

as wise as an overachieving orange orangutan, for remaining obscure and possibly mythical, thus staying safely off the endangered species list.

as blind as a squirrel running out into rush hour traffic.

as strong as the big smelly turd that my neighbor's dog left me. Thanks.

as quiet as the pretty red cardinals that croon outside my window....NOT.

as slippery as that big smelly turd when i fall flat while mowing the lawn.

as hairy as a spider that jumps out of a plant while I'm weeding. Yikes!

as stubborn as my garden hose that kinks up and gets stuck around every corner.

as sly as a chipmunk slinking around until he can mooch all the sunflower seeds.

as weak as my back after working in the yard... but a good kind of weak, leading to a nap, of course.

as busy as a Moblivian Mold Burrower from the planet Zook. They are busy, believe me.

as slow as a snail. Duh!

as fat as Jaba the Hut, and his cousin Bubba the Lean-to.

The timid baby robin that lived in my garden for a few days.

tres moody moribunderies

Here it is it is the weekend it is time time is wasted time is precious one day we will know


soon


it will be too late


have i depressed you yet?




Nothing nowhere stop I can’t I’m bored life’s a raging river
Of pain of doubt of faithlessness of bland food of sour drink
Sour water down the drain / pipes suck it down pipes take the water
Water is life life is fragile it is temporary we are temporary
Nothing lasts one day one year one hundred or one thousand years to go
You will be gone You will be dead
I will be dead I will live on / my soul will be an ant’s or a lizard’s
Your soul will connect with my soul your soul will be loam or the flowing magma
The sun will explode our atoms will swirl in this galaxy
Swirl for a billion years for a trillion years
Our atoms will travel to the center of the universe the atoms will
Assimilate
We can never die we will be a bright light we will be a savage heat we will
Have infinite pleasures
These days will never have been / our pain will never have been
I will be the stars you will be the stars

Escalating Hiccups Transmutation in Hobo

Fortuitously in my haste to elude the

Big Chrome Foot !!!

… in the last Episode of Land of Hobo :

...The Chrome Leukocyte was independent and winged and wronged and its shaving cream nozzles spit flammable egg foo yung onto the tubes that lined the walls and connected the barrels . Then the beast-machine struck its flint with a glowering twitch ....

Our plucky hero , the mechanical hunter/gatherer of a decrepit earth , after being corrupted by a rouge organic -- possessed itself of mechanical fixtures -- finds its reprogrammed brain and attached parts pursued willy-nilly by a virus eradication-bot that is intent on unholy destruction and general mayhem .

The Big Chrome Foot advances …

In the hovering support Pickler , the purveyor of the means to spread the Infinity strands through the skies , gallons upon gallons , multiplicative amounts of the Infinity spackle were set aflame , but the spackle was immense and bottomless and never ending with complete control of addition and multiplication and power functions of perpetuity , so as it burned it replenished and the fires were infinitely corralled in the grasp of the expanding strands that continued to filter out from the floating Pickler . The duck flaps caressed the strands gently and sent them infinitely in infinite directions , and the sky , buoyed by the smoldering strands , glowed red .

…but still the Chrome Foot descends , only my immense binary capacity slows the pediforce with lightening collation , the extant of my neural aptitude is beyond extent and before the Big Chrome Foot lands , with magnitudinal agility i build from spare springs and wrappers a replica of myself and two-step alamode to the left , dosey doe ala carte to the right , fight fight fight , then a cappella i dance into position and thrust a feather duster into the Foot’s cranial blower thus distracting it with fits o’ sneezes .

With time to kill , as my intercostals-inner earful-in line circuitry interlinks and undercooks , thoughts return to days of pleasure-vegging on the divan-charger-cradle whilst visions of Flappy-Power-Smote-’um Ball resurface from neglected , diluted memory files .The transmission is intermittent but sufficient and what passes for a smile emits as a mirthful buzzing from my fan belt , which hums in perfect alignment to my discontinuous sprinkler drip system . Alas , the heat is unrelenting …perhaps i am delirious …

The unViralating Foot Stomper is Incapacitated !

And the flaming strands of barreled infinite do-goodery are doused in sprays of spewing egg foo yung and carry on from the Pickler’s exhaust plumbing to cover the world , passing through clouds , raining on trees , soaking into the earth and coercing worms into a frenzy of hiccups thus popping their skulls loose to form enlarged frontal lobes , and the cycle of intelligent organic life begins anew :

Peaches, peach pits and the detritus of withering seasons Wallowing in filth, under the firmament, thriving on waste Delving and rooting in the leaf, below the branch, into fruit-- The rotting, sweet and softly decaying matter, coming apart, Meshing with earth’s carpet, being one with dirt and becoming dirt. Isn’t it lovely? it is, it is good to be the worm.

Theme Thursday : Got Glass ?

...foamy glass , a cup of tea glass , residue like a shifting continent , over millions of years , is this what God sees ?...not glass , a summer scene framed for a dreary winter day , the bluebird will come again ?...time through a glass , watch the gears spin , see time slip away ......covered glass , light through a glass , shade the light , mute the day , live in the shadows ....
...lots of glass , old glass , new glass , a winged angel looking over the street and the people who live behind the glass ...

...cold , cover , clear like glass ... but not glass ... ...rock ... ground to sand over the ages , washed to shore as sand , melted and turned to glass ..