Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Hobo re-Amped
some past Hobo doodles dusted off and spruced up a nickel
HoboLand, the Hobo Revolution
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Monday, March 2, 2015
Simon says...
He had clinical onomatopoeia but Simon didn't think it was a thing
he clumps on the road and squeaks on the step and whooshes when he swings
he whispers in the dark, while he gurgles in the bath and then rustles with his towel
putt putt behind the mower, dreaming that he's flying and is who-ing like an owl.
Soon they came in a big white truck with every good intention
they took his temperature, fed him pills, and not to mention
threw Simon in a rubber room and tied him up and played Shubert through the speakers
doctors stretched him on a couch and asked him questions as he sipped on stuff from beakers.
And all the while he forced a smile on his creaking lips
he recounted happy days happy times and seldom dismal dips
his playmates were accountable, his mother was his rock
good ol' dad tossed the ball, his puppy pulled the sock.
Physicians took his blood, while dentists cleaned his teeth
he took a step without a clunk, they presented him a wreath!
Now Simon goes on quietly without a whir or click
to look at him he looks all right, you'd never guess he's sick
But in his head inside that skull amid the dark grey matter
he beeps and clucks and bops and slaps just like that old Mad Hatter.
he clumps on the road and squeaks on the step and whooshes when he swings
he whispers in the dark, while he gurgles in the bath and then rustles with his towel
putt putt behind the mower, dreaming that he's flying and is who-ing like an owl.
Soon they came in a big white truck with every good intention
they took his temperature, fed him pills, and not to mention
threw Simon in a rubber room and tied him up and played Shubert through the speakers
doctors stretched him on a couch and asked him questions as he sipped on stuff from beakers.
And all the while he forced a smile on his creaking lips
he recounted happy days happy times and seldom dismal dips
his playmates were accountable, his mother was his rock
good ol' dad tossed the ball, his puppy pulled the sock.
Physicians took his blood, while dentists cleaned his teeth
he took a step without a clunk, they presented him a wreath!
Now Simon goes on quietly without a whir or click
to look at him he looks all right, you'd never guess he's sick
But in his head inside that skull amid the dark grey matter
he beeps and clucks and bops and slaps just like that old Mad Hatter.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Time for a little Sunday reading! On Purpose!
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| Car & Truck & Car, Is this BiG FooT the next get -around-town automobile? |
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| Timely Home Architecture, Can you really slap a Victorian entrance on your old shack? |
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| Today's Future Tech, How to keep the kitty out of the vacuum, and the vacuum out of the liquor cabinet! |
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| Sports for All!, Can you teach an old bot New Tricks? |
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| Foodie Pets, Is too much soda a Woofy nightmare? |
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| Dusty Old Shit, Sell those crappy portraits! |
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| Backyard Farmwit, Tending your chickens, and juggling egg surplus! |
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| ... the big picture |
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Hobo reVisited
Gladness and Fair Tidings in the Land of Hobo
.. .and down did i plummet , for a time, down down , in a hazardous spin , adjusting my ocular sights >with not much success i'll add< on the encroaching earth . Amid the scattered strands >the spackle of infamous infinity< i dropped , wrapped in its cohesion , piqued in tumult , construing ablutions of the spackle-kind , crossing myself though i couldn't say why , and catching finally a thermal then soaring up into the flapping tubes and wires and detritus of the vandalized , derelict Pickler .
Acumentor in its berserker rage unwound , tossing copper and gems to the walls , pinballing falling sprawling , and gave a hey Willie chase , barking SOS commands to preoccupied cubby cops who grabbed hoards of implements and floundered , abandoned posts for the wind , and parachuted on their bed sheets to the swell of a round ground . Somewhere in the code , the Manic Torpedo Annihilate screeched in binary , egad , to no avail .
A Pickler Panic , Gears o'Plenty go down with the Ship , and i with my Posse see the Light !
Onto all the spackle rained , and it spread from one lofty Pickler to the next , until i nixed the count and lost site over the horizon , and i merely flew in the hodge-podge pod , fiddling in its whirs and clicks for optimum ability , and dodged a live wire .
If they all fell from the sky , i do not know >i sailed on . Below on a step >a hill >hands in the air >grabbing the sky >waving me on , those flesh creatures with doodads and accoutrements galore , cheered huzzah and ole and other such tidings .
Dirty Dirt perturbs and boils up in Mischievous Ways
Aside me , in the dust and spackle , debris came to swirl and conform into lumps and bumps and spinning wheels and rotors until bits and pieces trilled and twirled and followed my lead, joining in the gala fest of glory days . We danced on the ocher skies and made patterns in the soot .
Change is slow to come , spring never comes in the winter . But i sped my counter forward and maybe saw the what could be was what could come was what would be , and pinks and blues and greens . It was all right >it was good .
Good as good could be, I smiled.
.. .and down did i plummet , for a time, down down , in a hazardous spin , adjusting my ocular sights >with not much success i'll add< on the encroaching earth . Amid the scattered strands >the spackle of infamous infinity< i dropped , wrapped in its cohesion , piqued in tumult , construing ablutions of the spackle-kind , crossing myself though i couldn't say why , and catching finally a thermal then soaring up into the flapping tubes and wires and detritus of the vandalized , derelict Pickler .
Acumentor in its berserker rage unwound , tossing copper and gems to the walls , pinballing falling sprawling , and gave a hey Willie chase , barking SOS commands to preoccupied cubby cops who grabbed hoards of implements and floundered , abandoned posts for the wind , and parachuted on their bed sheets to the swell of a round ground . Somewhere in the code , the Manic Torpedo Annihilate screeched in binary , egad , to no avail .
A Pickler Panic , Gears o'Plenty go down with the Ship , and i with my Posse see the Light !
Onto all the spackle rained , and it spread from one lofty Pickler to the next , until i nixed the count and lost site over the horizon , and i merely flew in the hodge-podge pod , fiddling in its whirs and clicks for optimum ability , and dodged a live wire .
If they all fell from the sky , i do not know >i sailed on . Below on a step >a hill >hands in the air >grabbing the sky >waving me on , those flesh creatures with doodads and accoutrements galore , cheered huzzah and ole and other such tidings .Dirty Dirt perturbs and boils up in Mischievous Ways
Aside me , in the dust and spackle , debris came to swirl and conform into lumps and bumps and spinning wheels and rotors until bits and pieces trilled and twirled and followed my lead, joining in the gala fest of glory days . We danced on the ocher skies and made patterns in the soot .
Change is slow to come , spring never comes in the winter . But i sped my counter forward and maybe saw the what could be was what could come was what would be , and pinks and blues and greens . It was all right >it was good .
Good as good could be, I smiled.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
HoboLand revisited
these are doodles from the past, from a land called Hobo...
soon, for my own amusement Hobo will find a permanent home in a Blurb book
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| ...more to come! |
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
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