Post Mortem

All the way, the phone call shook
Dividing goodbyes into discrete sounds
Slicing all the grounds of coffee evenings
Caffeine reverting to molecules
Mixed with plasma,
Dopamine, norepinephrine
The brain inhaled the cocktail and coughed
Words spilled out in reply
One mass of apologies

It’s easy to say there is still time
To try new equations, new concoctions
Mixtures of old and new melodies
Songs to wear like jackets or shoes
It’s easy to think there is still time
To lose inhibitions in the living room
To find attraction over the smallest things
To bring sentiment back into hands, eyelids
Walks up the hill at night

It’s easy to dissect moments
Into individual tissues and flesh
Tendons and nerves
Scalpel steady hand on the lab bench
It’s easy to dissect sentences
Nouns, pronouns, verbs
Mechanical parts and design
A classroom whiteboard diagram
The skeleton of language

It is easy for silence to outline spaces
It is easy for silence to fill up spaces
It is easy for silence to smother details
When all is said and done
When the corpse is cold
You can cut across it and count the rings
Notations and analysis
Scribbles of your pen
Glancing over dark rims

The call ends before the shock
Humectants in my ocular sockets
Formaldehyde occultists hold me
The stainless bed
Cold sheets
My blood removed.

Stone Mountain

granite slopes like a dome
like a serving of mashed potatoes
when i walk off comfort food
up the uneven water-worn path.
used fat evaporates
each step made under stubborn pines
each once just the idea of a tree
standing still in a stone crack
when sherman burned this town

i rise on the back of confederacy
where snow hardly falls
and bob, tom, and jeff watch tourists
interbreed and shoot off lasers,
their rock hard resolve
broken not by the elements
but by the blood of kin folk
freshened with bayonets
and crushed by memory into bright iron soil

i wipe oil from my forehead
as a way to exhale
as a way to climb above these plains
so stated in phrases of sharp gasps
rising always rising
to the gondola's final stop
where school kids and breathless riders
eat hot dogs and take photos
framed by the frayed southern skyline.

Rubber Soles

When I walk
All I see are shoes
Two days of moving through town
And shoes look at me
Like dinosaur bones in the museum
Backpack stuffed and worn
Shuffling to the coffee shop
Pockets clinking with change
My jacket seams all but given up

At least summer’s coming
When evenings stay like blankets
Soft beds of grass
Beer bottles almost half-full
County fairs and sidewalk stores
Summer shoes stare at me
Sometimes pointing open toed
Tongues panting in the heat
Painted lids, pedicures
Pretty flowered sandals

At least summer’s coming.
I’ll bathe in the river
Just at sunrise
Before light makes me transparent
I’ll wash my clothes, dress the branches
And dry myself on the riverbank
Until I shrink and become vapor
Rising from the earth to fall
Slowly in a shower or with fury in a storm
Only still to be trampled by countless rubber soles.

there sex is

trees there sex is
in the lusty buds
opening petals
pollen brings bees is

intercourse mixed is
swollen fermentation
eggs warmed in the nest
juices secreted is

the chemicals coursing is
blood working the flesh
stimulate under fingertips
the curve into hips is

undulated valleys and hills
folded in sheets is
rolled and twisted is
exhalations of sated lips

trance siberian

days were missed alone on the train
slipped between planks in platzkart bunk beds
passed by nodding heads intoxicated
with just enough samovar tea to wet cracked lips

coal smoke combed through clothes and hair
mixed with rolled fags chewed in silver teeth
vodka stained canvas sacks gorging junk
lugged by traders in tri-color track suits

table crumbs, sardines and beer spills under elbows
cans of salat, condensed milk, eekra,
grease stained newsprint piroshkees
all bought through the window at the last reprieve

you willed her face there under the pillow
to occupy you through broken sleep
through the rocking clatter of tracks
blue sweatered conductor checks
grey skinned drunks
prodding away your novelty
davai americanyetz
drink drink
eesho eesho

but at the end you stepped off into snow
into the spring-loaded taxi ride
that propelled you to your dorm room
to the strip mined soleness
(sometimes called samastayatelny)
in the siberian afterglow.

there is music in hell

there's music in hell
it is elevator music
because everything is going down
the place is a mess
cauldrons are cracking
boilers are on their last legs
even the forks are split
the devil is a corrupt dictator
minions argue and conspire
people are screaming
but there is music
and violins
and blood

this thaw

as in the past, the prod pushes us
sheared sheep assemble in the pen
promised sunlight
the full thaw

mutton breath stretches stiff legs
stunted grass
men and their dog teeth
bark before the inevitable slaughter

the farmhouse leans forward
wooden ribs exposed
to watch the wet stare of spring

exit

pack and get dressed before all hell breaks loose
before clocks are thrown at walls or stolen
before your B movie roles
make coasters for repeated cups of black
your bladder trembling in reruns
where children play in backgrounds backwards
hoping you choke on your joke

show me awake as i want to see it
bright blurs in the first seconds of day
adjoining beds parked in parallel
pass forever in space, stars wash into gray
watercolors and soapstone
don't lose your nerve
i can't do this alone

motorways move us in clover leaf outlines
blessing the foot that crushed your shell
burned gaps in chemical reactions
pain cracked pressure points
and bloomed like a firebird
swallowing everything in one bite
doors pried open by the jaws of life

bridge to the middle of afterwards
treasure island, yerba buena
missions and handfuls of orange clay
coastal highways blurred by fog
escape is just through the valley
through poppies and cristatum folds
the slopes sucking dry after the cold.

hills stumble to the foot of the plain
as raindrops chatter with tempered glass
lightning dictates still life flashes
stored by wind witch and saguaro
snatches of lost time beaten by blows
my neck cramps looking over my shoulder
your rear view recedes as fast as we go

i watched the back of promises
heads rolled in long hauls of shame
desert hordes of torn clouds leaking darkness
windowless homes with open porches
corrugated roofs, corroded holes
i've driven black ribbons tied like robes
banded tighter, cleaving hills,
clasping gas stations like glossy jewels

this is my final alarm, my last close
dreams tangled with lost sheets
scratch woolen blankets
the open window only blows cold
snow dusts the still streets and roofs
the landscape sheds skin flakes
clustered on the edge of cracks
iron dirt frozen in the wind chill

the map unfolded traces veins
back to the heart like skid marks on the road
boxes hold only enough to be carried
loads of paper words crumpled and folded
our sum totals divided once more
fescue grass points through white flecks
green fingers showing us where we go
as they hold broken bottles.

the drift

plastic keys try to please me
at my metal desk by boxes of energy
the lcd placates in crisp pixelation
electromagnetic paranoia signals in waves
printers exhale toner and ozone
the phone blinks red codes saying,
"you know where you are with"
hamfisted emotions punching holes
reasons and opinions stolen from the road

at the metal wayside you wet your sleeve
then you left (or did i leave?)
hammering discontent repeatedly
in flexing muscles, twitching signs
smithing warm iron into edges, sparks
preparing to point the tip at me,
shield in place, marked with crosses
a mace hanging off your hip

my totality is left in young feet
some walking upside down under a summer lamp
faces blurred by the watery heat
my voice just an echo
vibrating in their memories

some days i try to grow wings
look down on roads like brittle veins
where metal blood pumps and pushes
gray with smoke from the crucible heart
cold clouds part as i drift past

i visit plots where old houses stood
their smashed walls now dust
to be swept up in clumps under the rug
afternoons spent trusting
questions thrust in naked revelation
become cold slides used only for dissection

in the evenings on the oversized sectional
separated by digital noise
digital remorse
we drift downstream
lights dimmed
children deaf in their sleep
you snoring under faux fur
me holding the remote
purple cushions sliding loose
sliding slowly to the floor
while i fold vertical distance with my eyelids

Night is My Casual Friend

Night is a casual friend.
Come and go, night,
Stay for a while.
Here, have a drink.
Smile and tell me the lies of the city
In the fluent background rumble of living:

In the seething love of the body
shaped like San Miguel hills in neon curves
In the Polk Gulch alleys of piss and dumpsters
slipped between ever-lit storefronts
In the stainless First street lobbies and gated condos
packed with rich, young automatons
In the bunches of leather pressed clothes
passing through the doors of dark SoMa bars
In the headlight choke of cars and buses
sparking a thousand horizontal facets
In the steam and smells of fried meat
blown into rising clouds over hilly Chinatown
In the statues and sand held together by crabgrass
slept on by homeless in the worn corner park
In the random clatter of streetcars
heralded by bells and stone shuddering

In the pointed intersections of diagonal streets
In the phallic towers clustered downtown
In the din of 24 hour Haight Street record stores
In the smoke of hookah bars and Middle-Eastern trance
In the dance and clink of Italian coffee shops
In the sidewalk cafes lit by the glow of cigarettes
In the tenderloin on the crowded steps of mercy churches
In the fish decay and seagulls huddling on the wharf
In the crush of stuccoed duplexes and Victorian homes
In the solo apartments of lone microwave meals

Lies appeal to you,
And you shelter them.
Night, don't be still,
Come and go.
You are my casual friend.

wandering beats

although i'm partial to the use of rhyme,
and from time to time i like to wander, i think timing is key,
the tick tock stick of words in my teeth,
smacking red gums chewing asynchronous chomps chipped from dead leaves
wound around the pointed head of the painted fountain,
the snapping rhythm of water slapping the backs of frozen green fish
who thrash the still life scene until peacocks preen their fans
and plead beside the borderline bougainvillea hedges
gripping rusted wrought iron gates.

missteps and breaks are made walking alone
along the split asphalt path under top-heavy century trees
lean willow leaves stroke the constant clear skin of the low avon
running in slow motion past the black teeth of the rough stone banks.
ducks and fish swim and splash on the ribbon of shallow green
rippling the water near the gondolas floating lazily by
the sky a glowing gray behind the branches of kowhi and cordyline
interspersed with fir and pine shelter canopies.

couples garnish the rectangular grass, kids pass balls in open fields,
cricket matches and rugby games are played to measure time
as rhythm and rhyme footstep past in their own scene
leaning into each step caught tapping
leaving the mind to dream of days in the garden
clapping the beat of idyllic happiness.

not here (upstairs)

i don't find my mother here
where slick movements mesh
behind overdone underwear
sliding bra straps over nipples
nuptial motions sucking lobes
holes opening as old as productive urges
twisted pant legs chucked on the wool weave floor
drapes parted halfway
the shades cutting our bodies into slices
us fighting the limits of skin and skein
coiled like snakes under the striped duvet
arms that pull and hips that push
forgotten hinges and gaps
synapses snapping up motoneuron spaces
between coming home and the school bus horn
in the quick flesh hot breaths
of the locked suburban upstairs

released from the dog chain restraint
we lose memory for a moment
and regain the young days before distance and drudgery
our forgotten faces pressed down like reflections
once again open to be drowned.

Please leave your message at the sound of the tone...

Here is something peaceful for you to look at while I start to resurface...

This One is Especially for P-Slim and All His Friends at Apple

Gotta admire those guys at Blendtech. You can hear the collective geek consciousness cry out in horror and loss with gnashing of teeth and rending of garments...


Thanks to DD for your eeeevil sense of humor...

Flight of the Conchords

Last year, I was fortunate enough to watch on HBO the 1/2 hour comedy act of New Zealand's 4th most popular guitar-based digi-bongo acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo, Flight of the Conchords. It was everything I felt comedy should be: understated, intelligent, and hilariously funny.

Now HBO is airing a 12 part comedy series about the two man digi-folk band called, strangely enough, Flight of the Conchords. It follows Bret and Jermaine, the two kiwi band members as they try to establish themselves in the artist capital of the world, New York City.

I saw the first episode, Sally, last night, and although the humor made my wife groan, I found the episode very enjoyable with at least three Conchords musical numbers based around the storyline (or was the storyline based around the musical numbers? probably...). It's definitely worth a watch. In fact you can check out the complete episode here until the second episode comes out next week. Check it out :)

Here is one of my favorite "music video" portions of the show which does a brilliant satire of the cheesy love balad...

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
The weight of bed sheets holds me down
This envelope sends me towards unconscious outlines
Where new insights clash with old advice
And past pages turn to ash by firelight

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
Movies are moved into long-term storage
And huddle on the corner of the street
Sharing heat with shards of glass
Passed by cracks in the concrete path

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
A welterweight starved to bone thickness
With sick breathing extends black hands
Covered with duct tape and plastic bags
Asking for one more chance to fight

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
The wood and plaster secrete their smell
Tiles still shed their dust
Washing in repetition only makes them thinner

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
Heads are covered in shame
As games are played to pass the time

Awake in Dallas in the Light Hotel
The clock stares with red eyes

Awake in Dallas
In the Light Hotel
I wait for darkness.

When I'm 64...

Much to my friends' chagrin, I've really enjoyed the CareerBuilder Age-O-Matic Website, where you can upload the photo of any unwitting person and create an aged version of them saying whatever you want them to say....

The Fall Back

The stainless steel turbo prop striped in red, white and blue
Shook in a salted southwesterly blown across the tarmac
As propellers spun in a Utah sputter
Until the plane rolled over the oil stains out of view of the tall window

The blue skies were grey in Nebraska
Overcast snapshots taken in wide angles
Rough stubble of clear cut corn fields
Drowned in sauces and mayonnaise
Steaks marinated for 24 hours in a whiskey still.
The silt was slow to wash away

With Nebraska came the fall backward
Instead of spring there was snow
No sun, only the bright fridge light
Rustic décor and bear handles,
Forrest wallpaper darkened by the blackout curtains

At night I swam against the tide in the tepid pool
And reached the edge of solitude
Where I toweled off and walked barefoot
Silently in the back hallways
Dripping my respite like evidence along the carpeted path.

And finally some Iranian humor...

Here are two quite popular Iranian comics for your viewing pleasure, Omid Djalili and Maz Jobrani. It's good to see something funny coming from the middle-east...

The Unibrow Song

Here's a clever little ditty about an issue that many of the iranian brothas (and sistas) can relate to...

And Speaking of Iran...

I have a friend who works for this interesting organization called the Iran Human Rights Documentation Center. Their goals are to:

* investigate and document human rights abuses in Iran;

* raise international awareness of human rights violations
in Iran and bring pressure to bear on the Iranian government
to end these abuses;

* raise local awareness of human rights violations and
international human rights standards inside Iran; and

* establish an online archive of human rights documents that
can one day be used to develop and support a reckoning
process in Iran.

There is nothing wrong with investigation and fact collection as well as the dissemination of the facts in report form. It is not politics but rather education. I hope that their goals help Iran to transition to a more moderate political climate where human rights are held in higher regard.

Here is a link to their report on the persecution of the largest religious minority in that country, the Baha'i Faith.

Props to NS for raising my awareness.

Hollywood Wages Iranian Cultural Warfare

Apparently the new movie '300' which was just released last weekend is yet another way to wage war on Iran. I haven't seen '300' yet, but I highly doubt it's going to make me think any less of that country than their misplaced polemics do.

The Trip to Candy Mountain

Enjoy this surreal journey to the mystical Candy Mountain probably influenced by happy pink pills. Thanks to nzgurl for giving me the chance enjoy this entertaining trip...

the pileup

a cow moos a tune
imitating a horn
in the bovine traffic jam
on the grass overpass
noses rammed
bumper to bumper
at the toll gate
methane fumes collecting
in the payment of their blood work

rapture redux

toner tantra photocopies the free world
legalities and clauses shopping at ross
mismatched socks walk the checkerboard corridor
under holy cows and sacred drips

the tea sips under shawls before the wrestling knockdown
top hats circle for the shuffle of expository clowns
channel surfing wipe outs burst the beer keg bubble
college students scrutinize collage covered caramel lumps

hotel hellhole in a bagdad camel hump shootout
silent speaker phones stare blown out by psychoactive candles
brass band shindigs gang banging the tuba tube sock baseline
base camp assaults on a contraband blasting cap

derelict dumpster hauls lost in the kabala junk heap
celebrity death wishes caught in the crossfire suicide pact
actors benign motions masturbate corporate riff-raff financiers
spliff smoke chokes the eyesore split screen slow-mo replay

half a day is enough to scuff the shoe black newness from your chaps

maitre'd handshakes the clambake smoke of the guest check replay
levitating the cinder block off your leather high backed excuse
expletive greed grabs words right out of my cerebellum
leaving lily pad liftoffs floating in the frog pond graveyard

cut to commercial

scene 1 ext day - outside jelly mold's home

Theme Song:
happy happy happy hoppy
hoppy hoppy hoppy hoop
sappy sappy sappy soppy
soppy soppy soppy soup
pappy pappy pappy poppy
poppy poppy poppy poop

Fade in:

Bunny suited underpaid actor jumps perkily toward the candy cane gate
wicker basket full of pastel eggs
and flicks the sugar door latch and scratches his rabbit crotch
crocheted curtains part to show the pseudo-plucky girl in a pigtails stare and roll her eyes

POV hothoused rabbit suit:

the lolly swirl door opens and girl with blue checkerboard dress and white pinafore
bounces with double-barreled shotgun knockers and circle blush on pale cheeks

Cut to:

RONNIE RABBIT
Hi! I'm Ronny the Rabbit. You must be Sue!

SUE
(chewing gum and twirling it on her thumb)
Uh huh.

RONNIE RABBIT
Have you been a good girl? I have happy eggs for all the good boys and girls!

SUE
Uh huh.

RONNIE RABBIT
Here. Have a pretty pink one!

Ronnie hands over a large pink egg in his costume mitts to Sue's French manicured paws.
A bit of gum string sticks to his fur.

SUE
(non plussed)
Thanks.

RONNIE RABBIT
(Shaking free of the gum string)
Okay Sue! Have a Happy Super Double-plus Good Easter!

Sue rolls her eyes and closes the door

Cut to:

Ronnie Rabbit in his worn brown costume hopping out the candy gate up the road
He stops and scratches his crotch and turns to wave at Sue in the jelly mold house.

Cut to:
Sue in the window staring up at him and giving him the bird


Cut to:
Ronnie the rabbit shrugging his shoulders and hopping out of frame with the house in the background. Suddenly the house explodes.


Ominous theme music

Fade to black

ANNOUNCER VO
Kids, never take candy from strangers.
Brought to you by the Department of Homeland Security
And now back to our regularly scheduled program...


3
2
1
the sacred and holy shindig shivers with rapture spasms before the revival
revealing recent conversions to fascist eating ho-ho ho-hums
white comatose pawns come kneeling on the pews perfectly
passing time before the gaggle of gods castoff robe wearers
reviews the guest list gore fest before the brimstone buffet
sashay in the finale theme song segue way to the polywoggle breakdown
simulcast simian hand jobs boggle the syphilitic zoo station

nations have waited for the rim of the sun to trim the firebird mantra
only to be left briquettes from the sons of their plethora

Brought to you by Kingsford charcoal: Lights first. Lights fast.

Stay tuned for Paris Hilton in “Bottoms Up”

Ask the Fruitcake Lady

The best of a segment of the Tonight Show where a nonagenarian dishes out advice to her less experienced viewers...

headline hangover

flagging words flap in political filibusters
the ripple of data distillers and economic effervescence
slaps paper handshakes folded on paper stands
guttural rubbish runs parallel to the curb
only disturbed by street walkers washing in troths of chewed cud
music bakeries wafting notes in the chill cacophony
the warm shiver of art on a sliver of concrete
make for contralto breakfast before the news breakdown
in the town of hard-ons and come downs
the phalluses of glass and steel protruding and teeming
pointing to a sky that stares vacantly blue.

morning arrival

we barely move in the aluminum tube
rebreathing the air of hundreds before
and when the doors slide open
we overflow the tile platform
rushing the escalators and stairs
a reverse waterfall

The Cost of Fat Airline Passengers

Although it makes perfect sense, a report came out recently which states how much money airlines are having to spend on extra fuel costs to fly overweight passengers. Although the logical thing to do is to charge portly people more than skinny people for airline tickets, chances are they will just offer discounts for those whose poundage is not quite so burdensome...

Poetic Rendering

I posted a poem a little while back called Hobo Humanity. It was fairly talky and unpoetic in traditional terms, even if it expressed an emotion that I felt at the time.

Someone recommended rendering it down into something more poetic, and I gave it a shot. Here is the result:


Hobo Sam

Sam rode in the hay of the box car with the skin of livestock
From Kansas city to Orleans
Nursing the smell of dung from his wool coat
Half asleep rocked by the train
Half awake jolted by the gaps between wrought tracks

Hunger kept him company
His death face appearing
Stubble filling the sunken spaces

Children and spouses were left like stations several stops back
In the days that appeared through cracks in the sliding doors
And the nights that swallowed him whole

He used to hum to pass the time
But he only remembered one chorus of one tune
And the sound of “Oh Suzannah” made him remember the miles
So he stopped and practiced smiling.

Sam rode in the hay from Orleans to Kansas City
Hiding with the sheep
Hands in their dung
Half asleep smothered by wool
Half awake waiting for the doors to open in daylight.

Dysphoric Social Attention Consumption Deficit Anxiety Disorder Discombobulates Consumers

An Australian artist has created a fake drug ironically called "Havidol" to treat Dysphoric Social Attention Consumption Deficit Anxiety Disorder (DSACDAD) as a satire of pharmaceutical ad campaigns, and consumers seem to believe it's a real product for a real illness! The artist, Justine Cooper, was going for a subtle spoof to draw people in and it looks like it worked. You have to wonder though about medication that is available in both tablet and suppository form...


I especially like the disclaimer:

IMPORTANT SAFETY INFORMATION
Problems can be avoided if you take HAVIDOL only when you are able to immediately benefit from its effects. To fully benefit from HAVIDOL patients are encouraged to engage in activities requiring exceptional mental, motor, and consumptive coordination. HAVIDOL is not for you if you have abruptly stopped using alcohol or sedatives. Havidol should be taken indefinitely. Side effects may include mood changes, muscle strain, extraordinary thinking, dermal gloss, impulsivity induced consumption, excessive salivation, hair growth, markedly delayed sexual climax, inter-species communication, taste perversion, terminal smile, and oral inflammation. Very rarely users may experience a need to change physicians.
Talk to your doctor about HAVIDOL

I think it says something about our culture when we believe a pill can provide something intangible and inherently spiritual. Do we really believe the right chemical combination in our brains can give us fulfillment?

Back in the Day...

...Things were simpler. The air was cleaner, the people friendlier, and the hairstyles... well the hairstyles had a life of their own. Ask BuggaSG who is located somewhere in this view to nostalgia...

A Men's Fashion Retrospective

Although the 70s and 80s were decades of fashion disasters, there's something nostalgic about a fashion statement that was equally unflattering to everyone, creating a universal excuse for looking bad.

Here's a classic ad from NZ for a Kiwi soda named L & P (short for Lemon and Paeroa) which explores and revels in one of these phenomenons and reminds us of a simpler time when men were men, and their fashion sense was totally non-existent.

A Ban on iPod Oblivion

It seems that people in NYC are walking blithely across the streets with iPods blaring, talking on cellphones or staring at their Blackberries and creating traffic obstacles, sometimes resulting in their own deaths. For some reason, this upsets people and now NYC is planning on fining people $100 for using one of these popular devices while crossing the street. A certain friend might not be too happy about that news, but that said, he probably understands the value of paying attention when his life is at risk.

So soon it will be economically disadvantageous to shuffle across a busy intersection, texting your friends while checking google maps and bopping to the latest Fall-Out Boy single. Sheesh. So much for land of the free...

An Anti-Tagging System (for the non-Internet)

Kiwi ingenuity has come up with a way to defeat those persistent and omnipresent graffiti artists who create visual pollution in our urban centers: make the wall wet! And if people get too close to the wall, spray them with water! Leave it to NZlanders to come up with something practical, harmless, and ultimately beneficial.

When Car Enthusiasts Get Guns...

This is what happens when the host of Top Gear, Jeremy Clarkson, is able to dispose of crap cars the way he really wants to... with FIREPOWER! (What is it with boys and their toys?)

Props to DD for pointing out the distinctly British bent of this humor.

Heck No! (I'll Never Listen To Techno)

Here's a clever little video that makes use of the old Lite-Brite for a bit of stop action madness....

Coming Down

Mass hysteria passes and loses mass
Creating asses, releasing greenhouse gasses,
Crass coffee napkin lyrics, natural disasters,
Rasters of dull light reflect circles from my empty glass

Chewed old bones near cell phone tones wait to ring out
Bring me doubt and I’ll give you this question
Masticate and review my suggestion
Digestion once collapsed in the north tower before it went south

(Perhaps I overemphasize my body)

Tempers flare in the glare of the gaudy display
Phosphorous tracers spray the porous afterglow
The cold crème rubdown can’t remove the blight show
There is grass in my crack from the evening’s lay

(Or so you say)

I’ve cocked my glockenspiel while gripping the wheel deal
Turning heel steel-toed peeling off into the smoky distance
No insistence will make shadows so real to appeal to my senses
My defenses are deployed with blatant zeal

Desire ripples onto the shore and deposits its foam
The dream land, this fantasy land, the form of a milky nipple.

Something I Haven't Heard About Before

I guess you could call this a promo video for an Israeli - Palestinan political action group called "One Voice" which is working for a "two state solution" to the conflict in the Middle-East.

Even though there is an element of propaganda here, at least the message focuses on dialogue, consensus, and a moderate approach...

For more info, check out their website

long lost property

today i stumbled upon the california state controller's website for unclaimed property. here you can search under specific names to find out if you have anything owing to you such as insurance claim money or other things like forgotten safe deposit boxes and company shares. it's worth a look. worst case scenario is that you aren't owed anything, and you can continue your sad organized life without the joy of rediscovery...

Wear Sunscreen

Still worth watching and hearing even though it may date a few years now. Some call this inspiring, while I see it as thought provoking beyond a list of sheer platitudes. And the advice is pretty good too...

Bra Wearers Beware

Someone with far too much time on their hands has set up the Strap Police to counter what they call "ugly bra strap syndrome".

I can't help thinking there are other causes which deserve more attention (such as the things the straps hold up - i know, i'm a neanderthal...)

Our Word for Today is...

... Props.

Don't say I never edumacated youz.

borat and the golden globes

i have a feeling i won't be the only one posting this link.

kudos to sacha baron cohen for using the words 'anus' and 'testicles' in his best actor acceptance speech...

and for those of you who may not know what scene he is referring to, have a look at it here. however, i warn you, it may burn into your mind some things you hoped you would never see in real life...



props to p-slim for the link!

As Boring As...

...watching cheese age?

Yep. And other people accuse me of being cheesy and boring...

What you hoped someone would never record on film

Lately it seems that I've become a bit of a YouTube junky, but I had to post this lovely little gem of a video which will have meaning to several of my friends. I think the message is clear: don't break wind near an infrared camera!

And Now for a Musical Number...

I've Gone All Goth

Pretty soon I'll listen only to Evanescence and My Chemical Romance, wear black lipstick, and tatoo a skull on my forehead...

Chocolate: A whole new (gross) way

How many times have you taken a chocolate bar with you on a sunny day, and when your blood sugar is at near comatose levels, you've gone to fish out your energy snack only to find it has been reduced to meaningless goo in your backpack / purse / back pocket? (And how many of you have resorted to desperately licking the wrapper? More than would care to admit it...)

Now, you can bypass that solid chocolate phase altogether with the New Lava Bar: liquified chocolate in a sealed foil packet that probably looks like something you should be flushing away instead of putting it in your mouth, and that's why you can't see it before you eat it! Mmmmm mmmmmm!

I think they should come up with a suppository that emits chocolate in a gas form so people can take it in through their noses every time someone breaks wind. I would call it "Chocolate Cloud"...

Props to DD for the culinary enlightenment!

Jack Black's Tenacious School of Rock

It seems that during Tenacious D's tour of NZ, Jack Black happened to spot a couple of buskers (i.e. street performers) who's musical act he really enjoyed. So much so, he asked them to be his opening act at the Christchurch town hall. But the strangest bit of all is that these guys are only 10 and 11 years old.

I wonder if he's going to train them on how to do stage dives...

Just in Time for Those Family Gatherings

If only something like this was truly available, we might actually enjoy our families during the holidays...

Hobo Humanity

We are a race in a race in constant course correction
We are one rejection slip away from failure
We are one deflection away from disaster
We live in the boxcar of a dream
Our dream on the rails but always shaking
On the road but always skidding
Making mistakes or creating vices
Devices, distractions and divisions
We know how to separate and disuse
We get fat
Get stupid
Get ignorant
Because we are always avoiding learning new things
Because we are always avoiding doing new things

We can always count on apathy
Count on insanity
Count on selfish predators
(I count on my fingers)
We are distinguished by days and nights
Sight and blindness
(Darkness and light always fight in my eyelids)
Gaping holes in our consciousness filled by a noise God
Ipod, Mobi, Zune, Zen
The bodies of men and women in personalized separation,
Masturbation in rubberized safety
Girls and boys and both and neither
Hard sex, soft sex, group sex, toy sex
Cheques honored. Se habla espanol.

Vacating seats
Vacation packages
Ravages of sugar highs
Prozac lows
All you can eat buffets
Breasts and backsides
Workouts and backslides
Sweat and cold misery

Trains are synchronized to arrive at once
But thighs are dancing in random pain
Periods are flowing
Commas are pausing
Causing and deflecting rejecting
The sanctity of grammatical correctness

Undress in layers before your prayers
Before the underwear is gone
Before nakedness and goose flesh
Are crushed in the hot oblivion
Living behind curtains
Behind walls
Underground
We lurk here looking for safety
And there is none to be had
Not even in the sad unions
Lubricated
Panting
Retreating and advancing
Swelling skin and sagging minds

Pain is the only educator
The perverter
The creator and destroyer
The hurt is cruel but effective
Reflective of some plan to guide us through the dip and race
To shear us in the heat and leave us in the cold
Our dags building in the season of neglect
It starts to get old as we get old

And so the boxcar shudders and twists
And we are tempted to fall
Tempted to exit,
Rolling to the ground and walking the rest of the way
We are always one step from disaster
Faster and blinder than our master
With no plan to bind us
No pastor to find us
Just one and alone by the sliding doors.

Heard of Nerdcore?

Now you have....



Props to P-slim and his shades of nerditude...

In Here

Walking on the footpath
Under the fir trees
Between the sparse grass
Past the fat cat yacking a hairball
Watching the Latina hoop earrings and cleaning baskets
The white roofs and wet garbage cans
The patient impatient cars cars cars
Flat faces swollen and staring
Behind the spans of frosted curtains.

Gaps

I see the blonde accoutrements in the Gucci handbag
The gag of onlookers hooked on the beaut
She rummages for the right makeup combination
To hide the mistakes she cannot refute

Guns are in place with fingers itching
Protect the protected protecting the protectors
Victimizing the victims of victimizers victimizing
Shoot first and let history be written by the victors

My aunt has gout from trying to stay still
Her pills mark out the passing of the day
The TV blinks slowly 'til the gap of the ad breaks
As she wonders when she will walk away

His pinstripe garments are pressed to straightness
Delineating the shape of a man
But faces are gaping staring at nothing
Illuminated by no one’s plan

The makeup finished, her eyes are complete
She watches the city through the cloudy window
The train track gaps rap the measured beats
That slow when we slow
That slow when we slow.

Borat in San Jose?

This person on Craigslist must have seen the new Borat movie. I don't know what tells me that, though...

If life is too exciting...

... perhaps you need more dull.

Monday Distraction

Here's a subversive little flash game where you shoot a kitten out of a cannon and try to see how far you can make it go. Part physics and part perversion, it does make for a bit of an addictive diversion...

You Know You're in Texas When...

What can I say? I'm totally speechless - and it's even on a Japanese car! Must be one of them left wing GOP party members...

An Australian Bloke's Love Poem

Here's something straight from the heart of the Southern Hemisphere that hits the mark in many ways. Thanks to DD for thinking of me when she read it...

Of course I love ya darling
You're a bloody top notch bird
And when I say you're gorgeous
I mean every single word
So ya bum is on the big side
I don't mind a bit of flab
It means that when I'm ready
There's somethin there to grab
So your belly isn't flat no more
I tell ya, I don't care
So long as when I cuddle ya
I can get my arms round there
No sheila who is your age
Has nice round perky breasts
They just gave in to gravity
But I know ya did ya best
I'm tellin ya the truth now
I never tell ya lies
I think its very sexy
That you've got dimples on ya thighs
I swear on me nanna's grave now
The moment that we met
I thought you was as good as
I was ever gonna get
No matter wot you look like
I'll always love ya dear
Now shut up while the footy's on
And fetch another beer.

Death of a President

Since I've been in a media vacuum lately, I didn't know about this mockumentary, Death of a President, that premiered at the Toronto film festival and then screened on British TV on October 9th. It depicts the assasination of Dubya in 2007 in Chicago and the ensuing events given that scenario. It's generated enough controversy that two out of three of the largest theater chains have banned it. To get an idea of the style of the film, here is a 10 minute clip including the assasination scene.

Although condemned by many Americans as" shocking", "disturbing" and "irresponsible", the head of More4, the network that originally screened the film on British TV stated on bbc.co.uk: "I'm sure that there will be people who will be upset by it but when you watch it you realise what a sophisticated piece of work it is... It's not sensationalist or simplistic but a very thought-provoking, powerful drama. I hope people will see that the intention behind it is good."

Newmarket Films, the distribution company attempting to convince theaters to show the film in the US hopes to have some takers by smaller theater chains to make the release date of October 27th. Richard Abramowitz, who is consulting with Newmarket on the film’s distribution, said “Death of a President” has been booked into more than 100 venues and he expects that number to rise as he expands his sales effort into other regions.

Let's hope that this piece of entertainment does not become the focus of a political agenda or censorship.

Attack of the Killa Mike

Late night sessions in P-slim's garage abetted in the background by the elusive BuggaSG brought forth a monster rap which will be unleashed on an unsuspecting populace. The killa mike featured prominantly in the creation process, and we had trouble controlling it. BuggaSG, the main MC, busted some rhymes to define the spine of the lyrical beast, and yours truly contributed a verbal entree to the hip hop feast.

A sample of the monster rap:

To bug or not to bug
Don't even try to aks me
My lyrics are so money
The Feds just wanna tax me
I'm worthy
To bug you all the time
So say, "Crazy mutha bugga!"
When you hear my rhyme...

Here is the latest mix of the beast from monster producer, P-slim.

This Child of NineEleven

Born with the breaking of metal and glass,
I passed through an orifice like a TV screen
Into the bright sheen of a media campaign
Red white and blue red white and blue
As I tumbled to the checkerboard floor in the hospital
Where spin doctors picked me up and cooed
“The truth. The truth. The truth,” they said,
“Is that we love you, our sweet consumer.”

Rumor has it that my garden is full of terror plots
Tilled by nimble fingers that linger over vulnerable power plants
And spots where scant lines of defense are furrowed in dry soil.
Hot days are spent rubbing oil beneath straw hats buzzed by military flybys
Spies are everywhere
Terror is everywhere
White convolvulus blooms, weaving its way into desert sands
Abrams are jammed in a bad gag commute
Hands, tied by ticker tape news,
Outline the rise (and fall) of the price of crude,
Imply democracy while others pay our rent.
Let’s portray sporadic resistance
(Turn your head and cough)
Then in the distance the bombs go off
And everyone bows down to our (fallen) monument.

(Cue music)

Five years on with my umbilical still attached
I come back to the TV for warmth
Your glow of digital manipulation
Mama mama mama
Don’t abandon this child
Stay with me stay with me stay with me
Keep me awake, keep me abreast
With news breaks and shakes of paranoia
Amid earthquakes and floods and the falling stars
Keep me safe in my shell
Keep me safe in my shell
Keep me safe in my shell.

The Wake Up

Gotta get down these moments of clarity
These pieces of me on the greasy cloth seats
The train riders half asleep
Despite electronic beeps and jerks of electricity
Thirty years of diseases and dirt
Left by countless soles rubbing the rug under their feet
Thrive with each minute of human humidity.

The sycophantic backs that circle
The sycophantic backs that stare
Swing their slow legs
Dressed in tidy threads
Business threads still absent of sweat
Shiny with iron marks
Dull in the daylight of the clouded windows

The gray sky turns and stays away
From the lengths of cars speeding towards the hill
The tunnel beckoning suggestively

I have ruminated about life
Over the click clack of tracks
Fluoresced until my eyes watered
Begging for sleep until my head waggled
Watching the line of people wander towards the leftover empty spaces
The fat, the thinning, the old, the aging
Staging their way through measured spans of time
Transitioning through the double-doors to the next car to find a seat
Forgetting their daily decay until they are reminded.

This morning I watch their groggy thoughts stumble and slip
After toothbrush automation
As a prelude to sunglasses half-sleep shaken open by the ride
Their demands are just keys to be pushed repeatedly
Pressed by my fingers in their delivery

Gotta get down these moments of clarity
These pieces of me
Each with a feeling and a memory
Needling nerve endings like a ringing phone
Each alone, but together a symphony.

Today I Threw You Away

In the papers and letters
The stacks of square notes you scrawled
The physics books, the math books,
The dated pamphlets in triplicate,
From the hard candies to the soft socks
I hauled you to the dumpster and threw you away.

Today I coughed what was left of your dust
And sneezed it out into your cave
The white walls your pre-grave
Silent from countless clicks and stares
Your folded chair cold
Despite the hours you played freecell

Today I threw out your old life
Your first wife, your first son
Paid one of your parking tickets
Chucked your debris:
The one-armed reading glasses
The 1945 yearbook
The broken ukulele

I squeezed you out
I wrung you out
I washed and wrapped you
And put you in a box.
I threw you away.

I crushed what was left of you,
Crumpled what was left
Smashed and folded and shredded
Your post partum remains.
I destroyed what was left of your chains,

And today
You are free to go.

Bush on Borders

A little immigration humor for you since the subject could use some about now...

Minimalist Laughs

I never saw Brokeback Mountain...

..And now I don't have to because the bunnies have done a 30 second summary for those of us with short attention spans...

I also like their summary of Pulp Fiction...

Calling all Radioheads

P-Slim is the man.

How he was able to secure a pair of tickets to an upcoming Radiohead concert, I have no idea. Tickets went on sale at 10am. By 10:05 they were all gone...

Discover Your Music's Genome

My wife fowarded me this link which allows people to put in their favorite songs and then find music which is similar in genre. Then it plays the music in sequence like a CD. So far the result is pretty bloody entertaining...

You're Such a Pig

Draw a pig and you'll be told what kind of person you are...

What Song was #1 When You Were Born?

Someone with a great deal of time on his hands put together this website. It's worth a look...

Saturday Morning Nostalgia

I got into a discussion with my co-workers today about Sid and Marty Krofft, the creator of many a memorable Saturday morning kids' show such as: H.R. Pufnstuf, Sigmund and the Sea Monster, and the Land of the Lost. These titles bring back vivid childhood memories of me sitting in front of the black and white TV with a bowl of cheerios and being entertained and confused by the Krofft Supershow with such memorable serials such as Electrawoman and Dynagirl, Wonderbug and the Lost Saucer with Ruth Buzzi and Jim Neighbors (of Gomer Pyle fame at the time before we found out about his "friendship" with Rock Hudson). I even remember going to see the HR Pufnstuf movie at the Seaview Twin theatre in Pacifica.

Those were such innocent days. I felt a pang of nostalgia looking through this website that reminded me of the hours I spent glued to the tube. You can click on the titles of these great shows to see the creativity it took to entertain the children of the 70s...

Also in my searches, I found that they are remaking Land of the Lost into a feature film starring Will Ferrell. Since the original show was the essence of camp, I hope they still carry that through to the production as it is the main reason I would ever part with the money to see it.

ritualized

i placed my trust in her
my thrust in her
her bust bronzed and unforgiving
she stares at my profile
prefering plato to plotinus

her divinity was just a phase
assigned by guilty assignations
motivations to repair
the heat she dissipated
into the dusty books she preferred over me

the bird of madness flaps wet wings
and sings in the cloudy mirror
shower steam swirls like fog
the streams of blood left to memory
drained into pipes and smoked before dawn

with her gone i preserved what i could
and now she is good for ritual

Ways to Describe Someone as Stupid

This is definitely not a conclusive list...

1. A few clowns short of a circus.
2. A few fries short of a happy meal.
3. The wheel's spinning, but the hamster's dead.
4. All foam, no beer.
5. The butter has slipped off his pancake.
6. The cheese slid off his cracker.
7. Body by Sony, brains by Mattel.
8. Warning: Objects in mirror are dumber than they appear.
9. Couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel.
10. Fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.
11. As smart as bait.
12. Doesn't have all his dogs on one leash.
13. Her sewing machine's out of thread.
14. One fruit loop shy of a full bowl.
15. Her antenna doesn't pick up all the channels.
16. His belt doesn't go through all the loops.
17. Proof that evolution CAN go in reverse.
18. Receiver is off the hook.
19. Not wired to code.
20. Skylight leaks a little.
21. Her slinky's kinked.
22. Too much yardage between the goal posts.
23. Got a full 6-pack, but lacks the plastic thingy to hold them together.
24. A photographic memory, but the lens cover is on.
25. During evolution his ancestors were in the control group.
26. Gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming.
27. Is so dense, light bends around her.
28. If brains were taxed, he'd get a rebate.
29. Standing close to her, you can hear the ocean.
30. Some drink from the fountain of knowledge, but he just gargled.
31. One sandwich short of a picnic.
32. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
33. One of her DuraCells is in upside down.
34. His elevator doesn't stop at all the floors.
35. One taco shy of a combo platter.
36. One beer short of a six pack
37. The porchlight's on but no one's home

The Road to Coachella

Last year P-slim pitched the idea of going to this music festival in the Coachella valley as a "boys' weekend out" for some of us to hang out and enjoy the cornucopia of artists in a veritable orgy of music. The thought lasted a short while before the reality of regular life made the idea a pipe dream.

However, through this movie that's doing the festival circuit, I might be able to get a glimpse of what I would have experienced. It's a poor substitute for being there, but at least it is something.

the end of the spectacle

blowflies flit their wings and ovulate
maggotizing flesh in the midst of august nuptials
the first blush of dead blood
on its journey to becoming dust
(nothing more than liquid rust, i'm told)
though the repetition is getting old.

in paris they pray for a giant cunt
to fuck the eiffel tower once and for all
in st louis they pray for the arch to fall
in frisco that god will pry apart the golden gate
and light will expose these late wonders
as nothing more than a publicity stunt

gog and his dog eat pecan pie at nations
his jaw filled with fish hooks fights
washed with libations of soda water wine
hermaphrodite whispers fill skirt hems and straps
sidewalks crack under herr man's weight
promises of six sex annexed by gomer's fear
queer pushes humping sawhorses before gun shots
riddled with cum foreskin fumbled poses
dry humping
wet humping
pumping pneumatic dna mail delivery

of course you're alright baby
the cashmere cardigan hugs your lumps
and love sumps lick the foam from stiff fomentation
next of kin postulate reprobate morticians
drain the hose blood, refill the skin
pack the dead to suit the living's nose
with vitriol octane for the revival.

the savior swills his miller lite
and satan savors a vanilla coffeemate enema
before the fight, the faceless place their bets with cardinal bookies
confessions are at an all time high
so are thighs opened to receive penance
fragrances by mennen leap off the shelves
as obsession sales drop into the abyss
the great reversal as foretold
bold strokes of visionary fools
retooled by market forces felt in wall street

god is a corporation dispensing libations to the creation
too broad for the market?
how about:
god - everything you've always wanted from the beard, and less...

dryheaving dastard's liniments (straddling poohs of derivity)

slumber sticks to me like oil
dark graffiti for my eyes
pulls my fingers into light sockets
tangential to tangerine tangiers tarrantino tangled
queers quell quills quick my underpants are burning
this sicks to ficks the licks a;laskf laksdjf laskjfa;slkfj
i am boring snoring whoring touring blustering
a dullard with map but no wish to burn brun brum
what do ia wanna do wap dee doo doo

she's short on love but long on sex talk
where's my chequebook
fix me some eggs and lox my beechwood birch
could you hand me down a beggar bowl
my penis (or should i say crotch) is buried in the dirt pillorying this confounded vine
vitreous veneer venutian vitruvian vaginosis

alamanda connuculus tweaks her full cleavage until it resembles her ass
until she forgets if she's coming or going (but usually coming)
buttressed against the butler’s butter churner with pneumatic accuracy
delicate digitalis substitute kidney filters
her liver spots lurk under bleach paste
she preens in her pink party dress
coke snot dribbling the scar of her harelip
post nasal drip slipping after the xanax and cognac chaser
she flips her compact and checks the jagged rip of her lipstick luscious lolling perfect

dastard testiculi rocks the foxtail doorknocker mocking shave-n-a-haircut rhythms
jisms in his chinos a propos to his flimsy flick hairdo ego
ergo he knows he's devastatingly erect effecting felonious falafel eating fanfares
alamanda knickerless flicks on the porch light shaped like a pendulous boob
lubes her crotch wrap with cool whip slapped on like a butter boat
coaxes the sticky deadbolt closed then open then closed again
a house shag is always better when distressed dividends dissipate distant dust devils

dastard pulls open his blue van heusen button down and yanks his nipple ring
sings volare and swings his pendulous perfunctory hosebead
until passing out from oxygen deprecations devious anemic deficit
following falling doric delineations ironic into the holly bush
crushing his plush hush puppies with dismorphic rushdies

alamanda eyes her peep show and oils the hinges before opening the door hole
"damn ghost knockers" she mutters and unclasps her cross-your-heart bra
drool dribbles her double chin while she buffs her king clovis crown
corsair whips her wet harelip in the gale moonlight until it gleams

pristine chris green drives by pissed on listerine
observes the scene in the bordello whoreway
careens into a doily store totaling his volvo vagoneer squareback
virgo houses his yugo yogurt until he un-tangos from his wreck
peckering the path with the crumbs of nutterbutters
peanut paste smacking lipscombe larder tongue stuck to his palatial pope dome

"lllluhhhh lmlmhhhll lllluhhh" he mutters lovingly to alamanda's nylon knickerbockers
"well?" alamanda spits in his eyes and spies his lugubrious lovelorn lollygagger
"lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!" he lists about wringing fists and pinching his nip/tucks
"twenty bucks!" she beckons with her latex fuscia beef pole towards the pink hole in the cupola.
he drags his tripod tiddlywinks towards telltale titillation through the doorway
disrobing in flirtatious strips ripped in rope lengths across the foyer.

alamanda connuculus and chris green vaginate vacillate vegetate until daybreak
fossilizing in the deep freeze when the axis flips
and end up as stone chips in the terramundo excavation display on argos 3 circa lun 23059030
admission by free donation of 45 dsplicaboijs to the overlone musalero preldibabthoerean

askdhj aioh awero2iv ;aoiej a;lksnadonfwenlkdsfjod
asdflkasl
as sadflkj owiej dsifj oasd
asdfoijaweoij sfa
asnklsdf

adslk ho

end-o

new year new

exploded fireballs are shiny markers between numbers flipped over six channels of regis and half-brained dick discoballs and tongues catching confetti to jutting hips and drunk cops patrolling cleavage gowns split in even halves sequined slits wet with banter swaggering talent greased for cameras sliding between legs of years spitting cigarettes in gutters churning trash party hats twirled from expectations with new orgasms thrust froglike in dark armpits stumbled over sidewalk of vomit puddles splattered in beer spray again again spray beer in splattered puddles of vomit sidewalk over stumbled armpits dark in froglike thrust orgasms new with expectations from twirled hats party trash churning gutters in cigarettes spitting years of legs between sliding cameras for greased talent swaggering banter with wet slits sequined halves even in split gowns cleavage patrolling cops drunk and hips jutting to confetti catching tongues and discoballs dick half-brained and regis of channels six over flipped numbers between markers shiny are fireballs exploded

"Well...

"...the amateur drunks have taken over and will hold this town until Jan. 2…driving on the wrong side of the street, running red lights, bellowing the same songs. Figs of people, twigs of people, shits of people…MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY NEW YEAR. Christomighty, yeah.”

-Bukowski

He talked exactly what I wanted to hear

People may think that Dubya speaks badly due to substandard intelligence. But actually it is all part of the genius of his main speechwriter...

a poem about prairie dogs

down to prairie dog town

"One litter is born to the Prairie Dog female each year. During a 4- or 5- hour estrus, a female Prairie Dog may mate with as many as 5 different males, allowing pups from the same litter to have different fathers...."

three hundred and sixty four and three quarters days
men wander the streets
keeping watch, digging tunnels
training the young to burrow and bark
funneling tension in the occasional run
marking time in feedings and rest
and watching the sky like a widescreen tube.
the best shows distract libidos.
no fantasizing about fat rolls,
fur holes,
or willing bodies flopped languidly on the dirt;
only one channel with clouds and the fiery ball circled by hawks.

the desert sunsets don't inspire romance here.
stars never flirt with cynomis nocturnal hopes.
teenage couples don't park at the point,
and no admission to any emissions
when young males are alone in the dark.

there are no bordellos, no bitches of the night
no bar fights over possible mates
or hooning in tricked out cars
or flashy threads, cheap scents
or posturing over size.
the men realize this means nothing.
jealousy and loss are not immortalized in song.
there are no long engagements or promises of love,
no child support or requirements to pay the rent.
no. all that matters in time and place is luck
for once the waiting time is done
all the females want to fuck.

two poemettes

A Poem Whose Title is a Little Longer Than the Actual Poem Itself

A Panda sticks bamboo
Between its teeth
And mutters,
“Shoot me.”
15/12/05


A Gal Giving Gus a Gander before She Guns His Galantry Down for Good

She pulls a gun from her garter belt
Almost exposing her g-string.
“Gee,” she says putting her finger to her cheek,
Then, “Gotcha,”
And winks.
15/12/05

Where's My Rake?

I hope you're good at charades...

The Physics of Penguin Whacking Polar Bears

Here's a fun diversion which should waste some time.

Cheers to DD for the link...

Commute, No Commutation

Morning cars line up for the green
Farting steam, sweating, dripping, bleary headlights staring
Each a muffled dissonance of radio vibrations
Each a branded appellation

I walk in the carbon-monoxide mist,
The frost still gripping the broken grass
In yellow patches where a dog pissed.
The fogged glass of commuters
Push past the congested gas station
To pull into a glutted parking lot
Near the dull hum of the Bart tracks.

I have no hat
So I shrug in my wool coat
And trace the slow curve of the street.
Cars shuffle and queue
Like cows soon to be meat.
People pre-packed in their Christmas boxes
Are conveyed by this concrete rut
Butt to nose to butt
To their transport destination.

I mumble my thoughts by the frozen park.
The swings still and the tan bark
Clumps in mounds around dark patches.
Children grounded by the season
Are at home eating Cheerios near the heater vent
Bent over the bowl, cupping cold orange juice.
Sensible parents click the TV remote
And drink coffee in morning robes.

My lobes become numb
As I make my way to the bus without parental fuss
On the strip of grey tongue that unrolls like a welcome
Into the gullet of a December day

Instant Status

Isn't most of Western Society like this?

Bird Food

Poems are boorish things
Never perfect, sometimes obtuse
Requiring dictionaries
Clarifications
Loose interpretations like a sack
Caught at the end of the morning’s line
Only to be detached, examined and thrown right back

The poem is a worm
Eaten by early birds
Words placed in sequence but out of sync
In ways that make dull heads think
Or ache
Language is broken to be remade
The poem is a bastard creation

Ever since we boxed up meaning
We made experiments to shake it
Crack it
Break it into halves
Wear it like hats when we're drunk and slurring
The blur of words churning in the bowl
Maybe it would be easier to unpack feelings
And let them roll on the kitchen floor
Underfoot while we’re cooking
And when no one’s looking
We kick them squealing out the door

Poetry is for the birds
Let them pick over it on the lawn
And then before a sentence finishes
With a flap of wings like applause
It’s gone.

The Haka - An NZ educational moment

The haka is a traditional war cry of the Maori people in NZ, but it is used by NZ sports teams before matches, especially the All Blacks rugby team. It is essentially a way to rally the warriors for the battle ahead and intimidate the enemy. This link has some good background info about the haka as well as a demo to watch with the words translated into english. When you get a group of about 20 Maori with their chests bared, bugging out their eyes and stomping the ground, it's pretty darn impressive, not to mention a little scary.

Because the haka is a trademark of NZ culture, there are naturally those less sensitive countries in the commonwealth, namely England and of course Australia that make fun of it in their media. At least the English parody allows you to create your own and send it to friends. What better e-mail to send to your NZland compatriots (if you have any that is)....

Big John

It's a note that cuts men to the quick, no? Gotta love that engrish...

Work Like a Jerk

I work in an office that's closing next year.

I’m a contractor, so it’s not a big deal for me. When I started in the job, I knew it had a ‘use by’ date, but there were indications that the office’s days were numbered as well.

First off, there was no full time manager there. Occasionally, JJ from the head office would come out and play manager, but mainly he was just babysitting. Secondly, the production environment was getting moved to the head office before the end of the year. Thirdly, all the grey cubicles were empty as well as half the individual offices.

I didn’t mind. For the first time in my career, I got my own office with a large pseudo-mahogany desk, two whiteboards and two sizeable potted plants.

A month after I started though, I was walking past the boardroom and the entire staff was in there for a meeting. They did not look happy. An officious looking youngish man in a black suit was before them using corporate-speak and firm overtones while a Latino security guard stood next to him and staunchly eyed the group. Also a lady from HR in her mid 40s with big hair wearing a pink blazer sat close by and made notes, occasionally glancing at the stony faces around her.

Since then, the office has the feeling of death row.

Other things which contribute to that rudderless-approaching-the-waterfall feeling are:

-The office manager (OM) was jilted in the payouts, so she doesn’t come to the office much. Plus she’s recovering from a brain aneurism last year. One word that comes to mind which summarizes her is “Jangly”.

-There is no receptionist

-There are only three of us in my wing of the office.

-All the magazines subscriptions are dated 2004

-Every month at least one of the staff leaves.

-The remaining staff talk about retention bonuses and where they plan on working next.

Needless to say, attempting to maintain a motivated attitude here is a challenge. One good thing from all this is that I’ve become very adept at cleaning up offices once people go.

My supervisor (S) is one of the bright spots in coming to work. He’s a transplant from the East coast and uses expressions like: schmuck, knucklehead and bimbo as well as phrases like “Kick’em in the nuts” and “Gotta shake the dew.” He describes himself as a non-conformist who doesn’t like dealing with other people’s bullshit. He is also very forthright about his fondness for women with breast augmentations and scopes openly, even when I’m talking to him.

“Nothing like a woman with plastic tits. Breasts that fight back. Gotta love ‘em.”

His plan is to wait things out until the company decides to close the office.

“Then I get my retention, and I’m outta here.”

He’s one to get things done, but he’s so demoralized here that he doesn’t bother anymore. Friday afternoons, he plays Luxor for a couple of hours on the PC in his office.

Some days are interesting, but most are not. Being a hospice nurse for a dying office is not something I hope to do again. Every week, a bit more bleakness sets in. Soon, nothing will get done at all.

Fortune Surprise

Wouldn't you be gutted?

up, up and away!

every have those dreams where you are flying? looks like someone had one and made it into a cool little universe...

Why ask why?

For those of you with good questions, here is a place for you to feel at home. Props to DD and BS (yes those are her real initials) for sending it through.

I've gleaned a sample for your daily intake of irony:

Why do we teach kids that violence is not the answer and then have them read about wars in school that solved America's problems?
Why do most people put more effort into their wedding than their actual marriage?
Why do people say, "you've been working like a dog" when dogs just sit around all day?
If marriage means you fell in love, does divorce mean you climbed out?
If we had a president that was a woman, would her husband be the first man?
If a deaf person has to go to court, is it still called a hearing?
Why do they put Canadian bacon on Hawaiian Pizza?
If you don't pay your exorcist, do you get repossessed?
Why is Bra singular and Panties plural?
If ignorance is bliss, why aren’t more people happy?
If rabbits' feet are so lucky, then what happened to the rabbit?
Do pigs pull ham strings?
If you decide that you're indecisive, which one are you?
Why do drugstores make the sick walk all the way to the back of the store to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front?
What do you say when someone says you're in denial, but you're not?

a hole in the ground - now only half price

In time for the holidays, a cemetary in Greenwood SC is having a sale on their plots. The manager says that "Half off of a cemetery space is a good bargain."

I say they should advertise it as a two for one sale:

Car crash? Suicide pact? Lover's quarrel with shotguns? No problem!

Bury two loved ones for the price of one at GMGM, but only for a limited time.
(Plots are not guaranteed to be side by side)

DeadEasy(tm) Credit available. No co-signers or credit references necessary. Se habla espanol.

So come down and see us on the green side of Greenwood...

a second spectacular specular

this posie was sent to me:


A man went to the zoo
There was only a dog there
It was a shitzu

wandering around didn't take long, he thought

It was a shitzu
There was only a dog there
A man went to the zoo

specular speculoid

A specular poem...where the second half of the poem unfolds.. like a mirror image of the first, using the lines in the reverse order....


settling in

i let your call go to voicemail
call-waiting is a boon to the timid
refusing to talk, not wanting to fail
i spent the day putting away my things

cardboard boxes dissolve into trash
rash choices crumpled like paper
half of which i left behind
like the days i wasted waiting for your smile.

the garage shelves are stacked with old files

like the days i wasted waiting for your smile
half of which i left behind
rash choices crumpled like paper
cardboard boxes dissolve into trash

i spent the day putting away my things
refusing to talk, not wanting to fail
call-waiting is a boon to the timid
i let your call go to voicemail.

Chapter Seven

I.
I spent nights over cups of coffee
Laughing at the way my skin inches down
Watching the late acts in wayward bars
The bare stragglers choking on smoke
Dull eyed, black eyed, christened by the dead
Dreams of endless head and breasts
In electric reproduction sucked by red globes
Bare lobes distressed with guitar distortion
The motion of living drawn from each drag
Fags with fags gagging on virtual cocks
Beneath Big Al’s socks and the serpent,
Rome’s steps only seconds away

II.
Chinese steam huffs through beaten doorways
Where sideways Asian looks mingle with frying duck
And cheap goods fuck in garish display.
I strayed far from the main road
Walking like a folding chair
John street, Bush street
Up Nob hill and down again.
Victorian buildings stacked like dominoes,
Casual hoes displaying their wares,
Popping pills with low stares, strutting slow.
They catcall me and I know their bodies,
I know their souls,
Sagged and shrinking, sucked at by coffins
Promises of nothing, often,
Followed by leers of grief and sorrow
Their legs are borrowed and thrown aside
The Seeing Eye stuffed into their damp brassieres.

III.
O’Farrell playbills decorate abandoned walls
By the beggars sleeping in cardboard stalls
The pall of filth living their creases
The city lives in patches of grime
Smeared by time over pieces of sleeping bags used as coats
And coats used as shirts
And shirts as rags for their feet.
Bums hold out their hands and I look at them blind.

IV.
My soul is an island

V.
Shame grows in dark pools on Market Street
As cars choke the artery with eyes glowing
Always flowing in a huddle against the unknown hurt outside
Strangers never meet and part ways forever.
Humans enjoy a good slide
Until they hit the dirt.

VI.
I take my ride and leave by the east bridge.
The ridge of hills is the refuge
I refuse to leave behind.
The Caldecott hole is orange and warm
And already I feel clean
With the murky bay behind me.

VII.
I spent nights over cups of coffee
Laughing at the way my skin inches down
To the dark town, the dirty town
Where promises of nothing are often kept
Close to the yellow fog
That circles the city like a crown.

pens and pen aunts and pennance

Some days I don’t want my friends or these ligaments that bind me
Religion finds me under the pew by the worn shoes of parishioners.
Smelling of fish and stained with blood
Wishing Jesus saved the good chewing gum and crumbs
Crushed by the shuffle of soles
Wet with drips holy water
Pressed through the holes ripped in pant knees
Stone on thin skin under bone
By the shiny feet of daughters and sons
Who get dragged to the dogma house and can't leave.

I grieve for the lost days spent confined in the confessional
Heavy hands on my shoulders
Waiting for the guilt to disrobe me.

Kasakhstan vs Borat

It looks like Sacha Cohen has finally upset a government with his Kazakh host persona, Borat. Kazakhstan is threatening to take him to court after he hosted the MTV Europe music awards this month. An excerpt from the article states:

"We do not rule out that Mr. Cohen is serving someone's political order designed to present Kazakhstan and its people in a derogatory way," Kazakh Foreign Ministry spokesman Yerzhan Ashykbayev told a news briefing.

Political order? Borat? Puhleeeeeeeeeze.....