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
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Monday, December 26, 2005
"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
-Bukowski
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
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...
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
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.
"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.
Friday, December 16, 2005
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
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
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Friday, December 09, 2005
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
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
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
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.
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)....
Friday, December 02, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
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?
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?
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
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...
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...
Monday, November 28, 2005
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
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
Sunday, November 27, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
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.
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.