Monday, November 12, 2007

Terrible Explosion

There was
a terrible explosion
this weekend
in my
pants.

It smelled like
week-old
fried chicken
and eggs
and came
imbued with a
certain darkness.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Chapter 2

"You got the brains of a fucking sweat sock I swear," she said. Helen Handfuls was a mean-spirited lady. Helen wasn't a pretty woman, but she wasn't ugly either. She was about equal parts hobo lady and Cindy Crawford, and she had a smile that looked like Brad Pitt's that she rarely used except to invite salespeople or Jehovah's Witnesses into the house. She had big hands for a woman, too. Man hands, and they made hard fists. Just ask Harry. If anyone could run Harry down it was his wife Helen. She was strong-willed and intolerable to most people including her loved ones, but for some reason that I will reveal later in the story, Harry put up with it.

"You been drinking again," she said, "and by the looks of your hands fightin' too. What the hell's wrong with you, huh?"

Harry sat down on the couch. It was an old couch and had lots of stains on it, like from popcorn butter and chocolate and probably ejaculate too after Harry's nephew spent that week with them last summer and slept on the couch.

"Dear, you know I need to unwind after a hard day's work," he said.

"Hard day's work my fucking ass," she retorted. "What work? You're a fucking butcher for Christ's sake! Kiss my ass, work. Ha."

Harry shook his head. "I don't mean to be difficult dear, but you should try to cut hunk after hunk of meat day after day. All the blood and the meat and the fat and the cuts. It takes its toll on a person."

"Let me get the fucking baby a goddamn diaper," she screamed. "You pissbag. That's you, Harry, you're a stinkin' pissbag. You want to know what a real job is? I got a stack of fucking essays in there on the goddamned bed, and they're sure as shit not going to read themselves. By the time I get through with that shit, I'll be ready for a cyanide capsule and a shovel over the goddamn head. Got it?

"And another thing, I gotta stand up in front of a bunch of wisecracking eighth graders all goddamn day long and take their shit. You think that's fun, Harry? You think that's fun ballsack? Why don't you eat the scabby boogers in my fucking nose if you think that sounds like your cup of motherfucking tea you bastard? You gotta sit there and listen to your fucking easy fucking listening radio station while you slice goddamn filet off of a goddamn beef loin. Whoopty doo, ass scab!"

"You're right, dear," he said. They'd been through this hundreds of times before. Being an English teacher, in her eyes was simultaneously the most unrewarding job in the whole universe while also allowing her the ability to save the world from the plague of evils that were fighting for control. She saw herself as a cross between Mother Theresa and Rodney Dangerfield: doing good works, but getting no respect.

So, it's me again, the narrator. I should probably tell you that Harry Handfuls is not just a butcher. Oh yes, that's his front, but you have a lot more to learn about the life and times of this hardass. Harry's career is difficult to explain, and I will probably try to do it a little later in the story because I'm feeling kind of lazy right now, and I'm sure as hell not going to come back and revise this stuff. So, let's just say for now that Harry considers himself a freelancer. Now, you probably think that I mean assassin or hitman or some other cliche like that. Well, think again motherfucker! You're wrong. That ain't it at all. You'll just have to wait for the next chapter I guess.

Basically, Harry spent the night sitting in front of the television watching some bullshit reality shows or something and thinking about his taxes and who he might vote for in the upcoming election. Helen had goddamn essays to grade so she basically just emerged from the bedroom every hour or so to remind him that he was a worthless piece of scum and to refill her glass of Arbor Mist.

Just as Harry was about to doze off in his easy chair, the phone rang. He had a boner. He answered the phone. A man's voice was on the line. His voice was smooth and intelligent. Like a well-read stick of butter or a William Faulkner description of warm cream.

"Is this Harry Handfuls?" the man asked.

"Yes, it is," Harry said. His eyes probably like sharpened, and if you don't mind, try to imagine that Harry has some kind of like wrinkles or something around his eyes to help depict his age.

"I need to place an order," the man said. He was hell of serious.

"How did you get my number?" Harry asked. It was a standard question. A script. He asked it of all his customers, if they were first timers or old regulars.

"A friend," the man answered.

"And what's the code?" Harry asked.

"Vortex," the man answered.

"Okay," Harry said. "What can I do for you?"

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Terrible Poet? Nah, Now I'm a Terrible Novelist

I have decided to expand my horizons as a writer. I will still write the same terrible poetry which you all seem to hate so much. Starting today, however, I will paint the walls of this blog with a different kind of poop. I will a terrible novel, serialized right here. Here's the first part of my terrible novel.

Chapter One

So, there was this guy. He was a pretty handsome guy, in a rugged construction worker or infantryman sort of way. A lot of people thought they'd like to sleep with him just based on his appearance. And he was hell of tough. He had really big muscles and his skin was rough like sandpaper. Not like the little grit sandpaper, like the 400 grit or whatever, but more like the 40 or 60 grit. You know the kind of stuff that feels like it has chunks of goddamn glass in it and shit. That's what this guy's skin felt like. And one way I knew he was tough was that he could sit through an entire episode of Access Hollywood and not even crack a goddamn smile. It was crazy.

Anyway, he was coming out of this bar, when all of a sudden a truckful of good-for-nothing dipshits pulled up in front of the bar. They were like these twentysomething nimrods who like ride around town on skateboards and listen to Skinny Puppy and Cradle of Filth. And so anyway, this guy, um, let's call him Harry Handfuls, he was pretty drunk okay? And he said something like, "What's up, scumbags?"

And so these young guys had taken a lot of speed or PCP or crack or maybe just a bunch of Monster brand energy drink or whatever, and they were out of their mind raging for a fight. The leader of this band of merry pranksters said something really original like, "Fuck you buddy," or something like that. And another one sort of laughed and flipped him the bird as hopped out of the truck.

Well Harry Handfuls--let's just get one thing straight here, as narrator to reader: Harry Handfuls is a badass. He doesn't take shit from anybody, except his loving wife, who is a schoolteacher and probably like the lady at the bank drivethrough because she's sweet and reminds him of his grandma--didn't take kindly to these puckerlovers taunting him or talking back to him. Hell, they had probably not even paid their taxes last year and that made him really pissed off, being the responsible taxpayer that he was.

So, 3/4 drunk on Jack Daniels whiskey, and 1/4 drunk on some sort of Jagermeister concoction that Dick Kinisky kept ordering for him at the bar, Harry Handfuls started tearing these boys apart. The first one, their leader, looked a lot like that fucking Dauber guy from that show Coach who also does the voice for that stupid starfish on SpongeBob SquarePants--kind of a big galoof with thin blonde hair and just about awkward as hell. Harry punched this goofy motherfucker about three times before the guy could even flip the silly hair out of his eyes. He went down screaming and blood squirting out of his eyes and nose and probably his ear, too, but since I'm not totally omniscient I can't really tell or couldn't remember or something. Give me a break, I'm trying to remember. It all happened pretty fast.

Right about this time, one of the other guys, a wiry fellow who looked a lot like how a person would look if a demon made Abraham Lincoln knock up Carrot Top and they had a baby together. This dude was a huge turd. So, he grabbed his skateboard and swung it at Harry Handfuls from behind him. Harry knew it was coming, and he spun around and threw his arm up to shield the blow. The skateboard shattered on Harry's massive forearm, which looked like flesh colored granite or some other kind of strong rock. As the boy started to weep, he said, "My skateboard, it's shattered."

And Harry said, "Your face, it's shattered." And he punched that kid right between the eyes, and tears came squirting out in all directions. And blood too. Copious amounts of blood. It was funny. The kid kind of went weak-kneed and just collapsed like a tree that had been cut down or something even more pathetic than that.

Then Harry grabbed one of the parking meters and ripped it out of the sidewalk. I told you he was tough. And I think he must have had some super powers or something, too, because some of the shit this guy gets into later is really messed up, let me tell you. So, he grabbed this meter and started swinging it like a baseball bat. The rest of the guys started backing up, and saying things like, "Whoa mister we don't want any more trouble," and that kind of stuff all clicking away their switchblades and setting the safety back on their pistols.

Harry had so much DNA on his fist from the two guys he punched out that he could have made a frigging clone army. He wiped his hand on his jeans and said, "I hope you boys have learned a valuable lesson today: Don't fuck with Harry Handfuls." They were all like "Yessir," and "Mm-hmm," and just scrambling to get back in the bed of the pickup truck which probably like belonged to one of their dads or something. Idiots.

Harry walked to his Nissan Sentra and unlocked the door. He was pretty responsible, and he knew he shouldn't drive home since he was so drunk. Even though he could probably drive hell of better than most of the people on the road anyway. But he thought, Well, fuck it, I'm in the mood for a run. So, he put his car keys back in his pocket and took off running down the street. His muscles flexed and jiggled with his running pace or something.

Um let's see for the setting. Oh yeah, there were like some cars driving on the street. And lots of trees. I don't really know or care to know much about different types of trees, but they were probably some maple trees and a few oak trees. And of course people had yards with grass and flowers in them. It was a nice day outside. But there were dark clouds looming somewhere up there . . .

Saturday, September 01, 2007

A Little Ditty for the Lovestruck Monkey Inside Your Soul Who Longs for an Invitation to a Dinner Party He's Never Even Heard of Before

If you like apples,
you'll love bananas,
but if you love pineapples,
then you won't love anything else at all.

Friday, August 31, 2007

Roscoe Wrangler, Honkytonk Homeslice

Like a tornado I was spun into this world,
blown free from mamma's womb in a dust
storm of blood and sweat and shit and
doctor hands and wet wailing baby cries.

Now I'm a man. It wasn't long in the coming.
I ain't nothing more than some pieces of cosmic dust,
held together by a conglomeration of badass skills and
kill, kill, kills piled one neatly on top of another.

I dance the night away like a fistfight in a crowded bar
with a drag queen for a bartender and the bar
filled with ex-cons sucking beers
who ain't seen a real vagina in years.

I shake and twist and shimmy, my hips thrust and thrive
my arms pump and shake and juke, and I jive, baby, jive,
and my throat clears at the sight of a lady.

Sweat drips from my brow, and yet I dance the ceiling, dance the floors.
It's, it's, it's in the very double helix of my being,
I'll dance and stomp that floor until the walls fall down and
the ceiling collapses o'erhead, and then I'll grab my hat
and dance on down the road to the next gin joint
filled with easy women and sawdust on the floor.

I'm Roscoe Wrangler, Honkytonk Homeslice,
I'm like a flaming drink spilled on your lap,
or a rattlesnake in your bed.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

There Are Only Three Arms in This Race to the Pudding

Once, twice, three times a
squab.
Up, jump, turn around and
kill, kill, kill.
Down times three plus seventy
eight, eight, eight.

The French might eat you,
they might gobble you up,
but fear nothing, for their
accents are far worse than their bites.

The bite of a nightowl in the throes
of seduction by suction,
a disemboweled dream, and a disconnected
tissue of memory. We make sounds,
but they are not always nice
or angry, sometimes they are loving and soft,
like the bristles on the underbelly of a dead rhinoceros.

Ceros! Ceros!
they've come to get you again.
Wake up, I cannot carry you again,
not this time. I am too weak.
Their poisons have made my muscles
tired and small, and my mucous
is no longer wet, but dry and
hard, and it makes me
wheeze in the air of this world
I will soon depart,
but Ceros, please,
before they arrive, you must leave
or you will leave this world for good.

And then comes the cannibals of
Necchaubinzalim, they who eat the hair
as well as the flesh and the air that permeates
the membranes of their 18" of personal space,
they gnash and bite at the flies that hum and
hover over redness and wetness, as if to say,
"YOU STAY AWAY! THIS IS MINE, MINE, MINE!!"
But then they will grow up to become fine
young politicians some day, concerned with only
the hairs and fleshes of those silly enough
to cast a vote in their direction.

Up to bed,
and an organ plays softly in the night air,
a body on its downward rot, and the mind
not quite what it used to be,
that organ always reminds her of her younger
church days, when she believed,
believed in something, but now what does
she believe in?
Liver spots or liverwurst, but surely not a
God who protects and cherishes. Rather in
hurricanes that sweep over land and air, sucking
and heaving and whipping and pushing,
and the smell of people who just couldn't swim any
more.
The news tells her all about it now.

Zip top flash pan, up and coming Naobi,
a turn in the tin suck is a fourscore
and seven years ago. The much muck created
in the scundulous, skindulour is of no
use in the fly's only abode. In the ear
of a man, is the wax we need to keep breathing
our air.

Don't go anywhere!
Don't go away.
Can't you see they need you?
Their bodies need your eyes.
Keep watching them on your TV.
Keep reading the scandal sheets on your computer.
Their bodies will waste away without your eyes.
They will waste away to nothing without your words,
scathing or praising, it doesn't matter.
They feed off of you,
the parasites of Celebricity.

Thomas Edison, you goddamn sonofabitch,
Topsy didn't deserve to die just
because she killed three people.
An eye is definitely an eye when
it comes to marketing electricity.
She was abused:
how would you feel if
you were fed a lit cigarette?

Friday, July 27, 2007

Say Hello to Dr. Carl

Dr. Carl is an associate of mine,
if you really want to get down to lead poisoning.
After receiving his M.D. in Carnage,
Dr. Carl started his own practice . . .
practicing his sadistic techniques on
anyone who would come in the front door,
be they man, ape, woman, child, pinky finger,
or Pinky Tuscadero (goddamn you Fonzie!)
He advertised in little local rags,
with a picture of his smiling, flawless
face and gentle, masculine hands, saying,
"Come on in. See Dr. Carl. I'll cure what ails you."
And they did, and he did.
Cured them all the way into shallow graves
out back of his house of horrors.
Till the law got wise, started sniffing around
Carl's axe-shack of love and biohazard.
Carl took to the hills, and he's been on the run
ever since.
I never pass judgment on ol' Carl, who's grown out
a beard now, and passes his time here and there
in the malls of small cities or along their recently
renovated riverfront plazas, passing out fliers advertising
love and fun
and new attractions, he's just trying to earn an honest
buck, and what business is it of mine?

Is he a damn good man? Hell no.
He's a devil in fleshtones, and in tribute,
I present some of examples of my terrible artwork
called "Themes on Dr. Carl's Something Something."






Thursday, July 05, 2007

Early a Man

I'm grisled.
And chiseled from old wood,
and like an old stump in the ground,
I'm rooted in my ways.

I know that freedom ain't cheap,
and I got blood on my hands,
and memories I'd sure like to get rid of,
but whatta you know about it, ya punk.
You young punks who think everything
ought to be handed to you.
It was my trigger finger that gave you
the privilege to wear
your hair long and sleep till noon
and listen to that goddamn hippie music.
But you don't have a clue.
You just see me sitting in my booth at
Hardee's and drinking coffee with my
friends and you think I'm old and strange.

Well, I was young once, and I was early a man.
And I would've kicked that smirk
right the hell offa your face
if you'd treated me
with anything but the utmost respect.
That's how we did things back then.

Friday, June 29, 2007

Upon My Break-in at the Sperm Bank to Retrieve a Changed Mind

I've been around long enough
to know which semen is my semen,
but you can never be too sure
in a place like this.

And I don't have much time.

So I'll fill my backpack with
every entry under "M" I can find and
make a run for it.

What was I thinking, anyway?
I already have enough kids
I don't know,
and who don't,
know me, or probably care to
after what their mothers have
told them about me.

As long as these vials don't thaw out
or burst before I can bury them,
I'll be fine.

Jesus Christ!

Thursday, June 21, 2007

It's Doctor

To my wife, I'm Dan.
To my kids, Daddy.
To my mom, it's Danny Boy.
But to you, pal,
it's Dr. Bailey.

p.s. You are a bag of ballsweat.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Zing sing-a-ding ding ding

Imagine a world where Vachel Lindsay
had balls made of titanium, and he
traveled back and forth across the vast
plains of this country, smashing them
in a vise for applause and booze money.

Imagine a world where Abraham Lincoln
never died, but was instead abducted
by rabid alien forces and forcefully
evolved into an ass-kicking robot
that wore a stovepipe hat.

Imagine a world where Joan of Arc
fed her entrails to vultures atop some
pristine French hillside while
she doodled in a notebook all the things
she imagined a life could become.

Or imagine this!
A world where Bob Dylan and Ronald Reagan
slept spoon handle to handle together every
night and raised their adopted children in a
quaint little blue working class home.

Imagine. Imagine this, too.
Imagine a world where
JFK was hacked to bits by a crazy with an axe
instead of shot to death by a conspiracy
on a Fall day in Texas.

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Gleam of Knife

I'm a good man,
who got pushed too far.

There's no love in San Sulpice,
there's no twist in Penelope's neck,
there's no anger in that old prick's face over there,
there's no reason to be jealous,
but there is a gleam of knife with your name on it.

I've been drinking, sure,
and I'm drunk right now.
My name is James Herring,
and I'm going to kill you
for what you've done to me.
When I find you, your time's run out,
you've wasted it on a life
that lacked courage and
the ability to forge healthy relationships.

I believe in things,
I do.
And when you believe in things,
you can only be so flexible,
before you realize something
needs done.

It's time to clean up this mess.

A tree is planted in the forest
by the forces of nature
and THAT is no different than what
I'm about to do.

My name is James Herring.

I'm a good man,
who got pushed too far.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

The Barber of Seville

My sister was murdered,
by a man named Smith,
but the police had forgotten her name.

"I'll nail that sumbitch,
I'll nail him good,"
I said,
and my road took me to Seville.

High school year books and librarians
can't help me.
They only spin tales
of the past,
but a call from a brother and a word from a mother,
and once again I am sniffing the trail.

Smith, you see, once made a box.
It held the remains of his wife,
but not of my sister, of another young
blister on the palm of this man's life.

He killed her and chopped her
and laid her to rest
in this hard, cold splintery grave.

A divorce she had asked, but it was his will
to kill her and hide her away,
and not till his brother came forward to speak,
his brother, the barber of Seville
did I have a good lead
to find where my sister might lay.

That barber, o barber who trimmed men's hairs
all the livelong. He'd visited AA meetings
for twelve long years but this secret still
ate him alive.

He knew the box, both inside and out,
he'd seen her face and her rainbow hair
and the rolls of clothes folded 'neath her.
And he went to the cops,
finally,
after all these long years and told them
of grandpa's old barn.

Someday, I hope to forget Seville,
that little old town in Ohio,
but until then, I will wait in my skin
and mourn my dear lost lonely sister.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Ode on Tasteless Little Sausages and Fat, Fat Cows

The meat grinder of time
grinds on, grinds you down
into little sausages.

Little tasteless sausages,
terrified sausages, afraid to speak,
afraid to think or act.

You've been seasoned white
with fear, worry, and anger;
the seasonings of modern experience.

Once you marched along,
such tender, sweet pieces of meat,
and so pure and unique.

Now you're tainted by fenced-in cows
who will only eat the green grass of home,
and tell you you're no longer safe in your own backyard.

And that meat grinder blends you
all together into that same batch
of tasteless, quivering sausage.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

We Tried It Once, and It Didn't Work

O those pioneer days,
those early, early pioneer days!

The man with few cows comes to Loami
to survive with the least milk,
and those are the rules of the phalanx.

Sweet Theophilus Sweet, you reverend
of communion and communism and communal love,
in this phalanx we called the Sangamon Association.

What have you gotten yourself into out there in Loami?
How much will you learn from those Frenchmen in Nauvoo?
How many names will you learn before the plan goes belly up, like a hog on slaughterin' day?

A division of labor,
is the word of the day,
as women work their way out of kitchen,
and creekside washtubs, and itty bitty
baby bundles along the walking path.

A division of labor,
those men, all strapping lads,
all sweat and hair and muscle,
cracking rocks and chopping timber,
digging graves and saying grace.

A division of funds,
throw it all in the same pot,
and everyone throw in a hand,
equal or not, throw in a hand,
and share with your brothers and sisters.

Down in Loami town, this thing didn't last too long,
for Unity House, with all its aspirations, was still
only a house for Man, and then again,
wasn't that the problem to begin with?

Monday, April 16, 2007

On Mourning at VT

What kind of a world
do we live in where people
are killed trying to make
something of their life?

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Chuck Brodsky

Little purple flowers on trees don't mean shit,
unless you have the heart to take it all in.

A man can be a man and still understand the
intricate whispers of the world around him.

Floating over this masquerade we call a life,
it's easy to see where the fires need put out.

Just keep your wits about you and keep your eyes on the ball,
you'll see the day coming when you can roll out of bed.

If Chuck Brodsky ever really woke up,
he would write a song to change the world.

And you could too, if you would ever start breathing again.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Darkness in a Bottle of Lysol

Hell don't have no fury
for Vachel Lindsay,
whose travels meant a lot
or a little to the men of his day.

Vachel, my boy, you splashed the
front pages with the words of your
journeys, but it took more than this
to fill you up.

You missed Sara. You longed for her.
Missed her scent, the colors she wore,
always favoring blue. You missed her
kind words and her soft heart for yours.

You married too late, to a youngster,
and how she demanded the money, only you
were in more for words than money, and you never
really provided her the life she needed.

When little Nick came along it was too much.
Sweet Susie had been a burden, but Nick pushed too hard
and Liz never really understood you, especially not
the way Sara had.

And Ernst, what had she seen in him, anyway?
He was but a rich man in money, not in words and ideas
and experiences as you were, and you tried to tell her
this, but she wouldn't listen again and again and again.

You went on writing poems about her and bemoaning her
friendship and mutual admiration, but it was love that you
wanted, to get a hand on her again, to love her and hold
her in the pastures the way you once had.

The city didn't love you, and the men wanted their money,
and your wife was in love with the children in her life,
and it was words that you loved, words, words, words, but
it was darkness you finally chose.

Darkness in a glug, glug, glug bottle of Lysol while you
read through your papers and wondered why they'd never loved
you how you deserved or how they'd loved glug, glug, glug,
their other sons and then it was a final glug, glug, glug, for you.

On the Juxtaposition Between the Juvenile and Infinitesimal

When the dark star crashes,
I will be left to tarry here
with no one to taste but you.

I am going crazy right before your eyes,
but you ignore it and pretend like daylight
fills you up, both heart and soul.

The day will come when worms will eat your eyes
and delightful desserts will be their only
next goal, and then we will remain lovers.

A guitar wail plays in the distance, beautiful but lonely,
the only words you speak, as your tongue was long ago
self-removed, and you cry a silent tear.

There has been no sound in these hills but the scutter
and scuttle of rats for so long that it's no wonder that
everyone cries at the sound of beautiful music.

I have known the survivors of long bouts with the cough
and with the whoop and the TB. I have known them well enough,
have seen then collapse in the sorrowful lung for one another.

Never again, will I suppress my anxiety for the love of youth,
you will never again repay me for the debts of kindness
bespoken to you, or bespoiled of your character.

A knife plunges deep into the heart of madness and renders
even it confused as Joseph Conrad and Patrick Moore hold hands
and do the dance of those obsessed with the lightness of humanity.

Unfold your presence to me, flit about with electric energy,
dance the rafters in an exquisite trance of omnipresence,
tell me there is "something out there, something fantastic."

Light the skies with your mind, and tell the world you know it,
meanwhile, I will sit idly by holding my own hands, folded
comfortably in my lap, laughing to myself at your naivete.

For you are a fool, and if ever the world reflected your silly
sense of self, we'd all leave ourselves at the doormat and bring
only the chaos of our spiritual energies to the orgies we create.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

O Robert Pulliam!

He had facial hair cut like a dragon,
a coonskin cap, and a peg-a-leg like a
rum-guzzling pirate.

Among the sugar maples and the fire red
leaves of fall, he took a seat on a
fallen log and had himself a think.

Grapevines grew wild everywheres and
birds sang and the stream babbled
endlessly with cold, clear water.

"Jim, Red," he said, "Lash the stocks,
don't hobble 'em too tight!" and "Tomorrow
we'll fell some trees, build ourselves a cabin!"

O Robert Pulliam!

You left only Mary behind and five
little whelps. "They'll all love it here!"
you told yourself and slept with a smile.

"The prairie can't be broken," you'd been told,
but you refused to listen. The next day you
felled trees and notched the ends.

You took the work of corner man for your very self,
making sure each log was whittled just right,
notching away with a handax and a knife.

Long and hard were the days while you built your
cabin on the creek, but not as hard as when you had
your leg sawed clear off, you man among men!

O Robert Pulliam!

You were the father of the development, the man who
sought to notch homes out of the logs of wilderness,
who sought to break the hard earth with oxen and iron.

The saw cut too slowly through your leg, and Governor
Reynolds watched, proclaimed it the most gruesome thing
he'd ever seen, but you just walked away a man.

And then when that cabin was built, you made your way back
to St. Clair land to find your family again, braving the
Indians and the wild along the way.

Nothing scares a man who's faced life on the frontier,
much less death, and to sit still for the saw when
no drug was in your reach, not even red-eye whisky.

O Robert Pulliam!

Thursday, March 22, 2007

To the Man I Saw in the Cardologist the Other Day

That was horrible,
and I know you will
pay many times over
in karma for what you
did to us innocent
standers by.

You put the art
in fart, sir!

To the Infamous Local Rag

A stream
of warm urine
passes from my body
onto the body of a State Journal-Register
lying on the floor.

This is appropriate.
Someone needs to piss
on this pathetic
excuse for a
goddamn newspaper.

You can quote
Hilton Hightower
on that you
pretentious dung-heaps.

How's that for free speech?

Friday, March 16, 2007

Hilton

If they
ever made
a movie
about my
life,
it would
suck
a dick.

Jesus, (Land)lord and Savior


Click to enlarge.

Jesus, (Land)lord and Savior

Click to enlarge.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Booger

I pick my
nose and finger
the snotty globule
I can't help but feel proud about.
Is this America, or what?!

Monday, February 19, 2007

Coffee

Emboldened by its bitter punch
and its brash burn on my lips,
I shall know the reason why.

Giving me both pride of character
and a serious case of the jitters,
I shall run amok.

With a steaming hot mug of
jet black in my hand,
I shall conquer the world.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

This Poem

This poem
is a magical pill
you read about in a spam advertisement.

It
will give you a huge, rock hard boner (and shiny)
that you can use for hours and hours.

Like if you have to clean the shower drain,
or perhaps you have a hole in a tree in the backyard
that needs scraped out, or maybe the downspouts on
your gutters get clogged. Thanks to this poem,
your huge, rock hard boner (and it's shiny, too, and has a purple tint)
will help you.

Maybe you can't use your hands to change the channel,
just poke those channel up and down buttons with
your dong.
Or mayhap you can't flip that omelette you've been working on.
Just slide your wang in and give it a toss. Don't
fuck around any more. With this poem, your lollygagger
will be rock hard, huge, and it will make you feel invincible,
(and don't forget: 1) shiny, 2) purple, 3) veins popping out all
over the place.)

Monday, February 05, 2007

Yes

Hilton Hightower
has returned from his latest
round of kidnappings,
mutilations, and obscene alien orgies
at the hands of . . . well, alien species.
He would attempt to explain
these most vile and beautiful creatures
to you, but his descriptions would obviously be
beyond the mental reasonings of your species.

You're so pathetic that I actually wish
those alien terrorists had held me captive
at least a little bit longer.

There's something incredibly refreshing about
intelligent creatures, even if they are severing portions
of your body.

Now I am returned to present your lowly life force
once again with the poetic disasters I write with my
own hand and the pictures I draw with the hands of others
more accomplished.

Bite it, eat it, and all that stuff.

Abraham Lincoln, Certified Personal Trainer #1


Click picture for full size view.