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 31, 2007
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.
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.
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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?
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
Thursday, February 22, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
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.)
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.
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.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
A Word from Hilton Hightower's Webmaster
I awoke this morning to find Hilton's underground bunker in shambles. It appears as though a struggle ensued during the night, but I fear that Hilton's intergalactic foes have tracked him down again and carried him away for all manner of tortures and punishments in some star system far, far away. There is no trace of him now.
Hilton is gone.
Hilton is gone.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
Cookie Zombie
I'm a zombie,
a giant ice cream cookie eating zombie.
Watch me stand here,
staring endlessly into space cramming this
giant ice cream cookie
into my digestion hole without a care in
the world.
Oh, wait, I'm not a zombie.
I'm just a disgusting kid.
a giant ice cream cookie eating zombie.
Watch me stand here,
staring endlessly into space cramming this
giant ice cream cookie
into my digestion hole without a care in
the world.
Oh, wait, I'm not a zombie.
I'm just a disgusting kid.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Friday, November 03, 2006
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Happy Holidays
In the build-up to your pathetic
consumer-driven holiday season,
I'm going to produce a new line
of graphical expositions called,
"Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol."
They shall begin forthwith.
consumer-driven holiday season,
I'm going to produce a new line
of graphical expositions called,
"Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol."
They shall begin forthwith.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Two Dudes
I got an e-mail from
two dudes who want me
to appear on their stupid
public access show if
their first-choice guests
fall through.
I told them to get used to
disappointment because that's
all life really is: disappointment
painted over in colors of happiness
and "wow, things are really going well!"
but that I would accept their offer.
A terrible poet should alway feel compelled
to appear on a terrible television show
that no one watches anyway.
two dudes who want me
to appear on their stupid
public access show if
their first-choice guests
fall through.
I told them to get used to
disappointment because that's
all life really is: disappointment
painted over in colors of happiness
and "wow, things are really going well!"
but that I would accept their offer.
A terrible poet should alway feel compelled
to appear on a terrible television show
that no one watches anyway.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Handbag
The world used to be such a
decent place, before all you
people came along.
And then you made your celebrities,
with their celebrity faces and babies
with names like Apple and Douche and
Sean Preston.
This place is going to hell in a
Gucci handbag.
decent place, before all you
people came along.
And then you made your celebrities,
with their celebrity faces and babies
with names like Apple and Douche and
Sean Preston.
This place is going to hell in a
Gucci handbag.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
A Poem Written from the Perspective of Little Baby Suri
Oh fuck,
look at this bullshit I was born into.
My dad is the hugest tool in the world.
I mean, seriously, what a pompous ass!
My childhood and teenage years are
really going to fuck me up,
not to mention all this weird Scientology bullshit.
My mom used to be pretty cool when she
was on Dawson's Creek, but look at her now,
a puppet to dear old dad's zany ways.
She probably deserves better.
And on top of it all, I'm ugly.
look at this bullshit I was born into.
My dad is the hugest tool in the world.
I mean, seriously, what a pompous ass!
My childhood and teenage years are
really going to fuck me up,
not to mention all this weird Scientology bullshit.
My mom used to be pretty cool when she
was on Dawson's Creek, but look at her now,
a puppet to dear old dad's zany ways.
She probably deserves better.
And on top of it all, I'm ugly.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
An Analogy of Sorts
Your breath smells like rotting cat carcass.
What have you been eating?
And why is there so much junk under your fingernails?
If I see you suck that stuff out from under them
one more time, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
When was the last time you took a shower?
You have no excuse.
Excuse me please, while I go vomit from the stench of your
body odor.
You smell like Jennifer Lopez acts: terrible.
What have you been eating?
And why is there so much junk under your fingernails?
If I see you suck that stuff out from under them
one more time, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
When was the last time you took a shower?
You have no excuse.
Excuse me please, while I go vomit from the stench of your
body odor.
You smell like Jennifer Lopez acts: terrible.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Ned, on His Fucking Job
I wish I didn't have to sit
at this desk all day
with a cramp in my hip
and gas in my guts.
I'm sick of this
fucking job.
at this desk all day
with a cramp in my hip
and gas in my guts.
I'm sick of this
fucking job.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Poem Told from the Perspective of a College Boy
Hot summer night.
Friends and drinking
and feeling alright.
Waiting for friends
to take the piss,
we saw a fat woman
and a skinny ass man
hopping on a horse,
tied up in front of that redneck
local bar.
It was a one-night stand,
started on horseback.
He wasn't her boyfriend,
just a pony express sort of ride home.
She asked me to help her up on the horse
while my friend suddenly grew starry-eyed about horses,
which he'd never seen up close before.
I helped her up on the horse,
took all the strength I had and two little paw prints
on her huge behind and she tried
to pay me back with a kiss.
But she was gross and slobbery and she got the side of my face
wet and hot with her tongue.
Then she sat back on the horse, drunk, and pulled her boob out
and said, "LOOK! Them are real!"
Only it came out like "ril," and I was standing there nose to huge
puffy nipple and all the booze in the world wasn't
enough for me to feel that it was all alright.
She asked me to get her purse for her,
my RAGE took over!
I picked her purse up off the ground and threw it as hard as I could
across the square.
Friends and drinking
and feeling alright.
Waiting for friends
to take the piss,
we saw a fat woman
and a skinny ass man
hopping on a horse,
tied up in front of that redneck
local bar.
It was a one-night stand,
started on horseback.
He wasn't her boyfriend,
just a pony express sort of ride home.
She asked me to help her up on the horse
while my friend suddenly grew starry-eyed about horses,
which he'd never seen up close before.
I helped her up on the horse,
took all the strength I had and two little paw prints
on her huge behind and she tried
to pay me back with a kiss.
But she was gross and slobbery and she got the side of my face
wet and hot with her tongue.
Then she sat back on the horse, drunk, and pulled her boob out
and said, "LOOK! Them are real!"
Only it came out like "ril," and I was standing there nose to huge
puffy nipple and all the booze in the world wasn't
enough for me to feel that it was all alright.
She asked me to get her purse for her,
my RAGE took over!
I picked her purse up off the ground and threw it as hard as I could
across the square.
Matlock
This poem is Ben Matlock.
He likes to solve cases
with his daughter and that
black guy who always
does the dangerous stuff.
Like in that one episode
where he was in a junkyard
and those guys were trying
to drop those cars on him.
He likes to solve cases
with his daughter and that
black guy who always
does the dangerous stuff.
Like in that one episode
where he was in a junkyard
and those guys were trying
to drop those cars on him.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
A Poem Written from the Perspective of Tom's Mother
Oh I can't
believe how disappointing
you have been to me.
You've never even been
half the child I'd
hoped for. You're
really pretty worthless.
I should have abandoned
you when I had the chance.
believe how disappointing
you have been to me.
You've never even been
half the child I'd
hoped for. You're
really pretty worthless.
I should have abandoned
you when I had the chance.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Poem Written from the Perspective of the Boy Who Works at the Cell Phone Stand in the Mall
I have
a fascination
with girl hair.
Pretty girls.
When they walk by
I try to breathe in
real deep and catch their
scent.
Then I try to memorize them.
I used to take them home and write
them down, but Mom caught me one
time.
You can write thoughts, right?
And sights and sounds?
Then why not smells? Mom
didn't like it. Not one bit.
Mom always used to spank my ass
when I looked at girls.
I looked in Dad's stroker mags once,
at least that's what he always called them,
and she caught me and beat me back into the
5th grade.
I wish I could smell like
them,
or be close to them and smell
them all the time.
But I couldn't let Mom know
or it's hard telling
what she might do.
I guess some secrets
are better left hidden away
in your thoughts.
a fascination
with girl hair.
Pretty girls.
When they walk by
I try to breathe in
real deep and catch their
scent.
Then I try to memorize them.
I used to take them home and write
them down, but Mom caught me one
time.
You can write thoughts, right?
And sights and sounds?
Then why not smells? Mom
didn't like it. Not one bit.
Mom always used to spank my ass
when I looked at girls.
I looked in Dad's stroker mags once,
at least that's what he always called them,
and she caught me and beat me back into the
5th grade.
I wish I could smell like
them,
or be close to them and smell
them all the time.
But I couldn't let Mom know
or it's hard telling
what she might do.
I guess some secrets
are better left hidden away
in your thoughts.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
On Melody's Drawing the Line with Brian, Who She's Been Seeing for About the Last 3 Months
Listen,
it is completely
unforgivable
to me, Brian,
that you have been
wiping boogers
under my coffee table
while you wait
for me
to get
home from
work every day.
No, you listen.
Where else have you been
sticking your boogers,
or worse?
Get the fuck out of here!
God!
it is completely
unforgivable
to me, Brian,
that you have been
wiping boogers
under my coffee table
while you wait
for me
to get
home from
work every day.
No, you listen.
Where else have you been
sticking your boogers,
or worse?
Get the fuck out of here!
God!
Schoolhouse Ruins
Why do you
still have schools
if you're not going
to require your children
to think?
Memorization is not
learning.
still have schools
if you're not going
to require your children
to think?
Memorization is not
learning.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Poem Written from the Perspective of a Girl Who Just Won't Say No
Boy,
that guy
is really cute.
Too
bad I
just saw him
picking his nose.
Well,
at least
he didn't
eat it.
that guy
is really cute.
Too
bad I
just saw him
picking his nose.
Well,
at least
he didn't
eat it.
Poem Written from the Perspective of a Close-minded Bigot
I will love
my neighbor,
but only if they look
and think
like me.
my neighbor,
but only if they look
and think
like me.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Listen Up, Idiots
America,
your guns
aren't going to
save you from
your heart attacks
and emphysema.
You can't shoot
a disease.
your guns
aren't going to
save you from
your heart attacks
and emphysema.
You can't shoot
a disease.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Upon Billy's Trip to the Strip Club
Billy,
the way you
slip bills into that
young lady's
tiny stringed
underpants probably
makes your
Mom
real
proud.
Billy,
you're a real
testament to how
far your species has
come.
the way you
slip bills into that
young lady's
tiny stringed
underpants probably
makes your
Mom
real
proud.
Billy,
you're a real
testament to how
far your species has
come.
A Poem Written from the Perspective of a Sad Old Man
I'm an old man.
The only thing
that makes me happy
is taking craps.
Take this morning,
for example.
I got up,
ate me some toast
and hit the can.
At the end, I sighed
and said, "Now that
was a crap!"
And my day has only
slid downhill since
then.
The only thing
that makes me happy
is taking craps.
Take this morning,
for example.
I got up,
ate me some toast
and hit the can.
At the end, I sighed
and said, "Now that
was a crap!"
And my day has only
slid downhill since
then.
Spotlight on Ronald Polar
Mr. Polar recently published this poem on my stinking blog in response to "A Poem Written from the Perspective of a Cleanly Lady who Recently had Guests." It is worthy of front page status.
POEM WRITTEN FROM THE PERSPECKTIVE OF GUESTS RECENTLY VISITING A LADIES HOUSE
WEE THIS IS FUN, I FEEL GOOD
UH-O IM HAVING PROBLEMS
MY GUTS ARE GOING CRAZY
OH KNOW NOW MY THUMBS ALL STINKY
OOPS MY BALANCE
THIS WILL NOT BE VISIBLE ON A LIGHT BLUE WALL
ILL JUST LEAVE IT
AND HEAD FOR THE VEGETABLE PLATTER
POEM WRITTEN FROM THE PERSPECKTIVE OF GUESTS RECENTLY VISITING A LADIES HOUSE
WEE THIS IS FUN, I FEEL GOOD
UH-O IM HAVING PROBLEMS
MY GUTS ARE GOING CRAZY
OH KNOW NOW MY THUMBS ALL STINKY
OOPS MY BALANCE
THIS WILL NOT BE VISIBLE ON A LIGHT BLUE WALL
ILL JUST LEAVE IT
AND HEAD FOR THE VEGETABLE PLATTER
Thursday, July 20, 2006
A Poem Written from the Perspective of a Cleanly Lady who Recently had Guests
How dare you
leave a poopy
thumbsmear on my wall?
I just repainted that room
and despite the obvious
fact that you had a
difficult time wiping,
that is no excuse for
the printsmudgesmear
you left behind
as evidence.
leave a poopy
thumbsmear on my wall?
I just repainted that room
and despite the obvious
fact that you had a
difficult time wiping,
that is no excuse for
the printsmudgesmear
you left behind
as evidence.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Good Luck
It is the year 2006,
and you humans can't make
a better toaster.
Good luck with that whole space thing.
and you humans can't make
a better toaster.
Good luck with that whole space thing.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Monday, July 03, 2006
Read My Fucking Column
Sangamon Star #7
has hit the shelves
so you assholes better
go there straightaway
and read it.
This month's column
is truly pisspoor.
has hit the shelves
so you assholes better
go there straightaway
and read it.
This month's column
is truly pisspoor.
If You Are Looking For Me
Only look occasionally.
I have bigger fish to stab,
bigger eyes to hook.
Energy honed, focused on projects
most unknown.
This will be only a hollowed out place
I live from time to time.
If this makes you sad,
piss off.
I have bigger fish to stab,
bigger eyes to hook.
Energy honed, focused on projects
most unknown.
This will be only a hollowed out place
I live from time to time.
If this makes you sad,
piss off.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Friday, June 23, 2006
Criminalicious
If eating the teeth
of your enemies
(mainly children and the elderly)
is a crime,
then consider me an outlaw of the highest
and most terrible order.
of your enemies
(mainly children and the elderly)
is a crime,
then consider me an outlaw of the highest
and most terrible order.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Poem Written from the Perspective of Ronald Polar
Hi, I'm Ronald Polar,
I have a skeleton and two balls
and I am afraid of doctors with
barbecue sauce behind their eyeballs
or ebyallz or eyballoonsss, or whatever
other type of swiss custom knife they have in mind.
I also believe in the exorcism of a bag of Doritos over
the mind control of a harmless plant,
although I extol the virtues of a nutsack.
I have a friend on the internet,
his name is Hilton Hightower, of the Highland Hightowers
of the Intestinal Fortitude of Unknown Animal Bladders
and he appears a worthy foe at my archaic, and artistic
yet altruistic and altheaistic parlances at truth and
unconsiderable vindivindivindivind. I have nothing more to
say about this.
I am a mystery to some, but
completely known to others.
I am a secret fraternal order
in my pocket, but in my heart
I am only a man.
I eat skunk, and pass on beef.
Yet I love cow, and I pass on fish,
yet I heart salmon.
I have a pet named Deniro Pussycat
and three dwarves in my hip, I call
DYNAMO, although they spell their
name with a (W), for Po(w)er.
I ask myself, not once, but %, about
how often I should do my breast exam
against the walls of crime, but it is really
of no matter, for that bacon will still
be warm when I get there.
If I am ever looking for an Internet partnership
in secret societies, I will look up Mr. Hightower
on his e-mail and see if we can work out
a deal to have a blogsite together doing
dada and other abstractions. It would be most
excitable to me to do that, for I know deep down
he is just an artist in search of friends. His e-mail is
easy to find, and I will tell him no otherwise.
I have no shame in eating doughnuts in front of
starving children on my right and peepkins on my
left hand side. I have 6 shooters in my mind,
but my eyes don't work any more. Do you know me
because where do I come from but here?
I have a skeleton and two balls
and I am afraid of doctors with
barbecue sauce behind their eyeballs
or ebyallz or eyballoonsss, or whatever
other type of swiss custom knife they have in mind.
I also believe in the exorcism of a bag of Doritos over
the mind control of a harmless plant,
although I extol the virtues of a nutsack.
I have a friend on the internet,
his name is Hilton Hightower, of the Highland Hightowers
of the Intestinal Fortitude of Unknown Animal Bladders
and he appears a worthy foe at my archaic, and artistic
yet altruistic and altheaistic parlances at truth and
unconsiderable vindivindivindivind. I have nothing more to
say about this.
I am a mystery to some, but
completely known to others.
I am a secret fraternal order
in my pocket, but in my heart
I am only a man.
I eat skunk, and pass on beef.
Yet I love cow, and I pass on fish,
yet I heart salmon.
I have a pet named Deniro Pussycat
and three dwarves in my hip, I call
DYNAMO, although they spell their
name with a (W), for Po(w)er.
I ask myself, not once, but %, about
how often I should do my breast exam
against the walls of crime, but it is really
of no matter, for that bacon will still
be warm when I get there.
If I am ever looking for an Internet partnership
in secret societies, I will look up Mr. Hightower
on his e-mail and see if we can work out
a deal to have a blogsite together doing
dada and other abstractions. It would be most
excitable to me to do that, for I know deep down
he is just an artist in search of friends. His e-mail is
easy to find, and I will tell him no otherwise.
I have no shame in eating doughnuts in front of
starving children on my right and peepkins on my
left hand side. I have 6 shooters in my mind,
but my eyes don't work any more. Do you know me
because where do I come from but here?
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Monday, June 19, 2006
Assets of Human Beingness
You cockamamie bullcrappers
all sprightly with your demands
and terrifying in your inability
to construct actual sentences
out of the words you've been
taught by the confines
of your society and your
completely overrated
desire to find your television
faces and to fill your pockets
with assets of ill-gotten
or well-gotten retrospection.
You're all the same, you and you and you,
and still you smile and say, "Ho, oh, oh, I'm
so different than that manwomanchild, and I'm
a unique individual, and you cannot, sir, pin me
down in your normal way you do."
You're not different, you're just you, just part of
the cog, part of the wheel that spins this thing
round and round down the decaying halls of time
and sin.
You're an asshole just like the rest of them. You
don't look any different to me because I've learned
to see the inner sanctum of the human condition and
deep down I understand that the human soul is
the same color as swampwater and it smells as foul.
You're a robber and a murder. You're a mother and a father.
You're a soldier and a child, a creampuff and a popcorn ball
a sword and a telephone receiver of calloused rejections.
You're just what you are, and that is terrible.
To the upsandownscentric nature of your mentally obsessed
I say that you have nothing to fear but life itself.
all sprightly with your demands
and terrifying in your inability
to construct actual sentences
out of the words you've been
taught by the confines
of your society and your
completely overrated
desire to find your television
faces and to fill your pockets
with assets of ill-gotten
or well-gotten retrospection.
You're all the same, you and you and you,
and still you smile and say, "Ho, oh, oh, I'm
so different than that manwomanchild, and I'm
a unique individual, and you cannot, sir, pin me
down in your normal way you do."
You're not different, you're just you, just part of
the cog, part of the wheel that spins this thing
round and round down the decaying halls of time
and sin.
You're an asshole just like the rest of them. You
don't look any different to me because I've learned
to see the inner sanctum of the human condition and
deep down I understand that the human soul is
the same color as swampwater and it smells as foul.
You're a robber and a murder. You're a mother and a father.
You're a soldier and a child, a creampuff and a popcorn ball
a sword and a telephone receiver of calloused rejections.
You're just what you are, and that is terrible.
To the upsandownscentric nature of your mentally obsessed
I say that you have nothing to fear but life itself.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Tribute to The Worst Poet of All Time
Maya Angelou is
the worst thing
to happen to poetry
ever.
Her poems are stinkier
than catshit, and filled
with boring imagery.
Seriously, if you ever
need help falling asleep
at night, just read some
of her boring, horrible poetry.
Side effects include suicide and murder, however,
as the terrible nature of her bullshit can make
you lose your mind.
And also, would someone please wipe that
sick smile off her face?
the worst thing
to happen to poetry
ever.
Her poems are stinkier
than catshit, and filled
with boring imagery.
Seriously, if you ever
need help falling asleep
at night, just read some
of her boring, horrible poetry.
Side effects include suicide and murder, however,
as the terrible nature of her bullshit can make
you lose your mind.
And also, would someone please wipe that
sick smile off her face?
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Success
People who brag about
how hard they worked for success
are fucking liars!
There are two key
ingredients for success:
luck
and
timing.
It doesn't matter how hard you work
so stop trying.
how hard they worked for success
are fucking liars!
There are two key
ingredients for success:
luck
and
timing.
It doesn't matter how hard you work
so stop trying.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Drooling
The most pathetic creature in the universe
is the human infant. It is so weak and pathetic,
lying around drooling all the time and annoying
the hell out of everyone with its incessant crying
and vomiting and crapping.
is the human infant. It is so weak and pathetic,
lying around drooling all the time and annoying
the hell out of everyone with its incessant crying
and vomiting and crapping.
Monday, June 12, 2006
That's a Big Black Belt!
Even though you're
a professional karate
practitioner,
you just can't help
eating doughnuts.
How very disciplined!
Quick kids, sign up for classes today.
a professional karate
practitioner,
you just can't help
eating doughnuts.
How very disciplined!
Quick kids, sign up for classes today.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Fight Back
For Christ's sake,
you human beings
are even more pathetic than I thought.
I criticize you heavily,
insult you outright,
call your children stupid,
and even make fun of your hilarious weight problem,
and still you’re too lazy
to fight back.
you human beings
are even more pathetic than I thought.
I criticize you heavily,
insult you outright,
call your children stupid,
and even make fun of your hilarious weight problem,
and still you’re too lazy
to fight back.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Parental Discretion
Nothing can stand
between the love
of parents for their
children, right America?
Oh, except for your
insatiable appetites
for doughnuts and
fast food french fries
that make your children
obese and give them
diabetes.
Nothing says love like giving
your child a disease,
right America?
between the love
of parents for their
children, right America?
Oh, except for your
insatiable appetites
for doughnuts and
fast food french fries
that make your children
obese and give them
diabetes.
Nothing says love like giving
your child a disease,
right America?
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Monday, June 05, 2006
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Heroes
Heroes are only
heroes
through coincidence
and luck.
Given the right place,
the right time,
even your heroes
will let you down.
heroes
through coincidence
and luck.
Given the right place,
the right time,
even your heroes
will let you down.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Zelda
One night after sharing
a bottle of whiskey
and some pills
with Zelda Fitgerald,
she told me she thought
Hemingway was "phony as a
rubber cheque."
I told her not to give him
that much credit.
He was just a gigantic asshole.
"Bah," she continued
and at this point, I encouraged
her to drink more because I love
to watch pretentious assholes
get drunk and emotional.
So she tore into another bottle
and before I knew it she was tearing
her clothes off and vomiting all over the place.
(Zelda Fitzgerald was a crazy broad, that's for sure.)
Then she told me, "You know, Hemingway's not as macho
as he let's on. It's a show. I've caught him
in bed with my husband."
I convinced her to go public with the truth.
Hemingway and Fitzgerald laid out such a campaign to
discredit Zelda that they drove her nuts,
but still carried on their excursions in Paris.
This period of my life was a treasure.
These writers were all a bunch of troubled
drunks, and I loved
watching them all unravel before my very eyes.
American literates, these are your heroes. Not mine.
a bottle of whiskey
and some pills
with Zelda Fitgerald,
she told me she thought
Hemingway was "phony as a
rubber cheque."
I told her not to give him
that much credit.
He was just a gigantic asshole.
"Bah," she continued
and at this point, I encouraged
her to drink more because I love
to watch pretentious assholes
get drunk and emotional.
So she tore into another bottle
and before I knew it she was tearing
her clothes off and vomiting all over the place.
(Zelda Fitzgerald was a crazy broad, that's for sure.)
Then she told me, "You know, Hemingway's not as macho
as he let's on. It's a show. I've caught him
in bed with my husband."
I convinced her to go public with the truth.
Hemingway and Fitzgerald laid out such a campaign to
discredit Zelda that they drove her nuts,
but still carried on their excursions in Paris.
This period of my life was a treasure.
These writers were all a bunch of troubled
drunks, and I loved
watching them all unravel before my very eyes.
American literates, these are your heroes. Not mine.
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