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?
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
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
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