Sunday, December 22, 2013

A Sermon, but this one is kind of chintzy...

It's not like me to rub it in, but hasn't the harmonic convergence of 1987 been sort of a let down?  If it was all that great in your camp, that's fine here.  I don't recall winning a beauty contest that year.  Then the damn Mayan end of history, 2012, turned out to be smoke and mirrors.   Had my hopes up, too.  Like Nancy Spungen and Sid Vicious, of the Sex Pistols, I wanted to go out in a blaze of glory
Well, this year's Hamarama is in overtime.  It started, by shear luck, with the rolling of the osage oranges, when the inedible warty nuisances fall off their trees and rolled, bumping and banging in the pot holes,  en mass, like the running of the bulls, down  steeply inclined Federal Street.  As if a new pope was elected, the price of store brand picnic hams fell by up to seventy-five percent, to 99  cents a pound.  Hamarama runs from the first day,to the last, of Very Cheap Ham Season, which lasts each year as long as grocery stores abide the Word.   By way or revue, Hamarama begins near Christmas time, when the price of ham dips to 99 cents a pound, and ends when the price goes back up.  It's a  mono-maniacal feast.

Observant like a zealot, been downing two pounds a day, grand total, so far, eighteen pounds of ham.  Special thanks to the pigs, and to all those nice folks in the meat business.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Next Dippy Sermon at the Store Front Ministry

There's a book of Hebrew mysticism called the Zohar, and I thumbed through it like a fry cook waiting for his haircut at the barber's, but even jerks can make a decent point from time to time.  There was a passage on the subject of marriage, in which it said, give or take a point, that when a man is unmarried, the Earth and sky is misaligned, and that when said same fellow ties the knot, Earth and sky move parallel to each other, like a factory preset position.  Only when married is a person deserving of a static free sunset.

Being a life long a bachelor, you are encouraged to ask, "Why do you care, Pussy Cat?"

It is because a good metaphor makes me wiggle with glee.  For my statistician friends, married men are less likely than single dudes to be  shivved, shanked, shot, beaten, jailed,  pink-slipped, demoted, slandered  or cornholed to death by roving zombies.  They tend to have more stable careers and social lives, give or take a point for  ugly, pimply variables, and some dumb geezers are still claiming that family life is beneficial.

Next on the conveyor belt is that gender roles have been changing.  Did I say I begrudge that?  I didn't.  There isn't a politically incorrect corpuscle clogging veins in this old seed sack.  For the super-logical among us all, the same principle of completeness and harmony can be extended.  Why do mystical precepts have to be good for the goose and not the gander?   And why do I use shitty cliches? I have a diploma from someplace or other.

Well, with loose ends waving at me like a mighty fertile hydra, this rant about applied metaphor is wearing out it's welcome on this page.   Thanks for reading.

Saturday, December 14, 2013

new poem: Fashion Plate

send me off somewhere in black leather
it's riding on my head equine
nearest I get to Secretariat
see comrades I'm a hat nut
compares to graduate studies
I'm a thesis
got this one fresh in the mail from the  online auction
came in a sealed bag hygienic as a Contac capsule
why do certain looks say pills?
no dookey in my socks
no wrong blood levels
it's a look that says prowling
in essence I am

Monday, September 30, 2013

poem: Evaluating


dysfunctional in competitive environs X long
which flags wave on boat masts?
skull and cross bones
the snake
don't tread on me

cabin cruisers on trailers on the hilltop have holes in them
morning glories grow over top of the moldering fleet
there are still tiny pennants on spindly antenas
miraculous screw propellers frozen fixed
motors rudely jerked around
jumper cables coiled in  tall grass
gator clips standing like cobras
bitten  batteries thirsting for acid so vital to the imagination
empty gas tanks
not prepared for flooding

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Secular Sunday Sermon

Why are people jack-offs about spirituality?   This angel is a stone-chilly athiest, but affirmative action is in full effect.  All human thought and feeling deserves the care of a buxom vivacious librarian.  Secular cherubs surround  those ideals of responsible beauty.

 Such as the infinite possiblities.  You can't fish metaphysics out of your half-gallon glass bowl with button hole thread and bent saftey pin.  Only a mile-long telescope will do.  All forms of worship get a write up in the blog soon I get a handle on what's up with all doggone wonderful seekers.

There appears to be an up-tick in cult activity, and I like that too.   What would religious practice be without the creative forces of a snake handler?   Quantum physics has a way of helping people groove on incorporeality, which even more conservative church groups seem to also groove on, though on a different plane.  I'll break bread with just about anyone.  It is a cornerstone of my personal faith that eats go down the hatch, no matter what caused Genesis.    For the brick and stained glass window set, there are even special allowances (no blasphemy or saying 'fuck') for extreme piety, mass hysteria, and, of course,  any and all religious experiences are fair game for a spirited group discussion.   Bleeding palms  are  a popular topic in the breakfast nook.

Most important of all, the power of metaphor has it's unifying effect. Picture a sixy foot tall flour sifter, the wire interior works whirring, the Great Earth Mother vigorously turning the crank, the fine powdered grain material, all kinds of it, in all consistencies, in all relations between life and the supernatural, being gently mixed and sorted.  It is confusing, yet necessary.  Affirmations.

fiction: Clem's Crossing Over

Zeniths and nadirs come in a gradient of heights and declivities.

Clem had reached an under-pinnacle.  And he had in front of him, spread around him on his few square feet of safety, many of both his extremes.  Like spilled Cracker Jacks.

 There are worse  conditions than Clem's, e.g. bamboo shoots under fingernails, or a slow physical mangling courtesy of angry Ton Ton Macoutes,  but he was at a point where certain people buy a bus pass, and ride the buses all day, for no particular reason.  Except for the absence of a goal.  Clem was like a cockroach, still moving, after being struck with a rolled up Wall Street Journal.  His investments were in differing stages of decline, as was Clem.

Too, it was his relations with other people that dropped him an ontological notch down the cosmic bumper jack beneath our souls.  It ratchets people up and down, with equal effort either way, simple as physics.   All souls come equipped with a spare tire.  Clem had neglected to put air in his, and he was depressed.    And on the 'outs.'  His portfolio of penny stocks all failed, in sequence, at least those that he hadn't sold too soon.  The thrill of making a profit was  replaced with "Jesus Christ, I should have waited."  His friends in the online stock trading community stopped answering his e-mails.

  Short-lived though joy is, the slow burn from watching the remaining stocks decline enjoys its longevity, as Clem rides aimlessly on a city bus.   People in that type of condition always, invariably, find themselves in imagined debates with Dick Cheney, and with solipcised social breakthroughs, in a chance encounter with the Bush Family.  In this childish rescue fantasy, he was even given a fraternal nickname, like W had for Carl Rove.  W called his dear friend and staff person 'Turd Blossum.'  Clem was longing for that apex of earthy  prestige.

At the same time that he lived the life of a day trader, he lived in a shitty house in the slum he felt he belonged to.  Women from his ethnic grouping, as if Clem was really in a group, were less than scarce, while he saw, daily, an abundance of beauty  in women of color.  A fucking stupid term for a person, none-the-less, crossing cultures is a bitch.  He realized that everything, libido included, came in  lever operated, indexed levels.  Came the day, on the bus, that a conversation changed his life, for a little fucking while.  Her skin was the kind of radiant brown, like lighted from within, and the pale blue ink on her fore arm was alive.  Men like Clem respond to enlivening, gentle colors by going loosy-goosy.

She looked at his right hand a moment.   "Are you into Snoop Lion?"  She was sharing a seat, riding from downtown to Oakland, she to return videos to the library, Clem going both somewhere and nowhere at the same time.  He saw that she was looking at his ring, a bright stainless steel lion's head, large enough to span two knuckles.  Thinking slow, for a quick squirt of the mind, as Clem was cursed, he recalled that Snoop Dog had changed his stage name to Snoop Lion, and had committed his songs to inner city peace and nonviolence.  Clem first said, 'no' but then stammered, "well, yes.  I love the Snoopadelics, they're a really tight rock band, and I love the way Snoop fused rock and hip hop.  The man is a genius."

Helpless mental static for  Clem.  Wouldn't a cow, woodchuck or gazelle better symbolize peace and nonviolence, then would a lion?  Alrighty, it takes the strength of a lion to address the times, irrespective of purpose.

He knew he had said too much, yet he  sensed in the woman beside him the capacity to forgive and forget social awkwardness.  His johnson was tumescing, not to it's full length and girth, but it was  to some degree more sensual than in the moments preceeding.   "That's a strong symbol," she said, still looking at his ring.

  It was soon after that his segmented judgement, coiled in the tall grass, split at the valences, and restacked itself into a column, like a maypole.  He was going somewhere, then, and if you go there, you can't go back.  Clem was clear in mind,  as he was ever likely to get.  A white man needs to rock and roll.  And with certainty, Clem needed to get hip.  He was out a long way.  He had been neglecting his obligations.  A  man needs to rock and roll.  There are higher levels of  aquiescence, but not for day traders  like Clem.  His mind filled with lyrics to a song. Foxy Lady, by Jimi Hendrix.  He let the sound take him away.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Journal of Slum Dwelling

Redemption grows like weeds here on the North Side.  All the pentillion sallow highrise apartment complexes look exactly alike, but each is distinguished by the rotting sagging houses in spitting distance.  Each hovel and vacant lot has it's own special smut and fungus, weeds, rats and remnants of cyclone fence.  It used to be feared that modern buildings would result in mind numbing monotony.  Not so.  And it is decay that deserves gratitude.  Thank you, each and every collapsed front porch.  Weakened girders are like an action flick.  I'm not bored.

By the by, there may be some sort of reparations owed bracket fungus and corn smut, too.  They are an oppressed and underprivilidged blight.  The smut is more like erotica.  Milk weeds have been working their pods off to give this slum some charm.  Where are their keys to the city?

Best, the highrises are loaded with people who are infirmed, stable, thriving , if shabbily cared for.  I love it here.  It's a place that deserves itself.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Bad Asetheticism

Some souls have a serious case of the dark sides.  Picture a faceted glass paperweight on black construction paper.  The fella' is gloomy.

I've been keeping mum about my beefs and griefs and most the neighbors do the same, offering up courtesies comparable to doilies and  a crystal  container of hard candy.  A mark of good people.  How odd that outward appearances have come to mean so much.

If Ronald Firbank were here, I'm certain he'd agree that aestheticism is a valid applied philosophy.  A ride on the 8 bus yesterday affirmed this maxim.   Some sweet cheeked organization installed a chi-chi looking semi-circle flower garden about eight feet in radius, butting into a complex of ugly street, directly in front of what used to a homeless encampment under the three bridges the city peon mass transit  passes under.    For the past many years, there has been a tent city there, but the city Jiffy Popped up   empty cyclone fence enclosures to keep the homeless people out.  The enclosures would be perfectly perfect for warehousing political prisoners and other super-undesirables.  Man, how resource management in Pittsburgh bums me out.  But that little garden sure cheers me up.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

local politics

I had this meeting at the City/County Building.   Walking down the blue star dust hallways there were goats and vultures, people were beating kettle drums, short Jewish men were clashing cymbols, people were burning inscence, lighting opium pipes using sterno cans.   An old woman kept gesticulating at me.  She accused me of causing her car to catch fire.

I had to talk to some one.  I had a problem with a ticket.  I was aked into a room.  Everyone was wearing paper beaks.  Some of them where big birds.   They are going to send me an e-mail.
As I exited the halls, like a snail, portly accordian players sat in folding chairs.  I've become morose.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Orange Fitzo's Fuss...a continuing biker saga..fiction.

You may have seen me standing around in one of the bar fight scenes in 'They Saved Hitlers's Brain,' because I was an extra in it. Solid extra. One time I got to hurl a man out a window, in some other B movie. They was calling me near every week to go somewhere looking scary, and I was making near double the minimum wage, had my own trailer, and of course my bike, so those were "yesterdays when I was young' like Roy Clark would sing. Things are pretty fucked up now. Been out of show business long. Long in the tooth. Got respiratory fits.

The wife hasn't forgiven her delusions, and still intends to hurt me, kill me , what ever, probably through the use of some type of henchman, or henchmen, and that's the topic of this paganistic sermon.

I was not fucking other men's bitches, but the wife's paranoid. I did not offend her family code of schizophrenia, but she is the type of woman so determined for revenge she'll sleep with only the most hide bound ex-green berets and mercs so she can round up a posse. Old ladies are better at it than Wyatt Earp. Reminds that I served as an extra in dozens of western movies, standing around a saloon. Don't want my friends thinking all I did was biker films, because I was already a biker, like I have no talent. That sort of behavior has become a sore point here in the Winnebago I holed up in. People always look for worms in a perfectly green granny smith. Life is a tart green apple, and people are fucking worms. Pardonez. I'm embittered.

Alright, it was a tragedy that time I had a speaking role in "Surf Nazis Must Die," and I made a poor choice of comments, it got back to some powerful Jews in the film business, and I got my poor ass black balled. Jeez folks are vindictive. 


Okay, that was shit that happened last week.

This week I'm in the hospital, on my fifth oxycontin, and my man who keeps the Winnebago on his front lawn brought me a gallon of JD. He's been letting me stay in the rusting vehicular shell. Has agent orange. Likes some company. He let's me in the house sometimes. Good peep. This here's just a short update. Seems some of the ex's fuck-pals managed to jump me. 

Dude was just aking me  what the minimum wage was like back in the 1960s.

good of you to ask...
... rents on trailers was way, way cheaper before certain bastards came in and 'developed' my former haven. I was making the equivalent of five bucks an hour, after you do some math. You might compare my standard of living, at the time, with that of an entry level sand hog. People flipping burgers earned fly shit. 

Thursday, September 12, 2013

infested fiction

'Take that, you little assholes," Ron Frownie said as he sprayed pesticide into the blue plastic grocery bag that was suspended from the handle on a cabinet and serving as temporary trash container. The recoil from spraying up close sent the cloud of flying bug spray back out of the bag and towards Ron's sour little face. He side stepped, as might Master Lee, if the Legend was fighting fruit flies. It was a war of spirit, Ron was certain. He then re-entered his fighting stance, and peeked into the bag. The few living insects walked in the slick of poison, defiant, injured, seeking fruit.

Racing for his cell phone, he called the CDC. "How long does flying bug spray work for,huh. Just tell me." he ordered, as if speaking to some lying traitor. The person on the other phone offered to refer his question to the executive director, when she gets in, sometime in the afternoon. She was in an important meeting, and would get back to him. "Well how the hell do I know when the next wave of fruit flies will hatch?" he screamed, the air in front of him lousy with tiny flying bugs.

Snapping the phone shut, he finished his eight cup of coffee, studying the grounds at the bottom of the dollar store ceramic mug. "Are those all coffee grounds, or have I been drinking the little bastards?" he thought. His world view was busy changing.

It was seeming to him that banana peals, apple cores and peach pits were the ambrosia in hell. They were the Masonic hand gestures. They were the scrawny sociopaths who sell smack to fund world terror. They were Jim Jones, drawing his followers to the Finito Cool Aid. Ron hatched a plan. "From here out, I'm throwing all my garbage out the window."

The mist of fruit flies jeered. "Won't work, Ron. There's a fat shitload more of us than there are of you."

"I'll quit eating fruit all together." Ron said with resolve.

"Then you'll get constipated, asshole," the flies replied. "You'll get colon cancer, shithead."

Fifteen minutes later Ron was back on the cell phone, "Can you at least tell what kind of diseases the fuckers carry? Anything worse than cancer?" 

Monday, September 9, 2013

Terminal Duds

Compulsions are petals. Must be pulled from the daisy, tossed in the gentle autumn. Gratification. Emotional well being. I mail ordered a dozen black swat caps, at a tempting, orgiastic wholesale price.

The hats are a jazzy quick fix for hair loss and the dread milquetoast oldster look people get at middle age, like a dunning letter against aesthetics.

With that itch stratched, I 'm thinking about white dress shirts. There is a company that sells them in eight packs, at the lowest price on the market per unit. This is the same principle as the swat caps. I need to cover sartorial needs once and for all. Soon, I will have enough swat caps to cover the bald spot on the back of my head, until natural causes, misadventure or apocolypse ends need for duds. Will be doing the same thing with blue jeans, but not right away. I'm still working on accessories. Doubt I will have to buy another neck tie.

Anyway, the goal is to establish a simple wardrobe, then never shop for clothing, of any kind, again. Though still mortal, I seek shopping death. I am killing the need to buy duds. But by degrees. Death by smart shopping.

skinny jeans are desperate
It's like the hospice patient who keeps yelling, "don't turn off the light. I'll die if you turn off the light."

For some reason, nurses often flick off the over head bulb, and the patient buys the business. Too bad. It was inevitable. But he or she might have hung in an hour longer.

It's that pathetic when people wear their 'skinny' jeans, like they won't begin gaining weight, as long as they wear the magic pants.

I'll lead, I'm strong, I've been through this. Hold my hand if you feel queezy. Size thirty. Soon as I pull them off, it feels like gobs of fat are traveling from the Milky Way to my ass. 

Soon, I'm prepared to
outfit a band of stooges with dark, frightening beanies. It's the era of self-appointment. Free range brown shirt action. I've decided to be a culture nazi.

I'm building a puppet theater.

Saturday, September 7, 2013

two readings

Been narrowing things down lately, then I'm gonna fan back out.   The project called 'The Not-Too-Social Hour is still in the work, but for now, it's mostly short poetry and prose readings on youtube.   Grooveth.

Haven't been doing squat on Facebook. Tired of opprobrium.  Eeeek.  But will resume silly stuff soon.

One more announcement:   Black and white acrylic paint on heavy paper, ready to hang on your lovely walls, at affordable social artist direct to you prices.  Also have wood sculptures available, found object pieces, much orgiastic joy of creative spirit.

Dollar Store Theater

Friday, August 30, 2013

Fresh Prose Reading

From The Files Of A Sick Literati.....(fiction)

I been stage four since Thursday, that's damn near a stage a week, just thought you needed an update. The wife is half-way healthy, diabetes, some woman trouble, but she'll be in charge of my publishing empire, soon as the pain exceeds the will to type and to produce new authors. Winnie is editor in chief, no matter what happens. She got her nursing degree, so there's a good chance Brass Plane Enterprises will be able to help you get ahead of the writing game before you smoke your trillionth Camel straight, and get cancer.

I've said a hundred times already. Why are you people screwing yourselves down to this mainstream publishing model that produces nothing but trash for the New York Times to review, because they're weasels with no mind for true art? They all have 'people' in the industry. It's a cartel, and they are determined to keep people smug, stupid, and in need drugs like Prozac or skag. One drug to keep your job in a tall building, the other to keep you settled after they kick you out. Show me a Prozac dealer who doesn't deal a little smack on the side.

P. D. Reeters does not use drugs. You shouldn't either, but that's your business. My business is helping people beat the bullshit, before it's too late. Grains of sand keep whizzing down the thin walled glottis on some fucking hour glass, some fucking where or other. Just look what we've all been through.

You did it, I did, so did the  man on the moon.  Tried to make a few bucks on the side while you're sweating  to sell an opus.  Sure, you got a fat bottomed  best-seller, all good to go, and you're hearing back from douche bags.  "We are not publishing this type of material this season."  Sure. They need all the ink and paper they got for guys who are 'in season,' like a  grapefruit.  There's a lot of scams to get rooked at.

So the commercial goes,  any fool can sell pencils and coffee mugs off a website, sitting in the living room, in an ergonomic chair, with  stomach cascading over their balls, the terry cloth bathrobe half open.  Here comes the wife with nice cup of coffee for the entrepreneur.  The software informs him (and you), in a soothing ghetto-chic  electro-feminine voice, "You have some guy who wants shit,"   each time someone clicks on one of your banners.  Ever notice how, on the commercial, the wife is suspiciously attractive, and the new business owner looks like a dude who couldn't get laid if he had blow in hooker hell?  I'm trying to save people from that kind of thing.  You need a publisher. Before you go all sucker-bait for another internet marketing racket.  

and...a poetry reading by the author:

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Dreadful Slump in My Creative Writing

The two short pieces I wrote today are the product of eroding confidence in a medium that wants to make money, and hasn't been lately.  Both pieces contain some of the worst sentences I've ever written.  But read them.  You will be gratified.

Cooking  Socially

The casserole had cooked too long, and was no longer palatable, as it might have been, in spite of it being tuna/noodle, had it not fallen victim to a nap. When I woke, the casserole had stratified, with the burnt portion lining the bottom of a dingy red ceramic baking pan, like your grandmother probably used. At the top there was a thin, crisp and unwanted crust, and in the middle was a soggy approximation of the American middle class.

I feel at one with all burn-out cases, at the bottom of the bowl. But still, it was not a good casserole. Not good eating at all.

His Inability to Come to Terms

Each morning I would begin as if bound inside a cocoon made of rare spandex, so the hope of exodus could seem real, if only for the first hopeful and then frenzied seconds. By 9:23 I would accept the type of bondage that is both intangible and a real fucking pain.

Years ago my fingers were broken by a Turkish airport luggage screener, for having only what looked like a false bottom in luggage. It was a sheet of composition
board intended only for use in a business presentation, about the advantages of fluoridation in countries with chronic bad breath, but his perception and my fingers met a smarting consequence. "You were thinking of smuggling some no-no into our land, you bastard," he said, before forcing my left hand beneath the canope of a Xerox 1090, and then sitting on it, his muscular buttocks applying the force of a hundred jackals. It is for this reason that I type slowly. But the dull feeling in my head is my own Turkish taffy. It is simply a bad day for the sublime. I surrender, and will limit myself to poems, sent to brethren civil servants at the welfare office, all of us in pain for not going to a decent university, as opposed to a state university in jerkwater.

No amount of scribbling can replace Ivy League schmaltz. I am a cinder.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Bonking out verse. Throwing it down here.

Bird Bath

sky full of crows
above jarring memories in cool dusk
birds form pentagrams with a lone witch flying within
city blocks of tall buildings
in evening jackets made of cooing birds
stand together like on a cheesy local television production
 breathing the same air as birds
waiting at the cement bus way

Demand for new poems is brisk here at home.......

Cymbal Striking Clan Reunion

they clashed yellow percussion with rings radiant
elephants  wag trunks circling
maestro standing on inverted metal library waste container
cranes back
exhibiting a pickerel pulled from an aquarium
instantly seals and penguins recite from their entitlement packages


spirocopter whirling a-top the beanie
hangs Scooter by his chin flap
he is gesticulating
and wants not to crash into tetracycline rocks
or spawning blood sensors with dorsal fin
there's enough barnacles in the bloodstream
people barely gander
they just point and shoot
feathers turn to mist in the landing gear
we're evolved

Hard Fixing

Dad took out the box-end wrenches
 bicycle rim forced into an omega from a crash
spokes not concentric
the chain was off
no propulsion
even with madness flecked running of pedals

Calming agent

relax and let go
tumbling inside a game of dice with roaring on-lookers
vice is in the keeshkas
last food a comrade can still ingest
cheese cake
cherry wine
buy at the convenience store

shoot the works

Sunday, July 21, 2013

New Poem: Singing Outlaw

Singing Outlaw
taking wine home in a black nylon bag
then taking it down in a dark room with grandfather clock pendulous
chopped remains of a chifferobe piled in front of the mantel piece
a long feathered Homburg on the cot
like most of a pheasant
I feel safe here doing favors for rustic milk maids
cops ignore the boondocks
good place to hide
sheepskin hanging in the shadow

Friday, July 19, 2013

The Not Too Social Hour

Tarot and readings.  Also bullshit.

Friday, July 12, 2013

More Quackery: Bullshit Science

Madd scientists are part of folklore.  And film, like in Frankenstein.  But what people need to squeeze into focus is madd science.  Not the person, the procedures.   Like discovering natural elements.  Discovery is big in this business.

Some people are fat pricks to the idea that all the elements on the chart, starting with As, like, 'aluminum,' and plunging to near the end at 'zinc,' are bought up and accounted for.  Leaves a simple guy like me jerking off in a field of dandelions, wishng there was something left to find, something worth a big wad of greenbacks.  Shit, did you think madd science could dodge my slingshot forever?

I found a new element today.  Alright, it was a few days ago that I imagined a rare metal called 'freakydeakium.'   Now I know men like me have a lot of freakydeakium in their blood, the way certain people have elevated levels of albumen or triglycerides.  But this freakydeakium is a great thing to have an abundance of.  I feel richer already, knowing how much of it I got.

By way of review, like this was some sort of poofy town meeting, in years past I discovered 'buttholium' and 'diddlium,' neither of which chemical elements have been voted on, or even sneezed on, by the New York Academy of Sciences, which is fine.   They're pricks.

People who are assholes have elevated levels of buttholium.  Poor people carry toxic levels of diddlium, and people who are dyed in the wool nonconformists exude freakydeakium.  People's failure to comprehend all this is driving me madd.


Thursday, July 11, 2013

Another video grab bag while trying to make a talk show on youtube

Poetry reading on embedded youtube: My Mechanical Spirit

Blowing a stash of polyesther

They are a synthetic bouquet.   Their fabric has improved by force majeur, albeit a price war favoring schlock. They remain pimpy. 

My polyesther pants were bought in strength, when the price war on irregulars and unpopular seasonal togs was lowest, as in under a wet rock.  Today I am shiny indigo with pale flecks running from trouser break to the belt loops, which sport my brand new Chollo-looking pocket watch, on it's base metal watch chain, with comical fob, hanging like a burro's long corruscated ball sack.   With a pair of plether sandals and a wife beater shirt, I am in the olive skinned working class fashion territory.   I am muy macho.

Men like me need a chain to whirl.

a poem, a fucking poem: My Mechanical Spirit

My Mechanical Spirit

oh, by jeepers I'm a tool

I live by pliers and wrenches

can't get enough of bountiful saws

have awakenings from utensils

the old lady who lived in this here dump

left plates and saucers

a tea set of iron porcellain with rep stripes

like her late hubby's neckware

spartan forks and napkins

were among the last clean things in my greasy grasp

and lordy she left behind

her old hammer and sickle

I've removed opportunist weeds for fifteen successive mini-millenia

with that tempered steel hook she gave me

I beat nails into wallboard for hanging pics on velvet for three five year plans

using the old lady's hammer

I got the wave

the waves of grain

I got the waves of grain under control


Monday, July 8, 2013

Interesting how people go down

Did you ever liquifact in a grocery store? I had a heat illness while shopping. Maybe some day I will be annointed one of those pieces of shit who get ambulanced away from a worse form of heat ailment. Becoming prone to it is a shitty rite of passage. And is annoyingly dual in meaning. Such as either a serious matter, or not. It was a teasing, short lived illness.

It lasted a about a half hour. Like I was telling you about a sea diving adventure, I had finished checking out at the dollar store, with some handy items, like some budget-conscious butcher knives, and an armload of heavy floor mats. I was driven, psychologically, to return to the Dollar Tree store after an earlier bus adventure, shopping for food. I saw the mats, needed them, like a Norse vestal goddess with nice tits, because they will be supreme in the upstairs bathroom (I'm fixing the place up) soI took the second ride down long winding Perrysville Avenue, a snaking squalid highway with many wraps and moustaches.

The perspiration formed like a thick layer of clear shellac, and confusion gathered in the head. It came on swift, like a blond bathyculpian muse, so common here, no where, in Westview, Pennsylvania. As I once was warned by a public health professional, at work, years ago, patients often respond to their illness with denial. "I'm not ill," these fucked up untermensch will say to their sick-assed self.

The guy at the cash register had given me some shit about the three butcher knives, to which I replied, "just supplying the kitchen, for cooking," but perhaps you already know I am an avid knife thrower, with a target set up in the living room, where I live so Spartan and tasteful.

Feeling wonderfully free and open with all you readers, and thanks, damn it, it matters, I was a mite pissed off about the clerk asking me why I was buying butcher knives. Say it may be a persecution complex, but people into martial arts can be branded with awful misperceptions. I'm a doll. With heat sickness coming on quick while I stuffed my blades in my shoulder bag, and umphed the four heavy floor mats out of the buggy. I felt sick and stigmatized, both at the same fucking time. The sweat was amazingly uniform head to toe, like a layer of clear mylar.

Dizzyness can be a royal flush in the area of dropping dead a little later on. As can an uncharacteristic plasticine perspiration attack, like liquid swat teams. The walk from Dollar Tree to Giant Eagle, the grocery store, with a name like the bird that ate the liver out of Prometheus, in the famous fucking myth that I was forced to read in highschool, by a toothless, bearded hag, like mentioned in the Rolling Stones' song, Junpin' Jack Flash,love that song, was wet and hideous. The duds I had on were drenching with perspiration, just thin cotton shorts with cargo pockets, and a wife beater type shirt, which I normally look cool in, but at the moment resembled a common wife beater in the throes of a heat sickness, as from the physical exertion in spouse abuse. Sickness is ugly. So the fucking is falling weak, inside a grocery store.

Thank heaven for climate control inside Giant Eagle. Not that this was great shakes. The coffee was cold as Satan's scaly unmentionables, and this was not the first time the food court was neglected by store staff. Not that I know what I looked like at the time, but I could feel the sweat exuding like a thick body suit. When I used the cotton bandana that I keep in my shoulder bag, in became soaked, merely from rubbing it on my face. The clerk I bought the shit coffee from was looking at me wierd, no doubt for looking like another middle aged piece of shit who might hit the floor and have to be ambulanced off, quiet and quick as possible, efficient as a corporation, and with urgency so much greater than having decent fucking coffee. I may have looked like some sort of nameless oddity, to the grudging, young, underpaid clerks.

I sat at a table, sweating, confused, weak, with real fucking heat illness, not sure what kind, drinking the cold Bold Brazillian I'd just paid about two bucks for. Most worrysome of all, the fear of butt sweat, the sweat that gives a wet spot, or spots, or an entirety, where one wants to be least noticed for wettness. It was all sweat, nothing worse, but it was ugly. Double ugly. The air conditioning in the store, and the fucking awful coffee, from out of a pump dispenser that was last touched by Emporor Napoleon had positive effect, though the place be dank. I lucked out again, that the bus home was also air conditioned, enough to keep from getting sicker. In fact, the ugly, banging conveyance had a healing effect, the cool air reviving my poor, soggy, sick old ass. People used to believe medicine had to taste bad to be good, but that's a different kind of disease. People are sick with their confidence in sick, sick now. Like any certainty, at all, might make you sick.

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Next Unsolicited Policy Statement: Dispositon of Real Estate

Shitsky, is it not the disposition of real estate that is the lynch pin to the liberation of American lower social castes? Is it fishy that the real estate melt down of 2008 didn't result in better public policy on the cost of real estate, especially in relation to median income? Jeesus tits, didn't the fed play innocent possum the whole time that the cost of property went through the roof, and everyone's take home pay declined like a motherfucker? That was a fat, long stretch of decades, during which the rich got way, way richer, while most others took a Georgia pine up the keester.

Sometimes you gotta redefine what is already known, such as the fact that the American wee folk are in a ridiculously weak position against the will of government and the Plutocracy. But you ask me, "Bruce, Bruce, er, aaah, can't people just vote their way out of the black hole, or maybe everyone could just write to their comgresspersons, and then they wouldn't all be hopeless, powerless peons? Can't be like that?"

No. People have to either have a stable honest government more or less permanantly, or else groove on having scant free will or recourse against persecution. If you can't pay a fat chunk into campaign funds, or just pay bribes, no politician will soil his/her mitts with your hopes and wants. People saddled with debt from property are all the more in the mulch.

The reason for the spiel about property is that everyone has to live somewhere, and if overburdened by the cost of living space, either bought or rented, not only is the victim stressed in mind, he/she is made a political cripple. With no way of asserting his/her  will on the governments that are supposed to be working on behalf of them. So I'm being a big blow hard about public policy regarding the disposition of land. More people should similarly be a blow hard.

Monday, May 27, 2013

Reducing Violence Incrementally

People are not grand at weighing options.  Or at even identifying options to drop on the balance, oposite brass counterweights.  They just want to live in a world of clean aired, cotton candy peace and prosperity.  How fucking simple and childish.  Like the hog swill I keep hearing from people who churlishly hope to reduce gun violence.  Hope is churlish. 

How's this for overly simplistic:  Apply restrictions to the ownership of guns.   People will supposedly not shoot people if you allow guns here and forbid them elsewhere.  They will stop using violence if you limit them to ten round clips and forbid assault rifles.    Is everyone wearing their glasses and hearing aids?   Do you need another shot of tequila?  People are assholes.  There is a lot of violence part and parcel to it.  People, one way or other, strive not to be a victim of it, hence guns.  There are myriad normal healthy reasons for the use of violence, and a need to reduce gun violence.

Here's my proposal:  more use of fists, knives, and blunt objects.  Countless old timers will tell you that, fifty years ago, police beat residents of Pittsburgh with billy clubs with good results.  Gang fighting, in the 1950s, proved that stabbing and chain whipping could be a fairly quiet, non-lethal method of conflict resolution and sport.  Trips to the emergency room were dick compared to our modern inflow of shooting victims.  It's just too easy, and too lethal, to squabble with guns. 

Switchblades are a veritable aesthetic triumph.  Baseball bats, like a fresh baked apple pie.  And colorful, smiling athletic pugilism.  Use liberally, to deal with all the assholes out there who need it.  But most important, it's everyones responsiblity to beat the devil out of bad people, before they resort to gun violence.   Do it for world peace.

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Not Wild


It looked like it could be a fine day, though North Side Park was so near the rescue mission. There wasn't anything necessary to do, had been doing errands that could have been put off, like returning books to the library, half read, like wasting all your food at the prison commisssary, and getting yelled at by a guard. But that type of perception is just a product of letting one's self get morbid over the times, what with one person in a hundred in durance vile, and new ways of putting people there arriving, like gifts, for people like the ones milling about the sprawling, lovely park. Me, I've never been 'in,' but the fear keeps me thinking of things that compare to it. Maybe that state of affairs has some sort of gravitational pull that invades the mind, because there isn't really any reason to think the way I do.

My legs were hurting from middle age wear and tear, which caused me to make my worst decision for the day. I sat down under a shade tree, to rest. How assinine. Soon I was approached.

The guy had a pleasant, large, long face, with black moles the size of quarters across his forehead and cheeks. If it was melanoma, he was walking distance from Allegheny General, but then, as is the case with being jailed, being hospitalized can be low on people's list, so I'm slightly sympathetic. His physique was kinda' poor, him being on the short side, with a torso that seemed cheated here and over-arched there. His hands were gnarled, and too big for the rest of him, which, in the nicest of derelicts, can cause people to think 'strangler.'

He had a pleasant, subdued, church-warden kind of smile when he talked. When he stopped by to talk, under the shade tree, he stood just behind me, like a safety measure, before saying 'Hi.'

 I have a weak social constitution. I said, "Hi" back. Then I tried to ignore him while he was talking, but, again, I have Silly String for nerves, and can't find it in me to tell people to fuck off. When I was younger I deluded myself with the idea that I was tolerant and kind towards people less fortunate, which is like saying that it's better to flunk your exams. Then the decisions about your future are safely out of your control. The man's assuption about me was that I could use some help.

He pulled out of his pocket some neatly folded, clean typed pages, telling me he has a list of food banks and soup kitchens, with locations and times to show up hungry, and talked to me a bit about how it's good to be able to find food when you need it, which isn't too heinous a thing to launch into. I said thanks for the tip, but I was hip to where "the ragged people go," like in a Simon and Garfunkel tune. Odd how I can't, without straining, make myself hear those folk songs I used to love, like 'The Boxer.' Just certain lines come to memory, always for the wrong reason.

I guess, if you were there, you would have heard what the guy said, and not what I thought at the time. The difference, in this life, between the homeless and the merely fucked up. He got nostalgic, as I got nervous agitation. "I used to come around here a lot," he said.

During his next several sentences, he kept getting to the middle one, then stopping, leaving me to wait for him to finish it, during which time, I was unable to control the tendency to fill in the part of the sentence he stopped at. Like, "Yea, I used like come down here and get me..."
He stopped after the word 'me,' and I started to think "...a bunch of guys together, we'd get a hotel room, and blow each other till sun came up." But that wasn't how he finished his sentence, his, not mine, not mine to judge of revise. When he continued his train of thought, right where he left off, I think, can't read his mind, sitting there like a fool, him standing off to the side, in the shade, it went to, "....a nice little water mellon....," and while waiting for him to continue, for maybe fifteen seconds, I thought to myself "....then I cut a half inch hole in it and fuck it like it was Mae West." 

But he continued, saying, "....and then I get me a little bag 'a ice cubes, and drop it on the sidewalk so the cubes break up." He paused again, but his time I couldn't place him doing anything too foul with the ice cubes, so I just cursed silently. "Then I put the ice and the mellon in a big cooler I got."

His story continued, and with each pause, I found new rotten things to think. It ended with him taking the ice, the mellon and the cooler to his church, so he could share it, on a blistering hot day, with all the congregants, on Sundays that might have been like Plymouth Rock, for all I know. He seemed like a very good natured guy. Looked homeless, seemed the sort that doesn't harbor malice, the way I do. But then lots of serial killers have a social side to them. I found a reason to stand up and walk away, with the man walking behind, still talking to me. Not wild about this form of communication. Like sliding down a greased pole.

Local Election Raga, or primitive Eastern dance tune

Election day creeped up like a case of the crud. Yesterday, all day, and into the night, till morning, this fanatic was engaged in the 'squirts' from minor food mishap, gustatory, and maybe was, on my part, negligent. Sick at both ends, as a cheery old aunt might quip. With limb-flapping time slots of pain. Followed with relief. And awareness of being ill. Seems better at the moment. Will maybe commit more resource to washing the dishes once in a while. And now I feel well enough to go vote.

Elections here deserve mention for Spartan sparseness. Few voters pass in and out the basement of a dark brick public school for special needs persons, those scholars needing large supervisory human elementals. Mortals. Laboring souls in the field. But at the upstairs of the voting place, McNaugher School is a stern-looking institution, vacant and for sale, old like some sort big male thespian that stamped his role model on young television veiwers, such as this writer once was. A conveyance of authority, even if composed of vacant marble slabs, and the bogus memory grown from decades of watching television, makes my few minutes in the Perryhilltop voting place the stern punch of the time clock, the way everyone who went to school has a permant record card, which could favor or dun your poor miserable ass for a life time, or even eternity.

A local election in Perrhilltop is never dry, always wet watercolors running into shallow ponds of confusion. I've cast my vote in that dank school basement enough times over the last fifteen years to feel as though I drank wasted pictures of a place that doesn't resolve. I'm slightly proud to have voted.


Sunday, May 19, 2013

I favor low cost socialized medicine, like civilized techno-dudes

My sermon for today has to do with two useless parts of the anatomy: The coccyx and the uvula. The former is the tiny vestige of a tail at the base of the spine, and is part of the butt. In people, it serves no purpose, and though it is part of the spine, you can break it, as in during a fall down the side of a ravine, and not need medical treatment. That's how useless your coccyx is. I broke mine, likewise, in a hiking accident, on a rock, in the process of falling, a long time ago. It hurt lots, but aside from hurting, it had no effect, unless you care that it lists slightly to the left since the accident. Then there is the uvula.

It's the comical looking thing that hangs in the back of the throat, visible if you open your mouth real wide while looking in the mirror. It resembles a red punching back, and can swing back and forth like a metronome, which is among reasons why people seem to think the uvula is funny. But at the moment, I'm am denying. In a classic example of time referenced philosophical method. Like Husserl, for crhisake. I am not agreeing the uvula is funny.

Well, I woke this morning with a sore throat, checked it in the mirror with the flashlight, and was alarmed to see what looked like an infected uvula. I'm not wasting time and money taking my inflamed uvula to the doctor, because I don't have medical coverage, and can wait a few days to find out if I'm terminally ill or mildy uncomfortable. But I just needed to share that that useless organ reminded me of having no medical coverage, and that it's clear as mud what happens when Obamacare kicks in, in about seven months. I'm in fear I'll be taxed heavily in exchange for no service. Does anyone know if the upcoming tax will cover medical expense, like insurance, or will uninsured patients simply be taxed and given no medical coverage? If only my uvula could provide the answer.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Yawn: Another Credo

But you say, "why is this man speaking of a show called "The Not-Too-Social Hour," which is half baked, and which exists in only short samples of recordings and video clipss, pretty fucking sad,not so?

All right.  I'm still working on a podcast, and on wonderful, entertaining and informative video show, and there is evidence  on this blog to support that I am sweating this.  So why is this planned media extravaganza not getting ripe?  Well,  it's a work in progress.  I am thinking about how to find people who might want to be interviewed, using a palm sized voice recorder and two microphones strung miserably together with a 'Y' connector, purchased for pennies off the internet, that reminds all of the AV room in a penitentury.  Just be advised I'm working on my shit, and invite people to share and learn.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Desperate Fashion Fiction

The Tie of Yugraz

Dears, ..........there are choices in neckware that reveal human weakness, vulnerability, concupiscense, and future unattractive outfits. Unless the neck tie is pulled from the closet. As has a terribly bright orange print tie. It was from a Goodwill store, for the two dollars that makes it seem worth taking a fashion risk. The Tie of Yugraz was recently pulled. Before I realized, too late, that it is ugly. Please believe I am more judicious and humane than a Turkish jail guard. I am always generous with lube. The tie is allowed to live, but will be hanging on the livingroom wall, like a wall hanging. Because I'm creative.

I must describe the Tie of Yugraz! It knots in a noncoventional way. I tested it. Several times. Like judge and jury. I happened to notice that with the oscillating fan blowing on the tie, in turn, it undulates in the breeze with less dance than the silk ties I prefer to wear. I think solid color silk ties are unimpeachable, no matter where they are made, and who thinks their clothes are better. For the most part, my accessories are well mated. Not so the Tie of Yugraz, I am forced to admit.

It makes me envision a very large old man in a fez, and I simply didn't see that when it caught my eye at the Goodwill store. There's a daring Naples yellow pattern on the orange raw silk, with deliberate thready warp, on the bias, like Jungle Larry in Detroit. But with bald natives brandishing spears. Orderly, but, probably kettle drums, just use some old Slingerland. The pattern itself is just wavy squares with reddish points inside. I'm attracted to pointy looking things. It's a crappy awareness.

I guess that's part of Freudian free association that people used to play fetch with,like dog and owner. There had to be an archetype of the man who wears that sort of neck tie, or I wouldn't have plunked the two bucks for it. There had to be some form of internalized theater, in which garish people do obnoxious things to one another, for lack of skill in collectivizing. It's been a pink country for a long time now, and if the fat cats of yore had been prescient, people would be getting smarter instead of the opposite. I find it best to make a personal psychodrama from the glare. That's right, the glare from the garish color.

As said, the evil Tie of Yugraz is banished from the wardrobe, and is put to work was wall art. I'm so clever.


Saturday, March 16, 2013

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Me and Noodles (a cat comic series)


New Video (link) and Copraphragra (humor)

Ever since the time when I used to watch Dr. Kildare and, eventually, Dr. Marcus Welby, M.D., I felt that I should be entitled to a really ripping relationship with my general practitioner. It's been a long time since that dream was instilled, and as still more line ran out from the reel, managed health care placed limits of time and possibility with which to be part of the medical world village. But that is no reason to let the medical establishment be a bully.

There is a new medication for a nervous rash that I get. The commercial for it shows how to discuss the rash with a primary care person, and I sent for the free DVD that shows all the steps to getting the pills I need.

So naturally I am disappointed about what happened. I described to my physician how I have been getting lesions like a baboons bum. "I am not allowed to prescribe for you Copraphagra. It's not for you. You have liver problems." He says to me, like he wasn't on my team.

I deserved that. That's really fair. I have the least infectious, least pernicious type of hepatitis, and my doctor won't let me take Copraphagra. I also have a problem that would respond perfectly to the new medication.

Dr. Vadawalla reminded me of a debate coach I had in high school, laying out the opposing strategy: the liver could go kerfluey, blood pressure, stones and tsunami of diarrhea could happen. "You don't have to use medication every time you become upset," he said, like the 'impact statements' that twelth grade pedant used to make us trot out in our forensic tournaments.

I had an impact statement of my own for Dr. Vadawalla. "I haven't been able to meditate for over two weeks. Two weeks. And a truly great man, from the very same part of India you come from, says that if you are unable to meditate, you need professional help. I told you weeks ago that I was having this problem, and now I am breaking out in a skin rash. You are a professional. I am asking you for help."


Sodomy and good cheer.  Gimmicks.  Desperate attempts at achieving scant-earned, shiftless, narissistic fame.What kind of rusticated jerkwater Apalachian Sin City are people tring to run?

All right, it's all good clean healthy marketing, research and development, and the entertainment industry being nursed on this blog like a faun sucking doe teats.

Here's the new look:  The Pink Wig


Friday, February 22, 2013

He's still peddling his project: The Person In The Blue Wig

Still refining an internet persona, with a blue wig on.

............and a flash fiction piece......

Barbara Banal, Security Operative

Last meeting with the boss I got yelled at again about my weight. I'm five nothing, 180, and the bitch says I have to gain another thirty pounds to be more nearly 'invisible.' Crisake, I got a job in the back office at a realty firm on McKnight Road and get my hair done by a fag at the Ross Park Mall. I'm invisible, for fuck sake. As covers go, it's better than Marvel Comics. But no, all the up close wet work I did on the West Coast doesn't mean shit. I have to choose make-up that accentuates acne scars and makes olive skin look purplish.

The Big Boss says I'm not working 110%. I told her there's no such thing, and she said there is if she and the rest of B.I.T.C.H. says there is. You would think this was all for the Pink Thunderbird at Mary Kay, and not an anti-terror unit. Sure, my feeling get hurt.

Working in Pittsburgh. How fucking intriqueing. I'm telling people about the Christmas big blow out sales and about how to clip coupons and about how much I love shopping along the Miracle Mile. There are W.O.G.s and illegal aliens working at the sun glass booth, and some of them work for Al Queda. Their cover stories are a lot like mine. There should be some sort of unifying theory that would make us all best friends. As it is I have to use my collection of guns, baseball bats, dime store toad-stickers and mail order stun guns so the jobs look like hate crimes done by white trash or drug deals gone sour by young African Americans. For Uncle Sam. Yeah, a woman has feelings.

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Return of The Person In The Blue Wig

Here are more links, the one above in The Person in the Blue Wig, and below, my avante-quarde knife throwing demo of last week.

It's a fucking wierd video clip.  Total experiment, learning to operate video editing programs, and I overdubbed a voice recording, at random, over the video clips, which where strung together, like beads, using Windows Movie Make software.


Friday, February 8, 2013

The Person in the Blue Wig

All glories expended if the link below takes you nearer enlightenment, dear free thinker!

The undertaking is political, theatrical, histrionic, and at worst, pompous.  But ask one thing:  Is there really a better way to convince people there are moral imperatives?

I will be posting a series of video clips, featuring my new alter-ego, The Person In The Blue Wig.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Spoken Word Videos

poetry readings, with gimmicks.

Use the links, above, to view latest readings and stunts.


Saturday, January 26, 2013

spike throwing is a convivial new indoor sport

I hope the link above works, it won't be up long if not.  I have been letting the world know that the arcane martial art of spike throwing can be a lovely indoor sport, perfect for apartment dwellers, as the film clip shall reveal.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Herbal Medicine Report #1

Using the Herb Schizandra

This writer got interested in herbal healing a few years ago, self-tested some, and have incurred some positive results. Among them, the herb schizandra, a dried berry in powder form, was used according to tradition. It is believed to enhance recovery from illness or injury, improve the middle aged libido, and to facillitate general health.

It is best taken in the form of an infusion, taken about six times a day, in intervals, from morning to bed time, for three to four consecutive days. It is a generality in herbal healing that remedies be taken in regimen form, periodically, for best results.

The infusion is mixed with green tea, six cups a day, mixing about a half to one ounce of infusion to the cup of green tea. The proper amount of schizandra can be determined by the taste. The right amount per serving will alter the flavor of the tea, and will add a pleasing tang. If it tastes bad (caustic, chemical tasting) it is too much schizandra. The infusion is made as follows:

needed: powdered schizandra, two empty wine bottles, largefunnel, coffee filter, two cups boiling water, green tea.

Use funnel to put one tablespoon of schizandra powder into wine bottle, then pour in pint boiling water. Cap the bottle and leave it sit over night. It is recommended to start making the infusion in the late evening. It is ready to filter and begin using after about eight hours, so best to begin regimen first thing in the morning. Filter the infusion, putting coffee filter in the funnel, inserting in empty wine bottle, and slowly pouring infusion from the first bottle into the funnel. It will drip through in a few minutes. The filtered infusion should be kept in the refrigerator, and can be used for forty eight hours, after which, discard and make a fresh batch to continue regimen.

Schizandra is allergenic to some people, said to cause a near instant respiratory attack in those with allergy. It is recommened that users test for allergy as follows: make tea per instructions, take one sip, wait a half hour, take a second sip, wait half hour. It is said user will feel sickened quickly if allergic. It is recommened user keep a phone handy to call for help if needed. Allergic reactions are said to be severe. Use with caution.

Thus far, this writer has experienced no bad reactions, though it is palpable when too much schizandra has been taken. It has a caustic, chemical taste and smell, and is toxic in large amounts.

The green tea can be used in tea bags, pouring boiling water into a cup, steeping the tea for a few minutes, then add infusion. Again, the right amount of infusion per cup yields a pleasant, tangy taste, and user may notice improved sense of vitality during and after the regimen. This writer did, with a specific. Specifically, improved libido lasting a few days. The info, gathered from several internet sources, say that this regimen is not to be over used, and should be done perhaps once every other month. One of the tenets of herbal healing is that nothing works the same all the time, and the greatest benefit is derived by spacing regimens through out the year. Some sources recommend six week intervals. It is a time tested approach to improved general health.

Schizandra has been used for hundreds of years, has been popular among Asian men to treat sexual dysfunction and a host of other ailments, and may improve circulation. It is being suggested because this writer believes this herb may be worth further study. Powdered schizandra can be purchased on the internet at:   

This company appears to be an excellent source of herbal teas and other supplies.

Among points of interest, it is recommended that herbal medications be taken in small amounds throughout the day for a period of several days. It is advised that nothing be used every day, and most deffinately, less is more. The best use is in the least amount that does the job.

It has been discussed in the media that daily use of vitamin pills may be a poor delivery system, and that the better strategy to enhance health is to ingest the right substance, the right way, and in conjuction with whatever else is needed to potentiate the substance. It has been opined that by isolating a nutrient, it may be rendered ineffective. It is this writers thesis that herbal remedies, properly used, may answer the problem of how best to administer the substance. Recent articles stated that vitamin E, for instance, taken in gel cap form, is seriously less beneficial than previously thought, and is only beneficial taken with other substances unknown. It is my thesis that regimens using herbal teas, infusions, and tinctures may provide the substances needed to potentiate the nutrient. Thus far I have been using only products used for centuries, per instructions found easily on the internet or library. As a generality, I have found information reasonably consistent from source to source, have checked a lot of them, and continue to advocate natural healing.

The herb, schizandra, used by this writer, netted a positive result, so it seemed sociable to share the experience. Thanks for reading.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013


Poem in Four Parts

The Vanishing Male



tiger lillies
dragon lillies
he closed like the broad petal flower
one or the other orange carnal shower

confusing the two lillies
disemfranchised Billy goes willy nilly into factory preset defaulting shill position
options for tulips in winter
dragon and tiger lillies



layer it on men
rotten dirty men
men are in rotten condition
they eat Cheetos
cheat lots
sink to generic nacho corn chips
I see these people carrying forty five bags of chips
and the diet extends to their biz
they get this bunched up look



tippy tippy toe out of Wheaties
milk sopping
off that chenille lavender monogrammed sweater
the bald noggin laureled up in milky wheat flakes
milk dripping down the face
gee whilikers these silky resurrections
are free as the public library
though not remunerative
milk sours
flakes crust
flies land


zone robbing

she-power rising
Empress A floating down the Monongahela
in her fracking fluid barge
floating on a cushion
her addicted slaves
row adoringly
floating on inner tubes
within the cast iron hull
in lucrative waste management