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.