Saturday, May 31, 2008

So, you think YOU'RE sneaky?

You don't compare.


I don’t know the measurement, I’m assuming it’s hot sauce

Excuse me, but I think I’m growing
Pressure I can feel
Beats me in my own fresh driveway
Going to be bigger than a house on this capital punishment sauce
Dave’s hot death manic depressive sauce
Dave is working with Peter to make
Peter’s My Grandchildren are Hurting from this sauce
Is eaten in small bites by capital bigwigs
Moving and shaking shaving wins you big
Capital rewards card thrown out while on this sauce
This sauce is only ketchup
And flavors are missing out due to bland regional taste
Excuses for why I’m exploding in this year’s Olympics?
Icon for thunder
I’ve been rewarded sauce and depression
The Depression Olympics
With hot death manic new setlist
How does this deal with hot death manic new sauce setlist? Easy
On the sauce, you eat small bites until the punishment is
“Really just sauce is making me uncomfortable”
Not to mess with cacophony growth sauce, my size
Within sustainable samples of unnatural but blessed crimping
Doing nothing all day but warrants sauce

Monday, May 26, 2008

Translator of Kill

Wherein Jeb and F. Scott Espectaculo are called to the crime scene

Oh predator, my predator had been scrawled next to the body. The dropped dictionary. At first Jeb thought it was paint.
“Nope. It’s nylon based. Not scrubbable, not matte.” He paused.
“Not Dick Blick,” F. Scott Espectaculo added.
“And from the thermometer reading, this body’s never been so comfortable.” Scott looked up from his watch— the putty knife in his other hand— as if telling time over Thanksgiving dinner.
“I couldn’t care less if it’s nylon or Dacron. Put the knife down first. This sprawl has a ripe n’ healthy pallor compared to that last scene,” Jeb flashed.
“True. True,” F. Scott’s voice trailed off, as if thinking of his first time.
“Benjamin Moore?”
“Let me jog your memory. Come on, it’ll be momentary exertion.”
“You did it standing up. Nor did you have any time to establish lasting contact.”
“We were at the bagelmart, the east side of town, see, and the parking lot had piled up with cop cars, too thick for any criminal action,” Jeb added.

“True, true. They’d make arrests the moment you uttered the word ‘Kill!’ remember?”
“Yeah I do. And the dancing Shriner with the capgun quit bothering us, his hatful of sprigs from God knows what plant, running around, owning the place, pinching everyone’s nose and chuckling, ‘I’m a Jesus fish, I’m a Jesus fish.’
“Remember?” Jeb looked at F. Scott imploringly. Jeb stopped.
“You have a piece of something right there.” Jeb, pointing at his face: “Here?”
Espectaculo looked up from his watch. Two ten pm. It read Jueves, August 23.
“There, yes. You got it. But shit! I’d almost forgotten to ask. Wasn’t this guy head of some international spelling crime get-together happening in town for the next few days? I tried to get tickets— figured it’d be a great place to meet people we might later bust. You however, had said not to be hasty. Him?”
F. Scott’s voice had been ascending in pitch since wasn’t.
“You can’t tell that from his suit. Gee, you’d think they’d know just where to shop. This is obviously faux.”
This last comment came out, nearly a shriek, a soprano.
“But in this case, a very interesting case indeed, the perp must’ve raided Home Lumber, Paints & Construction to find this mix. It’s rare. They use it in racing,” Jeb huffed.
“Well then, we should get to the bottom of each word’s roots.”
“A stellar plan,” Jeb broke in. “To get some idea of what and who we’re dealing with.”
“To kill. I kill. You kill. He or she kills. They kill. We kill. You all kill.”
“That’s great Scottie ma’ boy. But where’s the meat? Where’s the etymology?” Jeb, frustrated, asks.
“Probably in the same family as cuore, with a real family-building feeling and tone,” F. Scott said, not taking his own eyes off the chest cavity, his cleaning aimed at making a tidy little space for accepting that this was happening. He scarcely wanted to say it: M-u-r-d-e-r.
“The word just makes your insides ache.”
Espectaculo knew the word. Of the words he knew, it happened to be nearest to Murcia. He had wanted a vacation there. To sunny Spain. Shaped like an almond, smell of punch. The voting had gone to the north. Eventually, Estremadura had won out. Scott would have to wait until much later to gaze at the snarling, windless bulls of the ring. The matte blood; so rare to spot matte on fur and see it still moving. He wasn’t much used to living contexts.
And tyrannicide was certainly another coin, too. Set upon by whom he called dogs; that unstoppable violence from income disparity and even poorer statesmanship. And there they were, The Joneses. But murder? Snuff the Joneses? Scott hadn’t heard it in years.
“It seems unlikely that he just stepped out for a cigarette and blam! in this outfit. He eats a bullet. In this weather? You’d hear the sound. This part of town is dead. The gray of it, I’d lose my appetite for just about eating anything. I don’t know why we’re here.”
“To put the fixings on this body and ship it to the basement guys,” Jeb said. “With better degrees.”

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Over Kill

The idea of beating a dead horse, itself in bold, creates interesting possibilities within poetry. I find this all so dern interesting. In some cases, the death causes the reader to revisit something forgotten in our fast-paced world with too many highways. Because did I mean super or informational?

In other cases, readers are shown how easy it is to kill something already dead. Here, the poet says, "Now, you too, readers, can do some work. Work will be good for you." This, too, is of value. Readers must sometimes think original thoughts and not killed ones. Readers must know when they are being offered killed thoughts, and how to spot the difference. And yes, in still other cases, readers learn from the mistakes of poets: Don't visit this area where they kill dead horses if you desire to suck from the marrow of conversation at parties. Famous people usually aren’t horsekillers that nobody likes.

Monday, May 19, 2008

A good job doesn’t make me want to kill myself and others

Belly, butt and thighs boot camp
igniting audiences at both venues into full-blown
inner working the combined houses
demystifies for viewers old punker frenzy
Trapped in the bowels of the earth
With an unexplained aura embarrassing Bam’s dad
Freewheeling talents wander Japan in panda outfits
or is she truly an artistic visionary trapped in the body

with the help of a spooky but sex-starved ghost
one ghoulish chocoholic in Chill-O-Rama
a hopeless alcoholic terrorizes her hugely dysfunctional children
a maximum-security military prison run by a hard-nosed disciplinarian
an elderly woman by the evil Witch of the Waste
and a load of cash captures the magic rally
the surviving players the close-knit West Virginia town find new hope
whose spirited edibles are even better
because they carry an inspirational message

Calling it conflict would be a serious understatement
As Louie's memories are unleashed
a trio of furry woodland sprites only seen by unwary Nick
Hepburn's singing voice deadly disease and a band of brothers
get ready their next feast as an eccentric investor as a tart butler
As the immortal Lauren Bacall in a small role
designed to target every area of your life
you won't just change your weight -- you'll change thinking
This would’ve been a movie
that penetrated my dreams and I didn’t feel like it.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Bee’s Food

stealing the bees' nectar for centuries
and convince her father that she's destined
31 songs covering their lengthy career
she terrorizes anyone who gets in her way. When a simple-minded cousin
has taken them from singing in their living room
support from her bookish tutor, her principal and proud members of her community
claims to be the king of his species
why these hardworking insects manufacture honey
another helpful lesson in language
the land of vocabulary expansion
a gentle and relaxed environment
a woman whose zest for violence rivals her passion
including "clap," "bounce," "eat," "sleep," "touch,"
"smile," "play," "sit," "drink," "read," "draw" and "crawl."
apple juice and cheese are taught through music, rap, and rhyme

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Interesting Blend of Some Nonsense and Repeat Brushing


Geoffrey Cruickshank-Hagenbuckle is real. In fact, I think he works in translation, but don't quote me on that. The essay has great language...interesting language that makes me love parsing the deep seeds it puts forth, and which makes it such a shame that its author perpetuates an already existing widespread misunderstanding of Flarf, and writing in general, among other things.

No mention is made of Flarf's aims which, whether announced by Flarf writers or not, seem to be one of the harshest critiques of the current state of American politics [N.B. I said, "one of," not "the best and only"]. Perhaps these critiques are what I take from Flarf writing, so be it, but taking official language (not all Flarf is fart, duh!) and discharging it, then redressing it in cute little kitty poems and saying it in public, seems to be the one of (again, "one of") the best things to happen in poetic, nay, ANY discourse since Judge Judy and Andres Serrano.

GCH forgets that Flarf isn't necessarily a school like New York is a school, rather a personality scarf, a red flag raised when each writer wants to move into giddy or more barbed territory. This, to me, seems the best -- and heretofore unmentioned -- way to categorize Flarf, since most writers and creators of Flarf also write in other veins, skeins, skirts and formats. It would be doing any writer a disservice to categorize her or him as only capable of fitting into one school. And this, the most fitting crit of poetry schools, goes unmentioned in GCH's screed. Too bad, I say, to miss such a whopper.


I promise to change

Like this forever: Servers are working in a way I can program
Tangled, a seedling in the bars of this jungle gym

I will tick the automatic sprinklers switch to on
Our noises swim in overalls until our skin hurts

Models douse themselves in kerosene
Perform very “hot demolition”

You can change me
But don’t keep my appointments

You know the commitment I keep
The rocket man ready for handshakes

Scrapable spray tan to extinguish messy modeling
Fat dribbling like ice cream off new model cars

Saturday, May 10, 2008


Chained dog.

What happens when an artist from another country makes art that others fail to understand?

Is there a proper form of boycott that doesn't further promote what's being boycotted?

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

Fat elephant Fat pig Fat cat Pat

Fat elephant take dat
Got more fatness than fatty mc rat
Got milky sadness or snotty mac scott?
Pat was a fat cat
He took that as a compliment.
He found his name was all that, Pat
Both woman and bat.
Elefat. Take your SAT

Increasing spending, Pat gets Fat
Fat he’s got his own zip code, he makes calls
From that. Snot rat, mc fatty dat take elephant
Sadness, rocking woman and bat,
A living vampire spat
Packing Fat in his squat

Sunday, May 04, 2008

Ryan O'Neal has never been better, of course I'm not a woman


They are cajoled by lucrative adversity, very susceptible to the yearnings of larceny.

–anonymous poster,

Mammoth manhood puts our lives in danger
And because we have pledged caution and
Make a livelihood from risky business
and truth in the way of biting, if that very biting
Is the son of a mother who is tiring and
Earnest with very large spots
These spots we fatigue grasping
Then happiness is our sitting pool.

I have proof of this happening on tape
And forced out into the suburbs
Slowly and cancerously each with sandwiches
Spangled, dappled in, Oh gay sunshine
In small pools, usually constructed I’ve seen
Gay sunshine and I’ve seen gay rain

Move me to where I purchase newest releases
Through extension of unworthy bonuses
Heralded as the best of the best
In the land of women
Free of diseases
“Sword of Freedom!” effing gaiety

But mammoth exception blocking out nutrition
Locking in the healthy bits so you stay full force
Acts are not merely occasions to bring the family around
But to buy into a gas phenomenon

Cast information in bland flavor light
I hope she’s susceptible and can get rid of dogs
Bad breath it is really awful
I cannot get away from its awfulness
Chasing me down the volcanic lava beach
Suddenly, what’s that smell of awfulness?
It’s that bad dog breath beach

From this awful ray beam our legs are tired
Turning my beach vacation our cheaply priced hotel
Into a small house with a chain near the door

Even when I’m quick hunting down instant titles
A new technology to read prices has been
Found, in where those birds just were
Of course the novelty hasn’t worn off, prices
Flutter into a small nest then just

Exploded! I’m located in the best jacket
Made from ruined by beach breath sudden downpour
Starting right now with best lisp
Much needed to unite the pieces, zines, fanclubs
Pets and thyroid on the frontline clap mere puppy bear
Getting so out of bear character with oh sunshine suit

Is what really lost out there…claspable?
Can you determine size of its footprint by the suncheck
it brings home after a full day of tanning bed supreme luck
Adorable as game scores
Adult train conductor suit
And Shih Tzu what five things do you have
Are whatever five things you cannot call flamboyant

On language of we’d forgotten in what format Shih Tzu
Your frown turned upside down
Tangible or gross violations
Of lottery, rolling out into the countryside
Stink palm, irrigated areas grossness, two pup simultaneity
Smites me. Kissing, breathmintiness
In a section of locked sitemap, on active alert
Channel changing Ryan O’Neal oddly odorless
And paperless correct method of disposal.