Saturday, March 31, 2012



of Mulligans,
do-overs at
any rate.

How we jade
when you in-
dicate a tally

in reality,
but not. Even

your fantasies
begin to cease

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Friday, March 30, 2012

Two Political Wags Tackle the Vicious

-Then we agree that the present atmosphere
couldn't be much worse?

-Lincoln said we should rely on our better angels.

-Do they still exist?

-Bought out by corporatists and outsourced.

-Where to?

-What's the difference? Some place where no
self-respecting dog'd take a shit.

-And I was pondering a vacation there with the
ball and chain and little monsters.

-One can be unhappy anywhere, though
I still prefer a location where you don't see
dog shit to the horizon.

-I thought you said...

-I said self-respecting dogs. Like us.

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Thursday, March 29, 2012

The American Right

marshals its Petains
with talk of freedom,

especially in the market
for legislators. What

would a glorious future
be worth

if it couldn't be

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Wednesday, March 28, 2012


Outside Supreme Court,
It All Plays out as Parody

Representatives get facetime.
Pickets also, in prides of signs.
Law professors invited to parse

common language until
it trails past farce and into
insanity. “Circus clowns” etc

bandied for this jostling caboodle:
a comparison much too wimpy.

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Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Demonstrators Outside Supreme Court

Clueless tools since
Justice is blind,
others say.

Though she's been seen
throwing as many elbows
as the NBA.

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Monday, March 26, 2012


Dems Send Diogenes to GOP Confab

White robe cinched with
blood red rope (though,
modern lantern). Class act,

at any rate! Thus understood
by Prescott Withers and Soapy

Kleet who bribe him
to reverse course to

the Democratic meeting
at The Hotel Mel Sturgess.

The TV crew hasn’t set up, so
Kleet shoves Miley Days and

cameraman into the taxi with
Diogenes. She kisses Prescott
prior to departure--he owns

the station. “So I’m still looking
for an honest man!” gets

screamed on lurching away.
It commences to pour rain.

“Well good luck with all of that!”
toasts Billy with silver flask

as the lantern’s LEDS skitter
along the soaking pavement.

Prescott demurs a draught.
“My stomach!”


Sunday, March 25, 2012


“Plenty of Blame

to go around.” Whenever the scandal de jour hit we were
informed of this. But I never expected it to be enshrined
in a law.

Now I have received a registered letter regarding the latest
mortgage mess. My Guilt Index is .067. I called the 800
number and listened, not unpleasantly, to Glen Gray
and the Casa Loma Orchestra. Eventually, a Ricky answered, telling me I had to be interviewed even though I had no mortgage, renting an apartment.

My interview had been outsourced to Zellseek,
a corporation in a nearby industrial park.

Zellseek had recently organized flatly, and no one proved
responsible for anything. But an obsequious robot gave me
a t-shirt with .067 embroidered on it. He took me to three
departments where they were too busy to speak to me.

Finally, a Rolden Excelsior rolled up with delicious coffee and
scones. "Isn't it all so terrifically silly and stupid?" he asked

The scones were blueberry and heavenly. "Who baked...?"
I began.

“I do everything around here!” Soon he was helping me into
a green blazer. "Do you feel like you've won the Masters?”
he laughed. “At any rate, please accept this gift from
my robot associates to lessen the inconvenience of
being subjected to such asinine incompetence.”

“A Rolden Excelsior?” my bud, Nick, gushed later.
“Your path is golden from here out!”

Indeed I was friended on Robo-Universe shortly
thereafter; also invited to a picnic where I
proved the only human.

My Rolden scolded me for not wearing the blazer.
"Everywhere you go! Will protect you when..."

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Saturday, March 24, 2012

Hickory Dickory Dock

The mouse ran up the digital clock.
Not. For no grand assemblage of
gears, pulleys, and weights, but

a flat field with numbers backwards
on a billboard. Some mice like staring
or meditating, such as Marvin resting

inside there, fur glowing softly red
from numerals dimmed for night.

All is peace, then a power failure, and
terrifying cave. In the restoration, he

pulses red and black. Such indeterminacy
can prove death to the sensitive, and Marvin

the Meditating Mouse is heard to wail now
via Mouse Media, "O how flat, stale and
unprofitable this Mouse Life is!” Ultimately

fleeing--clock being set for the moment--
he flings back: “It hath made me mad!”

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Friday, March 23, 2012


The War on Women

flowers best in
depraved states’
legislatures. There

fat white men hath wrought
what needs to poor dears taught.

In The Alabaster City
such gleamings are
rheostated low

since attention must be paid.
So the righteous timid stay.

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Thursday, March 22, 2012

If there’s a War on Women,

then its foot soldiers are
Lady Republicans in

heels and wholesale June
Cleaver cocktail frocks,

(from sweatshops) and
marching down the avenue
like WW2 Waves! Not.

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Wednesday, March 21, 2012

All Heart

-The stable boys are acting up! They want quarter
more an hour.

-I’m on the fuckin phone all morning screaming! And you
bring me this, Chubby? Fire every fuckin one!

-Now, Chief.

-Now Chief my ass! What's next after uppity spicks?

-Be some trouble replacing...

-Your problem. Don't bother me. What Spanish for
You’re fired?


-Their spokesman, Jose begged me to--

-Your typical fat heart! Let him talk then, Chubby. I won't understand a word anyway.

-Please, Sir...

-Staring at his feet. Get that, Chubby! It's Dickens
or something. Cap in hand! OK, give them another
dime an hour. Get him out of here before he starts
to thank me.


-They're lucky wasn’t my father or grandfather: Cut the
wages in half! Well, what the hell! We live in more
enlightened times. And I’m the tender heart. More bark
than bite, I know. Oh what the hell! They knew they were dealing with a softy. I’ve lost millions with this heart
of mine!

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Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Subtext of Women's Plank, GOP Platform

When the devil
can't come him-

self, he sends
a woman.

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Monday, March 19, 2012



Take the sleaziest used car thief
polluting the industrial slime
of some Georgia backwater,

add the “salesmen”
being deposited
there from battered SUVs.

Levines the Machines to fleece
the hicks with promises of presents.

(There will definitely be pie in the sky.
But you must move fast or my manager
will withdraw this offer!) Take these

and multiply exponentially
and you approximate Wall Street.

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Sunday, March 18, 2012

All But Time

His impressed skin
after deepest sleep

tells him the children
have eaten Ritz Crackers

in the bed again,
while scrolling porn
titles on the program

guide. Joline will
come to handle them.

It's a short flight
on Sardine Airlines,
thank God! He wears

shoes with velcro straps,
the better to kick them off at

X-ray. Proper also for his des-
tination. The air aboard assaults
with historical BO. Picks

the youngest cabbie midst
an imploring horde.

He'll recite the history wrong
but spew great celebrity gossip.

Has him cut the AC and open
the windows to ancient odors,

their palpable feel. Once
again established, it's dinner

at the port where's he's remembered
with staggered toasts. Returns praises
with his own. Afterwards, Marco

takes the driver's seat of the tractor
in the moon-slashed courtyard.

"Since when?"
"It’s time."

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Saturday, March 17, 2012

Enforcing Madness

Started with fight between Mike and Marie outside
Kippy’s Kool Kup.

Been called for those two before.

It wound down and then Mark interfered.

On which side?

Marie's. Offered to marry her.

Pretty drastic on the moment. But, ah, cottage
small by the waterfall! Did Mike rev back up in
his hurt and anger?

Huge wrenching sobs. By this time the quarrel
has moved back to the bungalows.

And the mischief makers among them?

First, Melo.

Stop with all the M's!

Last one!...well not quite. Anyway he got a rifle for
birthday and proceeded to shoot it into the sky.
Reciting political slogans.

Left or Right?


It can't stop there.

One they call the Colonel?

Interrupted his wet dream of glory to...

obliterate concrete lawn jockeys and
plastic flamingos with his AK-47.

No garden gnomes? Anyway, where are the Enforcers?

Just arrived, Deputy Jerry getting colonel in bearhug.

Thus restraining a sovereign nation!

Other deputies grab other maniacs.

Don't forget that love started it all.


But not over yet. PTT.

Post Trauma Trauma? When it's all calmed down,
weirdness reappears? Bingo, Sheriff! When everybody
in cars for downtown ride, Marie's sister, Melody,
throws a harddrive out her window at Deputy Alice.
She had been asked for a statement but was studying
for a Calculus exam.

Intellectual component. We lacked that.

Anyway, Magistrate due to sort it out in morning
at his office.

Don't stand too close to him.

Does he go that way?

Not entirely.

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Friday, March 16, 2012


Short History of Low Tutelage

In the Middle Ages, monks
penned instruction re female
behavior. Nowadays it's vile

Southern Legislators taking up
this latest White Man's Burden.

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Thursday, March 15, 2012


Reaching the End of Something

Road washes out
behind, thus

not sure how
got here...some-
thing to find?

Anyway, what now?
Never your play.

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Wednesday, March 14, 2012


Well I came here
a boyscout, real
Mr Smith. Proved

hard scrubbing
the scales from

my eyes too. Question A,
though, resolves everything:
“How does it benefit the Rich?”

Now, can sometimes help others
in the churning wash. That's

the moral bonus standing me up
on the platform at patriotic shindigs,
and getting me on the TV.

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Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Cash Card

Sort of liked the Canadian bank took over after the Florida one.

I think of Canada as not as mean or crooked. Anyway supposed to cut their old cash card in half, but had to make sure the new one worked from the Mega bank.

It did. Hallelujah! No real opportunity to destroy the old one until I got home.

I had the scissors out when the door burst open. A man and a woman, she fondling a machine pistol.

“So, Whitey, bit late with the required act, huh?” sneered
skinny male.

“I just got back from...”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” she impatiently fingered the trigger.

“Well we bodied two today. Trifecta?” male smiled at her.

“Are you from the government, or the bank?” I trembled.

“Like, there’s a difference?” he assembled a quizzical face.

“Love the question though. It’s cute!” She waved the muzzle under my nose and then into the general air.

“So’s old Fred Q here. I base that on the fact he hasn’t shit his pants yet.”

“There’s a lady in 31a who’s a total bitch. Made her family miserable for years and she refuses to cut her card in half!”
She pointed the gun to the splintered door.

“Well, Freddy’s rounds go into her. You lucked out, old fart. Here! Give me the fuckin scissors! Ever see hands shake like that?”

“Every day.”

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Monday, March 12, 2012

Even Olaf Q

knows, no free lunch
as Scandinavia lurches
to bankruptcy, cradle

to grave. Tops in quality
of life? Yeah, uh huh?
Socialist survey slop!

Almost past disquieting:
obsessions with sex.
Must be the cold.

Well everything gets old,
and we need moral fibre

to murder ragtops,
thus saving your frozen ass.

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Sunday, March 11, 2012

The Visit

As he tried to enter the building, wheelchairs hemmed him round, the women having swung them into his legs with unbelievable force.

"I'm Claude Harrelson," he laughed while trying to extract.
"My mother is Mrs Harrelson. On the seventh floor!"

"Don't you try to fool me, Richard!" screamed one whose neck was horribly bent, the words bouncing from the pavement to meet ticking noises coming off her wheelchair’s underseat battery.

"His own mother!" scorned a fat woman plopped in a handlebar number, her skewed wig of a red not seen in nature. Others echoed her, popping up in their aluminum, mostly manual, chairs. Claude nearly broke free, the rows of letter boxes and the security TVs of the lobby beckoning.

"He was never funny until he married that bitch," sneered Crooked Neck, who had maneuvered behind him and now buckled his knees with a motorized thrust.

"Excuse me ma’am. You don’t know who I married, if anyone."

She had pinned his foot, and, as he ripped clear, the vehicle rolled slowly downhill, sparks and smoke flying from its hulking battery. The woman, able only to mutter as to his ungratefulness, couldn't stop the chair, tilting now towards the chrysanthemum bed and threatening to deposit her on the sidewalk. Claude felt obliged to give chase down the insanely gradual pitch, past a blue mailbox and a harpy waving a letter who shrilled, "Millard! Look what I was doing!
You can stop me now if you got the guts!"

He got to the chair just as it snapped into some briars.

It proved heavy to pull out and heavier to push back up the incline. Panting, Claude had leisure to discover that the woman at the mailbox had sunk to her knees and was wearing a floor length nightgown covered with rosettes. "It's too late now,” she sobbed. "Everything is."

Just as he is wedging Crooked Neck between two other wheelchairs, ("You ruined my chair, Bright Ass! How can I get to Rec for Bingo now?") he is also chastised by a white-jacketed doctor in a pencil mustache. Doors are open on his BMW coupe from which Mozart slides across the buttery front seat.

While counting out pills on the roof: "Life isn't the Keystone Kops my good young man. You have to be more careful."

Shortly, the physician dispenses ribboned prescriptions from a basket--to hands greedy and blue waving above the wheelchairs. "Now now! Enough for everyone, My Darlings!"

A black ambulance driver shaking a paper confronts Claude, requesting a clarification. "Fuckin Mrs Honderlee or some such? Look! Look!"

"I’m just here to see my mother when I got trapped into this wacky mess," Claude still pants. "Give me a break!"

The women, more emboldened by medication, shove him into the driver who roars at Claude "Don't you fuckin push me!" Claude finds himself careening into the doctor, now back
at his car.

In truth, could’ve stopped.

The surprised physician cuts his lip on the open door of the BMW, glasses clattering over the roof, counterpointing Mozart.

The women shriek the louder, a corkscrew humpback declaring "He's no son of ours!"

"You are insane as well as irresponsible!" the doctor hisses at the suddenly lunatic-grinning Claude, before fetching his glasses and wiping them methodically with a tissue. "And now will I hasten to cell-phone the police."

"Why not the National Guard? You can probably hasten them just as well!" Claude squeals.

The black driver shakes his head. "Out of control, everything, and the young dude, he’s completely lost it. Oh yeah!"

The woman from the mailbox has been crawling towards them on her knees, her nightgown pulling off her mottled shoulders. "It's still too late. It's all too late now!" she wrenches.


Saturday, March 10, 2012


live short lives,
a few yawns
and gone.

Some go all in
for a science

designed to trumpet
our thumping magnificence.

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Friday, March 09, 2012


"Well of course you're not June Cleaver!
Look! I don't have time for this Woman shit!
That's Democrat crap."

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Thursday, March 08, 2012

Stick In Proverbial Fork

He's done. Sidestep the last
gush of bile. Been coming since

media buyers began steering clients
away from hate radio, despite
some desired demographics.

Too radioactive. Besides, the one most
sought: Young Women–-remember them?

Those sluts and prostitutes of homemade
porn fame?–have presence naught there.

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Iran--the Ecstasy Begins

Since it’s worth so little anyway,
minimum wage or preferably less,

Republicans burn again to spend
your children’s blood for money.

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Wednesday, March 07, 2012


Battle Hymn of the Old Republican

As many panties to sniff as I can.
Then I'll bomb Iran.

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Tuesday, March 06, 2012

The War

Proverb Chinese know
and GOP will find out:

Women hold up
half the sky.


Monday, March 05, 2012

Homeschooling U

Well, I read the first three Sociology chapters. Gibberish!

Well, we-uns gotta find head and tail.

Won’t be worth it.

Not your decision.

You’ll just use it to transmit your vicious prejudices anyway.

Well it’s homeschooling: its burning purpose! What do you think you get outside the family?

Greater variety of bias. Besides, I could play football.

We got Intro to Athletics. They haven’t sent that shit yet.

Can’t wait.

Have to. Shakespeare next.

Plays or sonnets?

Plays. Some good violent shit there!

No sonnets? At least they’re shorter.

Fairyland! Well, as much as I enjoy this academic
happy horseshit, gotta help pick some alternate
delegates to convention.

Let me guess which party.


Sunday, March 04, 2012


Whatever Mess

of splinters or
beastly marks
read out for intellect-

ual cover, we're
all of us walk-

ing dogma at
the least–-just so

an inner glimpse
can lower the pitch

to resonate
with angels.


Saturday, March 03, 2012


Worried Sick

many times.
Waste! confide
some who slip

through 25,
30, retire
to Florida,

stacking bathroom
closet with laxatives.

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Friday, March 02, 2012


Insidious Minions

force the close
of the only toe
emporium in Duluth.

In truth, minister, padre,
rabbi and inman had

chipped in scathing verse.
T Hee, proprietor, calls it
an experience and

Paula’s Precious Pets grabs the spot.
Hee theorizes was his emphasis on
the whole toe, rather than just the nail,

doomed him. Moves the voluptuous lot
to Atlanta. At The Riled Cat, Bailey-O
orates: "His Southern Strategy. Desiring

to see the freakin sun
more than ten days a year!"

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Thursday, March 01, 2012


Revolutionary Mid-East Societies

finally settling
on some form of
democracy. Suggest

American, since
vast matrixes
of bribery in place.

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