Man’s creation enjoyed the rib of augmented reality
when all sea-dwelling creatures sported a tuna haircut
when fish tank borders were cozily oppressive
with irrepressible neck ties deer made terrific sounds
Man wandered into a coconut settlement, armed with pencil nunchucks and pants-dropping calculators
he almost died of swearing too much
the emoticons on the calculator were very primitive
Eve’s abortion paraphernalia in a leather pouch was very flashy
the amphibious blow torch swims to offspring’s demise
Satan was still a young cad and up-and-coming inventor of billboards
bus station fur coat, itinerant ferret that needed its teeth cleaned
gorilla cocaine like urn splatter
he could handpick his own snafus
a miraculous pistachio appeared at the settlement of yellow hairy noggins in which mathematics and Wagner argued over how it was possible to be pummeled by a taint
it didn’t have much to say
‘fat heads. fatty heads. fat heads. fatty heads.’ that was all
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
TO BE SUNG ONLY IN B-MINOR
what makes the supernova’s biggest weakness so remarkable?
it cannot shoot well, with this weakness, so in that sense, like a brass bazooka, it looks good only on a cabin wall
that area’s polite synapse
too grand can be too dirty, like plastic masks on children, salad catheters, mutilation poker, or sexed-up hepatitis, and really it’s not meant for tupperware, or perhaps it is
as small a utility as bumper stickers that demoralize and effectively drive the driver of the car behind to suicide with prissy statements like YOU SUCK
it struck me while sitting on my rustic porch one day, listening to the birds, the absence of cars, some corn boiling on the gas stove, what a fine, flat line forms when you synchronize two different kinds of buzzing
hiss bubble hiss bubble hiss: what a priceless relationship!
richard branson’s nazi porn aims to accomplish just that, in a sense
at the hot resort
interrupting a bar mitzvah
then moving the show to thailand
there interrupting a perfectly droll episode of lost
in a stroke of sheer marketing genius, the scoundrel accused his mother of plotting a smear campaign against him with a personal robot that craftily pulled info on her son’s intimate bathroom rituals
the counterplot – i.e. the bitchy whining and fussing he kicked up – according to forbes increased his net worth tenfold
i’d like to say upfront and with the straightest face musterable that the best place to hide is in a shrink-wrap aircraft carrier: don’t get caught in the arid desert outside it
ask the affluent
they’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time
at the heart of every deductive power, there’s a little desk at which sits an embonpoint girl with a ledger
every subtraction she makes from the deductive power she adds to the sherlock holmes fund for emotional well-being
really, young lady?
will an emotive Sherlock, one that issues great blasts of raw, lachrymal emotion at the sight of every suspiciously laid glove, riffled bedsheet, unaccounted-for dust mote, too-neat boudoir – not to mention every suspiciously grisly and unnecessarily gut-strewn murder scene – really be helpful to the case?
there no longer is any pleasure in wagging one’s finger at personal robot slaves
it cannot shoot well, with this weakness, so in that sense, like a brass bazooka, it looks good only on a cabin wall
that area’s polite synapse
too grand can be too dirty, like plastic masks on children, salad catheters, mutilation poker, or sexed-up hepatitis, and really it’s not meant for tupperware, or perhaps it is
as small a utility as bumper stickers that demoralize and effectively drive the driver of the car behind to suicide with prissy statements like YOU SUCK
it struck me while sitting on my rustic porch one day, listening to the birds, the absence of cars, some corn boiling on the gas stove, what a fine, flat line forms when you synchronize two different kinds of buzzing
hiss bubble hiss bubble hiss: what a priceless relationship!
richard branson’s nazi porn aims to accomplish just that, in a sense
at the hot resort
interrupting a bar mitzvah
then moving the show to thailand
there interrupting a perfectly droll episode of lost
in a stroke of sheer marketing genius, the scoundrel accused his mother of plotting a smear campaign against him with a personal robot that craftily pulled info on her son’s intimate bathroom rituals
the counterplot – i.e. the bitchy whining and fussing he kicked up – according to forbes increased his net worth tenfold
i’d like to say upfront and with the straightest face musterable that the best place to hide is in a shrink-wrap aircraft carrier: don’t get caught in the arid desert outside it
ask the affluent
they’re always in the wrong place at the wrong time
at the heart of every deductive power, there’s a little desk at which sits an embonpoint girl with a ledger
every subtraction she makes from the deductive power she adds to the sherlock holmes fund for emotional well-being
really, young lady?
will an emotive Sherlock, one that issues great blasts of raw, lachrymal emotion at the sight of every suspiciously laid glove, riffled bedsheet, unaccounted-for dust mote, too-neat boudoir – not to mention every suspiciously grisly and unnecessarily gut-strewn murder scene – really be helpful to the case?
there no longer is any pleasure in wagging one’s finger at personal robot slaves
Monday, January 3, 2011
DOG BITTEN IN HYUNDAI
seen in stages of intensity through a wind-up monocle
the most tasteful bacterial infection
roaming Zeitgeist action figures
cocktail party killer on the prowl
a clue: lost treadmill headphones in mohair rug
his self-indulgent gurgling
the least likely kickstarter of world peace
natural haircolor landfill
to which the cliff diving bumblebee
adds with a splash
trouble-free floating and the wearing
of thick prescription glasses join forces at last
veneration of mediocrity: secret to success
dies with squished bug in big book
spanish fly nuclear sites visited
at precisely calculated intervals
by foppish curators and collectors
can’t get far in this dog-bite hyundai
the cube-dicked casualty of a toaster
ravioli carrycase greater than salesman’s composite parts
ineffectual applier/remover of 69er grime
the most tasteful bacterial infection
roaming Zeitgeist action figures
cocktail party killer on the prowl
a clue: lost treadmill headphones in mohair rug
his self-indulgent gurgling
the least likely kickstarter of world peace
natural haircolor landfill
to which the cliff diving bumblebee
adds with a splash
trouble-free floating and the wearing
of thick prescription glasses join forces at last
veneration of mediocrity: secret to success
dies with squished bug in big book
spanish fly nuclear sites visited
at precisely calculated intervals
by foppish curators and collectors
can’t get far in this dog-bite hyundai
the cube-dicked casualty of a toaster
ravioli carrycase greater than salesman’s composite parts
ineffectual applier/remover of 69er grime
RURAL GNAT
penthouse alarm like good-morning quarrel
things the rural gnat will never hear
with its papaya hearing aid
manure enclosed superconductor surprising the vulgar horse
what’s overheard remains relevant
the incredibles can unwrinkle exhaustion
they’ve never seen a homegrown placenta before
nor a gnome on a snowboard
‘can bon jovi save your life?’
holly hunter asks, without irony
things the rural gnat will never hear
with its papaya hearing aid
manure enclosed superconductor surprising the vulgar horse
what’s overheard remains relevant
the incredibles can unwrinkle exhaustion
they’ve never seen a homegrown placenta before
nor a gnome on a snowboard
‘can bon jovi save your life?’
holly hunter asks, without irony
CLAM SOLIPSISM
It’s possible to suffer glaucoma before suffering tunnel vision, to be insect-like but orotund, to be a WWI helmet with stick legs. Perhaps your wife calls the symptom of your condition the ‘ladybug blindspot.’
Dressed like a farmer and drinking like a frog – lips and chin always hovering perpendicular to the glass’s rim. She said ‘drink the frog’ when she meant ‘drink LIKE a frog.’ It was a shorter portrayal, containing the same meaning and immediately qualifying as the best thing you can offer someone you know very well: a cryptic utterance that rings true only to him or her.
In the closet stands a ready-to-wear cone of tear gas he always puts on before going out, but even before not going out, sometimes worn even before putting on his conventional farmer’s clothes.
It’s possible that only he thinks his trout farm can be seen from space, and that its shape symbolizes the human capacity for heavy metal; with that guitar one can leverage post-coital tristesse any time. Verily, a small and brittle enough labyrinth – no matter how complex – can be bulldozed by one’s tongue.
You don’t have to see around corners the way a panda’s continental eyerings can. In space you can hear the clam’s inner monologue. Sometimes you cannot see the great shimmering guitar. Eye-full of gas, throbbing with the solemn emotion of a sprinkler. Eye opener deployed by large, rectangular distance.
Dressed like a farmer and drinking like a frog – lips and chin always hovering perpendicular to the glass’s rim. She said ‘drink the frog’ when she meant ‘drink LIKE a frog.’ It was a shorter portrayal, containing the same meaning and immediately qualifying as the best thing you can offer someone you know very well: a cryptic utterance that rings true only to him or her.
In the closet stands a ready-to-wear cone of tear gas he always puts on before going out, but even before not going out, sometimes worn even before putting on his conventional farmer’s clothes.
It’s possible that only he thinks his trout farm can be seen from space, and that its shape symbolizes the human capacity for heavy metal; with that guitar one can leverage post-coital tristesse any time. Verily, a small and brittle enough labyrinth – no matter how complex – can be bulldozed by one’s tongue.
You don’t have to see around corners the way a panda’s continental eyerings can. In space you can hear the clam’s inner monologue. Sometimes you cannot see the great shimmering guitar. Eye-full of gas, throbbing with the solemn emotion of a sprinkler. Eye opener deployed by large, rectangular distance.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
A CRAZY PERSON IS WEARING MY JACKET
ask the end of the world to do its fire cow impression
enlightening, that doomsday gestalt on the horizon –
spooky mimicry of bovine protagonist of dairy comic
more interesting to me is the blurring of lines between the Stalin and the Chupacabra Tellytubbies – it breathes new life into the inanity of my bacon eggs benedict
Miyagi is getting weaker, napping with pingpong paddle together on the couch; I can write all of my karate dreams on my forehead now
the examiner is only an impresario, his luminous legacy forever imposing the sounds of sanitation
but all strangely hued, none tactile, like the roots of the Twilight Zone –
and none really coming from anywhere, none really sticking their long appendages in anywhere
lampshades on your eardrums – hoping restored vision will bring you, us, the whole expedition party, back to earth
I left my jacket in the psych ward –
the debate team huddling around it was very sensuous –
made you horny and nostalgic just by listening to them
‘when you’re wanted for murder and uncollected garbage –
when the underside of each driveway brick is a raunchy video –
is it instead ethical to –
remove its sixteen teeth?
ALL of its sixteen teeth?’
hilariously missing the point of consensual dentistry
the apocalypse does not lend its sinuses to just anybody
you can’t just rent it like a town hall
enlightening, that doomsday gestalt on the horizon –
spooky mimicry of bovine protagonist of dairy comic
more interesting to me is the blurring of lines between the Stalin and the Chupacabra Tellytubbies – it breathes new life into the inanity of my bacon eggs benedict
Miyagi is getting weaker, napping with pingpong paddle together on the couch; I can write all of my karate dreams on my forehead now
the examiner is only an impresario, his luminous legacy forever imposing the sounds of sanitation
but all strangely hued, none tactile, like the roots of the Twilight Zone –
and none really coming from anywhere, none really sticking their long appendages in anywhere
lampshades on your eardrums – hoping restored vision will bring you, us, the whole expedition party, back to earth
I left my jacket in the psych ward –
the debate team huddling around it was very sensuous –
made you horny and nostalgic just by listening to them
‘when you’re wanted for murder and uncollected garbage –
when the underside of each driveway brick is a raunchy video –
is it instead ethical to –
remove its sixteen teeth?
ALL of its sixteen teeth?’
hilariously missing the point of consensual dentistry
the apocalypse does not lend its sinuses to just anybody
you can’t just rent it like a town hall
Saturday, January 1, 2011
HOW WE ROLLED IN THOSE DAYS
Definitely among the things I don’t want to remember is the glowing hoof print, Tesla’s interpretation of reflexology. And among the things I dread most is the resurgence of the sprain, that web of synchronized swimming brushstrokes – strung over the glowing hoof print.
Known in advertising and in government as PepsiCo’s ‘empathy,’ most people ignored the sprain. Its unvarnished hooks and chains and pulleys – unmasked like a grinning radiator – but helmet-mounted – ready to ram a wall.
The warm friction of a reasonable diet was unceremoniously forfeited, so that it became quite popular to wear braces. Naturally, the trend was known as ‘polio chic.’ And the spectacle of dragging oneself through the pileup of cycling caps on every street corner was not very demeaning.
The trapeze is stupid. The broken fire hydrant is the unattainable excellent water pistol. That was simply how we rolled in those days.
At the police station, the out of control ukulele managed to wrest the jewels of concept art from the clutches of plastic cutlery. For in concept art there were many, many banned words, all hunched in cages of strobe light and making their mark as endangered species.
The blender finally received pardon for pulling down the creeping hand of Hausmann’s American gorilla. With that, the chandelier promptly stopped levitating in the living room. And my favorite machete was covered in house paint. Complacent, haughty, but forced to feel rejected: thus was defined the stifling life of a Freemason. A postcard surplus on a rickety stand outside the Christian Science building. With things jumping up and down under the scab.
Known in advertising and in government as PepsiCo’s ‘empathy,’ most people ignored the sprain. Its unvarnished hooks and chains and pulleys – unmasked like a grinning radiator – but helmet-mounted – ready to ram a wall.
The warm friction of a reasonable diet was unceremoniously forfeited, so that it became quite popular to wear braces. Naturally, the trend was known as ‘polio chic.’ And the spectacle of dragging oneself through the pileup of cycling caps on every street corner was not very demeaning.
The trapeze is stupid. The broken fire hydrant is the unattainable excellent water pistol. That was simply how we rolled in those days.
At the police station, the out of control ukulele managed to wrest the jewels of concept art from the clutches of plastic cutlery. For in concept art there were many, many banned words, all hunched in cages of strobe light and making their mark as endangered species.
The blender finally received pardon for pulling down the creeping hand of Hausmann’s American gorilla. With that, the chandelier promptly stopped levitating in the living room. And my favorite machete was covered in house paint. Complacent, haughty, but forced to feel rejected: thus was defined the stifling life of a Freemason. A postcard surplus on a rickety stand outside the Christian Science building. With things jumping up and down under the scab.
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