Type B


Born nameless without sin

We exit otherwise;

Meh, what can you do?


Live up to our names and sins

Or risk pissing off the Gods?

Better then being pissed on, eh?


Keep it moving Guthrie,

Your songs don’t play

On this jukebox.


From sea to shining sea

The gods burn upon re-entry

With nary a fizzle or kerplunk.


We carve ice sculptures in hell,

Fashion thimbles from granite boulders

With our bare hands.


Other times we nap.

Dreaming of names and sins,

Lonely as all get out.

And Bingo Was His Name-O


The privacy shifted in the low-octane revival. My eyebrows felt like feminine napkins trying to stanch the menstrual flow of the universe. That’s when I knew to be lost was really just waiting to be found.

I strapped on my caffeine goggles and ground my feet into the key-lime shag carpet. Your God may be forgiving but mine is a blue spark waiting to happen. The children gathered outside the compound like feral cats waiting on the tuna fleet’s return.

How could I tell them what we found in the mountains of mole hills? In the streams of consciousness? In the phantasmagoric diaspora of broken brittle tongues where the only music was the sound of souls descending to Hell?

Suarez…where in the fuck was Suarez? I gave him twenty coins of the realm, more than enough for the props and gadgets necessary. He better have my change.

Bumper to Bumper


What frightens you, Norma?

What high holy terror

Can drop like a veil

And curl your toes?


Is it Love?

Is it the sunburned grandchildren

Of your sunburned grandchildren

Roasting along the equator


Where we’ll all move

To peek across the belt

Holding the world’s guts in

To see how the other half lives?


Norma, I am troubled.

I want to mock and deride you

But know it isn’t right.

That’s between you and your god.


Who called by the way

To say he’s stuck in traffic.

Seems Apollo’s chariot got a flat.

This high noon may last awhile.

The Most Important Meal of the Day


Why can’t we just wake up

One day

And talk?

Have some coffee


Let a light snow fall

And stick like evidence

While we avoid the compulsion

To work


I admit

I was raised lazy

But I’ll make breakfast

For that


Off our asses and on our feet.

You get the OJ

I’ll get the meds.

How do you like your eggs?



The Daily Snark: Vol. 1


Boy, wasn’t Claude Akins Great in Sheriff Lobo? What a Great time in American TV. Simply Great. I mean who knew he could top his Great performance in the Great F Troop? But he kept changing, evolving and never allowed himself to be content with being a Hollywood Icon. He pursued Great. And finally he emboldened Great. And what a lot of people don’t know thanks to general obfuscation and other proletarian tactics by the LAMESTREAM MEDIA is that he was Donald Trump’s father. So consider this: Claude was an Indian,  Lobo is Mexican for wolf, his deputy on Lobo was a hermaphrodite (at least I’ve been told) and last but not least, is there any word that rhymes with orange? So you see Herr Trumpf had all those bases covered, those boxes checked, way before Killary was procuring sex babies in pizza parlors and secret passageways to ivory towers up and down the Elitist East Coast. So come with me and embrace a Great past that never existed. One catch though, I think all the TV’s are going to be in black and white…sad_frowning_smiley_face_post_cards-rc3c949719fb14aba8fd28854be72ae41_vgbaq_8byvr_512