Excuse Me, Are You Finished With That Hegemony?

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Hey man,

Respect the dynamic.

Our empire can’t be erected

On the backs of other’s babies.


Again. Can it?

Oh, and speaking of erections

Ladies, maybe if you let us touch your bodies

Every once or twice or three times


We’d let you have a say

About your plumbing or that place

Down there wherever the stork

Deposits the twinkle in God’s eye.


Alls I’m saying is it’s tough being white.


It’s almost, almost like trying

To not there at all.


If A Poet Dies Does He Make A Sound?


Oh, did you hear?

L the poet died.

No, feigned mourning,

I hadn’t.



Fire up the laptop,

Gas up the time machine,

Dog-ear the Bible.


Sigh, They’re all dying

To the click-clack of the keyboard,

To the swipes of approval

Or disapproval.


In a Democracy everyone gets to Heaven.

Once there you can rate it:

0 being worst and 5 being best.

In an Oligarchy it’s pay-to-play.


We still get to write our review

But only from the vestibule,

And, of course, no one reads it.

Like L’s poetry.

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.

Look on Yonder Wall



Waiting on Heaven’s promises

Compromises our compassion.

Streams twine in dark synthesis

And come undone in a fashion


Like a river’s slow buckling reflects

Broken clouds across a changing sky.

The mutable watery aspects

Of wondering why.


… so comb your blonde hair,

Shine your blue eyes,

Hold back the edges of your gowns

You’ll get to paradise yet


Even if you have to chase it across the firmament

Only to find heaven is, as all things are, impermanent.

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