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.


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.

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

Searching For Larry Screws


I wake up and feed the dogs. I’ve lost track of a couple of Prozacs so take my dog’s. Same dose. Her’s is cheaper though. Go figure. I have a pot of coffee. Try to decipher my dreams. Am I gay? Will a violent death befall me? Is the dream of falling some atavistic remnant of our primordial primate tree-dwelling days? I burn a stick of incense. Frankincense. It reminds me of Catholic Church. Forgive me father for I have sinned.

What have I done? My whole life. You tell me. Convince me otherwise. My whole life. The entire breadth of it seemed heading in the right direction before swerving down a contrary course. But there are one or two things along the way that I can’t shake.

One was grabbing Adrianna Goodheart’s tit while I kissed her. She slapped me. Hard. No she said. Was that a tongue? I meant to ask her but that was it. The next day her boyfriend burned down our fort and my mom found our Penthouse magazine buried in a toolbox underneath the fake astro-turf carpet we had stolen from the mini-golf range’s dumpster when the firemen pulled it back to make sure all the fire was out.

The other thing was the Penthouse. Two things about that. One, there was a really hot lesbo scene in it.  A blonde and a brunette in Nazi apparel getting it on on a big white shag carpet before a roaring fire in some Gothic cabin in Sudetenland. Who the fuck knows where? They may have been vampires. I didn’t get that blonde/brunette dichotomy but it made me harder than Chinese Algebra. A few years earlier I got my first hard-on watching Raquel Welch in Fantastic Voyage on TV. I was dry-humping the floor so vigorously my parents thought I was having a seizure. My brother knew what was what but he just sat off to the side laughing letting me get psychoanalyzed by those two.

Second thing about the mag was an interview with a writer named Larry Screws. He had a mohawk and taught college in Alabama or someplace or another. Something about snakes, cars and bodybuilders and Southern Gothic. I thought, fuck, if this Gothic is like that other Gothic with vampires and buxom broads in black leather corsets count me in. See, I would finish my work first in school and go read the encyclopedias in the back waiting for everyone to get finished so I learned a lot but can’t necessarily put it all together.  It’s like knowing how a car works when you’re a kid; if you stand up you can steer it but your feet don’t reach the pedals. If you sit down to work the pedals you can’t see where you’re going.

So now I had nothing but an incipient Nazi Vampire Lesbian Fetish and a quest to find all the works or any of the works of Larry Screws. I was 10 years old. Our Republic was 200. Adriana’s hair smelled like some fruit that existed only on the labels of my cousin’s shampoo bottles. Can you blame me? Guess I’m not asking for forgiveness after all.  But what it is I’m asking for I don’t know. Don’t know at all. Sorry.

The Zoo Is Open 24 Hours a Day


The orangutan’s redoubt

Smells like baboon ass

As he fat fingers his vitriol

Or does he fat finger anything?


He is pure theory.


When he said anything

He didn’t mean it.


Except that.

Accept it.

We is the us.

Sin rises to the top like curdled cream.


Sweet to eye,

Sour to the tongue

And sickening to the soul.

Feeding time is always soon enough.

Untitled 10/26/16a


I need a haircut.

And a new job.

I’ve taken to skipping breakfast, too.

Coffee fills me up.


On the way to work

I see kids huddle together at the bus stop.

I feel sorry for them.

They want to grow up.


I so want to roll down my window and yell,

“Just ride your bikes, play in cricks

And run home to warm dinners,

Quick, while there’s still time!”


We used to jump the crick a la Evel Knievel,

Plastic football helmets on our heads,

Spangled streamers trailing from handlebars.

Come to think of it, we skipped breakfast then, too.