Saturday, November 21, 2009

Cognitive Dissent

The great skill lies deeper
in every fiber and strenue
stressed across every
bone—leg upon leg,
white upon black.

Smacked in air
yet carved precision
about every toe and hint
of opposition gives out
there—whim upon whim,
with a can of soup
on the ocean’s

Still sat’s a movement
of silence protest,
a brief conjugation
of appendage expression
bodily—my upon my,
muscles chameleon wishes
what my eyes ‘ave seen.

Stlick. Stilck. Stilck.
Brain fights body.
Cognitive dissent.

Saturday, November 14, 2009


a big green bean bag
is perched in my basement,
as perched as a big green bean bag
has the ability to perch
which is none

i once slept on the big green bean bag
for three nights,
was cold once and hot the others twice
depending on the condition of pants
which is none

my big green bean bag
is wanting attention
so flopped belly up, exposed
for all the world to see what’s there
which is none

my biggest begs before you:
no liberation for a big green bean bag,
which is liberation for a sick slave,
and your life, which if liberated,
will be none.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Wicked Winter

When frozen is morning, and same is the night-
the wicked winter endures.
When butter-cheeks redden and nose all-a-sniff,
the wicked winter endures.
When icy are toes, and numb fingers plenty,
the wicked winter endures.
When sudden surprise comes from under cold feet,
the wicked winter endures.
But when white-flakes float ‘round and caress my sweet thoughts,
I sure will endure through this winter.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Accosted Extension

As I reached back
with my toes individually
I was accosted
of my toes individually
for all of my toes
every one individually
for I got pimento on my toe”

Wednesday, November 4, 2009


When I laid upon my bed,
When I closed my eyes, wondered,
and let thought flow,
When I slipped past mind, slipped past reality,
When I resting heard calls of the other-place and into darkness of anti-conscious
I seemed to follow.

How soon fascinated I became with my own imaginations,
‘Till exploring, skipping,
and leaving wake in dreamscapes bored,
And in that mystical, black-scape from time to time,
at those whisping truths in chaotic waves.

Pleasant Surprise

I found on the floor my old shoe,
With a bite for my young dog to chew,
My eyes how they pried,
The flies held inside,
And up to the light bulb they flew.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

The Morning Routine

Shrumple my hair.
Sqeegjul my eyes.
Whispsniff up the nose.
Corckle the back, and creek my fingers, snapping.
Oohrging down my throat.

Flip off those covers, like a whip, I do.
Shimmy in the shower quick for a fast hair skorsh and lather.
Stare into the mirror, whiffcrunching my teeth.
Clomp, clangle, truttings, unlock that door,
reverse. drive. gas. speeding five over. parking opening.

Slauncing in towards the doors, yet again I,
Corckle and creek,
And suck in a big Oohrging down my throat.

punch the dust

whisping gossamer goats trailing in air
get stuck up together- herding
and sweat in drops that punch the dust.

Residentially Gushed

The TV told me the day it happened.

She flumbered up the coast,
sancfloyd up the barriers,
wabashed up the shopping,
and trumbled on—
never not looking up.

And up she looked—
to not see the down,
sloshing in the glooby gush,
and trumbled on—
never not losing vitality.

And at the mount she chocked
As it spakeled her agone, haurch.

That’s when
the TV told me
that among those in the residential gush,
it had happened.


Sal-u-tay to the west wind
for it ruffles up my skirt
made of brambles and cotton and rubbed in the earth.

Welcome to the wet ground
for it soothes in my skin
made of brambles and cotton and rubbed in my chin.

Sal-u-tay to the hot sun
for it brazens on my face
made of brambles and cotton and rubbed on with lace.

Welcome to the staunch smell
for it scrunches my nose
made of brambles and cotton and rubbed with repose.

Why hello to the ground pig,
Fare thee well to the woman,
and they sat on their sits,
soon turned away on their shoes
made of brambles and cotton with nothing to lose.


First Snow

It seemed so foreign as it fell down in some sorts of trickles.
It nudged my cheeks, and all the other cheeks of us sociables.

How long ago was it that I was touched by the pale hand extending downwards?
How long ago was it that I looked up into your cloudy oculars, to see your white gazes?

And then we all sat under the newly planted willows, and aspens that shivered and undressed in public.
But it was not embarrassing, for the trees stood unabashed, it a joyful reunion with the nudges and trickles which fell from the sky.

And I grinned a little grin, smiled a quite large smile, and sniffed at my runny nose while a white finger stuffed up inside- a place where such actions in unison were not welcome.

Fried Brain Cantaloupe

Butter was beginning to glaze my eyes.
Dust was collecting on my brow.
A cat nap was lingering in my throat.
A weight was settling on all my limbs.

My eyelids creased and wrinkled up.
A spider crawled across the keyboard and my hand.
I only watched.
Fingers through the hair.

I saw through slits.
My mouth was apart, almost slumber kissed.
Fried brain cantaloupe.
One brief moment to close, appease, relax….
for a brief moment…

Not so brief.
The butter was still over me.
Fingers through the hair.
Fried brain cantaloupe.
How long ‘till my next 11:00?

Aviary Thoughts

If thoughts were flighted
Skies would be crowded—vertical city,
Flat as the middle plains near,
but sometimes absent in a cold, blank place.

A Lone Oak

And the wind sunk through the tree up on the hill,
drifting alone by the pale, clouding sky.

Alone as children in the basement.

Alone as prisoners in the bottom cell.

Alone as a naked, dangling light bulb.

And the clouds broke into the tree,
dousing the parted branches.

The Conductors and the Soloists

And those millions sat up upon the Earth speaking in those tuning voices,
each voice an instrument,
to play a language that is universal,
to write and read those human songs,
to think to sing a better fable.

And those few experts sat up upon the Earth speaking in those expert voices,
each beautiful instrument,
to master a language that is universal,
to produce and flow those human perplexities,
to ponder to melody a greater novel.

And those few experts,
take seemingly all the solos,
the melodies,
in front of all the millions playing the symphonies,
conducting the symphonies.

And those millions can only really look up and follow,
Although, through the masses of stands, music sheets, and the tall guy in front of you,
you may not even see the soloist,
not even hear the melody,
ever see the conductor,
and may peer down at your instrument and lay it on the floor
as you close your mouth to stare off, thinking of trivial things.