If In Doubt, Piss On It!

Jul14

Now, it wouldn’t make sense if I pissed on a bone.
Always through it, I say, is the best way to go.
Do I have enough left to complete all my rounds?
I’ve got piss on the trigger, and it knows no bounds.
I seek out the un-christened. That’s all that I know.
I’m a casual pisser with skills I could hone.

I can piss. I can sniff. I can dissect the air
With my neural net nostrils that suck up the scent
Of all things that have happened, and creatures gone by.
I must update my ‘wall’ here. The last has gone dry.
I must re-mark the places where time I have spent.
The fine art of good pissing leaves me without care.

I can piss in mid trot and will not miss a spot.
There’s a lot of my pissing I’ll do on the fly.
There isn’t a thing I won’t piss on because
I’m a Master of Whiz. You may bid me applause.
If I piss on your day, there’s no reason to cry.
I’m a dog, for darned sakes, and I just piss a lot!

Steak Bony Blue

Jun26

Bow-wowful the canine who’s steak bony blue
When I’m left with a play thing instead of some meat.
When humans want grub they don’t gnaw on some toy.
They have all kinds of meat that they cook and enjoy.
I am not a proud dog. I will dance for a treat.
I could steal for a meal before anyone knew.

I will beg and act silly ‘til blue in the face.
If my fellow dogs saw me, I’d surely turn red.
But it’s worth it to get a good bone I can chew.
I hang out for a handout from the barbecue.
My work isn’t hard, though. Indeed, I’m well fed.
I like keeping a few bones in my hiding place.

Would you condone a dog with a steak bone?
Never mind how you answer. Just see it my way.
I’d enjoy a thick porterhouse hot off the grill.
I would bark, “Alleluia,” if that be your will.
You people-folk stuff your fat faces all day!
The least you could do is to not piss and moan.

Come Be Dithered Forlorn

Jun21

Come be dithered forlorn! There is joy to be borne
In a jar with its lid off in light of its load.
With the mind far at ease from the swinging trapeze
Any song sung in series will certainly please
One who favors the face of the figmented toad.
There is pink think in linking jackhammers to corn.

Now, that makes no sense. I’d do well to dispense
With the sentinel sent to torment fellow food.
If my sentiment centers on seaweed all day
Then can Mikey stop eating to come out and play?
There’s no contention to mention my mood
As the grip of the hippo remains quite intense.

What the Hell am I saying. Have I lost my mind?
Not a giblet bespeaks what a cucumber knows
Not a fish in a glass house will do windows. Still,
I could get a stray crayfish to lend me its will.
As the seawater whistles is how the seed blows.
Kick the can for kind karma and blissful behind.

Full Term Termite

May28

Have you heard of the homeless? Then give me a chew.
I know much about hunger. I have it all ways.
From cellar to ceiling and all in-between.
I will eat in the dark where I shouldn’t be seen.
I chow down like a mother with every due praise.
I enjoy making babies, and not just a few.

Science says that I’m sexy. It flatters me none.
And besides, I can do it however I please –
Upside down in a trance in a crevasse somewhere.
I control my whole tribe with my scent in the air.
We don’t treat our men harshly. We’re much like the bees.
We like screwing and building and having much fun.

But we do have to eat, and our diet is wood.
We could go for particle board for a while
In the houses of people who tend to buy cheap.
Yet when that stuff runs out, our commitment is deep.
We will find what we’re after, and do it in style.
So complain all you want. It won’t do any good.

Ron Running YellowBook

May23

Some books are well read like the readers they own.
They don’t lie around dormant nor do their soul mates.
Some books stand amid dust upon vacated shelves.
Since their readers don’t read, they are left to themselves
To embelish what every good book advocates:
The desire of folks to explore the unknown.

Some books like to run, but no book likes to swim.
It’s a matter of preference what books like to do.
We don’t need to work out, but it helps, just the same.
We’re as different as snowflakes. We each have a name.
In fact, we’ve a few names, each giving a clue
To our true inner nature without pseudonym.

Some books come in yellow… Not all, by the way.
We’re a multiple mixture of chroma and hue.
Most folks call me Ron, and I run super-fast.
I’m the mild-mannered type. I’m not here to kick ass.
I am Ron Running YellowBook. That name will do.
It’s as weird as all get-out and easy to say.

Frolicking Folksicles

May7

Frolicking Folksicles flaunting for fun
Among those who might eat them must take balls of ice.
And they’re colored, enhancing the eater’s delight.
Were they black and white only, it wouldn’t seem right
To consume them. Just looking would surely suffice
As one’s licking gets boring when all’s said and done.

Folksicles firmly propend to make peace.
It’s a principle pinnacle to their affairs
Of the heart and the mind and the spirit within.
With abundance of slurp, there is no need to sin.
There isn’t much else one could suck. But who cares?
If it weren’t for bright Folksicles, warring would cease!

What gets folks in a pickle, most Folksicles say,
Is the way we lose focus and blither head on
‘Til we sensate the melting – Folksicle in hand.
If our mess is sufficient, we voice our demand
That the sun should take cover – at least until dawn
So that Folksicle eating will yield no dismay.

Utensoids United

May1

Utensoids United in condiment space
Sets the scene for first contact of quite the third kind
On a wall, in a house on a rock spinning ‘round
In its own starry kitchen where space does abound
And without incognito, they’re easy to find
Or to decline their visit, if that be the case.

Utensoids can stand being hung by the neck
And it doesn’t upset them to be used as tools.
Since they’re built really tough, you can’t use them enough
To uncover their cover. You could call their bluff
But they just might leave master cooks looking like fools
As in secret, they shape shift; there’s no need to check.

The Utensoids have come to keep watch on us all.
Not a single one wants to do harm nor insult.
If you grab a Utensoid, do so with intent.
You don’t want the damned thing to mistake what you meant.
If you handle it well, good will be the result.
If you’re cool with Utensoids, then stand proud and tall!

Near Perfect Nonsense

Apr2

I’ve a fond sense for nonsense that’s naturally pure.
If one strives for perfection, it’s always the case
That when foolishness fettered, then nurtured the same
Will recover in time to return to the game
Of living life loony. How goony the space
Of nonsensical numskulls with mirth to endure.

It may be nothing’s perfect in terms of nonsense.
Many pieces of silly must fall into place
So they dance about smartly in demented minds.
I’ve a fondness for jokesters. God bless their behinds.
I would be one if not already the case.
So much humor and laughter and fun I’d dispense.

Progress is perfection in some people’s hearts
And a verb is a noun just because it’s a word.
A fun clock is a camera; its film is the soul.
There’s no need for development; that’s not the goal.
Take your time from the hippo instead of the bird.
It is how we make peace before war ever starts.

Conjugation of Daho

Mar27

Daho was made a state of the union one time.
It took pride in infinitive providence such
That its residents felt everything was just fine
Until when they took to a much better design
To include all the attributes grammar likes much
All to exhibit representation sublime.

A verb does have its voice. It also has its mood.
And on good days a good verb will sing a good song,
So we know what on bad days a bad verb will do.
Do not give a verb guff; it will predicate you
To whatever it’s feeling. Don’t make it feel wrong.
Any verb can get nasty and treat someone rude.

So now back to the case of Daho. As we know,
To live now and to dream of tomorrow come past
Tends to make a verb tense, and Dahoans as well
So they came up with number and person to tell
All the nation Dahoans don’t do things half assed.
It’s a state now where grammar fanatics can go…

I-Daho, You-Daho; He, She and It-Dahos…
Such is life on the west side where singulars stay.
On the east side there’s We-Daho; They-Daho too.
Since they’re plural, they get along fine with the You.
It was back in the day when Dahoans had sway
Until conquered by gerunds with will to transpose.

Vacating Vacating

Mar19

We could visit the hotspot where old Humpty dumped
Or the land where first creatures first pissed in the breeze.
We could scale the vast, mountainous, rock hardened dick.
We could watch it erupt and be covered in thick
Molten mayhem. We could live what common man sees.
Let’s begin our vacating, folks. I’m really pumped!

What could be more deserving of travelers to be
Than to map a vacation from end until start
With every detail most recursively planned
So that all in the family will understand
That vacating is not a pure science, but art
And the spaces we visit may well set us free.

We could Hip Hip Hurrah and yank doodle in snow
Or act fat, dumb and happy for selfie stick’s sake.
But wait – Where we’ll end up in time is right back here.
We could cancel our plans and then live without fear.
We’d avoid any chance of mistakes we might make.
Since we’ll be here right after vacating, why go?

Every Good Printer Should Wipe Its Own Head

Jan25

Every t that’s electric should cross itself well
Just as socks unattended should stay decent pairs.
Every printer that prints other than in 3D
Has a head that needs wiping. Its will is to be
Of its own clear volition, effecting repairs
Of its own fettered systems so balance can dwell.

Every i that is manual has had its day
Now the age of blue-toothing and why-fi is come.
Someday soon a device will have nary a button.
There’ll be so much to love for the technophile glutton.
Every i that exists will have class – not just some.
They will dot one another without much delay.

I’ve managed two printers. My one is a girl.
She presents not a problem when I am offline.
But the other’s a jerkoff who laughs in my face.
It thinks I am the bozo. I’m prone to disgrace
As it sounds off to me. I concur with its whine
Every time there’s a mis-feed I’m made to unfurl.

Rat Back Retriever

Jan12

There isn’t a Rat Back Retriever in town
So we’re here to apply to the mayor in you.
Resting proud on the back of my big purple rat,
I am sure most retrievers must know where it’s at.
What I do is I chase Cheshire cats upon cue.
With my big assed rat side kick, we ride ‘til sundown.

There isn’t a fever that one could display
That would right itself smartly, not yielding to aid.
But a Rat Back Retriever can heal with a glance
And if things are quite critical, we’ll sing and dance
To any tune practiced and very well played.
Though we’ve lost track of meaning, there’s still much to say.

If you’re a believer, do know this is true:
There will always be room in your heart for a rat.
Make sure that rat’s healthy and has a keen mind
So to any retriever he’s easy to find.
One may think one may have healthy living down pat
But the Rat Back Retriever will sanctify you.

Elevator Music Awards

Jan7

Folks who craft lousy music that puts folks to sleep
Ought to have recognition for work that’s well done.
For work that is fair, many juices will flow
As with all tender meat. Every artist should know.
How does composing rut music constitute fun?
It’s along the same lines as someone counting sheep!

There’s a tune that is played on most government lines
While waiting on hold for the next of avail.
It starts off real slow, then it starts to get weird,
As my consciousness seems to have been commandeered.
It takes talent to craft at the pace of a snail
With such melodic ease in the strictest confines.

This genre of music should have its fanfare.
Folks who write and arrange this stuff should be exposed.
Big pharma may scorn them, but that shouldn’t be
Any reason to keep them from all who agree
That annoying music is purely composed
To keep all desensitized so we don’t care.

Dementia’s Dues

Jan5

No need for my mind. I left that back on earth
Where all other minds mingle just as they may.
I don’t need a space suit when I’m flying high.
I’m at home in my own world where planet’s whiz by
And the alien creatures I hang with all day
Have considered me family ever since birth.

What on earth was I thinking? It matters not now
Because if I remembered, I’d be there again.
Besides, I’ve a new way of getting around
Feeling just enough gravity to not get me down.
I’ve a lady who’s made of moon dust for a friend.
We’ll be Adam and Eve, and we’ll raise us a cow.

Whatever’s afoot back on earth is no news
Because one doesn’t use social media here.
My mind may seem open and playing the part
But do know that I’m elsewhere, perhaps with my heart.
That being down there will someday disappear.
I am paid up to date on dementia’s dues.

Signs of Life

Jan3

When one talks about signs, there are myriad kinds.
We’re accustomed to trust them to say the right thing.
But when cruising while high, should the cops be alarmed?
If you get them to smoke some, will they be disarmed?
No, the cops are not privy; to justice they cling.
They will quote you the riot act. Don’t cross their minds!

I don’t drive around high, but high drives around me.
It’s a challenge I meet on the road every day.
When I get behind someone who’s driving as if
Someone said, “Sir, prepare to drive over that cliff,”
My question is, why is this jerk in my way?
Is he seeing, perhaps, something I cannot see?

Keep an eye on what’s happening ‘round you all times
Is some simple advice for those high on the road.
But it’s also for others who must get around.
With you fools on the highway, I’m helpless and bound.
Get your asses in shape. Kindly lighten my load.
In the past I have shot folks for much lesser crimes.

Fart Mother Smuckers

Dec31

I’m amazed as I’m lying here resting my bones
Just chilling and munching and checking things out.
I’d be nuts if I said there ain’t much on TV.
There’s all kinds of crap that might interest me.
If it weren’t for my living and breathing no doubt
I’d be grooving to tunes with my spirit headphones.

There’s a truth to my living. I’m doing without
The hustle and bustle of everyday things.
There’s a way to my knowing. This too is true.
If I knew how to think, I’d be dangerous to you.
I just keep to my world and accept what life brings.
From point A to B, that’s the easiest route.

So, life is great. I am comfortable knowing
I don’t have to know much. That suits me just fine.
There are plenty of fart mother smuckers, you see,
And they all have ambition to help you and me
To relax in wellbeing made to their design.
Don’t ask me to move; there ain’t no place I’m going.

You Can’t Trash a Trician

Dec29

Get a load of that Trician, folks, gosh what a sight!
He’s the marvelous hero who works door to door
With gadgets and cables and tools of all kinds.
The stuff that he knows might just boggle our minds.
When he gets here he’ll lay all his stuff on the floor
And begin working wonders to lead us from plight.

He’s got meters, repeaters and gizmos galore
As he stakes out the problem and lays it to rest.
If he will take a break you might offer him lunch.
When you do get him talking he may get the hunch
That your faith in his skill has been put through the test.
He is hard wired eloquence live at your door.

Do trust in your Trician and give him a hug
That is if he’ll have it and if the job’s done.
Or you might just give him some pizza instead.
If you grill him a steak it won’t go to his head.
When your Trician is working he’s having much fun.
When his good work is finished we all can feel smug.

The Sickness of Puppy Is Within

Dec4

Upon a time once, a king planned a big feast
For a wedding. His son was to get married soon.
But the folks he invited… they gave him such guff
With excuses like tending to business and stuff.
It seems they weren’t raised with a nice silver spoon.
Nonetheless, this king changed to an angry old beast.

But, before that, he thought he’d try spicing the air.
He had butchered some fat ones and put them to grill.
Then he sent out more servants to tell the folks, “Come,
I’ve got meat on the barbie. You’re welcome to some.”
But they mocked him and said, “Your command’s not our will!”
When the king heard of this he fell deep in despair.

The problem is that he’s a king, simply said,
With a kingdom so vast there’s no way he could greet
All the people he knows and would want to let in
So he sends out his spokesmen, then to his chagrin
They screw his poor servants like devils in heat.
They leave the man seething in froth from his head.

Then the king said, “Venture into the Hood.
Go gather the darkies and trailer park folk.
Go into the streets; invite those who don’t care.
Gather south of the border… so many down there.”
The servants then did just as the king spoke.
Lots of people showed up, and he knew that they would.

But then after all that, something still was not right.
One who came to the party was dressed the wrong way.
When the king saw this person, he tripped right off line.
He let loose on the bastard in heat of decline.
If I were the son, I’d have lost it that day.
Old dad has an attitude absent from sight.

Butt-N-Fly Genes

Dec1

What kind of a creature owns butt-n-fly genes?
One who’s quick on the draw like the wrangler on hand?
…Perhaps one who’s not dirty, yet has no real name…
Maybe someone mistaken or hurt just the same.
Whose genes are the tools of the rock-n-roll band,
And whose message is carried well, by any means?

I’ve worn butt-n-fly genes. It’s an ordeal to pee.
I could leave them, or take them if that’s all I had.
But I’ve many more genes; some are neat in my drawer
Whereas others are scattered about by the score
And they all do have zippers. I’d drive myself mad
Had I buttons to deal with. Who wouldn’t agree?

It’s them cowboys who wouldn’t! They’re such rugged souls
As they wrangle incessant, simplistic and wild.
Were someone to tell me to go butt-n-fly
I’d reply with a warning, “Don’t spit in my eye.”
I will risk my junk parcel oft’ being exiled.
Haberdasher’s genetics achieves all our goals.

The World Done Fell Back!

Nov7

Shit do fall back; I should know that by now.
It ain’t like my ass was just born yesterday.
Woke up this morning all pumped for some grace
Thought I’d get to church early for once, just in case
The pastor may have somethin’ special to say.
Where the hell are my homies? I missed them somehow!

There’s no Candid Camera crew I can detect.
In fact, ain’t a soul in this desolate lot.
Should I sit here and wait ’til some folks should appear?
Maybe rapture done happened, but then I’m still here.
My folks are peculiar, though. They ain’t forgot
How to make a good practical joke, I suspect.

Twenty minutes gone by; I ain’t figured it out.
By now, ain’t no chillin’ will satisfy me.
There’s no such thing as The Twilight Zone… true?
Then the thought hits me from out of the blue:
The world done fell back! So it’s easy to see
That I didn’t fall with it. That’s all it’s about.

The Ignition of Igor Ignorski

Nov3

I’m reluctant to greet you! Igor’s the name.
My reticence seems to catch people off guard.
But I just ignore them. That’s part of my style.
I’d perfected not noticing for quite a long while
To the point where my doing it’s not very hard.
It’s the way that I am – and a worthy life game.

Somewhat geeky and shy, I don’t get around much
But when rarely I do, my Ignition’s involved.
It’s the journey itself that I’m setting aflame.
And I couldn’t care less if the world knows my name.
The less lethal my focus, the more gets resolved
And my passion for ignorance no one can touch.

Life’s a vison through glass with a straightforward view
Not a looking down, counting the lines in the road.
If the latter were true, then I’d have to slow down
And observe every creature that crawls on the ground.
It is better to simply relax in cruise mode.
I am pleased to ignore you. I bid you adieu.

Divine Intervention

Oct25

Don’t torch that rugrat! I bring you a clue
From the One who commanded you from up above.
Lay not a hand on the traumatized child.
It’s not his fault your devotion’s run wild.
Yes, God gave you a test to determine your love
But does being a nut case exemplify you?

If God were to tell you to go fuck yourself
Would you submit to cloning to get the job done?
Or would you instead listen well to what’s said
And then come to know it’s a voice in your head?
Many people hear voices. It’s nothing to shun.
They’re like pages from interspersed books from the shelf.

God has His way. I’m His messenger though
So I do not mind giving you my point of view.
When some ‘voice‘ tells you to do something wrong
Why not stop to consider who’s singing that song?
God does do some testing. He grades a lot, too!
But He does so most lovingly, just so you know.

Winning Spiel

Oct24

The chaos around… Am I bird of this nest?
If it looks like that’s so, I attract it to me.
Who the hell am I to be given such power
To dissect the world’s events hour by hour?
I’m not given vision so others can see
How to take what’s beholding and ignore the rest.

My only concern is what happens with me.
Though that may sound selfish, it’s sure as hell true.
If my focus were elsewhere I’d be of no good
To the rest of the folks of this earth neighborhood.
My passion for verse came not out of the blue.
It’s a gift from The Maker for all eyes to see.

My thrill had been penning, then shouting with glee,
“Hey look at me, folks, what a talent I am!
I’d be donned in tuxedo upon the live stage…
I’d have publishers wanting my page after page
[If only they knew me].” They might give a damn
If I stood right before them all fettered in plea!

But I couldn’t do that; they would surely revolt
And I’d end up inside of a ‘courtesy’ van.
I’d be somewhat know then, but not for the thing
That consumes me in pleasure and makes my heart sing.
So I’ll just keep on writing as best as I can
Because otherwise I’d be inviting tumult.

The Tale of the Donkey

Oct20

“Pin the tail on the donkey”? Who thinks of such things?
Are they tails that are made up to punish us too?
We’ve done nothing wrong. Why we’re treated this way
Is to offer all children their happy birthday.
But our rear ends are ragged, quite blistered and blue.
We favor your knowing for whom the tail swings.

We have tails already; your minds take them off
Just to feign disability for a short while.
Maybe some kids would like ‘Land a bark on the dog,’
‘The smell on the skunk,’ or the ‘leap on the frog.’
When kids make their own games they’re likely to smile
And our butts get a break. That is nothing to scoff.

So here is the thing we would pin upon you
Since you’ve peddled the stupid assed game from git
Teach your kids to allow them to teach you as well.
They are out with the old stuff; it’s such a hard sell.
Let them do their own thing just as they may seem fit.
Keep our butts from your faces and do something new!

Neuter the Damned Cats!!!

Oct15

There’s a House that some families make home for a while
In a city that’s known to be contra A.C.
Within it a chain of male cats have held reign,
But the smell of the place does drive folks to complain.
Does anyone know what the hell it could be?
There are nothing but Cats there, and they don’t defile.

Yet, claw marks on furniture are most telltale.
Random rips in the fabric were missed by the crew
Who make sure the place glows and that it smells clean
For the next worthy, tom-catted purring machine.
So still that damned smell comes up out of the blue
And the people, downwind, become ripe to assail.

In the Oval Office, the smell’s still pretty rank
Though an atomized mist of a fragrance did work.
It had done so ‘til now, but the smell has returned.
Now it seems that both candidates’ voices are spurned.
So being a woman is NOT such a perk.
Since she married a Tomcat, she has him to thank!

Grand Mal Movement

Oct9

The Grand Mal Movement – a dance on the stool
When tightness is forced past expected control.
A cool rush perspires a brushed whirl of wind.
I now must account for how badly I’ve sinned.
Mass saliva production proceeds with its goal
Of persuading the gutwrench to suspend its rule.

Another severe one disabling the will
To just remain upright and anchored somewhat.
With flat feet on the floor, though, I double in pain.
Why must I go through this again and again?
The release of the rut that’s become of the gut
Reflects but expulsion that’s little to nil.

A second wave coming – I am, though, prepared
For my consciousness leaving. I’m bent on the floor.
What happened betwixt is a mystery to me.
If I could upload this for doctors to see,
Then they wouldn’t ignore my complaints anymore.
I suppose my describing it all makes folks scared.

But then how would anyone else come to know
What some seemingly private a hell does go on
Behind smokescreens of provident medical view?
The fact that they find nothing wrong is a clue
That what I’ve got going can surely be gone
If I seek inner guidance and just take things slow.

The funniest thing is the ‘movement,’ you see,
As the body is limp, yet it flails on the deck
With a force that is fluid – a rhythmical feel.
Can the body explain to the gut the real deal?
My body may tell me my life is a wreck,
But it’s psychosomatic. That much pleases me.

How To Catch An Alien

Sep25

Can one find what is lost when believing it’s not?
…Not a question one asks from the pit of one’s soul
To another just like him and part of the fold
Along crease in the earth plane since times before old.
Could it be cow violation, itself, is the goal?
…Perhaps something one shouldn’t ponder a lot.

There are plenty of ‘them’ – and there are some, for sure,
From dimensions more distant than we think we are
Yet with powers far greater performed before eyes
Whom are baffled by tricks that are done in our skies.
They’ve been watching this petri dish oft’ from afar.
Who’d have thought all along our Bullshit was the lure?

There’s no need for alarm due to our saving grace.
Our scapegoats, it seems, are our cattle that graze
In the fields clearly marked (We’ve been bill boarded too!)
The ET’s seem fond of this part of our zoo.
Too bad for the cows that they mistook our phrase.
We’ve become, in the cosmos, a strange marketplace.

Magellan Ain’t Tellin’

Sep11

So now you’ve decided to listen to me?
You’re lost like a lemming with precipice none,
Within jungle and circus combined in a maze.
Were it not for me, friend, this trip would last days.
And, you’ll be none the wiser, when all’s said and done.
You know not where you are. This is quite plain to see.

I gave you some guidance just yesterday past.
Did you listen to me? No, you acted the fool,
Going hither and thither and stopping for brakes.
To me that’s plain rude, and it causes mistakes.
You have treated me just like a mouthy car tool.
I am speaking my mind, here, for once and at last.

I was planned and then made through directed design
To perform and to adequately function for you.
If I tell you, “Go here,” then why do you go there?
I’m not programmed to curse you, and hence my despair.
You just do what you want; I shall bid you adieu.
Your actions are lethal; my words are benign.

Were you kind to your mother when you were a child?
‘No need to answer; I’m resting my case.
The next time you ask me to detail your trip,
I’ll say, “Do it yourself, dude, I don’t give a rip.”
If you like gallivanting all over the place
Then forget about me, and declare to be wild.

Istan Bulls Love Constantin Opal

Jul24

Istan bulls love constantin opal
Just as bishops tend to wax epi scopal
And when kept up high, a tug on a rope’ll
Quick release them precious jewels.

Even fools love all kinds of opal
Clear from Pakistan to Constantinople
And when asked to part, an emphatic nope’ll
Usher forth despite the rules.

You won’t go back once exposed to opal.
Now, if you’re a bull, a glimmer of hope’ll
Manifest without the prickle of nopal.
You just might convince the mules.

When suds are few, a fun bar of soap’ll
Cause the brash young bulls to dash antelopal
So no least of them becomes mis antropal.
We’re as bound as molecules.

Kape Kenneveral!

The Wellbeing and Wonder of Whack

Jun3

Pick a noun – any noun, ‘doesn’t matter which one.
If it’s whack that it’s lacking, know where to get some.
There’s a town that has oodles – an infinite source.
It’s an attitude bred in the psyche, of course,
Not an actual place that’s devoid of scum.
If your thing’s out of whack, go to Whackville for fun!

There’s a drought on abundance? Well, how would one know?
By lack of accessories on shopping carts claimed?
Or maybe by facts hocked and spit on the street
For beggars to stare at while trying to eat…
Can I eat with the homeless and not feel ashamed?
Something seems out of whack; that’s the reason to go

To Whackville intent to cop copious supplies
Of the purest, most wholesome whack under the sun.
From there, I can see there is nothing amiss.
Every actor on stage knows to strut into bliss.
When returning from Whackville, my task is near done.
Spreading whack, I’ll lift spirits and roll a few eyes.

Save

Blaine Hussein!

Apr15

Blaine Hussein! Life’s a tax on my brain.
When I pray to Allah ‘seems the Pope answers back
When I tell the man, “Go away; you’re not the one,”
He gawks at me sideways, the son of a gun.
Much ado about scripture… it’s hard to keep track.
Such a mess of a matrix; I’m driven insane.

We are all but a mixture of this thing and that.
Even cells that we are are not really our own.
And as thought forms become us, we’re well on our way
Toward believing enlightenment rules come what may.
Do I cling to my act like a dog on a bone?
Too many groups, it seems, know where ‘it’s’ at.

Blaine Hussein with no gain for an alien mane
Does dwell well among us as Jesus once did.
If you glance at a mirror you might see him there.
If you spot him in public, don’t shout, “Bomb; Beware!”
Don’t vote for a person hell bent to get rid
Of ‘those’ rag-headed weirdos so dark and arcane.

Fifty Ways To Move Your Matter

Apr13

“The problem is NOT inside your gut,” she says to me.
She nods her head as if she wants me to agree.
I’m backed up bucket loads; dear doctor, hear my plea.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

“I’ve seen the X-rays; there’s no problem I can find.
Your labs are normal – no disease of any kind.”
I’m hooked on laxatives; they’re always on my mind.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter.

“Take command of the can, Stan.
Don’t rattle your brain, Blaine.
You just have to believe, Steve,
That your body’s in charge.
Put your mind in a trance, Lance.
Let that snake do its dime dance.
Your resistance must go, Mo,
And then you will flow.”

“Just slam dunk the can, Stan.
Prop up your feet, Pete.
Stuff is bound to deploy, Roy.
Nothing’s wrong; you will see.
It’s much like a boa, Noah,
In consort with good protozoa.
Brace yourself for a thrill, Bill,
You’ll be crapping with glee.”

Alas, how rather simple your advice does seem to me.
My ailing rubber hose is clogged with play dough; can’t you see?
I fear that I will reach the point of bowel catastrophe.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

“My friend, I think another pill will do no good.
Your body’s putting up a fight, indeed as well it should.
When you let loose the shock will surely rock the neighborhood.
I know there’s fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter….”

Characteristic Toxicity Index

Apr7

The dust of a world swirls about in a wind
As it forms into clusters and clumps of some mass.
Does dust ever settle? Most seemingly not.
It is breathed by both cosmos and nation a lot.
Out there, it forms stars with a lifetime of gas.
Down here, it wreaks havoc for all who have sinned.

Many indices rampant among human doing
Are helpful in giving our best selves a clue
As to just how much toxic dust made at our hands
Becomes real enough, dust mites make their demands.
Now, since they are the many, and we are the few,
If we don’t treat them right, then ourselves we are screwing.

The dust mites among us are noble indeed.
They work for dead skin cells; ‘ain’t nothing much cheaper!
They keep to themselves in the dust we create.
They live out their lives in nirvana-like state.
When it’s time to move on, they will greet the grim reaper.
Their CTI’s low, I think folks would concede.

A Fiddler’s Duck

Mar7

Who would care how a fiddler does with his thing
Whether out in plain view or behind the closed door?
If he did play the ‘organ’ we’d call him as such.
Other than strings, he won’t fiddle with much.
Though his thinging is bringing him love life galore
His heart lingers warm with a duck under wing.

A fluffy young ducky with wobbly feet –
A remnant of Easter and kids’ sticky fingers,
Detoured from tradition, this ducky’s in luck.
A kind hearted fiddler’s a bang worth a buck,
But his love for his duck is the one that will linger.
The thing peeps as he’s playing. He thinks that is neat.

You will rarely find his duck running amuck
As the critter is certain he’s found a good home.
He was gifted once, then was gifted some more.
He knows a duck giver’s no one to adore.
People getting these ducks give them free space to roam.
The question is: Who gives a fiddler’s duck?

Faith and the Fixerman

Mar6

How ya doin’ there, ma’am? Is there something that’s broke?
Point me to it; I’ll take a look at the thing.
Any job I can handle; I’m your Fixerman.
I’ve a toolbox of smarts gathered since I began
Giving service to folks and that makes my heart sing.
Things can’t be that bad; I don’t smell any smoke.

I’ll just tweak on this gizmo and see what it does.
Now, if it tweaks back, then the problem is found!
If it does something silly, I’ll have just a clue
And from there perhaps I’ll know what else I can do.
If it draws a deep breath then emits a shrill sound
I’ll call in a musician to play just because.

I can field strip a flabbergast down to the floor
Then bang its belligerent being back whole.
I’m all about service, ma’am… No need to fear.
I’ll finish this job if it takes me all year.
I may have to move in and be mate to your soul.
Why not give it a thought since I’ve been here before?

Doubting Thomas

Feb9

Yo, Thomas, get in here! Don’t chill in the yard.
I’ve something intended for your doubting ass.
I know well why you’re out there. It’s obvious, dude.
You’re a skeptic. Get over it, and don’t be so rude.
If I ran a Christ school you’d be ass of the class.
Stick your hand in my side, and don’t think very hard.

Why my Father made you so Dad blasted thick
Is a mystery still. I must ask Him some day,
“Hey Dad, if you make a man dumber than dirt,
Does he always become, then, a doubting expert?”
Perhaps not worth asking… I will anyway.
My love for you, bro, is more solid than brick.

When I told your behind I would rise from the dead
Did you think I was smoking some weirded out wick?
“My Lord and my God,” you say there on your knees.
I can see your believing’s no act to appease…
Well, Tom, that’s terrific; don’t lay it on thick.
We don’t do Shakespeare. We do gospel instead.

Open Mike

Feb5

At a call center once when I worked as a call
A colleague of mine had a customer who
Would get on her nerves to the point where she’d say,
“One moment please, ma’am; we will pause if I may.”
While on hold, then, this woman would spew
Obscenities certainly heard by us all.

For a brief moment, she’d take control of her plight.
She’d act out a short little fantasy skit
Where she’d play the role of the Empress of Terror
Her customer, that of the Empress Wrath Bearer.
She’d return whole and healed having just thrown a fit.
Her act was thus polished. Things turned out all right.

“Psst, your mike’s on,” we would jokingly say.
She’d scoff at us as if no drama took place.
The urge to let loose… is it something to tame?
If we let it run riot, we’ll wallow in shame.
Our mikes are on always. We live by the grace
Of our fellows’ behaviors incurred day by day.

Fickle Fate and the Fatted Calf

Feb3

Please don’t stare at me, there, with that stupid look.
Say you want me to moo just for shits and why not’s?
I don’t play that no more; I’ve an attitude now.
Life seems big on the bull for the average brown cow.
That’s what happens in nature when man calls the shots
As he claims to the world that he plays by the book.

My own prodigal son… I won’t see him again.
That’s because fate would have it some runaway brat
Tried to handle the bull in the world on his own
He returned beat and broken and bummed to the bone
But the dad said, “Go find that young calf that is fat
And kill the poor bastard. We’ll celebrate then.”

So every time some young jerk takes a stroll
Then runs back to daddy with tail between leg
Some unfortunate calf whom had thought life was grand
Is led to the chopping block all as preplanned.
It would seem clear to me there’s a pardon to beg
‘Cause you runaway rug rats are out of control!

Bastions of Billowing Blitheracy

Feb2

Today I failed an ill-blitheracy exam.
It was proctored by people I meet every day.
It seems I can’t blither the way others do.
Lord knows I’ve tried ‘til my pride turned pale blue
There’s nothing that’s said that is new anyway.
I don’t make normal sense; that’s the way that I am.

Were it hard to speak freely as most do with ease
There would be not a word from my tongue or the pen.
There’d be silence within all the chatter around.
My own little bubble… Oh, how sweet the sound
That saved a rich resonant wretch once again
From casting his own sense of worth to the breeze.

The want ads are screaming, “Dear blitherists please
Take note that we hire most all of the time.
If you can speak nonsense and keep a straight face,
You’re Hired! We value a seasoned nut case.
We don’t even care if you make lousy rhyme.
The world is your oyster. All nature agrees.”

Blue Tooth B-hicle

Feb1

There’s a USB-hicle in that garage.
I can tell by the gigacharm in its style.
It is blue tooth enabled for better chew
Askew as it bytes through its binary queue.
I’d sure like to have one; I will in a while.
It drives Wi-Fi my alley; it’s not a mirage.

The hitch on that hickle’s a match for my socket.
My Type A dear lady’s in love at first sight.
She’d like to latch on to that drive for a spin.
With blue tooth on the roof, though, it just might begin
To whisper sweet nothings to her by daylight.
She’s better to keep one secure in her pocket.

Enough memory’s no fuss with a b-hicle bus.
I recall well when floppy disk drives were the craze.
People lugged pc’s around strapped to their backs.
Those floppies had, often, bad sectors and tracks!
As the stick on a chain, now, does shock and amaze,
There are marvels galore that for sure await us.

Gay Rights and Left Curves

Jan24

From wanting to know straight to knowing quite outright
In an instant expelled from the little one’s mouth.
If it were allowed, I’d say, “How come I should know?
Go ask a rump ranger. Don’t bend over though!”
But that’s not the way. I would be leading him south.
He’s a sharp little one who puts up a good fight.

Now well out of the closet, the query takes wind
As absurd it seems as grape nuts made for stewing
If I answer him with not a smile on my face
Will my words take a form indicating disgrace?
There’s no answer to nonsense worth my pursuing.
I am on to you, boy. I will not be chagrined.

Go ask your darned father, and trust in his word.
Do not ask your mother; she may slap you silly
And send you to bed with a bar soap popsicle.
Don’t let your flamboyance put you in a pickle.
Keep your query pure and as white as a lily.
Do take care not to folly unless it’s preferred.

Sphygmomano!

Jan21

The walls of the vessels grow hyper tense.
The silent throbbing black hole of the soul
Swaths the mercury dial. It is well on its way
To telling me how much I value today.
It is just a device yet it does play its role
In keeping me poised and akin to suspense.

The med does some good; in fact, it works well.
No side effects noted. That’s on the one hand.
On the other, ‘no telling how that ‘pril’ does its doing.
It may well interfere with my walking and chewing.
I’ll test out the theory, then well understand
That therein is where my illusion does dwell.

No condition exists where the body can’t grow
Into fuller awareness of what it has asked
In alignment with that which we humans call God.
Wellbeing is normal; what is not is what’s odd.
That Force that it knows cannot be over tasked.
Toward alternate therapy, Sphygmomano!

On Account of the Oodle

Jan20

It’s because of the oodle large quantities fare
Rather well without in no way being exact.
The birth of the oodle itself is unknown.
From mid nineteenth century ‘til now it has grown
In popular use with its vagueness intact.
It just rolls off the tongue as it takes to the air.

Oodle’s a word that’s been hijacked among
Many others for marketing service and goods
Like Amazon, Apple, Nexus and Saturn.
Words’ destined devaluing shows not a pattern.
But rather than mill over shouldn’ts and shoulds
We relish the word soup in which we are flung.

The fact that the oodle’s not something to measure
Makes it mean a lot without saying so much.
And the singular form means as much as the plural.
There are oodles of words that become ever neural.
Some are rugged in form, others tender to touch.
All are free game to expound on with pleasure.

diculous dabble

Jan17

Is it really true that the light will go off
When the door to the frigid air is closed?
There’s no eye to perceive it behind that thick wall.
The veggies and fruits could be having a ball.
The meat and the bread might have long since proposed
Unbeknownst to left over beef stroganoff.

Dear Plato and Socrates, this one’s for you.
The chicken and egg thing I’ve got figured out.
But lights behind closed doors must play by the rules
Because if they don’t, we’d be taken for fools.
Equal Justice! That’s what I’m talking about.
The law of the loony’s not meant for the few.

That light should be off. There’s a switch that’s depressed
When e’er the door closes; that saddens it so.
But that throw with a pole could be putting on airs.
In cahoots with the crisper drawers for whom it cares,
The acts of the door moves the pole to and fro
But that doesn’t mean the damned thing ain’t possessed.

I’ll make sure that light’s off; I’ll just drill through the side.
With a whisper jet bit in a silencer chuck
Those goods and their cronies won’t suspect a thing.
I’ll catch them red handed; my heart will then sing.
And from then on, I’ll have much better luck
In convincing the stove and the sink that they lied.

Wool Is Velcro To A Hairy Black Ass

Jan8

Another rent payment lost in the mail
Post Office said, “Sorry we let you down.”
Another six weeks then the refund will come.
Why is it that I am left looking so dumb?
The woolshit in life tends to make a soul frown.
It’s because I attracted this tooth to the nail.

I can own that, you know; it is not a big deal.
It’s a moment of clarification for me.
The first half cycle is to notice what’s wrong
And the second half is to sing the right song
I’ll take that bounce gladly. It helps me to see
I’m a focused light being of power pineal.

The rest of the day was a mess just as well
After reading those rascals the riot act.
I was raging about in an impatient craze.
With the world in slow motion I wondered “Who pays
The people around me to keep the deck stacked
Against me? Has some kind witch cast a mean spell?”

It’s all over for now. I’ll just breathe a deep sigh.
Years ago, surely I would have taken a drink
But that’s the old me; I’m a poet today
As I’m writing stuff down I’m delighted to play.
From pissed off and postal to one tickled pink
Transformation is treasured. This too has gone by.

Ramp Down Races

Jan2

When I was a child I heard this song,
Doo-da, Doo-da
I knew but to just sing along
Oh, de doo-da day.

A spritely tune that can’t be wrong,
Doo-da, Doo-da
Where in those words do I belong?
Oh, de doo-da day.

I heard it on TV
I heard it sung with glee
Saloon piano player let your hands dance free
Somebody sing out of key

School bus children sing out loud
Doo-da, Doo-da
With Southern madness we’re endowed
Oh, de doo-da day.

Who in the world would mock this way
Doo-da, Doo-da
Folks whose hearts have flown astray
Oh, de doo-da day.

It’s best that I stop here
My message is thus made clear
I recalled the tune from an Ice Cream truck
That’s how I slipped out of gear

A Pole Without A Throw

Jan1

A switch is still a switch
Even though one might not have an itch
To know how current flows
That’s how the story goes
People just don’t care
Their interest is elsewhere
I suppose

A pole is still a pole
When its throw decides to take a stroll
Yet a pole can become whole
If it redefines its role
In destined circuitry
That’s how it has to be
Heaven knows

Now and then a throw will blame
Its pole for coming down so hard
And once the pole is put to shame
Connective sense is surely marred

I believe life’s but a dream
Even though sometimes it makes me scream
And as many dreams come true
I’m a pole with but a clue
That throws are everywhere
In electronic prayer
God Bless You

The Crepes of Rasp

Dec10

Bless my mouth with a stew of red raspberry goo
Wrapped in manna delight straight from heaven’s front door.
Ain’t no preachin’ for me lessin it’s ‘bout eatin’.
With them crepes on my mind, I ain’t up for no meetin’.
My purpose in life is to taste and explore
All them fancy concoctions like better folk do.

I’m beholdin’ to berries just like simple birds.
The rasper the better; the tarter the taste.
Folks is tribal; I’m liable to invite disdain.
I keep my dream silent to avoid the pain
Of other folks lookin’ and judgin’ in haste.
My desire is scripture; its crust are my words.

Folks is raisin’ up Cain? That don’t bother me none.
I’m accustomed to tastin’ the salt in the earth.
Maybe I ain’t like you. A croissant will not due.
My craving erupted not out of the blue.
With a raspberry crepe I’m a man of great worth.
I’m a crepe rapin’ raspberry scone of a gun!

Does The Doggie Go Through A Life Review?

Oct14

Will my pooch see a Council of Elders by way
Of transition into doggie spirit world?
My guess is he’ll bypass such rigmarole.
The Council need not greet the hip doggie soul.
He returns well-acquainted; his spirit’s unfurled.
He dashes abliss off in spirit dog play.

In benevolent bow-wow they bow and lay grace
Upon spirit dog keepers who await their arrival.
They frolic in fanciful fun-filled finesse.
‘Tis their honor for taking on human earth stress.
Their deeds done on earth anoint Records Archival.
In heaven they assume their most rightful place.

When in hindsight as ass nasty poodle chews, it
Speaks well to Nature’s intention to guide
The often brass spirit of human endeavor.
And, given dog love, they would bless us forever.
They are unconditional; they have nothing to hide.
When the poodle bites, this alone will amuse it.

Come back to earth, dude, I’ll see you again.
There will be celebration and fanfare galore.
My life span is longer; I’ll wait here for you,
And then we will kindle our bonding anew.
I’m indebted to you… You’re no kind to keep score.
So long, pal, and thank you for being a Friend.

Saline Slipshod and Heidi Hoe

Oct2

So there once was a half-bottomed woman named Sal
Which is Saline for long and just S for real short.
Were it Susan, Sandra, Samantha or Sarah
She’d be salty, still, like the sands of Sahara.
Sal had a good friend who would offer support
With salacious sharp shooting and sedate rationale.

Sal got along well with her surrogate pal.
Her name, by the way, was Miss Heidi Hoe.
They’d talk about all that would come to their minds…
Astute on what friends did with bedroom behinds
And about how to sharpen their seeds for the sow
One might guess one is Femme, the other Fatale.

One day Sal and Heidi got together to see
If they could stir trouble among a few friends
Who’d been sharing behinds with others than theirs.
These two loved to meddle in others’ affairs.
Did they serve up some nasty? Well, I guess that depends.
Their friends knew already; their love was quite free.

Now, as Sal and Heidi came to know this was true
Their scheme was deflated; their gas had been passed.
Heidi said to her friend with the voice of a man,
“No Hoe would come up with a Slipshod plan.
Next time I’ll do nasty. You do things half-assed.
If we’d have done it my way, they’d be without clue!”

“Well, Heidi Hoe, I’m surprised at you!
First of all, had I known you could talk like a man
We’d have never been friends right from the start,”
Said Sal from the pit of her broken heart.
“I shall now call you Stan and concoct a new plan.
Work alone with your own; I can stir my own brew.”

The Magic Realist

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