Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Yo, Lurkers!

I can see you seeing in here! Post comments! Do it now!

Big John Got Hisself a BadAss Chopper-Moped Thing


Here is the screen name you mustn’t touch,

But you may feel the delay coming upon the box

Of being you writhe in. Also, the lord cometh:

No Me Tokes. Hear the heralds grind-core,

The Styrofoam goat’s head and black robes,

The gilded corners of the pentagram, a blank

Screen, then tile backgrounds of Satans upon


If you recall how vinyl captured these

Band logos in hexagonal blood letters, then

Your shape is a waxy cloth breeze-torn

Across a chain link fence. You are the band

Member wannabe in forlorn leathers beyond

The backstage doors. What I mean of course

Is that it is me. So my website is a rubbing

On wax, porno disclaimers and keep-hiddens

Behind the screen names. Bloody, bloody sticks.

So Christ, fresh back from the concert

Says don’t touch my merchandise, fried foods

Of the mind Cholesteroling the soul, merchandise

Eyes. And you do not know why I put a cheesy

Studded wrist band to the air? It is a denial

In pure form of my stumpy mentality, an

Un-resurrect-able personality vaingloriously

Endowed with a perverted self denial.

Troll, the hog brain in underwear roaming

Bayou and beer-hall Fen hoping for the chance

To show off my computer boner, the throng

Of god hammer that must never be touched,

But that might be found in mood, in the mood,

In the mood. And still, the lord manages to

To come up for air and go back down, back down

In to the spiritual sixty nine, times nine,

The six and the six and the inverted vertebrate

The filthy, filthy screen name you must never touch.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Monday, October 22, 2007

We're All Fine Here, Now...How Are You?

You've Never Heard Of The Millenium Falcon?

Like Mountains Made of Fruity Pebbles

I got to go riding on the Blue Ridge Parkway this weekend and took some pictures of the trip. Probably the most enjoyable aspect were the blissed-out old-timers grinning it up all over the place. I spent a lot time inside my helmet wondering if it was still possible to "Commune with Nature" by traveling through it at a rate of fifty miles per hour.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Simulacra & Gravity

Nearby they are driving piles

into bedrock

For the new parking garage.

A red tailed hawk glides

above its shadow

Onto a roof, so strange

to the sky

I have to sit down on a bench

and watch it

Until it flies away.

It is for me like

When people woke up

on September 11th

And didn’t believe

what they saw on TV

Because it was too much

like a movie.

This bird, so large and actual.

But even there I

have to stop because

Somehow I don’t believe

it’s real.

How could it,

Be so beautiful, so shrug

To the constant clanging

Beat back from the facades

in an echo

Of Anti-grace,

how could such a thing,

Be made of pictures

from a child’s book?

The hawk perches on a cornice

And the people walk on

Beneath its eyes. They are

beaten by the sound

Of metal, the distant apparatus

Of the pile driver

pressing claw after

Claw into bedrock.

But what is a thing

without lifting?

And after the world is covered

in structures,

And, become a presentation

Of poor Plato’s dream,

After everything is part

of the left over stage set

The hawk will look up

into the yellow light

And not be sick of it.

He will fly off and I will be

left to undertake the moment,

Dress her in burial gowns

and send her down

to read her lines before

The firing squad.

I still can’t believe t

The vastness of birds.

The great wings

and the weather,

The bending away

from the grounds,

What I know, the familiar

Crumbles back

To the ground.


Friday, October 12, 2007

Wilt Hammer

In the house next to the house you want to buy

Lives the world’s ugliest transvestite.

Seeing him undone you’ve barked, in passing,

The truck precisely navigating the gentle

Bend the road takes into vastly less cool

Neighborhoods. Imagine a beard patching

Its way through creased cakes of base makeup,

Large legs darkly nubbed in here and there

Splaying nylons, a street corner marking

The boundaries of what is at premium

Most desirabe, the house, and wrong, the man

Be-penised and thus malformed to this world,

Imagine how he would be glad to watch the kids

So you could scuttle up some afternoon coitus.

Wait. I’ve already gone too far haven’t I?


Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Monday, October 08, 2007


Super Fang

I fang. Does the tiny shoe fest? Duh.
Who let the dogs out? I’m good as
Superman’s boating accident whereby
The nun’s super strength contorted
Us through black hole’s dinner guest.
You fang. No joke. It’s a contusion
Likely to fish as dam this time I caught
A hyperbaric bonfire: the palates, THE
PALATES poured gas on the memory
Of all our mothers, she collecting
To light her fumes but it was a third
Degree memory, one fang in, one out.
We fang more efficiently crossing
Cooling the dogs with a saucy squelch.

Zanna excellent Zanna

The very small shoe plus fest? Duh.
Who they have the dogs left?
I am well as an incident of canottaggio
of super man for which the excellent
capacitance of contorted nun our I
the host of breakfast of the black
breach oversteek. You zanna.
None scherts I. He is a contusion
probable poiche the dam fish
these me aims have intervened
fé hyperbarique of to: the palates,
the PALATES have paid the gas
on the memory of already our mothers,
they that he for lu brings together
a steam explain but she was a third
memory of degree, zanna in, outside.
We zanna which more effectively
cross by cooling down
saucy the dogs with squelch.


Thursday, October 04, 2007

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Svenska, the Swedish Cockroach

I’m telling you not everything is as Swedish

As the corner stone’s rough accent. Enmeshed

With a barbiturate of coal, the knife wielder

Sheds barley into political leaflets and then,

And then the children pull a harder oar, digit

All string lines in and out of Scand-O frontal

Lobes like lovers stacking bricks on strings

Of high nosed tones, those hairs, I’m telling

You of stacking and pronouncement so you

Can not say you were not there, excusing

Bails and crosshairs from that rich design

Much admired in your coffee maker’s lux

Uriant position overseeing the cabinetry

And the inferior end tables who bow mock

Supplications to this throw pillow’s clack

Beading hairstyle. Listen well, subvert

A stony presence, there a roach imitates

The renter’s pose, there a mouse judges with

A turd and every carpet fiber reels beneath

The weight of century’s worth of mites

Upon mites generating political organizations

Out of the residue of your skin, foliate

To follicle to the bonnet dream light’s neon.


Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Okay Fine, Then

Here ya go, Professor Snodgrass