Tuesday, November 24, 2009


Rip, Rig, and Panic

The Lunar Cycle may cause Tsunami & Catastrophic Origami but it is Barbed Wire that brings out the Cheeky Grimace of the Moon. Speaking of which, Barbed Wire is some hateful fence. In that, it scalps some serious Hurt. And the Chafe begat Chaff, sayeth The Verse. And the Chaff begat Dust, a Harvest, a Sustenance, a Bowl. The Great Depression was a Seer, as well, a Prophet who'd been established in a tent, upon a throne, despite profound irritability, incurable remorse, and a large "D" embroidered on his chest, in 48-point Goudy Stout. One could seek his Decrees -- "Are you here to seek the Wisdom of, His Lowness, The Great Depression?" -- and it was his Collected Decrees that would triumph, eventually, in competitions with Other Revivals. The Great Depression was really a farmer named Tuffy. "Tried Legumes," he said, out back, behind the tent. "Tried Tubers, Ugly Fruits, and Assorted Goobers. Never thought of harvesting no Opinions, 'bout the only thing I could raise in this here Chafe." When asked if he'd pose for a few snapshots in his Getup, the farmer spat near his shoes, "Yep." Then his oilskin trousers ruptured after a suspicious clap. Think about what makes you Tick: We're all Ticking, you see. Don't hate if you ain't got no fence; don't fence if you ain't got no Chaff; don't Decree if you ain't prepped to risk some Cheeky Grimace.

Monday, November 16, 2009



Mankind is being flung towards the far horizon at speeds greater -- and heights taller -- than God ever intended. "Oh, Why, Oh, Why," wail the mourners, as another man flies past, overhead. If the synagogue is where you sin, then the dialogue is where you dial. "Help Me!" in one tongue is "Tongue!" in another langue and "Merengue!" in yet another harangue. Lemon gets to be a risk. Grape-fruits get to be a risk. The fields molder and a cry spreads through the land. Oh Lord, why is there motor? There is motor, sayeth The Lord, to impress thine enemy. But mine enemy hath motor. Sayeth not hath, sayeth The Lord, for that is my very verb form. Very well then, but my enmity 'hath' motor. Thine enmity hath motor? shrieketh The Lord, thou dost bringeth the disnomer and the piss-nomer in thy protestations and for that -- I shall now smite thy fleeting moment of achievement in sport. And The Lord smote the pilgrim's second place finish, and the pilgrim, in turn, smote his younger brother, with a loud clap to both ears, and the younger brother, then suffering from a disturbance, smote the television set with a thirty-ought-six, even as the set continued to speak, " . . . in corporation we trust . . . ," a minor miracle.