A rolling stone gathers no moss; A rolling rock gathers no...

26 November 2008

Dragon Fly Agony Awareness Day


(To be spoken aloud,
sternly)

Dragon Fly alert:
Dragonflies warn fish
of approaching fisher-
men.

"They're coming,"
the message goes.

In return, the dace
(meaning carp)
don't eat glittering
darters (meaning
dragonflies) during
courtship.

It's an unspoken agreement as old as
the fish are.

20 November 2008

Big Greg


If you were to approach any middle-aged female and ask her about legendary post presence "Big" Greg Ostertag, they might tell you a few things. And those things would probably be insightful and perhaps perverse, but what they would fail to mention are Big Greg's humble beginnings. Let us flash back to March 6, 1973, the day that Big Greg was transported into this world via vaginal technology.

After Big Greg clawed his way out of that damp womb, his mother could tell he would always be husky young gent. From a very young age he actively peddled cereal variety packs, Ring Pops and cock rings. His bartering skills showed promise and he certainly had an affinity for the Super Mario Bros. animated series on PBS.

It wasn't long before Big Greg, shunned by the kids at school for his flat-top and horrendously long sperm stick, found refuge at the local arcade: Aladdin's Castle.

Day upon day upon night Big Greg could be found battling with various miscreants and scat freaks for tickets. "I want to buy the big Dumbo!" he would shriek, his voice exuding 60% agony and 40% excitement. The goth kids and grunge stoners would stare at this monster, now standing at 6'10" at the age of 15, wondering how they could "go all Gulliver's Travels on him and shit." Green Jelly and Jesus Jones poured out of their headphones like invisible rays of rancid milk before they all finally agreed to take dumps on Big Greg's Minnesota Northstars Starter jacket as it laid unsuspecting in the corner by the Skee-Ball machine.

And that was when Big Greg's life changed forever. As he stood outside Aladdin's Castle on that fateful day, feces smeared on the "N" on his jacket in such a manner that an average bystander might confuse his allegiance with that of the expansion Minnesota Backslashes, a man walked up to him.

"Do you party?" the middle-aged man asked Big Greg, wearing a tan Carhartt jacket with tiny flecks of what appeared to be semen.

Big Greg sniffled before replying, "Fuck yeah, pimp."

An instant friendship was born. Before long, Big Greg and Cum Jacket were spending all day playing the basketball shooting game at Aladdin's Castle. Big Greg became so skilled at the game that Cum Jacket hooked him up with a scholarship to play at Texas A&M, especially since Big Greg was also really into agriculture and mechanics. That plan was spoiled, however, when Big Greg and Cum Jacket committed several fairly serious acts of felony battery on the shit culprits on their last day at Aladdin's.

The two fled to the state of Kansas, where Big Greg quickly became a Jayhawk. He played and stuff and was eventually selected 28th overall in 1995 by the Utah Jazz. Finally Big Greg was rich. He proceeded to buy a brand new Dallas Stars Starter jacket (they moved) and began to dabble in homosexual affairs. After 11 unremarkable years in the NBA during which Big Greg averaged 4.6 points and 5.5 rebounds per game, he retired to a quiet life in Dubuque, Iowa, where he currently munches on mad bean pies and tugs his gonzo dick with reckless abandon.

-- Billy Boklit

19 November 2008

Tribulation, especially

Everybody misses somebody.
Everyone leaves
somethings like velvet dresses
and other things valuable
we covet like unthinking eyes
forgetting sorrow, dancing
in the mind's eye even
dreaming of the days
which will soon become themselves
--they have to--they say: oh, what
a tribulation!

Tails

Where do they
leave

or do they rather live
like prehensile tails
acting human-like.

Yes, I have observed
trumpets of varied origin;
I have rumbled through
many-vined valleys
shaking them likewise
to their very fiber.

<>
Fibrous roots make elemental
kits; every flower is favorable.
<>

Mentally, and, “by chance,” are
the same thing.

Silly boys
slain pulling weeds

of dusty toil hey!
Finger blood dark red
inside my healthy finger.
Stay that way. Be safe. Finer.

17 November 2008

What kind of food have you grabbed?

What kind of fruits have you snagged
from the fruit vagabond? Yessir.

Got those thorny kind from down
by the well. The eaves displayed for
us, dispelling thus / our doubt evident

fearsome people are people still
people still moving like decibels
through different apartment's bevels.

Yes, I excell. At Quiddich over the
naked wrangling well (where the
under-thumped are indifferent,
finally, Estonia, quelled) and

find frompy friends at the frat
house. Sometimes I slept at the
library. Sometimes I slept at the
countertop. Some nights I hooved
it to the country shop. Nice shows
there. Nice shovels; they dug well.

He whom is Doug has dug smells,
like electricians light up the night:
when I see big cities I think about

advances in construction technology
and electrical engineering. These
things become very extraordinary.

Goblin Eggs / Maple Syrup



Two New Hampshire youth--Helen Smith, 14, and brother Mason, 11--look upon the Granite State's first pair of goblin eggs. The sprightly vermin would hatch later that day and eat the entire Smith family.

14 November 2008

Seven Muddy Children & Dad

I always boasted--
"I have a great picture of
Seven Muddy Children And A Dad.
And they all laughed at me! Oh!
Oh, How they laughed!!! But now
I'll show them who's
boss, and make their
premature laughter echo into
blinding light, good morning:

Nightslug Deputy

Snail's Deputy Reports

November (Snail Month) Report 1

Dear Snail,
I am a nightslug who unloads chimneys
into the gray, pottywatered Pollywhattamee,
hence it's naming.

Sprees are common here; Winners and
losers alike tamper together in the street
of their night's meaning, like
whimpering lovers... and perpetuated
appetites linger.

This is the land of plenty &
live-longer dads, vitamins,
babies. Wives and (optional
) fjords abound.

Pollywhattamee ain't perfect,
but it's home!
...to us nightlugs, anyway.

12 November 2008

Amigos Forever

We're Americans, goddam it!
We should never be without marijuana.
Celery city and dice bikes
of brains made velvet by said
plantations. Amigos.

04 November 2008

Celebrity Blog Diet: CELERY

Nancy eats a single carrot and one stick of celery
per day. Isn't she a beauty? 100 pounds, scant
lack of perfection, nice buttocks. I could see biting
into the thigh of that.



Hi kids,
This is Nancy. Nancy likes brooms.
Nancy likes to fuck. Nancy likes to fuck brooms.
I'm sorry, I know it sounds rude. There is just no
other way to put it. Simply no other way.

28 October 2008

Live from Stand Firm

Stand firm, Stanford--for you are the Cardinals,
full of bulls-eye-students and blondes and Asians
already come home. All ready home.

24 October 2008

Literally The Best Thing Ever Written (Pt. 1)


boredom / freedom


adore them, bleach them, spores
on them - there’s more on ‘em

but that’s just the epilogue’s momma-
grin: i’m like the heaviest sediment -
along - again;



-- "A longer row, a longer trim," says Farmer Jim --
one day dirt, the next: Grey’s
impediment (Spearmint is running from the President

& i’m so filled with precedents) i meant, antidepressants, clay
or simple earthlike material our evidence.

(oh, soil: too many adjectives: a
detrimental element to setting
agenda vernacular in elegance,

t e m p e r a m e n t

E X P E R I M E N T

like Vulcan’s wolves
are spectacularly delicate,
prehensile predators of testament).

the next day preciously i define rivers like large-
mouth bass trophies: oh, how the fireman's trophies
light up the glen,

well, so long, again, i’m off to the boss’s mint (yeah,
that fat posh gym) to print out some mint julep’s
and fake orgasms in public (with me elsewhere

your wherever hair the color of the atmosphere) all
this -- these shenanigans, again! -- out of sheer boredom
or lament, ...or gin.

23 October 2008

A Man's World



This is a manic's world, after all,
folder open, carrion on
the grill, Bill, just flew it on that big hangar rig
yesteryear, I swear...

...I suggest puppet patterns with the best of them, supposedly all I have to do is trumpet and a bird comes
Like thumbs learning to be green rather than being born so, so, so... shameless,
coming out of the womb alive and shiny and brine

saltflats belie flats of salty slats, crustacean fossils,
sediment, tectonic--oh,
when you talk about the crust, just
remove it Ruby, just undress your chest
with treatures unheard of and holy words
under the breath... i'm already here and I've
never been nearer to
next to nothing.

And yes, I'm not bluffing.

Believe In That Thing

Bloglife cinema and relaxation
my creation being: having no limitations.
for what this format is good.

plastic tables are surprisingly sturdy.

orange girls are all the rage at State U., apparently.
...although what's funny is: they look like Oompa-Loompas.
cannot imagine the mental gymnastics involved: "Boy, my hue, as churlish as it is not--meaning, were we Victorian-era, I'd be fashionably porcelain since you shall never see my skin working in the cotton fields--it could really use a digustingly fake orange Tint."

When I was young I went to an arcade called "Tilt." I never thought about this before, I don't believe, but it was a really good name. Tilt. I makes me a little sad to think that the first thing the word brings to mind now is: DRUGS. I.e. being tilted by them. Well, was the earth ever perfectly level? The answer, I think is yes and no: Yes we were selling it, but no, it wasn't blow.
...actually, though, the earth is practically perfectly flat in Champaign, IL and throughout the Land of Lincoln.

(If I'm going to have somebody take a seat next to me at a coffee shop, it sure as shit isn't going to be an old lady or a dad with his toddler. Fuck)

...so, we Midwesterners, by which I mean: Me-- ...I was raised to expect this leveledness. The earth isn't supposed to tilt or cram itself up into unimaginable mountains without grumbling. Sure the earth rumbles but I've only really felt it once and thought in my half-awake state that it was the residents BELOW were having spirited premarital relations. Like I said I was half-asleep.

I come from the prairie. Although it took me until about 1 week ago--which is to say, 24-some years, many of them the formative variety on the self-same plains of the Fighting Illini--the sunset really does turn Orange and Blue. Brilliant orange and blue and a million screaming derivatives of twilight beauty.

The first question I will ask my wife will be: "Are you the kind of person without whom I couldn't imagine watching the sunset? Or watch it without you--and be sad? I'm always sad..."
...when I watch the sunset, she said.

...Drugs.

...Anyway, it--Tilt--was just an oasis of childhood where I played the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle game. I eventually beat it several times, but only at birthday parties where we got an absurd amount of tokens.

...You know those parents who gave their kids more tokens at their birthday party? There were always a lot of parents like that. At the risk of over-stating my point: FUCK THEM. Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them, even if they're celibate. They are the kind of people who produce kids who don't like dogs. Or Dougs. Or, more importantly: ME.

Peace.

Blog wonks (Epilogue)

So blog-like tonight, expanding like
turtle fingers inching on-
ward, the onion Backwards (on the
prison bus word wearing
meaningless features like
topography).

22 October 2008

The Newsman's Arrival

I. Winter.

latest snowfall soon comes
mushroom moons and loons strumming
us to sleep with sleep's eye, her fur brush;

tomorrow's meal isn't mush yet, not much
for us guests already
but enough to not discuss

instead, the details of the war:
These people are staking
claims for pastures and steaks.
Thus, This must be done.

while rabbits hide in the bushes,
like us incapable of fake-blushing
or erasing what is not in us
to begin with:

there are so many arguments,
i cannot finish a sentence.