Local Man Arrested For Blogging

Champaign, Ill. -- A Champaign man was arrested today for "excessively reckless and senseless blogging," according to a statement from the police department.

Though the police declined to release the man's information, the police chief was quoted as saying, "At no point in this individual's insane, foul, disturbing commentary did he make one iota of sense, and we are all stupider for having to had to endure it. May God have mercy on his soul." 

because it's also a plant,

she says, with a sly little fuck-me grin,
sly american soda this girl sips,
tell me about your mexican trip,
i say, no thank you, i'd rather not

so she says
how's about we go in the back

i say
sure, can i bring my friends?

then they all pop out of the woodwork
and speechify their disaster, saying thus
"OH OH OH OH OH OH YEAH!!!"
making appalling noises,
right,
so, he says
begone ye spirits of the netherlands,
then Ronald Reagan appears, says,
THEY AREN'T DUTCH, I AM
him, you can barely hear him finish,
as his voice and face disappear into the
dying past where he lays
& dreams of secret collonades of grass
wherein the ketchup farmers stow their lotto
& invest in the fruit of the future,
just over that-a-way in the near east.

i meant holly

i meant holly, like the jingle jangle
of your speedbump balls a-wiggle

(((transfer the blur
quickly, noise)))

cohesion deploys insane
matterific verbs of hot damn
kids these days::::::The boys!
& the girls

two creepy stanzas, dedicated to heather (the plant)

my eyes cannibalize the sound
from the creatures coming
growing out, becoming dense
as boughs full of holly.

my eyes cannibalize the sound
from the creatures coming
I see the ground, the footsteps too
we hear the spirits humming.

band names pt. 8

The Crableg Sisters
Me & Spider
Ankle Kids
Snow Youth
The Barely Here (tight, bro)
You Will Like Us
Always Ogling
The Snoogs
T.W.I.N.E.
The Holy Smoot Society
The Asheville Dangercats
Bowling For Murder
Soup Cancer
Gangrene Pete and the Specialists
Bobby Pins
Lost in the Tress
Pinewood Derby Pussy
Sno-Caps (possible trademark issues)
Glitter!
Actual Killers
The Drunk Motorcycle Fags
Lil' Miss Michigan and the fang-proof blinders
Glass (so indie)
The Welfare Twins 
Stay Away!
Scared Girls
Snakebite

drab cornish, obvi

a drab Cornish
is a hen nonetheless.

as in, "I ate yer
crab sandwich, mister,

and by the way, you've got a
Cornish up the ass."

Doesn't matter
where it falls,
it's still shit.

Strange paths

(Note to self: look up the word “wroth”)

((Note to reader: This is about a walk and random
corner-store encounter...
it's significance may be elevated beyond discovery))

(((wroth)))

moffed (meaning lowered) brow
or certain picayune discovery
walking from ledge to ledge along the uncertain
delivery of phrases: here’s a block, here’s a house,
herein the home OF A CENTRAL MAROON’S CHEERLEADER
like an advertisement for unwanted? loitering, malingering…

squirrels, their houses clumps of leaves-in-tree, sparring
with the world, saying: skkkkkkkrriiiiiiiittttttt! squeak!
and so forth.

past the old savings & loan to the corner store, where we meet
a florid youth, quite out of his head, acting as if he were on
a high dose of amphetamines, but that’s only how I could understand it,
because I cannot understand it—Tim is clearly insane, says he’s
23, picks up a hair tie off the ground and says, “I could need this,”
and then, “Oh, that’s my hair.” I ask him how he ended up here (says he’s from New York, been here 10 years) and he only replies, “Yes, I wash my hair everyday.”

And “good god, there’s no advantage in it, good gawd, working their asses off, student, worker, good gawd…”

I try to understand him, share a smoke, cut a heater, and he compares me to somebody he knows. A smartass, probably. Either listens and gives his opinion like he doesn’t give a shit, or just stands there, smoking (you know, wistful wafts of smoke out the mouth, like) and doesn’t listen, just seems to, but doesn’t, doesn’t acknowledge.

And that ain’t the worst of it, just hanging around, my friend don’t even have a place, probably just sitting under a bridge a long ways that way toward downtown, not givin’ a shit! Good gawd!”

Hair—bad—day! Understand? Hair—bad—day, Good god, that’s not a good thing. Understand?”

He said most of these things. I observed him, long hair with random too-many hair ties, hair stringy, long, maybe dirty, puffy, he looks like a crazy man up a bridge sheering…

but then he is just himself, a self-acclaimed crazy bum, not a bum but somebody like a bum, bumming for smokes, lights, chastising, elaborating, proclaiming, waiting, spitting, smoking.

He crouches in the parking lot, hawks a good one, and spits.

“That’s my brain.”

I cannot disagree. When I leave he shakes my hand (I don’t like this, but I do it anyway).

“Nice to meet you,” he says. I never tell him my name... just one part of the strangeness.

w i d o w s p e a k

After several days without words,
I find them again, not by magic, but instead
with the deliberate clomp of heels on march
the deliberate cold the widows catch
because, why not? they seek a reason for sleep,
a reason to seize upon bedrest and the covers
covering them, of course, a cold widowed hand
grasping another, the sound of one hand
being silent.

Yes, silence. The pale spit of words
fires no more upon the galleys, staid,
forlorn, a white mist rising out of the sea.
How many pains can a body catalogue?
The body politic, the warmth rushing out of her tongue
and into a cold cup of tea, its heat now gone.

But what of her ferry delivers?
She’s alone now on this island
for how long? nobody knows. That usual rogue state
wherein the mist howls fully aware of its ignorance
about matters of war and taste.

That’s how we veil ourselves, anyway, as languish
covered by a pall. We are
outside ourselves once more. In tune
with the turning seasons and the trumpets
(forlorn) about which the captain wrote.

Another stop: the captain. The constant shrine
around which you revolve, revolved, still
yet you chase him. But with weariness,
now. He isn’t in the boat
any longer. He’s far off to sea – you know
that, now – and yet, you keep looking
every morning
toward the bright gray dawn.

Band Names part 7

Partial Nudity
Fresh Fish
Scared of the Sun
John Willis and the Schmucks
GUN
The Gun Club
The Black Smiths
Freebasing Skittles
The Muffintops
Bad Sandwich
Rick Shaw
The Kingfish
Bulbous Fixtures
Doctor Gravy and the Soup Kitchens

Stay off the grass

That's what my mom told me
Not talking about our lawn
after all, what are lawns for?

Stay off the crack
in the sidewalk
Grandma will appreciate it

Stay away from fables
and old wives' tales
old wives are liars

Aesop was a vampire
a bloodsucking killer
morals like Gilgamesh

quarrels like a quarry
talk show host Maury
Florals. Epic Story.

Grass: First Take

and that, father, is why I take tea:
to set the grasses sweetly a-rustle
in my balm-shop mind; home of
hopeless impediments and even more
struggles that aren’t struggles, but diversions
and there’s a reason I won awards for hustle

I am a gambit; a maven; a practicing
witch-doctor; my friends and I build
mazes for hire and stun doctors with
flavored oils: here, smell my cinnamon, dads,
become an ocean again, from here to Sandusky.

Gray Soap

Gray soap can be
fun to play with. Like tomatoes
or sweaters on the new boys.

Brain soap. This is a weirdly
afflicted bath. Brain soap. Brain rope.
The stain between the stain between the
strained dopes
casting about for drugs like pirate fishermen
angered.

love, or whatever

i used to be touched by every type of
love. the fossil, the functional, the alien
like the curling embrace of a foxglove
in the spring moonlight entertains again
thoughts of rebellion.

her tender horn of trailed-out suffrage
pointed, like an argument, to her plot,
where bulls run through weeds, & oilrags
litter the gulley beneath the gunwale.

There we raged the night away,
not as one might later fret, on standby,
like an old refrigerator chugs 
at last in the backyard,  disassembled.

& all this slowly fades away, like thoughts,
a slow drink of something that tastes
the way perfume smells: American.
That’s not what this is about.

Brain Soap

we yeasayers, yeah.
And no -
we don't want no scrubs

we wash our brain in tubs
loamy lobes delousing
sinning synapses

Alice's dialysis
the perils of paralysis
blistering mind callouses

dilly-dalliance
malicious parliaments
kingly jackalopes
drinking lemonade

now I've gone insane
feel no pain
I have a discman
but no headphones

take a risk, man
use the red phones
dial 9 to get out
then 911

Don't let the saucer
bother you
we're on good terms
like a glossary

Do not confide in cute animals

WANTED:

Bunny. Indicted by Federal Grand Jury on 50 counts of mail fraud; wanted for his alleged role in money laundering in the late '90s. Thought to be fleet of foot and fond of grass. Prefers meadows over tussy hillocks; may hop unpredictably. "Bunny" is an avid reader with an interest in history. He is known to frequent libraries and historic sites. Approach with caution.

This has nothing to do with Jessica

sometimes ::::: we ::: have ::: been ::::: known
to unlock each other's doors at night
taking a bath with candles at each other's throats
(our hands at) (who's looking here?) (only descend once)

throbbing cursory censor: once denuded some
but lived on. made the most of the fabric
as the chairmen say. made the most of all
the quilts at hand.  we really did.

but of course, says the thankless mind again,
you know what i mean: the aspirin tablets.
thankless ankles. a response to a spooned question
dolloped: here's the answer: WE HAD TO

the wind blows | my dreads sway
he had hair like war | like "wait!"
please slow down hurricane

as a vast melting of words has been a stove
--recently as today-- 
was a melt water cooler now a well
then a candy now a chocolate
first a lover; later, a cantilever

& don't i just have it all up the
ass & so forth daddy. i'm a day-glo
bratty kid with sunscreen and a kiss
to give to you whether you like it or not.

i've known some kids, and some of them were nice kids
i've known some shins, and most of them were skinned
at some point, god knows. i can't even keep lower case
without offending heaven -- moreover,

i cannot keep kosher because i'm not Jewish.

Promising start

Here are the brains washed.
Beside the basin, in the bin.

(I don't care what nobody says
we gonna have a baby

taking off in a Coupe deVille
buckled up all navy)

A hair-dresser is born

"How can you know it's wrong, if you haven't done it?" She says, suggestively, to say the least. Her lurid bosoms are blossoms practically spilling out of her slick little red number and beswept by her black scarf. She looks down at the ground like a woman intrigued by her own sexual fulfillment... and perhaps also DTF, I think with a foolish grin.

"What'd you just say?" She asks. Me? But I haven't spoken! "You think I'm DTF, do you???" She's yelling at me. I'm speechless: What is going on? 

At once blaring red-blue lights and gun-toting officials swoop upon us. These protectors of the law -- the bastards! -- all have black leather jackets embroidered with the letters D T F. They have appeared as quickly as sparrows alighting upon a privet, but are all tanned a sickly orange hue and judging from their halting gate are clearly intoxicated.

"Mr. Main, we're going to need you to give us a haircut," says the leader, a big guy with a silver comb literally lodged into the middle of his nose. Under the circumstances that bizarre nasal accoutrement he is rocking would give me pause, but it doesn’t right now. 

"Excuse me?" I bark, like a frightened alpha confronting vicious men.

"A haircut, sir. We're the DTF: the Don't-even-Think-about-Fucking police. If that twisted acronym – D.T.F.– crosses your boondoggled cranium one more time, we show up here like this with guns and body-paint and cop uniforms and make you cut our hair! Haircuts for EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US!!!"

A chant breaks out: "CUT -- OUR -- HAIR!!! CUT -- OUR -- HAIR!!!"

"Cut your hair? But--Why?"

The barbarous lechers give no answer, but only for a moment seem to remember their sense of decor and calmly prepare for the hair-dressing of their lives.

Boy & Waitress

"I'd like something... something good," said the boy. He stared at his folded napkin. It wanted to be a crane, he thought, but he couldn't yet figure out how to show the world.

A dignified pause.

"Take your time. Would you like me to give you a second?" Asked the blond waitress.

"A second what?"

"A second to look over the menu."

"I don't need a second to look over the menu."

"Would you like to order?"

"Yes."

"What can I get you?" She asked with a fake smile after the boy failed to elaborate.
 
"I'm not ready yet."

"Okay, I'll let you take your time to decide and be back in a few minutes."

"Please don't leave." The boy was crying.

"I'm sorry, hon, um... would like a napkin?"

"I've got one. But it's not a napkin. It's a crane. An elegant whooping crane! Can't you see?" The tears ran unabated and the startled waitress hurried to the server station to fetch some more absorbent white napkins for the youth.

Radiator spacer

Thanks Tebow. I sullied the radiator with my misgivings
on Sunday last. Perhaps it was the duties I hadn't performed
or the scat I hadn't spread across the pumpkin fields as fertilizer.
(When will they realize that poop is a person too?)
Poop's a person too, pop a sponsor down the drain (OOH!)
knell; addict; hero;
consort w/ globe and/or structure
like milk - waffles - fries -ladies
and more women, hovering and languishing in their hovels,
swinging shovels at frail moldy piles of slag
looking for buried treasure.

Whelp!

You misinterpret
We honored the evil wizard
and the good dragon
by not sullying their turf

I just didn't have anything as good
til now: a scene from my new movie
"The Most Samosas"

Boy: I want a burger, with just secret sauce
Waitress: We don't have that
Boy: OK, I'll take a BLT with just secret sauce
Waitress: We don't have any sort of fucking secret sauce!
Boy: Ok, just give me anything but don't tell me what it is

Dragon furlough

I get it. You didn't like the Wizard & the Dragon.

That's O.K.,

said the T.V., you can watch some
after you do your chores. Such were my mother's words,
real actual words. Humble, well-fed men
crouched in a chamber, trading lecticorns.
I truly believe that is a word; I've made it
my own, my sword is my tongue. Slash
invent dropback clickup radio dial hitstash
we can all procure our own entertainment blitzkrieg
and so on. Spelling matters.

Kids Deer-Watch Too! (Literally The Best Thing Ever Written)

Have you ever spun out while driving?
I have. Just last year when I was pregnant.
Driving about town, looking for deer
with brown animal eyes and whose --oh-- fluid
jaunts light up the eyes of the schoolchildren
watching the deer jump by at a meeting of the
Kids Deer-Watch Too! club.

Which got shortened to KD-Watch.
That's where I met my girlfriend and
how I got pregnant. At the sick ass
KD-Watch party. Me and Marty and Stacie
and Brooke and Naven and Ryuku and Tamisha
and Roseanne and Piper were there,
just chillin and shit, you knowwwwwwww;
sitting around flogged out of our gourds
on 100 micrograms of LSD, hiding in a frail
woodland lean-to just waiting for some deer
to run by.

What you think it'd be like:

a tidy local nature reserve
full of sweater-wearing tykes
dreamy-eyed and all
hunching about the frosty glass
("Club goes on in winter, too,
daddy!") to glance a little bit
of reindeer flesh (deer) to walk
by the window. They WANTED TO
SPOT A DEER, OKAY?
There are American's Christian Youth,
on a field trip! Hoorah!

What it's actually like:

A scraggly hoard of filthy drug-addled
youth find shelter in a tucked away
forest just off the drug orchard. They're
wearing gray linoleum sweaters with
glowing moth-eaten holes, all these young
masons passed out in a crowded huddle-
formation under a crude lean-to.
For a window there's a musty dusty
scratched window of pale plastic, the
kind you see covering up recessed windows
and a couple of these drug penguins
every now and then gets up the gumption
(or the nerve, swallowing a handfull of pills
from their amphetamine pockets)
to peer through the dirty fake window
and see if there's any deer to spot
(or something cool to light on fire).

Abundant Encumbrance

How bout that wizard? Don't assume he is one.

He could just be the creepiest guy ever - fake wizard costume, owl and a pipe

Mushroom monsters ! They sure don't look happy

Encumbered Abundance

Food in the halfway kingdom
is always equally close
as it is from far-a-way.

Meaning: some frail colt
will whinny a cold wind
toward the North, a salmon's march
and so bestowed we were with grain
we couldn't fit out the city's gate.

That's right I build granaries
with spare tires and light fuses
of bombs here & there. I cannot say
I know what I'm doing, but I can say
that I'm making a difference.

Airs

in the night
slowly white sulfur lights
ooze commercial boobs
& make slants of neon sun

lurid aristocratic cigars speak --
only as suggestion, not the acrimony
of --  her airs to us;
we know how Hemingway died.

same as cousins
we have all held but not known
or taken the time to believe in

a clown tattoo;
the hose you bought at Home Depot;
wish i could have helped.

Ribosomes

Corns and lima bean suffer, as does succotash in the beseeching rain. Beseeched rain never stops and I'm giving up overcoats for Lent. Walking out into the ether saloon, sleety rays of moonshine breath blowing. The curtains match the drapes. There are certain grapes but I am red/green colorblind. I see traffic lights: high light means stop and low means go and Christmas is totally colorbland. Can you be deaf to only some sounds?

My guru is a gnu, a mountain goat. A zephyr among peasant animals, rooting for rutabagas in the neon jungle. Beards make even the goatiest-looking creatures look distinguished.

Go Fish

3.
This wasn't just any kind of
--how to say-- ceremony,
but merely the act of exploring
become an act of mercy.
The nothingness wants to be
divested, if only because
the jungle will not eventually lose
only question being: where are we?

On a cloud of pugnacious sky
was Drake, leafing through his fish guide,
informing Robert about smallmouth,
perch and crappie.

They were too proud to turn around;
they went fishing.

Men Nearing Shelter

1.
What was it
about the fountain women
les phantoms du fonte
of whom their shapes were cast
(in inky lead, as if metal were
the matter to address);

had been cast, as the actor,
or the fishhook dangling
just beneath the surface.

"This simply ain't
no place to fish,"
had said Drake
over morning coffee. 

2.
Of course Robert did not listen
he who believes less and less
to know a thing is
to touch it.
Rather to move on is
to have trod upon;
no other way.

Don't read about the fountain women

The beechwood canoe was smooth on Maura's skin. She was ailing. But the pleats were nice. And then I looked in the garden. Rain on the grass. The smooth temperature of something soothing... something becoming loss. If you've got the blues get read. Red by whom? By them, the scarlet women swimmin in the fountain.

The Terrible Blues

I've got 5000 dollars
but that can't buy shit
I've got cable TV - who gives a fuck?

I've got a laptop computer
but it's not a mac
I have a space heater but it's small

Cereal and milk,
a mug. no dishwasher.
some books, which I would read if it was 1995.

I've got the terrible blues
the three-pronged
eight stanza blues

Prong's not the right word
I just can't get it right
I'm even saying "right" too much now

Writing the blues... I can't sing more blue
if I was actually depressed
this would ring more true

I'm not blue I'm not black
the hardest potato in the sack
not bruised in the least homey, bitch

I propose a heart attack
but more serious: Iraq
Bitch, homey - I'm back

I speak for the trees

Officer, an impostor
quick - accost her
beat the shit out of her
she stole my purse

it's called Dignity
I'm taking back Sunday
Monday too
fuck it

all of this
was all your fault
Olive, this
was all your fault

Popeye's Chicken
a can of spinach
equally tepid
good for muscles

disjointed phrases
this joint is faces
smile like you like it
scowl at the moon

I thought Wolfman would be awesome
It's getting terrible reviews

American Impostors and/or Two Dogs

Which is better for America? Our hounds eye us
up & down but we won't quit lathering them with praise.

IMPOSTOR or NATIONAL HERO? --The American Foxhound.

WELL-MEANING BULLY or HAPPY BUFFOON?

The Bloodhound.

...

... You be the judge.

Dachshund At The Dog Parade

At the dog parade there were the
Whippets, the Deerhound, Harrier,
Plott, Saluki, Ibizan Hound, the
Greyhoss, Basenji, Bluetick Coonhound,
Borzoi, Coon-Nosed Fibber, Petit Basset
and !!  DACHSHUND !!

Little black creature of the dog meteor
become the dog meteorite when it hit
on it's interplanetary journey from the Danube Plains
distributed by magic to Park Avenue,
the Palisades, the Hilton back-alleys,
where the small prancing German princedogs
dash and hound and snuff and pose.

The PLAN for

the DRESS-AS-A-COUNTRY PARTY:

"Let's get piss drunk, dress in bloody tatters, and walk around running in to people, blathering, 'I am HAITI, HELP ME!!!'"

Whodatsaydeygonbeatdemsaints

I wear my flag to class
I swear it's making me bald

Like an eagle, but flyer (more fly)
bald but not bold

Italicized = to become more Italian
Germophobe = afraid of Germans?

Where did I leave my gun?
Oh, that's right. At home. Fuck.

Hope my dog doesn't find it
he has suicidal tendencies

Once ate a poison frog
then ate another one

Ever pumped a dog's stomach?
It's fucking weird.

Dust / Change

This is my flag. I wear it to class;
I swear it's gonna get me laid.

This is my shield. It's more than sun
glinting off water. It's the ocean.

Oh--them? She asked, like a man
exacting revenge upon a half-pipe
with a hammer.

"Ain't got no glue guns around here,
son," he said, smoking a cigarette and
motioning toward the snow planks on top
his auto, which hadn't been driven in a while.

Sometimes I'm a cat underneath the rug. I
make tunnels out of folds. A whole unruly apartment
is my whole world. Clean it and I become extinct...

said the mouse to his flock. "Father Mouse," one
began, "Please forgive me. It's been... seven minutes
since my last confession. I have to admit... I like
smoking plants, sir. Father, sir, that is, sorry. Harrumph.
Um, I like to get high."

And meanwhile, the mouse tries to get clean
all the rats in the alleyway oblibiously smoke tar
strangle the ashes and let loose on some
hobnob bicyclists.

"Where' your vitamins now, fags!" the looters
chirp, not unlikely mad crickets, at the ponies
as they snork and bury their hooves in the dust.

But it's not because they're lazy or ashamed. Sometimes
dust behooves us, no? We look at it and realize
that we don't realize what's going on. Just now,
dust collecting. Perhaps it's more certain even than
change. The austere wooden paneling remains the same,
but its appearance grows more weary every day.

Snails

Assassin snails are totally fake.

Just-Got-Paid Haircut

The ultimate pudding snack. Love

can move mouses. The situation

will never be the same again. I wish

these words weren't so, General, say

it ain't so. Flashing, lights. Raw cane

sugar, door double-latched like a mother.

Assassin Snails

I've got some assassin snails in my tanks.

I too yearn for a covered wagon. These guys

are new to the hobby, the old town aquarium

man with the rimmed glasses (they all have em),

deadpans. Buffalo ringed wonders. Black Lotus

and the Thunder rained peppersnacks upon

the pilgrims. Ringed and horned I might emphasize,

if I where a rhincoeros. All the streets I'll ever

speak with will be sequins in this sequence. Penguins.