Sunday, July 31, 2011

A Comment Flashes Its Purple Tail Rounding a Plate of Lines & Mash


One: It was a great party. Everybody was able to share his or her minds. We were all engaged dialed into each other. No one blended into a wall. No one bloomed out the other side.

The gathering kind of reminded me of a conversation I had when I as 13 years old at Astronomy camp.

Two: I found him in the ocean. We were on a boat. He and I were on the hunt for October. All of a sudden the line went taut. The creature came up to fight. It was a monster. It took a big bite out of our little boat. He threw a scuba tank into its gaping mouth. That’s when I fired the flare gun.

Three: I thought the American dream was standing in line. Waiting your turn to take a ride, get food or buy junk. This is our right handed down from the confounding father's. I was in line yesterday buying glow in the dark paint with ten other people behind me. I looked down the line and said, “I thought this was a recession?” the lady in front of me said, “yeah, but we are all trying to make something. To to get what is ours out of it. We paint over the shards of chaos, so that order can be reorganized. When I grow up, I wanna be a republican so that I can make money from someone else's misfortune."

You have always said things out loud in public. Do you remember when we went to the movies and you yelled in that Shakespearian brogue, “THAT, My Brother’s and Sister’s of the Wood, IS THE SOUND OF TWO HUNDRED PEOPLE GETTING BUTT-FUCKED BY THE FILM INDUSTRY! HOW DOES IT FEEL, NOW, TO KNOW THAT YOU CAN NEVER GET A REFUND ON THE TIME WASTED HERE?”

Four: Don’t trust the “no vacancy” sign. Someone is home. Cat’s know much.

But that’s not what the picture says. It says, no, I’m not using any probes (anal or otherwise), but I do have a sensitive thermometer.

Five: Here’s my tale of ohh… at the zoo, Mi Pe Qats stabbed into an offal’s pouch. In a slur a bloody Nave’s oral wet slurp tapered off a vile zit. The town’s id feigns a jeer it lays with the ox. He hides.

Once upon a time, he admitted in an ode a shout of joy followed by hallelujah amen! Sex bides in a fir grove. Dour ropes tug. A loud stair….Nod. Do. Flee. Make a vile pouch. Make the grade. Stab slurp rend jar jeer. Taper a bloody joy of wet offals. Cut tag pouch feign nil qat wet peak. Xi lays wet. He owed a nave at the zoo an ode. Admit to oral joy. Slurp it wet. Amen.

Lying hid in a nave cave we get wet. Peak joy stabs us bloody amen.

Six: Do you remember what it meant to be a doter? A hitcher wandering down a stray deserted road. Leading a mad cow on a long chain. When you went to the psychic seer, do you remember how she flipped the card like a high roller? That was the card that sent you empty to the lab, but that’s not the worst of it.

Later you found the exact same story on the backside of a Wheaties box.

Seven: This must be the worst poem I’ve ever written. Do you want to sing it?

Eight: A thin shade separates heaven from hell. A bat flew out over shadowing the caves. Ronnie James Dio is now with the Krell. A thin shade separates heaven from hell. Our president was good, but now he fell. Oiled by a party in ecstasy he raves. A thin shade separates heaven from hell. A bat flew out over shadowing the caves.

Nine: A window looking into our times. Thanks for peering in and reflecting it into words.


Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

A variation of an Exquisite Corpse


The first thing Horus saw when he walked up to the mat was a mottled yellow ground filling the screen.

He eyeballed a woman dancing in the wind. Her arms flailed about like how a bird might flap its wings in a vacuum. The mad scientist found the key to turning off gravity. The world turned topsy-turvy.

Now is the time that rain brings ply and September slithers sly.

Silvery cords shedding photons snake their way from the stars to the ground like how Isis felt when she met Orion for the first time. They swooned, they moaned, they made love on the banks of the Nile under a grove of Palms. Long fronds stretched their elephant trunks to the cosmos arms open wide in praise. Orion laid his belt on the plateau of Giza. Isis opened his tunic and a cloud of locust flew out his exposed breast

The sixth order represented a tennis ball that hadn’t cleared the net and lay disregarded flat like squares.

A little boy toddled across Osiris’ court at Luxor Las Vegas. His eyes were drawn to the misshapen ball lying in a pool of vomit. An elderly bedraggled man broken by society lay against a cyclone fence. He was partially sleeping, partially intoxicated, and his eyes were cocked partially open. In his stupor he dreamt of world different than the American status quo. A world flowing with ice cream and dark beer. A world where people acted in temperance and charity toward one another. A world where people were generous with the words their snake tongues spat.

And my dreams, and my dreams, and my dreams is all the guidance I need.

That was how his dream ended as he gave up his breath like how his stomach gave up his last meal eaten from the refuse found in a high-rollers garbage pail smeared in feces and alive with maggots. A father yelled at his son, “Don’t touch that ball,” but the boy already had. His innocent hands were instantly tainted with the blood of the American underbelly.

I wish I could turn my skin into metallic green and go live in the jungle and get back to nature as they say.

This was that Horus’s last lucid thought before the lights shifted red. As the oxygen fled from his cerebral cortex he saw his life play backwards on a screen trimmed out in golden ambrosia. He winced each time he witnessed a shameful and uncharitable event commuted against his family, friends, and strangers. The movie began to creep to a halt as he approached his boyhood years. He stepped upon a red rubber mat in the bathroom. He peaked over the lip of the tub and saw his mother arms splayed out like angel wings mottled yellow. A long hypodermic needle dangled out her arm. Fat droplets of blood cried into the water like how a river gives itself back into the sea. He squalled, “mamma, mamma, mamma don’t leave me. Mamma, mamma come back. Mamma, mamma I need you. Mamma, mamma please…” A light brighter than a billion stars burned through the film. Beauty unfettered by gravity enveloped him into an embrace.

The man wept for the first time.

Friday, July 29, 2011

A Letter To Rush Limbaugh


Dear Mr. Limbaugh,


I've listened to you on and off since the 80's. And I know that you are one of the individuals who made talk radio what it is today. I wouldn't say that I loved you or that your opinion was an accurate representation of the truth. However, I have on many occasions said to my peers how much respect I have for individuals, such as yourself, who are able to make a living using their primary skill set. Most of us are not so lucky.

I work upwards of 100 hours a week (when I am unemployed and not wasting my time for somebody else's profit) exercising my gifts as a poet writer. I have made a little bit of money at it too in the past 18 years, but not enough to pay rent. And I've saved every penny that I've earned as a (spoken word) poet. I keep it in a bag under the mattress and when I feel beaten down by society, I open the bag and count all seventy dollars of it. I know it is a trifle in comparison to the millions and millions of dollars redistributed to you through ad agencies. Most of these monies were earned through being a featured reader at open mics venues and from performing as a street busker at the Public Market in Seattle. I have earned a few coppers through teaching too. I enjoy imparting what I have learned about the process of inspiration and creativity to others.

My American Dream is not so different as how I perceived how you've lived your American Dream to be. Personally, I don't particularly care about property ownership, houses, and cars. I loath driving simply because it is a waste of my time. I either transport myself from place-to-place using muscle power or through public transportation. When an individual utilizes public transportation not only are they being a conservative by conserving our finite resources they are earning back time wasted behind the wheel of car. Also, you may not have realized it, yet, that our resources are finite, because the earth that we reside on, believe it or not is also finite. Further, utilizing public transportation is a conservative practice, because an individual can conserve their time (while riding a bus or train) to do other things instead of trying not to kill or be killed driving. Yes, listening to books or (you on) the radio while driving is doing something, but if you’re a hardworking person like me, who on top of writing poems, blogging poetry, teaching poetics, and is banging away at a novel, I need all available time to accomplish these goals. Thus, driving is a colossal waste of time just as employment is. And I resent having my time wasted. Maybe you’ll think I am/was lazy because I enjoyed every moment of the 79 weeks of unemployment benefits, paid for by individuals such as yourself and the future generations, by spending that time on myself, and my own American Dream. (However, I wasn't slothful, Mr. Limbaugh, in my duties to Unemployment; I did send out an average of ten resumes each week. I got three interview, but was not able to acquire employment in my secondary skill set which is admin/accounting word). My only wish in this shitty economy is that I didn’t qualify for 99 weeks. Though I didn't vote for Obama (and I haven't voted democrat since Clinton's first term in office; I'm a staunch third party voter), I gotta hand it too him that he has some what redistributed wealth. I certainly never expected over twenty thousand dollars of your and business owners payroll tax monies to be redistributed into my pocket. Maybe this socialism stuff ain't so bad. Maybe I should change my voter registration from political atheist to the Workers Party in America or some other revolutionary socialist group?

As far as property ownership is concerned, how can mortal beings own anything anyway? How can we own the earth or the sky that was present before we were born and will be here long after we've passed to another existence? Ownership is an illusion just as political boundaries and geographical lines on maps are. From orbit around this earth there is nothing separating one group of people from another. And the few difference that do exist between individuals is so insignificant that it isn't even worth wasting our time noting them. When my grandmother was passing away she taught me this truth. When we come into this world we care little for the color of a persons skin or their governing-philosophy or their social class. All we see as young children is another child who is fun to play with. Then at the end of our lives when everything has been stripped away from us all that remains important is the relational bonds we've formed. I suspect that when you are laying on your deathbed that your American Liberties, Cadillac's, houses, and SUV's will cease to have meaning to you.

No, my perception of your American Dream is the ability to make your way in this life through your own talents. And your greatest gift is your voice in that you are an entertainer—a spoken word entertainer not too unlike myself. I suspect if you had failed as an entertainer---and instead were exercising your gifts on your own time and not making a dime at it and were working for minimum wage someplace too---that you probably would be the spokesman for the socialist party in America. You may have even been a member of one of the unions that you despise so much. I think you fail to realize exactly how much our environments and social strata dictate our political-economic governing philosophy. As a person, such as myself, who thrives in bottom rungs of American social-economic strata, the political-economic system that our country adopts is not relevant. We could live in a social-democracy and be just as well as off as we are in our current fascist-capitalist system.

I hope that you actually see this letter and that you take a few minute to respond to it. Anyhow's, thank you for being on the air blathering your word to the world and making talk radio a legitimate mode of modern entertainment. Because if you hadn't come into our world as a successful disembodied voice then my favorite show Art Bell and Coast to Coast AM would never have come into existence.

William James Lindberg
July 29, 2011

Snagged & Modified From @PartyJak On Twitter


Fuck, fuck, fuck, ah yes, fuck
Long division and fucking
Danny Boy’s good at only two things
Danny Boy’s good at dividing them nuts

Long division and fucking
Larry, where’s your hut
Danny Boy’s good at dividing them nuts
Lilly Long’s there sucking that dong

Larry, where’s your hut
Your long ass balls are hanging
Lilly Long’s there sucking that dong
Long balls, Larry long balls, yes

Your long ass balls are hanging
Your balls are banging and clanging
Long balls, Larry long balls, yes
Danny Boy’s there dividing them butts

Your balls are banging and clanging
Danny Boy’s good at only two things
Danny Boy’s there dividing them butts
Fuck, fuck, fuck, ah yes, fuck

This was @PartyJak tweet "You got long ass balls Larry, long balls Larry," that I modified to create a five minute pantoum.


Thursday, July 28, 2011

Yeah! I Got To See My Favorite Poet (@bigpoppae) Perform!


As some may know, my unemployment benefits will be exhausted at the end of August. So, this month, I have had to face reality that I'd most likely not become employed by the 79th week. As of this week in July, I can only afford to pay rent two more times. Two weeks ago, I told my friend Caroline, a fellow red pen organizer and critique group cohort, that if I didn't find work by the end of July, August would be my last month here. Thus, when I woke up Monday, at the crack of doom, I decided I was going to accept my fate that I can't stay in this city forever, and thusly that it is time to rock out and live it up. That is to live the time I have left in Seattle to the fullest. Wednesday night, I watched the hip hop band, Token Folk, slug out their words on stage at the High Dive in Fremont. On August 6th, I'm going to see Slayer and Rob Zombie. Yeah! I can't wait! *flashing devils horns shouting* SLAYER.

However Tuesday, July 26th, I went to the Seattle Poetry Slam, which meets weekly at ReBar, put my name in bucket (I was number 9), and went to the bar to purchase a pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon (I have performance anxiety) not the best they serve, but $3.00 is a good price. Last Tuesday's slam was a qualifying match for IWPS. Of course I new that. It was not a surprise. In fact there were no real surprises that evening other than that I made a social fopaux that I feel ashamed of. And I got the lowest score of the entire match, also not a surprise either, because I did my prized sestina Ee’d Plebnista's Alabaster Tuckus.

This poem is an absurdest interpretation of how our political leaders usually address us, we the people or using the language of Star Trek Episode 52: The Omega Glory, "Ee’d Plebnista", by flapping their yap in the implementation of social policy (like the Patriot Act or engaging us in unjust wars or presidential impeachments for getting blow jobs in the white house hot tub from down home young girls) disguised behind layers of doubletalk. If I was doing slam fifteen years ago, it may have garnished a higher score. It may have even scored higher eight years ago when I first did slam after arriving in Seattle as a starry eyed 35 year old from the back country of the Oregon coastal region. As it was, in comparison to everyone else's work, my poem came out of left field. Maybe left field is not a good enough metaphor. It was like people came expecting strawberry frozen yoghourt and what they were served was rump roast. Everyone sat silent, listening attentively, like I was a green skinned alien with stalks for eyes or some shit or another. I guess what I'm talking about is the narrowing and specialization of performance poetry, but this is another thread altogether.

What the bright star of the evening---other than the compliments I received from Jack McCarthy who said that he liked the fact that I had the balls to do a sestina at the slam, and that Conor Griffin (another shinning star on the stage) said I did real poetry, and that this beautiful tall lady (who fits my image of ideal beauty and I'm still kind of flustered by her this morning If You Know What I Mean *WINK*, *WINK* and I gave her a copy of that poem *SIGH* it had my name on it and my email address and this blogger page address too. I hope she contacts me *WINK*, *WINK* I'd like to get with her *FLUTTER*, *FLUTTER*. Her name was *SIGH*. To use Big Poppa E's words, "I fall in love with everyone," which inevitably results in the crushing sound of your heat breaking) she said that I sounded like the beat poet William Seward Burroughs in the ebbs and flows of the words off my tongue---was that I got to see Big Poppa E perform. This was the surprise of the month maybe even the surprise of the whole dam year!

I ran across Big Poppa E's work about three years ago when I was employed more than full time at Seattle Door & Window as the Accounting Support Specialist or ASS for short. I was doing mp3 searches for slam poets at Amazon and I happened across this guy. I bought three tracks and then a few days later I purchased everything this guy did in that format. My favorite poems on this album are "Falling in Like, Super Walmart Receipt, Ode to the Dwarf Planet, and Crushworthy." I never expected that I would get the chance to meet him. Thus, last Tuesday when at the slam they announced Big Poppa E was to be the feature, I said, I'm there. (By the way, the poem I did last Tuesday, Machine Language, fared far, far better than my prize sestina did. This is good to know, because when I go to the Portland Poetry Slam in September or October, I won't do that one nor will I do this one either).

Big Poppa E's Signature Piece

Big Poppa E's Book

And I got his autograph

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

6 Words from a Fraternity Brother resulted in a Freestyle Poem


It was like an episode of csi
The bomber made a fatal error
The intestinal damage was unreal

Matthew was the detective who received the call
The phone rang thirty-two times
It was three o'clock in the morning
The din was an invasion of his consciousness
Returning to wakefulness was painful
He should have called in sick

The perpetrators plan was simple enough
The design worked ingeniously in the laboratory
His bodily fluids acted as the trigger
But the engineer misjudged the chemistry
of the compounds and how they reacted
together with alien substances like tofu

The letter explained it all
Senator Brown was the target
He was being arraigned for a dangerous
petroleum overflow he allegedly caused
by signing the offshore drilling act
that polluted San Diego’s Imperial Beach

The perpetrator was at Fred’s 24 – 7 Fed Ex store
when the unthinkable happened
He handed the illegal immigrant working
the counter the envelope
The bomb denoted 12 hours too soon

Dr Alkasulser’s last thoughts were of another frustrating failure
that summed up his entire career as a Botanist
the killing of an innocent man his environmental beliefs sought to protect
his inability to complete his last ELF execution
and his granddaughter's first birthday party
he rescheduled for eight AM

He shouldn’t have eaten easy cheese with the salsa

Matthew had to delay his Palm Springs vacation
it took an extra month
to puzzles all the pieces together


On 7/23 Matthew (The Man Who Ate Bad Salsa) submitted to me 6 Words: Intestinal, Invasion, Painful, Expulsion, Frustration, Reschedule . Matthew is one of my Facebook friends, a classmate from Linfield College, as well as a fraternity brother from Delta Psi Delta. He currently resides in the Pacific NW someplace near Portland.

You can do this too and submit me a few lines or 2 Lines.


Also check out my other wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. We Publish continually. Lastly, Penhead Press's first publication: Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words came out. If you're interested you can find it in the kindle store.

Here's what I did with Jorgay Bush's 2 Lines from West Texas


I accidentally took a sip off a spittoon
Copenhagen slime slid up my tongue, I puked
It was like watching a Looney Cartoon

Religio and Espiritu duked it out on the moon
They punched, they throttled as I watched on the telly-ube
I accidentally took a sip off a spittoon

The spit from the cup tasted like eating a rotten prune
I glowed green like Wiley Coyote getting nuked
It was like watching a Looney Cartoon

On the moon, the holy war raged on, it wasn’t a boon
The guides they gave the blind never looked
I accidentally took a sip off a spittoon

I don’t know why I did it, I must’ve been a loon
The cup they gave glowed when caged and zooed
I accidentally took a sip off a spittoon
It was like watching a Looney Cartoon

Jorgay Bush submitted to me on 7/24 via the 2 Lines form. "I accidentally took a sip off a spittoon. It was like watching a Looney Cartoon." Jorgay requested potted meat and thus I cobbled them into a villanelle. You can do this too and submit me a few lines or 6 Words.


Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Six Words by Alexis Hope


Stoic is the root form of the primordial buzzing
That whirls around my head in airy desperation
Flourishing meaningless in all its splendid mediocrity

Flourishing under the desperation of relations wholly primordial
The din overwhelms me with its manifest buzz
Mediocre interactions leave me cold and stoic

Mediocrity fosters ambiguous buzzing amongst the stoic
Who relate best or even exclusively to that which is primordial
Desperation seeps perpetually into the fountain of my soul where it will flourish

Desperate to flourish in the face of such mediocrity
I challenge potential friend and foe alike with stoicism
The buzz of ubiquitous propaganda rings primordial

Buzzing around the stoic famine as it flourishes
Such hollow connection stings as it oozes mediocrity
Primordially choked once and for all by my desperation

The primordial goons of mediocrity conceal their desperation
Camouflaged in vapid consumerism where appearances flourish
Stoic facade, in the end, the crux and the meat of the matter is all buzz.


---Alexis Hope, 02 July 2011

1 stoic
2 primordial
3 buzz
4 desperation
5 mediocrity
6 flourish


You too can try my Six Word poetic form. The table in the body of Wednesday, June 29, 2011 post details the word placement in each line. If you decide to do one email me back the results for I am seeking data on the validity of this particular form.


Also check out my new wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. I will be publishing literary works, explicit language pieces, and eventually a journal a relative wrote in the late 1800's detailing their journey to Oregon on the Oregon Trail. And when I gather enough submitted works from other people, I will be cobbling together an e-anthology called Randomly Accessed Poetics.


Monday, July 25, 2011

A Pantoum for


April in Wichita is a teacher and a fiction writer. She is currently working on an eclectic young adult novella that mixes poetry with romance and the paranormal. Go to her word press page and read all about her. But first read the poems I constructed (for her) from the lines she submitted to me the other day.

April in Wichita's Pantoum

She never liked endless chatter at school
The dreary dry day left snails on her head
The sun beat down at one hundred and ten
Would the heat wave conclude on the day of prayer?

The dreary dry day left snails on her head
Her scalp was so crispy, hair peeled with the skin
Would the heat wave conclude on the day of prayer?
Their prayers bounced back to earth as rays of sun

Her scalp was so crispy, hair peeled with the skin
Fancy dancers came, went, but the rains never returned
Their prayers bounced back to earth as rays of sun
Teachers said corrupt politics were the cause not the effect

Fancy dancers came, went, but the rains never returned
They said the sun god was too strong
Teachers said corrupt politics were the cause not the effect
Of the solar brightening baking the earth

They said the sun god was too strong
The sun beat down at one hundred and ten
the solar brightening was baking the earth
She never liked endless chatter at school

April in Wichita's Villanelle

She never liked endless chatter at school
The dreary dry day left snails on her head
Impassioned by happenstance she cut class and went to the pool

Marlow, looked Vampirious perched on the stool
Escargot sautéed in beer with portabellas was tasty he said
She never liked endless chatter at school

She giggled when she pictured him fiddling his tool
Counting snails in an imperial four poster feather bed
Impassioned by happenstance she cut class and went to the pool

The sky looked surreal under water weighed down by lead
She fantasized about Ted who beyond retarded was a fool
She never liked endless chatter at school

Marlow lectured on fishing without a rod and spool
Ted moronically interrupted mocking whatever was said
She never liked endless chatter at school
Impassioned by happenstance she cut class and went to the pool

April in Wichita requested that I write a pantoum from 2 Lines she submitted to me on 7/21 via the 2 Lines form. "She never liked the endless chatter at school & The dreary dry day left snails on her head." At first I was stumped on how to proceed; so, I decided to craft a villanelle instead. From doing something else I grabbed the inspiration for the pantoum. You can do this too and submit me a few lines or 6 Words.


Sunday, July 24, 2011

Another (on the job) Forgotten Poem: Store Kat


blue water rains out my mind
like retarded kitties falling from the sky

kitties in the heat making more
retarded kitties skittering across the floor

looking stupid through one eye
bouncing hairballs on the fly

retarded kittens swimming in soup
lapping coffee in their coup

retarded kitties fall from the sky
like blue water oozing from my mind

---Composed April 5, 2007 at Seattle Door Window

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Hot & Sweet Smooth Curry Cleanse Over Rocks (An Original Recipe)

Stage one the sauce:

2 lemons
2 medium sized tomatoes
2 large habanera peppers
2 red large jalapeno peppers
3 sections garlic
1 ripe avocado
< ½ cup blue cheese

~3/4 teaspoon curry powder
1 teaspoon minced ginger
> ½ teaspoon dried cilantro
< ½ teaspoon dried basil

1 tablespoon olive or flax oil
1 cup carrot juice

Place all these ingredients into a blender and liquefy till the concoction is smoothly whipped into obedience. It works best if you put the solids in first, followed by the powders, and lastly the oils. If you don’t have carrot juice you can substitute it with a quarter cup of Braggs Organic Apple Cider Vinegar. If you do so, add one more tomato and cut the blue cheese back to a quarter cup. Lastly, let the sauce rest at least one half hour before using. This amount will serve three to five people.

Stage two the main event:

2-4 apples
½ medium sized Sweet Onion diced
1-2 cucumbers or
1-2 yellow crookneck squash
½ pound asparagus
2-4 large jalapeno peppers
1 cup frozen peas or
8-12 prunes

Slice & Dice fruits and vegetables and thoroughly mix together in large bowl and pour all the Raw Hot Curry Sauce on top cover and place in the refrigerator for one to three hours before serving (depending on how hot you want it). The longer you let it rest the more the capsaicin will dissipate.

Total construction time = one hour.

Friday, July 22, 2011

I'm the MacGyver of forms I can do anything with 2 Lines


I’m the post rock guitarist Pep Lupone
And my shrink said I need a new career
Fuck you, I said, get me a beer
I slammed down the phone

And my shrink said I need a new career
Because musicians are to live without fear
I slammed down the phone
Like it was a big meat bone

Because musicians are to live without fear
They look through holes with lewd leers
Like it was a big meat bone
My shrink let out a lulling moan

They look though holes with lewd leers
A sinner like you wails like a deer
My shrink let out a lulling moan
She sucked in my load without a groan

A sinner like you wails like a deer
Fuck you, I said, get me a beer
She sucked in my load without a groan
I’m the post rock guitarist Pep Lupone


On 7/20 Jack Hoffman a Servant of Time living on a commune in Madison WI gave me these two line: "I'm a post rock guitarist" & "You need a new career," and asked for potted meat. You too can get something from me by providing me with 2 Lines. And I'll MacGyver them together with spit and wit to form a disasterpiece.

You can also try 6 Words too in case you can't conjure up two lines.


Also check out my new wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. I will be publishing literary works, explicit language pieces, and eventually a journal a relative wrote in the late 1800's detailing their journey to Oregon on the Oregon Trail. And when I gather enough submitted works from other people, I will be cobbling together an e-anthology called Randomly Accessed Poetics.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Crazy Clare flew like a bird shedding shinny beads Villanelle

Swirled green kiwis are bountiful with black seeds
Hurricane Bill tossed my rickshaw in the air
Crazy Clare flew like a bird shedding shinny beads

She bounced off the ground sounding like flat reeds
The way her arms flailed about redefined the word flare
Swirled green kiwis are bountiful with black seeds

mashed and fermented they make a delicious mead
Wall Street warriors drink playing truth or dare
Crazy Clare flew like a bird shedding shinny beads

Chickens cluck as they lay eggs in a pain that misleads
a fragile soul imprisoned under a thin shell is laid bare
Swirled green kiwis are bountiful with black seeds

Riders race for a worshiped dollar on black steeds
a wind blows through a valley of smoke spicing hair
Crazy Clare flew like a bird shedding shinny beads

Wild Wendy Bill pulled an empty rickshaw through weeds
In search of a red winged harlot named Clare
Swirled green kiwis are bountiful with black seeds
Crazy Clare flew like a bird shedding shinny beads

Crazy Carla Blankovich submitted these two lines: "Swirled kiwis are bountiful in black seeds; Hurricane Bill tossed my rickshaw in the air;" and requested that I shape them into a Villanelle. You too can have a disaster piece such as this by going to the "2 Lines
" tab and filling in the boxes with your lines.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

2 Lines Gives Kirk In Vantuky A Triolet


Look what I found? Another dripping mushy diaper
this is your daily christmas surprise
and I’m the designated wiper

Look what I found; another dripping mushy diaper
a smell hits your nose like a viper
after you change a hundred it’s like you’ve been baptized

Look what I found? Another dripping mushy diaper
this is your daily christmas surprise

Alright Kirk, I hope this triolet describes your new job as an embedded code cleaner.

Here's all the information I know on Kirk. Kirk is from Vantuky Oregon. I think it is north of Riddle and Myrtle Creek and Round Prairie and Oaks on the Pacific Hwy and a few miles south of Roseburg. Vantuky can't be found on Oregonian google maps, but my grandfather assured me it was there. In the 1920's he did a surveyor job there for Dick & Jack's Timber. Kirk also left this as his URL.

You too can do this by going to my static page "2 Lines" and challenge me to create a disasterpiece for you.



Tuesday, July 19, 2011

2 Lines Gets You A Triolet

Compatible adults no longer flinch
On the conceptual chopping block
A bloody meat cleaver rests on the bench
Compatible adults no longer flinch

They saw how killing Looney Tunes was a cinch
Especially, with the power of a 45 Gloch
Compatible adults no longer flinch
On the conceptual chopping block

A triolet is a thirteenth century French poetic form. It is composed of eight lines where two of them repeat. They're really easy to compose. If you go up to the "2 Lines" static page you can give me two lines and I'll do one (or more) for you.

Thanks! I look forward to reading what you come up with to challenge me.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Pangs of ...Separation??


Every time I go down to Oregon to visit my folks they look older. I mean they're still in good health just a little bit more frail. At least they looked it this time.

2001 - 2003 was a rough year for employment, but not as severe as these past two years. I had two on call jobs one with Kelly Services and the other as a Substitute Instructional Assistant for six Yamhill County school districts. I was getting an average of twenty hours of work each month. I had an open unemployment claim for over two years. My weekly draws decreased after each UI cycle renewed. Also, during this period my GSL's went into default. I never could afford the thousand dollar per month payments.

At the end of 2002, I picked up a temporary retraining position at a McMinnville mental health agency. I got paid minimum wage,$6.50/hr, to work the front desk. At the interview, the office manager said, "we've never had a man working this job; we're not sure a man is capable of doing this type of work." I was more than capable, I excelled at it and when the period came to a close (February 2003) they wanted to hire me full time. In the exit interview, the office manager said they never encountered anyone as organized and efficient as myself when it came to filing, managing data, and clientele, but because of budgets and Oregon Health Plan dropping mental health coverage, they couldn't hire me. Also, due to the fact that it was a retraining program, the state paid half the wage.

Winter was on the cusp of sublimating into spring. Dad was spending his morning hours splitting wood and his evening hours cooking at Spirit Mountain Casino. Winter is not an ideal time to be sawing and splitting wood, but the landowner had countless dollars invested in timber lands and didn't want to have anyone there during fire season. They especially didn't want anyone up there during fire season with chainsaws, gasoline, and an old rusted out pickup truck that was a wildland inferno waiting to happen.

Since I was out of work again, I volunteered to help dad cut, split, and haul it out. The ground was mucky and the truck, even though it was a 4-wheel drive with dual wheels on the back, was always in danger of getting stuck. And more than once we had to use come-alongs and a winch as an assist to yard the truck onto more solid ground. After this happened twice in one week I suggested to dad that we build a plank road in there.

We borrowed old railroad ties from land owner to build a thirty foot road. It took about a week to do. It was fun. I enjoyed working side-by-side my father. It reminded me of being eight years old again

when mom would take me down to the mill so I could get to know my dad. While he was honing chipper knives with a wetstone, he'd place a shovel in my hands so that I could dig out conveyer motors covered in sawdust. When I was ten, it was a splitting maul. When I was twelve, he taught me how to drive the cat. At fourteen, I was working in the mill, under the table, pulling green chain and assisting the pondman.

Normal father's around the neighborhood played ball with their son's. Not my dad. There were no football games, or baseball, or basketball, or pro wrestling on the television at the Lindberg house. And by the time I was in the fifth grade there was no tv at all. No. What we did is we worked. So, building that road with dad was fun. It's kind of like writing. It takes a lot of time and work to accomplish it, but it is fun; it is like a second full time job. This is why I've enjoyed being unemployed so much. I can spend a hundred hours a week on writing and the process of it and not get all bent out of shape about having my time wasted by employment.

Throughout this adventure, I kept noticing that he stumbled a lot and this disturbed me, because my father physically was a powerful man. Later, we learned that he had restless leg syndrome. Now, and for the past six years, his left leg twitches and jerks involuntarily. Often his meds do little to still the nerves from firing at random intervals. Before dad retired he was hoping to take extended backpacking trips and spend more time hunting in the mountains that surround their property. But by the time 65 rolled around these dreams became impossible. And seeing him weak and vulnerable, while we were working side-by-side disturbed me. And seeing my father, the superman, wither into frailty broke my heart.

Now, when I go down to visit, on the last day, I ponder on my parents eventual deaths. And what if this is the last time that I see them?


Also check out my new wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. I will be publishing literary works, explicit language pieces, and eventually a journal a relative wrote in the late 1800's detailing their journey to Oregon on the Oregon Trail. And when I gather enough submitted works from other people, I will be cobbling together an e-anthology called Randomly Accessed Poetics.

What do you do with a problem like Pedro

He climbs a tree and scrapes his knee
His kilt has got a tear
He waltzes on his way to Saydee’s
And whistles on her stair
but underneath his kilt
He lost the instruction book on his cock
I even heard him reciting a poem to the alarm clock

He's always hesitates for her sex
But his desire is for real
He's always waits for everything
Except for every meal
I hate to have to say it
But I very firmly feel
Pedro's not an asset to the orgy

I'd like to say a word in his behalf
Pedro makes me laugh

How do you solve a problem like Pedro?
How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?
How do you find a word that means Pedro?
A flibbertijibbet! A will-o'-the wisp! A clown!

Many a thing you know you'd like to tell him
Many a thing he ought to understand
But how do you make him stay
And listen to all you say
How do you keep a wave upon the sand

Oh, how do you solve a problem like Pedro?
How do you hold a beanstalk in your hand?

When I'm with him I'm confused
Out of focus and bemused
And I never know exactly where I am
Unpredictable as a cat
He's as flighty as a bat
He's a starling! He's a demon! He's a clam!

He'd out-pester any pest
Drive a clarinet from its case
He could throw a whirling toilet out of flush
He is hard! He is long!
He's a pun! He's a dong!
He's a heartache! He's an shark!
He's a bum!

How do you solve a problem like Pedro?
How do you catch the sky and lay it down?
How do you find a word that means Pedro?
A flibbertijibbet! A will-o'-the wisp! A frown!

Many a thing you know you'd like to yell at him
Many a thing he ought to really know
But how do you make him play
And listen to all you bay
How do you keep a wave upon the ground

Oh, how do you solve a problem like Pedro?
How do you hold a beanstalk in your hand?

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Stray Facebook thoughts (found on my hard drive)


I'm not as thoughtful with my speech as I was when I didn’t talk much.

Today, I just blurb out whatever blob of ectoplasmic thought synergy forms on the finger tips of neurons firing super-sonic in nebulous brain matter. Most of the time these luggies of idiocracy that spit from my mouth get me into one form of trouble or another.

Have you thought about going back Dan?
Back to your European roots.

Tell them at immigration that you seek absolution from the guilt of your warrior conquering forefathers & mothers.

What place on this soil has not felt
--the thunder of the heel and the stick
--the thunder of the moccasin and the club
--the thunder of the sandal and the sword
--the thunder of the boot and the musket
--the thunder of the tank and the machine gun
--the thunder of the plane and the bomb
marching into homelands and encampments killing, raping, looting, enslaving.

The invadees are always the first spirits to defend.

War is and has been our way, the way of the human being since dawn. It would be easier for us today, tormented by this guilt if swords had never been shaped like crosses. And if crosses had never been used as a mode of suffering and execution.

It is unfortunate that the mob, the mass, the bulk of human kind thinks naught about these structural metaphors comprising civilization. And nothing changes in the ruling class. They will utilize any symbol to mobilize the peasants into action against whoever is declared enemy.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Shortcut ‘Cross Freeway Park

hazy day

bent back double
stars on the ground
9th and University Street exit
zig zagging cement stairs
winding ramps
half empty fountain paths
bracken water
crawling green slim
pollywog in the tub
shaded jade ferns
crooked tree trunks
silly Asian girls in harlot red coats
holding hands
making out in public
see yourself in the future
portable psychic barbershop
unemployed kids smoking and talking shit
be the weaver of your own spider web
send yourself a thank you note
read about tomorrows American dream
squatters making tin can fires
roasting dogs on sticks
broke down apartment building
crumbling bricks
unhappy sagging drywall
dangling dead ivy
purple blossoms
blooming lotus trees
nesting crows
towering pyramid tops
sleeping bums
devil eyes

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Every Day IS National Disasterpiece Month At Pen Head Press


Have you ever seen, heard one of these ads?

I too am one of those unfortunate souls afflicted with



Pre-Mature E-Poem-Elation

See, I got this trouble
Getting it up
T’ tempo
In that ultra fast paced
Dick rhythms
Rhyme into verb intensified
Objectified subject ejaculations

I got-ta stand tall proud erect

This dysfunction is messing with my conjunction
See, I got-ta get it up to speed
Pull it in out real tight
Wriggle it in around that clause predicate noun
Gonna move that adjective slow
Add finesse
Flare these verbs
Passion burns grammar in that cracker fire
I got ta lock-n-load my machine pen
a-rat-ta-tat-tat, the-cats-got-a-hat,
peter pangram man

it’s time t’ download this verse
into your cochlea ear labyrinth


Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Vanessa Heiegelid-Drag's 2 Lines = A Villanelle


Randy and Bif Dong met with Fritz Dick behind the dugout
To discuss Bonnie Bang's latest conquest, Jared Stiff
They fiddled each other like a carrot and a brussel sprout

Bonnie laughed silly like a green sashed girl scout
then let out a flappy bappy fart for Jared to sniff
Randy and Bif Dong met with Fritz Dick behind the dugout

they thought it would be funny to flash a moon about
out on the lake drinking beer and sailing in a skiff
They fiddled each other like a carrot and a brussel sprout

Bonnie and Dick banged out a few plates of sauerkraut
on a picnic table at Smilers Canyon with Griff Ziff
Randy and Bif Dong met with Fritz Dick behind the dugout

Griff Ziff acted a jealous fool when he found out
about Bonnie and Stiffs bang at the Purple Shiff
They fiddled each other like a carrot and a brussel sprout

They were the butt of a joke at school, which spread round about
September. Fritz and Griff duked it out at the cliff
Randy and Bif Dong met with Fritz Dick behind the dugout
They fiddled each other like a carrot and a brussel sprout

Vanessa Heiegelid-Drag's 2 lines submitted on 7/13/2011 12:14 AM

Randy and Bif Dong met with Fritz Dick behind the dugout.
They snickered as they discussed Bonnie Bang's latest conquest, Jared Stiff.

You too can submit two lines
The form is open
and waiting for you
to insert your words
into 'em


Also check out my new wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. I will be publishing literary works, explicit language pieces, and eventually a journal a relative wrote in the late 1800's detailing their journey to Oregon on the Oregon Trail. And when I gather enough submitted works from other people, I will be cobbling together an e-anthology called Randomly Accessed Poetics.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Scrabble Poetry Was Exhumed From A Grave


Toasted Soup

Empty dog takes a swig
chokes it out again
jaws ajar without his bit

Blot out this episode
when you tell it, dear
it doesn't flatter anyone of us

laundry piles and leans
carpet musty with dust feuds
lose its reason to beat
home breaks like a heart

---Julia, 7/12/2011

The feud began with a toast

Pony took a long swig from the bottle
his vice made him angry like an unruly za

Xi La enticed Flan with a free bite on her neck
Flan moaned like a cat in heat

Flan chewed into Pony's ass
like he was a bowl of dog meat soup

Xi La hid in the coop
but she left the door ajar

Pony didn't quit at first blood

Flan's heart broke like a jar
when she saw Xi La toasted near the rooster

The blot on the anvil was unruly

Their feud hied to the bitter end

---William James, 7/12/2011

The poetic scrabble words generated:

blot, toasted, enticed, feud | ed, bite, soup | ped,
vice, free, em | do | moan, me | meat, eh | he,
flan | as | no, ones | meats, if, xi | xi (pronounced chi),
jar, data, hie, swig, ed/earn, pony, coop,
unruly, dog, anvil, qi | quit, quits | breaks, za, la

The final scores were
Julia: 300
Me: 222

Highest scoring play of the game was laid by me
qi | quit for 48 points

The second highest play of the game was laid by Julia
quits | breaks for 46 points

Follow the hyperlinks to see two previous scrabble poems Julia wrote this year one on February 19 and the other on February 26.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Debt = Money & Freedom = Slavery

"I am a most unhappy man. I have unwittingly ruined my country. A great industrial nation is controlled by its system of credit. Our system of credit is concentrated. The growth of the nation, therefore, and all our activities are in the hands of a few men. We have come to be one of the worst ruled, one of the most completely controlled and dominated Governments in the civilized world no longer a Government by free opinion, no longer a Government by conviction and the vote of the majority, but a Government by the opinion and duress of a small group of dominant men."

Woodrow Wilson (After signing the Federal Reserve Act of 1913)

I'm starting to sound like my dad. The veil covering my face is starting to wear thing. I am beginning to see a few rays of truth peaking through fabric washed too many times in machines of (political) propaganda. I am beginning to see that I too was (or am) one of the brainwashed masses. This is an apocalypse for me.

Unlike my dad, I've lost faith in government's ability to solve basic human problems. I no longer believe that government (i.e. the federal government) has the masses best interest at heart. From this mono-party system, I checked out a nearly twenty years ago. Oh, I still vote, but I vote third party or I write in. Recently, I've found myself not voting for a person even when there is only one choice of who to vote for. Mickey Mouse got my vote in the last presidential election. Mickey Mouse is quite popular on ballots turned in by my.

Friday, on my way home from contra dance, I had a stimulating conversation with a representative of Seattle's chapter of the International Socialist Organization. The ISO is a revolutionist branch of the socialist party of America. Nick said they meet every Wednesday, room 4115, 7:00 PM, at Seattle Central Community College. I don't consider myself a socialist. I'm too much of a political atheist to believe in politics these days. However, I do agree that we need a change in consciousness in this country. That we need to wake up to the fact that our world is finite and there is only so many resources to go around. And that everybody who is born on this earth deserves a few basic amenities.

I may write on this more in the future. How I am becoming like my dad.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

My, my, my its pie, pie, pie (using Bukowski as a writing prompt)

I had no idea.
She was such a nice girl or so I thought before we arrived at her dorm room.
The night before I met her at the Pi Delta Delta house. She was in a darkened corner of the grand hall. I found her counting petals on a plastic plant. It was the yearly pink orchid party celebrating the arrival of spring. She looked so out of place. I don’t know how she found out about it. It was supposed to be a secret kept only with our sister house Pi Pi Pi. She didn’t say she was a pledge. I don’t know why I’m thinking about it now. We didn't do much talking. I guess I should have asked her.
Her name was Elle Elton. She was a freshman at the U. Her gothy leggy body was strangely intoxicating. She wore a simple black form fitting dress that accented all the curves she didn’t have. Seeing her in the dark counting petals near the bar was cute. She expressed purpose in her actions. She didn’t talk much when I approached her. And I had to drag name, class rank, and undeclared major out of her.
I pulled Elle out on to the dance floor. Once there she was a natural. It took no encouragement from me for her to begin grinding away on the beat, beat box of the techno against my thigh. She wasn’t wearing much under her skirt. Her pie was smooth.
When I felt my pants just above the knee grow damp, Elle flicked her tongue into my ear whispering that it was time to go.  She led me back to her place. No yarding was required.

When I woke the next morning in a strange room, the sexy nerdy girl I spied counting petals on plastic plants morphed into somebody new. She didn’t have that same sweat flowery aroma that first drew me to her in the corner of the frat house.
I grabbed a beer from her tiny fridge, drank it down, got dressed, said goodbye, made sure the door was locked behind me, and walked briskly through five o’clock morning air to the Pi Delta Delta house confused by what had happened.

The prompt chosen blindly from Women by Charles Bukowski was “After she left I took a shower. Then I found a beer in the refrigerator, drank that, dressed, said goodbye to Elton, made sure the door was locked, got into the Volks and drove back home.”

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Gustav Eckstein says, “The Body has a Head.”

The body has a head
Hormone and sex
Glow and the fact
A washed windowpane

Hormone and sex
Lens and binoculars
A washed windowpane
An involuntary night watch

Lens and binoculars
The minds first steps
An involuntary night watch
The face refines its mask

The minds first steps
Method in its madness
The face refines its mask
Helps comprehend itself

Method in its madness
Summoned: brain simulations
Helps comprehend itself
He fetches breath

Summoned: brain simulations
Glow and the fact
He fetches breath
The body has a head

Friday, July 8, 2011

XXX from TWITTER this is a Disaster Piece for you

Xxx didn’t have an opener so he used his teeth on the can
As he bit into the tined-metal, his android circuits called out to YOU
The brain located on the island bounced the data off of KILL
An orbital platform once used by the military to locate ME
Xxx froze and spasmodically jerked as the Neanderthal grunted, “sir?
Is there anything I can do to help you…. please?”

“Compute, not…compute, compute…hel…help…please,”
“Didn’t your maker program you how to open a can?”
Xxx’s hairy companion freed plastoid flesh caught in metal; the SIR
circuit was damaged. Xxx stuttered robotically, “you…”
Derthal, had his fingers in the droids mouth reconnecting the ME
“Care…derth…ful…al,” Xxx sputtered, “don’t…I…me…kill”

“Don’t worry xxx, I haven’t killed
anybot yet.” xxx’s voice box twittered, “reconnect please?”
“where is…is….dizz…ere…y…me…lost…me?”
“Sorry, xxx, I pulled the wrong wire. Can
waggle your middle fingers, sir?”

“this finger, sir?”
“Don’t touch…that…me…there…kill

“What is it that you want me
to do sir?"
"Open...up... my....head...can
....des...ele...ct... kill
Circ...uit?” xxx’s mouth twittered, “yes…ple...ase

A signal returned from the YOU
Derthal’s portabrain connected to the ME
xxx pleaded. An answer came from KILL
Derthal closed xxx’s head can

Xxx these words were "pleasing" to "you"
I don’t know if I "can" use words like “me”
or "sir" in a creative way that doesn’t "kill" (creativity)

Did you know that Penhead Press has recently become a publisher? Well, it has and its first publication is now in amazon's kindle store. It is called Randomly Accessed Poetics, Issue 1: The Texture of Words and you can find it on the merchandise page (above)!

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Thursday, July 7, 2011

"2 Lines" Submitted by Dick Hunter from Capitol Hill requesting "Pantoum"

I just caught myself again
Talking old man speech
“Young man, you dropped your spam.”
“It’s dribbling down your hand.”

Talking old man speech
I asked for the senior discount at Mickey Dee’s
“It’s dribbling down your hand.”
“Your sauce gramps; are you blind?”

I ask for the senior discount at Mickey Dee’s
The kid shouted out my order in Alaskanee
“Your sauce gramps; are you blind?”
 “What’s this shit you’re serving me?”

The kid shouted out my order in Alaskanee
It was the Palin special.
“What’s this shit you’re serving me?”
 “Sonny,” I said annoyed

“It was the Palin special.”
“Young man, you dropped your spam.”
“Sonny,” I said annoyed
I just caught myself again

The 2 lines: I caught myself again talking old man speech; young man your spam, it dribbled down your hand were submitted by Dick Hunter from Capitol Hill on 7/5/2011 1:28 AM requesting a pantoum. Keep 'em rolling and keep clicking in. Thanks! 

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

A Loose Acrostic Pen Head Writing Fieldtrip Exercise

“Prompt Flow”

Peter, his breath came in short gasps as he ran up the stairs of the tower. Behind him a roiling ornery monster followed. Peter could feel the monster’s black breath raise the hackles on the backs of his arms and neck. The monster was close. How far Peter couldn’t gauge.
Peter couldn’t believe that his friend was gone. They met at the park an hour prior to discuss the release of book they had been working on for three years. It was the first ever comedic choose your own erotic adventure story. They were celebrating the feeling of empowerment when out of the bushes a monster bit Will’s head off. Peter jumped up and ran for his life.
Midway up the tower, Peter paused to push the buttons on his telephone, “9 — 1 — 1 —!” It rang once, the operator answered, and then the power went dead. “Mother Fucker,” Peter gasped, “god damned phone picked a hell-of-a-time to die!”
A voice in his head said you’re going to be dead if you don’t press on. Peter picked up the pace taking the stairs two and three at a time. The breath in his chest ached like a raging ball of lightening ready to explode into boiling shards of fire. “Why the fuck did I smoke that pack of cigarettes at the bar this morning?” At the top of the stairs Peter doubled over gasping. He stumbled forward trying to regain his posture. Bang, bang, boom, he could hear the monster’s heavy feet reverberating up the metal staircase.
Peter was instantly overwhelmed with panic. All feeling in his extremities fled from his body and for a moment he lost complete functionality. “This is it. How am I going to survive this one,” Peter squeezed out a thought.
A low growl oozed out from the stairwell. Peter knew that the monster was almost in sight. He could sense that there was no signs of weakness in it. The monster had climbed a thousand stairs and its legs were not jelly like Peter’s were or so he imagined.
Peter glanced around. He was fully in fight and flight mode. His eyes darted this way and that way searching for any kind of advantage or weapon he could utilize to combat this creature. He spied a board loosened on one end on a picnic table. With a strength he didn’t know he possessed he liberated it from the structure and three ugly nails were freed too. Peter swatted it against the inner wall of the tower. It was firm.
Hopefully, the monster wouldn’t take it away from him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t loose the cool that was coming over him like a morning tide washing and covering rocks at the beach. This must be what a Neanderthal experienced when a hunt turned wrong and had to battle with a lion or angry ape.
When Peter sighted the monster these primal energies seized control of him. The monster was huge. It looked like a troll that stepped out of the pages of a fairy story. The creature obviously wasn’t a troll, because the daylight would have turned it to stone. This troll or whatever it was walked on all fours and its front legs were shorter than its back one’s like a mighty grizzly. And it’s eyes boiled like a pot of crawdads. He could see the pinchers snapping out at him red and angry. The monster spoke through its body. It told a tale of pain. It postured it self in need of vengeance.
Peter didn’t want any part of this monster’s revenge plan. Peter wanted to live. Peter wasted to see the sun set this evening. And Peter wanted to eat ice cream at the parlor with Patty, his ol’ lady of two days.
Peter advanced on the monster wielding the board high over his head. He brought it down over the creature’s head with a solid whack. With the strength of a berserker he yanked the nails out of its head. They dripped with blood. The stunned creature yowled in pain. It hadn’t expected this. Peter swung again with even more force and swept the front legs out from under the monster and it fell down on its chin. On the backstroke the nails found the eyes. The creature lunged forward blindly. Peter retreated narrowly dodging each counter attack.
In the aftermath, Peter reflected over this apocalyptic moment. He didn’t understand what had happened. It was as if he was possessed by an ancient being, a primordial man, a warrior. In less than five minutes, Peter had maneuvered the creature into such a position that with a final blow of the board that it fell headlong backwards down the stairwell where it broke its neck at the first landing. 

Functions / Feeling

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

"2 Lines" Submitted by Catfish from Bang-kok requesting "Potted Meat"

Early, on Independence day Catfish from Bang-kok submitted two lines requesting that they be mushed into potted meat. I don't know who Catfish is or even if Bangkok was the actual place this individual was clicking in from. My suspicion is that it was someone from twitter, because I was messing around linking posts there in the three am hour and shortly there after two lines were beamed into my google docs account.

Thank you Cat Fish from Bang Kock or wherever you're from for these two line: "Brighter than the sun, you blind me by trying to extinguish my lizard brain. I wonder if Catfish Bangkok was listening to some Motorhead while visiting the "2 Lines" page? In "Killed by Death," Lemmy sings, "If you squeeze my lizard, I'll put my snake on you, I'm a romantic adventure, And I'm a reptile too." Hmm. It is a possibility.

Anyways Catfish, here is your disaster piece:

brighter than the sun
you blind me
by trying to extinguish
my lizard brain

you blind me
your radiance, I see
my lizard brain
fights to liberate itself from rain

your radiance, I see
the moon is green like a tree
fights to liberate itself from rain
it speeds over me like a train

the moon is green like a tree
on Venus it is no bigger than a flee
it speeds over me like a train
it lights my passion without flame

on Venus it is no bigger than a flee
by trying to extinguish
it, lights my passion without flame
brighter than the sun

Prompt by Catfish, 7/4/2011 03:05, Potted Meat.

There are plenty more words left in me waiting to spill out. You can try it too. Click on the "2 Lines" tab or the "6 words" page and "If you squeeze my lizard, I'll put my snake on you, I'm a romantic adventure, And I'm a reptile too."

Monday, July 4, 2011

A 6 Words Disasterpiece For Sweet Cheeks in Edmonds

Sweet Cheeks from Edmonds via Facebook on 6/30/11 at 21:46 filled out the "6 Word" form with these words: 1) Zebra, 2) pink, 3) sensual, 4) steamy, 5) huge, 6) fluffy.

Pink, the zebra, was genetically engineered to have pink and green sensual
stripes. The forest color was not in the original design. Her fur was steamy
when fluffed, but her utter was not supposed to be huge.

Fluffy, on the other hand, was not steamy or even remotely pink
but her feline paws were sensual,
huge in comparison to the tongue of the zebra

Huge is not the word designers used to describe the sensual zebra.
Engineers thought it would be humorous to make Pink’s pink,
steamy when it came into contact with vibrations that were sensual.

Tina steamed up quickly when noises fluffed across her hugeness.
She cracked up though when she saw the future on display, a malformed zebra;
sensuality deflated like a balloon that lost its pink.

Her sensual zone felt like a zebra running through broad fluffy
foliage on the steppe while being chased by a lioness that was huge.
Pink gums revealed razor teeth and saliva foamed out like steam.

Pink was sweet. Her cheeks were huge when they out gassed steam.
Though her design was flawed, her fur was intriguingly fluffy.
The Zebra loved attention; especially, when it was sensual.

I can write a "6 Words" disasterpiece for you too. All you need do is go to the tab labled "6 Words" fill out the boxes with random words from your head and click submit. Then in a few days, I will compose for you something you might want to read.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

I listen to poetry at work


I listen to poetry at work. As I pour over column of debits and credits placing customer stories into accounts, I read poetry as I construct the continuing narrative of the company. Revenues less expenses equals net income. It’s not my income, it’s the taxable income of the business owner. It becomes his story. I am overhead. I am one of his expenses. Accounts payable, accounts receivable is essentially all I do fifty weeks of the year. In college, I checked out my textbooks from the library of the blind and dyslexic. I read through my ears, because my ears do not always hear what you do.

This evening I conjured up a delicious treat based on how I used to eat my peppers when I went out for Pho. At the authentic Vietnamese, I usually argue with the waiters on how many stars I can handle a dish. When I order curry I like it fifteen stars and I know when they make a three. When I next go in I say can you please make it a fifteen, because that last fifteen you made for me felt like a three. I like to watch their eyes pop as they watch a white man eat one-cup volume wise of jalapeno peppers sliced thin. I used to dumb down their heat by squeezing the fluid of lime provided on them. But after a week I stopped doing that. I don’t put them in the soup. I like the experience of the oils burning my lips. It takes at least twenty slices to gain this effect. I usually tell them I don’t feel the spice till the next day. It’s the next day after burn ring sting that I seek. A turbocharged blastoff of heat. I like to squirm a little bit. I don’t like these blameless tame days. You gotta consume a little or lot of spice to heat up the movements of the day. Maybe if I were married and my partner lashed me with her tongue like a flail with bits of glass tied into the strands over some thing I did to annoy her, I wouldn’t want to eat as much spice as I do. Maybe then I would crave a regular bland American meal. You take three or four peppers, depending on size, and cut them up really fine. Then squeeze one-to-two limes all over them in a jar or dish. Add a few leaves and stems of cilantro. To fully immerse the peppers add a splash of Braggs Apple Cider Vinegar with the Mother and a drop or two of orange juice. Let the mixture mature for a few hours and you have a delicious not too spicy desert.


Saturday, July 2, 2011

6 Words From Donkey in Portland


Intifada, frittata, and a saucy enchilada
"That will be ten dollars sir, your server is Smoking Chrome."
One pastie pealed off to reveal her tat, an indigo donkey

Pasties Pastie store ran out of chromes and frittatas
which were more desired by strippers than enchiladas.
Donkey covers were alluring when styled by Intifada

Donkey’s meat was like a spiced enchilada to Intifada.
The happy biker throttled his rod into her frittata
His chrome dome felt yummy when massaged by fuchsia pasties

Chrome’s super heated tub caused her pasties to droop like old donkey
balls when she rode on the bitch seat of the biker’s black intifada.
His enchilada began taking the shape of a day old frittata

Enchilada Kitties was know to make intifadas out of pasty
white pressure-cooked meat from Andalusian donkey.
Frittatas tasted better when prepared on plates of chrome.

Frittata covered her donkey tattoo with neon-pink chromes.
She earned more tips than anyone else at the club with these pasties.
Intifada, lost her shape and thus, the whole enchilada too.

The words: intifada, frittata, enchilada, chrome, donkey, pasties were submitted by Kirk from Portland, Oregon via my "6 Word" form on 6/30/2011 at 10:57 AM. If you'd like me to compose you a disasterpiece you can submit six words or two lines to me on the "6 words" or "2 lines" page above.

Note to Kirk: I composed this entire piece using HTML.


Also check out my new wordpress website. It's a literary journal called Randomly Accessed Poetics! Submissions are open. I will be publishing literary works, explicit language pieces, and eventually a journal a relative wrote in the late 1800's detailing their journey to Oregon on the Oregon Trail. And when I gather enough submitted works from other people, I will be cobbling together an e-anthology called Randomly Accessed Poetics.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Pen Head Nomadic Field Trip Writing Exposay

Last Sunday, I led a nomadic writing fieldtrip to the water tower on Volunteer Park. Monty, a friend I met at St James Cathedral several years ago, was one of the individuals who came to see what words would flow from his pen. Monty by trade is a computer programmer and is a fairly serious minded individual. Well, anyhow what I had all the participants do was roll three dice to randomly select one of sixteen prompt words. Monty’s random selection was “isolation.”
The next step in the experiment was to lay the word out on its side. So, that the participant could then use each letter of the word prompt to build a brief narrative using only words that begin with those characters. The final step was to expand the brief narrative into a much longer one within the time constraint of twenty minutes. And shown below is what Monty constructed in the allotted time.
I am hoping that by posting examples of these excursions from people will inspire others “who don’t think they have it in them” to come and experience spontaneous creativity. These field-trips work better when more than one person attends. There is a mystery in the gathering of minds or the communion of individuals that cultivate creativity in the self. Yes, writing is a solitary activity, but it doesn’t have to be. We, as individuals, can achieve greatness when we lower our defense mechanisms (to quote Monty below) so that we can work side-by-side as collective of minds. 


In our solitude, our stillness always reveals our intimate wholeness with nature. The story of our being is disclosed only in our stillness. It is [in] stillness that we become aware of our relatedness all that is around us: nature, creation, human beings, friends, enemies, and lovers.
Why doesn’t stillness have the power to unveil the intimate workings of the mystery that makes up our being? It is during stillness that our defense mechanisms sleep. A prime example of how this works is how lovers [behave]. When a man pursues a woman to be his equal and they become mates, he must first build a trust within her so that she can open herself up to him. One could say, an individual needs to eliminate one defense [mechanism in order] to allow another [defense] to appreciate the penetrating embrace of another [individual]. Trust must be built in the foundations of an individual’s body, mind, and soul. Each layer of [inter]personal intimate relating requires an “appreciating” of the other individual’s advances. An embrace of a man and a woman should be a message to each other and not an abrasive friction that evolves from defensive postures.
If stillness is the crystal ball of knowing oneself then is it not also the prophet of where our happiness lies? Is there a power [outside of self] to lead us into stillness so that we can be liberated from our defense mechanism [that cultivate loneliness] so that we can achieve the happiness that we all seek?