Tuesday, December 12, 2017

One-sided True Wuv.

Poo-sie.

"as the miller told his tale...."

She looked at me like she wanted to bite my neck.  Feral piece.  Natgeo-style.

binomial or even tri-nomial nomenclature.  Wayne Lee Ray country.  Where the plates are styrofoam and the dish is humming.

"like a parasite lodged in the fur of the beast"

Two cops were standing there, ready and waiting as the couple said their vows.  The dog was in the car.  The baby was on ma's gf lap.

"the heart that fed"

Does he or she make you feel great, in some way?  Do you touch greatness at all, or pretend and silently hope and soak your pillow with tears in a stupid haze of infatuation?

"I need a bath, granny; I've been playing in the trash again."

Pooo-

--sie.

(Come in under the shadow of this white Grand Marquis, and I will show you fear in a handful of dust.)

Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Friday, December 8, 2017

recursive factors in polynomial expressions: an observation

truth/

I'm reading a book about the smartest man in the world, and snacking on Wallsmark dog food.

Palestinian victimhood.  The loser writing the history book.  "sophosticated" anti-Semitic Europe.

I have to call Confuseus and get his perspective, because he's such a successful oligarch and all that.  A quiet conversation, maybe with some hand gestures for further illustration or emphasis.

We are what we hate.  All of us.  We became what we hate while we watched Dancing With The Stars and Franken was on the plane with that woman.

Hamas Morning Joe.

The two-state solution and the new Iphone.

A random element makes an unstable situation volatile.

The recursive that keeps on giving.  A tin pot for you to pour your hatred into.  Something for Greg Gutfeld to talk about, other than his pants and his 1982 hairstyle.

:a variable that pops up one side of the expression.

/truth

"I'm a hugger" says Senator Al.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

betimes I muse to myself: Watchmen on the Walls Pt 1

It's 1985 and I'm playing doctor.  Not on a teevee show, but with a few naked family members, children like me.  That's how it starts.

It's 1998.  My father tells me there is no future in watch repair.  He implores me to go into Nuclear Physics.  Advanced armchair studies of professional wrestling.

It's 2009.  Time has folded in on itself.  Nothing feels new anymore.  I'm waiting for a Senior Prom that will never happen.  Brantley hasn't dyed her hair yet, that I'm aware.

It's 1999.  My first pet dog is dying in the roadway, on the warm pavement.  He jerks once and is gone.  I keep trying to explain to little D-Bizzle that it ain't his fault.  The dog chased the truck.  No D-Bizzle fault in it, at all.

It's 2005.  I'm standing in the middle of blank acreage that I intend to build into a coffee farm that competes on the world market.  The call center people are all from India, in India.  Little Boy Blue and the Man On The Moon.  Lone Wolf and Cub.  Meatwad, Master Shake and Frylock.

It's 2010.  My life was over.  I was reading William Blake and having nary a care in the world.

It's 2017.  Trump is president.  And so I'm back from outerspace, and I find you standing there with that same look upon your face.

What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

It's 1996.  Scott Lobdell asks in writing as to what holds a man together while pulling him apart.  He stole that line.

What dread anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare it's deadly terrors clasp?

It's 2008.  Somebody lost a dog and put that fact on a sign in front of a bridal shop.  I unplugged my computer from the internet.  Privacy is a dying ideal, merely a talking point for pundits.  Myspace dies.  I got psychoanalyzed by Doug.

It's 2010.  I sing some of "More Than A Woman" to Magnum JSB.  He cusses.

What ominous wooden spinning wheel!
It carries the weight of an entire river on its axle!

Hamlet is not just a story about a fat girl.

we are but poor players that
strut and fret our hour upon the stage

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

I know a little(about love, but honey I can guess the rest).

You.  Sending out signals, because you sat for a couple of hours and your belt buckle squeezed the blood out of your groin, giving you kind of a pleasant mid-coitus glow.

"You keep moving the goal post" Senator Franken says to Attorney General Sessions.

You got the glow, anyways.

Photographic evidence.  And other such nonsense.

Winona Ryder, first woman landed on another planet.  Not expending precious battery power to cook her powder stew mix ration, but instead trying to charge her smartphone so she can post a quasi-erotic selfie on Facebook.

These things are transitory, I muse, driving along, but here I'm ready to stop the car and stomp some ass.  I don't put up with no foolishness in my car, or playing on my phone.

Text-book life changes.  I'm approaching the mid-life crisis, and yet I muse further, it was like life opened up after my most recent move, with career opportunities and continuing education.  I'm sipping at the cup, eagerly.

I have enthusiasm.

Monday, November 6, 2017

the grotesque honesty of violencia

Over my bed hangs the neon sign which reads: "The World is Yours."

There's something honest in violence.  Something you can't fake.  Honest like a broken arm.  You don't forget it.  No.  Lessons learned the hard way are not forgotten easily.

clear as an unwounded leg

Mil Lesions shoots-up a Mexican roadhouse on the weekends.  Sometimes he annihilates everything moving, even the women and children.  And you'd be surprised.  There's always some kids hanging around.  Mil Lesions counts them for quarter point-value.

Cholos.

A cholo can't get ahead without some help.  Mil Lesions gave one chewing tobacco.  He gave another a side-arm.  That was Vincente Fox.  He got famous a while back.  You could make like a modern babe's mobile out of Mil's gifts, hanging and slowly turning like bad dream.

Thursday, October 26, 2017

Junk Science: The Out-of-context Simplicity of Synthetic Pluralism.

"There are three Kims" says one.  "There are three Michaels" says another.  I'm supposed to file this away, or simply discard their talk as muddled nonsense, gibberish about people I've never met.

There were four Kims.  There are now two Kims.  There has been a culling.  I guess.  There are six Johnnies.  An entire small army of Patricias.  Two Kevins.  Three Scotts.  Two Darrells.  There were a lot of people, man.   Gooks attacking the bridge.  Hendrix blaring.  Tracers flying, a flare hovering over, slowly falling.  Me on the boat, going up the river with Doug to kill the colonel.  And there was one Doug.  Some would say there were two or even three.  You don't know them all, so don't pretend you do; include only the Doug you know in the tally.  So, one Doug.

Only one Brantley: rare and strange and beautiful.  She's gonna be a MILF soon.  It's like, in a month, you only poo on yourself once, and you toss away one pair of hopelessly ruined underwear.

One rude Jenna, who thought she was queen of it all.  I usedta blog about her.  Then she went away.  For reasons unsaid.  "Good luck" she was wished by her coworkers, and with me saying "good riddance" over old grudges.

The truck was screaming through the night, hood on fire, raw flame spewing from the straight pipes, burning pure hellfire as fuel, ripping, tearing, jagged bared dog teeth of the driver, heading straight for the mountain pond and sweet sleep.

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Torquemikl and Bnastasia: but characters in the human drama.

My ass.

Out of nowhere, Torquemikl!  From the darkness: Bnastasia!

Torquemikl represents the doctor from the college, while Bnastasia is the refined female living on 13,000 a year.  The Jamesian golden bowl catches Torquemikl's after dinner gleat as if it were a treasure.  Bnastasia cringes from the tips of her slippers to the top of her head.

Conqueror of worlds, yon left foot which shimmies to make Elvis jealous.  Two vampires making love on a park bench after midnight, arrested, thought to be vagrants.

Bnastasia cracks the golden bowl against the stone fireplace, making a stand, at once, for herself and her sex. #iwishicouldbreakitagain

Torquemikl's stratagems within the politbureau have him tuckered out quite a bit of the time, and unable to give Bnastasia her accustomed saddling and reading of the Browning.   He had his smoked picnic and sherry and went out into the winter, to take the air.  All you could see was scraps of his dark coat in the snow, shards of black.  He was freezing, but enjoying it, and at the penultimate moment, he actually began to feel warm again, which was a final trick of death, with the derangement of the faculties, the senses, and the mind at large.

Bnastasia was with child, and would have to raise the child on her own after Torquemikl was gone.  The Labor Party held a celebration at Torquemikl's passing, and the House of Lords had a costume day.  There was only Roald Pogue, somewhere in the clotted butthole of Europe, to come forward and revenge Torquemikl.