Gluttonous Ruminants

Coal and Buxton devour a tomato vine
Coal and Buxton devour a tomato vine

The process of culling the garden and throwing it to my ruminants continues.

I find the experience a little sad as I stand in the chill air, remembering the huge harvests; the bushy green tomato vines that smelled so good, the giant stands of bright marigolds, the crisp bell peppers that turned orange and red and yellow, the cucumbers that hid under their leaves until I searched for them.

The goats are thicker now, and their hair is thick and soft for winter. When I come into the back yard, they come running, and if I stand still, they push their bodies against my legs, saying hello.

Tonight I was pulling up mostly tomato vines, and on them were lots of shriveled green tomatoes. Coal is particularly fond of them, but Buxton likes them too. Here is an image of these two “sharing” (read: fighting over) a juicy one.

Possible Plans for Thanksgiving

  • Pray and fast
  • Fetal/fecal/fatal position
  • Elvis movie marathon
  • Wish I were still in college/high school/junior high/grade school/kindergarten/womb
  • Get head stuck in honey pot
  • Act like I give a crap
  • I’d rather have a pre-frontal lobotomy than a free bottle in front of me
  • See the writing on the (bathroom) wall
  • Listen to Duran Duran until I am unconscious
  • Await my destiny (or make it myself from crushed butterfly wings and real maple syrup)

    Feel the need.
    Feel the need.

A Llama in the Hhedgerow

Buxton and Coal eat old, brown marigolds
Buxton and Coal eat old, brown marigolds

After a long, great growing season which saw my garden simply explode with produce, a freeze finally came, and as always, the garden is dormant for the year. It’s at this point that I pull up all the brown tomato and pepper plants, and whatever else is left, and throw them to the goats, who are always comically grateful for it. There’s a lot of garden, so I don’t give it all to them at once, so I’ll take several days on this task.

We don’t have a llama, though we might if my wife had her way.

Let’s Play!

Okay, let’s play “What Would God Do?”

  • Make Eskimo Pie
  • Frogs frogs frogs
  • Daytime TV
  • Elephantiasis of the nuts
  • President Bushton
  • Karl eating ribs
  • “This is not meat loaf! It is kabab!”
  • Seven year coma for guy who loved “Family Ties” but missed every episode
  • Unexplained emergency dookie
  • Strip down to bra and panties for a tickle fight

True story: I was in a friend’s home with their dog. A man came to the door saying he represented a church. The dog was quiet until the man said, “We’re trying to encourage Bible reading.” At that point, the dog acted like he would have killed him.

You decide.

Actual Name of My Godfather: Dick Spray

Good news! We are not like our fathers.

The biology is obvious: take good genes, subtract cigarettes, alcohol and baloney salad. Add the internet, clear soda and “Family Ties.” Subtract Korea and Viet Nam. Add brown rice and three months experimenting with weed. Subtract Gulf War Syndrome. Add motor skills and a national championship. Subtract rubber dog doo. Add leather underpants. !!!

It all makes perfect sense
It all makes perfect sense

Tinfoil Hat to Deflect CIA Control Rays

  1. Percentage of people at the Kent State Massacre who were actually CIA operatives or extraterrestrials: 95.
  2. Percentage of CIA operatives who are actually extraterrestrials: 95.
  3. Percentage of this morning’s stool sample that was actually CIA operatives, extraterrestrials, leather, or Quake III Arena railguns: 102.

Fun fact: It has been widely debunked that “tin foil” hats (which are actually made of aluminum) do not reflect or absorb mind control rays from United Nations transmission towers or New World Order satellites. Such mind control devices use neutron pulse technology, and thus can only be deflected by hats impregnated with boron.

(Human manure is one of the rare wastes that can contain more material than it actually does. In science, it is referred to as Superstring High Intensity Turds, or SH!T.)

Richard Powerwashes the Pig!

I photographed it, and took the liberty of adding a nice gleam in Photoshop, which I felt I deserved.
I photographed it, and took the liberty of adding a nice gleam in Photoshop, which I felt I deserved.

An ongoing project around our house is powerwashing the siding. It’s slow, and I don’t have as much spare time as all that. I am doing it, however, one section at a time. Tonight I looked over and noticed that our propane “pig” (tank) had the same greenish mildew as the house, so I decided to wash it. The goats looked on with great curiosity. When I was done, I ran into the house and announced to Abby, “I powerwashed the pig!” It was a work of art that, sadly, was somewhat under appreciated.

Deep Fried Phasers

Dream: I was assigned to infiltrate a nuclear power plant. Our goal was to assassinate two people, both blond-haired women, and steal the weapons hidden inside. The weapons were phasers that had been deep-fried, only they looked a little like the nozzle on my garden hose (only deep fried.) We made our way through a labyrinth of metal stairs and railing to a series of doors. My partner (who I don’t really remember seeing) went inside and terminated our targets using a really cool chrome .22 with a silencer. We were then seamlessly running from the Israeli Army, dodging their small arms fire. Once they had surrounded us, we threw the phasers into a burning vehicle to prevent them from being captured. Then seamlessly, we are at a black-tie dinner party. Harrison Ford offers me a government job, which I accept because it will pay pretty well.

The Urgent Physics Problems of the Incas

Dream: I ran into an old girlfriend, Kathy, in the town where we used to live, at a particle accelerator where they were bombarding Christmas trees with neutrons. She has a midget on a leash. She tells me she has been married three times and her last name is now Schoecheekowskischke, which she made up. The midget, she explains, is an adopted child from the second marriage. I get into a blue SUV and start to leave, claiming that the church I am assigned to photograph will only be dry enough for another 15 minutes or so.

The “Come Here, You Have to See This!” Frog

The frog that appeared in the hole in the siding
The frog that appeared in the hole in the siding

Tonight while I was power washing the front of the house, I saw this little guy poking his head out of a small hole in the siding. I think the hole was from one time when I was trimming the photinia and almost fell off my ladder into the bush. Anyway, I called my family out to witness this miracle of froggery. So here is a picture of the funniest amphibian I saw all day.

Are You Fatting Kidding Me?

Sierra looks over the KFC "Mega Jug"
Sierra looks over the KFC “Mega Jug”

My wife drove through KFC the other day on her way home from work. She just wanted a piece of chicken, a little bowl of mashed potatoes, and a small drink, which she ordered. When she got to the window, the clerk handed her a bucket of chicken, a tub of mashed potatoes, and a jug, literally a jug, of Pepsi. It was some kind of “mega meal deal” like those so popular with restaurants now. The Pepsi, stamped with the moniker “Mega Jug,” was a half gallon of soda. A half gallon. Do the math: according to Pepsi’s web site, their regular soda contains 100 calories per 8-ounce serving, so Abby’s drink was an 800-calorie serving. Are you kidding me? According to WebMD, that’s half of her daily calorie requirements. There’s no way she could drink all of that. When she got home, she shared it with me, and we still couldn’t drink it all.

The moral of my story: don’t be surprised every time you look around and more than half the people you see are obese. This isn’t good for us as individuals, and it isn’t good for us as a society or a nation.

Sidebar: “Mega” literally means “million”, not large or superior.

A Vegan in the Wood Pile

A September Harvest
A September Harvest

Some of you who know me well know I have been a vegetarian since 1989, and a dietary vegan since 1994. Over the years, the choice to devote my energies to these pursuits has been one of the best I have ever made. Why? All the right reasons…

  1. It’s physically good for me in every way, and has no down side for my health whatsoever. Simply put, I feel great.
  2. It lends itself to the slogan, “Eat to live, don’t live to eat.”
  3. It contributes more to conserve our fragile planet than many more popular efforts, when you consider the vast resources devoted to production of meat, dairy and eggs.
  4. It respects the lives of animals. I believe that we have as much right to exist as any other creature on the planet, and that we have as much right to its resources. I do not believe it is our right to squander the world around us to feed our decadent luxury, which in the process makes us fat and weak.
  5. I take immense pride and joy in the foods I grow and eat on our happy little patch of land.

Now that you have read this, go have a peach!

The Death of Our Aunt Carol

Carol and Wes Peterson, our Aunt and Uncle on Dad's side, February 2005
Carol and Wes Peterson, our Aunt and Uncle on Dad’s side, February 2005

08-27-06: Aunt Carol Peterson (Dad’s sister) is dying. She experienced many co-morbidities and quality-of-life issues toward the end of her life, including Crohn’s Disease and type II diabetes.

Abby and Uncle Wes reminisce as they look at family photos.
Abby and Uncle Wes reminisce as they look at family photos.

We drove to the Blue Springs, Missouri area to join the family. The drive up was smooth. The dogs traveled well and Abby had a long nap.

08-30-06: Carol died at 12:45 pm at age 66.

09-02-06: This evening in Blue Springs feels like late October in Oklahoma.

Uncle Wes and Cousin Lori seem okay.

09-05-06: Funeral at the same chapel where Dad and Carol’s mother’s funeral was in early 1996.

Our time with the family was good. Abby was the goodwill ambassador. “Abby is very easy to be around.” ~Lori

The family gathers at Bill and Lori Wade's house in Platt City, Missouri. From left are me, my wife Abby, my mother Sarah Jo, my cousin Lori, my sister Nicole, her dog Griffin, Abby's nephew Mitchell, and our uncle Wes.
The family gathers at Bill and Lori Wade’s house in Platt City, Missouri. From left are me, my wife Abby, my mother Sarah Jo, my cousin Lori, my sister Nicole, her dog Griffin, Abby’s nephew Mitchell, and Uncle Wes.

Trail of Tears

Abby and Nicole walk Flagler Beach near Palm Coast, Florida in 2003, very near where Mom lives and Nicole is headed.
Abby and Nicole walk Flagler Beach near Palm Coast, Florida in 2003, very near where Mom lives and Nicole is headed.

There was a short call from my sister Nicole, who lives in New Orleans, saying she is alive and fine, waiting for Hurricane Katrina to pass so she can to get out of Hattiesburg, Mississippi and push on to Mom’s in Palm Coast, Florida.

Abby went to Wal Mart and bought summer closeout items for her, since Nicole was able to bring very little with her. She also bought a suitcase with wheels and put all the clothes inside it, and I mailed it to Mom’s in Florida.

Abby is intensely stressed. A friend of mine called and expressed similar stress about the devastation from the hurricane, including difficulty concentrating and sleeping.

Oddly, Nicole doesn’t seem as upset. She was more distressed today by the fact that the hard drive on her laptop crashed.

Email from Nicole: “Oh. God.”

Ny sister Nicole Barron in 2001
Ny sister Nicole Barron in 2001

My sister Nicole has fled New Orleans to Hattiesburg, Mississippi in advance of Hurricane Katrina.

(Hear the Katrina and the Waves hit “Walking on Sunshine” in the background.)

She has her dog Griffin, her laptop, and high hopes. Worst case: New Orleans is f*cked.

National Weather Service Notice
1011 AM CDT SUN AUG 28 2005









The Poem Every Day Project

In February 2005, David Martin decided to write a poem every day for 100 days. When I learned about it, I decided to make a photo each of those days and include it with David’s poem.

 * * *

poem 001 02/07/05

Day 1
day 001 02/07/05

I find it perplexing,
this corn god
How can it be so clever?
it makes us think we have progressed so far
but really we are just like its favorite Aztecs
our sacrifices are less transparent
we still rip out the
hearts of our enemie


day 002 02/08/05
day 002 02/08/05

poem 002 02/08/05

Today my shoes complain
as I walk
they voice their
skwoosh skwoosh
against the carpeted
floors as a protest
against me—
dragging their souls about
my soul is smack
against the ground too
you won’t hear me complain!



day 003 02/09/05

day 003 02/09/05
day 003 02/09/05

a fast hold
an attempted return
climbing up the incline
slipping on small pebbles
the goal recedes
smash face into rock
(maybe on purpose)



poem 004 02/10/05

day 004 02/10/05
day 004 02/10/05

This morning
my imagination led me
to the year of the rooster.
and eggs.
and the spark-of-life angel.





poem 005 02/11/05

day 005 02/11/05
day 005 02/11/05

yes, me
trudging against the format
yes, me
associating the punks
yes, me
ankles ablaze, rings of fire
yes, me
with the neck bolts
yes, me
in the success, complex
yes, me



poem 006 02/12/05

day 006 02/12/05
day 006 02/12/05

Mr. Harm-Free
doesn’t eat meat
he doesn’t use milk or eggs
he doesn’t wear leather, wool, or silk
he doesn’t walk for fear of stepping
on a bug
or a crack
he doesn’t have an immune system
–“Invading bacteria are alive and worthwhile!”
he decided one day to stop
existing for he was
taking up space
that a giraffe
or a slime mold
might need


poem 007 02/13/05

day 007 02/13/05
day 007 02/13/05

a circus too colorful
a funeral too gray
weaving to and fro
pegging the needle
on each end
the middle parts of the spectrum
only an interesting
countryside to pass through
with its cows
and old men
on tractors
slowing my rush to the cities


day 008 02/14/05

day 008 02/14/05
day 008 02/14/05

the pores of earth, wide
soaking—the warmth of sunshine
drops, given to sky





poem 009 02/15/05

day 009 02/15/05
day 009 02/15/05

it was a box of books
in my garage
and it included the coolest

I had never seen these books before
though I somehow always knew
they were mine

the smile on my face
and my super-hard dick
as I awoke
from that one

poem 010 02/16/05

day 010 02/16/05
day 010 02/16/05

a brain system fails

and leaves
all the healthy minds
reeling in its wake
like a marauding
bear’s paw
swiping in a bee hive




day 011 02/17/05

day 011 02/17/05
day 011 02/17/05

and then the wind died down
I took that little walk
and said “no” to the right guy

when the wind whipped up again
and blew the dust from my folds
I was in the clear time
the bright time




poem 012 02/18/05

poem 012 02/18/05
poem 012 02/18/05

in the glade of vegetarian
I pursue you
chocolate tofu pudding
will be mine




poem 013 02/19/05

poem 013 02/19/05
poem 013 02/19/05

in sibilant respect
a scrutiny
an honor
against the rushing
against the keening



poem 014 02/20/05
poem 014 02/20/05

poem 014 02/20/05

waste-of-space boy
understands so little
of what makes the
world turn
an idealist, yes
but even his ideal
is flaccid,


poem 015 02/21/05=PRESIDENT’S DAY

poem 015 02/21/05=PRESIDENT’S DAY
poem 015 02/21/05=PRESIDENT’S DAY


the manhood of our nation
sliced off by a petty grudge
where is the Malcolm of today?
would it be better
to make him bulletproof—
or are we still mired
in the necessity of martyrs?




poem 016 02/22/05

poem 016 02/22/05
poem 016 02/22/05

under the code
we are swept
at our feet—
the shells
of all previous lives
however hot
the pyre burns
couplets never die



poem 017 02/23/05

poem 017 02/23/05
poem 017 02/23/05

in a final push
to victory
we self-immolate
because, after all,
we are
the very breeding ground
for all the filth



poem 018 02/24/05

poem 018 2/24/05
poem 018 02/24/05

most of it is under water
the shadow thoughts
fleeting tinge of emotion
the master of the house
never leaves the living room
the muses conspire in the kitchen
and horrors cackle in the attic



poem 019 02/25/05
poem 019 02/25/05

poem 019 02/25/05

Cryptic Notes to a Brother Who Never Existed:

panic scrawl
the cost of resistance
even better than pad thai
pulling back the sheath
a hole in every t-shirt
and annihilate my tongue
with the bluntest of dentition

poem 020 02/26/05

poem 020 02/26/05
poem 020 02/26/05

Rasaan Roland Kirk
annihilating Marklars
a human H-bomb





poem 021 02/27/05

poem 021 02/27/05
poem 021 02/27/05

I opened up the archives
not really remembering
what to find
insight? inspiration?
in the end,
they brought me to
a tough room
(in Dallas, no less)


poem 022 02/28/05

poem 022 02/28/05
poem 022 02/28/05

cradled by a butterfly
my hopes arrived
on a wisp
of sweet wind
and were adroitly
on the doorstep
of my most malicious


poem 023 03/01/05

poem 023 03/01/05
poem 023 03/01/05

upon verifying the square
I burst through the doors
sunshine through
the miniscule gaps
in my outdated armor

the crowd’s uproar
slowly diminished
and I savored a moment, until
blasting unbidden
from my mouth
the words:
“It is accomplished!!!”


poem 024 03/02/05

poem 024 03/02/05
poem 024 03/02/05

green fingers explode
plant shrapnel pierces my foot
hey, Spring! is that you?






poem 025 03/03/05

poem 025 03/03/05
poem 025 03/03/05

my first whiff of Spring
brashly sliding through in-breath
Winter’s chill, banished





poem 026 03/04/05

poem 026 03/04/05
poem 026 03/04/05

I remember my kicks
Chuck Taylor All Stars
even the rubber parts
were black
even the inside
was black
(like my soul?)
coolest fucking shoes ever


poem 027 03/05/05

poem 027 03/05/05
poem 027 03/05/05

lithe, yet erect
moving, yet solid
every living being
reaching for the sun
while spreading along the earth



poem 028 03/06/05

poem 028 03/06/05
poem 028 03/06/05

rectified, I sit
with my mouth shut
eyes open
listening for
the fates to come along
and smack me across
the head again
with aluminum
baseball bat




poem 029 03/07/05

poem 029 03/07/05
poem 029 03/07/05

the wedge issue
rolls through us
and we titter and clap
because, after all,
gives us something
to do





poem 030 03/08/05

poem 030 03/08/05
poem 030 03/08/05

in the big scheme
what difference
fight or flee?







poem 031 03/09/05

poem 031 03/09/05
poem 031 03/09/05

open the door to annihilation
just by being born
a life—
like a bubble rising to the surface
only to POP!






poem 032 03/10/05

poem 032 03/10/05
poem 032 03/10/05

I lacked it today
first with the toothpicks
then with the paper clips
but I was effective
with the furnace
in a very
1950’s DAD sort of way





poem 033 03/11/05

poem 033 03/11/05
poem 033 03/11/05

and then, the sun
and curves
the brightness
toothy smiles




poem 034 03/12/05

poem 034 03/12/05
poem 034 03/12/05

hanging, as if to dry
our lives suspended
within the big blue now
the moisture of birth
finally evaporated at the end
(only to start all over again)



poem 035 03/13/05

poem 035 03/13/05
poem 035 03/13/05

all children
equally special
in their smiling
and milling about
cruelly interrupted
by the process
of maturing



poem 036 03/14/05

poem 036 03/14/05
poem 036 03/14/05

even now he tries to destroy me
that dark fucker of my mind
his latest trick:
smiting me in the knee
with a tire iron
from his cherry red
1968 Chevy Impala





poem 037 03/15/05

poem 037 03/15/05
poem 037 03/15/05

it’s dusty and crooked
and it will become dusty and crooked
but in the interim
I will straighten and clean
straighten and clean…



poem 038 03/16/05

poem 038 03/16/05
poem 038 03/16/05

I see you redbuds!
old-man jointy limbs
and pink/maroon pubescent
nippling buds of grace
can you say Spring?
can you say Oklahoma?






poem 039 03/17/05

poem 039 03/17/05
poem 039 03/17/05

in our little
community of secrets
a livid sun blooms







poem 040 03/18/05

poem 040 03/18/05
poem 040 03/18/05

in a friction-free world
all settles to
boring efficiency
and the supremacy
of bland surfaces






poem 041 03/19/05

poem 041 03/19/05
poem 041 03/19/05

making fun of ninnies
is so easy
but that doesn’t
diminish the fun!







poem 042 03/20/05

poem 042 03/20/05
poem 042 03/20/05

what is to be done
when the last poem
sucked so hugely?
write one that is
even worse
thus taking focus
off of the previous—
Mr. Self-Referential!


poem 043 03/21/05

poem 043 03/21/05
poem 043 03/21/05

a tornado’s instrument of fear
and God’s rebar
smash together
inside a bony chamber
this is my brain




poem 044 03/22/05

poem 044 03/22/05
poem 044 03/22/05

spreading peanut butter
on the exam table
so that my patients
have a tasty snack
as they are face down,
butt up



poem 045 03/23/05
poem 045 03/23/05

poem 045 03/23/05

in a tenuous sort of way
proffering a weak smile
and coming to the faintest of decisions
“maybe it will be OK after all”



poem 046 03/24/05

poem 046 03/24/05
poem 046 03/24/05

I miss the non-adherents
-the way they would
bubble up through my
neck to explode past my teeth
-the way they would
electrify my fingers
Don’t be shy, friends, muses!
Come out and play!


poem 047 03/25/05

poem 047 03/25/05
poem 047 03/25/05

a clean city
with Spanish words
and no-bother bums
San Diego

a town where people shiver
at sixty degrees
and the flowers of March
are just so
mountains meet sea




poem 048 03/26/05

poem 048 03/26/05
poem 048 03/26/05

beautiful dojo
trustworthy and honest friends
happy birthday, me





poem 049 03/27/05

poem 049 03/27/05
poem 049 03/27/05

eggplant town—
population 15,000
a clash
of Italy and China



poem 050 03/28/05

poem 050 03/28/05
poem 050 03/28/05

a homecoming not as sweet
as my imaginings
try again tomorrow







poem 051 03/29/05

poem 051 03/29/05
poem 051 03/29/05

let us have
a conversation with no force
only flow
and sweet gestures
of forgiveness
ripened by the expectation
of extended time





poem 052 03/30/05

poem 052 03/30/05
poem 052 03/30/05

abundant flesh
crawling upon
granular earth
impelling the cycles
and forward






poem 053 03/31/05

poem 053 03/31/05
poem 053 03/31/05

don’t show me on TV
when I’m mindless
and drooling
don’t drag my carcass to court
when I’m done eating
and I am done with your shit
down my throat
don’t stand outside my door
with taped mouths
and strident words

I know you won’t do any of this
because I am a man
and men don’t need that kind
of tumorous love

poem 054 04/01/05

poem 054 04/01/05
poem 054 04/01/05

rinse me clean
of daily anger
and see me emerge
from my holy shower
shining like an idiot




poem 055 04/02/05

poem 055 04/02/05
poem 055 04/02/05

I like it
when the people
start shimmering
and popping
in and out of existence
until the universal
vacuum tubes
get nice and warm



poem 056 04/03/05

poem 056 04/03/05
poem 056 04/03/05

slippery like snot
inconstant as dreams
a net in need of repair




poem 057 04/04/05

poem 057 04/04/05
poem 057 04/04/05

it was a clean parlor
so I decided to go ahead
and get a brain piercing
the technician was expert
and I have been happy since






poem 058 04/05/05

poem 058 04/05/05
poem 058 04/05/05

I love my daughter
especially the way
she gets so pissed
when a two-bit clown
calls her “cheater”






poem 059 04/06/05

poem 059 04/06/05
poem 059 04/06/05

I took no walk today
I had no truck with the sun
the fluorescent lights
baked me to a nice
shade of puke






poem 060 04/07/05

poem 060 04/07/05
poem 060 04/07/05

rolling over my shoulders
sheets of liquid electricity
directly from the sun
but no superpowers yet







poem 061 04/08/05

poem 061 04/08/05
poem 061 04/08/05

no attitude
no tension
slipping into
a pink
puddle of goo




poem 062 04/09/05

poem 062 04/09/05
poem 062 04/09/05

when god appeared to me
he said
“disable all safety protocols”
I think he’s tired
of us all being
such a bunch
of whining pussies





poem 063 04/10/05

poem 063 04/10/05
poem 063 04/10/05

in velvet leather lace
by the denizens
of a new rocky realm
by pangs of hard-pew guilt



poem 064 04/11/05

poem 064 04/11/05
poem 064 04/11/05

nature’s confetti
slicing silently the wind
as it spirals down
from high woody perches
celebrating a party
that Mama has yet to throw






poem 065 04/12/05

poem 065 04/12/05
poem 065 04/12/05

retrofit human minds
so that we are
not so mindless
enhanced by the spirit!
our neurons alight!




poem 066 04/13/05

poem 066 04/13/05
poem 066 04/13/05

every day a new test
fingers on triggers?
smiles on faces?
when to get
finally fed up
and vomit



poem 067 04/14/05

poem 067 04/14/05
poem 067 04/14/05

the youthful dead
always shine brighter
in our sanctioned memory
they just didn’t have the time
to fuck it all irretrievably—up




poem 068 04/15/05

poem 068 04/15/05
poem 068 04/15/05

the ides of April
manicured lawns of death
and Corinthian columns
waving the green flag
and imbibing vegetable spirit
expanding today—
filling with blood
and breath


poem 069 04/16/05

poem 069 04/16/05
poem 069 04/16/05

the Nazca Lines
the Great Wall
the Coliseum
all built to impress chicks







poem 070 04/17/05

poem 070 04/17/05
poem 070 04/17/05

through humid swirl
of dense dreamtime
I emerge
with a message
of mucous-y joy




poem 071 04/18/05

poem 071 04/18/05
poem 071 04/18/05

at exactly the same pace
as the in and out
pulsing of creation
during the rhythmic chanting
of the saints
I blow my nose





poem 072 04/19/05

poem 072 04/19/05
poem 072 04/19/05

I’m just waiting around
kicking the litter
and spraying my graffiti
until this whole façade
(America, reality, ego?)
crashes to earth
in a final orgasm
of self-immolation
(which is the best kind, after all)




poem 073 04/20/05

poem 073 04/20/05
poem 073 04/20/05

and then the pope
of my dreams
ascended to ground level
with cricket bat at the ready
a sacrament of horror
just for me


poem 074 04/21/05

poem 074 04/21/05
poem 074 04/21/05

in Hawaii
a spectacular living
sand and snow mixed
at the border of
sea and sky
and always
(like a drunk cosmonaut)
the looming volcano behind me


poem 075 04/22/05

poem 075 04/22/05
poem 075 04/22/05

in just a minute
my two hemispheres
will fit together
with an



poem 076 04/23/05

poem 076 04/23/05
poem 076 04/23/05

The Golden Nonsense Buddha
strode into the diner
took the barstool on the left
ordered the Mama Mc Muffin
and calculated the best way
to get under Alice’s apron



poem 077 04/24/05

poem 077 04/24/05
poem 077 04/24/05

heaven concept
human slavery
But Also:
a worthy obstacle
to overcome



poem 078 04/25/05

poem 078 04/25/05
poem 078 04/25/05

a puritanical distrust
of the spine
has led us to this
a deserted glade
where mouths are sealed
and hands are encased
in cement


poem 079 04/26/05

poem 079 04/26/05
poem 079 04/26/05

ambient focus
acquire target
one skin cell deep
falling like sheets of water
spiraling back to life

poem 080 04/27/05

poem 080 04/27/05
poem 080 04/27/05

“tired” is the operative
word of the star
crossed lovers spent
their passion into
the murky
cave of language




poem 081 04/28/05

poem 081 04/28/05
poem 081 04/28/05

pull the lanyard
cull the rolling stock
lull the roiling stream
bull the sweaty conglomerate
dull all criticisms



poem 082 04/29/05

poem 082 04/29/05
poem 082 04/29/05

and with his arms spread
feet wide
the skin on the front
of his torso
flipped up
like a rolling shade
a moment’s pause
then his internal
plopped to the ground
one by one
(slipping and slimy)

poem 083 04/30/05

poem 083 04/30/05
poem 083 04/30/05

Oh Dark Fucker!
you plugged my memory hole
the backlog made me refuse
that one nugget of importance




poem 084 05/01/05

poem 084 05/01/05
poem 084 05/01/05

a May Day of the mind
with variously-sized
telekinetically motioned
down Main Street
as the multi-hued masters
look on smugly
from an imaginary Kremlin


poem 085 05/02/05

poem 085 05/02/05
poem 085 05/02/05

it was a wet dream
-the fluid being blood-
Usama Bin Laden’s severed head
wrapped in linens,
shoved up a hog’s rectum
and walked from
radiologist to radiologist
so that each American
can confirm that yes,
we really did get
that donkey-fucking
(but, since he lives
our weakness is nakedly

poem 086 05/03/05

poem 086 05/03/05
poem 086 05/03/05

swirling adjustments
into a matrix
of effort and thought
slowly I transform




poem 087 05/04/05

poem 087 05/04/05
poem 087 05/04/05

it’s a graphic representation
of the Spring God
taking me roughly
by the shoulders
and yelling
“There is not a fucking
thing wrong
with a dandelion, boy!”


poem 088 05/05/05

poem 088 05/05/05
poem 088 05/05/05

let’s align ourselves
with the grand
of idiocy
shut brain off
charge forward


poem 089 05/06/05

poem 089 05/06/05
poem 089 05/06/05

Welcome to Cookietown!
the place where all desires
blend into one yearning now
and the pleasant denizens
psychically implant
pure bliss
into every whining visitors



poem 091 05/08/05

poem 091 05/08/05
poem 091 05/08/05

the mess
is the theme of the day
apartment squalor
a feudal boss
a nation gone wrong
when to sit inside
the mess to think
when to approach
the mess with fire
(lots of fire)



poem 092 05/09/05

poem 092 05/09/05
poem 092 05/09/05

if I had Jesus in my pocket
I wouldn’t feel so odd
if I had Jesus in my pocket
I could wear a coat and tie
(but never sweat)
if I had Jesus in my pocket
I could breathe underwater
if I had Jesus in my pocket
he would hand me a $100 bill
every time I stuck my hand
down there

poem 093 05/10/05

poem 093 05/10/05
poem 093 05/10/05

it’s an opening
and if we refuse to enter
it may never open again
scorched sky
the end of rain






poem 094 05/11/05

poem 094 05/11/05
poem 094 05/11/05

-temples of filth-
today a sudden
and shocking
realization about
what most


poem 095 05/12/05

poem 095 05/12/05
poem 095 05/12/05

drops fall silently
and gauze billows
egrets fly against the wind







poem 096 05/13/05

poem 096 05/13/05
poem 096 05/13/05

put in the stop
to quit the noise
of pure unadulterated
thought control
as decades wear on
stop wiggles out
we’re controlling
each other again

poem 097 05/14/05

poem 097 05/14/05
poem 097 05/14/05

in the tangled wood
she wanders
searching for a dropped
lusting for the spirit
she once called home
my lost little muse



poem 098 05/15/05

poem 098 05/15/05
poem 098 05/15/05

if this is the future
(our new way of being)
I will treat it just like
the other temporal entanglements
and ignore





poem 099 05/16/05

poem 099 05/16/05
poem 099 05/16/05

only as my slime pit fills
will I float to the top
and thus, escape




poem 100 05/17/05

as a chain-link fence
captures garbage
my neural-link mind
catches ideas
consumed by:
that prick of pain behind my knee
skipping rope
and the fact that
any round surface is flat
if you make yourself
sufficiently small

poem 100 05/17/05
poem 100 05/17/05

Our Father Joseph L. Barron’s Death

Dad, Mom and I pose in front of their Palm Coast, Florida, orange trees at Christmas 2002. The fruit trees were Christmas presents from years earlier, and over the years produced many oranges suitable for juicing.
Dad, Mom and I pose in front of their Palm Coast, Florida, orange trees at Christmas 2002. The fruit trees were Christmas presents from years earlier, and over the years produced many oranges suitable for juicing.

Caution: graphic descriptions

Joe and Sarah Jo Barron, 1993
Joe and Sarah Jo Barron, 1993

Friday, February 18, 2005

My sister Nicole called this morning to say that Dad is near death. He had been vomiting when the emesis turned bloody. EMS took him to the hospital in Ormond Beach (where he had a bypass in 1996), where he coded at least once and his kidneys shut down. We are waiting for another call but have arranged to go to Florida tomorrow.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

My wife Abby and I are flying to Florida right now. I have a bad cold and the cabin altitude has rendered me deaf in one ear.

Reports indicate that Dad is not dead, though the cardiologist and the gastroenterologist can’t agree on a diagnosis. Everybody seems more upset that I am about this. Maybe I’ve been preparing myself for many years due to Dad’s very poor health.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Joseph Lloyd Barron, dead, 9:51am.

This is Florida Hospital Flagler, where Dad died.
This is Florida Hospital Flagler, where Dad died.

Mom, Sarah Jo Barron, describe his onset: Woke at 5 am Thursday to Dad’s calls. He had uncontrolled, continuous diarrhea. She took him to the bathroom where it continued. He insisted on lying on the floor where he vomited, then vomited blood. She called 911. According to her, he “filled the floor” with bloody vomit and diarrhea until EMS arrived. At the emergency room while giving a medical history, he coded and did not regain consciousness. They stabilized him in critical condition. By Saturday night, his organs and vitals crashed. The hospital called saying come immediately. When we arrived, his pupils were fixed, his temp was 105ºF, vitals fluctuating. He was given huge doses of insulin to keep him alive. He received last rights of the Episcopal Church. We requested that he be removed from life support, but he died before that could be done.

Monday, February 21, 2005

I feel good that Dad got to know and love my wife, and see me happily married, before he died.

Along with Nicole, Abby and me, Dad’s sister Carol and her husband, our Uncle Wes, are here, as is Mom’s sister Margie.

The family gathered around our mother, Sarah Jo Barron, from left to right, seated, are Mom and her sister Margaret "Margie" Skinner; standing behind them are Nicole, her guest Stuart, Dad's sister Carol, Carol's husband Wes, my wife Abby, and me.
The family gathered around our mother, Sarah Jo Barron, from left to right, seated, are Mom and her sister Margaret “Margie” Skinner; standing behind them are Nicole, her guest Stuart, Dad’s sister Carol, Carol’s husband Wes, my wife Abby, and me.
Joe and Sarah Jo pose for a picture at their first home in Columbia, Missouri, where I was born, in about 1957.
Joe and Sarah Jo pose for a picture at their first home in Columbia, Missouri, where I was born, in about 1957.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Funeral. It’s nice to see that Mom is in good health. She is able to care for herself, which Dad almost certainly could not have done. Mom’s only real crying jag came when getting out blankets to pack something, she came across the “death blanket,” the one on which Dad had his episode.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Mom told us that several weeks ago, Dad was weeping and depressed, saying he need to go shopping because he, “Didn’t have a decent suit to be buried in.” Mom reminded him that he was going to be cremated.

Dad devoted most of his lifetime emotional energy to depression and fear.

Abby and I are heading home to Oklahoma.

My sister Nicole, mother Sarah Jo, and father Joseph pose in front of the Saint Thomas Episcopal Church in Palm Coach, Christmas 2000.
My sister Nicole, mother Sarah Jo, and father Joseph pose in front of the Saint Thomas Episcopal Church in Palm Coach, Christmas 2000.

Here is a short video clip, with no sound. From left to right in Mom and Dad’s Palm Coast den are Nicole, Joe, Sarah Jo, Abby, and me.

Abby and Richard Get Married

Abby and I pose under Delicate Arch, in Utah's majestic Arches National Park, just minutes after getting married there.
Abby and I pose under Delicate Arch, in Utah’s majestic Arches National Park, just minutes after getting married there.
Abby and I beam as we exchange wedding vows.
Abby and I beam as we exchange wedding vows.

Abby and I got married at the amazingly beautiful and iconic Delicate Arch in Arches National Park near Moab, Utah, October 12, 2004.

I had hiked to Delicate Arch on two previous occasions, but until the day we actually got married, Abby had only seen my photographs of it.

Abby’s daughter Dawna Michele “Chele” Milligan traveled from her home in Baltimore in a trip fraught with so much annoyance that she swore she would never visit Utah again. My sister Nicole came from her home in New Orleans with a guest. My friends Michael and his wife Thea , and David, traveled in convoy with us from Oklahoma. Our surprise guest was Robert , whose church helped him travel from Boston for the event. He arrived late, and caught up to us on the trail to Delicate Arch.

The weather was perfect the day we got married, but the next day, when we planned to hike the Primitive Loop at Arches National Park, was insanely windy and cold, but despite that, we had a great time. The next day, on our two-day drive home, we stopped and hiked at Canyon de Chelly in Arizona.

Abby and I both agree that it was an excellent way for us to get married, and could not have been more perfect.

An additional narrative and many more photos are posted on our travel blog, The Traveller, here (link).

David, center, makes video of the event. which combined with Thea's second camera work created an excellent two-camera coverage setup.
David, center, makes video of the event. which combined with Thea’s second camera work created an excellent two-camera coverage setup.

First Date with Abby

Abby and I met at our office and had dinner at Papa Gjorgjo next door.

I invited her to see the house I am considering buying from Ann Kelley. When trying to get into my car, the door wouldn’t open – probably since it was very cold and I washed the car earlier in the day – so she climbed over the center console to get in.

We then drove to the house on 17th Street. We talked about fixing it up; she even pulled up a corner of carpet to see if it had wood floors. We held each other by the gas fireplace, mostly holding hands and talking.

Back at my apartment, we curled up on my futon, held each other close and talked more. She purred. I held her hands and touched her hair and nestled closer and closer. We traded back rubs. It turned into kissing, so much kissing.

We were happy to be together. She likes me. She likes my beard. She likes the way she feels when I hold her.

Now, I can still taste her goodnight kiss. We had a great time.

Abby Milligan
Abby Milligan

The Minimus Letters 7, Part 4

By Minimus 7 / M7


Guitar-picking, sandal wearing hippie gets run over by tractor-trailer rig driven by reverse Okie (parents moved to CA during the dust bowl, he brought the family back to OK during the oil boom).

Gather the cadres, Che’ has escaped.

An unshaven Big Dick McGillicutty enters the disco.

Perspectives shift rapidly as Stacy pulls the first lever.

The audience went nuts.  No one had ever seen a head come apart like that before.

Just think, the same scene repeated millions of times all over the world.  Smoker takes first puff of the morning.  Immediately must run to the bathroom due to explosive diarrhea.  From then on, every slight inhalation of smoke causes severe runs.

Somehow, overnight, without anyone noticing, an unassailable 400-foot-tall obsidian phallus is installed on the North Oval.  No one knows how it got there, and despite all efforts, no one can remove it.

Even the prudishly Victorian attempt to place a canvas fig leaf over it with helicopters ended in disaster when the canvas fig leaf and the helicopters were mysteriously transformed into 60 tons of bologna salad.  Fertility religions begin popping up all over Norman.

Every new charismatic fertility religion leader claims to understand the true meaning of “the big black dick” as it is known.

nerdlinger wept,



> I believe we wrote “Wh**l*ck–what a hack.  -Karl Marx.”

> >What DID we put in that darned cat?

As always, your memory has proved superior.

I’m definitely off on Monday.

We’ll have to go over to Wh**l*ck’s and desecrate his cat again.


I am not a cougar.

Cook me.  Eat half of me tonight and take the rest of me home for lunch tomorrow.

Fill me with arm pus.

Intentionally left blank because Wh**l*ck is a pussy.

“Swallow my face, please.”–Jaques Derrida

what a fag,


possible titles for my first book:

  • The Cruciflex Home Exerciser:  A Manual.
  • Big ‘n Gay
  • The Jethrine Integument
  • Belch:  The Throat Fart
  • Enhugement of the Fisticons!!
  • Crabby Old Bastard Mock Fuck
  • The Future:  When Monsters Roam the Earth
  • My Ass Hurts



by DM

barb-ward rearing faces

fear our workaday integuments

and the great hoax mainlines the now

shoot him down!

he is but a clearer of weeds

he does not reveal

why I am me and not

someone else

head preserved for all to see,

Uncle Dreck became ossified

and he crumbled

in his pool of coffin

peeling ourselves away

from the



bucket seat of the real

Is this a failure?
Is this a failure?

no cage is strong enough

to hold our bliss

indulging in friendly clever extremes

my writhing cinnamon girl

displays her threat

to the farty old man

too loudly making

farty old man


we are surrounded by

the sound of cicadas cruising for chicks

and the banality of penile fakery

adding merit to madness

as we wreck the cherries

and dysfunct the projectiles

while my writhing cinnamon girl

takes my hand and Uncle Dreck

leads the way into our

unending wheel of joy

sane?  yes, please?!

my exclamation points wobble and

shimmer in the fractal heat

   each nodule glows fast

   to the floor of an arid

   brain pan

    suddenly, the smell of

     microwave puttered

     bop corn.

the hole of corn, erupting,

   the spiders pouring out,

   a furry horde.

     spilling over each other

       maize wave

           after wave

     spreading the seeds

       into the pan


     the heat….


   stench of rancid oil.




washed along my rancid distaste

   and flicked until numb

I sported my tendencies and

   waited for her to smile

feeling her ice, I opened

   my flagon

   and poured it into the sea


words hurt me

just like that

  wasp that buried himself

   ass-deep in my arm

    when I was at a

     scornful picnic

but what the sane man does is to recreate the same old universe every time.  for what could we do without our embedded challenges and our worthy enemies?  why–there would be nothing left to get upset about. how could we be righteous or hostile or submissive or human if we could really re-make the universe every moment?

  The upshot–and the dirty secret of modern life is that it is ALL MY FAULT.  I caused the Vietnam War.  I thought it up and did it.

I killed all of my dead relatives.

I refuse to bring them back to life because in every moment I remake

myself into yet another identical uncaring bastard.

I could fix all of the broken hearts.

I just choose not to.

All my fault.

  But everyone else can’t blame me because it’s all their fault.

There are no accidents.  There is no fate.  We do it to ourselves

every day.


The Plaid Café is not cuisine, the Plaid Café is the annihilation of culture. The middle class bourgeoisie can do naught but rejoice as they eat their americo/euro post-haute cuisine swill.  They celebrate that death of culture which must occur because of the assimilation of the EDGE’s most vital and salient nodes.  They celebrate because they cannot create.  If the bourgeoisie cannot create, then they will kill that which they can never understand.  The Plaid Cafe symbolically encloses the rapture felt at the moment of this culture murder. essense of mint,




Big, big, big as the foul sky and putrefaction drips onto the plain.

bison graze.

multiple guts rumble out a message in methane and the Pope makes his faggoty little curtsy before he slurps up the juices and such.

runes written in semen on a white bison’s back avatar of native hope

used like a Shake ‘n Bake bag about america,

ringed and tinged with fuckn pop

popn fuck

fun pop

I see a seamless now

where we all think the same

over here

and to get untogether with the crowd

means death

the very means to our greatness

(the one person)

covered in a mass of common thought

but first,

we flaunt our glimmer of god

glimmer god

flim flam

until every

iota is



not main


not main


simply sold

for pennies on the cheap

and we will finally understand

what Sam meant when he screamed

“Life fucks you even after you’re dead!”










and life will still be fucking us.

a scar is upon you and everything you stand for,



Prove to me that any positive action can be taken.  The mere attempt traps one within the sticky invisible web of “faith.”


The visual feast that scrolled up and down I-35 last weekend left me beflubbered. Starting slightly north of the Dallas metroplexus, there were an astonishing variety and amount of gorgeous wildflowers.  Bluebonnets and NDN paintbrushes were most prominent.  Of course, cruising along the interstate through the communities of Norman, Ardmore, Gainesville, and the d/fw extra-urban sprawl left me hearing the clear, deep, slow death knell for humanity…..

This was mostly because of the architecture.  Everyplace now looks the same.  It’s all SLASH AND BURN ARCHITECTURE.  Denny’s are the same everywhere.  The ugly over-arches all.  The only interesting man- made sites visible from the hi-way was an old courthouse in Gainesville and some quirky man-made domes south of Dallas on I-35E.

I found many of the old grain elevators and factories more interesting than the McArchitecture that makes up our commercial existence in this age.

On our way back, we took I-35W and we were slapped in the face with two gargantuan consolidations of asphalt and concrete–both devoted to our bloody-kneed worship of speedy transport (the god Mercury grows fat and happy with adulation in this age)– The Texas Motor Speedway and a starkly horrible commercial airport that I had never seen before.  The upper capsule of the airport’s control tower seemed to be suspended in mid-air by a neutral protuberance of concrete.

The architectural impossibility of this CONTROL tower echoed the utter impossibility of our continued survival within this slash and burn sprawl.

Again and again I had to remind myself to “look at the pretty flowers”  and “see the gathering clouds”…..

Perhaps we Texhomans are simply too backwards and trashy to deserve any edifices that beg to be savored. In an age such as this, has artistic endeavour ever been so important?

Christ, Bitch, don’t you ever wash that thing?!



“Give yourself the permission to be unconcerned, rather than let a lack of imagination leave you behaving like a small-minded self-defeating loser.” –Ralph Pettman

Lack of imagination. Perhaps our societies biggest challenge? We do not have to be actors on the stage. We could be the directors, or, best of all, the playwrights.



-by DM



has a big





are the innard


upon which society

is greased

The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 3

by Minimus 7 / M7


Should I send these in?

daft cooters

3.8 billion years of ennui

duck my sick

brutish odors

uncle clyde and the fluff girls

it’s the fart that counts

two dicks ferguson

lava twat chung

rectilinear smile

any excuse for trephination


unsolicited enemas

jactitations of the saints

circulator of funk

cluster fuck event horizon

Two that aren’t mine, but rule anyway:

“Negative vibe merchant.”–neil

“Enormous falsie basket.”–william s. burroughs


end of stick.



I like the word frozen in its standard sense and in the sense of frozen…a sort of neo-African Buddhist movement.

So how come A’s so damned funny lately?

On the interzone internet, I found a concordance for NAKED LUNCH.

Every word in the book was listed and the page numbers were referenced.  One could click on the page number and it would appear since the whole book is located in cyberspace now.  As you might guess, I found all of this very fucking admirable—thumbs up all around.

I also read an essay in which the author thought that those who don’t appreciate NAKED LUNCH simply aren’t able to get past all of the sex and drugs.  Personally, I think that many people simply are not able to understand a book with an absent plot line.  Of course, the upcoming generation will find NL perfectly readable as their minds will be wired in such a way as to make short unconnected bursts of information usable.  Essentially, NAKED LUNCH is a hypertext document.  The “links” exist in the psyche of the reader.

One thing that has always interested me is that the human brain hasn’t really changed in many thousands of years, but the human mind has gone through many large shifts.  For example, right now we are wired to thrive within a bludgeoning sphere of information while remaining steadfastly unaffected by nuance.  In large measure, we determine our own wiring.  It’s ironic, since so many people are so unhappy with their wiring–especially the addiction to drama.

This wind is so strong.  All of my cardboard caricatures are getting blown over.

Personally, I prefer the straw man fallacy to the ad hominem.  The beauty of straw man is that when you set up a fake argument (which is easy to knock over) as a person’s real argument, they are often so stupid as to think they are actually defeated when you haven’t engaged the real issue at all. (By the way, don’t try this with A.)

Then again, intellectually bruising the weak lost its charm long ago. And within each square on the grid, we’ll place a different form of cultural blindness.  We’ll concentrate the most virulent forms in the center and that’s where we’ll drop the bomb.

After considering it in my mind, I have decided that Spanish is my favorite language.  It is quite pretty when spoken or written well. It is more efficient than Germanic languages.  It is relatively easy to learn.  Even though I have studied East Asian languages, I do not like the “music” of them.  I do not find Japanese or Mandarin aesthetically pleasing and I find the difficulties in using the writing of these languages to be immodern and ridiculous in the extreme.  One symbol for every different word–as if!  I like the phonetic Korean symbology, as it seems to be an elegant solution.

Also, in Spanish, much information can be conveyed very quickly once one of those hot chicas get going.

“Words are a virus.”–Burroughs

perhaps this end will never come,



no good food here joe

Cautiously pulling into Peenpeen after a long night of running from the law, Cappy Dick felt relatively sure that the revenuers would never look for him in this god-forsaken spot on Hwy. 39.

Peenpeen was the kind of town where all of the dogs were skinny and all of the women were fat.  But, it lacked streetlights and people knew how to keep their mouths shut.  It was a perfect hidey hole for Cappy Dick.

One could even get a decent meal in Peenpeen at the no good food here joe cafe.  In the phone book which Peenpeen shared with 5 other pissant little Oklahoma towns, the no good food here joe cafe is simply listed as “Cafe, Hwy. 39, Peenpeen.”  At one time, a Korean immigrant (illegal) had been the fry cook and proprietor of the cafe.

The place got it’s unusual moniker because when Kim saw a customer he didn’t like, he would grab him by the collar and shuffle him out of the restaurant while screaming “No good food here, Joe!” in his highly accented speech.  Kim called everyone, male or female, Joe.

In fact, the no good food here joe cafe had the best food in the whole state.  Kim grew all of his own produce and he even raised his own foul for his excellent fried chicken and his astonishingly good moo goo gai pan.  He had a wife who people rarely saw because she was always in the kitchen washing dishes.  One day, a roughneck who was seated at the counter eating the cafe’s incredible lamb and couscous referred to the Kims as “that little gook and his little gook wife.”  A huge metallic clatter emanated from the darkened recesses of the kitchen, as if a pot had hit the cement floor.  In a flash, the beaproned Mrs. Kim leapt over the lunch counter like an antelope.  As she hit the floor behind the hapless roughneck, she placed her menacingly sharp butcher knife against his right kidney.

As the point of the knife ushered him out of the front door, Mrs. Kim spat out “No good food here, Joe!”  Mr. Kim laughed and laughed and laughed.  (So hard that kimchee came out of his nose, actually)

These days, the Kims’ daughter runs the place with her arranged-marriage-fresh-off-the-plane hubby.  She speaks perfect English and calls everyone in town by their real names.  The food is still spectacular, but in these calmer times, post oil bust, it’s quite unusual to witness knifeplay in the no good food here joe cafe.

“Words are a virus.”–Burroughs

“…and the cure kills the patient, Joe.”–Martin



I may get to eliminate a yankee today.  All in all, people are good…but not him.

According to a web site I consulted, you are a swine if you believe the following:

-people suck

-nothing is forever

-there is no god

Being a swine is a good thing because at least you are not fooling yourself.  Also on this site are such articles as “Why Pornography is a Positive Influence on Society.”

Also seen: working with a computer is nothing more than sitting on you ass while watching TV and typing.  (

We should have a cooperative website.  We could have a story a day and a poem a day.  We could rag on everybody and piss people off.  We could be all cynical and wise about the state of our trashy old pop culture.  We could laud to high heaven those few things that we really do like.  We could perpetuate the tyranny of information.

More and more I realize that Burroughs was right–“Buddhism is not for America.”  We just want to tear things down too much.  We never want to leave things BE.

I recommend The bits about cults and their beliefs, celebrity memberships, etc. were especially good.  Also funny was their rating of the stupidity of talk show audiences (scientifically determined).  All talk show scripts examined were shown to have a language usage level no higher than 2nd grade.

anyway, bite,

big bad culture demons



non-adherent::noun–person who does not subscribe to any single doctrine, philosophy, or course of action.  Is able to manipulate disparate cultural elements at will.  Can reproduce in the normal mammalian fashion or can hijack the DNA of others towards the non- adherent’s own ends.  Each neuron in a non-adherent’s brain is a melding of the qualities of primate neurons and incurable retroviruses.  Non-adherents can only be distinguished from average humans by behavior, not by appearance.  Non-adherents are considered very dangerous and should be shunned at all costs.  In close proximity, they can control your mind.

Websters New Dictionary of Cryptotaxonomy, 2nd ed.

Like the dic says, these buggers can be distinguished by their behaviors, so we have collected poetry, essays, and piles of words that we suspect were created by non-adherents.  Though they may have no coherent shared philosophy or thrust, you may sense a certain thread in this work, as if these words are carried upon a wave or a tune which has been buried deep in the back of your head from the beginning.  Sources from which these works are taken include crappy little avant-garde newsletters, scribblings found in the back of Gideon Bibles, student poetry reviews from small private colleges, graffiti collected by our roving experts, poetry readings from coffee houses worldwide, mysterious mass mailings which seem to appear from nowhere with no discernable postmarks, dream journals obtained during burglaries of non-adherents’ lairs, and shopping lists found in grocery store parking lots.  When the authors are unknown we have given them appropriate non-adherent names.

–The Watchers  May, 1998


by Tycho Mondorzez

Grief is food.

We must thank the whites of this world for feeding us so much.


Close the kitchen now,

    or we’ll burn the fucker down.

Graffiti on a Prison Wall

by Tycho Mondorzez

I saw that crooked cross tattood on your arm so i had my posse hold you down face down now i found your ass how you gonna try ‘n keep me outta there TODAY?

(Tycho was executed by firing squad in 1986, but not before passing his lethal DNA collection onto some other twisted hate fucker.–ed.)

untitled shopping list

by Felice Porter

feral obnoxious hacksaw

tripwires of the obvious

ovoid hypocrisy

tepid meanderings thru many aisles (green or brown)

something to clean a butt with

tri-phased puke gun

fleshly dilemma

canister of hell

(found by a Watcher in a suburban grocery store parking lot, the above was written on hotel stationary from a very swank place in Copenhagen.– ed.)

The Phoney

by rectal infectant

floating along a fragrant river

on my palate of bouyant weeds

  i sense a shattering state of natural


navigating by hologram, i escape

the clutching tide

  to learn the fate of my

   ever excitable


i steered using the lowest volume

my paddling was quite direct

  yet, unhurried

   finally i came upon

    the scene

it was simply a goose

pursued by a sap with

  his pants around his ankles

   erection in tow

    bobbing head

nothing interesting

ever happens

  on this river

   i sighed as i casually

    directed the lens

     and pressed [RECORD]

“If you call my home again, you will learn by experience what the inside of your colon looks like.”–message left by rectal infectant on the answering machine of a large midwestern telemarketing firm

(The Watchers have never been able to positively identify rectal infectant, so this nom de plume is of our choosing.  We can identify his work by the common thematics and structures.  The only way rectal infectant’s poems have reached the public are through mass mailings.  Sometimes a thousand random people throughout the country will receive his “gift.”  Sometimes every household in a small town will get a sheaf of scribblings stuffed in the mailbox.  The Watchers are 92% sure that the telemarketing firm message was left by our people’s poet.)

One Last Score

by Sarah Looper

I saw you recoil in shock as I released the dull blade of my sigh.  I have you hanging on my every mood, don’t I?  You are always scared that I might disapprove or be unhappy or pay attention to some other poor loser.  Take heart!  For now I’ll continue to control you by gesture and innuendo.  As long as this game pushes away the dullness, then I’ll revel in your pathetic tantrums and your ridiculous demands.

But, don’t fool yourself.  I neither like you nor respect you in any way.

dream journal entry

by Sarah Looper

I saw my father waving to me from the deck of the ocean liner as it pulled out of the harbor and I just had to laugh because that big gay fucker stole my vibrator and now I’ll never get it back.

Sponges vs. Swordfish

by Sarah Looper


Take up

Your new head

Before someone else does

After you screw it on

Call me, I’ll have a look

I can’t wait to point and laugh

Yes, you’ll be angry at me

But I can’t help it

You are so stupid

Just your face

Makes me


Conversation with Cherry

by Sarah Looper

You’re new in town?

You don’t say!

Just moved out of your parent’s house?

Well I’ll be!

You’re originally from Peenpeen, Oklahoma?

Tell me all about it!

You’re a confused girl right now?

I’ve been there sister!

But you know you have a crush on Lisa Loeb?

Well who doesn’t!

You think I look like Lisa Loeb?

Wow! I’ve never heard that before!

You sorta have no place to stay?

Well, good luck with that!

You can’t wait for me to drag you home and cram my fist between your legs?


(So many of Sarah Looper’s works are included here because she is quite infamous in the Pocatello, ID lesbian grande artiste cafe’ poetry open mike scene.  She has extensive “contact” with the public and The Watchers are highly concerned that many innocent humans will become infected.–ed.)

Haiku #16

by Miminus 7

splendid! or did she…

i see, it wasn’t triumph

puke issues from you

Haiku #47

by Miminus 7

hello little girl!

you didn’t have to rack me!

I’m no pedophile!

Haiku #446

by Miminus 7

sitting here for days

i waited for you to look

my smile has melted

(Miminus 7 is the most well known of the non-adherents, even though the general public has no knowledge of the non-adherent “movement.” Miminus 7 can be seen weekly on the “Miminus 7 Happy Family Show” on Bravo.  Bafflingly, this hour of total boredom and stupidity is currently Bravo’s highest rated program.–ed.)

printed on the back of Nusrat CD:

For the martyrs of the daggers of submission the unseen brings new life every morning. by experimenting with Burroughs style cut up technique I derive: for the dagger of the life of submission the unseen brings new martyrs every morning for the dagger of the life of the unseen the martyrs bring new submission every morning for the morning of the life of the unseen the martyrs bring new daggers every morning for the unseen of the martyrs submission brings new life to every dagger for the life of the dagger of the unseen every morning brings new martyrs for the unseen morning of the dagger martyrs bring every life for the submission of martyrs unseen daggers bring new life every morning for the morning of the unseen daggers bring the submission of every martyr for the new to the unseen of life morning brings the dagger of martyr’s submission for the dagger of the martyrs every morning brings the submission of the unseen life

Conclusion:  The original sentence was specifically formulated by someone to be treated in this fashion.  This is a meta-statement containing dozens of interlocking layers of meaning and subtlety.

Once again, face value is only a small part of the story.

Homage to Miminus 7

by rectal infectant

Quit copying me, you dick!

(written in an unidentified substance on the side of Miminus 7’s house.–ed.)

Shimmer of Fate

by Calendria Dey

I was already stretched beyond all belief

but still, I kept getting tauter,

and wider

Feasting, filling, fueling, fisting,

I ascended the stairs of mourning and

tearfully proclaimed my nonchalance

Beasts of hope nipped at my heels

but I paid them no mind as I

continued climbing

Tearing at the sheets of water I stepped into a sort of darkness with

the roar of gravity in the background and I left it all behind all

the tortures all the boredom all of the death I had passed through

the baptismal curtain and, for that heated moment, I was clean

because I had been ripped free from the annulus of fate.

Then all of the memories came back

my chin fell against my chest

I tumbled over the rail

(Calendria Dey was one of the first artists to be identified by The Watchers as a part of the modern non-adherent movement (as opposed to the Renaissance Non-Adherent Movement.)–ed.)



by The Bind

    The other day a colleague of mine at the tofu factory asked me what I was always scribbling in my notebook.  So, I let him read my stuff for a while.  He looked through many of my poems, my essays, my sketches, my fragments.  Typically, he looked up from my journal eventually and said “I don’t get it.”  Of course, many writers have had the experience of opening their secret vaults to a confidante only to be slapped in the face by their blindnesses.

    I suppose that there are two sorts of writers.  There are those who write for some segment of the public and there are those that give nary a fuck what the minions of the human DNA overlords might think.  More clearly:  some write for no reason and some write because they are word whores.

    Word whores are those who sell their art to the public.  There is nothing inherently wrong with this, but one must understand the nature of this culture.  Our culture of late 20th century america is nothing but a complex of distinct yet interconnected viruses.  Any material or information that is injected into this culture is immediately taken up by the organism and incorporated within its bulk.  But, being viral in nature, this culture can only create by hijacking the mechanism of healthy creatures.  So, any words that are injected into the system are immediately taken apart, examined, interpreted, and USED by the elements of our viral culture.  Once your art is “out there” you will never get it back in the same form because those fuckers will rip it apart, steal anything that might be useful and heave it onto the trash heap where it will lie shivering and bleeding from the anus.

    So, I don’t publish.

    Then, why write?

    I write so that there will be a treasure trove of cultural genetic material in this world that has not been exploited by the virus.  I write to preserve a core of reality that does not conform to the smooth surface as dictated by the masses.  By creating a form of untainted genetic reality, perhaps we can one day restore to humanity a sense of dignity, self worth, and individual determination.

    All of this begs a question.

    Am I not a part of the virus too?




    One is part of the virus only by conscious choice, blissful ignorance, or blithe apathy.  Since none of those apply to me, I term myself a non-participant in this culture.  I do not adhere.  I do not steal cultural genetic material.

    I just write.

    (This could be considered the only description or critique of non-adherent thought actually written by a non-adherent.  Both The Bind and Calendria Dey were active in the late 1960’s and formed the core of early non-adherent thought.  Both used extensive viral imagery in their work and the only reason we get to read any of this is through sheer chance as neither author ever sought publication.  By 1975, some non-adherents were attempting to publish on a small scale.

Though they accepted The Bind’s assertions about the viral nature of our culture (even if they had never read any of his work), they chose to form “magic bullets” or “inoculations” from their art.  Rather than trying to create an untainted treasure trove as Calendria Dey and The Bind did, their goal was to inject their work into the public forum on a small scale, using the culture’s greed for fresh information to hasten its downfall.–ed.)

Nautica Palais

by Everett Kinski

I was out in the middle of the ocean anyway so I just dove in and swam strait down until I reached the bottom and My Dick was in the water, you know I mean all of me was in the water…way under the water, but anyway my dick was in the water too.

Then I just sucked up all of the water in the ocean with my dick I sucked it all up, all the briny water, the fish, the whales, the green sludge, the boats, the nets, the submarines, EVERYTHING But I didn’t get any bigger because I am some sort of hyperspace pelvic box and EVERYTHING will fit in there just fine.

Anyway, I had taken this big hit and I just sat there for a while with my dick dragging in the newly exposed salty mud with a few tiny shrimp shyly exploring my hairy nut sack with their delicate antenna.

After I supposed that the oceans of the world had circulated around in that endless place enough I opened the gate of my loins and just took the biggest piss ever and within a few minutes EVERYTHING was back to normal with little men on little boats and plankton and sharks and reefs and all that.

Floating, Aching…

by Everett Kinski

Covered in thick velvet ropes, I found you so inviting, yet, as I approached you stared me down and forced me to slowly back away.

Anchored, Resilient!

by Everett Kinski

Spent after the longest of nights when you found the ease to request all that you had been denied before.

(Everett Kinski could be considered the most mainstream of the non-adherent artists up until 1988.  He was an adjunct professor at a small private college in Oregon at a time when most non-adherents were dishwashers or pizza delivery drivers.  But, in June of 1988, Kinski abruptly quit his job, hitch-hiked to Seattle and set himself on fire at the grand opening of a brand new Starbuck’s.  All of his work except for the above was lost with him.–ed.)

Fear Ray

by Claudia Lee

Everybody in the bank grew silent as I walked in via the very tall doors. All of the business of the world came to a halt and all heads swiveled on their swivelnecks to catch me in the frame of vision.

At once, the patrons and the bankers started to shimmer, to shake imperceptibly and I heard many gasps and sobs.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said

“I forgot to turn off my Fear Ray.”

A simple click and all was forgotten as the hubbub resumed and I took my place in line.

Sammy the Idiot

by Claudia Lee

I often got frustrated with Sammy but I always convinced myself to forgive because Sammy was an idiot and it just wasn’t his fault by any meaning of that loaded term.

Exasperated at the

    broken dishes

    dashed hopes

    shattered promises

    emptied accounts

    inbred relatives

    professional wrestling

    low-rider trucks

    and inappropriate urination,

I started to get mean and I eventually tricked Sammy into killing himself but I convinced myself to forgive because I am a psychopath and it just wasn’t my fault by any meaning of that loaded term.

Yo Soy Gringa

by Claudia Lee

We were so terribly in love that it was painful in the belly when we were apart. I would cling to you like a bramble when you wanted to step away for a moment, but gradually we began to trust that our benign little universe would smash us together again after a short absence.

Even if you were only gone for a few minutes I started to fantasize about how I would greet you when you walked back through the door.

It was often fun….naughty.

One afternoon you begged me to go to the lake with your buddies so that we could all have a grand time cooking weenies and getting high.

When I expressed my disinterest in the plan, you called me a bitch and slammed the door on your way out.

The spell was broken.

Oh, I continued to play along like I still cared.  I accepted your tearful beer/pot apology when you finally got home that night.  We still did it.

Over the ensuing couple of weeks, you felt like everything was JUST FINE.

Then, late one night, while your chest was rising up and down so deeply, I leaned over you and (as I thought “Maybe I am a bitch but that doesn’t mean you have to say so”) smashed your angelic face with a dark red brick over and over and over until you didn’t look so lovely at all any more.

I hopped a plane and seamlessly blended in to the urban sprawl of La Paz for a few years.

My Spanish is now perfect.

(The above marked the end of a period of very “angry” poems by this author.  Although all of the events were fictional, one can easily see the underlying hate of this work.  Below, you will find the beginning of a body of transcendent musings which move beyond the dichotomies of love/hate, alive/dead, etc.  No one is sure what triggered the change in Claudia Lee’s work.–ed.)

the sky is so wide

by Claudia Lee

there was nothing better to do

(as if there ever IS)

so i ran along the earth

so that the world could get used

to my running

maybe even get

a little complacent

and then

rather than just running along the ground

i changed my angle a bit

so that

my feet started to clutch the air

(traction is so important)

and while the world was not looking

Tommy Tickledick sells his soul.
Tommy Tickledick sells his soul.

i started to dash into the air

and i ran around in the sky

and there was nothing that the

world could do about it


i knew how to make it happen now

and i was going to run straight up

into the sky

anytime i felt like it

and i felt like it all

of the


because i wanted to sniff

lightning ozone

and braid rainbows

and chase hawks

and get dizzy

from being so




by Claudia Lee

yes, i see your masque

of hate

but it doesn’t matter

because i know that

you are beautiful



so am i

even your violence,

your thrashing,

your pores clogged with filth,

your boils

will all fall away with a flicker

once you forget

to be angry



You must be empty to do the miraculous.

You must be miraculous to do the empty.

There is hope for the youth of this nation.

Last night I rode with Yvonne and Alison to OKC and back.  We also visited Yvonne’s brother David. In his room, he had Ayn Rand’s book about capitalism, the Tao Te Ching, and a Kafka collection.  I told Y and A about the insult intensifyers and they think that this is incredibly funny.  Now I can’t get them to stop doing it.  I also told them about the carrot coming out of the ground with “Mars, Bringer of War” as the soundtrack.  They thought that this was hilarious.  We had an impromptu haiku competition on I-35.

I told them that it would be fun to throw a hand grenade into the pickup bed of an asshole driver.  Yvonne said that that idea was demented.  I said, “No, demented would be forcing him off of the road so that he had a slight accident–maybe a bit of a concussion–then you drag his bloody but alive body out of his truck and……..”

They got the point.

We complained about the Baptists a lot, too. My throat is still a bit raw from laughing.

I told them to come to Sunday dinner some time.  I’m sure that they would enjoy reading the green book. There has been a lot of stuff on the aikido list lately about what to do about knife-weilding attackers or people who can punch and kick really well.  Your idea about just running like a sumbitch the moment trouble is apparent shows your correct assessment of the modern landscape and proper self-defense.  I hereby promote you to the rank of pussy willow!  Flee with honor!  (Or at least flee with your life).

These dingbats actually believe that they are going to face down a knife fighter or a karate champ.  If worse came to worse and my exit were blocked, I would try to make the bad guy stumble or trip and then I would flee like a squirrel.  I would like to know the statistics about how many people are cut or shot as they run away.



Countess Melanie certainly didn’t belong in Peenpeen, but there was nobody around to tell her to leave.

God, I would love to face down my moral dilemmas and kick them right in the nuts. I can well imagine their little yellow and grey bodies writhing on the turf as they claw at their throats to get to their testicles….cause I would kick HARD.

This morning, the alarm interrupted an incredibly droll dream I was having about stacking plastic food containers and putting them in the cabinet.

A2 is off to San Antonio.  She borrowed A’s boots and cowgirl hat because she’s going to a ho-down.  Remember what you said about A2’s facile willingness to accept “forced entertainment?”  If you were going to a business meeting in another town where you would hang out with a bunch of strangers, would you ever take boots and a hat so that you could fit right in at the HO DOWN?  Spot the looney.

I have noticed that middle aged female students here at OU are usually stressed out and bitchy.  Maybe it’s because nobody wants them.  Older university students usually think anyone without a PhD who isn’t currently in college is an idiot.  Academia….as if.

It would be so great to just quit when the baby comes.  Maybe we could make that work, I don’t know.

sparkling against the blackness of the evening my own star struggles through the gassy miasma of deep space



waxy buildup,

“And, alas, my dear Gustav, I lie here on my deathbed, coughing my freaking lungs out, and you have never even given me a proper blow job.”–Kafka’s last words.

“Emily Dickinson….what a hack!”–Jack Ruby’s last words.

“I want to take the wishes of all those hopeless morons out there and transform them into a mystical fantasy forest.  And I’ll have a little cottage in the middle of the forest, and that’s where our innocence will live.  And then I’ll walk through the forest with a flamethrower and I’ll burn every single wish to the ground.  And then I’ll burn the cottage of innocence, too.  THAT would be heaven to me.”–Mother Theresa’s last words.

ah aint reedin’

stubborn mildew.



Surrounded by petulant losers, Franz slowly stuffed his handkerchief back into his breast pocket. The deliberateness of the motion sent the room full of stale Victorian Euro-trash into a fit of desperation.

An imperceptible vibration roused the Mugwumps.

“Oh FUCK, not again!” thought Franz.

In one frenetic moment the room became un-together and the ripping and screaming began.

Gallows were erected in every corner.

Bayonets were fixed.

Franz wept.

The Mugwumps opened their cello cases and produced an array of 24th century weaponry designed to control the bodily functions of others at a range of up to three miles. They had the HeartSplode 2000. They had the Orgasmaflux. They had the Vomiculator. They had four types of hamstring pullers. Cruciflex Home Exercisers were liberally distributed. Franz erected a shield and serpentined into the drawing room. Mildly narcotic secretions dripped from the chandeliers. Forty Brownshirts, all decked out in pink peignoir and black strap-on regalia, emerged from the kitchen. The Stooges began throwing pies.

Disgusted by the spectacle, Franz released the dobermans.


The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 2

by Mimimus 7 / M7


“I offer nothing but confusion.”–throwing muses

“Spank me!”–kafka

time after time we face a certain esprit d’etat when it comes to our illustrious holidays.  this state of being includes generous quantities of mysticism and cynicism and schism.  never forget that the surface is all there is to it.

“This world never gave me a chance, so I have become a chancre on this sorry world’s wilted penis.”–sartre

Today is the big holiday celebration at Goddard.  We call it a winter party or something equally innocuous so as not to offend anyone (most especially The Witness, who thinks we’re all pagans (I’m proud to be one)).  I hope I don’t get a double enema.  I gave out little bottles of lotion as gifts.  We were at Wal-Mart last night and at least 6 different types of massager (vibrator) were displayed prominently throughout the store as gift ideas.  By our check out line was a display of wet/dry massagers.  Fun in the tub, ladies!  Merry


“Winter Wonderland” is playing in our office.  I insert my own lyrics, of course.






A and I were talking at lunch today about how T just doesn’t seem happy anymore.  I also asserted that Anne’s attempts to get attention simply drive her male friends farther away from her. We all emotionally screwed up joe. Wracked with guilt maybe joe? Lonely and afraid to admit joe? Merry Christmas joe? Dark cloud of dispair hang over group head joe? Maybe not happy till spring joe.

M+T situation explode soon joe.

None of us seem to have any major diseases.

We all have nice places to live.

We all have cars which are capable of taking us all over the Americas.

We are all well insured.

None of us have spouses that regularly send us to the ER.

None of us is likely to watch a child starve in front of us.

We can all read rather well.

We all have access to the miracles of technology.

We rarely seem to work more than forty hours per week.

I guess humans will just create anything to be unhappy about.  What a bunch of whining ingrates we seem to be.

More vapid entertainment so you can create new things to be un-happy about!

One of the main tenets of Western Zen practice is that one should assiduously eliminate all drama from one’s life.

I never wanted to live a thirtysomething episode.

nihlism is better than nothing, i guess,




Today at work we had the mr. sun coloring contest.  Mine is best, of course, even though I did not draw the bunny of death on the surface of the sun.  No Enterprise neither.

My phrase for the day:  Maximally insignificant.

me cold yesterday, bundle up too much today, get hot

Another good phrase:  Miraculously unworthy.

For sol’s sake, e-mail or call A about your new car!  She wonders aloud every day why you haven’t let us know anything yet. We got our new car stereo yesterday.  It seems like a good deal. Nice sound, good price, etc.

We had our mr. sun coloring contest “to encourage the sun to come out.”  This is the basis for all religion.  All else is elaboration atop this concept.

Just think, so many people get unhappy or dead because of this silliness. If we had our coloring contest 3 or 4 times this year and the sun really did come out every time, a mythology would arise–the power of superstition would appear.  If some bastard came along and led the masses of us at just the right time…..that’s how it all begins.

Later, when the coloring contest failed to work, it would be because “mr. sun is angry.” Those who color best and seem to consistantly bring the sun (though they are probably just good weather forecasters, sitting down to color just before the fog clears) would form the priesthood.

Those who refused to color would be the heretics.  All of the true believers would bitch and moan that if only everyone would color mr. sun like the SUNBOOK says, the world would be just fine and mr. fog would be vanquished once and for all, sundammit! put it in your sung,

count buttula.



This morning I rolled out of bed and said “buh” with such force that car alarms were set off four miles away.

“I will let you down”–sugar ray, from LE JOUVENCEL–the exploits of Jean de Bueil, comrade of Joan d’Arc:

“Those who are not noble by descent are noble by the profession of arms they follow, which is noble in itself.  I tell you that as soon as a man-at-arms has a helmet on his head, he is noble, noble enough to fight a king.  Arms ennoble a man, whoever he may be.”

This was all before guns, of course.

Are guns ennobling?

Is ANY weapon ennobling?

If so, then nobility is quite cheap nowadays.

In de Bueil’s time, a broadsword and helmet would cost the equivalent of $12,000 in today’s currency.  So, Billy Bob de Chacon wasn’t going to le Wal Mart and buying a weapon for the equivalent of a week’s pay, as he does today.

Broadswords don’t kill people, people kill people.

At least in that time, it wasn’t so easy.  First, you had to catch them, then you had to hack them down.  So maybe it was a bit ennobling.  Probably, to kill somebody with a broadsword you had to be relatively sober, unlike today where guns and booze/drugs are a very deadly combination.

When I was 12, I had loaded weapons pointed at me twice.  I was lucky to survive.  I didn’t see the wielder as noble. Peasant in shit fields looks up just in time to see member of the King’s Constabulary run his wife through with a hand and a half sword.  Peasant’s last thought as sword turns on him:  “How noble he is!”

I guess the perception on nobility has everything to do with which side of the blade you are facing.





File along the facade of the beach.  Propagate facile misunderstandings and hurtful dalliances.  Push it all down in some sort of horrid backhanded fashion.

Quickly now!  Bring this drama to its crashing end!

The accusations, the tears, the dust of the future swept outside.

Of course, it couldn’t end with a bang.  It only gets fretfully whittled away by whimper after whimper after whimper.  A house divided by whimpers and by grunts of stolen ecstasy cannot stand.

Another shard of hell on earth–when lovers decide to destroy each other.

Adultress and Cuckold sittin’ in a tree, H-I-S-S-I-N-G.

As I’ve said before, I never wanted to live an episode of thirtysomething….nor do I want to watch anyone else live that episode.





almost maroon, really….

Some days, I feel as if I might pass out from the sheer exuberance of our (b)anal celebrations, little celebrations each day poking up through the mesh our higher dream downtrodden, forbidden, taboo out of the mud, came a great shout it became louder as mire was cleared from the shouter’s mouth a sputter… then, clearly “Pick me up!”

I eagerly waded into the filth to rescue my forgotten hero.  Across the slog I flew. Soon, I came upon that familiar face his mailman’s uniform was barely recognizable under the mud but, yes, it was Charlie, my imaginary friend, who I had not seen for 25 years

“Get me outta here!” he cried.

I pulled his hollow body out of the sucking filth; he was lighter than ever…. I threw him over my shoulder and worked my way to the nearest dry patch

I murmured “my treasure” as I hosed him off. Soon, he was sparkling–as mud clings only loosely to imagination.

“Let’s get to work, kid!” he said as he donned his postman’s hat.

The above was Canto #53 from Miminus Seven’s masterwork,

"I want it, I want it, I want it, I want it (you can't have it)"
“I want it, I want it, I want it, I want it (you can’t have it)”


In M7’s poem, Charlie the imaginary friend simultaneously represents the inner child and the superego.  M7 finds both concepts to be savage and deplorable. How can one person have all of these complexes or personalities within them?  It smacks of demonic posession!  M7 lumps Freud and

Jung in with the “witch doctors” of Sierra Leone.  Both groups, psychoanalysts and witch doctors, have their useless talismans.

One gets the feeling that by rescuing the imaginary friend from the muck, one has actually disinterred Satan. SHARDS OF HELL has stylistic similarities to Tom Waits’ brilliant BONE MACHINE, which could easily be entitled SHARDS OF HELL itself.

Vignettes from BONE MACHINE include a man who everybody fears, a man who attempts suicide, the murderous cover-ups of a rural town, a parolee who drives out west to star in movies, a drunk who proclaims, “Jesus gonna be here soon”, a man who swears he’ll leave his hometown but he never does, and an affair with a wanton woman.

Thus, every track is about someone’s personal hell.

Satan… if.

Knowledge is a pitfall, bring your grappling hook.

hell, hell, i hate that smell, everyone there has something to sell

hell, hell, downward i fell, forevermore i have this story to tell

hell, hell, i can hear the bell…as i fall farther i begin to yell

Even the tiniest speck of dust can make a big man sneeze.

Someday, my words will get out into the world and trash the whole immune system.  When anyone asks “What is your writing style?”  I will say, “RETROVIRUS!”


“Satan always likes to have some turds laying around.”–bahthed




the naked butt of doctor 13 is broken     it has a crack in it

I would like to get a business license from the plutocratical bureaucracy and open a shoppe which is designed from the beginning to fail.  The store would be called  UNFILTERED MONKEY EXCREMENT and I would practice truth in advertising.

New grocery store product sticker:  NOW ASBESTOS FREE!! I also want to get stickers which say FAT FREE and put them exclusively on non-food items like bug spray and diapers.

“The contemporary economy must be stopped.  We must push this anti-christ into space before it devours every decent one of us.” -Trillian Drood, address to Rotarian Club of Overland Park, Kansas.

“Every product or service that is the result of your influence is a petal in the great sunflower of our eventual destruction.  Death, as it were, is created by each one of us, every day, by our busy little monkey hands and our busy little monkey minds.” -Trillian Drood,  ON THE CUSP OF DERANGEMENT, pg 842.

“The problem, you see, boils down to money.  Until you recognize that, you are all a bunch of fucking idiots.” -Trillian Drood, Letter to UN Security Council.

“I know of no scholar of religion that has made this point before, but have you ever considered that every major religious movement since the time of Rama has insisted that the adept remove himself or herself from the clutches of the local economy?  Buddhist monks still travel with no possessions nor pockets in which to store possessions. The Hindu devotee feels compelled to burn herself upon a pyre if she comes into physical contact with money.  When you hear the word “monk” does wealth come to mind?  The early Christians were encouraged to give all of their possessions to the poor.  They wanted to travel as lightly as possible so that their ascent would be all the more rapid.  Now, two thousand years later, money IS God.  We are all inexorably tied to the production of wealth and we are all committed to dragging the few innocents who are left down with us.” -Trillian Drood, PAINFUL SYMMETRY:  THE AGONY OF WEALTH, pg. 1207.

“In my previous work, I had decried the human qualities of greed, fear, and insecurity as they relate to our modern world economy.  I have blamed us for every heresy from the destruction of the rainforests to the inescapable ennui of modern urban existence.

These evils still exist, but I have now reformed my thinking.  The problem is not within humanity itself, but in the evil reality of money.  I have stumbled upon a truth that is so pervasive as to be transparent as air.  THE TRUTH:  Money itself is the evil and we are but its servants.  Humanity is but the vector for money/wealth/economy which is a SPECIES UNTO ITSELF.  Money is as alive as you or me.  Money is evil.  We are but its all-too-grateful pawns.  We have been duped and it is high time we rise up and slay the dragon.”–Trillian Drood, THE ELIMINATRIX, from the introduction.

“Junk meets trash in a chemical kiss, TV poison tastes like this.” -Jesus and Mary Chain.




“He worships god with acid.”–dad can dance {“Dead” Can Dance}

Many questions come to mind recently.

Can a technology or an idea be inherently evil?

        examples:  guns, communism, computers, TV

Are we being systematically numbed and dumbed by the extant media?

Are symbol and reality equivalent?

Are idea and execution equivalent?

What is the relevance of art?

Does the term “reality” have any inherent dialogical value?

Is anything not subjective?

Do the answers to questions matter more than the honest process of developing answers?

Is life bad for us? in the best tradition of a grandiose corpse,




There is no cause for a snit.

We were forewarned, but we simply don’t remember it once we are born.

Lately my life has been one depressing theater of mucous transport.

I’m thick…I mean sick.

“I wanna die just like JFK.  I wanna die on a sunny day.” -jesus/mary/chain

My coworker has been playing her radio lately.  I don’t know what station she plays, but that Bette Midler “Hero” song is on about once every two hours.  They have lots and lots of Chicago as well.  suck.

If only the drunk old hermit by the lake would remain a hermit, then everything would be OK.

It was a store much like any other.  Fritz was constantly glazing his donut in the back room.  The dinging often interrupted him.

Lately…many visions of pulling pins and casually tossing grenades through open car windows.

Shrapnel only hurts if you are convinced of your own concreteness.





Ingrates, one and all.  They tussle with the gristle.  While they chew away, they have their eyes closed so that they don’t get grease in the eye.  Because their eyes are closed, they are blind and stupid.  Because they have gristle clasped in their teeth, their words come out twisted and unintelligible.

They try me.

Never pontificate for real, OK?  It should always just be a big joke.

You know about photography, but I never hear you go on and on about it.  For the amateurish or the dilettante, they live to talk about a bunch of stuff that they have never REALLY experienced.  But, a guy like you, who has done it, who KNOWS the perfect shutter speed for shooting horrible accidents on an overcast January morning…you have done it, no need to ramble on.  As Lao Tsu  states again and again in Tao Te Ching, those who can’t DO, speak about it and those who DO keep their fucking mouths shut.

Chattering away like a squirrel monkey,




“Ashes to ashes, funk to funky, Vyv is now a video head and Neil’s wearing a dress because some really serious negative vibe merchant boarded up his bedroom.  Only pop music can save them now.” –The Young Ones

My, my, but every single episode of The Young Ones was totally brilliant.  Even just reading the scripts on the internet is a riot. I am constantly at war with non-team players.  Fuck them.  From an evolutionary standpoint, the non-team player gets run down by the pack of wolves.  The alpha male gets to do the non-team player up the ass as the alpha female rips the ntp’s throat out.

Wolves are just like that sometimes.

More bad music all day.  Much Kenny G.  Much Chicago.  Much Air Supply.  Every single fucking song off of Dirty Dancing.  Every day, the same 40 or 50 songs.  How can my cute little co-worker be so shallow?  Perhaps it’s time for Loudass Martin’s Memorial Nine Inch Nails Marathon Blow-Out.  My god, the music on this station is horrible.  How can such bad art propagate?  Shouldn’t the weak fall by the wayside?

The bad thing about money is that it allows the shallow and the weak to influence the course of evolution.  Wealth does not equal fitness!

I’ve been in a kick-ass mood lately.  I’ve just been hoping for some buttwipe to mouth off to me.  I want to throw consequences to the wind and cause some damage.

Many people think that the martial arts-especially aikido-foster a peaceful attitude.  It is true that good training will actually reduce the aggressiveness of most people.  This is simply because we recognize that the taunts of nebbishes are small kimchi and small kimchi is not worth sweating over (unless it has been buried in the back yard for too long).

But, few of us are pacifists.  I can’t imagine many of the high- ranking practitioners I know backing down from a fight.  They don’t pick fights, but when pushed, they will wreck the buttwipe and his ugly dog, too.

The REAL deal is that we learn to ethically maim and slaughter and then return to a semblance of normal life without any PTSD or Vietnam Vet syndrome, etc.

Did I tell you that my Dad got a DUI after pulling onto hwy. 99 even though another person’s vehicle was occupying the space he was trying to pull in to?  He might be jailed for a while.  What a hack.  Just like that fucking Möbius.

When I bitch and moan about drunks and alcoholism and driving, etc., if someone complains that I don’t understand, or that I should be more compassionate,…..well….fuck them too.

umpteen and broomshankar, comrade,

the damned.



Are our cycles not maddening?  Should our struggle be to escape these cycles, or to decorate them and shore them up as one would an old house? Is the function of art to pry us loose from the everydayness or to wallpaper over the rougher spots in our old drafty house?

Will people still buy blank paper journals 50 years from now? I think that much of art in the last few decades has been focused on prying humans loose from the everydayness….of expanding boundaries, etc.  Unfortunately, much of this has devolved into whining a la Andy Worhol, Robert Smith, Anne Rice, Trent Reznor.

I believe that we need to stop trying to find ourselves!  Here we are!  It doesn’t take decades to figure this out.  I am tired of art–pop or otherwise–which is nothing but a snapshot of the inside of the artist’s mind.  Of course I realize that it can be no other way.

All art must be subjective…the artist can only produce from his or her OWN viewpoint.

But, art has devolved to the point where the artist puts inner thoughts and feelings into the medium and then DARES the audience or the consumer to try and figure it out.  It seems that the modern artist is the equivalent of the teenager who sits sobbing in her room, crying “You just don’t understand me!”

Perhaps there are many who are expressive about a larger section of humanity or of the universe but these artists are simply not popular–not seen, not heard, not considered, dying unknown, only to be discovered a century later and declared a clarion call of the new order which will also eventually become twisted, stale, and annoying.

In modern architecture, edifices are built to be appreciated while driving on the freeway at 70 mph.  Of course, on a human scale, close up, these buildings are supremely ugly.  I contend that almost everything else in our society is built to be enjoyed in the car or from the car at 70 mph.

2 things:

“Specialization is for insects.”–Robert Heinlein (sp?)

I just read in the book you bought me about a gas station in Iowa that has a tiny corn patch between the gas pumps.  They grow corn there every year, on a space the size of an ironing board.  People come from miles around to see it.  A grillion acres of corn all around and people are attracted to this *representation* of an Iowa corn field in an odd location.  This is certainly high art.

I think that we have seriously underestimated the importance of lifeSTYLE.

“The more the technique of painting improves, the weaker our eyes get.  The instrument damages the organs.”–Kafka, by janouch





Found in a bog down by my new home

    a source

It may be slimy, but I think

    that the micronutrients make

    all of the

    retching worthwhile

Best of all,

    it’s Cruelty Free!

(Except for the consumer

who is treated

rather cruelly indeed)


“It wasn’t designed to cut human flesh.”–a thought I had about 10 minutes ago as I gazed at an X-acto knife in that art supply shop next to Misal of India.

Perhaps if we typed up all the junk that spews out of our heads and hands, photocopied it, and sent it to random addresses around the world, a greater good would be served.

The world is my scapegoat.  I shall not flaunt.

The problem is that most people want money for what they produce.

Whatever happened to creating for the greater glory of god\s?

A grand exposition of what the power of the ego is woefully incapable of accomplishing.  (my current definition of modern culture)

Grand ideas are rarely fueled by full stomachs.  This is why the most powerful and relevant work arises from the second and third world, or the backwaters and ghettos of the industrialized West.  Also, the immigrant/outsider living within the belly of a country like the US can do great things because he or she is hungry and at a skewed angle from the flow of the herd.

K. didn’t “belong” in Praha.

N. didn’t “belong” in Switzerland.

Adams didn’t “belong” in New Mexico.

Conrad didn’t “belong” in Africa or W. Europe.

London didn’t “belong” in Alaska.

Hemingway didn’t “belong” in Spain.

Burroughs didn’t “belong” in New York or Tangiers or….Interzone.

Jews will often become great because they don’t “belong” more often than any other people.

I have often found it strange that, as a whole, Vietnam vets didn’t fare better as artists, poets, philosophers, prognosticators, priests.  Perhaps we concentrated too much on the Americanization of Vietnam and too little on the Vietnamization of GI JOE.  Of course, the average vet probably saw no reason to learn a damn thing from the natives.  One would think that a significant number of them would have integrated some portion of the experience into a creative venue. But, they have been encouraged so much to forget.

A sparkle of faith. If one thinks that one’s output if bad because nobody seems to like it, then it is time to withdraw. If one does not care who likes, who hates it is time to forge ahead.

apply pressure,




…on the other hand, those arts which are indigenous or home grown are often considered as well.  Even though the “rooted” artist may not have travelled to exotic lands, this does not mean that the artist in his or her own gravity well is not a wanderer.  When we move beyond the level of clan culture (where everyone is an artist) to civilization (where artists are separated), we find that the artist undertakes certain vices or disciplines to enact a separation between the artist and the society at large.

Thus, we have the birth of subculture.  Artistic subculture feeds upon the energy, the funds, and the leftovers of the culture at large.  In the 19th and 20th centuries, artistic subcultures are aligned against, yet dependant upon, the bourgeoisie.

In the more “primitive” culture, the artist will undergo certain disciplines or rites which will allow him or her to enter the artistic mindset.  In the more “advanced” culture, within the bosom of modern civilization, the artist will undergo sexual practices and patterns of drug and alcohol use which will forever separate him or her from society at large.  All of this can be done without ever leaving home.


In fact, everything that we undertake is for the purpose of furthering our illusions.

So why DO anything?

I suppose that illusion is just our birthright.

Well, it’s Jesus Awareness Week, and boy are my arms tired!

it’s a free concert now

Perhaps TV is the equivalent of dropping one’s trousers, bending over at the waist, and spreading one’s cheeks apart.





frottage:  rubbing up against somebody (usually in a crowd) as a means of obtaining sexual pleasure.  A person displaying this sexual deviation is called a frotteur. proctalgia:  pain in the rectum or anus.  In proctalgia fugax severe pain suddenly affects the rectum and may last for minutes or hours; attacks may be days or months apart.  There is no structural disease and the pain is probably due to muscle spasm.  Relief is sometimes obtained from a bowel movement, inserting a finger into the rectum, or from a hot bath. logorrhea:  a rapid flow of voluble speech, often with incoherence, such as encountered in mania.

so much can go wrong,




A brand new DAWN….another spin on the axis.

Frozen Hippie Man slowly eases out of his Microbus.

I am infatuated by F.H.M. now.  I can’t stop thinking about him, picturing him, piercing the density of hash-addled consciousness, fingering his hemp sandals, tuning his guitar, combing his beard…..

Frozen Hippie Man has created a very tasty cannabis granola for breakfast.

Frozen Hippie Man owns a bong made from the hollowed-out skull of an 18th century Tibetan Lama.

Frozen Hippie Man owns an original script of THE TRIP signed by Peter Fonda.

Frozen Hippie Man calls everyone “man” whether they are male or female, human or not.

Frozen Hippie Man spent the Reagan years in Copenhagen.

“Jimi Hendrix pissed on that.”–Neil, The Young Ones

pootius rex.



Frozen Hippie Man wasn’t at Woodstock, but he thinks he was.

Frozen Hippie Man was in Chicago during the 1968 Democratic Convention.  He doesn’t remember being clubbed in the head by a mounted policeman, but he does remember the exact taste and smell of the weed he scored off of a Black Panther trying to raise enough bread for bus fare back to Pittsburgh, MAN.

Frozen Hippie Man was a roadie for BTO.

When Frozen Hippie Man was a film student at Cal Berkeley, he did a paper on the differences in perception between watching THE BICYCLE THIEF while stoned on hash versus watching it while tripping on LSD.

Frozen Hippie Man tried cocaine, once.  He found it “way too, like, un-mellow, man.”

Frozen Hippie Man is this nation’s most important repository of cannabis brownie recipes.

Frozen Hippie Man remembers every detail of each of the 8,497 places he has ever stashed his weed.

Frozen Hippie Man is a lactose-intolerant vegetarian.

Frozen Hippie Man has gotten his ass kicked many times in his life, but he makes up for it by screwing a lot of skanks who would do nearly anything for a joint.

Frozen Hippie Man never wears a condom.

In a certain light, Frozen Hippie Man bears a striking resemblance to Jesus Christ.

Frozen Hippie Man was the lighting director for the 1977 production of HAIR staged in Bozeman, Montana.

—-You know, this is getting depressing.  I’m making up this character who is a complete loser but he’s had a more interesting life than I have!


The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 1

By Minimus 7 / M7


replicants all around me, where is Deckard when we need him?

tongue of silver, heart of pain

I have escaped my fear of MEANING.  It was about time.  It is so difficult to lose the fear of a thing which doesn’t even exist.

Existence implies effect….except when you watch TV…..then you leave nary a ripple……remote controlled nirvana……extinction with the stab of a {POWER} key.

Mercury may have been debunked as a cure for syphilis but one must admit that the mercury poisoning takes the mind off of the lesions.

I held the squirrel to my ear but I did not hear the ocean.

I am weary of serving this society.

Make new friends, but keep the old one is silver and the other gold; pile up friends around your feet because we can never have too many friends so don’t lose old friends, but seek new ones too!  we must be surrounded by as many people as possible until we have to take up the axe and just start swinging because too many friends just pisses a guy off, you know?!!!  the song implies NO limit to the number of friends!  what shallow cunt penned this idiocy?

i have to get out of here,

hugh japrick.



What the hell does cotton-eyed mean?  It sounds frankly disgusting. Perhaps cotton-eyed Joe is a hillbilly code word for the male pee hole (meatus).

the fiddle, the banjo, the washboard, the shotgun, glistening puddles of inbred gore

Lucky me, Nerdlinger has called me twice today.  He is just as charming on the phone as he is in person.

There are somewhere near 1 million aikido practitioners in the world. According to an article I read the other day, there are only about 15,000 jodo practitioners in the world.  I found this shocking as I thought that there were more.  Also, I’m sure that the great majority of these 15,000 actually have aikido, karate-do, or kendo as their main art.

The reason that this number disturbs me is that I instantly formulated the following list of categories which include more than 15,000 people in the US alone:

  • charismatic snake handlers
  • private owners of one or more grenade launchers
  • people who have had sex with an animal in the last week
  • people in jail for killing with their bare hands
  • doctors who specialize in cosmetic surgery
  • homeless bemedalled veterans

Now, I would love to take these homeless bemedalled vets and teach them jodo.  Maybe they won’t get roughed up in the parks and alleys of America if they can shove a four foot length of oak up some punk’s ass.  (Officer, it’s just my walking stick!)  As a colleague of Joan of Arc said, arms automatically ennoble a man to where they will fight even a king!

It’s OK to have a low number of people doing jo.  I don’t think it’s in any danger of fading away.  But, it sure doesn’t hold the average person’s interest as aikido does.  Aikido lends itself to fantasies of taking out five thugs in some parking lot.  Jodo is so close to real combat (psychologically) that no fantasies are necessary.  Old martial arts (koryu) did not necessarily develop training methods which were intended to expose the student to a wide range of battlefield scenarios.  They did, however, develop specific ways of psychologically preparing the warrior for close-quarters combat.  Let me tell you, having a big piece of wood hurtling at my face only to stop a centimeter from my eye provides a big pucker factor. Plus the times I have actually been hit have only been light accidental taps–and they hurt like hell!

So, this psychological factor of facing naked danger in every practice tends to discourage the faint of heart.  What a rush, though!

“Those guys are fags!”–Jeff Spicoli

In my case, I’m not sure which particular guys those may be, but generally, they are the ones who are always going on about combat reality and street fighting although they would wet their pants upon seeing a fist clenched in anger or a large man with a knife.  In other words, dilettantes, dabblers, and blowhards. The true way is the way which cannot be spoken.



As I was walking back from lunch, a big noise erupted out of the sky and lo and behold there was a B-1 bomber flying overhead.  It was travelling West–on it’s way to wipe Hawaii off of the map, I’m sure.

Yesterday I rode right past Nerdlinger as I biked home.  He was walking toward me, definitely saw me and did not say anything or make move one when I said hello.  He completely dissed me!  Then, about 40 minutes later, I was lying on my living room floor reading Pascal Krieger’s outstanding jodo book when the cordless next to me rang.  I picked it up and the voice said, “Hello David, it’s me.”  I expected him to tell me how he didn’t recognize me in my sunglasses or some such, but he didn’t mention snubbing me at all.

Instead, he said, “Are you busy?”  I said, “Yes, why?”  He said, “I just wanted to talk to somebody about my relationship with M, other than her, of course.”  I should have said “what relationship?” but instead I said, “Well, A and I are about to leave for OKC, so I won’t be able to talk with you.”

Of course, the above can’t convey the shakiness in his 8th grade demeanor or the long uncomfortable pauses he insists on inserting into phone conversations.  I’m getting very tired of him.  I’m beginning to entertain cruel fantasies.  I invite them into my hotel room and get them drunk so that they will reveal their terrible secrets.

He’s like a limping, confused baby antelope on the savannah.  He lies down and hangs his slobbering head.  I am a black fuzzy spider.  I climb to the top of a grass blade and leap two feet onto the antelope’s neck.  I sink my fangs in, injecting an unknown-to-science venom which combines the best attributes of Botulism, Rift Valley Fever, and Colon Blow Disease.  I do this not to feed upon him, for I prefer snails.  I do this as a part of the planetary immune system.

The foreign entity was spotted and I was sent by the grocer to deliver the bill.  The buzzards are circling.





“I’m going all the way down, I’m leaving today.”–nin

A called me Tuesday night, after her surgery.  She said it went well and the most uncomfortable part was the tickle as they would brush past her eyelashes.  I got a message from N last night that she had talked to A after the day-after check-up.  N said that A’s vision tests at 20/20 now!

This is going to be weird.  I’m expecting her to walk up to me in the airport, squint, and then say, “I thought you were better looking.”

I guess I have lost part of my relationship identity as “the good-sighted one.”  No more hilarious mistakes like “chicken bouquet.”

And, you are right, it is quite awesome when one considers that we can just “fix” a person’s vision now.  Later, I’m sure that the cost of the procedure will fall and many more people will take advantage of it.  A is going to bring us before and after topographical maps of her cornea.

I get the feeling that my subconscious is chewing on some sort of important information and that at some point a nugget of wisdom will shuffle out onto the dimly-lit stage of my consciousness without fanfare.  I have a recurring visual and somatic image of a whipping type of sword cut that begins behind the head combined with a simultaneous lowering of the body by bending the knees.  It just started up a couple of days ago, and I feel/see it several hundred times a day.  I have copied the action physically, but I haven’t gotten rid of the spectre.

It is interesting to note that most medieval schools of Japanese martial arts were started when the founder retired to a shinto temple until he had a vision or a revelation which showed him the central principle of the school. In some cases, warriors went up on a mountain and received instruction from Tengu, or mountain goblins. In the case of the old system that we are involved in, the Shinto Muso Ryu, the founder, Gonnosuke Muso, went up a mountain to a temple and ensconced himself there for 36 days.  He then had a vision where an angelic youth gave him a message about the end of a log, which he interpreted to be an instruction regarding the jo-a four foot staff.

The exact message is unclear and can be interpreted in several different ways.  In any case, this recurring feeling/vision which I have been having could be interpreted as a vision from beyond if I were in the medieval mindset.  The problem is, what the hell does it mean?  I think it has something to do with the hips and gravity.  The fun part is, after I start my own martial tradition, I get to travel around and prove its worth through training sessions and duels with warriors of other traditions–this is called MUSHA SHUGYO.

Though they rub their legs together, it is still called singing.




fallopian and wandering

a lusty finger

a flick of dried mucus

there stood the dream

outlined in purple

there was no escaping it

my viewpoints were a-titter

a chattering bird,

a pontificating monkey

and a moist beaver

walk into the bar

all heads smash to the floor

from the rapid decompression

caused by the complete evacuation

of any sanity from the room

a round of mescaline

on the house.

lapdog of proletariat,




gutless isotopes and wandering jews do not a subculture make

“Step inside.  Surprise!  Lies!”–nin

no surprise at all to me, Trent.  i guess it rhymes ok, though

Enormous dogs taking a dump with bright red erection, by anonymous.
Enormous dogs taking a dump with bright red erection, by anonymous.

Well, since so many have made such a tremendous pretense of knowing what they are talking about, now we can’t tell who the wise people are.  I think that they all got fed up and went back to Geidi Prime.


by Buttmaster Ingrid

I sing the body fantastic

    no room for error

    a delicate operation

There is no perversion

    all flesh is equal

    only the accelerated fist is rabid

There is no Law

    sentient rules are by nature shallow

    only the wind way abides

There is no disgust

    who can be embarassed once dead?

    the water mingles freely with the Earth and the Sky

There is no preference

    all orifices are equal

    all flesh may quiver

Multiple portals abound

    holes are meant to be filled

    the body is rife with protrusion

Of course, in the original dialect of the 38th Dynasty, it is quite a bit more beautiful and lyrical.

When we were driving home last night, we ran into many bugs.  A said, “all these bugs commiting suicide….country bugs will never make it to the city.”





“And I didn’t even need to stop.  I just kept on going.”–hendrix

Herbert had no preconceptions about the details of his demise. The only fact that he needed to entertain was that he was definitely going to die and that it was definitely going to be painful.

When he had awoken in his small pink cell on this ubiquitous spring morning, he had no idea whether this was, in fact, to be the day.  Prisoners never knew when their numbers were up.  They only realized that they were doomed.

Herbert had been dragged out of bed about three weeks before by the leather-clad JP–the Joy Police.  Some of their full-length leather jumpsuits were teal, some were canary, all were festive.  The member of the JP who stood over Herbert’s bed as he groggily sat up happened to be wearing a lime green jumpsuit with wide epaulets.

“Good Morning!” the cheery bastard lisped nellily.  Then Herbert had a large sack thrown over his head and he woke up in his brightly lit pink cell. Little had happened since then.

He got three meals a day, two showers a week, and all of the TV he wanted–in fact the huge screen in his cell could not be turned off or muted, though Herbert could switch the channels.  Herbert had not received a hearing or trial of any kind, though every citizen knew that the Joy Police never packed anyone off to detention unless ordered to do so by BS, Bliss Sentral.  Every citizen also knew that no one ever emerged from the huge detention block at the edge of the city complex.  Herbert knew that all of his friends and his coworkers would have simply written him off as a goner, though there was no stigma attached to being arrested, as it seemed to be an act of nature rather than a deterrent.

When Herbert saw the door to his cell swing open and a Member of the Sanctified Organ step in, he knew that this was to be the day. The Sanctified Organ was a state-controlled group which ground religion down to its essence.  There was only one ritual within the Sanctified Organ and this was simply known as “The Ritual.”  Nobody ever witnessed The Ritual outside of a state sponsored church other than those who were to be executed in the detention block.

The Ritual simply consisted of the Member raising her right arm to the sky, pointing her left arm to the ground, looking Herbert in the eye, and intoning in a freakish Southern drawl, “You are sinner.  You are forgiven.  Enjoy Paradise after death.”  Then two JP’s led Herbert down a long brightly-lit hall with inclined cement walls, so that Herbert felt like he was walking on the floor of a huge artificial valley.

Herbert and the guards reached the end of the valley where he was escorted into a tubular chamber.  There, he was stripped and strapped to a rack-like device, face down.  The steel rack had a slight tilt so that Herbert’s tush was a bit more elevated than his head.

A viewscreen descended from the ceiling until it stopped directly in Herbert’s line of vision.  When the screen popped to life, he could see the feed from a camera behind him as two JP’s attached a clamp device to Herbert’s buttocks that caused his cheeks to be widely spread.

Herbert shivered as the cold steel caressed his bottom.

When the clamps were firmly in place, the viewscreen showed that a large pair of laser crosshairs were being calibrated and targeted directly on the center of his anus.  Once they were aligned, the viewscreen showed an array of nine objects.

As all of the JP’s left the chamber and sealed the door behind them, Herbert heard a voice over the intercom which somehow seemed to boom and lilt at the same time.  The voice said, “The sacred number of the State is NINE!  NINE be BLESSED!  Our luxury is NINE!  Herbert, there are nine objects on the viewscreen.  Choose only one.  Indicate your choice through verbalization.  NINE!!”

After looking at rotating three-dimensional representations of the rocking chair, the baseball bat, the abacus, the wine bottle, the watermelon, the cat, the roll of barbed wire, the anchor, and the tractor tire for a few more moments, Herbert loudly announced “Watermelon!”

When the word “watermelon” escaped his mouth, Herbert saw a huge door slide away in front of him. By looking in the viewscreen, he saw that he was being provided a live feed of a similar door sliding away to his rear.  It now seemed to Herbert that the tubular chamber was actually only a small part of a giant tube which extended as far as he could see fore and aft.  He continued to watch the viewscreen as a series of images kept repeating themselves.  Herbert soon grew to understand that the “tube” he was in was actually a giant hollow ring far under the earth.  This donut under the ground seemed to be hundreds of miles in diameter.

Suddenly, 20 meters in front of the viewscreen, a large watermelon dropped into the tube and hung motionless in mid-air.  As Herbert watched the new images on the viewscreen, he began to piece it all together.  Finally he understood that he was inside a giant mass accelerator and that the mass of the chosen object would shoot around, accelerating until it reached fantastic speed until it encountered its target, which was currently pinioned under the ruby crossbeams of the targeting laser.

Herbert followed the now blank viewscreen with his eyes as it slowly ascended into the ceiling once again.  Amazingly quickly, the watermelon shot away and was out of sight.  Just as Herbert was about to scream “Why!?”, his query was silenced by the thunk of melon merging with its target.

blooded hands,




An ampule of vitriol fell off of the shelf.

The smell of wormwood filled the room.

Reeling with absinthe, I stumble into the rectory.

All of the doors are locked, but I just float on through.

Bloody Scythian poetry dribbles from my lips.

A Dybbuk is crouching in a dense corner.

I explained Nerdlinger’s particulars to Yvonne last night: never had a girlfriend, 29, lives in dorm, teaching asst., sample phone conversation, posture, corporeal proximics.

I never called him a name or presented any info that might sway her eventual independently-arrived-at conclusion that he is a complete loser.

Why don’t you describe his poetry to me?  Does it explain why he is so clinging and pushy about your opinion of it? This guy is like 20 times the deep social idiot that Nietzsche was.

mum in her couth,




the still air of an ancient cave is no place to make cabbage rolls

The Gay Junkie Fisting Scene of Santiago, Chile:

Raul had no morals, as he was raised by three old junkies gathered around the rotting corpse of latino fascism.  He had been hustling for food, for money, for attention since he before he could talk. Raul had entertained all of the scams, haunted all of the tourist vistas.  But, today, all of that would recede.

Chichi was her name, but not just because she had big tits.  She had long black curly locks and a rancorous demeanor.  She could cook dope in her sleep and she had never seen a fist she couldn’t swallow with any of three glorious holes.  Ironically, the oral one was the most dangerous.

Lindo always wore white.  His smoothly shaven face allowed full viewing of the numerous small scars on his face.  Feline cunnilingus is not without its dangers.

Esteban captured it all.  In the opinion of others, he was a poet, but to himself he was simply a biographer, a historian, a journalist. Others saw his work as poetry because his opiate-addled consciousness could not express itself in any straight manner.  The sinuous turns of phrase which he employed were quite bland to him, searingly beautiful to others.

Manuel Vega had made his way to junkyville from some Ecuadorian backwater.  As soon as he hit town, he set up a divided-tent glory hole on the edge of a shithole barrio.  He was excellent at his craft, and the pesos came rolling in, but his life never went anywhere because the algebra of need dictated that he invest every peseta he made in a complex and well-defined smack habit.  He wouldn’t even buy food for himself.  The doctors at the free clinic who examined Manuel once a month told him that he only survived because the massive quantities of semen he consumed were full of protein and vitamin C.

Mariela DeRosa had been a fine young woman until the first time her lover Gloria had tied rubber tubing around her arm.  After that, she lived for the fix.  She was usually too dry for her customers, so she could have been the poster girl for “el K-Y.”

floatation crevice,




“Covered in Coke and Vaseline, still cannot fix this broken machine.” -nin

There are advantages to being an incognate blunderfist.  For starters, one never need be bothered by the itching followed by the creasing followed by the oozing.

Fourth of all, there is no sex like the sex one has with Jesus.

We should calculate, in calories, the amount of mental energy each one of us spends sublimating, redirecting or simply holding back anger.

What kind of psychological damage has it done to me when I didn’t chase down that car that almost ran over me and rip the fenders off of it?  By how many years has my life been shortened because I didn’t swing a pickaxe through the heads of every one of those fucks who certainly deserved it?  I have sacrificed for this failed society and I am weary.

I tire of nebbishes slinging pebbles at me.

At one point I must shrug.

sparkle diligently,




A fine mist caresses the greater nuances of the edge-urban sprawl.  A body of geniuses unites and they decide on peppermint.  Tamarinds whorl with delight.





Instead of inflicting any more damage, Ronald decided to give up his thriving insect eradication business in order to concentrate on more sublime affairs–such as the one he was currently having with Nancy the Priestess.

It’s like a blade that simply cannot be dulled.  As for the wide open gashes, well, what can I say other than “apply pressure”?

Loping along merrily, Theodore saw only those colors which screamed the brightest.  He brought his huge hammer fist whistling through the air where it connected with absolutely nothing other than the ass end of his dulled perceptions.  Every day, he stalked around under the I-40 overpass looking for lost cultures in abandoned aluminum.  Once, he found a cracked Timex.  Theodore knew that it wasn’t working, but he took great pleasure in walking into various establishments within the rotted shell of DownTown, laying his gaze lovingly on the cracked face of his treasure, and loudly announcing that the time was “thirteen o’ fuckin’ clock.”  Lately, though, he had stayed out of the local businesses as his pants-dropping maneuver in the local Taco Hell had not gone over so well.  He had been warned.

Don’t worry.  It’ll all be OK.  I won’t make anyone read the crazy words if they don’t want to.  “You are free to do what we say.”  “Do not question.”  “Your excursions into unauthorized areas are not appreciated.”  “Please feel at liberty to peruse the offerings of the new Fall Season–there should be plenty there to keep you occupied.”

“Refrain from introspection, inspection, retrospection, or elocution on fringe subjects.”  “YOU ARE FREE TO DO WHAT WE SAY.”

this is the point,



st. regis of cunt lick county,

“I have no faith that keeps me from tasting the joys of the world.” -mary my hope

Driven to some sort of technocratic extreme, Impulse Sintral decided that all of the open land shall be sterilized and that all food shall henceforth be naturally hydroponic.

I told my office mates about the “now semen free” and the “microwavable!” food product decals.  They thought it was cool! I think another good decal would be to shrink the image you have pasted in the green notebook and have a motto under it which says “William S. Burroughs approved!”

How the FUCK are we gonna tear this sunbitch down?  Will decals and rude noises do the trick?  Mainstream water sports?  Massive crack habits fed by bestial fisting?  We need a reverse neutron weapon which destroys all the industry and structure but leaves the people standing.  On the other hand….. some dumbass’ll just build it all again.

some folks’ll,

st. lemuel of reacharoundshire.



michelle controls Sputnik

i am humbled

sky controller

is high priestess

one day, perhaps,

a failed Vulcan death grip

will force her to dangerously

re align orbital paths

space junk rains down

artificial nerves are rendered silent

what’s the weather gonna be like tomorrow?

“And I’m putting out fires with gasoline.”–bowie

one) pouncing trance object

two) jizzmonic fugue device

poopfrau) penile plot twistings

It didn’t seem to move too much, but it was ominously perched all the same.  We didn’t see it coming did we?  It eventually had a life all its own and our stupor was only multiplied.  We were fooling ourselves all along.  Clawless cats climb few trees.

Pulse one pulse two pulse three deeply breathe now.  Hot licks of the precious fluid splatter her backside as she moans in faux agony. After all, she had handled much larger than him.  But the need for drama dictated that she squirm like a pinioned worm about to be dissected. In fact, she barely felt the invasion, but the hypnotic pumping made for a good plot device.

One’s life only gets fatter and fatter as more pressure is applied. Soon enough, the tool is numb as it has been overused.  The thrusting continues, but the numbness makes it an exercise in futility.  No one is getting off this time.  Few ever realize that it is OK to pull out.

slickened walls,

protruding nubs,




“I killed about a million people and it took about half a day.”–cure

He had been drumming up business all day, but his special ampules just weren’t moving.

In NAKED LUNCH, Burroughs refers to doctors as “croakers.”

“Hand in hand is the only way to land and always the right way ’round.”–cure

I pulled an old box out of my closet and found an old cure tape.

Can’t you tell?  I also found many frat pix, some Cheryl pix, and a couple of letters from Joe Buckley that you simply must read.  These letters, dated before I knew any of you, will conclusively prove that I have long courted denizens of the intelligent/psychotic fringe.  I hope that none of my old surreal companions ever “grew up.”

Speaking of surreal, Yvonne and Alison just came by asking for “Steven Martin.”  Oh well, they’ll get braver and cleverer later when they want to try and embarrass me.  Last night, A and I had to explain to them all about the movie phenomenon known as SHAFT.  All sorts of unintended double-entendres then occurred–i.e.  “We were sitting around talking the other night and SHAFT came up.”

the uninterrupted hooting of the gibbons

“Don’t worry, I don’t worship Satan or anything.”–what I said to a girl named Torrie.  She was in my frat room and she sort of looked askance at my Cult subway poster.  She really obviously wanted nothing to do with me.  I don’t think I ever apologized for my decor again.  After all, if apologizing didn’t get me any nookie, why repeat the performance?

Around that time I decided to try and treat women like friends rather than like an audience to be performed for.  “It does not matter if you are ladies, bitches, cunts, whores, nuns, wives or mothers!  You are all equally worthless in my eyes!”  I tend to enjoy the company of a woman who likes being treated like a generic human rather than insisting on being crowned as the carrier of the ova.  Older women tend to hold it against me when I don’t treat them as special because of their gender.  I suppose they would be happier if I were flip, charming, leering and chasing them around trying to pinch their asses.  But, no matter how much they may yearn for the old ways, I refuse to cheapen them.

sex machine to all the chicks,



white hunter,

“Knowing is a farce, gentlemen.  And this farce can do nothing but harm the integral freedom of men.  Therefore, let us create in this world a way in which knowing can never be accomplished.  Let us create an unholy diversion from which the seeking eyes of humanity can never be torn.  Let us engage the world of business and lead them into dire fantasies of efficiency and easy manipulation of symbols.

“To these ends, let us create and unleash the personal computer.” -Chairman Frank Codswiper of IBM, meeting of the Board of Directors, February 3rd, 1967.

“In our world, the absent referent reins supreme.  When our strongest device is something that doesn’t even exist, we have come no farther that the Crusaders or the makers of Ankor Wat.  We are enshrouded in the unreal.  The nexus of the past and the future is not the now, it is the void.” -Charles Kuralt, in TAO OF REVOLUTION

The lives our parents lead, those lives of grandiose assumption, the worship of that terrible god named “progress,” is a cluttered existence–this we cannot deny.  But, we must realize that focusing upon the faults of a nearly dead generation will get us no nearer to our goal.  So, in order to eliminate THE MAN, we must first destroy memory itself!  We must behave as if we are the first generation of humans to grace this planet.  In this way, we can totally forgo any phase of materialistic destruction that an armed revolution would entail.  By a simple change in the structure of our inner relationships, we can simply erase THE MAN from time itself.  If you meet THE MAN on the road, do not kill him!  Simply pretend he is not there. -THE BIND, writing in revolutionary pamphlet entitled “Time and THE MAN.”, distributed to coffeehouses in Berkley, Detroit, and Vancouver in July, 1969.

everything is wrong,

black heart.



“I’m afraid of Americans.”–david bowie

The history of one’s life is often seen as a journey.  From a certain perspective, my life can be seen as a slow walk away from America. Taking a ten year slice: 1986:  I drove a metallic baby blue 1968 Chevy Impala.  Each and every part was made in this country.  It had glasspax and it roared like a motherfucker.  It had never seen a catalytic converter or emission controls.  It was made of steel, rubber, vinyl.  Two bodies could be hidden in the trunk. I had three guns in my closet.  Double-barrel, rifle, pistol.  Lots of ammo. I wore a letter jacket and played football.

1996:  I drove a miniscule red Honda which I barely fit into. Hadn’t touched a gun in years. I wore a parka. I did Japanese stuff.

Of course, there are a lot of other details, but you get the gist. I’m starting to think that Americans would not be so charming if we didn’t drive every day or if everyone weren’t packin’ heat.  After all, danger molds us, does it not?  What danger does the average Brit see every day?  Perhaps some thug won’t let them pass on the sidewalk so that they have to step in the mud.  Maybe while walking to the green grocer, a dog will bark at them.

A Chinese person might step on a rock on the way to the rice paddy or maybe the neighbor will yell at them for playing their radio too loud.

In America, anyone who gets in a car cheats death with every mile.  A person can get shot for no reason, or for simply for making eye contact with the wrong character.  Often, people are shot IN their cars.

this makes us crazy

we make war on each other

death is all around us but we won’t acknowledge it

just because we are technologically advanced doesn’t mean

that we aren’t barbarians

face it, without our cars and our guns, we would be as boring as

Austrians or Paraguayans

we are so harsh

we shine beautifully in our simple, insane fashion

“God is an American.”–bowie


double action.



from the Chlorine Chemistry Council:  98% of all U.S. drinking water systems that disinfect rely on chlorine.  Chlorine use in water disinfection has played a major role in the 50% increase in U.S. life expectancy in this century. Yeah, I want to live in medieval times, sure. Yep, a lone cowpoke out on the range, wouldn’t that be wonderful? I want to be a gladiator! I must be strange, as my fantasy life seems to be stuck in the present.  I just don’t see the romanticism of widespread poverty, wildfire-like epidemics, trephination, illiteracy, etc.

In every era, man looks back over his shoulder, shakes his head, and mutters “I was just born {x} years too late.” This attitude will chase away bliss as surely as a barking dog will chase a rabbit away.

If we accept who we are, and love the times we are in, then the rabbit of happiness will curl up on our laps.

“The time is nigh!  Time to do or die.” -living color


Short Story: Love Letters

Love Letters

by Richard R. Barron

I stood in the same spot in the wind for what seemed like 30 minutes.

It was very cold.

Maybe it was the wind and the cold that kept me from moving. That was my excuse, anyway.

I had those six letters in my hand, six identical white envelopes, all with my name in her handwriting. They were held together by two old, cracked rubber bands. I thought they’d break any time. I pulled the first letter out and stuck the others under my arm.

Her picture was inside. I looked at it as it whipped in that wind. She looked great. It was like she was looking at me again with those eyes that seemed to see right through me.

I opened up the letter, written on pink lined notepaper. It was the first one she had sent me since she went away. She thanked me for the flowers.

“My letter may not be cheery,” she apologized. “The first day I got here I spent wondering how I got here and why I’m here.”

I folded it up carefully. How absurd. I put it back in the envelope.

The next letter, which she’d sent the next day, was on white filler paper, torn out of her notebook. I scanned down the paragraphs and felt an odd mixture of anger and disinterest. I shook my head. “What a bunch of crap,” I thought.

“There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.” ~Thornton Wilder, The Bridge of San Luis Rey
“There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.” ~Thornton Wilder, The Bridge of San Luis Rey

“I am trapped and I cannot escape,” she told me.

“Thank you again for the flowers, your love, your support,” she added. It seemed so hollow and pointless reading it in the wind, in the desert, on that bridge.

The Rio Grande flowed silently by 800 feet below.

“I look at sunsets here and I think, ‘Richard could make a good picture of that.’ ” she said. She couldn’t have known that I would return, summer and winter, to where she was, long after she was gone. She couldn’t have known I would be there now, on the Rio Grande gorge bridge at sunset in the cold wind reading her letters.

“I just re-read this and I know it makes no sense,” she explained at the end. It made sense then. And in some way it made sense when I stood there.

I folded it up carefully too. How ridiculous.

Her third letter was just business, urging me to book my hotel as soon as I could when I come to visit. But I kept it, and I folded it up and put it back in its envelope.

Letter number four read like a confession. “Confusion is giving way to intense pain,” she told me. Later she admitted, “I miss you and think of you often.”

I know it was pointless, but I was as careful to fold it and put it away as I was with the others.

Letter number five was newsy. She told me all about what was going on, and all about how she felt about it. She thanked me for the letters and cards.

I wondered as I folded this one up if she ever really thought of me as her lover. Were these even love letters?

Letter number five got to the meat of her feelings. She explained to me that, “anger and sorrow frighten me because I fear losing control and becoming a raging maniac.”

I had to take a deep breath to read that fifth letter. It was the last civil conversation between us in writing. It was last time she showed any real affection for me.

“Richard, you mean a great deal to me. I need you in my life and love you.”

I felt shaken after I read that. I felt that way every time I read it, from the day I got it in my mailbox, to the day I read it in the wind on that bridge. Maybe in the moment she wrote that, she really did love me. Maybe.

I took out that sixth letter and read the first few lines, and remembered how judgmental it was, and how angry I felt every time I read it. If she loved me in the fifth letter, it was all erased by the sixth. I couldn’t read any further. I couldn’t read it at all.

I bundled it up into its white envelope and slipped it under the rubber bands that held them all together. It was time. The sun was down. The cold was making me shake. I looked at the bundle of letters in my shaking hand against the darkening backdrop of that 800-foot gorge, leaned forward, and let them go.