Friday, September 30, 2011

Friend of Dorothy? Not.

I made slight script change. Dis version I feed Toto to Wicked Witch, k?



Exhibit a painting
that has been abducted by aliens

and probed.


Put your phone at the bottom
of a lake or swimming pool.

When somebody calls,
talk to them while underwater.


Throw scorpions at someone.


Go to a chat room that is known for sexchat/cybering.

When someone asks if you want to cam, say yes.

When you turn on your cam

have it show (in closeup) live scorpions

fighting to the death.


Throw scorpions instead of rice at a wedding.


Take life's scorpions and make scorpionade.


Walk barefoot on live scorpions on a hardwood floor

while attempting to draw a self-portrait on paper

on a clipboard you are carrying.


Mail a dead lover a dead scorpion.


Make a transparent heart.

Fill with scorpions.

Wear heart on sleeve.


Make a scorpion pie.

Use a sweet fruit like blueberry or strawberry.

Use only very old scorpions.

How Mobsters Say the "Hail Mary" Prayer...

"Hey Maria,
youse like a lenient parole officer...
I know the Don in the Sky
has you on his payroll.

One lucky piece of snatch
you are, classier
than other broads,

and your rugrat Jesus
is okay in my book.

Sweet Thing,
Heavenly Moll,
put in a good word
for a guy like me

right now please
and also when

I'm about to get whacked."

painting pieces


Hang a large rat maze
covered by a piece of clear glass
on the wall of a museum.

Have the rat hidden
in an opaque nesting chamber
in one corner of the maze.

Have the lock on the door
to this rat room

open by voice activation.

Have a rat come out
and run the maze

whenever a patron
says "Genius!"

very, very loudly.

When the rat has
to deal with the problem
of gravity at the same time

as the problem of the maze,



Put a finished oil or acrylic painting in a river.

Let it flow downstream for a year.

Retrieve and display.


Make a tranquil painting
with a hidden photoelectric eye
in the center of its landscape.

When a human being walks past the painting,
have the painting scream

a bloodcurdling scream

as though it were being murdered

or raped

or raped and murdered.


Glue a large wasp's nest in the center of a large canvas.

Probably there are still live wasps in the nest.

But that's okay.

Display in a well-regarded museum.


Make a painting that is composed only of words,
black words on white canvas.

Have all the words talk about
things you have done

for which you have shame.


Make a painting that is composed only of words,
black words on white canvas.

Have the words be rather tiny
and hard to read with the naked eye.

Have the words describe
every lover you can remember

sleeping with in your life.


Make a painting that bleeds when people touch it.

Invite people to touch it.


Make a painting.

Hire someone to wear this painting
like a placard.

Have this person
walk through a distinguished museum

and record how violent people get
when the person you hired

is inevitably forced out of the museum.


Make a painting.

Go into a celebrated museum like MOMA
and walk around

so as many people as possible
can see your work.

Later, tell as many people as possible
that your work

has been exhibited in MOMA.

Put it on your resume.


Make a painting composed
only of quotation marks,
in black paint only.

Use different fonts
and sizes of quotation marks.

Have invisible quotations
between the quotation marks

that can only be rendered visible

by spitting on the painting.

Painting Pieces


Do a series of paintings
which are photorealist reproductions

of different people's FACEBOOK pages.

Use the pages of both famous
and random, unfamous people.

Display paintings of famous people
next to paintings of unfamous people.


Display a painting
made entirely of Christmas gift wrap,
each created in a different year.

Try to find gift wrap
created in each year

of the 20th century.

You may have to reproduce
some wrapping paper

you see in old paintings or photographs.


Paint a painting.
Take a photo of it.

Leave the painting in a bus terminal or airport
or other busy area.
Set up surveillance.

When the painting is stolen,
take a photograph of the theft.

Make a painting depicting this theft

and put a "MISSING" poster

on this second painting
with the missing painting's photograph

or likeness.


Paint only the MISSING people on milk cartons for 10 years.


Reproduce a famous Seurat pointillist painting in M&Ms.


Find a dead horse.
Put it in the center of a museum
on the floor.

Sit on the floor
next to it
and beat it

for a very, very, very long time.


Make a painting
by gluing cake
and cupcake decoration
to the canvas

instead of paint.


Use silver dragees instead of paint to make a painting.


Glue a virgin to a painting.



Wear a painting affixed to your back
like a very large turtle shell.

Crawl all over the earth showing off your shell.

If someone tries to touch your head or any other body parts,

bite them.

But let them touch the shell.

Painting Pieces

Painting Piece

Crazy Eights:

Have a painting composed
of 64 chess boards
arranged into a much larger chessboard
with the pieces
glued to the surface

of each board where they were
at the 64th move,
and glue these games

to the extremely large canvas.

If a game ended before the 64th move,
still glue the empty board there

like an obituary notice.

If you feel extra-ambitious,
do 64 of these paintings

and repeat the gesture
recursively and display

on a football field
or something larger.

Repeat as needed.


Paint for a year

using only sunflower heads as brushes.


Do an extremely lifelike (photorealist)
series of paintings

illustrating famous "Dead Baby" jokes.


Borrow a finished painting from someone.

Put it in the front seat of a car

and send the car off a cliff

or into a wall at a very high rate of speed.

Display results.


Display in a museum
a real car in which all the occupants

are life-size rectangular canvases
with portraits of real people on them.

Have a smaller painting
of a baby strapped into

the car-seat.


Tether a painting
on a leash to your body.

Drag the painting on the ground
behind you

while jogging lots of places
some afternoon.



Make a beautiful, classical painting
and imbue the canvas

with some terrible scent.

Choose an odor so foul
that museum goers will do anything

to get out of the room
where your painting is.


Scream at a painting
until you think it is finished.


Paint a huge painting
that says only BY(E)
in very large ultramarine letters.


Display a painting which is only
a large taut white rubber skin
in a museum.

Call it a "poke painting"

and have patrons
poke the painting

at will.


Have a large round painting
giving birth to a smaller round painting
through a painted vagina

at the low middle of the canvas.

Virgin and Painting Pieces


Deflower a young virgin
on a blank canvas.

Display the blooded,
sweated, lubed, etc.

canvas in the foyer
of the house

where the virgin lives.


Cover a painting with jelly dildos.


Have fire-eaters blow fire
at a blank canvas held by a virgin.

When the virgin can no longer
hold the painting

it is finished.


Paint heat-reactive glazes on a canvas.

Lower the canvas into the mouth of a volcano.

Remove and enjoy the colors.


Carry a blank canvas around with you
everywhere you go for a month.



Attach an operating cellphone
to the center of a large blank canvas.

Post the telephone number
all over large cities
and have it promise "free blowjobs."

Or sometimes "free money."

Sometimes "missing person"
with a photograph of yourself.

Put the painting in a museum.

Allow museum patrons

to answer the telephone.


Hang a painting from the branches
of a tall tree, very high up.

Let it sway back and forth
in the wind.

When the wind
is done painting,



Create a painting
that is a large rectangular
sheet of glass

with windshield wipers
attached to it

and working.

Have water pouring down
on this painting

in the musuem,

and have the wipers working

as though someone were driving

the painting somewhere.


Take a blank canvas on an airplane
you believe is going to crash.

If the airplane starts to crash,
invite people to paint something.


Glue illegal drugs to a painting.

Display it in a rehab center,

behind bulletproof glass.


Cover a blank canvas with seaweed
that hasn't been cleaned or prepared
in any way.

When it's in the museum,
have someone come in

at regular intervals
and throw buckets of water on the painting

to freshen it up.


Make a painting using only
the colorful pegs from Lite Brite sets.

Illuminate the painting in different ways.


Create paintings in which only Braille words

are used in place of images.

Black dot words on white canvas.


Recreate masterpieces like Seurat's Grande Jatte using only those Lite Brite colorful pegs.

Illuminate the painting in different ways.

Show the painting in a dark room.

Virgin Pieces


Have a virgin
levitate by balloons
in a room otherwise

filled with non-virgins.


Create a machine
that dispenses virgin bodies.

You can see the bodies
as in the older soda machines

through the glass.


Use a virgin's naked body
as a flotation device
far out in the ocean.


Have very old men and women
wash a young virgin's body
with soap that makes lather

like blood.

Because the soap is blood.


Have two virgins wash
each other's naked bodies
with soap

without ever speaking
a single word.

Then have them never
meet again in this life.


Put a virgin in a giant box
in the middle of a field
and have a firing squad

fire at the box.

When you open the box,
the virgin will have



Drop a virgin
through clouds

and see what happens.


Have a young virgin run
on a giant record player

on a giant vinyl record

in a direction counter

to the direction

the record is moving.


Have a virgin use
vegetables to deflower
him or herself.

Cast the deflowering vegetable

in bronze or another impressive

metal or alloy.

Display in a museum.


Have twenty naked virgins
sleep in a giant bed
without having sex.


Borrow someone's virginity.


Return someone's virginity.



Remove a virgin
from its life.

Put the virgin
in a museum

for virgins.


Listen to a virgin
until you wake up.


Follow a virgin
secretly for years.

When he or she
is no longer a virgin,

stop following him
or her. Then die

of terrible grief.


Give a virgin
to another virgin.


Steal a virgin
from another virgin.

Give the person
back no longer a virgin.


On a first date,
take a virgin
to a very old cemetery.

Make love there.


Scream until
your virginity returns.


Walk on newly-fallen snow
and blindfolded.

Pretend you walk
on a carpet of snakes.


Film a virgin
doing virginal things.

Show the film
only to other virgins.


Sacrifice a virgin
to some god or other.


Make a virgin run naked
across a snowy field blindfolded.

Throw snowballs
at the virgin's naked body

and tell the throwers
to imagine this is bukakke.


Put a virgin on a bus
going anywhere.

Check the virgin
for virginity

one year later.


Have a virgin
sleep in a snowy field
holding a warm ant farm to its body.


Have a virgin sit naked atop a piano
and play the keyboard with its toes.


Drop a virgin out of a helicopter
into the middle of the ocean.

Film the virgin swimming.


Fill a bucket with blood.
Fill your mouth with this blood.

Don't use your hands
or any tool.

Spit the blood on a hung canvas.

Don't worry if some blood misses the canvas
and goes on the walls.


I saw what you did there lol.

The frontest of front pages. Again, Thank You Again.

And for the four (four!) front pages yesterday (histys and such). THANK YOU!!

Think this one will do better than Norman Bates, although that one still makes me giggle so I'm happy. That cat did look like "Mrs. Bates." I mean when young Master Bates impersonates her.

You'd think I would learn (do not give kitteh pics sixties horror movies caps--every time it goes over like a lead balloon). But I like to think that the people who do get it, get it and like it. Probably closer to my age and so have an image to put over that image and so can get some enjoyment out of it. But it's certainly a minority of cheezpeeps. If you never saw these movies, I guess it's like "Wut??" I guess that's part of the process of growing older--less people "get" you and your jokes. Until that final bed when everything you say to the people trying to help you is received like Sumerian or something.

Maybe only old people should be hired to take care of old people. That would be funny. But there'd be a lot more empathy and mutual understanding. Do I need the word mutal there?

And then kitteh cheezpeeps seem to really love the superinnocent and squee over the snarky. Memebase is pretty much the exact opposite of that. And I enjoy that type of innocent and squee or cutesy humor too. I don't look down on it at all. Sometimes I want a good dose of those sugar rabies of cuteness. I'm just as likely to cap that way as the other way. I think it's cute that they prefer that. It's nice to have a safe haven world, and for those poeple such captions give them that security. So Normie Bates might not be what they want to see to cheer them up. I can respect that. In general, the Memebase/Kitteh Schism or divide often makes it seem like the adherents of each subsite are two different planets whose denizens don't even speak the same language. And sometimes that seems to be the case. But there are many people who enjoy both worlds. It's definitely a minority though who enjoy both equally.

Poor Malkin surprised me with yet another health problem.

I think it will be okay though.

Life on the streets for a kitteh is so much harder than people realize.

He's been an indoors cat since mid-July or late June and he still has some problems. But finally gaining weight is no longer a problem. Now I have to watch for the opposite effect because he's picked up a lot of weight a bit too fast. I'm happy to see the healthy look but I keep remembering "every 2 pounds a cat gains is like 20 pounds for a human" so don't want him ending up with obesity problems.

This latest problem is curable but it can take a little time.

I'm still even battling his ear mites. Even though they aren't visible, I think they've retreated deeper into his ears. I hate the deal with the devil we must make with these "killer cures." I hate handling this shit. The sooner these various wars or over with, the better. He shows no desire to go outdoors. When he comes downstairs he walks right past the front door and heads to the kitchen. Never even gives it a second look. So I'm proud of that. He clearly feels home. The first week or so of living indoors he would still go to the door. But even then he only lingered a minute or two then investigated other things.

He woke me up in the middle of the night with his latest health woe and it really did feel like I had a baby at that point.

Lee stopped and picked up the appropriate medicine on his way home from work.

I'm trying to eat fortifying foods (in addition to taking vitamins and fish oil). I've always loved raw garlic. Since I'm mostly by myself most times, I figured it's okay to indulge with it. I chewed up three cloves this morning. And then three more cloves just now. And one of the cloves was like the size of three normal cloves. Yes, there's a terrific burn. But I love it. I just have my sweet tea ready to flood over it. It's one of nature's more interesting antibiotics for sure. It fucks up so much stuff you don't want growing in your body.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

I Had Always Liked This Dylan Thomas Poem

Until I heard him read it this way.

Then I wanted a bow and arrow to aim at his dead forehead.

Bullwinkle could have done a better job.

How could he not anticipate how much this would sound like a parody of poetry?

Okay, this is still a very beautiful poem.

The only word that bothers me at all in here (and "Zion" almost does) is mankind in "the mankind of her going."

That strikes me as the only false note in the whole poem, which is otherwise about perfect.

It was genius to write an anti-elegy which is (of course) an elegy.

It's like Merwin writing that poem about the birthday of your death (which you don't know to celebrate even though you pass it once every year).

Those are poems which are both photographic negatives of "accepted poems" (elegy and anninversary respectively).

There have been other times Merwin has reminded me of Dylan Thomas.

The poets do have a lot of commonalities.

The timbre is pretty much shared.

Even the constellations of imagery match up now and again.

But Merwin, of course, lived much longer than Thomas and had time to explore in directions the other poet did not.

And Merwin indulges his dark sense of humor much more often.

Was Merwin mentored by Robert Graves? I know there was some connection. What was it? Majorca?

I just Googled it. That's right. He instructed Graves' son.

What a gift for languages he's shown.

Merwin was a remarkably apt choice for Poet Laureate of the United States. I'd be hard-pressed to think of more than a handful of poets who deserved that position as much as he.

When I think of all the books I encountered first in his translations...Neruda, Follain, Persius...

He's one of the reasons I learned foreign languages. Because I wanted inside those translations.

I think when you live inside many languages, you begin to think of issues like the translatability of what you're writing. I think it keeps you closer to the universal, which is the (more) translatable.

I love a huge number of poets who are totally untranslatable. Okay, no poem is truly translatable--any translation is a metaphysical feat really--and all those metaphysical feats have to take place in the plane of the unmetaphysical.

It's like the constant rearrangement of Morandi's jars.

But the closer a poem conforms to "orthodox" grammar (arguable term) the easier it is to translate.

I mean you know Oppen is easier to translate than Zukofsky, no matter what language we are talking. Sylvia Plath is easier to translate than Dylan Thomas.

Deep down I know no poem is ever translated. And that every poem is translated every time it's heard, yes. But I mean translation into another language. That's another poem. If you really believe it's the same poem in another language, you're absolutely crazy.

Sprachgefuhl (a better word than our nuance) is like a nearly infinite collection of linguistic tuning forks. But they're not universal like the vibrations of musical tuning forks. In every language, the tuning forks are different and refer only to other tuning forks in that language.

I love it when translators talk about the two ways to go about translating poetry. It's like the Lesser Raft and Greater Raft schools in Buddhism. Theravada and Mahayana. There's the literal translation school (which is lazy but attributes its laziness to a point-to-point nearly mathematical conformity). And then there's the wildly inspired "long way home" school of translation.

Probably the best thing to do is to have the poem and translation en face, and then have the "closest you can get to literal" translation down below as well; the latter of course will be a total non-poem. But it can shed light on why things had to change more drastically in certain lines (for example, in service of idioms that don't exist in both languages).

Translatibility is a metaphysical problem and the questions it raises can be extended in multifarious directions; the questions it raises can vector off each other and create tremendous forces through these multiplications.

If meaning can ripple off and lose clarity in the very act of examining it for the intrinsic, a translatable essence, then language starts looking more like the atom's core or Schrodinger's cat.

Didn't Derrida just apply these principles of physics to language? And come up with that flickering net metaphor--that infinite play without any tenable halting spot?

Sugarcubes Goofing Around with Abba it.

And they are clearly starting to get tired here. Zabor 1988.

I think it's safe to say this is a B sider. But since it's about a kitteh.

Declaiming "The Poetry of Numbers"

What a deliciously outre commercial.

Mayakovsky and Sigur Ros


I Can't Believe Malkin Has Not Scratched Me One Time Yet

And he was a stray.

Talk about manners.

Dru...well...manners are not his strong suit.

Edward Gorey cat...that cat is seriously aware of that cameraman.

What a great intelligent stare.

Hemingway mutant polydactyl cats.

Cats vs. Dalek.

Cats say "whateverthefuckever."

Cute Dalek.

Please stop taking kittehs into outer space.

I don't approve of this.

Title is "I Can Has Gravity?"



Take a book you dislike deep into a forest.
Dig a hole and bury it.
Do not mark its grave.


Be afraid that elephants
might escape and run amok.
On a crowded city street

constantly look for them.


Remove your entire face.
Give it to someone who dislikes you.


Follow a migrating animal.
Don't let the animal see you.


Write your autobiography.
Use only stories from some other person's autobiography.
Transpose all their life stories
so they fit your life.


Pretend you went to the Moon
and mistakenly left something behind
you need desperately.

Keep calling the Moon's management
and asking them to have housekeeping

check to make sure it's not still there.


Write to a stranger about real people in their life
as if this were a casual conversation
of the sort you have every day.


Ignore everything you say to yourself
for an entire day.


When you're lying in your coffin,
have a camera held in your dead hands
so it appears you are taking photographs of mourners

staring at your dead body.


Have as many non-human animals as possible take photographs of themselves.



Go missing.
Even from yourself.
Pretend your life
is cotton candy in the rain.


Go outside and scream
at the setting sun to "STOP!"

Jump up and down.

Scream curses at the sun.

Act as thought the sun
were taking your very life

with it as it sets.


Find a Beast of Burden.
Make blandishments towards it.
Seduce it.
Take the B.O.B. into your bed.

Allow it to make love to you

and release its terrible burden.


Walk on a carpet of bees spread on the ground.


Argue with a rock for an entire day or lifetime.

Try to see the rock's point of view.


Create a cult that attracts people

who want to be told what to think and do.

When you have a huge number of such people,
dissolve the cult.

Blame the cult on the followers.

When one of the followers
comes to kill you, laugh.

Because it is rather funny.


Murder imaginary people.

Write letters of apology to the dead people.

Image them coming back to life,
like dead plants given water.


Film the moon through a jellyfish's body.


Put a Great White Shark in a London cultural hub.

Make up a title that is 17 words.

Feel like Marie Antoinette.

Hide from the human race
with all the money this has given you.


Put your head in a guillotine's stocks.

Hand the release cord to someone you know hates you.



Claim you are descended from the Sun Itself.

If anyone calls you a liar,

cast them into eternal darkness.


Have a separate photo album for dead people only.

Think of the dead people as acorns

and yourself as a squirrel.


Look at the world
through holes in other people.


Remove the marriage bone

from someone's body.

Preferably while
this person is still young.


Notice less things.


Die in the most inconvenient way possible.


Solve a problem that doesn't exist.


Find things to blame existence on.


Buy time in whatever form
and whatever quality you can afford.

Consume it.

Put any leftover time
on a piece of paper
and forget it.


If someone is dying,
look away from that person.

Regret it the rest of your life.



Create a void in your life.
Make this void larger constantly.
When there is only room left

for you or the void,

kill yourself to protect the void.


Practice voodoo against George Washington
by sticking pins in dollar bills.


Wake up and pretend
it's yesterday.


Grow a sunflower without sun.
Show people the tall albino flower.
Call the flower "probably retarded."


Care about the difference between things.


Murder a novel.
Tell the novelist you murdered the book.
Email photos of you killing the novel.


Only adopt cruelty-free people as friends.
When cruelty-enriched people
try to re-enter your life

set your life on fire

so they will no longer want it.


Try to oustare the Sun.


Become a jellyfish

with a flashlight in its center.


Gather all the jellyfish
that wash up on a beach at morning.

Living and dead.

Put some in a blender
and make a "jellyfish shake."

Drink the clear poison

and share it with your lover.

Freeze any leftovers.



Damage your life with honesty.


Act like a complete baby.
Be so convincing
that when you die

people tell dead baby jokes about you.


Put flower heads of various size in a Baggie
and hide the Baggie somewhere on your body.

Go on a shopping spree.

When you get to the register,
try to pay the cashier in flowers.


Wedge yourself in the wrong person's life.

Wedge yourself into the lives
of other people,
but not as severely.

Talk about it forever.


Write a book of love poems
to a person you hate.

When you no longer hate them,
stop writing poems.


Stop a speeding train
using only your hand.

Do this from outside the train.


Go and knock on a neighbor's door.

Ask whoever answers if you can borrow

a cup of fear.


Feed ants sugar.

Then kill them with RAID.

Hold a funeral for them.


Grieve for dead clouds.

More Pamplemousse (after Yoko Ono)


Send somone else to your workplace
instead of you, with no explanation.
Have the person insist they are you
when people say he or she is not.
The person should try to do the job
for as long as he or she can
before getting arrested.


When someone dies,
put the wrong person
in the coffin for the funeral.


Have someone show up in your place
to make love to your lover.

Don't tell your lover beforehand.

If they are happy together,
move far away and never speak to,

or of, either of them again.


Have your dog walk you.
Attach a leash to your collar.
Walk on all fours
and sniff the earth where you think
your dog would probably sniff.

Have the dog follow
a few paces behind you.

If someone makes fun of you,
bite them hard on the ankles.


Pick a random person and hate that person.
Make yourself emotionally sick
just by thinking about this person.

Tell everyone how much you hate the person.
If the people you tell keep asking for the reason why,

hate those people too.

Imagine that these latter people
are in cahoots with your enemy.


Take a drug that makes you paranoid.
Walk into a sea of people
on a well-trafficked urban street.

Warn the people who walk past you
that you know what they're thinking.


Walk by a stranger's house
over and over.

Until you are noticed
and/or get arrested.


Pretend you are a virgin all over again.

Wonder what sex "is like."

Pamplemousse (Bad "Good Ideas" of the Sort Offered by Yoko Ono)

Don't misread that post title.

I adore Yoko Ono's Grapefruit.

It's right up there (in terms of greatness) with the other great food-themed books of poetry in the 20th century: Tender Buttons and Lunch Poems.

Oh, and Naked Lunch too.

If Yoko had written a book with that title, it would have doubtless been a much happier book, and one about spiritual cleansing rather than spiritual muddying.

Grapefruit remains a touchstone, so I return to it again and again.

Today, I was taken with the really succinct instructions.

So thought I'd try to suggest some good bad ideas like that.

Right now it's raining and the sun is shining so brightly.

Should I go look for a rainbow?

I don't want to get my camera out.

Why do I feel I need to?

Because we are taught to own everything.

And owning a rainbow means it has to be in a transferable state.

Why do I feel I need photography to have a "transferable state?"

I don't know.

I believe what people say.

This is ridiculous. Thunder now. And the sun shining so bright and winds and rain.

Oh, by the way I think Lady Gaga's entire career is based on "Animal Piece" by Yoko Ono.

It says

Take one mannerism from one kind of
animal and make it yours for a week.

Take another mannerism from another
kind of animal and make it yours
without dropping the previously
acquired mannerism.

Go on increasing mannerisms by
taking them from different kinds
of animals.

That's from autumn of 1963.


Be a whore for a year.
This means a literal whore.
Have sex only for money.
Have sex only with people you despise.
Throw all the money you earn
into the ocean late at night.

Come back the next day
and see if any money washed ashore.


Buy a cage large enough to hold you.
Lock yourself in this cage.
Hope that someone finds you.


Drown a musical instrument in a lake.
Come back a year later and dive and find it.
Do not clean the instrument.
Write music for this instrument.

Play the music

whether the instrument is intact or not.


Make all your furniture from books.
Even the lamps must be paper.
If you glue the pages of books together,
they make better building materials.

Also, less people will attempt to read them.


Sleep naked under the moon.
But under a black umbrella.

Pretend moonlight burns
whenever it accidentally

touches your skin.


Send 100 strangers an email
which says "Here's how to find me.
Please try to get here SOON.
I need you really bad right now."

Enclose as an attachment
a Googlemaps aerial view of your dwelling
with your address written on it.

Do not send any other emails
to these people--even if they write back.

If anyone shows up at your house,
answer the door holding a gun.

Ask them to stop stalking you.

so far a sort of perfect day

I really got a lot accomplished today.

I didn't really sleep as much as I would have liked, maybe five hours. But I was energized from the moment I woke up. I've been in a manic phase it seems forever now.

I read one "bipolar site" (not written by a medical professional) where the person had this ridiculous idea about what mania must be. And it must be like Richard Gere in that stupid movie. There are degrees of mania and even when you're totally torqued up it doesn't mean you're gonna go out on the roof and flap your wings and think you can fly. It just means you're speeding along. This can be good. When you're a novelist who's mastered the form of a novel, or a painter painting a mural or a guy who makes great muffins or whatever.

But I channeled it into housecleaning and organization. Never close a room off and ignore it. Things can happen in that room. I had to fight a war with bookworms but the war is already over and nothing of any value has been damaged. But it did make me resolve to begin building down in terms of things I own. There is a lot of value stored in those assets (the estimate I gave the insurance company years ago is now woefully off--by literally tens of thousands of dollars). What can I say--I have a good eye for books being sold at ridiculous prices. I used my bipolar mania to scan tens of thousands of titles on some of my "white nights" back when I had a credit card that I could do with as I pleased. I give myself credit for thinking ahead. I think I always knew I would end up a recluse. Because I had been a recluse in my teens.

Well, that's the other wonderful thing about today. Mania can be a good thing. Because it gave me the urge to actually leave the house today. And this was a really splendid day here in Central Pennsylvania. Right now, I'm enjoying a great breeze from this window on the third floor and it's like every five seconds. Niiiize.

I really felt the need to get out because I wanted to see my Mom. She made me feel guilty last night for spending ten hours on a computer (LOLing---which was a great distraction!) and not calling her until the middle of the night. How was I supposed to know she went to the hospital yesterday?! My phone line was open and she never called. All turned out well. She didn't really learn anything new or different about her health but the doctor seemed to imply her TSH might be elevated. This might be why she's been feeling generally run-down lately, as I pointed out. That's the master gland and that hormone runs the entire body. So when you're not down at a decent level all kinds of shit can go wrong. She mentioned some dermatological problems and that's classic.

Well, I was happy to see when I visited today she looked perfectly fine and no dermatological problem. She's exaggerrating. One of her helpers was there (very nice woman) and we all just chatted together. My mom was freaked out by the rapidity of my speech and asked Terry (her helper) if she could understand me. It was clear, Terry had no problem. I've gotten to the point where I can casually say to people, "I'm bipolar...but I talk like that ALL the time." Which is true. And I've alway read fast (aloud or otherwise). I was DEMOTED in the first grade to the slow reading group because I would not slow down my reading pace and the teacher hated the way my voice sounded when I read that fast. Other kids were amused and loved it when I did that because they started to think I was secretly a robot or something. That teacher was a horrible human being. She was openly racist too. She was a fucking fossil. She had to have been 70. I don't know why she hadn't been kicked into some pasture or other for senile racist first grade teachers. Once, one of the students rebelled and put shit on her desk. It was wild. Then she took all the boys down to the bathroom and started looking down our pants. If this happened in 2011, she'd be put away for life but there were no repercussions. And Troy, we all know YOU did it. I met Troy's wife like a decade ago. Lee met her as an Avon lady (don't ask). She was nice as could be. Troy is still a handful. He was slutting around and was a total headcase. I never told her about the shit on Mrs. Griffith's desk. She's dust now. A scowling mummy under the earth. They probably didn't even want to touch her to embalm her. Breasts made out of paper. Snakes probably came out of her mouth when they went to set the jaw. It was funny to other kids when I read like that. In first grade, often things are funny without having their cruelty potential utilized. I think very young children are often in such a pure state that they will probably take many decades to realize that state again (through arduous work and cognitive training). But of course most of them will never realize that state of innocence again. I'm still hoping but it seems decades away. It was around third grade that I noticed the Discovery of Snarkiness among my fellow pupils. I can still remember the first quip delivered by a classmate. It was Scott S. Soon we were all swimming in a sea of irony. By fourth grade we were all little monsters, adults in child drag. And we were "accelerated." So we were double monsters.

Enough of things that happened decades ago.

I never leave the house and I run. into one of my brothers on the one day I do. He asked about my financial situation and I told the truth so he handed me some money. He even offered to take care of my car battery when he saw I was driving Lee's car, but I didn't let him. I explained I don't really need to go anywhere and rarely do.

But this money presented a quandary. While I have had no desire for alcohol, I suddenly had discretionary income and the possibility flitted through my mind. But luckily I am now failing suicide. I had to do something bad, so I went into a McDonald's and bought a McDouble and a small fry and ate it in the car. I got Lee some chicken sandwiches. People say Walmart is a great place for "funny people" watching, but I tell you McDonald's has got it beat. Honore Daumier would have had a field day. But then so would have Todd Browning. I think Wendy's got rid of their Dollar Menu and Mickey D's didn't...hence the hard luck cases...

I enjoyed the burger in the car and felt like a creep for eating that food. Lee had the best mix cd in the car. It opens up with incredible Florence and the Machine tracks and then there's Katy Perry cotton candy, Lady was just great song after great song. I think I played the Florence tracks like four times each. I was out a long time today. I was driving around old neighborhoods I hadn't been in in a while to see what was up with forgotten peeps, see if they're driving the same cars, all that shit. Halloween decorations. My mom's neighborhood has some great inspired Halloween houses.

Hit several thrift stores today. The first was having a 50% off almost everything sale (holiday items excepted). I found some great vintage and contempo Halloween decorations. I would have bought more but I had to limit spending. Everything was so picked over, but they were putting new stuff out when I arrived so I got lucky.

Books (at half price) were like 25 cents for kids' paperbacks and 40 cents for kids' hardbacks and 45 cents for adult paperbacks and 60 cents or something for adult hardbacks.

I found two immaculate hardcover children's books by Michael Garland that are just wonderful--Icarus Swinebuckle and Mystery Mansion. Both are signed! One is also dedicated. The one that is just signed has this big special bookplate for the author's signature so it must have been for a book signing or a specialized edition. One is Dutton. Probably the other is too. The art is wonderful. I didn't read much of them but they looked charming.

I found a first edition (was there another edition?) of Robert Creeley's The Island. It has the dust jacket too and that's also in mint condition. No writing or defacements whatsoever. Immaculate.

I read some children's books that I didn't buy. I read Rudyard Kipling's charming, funnyh tale of "How the Rhinoceros Got His Wrinkled Skin" done as a book. It was an attractive book, but there were at least two illustrations of the Parsee in the tale which came waaaay too close to Little Black Sambo for my comfort.

I bought a charming book on where various animal go in winter just because the illustrations (full page, two page always) were so magical. The text was okay.

I got a couple other books but what? Oh, one by Carson Kressley called You're Different and That's Super. This was before Perez Hilton's The Boy with Red Hair, but doubtless nowhere near as successful. Still, it looked cute. It's a little hardcover. I found more but I've already forgotten what those books were.

Oh. A book on Patrick Henry's life. For children. It followed a diary or something like that closely--the details of Colonial life were what drew me in.

I hit another thrift store (much larger) and bought nothing. I was tempted by some weird miniature stuffed guys who looked like anime figures in a bag but I didn't want all the other junk in the bag and I realized it was an impulse, not investment, purchase so nixed it.

I had a great time in the Halloween aisles at the Dollar Store and decorated my house with decorations I bought at the thrift store and there.

I got this 6 foot by 3 foot Ghost Mural that I hung in the living room. The ghosts (non-threatening "sheet" type ghosts rising up out of an old cemetery) are so cute! That should amuse Chas. And they had honeycomb decorations, which I love. I got an owl that was clearly trying to rip off the Beistle designs of old. Nostalgiacally nice. Some bat stickers for my front door. A witch with suction cup eyes for my front door. A Halloween mobile with owls and bats and other things.

I stopped at my Mom's and gave her a crafted haunted house someone had made. It's sheets of plastic for the armature and then fabric attached to that. Why am I being blank about what that craft's called. It's made to look like needlepoint but it isn't. Maybe it's latchhook. I guess it is. It was a complicated design. All four walls and the roof had details. Windows everywhere. Dormers. Gravestone on one side. Bushes. Bats. Jack O'Lanterns. It stood about a foot tall. Very cute.

I mostly had mental frippery in my head today but it was okay.

I did think about some artists (mostly writers) who are in my head a lot lately and found myself turning their minds over in my head like stones in a polishing drum.

But none of my thoughts are so well-formed or interesting that I'd want to put them to paper.

I just realized how easily some very gifted writers can present personae to the world, and the world takes the persona and applies it to the writing when the writing has absolutely nothing to do with that persona. But it's a marketing thing. The intentionality of the writing is not the intentionality of the persona. But I don't think those writers care. Because they're smart enough to know, "Pill goes down. Pill does work. Pill changes reader." Who cares what the press kit or the critics think. It's the real readers that matter.

I think that's how enlightened writers think.

Which is why they so often look like whores.

They're not whores.

They're doing what they have to do.

I'm not talking about the writers of romances or potboilers or any other trashlit.

I mean the smart writers whose bios are still spattered with lurid hype of the wrong order.

Like writers who are marketed as transgressive writers (and in a sense they transgress) but who are actually moral thinkers of the deepest order.

I mean, you can sell Camus's The Stranger as a book about murder if you want.

I am deliberately avoiding contemporary authors, to avoid mentioning names of the authors I was actually thinking about.

But not because I have anything derogatory to say.

It's actually the opposite. In each instance, I was focusing on the author as a moral thinker and coming away impressed.

The history of great literature is the history of the human animal's willingless to look into its own pathologies. Whether you're talking Shakespeare or Faulkner or Tolstoy or Plath or Mishima's always the same.

I mean even the fluffy people who are great do that. Like Wilde. The pathology of society itself. The pathoological lies language makes us tell. These are funny sometimes. It doesn't mean great literature is always tragedy.

But I think great literature usually is about human pathology.

We are all pathological somethings. Maybe not liars. But...humans impersonate themselves constantly. When they're not impersonating each other.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Le Roi est Mort! Vive Le Roi!: The Ascendancy of Media Over Media

MAD TV is smarter than they let on.

Here the animated Old World (television) finds itself replaced by the Memetic Future.

I Can Has Cheezburger is mentioned in typical skit-oblique fashion.

I thought this was hilarious.

see no ebel?


Cats in Space



Thanks berry muchly for da frontest of front pages!

And da uthas too.

I appreeshyate it alwayz.

Herz a repruzentativ "thankin u fer meh."

little caesar guy (from 1991, with 1991 prices)

And a song for you too...

Okay, ignore da co-dependency type lyrikz and lissen to da utha partz...

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

What Really Matters

I plucked a perfect pepper's
hooked Punchinello nose
in the backyard. It appeared
to be Turtle-waxed,
so commercial the glaze.
I can't find John Wieners'
Selected anywhere and miss
his crazed, eroti-
schizoid babble. Babyspeak
of the murderer on death row
on Investigation Discovery
amused me in my sleep.
I type beside an open window
and hear a trolley ding.
There are no trolleys in Steelton!
The Steel Mill has a sonic
sense of humor, jokes.
The notorious groundhog
(long assumed dead) appears
on the stone wall munching greens.
He eyes me warily, like all
allegedy dead outlaws.
I guess I'd better not tender
his biography for consideration
on Disappeared. I had
considered it. Missing a looter
is seldom a good idea,
but many spend years.

Or more than years.

For Some Reason the Disco Anthem More, More, More

keeps playing in my head today. But I think it's my head being extremely sarcastic after a day of arguing and then making up with a mortgage company.

Apparently, it's actually in your interest now to default on your mortgage. (Yes, there was a pun in there. Good catch!)

I had the bad form to actually pay my mortgage and I was tsk tsked about this. You only get a break if you stop paying.

Actually, I called for a quick "free counseling" lesson and this was confirmed. STOP PAYING YOUR MORTGAGE.

Lee told me that even though counterintuitive advice like this is sometimes right, he believes I should continue paying the mortgage. I tend to agree. But then I've found out I've been stupid before.

MAGIC INFORMATION SOCIETY doesn't want to tell you things. Like I spent all this time filling out these applications and talked to all these people and it was only because I got a different, argumentative person today that I learned some vital facts about the Kafkaesque process I've been engaged in for a month or so.

That angry person actually told me things the nice people didn't. Such as all the expenses I was listing to try to show why I thought I qualified for the program didn't count. They don't care what your expenses are. Doesn't matter whether you're on dialysis or have a pet Bengal tiger who's very expensive to keep in the backyard or that you have a $10,000 per month electric bill because you're creating Frankenstein in your basement.

All they care about is your gross income versus your mortgage payment and whether you are above or below a certain percent there.

And so I ask, "What's the percent?"

"We can't tell you that."

Because they think people will cook their data to fit the percentage. That's a little hard to to do when they're basing the decision on gross income and all that stuff is on your income tax forms and in black and white.

Well, I found out anyway. Because the Fair Housing Authority knows the games mortgage companies play and the shit they pull.

And they're happy to back you up. They'll come right out and tell you that they have leverage, you do not, and they are happy to put their leverage behind you.

What a swell bunch of guys and gals.

I had a greeeeat conversation with one of those fellows and the help is there if I want it. He told me not to even bother talking the mortgage company anymore.

And the magic secret figure they're hiding: 31%.

So it's very hard to qualify. Plus you have to already be in default, even though they don't tell you that.

Don't rob Peter to pay Paul. Rob Peter. (Peter is the mortgage company in my metaphor).

Lee pointed out that our financial situation is set to change in eight months for the better, so he doesn't understand why I worry about shit like this.

I knew he was right and I knew that was happening but I still get weird like this and think in the short term.

It is educational, if nothing else.

It's so strange. I kept getting this woman who sounds like Clarice Starling, so I kept calling back to hear her talk, I think. It had to be an Arkansas accent, but she was so sharp and funny.

And sure enough, every time I called I'd realize I forgot to cross a metaphorical "t" somewhere on one of the many Byzantine forms that eddy questions within questions and check boxes within check boxes. Because her eagle eye would focus in on the things people always miss and she'd politely grill me.

I just gave up and shoved all the papers into an envelope once I realized the 31% figure would disqualify me, as well as the fact that I haven't had the good form to default.

SARCASTIC BRAIN RADIO had "More More More" by the andrea whozit project playing in my head all day.

It should probably be the theme song for my mailbox.

Every time I lift the lid, it should have the chorus playing and then add "EVIL MAIL."

What's the point of qualifying for mortgage relief if you only are only going to qualify for eight months.

Well, you save money during that period of time. Was my thinking.

I hate talking or thinking about money.

My mother has never valued money over other things in life (far from it) and does not have money woes, but I always point out when she starts talking about money that we are talking about money and I hate talking about money.

In this, I am like rich people.

Well, when they're around non-rich people.

That's the first unspoken rule of polite plutocracy: "Don't talk about money around those that don't have it."

Trust me, I have a bunch of wealthy relations. And they all wisely follow this tacit rule.

The great fear behind that dictum is that one of your poorer relations is going to come out and say "Gimme some!" Or simply mug you.

I check the weather forecast before I go to family gatherings.

So we will have something to talk about.

Or the past. Rich people love to talk about their childhood too.

Especially if they were poorer then.

Because they're secretly enjoying the disparity between their have-not and their have selves while they're pretending to be focused on the conversation at hand.

This is one of the most boring "secret romances" of the rich. Their "poor narrative." I usually start talking about Mary Rowlandson's "captivity narrative" and then the great tradition of "slave narratives" in American literature to help them to realize how fucking boring their "poor narrative" is. Usually, they get the irony pretty quickly.

Money is probably the most boring subject on the planet for those who aren't actively engaged in making shitloads of it.

Suze Orman is probably the least interesting lesbian on the planet.

Wait. Rosie is coming back as a talk show host on Oprah's network.

Okay, Orman is the second least interesting lesbian. On the planet.

Are Cats Sociopaths?


Hermit Exhibitionism

"We have no secrets  in this house, young lady."

To a Young Queerbro Who Lights Up Like a Hasbro

You plead virtuous.
Please, Son.

I know you and cum
are like Paula Deen

and butter.

Things I Have Googled

1. "recreational activities of unicorns"
2. "People who have been killed by rainbows"
3. "If you drop a multivitamin on the floor and can't find it, can a superpowerful insect develop?"
4. "the lifespan of a clipped toenail" (again lost on the floor, presumably to be used as a weapon by the vitamined-up bug)
5. "animals and insects that resemble Lady Gaga"
6. "has anyone been charged with date raping himself or herself"
7. "did Buddha have a masseur or masseuse?"
8. "erotic attraction to snowmen or snowwomen"
9. "who invented the snowbunny"
10. "how common was cursing among caveman"
11. "numbers between 0 and 9 which have been forgotten"
12. "the longest recorded 'sorry, wrong number" conversation in history"
13. "stalked and killed for dialing a wrong number"
14. "the i.q. of dust bunnies"
15. "people who disappeared attempting time travel"
16. "people who wrote love letters to popes"
17. "the funniest cartoon by a caveman discovered"
18. "who made the first ass xerox?"
19. "annotated history of the snowbunny"
20. "fear of alphabetical order"
21. "greatest supererogatory act in the history of mankind"
22. Google Image Search: snowbunnies
23 Google Image Search: condor in condo
24. Google Image Search: baby eating rat
25. Google Image Search: Lady Gaga penis
26. Google Image Search: Google Image Search
27. Google Image Search: "too much time on his hands"
28. Google Image Search: neolithic girls gone wild
29. Jersey Shore and beliefs about the afterlife
30. Google Image Search: unicorn penis
31. "stalked by a unicorn"
32. "Was Shakespeare really 1,217 people?"
33. "the world's first famous last words"
34. "world record for bloviation"
35. "Bjorkphobia, Bjorkphilia"
36. "pleasant dragons"
37. "Pre-Columbian Columbus"
38. Google Image Search: erectile superachievers
39. greatest achievements of sleepers
40. "child speaks only in lolspeak"
41. stores mentioned in the Bible
42. "Noah's Ark waterslide"
43. "online emergency room"
44. bots who have been sued
45. bots charged as accessories to murder
46. worst April Fool's Day jokes ever
47. Google Image Search: David Byrne in Walmart
48. Bermuda Triangle toys
49. Pitcairn Islanders naked
50. Buy meerkats cheap

Monday, September 26, 2011

Who REALLY Started the Planking Phenomenon? I Know.

It was actually K.D. Lang.

She sang this song a few years ago.

French, "Je fais la planche" = "I'm planking."

Here are the gorgeously simple

yet timeless lyrics.

K.D. Lang also gives the philosophical underpinnings

in these lyrics

of planking; it's almost Taoist.

We must feel "As above, so below."

And that's the secret significance

of all those people suddenly planking.

Jung would have so seen the way this phenomenoon has spread

as proof of an archetype and the collective unconscious.

The way Jung said that people all over the planet

suddenly seeing U.F.O.S. in the fifties

was a projection of a mandala into the sky.

The projection of the human race's desire for a healing wholeness.

Way to go, K.D. Lang!

Now make everyone stand on their heads

and rub a finger over their lips

while making that airplane propeller sound!

the sublime song's lyrics...

Endlessly blue above me

Endlessly blue beneath

The buoyancy of beneath

Je fais la planche

What lies beyond the surface

That loses profoundly deep

An uninterrupted sleep

Je fais la planche

Floating here in a dream

In this dream of earth and sky

In this dream of life

Floating here in a dream

In this dream of earth and sky

In this dream of life

Very Short Poems (After the Manner of Joe Brainard)



You can rarely find a receipt for deceit.


I think it's okay to praise yourself a little.
But "Don't get high off your own supply."
         --Biggie Smalls


I find myself constantly apologizing.
Listening to Joni Mitchell
on an early Monday morning

with a September window open
I do feel a bit like a diamond thief.

         I OPENED A BOOK

And it began snowing.

Out of the book.

It filled the house.

You know the Japanese.


I just hope when I get to December, I can keep my dick out of May.

         "GOOD PERIOD"

My only crime for weeks and weeks was overfilling a bathtub.


Even wondering is complicated.
There is the good kind of wondering.
And then the evil kind.

The evil kind of wondering

is worse than the Wicked Witch of the West.

         THE RAVING

The birds are having a rave this morning.

They're being very young and loud.

September. Don't grudge them this.

Winter will be just horrible.


The way "homies" has turned to glass, for instance.


Are my second most favorite uncut thing.


When you get called "devious" when you've
really only done something stupid,
doesn't it make you feel like you got a D-
when you really deserved a C?


And I see it's a 55 year old man,
it's always like the scene in those horror movies
where the child turns
around and it's an evil, undead gnome.


Most people are sorry and happy.

Or happy and sorry.

You're not all that different.


I've noticed that sometimes
when I get on a noble high horse
and say I'm "sparing someone"

it's actually because I'm just
too tired to engage in bad behavior.


When they think they're
"talking into a void."

I don't mind it at all.

A void won't call you
in the middle of the night

because another void left it.


Or nobody would ever live past their first romantic break-up.


Friends who died young are the ones
you will wonder about your entire life.


Hell is probably only a metaphor.

Yet people still get insulted
when you tell them to go to a metaphor.

And even weirder, it is a wicked desire
made more polite through political correctness.

Because people rarely say,
"Catch on fire and burn forever!"


I don't really believe in writing workshops.

But if you gotta have them,
I think every teacher
should point out that writing

is not a cruelty-free product.


Like saying crows are sarcastic.

You can't prove it or explain it, but you know it's true.


People who tell you they were "left in disbelief"
at someone's actions
are usually very arrogant, very gullible people.


I was left in quite a state, I can tell you. It was Pennsylvania.


Today I learned from poet Ted Berrigan
that "Hokusai had 947 changes of address in his life."

         YOKO ONO

Her Grapefruit helps me
be a little more okay "about death."

And with death, even a "little bit"
is great progress.


She wanted to show me

non-verbally that

it's raining. And the rain

wanted to feel my palm.


Life is usually wonderful for a very long time.

Before the invention of the telephone,
life was probably wonderful slightly longer.

         THE SUN WAS OUT

And then it vanished.

Probably just a coincidence
I started talking about it

and then it hid.

Right afterw.

I don't think real stars

act like poets.


When someone asks where "you've been hiding"
it might be a terrific compliment.

But I estimate there's about a 20% chance
this could be used as a slam-dunk.

         SOME PEOPLE

Some people use other people as hand grenades.

         SOME PEOPLE

Some people are wegotists.
They begin sentences with "We"

when they actually mean "I."

I always assume the second person
is that person's ass.

         I DON'T THINK

I don't think it's really all that okay to use "the royal 'we'"
unless you're Louis Quatorze or someone like that.


You titillate me
just by existing.

Whenever you appear, I get
a woozy feeling. Like when I see
a Baltimore Oriole.

Or a hummingbird.

I mean t.v. doesn't count.

And I could count
on the fingers of one hand

the times that's happened.


On alcohol, I'm poorly-edited.

         THE ARTIST

It's hard to get to sleep with an unworried mind.

         ISN'T IT STRANGE?

Isn't it strange when you make a typo
and it's better
than what you wanted to type?

I always believe
that's a ghost writer

standing there watching me.

A better ghost writer.


I just received an email in my box
seconds ago, from someone
I don't think I know.

They sent me a video on YouTube.

And this is what the email said:

Simple Math

late night thinking, i understand simple math just fine, but somehow i still refuse to execute the equations and work out the problem! that equals {GluttonForPunishment} lol
facebook page ...
negativity {adds misery} but if i can
(subtract all the negatives) and
{add} more {positive people}
then my (misery)
will begin to DISAPPEAR! ...
but I have yet to {exercise this simple math!}

If this is spam it is at least wonderful spam.


If labels told the truth,
alcohol would say,

"Hi. I'm about to make you
30 pounds lighter, 23 years younger,
several plastic surgeries prettier

and turn your life
into TWA Flight 800.


         LOT'S WIFE

So many poems have been written

about Lot's wife.

Usually, the poets focus
on her allegiance, divided
between God and her community,

and see her as a sort of martyr
in the Us Vs. God war.

I always believed
she was just looking back

to see if the family dog

was keeping up.

         I TOO REFUSE

I too refuse to fight with an unarmed opponent.

Or one armed with a crayon.


When you're called "clever" in England, it's usually good.

When you're called "clever" in America, it's usually bad.


I always thought the proverb,
"Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas"
would sound better, much sexier,

if it ran "Lie down with racehorses,
get up with a bad back."


I've begun to feel (finally!)
that getting drunk
is dumb as grabbing a pillow
when you wake up
in the middle of the night
and see a killer standing there
with a gun in his hand aimed at you.

You know the pillow
isn't going to stop the bullet.

But you can't help yourself.

Very Short Poems (after the Manner of Joe Brainard)

         GAY RIGHTS

I guess it's possible someone
could have been
called "faggot" too many times,
or not enough times, to be
of any real use
to the struggle for equal rights.


Or doin nuthin.
Can be the difference between the eye of a hurricane.
And treating your life like a nap.


I think I'll stay right where I am.


Existentialism is a high-toned way of saying "You're on your own, pal."


Usually this is because they have something to offer besides their horribleness.


When I was growing up, this was a great insult.
But so was "Monkey see, monkey do."
Now it's called "an homage."


Many people have made made a fortune in dithering.


Hither and Yon are two of my favorite travel destinations.


I always contented myself with making "snow bunnies." They attracted a much smaller number of bullies, so they were rarely kicked over. So I wasn't really devastated like the Masterbuilders in the neighborhood.


In my limited experience, most apologies for orgasms someone has had are rarely 100% sincere.

I Never Knew It Had Lyrics...

Love. Dis.

Was posting this over at the Halloween blog but thought it was so funny figured I'd share it here too.

I can't believe they actually even got the realty company's name from the movie.


I'm sure somebody made sure John Carpenter saw this. He actually noodled out that theme I think. They were on a real shoestring budget with that first movie, so no "composer." John just grabbed the keyboard.

I'm pretty sure that original mask is just a William Shatner mask treated with acid.

My favorite part by far is the three orderlies giving Michael Myers that glowing recommendation in their best girly boy-nurse voices.

Pamplemousse: Oprahreacting

Pretend that everyone you meet on a given day is actually Oprah Winfrey.

Respond warily to every person, as though each man, woman and child were The Oprah actually encasing the Buddha, as The Oprah clearly does.

Speak from your higher, Oprahsoul to each person.

You will find your enemies magically transformed into your gurus.

You will find those bodies that were filled with your genitals' delight and your soul's poison have now become Warriors of Light, holding out a microphone to hear exactly what you think.

Consider the periods between talking to the various Oprah avatars (your downtime) as commercial breaks.

But remember. Even then Oprah remains with you. Even when you're off air.

This "off air" will actually extend into the times when you abandon waking consciousness, and even when you abandon dreaming consciousness, because at those times the Oprah-Soul will take flight and hold you.

This is true even as you enter the pralaya state of anticipatory non-existence, where all great music, art, love and life itself truly reside.

Jesus Saves and Buddha Recycles.

But Oprah Listens.

Enter into this Great Listening and experience the paranirvana that comes from realizing that even the grass is part of the studio audience.

I Love Boris Rogowski's Working Notes on "Fuck Bunny"

This is from a post he made on the band's blog on 2.7.10.

"Fuck Bunny” is song number 5 on Last Hero of the Western World and for those who are interested I have 5 fun fun fun! facts (sorry, been reading James Frey recently) about it:

1. The lyrics do not contain any form of profanity (but your interpretation of them might).

2. With the exception of the noise guitars all instruments were tuned to 435 Hz (the 1885 Viennese standard pitch). The guitars were tuned to 440 Hz which we didn’t realize before mixing. At the end we decided to embrace the dissonance and not change the pitch digitally.

3. The bass guitar and the banjo were plucked with a rubber seal ring because I was too lazy to look for an appropriate pick.

4. I had forgotten to write lyrics for one of the parts and since I didn’t want to pause and pick up a pen I quickly made them up, starting with a line from an earlier part, “stay on these roads”, which I had stolen from A-ha in the first place.

5. I fell asleep shortly after finishing the song and had one of the most unpleasant nightmares of my life.

Got picked up at UIO, LIS, LAX, NRT, I forgot; wrought iron fences through cab window through the condensation and the hems peering upward until hotel arrives now putting hair straight steam from storm drain hazy check-in second round in discounted ambassador suite on 4th floor head hurts get cleaned up looking at skyscrapers moving out without briefing air and traffic noises hurt big house of god sleeps in square liana garden calm inside despite evening service pew hurts my back holding your weight holding you forever unease is bearable not quite seizable drinks somewhere resembling cannon street fingers eyes scalp itch waiting for another cab back at the hotel the room changed you notice spread eagled on the center bed you changed I notice your body lifts off the mattress hovers face down right below the ceiling


You can hear the song in its entirety here, but you have to promise to buy it on Amazon if you listen and like it, k? lol

I love the dissonances he uses here.

And the way the song travels. Barbara Guest wrote in a poem once, "Ellington travels so much in his music, everyone bumps into him." I always loved that quote. Boris too travels quite a bit in his music. I thought of both The Ocean Blue and His Name is Alive when listening to this song. And I would have never expected to encounter any song that could remind me of both those bands in the course of its trajectory. But those are just at fleeting moments.

This is such a carefully crafted song with so many textural changes and such a beautifully "hopeless with hope" chorus.

Long and sustained. Two words that go well together.

And what a great weirdly-appropriate ending.

Epic post-love song.

Boris Rogowski (He of the Band Society Islands) Wrote Me...

from the Taubenstrasse in Bergisch Gladbach.

I'm pretty sure that's in Candide's Westphalia.

And I feel like The Compleat Shite for not having realized he had written me until some weeks after he had.

Boris, my apologies.

I think I still have my old email listed on Google or something. It works, but I rarely check that. I should fix that (he says and then another year goes by). I sent you the email I check more regularly.

Boris noticed my appreciation of his music (I particularly loved his song "Fuck Bunny") and was kind enough to send me some words and some links to some of his newly-released work.

I'll share the links he shared with me here.

Boris writes, "We’re going to release a couple of digital singles (up to 25, in fact, 4 of which have been finished by now) and do a physical release of the crème de la crème of them sometime next year. This way I can let go of songs while they’re still fresh; given my tendencies to second-guess and prematurely trash material, this seems to me to be the best approach right now.

" So what I’d like you to hear today is the first piece of a work in progress; as yet I have no idea what the final album will be like. The songs will be recorded in different places (the basement where „Last Hero of the Western World“ was conceived, among others – but also in my apartment, the great outdoors etc.) and will feature different guests. Also, there will be videos of the band and other people performing the songs in various set-ups. I’m hoping for some feedback from the outside world following the single releases, which might have some influence on the progress of the song cycle, too.

"As you see, by now it’s mostly blank pages and lots of ideas. Form to follow.

"You can take a listen to the first single, „Wolves at the Gate“, here: Come Hither, Music Lover.

or just download the mp3 here: MP3 here.

"This song will be released on August 31 on all digital platforms. Needless to say that if you like it, feel free to post it on Joe Brainard’s Pyjamas and share it with other people. As of now we have no badass promotion or distribution team behind us, so all help getting the word out is truly, greatly appreciated."

In a follow up email: "just a quick update: The second song was released yesterday; it's called Tsp. Love. You can download the mp3 here: Tsp. Love: MP3.

Alas, Dear Boris, my blog is part of the hinterlands of BlogWorld, visted only by the most intrepid of Alpinists, but I'm happy to tell people that all these links are worth following up.

I'm a fan.

Unfortunately, fanboy here can't share a great Alexa ranking with those artists he feels deserve it.

So anyone out there...feel free to reblog this or do your own response to the above work. And give the artist some feedback...and love if you feel it. Like spread it around or something.

I'm off to check the new stuff out.

Okay, I did. First response after one listen...

Boris, if you're reading this, I loved both songs.

They both remind me at times of some of the eighties bands and artists I love (Echo and the Bunnymen, Trash Can Sinatras, even The Ocean Blue at times) and some great very contempo bands (The Shins, for one--more on "Tsp Love") but of course I'm not implying either track struck me as the work of a soundalike band at all.

Great vocals. Love the voice.

Love the almost martial percussion on the first track...of an order you don't really get to hear (which is everybody's loss) anymore! Why the hell don't bands utilize percussion dramatically anymore? I think back to Simple Minds' on Sparkle in the Rain and how much I loved the drama that brought. But then on that album they managed to remind everyone that the piano is actually a percussion instrument--which can sustain quite serious attacks and remain perfectly fine, believe it or not.

"Tsp. Love" is really like getting into a time machine and going back to the early eighties and discovering a really great band you missed. I mean that as a compliment. It was a period of such solid and imaginative songwriting.

Okay, I shouldn't despair. There's always great music be written. In every decade. It's just some decades you have to look a little harder to find it.

And I'm glad I made the effort and found Society Islands.

I want to go find that cover you guys did of Peter Gabriel's San Jacinto from what had to be his best album (pop laurels notwithstanding): Security.That was such a fucking great album.

I loved your elevator cover of "San Jacinto." (Okay, probably not an elevator. But close to one lol.) And that's certainly a martial song. Martial and spiritual at once.

You totally created another song through that cover though. Which is of course the highest service one can to to a song. As opposed to slavishly imitating it, which is 90% of covers.

Merci for that too.

And here's the MP3 d/l at Amazon for "Fuck Bunny": From the 2010 album

Sunday, September 25, 2011

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Okay, this is Seriously Funny...

This is Momus too. It's called, appropriately, "Boring Books."

The fact that Momus has a dream narrator's voice--and the creepy "lost in time" soundspace--are of course everything...and that's what makes the one-note joke so funny and last through the entirety of the clip...for me anyway.

Enjoy the boredom.

I can't believe he actually found a book by M. Boring!

But Hey Now, that Phaedon book, Boring Postcards, is actually great. It's sort of "meta" that he includes that, because the book is clearly ironic. I perused that book at the old Media Play that's now a Value City Furniture Store. If I can go in stores that used to be other stores, I mostly end up seeing the stores that were there before. Is that okay? Of course, I didn't buy it. The book, I mean. Not the store. No, I didn't buy that either. Now I'm confused. Anyway, you can enjoy that book in like ten minutes. I always buy postcards like that when I find them--many of the postcards "feature" things like completely undistinguished strips of boring U.S. highways.

And there's this...isn't this beautiful...I feel half-hypnotized even at this distance...I can't even begin to imagine what it would feel like sitting in that grotto-like room...being fully under its influence....

A dream machine built by David Woodard being demonstrated in Schloss Wiesenburg, Mark, Germany on April 6th, 2008.

I have to admit I found this great funny art. "The Widow Twanky."

Hope it's not about the transgender in the lawsuit that was not decided in Momus's favor...when he wrote a song about a M2F (sorry not the right designation) transsexual, in which he suggested the woman could go back in time and marry "himself."

He ended up having to retract the song and basically kill it permanently and then pay 30K in damages. So he did the album Stars Forever. Thirty people (including Jeff Koons) paid a thousand each to be sung about on that 1999 album.

I'm wondering if this is a humorous flashback to that. In any case, seeing Momus in drag was worth it. He ends up looking like he was styled by Hannah Hoch, which had me cracking up. Mr. Potato Head Transgenderism. Makeup by Hannah Hoch. Not to mention the serious bronchitis or C.O.P.D. falsetto vocals lol. Love 'em.

Momus Quote

Momus is credited with the first documented instance of writing, in 1991, that "In the future everyone will be famous for fifteen people", which has evolved into the popular meme "On the web, everyone will be famous to fifteen people"

I snerked when I read that on the artist's Wiki.

I didn't realize Momus has always maintained an active and celebrated blog presence.

I just discovered this. Looks look he jumped ship in February, 2010 at Click Opera but there's all that back stuff to read there.

And here's his dot com: Apicult Tour

I think that tour schedule at the left is for the current year.

Whatever drove me to think Momus was somewhat obscure I have no clue. If anything, he's gotten even more attention once he turned to the page. If you Google it, you'll see what an impact the book has had. The citations go on and on. It has to be as pleasurable a read throughout as the excerpts I found on YouTube were to listen to.

I was smiling because the first thing I saw on his site was the actual Orton/Halliwell "defacements" (mostly comical but sometimes quite pretty collages) made up of images cut out of books from the Islington library which the then-frustrated authors/lovers patronized. I probably have the movie based on the biography almost memorized. It's one of a dozen or so movies I watched obsessively, although now it's been years. Both Gary Oldman and Alfred Molina were great in that...but so was Vanessa Redgrave as the scheming publicist who was so charmed by Orton's amorality. I had only seen these collages in the movie--mocked-up versions and the few photos (probably one or two and I think black and white)in Lahr's Orton book. I've read all Orton's plays and still retain some love for them; although, to be honest, some of them have begun sounding more like telescripts, since Orton's at-that-time challenging subject matter seems tame in comparison to many things which are televised or presented in film today. But there's still the fascination of that dark lovers' tragedy. And there's still the Wilde redivivus humor of Orton. Orton was damn funny. The diaries are probably more fascinating than the plays now.

Momus resides in Osaka, Japan.

I read an interview with him but I think it was from 2003. Probably eight lifetimes back to someone who thinks and moves as quickly as he.

His bio gives a lot more info. No point in rehashing. Whitney Biennial 2006, etc.

He used to live in Williamsburg and was in NYC admiring the catholicity of it all when 9/11 exploded in his face.

He's published two books (at least one of which is a novel, maybe both, not sure).

So now I want to hunt down The Book of Jokes, which has been translated into French and (soon I think) German.

I mean if you listen to the way the guy's mind works in the song lyrics, you can't help but want to see how he exists on the page.

He's interested in time travel. I learned that too from his Wiki. At least one of the novels uses that as a device, with travel into Japan's future a part of the book--according to his site.

In the interview, he was very funny at times. He mentioned being drawn to things like the Pre-Revolutionary custom of the court composer and the court poet.

He seemed to have an almost fetishistic admiration for grace under pressure, the ability to be subversive in the most strait-jacked environment possible.

Possibly that's a metaphorical transposition acknowledging the way artists inevitably self-censor in this now most delicate of worlds, la politesse or p.c. gallows of the Left and Right both?

Well, you hear the Brel in his lyrics. If one is going to compare him to any poets, probably foremost should be Brecht. Maybe some Prevert thrown in there. All three have that directness and immediacy so that their words are like a knife...but a knife dipped in some pleasurable liqueur before it cuts you can cut your mouth and enjoy the taste at the same time. Slit and taste.

Okay, that's overkill. Words don't really make you bleed. Especially not if they're part of suave songs, suavely delivered.

What can I say? I'm a new fan.

And new fans tend to get hyperbolic.

I'll try to find his books cheap on ABE. Because otherwise it ain't happening.

Cat food has to come before Momus.

Oh, the most interesting thing I learned is that Momus was on my favorite Brit label back in the day: 4AD.

I had no idea he was a part of that.

I wonder if he hobnobbed with the Cocteau Twins.

If so, I'll write him and ask him if I can have something Liz Fraser touched lol.

Because I would like totally create a reliquary box for it.

And later slip it into El Escorial.

And to prove you canna beat a canny Scot, here's Momus introducing the French edition of son livre, en francais...

Someone Xtranormal'd a sliver of Chapter Two from the same book.

The author gives a creepy-funny reading of the book in Prague, some years back. Might be an earlier draft.

What a great way to present the work. Part 2 held me particularly mesmerized.

I love the way the prose (from these small samples) leads me to think: if the Gormenghast trilogy were written by Burroughs.