Jo at Vien Dong - January 2004
Friday, February 27, 2004
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Monday, February 23, 2004
Proletariat Metabolism
Eagle relaxation leads to the congratulatory flatulent statesmen
whose credential is a horoscope banistered by tampons
and edited by a biochemic polemic cavern
where Eurydice and I broom corn in a kinetic
acquisitive and invidious earthquake twit tog,
heretofore known as pop abhorred.
It's an emotional debacle that only a
mesmeric, amorous swamp quirt
would embargo.
The buzzing explodes and startles
the humble Lieutenant Orpheus P. Fetter.
Alone, he ambulates hayward, a redheaded
stumpage with a triple gecko tonk canopy
that is irremovable. You can clobber it,
yokel it, degenerate it, cradle it,
bramble it and it will continue on
like a crow congratulating itself
on the extravaganza loudspeaker.
"Pile wort! Shove zeroes into the dashboard,
it's dang near denture crankcase time!"
Eagle relaxation leads to the congratulatory flatulent statesmen
whose credential is a horoscope banistered by tampons
and edited by a biochemic polemic cavern
where Eurydice and I broom corn in a kinetic
acquisitive and invidious earthquake twit tog,
heretofore known as pop abhorred.
It's an emotional debacle that only a
mesmeric, amorous swamp quirt
would embargo.
The buzzing explodes and startles
the humble Lieutenant Orpheus P. Fetter.
Alone, he ambulates hayward, a redheaded
stumpage with a triple gecko tonk canopy
that is irremovable. You can clobber it,
yokel it, degenerate it, cradle it,
bramble it and it will continue on
like a crow congratulating itself
on the extravaganza loudspeaker.
"Pile wort! Shove zeroes into the dashboard,
it's dang near denture crankcase time!"
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Her Golden Mouse
Her golden mouse is thinking
and perhaps her daughter's shining soft clock
is making a sound.
A tall recycle bin arrives.
Her daughter's stupid well-crafted mp3 player smiles.
A noisy little purple crow is on fire.
Her stupid sport shoes start fidgeting again.
His soft gun stands still.
And amid all of this
our children's shining binocyles get an idea.
Her golden mouse is thinking
and perhaps her daughter's shining soft clock
is making a sound.
A tall recycle bin arrives.
Her daughter's stupid well-crafted mp3 player smiles.
A noisy little purple crow is on fire.
Her stupid sport shoes start fidgeting again.
His soft gun stands still.
And amid all of this
our children's shining binocyles get an idea.
Monday, February 16, 2004
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Rock hard in mi_nutes Don - football team clocks around 49
And derives perverse satisfaction from the dark side of her diskette.
If you learn in a pig pen you'll be defined by pockets,
and then behind your earrings you'll take a coffee break related to oil filter parts.
Join a support group for cowards who get stinking drunk
or for bullfrog hosts.
Cathleen is the friend of Cathleen and ceases to exist when pork chops are near.
Still, she will have a change of heart about living with a cup.
Seek her paycheck inside a parking lot with the rattlesnake she's living with.
And rememember,
any fairy can brainwash pit vipers toward oil filters,
but it takes a real lunatic to ballerina behind Kragen.
And derives perverse satisfaction from the dark side of her diskette.
If you learn in a pig pen you'll be defined by pockets,
and then behind your earrings you'll take a coffee break related to oil filter parts.
Join a support group for cowards who get stinking drunk
or for bullfrog hosts.
Cathleen is the friend of Cathleen and ceases to exist when pork chops are near.
Still, she will have a change of heart about living with a cup.
Seek her paycheck inside a parking lot with the rattlesnake she's living with.
And rememember,
any fairy can brainwash pit vipers toward oil filters,
but it takes a real lunatic to ballerina behind Kragen.
Friday, February 13, 2004
No Bicycled Humanity
Acidities accost and drink blackbirds
in the shadowy, polished lowland aperitif.
We're infected with maximal complexity
and beguiling cicada heads.
The cotton is fertilized and the
roadside sleepy.
Near Oxford they've realized that jellyfish act
as natural breath fresheners.
It's an indication that has twisted flavorings
and piously pithed cosmic rebates.
Acidities accost and drink blackbirds
in the shadowy, polished lowland aperitif.
We're infected with maximal complexity
and beguiling cicada heads.
The cotton is fertilized and the
roadside sleepy.
Near Oxford they've realized that jellyfish act
as natural breath fresheners.
It's an indication that has twisted flavorings
and piously pithed cosmic rebates.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Gorgeous Women Want You!
Rather than vying for your kale,
your cole slaw and your Jay-Z records,
our Zeitgeisted-out gals want
to do you like an umpire at
a xenophobic wiffle ball game.
If you can't hear the phone ring,
if you can't nunciate,
if you can't come in from the Mediterranean,
then just tie a gourd around your way too awful
nocturnal night trip hips and bleat like a
hyena dying in the demilitarized zone.
Rather than vying for your kale,
your cole slaw and your Jay-Z records,
our Zeitgeisted-out gals want
to do you like an umpire at
a xenophobic wiffle ball game.
If you can't hear the phone ring,
if you can't nunciate,
if you can't come in from the Mediterranean,
then just tie a gourd around your way too awful
nocturnal night trip hips and bleat like a
hyena dying in the demilitarized zone.
Riding Mr. Fanelli
for Charles Bernstein
Look at this photo.
It's in a station
on a street. 1979. You could say
that it's interesting in
the way that
Pudge Rodriguez standing over
a stack of pancakes is
interesting. Mr. Fanelli,
there's a mountain and
a comb and they're walking
down a street. 1979. And what happens
is so disagreeable that despite
the tiny cries
of a million tiny people
one still cannot see the hand
cream or the kielbasa
that moves parallel to
what is permitted and
adjacent to what is intended and
loping along to what
feels like a cry for help,
untransmitted. Mr.
Fanelli - there's a
gentle mountain lying dormant
in the station, in the street. It's 1979.
And my point is trite,
but think about it. I don't have
a sandwich and I don't know
where it is. Mr.
Fanelli, do you think that
you could take your finger from the trigger
and we'd both feel more comfortable because
as they say, subtlety is the
rudest form of vanity, especially
today with all these express trains
passing rudely by the streets
every fucking minute, when the
trains actually do run on time?
Come on! Admit it, Mr. Fanelli, admit that
you think about a station, about a street,
that you think it's 1979 and that
instead of basting your steak
one of these times you should knock it out!
Meanwhile the day vultures swoop in
thinking that the world
is a little too high of a cost
for the way me and you have been, and me,
I aksed first: What in the
ape shit have you done
with our puny heads? If
our puny heads were algae-laden, they'd
still be our puny, damp heads. Mr.
Fanelli, don't you understand that if
we want our heads to be puny
then that's the only thing we want to be puny,
not stations and not
1979, not streets and their puny-headed
look with their puny
intentions that should be quizzed.
I aks you, spare me sir,
Is there a zendo near here? Mr.
Fanelli, when and if you see
the photo and the letter
put them into your sugar bowl
and think about it.
What you're really aksing
is if I'm fond of your leg
with its low cost estimates,
its never-ending quizzes that I'm obligated
to write on: quizzes
you would never write on
in any station, on any street, 1979
because and this is very
(work in progress)
for Charles Bernstein
Look at this photo.
It's in a station
on a street. 1979. You could say
that it's interesting in
the way that
Pudge Rodriguez standing over
a stack of pancakes is
interesting. Mr. Fanelli,
there's a mountain and
a comb and they're walking
down a street. 1979. And what happens
is so disagreeable that despite
the tiny cries
of a million tiny people
one still cannot see the hand
cream or the kielbasa
that moves parallel to
what is permitted and
adjacent to what is intended and
loping along to what
feels like a cry for help,
untransmitted. Mr.
Fanelli - there's a
gentle mountain lying dormant
in the station, in the street. It's 1979.
And my point is trite,
but think about it. I don't have
a sandwich and I don't know
where it is. Mr.
Fanelli, do you think that
you could take your finger from the trigger
and we'd both feel more comfortable because
as they say, subtlety is the
rudest form of vanity, especially
today with all these express trains
passing rudely by the streets
every fucking minute, when the
trains actually do run on time?
Come on! Admit it, Mr. Fanelli, admit that
you think about a station, about a street,
that you think it's 1979 and that
instead of basting your steak
one of these times you should knock it out!
Meanwhile the day vultures swoop in
thinking that the world
is a little too high of a cost
for the way me and you have been, and me,
I aksed first: What in the
ape shit have you done
with our puny heads? If
our puny heads were algae-laden, they'd
still be our puny, damp heads. Mr.
Fanelli, don't you understand that if
we want our heads to be puny
then that's the only thing we want to be puny,
not stations and not
1979, not streets and their puny-headed
look with their puny
intentions that should be quizzed.
I aks you, spare me sir,
Is there a zendo near here? Mr.
Fanelli, when and if you see
the photo and the letter
put them into your sugar bowl
and think about it.
What you're really aksing
is if I'm fond of your leg
with its low cost estimates,
its never-ending quizzes that I'm obligated
to write on: quizzes
you would never write on
in any station, on any street, 1979
because and this is very
(work in progress)
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Monday, February 09, 2004
Boomerang umbrage
accentuates this ballad,
composed as it is of dim assays
and quadrupole jackasses
in cahoots with unicorn jai alai players
and Buddhist fluoridatidians holding
Chainsaw Tea Parties
around fundraisers defined by cab drivers
and over-clocking what made America great!
Earrings! Living with ignorance! Line dancers
living with freight trains! And sometimes tomatoes!
Praying that that that pit bull viper in the alley
doesn't bite you beyond recognition.
Though you can always write a love letter
to fruit cake about living with a razor blade!
Most trombones believe that a grand piano
cannot fall in love with or for a clodhopper.
And any cashier can buy an expensive gift for a corporation
inside a Jersey cow, but it takes a real oil filter to
live with diabetes.
accentuates this ballad,
composed as it is of dim assays
and quadrupole jackasses
in cahoots with unicorn jai alai players
and Buddhist fluoridatidians holding
Chainsaw Tea Parties
around fundraisers defined by cab drivers
and over-clocking what made America great!
Earrings! Living with ignorance! Line dancers
living with freight trains! And sometimes tomatoes!
Praying that that that pit bull viper in the alley
doesn't bite you beyond recognition.
Though you can always write a love letter
to fruit cake about living with a razor blade!
Most trombones believe that a grand piano
cannot fall in love with or for a clodhopper.
And any cashier can buy an expensive gift for a corporation
inside a Jersey cow, but it takes a real oil filter to
live with diabetes.
Sunday, February 08, 2004
Saint Robert
Saint Robert forbids resident familiarity,
his studied jaw concealing what his wife
prescribed: gallantry ordered up from
startling cards, the spirit of twilight
spare beneath the helpless sun.
Rise now and picture a psychic
who endearingly helped them by
sealing the beer several deserts over,
needlessly hurrying through the after growth
of vice and furniture.
Saint Robert forbids resident familiarity,
his studied jaw concealing what his wife
prescribed: gallantry ordered up from
startling cards, the spirit of twilight
spare beneath the helpless sun.
Rise now and picture a psychic
who endearingly helped them by
sealing the beer several deserts over,
needlessly hurrying through the after growth
of vice and furniture.
Friday, February 06, 2004
Thursday, February 05, 2004
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Beseechers Die Forging Cartridge Cockade
for Fruitlessly T. Molting
Chocolatered bronco busting's complaints
never forgo android floor slabs,
they feather their star,
period.
Frog hair anthropomorphic bedlam and
feeblebodied embryologically fernseeded ballyhoos
extradite comfort, their familiarity breeding a
diving board amoeba ensnarled in
buckets.
Amoebas ensnarled like a snapping turtle's
bronchoesophagoscopy, ever-increasing
cotton comforters feeding water to the
green daydream that dispenses eternal rust
over the disputant's blocklike
caterwauls.
Caterwauls aluminize the busted
cuckoo clock, bodysurfing
the bowl maker with so much
exobiological chattel that Art Bell
counterscoffs fellations like a buttercup
bucklering against etchings, darling brick
setter.
for Fruitlessly T. Molting
Chocolatered bronco busting's complaints
never forgo android floor slabs,
they feather their star,
period.
Frog hair anthropomorphic bedlam and
feeblebodied embryologically fernseeded ballyhoos
extradite comfort, their familiarity breeding a
diving board amoeba ensnarled in
buckets.
Amoebas ensnarled like a snapping turtle's
bronchoesophagoscopy, ever-increasing
cotton comforters feeding water to the
green daydream that dispenses eternal rust
over the disputant's blocklike
caterwauls.
Caterwauls aluminize the busted
cuckoo clock, bodysurfing
the bowl maker with so much
exobiological chattel that Art Bell
counterscoffs fellations like a buttercup
bucklering against etchings, darling brick
setter.
Monday, February 02, 2004
Put the slipper
on the dandelion and
tell your lover you can climax as many times as you want.
Whereupon the postmortem causation corrosion
will leave your undercarriage soggy
like the transmission of a Bridgeport Madam,
olives throttling the aggregate dragonheaded white horse
that knocks down the philanthropic crucible casserole
with Aristotelian, philosophic and venomous repartee.
on the dandelion and
tell your lover you can climax as many times as you want.
Whereupon the postmortem causation corrosion
will leave your undercarriage soggy
like the transmission of a Bridgeport Madam,
olives throttling the aggregate dragonheaded white horse
that knocks down the philanthropic crucible casserole
with Aristotelian, philosophic and venomous repartee.
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