Friday, February 27, 2004


Jo at Vien Dong - January 2004
Hopelessly ill? Isn't

lurid polymer the newsreel of togging airmen?

Don't twirl me, tease me with cobblestone trees,

seaweed ham and Nehru shakes,

my thyroid can take it,

though it deplores extraneous pyrotechnics

and pieces of herring falling between

the rhenium and the slung canoe.

Thursday, February 26, 2004

Don't be a fool

Gladden your longness and scriptures
with undulating and patently unfriendly
denticle sonneteers like us.

Your docking phosphorus unwoven rebirth
will never starve as they ravigote dreamily
along the Kennedy Cardiomom Causeway.
Intellectuals you come

and Mavis Leonard will approve
your Datsun B210 into
an unintelligible Halloween drawl
of albatross angst
and glacier dictation.

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

She placed his lamp

on a cud spider that Monty Python brushed with opium and was reprimanded by a Delphic tough guy who even Mel Gibson thinks has a felicitous footprint and a lecherous extensor configuring skillet.
The notebooks would

spout bedtime award polls
and manhole compulsory mitts.
Suntan Tong

This gesture is as elusive as the maternal carburetor lava entrepreneur who crusades against aerosol Canadian nihilism as an unstable drawbridge leading to the crackling and hobbling of preferring salad to pink domingos.
As if rooted

in eagle relaxation mantras,
the bartender shaves the luxurious choir,
a nebulous cheshire grin playing about
his corrigible easel.

Monday, February 23, 2004

Prefab Liquid Betrothal


Choose the valiant gorge that's helpful not sarcastic.

Defrock the baroness and bestow actual bliss.

Searing cobwebs bullwhack regimen

and strop the winter's papal d'├ętat.

Separated at birth? Hunter S. Thompson and Max J. Cheney
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!"
Try Knitting Rain

Drape your calamus over me, chair lady.
Your creole flycatcher erodes
the tense chairman miscegenation that
arbitrary moneymaking shows in
snow debuggers and suntan trinitarians.

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.

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.

Max and Leigh

Friday, February 13, 2004


Don loves the Big Island
Chaperone Pesticide

confounds the needs of parakeets everywhere

and is banishingly wrong.

Quacked stringers are memoryless polygons

with long, tapering tails.

The pain is composed and emptied

into hingeless, octagonal periquitos.
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.

Thursday, February 12, 2004

Hey guy!

Buy frog figurines here,
with anteater elan.
The Mahayana inflammable casket

differs from the molybdenite betatron

like a donner party of universal salvation

differs from the indiscoverable scrap heap

of on the cuff astronaut corrosion catering.

Wendy loves the Big Island
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.
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)
WINTER WARM

The world is scratching and itching
in a vague toilet,
a kind of sea surface.
I wish that it was
the next morning
and now it is
the next morning
and now it's
the next morning
and I have broken
a head of cabbage
for Colin.

Wednesday, February 11, 2004

Hello dear cust0mer!

Please melt and purify Paris as Neptune

scolds the broadloomed, pokerfaced

Spokane breadwinner whose tendency

is to faze out every alewife

betwixt Dixon and Scarlatina

not with acclamation and autograph

seekers but with hubbub and broom lemonade.

Wendy loves Hanauma Bay

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

ywwahwhhhahahh!
casual needle

bigot clinton avon quaver

kick my crubblely corn beef swagger

trade these armored lego logs

carve they midnight tailwind cause

ornate bottles abstain thunder

envy eye brick strobe assessor

chordal pang and peril tinge

baste amongst the ablution

Monday, February 09, 2004


Dad loved dogs
 
July 1966                                         July 2002

Mom and Dad
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.

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.

Max   March 23, 2003

Colin loves kale

Friday, February 06, 2004

Artificial Arenas

conflict crayfish lifespan slur

phonic nickel letterer

barton tone deaf bundy bask

atom ear branch cockatoo crash
Dons reading




Max at the University of Redlands
Kafka Americana

disco pliers ripping skull

cecil clammy smudgy smell

tanya chevy shovel grit

dolphin conflict ack ack ick

Thursday, February 05, 2004

Weimaraner
    for Gizmo

bushel chubby bootleg supple

ferro magnet broadway bubble

puppy headdress cheesecake micky

hatch claw lea slag bing bong bing

Tuesday, February 03, 2004


        Mario and Max -- San Diego High Graduation
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.
The malaprop tattle chromosome

continually pinches your acetylene proverbs
like your cloven yet attentive collarbone
with its unique smirk and dialysis twinge.

Protract all the gluing and usury beaks
and you have a classificatory inclination
to asphyxiate and then
selectively throw back worms.

Monday, February 02, 2004


Annex Skies
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.
The realm of reason

is logic taken down in longhand
with a barium chaser.

The Annex Kids!