pyramid schemes, while canada dreams

egypt:
see gyped.

the airline signs all point to fine,
print in the paper all points to a line
drawn in the sun,
temples for zombies
stumbling to run.
the look on their faces a shadow
of a money shooting gun
loaded and bloated, seams show
and blows the feather over
a heart of ether

possibilities

Sun looms over the horizon and the wakefulness of a thousand prarie dwelling foxes does not change. Supposing I was one of them, then I would be the same as one of them but not all of them. Consider the peculiarity of this situation. They are all the same in the sense that the looming sun, threatening to send a handful of prairie partridges up to the above, does not affect the wakefulness of any of that thousand prairie dwelling foxes. Yet, where I one of them, I would only be the same as one of them and thus might be affected by the certain loom of the sun.

The looming sun leaves a beautiful tapestry, just short of a paisley shawl, in its wake as the miles roll asunder. A babbling brook of bear sweat alerts the hogwash of antelopes to be careful. Lucky for them, the bear is interested mostly in something other than them. The bear is most interested in a market where a certain bull has died. When the bear gets there, its going to eat and then hibernate. Maybe it is hibernating on top of a sewer grate, for good measure of warmth, and is swept up in the police bin along with a certain homeless Abu Rudy, a mistakenly homely bear mistaken for being that and homeless.

When the crucial facts are strewn out in the damp air of a sub-prime basement somewhere in the sump pump room of a solid old building in Somewhereville, the bear will be released. Where not the facts to reveal that the bear is dead, the bear would be further detained, possibly arraigned, later to be rearranged into a thousand degrees of carbon angles. However, being the good police commissioners they are, this fact is overlooked or never looked up. The dictionary has been sucked up by the sub-prime sump pump ages ago. Details are for the feeble minded, as well, I might add.

NEW POST

nasty notes leftover from burnt toast
dripping to dry pieces,
scarab beetle feces
frozen coats solid before the sun,
liquid before god and burnt before most.

when silver bells approach noon,
the angel hermit of the bridge,
will still be fridgid below ice flow clouds
suddenly ocean and deep.

who would through a wheel chair
away on a bright day
is beyond me, behind a sign of the times
reacting with pure mud to form a new nuclease
chain dangling in free space.

whales towels

There is just something fine about the way that ice is comparable to slime. I mean, isn’t it? Suppose an infinite plane and assume that its adiabatic. Now assume a frictional rubber disk, about, almost, but not, four inches in diameter and more than one inches in thickness and it weighs six or so ounces. If the plane was slime or ice, the results would be the same. I would be there and you would be at home. You would be at home because its cold and not sunny at the plane and also the plane is concealed by walls. Also, there is no water to drink or sandwiches to eat.

When I get home, I think I want a bath. I’ve been thinking since yesterday about what I will have for dinner and how good the bath will be. But unfortunately, there is a crop of leprosy creeping up my ankle, so I’m not sure about anything these days. I’m sure about jesus though.

Bright sunshine is sure most the fatal clue, so the French say. Letters of blood pool up just under the skin and start taking bribes. In the summer time, I pay a lot for lying around and sleeping outside on the dock, facedown, ears shut to the seagull plaintiffs, my lawyer taking council in the nest of rocks. We have the jury bought and later, they will be hung by their necks or neckish areas. Whales, (and dolphins) are the most despicable of the jury owing to a complete lack of neck. Look back on it, and I guarantee you will be disgusted.

Mostly, the opinion is that Melville was some allegorical genius. But I will have it known, that the most obvious and absolutely true conclusion is that he just had it out for Whales, those fishy ugly monsters of the sea. Simply put, folks, Melville has spun the best fishing yarn that is out there. That one that got away. God, are we really supposed to believe that crap he was talking about? Of course it had to be a white whale or something so good to put on the dinner table for a poor family of four. And it got away!

One time I almost caught this green bowfin. My, it was ugly and green. Its head was this big and the teeth on that thing could have been hypodermic needles if hypodermic needles where jackhammers with razor blades welded on the end. I sat all day in a frenzy of red eyes and yellow teeth waiting for that fish to come and try to bite the squirrel I had baited on a big brass hook. Guess what? The line snapped and my boat sank and I floated away on a coffin that looked like a seat. About an hour later, the coasties picked me up and asked where my registration was. See, they thought the coffin was a boat! ACTUALLY, it was, still is too, a seat. So there.

The only reason that I’m not acclaimed as that partridge-in-a-pear-tree Melville is because my fish was of the common clay, a mere bowfin. What was the moral in that, you might ask. Well the moral is that I am telling the honest and pure honey of truth. Where as, Melvile was telling a big dirtydog of lie. Even then, there is a grain of truth to it all.

dang nabbit

that was a close rabbit
the teeth only scratching
the terminus of an old habit
a gnawing at the back
of a rubber boot, the boon
is admissible, , fissile,
and swift to cancel
a credit card, swiped between
soft ears, eightballblack eyes,
for hard of hearing, I do not hear
the scalliwag wafting along the desert
in a coat of shining tin foil, waiting to be cooked
like a turky or a carrot