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Archive for February, 2010

I See Brain Cells

I See Brain Cells

I see brain cells on the rocks
brain cells in the trees
brain cells relieved from thinking
free to ride the breeze
delivered there by lightning
delivered on a rain drop
delivered from psychiatry
and from further need for shock


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~Terran – The Song of the Earth and Sea

The Song of the Earth and Sea

The sea whispers softly
‘I am that I am’
and the earth responds
with an earthy glow
tall the buildings rise
upon the shoal
dark the sea winds blow
and ride
the dark sea mists
of the penumbra-ler side

And here we are, you and I
somewhere between the stars
in the sky
and the green-weed
twisted mysteries
deep sea-cages
dark dome-star
should I go and get the car?

And can we here
and now
and unmoved
to hear the song
of sea and land

‘I am that I am’
‘I am that I am’

Are we?
can we?!
we can
we can…

The city is a silent
clash tonight
riding the many backs
of sharp steel-dreams
revolving through
the chromium door
it sleeps no more

Ingrate child
to scorn your parent’s lore
bare and unashamed before you
a megalith once ooze and mud
washed once upon the rocks
you slimed once upon the shore
and have grown
and grown

Grown cold and colder
grown old, older
too old
too old…

‘I am that I am’
‘I am that I am’

We met amid the chaos
of (seventh floor –
could you hold please)
and (young boys broken doors)

You said:
‘Let us go then, you and I’
dot, dot, dot
‘Like a patient
etherized upon a table’

And I said:
‘That’s an old line,’ dash
‘But one of my favorites’
Is ‘etherized’ a word?

And here we still stand
the city’s flesh behind us
‘gealed and made whole again
chit-chatting of this and that
pondering the mermaid’s song
the shore
the sea
a question cornering the corner
of another’s palm
to watch and wait
why must it be?

The children seek return

As the water
wraps its fluid arms
around the soft stone shoal
which leans
and dissolves
and remains
I wonder

Should we ever hear
the song of the earth and sea
would we listen?
would we linger?
or would we curse and return
to drink social decay
from a syphilis urn



   "’Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
    Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
    Out of a stem that scored the hand
    I wrung it in a weary land."


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Beyond the Reach

                        BEYOND THE REACH

                             * * *

                The truth I follow future’s dreams
                  with guests of acquaintance compeer,

                far beyond the length supreme
                  in lister views to see,

                the vacuous aims disappear
                  with aspiration’s steeling steer,

                to show the way with piercing cut
                   the edge of darkness seared,

                by the foray of enlightenment  
                  at the thresh of dusk, and…

                hues of blue suddenly appear,
                  though like clouds pushed away
                at dawn’s glistening light,

                the awareness bright
                  to compass all beauty shorn,

                shared by companions to reach
                  the certainty of destination.

                             * * *

                                     Ken Palmer

1:33AM  7/21/98

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An auk and an alligator fell in love, it seems,
And an aardvark interpreted their dreams
Which seemed to indicate
That, if they had a date,
Their relationship would split at the seams.
For, a difference of opinion
would make of one, a minion
While the other would dominate with screams.

Both busy bees and beavers
Are often the receivers
Of bangs and bumps and brutal bizarre bruises
Bestowed by bitter businessmen
Who frequently, or now and then,
Trip over them in boots and stylish shoeses.

A calculating cuttlefish on a culinary caper
Considered cooking crabs and clams in glue,
But this catastrophic potage
Became a cryptic collage
Whose consequence no one had a clue.

"It’s destructive to deny,"
Cried a dodo to the sky,
"That dramatic declaration quite delights
A dromedary’s nights
And a duckbill’s dizzy days
In depilatory dilatory ways."

An egomanic egret
Without a trace of regret
Expectorated on an elephant.
The pachyderm elicited
It had not solicited
This reaction, impolite, inelegant.

Never fiddle with a fickle fox.
It confuses his fidelity
Which, on average, is orthodox
But of fuzzy imbecelity.

Gorillas in galoshes
Are fond of frequent noshes,
But grimace in a very ghastly grin
If a gibbon grabs their grub
While they sip their sillabub,
And switch to gherkins lightly dipped in gin.

Howard likes his hasenpfeffer.
Howard is a hawk.
Howard calls it howenwewa
When Howard tries to talk
Because his tongue can’t get a grip
And Howard has no lower lip.

Dr. Jackal likes to hide
In foothills near Jerusalem
Where he lies down on his side
And tells jokes to his bride
And others where he does preside
To enthrall and amuse all them.

The kraken is a mythic beast,
The one I’d like to meet most least,
Because, of me, he’d make a feast.
So, I won’t go near the kraken.
But, if I do, and he sees me,
To make me ancient history,
I’ll tell him quickly this can’t be,
He must be quite mistaken.

Lazy leopards like to loll
And lick up lemmings on a roll
Or lacerate at noon or late
A presidential candidate.
A practice which, I must agree,
Has some real utility.

If marmosets and mackerels,
With genetic supervision,
Were to produce progeny
With proper cell division,
Then hairy fish with snaky tails
Would swim through trees
And water breathing monkeys
Would roam the seven seas.

Newts may look like nebishes
When they are chewing brioshes
Or digging in the rubbishes
Of a local sports resort,
But they really smile quite sweetly
With their neckties tied so neatly
That they capture you completely
If you’re the sappy sort.

Orang-utans are obsolete
When they’re riding in the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.
But they’re up to date
When they acquiesce to fate
And dance professional soft shoe.

From Paris to Paducah
If you drive a Stuka
You can spot the pigeons everywhere.
Although they stare quite vapidly,
They reproduce quite rapidly
On breadcrumbs, popcorn, peanuts, ladies underwear.

Regard the laboratory rat
Who’s happy, smart, and sometimes fat,
A citizen of science is he.
When a scientist devises
To win some Nobel prizes,
The rat should get some credit, naturally.
For, a theory’s confirmation
Requires concrete confirmation
Wherein the rat can be the only source.
Since he cannot squeak too clearly,
You must listen most sincerely
As he taps his answers out in rapid morse.

See the smooth sleek slippery seal
Slide slinkily subsurface in the sea,
Surprising snails and squid to steal
Their substance for a sushi meal.

A termite’s appetite is gross.
He makes his meal of cellulose
Which he concisely masticates
While in wood he excavates.
He undertakes, in house and chair
to fill these things with holes of air
To make of them a work of art
Which, in the end, fall apart.

Behold the lovely unicorn,
Possessor of a unique horn
And strangely seems, without fail
To be indubitably male.
Which leaves one puzzled to deduce
How do they get to reproduce?
Perhaps he has an affair
With an unsuspecting mare.
Or, maybe, like our farming tool,
He’s a funny kind of mule,
Which makes him, therefore, sadly born
A quite forlorn eunuch horn.

You must be careful with a viper
Looking like a windshield wiper
With habits that may be unclean.
There are those with pits
With tendencies to spits,
A habit both deplorable and mean.
Also they hiss. Quite normal,
Although, in snakes, most formal
With limits both in pitch and in tone.
In serpent conversation,
There’s small information
Face to face or on the telephone.

At rather shallow strata
In the realm of the potata
And the carrot and the onion and the beet,
Lives an ordinary creature
That’s not too pleased to meeture,
He would rather live at depth beneath your feet.
His nose and tail are pointy
And he’s totally unjointy
And he doesn’t make a sound, not a tweet.
He moves by undulation
In organic orchestration
Through his version of the subway or the street.
Although he’s unobtrusive
We needn’t be abusive
Of his genius for concealment and retreat.
His aeration of the soil
Is an endless useful toil
That life should not become obsolete.
So, please maintain the attitude
Of everlasting gratitude
Towards any worm that you should chance to meet.

Consider the x chromosome,
A construction of distinction,
Distinguishing a man from his wife,
Thereby preventing our extinction,
Most laudable in function
For extension of dimension of all life.
When Xerxes played the xylophone
To amuse Xanthippe,
(Who was, if rumor had it right
A trifle over-snippy),
If she lacked this chromosome,
She’d be no Greek tomato,
So Xerxes could as well have played
to the abstract ear of Plato.

A yak with a yen for the yoga
Took to wearing a bright yellow toga
While chanting in rhymes
"Hari Krishna" to chimes
In the outskirts of west Saratoga.

The zebra is traditional
In alphabetic verse
Since very little else with "z"
Is so neatly terse.
There’s zinjanthropus and zither,
But for a cause celebre
There’s nothing like a zombie
Astride the average zebra.


I know it seems queer,
But I left out the "q",
Which, to me is quite clear,
(perhaps not to you).
So the "q" stanza stands
Right here, by demands.
And here’s what we do
With the strange curly "q".

There’s a bird called the quetzal
Who inspired a minstrel
To eat a large pretzel
With portions of schnitzel.
But, along came a weasel
With a long fuzzy schnozzle
That sniffled and nuzzled
The minstrel, quite puzzled,
Who climbed on a trestle
And swung on the weasel
With a short heavy pestle
That hung on an easel.
That’s all about quetzals
And minstrels and pretzels.
If you don’t like this stanza,
Then go catch the measels.

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COMMENTS PLEASE: Don`t You Know Who I am?

Please let me have your comments – thanks – John.

        Don`t You Know Who I am?

        I can`t be certain
        can`t be sure,
        maybe I`ll survive
        another slamming

        Too bad they never
        knew me in my
        glory days
        instead of now,
        smelling of beer
        head down
        in a cigarette

        Fucked up down the years
        crying tears of
        self pity,
        hand out, wandering
        on the edge of the city.

        Don`t they know
        who I am?
        I used to be
        someone around here
        before they`d even
        learnt to shit  
        or wipe a tear!

        I was the capo,
        the man, the dude
        the fucker with
        an attitude.
        In my time
        I bought and sold
        men`s lives,
        I told them what
        to do.
        I screwed their wives.

        They trusted me
        the schmucks,
        and paid the fees
        to watch the union
        bring employers
        to their knees.

        And while the
        honey dripped
        these worker drones
        all shook my hand
        and took me to their homes.

        Look – I _don`t know
        what went wrong –
        – maybe they got tired
        maybe someone wrote
        another song.

        For Christ sake,
        how am I s`posed
        to remember?
        It might have been
        January or December when
        I was shafted by both sides.

        All I know is I was _out
        and no one gave a dam.
        now give me  that five bucks –
        I was the capo! I was the man!

(c)John Holt 07-21-98
   |:)):):):):):):):):):):):):):):) |
   |:)                           :) |  
   |:)   I made these words      :) |
   |:)    and hope you find      :) |    
   |:)     clear vision          :) |
   |:)      and quiet            :) |
   |:)       peace of mind….   :) |
   |:)                           :) |
   |:):):):):):)::):):):):):):):):) |
         *** John Holt*1998 ***

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night, Mother-comment please

night, mother

Afraid to miss
my turn
for undivided attention,
I leave artificial lights and jigsaw puzzle
behind closed doors.

Curling up in water’s wrinkled lap,
I burrow into night’s black sequined bosom.
She could be onstage
belting out love songs and blues,
but she waits here with me
sighing and tousling my hair,
murmuring comfort
to bring cool rest
and let me be whole again.

No one needs me here.
Only I need to be.

Pay some attention to the night sky,
she whispers,
Don’t wait for enough time.


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/these are the nappy edges/ comments welcome

"these are the nappy edges"

my lover’s jagged outline
underscores the lonely
she is       i am         we are

empty golden pots
at a rainbows destiny,
colored figures,
shadows of sex & sense,
disappearing in light

these are the nappy edges
of my mind

when the corners of my brain fold,
former facets flake
like ashes
and the contemporary me
our sex is a bumping sweet
in a crowded room,
a room of liars dancing
on tiptoes,
dressed in thongs,
righting and rewriting
exciting and re
the wrongs

these are the kinky edges.
bikini lines quoted
in a memory’s photograph,
after dawn eats yesterday
and vomits today,
there is only her twisting
swirling perfume in my nostrils
mimicking the way she laughs

i dream of a life i can feel
beyond these centuries
of misery.
my lover’s jagged outline
is an open door;
these are the nappy edges
of my mind

(c) QBH
Comments/Critique Appreciated

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uncapped comments welcome


envy sweating through skin
framed in tears
and drip
r    a     i     n
to nourish
venom’s roots

(c) QBH
Comments/Critique Appreciated

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Pissing in a hot wind


I assail the wind with my piss and laugh at its retribution
you are nothing but the change of air in the heat
my piss poison to the earth

I affront the wind with my spittle this time ducking
as my shoulder is grazed
the saliva blown back onto the cracked ground

I cannot defecate at the wind
it holds no weight
hot air, nothing but hot air

it whispers heat in its breath
as the day lilies shrivel
like a frozen vagina

I cannot fuck the wind
it does not arouse me
I just sweat, flacid in my stained pants

it chuckles as it passes
the hot pavement driving me indoors
as heat lightning begins to scratch the sky.

David E. Cowen
Copyright 1998
All Rights Reserved

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is that what time cannot see?
what is to blame but no other.
can you laugh and
be happy with yourself?
truly happy?
it’s not what you think,
it’s not what you see.
the weather is getting warmer.
now i can go out to do laundry.
but i’m sitting in this wooden chair,
in a dusty fifteen by thirty room.
alone by myself.
preoccupied with food, money, love, death.
it’s not what you think.

- tip

[ *$!%#&* tip - my evil twin is pit - mailto:t...@qwerqwer.com *&#%!$* ]
[ *&#% email is spam protected - replace "qwerqwer" with "ripco" %#&* ]
[ *&#% http://www.legions.org http://www.webcrunchers.com/crunch %#&* ]
[ *$!%#&* don't trust that person in the mirror with anything *&#%!$* ]

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