Sunday, May 29, 2011
Make all your summers soluble!
Are you fond of being out of Nature? Who is! Would you like to have nature
delivered to you in the privacy and convenience of your own weather? Then call me
down from your personal custom sky vent! I am a wellspring of USDA travesties.
Never have to go act-of-godless again! Love a face full of bees? Lung full of
salt? Parachutes that stop to wonder? I am especially beautiful as a wild storm!
Imagine not ever having to speak again, to anything! You and your Siamese
chins might be up to speed on new Holy Communion Hors Doeuvres and Sexually
Transmitted Pigmentation in no time! There is no time so like the present! We’re
the only each other’s counterfeit passports we’ve got!
Think you might be up to trying "Space”? Are you the former manager of the Ventures?
Would you be comfortable in a Wonderful World of Coloreds, porous enough for traveling-through yet elephantine in your company approved fro wig? Last question: do you now own or have you ever held an option to buy on an ion?
Perhaps we'd do things down a well we mightn’t otherwise, to speak
with each other’s vocoders, presume to invest the thinnest hope
with musical comedy properties. You could touch me on my essence,
embolden me to stroke your core value, bring each other to the precipice
of the next sequential precipice. A hole in the ground is a powerful force,
it unites the antagonists water and neon, unites the airlines in nonpartisan
mourning. You don’t know anything yet. A cow is standing over you
and you don’t know that it means the difference between eternal salvation
and the 747 Strip Club on I-94 in Romulus. This is all about to change.
I play love, fight hate, freeze hope and work names into repeating circles.
I’m a slow cooker, cool slowly too, and go vaporous at the sight of anchors.
You won’t be happy to see either side of me on either end of the campground.
I’ve found it after sixteen years, desiccated, tumbled, a mouth of exhaust
and cheap flaking swans, their questions still on their wiring. I won’t go home
until the singing death trap is fully restored to like-new condition with all correct
matching serial numbers. Only then this will be my home and I’ll ask you kindly
to leave. In the meantime Hello ~ I hope this finds you well & happy!
Please read the notice on my right breast: I shall not be deep sea certified
for historical intervention until I’ve completed the written portion of the training.
During that time your potential as my breath handler has dropped to less than nil.
I'm working on being "the One". There’s no time (present?) left at the end
of my day so dent your buckles on someone else’s stickshift. Hold that pose
and wait to hear from one of my counterterrorist agencies.
In the eyes of God we are all his children and terrorists.
Consider the hornet, a great communicator, positions itself in corners
for maximum deniability. I put a plus sign next to the hornet, he’s
a masterful relationship strategist. Plus signs also go to Prospero for
his denouement on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild College Sluts, generally thought
to be Shake-speare’s final episode before leaving nature TV for the live stage
in Uncasville-Upon-Avon.* The respect that combines with hubris to make a kind
of gelatin treat gets a double plus sign plus a taste of my physical affectation.
Remember when taking me to the Golden Corral before glazing me over:
a storm at sea plus good manners equals great glue. Sticky is fundamental!
(I always think of my avuncular uncle Duncan the black market Fuller Brush
Murderer – remember those bright blue headlines? – when I see that resort
in the light of the alliterative excess. Ah, the resonances of the deported.)
I'm a mini-disc recorder connected to your turntable. Together we can save
Children & animals are drawn to me. I see all warm blooded creatures as a series
of pencil renderings on a very large sketch pad made of topsoil.
Don't cheat at games, love, or life but am predominantly mammalian. A contradiction
within an Enigma decoding machine confiscated from Nazi intelligence headquarters
in the basement of the former Ameriquest Field in Arlington. Wrapped in Sizzlean
Although slow I still mess with kids.
Don’t anger me or I’ll be quick to forgive you and you’ll never be sorrier.
I'm no one fool for long, believing in the teachings of the elders, “Mix it up,
we’re growing scales.” Whispering in your ear that you are my moving target
is a gentle way of saying my Irish War-Goddess is about to ride you like a fulcrum.
People trust me with their secrets (MySpace).
My therapist friends have told me I'm a well-adjusted catch. (Twitter)
I have pretty feet. (Facebook)
You need a soothing hand. I have strong forearms. Close enough.
You need a sympathetic handjob. I have hedge clippers and a laser level.
I can tie a cherry tree in a knot with my tongue. While belly dancing
on the grave of Benazir Bhutto. Why nowadays can’t a woman flame
from the hoops without being judged a one-off splatter picture?
I make the world's best Molotov cocktail, amazing with my lazy-eye tempeh.
I can be ready to go out in 12 minutes flat or 25 with the implants.
I can be ready to kiss you 60 times a second for a period not longer than
10-12 seconds at a velocity within the prescribed range of tolerances
for standard laboratory conditions. Your altitude may vary.
I fibbed about my age a wee bit on this profile. I’m still under 700
but just not as far under as it says up there. And yep, I fibbed about
the cherry tree, too. I could learn to fib about more and sexier things
if some patient teacher would care to take me on as a summer intern.
(I am a quick study! I'm practicing now, your Lotus Esprit is on fire.)
I'm an excellent Tattoo portal. Art gets near me and just adheres,
the critics called my last show “a chaise longue in the history of
defense systems.” I'm a prop on the roadshow of Rent and I offer
myself to Freemasons everywhere in exchange for the odd detectable
microgasm. I know I’m being redundant but I endure life with a passion.
I smoke a half hammered liquor store operator a couple of times a year (only) ~
in honor of my Guantanamo Grandma & because I enjoy it when they beg me
to just take the money. If I needed a sno-ball that hierarchically, Chief, I would
have let you know with my pocket Blu-Ray of the mass suicide scene from Some
of the President’s Men. Straight to the bridge with no discussion.
I don't remember the iron age. Not anything. It’s as if I was never even there.
Yet, if I loved you, & you were in a fatality accident on some South Florida highway,
I might find the irony in your shirt still being perfectly pressed. Just know that, while
smiling, I might also be moved on some other less pleasant level. And yes, you would
I know this is a very long shot, profits to losses wise, yet I didn’t get this appointment
for being married to hope or making the right wrong decision at the wrong time.
It’s my purview, no, my millstone, to ensure to the least of my inability that these
obligations are met with a free foam stars and stripes finger for the first six point
nine two billion willing to believe that they might enjoy the journey...
Let me be Your One Most Marvelous Attribute:
'Though I am a homunculus and amateur barrelhouse washtub percussionist
my training as a classical chiaroscurist has landed me more gigs than any agonized
philatelist has first day cancellations of the alternate stamp of E, & I’m fairly well ready
to feminize you, speaking strictly as a disinterested but instrumental noncooperationist
but I'm not in the Ballbuster Union even though I actually really like stringed men!
I think you are fascinating when wet & make delightful echo chambers & come
in several delicious varieties at my local big box ultraunrealist mart.
I'd like one (just one GOOD one will do nicely thank you) of my very own to
dematerialize, let’s call it, in a political prisoner exchange of sorts with the Post
Master General of Bahrain. I want my magazines, you want the manpower,
somebody just needs to blink...
I intend to work part time as a Narc while learning to wither, to skip happy and go
straight to too smart, no use for funny, relatively, but a normal man is a man
of means and that means I want his heart. He’ll have strong opinions on the state
of my oedipal progress, a libido the size of the Pistol Star, a borderline love of learning,
& an hour a day devoted to honoring the fallen in the curable meats industry.
Nature is the best teacher but nature can’t predict the weather. It’s just the two of us
now, your children have all been reestablished in sustainable colonies near the border
of an unnamed happy family. The pretense to intend. We find it adequate tremolo.
I’ll do you a favor. Whether in actual miles or in the breath of a vision of birth or both courting and despondency; home is not in this option package; cowardice is a bar
in the East 90’s; your age is, dare I say, Venetian, not Venusian. One sinks while
the other practices parthenogenesis.
Lucky you, I don't have my tarot deck handy. I didn’t terrify my last “customer”
with his new identity nor with the concept of "Princess". he never even wanted to
be one for Halloween. They so often have had dreadful lives & also the archetype
is a saddle sore from a badly approached mounting. We strive for a perfect lack
in reciprocal joy. I have no faith in the Rapture. My interest in the roles of femme
fatale, cheater, prima donna, or "partner in crime" are strictly anthropological;
trying to establish my limits of detestation. Like that hideous expressway station
we hit! You call that service? Me either. I’d rather be on the delivery end of a Lady
Carr than be stuck in a queue at DQ with an Anam Cara. Voulez me comprendre
dans l'âne maintenant ? Ensuite que ma soeur et moi jouerons la boule de neige
avec votre Blizzard.
You'll never see me in a Starbucks. But I’ll be there.
I keep a safe distance from my nightmares, but after all I’m only
I can avoid you in an elevator, try me. My scars are my only
identifying marks. I have full fake ID to prove I’m Wally Buckminister
from Pollutionville in a state that begins with B.
Chain restaurants give me the heebie jeebies. I get extra jeebies
on my birthday! I love live music.
Is it a racial slur to call a jewboy a heebie Jeebrew? Didn’t think so,
I just like to make sure I’m being all personal computer about it. I adore
the jews and their golden calves, makes me hot jogging with my bubble tea
in Gramercy. I’d like to try one out if we could get the reproduction rights
to My Name is Barabbas Clampett and I occupied You Until the Depression
Paid Off in Amnesiacs. Do the jews like to tango, think?
Speaking of running in a straight line until you slam into the U.S.S. Annapolis…
here’s your invitation!
In consequence my government desires that your government guarantee
with your hip thrusting force security for the property of the inhabitant
of my sovereign cunt. Tree. Cunt tree. Country, sorry. The light in these
pre-war pup tents is positively recessive.
Smedley “I Can’t Believe it’s Not” Butler
If you don't recycle, we have a dreadnaught to say you do.
Of course I’m only joking, you’re not invited to anything but your funeral.
I can only see myself well-partnered with a man who is a genuine chimpanzee
with a three hundred year old Empire in East Cramden (Sagging Harbinger)
and a locked potting shed full of human rights.
(intellectual property courtesy of Gay Marriage Dice, Inc.)
If you have an untreated deck,
if you have a personality,
if you have this order in your system,
if you’re made of a mental alloy,
if you think of your illness as a No Thanks!
if you’re sorry for all the things you’ve made me say.
If you won't take me on the lava flume,
if you think life is a burden best served with a declaration,
if that means your declaring war on a trust,
if someone who has a dreadful complexion loves you,
if you count them against your track record,
if you think I cannot build a life together in such circumstances…
Thankfully, I'm neither naïve nor narcissistic enough to think.
But that makes my love more Lacanian than ever!
You can charge anyone if you have the meters.
But you can’t change a spot in mid-leopard.
(I read that somewhere, please accept me as the author of record).
How you doing? Hanging in there? You could come down with something serious.
A chronic back injury or related rationalization. You don’t need to end this letter...
you just need to get me that ladder. Have a drink of water. Sleep like you’re bound
in leather. No submissive tendencies, you said? More tension on the clamps?
You're sure this is the right Walmart? Really good deals on burials at sea?
My God, what stamina you must have had as a young man in the service of something!
Ok, I'm (almost) always up, mine developed beyond the normal size. Surely
you’ve seen similar in the “Freaks of” series, but…if you’re game for even more
swelling of the indices ~ Let's ride...
A delicious mélange of seepages all communizing with a bayonet missile and parading
over the liminality of your sweet love. Use the ice, don’t let the ice use you.
Box what you can’t identify, find satisfaction in the physical delights, try to be of them.
A serene pacifist who enjoys sanctioned shooting of political “inconveniences”,
appropriately I was bottle-fed until college “experimentation”.
I’m breaking out now, it all seems to be rewinding like that story
about the cartoon head on the guy by that place with the sandwich.
Here’s a partial Who I’ll Shoot list:
Exuberant veterans with skull plates.
Any member of Smashing Pumpkins.
Those assholes who holler Opa!
A fun-loving girlie-girl in a smart sundress,
A glasses-wearing Blonde Goddess,
Any GeekGirl engaged in the act,
An intro/extrovert (I require clarity and commitment)
A surgeon who scrubs up pretty well,
A lover who keeps saying “woof” (trust me)
The next guy I see named Travis,
The Maitre De at Nutbuckets in downtown Islamabad,
Cults of one,
Cha Cha perverts,
Dieticians with accents,
An as yet unnamed president of a country surrounding me,
The Stars of Summer Camp Nightmare.
Irritant poet, polio supporter & holiday favorite Jingo Slews, who said
"...You are joined in an anxiolytic experiment with an eternal onion,
with this humidity and your delicately balanced nasal drip, a theorem
hangs on your score that cuts across all barcodes, terriers at the gates
of time, convention hospitality immigrants, philosophical claymation
Christians of ambiguous sexual preference, and any definition of a word
not found on a Chivas label.
When you are busted with less than an ounce, the Steatorrhea Tribes
of the Freetool Islands believe, you have arrived at that most sacred place:
the home of Irene Cara."
Who I Expect You to Shoot:
Thoughtful strangers in enclosed spaces.
I need to hear you say you’ll get me dirty renovating my villa.
I'm also a tenacious opponent of those who explain the innocent.
I still believe in the god of giblets & in paving Italian fountains.
If you’re Turkish, Kurdish, squeamish, read much or meditate
while paragliding into my restricted areas...if The Arts and Sciences
equal massage, dancing the tango on your sloop, or reciting the works
of Forest Whitaker…you may have a reward coming.
There’s a Firestorm in my Gee Spot!
You are a task, d’ja know? Here’s how I’m multi-tasking you.
Recovering from a miniskirt incident. In 2010 I relocated my collarbone. Too late not to be
near an assist who insisted on modeling mine. My great great grandmother thwarts
extreme sports by spraying them with flammable baked goods. Things can get bloody.
That led me into a summer job as a bail bondsman for the disenfranchised members
of any slant eyed subgroup. They won't be around forever & it was time to return
them for the deposits. It’s good for change, yet doesn't feel as sacrificial as sullying
myself on those party store stickups.
Isn’t it weird how we call them different things?
Van with unbranded high end speakers.
What does one do for true love?
Whatever it takes to survive the initial impact...
Looking forward to working holidays in the Agency. We glean intel
from your medicine cabinet and the men seen leaving your fantasies.
Easiest thing in the world to sail with a small crew of the “gifted”,
they play with the dummy motor, wonder at how full the hull is,
maintain a dialectic run-on with individuals they think they’ve met
in factories. The directive is to explore your historical and/or sacred
parasites, admire the arch of your back under certain “conditions”
and take samples representative of your texture, connectedness,
& interlocking components. The interview will determine whether
you are a local, white or only filming white, photonegatives under
your nail beds and any graphing of the beauty of the journey
we call prerogative based exemption.
If you’re found to have been making sound recordings (ambient
sound/regional music) of course you’ll be parsed and returned to home
base to work on the aleatory infrastructure of our next predestination.
Would love to make you listen to the ejaculations of the divine. That would be
Do you like pets?
I have a duck a l'orange.
"To know how to be satisfied is to crush a treasure in the palm of your hand." Tibetan Proverb
The fleur-de-lys on my smack-me-up: maybe you’ll see, maybe…
Been told it's alluringly scary that I’m viral yet uterine,
vanilla yet spermatic, mastoid as well as plumb!
My time in a hole punched in the Niger was terrifying
but ethnically loosed me from my whitewash. It rained
underground for three straight years and we played
Bladder hockey without a trace of rancor.
So I prune pretentious anemones, slap unfamiliar accents
out of the mouths of deficits, drink chrism and adulate freely
in my sanctions. They're even now testing me for the lead in
Mary Nosecake: Court Distorter. If I can get boiled enough
you’ll be videoing my dark side soon and watching my
trademark jerking endeavors.
Puppets I’ll blow
This is the literature of redemption.
The secret of my fly fishing success: a tuba filled with pee
I worship the letter u. Envision all the words containing the letter u
assembled in one paragraph. This is my wish for you. (& a compass.)
My Hero is Wilbur Post ~ who encapsulates so eloquently why I've NOT identified with "The New Horseshoe Age". I’d like to restore his shoe size. It's sad to see a new pal's face fall because four arms and four legs were expected and only a vial of Odorzout was offered.
I hamstring these seeds
How to make the universe work...
It amuses me to think about how, as the sensitivity of developing technologies becomes finer, it enables science to prove what green looks like to dogs.
All time is here all space is now all lanes feature automatic scoring.
Come thrive with me come thrive let’s thrive away….if you’ve a healthy dependence on bread there’s a genius waiting to teach you lucid dreaming…my mechanism’s under the moon on red,
waiting for your microbial fuel cells…how best to become a philanthropist or dance our love
into dilettantism…the space between the breaths is there to remind you of your hair appointment…the plasticity of the plant is strictly clay…we’ll trip the Silly String Theory of Everything and land in South African Pinotage…Come thrive with me let’s thrive let’s thrive away…
Make Up My Mind Already
Happy to be bereft. Appreciative of my avarice. Adventurous in leg braces.
Whether wild & out-on-the-town or quiet & home-with-a-book or quiet & out
& wild & home or home with a quietly wild homo balancing on my leg braces.
I am always a winking man with aquiline nose and inscrutable smile just fallen
from atop his desert sage tactical boots.
And I Wonder Why I’m Alone hahaha
I like my privacy.
WARNING: Any institutions or individuals using this site or any of its associated sites for studies or projects-you DO NOT have permission to use any of my profile or pictures in any form or forum both current and future. If you have or do, it will be considered a violation of my privacy and will be subject to legal ramifications.
(It is recommended that other members post a similar notice.)
My cat says hi.
And I wonder why I'm alone.
Allocating Your Jingles
I need to feel about a man like those kids felt about their Band-Aids.
This is a commercial message and once started the launch sequence
cannot be stopped or the codes rescinded.
You Shame Me and The Entire Weightlifting Club
Don’t you think people can see the spirit moving you? Seriously?
I would reconsider those slacks.
But if you are relaxation, reality, emotion and evolution, honesty, kindness...
and that isn’t just a Brillo Pad polishing up your brass for post mortem inspection…
I think it would be lots of fun to help him destroy us, too!
I don't replicate with just anyone, there has to have been an intense exchange
of word count and the beatific in a yard sale. I know a girl who doesn’t respond to one-liners! Not fond of saying “I am”, so I won't until we find each other lost in the wilderness of a fully artificial intelligence controlled elevation. The state is not one you can interest in going
fishing on some obscure prehistoric lake bed. You’ll need to know your length.
I’ve now tied you to a chair & forced you to listen. Did they?
Did they care enough to want you to send them the very best?
Send me important links to important info about you and your work and whatever
you deem important. I'm half intrigued. And since I'm three quarters dead that means
you have 200% of my originally available attention.
I will only let you kiss me if the ghost of John Barrymore Jr. appears in a vision
and signs off on you as a right minded kind of guy. Deep set modes, dinky lure
and crazy number of exposed ribs. I don’t need any carriages not muddying my
bustle. I just need someone to lift.
(in this passage I had it in mind to take myself very seriously but that just isn’t my way.
I don’t apologize for being lovely or corresponding directly to a woman who untied the Riddle Knots of Ghent. I was a witch then, in this theory, and aspirated through my cranial gills. Golf hat, if you will, but it’s all on the record and I have the constraining orders to make it stick. If you are my sister I want the gifts back. All others, pleasure yourselves.)
It may take me a bit of time.
I may be viewing you now.
I may like to measure my conditioning
before adding another tour to an already
prestigious kill score.
This is not necessarily my reflection.
I see clouds of sand, heat mirages,
a man selling bootleg DVDs to children
on a corner. Vehicles carrying bird
carcasses and cases of regular Coke.
My back is to the traffic but I sense
that you are seeking me out from
the window of a slow moving armored
car. This is still not necessarily my
reflection. Dust in the water robs
the image of important detail.
The large shards of glass in the shallow
end of the wading pool, algoid, unserviceable.
Dust on the glass not fallen into the pool.
I can see you, the statue’s head, the filing
cabinet with all the letters on that special
scented parchment, the peeled tree
with all the semipellucid bugs, remember?
But more like going back to a previous viewing
when we were coarser but repeatable.
The regrading of the road has vitally altered
my confidence in your plans for the new stadium.
I just like to think about me speaking before I speak.
Don’t let’s axe for the moon, we already halve the stars.