I Don't Even Wanna Know

Cue: The Chocolate Watchband backing.

One, two, three, four...

I don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

Don't want no obituary column 

in the obituary column.

Don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

I don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

Don't want no obituary column 

in the obituary column.

Don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

There ain't no way out

but one way out.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

There ain't one way out

but no way out.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

I don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

Don't want no obituary column 

in the obituary column.

Don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

I don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

Don't want no obituary column 

in the obituary column.

Don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

There ain't no way out

but one way out.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

There ain't one way out

but no way out.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

I don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

Don't want no obituary column 

in the obituary column.

Don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

I don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

Don't want no obituary column 

in the obituary column.

Don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

There ain't no way out

but one way out.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

There ain't one way out

but no way out.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

I don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

Don't want no obituary column 

in the obituary column.

Don't want no headstone.

Don't want no epitaph.

I don't even wanna know what I just said.

Cheesy Petes and Good Times!

Fuckaduckie! It's joke time again...


What do Alexander the Great and Winnie the Pooh have in common?
- Same middle name.


Knock knock.
Who's there?
Little old lady.
Little old lady who?
I didn't know you yodel!!


What's orange and sounds like a parrot?
- A carrot.


What do you call cheese that isn't yours?
- Nacho cheese.


The world is a dangerous place; only yesterday I went into
a drugstore and punched someone in the face.
Jerry Limb


What's ET short for?
- Because he's got little legs.


Where would you weigh a whale?
- At the whale weigh station.


Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into
an open sewer and die.
Mel Brooks

This Was The Old Man's Home

The old man

with the sunburned head

lived on the bald mountain top

away from the people,

away from the fishnets of fiber optic wire

stretched above the cracker box houses

and away from their rivers of cars -

watersheds of cars.

He was not like them.

The old man was an artist.

He had worked in blind erotica.

He painted the backs of the tortoise

beached on the tops of the clouds.

He dipped the bats from the mountain's cave

in poster paint and set them at the unsteady gait

of the nightbug's dervish

under the evening lantern.

Canvases of arroyo bank clay 

holding in its fossil bed arms

the red of the angry red sunset sun.

Kiln fired pots of saguaro shadow brown

glazed with sand from the wash 

where the white wolf siestas in the tall grass.

Garnet clusters of bleached rock are

the riverbed's jewelry.  

This was the old man's home.

Where the eye of the sun 

holds the land and its passengers

square in its stare.

Where the old man can 

see the breath of the stars

holding up the night's blanket

when the sun falls asleep.

This was the old man's home.

Let Me

Let the bands all play

and the carousel horses forever turn.

Let senseless circles gape ooh

in brass ring constellations

of dipsomanical ambition.

Let it all fall out 

like teeth pouring out of

the hole in my arm.

Let them all be free

and let them never know me.

Let all the doors be flung open

and the walls be made of wind.

Let the universe of words

chalkboard scratched into 

my mind's black night

dissolve like sugar cubes

in a cup of coffee blowing 

smokey ribbons of steam.

Let me be quiet.

Let me be calm

and most of all,

let me love you.

Wallflower Cambridge Boogie

My gall mom bladdered to the hopsital

when I was wee under-stanley.

There she got high 

and they rendered unto a suture

one stone uv our ugly own.

You got one?

It wasn't cancer

that time.

It is now.

Some of these day

that stone

might be the ownly thing 

my very nothing remembers

about B. Lou-Ease.

Got me?

Reel deep

Down ware

you dont dear

dare

to go..............

Here me am.

Prognosticating dread doom.

Me too wanna die

But still

always remember

mamma's nipple

and fishtank laughter.......

YOU GETTA LINE ANAL GETTA POLE

MEETA ON DOWN AT THE FISH-IN-HOLE

baby,

baby-o-mine.

Mamma,

your milk and songs

fill me with solid cynicism

in the guise of pluck.

It will never work out.

This is all a ridiculous tragedy.

Wallflower Cambridge England boogie

from here on out, babe...

From here on out,

and you know the reason why.

Her Day

Thursday is her day.

A superlative day.

Birthday.

A happy day.

Her happy day.

Thank you

Thanks for coming by.

I knew you couldn't stay long.

Just the few minutes

your beam lit up the picture on the window sill

and the angel in its frame

was enough.

Thank you.

Zamboni Time

Down at the rink

off Meeker's Landing

it's raining teddy bears

on the ice.

Anders pulled a hat trick

and only half way through

his friendly did I realize

that some of those human-sized

penguins on skates,

occulted in pads,

flailing their sticks,

and checking 'em in to the glass

were women.

On matters concerning hockey

I haven't got clue one,

but that little puck never seems

to go where it's supposed to

and isn't that my voice

shouting itself hoarse in this

beery horde?

Here it comes people,

ZAMBONI TIME!!!!

Train Kept A Rollin' As A Representation Of A Simple Linear Function

Y=mx+b

Let M = The Yardbirds

Two and Two and Two

Come on babygirl of mine
let's go tromping
through the mud
glistening cold in night black fog,
singing a children's song,
smiling our best dog smiles,
out to the swings and slides
tucked in behind The Good Shepherd.
I'll keep out the cold
because I love you.
Come on, you hounds
gallop over the rain matted grass
the world full of leaf rot and runoff grime
is your racetrack.
Wear it thick and dirty
shake it off in mud corona cloud bursts,
action painting our faces
seething wet with tiny flecks.
We won't stop laughing
because we love you.
Come on children
tell me your small tales.
Show me what the trees
and rocks of Wallingford are really made of.
Map out your philosophy
in verses so easy and true.
I'll always listen patiently
quietly praying for happiness
for the both of you.

No Worries, No Hurries

A few things...
Posting a letter.
Folding the laundry.
Singing Runnin' with the Devil
with a Scooby Doo voice.
Eating shahi paneer
and drinking clove martinis.
Walking past well lit winter windows.
Watching Harold Lloyd.
Watching George and Gracie.
All so close to you.
No worries.
No hurries.

Agreed. Yes, yes indeed...

Iraj used to tell me

when you are lost

go to the sufis.

And I do...

No Flag

I used to want buyers for my words.

Now I wish someone would buy me away from my words.

I've made a lot of charmingly profound images,

scenes with Abraham and Abraham's father, Azar,

who was also famous for icons.

I'm so tired of what I've been doing.

Then one image without form came,

and I quit.

Look for someone else to tend the shop.

I'm out of the image making business.

I finally know the freedom 

of madness.

A random image arrives, I scream,

"Get out!" It disintegrates.

Only love.

Only the holder the flag fits into,

and wind.  No flag.

- Rumi

The Fishing Lady

The middle aged blind lady

with the useless, date pit eyes

sleeping in their toothless sockets

used to strum a battered twelve-string

in the stalls of the market 

facing Elliot Bay and sing,

Oh I love fishing!

Let's catch us a string-a-trout!

We used to slink through the tourists

to her usual busking site and soak it in,

her Victrola tremble and guitar case 

and a change creel tethered to her feet

to stop the Boppo Boys 

from running off with it.

That happened a lot

with the Fishing Lady being blind and all.

Oh yeah,

she used to play on The Ave too -

in the alcove of the cheap jewelry store

on the corner of 45th and University Way,

facing fraternity row,

singing about crappies and pike.

Oh I love fishing!

You get-a-line-n' i'll get-a-pole!

The U-district punks and frat-boys 

would make off with her change creel there

and sometimes mess her up bad.

She'd always come back though

and I used to slow as we went past

to stare at her like she was a withered sybil

channeling God's very own fucking thoughts

and they were about fishing.

Oh I love fishing!

Meet 'cha on down at the fishin' hole!

Neat Neat Neat

Friday ginger ale and whiskey.

Got me a glow girl warm world feeling

with the hardcore flowing.

Peel the zipper back 

on stick handle happy high hat

and kick fucking kick pedal hard

your fours and on the floors.

Nobody's coming.

Nobody's coming around

and we got The Weirdos,

we got Born Innocent

we got Linda Blair 

and "Linda is a bitch!"

We got

"This one's called Born to Kill

and I wish you'd fucking die!!!"

We got Pretties For You

and enough free time

and solitude

to get more "with it"

and "together"

and "merged"

than 500 dirty hippies

finding Jerry 

in the mud.

Dig my new 

less is more.

Several Versions of Certain Film

(What follows

is very Corso-like

and gets sorta 'blue'.

Some of you readlings

may wanna wait

for a brighter sheet

to get its hang-ups 

laundered here

and 

sit this one out...)

Segmented dream 

of an endless wound

visited via jism 

through the camera

of my prick.

I am sensually thus

shown several versions

in new emerging views

of a slightly bent shaft.

I don't upgrade.

Only swords have handles.

It shouldn't.

I shouldn't.

She didn't.

Mine imperative.

There are too many angers

with nothing to prove.

I live

through the film 

of my prick

to never be me.

All of life

including mine

I've never wanted what

that is not mine.

I develop

through the film

of my prick.

Vision is to me

all that

yet never seems to be.

What does it mean?

Goddamn it, 

what does it mean??

Tragedy of the Commons

Dear Mr. Bus Driver,

I'm sorry I called you a twat 

and threw a hubcap at your bus.

I should have called you 

a fat fucking twat 

and spat a nice green gob

in your face.

Again, I'm sorry

I shouldn't have chucked the hubcap

at that nice new bus 

as I exited.

The bus didn't do anything.

You did.

I caught the sly grin on your face

when you made us squirm 

all the way up the packed aisle 

from the back of the articulated bus

to the front.

"Back door!" we shouted.

"We'll come up to the front 

and show you our pass."

Silence.

One of us was going home

from the airport

with a guitar,

backpack

and two carry-on bags.

Nice little grin you had

watching us from the rearview mirror

as his bags bashed old people on the head

and drenched tired commuters 

climbed over each other 

to give us room.

Thanks.

Can I be there when they remove 

the pig feet fingers

and green mushroom toes 

from your rotten diabetic limbs?

Say, 2011?

It's a date, shitcunt.

The tragedy of the commons

is that the public good

is just as available to cum stains like you

as it is available to assholes like me.

Homeways

Homeways and slapped around by roiling cauldrons of wind I go, carrying a small bag of groceries.  Homeways to make dinner for her in warm quiet and ease.  The wires tented on tuning fork phone poles blow a single persistent note.  The sky is a lead harmonica playing January raga.  Homeways I'll cut the vegetables and stare blankly out the window at the drumstick bamboo clog dancing in the pissing rain. 

She came around and an ease settled into the wavy muddle of my thoughts.  She's here and I'm beginning to remember what goes on in the heads of children skipping through the colorless gloom singing, 'look at the big storm, look at it all'!  

I'm going homeways because I want her to smell saffron rice when she walks through the door.  Homeways to do every little thing to let her know love is around in the dark and in the light.  Homeways to make dinner for her in warm quiet and ease.

Numbers Game

Bloody Bill Anderson 

and Cole Younger

riding dirty on the hill

pulled a piece on a coolie

and drilled moonlight 

into his spleen.

Otto Berman and the Dutchman

up in a trendy matchbox dive

pour gasoline brandy down their throats

and pray they come up hot 

and pray they come up hard

and pray they go down shooting 

like a convulsing sprinkler

when somebody points at their

shit covered pecker

and says the obvious.

Every little fucker

lurking in the muck

thinks they're Pretty Boy Floyd

just trying to make ends meet

in a hard knock life.

The cemetery projects

are filled with wriggling maggots

cavorting gaily in young skeletons

who succeeded at making 

the wrong ends meet.

It's a numbers game

filled with idiot passions

and one by one

it always adds up

to zero.

 

Pimenta Y Nopales

Ghost dancing muhajadin.

Sonoran cowboy beatle.

Nyquil speedking.

On the nod

in the glow of blue heroin.

Thermostat conductor

counting in the furnace brass band.

Wheelchair mountaineer.

Telegraph wire chef.

Orphan writer.

Acute fossil.

Free range sloth.

Hotel lobbyist.

Volunteer fire frightener.

Brass ring junkie.

Resin boiler plate special.

Spooning fork piano noodler.

Catfish troubadour.

Bland peacock.

Predictable magician.

Hand grenade bell pepper.

Geriatric adolescent. 

Adult alcoholic.

Chronic envy sufferer.

Jaundiced martyr.

Smelterville pin-up.

Mule burlesque.

Molar derby queen.

Trend baby sitter.

Underage overcoat.

Battery operated eyelid.

Persistent numb.

 

Queen of Heaven

Ships Manifest

Shaking a bag of needles.

Waving a stick through a hole in the clouds.

Pulling the teeth from the skull of a piano.

Raising the sail on the mast of a crow.

Turning a wheel at the walk of a mile.

Legging the kettle with a mallet of lamb.

Singing the dreadful in dust whispered grass.

Boxing a villain with the sores of a friend.

Leaning on people with nothing to lend.

Winding up wasted time on a clock.

Wondering about where it all goes apart.

Hitting the bits that scatter in rows.

Planting the timber with little black seeds.

Dressing the windows with wide open blinds.

Posting a letter in the mouth of the whale.

Dreaming of porcelain, cigars and eggs.

Thinking of dishes and chocolate and soap.

Waiting for you to come back from the city.

Gimmie Some Good Times

Hey!

If it 

ain't the original

Scaught five!

How ya doin' man?

Sitting in a bathtub

I can see yer all starkers

wot you up to?

contemplating suicide

Kill Cool!  Can I watch?

All your fucking up 

has gotten Jesus crucified.

Fucking faggot....

Don't Make Fun Of No Cripples!!!

What?  Never!!!!

My favorite from this is

"I'm Fran and I'm a woman!"

If you're offended, I forgive you.