Friday, March 31, 2006

Monday, March 20, 2006

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

jambalaya,,, , , , my left leg is an incinerator. Surprise?


the music star known only as "Beck" lives next door to me. he moved in the other week, and my life has gotten more interesting as a result, to say the least.

but to go on, i will mention that egg beaters continue to seep in through the air ducts, and the tear ducts, and the laser gun shaped swimming pool.

dueteronomy told me something interesting will happen to me when i go to the park and sing a duet with a bird as a passing lark. the pun was unintended, barely comprehended, and actually made the back of my neck grow warm to the touch. not in a radiation sort of way, or in a radiator sort of way, but just a cool, numbing, soothing glow. my neck grew 8 feet taller and my legs sank into the dirt, where they were gnawed upon by the mole people. they spoke some sort of language that made my blood boil and turned my heart into a turn stile. come one, come all, it would say. which was funny because my skull was dispensing free baseball caps to anyone who is willing. it was a popular day, and probably the cause for the pop star to move in next door. i've never been too apt at making omelettes, and i can say with 95.8% certainty that neither was he. as the cells trickle down my spinal column, along the pentameter, the 8-sided stop sign, the 20-sided die living in my scrotum, it made my feet dance with a joy that is international, but of little note even in the funny papers.

anyone have a good oatmeal recipe?

I Know Who I'd Bet to Win

Saturday, March 04, 2006

TRELLIS DUNBAR WROTE ONE POEM ABOUT WONDERBREAD




popping up and looking at me
wonder bread, such a wonder
popping up and looking at me
i wish i was you

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

and i went to talk to my friend imaad but he was already dead. houdini used to run my paper route and he was a nice little kid but had the nastiest of

disappearing with my favorite
recipes. they would range from the simplest cookies to
a spot of tea with the man known only as el presidente.
now there was a man. from the hand of god to my ears,
fresh from my oven and twice as delicious as anything
you could hope to fabricate
six times every third tuesday
i would hear the children
calling my name up and
down the hills of
a winter blasted
town. i used to live
there but everyone
i knew was now dead
i wish i had a
point but it was
ultimately
pointless,

i'm a nervous liar who has never tasted worchesters house (walter krønkite)