Tuesday, October 4, 2016


Seen from another angle as when an area—station, square—contemplated on Sunday.

The expression may calcify into a demonstration of thistle-thorn dismay.

By “imagine your face” I mean shadow, your expression itself a shadow.

These colors: light green sky, pale stone, graffiti: these colors now.

The emporium of youth versus the emporium of adulthood.

If Person A will ail at Point X, then Person B will ail at Point Y.

(Loneliness aggrandizes the symmetrical nature of most pain.)

Whereas a big galosh of dirty cloud busts open a caucus of old doves.

These colors: pale stone, water-wood, radio tower: these colors now.

What brightens the ticking synapses versus what warms the solid state capacity for violence.

The difference between idling (unit of river bank) and waiting (unit of high-rise.)

Rust, rusty coloring, what gnaws into our porticos of awareness.

By “imagine your face”, I mean the uncorrected ritual of love.

Or the sliding scale of sunlight, or the balloting of voices in airshafts and alleys.

this post is part of a triple issue. also see: TRUMP & JUMPING JACKS


How does Donald Trump expect Mexican farmers to deliver avocados after he’s built the anti-Mexican immigration wall? By throwing them? One at a time? Ostensibly, there could be little avocado-sized holes in the wall so these super-foods could be kindly passed-through (one at a time) or of course giant bucket-loads of the fruits could be launched into the Southwestern United States via catapults. Yes, the Mexican workers would chop the restraining ropes with axes and lo, the avocados would fly—into our yards, onto our roofs, into the windows of our Drumpf-fearing children, onto our crumbling infrastructure, into our floundering eco-systems.

Trump hopes to win the election by banking on the fact that people won’t feel comfortable voting for the country’s first major-party female candidate for the White House. In other words, nobody we’ve voted for (except Geraldine Ferraro) has wielded bosoms. To be fair, though, Mike Pence has seemed a little jiggly during this election cycle and Drumpf, famously, won’t release his bust size. To wit, the Clinton-Kaine ticket might be the only one that can offer gender-appropriate bosoms, busts, ribcages, breastplates, and pectoralia. (Gary Johnson couldn’t name an international boob who he respected, so his cleavage won’t be invited to the debates.)

Have you read Trump’s real economic program? Skip to the part where he envisions, as did Hoover, a uniform measure of prosperity. Where Hoover promised “a chicken in every pot,” Drumpf selects the automobile—as opposed to the stew pot—as the homogenous object that will receive the unit of comeuppance. His plan calls for “A Douchebag in Every Car.” Does he mean an airbag? Don’t most cars already possess an airbag? Don’t most cars already have a douchebag (behind the wheel)? Can you imagine GM issuing a douchebag recall? Can you imagine young hoodlums breaking into cars, just to steal the douchebag? The country will be Driving Drumpf.

Donald Trump wants to irrigate drivers just before they smack their foreheads against the dashboard. This, Dear Reader, is what we call “Meta Fur.” The next time you drink a 40 with your (moderate) Republican chums on the stoop, tell ‘em, should they vote Hillary, the Republicans can spend four more years clobbering her, again. She’s more of a Republican than Drumpf, and there are laws against Democrats impersonating Republicans. Paul Ryan can chuck impeaches at her. Paul Ryan can impeach Bill Clinton for calling himself First Man. Adam was the First Man, he was American, and he broke breadsticks in the Olive Garden of Eden.

Just relax, okay? Eleanor Roosevelt was the first woman to be President of the United States, so Hillary would be second. But if we vote Drumpf in November, then Vladimir Putin could become the first sitting Russian leader to assume the U.S. presidency. Trump can, perhaps, buy-off Putin by offering him several detained avocados: a super-food bribe to avoid a super-feud! Be vewwwy vewwwy careful, Dear Voter, be vewwwy vewwwy careful.

this post is part of a triple issue. also see: SONNET & JUMPING JACKS



Jumping Jack. . . . as Himself
Voices of Baltimore. . . . as Themselves

Blood And Gutstein Films

Running Time:

Advance Praise:

“It’s like snow angels, in the air.” –
Cinema Minima
“In six seconds, it is, in fact, a jumping jack flash.” –
Film Flam
“Plain and simple, this flick is ‘jump change.’” –
Movie Groovy

Other Films You Might Enjoy:
this post is part of a triple issue. also see: SONNET & TRUMP

Monday, September 5, 2016


If you want to submit an application to work at the spice factory, you have to visit Cumin Resources, you chives turkey.

Cold weather rarely affects Andalusia, but when it does, they call it the Brr-Brr of Seville.

The lead singer of the forgettable pop band, Duran Duran, has announced a joint venture with an iconic home cleanser. The new product, Simon Le Bon Ami, will be sold in the music aisle (under “American Mafia to Amish Mafia”) and the housewares aisle, under “Remove Crud.”

Charlton Heston vomited so many times on the set of a famous Roman-era film, the production was almost renamed Ben-Hurl.

If you sit on your buttix [sic] all day long and write several novels with critical reception of “fluffy”, you too can have Buns of (Danielle) Steel.

“Intertextuality. Yeah we had that in the joint. When you longed to have coitus with a fictional character—that was a case of intertextuality. I was very comfortable with my intertextuality.”

“Hey Bro. Did the other Bros steal all the pasta from the sorority house?” “Yeah Bro.” “So they carried out the Penne Raid?” “It was such a Penne Raid!” “Cool Bro.” “You know it Bro.”

Von Bismarck has been kidnapped! It’s grand theft Otto!

Let’s say the most haughty rooster is the cock of the walk, then it follows that the most haughty stir fry chef is the cook of the wok.

Fond of removing earwax at every opportunity, the former Speaker of the House, Tip O’Neill, was known among colleagues as Q-Tip O’Neill, as he often wielded the gavel and the cotton swabs with equal dedication.

You’ve had the sensation that you’ve seen the same witchcraft before, so it’s likely that you experienced Déjà Voo Doo. On the other hand, if you think you’ve simply seen the same old crap before, it’s probably just Déjà vu Doo Doo.

Sunday, August 14, 2016


An arm thrown around defunct machinery. The prevalence of sorrow, sorrow as common ambience. What stoppages a grid offers, what off-ramps. The pale, sifted orange of afternoon windows. The pale, sifted orange of careful thinking. The same clouds for two weeks. It needs to rain, and it rains, dotty fabric, the rain. Not enough to discredit the integrity of structures, okay okay. A vehicle cannot pass-through another vehicle. A towering support isn’t two, but one. The skin of obedience as opposed to the metastasis of anger. How many ways to beg, “No.” An insinuation of relief despite the full moon of a lamppost aglittering the sidewalk purified by a victim, just leaking blood. And the footsteps, the babble of footsteps in too many directions, to be understood. . . .



Passenger Doe as . . . .  Tooth-Picker

Commuter Rail

Produced By:  
Blood And Gutstein Films

Running time:

Advance Praise:
“This film gives you nothing to chew over and everything to brush.” –Crown Town
“You still gotta floss.” –4 out of 5 Dentists
“I saw this movie and masticated immediately!” –Paste Haste

Other Films You Might Enjoy:

Sunday, July 10, 2016


We are full of anger and decency—the anger of a fragile cliff, and the decency of a broken lock, the circularity of its loneliness. Consider the percentage of news that arrives staticky,

over walkie talkies. A fact happened. I say “eek!” Jokingly! How the hell do you say “eek.” The eek shall inherit the earth? It’s raining on the freight tracks beside the smokestack,

top of which grows a flowering-forth, deciduous beauty, these flowering moments tend to mimic the rugged optimism that might abandon itself in the commercial forays of our

narrow-gauge politics. It’s raining on the freight tracks near Baltimore, outrageous stocky drops, the mineral concept of dollar coins. A departure bell swims around like (grayscale)

fingertips in (lenitive) wind. Later, the upward smudge of the moon playing above the ruckus of chairs arriving, or the upward smudge of the moon playing above the ruckus of

chairs packed off for another destination. What, therefore, cannot be enumerated? The wavelengths of distal objects? Here swerves the leaf-like trajectory of an idea, forgotten,  

the years-in-relevance of a lifespan or redemption-as-industry despite witnesses. A special prosecutor arrives, sweaty and bloated. He receives one (1) office in the basement

beside the Feudalist, one (1) stack of documents, differing in content from that of the Feudalist, and one (1) forehead-mounted flashlight, to enable the examination of fissures

and cleavages. In time, the Feudalist will steal the special prosecutor’s cigar-pinching device. All citizens shall be classified as “essential personnel”, and as such, issued signage

that reads “Break out of the cycle good” and “Break out of the cycle bad.” American deer, in particular, will offer stern topographies of the weather: doe as hotfoot pelt, buck

but for the branch bristling, the leaves bright with water, the shrink-wrap woods. Strip malls adjoin every hardscrabble America, especially districts that foretell a quilt-work of

calamity. The halo of a drive-thru! All these worlds natural, the heaped-up galaxies gleaming amid the despondent wisdom of coherence. (Too many cars rotate like cakes in

glassy buildings.) Man weighs his deficits on the greengrocer’s scale. I’m so stunned—wordplays flail me. I should aspire to be more than a kindly fellow occupying a space

at the denouement of a crisis, eternally sporting greaser attire with “you betcha” scorn. Let’s consider the pastels of soft-spoken resistance, many such kingdoms, borderless. . . .