Hedonism Song

Dog
spit
is
cleaner
than
ours;
therefore,
the
ball
of
grits
was
responsibly

cleaned.

A Letter to My Father Inlaw

Dear Mark,

Have you heard the old joke
about the duck that blows
bubbles
in a pond?

Well, there are these
four ducks, see?

And they go out to swim
in this peaceful pond
where they,
uh, um;

I forget how the middle part goes,
but it ends like this:

Red Wings
suck.

Sincerely,
Ryan

Robots Don't Kill People, Adam & Steve Kill People

This poem now appears in the newest issue of Bent Magazine.

Romance Song

This poem once appeared in Word Salad. I think it may be defunct now. One of my few romance-themed poems, in a defunct journal. If anyone has some reliable information about either romance or this particular magazine, let me know.

Creation Song

In the beginning, there was God. There was only God. Things went on like this for a good, long while. God got lonely. He decided to make things. He made enough things until he eventually made mud. Mud was made of water & dirt. God shaped the mud into proto men. The proto men hung from trees. The proto men began to watch the bunches of bananas. The bananas were not proto bananas; they were bananas as we know them today. They were modern bananas. The bananas were not made of mud; therefore, the bananas were edible. God watched proto men eat a lot of bananas. Tree branches became littered with a multitude of proto man’s banana peels. God left the banana peels where they were. As a rule, God did not like to clean things; He preferred to watch. It was only a matter of time until proto men began to slip on the multitudes of banana peels. The proto men fell into the mud that lived below the trees. All of the proto men that fell into the mud below were soon fell upon by hungry things. Unlike the proto men, the hungry things were not made from the twin elements of water & dirt. God had made these non-muddy things too. God was pleased, so He kept on watching. Things went on like this for a good, long while. God got bored. He decided to go out for a walk, instead of watching nothing happen. When God came back to watch His bananas, He immediately noticed that the banana trees were gone. God noticed that the bananas now lived in things called sundaes. It looked like the bananas were living in mud. It was not really mud, you see; it was really chocolate syrup. For the first time in history, God took a deep breath.

Dead Pan Alley

1.
How do you stop Peter Pan from crawling in circles?
Nail his other hand to the floor.

2.
How do you know that Peter Pan is dead?
The crocodile plays with him more.

3.
How do you make Peter Pan float?
Take your foot off its head.

4.
What’s the difference between a dead Peter Pan & a trampoline?
You remove your boots on a trampoline.

5.
What’s brown & gurgles?
Peter Pan casserole.

6.
What do you call Peter Pan stapled to your wall?
Art.

7.
What’s the advantage of dead Peter Pan Siamese twins?
Threesomes.

8.
How many dead Peter Pans does it take to paint a house?
Depends on how many you throw at it.

9.
How do you get 100 dead Peter Pans into a bowl?
With a blender.

10.
How do you get them out again?
With tortilla chips.

On Desolate Fields

after William Carlos Williams

*

The vastness of the sky
is not something for me,

or for what I make of it.
I’m simply too invested in

those bunny-shaped clouds
to ever renounce my faith

in Frith, nor his ability
to see into my burrow.

I should tell you a story:
it is set in a thicket around

two hours after midnight,
where a thousand winds

scattered a rabbit warren
to all ends of the sky

until the fields resembled
the thinness of rain.

Algonquin Love Song

Like smokey treelines,

I can't quit you, Mantracker

so find me gently.

The Mess Hall

Graham reached for the glass of milk by his bedside table. The milk was warm. Like all milk, Graham himself consisted mainly of water – water & innumerable, fatty globules. Graham was not an obese man, he was actually quite trim, but he was nevertheless able to bounce off things. He was a bumper car. He was a family Labrador. He was a turnbuckle. He was a suitcase riding along an airport security track. He was glowing neon blue. He drank his milk – all in one gulp – & moved toward the window. He closed the window. With the drapes closed, he could no longer see the florescent sign that often made his face shine blue. For the first time in ages, Graham let his thoughts wander towards his father. Graham narrowed his eyes until he resembled a logger focusing on a rising column of smoke, beyond the mess hall, & over the horizon. He then threw himself back onto the mattress where 850 individually pocketed coils absorbed his every move. He turned over onto his side & systematically pawed at his pillow until it was the proper shape. He considered driving one precise head-butt into the blue pillow, but then thought twice about it. He thought a third time about it, & head-butted his pillow. A small ‘oomph’ left his lips. He burped & tasted milk. As he drifted off into a dream, he felt the probes of various security personel. He could have sworn that tiny hands were tugging his arthritic, yellow tail. He vowed to wake up, smile, frown, remove himself from the ropes, & touch something that his father once gave him; something he broke.

Diving Into The Light-Socket

Trevor scratched at himself although he was not itchy. He felt a new, reverberating quiver run through his skull. This was because of his brand-spanking new, forest green bathing cap. He had just spanked it into place around his black head. It made his black hair bend. It hurt a little too, right down to the tiny follicle parts.

His tiny follicle parts had long retained the smell of his father’s cigarettes, as well as the encouragement of his words. The words went like this: ‘Stiff as a board, light as a feather, then spring from the knees in all sorts of weather.’

The adages of Trevor’s father often took the shape of rhymes, even at the sake of sense-making. Trevor desperately wanted a smoke. He wasn’t a smoker though. He was, however, a big fan of procrastination. He was also about to undertake an adventure.

Trevor immediately decided that he could not undertake this adventure without naming his harpoon. He was holding a harpoon by this point. The harpoon was named, Claudius. It had this particular name because Trevor used to have a blanket by this name: Claudius, the blanket. The name was one thing he did not procrastinate on.

Once upon a time, for Trevor’s own good, his father burned up his blanket in the electric fireplace. He did this while Trevor was away for afternoon Kindergarten. He could not have known this, but while Claudius curled & blackened within the fireplace, Trevor stopped finger-painting a happy family of curly, blue otters. For reasons Trevor did not understand, he suddenly changed the otters from blue, into black. The otters became mostly black with curly yellow swirls added on. Since that moment, Trevor became more task-oriented. He did this because he lost his ability for free, swirling thoughts.

That explained why at this very moment, Trevor wanted those stupid smokes. He supposed this was also why he had to jump; why he had to take the plunge into the light-socket. He could not go another day without slipping through the connections of everything. He wanted to feel the plugs, both Universal and Schuko, all firsthand.

He was sure that when he emerged, dripping with current on the other side, that Claudius the harpoon would be replaced by Claudius the blanket. His blanket would be waiting for him, all freshly-folded & crackling warm. Trevor was sure that the smell of smoke would be gone from his hair, that his hair would be gone from his head, & that his bathing cap would be no more. He was sure that his head would become sleek, waterproof & covered in blue fur, with yellow swirls painted right onto his eyeballs.

A Letter to Phil Spector

Dear Phil,

I play a grand piano with my fists
so that our audience can appreciate
the ferocity with which I guard my
secret crushes. I have a secret crush
on my drummer because he walks
like John Bonham & has got really
intricate knuckles. I instruct the bass
player to pluck her bass strings as if
God Himself were taking its pulse.
Soon, I wonder whether my bass
player’s fingers have ever secretly
strummed the blue electric line of
my drummer’s forearms. Therefore,
during a precautionary piano solo,
I decree that our bass player shall
be immediately replaced by a three-
piece horn section. They perform
endearing choreography between
our trademark chord progressions.
In the crowd, a barefoot girl on her
boyfriend’s shoulders air guitars
You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.

Sincerely,
Ryan

Determinism Song

From a kneeling position,
my fists pound like hammy gavels

against the curled sewer grate
located in the north-north-west corner

of the off-leash parkette
at Whitall Way & Filamentia.

‘I've done everything you wanted’ I shout
‘so why are you doing this to me?’

All around me, porch lights open up
like idealistic focus groups.

The contents of the sewer
remain as still as they ever were.

‘Don’t encourage him’
my wife scolds the sympathetic rows

of semi-detached homes.
‘Okay, you heard her, Island’

I croak in a defeated tone,
‘do your worst.’

The Empathetic Otter

Once there was an empathetic otter who took matters into his own paws. Little fish often mattered to the empathetic otter. They mattered to him because he liked to eat them with his mouth. His mouth was very big. He did not like to eat the little fish by choice. He was just born so close to the river that he had little choice. Sometimes he chose to look into the river. He would steady his paws on the river rocks, then he would dip his head into the river water in order to look inside. The empathetic otter never saw his own reflection reflected in the river. The empathetic otter was not interested in surface areas. It seemed that no matter how reflective, or drinkable a surface was, his only passion was to grab little fish with his paws. This excited him to no end. The empathetic otter often grabbed the little fish with both of his excited paws. This move often left the otter without a steady paw to lean on, so he often ended up all the way in the river. When he got up out of the river, the empathetic otter would smack his little fish against the rock. He never looked back, even though he knew that behind him the river was reflecting his ass beautifully. The empathetic otter had a beautiful ass. His ass was especially beautiful when glistening wet & twitching with culinary excitement.

Perennials

- after Lynda Lee Bird

During those bitter months we
laid only cut flowers, or plastic
facsimiles, because the ground
was either too fresh or too frozen
for anything else. But since the
seasonal rain has softened our
footing, a proper garden is now an
option. We’ll give her two of every
flower, because we have already
forgotten which ones she favoured.
Within these fences, she’ll surely
be the envy of all her neighbours
who cannot watch their gifts
take root, & curl down towards
them like a rolling April fog.
But then suddenly, with noblest
of intentions, I begin to gouge
the soil with my mint green spade.
In the process, I churn up more
pairs of squirming things than
I am yet prepared to stomach.
I start thinking about pairs of
doves, olive branches, & whether
or not Noah had sleeves deep
enough to rock me to sleep in,
like a hammock. That was about
when I dropped my shovel.
I didn’t trust myself with it any
longer. I was now capable of
exhuming her. I guess I have
always been capable of doing so.
I turn my head just as a pair of
ostriches prance toward me,
& plunge their blunt heads
into my mother’s unfinished
garden. They remove their heads
with a shake, & awkwardly run
to the west, in order to try on
some other gardens. They’re
not used to this soggy, elevated
terrain, but I feel optimistic that
they’ll find themselves a piece
of familiar ground that feels
good around the eyes & brains.

Socialism Song

This poem now appears in Inscribed.

View said poem, here.

Time Capsule: Day 10,030

Jacob counted the tablets
of his Jacob’s Ladder

until the carbonation
left his soda

through the hole
in his glass.

Time Capsule: Day 10,029

When Owen Knowles woke up
one morning from settling dreams,

he found himself changed in his bed
into the last undergraduate

to discover
masturbation.

Rejection Song

Push the tree, push the stacks,
push the dams, push the cracks,

push the bed within the bunk,
push the grunt within the trunk,

push the bang, push the big,
push the garden, leaf & fig,

push the shore, push the fish,
push the honey, push the lips,

push the rock, push the breeze,
push the wheel of Edam cheese,

push the moral in the story,
push the ‘all’ in allegory,

push the tiny, little comb,
push the corny, old ring tone,

push melon, push the head,
push the window there instead,

push the snare, push the bait,
place the patience,

push in faith.

The Way I See It #347

“Why in moments of crisis do we ask God for strength and help? As cognitive beings, why would we ask something that may well be a figment of our imaginations for guidance? Why not search inside ourselves for the power to overcome? After all, we are strong enough to cause most of the catastrophes we need to endure."
- Bill Schell

A national debate has been sparked in Springboro, Ohio as a devout Catholic coffee-drinker named Michelle Incanno was outraged by the Theophobic quote printed on the side of her cup.

‘As someone who believes in God, I was so offended by that’ said the emotional mother of three, ‘I don’t think there needs to be a religious dialogue on it. I just want coffee.’

In a similar story, an internal debate has been sparked within the minds of judgemental undergraduates.

‘As someone who believes in Noam Chomsky, I was so confused by that’ said one shell shocked teen, ‘I was so eager to dump on organized religion that I found myself allied with a… corporation.’

When asked to comment upon the brewing controversy Starbucks spokesperson Sanja Gould refused to speak on record until the media stopped using coffee-related puns.

Fortunately, Starbuck’s junior spokesperson was willing to imply that public interpretation of the offending quote was simply a steaming mug of rich, Kenyan semantics. ‘We are talking about Starbucks here, people’ said the source ‘this is a place where Tall means “small”, Grande means “medium” & Venti means “large”. Why are people suddenly taking us literally?’

Time Capsule: Day 10,026

Okay lost Eureka filter,
where are you?

Are you over – Just one second,
I’ll be right back.

Damn you, little donuts
for being so good.

Welcome To The Animal House

I’ve been put
on double secret
probation,
in the sense that
I am not supposed
to know about
the regular
kind.

Max (Part 1)

A boy had boots. They were rubber boots with smiley faces cut into the soles. The boy was eight & he answered to Max. Max was on the ground (he might have even been born there) beneath a rumbling sky. By way of gravity, the sky chucked innumerable apples at Max, but he was too busy, teaching his fingers to snap, to notice. All around him apples streaked toward the ground like blurry cartoon safes. They landed into the mush, embedding which ever corner that it lead with. Max finally noticed the goings on just as the puddles began to get hungry. He watched as they unhinged their sloppy jaws & swallowed whatever apples that landed within their reach. Suddenly a loud crack bolted from between Max’s parted fingers, quite by fluke mind you, & a brown puddle shifted, three feet over, to the right. The mud was moved, & it flashed Max a rhetorical, gummy smile. Max’s jaw fell chin-deep into his chest. He looked on as the fallen apples began to tumble inside nearby puddles: right three times, left once, right again, then once more to the left. One by one these apples were cracked wide open. Max looked inside the nearest apple & saw how it had prematurely browned. A terse clucking sound arose from the mud as Max lifted his left boot, & curiously, he found himself stomping one browned apple into sauce. The soles of Max’s boots neatly smoothed themselves over. They were no longer smiling.