Tuesday, May 25, 2010


Today I dreamt that I was climbing up Mt. Everest in a blizzard and everyone was on the top pointing and laughing and they all had these big muscles.

Friday, May 21, 2010


Listen how it goes

My rhythm

Good to enjoy

mol-(something) or mul-(something) (unintelligible)

(It could be either a person with a Mommy who is white and a Daddy
who is black or a Mommy who is black and a Daddy who is white
or the strong fat roundish teeth in the back of your mouth.)

Anyway, enough of that. (I turn off the record player.)

I wonder what’s on TV? (I turn it on the television with my big toe.)

KNOCK KNOCK Mr. Greenjeans says. WHO’S THERE? says Mr. Moose.

A million ping pong balls falling down on top of your head!

Thursday, May 20, 2010


Today I laughed watching the credits to The Seven Samurai. They were of course in Japanese and they took about ten hours. After a while it became pretty ridiculous. Greg said: “You should have waited until half way through the credits and then yelled out: ‘He’s in this movie? I LOVE that guy!’” “Or better yet,” I said, “WHAT? WHAT? I can’t believe who they let do post-production Foley editing on this thing.”


One Monday after the Battle of the Bulge,
General George S. Patton Jr. was
walking down a dusty pathway whereupon
he spied a little daisy on the side of the road.

Poor daisy, he thought to himself. No one
loves you! Well, he said, General George
S. Patton Jr. loves you, and then 

proceeded to pluck the little daisy from the 
ground and place it gingerly in his breast
pocket, next to the ten fucking million 
war medals, shiny and resplendent. On 

Thursday after the Battle of the Bulge, 
the daisy finally expired. Upon discovering

it lifeless and quite limp in his pocket,
General Patton Jr. wept–those who saw him weep,
naturally, thought it was for another reason entirely–
and wrote of it in curious ways. It was if he died again–
but of course, he didn’t, not until of course, he did.

I diddled and sequished one of my hero books recently, COMMENTS WITHOUT COSMOS, adding some odes to beloved and favorite figures, including but not limited to: The Three Stooges, Robby the Robot, Walter Cronkite and his pastrami sandwich, and of course, General George S. Patton, Jr.

It's done and it is purchasable at the following place:


121 pages of happy affection for a mere 9.99 bob* – give one a spin, won't you?

* YES, I have been watching too many of THOSE movies lately and NO, not movies with people named 'Bob' in them ...

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

WALLACE CADENZA≠ING in 12+ PARTS the words that David Foster Wallace circled in his dictionary


Imagine me
in my espadrilles.
Now stop.


I embrace the lofty idea
I make it fictile by way
of modeling clay and honey
and a big bottle of booze
that I drink amidst
the fictile process


where have you hidden my heart?
Why Ricky
it is in the entrepôt
next to the dictionary
go have a look


Why do I love
fight movies so?

Is it the fulgurant

I don’t know

FOUND IT! (the dictionary)

(In the entrepôt!)


I don’t have to tell you
that our relationship is

Yes you do, yes you

OK our relationship

Be careful, once
you say something


my internecine

you can never
take it back


Love, they say,
starts off like a blimp
and ends up
like a hat pin
via some awesome
and poor decisions
and lonely friday nights
ripples of bloodhounds
why so covered in glue
the bloodhounds


My favorite part of the shadow
is the penumbra. I like it even
more in Spanish: in Spanish,
it isn’t the penumbra, it’s la
and it’s that brown
color–horse saddle brown


When you left me
my only consolation
was that the next day
I found perfidy
(in the entrepôt.)


When you told me
that you loved me
for the very first time
my legs did that thing
that piaffer thing that
the fancy horses do
so very non chalantly
in fancy horse shows



• cigarettes
• passport
• sabre
• shako
• solander
• thymus



When I told you
that I loved you
for the first time
you skirled with
and I knew that
I had done
the right thing
by telling you
I like it
although sometimes
a little skirling
can go a long way


I woke up today
all scrunched up
and fiesty, in the
mood, I daresay,
for a little
suborning, that’s
what happens
after a night of
scrunched up
or even worse,
no suborning
at all



Just plain ol’ ort,
Nothing like ort. Nothing,
no, just it, just ort. Plain
as day. Accept no. There
ain't nothing like a.

I apologize for #6 (mucronations) where I got a little off topic with the glue and bloodhounds and stuff. Honestly, what happened, is that I was listening to this terrific version of ME AND MY SHADOW by Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr. and Dean Martin, although he wasn't anywhere close by, and I really couldn't come up with a strong feeling about mucronations at all, but I was really loving ME AND MY SHADOW, and so it sort of crept in. First it was bloodhounds, and then it was glue (we stick together like it.) He also mentions people like Robert Kennedy and JFK, but I didn't want to get any more off track than glue and bloodhounds. For the moment, that was plenty.

Saturday, May 08, 2010


I usually have things to say, but right now I don't. Words fail me. I try to find them, but I can only find two.


the second best book I bought this year.

Here's the first best book I bought this year:

What's really cool is that these great poets have the same name and look almost alike and they are both from Baltimore.

What are the odds?

Thursday, May 06, 2010


Walter fell in love with Mary, and said to her:
from now on, you shall be BETSY.

Mary cried for three days, finally came outside
wiped off her tears with his hankerchief
with the initials WC on it and then said


Walter knew that Winston Cigarettes did NOT
taste good like a cigarette should, but DID taste
good AS a cigarette should.

Although they are funny thoughts

Walter was an anchor. He was painted red,
and weighed as much an anchor does, and
slept in the water like an anchor sometimes
does, but he didn’t do this all the time, as
neither do anchors neither.

Walter once said, “If I must interview a puppet,
then it must be a lion–fiercely strong and
powerful of limb and spirit” – the
top brass of CBS said Sure,

whatever or something like that
and the next thing you know

Walter was interviewing
Charlemagne the Lion, fiercely
strong and powerful of limb,

was Charlemagne, interviewed
as he was by Walter, a great
man and so many things was he

patriot, newscaster, husband,
father, grandfather, non-astronaut

my love life could

use a little opera, Walter said,
and that’s the way it was: Walter’s love

life got a little opera

good for him, Walter C.

all old people should
be so lucky

ask them they will
say yes, that’s it



uh huh


I have grown into a man

who does not want to wear

a bow tie

a straw hat

and walk about being funny

my skin painted blue

in fact

I don’t want to be funny at all


I want to wear clothes

and stuff like that

I want to be like you

so serious, so serious

so serious but not

too serious

funny almost

Tuesday, May 04, 2010


Walter Cronkite put down his glasses angrily.

“You love me?” Walter Cronkite growled, “Well,
“if you love me, then my name is Walter Cronkite.”

Mrs. Cronkite stared at Walter Cronkite.

I forget her first name.

She could have sworn he was Walter Cronkite.

Cronkite, W.

What th– she thought.

I just don’t– she said.

But there’s one thing
she did know for sure:

they both loved to eat
pastrami sandwiches
at midnight!

Sunday, May 02, 2010


When I eat scrambled eggs in the morning, I usually put some fresh ground black pepper on them. Sometimes, if I am feeling a little plucky, I put kosher salt on them, too – or if I feel like I want to get away from it all, sometimes even a spot or two of Texas Pete Hot Sauce.

I wonder if a man named Pete invented Texas Pete. From what I know of Texas, he probably did. There is a gruff, straightfoward honesty to the working man of Texas, particularly in days gone by. A workingman’s ethic that is rare to come by these days, and yet, every bit as welcome then as it is today.

You can taste the honesty in Texas Pete. As they say, the proof is in the pudding. Or in this case, the red and yellow bottle with the little red cowboy on it. Sweet, and extremely delicious.

Now you might wonder what all of this has to do with Lou Reed. Nothing, really.


Texas Pete? Try Texas Thad instead. Better yet: Winston Salem, North Carolina Thad Garner, he of the Dixie Pig Barbeque Stand. There’s so little about it that is Texan, that I want to go back to bed leave my scrambled eggs on the dining room table but I won’t because they harden and are blasted difficult to clean if you wait too long.

Interesting fact: in the Renaissance, painters used egg in ‘tempera’ painting for this very reason: its stick-to-it-iveness. If it weren’t for eggs, we would be missing some of the finest paintings of naked religious people and babies and animals and whatnot in the world right now.

Still, that’s little comfort when I want to go to bed and cry. And leave my scrambled eggs on the dining room table.


Texas Pete Hot Sauce, and I use the word ‘hot’ guardedly and also ironically even though I hate irony but Texas Pete leaves me no choice: yes, Texas Pete Hot Sauce measures 747 on the Scoville Heat Index.

That’s not much heat.

I mean, just breathing in Winston Salem, North Carolina registers about 850 on the Scoville. THE STORY OF O, which is a stupid porno movie, registers at least 900. Even I AM CURIOUS YELLOW, with all its political mumbo jumbo, clocks in at about 1000.

I like looking at Bhut Jolokia peppers. They look like huge red spermatozoa. They make me laugh. They are so hard to eat, they are so hot. 850,000 worth.

But if you want to pull out all the stops, forget about Bhut (850,000) and Habañero (350,000) and all of that–go for law enforcement grade pepper spray: 15,000,000!

Yes. 15 Mil.

It was nice to not think about Texas Pete for a minute.

If I ever have a cocker spaniel, I am going to name him Bhut Habañero Three Hundred and Fifty Thousand.

I am not going to name him Texas Pete.

Too many bad memories.

Same with Mexico Joe.

Bad ones. Seriously bad.

I will explain this later.


So one day, and this was during the depression, somebody who is dead now said to Thad:

“Why not name it Mexico Joe? After all, using ‘Mexico’ will suggest the spicy flavors of poblano and habañero peppers, so often associated with Mexican cuisine” explained the now corpse.

“Nothing doin’” said, Sam, Thad’s Dad, who is as dead as you can get when he heard about it, who said this when he was still alive and kicking. “It’s got to be American, because that’s what we’re doin’here–American, Americano!”

Thad, who, sadly, died afterwards, agreed with his father.

For American it was, and American it should always be–American Hot Sauce, until it is clutched to Abraham’s bosom, after having purchased the farm, as we all do, some dreadful day, hopefully far away at that.

And so they named it “Texas Pete” after their brother Harold, the one guy who nobody in the Texas Pete family talks about much, and who lived for a while, quietly, almost invisibly, and then did the usual, and brought home his last dinner pail.

Back then, they all lived in North Carolina in a little shack dealy.



I always understood that a silhouette has no features. Well, they say the reddish Texas Pete Cowboy silhouette has this smile, it’s not that grotesque, Francis Baconish smile, but still, it’s a smile that doesn’t make any sense, and a little bit hidden beneath his ten gallon, and he is lassoing a big red pepper, or maybe he is just lassoing himself. So I don’t understand why the silhouette has a smile, and I don’t understand how a pepper gets up in the air, and I don’t understand why you just wouldn’t grab it with your hand if it was in the air, or why you would lasso yourself if you were about to be beaned by a giant pepper, and I don’t understand why you would go to all the trouble of taking out a lasso in the first place and doing some cockamamie cowboy maneuver knowing that everyone is going to look at you like you are a crazy cross-dressing silhouette red cowboy guy with huge and scary red peppers floating in the air above him in the middle of the street doing weird things that other people would never dream of doing in Winston Salem, North Carolina, in 1929 especially.



Lou Reed is standing on the corner. He his holding a suitcase in his hand. He sees Jackson in the distance – he is wearing some sort of woman’s garment, a frilly little thing, very pretty, very chic. Jane, also in the distance, but somewhat closer, is wearing some sort of man’s garment, one which covers her ample bosom very snuggly. That bosom! How ample!

They seemed to be quite happy, Jackson and Jane. And Lou was too. Lonely, perhaps, but happy to play in a really neat rock n roll combo. Honey.

Or at least he thinks he remembers it that way. After all, it was almost forty years ago.
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