Sunday, May 29, 2011


Largo threatens Domino with a handful of ice and a cigarette, but neither can understand the other.

Largo is from Italy, Domino is from France.

Largo wears an eyepatch, Domino is Mademoiselle France Mundo.

Isn’t it nice that we can dub voices? Just think about what we would miss.

Now for example, when Largo threatens Domino with a handful of ice and a cigarette, everyone in the movie theater is afraid. They worry about Domino’s safety.

Except Domino who can’t understand what Largo is saying.

Perhaps Largo is offering her a cigarette and a cold drink?

Yes, that would très bon. Merci, Monsieur Largo.

Meanwhile, Largo orders Vargas to do his dirty work.

Vargas doesn’t smoke, drink or make love.

Vargas is a good employee.

Vargas looks at James Bond venomously.

James Bond is now Domino’s lover. They both speak English.

Vargas is bald.

Vargas sneaks up stealthily on James Bond at the beach.

Vargas crouches behind the palm tree a hundred feet away.

Although Vargas speaks English, James Bond chooses to communicate his feelings to Vargas in Italian Pneumatic Speargun rather than English.

Domino gasps in her bikini.

James Bond remains robust in his swim trunks.

Vargas was a good employee.

I wonder who got his last paycheck from Largo.

I hope they spent it on smoking, drinking, and making love.

The good news is: Vargas doesn’t have to worry about being bald anymore.

Alas, now Largo now has to hire someone new.

Largo is beside himself. Largo does not weep for Vargas. No time for that.

Do not weep for Vargas.

Largo needs a new assassin and the clock is ticking.

Largo gesticulates wildly and says Italian things in the busy streets of Nassau.

No one can understand Largo and he is gesticulating wildly. Perhaps the weather is bothersome to him? Perhaps that minty iced drink was delicious? Perhaps he cannot find a decent cab in Nassau?

Signore Largo is increasingly moist and angry.

Where can someone from Sicily go to find a good assassin in the Bahamas?

The weather is actually beautiful in Nassau. The trade winds are gentle and soothing.

People are friendly and relaxed.

Largo is upset.

Vargas is dead.

Domino is in a bikini.

James Bond is still alive. He orders a bottle of Dom Perignon ’55.

Sometimes it’s better that we just say nothing so that we don’t understand each other.

Friday, May 27, 2011


I agitated my angular adam’s apple with asexual angina.
I bespoke my bodaciousness with boundless bouncy beauticians.
I catalogued my capo di capi categories with categorical contempt.
I dopamined my deepest dogeared desires with deadly dainty self destruction.
I eulogized my euphonic euphemisms with love, just with fucking love.
I fried my fantasy friend in the phantasmagorical fruity fountain of fear.
I googled my gelatinous goulash in the gazebo of the grand Gandhi.
I hunted my harakiri hairdo with Hints from Heloise in the Houdinis of hopefulness.
I inspected the indecisive infomercial in the incisor of my insightful innermosts.
I jabberwockied my jumpin’ junipers! in the jelly jar of jumbled jamborees.
I kiboshed my kimono kokomo in, of course, the koolness of kinetic Kokomo.
I lumpily leveraged my largess lunacy in lusciousness of lite ‘n limpy Lichtenstein (Roy)
I machoed my mysterious mighty mom thoughts in merry ol’ manly Machu Picchu.
I notarized my naughty nanny’s naked nunchucks in nostalgic numbed-out Normandy.
I ovalized my off-putting only-ovaries in the ovalesque ought-not-to of Orlando.
I personified my potential people skills in piss-poor and pregnant Poughkeepsie.
I quantified my queasy queerness in quality quarks in quack-filled Queens.
I rectified my repulsive repository with randy rosaries in righteously rugged Bella Roma.
I steadfastly denied my saintly stud muffin descent in so-so salacious dementia.
I tundrafied my lil’ tart tomatoes in my very own tawdry tortellini, typically in Italy.
I united my umlat unctuousness with understated underground umbrellas, unveiled.
I vilified my Vegas-voraciousness when it comes to voluptuous vivisection of vigor.
I walloped my wonkies with wisdom and wet and wild willy whimsy-wahoo!
I ...well, an x here and an x there. Then there is always my ex.
I yahooed my yo’ mama with yodels of yesteryear’s yummy yin yang yore-yahoo!
I zestily zip lined my zeal with zarathustras by the zillions in misspelled Zanadus.

I did.

I did.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011


I can’t use that broom anymore
because I squashed a cockroach
with it that had a face just like
Theodore Roosevelt.

I did find a nice broom in my
hall closet that is small and feminine.
I don’t know where it came from.
I love the way brooms appear

In movies and drawings by small
children. Here is a real one that I will
enjoy using for a long time. Soft, silent
bristles, and the broom itself is painted

Theodore Roosevelt’s favorite color:
blue. I am troubled, though, when I
lose a bristle or two: I know that there
is no reason for this

to ever end. Theoretically, it could
continue until I had one bristle left.
Would I continue to use it? That
would be foolhardy, like Theodore

‘Foolhardy’ Roosevelt running for
President for a third term, which
he did, bully for him. One other
reason to be bully for Roosevelt:

He was shot in the chest while
campaigning for President, and
the man just kept going! The bullet
penetrated the fifty page speech,

his steel eyeglass case, his
chest, but not, as expert
hunter that he was and
therefore surmised, his

lung. It makes me flick dust
in a way more lively with my
Theodore Roosevelt blue
broom, wondering if in fact

as all the scientists claim,
there is a small bit of Teddy
in this dust, as there is certain
to be everywhere with everyone.

This would make me happy: the man
who once continued to speak for
ninety minutes, blood collecting
on his shirt,

It will take more than a bullet
to stop this Bull Moose

this is the man for whom my broom
was named, and is with me here, keeping
my small apartment tidy: he is the Teddy
I want with me today: not the man who said

Teddy, not Teedy:

my wife called me Teedy,
and she is dead, it makes
me sad, and sometimes
I weep.

Monday, May 23, 2011


I tried to draw pictures of Beethoven, Mozart, Moe Howard and Jack Lemmon. Beethoven was the easiest. He was incredibly cinchy. It was all that curly hair. Jack Lemmon doesn’t have much of a face, although you always like him, you can’t help it. Also his hair is lame, a la 1950. Moe Howard’s hair doesn’t make sense to draw because people just won’t believe it when they see it. Even when it was grey, it was just as unbelievable, only grey. I used to think of him as the angry Beatle. Mozart was pretty easy, he had curly hair too. I tried him twice, but I got bored. Mozart Boring Face. I tried Jack Lemmon three times and I just got more and more upset. He played the piano really well so I thought I would draw a picture of him at the piano and the piano looked great! but Jack Lemmon still doesn’t have much of a face. This all started because this morning I thought I would write a book about Jack Lemmon, but I couldn’t decide if that would be a good idea or not. I spent the entire day drawing even though it was a beautiful day out and lots of kids were swimming in the pool. But by the time the sun set I changed my mind and decided to write a book about Beethoven. I think it would be much easier and more interesting. I would like to make it nine pages long, because he wrote nine symphonies. His curly hair was everywhere on the piano, or it will be once I am finished. I am still working on it. I have about nine pages to go. Well, nine pages.


I always capitalize the word “Nobody”
because I feel sorry for it and want it
to know that I consider it important
and worthy of respect.

Friday, May 20, 2011


And God said:
“Let there be light!”

And then he made
The Acropolis

The Barber of Seville

a small, fluffy dog gazing
upon a fire hydrant, and

several men chomping
on donuts in the subway

whispering stories that
were not wholesome

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Until I Rest in Bed with a Sawtooth Stranger

I abide with scariness all the live long day
and the angels leave me be and fly away
into the sky where I want to go, too
a milkshake worth flying to, azure.

Monday, May 16, 2011


The yellow house with the dark storm clouds
behind it. If you turn around, there are several
roses that are out of focus. Wait now they are
in focus. If you open the door, you can find
a record with three guys dressed up as pharaohs
singing Funk Box. If you close the door, across
the street you can buy a cup of tea that smells
a little like water. Yes, that sounds nice, and by
closing the door the wind will push its way
towards the roses, and the one that is dying will
say Thank You in waifish rose. Right now or soon
the rain will fall a little like tea out of a thousand
tiny cups onto the bossy earth. Nay, glossy earth.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


If you look at her just right, she becomes a foolhardy French detective with a teensy red moustache and big bug breast eyes and delicious meringue eyelids. She is certain to solve your case!

PS It is entirely possible that her meringue eyelids are really made of ping pong balls. It is disappointing to think that you will not be able to eat them, but she can still solve your case!

Monday, May 09, 2011


I used to draw beautiful eggs
and now I am drawing big brick walls
that aren’t beautiful but they are real brick
all right like a brick which is a brick-like red.

Sunday, May 08, 2011


teenage hoodlum roughnecks who crash parties

until they make the fatal mistake of crashing -

a middle aged quasi orgy!

I will keep watching just to see if it gets any weirder.


Yep. The juvenile delinquent decides to play TORO! TORO!

at the valedictorian’s house with a hoodlum friend

he uses a broken beer bottles for bull horns

and really big matador cocktail napkins.

Oops he slips with his beer bottles.

Now his shirt has blood on it.


Now they’re going to some house they don’t know.

It’s filled with a bunch of old drunk guys.

One old drunk guy locks the door.

Another old drunk guy is taking liberties with a teenage girl.

Screaming now.

Lots of noise and junk.

I think they are mostly old businessmen

and old prostitutes.

They are scary.


Huh? Frances Farmer shows up as the Mom.

I knew that would happen, I’m just pretending

I didn’t. It’s not the weirdest thing.

She seems very dignified.

Her voice is a little gobbledegook.

But she’s really trying. More on this later.


Old guys get more out of hand if you can believe it.

Uh oh. Here comes the police and the ambulance. 

Better get in your T birds and get the hell out of here.


But where are the keys?


Why is everyone so oily?

I mean literally - oily.

Oily teenagers mostly.

I mean oil-in-the-hair oily.


Waiting to see Frances Farmer again.

Not sure if she acts well after the lobotomy.

There she is.

Not bad, but not great. A little distracted.

She seems nice.


Now it's all courtrooms and hospitals.

The alcoholic Mom didn't make it through surgery.

Dad's taking it pretty well.

Frances Farmer is still alive, that’s good.

I think some bonding is coming up.

Frances Farmer goes somewhere else.

It’s almost here.

You can really taste it.


The son comes into the hospital.

He’s a juvenile delinquent.

His Mom is dead.

His Father doesn’t understand him.

His hair is pretty oily of course.

The good guy’s is, too.


The Dad looks up and sees his son.

The son sees Dad and stops.

The Dad puts his drink down.

Dad is alive.

Son is alive.

They walk towards each other.

They are in the hospital.

It’s at least three a.m.


I thought so.

Here it comes.




I said, pointing to where
there used to be goose eggs

Across the aisle was a bucket
of big old chili peppers where
there used to be a girl

But now she is next to me
looking at my finger pointing
at a big bright empty space
saying Why am I doing this
and now she is gone

Thursday, May 05, 2011


I usually say nothing about unfinished drawings in
chalk of airplanes in fluffy white clouds but I have
one of those in my hand right now. Well I did, and
then I put it down and picked up my pen. I put my
pen down and I went over to the typewriter. I kept
walking and I ended up at the computer. But I find
myself distracted by love. We are in an airplane
in a fluffy white cloud. It’s right over there. I was
holding it. Somebody should buy some chalk at
the store and come home and complete this, or
at least do something. Me, I can’t draw.
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