road trip fur sculpture


*undrape: and elegy for whitman*

cast off and do not flow in gutters
with punks and their seedlings of
distaste for the sun

and the flowings of waters spent
damned and trapped and poor and
hustled by

the commonly collected. all by the lee...

undrape and show yourself

unhinged and complete

undrape and whether you be
common or unhinged

be them both and all and always
waiting for the sun.


an ode to my severe vitamin b deficiency: you can be my black tongue.

...which my 'walls of records' trumps. plus? sphynx cat. that would be 'game, bitches.



Sun, Oct 2, 2011 at 10:14 PM
To: ishmael

JhiI goot all the housE wor k domne n naner bead made nomMnoM.
Now we be chwillin wit rum amnd munchuin oin cheeeSer

ishmael Sun, Oct 2, 2011 at 10:29 PM
To: icingandpancakes

a sphincter says what?

"munchuin oin cheeeSer"

i wish i was there. but i have no idea what i'm talking
about so here's a bunny with a pancake on my head.

icingandpancakes Sun, Oct 2, 2011 at 10:31 PM
To: ishmael

They domt talllk they wink

ishmael Sun, Oct 2, 2011 at 10:32 PM
To: icingandpancakes

ps: you will have to translate the title of this email for me.

icingandpancakes Sun, Oct 2, 2011 at 10:33 PM
To: ishmael

Its poancake cheesd

From: ishmael
To: icingandpancakes
Subject: Re: Jdkcedfcenfckelsfkgvneiu

talking and winking? chilling with rum? colour me confused slash up
for a verbal fisticufffs. touche, good mistress. touche.

"Its poancake cheesd"

you are eating cheese pancakes? wink twice for yes.

To: ishmael

Ibe wokked harm tofat

From: ishmael
To: icingandpancakes

Subject: Re: Jdkcedfcenfckelsfkgvneiu

Domk knoe who to wank

icingandpancakes Sun, Oct 2, 2011 at 10:36 PM
To: ishmael

Need to shive air freshner up cats ass

Frettimg waytrt

ishmael Sun, Oct 2, 2011 at 10:49 PM
To: icingandpancakes

EXACTLY MY SENTI.......oops, caps. ehehehe. ahem:

exactly my sentiment. so what sort of rum ARE you drinking? the 9800
proof kind? please save some for me.


he's coming for you, yeah he is coming for you

sebastian is a fine name for an excuse
i keep spitting on a white truck
and the sky is overcast

the reasons all elude and we better run
in order to escape
these inescapable
tooth aches and lost sentiments
it's cold
and there is conversation
which is more of a term of formality

malaise and some sort of recognition of
there being nothing left to kick
when we've out run our
idealistic outcomes

all the while i keep spitting on
this white truck and sleep with my
clothes on and never question
why it is

and why it was

and where we're going to be in three weeks
after we've out gunned
our better intentions
of formality


transient equals sexy


'and he said' how's my locksmith doin'?'...so i put on shoes, out my cigarette and moved some hookahs. it's a regular sunday.'

"it's pissing rain here and i'm wearing a jean jacket and wondering how
fast i can run to the tobbaconist and liquor stor then back without
having to upgrade to a more practical but waaaaaaaaaaaaaay less james
dean outer layer so i can watch vice travel episodes and get hammered
to pass the sodden evening. i'm thinking not fast enough, but it would
increase the james dean quotient of my get up to something in the
neighborhood of ' no wonder no one ever thought you were a homo
quaker: yer HARDCORE!'"

whatcho think?


misery loves...hair extensions?

' you should let me braid your 'rat tail'.'

'it's not a rat tail.'

' it IS a rat tail. and you should let me braid it.'


the spots in your eyes and the places they take me

"I wish i could take you to Dartmouth Nova Scotia where i grew up... the military barracks. The playground next to the creek, the creek we weren't allowed to go to. But we did. We caught salamanders. Bright orange ones with purple and blue and yellow spots. I wandered further in the woods once, alone. I found the shards of old, beaten down buildings. Partially in the ground, crumbling at the edges. Overgrown with weeds. I have always wanted to find out what those buildings were....if someone ever died in them, if the were so unfortunate looking due to a long forgotten attack on the military base... I would sneak away and sit in these buildings, alone, to think for years to come....I want to go back.



my gimp arms are too weak to get the gas mower going


I am not

boom. for real...


the problem with jimmy

it's hot outside, so i migrate to the back porch to smoke in the shade.
the married couple who lives next door had the same idea, though i can't see their faces, i can see his crew socks in sports sandals and
his fattened ring finger on his left hand
swollen from the heat.

jimmy, their little dog, nestled in his lap.
they discuss the state of the neighborhood as if they were not in ear shot of the sidewalk
or myself.

they discuss the riff raff, the drunks, the construction and their dog, whom they feel compelled to yell at when he barks
as if to mimic his false alarm.
jimmy barks at me from up on his perch and i can feel the freckles popping
on my cheeks as the sun beats down
and i know now how i cant
make him stop or the riff raff stop or the drunks stop
and i don't care how to because i
am just about to give up
and say 'okay

i'm the riff raff. but i'm okay'
but they'd never believe that so i construct a better ideal
and get a haircut, have a beer and ready myself
for the conversation
we may one day have when i tire of them barking at their
dog as if he understands.

my problem with jimmy lies not within jimmy
or even his appropriated kingdom of
just the barking and the calling and the
missed signals of danger and want
and i

mostly wish they wouldn't announce this
first thing in the morning.
sunshine or not.


the war on us.

i feel god may be a cannibal
and our hearts meet his tongue as if we were merely
a starter.

seven times seven pitches of tonal depth and avast to ye, mighty saviour
as ye savour our minds to the last.

whilst even the gulls do strain
and our squalor is drained
whilst busy
maining the mast


misadventures in post it notes: welcome to 1104 and sweet dreams......

boom. for real...