I don’t mean to harp on Palin, but

I just saw this on her Twitter: 

“Inexplicable: I recently won in court to stop my book “America by Heart” from being leaked,but US Govt can’t stop Wikileaks’ treasonous act?”

That she would find these two situations analogous indicates not only a dangerously skewed sense of perspective, but a massive ego. Also, to quote one of my favorite presidents: “I think we might be talking about a .22 caliber mind in a .357 magnum world.”
Published in: on November 29, 2010 at 1:54 pm  Comments (4)  
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Sarah Palin Attacked, Torn to Shreds by Bear

“I did it for the children,” says Mama Grizzly.

Back on Nov. 16th, I posted the above bit of drivel, then deleted it when it struck me as mundane and unfunny. However, since that time, I’ve gotten several hits by way of search terms such as this one from today: “sara palin attacked by bear” or “sarah palin mauled by bear” (And I don’t know why I didn’t use the word, “mauled”, myself.) so I’m reproducing it today in all its inanity so that the few people who wind up here won’t become confused and angry unless they actually try to read some of my writing.

I’m sure I’ve caused enough annoyance already to those searching for “keanu reeves news” or simply “keanu” or even “киану ривз”.

I sort of apologize and cannot change.


Originally posted elsewhere, 4/30/04 and slightly altered since.

To wake again and again wonder at the wonder of you. This isn’t me. It really isn’t, isn’t, isn’t. It isn’t I at all. I’m not so heartly soft as this, mostpartly, nor so kindly overawed. I killed a man in Arkansas for laughing at my family name. I nabbed a batch of Pekingese for some Peruvian group what followed the path that shines to light the way for all mankind to stumble into the abyss. They only wanted the puppies’ eyes, but I gave them the litter and let them do the rest. Then there are the children in my well, but don’t get me started. Don’t get me started on that damned well. It took me six months to divine where all the best water might be, another month to dig the thing and then I go and start throwing those damned kids into it and now the water’s hardly potable. No. Don’t get me started. I have requested this repeatedly.

It’s good to be up before the sun. The silence is broken only by far-east cockcrow and the howlings of those anguished little ghosts impotable.

God, how I love you, love. I could eat your brain without no spoon at all. The flesh of thee betwixt m’teeth as well would be a morsel fit for the king I’m meant to be and oh, our kingdom. We would rule it with kid gloves upon our iron fists. Each evening you could crack my skull wide open and dine upon what gray matters you might or mightn’t find beneath and of course, as I’ve suggested, I’d do the same for you. But of course I would, my love. I would do the same-so thing for you without no spoon at all.

We’ll see about them then, them ghostly kids. We’ll put them in a well right proper. This will be the well in which the water springs from hell itself and then we’ll hear them spoil the predawn silence of the eastern roosters. You bet your daggers and gauntlets we will.

And love, oh how I love the gleaming of your troll-forged armor at dawn and the blood of my innocent enemies dripping from your lethal fingers.


Published in: on November 25, 2010 at 12:20 pm  Comments (2)  
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From: A Guide to Lesser Known Angels

Eloel  — The angel of forced laughter and internet abbreviations. Can be invoked by way of YouTube videos, quotidian anecdotes, sarcasm, cat macros, etc… as well as prolonged repetition of the ancient chant: “Ohhhh Emmm Geeee”.

Published in: on November 25, 2010 at 10:10 am  Leave a Comment  
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cocked-up copypasta

So, I’ve been noticing lately how many ancient typos and spelling errors I preserve when I copy and paste some old piece of crap I’ve written from one of my other journals or whatever to here and there. I find it disheartening. However, it’s difficult to keep track of these things when I’m busy making up new, unnecessary words or smushing old ones together. There’s that red squiggle again. Smoosh? Nope. Anyway, you’d think I’d learn from this. You’d think I’d learn to be more careful, if not more coherent. Yet, I persist. Yet, I likely will persist. I never learn.

Just thought I’d mention it.

Published in: on November 23, 2010 at 6:58 am  Comments (8)  

or maybe clubs can come from olive branches

I don’t know or do I now what I might be up to and/or through with here with this here writing of unwriting of mine. I have in mind a weapon or a song, a wound or paragraph, an olive branch for use in flagellating mostly me. It’s mostly me I’m warring, writing, singing, graphing at agrapple with me mostly and my angels better/otherwise. There’s wisdom in my silence that I try to reach through incoherent wordliness, a sound so dense it’s silent maybe. A cloud so worried with words it thunders mutely, storms inward so that out it goes. I don’t know or do I now what might I may be fighting when I’m quiet. Then there’s this with no quick in it, but thick much like my mind.

Published in: on November 22, 2010 at 3:28 pm  Leave a Comment  


(Originally posted elsewhere, 2/1/04.)

The alien voice instructing me in the mysteries of intimate transmission has fallen silent. I am a minor disturbance in this magnetic field. The saddest of all small wonders has hands to wring from their very own fingers the nimble shadow of truth. I would be a truth if there were truisms shaped like me, but I come on amorphous, a nebula of purple distortion with specks and dashes of the lost white dwarf sought by pilgrim astronauts.

I owned an island once, so made myself its angry god. Now I would be Prospero’s forgotten son and gentle sister Miranda would please be my little friend.

Come then please and be my little friend, Miranda. Take my hand as we stroll along the beach to sprinkle pollen from unnamed flowers on the bodies of drowned sailors that daily wash ashore. We will give them the peace that is promised in your name and sing the songs the insect spirits taught us in the womb we shared which was one above our separate mothers’ wombs. Together we’ll heal the mooncalf with redemption, bind him close to Ariel, yet set them free and with some series of temperate spells, construct a tower to warn the ships away from this idiosyncratic coast of ours and send them on their way to more appropriate worlds.

Published in: on November 22, 2010 at 11:42 am  Leave a Comment  
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Just just desserts or something.

The nothing that I am is not a thing to trifle with, yet I have so trifled.  I have trifled with my life unliving and by way of  this unliving life, I’ve trifled with the living lives of others. I have trifled with travails and with traumata; with the works and wombs and wounds and worries and wooings of others, of you, your youness, youth, your youniverse. Please pardon. Please pardon me. Please pardon me my puns and lame phraseology as I am at a loss. I am at a loss for words and worlds and wild whirlings once made tales and fables, not these nothing notes to no one scrawled in cyperspace uncharted, inhospitable. And even this. And even this, my habit. Even this bad habit I can’t break, I cannot inhabit or consistently habituate each day, as each day I’m dwelling differently or otherwisely occupied with my life unliving, living and unliving lies and within the living and unliving lies the lie that by this trifle I might end the feeding of my demons and the demon that I am with some small sweetness. Something sweet. Some sweet nothing from my tongue upon your tongue untasting. Some sweet nothing in your ear unhearing, oh my sweet. Oh my sweet love, my lie, my trifle.

Stabbing Vacuum

The embarrassment, oh love. Oh loves of other loves, the shame of grasping after thee with these hands empty of any offering possible and possibly I’m dishonest in my emptiness and depths of  dissolution, destitution. Decadent, I once was, now decayed and frayed at edges working inward. Inwardly’s the only place or way I gaze effectively at all as my vision’s slit across the eyes beneath the middle. Do I see thee, love? I cannot know. Do I display me truthfully to thee or do I dissemble? Do I? Do I know? Do I wish to be aware of what I am and do I doo wah diddy and am I that assemblage of obfuscations I despise, despite my efforts otherwise?  Oh, I despise these repetitions and these rhymes, these lies I am intending, unintentional. I cannot know. I cannot know thee, love, as I do not know me. Please do not show me what I am as I am dangling from a precipice at an angle can’t be graphed and grasping at and after thee. So do go on to safer surfaces, but no. Come closer. I am empty. I am empty. I am empty, offering.

Published in: on November 12, 2010 at 7:11 am  Comments (2)  
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Gibeahn Layover

Into these pleas unto thee, I should inject a levity or bubbles in my bloodstream. Have you heard the one about the Levite’s wife or concubine? But then I fall to pieces just as she and Patsy Cline and am inclined to lie uneven rather than try the hike back up to where it all began and have to gasp at that air rarefied I’ve been accused of second-handing out to you can’t use it as a purgative for blood and brain, but there are reasons to breathe besides mere maintenance such as intoxication and oxygen’s an overrated gas in my opinion. Yes, it fills the bill, but bubbles in the bloodstream it can kill you or that’s a tale for wives as old as the Levite’s which reminds me just in time that I am fallen, what I fall to, seeing thee, each time, again.

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