2009 July:

2009 April:

2009 March:

2009 February:

2009 January:

2008 December:

your tambourine dont clack or jangle
like it used to, rusty red beard,

no, all that cactus chewin aint sane old sir,

you mop like a wet sock
when you spit barbels into the puddles,
those preppy puddles,
only four fingers away
from your tin foil feet

those penny vacuums
sucking out soup,
pouring all over your favorite David Bowie cd,

no, Major Tom cant help you on this planet
of cracker jack maps

leading you to them puddles
where you let the guppies decorate your toes
and tell you sad sad stories
while you wait for the soapy cardboard to melt
and then the purple wave hits
and the guppies go
and you wonder why this imaginery toilet bowl
wont flush you to the infinite underworld
where your mad suggestions would catch you a fine fish
that would lick you dry
of your
empty earphones
and
magical mexican plants
that leave you
c o n s t i p a t e d
as you pop-corn over the golden dumpsters,
burping out melodies
listening to the fat fingers
stuffed in piano keys
and
you tighten your knees with your fishnet skin,

when i was a cabbage patch kid
you were cooler than pop-eye,

im not as dumb as i was two hours ago,
them things aint candy cigarettes
puffed outa' the flamingo