ull new transflations — Rosetta Stone hypothoses

Month: November, 2012

Swank Station Chug-a-Chug

Once upon a dime there were billions of people at the bottom of a mountain, trying to scramble up.

The chant was loud and clear.

“I know I can. I know I can. I know I can.”

The blindfolds were on too tight and the finest leather soles were not quite so meant for the walking backward and so people gave off trying and began to fornicate–en masse–there at its base–excremating declaritive social stats by the brand quality toilet paper and who’s the what diamond ring popped through for poopie.


Icky wicky.


“Nevermind, nevermind. Scrammatcha hand sani-scheisse! I say, I say–didya hear obout the tri-schlong donkey?”

“Yeah, the cat had five!”

Aha ha ha haw ha ha!


Whack-a-mole the totem-pole. Peg into the ground. So loudly self-sufficing that we hardly made a sound.


Gone and now forgotten. We swallowed it all wrong. We monkey dooed each other’s dosey-doe and stag along.





Seventeen Debris and Saturday Gray

You learn the hard way sometimes. Seventeen’s a long way down. Never told me. Winding and neverminding. Knee high and ankling. That Saturday Jenny offered she was fetter to the fool. Shoulda known my breath would taste like her–my wrists and ankles bruised and bleeding. I came back. Saturday. And we lost off again. We let fortune find itself to tend each other up the way. We’d fend it off with feeble wings. Defiant glances.

And we burned stasis on our skin with mouths just outside of squeaking distance–blue-gray field of smoke and broken mirrors. These frailty bags of swishing plastic. Full of justifications and weighing nothing. Helium bound in Wal-Mart sacks. Low prices and high risers, rolling back the afternoon of something borrowed, something balloon.


It feels like you’re flying when you’re falling upside down.

‘Least that explains the headaches.


Looks just like you’re praying as you’re diving to the ground.

‘Splains the barkin’ dogs.

Semi-human missile whistle


We never did wear a new pair of sneakers. Shame. Our feet were so rubber and plastic. Our necks were so gold. Our cheeks were soft and yummy tummy. We never did grow old.

Down boy.

And Saturday they haloosed. The bets came off. The fine caboosed. The mild slice of sometimes pie times somewhat neither. Blind for an eye. The seeper of the crumbs and crust. Because the big screen. Because we bull steam.


Because we caught. Because we must.

Then you keep on jawing about something seize the day. Then Saturday. Saturday. Saturdee-da-day.


In Whomever’s Name, We Cross Our Fingers. Dig In.

This tension apprehension ties the all around the ages–
The world’s asordid crazes; the underwads in rages.
Assumption we’ve the gumption to rake leaves of human cages,
To lay newspaper pages, for pay these pellet wages.

Our legal tender bender binges crawl for all the lot,
Too often all forgot, more dollar bill than not;
More shine than clay, our dimes away, more heft than second thought;
Worth little than we ought, in spittle and in rot.

Hi Lo! Here goes the never roads that ever beats the dust.
Endeavor to wherenever in whomever’s name we trust.

The Engines Purr Out Yonder

A continuation of The Amazing Sasquatch and His Origamic Aeronautics

The woods were whispered, silent. The roar of the Wild One held every living thing. His wailing made them weep. The forest was in mourning.

The paper men had come from trees–folded, molded, breathed. Sasquatch in his laboratory. Suzanna, the oak who’d borne them–a light concave of open wood marking her side–held the woe the worst (mothered and robbed, budding babes…paper waste; lined; lifeless). Her leaves had begun to seize and fall, not missed and not bothered, as she focused the all of her longing on the dugged pit of their ever ending sleep. They were to be buried today.

Sasquatch spared no effort. Every method in which a hope might lay had been attempted. All of them had failed. He sat in his thinking hole, far off and far under–seldom traipsed upon by man and never seen by them–and thought. He had tried the breath of Enthor. He had tried the ancient rites. There was no book for this. His library was vast, ventilated and well lit. Here were the secrets of his order, the Earth. There were stone tablets and workings, books that man had never seen. There was no answer.

Of a sudden, a light inside the hole shined brilliant–THE IDEA! He vaulted up the shaft to the main of his earthen quarters with a freak strength and agility never strange to himself.

The garage.

The three lifeless paper men lay in their bed, pedestaled and illuminated in the Room of Greatest Journey, lighted by the sisters of Elsinor. With careful hand he lifted them, resting each in his calloused palm–the three of them no bigger than a hummingbird apiece, still and nestled there like tiny eggs, warmed by the gentle hand, the bestial heat.

Outside in solemn sobbing, he clicked the handheld remote, the garage door gave a beep and opened with much tussling of twiggature and rustlings of leaves. Inside was a climate controlled hideaway, no smaller than any university’s gymnasium. Inside were parked a Lexus, a Mercedes, and a BMW–flawless and perfection. In each he placed a paper man, and in each he turned the fine ignition. Purrings. He closed his eyes. The hummings of the great all-masters, all-bated breaths, conquerors of weighted depths and gated death. A distant rumbling. The parting of the clouds. The bright flash of everything. Swallowed. Birthed.

The heaven’s harpist played the notes of eversongs of yore.
The lightening flashed to give the dashed a paper life once more!






The Ocean Called–We’re Running Out of Sense

I come, I crash, I petty cash;

I jerk and flick the whip-a-lash;

I joke and clean my ever-spleen

And guzzle Robitussin.

I numb, I rash, I motorbrash;

I horn and verb in anger flash;

I dream forever seventeen

And sink into the ocean.


spilling-me-salty: assume-our-doom-is-flower-bloom-until-the-boat-is-faulty

I am the answer dancer!

I’m answer everyday!

I human, man–

The best of can!!–

I’m wishy-wash away!

Between Instances

A stasis like it never churned.
We’d never think (and never learn!).
Wide awake and fake perceived,
Our drying eyes then set to–

Stare between dimensions–time traveler’s peep hole–for mesh of all the solid in the screaming; bobbing for right angles; find the eyes for looking back, same but save intent and knowing, crowing: demon eyes and devil things–stick out your finger to make it sting. Index of God’s image (we ever smear the mirror). To slip the grip, to high pitched wailing in ancient tones, to acrid hop and bubble top and drink with Davy Jones–high-low, sporadic, inhuman spit to never quit and gawk and gargle foam. Plummet. Satan’s breadth to pump your stomach: soul burn; to grab your wanker: chlamydia. It’s right behind vibrations of the Latin Nabbus Grabbis. And summon all the nations–hell, we’d like to vote



Yell the name, buy new shoes, high-heel ourselves through traffic to the whistle blower’s blues.

clip-clop, clip-clop.

The Hoary Hams of Spreadem: this, that, and the other brother; take the hand of everyman–woman, teat of beast. Spend ’em to the showers. Arch-a-back and scream-a-scream, the antidote for sour cream, to yell the spells of ecstasy–this throttle throat, this mummerboat, this spurt of could-bees over me.

Still. Parched.

We turn our heads all from the light, the glowing in the back of us, mistook for flames surrounding us. Open mouthed and burned amount, we incubate the succubus.

And bear the brunt–



And a: why you look for living in the places of the dead?

Why: It’s all the dying bodies raised to shopping malls instead.





The Amazing Sasquatch and His Origamic Aeronautics

It wasn’t that I didn’t like paper airplanes–I loved them–it’s just that this particular one had been hovering beside me for the best of thirty minutes.

“Shoo,” I  said.

I tried to ignore it. There were some kids snickering somewhere, surely. Rich kids–this was premium stuff!–ready to pick on poor me. I was eventually annoyed enough to risk my dufus; I looked around and there was no one watching that I could see. There were no trees above and I even checked for a string, risking my dufus even more. The wind was light, but should have knocked it around and wasn’t weird enough to keep it up like that.


But three paper men with tethers around their waists climbed out of the plane’s center fold to hand me something. They looked terrified at the height of my shoulder, but smiled when they gave it to me: a blurred picture of a lurching Big Foot in the forest, their mouths turning like little Os drawn by kids bored in class–over and over and over and over.

And then they flew away.

I rubbed my eyes, tried to massage back into me the bearings I’d just had. No, I said. Then I looked down. A paper clip reflected the sun from the grass. I picked it up.

It wasn’t until I’d walked almost fifteen minutes that I’d found them wadded in the grass, greenstained. I checked their pulp. Erased. There were footprints leading out into the woods, a howling in the key of intense sorrow.

I had to tell the world.

Atmospheric Pressure (It’s Science and You Know It)

And the world was deepish blue–
Whooshing to a gaping moon
Languid, laping submaroon,
Cuddle corned,
Lord cacooned.

For all we are had all forgot
–Kookie cocky lover coo
This fall of man

This blotted dot–

Slow release

Bleeding salt into the cold, black matter
of outer space.
Stretching shallow–wetting stars
Slap, suck, schuck
extinguishing nothing.

Dolphins bursting the parameter.


Because We All Cum Laude

(clap clap clap)

Ha ha ha

He he he

We too alive

To death decreed

We too high five

For judgement plea

And too upright

For bended knee.


Ho ho ho

Hey hey hey

We shovin’ off

The rocks today

We sputter cough

Then sail away

On water soft

And sweetly grey.


Hi hi hi

Lo lo lo

There on the brink

Of water hole

Begin to sink

And gulp below

To salty drink

We mother go.

(clap clap clap)


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