Xmas Edition

I drank the drink that was drunk by drinkers drunk long ago
They drank their drink with a drunken drinking
The drink that drinks itself will be drinking a drink
Like the drink I drank when drunk on a drink that I was drinking
But I kept drinking the drink that I drank and that they drank
As I drank the drink that was drunk by drinkers drunk long ago.

Palace of Wisdom

I saw rooms without windows, rooms without doors.
Dark, musty carpets lay scattered on floors.
A bartender named Cork was decked out in black tie.
He was quick with his business though he had but one eye.
Then we took to the streets past shanty and hovel.
‘Twas like going back in time to an old Dickens’ novel.
Like moths to the light we set off for the Brig.
There Smith played troubadour and danced a profane jig.

Shempy Shrub

The Shempy is a common bush throughout many parts of the world. It also is known as the Ed Lacy Shrub, or The Rudin. The bush is native to regions of Normandy in France, but it was taken to the new world by the Lacy family after they were banished from the region. Legend says that it has appeared on their family crest, but tales are unconfirmed. It is an invasive species that will contaminate gardens and other sensitive areas due to its tendency to be a burden on the soil by taking up excessive nutrients and requiring unwarranted attention to its unruly growth.

It is a medium-sized shrub that curiously resembles a plump woman’s buttocks. Pods grow from its branches, and the pods can be used as food, to make glue, and can be fermented to create a curious brandy-like concoction known as Lacy Liqueur. While pungent and aromatic, the drink has unusual side affects. Reports by those who have either drunk the spirit or who have witnessed others under the influence say that the consumer soon begins to pepper conversations with obtuse comments and non-sequiturs. The imbiber then speaks with an impatient tone and can disrupt conversations in order to offer corrections to each speaker’s claims. Lacy liqueur is an ingredient in the “aviator” cocktail.

Apocryphal Tale Of Milton Melton: The Thoreau of Dayton

As I sit here in the forest upon my oak stump, meditating over my usual lunch of smoked kippers, wild mushrooms, and moonshine, I am reminded of the famed words from the great philosopher Milton Melton, “Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.” Melton, known as the “Thoreau of Dayton,” was one of the region’s great thinkers, theorists, and hedonists. In the spirit of Thoreau, he even lived for a time in a cardboard shanty beside a small pond. It was there that he composed his greatest works and planted the seed of thought that would one day grow into his manifesto. There is an apocryphal tale (though I think it’s really true) about Melton’s despair at the great pits of mud that ringed his pond. He claimed that the treacherous mud bogs ensnared him like a fly in molasses during his morning stroll. Thus, he planned to build a paved “trail” so that he could have clear and effortless passage, which would allow him to spend his time in thoughtful meditation rather than in scrapping mud from his boots. However, living in such a remote area offered him few building materials—except for the mud. So one night, under the cover of darkness, he crept into the nearest village. While the inhabitants slumbered, he raided their outhouses of “nightsoil” and returned to his shanty with bucketfuls overbrimming with the unwholesome muck. He performed this deed every night for many weeks—long enough to gather enough nightsoil to encircle the pond in the form of a paved trail. With haste, he toiled under blazing suns and starry nights. Soon, his work was done, and the nightsoil dried to the hardness of a stale biscuit. And when visitors came from far and wide, they all remarked with amazement at what became known as Melton’s Splendid Shit Path.

Doug Henning

As you can see, Doug Henning escaped the great hippie roundup of ’72. Most likely, he used his powers of magic and illusion to foil the Nixon administration’s attempt to capture the hippies and sell them to China. Although he was “bummed” about this grave injustice, Henning would not use his arcane skills in retaliation. Vengeance was not his “trip.” No, he used his powers for peace and love and to make rainbows and stuff. Henning applied his magic to create muppets and to bring fairy tale creatures to life. His days of magic were numbered though. Tragically, he inadvertently turned himself into a magic mushroom while brainstorming with Peter Max for a book about groovy rainbows. Miss Piggy ate the mushroom.

Empty Bookshelf

So have the hippies left us without a canon of literature? Sure, they’ve made music, and Peter Max made groovy airplanes and rainbows, but the bookshelf seems empty. It’s not that the time period was marked by distaste for storytelling. To the contrary, many writers were popular with hippies, such as Vonnegut, Hesse, and Dr. Seuss, but we find no actual work by a renowned hippie or tale that chronicles their beliefs, attitudes, and lack of interest in soap and water. So it should be no surprise to all of you that in 1972 all hippies were lured with patchouli and wheat grass into traps, captured, ground into small pieces, mixed with lead, and then shipped to China to be made into inexpensive toys.

Gallant Major Smith, the Viscount of Chauncey

I know a chap in the magazine business. Not only did he solicit, plan, and edit articles about the Civil War, he participated in countless Civil War reenactments, displaying his gallantry and bravery for admiring fans. I believe that he had ascended to the rank of Major in the Union Army, but he preferred to be called the Viscount of Chauncey. I don’t think that went over well as neither the North nor the South had the rank of Viscount. But then again, I am no Civil War historian, merely a poet and storyteller. Anyhow, after many skirmishes and pitched battles, after countless campfire retellings of reenacted war over salt pork and cider, the “Viscount” decided to hang up his spurs.

So he unloaded all things Civil War and placed both feet firmly in the custom publishing marketplace. This new path requires him to mingle with the finest society has to offer and to heed the requests of graphic designers and writers who might wish to find employment. He tells me that, to his surprise, many unemployed designers are women, and these women assail him daily with the desire for work. He also tells me that he has come to the following philosophical conclusion: that women are of two basic types, either singers or strippers. He has even gone so far as to create a stage in his office. And on this stage he has placed a microphone and a shiny pole that measures from floor to ceiling. He does this because when those women come to him for employment, he likes to know which type they are. So during interviews, he has them approach the stage and either sing a song for him or perform a striptease. Now I do not pretend to make any moral judgments on this behavior. A man does as he does in his business. After all, I’m just a poet and storyteller.

Gin and Tonic

Oftentimes as I make public appearances, someone speaks from the strangling hordes that clamor about me. This person nearly always remarks about my calm, serene disposition. I can easily tell them that it is because I’m very rich and also very smart. Or I could say that it is because of my noble heritage, classical handsomeness, and ease with beautiful women.

But really I believe that it is the great amount of gin and cigarettes that I consume. A pulled pork martini is one of my favorites. I take it with a BBQ cigarette. Gin for the soul! Cigarettes for the ego!



In fact, when you mix gin with tonic it becomes medicine!
Think about it . . . tonic! Gin and tonic! Medicine!

So there I am, calm, serene, full of nature’s gentle, sweet medicine.

Chicken Ranch

Thanks to Backyard Poultry magazine, I have a world-class chicken ranch. That’s right, I have become a poulterer. Thus, I deal in rooster eggs and chicken wine. I savor chicken tea with noodles and dine on drumstick marmalade.

And YOU said that I couldn’t do it. That’s right, the naysayers and ne-er do-well’s with their chicken-hatin’ chatter. Oh, you know who you are you chicken-hatin’ anti-poulterers!

Campaign Fiction

Joe the Plumber

So it seems that Joe the Plumber is not really a plumber at all, or a registered voter, or a guy who pays his taxes, or anyone with a shred of dignity or integrity. So it should be no surprise that such a shameless cretin would be shilling for a GOP hopeful.

But fear not readers! You know well that my genius was at work 25/8 hunting out the true identity of Joe the Plummer. My sources have provided me with evidence of who this creature really is. Below is a photograph that I have produced, showing a much younger Joe the Plumber.

Behold!

The day John McCain came to me

John McCain sought me out at my lair before the final debate. Here is a photograph of me meditating over a volume of political philosophy shortly before our auspicious assembly.



He begged my counsel, proclaiming that he had heard that wise men seek me during their darkest hours. I told him that a truer statement had never been spoken. I said that I had a plan but that it is so inspiring and so ingenious that no one could dare understand such sublime magnificence.

So instead, I told him to hunch over and grit his teeth. I advised him to stare wildly and frighten people with furious blinking. I then said that his tone should be impatient and condescending. I said to not focus on issues but instead make references to unimportant allegiances with shadowy characters.

He thanked me for my guidance and political insight and shambled from my chamber as seen in this photograph.

Letter, Part II

I am aware that all of you crave to know the thoughts of your fellow creatures whether profane or inspiring. So with this knowledge, I will share another letter from a devoted reader.

Gentlemen,
Last night was fitful. The demons robbed me of another night of blissful slumber—they made an enemy of my bed. So I grudgingly arose to fetch the volume you had suggested for me: Socks, Pinecones, and Old Rags: A Traveler’s Guide to Europe’s Forgotten Alleys by Kevin Gray. I must say it is an enjoyable companion during a sleepless night. Allow me to offer my thanks to the editors for suggesting this fine publication.
Next, I will take another cue from your reading list and send for Ask Me About Prison Musicals by Kyle Melton, Esq.

Thus, now you all can see the esteem in which I am held by countless great thinkers, theorists, and saints.

Because you all look to me as a mountain of intellect and a storehouse of valuable philosophical and theological information, and although you cannot begin to grasp the dizzying heights of my mental achievement, I will remain patient—much as an angry minister keeps his cool amidst scruffy, immoral parishioners.

As with the last letter, I let the flames lick the carcass of this one.

Letter to the Editor

As a man of the NEW century, I wear many hats. Indeed, I am a village unto myself. So believe me when I say that much of what I do is far too intricate for any of you to comprehend, so I won’t list my awesome endeavours as it would be like a great philosopher trying to explain epistemology to deaf infants. But just know that one of my roles is publisher of a sophisticated and intellectually challenging magazine that most of you could not begin to fathom. Part of my indispensable duties is to read mail from readers who seek to bathe in my GLORY. Below is an excerpt from such a letter.

Gentlemen,
I took your advice and set-to for a brief sojourn in Yellow Springs. I found the town to be a-bustle with touristy types and a motley collection of ne’er do wells (surely, you must feel right at home). The villagers are as wayward as wild donkeys but friendly and cheerful nonetheless. I found myself browsing the many shops, some of which offer colorful pipes and other smoking utensils. Curious thing though, all the quaint handmade signs read “for tobacco use only.” Sir, on what else would someone use these delicate pieces of smokery?

As with many letters that I receive, I burned this screed in the great fireplace at my lair.

Troy Triangle

Puddles, muddles, vines, and anti-aircraft replicas—
‘Twas a night that Benjamin Smith liberated Paris
and spied a bicycle where no mortal could have parked it.
The pizza was the greatest show on Earth during the night
the night that we (some of us) remember as the emotional rescue
wherein a shambling wretch was last seen drawn to the light
the light in the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant.

Belly Dancer

Belly dancer, belly dancer, you must give me some tips.
Should I watch your shimmy shake or focus on your lips?
And what about that floating veil and bells around your hips?
I guess I’ll just sit back and see which strikes my fancy
Then hope you’ll show some kindness and give me a private dancy.

Library Lady

Library lady, library lady, I like your look
Perhaps one day we can check out a book
One with odd characters and a great sleazy plot
We will do it in secret so that we won’t be caught
But such madness will reveal me for a hopeless flirt
Then surely you’ll slap me as I lift your short skirt.

The Mariner

Funny. I attended a dog wedding once. An ancient, ragged man with an eye patch molested me. He wanted to tell me a story about his journey across the salty sea. I said that I had no time for such nonsense and told the old vagrant about a Jewish monk and collector of arcane tales named Benjamin Smith who indeed “entertains” old hobos and then draws out their preposterous stories as a spider draws the guts from an insect. I then laid my hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye, and said that I had made many new friends now that I had stopped biting people. He wandered off.

Redd Foxx

The Redd Foxx Project is the unhinging of perception. It is the tablecloth being whipped away sending dishes clattering to oblivion. It is the point at which matter becomes the mind. It is where chip meets salsa. It is the culmination of several hours devoted to guitars, drums, improvisational lyrics, voodoo, and a cascade of cheap canned beer.

Sing along with me . . .

I’ll tell you a story ‘bout Whistlin’ Joe
He likes his sour mix with amaretto
Well, just t’other day about half past noon
I heard Whistlin’ Joe whistlin’ up a tune
He was tappin his pen he was tappin’ his toes
The only thing missin’ was his ol’ banjo
But ‘magine my surprise when I went to see the show
Ol’ Whistlin’ Joe wasn’t wearin’ any clothes.


Yeah, so it's silly. What about it?
You're all a buncha' punks anyway.

Puppets

A fabled land exists where good mixes with evil to create an atmosphere of tranquility much like vodka mixes with white vermouth to create the sublime Martini. Puppets are revered as gods in this fabled land. To harm a puppet is to commit a grave crime that will result in eternal damnation. Puppets bring happiness; they bring sweet tears of ecstasy. Although some do fear puppets, the fear is simply self-loathing and ignorance of unfamiliar ways. Puppet hatred is a form of bigotry and brings shame and scorn to all puppet haters. Thus, remember, puppets are good because they make us laugh; keyboards are evil because they make us cry.

The Leonard

Leonard really did not want to leave his chateau this evening. More importantly, he feared that he would not be able to leave. The reasons for his reluctance were quite simple if not meaningful. For one thing, he could not find his monocle or his fez. He never went public without these accessories. Also, he had been sick for some time, and a nagging cough had strained his voice to the point of laryngitis. This condition would have made it impossible to regale the attendants with fanciful tales of his youth in Normandy. Perhaps the main reason was that, deep down, Leonard felt that he was just too dignified for this crowd.

Shrubbery

Shrubbery waits next to the window
Short fat green trimmed and fussed over.
The poodle of the plant kingdom
What a terrible thing to be
Because poodles really suck.
But shrubbery waits patiently
All green and sticky and square
Waiting for the grass to stop
Being so smug and showy

Cats

Tangles of wet cat fur on the grass
Because they fight over the porch
At night with those awful screams
That cut the reel on the in-flight
Dream show that I won’t remember
Because I think of cats and other
Crap that bothers me only at night.

Gained in translation

This a blind translation of a French poem. Thought it would be fun and would get me in the mood to move mountains again. Got this idea from the most vodka of travelers at me~tronome.


Quadrant of ceiling and basement lord, pesky communist uncovered
Sure, the spirit germinates prolific and longs enough
Exchanged horizons embarrassed to touch the circle
Ill nourished verse unjoin night, pray the twisted quarreling nuance;

Quadrant of terror is changing to uncancer humanity
Out of desperation, the communist unites sour chauvinism
Seek the battery like a muse and softly aid twilight
This cognac tastes like a profound poison;

Quadrant of plagued talent sees immersed tranquility
Vast prison of dunes, an imitation barrier
A proper quotation, muted inflamed arrogance
Violent tendency sees fiends and folly and not ceremony;

These clowns talk of clouds sautéed amid fury
And lancinate vast ceilings unaffected by hyperbole
Ancient quests are spirit errands to seek patronage
Quests of metaphor such giant opéra comique;

So the long corbillards seek the tambourines of mystery
Defiled lunacy dances my name; Despair
Vanity, pleasure, the English atrocity, desolation
Surely the Moon’s cranium tilts a planet seen dropping night.

The original verse in French.

Spleen
Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle
Sur l'esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,
Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle
II nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;

Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide,
Où l'Espérance, comme une chauve-souris,
S'en va battant les murs de son aile timide
Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris;

Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées
D'une vaste prison imite les barreaux,
Et qu'un peuple muet d'infâmes araignées
Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,

Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie
Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement,
Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie
Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrement.

— Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,
Défilent lentement dans mon âme; l'Espoir,
Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique,
Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.

The man with the bent head

She wobbled toward me

The woman with a cigarette

Trapped between crackled lips

She was quivering

Like a small furless dog

And her breath was raspy

Because the man

Came back for his laundry

“You can’t miss him” she
croaked

“His head bends funny”

So now I sit quietly and wait

For the man with a bent head

List

1. kick ass

2. eat puddin'

3. shuck peas

4. free my inner burrito

5. not get lice

6. make the perfect martini

7. use a fork better

8. not cry at lunch

9. attend a lecture on prehistoric astronomy during which I will ask a series of rhetorical questions for which I will get several ums, shouldas, and maybes and then I will follow up with a discussion of a theoretical model that is founded on a postulation that has stated that aliens have visited Earth in hopes of determining the neoprolapsistic ventonation of a spiralled helio-galaxy perpindicular to the twin milky way galaxy, known as the sort-of milky way galaxy, and then after mild debate, I will follow through with nonsensical questioning intended to disarm a group of neoplatonists.