Snowflake

Imagine a snowflake
falling from the sky, yes the sky
where else would it fall from?
And as it falls, it grows, it crystallizes, it freezes
into a unique structure,
something that people will praise,
something ir-reproducible – like a made up word.
But I ask:
As this flake falls,
white, crisp, light onto your feather filled parka like
a feather, and melts into its constituent form,
and soaks into the fabric,why can’t it refreeze
and take a new shape?
Another shot at uniquity – another made up word.
Why must its individuality, its trajectory
end with one shot?
The water cycle will tell you it doesn’t:
Evaporation, Condensation, Precipitation, Storage
And the seasons say so too.

Pisstol

Yellow urine bladdered in the tank of a plastic gun, made all the more putrid by its green material tint, sloshing and bubbling, foaming into a fizz, as the gunman runs, ready to release a deadly stream of piss.

“I will spray you,” he howls, pumping the soaker to make the stream super, wishing his own pisstol could be so easily enlarged, gnashing yellow teeth, the front two gapped and scummy, no wonder spray lisps.

His target, a wise little rabbit trying to keep his thick, brown fur warm and dry, scurries, he knew his fate from the start – the color of the school bus told him so.

The fox cackles, points the orange tip, lets out a steaming stream, pumps again, the stream splashes harmlessly on the street, darker black liquid stains upon dry charcoal grey, a mark of his territory.

A shoe lace flails, betraying, entangling, snaring, rabbit. He falls, saving face with hands, but scraping each pure white palm into a red scramble pocked with gravel.

“Gotcha,” the predator pounces, whipping back his golden mane in glee. The orange tip, drips, hovers inches above widened brown irides, finger mounts trigger.

Will he deliver?

And tomorrow, when the gun is gone, no matter, the fox will still have his bladder.

1107 Euclid St.

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A Eulogy to my Good Friend, John Ahn

John was a man, a man’s man’s man, a man who liked banquet beer, and broads, and ate only barbequed brats, that were of course self prepared with the delicate care of a toll booth operator will Alzheimer’s. John had hair on his arms, and hair on his legs, and hair on his back, and of course hair on his face in the form of a beard, that was thick and dark, and went well with his wardrobe of flannel. John was a lumberjack, a LumberJohn as it were. I mean this literally, you know, you don’t always have to be metaphorical and deep – Kermit the Frog on mescaline may be wise for a time, but eventually you realize that he, like everyone else is just a tadpole with legs. But I digress, and am apologetic, severely so, for I must tell you the story of LumberJohn the lumberjack. He was real manly, you get it, I mean he cut down trees for a living and was strictly carnivorous! His friends were all lumberjacks too, and usually, on the weekends they’d get together at the local shooting range and chew bullets, while shooting their handmade bow- and-arrows at burlap sacks that they stuffed with wood chips and baby robin eggs and fashioned to look like Richard Simmons – the likeness was astounding. Well, one such weekend, while John was waiting for his friend Herb to pick him up from home, he decided to pass the time in a new and exciting way. John had a secret passion for nails. Yes, nails! And no, not the metallic ones, the kind you would expect, but the keratinous ones that protrude from your fingers and toes. Up until now, in his 42 years of sentient life, living in pure masculinity and making Conan the Barbarian look like a tampon commercial coated in Avon Skin-So-Soft Luscious Lip Balm, he had never exercised his fancy. So, having previously purchased some of the finest red nail polish from his secret catalogue subscription to Estee Lauder, he sat down on the floor and began to paint. He tore off his boots. He ripped off his socks. A stench emitted from between his toes. But then, then, delicately, paintbrush to yellow fungus-ed canvas, he stroked and made himself pretty.


And well, you probably guessed it, but Herb walked in the door, just in time to catch John red-handed (finger-nailed to be precise) and he stopped in a shock. John’s heart fluttered, he reeled his head to Herb, and instantly he felt like a steak being cooked in a microwave, marinated with catsup, and served with a side of beets. Words weren’t exchanged, but from that day onward, things were different in the forest. And the shooting range? The shooting range was just shot to hell. Never the same.



God damn you John

Fire!

Fire that bonds and burns through the night
Your heat draws me in,
Your orange light unblinds
I enter your radiance and wonder who made you
I watch your core glow, your flames lick, and ask why you burn
With dread, as I see your fuel slowly crumble into ash, I can only think, when will you die?
I move closer towards you, to question further, but you burn me, and I recoil in pain
In resolve, I admire your beauty and embrace your warmth from a distance, until the moment you fade away.

The Sensation of Pulsation

To pulsate puberectically, that’s what I want to do
Like a frothing wet vagina,
Or a butthole passing poo

Or a veiny, growing lizard with an eye and bulbous sac
Who grows and throws his lizard milk
In a sticky, white attack

To pulsate pulsate pulsate
Like a raisin in the sun,
It was a grape that swelled and burst
Now it’s the smoking gun

Of what is left of youth and past
A supple bodice, not built to last
A skin, no soul, merely a cast
A shining soul that lived too fast

But I digress,
I stress, I stress,
That the bodice is the upper part of a women’s dress
And well, I guess

To pulsate like a loving heart,
Is simply, always best

Yet to quiver like a chicken dick, well that’s a second close
Or a close second,
I meant to say
But that expression's so morose!

Which one, you ask, the chicken dick quivering?
Or the fact that I’m delivering,
My sentiments in jest
It’s the latter, yes you guessed.

Now, lest you return
Remember what you’ve learned
To pulsate is the very best,
To pulsate, and to burn

If only I could sing

I’m just a little bit of coconut fuzz
I’m just a bee, can you hear me a buzz?
I’m just a prehistoric dino that was
I’m just a bein’ and I’m singing because

I’m just a little bit of sand on the beach
I’m just the hair on the skin of a peach
I’m just a star shinin’ way out of reach
And I’m just a bein’ makin’ energy speech


Whenever you think that you know what you are
Look up to the sky, look up to the stars

Whoever it is that you want to a be
Remember I’m you, and you’re probably me

Cuz I’m just a little bit of coconut fuzz
I’m just a bee, can you hear me a buzz?
I’m just a prehistoric dino that was
I’m just a bein’ and I’m singing because

I’m just a little piece of blueberry pie
I’m just a dot on the top of an i
I’m just creature livin’ under the sky
I’m just a here and I wanna know why