My all-time favorite comic book

An issue of the Amazing Spider-Man. Harry got a job scraping bird crap off the rocks in the penguin pen at the aquarium. Gwen dumped him cause he came home every night covered in green and yellow slime. As he was hunting for a new apartment a beatnik in the Village gave him some acid, which Harry dropped on the spot. The next day at work Harry had a climatic battle with the Vulture, only it was really an emperor penguin. Harry's fragile psyche cracked. He soon became the Fecal Goblin, an early precursor to the second Green Goblin. Meanwhile Peter spent the issue on assignment for the Daily Bugle, fretting about Aunt May.

They form a cycle

I prepare to go on stage tonight. For two months I have practiced three Romanian dances by Miliescu. They form a cycle. The first is a gallop, the second a canter, the third a trot. They are meant to invoke nationalistic feelings. At the intermezzo I will stand on stage and smoke a cigarillo. This is meant to invoke humanistic feelings. Audiences unconsciously transform their pride of hive into pride of health, from love of an idea to love of themselves. I offer them an archetypal other. I receive their scorn and give back my easy canter, my skillful trot.

It does not grace me so

This morning my eyes open again. A field of topaz sits fuzzy over my face. I wait some while for sleep to return. It does not grace me so. When I rise and lift the tarp, my shopping cart is gone. I was found. They found out what I collected. Their time was short and so they acted. One or more of these passers-by saw it. But if I ask they will not tell me. I must move. If I hide I can still expose them. I must start over. Avoid the roads. They would not walk, they are rich. They use cars. I walk so I go where they cannot. Behind a phone pole I stand stiff until I hear no engines. I rush to the next pole and then a news box. They want to destroy me, but in this I am no different than the passers-by. Only I know. I reach the beach park and its dark cool banyan trees. A root is my pillow. Greater means is greater harm. Still I miss my cart.

San Tropez in Print

From print on demand publisher lulu, sporting a new cover from the talented illustrator Rob Kelly, it's my novel about New Orleans. Paperback. Coming soon.

The things I see

This bed is hollowed for my bottom. The straw on which I lay does not itch my bare back. My thirst is clawing need that shuts out the cacophonic calls of my body. The things I see. Someone asks which parts of the journey were worth something. Almost none, I rasp. I think I wave my arms. There is cooing, and I hear music rushing long and slow like the wind under the weight of the midsummer sun. My whole life was spent here. Another question I ignore. I purse my lips for to kiss.

Canvas gripping paint

Yuk Fu worshipped the deity Itpu, the same as his parents did. Itpu, trunk of the world evergreen. Itpu, stitch of the blue tunic wrapped around the earth. Itpu, pewter cup from which we drink. Itpu, canvas gripping paint.

Twice a day, on rising and before retiring, Fu prayed by standing on his head. The objective in this particular dogma was to become godlike and in so doing embody Itpu's holy power on the land. Fu held the position until his face became as red as Itpu. Then he let fall to his feet and thrice shouted to the open sky "I, Itpu!"

So rare were these idle days

In building models for their complexity and challenge, Yuk Fu discovered a means to direct the ceaseless energy emanating from atop his bald skull. This he did on the few precious days when enough food was in the larder, the crops were growing healthy, his family was in good health, and there were no attackers charging down the mountainside. So rare were these idle days that when as a young man they came Fu took to throwing rocks for distance or knocking them with a stick. It was the reintroduction of sports in the split-hoof valley. A previous people faced the same boredom but kept no records. As an old man who saved his muscles for tasks of survival, Fu channeled this energy into his constructions. More at rest, his wife gave him smaller portions. There were the children. Yet Fu ate as much as ever. He could not know the brain demands as many calories as the body.

The cracks of his sandal soles

Yuk Fu carried two buckets of water on a noodle-thin bamboo pole across his shoulders. He carried the path from the river with him too, gathering in the cracks of his sandal soles. In the time of year when stepping into the open air gave him gooseflesh, Yuk Fu took life from small game for his own. The pelts he dried of the ice dotting the fur tips like ornaments of tears. His wife sewed them crudely together with the fibers of river reeds. By mid-winter a new beast stalked the split-hoof valley, a heavy, hairy amalgamation of every animal, which left toeless footprints on the earth. It killed everything but man. It ran on two legs.

Knock silly a Dull's porpoise

A physical requirement for my army upon which I will not compromise is lengthy arms. My warriors must be able, for instance, in under a minute, to knock silly a Dull's porpoise and then reach down its gullet to extract pieces of lodged ocean trash such as take-out curry boxes and wristbands. To this end I have of late been haunting ladies collegiate volleyball matches. Their champion strikers have innumerate credited kills, tactical group training, and masculine levels of testosterone. The pump is primed! I Am The Board of Directories!!

The tree of Kookoobura

To train my warrior princesses we will travel to a secret land, The Land of the Setting Sun, whose name appears only on a single scroll from 3rd century mongolia. Anti-Japan is curved like a banana too, but the other way. Its natives walk on bo staves over tar pits and bubbling rivers of lava. They eat of the tree of Kookoobura, whose spiny fruit provides enough nutrition, and chipped teeth, that one per week sates them. They have tough mofos there. I Am The Board of Directories!!

Your serfs are sloshed

Signing the credit slip at the karaoke hostess bar, where I'd spent two hours buying carafes of fruity cocktails for the middle-aged in heels while failing to recruit a one for my army, I unexpectedly found the automatic writing taking over. Yuk Fu's will was stout. He lamented the lack in his time of amenities. O the 84 years of doing his business in all ungainly weathers. Would that his hole, like a worm, spun silk!

I completed the slip with the signature of the 3rd century mongolian mystic, sans decimal numbers. At the management's displeasure, I scoffed, Yea your serfs are sloshed! To lack is a condition of life, but to lack conditioner is to suffer split ends! I Am The Board of Directories!!

Continue mating

The goals of my katana-wielding amazons shall remain classified to all non-members. So speaketh Yuk Fu. Nonetheless, you will tremble at my first act. I won't say where, and I won't say when, but I will reveal Yuk Fu's script of the premier stun-blast upon the populace.

Evolution needs you, O pricks and morons! Natural selection adapts best and evolves advances when there is a large pool of variety from which to draw! Continue mating! Yea though you lacketh brains, you may perchance carry the lone mutation that will allow humanity to survive the next superbug! Thy children will be smarter! And pollution-proof! I Am The Board of Directories!!

I am channeling a mongolian mystic

I want to train an all-girl army in a new style of swordfighting. It came to me while I was doing automatic writing at the Kiwanis adult resource center, and found that I was channeling 3rd century mongolian mystic Yuk Fu. Our battle cry, I Am The Board of Directories!!

Fu also directed my attention to history, which shows that seasoned pot smokers record the best music of our age, play jazz, invent art movements, advance astronomy and the social sciences, and more, while Candyland style games remain boring to everyone over four years old. I Am The Board of Directories!!

Donc

I want to do something different in the new year so I think I'm going to let this site lapse at the end of March.

According to the stats program, in 2006 this site had 53,294 hits on 19,174 visits. For reading the blog and the book, and for listening to the songs, thank you.

"Metaphysical revolt extends awareness to the whole of experience." - Albert Camus