i am a chicken man/ i have a chicken tan/ from all those hot hot months in mississippi/ the sun burned and ravaged my skin/ everything felt like hot tin/ i did not question the heat i let it be/ i did not hide from the sun under a tree/ i embraced the heat/ covered my burnt chicken skin with a sheet/ my skin felt less and less like felt/ until i felt it no more when i started to melt




Here's a Dumb, Stupid Cow I Drew (altered)




Payday, Baby!


WONDOR bugg (altered)


they went to a park


The Shopping Cart Intellectual


Sweet Jane Music Video


Me Putting My Foot Down rn (altered)


Let the Canvas Rot


Let the Canvas Rot (altered)


account of the day of teeth

I am a tooth and i chatter one time

Just once i swear

I hopped just out of place and they cut me i swear

So milk i drank to beefen me down and i cut back the dentist in january

By then i put on my boots and i stood on my feet and i sayd


The dentist fainted and i walked out the shop and boy i rush

With a couple small toys and a big colored toothbrush and much

And i stopped to play with the toys on my time in the hall

And the man caught me up and sayd give me the toys right now young man

And he sayd all this voox but i dont understand 

So he pick me right up and he take me someplace

And i do whatever and eat jam and do homework all day

I miss being a tooth

A tooth is a job

That i do can quite well

I was one for long

But everyone changes careers they say so 

So it is just standard procedure

Boy Toy Inside Poutside


are vegetables what I want?


wawawawawawaw (altered)


Rube Goldberg & other average folks



 A day, a month, a year, a day.

Everything is there. everything is on my foot’s flat bit on the bottom. All of it. My thoughts and his actions collide. 

I type. I think. I distract. I don’t. I cross my feet. Why do I cross my feet. The illogical creeps up from beneath and calls my attention. I will not type. The illogical calls me again. The illogical. The Illogical types. The illogical thinks and acts. The illogical puts on a shirt and a bow tie and some spiffed up shoes and goes into the podium to on the spot introduce the writings of the caveman. The seat is empty. The illogical was wrong. The sock. The sock. Around the clock. There is a couch in this town. It is much too soft and too bright and too patterned. No one ought to sit on for any reason. It is not a straight nor a curved couch. It is a couch. There is a table. The illogical grabs my foot and pushes me. Everything. I spin around in a circle or some round shape. I become the clock. I am time. I am. I. I type. Are the shoes of the illogical the key?    

        Spiff is the word to use when you want to describe. Why shoes? When you instruct and when you help, you restrict. Nothing “,” is ever.

I make the illogical again. I take my shoe and hit the podium. I Manifest. I manifest. I read what I have written out loud to the people. The ink is green. The ink makes me sick. It is all in my fingernail I swear it is. I pick it out. It’s gone. 

I cross my feet and the illogical was there all along and the illogical grins and spits and puts out the illogical’s cigarette. And now there is a mark on my ankle. I am grounded to the ground. I am ground. I sink.

I fly again to the sewer to avoid what I want. It is. I have shoes that bounce far. My shoes are the kind with green laces but on the inside so that you cannot see them when I turn them on but they also have springs on the side and all along that boost my vertical abilities and allow me. Another day. I am a patient boy. I wait. But then I do not. Because I am I wait. Also. 

The illogical appears I say I do not know you the illogical says the clock has struck. I walk away. I have condemned the illogical to. 

The illogical tells me how to survive. It is. The illogical walks up the bottom part of my foot. This is the part of my foot which is all hardened from walking. It is the part on the back, near where my foot intersects with my leg, but on the bottom. I have dug into the hardened, unfeeling skin many times with a mechanical pencil or tweezers or nail clippers in order to scrape away some of that unfeeling skin in favor of its hidden feeling children deep inside my foot on the back and the bottom. I always reach the feeling skin just in one area, so that it hurts but I do not reach my desired effect, mostly because each time I do this, I realize that the goal for which I am always striving would not be what I expect, a less crusty back of my foot, but would instead be my inability to walk due to the extreme pain caused by the sudden removal of all the protective layers of skin on the part of my body which most needs those protective layers. This is how I think. This in my foot is where the Illogical resides most of time. This part of my foot is shaped. The skin is yellow and covered by a black sock now. But in the story it is hardened and the feet of the Illogical with the spiffed shoes feel hardened concrete under those shoes, the ones whom spiffed are. This imagery of the bottom part of my foot could be seen as a mountain or hill some kind. If you are the type to analyze that type of thing.

Please do not think that I am crazy, because nothing I write is true. Or so I would say if I were that dummy writer. Believe me! I swear! What I say is 100% and is not just the story truth but it is really the happening truth just as it has happened. I have described every possible detail of the events which truly did occur. I’m not a postmodernist scumbag. And that's a fact. You can take it to the bank and check it for authenticity. They will only reinforce my sentiments there. Also all my mistakes are on purpose. That is my defense. 

The illogical has taken off my fingernails in order to inspect them more fully. The illogical has mistrusted what I say in order to make me understand better. It doesn’t work. I do not understand. Another day.

Holy mountain.

Why does the illogical wear shoes if the illogical is really made out of the goo from which they make the shoe. Who is they? Who is they? I think, honestly, that is the one on the TV. You know, the one who goes “XXXXXXX” and then reads the line about weatherman. That is where it is. I know they all know each other and throw parties with cocktails and illogicals of their own except their illogicals are kept on real leashes not just feet. And also their illogicals can help them think. And also this is not all how I think I am editing how the words come out as I go, I cannot help myself. I am not. Of course the weathermen do not have illogicals, that would be illogical. They are THEM. They are. They. They know me.

Another. My couch feels just wrong on my back. It is too kind to allow me to fix myself. But then it is letting me be free? My feet are higher than my self. Also I am not on the couch but on the brown leather chair with my feet below. They are my connection. I am the ground. My phone is to the left. Echochamber.

Holy Mountain.

I swear I’m not crazy.

I manifest you. I manifest me. I had to connect back to the title sometime. Back to the hard part of my feet, just kidding.

I am in the sewer and I search for food, right? And I find a little scrap of bacon with black pepper on the sides. But hear this, it isn’t cooked, right? Yes, so I take the bacon, put it on my shoe with the green and the springs and the oven and the grease, you remember. Right? So I cook the bacon and I eat it and I also see in the cave as I eat a caveman who is drawing on the wall in brown paint and the caveman calls out to me. I ignore of course. He cannot be trusted always, you know that.

The illogical flies. Manifest me. I pick my scabs.



Ecce Homo




Rube Goldberg & other average folks (altered)


Ecce Homo (altered)


wild and crazy day



 Cement surrounds you and time passes. 

I saw a man running and I saw the rain. 

I walked to the store to pass the time. I bored myself at the store and stood there for at least four hours. I repeated phrases and greeted each person differently, depending on the way that I felt. Wet cement is like the circus, there is not much. When I see the store and its name in the capital letters I worry about the meaning of everything. I saw the man exit the place and go down to his car. The black tar in the parking lot was hit hard by the sun and it wafted its goo out into his nose and he felt the feeling of the store really. I saw him open his door and let the rain hit his seat. I saw him sit on the wet seat. The wet wouldn’t leave that seat for a while now. It will sit and wait.

He goes out to put on his shoes and forgets where he has just been. He has done this too many times. Minutes are lost in repetition. Where was I just? I am where I expect now but why? What events lead up to now?

He presses numbers and smiles and drinks and says he too is excited to leave the store. The store must be the worst for the others. They must find rides and take buses and walk there and spend much time in transport. On the wall there are faces that look stern. The checkpoint is missing today so it is easier. I mean that their faces look pleasant and unjudging, but they are not. Neither am I. 

Cement has always been, it has all dried. It cannot be that there was ever cement that was undry, only things that are in place, as they have been.

His pants do not fit today. He tries another pair. 

Cement surrounds. Cement grows. I don't know how cement acts. You know that people can hear you, like when you are thinking thoughts. You know that they are all in there. You know that they plot against you. Maybe they just study you. I am their lab rat, I know you all hear what I think. What I say is no surprise, I disguise what I’m writing with music but you are still there, listening, plotting, writing, recording, telling your boss that you are not sure how to analyze this bit or that. I know you are there. But really I’m not sure. It is just as well that you are not listening, not hearing what I think with a headset in your left ear with the right bit having a piece that comes around the front so that you can communicate. What each of these situations means for me or you, I’m not sure, perhaps you have an explanation. Perhaps not. You are they.

He is locked into the mode of being which there is. I am locked into that being.

There is a velvet homeless who claws at the door to his house. The door is answered and there is no sign. Just a card and a thank you. And a repetition of all the same there ever was.

The house changed but really it does not. All that is exciting is the change in appearance, never the content of the place. There may be something new up at each moment but that is non matter. He is here and he is within the place. He is so very lucky. 

He presses numbers and smiles and drinks and says he too is excited to leave the store. He makes up the usual baloney and calls the others over. There is no other mode of being. He sinks into the wet cement in the store. The floor has squares all over. Each is one foot in width and length and each is speckled with spots of color not too offensive but never too uninteresting to the uninterested passer. Each square is outlined by a thin black line that is just the flooring below or else the glue used to hold this all together. Either works well enough figuratively. Once in a while there is a rubber rug on the floor, with polka dots like a Hirst painting. Except without the color. Never the color. The rugs are black, and as you lean back on something and press your feet into the ground on top of one of these rugs, it shifts under you and moves you. Then you kick at the rug from the opposite side every couple minutes to reset the thing. When you are doing this, be sure not to run into or hit anybody on accident. The floor goes again in the same mode as it has always been. 

The store once had a cafe area, long ago that was removed in favor of more space for the people to buy. That area curved the walls and sat nicely. But it has never been in the place. It has always been how it is. I cannot remember much of when the store was like this, only that it was. So it mustn’t have ever been like this. At least not quite as I describe. The place had tables and seats all around the windows and also had couches and was pleasant enough, at least in theory it was. Or in memory.

Every once in a while I ask myself: What is a genocide? What does it mean? 

He again enters his car. He again. I think you get the point.

Repetition is what makes us all fat. It is what gives us what we have. It is the mother who nurses us to being and existence. It is what is. There is no denial. There is no revolution. There is no progress or hunger. There is only cement and wet cement, but there is never really wet cement, and the change that is all sinks in the wet cement. There is nothing but food. There is nothing but sustenance and value for the repetitor.

There is nothing outside of what we know. Everybody knows everything. There is nothing.

The woman running in the rain stopped to see her watch, to see the name of the song, the time, and the date. She continued running, only this time the same as before, and around and around. The woman never tripped. Her shoes gripped the ground and she saw just what she needed to see. She produced what she needed to and in surplus. The woman looks out onto the sun rising and setting over the rectangle and the infinite squares beneath it. She looks up again. She stops for a moment and catches her breath. The woman runs to the store with the big metallic font out front and the welcoming doors that open as you approach them and can be seen through and analyzed at depth. She throws away her gum and enters the store.

She washes his face in the company bathroom. And she continues on his way.

The woman sees the black tar and she knows it.

The sky is filled with tiny specks of colors not so bright as to be offensive, but also never so plain as to arouse suspicion. 

floopality of man


Applesauce for BëBë