Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

The Dime Priest

I sat with the dime priest on the steps of Saint T's, like a paper cup blown up against a holy statue in a garden.

I said,

"I am falling, falling. I am an ice chunk;

My mother the sky has farmed me out to her sister the earth,

Via express delivery."

The dime priest looks over, his huge hands dangling over his knees as if waiting for some greater work.

"What's wrong, Pookie?" he asks me simply, tilting his chin up.

He could have starred in movies.

"The tense has changed," I point out irrelevantly.

"It always does," he tells me with a shrug.

We watch the traffic in front of us, and the clouds above. No stop lights there. No brakes, either.

I love the dime priest. He is so queer and kind.

"Maybe I should say confession."

He looks down and laughs, his broad shoulders shaking.

"I may as well take it from a cat. You don't know what 'no' is, except for just an obstacle,

Something placed out of reach

Just to vex you."

Why can't I marry the dime priest?

I would make sure his vestments were always clean and mended.

He would make sure never to let me fall into the deep end of my heart.

We would fix our favorite coffee;

Always defend each other to strangers,

Never have sex,

And be smiled upon by some god somewhere,

Wouldn't we?

I am a spill, spreading.

He is the quicker picker upper.

"Who is she, Pookie?"

I falter, like a papier-mache bird caught in the rain.

"She is out of reach, like God.

She is funny and crazy, like the commandments.

She rides inside of something else, like Jonah.

Her faith wavers, like the heat over a fire.

She's just some woman I met," I add miserably.

He will look over at me, with those matinee idol eyes

And I will see that he's on to me,

Like everybody's on to me--

And he will know that I love this one,

Just like everybody knows I do--

And I will fall apart on the steps of Saint T's, and he will pat me with his bear paws and say,

"Aw, Pookie, it's gonna be okay."

I will say, into his black shirt, "The tense has changed again."

He will say, "It always does,"

And then he will be

The dollar priest

And I will be

Scattered change.


for One Shot Wednesday

Monday, November 29, 2010

Superfluous Post-Holiday Ski Vacation Pulp Novel Excerpt

"Janice," remarked Darlene, "I've just got to have that jello salad recipe of yours!"

"Oh sure!" answered Darlene brightly. "I think I wrote it down and taped it to your tonsils while you were sleeping. Let me check and make sure!"

Then Brad said, "Honey? We're going to miss the chair lift! Honey? Um....should I just go on ahead or...???"

"Brad," Janice finally replied, lifting a hand to her throat in dismay, "I think I left my mood ring in the chalet. I'm just going to run back for it. You go on ahead!"

Then, turning to Darlene, she said, "Come with?"

(From "Aspen Interlude" by Cynthia Smith, now in its fifteenth shocking printing!)

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Winter At Mayfair

I saw you were back
And the old room opened up--
But, like a sinner,
It had lost its soul.

It was at Mayfair I said, "I love you".
It was there you made me come--
Leaving you so charmingly
So winningly smug.

Secrets leaked and stained the ceiling.
Dishonesty crawled within the walls--
And though the floors of polished wood
Lit us,
Raised us,
To nearly-good,
We were in by Spring, back out in the Fall.

Now I heard you were back,
And the old room opened up--
Holding only empty echoes
And no living trace of us.

So I opened up a window
To let in November air,
Left the door standing open
For the next eager, trusting tenants
Who'll winter at Mayfair.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Scripture Lesson

Here are lies--
I stole from the groom,
Then gave to the bride;
I went to her room
And locked myself inside.

Here is nonsense--
God is a woman
Who lives in outer space;
And when she cries, it snows
Little lace-drops from her face.

Here is truth--
A bouquet is on the sill,
And a garter on the bed;
The wolves live in the snowy woods,
Her tracks lead there instead.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Another Barfy Thanksgiving Post About Being Grateful And Such Like

Crow swooped down out of the sky and landed on Dappled Pony's head, then said,

"What are you grateful for, Dappled Pony?"

Immediately, Dappled Pony replied, "I am grateful that my head doesn't fall off when you land on it like that."

Then she added, "What are you grateful for?"

Crow said, "I am grateful that my ass is not an anvil. I am grateful that my wings are not weights."

After a moment, Dappled Pony observed, " My gratitude is bigger than your gratitude. Yours is so small that scientists have to find it with an electron microscope. Yours is so small that it can dance on the head of a pin and feel that it is in a ballroom. Yours is so small that you can't find it with tracking dogs, a map, and both hands."

"You don't say," drawled Crow. "So, who died and made you Queen? I should have landed on your head harder. Some people change after a crack on the cranium. The bilious and snappish become beaming beatific benevolent beings with the brains of babies."

"I should have ducked. Then you could have gotten back to the Earth, all in a jiffy. You could have kept going, all the way to China. You and your nest could have ended up in someone's soup. The impact would have left you flatter than a pancake. You could have become a frisbee. I feel that I have cheated you of all these opportunities."

"Well," said Crow generously, "I forgive you."

(brief silence)

"So, what are you really most grateful for today, Dappled Pony?"

Dappled Pony shook her mane and stamped her hoof. "For you, even though you are just a talking turd with feathers."

Crow replied, "And I am most grateful for you, even though you are nothing but future dog food. I hope that you will be my friend forever, and not go to the glue factory, but stay here with me."

Dappled Pony whinnied, as she tended to do when pleased.

"Crow, you can perch on my dome all day if you like. I rather enjoy having you there. I hope that you will not ever become a cat's Christmas present to its owner, but rather, stay here with me and be my buddy forever."

Happy Thanksgiving to all of our readers, from Crow, Dappled Pony, Everyone at Danny's Coffee Shop, Bosco, and his faithful human, Fireblossom.  xoxo  Let's eat!



Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Dear Daphne--The Question of The Gravy Boat

Lambs, it's me, Babs St. Argent, from Objets D'art! Having exhausted my throng of two and a half loyal readers, I have decided to be magnanimous and share my favorite advice columnist, "Dear Daphne", with Fireblossom's audience! Why, I feel so kind, like a saintly nun tending the sick in some trackless jungle, except, you know, it's just Word Garden. But still. One does what one can! And so now, without further delay, let's open up the Pompano Beach Inquirer and read "Dear Daphne"!

Dear Daphne,

With the holidays upon us once again, I am worried about how to smooth over an awkward situation with my mother. Recently, my parents arrived for dinner at my house, with my husband Herbert and I. I should tell you that when I met Herbert, I knew he was the love of my life...but my parents never approved.

We were all sitting at the table, when in the middle of his telling a story about something funny that happened at work, my mother suddenly picked up the gravy boat and clocked my beloved Herbert with it. Herbert slumped into his baby asparagus and couldn't be revived, even when I brought out my famous roast of lamb. Complaining that it might be a toll call, my father phoned 911. The paramedics came, and off we all went to the hospital. Herbert never recovered, leaving me peeved with my parents.

You see, Daphne, my precious gravy boat was ruined. I feel that mom should replace it, but whenever I try to tactfully bring it up, she just changes the subject or claims not to remember. How can I make her see that she owes me a new gravy boat?

Miffed In Mississippi

Dear Miffed In Mississippi,

I am so sorry for your loss. I, too, lost a gravy boat once, and I know how heartbreaking it can be. My deepest sympathies during this difficult time.

Still, life goes on, and it is an unpleasant fact of life that allowances must be made for our elders (especially the ones who can still change the will). So, I suggest that you take a subtle, gentle approach. At your next family gathering, serve your mother's gravy from a dirty, plastic Budweiser ashtray stolen from a redneck biker bar. If she's not completely doddering, she will get the hint. And, if she is completely doddering, what is she doing out of the home, anyway?

Best Wishes,


"Dear Daphne" answers are written by M. Zen, senior staff writer at Baby Puppy Productions. In addition to writing her advice column, which appears in 20,000 publications worldwide, including Cardigan Knitters Large Print Weekly and Beefcake Boys Of Biloxi, Ms. Zen is also the author of several books, including You're Not Wearing Those Shoes, Are You?, and Curb Training Your Man. You can also hear her on KCOW radio at noon every Thursday, answering your questions live, on the air. She wants everyone to know that, when she made those remarks about vegetarians last week, she thought the mic was off.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


I inherited my bedroom from my brothers, boys of another time, so tall and high

That stern gods peered down from their crew-cut hair.

On the wall,

George Washington kept crossing the Delaware with his men,

Like the Last Supper aboard a little military boat.

If I threw a coin,

It would turn to a star,

Then a bird;

It would drop enough feathers to make a fine hat--

I would board a locomotive train to St. Louis,

And visit 1904,

The first girl to do so

From here.

When I closed my eyes,

I saw the canopy bed I'd seen in the Hudson's catalog,

And armies of stuffed animals in rows;

They would say they had never heard of George Washington,

Or the British,

Or boys,

Or the ghost in the basement

That only I seemed to know was there.

My room was never mine--

Cleaned within an inch of its life every couple days at my mother's unhappy hands,

And by (her forbidding, joyless) god, it had better stay that way.

I would take out my puppets my grandmother had made for me

--Barn Boy and Pretty Horse Puppet--

And they would say,

It is a fine day

Full of apples and hay.

Oh, mother, when you stood in my doorway like bad news on the way,

Looking at small me on my Indian blanket bed with horses on my hands,

Was it because you heard the hoof beats

Of us running away across the plains

To an invitation-only joy

That only I could see?


Thank you to Rene for reminding me

Monday, November 22, 2010

A Falling Of Angels

All through cicada summer

The leaves above my house like gossiping angels had sweet arms to cling to--

All along, they had the life May woke them up to,

And cardinal birds to sing them through the long sultry days.

All through July and August, the leaves looked down at the simple ground

With haughty superiority, unearned, a lucky gift--

Then the tree fell in love with October and sent her sugar no more,

Leaving the wind-turned leaves bereft.

In time,



They fall,

To Mother Earth whom they had scorned.

My young friend and I come to rake them--

We take them away

As though they'd never been born.


Sunday, November 21, 2010

Happy Birthday, Darlin'

A girl needs a bestie. Someone who thinks you're all that, who will celebrate your brilliance and call you on your shit. Someone to laugh with, to confide in, to ridicule the fashion mistakes of others with. In short, someone with whom (notice my correct English!) to share life's ups and downs and help burn down the Quik Mart on a slow Wednesday night.

I have just such a friend. She is snarky, she curses, she makes fun of poorly written fiction. She is also one funny lady, a warm heart, and a true original. She is Mama Zen, my best friend, and today a birthday girl as well!

Happy birthday, Favorite. May it be the best one ever.


ur scribbly friend,


Saturday, November 20, 2010

Random Filler

Hello, darlings. Your favorite old Irish washerwoman here. Speaking as a drudge, I can tell you that a woman's work is never done. At least, this week, it seems like mine isn't. And so you see, I have written nothing new in the past day and a half. It's just like my mother always said, I am a lazy slug no man will ever want to marry. Well, at least some good has come out of it!

Please forgive me for no poem today. Instead, I offer up a vision of what I might rather be doing, if I were not hunched over my wash like a galley slave, and if I were young, and hot, and could smile without showing all my missing teeth and catching my hand in the wringer. Oh well. Pass the Oxydol and damn the torpedoes.


Thursday, November 18, 2010

Permanent Squirrel, Part 2

(being once again a joke within a rhyme)

You may remember Permanent Squirrel and Magpie--

One couldn't stop talking, and the other couldn't die;

And don't forget their pals Dream Baby and Coffee Sheep--

One remains awake while the other stays asleep.

Permanent Squirrel is a million and a day.

Magpie has a hundred thousand zillion things to say.

One wears out years;

The other, ears.

Coffee Sheep may safely be described as Type A,

While Dream Baby fills the world with Z's all day.

One wants cream,

The other, dreams.

Oh why was the lesbian jealous of the whale?

Did it have more fun

With its seventeen-foot tongue?

Or was it something else, something other, instead?

Was it cos the whale can breathe through a hole atop its head?

Permanent Squirrel likes to ponder things all day,

While Magpie does her processing by chattering away;

Alert for the answers Coffee Sheep has always been,

While Dream Baby likes to look for wisdom from within.

One is eternal;

The second quite verbal.

One has eyes like plates;

Another is insensate.

Now they must return to the place from whence they came--

To curl up and hide

Inside Fireblossom's brain.



Thursday arrives in a plain brown cardboard box,

Very early,

And postage due.

I bring it inside--

(I subscribe to these days of the week,

Also to Redbook, Curve, Time, and The Star.)

I open the box and lift Thursday out of its nest of little styrofoam peanuts.

My dog barks at it,

And tries to herd it into a corner of the kitchen.

Thursday speaks:

"Are you already fed up with the work week?"

I chew my fingernail and nod.

"Do you wish it was the weekend?"

I give Thursday my brightest smile.

"Well it isn't, and you have to work today. Not only that, but it isn't even Friday yet."

With a cry, the dog and I both lunge for Thursday,

Intending to do murder right there next to the dishwasher,

But Thursday jumps into a nearby calendar and hides.

The dog and I look at each other.

He whines.

I moan.

We will be having to deal with Thursday all day long.

The dog pees on the tile.

I bang my head against the cupboard doors.

Good morning.

It's Thursday!


Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Vespers For A Rainy Night

Raindrops thick as fever fill my window pane--
Between each, the barest space;
Outside, the dampened night streets shine
Like your skin, My Love, and face.

I close my eyes like folded wings--
I search for you and say these things:

Touch me
Warm me
Know me
Take me

These are my devotions, true and spare--
Like water on glass, I offer my
Profane and perfect prayer.

I know that in the light of day,
Cherished does not mean blessed--
But tonight you are my holiest joy--
Devil take the rest.

I close my eyes like folded wings--
I fill with you and say these things:

Touch me
Warm me
Know me
Take me

These are my devotions, true and spare--
Like water on glass, I offer my
Profane and perfect prayer.


for One Shot Wednesday #20

Monday, November 15, 2010

Cathleen of The Peat Bog

Cathleen of the Peat Bog gets up,

Heaving herself out of the muck and onto the shoulder of the highway.

300 years she has lain there--

300 years she has slept, not wanting to deal.

Now she's on the move.

Now she faces the SUVs and hybrids and sticks out her thumb,

Praying that it doesn't fall off.

A woman hitching a ride will always get one,

From some married guy named Rick,

Still listening to Boston

And knowing all the words.

Oh well,

It's all new to Cathleen of the Peat Bog.

She asks to be dropped at a chain pharmacy.

The woman at cosmetics recommends Aveeno,



And Colgate whitening.

Cathleen of the Peat Bog leaves with her purchases,

And goes down by the creek behind the strip mall

To clean herself up.

She feels better,

Then realizes she has been wearing the same dress for 300 years,

Not to mention the same panties and bra.


She pitches them into the chain pharmacy's dipsy dumpster

And crosses the highway boldly naked.

Into Lane Bryant she goes,

Pale skin glistening,

Red hair

Trailing lustrous down her back and shining unabashedly elsewhere,

Stunning the outclassed saleswomen into worshipful silence.

"I want this," says Cathleen of the Peat Bog,

Holding up a green dress with lace all along its plunging neckline.

"Take it," say the saleswomen,

As if speaking to the Queen of Killarney.

Down the street she goes,

Around a bend

And up some steps to a door.

She rings the bell.

She looks so good, so lushly curved and dangerously wise,

That doves land on her shoulders as she waits;


And a falcon on each arm.

A man answers the door and she fixes him with her fabulous green eyes.

He is the son of the son of the son of the--

Well, he is a direct descendant of the son of a gun who broke her heart and left her in the peat bog,

300 long years ago.

His name is Pat.

(isn't it always?)

He is married.

He still listens to Foghat,

And knows all the words to "Slow Ride."

She slaps him a good smart smack,

Though whether for his musical taste

Or for his lineage, is not clear.

Cathleen of the Peat Bog is not finished.

She goes past him,

Birds fluttering as she strides inside;

Half an hour later,

She has stolen his wife.

"May the wind forever be at your back," she says to him on the way out,

Then mutters something else,

And both women laugh.

This has been the story of the cruel and beautiful Cathleen of the Peat Bog,


300 years ago,

Told a man, "It's all right, honey. I understand",

And he believed her.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

My Favorite Devil

I don't like real evil.

It sends a frost across my bones

And slows my heart to a labored ache.

I run

Like a cat that's been called

I hide

Like Christians' kindness.

But when I was a little girl,

And my mother was making things so clean that they yelped,

I liked to sit at the splintery picnic table

Playing with poisons.

Mama say,

"Did you drink these?"

She shake me good, like a dirty rag rug, beat me like one, too.

"Did you?"

I'm ugly, not stupid.

I know how to keep my soul and bones together,

And that's why I nap in the middle of the wild dog pack

When you come callin' my name

With that sharp look in your eye.

I like devils.

Daddy taught me good English and good eatin'.

He taught me you laugh when you can and leave when you must.

He's wrong, so wrong,

And dead and gone

But I still love him--

The only man I ever will.

Mama came from the country,

But Daddy was the one who loved it.

Like everything else that warmed his blood,

He made me love it, too.

I run through the cornstalks like a haint,

Slip through the morning fog like a river spirit,

And just before you found me,

I was hiding in a silver maple.

When the anvil cloud came,

Its leaves turned over--

And when the pressure dropped,

So did I.

You, my favorite devil, said,

"Who are you, little fireball?'

Ain't nobody.

Never was.

As the funnel came across the farm land behind you,

You told me,

"Let me scoop you up,"

And I became your debris.

You were the first to make me shout out the savior's name,

But from my back,

Not my knees.

You were the first to say,



Beautiful girl,"

And I broke apart in the storm of you, amazed and believing at last,

Crying for joy

In the swirl and devastation we lay in.

Well I don't care.

I knew you were a devil all along.

I am the daughter of two devils, after all,

And I can tell which shade of black is the one I love.

My friends all warned me, "That one is poison.

Did you drink it?

Did you?"

Not just yes, but hell yes,

And now I feel wicked beautiful.

If I have to live with lies, let them be your lies,

All down the rest of my life.


Friday, November 12, 2010

Love In The Open Spaces

She made the revival preacher forget his bibles--

Then sold him to the devil for a dollar.

She loved a gypsy exactly one rainy year--

Then was sold herself

For a smoke and a half-warm bottle of beer.

You cannot find love in Commerce,

Nor swap back your soul.

You cannot stop the wind.

This poem has nothing to do with either of them, but nonetheless, it is dedicated to my two heartland blogger friends, Mama Zen and Hedgewitch, as well as to the man from the mitten, G Man.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

The Juju Cowgirl

The juju cowgirl

Came like Venus straight out of the water--

Her horse stepping high,

And her hat brim pulled low.

She swayed in the saddle like a prom queen's last dance,

Holding the reins loosely

As she passed the factories, row houses,

And on past a flock of taxis at their stand.

The juju cowgirl only knows one way to kiss--

Like it's high summer in the mountains.

Just before she left,

She painted a moon and stars mandala

On the soft skin of her best girl's back.

She kissed her hair and both shoulders,

Falling across her like yellow sunlight through lace curtains.

Now she wakes up sore

And still in the saddle.

Past the smokestacks and train tracks she rides;

Her horse tosses his head as they cross an endless dirty steel bridge

With the buses and pick-up trucks

High above the wide holy water.

The juju cowgirl loves the prairie grass

And the hot sun from an empty sky;

Leaving the city at night,

She stops beneath the orangey sodium lights by the freeway entrance.

After this,

There is only cool air and the miles ahead.

The juju cowgirl will find her way--

She will use magicks, leather, and horse sense.

She will navigate by the stars,

And no matter the distance or the passing days,

She carries the charm you gave her

And if she loves you

You will know.


for magpie 40

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

In the time before Joan Jett....

In the time before I knew there was Joan Jett, I had a different musical crush. I still remember being in a record store (yes, a record store, where each album took up about five square yards of space, had the singer or band's entire biography on the back, a poster inside, and all of it shrouded in mystery by an artsy cardboard sleeve.)

Anyway, there I was in the record store, morose little thing that I was, poking around, looking for new Leonard Cohen or Laura Nyro or Tim Buckley, when I saw a new singer with just the cutest face and hair (turns out she was Miss Dust Flats Junction or something, at one time) and had to investigate.

Well, as you all know, I cannot be tempted by anything, and so I left that album right there in the record store. But after I had had time to think about what I had done, I went back to the record store and bought "Elite Hotel", and fell completely in love with Emmylou Harris.

I love her singing, I love her song selection, I love her looks...okay, especially that. I have always really liked long straight dark hair, long and straight being the style when I was a shrimp, and so it even to this day makes me feel young again, so that I can nearly summon the gumption to throw off my shawl and wheel my chair a few feet down the hallway of the home before falling asleep again drooling on my cardigan.

But wait! There's more! My girl went gray somewhere along the line. And....she looks fantabulous that way. The nerve of some gals. Plus, she appears to age only in reverse dog years. That is, one year for every seven the rest of us do. I mean, look at me, I look like I just climbed up out of the crypt most days, while Emmylou looks hotttttttttt. Life is completely unfair.

In recent years, I had managed to forget about Emmylou somehow. Too busy listening to Wall of Voodoo, I suppose. But now I have remembered her. Damned nice of me, I think. And now I am smitten all over again. She's even got the tragic love affair with the late Gram Parsons. The woman has it all. I hate her. But I don't. Sighhhhhhhhhhhh....

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Famous Poets

There are famous poets
In hallways,
Stacked on trolleys
Like cases of beer.

What to do with famous poets?
You can't just throw them out--
They might be worth something

Famous poets are nearly always men--
Even the women.
They say,
"See here,"
And then wander off.

I stacked famous poets in my fireplace--
Feet to foreheads,
Then lit them;
But they were damp and peevish,
Making more smoke than fire.

Christina Rossetti told me,
"Bury them deep,
So the dogs won't dig them up."

Emily Dickinson told me,
"Use them for compost,
Then bring your longing to my room."

I am as unknown as a laundress in the Famous Poets' House;
Even my pulse is a secret, known only to my cat,
And to each fresh-struck hour of the night.
I'm telling you,
I'm going to bring them all down.

No one will see me
Wheel the trolleys out to the fen--
Only one will hear me
Coming up the back stairs empty-handed

For One Shot Wednesday week 19

For the record, I adore Christina and Emily. The "famous poets" of my poem are the ones who, though terribly well-known, basically made me want to shoot myself in the head rather than study them.


Monday, November 8, 2010

Giuseppe Verdi, Victorious

Tanya quits the chain coffee shop;

Just gives 'em the yo heave ho, collects Giuseppe Verdi the kitten, and walks out,

Strutting like Catherine the Great, or Lady Gaga or somebody.

She finds God.

God is head waitress at Danny's Coffee Shop.

She makes killer menu boards,

And does all the hiring.

In no time, Tanya fits in like Portia de Rossi does on Ellen's arm,

And Giuseppe Verdi is merrily attacking the resident black panther,

Who outweighs him by about umpty-zillion to one.

Giuseppe Verdi bats at the panther,

Who is,

Of course,

The shape-shifted Queen of the Vampires,

And down she goes like a ton of bricks.

She lays on the floor with her paws in the air and her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth;

If she could make her eyes into X's, she would.

Chloe scoops up the victorious kitten, kisses him and sets him inside an empty sugar bowl,

Which promptly falls over.

Some chick catches it before it falls off the table.

She is here for open mic night.

Her name is Coal Black, and her big hit is called "Sugar Shock Of Love."

She doesn't do drugs anymore.

Her hair is all weird.

She wears so much mascara that she looks like an electrocuted raccoon.

The Queen of the Vampires, still in panther form, is sitting with her favorite, the Dark-Haired Chick.

When Coal Black straps on her guitar, checks the amps, and starts in with the first notes of "I Love Rock 'n' Roll",

The QOTV drags the reluctant Dark-Haired Chick up to the stage by her jacket sleeve,

Pulling her backwards with her teeth.

Being dragged anyplace by a black panther is very persuasive stuff.

Coal Black and the Dark-Haired Chick share a mic and scream Coal Black's newest song, "Buzz Saw My Heart" together.


I meant sing.

Giuseppe Verdi sits on the QOTV's head, watching with his big amazed eyes.

Tanya rakes in the tips.

Savanna still has a knife in her boot.

It's another spifftastic night at Danny's Coffee Shop.


picture: Crystal Renn

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Polar Expedition, 1897

Andree's pole-bound balloon met with a bad fate;
Ice formed on the skin, it went down from the weight.

Curious polar bears
Fearless and bright
Paid for curiosity
By rifle and sight

Andree and his crew, with their numb, frozen feet
Died of trichinosis from contaminated meat.

Curious explorers
To this wasteland repair
To die of curiosity
Same as the bear.


for One Shoot Sunday.

This is a true story.


Dr. Phil vs The Martians

Dr. Phil's dome reflects back radio waves from an orbiting Martian space ship;

Due to atmospheric distortion, the Martians believe they are being unkindly mocked.

"Czar of Mars" comes back sounding like "Czar schmar"

And so they send a vaporizing beam at what they feel certain must be a Venutian spy.

Dr. Phil, right in the middle of leaning forward, pointing his finger at a guest, and saying,

"Where I come from, we didn't have any trang sexuralls. A man was a man and a--"


Dangit. No more Dr. Phil.

The audience gasps.

His invited expert retracts her fangs in surprise and drops her promotional copy of her latest book,

"Stop Being A Fuckhead Today! (With Maryanne!)"

It immediately bursts into flames.

Only the trang sexurall says, "Poor Dr. Phil"

While the trang sexurall's mother, seated beside her, weeps.

"Dr. Phil was my last hope!" she wails. "The last chance for my son to get right and become a Navy Seal/long haul trucker like his Dad!"

The Martians vaporize her, too, just because she is annoying.

Dr. Phil, or his spirit, hits the ground running through the Underworld with his trophy wife on his arm.

Flames lick at them.

Brimstone fills the air.

All the hapless fucks he has lectured or set up to be laughed at over the years poke him with pitchforks.

"AAIEEE!" screams Dr. Phil.

In Hell, Dr. Phil meets Hitler, Anita Bryant, Harry Chapin, and the entire Texas Longhorns football team.

Harry Chapin keeps strumming a burning acoustic guitar and singing heartfelt story-songs;

The denizens of Hell wail and gnash their teeth.

However, the Martians use a tracto-beam to pluck Harry Chapin out of everlasting suffering

Because they kind of liked "Taxi".

Returned to Earth, life, and the same old crappy hair he had before,

Harry Chapin takes over the Dr. Phil show.

Guests say, "My child is promiscuous and takes drugs!"

Harry Chapin says, "The cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon..."

Guests say, "I am anorexic" (or a kleptomaniac, or a serial killer, or a born-again Christian)

And Harry Chapin says, "I am the morning deejay at double-you oh ell deeeeeee!"

Ratings plummet.

Advertisers withdraw.

The show is canceled.

Furious Martians land on Earth.

Their Czar goes on the Oprah show and they weep together.

Rachel Rae feeds them all on forty dollars or less.

Dr. Phil is dead,

And the world is saved by Martians, Oprah and chocolate cake.



Friday, November 5, 2010

The Disinvited

You got rid of your dog,

The one your good guy husband adored...

Because it might have germs on its ass

When it sits on the carpet

Where the kids play.

My dog sleeps with me,

Licks my face,

Eats my plate...

So gross!

Oh, by the way,

Your kids cannot catch my queerness...

Pinkie promise, Princess.


picture: Alexz Johnson. If there were any justice in the world at all, I would look exactly like her. ;-)

Thursday, November 4, 2010

The Resentful Chicken

The Resentful Chicken feels resentful, and so joins the Tea Party.

"Things are not as they were, in the golden days when I was young, with bits of egg shell still wet upon my feathers.

Then, the sun shone brightly across the barnyard,

And there were no Rhode Islands or Leghorns crowding me off my nest."

Following a resentful pause, the Resentful Chicken continues:

"The Farmer interferes with my life and takes my eggs away to sell to Bob Evans and McDonalds. My children end up in McMuffins."

The Resentful Chicken's eyes flash like fire.

Oh all right, like little pen lights, then.

"I did not lay them so that they could end up on a value menu in Topeka.

I'm not 'loving it'. I'm mad as hell!"

The Resentful Chicken flaps around on the ground a bit, then goes on.

"I don't like the Farmer.

His overalls are not Oshkosh. He has hair in his ears.

He treats us all like machines, lined up in a row, as if we had no interior lives!"

In fact, the Resentful Chicken does have an interior life.

It is filled with seething resentment.

The Resentful Chicken wants to see the barnyard return to conservative values.

No hens with hens. No roosters with roosters.

Back to the days when the Farmer looked like Walter Brennan and Timmy and Lassie played in the shade of the elm over by the farm house,

Rescuing dumb city folk from commies when the need arose.

The Resentful Chicken grows pensive.

"The Big Rooster will put a stop to all of this. 'Thou shalt not spilleth thy seed upon the ground', so sayeth the First Fowl!"

But, alas, the Big Rooster is no place to be seen when Col. Sanders buys the Resentful Chicken.

Cut up, rolled in flour and fried, the Resentful Chicken ends up both kicking the bucket and riding inside of one.

"Give me some chicken," says Enrique.

"Madre Dios," says Guadalupe. "It tastes funny."

Enrique tries some, and agrees, it tastes really weird.

They take it back to KFC.

"What's wrong with it?" asks the manager.

"It tastes.....

Well, it tastes....."

Enrique and Guadalupe look at each other.

"...resentful. That's it. It tastes resentful."

They get their money back for the fucked-up chicken and go home.


for magpie 39