fluxion = flowing ⸞

fluxion = flowing ⸞

> the derivative relative to time

whatever that means

dendrons axons atoms

fibers, even wood become

the beginning of words

< before we say them

____ baseline actions

performed in the background ⇐

the medulla oblongata

cranking out wisdom

of the ages ⇄

whatever that means ᓥ

thought is the pulse

the heartbeat  of the brain

played out on hardscrabble

a rocky place

dividing ÷ its time

its space ⊭

altered

Official Announcement

no photos available at press time

Our work at WhirledHeadQuarters is certified state-specific, as duly noted in the archives. In addition, at no extra charge, we offer our ironclad guarantee: None of our work is done in the eternal now because the eternal now is driving us all crazy. With one foot in the last millennium, the other foot in the millennium before that, you can trust us to pitch you hungrily and irritably through the digital divide and onward into the next-to-the-last millennium. 

Night Light

snow cones

in the snowfield

night light

made of daylight

amber lamps

and amber skies

New HQ Videos - I Came From Within Me / I, Kuchar

I Came From Within Me, Trailer

I, Kuchar by Calvin Burgamy, Jon Marcus, & Matt Rosenberger

Way Back Project

Whirled HQ is starting a new side project - The Way Back archives. We started our first website way back in 1997, when we were an org. World Headquarters dot org, to be precise. Due to lax accounting, we lost that web address to a Costa Rican travel agency somewhere along the way, and started anew with whirledhq dot com. We've had lots of iterations of our web page, and most of the sprawling and pungent content we've posted over the years is now only available through internet archives, which we were surprised to find has preserved most of our "stuff" relatively intact.

The picture above (click on it to embiggen) is the earliest screenshot of our home page we could find, dating back to August 2000. We'll post some other screengrabs, but more importantly, we're going to start combing through all of our historical stuff and  re-posting selected pieces here. And, as the severest of understatements, we've posted a crapload of the utterest of stuff over the years.

You'll notice a couple new tabs on this blog: Way Back News and Way Back Poetry. Check'em out for samples of classic HQ produce, everfresh from the Aesthetic Poetron Converter (our unique collaborative process). We may add other tabs for Words and the like, but for right now that's our story and it's stickin' to us. To be continued...

Ice Cream For Breakast

Descartes woke up and thought a thought

The first one of the morn

“I think therefore I am” it was,

which delighted him on the spot

But after a stretch he became quite vexed

As another thought was born

Because the second thought Rene thought that day was

“What will I think of next?”

Whirled Headquarters just had another live show at the DooGallery in Reynoldstown. For the first time we have posted our "script" and accompanying  material (poems, videos, words, etc). Check out the link to the show.
Most of the people who came to the show were ecstatic and made enthusiastic comments like, "Wow. I loved the hula hooper." and "That vodka was really tasty!" and "I miss the snacks." Very gratifying to hear such complimentary comments.
Thanks to everyone who came and to those who didn't. The next show is in its nascent stages and if carefully treated and groomed it may bloom in the near future.

What happens when the moon explodes?

I step on the front porch
and innocently look up
at the full moon
there is a slight tremor
in my eyes? or is it out there?
suddenly the moon fractures
erupts, explodes
in real time
but it looks slow motion
I’m watching live
the full moon, stark orb, dark black sky
hanging , a fusillade of  blue flames
swirling like a holy ghost
around the cratered circle

the moon flys apart,
the sea of tranquility
blasted out of a billion years of complacency
lunar crumbs flaring like matchheads
sputtering orange into the black night

so exciting
and I’m watching live
better than Superbowl III
I could have been caught napping
but instead
I’ve been picked
in all of cosmic history
to watch
the moon
shatter
so sexy and slow

after the celestial striptease
I figure, well, that was a blast
sure i’ll miss the moon
but life goes on
i’ve got work to do

but who knew
the hangover would spiral to hell?
next Thursday
is only ten hours long
because
the moon let go its reins
and the earth, me included
spin faster
galloping
around my goddam axis

on Friday
an hour
lasts nineteen minutes
and the tides don’t come in
or go out
the beach is a puddle
the wind is blowing extremely fast
dogs love it
then they go mad
howling
for the moon

because there’s no moon
no half moon
no harvest moon
no gibbous moon
no crescent moon
no moon
to cradle
the time

        Cut the Chuckles

hey
you there,
yeah you
you know who you are
there in the back
yes, you
you, the one who's chuckling back there
do you want to tell us
exactly
what is so funny?

(long pause)
you know, that's funny
not what you said
because you didn't say anything
what's funny is
there are two types of people in the world
one is the type that divides everything into two types
and the other type is funny
and you're not
either one
that's funny
but I digress
you there,
yeah you
you know who you are
all I was saying is simply this:
cut the chuckles

but look, if you absolutely must chuckle
then chuckle in German

thong soap

just add water

and apply liberally

right there
enjoy the festive feeling

enjoy the special sensation

rinse at your leisure

     or the day after tomorrow

is it soap?
or is it a thong? 

put it on in the morning
it's gone in the afternoon

 by nightfall you know one thing- - -
your ass is sooo clean

Bijou and the Borrowed Time

bijou the cat skis a slippery slope
mortal coil nigh shuffled past hope
bijou was dying, running out of rope
dialed 911 and asked for the cat pope

bijou, bijou, you had a kick-ass life
serenely dedicated to lack of strife
I hate seeing you go out like this
me too she said I'll miss
making you scratch my spine
but I have a favor if you don't mind
on thursday, if I'm still around
put me down, down into the ground

spent wednesday off times crying
bijou, bijou, I can't say - "you're dying"
you're the best cat I've ever met
thanks for letting me be your pet

bijou, you love to lie in the sun
doing nothing, toasting yer buns
I found a place for your eternal rest
by the big boulder over there, blessed

but on thursday bijou took a bite at noon
ate some more in the afternoon
and on thursday night showed some sass
the vet said well, one more pass
let's see how much fight she'll amass

well, bijou has now commenced
to recover life and limb and sense
like a hungry sprouted sprig
she's been reincarnated as a pig

and now that she's figured it out
she's born again to feast and pout
cuz all that time, right next to the bags of dry food pellets
sat cans of juicy stinky meat, for which she's become a zealot

in the ninth of her lives, she's doubled her weight
she rolls down the hall like a ton of freight
she has dispensed with all forms of doing
this cat bodhisattva's sole purpose is chewing

manifest destiny

one day we're getting lost

ripping along the freeway of desire
speeding west towards a new region

a new place to ramble

day two

we're still winging west

across the wide flat belly
of southern Oklahoma
in perfect time for the annual rodeo
in the city of boswell, state of OK.

just in time to watch

the bruising ropey river bull

flip and gore his okie cowboy

and a six year old rodeo clown in the stands
looks my way and whispers to daddy:

“someone’s here I don’t know”

day three, we're out on the panhandle

it's 58 degrees at dawn ignition

and six hours later

98 in the pure stank of bleachy Texas daylight
we suffer through Amarillo - - -
ninety square miles of cockeyed America
it’s flat in every dimension, including the future

we stop to pee in the dust

day four and
Dynamic Exuberant Manifest Inevitability
is our middle name, and we’re rolling,
rolling straight at the heart
of all that’s right with America . . .
infinite curves, pure possibility
straight up the cold hard east face

of the Rocky Fucking Mountains
hurling hi-beams at the blinding western bulls eye sun

day five we're at the The Hotel Fidel

orange, dry and cool

a flannel-red dawn in downtown Las Vegas, New Mexico
the real Vegas, baby, is this here Vegas
built out of adobe mud and victorian manners,
reality and Astroturf,

it's dry and high
prairie and mountain,

old and older still

ghosts in the alleyways

later still we're

as west as west can be

a brand spanking new region

the first chilly trickle of the rio grande

fattens mora valley

home to home grown pistachios

and other nuts, just slightly cracked

sun-yellow aspens blaze and spark

in the stop motion flame

of lightning showers

it’s not like we’re strangers

it’s not like we’re strangers,
it’s not like you are a shattered shell of a galoot,
it’s not like we don't have a web site on the world wide interweb,
twelve years in the making since the last millennium

i knew you before you ever met her
all you had to say was “she’s outa town”
but when i saw you on thursday
you said i don’t know if she’ll be here tomorrow

then, the next day, you said
“she can't make it”
then today, Saturday, at the pool
and i say, is veronica coming?

and what's your response to this legitimate, heartfelt query?
you, the old dork spacecadet of the new millennium,
you look trapped, nervous, weak and guilty
and you mutter, "who veronica. . . ?
oh, didn’t i tellya’? . . . ah, she's in dallas . . ."

and in a none-too-calm voice,
justifiably, with exasperation and consternation,
and a bitter dose of incredulity i inquire,
“dallas? veronica is in dallas?
why didn’t you say so yesterday?”

you stand there with your thumb up your ass
which inspires me to probe more deeply
"what crossed your mind when i asked two days ago?
why didn't you say veronica is in texas?"

you look dumber by the second
so I scream, "what's your name, you idiot?"
then I get it
"she's not in dallas, is she?
you don't know where she is!
she can't tell you where she is
'cause she's in the witness protection program

and she can't tell you where you are
you can't comprehend anything any more
'cause you're in the witness stupefaction program.
slowly programmed to give vague
half-hearted, inappropriate answers to simple personal questions,
effectively germinating confusion
and keeping you isolated from human beings
i think next time, i'll call veronica. (or i'll ask veronica herself)

Downtown Atlanta, Summer 2009. After shooting in the sun for a while Penny decided it was a good time to dance in the streets. It was pretty good.

O Turnberry You Tortured Turf

O turnberry ye hardy hunk of tortured scottish turf
the wind and sea and weather pound thy earth
like fists of duffers flailing

O turnberry ye thirsty sponge for tears and blood
blood of fools, blood of kings, blood of bogeyed holes
blood seeped and supple in your dirt

O turnberry your claws sunk deep in the shallows of the outer Firth of Clyde
you've your own moon, turnberry, a half farthing rising in the pounding sea
we call it the Ailsa Craig, fat and edged in the sinking sun

O Turnberry your winds do twist and thrash and overturn
laughing at gravity herself
tossing a dimpled ball on a celtic whim

O merciless Turnberry, ye spiteful course
tom watson slashes through your puzzled links
tom watson age 59 stands atop turnberry aged eons

O Turnberry summoning gales of inevitability
the odds stacked against goodness and mercy and truth of heart
favoring the brutal sea, the lumpy heaving foam-frothed sea

O Turnberry ye exquisite Scottish poison
poised on the 18th hole, old tom watson needs an 8 foot putt
to win the Claret Jug and eternity, immune to wind and war

O Turnberry! Old Tom Watson!
good god man, it's an eight foot putt to immortality
gird thy loins, stroke true, the cup is in your grasp!

O good god, turnberry, did you rise in green envy?
brook naught that's straight and true
Turnberry
reserves immortality for
Turnberry

An Even Newer Deal

I loved the new deal
the old school new deal
the ballsy and brassy new deal
the fuck the depression new deal
the one that paid you to take photographs

to make a dam
to tell stories
to lay some goddam pipe
and now it's a new day
in a new millennium
and we need

nay, we demand, a brand-new deal-of-a-deal
a succulent tax-free-fact-free-guilt-free-for-all doozy whopper of a d e a l
a better newer maxed-out whacked-out white whale of a freaking deal
a happy deal with bells and whistles and chrome and sugar and magic mushrooms
a plumptastic islamo-judeo-christo-tao-shinto-bhuddeo
immaculate juicy tantric consummation of a d e a l

Rick Wagoner Goes to Washington DC

hitch-hiking on the pennsylvania turnpike,
a GM Chevron Algonquin Stevedore Hybrid Suplex
flops to a stall right where my thumb stands tall

thanks, I said, where ya' heading?
as we silently merged into mad traffic
washington, d.c. he said
meeting with some fuckheads
in a giant room
with some shitbirds
and a gaggle of dickwads
and you know the kicker? he said

no - what's the kicker? I said

the kicker is I'm driving there making 10 mil a year
and when I drive back
I'll be making one stinking buckito per annum

the Pennsylvania countryside rushes by
hills and trees and cows and amish
all see-saw on green landscapes
the Chevron Algonquin Super Sport de Ville Stevedore Hybrid Suplex
hurtles down the highway like a turbocharged mosquito on steroids

I stare at the funky, beige faux leathereen dashboard
you're like the president
of general fucking motors, right?
and he says yeah, I am, man

I gotta tellya, Mr. Wagoner, I say
I used to drool over the grooved metal stallions
galloping off your assembly lines
the idle of a small block V8 was the sound of life and lust

I gotta tell ya', Rick
you had a fine company
your people loved to ride
your people were pro-motion
so what happened, Rick?

Rick adjusted the rear view
so he could look himself in the eye, and opined
the spread sheet power point guys took over
they liked calculators better than cars
they fucked it all up with their fancy numbers

you hate this car, don't you Rick?
you hate the bumpy vinyl
and the not made for human hands
the cranky sloppy gearshift lever
and the aluminum pushrods and crazy chromium camshaft
the ache in your curved back
the seat belts digs into your shoulder
what is that about?

Rick surprised me
he didn't scream or shout
didn't kick me out
he just said
yeah, I hate it
I really hate it

Notes On Music

bottom of the ninth
one-run world series game
two on, two out, two strikes
D minor rises
from the bullpen and mother earth
minor D fills the ballpark
the mystery and the pain
of the minor key
focus my fingers
unlocking the perfect strike
for a perfect strike

I get the third out
in a one-run world series game
the ground vibrates
and hurls a major chord
all the way home
through the major roaring stadium
all the way home
through my toes and fingers

You Swing, You Ride, You Rest

you swing slowly in a cotton rope
hammock
under the fulgent white barked lemon leafed
sycamore
eyes mystified
the stars incomprehensible
emerging from the ocean, dripping brine
and sand
tickled by the tide and stung by a
jellyfish
you are the flag of your nation,
waving

riding your bike through thirty weight rainfall
thick, viscous water falling perpendicular
biking slow motion all wet perfection
the putty puddles and the liquid air,
eyes mystified
the rain incomprehensible

resting in the green grass
hollow
under a giant water oak
the sun brilliant and solemn
an inscrutable warmth bathes
your crazy legs

the hawk and the squirrel

rakish young red tail hawk
dapper and daring on a lofty branch
all piss and vinegar and ignorance
opens his raptor beak to the sky and screeches
yeah! i can do this predator shit
i'm gonna pluck my protein from the larder of the living!

like that first time
i parked the car at neptune beach
killed the motor, made the move
french kissed kathy mozena
with all the french kissingness I possessed
hormones pouring from every pore
hands fumbling at the back of her bra
swearing by the dashboard light
yeah i can do this
this is actually happening
i AM this
whatever this is
whatever this roaring
boiling blood, this
pulse of sex and survival

in the tree
rakish young red tail hawk scowls
raptor head swivels
pops and locks
pupils swell, zoom in, zoom out
teenage talons clutch and itch
for a wet dream of furry warm-blooded flesh

like that squirrel
(lock)
down there
(zoom in)
scuttling in the hedge
the hedge by the new music and arts building

first hunt, first kill
red hawk
spreads f16 wings
banks once round the campus green
circles the spires of higher learning
dives straight down to the bloodwarm gray target on the lawn

squirrel sense triggers, squirrel freezes
sprints leeward then treeward then upward
squirrel jukes and dodges
red hawk shrieks, wings flare
claws open and reaching
talons clutch a beating heart for the first time

squirrel locked helpless
hawk ascendant
squirrel frantic as oak and acorns recede
struggling twisting wriggling yearning

we're in the back seat now
kathy mozena loves me and i love her
my fingers still fumbling madly at the goddam brastrap
the prize is in my fingers
but my fingers aren't working

young red hawk screams and soars
tries to squeeze the ribcage in his claws
but his talons aren't working
young claws open in confusion
and the squirrel pops free
warm grey fur alive and
freefalling
flailing helpless
into the arms of the ample oak

another rebirth into this crazy life
wild alive free and chattering
sprinting down and round the oak trunk to the ground
safe in the shadow of music and arts

the hawk screeches above
spent by the lesson of life and death
hungry, student of instinct
wings on high
raging
avid for warm flesh
high above this institution of higher yearning

POETRY ADVERTISEMENT

tired? bored? psoriasis overtaking your eczema?
out of three cent postage stamps?

feel like you're on the ground floor of a USDA slaughterhouse?
perhaps just your usual grumpy horny miserable self?

and the job sucks even though you were fired two weeks ago?
and the toilets overflow with the failed promise of your youth?

Hmmmmmmm???

may we humbly suggest
as a balm for the udder of your discontent:

A Poem

a poem
you ask?
what good will a rhythmical composition
of elevated thoughts do?
well,

allow us to promote the salubrious effects
of iambic pentameter
the guaranteed psychic enlargement
from a plump dose of pithiness
the bottom line net gain
from a simple allusive rhyme
a bit of obtuse doggerel
a bit of undulating verbal vibration

so relax, enjoy your moccachino
and let us make the pitch
just calm down and let us
sell you

A Poem

learn the secret stroboscopic cadences
hidden in silence between stanzas
be a better lover, or at least throb eloquently
excise clunky halting coagulated clumps of speech
swirl your syntax like a connoisseur
magnify your probity
reel out rhythmic syllables of suchness

alliterate your welcome mat, hiptaphy your innerwear
all guaranteed to sliptify sensitive sensibilities
ninety-nine days same as cash
scattered haiku skull tattoos, taboos we do two - wahoo!
in the darkest recesses and folds where whole words
and lurid letters curl in cortical caves
waiting to be drilled, dug or dynamited, direct to
the conveyor belt lane of your smart heart

style comes and goes but a solid stanza is forever and a lay
verify and versify, my tongue-tied little droogies
you're the breast-shaped ladle of inspiration
or at least the manly handle of the lady ladle

so step right up and remember
two roads diverge in a wood
you can take the one less travelled
or you can take the one with a money back guarantee
either way

a rose is a rose is a rose

and I sing the body electric

if it does not fit you must acquit

and the raven still quothes

but there is always - more

Three Years of Spanish

(whisper)
welcome to the tour championship
we're here at the east lake golf club
high in the grandstand
overlooking the 17th hole
as the drama unfolds

(from the grandstand)
Wahoo!! Go Tiger!!

he is yelling it like it is
for him
and for the girl sitting next to him
and for everyone in a two block radius
whether we like it or not
the hot sun and the cold frothy booze
speak through him
like some ancient greek beer oracle
please zeus, tell us he's not like this all the time
tell us its a temporary lapse
but no, it continues nonstop
artless balderdash
decibels spewing higher
than a Phil Mickelson flop shot

I love Woody!

he's blabbering about Woody Austin now
blurting blustering and blabbing
Christ.

Woody is great
good guy
Calc too,
Calc is great, yeah
the best
a little hefty, but he can play
yeah

the crowd is hushed and glaring, but
the guy won't shut the fuck up

look at Garcia
wearing that orange shirt
orange and white
orange and white, yeah, go clemson, right?
the girls love him
don't you love him?
he's pretty buff
he's a stud,
but he's wearing
an orange shirt
and white pants, yeah
see through white pants
what do you think?

I think you should shutthefuckup

you think he's a stud?
ooh, he's a stud,
ouch, missed the putt
he's a stud but...
he's no tiger woods

and you're no bryant gumbel

hey, look coming over the hill
it's that young guy from colombia
you like him? he's a stud
his name is Veeyaygus

it's Villegas

i mean Veeheyjus

it's Villegas

or Veelayus

it's Villegas

Veegeesus?

it's Villegas

Veehoojitz?

Villegas!

shit i took three years
of high school spanish
it's that double "L" thing, y'know?
I remember my teacher was so hot
is it veelyayjus?
anyone around here from Spain?

it's Villegas, now shut up

meniscus, meniscustan

dozing deep in a strange bright room
laying on a metal antiseptic bed
an hour passed like a brick in the head
my knee gets mugged on the sly
somebody stole my meniscus
the crucial buffer tween femur and tibia
someone snuck in behind my patella and absconded with
meniscus, my meniscus

I wake still woozy from the scalpeled theft
of consciousness and connective tissue
what sorry society would foster
such blatant de-ligamentation?
i've been pilfered and am at a loss
where art thou, my meniscus?

my gauzy anesthetic armadillo planet mind
snakes down shiny hospital corridors
my body rustling in a paper gown
casually open in the back
a little on the sexy side, n'est ce pas?
I don't see my meniscus
but I do see a womaniscus, oh yes
floating sultry, sexy, serenely
always one gurney ahead
perchance I dream
perchance something more sinister is afoot

what if I don't wake up
what if this is forever
what if . . .
they didn't just take my meniscus
in that weird bright room
what if they lifted me out of my body entirely
injected me into another body entirely
yeah, I could live with that

the person whose body I now inhabit
features double jointed knees
a world-class trouble-free slippery translucent meniscus
one more lozenge of percoset is indicated
to complete the transfer

I am rotating far above the earth
i'm very large or perhaps everything else shrank drastically
floating above my own salty peninsula
and by clever rapid sideways glances
i zip back in time
until i hover above myself in a brilliant white room
draped in a crinkly paper gown
on a clean metal table
- born again -

I am now the tennis ace from CIA bureau, Meniscustan
tuning up for a grand slam smash
the doctor flashes a large bag of radioactive government money
a rat skitters across my open belly and leers at me
i smell everything that could possibly be smelled
and I know exactly what to do

with my good knee i crack the bad surgeon's clavicle
grab the large bag of government money
make a mad hopping dash for the escort services
on the banks of the prone river
that separates meniscustan from godamsterdamn
an old wooden rival from madhatterstan
emerges sludge-draped
glaring from a green algae-choked canal
with my bad knee I smack him upside the head
and hot foot it outta there
beelining for the Independent Republic of Freaking Meniscustan
boiling for freedom and a cushy catered corner to be born again - again

Free Gratis Thoughts for the Week

October 8, 2007: These are the Free Gratis Thoughts Lifted from my review of the Words. Not that we need more material right now . . . but they're too good to ignore for later or sooner or whenever . . .

- - - JM

Note to self: I was preparing something. I don't know what it was. I don't know what the fuck I've done.

We're sorry we just bombed your nation. We didn't know you were there or even using it.

The president is almost as incredible as this loaf of bread.

A man's gotta do what he was made to do.

Seize the Crap Daily

I am like and so unlike the weather. But who's counting?

It feels like we just worked fourteen hours straight. Good thing we didn't.

How can you be impaired alone?

We're skirting the tangent so you and they don't have to.

I can't get it together to go to sleep.

Or

The air around here is better than a menthol cigarette.

You look great out of focus.

A fuckin' trio has only three people but four fuckin' letters.

And now, to sum up life itself: Cliffs are more mysterious than hills.

The world would be a better place if everyone were sleepy.

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

He's repeating whatever I say and now I'm typing it.

Free Gratis Question of the Hour:

Is it better to be a complete idiot, or an incomplete idiot?

Free Patriotic yet Sensitively Macho Declaration:

God bless all the groovy chicks in America.

We'd like to think we are where we think we are but we don't.

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

Our chaos theory is currently a complete mess.

Free Gratis Palliative for the Fortnight:

Don't worry; there are only two things to be afraid of:

the known and the unknown.

So true, so true.

Free Gratis Question for the Week:

If a tree fall in the forest and hits you

in the head, will it still hurt?

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

All that cleaning up made me dirty.

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

Don't mind us. We don't mind you.

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

I'm twilled to be wearing cotton.

Life is brief. Don't buy underwear.

Free Gratis thought for the Week:

If you can't control your own brain, how can you control your stretch socks?

Free Advice:

You should love yourself, but don't go marrying yourself.

Thanks to Leo Buscaglia - the Looooove Doctor

Free Gratis Thought for the Week

Never take the high road. It'll come back to bite you in the ass.

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

If you want to know where you are, just look at your feet---twice.

Free Gratis "Policy" for the Weak:

Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Don't French Kiss

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

I was fucked by my own personality.

Thanks to Colin Powell.

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

We'll lick your problems, one lick at a time.

Thanks to your cunning friends at Hurled WetQuarters

HQ's Free Hostess Tip of the Eon:

For fun socializing at home, install a salt lick. And be generous with the salt.

Thanks to Slim Pecker

Free Gratis thought for week: We don't shun, we eschew.

Free Gratis Hyper Thought for the Week: We can't change the past, but we sure can fuck it up.

She respects me for my soulium, but she loves me for my helium.

There are certain undiminishing tendencies which, if they continue to fail to become manifest, will likely require certain indirectly implied remediations insofar as this "body" is likely to do anything about anything even if it could or so much as gave a good goddam.

-- Galan Reenspan

Only man creates stuff that only man hates.

Thanks to Buffet St. Marie, Eden Prairie, Minnesota

The Swiss are Cheesy (but they think they're holey).

Thanks to Feta Jarlsberg, Geneva

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

Rich people aren't funny but they laugh all the way to the bank.

Free Gratis Suggestion for the Year:

Try getting high and calling tech support.

Thanks to Junior Biggs at Clewless Packard

Free Gratis Thought for the Week:

Did you know you were 80% boullion?

thanks to David Allen Coe

Relying on Impulse

theories of the human mission
rise up like waves from a placid inscrutable many-fathomed ocean
they gather and curl elegantly
organize syntactically
and crash symphonically
absorbed mutely
on the slow sandy beach
of what actually is

Buzz Aldrin and Frank Zappa
skipped our last cosmic canoe trip but showed up after dinner to talk
when the campfire attained wisdom
we rose up with the sparks
became giant ghosts
hovering over a glowing
deliriously hot metropolis

it might be late, tonight
under the cypress and stars
but it’s way early in a baby millennium finding its legs
relying on impulse
leaving traces of carbon, raw energy and theory
for the human mission

by the boy poets camping out by the everlasting flame