Road Work #2

by Calvin Burgamy

Godot Family Reunion

This just in from the whirled headquarters 
news desk! 
Godot family reunion turns into waiting game. 

Muh-muh-muh My Fedora

left in the position of far and wide 
look to my fingers to see the other side 
on one side this and the other side that 
can't remember where I left my hat 
gat 
and then boom went the noise 
boom  
boom boom boom went the noise 
and I found my fedora 
yes, I found my fedora 
I'm tellin' you 
I found my fedora 
exactly where I left it

News of the Week

Item: Upyersjohn, the rising pharmaceutical company, has announced the newest in contrapreventive medicine: the Clinic in a Condom. Licensed and distributed under the name brand, "Terminator XXX", these condoms mark the latest in nanotechnological convenience. Not only is the Terminator lined with antigens for the twelve major sexually transmitted diseases, but it also features an aqueous film of biolipids in which swim scores of microbiologically genengineered urologists, infectious diseases and sperm killing experts. "Yes, of course they're licensed" said Jonny Wadd, PR rep for Upyersjohn, "they just have really small diplomas."

See Major Fortissimo

Item: Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” fail to impress Richmond couple. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln E. Lee checked out the movie from the Strawberry Street Slacks That Fit Gift Shop and Video Rental Store World, and readied themselves for a unique cinematic spectacle only to find that the whole “drama” was clunky and artificial and without either believable characters or redeeming social value or scary birds or a plot for chrissakes, which was especially annoying since it cost them four bucks out of their slacks that fit and video rental budget, not to mention the time spent travelling to and from the rental store in some pretty sucky weather. “I got yer Birds right here,” said Mr. Video Store Magnate, like he was all of a sudden some kinda Confederate general before Ft. Sumter. But two hours later, when The Birds was over, it as quiet as Appomatox throughout the ununited union. “That’s when I changed my name from Bob to Lincoln,” confided the enigmatic Lincoln E. Lee.

Words of the Week

Villionaire: The rich bad person we all want to be.

Doon: When your comprehension of the day peaks at lunch.

Dunderbreast: Nursing a bad idea. 

Radio-Active

the sofa is a radio

the sofa is radio active

searching for signals

sit on the left, pick up NPR

on the right, get Fock Snooze

in the middle, all the hits

99x Robert “Bob” Robertson

laughing living loving lounging and loathing

coming at you 1000 miles an hour

from downtown Willacoochee, GA

straight from the heartland

straight from the atomic heart

the sofa is a radio-active

radio

Report from Armuchee:

talked to my dad last night. he just took delivery of a Massey Ferguson 45 hp 4wd tractor paid for with insurance money from the fire.  So he's out there with his macular degeneration and his periodic neuropathy, at 94 years old. putting about with this drop dead sexy tractor pulling up burnt cedar trees.  a good hobby at 94, no?  the last time he took delivery of a new tractor was more than 70 years ago, just before he and his brother entered the war.  He may be nutz in his intellectual allegiances but he is rock solid in the Artes Mechanicae.  His twin brother with Alzheimers is still holding steady too.  Makes me wish I had abused myself more when the opportunity was there, as I obviously have an account to cash in, at least on his side of the family.  None daunted, there is still time to exhaust the ledger.   wish we could do it together . . . 

Ro-Tel

Ro-tel 
motel 
coat tail 
blood cell 
ground swell 
death knell
ark cell 
farewell 
get well 
hard sell
misspell 
repel 
raise hell
propel
retell
soft sell
pastel
alarm bell
william tell
silica jell
liberty bell 

Word of the Week

High Coo: Japanese poetry recited in an whacked-out sandpapery falsetto, by someone who is nuzzling your lobe.

News of the Week

Item: Woman Gets Art Grant, Shoots Car. District attorney Milo Hightones of Jupiter, Florida, claims to have "more than enough circumstance" to indict local conceptual artist, platinum blonde and late night Waffle House dessert queen Candy Kane, who's not really from Jupiter, Florida, according to just about anybody who is from Jupiter, Florida.
What is not in dispute is that shortly after Ms. Kane received a $112 check from the Jupiter Bureau of Cultural Affairs, she pumped 1,973 rounds of hot lead into Mayor Chuff Whitbee's 1973 Chevron Algonquin Matador Custom deluxe all leather Full Tilt Cruiser at midnight last Tuesday under the harsh pinkish glow of the new mercury vapor street lights installed at Jupiter City Hall. Said a beaming Ms. Kane, "Metaphorically, Chuff's Matador is a piece of crapola but realistically it's not about symbols. It's about time and love and bullets."
Fortunately, Mayor Whitbee had recently insured the Matador against bad conceptual art and store-bought ammo. Mayor Whitbee was last seen under the self same harsh pinkish glow of the new mercury vapor street lights, running a trembling hand over the bullet-ridden side panel of his beloved Matador, weeping loudly and deconstructing modern art. Whether this was due to simple remorse or aesthetic catharsis is best left in the eye of the beholder, or perhaps stuffed in the glove compartment of the Chevron Algonquin.

Video - The Red Dress

This movie was made during the Rapid i Movement Film Festival. Contestants had 50 hours to write, direct, produce a 5 to 7 minute movie. The theme: "Originality Unfiltered". The criteria: no women tied up, no killing old people, no guns killing people, no "it was all a dream", no white rappers and there had to be a person or place that was quintessentially Atlanta. And then we re-did it and added another ending just for us.

Indelibility Study

how many edible seconds do you get?

as many as you crave

memory is a function of desire

desire, lust and sex

thirst and yearning

beast and angel

beagle and eagle

converging on this

moment

this bright night

this howl at the moon light

this nice slice

this river writes itself

Sleeping at the summit. 

Eleven Leading Job Interview Questions:

1. With whom have you hobnobbed?
2. Do you have chapstick on your lips? Lipstick on your chaps?
3. Have you ever had sex with a Bolivian?
4. What is the capitol of Missouri?
5. Where would you like to massage Mrs. Bush?
6. What color bra are you wearing?
7. Do you know my half sister Meagan?
8. Do you know when to punt? If so, when?
9. Where is the Crimea?
10. Do you believe in Atlantis?
11. Say something interesting in Esperanto.
12. Are small potatoes good for you?
13. How long was The Hundred Years War of 1812 Overture?
14. How do you pronounce “pronunciation?”
15. How bad are you in bed?
16. Would you work here for free?
17. You wanna go get something to eat?

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