The Tongue in the Sink


Lampwise the spanking took shape in the stink
Thus, trinket-wise, I drew the tiny resemblance of compost
And spied, through the doorcrack, the tongue in the sink
Skate with ducks in a marmalade rink
Simon says: immerse yourself in the memory of roast
Lampwise the spanking took shape in the stink
I scooped up the spent coins with my mouth and winked:Continue reading “The Tongue in the Sink”

A New “Morpheme Tales” Has Come


Morpheme Tales


I Am The Antonioni Of Films

In the cream-colored apartment building at Olive and Denny, the anxious but xenophobic stagehand, skewered the actress from Tblisi on the chopping block as she chopped up cabbage and doorstops. It was as awkward fan and as anxious as anything he did in the city. He left it shortly thereafter, complaining about the flan, which always came in sideways off the sound, shot, or so he always claimed, by post-prandial clams armed with slingshots. That’s got your name on it.

In Panmunjon, ring-tailed lemurs use a 19th century screw-plate clothing press to squeeze the juice out of slacks. Continue reading “A New “Morpheme Tales” Has Come”


Do you have a band that needs a name? And an album that needs a title? Full of songs that also need titles? Or perhaps you need to assume an alias or, under an alias, title a book you, or a publishing company mercenary, has written. Well, regardless of the specific nature of your naming needs, you have come to the right place. Enjoy your decades of rock stardom and/or lifetime’s worth of elevated reputation as a public intellectual.

You’re Soaking in It
Mashed Clusters
Ernest and the Borgnines
Borg 9 from Outer Space
Die, Monster
The Soy Maidens
Continue reading “Nomenclature”

Mrs. Zen

walnut doll

Finding old notes to myself can be a traumatizing event. I found the following notes written on a bookmark from the Faulkner House bookstore on Pirate’s Alley in New Orleans, stuck in a Harry Matthews novel called “The Conversions” in a collection called “The Sinking of the Odradek Stadium and Other Novels.”Continue reading “Mrs. Zen”

The Dancy Dance

This is quite possibly Bob Folder’s finest poem

I in all my lucky days
Have never danced inside my pants
Have never danced a dancie-dance
Inside my little pantsie-pants.

I in all the spooky fruit
That spun so slowly in my sleep
Have never dared to lift the sheet
And take a little peekie-peek.

But every monstrous shake-n-bake
That launched a dump-truck in the lake
Baked a little cakie-cake
And popped a toad until it spake.

In all those lucky daisie-days
Of dancing in my pantsie-pants
And taking leave of common sense
I never danced a dancie-dance

The Child Salt Miners of the Himalayas

Salt from the mine the orphans call “The Tear Hammer”

Each morning in the foothills of the Himalayas, the pink salt miners set out for their dangerous mines high in the peaks of the world’s roof. Almost all of them are young boys, some as young as five, and often orphaned. They are clad in, at best, wooden sandals and a diaper-like linen garment called a dongma. You see them lining up in the backstreets or silhouetted on moraine ridges in long trains, shouldering heavy implements called dongma, led by men on horseback, or more recently, ATVs.Continue reading “The Child Salt Miners of the Himalayas”