Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof

Posts Tagged ‘bobfolder’

In the Pulp Industry

In Bob Folder, Superintelligent sea cucumbers on September 7, 2009 at 8:46 pm

by Bob Folder

In the pulp industry
Success has a very distinctive perfume
The perfume of Eucalyptus globulus
Nurtured and expertly grown by Portucel
In its vast forests
In Portugal

These special trees
Provide the best of white pulps

The extraordinary efficiency
Of Portucel Industrial’s factories and methods
Does the rest
Ensuring not only the highest standard of quality
But also making us
One of the leading suppliers to Europe

And to make sure
That our unique performances
Are environmentally friendly
Every year
We invest in cleaner and safer facilities

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The Folderist Manifesto

In Bob Folder, Manifesto on August 16, 2009 at 3:56 pm

Although it might seem lazy and anachronistic to do so I do so. I have condescended and deemed it necessary. I have wheedled and cajoled, bullied and pleaded. I have come to no conclusions. The jury is still out, to return momentarily, hung. In the meantime I dangle, undecided, before my very nose, unwilling to back down.

I am jumping up and down inside my skin, full to bursting, as the toilets whizz by overhead.

I walk hand in hand with the jellyfilled donut of apprehension. Squeeze my hind-end.

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Sonnet For A Landlocked Numeral

In Bob Folder on June 14, 2009 at 3:26 am

The sampans rust into a slight nod
Feel the black shine lantern boom and Bob
Crusts against the ancient King of time
that shines and oils down a rebar rod
“I want you Bob, yes, I’ll make you mine”
Quoth she, spammed to touch the knob
fidgeting and relaxing to black the tab and sawed
blast like figs, leveling the garbage can
sings spud frogs to a healing man
he slipped and gained eight or more who ran.

The Conversation

In Bob Folder on March 13, 2009 at 4:40 am

Sam Waterson is the devil, really
Ham samitch lovely lovely ladies
Buffalo George’s we called him the Jewish Danny Glover
Spoon-fed quadriceps bar-b-qued noodle factory
Fortinbras was a fag Sally O’Malley was a pretty little fillie
C-R-A-Z-Z-E-E Pop pop pow!
Weeping in my jello Thomas Edison chased me with a wire
Ball lightning I was gagging
Smelt or Atlantic anchovy?  SMELT Jesus
Lice big eyes Herman Wouk
Greek mythology Melvox lummox
Mt. Adams left the state
Grant shrubs Sherrif of Notingham
Ice cream the rope Buzzy—Shirley
Some friend of Jon Easley heroin
Sum-up Kitty-Kitty Club Dennis Weaver
Cello mirrored shoes ostrich eggs
The problem with Henry the bow & arrow barn
Ex-wife Micronesia scallops go to Rhodesia
Rocketship gold medal for flour
Oscar the Grouch vegetables in my water
Santa Claus fax machine
Simple Queen of May liquor
Happy face Steve Perry of Aerosmith
Richochet Rabbit Guy de Maupassant
Scared mask werewolf here comes trouble
Glass blower bowler hat
Mario Cuomo’s lips art deco churchgoers
Filapino patooties bread sticks
Tina from Gilligan’s Island with the electricity
Bathtub filled with ice cubes
Spanking the Jewish neighbor lady
Squeak squeak squeak

Letter to the Editor

In Bob Folder, Journalism on March 5, 2009 at 2:40 am

Dear Flan Iliescu,

I called you last night but you were out selling werewolf costumes to Albanian immigrants freezing tripe in garbage bags in horizontal freezers to vend at dawn to an unsuspecting alphabetic public heavy on sentimentality and low on milk.

Ballard echoes with revolutionary enthusiasms.

Clients of Kidder Peabody donate nine-irons and statues of themselves to poor snowmen (or so they conceive them) who buy kids licorice ropes with them and print and distribute booklets on decency self-respect and common sense which are gaining ground in the whorehouses.

To no avail, however, as the Albanians, thanks to your werewolf outfits, sitting there talking to people in their sleep and making the machinery of information degrade into music, find solace and profitability in the replacement of materialism with violin music, sausages, huge marriage ceremonies, chuckling, boobies and limericks the length of the Odyssey.

I guess we owe you an apology or apoplexy or an apothecary or dromedary, depending on which huge plume of ash you stand on in a coma or corona of light or in a functioning or disfuntional dairy on the Arizona-Deleware border, where, rightly, you are praised as a matter-of-fact dictionary, or visionary.

Suffice it to say, serious gastrointestinal arpeggios squat in supermarket parking lots with your name on it.  We tip our hats to your rubric-enhanced mini-wheats and say, “Thanks—Albanian werewolves the size of squirrels get mad in our pants.”

Bob Folder

Overheard In Steve’s Broiler

In Bob Folder on February 2, 2009 at 9:25 pm

You guys a wrestler?
You can get two or more grapes it’ll be alright
You know a guy Nixon?
Marie Marie bumblebee two spoons, tomato and a
How do you make any money Smirnoff and beer
Excersize and sushi but
Elisha’s miracle on the Astroturf
We should bum some spam and rice
Through two people’s heads honest to God
It’s a live metaphor
Yeah do me a favor
You get two or more grapes it’ll be alright
Sights in space, that is space

Babar the Applesauce

In Bob Folder on February 2, 2009 at 9:25 pm

I was thinking of jokes to play on the
glass bits. It goes like this:
the dirty little knucklehead ransacked
the claymation, ran back to the
ramshackle hovel. What does this prove?
Only that gazebos are gazelles
that have had their horns removed.
Pumkin pie has itself been removed.
I removed it. Someone thought it was
a zipper on their jacket and tried to
pull it down. That’s crazy.
Any dirty claymation gazebo with its
jacket off knows my name is Bumblebee
Static. I lit up the sky with my
jokes and the Pope made
tacos appear in my cigarette lighter.


In Bob Folder on February 2, 2009 at 9:23 pm

What did you mean by that, I mean the wrenching beet
your culture is a backyard tinkling soon
so know the meathead out from sparrows
customary caution, important Rolaids
Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod crumpled my feet like beer cans
So this is what it’s like in the ferryslip shoelace—
unlock that quotation mark, it’s buckling my mice
like an automatic pine cone: click, click, click
the ludicrous, licroice potty gagged up a candy cone
Kiss my pimple-free behind
I was sitting in my little-boy suit in the limestone bird bath
I can’t believe the geneology of my shirtsleeves
cram it in my butt
How can the frontal lobe dichotomy?
Quit sulking and unleash your face
I can’t believe my own barstool.

Narrow Roads To The North

In Bob Folder on February 2, 2009 at 9:21 pm

I have no choice but to invent you
a blanket for the bindlestiff alone
rye-crisp with a hint of the flu
singing in the mess-kit of my bone
spin off the transducer, Pietro,
crank up the metallurgical day
and remind me why it snows
when the large sound comes my way
the tiny rumble and squeak off the dry chair
is no surprise when you drive there.

A Salchichón In The Haghia Sofia

In Bob Folder, Poetry, Superintelligent sea cucumbers on January 25, 2009 at 3:26 pm


I have been accused
Of hydroponics in the night,
A wimpled tart in stained glass
To the naked anvil and the bitter ripe
Lentils of the neutered paired to last.
Rank on my squishy and I’ll launch goulash.
Chalk up the old piano, blistered and rum.
Rocketships are a bitter herb.
Granted, there are some rings
That creak Appalachian stairs modestly.
My love is like a bathtub in a rodent crew
A smell you’ve never smelled.
Severed, released, the bus fare is crying.
Let down your stained sky blue pants:
Dimpled, squash, tang. I am alive.


Photo by Christopher Alpizar Gaviria