The Belly Dancing Ventriloquist.

bellydancerHe practiced belly dancing in front of the mirror. He had studied the body language of extremism by watching old films of dictators and political killers. He felt their power came from the belly and gave birth to incitement to arms. If he could combine ventriloquism and belly dancing, attaching  the Outlaw Puppet to his belly and chest and make it move, talk, and tell racist jokes, he would be unique.   He had studs implanted in his body that snapped onto the Outlaw Puppets joints.   He was not ashamed of his muscular fat, and performed in his skivvies. He had a following of plump girls called the Steamed Buns.  They sat up front and screamed when his sweat reached them.  He has big dreams for America.


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A Scary Texas Rodeo Clown In A Dream Sounded So Much Like Ted Cruz It Made Me Feel Blue

I asked him his name, he said, “my name is Bullmush.” 

I asked him Bullmushwhat it meant, and he said, “Bullmush is something with pert flatulence and a bland posture.”

I said, “You are blowing Bullmush bubbles with your ass in my head.”

He said, “Its a primitive yet plaintive growth medium for bad ideas.”

I asked him if there were other Texas rodeo clowns and he said, “Bullshit.”

He said Bullshit is a Texas rodeo clown more senior than him and if he got Bullshit’s job it would be a step up from Bullmush.

He looked at me and said, “Ted Cruz is nothing special, but he speaks Bullmush, my lost language that pre-existed real grammatical politics.”

This is a powerful language for those with weakened intellectual defense mechanisms.

I felt a great desire to turn Bullmush into Bullshit and get a  flat shovel.

Bullmush the scary Texas rodeo clown just smiled and said, “thanks.”

He knew the shoveling would never end.

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Jesus as a potted plant

Jesus became depressed at the way people would always see his face in a window, or on a withered leaf, or in the clouds, but had forgotten he had talked of compassion for the hungry and afflicted.

He wanted to try something new, so he tossed seeds at the earth that would grow into a plant in his image.

It would not be manna from heaven but the man himself, in a high food value plant that would feed the poor and taste even better than chicken.

The heads of this plant would be fried, baked, microwaved, or eaten raw. The plant tasted divine.

He had wanted his body eaten by the hungry in a good way, and he wanted to send a message that he was there for the poor.

Some saw it as a miracle, some saw it as blasphemy to eat Jesus, and when the head dried it did look slightly scary, so some thought it was the devil’s work or a plot against their belief structure.  

Why not a delicious large mango in the shape of Buddha?

Christians mauled each other over what it meant.

Jesus was depressed, but his plant was so good to eat and healthy, people would raise them in pots and secretly eat him in private.  In some countries finding this plant in the yard could get you killed.

Jesus had a bad case of  déjà vu blues.

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Anti abortion dress for rape victims

After the rape, the women were prevented from traveling to a more civilized state or nation.

They were dressed in dresses made out of recycled tires.

Neoconservatives wanted the primal womb lands as corporate farms for workers that would be sent to  private schools to take classes in common senselessness.

They had boxing gloves put on the womens hands, one had a soft rubber spoon the other a molded in bowl.

This felt like Christian green technology, since forgiveness was a way to recycle all bad conservative ideas.

All women who had undergone family  planning  were criminals.

They would be fed a high protein gruel using  utensils that could not be used to self abort, commit suicide or help each other. 

Young men who were in love with themselves would manage their care.

A child is a only a beautiful thing to a neoconservative if it is a political bookmark in a religious text used for economic control. Its not different in many poor nations.

Women who had flown helicopter gunships and fighter jets felt like space capsules carrying an internal life to an unknown and toxic future. 

They wondered why the rest of the nation did not notice Pullet Hawk, the Vice Presidential pick in  2012, was a terrorist.

He was born inside an ego gravitational field in a narcissitic fog so dense,  he could wrap a small flag around his manhood and wave it at the national skirt.


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Jug Heads

Jug heads are pottery used to hold the fermented decontextualized sayings of dead presidents.

These sayings are packed in the spit, piss, and blood of history.

They ferment in the ichor of the dead in war, the sweat of the working poor and the spit of angry crowds in food lines during depressions.

These sayings are often in jest, or taken from movies, or lifted from the heart of the historical moment like the amputated tongue of a idea that used to speak to its time and use.   

The words from inside a stinking submarine downed and dying on the bottom are not the drivil of politicians talking easily about war in the Straits of Hormuz.   

The pickled eggs and sausage in a bar are at least honest in their ingredients on the label.

Pork, sugar, spices, red dye.

There should be a label on the back of any war mongering tough guy running for office that says: meat of the dead, words mechanically separated, this is a potted patriotic political meat food product.


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When An Axe?

Young women had begun to ask one simple question about Pullet Hawk’s political tree.

When an axe?

They saw the distant look of absolute narcissism as he said, “Even in the case of rape or incest or when the womans life is at risk, I would make abortion illegal.”

They wondered who had kicked sand in his face on the political beach, and why he had gone after the bully’s girl friend rather than the bully?

He wished to whip them with his version of a church that lived in the dark ages of his self-absorbed heart.

Beating up on girls was easier for him.

He had forgotten they were door gunners and flew jet planes.

He had forgotten they were lumberjacks.

When an axe?


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Halo or Zero

Am I the saintly donut hole of a divine coffee shop in the sky?  

Am I the zero that is never going to be as smart as a scientist doing basic research on the eye of the horseshoe crab?

Is my halo built out of hating science for learning something about my zero?

Is the eye of the horseshoe crab the eye of of a billion eyes looking at halos and zeros, like light falling into a black hole?

Am I the saintly zero of total capitulation to the will of the political moment?

Why is my halo so small?

Why is my zero so heavy?

My grandmother still loves me even if my nose is up my zero sniffing my halo.

I keep looking up at my Zero Halo, and it flips to Halo Zero.

My identity winks at me.

Some other people seem to have their noses up their zero sniffing their halo too. 

Without this common shared practice I would have no friends at all.


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Girl empties a political whine skin

Crops based on sexual politics ripen in the head, and are picked and tasted publicly by social media of all kinds.  

Sexual discourse is time travel within the history of having a body that we dress up on the street for generational needs and desires.

It can be the wine of love between physically literate people.  

It can be the whine of forced contact by a rapist who needs control to fill a bottomless need.

It can be the wine one enjoys,  if one still lives in the garden of joy and delight.

A sun dog, a cat on a well clawed couch tasting the rich stillness of the next moment.  

It can be the whine of pitchers who want young women to just catch and breed more balls for the game, and keep smiling.

Women want to empty the political whine skin of squalling preachers who preach to men about their divine control.

When a culture gets too much whine and not enough wine, you can taste the vinegar in the street.


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Salome and ‘Pullet Hawk’ as a ceramic ‘buffoonery’ artifact

I have long wondered while looking at the chachkies of political candidates sold before elections  why they are made by the parties and not the ones afflicted by them.

A souvenir of a game played with a built in applause track.  

Why not voodoo objects of pointed commentary mailed by millions of makers to their elected leaders.

 National piles,  of weatherproof historical commentary.   

Perhaps being created out of responsive mud, with the visual angst needed get in touch with ourselves as artifacts on the ground, might give the political  chachkie unique feet.  

Would one say it was piling on?

Oh, did you make that, its….awful!

Go back to art school and beg them to put you to sleep.

The politician hears that five thousand chachkies from hell are going to show up in the mail.

Oh, the horror!



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Being in the gaze became being in the political nose

An Echo of Political Bleh is a a ghostly bit of ectoplasm oozing into the ears of the living.

It is a dead gelatinous idea, inserted into the living body politic.  

If you die without history or an independent mind you are just more Bleh in line becoming a ghost artifact for the living.

Pungent slippers that knew the stinky feet of scrooge counting his money sold at auction to another scrooge.

The banal haunts of rich men are often a small foul thing they buy at auction.  They search for their likeness in artifacts and find a soul sock.

Your legacy can be an echo of stale poltical bleh.

Political bleh is a fog in which  one thousand babies that sort of know one another in a crowd kill each other in war. 

The powerful need to control the birth of their cannon fodder. 

 Pullet Hawk for vice president will be haunting women’s underwear for at least a century after death.

He is sniffing wombs. 

It’s very old and very dangerous political bleh.  



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