a grouse with completely feathered feet


"Weblog Self-Analysis"? Hypergolem needs tweak. Though it makes points.

Ulrich? or is it Urich? Web-log/Internet necessitates fact checking, does it not? But I'll let that slide.

Turkey's basting well, btw


Dana "Calm Fit" Gioia touted as new NEA head.

WEBLOG ANALYSIS: Would neatly accelerate the almost Bushian death-spiral of mainstream American poetry. A "dark triumvirate" which includes Billy Collins's ascension to Poet Laureate, and Carl Dennis--one of the most aggressively boring poets of the last 50 years--winning the Pulitzer Prize for Practical Gods.

WEBLOG SELF-ANALYSIS: infomerical ghost of Robert Ulrich requisitioning sonic toothbrushes to the masses = serf



(begin Hypergolem sequence)

A new think tank called the "Illuminati" released a press release on The Americans with Disabilities Act. Lest there was confusion.

(end Hypergolem sequence)


With great jubilation, the three of us went searching for our proverbial Halloween turkey for this year. With the All Hallows' impending. As you might imagine, Halloween is a keystone holiday in our household. It was cold in those turkey farms. They all kind of blurred together, esp. the hippie free rangers. Oh the long beards they had. Beards of prophets. Quail--never crazy about the public eye, esp. in the presence of evening--said, why, can we not just poach our own in the wild.

No, no, I want a bird genetically mutated, Evening said. I want to eat a bird injected with steroids and antibiotics, to better salivate over America.

Mmmm, I thought. But I wasn't really thinking that at all. It was more, hmmm.

At last we found our own, plump, safe bird. Evening brought her tools, we paid the gatekeeper at the Crystal Court trailer park, and all was flap-flap well. Special occasions bring feasts and great joy. Like the plantagenets. And I tell you, what is more joyous than the day before the saints are celebrated? And then souls? Though I don't believe in the existence of souls.

I said, I don't believe in the existence of souls. I'm imagining Quail now, future projecting towards that night, lurking on our front porch, hands in gibbets, sucking on a wishbone.


A parliament of sediments. Reading The Styles, having none.

Perhaps if Evening and Quail had an eating contest then all the world's problems shall ungrammatically be solved. How to eat an espresso bean slowly. How slowly? Kenny Rogers slow roast slowly, that's how slow. Go to Brunei for best. Why do I "feel" so alone from them, torn together, brought apart?

Ziing! (the extra "i" means extra zing!)

Finally, what would Jesus do?


*begin sequence*

The Billy Collins file

Over Easy

(begin excerpt)

Take "Osso Buco":

I am swaying now in the hour after dinner,
a citizen tilted back on his chair,
a creature with a full stomach--
something you don't hear much about in poetry,
that sanctuary of hunger and deprivation.
You know: the driving rain, the boots by the door,
small birds searching for berries in winter.
But tonight, the lion of contentment
has placed a warm, heavy paw on my chest....

Collins's praise for the pleasures of being lazy, tired, and well-fed is natural enough. What is strange is to suggest that these pleasures are virtues, as though there were something especially meritorious about having eaten a good dinner. But the note of self-congratulation here is unmistakable--the sly use of "citizen" sounds it--and Collins points to its source: it is that such simple sensual pleasures are "something you don't hear much about in poetry." Specifically, it is something you don't hear much about in modern poetry, which has been strongly anti-bourgeois. Rhetorically, then, Collins ranges himself on the side of the reader against "poetry," which doesn't want him to enjoy his dinner. This way, poet and reader can have both sensual pleasure and self-esteem; they can have their osso buco and eat it, too.

(end excerpt)


*end Hypergolem sequence*

HYPERGOLEM is custom tailored spider that automatically searches links, with commentary, of user-specified content. And it's FREE!

Do you Yahoo? Games, sports, mail, gila monsters, Rosicrucians, and more!


*begin Hypergolem sequence*


What are the wages of poetry?

Indeed. Poetry.

Would you like to play a game?

*end Hypergolem sequence*

HYPERGOLEM is custom tailored spider that automatically searches links, with commentary, of user-specified content. And it's FREE!

Do you Yahoo? Games, sports, mail, slacks, papayas, and more!

I have, throughout the day, been answering, in mostly accurate fashion, a series of questionaires from the Hypergolem.

And who, might you ask, is the Hypergolem?

It, not he or she. It is a belated birthday present from Quail. She made/found it for me. Hasn't shown her face cards on that one. As is her will!

It was just a floppy with a copyright date of 1988. Mac formatted, just like you like it, she said, running her hands through her white hair. Enclosed is a construct. Answer its questions. It will help you with your "web log."

End Quail-esque dialogue/Unquote

You see, though I strive for journalistic practices, for accuracy of the truth in all that I say, and most importantly to be the most persistent quipper of the Inter-net and all Minerals (mayhaps the most exciting use of technology in the history of technology, to provide linkages, with semi-ironic commentary! Go semi-ironic commentary about the continent named after, and by, Amerigo Vespucci!), it is difficult in my present state, with my provincial mannerisms barely keeping a roof over my head, to continue monitoring the "hot" trends of our societal matrices. Such as "chat rooms" and other phantasmagoric concoctions of the tiage known as "cyberspace." Spacial and palatial it is.

The Hypergolem seeks to expedite this process, by providing expert, timely, and above all cunning linkages upon this "web log," in interspersion with my usual meandering tropes, delves, and correspondences. Thus, Ptarmigan (self-referential link! rotfl!) will truly become a total package of news, commentary, and discursion, expressly tailored to your readiness.

Hypergolem has internalized my psychotropic profile, and will be combing the Inter-net, and like a raven will hope to be finding bits of chirt, wire, string, jewelry, and small pieces from cares to weave into the "net," without my express guidance, but with my inexpressed wishes, interests, and gratitude.

Quail tells me that Hypergolem is technically a virus, but cannot hurt me since it has no express personality of its own. Words cannot be immunocompromised!

Loading Hypergolem now.

Bear yourselves carefully.


The argent trees

Squirrels bury berries

The metanarrative of losing a paycheck

Put change in a drawer

Must change drawers

Tincture of inference


We all want the miniature lighthouses shining the foxy eyes. And don't we all.


Although something might be faraway but at the same time distant, that doesn't mean it shouldn't be loved. The linkages are nothing that we can see. And yet we "see" both the problem and the solution, the cataract and the laser pointer. (Evening tells me that I'm an optimist. Actually, I'm an anti-pessimist.) The need for a descriptive poetics of the everyday, one must think, requires the need to ascribe needs on a word-paper (pixel-screen) matrix. But nothing could be farther from the truth. I am sincere. I am.

Godzilla is my godmother. See? It's so easy to fuck everything up, but only if one admits that the catalog of falsities is important in the first place. That we have to read the catalog of despairs with a straight face. That in the pursuit of genius grants, the need for truth over falsity is more important than

[This continues, and so I'll cut to the chase. Foxes await. Cut this out or seem self-important, insert quotes about the moral decrepitude of Language Poetry, lack of interfaces, etc. etc. Put in oblique quip about catalogs. OK, here we go]

Catalogs like to run things, e.g., large nation-states.



Quail is learning Boontling.


Pardon the aphorisms, the college-circuit jokes (dim student unions, an almost sad comedian, populated w/ lacquer tables and people sitting at them who have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than sit in a student union, fries up). Evening says already I am losing it. Our relationship is turning from puregrade Transformer quality to that of Go-Bots. Shudder. She is coalition building in the Inter-net, amongst the sundry ragamuffins. Putting together a team. Go team. Who knows whose Ebay feedback she plans to invade?

The silence said to the airport, load the arctic plane on the plain.

That...was a joke. In Spain. But on second thought, how cool would it be to be Basque?


Lookin' for the rumors of the new Strip Mall of America, being built somewhere round Lake Elmo. Draining the lakes, I hear. One full mile of shopping in a line. Drove, got lost, woke up at the bottom of one of 10K lakes.

And then I woke up!

And then I woke up!


Unless you can get a good dental plan.

Evening has this job. She works for a consulting company to create "product memes": hitting on gentlemen at bars, taverns, pubs, and vinieras solely for the purpose of ingratiating product x (shoes, deodorant, beer, anti-beer energy drink) into the mindset of the "amorous target." Most of the time guys don't even really know the difference, or care, when she touches their shoulders. That's the clincher. In a fondle, she also inserts brand tracking beacon underneath their skin. So as to better follow the shopping machinations of those flirted upon. Success rates are high. Their headquarters is in the Warehouse District, somewhere. Above a Turkish bath? In it? Likely. Weaponry is just a hobby for her. In her employ, she is the weapon.

Which would make a smashing tagline for a movie. Except with a dash of italics: She is the weapon.

This strategy works for almost sentence: I am the squatter. See? Much punch.

Kids, don't try this at home! This being "pretending to care about people in drinking establishments for exponential wealth outcomes."


Went with Quail to lunch today. I don't know, some place with food and tables. There was service. She told me all about the minor details of her life, and then she said something about would you like to see the raccoon in my backpack. Is this some kind of phrase, I said. Some kind of red-handed innuendo. No, no, she said, it's just a raccoon in a backpack.

Where did you get the raccoon. Did you find it already dead or did you kill it. (Although not as bloodthirsty as Evening, Q's had her moments!)

At this point she began to grow exasperated. Her hands could have covered the whole table between us, or maybe the table was getting smaller. Look, she said, do you want to see the fucking raccoon or not. I've got it but I might not have it for long.

So I said ok, even though I really didn't want to. But it seemed important to her, and therefore me. Her hair was whiter than a chameleon in a snowstorm.

She opened the bag.

The food was pretty good, though a little gamey. Digestive systems of older folk, even the Plantagenet royalty, who do not seem reality to me, must have been able to withstand a greater array of foodstuffs, with minimal processing. Though we think of them as dainty, elfin, surely they were hale. Even beautiful castles had all of those drafts, the wind trying to find a home between someone's ears.

God it's been AGES since I've seen Quail.


I am an abandoned place. To use a metaphor. Full of microscopic pigeons. I am more specifically an abandoned regional headquarters of Kenny Rogers Roasters, a franchise that achieved massive, some would say catastrophic, growth in the mid-90s. As many crystal cathedrals grew, aspiring towards sprawl that was not theirs to take. And yea, verily, so they shrunk. I have empty wood-fired grills, and training manuals to ensure that the staff knows their chickens, knows their slow roast, and that hands are washed. Hundreds and hundreds of training manuals. Thousands of coupons for restaurants that do not exist. Ghost franchises. A few prongs. And also, a secret vault of singles from many countries: "Ruby" in Thai. "The Gambler" in Dominican Patwa. It is a treasure trove, but forlorn, and will never be found.

On the other hand, Kenny Rogers Roasters--its metonomic paradigm--has been doing gangbusters in Brunei. Yes. I've been tracking this. And I'm pleased. TEN LOCATIONS! There is value no matter what. Little emeralds, though they be made of birds.

At the end of a strip mall which children bicycle past quickly.

omg! lol! brb!!!


Wearing ye olde oven mitts to bed, now that's what I call classy.

Still. To divine her arms.

Pike as in polearm, and not fish.

It came three days ago. Now that's what I call shipping.


I don't think Evening and Quail like each other very much. A supposition. They've only met a few times, at least in my presence. Now, granted, my presence is often thin, full of ether. Sometimes other people's hands pass through me. Sometimes it's not as though I can tell them apart. But once an old man told me (and I have taken these words to heart, to cortex): "Let my armies be the rocks and the trees and the birds in the sky." Exactly. Evening just bought a pike on Ebay. I'm not sure what Ebay is. The whole idea of creating a marketplace on this Inter-net seems a little fishy to me. As in, how many fish can be caught with something that doesn't exist? I dream of bazaars, cattle-callers, auctioneers with stetsons encrusted with diamonds and chalcedony, hawking the gawkers in an endless city. Promising wares but delivering bits and shreds.

E.g., Quail tells me Ebay is a lie concocted by MSHA. The extraction of minerals is crucial for mass hallucinations.

It's too bad I'm not an investigative journalist to investigate.

But wait! My own "weblog" gives me credentials, authority, a voice behind my voice.



Technology hates me. I just wrote a 50 page treatise on "hot" new innovations in distancing technology; ways to propogate transhumanism at the expense of users. The Internet, through use of links and minerals, is good at technology, I've found. "Cyberpunk" is a good way to feel less alone. For it is easy to feel alone when things are good.

But speak-n-spelling the truth is hard business, and easy to erase by imps.

Go Wired!


Things have a way of ending. It turned out to tell the truth. That is, Thermy was only making a promotional appearance at the Mall of America. To promote meat safety. As he is wont to do. We all had a good laugh over his drunken break in. We sutured his wound, etc. Even Evening got into the compassion action.

Used Quail's prism in my stir fry. It peeled well. Not bad.


No. Literally, Thermy is in my house. Or rather, a guy in a thermometer suit.

(note: artist's representation, through shutter technology)

Breaking into my window, he's slurring his words. He's in the kitchen. He's got a gun! No, wait, that's just a sandwich.

It is exciting to be typing this when the house is in danger. A little lewd. I feel like a visine golem, in Kandahar or something. That my minerals have greater heft and inflection than usual. Evening, however, is not amused. She's crouching under the computer desk as I write this, sharpening her knife.

"This fucker is going down."

For some reason I think it would be a mistake to get the police involved.

The sandwich is corned beef. SIGNIFICANCE PENDING.

Thermy in the house.


Evening thinks I'm insane. But what the fuck do crazy people know, anyway?

Whoa. Many apologies. Quail snuck up behind me and put her hands on my neck.

Severity? Unclear.

So when I woke up right around 5-25 minutes ago she didn't even leave a note. But she'll be returning, like a tetherball to a physically educated face.

What was I talking about? Oh, right.

Also, Tom Daschle and Ben Horne both have brown hair. And didn't Ben say in episode 27 or 28 or something that he was contemplating a run for the Senate? Also, does South Dakota have sycamore trees?

In other news, Quail left a prism behind for me. When I said "no note" this did not mean "no prism." Don't jump to conclusions.

I wake up in the middle of the night and someone's sitting on the foot of my bed. I can't tell for sure. I think it's Quail, haven't seen her in parts for awhile. Nooks neither. But the hair isn't white. Shapes drew other shapes along the wall.

Having nothing better to do, I woke up and started browsing the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms "home page" for kids. Since we were all, in fact, kids. I think this happened, I don't know, fifteen years ago. I learned proper regulations for creating a still.

ITEM! Sometimes I wonder whether saying these


Is it just me or does Ben Horne from Twin Peaks look remarkably like Tom Daschle?

Also, they are both fervent environmentalists.

Also, Major Briggs looks a lot like that guy from Stargate, which is also a branch of the federal government. Case closed.

QUESTION: did the anthrax-tainted letters originate from the Black Lodge?

It is just me. Words are veering in front of my eyes.

The government has excellent resources for the well-being of children.

Kids! Join the Central Intelligence Agency!

Fly high on intelligence NOT drugs. Unless it's opium from you-know-where.


This just in!

Evening never never wants me to talk about her ever again. After she left she cooked me something with garlic but she never showed me what it was. It was only described on the telephone. She never wants me to mention her name again. She has black hair.

Fuck, imagine that.

For I am only a poor bird.

Also, she likes the old whiskey, if you know what I mean.


"69 hidebound opinions" by C.D. Wright

"Sometimes art (poetry) is like a beautiful sick dog that shits all over the house." --Frank Stanford

We are caretaken by a beautiful sick mutt.


I want to talk to you today about Iraqi tourism.

When I went here, there was a lot of water. Is this the anti-sand? Results unclear. The teeth is full of scuds. A scud is a type of cleansing agent, launched from one mouth to another. Not to be accused of tomahawk eyes, the chartreuse flotillas, the visine golems..

The water was very good. There were a few palm trees too. Five stars!

When I went home I wanted nothing more than to report this. Brief those in charge. Our tourism can kick their tourism's ass. Go Amerigo Vespucci!

This concludes my report on Iraqi tourism.

Start yer own! I like this. This is a link. It takes me places.

I was talking to Evening last night and she said that she didn't think there were things such as links. But what the fuck.

I do not approve of the gray space to the right of you. It encroaches like dead TVs. Many of which like to attack!