Something Crazy

Owen Mundy

Something Crazy Tim Rogers

Two slices of invisible pizza Lay cheese-down, flat on the sidewalk In obtrusively unorthodox pornographic angles. Forgive me, Something Crazy, for I have sinned: I have had impure thoughts of another beverage Its carbonated water courses through my veins Its high fructose corn syrup seeps out my tear ducts And its red food coloring stains What is filtered by my kidneys Passed from an airplane flying above a mountain range Freezes, forms a crude stake And impales an intrepid Cro-Magnon climber In the midst of a final deep knee-bend And a wipe with his wrist, opposable thumb downward Across his sweaty brow ridge Before he can comprehend the notion That something crazy is set in motion.

A Shakespearean Something Tim Rogers

Alack! Of all the places scattr'd throughout This mortal realm betwixt Heaven and Hell, Where's worse for a car to exhaust its last Than the parking lot of a Taco Bell? That skin once glitter'ng, now faded to chipped, Eyes through which I saw before now smeared, Darkness-penetrating beacons clouded, The light that lit the dome of reason, dimmed. To hear the rattle of its dying breaths, I realize oldest women were brides; We cannot pick where to die our own deaths, Though we lay manhandl'd by fiery tides.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter Stephanie Lawyer

I just want a snack, thought Tom, so he, a smallish boy in those awkward pre-pubescent years, wearing faded blue jeans with a hole, around which tattered white strings limply lay, in the left knee, scuffed Keds and a red windbreaker, examined his options with the utmost of careful consideration as he stood in front of the open refrigerator door, a pasty almond in coloration and matching the rest of the large icebox looming above, scratching lightly at the right side of his nose as he sometimes did when deep in contemplation and feeling the chilly fingers of the seeping cold tangling themselves around his frame, gazing at the top shelf which housed the small plastic container of sour cream, a blue and white carton of non-dairy whipped topping, which, he thought, might top off rather well a Hostess Twinkie or two or perhaps one of the Ring Dings he'd hidden behind the breadbox if his father, known as Stinky Pete to his friends and neighbors because of his tendency to lift items not belonging to himself, hadn't already found and devoured the pre-packaged chocolate-flavored morsel, and a tub of mother's latest passion -~I Can't Believe it's Not Butter - and thus finding nothing of interest, he looked to the next shelf, which, he decided, patting his rumbling stomach, must hold more promise than the first, and noticed that the remaining lunch meat, in its sagging wrapper of clear plastic, seemed a bit rubbery in texture not to mention just a wee bit greenish around the edges and that the yellow colby cheese had grown a new coat since the last time it had made an appearance on the dining room table and that, taking a closer look, the coat was rather fuzzy in nature with smallish spheres waving gently, beckoning to him, in the wafting coolness of the aging Amana, and he wondered briefly if such fuzz was edible and if so what it might taste like, though, peeling away the remaining plastic wrap, changed his mind and placed it back on the shelf between the half empty carton of grovestand fresh but pulp-free orange juice and the can of refrigerator biscuits that could be opened by banging the container, at just the right spot along the silvery sliver that spiraled the blue cardboard, sharply on the counter and with a loud sucking smmok! brought forth the ashen dough, oozing from the now-parted lips, that could be pulled apart along the pre-cut lines and put onto a cookie sheet, or a pie plate as his mother sometimes did, and baked until they were a crisp-edged golden and then eaten warm with sweet melting margarine, though, sadly, Tom thought, shaking his head, I can't use the oven while Mama's gone, so he looked next to the vegetable bins for his gurgling tummy's release but found only a bag of drying carrots, white-frosted with lack of moisture, and a few stray and wilted leaves of lettuce, sticky with their own digestive juices and clinging to the bottom of the plastic drawer as a lover might to his mistress before a fortnight's absence, which, he decided, was just plain nasty and quickly kicked at the bin until it disappeared from sight beneath the clear plastic shelf that held only a quart of rancid buttermilk and a browning tomato, shriveled and contracting into itself as if attempting to reverse the process of its maturation, and shut the door. Tom sighed and put his hand into the pocket of his jacket, feeling the soft folds of the wrinkled bills his mother had left for him on the table, and turning slowly, he walked away from the hulking and fruitless appliance, muttering to himself, "I guess I'll have to order a pizza after all."

Owen Mundy

Ramblings for Your Enjoyment Brant Fechter

The twisted tale that's G-rated with whoopee and violence All started in Al Roker's bedroom in 1984. Siamese, midget, homosexual twins who always repeated what the other said And rank of a scentless fragrance busted in.

No two people are the same except them, Who were as scared as a goat in a cow stampede, That still can't believe "I can't believe it's not butter" Isn't the butter that the heifers milk out each morning.

I taught the duo to stop tripping the blind, Walking the streets with their dogs and canes, Who are attracted to only the plumbers of the world And read their braille guides to learn to read Latin

I was as happy as singing and tap-dancing, merry midgets! I became king of the 50 Cotton/50 Poly Fields, Pink furry bunny rabbits all with the name of Bork Hoisted me up as we all sang in harmony

It was quite a task of tackling such a harsh world Full of noogies, knuckle sandwiches,'and hurts donuts I was born with the advantage of a mind full of shit And the ability to live the life of a cartoon in this boreville

I had hustled all the Milli Vanillis and Beavis and Buttheads who Are invisible to all except the deaf, dumb, & mutes on Radio Which is the blind's word for TV

Actually I'm just forging on at four o'clock in the dull morning Into my own fantasy where nothing makes sense, Except that I'm the braveheart who everyone looks up to Because I provide the sarcasm that makes up their enjoyment

Imagination is the only way to get the wings for flight Out of this new age boredom lost of Humor, imagination, and surprise

Owen Mundy

Anonymous Song Adam Balbo

let me take ya to where i'm from well past the great hype well beyond the neon sheath where they don't count the blood type where nursing toddlers in leather pants work on the railroad and dream of steel-spotted carpet dogs always on the phone where yellow bellied pale moon boys buy packaged dice kits drink from liquored tubes and buy the news on ghetto roach clips and though the sun may set on sunshine street the rooster never crows and the only cats up in this tree are standing on their toes

paper dolls with matchbox guts are sold off of wall street while claude monet and company burn bras off of beale street where big old cows in five walled rooms speak hebrew and latin but it all seems like chinese to me though it sounds a lot like sanskrit where the unintentional bat of an eye can really speak volumes and diversity is so esteemed we include homogeny where some people really think that mcdonald was irish and captain hook that dirty crook really was marxist

where vacant eyes ceramic snakes are bred without tongues made to do armcurls with pencils and breathe with chainlink lungs the only thing that's keepin' 'em up is the ground u'neath their bellies initially born with limbs but amputated 'cause they felt as weak as jelly these slithering snakes avoid the noose by dribbling out their venom they beat the heat with mattress springs or anything that they give 'em but panda bears in aluminum trees they feel the coldest breeze and the green lady of the granite sea she's accused of being a tease

where chinese cowboys in sombrero hats are washing their new cars they clean 'em in time for their favorite show w.c.w. no holds barred on the couch they got corn on the cob and japanese rice cakes they make fists and grit and punch the air and talk as if someone's there their neighbors are from omaha with ties to the italian mob one's half black one's a hacker and another one drives a saab and all of them speak good english to their mother when she's around but they get their clothes from department stores and have to drive to cross town

try and show me the color of guilt i'll show you the golden calf it was melted down but it's heart still pounds both sides of the great divide three white girls with ironed fros are driving out to the mall in their steel framed carriage holding plastic despair in the form of cd's and barbie dolls trinkets like hairspray perfume and makeup line the store shelves one tries on a disney gown but frowns 'cause the sound of the mirror she found was fake the other two duke it out for the shoes that's supposedly made of glass they ask the clerk what it's really worth she hands them a blade of grass