The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten


No pueden salir volando las mariposas.

No me importa si están listo:

necesito su calor.

Pero mientras trato de guardarla en su tarro,

aletean lejos las otras;

y mientras trato de reconquistarlas,

la ultima me deja

y me deja sentirme bastante frío.

Basta, ya.

Entonces es mejor que yo use prudentemente mis reservas,

porque dudo que yo pueda capturar no más

no más.

The butterflies can’t fly ‘way.

I don’t care if they’re ready:

I need their warmth.

But as I try keeping 1 in its jar,

the others flutter ‘way;

& while I try to recapture them,

the last leaves,

leaving me rather chilly.

Stop it, already.

So I’d better use my stories wisely,

’cause I doubt I’ll be able to catch any mo’

any mo’.

Posted in Española, Poetry


You probably think this is some kind o’ joke,

some kind o’ game.

I bet you think it’s a true dickslapper,

you cock-nosed pile o’ cu--


No, it’s worse!

You think this isn’t funny!

You’re sitting there bored,

saying to yourself,

“Yeah, yeah:

you’re a freak;

I got it, bro.”

Well, let me tell you something,

you whippersnapper:

Straighten that back.

Tighten that tie.

Put that hand back into your pants.

You... heh. You thought I wouldn’t see you, didn’t you?

Well, I did.

I see everything.

Posted in Crazy, Poetry


Suddenly, finally, I woke from that long, fevered dream, only to find myself in an empty, dark void.


Posted in Crazy, Poetry

Though This Be Method, Yet There Is Madness In’t


A soufflé carefully cooked,

hour by hour...


Oven door’s open 1 second suddenly.

It’s dead.

I can hear the bomb ticking in my brain...

I can feel the knife scraping my neck & forehead;

constricting, suffocation,

moldy blue skin.

A tepid leaf floating flimsily on the edge o’ a bough

till the hands reach out &--


I saw it.

You didn’t saw it.

They didn’t even saw it.

No! No, no, wait...

Hands don’t reach out...

The feet!

Those poor giants stumble forward on their feet & step on the leaves,

crumbling them to dust

too fine to see.

O, but the withered dust is so sexy.

We should thank our giants for this masterpiece.

The realm must be improved:

all sores must be cured,

all stains wiped with clean rags & disinfectant,

all trash must be taken & recycled.

That which has no purpose must be repurposed:

hearts & minds lying round should be cooked into a delightful stew,

skin must be peeled...

The ethical hunter must use all parts o’ the animal’s body so that nothing goes to waste...

as it went to waste ‘fore the hunting.


There’s no time for gasps & cries.

Just stop your rude interruptions o’ the rolling dice.

I never interrupted you during your turn.

You didn’t get a turn.

You didn’t need 1.

You’re already dead.


I know I’ll be next.

We’ll all be next ‘ventually.

& that’s OK.

Everything’s safe here.

‘Cause when you’re guaranteed death,

nothing can be dangerous anymo’.

Death is the safest place to be.

Like a warm pillow caressing the back o’ your head...


That is till it STRIKES!

Posted in Crazy, Poetry


¿Te he dicho del cubo?

¡El cubo!

¡Tan pequeño que me aparecería ahora,

pero tan gigante que me aparecía entonces!

Se llenaba con juguetes diversos de comida y platos,

muchos de los que tenían etiquetas de marcas imaginarias.

A menudo yo imaginaba los tipos de empresas imaginarias que las manufacturarían.

Cada mañana de domingo,

empezando a los 6,

arrastraba el cubo a mí cama

y para horas hacían juegos extrañas,

como los dibujos animados viejos y raros

que mostraban en la madruga,

como Jabberjaw o aquellos episodios de Scooby Doo que tienen los Globetrotters, Cass Eliot y Batmas como invitado.

No fue el eón que no aprendí lo que es arte,

sino sí fue la 1era vez que creó arte.

Have I told you ‘bout the tub?

The tub!

How small ‘twould seem to me now,

but how giant it seemed then!

‘Twas filled with various toys o’ food & dishes,

many o’ which had labels o’ pretend brands.

Oft I’d imagine the types o’ businesses that would manufacture these.

Each Sunday morn,

starting @ 6 AM,

I’d drag the tub o’er to my bed

& for hours play strange games,

like those old, obscure cartoons

that they’d show late after midnight,

like Jabberjaw or those episodes o’ Scooby Doo that had the Globetrotters, Cass Eliot, & Batman as guests.

It wasn’t the eon that I learned what art is,

but was the 1st time I created art.

Posted in Dreams, Española, Poetry


  You can't leave.
Not yet!
    We've just started.

I won't let you!
[It slips out the fire 'scape.]
Though in my eye 'twas all the time,
it 'scaped my sight till th'apex of its flight.

Where did the warm orange tea go?
Ran out the door hours ago;
& it didn't even take its aftertaste.

Remember the times inside rainy days?
When we'd save Toad from dumped paint?
You were there--you'd know.

I remember all the warm dank caves.
You didn't like them, but I did just the same.
(& this is 'bout me, anyway
--make your own shame.)
When they seem lost, I get a glimpse o' their glow;
but this time it seems as if they're truly gone.

Today I saw burnt-black mushrooms on the lawn.
Maybe they'll be fed by rain.
But I'm sure it'll leave them just the same:
slid out the 'scape in just the same way.

That's how they get you, it seems:
feed you up on that bitchin' graham cracker cuisine,
till it digs a li'l hole where it always lives,
& then they try to fill it with that lobster shit.
Not me.
  I don't know where it's been.
    I'm not ready.
      I've just started.

Please may we have peace?
That blasted sweet melody!
Do do... do, do-do-do...
             Fuck, I can't even get it right.
                     It won't last the night, you know.
                               Nothing will.
Don't think your childish inanities are too good to go.
                              'Sides, now we have a heavy beat.
Bum, dum dum dum-dum...
I can't that right, either.
Say, this reminds me o' that time I was ill.
Isn't the way we look back @ such seeming tragedies kinda neat?
          Yeah, me neither.

& you know what's sick?
I'm sure I'll look back @ this with a slick grin.
Well, no, I s'pose I've exaggerated;
I'll look back in an autumn o' content.
How we cheer @ the leaves regrown,
ignoring their predecessors thrown.
For though I know I look stupid bending my own stem,
  Know some o' us aren't smart 'nough to stop.
& 'sides, a'least I get to hear those groovy tunes in the interim.
  Da da da da da-da da...
Posted in Crazy, Poetry


For hours I’d gaze up @ those spritely flames

Bourn by the coupling ‘tween sunset & clouds,

& meshed e’en mo’ unscorched in icy rain,

With thunder white & hot—& just as loud.

I spread my arms & wait for rain to flood

Around my body, soul, & coupon stashes—

Veins running @ the touch of such cold blood

Till filling my soft stomach with warm splashes.

I’ll always miss the weather you display,

Every morning, night, & all the days.

Posted in Metered, Poetry, Shakespearean Sonnet & Parodies