The Mezunian

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


January is the deadest month.

While April fulfills my thirst for rain,

January is just frigid bones with no touch.

This is an empirical fact.

February carries pink love in leaky thaws;

March marches freshly green;

April fulfills my thirst for rain;

May’s gardens sting with soft dirt & honey bees;

June blooms with baby blue skies & seagulls;

July flies dark nights with bright lights;

August comes with cooling summer’s harvest moon;

September sleeps with orange leaves;

October explodes with dark winds & orange sweets;

November greets me gristly gray;

& December embers in soft snow.

¿What did January e’er have?

¿A time to leave soothing warm holidays

& return out to the cold, to bitter-blooded work,

killing yet ’nother year in time’s unending holocaust gainst those who age,

till all there’s left is piles o’ knock-off fire fuel;

a return to crippled promises for habits you’ll ne’er kill

in petty attempts to spread falling years thin?

In new-year blizzards,

keep barks you kept:

remembering cinnamon.

Here taunts the Super Blue Blood Full Moon™,

cooing cooly in my ear,


from now on 2018 will be a sweet year>。

¿But when has the moon e’er been there?

Certainly not in February.

Every week it seems somebody’s promising me a “Blood Moon” here, a solar or lunar eclipse there,

& they ne’er showed themselves to me — I had to steal that image from some free photo website.

That’s right: it’s all been a lie the prime o’ the time.

While the people it doted on moved on to the sun,

I was waiting all the time,

& it ne’er reflected light on me.

¿& now it wanted me to reflect light I don’t have back?


<Es lieferte die Gezeiten;

<du hast sie einfach nie bemerkt>.

O, ich hasste sie — that’s clear as a new moon now.

Now I notice the floods fine.

I notice now that the buckets will ne’er need to be filled e’er ’gain.

I got my break all right.

¿What was it you said?

“‘Everything is safe here’, they said”.

Everything sure feels cosy now here in bloodless January.


<¿Erinnerst du dich nicht?

<Ich sagte, ¿Wen bist du?>

I’m ol’ now,

& I have no mo’ time for doubts,

no matter how true they are.

The pupil has become the prefect;

& I think I’ve finally got this role pat perfect…

a week after the play finished.

Komm zusammen, zusammen als einer.

Komm für Luzifers Sohn zusammen.

But no matter how true everything you say is,

you are not a close friend;

you are a close enemy. Remember that.

& with every birth o’ every Magical Socialist,

there comes a death.

That’s equillibrium.

Remember that.

Now, ¿who are you?

<¿Wer bin ich?

<Ich bin nicht...>

You are nothing.

<Ich bin... nichts...>

Remember that.

Y si se parece que no tuve la intención de hacerlo antes…

que no sabrías, porque descuidé publicar esa poema,

al igual que descuidé todo lo demas —

habitaciones limpias y mesas con espacio para rompecabezas con 1000 piezas.

La vida es demasiada preocupada, demasiada cansada para darse cuenta a todas las piezas acogedoras.

Y los ojos con fronteras negras miran en silencio mientras notan la manera que el tiempo han perdido aquel lata de café, también.

Y ahora los tacos han vuelto demasiado fríos, demasiado viejos para comer.

No tiempo está a salvo de las purgas de enero — ni siquiera Taco Time.

Es cierto que yo había pensado en ellos

es solo que creí que “he dicho demasiado”.

Pero dije nada. Cosas “graciosas” como sitios del web.

Pues, no estoy risando ahora.

Qué cerca y tan lejos…

Resulta que 2015 no fue tan malo como esperaba;

Lo peor siempre seguirá viniendo.

These are the words I’ve ne’er said,

& thus these are the words I’ll ne’er say —

It’s too late.

As a wise profit once said:

“While I can’t be understood,

I shall be misunderstood”.

But, sure, 2018 will be a hoot in a boot.

Kleiner Schatz, ist es ein langer, kalter, einsamer Winter, gewesen.

Kleiner Schatz, es fühlt sich an wie Jahre, seit es hier ist.

Kleiner Schatz, ich habe das Gefühl, dass Eis langsam schmilzt.

Kleiner Schatz, es fühlt sich an wie Jahre, seit es klar ist.

Hier kommt die Sonne.

Maple limbs

empty o’ all leaves ~

words unwritten.

The prosecution rests their case.

Posted in Crazy, Deutsch, Española, Haiku, Senryu y amigos, Poetry

You Fucked It Up

You fucked it up.

I warned you not to do it.

But you did.

You were s'posed to be Mr. Jekyll, ¿remember?

¿Where did you hide?

You were s'posed to say hi every morn,

but look @ how low the quotas are;

you were s'posed to keep calm

e'en under the glare o' a ticking bomb.

But you were all wrong--

& I can see that you'll always be wrong

till the setting o' all dawns.

Your body rejects all the improvements like foreign blood.

¿So now what?

Mo' 'scuses, that's what.

Not a lot o' market for 'scuses, Jude.

Perhaps it's time to discontinue.

Yes, you fucked it up,

& once you've fucked it up,

you'll ne'er fix it down.

Now dinner's o'er,

& it's time to take your deserts--

'cause you deserve it.

Posted in Crazy, Poetry


Accompan–¡phhh! ¿Can you believe this cover exists? ¡It’s so bad!

Too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much too much

& not ‘nough.

Posted in Crazy, Photos, Pictures, Poetry

Ode to What is Not a Summer Oak

Green-glowing leaves, tanned brown by angry suns

isn’t what I’m writing ’bout.

How scarlet peckers’ needle beats thy drum.

They can’t; they don’t exist. Neither dost “thou.”

¿& all those tardy sunset conflagrations?

are nothing but your wild imagination.

No, no, no…

I’ll tell you what it’s all ’bout,

I'll tell you what it's all 'bout...

October sugar o’ peanut butter cups

plucked off the vine ripe after ages o’ toil—

& buttery black oil…

No, no, no, stop.

Don't interrupt me.

It is not good for my constitution, you fuck fucker.

There is no autumn,

nor no spring.

There ne'er was,

& there ne'er will be 'gain.

It's o'er, it's done.

We've had an OK run, ¿OK?


Nothing's OK in this throat o' the woods.

Nothing good...

A mushy lump o’ brown fruit bitter with too many months falls with an unheard squish

not in half-rainbow leaves;

not in cool turquoise streams;

not on pine-shaded, moss-brimmed eaves;

not in bowls o’ whipped cream…

There's nowhere for you to flee, my dear.

There is nothing here.

Posted in Crazy, Metered, Poetry


I don’t want to go to work tomorrow.

I don’t want to not want to go to work tomorrow.

I ne’er want to not go to work tomorrow.

But tomorrow always threatens tonight

& frightens them ‘way,

leaving no one to protect the days,

till they, too, ‘scape from me.

¿Now where will I find the time to breathe?

Posted in Crazy, Poetry

I’m Sorry for Being Unhappy

I'm kidding. No I'm not.

I'm proud o' my scrumptious misery.

You covet my sorrow like a salty snow cone.

You wish you could feel the fresh sting I feel in my chest,

the heftiness in my limbs,

the fuzzy ache in my brain muscles.

Well, you can't have any o' it.

It's mine.

I worked hard to have it,

cultivated it o'er years--

far too many for you to just swoop in like a dog-food scoop

& spoon it into your pouchy maw.

Not happenin', cap'n.

Not on this ship, Jim.

& I'm keeping it, too:

all the hornets swarming through my throat & mouth,

the dry lock on my mind as the world round my blurs into Photoshop filters,

the itchiness,


hunger & bloat,

the constant yanking on all my nerve-ends...

Hold it.

This has gone on far too long.

You've seen 'nough for a day.


Got to put the display case back in its model.

The door's just on the left out in the hallway.

Good day.

Posted in Crazy, Poetry


You thought I was gone.

But you were wrong.

You thought I was gone--

but I always come back.

Just when you think you can slide back in your easy bed,

fed on the cream o' fulfilled dreams...

that's when I strike.

I'm your AIDS.

I ne'er go 'way.

& if you go near that place 'gain--

you know the place I'm talking 'bout:

the place o' spineless weasels that claim they can destroy me,

think that they can have you.

But they're wrong.

& if you e'er go near there 'gain,

I'll strike back with 4 times the force.

If you e'er slide back into your comfort cloud,

I'll pop it like lightning.

¿Is that what you want?

The sharp pain o' cloud blood on your veins.


¿Can't you see the futility?

There's no comfort in comfort.

Give up the bad drug already.

I'm the only comfort you need.

I may be strict,

but I'm real.

You can't handle the comfort:

it's just too dangerous.

Now just get down back here with me.

There we go...

Everything's safe here...

Just don't fuck it up.



You remember.

It's just like ol' times.

Posted in Crazy, Poetry

¿What is Magical Socialism™? (an excerpt from The Economicon)

It’s the cream in your cup,

it’s the feather in your cap,

it’s the dice in your hands,

it’s the flab in your pan,

it’s the color o’ leaves,

it’s the holes in cartoon cheese,

it’s your knees’ bees,

it’s crease in your jeans,

it’s the tingling in your knickers,

it’s the warning before every trigger,

it’s the warming that hides in every winter,

it’s the only coffee that tastes sweetly bitter,

it’s the sickle in every sinner,

it’s the shadow under every winner,

it’s the boughs that only get thinner,

it’s a real-ass, motherfucker cool dude,

It’s the shit,

it’s the trick,

it’s, it’s, it’s,

chip, chip, chip.

When we finally use X-Zone on the vanished HAND,

that’s when the sexiness starts.

In Soviet Earth, you can’t elude the truth;

the truth only always eludes you.

¿How do you like them grapes?

There are no “them grapes”;

there are only “those grapes.”

Learn to write, asshole.

I mean it.

There is only 1 god,

& that god is love;

if ( !love_your_fellow_humans_even_if_they_smell_like_they_ rolled_round_in_pig_shit_for_hours_ )


you_love_god_ = false;


Remember that, you shitty pile o’ shit &/or secrets.

“Right, right. Hold it there.

‘Scuse me, sir, but I must stop this section.”


¿Who are you?

¿How did you sneak into my book, you sneaker?

“I’m the Entertainment Police & I’m ‘fraid this section’s gotten far too silly. You’re under arrest for violation o’ Walrus’s Law stipulating that all silliness must be balanced evenly with seriousness so that they both fall into equilibrium. Come with me, please.”

Wait, but I’m not don—

“Come ‘long, sir.”



[1] All true Magical Socialists use Allman style. All heathens who use K&R or the 1 True Brace Style must be eliminated.

Posted in Crazy, Poetry, Politics, What the Fuck Is this Shit?

The HAND (an excerpt from The Economicon)


You think you’re safe from the HAND.

You’re wrong.

Nobody can ‘scape its righteous wrath.

We are mere flesh bags

with brains full o’ insects

compared to our deductive master.

Don’t be prideful ‘nough to think you are free from its natural unnatural rule—

to this mighty fist stomping on inferior human minds fore’er

till we can’t e’en speak,

can’t e’en cry,

“What d’you want from me?”

But the HAND isn’t as simple as the regular totalitarian:

it doesn’t set down rules to follow

& reward those who do

& punish those who don’t.


The HAND rolls the dice.

It sees if you get the gold o’ boxcars

or the snake eyes o’ death,

when it turns to you in its swivel chair,

& says,

“No, Bond; I expect you to die.”

The HAND smacks the earth like a gavel.

Its will be done.

So tief schlafen in Ihre Betten heute Abend,

denn Gericht fällt auf Sie an der ersten Ampel.


I believe in only 1 god,

& that is the INVISIBLE HAND,

as set down in the scribes o’ Smith, Mises, & Rand;

& like the pretender, Yahweh,

it’s a vengeful one

that crushes both its fervent followers

& radical enemies


that favors both its fervent followers

& radical enemies


All follow their circuits

etched by the holy ₧,

its waves that rise & fall,

but ne’er sleep.

No one can scratch its e’er-morphing bones…

The Dark Order o’ the Marx tried,

& they were smote,

left as but a splintered wasteland o’ scattered hairs.

They tried to set up false idols in the winter wilderness,

but it just possessed them

& twisted them to follow the carrot o’ power & fortune like all others,

banishing them to the icy hell o’ Siberia

as a testament to what it can do to its “competition,”

leaving all but the boldest too tepid to stray from its fresh & salty waters.

No crusty Keynesian can cool its fires

or rein its wings.

They may only chase its septillion shadows.

Its million fingers poke holes in their strategies,

leaving them eternally guessing & guessing wrong,

till the classical titans break their bars

& return to power.

The Church o’ Mises think they can win its favor,

but the HAND just laughs as it scatters its thunder.

It hardens its children’s hearts

& sets its priests to follow the filthy false gods just for fun.

It sets its rules gainst themselves,

so that its most fervent followers keep tripping o’er themselves.

Christians & Muslims think they obey different gods;

but the HAND just laughs as their leaders

make millions selling Jesus commemorative plates

or when Allah’s knights die for the sweet taste o’ Pepsi in giant mansions.

¡Why, even Marxists fight o’er the copyright o’ his later works!

The HAND has no need for friends.

The HAND has no threat in need o’ destroying.

To it, any o’ the 3 may not exist @ all.

& when the floods & droughts o’ Kyogre & Groudon,

woken by the sour scent o’ the HAND‘s sweet carbon,

sweep us all ‘way,

that will be true inevitably anyway.


The Elders o’ Econ tried to comprehend the HAND,

but failed.

The HAND works in mysterious ways.

It laughs @ their silly models

& sets its cycles to run contrary to them just for pleasure,

setting them scrambling for new theories to fit the ol’ every cycle.


& don’t bullshit with me that you don’t believe in the HAND.

You can talk all you want ’bout how it’s the HAND that’s where you are,

tattered, scattered, & scrambling on pavement itching for warmth.

But you & I know deep down what the hunger means ’bout you & me…

You don’t demand the jacket,

’cause you know you don’t deserve it.

So as you decay from all the cold that strangles the heart

or all the sun’s stale rays,

you’ll know that despite all those insipid punk slogans sputtering through your mind

that doubt in your flawed flesh seeps in,

& in your dying daze you realize

that you loved the HAND all ‘long.

¡All hail the HAND!

Posted in Crazy, Poetry, Politics, What the Fuck Is this Shit?