August 21, 2003

Wrath of the Dog Napkin

And so Big Arm Woman, whom I've been reading since I discovered blogs, posts this witty little thing about fake poetry, essentially. And I think to myself, reading her poem (which I'll post in its entirety here...)

    Misery Mine

    The day is done,
    And no one knows
    Just why the dog
    Ate my mother's toes.

    We sit at night,
    encased in woes,
    My mom thinks life
    totally blows.

    She cannot run,
    her walking slows,
    stupid dog.
    Missing toes.

    -Freemont E Hall

What a riot! Read her whole post. But read the rest o' mine first.

About eight years ago, I was submitting a lot of poetry here and there. There was this literary magazine (this may be a stretch) called Evil Dog. My friend Jason Reasoner was visiting, and we decided (under influence of only silliness) to pander to the publication in hopes of having something ludicrously silly published.

Alas, we never heard from Evil Dog. But I have this lovely piece of obnoxious poetry to show for the effort. I'll share. Eight years later, I still crack up.


the anytime everybody is always
an odd being. but i feel like
tomorrow today, outside
of now. into this frayed
stale silence (which doesn't
make blended friends; it keeps
them in cupboards) to fetch
poor bones for an evildog napkin
this night. smooch. it ain't
gonna rain no more.

sidereal scorpions (in waiting)
wait for my fingered dog barks
before it bites and steal my
cereal alibi in a six year
old clown suit selling sex
to my earlobes' shampooed
carpet. heidi, do you see
the tornado without my tomato
slaves? the vacuum calls,
anon. suckled nectar from
the cupboard womb named.

in the hourglass the tides mash lentils --
friends of little faith. damned by cub
board handles -- wrath of the dog napkin;

remember waco and repent.

jr/hli - October, 1995.


Posted by hln at August 21, 2003 10:56 PM | Poetry