scribbles on a foreign hand

Quasimofo

Wittmeister is Wisenheimer
An Ode By Quasimofo

(*This poem does not conform to Literature Code A9/b4 sub-section squat)

o N e

B R I M S T O N E

I’d ordered a slice of life

for brunch and lupper

but instead found myself

in the middle of a fistfight with Satan on the caboose of a Santa Fe train descending ..

the hills of Hicksville..

..he landed a rabbit-punch and tweaked my mullet with his horn.

..I stole his wallet and jumped off onto a hay-cart driven by beautiful peasant girls

and shot him the finger.

..he threw his pitchfork with a can of potted meat, then grinned.

Huh! ..the son-of-a-bitch made me a sandwich!

yup…i was aghast how alas our tormentors become our mentors..

..seeing eye to eye with a birds-eye view in the sky..

..cannot it dog-ear some commandment to find the right drivers license for this STATE

of MIND? (that I’d like to find)?

Tell me, is there a corollary between bursting shriveled capillaries and a dark-side

of the Sun coronary?

–down and out is not out of the picture nor out of the question

in this stuck-on-the-track return to holi ness rut..

… at last…………..

the criss-cross X-ing…

t W o

C A S H O N H A N D

i identified ol’ Lucifer at the morgue..

the autopsy said his and our brains

rotted from too much pleasure and not enough plain {ordinary stuff}..

His last dying note to me read:

“Dear nephew, your self-destructive behavior has been marked off

with the dusty orange cones that others drove over pretending they were

dare-devil stunt-racers. The illegal immigrants of your conscience

are repaving the hollowed ground of your imagined pot-hole smokin’ childhood

in a proving-place not so far from grace as this upside-around Eden mix-master..

There’s 3 things in life that will keep you going: 1) Walk with no underwear;

2) Shoplift girlfriends; and 3) Make love at the Park on Sundays.

P.S. Pay off my Diner’s Club Bill, will ya?

P.S.S. Watch out for the metrosexual maitre’d’s, they do more

than just take orders from their knees…

Toodles.”

t H r E e

V I A T H E A M B I E N C E O F A N A M B U L A N C E

the only hard-ship

you’ve been thru

is the good ship lollypop..

ahoy, are you a man or a boy?

oh surely there’s room

in the temple

for one more blasphemer..

the boat’s no longer afloat and

the rats changed places with the captain

after making some cheesy bargain..

aye! aye! S—queaker!

But how many limericks

does it really take

to get to the damn center

of we-uns sinners?

Well, R U ready for a tongue-lashing? here’s

the church,

here’s the steeple,

open it up,

and see all the sheeple.

Uh huh..–I’d like to change the course

of my life

if i can

watch TV

from bed

eating a fudge bombsickle

while doing it..

F o U r

F E M A N U A L L A B O R

i never realized how educated

we were until i saw

how dumbucated they were—

hence the fence..

(consequently the ones with towel racks make for better bedfellows)..

The unemployed workers sometimes ask me:

‘Quasimofo—who are you?’

..and this is what I say—

“When the shit hits the fan,

I’m the one standing on the pitcher’s mound!

I’m the guy who gives

watchdogs the time of day!

I’m the nuevo calligraphy artist

who does the decorating when you see

the handwriting on the wall!

I’m the mechanic holding the ratchets

when there’s a quick fix needed!

I’m the reluctant stud who

vacations to the Virgin Islands

to prove them wrong!

..in other words, when there’s

tit-for-tat, I’m the one who

gets to fondle

the jugglies..

I’m the situation that comes

back to bite you on the ass—that’s

right, USDA GRADE A

Prime Beef, Babey!..

..And when just along for the ride,

I’m the freak who screams

out the window at the top of his tonsils:

‘My parents were sculptors,

that’s why I have so many

chips on my shoulders!’”

*Note: Part 5 confiscated by Homeland Security. Write your own ending please in comments.

Quasimofo @ July 27, 2007