Wittmeister is Wisenheimer

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.

0 thoughts on “Wittmeister is Wisenheimer

  1. this is all good, but i am especially intrigued by parts three and four, which do an amazing thing: you create all of these wonderful cliches that I’ve never heard of before. The ones about sculptors, studs in the virgin islands. . . genius. Like I said, unknown cliches, which is a great concept.
    Were you drunk writing this?
    note: the Whooshay was raised by a sculptor in Northern Michigan.

  2. this poem does not form to any code whatsoever, as far as i can see. which is good. don’t get me wrong. howsomever, i will have to return to this when i have more of a capacity for thought.
    so far i say yay.

  3. I may have been drunk, i can’t remember if i popped that Berenger Zinfandel or not. I hope to include this poem and others in a little book project for later in the year called ‘Peyote Milkshakes on a Roller-Coaster descending Hell’ [‘The Peyote Milkshake’ was the name of a little zine i did and passed on to friends in the 90’s]. I appreciate the comments, thanks. I will keep my eye out for more on ‘Whooshay’ and his sculptor parent on site…and see his childhood playmate’s (Michael Moore?) latest film ‘Sicko’.

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