The Ballad of Rodney the Recluse

A wild man foams at the mouth,
Running amok and rambling an unintelligible babble.
From the deep in the hills, he comes.
Emerging from his pupal stasis
Within a contrived cave of compacted dust, duff, and delusion-

Wherein he hath consumed a dubious concoction of deviant delights
(frequently found on the forest floor)-

He invades!

Like Sübü’ätäi sans the company clout,
The sleepy little city of Weatherton.

Nestled among the rivers and valleys of the heartland, it sits,
Teeming with team and holy spirit, and always waiting
For something to happen.

But then a rabid fox roars out of his holler,
Insane with rage and strong as Neanderthal man-
Thanks in large part to the powers granted by magic potions-
To teach the timid townsfolk the true meaning of terror:

Rodney Ray, the Rowdy Recluse!

He offends the senses in every imaginable way:
Odiferous scents radiate from his festering form,
Shocking sights etch his sticky epidermis
With inklings of fascist and fundamentalist manifestos,
And psychotic sounds spurt from his maniacal mandible.

He drapes himself in a patchwork of death,
Primarily uncured possum hide sown with the shaved and stripped tails of coypu.
His cloak of coonskin flows behind him as he frolics
Frantically out of the forest and into the long-forgotten ‘scape
Of stillness and silence in suburbia.

The jaunt began jovially enough;
But then the mystical mash of herbs and fungus began to ferment in his bowels,
Soon making him boastful and belligerent and wicked,

And he frothed with fury at the world that whisked him out!

So, fly, the afflicted dog did!
Toward the twinkling lights of the town of Weather.
Cackling with newfound vim and vigor
And saturated with vicious voracity,

He honed in on the hamlet on the horizon…

Amongst the backstreets and alleyways, he slunk,
At first content with sneaking and peeking into the windows of snoozing
Patriarchs and matriarchs and folks of middling and younger mettle.

Yet, in-so-doing, his mind became inflamed! Invigorated,
With synapses streaming through his cerebellum and
The rest of the malformed matter resting upon his medulla,
He freaked and shrieked a shrill, long note as he watched
The restless rising and falling of the bountiful buxom,

Of old Mrs. Howard: the notorious town gossip!

As blood pooled in his loins,
Lights were raised; alarms were sounded.
The North-end neighborhood woke along with the widow through the window.

She screamed, strangely harmonizing with her suspect for a moment,
And leaped for her telephone, instantly dialing for help and
Satisfaction from armed forces and awakened friends.

Rodney reared back, befuddled by the reaction
From his usual cry of joy to his distant rodent companions:
Tim the Squirrel, and George the Beaver…

They’d always bark and beat back at him their own messages,
But they’d never bellowed out in the same tone as he.

So, the venomous canine, still fuming in confusion, fled yet again,
And his virus spread quickly through fiber optics and fibrous sinew!

His destination unclear and his ego and erecting parts engorged,
He ran, screaming down the street to find the long-lost
Feelings of companionship and closeness, left behind with his
Callous family and cruel friends a full generation ago.

Toward the town square he aimed his fervent ambling,
Following the city glow with a weird stride of preposterous purpose.

Pheromones flooded his olfactory glands
As he reached the city center, and he traced the sinful scent,
Baying and biting at passersby and oblivious
To the more and more mountainous structures looming ahead,
And the attention drawn by a barbarian horde of one.

Elapsing old factories and tenements and hovels
Harbored and anchored by crumbling concrete and rusted steel,
He was engulfed by the intoxicating odor
Of feminine sex and sweat that compelled his course.

Upon sighting the sultry soul around the next corner,
He marveled at his Muse!
A lascivious lump of lusty lard in latex and leather; by the name of Nemesis.

In a moment of focus, a forgotten flash of pigtails and poppies
Was pulled from his memory.
His cracked lips curled in a crazed yet sentimental grin,
And his hands wrenched a wreath of weeds and dirty roots from a rough sward.

Timidly and tenderly, he presented the plump princess
With his instinctual gift bouquet of bracken and bramble,
Underscored with the gentle thrusts and gyrations of intention
From the apparatus attached to the middle of his anatomy.

She spurned his surprise, staring daggers…

Enraged by the recollection and reprisal of childhood rejection,
Rowdy Rodney drew out his own jagged shiv and sliced her!
With frenzied slashing and stabbing motions,
He scraped the blade across blubber and bone.

The handy heirloom had been handed down
From his Great-Grandpappy.
He, the late guardian of the wayward ward,
Had wielded the implement in a series of impalements
Through several damned Yanks that dared cross Dixie!

Being that the duo was displaced from the dichotomous contest
By a congruent four-score of aforementioned fame
Held no bearing on the brow of a crazy old coot!

Nor did the demands of the fancy-talkin’ men from the bank and the draft board,
Who each departed Old Ray’s land with freshly acquired holes…

The wet-eared whippersnapper learned his Pappy’s tricks well,
And set to motion the spinning winds of calamity in the halcyon hub,
Starting with the slaughter of an unlucky ungulate.

Staring at his sacrifice under the light of the Hunter’s Moon,
Rodney howled his final curse to state and Sovereign

And the society of sinners from which his ingrained evil had sprung…

Blood boiling under the burden of grief and grievance,
The baleful jackal galloped into the night!

His edge hungered and he sated its cravings
With carvings in the sanguine flesh of frightened villagers;
The vile viscera it left in seeping wounds congealed,
And infected the unfortunate with dormant diseases of dire consequence.

Under his onslaught-
His merciless march of madness across the metropolis-

All were enemies and each was equally guilty!

Among the recipients of his wrath, first came the phallic cult,
Complete with caveats of conformity to fraternal tradition.

The recluse routed them into their half-way house between world and wonder,
Cornering them after cutting through the tender tendons
Keeping their pompous patrons tall and kingly.

Forget pride: a severed foot comes before the fall!

Losing patience and interest with the protestations of
The prepubescent sheep clad in wolf-skins,

The pestilent cur pounced upon proximate victims,
Varying in size and shape and consistency.
Where there were women walking and talking, they were groped and ogled
And nearly taken in rapacious reverie by Rodney Ray.

But churlish chaps of brutish demeanor found his presence unpleasant,
Especially within arm’s reach of their pretty young wives,
And hurled him headlong into the street
Where he met more malcontents encased in honking metal.

Having lost his hand-scythe in the manhandling,
The grim recluse resorted to fisticuffs and fire!

Smashing through glass, he apprehended his new aggressors,
Beating and berating them until their cries of anguish
Forced retreat from reinforcements and
Called up the cavalry to enact retribution.

Sirens swirling in the distance, he swept behind
The main strip and skulked into the alley posterior
To the carnage he’d very recently caused.

There he found a vagrant, snoring vociferously within his hobo-nest.

Kicking the man, he demanded in half-dead languages,
The bottle of liquor clutched to his chest,
And the fume-spewing lighter he kept in his pocket.

Assaulting the transient tramp after his acquiescent actions,
Rodney further ripped his rags and commenced
Creation of a combustible cocktail.

Breaching the barrier between flashing lights and freedom,
He entered the capitol axis of the capital, and climbed,
Rung by rung to the summit of the central authority shepherding the city.

He dropped his chemical container behind him and barred the door,
Preventing his pursuers from having their hour of glory…

The inferno consumed the construction,
Burning to cinders its terrible clutch of currency and corruption on the town.

Finding solace in the snarling of the hounds below,
And the buzzing twirl of whirly-hornets above
Who cast their focusing lenses upon him without stinging,
He sang his joy,
Soaring over the precipice to peace and prosperity!

And in the light of the rising sun,
With the melting of wax and falling of feathers,

Rodney Ray, the Righteous Recluse,
Made rendezvous with doom and renounced the diabolical denizens of Weatherton!


Unlucky Fool

Here are some things I’ve thought about:

My grandmother was born on April Fool’s Day.
I believe that makes me at least ¼ ridiculous.
I try to illustrate this at all possible moments.

Mostly, it comes out as weird noises, funny voices, stupid faces,
Goofy little dances, and a few wisecracks from time to time.
I’d tell jokes or do some observational humor or maybe tell a funny anecdote,
But I’ve always been more of a clown than a comedian.

Continuing the trend, my father
Was born on Friday the 13th.
Whether this makes me ½ unlucky, I’ll never be quite sure.

I don’t tempt fate by walking under ladders,
Because that just seems dangerous for everyone involved.
But, I do get a little nervous every time I see a black cat.

Maybe I shouldn’t feel that way, because my mother was almost a leprechaun,
She was born just hours before St. Patrick’s Day.
Her first husband was born the day before her, so I should probably be thankful,
Because he was at least part leprechaun.

He wasn’t an Irish little person who owned a pot of gold,
But he was an alcoholic and spoke with a funny accent.

I was born 8 minutes before my fraternal twin sister.
It’s nothing special, so I’ve learned. There are a lot of us.
But, we’ve always seemed like two halves of the same strange hermaphrodite;
One that’s really into art and also loves cars for some reason.

We shared our 18th birthday on the date 06/06/06.
Sometimes I still wonder which of us will sprout horns
And bring about the end of days.

I was bullied a bit when I was a kid,
For being too smart and too fat and too bad at peewee sports,
Because, as we all know, those are so incredibly important.

But, I’ve got one up on all those bullies.
I hit the apex of fashion when I was only in 5th grade.
Huge glasses, sweatpants, novelty tee-shirt, off-brand sneakers, and a lopsided flat-top.
I’ve got the class picture to prove it.

From the time I was young, I’ve always
Sought out the weird people in any group I encounter,
Thinking that those are probably the most interesting ones to talk to.
The theory is sound, but it isn’t without its drawbacks.

I once struck up a conversation with an odd-looking fellow who had deep love of
Scandinavian Death Metal and a whole-hearted belief that humankind
Was once a proud race of bioengineered slaves to our ancient lizard-alien masters.
I have since become more discerning.

Over my years, I’ve found that the best drugs
Are done in large quantities,
In the shortest possible amount of time,
With as many people as you can find wandering the grounds at the jam band festival,
And at those several block parties, and at all those bars,
And at that family barbecue where I didn’t really know anybody but my one friend,
And at that lackluster burlesque show with the totally out-of-sync finale.

I’m all for the public commentary deconstructing unrealistic cultural standards of beauty,
But it’s step, kick, twirl on the downbeat, dammit!

I have a weakness for smart, funny women.
I’ve fallen head-over-heels for several dozen of them since my childhood.
If she can make me laugh and make me think, I melt
Like a Wicked Witch on an ill-advised trip to Splash Mountain.

I have a recurring idea that I’m out to dinner with a great girl
And she’s telling me about something infinitely fascinating,
And then she leans over and farts midsentence.
And it smells real bad, and everyone starts commenting on how terrible it smells,
And she just smiles and keeps talking like nothing happened.
Then I ask her to marry me, because that is the zenith of attraction;

Because if I don’t- no matter how she answers- I’d just be some unlucky fool.

Cultural Shock Treatment

Multiple parameters contribute
To an insufferable psychosis!

Primed senses prepare souls for predestined fates:
To remain chained,
Forever tethered to medical manipulations of
Mind and body!

To become an old outlier,
Subject to the abject isolation offered
In unbroken silence…
Irony solidifies in social circles.

Contrast is the key!
Juxtaposition is required in the jurisdiction
Of unjustified arrogance!
Gaze down the barrels of bulbous, blathering blowhards

And Scrutinize!

Indefinite identities invariably waver…

Rather than reminisce on rural ruminants,
Than behold the beautiful busts an atmosphere above-
Gleaming in golden splendor at the suckling Earth-

Movement occurs, mostly below the bowels,
From those knobby doodads swingin’ round ‘neath ya!

Sauntering steps jaunt down the main roads,
From silos to steeples; grains to gods.

An unfortunate affliction, to say the least,
Malnourished masses!

Deep in the Bones

An encroaching inferno?
Or the underwhelming latent heat of flatulence and flattery
Taken naively from the trickling teat of a corrupt conglomeration-
Consisting chiefly of long-tongued lampreys and venomous vermin-

Concerned solely with harvesting and hoarding hemoglobin?

Yes, though the parade progresses and the pace doubles,
The marshals have devolved into a drunken tangle of torsos,
Ready for trampling from the writhing wretches wandering behind

In lackadaisical lockstep.

SHHH!… Listen!

There is a chorus of clattering locusts in the canopy!
Hold and hear the merciless munching of murderous mandibles,
Slurping every lurid leaf and seed and leaving nothing,

Save a wall of barren branches
And a snowball rolling round a dying dwarf.

A moment of clarity reveals a breach in the barrier,
But there exists a fine film of existential bullshit
Allowing only molecular movement through the pass.
With a pinch of persuasion and dash of daring,

The bubble bursts!
Excited by enzymes and electronic compulsion,

The flood follows quickly…

My ancestral ape brain demands synthetic satisfaction!
Charitable contributions can be given in the form of chemical cocktails,
Delivered directly to whichever orifice you prefer.

Pejorative Transmission

Allow me to offer an alternative assessment:
Wherein we wrap our thought waves around
Those for whom no requiems are requested.

Stammering stargazers, one and all, with grimaces of guilt.
Hair-brained harbingers of immeasurable burdens
Brought on by the inevitable passage of
Time and space;

The Gandy Dancers, laying rail on roiling Earth:
Constructing chinampas over stagnant pools of
Our offensive effluent;

The outspoken and outcast few, chambering an uncouth caliber,
Rarely found in the archaic annals of
Antiquated scribblings set down through the fruits of the dirt that sprung them,

From the place where the briar bushes grow all around…

End: idyllic wonder over forgotten foreign cultures and characters.
Begin: The Conclusion of the Friixdizh Hearing on Earthling Interactions –
*Translated for the cranial consumption of lower life-forms,
And presented in a form which pleases them*

“Don’t want you baby, no, no.
Don’t want your foolin’, no, no.
You hurt me baby, yeah, yeah.
You need some schoolin’, yeah, yeah.

You should just keep quiet,
And fix your diet,

At Fat Bob’s Fungus Barn!”

In the Absence of Illusion

So comes the chicanery of supposedly erudite councils,
In the form of an enigmatic envoy
Reared up from destitute trappings,
To proclaim among the proletariat

That they have been freed!

And the titans rumbled,
Rolling in their sleep beneath the quaking crust,
And shifted the sands surrounding Aziraphale’s summer home.

But the buttresses bend under the stress and the conservatory crashes down.

Fast forward, and it’s a wonder we expected change at all,
Having been staring into infinitely larger and increasingly smaller screens:

Decades of decadence mount piles of
Coarse compost. A festering mound of molten flesh…
Occasionally a tusk pops up, while a pup cries under a crushing bull.

The blood only comes up to your ankles,
Just put on your short pants and wear goulashes!

Wait a minute… we’ve taken a wayward turn.
Was that crack always there or have I gone insane?
Surely the truth of the matter will reveal itself if I just pick at it a bit…

Tinker with time and a splitting maul.

Truths Harder than Diamond

I am more than my chemical urges would have me believe!
Ain’t ya heard yet, folks?

We gots them wizardin’ ways!

Wily as they may be, but wonderful nonetheless.
We awaken with fevered hearts and tempered spirits,
Into a world broken and battered by the boastful beasts who came before us!

Didn’t ya hear the start of the story?
That tragic tale of the parasitic pair:
The cowardly couple who clung together,
Afraid of the implications of a lonely life!

Come now, certainly solitude isn’t such a severe sentence…

There are decades’ worth of dramatic overtures!

Hark! The herald cries news of homes once loving,
Torn asunder by a common cancer;
Never mentioned, never mended.

Behold the forsaken child!
See him shake and shiver as he wishes,
Wondering why he was unwanted,
That he had remained unborn.

A gluttonous gangrene steals silently across our extremities.

I find myself among the multitudes,
Calling out for a fraction of compassion…

Seems the sane option would be to save breath,
Work wisely toward the once-wild middle of nowhere,
Formerly derided by the denial of our wild roots,
And there plant the seeds of rebirth.

Maybe in the next life…

Splanchnic Groove Projections

There’s supposed to be a pattern to things, you see,
And once it’s been upset, you’d better tread lightly…
Tiptoe around the bush or you might find yourself
A solar representation,

Primarily verifiable by the pitiable presence of vestigial parts!

But, aren’t we all?
It’s quite understandable, then,

That I would radiate a terrifying rage
With pounding fists and primal screams
And burn the forests down around me!

Rather than regress to traditional tactics
Sprung from the minds of slavering sycophants
Thousands of years ago!

Why should we stop there!?
Frolic to the phallic centers- buzzing with contemporary commerce-
And with feet sheathed in cellophane,
Proceed to kick the teeth from the mouths of every four out of five dentists!

Surely the ultimate Ern will get a good squawk out of that,
And slightly more since our arrival upon the continent.

You wanna crowd out the in-crowd, kid?
Begin with the being within!

Toward the Entrance of the Event Horizon

It’s a little more than ironic, isn’t it?

That the cold Humboldt also carries away forsaken fledglings,
Pushed from the nests by their Nazca brethren,
To bake and stumble down!
And be tarnished into the same nutrients feeding the faces of fat little seal pups.

Or if your mind is molded and your urges urbanized:
That viewing the virulent desperation of a once vibrant visage
Garners only false gumption for sketchy schemes…

Seems to me, Oceanus ain’t the only river creepin’ ‘round every corner of Creation.

I doubt the Frixt would have much to say, though
In such a common, uncouth tongue,
Spewed forth from fetid holes meant for food and fucking.

And therein lies the impetus of our intelligence!

Here’s the first rule, wrapped up nice and neat for ya.
When your wealth is worth less than your weight, you’re awarded

Slathered with a hefty helping of everyday inconvenience,
And sprinkled, not sparsely, with faith in a future that never comes.

Slow down…

Suppressive shepherds lead unctuous ungulates,
Until one spontaneously sprouts a seventh toe.

When Rhododendrons Riot

Sentience suggests we relax and ruminate.
It’ll only be a minute, I promise!
Talking doesn’t take anything but time and patience,
Sure, maybe a tablespoon of honey, on occasion,

But it costs billions to get your boots muddy,
And not just in cotton and horsehair.
Tell me it isn’t quicker, though!
And satisfying, too.

Mop it up, make it look like it never happened,
And whisper whatever whimsy you wish.

They’ll lap it up so long as you let the pheromones fly!

Give the grunts a buxom blonde bit of jailbait,
So they can have a hope of humping again,
Under a blanket of delusional disrememberance.
It’s a little sad, though, isn’t it: beds made from fear and failure!

Hey, maybe we could just sit here awhile…
Look upon the landscape and let the waves wash over?

How about you shut the fuck up and grab a goddamn hammer!?

So you can brutally beat this bygone appendage
For its relentless transmission of phantasmal spasms,
Until the oak splinters and the iron flies back in your face!
We’ll build it back, make no mistake,
But we’ll take our sweet time, and all the Rai on Palau.

Don’t stick around too long:
The silhouette of shame can still shatter even a stalwart spirit.