Blog of literary hijinks and the dudnering whirl of expatriotic vitriole.


Fisherman with single blackening tooth in the front
Slaps the head of a tiny shark with animosity onto the dock
Thud goes the head and blood drips like syrup around the white of his bucket
He lifts it by the tail and shakes out the remaining gasps of breath
Like he’s shaking off his penis after a piss
And drops it limp flopping still into the bucket
Laughs with high tone of a child or a lunatic
Sits down onto top of bucket and recommences with his beer bottle
Reinserting himself into a friendly conversation rudely interrupted

You Have Five Minutes

I can feel your oversized, sweaty hands reaching out for me
They hover overhead in my dreams
reaching smugly for my neck, leaving nothing to chance

wrestling with your other images:

Service sector jobs, cutting grass, told over and over
do something, goddamnit, do it right this time,
You have five minutes

My bosses clench their cell phones furiously and shake their heads because I m late
And lost on my way to work
On a street among cordoned fields
With police on every corner under the light, whispering into their hats

America, you cannot see yourself anymore from the inside
You have resigned all responsibility
Perhaps you have given too much
You re tired and cranky
Because everyone wants a piece of you
I understand, you don t liked to be talked to like you re a child
There, there
Everything will be all right
It was just a nightmare


OK. This is the beginning. What exactly is the Pardo? Though one letter and a world away from the Bardo, the twilight world through which the soul passes after dying; a broad, dark valley attended by horrifying voices and phantasms; the Pardo also keeps its distance from precise definition. It is a shadowland of voices, of images swirling like dragonflies over a cat-of- nine-tails. It is a color. The color of saddle leather at sunset in the high desert, the color of the bottom of a scooped glass of Scotch Ale resting on a table of pine stained darker to look like oak. The Pardo will continue at and for its own pleasure, as a dialogue between strangers in a strange land....