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Deadpan Poetry

a masturbatory affair.

Creative Commons License

pull a chair up


oh you crazy mountain people
harvesting weeds and want ads
ganging bongs and telephone aps
against your laughing noggins
full bells rapped with mallets
and i would place my guess
the dog was hiding safely
watching from the closet
with a smile and some tongue pinched
between her cheeky teeth and gums

Come Home and Frisk Your Neighbor

Stevedore acres is located on 30 yards of machete landscaping, surrounded by giant weeping grandads and plad gargoyles. Our amenities include tranquil couples sex and breathtaking mustache vineyards. Come join the misadventures of the many converts to the Johnson clan. Come home and frisk your neighbor at Stevedore acres.

washer/dryer consciousnesses
cozy woodshed
patio/deck with stork
cauldron cemetery
wrap around barmaid
washer/dryer included in select universes 

24 hour maladies
swiss popularity
tentacle courtyard
burning excrement
trash pick up
planned respect activities
plaything arm
lawsuit careers
business center
prescription hallmark
skewer armchairs

Contact the cyclopes.

Thank you!!

The Johnson Clan

Someone spies a pair of magical sideburns reading from the acolyte’s codex errr brochure.

THERE IS NO ROOM IN THIS BRAINI’m not a member of the insurance club.The controversy du jour is suspendedin a permanent state of hammockalong the pulsing membranous shoresof something resembling my face.Inside is a palaceshaped like a nipple for a headwhere all the great thinkers thinklong probing thoughts about a bandof shirtless bear-riding menputting the cynicism back in every welcome friends placard.It’s often difficult to separate hope from some sort imaginary larval stagepreceding an indirect metamorphosis     into part-vegetable, part-lungbefore you are ultimately consumedby marauding veggie lungs.My four equal parts slowly blanchedon the carousel. The microwave generationsaw the ghost of Cobain for the last time.He said: If all the world is a to-do your concluding post-its should read wake me when it’s over.Pencils down a favorite tragedy:my apparent genealogical predispositionfor reckless predation on a massive scale.Weird, because these useless flippers can barely flop out of bed every morning.But we can talk the politics of dairyin spite of my prepupal passivity.Perhaps a forcible eastward relocationof all cattle despite my strong inclinationto preserve the anonymity in my milk.It’s like that special feeling you getwhen someone gives you free weed.Everyone being kind to everyonefor no particular reason.A formidable-looking stamp loomsmenacingly over next year’s 1099.I continue to grow arms under the weight of this burgeoning nostalgia.Another great shitstorm approachesand here I stand umbrellaless.


I’m not a member of the insurance club.
The controversy du jour is suspended
in a permanent state of hammock
along the pulsing membranous shores
of something resembling my face.

Inside is a palace
shaped like a nipple for a head
where all the great thinkers think
long probing thoughts about a band
of shirtless bear-riding men
putting the cynicism back in 
every welcome friends placard.

It’s often difficult to separate hope 
from some sort imaginary larval stage
preceding an indirect metamorphosis     
into part-vegetable, part-lung
before you are ultimately consumed
by marauding veggie lungs.

My four equal parts slowly blanched
on the carousel. The microwave generation
saw the ghost of Cobain for the last time.
He said: If all the world is a to-do 
your concluding post-its should read 
wake me when it’s over.

Pencils down a favorite tragedy:
my apparent genealogical predisposition
for reckless predation on a massive scale.
Weird, because these useless flippers 
can barely flop out of bed every morning.

But we can talk the politics of dairy
in spite of my prepupal passivity.
Perhaps a forcible eastward relocation
of all cattle despite my strong inclination
to preserve the anonymity in my milk.

It’s like that special feeling you get
when someone gives you free weed.
Everyone being kind to everyone
for no particular reason.

A formidable-looking stamp looms
menacingly over next year’s 1099.
I continue to grow arms under the weight 
of this burgeoning nostalgia.
Another great shitstorm approaches
and here I stand umbrellaless.




From monastery to brothel
From captain to loose cannon
From chains to chance
From celestial to soil
From revolution to resolution
From yield to wield
From wanton to wonton
From worldliness to wilderness
From warlord to Academy Award
From iPhone to I Am
From alum to Athena
From opposite to integrated
From ignorance to innocence
From two cents to nonsense
From junkie to jiu duan
From duality to Tao
From fiat to finale
From fear to faith
From phoenix to flea
From financed to infinite
From penury to plethora
From prolix to punk
From predictable to numberless
From zero to one
Snow monument.

Snow monument.



I’m launching a plum into 
The torso
Of my doppelganger
To match the lump
In my own real stomach.

The girl of myself, that I imagine 
Often, in my own peripheral vision,
Is almost complete,
Now with this offering,
Less hungry.


Fly fishing film tour at Aladdin Theater
Never had a beer at The Lamp before
I’ll have a Bloody Budweiser Lizard, Mary
hold the lamb bacon and celery
I’m getting authentic asian cuisine
Good in theory
but maybe not the way to go
I don’t have a tree that grows money in the backyard
you have to get those seeds from China
that’s where my poems are printed
in an American Ganesh sweatshop
we’re the holiest of the holies 

Dead Celebrities

I don’t understand 
mourning the loss 
of someone who 
wouldn’t otherwise
mourn yours.


The romantic answer
dolled up and worldly
like a pile of bodies.
Grave a friend in the hole
a pair of lovely seal ables
from her heaven lea adieu
a pie of baldies.

Is miss took add vice 
the loamed and the skew.
Is was tall king to a shoulder
developing nations for it.
Her body a descent church

whose legs have gown missing?
They’ve walked off and left
calls someone was coming.

Fire sex water is a flesh
that witch does not kill you. 

seed text: Guess Can Gallop,
Heidi Lynn Staples
Half & Half



An endless concourse
of hallways. Sterile corridors.
An opiate sleep quickened
through a dying window.
The hum of compression.
The cold, surgical.
The grasses, bent in longing.
The wind and all its burden.
The stitches. The bleeding.
The basket-weave muscles
bruised and swollen.
Skin and sky of distinct stages
of healing. Armour of water.
Forests of leaden quiet.
Whole mountains of gathering,
here, in the abdomen.
A fugue of yellow.
A ladder to anywhere.
An alcove that wilts, perfect,
into daylight.
The window is open.
The blue house wakes.
The lights come on.
No pain.