Juliet Frank

The Centipeep Show!

Faces VERSES Voices

Posted on | April 17, 2014 | No Comments



AND WHY SAVE A POEM IN ITS VOGON STATE?? Because often, the first thought, the gibberish, is the thing that will make sense in the future. It is usually the TRUTH whether it has literary value or not.

So without further adoo….


If you’re looking for too much in life
I hope you don’t find it
I sound mean
But I mean it
Localize the search
Between the two brackets
That close your cardiac deal

I hope
They never find that airplane
I sound mean but I mean it
We need to know that 200 of us
Can disappear off the face
Of the earth and never be
Seen again

We need
To know that’s always a possibility
And then, perhaps,
We’d be grateful enough
To enjoy our own front porches
As well as the superhuman




Lavender dots in space
That used to be green, chartreuse
Blue shadows that once were proud
Peacock people fanning the nerves
Of a silver cricket
Which once wired your TV.
The shrieking of technology where once
There was the whisper of blood
Fields of muddy blossoms
That once were poppies’
Crimson violet stomping ground
Sharp turns that once were
Delicate oval orbits,
Centuries unnoticed
Altitude drops that could
Make a humble egg detonate.




If you asked me
What is my least fave emotion?
I’d say THIRST.

Sorrow & hunger can’t compare. Anger
compares but still there’s
a grace period–the days between rages
create a surplus–
a flood of lavender/violet
on the platinum nerve

Thirst is the nerve in its
Dry, brittle state
A deficit

Unable to conduct any colors
Not a yellow sulfur
Or hazel ionization

Rage loses electrons

But thirst is an empty
shell case gazed
upon by a black hole’s
constricted pupil




Please don’t ever leave me.

To begin with such a cliche
You must immediately make it right
By explaining
You are not talking to a mortal
Human being
No friend
No lover
Not even god or angel
Are included in this conversation

I wish I could say
But even that is wrong

I wish I could say, Drone
Deliver me
And a whole church, altar & all
Would fall into my lap & answer

Into my palms & question
Into my arms & silence

I wish you could
Stay forever but even I
Can’t do that
Here’s what I’d like to remember,
Here’s what I’ll take with me
into my face-melting future:

The YOU smiling with fans
In your wide-eyed afterglow

The YOU so drunk it couldn’t
Spell ‘razorblade’
It could just walk its sharp edge
And call it a stage
(This is my favorite YOU)

The YOU at your best angle
Touching your hair
Looking up from your nose
As if it were the bridge
To a scary underworld

Mouth downturned at customs
And corners
I’ll remember the YOU
In the van with night-vision goggles
The YOU on the bus
With a small dog, lost & yet so
Loyal to this YOU.

I can sleep now. There are many YOUs
To hold onto…and they all call me



Remember…I’m not here to be used. I don’t need you to find things for me to do. I just deVogonized another short story–I’ll bet you didn’t, and you don’t hear me suggesting that you do more with your life, now do you?

All right. See you next time in the Centipeep Scrapbook Octopus Facemask Show.

Meta Stomach Contents

Posted on | April 2, 2014 | No Comments


Hi, I’m back at ya. With art. With Vogon poems.

Do I have anything else to say to you all? Not much–I’m so glad so many people are enjoying my self-indulgent memories. Why am I doing it–reliving my timeline again, when I promised I wouldn’t? I can’t tell you now…you’ll have to wait as long as I have to wait to tell you…

Until then…enjoy these arts & this Vogon poetry:


Phlegmy voices.
A shout, “CLOSE THAT GATE!!!”

A grill-full of smokin’ carcass.
Yay, drinking!

Nowhere to sit, no one to talk to.
The feeling is bad already.
Something’s wrong.
I don’t go to weddings.
I don’t go to croquet tournaments.

I play.
I do as poorly as I expect,
But not as poorly as the
Princess on the team behind me.
Her cunt smells & she knows it.
All the dogs pooping on the field know it.

Dogs are better than people,
I just wish both were more like cats.
Know your space, bitches.
Quit stinking.
Yay, stinking!

Yay drooling, pooping…

Why are you staring?

Like an industrial bore
Trying to make my face an empty space
Go wipe your footprints on the third world
And be prepared to see people
Way weirder than I

Stare, stare
Will you stare at them that way or
Avert your eyes
So they will do your work?

And then I was dragged away…..

Not “do you want?”
Not “please.”
Just “Come with me.”

Take me home if you’re
Putting me in a car,
Don’t take me to a second location.

I want to see who wins this game.
I saw Mr. Greedyhands take food
From my bag without asking

It felt like something was wrong
So I asked “Is something wrong?”
And I was told everything was
Superlatively spectacular.

And just the way you said it
I knew something was wrong.

As I left
I tried to say good-bye
To the guys at the gate
But they pretended not to see me

Maybe I wasn’t there after all.
I prefer to remember it that way.


The earliest version of 'Meta Stomach Contents'

The earliest version of ‘Meta Stomach Contents’



So why would I want to write about something
That hasn’t happened yet?

I’ve always had a way with defenestration
I’ve always known just when
To jump.

I have a silver star embedded
In my 5th intercostal space
Like a piece of broken window

I’m sad for the family I lost,
And for the friends I couldn’t have
Because I had to protect myself

I had super-specialized tasks to uphold
While I was here
While I was her

Now I have a choice–
To stick around & enjoy
The fruits of my de-programming

Or just to clock out
And drink in the darkness


Next version

Next version

Other half of next version YUM!

Other half of next version


Third greenish-grey day in a row
My step-father’s Russian double has
Overstepped his shirtless boundaries

Stepped across a big black sea
Like a puddle, no crying
No baby tears

Closer to a red sand box
Closer to owning the jungle gym
Again with his chicken feet
Closer to using red snow
To block (shock?) the U.S.A.

First sunshiney afternoon in a while
Greedy for brightness, my eyes
Adjust to the spectral lottery &
Putin’s face strobing newsworthily
Across my page

Keeps reminding me
The 9-year love affair
That stole my mother like cancer

The love affair
That orphaned 3 stupid lazy Amerikan angels
And destroyed 2 German ones.

That round pink head
So sweaty & furrowed with moods
No orphan could fathom

Bitter breath &
Smearable meats in the kitchen
Cigarettes allowed; liverwurst too

The borders of my stomach changed
When I was an orphan
Let in too many refugees,
Then purged them from my
Nauseous chambers

It’s not my problem the bathroom’s
Infested with flies
And it’s not his problem
That I’ve lost my mind

That was the upstairs/downstairs detente
My young horseface
Always hung low

My brothers’ bird & monkey faces
Always losing seventy percent
Of the emotional lottery




I’m extra,
But not key.

I’m clutter.
A knick-knack in a hi-tech world.

An ornament on a nuclear reactor

Who am I?
My mum’s desperation to climb from
The shelf where she was less than clutter
She was dust

She never could wipe herself away

I worked hard to be clutter
And dust settled over me every day

My surface wished so badly
To be a hi-tech gadget
But the dust would allow
No shining

It got jealous & resentful & it settled again
Like a blanket of skin

I’m an extra & I know others.
My role is insignificant
But what would the stars be without me?

Gaseous empty flame
Unlit for years until it reaches
Someone’s ear as dialogue
Or someone’s eyes as [something French for
"Sudden enlightenment."]

If you’re wondering
If we’re all extras–
No we’re not.

Some of us were born with lead roles
Or key parts
Gripped like silver spoons

Some of us own the studios
Where big breaks
turn back into daydreams…

Notice the sequence
it’s origamically incorrect
Unfolding itself from a swan
Into a picture of a swan

If you can still see it
In its spatial relation to the writer…

Trinity of nepotism
Defining glory with only the
Visual sense in mind

Camera men, directors,
Sound technicians are hired
And they are important

If you look closely
They are even more important
Than the actors

And much more so
Than dusty extras, pretending
All the shelf’s a stage, and carpet fibers
Are audience members


And the last version with a strategic yellow wash & photographed backwards so delighfully

And the last version with a strategic yellow wash & photographed backwards so delighfully


All right asses. I hope you enjoyed that stash of Spring poesy, Vogon as it was. Since it’s April I’m back to serious writing, so no more art for awhile >: / >: /


Posted on | March 26, 2014 | 1 Comment


Hello & welcome back to my scrapbook peepshow empire.

Because I remember how much Wednesdays suck in the real world, I’ve decided to make this your lucky Wednesday. I have for you some art & some Vogon poetry. You love it.

You may remember this art from last week’s scrapbook entry. It was called “Hallucinogenic Retention Pond” and it looked like this:



Now it is called “Flight 370 Reaches The Rings Of Saturn” and it looks more like this:
Flight 370 Reaches The Rings of Saturn

Flight 370 Reaches The Rings of Saturn

The Rings of saturn reached by Flight 370. This was going to be a juicy landscape--a poppy field or something--but I ended up seeing the airplane in it & going that way instead...

The Rings of saturn reached by Flight 370. This was going to be a juicy landscape–a poppy field or something–but I ended up seeing the airplane in it & going that way instead…

I still use the watercolors more like they are acrylic, but I’m getting a much better idea of how the paint behaves & how much water to use to get which effects, and which brushes make which marks, etc…etc…I won’t bore you with all those technicalities though. You don’t want to read about that.


Here’s what you want to read–Vogon Poetry so Vogon it can hardly be called Poetry!

Believe it or not, I have been writing lots of new material lately, on top of all the older stuff I’m rewriting & deVogonizing. It’s called being a writer, and I’ve decided to dedicate the latter part of my life to it. It’s not exciting to TALK ABOUT, but just observe the results:



Baby bird
Was it your beak
I refused to kiss?
Or your wings I couldn’t
Bother to craft

You ended up building
Your own flight suit
Out of plastics & grasses
Barbie doll scraps & swatches
A lost hair weave
A number of crack baggies

Ball peen hammer
Gorgeous pink sky
Versus the deep blue reality
Of your balls [?]




How do you say
What you need to say in your own words?
Will you tell the same truth
The psychologist told
Or will you make yourself more heroic,
More palatable?

The trick is to write through the shadows, ink tracks, black bread crumbs…

Spread an ice storm on the page in the dark
The trick is to answer
Their snide rhetoric with kindness

The trick is to know you have the right to say NO

But it may go unheeded
Try it anyway
Say it now–NO!
Good. Follow those crumbs through the shadow & white-out
Find me standing with
Ink on my hands

Find me waiting with fidelity and a bag of groceries

We touch
We coin ourselves
You are heads & I am tails
We can flip around to see
The green grass or blue sky
Or the end of the rainbow
Projected onto snow

The groceries spilled, revealing
Themselves like naked bath-time children
‘Round the cards & alcohol table
(Parent-friends over-burdened
And in denial about their choices
And happiness levels)

What would the onion say
To help you on your way?
Slice me sideways
Leave no secrets hidden
In layers of leaky skin
And the potato?

Take out my eyes
Help my other senses advance
Hold me in your hands
As you hold your hands
Under snow & ice
Such extremes are good to know

And the artichoke would tell you
All the pointed buttery details
You won’t tell yourself




We decide to treat ourselves–
Winter in Chicago
Locked indoors
Building a new studio
House parties
And their aftermath

Never forget the aftermath
Where I dream
I am a cartoon waif, Japanese in places
In love
With another animated wonder
Blonder, taller…

I dream estrogen is like bourbon
It intoxicates, it elevates
I dream that
Breeding is a clean, miraculous act
An egg hatching,
And a peep

The reality is I’m an old smelly dog
A withered sea monster
Burdened by cellulite & kelp
Mostly American but mutated
By Japanese waves

The reality is
Breeding is a bloodclot
In a semi-automatic vein
The truth is
Estrogen IS like bourbon
It has an aftermath…



All right. I know your attn: spans can only take so much. Enjoy those Autumn Vogon Poems for now, and I will unload the Winter ones soon…

Octopus Equinox

Posted on | March 20, 2014 | 1 Comment


Hi, welcome to the Centipeep Show an abandoned blog empire that now serves as a scrapbook for the internet archaeologists.

I have been having a wonderful birthday month & hope y’all are enjoying my birthday month too. It’s a very enjoyable time if you just let it be. It’s up to you.

I have been feeling better & doing some watercolors instead of writing. You have to take a break from writing sometimes. And so do I.

My hammock-stomach seems better. I don’t feel like vomiting every hour. I’m not sure why or how or what caused it, or why or how it got better…but…I’m glad. I was getting worried that it was an illness & not just my spine unwinding!

SO! I know there is an airplane out there missing, and I know that Jorg Putin, my step-fatherish doppelganger, is invading & imperializing the Cry me A peninsula…and I know all sorts of TV shows are on, and that the economy is still fluttering around like an angry bat, and that the Boston bombing last year may have been a CIA sting, kind of like those To Catch A Predator shows they do on NBC, except this was a To Catch A Terrorist sting…and I know the reason that cotton underwear is not as available as it used to be is because of the cost of importing cotton from Argentina, and I know it’s the first day of Spring, and that Olivia Wilde and Kerry Washington are both expecting babies any day now….

But I don’t want to talk about any of that shit. Shit, this is my blog & we talk about one thing here–ME.

My words. My feelings. My observations. My irrational interpretations of the human event. That’s it!! That’s all you get! Bail now if you can’t take it.

I am the narcissist who compared my gymnastic training to Navy SEAL training…who compared being a self-abuser to being held captive by Ariel Castro! So you better believe I will bore you to death with my watercolor progress:

Here are a few things I’ve been working on….

From a photo of Robert Redford & Lauren Hutton on a motocycle. I'm just figuring this shit out, and if it actually resembles a human being at this point it's a success!

From a photo of Robert Redford & Lauren Hutton on a motocycle. I’m just figuring this shit out, and if it actually resembles a human being at this point it’s a success!

Lauren Hutton. It looks like she's texting, but she's really playing w/ her hair. The photo was from 1970.

Lauren Hutton. It looks like she’s texting, but she’s really playing w/ her hair. The photo was from 1970.

This is the beginning of something very wet & goo-ey. I call it Hallucinogenic Retention Pond

This is the beginning of something very wet & goo-ey. I call it Hallucinogenic Retention Pond

This looks like nothing, but it will soon be a mixed-media event. I think it will be about my stomach.

This looks like nothing, but it will soon be a mixed-media event. I think it will be about my stomach.

Oh my, what's this? It's a picture of my husband before I met him, in his hometown, carrying a basket of doll parts! Just for fun...

Oh my, what’s this? It’s a picture of my husband before I met him, in his hometown, carrying a basket of doll parts! Just for fun…

And now a brief writing update:

I sent out a lot of stuff in mid-February (mid-vomit) and here it is the down-side of March and I haven’t got one rejection back yet!! This is the longest run of non-rejections since I started submitting work in 2012. Usually I get one the very first week & then they just keep coming…

AND, I still stand by my narcissistic comparisons. My experiences may be micro, but i do believe they are analogous. HOOO-rah.

Putin: Baby In A Corner

Posted on | March 3, 2014 | 1 Comment

Angelic Asses,

HI!!!!!!! My God–I just had to check in at my Abandoned Empire. It’s been so long. But, you’ll be happy to know that in my absence I’ve been very productive. Writing and rewriting and submitting work all over the globe. The Globe of America’s United States anyway…

Yeah…I rewrote two old stories and polished 3 books of poems and all of it is OUT THERE, being judged and admired (I’m sure…)
So, even though I have had to go further underground than I have in awhile, I feel like parts of me are still out there. My words are floating through the Universe, having their say. And I can stay in…away from the fray…and not getting in anyone’s way with my out-of-the-boxness.

But….I just wish I felt better. I’m having some issues with nausea & being unable to eat or keep food in. It might be scarier if I wasn’t really undoing a huge area of my oft-mentioned scoliosis-spinal twist thing.

I’ve had stomach problems in the past related to muscles in my back & ribs & abdomen coming unknotted after so many years. It changes everything on the inside–air pressure, position of organs, etc…and you can FEEL it! It is often not pleasant. Remember my exorcism of 2011?

But whatever is going on now is major. I see the change in my alignment, and I see the weak spot in my lower left abdomen where all the pain is. I’m working on strengthening that area quickly because I think my stomach needs support. It feels like it’s just hanging there like a hammock…ewww.

Well…sorry to be gross : )) Sorry to be honest. Sorry to be mortal. Sorry to be human. Naw…I think you all can handle it.

ANYWAY–one final thing: WATERCOLORS!!!!! Yay, It’s my birthday month & I will be watercoloring again. Taking a break from writing to go into my right-brain and see what I can do on that side. I’m going to start 3 watercolors–one will be a copy of an existing watercolor so that I may practice painting what I see. The others will be originals, one will be very wet and vibrant, the other may incorporate some pen & ink.

But I don’t have that for you today…sorry. Naw, I’m not…



Enjoy this timeless old cartoon of me & Pecker having our exorcisms. And actually I got it wrong–his were much more copious than my little blob of green vomit.

Smile Sweetie!

Posted on | February 9, 2014 | No Comments

Good Morning Asses,

Without hesitation, I’m going to weigh in on the Allen/Farrow family debate over molestation.

[So rhymey!] But seriously, I’m going to have to take the girl’s side on this. I love Woody Allen. I’ve enjoyed all his movies more than I probably should have.

BUT…!!! Even people you love & admire are capable of molestation. Or anything bad, but especially molestation. Even people who are funny, likeable, brilliant…can do things you would never expect.

I’ve known NICE, MEEK, SHY guys who are not nice or meek when they get you alone.

I’ve known FUNNY guys who are really pretty depressed & bizarre.

I’ve known RESPECTABLE guys, so suited up & professional & smart, who are far from respectable once the blood runs downstairs….

As an estrogen-being who can always take care of her own…uh…sexual urges, if need be, I’ve always been alarmed at how aggressive & uncontrollable testosterone-beings can be. But I’ve got the picture–and nothing surprises me anymore, least of all men with appetites for children.

Children are easy, peasy. Women (or any grown up person) = not easy-peasy.

AND…!!! This argument about the memory of molestation being planted in this child’s head by her mother…
I just don’t think so. You can “plant” something in the head of a 1, 2, 3-year-old.

You can’t “plant” something in the head of a 7-year-old. If my mom had tried to plant anything in me at that age, I would remember, to this day, her doing that. Dylan’s memory of the incident is too detailed, too plausible, just a quick trip to the attic to play with the train while daddy jerks off on your backside…?

It’s too easy. There would be no evidence left of that once the child was able to verbalize it. And at the time, it may not have seemed too blatantly weird & horrifying. It may have just seemed like daddy & I are laying together with the train and he’s very excited about it!!

And at 7, maybe that’s all she understood about it. But 7-year-olds grow up to have a better understanding of these things later…ewwwww…..

And let me tell y’all,

and I have told you this before,

But…I have always been ‘just that weird girl’

In a world full of nice, great,

popular, funny, smart, talented guys…

And I know exactly what that means….

SO…!!! Maybe I am a little biased toward young Dylan Farrow in this case. My experiences on this planet lead me to believe her over the man we all love & enjoy as a movie actor, director, writer, producer, etc…etc…etc…

Will I still love & enjoy his movies? Sure. Smart is smart. Funny is funny. Truth is truth.


I have 2 of my short stories “deVogonized” already! It’s going great–those old stories were really terrible. I hadn’t looked at them in nearly 15 years–but I think I gave them the fabulous make-overs they needed! By the end of this month I will have 2 short stories and 3 books of poems out in the Universe for judgment & acceptance.

I can’t tell you how excited I am.

Now, speaking of Vogon, here is something so fresh…I just automatically writ it this morning!


Make this skeleton
Of a thought
Grow layers of detail–
A simple muscular machine–

To the sun, to the West Coast
Skeletons dance
Because they’re not watered down

Please keep your
Skeleton still
I ask for the keys
Complex gadgets
Secret-keepers who will never squeak

Here is what they’re showing me:
A repeat of Jesus &Judas
A religious murder
Someone holy going down
And causing a millennial shift

Did anyone ever wonder
If the 1980s were the end times? [besides me?]
The nuclear holocaust
alarmist survivalist
See-thru men?

Time will always be there & things
Will always fill it–
like skeletons,
Things, the material world, give shape to time

Hold our memories like
Bony palms
Bony effigies
Like chairs, antennae, eyeglasses
Are honored exoskeletons

Now what is that cable
Screaming about?
It won’t be a gunshot.
A lethal injection–skeletal steel
So flat under the clavicle

Oh you mean a knifewound?
That’s so old fashioned–
But I like it.


I’ll have some art for you Asses in March, ‘mmmmmmmmkayyyyyyy?

The Guv’nah

Posted on | January 31, 2014 | No Comments


Once upon a compass, there lived a place named Florida. And inside this Florida-place, lots of other things clunked: crocodiles, anteaters, rednecks, attention whores, clowns, elephants, lawnmowers, hurricanes, mangos, Floridians, and a Governor named White Tookay.

Florida was a pretty classy place until the election of White Tookay.

Once White came to power, all hayseed broke loose. All social contracts were annulled & staring was allowed. Pointing, too. Lying, denying, plagiarizing, sodomizing–all encouraged by law. Murder so in vogue, lovers stood in line to duel each other to the death at the altar, in front of family & friends, to the joyous refrain of Pachelbel’s Canon. (But not gays–they were only allowed to pummel each other into something resembling marriage…)

Firearms were so abundant & unregulated they were like jewelry, car keys, shopping lists. The stuff you’re in constant touch with in Florida. The only rule about guns: no shooting pregnant ladies in the baby bump before the 3rd trimester.

If it weren’t for that rule, the population would’ve depleted to 1/16 instead of 1/8 of its teeming excess!

But worst of all: the sinkholes. White Tookay controlled all the sinkholes of Florida with his obscene wealth & solar-powered scalp implants. Floridians were scared. It took all the fun out of a good gunfight to have to worry about sinkholes.


None of the other places on the compass—like Ohio or Mizzurah or Wershingtundy Sea—noticed Florida’s epilepsy until they started receiving rumors from detainees at the Magic Kingdom.

The Magic Kingdom was a compound inside Florida’s northeast sinus. Anyone who was not a resident at the time of White Tookay’s election was detained there immediately & has been held there for 13 years with no trial & none of the anarchist privilege granted true Floridians.

Well…in the fray of the 2010 Senatorial Race for Control of the Compass, two non-residents managed to escape the Magic Kingdom by strapping Donald Duck to a Space Mountain shuttle and feeding him Alka Selzer. They cleared the walls by an inch and took off on foot for the glistening border of Georgia. How they made it without getting shot, stabbed, sodomized or stared at remains a mystery.

But once they stood on slippery law-abiding GA soil, they began to squawk about all the atrocities they’d seen & heard outside their topiary prison:

“Eye contact,” EscapeeOne testified, “to the point of creepiness.”

“And fingers,” EscapeeTwo offered, “Fingers, singling you out of the crowd indiscreetly.”

“Whoa…” Georgia gasped.

“Woe!” her residents chorused.

“That’s not all,” EscpeeOne peppercorned. “There were children, naked, copying bits of Dr. Seuss and taking them to the publisher as if it were their own work!”

“Plagiarism??” Georgia beanstalked.

“Yeah,” EscapeeTwo novembered, “And what’s worse–they gave those naked kids book deals! Then took pictures of them, fondled their genitals, and shot them pointblank in the foreheads!”

“Not before those kids drew their own weapons, though. Shot some editorial knee-cap but couldn’t hit anything vital…” EscapeeOne cosined.

“Sodomy? Child pornography? Murder by duel??” the residents of Georgia peanut-galleried.

“YES!!!” EscapeesOne and Two breathalyzed.

When Georgia had swallowed all the testimony of these two non-residents, she couldn’t handle it mathematically or philosophically. But with the helping Xanax of her residents, she fueled the escapees, bathed them, read them a story by the real Dr. Seuss, then shoved them to bed.

THEN, she called Mississippi. Who called Utah. Who called Wisconsin. Who called North Dakota. Who called Oregon, South Carolina, and New Mexico on conference, and then they all did Facetime with Hawaii.

“Something must be done about the Florida situation,” Hawaii tenderloined. “There’s only one more call to make before our plan of attack…”

“Guam??” tazed North Dakota.

“No…” Hawaii half-toned, “…Albany.”

The States all gasped in torpor. Albany was all that was left of New York. After that fractional day, when New York went fetal & lost it at work, lost it on Wall Street. Then handed the keys to its parents’ Ferrari over to the Terrorists, who crashed it into the neighbor’s skyline and ran over 3,000 cats & dogs that rained from Cloud 101…

…since then, New York had been locked up in Bellevue. And Albany was one crusty old fuck about it.

Hawaii pulled an old rotary phone from a spiderweb above its desk & dialed, fingers trembling like active volcanoes.

“What the…….FUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKK??” Albany answered, testicly.

“Albany! Hey, it’s Hawaii,”– mustering all powers of Aloha–”You got a minute?”

“That’s a foolish question to ask a New Yorker. Fuck off.”

“Albany! Wait!” Hawaii and the other States harmonized, “Please! It’s about Florida…”

“What about Floor-ee-duh?” Albany was suddenly plastiscine.

The States all regurgitated the disturbing testimony they’d heard. Albany grunted & clucked & pierced its eyelid with a Bedazzler.

“Hmmph. Urrmph. This is fanatical. Rapturous. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“But, Albany,” South Carolina pussycatted, “We have a plan…”

“Yeah, what plan?”

The States whispered like thick boiling cream of their plan.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh,” said Albany, pleased with the thick creaminess of the plan.

“There’s only one thing…” Hawaii, pausing for bulimic effect, “If we are going to pull off this plan, we must secede from the Union!”


“Stay with us, Albany! We need you to ratify our Agreement to Secede! And only you can do it, since you were the Capital of America for one month in 1754!”

“What about all the other former US capitals?”

“They’re all…indisposed at the moment,” Georgia tattled wormishly.

“Indisposed how?” Albany wanted to know.

“Incarcerated. In State Prisons. For various reasons.”

“No!! Baltimore?”

“Tax fraud.”

“Dammit! Philadelphia?”

“All of PA locked up for illegal organ harvesting. Sorry.”



“Oh, god…” There was a distal, poignant, comatose silence on Albany’s end. And, after 31 moments, a grunt of consent. “Yeah. All right. I’ll do it.”

The catch was–snail mail only. Albany didn’t believe in electronics. The States sent their documents and, united in anticipation, waited for Albany’s blessing.


The situation in Florida was glandular by now. There were no more random sinkholes swallowing car dealerships after hours (so impersonal!) Gov. Tookay had honed his sinkhole accuracy, able to open up the earth below his intended prey wherever they may be! On the highways, in their homes!

He had sinkholes eating folks right off the crumbling sidewalks. His solar-powered scalp implants worked in conjunction with a rain-powered GPS to create the most acidic & localized invisible parabolic sinkhole strikes.

In other words: SMARTHOLES.

And there were fewer and fewer Floridians left to witness all this. The entire populace of Florida now numbered 126, including governors.

The other States knew they’d have to locate the Governor’s hideout as soon as they breached Florida’s vulnerable effeminate borders. Smoke him out. And then barbecue him with his own solar-powered skull.

When the Official Secession Document arrived in the mail, smeared in Albany’s preemptive mesquite blood, the States did indeed secede & wriggled free of their positions on the map.

First, they flotilla’d to Cuba, where it was still hard to tell if Castro was dead. They were fed whole chickens & generic painkillers, and given maps to the portal of Miami.

The next morning, the States floated silently to the syphilitic tip of Florida, veered nor’east & encapsulated Miami.

“Where is the Guv’nuh?” Mississippi demanded.

Miami was taken amok–it had never seen a whole State before, much less a troop of States surrounding it.

“Who are you?” it asked meekly, with no hint of its former neon.

“We are the States that seceded from the Union to capture your evil Guv’nuh and restore a sublime totalitarian tourist state to its erstwhile prosperity!”

Miami was unfastened for a moment, but then zipped, “Okay. I can help you. The Governor is at his palace in Tallahassee, making new Smartholes every minute!”—near tears now, Miami vignetted, “I want my old State back. God, I miss tourism!”

“I know, baby, I know,” South Carolina dandelioned, “We will get your State back, tourists and all. Just help us get to the Governor’s palace!”

Miami fell like dominoes. One high-rise hooked to the next, forming a low-speed turnpike all the way to Tallahassee. The States marched, apriled & mayed up this turnpike until they stood before the Governor’s architectural embarrassment.

The States diapered their weapons—mostly AK’s and trebuchets—and prepared to strike.


Gov Tookay was in his man cave masturbating to the aftermath of his latest sinkhole. He’d hit a gang of unruly tweens who were always protesting the copyright infringements being done to their favorite trilogy ‘Twilight.’ They had eluded him too long and he couldn’t believe he’d finally sunk the little whippersnappers along with their paperback editions of Breaking Dawn: Book Three.

SQUISH! His excitement landed everywhere. A large glob even fell on his solar-powered skull, obscuring it significantly.

Suddenly the palace shook. The Governor heard artillery and boulders being launched outside his man cave, and his self-satisfied arousal turned quickly to aroused unsatisfied selfishness.

“Bosley!” the Governor divined for his atheist butler. But the butler had succumbed to the first round of trebuchet fire.

The crescendo of pro-Florida zealotry continued, amplified. Gov Tookay quaked in his Rocky & Bullwinkle slippers. He lunged for his all-powerful technology, barely able to press the vibrating buttons.

“Who could that be out there?” he pilsnered aloud, waiting for the SMARTHOLE to take care of whoever it was.

But the SMARTHOLE did not open up & swallow Georgia or Utah or Mississippi or Wisconsin or South Carolina or North Dakota or New Mexico or Oregon or Hawaii.

The wad of dicksnot on his solar-paneled head had caused a malfunction, and the intended SMARTHOLE opened up somewhere in Ecuador. The palace was still under siege!

The Governor could see through the holes in his man cave what looked like an archipelago standing on its hind legs, surrounding him.

“Who are you and what have you done with my sinkhole?” he blueberried at the big irregular shapes.

“Fuck your sinkholes, Governor Tookay! And your laws against laws! Everyone knows Florida is way too ridiculous to handle the deadly strains of anarchy. We know you just want to destroy Florida for everyone else & keep it all to yourself! Well, that’s not gonna happen!”

“Georgia?” the Governor jaguared, “What’re you doing here?”

“Calling you out, bitch,” Georgia sneered into her AK’s sights and sent a flock of hot metal pigeons into the Guv’nuh’s right nostril, killing him drastically.

The States januaried down the low-speed high-rise turnpike, jubilantly singing Army songs. They carried the limp, pale, selfish body of Gov White Tookay & before any living thing could take a picture of it, they dumped that pale selfish body into Lake Okeechobee.

Back in Miami, the high-rises stood up like erudite podiums. The States mounted them and spoke loudly to Florida.

“Gov Tookay is dead! Come out & be free to follow the Laws of our Nation once again!”

A few wild-eyed anarchists emerged from the swamps and abandoned airports to listen to the States speak.

“There will be no more sinkholes!” New Mexico googleplexed.

More scruffy Floridians emerged from underpasses & rose from uncut lawns. Wary & mutated beyond human recognition, they were armed to the gills (yes) and wrapped in layers of tire tread & armadillo shell (nature’s Kevlar). Some of them toted manuscripts. Some were groping blindly for the muddy, lousy genitialia of others. All of them pretended not to see anything going on around them—

[---Thou shalt deny ever witnessing any wrongdoing--Gov Tookay's 3rd Amendment]–

“But you must stop plagiarizing, sodomizing, and being in denial!” Ohio tunafished sternly.

One angry mutant Floridian pointed its weapon at Ohio’s American heartbeat, but some others knocked it away.

“That’s right,” Ohio teabagged, “Remember when Florida was a flamingo-colored paradise, and people came from afar to enjoy its cancer-causing majesty? And it was only okay to shoot black people? And we only took our own stories to the publisher?”

The Floridians bob their heads & hiss & murmur like swamp things.

“Now, put down your arms & your verbatim copies of ’50 Shades of Grey!’”

“And get your fingers out of each other’s hoo-ha’s!”

“And look around with your mossy eyeballs at all the wrongs that have been done here!”

The Floridians wept, dropped their weapons, let go of genitals & manuscripts, connected vision & cognition. From their high Miami perches, the States directed the Floridians to free the prisoners from the Magic Kingdom, to stabilize the sinkholes with layers of armadillo shell, and create new works of fiction all based on their brushes w/ anarchy.

Within the span of February, all of Florida was restored to its natural ridiculousness. The beaches were level, the condos upright, the residents back to their bath salt romances.

Georgia, et al, sent their Immigration papers to Albany & were granted full membership to the Union once again. And Albany, never one to exhale until peace was restored, exhaled. Plopped down in the lazy chair, pulled an opium pipe from the cushions and prepared to INHALE, when…

…the rotary phone on the desk warbled like an urgent turkey. Albany cursed mightily & answered it:

“What the…….FUUUUUUUCKKK??”

“Hola, Albany? This is Ecuador. Listen, we got a problem…”



Posted on | January 28, 2014 | No Comments


Greetings & welcome to my Empire!!! My crumbling Empire…
Remember, this Empire is now just a scrapbook, to be found by the Internet archaeologists of the future. The Macchu Picchu of the blogosphere. Or maybe the LaBrea Tar Pits…

So, asses, what I wanted to discuss today is somewhat serious. It involves a new film called DALLAS BUYER’S CLUB, and the actor who is getting lots of awards for playing a trans-sexual woman in the film, JARED LETO. And the reaction of the socially-networked community of TRANS WOMEN who are alive & well today…

I have not seen Dallas Buyer’s Club yet, but I can’t wait to see it. I’ve always thought Jared Leto was a pretty guy, but I haven’t paid much attention to him on any deeper level.

When I heard of this role & saw some pictures of Leto as ‘Rayon’–the transgendered woman with AIDS who lived in the 1980s–he became a much bigger blip on my radar screen.

And I’ve got to say–how did I miss him for so long?? He is just my type of awkward. Yes, I was most surprised to find out that JL is very AWKWARD!

I thought he was probably a very confident, socially nimble rockstar/actor/professional/adult human being. But he is very shy & quirky & not overly concerned with being masculine & not very prone to dating. Anyone. No guys, no girls. A singular asexual being…

And as I’ve watched him on the Award Shows lately, I could see this awkwardness in his appearance, and mannerisms, and hear it in his words. He is not the typical swagger-licious, bad boy, testosterone fueled Hollywood icon. He is very different. Very fluid. Very serious. Effectively humble.

Now, a good portion of the online community of trans women that I follow doesn’t see it this way.

First of all, they want to know why a real trans woman was not asked to play this role. And, after finding out what a sizable list of trans women are working in Hollywood (although still unknown to me), I have to agree. If there are dozens of trans women who could’ve played the role, why did they hire Leto?

The casting couch is a mysterious force in Hollywood & it does not always follow the rules of reality. That is my only answer at this point.

But, since they obviously wanted to hire a biological male — as Rayon herself was — I think Leto was a terrific choice.

Also, there has been some offense taken by trans women over some of Leto’s remarks about playing this character. He refers to Rayon as a “beautiful CREATURE.”

Trans women are sensitive about being called “creatures.” I understand that. But I really don’t think Jared’s heart was in the wrong place when he said this. I think that’s just how he talks. He uses flowery poetic language. I think he feels closer to Rayon than he expected, and perhaps he is trying to come to terms with that by making her “otherworldly.” Creaturish.

Also, in a Rolling Stone[?] article Jared describes some of the preparations he had to do to become Rayon–the waxing, the tucking. This is also some seriously sensitive subject matter in the trans community.

The average, every day trans girl– and there is such a thing– does not want to be seen as a drag queen. She does not want to be seen as a mockery of womanhood, but as a woman. PERIOD. (sorry…) This is an ugly stereotype that even I have seen marring the MTF journey.

Even I have been guilty of seeing MTF human beings as people who must not be in their right minds. Or must want to live lives of fluff & foofiness & folly. Why else would they trade being a male for being a female?

As a biological female who disdained the roles of society meant for my gender, I really had to wrap my head around that concept. It took me reading about ‘Warrior Princess’ Kristin to understand what gender dysphoria looks like from the biologically male POV.

I have a much better understanding now–but I’m still learning how little I know about trans women! How I still have trouble wrapping my brain around it.

As for Jared Leto–no matter what his comments were( “still coughing my balls out of my ass…”), I don’t think he meant them with any disdain or machismo or male privilege or anything hateful toward people of any gender. I think this role was an eye-opening experience for him on a personal level.

Mark my words…I think his percentage of Rayon is at a DRY CLEAN ONLY level. Do you know what I’m saying??

La-de-da-de-da….that’s my defense of Jared Leto & his awkwardness. I hope I haven’t further offended any trans girls. I hope to see more trans actors of any/ all genders on the silver screen one day. But we have to start somewhere…

Also, where are all the trans guys?? I need to know some trans guys…they are a whole ‘nother set of creatures…
oops…sorry…I’m a flowery poet….speaking of…

Here’s a poem from NOW:

How did it happen–my heart so far
From its female side?
Shoulder lagging,
Falling behind in heart school
To give a speech but only bleeding
What about those doves?
Can you speak of it? Crow about it?
If Francis loved birds
He wouldn’t throw them out the window
Be a careful Popestar
I can sing I just lack the words
How can you sing about it if its
I guess that is what chanting is for
What were we chanting about?

Kasey Owens & the magical elixir

Kasey Owens & the magical elixir

Here’s a poem from THEN:

The disco diva
Rising on the platform
Silver afro lighting up the night
Times Square millennium
Silver ball drops down Eleven Flights
Screams reach into illicit windows
And grab around for safety
Elevator stuck between floors
Occupied by savagery
When you slip past my knees
And fondle my inferiority
I see her pinpoints of light
As they rain & fall & blow away
Not fixed to any electricity…
May 2001

Robot Rape--so hilarious!

Robot Rape–so hilarious!

We Are All Computers Who Are Not OK

Posted on | January 20, 2014 | No Comments

Happy DrMLKJr Day!!

Asses, we like to remember DrMLKJr as a saintly orator. A radical reverend. But let me tell you–that bitch was one angry motha !^*$er! And that’s not a bad thing. Anger is a great motivator. Anger should be used, but not indulged in. And it should always be mixed with heaping doses of intelligence and respect. Respect for the anger itself, and for those who may feel its message.

So holla at you, DrMLKJr!!! From one angry bitch to another. May I strive to use my anger as wisely and courageously as you did, perhaps right here in my Blog Empire, The Centipeep Show, The Octopus Diary…

But, yeah, speaking of that…sorry I had to resort to filthy, low-down gossipy-type venting about friends in our last session. But really…how much more interesting is that than some recipe for cupcakes or another photoshopped photo of a skeleton dancing on the beach at sunset reminding us that happiness is a choice, and if you’re not feeling happy, you should pretend to be, or force yourself to be somehow…

But not with drinking & drugging, because that’s cheating…

SOoooo…what else is new…??? …? I am hoping by the end of this week to be in full fiction mode. Visiting my 4 old short stories & “de-Vogonizing them” to use a familiar term…

Then I want to start a new short story, or series of stories about Cody, my main Singlewood character, because i don’t know her. There are too many people around her that are like stock characters, easily defined, and she is this vague, oblivious, under-realized, overwhelmed waif in a flannel shirt. And not much more. Not very likeable either, but that’s okay. Anyway…if I’m ever going to develop the Singlewood idea further, I need to know this character better.

So, after 2 years of getting all my poems in working order, it’s time to start on fiction. It’s daunting. BTW, these short stories are different from the ‘Adventures in Reality’ you might be accustomed to. I’ve sent a few ‘A in R’s out and they haven’t gotten good response. You can’t be too stylistic if you haven’t made a name for yourself yet? Or maybe they really are crap!

I’m still not sure what the criteria are (is), and I’ve read every literary journal in this nation at least once.

Maybe I do need to go to school, but…….



You all may have noticed that I’m doing a daily memory feature on Facebook. Some of you enjoy it; most of you hate it. We were doing it on our radio show, but it doesn’t make for good radio. Only musical or entertainment memories matter on radio; personal memories go on Facebook where they’re enjoyed or not (scroll on by, scroll on by Facebook derby DJ, scroll on by)

And if you’re wondering, ‘why does she have to remember all these stupid things from the past, jeez..???’ Maybe I do have a reason.

Don’t judge me yet. Actually I’ve seen quite a lot of auto-speculation going on in the Faceworld. Lots of throwback-this and on-this-day-I-met-so-and-so and here’s a picture. So I am not alone, for once.

Fun, fiery menstrual homage!!

Fun, fiery menstrual homage!!

Well, I hope you have time for 2 short psychic safari-era poems:

Earthquake sounds
And faith asunder under the sidewalk
There thrives a community
Chaotic insects inhabiting the cracks
That make us cry when they rip through our houses
From here to Seattle, eternity
Airlines’ desperation throes
Crash landing into barbed-mesh-
Nail-split ruins
Fractures bone & metal & even glass
Then fills a colony ship
W/ metaphysic travelers.

March 2001


Now I fear some Xtians will rise up
Against EVIL in all its undefined & relative spectrum
The 80s hive mentality returns to a droning volume
The note said I had permission
To leave it all behind
The note said I could call in sick
For the next four years
It said I would never have to be false again
Well guess what?
The note lied.
We’re here to upgrade your brain
You must take proper care of this one
Keep it clean & no cellular mutations
From the slanders of others
It is their mission to destroy it–
Keep it safe.
This is the new non-violent model
All destructive data removed
So you are free to decide for yourself
How evil you are or aren’t.

Jan 2002

A fun, fiery slander homage!

A fun, fiery slander homage!


Farewell Asses—next time I hope to have some art and/or a positive writing update for you. But I might not, so don’t put pressure on me, goddamit >: /

Sociopath v. Psychopath v. Friends

Posted on | January 11, 2014 | 1 Comment


I’m being serious today & I’m not even going to call you ‘Asses.’

Though my life is wonderful & I’m very grateful for every ounce of peace I experience, I have started of this year with “friend trouble.”

You all may recall that in 2011 I had a lot of “friend trouble.” The end of ’11 was a morass of social chaos:

* I was letting go of people with whom I simply couldn’t keep up socially

* I was being shunned by a few who were offended(?) frightened(?) confused(?) by things I had posted online

* I was getting retribution from 1 friend w/ whom I had tried to set boundaries (boy, was he going to show ME boundaries!)

*And I was trying to distance myself from a tiny handful of friends who, despite many discussions & attempted reconciliations, were just not working out—who continued to hurt me with the same old “behaviour” we had discussed so many times.

Yes, the end of ’11 was a dark time & much more difficult than my divorce-from-family in 2003. [Hell, my family was more than happy to let me go…they never harassed me…or demanded explanations…or called me names (to my face. I'm sure they disparaged me amongst themselves.)]

On top of the decision I had made to distance myself from my then-current social scenario, having such aggressively antagonistic friends from the past show up to complicate things further—let’s just say it was like a multi-car pile-up on the Interstate. If cars were people : 0

But I got through it. I learned ALOT from it—about people, myself, groups, communities, art, technology, spirituality, trust, psychology and death [YES, I learned all that shit from having trouble with friends!]

And time heals wounds. The things that mattered then don’t matter so much now. The sting of losing so many people at once has abated.

New Years sketch from 1-1-11

New Years sketch from 1-1-11

But I continued to have difficulty w/ one particular friend. We continued on the rocky path of trying to remain friends through the bitterness & betrayal that had plagued us for many years.

This was not my choice, really. I would’ve liked him to fade away into his own future without me. Even before 2011, I felt this way. But he was not so easy to let go. He did not want to be let go. He clung & begged & demanded 2nd, 3rd, 8th, 9th, 10th chances to be a decent person.

And he would be nice for 2 minutes, then it was always back to the resentful, jealous, controlling, insulting, manipulative, callous behaviour I had known.

And my husband witnessed the demands & insults, and he wanted to step in and put an end to it (long before 2011), but I always said, ‘No, let me handle it. I know my friend. I know why he’s like this, etc…etc…’

Well…at the dawning of the new year, I finally let him step in & help me end this exhausting, frustrating relationship.
It was sad & stressful, but it needed to be done. And I couldn’t do it alone. I had not laid the groundwork for my friend to respect my wishes. Or take me seriously. I had given him too many chances, and let him walk all over me too many times.

I am relieved to have “back up,” to have someone who is willing to stand up for me when I don’t have those skills myself. But I am also prepared for this to NOT be over yet….


Because I have been reading alot about Sociopaths and Psychopaths lately, and I know that is what I am dealing with in this person.

Now don’t go screaming & covering your eyes. Just because a person is a socio- or psychopath doesn’t mean he has killed anyone…(yet). It just means:

* He repeats the same behaviours over & over despite not getting the desired results

* He is easily bored & needs to use & manipulate people to get what he wants for himself

* He thinks he CAN control people (with money & things, with force, with charm and/or contrition)

* He is unable to empathize. He only feels his own jealousy & hurt. Or anger. Or desire. Or entitlement. Or desperation. Only his perceptions matter. It’s beyond ego, beyond narcissism–there is a disconnect between him and the rest of the world. And he can “fake” empathy & understanding for a time, but not a long time.

So…that is what I’ve been up against for so long. Not to mention our early years of friendship when he was sometimes physically abusive to me. And not to mention the abuse I have seen him commit on other unwitting people (namely heterosexual men/boys who are not interested in his advances).

Despite how I come off in writing, in person I am a wallflower, a door mat, someone who avoids conflict (even when conflict may be necessary!) I’m able to write with power & emotion because I don’t possess any of that in person.

And—despite how I come off in writing —I don’t resent peoples’ happiness. I want people to be happy! I want them to be successful in their lives & careers! I want their children to be strong & healthy, etc…etc…!!!

I haven’t been overly successful in the outside world, but I’ve found ways to succeed on a personal level, in my relationship, on my self-healing journey. I can’t blame anyone else for my not being a famous writer or musician @ 45. It’s just what happened. I was never ready for that—not only was I unable to achieve it, but I never would’ve been able to handle it if I had. And I can’t resent other people for that.

My friend does not see it that way. I think he blames others for his shortcomings. I think he wants other people to hurt, and be unhappy. And to feel small. Me most of all.

Sooooo….this year, I’m sorry to say, I’m going to have to tighten my boundaries even more than I did in 2011.

I’m not here to be used or controlled. Even with kindness. I will not stand for demanding & pushy, but I also don’t want to be manipulated by over-friendliness — I understand more about that now!

I want to be surrounded (or perhaps “buttressed”) by people who are happy & satisfied with their lives, no matter what. Who can handle themselves like adults. Who are not bored & restless & needy. I want to have adult conversations about books, music, art, politics, people, science, etc… I’m not a psychiatrist; I am NOT your mother.


I want acceptance, not suggestions about what I should be doing differently. I have ARRIVED at just the place I want to be in life. HOME working on the stuff that matters to me. I’m not looking for a new career, or any new hobbies, or any busy-body activities.

I AM busy. I HAVE a career (if I ever choose to go back to it). I have a LIFE.

All right, friends. I’ve had my say; 2014 is the year I do not put up with any more shit. For real. For god damn mother fucking real this time. No more door mat. No more sociopaths. THE END.

Broken eggs with old years inside

Broken eggs with old years inside

[P.S. the difference between a Sociopath and a Psychopath? INTELLIGENCE. Sociopaths are of average or below-average intelligence and tend to make the same mistakes over & over, even after getting caught. Psychopaths are highly intelligent and can fake the appearance of normalcy while still not having empathy for others & plotting to use, abuse & even kill them to get what they want : 0]

keep looking »
  • CatClock

    April 2014
    M T W T F S S
    « Mar    
  • Archivus

  • Recent Posts

  • Tag Cumulus

  • MicroManage Me