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Added: 9 September 2009

More Poetry of Meat Gizmo


That meaty man, The Giz, is back like so many sordid flies on a fanciful mission to pulverize and pulp the vicissitudes of a foregone era, and truly his gizmo has never been meatier. Airplanes, aliens, bathroom walls, and stripping women suggest only the most vulgar outlines of his oeuvre, and merely hint of a larger hors d'oeuvre, a man-oeuvre of telling proportions like spiced baked hams crowding in against salads of harlequin design, while pastry pigs and turkeys twitch and bewitch a dark gold savory river on its course to a place where none infantilize comme une lune truquée. Take that step forward and peer over the edge into the abyss of stars and wonder, yeah, wonder where you were when the real commanders issued forth the fruits that lesser women would covet like sparkles on a demo cover version two shoe cabaret. And then ask yourself. When?

Yours from the low side,
Jimmy Bannon


Fast and as fast as all hell let loose, our stream of chatter crosses the tropopause and spends out into the ether.

Weak life clinging to bright stones never feel it pass- rushing into possible nowhere; emanations that may never cause a sympathetic vibration.

But my minuscule makes me think: this could be it; a dog food commercial, nos es immortalis!

A distant rabble considers it our signature; and names our system Mighty Dog.

*in consideration of the scientific fact that for over a century now VHF radio waves have been leaving our atmosphere. It is therefore possible that intelligent life 100 light years from us in any direction could have received these signals.

Night Flying

Somehow clipping a cumulus cloud seems to cure the blues. And a cockpit shout and laugh out loud takes away wispy red-haired teary memories of that which must never had meant to be.

Night radio chatter of controllers and crew transitioning here and there in a starry and black velvet sky sing a music not many hear; orchestra to the motion of the party of we few who mark our paths as flashing stars; magical traces over the dark and light-speckled earth.

Up here I take a draught of pure thin, cold air and am a laughing, wayward boy once more.

And when my wheels touch down, I am sometimes ready to try and make sense of you all over again.

Brass Bed

That woman comes into my bedroom strips, opens the covers and starts to lay on the mattress; one by one those long legs, then the rest.

The thrown-up sheet parachutes over her, giving glimpse of upturned breasts and cascading hair.

The old bed squeaks as she shimmies; "Now that's better."

By the time I am back from the porch light switch, she is snoring.


Slowly at sunset
city lapses into lower din.
Then follows hours of whispers
interrupted by shouts
of occasional cars and drunks;

to finally sleep a few hissing moments;
a dismal, fecal, comatose giant.

False dawn brings song
of reclaiming birds;

soon flailed at by bus roar
and screaming siren.

Subway hums up
in a staccato clatter
rhythmic with the stutter
of distant helicopter;

noisy footprints
on a cacophonus lanscape
of heated glass and despair.

Sign of the Cosine

Quantifiable body count
attaches detachment;
figures in a newspaper
adjacent to the weather,
to your strike price?)
No bearing on
what you wear
if that guy from corporate
is in the office today.
Secondary number
to time of kid's soccer practice.

Little service do
earthquake victim statistics
from Ethiopia provide; useless numbers
not circumscribing crimes
of passion-what good?

Annoyed, slowing for
police and ambulance
attending two bleeding rollover victims,
angered at slow pace
of three arrogant non-whites in your path,
you spin out of control, pi-r-squared,
and slam into bridge abutment,
p equals m v squared.


All the poots from the country club
ride home with their convertible tops down
and the windows rolled up.

And it makes a statement
as viewed from the alley:

They look like shiny white fedoras
in a crowded cellar dance hall;
their bodies bob the bumps
of a bad city street,
riding tan/white arks,
for the more than
making it by.

So I try to guess
which model it was called that year
and slowing my steps
into the quickening dark,
I catch in sight
their cracked-eyed debutantes who,
borrowing the street corner
for their own designs,
swerve back to the suburbs
in their father's car
and pretend to rage.

After Hours

Twig cracking, snot flying
quizzically squinting
maniacally grunting,
he enters the lower plateau
at a clearing
where he finds a welcome sight.

Black evening wear slit-dressed,
she lowers the champagne glass from her lips
while, with her perfect blue eyes gathering data,
slowly scanning the room,
she completes her head's turn
and peers at her husband...

They were quail-like prey...

"John, are you OK?
you were looking so...
far away for a moment..."

They did not notice him.

Grabbing three at once
and stretching open
his huge, odoriferous maw,
He engorges himself on them-
wriggling and screaming
in his massive hand-claws,
ripping into their hapless
bodies in a bloody feeding frenzy...

"Oh, there's Dr. Witgarten...and
who is he with? John? John!;
You were drifting away again-
C'mon, this is your office party..."

Belching in satisfaction
he eyed the high forest
and immediately stomped off-
leaving the carcasses
for the rodents and vultures...