nah forget it. yo! holmes! to bel-air!

right here and now, i'm going to found a new poetic tradition. i don't have a name for it yet, but its undoubtedly in the subconscious works. here's my first one, borrowing the words from an e-mail i just recieved from my college's administration.

"nah, forget it. yo! holmes! to bel-air!"

last night at approximately 9 PM
there was an (!) incident involving two students
under the influence of a hallucinogenic controlled substance.
The CU-Boulder
Police Dep(!)artment received
three separate calls
of a naked male reportedly running around
outside.
the male student
accessed hallett hall and allegedly violated
the university code of conduct (!) regarding
sexual misconduct against another student.
other residence hall students were able to apprehend and (!)restrain him until the
Police arrived.
(!)Police(!)
apprehended the student and transported him to boulder
community
hospital. boulder county victim advocates was summoned
to provide(!)
assistance and support to the victim(s). housing staff also provided support
to the community.

R.W.C. #5: 'Just a Robot and his Bitches'

"What was that?"

A cry went out.

"I can't quite tell. Be quiet now."

The noise came in on little robot's feet, dancing and striding through a knife-grey mist.

"Can you get a closer look?"

A sigh went out.

"I can almost get a glimpse."

The noise came in and never left, a token of a robot's path.

A crooked path, perhaps.

But a path there none-the-less. A path and life of cheese-sticks, poon, and Asian women.

"Is it still there?"

A plea went out.

"I still cannot tell."

The noise came in on little robot's feet.

And is the noise still there?

If anything, we know, it is

just

a

robot

and

his

bitches.

back 'n shit

i'm back, for better or worse, after spending a summer wondering around central england, southern spain, greater gibraltar, and western wyoming. not on one trip, though that'd be deck as ef.

anyway, i am now officially enrolled and attending classes at the university of colorado at boulder, so that is probably going to be taking most of my time. i'll try to post some more stuff i have written over my abscence, time permitting. i still need to start on the r.w.c. novella.

trust me, its in the works.

yeah, and i'm a chinese jet pilot.

(army of darkness reference, yeah!)

R.W.C. Announcement

as i just purchased a new computer today (ibook, you bastards) i will be able to commence work on my first robot winston churchill epic novellete "cheesesticks & poon: the adventures of robot winston churchill across the ages; the epic, part one; "dark side of the poon"."

good shit.

high school poem, the reaction

so i read the poem outloud today, and recieved a few laughs, but mostly stunned silence.

success.

my high school experience

so, as wednesday is my last day of high school forever, my government teacher wanted each person to write a speech about what high school meant to them. i find that idea stupid, so i wrote a lyrical poem, in true dada fashion, of course. here it is.

my high school experience

while the guns rumbled in the distance, we had a dim premonition that power-mad gangsters would one day use art itself as a means of deadening man’s minds. as i stood on the highest peak, i shouted towards the heavens below me,

“the trout are here, good sir, and they demand your love. make the romance explosion on them if you ever want to see your illegitimate children again.”

the cheesesticks served every other tuesday in the old commons were a roller coaster of emotion and if winston churchill were to return from beyond the grave he’d undoubtedly be a robot.

my friend soren and i ventured into a restaurant the other day, and i couldn’t stop laughing because when the waitress asked what we wanted for drinks soren looked up and stammered, “if there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment, a power that twisting in dark passions produced everything great or inconsequential, if an unfathomable, insatiable emptiness lay hid beneath everything, what would life be but despair?”

i remember the first time i met you.

i remember first entering this divine palace of learning and immediately the smell of sweet flowers caressed my nose. despite looking everywhere, i simply could not find the coffin. i urged a riot and called for my own destruction. that, it would seem, i was granted, for i could only believe in a god who could dance.

my fellow students, if con is the opposite of pro, congress is the opposite of progress, and when i am elected president i am changing the name of air force one to air force fun.

while the little green footballs of my soul were tossed against the raging winds of antiquity, i shaved off my eyebrows into a bowl of soup. they danced amongst the froth, like two star-crossed lovers on the night of their demise.

it is undoubtedly this course of action that must be taken. you reporters, you philanthropists of the heart, do this for me. imagine a boot stepping on a face for eternity, and tell me how you feel.

R.W.C. #4: 'Anus Cold As Ice'

After a wait of well over a month, I present the newest (and fourth) installment of

"Cheesesticks & Poon: The Adventures of Robot Winston Churchill Across the Ages".

Part Four

"Anus Cold As Ice"


Doctor Robert Watson, chief paleontologist at the National Museum of Natural History, came bolting through the doors of the delivery docks just about as fast as anyone could. The newest prehistoric discoveries from the field had just arrived, and Doctor Watson was sweating with anticipation. As he signed for the delivery, he ordered his assistant, paleontology graduate student Tony Danza, to help him bring in the giant crate.

“What is it, Doctor? Is it the homo erectus you’ve always wanted?”

“’fraid not, me boy. This prize’ll be much grander. A perfectly preserved woolly mammoth, frozen instantly at the beginning of the Ice Age. I’m just hopin’ this one doesn’t have the strange deformities like the last one.”

“What were the deformities, Doctor?”

“Hold on boy, let’s get this crate in the examination room first.”

As they brought the massive crate in by fork lift, they placed it upon the examination table. As Danza began to tear away the protective covering, the Doctor could barely contain his excitement. His colleagues in the paleontology world had laughed at his obsession with the wooly mammoth, but Doctor Robert Watson was on a mission.

Ever since his first expedition to the artic as an eager graduate student, and his first mammoth find, he had been hooked on finding the perfect specimen of the massive beast we know today as Mammuthus Primigenius. But what had puzzled him most, especially recently, was the odd deformities in and around the sexual organs that seemed to appear on each and every specimen that ventured through his museum doors. It was almost enough to drive the poor old man insane.

But as Danza peeled away the last of the plastic wrap, exposing the perfectly preserved fur and fleshed, the Doctor became wholeheartedly aroused.

“Hurry boy! Show me the anus!”

Danza paused at this request, but when you spend eighteen hours locked in a museum like the Doctor did, the standards of attraction may be slightly lowered. Either way, he did as he was told.

As Danza unwrapped the anus’ covering, the Doctor pushed him away and grabbed the first look. What he saw couldn’t be put into words. A massive hole seemed to have ripped away the anal cavity, as if the result of a penetration of biblical proportions. And inside the gaping hole was, just like all the others, a kind of stringy, metallic goo.

“No! No!”, the Doctor jumped back, horrified, “No, it cannot be! Not again!”

“What is it Doctor?” Danza yelled at his petrified professor.

The Doctor was speechless. Eager to look for himself, Danza looked in at what the Doctor had staggered back from.

“My god, Doctor. This hole… it’s enormous. And this liquid. What is it? It’s almost like some kind of robotic semen.”

With those words, the Doctor was pushed over the edge.

All of his theories, his worries, his fears, were confirmed with those words. His worst nightmare was coming true and it was directly in front of his face. Terrified, he fell to his only solution to such a pain.

The Doctor, in his last act, ran quickly to a counter near the table where he grabbed a scalpel. Tears pouring from his eyes and agony ripping at his soul, he quickly slashed his wrists and throat as he fell to the floor. As he looked up once more from his pool of blood and pure human grief he bellowed his final words toward the heavens.

“Damn you, Robot Winston Churchill!”