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Monthly Archives: April 2025

Thor had red hair long ago/And a beard/And a boy companion named Thialfi/And he drank so much ocean the tide ebbed/Not noticing his beer was actually seawater

Millennia later Stan Lee came along/Having co-created superheroes and having space to fill in the monster-genre comic Journey Into Mystery/He told his brother Larry to bring thunder god Thor into the fold/And Larry and Jack “King” Kirby concocted a myth of a myth/Turning timid but worthy Dr. Don Blake into the hammer-wielding blonde prettyboy Thor/And with the hammer BlakeSlashThor discouraged some rockpile-looking invaders from Saturn from conquering the Earth

Silly though this may seem/A not-even-mint copy of Journey Into Mystery #83 is now on sale on eBay/With an asking price of $39,500.00 US

(But hey–free shipping)

And Thor became the stuff of new legends

And is now featured in several movies

But the Marvel Cinematic Universe retrofit the Thor legend to mostly ditch Dr. Don Blake and turn Jane Foster from Blake’s decorative, pining nurse to a kickass scientist specializing in weird energies

So there’s now a myth of a myth of a myth

Please look into it if you haven’t

You don’t want to myth out

we loved each other, me and baby jane.

a nurse is picking poppies from a tray.

these are the roots of rhythm which remain.

.

from self-constructive actions we abstain

when far more urgent pleasures bid us play.

we loved each other, me and baby jane.

.

the nurse as effervescent as champagne

draws from the poppies freedom from dismay.

these are the roots of rhythm that remain.

.

a unicorn, that well-named lpn,

a name that sounds so much like quelle idée.

we loved each other, me and baby jane.

these are the roots of rhythm that remain.

.

Song samplings are from “Me and Baby Jane” by Leon Russell and “Under African Skies” by Paul Simon.

our autonomics do not deliberate/they liberate our thoughts/commandeer/process-engineer pulse and impulse/yet if a compulsive gambler/lets sleep deprivation rive his circadians/he may convulse/derivative of imbalance/navigating not with degrees/but radians

.

the invariant beat of a metronome/substrates our home and hearth/dictates non-invasively whilst we unwary anthromorphs/stave parthogenesis where most the menace is/and keep on step with the rest of the help and hearty/party on to the beat of the back&forther

the pendulous metal

hangs above and back of the stage

suspended by cord in fine fettle

near the beast slash geek cage

.

feast days death days sometimes for a war

sometimes for the birth of a princess

from a lair in a hill out a paneled corridor

comes the hareskin-covered hammer that convinces

.

and the wielder slabbily muscled lumbers

up the stonehewn steps

with a swing she unencumbers

sports and demons from the depths

.

and the hillfolk scream and scurry

at the liquid majestic sound

and to the stage they hurry

where awaits the Darkness-gowned

.

and the wielder holds her hammer high

and scans the crowd and then

swings and smashes and the Death-Gong

drenches all the throng again.

Amping up a lamp with rubadub and easy grin

(Poof!)

A puff of smoke that coalesced into a kickass Djinn.

My wish list is imagined for what seems an easy win.

“Three wishes, three commands” exclaimed the energetic Djinn.

“Then cook me up a lass,” I ask, “A body built for sin!”

(Poof!)

“Alas, the sin is Gluttony,” replied the pranking Djinn.

“I better be more careful,” I intoned with some chagrin,

“So, second wish: Ten Million Bucks,” I told the eager Djinn.

(Poof!)

Ten Million pairs of pants appeared. I groaned, my patience thin.

“Last wish: Just make me happy,” I implored the wayward Djinn.

(Poof!)

And Gary disappeared like calamari on a wharf

And in his place stood Happy, who is Snow White’s Seventh Dwarf.

the penguins were minding their own non-business

suddenly it was decreed that non-uncle sam would require 10 percent of all sales from the  export of their merchandise to the united states of america

suddenly their safe haven was scrutinized

the penguins became a symbol of mindless incompetence

and while it is true that they are indifferent to these recent developments

my fear is that the mockery inspired by these waterfowl will incur the wrath of the commandeer-in-cheep

i mean commander-in-chief

and following his illogic that leads him to seek retribution for anyone who chaps his hide

he will try to make the penguins pay

through the beak

doubling and quadrupling and octupling down

until the poor lil krillsuckers are booted out of the land of the fee [sick] [sic]

even with a green card

I will never be a head on Mount Rushmore/Nor cast my capitated lot/With those four dead presidents/Whence came such woe/So I humbly propose:/Those who wish my Wright[my middle and momside family name]eous visage/sculpted on a mountain/fountain up some seed money,/Honey, and let’s make a Mount Rushnomore/For me and three nonslaveinvolving pals to be headscaped/Scrapedstoned/Shape-cloned into a fitting nonument to lay-backedness/Stray-hackedness and politically neutral

You troll no one when you’re Mount Rushnomoring/Soaring instead above such strife-begetting matters

Begatters of aggression (TR) andor passive-aggression (AL) andor typo-critical hypocrisy (TJ) andor domestic oppression with a side of cruelty (GW) will be invited to mend their ways

Raise the money and let me sculpt a scale model/What’ll consist of Jane [That was my mom’s first name too) Goodall and Jeff Bridges as The Dude/Who’d be between the Great/Raitt, Bonnie and me

See us under anarchic Antarctic ice/After we reverse the genocidotropic anthropic climate alteration

Altercation-quelling proof as snow and then ice resettles on our gently smiling phizzes/Whizzes a more humane humanity into the Undark Ages and that gentle snowfall and ice incrustation on the newly snowcapped peaks of Mount Rushnomore will be the icing on the cake clique

Unique.

the birds are crafty/they invade my attempts to make functional pottery/and rise from the wreckage of a wobbly vase

they whisper hurry up when i am raising a cylinder/and hurrying up guarantees the disaster of asymmetry

and then they wheedle i can still be a bird

and they goad and seduce/until a new bird arrives/not hatched but crafted

it is worse than the alfred hitchcock movie

no tippi hedren for one thing

the birds come in jester and gargoyle/for another

and i am the villain for a third

most horrifying of all: i love them/like rosemary loved her baby/like subbies love doms

they fill a table and cram/shelves and nooks/of my apartment

and i can’t wait to make the next one

and have it escape up the flue of my creative fireplace

a birthright citizen of Phoenix