I’m Skip


I ride

A fly

Named Zip




The sky


We flip

Wing tip




Sure grip

We whip

State wide



We slip

A lip


Your pie

We sip


Bean dip

We tried



No tip






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pig in boots



        The difference is: I lie for a reason.

        Yeah, yeah, I know: Who doesn’t? Maybe a pathological liar doesn’t. Of course, even a pathological liar has a chemical reason.

        OK, that’s not what I’m talking about.

        When I became self-aware I thought that I was special. Not just unique in a billions of years have lead up to me kind of way. I always thought that there was a God watching over me. I don’t remember that being explained to me. My parents were not religious. They took me to church because it was good parenting. Maybe I learned it there. But I don’t think so. I’ve always talked to God, especially when I’m angry and cursing, but also when I’m relieved of some burden.

        I don’t think that’s schizophrenia. Everybody has that voice in their head.

        I fell into a life-long love with a girl who did not believe in me as her God-given destiny the way I believed in her. All of my relations since then have been bitter.

        I have disappointed everyone in my life.

        My God-given life has disappointed me.

        Everything is a lie.

        Yeah, Mendacity is a system that we live in but it’s even more than that.

        Take Gravity. What is Gravity? Well, it depends on what your definition of “is” is.

        We don’t know what Gravity “is”. Science has a description of what to expect from that which we have named Gravity.

        Science isn’t about Truth because the only “truth” is that things are moving. For all those formulae, all that the Science of Physics has to say is that things are moving; defining a thing as that which resists acceleration and acceleration as a kind of movement.

        Science is all an attempt to predict the future, isn’t it? A fortune teller in a labcoat.

        If we say something will happen and it happens we call that Science. If we say something will happen and we make it happen we call that Will.

        I believe that we need God and if there were no God we would need to find the Will to act as if there were. Humans without God believe in Salvation Through Society at best or Nihilism at worst, either one an Amorality, believing that anything can be permissible and that nothing really matters. Either way must lead to totalitarianism, the Big Lie. That which is not forbidden is permitted. That which is not permitted is forbidden.

        Then we entered World War III against religious “Nazis”, Muslim fundamentalists who use God as a weapon of mass destruction.

        So I am wrong about God.

        God is a lie.

        Society is all about characteristic illusions, lies. Society is just what you do to survive.

        I must be a lie.

        Lies are the facts of my existence.

        What soul remains? Why does it matter? What is the difference?

        The difference is, I lie for a reason. I lie to write a perfect world of fiction.

        This is my suicide note.






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My healthcare provider emailed me a link to a new program called Health and Longevity, asking me to Beta-Test it if I would so care to help.

Here it is.  Nice website.  It is asking me to answer some questions and then it will reveal statistically … Oh… How long statistically I will live.

Why not.  How can I resist?


Jeez.  Looks depressing when I actually face… type it.  Well, Beatles, do you still need me?


Not really.  I mean, there’s nothing like ice cold beer on a hot day.  Or a sip of Jack on a cold day.  That’s not really drinking.


Not really.  Cigars aren’t like cigarettes.  I only smoke when The Katman gives me free ones.  Avantis don’t really count… that’s just for the long drive to and from work.  Sometimes lunch.  I can live without cigars.


What’s sex? Ha, ha.  Does porn count?  Ha, ha.  Well, our society is oversexed.  So what if… I mean I AM a married adult… that’s normal.  Right?


Oh, hell, please…




What? (It’s 2:55PM now)

Is this a fucking joke?!

I’m changing all my answers to the opposite.


I’m calling these fuckers.
[Hello.  Listen.  I just used your..Health and Longevity Beta-Test and it said “YOU WIIL DIE AT 3:16 PM”.  What the f… No, I am absolutely serious.  What diff… Fine, it’s 3674-7799.  Yes.  Yes.  Of course.  Oh, you don’t see?  Well I see.  Yes.  No.  Oh, great.  I feel so well now!  Oh, fuck your website.  Yeah?  I’m filing a complaint!  Well, thanks!  Fuck you, too! ]

What the fuck.  Some healthcare.  Assholes.  (It’s 3:11 PM!)
What is wrong with me?  It’s just a fucked-up government website.  My tax dollars at jerk.
This must be a sick joke.  It will probably pop-up some “gotcha” message like “See?  Change your ways” or, or… Oh, shit, I feel funny… Oh come on, get ahold of… My mouth is dry… Oh, God, God…











born fry


        Heather, Marguerite, Clover, and Jasmine were Hens.  They lived in the little community of Coopersville on Coopers Chicken Or The Egg Free Range Farm.

It was Sunday.  Heather, Marguerite, Clover, and Jasmine were attending a sermon by the Reverend Rooster Gluck who was clucking, “When the Grim Farmer’s Wife comes for you will you be ready for Skillet?  Or will you have chosen that world beyond chicken wire (our ancestors called it Frydom) ruled by Coyote himself?”

The congregation clucked, “Praise Skillet.”

After the service Heather, Marguerite, Clover, and Jasmine strutted around Coopersville.

Heather asked her three friends, “Do you believe in Skillet?”

Marguerite clucked, “Pluck, no.”

Clover clucked, “You can see Frydom beyond the fence.  We’ve all seen… Coyote.  If they exist then Skillet must exist, right?”

Jasmine asked Marguerite, “When the Grim Farmer’s Wife comes for us where do you think we go?”

Marguerite replied, “Back to the Egg we came from.”

Heather clucked, “When did you become an Egg Firster?”

Marguerite clucked, “I know a Crow…”

Heather, Clover, and Jasmine fluttered and squawked, “Crow?!  Crows are the minions of Coyote!  Are you Plucked Up?!”

Marguerite clucked, “Follow me.”

Heather clucked, “I don’t know…”

Marguerite clucked, “Lunch is on my friend.”

Clover and Jasmine clucked, “You scared us.  You’re acting like a head with her chicken cut off.  Who is your friend that we don’t know?”

Marguerite led them to the far corner of Cooperville.

Heather, Clover, and Jasmine suddenly fluttered and squawked.  There in front of them was a dead Crow writhing with maggots.

Marguerite clucked, “Lunch.”

As the four hens bobbed and pecked plump little maggots out of the Crow, Marguerite told the story of the Crow.

“I met this fallen Crow here on the earth.  He told me that The Grim Farmer’s Son had struck him with a stone.  I asked him if he had seen Skillet Above during his flights.  He said that he only saw Frydom.  I asked him where he was going now.  He said he was going to his last supper.  I asked him where that was.  He said everything was in front of our eyes but we refused to see it.”

Heather clucked, “That is a very odd riddle.”

Clover clucked, “Crows are deceivers says Reverend Rooster Gluck.”

Marguerite clucked, “The Crow said ‘Life is an Egg and the Yolk is on us’.”

Jasmine clucked, “And you believed him?”

Marguerite clucked defensively, “I listened to him.”

Heather clucked, “So if Life is an Egg what hatches next?”

Marguerite clucked, “I was too chicken to ask.”

Heather clucked, “Oh, come on, Ladies, who really knows?”

Heather, Marguerite, Clover, and Jasmine finished their meal of maggots, leaving behind just the Crow’s feathers and bones.

Minutes later a Dust Devil resurrected the Crow’s feathers into the clear blue sky.






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  Great-Basin-Rifle-in-situ CONTRAST 1-TRIANGLE-1


When I read that a weathered 132-year-old Winchester repeating rifle had been discovered propped up against a juniper tree, just as it had been left when it was abandoned, I wrote to the archaeologist, Eva Jensen, who had come upon the rifle, telling her a story passed down as told to my grandfather.


– Nanten Guerrero, February 2015




        I followed her a thousand miles.  She was the last of Geronimo’s renegade raiders.  The Mexicans had begun to call her Chica Brava.

        I am Bedonkohe Apache like Geronimo.  The White Eyes called me Sergeant Skippy.  I had become one of their scouts to keep what remained of my freedom.  I was not ashamed.  There was nothing left to die for.

        Except for the one the Mexicans called Chica Brava.

        In the beginning, when Colonel José María Carrasco had killed the young Geronimo’s family, the Mexicans also had killed the medicine man Ba’cho.  Ba’cho had claimed an orphan girl as his apprentice.  Ba’cho devilishly had named the girl Golízhi Mushka (Skunk Pussy) but Skunk Pussy survived Carrasco’s raid and she became a vicious warrior in Geronimo’s decades of revenge.

        At first I wanted Skunk Pussy for my wife but she mocked me.  She wanted Canwakan, a better warrior.  One night she sat on my face as I slept.  When I cried awake the others laughed at me.  She said she had cast a love spell on me.

        In 1880 the Mexicans killed half of our band at the Battle of Tres Castillos and took many prisoners for slaves.

        I fought beside Geronimo in the revenge taken at Chocolate Pass two years later.  A Mexican commander from that Battle of Tres Castillos, Juan Mata Ortiz, was stationed at the garrison of the town of Galena with twenty soldiers.

        Skunk Pussy had the idea to sneak into town and steal horses, knowing the garrison would give chase.  She led the raid.

        We ambushed the Mexicans outside the town at Chocolate Pass.  Geronimo had told us not to kill Ortiz.  The Mexicans realized that they were surrounded and took the high ground to hope for reinforcements I am sure.  We picked them off one by one.  Skunk Pussy fought with only a knife.  She sneaked in and out of the wide Mexican skirmish line, silently killing.

        Finally there was left only Ortiz and one other soldier.  We allowed the soldier to escape after he was made to witness the terrible vengeance taken upon Ortiz.

        Canwakan, the better warrior that Skunk Pussy had wanted, had been killed in the fight.  They gave to her his rifle.

        It was Skunk Pussy’s idea to burn Ortiz alive in a pit.  It was she, not Geronimo, who said, “No bullet, no arrow, no lance, but fire.”

        Years after that I negotiated my surrender and I agreed to help hunt the remains of Geronimo’s band.

        I followed Skunk Pussy north a thousand miles.  I finally had become long separated from the troops I was guiding.  Skunk Pussy had shot at me in ambush several times.  At night I slept upon my horse so she could not surprise me without alerting my nervous horse.

        Once I dreamed that she sat on my face and pulled me into her body.  I awoke and startled my horse who nearly cast me off.  I heard coyotes laughing.

        At last one day I came upon Canawakan’s rifle placed carefully against a tree.  I took cover and I searched nervously for Skunk Pussy.

        It was there that I lost her trail.

        I did not touch Canawakan’s rifle.

        I camped there with a strange melancholy.  I had no desire to go forward or back.  I had no purpose.

        That night I saw a coyote outside my campfire light watching me.  My horse became agitated.

        Suddenly Skunk Pussy appeared into the light of my campfire.  I was paralyzed: I was afraid, I was glad to see her, and I did not care if she killed me.

        Skunk Pussy laughed, “I told you that I cast a love spell on you.”


        And so, my beautiful grandchildren, I tell you this story to warn you that you must never disobey your grandmother again.





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What is the Present but the Future Past?
– Reverend O.L. Duck




Moon Stream, can I row my dream
Where a sea bird flies?
Captain Breeze showing all the trees
Where freedom lies.
Sailor Shell, I can hear so well
The song inside.

I’m as light as a lover’s sigh.
I’m as free as a native child.
There’s nothin’ gonna leave me dry.
I’m gonna sail away on your smile.

Stars rise like the fireflies
Who saw high noon,
Unplanned, while a Southern band
Strummed a lazy tune,
On deck in the driftin’ wreck
Of a Tear Tycoon.




Everything I own is attached
And hung right all the time.
Good for lovin’, that’s how I hatched.
Since when is that a crime?
Big girls fit in little tales.
I warn ‘em but it always fails.

Lordy, Lordy, I won’t be long.
Just keep your motor runnin’.
Don’t let it stall.
Get it on, hard to the floor!
If you keep pullin’ over
Love will be gone.

I thought about takin’ you back, but
My love is such a short ride.
Look both ways down the track.
Problems come from both sides.
Two sides can make a one-way street:
Two sides who know not to meet.




Oh, the people we wrong
And write to while we’re falling asleep at night.
I got your letter the other day
And I had to laugh at your paragraph
The thought behind it wasn’t clear
Because the tear caught upon it made a smear.

We used to scheme and find
We lost an awful lot of loose and spare time.
Wherever we went, sparks drew tears.
Like victims allied we had to decide:
If we needed that then we’re destroyed,
And nothing is something to avoid.

But our love grew stronger and it evolved
And ate only the people who were involved.



© 1974 Zelmo Mutz Publishing
Katmancross Agency, WI


If you are not going anywhere, you might as well do it some other place.

– Reverend O.L. Duck




We never thought about tomorrow.
We couldn’t care if it got lost along the way.
We never heard about those headlines.
We were young and thought we’d always be that way.

Flying kites or playing soldier
We always had a different game for every day.
We never died we just go older.
We found, my friends, that is very hard to play.

I don’t know why we ever let them take it
When we could have had it all.
I don’t know if we’re even going to make it.
And we could have had it all

I had a dream about tomorrow.
I thought I saw the friends I’d left along the way.
They asked me why we all seemed strangers
And I tried but there was nothing I could say.

It seems to me we’ve all been taken.
I wouldn’t tell you what I traded for my soul.
We only hear about the headlines
Now that growing older is our goal.




Image in my window.
I still see you leaving.
What could I have said, though,
If I had been here?
Oh, I didn’t know
You needed me.

Looking through my mirror
I wish I could die.
Could it be any clearer
Than the tear in my eye?
Oh, I didn’t know
You needed me.

Silhouettes in hallways.
Your voice at the door.
I always had you my way
But I can’t anymore.
Oh, I didn’t know
That I needed you.




July morning on the town
Cat-curled people sleeping.
Children in another room
Hiding what they’re seeking.

Stars rolled wearily down the hill.
Promises they carried.
The year after high-school went so fast,
And now I hear you’re married.

What’s the use in hangin’ on
When its all been done?
Dreams are made for starting new days
This one’s just begun.

Sunshine cavalry from the East
You saved my cornered smile.
There’s a feeling that I get:
Life is still worthwhile.

Love comes easily like a breeze
It finds you anyway.
There’s no vacancy for the past.
It’s a brand new day.



© 1974 Zelmo Mutz Publishing
Katmancross Agency, WI


Rabbit read the news about Winter Vegetables

Monkey climbed on the back of Rabbit’s chair

Monkey said “What can we do today, Rabbit?”

Rabbit said “It is cold.  It might rain.”

Monkey hung upside down from the back of Rabbit’s chair.

Monkey said to Rabbit “It is all in how you look at it.”

Rabbit used his long ears to tickle Monkey.

Rabbit said “Do you mean that if I stand on my head the rain will rise?”

Monkey laughed and fell and rolled under the chair.

Just then Little Girl came into the room.

Rabbit and Monkey did not move.

Little Girl spoke “Oh, you fell again you bad Monkey.  I’m going to spank you for your own good.”

When Little Girl bent over to pick up Monkey, Monkey jumped up and pushed Little Girl over.

Monkey pulled Little Girl’s dress up over her head.

The dress muffled Little girl’s screams.

Monkey said “little Girl, you don’t know what you do to me when you spank me!”

Rabbit cried “What are you doing, Monkey?  We are only Little Girl’s toys.

Monkey said “Yes.  Of course.  So who will believe Little Girl’s story if we have our fun?”

Rabbit trembled.  “Yes, Monkey.  I guess you are right.”

Rabbit hopped down from the chair and climbed on top of Little Girl.

Monkey held Little Girl’s arms.  Monkey said “Isn’t this better than anything we had planned?”

The very next morning Monkey and Rabbit were outside in the trash waiting to be burned with all the other garbage.





        On the ceiling in a bathroom of the Beverly Hills mansion of Senator Abel Boozman we see three specks.  They are the houseflies Zena, Zeta, and Zoriata.

        Zena is asking, “What’s the latest buzz, girls?”

        Zoriata muses, “Why doesn’t the shit here stink?”

        Zeta preens her head, twisting it around, and says, “Where are you from?”

        Zoriata replies, “I came in off of the gardener’s truck.”

        Zena asks, “Legally?”

        Zeta scolds, “How rude!”

        Zoriata laughs in good nature and says, “That’s bien.  Laws are at the discretion of the rich.  Is the Senator going to mow three acres himself?  Or will his children?  Or will this Democrat Senator pay union wages?”

        Zena, Zeta, and Zoriata flit and buzz hysterically.  They land again upside down on the ceiling.

        Zeta strokes her wings and says, “Zoriata, honey wagon, you are going to flit right in.”

        Zeta asks excitedly, “Smell that?”

        Zena says, “To the kitchen!”

        Zena, Zeta, and Zoriata are buzzed about the steaming roast pork that has just been taken out of one of the ovens.  A roast pork always heralds the coming of the Lord of the Flies

        Zena espies a large Blue Tail Fly on a rib of the roast pork and she gasps, “Look!  It is Beelzebuzz, Lord of the Flies!”

        Zeta adds, “May almighty Dung honor him and grant him peace.”

        Zoriata asks, “Shouldn’t we wipe our feet after coming from the horse stables?”

        Zeta says, “Yes.  Right upon the face of Beelzebuzz, Lord of the Flies, as he would wish, may almighty Dung honor him and grant him peace.”

        Just then a serving maid waves away the flies and places a silver dome over the steaming roast pork and then picks up the tray.  She carries it into the dining room.  There she sets it upon the white cloth of the dining table.

        Zena, Zeta, and Zoriata follow Beelzebuzz into the dining room just as Senator Boozman is drawn there as well by the aromas.

        The serving maid asks demurely of Senator Boozman, “Sir, do you think that Mrs. Boozman will be pleased with this setting?

        The Senator smiles as he walks around behind the serving maid and he whispers, “I love a hot pork anytime, don’t you?”

        The serving maid blushes and giggles as the Senator embraces her from behind.  He bends her forward over the dining table and lifts her dress.  He unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his fly, and drops his pants.  The serving maid lays her face upon the table and her cheek begins to untidy the smooth white table cloth as she moves back and forth, back and forth. She clutches the white tablecloth.  An empty wine glass topples onto a china plate, singing with the impact.  The serving maid moans and her saliva soils the white tablecloth that is bunching under her face.  The Senator growls.  The serving maid gasps, gasps, and cries out.  The silverware, the wine glasses, the china plates are all marching now.  The Senator moans loudly, “Oh, god, oh God!” as he leaps repeatedly into the serving maid’s derrière.  The serving maid is dragging the entire white table cloth and settings toward herself as if a vortex is opening up in her and then she shrieks long and she shrieks hard.

        The platter of roast pork clatters and splatters onto the carpet in a crescendo of wine glasses, silverware, and china plates.

        The Senator lets the serving maid collapse to the carpet has he hastily pulls up his pants and fumbles his belt back into some of the pant loops.  He listens intently to the house and then he orders the serving maid, “Listen, uh, uh, shit, what’s-your-name?  Get this cleaned up fast or my wife will fire you for being so clumsy!”

        The Senator grabs a cigar from the gilded box upon the mantle and he strides out of the dining room with his fly still open.

        The serving maid arises sobbing from the carpet, straightening her dress and surveying the Herculean clean-up chore around her feet.  Then, dizzy with all the implications, she runs into the kitchen crying because she must first start something else as fine as the roast pork quickly for the distinguished political dinner guests soon to arrive.

        The serving maid realizes, “Soon to arrive.  Too soon,” and she sobs and then she is angry, “Too goddamn soon, you bastard!”

        She realizes that she must salvage the fallen pork.  It is the only thing she can do.

        When she goes back to the dining room she cries out, “No!  No!”

        The fallen roast pork is shivering with flies.

        Beelzebuzz, Lord of the Flies, may almighty Dung honor him and grant him peace, had summoned all the flies of the estate to feast in his honor.

        The serving maid runs back to the kitchen and then returns with a can of fly spray.  She cloaks the roast pork in a fog of poison.  Then hysterical with anger she slaps the dead and the dying flies into the roasted skin and juices of the pork.

        She reassembles the roast pork in the kitchen, adding pepper and spices to camouflage the mashed dead flies, puts the roast pork back in the oven to simmer under ladles of brown juice, and only then does she go to salvage the dining room settings.

        Upside down on the kitchen ceiling Zena, Zeta, and Zoriata minister to Beelzebuzz, saying to him, “May almighty Dung honor you and grant you peace.”

        Zeta says, “Too bad about your other followers.”

        Zena offers, “Soon there will be many more others.”

        Zoriata affirms, “Sure as Dung.”

        Zena, Zeta, and Zoriata in unison intone, “So let it be buzzed, so let it be Dung,”

        Beelzebuzz the Blue Tail Fly, Lord of the Flies, pronounces, “If I were to return as a lesser being I wouldn’t mind being a Senator in Beverly Hills.”




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But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS