Archive for funny

habit and rancor

Posted in best of GJK, for Calvin Grandaw, for Jingle et. al., humor, New Poems, no-mad poets, poems, poems 2017, prose, taoist, zen with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 16, 2017 by GJK

GJK, 16MAR2017


habit and rancor’

hello, predictable. hello, habit. hello shitty diner coffee

that i do so love with every fiber of my mortal being, every mote

of the ephemeral essence that is not me, yet, in truth, is entirely

me and you and every living thing that ever was and ever will be (which means nothing because time is a fiction) and because, as we have learned and understood for eternity — time is not real.

conversely, timelessness is also not real. confusion enters

the mind and sugar is stirred into the ‘brackish black liquid’

and down my gullet it goes and once again i proclaim:

Sentence structure be damned to the deepest bowels

of the most foul, vile and wicked lake of fire

that sentience itself has ever imagined within

the rancorous confines of earthly existence!

YAWP! grammar, to hell with thee! freedom, expression, caffeine! exaltation and liberty!

* * *


ignoring all

Posted in best of GJK, New Poems, no-mad poets, poems, poems 2017, taoist, zen with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on March 9, 2017 by GJK

i sit contentedly ignoring all that surrounds

and focus only upon the internal realm

of consciousness in all its infinite, formless

and unknowable grandeur.  i am beauty and ugliness,

i am order and entropy, i am all

and i am nothing.

i laugh aloud and startle my neighbors in this common room

of this public house.  i alight from my overstuffed chair

and exit abruptly to smoke that cigarette

that awaits me in the shotgun seat of my own truck

and damn it is wonderful.

the sun shines on the smoke

and i disappear




GJK_June 12th, 2012

Posted in haiku, humor, New Poems, poems 2012, sarcasm with tags , , , , , on June 14, 2012 by GJK


beef sizzles on grill

somnolent nose awakens—

pocketful of dimes


           heralds hunger,

           jangles malaise.





cute dimples and eyes

will not convince me to spend

money i don’t have.


           please stop trying,

           ms. ponytail…





blue sky burdens ire,

bombards gloom with happiness

and lightness of heart.


           fuck you, sunshine!

           fuck fresh air, too…






from GJK’s upcoming effort, WRIGHT THE BOOK, F***ER

Posted in best of GJK, sarcasm with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on March 13, 2012 by GJK

chapter eight


go into the spare room in your place

connect the power to the machine

connect the matrix to the machine

power it up and wait.  click the icon

labeled TYPEWRITER then walk away,

find yourself something, anything to drink.

roll a smoke.  sit back down at the machine

and tell me what’s on your mind, no matter

what it is, just type it.

write until it drives you crazy

go get a refill of whatever

smoke that smoke that you rolled

who knows how long ago.  smoke it as if

your life depends on it and get back

to the typer.  write more, write brilliantly,

write terribly, write until you hate it

completely.  make sure your work is saved

shut the shittin’ machine down

and forget that you even own

a computer.  don’t look at it again

until tomorrow, and tomorrow you will

pretend you have never written a thing

in your life, you will enter the room,

you will work your guts out

you will give yourself backaches

and soul-aches you never could have imagined

before this.  but you’ll keep doing it,

dogging along until you have a couple hundred

pages.  you’ll probably think it’s useless,

but it’s better than you could ever know.

you’re too close to it—

it’s your life and dreams on the page

so leave it to someone else for awhile.

a friend of yours will read it.

don’t you dare delete.  you wrote something

worth keeping, maybe even something worth

sharing with the world.  maybe even something

worth selling.  do all this and you will

be able to pretend that you are me, so

don’t do it.  your method, i’m sure,

is better than mine.



a brief and minor fantasy

Posted in humor, New Poems, poems 2012 with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 12, 2012 by GJK

just as i struck the match i saw him

headed my way.  here we go, i thought,

today is the day i’m going to have to

tell this prick off.

“what the heck are you doing?” demanded Mr. Red Truck

with exasperation on his breath.

“what does it look like i’m doing?”

“you’re rolling a doobie in the street!”

i couldn’t contain my laughter or my anger

so i just went off on his retired ass—

“what the fuck are you talking about, man?

 did you really just say DOOBIE?  shit man,

 i’m rolling a cigarette!  i thought old people

 like you understood frugality and common sense;

 don’t you remember a time when lots of people

 rolled their own smokes?  what the fuck, man…

 all i’m doin’ is checkin’ the mail and having

 a smoke to chill out, and here you are, in my

 face, gettin’ all weird and shit.  and what

 the HECK were you doing earlier today when you

 were creeping your truck past my driveway staring

 at my car?  huh?—”

“well what’re you doing out here now if you saw me

this morning?” he thundered, “don’t you ever sleep?”

“yes i sleep!  what’re you, the sleep police?  where

 do you get off keeping track of—”

“listen buddy, all a did was ask a simple question—”

“and i’m giving you a simple answer.  WHAT I DO IS NONE

 OF YOUR BUSINESS, alright, FRIEND-O?  and another thing—

 you think you see what’s going on over here, but you don’t.

 we are triplets, actually.  i’m Darryl, then there’s my

 brother Larry and my other brother Gary.”  and with that,

i walked away, praying to jesus, joseph, and mary and

also to charles and jack that the old coot got the Bob

Newhart reference.  i doubt it.



*          *          *



in need of respite from ignorance, i went to

my regular haunt, hoping that Laura would be

working instead of She Who Cannot Be Named.

one talk with one tool was enough for one day.

as i parked the car i saw that good fortune

was in store when i saw that familiar dirty-blonde

bob floating between the kitchen and the register.

i breezed in and seated myself, content to wait

until i was noticed.

“coffee today?”

friendly-faced Laura asked as she

crossed the room, but i was in

no condition for more excitement

so i said to her,

“no, how about water, no ice with lemon?”

and she shook her head and grinned,

“alright kiddo, just when i think i’ve got you

figured out you go and do something else.”

i laughed, “well, i am something else… just

a man who knows what he wants, and how to get it!”

she walked away with a spring in her step, knowing

her tip would be more than fair, and i reached in

my bag for a packet of ginseng and my notebooks and

pens and sighed, centering myself.

with a spastic flourish, i began.






in defense of body odor

Posted in humor, New Poems, poems 2012 with tags , , , , , , , on February 14, 2012 by GJK

i know many people find natural bodies

without aid of chemical-laden deodorants

repulsive, and i understand

but i will not go along blindly,

i just won’t.  it isn’t polite

but so what?  there are plenty of other

senses and i look okay, i mostly

keep quiet, there’s no need

for anyone to touch me

or lick me

so if all i am doing


is stinking

then i say again

so what?

i’ll tell you what i find offensive –

nearly every time i enter a public place

like a restaurant or a store of any type

i am assaulted by horrible music –

terrible, ugly, banal, abrasive music

that is designed, not for anyone to like,

but for no one to dislike so much

that it disrupts their eating or shopping.

well let me tell ya

it offends me.

music is my thing, aural perception

is my forte, and it pains me

to endure some of the most vile music

in the world just to get served

some steak or some greens

or get coffee on the fly

but that’s fine

i don’t need to be served

i can prepare my own food

but of course

the grocer too

insists upon playing wretched music-like

abominations of sound

so my dinner often has a tinge

of disgust in it

unless first i can wash my ears

with silence or music of some substance

so i do not apologize for stinking

in public from time to time.

if my stench offends, i will only see you

in passing and you’ll figure out a way

to forgive me or forget it

or you’ll hang on to it

and tell your people all about the guy

at the store that smelled like a pile

of moldering gym socks

either way i don’t care

you’re a grown-up

you can do

as you see fit.

but i’m not sorry.

why would i apologize for being myself?

and trust me, if you want to tell me to my face

that i stink, go right ahead.

a few years back a young friend of mine

i had been spending lots of time with

said to me in my car,

dude, before we do anything else today

we need to go to your house so you can

wash up and change your shirt.

and i thanked him for having the courtesy

to tell me that my stink was bugging him.

i live with my stink,

i like it, so i don’t know

when a little muskiness has turned into

outright disgusting pit-funk.

how refreshing it was to get called out

on it by a friend!  so you, a stranger,

can tell me i stink and i’ll probably

laugh and say,

okay, i know, thanks, by the way

i think you’re wearing too much make-up.

or too much cologne, or whatever it is

i think about you on first sight.

as long as we’re strangers being candid

then no one has any reason to be upset.

we’ll walk away from each other

equally amused and the only real crime

will have been the horror-show

of the store’s satellite radio feed

chipping incessantly away at my

peace of mind.  if i knew that you

hated the music too then maybe

we could be friends.

all because i refuse to play along

with the silly game of unnatural

odor-obsessed politeness

and you had the guts

to confront me.



flight from the matrix

Posted in New Poems, poems 2012 with tags , , , , , , on February 9, 2012 by GJK

the knives stabbing my knee

and neck

ought to be enough

to tell me

to stand up and move around

a wee bit

walk stroll weave bound

find a melody in the engines

without and within this dwelling

get up punk

move yr ass

but no no no

i’m hurling myself thru the matrix

clicking and buzzing

i’m not breathing

my knee is on fire

get that fucking albatross

off yr lap son

yeah okay just one more thing

i’ll just click here

and close this

and fuck

it’s frozen


the quarks are sending up sparks


so i shut it down

and start back up!

why am i not eating

i am ravenous

this machine is so sparkly

and inviting

in it i am unbound

but that’s only mind

this machine binds my body

oh you sneaky little bastard

i love

i hate

the matrix

i love

i hate

this machine

but fuck those knives

smash the screen

amble to the kitchen

and eat

you moron

you excitable beast

you gorgeous man

you writer-in-second-person

you better get back

to calling you i.