Goatsmell's Idea Box


Dewey Decimal Meets The One-Ball Man

I never thought of having
My name, stamped on a library shelf
Until I came here to
Our local and friendly library
Took me five years, or so
To get here and to see that

So, who chooses to put
Whose names where?
I’d forever have my name
Etched in that crisp Courier font
In the heart of Metaphysics
Or the Paranormal
I’d like to be near Joseph Conrad, but
Heart of Darkness is in Fiction
Every space is taken over yonder

Or, maybe…

Maybe in the far corner
Where the windows don’t reach
Where things change from friendly library
To Cold War bunker
Where the things that suck go
And stay

The signs indicate that these things
Do not, indeed, suck
But they really, really do
Those shelves are nameless
The biographies of
Al Gore and Lance Armstrong
Are there
Cast out like the weird kids
In any high school

Boring Meetings Suck! Is here as well
Lying on its side, just goddam exhausted
In passive resistant protest

This is where my name must go
Right here, at the intersection of
Intellectual Desert Street
Looking-for-Something-to-Find Road


I never wanted my work to be complicated
I wanted it to be beautiful
And I hated those who made me feel
A simple line was an error
A simple sentiment a weakness
As if the terror eradicated the light
Well I knew terror
I knew the sound of a world dying since I was six
And I still woke up before the sun came up
Just so I could say to it
You beautiful golden disc, you lazy thing, I was here first
I win

— Stimie

(Source: howitzerliterarysociety)

May 9

God Damn, the Fernando Man

ABBA is the musical equivalent of a breath mint
No, it’s like a wonderful sudsy wash
Through a Swedish washing machine
Or it can be the musical equivalent
Of a good string of quality anal beads
Sort of “metronoming” their way out.

Oh, did we wear that album out in that summer
Played “Fernando” deep into the hearts
Of so many average afternoons
The lilacs bloomed hard enough to
Cover all that 76th Avenue exhaust

Oh, there was something in the air that night
Hung in the air
A burgundy velvet curtain
Over a dusty gold shag rug

Reflective of Stuff

I look in the mirror and see my father’s face
Lines are a-startin’ to draw
Down like a bad day in the Dow Jones
Sculpting a frown that only gravity will love

I look through space and see my father’s moves
So slick and fast compared to what he was
So destined to be entrenched
Into a Hall of Fame with only one exit
And one tiny entrance

Oh, those moves…
Pull my finger (I always did)
“That’s for nothing.  Wait until you do something.”
(I always did prefer nothing)
Or the famous thousand-yard stare
And 20 degrees down

It’s in the eyebrow, not the eye
Right at the apex of the hairy arch
Dawn of the Dad was long ago
Grandfathered away into long, farty nights

I wonder…will I?
Will I sleep in an easy chair instead of a bed?
Will John Wayne be on the television
As I slip into snorgly, gorgly sleep?

Could I hold a glass of scotch perfectly level
As my body slides, Cirque du les lune
Into near prone positions?
So easy in the easy chair

He has moves, my father
He has perfected them
His body bears the round, soft shape
Of a near sphere of ecstatic old age

Spare, Soft, Single

Sometimes you will encounter
So stupidly formidable
That all you can think to do
Is stare at it and try not to blink
And wonder how the hell
How the hell?
You’re going to get through it

All you can do is breathe
Breathe through it
And feel

Feel that thread of your own breath
That spare, soft, single line
Running through you
From your first cry
To your last rite

 Feel the coolness as it
Graces your in-breath
Feel the warmth as it
Blesses your out-breath

Feel your chest expand
As you make room for your heart
Seemingly forever cramped into
That too, too
Too-small space

Feel the rocking, the oceanic roll
As your lungs hold and caress
Your once old, cold soul

Expand, expand
Feel the point where you end
And the universe begins

Expand, expand
Be gracious until the thread
Of your breath
Straightens and brightens

This is kindness
This is compassion

Apr 7
Apr 5
Apr 3

A Shatnerian Love Poem

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary never speaks to me anymore
So I ask Captain Kirk what he would do
That good ol’ smirk works his face

 And he says

Nothing much, just one, good flying leg kick
If that turns out to be not enough mustard
For that particular crap sandwich
Then, a well-placed karate chop
Right at the base of the neck
Will make sure the bastard stays down

Now that’s practical advice and It sure beats that love, kindness and compassion
But if you can’t fix something with your hands
And work that problem like sourdough
Then just work yourself up into parboiled rage
Yell:  “Khhhhhaaaaaannnn!”
Until your eyes water and twitch
Until your diaphragm inverts
Until your colon is spastic

Beats the hell out of Spock’s usual approach
Like a recipe for the galaxy’s driest cake:
Stoically apply logic to the problem
Analyze it in all shades of light
When that fails, just lose your Vulcan Shit
Rip off the offending prick’s head
And shit down his neck
Then smash the room, with his dead body

I’d think the Good Captain is more compassionate
Than his first officer

PEACE: it does not mean to be in place where there is no noise, trouble or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart.

- (via theglasschild)

(Source: mountainmusing)


nothing will fuck you up as much as the realization that there’s no real reason the alphabet needs to be in order