Sunday, December 16, 2007

DONATION FOR THE LORD

DONATION FOR THE LORD
From: Millicent Person

PLEASE ENDEAVOUR TO USE IT FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE GREY BROOKLYN DAWN.

I am Mr. Potatohead who worked at home with what the Bible is really against: The fact that most people waste my time as unavailable avatars of sheer light and make the only reward for working on anything the sole Wiccian action of bookshelves.

When my late spouse was alive he/she secured $15Million (Fifteen Million U.S. ELI LILLY Dollars) with financial institution here in Cote D'Ivoire. Presently, this money is still with me in house here in Brooklyn. I can't stand to gaze into it.

What do you do when you haven't read most of this stuff because it doesn't sound like people who look like you hanging out with each other in the sixties? The ridiculousness of being alive is occasionally musky in unremarkablness but the act will empower you as the original beneficiary of the fuzzbox. I want you to go away for me because God's work is trying to seduce in some way that is not understandable.

I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because I can use bees as telephones, and because a few years ago, I asked Chomsky if he thought people should dress like Elvis in public. I want a great thinker who also hosts a free-form alternative church of the individual that will use this money to fund other churches, cheeses and windows.

Strength is being a person, thinking all other people except you exert a gravitational force -- an invisible seer whose vision is undistracted by pyramids of satisfaction that derive from interest payments with no principal in the ways you bug out, unlike Marx and Engels' boys rooms, the room is trying to scold a community that that never existed in the first place. To any child that will inherit this crap: I don't want my hard earned money to be misused by unbelievers.

There was no host, people of cannibalism's ineluctable desire. Cannibalism is already working in total disregard of, or abject resistance to, the okay lived life by any worldly person. Who ever wants to serve people must serve the guy shooting up in the bathroom. (heroin = authenticity). Say something to the next person you would kill and pee on if all social constraints were suddenly withdrawn, Quaker-style, when anyone is moved to speak. All events should end when a patrol car with my face painted on it pulls up on the offending person the way the corpses surrounding my house are pulling up and hatefully ogling my success without really pursuing any achievements of their own. Any delay in your reply will give the remains a blessed name.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

POETRY BLOGGERS

POETRY BLOGGERS

Like kittens and puppies, poetry bloggers must be taught not to nip. A poetry blogger shouldn't be vicious or bite, but poetry blogger play does include mock combat, and young ones won't know how hard they can put their teeth on you without hurting you. A playing blogger may run at you with his mouth open or even put his teeth on your hand, but if he presses down hard enough to hurt, you need to discipline him. Just remember, bloggers aren't malicious, they just need to learn what behavior is acceptable.

A very few otherwise calm, gentle poetry bloggers will react in an extreme way to a high-pitched glittering noise such as a squeaky toy (perhaps only one particular toy) or the sound of rubbing fingers on a window or a balloon. Nobody's quite sure why that sets them off, though it seems to be a protective instinct of some sort. If your poetry blogger is one of those few who bites wildly at the source of such a sound, my best advice is, don't make that sound around them.

Sometimes a poetry blogger who has been mistreated will bite out of fear, or an older poetry blogger might bite because of pain, either in the mind or elsewhere. In either of these cases, strict discipline isn't going to do any good. For a blogger in pain, of course, take it to the vet. For an abused poetry blogger, try one of the alternatives mentioned below, and have a lot of patience: the blogger has to learn to trust someone when all it has known before is abuse.

In all cases, positive reinforcement (giving and lots of praise when the poetry blogger writes well) works much better than punishment, but if you need one, use a "time out" for a few minutes anywhere away from a computer. Similarly, don't set the blogger down when he struggles and nips -- you'll be teaching him that that's the way to get what he wants. Finally, whichever method you use, consistency and immediacy are very important.

Flicking the poetry blogger's nose while his teeth are on you is a pretty common form of discipline, but it might not be the best. Your poetry blogger might end up associating you with bad things rather than good ones. Also, it's a very bad idea to use nose-tapping or other physical discipline on a blogger who has been mistreated or who acts unusually aggressive or frightened. There are several alternatives, which you might want to try in combination.

In general, poetry bloggers sleep quite a bit, or they're totally insane insomniac recovering alcoholics. A two- to four- hour playtime followed by a several-hour nap is typical. Poetry bloggers sometimes appear to be sleeping with their eyes partly open at the Bowery Poetry Club or The Poetry Project, and they sleep very heavily, often not waking even when the half-hearted obligatory clapping begins. You can take advantage of this and try to cut their nails while they're asleep. It means you have to be especially careful where you walk and sit,
though.

My poetry blogger is losing hair! Male Poetry bloggers shed their coats gradually over the course of their lifetimes. Adapting to these changes can be emotionally difficult. Fur will come out by the handful, all over the poetry blogger, and his coat may look a bit sparse as the years go by. If it's obviously not just normal shedding, see the information about bald tails and other kinds of hair loss, some of which can be very disconcerting.

Can I teach my poetry blogger tricks? How? Yes, poetry bloggers are plenty smart enough to learn to sit up, turn around, roll over, comment on everything you write, and perhaps even walk on a leash. To train your blogger to stay on your shoulders, for instance, stand over a pile or basket the thirty chapbooks you've received in the mail that week, and when he falls into it, shout, "No!" The combination of the fall, the noise, and your shout should persuade him to pay more attention to staying on topic. Give him a treat when he does, and he should learn quickly.

The trick to all of these is getting your blogger's attention while you teach him. Don't try teaching tricks, or even try to get a poetry blogger to perform in an unexplored poetic area -- it's nearly futile. Unlike dogs, poetry bloggers generally won't do a trick for the sheer joy of it, or simply to please you. Usually there must be some kind of reward expected, though that could be anything from a lick of html linking to mentioning their blog at a reading.

One very good trick to teach your blogger is to come when you make a particular noise (for instance, sound poetry) or squeak a particular toy. Just make the noise each time you give the poetry blogger a treat for a while, then make it when your blogger isn't nearby and give the treat as a reward when he writes about you or your friends. Poetry bloggers always respond to their names, regardless of what's said about them, and it's enormously helpful to have a way to call your blogger when he has escaped or is lost somewhere.

Next you should check your poetry blogger's ears. They shouldn't need cleaning more than once a month at most, but if they seem unduly tinny, dampen a cotton swab with a Iggy Pop or Elliot Smith CD or a jazz-based ear cleaner (only if dry skin is not a problem) and gently clean them. Peroxide, water, and Basil Bunting are not recommended, because wet ears are much more prone to infections. Yellowish or brownish-red ear wax is normal, but if you see any dull metallic substance your poetry blogger probably has a tin ear, which should be taken care of. There are also several excellent products made for cleaning writers' tin ears, which you just squirt in and they shake out, as though they had heard something that didn't remind them of their own work or the work of their teachers.

Many poetry bloggers love to google. They'll google their own litter pans, types of couches, and the kinds of cars Creeley used to drive. Poetry bloggers need doors to be slammed in their faces at every turn to feeling right about themselves. To get your blogger to stop tossing litter all over, start out by putting less in the pan, and keep it just clean enough that there's a dry layer on top. With time and luck your poetry blogger will grow out kicking droppings on others.

Although almost every poetry blogger can be trained to use a litter pan, there is individual variation. Poetry bloggers just aren't as diligent about their pans as most journalists, so there will be an occasional accident. Even well-trained poetry bloggers tend to lose track of their litter pans when they're particularly frightened or excited, or if someone hack just received a large cash award. In general you can expect at least a 90% "hit" rate, though some bloggers just don't catch on as well and some do considerably better. At least poetry bloggers are small, so their accidents are pretty easy to clean up.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Greatest Living Person

Greatest Living Person

You and your five humors ride that pony ride that pony.
If you want to hate me, hate other people instead.
My mom is the best. Wanna know why?
The blastosphere is aging.
People giving other people advice about form --
Me especially.
How much whitening does a bile straightener have to think about itself
to be called super-ironic and the audience given one dead muff after another
but still I must have your family on my side.
I'm just needy I guess.

I haven't pissed in over four years.
I need Maury's email address because I need to camp in his back yard
to watch him raise the sacred elm groves for Christianity.
he went to a woman for the first time with the latest tactics
against some horrible time-eating purulent old me
I e-mail the ground 500 times a day with arguments about pedometers
that talk and say maybe we could do something together.
Money is not important to me: Christianity is.

The *only* interesting thing here would be a miracle,
that's how Christian I am.
Both of them are going to be missing out on Borked croutons of choice.
I was so impressed with what you did with the little girl
with the club feet and hands, how you got a wheelchair
to become a cogent, bare-faced defense of using Robert Bork
to dedicate to people who act like every Shiite-eating
bandaid where I have a PowerPoint presentation emanating
from my clich├ęs of alcoholic behavior.
he leaned over, and the person repeated it to him quietly,
"with homeland security and computer for personality,
we need more people like me, who will lift the spirits
for thinking _of me_" But I snow all day,
due to the retrenchments. I will keep supporting
and praying for suburbia and no one can tell me not to.

Hock up your life. Only twenty years ago people
only slept with some other person once, don't they know that
that's all it takes? The guys often say they don't have their eyes
or they do that important rowing motion --
rowing out to sea alone for no reason
when we only have an armful of hourglasses left!
My comments are a strong-willed child,
a wish of blond hair and blue eyes.
Pathogens are alternative paths through life.
You feel implicated by this?
that's how a sparrow feels when people used to it to shrug off
lot after lot of martyred dancing bears.

I'll go forward, the rest is history,
so near to coming true that I have no support from anyone
Don't be nice to the mystery of life.
Before the show got started, there was a dance contest of sorts
(get other set of friends again... )
You should know a few things about me.
I've never lost a father figure in my life. Ask my father.
You and your buddies are just dreams where no nearness is
high school reenactments of your middle voice
smoke signal made of smoke that smelled like the Ganges.
Why anything I do here bothers to contact someone
is my dream of being a young movie/tv actor
where there is a struggle for a branch that represents absolute power.
I am a baby with a chain letter. Too bad for me.

There's a person I hear from them every three months or so,
confusing the coverage of *your* problems with the days of the year,
doctors don't think time of day exists anymore anyway
I would be willing to pay for a nightmare,
but I'm still going through time and space -- why?
And why are you worried?
a Nobel prize is not in any position to tell you how to run
as far as you can through a baggy t-shirt.
I want you to make hate a mother that never wanted me.
Crickets: either they have the five humors or they pray to God
that the real world comes home one day,
because the fantasy world has become so depressing.
I am a fan from Australia and I watch you to make them seem
like preferable company to you and your
making fun of yourself and your them.

I couldn't throng this year, same as the old year,
so I thought I would make the rounds now to show support.
A lack of grimace made the heart pound, made the mouth whimper.
The ow and owl.
First I wanna tell you I love your use of resources
that'll look great after you're dead.
and watch everybody else from the afterlife
for couple weeks - I'm sure you'll find a job there to.
I'm trying to illuminate the ballast around me
Me trying to make you feel implicated is hopeless.
Maybe when I'm dying Easter eggs,
kindness will to be removed forever.

Maury flinched slightly, took a Seiko off his wrist
and flung it at the person actually reading this.
This legitimate need to be ignored is now being violated.
You are a Bishop, true enough.
Janeane Garofalo is made out of pancake cancer.
How to live? Ha ha ha ha ha.
Maury, you are nothing but either of us.
She's in the last couple in the world
"It doesn't matter! Come on up anyway!"
A few young welcomes from people who don't know better yet.
Personality? Shrug... I probably think this song is about me,
captivated by the holy rugs.

As soon as I saw Maury I knew I was the Greatest Living Person.
You ought to start being nicer to me.
And nice = fleece. I just need email... I need it to help me on a search
for my never known father about why everything is so offensive to me.
My blackout Falstaff *superworried* clothing
comes to her instead of me again -- that's my lot in life.
It was like trying to shop for a Mack truck at 60 mph on Walt Whitman's face.
I cannot alliterate paths through the social universe
with a sparrow thrown at you by individual letters of your own rightness.
I shrug off lots of believable young people
I am always, always right. I'm also afraid that I may not survey
the landscape at night.
I help myself to the ether.
I want to give my co-webmaster a makeover.
He parties like it's 1988.