"There once was a Playmate with dreams
And a jeremiad 'gainst vaccines,
When she ignored the statistics,
And rallied, 'Death 'fore autistics!',
She started coming apart at the seams."

I sent roses
This morning
First thing.

I agree—if something offends us, it's our duty
To deconstruct it, find the beauty
In analyzing why it's crap
And pin it down on the zeitgeist's map.
We haunt this site—for good or ill—
Because we intellectualize (and always will)
The trends and shibboleths and memes
And pick out reoccurring themes.
But if you don't like…

It's under consideration; I'll continue to do so,
And this doesn't read like a contrarian point-of-view, so,
Your gist, as I see it, isn't in the docu-drama,
But in the metanarrative in the show's umbra—
So the point of the show isn't the "actors" or "scripting"
But in the digestive dialogue in which we're participating
Thu…

When you came back from Tennessee
And you'd lost ten pounds
From standing in the heat,
Smoking Camel Crushes,
And blistering slowly—
                                And you, never too meated,
                                Started having fainting spells
                                In the back of the shop,
I asked you,
is…

Hodgman's not a dude I'll bash
(Although I disagree with his choice of 'stache);
I understand his aesthetic's strange
And he's got a shockingly narrow acting range,
But if you haven't read his newest book,
I think you'll find it worth a look—
As a miscellany, it's fun and brisk,
But there's surprising heft and psychic grist,
I…

An Uggdrasil
If you will. 

Oh Judy
My sky-lit Eloi
Oh eep
Oh ork
To my anachronism
In heaven
To you,
Judy,
Oh ah ah.
They are the worms
Of the earth
And they are
Far below,
And there is light
Above the clouds,
Far from where
Any leathered bird could fly. 

We buried Rip O'Neal
In the rain, as he wanted,
And drank in the hotel bar
Down along the Sound.

Te-ke a sec to take a breath
Which will bring us back to Do.

Grab the beers,
Call your friends;
This is the way
Our culture ends. 

Sir Paul dyd espy
Hir lussome gwunes,
Him hieth then
To aiTunes,
And prickem hir
About the reares
He swyved hir then
As he swyved oure eares. 

I'm so hungover
The toilet is drunk. 

When he came through town,
His luggage
In paper bags,
His stocking over his head,
We didn't trust him. So when
The power went out
After the storm came in     over the swamp
We went, all of us,
We went to find him.
But whatever they say       and they will say
It was not our fault,
Not one of ours,
He blue himself.

It's me!
I'm Pat!
The voice
Of a cartoon rat,
I'm really very close to the site, you see.
It's swell
As hell
To see you all so well
Perhaps you've got a little spot of tea?

Season 2 of Disinterment Without Good Grounds, episode 6, "Saw Latte"

(spoken): Oh hey! You're just in time! We were just about to start watching season three of Breaking Bad again. We've got the Death Rain, we've got the bacon vodka—well, heck, looks like all we're missing is you!

Along the last edges of the strand,
Where the asphalt chafes
Against the ocean's skirt—
There is a stand,
Sun-splintered and barnacle-blistered.
If you know
Who to ask for,
A man named Goatwheat
Will paint cannabis fronds
And zaftig
String-clad blonds
Airbrushed on anything
That will hold still for his craft.
Pay him in rumpled…

My name is [REDACTED],
And I'm here to say,
I'm straight-poetastin'
In the U-S-A,

"You will be eating cheese and questioning the very nature of being by the end of the day."