Diatribes, stories & other crazy stuffs

Photo by Dave Sommerville

Soggychoppy Crembo and the LutaLuta Patrol Dog

In every town no matter who had what name, everyone had already heard of Soggychoppy Crenbow, porcelainist extrordinaire. The piza store at the corner even gave away official unreasonable facsimiles of Soggychoppy’s photocopied necktie that had a mind of its own, never mind a neck––––

This particular town had heard of him so often, they figured he lived there so they made a regular teevee show about him starring Potie, the dogfoood weiner guy. Potie was about as close to the real Soggychoppy Crenbo as goldfish are like toothpaste. The Mayor said “Truth in advertising has alaready been proved!” and everybody knew he was full of olive pits and roasted little debbie cakes.

And, of course, right at that time, Soggychoppy weembled into town on a canteloupe wagon and fell off right into a face to face with Potie, the dogfood weiner guy who was still dressed exactly like ol Sog all the way down to the photocopied neck tie. Both of ‘em got the “What th-“ ‘s real bad when suddenly, out of nowhere, the LutaLuta Patrol Dog came up freshly rolled in some godawful smelly appendages.

“You boys got a license to stand around dressed like each other? That’s a mighty serious offense… Hand ‘em over now, or do I have to put a leash and saddle on you and ride you all the way to the LutaLuta Precinct #OP RMLOT (40)?”

Crembo look like a runned over cream-of-sawdust parfait. Potie dogfood burst into 657 little kisses.

The LutaLuta Patrol Dog became a wiggle picture.

S. Crembowe rained porcelain to this day.  


The Green Wildebeeste Memorial Foundation was aware in every aspect of the defection of its most holy ruptured member, Noondo Bisqueeta. Noondo was completely overdue in every respect and no one could figger what he had talked bout since that fateful fitful day when somebody gived him regional anasthesia for the bohunk extractor he always had hoped to find. The Noondo Bisqueeta Fanclub had grown to swollen proportions in several miss states acrost the heaping globe and, although he was due for personal appearances any day now, he could alas nowhere be found. Clearly, the Foundation was shaken.

Chopped Beef, the one and only erzatz interpolator of the entire massive dog Corporation, scratched his three-day facial foilage in obvious startling distaste. Spitting on the carpet, he de-livered the onion ultimatoe: "If we don't find Noondo Bisqueeta pretty damn quick, everybunny's gonna cancel the fanclub perscription of a lifetime and we'll be amazonned without native guides! Ring up Andy Porstaleenda immediately! Only he'll know what alternate coloured diversion to plan for. After all, he's the one who pioneered the Green Wildebeeste Foundation in its mercurial infancy like no one else ever because!" The others in the room agreet. Andy Porstaleenda was the only choice.

Mere hours later, a delegate of six loose baggy windup Larrys met outside Andy Porstaleenda's teeming squalour in order to convince him of their plight. Each one carried a thoroughly cooked gourmet slug dish to present as a worthless token of their esteemed up kitchens. Andy, true to form, greeted them as one might greet a turbanned maestro from another eventual dimension. Upon collecting their well-used dishes after the delipeful and repulsive repass, the delgate spokesman spoked in a bloated table manner:
"My dear vested Porstaleenda, we have come to you in a time of great defacing confirmation in our darkest hour and now we beseech thee to---"

"STOP!! I know why you've come! Do you think I would've eaten your wretched slugmeal unless I knew your ulterior decorative motives? Yes, it is true: I did have something to do with the Foundation when it shimmered but that was long ago. Most of you were only mere glimpses of scant possibility then. NOW look at you... We were capable of endless possible mutation in those days and these days, the "Foundation" can't even agree on how to spell WILDEBEESTE anymore! Can the ideals upon which we flounded have scraped against so many cesspools?"

The delegates swung open with pages falling out like too many bookwormed volumes. Nervously, they looked at their identical official yellow rubber yashoes (bless you!) shifting crenboe from foot to blistered foot. After a long inordinate awkwardness, the Aged One With No Teeth spoke: "Andy, Andy, you're excrement comes as no disguise to me, your throat so long unused and all, but it has become apparied to me that you outdistant your bumgroob by too many to one and somehow you neglect our decision of long ago to bear in mind constantly the depth we all aspire to no matter how we choose to spell it. No matter how you carry on, the question remains thus: Will you help us locate and further abnegate the dissolute Noondo Bisqueeta before the fanclubs dissolve or must we all forcibly disgorge the contents of our recently filled stomachs all over your precious living wall to wall furniture?"

The Magic Living Report Show was about to begin and no one could say anything to the contrary. Their eyes had all grown cold and vacuuous and clearly reminiscent of important federal holidays where lately nobody showed up 'cept the creaking of the floorboards. And so it came to pass that haf pass midday, Andy Porstaleenda find hisself making he way through the overgrowd wheatucky bushes on the northern perimeter of her Noondo's Hideaway.

"Howd I ever let 'em talk me inta this?..." he grumbled, "If Noondo Bisqueeta wants to disappear, he has every ability to and whoom I to stoppim?" Though he knew Noondo's favourite places to hide, he had never gone to any of them before much in the same fashion that others had not come to his regardless of how much he had hoped. Now here he was stalking the wild Bisqueeta and Euell Gibbons certainly had nothing on him for the trail was not an easy one and any minute he could be up a creaky tree or lookoe for pimple rocks on the bottoe of the ribber. Swarms of bees told him obviously fabricated stories trying to divert him and he began to question his dedication to a situation which implied very few little if any. Nonethelest, him struckle onwurz in splattering persistence of memory.

All at once, a little voice box called from underneath the sacred mushroom flowers: "You'll never find me 'til you take off your dress-up shoes!" So Andy taked off his caked-up wingtips and LO! there stood Noondo Bisqueeta, a mere four inches laughyready. He was dressed in maginary teeveeshow wrap and he spokee without moving his lisp:

"Andy, I'm surprised at you after all these manyo soupstocks! When was the last time you came to see me? HA! In those days, we usta just sit in our respective doghouses and let jellyspirits shoot out of our imaginary doughnuts. Continually we promenaded together and yet rarely did we really be in the same fiscal radiance of city and town. Come, Sloppo, what brings you here anywise?"

Sunnedly, Andy rememblur every aspec of doughnut jelly spirits and haveta smile warmly to heself. As his smile spread like warm butter, he get to grow smaller than even and by the time he stop laugha, he see Noondo eye to eye! "Shoulda took them shoes off hours ago!" Andy Porstaleenda'd. "At last I recall vague notion what humane dirtgrinding is all about! I very nearly got lost in the trapping of the trapezoidal trapeze after I thought my favourite radial diversion station got pinched off. Ah my dear Noondo...do you still lick rosebuds at dawn?" Bisqueeta chuckle heartily "We gotta lotto catchi up to do, eh Smoley?"

Andy do a recapitulate double take. "What th-? Nobody's called me that since Lectric Sophie lost her gazebo somewhere near Kenya!!"

"Hey Noon'! Let's go pile our exhalations like we always do and see if the ponies are still talking!" And they both go through the field past a ladybug big as Sammie Dolinda's house singing two-part Papa Oom Mow Mow as if they never stop yet.

that zebra look

Anabelle had that zebra look again; the one the nuns at St. Formica's always took the wrong way and BOOM! there goes: "Anabelle go sit in the sanctuary and say 75 rosaries!" and she always said 'em all and now after so many unintentioned zebra looks and rosaries, she saw how it was actually better to sit alone in the quiet sanctuary for hours uninterrupted and sucked like a whirlpool in---better than having dead people snore even.

Anyoe, Mikey Spuvada put his feet in the compartment under Anabelle's seatdesk one on either side which usually she liked but today everything was in another language and everybody was like windup and even Mr. Galiene the custodian (who was usually the BEST person in the whole school to talk to) looked like a drawing of himself somebody on acid made. To top it off, in the middle of the night last night, Mr. Scrugglenuggles, the Persian catpet, threw up big juicy hairballs all over Anabelle's beloved 8 x 10 glossy picture of Solidago Walnut Hornbeam she had sent away for and it took SIX WEEKS to get it and she JUST GOT IT DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY!!!

All of this contributed to the zebra look on Anabelle's face which was now in progress and which Sister Perestroika hadn't noticed as of yet just wait. Sister P. had the oddest habits of any of the other sisters there at Pius Umbeeda's Drive-through Church and Cataclysm Class and she was definitely not a zebra fan. Suddenly time moved like a peach somebody runned over or stepped on and then it was yet another "Anabelle, go sit in the sanctuary and this time say 83 hail marys and 68 rosaries of beer on the wall, 68 rosaries of beer..."

It was so quiet in the sanctuary, Anabelle could hear the drips of blood from the lifelike full scale model of the founder and saviour hanging right there in an altared state on his own doublecross at the front of the sanctuary. After about 42 hail marys, Anabelle could see the stained glass changing colour like a slow kaleidoscope. There was so much space between her heartbeats, she could slide right through between 'em and fly around for hours before the next heartbeat would come. The electrical edge of her skin reached out into seven other layers.

Suddenly, sitting next to her was the most bizarre little shrunken man all dressed up in a brown wrinkled leotard with a long funny brown cap who spoke in a shivery giggly voice. Essept he whisper without movee he lisp. "By now you recognize everything, don't you?" he inquired and Anabelle never uttered a sound when she answered "It is always new and yet I have always known it."

The brown man said "In stillness you move through the plasma and hypnosyncratic synaptics open and close like little fish mouths strong enough to make fish-hickies." and with that, he became a newborn baby who grew through his whole life on fast forward time lapseleap right there in front of Anabelle. When he was the oldest man on the edge of dust, he waved goodbye slowly and made a silly face and his cells moved apart just enough for the cohesion of his aggregate form to break down apart and through. All that remained was a faint dusting of bluish brown powder.

Anabelle smiled quietly to herself and even the drippy lifelike full scale
model up front giggled a little...

and then this....

in the whirl you are whereverthe little scrolly-dollys who look like fat peanuts and dress up like lemons are shredding their taut hearts and starting to fart art. although nothing needs to be or can be done at this most convincing moment of tepid intrepid certitude, a dizzying reflection at best is re-veiled, all close up and googly looking, nearly wiggly. plenty of time as cascading worlds rain blustery mustard- coloured custard, the very sight of that most prominent probiscus (that nose too well) opens and shinnies like acrobatic skunks and zebras up any ol tree in threes. i hear a trilly-voice centipede artichoke choking out a joke about the tremulous voice of hebben or sebendeelebben.

All of this a mere bagatelle batter up in a game of waffle ball in a stereo brain. tangentially simultaneous, a breeze blows through a foreshadowing of helpful touch spots in those hard-to-get-at places and so i open the leaves of the book with the rake of my fingers and pile high the autumn of my words like books that read themselves. however many goed unotice, youisma senigisma daruma menehune hoho powglorba.

Here in the arcing aching heat of a sun totally different than in the
southland i scramble to find my egg dreams both poached and over easy. poached because they feel like someone else's and over easy because i am awake again, in the arms of heaven again here to awaken fully in an earth day blossom of blue blue sky and soft ocean air. summer has barely taken hold and the evening damp and chill brought the first hint of wintermint (at least autumn) to the nostrils of univers-all he-art.

Bounces have been far and wide wild in ride and occurance. the souls i have known for years ( and too those i have only just and not yet met) are amazing in the pirouettes of the upheavals in these lives, so many getting brave new messages and listening to pulse and wave of this planet of waters. truly i see myself mirrored in everyone. of my accumulated tools and old ways, nothing seems workable or relevant. like the first blush of ray of new daze opening bold and taking hold. i am as a child with trembling fingers unwrapping bulgy gifts of present tense. all i can seem to be able to do is follow the air currents and magnetic fields, tripping into anti-gravity like it is an old tone poem i know and bestow and hurl and twirl. yes, but weakness. yes anyway. i can listen and hear and dream envisioning parrallelogisms and spontenacity in languages undreamed of yet and barely ever spoke. like a tangible in a china shop, symptomatic pulse thots wave far beyond myopic utopia. veils remove themselves and the terrible beauty of that revealed core is so much this and more all laughyready and pulse worthy truly speaking NONETHELESS IS ALL THE MORE

There is unraveling in travelling and the weave is enough to get you pulled over by the slapstick po-leece. at least this time i'm in a position of adventageous outrageousness wherein all i know is revealed in the moment as it comes more and more like huang po's "sages who have abandoned learning and come to rest in spontenaeity". each becomes and procures it's own medicine and dis-ease and healing crisis process as nearly as eternity is all at once and then there's basho peripetetic poet leaving hitch haikus on his travels where'ere he be like the poem he and his companion wrote on their hats in pure glee: "nowhere in this universe have we a fixed abode" ahem and a stitch and 11:11 to you.

Besides it's not like it's the end of an era. it's the ear of ananda.
bulletins as they occur. big bag bagels to you where'ere, from me nearly simultaneous in the juncture of heart and mind. no matter, never mind.

your corn forest spondent,

Elmo Questopopo

twelda roldipi estacrowe

ah so the sounds of this veiled planet return to me as i swim to the surface of the ocean of dreams to refocus and awaken, to shake off sleep (always delicious morpheus dessert) and see shapes solidify and cajole arranging their barely cellular matter in forms i have come to recognize and even think i know. still it comes as a surprise to me each new waking that light is caught this way barely visible and yet seemingly oh-so-solid and "true".

whatever are we to do? I've been thinking of water: how it is the same water through all "time" that rises, falls, evaporates, freezes, condenses, accumulates into lake, ocean, river, snow, hails, quenches, sweats and the waters of our primordial age or even from 8th century time of huang po all the same water now. an actual physical demonstrative wo/manifestation of time's simultanaeity and us, these beings with souls in process, nearly all water and the same in molecular as saline sea, our blood and tears and sweat and saliva animated in some crazed water that is too, edifying fire that can neither be destroyed nor created. in the depths, our arcspark of electric elasticity is pure life moving through all the kaleidoscope of forms but not dependent on any form for continuance (continuous nuance). the beauty of course is that this inspired soulmatrix will continue, does continue, cannot uncontinue no matter what we outpicture in life as we insist it must be.

the lifetestgrace we've perpetuated comes again to transition of form. once again we blindly overprocreate (go ye forth and subdivide) stripping resource off a dwindling roll like so much toilet paper. once again we have made our distractions a way of life, more important than evolution. once again we've incarnated and forgotten why believing this veiled world of maya to be true, the only true and do so little to persue the soul virgin birth as conscious pilot maintaining breath and clarity integrity. still souls who do maintain the spear-it of who they truly are becoming and theirs is powerful medicine of vision and re-vision for these times not the end of an era but rather the ear of ananda. souls who bless our lives with vital force as we, by daring to question and process, BE clear blessing creation in endless reciprocation. it may not be "world unbalanced and babelling" but the crisiscruxcrucible of opportunity to be multidimensional now and not overly attached to form, sweet as this human tragedy can be.

all i know is the miracle of now of each sequential revealing now through movement now and perfect return now as the space between idea and outpicturing is close enough to be synchronized and the spirit that is self aware and self reflective is indeed (and word) what conscious-ness implies. all this now a steamroll of thought to break fast upon my return from the mountain of night embracing sweet cool fragrancedance of new morning now in these forms. i hear from wide open souls i encounter and mirror in travel how multidimensionality is more each turning of the sun and moon, how psychic worlds and physical gifts overlap into etheric. surely the medicine is appropos to the level of dis-ease and commensurate healing in condensed time like this (day is week, week is month, month is...), outside of routine i am humbled amazed andtruly abzellirated by the liquid implication of the panoply of light, texture and sound. sometimes i can even glimpse what all this movement is about, what the entire body of lifework can look like as sculpture, poem, song or piece on beyond zebra word and certainly outside conceptual thot. there is order, there is chaos, there is sublime simpatico in our dee licious revel-ation a worthy cause for celebration calibration celebration calibration ad infinitum into the vacuum river of soundless endless: hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm ...mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

your cornforest spondent and eye conduit
Elmo Questopopo


Ozymandias and The Greyhound took a bus to MinneapolisilopaenniM and nearly got kicked off in Stle St. Marie for getting drunk on Minnesota-water. Nobody can fine they eyes whose bagatelle grew imperceptibly into darker toupees of infernalized rhythm.

The moon was splendicious and nearly evaporated any dangling participle anyone had left right yes no because I told you that was the last time and all around trees and the ground beckoned ever closer with reflected poignant light that was in itself a mere efficacioius reflection to ponder.

Ozymandias apologized to the driver and all the other passengers for getting drunk on Minnesotawater right there in front of them. The Greyhound had to promise to leave the driving to them/us and nobody forgot how good that black man in the orange suit smelled even after he ate his cheese and crackers that he brung all the way from Houston with him...



teevee head going crazy in gorcery aisle eleventeen with the crispy dog food weiners and the electric floor buffer juice. why nobody might fine they way home (willya lookit that tree?!) after reckoning with a picture toob head like that. so teevee head switched to eyeon42 to catch the latest on the snobegobling tourna(whatever that)ment. he inflated his wobbly bunnycat joey and goed to lesbosdesgochoe to try on some shoes with shiny eyeballs on the tongue that light up when you step in dogshit. all played out like a deck of cards aces low, teevee head blowed up glowing bright red tomatoes leaking juice from here to yusta, the big city local affiliate. one day even if jesus showed up dressed up lie a dockworker in a monkeysuit, nobody would even bought him a goddam taco because the slightest idee came unstuck when everybody looked like a mommaalookaboobooday, a deja vu day voodoo if there never was one. so anyway, the next time teeveehead opened his blue halogen eyes, test pattern head came out of retirement and flashed teeveehead a hawaii high channel five-0 made with real brazilian frappe swordfishbrain just like molly twondeenacurlew who didn't recognize nobody esept he wobbly bunnycat joey. testpattern head opened he indian eyes slow like the vacuum of space and nod before the whole scene changed into an ol blackened white cartoon. no one could fine a simpler use for a product nobody could pronounce the name of, so of course it was on sale and the coupons expired the day before they were delivered and onions. you could spell it b-l-u.

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