N  a  p a  l  m     H  e  a  l  t  h     S  p  a  :     R  e  p  o  r  t     2  0  0  8









I loved the women of Country Valley.

And I know what happened to them.

At least I think I do.

I was a youth back then,

jonesing for a corgi,

and my thoughts of love were long, long thoughts.

At least that’s what I think I thought.


It happened when I was on the Merry-Go-Round.

It was an apple-green evening in Country Valley.

There was Susan, gray and faithful handmaiden,

and Miss Cornelia walking briskly along,

and Anne of Green Gables with goo all over —

a gusty group of daffodils on the old, mellow lawn.


They wore shiny space dresses gathered at the ankles

by elastic cuffs which extended over red glowing boots.

On their arms were large silver gauntlets

with flared arm coverings

extending halfway up their forearms.

I was the one they hypnotized.


I looked up and found myself

in a magical spell-weaving place:

the women of Country Valley

had let a highly excited, disobedient boy

loose upon their spaceship.

I don’t need hypnosis to recall this.

Memory erasing methods don’t work on me anyway.


Their spaceship looked like the most beautiful Legos,

Legos too beautiful to be made by humans.

It was decorated with fancy menstrual cup pouches

made of antique brocade fabric from Japan.

Miss Cornelia turned to me with a smile and said,

“Can you believe this is just an old RV

that became a Lego spaceship in our minds?”


Then I had the weirdest thought:

“Wouldn’t it be something

if the Fonz suddenly appeared?”

The Fonz could yell at Potsie

from the comfort of his spaceship

floating high above the earth!

Then the spaceship lands on the roof of SCTV,

leaves some cabbages, and takes off again!  

Come on, who wouldn’t want to spend

alien Christmas with the Fonz

on a spaceship hiding behind the Hale-Bopp comet?

Maybe then all the mysteries would be solved,

like how come that "Footloose" dude

never actually cut loose?


Then something bad happened:

a horde of evil monsters that looked like Flipper

rampaged down the peaceful mountains

led by evil Uncle Unicorn

who had the frightful ability to deliver swift flying kicks.

Anne of Green Gables got kicked first

and I cried, “Damn you with all the speed of the red bruchetta

that Geddy Lee's mother gave him!”


I swear to god, if I was Jesus,

I would have killed that unicorn everytime he directed

an episode of “The A-Team.”

All I would’ve needed was Anna-Nicole’s dead body,

many sixes of Genesee Cream Ale

and a Bard College sweatshirt from the college bookstore.


But then the Fonz really did appear

with his army of anthropomorphic ducks

who fight aliens with hockey gadgets

in t-shirts that say “Milwaukee To Bronze The Fonz!”

It was the highest level of mutancy

that someone as sensitive as Fonz could achieve.

How potent was the Fonz in combat?

No god in the world could’ve beat the Fonz.


I'm in Seattle right now, in a youth hostel,

sitting in a room crying.

The Army doesn't want anyone

to know what really happened.

Why must the Fonz

continue to be denied any type of fame?

Since nothing will be done about this

at the government level

I guess we really will have to

defend the Fonz ourselves.


I don’t live in Country Valley anymore.

I live in Silicon Valley.

Um, no I don’t; I live in Florida.

Okay, I live behind Emu Mountain.

But I still love the women of Country Valley.

I think I always will.

At least that’s what I think I think.






–– a series of eight short plays





“LOL! Swedenborg” by Richard Foreman

Starring 1” Poet, Marc Bolan and Teabag



1” Poet:

Stray virgins OK!



And of course homely rug mice.



I'm an evil arse hair noise!



I’m Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart!

Dinner-table noser of every nerd’s

latrine boner,

jilted in gonorrhea

like Sonny Bono.



Oh Irritable Bono Syndrome!

O my large and terrible drains below!



Oh, even larger!  What-ho!



Okay so what I’m Mr. Meat,

machismo gonad stallion

and cunt school talisman

for Camel Halitosis Month.

I shit in loathsome calm,

I the cool, slim Satan,

chasm to the millions,

and crueler by the loo.

Bouncy lilaceous horse-face.



Tarzan good, smegma awful.



Oh shit! Uncool anorak! Run!



Like big-nosed choristers past the campus mule-crap.



Are you my Republican replacement chum?



Will you cup my camel’s peach muscle?



Only a rufus-sided human anus

can shade the dim walrus penis

of He Who Cavorts in Pork

with a big pink TV crooner

under the anti-semitic brothel.



Only a total enzyme phase goat,

rare as a slim-assed southern cracker.



We had goats because my daughter had a problem!

And Swedenborg's writings that related to the topic



Just try and ply my sizeable goat butt home.



A pale goat butt still amazes.






 Honshu Madeleines” by Kenward Elmslie

With ½ Man ½ Biscuit, Big Youth and Bob Dylan



½ Man ½ Biscuit:

I’m optimal eyesore to the pals,

eating pie morosely.


Big Youth:

I represent a messy loo.


½ Man:

I'm one sleepy-arse face, too.


Bob Dylan:

Oh my oily Easter poems,

my rough, tough, poetic anus,

cousin of ape-thug, the Dildo marvel,

great-aunt of Can of Crap.



They named her “able in the stables”



Applying anal bible sets

via jiggly hippo hips.



She shall adjust your nice swollen genitals.



She shags anywhere but on a salad.



Wild-eyed as an angel's cunt . . .



. . . a blind cretin’s penis . . .



. . . and now, sadly, a ‘nad nutter . . .



. . . but a one-turd winner 

of the two-anus contest of Rude Ant Town, USA



She turned back on Turd-snot and rode anew

upon nuns who rode bare twat on Turd Stud near town.



Said he rated his own nuts.



Fucking yokel retard.



Obama is correct about rural PA.






A Soliloquy By Brian Jones:



Oh, huge randy twit.

Why crap in a gutter, kid?

Go holy gonad hunting. 

My tiny slot

is famous for its moustache.


See I am a bad urinary bard,

rhyme-able anal joy-hole twat,

with smallish peeps

and pimple hassles,

abysmal granules of a

large balmy anus.

Really a hag's bum.


It was a marvel I could wank

Mr. Wanked Alive, the mad live wanker,

winner of last year’s Mr. Wanker of the Year award.

Oh my mutant mouth organ.

invading your warmish elk

with inky asian wanker sex.

Oh vast rigors of a groin

well past wanking.


When I went Roman

I hatched me perfect moon lips

with walk-in loo charms

and slow anal rim lock.

Truly a rare stink afterwards.






“The HMS Arse Halo” by Gilbert and Sullivan



Frank Sinatra, Iraqi dictator

Ezra Pound, an email for Buck Downs



Frank Sinatra:

You fucking hairy arachnic screw-all.


Ezra Pound, an email for Buck Downs:

Who farts in an ark?

Who enjoys well-hung pig,

chipmunk twat musings

and unkempt Nazi cow-shots?



You, you unzipped hot comet wanker.



Your cowpat hum-zone stinks!

Your zone of schmoozy wank-juice zooms

past zoomy human wanker-tits,

cuts a lotta hot-wank

with fat Serena Ape Shit’s instrument.



See, penis hater?

See her Irish dick crab panties?



You are a foul scary comedy.



You are a small weird anal exam!



A mouldy cream fiasco!



Some kinda fancy foamy corgi — fuck off!



You and the HMS Arse Halo you rode in on.



Your 'inappropriate' leap from Hussein to whomever

was head of the MLA before Perloff!






Song of the Anal Sex Wall Mermaid (Lennon-McCartney)



Wild anal-sex, alarm me?

I’m the anal sex wall mermaid!

I am all for mad anal-sex — I ram well

on a small mixed lawn area

with a phallic brain-rot Norsemen

awash in doggie-doo.


Or a herbaceous poofter charmer,

and smooth porn choir children

rounding up the orgy boloney,

to Drool on whose smooth puberty organ.


Whose horny clitoral dolphin entrance?

Whose metaplagiarism and prose poem politics?






The Men of the New York School




Ooh, droll chronic nose-hair phantom.



Protocols and horny hymens.



The psycho nympho's still on second.



Oh the shit-shock of rural balls.



Oh vanish, Cottonelle the ass dog!

Either that or shag my slut handle

with your huge rat hands.



Frank, your new blue gonad goes beyond even

the terrible two-headed ego sow

to be ominipresent

as the premier jew-huffing loser,

a ghoul-wielding souffle jar.



And what about the shoutin' rosebuds of St. Rose?



And our usual, eclectic, unpredictable & never boring

open mic every month of the year,

not just "National Poetry Month."






“Nerd Enema of Dog Semen and Petrol”

Starring the months of May and June




Some hi-tech senile male

cited my hellish enema

as a horny chenille sheet.

But fuck all, I'm the Hellenic sea,

Hillary Clinton’s clitoral hiney,

Super Citric Tripe Circus.

Carnal? yes!

Lean & scary.

I promote sperm prosecution,

rectum oppression,

pepperoni scrotums

and Nude devil piranha rats

up an invalid's rear.



Okay, depressingly insecure piss practice.



Okay, Generalised yucky erection.



Okay, spanking creepy secretary

of treacly decaying ejaculation,

stinking capriciously.






“Obama Is Correct About Rural PA”

Starring Drew Barrymore as Barack Obama and a big ugly wide load as Rural PA



Drew Barrymore/Barak Obama:

I drove a rich ugly old maid into the river

with my severe reverse peacock.


Rural PA:

Your one thought could fill a cow.



Is Jeff in a band?



Yes -- Pathos, the Genital Beauty



Yucky, considering the special pesterer

and his nut-hard labial cup.



He's a grocer.



With a Hog's career.



With a Hero's grace.



With a nose discharge.



And a hurt penis overhaul

in the snivel parlour.



With the plural version

of the dewlap of an uphill venerator.



And a pre-research whoring grant.



Eat shit, you near northern pig screwer



Fuck you, big fat git clad in denim,

making Lad Marinade.



Mindless nob



Nun in sleaze state



Neat, tuneless Nazi.



I have long exceeded your Vulva mileage ratio

with ovum ravioli talk

and a loo-rimming vulva kit.

I put Herpes on an ant 



You and your pretend anal sex,

terpsichorean flea cancer,

like a Salman Rushdie character's can-opener life.

You currently cover my carefree porcelain snatch,

my rare cat-flap incoherencies.



You dismal meusli anus.



You fat sad-ass numeral

in a critique and/or expansion of referentiality

and engagement with critical metanarratives

like a new species of modernism.



Go get anused up a crack.

(Don't try this at home kids:

 squid protruding from a pill-spewing anus

 tentacles waving

 clutching assorted lifestyle accessories.

 My surgeon friend just shuddered.)



Has the mighty boosh actually sued

the sugar puffs for their crimp?



I think they did because they are pimps.








When I hear the word "fluxus" I reach for my anti-Semitism


When I hear the word “anti-Semitism” I reach for my carnal buffalo blanket


When I hear the word “carnal buffalo blanket” I reach for my debauching riverman's

pony, restless and full of bad English


When I hear the word “debauching riverman’s pony” I reach for my heavy seductress

hissing the word Iraq


When I hear the word “heavy seductress hissing the word Iraq” I reach for my tortured

Silliman screaming "oh its just another dumbass adjusting her mechanical Tony Robbins

bear boob with lank greasy hair”


When I hear the word “tortured Silliman” I reach for Andy Dick


When I hear the word “Andy Dick” I reach for Grandma’s asshole in fishnets


When I heard the word “Grandma’s asshole in fishnet” I reach for my fecal tongs


When I hear the word “fecal tongs” I reach for my hot nurse fucked by a horny alien


When I hear the word “hot nurse fucked by a horny alien” I reach for Rachael Ray in

Huggies inside a Crockpot


When I hear the word “Rachael Ray in Huggies inside a Crockpot” I reach for the most

recent issue of PMLA


When I hear the word “most recent issue of PMLA” I reach for my first embalming


When I hear the word “first embalming” I reach for binaries of presence/absence

not peculiar to my personal reality, in other words the miraculous world we can perceive

through my vagina


When I hear the word “my vagina” I reach for a reconstruction of Jesus with his index

finger poised over the button of a discharged weapon


When I hear the word “Jesus with his index finger poised over the button of a discharged

weapon” I reach for the 7-fold division of reality made up of perverse dorks who thought

they were getting away with something


When I hear the word “perverse dorks who thought they were getting away with

something” I reach for Stephen Cope's job letter as a template for my job letter


When I hear the word “job letter” I reach for a dainty, long-haired, shawl-wearing woman


When I hear the word “dainty, long-haired, shawl-wearing woman” I reach for my dog-

eared copy of “If I Had An Anus”


When I hear the word  “dog-eared copy of ‘If I Had An Anus’” I reach for my terrorist


When I hear the word “terrorist” I reach for my meme


When I hear the word “meme” I reach for my terrorist