Dan Schneider Pt III

It is quite easy in art to decry rape, genocide, nuclear war, incest, drug abuse, racism, homophobia, etc. I mean, in arts circles the pro-rape, pro-genocide, pro-nuclear winter, pro-incest, pro-drug, KKK, & John Birch lobbies are so pervasive! I recall what Don Moss uttered after reading Carolyn Forche’s travesty The Angel Of History: “Y’know, Dan, before reading this book I never realized WAR IS BAD!”
You see, “Liberals” prefer being liked to being excellent. I like Maya Angelou’s sentiments—who wouldn’t? —Ted Bundy? But they’re trite & poorly structured. It’s part of a noxious trait that artists have— a desire to both show, yet shield their humanity from non-artists. Instead of merely acknowledging artists DO things differently &/or better than non-artists, artists adopt the hubris that they ARE different &/or better than non-artists. Artists KNOW implicitly that art is not a life necessity— go 2 weeks without garbagemen or 2 weeks without artists & tell me who you’ll miss more. Same goes for doctors, plumbers, & policemen. Art is not meat & potatoes like those pursuits. It is a chocolate sundae & artists resent this fact furiously (as a poet, trust me— few artists accept art’s superfluity as I do) so they concoct & construct grand rationales for art’s relevance/necessity. They then engage in banal homiletics— both poetic & prosaic— rather than engage with fresh wordplay, startling POVs, interesting & diverse subject matter. This is the dirty little secret artists (overwhelmingly liberal) dare not speak. This is why PC Elitists, nowadays far more so than conservatives, traffic in censorship— something, to his credit, even Bly excoriates. (I guess he’s not totally hopeless, after all.) But the sway of PC Elitism over contemporary art is just a passing phase. Multiculturalism will sort out its own in a few decades & the bad will fall by the hands of the next waves of Multiculturalists themselves. The Millennial era will be seen as one of laze, lost opportunity, & frittered talent.


Poetic Sanity in the Asylum: CosmoDan

Owed to a Caulk Gun


STICK’EM UP with Liquid Nails


See Other Caution on Back Panel:


I'm hot for you Cowgirl.

You’re so flammable my glue-gun starts to melt; my screwdriver starts twisting when you loosen that low-slung belt. You make me feel like laying re-bar in a freshly-poured foundation. Shoot me up with that caulk gun baby—I need you like salvation. Ten and one-half fluid ounces; pull off your top, pop a love-cap in me. Fingerin’ your trigger while the job is gettin’ bigger so take me for a ride to the hardware store, honey, cause I’m seeing red and feeling white on your golden background’s sheer delight.  Hammer me a heart-full, spike me on a cross of blonde, I’m hanging ten, surfing the tube of your magic wand. I’ve been in love ever since I first waterproofed my seamy undersides with you . . . stand over me in those red, red boots, you Liquid Nails Girl, and from your pure white Stetson let righteousness unfurl. You won the shoot-out long before you even drew, my dear. Lost hope of the Wild West, Final Frontal Feminine Frontier; there’s only one side of you: the good side.

Just one look and your fearless gaze silences the foes, my blooming prairie rose. YEE-HAW !  Be my angel, be my dream, my valentine rodeo queen, be my bodyguard, my therapist, long & tall & hard & wet—be my Liquid Nails Girl forever and I’ll ride right into your sunset…


PROMPT #18 an ode to life’s small pleasures

Five Lives

Edward Rowland Sill  (1841-1889)


FIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round drop
That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun.
To the naked eye they lived invisible;
Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell
Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.

One was a meditative monad, called a sage;
And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought:
‘Tradition, handed down for hours and hours,
Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world,
Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence,
When I am very old, yon shimmering dome
Come drawing down and down, till all things end?’
Then with a weazen smirk he proudly felt
No other mote of God had ever gained
Such giant grasp of universal truth.

One was a transcendental monad; thin
And long and slim in the mind; and thus he mused:
‘Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls!
Made in the image’–a hoarse frog croaks from the pool–
‘Hark! ’twas some god, voicing his glorious thought
In thunder music! Yea, we hear their voice,
And we may guess their minds from ours, their work.
Some taste they have like ours, some tendency
To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum.’
He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas
That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.

One was a barren-minded monad, called
A positivist; and he knew positively:
‘There is no world beyond this certain drop.
Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream
Of their faint dreams, and noises from without,
And higher and lower; life is life enough.’
Then swaggering half a hair’s breadth, hungrily
He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed.

One was a tattered monad, called a poet;
And with shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang:
‘Oh, the little female monad’s lips!
Oh, the little female monad’s eyes:
Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!’

The last was a strong-minded monadess,
Who dashed amid the infusoria,
Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove
Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.

But while they led their wondrous little lives
Aeonian moments had gone wheeling by.
The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed;
A glistening film–’twas gone; the leaf was dry.
The little ghost of an inaudible squeak
Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone;
Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox
Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged,
Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.