Zen of the Moonshine Buffoon

Welcome to the Telecommunion Mk IV, where leapfrogs kneel and pray to a subliminal majesty of orchestrated confusion. There’s noone immune to photon manipulators. Today the bandwidth transmission maidens are liquidating multi-way mirrors to re-enchant your hallways. Low voltages on the hard lines of your body. They’re keen to interlace with fate, a sheer electro-woven light-emitting subcutaneous screen, that’s hyper-connected to the latest beta-test quasi-monolithic supreme agendas, tuning your identity to the latest cookie cut culture flavor. 

Jeanie dreams of the I Ching. Book of Five Rings. Monitors cast quarrel of capitalist queens, as they hog spotlights of the precious hour. Scandals play out like performance art. Crass bogus hash propaganda schemes are slashed to smithereens by the involuntary wrath of the dopey pixie. Pay close attention betwixt the resonance of the klutzy crusader and a latticework of dapper gents as she extracts the shellac of a sunshine raider. Away with the henchman who slyly trespass the realm of my whirlwind kitchen, barking at the blowhards again because somebody  let ’em in. Send in the Tonka squadron. Ain’t nobody gettin’ bullied by the dough boy no ‘mo.

‘Ol Willy Blank Face, freckled to the teeth, covered in polo tees. Denim strings hanging from his pant legs and signing his name with serpent tracers in the sands. Another dream drifts away like a chance to see a comet we kept in locked closets.

I’m stranded on teardrop island, skipping rocks and dancing through the fog chains. There’s a holographic weave of ripple effect that’s caught my subconscious. Hear the crickety-crick of the lonely pier play maestro in the mist, fit of the sea spritz. we’ll meet there.

we’re all pirates. You’re the brainiac love child of a harlot and a shaman dressed in moonlight clues. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve taken you as a Buffoon. Again, we catch trends, and there’s no telling who’s story your in. Conjure the breath of the Dragon and you will find that it has eyes. I’d follow the Zen of my own kidnapper if I had fallen in love with him. We could live in disguise. I’d trust the Zen of the midnight fisherman if he could catch enough shad for his family to eat. It’s up to you to choose whose pages to read and which ones to burn for heat.

Your smile and complexion seem to ring my recollection. Now tell me who you are one more time and refresh my ocean cloud. We’ve met before. I remember now.  It was you who rescued me from the gauntlet of Thor’s protocol. We wrestled in the tule banks among echoes of laughter, and got tangled in a patchwork security blanket. No one could find us when we hid in a pincushion pie. I sang your name as we slalomed the pillars of the dock, forever daring the incoming tide.


quartz Qryztal

like clockwork you invade my heart. seasons of my ego. feel hurt. I do the same thing I accuse others of. Admissions of guilt. My sanctimonious hypocrisy. Crossed wires, stitches of a patchwork quilt. Matchbook stilts. Two Kindred Spirits flip-floppin out of the cosmic seawater. Twin flames igniting the very foundations they built, melting metal, whose kinship is but a dewdrop shared by wilted petals.

yo no la conozco


soy un poco chino

ella es un medio japones

creo que me gusta de ella

pero yo no la conozco muy bien

Dimelo, denselo a ella en su ensueno

Coral ripples, blends of porcelain assume silhouettes in her skin so smooth she must of been spun of a gypsy loom

Let us not ignore her, nor dare her tidal lean. Her patchwork emotions set fire to friends in winter.  Together, shadowy Hoodies of  the hour, we ride with the night on bicycles across all of our salty towns.

steal a kiss high above a younger brow,   pretend to be asleep but nothing stops her. Not even the slightest balk at her presence.  Every night she checks the guest list. Nothing. Tonight is an outlier.

Name J Lou.  Skin.  Lips.  jazz triplets.  jeans, tight.  tops, blue, high.  tongues out. laces, white. What starts fresh as a dream will transpose utopian organic, sudor de la naturaleza, lluvia del nino. We writhe while drenched in modern cinema, moving us past the splinter sparks stage. And Once You’ve had enough of our caravan, choose to lodge upon a cliffside and do so with false suitor, salt of the big sea mist below. Leap we promise, but not of our own accord, as the wind’ll fool us into falling, we’ll meet again, by the dock, whimsy will of our servitude to the natural laws

Froth of the ocean touch bludgeons the urchin, melts the mantle of mollusk troves, glistens of the burliest farmhands. I find that hardly resistible. Yours is truly a taller presence under the lampost…tiny explorer of the incandescent, girly dawn of the aloof.  We are self-hypnotized. We chose identical characters to fight a world war with and to deflect the poison arrows of the judgemental. 

no one understands these riddles of ours and how they keep crooked jesters chained to the Gazebo. Le Arlecchino, giddy with secrets whispers to a pantaloon, watches while you and the long dachshund spoon

They’re on to us now, acts outdated.  Our newest ninjas spy better on the playground.  As defectors of a disenchanted world we dash through the narrowest of corridors unscathed, paws nimble as our whiskers touch the sides.  

La he perdido

pero yo no la conozco muy bien                                                                                      

dimelo, denselo a ella en su ensueno                                                                                    

children of buffoon

Lonnie the Wrench: rhyshi rhysyyda moi lolita rasheed uh

Rhyshyyda LeSangre: hey yo Wrench!

Lonnie: modified the turbines to achieve optimal spectral resonance

Rhyshyyda: I heard you’re rebuilding the Buffoon. You think its the right time?

Lonnie: Yes, with everything goin on in the cosmoses, there is no better time. Captain told me you went rogue undercover snowflunker during the uprisings.

Rhyshyyda: I needed to know their tactics, true motives of the prog-wave imperial regime.

Lonnie: How’s Fathir?

Rhyshyyda: They have him.

Lonnie: Do you have a serum?

Rhyshyyda: Of course.

Lonnie: Then it’s time.

Rhyshyyda: Vladimir has reached Blade City.

Lonnie: We knew he would. Signs of the mulitpolarity should already be showing.

Rhyshyyda: Long live the Tribe.

Lonnie + Rhyshyyda: Long Live Buffoon.


We, Spiders of technology, wizard kids and meta-chimpanzees of the metropolis, Cats that glow of animated inquiry, marvel at the multitude, what spunk’ve minutiae, seas of information sailed. Yet we remain anchored, electrically, to the center of magnetic anomalies, hot conduits inherited from the fiery bellows of the eternal counter balance.  Why have our red cities been run down with anti-enchantment and violent reenactment of movements past? Commune we shall, and dance with the psyche of the Sun Child, hair growing long, dark, wispy and wild. Heavy velvet drag of the Moon runner. Let us meet in the forest where we can sit in the lap of a giant Conifer, stick too her sap, lock ourselves in a palace we’ve nicknamed the Rhombus, and hide here when our parents call us.

the curtain

a circus to share. no original pantomimes

culture imagined and coerced by. the way we drive commerce is pure sorcery

a competition. one with the most tally marks declared the winner

the curtain. painted in whichever color you’re blind to

a stage show. full of beautiful escapees


this rock i’m holding is no ordinary stone

it’s constantly turning whenever I’m alone

the water starts to trickle

look at the fountain

rust spots from pennies and nickels

three feathers growing swan dive arms out of my shoulders

these puddles of footsteps on the ground

are they yours?

what remains cloaked by the veil of the bridal brook?

there’s an extraordinary staircase spiraling up to a throne and all of the angels are flying

i. 3.8100 — oil

blind tribes trample upon the land
explore reptilian perception of the terroir
steam fills adjustable tappets picklepot condensor
techgnostic billy goat haunchos OK slurpy towers
bohemian resistance slightly impedes progress
lazy foot soldiers, sleepily ignorant, only move when they are pushed


Show tune lyrics of the future

I know i wasn’t proper but can i please make another offer to you

a chauvinistic notion ledgermen painted in blue porcelain hue chachki chain glue

give it a go I dare ya. stand in front of the motion picture camera for a few

aperture shadows dance with light. ego adapts to the capture device like a monkey to its crew

reality t.v. is Darwinian my dear, just a social selection project, meta-optical science lab practical gone mad hatter

thesis : To judgement, scrutiny. How DOES soul energy adapt? hollywood hookery hack

i hunt for whatever roosts in the rookery, climbed to the top and fell for the leader of the pack.

ten Roman Generals’ trouser snakes might lie on that equation’s path.

i. 3.8012 — silicon

purge nectar from the canyon.

calm collector of sand.

archaic star charts on a bitmap. 

Earth, take us back, shelter our dreams from the lightHogs.