The Treadmills Made of Mines

[I always liked the "Windmills of Your Mind" song from The Thomas Crowne Affair (1968). This is my sloppy mockery of it and its kooky lyrics. The original song was written by Michel LegrandAlan Bergman, and Marilyn Bergman.]

 

Like an alabaster hamster snorting a line of moldy bees

Like an esoteric cleric preaching on the chi of knees

Like a sturgeon good at math

Like a German in a bath.

There’s that creep who stands in lines

For the treadmills made of mines.

 

Like wombats taught to whisper

Or a walrus made to weep.

Oh, look I’ve got a blister.

Have you put the kids to sleep?

Like an anemic brontosaurus

Like a surface that is porous.

Like a fork with just one prong.

Do I look alright in this sarong?

 

Bears indifferent to plastic

Like a sound that makes you feel

There’s a painting of a lobster

Or a girl stroking an eel.

There’s a sensation that keeps on building

When the circus comes to town.

The Heads try to keep us spinning

But I’m still frightened of the Clown.

 

There’s a danger of one finding

The lungs of a local mime

Stuffed into a suitcase lining

Before its scented with a lime.

Perchance a purple feather-duster

Or a hasty snark just off the cuff

Will curtail a lion’s luster.

Why aren’t we sleeping in the buff?

Filling red balloons with mustard

Always worked just fine for me.

There’s a startling revelation

That I’ve never had to pee.

 

Like a wicker orca filled with peanuts riding on antique skis

Like that face you make just before you have to sneeze

Like a leopard who needs a slap

Like a ghost without a map.

A prepubescent hagfish redefines

All the treadmills made of mines.

And the treadmills run on time.

cloudsbackground

Actor???

A few of the short films I’ve had the pleasure of appearing in.

Someone made an homage to “The Dark Knight” and they asked me to be the Commissioner Gordon character because I had a mustache. 2009

The real Santa Claus. A movie as inane and ludicrous as the song that inspired it. 2010

Just for fun we made us some waffles. 2011

Murder! A hit and run driver tries to dispose of a troublesome body. 2009

I play a cat pervert. 2011

A silly, little short we all helped write involving a bored poet and a wayward time traveler. 2008

Pantomime getting beat up outside can get the cops called on you. 2011

A scene that my friend re-shot from Tim Burton’s “Ed Wood.” 2008

One of my first experiences on camera. My roommate asked me to play his weird roommate and I figured I already play that role well in real life so… 2007

I have a very brief cameo as a ping pong player.

My Cartoons

When the shy Woolly can't stop growing she winds up the center of attention...unfortunately they include the attentions of a greedy farmer, a hungry bear, and a hairy pirate.
When the shy Woolly can’t stop growing she winds up the center of attention…unfortunately they include the attentions of a greedy farmer, a hungry bear, and a hairy pirate.
rockinghorse dreams
rockinghorse dreams
Sterling Renaissance Festival billboard

Sterling Renaissance Festival billboard

happy haunts

happy haunts

Alice in Wonderland
you tell me

you tell me

The Ocelots Are Out

Captain’s log: stardate banana hammock republic eleventy 1/2.
Frosty banquet of helium strectching throughout the chalky camel diaper.
Midnight ’tis forthcoming…bring an extra towel.
From whence the sharky mandible defies description more than’t does prescribe presciptions.
I have the jell-o mold now.
And, yes. There will be cod.
I can’t wait ’til Christmas, bacon.
Thrice.
“Xanadu.”*
No room in the inn. Did baby Jesus have an inny or an Audi?
Who’s portcullis obsequiously brandished forth spoons bassoons?
The Puscillanimous Putsch is ‘pon us, putz.
OBAMA WAS FRAMED!
Chappy McDonald cowboy guff into thirty-eight individual
Quaint, little walrus…all alone and frothy.
Pronouns verbing adjectivey nouns adverbably.
Nobility spake forkedly ’bout rambunctious bouts of gout. Poor devils.
Into the trundlebed we going into.
We shall be together. The windsock and I.
Ha. We meet again, Mr. Bon Bon’s secret fudge.
Kermit necromancy robbing went a-hob-nob-nobbing along.
In hindsight slavery probably wasn’t the best of ideas.
The ocelots are out.
Put your teeth to the pantry inexpugnably and inexpungably.
Enconced in absconded scones from home hone the tone down dyslexic children.
A baby wearing spectacles is not be trusted.
Thawing stork governing a mayor ‘pon his mare…in bed.
I told you, I am allergic to shellfish. Maybe if you really loved me you would have known that.
Poodlety-dee, poodlety-die cast metal cars.
Sling the swing, swing the sling, sing the song, and toot the fruit.
Palladin palladium on a porky palanquin.
Pangolin. If you don’t know it, look it up. (Google image-search it. They’re weird buggers).
Haffa’ go potty.
Ah, to be Bosnian again.
Dice.
None of ‘em.

Ranpopo the Peccary Wizard: the fantastical man who controls all of the world's peccaries with but the wave of his sword.

(Ranpopo the Peccary Wizard: the fantastical man who controls all of the world’s peccaries with but the wave of his sword.)

*Where Charles Foster Kane lived, not the Gene Kelly movie

The Story of the Tea-making Coat Unsinkable or: a Plea for the Preservation of Antiques.

The coat: a grand apparatus
And it ever wilt be
Supreme in stature and status.
This is my tale, my plea.

I sleep in a dark room
When I am not worn.
Around me moths have loomed
Since the day I was born.

The moths are patiently waiting
To munch me clean through.
‘Pon me masticating
Now I’m no longer new.

In my day I made fine tea
For all who would allow
A coat near kettles large and wee.
And I served it with a bow.

I now rest on an old table
Next to discarded toys.
I am the coat unsinkable
Neglected by girls and boys.

The sun scampers through the trees
And all are gone but me.
Is there no one that I can please
With my fur, my warmth, my tea?

The moon is laughing at my plight.
It is doubtless he will leave.
To make him go away I might
Plug my neck-hole with a sleeve.

Glowworms bare their eerie light.
I do not wish to fuss,
But coats do not like the night
Unless someone is in us.

I recall one time when
Sleet fell like buckets of water
And my owner decided then
To drape me ‘pon his granddaughter.

I kept her dry as best I could
But was useless I admit
To the old man who was so good
And who payed dearly for it.

By fire we dried our strain
And the girl began to cry
For walking out in the rain
Made dear grandpa die.

There was nothing I could do, you see.
He had done the unthinkable.
I tried to cheer her up with tea
But was no longer the coat unsinkable.

Tortured by one thought,
More than I could smother,
I saved one life but ne’er forgot
In so doing took another.

Now I am for sale
And this event still lingers
In my mind, never stale,
Like songs by sad singers.

Doubtless time will not remember
The man who wore me proudly
And saved the girl that one December
And departed this world not loudly.

The moths are now chewing.
I still recall the old man’s deed.
Yet no one is pursuing
To buy me or pay me heed.

Not only can I keep you warm
And make you delicious tea,
But can tell of sacrifice not norm
If you’d open your ears and see.

Once the moths have finished,
You’ll have allowed a desecration.
And what this man did shall be diminished
To butterfly defecation.