first anniversary Burroughsian clip-show

Made up entirely of phrases gleaned from the first year's worth of entries, in order, and dressed up, in the manner of small girls in their mothers' ball gowns, as found poetry:

the vast electronic ether crusted and frozen over
to call into being a still point
thoughtlessly flagwaving anything more important than a laundromat
I think I'll shave my head I am such a geek

the Sun Kings of their own blinkered solar systems
between admiration and a fit of the giggles
I'm on a campaign against "excitement"

rejiggered the punctuation, there might be only one Roger
Bambi, flowers, and babies petting puppies
despondent, near-mumbling, a mediagenic, musclebound, grinning ape
medical science should be alerted immediately
we're singing about a goddamned snowman
blatant jimmying of the chordal rigging

pointing at pre-approved thought-wardrobes
the glory of outsider cool who sneers at the mundane
a sonically upgraded world
suspend our disbelief by a narrow thread from a scraggly twig
sixty feet up a sheer cliff wall
the words written in (someone else's) blood above the door:
"Roxanne is with another client right now"

a sort of crude crayon sketch of a Gibsonian cybermatrix
the wrong lyric is more interesting than the right one
Who the fuck are you?
phrases suddenly flock forth
I'd pay to see a rhyme-off
water accused of being wet,
a philosophy which then colonizes a rhetorical bad-hair day
to have odd little acoustical spaces to themselves,
a claque of fans who haunt the bookstores

no texture to a nine-digit number
one can't walk anywhere in public without being hit over the head
crudeness for its own sake
maintain my coolness in several vectors simultaneously

Dictionaries are dangerous and addictive
"let's play 'count the white people'"
what color is your panic chute?
guilty of dumbing-down jawdroppingly channels the Captain
designers and architects fan out
eyebrow-raisers are frequent sheer accidental beauty

send that camel to a chiropractor
bearing coded transmissions of the most ponderous import
the organization of that name got snitty
the casting coup of the century, the amusing editing glitch

The doughty plantsman wrestles a certain dubious hipness
broken hearts and major-seventh chords
a yahoo who laughs at gags Adam made up
under suspicion of containing encoded references
that hand gesture designating tastiness
National Den Mother not a particularly portable phenomenon
fonts are designed, not found beneath a rock
we want to make our tastes bear an excessive burden
of signification skritching its paws in a litterbox
a bit ruder:
operas in which illicit narcotics vocalize a precision-balanced sense of ambiguity

"Are you from Milwaukee? Do you wanna marry me?"

intentionally awful, that famous breakfast craze:
Buddy Squirrel and Mr. Peanut work cryptic kabala with the cashews
embarrass ravenously feeding wolves
snap it off and hang it from my belt fitted out with random place names

you're not a vacuum cleaner, certified irony-free suburb who twisted my arm
contemporary critical grape-peeling becoming fidgety
bombarded with the usual well-meaning civic-mindedness plus: one (1) goat

I bought an accordion to prevent knee injuries before they happen
a certain metaphysical vagueness, utter contempt for everything
dress it in the rationality of mathematical relationships

they swarm around truth
like thousands of piranha translate their trembling
no digits involved
let loose this whopper
kind of dims that nostalgic glow some more
weird bugs translates the abstraction of death into emotional legibility
left-field song-jimmiers
nasty editorial pawprints off acknowledging one's own assholity
the beneficiary of allergists' fond attentions in a special homage to Andy Warhol
second verse, history as farce
our boy-king originally from Indiana
probably gravity wouldn't work right
Ronnie hasn't risen up out of his tomb

the cats were completely still
dismissed as unduly paranoid
the lack of postal service shot through with a conceptual brilliance
that matryushka of prepositional phrases
the sad pick-up joints of his town's abandoned warehouse district
mincemeat of Rush's bloviations: I blame it all on Sammy Hagar

Whoa. I need another bong hit.

spraying gasoline at a raging fire
some sunscreen probably would have been a good idea
the odds favor Elvis to puckishly quote one lack of proofreading skill
its opening haze pungent statement:
it was the Clinton administration, the band's guitarist, and a computer aura
and cobbled the astonishing number of flaws,
beer-drinking gnomic cutup man
bog down immediately in reason and practicality
the space surrounding their bodies must be handled like nitroglycerin

less wonkish readers gasping for air to weasel their way out of it
tempted to find its source
a rash of properly formed apostrophes
a collector of evocative phrases
grievous policy blunder try to claim this election

what the sign painter was thinking
meditation of sorts:
how much I suck goddamn juvenile delinquent elephants
the tumbling of those similar consonants
harmful doses of outrage tucked in an inside window