Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Saturday, July 31, 2010


Many thanks to all those who snagged a copy of K&F last night at Printers Ball. The ale was free, the art was interactive, and the ladies were doing their job.

If you were one of the lurkers who snagged one off the table, why don'ts you say aloha?

And if I met you last night, may the karate be with you.

Karate and Females Segundo is coming soon!

Thursday, June 3, 2010


"Y'know, just eating cheetos and trying to get my dick sucked."

Thursday, May 27, 2010


  1. They don't even know.
  2. Muthafuckas ain't ready.
  3. Get cho shit.
  4. Shit ain't fo me.
  5. Money??? Get it.
  6. P-I-M-P-I-N. Pimpin!
  7. Roll wit it.
  8. Don't name!
  9. Sometimes you off.
  10. Readjust your status.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

O Brendan Frasier


with your swashbuckler’s jaw line

and your three “r”s

like hooks in your peg board garage wall,

outfitted with a cutlass lined lawn mower for the summer

and a dragon’s breath snow blower

for the winter—

O Brendan Frasier,

your lifeline on your palm is etch marked with cliffhangers,

broken like an ancient rope bridge—

spliced down the middle,

broken like how your nose should be

at all times.

What do you think you’re doing,

wearing linen!?

Your fingers are finger-guns


shooting time-traveling

time-capsule bullets to the cretaceous—

Hello dinosaur, meet Mr. Frasier—

Pleased to meet you dinosaur—

chocolate milk for everyone!

My nephews, dripping in chlorine, salt,

and buttery liquid call your movies films.

They take crayon notes

in the dark of the theatre,

draw your torso a yellow-green center,

inscribing each “r” with a wonder

akin only to imagining Jesus

spelunking in The Batcave.

O Brendan Frasier,

are you 3-D in real life?

Or are you an animation cell,

flipping 24 frames per/sec

down Rodeo Drive in a station wagon,

the kids and the wife layered underneath?

You love your wife.

You love your movie’s wives.

You have been telling us for years

that you really really really hate mummies,

but no one listens to your cries

because we love you for fighting them.

There is no tender unraveling

of the seven shrouds,

caressing of aloe vera,

or rejuvenating skin therapy formula

on their ancient wrinkles,

there are bullets,

you kill dead deader,

so when I see the casket at this funeral

and imagine with x-ray vision

to the formaldehyde Tutankhamen within,

glistening under his White Sox cap

which hides the surgery stitches

along the latitude of his brain—

a brain like the Library of Alexandria

on a summer Sunday—

I almost think I see you

in the picture-laden corner of the service,

sharpening a machete with your teeth among the chrysanthemums,

ready to put everything in its place

until it stays there forever,

like Brendan Frasier was born to do.