Category Archives: culture



It is after midnight. The perfect time for a dipshit. It is also appropriate that I am posting this on an extinct blog. I lost faith in this irreverent blog because my dipshittiness almost got me sued. There was a time when I was a true dipshit. I didn’t take myself as importantly as I do now. Now, all I do is write poetry and transcribe someone else’s thoughts, dreams, and desires. Which is fine, but……what about my own? Mine have been on hold, until I get that job, have that money, get rid of the bedbugs, fleas and whatever. My true mojo was out there in that indefinite future. The same future in which everyone recognizes my genius, and where I don’t get laid every night because sometimes I just need to take a break from all that female adulation. Pretty fucked up, I’m sure. Hey, maybe I’m just a dipshit in disguise.

Just one of those guys

a dipshit in disguise

walking through his neighborhood

and never sees a Goddamn thing

His hopes and dreams

recorded for anyone to read

long after he’s died

a dipshit in disguise

Hey, that was supposed to be funny, and it turned out sad. Much like my life. But nobody cares about an uneventful life, if I’m going to be sad, I need to be SAD in a big dramatic way. You know, wearing the same clothes for weeks on end, so sad that I forget who I am and need to be put away somewhere, except these days there is nowhere to be sent, so I would just wander the streets, all my old friends avoiding me when they run into me in some doorway, lying in my own urine. Now that is a degree of despair which demands attention. It is the sort of thing a dipshit daydreams about, isn’t it? A way of gaining attention, instead of living up to what it means to be a human being.

But dipshits are angry little brats who never asked to be a human being, and quite frankly, resent it. There seem to be more dipshits today than when I was growing up. It used to be that no one ever aspired to be a dipshit. If you wanted someone to straighten up and stop embarrassing you and him or herself, just call them a dipshit. Back then, only Beat poets would welcome the company of a dipshit. Today dipshittiness is a growing industry. Comics? Most of them are just dipshits. Our culture has turned away from erudite humor, and have settled for dipshit culture. They are everywhere. I can’t go down to the local Walgreen’s without there being at least a couple of dipshits standing in line, if you can call it standing. Usually they are weaving around the line, and swaying on their feet like a drunk, except dipshits are drunks that never become sober. There am I, obviously a very important person compared to them, and I get more annoyed by the minute, muttering under my breath, “dipshits!’. Now, I do make one significant exception in regard to dipshits. I cut teenagers some slack because teenagers by their very nature have always been dipshits. That is what a dipshit really is, someone who is not a teenager, acting like a teenager.

As I admitted above, I am a closet dipshit. I used to be a dipshit right out in the open. I didn’t care. I missed the days when I was a teenager and shot my mouth off at every opportunity, regardless of whether I was making a fool of myself or not. A lot of people pointed out that I was a fool in those days. My teachers, my brothers, my sister, who often called me a dipshit, and my mother. My mother went to great lengths to explain to me that it was a sin to call someone a fool, then minutes later called me just that. My mother was a real dipshit, but saying that to her would earn me a good smack in the mouth from my father. Actually my father never smacked me, but come to think of it, I never called my mother a dipshit either.

When I think about it, being called a dipshit is a double insult, not only are you shit, you are a dip of shit. In other words, you aren’t THE SHIT, you are just a dip of it. You aren’t enough to bother with, an irritant, a bad joke, sort of like a flea. Even a punk is a step above a dipshit, because a punk knows better, and a dipshit never ever knows better. A dipshit can be counted on to do the faux pas, the wrong move, to be in the wrong place at the right time, or the right place at the wrong time, or just some sort of mistake in the scheme of things, awkwardly existing like a meal that absolutely no one has ever ordered. But there you are. After a while, you begin to stink from neglect. Such is the life of a dipshit.

Maybe this post will revive my dipshit spirits. Maybe I will retrieve my wise ass reputation, which was never wise in anyone else’s eyes, only stupid, only just being a dipshit. Maybe I will post more onto this defunked, debunked, defucked, blog, and make it relevant again, maybe I can go back to not being important or special, not the sort of voice in the wilderness you want to heed, but the sort of voice in the wilderness that irritates you to no end. Advice from a dipshit. What happens when an entire society descends into ineptitude and even mayors and congressmen, and sports figures are dipshits too! Doesn’t that change what it means to be a dipshit? When dipshits cease to annoy or offend, they have lost their right to being called such.

In ancient Rome, the dipshit had a special status. He would stand in the Forum and defecate, urinate, or masturbate, in plain view of the crowd. Then, whatever this filthy nitwit had to say was considered to be an oracle, the voice of the Gods, or failing that, he was considered to be quite wise. Could this be the origin of the expression: “Holy Shit!” You’ve got to admit, when a guy dumps a load, or shoots a load, you tend to notice. What he says would probably be remembered. But he would be considered a real jackass, a real dipshit.

I make no claim to be the voice of the Gods, and I have no plans to defecate or masturbate outside the local Walgreens, but I feel that my dipshittiness serves a purpose, if only to puncture my toxic pride, and the toxic pride of others.

It remains to be seen if there will be more posts like this one, or if this blog, which isn’t quite dead, but certainly smells funny, will become active once again. If dipshits could read I am sure they would enjoy this post. But a dipshit must never be made to feel good about his or her self, their magic lies in their utter disregard for themselves, their total lack of ego. Others might mutter, “Look at that fool, he doesn’t give a shit about anything, including himself.” to which I’d say “I disagree. I think he gives a shit. Didn’t you see him at the Forum?”

The Face of God


The face of God

May scare you

It may not be what you expect

It could contain everything you have ever seen

Or it may be a white screen

Every awkward pause

Each dumb remark

Stands naked before this face of God

No smile no wise wrinkles

A monster after all

Or could the face of God be a mirror?

Giving us back what we have given

Warts and all

Could you stand to look upon this face?

Would you be worried?

Filled with shame?

Waiting for that first word?

The Face of God may never be seen

Only imagined in our dreams

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there

A reflection of our fondest hopes

and fears

Chaos reigns


Things just build up

Thought by grisly thought

Till it bursts forth and many people die

I don’t know how to deal with this thing

Chaos reigns within the heart of things

Sheer terror in the night

I feel it on the bus every day

I see it in the faces of the crazy motherfuckers

Who rule the streets of hell

I have told myself to just ignore it

Otherwise it could drive you mad

But Chaos is real

Dark Knight, Dark Night

Life and art implode

And real flesh and blood appears

Real death stands stark and naked on the page

Chaos reigns

Don’t know what else to say

How to prevent it? You tell me.

But perhaps we could stop courting our worse tendencies

And try to love those lost souls who hate us

Good advice, but good luck with that one

The Grinning Man


I sit outside within the crowd

naked to the world

Below the tower on the hill

The Grinning Man is there as well

wearing a bad brains t-shirt and crazy shades

He chuckles at my precociousness

My lust gives this man a thrill

and as I sit here at home wrinkled and alone

He is grinning still

below that tower on the hill

I can stake my claim on this windy bustling day

show myself to be unafraid

But his face haunts me taunts me

My pain is this man’s pleasure

This Grinning Man with the sunburned face

and the nervous dance

I go about my business studying the ground

while he stands there grinning

Below the tower on the hill

Something to say but the meaning escapes me


I sit here knowing I must carry on with the chores

But something keeps me glued to this screen

Something to say but the meaning escapes me

I thought I had something more to say

Eager to explode with words so brave and so bold

Everyone will stop and say “Hey! did you see?”

“That guy said it all so well!”

Said what? I can’t tell if it’s well worth the reading

It’s well put together but I don’t get the meaning

What is he trying to say?

I sit here thinking I should stop all this blogging

away my day

but still…I thought I had something more to say

Down those lonesome tracks (Tribute to Neal Cassidy)


Down those lonesome tracks

that led to somewhere back

a time of red roses by the side of a shack

pool rooms and fresh news

from out of a gunny sack

He talked and he talked

as he drove all day

taking us further and further away

I miss him today. sweet Neal

Innocence sweaty, sensual and scarred

there can be no other bum so proud

there can never be a truth so loud

as Neal

Headin’ down those lonesome tracks

looking for a home cooked meal

Ain’t no app for this, sucka!


Ain’t no app for this, sucka!

so don’t even try

Your iPhone, your iPad, your pie in the sky

don’t make no difference to a man like me

There ain’t no app gonna cure my ill

Fuck you, Bounty pick ur’ uppers

You can’t soak up this spill

It’s all gone south of Mississippi

to the depths of hell

You know I’m telling the truth

You know I’m keepin’ it real

ain’t no app for this, sucka

no tweet and no twitter

I don’t need to go back to school

shut your mouth fool!

quit your talkin’ and feel

we’re too hurt to heal

it’s a done done deal


The King Of The Hip Hop Nation (Lyrics for a song yet to be completed)


You better hop on this train

Before it leaves the station

And ride with the King of the Hip Hop Nation

I’ve had enough

of all your self-serving lies

you won’t get my vote

I’m gonna give you a surprise

I’m gonna shove my dick in your mouth

and fuck you silly

’cause you deserve it you know

you motherfucking whore

I’m fed up

with what’s goin’ down

with what’s goin’ round

it’s all sick

it don’t make no sense

so y’all better catch this train

before it leaves the station

and ride with the King of the Hip Hop Nation

that’s right

ain’t gonna sell you no crap

I’ll stick it straight in the ass

of the Department of Hate

Cause theys vile y’all

they done us wrong

and sold us out

for a song

it ain’t right

i gotta shout it out now

and ride through the night

Like Paul Revere

I know the revolution’s near

Damn straight

Get on this train

you wanna be riding with the King

Not Elvis y’all

I’m talking about the King of the Hip Hop Nation

Go on now bitches

Tell your friends and relations

Tell them you’re riding with the King of the Hip Hop Nation

Damn straight

Keep it real, y’all

end of the song, y’all

Poets Make Good Perverts


Poets make good perverts

Because they thrill at each embrace

And yearn to suck out all the juices

within her feminine grace

They find sanctuary

Where others find filth

and in the forbidden

They find release

However perverts do not make poets

Alas it cannot be done

For only poets can make the connection

Between a lovely buttocks

and a meadow at dawn

For a pervert it is all one thing

Repeated without pause

For the poet it is everything

wriggling, squirming

in all kinds of weather

beautiful beyond words

and nasty beyond compare