Monday, February 11, 2013

New Kid in the South

Sperm---(… the teacher says to the class…)---are white for a reason.

Eventually, his eyes arrive in my direction.

(… when his eyes meet mine…,)
His expression reveals a vulnerable spot (…the admission that few or none ever meet his gaze…).

Maybe this is how he tests all the new kids…? 

I look scientifically upon those seated around me.  They seem representative of the fear he had expected from me.

My expression, however, is chiseled from marble.  Unlike the others, I am capable of studying his definition.

The tension between us creates a vacuum that pulls Nature’s sounds into the room (… through the open window…).

In his weakening eyes, I notice a moment of recognition (… that his future will not always be as he thought…).  The world of his upbringing---(suddenly too hot)---is poised precariously above a tub of cold water (… the promise of a plunge that will forge molecules like the regrouping of burnt skin…).

Knuckles rap gently on the translucent window of the classroom door.

With the glory of his moment lost, the teacher pretends importance in the direction of this distraction.

The classroom door rattles opened.  The torso of the school principal leans in.  Pardon the interruption, he says (… his eyes scanning the classroom for a particular student…).

When he finds me, he looks back over at the teacher.  Can I borrow the new kid for a few minutes?

The teacher backs up, positioning himself on the edge of his desk.  His gaze falls to his feet.  Sure, he says.

My desk’s legs make a screeching sound on the tile floor as I stand up (… drawing the principal’s attention my way…). 

I smile.

The principal opens the door wider and steps into the room.

Our eyes lock (… my smile diminishing like the smoke of a burst bomb…).

The teacher looks at the principal as he speaks to him.  I was just about to explain the reason why sperm are white.

The principal admits to a grin.  His lips part (… as if he is about to speak…).

He answers the teacher:  Good. We’ll get out of here---(… his hand motioning for me to follow…)---so you can continue explaining for the rest of the class....

I close the book on my desk, bundle it and my bag in my arms, and walk down the aisle.  Past the last desk, I turn the corner (… thinking that it will likely take a long time for people at this school to grow accustomed to my prep-school posture…).

As I pass the teacher, he says, I wanna see you after class---(… winks…)---so I can repeat my explanation for you.

Without so much as a misstep, I stroll right past his gaze, but speak loudly enough that my words will trail over my shoulder.  No need, sir.  I already know plenty about sperm.

Here, I stop and turn (… to address him…).  Sperm are white because they’re composed of molecules that reflect all wavelengths of light.

(… turning to address the class….)
Another interesting fact about sperm:  they have no eyes, so they use heat to navigate a woman’s pathways. 
(…facing the teacher again….)
So---(… in addition to being white…)---don’t forget to tell them that sperm are also blind.

My new teacher’s face is flushed (… set to refill with anger…).

The principal stands dumfounded as I open the door even wider and walk past him (… into the cool breeze flowing down the hallway…).

Friday, September 9, 2011

zimdog's 78-word entry

(...for Esquire....)


A village had a writer... (... a writer by her trade...). She wrote of People kindly... (... with her kindly-thinking ways...).

One day, some angry men rode in... (... with horse-like grunting sounds...). The angry men dismount, and push-&-strut their ways around....

The village women quickly greyed their kindly ways... (... which the warriors understood as a cue for them to run the place...).

Stars went by; the writer wrote... (... her wordy herstory...).

(Warrior hordes don't read much....)

Sunday, August 21, 2011

zimdog pnaws turns a corner

I recently felt a renewed pulse for the zimdog pnaws; this is part A....

(Part Z is:)
I read so much cool stuff written by other people that I've decided to devote the occasional pnaw to fellow writers....

Part A + Part Z = an introduction to the writer of this inaugural edition of zimdog pnaws presents: others' pnaws....

The zimdog has known Barb Stahl since high-school....
(After Mr. Wright moved Me up into accelerated English, the zimdog had the pleasure of learning from Mrs. Stahl for two consecutive years... (... 10th & 11th Grades...).)

Today, I credit Barb heavily for influencing the lasting impressions that actualized My passion for writing....

And so---(without further adieu)---I present a poem by Barbara Devita-Stahl:


The boy who said, "I love you"

He said, “I love you”
On the Fourth of July
At the Laporte County Fair
And the country girls
Braless in their yard-sale halter tops
And barefoot on the dirty concourse
Couldn’t wreck my joy
Even as they solicited leering grins
And lusty whistles
Jiggling their way to the rodeo
To watch young men
In too-tight Levi jeans
That strained their groins
And hugged their loins . . .
Nor could the three-eyed freak
Whose spittle dribbled down his chin
As he watched the boys and girls
Shoving pink cotton candy with
Their grimy fingers into their
Little selfish mouths
Wreck my joy . . .
And when the sun got low
My guy, handsome in his Hollister shirt
And True Religion jeans
Led me behind the restrooms
Which stank of warm piss
And giving me a long kiss
Thrust his sweaty fingers
Down the front of my pants
Until, gasping, I pushed him away as he
Cussed under his breath
Leaving me there near the stale urinals
Where the three-eyed freak
Clutched his bulging crotch
And ogled me as I ran
And wandered aimlessly around the track
Until a chill night moved me towards
The parking lot where I found
Him (who loved me)
In the back seat of the car
(The dirty-souled boy
Straddling some dirty-soled girl)
While the three-eyed monster
Bayed to the moon.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

the zimdog's second pro-birth

It'll all begin differently when Julia Ormond's son meets Borat's daughter....

Perhaps it will be a crisp, Autumn day when the Route 8 bus breaks down at the Park stop....

(... stranding Rillo Ormond at the very same park where Boratelle will be flying her kite made of woven yak fur....)

The spark of love will unite the two... (... like a Bic lighter held near a flatulating anus...).

In time, the zygote will be sent up in a space jet... (... to be put in geocentric orbit at a velocity of 0.9c...).

After completing at least two googolplexes of counter-clockwise orbits, the zygote will be slowed to a speed that will allow it to grow at the standard, natural rate... (... only to be cast into a primitive, man-made wormhole that shoots it out in the year 1979... (... when it was captured by the cosmic ray that transported it to the zimdog's mother's vagina...)).

Some undisclosed number of months later, the zimdog was born!!!

(True story....)

a funny joke (disclaimer: not a zimdog pnaw)

A dad buys a lie detector robot that slaps people when they lie. He decides to test it at dinner....
"Son, where were you today?"
The son says, "At school, Dad...."
Robot slaps the son!
"Ok, I watched a DVD at my friends house!"
"What DVD?"
"Toy Story."
Robot slaps the son again!
"Ok, it was a porno," cries the son....
"What! When I was your age, I didn't know what porn was," says the dad....
Robot slaps the dad!
Mom laughs. "HaHaHa! He's certainly your son...."
Robot slaps the mom....

Saturday, May 14, 2011

da origins of da zimdog

It all starts when Bob Saget has a daughter & Snoop Dogg has a son....

18 years later,
Mr. Dogg, Jr. & Ms. Saget will meet at college....
Sooner---(rather than later)---one goes into zero, & the zimdog is conceived....
The zygote will then be placed in a time machine & sent to the year 1979 (to be implanted in my mom's womb while she was sleeping).
Nine months later, the zimdog will have been bizzorn... (... with the Saget nose... (... & the Doggy-style flow...)).

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Someday at the Zoo

dots up
me down

dots of light
looking down
gods of light

gods go up and down
bringing warm and cold
bright god breathing warm
dark gods breathing cold
pale god warm or cold

warm dies cold as bright dies dark
dark gods born from bright god death
dark gods live as shapes in dark
dark gods die for bright god life
pale god lives and dies with both
changing dark to bright to dark
growing whole to die nothing

marking bone with stone to honor pale god death
pale god flowing out of me with each new mark
pale god growing inside me, turns ripe when whole
pale god rots into its darkest, flows as blood
dripping power down on stones of special use
forming circle, nine great stones aligned to sky
dark gods teaching, waiting for their death in bright
special moment coming, bright god will live most
circle captures watchful eye of strong bright god
bright god sends me up to drop me out of here
all things buried under, nothing, then back up