Category Archives: Sagas of Icelanders

Incite of land

her hand in front of the mower
mosquito fleet
broke witching stick
fish eyed philosophers

in the little time left we’ll try to ford finnegans wake
admist the uncanny fragility of consciousness

logwood litmus
human cannonball
saddled with this body
roots pulled out from under
from horn to stirrup
isolated in iceland
baby in a car
facebook hung like an albatross
a google reasons to abandon ship

mushroom bodies

The mushroom bodies or corpora pedunculata are a pair of structures in the brain of insects and other arthropods. They are also known to play a role in olfactory learning and memory. In most insects, the mushroom bodies and the lateral horn are the two higher brain regions that receive olfactory information from the antennal lobe via projection neurons.

Weaver god

The weaver-god, he weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal voice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened; and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak through it. For even so it is in all material factories. The spoken words that are inaudible among the flying spindles; those same words are plainly heard without the walls, bursting from the opened casements. Thereby have villainies been detected. Ah, mortal! then, be heedful; for so, in all this din of the great world’s loom, thy subtlest thinkings may be overheard afar.


He was widely considered the greatest warrior prince since Gustavus Adophus. Gesundheit. He’s descended fron Genghis Khan, like most eurasians. And so’s your old lady.

Diet of Worms

This new Christian diet is all the rage, the Diet of Worms. The infidels tend to choke on it, as was its design. The doctors of divinity prescribe a bracing tonic of extreme devotion to those in remission. Many long-standing disputes have finally been settled, to the best of our knowledge.

Tone deaf

I was tone deaf all my life, up until one day, it was in the fall, I fell out of my crow’s nest and awoke with perfect pitch. There are no other cases in the annals of the supreme being or in their executive summaries.

In the beginning I could make nor head nor tail of it, but when the nor’westers came to blow, and the trees began to sing, I heard that Forty Mile Creek was in the same key as the Magic Flute. Down at the switching yard, the locomotives were idyling in C, but not a well-tempered C. Though the vibrations are arbitrary, the harmonics are pythagorean. On that note, abstain from beans.


Raise the glass to the glory  days of the inquisition, when god gave us men a ticket to torture. Sanctity ruled the land, if you get my drift.

In those days we weasels of rightousness could get our jollies by ferreting out the sins of the bwitches. The devil lurked in every crack, but the hammer was underwritten by the pope. As the accounts of agonies attest, the hammer came down hard.

So with your one good eye and half bushel of brains, raise the glass and praise the inquisition.

I’m talking to the President

Mister President, we have four more prisoners of war.
Bring ‘em on.
Crick is a prisoner of the war on drugs.
Hang by the neck.
Warsh is a prisoner of the war on poverty.
Life sentence, three generations.
Shem is a prisoner of the war on terror.
Molotov cocktail.
Shimmy is a prisoner of the cold war.
Burn at the stake.
Thank you Mister President, and God bless.