Roger the African Antelope

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At a circus in the south of France
Where muscled men wear Lycra pants
The act that walks the high tight rope
Is Roger the African antelope.

Up in the air he prances along
In his metallic colored circus thong
Juggling fruit and maintaining his balance
Displaying his unique set of talents

The fruit that Roger juggles most
Are the hard yet fuzzy cantaloupes
Indeed these melons are his true love
And one can see it as he saunters above

He’s never dropped one fruit from on high
It’s almost romantic enough to cry
But antelopes can’t elope with cantaloupes
At least not according to the Pope

So he loved his melons in singleness
Until along came a bearded temptress.
Shelly was Swedish; from a mountain town
A descendant of hairy gypsy clowns

Her hair was blond and her skin was fair
And soft, where not covered in hair.
France may be full of hairy women
But Roger had never paid attention

Shelly was different and downright delightful
As she clowned about on her unicycle.
She went on stage with the Lycra men
As they groped each other she would spin

One day while performing in the center ring
He saw Shelly backstage practicing.
Suddenly all of his Cantaloupes fell
Was this diva from the depths of hell,

Sent to separate mammal and melon?
It seemed his heart was in complete rebellion
Roger was torn. Whom did he love more?
Was it Shelly or Cantaloupes that he adored?

He’d always been true to the love in his life
Not once contemplating a non-cantaloupe wife
As the fruit flesh laid naked in a pulpy mass
Roger fell off the wire on his thong wearing ass

The bearded girl came, fiercely pedaling
On her unicycle to the frightening scene
Roger looked up at the Swedish clown
Her eyes glittered as she gazed down

Her Nordic voice echoed in his African ear
What she was whispering wasn’t quite clear
The circus crowd had completely quieted.
The wind blew through her beard as she softly alighted

Shelly bent down toward his antelope face
And offered a mournful Swedish embrace
There before God and muscled men in mid-grope
She too declared her love for cantaloupe

Hearing her deepest fruit adoration
Healed all of Rogers painful sensations
He now knew how to solve his deepest love problem
He had to do something before life could stop him

Right there at the circus he bent down on two knees
Asking “Will you marry an antelope . . . please?”
She kissed him in that magical setting
And agreed to a cross species fruit-centric wedding

The crowd erupted with cantaloupe pride
The two lovers kissed and the muscled men cried
Because they were both willing to take a chance
They lived happily ever after in the south of France.

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Picture yourself on a raft in the ocean
Expansive emptiness; overcast skies
Somewhere beneath you, a rumble quite slowly
A beast with ambiguous eyes
Torrents exploding so grayish and black
Towering over your head
Look for Leviathans dark empty eyes
And it’s gone.

Princess in a tempest with dragons.

Follow it down to the floor of the ocean
Where underfed mermen eat navy supplies
Everyone weeps as you sink past the old ships
Full of bones that will never be dry
Newspaper rainstorms fill the horizon
Waiting to take you away
Escape from both faces; fierce as forever
And you’re gone.

Princess in a tempest with dragons.

Picture yourself after sea storms have settled
A sun in greyscale telling weatherman lies
Suddenly deep from the ocean around you
The beast with ambiguous eyes

Princess in a tempest with dragons.

This is a painting that my buddy Teddy did (click on the picture to see a clearer view) and I couldn't get the image out of my head after I saw it. I can't get the Beatles song, that this poem alludes to, from my brain either. (hint Princess = Lucy)

Check out more of Teddy's Art here

Check this video out!!!



This is my cousin Jon who owns Broadway Cafe and Roastery.

He does the Brame family proud.

Corporate Coffee = Crap Coffee

Starbucks Sucks. Power to the People.

Mailing Mayhem

I go to mail my mustache to my roommate in Mamoon
But the fellow at the window is an overweight raccoon
He tells me that my mustache can not go in the mail
And that those caught mailing mustaches are always put in jail

Now I am in a pickle since my roommate is expecting
To receive a mustache cause he's into hair collecting
I tell the fat raccoon that I still have to mail my mustache
And if he doesn't let me then I'll kick his chubby coon-ass

He tells me that the government has banned all facial hair
Because it can be used as an instrument of terror
I ask to speak to someone who does not eat out of trash cans
Then the raccoon slaps me with his clunky tiny hands

Momentarily I stand there with my blond mustache in silence
There is nothing left to do except resort to violence
I pull out all my throwing stars and heave them at his face
He ducks behind the counter with a figure skaters grace

Then out from all the ceiling tiles dropping like grenades
Come plumpish woodland creatures to the massive mailcoon's aid
A woodchuck with a double chin karate chops my spine
While a scrappy plus size squirrel bites me on my thin behind

A turtle that was spilling out the edges of his shell
Teams up with a beaver that was shaped just like a bell
They make a sort of catapult with the beavers tail
Flinging the portly turtle at my illegal mustache mail.

The package flies into the air above the raccoons head
My dreams of mailing mustaches all but almost dead
Just then I see my parcels exact trajectory
Sends it through the slot marked Mamoon quite luckily

And all the obese creatures from the forest of the fat
Can't fit through the slot to get my mustache package back.
Triumphantly I scoff at the overweight raccoon
As he wonders to himself why my roommate's in Mamoon.

Hospital Thanksgiving

Something sad should be happening
With all the wires
But he won't let the sad come visit.

The night nurse, an east coast hispanic
Told him he wouldn't have to wear those Julumbo pants.
It's just as well with him.
The jokes are funnier pants-less.

That sad something should be happening
The way it smells
But farts can make a sad smell silly

The day nurse, a tall man-faced woman
Told him at 6 am to wake up and wash his groin
Apparently the way to man's heart
Is through his crotch

That sad something should be serious
Statistically speaking
But sometimes stories lighten up the numbers

He can say anything, to anyone, anytime
As long as he's in the bed
There's nothing sad about urine, stool, and sperm
Especially when he tells the part about the underwear

Shouldn't it be sad now. Seriously shouldn't it.
With all that happens next.
But only nothing happens now.

Crammed onto unfamiliar furniture with family
Gracefully God hangs from the walls' crucifix
Death has no sting, Nothing is serious
The Joy of the Lord is my strength. (Fart noise)

Ever since September 11th
Terry has tried to shy away
From his nickname
THE TERRORIST
It’s just not funny anymore.

Being known for terror
Wasn’t always so unpatriotic
The nineties were a different time
Not that there wasn’t terrorism
There just wasn’t a war on it.

Back in college
Terry liked his moniker
He had it embroidered
On the back of his Intramural
Disc golf T-shirt

He grew out his JewFro
And always sported a beard
On a dare from his roommate
He wore a real turban
For his driver’s license picture.

It is amazing how many girls
Thought Terry’s terror was sexy
His cynical detachment
And pseudo-bad boy persona
Landed him lady after lady

Being a lifelong tech guru
It only made since that in 1999
When Terrytheterrorist.com
Was available at a reasonable price
He started an Ironic political blog.

It was soon after this
He later found out during “questioning”
That the CIA opened a file
On Terry the Hebrew Terrorist
Who wore a turban while driving

In late September 2001
The terrorist bought a plane ticket
Back home to New York
He didn’t know how long he would stay
So he bought it one-way

He never made it to the funeral
The CIA met him at LAX
And put him on a private plane
Complete with complimentary
Hand cuffs and orange jump suit.

Central Intelligence in not known
For their sense of humor
In the mind of fascists
An ironic nickname becomes
A secret criminal alias

After 19 months of “questioning”
At undisclosed locations
Terry had a secret military trial
He was the only American Jew
Convicted under Patriot act.

At his 10 year college reunion
His disc golf buddies laughed
At the tale of alliteration gone wrong
But to Terry the Terrorist
It’s just not funny anymore.

Once upon a time a polar bear with an American flag tattoo came into the library looking for gold. “Bullion!” He Screamed. “Give me all your Bullion!” His voice reverberated off of the books like fingernails shot at a blackboard from a cannon. The polar bear filled the foyer of the James K. Polk Memorial Library completely. His empty stare and enormous frame made him look like a methadone addict who had a patriotic accident in a tattoo parlor that specializes in bear arms.

Uncharacteristically confused, Eliza the stereotypically mild mannered librarian with impeccable hygiene stammered something about her unfortunate lack of golden coins and seemed immediately to return to her Jane Austen. She was scared. But Jane Austen prepares one for just about anything. The clinched fist of the tattooed bear arm slammed on to the reference desk with the authority and greed of a polar politician. “I’m not kidding. Give me the freaking Bullion.”

Being quick witted and pun-happy, always in a mild mannered manner of course, Eliza asked the brazen bear if he wanted Bullion or Bouillon. Oblivious to homophones the allegiant armed gold seeker thought she was making fun of him and not the English language. He bit the monitor off the computer and spit it across the library floor. Eliza knew this bear wanted gold and not soup.

Buried deep beneath the floor of the Polk Memorial Library was the city of Gold that had escaped the quest of Coronado. The Aztec city had been underneath an Indian reservation until 1995 when in an ironic sesquicentennial nod to Polk’s Manifest Destiny New Mexico used eminent domain to seize a Pueblo burial ground for memorial and literary purposes. The bear knew this. Eliza did not. The bear did not know that Eliza did not know. If this were Jane Austen this next part would take place through a series of letters.

“Stop messing around”

“I’m not messing around. There is no Gold Bullion in the Polk Memorial Libarary Mr. Bear Sir”

“Don’t call me sir”

“What should I call you then”

“Reginald”

The bears name was not Reginald.

“Well Reginald, I’m going to have to ask you to leave unless you can use your Library voice.

He speaks in the best library voice of a polar bear “I smell Bullion”

Eliza mentally avoids several puns “ I don’t know what to tell you”

“Tell me it’s mine”

“It’s yours”

This was all the permission the bear needed to start digging. He lifted huge parts of the floor out instantaneously with his uneatable bear claws. He knew if their were still Bullion it would be buried deep. Not Reginald was a naturalized U.S. Citizen and had been working in the construction business outside Albuquerque since he came here from Antarctica during the Carter Administration. His digging skills were well honed. After less than a minute he was 40 feet beneath the books.

Shocked at this bears lack of manners Eliza did what any Jane Austen loving Librarian would do. She shot the polar bear in the face.

When the police came to clean up the bi-polar polar bear Eliza claimed self-defense. She served 30 years in the New Mexico State Penitentiary for bear-slaughter. Besides joining the Arian Nation, she writes a lot of passionate letters and serves as the prisons librarian. The bullion is still buried beneath the old reference desk of the Polk Memorial Library where there now stands a statute of the mentally ill polar bear with the American Flag tattoo with a simple inscription: Not Named Reginald.

On the corner of a daydream and when Dylan went electric
They spoke with Bertrand Russell on the heart's of modern skeptics
The newspaper he read from twinkled like an epileptic
It was boring until sunset shouted down the man’s phonetics

On the corner of a rabies shot and paranoid delusions
He skipped through the democracy and suffered deep contusions
Intermittent lawlessness; the cause of revolutions.
Born of flesh the Hero dies at hands of institutions.

On the corner of a time constraint and false sense of myself
A bartender will pour a shot and drink alone his health
Dividing out the remnants of a murder victims wealth
Two pence for the mother and the rest goes on the shelf

On the corner of a sweater vest and Marxist nation state
Many fools collect the hearts of damsels laid in wait
Distracted beyond forgiveness in their progress toward a mate
Each will count the cost and find it hard to separate

On the corner of a Tuesday and black journals without lines
She caught a bus to Petersburg and watched the New York Times
Unaware the highways are all booby trapped with mines
The writer wrote tomorrow and choked softly on the rinds

Wilbur the Combat Wombat

Punch, kick, shoulder to the face
Wilbur takes no prisoners.
Tactically trained
By Homeland Security
Wilbur fights terrorism
And he fights dirty.

Punch, kick, forearm to the groin
Wilbur hates terrorists
A congressional commission
After 9-11 authorized
Wilbur to eliminate enemies
Wombat style

Punch, kick, finger in the eye
Wilbur fights to kill
From Afghan hills to
Baghdad streets
Wilbur the Combat Wombat
Means business

Punch, kick, elbow to the spleen
Wilbur is unstoppable.
Stealth like a virus
Belly crawling into caves
Wilbur hunts Osama
Bowie Knife in his mouth

Punch, kick, boot to the throat
Wilbur is an American hero
A cross between Superman
And a Wombat
Wilbur wants justice
Wombat justice

Waiting For Godot:

A Tragicomedy in Two Acts

Hey Everyone.
If I haven't told you yet

I am in Gorilla Theater's Production of
Samuel Beckett's
Waiting For Godot.
It will be at
The Just Off Broadway Theatre
3051 Central
in Penn Valley Park
January 25th, 26th and 27th and
February 1st, 2nd and 3rd at 8:00 p.m. and
January 28th and February 4th at 2:00 p.m.

Tickets are 15$or 12$
for Students and Seniors
You can get tickets at the J.O.B Box Office
or by contacting
David Luby with Gorilla
at (816) 510-3372
or duby@kc.rr.com

Here is the whole press release if you want a professional write up of what the play is about. It is so professional they call me William. But if you just want my unprofessional take on it keep reading.

Waiting For Godot is a play about two men waiting for Godot. Two other guys come along and then leave, and then a little boy comes and leaves. Although it sounds pretty lame it is actually my favorite play of all time and really interesting. It is fun and philosophical and pretty powerful. As my wife would say it is kind of about nothing. But more so it is about what happens between birth and death. It is supposedly a pretty "important" literary work as far as I know. And now that I am trying to explain it, I see why Beckett when asked himself what it was about simply replied "It means what it says"

I play the part of Lucky. He is a slave/carrier of bags with a rope around his neck. I do a lot of standing around holding stuff. But for 3 straight pages in the middle of the show, I go on a long philosophical/nonsensical rant. It is pretty awesome.

Here is what the character looks like

I'm not quite as old as these guys but hopefully with a little bit of make-up I will look tragically/silly old-ish too. I am excited.

And for those of you who might be interested in a little more theological look at the play read this. My director gave it to us and I'm not sure I agree completely with the author but it is intriguing. It's a little long and I'm not sure anyone cares, but I read it so I’m going to link to it.