by
product oven-beet blight
feed heater hawk beaked
flint wheat rope ladder

by
ego destroying instead of being id, ego, super-, so we suffer from the
negative that blights lives, weakens cultures, sickens even the
strong
do you know what I mean?

this is hopped up on keywords

a month ago you could find yourself here by typing in "beer+bong+female+ejaculation" into search
perhaps it's still possible
We here at Frank Sauce encourage you to try

contrary to pop-mantra
prayer
deception, really
How we pray sometimes for seems

sewn by our will for the easy pill
like safety jazz
or a safe harbor

safe for the self of our data

could it be we are only as good as our data?

something that now comes to me: best-selling poet

GPD - Global Poetic Domination - the domain of Shakespeare

the next big thing will be Jesus-Elvis-Shakespeare
the pop-icon trifecta
when their is no race to win, the trifecta becomes meaningless

for now a pop-mantra
a prayer to share to disolve our self in the body of we

Fascism
fas-cism [fash-iz-uhm]
noun
1. (sometimes initial capital letter) a governmental system led by a dictator having complete power, forcibly suppressing opposition and criticism, regimenting all industry, commerce, etc., and emphasizing an aggressive nationalism and often racism.
2. (sometimes initial capital letter) the philosophy, principles, or methods of fascism.
3. (initial capital letter) a fascist movement, esp. the one established by George W. Bush 1988-2008
4. The world would be a better place if we all shared the same world view.
n : a political theory advocating an authoritarian hierarchical government (as opposed to democracy or liberalism)

all of US

Fascismo

Assassination plot
service cap
horny-fingered
dolphin striker
calvino doctrine
amber forest
crag-built
light-fused
profit-yielding
fern mountain holly
ruddy-haired
lime butter
committee-bring
first change
ships launch
every where
gill round
various bands
shit-shaggers
personal person

lathe your now this the portfolio years

Last night, I was drinking with a friend at Slow Bar. We weren't drinkin' German wine. He was drinkin' well-whiskey on the rocks and I was drinkin' Rebel Yell Manhattans.

It worked well. We didn't talk about Buroughs, but fellow poets and writers, and our book. We've never talked about Burroughs. Not that I can remember anyways. It always seems that when I'm at a bar, talking about books, Burroughs ends the conversation. As if everyone's whose ever read and hangs out in bars has read Burroughs, which seems odd, you'd think they'd read Bukowski. I haven't read much Bukowski. As a present, recently, I got the first book my friend, who gave me the book, stole when he came to Portland. It's Buk's South of No North. I've been reading it lately and at first, it hurt me everytime I picked it up. Now, it sits right with me, 'cause I love the hemmoroid story. Sometimes, in the book, he's writing stories from my life, even though I've never referred to a girlfriend as a whore. Alright, not in public and only when we're alone together and gettin' kinky. I can't go to a horse track, either. A race horse's life is too sad to watch. I do like drinkin, though.

And here's something to wonder about: drinkin' and the love of drink. Why do we drink and fuck and snore? Ok, the fuckin' and the snoring part are easy. Drinkin' though? That's hard. I can pour it down my throat and love it, but I can't explain what's so great about it. We embrace life and forget about it at the same time, I suppose.

"Then I went to bed with the feeling that all drunks know: that I had been a fool but to hell with it." All the Assholes in the World and Mine, Section 2.

I've never been able to say 'to hell with it.' The times I've been a fool, an utter fool, I've regretted it every time I've sobered up enough to remember what a fool I'd been. Recently, I told a very sad story about a hooker friend and I in Crete and what happend one night when I was completely drunk. I left out about 3/4 of the story and changed the ending, because I realized I still feel like a fool 20 years after that night.

"Sad am I," Billie sings in "Yesterdays."

I am alone at my desk with Basil Hayden neat, Billie, and then Davis' "The Birth of Cool", a picture of Bukowski, Coca-Cola and smokes. I'm sad, because the bottle of Basil's almost gone. I love the sound of the cork popping and listening to the pour in the glass, just like in those old Western movies that I used to watch growing up in my teens, stoned and bored, watching black and white movies on a color tv.

When the vacuum cleaner sneezes, we all cough up our lunch

Something has died inside it, but we're too scared to change the bag

The vacuum has taken over our lives; the dust and mites are on its side

Please, someone, anyone, help us in our time of need

In a split second, we're Eastside, enlightened
like the three-flowered turnstile
like we're fertilizer being mixed in a wind tunnel

She saw the ball lightning, like a lit-up chakra, the bio engineered Tesla Coil of my groin

He was the epitome of pseudo prosperity
but he was an American, pro-honduran, merchant-prince, who went bourgeois for the hell of it

When the A-B-C method turns pot to barley
and a wide-rimmed man chooses a cheese scoop rather than nail his biting dog to the wall with a flutter kick

There will be a long-beaked station, who points its nose to the fire window
like poodle bars and college grammar, ready for more rubbers

Then, the rapture begins.

There are hints of form in this here thing. This is a "Bloem"[a blog and a poem]. There's the immediate form of chronology available, but that's easy.

Here at Frank Sauce, we believe in the existence of the unique ability of bloems to achieve our poetic goals of deepening meanings and their relationships to each other, based on the assumption of one unique thought simultaneously connected to all the other unique thoughts being thought at any moment.

Indiscrete thoughts, is my first response, but not close to what I would like to convey.

This is all about delving into the potential of this given form to express one individual's state of the human condition through poetry and poetics.

The electronic page seems sterile initially. However, it offers the poet the ability to extend meaning exponentially through links [using the link and the page the link links to as a figure of speech (trope, metaphor, symbol, simile, etc.)], or through audio, images, and video, allowing the poet to redefine the page. The page's abrstractability explodes. No longer is the page tactile, fixed in size, a physical element that the poet has to constantly contend with when developing form.

Frank Sauce-our experiment in using a personae as a trickster living between an individual and the world.