polkabeast

http://www.myspace/gloomadeer

I am a writing teacher and a devout student of poetry, prose, palindromes, Scotland, and the concertina.<br /><br />I play concertina, bass, and vocals in the following Texas bands: Warren Jackson Hearne and the Merrie Murdre of Gloomadeers, Acoustic MUGZU, and the Big Ol' Bastards.<br /><br />I work part-time moving furniture and swamp farming.<br /><br />Here are some palindromes I wrote. Enjoy.<br /><br />Five Disturbing Palindromes <br />(published in NthDegree’s online supplement, NthZine)<br /><br />“No, Keep Rod on,” a brute lisps. “I'll rig a Tulsa siren, rut an item. Albinos, Mister [B]ret Simson, I blame. “Tina Turner is a slut,” a girl lisps. “I let urban odor peek on.” <br />35(words)/123(letters)<br /><br />“Relapse,” he pondered. “No plasma, yet a straw, Latin egret-sewer [g]rew Ester genital warts, ate yams,” Al pondered. “Nope, he's paler.” <br />22/99 <br /><br />Tia, winepots rub sun as risen. Infinity's s[a]ssy tin if nine sirs' anus burst open. I wait. <br />17/69<br /><br />Part Adam, I, Maria, help pins repel a lio[n], oil a leper's nipple hair. Am I mad? A trap? <br />19/63<br /> <br />Sun as Tim or felt tips laminate [w]et animal spittle from its anus. <br />13/53<br /><br /><br />Palindrome for Ethan Bell<br />(published by Backwards City Review, Spring 2005)<br /><br />Signing is not, new pet son. Pass awe? Not so! No green I plan. I dog, Miss, I hog; I say, “no best-fill lasts”; I’m red now – still, I hate new. Now go, fat asleep user-god. Irate, we do not gnash, sag, nor we nab. Run as muskcats poll a gym-barge (gasp). I help made-wart stew stiff. Is a name surer, eh, sir, eh, Toro? Do fist lame Rome; yes, sell war-cotton’s nog at cola. I rob rasta-prod of less. Red dunes I rot. No, do not spill, Lord; puff its rosecap’s red nub. Milk-lawyer, pot nine men in stunt news. A doctor sits – I’m fine! Desire Warren’s lip to help miss. A warning (Is it? Is not?) noses a rest, sir. Whore, work curt as a sin-net set! I knob mud eras, nag! Rode cane melts. I, penis, yawn. I sub betrayal. Prose werewolf, I did not send a fag, nor we rip mud as a side wang. Dew as pun, we stub. Diaper, fill a bastion. Stun-saw tips a rat sewn idle. Homemade porn? Ah, ten odes re[v]ersed on: Ethan roped a memo held in west. A rasp – it was nuts? No, it’s a ball if repaid but, sewn up, sawed, gnawed, is a sad umpire. Wrong a fad nest on. Did I flower ewes or play art? Ebb us in ways, in epistle men – aced organs are dumb on kites. Tennis as a truck rower, oh wrists, erases on tons. It, I sign-in raw; as simple, hot pilsner, rawer, is Eden if mist is rot, codas went nuts. Nine men, into prey, walk, limb under spaces or stiff-up – droll lips to nod onto risen udders. Self-odor pats arborial octagons not to crawl less, eye more malts if odor-other is here, ruse-man – as if fits; wet strawed, ample hips age. “Grab my gallop-stack,” sums an urbane wrong. Ash sang to node-wet, arid ogres, up eels, at a fog won. We net a hill. Its wonder mists all, lifts ebony as I go hiss. I’m god in alpine – ergo: no stone was sap. No step went on – signing is.<br />366/1273<br /><br />5x5 WordSquare (published in LEAD [New Zealand] 2005)<br /><br />A T A D S<br />T I M I D<br />A M I M A<br />D I M I T<br />S D A T A<br /><br />“At ads timid, am [I] mad? I’m its data!”<br />9/25

Denton, Texas