Mob captain's severed head found - Zodiac Killer involved?

– Wed. Dec. 28, 2011 5:57 am Winters, CA (AP) –
The severed head of reputed mob captain Ralph “Ralphie” Cifaretto was found in a steel drum behind a gas station in this sleepy northern California farm town earlier today by seekers of Richard Brautigan’s unique insights into the road habits of sheep. Police refused to speculate on Cifaretto’s viability as a Zodiac Killer suspect except to say that Ralphie would have been 17 at the time of the first Zodiac murders. Zodiac Internet “investigators” were not deterred, but they are some crazy motherfuckers.

Editor's Note: Please understand that the term "crazy motherfuckers" as applied here is not an insult, nor does it necessarily imply actual craziness. For one thing, "crazy" is not a medical term. Neither is "insane" (it's a legal term). Second, we too are crazy motherfuckers, each in our own way. We obsess on millionaires who wouldn't give us the time of day as they throw, carry, and kick a pigskin around a grass field, for example. All of us have our little obsessions, and as long as they harm no one and don't rule our lives, who are we to judge someone else for being a slightly different type of crazy motherfucker than we are? You'd do well to heed this advice: Judge ye not other crazy motherfuckers. Keepeth your own shit in line.

© Pseudocognitive

Loaded up with dead

Some stuff recently unstuck from my congested mind. I accept no blame for the poor quality of this micropoetry, because I don’t like blame.

thought-stoppers, slow-talkers, nothin’ left to find
words fail, tires wail, clickin’ in my head
loaded-up with dead
12 gauge
of my mind


born under bad sign
a penumbra in your eye
got yourself binocs


locked inside a trunk
washboard road, deserted field
one shot, make it count


ninkyō dantai
stride wide on the sidewalk, yo
recognize my ink


khamsin-scoured skin
parchment over dry muscle
sightless eye-jerky


big fish, mob secrets
silty sliding meander
my murky river


perspex bubble bird
torn and bled-out, en route fast
uijeongbu, posthaste


fell’s point showdown
now, ask ‘em tell ‘em make ‘em
you got your throw-down?


slick ghost of a fish
gutted yet fully motile
catfish in the sink


inverted gull wings
deadly patrols in the slot
azure sky, whistling death


flatulent snoozer
pintos gone, empty burlap
give that dog a bone


cerulean pill
help, doc, it’s been four hours
quick, vasoconstrict!


—Haiku for Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer—
Murderin' bastard
lay face-down in Greasy Grass
vultures can have you.

Post and photos © Pseudocognitive

Intracranial Purge, Volume .22: Buntline vs. Brain

You step in the mud by the river and there’s no resistance. Your foot sinks, and as you fall, raspy stalks of Equisetum slide across your cheek like the Mastercard in those old Gillette commercials, and then you’re down. It’s cool and you stare at nothing and your eyes should hurt but they don’t. Twenty-two caliber Swiss cheezerizer, spent slug resting against your forehead after pinging around a few times. Your mind  is aerated, except there are no little cylindrical plug extrusions littering your scalp, just a neat little entrance wound. And then a small, fastidious man takes something from your hand, picks up his brass, walks away whistling “Fortunate Son,” and it’s done.


Once a week and only once a week, I drink a beer. Sometimes when I drink a beer, I write a paragraph, plucking random thoughts out of files on my mental office floor. I accept no blame (because of the beer).  Each of these paragraphs represents the effects of a different beer, and none of them are any good at all.

Post and photo © Pseudocognitive All rights reserved, forever.