Haus Hohlen by Jochen Specht

Too Lovely for mere words!

Change due = Plenty!

Change due = Plenty!



This is so clever.  Or maybe it’s just the English major in me that gets it.

yes. it’s only you, the english major who gets it
not the 200,000 other people who’ve also seen it



This is so clever.  Or maybe it’s just the English major in me that gets it.

yes. it’s only you, the english major who gets it

not the 200,000 other people who’ve also seen it

(Source: topsyturvy-tea)

Zero Minus Zilch

Today I have feathered my mental nest
with a single tingling infinite jest
as the fickle winds of change— rearranged
the angular antique furniture within my mind
into a quizzical construct of stress subtraction
I swept the skull clear, with a single swift action

Now all that remains
is the bone and brain
filled with infinite space
zero minus zilch
is all that remains—

to erase!

© February 18th, 2014 • D.L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing

IN THE NEWS February 14th, 2014:

A woman from Kansas has invented a most unique device. It is a used Popsicle stick recycler. The unit which must delivered freight by truck. Is noted for its sparse midwest design and nearly exquisite ease of use. Simply extract the unit from its wooden shipping crate using a crowbar and carpenters hammer. It is best to employ at the very least two robust dock workers to lift the unit up onto the kitchen counter. Once there, operation of the unit could not be easier. Fill the stainless steel tank on the rear of the unit with 2.6 liters of high octane petrol and six pounds of high grade beeswax. Insert 12 D-Cell batteries into the power pack and plug the unit into the wall socket, additional international adaptors being provided. Once fueled and energized, simply insert a used flavored popsicle stick into the slot in the vertical position. Once this step has been accomplished the process begins at the moment you step up onto the dual foot levers and begin pedaling while rotating the twin large cast iron engagement hand wheels. Within a matter of seven to ten minutes depending upon flavor, a lovely miniature fireplace log appears imbued with petrol and beeswax for an easy start at the hearth. It is possible to mix and match the fruit flavored sugary flavored sticks for a pleasant aromatic fireside experience.

The units which sell for six to eight hundred pounds, depending upon exterior finish are presently in high demand and orders are presently being taken for the winter season. The manufacture states she expects prices to rise as seasonal temperatures drop. I have purchased a unit and I am willing to state unequivocally that my favorite little logs to combine are the banana and root-beer flavors.

The time in New Brunswick is 8:44 and 3/4ths seconds.

© February 14th, 2014 • D.L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing

Miniature Literary Prize Delivery Service

Your exceedingly verbose dissertation was seemingly, somewhat most informative— if only we possessed the linguistic code to decipher the quizzically obscure essence of your unexpected epistle.
The entire context in which it is meant to be understood, is an an exceedingly diaphanous mystery to a human person such as myself and our garrulously endowed staff on this particular planet, at this specific page of the Roman calendar.
Still the words chosen seem to be rooted in a most singular language of a type, then deftly pasted from the nebulous depths; of an approximately plausible; if entirely arcane brain.
We sincerely thank you for at the very least attempting to take a quantum leap at even a most remote form of communication. We also wish to take this moment to applaud you for your effort in taking a split second of time to push the send button, for without question, this demonstrates a jot of protracted diminutive ambition.
We have decided collectively after much deliberation and with some reservation, to award you the well patinated ultra-miniature Microscopic Bronze Comma, for your trifling attempt at semi-accurate punctuation.

With the utmost literary compassion,


© February 9th, 2014 • D.L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing

New Building Going Up

Pretty Skyscraper Fail

I have decided to build a pretty skyscraper out of my most enormous failures. No doubt, there is plenty of material from which to assemble this almost plumb, entirely vertical monument to unplastered disasters. Once completed I will document it using ultra-pixelated photography, in the most dense sense, then display the images upon a missing picket, from a picket fence.

I will do my utmost to keep its location a private matter, for I am deeply concerned that at its root it may not possess even the merest degree of stability, and may topple over without the slightest warning, only to land in a gargantuan pile of obtuse angular puzzle pieces, random rubble and colorful dust!

If however in your worldwide travels, you do happen to find it jutting all akimbo into the cloudy depths of a popcorn sky on a sweltering summers day, do your best to turn and run away, but gently- for I expect even the fluttering wings of a single humming bird, may prove too much for this symbolic structure absurd; and it will be delivered to its illogical conclusion, causing calamity and clouds of confusion.

For absurd architecture has always been a hobby of mine, which I practice erratically upon precise occasions, certainly from time to time.
I once built an entire city of Tamarack twigs and banana strings, plus an odd assortment of telephone rings. For the cost it was meager, and gravity was eager to see it fall, but could be quickly resurrected, by a single long distance telephone call.

I also work well with off pitched piano , and the brittle oars of landlocked boats, while employing the sound of structural sand, passing though an hourglass, glued together with a bit of hope, and a hank of hempen rope, tied loosely to a serendipitous design, or the odd length of pumpkin twine.

All in all, it should be grand, for all my failures have been most carefully articulated and haphazardly planned.

So if you should come across a tangled shadow laying across the land, run like the wind from the place where you stand!

© February 9th, 2014 • D.L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing



Father Knits Mother Stirs

Father was always an impatient man, with the exception of countless nearly silent evenings he spent by the flickering fire light, knitting rifles from Winston Churchill’s many tender regrets. One may be surprised upon hearing that this great leader possessed regrets, yet he did, and they were mostly of a deeply romantic nature. His primary fixation was attuned to those celluloid heroines far across the pond. In particular he reserved a substantial portion of his copious grey matter for his longing to embrace the ridged flesh and ample bones of Hedda Hopper. The piles of rifles grew with the passing seasons and were stuffed to the moldering rafters into the attic or dumped into the old stone cellar.

What’s more, Winston fell quite equally in love with the erudite Louella Parsons. If the bellicose winds of WWII were not enough to occupy his mind, his love for these two contentious news hounds swept away any possibility of a decent night’s sleep for many a lingering year. Winston tossed and turned from one side to another, only to come face to face with his love for two ladies he could never possess in the soft glow of radiant candlelight sparkling upon glasses of bubbly. Although he was victorious on the battle lines and in the trenches, he was after all a man who’s heart was unfulfilled to the limits of it’s capacity and in the end served as little more than a mechanism for moving his blue blood around his massively complex circulatory system.

Fathers knitting needles flashed and sparkled as he produced copious amounts of light infantry weaponry for a winsome Winston. It was with some great effort that Winston kept his fictional dalliances from his always adoring Clementine. Knowing what even the slightest blush of rumor would ultimately tarnish his sacrosanct bond with her, Winston held close to his heart the secrets of state and his longing for a matching pair of petulant Hollywood chatterboxes.

Mother for her part kept to the amber colored ceramic tiles of a rapidly advancing, antique kitchen. There she kept herself busy stirring multiple pots of her most emphatically synthetic secret desires. Using a well seasoned and utterly patinated boxwood spoon, dug up in the garden under her favorite cabbage plant Louise, by her overly ambitious and anthropologically curious rat terrier, Doxy. This arcane and perhaps magical implement was lovingly hand carved by a solitary troglodyte who went by the name Orto, but who’s real name was Hif-La-Voor, using hand fashioned obsidian tools, well ensconced within the vast timeline of the pre bronze age; reflecting the uncanny semblance of the passenger side window crank of a 1912 Bentley, solid gold edition. Mothers dedication and propulsive momentum was unrelenting at all hours of the day, and well into the very darkest of fog laden nights. Ironically, she and Winston shared many sleepless nights churning away at their nearly identical heartfelt longings.

Without a reservation or twenty-four hour notice, uncle Pete, my fathers least favorite brother, arrived reeking of cheap imitation Cuban cigars and pseudo Detroit bathtub rum, then proceeded to stick his outsized index digit into the entire depth of the doorbell where he lingered; exhausting excessive volts and decibels. He entered covered in coal dust, pitch and bacon grease, brusquely grabbing fathers hand and shaking robotically as if it were a cast iron pump handle. After his overly enthusiastic greeting, he plunked his outsized frame down upon mothers brilliant white chiffon sofa cover and then launched into a series of obvious fictions presented as if they were ensconced in concrete fact regarding his many lavish travels both home and abroad.

Mother retired to the solitude of her steaming kitchen where she began to prepare out of complete deference to fathers habit of providing a strong economic foundation on which to build kitchen products of a quasi-nutritious nature. She did however mask her reluctance in preparation of uncle Pete’s favorite dish with a stellar performance reserved for the likes of Veronica Lake. Sans stage makeup she toiled over billowing pots of boiled pork shank, pork chops, pork soup, bacon plate accompanied with all the trimmings to include deep fried pork rinds and a lovely platter of gelatinous pickled pig’s feet.

Uncle Pete rose from the sofa aided by the wafting aromatic leverage of mothers culinary craftwork, rendering a sooty smudge of gargantuan proportions which immediately brought to mind an outsized roar-shock test, which in the blink of an eye yielded up absolute proof that Pete was utterly insane from the root of his foot to the tip of the last looping hair upon his aging noggin. From there he ambled to the dining room table and began to consume wholesale the entire assemblage of steaming pig parts.

Mother having at last perceived the thick black smudge on her sofa, let out a gasp which nearly caused her to exhale her precious lungs entirely out onto the sideboard, but masked it with a sobering cough as she dashed into the kitchen, where she spent several hours scrubbing her lovely pots until they were quite free of pork fat. Afterwards, she dashed out back and bridled the last family pig and dragged it as best she could to the neighbors house where she handed the harness to Mrs. Tollgate, insisting she assume ownership of the pig who’s given name was Geophrey. Mother then sealed the deal by signing over the pink slip and trotting heel to toe back through her very own Bristol beets and straight up the staircase leading to her pig free kitchen.

Only moments later, there came an official ring at the bell proffered up by the local constabulary in search of dear, dear uncle Pete.
Apparently he had escaped the bounds of the local prison house with the aid of the wardens rare red rusted Renault Dauphine. Within a matter of moments the two bobbies had gathered up uncle Pete, secured his person with a pair of non-rusting British-Sterling stainless-steel hand bracelets. Within the scope of a miniture minute, uncle Pete was a historical figure only remaining within the boundaries our family photo album and was for all future days to remain a welcome guest of the British prison system.

Mother snatched up her once lovely white chiffon sofa cover and dragged it out back and doused it with the last remaining bacon drippings and kerosene, then set it ablaze and once more preformed an enthusiastic hornpipe around the flaming pork fat soaked rag.

Father fell back into his rocker and immediately resumed knitting a Louella Parsons rifle but dropped a stitch and ended up with an odd caliber pistol of nondescript character, which would only fire acorns during the fall season and then only if the local population of squirrels had not filled their cheeks with the tart seeds before the munitions plant sent out highly trained troops to collect the odd nut from below the stately white oaks in our entirely remote Hackney Wick neighborhood.

There is little doubt that Winston would have been proud of fathers efforts on his behalf and those of the war effort in general had he not been entirely ignorant of fathers existence from day one.

Mother redoubled her efforts by reissuing her pots with a fresh supply of aromatic herbs and succulents on which to carry her enchantments out of the kitchen vent and into the cooling fall sky and across the harvest moon. Little did father know of her flaming desire to run away with Winston Churchill, and she would have done so, except for her disdain of sooty cheroots and Winston’s love of expensive French cognac, which he also used as eau de cologne in copious amounts, splashed about his pale pink skin, before surreptitious dating forays deep behind enemy lines.

Winston Churchill reclined steeply within his favorite moaning chair and began to drift off where he found himself floating somewhat heavily betwixt that quasi-conscious dream state and REM sleep. There he envisioned a tacky kitchen plastered with amber colored tiles; where shimmering aluminum pots filled with Alpaca rifles boiled away into the night stirred alternatively by Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper, wearing matching aprons adorned with little pink piglets energetically waving the King’s colours in tandem.

© January 14th, 2014 • D.L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing

A Question Mark Upon My Grave

Fill me with emptiness

drop me into the vacuous void

head first, then tumble me

unseasoned till quite well done

Hit me with a double dose

of massive subtractions

until zero itself shrinks

beyond the pale nothingness

Paint my canvas threadbare—

Stretch me to the outer limits

of any protracted infinity

Pluck the sweet sound

of silence from my rattling ears

where I will sense nada squared

Place upon my tongue

the eucharist of absolute X

dipped in the savory flavor

of hallowed hollow vapors

Etch my primal essence

on an outgoing wave

then place a platinum

question mark

upon my invisible grave

© January 11th, 2014 • D.L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing

A Random Wave

Their love was like two ships

colliding in the amorphous mist

of a nebulous New years night

His vessel was to its limits laden

heaped with a charming cargo

of rusted romantic relics

and brittle dinosaur bones

Hers, an enormous boatload

of charred romance novels

and self addressed faux nouveau

love letters—

long lost

They clung but briefly

for a moment to something

quite nearing ephemeral bliss

amid their combined wreckage

they softly sighed

then tenderly kissed

It was a random wave

not to be reckoned with

in either depth or width

from out of the deep blue sea

As fingertips slipped

tear filled eyes

added but a few

loving drops to an ocean

thirsty beyond measure—

For such an impassioned love

was among all its waves

its richest treasure

© January 1st, 2014 • D.L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing

God Is A Gas

God is a gas—

all neon and freon

oxygen a warming breeze

nitrogen enough to freeze

Electromagnetic waves

swiftly sweeping arms across

the unknown universe

where all is gained

and no thing ever lost

White hot sparks

fluid filled friction

no time for minor adjustments

or prerequisite predilections

Helium filled heavens

floating free in a gaseous sea

uncharted catalysts

composed of you and me

A magic map of matter

a kingdom of creation

unfurling, curling, swirling,

sans all hollow hesitation

From deep within

thunderous gaseous clouds

galaxies, planets…

scattered sparkling stars are born

amid infinite vaporous volts

new worlds divinely adorned


God’s a gas!

© December 31st, 2013 • D. L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing


Recent photos taken along the path…

I Enjoy Writing Poems

I enjoy writing poems

which are about

577 characters long—

usually 95 words

and 32 paragraphs

This instantly provides me

with a semi-practical format

from which to launch

into a literary litany

of some mathematical

accuracy and so joined

with an abundant

amount of potential

towards yielding up

a visionary stew

of somewhat meaty


Holding fast

to this form

allows for a magnitude

of stormy Sundays

or sunny Mondays

The wholesale expansion

or specific contraction

of the number of characters,

words and paragraphs,

is of course entirely adjustable

to fit the length of your own poem

© September 15th, 2013 • D.L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing

It Just Might Work

What are you doing?

I am sending out blessings…

By tossing water onto tree trunks?

Can you not see

what this is?

A Ponderosa Pine tree?

It is an organic transmitter

of divine proportions?

It seems quite as much a tree—

as anything else

It is for the most part a tree

yet even more of it underground


Then by splashing

the trunk

you adorn the roots

with nourishment

as well

The tree is anointed

with water

from your cupped hands

or a similar size bowl

A spritzer bottle

would do as well

in a pinch?

It would indeed,

even a squirt gun

will deliver the

message, though

I must say in

a much less

graceful manner;

I prefer splashing

to all other applications

It does have a certain

filigreed flair about it

in hydraulic terms

The tree reaches

well into the sky

sending out a signal

into the heavens

in which it dwells

It just might work!

Of course it works!

© August 21st, 2013 • D.L. Nelson & Ironworks Publishing