DUENDE!

I have duende fever. If you don't know yet a duende is a house spirit that looks just like a common garden gnome. And for some reason garden gnomes terrify Latin American teens...Well, at least on Youtube they do. All of this has been going on for a couple years now and as far as I can tell this is the video that started it all:

I LOVE THAT TINY MAN! He just crab waddles out of the bushes, gives the crowd a little wave and that's enough to send these kids into hysterical screams and panic.
The rest of the videos that followed(of the one's that weren't obvious fakes.) all kinda adhere to the same formula. Kids playing, talking, and laughing in Spanish/Portuguese then at the end of the video: DUENDE! Followed by pandemonium. That and the duendes seem to be a bit smaller than the first one.

DAMNIT! He was just lounging there the whole time. oh brother. This one's pretty good:

Hackysack? no,no,no DUENDETIME!

From Brazil:

Is that guy in fatigues? Not even army men are immune to the Micro-terror that is DUENDE! I wonder if some South American film company is gonna make a Crittersesque, direct to DVD horror franchise out of this craze. They SHOULD!
Lastly, there does seem to be one American duende clip. The title of the video cracks me up. I bring you: I Know Gnomes Arent Real, But Can Someone Please Help Me

NEW POST!!! I'm back on this shit. Ghost poem

Sorry, I had a busy summer.
Hey you know what's weird? THIS: Every time I open a new document in my Microsoft Word this poem is there, and i have to delete it to get started. Google searches have returned no info as to the author's identity . I cannot figure out why this would happen. anyway here is the poem: I kinda like it in a high school gothy way.

AND NO ONE EVER FOUND ANY REMAINS (a success story)

Restraining order, this morning’s edge around

The bed comes in closer, pours in

To send the regular capacity for muddering.

The mildew from your scr eamy cuff glitters

Under an average glass as you turn the vehicle.

The crank screech of worn down windshield wipers

With all the usual shortcuts.

Being a multifrailty of impetuous renderers, listen

Closely now, maintain distance

From your cohorts. Hear

L’esprit l’escalier, even

The continent rumble of the dryer as

An airplane. For she never heard the advice.

Jets

Lingered with traces of tambourines

Under shaded foreign tunnels.

It covers our words in lurid echoes.

I turn and choke in bed on those muffles councils.

Beg strenuous more light rain to aid

Study that same fence from this angle day after languid day.

Three weeks ago

I came home early, two weeks ago, the bedroom

Door slammed. Thus began one endless session

Of brushing hair

And crumpled sleep and

All is calm

And all is bright

Except this slut who knocks around

The bedroom window, late low-cut

Teetering for some favor or other. We learn

How to say no. Queue nostalgic train whistle.

The base of things

Comes in

Pockets between her

And that sound

Or a woman packing

In New York and me here, plagued with pinching myself

Next to the stereo

With no interruptions. The end will be

A series

Of burns followed by a dogfight. A camera will flash without film.

Someone

Will be seen running away

That no one ever knew

Was there. And I will cough and stare at the ground,

Afterall, I did sign an alias.