Tuesday, December 30, 2014

another embedded youtube reading of a new poem: New Wave

some continuing saga stuff, and poems, too

Return of Kazootra (continued) 

How, dear friends have been asking, could Mikey Mumbawumba contract gonorhea from an electric guitar? It's an unlikely risk of showmanship. He was guest musician at some rich Illuminati exorcism ritural, and he was obliged to play a very special song, this anthem of supernatural power, and it's such a crowd pleaser. Mikey would use a part of himself as a plecturm, while the guests cut loose into a orgy. You get some guy's climax hitting the pick-up on your guitar, where it's nice and warm, then you strum 'I Like Demons' with your dick, and sure you could get VD. 

For once, Kazootra stayed home in his room in the Studly Arms. Bored, he went onto the internet, hoping to find a decent movie on the free flick site, Stoolu.com. As he kept stopping one turkey and trying another, it seemed that ever since Kate McDangerzone starred in the cult classic 'Boatnapping,' she was cast in every poor attempt at a cult film. She and random actors from the rest of the cult films that made money. The library at Stoolu was all flicks that didn't make it the first time. It was their Second Coming. Kazootra's boredom was escalating. 

As he clicked through bad movies, a cut on his right palm broke open. "Damn," he thought to himself "it was a bad idea letting that Satanic guitar player I met last night sew up the gash I got when I broke a bottle on that detective's face." The dental floss had come loose, and salt from the potato chips he was eating supplied the jagged cut an with inflow of salt. The mix of boredom and stinging seemed to be two related forces acting against his wish to enjoy the useless, passing time. 

Plainclothesmen. Observing people, ordinary folk like Kazootra and Mikey Mumbawumba. Taking notes in their little black books. Following fellow travelers into the restroom. It had been a dreadful mistake. Neither man had violated the anti-sodomy ban. The cop saw one man lend another man his hanky, to absorb some of the discharge from Mikey's case of clap, and he assumed it was something untoward. Kazootra could hardly be blamed for the way he reacted. But he was now at risk of being arrested, and he was bored, bleeding, stinging and worried. But soon his mind changed. A hatchet faced old woman, thin as a post, with skin like Carborundum, was sitting in the rocking chair in the corner.

More of this later.

poem: Horse Charities 

they thought that they bought Secretariat 
and received 
a delusional horseman of mass mendacity 
when word reached the mines below the mountains 
shafts filled with warm blooded hopefuls 
dreams sucked into the barrel 
the upward swimming hope 
drew back particles of change into the conference rooms inside the syringe 
the Earth gets a hot shot 
this aging camper sells only Shetland ponies 
factory seconds of their kind 
they are wonderfully alive 
I don't sell dead horses 


Friday, December 19, 2014

Fiction! Fresh Fiction! Wrapped in sanitary digital news paper. You'll love it.

Return of Kazootra
Ouch. The hurt. A private burning. Down there. Mikey Mumbawumba may have contracted something. From the strings on his cherry colored electric guitar. "My johnson is hurting," he said in jocular passing, from the palette stack he played his ax on, to the little person's room far in the back of the barny dance hall.

"That's because Robert Johnson in your trousers went someplace hot," he was ribbed,on his way to the bathroom, by the bone breaking sex machine, Lavoris Crackman. She too was a singer. Her ax was her voice. She had a band. Don't ask them for trouble.

Agonizing through his protracted, halting, fulminating micturation, a note of claret appearing out of the festered knots and into an enameled off white trough with stream of water to take it away, like a soft band leader, he thought of something. As soon as he recovers from the clap, he will christen his sex organ "Robert Johnson" after the famous delta blues mystic. For the kind of person Mikey is, this signifies a change in his world view.

Gonnorhea is famous for hurting like a motherfucker, and Mikey was visibly wincing and writhing, upright, spurting blood and whiz when Kazootra, a lost soul from other places, first came to the establishment, hoping to get drunk and laid. But first, he needed to use the bathroom.

"Hey there," Kazootra said, friendly, personable, allowing for how a fellow person was having a christ-awful time taking a pee, a man in fact visibly bleeding from the organ into the trough, with a cherry red electric guitar strapped on, the neck going up and down as Mikey spazzed in pain.
"Hey, I bet you got the clap. Bummer, pal. That can sure fucking hurt." That's empathy, people. Kazootra had feelings for people he met in honky tonks.

Mikey was too engaged in discomfiture for bon mots, but he was able to grunt an affirmation that he had the clap and it hurt like a motherfucker.

While the pained Mikey waited for the dripping and burning to stop, Kazootra told him about the year he spent in the Spring Garden area of Pittsburgh. He had been on assignment, some shit level NSA garbage, no big deal. Just then he was at liberty. A dork. A dork arrant.

"Oh, it was quite simple," Kazootra explained. "I was supposed to fuck up some stupid hobbyist's attempt at running for city council. But the asshole wrecked his bicycle and croaked. This creep had been demanding the city install bike lanes for years. Soon as they were installed, the poor asshole pedalled himself to Valhalla. He was hit by an eighteen wheeler while crossing an intersection, which adds to my suspicion that he deserved to die. But I was merely supposed to monitor his actions and spread evil rumors." 

Guess frankness is best about a place like where this is happening. People have this brand of optimism that suggests that if you get hit by a truck you deserved to die. It's a view point kin to God meant for it to happen, and it's someone's inbred cousin to the view that it's part of the Grand Design. There is crap called 'intelligent design' which says the course of heredity is the way God works, and freak traffic accidents are the way certain types of people die. Mikey Mumbawumba managed to get back to his stack of old wooden pallettes, or 'skids' as they are also called, and resumed playing his instrument.   Kazootra was trying make contact with a new culture.   More of this saga will slide in your direction, like a disintegrating retaining wall giving way to an innocuous petty spillage of common dirt.   Until this starts again, thanks for reading, have a nice one.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Short fiction: Funnel Cakes In The Head

Maturity in people is a variable, this stupid prof kept insisting. His circle of friends, at their oak round table, with it's collegian nick names carved by horny students' using switchblades, slugged their beers while trying to figure out what to say to the burly old pedant.

"So if someone age 20 acts his age all the time, he/she is some sort of deviant?" one of the smart ass exchange students said, practically auditioning for the role of himself in a sitcom if he wasn't just subsisting near his crappy state alma mater. He will die, tragically, before he gets the part.

"I was saying certain people range in maturity, and it can be observed. It can be evoked."

Not satisfied with Dr. Doomski's qualification, Skip, the neo-thug with the Brylcream-a-go-go coif, "Which certain types of people we driving at, Doc."

This time, Dr. Doomski tried to paliate his people with more beers all around, and a speech, with hand gesticulations and outbursts of emotion, like, "Jeesus' tits, people can be a danger to themselves and others when they are pathologically like Shirley Temple when they are age 75." 

He began speaking directly to Skip, the strongest, most brutishly handsome of the gang. He told him a series of droning shaggy dog stories, each time concluding that that didn't really matter, but it was necessary that Skip 'follow the bouncing ball' as he listened to a stream of deliberate nonsense. 

And without prompting from anyone, Skip seemed to lose his youth all together. His bone turned into chalk. He was weak and aching all over. He was arthritic, for fuck sake.

Skip's voice quavered. "I don't feel right, Doc," he said, meekly.

"That's because you're old,now, Skippy, you smug bastard."

"Will I get over it?" Skip inquired, this time more shook up, but still real meek."

"No one recovers from old age, stupid."

The circle of friends finished their beers. Prof was right.
This was in a small town. Just happens.

A dashing young Satan figure played his candy red electric guitar in the corner, on a stack of palettes, or skids, as they are called. The drum machine couldn't make a mistake. The beat was consistent, but Mikey Mumbawumba had a mastery of that guitar. To such a degree, he was able to strike cymbals with a steel rod tied to the end of his instrument, near the tuning pegs. Mikey's riffs caused people to go completely ape. 

Skip was now wheelchair bound. But the music took his mind off being sick and old. He had the wisdom of the elderly, which has nothing to do with facts by rote or even social acumen. People that old can commune with lumber.

But he was no longer welcome in Dr. Doomski's clan.

The good people the good doctor communed with were finally believers in the existence of a genuinely important weird beard.

A sparse crowd of bobbing beauties danced some sort of variant of the twist. Their leering smiles would put a good person off. But these were hell raisers. Real ones. Can't say it's good to hang out here. They got into each others faces, and made animal noises. Mikey was smiling as he leaned into his guitar riff 

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Poem and fiction fusion: Remember jazz/fusion from the 1970s? Didn't work then, might now, more fucked things have happened

He didn't want to be a schmuck, but was born, and the rights and decisions and, dammit, perceptions of him, so sacred,were destroyed before his presbyopia.  He has been made a fool of on a monthly basis because of something he did, for fun, over twenty years ago, and no one, not even he, expected his cat to live that long.

 Upon being given the cat, a then six week old calico kitten, so adorable it easily  outstripped common sense, or at least that owned by a schmuck, Wandering Willy Simpleton decided to name his new cat after a nationally famous human being.   At the time, 1994, an Egyptian diplomat was front page news, connected to transglobal crisis, the then secretary general of the United Nations, fella' name of Boutros Boutros Ghali.

  It was Wandering Willy's American free choice to use poor judgement and poor taste by naming his kitten 'Boutros Boutros Kitty.'  The person's name sounded funny.  Comedians like David Letterman were cracking jokes on televsion like "Your first name may be Boutros, but your last name sure ain't Ghali"  I laughed at the jokes, I noted that humor comes from needless derision.  All Wandering Willy's freinds, at the time, found it very cute and funny that he named his cat after Boutros Boutros Ghali,but with spontaneous wit and invention, the two traits for which Wandering Willy was best known.

The person, Boutros, with whom I am on a solipsized first name basis, has been a forgotten name for the last nineteen years.   It was during year one of Boutros Ghali's name in the American media, and it was the only one year of its kind, that Willy was gifted a lovely kitten, following an unwanted cat pregnancy.  All succeeding years have excluded Boutros from national attention.  Boutros had received his fifteen minutes of fame, American Style.  But Willy was reminded of his poor judgement often because people were always asking him why he named his cat 'Boutros Boutros Kitty,' and the procedure of explaning why he named his cat 'Boutros' has been grating on his nerves for fucking long time. Too bad for Wandering Willy Simpleton.   He should have used better judgement than to name his goddam kitty after an Egyptian globalized flash in the pan.   Fifteen minutes of fame versus a generation of stupid questions, followed by assertions that willy is a schmuck. You decide if a little fun is worth something as horrible as that.

Poem Time, Fuck It All:

Ringman  (continuing saga poem)

Oh, my rings and divinations
an owl ring for the Illuminati
don't know them
mayhaps they know me
in any case the ring says 'howdy'

I drew the suit of wands
and you can hit a guy
you can give a fella' lumps with that stick
but it is for hiking
for clearing brush
it is for conserving the aching legs
the eroding hips
the more judicious spine
and for the divinitory mind

I bought off the ringman the Pentagram
noted it scares young black men when I ride the bus
Guy looked like a bluesman looked mighy nervous
Will play in E seventh

Friday, December 5, 2014

Gum Stories

The world might or might not care what I am chewing on right now.  That could be intimated about anything and anywhere.  Someone might insinuate who-the-fuck-knows.  Maybe this is important.  This could be some fucked, doomed form of unrecognized science.  I'm chewing a bright red ball of cherry soda flavored bubble gum..  

It's another chapter of experience shopping at the Dollar Tree store in Westview, Pennsylvania.  The one inch diameter spherese of red bubble gum, fairly hard on the outside, busting loose within upon penetration, some lubricious confectionery food porn, this red, red gum fizzes.  It says in festive fun fest lettering on the three point five ounce bag, "Fizzers...fizzing bubble gum."  

Underneath, it says, ":fizzes when you chew."   It does, and is.  As a ball of gum gives up it's fizz, and expends it's shotgun load of fake cherry flavor, there is sensuality such as is tolerated world wide when people are getting off on their food.  Funny how it's illegal to fuck in public, but you can eat all the fuck you want, anywhere.

I am indulging the senses, once again, in my private Valhalla, the NorthSide zone of Perryhilltop.  Fizzers are sailing the ships that transport my cardboard soul.  My cellophane travel balloons, lofting from the bottle cap of burning kerosene, are rising into the dark plastic sky.  This gum is greater than all delicacies gorged by Ancient Egyptians.  

Flat Picking Valhalla

Yes, another sermon. How fucking pompous.  And about flat picks.  Cheap celluloid guitar accessories.  Big fucking deal, you snort, through your eight inches of head on your huge glass of expensive imported beer, from some posh micro-brewery.  Relax, I'm making no harsh judgement against you sucking beer foam while you downgrade the renaisance in my goddam living room.  I am learning to use a flat pick on the house guitars, including the older accoustic beater, and now the new candy apple red electric guitar I copped off the internet.

Before this, I had been using bare fingers to apply the 'claw hammer' technique, both on the Adam Levine First Act accoustic guitar, that was got at the Westview Kmart, and the Ktone banjo, that I got mail order from Ebay.com, as if it was House of Dior for winos, junkies and fools.  I buy a lot of gear from Ebay.  I love it.  It's a form of gambling.  Gaming against the quality of life and efficacy of your career.  Compare the dilemma to that of small business garments.  A cheap suit has some sort of impact on people's career.  So does your guitar playing.

I'm even using flat pick technique on the fairly new banjo.  Might have to change the strings on it, for the first time, using the brightly colored tuning peg crank I bought from Ebay, for eighty eight cents, which speeds up the process of changing strings.  Already tested it on the six string Levine, eager to see how long it takes me to restring a five string banjo, with trepidation in advance over that wierd friction peg that lives on it's lonesome five frets up the narrow rose wood neck.  Next online purchase will be a bulk load of strings for both the generic electric guitar and the student grade factory banjo, both of which were made in China, were little hands are ever busy copying our American industry standards, and selling back to you and me, cheap.  So fucking happy to be modern!

For way of reasons, I started using the flat pick when I started practicing on the newest, and prettiest, guitar in the house, the generic fake Statocaster, cost of ninety four dollars, past paid, delivered to the front door.  It appears to be a decent ax, and flat picking is a fine option.  The harmonics are good on my new sweet baby, which on other guitars, can be an achilles heel, such as on a bad accoustic ax.  In that case, bare finger tips help to buffer the poor sound.  Conversely, on a real good guitar, the flat pic can cut the beauty of the thing loose, with precision. I'm old, but am still improving.  My new ax helped me realize I am still able to learn and to aquire skill.  Better music helps like heck as the person playing the music gets uglier from old age.  Who would have imagined a twenty three cent guitar pick would be so much like the Picture of Dorian Gray?

A Personal Hero Surprises My Aging-Like-A-Cheese Self

I'll find the link and post it here real soon, don't have it handy at this moment of realization, but I was studying punk rock idols from the 1980s, and my fave bassist from the Circle Jerks, Zander Schloss, turned up in the form of a recent video, with Zander playing a Yamaha twelve string accoustic guitar with aftermarket pickup.  It was a duo, forgot the name of the singer.

Zander provided a talk about his time working with musician  Joe Strummer.   He quoted Strummer as saying that it is always a priviledge to perform music, and a musician should always be thankful for the chance to do it.  It was hard to take, at first, from the fellow who was so irreverent in his role in the movie 'Repo Man.'   Add that as bassist for the Circle Jerks, and in some of Zander Schloss' video clips, he came across as a sort of bad-ass, bad seed, or wild child.  On the other hand, less obvious, he showed a fantastic work ethic in his punk band career, and I think that has something to do with his presentation on the youtube, in which he and another individual sing to Schloss' fine accoustic guitar work.  It is pure athleticism to play an accoustic twelve string, as well as music acumen.  

Here's the link, just went to a new browser window and fished it up:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNfUpdCUgHc

Screw me for being a ditz, the other guy is Sean Wheeler.  Never heard of him till last night, web surfing.