Prose reading with guitar 12 27 2019

12 22 2019 poem infantilized

Experimental Arts

Digital media can be art. Also, experimental music projects are happening here, in my studio. I embedded some youtube videos of poem readings set to music. There are other projects. Still pictures. Ink and watercolor painting. Sculpture.

  Check back here. I will be posting more video readings set to music.


  Thanks for visiting!

fiction series...

It ended before the dot com fuck up of the late 1990s.    There was this bunch of grizzled desperate former local throbs running open  mic night Saturdays at a bar off Carson Street.   A shit  hole.   

Me too, I was a another travelling desperate jerk off who had nothing better to do than try pulling fame out of the sewer with a Ronco Pocket Fisherman.   This hurt me.  I was an outsider.    An interloper.   The rest of the show tune mavens knew each other since pre-Vietnam.   All you had to do back then was conspire to dodge the draft at age nine to form life long, valuable platonic kinships.    I didn't have that luxury.     I grew up in a jerk water shit hole a hundred miles north.    People were Quaker-like, compared to where the music was in slummy Pittsburgh.   I had adjusting to do. 

Your truly was a lucky shining star for being eligible for the draft, and didn't get called.   Nothing works out better than that.   Frankie was in the state side army through the war, Mikey was an illegal alien, so he got out of it all together, no fault, and naturally Lavoris had nothing to do with the military, no one was sore at her for any of it.   There was a lot of grumbling, from the 1960s through the late 90s.  

Here's where human relations with Sinsemelia Jones was a problem.   He did close work in Cambodia, so even book learning didn't fully eradicate some deep recondite hostilities.   He didn't hate people, like me, for not going.   But the fact remained he had his singing career stalled gruesomely, while frivolous jerk offs stayed in their communes and played protest shit.     Here's where two more or less comrades have to live with a sweating, viscous interpersonal grudge.   I can be a diplomatic little motherfuck.

Social work.   Assholes everywhere should be doing more of it.   I spent a little extra time admiring his tripple humbucker famous person electric guitar, and aknowleged that my import copy of it was shit, shit compared to what he had.   We both knew that, though.   He appreciated what I was doing.

fiction...

Lots of people push or throw their spouse, friend or rival down a couple flights of stairs.   But when Sinsemelia Jones did it, he picked the person up and aimed.   If you ever threw paper wads in junior high, this was like a person carroming inside a waste receptable, right beside teacher's desk.   People didn't refer these things to the police.   Worse run down stairs if you snitch.  


Once people come to terms with stardust, they are no longer bound to maturity.    It's intrical to Broadway show tunes.    Lavoris crackman is pure stardust, which is why no one tries to fuck with her, Mikey would visit, but people would hate any bastard who was wrong towards Lavoris.    Rare woman that looks radiant with a bullet hole in her prominent chin.    She was shot in the face, and it had no negative effect on her singing.    The lord proves facts in some fucked up ways.  

We all had more or less some degree of stardust in us.   Everyone has to slap people around sometimes, unless there's a case of total stardust, such as Lavoris.    In descending order, Frankie Primavera has it, yet he takes shit off of Mikey Mumbawumba, the more dangerous of the two.   I take shit off of Frankie for the same reason, and keep as far stage left of Mikey as possible.    If either one of them say it's my fault the evening program, like the Show Boat meddlies we presented together, wasn't fab,  it's on me, just like it really was my fault.   Like I'm going to tell Mikey he's lagging on the coda progressions.

Continuing saga: Open Mic Night fiction,fiction,fiction

I guess everyone knows but Sinsemelia Jones once accused me of stealing his guitar, didn't, and we wound up on half warm speaking terms years later.    I was playing this hybrid import with triple humbuckers, and it looked exaclty like his real deal  expensive glam ax.  Or close enough to rouse suspicion.  From across the room at open mic night.    I'm glad he beat the person who really did steal his instrument to shit.   Even that can bring people closer together in a slum.   Unifying stardust could choke you to death.   We had hard knocks  in common.

Another club favorite, Mikey Mumbawumba, was sneak attacked one night at the club.   I'll get to what happened to the prick who stole Mikey's Haitian Curse.   So he claims, he was gifted  the instrument by a wizard during a machete massacre.   He probably bought it at a pawn shop.   Doesn't matter.   He's very vindictive.    He and I are on chilly speaking terms, in a no fault way.    I've seen him act rude and surly towards Frankie Primavera, which is wrong, but that's rocket engineer's measuring.   Mikey is pugnacioius.  But very courtley when he's in a duet with Lavoris Crackman.   They love doing Broadway showtunes.

One night I was playing what I had, Frankie was on bass, Lavoris was singing, and Mikey was playing this guitar he claimed a swami conjured out of a barrel of copper heads.   Ms. Crackman was radiant, the bullet hole in her spacious prominent chin accentuating her long boned elegance.  She sings Mac the Knife.   Makes you bleed.   That night she was on Somewhere Over the Rainbow.   That's a bone crusher.

You meet some interesting stand-over per sons when someone like Sinsemelia Jones or Mikey Mumbawumba is looking for a stolen guitar.   Mr. Jones brought his friends when he dropped by my crash pad, looking for his ax.    That came up daisies.   Mikey's pursuit is worse because of the voo doo.   Even if it's BS, it draws creepier goons than Sins' pals. 

A lead came in that night.    Some asshole was planning a machete massacre, and may have stolen Mikey's guitar.   Some sort of synchonicity horse shit.  Bastards always think they have a better chance of having their way if they have the right talisman.   It's genie-in-the-bottle garbage, and Mikey's guitar doesn't give a fat shit about their stupid massacre, but who ever stole the guitar should have been worrying.  


...

Another Micro-festo. That's a puny, soft manifesto. Real peaceful-like.

Yours truly is moaning again about a tri-plex of dreadful big deals.    There's crises in validity, ethics and human relations.   Being a life long voting Democrat, a puny, mournful one, it's been my recurring thoughts Dems should have been tending to these existential conquistadors, rather than running an all day, everyday hate  the President campaign.    One can despise and reform at the same time.   

It might have been better to adopt a more benign and sociable mentality towards an administration that's whack.   It might be better to sustain a civil continuum of recommendations.   Alternatives.  Maybe skip the 1984 style three minute hate.   Been my misfortune to see business and professional networking smooshed in Godzialla's grimy toes.   A massive hostile environment got outta' a sci-fi flick.    Us poor lousy folks on the fringe can't function in politically polarized communities.  

Dems should do two things.    Agree on what their candidate should do, and resolve the three things I'm moaning on the loudest:  validity, ethics and human relations.  This isn't all Dems, people all over the place morphed into lying, cheating bastards.   The tri-plex of beefs.   Try to iron 'em out.

The Lyrics

see that knave
decked out in silk
in his alabaster cave
drinking strawberry milk
don't talk or wave
the knave he silly
give him what he wants
psycho-billy
just chill alone
don't ya' piss and moan
that boy is cornpone
see the pitchfork in the hay
he'll pick it up one day
don't tease or wave
to that college boy knave





Relocating


floating the ohio river
in a flax colored tractor inner tube
whim of oxidation and wear
designer rings of algae
duck  masterpiece radiating
the sailor dude wakes to what resembles a flood
 but it's a row of industrial buildings
Bates exit to town
diminishing for five miles
to an ink dot
it's the same trip as last time
the sailor is slightly Iron Eyes Cody
aspect of treasure maps a pin point
push pins in heaven get pulled
the sailor got Gor-Tex
he feels he's breaking even

Flash fiction past. Not true at all. Fictional. Nonsense.

Flashbacks of Squares

You don't know who I am, the name I'm using is BS because my real one is dog shit, but I was a regular on the Hollywood Squares for a lucky seasonal run, not long after the Mi Lai massacre, which everyone got on the news along with their game shows. The late Wally Cox had a crush on me at the time, and I lost my spot because of quiz politics and the casting couch. That was the last time I was on television.

People were still wearing novelty sombreros and rustic straw sun hats with loose hanging reeds. Hawaiian shirts were popular then. We were important to the travel and leisure business. People saw themselves in us. Being a Hollywood Square was one of nine incarnations of Jesus in a neon light frame. I was the fright wig and sequin guiding light.

People have to confess to someone, for some thing. This is about lassitude. Alienation went out of style with modern mental health intervention, jeez you can't even look fucked up without a do-gooder turning you into the Psyche Brigade. I haven't done anything in decades. Nothing that distinguishes peon A from serf B. That's why I have this logorhea.  No ass, just thoughts.  Seems everyone is paralyzed and moaning. Me too. Moan with me. Let's dance.

A voting registered Democrat here. Maybe we should show some fucking due consideration.

Being diminutive and all, people don't seem to so much as pick their toes on my advice.   Maybe it's a case of charisma deficit disorder.   It's not likely voting Democrats will jump on this opportunity to sieze a plan for 2020.  Here it is, anyway, and I might be a jerk for bringing it up.

Trump's planning isn't all wrong, and if Hillary won 2016 Big Roll'o dice, maybe Dems would be cheering her on for doing some of the same things.   The plan to increase border security, beef up the nuke arsenal and reduce the scale of a standing army could be the best hope for greater world peace.    It's also about less globalized intercession, which is great for setting up the next military  invaision or internal insurrection.   Isalotionism is the better way to less boots on the ground.   Too, it is to focus on the US economy and to better serve those, here, who are distressed and in need. 

S'pose Dems fess up this is a viable, maybe beneficial strategy, and adopt it, with their grudging thanks.  The Dems haven't come forward with any long term strategy, only the short term one of keeping up with allegations, e.g racism, gender bias, fascism.     Just me warbling at home, but I think the US morphed into an oppressive corporate oligarchy long before 2016.  The Dems can continue with their humnaitarian agendas.  It's not mutually exclusive. 

 Globalism isn't working so great, and the Dems haven't offered much to correct it.  Maybe they can win in 2020 by fessing up and making some changes.   They want a Democrat in the White House.  This might be the ticket. 

Resolving

there are 95 degrees of separation
I got this dime store compass with dreadfully thin slide arm
my circles just don't meet so well at the point that fucking matters
we have wrongful co-ordinates
fucking GPS unit
fucking wheel well
bastards watch and don't chime in
throw you a bum steer
compile folders
they still have sheet steel furniture
just have to get it home
that creak when you pull out the drawer
it's Winston Fucking Churchill

Self pity need not be the crashing bore it often is.  People are too fucking lazy to jazz it up good.  That's where I differ from unter-mensch.   I'm a Nietzchian gloom factory.

I'm sweating about retirement planning.   At this point, much as I got is I plan to get Alzheimer's disease, and up the road a piece from there, cremation.  While still sadly lucid, the money situation here is deplorable.   People in Haiti live better than this.   The ruling elite is a very troubled minority down there.  It's hard to get decent caviar.   I can't get so much as a Marsh Wheeling stogie.   Strapped.  On a banana republic diet.  

A Very Wet Wakening
                                                  
                                AD 2035: The Fucking Future

We both aged well. I took life extension courses when they were popular. Most of the instructors croaked fairly young, dope fiends, catamites, fakers, but some of them were on the level, and I went to most of their lectures. The love of my old life, too, is remarkably agile for pushing fifty. I'm pushing one hundred, and people can hardly tell us apart. We both wear wigs. Bad hair. But our bodies are young beneath their time frames. I kept secret from her that I used to play lacross, because she hates violent sports, and she kept her youth mum, till last night. She has a past, and a cruel nick name to go with it. I would have married her, anyway. She's that great a gal. 

What difference does it make if someone resided in jail for a few years? No worse than wasting resources in a penthouse. Unfound moral lapses may be at least as heinous as what she did. As recent as 2024, people were calling her 'Tater Whiz.'

I believe her story. She was plastered at the time, and doesn't remember dropping jeans on the sly and pissing on potatoes at the West Miflin Walmart. It's an easy mistake to make, when you get blind toasted and need to whiz. People are much too fixated on locations. People forget themselves. 

What is a cardboard bin of spuds in the larger canon of produce? Had she pissed on broccoli, members of the esteemed Bush clan might have gotten her exonerated. GHW hated broccoli, and he pissed on a lot of innocent people. He got off scott free. Still, my wife feels bad about what happened. I'm just a modern old guy. I can still be creative about these problems.

Last night I got a half gallon of tequilla and a bag of lemons. First, I made like there was no reason for it, just a good time to tie one one. Once we were both high as Georgia pines, I invited her into the kitchen, opened the fridge, whipped out the old LBJ, and pissed all over the food. Next thing you know, she was pissing on my fishing tackle collection. After that we took a break, put down more booze, and celebrated our new understanding with golden showers on the front lawn, with the neighbors watching. The potatoes didn't know how lucky they were. It's a privilege.

medical advice

Literature. It can be safety instructions, if you break up the meaning of shit. It's something happening now, something hair raising, and it's some public health fuck-all.

I've been having espresso penis for the last month. Lots of whizzing. Ridiculously often. Comical labor squirting those last surviving drips and surges. Irritation. Thought I was gonna die. Might be alright.

I quit drinking super harsh budget espresso. It may take a lot of the hot, thick, dark-brewed ape urine, and two days into the program the thing seems to be clearing right up. I think I'm surviving espresso penis. I think the shit irritates my thoughtful, reliable and timid urethra. So if you drink dollar store espresso cowboy style, boiling in a little sauce pan, straining through a budget steel mesh strainer, and your sluices get jumpy, quit drinking it. It's horse piss. 

Talking The Bullshit To Guitar... a tradition in cowboy and primitive cultural folk idioms of music

cover of He's (She's) Got You performed by B.R. orig. by Patsy Cline

embedded youtube video, cover tune: Spoonful

embedded youtube poem reading with guitar

Embedded youtube poem reading

"What we have here is failure to communicate."   Those depressing words by actor Struther Martin, in the film Cool Hand Luke, drive home the fact that people are rarely perfect for one another.  That's often the way in the humanities field.  We don't all agree on what is humane or pretty.   One tries to propose, in the abstract, a new way of thinking and seeing.  It doesn't always work.  Sometimes it's the attempt that matters more so than the afters.   If one can't communicate well, once can do so however one does.   Behold my latest poem reading video, with guitar.

Big Buff Bruce's Poetry Presentations presents: Getting The Treatment

GETTING THE TREATMENT

"Doc, it started with this irrational hatred for sardines."

I was trapped at sea with people I hadn't known before.
By the time we'd all been intimate, the boat crashed
 
The doctor asked me:   "You enjoyed watching half hour situation comedies when you were little, didn't you?"

I replied :   "Reruns, Doc.    Reruns of half hour situation comdies,
with songs about islands and beaches."

We're the animals that think and believe in free will. 

In that neck of the woods you can't throw a rock without hitting a cellist.

Naturally I'm upset


...

Please, pretty please view my new poem reading with flute video.  Just over one minute of possible heaven if you are the rare beauties who really dig me.  You should.   Let me know if I can help.  There's a shitload of customer support, right the fuck here, for everyone.   Let me share an inspiration.

The flute playing in the video.  I play the wooden flute about as well as a third grader, but with the help of a digital editor recordings can be whacked with electronic reverb, takes one second to *do it to it,* and the flute playing sounds complex and difficult to perform.   It's easy as making cereal treat bars, with drugs in them. 

I began playing the wooden flute for an asinine reason.  I saw David Carradine play one in a scene in a stupid movie.  I wanted a similar flute.  It looked visually interesting to play one by a camp fire, or outside a country church, such as in a scene.  How fucking idiotic.  I don't care who knows  what I'm like.  I'm an amusing little cuss.  I stopped the movie, on Netflix, bipped over to ebay, found a wooden flute ($30., looked cool)  closed the deal on the flute, and resumed watching Kill bill.  A month later I started learning to play entry level riffs on it.   Then something tragic happened.

Carradine was found dead  in a hotel room.   Story has it he was performing auto-erotic asphyxiation in the closet, choking himself, using a belt, into a randy mental state, while contemplating  the long skinny Buddha. It doesn't really have any effect on anything, aside from extraneous judgment made against a person at large.  It in no way disproves that it is cool to play a wooden flute.   Everyone needs to grasp the philosophy of Universalism.   Listen.  Listen to my recorded video poetry reading, with wooden flute.  You will comprehend.  Fuck, yes.

Me, doing a Robert Johnson song, under my pen name, Bat Robbins

embedded youtube reading of poem, with harmonica: Balls Thursday

We are what we assimilate

I was binge watching the entertainment series Breaking Bad the other day, and since then have been having laughing fits about this quote by character Jesse Pinkman:


"Did you know that there's an acceptable level of rat turds that can go into candy bars? It's the government, jack. Even government doesn't care that much about quality. You know what is okay to put in hot dogs? Huh? Pig lips and assholes. But I say, hey, have at it bitches 'cause I love hot dogs."


Bravo.  Exactamundo.   This is sublime.   He has no power over the meat processing industry or over the government.  He has no stake in anyone's diet except, possibly, his own, and that choice may be invalidated through scarcity or contamination.   What if one's only food choice, either on the road or, maybe, in jail, is limited to meat products made of pig bung?   

The speech is analogous to the human condition.   It isn't merely hot dogs that are made of assholes.  So's Congress.   The ruling corporate oligarchy is composed of pig assholes.  Or are the assholes pigs?   You decide.   I'd like to demurr.

B

How Do You Think?

I think I'm too old to benefit anytime soon  from therapy of any kind.   My ass is deteriorating, and by 'ass' I mean the gestalt of the body human.  All of a person is 'his/her ass.'  You know, like, "How's it going?  I ain't seen your ass in ages."   If your financial investments are rising in value, you might say it's 'good for your ass.'   Also, a proper diet and the right amount of exercise is good for your ass.

With our terms neatly defined, some shit of interest happened this fucking week.

I'm over age sixty, and geriatric bullshit, consequences of getting old as fuck have been on the front burner.   I was making a demo video, talking instructional shit into the back of my cheap shitty camcorder, trying to produce a novelty cooking feature for my shit-fucking barely known podcast project (The Not Too Social Hour, look for it, ingrates!)  when my voice changed.  I didn't mean to do it, but I accidentally inflected the way Bernie Sanders does every time he says more than ten words in sequence.  You can see it yourself on my very recent youtube video about the chicken fried mountain oysters I prepared and chowed down on.   I ate over one pond of breaded, fried sheep's balls, while video recording it all, bounces and wiggles on the cutting board, the sizzling of hot grease.   Here's a cute little biopic on my ass as regards sheep's balls:



I got off subject.  I was going to say something about the way people think.  People differ organically and structurally.  A philosopher who has brains and private parts in working order will admit they may think in a  radically different manner than, dare I fucking say it, everyone else.  What a fucking stupid way of explaining this shit.   I'm fessing up to the highly personal fact that I tend to think in the form of a dialogue with an imaginary person, possibly a friend or stranger.    I'm supposing a lot of people think independent of an imaginary person or persons, and there are royal differences in personality among people with differing thought structures and brain hardware.   In the unlucky event that I just fessed up to being a loony, it's too fucking bad.   

What I'm saying is I'm a fucking philosopher, and it can lead to social conflict.   It's why I'm a disgruntled hermit with low numbers on my blog.   People with normal thought structures are much more popular.    Fucking pricks.  

youtube poem reading

New hat, a Gatsby, and new red freaky deaky glasses. I am modern.

I'm watching youtube shows about Duterte,in case this matters....

Authoritarians.  Nationalists.   Fascists, dare I say?    We gott'em here.  There over there, left, right, and you know me, I love freedom and free speech and free expression, cheap digs, easy poon, nothing to goddam freaky deaky, but it's okay to be yourself, it's cool to be different.   OTOH, there's some stiffies out there, and it's a good idea to study them where possible, decide if you should do anything about it before the US goes Nazi, if it hasn't already.   Like I said, I value freedom.  Civil rights.   Being nice to each other.

This is a recent head shot of me, with a stupid moustache.  It's gone.   Also, I don't really wear freaky deaky glasses.     

Lost Democrats

Spirituality, to an atheist, is probably limited to a sense of it.   Some folks consider a sense of well being to be spiritual, to others a state of temperate sadness better fits the frame.   A secular sense of grace deserves some status.   But that can be hard to achieve.  People are either selling eternal salvation in exchange for co-operation, or else informing everyone they are living in a fairy tale.  Maybe metaphor is the spiritual equivalent of the Word from On High.

I am a damp paper napkin on a yet uncleared formica table in the Wood Street McDonald's.   Fluid drips from the ceiling, first clear water, then droplets of India Ink, which spread, nebulize and gray the napkin.   Darkness pervades the soul.   But an atheist doesn't believe in such a thing as the soul.

If inner peace is spirituality, people are the leading antagonist to it.   Maybe it's in the doing.   Maybe there is such a thing as a mission in life.   I'm kicking off a temporary, maybe permanent attempt at conflict resolution.   People who despise 45 could try to separate the person from the courses of action.   People have been sabotaging peace initiatives, such as the one with North Korea.   Closing the boarder was fine with Democrats until Trump got in.   All racism appeared by magic soon as the last election results came in.   He is being blamed for an infinity of pre-existing human conditions.

The Democratic Party has become grotesque.   Childish.  Greedy.  And angry at everyone else for being anything but another useful idiot in a fool's paradise.   I don't think a third party will better enable inner peace.   Get off polarity.    Be centrist, logical and inclusive.  The radical politics of the 1960s/70s morphed into radicalized greed and entitlement.   People are still trying to be the radicals that made headlines way back when.  This is now.  Years ago I was fond of the concept of human spirit.  Now it seems like a steaming crock of shit.

Griping

city truck makes a beeping dotted line no different from cicadas
seventeen year locust too young to get hitched
wisteria lavender volunteering 
hoards of free range tomatoes gathering in an abandoned dog enclosure
sparrows adoring the mullberries
wild turkeys counting big time
we have these furry census takers with flat tails and big front teeth
fritilaries checking their facts
the party-crashing aparatus nine feet from my front door
a purring yellow giant Larry Dickman
answers fauna digitally
the birds are saying "don't eat those snack foods from the dollar store"
grinding Larry Dickman in his electrically generated argot
brags it can eat logs eight inches in diameter
he's as tall as the house
he's a diode encrusted hydraulic Paul Bunyan
we are deferential

video poem readings!

I'm more critical than you, and you should try to catch up.

Holy shit, what has happened to critical analysis?    There are moments I could really go for a point by point analysis.   Some mornings I wake  itching to let views from the outside rip like a parachute cord and lower me from illusory aircraft to ass-fracturing  terra firma.  Through cleaner air.   With bottles of water less toxic than our lead lined, other-pollutant-generous city H2O.   Maybe it's all the chemical waste that's killed people's ability to think beyond partisan invective and leftist fairy tales.  But it's more insidious than a CIA blessed initiative to destroy resistance to the oligarchy.   People are volunteering to be a cognitive nose-bleed.

Not that any of this dog pucky is going to shovel itself into the shit can anytime soon.   The media is being a real asshole.   See what the Post Gazette has been like lately?    Notice how local entertainment rags are all politically charged, one dimentional and averse to true cultural diversity?  But how is that, you bark?   Aren't they all sweating the  faux Channel #5 of tolerance and no-bullying?  Of  race/gender, pro minority and anti-pale-face social justice rhetoric?   Where does some lousy, marginalized poverty level non-minority person get off saying all these crappy little words?  Aren't only those at median income level and over entitled to be pissed?

Yes and no.  Poor miserable rejects have always been angry and fucked-over.   The superficial abrasions that wealthy  people incurred in their East Coast MFA programs are in gangrene mode, but it  is they that keep pouring germs, and not Bactine, into their cuts and bullet holes.  Rather than reason out an agenda that might improve daily life, everyone just wants to bash perceived enemies of social justice, most of all, You-The-Fuck-Know-Who.   But the assholes don't have a plan. They continue to pretend they have one while obstructing all of 45's plans.     

I will admit to being a superficial, angry blatherskite if everyone else will blow an illusory joint and chill out.   First evaluate your fucking goals and agendas.   Evaluate the people you might be working with.   Evaluate the opposing team, in five syllable words.   Learn shit about libertarian philosophy, and not just the usual dirty-capitalist-diatribes.  Socialism doesn't fail all the time, but sure as fuck most of the time.   Pittsburgh stinks with moldering non-profit agencies that suck at what ever they are pretending to do.   They are all tax-fucking-exempt.   An agenda to place more private, tax paying small businesses is timely.  People holding conservative opinions are not automatically wrong.  

I'm critical, so the fuck should you.   If this shitty opinion piece bothers you, take comfort knowing even the divine wit of Winston Fucking Churchill can't fix the human condition of now.  It's our vulgar problem.    All the wit and polish in the fucking world won't accomplish jack shit.   The ability to reason might.

I compose poems. Bulwinkle Moose used to exlaim, "Exclelsior."

A Guru

I'm a tidy motherfucker
only newspapers and bottles curb side
no plastic
sometimes a rubber doo dad
amulets maybe
talismanic veggies with Cougat mania
Cabbage Calloway cores, sometimes
alright
sometimes an old scholar parties
we get fucked up too



Retired

sad certainty they pulling stunts
you saunter rabbit-ear broke
hobo flags
scissor job on pockets 
burp, need any range rockets?
no, cool
see ya' later
no invites for jerky
only news
buzzards eat anything

More poems. Like weeds. Not your favorite thing, but they convert CO2 to oxygen.

At Work 

he had a face like a fruit bat
and seemed to like me
everyone else too
even the assholes
but me more than the others
in our fast food stations
I was Mr. French Fry
he manned the discus pizzas
other pricks singed the burgers
the bat had a case of hots
too shitty
as I did not

 Long Lost 

what do I care
it leaves me all tire tracks and beer cans
the dull bing and rattle
we played pinball machines
drove cars more rust than metal
we shared disdain for diamonds
avoided validity
traveled like a mad man
only difference
we knew where we were
on Mars

New flash fiction, and as is my custom, it is all B.S.

Cosmetic Advice

D' Americans, day come to us and say, "how you people have such smooth and lustrous skin?"

O, ho, ho, ho, dat take us all many huntings and gatherings of fact to answer. Da' wily goddess, Truliheinous, she quip, "No hope, baseball fans, you people born ugly." She say simple answer beat circuitous explanation. We have primal beauty, you have the heart break of psoriasis. You have crags and bags, we can't help you. But not so fast the unwillingness to be of service.

You have no octopussiroot, an herb we use in our ceremonies. Without this herb we all shrivel up and lose teeth. We no get psoriasis. No bags. No crags. Your life expectancy is pitiful 85, ours is 142. And dat include infant mortality and spouse poisonings. You bozos calculate without bullshit, you're all no good for more than early fifties. But my people, we understand your insecurities. Television say 'Wring around the collar,' and everyone turns to Whisk detergent, as if that could make you half of us. No sweat on the collar of our Brooks Brothers. We no dry clean Armani suits. Only da' baseball fan freak about invisible barriers to bliss.

But it seems our radiant skin you envy. Da gold and diamonds you wear resemble a zoot suit on a pecary. We wear gold and look fab. You wear gold, you look wrinkled. There is no hard feelings. None at all. We will help you with your baneful cuisine, your cosmetic tragedies. Ask away, honored tourists. We have time. We have time for your bullshit. So ask.

Sounds and Herbs

Wingo nonis proverbo, octopussyroot. We have sustained our youth and beauty with herbs and incantations. You silly Americans have no understanding of sound. Even your teensy jagged morphemes fail to change molecular structures! It's your language, and not ours, that has sent Manateena into this kind of bitter rotation. She drills the Earth to Ulan Bator and back, if you will pardon my outrage. On her return she pronounces her sentence on America. "You get the orange Cheeto, you assholes," she wailed.

I've given you the name of that herb that can fix a slack jaw. It can repair a spastic colon. It will undo your failed cosmetic surgery and your parts that passed their warranty. And it will increase longevity, if you find acumen for avoiding the slip and fall. If you don't get eaten by feral hogs. If you avoid country music in a gun free zone. If all that, our octopussyroot will help you. Do not be timid. The herb is swallowed, en masse, after an incantation, without which, you still have a double chin. Repeat after me, and keep repeating till your toque floats:

Ooogie raga, octopussy, big one, horny apex. Ooogie raga, nonis proverbo ratso nofuckum. Ooogie raga.

Flash Fiction: total BS, you'll love it.

Exotic Foods

Mugi rictus pontifucker plexmash, dear reader! I have shared with you all some recipes from my native land, and I have presented snits of the language my people natter-natter upon. The English language is a Mary Poppins to our Jerry Van Dyke, if you will comply with reason. The words we say walk on the surface of necessity. I am sure you already know this. You are tri-colored, while we live by our creed, said first by our greatest queen, Shiskabula, "Ooogie Raga, maxifacialtic."

We have changed some of our recipes. There be no more coca plants for us here. You silly bastards with helicopter. Ho, ho, ho, bastard agent orange our sweet Maryjane, you evil ones. To zest our comestibles, we buy thousands of X pills from a German missionary, we mash them with manioc and canned tomatoes, and pour liberally into our non-stick cauldron. I had shared with you all our delightful thootzi, which now has an added kick. Don't change nothing, oh kings of gustation, only buy from us this base we use for everything we choke down. Your family will thank us.

Our two most famous dishes are: ugamaho and thootzi. You may use the recipes I gave you many solar eclipses backward. But substitute for blow and weed about a cup of mashed X. You will be gracious! Ooogie raga!