Thursday, April 25, 2019

Friday, April 19, 2019

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.

Friday, April 5, 2019

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.

Thursday, March 28, 2019

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

Tuesday, March 26, 2019








Saturday, March 16, 2019

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.  

Monday, March 11, 2019

Tuesday, March 5, 2019

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.     

Sunday, February 24, 2019

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.



Tuesday, February 19, 2019





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




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Sunday, February 17, 2019

Thursday, February 14, 2019

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.




Saturday, February 9, 2019

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





Saturday, February 2, 2019

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



Saturday, January 19, 2019

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.






Friday, January 18, 2019

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!