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!