How many twelfths
do we need
to fit into a sixty-fourth’s
meatball hammer sharpener?
The answer may surprise you.
For you see, not too many
fling mellifluous melodies,
seldom slaloming on slip ’n’ slides.
The humble technician
patiently asks: why
must I lose my trains of thought
on the bus, instead of losing
my buses of thought the train?
There’s really no dice
to be thrown about at this hour,
I checked. Monsieur Gary prefers
a more effervescent
state of tumult
for his emperor penguin’s
chagrined porcupine impression.
Interest only reigns with the crack of that candy rope whip on the back of an immigrant jelly bean. That’s all the interest we can afford at this time, and our sweet tooth will just have to wait. Don’t you understand? This is crucial information we’ve come to obtain, and it’s important that you don’t just go pissing it away in a single afternoon. Your mother was right. You should have never joined that group of boys. They were nothing but trouble for you. They made you stay up late and forget to do your homework, and now look where you’ve ended up. Straight in the hall of shame, an apartment wanderer for life, essentially stuck in no-equity limbo and fit to be tied. How are you even going to deal with that? Did you develop any lucrative hobbies? I’m sure you didn’t. That must have been an afterthought. You were too busy finding the excitement in that first couple of seconds you spent roaming around and jumping at beasts who weren’t even planning to intimidate you.
Well, what can we really do
at the end of the day,
aside from stapling our sorry sacks
to a sphincter of solidarity?
Ooh, that’s nasty. I shouldn’t be
unleashing such filth when
possessing such youth
are within earshot. I remember–
back when I was a child–when
that kind of filter just wasn’t
present in my mind’s eye.
I indeed regret that I didn’t
have the temerity to tell folks
(and, indeed, even my parents)
how their off-color language
off-put me. Every damn,
dang and darn chopped into me
like a rusty old hatchet–and
let’s not even mention
those other four-letter doozies.
But those were different times;
I was 23 then.
I’m 27 now, and my perspective
has matured magnificently.
What changed, you ask? Something
about my regular reading of
horoscopes and astrological charts
allowed me to unpack
my cognitive dissonances, yet
left me wanting more
from the universe and the planets
and the alignments and the
what have you. Is it all there
as a way of making us feel
more comfortable not knowing
the grand scheme of things,
a la benevolent overlords?
I reckon if we can’t truly see
the full picture, we might as well
get as large-scale
as we possibly can
while affixing as much
mathematical logic to it,
keeping in mind that everything
is more likely than not
an amalgamation of chaotic particles
flinging themselves at one another
at variable rates, and we’re
the unnecessary end result.
See, these are the kinds of thoughts
that can be had without
such a potty mouth! Now, if only
could understand that, we’d be
in much better shape. But
you know what? I’ll leave
that speculation to the birds.
What kind of birds, you ask?
Gee willikers, I don’t know!
You pick one! I guess
I’m partial to crows
at the moment,
though I do like them egrets
Okay, you got me, fincher-pinchers
aren’t actually animals—
that we know!
Well, at least in this plane.
There are no fictional
allowed on flight #38674-012
to Fallas-Dwort Earth.
Tempered by the blunt end
of a stainless steak knife,
throttled by a lack of anything
interesting to say–
say, how’s that weather?
Primary’s coming up,
don’t trust any of those clowns;
the whole system’s downright screwy anyway.
Can’t get behind those corporations
parading around as individuals,
CEOs making their dirty millions.
Can’t keep up this smalltalk,
I just want to scream
at those crows hopping
over there. Who told them
they could have fun
while I’m around?
I can’t stand it
when others enjoy themselves,
especially animals. I can’t
tell them off
like I can a human, not that
I make it my business
to harass people.
The closest I’d ever get
would be a stoic monologue
about the nature of the universe
and its tendency to dissolve
without a moment’s notice.
I can make many a soul
with that shrapnel language,
if you can believe it.
No frills; we must tend
to the squandered beef on I-94.
Its recent turn to uselessness
in the eye of the discerning omnivore
stands in line behind a factory’s
striking rendition of a human,
chimney stacks puffing away.
No more bandying Comanche warriors
duking it out for second-class status;
Uncle Sam saw to their dissolution
while whispering “you just be good, now.”
Every part of the steer in use
would be the ideal situation here,
though idealism took a flying leap
off George Washington’s nose
when the stone masons weren’t looking.
There’s a piece of gentle wood
on that tray, name of Rockefellon:
Nomad Juggler Extraordinaire.
He currently traverses
the water chestnut fields
of Animosity Central,
graduates of spoken word school.
Delirium be me middle name, aye.
Ye may also call me the grossest,
most indefatigable shroom tripper,
spawned from the native
egalitarian egret something or other
in combination with a spokesperson
for our most advanced bleach formula,
*New carcinogens are being discovered every day, and we cannot guarantee your safety beyond the scientific accomplishments hitherto hailed as gospel among most legitimate collectives of scientists. Please keep this information in mind when shopping around for your next purchase of laundry detergent, particularly when using cash, debit or any other payment method that typically doesn’t involve built-in spending incentive programs.
“Turn strange, fair beefeater,”
Curtisson mentioned on the car ride
over to the museum. “Your
leaves behind the tragic old
misconception of the garlic-laden
bindling-gebaut, untold though
not unmade or unmasked, undeveloped,
penning the pennies through the portrait
of a golem in trouble with the law.”
Is that man’s law or God’s law?
I prefer to think of it as God slaw:
nice and crunchy with a musical quality
once it’s making its way back to the soil.
“We only have seven score paper clips
left in the entire warehouse; I said
we shouldn’t panic, but I was putting on
my brave face, hoping things would
turn themselves around. But they’ve just
turned strange, fair beefeater, and
we’d better figure out our whole
monument situation, pronto.”
Here’s the first of a series of revisited poems that are read without commentary, very minimally. I found difficulty with the podcast format, confining myself to just the extended recording. But then I realized that people enjoy variety, and I enjoy working on a variety of styles on a regular basis, never restricting myself to a single project or ideal. Sometimes that kind of behavior can be shackling–it can lead to treading water in numerous areas instead of swimming in a handful.
Eh, live and learn.
So that’s what brings us to today! Quick (Tasty) Morsels is designed for your jet-setting citizen of the 21st Century, snack-sized recordings that are sure to raise just as many questions as they answer.
Cheers and enjoy!
None of a Your Beeswax, Sonny
A Winston box
ain’t none of a your beeswax, sonny,
we’re full up here.
Scram, you dig?
I mean, turpentine torpedo stitching
needn’t apply for a permit
before March 1st, or when
the next available March Hare
comes in for an appointment.
Notice the lo-fi-ness? Yeah, it was an accident at first, but now I really like the idea of fuzzy recordings for the archives. Makes it feel older, yanno? It’s also reminiscent of Tom Waits’ lo-fi recordings of him telling stories.
So ya, here are the pieces I read for this recording:
Subconscious to the Rescue
Pile the sandbags and twirl the belts,
we’re not gonna lose our dishes to the wind
if I have anything to say about it!
Pile it all up, all that crap you never expected
you’d need to keep the mental tempest at bay.
No use questioning it at this point,
your brain sent out the SOS two days ago,
and I sincerely apologize for arriving so late.
You’d never believe the cross-country traffic.
Hit the Road
With fists would be too bloody,
so we picked the feet instead.
Stomping full speed ahead
with soles at our disposal,
we fully intended to swing
by the 24-hour bakery for
some half-price doughnuts
and a snifter of cider
on the house (if Freddy
decided to be kind to us).
Our plans changed, and
we began flipping pancakes
until we could find
a tangible solution.
It struck me like butter
and I scraped my elbow
on the doorway as I
hurried outside to yell
“America knows the truth
and systemic starvation
of impoverished nations,
just ask the government!”
A sniper’s round whizzed
past my ear and I took
no time getting out of there,
though I lost my clothes
while going so fast,
an issue that pops up
more often than you think it should.
It’s like I’m trying to crack
some Russian terrorist organization’s database
before the rubber ducky
explodes all over the train tracks
during the afternoon commute
away from the lovely metropolis
that affords so many people
the luxury of living 30 miles away
and commuting every day
to earn their big fat paychecks
while leaving bigfoot carbon prints
if they choose not to commute by rail.
But they can do whatever they want,
because having substantial sums of money
makes a person immune from criticism
and the need to change lifestyle.
The very first horse-drawn carriage must have come as a shock to the ants taking their time crossing the land that at one point had never been designated specifically for human travel–and subsequent travails.
Now the unattached heel of a wayward boot has come across my plane of vision, and all of a sudden, horse-drawn carriages and ant opinions have no bearing over my perception as a red-blooded artist keen on taking over the world several well-placed poems at a time.
A long-suffering server has come to understand–a solid number of years ago, mind you–that people have no rhyme or reason when it comes to leaving their shit behind at a bar (even if they haven’t imbibed enough to lose their conception of personal property and the detriment of ignoring the objects directly surrounding them). Perhaps that very basic principle just isn’t present in their conscious minds in the same way as the long-suffering server–we’ll call him Frank.
Perhaps, just perhaps, they’ve transcended the idea of personal property entirely, to the point where everything is everything and nothing, and a backpack or purse or boot heel are inconsequential in the grand scheme of their lives. And bully for them.
Tiny little jubilants toss paint chips
into the rat-faced fire as their attempt
to reap the benefits of social currency.
Judging by their naiveté–they’ve only
just entered the space quite recently–
it would seem they’ve missed out on
the initial burst and are plunging into
an inescapable trough of national debt (god
bless them all, those stalling sensationalists
of the written turd). Once the uninformed masses
have been clued into a sensation, it’s only
a matter of time before the bliss splits
lengthwise and shatters the giblets
from within, a process even more frightening
than one would think at the onset.
Myself, I prefer to stick with what I do best:
painting Portuguese on piers that had once
bustled with trade activity, now disconnected
from commerce yet occupying the same space anyhow.
We wasteful invaders–of course we must leave
the bones of our prior successes to rot
in plain sight, unadorned (aside from my scribbles).
Aw, don’t get all bent out of shape,
Mr. Piece of Paper Man.
I didn’t mean to wrinkle you, honest!
Jeez, quit looking up at me
with that blank expression,
it’s killing me! Death
by a million paper cuts
is to be my fate? I shall instead
jump into an ocean of bees, so
I may avoid such a tedious
and painful end.
I love the bees,
the bees are my friends
now and forever (or at least
until one of our species goes extinct,
which could be any minute now).
They welcome me with open wings
and usher me to their queen,
bragging about the human
they just bagged–at least,
that’s what their elated buzzing
sounds like to me, but I’m no expert
in hive linguistics.
The biggest, most poignant pen
writes the antithesis of the expected,
the people with lives expressed
experience, embarked upon
out of necessity
to insulate from the severe
of a marginalized people
fucked up our entire species,
ethically and genetically.
Speaking truth is necessary;
we can’t worry about
transcending race or gender,
there is only
a singular consciousness,
lived at all moments of our lives.
We are merely its witnesses.
Thank you for sharing
your visions of truth
and illuminating my perception.
You are my teacher, my ally,
my person of interest.
Don’t we all take for granted
the stag’s leaps or the hyena’s skips
as perpetual representations of a group
that denigrates the works of mankind?
Too many toads take too much time
to throw titillated molotov cocktails
betwixt the orthogenetic felons
of our once-forgotten past,
whistled between a shar-o-ise
and a heart.
The chamber solvent
has a triumphant shield
quite unlike the present-minded
earth warbler, unmade
as a man of science and marked
as a man of knowledge
in the community that really matters–
the one that brings us
to a crater of conscience
that may easily be sustained
if pursued in earnest.
Speckled timberjacks innovate in the leanest and meanest of times, over all the whinging and cringing, crybabies taking turns beating their chests as though abalone were as valuable as diamonds (although, in our faery-less global community, that sentiment should be closer to truth than it currently stands).
Sentiment breaks backs as a matter of fact. You could say that the finer the rampage, the cheaper the glint recommended by the turnstile technician–at least that’s what I’ve come to understand as a giblethead in society’s white pages.
Although, the sorrow contained within a single spätburgunder can hardly be measured with a doughnut and Jeopardy rerun (even a Ken Jennings episode where he wins $75K, sorry to say).
Stu has an irreverent tone to him today. Was it the pineapple liqueur we plied him with before the road trip to Tijuana? I guess it could have started there, but the tequila probably sealed the deal. Whatever the cause, this man certainly doesn’t know the meaning of off-switch. He’s off, don’t get me wrong there. I suppose the main discrepancy lies in his knowledge of what it means to be “on.” He has his own notions, which all point toward an absence of critical thought and an inherent acceptance of the status quo, which definitely do not endear him to the youths of today. And after all, who pulls the strings around here? There are two answers:
The financial benefactor who supplies the dollars and necessitates prudence through their old-world viewpoint that relies on fear-based tactics
The youthful tastemaker who takes it upon him/herself to challenge whatever position may have formed over the past quarter-century and invent a hybrid form of expression that (over the subsequent quarter-century) pervades all social conventions and leads to the same cycle of adherence as with what had been previously-established–ironic, yes? This process will be repeated ad infinitum until either (A) the species evolves and outgrows such petty matters, or (B) we all die horrific, gruesome deaths at our own hands.
No matter what transpires, it’s important to remember that, to our tragic figure Stu, everything is relative, and there’s no point in making any more friends if it’ll just lead to pointless poisonings.