Archive for April, 2010
April 30, 2010
I had diarrhea of the brain a couple of years ago and kept building this monstrosity. It’s like when Gene Wilder exclaims in Young Frankenstein: “It’s Alive!!!” The poem kept growing and building. I think the movie version of this poem is probably shorter. If you dare read the entirety of this poem, you are a much braver soul then most. Thanks to all of my new friends who made NaPoWriMo a very enjoyable experience! Best wishes to all of you and perhaps we’ll meet again as we write off into the digital sunset along creative digital streams. Until then, I give you…
What is Fun?
It’s the first three letters in “funeral”.
And the second three letters in “dysfunctional”.
It’s promo-sapiens in the wild
And the adverts marketing style.
It’s bungee jumping from an airplane.
And then trampolining on cellophane.
It’s agoraphobics at conventions.
And inflated egos in suspension.
It’s auctioneers with narcolepsy
And bidders with itchy gavels.
It’s an epidemic of trash TV
And how fast ignorance travels.
It’s waxing poetics
And watching the wax melt,
It’s holding up religion
With a loose Bible belt.
It’s Miss Appropriate and Miss Demeanor:
Twin sisters laundering at Mr. Cleaners.
It’s Xena battling xenophobics,
And sociopaths on psychotropics.
It’s calling my spirit guide without a busy signal,
And entrails of sit-coms with writer’s drivel.
It’s the Headless Horseman and the Mad Hatter.
It’s blue skies and grey matter.
It’s Auntie Em’ meets anti-matter.
It’s putting lampshades on luminaries.
While digging up old dignitaries.
It’s a three-piece suit and Rolex watch.
It’s Armani in a Ferrari shifting up a notch.
It’s a sentence hearing by James Joyce.
It’s a Pinto engine in a Rolls Royce.
It’s painting scenarios with sketchy memories,
And drawing conclusions about the Dead Kennedys.
It’s ordering double entendres three or four times,
And walking in circles and standing in lines.
It’s truth going out and rumors innuendo,
And erogenous zones creeping crescendos.
It’s a tele-marketing tele-kinetics,
Tele-evangelists and tele-pathetic.
It’s Santa Claus when he’s feeling bi-polar,
And a sadistic tooth fairy extracting a molar.
It’s a metaphysical stroll down memory lane.
And Waiting for Godot again and again.
It’s a Fuzzy Navel and Sex on the Beach,
And a White Russian slurring his inebriated speech.
It’s Silicon Valley and Silicon Mountains.
It’s Silly Puddy and youthful fountains.
It’s William Wordsworth running out of himself.
It’s Longfellow reaching for a very high shelf.
It’s shooting blanks after sweating bullets.
It’s a mortician cutting some very scary mullets.
It’s a mortarboard and mortar shells.
It’s buying a round for the sinners in hell.
It’s e-pistol-more-logical for the NRA.
It’s shooting off your mouth with nothing to say.
It’s a stream of consciousness leading to rivers.
It’s an ocean of notions that peptides deliver.
It’s an extended visa to the Imagi-nation,
And a black market for green cards and creative inflation.
It’s obsessive compulsive on how words are used.
It’s the English language stretched and abused.
It’s silly syllogisms and water logarhythms.
It’s opening doors with metaphors
And making iffy decisions.
It’s the gymnastics in linguistics.
It’s the logistics of pragmatics.
It’s similes gone spastic.
It’s a dangling modifiers and hanging participles.
It’s the fallacy of an analogy that only cripples.
It’s the Dialectics of Surrealism,
And the Dianetics of Hubbardism.
It’s Toulouse Lautrec when he’s all wound up,
And Jackson Pollock spilling his guts.
It’s real sarcasm
Meets a fake orgasm.
It’s a dominatrix with fuzzy handcuffs.
It’s the S&M&M guys who can’t get enough.
It’s the Keebler Elves doping their cookies.
It’s the Unlucky Charm owing his bookie.
It’s Kafka running from the Orkin Man.
It’s Porky Pig serving an Easter ham.
It’s Daffy Duck in a speech class,
And Elmer Fudd kicking some ass.
It’s Kap’n Krunch getting milked by his lawyers,
And the Turning Trix Rabbit looking for voyeurs.
It’s Colonel Sanders getting court marshaled.
And General Dynamics out for the hustle.
It’s Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines,
Double dating divas snorting up lines.
It’s fear today for the Pentagon tomorrow.
It’s a laugh track backwards
That only brings sorrow.
It’s extending Happy Hour
To Happy Hour and a Half.
It’s sidesplitting stocks
And he who laughs last.
It’s Twelve Angry Mennonites convicting Lars of Arson.
It’s trans-Atlantic transvestites who appeared with Johnny Carson.
It’s transcendental transportation.
It’s hieroglyphics and higher education.
It’s alliteration taken literally.
It’s figuring out “figuratively.
It’s hooked on sound bites,
And hooked on phonics.
It’s reeling in phrases,
And learning Ebonics.
It’s the right side of the brain laughing at the left.
It’s the troubling song’s trembling treble clef.
It’s speaking in tongues with Pro-Life Savers.
It’s being Born Again with Biblical flavors.
It’s Bible Biscuits with fortunes inside.
It’s Apocalypse Now and the Survivalist’s Guide.
It’s antiperspirant for the anti-Christ.
It’s aftershave in the afterlife.
It’s taking my inner child out for a walk.
It’s teaching inner grandchildren just how to talk.
It’s therapy for the humor impaired.
It’s comedically challenged for those who split hairs.
It’s anal retention for the sarcastically disabled.
It’s sleep walking through the American fable.
It’s a Wonderful Knife before Mr. Smith Gets Life.
It’s A Confederacy of Dunces and a Bewildered Nation of Idiots.
It’s audiophiles in deaf denial and the twelve steps for vidiots.
It’s dropping me a line so we can pick up the fun.
It’s the whole world laughing when the human race has run.
April 29, 2010
With the news of 5,000 barrels of uncontrollable crude oil leaking into the gulf of Mexico and infecting marine life for the capitalist bottom line, I thought it would be appropriate to discuss alternative energy sources to power our lifestyles. Here is a poem that discusses these ideas…
A New Energy Source
It’s not the carbon emitting fuels
Of dirty coal and greasy oil,
Nor the radioactive waves of grain
From nuclear waste gargoyles.
It’s not the clean emitting fuel
Of sun based solar cells,
Nor hydrogen and water vapor
As how a rainforest smells.
It’s not aunt Ethel’s ethanol farm
Where she grows sugar cane and beets.
Nor Mary Jane’s herbal garden
With her secret recipe treats.
It’s not the electromagnetic power
Or gyrating centrifugal force.
It’s not the carrot on a fishing line
That leads the hungry horse.
It’s not the static electricity
That’s found through disheveled hair,
It’s not the nylon Sheer Energy
That gay Republicans like to wear.
It’s not the energy in geothermal
Or undulating tidal waves.
It’s just our founding fathers
Spinning in their graves.
April 28, 2010
Intuition and Déjà vu
Tie the knot “again,”
They look into their braided lives,
As the laws of physics bend.
“I know I’ve met you here before,”
Said the pondering Déjà vu.
“I’m sure we’ve met in this same place
Like enigmas wrapped in clues.”
Intuition said:
“We will meet once again
in a strange Tautology class,
We will be Waiting for Godot,
As precious moments pass.
“We will conceive Coincidence,
And then Fluke and Lucky Shot,
Serendipity will bless our kids,
All in the same right spot.”
Déjà vu remarked as usual
“I’m sure you’ve said that before.”
“I knew you’d say that once again”
On this mystery tour.”
“It’s like we’re trapped in a temporal loop?
In a merry-go-round and again?”
Intuition said:
“We’ll become poets with A.D.D
But first we’ll start as friends.”
April 26, 2010
Thought I’d try the left side down and then the right side down.
Many layers beloW
Yearning each houR
I have an alibI
New kid insighT
Naggin to writE
Eclipsing adult powerS
Ready to raP
Childlike solO
He will writE
In the momenT
Listen foR
DestinY
April 25, 2010
I started a few lines a while back about the process by which I think of my poetry. I thought looking at how I develop the poem would make an interesting poem. I also wanted to put it in the context of a dream since I dream quite a bit and most of the times can’t make heads or tales out of the dream’s meaning or meaninglessness. This was somewhat an exploration into surrealism with my standard format of rhyme and meter. I think I finally put this one together this evening. Hope it works and you enjoy it.
Antithetical Thoughts
(In search of dialectical surrealism)
Last night there was a traffic jam
Across my corpus callosum,
The superhighway between hemispheres
Encountered a faulty fulcrum.
Synaptic transmissions were firing,
But the mobility of thoughts were crashing,
Those that came from the right side
Had detoured with ideas flashing.
I noticed the deviation early on,
But could not control the flow,
The thoughts that came from the left,
Slid down like ice and snow.
An avalanche of thoughts cascade,
From the flooding of brain storms,
Country and Rock intertwined,
As judgement had forewarned.
I was seated in a rock stadium,
As I saw my ideas clash,
A dark punk rocker in blue overalls
Sung country fast and brash.
It was in fact a strange melody
With fast tempo and country twang,
I could not fit the voice and face,
As back up singers sang.
But then the stage was lit from above
And I saw the stage band sign,
My brain had just entertained the thought
Of Marilyn Moonshine!
April 24, 2010
Everyone in my household was asleep when I came home after a grueling walk. The only thing I could say as I sat down to look at today’s prompt is, “My feet are killing me!”
The long road home may be one less traveled,
But tell that too my tired feet.
They support my every move,
And help me stand complete.
But when you walk for hours and hours
After your car has broken down,
Your feet start grumbling for revenge
And inflict pain from the ground.
Sure the moon is full and bright
And the wind is against my back,
But I have painful evidence
In every mile of track.
“You will hear from my lawyer!”
I say in my ever exhausted mind,
“Attempted murder or manslaughter?
Why do they inflict this crime?”
While I sit on the plaintiff’s bench,
My shoes will take the stand,
They will speak from hallowed tongues,
And soles that truth demands.
And if a jury of my peers
Finds guilty my killing feet,
The judge may send them away for life,
So they never walk the street.
No blisters, bunions, or ingrown nails
Could possibly defend,
That when my feet are killing me
They reach their tired ends.
So send them away, send them up the river
Give me relief from my killing feet,
Let me sleep upon my back
So my feet can’t walk the street.
April 24, 2010
A wee bit of drammie
Dropped in my Irish beer stein.
Hooligans practice shenanigans
As the sunrises and moonshines.
Hillbillies take the moonshine,
And put the bottle in front of me.
Like liquid fire in the whole shebang,
For the frontal lobotomy.
A mad scientist tries to break the ice
Before going on the warpath
Jesus H. Christ had a whale of a chance
But didn’t get the last laugh.
The laughing hyena full of vim and vigger
Laughed where the sun don’t shine.
Politics makes strange bedfellows
And a stitch in time saves nine.
We go to the dogs when pigs fly
And the cow jumps over the moon,
It’s as easy as pie when we bought the farm
And we write crazy as a loon.
April 23, 2010
This is a poem for Sue Lowden who is a Republican candidate in Nevada who is running in the Republican primary to be the nominee to defeat Democrat Harry Reid for the US Senate seat.
Sue Louden recently said, “before we all started having health care, in the olden days our grandparents, they would bring a chicken to the doctor, they would say I’ll paint your house.” ~ Sue Lowden on a local Nevada morning show.
Nevada Sue
Went to the zoo
And thought about Pay Day Lenders,
“There must be a way
That people can pay
Good doctors with chicken tenders.
“Will you take
Chicken baked,
Roasted, flame broiled, or fried?
In the olden days,
Folks had ways
To barter with chickens with pride.
“I’ll peck and scratch
With Orrin Hatch,
To change money into chickens,
When farms are banks
Let’s all give thanks
That our money is finger lickin’.
“Healthcare reform
Should be like corn
Fed to poultry before they’re tender,
It may sound strange
That a chicken exchange
Would have Pay Day Chicken Lenders.”
April 23, 2010
Last night I took the “R” out
To a westauwant where we welaxed.
Fwee wange Wepublicans were wunning awound
Cwabby about some waskily tax.
The R said:
This really is rather redundant
Replaying “R” words without redress.
No recourse like the Bill of Rights
No radicals who like to rest.
I said to R:
We can go awound and awound
With wevolution in the aiw;
Wadical wepublicans who want Iwaq
Fwee with Lais sez faiwe.
Then R said:
Your rhythmic rant is really repulsive
and I’m ready for the “R” back in ride.
Then I said:
Do you weally want me to wun you back home?
Then R said:
I’m ready to go where I reside.
April 23, 2010
Call me Tim,
As I begin,
To remember what it is I forgot.
I would ask Spac,
My brother in fact,
But he can’t remember for naught.
Spac and I
Will really try,
To see our ends justify our means,
But we’re lost,
About the cost,
Of reality and how things seem.
Spac’s heart attack
Was due in fact,
To a hole that made him unfulfilled,
And I felt this itch,
That I should stitch,
Something if we should be killed.
We’re just two brothers,
Unlike any others,
But just a little lost without a key.
We’re just hoping to find,
Before losing our minds,
What’s missing so we can just be.
We are now bound
For the Lost and Found,
Where we hope to recover memory.
And just like that,
We found in fact,
We were missing that last letter “e.”
