Demon

Seeing Permanent Red

They say us red heads have
tempers like East Coast weather
unpredictable and vicious.

I would argue this point but
it would only send me into
another full blown raging whirl wind.

I turn into a Snickers-less Joe Pesci.
I become Oppenheimer.

Without a moment’s notice.
Even my Jekyll is more like
most people’s Hyde.

Today when I could not find my hat
I felt like I needed it
like some average Junky,
then the more I couldn’t find it,
the more I became Herbert Hunke.

Suddenly I was a barrel short
of 12 angry monkey’s.

I miss a bus and start mumbling
to my room:

“How in the history
of all the holiest fucks
of fucking fuckers
have I lost this goddamn hat
when I have yet to leave the
house today?”

The theories get elaborate, fast.
Some kind of starving, stray
micro-goat-like creature
which normally subsists off odd socks
has not found one lately and has
decided to get brazen.

I must still be wearing it I say,
and pat my red, slowly
sweat-gathering
heavy hair.
Nope.

I check the legs of jeans
startling my bed’s frame
like crusty farmer clothes on
rickety, birch fences.

My inner Shining
declares that
Genes got me here
to begin with.

I go to punch air
and I hit the corner of my door
gashing open my hand,
now I’m bleeding and
cursing and mumbling and
tossing clothes around
like a baglady at the last
Sally Ann sale of the Earth
positive that any second I will
start to shit out everything
I have ever lost
and that’s a lot, a lot, a lot of shit.

By the time I give up and
put my hoody on
I’ve missed another bus
I’ve screamed in italic’s of cuss
I’ve prayed like a desperate Catholic
to a Mexican pick up truck’s Jesus-rust.

Curse this temper of mine.
All it was ever good for
were broken Super Nintendo controllers
dry wall craters covered in NIN posters
and a good post-meltdown chuckle
like the one just now,
while writing this poem.

Maybe that’s enough.

Burning to Matter

The easy thing to say has always
made me want to eat acid,
but, like, not the fun kind,
like the deadly-burn-yr-belly-like-Alien, kind.

But I would rather burn
than be burned.

I will be alive when you bury me, there still
when they scatter me back,
and I will be there,
there,
when all the easy things
have had their cheap dance,

to mean something,
is to outlast everything loud
and proud
and pomp.

Easy goes out the door,
when time stretches the canvas out,
large.

I would want to be, such a control freak.

This is why I don’t go online anymore.
Because you can’t move
without running over someone’s tow
with a “gas guzzling earth murderer”
and the second you start to wane from
your dedication to the cause,
be it the chemtrail or truthers you piss off
by saying maybe, just maybe it’s not quite
the way they think it is, but somewhere in the
uncomfortable, awkward and far less
headline catchy middle.

You’ve now got to play out like Ralph Fiennes
or Donald Sutherland in “Land of the Blind”
and suffer the rank change.

And you just know the anti-abortionist
is never going to click with the intensely
adamant breast feeder just like the rabid cyclist
vegan folks aren’t down with the family guy crowd
there are exceptions, but it’s true as the examiner,
if you believe anything, anymore. I don’t.

The problem with
thinking is it takes you away from community.

The problem with community is it isolates
You from the chance you might not be permanently
shitting the veritable truth yourself, either.

It’s a constant kerfuffle.

People are afraid to go on the bus
because of one terrible beheading,
but we rush headlong into this forum
of words energized by frenzy, hate, fear
love even- the love of the quest to figure it
all out and then post enough links to black
out all the world, even your friends too,
until it blacks out even you, from yourself.

That’s why I’m online again.
To clarify why I’m offline again.

And you can’t get the Christians
and the Scientists to stop hitting each
other back long enough to find out if
the chicken even laid an egg,
so don’t bother!

Camp Edward promises eradication of
Camp Jacob by tomorrow and the xbox crowd
has a serious bone to pick with ps3, despite
both encompassing the same trivial thing!

The People for a more Buddhist America
have begun to antagonize the American Tea Party
by online praying protests and the Jonesboro
army of faith is filling up comment sections
faster than Jesus can say “go fish”.

The Occupiers can’t seem to agree with the Truthers
as to what’s more important, truth or occupation,
and the 1% don’t say much because they own all
the websites and paper mills that profit from all
the protests and provocateurs and promulgators.

The pirates keep looting and laughing at shoppers,
who blame the looters for the deterioration of
all fandom, everywhere. Fanboy’s hate everything
except the old school and safe retro of their childhood’s

and while they espouse the extremist philosophies of
spoiler edict and Puritanism of the remake genre,
everyone else is clicking link to virus laden porn
while typing yawning emoticons to each other,
and making grand recycled hip-statements they
read on Jezebel or somewhere for “thinkers”
who constantly chastise the flock (re: sheeple)
and call the process anything but what it is,
an intellectual fleecing.

Over yonder a crowd of gawkers for every celebrity
invented for every badly written pilot or failed script, ever.
And further still the men who swear they don’t eat
but instead inhale flowers, then the ones who are
eating the fucking sun, eye’s first, noone of whose parents
are even willing to own up to giving birth to them.

It’s getting more and more crowded with assholes,
and that’s why I read Bukowski before bed now instead
of a ticker or newsfeed; no matter how bitter he gets,
His truth still beats anything online right now.

Insects we are, moving under rocks that are so
violently lifted that nobody has time to
regain any sense of composure before we’re gang
raped by the light of the modem-verse.

And that’s why I’m back online,
to discuss how much better offine was.

Ginger Rant, ‘oeuvre’ and out.

Hell & Uniformity

First Job

I remember the best and the worst of it.
The thing I hated most was the smell.
It had literally the miasma ghost odor of
every local butcher, medical lab, mechanic
and who knows what else, as its clientèle.
They washed the blood and shit, the vomit,
the grease and the chemicals. I remember thinking
the ISO 9000 and whatever on the sign looked
so Very Assuring coming in. This, compounded
by the sad and quiet Asian ladies who pan faced,
with no sympathy for you and you all fear of that deadpan,
worked the clean garments out on the other end,
in a complex splatter of trolley-style racks
that held all the shirts individually, then uniformly
by the dozen, forming clean corn rows of cotton
and polyester urethane. I hadn’t read Conrad yet, so
I didn’t know about it all yet. I had this yellow tape
player, and I remember listening to Radiohead, Kid A
and it was so fitting. “I’m not here, this isn’t happening”
then the guy yanks me on the shoulder and grabs the
thing and then and there I heard the gnawing movement
of the ornate trolleys of clothes above us on endless
shuffle, the massive washers, the cranes that hoisted
the denim dirty bags in the back, back with the little
elfish shop keeper. Reality kicked in fast. The fumes
made you high I swear, but not the good kind I had
enjoyed, more like the shitty time when I smoked
too much hash after eating a pizza sub from the Mr. Sub,
I remember it smelled just like BO and I wondered how
I could’ve ever enjoyed them, and forever associate
this factory and that smell on a submarine or pita.
The shop foreman was an ass and the manager
was better but he always treated the recent immigrant
types like shit, which in turn made me with my limited
understanding of life and heart felt connection to
The Autobiography of Malcolm X, associate labor
with cruelty and baseness for awhile I think. I found out
also that the manager, the little elf man with his ZZ Top
beard and short, stocky but frail due to limb stride,
had a sick kid. Here’s the thing though he said the kid
had leg Perthy? I have looked and I even googled it years later.
Was he a liar and a racist little elf or was he some rarer,
more susceptible to rarer, less-documented disease? My
biographers will have to ponder this and other mysteries.
(Postscript: I obsessed over this detail and gave it
one more university effort and it turns out he likely meant “Legg-Calves-Perthes”
syndrome – the French threw me off.)

The thought of nobody really ever giving a shit
kept me digging just those extra, necessary feet.
If I ever get out of this life alive, let me
have a night or two by a fire to tell you some more
of these wretched & beautiful work hazard stories.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legg%E2%80%93Calv%C3%A9%E2%80%93Perthes_syndrome

The People on the Bus

The people on the bus
(go to hell in a hand basket fast without
social customs in place).

(aka “welcome to Thunderdome, bitch”)

No matter how far we come as people,
the public transit experience will always
feel cold, like communism in Western movies,
or like penal institution transport crossed with
a ship of fools motif. For me however, it’s an
essential tool in understanding human behaviour
(and its lack therein when it occasions).

The best time to people watch is
the morning or late night, when
the world of the worker is worn
away like reality TV 5 years ago
and people really get their zombie
looking selves into half-sleep states.

There are a variety of styles of bus rider.
Each reflects a persona in society.
There’s the tough guy/asshole.
He’s easy to spot since he’s the only of the
Male species who will sit next to a woman
when seats next to other men are available.
In some cases such behaviour is accepted- a
bar for example. Not on the long haul that is
the metro though, no my track suit friend, best
to flip that Monster Energy (death) drink ball hat
around, take those Ridiculous tri-colored sunglasses
commemorating the 1992-93 Toronto Blue Jays franchise
off, and just stand the fuck off to the side as you likely
will in other forums in life im sure until an early
death by some random douchbaggery or other.
(My guess is robbing a gas bar, who knows!)

Stuck next to him was the lady who sits as little
As possible but rather tries to hover on her ass cheeks,
and almost appears fearful of the physical bus itself
as well as our resident asshole. She’s not a lifetime rider
like him either, usually she finds someone or becomes
a driver herself.

Next you have students. Most of those are texting,
a few still read. Fewer are weirdo’s watching the rest,
like me, for non-sexualized purposes (those lot tend
to fall under the Blue Jay 93 douchebag from earlier).

Then you have a few workers, and some people running on
fewer pistons than the general “norm”, your rockers,
your cursers your rocking cursing singers, all living it up
like they just don’t give a fuck, next to them, the skeets
and the slags, the skanks and the hags, and all that glitters between.

You have a few young parents, a lot more young mothers,
the occasional Clergy or Sister, people too injured to drive,
too poor, people too drunk and (or) too high. It’s a veritable
smorgasbord of life! As a cheap student-writer of cheaper
writing still, I really can’t fathom wanting to leave the living
Opera some call “the welfare wagon” others the “losermobile”.

But I think that’s mostly peoples
pride making them feel they need to qualify their
existences as more than the rat race they are
jammed into (just like anyone on that bus) and there
is nothing that’s going to change it – no ride,
no sweet, sweet ride will ever change that.

And you KNOW what Marcellus Wallace has told us of Pride?

“The night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting.
That’s pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps.”
Pulp Fiction, 1997

The Electric Ginger Kool-Aid Acid Test Experience Or How To Avoid Death By Gingercide, by Red Vickerson

The Electric Ginger Kool-Aid Acid Test Experience
Or
How To Avoid Death By Gingercide, by Red Vickerson

The Argentine and I had been friends
on the surface for years, but secretly we
tried snubbing the other out like
Spy vs Spy on mescal or a sadistic,

Red-Headed road runner facing off
against a better looking (somewhat)
version of the Javier Bardem villain in Skyfall

(But no less dark and certainly as deadly. )

Little did the mad southerner know,
his usual concoctions, (likely some type
of hybrid new age tantric majick mixed
with the older school brouhaha of
dark variety I suspected but could never prove)
all the while, it boosted my tolerance.

Because you see, when you’re a red-headed-
Bastard-step-child living in an anti-ginger world,
you build a certain second skin, see.

You learn to Suspect interference,
to anticipate anti-Ginger sentiment
at every turn and to remain

Ginger proud
On the outside
at all times.

I took to parading my belief’s
as a humorous shtick in around
2005 and flipped quite the return out of it,
not to mention a back log

of information on hundreds
of involved parties in public displays of “G-Hate”
I became like the Stasi or the KGB, or G-Men
and kept similarly laborious notes.

I invested in a new phraseology;
Gingerfictation, Gingiduce, and
Ginscrimination namely.

To which he even playfully executed
a response of late
Which included full on Gingercide;
the ultimate party gift!

The gingerier the better!
And how fucked that gingerier
is an accepted word!

(see http://hernanjmonzon.wordpress.com/2013/03/23/how-to-kill-a-ginger/ )

I spent hours re-watching every red-head
Coded film (2,227 or so)
and found all the necessary algorithms
of hate to confirm my suspicions;

a worldwide plot to eradicate us
has failed time and time again,
because we are the chosen ones,
and must mobilize, as my weekly
pamphlet and webcast
“The Red Truth Diaries” explores
in more detail.

(see “The Red Mailbox: Stories for the
Formation of a New Red Initiative”)

In the end this endless war
will undoubtedly burn
but will be forced to take small and minor place
amidst the greater atrocities of oppression in history.

But we will keep absorbing souls,
and gaining freckles for each one,
like vampires, in the folkloric pop culture
Et al. public subconscious long after every
Other demon has been vanquished, extolled,
expired.

We. Are. Le’(Gin)gion.

(drinks anti-freeze, absorbs another soul,
Moves on, cackling like Ron Howard
During the 2001 Oscars saying yeah bitches!
A Beautiful Mind is an allegory for my people!
When I use Albino’s I’m really saying
“Gingscrimination”)

We will rule one day,
and forced Gingrifying will
take place in every city.
A mass, unconsentual
Gingrification, indeed.
It will be like when the Christians
Fucked the Jews out of Rome and
Ieverything went to shit, but more epic.

And it will be me and the Argentine there
laughing, piss-poisoned-drunk and only
to willing to encourage mayhem further.

Such it is, being the Red Other.

Post-Humour

He thought he would have had it,
if he had only been richer,
or poorer.

He thought he might get a
better girl and write legends.

If he had made money
from stock exchanges.

Got his life back from the
web and the net and
all those tangled tangles.

I could’ve killed him
a hundred times:
from highway overpasses
he could’ve leapt,
or been strung
up on any number of
neighbouring trees.

I could’ve strangled him
some nights
when he went on about
how it wasn’t fair
that some
new age writer had gotten a
new
contract and here he was, just

“taking up space in spiral margins.”

I almost threw him to a pack
of wolves one night
in shame,
but I knew I would only wake up
feeling like I had chewed him myself.

So I did what had to be done.
I buried him. He’s still there of course,
Only now he’s got the weight of Hardy
and Dickens and Elizabeth Gaskell
to keep the little bastard at bay.

Then I took away all his weak and
(programmed) Middle class
inclinations;

to drink as though Rimbaud
and await new lines in temper of a child.

To talk like the
Lizard King high on some psyche’s
bought with pawn shop or rent.

All of these things and more got curbed.
And only then did my Self sit down,

encouraged by having shut the hell up,
And wrote for its own reward.

And I am with him still.
And we aren’t going anywhere,
But through this stack,
Through these cracks,
Through this black old game.

Not to hijack Frost,
but that shit made
all the fucking difference
in this terrible little
bastard red-head’s life.

The Parenthesis Buzz

Note: Parental Advisory – Parenthesis Buzz Poetry is for the sick-minded, the low and base and sardonic and for anyone who can laugh at South Park, headlines and every other terrible truth on the Naked Lunch menu.

A poem for the movie They Live,
(and people with mildly dark senses of humour)

If you’re duplicitous and you know it, make it show.
(whips a hundred treasures out a window)

If you believe in God cover your ears.
(burns every bible ever written while
dancing hysterically and naked and mad)

This is the evolution of style into bleak satire.
(empties deadly virus into water supply)

This is Sparta. (Kicks man into well)
This is Hell. (“I am God here”)

Good morning dear! (gargles acid and spews it)

Hello Ms. Jonson lovely rose garden as always!
(stomps fellow shopper on Black Friday)

The movement will not be televised!
(entire generation misses point of The Matrix)

I love coming here to eat, so delicious!
(feeds tapeworm in jar under table)

Oh Tommy I’m so glad you found a nice girl!
(spraypaints doll hooker green for irony)

Can’t wait to stretch out and chill after a long day!
(digs own grave with breaking finger nails and all, buries self.)

Poem ends with rash series of empty threats.
(Ginger. Is. Coming.)

Up Early (for Gary)

I’ve been up before;
up so early they called it
better late than never.

I’ve torn at the panties of night like
a creeper under its dominion,
but I‘ve never stolen anything
that wasn’t stolen
from someone else.

So here: a story in place of the
final pieces of the poem you were
just hustled into the heart of –

I have just enough time to tell you about Gary,
the junky piano player I ran into a few
times more than I would’ve liked,
but enough, it seems, to have educate me
on the naked and ugly edicts at the last
supper of the fallen addict.

Gary was the guy who my painter
friend introduced me to during
my first real night in BC.

Gary could go through a bar
it seemed and slap and shake a dozen
people that eagerly greeted him
for whom he had been.

None of this came immediately
to me though, I studied him each
night we were desperate enough
to have dial his number.

When every other
contact we knew who held had bailed,
& even the street strangers scuttled off to
warm holes of their own hard won highs,
then? You had to go to Gary.

And it was never pretty.

But I was still obsessed with the idea
of the junk. I had picked up a spectator love
of Burroughs and like cockroaches all
this other stuff now festered in my unkempt soul.

I had a Golem-like Huncke or two,
who skitterishly dashed into dark crevices
when you switched on a light.

There weren’t any lights left for Gary.

I can go back to the moment I
understood the drug when I saw his
life displayed before me.

He had a piano still somehow.
It wasn’t in great shape I wonder
if he still does now…

On it were pictures of the other man
he was. Suited on his wedding day,
with a pretty young thing in his arm.

Completely oblivious to the shit
that the proverbial box of punk
rock and weed were going to
carry into his soul, soon enough.

It’s really that simple.

Then he played. He played and the
first time 5 years later in Uni when
I read Sonny’s Blue’s I thought of
Gary, the same way I do when I see
a grocery store rotisserie chicken, too…

Why? Because one night I had to witness
an unnecessary further cautionary
lesson, a follow-up to the lonely
broken piano reminders that the
man had already provided.

I was with the high strung Quebecor,
“La Fletche” we called him.

He loved the powder like me,
and like me had been destroyed
by our previous peak into
Gary’s living room void.

“Faaaaaaack eh?”

So when Gary refused,
boldfaced to score for us
one night until, and I quote

“I get my fucking chicken,
a whole fucking bird right now.”

we were slower than usual to comply.
Not because we thought it was an
outrageous request,

(I once paid the line of people
ahead of me once at a Tom Petty show,
2 pints ran me 75 dollars all told,
but the experience was worth it,
so I could do strange)

The Frenchman and I saw something
that night, that horror movies can’t touch:

a grown man in a dirty black
overcoat and greasy slicked-backed
Goebbels-Nazi-hair, with pock marked
cheeks to match, hunched over beside
what remained of his victim,

a sad smattering of bone and a few inedible bits
of torso frame; a mirror of the man himself
prostrated and licking his nimble, tar/crack
stained fingers one at a time for the remains,
then, with the exuberance of a ghost-
occupied school boy jutting up, and began to
re-animate toward the door, the cause, the high.

The Truth.

I don’t have time for much more tonight,
Up early tomorrow for once for something
Far less dark and sinister;
A paper on Rome and a midterm on
Shakespeare.

Rear Hindsight

In the room one over, the radio
dollops out bingo winners along
the southern shorelines, slowly,
patiently, the old woman listens with
poised dabber.

One floor up the old couple
try to do it to Cohen like
they used to and it is
awkward and squeaky.

Down below a near-retired
and exuberantly drinking
school teacher whips another
batch of profanities up for her
poor, meek husband, who kind
of resembles James Cromwell but
with none of the power of his roles.

I especially like the American Horror Story
Character; he out did himself there.
I wonder if any war criminals live in
this area? I don’t have any particular suspects,
The local drunks are too far gone, the
criminal element far too juvenile and high.
Nazi’s though, they make the best villains.

A couple doors down a gay couple
who have moon rays on the lawn
that are always getting
kicked over, though not for any
malicious reason
just the proximity to the
housing area where, not
As though they have a choice
in the matter, the poor pass on
criminal excuses and anger and
addiction (that’s what the screen says, anyway)

I’ve tried despite my inclinations,
to remain a more hopeful
And empathetic sort.
Lord knows they’ve tried.

I remember a bus trip from BC
o Ont, and me and this
Really nice black guy from Montreal
were sharing smokes much of the way.
I ran short half way back,
so it was handy. But anyway this
couple got on somewhere in Calgary.
Screaming baby. Memorable.
I was such a miserable young traveler.
In the middle of the
night the young couple got into
some intense thing.

It increased an audible decibel.
The look on the Montreal guys
face when we both heard the slap,
the whimper that chased
after it, and that strange human moment
where we both I assume
considered what options
were next available.

There aren’t any hero’s
In that one I’m afraid.
The fight ended and
the other passengers all
pretended to be sleeping
while the girl hid her weeping
and the repentant and shamed
young boy sternly
begged forgiveness.