film reference

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.

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It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.

This poem is best read to this:

It’s a fucking miracle we survive every day.
I don’t ever forget that fact that the internet shows you
that every single terrible piece of shit you thought was out there
is just the first stage of the real hell of them all out there, in their undecided,
cynical, high and drunk and violent natures, casting their own shit in verse all over the world.

You can tell me that you see a world of rainbows and honeysuckle at midnight
out there in the one and the zero forever fields, but it is also slain bodies of a million
and it is the empty crevice of idiocy that drives all of them together to fight for their
own pop star suicide and it is the end on repeat in your room for three days and
it is the spectacle of it all removed of all repercussions and given all manner
of righteousness and it will always be this way until we finally go right over the edge.

Some of us will praise
the coming back
of the night.

Some of us will go right on back to our supermarket mimesis,
wandering through a burning, rat-filled Wal-Mart
aisles of melting celluloid and human fat,
everything seeping into the new history and tainting all the fresh ideas again,
it’s a fucking miracle we are less like the matrix trilogy than we are.

But I guess we have Baudrillard
and Nietzsche to thank for that.

You can tell me all you want that it is just a movie, that it is just reality,
that it is just Africa, that it is just truth, that it is just some beat poem or elegy.

I will be left,
in the night of reason
to fiddle my way into
seeing something more.

It is just in some of us,
just in some of us
to be curious with anger
to have an angry
curiosity is the only
healthy aggression you can
ever hope to inherit from
anything you take into your body
your eye
your mind.

Treat them with some fucking Respect.
Then tell me you don’t see the potential for doom in everything else.

Tell me it’s not a miracle,
every day
we get another.

No Reference Left

Ok fine, you don’t want
the gravy that couples everything
in shiny black shadow when I am high.

You don’t like this meta-business,
it makes your head hurt?

Then let me give it straighter
than Russian Vodka.

Let me give it to you like a football
from Africa kicked
into Spain’s net.
Hot and Fast.

This world is a mess of amazing
and terrible moments.

We all have our respective
backpacks or trunks,
you fit what you can
I’ll go for mine.

And everything else is fine,
bump the table once to get back
to faithful metric and rhyme.

So you’ll have to repeat the
reference or obscure question in
braille of bullets screaming at me
like Neo before he uses the Force,
and you better make mine shaken,
not stirred bitches, because when

I get going I’m part Walt
to wit with
some Pinkman tweak,
some bait and switch shtick.

I can Hyde another skin
on the fire for you,
but you better have mine
Mad Max medium, rare,
I want to flip the Bird
on a Wire

to Fred Astaire
like the head of
the Griswold homestead,
give me acid instead
of Tylenol though,
these Purple Patch
Addams Family Pills
go
to the stomach lining
like Alien/s or The Blob

and I prefer to see
babies on the ceiling
if I’m going out like that,

and maybe some fucking laser
guided shark-creatures as well,
because without a laugh
you aren’t going to Escape from Alcatraz,

whether you’re Good, Bad,
or Ugly as sin, like The Mask,
uglier than Fast and Furious
and just as fucking predictable,

I bet you’d like that wouldn’t you?

You want to come into
tomorrow on some
sort of multi-pass Jovovich
but I’ll have none of it-

I’m up in the Canadian Bacon now,
and we have Nunavut
the way Alex Supertramp
had Alaska and the
way Star Wars distracts
from The Conversation,
so too will poetry take
from the vein of film
running in my arms,
a fucking Spike’s worth
or re-run’s and watches,
and the Marathon Man
like Power of One,
all in the back pocket
of Carol’s Dicaprio shadow,

-but you cannot just
petition new poetry for
a pamphlet to take back
to your little literary Stasi.

We aren’t taking new members.
Come back in May
with the embers,
and bring the cat
from the freezer.

And if you didn’t catch that last one,
don’t bother coming back,
at all. I’ll be here in
The Yellow Wallpaper,
clawing at the wall,
etching my initials in it,

and picking through
the last couple references left
like The Omega Man,
tripping on blue meth,
i’ll be here until i’ve referenced
myself to Death.

Can You Do It?

Can you do it?

It is 2002 in BC, somewhere the ghosts of that night still haunt.

She went around the hotel and
asked if any of us knew Johnny
and none of us did all we knew
was fix and formula
to get some more
but she went around anyway
really just hoping to run into
anyone even a new
Johnny.

It feels like House of the Rising Son
is always playing in some room.
The hallways are all slanted.
I could be in the movie The Doors right now
when the boys meet The Velvet Underground,
but I am not and it smells like piss and sweat and cunt,
altogether, in one stank, rank miasma of odor.

But I am alive and there is some rock left in the room
past the bitch crying into a microphone
and the one filled with darkness and eyes,
and I can taste it now, covering me in sweats
and dry, insipid heart beatings, and I am there,
whenever I get caught off guard by someone on
some corner in some shitty bad place, I am there.

And then, I am not.

It is still the same cracked out place I am sure,
and the bulldozers when they finally do take it,
a plume of soul smoke will erupt in the air like Poltergeist.

She went around the place
like some dour, damsel or Susanna,
finishing the corner of every ladle,
but the corner eats everything too long
left around it, a whirlpool that leaves tragedies
hungrier than she is, before she shuts down.

She looked at me that one night
and out of nowhere asked,
pointing at the crumb on the floor,

Can you do it?

The Nightmare of the Zombie

It was the way it always is.
I was in a cemetery with Judith
and we were talking about how
bizarre the whole fame thing is.
How it’s absolutely the work of
bad ju-ju, of hocus pocus, of mice
transformed into the size of men,
of ants and birds and bad things like that.

I guess it was the wine, and the moon,
and the small vortex that opened up,
sort of like in Quantum Leap, so
damn conveniently at the end of each episode
before little Jerry O’Connell got shot by
angry white men or run over by a truck.

We ended up in Los Angeles, but it was
more like a Ridley Scott L.A., and I realized
I was in one of my dreams again, or
I took too much, man. Then I chuckle
while repeatedly saying,

“You took too muuuuuch, man.
Took too much.” just like
del toro’s Gonzo, until Judith
points out the old cemetery
and we wander over.

It’s huge. Like,
a shopping mall of carcass’.

And of course the song from
Return of the Living Dead
plays on some ghetto as a punk
with a Mohawk and a chain
from ear to lip walks by
and spits near my feet.

And then the first heads
start to pop up,
and before you know it
they’re all there.

Orson Welles.
He looks about the same. Belligerent, too.
Hemingway. His head is sort of a mess.
But he has the same jovial spirit!

Bukowski is there.
And Marilyn Monroe
looks pretty damn good.

Which Judith notices me noticing and
makes some ridiculous comment about

how I can only get it up for the paranormal and
cartoon chicks, and I say something like

Jessica Rabbit is practically human.
It’s all her voice.
Shut up and let’s meet some
zombie celebrities!

Everything was going really swell.
I was like a kid in a decomposing candy shop

I talked about Fitzgerald with Ernest ,
and about drinking with Chinaski,
and movies with Welles.

Then we made the mistake of going to some
fucking party and you just knew something
shitty was going to happen, it just felt bad.

The kids at the party just dissed all of them,
if they knew them at all, and called them misogynist
or said they were drunks, or both.

They said Orson Welles was
slow and over-rated.
And no Tarantino.

I wept.

They said Hemingway was
just a representation
of the patriarchy,
and a dirty man,
and Bukowski they
said made Ernest look
like a fucking saint.

I sank.

I don’t even want
to re-describe the way the
feminist crowd devoured
poor Norma Jean.

I understood
where they were coming
from but at the same time,
even a zombified Marilyn was
exhaustively enchanting.

In the end, the old stars left.
Bukowski and Hemingway said they

were gonna go to a fight,
or have one themselves,
whichever happened first.

Poor Orson went looking for some old woman.

Marilyn went out the window rather than
spend another minute with all the bores.

That’s usually when I wake up.
Sometimes me and Norma make out first.
There I said it.

What In The Holy Demon-Fuck Is Going On Around Here?

It is getting to the point
where aliens
would be a blessing,
and that is when
you just know
there is nothing out there
but star dust
and inattentive,
non-existent,
or too damn proud God(s)
but most likely nothing,
but particle after particle
of cold steely space
that creeps up every old woman’s
spine just before
she makes a final,
upward arch.

Even Cassiopeia
had to break her back, once.

It is getting really fucking ugly
in the desert oil states,

and the opposite but parallel offices
where the next moves are made

are looking an awful lot like
where paedophiles and terrorists
go to dream and play and pose
next to pictures of Satan

like at some fucked up,
godless bacchius carnival,
where babies roast on spits and women
are ripped apart for sport and pheromones.

It’s getting a lot like
Mad Max Fucking
Thunder-dome
Or Home Alone redux’d a la David Lynch.

Soundtrack is Badalementi fused
with Dj Bl3nd,
touch of the 9”Nails.

Something to keep the fuckers
up on their cross,
my guess.

I’m tired of the end of Spartacus.
Rudy needs a new Jersey.

I’m picking up for the Kids in the Hall.
I’m wondering where the fuck we are.

Killing over paper, oil, and hate.

That is what the fuck
is going on
around here.

That, is where we fucking are.

It is not

for KW

It is not for you, it is for me
to walk the streets at all hours still
and sing a little, maybe a dance move or too even
if I feel especially on the end of it all,
I’ll weep uncontrollably.

It is just when I am off the stuff for “a few”,
even text the old Argentine “Yeah no drink till June”
that he’ll get a dozen garbled after-texts
which barely make any sense at all.

Well, if they were from anyone
but me,
that is.

It is not you kicking cop cars and slipping them the finger
before running. Unless you’re one of my cohorts.
In which case you’re likely also wielding a trumpet,
the car is likely on fire, the police are likely, confused and
powerless.

I thought of him the other night
when CTV National exposed some random stories,
one where a rape chant originated at my old University.

One about a strange incident in Parry Sound,
in which dozens of Garden Gnomes,
stolen over a period of time, or was it one night?

Who can be sure, they were all lined up in a parking lot,
though
that much is for sure, all in rows, neat and uniform
and giddy and frolicking

like they didn’t give a fuck,
like nobody had abducted them at all,
like, well, foolish garden Gnomes look,
is all.

It reminded me of the great Gnome slaughter of ’98.
I wish I could remember it.
Like King and Salem’s Lot,
some of the demons are yours but
you can never get un-got.

It is not me I seek in the mad ones I have
followed, like weird news-reel made real,
it is within me, that I hope to share even a shard
of them, like a Skesis trying to get a Gelfling,
in Dark Crystal, to sell him some
more soul.

Some more time, to live in digital youth.
Let’s dance tonight, on the old downtown roof.
The one from the past, all sticky with truth.
I’ve got a story for you, that nobody else will
get but you, & just have
to hear what happened next.

I’ve got a story and
it is not
for anyone else.

This is Why I Do It

A flash of brilliance

is worth a thousand scorpions,

is the weight of
a gallon of your best friends laughter,

is the Beelzebub of Ghostbuster caught demons,

is the Houdini prestige,

is a marble in a mason jar,
tumbling from creak-heavy rocking chair,
onto creak-heavier hard-wood floor.

The sound of the shatter
is the alarm clock
the blade of evil light
the day job
the departing whore
the piss-heavy dog
waiting at the door,
to take you out,

back into normalcy.

Back to a quiet,
saturate hell.

And anyone tells you different
is a shit, a liar, an idiot,
or some kind of religious.

All I have is the bitterness of the pill.

&
Chapter, side verse
the GCI trian bridge
and worse

the fact I re-crossed
it dressed
for a coke hearse

what is worse?
being willing
or dying first?

before real ceiling
I want the horn
the night I go,
in my cheap bed,
I insist
I want,
to go hard.

I have lived in a screen,
and called in an interface
but I wont

call
an easy game
if it
comes down to it

I do not consent,
to be filmed, for the purposes,
of this commercial.

I’m just fine
purposely bumping
elbows ill never have
to see again

I’m better off in resistance
Ive merit
and still, like Rimbaud,
sarcastic

and the real definition
of sun kist
cynicism

and you have little, but
the choices
of listen
or denounce
him

I never wanted
a fucking thing
and piracy and
cheap drugs gave
me all of it
and I still own it

every night I write
of the hy

jinx
I know

makes me less and less
the cursed gambler
yes,

its true
all the men you knew
were dealers
but I am
after seeing, through

being the repetitive
mimicry toy
for anyone

I spent my whole life
saying “nah nah nhah nah ”
and yr here

I am
holding if ever tangentially
to the thread

of white
silk
and I burn
it

eventually we all

I burn it all
don’t you fool me leper I know you,
cheetah

I know you red

held over at the wheel,
I know the bodies
you’d
a sewn

and I respect you
even if nobody else does,
I respect you at the

End of the Night
I Respect You Vickers
you still wear shit from
like 1997 and shit
and youd still be wearing it all
if you could

you were a non-compliant
soldier or worker
on each side

because honestly dude,
you just wanted to write
you were a cunt
a dick a douche
and a spastic asshole

and yet still my friends,
this man here?

Was one of us,
pure and simple,
we can no longer
handle

such obsolescent hi ways,

he worships good. .
he’s on our side,
aaaaanyway.

I hearby
confess everything you got
and then some.

And I have for years
harbored my own spoilers.

I am a self.
But that is some
heavy fucking shit.

Right here.
Right from the lamp.

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.