Ginger Hate

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.

Hater

You mean I will die alone?
Not another soul to
stink up my bathroom
and fuck away my meager,
if even existent savings?

Oh, how tragic.

Seriously.

I love being alone.

I can never get enough of me time.

And other people smell, and
say stupid shit, and don’t know me
like I know me, or my friends or family
know me.

I will die smiling, mouth full
of smoke and word and truth.

I don’t buy into the catalogue order life,
and I never have.

Your resident asshole,

Le Ginj.

Shit WILL Get Ugly

You know what I am expecting in terms of my writing life?

To struggle. Big time.
To weep some mornings,
to scream and jump on the page
and shit on it too.

I am expecting nothing less
but an all out assault
on my every dream
and whim and fancy,
a degrading of my soul
down from terror-child
to the next level shit
that makes my worst nights
on blow look like a merry go
round populated by innocent
and perfect children, among other
constructs that don’t really exist.

I am expecting to have my
intestines engorged by more liquor,
to have my heart pumped of every
good thought or inclination I ever had,
to lay in at least a few more piles
of my own shit and vomit and piss
and tears and even a bit of blood.

I plan on things getting dirtier, more
disgusting and depraved than my limited
spectrum of sin in youth could’ve envisioned,
but often tried during come-down and came up with
a vast and seemingly infinite farmers field
filled with burning foetus’ each ones scream like
a Tool track played backwards while someone’s
getting raped in the back ground by a demonic monkey.

I am counting on the constant reminder
that I am on my path too.

The kicks in the face from the angels
of distraction; vice and sex and the murder
of clean thought by divine dancing.

I am ready for the next 25 years,
then to get bitter and fat and angry and old.
I am ready to look like Bukowski and feel like him,
to fuck away a dozen hotel whores a year
in to the oblivion of my charred, gingery bastard’s soul.

I am expecting the next generation to become
like a mongoloid to me, ugly and barren of anything
but my fear and my oscillating thyroid,
my evaporating liver, my incongruently toppled spine.

All of it.

Except giving up, packing it in, giving in,
letting go, stopping, resisting the scratch
and scrawl and type and tap and trickle
and rush and flood of word flow.

Fuck that weakness, and silence and parting of ways.
I’ll save my last good lines for my eulogy, a litany of
Highways crossed, skies divided, universe wiped clean
Of each other’s eye-stars.

I’ll still be there scrawling, sure.

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.

Sentimental Heights

He had already told her the list of
his favourite trees; beginning with
the old Main Road one that valiantly kept
up the illusion of the tire swing long
after the Nintendo and after that
the Game boy Xmas showed up.

The one in Bowring that had been
annihilated with names and dates and failing
shapes and promises.

The Weeping Willows that they made
weapon or swung over ponds then back
to safe ground.

He even brought up the seemingly
arbitrary one he drank in a few
summers when they were all still
minors and had drink cheap stuff,
prior to loitering at pool halls
or some house, bush or other species
of party.

It was behind the Flour mill,
the one he had nearly loved a
dozen girls, unsuccessfully (years later,
unloading trucks in the east for Sobeys
he would see the flour sacks with the logo
and the name and

he always thought of the ugliness
of that building, how it stuck itself
in the middle of progress,
the loading trucks always going and
coming and going again.

He’d think of all those walks, and of course
all that early, (Wildcat) beer. Hey, at
24 bucks for a two-four, and tasting like the
Grand River the old mill shat its refuse into.
(like some giants uncleaned bong one can assume)
It was all pretty hard to forget.

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.