Media

Crazy Butterfly,

Crazy Moth

If Crazy was all moths’,
baby I’d be a bulb, like 80-watt!
I would give shop-talk
something to squawk
about and I’d chalk
my own crooked outline,

I’d rip the shadow
off-a-Rip-Van,
and do the James Brown
half walk off
the stage with it, son,
ima’ rage when the time come!

See spots? hell I see flower pots
with leering sunflower skulls on top!

I want to sing the world a
hybrid of Imagine and Hurt
turn the hysterical mob up
to full blown tangent, demand it!

If I was an episode of Crypt Keeper
Tales, they’d a never aired it!
If Crazy were a punishment,
I’d have three sleeves of demerits’,

so let’s take the concertos’ out
back and blow the angel kiss,
see how weird the symphony can get,
fantasia meets heavy metals freakiest .

I’m Always ready for all that and more, shit,
I was born crazy, practically inherited it!

If ghetto life were an asylum
I be the asshole warden,
the tremens jittery janitor
and the public enemy #1 up in it!

Come unlock the red devil.
The truth is like the shallow
to the grave to the shovel.

Un-muzzle me I promise,
I’ll quiet down.
I’ll do better.

(by promise mean never)
(by never mean ever)
(by all means not)

Advertisements

Best Friend

My Best Friend

for HJM

When I needed someone
to protect me from the car
of angry Mexicans I
drunkenly slurred at one night
by merely getting out of
the car while I shivered
a bit in the back seat with
scrawny ginger shame,
it was him.

When I needed someone
to grab me by the throat
and push my face into
a desert of glass on my patio
after roughing me up and
letting me struggle a little,
it was him.

When I need someone to
goad me into picking up the pieces
when all the whore has run out on me
and all the drunk still in me

writhes and whimpers
“like a little ginger bitch”
Again, I am indebted,
to him and him alone.

You can talk on and on
about the myth of masculinity.

You can talk about male hegemonies,
and about the patriarch.

But I still dig having a best friend
like Christian Troy, you know why?

Because the world is filled with Kimbers,
and nobody wants to be Sean McNamara

All the time.
Anymore.
Or ever.

When I come across
The newest picture of
someone having done something
too stupid not To be
internet-mummified
by way of meme;

a ghastly old woman painted
to look like a demon
or one of a ginger zombie
Ronald McDonald making love
to a deadite dressed as a nurse
while in the background
various characters from Hellraiser
and Event Horizon do foul things to
stuffed people with stuffed animals,

It’s his wall I copy/paste it to.
Not even my own.

And that is what a best friend is;
the person you excitedly take
a new piece of discovered darkness to.
So you can both laugh at it, in the face,

And try to find something to top the others
recent post. Another heaping handful of hell,
to pass the hours with.

Anything else would be healthy and balanced,
all that other boring shit reserved for those
earning their way into heaven with
public displays of pompous charity.

When we find people like that we just nod,
look to one another with bug eyes on the side,
knowing full well that shit is just for show.

Comic Book/Stored Antithesis

The soft, off yellow light often
produced in the dim chamber
of your childhood comic shop
and its ability to seem
from the kneeled position
over gargantuan strip boxes
of back issues, back then, in the
middle of your proverbial Sandlot
to act as temporal vortex.

A conversion of worlds,
a threshold.

Campbell was right.
It is all journey.

(This one shop owner in our core
had an eye patch and a limp
and I’m sure he did jail time
for weed. He hired us as helpers
me and my buddy from Sekura)

We had the whole back of the
store to go through, just tons of
back stock and all the new stuff.

It was the greatest thing that had
happened to me since Zelda and
sure, maybe even Shadowrun.
(but that’s entering the debatable)

I found The Maxx and Savage Dragon
as the boys from Image left their own
safe worlds and travelled to unknown
riches

(most of them anyway, Sam Keith
is like me I bet and re-watches Cheers,
missing Coach and Diane and the 80’s

as they go by in a slow tightening of flare
and lessening of hem’s, until culmination in
Rebecca’s premiere a la red leather mini-skirt. )

Reading a superhero like Keith’s Maxx gave
me new dreams as a writer. Aside from Steven King,
no other influence has tainted me so deeply,

as those I found in the downtown comic book
stores (there were three at one time, where now
only one will ever at a time today)

Frederick Philip Grove talks about how he
found this call to adventure in Siberia when
he encountered these Khirgiz herdsmen who
yowled and yawped and sang out the true
beatific essence of life, masked in beard and
riding a slow trail to insignificance.

I don’t regret my influences at all.
The darker the Cave, the brighter the sunshine.

Meanwhile, Back at the Glass Cabin…

(for R.E. and M.W.)

Up until now, I only understood my old friend in passing. I mean I knew his type of (or rather what I until now regarded to be) his type of cynic. Or even a passive aggressive way of dealing with the acceptance of legions upon legions of things one knows today that readers of Dickens’s serials didn’t likely have to bear the weight of. I’d get drunk and pick arguments that had no real conclusion, knowing he would say the same things he said, and I would say the things he said. And I would feel smug, and then shameful for thinking that of someone so important to me. There are certain voices in your life that might take you a decade to hear properly, but when you do you have one of those synchronistic clashes of a bunch of things like at the end of Signs. Except creepier because I actually do bear resemblance to the scariest 2 seconds of an alien apparently, ever.

“It’s always been bad. Have you read the Canterbury Tales? Shit has always been bad, but I believe people will figure it out. They always have.”

Then I would go on about some new internet sensation, something about Monsanto or Bees (but nothing so ridiculous as the last parts of The Happening), and we’d always end up at the same seeming loggerhead. Recently I found the center of that kernel budding in me, and much like the cocoon-gestation state for the baby face biters of Ridley Scott’s far superior, (pre-Prometheus puritan right here) Alien/s series, the early life of what I will call the “letting go of fictional friction” because I see now that is what it all is. Fiction.

Even if the government is out to get you, what good is it to run around like Charlie Sheen with your crack cut off?

Our fear for the future is a frictional fiction, something we invent to justify whatever we need to, in order to survive in body and mind. This shouldn’t be mistaken for the real kind of change people pursue as a result of the need for change, like reducing ones footprint or recycling (unless you worship at the church of Pen & Teller’s bulls**t) or any number of proactive tings people are doing in hordes nowadays, like the kid in Pay it Forward Because people can do things in a calm way, a collective way, after being presented with facts and proof, and logical and sane practices in presenting them. But nobody ever changed the world with worry or the worrying of all around them. No matter of scare-mongering or chicken little-fretting ever really amounts to anything, except antagonizing one’s community. State your concerns, write them out, act them out, film them or sing them or scream them to the nearest mountain (like all those terrible Scripturama’s, or even the occasional gem), and let it be, like the song, the sentiment and the necessary sacrament to the acceptable social cues and norms.

Because otherwise you’re just waiting for someone to teach you a similar lesson. Like at the end of Rudy when the coach got the ole “we are all Spartacus” treatment. Nobody left in the Western hemisphere is going to benefit from being grabbed by the proverbial shoulders’ every day and called a “sheeple” told the sky is poison and the government is under their boogeyman beds (like Howie Mandel before the germ thing in Little Monsters).

You know what? People need solutions. People need a hundred more Venus Projects before one finally sticks, they need engineers busting their assess and they need to understand how rigged the democratic system is. They can learn all this in morsel like bits of earth shattering info, but I have yet to see anyone in my life take to the kind of fervent, snake-oil hucksterism of most extremist conspiracy nuts (Alex Jones, et al.) when they pound the same points in daily, in some effort to – for all I can seem to interpret- ascertain some level of control in their lives. Join Greenpeace. Sell your car. Dig wells. Plant trees. Garden. And yes, collectively mobilize. But there’s no need for Jerry Maguire tactics. “Gee you know, that maniac in the street daily screaming about chemtrails dear, I think we should really heed his prophesies of doom, don’t you?” – said but nobody rational, ever.

And I for one stopped reading a bulk of the more preposterous links. I don’t benefit from that kind of hyperbolic mindset even if its 80 percent true. Why? It’s gaudy, that’s why. Yeah I said it, I like my philosophy like I like my women, presented clearly and cleanly in fresh, and inviting formats. I don’t go for the bottom of the barrel assholes like David Icke and Jones et al. I’m sorry. That’s not how you win friends, and it is only how you DISASSOCIATE good people form learning anything. So from now on I read nothing that’s hackneyed and ridiculous, unless it’s my own poetry during the dreadful next day scan, like buddy with his Kublai Kahn in Pandemonium.  If it has some level of professionalism and doesn’t simply reiterate the Alex Jones “They Are All Part of One Grand (I’m kind of off my meds so I see grander patterns than usual) Insidious Plot of Illuminati”, then I just scroll on, brothers and sisters. Unless it’s Unsolved Mysteries, I have a soft spot for that level of “professional” terribleness it imprinted in childhood. Perhaps that’s why I have trouble taking people seriously that present facts like Sean Penn high on blow in Hurly Burly mid-rant.

Old friend if you are out there, know that I acknowledge it. You were right. It’s never THAT fucking bad. People will rally, and shit will get fixed, or it won’t. No need getting out of your groove over it, right? Besides how else are we ever going to get to see a post-apocalyptic world where you can buy peoples experiences on the black market like Strange Days, if it doesn’t keep on truckin’ right? We already have Juliette Lewis primed as a singer for it too…

I guess what I’m saying is, I would rather talk movies, than hollah at the masses so often, they fail to listen when I finally do, Marvel and Greek God’s forbid, say something. Leave the slaughterhouse to the task of setting about chickens sans top, now and again. It’s been happening since Chaucer and will long after “Mr. Vickers” aka “The Heff” aka “Ginger” et al.

Dedicated to the Spirit of Film Friendships,

Namely Mr. Ebert

(and the sock puppets formerly known as Theodore and Roosevelt)  

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.

At the Very Source of Her

Hello again kiddies and
I am once again reporting you live
from the source of her every whim
and fancy! Yes that’s right!

The very core, from where
we anticipate any day another
song to guide the movement!

And look here comes the new line!
Of fashion on the princess and prince
of distracted conscience!
Of mouthfuls stuffed with oil!

It feels like the factory
you worked in with headphones
until the shop master caught you and
put a stop to that forever.

Your working career with about
12 hours on the fleshy
odometer, and awake to the sound of
the great brain washing, the cry, the cry
for something comparable to freeing.

Word now from inside the palace of
delusional pageantry…yes, I do believe
the patrons are coming now. Indeed, Yes!

And there you have it folks!
What grace ! What Opulence!
What Pizzazz!

Look at what the Lord’s daughter wears!
Look at the Lord’s, the new Duke!
The Duchess!
Gasps cannot contain us!

Look how the bereaved soldier brings pride
to the foul stench of this next invasion!

The Matriarch coming now in her grand and elegant poise,
her perfect, majestic conjoined body with the Pat.
They make such an idea image of the State!
The Freedom! The Infamy! It overwhelms!
It destroys our indignant self!

Betrayed! At the very Source of Her!