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Friday, September 17, 2010

THE FRIENDLY SKIES















B.S. makes the world go round. We now know that everyone from presidents on down routinely fabricates the truth, and no one thinks anything of it. We've developed a buyer beware mentality about everything.

Television, of course, is the great lie conduit. Where else can a car dealer tell you one thing to your face, while simultaneously flashing contradictory statements at the bottom of the screen in letters so small that no one without an electron microscope can read it?

Our convoluted sense of ethics says that the fine print absolves us of telling the truth, and the advertiser is counting on a certain percentage of dummies who don't look past the surface. If we had a real truth in advertising law, those commercials that depict people winning at the casinos would also have to show that the seedy-looking nicotine addicts who are blowing their rent checks far outnumber the winners.

And those famous "Be All You Can Be" spots for the military that only mention the educational opportunities would also have to explain that when you sign up, you're relinquishing your right to think for yourself, and may be required to murder people in a third-world country at the whim of some politicians.

But there are no such laws, so is it any wonder that most people think that the government is feeding us a crock of doody about the UFOs? (You knew that I'd get around to this someday, didn't you?)

Now, finally, the truth can be told. (Read the oh-so-small disclaimer at the bottom of this page which states that, for our purposes, "truth" means the same as my opinion.)

In the beginning, the flying saucers were being piloted by authentic, card-carrying space aliens. There WAS a crash at Roswell, and some of the extraterrestrials survived. From them we learned how their technology works. The Air Force, in conjunction with General Motors, produced its own line of saucer-shaped craft. (Planned obsolescence, of course--with new, redesigned models each year. )

The aliens that were flying the friendly skies were gradually driven off by the Air Force pilots, who were like teenagers with learner's permits--it wasn't safe up there. Today, most of the 'UFOs" are ours--many of them developed at that super secret base in Nevada that nobody can get close to. At first, the flyboys were making test runs--now they're up there joyriding just to screw with our heads.

And yes, the government has been abducting its own citizens, beaming then aboard the saucers and conducting medical experiments. It's an easy and diabolical way to do it, because the feds know that everyone will think the victims are crazy when they tell their stories. Ozzy Osbourne has been on some of these flights--and so has Lady Ga Ga...which accounts for the abductees who describe their captors as grotesque looking creatures.

Maybe someday the real aliens will come back, because their original purpose was to help us save ourselves from ourselves...and time is growing short. These guys have been there, and they contemplate us with heavy hearts.

They know we've upset the balance of nature by failing to recognize the other species of this world as our kin--by failing to comprehend that their fate will become our fate. They know that the longer we peer mesmerized into television screens and computer screens, the less we will see.

They know we haven't read the fine print.

Monday, September 13, 2010

LIFE HAS A WAY


















Buncha doped up hippies
beatin' on their drums...
Buncha drunken rednecks
beatin' on their WOMEN

Buncha doped up hippies
dancing in the street...
Buncha drunken rednecks
PEEING in the street

Buncha doped up hippies
hitting you up for spare change...
Buncha drunken rednecks
hitting you UPSIDE THE HEAD

Buncha doped up hippies
having sex like animals...
Buncha drunken up rednecks
having sex WITH animals

Buncha doped up hippies
could greatly benefit from higher consciousness...
Buncha drunken rednecks
could greatly benefit from higher IQ

Buncha doped up hippies
face down in the potato salad...
Buncha drunken rednecks
FACE DOWN IN THE POTATO SALAD!

Life has a way
of ironing out
the little differences
between us


Tuesday, September 7, 2010

WANNABE








I wanna be a semi-distinguished poet
a relative household name
in the households of all my relatives

I wanna do a book signing at a store
that will later slap 50% off stickers
onto all my remaining copies

I wanna go to a used book sale in the mall
and find one of my tomes misplaced
in the foreign language section
with a partially torn 50% off sticker
still clinging to the cover like some kind of skin disease

I wanna be a semi-distinguished poet
invited to travel half way across the country
where my sponsors will put me up in some fleabag hotel
and I will write a poem about the fleas

And I will give a reading for an audience of eleven people
who read about it in the local weekly alternative rag

Most of them will wander in late

And I want there to be one semi-attractive woman
who will approach me afterward
intent upon getting into my pants

This
to me
is the essence of true romance

I wanna be a semi-distinguished poet
winging my way home
lonely
and vaguely apprehensive about the future
beginning a new angst-ridden poem
plucking words from the rarefied air
and drifting into a cloud-shrouded dream


Thursday, September 2, 2010

CONVENTION


They came from California, and Texas, and Philly--with ideas that were all over the map. The critically acclaimed and the self-acclaimed, gathered together for three days of readin', writin', and regurgitatin'.

A hundred intrepid writers...and me...there of a morbid curiosity, determined not to listen to anything with too much conviction, lest I turn stupid again and self-conscious about my work.

A haven where, for a fee, the voiceless can have their manuscripts--and womanlyscripts--poked, prodded, and given a thorough physical by an expert word surgeon who then conducts an emergency operation--first to remove the guts, then to take out the heart, then to had it back to you and say, "You can sew it up now!" (A woman beside me is quietly sobbing over her treatise...which didn't pull through the operation.)

In a workshop exercise an author tells us to write a story--in ten minutes time--based on the fable of Cain and Abel. I want to kill him for that.

So instead, I write some drivel about a slob named Frankie, who walks into the G-Spot Diner--a greasy spoon saloon--plops down on his favorite stool, hails the waitress, opens his mouth to speak and-

"TIMES UP," shouts the lecturer. "Now, who wants to read their story?"

The guest poet--who is from the School of Endless Tinkering--declares that the trouble with Ginsberg was that he didn't rewrite. If the guy had thought of it, he might have taken a few whacks at Kerouac as well.

But the best counsel came from the senior sage in attendance--who, in her ageless wisdom, solemnly addressed the assemblage after the lunch break and said, "Don't go back to the cafeteria...you can't even VOMIT that stuff up!"

As I left, I recalled Bukowski's advice to aspiring writers: Drink...f#ck...and smoke lots of cigarettes.

Wow...and he didn't even charge for that.





Saturday, August 28, 2010

LOVERS

They met at the bar.

She was an aspiring lawyer who was taking the exam.

He was a former McDonald's owner--one of the truly disenfranchised. A born again skeptic of reincarnation, he could remember nothing of the deja vu experience he was having.

He said: "Haven't I seen you someplace before?"

She said: "No...I've never been anyplace before."

He said: "Let's blow this pop stand."

She said: "Let's buy a soda first."

He said: "Now is the hour."

She said: "Just give me a minute."

They lived together on Easy Street...until one day they came to a fork in the road. Feeling like she could stick a knife in his back, she spoon-fed him the truth.

She told him to go take a short walk off a long pier--which he tried, several times, but found that he could never quite reach the end.

"Stop dead in your tracks while I find something to murder you with," she cried.

"You kill me," he laughed.

She said: "There can be no other words for what you are...in other words...you make me sick and I'm going to ralf!"

He said: "I knew there was another man!"

She looked around and said, "Where?"

"This is all too confusing," he said. "I want a divorce."

She said: "If you need a good lawyer, I'm available."

"You're available? he said.

She looked him up and down. "Say...haven't I seen you someplace before?"



Saturday, August 21, 2010

WACKOS









You think that the president is a Muslim
You think that toilet paper is for wearing on your head
You think that the president is a Muslim
You believe the bogeyman is underneath your bed

You think that the president is a Muslim
Your cake was left out in the rain
You think that the president is a Muslim
Because the bedbugs ate your brain

You think that the president is a Muslim
What he's told you doesn't matter
You think that the president is a Muslim
Cuz you're mad as a hatter

You think that the president is a Muslim
Because it feeds into your psychosis
You think that the president is a Muslim
Didja know ya got halitosis?

You think that the president is a Muslim
Now you're off to sniff some glue
You think that the president is a Muslim
Because there's something loose...and it's a SCREW!

Monday, August 2, 2010

TIMOTEO'S: TRUE TALES FROM BACK IN THE DAY


















She's not a hooker. Not exactly. About twenty. Petite. Panamanian. A worldly look that belies her age. Yes, she approached me on the street, but all she seems to want is a place to crash. What the hell--I've got room, and always willing to rescue a fair--or dusky--damsel in distress.

There's room, yes, but very little of it on the rollaway bed--the only piece of furniture in my place--loaned to me at that by a landlady who correctly pegged me as newly arrived and traveling light. It's an attractive apartment, though, here in the old city--and the neighbors! I am next door to the governor's mansion, La Fortaleza, and directly across the street from famed cellist Pablo Casals. I never actually see the reclusive genius, nor has the governor invited me over for drinks, but it makes for some good name-dropping nonetheless.

In the mornings I wake to gentle sunlight streaming through the shutters, and the tickling sensation of tiny lizards thrashing about in my hair. Tourists stroll by and comment on what they can see of my little place from the outside. Governor's staff residence, most likely. What if they knew that inside on a musty smelling rollaway sits a burping, scratching, hung-over Americano in his BVDs--smirking at the irony of it all?

Her name is Tina. She knows my name, but prefers to call me "Stupido." I consider it to be a term of endearment.

She stays over. I leave for work in the mornings, and she heads off to God knows where. In the evenings, she returns. It's a tight fit, the two of us on a rollaway built for one--tight but cozy.

One night she shows up with a friend. A rather rotund American chick named Rosie. The connection between the two of them is unclear. Rosie needs a place, just for the night. I say, "Okay, but as you can see, you'll have to sleep on the floor. " She says no problem. No, I don't mind at all.

We settle in for the night. Rosie seems content, sacked out in the corner. I have no mat, or even a blanket to lend her. She's fortunate, though, in that her girth should serve as something of a buffer. The floor is hard, but the pavement is harder.

In the dream, I am being smothered...crushed underneath some formless, nameless weight. I wake with a start. The nightmare is real! Rosie has clambered onto the bed, sprawled across the two of us like a giant tortoise that's discovered the ideal nesting spot. What's more, she is out cold. The tiny bed groans and strains under its burden. Somehow, I manage to slide from underneath the intruding beast and tumble to the floor.

Bleary-eyed, Tina raises her head. "Stupido...wha's going on?" she murmers.

I don't bother to explain. It is three o'clock in the morning and to say that I am annoyed would be an understatement. I grab Rosie by her shirt and literally drag her off the bed, depositing her back on the floor.

In the morning she is apologetic. "I don't know what got into me," she says.

"That's okay," I reply, beginning to feel like a heartless bastard. That is, until I consider the alternatives: Tina and Rosie in the bed--me on the floor.

Unacceptable.

Tina on the floor--me and the tortoise in bed.

TOTALLY unacceptable!

"I'll be good tonight," say Rosie.

In the evening, we assume our rightful places--Tina and me on the rollaway, Rosie--the obedient dog--on the floor...and all's right with the world.

2 a.m. Rosie is on the bed.

I get up, grab her by the arms and pull. She offers no resistance, nor does she move of her own volition--she is simply dead weight that needs to be transported from one location to the other. I drag her off the bed and back onto the floor.

"STAY! STAY DOWN!" I scold.

4 a.m. Rosie is back--sprawled across the two of us again. I take hold of her legs. ready to give her the old heave-ho. But now she is desperate, clinging to the side of the bed with all her might. I tug. She tightens her grip. Finally, I win out.

THUMP goes Rosie's ass as it hits the floor.

In the morning, I deliver Tina's dose of reality. Rosie has got to go.

*******
That evening, as I turn the key, there is only stillness inside my little abode. Sure enough, the two of them have packed up and moved on.

A couple days later, I see Tina back on the street. Yeah...I suppose she is a hooker.

Anyway, I'm sleeping better now than I have in a while--with just enough room on the rollaway for me...and the lizards.