#(1) Intro
(b.) intermezzo stomp
#(2) Here's a quote from today's paper: "The little lickspittle wasn't satirizing, he really thought his pimps, buggers and opulent idiots were important, instead of the last mold on the dying cheese." And this is so true. If you lived with them, you'd wish you didn't. And if you never did you'd romanticize them. I was chased yesterday by a guy with a hammer. He hurled it at a rack of pumps behind me. I told him next time that happens you better kill me, because if you don't I'm gonna get that fucking thing somehow and beat the fuck out of you with it. I don't believe Proust ever had a hammer-wielding idiot moving towards him. Because if he did, it would've helped. It would've stripped the tinsel from his dark clouds.
#(~) Predators accused in periwigs and clown suit trappings 'midst bitter root and tangled bougainvillea. Eating fried pork and conch stew on the courthouse corner of Quadrille and Olive under a sign that says,
"I used a P.D." and Salt Chunk Mary too.
And somehow I knew this time is closer
The burn of tobacco in my throat
Everyday offering something you should take
Everyone something you should learn
They're there for that.
And I keep clearing my throat.
#(3) Humberto Checklick vs. Mohan Pickholtz in the blue tint twilight.
Laundry strung across Brooklyn tenements
Crescent moon coming up over them
Men with heads filled with small-time schemes
rummaging through their pockets for receipts
Checklick sparring a horsefly on a fish hook
Checklick strong of back and weak of mind
Pickholtz sawing a violin for low foreheads
Checklick's double-fisted pigeon-toed passion
Mohan pleading for a fifth
The sixth chapter wearing like an old pair of pants
Schopenhauer throwing old ladies down flights of stairs
Humanity's victorious pumping fist
The crowd a sea of tiny beetle grins
Zweiter Teil, Erster Tiel!
A couple of corn-fed oafs in the knoll
Christians in blaze-orange hunting gear
because they know
And Wilma Pug in a Buick,
her wagging pink tongue slapped down her
throat like a wax seal on a fat envelope
As graveyards grow more teeth
And we forget to remember what's worst.
#(4) CAIRO, Illinois -- MISSING MARINE CAUGHT IN SPIDERHOLE WEARING GUNITE AND ASS-SHOT TROUSERS. Yea big midget unaccounted for. (( )) <-- wholly bandy.
#(5) Good's the best form of cowardice,
and Evil's best when you're willing to die
one death or a thousand continuous
ones
# 6.) But goodness is not cowardice. Good is letting someone in the culture you've created know. Them. It's not about you. The truest cliche. Someday I'll do more than spout. We don't sacrifice lambs anymore. Our time is the only thing on the alter. And it's usually just
useless time anyway, but we don't know it yet.
#(^^). SUGARKANE -- Sturm und Drang, like Siegfried & Roy
Horn, but the lion is me
walking with fools and sleeping with sorrow
and the dream:
her ass crack slowly swallowing her sweat pants
munching a pair of ELECTIVE INFIRMITIES
and Claribel
tall enough to hunt geese with a rake
a bingo parlor of embittered old comedians
catering to bones but not heart
and Steve Allen's dead gams
using a jockstrap for an oxygen mask
and the way he sidelines in locker rooms
disguised as a bar of soap
while squirting blue dye
in crappers
as though it's the height
of class
to have blue water
shot through
crappers.
My co-worker trumping every story with one more wild and far-reaching (reaching something other than truth, always) which is the quickest way to kill a conversation and inspire hate.
#(*) G.W. Bush harvesting daggers under a dove-white kerchief folded neatly on his lap, his strategy session consisting of sumo wrestling with (pompous) blowhards
Commodore Nutt playing "The Vulture Hustle" on a sludge pump
Bill 0. fielding circus peanuts lobbed across a Romper Room bounce house.
Each session consisting especially of diapers
(soiled) in the middle of the ring.
#(::) HURLO-THRUMBO -- And it's so much like that lately, trading hyperbolic tooth for the direct look in the eye from a dog (human or otherwise), and I remember our hugger-mugger salutations so long ago Jesus windblown on a skiff doing hack squats with a masthead (because he looked like a crucifix) the tarpon even parting his wake
and I remember when she said she hardly knew me
drunk on the prow with a dinky crossbones flag violently hoisted
my composure more of Buford T. Justice
than of any Redbeard you could drum up
and if you wanna know where my dignity is I'll dig that up too
and I don't drink anymore
unless the hands of the clock are on a time
and she could've been rude
ambling under there overseas
A cripple in a Turkish trench coat
Peering through shop windows with her submarine
periscope.
In a silvery lean to (pup).
Tugboats passing in the night, and the tolling of bells
and then darkness
and then silence.
Forgive me for my misdeeds and that place in my heart where you are.
But I hope you get better too.
#(4) Instrumental
#) Wine is better the longer it observes from the shelves. I'm more wine than I am heliotrope.
#(7 The shelves at my house filled with Emmett Kelly Jr., W.C. Fields figurines where the head was a cork for a drink never drunk. My dad was an S & L kinda guy. Something happened. My mom taught Spanish and English. Money eludes them still like water parting a jutting rock. Though they still believe in it (even if it were a hobby). They never stopped doing that, despite all it's done for them (in the way of nothing). Of course it has a purpose. I'm not talking about that. Most
people just never can step back from the thing. Even for a moment. It's why most men in America who retire after 65 die within two years. What else is there, for them? All there is is the thing. And insurance too.
Death Brokers with ice picks at their immediate disposal. As feral hogs charge with their eyes closed.
#(V.) CALYPSO -- Beethoven Sym. #9., Choral Fantasy, Bach, Shosta. #15,
Van Morrison.
But modern music is time; classical is eternity.
#(11). And it's never too late to Mendelssohn. But it doesn't mean I
like him.
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