120703
00:35 Free Shoot
. . .
as a wee lad I was never fond of tests . . . .
In fact
my favorite introduction to poetry was Nick Cats exiting the Old
Greenwich Elementary School 'boy's' room with his fire engine red
wool extra long tailed shirt stuck out his fly. Where he had preceded
me in a desperate attempt to memorize what was to be recited in the
next five minutes: The Gettysburg Address . . . a prayer for America
never applauded then or now in the sense his prophetic plea “for,
of, by the people” never made the Hit Parade then or now as we
drown in greed.
Inculpability
by a different breed of Republican who instead of being 'liberal' is
'conservative' not of the Union 650,000 died for . . . am I that
political? Or am I just running you butt off to the dictionary
attempting to increase your vocabulary . . . you know babe I adore
words and the difference between them gets really sexy—even the one
word poems of “rage” “forgiveness” “confession” “love”
or “war crimes trials.” I know, I know, and I know again the
latter was three words I think most often of about the previous crop
of Republicans and the ones who want to do it harder baby make me
come--up more broke than the last crew did.
Back
to the “boy's” room so I sat there frantically studying my pants
around my shoes and in comes the custodian; “Are you okay in
there?”
Apparently
he thought I'd drown; expired by any measure or means?
Who
me?!
Why?
I'd
been in there so long the class was almost over . . . mums the word
bro.
Well.
Here I
am now; still don't know my elbow from page one and ain't even know that
for sure.
Fact
is I adore reading it—The Gettysburg Prayer--now, and
frequently reprise the greatest politician ever walked this God Given
Green Free Earth, immortal, where once you could eat without terror
of Alzheimer’s, drink the water sans a glimmer of fire in any part
of your body and go out to eat without fear of addiction to sugar,
MSG or any mysterious additives not announced on the labels. You know
the little sticky things on apples and such. What the F! are we doing
to ourselves enslaved to; emancipated my dear friend in Lincoln's Bed
Room soon vacated?
What's
you point Wolf Man Jack you snarky shark soon extinct?
Just
grieving. My vanity crushed, the first time in years I had the
courage to try resurrecting the talent I thought I was before I went
blind in grief the diagnosis of my son's impending death from
Leukemia. But invoking that issue, the Brand of a grieving parent,
seems now cheap given the perversion of Iraq, where like me, We,
didn't even WIN, PLACE OR SHOW.
Crapped
out, busted, double down failed . . . The Cowboy President with his
two ANNIE GET YOUR GUN, six-shooters, double barreled
bankruptcy.
Feature
Shooting (the 'hometown' contest I failed—Google Free Shoot)
@ Feature Shoot Group
Show: Hometown
. . .
Pretzel Guns shock & awe a blase: no Salt, no nourishment, just
twisted intentions and aims; like the barrels shooting himself and
Uncle Bob, manipulating howdy-doody-dodged-a-bullet-james-w-johnson,
oligarchically jaws and posterior twitching via an ingress point
below the belt--do I really need to explain 'fisting?' What part
of ventriloquy don't you understand?
Really?
Fancy
that!
In
real time they'll kill me for sure; I've never had this much joy &
laughter or coupled fun, with or without, clothes or a camera on
before. May not be much to look at, nothing to see, soon disappeared
but “Taking the A Train” uptown to Harlem I've abandoned my day
job and am ready to die, born in America, a true patriot am I.
No comments:
Post a Comment