Archive | January, 2017

Get out of the car, Donald

19 Jan

donald

Get out of the car, Donald

 

We were 70 hours behind the inauguration line

When our country’s death wish began to stutter

Like a sexually frustrated poop yogurt commercial

And Donald Trump turned his entire head

Towards the window and screamed

“Pull over you shaggy faced bastard!

That Burger King just looked at me funny

Did you see that? No respect for my huge intellect

Or the Presidency!

I think my ego’s going to puke!”

 

I pulled the car over

Hoping that maybe this would be the time

Maybe something factual had just

Come out of his mouth

Maybe he really was going to puke

 

And he’d get out of the car

Like I’d been trying to get him to get out

Of the car since that soul-hacking night

After he’d won the election

And I’d walked out to the car

And found him sitting in the backseat

Humming a Billy Idol song

And screaming “Who the fuck does this Billy Idol

Guy think he is?! Total loser!”

To an empty potato chip bag,

Humming and screaming,

At the same time

 

I’d been trying to get rid of him

Ever since but it was proving impossible

As much as Helen was determined not to get

In the car for the rest of our finite-forevers

 

Trump seemed just as determined

To stick around

He’d moved in

He was shitting in the glove box

It was hopeless

 

But maybe this time he was being truthful

Maybe this time he really had to puke

And he’d get out of the car to do it

And while he was vomiting himself into

A vast parking lot that separated Hobby Lobby

From an abandoned Brakes Plus

 

I’d be able to slam his door shut

And hit the gas pedal until my nose bled

Until even the rearview mirror

Had nothing else to do with him

 

And I’d be free!

He’d be gone

We’d all be free!

Sure, I’d be alone in the car again

But Trump’s reminded us all

There are worse things than being lonely

Like injustice and Donald Trump’s children

Loneliness I can live with

At least we’d be free

 

But instead of getting out of the car to vomit

Donald sat quietly for a couple of minutes spontaneously Tweeting

And when he’d finished insulting the Civil Rights Movement

And everyone who’d ever been to the Virgin Islands

He tightened his seatbelt and told me

He was hungry

 

“See if you can find us a Burger King”

He whispered, with his hair the color of radioactive semen

And overly breaded onion rings

“Have you seen my knife and fork set?

Am I sitting on it?

I could really go for some Burger King

There it is!

No, that’s my dick

 

Donald,

 

This isn’t going to work out with us

No matter how many times you tweet

“This is totally going to work out between us”

 

Everyone who’s bothered to pay even a little bit

Of attention knows this isn’t going to work

So you should go

But you won’t go……………

 

Donald,

 

Just because you tell people that David Coverdale

Dreamed the song Still of the Night

Into this existence and after waking up and unable

To find a piece of paper he wrote the lyrics,

So he’d remember them,

On his own dick

Doesn’t mean that David Coverdale actually

Wrote the lyrics to Still of the Night

On his own dick

 

And just because you order

A wall of Whopper Jrs and tell

The sad cashier that I’m going to pay for them

Doesn’t mean that I’m going to pay for them

 

Donald!

 

You fucking monster!

 

I could go on but Donald wasn’t listening

He’s really really great at not listening

 

“Wow! Look at the tits on that squirrel!”

Donald howls like we’re driving 120 mph

With the windows rolled down despite the fact

That the windows are up and we’re only doing 30

Repeating himself:

 

“Look at the tits on that squirrel!”

 

Only it wasn’t a squirrel

It was Democracy

And those weren’t tits……….

 

“What are they then? Am I supposed to say bosoms?!”

Donald blasts, “Would that make everyone

Feel better?!”

 

I try to point out that they aren’t bosoms

Either but he’s already forking himself full

Of Whopper Jrs.

Still in the car

Not listening

 

“Bosoms! Ha! You anti-corporate-sensitive-types

Are soooooo sensitive. Hand me another Hamburger Jr, asshole

I mean Squirrel Tits.

I’m tweeting it anyway!”

 

[Historical Note: In lazy Sci Fi reversing the polarity

Of EMPs solves almost everything

 

If only this world was lazy Sci Fi

And we had us a bag of polarity reversers

And some goddamn

EMPs]

 

(written for last night’s F Bomb Fantasy Island reading Mercury Cafe Denver CO)

Broccoli and Canadian Mist at 30,000 minus 29,994 feet

8 Jan

rob-thomas

 

Broccoli and Canadian Mist at 30,000 minus 29,994 feet

 

Time: 9 or 10 days ago (give or take a Halloween or two)

Place: Earth

 

This morning I woke up and immediately

rolled over on the couch and hit the refresh

button and found Shia LaBeouf still sitting there

 

in that movie theater trying to saddle through every one

of his own movies he was sleeping in that sort of way that tired

people sleep on airplanes or obligatorily long car rides—eyes open

and then not open, like stop motion blinking but even when

they’re open there’s really nothing/not much there

his body may be propped up in front of his own

movies but his mind is wandering through the days

that always evict us because that’s what days were born to do

they’re born to evict us so my body’s propped

here/now watching Shia LaBeouf watching his own movies but my thoughts

 

fuck, my thoughts are still sitting on the floor of a time machine

hovering next to that night I was sitting with her in the other room over there

attempting to fly helicopters and figure out life over broccoli

 

and Canadian Mist we’d placed the plate of broccoli

next to the landing pad of dead cigarette butts and as the chopper flew over

the wind from its blades dusted the cigarette ash over the broccoli like

soft pepper or hard pencil shavings or the pixilated tinsel strength

of a raincoat sized crush—there was ash hot tubbing it up with the vegetable dip

 

as her pumpkin trumped everything and my darkness flipped a switch

every time she laughed or her smile reentered the room

as the crimini mushrooms critiqued my helicopter remote control thumb work

unperturbed by my unsophisticated mispronouncing of their name

because they’re just mushrooms for cripe’s sake and being roomed mush

tend not get all worked up or offended all that easily about shit

 

so you know, you’ve gotta love them for that

and also for the fact that they’re delicious

or at least my memories insist they’re delicious

 

it’s been a long time now since I’ve had mushrooms

or a good night’s sleep or an actual orgasm with another human

particilatorily participating in the room because I’m legitimately messed up

and all these days go by now like they’ve invested everything they’ve got left in jetpacks

and in the mist/midst of all this jet-packing the days they evict us

at ridiculous speeds

but that doesn’t mean we give up

does it?

 

the days may be shitty landlords

but who needs landlords

when you’ve just had your heart stitched back together

with broccoli and gravity defying artifacts

and an unexpected tube of pumpkin shaped super glue

 

I’m a smiling sloppy helicopter pilot right now

giggling at a plate of uneatable broccoli 9 days ago

life past that? all these 9 to 10 days later

 

every second is a brand new soundtrack

and every soundtrack is at least 50% Matchbox Twenty

and there are music snobs out there that may mock that

but for me, Rob Thomas has always had my back/

so that’s a good thing, as

 

the past kicks off its straight jacket

and pretends to not comb its hair

 

I keep pace