A Year Without Prince: Part 1

28 Apr

A Year Without Prince: Part 1

 

A year?

Sexy-seriously?

(stomp down on that delay pedal)

 

How has it already been a year?

(year year year)

 

Where the fuck

has everything gone?

(oh, right)

(you keep it in there)

(as long as the water’s warm enough/that’s hot)

 

Thirsty?

 

Our whole world’s been swallowed by ego

like it was sloppy joe sauce

or left over wine

 

(what’s this button do?)

(It’s either wired to take down the EPA

or inform the staff that President Parched Asshole

wants another Coke)

 

Things that have pride besides doves:

 

Fascists, fast cars, furiously bald actors,

Bon Jovi, bulldozers, heavy sleepers,

trampolines, outrageous synth solos,

 

winery-s and sandpaper

politicians and the occasional parade

stiff dinner rolls

and hard doom

 

(fast guitar solo)

(outsourced belly dance moment)

(We should continue this conversation over thongs)

 

How many days are there in a year again?!

(primordial scream)

I don’t know

52 seconds and our pants are still on?

(proud keyboard fart)

 

(Easy baby, that thing’s my weiner

not an ice pick)

(whisper) (Better like that

or not better like that?)

 

Things that are never satisfied

besides Prince’s mom:

 

Vampires and jazz licks

truth’s vibrator and pure love

John Mayer’s girlfriends

and overly planned picnics

natural disasters

and tone deaf billionaires

in a park

 

Wake up wide eyes!

(got ta got ta got ta)

 

Harry Styles is a pubic hair trend

not a pop star!

 

Lake Minnetonka isn’t a lake

it’s a goddamn state of mind!

 

Legend has it there was this one night

when Prince danced so hard

the universe cried dead light

and Prince pissed mozzarella and black olives

until the lady he’d hung his heart on screamed

 

Great!

Thanks!

Now I want Pizza!

 

and Prince was like, “Troy, I don’t serve ribs”

and Troy said “I’m not Troy, darling. I’m Prompelunia

and I said pizza big shot, not ribs”

 

And Prince was all, “Sorry. I thought

you were kinda quoting one of my albums. Shit, yeah

(bang down hard on the sus2 chord)

We should get pizza

 

So they did

A Year Without Prince: Prologue

20 Apr

 

A Year Without Prince

(this thing in 4 parts, prefaced by brief rambling

followed by a quick prologue and then…….zoom!)

 

Wendy?

Yes Lisa?

I’m not Lisa. I’m Dennis

Oh, sorry Dennis. I’m not Wendy anyway. I’m also Dennis too.

Huh.

(Purple silence. Followed by dialogue)

That doesn’t mean we can’t still wear ripped t-shirts together and save the world.

Cool.

 

Prologue:

 

vagina katana

half price cheeseburgers

dogs barking like abandoned flare guns

smoking outside another long-day-embedded-

shitty-kung-fu ashtray-sky

sort of night

 

 

 

(to be continued!)

The Door Was A Lazy Lover

30 Mar

 

The Door Was A Lazy Lover

 

The door was a lazy lover

it just splayed there between the walls

like a sexy bulldozer

not moving

in a thong

 

as he went in and out of it

reputedly, with manic gusto

or as the curtain rod once called it:

sweaty dong vs. misplaced glee

 

thrusting himself in and out

in and out

fueled by his safe coal love

that had wound up forging an unlivable atmosphere

for her, leaving him

 

anywhere else to go so he went

inside, rooms inside rooms,

in and out the same door

 

a stiff river of comings and goings

the kind of river with which he found it

impossible to disagree

 

his love made him horny for this

the in and outs followed through

with the back and forths

 

love fueled horny

or maybe it was the thong

 

the cynics say thong

but he was still betting all his abandoned pants cash

on love, even though he was still a long mile away

from payday and

 

everything he’d ever lost stayed that way

and the door remained propped there

between all the exits and enterings

 

not giving a shit

My 45 Year Old Penis vs. The Penis Of My Youth

25 Mar

My 45 Year Old Penis vs. The Penis Of My Youth

 

Where do we start here?

 

Do we start with girth? Ok, Wait! This poem interrupted

By today’s news that Trumpcare failed to make it off its own runway

Or into the connected sex pool

 

Or through the front gates of its cold hearted corporate owned

Slaughterhouse of money-first-doom

And now Paul Ryan looks worse than sad Ben Affleck

 

After the shitty reviews

Of Superman Martha’s Batman had poured in

Trump’s been forced to double the dose of his daily denial enemas

 

In an attempt to convince himself and everyone else

That he didn’t just lose BIGLY! because losing is for losers

And he’s not one of them guys, he’s a kung fu narcissist

 

Which means he couldn’t have been defeated so BIG LEAUGE! today

Unless he really wanted to be

Which means he must have planned it this way

 

Which means: HA!

 

And if that wasn’t enough

Mayte’s written a memoir of her love

and life with Prince?!

 

I had no idea how much

I wanted to read this thing

Until I just now found out that it exists

 

MARTHAAAAAAAAA! I mean Mayte!

I mean shit, I’m in such a good mood right now

I don’t want to do what I’d just sat down and started doing

 

I just wanna listen to a whole bunch of Prince tunes

and read Vonnegut and write something else after

something else

 

I don’t feel like talking about my dick right now

We can talk about my dick later

Today was a good day

 

Knuckles At Dawn

17 Mar

 

Knuckles At Dawn

 

I just sat down

Am I writing a poem?

No, I’m ordering a pizza

 

Find the coupons

Squint over the choice of toppings

Wipe the tears from everything’s head

 

Until I’m not ordering a pizza anymore

It was never a pizza I was looking for

I never really ordered that pizza

 

I just didn’t feel like feeling

alone

or letting you go and

 

I’d run out of Vonnegut novels and Jurassic Park movies

To read/watch weeks ago or last night or that time I had to be

A thing that was required to answer a question like

 

If you had to be a tree what kind of a tree would you be?

With the instructor eyeballing me harshly

As if to convey that it would be best for the collective mind-hive

 

And everything at war against it

If I’d just sodomize my own soul like a good boy

And say something supportive like ‘sequoia’

 

But fuck em

Because just: fuck em, my soul’s asshole is invincibly sensitive

I’d rather scream ‘Martha!’

 

At the mid-end of a horrible DC superhero movie

Than salute ‘sequoia’ on command like a trained ventriloquist’s crotch prop

So when they asked me what kind of tree I’d like to be

 

If I had to be a tree

I didn’t say sequoia

Or birch

 

Or maple-shits

Or whatever the fuck

We call trees who never frackin’ asked

 

To be called anything in the first place

(They just wanted to be left alone)

(Alone together as opposed to alone/alone)

 

In a room composed for the most part

Of people well practiced in the duty of ironing a shirt

Staring at me waiting for me to declare what kind of tree I am

 

I said Noodle Salad

Quoting Jack Nicholson in a behind the scenes documentary

Of The Shining

 

Nobody in the room got the reference

And the instructor just rolled her eyes like I’d just shit

Her pants and moved on

 

While I sat there counting the minutes

Until I could be back home again watching Buffy with my last cat

Perplexed because, shit, moving on is really hard

 

But she’d just done it like it was as easy

As microwaving a cold casserole of salami

She’d moved on, I mean skip forward to last night again

 

The entire day had been going on in a similar fashion

(salami casserole)

And I was tired of almost everything

So I decided to go to bed

 

But that didn’t solve anything

I just rolled there in circles while Shutter Island

Jumped up and down on my face

 

As I mumbled ‘Knock it off’,

Trump’s choice to head the EPA endorsed Carbon Dioxide

And Shutter Island grumbled

 

“Nickel’s dead.

I sleep on your skull now.

What else am I supposed to do?”

 

The world is a wasteful place and

I’ve got a heart like a dumpster

And a complicated cat who misses her sister

 

If I had to be a tree I’d be an astronaut

If I had to be an astronaut I’d be a maple leaf

If I had to be a maple leaf like I’m a maple leaf

 

I’d be the sort of maple leaf that still gave a shit about

Everything that’s still left worth giving a shit about

Even post-fall and I’d been shed to the ground

 

I’d be the sort of maple leaf screaming

Knuckles at dawn!

At the current wave of American Fascism

 

And everything horrible

the brand new Trump administration

Is trying to hump through

 

I’d be the sort of maple leaf that I am now

Hanging in there on the ground, almost 7 years now

Post-the falling, trying to find my way to move on

 

I miss your tree

Notes on Skull Island aka What if Kong Had Survived The Fall

15 Mar

 

Notes on Skull Island aka What if Kong Had Survived The Fall

 

(the world is one big spoiler alert, so naturally spoilers (Kong: Skull Island) exist here too.)

 

Remaking the original 1933 King Kong is a pointless act, like repainting Van Gogh’s wheat fields or fucking a ukulele with a tuba on a deadpan Wagner-tuned rainy night shaped bassoon. It’s sad madness but that hasn’t stopped humanity from doing it anyway. Dino De Laurentis fucked it up in the 70’s with his goofy monkey suit version and Peter Jackson gave us a big budget take in the early 2000’s that had Jack Black attempting to fill Robert Armstrong’s movie boots and a flawed CGI Kong ice skating in the middle of New York for some goddamn reason. [Historical Note: Jackson’s heart was in the right place, loving the original as much as all of us who love the original, and I respect him for that, still it’s a tough thing to forgive, all that goddamn ice skating in a script that just never felt right.]

 

[Historical Note 2: Son of Kong was pretty great, but that’s because they didn’t try to remake something that’s in no need of remaking. They made a sequel. Sure it doesn’t have the Kong-equals-unrequited-love-type-layers of the original and can play sort of like a jungle island version of Home Alone with Kong Jr. taking over a role originally played by Macaulay Culkin, but fuck it. Leave it alone, cynical bastards. I like the hell out of Son of Kong. (and Andy Schneidkraut digs it too.]

 

Just like I liked the hell out of Kong: Skull Island. Skull Island isn’t a remake. It’s a brand new movie that plays out like an alternate timeline sequel that goes something like this:

 

What if, in the original movie, Kong didn’t die at the end? What if he survived the fall somehow? The fall and the knowledge that the only lady he loved didn’t love him and the fact that half of the entire city of New York had seen his weiner (from both a distance and up close and unconsciously personal) because he’d been abducted against his Kong-will and wasn’t adequately packed for life in a big city/he didn’t have any pants on/I don’t have any pants on/We’ve all found ourselves inadequately packed for the city at one point or another in our lives/let’s move on.

 

Ah, but that’s the thing now, ain’t it. Kong can’t move on! And that’s what this Skull Island thing’s all about. Say Kong survived the fall. Say he managed to crawl his way out of the city un-re-captured and booked passage on a crab fishing boat of some kind working odd jobs here and there at sea until he eventually made it back to Skull Island. Say he made it home and now it’s 40 years later and he’s spent the entire time eating octopus, staring at a lake like it was Netflix, and missing the girl he’s still hung up on and will always love.

 

That’s where we find our hero in Skull Island. We find a post-lost-love Kong mangled by the effects of all those years that have followed the loss. We find a Kong alive in a world that at all times holds its stomach in like it’s trying to pick a fight. The metaphor has been shifted to the island in this one. The island is lost love. This is what the world looks like post losing your Helen. Lost love is an island full of loneliness and terror and monsters that must be fought daily.

 

And Kong fights them. Because that’s what we have to do. Oblivion is inevitable and also oblivion is not an option. And even on Skull Island, as hopeless as it is, not everything is inevitably hopeless. There’s a small group of natives that are still alive on the island, a small group of natives and John C Reilly, a small group of natives and John C Reilly who still have a shot at this. They are born and then they die but between all of that they fall in love. Even on an island that represents a post-love nightmare, there’s still love. And this new Kong can relate to that. So he protects it. He’s re-dedicated his post-Helen years to protecting the love that’s still out there. And when he’s not doing that he eats octopus and stares at lakes like he’s watching Netflix while wishing that Fay Wray’s happy out there, somewhere, wherever she is.

 

Because that’s all Kong really wanted from her. To be happy. He wanted her to be happy. That’s what this new Kong wants from everyone. That’s what this new Kong movie’s all about. Kong wants you to fall in love. Kong wants you to be happy. And he’s willing to go on fighting inside his own nightmare because of this. He’s still willing to fight for it. Because Kong knows what something like that feels like.

 

Because Kong still remembers like we all still remember.

 

Kong fights because

 

Flash forward to the past a little bit:

 

For a couple of million minutes or something like that, Kong was happy too.

A Month Without Nickel

9 Mar

A Month Without Nickel

 

Sleep is an old vacuum cleaner from the 1950’s

The kind they used to sell door to door

Most now buried and the ones still around

Don’t really work anymore

 

And when I do sleep

The dreams eat all the floors

Until I wake up perpetually exhausted again

With no safe place left to stand

 

I miss everything about her

Even the things that used to piss me off

 

I miss her reverse Hitler mustache

And the way she’d leave old action figure twist ties

And other random shit like ham in the middle of my futon

For me to find when I returned home from work on the weekdays

 

I miss the way she used to follow me everywhere

When I was in a bad mood and she’s slap her paw

Against me face every time my face needed slapping

 

In that way she had

That seemed to say

Hey, we’re alive

 

Life is hard

But we’ve got each other

Cat logic goddamn it

We’re gonna be ok

 

I don’t have that anymore

I’ve lost my best friend

And that reassurance that came

With the two of us simply

Being together in the same room

 

I miss the way she’d crawl beneath the blankets

On the long nights when my mind was surrounded

By all the beautiful things that have left me

 

I miss the way she’d chase me up the stairs

And I miss the way she’d manage to break into the basement

And I miss the way she’d scream for cat treats

At the top of her lungs when she was breathing

 

Nickel,

 

I miss you so much

That I have a hard time believing that you’re gone

And fuck I’m so sorry

I took you for granted

When I took you that way

 

Like we tend to take

All the things that keep us going

For granted

 

You’re buried in the back yard now

 

And I’m whatever I am

And I am now also the backyard

You’re buried in me

 

And I will carry you until

Until my legs turn to dust

And then I’ll carry you some more

 

Because fuck it

Death cannot stop us

Because I refuse to let it

 

And I know

Wherever you are

That you refuse to let it

To stop you too

 

And p.s. also

Shutter Island also misses you madly

And says: hello