Tag Archives: politics

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

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Me Too Night: King Kong

6 Mar

kong

Me Too Night: King Kong

 

Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President Homophobe, members of this library instead of congress, today’s assignment is to converse about a specific work of art, artist, or artistic process that we’ve found specifically inspiring in our lives. That being that, I’ve chosen for the subject of this address a film that I’ve felt deeply connected to for most of my childhood and whatever this thing is that is generally referred to as my adult life, a film that exposed the dangers of mongering fear and a mob mentality, the deadly consequences of unregulated capitalism, and the sad horror of unrequited love. That movie is: King Kong.

 

King Kong is the story of an introverted gorilla the size of fuzzy ferris wheel who finds himself inevitably captured by a gang of greedy Americans whose goal is to drag him back to their big corporate owned cities so they can chain him to a rat infested stage off Broadway and make a fortune selling tickets to the soulless masses who are always willing to pay for shit like that. Welcome to the modern world. In the midst of all this madness Kong finds himself falling in love with a woman who doesn’t love him back. She’s in love with some cardboard creep who thinks ladies don’t belong on boats and treats her like a continuing annoyance that he occasionally tolerates because he feels the need to put his dick in something that isn’t a partially lubed tube sock or his right hand in the rain. This is a story that any every day romantic can relate to. Amazing women are always falling for the wrong dude or porta-potty’d Yeti. At one time or another or in my case always, we all take turns being a Kong.

 

I’m a clunky human being. I’m inevitably walking into rooms in which I feel like a giant monkey with a broken heart who doesn’t belong there. The behavior of people constantly baffles me. I have no idea how to talk to a woman I’m really attracted to. I’ve been killed before. I’ve been gunned down a few times and more. I’ve had my heart’s grip ripped away from the tip of that big skyscraper that is love. I’ve taken that long plunge towards the cold concrete of cracked sidewalks more times than feels humanly possible. Thus my recent multi-year retreat back inside the illusional safety of my futon shaped jungle. I’m horrible at meeting new people. I see a girl I might be fond of and I immediately start hearing the sound of 1930’s airplanes flipping the safety switches off on their machine guns. I’m dangling naked on top of the Empire State Building all over again. I’m just a big broken gorilla capable of basic gruntings these days when it comes to things like potentially dating. Hey, you appear as if you may be potentially awesome, would you like to go out with me? I’ve never known how to talk to a woman like that. It just seems crazy. Fortunately, I happen to be a poet. A poet who tends to meet women who know how to talk like that to me. This is the only reason I haven’t been alone my entire life like I’m alone right now.

 

Just like Kong was alone. That’s the real reason they refer to him in the movie as King. He’s a perpetual martyr for loneliness and unrequited affection. Sting may be the king of pain and Adam Duritz may be the king of rain but Kong is the King of love. And love is impossible to control. This world is ruled over by billionaires and politicians who live to control things. In this life everything is dictated by politics. A terrified population is much easier to manipulate then a population that loves. And that’s why the natives on the island in this movie decided to build a wall around Kong and told fake news stories to their children and gullible constituents about the beast on the other side and how its sole purpose is to illegally sneak into their corrupted world view and rape their girlfriends and murder their lawn mowers and steal jobs they have no intention of doing. Which is ridiculous! Kong doesn’t want to rape your girlfriends. It would be physically impossible. His penis would never fit inside something like that. His penis is the size of seven or eight girlfriends tied together. It’s basic science, people. That’s why the current administration hates science. Kong doesn’t want to murder your lawn mowers. He’s from the jungle. He likes his grass long. And he sure as hell doesn’t want your jobs because most of your jobs suck. Kong just wants to be left alone and find a girl who loves him and wants to be left alone too so they can be left alone together. And the corporations that rule things can’t stand that. If everyone gave up on their hate and decided to choose love they’d lose control of everything. So they built a wall around Kong in an attempt to maintain control of things. Without hate and fear they are powerless. So they built a wall around love. In King Kong, that little plan didn’t work out so well. Love breaks out. Yes, after breaking out love is drugged, chained up, finds out that the girl he’s hung up on doesn’t love him, and is eventually gunned down by an armada of tax payer funded war planes. But shit, what else was Kong supposed to do.

 

At least he tried.

 

 

 

(written for the Me Too reading hosted by Jonny Montgomery, Boulder Public Library, March 5 of the year that is now)

Until The Poles Close

8 Nov

election-day

Until The Poles Close

 

You will be where you are, with someone else

Breathing like a landslide

Talking shit about the veranda

Drinking leftover Daylight Savings Time beside the pool

 

And I’ll be sitting on a futon in my living room

With the Gwyneth Left Me Coldplay album and

24 hour Cable News channels 2-waying it in the background,

 

My heart rehearsing tornado drills

While the wind laughs its ass off because

The wind is a fascist orange ass-punch and

 

Everything can easily all go to hell way too fast

Brian Cox and Anthony Weiner Walk Into a Bar

22 Feb

cox

Brian Cox and Anthony Weiner Walk Into a Bar

 

Part 1:

 

Brian Cox and Anthony Weiner walk into a bar. The man checking i.d.’s at the door is clean-shaven and thorough, though Weiner appears agitated at being submitted to such a process and mumbles something like “Cox, what’s this guy doing? Doesn’t he know who I am?”

 

The doorman says nothing, he just scratches his nuts. Which is saying something, maybe. And then being that he’s done verifying their legal ages he lets them in.

 

“When I’m elected again the first thing I’m going to do is make it against the law to i.d. anyone who looks over 40 and wants a drink.” Weiner says as they sit down at the bar.

 

“Good luck with that.” says Cox

 

“Thanks.” Weiner says, fiddling with the buttons on his cell phone. “That broad makes me want to take a picture of my crotch and send it to her. I just need her phone number. But I want to play it cool. How good are you at guessing phone numbers?”

 

“For Bourne’s sake Wiener, put that goddamn thing away.” Cox says, grabbing the cell phone out of Weiner’s hand. “I’ll keep this with me until we go home. You know you’ll never get elected again if you don’t stop texting young women pictures of your junk.”

 

“Says you.” says Weiner. “The general constituency has the attention span of a dead turtle. I’ll be Governor of some goddamn thing by this time next year. Cock shots or not!”

 

“Please don’t say ‘cock’,” Cox says “in that context.”

 

“Sorry pal.” Weiner apologizes. “You know me, I’m just all worked up. Say, let’s get her over here. We need some more drinks.”

 

“You need to pull your head out of your ass and stop jerking off to Avril Lavigne records, that’s what you need to do.” Cox says.

 

“Never!” Weiner screams, which draws the bartender’s attention long enough for him to hold up two fingers and shout “Two more, please!”

 

The bartender nods her head and begins to pour.

 

“I bet her phone number’s got a 2 in it somewhere.” Weiner says while taking a mental picture of his own penis and handing it to the bartender with his eyes.

 

“Knock it off. You’re gonna get us kicked out of here.”

 

“Lighten up. We’re rich white dude’s who also happen to be famous and this is AMERICA! We’re not getting kicked out of shit.”

 

“You looking for America?” the bartender chimes in as she walks over and slides Cox and Weiner their drinks “I just saw her a few minutes ago, sitting back at one of those tables over there.”

 

Brian Cox and Anthony Weiner both look in the direction indicated by the bartender and shit…it’s true. There’s America. Sitting alone at a small table in the corner. Reading a magazine article about something that almost seems obvious. Methodically fingering a half empty cocktail glass. Legs crossed like two disagreeing squirrels.

 

“What’s she drinking?” Weiner asks.

 

“A McRib Martini.” the bartender answers. “Mangled, not stirred.”

 

“I’ll be right back.”

 

Before Cox can stop him Weiner’s on his feet, across the bar, and sliding into an empty chair beside America.

 

“You’re not invited.” America says without looking up.

 

“Then for fuck’s sake, invite me.” Weiner suggests.

 

“What do I look like, Italy? Piss off.”

 

Weiner was expecting a different response maybe, but having received what he’s been given decides it best not to drag things out and excuses himself with a quick “Ok then, thanks for your time, and I hope as always that I can count on your vote.”

 

Upon returning to Cox and the bar Weiner mumbles “America fucking hates me.” before ordering a half dozen Rum and Cokes.

 

“How could you not already know that?” Cox says, while pondering the fact that the eyeglasses the he’d set before him earlier now seem to have transformed themselves into a $36,000 purse.

 

Noticing the handbag, Weiner inquires “Where’d that come from? Is Oprah here?”

 

Oprah wasn’t there. And neither was the bar. The two phalically last-named characters now found themselves sitting at a 1950’s ice cream parlor…their alcoholic drinks replaced by butter nut sundays, all whored up with whip cream and cotton candy colored sprinkles.

 

“Dickshits!” Cox harruphs. “The Universe knows I can’t handle dairy. How the bloody hell am I supposed to get drunk on this?”

 

Weiner isn’t listening. He’s too busy drawing a not-to-scale picture of his crotch.

 

“What the hell are you going to do with that?” Cox asks.

 

“They don’t have cell phones in the 1950’s so when the waitress walks by I’m going to slip this bad boy into her apron pocket.”

 

“Maniac. You’re like a serial killer with that shit. It must stop.”

 

“It’s how I flirt!”

 

 

Part 2

 

Far above the ice cream shop the sun is caught cashing the latest check it’s received from Coppertone…kick back money from the corporate suntan lotion machine.

 

“I’ve been framed!” screams the Sun, even though it hasn’t….as a sky full of Cloud Cops descend upon the situation and fluff the big star away.

 

“Now what do we do?” asks the Money. “With the sun gone and stuff what are we supposed to do with all this lotion? We can’t sell protecting lotion when the thing that it’s made to protect people from is off rotting in jail.”

 

“We’ll bring the Moon in on this.” Brian Cox tells Weiner, although he’s no longer Brian Cox. He’s a sentient Space Lizard hired by The Corporations Of Earth to keep profits rolling.

 

“Moon Tan Lotion will most definitely be a tougher sell.” Weiner says, even though he’s no longer Weiner, having been almost unnoticeably replaced by a 5 ft Pez Dispenser with a face shaped like a jerked off horse. “In order to create demand the general public will have to be given a reason to fear it. As it stands right now on beams just aren’t all that dangerous.”

 

“Well that’s just something that’ll have to be worked out.” the talking Lizard says (pause). “If this thing’s going to work the Moon’s going to have to kill someone.”

 

“Lots of someones. says the Pez Dispenser.

 

“Agreed. The Moon will have to turn itself into a goddamn serial killer.”

 

“I’ll do it!” says the Moon, who up until a few seconds ago had been a Pez Dispenser.

 

“Than it’s done.” the Lizard who’s no longer a Lizard says. It’s no longer a Lizard because it’s now the current Body Count assigned to the Moon’s flash forward/rampant streak of murder and inedible doom, and as Coghlin’s Law # 137 clearly states: Don’t go getting’ greedy, cocker. One cannot be two things at the same time.

 

“Wait. I watched Cocktails the other day again, and I don’t recall that law actually being cited in the film.” The Moon says (as it wipes the entrails of what had until very recently been the entire population of a small village off the edge of its Coppertone sponsored Cheese Grater of Shredded Doom).

 

“That’s because it’s not in the movie. It’s in the novelization of the movie. Based off the screenplay’s almost unrecognizable 129th draft.” says The Body Count. Have you read it?”

 

“Of course I’ve read it.” says the Moon.

 

“Bullshit. You haven’t read it.”

 

“Fuck you! You haven’t touched me in months! How the hell do you know what I haven’t read?!”

 

Frustrated, the Moon flips its bloody cheese grater up into the air and then catches it behind its back and before the entire move can be completed the Body Count’s gone, its absence causing the sort of ripple through time that turns the sky into an old episode of The Six Million Dollar Man, one in which the Moon finds itself sitting behind a desk dressed in a top and bottom matching 1970’s jumpsuit trying to figure out what the fuck’s going on.

 

“Where did she go?” the Moon asks a robotic version of Bigfoot that sounds like Andre the Giant.

 

“Where do you think she went? You just killed your own Body Count.” Bigfoot says.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Well, no. Not literally. But she no longer loves you anymore, so she’s gone.”

 

“My Body Count doesn’t love me?”

 

“It doesn’t want anything to do with you.” Bigfoot says.

 

“Shut up!” the Moon screams, its track suit only half zipped, exposing its various craters and wild poofs of chest hair. “I can’t go on without her! What do I do?! And what the fuck’s going on with this track suit?! This is so not fair!”

 

Bigfoot walks over and pats the Moon on the back in slow motion, which in Six Million Dollar Man terms means he’s patting him on the back really fast.

 

“Look, you’re making me feel horrible right now and I wasn’t going to tell you this but…your Body Count’s moved on.”

 

“What’s that mean?” the Moon asks. Tears shaped like old footprints are now walking down the side of its face.

 

“Your Body Count’s in love with someone else. She’s living with some guy in Cincinnati. They have sex a couple times a week. Inside a little house or something. It’s sort of gross and goes on forever and he’s got a huge penis and you probably don’t want to hear any more it if, it might make you sad.”

 

The Moon can’t believe what it’s hearing. Its true love shacked up with some prick in Cincinnati? How could this be true?

 

“Coughlin’s Law #12 ½: The only thing that remains constant is that constant don’t exist.” Bigfoot says.

 

That did it.

 

“Stop making up Coughlin’s Laws! You hideous Care Bear! I’ll murder you!”

 

And that’s what the Moon did. It murdered Bigfoot, and just like that a new Body Count was forged. But it just wasn’t the same. The Moon didn’t have the same feelings about this one and the new Body Count was even less fond of the Moon than its previous Body Count had been. Their relationship , if it was that, didn’t last long. She left the Moon a couple months later for a traveling dog salesman with orange hair…if that even makes sense.

 

The Moon was inconsolable. It bought a couple of cats and moved into Jupiter’s basement and spent the next four years drinking cheap whiskey, experiencing brief flashes of previous lives, and ignoring its own weiner. Also, the Moon watched a lot of movies, every one of them at one point or another featuring the sharply honed acting skills of the Brian Cox.

 

Part 3: One Thousand or Two Years in the Future

 

“Daddy, I don’t get it.” the small boy said to his father, “How can the Moon watch movies for 4 years if Brian Cox is in every one of the? I mean, wouldn’t he run out of?”

 

“Brian Cox has been in a lot of movies, son. Almost as many movies as there used to be stars in the sky.” the Father who’s been telling this goddamn story assured his son. “I mean, it’s pretty much impossible to run out of Brian Cox movies.”

 

His son sat there with a perplexed look upon his face as if he’d just shit his force field Chinos.

 

“More movies than Nicolas Cage’s been in? the boy asked.

 

His father damn near slapped him.

 

“Are you being serious? the Father said, “You know Nicolas Cage isn’t real. HE’s just a fucked up Boogey Man the Sky Masters made up to scare kids into hatin’ Elvis and eating their McVegetable and shit like that.”

 

“Oh yeah,” the boy said. “I forgot.”

 

Stupid kids.

 

“That’s alright.” the Father said. “It’s gettin’ late now. Go unplug your mother goodnight and get yourself off to bed.”

 

“Ok.” the kid said. “Goodnight father.”

 

The father stood there for a second staring up at the sky where everything besides Fox News said the Moon used to be and felt like he was forgetting something.

 

“Maybe I was Brian Cox in a past life.” he thought to himself, but man, he was way off, so out loud he just said:

 

“Goodnight.”

 

 

 

(written for the Rob Bomb/F Bomb reading, Mercury Café Denver CO)

Love Is: A Rigged Election

21 Sep

voting booth

Love is: a rigged election

love is a rigged election putting the moves on
your comfortable bathrobe, mixed with an I-phone rim job
and something about dying in snow