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 HIGH NOON
sunshine illuminates a drowsy world brought into sharp focus. A heavenly voice shouts, “Wake up! All of you! Now!” (but I am awake, I am) “Wake up! Wake up!” “I am awake,” voices murmur all around all over the world the voices are heard, “But I am awake” “Soy despierto” “Vaken förmiddag” “Ik ben wakker” “Je suis éveillé” “Ich bin wach” “Sono sveglio” “Jeg er våken” “Estou acordado” “Emai gruπnov” “Ho sui mino” “Ha shui miyo” “Ich bin waken” “Senderho sen vac” xxx THE NAKED LINE less than a reed, near non-existent . starved steeple heavenly aspirations. a Giocometti shaved down to it’s thinnest vertical being the breeze of your purity stirs up the grit of my flaws they battle now repel now attract leaving a trail in their wake it gathers particle by particle clings for survival to our invisible separation the line, becomes a sculpture a poem xxx OF THINGS WRIT.
0f things writ of amorous endeavors: steamy sublime submissions saucy syrupy salivating savorings spasmatically straining stridings smothering, slamming stiffened succumbings slipping, sliding sucking to sudden sensual simultaneous satisfactions sampling sublime scents, swift straight stiff solid submergings scandalous scramblings, sprawling spreadings striving, striding, shrieking, sighing sweating sessions of slippery sexual soulful searchings sinful strokings, startling suctions! staccato stutterings slow soft sumptuous seductive squeezings slowly soaring surging skyward to starry splatterings and spillings of slimy sticky staining stuff, I truly believe I’ve had enough um..Do you mind if I light up? xxx The Day That My Ship Comes In. my enemies will pay and the lechers stay away the greedy will sink in the harbor the rats will go away and good things will stay the day that my ship comes in I’ll kill the mighty I’ll kill them one and all I’ll toss their bodies in the water I’ll pick up the tab for my friends out in the cab and I’ll marry Bill Gate’s daughter I’ll build a mall, will be free to one and all the caviar and wine will start flowing I’ll bring in some bands to play some one night stands and all my friends will be glowing I’ll control the weather I’ll join the single together I’ll give them rooms in the motels I’ll find them all places in all the right places and they’ll never again know sorrow I’ll burn all the passports, the churches and flags I’ll outlaw conventional lives I’ll rebuild the cities and put up more bars and some good seedy old-fashioned dives my enemies will pay and the lechers stay away the greedy will sink in the harbor the rats will go away and good things will stay the day that my ship comes in xxx 4 Frames Per Second
everything moving slowly feeling of déjà vu as in a De Chirico piazza shadows frozen pale sky darkens Times Square, a cemetery Santo Francesco Uzi in hand has pinned a naked virgin against a gravestone she bends forward licks the gun in blackness lightning flashes sinister happenings here a murder there a suicide a mother carves her son into pieces that will never find their way back together screams a dog barking the stand-up comics are crying black the color of choice in Manhattan xxx I'm Happy!
I tell you I’m happy. I tell you I’m gay. it’s not what you're all thinking, I'm just not that way. I tell you I’m happy now that you’ve gone away. I tell you I’m happy, well, I was yesterday. darling be happy for me oh my darling be happy for me chorus: ‘cause I'm happy so happy I'm happy in my waaaaaaaaaaaay I'm happy so happy well, I was, yesterday when you left I was joyous, my world seen through tears. I celebrated by having some beers. they told me the next mornin' I’d had quite a few. got my nose broke, my eyes poked, I got me some ribs busted too darling be happy for me oh my darling be happy for me (chorus) there's now a full moon shine-ing for me to see. here’s a bright red ripe apple on my very own apple tree. my tears, well, they’re all gone now, my bull’s is in the stable, my ship’s back from the sea. darling be happy for me oh my darling be happy for me chorus) I’m a-waiting now in the garden, just waiting here just for you. I’ve bought you a dozen roses & a new black nighty too. all these other fine women, ell, they just will not do. I know, ‘cause I’ve tried quite a few, & I hunger only for you. darling come home to me please come home to me chorus-end) xxx that crazy magpie hidden in the tree talking my language xxx how delicious, in their own private ballroom, two tongues doing the tangle xxx Bullshit Plays To A Sold Out House upon the page writ with ink invisible some colored words of prose he did there lay then smell of putrid violets decay what was to be at first naught but some play though in the deadly silence sounds did sing the sound of bells this day they do not ring where on a stage alone his heart does pine this is the night the limelight fails to shine to make the pain and torture go away perhaps a word or two that might be true perhaps a way to bind himself to you what else could be this thing we do but play such play will sate the hunger of our soul may clear the fearful monsters from our way such play will fill the Zen monk’s empty bowl unite us with our God on Judgment Day the words they find for ears an empty hall they echo through the corridors and all that hear them in this poetry house are ten flies, three rats, and a frightened mouse invisible the persons standing there who with like he his own felt thoughts would share while in the stately house across the way bullshit plays to a sold out house today xxx the ripe apple blushes a pleasant red on yellow eat, before it rots xxx April 1st outside the window the moonless night reflects the wretched warped condition of this stained & angry soul a flat dull-black blob, throbbing darkly once more, then again, at this cruel instant some call life, I call ‘Wha...?!’ not for naught that this singular momentary exclamation point that seems I will thus do nor seek refuge in that other place, the promised afterlife, where one might at least, have asked Dante (who would have made a great Sherlock Holmes) “Is Dis Hell?’” yet some spreach there is nosuch that some call blissful heaven cold death awaits these all and lamenting voices raised in angry despair at this forsaking God who plays His absurd & cruel joke for what? a nanosecond diversion in infinity? to clear His throat? (or are we all one big God fart?) but surely He also: must have laughed at the pratfalls of hopeless comics in the forgotten silent scratchy flicks rotting in the warehouses of Hollywood potentates cried when ‘what’s her name’ died in ‘Love Story’ gazed, with glazed & lustful half closed eyes, sensuously stroking His jaw with an overly long index finger, on the likes of Mae West yet will He forsake one and all to retire once more sleep a momentary goggle of years then to wake & all is anew, a repeat performance, so to speak, by His, not our, will. reality 2? once and now again? son of Ii was? the return of imaginary things? then yet once more an omelette in a pan will the universe with a whimper gently fold &...HEY! are you YAWNING!? jeez! the universe is folding over here and you YAWN? you are truly jaded WAKE! WAKE! sleep nor yawn, bored reader, no more, there are poems here to score you know who it was that wrote this nonsense for all to read, but who was it that planted the poetry seed? who read this far? how come read & read are spelled but not pronounced the same? red and read? If a bad poem is excellently bad is it excellent? what are those brown kidney shaped things in ‘Pork & Beans’? & if pork comes first shouldn’t there be more of it? come on now, shouldn’t it in truth be called ‘Beans & A Teeny Weeny Little Piece of Pork Fat’? xxx Swann the cookie dipped memories awaken there was a woman once rustling skirts and jeweled arms thud tinklings of gold each playing a part properly costumed hiding the nude realities craving flesh to flesh gentle nestlings in the nights nude perfumes were his delight the silhouette crossing the room beautiful in morning light the craving in his loins denied “may I call on you this evening?” “No, I think not” & was it then he felt the shot of envy? racing from cafe to cafe, slowly going mad handsome in his evening clothes ivory tipped cane vowing to never see her again now the wine was not so fine flowers gave no odors it mattered not that the sun rose rain, his companion thunder and lightning reinforced convictions with time beauty bloats the fat old lady sits on her balcony chain smoking cigarettes watching the world below a million miles away the poet retreats. to a cork lined room xxx Awooooooooo . . . Last night you heard a wooing on the horizon I never said I was normal midnight prowls are not my way, but a full moon can’t be resisted off come hated tie, cursed clothes. I run naked into the forest fingers & toes, now claws, in primal damp earth on legs draped in new grown hair, incisors magically longer gleaming shiny sharp, wet white in the night bathed by moonlight keen eyed & howling, I am terrifying cold moist black nose quivers in air saturated with scents I salivate only to yours tonight I come for you xxx My Gal I had a girl she was sweet a heart full of love it seemed to me we spent our nights in each others arms making love, reciting poetry (musical passage, guitar) one day i woke up in the dawn my sweet baby was gone (quickly into:) I’m billy@heartbroken.com I’m sure you’ve seen my kind around we’re the guys sulking in the bars drinking all that beer we’re the guys who’ve lost everything dear (change of beat) she took my rifle and she took my Colt she took my Rolex and she took my boat she took my cell phone and she took my Tullamore Dew she took my pick-up she took my stash she took my CD-s she took my cash she took my Visa and she took my hound dog True Blue she took my iBook she took my Porsche she took our trailer and she took my horse she took our check book and she took our son Bobby Lou she took my Stetson she took my boots she took my Harley she took my suits she took my guitar and she took my best friend Shirley Sue too I’m billy@heartbroken.com I’m sure you’ve seen my kind around we’re the guys sulking in the bars drinking all that beer we’re the guys who’ve lost everything dear (slow, sad guitar and violins passage) one day i woke up in the dawn my sweet baby was gone (end with slow note pick on guitar of last two lines) xxx Bring Me The Head Of The Novice “bring me the head of the novice put it up there on the shelf next to my bombast trophies near my championship Parnassus belt bring me the toes and the fingers bring me the bleeding heart too I’ve got this incredible hunger,” (she purred sensuously) “I’m feeling like neophyte stew.” the eyes of the body-less head gazed out on the landscape beyond through a ancient square Tuscan window towards the hills of which it was fond hills worthy of Piero della Francesca’s ever fine and magic blessed hand rolling so smoothly ever gently a moonlight bathed blessed Latin land seemingly random scattered cypresses dotted the vales and the loved distant hills he tried to express that and more in stanzas that lacked meter or skills “I wonder,” he added, randomly, musing on all he did see “If I were to score to staff as notes the cypresses exactly as they are there would I hear Vivaldi? xxx Oh Come All Ye Sons Of Sonnets oh come all ye sons of sonnets, make our day, blow our bonnets. slay us also with your fancy prose avoiding words like ‘dese’ and ‘dose’. still, I would add, with all your skills, you write not for the folk, but for each other and with-not to my surprise one eye on the glory prize. xxx I had Hoped . . . I hoped to make you see that hidden inside of me mad dog ready to tear free silently, desperate aging fool, sits without cards at the game table. hope held like the hand cupped bee captured when very young xxx Dancing All The Steps I Know as soon as I entered the bar I saw her sitting at the far end God she was beautiful black silk party dress bare shoulders spaghetti thin straps she was nursing a martini her short black hair covering one eye ala veronica lake I immediately went into some steps i thought might work she dint even notice I tried some fancy footwork ending with a near perfect moon walk she kindda smirked, looked at the guy three stools down like she’s sharing the joke of me I got desperate, did some pirouettes but only got some admiring glances from two guys at the near end they looked me up and down like they were interested or something I ignored them, folded up my arms, flapped them like wings, cawed out a complex melody while turning slowly in a circle and damned if that didn’t fail also what’s a guy to do when none of his mating dances work? xxx Ode To A Pussy Kat I luv yuz yez my Krazy and all the woids yuz use. I luvz yuz fine dizpozition and the wayz yuz bricks the rules. and if yuz got this far my friends, why yuz will luv her too. yuz’il furgit all yuz bin told and like her yuz will do. so hir at last I give it to yuz my ode to a pussi Kat. Pikasso luvd her. kummin’s luvd her. ‘kauz kat really knos where it’s at. oh Krazy my Krazy I bin too lazy to learn the saurus, add verbs. I taut I could do it, I just couldn’t do it, those isoterik woids. sittin’ here in the midow In the clover and doo. writin’ the woids singin’ the pome but more offin thinkin’ of yuz. yuz see my darlink, my priciouz darlink, I just at this momint hoid I’m only a flee on the boid. what? yuz say the boid has fetters? me thinks that there’s hope, as Dickinsin writ. maybe when I finish this pome we’z can get on wid it? oh mi gosh!, there’s Offissa Pupp. he’s watching us. we’s sure kant f**k around now dear. his got out his speel checker and his blu penzil corrikter, as if those would do anithink good here. lookit! there’s Ignantz he’s got him his surragut p***k to hit my biluved in the head wid wot he calls a brik. dunt pay him no mine dear. yuz doin’ just fine dear stayin here wid me instid. yes, there are utters. there iz mahitibil, that marquis lady. luv drove her krazy. wid luv she never was sexcisfull. and then there iz Tom of Jerry fame and he iz a munster widir he won or knot. and then there iz the grit Micivirty. him wid yuz toogeder I’d luv to see and there are many utters I am shur. I just dunno ‘bout them. but it dunt mitter. yuz suffic my darlink. yuz fill my kup to the brim. oh Krazy, my Krazy. I just kant git ‘nough of yuz. I knos all yur strip bot knot yur sweet lips. ut yuz as yuz is will have to do yuz is the tru poet, yuz rightly dunt kno it and that makes yuz yuz, yuz see? and yuz, in the Kokonimo valley sirrounded by mezas, Is so much bitter than we’z oh Krazy Im so glad yuz has a hard head, I wouldn’t want to see yuz hirt yuz kno. yuz is so nikid wid only a kollar and the sometimes present rose. Ignatz hates yuz. yuz call it luv. yell, one man’s castle is another man’s hell, I sippose. I’ve seen yuz my darlink dir in the valley Llon in swit riptuos ripose. I was so jellous, ever so jellous, to see my darlink in luv wid a maus. watch out, watch out, for Offissa Pupp. he’s in diskize. he aint nothing like us. but undir it all, the suit and the cap, he is nikid too oh Krazy, my Krazy my darlink feline lady I write in a linguage yuz kno’s. it ain’t quit rime. it ain’t quite rite. and it cirtainly ain’t prose. it’s prictickly monosylibik ain’t that somethink? ‘cause I kno a woid or two. but we’s alike my Krazy. we break all the rules. George Hawimmin kriated yuz in just a momint, the POP of BANG insipirition. he was a mensch, he stuck to his guns and avoided rigulation. ‘If knot fir yuz what vould I duz’ Zimmirmin sang long ago. a sweet song that is. he writ it, he sang it to whom I do knot kno. bit it kouldda bin to yuz, I sippose. but I’ll share yuz wid every one utter dir. because to the woild yuz bilong yur pose, yur innicints, yur stile, yur beuties, yur woids, yur gullibilities, yur song. yuz are the must pirfict of all zen vissils: a bittumliss pale. ‘cause I luv yuz my Krazy. yuz such a lady. yuz make my hirt bells ringga-ding-ding. doncha kno my luvly, my darlink dear luvly, that’s it’s aways bin of thee that I singe? xxx Fur Ciepan Eower Sawol Fur Se Deville fur ciepan eower sawol fur se Deille eow sculan bye middeneaht freiday fabruarie thirthenth on un quadeanno butan habban byried un deade toode paet haes byne pikkled inne blod raed wynne foer ne laes paet fore dogore ne ma butan ot under se eald actreo aet se gealguroode of Mynster Lyne ond Hellebrond Roode paet eow gelust findan gif paet giet foray juste thirthen myles nora off Cymdam Faere inne Lyndentownne ond sitte eow foray hwaenne un blaec hraeglede man gelust becuman to eow ond hee gelust answarian habban eow doone min biddan ond eow sculan answarian giese fram paet niht onne foer thirthen anni eow gelust cunnan feoh, faemme ond maere ond habban ne forhtian butan ofer yaer thirthen plusse man eower lif shalle beon doone ond eow gelust foray kibben eower dogore ece inne helle xxx I Saw The Devil The Other Day I saw the devil the other day absinthe will make it that way we took a walk just he and I under full moon he said-now you die- -what?- I said,- I’m much too young. I’ve lots of things to do- -I’ve taken many away- he said -you’ve told me nothing new let me describe to you my hell he put me in a fiery shell I had a tube I could look through and at the heavenly end was you xxx I Was Mistaken About Black Holes “I was mistaken about black holes” (that was the headline) the great Stephen Hawking will give a paper, In Dublin, on that subject I went into town looking for the effects of that headline on the folk exited people gathered discussing the article and the future of physics. one man chalked on the road, for all to see, his equations on the subject while another pointed out a flaw in the algebra fists fights broke out bricks and stones flew some ran home to fetch pitchforks, baseball bats the police came took sides, drew weapons things started looking serious I tried to intervene, to explain that they should keep their senses of humor that’s what black holes are for old jokes, clichés, and such to disappear into, said I the jokes and clichés will be around a bit longer until Mr. Hawking can find another solution but he will, I assured them, he’s a genius, one of the greatest of all times he will not let us down they wouldn't listen shots were fired, many were wounded oh hell, you'll probably read all about it in the papers tomorrow xxx what is this brief taste of sweet, this SPLAT!? xxx HOME screened shadows in darkness transformed miraculously to things and flesh (she is lovely, real. liquid blue eyes whisper, plead, ‘I’m yours, jump’) ship-less stranded on alien isle spelled by enchanters we sleep bliss, sweet bliss, wake no more, never more wake close by a passive blue sea and near horizon Penelope and home an eye-blink away xxx The Bar I’d like to find a bar somewhere full of people like you. we could all sit around drinking beer, whiskey, whatever and talk about poetry and freedom, what it all means, sing a song or two, shed tears for those we miss, feel our kinships, all huddled up together in the bar’s warm space, feeling the grace and love, that something, somewhere, bestowed upon all of us else we not be here at all. sure it’s rough, there’s pain, loss, sorrow and we’ve all felt and had them. that’s why we share these moments, and know that our lives add up to one. that bar would be closer to God than all the churches and temples in the land xxx The Poets Devil I saw a poet claw at air so desperate was the thirst to find the single word or phrase that would complete the verse the Devil grinned, this was his field the colony of the needy so much more rewarding than the millions of the greedy he grabbed his Devil’s rhyming book published by Burma-Shave he’d show the poet how to write and how to miss-behave “I’ll tell you how my poet friend to find your way out of the muck and if you’re truly lucky to maybe make a buck it’s all so nice and simple rhyme all your lines with duck” “sign here. o, no, don’t use blood you idiot. use ink. it’s more painful” xxx The File Cabinet the day at the coast in Poros you were ill I cured your aching stomach with soda crackers the day my Harley arrived from the States the entire town watched as we uncrated it the night in Arles at Van Gogh’s Yellow Cafe we drank good red wine, ate bad tourist food the afternoon we argued going from Paris to Aix you made me stop the car so you could ‘walk home to Vienna.’ the early morning phone calls your father had died later your mother you barely made the burials the day in Venice we spent putting down Italians that night a waiter ran to give me the Leica I had left the day on the dunes outside of Provincetown I cried, you were leaving me, and America, forever the week In south Italy at my relatives everyone admired your long blond hair the night of the day i got the fellowship the bottle of champagne we happily drank and the one we drank not long afterwards when you won your prestigious prize the years we spent on a hill north of Lucca fixing up the old cantina that is still unfinished it’s all there in that file cabinet filled with weekly notebooks xxx The Gypsy Poem the sound of gypsy music lures me to a tavern mean musicians glare through the smoky dim a flamenco man’s stiletto heels beats the beat a woman lays in heat on a hardwood floor covered with coins flying from the fingers of Manitas de Plata furiously plucking impossible notes xxx The Large Glass the bride a wisp of smoke in a paradisiacal heavenly reign a strong horizon line separates her from seekers trapped below bachelors on one side the mill on the other we unmarried, who grind our own chocolate, are all brothers xxx The Master Plagerist he took all the great literary masterpieces in the world fed them into his brain. he did the same with all of the world’s great poetry he programmed his brain to randomly select words from all of that then he programmed his brain to arrange and rearrange over and over again ha! he said: (rubbing his hands with unconcealed glee) “one day soon I’ll be first the master plagiarist of the Universe!” xxx The Old Run-around the old run-around it’s been there forever the path’s worn deep in the center sits The Guy with the long white beard most run clockwise, I run counter I’ll never get to Heaven this way do they have to keep playing Mahler’s Second? I’m tired maybe there is no Heaven (you’re here, I saw you, running the other way) is that a rocking chair He’s sitting on? -well, why not have a Robert Crumb version of God?- not only that, He’s eating popcorn I’m hungry wouldn’t mind some popcorn myself it never rains in limbo there’s no such thing as Hell that would make it too interesting there is only this Eternal Boredom that meaning must be squeezed from how else could we continue running? do we have a choice? I wish God had a whistle that He would blow it once in awhile so that we could all take a five minute break from time to time the sun’s always out, that’s something a bird or two singing would make it a bit more pleasing do they have to keep playing Mahler’s Second? I’ll never get to heaven this way most run clockwise, I run counter in the center sits The Guy with a long white beard the path‘s worn thin it’s been there forever the old run-around xxx The Poet there is this guy, you see, who has a nose where his banana should be actually, it’s more complicated than that; his banana is where his nose should’ve been at on the street when his nose gets congested if he tries to blow it he gets arrested he’s taken to wearing baggy pants to hide the drips the pockets have open bottoms so he can scratch, should his nose itch he has a wide brimmed Fedora hat peers out from behind it through holes in the brim everywhere that he goes he takes the hat with him he was seen at a banquet in a depressed mood; he had created a riot when smelling the food most are fortunate in the world’s races having their parts in the right places xxx The Umbrella & The Sewing Machine the umbrella didn’t know what it was doing here on this stainless steel table or how it got here, or why, or when it only knew it was male right now and if opened would become female and it was sure that it was good for something but not exactly sure what that something was sewing machines, like dogs, are most happy when they are working and this one hadn’t been happy for some time now perhaps that fine looking black gent over there has a rip that needs mending and what better place to do it but on an operating room table events such as this are rare so rare that it may be happening just this once, verbally, on this page xxx The White Sweatshirt front and back are splattered yellow, red, blue, orange, violet, green, black smudges too sleeves frayed, it’s got cigarette burn fuzz, in the spot a younger heart was worn night after night in my studio stall, hoping to be creative with the canvas on the wall the shirt’s about thirty seen a thing or two. I now wear it inside out it almost looks like new xxx Moby Dick yes I confess I’ve never read Moby Dick that great American journey but like a good consumer I’ve always had my coffee at Starbucks Ah habe xxx Western Two-Reeler (“I don’t have the patience or the skills (that are) ne eded to be a cutting room editor, and so I’m happy just to occasionally write and direct the damned things.”Sergio Leone- ’Intervista Cinema Italiana’ Vol.4 #3 March ‘60) (“movies are movies man.they are nothing like life. No one (sic) out there shouting ‘cut’ for real life events. ”-Klauz Klinger Slobinder,, ’Der Neu Kultur) reel one: mournful harmonica echoed by distant banjo. the screen brightens, into daybreak. below, a western town, in nowhere. the camera zooms slowly into the sleeping town, to the upper window of a rotting wood building, a dressed and booted man asleep on a cot, his head covered with an old brown wide brim Fedora. cheap dresser piled high colored disks. empty whiskey bottle on floor you won all the chips. but the guy who backed them has left town. you are broke reputation busted. you can’t afford a shave poor rich man nasty looks from the landlord, and his chambermaid wife the players at the table, down now to penny ante poker, frown when they see you. the hungry spider-eyed whore, who once looked your way with fake-sexy half closed eyes, avoids you. kids on the dusty streets taunt you, throw rocks, giggle and run. Annie Mae, you thought your love, doesn’t want to be with a loser you’ve lost her. hot summer, endless sweat, this hopeless place is used up. you have a gun you could end it! or, you could leave. ride west, other towns, booze, games to play, other Annie Maes reel two: the land flat in all directions to sharply defined horizon division between earth and sky. you high up on proud brown mare ride into the setting sun, behind you thunderclouds, lighting flashes angrily bid you good-by. ( prolonged shot, the camera zooms back to capture the glorious Technicolor totality of the moment. the soundtrack: one of those conclusive bursts from Mahler’s Symphony #2) close up: leathered skin squinting eyes leather chaps, sweat montages: hot days, cold nights. cut to: lousy food scenes: bouts with lice, barroom fights. a sexy cracking female voice sings: “there is no rest for a killer, nor for the poker playing man, and he can never return to where his life began. no, he can never return to where his life began.” constant change is your blessing, your curse, you’ll never know family, home, or place. no child will call you daddy your memorable moments will be of fleeting happenings. your life: forever new, same old places, gambling, whiskey, stale cigarillos, sagging hotel cots, stained lumpy thin mattresses. ride west ever west, and then, at the pacific where the west ends, drown, but leave your horse at the shore. (the horse paws heartbreakingly at the waters edge.) your life, was meaningless. your existence, pitiful. your heritage, blank pages dust blown. you blew it man. sexy cracking female voice, to a series of flashback”: ‘some things look romantic and adventurist, but they actually ain’t. there never was, nor will there ever be, a rounder who’s a saint. his days short-change numbered, he’ll not die in bed. and when he is at last dead, no more of him said. when he is at last dead, no more of him said.’ (melody is picked up by the harmonica and banjo. long pull-away shot of the horse at the shore, shot from beneath the water.) screen slowly darkens. house lights come on everyone leaves to go someplace. *Klaus Zinner Slobinder, one of Germany’s founding ‘Die Neuen Jungen’. His only western ’Ritt Sattelmann Ritt!’ (‘Ride Saddleman Ride!’-premiered at The Second Koln Avant-Garde Film Festival, 1968, B/W120 min.) was the last of three film before his motorcycle death on his classic SF ‘48 Harley OHV500cc, and was unusual in that it was filmed in one day in Poland and is one of the few in history of the motion picture to be completely ‘camera edited’, that is, the end product is ‘as shot’ (no cutting or editing. The film’s location is presently unknown. xxx The Wharf (on Philip Guston’s painting ‘Wharf’) when we look we become that scene did it dawn that sunset is you, that you are that? xxx Where Are You? a terrible thing has happened since we parted every woman that I see looks exactly like you how will I find you in this crowd? xxx With shameful thanks and apologies to G.G. Belli, brilliant Trasteverian poet 1791-1863-Google him-and his disturbing sonnet ‘Judgement Day’, just credit where justly due. As you will see mine is also disturbing-not nearly as much as his- no matter my attempt at humor. The Final Ending a dozen ducks with trombones to beak will march while playing a tune then stop and shout, “Quack! quack! quack!” duck language for ‘Step back!’ then naked beings will gather round, their hands covering their privates and surround them, like subjects needing an author and the blessed author will be The Big Duck in the sky who will devide them into two parts, male and female one group to go to the bottom, the other to the top and finally a master of ceremonies will appear and, cherishing his fifteen seconds of fame, through a megaphone will shout ‘The Duck has left the building, everybody out’ xxx The River Can Kill You
everything promises to bloom and this will be your day but the river can kill you poor James went in with seven-two and you’re laughing your ass away but the river can kill you bet your pocket highs from behind your shades yet the river can kill you the flop will tell you if you should fold or play but the river can kill you forth street is most often neither here nor there yet the river can kill you you had your fun you took your rides but in the end the river decides xxx Chorus For A Happy Nonsense Poem.
(keep the ‘oomppapa’s’ in the back of your head as you read the words) OOMP PA PA - OOMP PA PA/- OOMP PA PA - OOMP PA PA OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOh......................................... Drap up the flew in a bettle Slep in a brak for the trew Pring on the plip in the brottle And briw a gril of the lew Scring the murd on a prittle And srib a wintenner too... And the brok of the plop The nert of a snop Will shittle and shattle the doo. (repeat last three lines w/oompa’s) (Then entire poem one octave up, then again two octaves down) xxx "Living In The Negative World"
dawn the green sun rises brightening orange sky illuminates black popcorn clouds pale blue skin lady love in white panties and bra has painted her nails green she opens deep orange eyes smiling black teeth sparkle in the morning dark It is spring trees in multitudinous red glory fall will come & they will be clothe in green splendor Tonight, if a clear sky my lady and I will venture out, marvel at the full purplish moon & thousands of black stars in the bright night light xxx Epitaph
Give a hug-squeeze to the first person you chance to see, no matter who or what that person may be Be it a hag, be it a whore, be it a stranger, be it a bore, be it a foe, be it a kin, give ‘em a hug, then hug ‘em again Then, everyone, have a drink, on me, whatever you prefer, fling the glasses into the fireplace and send the bill to Hell xxx |
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