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Blitzliebe
Sparks arc across ocular intervals Scintillating, oscillating
reversals of polarity Swooning in the swing of synchronizing ecstasy Of simultaneous intercognition Instant understanding
in an eyeblink Constant conversation converging Subconscious urges emerging Transmitted in pulsing waves Between
beams of magnetic affinity Embedding interchanging images Of me Looking at you Looking at me Looking at
you Looking at me Looking at you
"Curtis, I have a mouse in my room. What should I do?" "Get
another room." "I did, but not because of the mouse. I asked for a firm mattress. I need something hard to sleep,
you know. But the mouse may come back. What should I do?"
Cattis
Cutting up my translation of Catullus
Shall I now deity minister and Cybele's familiar be? And so to
domicile of Cybele tingling lazily Exhilarate excite from error her anima And with liquid mind saw without what and
where he was Over high seas Attis swift shipped Others incite, others drive rabid. Twin gods' ears with new announcements
referring I cold green Ida's snow-capped locale cultivate And went to woods wrapped opaquely location divine Attis Where
wood-dwelling deer, where forest-wandering boar There sleep fleeing quick away from excited Attis I, a maenad, I part
me, I a man sterile to be And go to their opaque furious lairs There from joined yokes Cybele released the lions Where
cymbal sounds voice, where tympani rebound At the same time furiously inhaling vagrant wades spirit driven The revelers
suddenly with trembling tongues yodel There always all life's space her familiar he was.
Clinton in China
MC Good evening and welcome to Bad Pop Opera. Tonight we bring
you an excerpt from "Clinton in China" with music by minimalist composer Les Johnson and libretto by Hugh Jorgan. Principal
players include the following: As President, former singer for Black Oak Arkansas, Mr. Hot'n'Nasty himself, Jim Dandy; As
First Lady, in a reprisal of her role as Evita Peron, the one and only Madonna Ciccone; And as Premier of the People's
Republic, Kung Fu fighting, fast as lightning, David Carradine. The scene opens with a Chorus of Red Guards responding
to a Chorus of Arkansas Hog Callers.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC The highway is straight but full of holes. When the vase is full, it will soon
tip over.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS The phoenix, the phoenix-- His prestige has gone down.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC Don't throw garbage where you eat, And keep your passion out of the payroll.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS The phoenix, the phoenix-- His prestige has gone down.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC So what's this Monica woman to you?
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC Those who are bound by desire See only the outward container.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC If you don't inspire confidence, You will not be employed.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC Petty thieves are put in chains; Grand larcenists become lords.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC Movement overcomes the cold; Stillness overcomes the heat. Shadows do not
shift.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC Level is the road, But overgrown with weeds.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC An effective state must have food, weapons and confidence. Which one would you
do without? Weapons, then food, but never the confidence of the common people.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC Within the seven seas, all men are brothers. Virtue is to love one another. Wisdom
is to know each other.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC A gentleman helps those in want, But does not make the rich still richer.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
PREMIER OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC If one guides by rules and orders by penalties, People avoid punishment without
moral obligation.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Suey.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Mao.
FIRST LADY I am the wife of Bill Clinton, Who has raised the weak above the strong. Let me be a grain of salt And
I shall taste eternal grief.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Grief.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Grief.
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Grief.
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS Grief.
FIRST LADY Don't cry for me, Beijing, China.
BILL CLINTON Slick Willie to the rescue! Slick Willie to the rescue!
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS Go Slick Willie! Go Slick Willie!
BILL CLINTON You've got to fight (Stomp, stomp.) For your right (Stomp, stomp.) To Party!!!!!!
PREMIER OF PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC Then let a hundred flowers bloom
CHORUS OF RED GUARDS A hundred flowers
CHORUS OF ARKANSAS HOG CALLERS A hundred flowers
BILL CLINTON A hundred flowers bloom.
MC So that's the way it is. Have a good night and a better tomorrow.
Dawn Joy Marks
What kind of cat can I be?
A whopsical cat, a topsical cat, A slumbering cat on a mat Below
a flickering hearth Becomes cats of many colors: Brindled and calico, rusted in the sun, Or Siamese, if you please.
Ears which twitch at phantom mews Of cats who were and are yet
to be: Krazy Kat, Felix, Mr. Jenks, Chester Cheetohs, Morris the Cat, Ruff's pal Reddy, Sylvester, Jr. Puss in
Boots, Ptah, Dick Whittington's cat, Mungo Jerry, King Leonardo, Pepe Le Piu, The Lion King--now how about that?--
Jag-you-are, ocelot, Cheetah Chrome. What about a lynx or almighty sphinx? That is the question.
What kind of cat can I be?
Fer Jimmy Bower
I have just emerged From the fiery pits of hell To tell of
the terrible loneliness Of those who dwell within
Forsaken by family Forgotten by friend Eternity of agony Torment
without end
On my burning brainpan Teardrops hop In a danse macabre Sizzling
into dissipation.
Flitcraft
What if?
Abduction; Retroduction: Reasoning back or away from A
premise in the optative mood To determine a functional apparatus.
See if it works.
What if you do it this way?
Imagine, if you can, approaching Every decision with this criterion.
What if everyone did?
Would the world be different Or what?
What if?
Heal Thyself
Physicians oppose guideline algorithms Used in court as standards
of care.
"Only 15% of practice is evidence, the rest is interpretation -- Which
turns medicine from a science to an art, Because there is always a human factor."
"Smile for the nice doctor, precious!"
Focus
"This is Amy. Hypertonic tension Had clenched her hands into a
clawlike rictus. She had lost her ability to grasp. Eventually her internal organs were likewise affected. We
did all we could do, But she died a year later."
A hot rush swept over me And a deep welling of the soul Poured
down my cheek Until I could taste The salt of the earth.
National Poetry Month
What is a poem?
Is verse really motivated By sudden spontaneous overflow of feeling
-- Xora erupting from the fell grasp of the sable-robed Underworld Like a pomegranate exploding While the shimmering
drapes of Aurora Radiate effulgent iridescence?
Or is it actually calculated craft That rings false if too artful
Lacking a core of recognition Which is the basis of remembrance Engraving an epitaph for eternity?
Incredible.
And somewhere there is music Between the buzz of the nerves And
the throb of the heart, And this rhythm and noise interacting Propels the poem onward and upward.
It is this music which is encoded In the spiral oscillations of
cerebral nucleotides.
But something is lost in the translation That can only be regained
by enlightened interpretation -- An incandescent reflection flickering as it fades to virtual afterimage: The
wink of the stranger on the hearth opening vistas of deja vu ; But are they things we really want to see? The shudder
of nostalgia horripilating goosebumps When we know who's next.
NeoExpressionist Exhibition
I want to paint New Orleans in the red spasms of agony of
a victim at a voodoo rite; in the creamy chalky white of the payoff at a chicken drop; in the soft pale blue
of a sultry humid sky fading into a mood indigo. So don't forget the Carnival purple and make that cold drink ernge! I
want to paint New Orleans inside- out with its guts as well as its glory. I want to paint it with its pants down bending
over backwards sticking its head where the sun will never shine. I want to paint its crime and vice and overwhelming
selfish stupidity: The slanting squint of the silent assailant and the clutching grasp of the greedy grabber; the
foot of the law on the chest of the oppressed: the throbbing heart of the weeping mother. I want to paint New Orleans
laughing, sneering, grinning, blushing; Anguish & sorrow—repentance & regret; Praying & swearing:promising
& lying --eating & drinking:living & dying; Singing, shouting, screaming ------ And whispering something
sweet with more than a hint of spice. I want to paint New Orleans splattering Charity Hospital afterbirth
with the spew of forgotten fathers and the maggot-laden scum of stagnant dumps with yellow pus oozing from gangrene-riddled
sores while a disconcerted surgeon beeps his stockbroker signifying the ultimate corruption of the soul the writhing
of a gnawing worm buried deep in the blooming bud of a well-pruned convent camellia. I want to squirt the squirarchy's
stinging spleen in the sullen stares of the bloody bourgeoisie. I want to squeak the shattered skulls of private
school preppies across a creaking cracking slate in screeching obscene swastikas And shoot my steaming seed on
the face of a squirming debutante Screwed, blued and jigsaw puzzle tattooed. I want to paint New Orleans' streets
and trees—gutters and steeples; A puking tourist glinting in the blink of a sweaty mule; Purple roaches and
orange rats stalking and exterminating blue dogs and red cats; sculptors, poets, dancers and homeless; junkies,
drunks, gamblers and thieves; the shrewd, the gullible, the prejudiced, the mad: I want to paint all of New Orleans
and especially All of you here now watching me saying this.
New Year’s Meditation
Teetering on the brink of tomorrow, Are we having fun yet? Pop,
pop goes le bubbly above Echoed by the brewsky below, Are we really having fun?
Armchair linebackers Elbow through the crowd Venting frustration
in anticipation Of a Superdome Sugar Bowl They could see better at home, But there's nothing like being there
Written off as a business expense.
As the fog lifts and the fireworks fade, Are we still having fun?
Tokyo stockbrokers Contemplate the rising sun As we sleep off fun, fun, fun Till papasan takes the T-Bird away.
The party's over, let's go to work.
Panther Spoor
A Subjective Sorites
A high-school senior in 1969 tried to shock A hook-nosed, silver-bunned
spinster By turning in a term paper about Soul on Ice ---- She shocked him by giving the composition an A-
Who iced Eldridge? Apparatus of oppression Omnipotent Administrator
Nightmare food on Patmos Heart torn in two upon the flaming crux Crime: Crotchfunk soulrape As-salaam aliakum
Leave it to Cleaver You took the best, so why not take the rest? Freedom now a Mao Mao Competition is the
law of the jungle Supermasculine menial, come forth Safe, passive apolitical nonparticipatory islands High-siding
and low-riding, Seeking asylum in Folsom, liberated from a doctrine of hate Look into the disturbance Lumumba,
Nkruma, Kenyatta. The fallout: The Smashed Banana Dancing fool stings like a bee Ethnic self-hatred bleached out
Hordes insurgents freeze Counter-revolutionary bourgeois ideology He's got the devil's eyes That by which
he defined himself No longer has a recognizable identity And they are outraged You're only spreading disunity
Drained off as pus from a sore I don't dig this action any more Logical and reciprocal links Biological miscegenation
Primeval mitosis Locked in cold storage Universal Democracy of Cowards Coincide with the gulf Extirpates
domestic component Quest for the apocalyptic fusion The world is hemophiliac; blood is a lubricant Understand
what's bugging you: Trees, screams, nightriders, fear, Totalitarian squares, fraudulent and pretentious Unfathomable
subconscious machinery Dehydrated oasis Profound personal crisis Alienated from the status quo Butterflies,
squats, windmills They just sound like keys in propria persona Come out of her, my people Vomit out the poisons
of hate Foulest decay and putrid savagery All in scrambled suits To understand what is at stake here Sluggish,
compromising, and drag-footed Feeding the conflagration Appropriating his heritage Strangelove's foreign policy
collapses, completely shattered America slowly awakes: We are a very sick country Unchartered amorphous league: Ofay
Watchers Anonymous They too are victimized, neo-colonial puppet regimes Intending to explain the Trinity with an analogy
to 3-in-1 Oil It is an explosive issue, the masses' response to charisma Grinding cameras and extended microphones
You can't slander the dead.
Pardoner’s Sac
We open The Enquirer to find the following notice: (ALLEGED)
CALCUTTA MIRACLE TISSUE!
First, the shroud of Turin; next, the vision of Lourdes! Now,
you too can have the tissues used by Mother Teresa To cover her head during Holy Mass. Tissues pure enough for the
sweat and tears of a saint. Hold them up to the light, Say a hundred Hail Marys, And you'll be amazed what you
see Interwoven among the fibers. What reliquary, lacrimatory, or sudarium Has powers such as these? Need we
invoke the Holy Grail Or guilt and personal recriminations While the poorest of the poor grovel for crusts? Blessed
be they who shall inherit the earth. (a portion of proceeds will be donated to the Ronald McDonald Foundation) Only
$6.66 plus $3.33 handling! Not sold in stores! Get yours today! Call now and have your credit card number ready! 1-900-MIRACLE
and ask for Simon.
Tissues also available for the phlegm Of one formerly known as
Princess. For the more sanguine sensibility, Please see our ad, page 84, For auto upholstery embossed With
the imprint of a British royal profile.
Polemic Plight
An opera, an epic, a saga of the sea, If I could sing one of these,
Oh, how joyful would I be. Yet I sit lonely in my room Brooding in a nimbus of doom, Breathing in sharp ozone
stench, Would that I were Latin or French; Ions gathering negative potential, Would that I were Walter Winchell.
Groping for the rhyme sublime, With ridicule must I bide my time. No flash, no clap, not even a number As
from the heights to the plain I stumble; Crawling up to crouch and stumble again. This is all that I can mumble: Who
do you want? Brian Gumble? Even he would not bumble Letting all his talents fumble Into unintelligible jumble
Making everybody grumble Turning into a rough and tumble On Wolverton Heath with the Wombles Careening through
briars and brambles: Have you had enough examples Of word salad sturm und drang klang?
Rakeman
Raking the yard, raking the yard I've spent my life raking the
yard; How I ever hate raking the yard. Pull back and again and again Back and forth. Don't miss a spot If
you do, you're in trouble, And'll have to do it over again Even at night with only the porchlight -- Not an easy
thing for a child of six, Handle chafing stigmata in the palms. The eternal return -- My stepfather treated me
like a bastard: Boxes, cuffs, and backhands spiced with vitriolic stings And don't forget the backhand compliment
Damning with faint praise: "He may have made Star, but he'll never be an Eagle." Well, I got him. This time
it was a hoe, not a rake; same drag, different tool. I was edging around the foundation in the hot summer sun When
he came home for lunch And strolled around the house inspecting my work ''How many times do I have to tell you It's
got to be perfectly even. See, around those pipes -- you missed some. Get down on your knees and pull them, do you
don't dull the hoe." I glared as I gripped, tendons taut in my wrist He went on and on and on. I took out my file
and started to sharpen -- Grating and grinding, sparks flew. "You're rubbing it the wrong way!" Then I ------
well, you know the rest. Raking the yard, raking the yard, Raking the dirt in the prison yard; Turning big lumps
into little. Raking the yard, raking the yard, I'll spend my life raking the yard; Do I ever hate raking the yard.
Rap Sheet
I want to kill a cop They've never helped me when I needed them
And always hassled me whenever they could Predators do not prey on other predators Both cops and crooks chase
chickens They're both in the business of crime Looking for easy victims to fleece A wolf in cheap clothing is
bad enough, But what happens when you trust a fox? I want to kill the cop who asked me What I was doing with those
girls in the garage. I want to kill the cop who came to my school When I cut Clyde "Sonny" Landreth's tires. I
want to kill the cop who swiped my groceries After arresting me for shoplifting I want to kill the cop who laughed
at me When I stormed into the station, face streaming blood After getting jumped by a gang of greasers we had given
a ride I want to kill the cop who took my picture at an anti-war rally. I want to kill the cop who locked up my buddy
After grilling him about every burglary in town When we got caught with a carload of empty Coke bottles Behind
a convenience store. "Yeah, watch me jump this ditch!" I want to kill the cop who interrupted my courtship Late one
night on a country road. I want to kill the cop who refused to arrest the guy Who stole my motorcycle after friends
helped me track him down. I want to kill the cop who told me he'd heard I said He had sex with a teenage girl in exchange
for letting her date go. I want to kill the cop who took an hour to search our van When we turned around on a wharf
Looking for a parking place on our way to a concert. Luckily, he didn't find anything. I want to kill the cops
who killed the kids In Chicago, Detroit, Jackson, Kent, Selma and Watts. I want to kill the cop who told me I couldn't
hitchhike on the expressway And made me walk a mile to the next exit. I want to kill the cop who kicked out my legs
from under me While frisking me against my car. I want to kill the cop who performs the rectal probes at the airport.
I want to kill the cop with the radar gun hiding like a highway robber. I want to kill the cop who tapped our phone
The night before Nixon came to town. I want to kill the cop who sided with A casual acquaintance of my ex-wife
Who assaulted me during a property dispute. I want to kill the cop who pulled me over For cutting in front of
him to get on the expressway. I want to kill the cop who let go the guy Who cracked my skull against a brick wall.
I want to kill the cop guarding a construction site Who pulled me over for DWI for no reason other Than that he
was bored and had nothing better to do. I want to kill the cop who let go the guy Who broke a beer bottle across my
face. I want to kill the cop who rifled my pockets After a blowout in the rain skidded into a used car lot. Luckily,
he didn't find everything. I want to kill the cop who ticketed me After I was hit from behind by the daughter of a
TV sportscaster. I want to kill the cop who killed a construction worker Who whistled at a white woman. He said
the victim had threatened him with a brick. I want to kill the cop who wrote me after a hit and run, "The results
of our scientific investigation reveal that your car was hit by a car with green paint. There are several cars in
our city with green paint." Case closed. I want to kill the cop who sneaked up on me when I was taking a leak. I want
to kill the cop who refused to take fingerprints From a screwdriver used to strip down my motorcycle. I want to kill
the cop who asked me whether I wanted to keep The pint of whiskey he found in my pocket After going through that yellow
light. I want to kill the Tulsa cop who told me to get out of town before sundown. I want to kill the cop who arrested
me for having an open container On the street after I put it in a trashcan. I want to kill the cop who came to my
apartment after a break-in And seemed to be investigating me. What difference does it make what books I read, What
movies I watch, what music I play. No fingerprints taken then either. I want to kill the cop who brings blood-spattered
faces Into emergency rooms saying they fell down Getting into the car. Fresh streams of scarlet Flowing across
channels etched in crusted crimson. I want to kill the cop who ticketed me for not having a license plate Two days
after I reported it stolen with my tires, battery and radio. I want to kill the cops spending my tax money. I want
to kill the cops guarding the gates of GM And our country's interests with an ICBM. I want to kill the cops who guard
the White House, The Kremlin, And mother-loving Buckingham Palace. But what I really want to do Is kill the cop
in all of you. What I want, actually, Is kill the cop inside of me. All right, I'll do what you say; Just
don't shoot me, OK!
The Rapier to the Bludgeon
A Juvenalian Exercise Written under the influence of two Coca-Colas Being
a Polemic for Food Poets Who are too polite to defend themselves Invoking Tisiphone and Her Sisters, The Eumenides
Spare us from The Ashcan School Spare us from The Worm’s
Eye View Save us from the vulgar doggerel drivel Of Militant Mediocrity rhymin’n’slimin’ “We’re
all in the gutter, But some of us look at the stars.” The self-appointed censors, The self-appointed
arbiters, The self-appointed literary dictators; Cato, Petronius, and Dr. Goebbels All rolled into a loudmouthed
louse. “If you don’t have something nice to say, Don’t say anything at all.” So
what is your education? And what are your qualifications? Must I run down my pedigree For a pack of pesky pound puppies Lapping
up their own puke? After a dozen years of scholarships, I want to give sweetness and light Back to the
public that paid for them In taxes and petrodollars. So don’t tell me I can’t quote Because
you’ve got sour grapes Because I was doing my homework While you were in the can getting stupid. Was
T.S. Eliot a plagiarist? “De gustabus non disputandem” I don’t like coffee and There’s
nothing you can tell me To convince me it tastes good. And what about your taste? Smoking crack—is
that good taste? Shooting smack—is that good taste? What have you to tell us about The City of Dreadful
Night That hasn’t been said better By Coleridge, DeQuincy, or Anna Kavan? Or ar you just a junkie
wannabe Like Edgar Allen Poe? Who cares if your thumbs are up or down When you’ve got one in your
mout and One where the sun won’t shone and Can’t tell which is which Whenever you switch? You
say you like life in the raw; I’ll take mine well-done With some of that special sauce, S’il vous plait. En
guarde! Et toi, Brute! Touche!
September Psalm
First chill following a sweltering summer; Drizzle patters on
the trees outside. I curl beneath the covers; Lady Day croons through the wall.
I've been tired, so tired. I don't look forward to work. Age
creeps ever onward, And what have I accomplished?
This is no ode to autumn, No lingering lament on death, Only
the seasons changing, While for me all is the same.
A phone rings unanswered next door; Leaves rustle in the wind.
For whom am I writing?
Loneliness and oblivion, Obscurity without end. But not without
a friend.
Those of you who read this May sometimes feel as I: Life is
not always a party, But that's no reason to die.
Spirit of St. Louis Cannibalized
An Occasional Envelology
William Burroughs is dead Dead as a stainless steel spike.
Queer -- Junkie -- Naked Lunch -- Nova Express -- Soft Machine.
The exterminator on the job mainlining the 3rd mindmeld.
No more wild boys in the cities of the red night No more big black
centipedes at twilight's last gleaming No more snide talking assholes paging Dr. Benway No more no more no
more Nothing here now but the recordings And the reek of air-sole Nikes: Victorious demiurge arching wings While
a chorus of cash registers rings.
-- Tangerine Tapesplice --
Hanging out while the hung jury rigs Mr. Bradley Mr. Martin, the
Heavy Metal Kids, Steely Dan and the Great Brown Race.
Radioactive viral engrams consummating critical mass; William
Tell's champagne glass shattered to sundry shards: Abandoned artifacts Ah Pook was here, And now it's Nowheresville,
The ticket that exploded.
Meanwhile, back in Interzone -- Orgone accumulator right on target:
Towers Open Fire! Shooting up! Shooting off!
William Burroughs is dead: No, no. He's cut up, folded in.
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