As we know all governments lie to manage their voters
who are manipulated by corporate donors, who pay
for the brain-washing bouts named campaigns to bring
us the Manchurian candidates. Look:
Bush changed the constitution, privacy’s become a tactic
of concealment not cherished quiet; where idiots
inform so they’re not caught first, turned against ourselves.
What we accept – cops execute citizens, black and white;
requiring the decency promised becomes riotous protest,
while gangsters in power bankrupt the system then get
rewarded: we’re fleas on their patios as they sit back, cool
and undisturbed in a resource rich environment they betray.
We’re the environment, the resource: these
billionaires the system of repeated history, the disease.
People with money pay less than poverty line wages, absent
conscience while they aid foreigners; ignoring
the new-born natives as they please to call themselves Christians.
Religion is managed, a tool for distraction; believe in
Jesus, or no soup for you: believe in Al, or off with your head
say the Red Queens. You weren’t using it, anyway. We’re
all statistics according to the Who’s Who.
Music is for stooges with no brains who accept celebrity
dunces dancing as if electrocuted. Impossible prices for
seats at concerts? Corporate tools took over royalties, killing
earned rewards. Everyone
keeps their minds shut, heads down, necks bent. In position.
Enshrined stupidity’s the problem: everything you do, not
revealing such truth, serves as familiar worship of these idiocracies.
Whispers. There they were again.
Whispers, whispers. Like midnight leaves in a summer breeze. Cousin Harold kept hearing more whispers.
“Wtf!”thought Cousin Harold. First he checked his ass, due to an unfortunate situation last year when he’d mistakenly eaten a cookie laced with high-grade medical marijuana and ended up believing he was a dog romping on the playing floor with his host’s beast, named Jack.
And every time Harold would let one rip, he’d scour the living room and kitchen on his hands and knees looking for the source of the ‘bark.’
Thus poor Cousin Harold’s endless search ever since for the mysterious whispers. A victim, finally, of his own disturbed flatulence. Still, it did make him long for the old days when the other kids would see him and yell, “Pooter’s coming! Pooter’s here!” and head for the hills….
‘I know it. It’s that Terry and Crankypants, they’re cooking up a conspiracy. Those fuckers are doing it, I know’ murmured Cousin Harold. ‘I’d best check up on them.’
Cousin Harold slowly climbed the stairs, sneakily, he thought, moving with great stealth and wisdom to eavesdrop.
Upstairs however, Terry and Crankypants were engaged in what they believed was a mature discussion, at last relieved of the presence of Cousin Harold, with his endless interruptions, eructations, and laughter at his own jokes.
Terry said, “Shhh. Listen. That crazy fucker is coming up the stairs.”
Crankypants, ever the dissembler, and provocateur, whispered, ‘Let’s make him believe we don’t know he’s there.’
‘Ok,’ Terry said, delighted to have a co-conspirator to help him from the tremendous migraines of never being able to get back at Cousin Harold, his knob of a brother. In fact, if anyone other than Crankypants, who had her own evil grin, had seen him that moment, he would have been giving off a glow.
As Cousin Harold settled back on the stairs to listen, Terry and Miss Crankypants revved it up.
Terry, “I really like his poetry. Especially the one about honey. If I remember rightly, it goes like this – and by the way, this is my favorite of his fuck poems – so let me recite:
‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I want to fuck you. Fuck. And you. And you too. Fuck fuck fuck. Suck. Suck suck suck. That’s it, bitch. I love you. Fuck fuck fuck.’
Crankypants acted as if overcome by emotion, “Oh, Terry, isn’t he brilliant! A literary giant. I understand why all those beautiful women and beautiful barely legal girls end up on his Facebook and following his blogs.”
All the while she was grimacing as if passing the stone that closed the door on the tomb of Jesus. It was that kind of holy reaction.
She absolutely could not stand the mere intimation that Cousin Harold was slavering over those juicy wenches.
Cousin Harold listened, wide-eyed and tempted to blare out his hiding spot, “Those fuckheads! Fuck me gently! I’m going to have some ‘teaching’ to do.
Cousin Harold started reminiscing about giving pivots(the sudden and slight push down on the back of the head of the surprised victim, causing their neck to take up the sudden weight and spring up like one of those early drinking bird old gomers used to put up in the back of their rear car windows), and enjoying the person’s outraged resistance to another.
Terry and Crankypants were thoroughly enjoying Cousin Harold’s discomfort. Now they were the genius!
Which prompted Terry to begin again, “Yes, he’s such a genius!” all the while twirling one finger against the side of his head.
And this of course made Crankypants all aglitter with joy, since finally here was a fellow of like-mind, one who believed as she did, that Cousin Harold may well be a genius, but he was one disturbed fucker.
Suddenly, their conversation turned serious, with Terry giving off waves of brotherly concern. If Cousin Harold has been there, he would have asked, ”Are you melting?” enlivening another display of outrage on the side of both Terry and Miss Crankypants.
“I’m worried about him, you know. He has no money, you don’t have any but you have hillbillies for fambly, still Harold has nowhere to go, and his health isn’t the best what with all those high-blood pressure pills(thereby confirming Cousin Harold’s belief that no one connected his high blood pressure with Miss Crankypants manner of behavior), the sleeping pill, the anti-depressant, and the pill for that godawful hiatal hernia,” Terry said.
And what about the fact that he’s getting older, with no employment to show for all these decades. His government pension when he does get one will probably come postage due, the dumb ass.”
Miss Crankypants concurred,”I know, Terry. He’s got nothing and nowhere to go. I’m afraid when we get to Kentucky he’ll probably starting making fun of my Mom and Dad and they’ll throw his ass in the pond. I mean, I love him as a friend (and here Cranky winked), but there are limits.
If anyone’s going to throw him in the pond, it ought to be me.’
And here Terry and Miss Crankypants roared with laughter.
Terry said, “And if you did that, then we’d have to arrange for long term care for him. And I sure got an idea , or a few we could implement.”
Miss Crankypants practically shat herself with excitement, “What! What!” temporarily forgetting that Cousin Harold was probably listening. And reminding Cousin Harold again of the look he’d get whenever Crankypants would prattle endlessly about something he considered irrelevant and he would start making the sound the aliens make in the movie Mars Attacks! ‘Ack, ack! Ack, ack ack!’
She almost grew blisters on her ass every time he did that, and especially when it was in front of other people who mistakenly considered her normal.
‘That fucker,’ she thought to herself.
“I know”, said Miss Crankypants. “Remember when he threatened me if I didn’t shut up, and who’s he to talk, he never shuts his pie hole, always yakking and talking about his bullshit and (at this point Terry tuned out…)…… and then said he’d drug me, tie me to a wheelchair, put a hat on my head with a little pillbox and flower coming out of it, and put lipstick all around my lips as if I was drunk and leave me at some church, with some fucking sign on me..”
“We can do it to him! I know.”
“Let’s say we plan ahead. We’ll get him to some place where there are no slim white women who are in any way attractive. We’ll tell them he loves big dumb fat nurses, and that he has a problem with constipation.
That way they’ll make sure that he’s forced fed laxatives, and his dick will die a lonely death!”
Crankypants piped in, “And we’ll tell them that he can’t stand chocolate, he hates porn, and he loves Baptist preachers coming to proclaim the Word at least once a day! Plus he believes in daily enemas, likes to have someone read that Patterson asshole’s works to him, and he most assuredly needs company every day and night as often as possible, and if the person is self-possessed and opinionated, that would be best as he loves know-it-alls!”
Terry and Miss Crankypants were practically starting to believe in Santa, and Jesus and magic all at once. They could almost not contain themselves.
Cousin Harold sitting on the edge of the stairs had practically turned into one long fart of rage and disgust.
“And not to forget, Terry, he cannot possibly live without his television, and rap music. All that ‘bongo bongo bongo I don’t wanna leave the Congo‘ he starts yelling the minute what he calls k-rap music comes on is just a fib to make it less obvious how much he adores being yelled at by enraged retards,” said a delighted Miss Crankypants, imagining her life with a Cousin Harold held hostage by the system he disdained.
“And, Terry said, “he must have his Reader’s Digests, and any literature by Christian Scientists, 7th Day Adventists, and most specifically, Scientology, which I believe he quoted something from Elmore Leonard’s books, applied of course to something else, as “‘ice cream for freaks.’”
“Perhaps, even the Jehovah’s Witnesses, will make an exception and drop in…” whispered Crankypants.
It continued, and Cousin Harold was alight with methane and revenge.
He began to plan.
In wanders Sparky, happy as a pup, though you could never tell this pup
had a piece of brain lodged in his head.
Boris Karloff boots, polyester pants that themselves will constitute an
environmental hazard well into the next century, yet carefully designed to ride
a fashionable three inches above the white gym socks.
Bearing his gourmand’s picnic of potato chips, a litre or two of carbonated gas,
a few Twinkies, and a stale cigar, Sparky laughs at nothing. Fists the air
when nobody’s there, chuckling to himself… a regular party of those who can rightfully establish
the claim to rise at the crack of noon.
The uninhibited belches, amid some stage acts of softly enunciated sophomoric
silliness of versified romance and ethereality, are the best though.
The dykes-on-bikes are extremely unhappy and lash out, making Boris
laugh like Jethro Bodine, famous brain surgeon.
But we know it’s all because of his old ivory, the snaggle-toothed piano-playing mothersqueezer..
“What’s your name?”
“What do you do?”
“I stare at the moon.”
There’s just no stopping the new, and oldest, democracy.
excerpt from FAT ALBERT’S OUTPATIENT FOLK CLINIC…..A coffeehouse, café as society…”Acid wit, deep insight, humor, powerful metaphor, intelligence…. A smooth ride on a bumpy road, with side trips into unseen hollows of the human experience…. What else do you need to know? An excellent read, worth sharing far and wide… More, please….” Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts: to folksingers, the troubled and disturbed, open mic nights everywhere.
There must be flood warnings somewhere since it’s rolling thunder, a deluge of rain and the so-called patio is crowded with one cat taking refuge under the overhang, the puppy’s caged under a blanket with air flowing low from the wind-driven water, and I’m sitting back enjoying fresh coffee and god-forbid-tobacco.
I’m looking upward across the sky from one reach of my head to another like some broken tick-tock metronome, or Stevie Wonder shaking his head in disbelief that this is no longer Motown: each of us equally resembling a crouched Praying Mantis communicating with distant stars, though more likely nurturing a disagreeable thrum of methane, non-bespoke.
Wishing for the apocalypse or something equally fractious against the boom and gloom since the storm could not possibly be its own raison d’être.
Underneath me moles are in alarum, deer are tramping down their insecurities, while foxes and the occasional possum stretch across the fields a few hundred yards away in a refreshing optimism that perhaps the chattering classes – God, myth, that bitch, that dick, fuckme, etc. – are about to meet the great Shut The Fuck Up.
No such luck however as rain subsides, the tap’s turned off; the cat TroubleMaker slides across the lawn chair seat to groom and stare, the coffee’s running out in opposition to the rain, clouds of cigarette smoke lift us both away, and I, the great Tick Tock, shuffle my head backwards and sideways, a foregone retard with no thoughts or solemnity called prayers for what may come or not these days.
The sciatic twinge is but an ache
if I move or wake which I do lately
since a tweak or twist
lifts boards that creak and break, allowing
in floods of light and bugs that bite
while the puppy shifts in her cage
suggesting rage as I raise the coffee cup
beneath the rare Redwood tree
in its imperiousness and disdain
as one more day dawns from fractured sleep
the lawns cut forest paths against
Coyotes howling where deer watch the foxes
cross and cry as snakes slumber
like broken twigs
while duties have yet to arise to interfere
with the stilled calm I don’t name
in this prayer of love I ask to change
the direction in which the smoke
from fires rearranged will float and drift
then blow to call the living into shape
as though my spirit meets your own
without thoughts of what is or may be known
My mind’s a thread unwinding; I
pluck at darkness, which falls.
It won’t let the stupids out; it
suffers them to bray and shout,
these Attic businessmen and women:
busy, they are knitting spirit doilies.
Must I endure like a disease the bad
and bright side of the living’s enemies?
But who am I asking? We are so
few than farther between might be.
You cannot hear me; you are denying everything,
soiled by the crossways unclean:
strapped in a cocoon of the secondary.
We share this conspiracy of silence
where you speak and trivia fills the air
like mental confetti supposedly shot out
to focus, pinpoint and provide the relief
of perspective: nothing altered or anointed.
Or I talk and you pretend it’s too deep,
unfair so not quite what you’d agree with
since nobody else is standing there saying
you have a brain lodged in your head, too.
Maybe you get on stage slander and malign,
saying nothing but you shake your tits; and
lie, and the idiots fall in line for the pretty
nor caring that even your tits are lies.
It could be everyone’s not afraid though fear
thrums the air like quicksilver panic about,
almost willing to break out, to drive through
the Doom Machine
contrived of dining on doubt, no doubt sadistically.
When your outrage mangles your vocabulary
as you settle for the constabulary of
correctness, strangling awhile on certainty
and alarm mistaking
confession for the charm of forsaken humanity.
You’ve become so polite you cannot get
along with yourself; accommodate ideas
no one holds
for themselves, and in your paralysis
cannibalize what is served up with each breath.
Here, in the so-called civilized West, we call
that culture; where the giants of industry teach
how you must pay
no attention to those who provide what
you have learned to categorically deny.
Almost a mystery you know too well to
recognize; unless you’re abducted by crops
which materialize out of nowhere again
to confirm each illusion you cherish.
That such is not dirt in your eyes to distract,
while those in this nation of spies watch
carefully where you walk:
to finally fall as another steps in
to begin a new empire of bloody disguise.