Monthly Archives: January 2009

I Kissed A Goat

Sometimes, you fight doggerel with more doggerel…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I Kissed A Goat

Katie Perry kissed a girl
Then alerted all the world
Half the planet sang along
I think that she got it wrong

When she stopped to think about
What he’d say if he found out
She should have told him to fuck off
And find a boy to kiss himself

All this over one small kiss
From cherry-coated chapsticked lips
Do us a favor and write a new one
And this time, get your freak flag on

Write one called "I Kissed A Goat"
Or "Did It With Oprah On A Boat"
Or "I Never Liked Boys Anyway
And I Kissed Her ‘Cuz It Felt OK"

Transgressing stale old boundaries
Might make some coin from wannabes
Or rile a Fundamentalist
(Who wishes that he’d seen that kiss)

But most of us around these parts
Believe in kissing from the heart
And whether your boyfriend minds or not
Is totally beside the point


Islanders (last draft for a while — not feeling it anymore)

sanctuary
is often disguised
as lava
boiling out of the sea
in poisonous fog
where hell breaks
the waves

surtsey
rose like this
the galapagos
the azores and canaries
and all of hawai’i

paradise found
rising wreathed in toxins
from the gaping seams
of tattered old
pangea

we barely waited for them to cool
before we landed

the old world had
its dangers too


Weird…

Both Ricardo Montalban and Patrick McGoohan, actors who played characters associated with mysterious islands, died today.

And here I sit working on the poem I posted yesterday called "Islanders…"


Bohemian Rhapsody

The dishes in the sink are growing weeds
so I’m blogging about Gaza
The money’s falling out of my wallet
so here’s a little news about actors

The trees are full of longhorn beetles
and I swear I love the smell of my old socks
The smoke eater’s out of commission
and my head’s wearing headphones without me
The ferret needs to come out and play
so I’m sitting with a book near the window
and contemplating jazz as God-metaphor

I stick freeware in my ears
so I don’t hear the doorbell
There’s a lottery ticket lungfish crawling on the dirty kitchen floor
looking for the next pool to enter

There are a lot of global evils to vanquish today
They’re making me hungry for a perfect cheese
served with a microbrew
on an overdone gas bill
I’ll eat it with relish
while nodding off to classic rock
in an assuredly postmodern sort of way
while wading in shallows
deep enough to drown in


Farewell, No. 6…

Patrick McGoohan, 80, passes on.

drgeorge , I’m looking at you….


Murder Ballad: The Zipper (2nd revision)

When you die
you are given a choice
on how you will be reincarnated:
not
"animal or human,"
but
"animate or inanimate."
I chose the latter and
bang,
I’m smiling tonight,
every chrome tooth showing
all the time whether my mouth is closed
or open.  It’s satisfying
to be protecting this,
concealing this awful wrecked face
from his wailing next of kin,
so they don’t have to confront
how useless their son of a bitch relative
was and still is.

It’s going to be a long cold ride
from here to the morgue.
I’m perfect
for the job:  I was this cold in life,
and dark as the stiff plastic
I’m clutching now.  My burden
is leaking blood and I’m uncaring,
knowing it’ll all be over soon.

I wanted to be a guitar
but at least I get
to play one exquisite note
three times.
How many guitars
get to say they’ve played a man
from death to forgetting? 
I’m a rockstar
at last, if only a one hit wonder:
when they’re done with me,
I know they’ll burn me up.

Next time, I’ll be a fly.
Once you’ve found your calling,
you stick with it.


Ambition

They say
the universe is still expanding.
I can’t always be bothered to check.

One of these days
I’ll sit down and say,
"That’s enough.

Let someone else find
the leading edge."
I should have said it by now,

I tell myself.  Something keeps
me watching the stars, trying
to detect their flight from me.

In one second, I think I see it,
in the next, I’m sure I can’t. 
I watch us dying for plots of holy land

real or imagined, for thoughts
triggered from visions of perfection.
I think we’re all beside the point.

We’re all just human, impossibly stupid
under the blown-out dome
of space. It’s improbable that we’re here,

insignificant that I try and tell my story
when it’s exactly like every other story
ever told:  I want love, immortality,

power over my surroundings,
warmth in cold and cold in warmth.
Always on the wrong side of the moment.

If the universe is expanding,
I’m the center.  Farther away from my limits
every time the clock moves.

One of these days, I’ll say,
"enough," and it will be.  It may be enough now
that I know that.  There was never anything

to be created here that hasn’t been created already
in the rush of light and dark toward…
what’s out there, beyond what we know? Oh…

settling down to watch.


Head colds/body aches

suck.  I’m feeling better but slept most of the day…sorry to have missed Cowboy at GPL . Hope it went well tonight.


Corner

There is a corner —
always, there’s a corner,

perhaps with a bed crammed into it,
or perhaps it’s the end cushion of a worn couch. 

Sometimes your back
is pressed against cold walls

while you look out
upon a small room.

Sometimes
there is a window, sometimes

there is a door.
Sometimes,

all there is
is blindness,

your face crushed
into an angle

that lets nothing
in.


No Asylum for me tonight.

I’m honestly just not up to seeing people.

Kick butt, johnnylexicon  . I’m sorry I won’t be there.   Have fun, everyone else.


Because three weeks of bombing and shooting just isn’t enough…

Israel warns Gaza residents: We’ve only just begun…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

in an open field
in farmland
among the rocks
of mountains
among the dunes
of a desert
in a boat
on a cove
or out at sea

enemies are small targets
on a background
hard to hit
without someone’s strenuous effort

but in cities
the bodies are packed
so close

it is hard to tell
who exactly has died
until after a city’s fabric is torn
into mourning garments
bandages
flags

so what someone has to do
is drop enough bombs
in enough places
fire enough bullets
into enough walls
cover enough of the street grid
with enough clusters and bursts of flame
to ensure
that the targets
desired will be struck

if the barrage rips off
the heads of children
the arms of anonymous old men
the faces of doppelgangers
for old enemies

they will remain uncounted as anything more
than strings from the ragged hems of war

until a face
found unstitched from its skull
can be identified as a target
after the fact

then someone can declare the garment
finished

and the scraps can be swept away


Having a good week…

Earlier today, Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz (twosnoos , of course, or one half, anyway) posted a link to a website that deals in current events related poetry:  The New Verse News .  I submitted something right away as the idea intrigued me — a website that uses poetry as a form of journalism.

They’ve accepted "Matters of Controversy,"  my recent piece on the Gaza disaster.  It’ll be up on Saturday.

So…two poems and a chapbook manuscript accepted this week; also, the Indiefeed feature last Friday. 

That’s it —  I’m taking tomorrow off.

Thanks, Cristin, for looking out for us…

OH — and sorry for missing out on both Storytellers and poker tonight, everyone.  Just couldn’t get out the door…


Just got this email:

"As has been reported, we had staff cuts at LiveJournal Inc. this week. Early media reports seriously exaggerated the impact of the decision on the continued existence of LiveJournal as a company and misrepresented the scope of the staff cuts. The cuts were part of a restructuring that shifted global design and product development to the LiveJournal office in Moscow. Product decisions for the English-language site will still be made in the U.S., and LiveJournal Inc. remains headquartered in San Francisco…

The restructuring is done with an eye to the future to ensure the long-term viability of LiveJournal as a business. As a team, we know that LJ has a great future as it prepares for its second decade. We recently invested a considerable amount on all-new server equipment and a facility in Montana to house it all as part of our commitment to the longevity of LJ. We will be around for years to come and we’re committed to ensuring that your journals, friends pages, and communities will be, too.

As with any of these kinds of decisions, it’s always hardest to lose valued team members. We’re very sad to see our colleagues go and want to acknowledge all the hard work, dedication, and love they’ve given LiveJournal over the years. They will be missed. While they are no longer a part of LiveJournal Inc., they are still a part of the LJ community."

Well, I feel better now.

So I guess that placeholder "Dark Matter" blog I set up in case I have to migrate was all for naught, eh?  (WordPress, for those who care.  Nothing there now; don’t bother looking.  Just set up the account when I was paranoid about the potential for an LJ shutdown. All that work getting ready to migrate just in case — no reason to be worried!  Whew!  Glad THAT’s not gonna happen.)


Waiting For The Next One

Around here, we learn at a small age
how to look for pink glow on the lowering sky,
the sign of the shadow waiting to fall.
We’ll never stop it from coming, and we know
we’ll be digging out of it soon enough
if we don’t drop from a heart attack in the driveway
or slip and fall to freeze to death, only to be discovered
weeks later.  Every storm is a lesson in precarious
living, no matter how comfortable we are inside.


Skiers, boarders, etc.,love this. I am not a skier. It follows, therefore, that I don’t love this.

Another storm coming in this weekend…we’re having a heck of a winter so far, oh boy…