A Blender FaNtasticElectric: PostmOdern Pop Poems
“He grew up in Iowa, on a diet
of corn and golden relish”
waiting for a Kubrick close up no doubt
walking lean on the moon’s path
toward a Mêlées stage backdrop,
fake and blistery beautiful
The logic of dreams I’m sure
I say watching Stagecoach eating grapes
and yellow white cheese with my grandfather Yet,
if you ask me he wasn’t my legend
he never rode a white horse giving me the heart gospel
bright red ideology, raw like a rare steak in a heartlandfarm’s dinner table
never told me the secrets of the Western
while we lie in an opium den in San Francisco 1900 or so
he had three yellow canaries he would let free
after each picture
he would drive his boots to Sampson’s Boot Repair and Shine
and haggle over price smiling about John Ford’s eye patch
I think America always loves the country, the sweat of deserts,
and, of course, the eye patch of
John Ford
Now, I look back on his films
still spotting the canaries outside my house
fat and strong for the winter
Untitled
Life has always been mysterious to young lovers I am no different
tonight All I want is to have a smoke and go to bed
Love is a game best played in dark smoked rooms of revision vectors SoUl's like Bathsheba
sweet smiles and small vases with cracked edges I have felt alone before
feelings best to be felt with someone with soft eyes So I went
to the Lily house to see the ghost play their piano upstairs for the
tourist looking for Rembrandt or Picasso But instead I watch
mindless television like I always do after a hard day at work
the television flicking in my dark room and I’m at peace
again
The Last Breath of Orson Welles
As Orson drew breath for the final time
he thought of his enchanted life
the many times on TV the movies
the parade of flesh tones breathing
life into his old body one more time
he calmly reminded himself that his path
was at the edge of the sea
surrounded by ice fighting for food
so many had come before all left
disenchanted like birds before winter
HE saw the face of God once before
in a nightmare full of flame moons
and Charles Kane cried about life
over a sea's threshold instead of dying
slowly Kane was a lurid prism, a ghost
lusting over Rebecca’s firm tight body
He had a wet dream three women (GrAce BeauTy INSpIration)
danced with his body all night until
the sun rose and he smoked a
Lucky Strike off a California balcony
overlooking the Hollywood sign faded
in rust rotten to the letter
yet spellbinding Now the black
and white photographer breezed in
and took a picture of his final breath
resting his Kodak camera on the bed
corner Rust colored soft dirt around
the corners of Orson’s eyes prevented
hallucinations At last Orson
saw the beautiful flash of light and closed his lens
The shot complete
To the moon
to the moon I saw
the only cup of life
draught of silver scaled fish
to the moon I wished
that chasms of bleeding
wou
l
d
pass
and my mind might
pull away to starsky
orange parade Huston
Eisenstein Hitchcock Welles
salvation
majestic men
clothed in crimson
incense laden
smiled eyed
to the moon I beloved
blinding hope
clearovaled candy
each of star birth
each of yellowmellow
each of season sand and desert dust
Tired Potions of Dream Reds
the song was being around the world la la
the breath of life like rotten apple liquor
Michael Bolton told me to dream of wellluxured women
dressed in red
Sundays off
stocking and yellow hosiery
my mythdream was dirty as sparkling snow
Methuselah must have watched the mall shoppers dart inside the last store
before the flood
take their presents home
having forgot about worries under the pressure of television news
and yellow gold banded bankers
Daple daple echoes the radio
I did live in the 1990s tasted the marrow
of Bloomfield High
bullshit classes with lips like confections
under the influence of a couple of joints during drylunch
may be I should build myself up into a blue sanctity mask
but
I don't believe in my own priesthood
a priesthood of poppies snapdragons white lilies
sage brush Listerine
an erect penis (penis envy turned trivial)
a yellow hat and an Easter Sunday woman
(I'll remember
until entropy falls away
and Christ returns with a pastel and blood neon Versace smile)
Modern Dance
monsters ring dish towels
complaining; singing Arcade Fire
the priest in blue jeans walking towards church
the little boy changes the channel
to Cartoon Network
believe me I’ve seen ghosts
deep in the bowels of the kitchen of the drive in theater
walking in circles after each show
glancing at couples kissing Yesterday
I stopped to buy pornography pornography
is a wild brush fire set to the music
of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata
Thump, Thump
walking in the store afraid of seeing someone they know
quickly peeking to appear elegant
after Scooby Doo, the commercial is of Vitamin Water on a turntable
of course young lovers
watch 16 and Pregnant
clasping sweaty hands together
afraid the other will want to pull away to dry them
Adult Swim comes on and child shuffles to bed
Rhythm tHis TiMe
mystic rhythmbeat
beat beating hearting
sounds clack
raindrops freeflowfall
poets scribblescrump
thump tee ump
opening notes befuddling morning dawn
symphonies of the mindjazzfullpit playing out a song
did you know Beethoven loved Daffy Duck?
he (BAH) sat in room like 2001 A Space Odyssey
and tripped on white sheets white pillows
whi
te walls white chairs
noting nothing new under starstrecheddarkingdeepingblackuniverse
staringchild chilled
to
see
Daffy dumbfounded duck filling trick bags
spattering spit
rhythm rue New
raindropping sheet wall wisping
Eisenstein (part 1) Hot and Cold
The light shined hard and taut like a rope
pulled too tight
the aura diffused down on the face of Eisenstein
he looked away his teeth white and clinched
this wasn’t the revolution he wanted
he wanted blood red peace
tranquility after the natural birth
Bring the saint child to us he said to the cameraman
let us see his face un-blemishing
un-taint righteous and Marxist like a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve
Hold that shot Eisenstein yelled
then Lenin places the chrome gun on a dripping
wet street bathed in gas light
The revolution had just began
the October moon was full and pale yellow
Joshua, my brother, was still long to be born
Requiem Radio: Michael Bolton Thoughts on a Dram of Poison
I drink the cherry cola it’s haunted like filtered undressed cannon smoke
the subway walls drive out Helvetica in a nightmare of perfect precision
the underground silver spear speaks a song
the radio gargles she is like haze fire heat
the subway women to me are a division of wooden bars across ceilings
I remember her skin like Sherry hot toddy prisms
plaCe the ReD dress on your body-
Turn off the radio The channel is Chanel on window pane
the Women cut him deeply-
I can’t
I ingest the peyote McDonald’s fries
Smitten by looking sexy he complains-
Turn on the radio Dante
I sacrificed my cock to techno beats
They blind infinity the creation of abstract
Drive me home MeGaMantech Remix I drank my last dollar away
Creator of pulse rhythm
I recall the last arcade I saw lived in 1999 a double helix
on a quarter past eleven as I slid out of the underground into street orange light
Drink your cherry cola Dante the inferno arrived yesterday
by Fed-Ex and it must be signed for
Warhol’s Brillo Box
I set out to see the Hydra
on a May perfumed morning
but instead I explored the Brillo box
Andy Warhol designed
The elevator drove me to a section
of rough ashen yellow paper art
I believe in the three headed Medusa
the grotesque monsters of Τάρταρος (Tartarus)
the clear shadow water of the river of forgetfulness
and I couldn’t touch the Brillo Box
It didn’t matter anyway
the geometric dials of the elevator opened
a silver haired emeraldenvious ideology
(much like Pandora’s box)
likened to daffodils and chrysanthemums
in sexual spring mornings
She who I would have loved to let listen to PetSounds
he turned beglamored checkrose
she let out of breath
then dove under the pool water
wavecurls passed over her subdriven body
he marooned his hopes
as they sat under summerheat
he knew her move
motion towards solitude
the red plastic picnic table parked their bodies
hot stoneway walks
paper plates gorged with mayonic macaroni
breath of summer tiptoed
slowly pips of rain let fall
bemixed with
Beach Boys melodic speakers, but not PetSounds
Whisper of Nights D’ing (to the kids)
a whisper under pale Autumn skies (the only skies worth seasons of southern Indiana)
of Bloomfield
I never heard
never understood
never reacted
no heartbeat that was love beat
an old song claimed carrying through my car
drove down roads speaking tongues of loneliness
the bedraggled soul
pouring out halfbaked indolent logic
lusted for soulsandm o tion
reaching out to Billy D
Lando was two cloud cities over
so wait, wait, wait
noon rainbow on a beat wooden bridge
a night of LSD
smiled blue green buds
we quietly spoke of nothing
but I still dreamed
dancing debauched despite Syd Barret minds
crying again and again
a mystery of mowing lawns for love sake and motion Motown
Sammy Terry
as children grow they dream of being doctors, lawyers, or scientists
Sammy Terry wanted to be on TV
he wore a goblin mask in grade school
the children were amused
the teachers were not
but Sammy was destined for the stars
Channel 4 Indianapolis gave him a show
he came out of a coffin like he had just taken a nap
the children were amused
as they sat in the darkened living room at night and dreamed of phantasms
they would go to bed and say their prayer softly
so that no demons would grab them from under the bed
Sammy only smiled and knew
that he was already carved out in imagination
because the mind of a child has more power
than dark matter, black holes, motions to dismiss, or blood transfusions combined
it has more energy than any well pumped for profit in the black and blue ocean
children’s imaginations are like power substations filled with voltage
running along in lines lighting a shadowy world
one moment forgotten by the world is adorned in the memory of a child forever
Yorick was never forsook, forgotten, forgone
Such are the ways of God
Cabin Boy (MovE nutshelled)
Did jelly beans bounce higher?
HIP HoP
whose hands and feet dressed leather provisions
holding high hulled hatters cane white stick
to Chris Elliot cabin shot child
draught to fish one to two
two to two
carries diamonds distilled splashes
thrashing delight white
cherry sourball confections
tree fresher hung hugely carFLopping
what did you know cabin boy?
one to speak of tiffs and trials
bleachblanced cauliflower
you know of my American song
Algiers to Anglo
did jelly beans bounce higher?
HiP HOP
OF thee I sing to song of sweet fish
oakedwoodedships splashing in a 100 pages
(In response to Bathsheba with the Letter to David) Rembrandt painting
The letter hangs off her hand waiting for reply
her naked body a whisper of licking flames
told to the naked man (David) as he longs
for her outstret
ched arms to embrace him
her round nipples, auburn hair, soft belly
I call him in the night like a mariner for the sea
she pants under her mysterious breath
it was she that he loved forsaking God
the logic of sexual dream made flesh
from his own rib he thought he lusts
unfailingly for her love and lust have found
their way into the priesthood and both
are scrawled on the letter she writes CalliGRAPHY
of passion awaiting the moment of saintly
ejaculation to try again soon beating wings
for a landing away from the sea back to land
waited on by virtue Love and lust
have made their way into God's kingdom
and dominion taken together
sings David just before Solomon writes it down for all to see
Response to Erotic Energy
we are plants growing in the hard summer dirt
but men (improper) are also birds
dark, mysterious creatures living on their own
lives in solitude which no person can ever
record day to day life
scientists take statistics of bird’s lives