....From The Tree Of......................The Ranting Critic
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_______________________________________________________ Figment Imaginary death of imaginary son of imaginary friend- what better fodder find to bind the credulous ear than that imagined thing- and who, but one mistrustful as myself would find it suspect. But I do- it's worked before, those great and loud laments. And anything that works is apt to wend it's way into that borrowed life; it must be lonely. How else to explain why someone would borrow the mourner's weeds, and wring with someone else's hands- it's something so unspeakable: the act of acting sad. Shoe Scrape Of Everything Out There To begin a poem, 'when we fuck', is not only desperately obvious, but pathetic, too. Besides jumping.....and ..............up.......down it says something about us that has holes where we should be solid: standing in the light, reflecting it, not hip hop MTV Discarded Condom World. "We are experiencing a literary breakdown which is unlike Amen. Synopsis Of Noise Hyena has the stage and howls an ugly yipping coyote cry, and long, long it fills the night so nothing can be heard until a monkey hears it, makes the call as best she can. And then a parrot duplicates it closely, but it's a parrot- always will be one for stealing other tongues- doing a monkey, doing coyote or whoever's voice is strongest, till a crowd of joining jackasses heehaw together, pronounce it eloquent and raw but however many they draw, it's only gargling back their lives - uncensoring their thoughts it is not poetry. Not even in Hindi where the animals are gods would these be pretty sounds. lol The serious poet dug into her bag of words and brought out ones that seemed profound; prayer was the one she found, "oh I must USE this, this is good." so she strung it to a girl-child, then a bit about shame, the obligatory tongue and wetness, something implied to make the reader uncomfortable, good for snagging eyes, the mitering of child to one's own skin- the implication, after all is only in the reader's mind; the poet shall be blameless. "They will love it. Love it, love 'ME'--- I must speak of sacrifice and maybe throw some lions at the Christians, too -what wouldn't I do,"---but someone .................smelled it .................plainly, at .................first farting. (thank you ...........................................lol) Slim Pickins Forgive me if I wail but all I have to avail myself, are poems about "baking my good bread" and "holding my good sweet babies" and something greasy sleazy about the profundity of love as told from the catching end of an assfuck---and frankly it isn't enough to make me want to dance. I want to dance, and that can't be done with oracles and ori fices. Mouth-Watering Oh, they're pushin the Pushcarts, pimpin the pimp marts- ("Don't fuck with me, I'm a poet, Pushcart nominee") so all of you who want the badge of Made It, line up here- and bring along your expertise -(and do try not to slobber on the person beside you please.) John Hughes Abuse of board, abuse of person hood in there, gathering souls like shells he fills with smallest poison. Never was 'the fox and grapes' so ably acted out as by that ass- as fixtured as his namesake for the loo. What he can't have or can't demand he tries to slay with words, but they are rubber knives, suitable to his age and paxiled sex drive. He's a bugaboo. The loneliest and the silliest man in town stuck in a loop of repetitive life themes and poetic burps ad nauseum and no body writes as lousy as when they're with old Johnny Come Nonsense- (and THIS,* by the way, is a drawing of an asshole, Peter P-an ders.) Ways Of Hiding Whitman is dead and Dickey and Dickinson- no one writing poetry is any of these, not by a hair or half. At best there are attempts made to be 'Whitmanesque'- 'Dickinsonian' even Dickied, but they're distortions in a crude paste mirror; we see ourselves reflected there -the waist too short, the legs impossibly long, the face too wide the hairline low, but always, in the attempt, there is a highbrow showing off how much they know...and how little of themselves. Accomplished If I say that I went 'sprocketing: glockenspiel glad, and pheromonal mackerel, naked in the nonce. Green above with dark blue bars and silvery below wherewith, I frittered away the lark' -you'd look lost as a face without a nose; I'm not one of those who shakes her words all night to throw them down like dice already loaded, weighted with what will garner mystery, then nods and grins to have it'done agin', a thing, there's nobody knows what it is, but ain't it purdy? We'll just quote it. Hang it in the air but it says nothing, it IS nothing- simply a string of her words as she sits on her hands and hums and smiles cause somebody whispers genius, and some drugged one says, 'how new', as she shrewdly stirs her wordsoup -nothing in it but a lot of cheek and chew, that she says, ' no, it's not. It's just a little CBE' - in other words, 'COMPLETELY BULLSHIT EFFLUVIA'- doubtless, written right into the box. Our Own Got the sniper and his Jamaican twink, and suddenly chests are looser. What was three weeks, felt like half a year, but fears are gone now; no more peering over shoulders at the Safeway. America is free at last to shop and gas up happily; Bush was unsuccessful selling the idear of a terr'ist plot: it wasn't Osama, just an American with his brain on sideways; off his meds, out of his nut, but because he was a citizen, the Department of Homeland Security thought we could just take care of ourselves--like my mother thought a good 'talking-to' would settle down my brother when he came at us with a shotgun back in '70, and I called 911; it wasn't kosher, but it got the job done anyway, (though I broke unspoken rules about high exposure)- that new department's silly as pie plates worn to keep out alien deathrays in the fifties: they did nothing- but the people hearing signals from the skies, who had Intelligence who told them Alpha Centaurus was the outpost of a hostile, star-born race, were glad to have them -(even though their neighbor, a couple of houses down, was busy raping his kids and making plans to do away with the wife and maybe a neighbor or two)- why, that was none of their business. 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