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You need no ticket to make a place for yourself here where humor, black and otherwise, comes to you from the stage where the human comedy itself is being played, its performance trumping the things dark and tragic and found in the world of literature.
Friday, July 31, 2009
An Epic Search (JOB Application 2996)

I first performed on a soapbox
of lit/poetic revolution,
alleged dancing pinhead
on the pins and needles
of our futures,

Beat by the Beats. Hunters of Thompson guns,
the offing of established literati in the offing,
before the leader looked into the wrong end of the damned thing,
made a mess and missed his second time around
for, like, the second time, like the coming. The second one.
Damn, missed! Almost,
But only for a second,
Like "in command", not nec. "control".
Ultramarines we are we say:
"Second Or Not At All."
(From the Laminate "sic posture republicas". I'll say while
Laughing at the Blueboys, singing "Ankles away," they march their "Ankles away.")

So be it,* and how
diminished our expectations...

2006 - Any present,
Unaware that what was amiss was that there wasn't such a gulf
between Cronkite and Kerouac, (forget Mexico)/(Note Nam) in different mediums/same massages,
when it hurt.
(Masturbating ninjas don't make the 6 o'clock news; maybe, with luck, your 3am hallucination.)

Who's on time, who's on the road, the many roads (punch the road/shoot the clock)
we must all walk down before we...
"the crowded road" (Blueboy ejaculation aside)...
The road full of
frustrated, ripped-off, just plain nonbeliever "enemies who is us"'s saying:
"TV? Oh no, no, no. Not for us. We're a hydrogen jukebox family.
Nonononononononononono..." till fluxed over and out.

And: "We Dance like monkeys
when we want to know/what we want to know/we know what is is, was, and that's the way, really,
You know?
I mean, 'What'?"

And then so much for Famine Values. (TM)

And same too, scrolled and scripted, we are, readers of news, makers of scrolls, travelers, weary no-beliefs, read until we can't.
So cut our news into pieces
We'll digest at some remove,
Subscription canceled due to lack of you,
The last monkey standing,
crouching mystified over your playpal,
Of course.
Playing dead,
Of course.

Only the surefooted come up here -- a burro delivers my copy machine. I copy dirt, crumble the paper, have rocks. Cheap, and efficient, beautifully pointless. (How do you like my growing wall?)

Now; what else is new my merry men?

*Ask, "So was it?" for the dealbreaker.
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