A Blender FaNtasticElectric: PostmOdern Pop Poems Read online

  “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