Assumption

Clatterin' light rises
with the sounds
of unreality;
Nina sings a happy song
Here Comes the Sun
but it's just a tease;
nothin' risin' in me;
i'm still in love with
the thunder that rolled
my yellow-eyed soul
seekin' its distant glow;
despair is as common
as a child's rhapsody;
can it lead to clarity?
bottles of the fifth
hang from the boughs
where broken men
blossom like leaves;
memories of One
fall in the hollows;
where i follow
my shadow;
and premonisce
about what was
and what will be;
musicians at the brothel
try to arrest time;
but it's always Madame Bertha
who goes up on trial;
for providin' a better diversion
than they;
yellow eyes circle yellowtails
flappin' on the rocks
where assumptions glow.

B-Movie

you were but a lump of dough
full of infinite elasticity;
but that would not do;
they formed God as your head
Country as your midsection
and Family as your extremities;
which did just fine;
'til the ravenous belly
swallowed the head,
sucked the extremities
and became The Blob;
humanity a B-movie,
voice out of synch;
still the dough that was
remembers what is
and somehow knows
that beauty is in the mold;
and the head can only be found
by expanding the extremities
and puncturing the whale
for if Country is not the
lonesome cry of the whipporwhill
and God not infinite elasticity,
and Family not more than biology--
then pass the popcorn.

Please Welcome Blogaria University's New Janitor, Kelly of Baggage Carousel:

'I sit at a computer all day and design pages or clean up the messes on the pages of people who are a rung or two higher than me on that ladder I keep trying to deny I'm standing on. Then I run those pages around like a relay racer-passing them from one editor to the next until I have the full array of OPINION about the pages at which time I must fly back to my desk like the wind and find a way to please each and every one of those people without pissing off any of them. Essentially I'm a janitor. It occurs to me that I could probably get paid just as much as a janitor at my son's school. I wouldn't have to make the ass-grinding commute, I could spy on the kid, and my butt looks great in olive or blue khaki. I could have a one of those cool shirts with the name tag sewn on it, Kelly in red script. The last few months have been so insanely busy-what with elections coming on and our Noble Constitutional Republic about to launch a full-scale war in the hornets nest of the Mideast-that I end the week feeling as if I've done physical labor, like cocktail waitressing at a keg party for 40 hours with no tips - nothing to show for it but the blisters on my ass where the cheeks rub together running up and down the stairs and around the whole building. Tips? Sorry, just the ass-reaming, that's all we offer....'

Do drop by and say hello. In the words of whoever has taken over the body and soul
of Mr. Partington, 'It pays to befriend the maintenance folks.'

Eels

Consciousness starts real slow
just a ripple as you push play
and see yourself on the screen
with a caffeine kick and a little grace
soon you're on fast forward
flying by yourself in fast motion
like keystone cops chasin' down
some farcical musical cheese
sun at its peak; with a little grace
you're at one with the wind
but it's all flyin' by on high speed
yourself going by like so many trees
when you were a child said
next time you'd take the tree
and beat the car there;
you watch yourself on the screen
decaying in fast motion
the river crashing into the banks.

to pause; oh to pause--

and float like a bird
above time space sound
and see yourself in that freezed frame
would you then know?

no matter the caper has reached the end
the rewind taken on a maddening pace;
losing consciousness starts slow;
all that joy returns to the fetal position;
just a ripple between consciousness and un-
slidin' away like eels oozing up to the bar.

Divine Comic Silence

'Love is the only transportation
To where there's total communication' The Staple Singers, Come Go With Me

I’ve seen the best minds of my generation
eaten by farm machinery
Cut up into pieces and scattered into various cubicles
Sunflowers and locomotives
Kesey once in a mescalin haze
Saw America as a madhouse
Led by an overbearing nurse
Intent on emasculatin’.
The long-sufferin’ Chief
Rediscovered his testicles
Found his voice and broke free
To ascend every rung of Raphael’s
Spiral staircase held together
By chubby cherubs with infinite
Umbilical cords;
In a powerful metaphor that may or may not be true
Come on baby do the twist!
While the individual was lobotomized
And scattered into various cubicles
Cogs in the machinery
Some illusions are necessary
Jack went on to be a big star
Repeatin’ his wicked grin
Over and over to the applause
Of the splintered cogs,
Offerin’ some semblance of escape
From their scattered cubicles.
Beckett was Joyce’s transcriber
On Finnegan’s Wake.
He later extracted what he knew
To be Waitin’ for Godot.
Mozart was God’s transcriber;
Nice work if you can get it;
Beckett could not go on;
Reduced to lips on a curtain
An exhalation and inhalation
Game over; insert more quarters
Still he went on.
And even Penelope said
To life Yeah yeah yeah
To the violins and the two guitars
Yeah yeah yeah.
The Caravan is on its way.
Love is the only transportation
To where there’s total communication.
Come go with me.
How to communicate when your body
Parts are strewn across various cubicles.
Whence lips? Where tongue?
The machinery mangles everything it sees.
Sunflowers and locomotives.
Harold Lloyd hung onto the big clock.
Lookin’ down into the abyss.
Hangin’ on for dear life.
Oh, could there be any comedy
More divine than this?
Chaplin took a ride in the machinery
Up and down up and down
To the cosmic laughter of Mother Mavis.
Keaton too on a runaway locomotive.
Sunflowers and locomotives.
Oh, it’s not the technology we fear.
It’s that big-boned farm machinery
Forever expanding, a hopped-up adolescent
On an out of control John Deere
Rippin’ through the plains
Slicin’ up all in its wake;
The Old Father murdered
And no longer able to keep him in check—
Free to speed and expand and sling the scythe.
Sunflowers forming in a ozoneless sky?
Are you mad, Alan?
Has it withered on the invisible vine?
Amazing essence so intense the
burnin' inside of me.
Once I was blind. Now I see.
Careful what you ask for, my son.
Somebody turn it off.
Here, I offer this ear to you.
Just stop it. Stop it.
Vincent put your ear back.
I’ve seen the best minds of my generation
Eaten by farm machinery.
Strewn all over, the parts
A veritable Picasso buffet.
A wild crespucular Pollackian network.
Look closely find the order.
I got your nose.

Your hand. My head. Someone's heart.
A big toe. An arm. A leg. Lips. Tongue.
Knees. Liver. Arteries. Veins. Blood. An invisible cord.

Cut off.
From the one and only
Humpty Dumpty.
I hear the roar of the speeding John Deere
Big Mavis erupts from the
bowels of the earth, burstin' thru
transcendental stragglers
hangin' onto her legs;
still plottin' their schemes
to become the grass--
the children are already
there; in the dirt
She belts it out:
Love is the only transportation
To where there is total communication
The body parts jump up
And form one body in her hands.
It’s not too late! No!
The body remembers.
This cosmic beat.
The dance is on.
Steppin’ on every rung
Of Raphael’s invisible
Ascending staircase.
Come and go with me
If you’re able
I’ll take you there
I know a place, y’all
I’ll take you there
O Mavis O Mavis O Mavis
The roar of the John Deere
Getting’ closer
The swingin’ scythe.
This is grace, baby
This is grace.
We hold our ground
Dancin' in her hand
A daisy in the gun.
A sunflower in the ozoneless sky
Keaton slides into the cannon
Of the locomotive.
Come go with me, y’all
Holdin’ hands and shakin’ our asses
To the cosmic beat in her hands.
Free from the scattered cubicles.
A veritable Pollackian network
Of crespucular body parts.
Harold Lloyd drops from the big clock.
We’ve returned to the divine comic silence.
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
Let’s do it again.