Phantom

Book review of Dan Brown's "Inferno"

That's all.

Also, RIP Diane and Jacqueline Young

 http://newyork.cbslocal.com/2013/04/03/mom-daughter-found-dead-after-middletown-fire/

Digging to China

I am Cosmonaut

J'Accuse....

I accuse the American Government for being impotent.
In this most important time of racial and international disdain.
I accuse Barrack Obama of being a bloody coward,
I accuse Hilary Clinton of being a cunt,
I accuse George Zimmerman of not using the brain God wasted on him
I accuse the NSA for wasting your money so their agents can listen to me and my friend Gina's hilarious phone conversations (I've received a letter, I can say this)
I accuse Boston's massacre being shrouded by shadiness
I accuse the silence that just makes people more paranoid and more fervent to arm themselves
I accuse George W Bush for not killing himself.
I accuse Dick Cheney for all those wasted hearts IF THE FIRST TWO DIDN'T TAKE MAYBE GOD IS TELLING YOU SOMETHING!!!!
I accuse you, the American public, for letting things get this far.

Though I accuse, I am willing to hear debates, and I have a heart for forgiveness. Until then, no doves fly here.

I HAIL ROLLING STONE FOR PUTTING Tsarnaev ON THEIR COVER!!!!


FOR MONTHS I HAVE BEEN WONDERING WHAT HAPPENED TO BOSTON!?

HAS NO ONE READ FAHRENHEIT 451!??? OR 1984!????

That George Zimmerman is a real elephant in the room

PRINT IT OUT, SAVE IT, CHANGE YOUR PROFILE PIC IF YOU'RE PISSED!
KEEP AMERICA'S STREETS SAFE!
THERE'S AN ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM!

To Nicaragua with love

On Energy Drinks and Vodka

How I fell apart, how stared down I was!
By the dramatic eyes of  endless Elsie's,
Elizabeth's, Emma's and Eve's. Running
bunnies bunched together with their blond
hair tied back and their green and blue eyes
glare at haggard me.

"Good god! The Aryans!" I shouted to meet
the screwed up nimble faces, this heated pack
wondering how they should react to drunken
haggard me.

Oh Baby give me one more chance

Slithered through my brain.
My Muppet mopped head cried to the rising
sun- for I, the prodigal son, was mighty with
bare arms.

(The Illegally underage short shorts mince on
by)

The Joggers are a great band, I really 
do not listen to them enough. 

Teenage perfume to cloud the my nose's sight;
And I had the furious five laying tracks
in my chest SO

Don't. Push. Me. Cause I'm. 
Close. To. The. Edge-
I'm. Tryin'. Not to. 
Lose. My. Head. 

And "Solid Guild ", what a glorious album!

Perhaps it was the way the mist hovered over
the earth in the little plot of wild grass, still dew
wet and mysterious as the sun was taking its time.
Or perhaps it was the ruin porn, or the horrible
energy drinks that festered with vodka like boiling
oil and water in my stomach.

One could even say, perhaps it was the "why
This pack of blond hair'd blue and green eye'd
gazelles to pass a lion's teeth?"

"Why this seven AM?" 

"Where is last night? I demand to speak with
its manager!" 

"Why energy drinks and vodka!?"

"Why this stomach!?"

"WHY ME!?"

"WHO AM I!?

to smell this dampness...."

I had the energy, I was drunk with energy, I was drunk
at seven AM and a band of frolicking jail bait went
past me. At their tail, a bronzed animated mummy of a
coach gave me the evil eye:

"RAIN ON YOUR PARADE
WE'RE OUT THE DOOR!
AND I DON'T EVEN CARE
ANY- FUCKING MORE!" 

Man, Propagandhi is a great band, I really
do not listen to them enough. 

WAIT!

F*** you it's too hot.

If Gregory Corso were still alive, I'd challenge him to a duel-

My hair could have out-beauty'd his angelic rug
Any day; but shiver me timbers! In the southern wastelands
Of Amerikkka, my head is a sloth bear as I trudge through the
Sticky atmosphere where I serve a sentence for loud mouth
Syndrome. I've let these curly locks grow too long! I must murder
this long hair, lest my mind be smothered!
The lady behind the counter in the head shop says cotton mouth
Has ruined her day, which began with a wake and bake;
I slap an LP on the glass surface- The Specials' Self titled
Masterpiece, classic rude boy mayhem eagerness in my bones.
Lady takes a big gulp from a sweaty can of red bull/she says she
was lookin' forward to toking up again when her shift ends.
Flattering me with imagery of her taking a bath looking at an ink
drawing I made hastily for her.
Damn cotton mouth's made everything sticky, sticky thoughts stuck
to the sun backed black leather seat of her mind. 

She put the album down in her list of sold inventory, though I'd no
money to give. Things feel like heaven when the filthiness of FDR's 

greenbacks can be kept out of a business transaction. 

She smiled and said I'd picked a very SPECIAL album (har har)
I said: "My thick curly hair is making me a rude boy, today I should
have gotten a hair cut, but I saw this album and had to get it-
God dammit! It's too hot!"

She was old enough and schooled enough to get it and said:
"Take some beadies." which I did.
Lit glorious Indian cigarette of fleck tobacco wrapped in tendu leaf
delicate pink string probably tied by lepers and walked out into
the humidity

IT'S TOO HOT! 

 

"And I, my head begirt with horror, said"

How humanity mocks and murders itself. Dear Lucifer, in high school I used to drink like a fish, girls wanted to fool around at parties, but I knew proper order, despite the grinding pain I felt inside- somehow I knew. Leeches- these creatures, not teens or tweens or boys or men. How can we dare to mourn the primal rape of our politics if we, ourselves, cannot control the primal rape of each other? Now I'm filled with disgust because I myself can think of at least two situations in which nobody did the right thing.

And for what? Image? Vanity? Hatred? Pride? What? Some impulse and sense of entitlement that made some one feel so subhuman to the point of hanging themselves:

NoNoNoN <-----it's an article!

Everybody living like sharks, but sharks die if they're still. And there's so much time.

Thus I go into the well-wept darkness.

I F.....quit

Fool's Poem

Poem for mister scarecrow

No, Mamma, no

Mind Bomb

POEM

The State of Barnes and Noble (or, simply one to piss on K.)

Dedicated to K.F., (if you have something you'd like to say to me, my friend, say it to me, not my brother) 

(Based on true events)


"Telling lies to the young is wrong.
Proving to them that lies are true is wrong.
...The young know what you mean. The 
Young are people. 
...Who never knew 
the price of happiness  will not be happy.
Forgive no error you recognize, 
it will repeat itself, increase,
and afterwards our pupils
will not forgive in us what we forgave."

               - Yevgeny Alexandrovich Yevtushenko 
                        (whom I did not find at Barnes and Noble)

             

The local Barnes and noble
has been meticulously replacing
"Fiction/Literature" signs with
"Teen fiction"; I see History has
been replaced with "US History",
which features mostly Glenn Beck
and Bill O'reilly whining about Abraham Lincoln
and George Washington. 
I found the dumbed down books 
were as a tidal wave of greed
and stupidity, just because we can;
how dare you deny Tao Lin
The right to scribble childish 
banter about how disaffected he is working 
at a vegan deli or a smoothie factory
of dreams- exploitation is exploitation
even without the killing. 
Tao lin, who made my brain hurt, talking about
how he stole a shirt
from a trendy outlet, while Hamsun's "Hunger", 
is not to be found on the shelves-
fifty shades of bullshit gets displays, but Sade
struggles for space. Chuck Palahniuk 
writes another book and we are damned 
to an eternity of him wishing he was 
a woman and not being able to get over how
fat he was when he was young;
his stolen tongue belongs to Amy Hempel, 
who isn't even on the shelves. 
Where is Henry Miller to school these punks?
Bukowski stayed drunk enough, long
enough to, thank god, become a staple; 
John Fante is coming back, far too late
for shame America- J.D. Salinger raped his 
Arturo Bandini and made him a whiny
wimp named Holden Caulfield. Ayn Rand is
flourishing as the man she owes her
clever plagiarisms to, George Orwell is put
in the corner. And even His most known
piece was but an argument to Aldous Huxley's 
"brave new world" which we would 
read in school, if we weren't living it. You are
lucky to find Emile Zola, and then, only
his charming stuff, that makes France look 
bad, when there's a world of knowledge
there that we could learn from and maybe cease
this constant "OFF WITH THEIR HEAD!". 
But I am dreaming, because there is all the 
undeniable horror of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
but none of the outrage, the yearning, the hope,
the camaraderie, before the CIA made 
paranoia an international trend- none of that is seen
for the shelves lack Maxim Gorky. 
"HE WAS FRIENDS WITH STALIN!" He was also a
complicated man, and ever a critic, 
who was murdered by Stalin's very regime. 
We could have fables from the old world,
but instead we have Twilight. And Christian science!
Christian science! Christian science! 
The book wars entrench me, I cannot remain silent.
This verse is as worthless as the hunger 
games, who will there be to write "To kill a
Mockingjay?" Me, that is who. For this 
is but meant to piss off K., a bastard brother who takes
noble's blasphemous pay. What I want
now to relate, is a story:

At the poetry section, grown smaller, always moved;
more books facing outward, less spines, less minds. 
I see there is still no Kenneth Patchen, though Robert Frost
fills his own shelf. There is no Gregory Corso to accompany
Kerouac (as Corso was Kerouac's one last hope for America,
what with him being surrounded by fag hacks). I decide I
want to read Allen Ginsbergs drool again, to try to find out
why people took him seriously, when I hear a young boy
ask a store employee where he might find a book. I glance at
him, he's got several in his arms already, I look back to the 
poetry section and smile as the lady ushers him off in search. 
Ah, there are still eager readers, I think, I shall pay for this
book. Just then the boy and the lady employee return and
she exclaims: "I'll search in the computer, to see if someone
put it on hold. Or maybe it's misplaced, or even stolen." 

The boy tenses, he gasps: "Do people really steal books!?"
he asks, to which she replies: "Some times I wonder why
they keep printing them!" 

They walk away, I shove the Ginsberg bible down the crotch
side of my pants. Shove kipling in my right pocket, shove 
Longfellow in my left. I save the ass side of my pants for Robert
Frost. On top of that I grab Saul Williams, Shelley, Virgil, Blake
(my god why is there no Mayakovsky!?)

Down the escalator with my pants about to burst, holding
a stack of hard and paper backs under my arm and I casually
walk out the door. I drive to a back street, a humble house, 
a small business, trading in used books. I sell them everything
I took just to buy Henry Miller, and an edition of the Partisan
review circa 1972 featuring writing by Noam Chomsky and 
Allen Ginsburg. 

As I drove home, I smoked a cigar and felt the freedom of 
momentarily embracing the crookedness of this country (or
world). Still, I'll never write a "novella" about this; I stole for
anarchy, Tao Lin just wanted to look good for his reading. And
in the end, this is just a poem to piss on K****.