Ipps cry from the wilderness like a dog with no bone.
A prescient yelp from a Whitman soul that knows no boundaries or borderlines.
I was screaming while I wrote this and Emily nor Bo were either phased nor in the least little bit concerned for their safety.
Poetry isn’t for wimps no matter how you slice or dice it.
Recess was never much fun until I discovered Sue Leair and her skunks and number nine mythologies.
When staring into the void it’s best to have both eyes shut in case a vesper or pebble gets through your lowly defenses.
Emily sings louder than all the rest because her soul mustn’t be contained as the hellhounds on her trail stop off at a hotel in San Antonio where they hear tell of a journeyman laying down the real blues medicine.
I can’t fight this feeling because I’m a child of the eighties where big hair and Porky’s got the best of many of us.
My prom had a Bon Jovi theme because we were still wanted dead or alive as we wished for the horror of high school to be laid to rest.
This life preserver turns no one away because Emily believes that charity is not only a false Christian construct.
I wish I could get Lamont Thomas on drums as I screamed this poem to the high Heavens.
More inflatable consonants and vociferous vowels to lead us past the flames and into a paradise of pomegranates and purring Siamese cats.
Ipps inflate nothing because they understand how crucial it is to be counted in a forest of starving roadblocks and frozen impediments.
One more false prophet flaking out because their bourbon wasn’t top shelf as Emily stands tall by never turning her back on anyone.
Bo and Emily are in my heart because I’ve had enough of false equivalents.
Thursday, June 30, 2022
Ipps cry from the wilderness like a dog with no bone.
Wednesday, June 29, 2022
Burroughs, Ginsberg and Kerouac were not beat.
Another misnomer in a cemetery of fossilized writers who deserve way better than they ultimately got.
I’ll never understand why Brautigan is called a beat, but lazy people throwing around loaded terminology catch us up in the fan blades of humdrum mediocrity.
Self-righteousness runs rampant in a hierarchy where the quizlings trivialize the very last bastion of humanity because they’ve got nothing better to do as they serve out their life sentences for being disingenuous to the nth degree.
To the victor go the spoiled sour grapes once the dagger is pulled from their Caesar backs and the taste of crow is accepted as a delicacy.
False prophets are a dime a dozen in a crisis of conscience chronicled in blistering Chesterton fashion.
He asked why I kept doing this and I answered because I’m tired of people not paying attention.
The Peter Principle continues fucking us as the incompetent are handed trophies while the truly gifted get their heads served up on a platter.
Think of Cassidy as John the Baptist and Judas as Sal Paradise, another dharma bum fixated on writing the next great American road atlas.
I’m plum out of regrets because notoriety was never a dark enough horse for me to bet upon.
The writing game is something I never took lightly because I realized early on how great the sacrifices are that must be made.
Wise men dispense with the accolades and get down to doing the honest to God work before it’s too late.
Tuesday, June 28, 2022
I think the diabetes has finally caught up with me
I pray I’m wrong, but if not I guess I’ll finally have to admit I’m not invincible
Turning a blind eye only lasts so long as the one eyed king is permitted to fuck without a condom
I met a Russian Muppet and she took whatever money I had and went on her merry way
I never learn my lesson as insanity rots both my brain and my six and a half inch cock
She represents something I’ve never had and probably never will
All I desire is to be naked and to cuddle against the impending apocalypse with my Russian Muppet
She says she has a moderately sized ass which makes me laugh because she knows just how to tickle my Jewish-Sicilian funny bone
When she first admitted she was shy I felt her walls come tumbling down like Jericho or the Iron Curtain
The music is just loud enough to cut into my skull like a sickle and hammer
I’m frozen like a deer in the headlights of another disastrous life choice
Katherine blows up my purpose with her excuses and a sense of ill-advised timing leaving anyone paying attention blown away like Alice in Wonderland playing cards.
Sunday, June 05, 2022
The stained glass our unconscious mind
A revelatory conclusion to the heresy of a concussed life
Even Moses stammered and stuttered in the eye of a Pharaoh’s disapproval
We mustn’t allow ourselves to believe we’re landlocked
The universal mind far more equipped for a prison break than you can possibly imagine
None of us are limited if we set our minds out of bounds and break on through the tyranny of manmade labor and fear
I am not dreaming as I write this, but if I were I’d be Harold and the purple crayon would drive me like my brothers Suzuki GS1100 around the cautionary bend
We’re all hard boiled eggs whose yoke teeters on losing its sense of humor as we ride off into the sunset like Zane Grey cowpunchers
My spirit animal is Red Skeleton as another dad joke falls flat and I climb the monkey bars in my recessed and conclave mind
I wish to visit Terry in Hospice because I believe I can offer some solace and perhaps a dash of serenity to the place where he now floats
The Glass Bead Game is indeed real and to gain entrance you best renounce your citizenship and bask in the profound absurdity of our ancient minds
The terror of isolation overrated once we stand firm on accepting we are loved as the creative mind forms a chrysalis around our butterfly godheads and we are free to fly through the blue untethered skies.
Friday, June 03, 2022
Punching the clock is a concept well past its expiration date.
Our souls must thrive; not be imprisoned or starved.
Feeding our consciousness best be our number one priority otherwise what’s the point of temporary insanity?
Lucy was never going to give Charlie Brown the satisfaction of kicking the football, but Charlie possessed a kind of hope which never bordered on naiveté or stubborn ignorance.
Our country teeters on planned obsolescence while continuing to throw the baby out with the lead bathwater.
We’ll never learn as 19 dead children become yet another footnote in our confrontational history where gun ownership trumps a child’s right to grow up.
Punching the clock is a slave mentality which rots us through and through as capitalism sits on our faces and takes a shit on the pursuit of happiness.
What Terry Provost has always represented to me is a juggernaut of clarity in a disingenuous society of widgets and Whac-A-Mole bean counters.
When he gets up on stage and roars his poetry you know words have consequences.
Our cartoon lives another fish wrapped obituary that no fishwife could ever render useful or tasty in the least little bit.
Our misanthropic lives as dense as Russian literature because we refuse to see the protagonist through the strip-mined trees.
All I want for Hanukah is a romance I can believe in and all I want for Terry and his family, the beauty of an enduring conversation of trust.