posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
Dr.
Z's light
of the laser
promises
you beautiful
saluting your courage
alabaster
epidermis as
seen on tv
Dr.
Z's cranium's
like a capitol
dome
but damn
his skin sure
looks
good under
that giant rainbow.
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
The aubergine libertine in his green limousine
A libertine's green limousine was lately seen in Saint Vereen. The libertine wore aubergine. In Saint Vereen they're not so keen on aubergine. The party scene in Saint Vereen is all crepe-de-chine and gabardine, beauty queens and Charlie Sheen. The libertine in aubergine moves between these beauty queens: his feet careen from scene to scene, taking in the magazines, the tall Marines, the jumping beans, the snarling face of Charlie Sheen. The libertine leaves Saint Vereen. Saint Vereen is not his scene--he likes a scene that's more serene.
Vals-en-Deen is just that scene. He sights the sheen of Vals-en-Deen. Its woods are green; are tourmaline. With carabine, he'll hunt that green, the libertine in aubergine. The birds that preen in Vals-en-Deen are not quite serene when there's been seen in their woodsy green the libertine in aubergine. His carabine for them spells "fin." But when libertines in limousines leave Vals-en-Deen for Saint Vereen, those birds that preen are quite serene.
Though the birds may vent their spleen, the libertine in aubergine suffers only improved mien when Vals-en-Deen is dimly seen from the dark windscreen of his limousine. Then, our heroic libertine, rid at last of Charlie Sheen, of magazines, of beauty queens, of crepe-de-chine and gabardine, bounces like a jumping bean, a jumping bean on too much caffeine, decked out in cloth of aubergine.
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
"Authenticity in Music"
When keeping it real goes wrong,
the high hats are marked with
an insoluble X, clouds wear the
pants around here, birds direct
the conversation, the oscilloscope
is raising the roof, something
in French is hurled across the room
and you'll be of it and with it,
loosed dime effects and penny
antes, swells and soft tempos
brought out from (I kid you not)
The Big Book of Negro Spirituals,
and the reason for so skeletal
a concept? Well, go back to the
website for a moment, the end
of lyricism, the ebb and the flow--
And, yeah, I feel ya. I really do.
Thanks to Dave Chapelle. Chapelle's Show rocks, and keeps people like me stoked with fresh phrases. I'm Rick James, bitch!
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
Aw, yeah. Via Cahiers de Corey.
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
The Judgment
Triplicate filing. Exhibit A: dry
hair scotch-taped to cardstock.
Exhibit B: a dryer sheet, still spring
fresh. Someone important goes down
or out today. Hard fist of cameramen,
knuckles flexed at the court-house door.
The witness gives a hesitant Yes
before her crooked glasses fly off into
I Don't Know. Oyez, oyez, the judge
on Line 2. Remember, counselor,
if your heart beats wads of caramel-
colored hair, there's always the pills.
And there's strength in that line of thinking,
but the Oxford English Dictionary disagrees.
Query Black's. Muscle must be strong
to carry the thrill of oral argument, of
a forty-page brief. But See the Marshal Court's
spare dismissals. They had scriveners, see.
Wrong signal, wrong signal! And how it will cost you:
Hizzoner's quite strict. "I am dying, Egypt,
dying, in a pinstriped suit." The blood pooled,
a red stanch in the artery. So congealing, his
objection took the form of hemoglobin.
To which the judge said: overruled.
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
Gotta say though, that even after the poems have had a month to cool, I still like 'em. Although, I wonder if they're avanty or progressivy or whatevery enough for the press I sent them to. Plus . . . at PoTelCom, Aaron complained that he got some poems sent back with the message, "Pretty good, except for the ta-da endings." I'm afraid that mine don't ta-da. They're way beyond ta-da. They have their own telegraph service, and a gong at the end. WE'RE DONNNNNNNNNNE.
Alack. What can I say? I value finality.
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
"The Emperor of Ice Cream is My President."
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
posted by Reen |link| ...talkety...0 comments
