Die, SPAM, die!! (poetically)
March 30th, 2008
Via JRG. Not that a gal has to wait long before receiving enough attention from Spammers, but after 400 of these daily, this chick decided there was no other choice but to take a lyrical fight. Taking a swing at these e-polluters and inspired by her website, Spam Poetry.com, here’s my piece:
Simplicity is so complicated to achieve.
We want, we want, we want:
we want the story on the abusive teen from Argyle, TX
we want to see the nasty girls in Carolina fishing
We want bigger and better and longer lasting luxury cars
and pictures of Francine Prieto nude.
Its gotta, its gotta, its gotta..
It’s gotta be free, fast cheap and easy!!
barely legal, down loadable, and spinning
gotta be the latest and greatest celebrity’s porn video
with a Celexa facial to protect
the 15 million and counting US patients with GAD
that can’t go out, can’t feel good, can’t breath easy,
wanting to see the big a** heaven…?
Does this seem ridiculously complicated to anyone else?
It’s like screaming, “bring our troops home!” and
driving an empty SUV home on your own,
It’s like wanting world peace,
and scratching the serial number off the gun in the closet,
When all thoughts don’t coordinate with actions,
whatever option chosen, is always a lie.
So I wonder, whatever happened to simplicity?
walking around the world loving a good vegetarian dinner
whatever happened to a boy and a girl?
and a quest for happiness, honesty and respect?
holding hands and kissing on couples lane,
or just the smile of happy playing children.
This simple girl of bright orange purses,
banana glowing shoes, burnt red rosary beads
and black rice ice cream palate
in jeans with green white flowers
knows how words get sticky with thought and need
a card to say I care is vulnerable to at least 3 rewrites
and it takes time figure out reality and desire
but I still don’t understand,
whatever happened to simplicity?
“There has never yet been a man in our history who led a life of ease whose name is worth remembering.” –Theodore Roosevelt
Inventory: Snow
February 24th, 2008
postmodernist in logic and profession,
minimalist in possessions and introductions,
logos gatherer,
theorist in physical disorganization,
intrepid and fiercely competitive female
decompressing slowly in snowy mountains,
for the first time in my life.
And I keep looking for THE ONE, you know?
the ONE:
meaning, major goal, productive obsession,
definition of identity, purpose of creation, soul mate,
God meant to individualize for each of us
like electricity to Franklin, but that was just a happy byproduct,
and the writer spent hours writing on the one.
Valentine’s Day:
my romantic bohemian heart wonders
on the beautiful paradox of humanity
giving/taking hearts to keep cosseted
with the smell of expensive aftershave
a fast heartbeat and a hug,
Memories I keep in case next Valentine is snowy, cold and bleak
It’s 2 o’clock in the morn…
February 21st, 2008
Listening to Tom Waits
on a lunar eclipse romantic somnambular night…
and I’m feeling bluesy,
Thinking of the one that I’ve loved best…
GOD, just how did I let my mind so easily pour from the right ear out the door??
but everything is gonna be just fine.
The night is getting colder;
My journal is full of prose and poems from
daily wanderings and philosophical conversations
with Bangkok’s hookers and “managers”–
beaten sutured faces,
on the arms of foreign accents,
luminescent skin with candy apple red lips (boy)
done to poster perfection of cosmetic surgery,
the bright neon lights down the Sukhumvit stretch,
and elephant blood on my hands
while crossing the street…chasing a sugar cane treats.
Things I don’t like to think about
making company with memories at two:
he was my needed sublime stupidity
like white needs black to define,
and silence needs noise to vacation,
So, I’m owning the words used to hurt me
Turning down people and promises that don’t coincide with mine,
MY world to define
If I had a daughter, I don’t know if,
I could tell her all the sad things,
I’d say, “2 in the morn blues, don’t go past 6,
Don’t get elephant blood chasing cheap sweets
don’t let lonely spells go without philosophizing,
and everything is gonna be alright.”
“The moon ain’t romantic, actually it’s intimidating as hell.” –Tom Waits add to del.icio.us
Portraits: When Mickey Mouse Went Plum Crazy Broken Hearted
January 20th, 2008
Words are poignant :
MLK’s poem the day of his death–
life is often a negotiation of the little interruptions,
the meeting you get derailed from
the marriage that fails,
the door that slams shut,
and leaves the poem unveiled…
Packing the present
Yellow Seas are simple comforts
Remembering lessons, minus wounds
Fruitless investments, minus bitter words
Foul foods, minus gag reaction
It’s often the smaller things that hurt the worse
Rules of Engagement:
Never stay long or grow roots,
Too painful to stoop and pull,
She’s been a long time gone,
Returning to place she hated calling home,
Quiet and alone again.
——*——
Yes, Mickey couldn’t take Minnie leaving; it’s not an urban legend. This version is the first I had seen featured on the CNN series.
Rotten Meat
January 7th, 2008
She wanted so very much to please me, to show me she loved me. The food was hot on the table. The smell of garlic, onion and cumin was like incense. The fried dough was fresh, yellow with white speckles, sweet, and soft with lard. The smells were like a court of people twirling silk petty coats of laughter lingering in each centimeter of the room. Nothing could be wrong with the moment and I ate heartedly.
2 hours later I’m looking at the back-side of a hedge
bathing roots in a metallic bitter green substance
I’m trying hard not to let it trickle through my nose
a massive wave is kicking it’s way out
My head hurts
Chunks on the floor
Skin wanting to jump out of my body
A fever with icy hands and a burning esophagus
–It was green, how did you not know?–
Rotten meat,
trying so hard to please me
when the truth would have been easier
I’m sitting in the car,
Eleven o’clock end to a nice date
he tells me he’s married
–I thought you knew when I told you I had children–
Rotten meat smells so good when all the right things are added
–It’s complicated.–
Rotten meat lies so well when under duress
Rotten meat still makes me hurl.
The Pyramids at Midnight
January 1st, 2008
In transit, on the mid night train
with all the derelicts sober enough to beat last call.
The cars are full of soju induced erythemic faces
taunting the -10 winter malady
I’m looking around smiling–
at the polka dot brown socks with hot pink tennis lace
making eye contact with the only Asian who traded his long slick hair
for frizzy short spurs of electricity painfully hot ironed into style,
the arguing old folks with Cuban hats and gold watches
sucking his front teeth back in through a heated debate,
ignored by the open mouth drooling college guy
passed out and clutching on to his Gucci purse
while the 50 year old lady laughs at 18 year old drunk intrepidity
wrapping arm and professing, “I love you!”
It’s 13 till 12, on new years 2007
and somehow I’m expecting a streaker or an accidental Led Zep cut
blared on public speakers at the end of the line
List of my new year’s eve:
nails are done, hair is straightened
first time I fit into single digit sizes
cracking my neck into action,
plans for Angkor Wat are becoming a back room brawl
contest of wills and stare downs
back at home at the stroke of midnight
…it doesn’t match my necklace,
hmm, nice to hear my words,
contemplating diamonds and stories,
Waiting for “Ken” in a big white horse
is like an atheist telling the story of Jesus,
so now I logically weigh the Great Barrier Reef
against my girly whims:
The worst thing about writing your own story,
is that the only point of reference is you.
The best thing about writing your own story,
is that the possibilities endless,
the world boundless,
and your audience infinitely unique
