What good is voting? Did’t we vote for stuff we cared about, and pass it by a sturdy majority..only to see it nullified by unelected bureaucrats?? like Daylight Savings! who’s saving what?! We voted to end the time change, it’s a nuisance, and nobody cares about it; it passed, and then they wouldn’t implement it. And then the gay marriage-thing, –and 2020..and so on and so on; and all of the rest. They’ll tell you if you pass this, you get this..===,=! what a sham. Do you still wanna vote? Go ahead. Guess I will, anyway..what the heck, it’s only my time. Vote NO on everything!

~c.

P-s. In mono-printmaking, on textiles, put wax where you don’t want the dye to take..we call that RESIST

(Sh-h**! where’s my coff**?!I want this poem to be over quick, I want you to, too..Toto) Sun’s in my right front pants pocket, see? moon is in my wallet..that’s how come it’s still dark, I haven’t got them out to look at everybody, yet. Stars are up there, brighter than the fire I just skindled (it’s a slow one); but it’s catching up in intensity with the dying darkness’s faded brilliance, adding mellow aromas, as it takes thee edge off da frost. GREEN garden-hose! prob’ly froze..out there all night (SIGH). There he goes again! how long before he talks about that cup of coffee? am I glad you aks me! because you know I could discuss the coffee, I could, I really could! and I should! how it goes right along with making doggerel happen early in the morning, in the wee hours, churning out the splishy-sploshy! mishy-mashy rhyming lines, hit&run-on sentences, Dah-da-dah! da-dah! the poetry, or other prosaic stuff, whatever you care to call it (the great schlock-house revival of VERSE, yeah! great, Poet-Publishers’Clearinghouse,casa-sita (of Poetry) send yurs now..e.e. cummings, ready or not, ‘ere e’s ah, eh! cummin’s); but I don’t have to do that, no! that’s for those bum schlemiel’s that gots no story to tell at all, they just talk you to death! withering away folks’s sensibilities with their special ‘gift’ and checking themselves out in the mirror; but I don’t do that. And we don’t have to wait for the sun to rise, too, no we don’t, because (wait for it) the moon also rises! get it? which goes back to what I was saying, it’s all in my pocket! like some paid-off D.C. politician, the difference being he will never shine; nor r i se to any occasion (a poet interjects: like a sunflower, I rise to the skies in mimicry of the sun, try to tap a vein of eternal wisdom,WHY! “It’s just fun”); but (as for sun and moon) I can make them do my bidding, though, alrighty, yep..true! and I’m not just saying it figuratively, either! it’s real, real deal I mean, all I do is grab my wallet where I keep it (moon), pull it out, unfurl it like slice of Swiss, give it a shake! and toss it up in the air, you know what I mean..Miss? instant full moon! in all her reflective glory, yeah, I made that! Now the sun, he’s a little more dicier in his, it’s, well..dealings, with, the moon, you know, she’s cold, and icy, –frigid! in spite of all the warm glow (like a woman! it is so; I like my coffee like this, — like I like my women! tepid, and submissive, we’re not there, yet, just, –I hadda throw that in); so, moon! but the sun’s burning a hole in my pocket now like extra jingling change..jingling, bare; and I won’t scorch my fingers showing off that trick, but I can if I wanna. So there. Anyway, skip all that, I’m, I’m like Orpheus..Orpheus, you know, Orpheus? the Greek musician and poet Orpheus, t h at Orpheus! the Orpheus that woos Eurydice, she something a-bout a slick chick! and like him, I’m about to make the sun come up with my morning song and warm her heart..for the space of a day, at least, according to the story; but before that revealing illumination about souls locked in eternity, let us ruminate upon why, this morning of all mornings! why we’re not,NOT talking about a cup of coffee. Yes, let’s. Well..let’s see about that, –I was once away at college, once..’pon a time (once or twice, well..a few times, actually), and I was not what you might call a professional college student (though I did drink a lot of the coffee, though..copious amounts! I was the Student Prince..lef’ my prince all over da place); but I went back on several occasions – you know – because I never quite graduated like, or..a s one should; it’s common knowledge if you were ever there at all, – what you do not do, ‘n’ what you doo-doo..in the can! and this ties in with where we began..sun and moon,MOON! nights I would HOWL (at the moon, peradventure, hanging there in my proprietary view of the Harbor Freeway; and its unbroken lines of red laser-beams, taillights chasing each other streaming by before me, past’a Colosseum..my TV-window on the streets). But this was then, not now! and then, what I was,WAS an unner-grad art student at USC, you know, USC..you see? that big, hot-shot, expensive and experimental private uni-ver-si-ty? where they sell all the influences?? to the influencers??? Yeah, that one. John Wayne went there, even! majored in football and gave them millions of his hard-earn’d Hollywood dollars over the years just so they could build and run their big, fancy-shmancy film department. Train the kids. And do you know how they thanked him for it?? Well I will tell you. Recently, in the last couple of years, those liberals, living somewhere, maybe at a secret launch-site under the Disneyland, dug up an old interview in PLAYBOY..PLAYBOY! of all places, in, like, 1972..yeah-h; in which at some point The Duke states, –and he specifies the negro race, actually, stipulating something to the effect that affirmative action’s a bunch of hooey-pooey b.s. non-sense, and everyone should work as hard as they need to accomplish their goals in life; and that’s the only way to go with that..get your pride, self-esteem, and all the rest of it by working for it! work very hard. (So much for The Great Society..yeah, great.) But at the end of that end game with our favorite AMERICAN cowboy, the effervescent, and industrious Mr. Wayne (vs. all the New Bro Illusionary Frat Boy’s at SC..or NBIFB/USC) it came out he got CANCELLED at USC/School of Cinema..for being a racist! Oh! (GASP) there’s a surprise, Yep! they rolled him up, and that was that, so – post-humously – the erstwhile McQ, “Dah-dah-dah!” Detective Leon McQ, who – in this movie, in Seattle – machine-gunned all the bad guys……………………, –yeah, like that, “Ratta-tat! tat!” enjoys the same convenient ignominy like General Robert E. Lee, Commander-in-Chief of the combined rebel forces on his horsey’s down there, in the RACIST deep south toppling over or uprooting all the venerable commemorative racist statuaries wherever they are to be found, to apologize..for WHOM!? and WHAT! but, getting back to a golden sunrise over shimmering waters around and about the fair isles of Greece, –and beach towels, umbrellas, bikini’s and suntan oils and refreshments..and no racism’s!! but Eu-ro-pe-ans, smack! in the placid Mediterranean Sea; and see all them beaches! and Orpheus, –a BLACK ORPHEUS even (for the benefit of your elective History of the Cinema survey..studies),strumming up vibrant celestial chords on a simple six-string wooden instrument, scratching easy polyrhythmic complexities out of guitar-strings for your dancing and dining pleasure’s to signify his immortal love for the girl-myth stole his heart! whose cute goddessness is legend since time immemorial, the stuff dreams are made of..Lady Luck! lady, do I feel lucky? like Aphrodite, depicted in schemes of Etruscan artisans painting on vases, and fired in molten kilns by the art gods of yore, –Eurydice! talk about your equal opportunity’s and social justices..black actor plays Greek demi-god, –with a French director named Jacques of course, anyway! forget all that, John Wayne’s a racist so erase all memory of his RACIST-self past at the school that made a name for its-self by consciously appropriating his stardom as their own, vested in his noteworthy accomplishments; right up until it got convenient to denounce him before the activist commoners and flagellate him like a Hollywood horror-movie hunchback, –Igor! turning out the entire village of liberal activist idiots..angry hornets, flaming! with torches, waving their pitchforks and placards and carrying on: KILL JOHN WAYNE! KILL JOHN WAYNE! KILL JOHN WAYNE! KILL JOHN WAYNE! yup, that’s my USC, what they say: Fight on! Trojans, fight on! “Tommy Trojan went to town, a-riding a pony..Trojan horse it was” yep, straight to UCLA. I went there (USC) a couple of years, in old Chi-town, West, –LA..it was okay, the place to go if you wanted to get in FILM> I tried to get in their School of Cinema there once; for which I had respectable letters of introduction, like from Fred Burns, an animator-guy who was classmates with John Carpenter, the director..but you really had to know someone on the inside to get you in; to t h a t, if you know what I mean (maybe they didn’t like my essay? ese??). Okay, sun, moon, –and no coffee, but Greek’s! and learning the ABC’s of college politics at the sub-Ivy League level, but paying for it like it’s YALE! doing what I needed to do to get through with it, mind my own business, get it over with and get my diploma..a ten-year quest! (by that time) when my, sort-of, action! as it were, got noticed by a sophomore, or junior art student from some other place (other than California), who got inspired to use me in his term project, just before Christmas break (he wanted me ba-ad, whatever he was thinking I do not know); the project, it turned out, involved me with PERFORMANCE ART, great! another chance to be involved in ‘art’ in LA-land and get the exposure with another brain doing all the leg-work..just do my lines. So what I had to do, ,my part, was be the sun for his art-class meeting and wake everybody up by my customary rising..”Here comes ther sun (god)” over the critique, relatively early in the school day, one of those Eight A.M. classes, To sum up: I Had to get there, be ME, and wake myself up..before a mixed crowd. Simple. Right? So a certain Rasmussen was Dean of the Art School there in those days (who had also threw a wrench at the announced date of my senior art show opening at WATT HALL, with wine and cheese, crackers, lots of cheap beer, and two rival punk bands who BYOF’d..bring your own fireworks; whuch by happenstance coincided with a faculty member’s art show opening in the same general vicinity on the same night so he wound up moving mine over a couple of days on the calendar, to avoid an ugly scene at the wrong time that was sure to happen; so eventually chaos reigned and everything got destroyed okay, just a couple days later than anticipated; and,AND! my future bride showed up to my show, I behaved brashly and overconfident, and that attracted her..which was a good thing; and she and our mutual friends who dragged her there drank some wine and admired my show, said it was great, and then got the he** out of there in a timely manner before the bands had their battle over who was king of the punks..and all the collateral damages that went with that); anyway! part of his gig, the dean’s gig..besides cleaning up a few of my messes, was teach one art class per semester. I guess the idea with that was so he could be in touch with all the ‘spiring art-students at USC/SOFA and so he was taeching this class. In any case, how it turned out – his involvement with me in this, collaboration, that is, the kid’s and mine – after it, his parents came all the way out from the East Coast to pull him far away from the art-school experiment, with tactful guidance from the dean, and take him back home again; and everybody apologizing for everything, no hard feelings, etc. (it seems there was a lot of students at SC who were from New York or Korea or wherever, –Bahrain! even, for example..watch out! your ba-rain, their br-rirns..Mm! my brains, –Ma-ma-ma my-y bah-rain-ah! Bah! bah! b’rain-sheep, sheep’s all over the place, sheeps’ brains,Streleski!that’s your ba-rrain, your ba-rain on college professors! any questions? any wool? and, mm, oh yeah! a lot of Arab’s brain’s, too, in Arabic, sheep’s of Araby! seemed to get readily accepted into the film department with less than stellar qualifications, “Hey, Steller!” ..it seemed like it anyway; as, for example, they didn’t none of them have a personally typed rejection-note with their returned script from Howard Koch Sr., telling them their screenplay really sucked! and “Try something else..Sincerely, H.K.,S” like I actually had; and its frontispiece autographed by Mamie “SEX KITTENS GO TO COLLEGE” van Doren, directed by Koch and personally inscribed by her at a Hollywood movie industry meet&greet for all the kids; and in fact, speaking of influence peddling, and fuzzy math and all, there was this guy there – in USC Cinema – named Aziz that didn’t really belong, sort of a spook actually, who worked in ‘the Cage’ checking out the cameras and lighting and other ancillary 16mm film production equipment’s but this was not the same Aziz you get at the top of the page from a web-search on that name – LINK HERE – and there was all the classics-from-Hollywood snipped-out film lines with instant recognition graffiti’d on the walls around Aziz’s lair, his hole there, with AZIZ worked-in to each, somewhere, like, “We’ll always have Paris..AZIZ” or, “..one question: Do I – AZIZ – feel lucky?” and etc., anyway; and there was the board with flyers for all the industry events, and calls for PA’s to volunteer, –your chance to get your big break working on the set of a real Hollywood movie..completely for FREE! anyway he couldn’t be the same Aziz like on McGoogle’s page, because this Aziz supposedly came to a bad end ages ago, one of the many of t h o se USC type of tales, full, with lots of tragedy’s, tears, and influence-peddling traumas; and deaths..by suicide, abortions, suspicious circumstances, “..and so on, and so on”). So here I am there, somewhere’s over thee rainbow in USC School Of Fine Art’s/Art Major (my 2nd choice major AFTER Film), — I’m your sunrise..Sir Hound of Huckleberry, blue! cartoon dog emitting gamma-rays from the horizon come streamin’ in..anxious, and relatively safe. TO BE CONTINUED! So here’s I..me, somebodys art project first thing, top of the morning, –me, mice elf! the Crawling I, hung up high there in this contraption like art on the wall, kind of high myself, the hang-glider simulator hungoverhuckleberryhound, blue hair of the dog that bit-cha, “Barff!” pale sun rider, me! laying in this cup of fake sunshine..half-sphere of egg yolk-yellow plastic, Made-in-USA plastic! not Chinese (you must remember this goes way back, even to before..John Wayne’s a RACIST!) ..wadded-up and well congealed under, sheet of blended-in-to-match yellow plastic wrap, effectively camouflaged against LAPD helicopters’ surveillance, –an ever present thing in the city..South central in particular, supported on a rickety tripod of barely secured long, long sticks of rough, weather-rotted lumber, sort of like a minimal skeleton for a teepee-in-progress, without the buffalo-skins, yet, –as I recall..back around 1984,,when there was the www.L.A.0LYMPICS/i’m.stuck.’n.lacounty.thro’the.whole.fecklessdarnedthing.,got.dragged.in.fro.’n.old.warrant&nobail/enjoy!(dot-commies) -almost describes or starts to conjure comparisons with – in the shadowy’r aspects..his depiction inside a smokey Spanish bar and a dancer on the floor entertaining some hsipanic men – a painting by John Singer Sargent, “El Jaleo” (see description above). So now the gag here, with his artclassthing, is I’m way up there leaned against the outside wall of the very tall art department building that houses the welding shop setup’s inside, along with all the tanks of flammable, and highly explosive gases..in a row; and I’m quite out-of-sight – as I encourage the reader to imagine – laying low in the ‘egg’, which, as the plot unfolds (once everybody gets there to present and ‘critique’ all the art-projects), is intended to represent a rising sun. Yay! so I’m like,,my little chickadee up there, ‘Chicken Little’ hatching out of the literal sun..in a sense, Innocence? hardly! Poetry? maybe; and by a quirk of efficiency, through precision pre-planning? – on a schedule – we had got there early enough, ahead of the class arriving, to get everything in place for my surprise debut..as the sun god! dealing oracles out of tripod’s and myths in my yellow plastic sun-day suit (It occurs to me this class may have met on Saturdays because of the special feature of it being taught by the Dean of the Art Department, and his sort of schedule; therefor the campus would have been a ghost town with very few persons having business to do there on a weekend.) For my wardrobe, to wear – over not-much-else other than a animal hide vest I bought off an old Russian immigrant downtown, at a vacant lot – I was given the piece cut off a roll of bright yellow thick plastic sheeting material – I know I mentioned that I just wanted to remind you – so I can blend in with the rest of the ‘sun’ in which I’m nesting, the yellow half-egg thing I was also telling you about, earlier, and not be noticed..for the shock and awe! and semi-lastly I get handed a short piece of band, or rope, of, it’s like, spun metallic gold, or something – emblematic of my spurious supernatural and regal personality traits – to tie about the waist and top off my costume; and to emulate thee solar power I’m to be impersonating, he throws in a few cheap smoke-bombs, like the kind they used to sell over-the-counter at roadside fireworks stands everywhere around the 4th of July, –wasn’t it the SMOKEY JOE’s? anyhow it was all so deliciously cheesy! I loved it!! being asked to participate in this guy’s art-school scheme was like a bright happy dream..that was really keen; ever since I seen a grad-student named D______ Coffey doing it (sic), Performance Art had become a passion of mine and my very favourite form of artistic expression I adopted, on account of that it’s typically so loathsome in the extreme; she did it good, though (D. did..not the same COFFEE like what we’re talking about or not talking about in our poem, by the way); oh! and a quick heads-up for the benefit of the novice: After seeing a performance art-thing done correctly, one often has cravings for a hot shower, or quick dip in a steaming bath..it’ll mostly get rid of that icky, filmy feeling left-over when it’s finished. Okay, so now the class is assembled and Teacher is crunching through notes out of a briefcase, explaining the order of things to be done and what he’s looking for, expect this, that, et cetera, etc., and I’m as yet completely undetected! we have achieved the total element of surprise! like Japanese naval aviators in the air about to hit Pearl on that Sunday morning in fog of history, high up, –ZERO! coming in out of a radiant sun, bombs..smoke, and carnage everywhere! we got it all (here, about to happen in his art class). Just before the kid goes up presenting his project and all the borderline anarchy on the docket for it about to be sprung – he somehow managed to finagle the first slot, I think, which is the only way this could work – I have discreetly, from my bird’s eye view with a cigarette lighter while the dean has been speaking, lit the fuses to the three ‘bombs’ arranged around the sun’s rim, without attracting anyone’s attention; so as the student prince, or other fine artiste fellow begins the telling of his explanation to his classmates about this morning’s art piece..and its mythological significance and other elemental talking-points tendrils, reaching wherever, –at that moment everyone (almost) looks up to see what he’s talking about because his, eh! project blends in so good with all the other junk in the yard, it doesn’t look like art at all, that anyone might recognize..sort of like one of mine; anyway that’s when they can first notice the three smoking pillars of mysterious origins, spreading their ominous, thick ooze – design’d by Chinese – into their atmosphere, descending over them like a thick, swarthy fog; prescient, almost, of future myths to come, like Global Warming, this is almost as good as film school, fine and dandy! and all; and,AND! it just so happens, too! there is a collected mass of wood resources, very seasoned and pyre-like, bunched together beneath my precarious, and potentially Sir Isaac Newtonish perch – swap one bad egg for the apple – creating a possibility for the spontaneous demonstration of a basic physics lesson, or two..or more, which could come into play, depending on how things are going to be moving along in the course of my improvised performance, here, with fireworks at my command, “Oh-ohh! Waterloo!” right..Overture to 1812; but you must keep in mind, I have been given the barest stage direction, or instructions as to what I should do once we begin rolling, in spite of repeated requests for more information; and don’t forget the tanks of oxygen I alluded to, tanks! Your welcome, but, –but, but so why did so much of my art excursions end with some hysterical faculty member ducking out on my presentation, grabbing and rushing back with a fire-extinguisher, and ending the experiment?? Prematurely! there was not much risk,,no, not that much. I may never know, though perhaps my FBI files could shed some light, at least as to that agency’s conclusions about it, heck! Three Stooges could make a stable living in LA why not ONE?? (but anyhow I’m getting ahead of myself.) So anyway, the last part to this poem I been aiming at, to finish it, what I’m getting to, –after all my sloppy and inconclusive art history’s in the art studio’s at USC is I have resolved to call in a long overdue favor from USC’s President..top dog, the latest being this lady, whose fame spread far and wide for fixing messes; which got her the appointment, and dubious honor – with AMPLE compensations – to fix all the screw-ups from pay-to-play scandals, and so forth, involving Hollywood’s famous elites like Lori Loefgrens, or Loughlin’s whatever, uhh, her daughters! and their fake athletics admissions based on bogus special water related talents they supposedly had..treading the water there on thin ice! but which also – conveniently – involved a pay-off, or two, surreptitiously deposited into shady accounts, to the tune of about a half-a-million bucks..call Perry Mason; and hten, also come to the light, here’s this LA city councilman’s son getting admitted in a grad-school program for the doctorate having no stuff worth mentioning academically speaking, just local LA political baggage from his Pa, –and being given vague guidelines as to WHAT; and ZERO oversight by USC faculty concerning expectations for his ‘work’ there, basically just write your own ticket, a slam-dunk for da dough! and then there’s the gynecology’s..for sports! that was one I guess got fixed, he got aborted off the roster, USC paying off attractively through the nose to all the plaintiffs for it, OH! and oh yeah, and the biggest one yet that we still haven’t opened a claim for..still waiting to hear back from Perry! is frauding Elizabeth R________ out on a promise she was to be admitted as a transfer student to the University of Southern California’s English Major program in Spring of 2020 and a free ride; which she qualified for and we know where that went! can you say LOCKDOWN’s? however; we went there before all that..faucci-business, with the masks and sh** to chat with the fine folks tasked with moving her paperwork through, on a tight schedule..so as not wind up sitting it out a semester; and to prove that (that we were there actually), we got stuck for a parking-ticket out in the VISITORS parking area while ‘E’ was getting counsel; and while I was getting my trophy off their wall in the upstairs hall of the admissions building – proudly framed – of our favorite CNC, defender of the faith and fearless leader, grabbing the image with my phone’s camera (of the despot)..Elizabeth! me own flesh and blood!! it must be in our DNA getting screwed by schools; but anyway, if i could write like her I’d have my diploma’s by now, all of um! an’ be somewhere, too!! She’s disciplined, that girl; if i wrote with her level o’common sense and environmental awareness, discreetly navigating around the pitfalls, without all the rangey onomotopoeia’s, and other extraneous crap! iwouldn’t have ta be blackmailing the president of the university to get ’em, it’s sad! but for my part, for now, to get my big favor for making USC/SOFA a famous and highly desirable place to study art’s and the envy of all the fine art’s pretenders and foppish wannabe’s around the globe..I definitely give it the old college try when I was there, I did! for that service I successfully claim my rightful place to be thee entitled ‘Legend’ at SOFA of USC (not that other liberal, Legend, but..the liberal arts), for all my exploits on their behalf’s, a artist magnet ! am (the new mascot I would be..d’air Leonardo da Pinchi man of letters); as ‘Dr.’ John Wayne is to the USC Cinema applicants desirous of careers in movies, going on a century, now, so! we are claiming our full honorable doctorate’s (and other stuff..from these democrats, for no fee, we insist on getting it comp’d); and with that for my demands to be met they must generously allow me use of one of their olympic swimming-pools, there in the ‘University Village’ and full VIP package; while the other pool’ll take up the slack for the swim-team and all the water sports activities and such..because of me! my deal, diving in to indulge my #1 all-time espresso coffee fantasy under the boards, Mocha! syrupy notes, of peach..not to be confused with MOCA, super-size my ‘lympics size cup!! topped with the scalded, steam-frothed fresh creamy milk, pour’d out of a prepared cement-mixer truck over all of it on completion, for the Cappuccino Kid! that’s me, play me my blue theme on the sax, do it,DO IT NOW!!The, –they’ll have to shut down the streets to accommodate that fleet of big-rig diesel’s hauling in all the tanker-trailers it’ll take to dump enough of the oh-so-earthy black Ethiopian, and Kenya ‘AA’ rich, dark and smooth liquids squeezed from fresh-roasted beans for that, “Fill ‘er up!” uhh-h, concept I’ve been sitting on awhile – up in me sun-cup – and served hot..Wait! hold that!! cancel the Kenyan; but inform Queen Candace it’s still on for them Mocha beans, shipped out from the port at Harrar, like in Frisco, Ye-men! up in the Haight. Steve, I am sure, would say that’s excessive, “..you’re going off the deep-end!” he would caution; and cite opinions he heard from the heart-surgeons about the effects of caffein and the need to cut coffee from the diet altogether; but I say all things in moderation! yeah, that’s my idea of moderate; ala Ren&Stimpy goes to Hollywood, “..for a chance to be-ee..on the Muddy Mudskipper Show!!” so! and with all the perks for MR. STIMPY’S WONDERFUL POEM, –including the $47,000,000.00!, they specially prepared him that magnificent swimming pool at his exclusive, gated, cartoon residence, compliments of the producers..filled with (r u ready?) GRITTY KITTY KITTY LITTER! and you probably saw where he luxuriates himself in it, in the cartoon, launching off the high-dive in perfect form, Stimson J. Cat! wearing a napkin kicking it doing the back-stroke..in sand; and, ohh, –Sh**! where’s my coffee?! Finally! finally, I got that out. At last. So what I am aksing for from you if you read it is this, i–f you really needed the rest of the details of that art-crit-thing I was in that got that under-grad art student suddenly and irrevocably cashiered..by his folks, transported across state lines and locked up in the family mansion back east, somewhere east of Camden, just take the timeline I laid out and fill in the rest, make it to your liking, it’s your poem, now, I’m giving it to you I need a bar-rak! The end, I’m through. Oh! the humanity. TO BE CONTINUED..

~c.

P-s: THE GRADUATE?? Liar! liar! pants on fire, –Pay your fair share..dip-sh**

In early morning daylight, –Mind’s a blank. First, it can notice two hands cradling a coffee-cup, almost folded together, cup’s in the middle, though, blocking..dark down in there, mm, brown, too! dash o’ cinnamon’s, floating; then a hand unclasps, coming toward it like a tropical spider, mm, monster! to the mind’s eye, a thumb and finger reaching in the nostril immediately below, to scratch an itch that just happened, blinded by sun’s rays coming in wishy-washy in all them hairs; it goes away again and recurs..there’s some snot to sniff at, mind recognizes, snorts a follicle..T00! Next it sees some small reading glasses, cheap from china, laying on a plaid table cloth; they are a kind of burgundy red and match a color in the pattern of the fabric, except the leopard spots, floating in blood, clear molded blood-plastic, wait, no, they are represented there, too; among the dyes, –them chinese! they know what we libs like..looks like, sounds like (plastic, that’s what we like; they’re capturing our whole nation by degrees in stone dollar increments we like that, us Americans, wee..plastic peoples, we bee’s, never! say DYES). So here’s that made-in-china APPLE Macbook heirloom, with a lit apple on the lid minus one..Bite! back-lit next to the glasses by the Android and the mind remembers it absorbs its poetry’s – by strokes at keys – like a fat, succulent sponge at ocean’s bottom, stuck on a plaid rock in undulating sun-rays of summer, waiting to be plucked! fall fast approaching as it was ages ago and Greeks swum down without masks – pre-Italiens – collecting ink samples from squids, too, in their shells..just turn it on and go! type it up (the poetry) mind addicted to making poems, first thing mornings, usually nothing more to go on than that, pure desire and no squid-ink..as it were. So there it was, another pretty one; stupid! too, don’t you think?? Thanks, mind..mind o’ mine; exercise in humility..humanity (futility). Oh, the humongousness! hope nobody out there minds. Better than nothing at all, right? No it worse! Hey it’s early still, give a bad poet a break..in ‘is dreams at least, mine’s eyeballs.

~c.

P-s.: Mind over grind, –ground grey matter, five cents a pound. Aks about our 1-cent brain sale!

The ocular thing, where it’s at, eyeballs! seeing X-bereavement, Yeah, now your learning..on the cement! drown sorrows, down the drain laying on the pavement, gutter, so to speak. Write a concrete poem (kiss’d da curb). Whereas before, we see through brand new eyes, Baby! ultra-sensitive to colour, imprinting on the brain, new things..blue skies, deep! secret flowing golden haloes’ brilliance, bright rings round purple blobs pass swimmingly, easy, on the eyes, –don’t look at the sun! hands, arms, pink..lips to kiss; suck tits for milk, nourishment, smooth as silk, Ready, aim..Fire! First word BEGIN, begin to crawl, feckless..anon ashamed; and that’s not all, baby, next! we learn you things..like stay away from thee electrical outlets! and cords; and that that cat will only take so much; but his green, big eyes looks so friendly, “Ouch! WAHH!! Ow-ee!” (First BAND-AID) Jars of baby-food down from the shelf..a spoon, –Let’s make art! it’s June; and diapers, Vaseline, and the TV-set..now we’re set: Captain Kangaroo, “Music, Maestro!” (Mister Greenjeans, too); that’ll do! sack-lunch and off to school..Sunday School on Sundays, public school on Mondays..Wednesday’s child’s stuck on Tuesday’s, with the whole gang, “Fatty! mace yo face..Gross polluter!” now, the playground’s the place, learn curse-words, forget the cursive (full of grace); then, it’s off to college, ‘Brainth’, –“Neat!” meet the new bullies, “For, mm..or against?” “Sweet! burn the building, –Ace.” “That’s the correct answer! go to the head of the class.” I seen it happen everyday, A+, now go an get a governmentjob, –dot-commies! and plan for a early retirement..seeing is bereaving. You’re on, have fun..Junior

~c.

P-s. Psst! hey..Ps-s-st!

Song INTRO soft spoken, to strummings on Willie’s old KUSTOM K acoustic fire-sale gui-tar, –here! A game of chess, the game of LIFE..find you a wife, avoid high stress. Us guys, you know, we..are complex; and we got lots of ’em, too (complexes..gotta getter done, though, “1 more beer, please, –check, mate!”) Days get short and nights grow long. I guess we can all write a song (about it, if, if we had to, like if somebody put a gun to our head an’ said, WRITE THAT SONG BOY), Listen, hey! listen, I, –I think I got one, Hit it! Wasted nights in purple haze..Well country’s seen better days..that’s for sure. Man, his woman, must delight..so hit the stage and start a fight, –Dude! singin’ something ’bout: Dogs and guns and pick-up trucks..trailer, horse; and spurs for luck, well! Ridin’ bulls, –like dating’s uncertain..your balls inna sling, your learnin’..cowboy (REFRAIN, OR CHORUS, OR WHATEVER, GOTTA INSERT IT SOMEPLACE, WHY NOT HERE: HONKY-TONK HONKIES ‘N’ HIPPIES WITH THE HEEBIE-JEEBIES, YOUR BAR-TABS IS DUE..NOW WHUT R U GONNA DO? BETTER START SINGIN’ THE BLUES..DUDES), now, off to the room and fight the gloom your mom once (actually) knew..Mm! before she kicked your dad out; like your girlfriend’s gonna do, with you, shortly, here..she’s complex too! And (after that, when she’s through) she will keep: That pick-up truck; the trailer; and the horsey; and your dog and all the guns..and your spurs, too! just for fun. And, in a little while, a couple months’ time you’ll hear (while you’re mooning over your tepid beer), –on the jukebox in that smokey ol’ honky-tonk, your whole life story bein’ sung, there, in the newest country hit by the newest country stars..direct from Nashville, in fresh..Hot..Wax, see ya later, pardner, sayonara..adios! amigos. Can ya hear that steel guitar? Yeah. Don’t it make ya sorta wanna weep! Yeah. Kind of..not really, though. But sort of

~c., a.k.a., “Rhinestone” Scrunchy

P-s. Ps-st! hey..Your boot-laces untied, your cowboy-boot laces..cowboy

Alley Oop of the seas I am..swing through coral reefs on vines of KELP to jam with the jellyfish, –come quick! to the rescue if I hear someone yell, “HELP” Alley Oop! the oceans’ king, that’s me..ride on backs of behemoth bottom crawlers no one has seen, nor believe exist; and if they did they will say, “They are extinct.” But they’re not, I own ’em, see? locks, stocks, ‘n’ gills. King Neptune, you are no longer King..Alley Oop’s on the scene! Aquaman, Beware! jelly-fishes are in your hair! their voltages will cure your underwater acne; and insomnia’s, too! and they will jump-start your underwater electric-car for you, –it won’t get you far, before there’s a underwater fire! but maybe far enough in time to stay out the way of Alley Oop..caveman of the oceans, King! of the underwater jive. Make my home high in the craggy rocks..wear gutted Moray-eels for socks. No one hears me come and go, Roar of bubbles! ‘s all they know. If travelers topside send me a S.O.S., I may answer their calls of distress, if I’m..In the mood. Do you think that’s rude? Well excuse me!! dude. I am Alley Oop, underwater cave dweller, king! of all the sea monkeys. You must recognize that..I do as I please. Got..harem of mermaids to iron my shirt..Stables of sea-horses on alert, get me where I need to go, yeah..Let’s go, Brando! Yeah, that’s me. Godfather of the Seventh Sea. Sea-ya later!

~c.

P-s. For all you lubbers, and ocean king wannabe’s, look up my sub-aquatic SUPER air-bnb’s, –over the underwater internet, trans-Atlantic cable, –book your reservation now! show you around for free tours underwater..on a genuine Soviet submarine for FREE! Don’t be missing, uhh! out. Chow

Now I am going to write a poem, in the true style of po-e-try..like the European’s, –SO listenup! Poems are short, and so am I, I am a short, little (poet) guy, –so don’t get short with me! see? Oh..you mean, don’t get snippy? You bet your sweet bippy!

~c.

P-s. Eur-o-pean..I’m-a-poopin’

HumANI-TY, civilization..blood. That’s what you get when you mix people together. Odds bodkins! the necessary evil we do for love, as we call it. Can we get out of the loop? love each other for real?? Jesus gives everybody that opportunity, if we let him. Jesus brought us the pure blood..but will we go to him? Goodnight.

~c.

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