A Po for Stupor Stunday (sic)

 

 The Appliance Mode

 

No, I won’t rant or rave tonight or offend or threaten like

a big bad energizer psycho-scare bunny, still going and

going after all these years still refusing to disappear,

vanish into detox, rehab, remanded into the custody of the

proper authorities, muzzled, silenced by encroaching middle

age, vague cow eyed indifference or small time community

college academic snobbery.

Around still.....dripping with deadly cholesterol

habits and cheap greasepaint offering to share a spot of

soft flesh verbal carpet bombing trauma while my puss

spits tobacco and cheap watery beer expecting you to

regard all this with the same reverence reserved for

the sacraments of forgotten decorum, and protocol.

 

Yes, for tonight only I will repent. Offer real serious

important poetry. I’ll take a crack at rewriting T.S.

Elliot like, “In the maul, the bitches come and go

drooling over Leonardo Decrapio (sic).” Or I suppose that

 

The Waste Land could use a contemporary make-over,

“Fox is the cruelest network mingling derivative

mediocrity with a calculated cynicism to elevate the

common denominator to new levels of debasing crude desire.”

 

Or better yet tonight I will adjust my attitude to ooze

a low fat, high fiber pus that when it anoints the forehead

of consumers of all types and ages; the normal and demented;

the preferred customer co-star or walk on extras with

rejected social political affiliation....All will be

brought to salvation at last. To the place where the

living waters of sound financial investments and positive

cash flow will be a baptism at the hands of young maidens

shining the brilliant laser red razors of electronic

cash registers ringing up explosions of unit priced coded

epiphanies....All will be delivered, transformed into

model citizezoids; politically correct citizenziods

bland emotion-less indifferent passion-less greedy

beyond the power of though or speech or self-expression

other than to convey desire and lust for name brands.

 

Yes, that’s what I will do tonight; forget the poetry;

pathos; prose and roses, I will reflect what everyone

really seems to want... I’ll just stand up here and

describe useless indulgent consumer products. I will

 

transform myself into the home-shopping network of

creative prose/poetry expression commodity:

 

Tonight only!!! European style driving gloves lined

with imported gray ranch rabbit. DE-lux T.V. feature den

pole mounted gyro-balanced with built in center of

gravity lava-lamp; comes in puce, milk or mauve;

yes hurry; supplies are...of course...limited.

 

Next comes the enchanting neo-jet trash polyester

starlight crepe exercise jump-suit. You’ll be the envy

of your fringe hate group with the marvelous mohair

poncho heart shaped accident rug. Proudly display your

solid brass cricket, symbol of good luck and hospitality,

Centipede shoe rack, and teeny tiny all-electric fry boy.

You need those scented boot stuffers, all weather dog, cat

pet taxi. Why this golf bag converts into luggage with

a flick of the wrist. Silk Chrysanthemums circuit breakers

choke hold chukka boots. Did I hear you say we need more

“brass”? Well...take a gander...at those solid brass

mallard hooks. They’re darling. As is the solid brass

 

door knockers, solid brass adult diaper safety pins.

Do you realize you could have your family name spelled

out proudly on your front lawn in series of sunny little

foot and a half porcelain duckies captured in mid-goose

step. Turn chaos into charm with your very own

computerized Swedish stainless steel corn on the cob

holders which double as satin eraser clothespin

disinfectants.

 

So you see no more ranting. Tonight is the last time.

From now on I’m not rantin...I’m rooting!

Come root with me. Root! Root tootin robots!

This is a wonderful world full of wonderful products

to shop for. Let’s think ‘good” thoughts. Remember the

special times. All through the little towns with everything

as holy and peaceful as on Superbowl Sunday morning.

It’s like being invited to dinner on Gillian’s Island

with the howls. Sssshhhh! There up on the screen

corporate America’s moving its bowels. At 2.4 million

dollars a per thirty second commercial spot

is it not time to remember a simple, gentler time.

It’s time that we all take a moment to remember the

true meaning of Superbowl Sunday Years ago dad used

to gather us kids around the small tiny black and white

TV with the bent twisted hanger antenna in the

tattered living room and repeat a simple prayer., We sat

in respectful silence with our heads bowed till the

stillness was broken by one of us kids who would ask,

“Dad....who ya rooting for?”

 

An in that quiet strong voice he would say, “Kids,

I’m rooting for the happy people, the gentle folk, those

peaceful sweet sentimental men who run our country with

such care, insight and wisdom. I’m rooting for all the

wise commentators and color men who with those generous

corporate sponsors enrich, define and regulate our

lives and aspirations in such a dignified, meaningful,

concerned, caring, rich and holy way.

Yeah, verily they truly know what is best for us and we

should get down on our knees and humbly thank them for

the grace and beauty, the unbridled pagnetry of living

this rewarding, sound modern fulfilling life.

And as for that little “game” down there on the field,

well lets just say, we need to see beyond that.

Yes kids I root for the good, those who are the strong

and who are the trusted.”

And Mamma’s tears would be steaming down her cheeks as

 

she softly sobbed, “Jim, that’s beautiful, I love it when

you quote from Elvis.”

 

This Appliance mode has been brought to you by....

YOU.......who brought it, who live it, who perpetuate it.

 

So for your penance: Go watch six major car commercials,

purchase three personal care products

and make a good corporate act of contradiction

 

Go now...

And buy it now more.

 

 

From  Another Rubber Eden Published 1988

 

Revised

Fall 88

Spring 92

Winter 98

Winter 2005

 

 

 

The following Po is to be read out loud while listening to David Newman playing the cut Old Devil Moon from the CD Fire ! recorded live at the Village Vanguard 12/22-23/1988.

 

 

 

Orange Crush Bottle in the Snow

 

I’ve got…

used rear struts

and a brand new dueling scar

on my right cheek

There’s this pool of neon

that calls my name

and right after I get those stitches out

I’m going to catch the next train.

 

O Baby.

I’ve got everything.

 

I’ve got…..

A knock down dragged out

thirst for Miller High Life

in tall neck bowling alley bottles.

Going to ride my Camels

off into the emphysema sunset

Put away your badge, son

and your threatening warning label

Gonna ship my skinny ass

off  this virtual Nintendo semgma earth

just as soon as I am able.

 

Because O Baby.

I’ve just about had it

with everything.

 

I’ve got….

Students

Inmates

Correctional Officers

Wives

Kids

Lovers

Skeptics

Critics

An Indifferent Audience

Mechanics

Bartenders

old drinking buddies

new drinking buddies

estranged drinking buddies

and dead drinking buddies.

 

O baby

can I buy you drink ?

 

I’ve got…

a photographic memory

with an extensive collection of

Incriminating negatives.

I’m a walking base line

Abstract Painting

orally fixated

existential dilemma

I’ve got a face that

that can stop a clock

and a die-hard battery heart

just waiting on your jumper cable.

 

But don’t you start anything with me

unless you’re ready, willing and able.

 

O baby

Turn that ignition key.

 

I’ve got….

 

Poe

Pollock

Picasso

Charlie Parker

I’ve jumped off that bridge

with Berryman and Kees

Dove in the Outfield

at Shea w/ Swoboda

Spartacus was my baby sitter

in the lodge of the old Prudential Theater.

Music of the spheres plays in my head incessantly

Drive-in movie dreams now showing nightly

Leave your ticket stub and reservations

on the doorstep at my ids door

but I warn you I’ve installed a turnstile

and don’t have keep score anymore.   

 

 Because O Baby

I got everything.

 

Except you.

 

                                                                                                               1/2010